From Cave to Bungalow

Paranoia

Part 21 of 30

Yesterday had a caveman theme, today too, maybe a few days of it

That’s actually pretty hot, what the caveman’s saying, dressing down modern man, because he can, being a caveman and not one of our modern wimps, which includes me. You tell him, Ug!

But watch me bait Ug: “You wouldn’t say that to my face!” Then he starts to slow-speak it, the intensity of his eyes becoming enormous. Enough fire to consume a vein of coal. “Turn -- around -- wimp -- and…” By this point with his slow-speaking, I’ve gathered up every ounce of precious paranoia I have -- and I’m stoved up with it most of the time -- and I’m burning a hole in his forehead with the hot gaze of my suddenly glowing head.

Suddenly the caveman goes silent and drops to his knees. With my glare cooling off not one single degree. Then I’m taunting him: “Did you have something to say about spitting in my face? Didn’t I hear a hurtful spiel about you whimpering to Mommy?” His spear has fallen to the ground. And I burn my fury home, as only I can do: “You know my Mommy’s dead!” Suddenly he sees the real grudge I have. “You filthy caveman! You will not even THINK of my mother, let alone SPEAK of her! She was better than you'll ever be, in every respect…” He’s clutching his neck as I amp up the watts.

And launch into My Soliloquy:

“This vulgarity you spout from your filthy tongue -- what is that, a never-laundered skin of a bear that died of natural causes? -- about ‘my Mommy,’ I called her Mom, and goddammit, I oughta pull that cursed tongue out of your vile mouth and throw it to the jackals! But one thing I hate worse than any insult against my mother is the thought that jackals are even in the picture!” He’s then begging for one drop of cool water.

“My mother was a tougher woman than you can even dream of. With more fight in her little finger than you have in this whole mess you call a body. O the big tough animal-skin man! If I’d’ve been here the animal would’ve won, and he’d have your naked skin as a coat around his whole fur and thankful for respite against the rain. Although I don’t know, your skin’s pretty thin, and yet you’re the last to know it!” He seeks mercy.

“No, no, no, Ug, there’s no mercy for one as vile as you, not yet! Grovel, you half-baked monkey. You might not know this but I embody my mother! Can you conceive of that? Wherever I go, she goes! And my many brothers and sisters feel the same way. When she died, she didn’t really die, she was transfigured, and each one of us received of her strength. I used to be paranoid about my own shadow. Because I was a 98-pound weakling and I knew the kids were looking for every edge against me: ‘Hey, everybody, look how skinny his shadow is!” But you know where I got strength? Hell, you don’t know yet!? From my mother.” I suddenly feel like kicking him to death, but -- wouldn’t you know it? -- the spirit of my mother descends and my leg is calmed.

As Ug crawls away, I ask my mother why I’m so paranoid, and her answer was --- Aww, who am I fooling? None of this happened, Mom hasn’t been back forever. I slink away, again myself paranoid as crap.

Complaints Against The Fans

Part 18 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

This is the kind of thing we don’t put out very often as part of the history of the rodeo and more particularly from Mam & Pap’s show. About occasionally complaining about the fans, even though of course they were their bread and butter. Sometimes, though, whatever line of work you’re in, you've just had it up to here and want to get in their face and dress ‘em down good, “You don’t own me, you scrawny necked local-yokel barber, so get out of here with your stupid complaints! And by the way, the guy cutting your hair went about three inches too high in the back and the entire back side’s sun-burnt!”

Really, complaints are never welcome, and for that matter neither are suggestions. My take on suggestions is they’re just complaints with sugar on them. Any idea you have that you can do it better, either do it or shut up. They'd say, "As long as you’re coming to my rodeo and putting down 50 cents to get in, you’re paying me, I’m not paying you. So zip your lip or you’ll get a fat one and the zipper won’t work! See that horse over there kicking the crap out of its stall? Well, a mortal threat is an actionable offense, so I’m not going to tell you what’s about to happen to you!"

And, yes, there’s always been some fans who take it too far, get out of line, cross the line, get bossy, and need to be knocked down a peg or two. Some are so bad they might have an accident; I’m not saying they ever had an accident. But a few got accidentally entangled in the apparatus that ferries the saddles back to the storage wagon — even some visiting cowboys got the crap kicked out of them and their saddles needed cleaned. When someone’s entangled, naturally the apparatus doesn’t know a trapped customer from a saddle. So if you’re hooked to it there’s but the one destination. And it’s all very unceremonious, being dropped from 10 feet into the air on a pile of muck. At its cleanest there’s still enough base residue that you better not land face-down, you’d smother in 20 seconds.

I think there’s a place for suggestions. That sounds reasonable, right? You don’t think the taffy has enough genuine strawberry flavor, certainly Kindly Kate will take your mildly-suggested complaint in her usual kind way. Whereas the rest of us, you want more strawberry flavor, here you go, smart guy, choke on it! He’s so pumped up on strawberry flavor mixed with laxatives, you'll hear him sputter all the way home! Or as far as he gets before he blows up and some of the more discerning ladies even at a distance get into a free-for-all whether the air's flavored with strawberry or one of the horses is dying of encopresis, a stool issue!

And if that doesn’t soil your drawers to your liking, how about this? I don’t know, it's probably mean and childish. Try this little quiz on these Know-It-Alls: Out of A, B, and C, which one is the guy on the bucking horse? Ah, let’s just skip it, that might be getting a little too mean toward the old ignorant paying customers.

So We're All Wimps, Huh?

 

Part 13 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

When you’re in the rodeo you know you’re bad to the bone. Because taking to the back of any animal the size of a horse or bull — which goes double for any that are plain loco — you’re either corrupt where the rest of us are sensitive or brave where the rest of us are sensible. I don’t know how these guys get life insurance. If I sold life insurance for a livelihood I’d avoid rodeo folk!

But selling life insurance was never the path I took. And for sure it wasn’t the rodeo, although a little of both would’ve been profitable. If I sold myself a big policy, then went into the rodeo, my relatives would’ve cashed in big-time by now and they’d be especially thankful that I died so young. A big deal for me, just another statistic for the people that follow these things.

When it came to danger I was always a guy you could count out. Then as now I’d much rather sit on the sidelines and watch someone else risk his life than do it myself. Basically any “sport” I even thought of was too dangerous to try. The scrum of basketball in that tight little nucleus of guys battling for the ball, elbows flying, giving you another black-eye or being pounded from above on jumping for the ball. The deadliness of boxing, taking another walloping blow in the eye from a guy’s fist pummeling me and going down for the count. Or probably the worst sport, being high in the air strangling a guy or, worse, being strangled. Frightening graphic!

But when the professional rodeo performer surveys all that danger and violence, and then pronounces them losers or worse — shrinking violets, wilting daisies, or chicken livers — that takes a chunk out of your ego, I don’t care who you are or how used you are to a constant barrage of insults, put-downs, or smacks. For you’re in the presence of greatness, a macho man who sees no problem kicking you when you’re down. The kind of guy we all aspire to be without actually doing what it takes.

Still, and this is just my opinion, divinely inspired, I don’t care how tough you are, there’s something wrong about calling a gym full of kids a bunch of names, slurring them. Because, frankly, it’s beyond reason that everyone should aspire to the rodeo and thereby be left to a life of insults and taunts. Look at these kids. Does it look like they'd even have the basic competence to be in the rodeo? The kid strangling the other kid, maybe. He's got tenacity, with a bent toward doing anything to win.

Most of us actually are quite content to sit out rodeo-performing. But if you feel so invulnerable and have the sort of foolish daring-do that makes you crave danger, go for it. Put yourself in a position to be kicked to death! The rest of us, thank you very much, are comfortable with our decision to live a good long life, starting out as kids in normal sports, then dropping off when we’re in our late teens and living our lives in complete safety, with good enough memories of “safe” danger from when we were young.

Tiny, You're Huge In Pictures

Part 12 of 31

They Found Another Body

Every story of someone being found — in the river, in the park, their den, the alley behind a strip club — starts somewhere. We could go way back, way way back, when these happy souls were prancing off to school. I’ve heard of cases where kids don't do that anymore, so it’s good to know we’re making progress. Even back then, we would’ve been better off staying home and learning what we needed behind the barn. The teachers were psychos, the principal, the lunch-ladies, the gym teacher, and certainly the guidance counselor. As soon as they saw you they hung out to dry, and, what goes up someone must cut down.

I spent an entire month decrying the psychotic (in practice) profession of guidance counseling. Ground I’d rather not cover again. Since I wrote that I’ve been temperamental and antisocial. I went to a dance and didn’t want to dance. Then a psycho came in and shot the place up. It took everything we had to talk him down. To make a long story short, I danced three or four dances with him and he went home and was apparently redeemed. Surprisingly, they dropped all charges because of the promise he showed as a dancer.

He and I didn’t share any guidance counselor stories, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to find that he had the same problems. Although the big difference between me and him would've been, I didn’t deserve the problems and he no doubt did. Definitely, he presented himself as a guy with multiple deep problems, problems gnawing away at him over the years, chewing at him, gutting him, emptying him out, literally making him rotten to the core. And whatever there is beyond a person’s core, I’m sure it had several negative aspects as well, if I had to judge, off the charts rotten.

What I’m really thinking is, What would it have been like had I been his guidance counselor? Say I went into guidance counseling. It’s not impossible to imagine. I’m idealistic. I could've gotten in there, whatever the situation was, and done it right. I’ve seen it done wrong all my life, I could train guidance counselors single-handedly. But the first thing would be to throw away their books and diagnostic notecards. We’d grind them up and have them danced on by exorcists. Then start fresh. With great techniques, the best techniques that technicians have never even imagined, technically speaking.

For instance, I wish I could've helped this guy, the hapless subject of a rather large painting. A man of greater girth makes an innocent remark that insults him. "You’re tiny, your picture is big, that is to say, you’re a tiny shrimp of a man and don’t deserve such a big likeness. Or you’re a small man and having a big picture makes you look smaller yet. We could make the biggest picture of you in the world, a canvas stretching across the Grand Canyon, then when you see it, we’d know you were a speck of dust just waiting to blow away, to blow violently against something, like a bug hitting the windshield. In your case, you’d hit your own huge picture like a speck of dust against one of the painting’s county-wide nostrils. You're tiny, tiny, tiny, nothing.”

Not a good tact. And what happened next ... which was before I heard the case and could've helped … it's unfortunate, too tame a word for it ... but at least we still have the painting to remember him by.

Guidance Counselor Recitations

No. 18 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

We don’t recite enough these days. I must’ve been born in the wrong century. I think it would’ve been cool to be one of those guys in the past who goes town to town reciting things. Before TV, before radio, when it was your memory and a confident ability to warble out inspiration. It’s hard to picture us these days, or even in the last 50-60 years, being patient with recitations. But people used to love it.

And it’s stuff that I don’t even know. I actually do know a bunch of Bible passages more or less because that’s one of my interests. But recitations once upon a time was so much more. Verses from Whittier, Shakespeare, and other literary talents, and no doubt a lot of  wash-ups from the past as well. The greats and plenty of hacks.

How’d they do it? Why’d they do it? Other forms of entertainment were totally primitive compared to now. I have a TV set up where I record movies to my cloud 24 hours a day, but I have time to watch maybe four or five a week. The others will eventually go away, I guess. Certainly cloud based music has made listening to music a lot easier. Still, I can see why people want to go out and invest in an expensive record collection, taking back personal control of it. And better sound. And the pride of having it.

The old recitations though, like from preachers, traveling evangelists, or just local guys with booming voices, would've been nice too. Just because I personally don't like a lot of affectation in voices, the rolling of Rs, archaic gestures and affectations, doesn't mean others didn't. And how fun it would’ve been to live in those times and go around mimicking it, making a little fun. Surely someone would’ve thought it was funny, but more likely they would’ve strung you up.

In terms of the Guidance Counselor, I’m saying he was a pompous ass. And it's easy to picture him spouting the wondrous words of deity, the psalmist, as though they’re meant to exercise his tongue and make people marvel at his eloquence. Later he'd be back in his trailer counting his coins, praising or cussing out the rubes and the county.

Opposing him, then, in the graphic, we have someone more from our way of doing things today. Someone who hasn’t imbibed the great words of oratory, but is still with-it enough to know that the best way to puncture oratory and pretentiousness is by quick vulgarity and a dismissive attitude. Stand on your head with your ass and/or crotch in someone’s face and belittle them for what they’re doing and you’ll see the power of language and gestures. And everyone's got it going on today in social media.

Our guidance counselor lesson for the day: I gave the guidance counselor power over me. I realize that now but I had no power at the time to counteract his poison tongue. I sat there and took it and tried to stay out of trouble. But he still beat me down with his nasty spirit, making him one of the bastards of the century.

In high school I was good at standing on my head, but I really didn’t know enough (or wasn't brave enough) to dress him down with vulgarities. It would’ve had bad consequences, so it's all better left in the fantasy world of today than in the actual world of those dark days.

Trash-Talking The Sun

I got on this kick against the sun a few years ago, after a friend and I were airing our grievances about life. He thought he was big and tough because he personally hated nearly everything, asparagus, broccoli, elephants, and pinochle. At that time I had a few of the ordinary grievances to match him -- decks of cards missing the jokers, squash, reruns, and anyone named Lipfshitz. There's something wrong there.

In terms of who hated stuff the most, it was fairly even. Till I pulled out the wildcard, which was, "Despite our many years of deep, warm friendship -- we've been there for each other through thick and thin, good times and bad, trouble and blessing -- I've come to a conclusion that I feel it's safe to announce -- to confess, if you will -- that I think YOU suck, and probably always have. We became 'friends,' of a sort. But there was always something about you that stuck in my craw. Now I've dislodged it and can tell you without further explanation or equivocation, that, as of this moment (and probably at some level for the whole time I've known you), I hate you." He took back his little stack of DVDs, he dropped off my pup tent, and that's been it. Giving me another reason to despise squash, because it's his favorite food -- his mom still makes her old recipe on his birthday, I've heard.

After I lost his friendship, you could say I spiraled out of control. Like a pinball in a pinball machine -- that's an accurate image -- I bounced from one thing to another, never able to settle on any one thing. With a hatred of life in general so vast, so profound, so definitely spelled out that even the sight-deprived could read it clearly. There were interventions, attempted, all of which I rejected, by then acting in complete spite, but digging my own ditch deeper and deeper yet, till I was so deep and alone all I could glimpse was sunlight itself. Showing nothing, illuminating nothing, except the walls of that trench, or ditch, if you will.

There in the ditch, trench, or pit -- it was sort of like the pictures you see from World War I, men in a ditch, trench, pit, or hole. Doing whatever. Well, guess what. Looking at the sunlight, I came to hate it too. It'd pass overhead quickly, but slowly enough that I could shake my fist and essentially tell it it had low marks in my book. I'd see it in the summer months more, in the winter months not as much. It started my thought processes to make sense of it. What's supposedly 'bigger and badder' than the sun?; we've all heard that. But it couldn't hold its own against winter?

Now I had something bigger to hate, the stinking sun. And I let it know. In no uncertain terms. Don't get on my bad side or you'll live to regret it. Everyday I had another complaint. "You're the almighty sun, but you can't dispel a few clouds on earth?" "You're the sun, but what? You feel like burning us to a crisp? Well, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. And you've got a day of judgment a'coming, and we'll deal with you!"

Just think it over. You could probably add your own jibes against the sun. Did it burn you when you were a kid, when you didn't know any better? I remember one of my cousins getting such a sunburn, it was terrible. Then he told his parents that he'd had his shirt on all day. They couldn't figure out what happened, since he never lied, they thought. But his butt wasn't burnt at all. So they thought the cloth on his shirts must have been at fault. So they made all of his clothes out of underpants and threw away the others. He never burnt again. They hated the sun because of all the trouble it put them through. And my cousin was no fan of underpants, so he also hated the sun.

Anyway, back to me in my trench or gutter, whetting my appetite for insults when I perceived the sun was nearly overhead: "Somehow you also give night and day on Pluto, a totally worthless task since scientists tell us the chances of life on Pluto are less than one in a million!" I gave it a left jab, a right hook, insults literally to beat the band, and I kept right on punching -- usually connecting, sometimes flailing and missing -- until the sun got the message: "You no good, buster," and after that it quit coming around (Good!), and I've found I still have all the light I need with light bulbs, candles, and my phone.

Local Crank Guts Myra Kula Electra

THE GOLDEN CHILD - #6

You're not talking about me, Myra. You better not be talking about me. When you're running around using words like "crank," you best be kidding, because that's not Hoyle. Not kosher, not halal, not good for body or soul, junk calories. Yes, you, Missie Myra Kula Electra. I know you, and you know I do! I got enough dirt on you to sink your battleship now and forevermore! Ho, ho, ho!

Please, Myra, don't call me, OK?, wheedling in private about "being sorry" for this despicable article. It's your big scoop, my dear; own it! And all the baggage that goes with it! That's the part I like, 'cause now you're mine, aren't you? How, O how, do I plan on taking the great Myra Kula Electra down? Gee, I'm going to enjoy this! This is my project for the next day or so. Just taking walks on my half acre, giggling, laughing, and doing what I do best, holding a grudge till the day you're destroyed!

But how to do the deed? There's so many ways I could come at you, Little Miss Myra. The weird thing is you act like you don't know me, and I know you do know me. You couldn't have forgotten, of course! But you plowed ahead anyway, writing this scurrilous article, then plastering it across PAGE ONE! To me that's living dangerously! Obviously assuming, Kundalini's a nice guy. He'll take it in stride. He doesn't want to drag his dirty laundry out of the basket, for fear it might make him look worse. Well, let me pop your little bubble, My Sweet: Even though I am nice -- voted "Nicest Guy on the Internet" a few times -- I can also be mean. Self-preservation, you know, it's one of the basic instincts...

I'll just let you think about that for a minute, while I take your foolish article apart line by line, word by stinking word.

First, how about that newspaper: "SPECIAL." I like that part. My business, me being The Golden Child, is important enough to warrant a SPECIAL EDITION. That's actually pretty cool. Because if memory serves, how many "specials" has the Daily News had? Only a few. The Kennedy Assassination, 911, The Tearing Down of the Shopping Center, and now this, me being The Golden Child! Hell, looking at it like that, I'm in good company, three total disasters and one blessing. At least I see it as good news.

It's the headline that immediately catches my attention and gets my hackles up. "Local Crank." Sigh. Up-urp! I just ate chili and about lost it. I knew what you meant, but I looked it up in the dictionary just to be sure: "CRANK n. [kh-ránk]. 1. Twisted metal bar to start old cars with. 2. Drugs that fry your brain. 3. Term adolescent boys use for their junk. 4. Junior high teachers, who are crank-y. 5. Eccentric guys, believers in imaginary stuff, the clinically or colloquially insane, idiots with butterflies for brains.

Then there's your article, one crummy little paragraph. At least it doesn't mention me by name; it could be anyone! Except there's only one Coffee Club in town called "The" Coffee Club. And there's only one Golden Child that's been declared in recent memory, who just happens to be me. Imagine how this beautiful declaration blessed my life. I could've been nothing, like you -- just a nobody with a whole shelf of awards for Article of the Year, etc. Of course if they're all one paragraph long, I could churn out one paragraph articles all day! Look at my article here! Should I split it up into a 12-part series? Would they give me an award, some worthless award I could stick on my mirror, like you no doubt have done!

But we're not done here yet. Your article goes on to term The Coffee Club's declaration "a terrible step." That hurts. And is unfair. Had you gone on to elucidate the problem, maybe I might've seen the point. But you thought, 'One paragraph of scurrilous insults covers the territory. I'm going on break. Someone get me a fan; I've had a tough day writing.' Ha ha! I could sit here and write insults about you till midnight and not get the slightest overheated, let alone need a fan!

OK, Myra Kula Electra, here's the deal: You have 24 hours to retract this despicable article or face the music. I haven't forgotten all you did when we were together. I may have forgotten a lot of things in my life, but does July 4 set off any fireworks in your reprobate conscience? As in four unsavory characters having the time of their life, Danny, Spud, Cannibal, and Tipsy. You have 24 hours or I will repost your sins! If anyone forgot, they'll be dramatically reminded! Apologize or you're going down!

If you retract the article, on the other hand, all is forgiven. And maybe we could still get together for some projects. Remember, Babe, I am The Golden Child. How many of those do you meet on an average day? The things Golden Children are capable of. Oh yeah!

The Billionaire Loves His New Steakhouse

Here's a recommendation, in my words but straight from the mind of the billionaire: If you ever become a billionaire, you really must buy your own steakhouse. There's lots of things money can buy -- cars, planes, houses, politicians -- that'll never make you happy. But a good steakhouse never lets you down.

I was there ... And I know what I saw ... Of course I'm talking about Patsy's Steakhouse, the place on the east side of town, for my money the best steakhouse we have. And that goes double for the billionaire's money. Patsy's getting old, and ever since Ray died she's deserved more than this, a life of watching big mouthed senior citizens shovel it in, then going home alone. The billionaire asked me about it and I said, "I would," meaning should he buy the place outright? Patsy named her price and that was it, along with a few details about the deed.

I should back up a bit before I say that I sat down with the billionaire for a nice juicy steak. I was already at Patsy's, in the foyer, when in comes the billionaire and his retinue. He sees me and recognizes me, the second time in one day, and goes, "The Easter Bunny guy!" I motioned him over by the restrooms and told him in low tones, so as not to embarrass him, "Listen, bud, if you call me 'the Easter Bunny guy' one more time, I'm gonna kick your ass till you're walking on your hands. I'm so much more than that."* He studied my face for any shame I had, and seeing none, goes, "Point taken."

Then he bought the place and we sat down for a nice meal, on him. With each bite, first one, then another, then another, my eyes rolled back in my head and I was gasping for air. The billionaire matched me climax for climax, the meat was that good, and of course tender. You never want meat to melt in your mouth, but you do want a tenderness that at least hints at melting. Then you look down and see what's left. You hope it's a lot, but sooner or later, barring a miracle, it's down to the bone, or nothing. I lifted my shirt and showed the group my puffed out belly. The billionaire lifted his shirt, too, then outdid me by disrobing to his shorts and energy belt and exulting in the moment, "I feel like a new man!"**

I clinked my glass and called the whole restaurant to silence before raising my iced tea and proclaiming, "To the billionaire!" There were voices of agreement in response, the lower tones of men, the medium tones of women, and the higher tones of a couple kids, who somehow were unable to go to a sitter, or not trusted enough to be left home alone with their TV, video games, or computer. You see a family like that and you remember back to your own youth, stripping naked when the adults left and streaking around the timber with cousins. But I also missed many a steak dinner...

Now that we were fast friends -- The Billionaire and The Easter Bunny Pauper -- there was no telling what the future held. One thing I knew, once I became his most trusted confidant, both our lives would be enhanced.** He really appreciated me threatening to kick his ass.* But I know enough about group dynamics to know I'll need plenty of other gambits.***

As we left the steakhouse, my heart was glad when I looked up and saw Patsy drive by in her cool collectable pink Cadillac, the first fruits of her labors in building a steakhouse a billionaire would want. Such a wonderful guy. 

All hail my friend, the billionaire and his ass*, as yet unharmed.

-------------------------------
*Confident back talk is our greatest psychological leveler.
**I knew we'd make an irresistible syzygy.
***I'm the King of Group Dynamics.

Trash-Talking a Cinnamon Roll

The spirit has hit me once again -- OH YEAH! -- to lay into something, to filet and gut it, to trash-talk it till it can't go on. I love the feeling, the surge of power, in taking a domineering stance and daring the damned thing to get up and fight.

This time I'm lording it over a cinnamon roll, that, frankly, struck me the wrong way. You don't want to get on my bad side, believe me. Maybe I don't like your attitude, maybe I don't like your look -- whatever it is -- you're goin' down, sucka!

Let's take a look at the cinnamon roll in question. A particularly disgusting looking sample. If the average cinnamon roll looked as pathetic as this one, there never would've been a demand for the thing. In the annals of desserts, there would've been a rather gaping hole, made better by no one ever knowing what was meant to go there.

My basic argument with this guy is its drizzle. Let's look at photo A14. Seriously, was this your plan? You had a little bit of drizzle and you decided to strike on your own, and show everybody how bad you were? Ha! But then when you got your motor running you couldn't even make it to the plate? Look at you, you're a waste of space. You got that far and ran out of juice, dog. You thought you could do it, I guess. I don't know why you thought that, since the juice wasn't even there to start with. It's stupid to think what you did. Maybe a little kick in the pants would've done you good ... before you even started!

Photo F361 takes us leftward. Here the apparent ambition of the roll was to fill up the plate with drizzle. But again ... Was that your big ambition? You thought you were going to impress the world, huh? You were gonna show everybody how amazing you were! And, yes, that would've been very amazing ... that is, if you had what it took to get the job done. Which obviously you didn't! You sicken me. Let's take a look at why you thought that. I don't why you thought that. It doesn't look like you have any brains at all. Is that what it is? Sure, yes, anyone can make a mad dash for the plate, but if they haven't got what it takes to get the job done, they probably should've just stayed home.

In T899 we shift rightward again, right between the two despicable drizzle failures, and here we see a section of the roll that somehow simply failed. Look at you! I may owe an apology to the others, for their failure to execute a proper cinnamon roll drizzle maneuver. Because you have a rather embarrassing bald spot -- extremely dry -- right where your drizzle should've been! And that's much worse. No one wants a bare naked cinnamon roll. Why'd you even bother to come along for the ride? You didn't think we were gonna notice this shameful display? How could we miss it? It's gaping, disgusting to see, and I'm sure, if I wasn't smart enough to pinch you off and throw you away, I'm sure I would've spat you out with revulsion and prejudice.

Z7 shows how the two drizzle points I lambasted are the only drizzle points. Z7, as a picture of the whole cinnamon roll in one view, shows how the damned thing had a lack of organization and presentation from the get-go. How much better, roll, if you didn't have the drizzle to coat your top if you'd had the intelligence not to waste it at the points of A14 and F361! Where was your head at when this was going on? Did you not spend even one moment considering how terrible you were going to look? What is this, the giving-up spirit of a runt, knowing it's a runt, and not worth its place in the litter? I don't know, you tell me! You're the one that stepped out and said you were a cinnamon roll worth eating! I didn't say that! But a cinnamon roll worth eating also has to be a cinnamon roll worth looking at. And on those points, my friend, you failed miserably.

Terrible Trouble! The Barber and Pizza Place

I saw the basics of this incident with my own two eyes. But I didn't really know it was in process till I'd noticed the guy walk by three times. I was sitting on a bench uptown. By the third time the guy walked by me I looked up from my phone and started paying attention. Then I was able to piece together the previous three trips in the context of the incident.*

The guy is a guy about town, someone that if you live here you see all the time. He doesn't seem to have a ton of friends -- never a companion -- but everyone, especially businessmen, know him. He's uptown a lot, and must check in a lot with merchants. This time he was going back and forth between the pizza place and the barber shop.

He started out at the barber shop and went to get a pizza for the barber, which he delivered. But there was some problem, so he went back to the pizza place with a dollar, then back to the barber. Soon he returned to the pizza place to get a handful of napkins, then to the barber. Then he returned to the pizza place for a little container of cheese, then back. Then he returned to the pizza place for some red peppers, then back.

By now, with yet another trip, the pizza place thought maybe there was a problem. He explained that the barber was certain the pizza was supposed to have been $7, but it turned out to be $8. The extra trips back were the barber's way of recouping his dollar.

So the pizza man sent him back to the barber with a message, that the pizza was indeed $8, not $7, because extra cheese is a dollar more. The barber sent him back with a message that he hadn't asked for extra cheese, the usual amount of cheese being all he wanted. The pizza man sent back a message that naturally he wouldn't have known that. He put one little knife in the barber's back: People rarely go to the barber, and then it's always the same ones. If the barber remembers what his customers want, that's no surprise. But so many people go the pizza place, many different ones, one order's the same as any other.

Obviously this kind of nasty comment didn't sit well with the barber. Especially since their commerce is only one way, the barber ordering pizzas but the pizza guy never getting a haircut. (I'm sure I would've have a hard time holding my tongue, too.) He sent the guy back to the pizza place with a message: "Your pizza sucks anyway, whether it's $7 or $8." The pizza guy sent him back with a message in return: "Why do you think I never come in for a haircut? The looks of your haircuts aren't the greatest." Their go-between man was Exhibit A, whose head and whole manner look totally bad; he's just a guy with bad hair.

It escalated from there. The barber complained that the pizzas were often dry like cardboard, and in addition, the occasional sandwiches he'd ordered were tasteless and skimpy on meat and hefty on lettuce. The pizza guy sent a message back that haircuts in general are very boring, and that this particular barber's haircuts were the most boring. Plus, and here he was unfair, the barber's toilet paper budget must be through the roof, just to patch up nicks from shoddy shaving practices.

By now the guy had gone back and forth -- I lost track -- maybe 18-20 times. As an emissary delivering messages, he did a fine job. But in my opinion it would've be more helpful to smooth out some of the rough edges of the messages they entrusted to him.

Finally, the pizza guy thought, "The barber actually is a pretty good customer. And we've been here all these years, on friendly terms." The barber, to his credit, also thought it over, "If I don't fix this, I won't be able to order pizzas again, which means I'll either starve or have to order from someone farther away."

The barber sent the guy back to the pizza guy with a friendly word, then to smile and ask about the extra cheese thing. But before asking about the cheese, the guy admitted ordering extra cheese, not to cause trouble, but that's the way he personally orders pizza, so it had slipped his mind, causing the extra dollar charge for the barber.

Of course there's a happy ending, as seen in the picture. The pizza guy kicked the guy out once and for all, then made up with the barber, returning his dollar, who immediately went to the register and gave the pizza guy 50 cents. They both agreed that they had been good neighbors far too long to let this guy screw them up now.

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* An interesting moment for me, when I go from basic ignorance to omniscience

I Saw a Real Bumpkin

I saw a real bumpkin today, a real dweeb. I haven't seen an eyesore like this in a long time. He was a sight for sore eyes, after the fact. Like a train wreck on two legs. He couldn't hit the broad side of the barn of respectability, and that's putting it nicely.

What an appearance. I was embarrassed for him. I covered my eyes at the sight. But then I gave in, I couldn't look away. It was all too much, so revolting I don't know where to start. What the hell? He either let himself go, or he didn't have much to work with from the get go.

This was seriously a face only a mother could love, like something out of the funny papers. I thought it had to be a gag. Like getting makeup in reverse. How much of an absolute shambles can one person make himself? But he wasn't laughing, and it didn't look like a put on. I'm convinced this was actually the guy's real self. You know how nuclear waste has a half life? That's about what this guy has!

One thing he's got going for him, he's not overweight. He's skinny as all get out, like a toothpick, like twigs. His hair was outrageous, little tufts here and there, no definite arrangement. Of course what hair he had with any fullness was coming out his ears and nose. He had a long neck, like a giraffe. I couldn't look away. I'm just wondering what he sees when he looks out on the world, having the buggiest eyes ever, and cross-eyed to boot! His complexion was something from a pizza shop, and his nose was enormous, room for four nostrils.

I had to pass him on my way somewhere else. And stink! He stunk! To put it nicely, something of a fragrance, a little on the strong side, fairly stout. Good thing his pants were fastened, because they might've walked away without him, it was that bad. This was the kind of smell that sticks with you, and he was living proof of that. It might be a good idea to get this guy a bath. Shoehorn him in, anything it'd take to at least start the process of cleaning him!

His voice was another disaster. I heard him saying hello to someone. Most of us were standing around staring. He talked like a musical instrument gone sour, no music to it, just a kind of ridiculous warble. I have a word for that kind of voice, Durwood. If that's your name, sorry.

Like I said, I was thinking maybe it was a put on. He reminded me of one of my Grandpa's old jokes, actually my Grandpa's only joke. This is from the 1910s or '20s. A particular bumpkin comes to town. The townspeople see his backward ways and take him under their wing. They start off putting a necktie on him. Once he gets the tie he stands in one place for three days. See, he thinks he's a horse tied up! I remember Grandpa crying his eyes red telling that. This guy today would've tickled Grandpa's funny bone, that's for sure!

I wanted to keep track of the guy. See if there were any cracks in his facade, because maybe it really was a put on. He didn't look like he was in on the joke, but that's exactly the kind of discipline a trained performer might have. Come to a town, present himself as a bumpkin, then turn it around and let the joke be on us. I didn't want that to happen. I looked around carefully and didn't see any obvious confederates of the guy in the groups of people observing him.

This really sort of helped me socially, in a way. I don't usually talk to people downtown, therefore I'm always beset by loneliness. But others were making witty asides about the guy to me, and I was making others right back. A few hand slaps among us. I've noticed something socially these days, that we're all comedians. It might be the most predictable sorts of stuff, but it's all funny in the moment. I laughed at them, mostly so they'd laugh at me. The only guy not laughing was the guy himself, as he seemed oblivious to anything but his own inner being. Whatever that must be!

As I was going along, then, carefully keeping track, I saw the bumpkin making his way to what turned out to be one crummy car. Of course! Like a Bumpkinmobile, which ended up rattling down the road. How he ever got the thing licensed I don't know. It didn't look particularly road-worthy, just, predictably, a hunk of junk.

Even now I'm laughing. I just hope the memories of this, etched in my memory cells, don't keep me from sleeping later on, and don't make me physically sick.

Paywall -- You Just Lost the Daily Option

I heard an interesting quote, that I think really applies here: "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." Whoa! Let that sink in! That's "the mass of men," Joe Average, Walt Wimp. So applicable, definitely, to the situation here at hand! Whoever first said that surely had in mind the Wimps of our present day. How prescient!

It's in that awareness, and that spirit, that I announce an executive decision, made without consulting anyone, asking no counsel but my own inner authority: I have cut off and immediately terminated your opportunity to sign up for a Daily subscription plan. That option is hereby gone. You're out. We've already moved past it. You've been judged unworthy. Your inaction doomed you, as I figured all along it would.

Does this mean the paywall for my blog is dead? No, how would you come to such an absurd conclusion? Did you do it on your own? What a leap! It certainly does not mean that. But it does mean that for those who might still avail themselves of one of the higher subscription plans, your time also is running out. Do not delay. The cutoff point could come at any time. Act now or possibly be left high and dry. Don't presume, the time remaining is short. Act now, with all haste. Due diligence must be your watchword.

With the Daily option gone, that leaves plenty of options: Weekly, Monthly, Yearly, and Lifetime. If finances are an issue, then by all means I'd say go with the Weekly plan. At $700 a week, it's your most economical rate, but it might not last. Lock it in now. The other plans remain more secure, Monthly ($2,800), Yearly ($33,599), and Lifetime ($5 million.) You can have a fair to excellent hope of those being available.

But who knows? Sometimes life's opportunities are fleeting. All the things we have to go through to exist ... most of it has nothing to do without our own conscious choices. But there are a few things, some of the things of happiness that the moment makes demands on us. My part in that is to experience it along with everyone else. But once in a while, as here, I have something to do with it. And I don't mind teaching a few dawdlers a lesson or two about life! Ever hear the old saw, Time waits for no man... ? Well, things happen.

So that gate is shut, that door is locked. May the money you might have used for the Daily option canker and rot. I wouldn't accept it now were you to throw it at my feet. The reason why -- and this is obviously a serious matter -- is Wimps are not worthy. There was a very good reason, as it turns out, why you were so labeled. Your failure to seize the moment was signal. Opportunity knocked, but you failed to answer. Forgoing your role in the equation was a crucial decision, and lamentable...

For me, the term Wimp always calls to mind a dreadful condition of spinelessness, and in this case the allusion is deadly accurate. It's weird that you share life with me. It just makes you realize, we're all that close. We breathe the same air, we see the same sky. Day is day for each of us. But there's huge differences in how people seem to function.

Maybe it's not entirely your fault, although I'm not looking to prop you up with excuses. Newborns sometimes lack just the right oxygen mix, then years later pay for that in failing health. However true that might be, I'm convinced most of our problems are our fault. How much oxygen would you have needed to do the right thing in this instance?

So, yes, the paywall's still going up. That won't be stopped. But something has been stopped, something has been terminated. The Daily subscription option. If you have only $100 to spend, keep it -- we'll do without your meager contribution.  The clarion call that you somehow missed has now gone silent, what was warm is now cold, and your chances are through. What a terrible thing it must be -- I'm trying to imagine it --  to realize how close you were, how your opportunity was right there at hand, and you were unwilling.

Shooting Fish In A Barrel -- I Fire Trade!

You haven't seen much of me here in the last couple days. It's been a tough stretch. But I'm starting to catch my breath, after being confronted so harshly by Trade Smith, up till now the only remaining member of my blog's Board of Editors on the 2nd tier.

It was no doubt a mistake to put two siblings together on the 2nd tier, since when one decided to be treacherous (Mark) it would be only a matter of time before his brother joined him in perfidy. The fact is that the very same "insult," as Trade took it to be was also directed at Dale, my remaining male board member, and Dale didn't seem to mind. But of course Dale is a funnier guy, not that serious, so maybe he didn't give it as much thought as Trade. Trade obviously stewed over it, his resentment built, the whole thing festered over, then he reached his boiling point and it erupted.

The insult, such as it was, and I actually didn't mean it in an insulting way, was in this paragraph from my post on "Jimmy's 18th Birthday at the Library."

I and the Board were well-dressed too, neither standing out as being over- or under-dressed. I was happy with my own choices. I had a full array of clothes to choose from, having done the laundry the previous day. Dale and Trade weren't wearing anything particularly memorable. But Delilah looked very sweet in a light blue, checkered dress, much like you might see in the cafe of a comfortable Alpine chalet.

I thought it'd be nice to take a few minutes and tell what all the principals in the whole drama were wearing. I went over Jimmy's attire, his mom's, his dad's, the library directors, mine, Dale and Trade's, and Delilah's. But the fact that I meticulously listed everyone's clothing, then said, "Dale and Trade weren't wearing anything particularly memorable," rubbed Trade the wrong way. Plus, if I could just add a bit of conjecture, I wouldn't doubt it if his brother Mark had egged him on in private. Like a devil whispering in his ear.

Anyway, he confronted me in the garage, where we work on the blog, and threw the now-infamous line in my face a dozen times in the course of his tirade. As he ranted on, I noticed he was wearing a seasonal long sleeve shirt, blue, button-down, attractive and neatly pressed black slacks, nicely polished dress shoes, and a Happy Wanderer type of green felt hat with a red feather, clearly an allusion to my description of Delilah's dress as something from an Alpine chalet.

"Couldn't remember it, huh!?" he charged, getting himself worked up royally, his felt hat going askew. "Nothing memorable about my clothes, huh!?" He complained that he'd put in his best efforts for the blog, helping to guide the direction of it, etc., and that it shouldn't be too much for him to get equal attention with Delilah or even me in the descriptions of our work together. I probably shouldn't have mocked him, but I couldn't help myself, flapping my hand up and down like someone talking who won't stop.

He started backing me up with his raving. Then I thought of the old truism about bullies: You have to stand up to a bully! I walked back toward him, throwing out some mean bluster of my own, coming to the conclusion that to have mentioned what he was wearing, even had I remembered, would be, 1) A waste of bandwidth, which I will not do under any circumstances; and, 2) To give him more than his due, because, I said, quite frankly I could care less had he been wearing a wooden barrel with two straps!

It was like I'd stabbed him. Apparently he looked up to me more than I thought. My opinion meant something to him, even with everything that had gone down with Mark. But instead of backing up, I doubled down, saying how great it'd be to put him in a barrel with a school of fish, and for me to have a gun and to try shooting them, with him doing his best to dodge the bullets! Which wouldn't be that hard. It's not like he'd be blindfolded!

He suddenly got all calm, knowing it was over, and smarted off at me, anticipating the charge of him wanting to have sex with Delilah that I'd thrown in Frank and Mark's face, saying sarcastically, "I suppose you'll say I'm imagining having sex with Delilah on your kitchen table, with all the trimmings." I felt a slow boil rising up from my core. I glared at him, my face feeling flushed, the heat now rising and descending between my neck and the top of my head, and shouted something like, "You have condemned yourself with your own words!" I dashed to the garage wall and yanked off the garden shears, saying, "You want the trimmings!? If there's any trimming to be done!..." I left the rest of the threat implied. As he hurried out the door, I shouted, "You are fired!"

The Board of Editors has obviously taken a massive hit. What started off so good has turned very sour. Now with Trade, the two 2nd tier is wiped out. That means we either skip having a 2nd tier all together, or the 3rd tier might become the 2nd. But I hate giving wholesale promotions, so I think we'll just leave it blank. It might make more logical sense to just say we have two tiers, the 1st and 3rd, like the Traveling Wilburys did with their albums.

I haven't told Dale and Delilah any of this yet, although maybe the Smith boys have filled them in. I'm just hoping they're not automatically against me when we meet again, especially Delilah.

Washington Wanted To Kill Lincoln

I'm writing about a nearby town, which, like lots of towns, has a Washington and a Lincoln school. My own town had a Washington and a Lincoln school, but both of them closed and have since been torn down. Which is probably a good thing, because things can really get out of hand. But whereas our Washington and Lincoln schools were both elementary, the two in this other town are high schools, and that's worse.

If you know the area, then you know I'm talking about the Washington Eagles and the Lincoln Panthers, two very proud rivals in sports. They're both always right on the verge of basketball and football championships, and if that ever happens ... I hate to think of it ... It probably depends if they're playing each other. Still, even if they're playing another town, the Washington kids wouldn't be rooting for Lincoln, nor Lincoln for Washington.

Like I said, they're huge rivals in sports. And things have gotten out of hand a time or two, meaning the rhetoric has gotten heated, and someone's going to get hurt one of these days, if they haven't already. I think the newspaper hushes up a lot of incidents because it can't afford to offend either side.

Anyway, there's been a lot of insults. But it wasn't until the Washington kids made up a sign for their pep rally that read, "Kill Lincoln" that the school boards got together and tried to bury the hatchet and demanded that all slogans be approved for good sportsmanship. But as far as I know they're far from stifling a lot of the deep hatred that is there on both sides. It's a very divided town.

Of course "Kill Lincoln" brings up the terrible memory of Lincoln actually being shot, and is in very bad taste. And since Washington died a natural death, the Lincoln kids couldn't retaliate in kind. But they tried doing something with the famous picture of Washington crossing the Delaware with a slogan of their own, "Sink Washington."

It's gotten very personal like that. The Lincoln students mocked Washington because of his supposed honesty, that he "can't tell a lie." And it makes a certain amount of sense that he would have lied if he thought he would get away with having chopped down the cherry tree. But his dad had only a limited number of honyocks in the neighborhood to suspect, so little Washington knew his goose was cooked.

The Washington students weren't much better. Picking up on their rivalry in town being like the Civil War, they started showing up at games pretending to own slaves. Since the Lincoln kids' greatest pride was their forebear freeing the slaves, this was the Washington kids taking that away.  Washington also made fun of Lincoln's lankiness and his need to try to hide his homeliness by wearing a beard. Lincoln of course had to respond, and did, by emphasizing Washington's wooden teeth.

Perhaps the strangest thing to come out of this bitter rivalry was the students' refusal to learn anything about their opponent's forebears. Lincoln's kids refused to memorize Washington's name, and vice versa, except to the extent that they needed to know them for various taunts.

I Will Provoke You

You scurrilous knave, you dare visit this blog? After I royally dress you down, I bet you won't again. You'll pick up your precious marbles and go home. Which is just fine by me.

There's lots of fish in the sea, as they say. And as for me, I have bigger fish to fry. I doubt I'll miss you all that much, although the way I picture it, you'll be seriously wondering what I might say about you next.

You might be wondering, What happened to his vaunted kindness to visitors, strangers? Yes, that's the attitude I typically show -- fat lot of good it's done me. What I get in return isn't worth having, not even a word of thanks -- it's all taken for granted.

So just slither away with your bad self, it'll be all right with me. Slither back under your lizard rock, burrow slightly in the sand to make room for yourself. Yourself and no one else. You're fundamentally a selfish person. That's your fortune today, my personal word to you. Looking out for Number 1, so typical, so tedious.

I'll still be here, hoping someone worthy of my time and talents visits me. In that rare instance, I'll roll out the red carpet. So rare, it's still rolled up from when I got it. I hope it still looks new. I haven't seen it since the day I got it.

Let's just say I'm pessimistic. There haven't been five visitors to this blog who've measured up to even the least of my standards. What has happened precisely to taint the run of average people, I don't know; it's enough to say they've fallen far from the standard I imagined possible. It's making me yawn.

By now I'm writing for myself alone. I'm the last worthy person in the world. You can leave. I'd prefer it that way. But feel free to class up your piece of s--- computer, that's probably very slow to boot up and so full of viruses, spam, and spyware, you couldn't get a passport for it. I'm not addressing a drawer of the sharpest knives.

OK, I feel a little sorry for you. Most people of your completely worthless character and stock are not themselves entirely to blame. The problems you're dealing with -- the dulled mentality, the slowness to respond, certainly the slowness to initiate anything of value, came before birth. Your parents were idiots, pressed together as first cousins, and already halfwits, in the forbidden bed. Your grandparents were off somewhere eating lead paint chips.

Then they announced your conception. But with the crossed eyes, no one knew precisely who they were talking to, so the whole world listened in. Then the world held its collective breath, knowing about garbage in, garbage out. The prenatal people crossed themselves. What they were expecting is the stuff of some horror movies, or clinical studies, like "The Feeble Minds of Arkansas," a booklet I used to have, until I sold it to some moron on eBay, apparently with a flicker of sense and wanting to examine his own psychological dregs, but guess what, he wasn't even from Arkansas!

Your gestation period was a disaster. Mom's water broke a month before birth, meaning you had a very dry time of it, chafing your hide in the absence of lubrication. They had to double grease her just to finally extract the infestation. By now you looked inhuman. Other children thought you looked like a gorilla. Several laws on infanticide were specifically rescinded by a Congress pressed into emergency session, but when they went to choke the life from you, you bit them and everyone got rabies.

Then you went home, where you've been causing a hideous odor ever since, plus a row a minute. The school wouldn't accept you. They wanted a priest to baptize you, but with one terrified look, he cursed God and died.

And now -- and I've always considered myself blessed, one of the luckiest people in the world, in addition to my treasures of merit -- you've come to my blog, publicly soiled yourself, embarrassed yourself (as though you're actually capable of it,) and offended me. I might have to delete my blog, with its enviable archives, just to destroy any record and shame of your visits -- that's how frantic I am.

You're very existence is a scandal to me. If I weren't afraid of languishing and suffering in prison needlessly, as might happen were I to draw a judge who didn't know your reputation, I might confront you myself with violence. With your dying breath, if the choking process triggered any kind of rationality in you, in the end you'd thank me.

No one gets in trouble when they excise a cancerous tumor. And it's thought praiseworthy to protect your family and society against a marauding bear. But you never can be too sure about our system of justice, since they eventually let out most criminals. Personally, I'd throw away the key and get on my knees and pray that the earth would open up and swallow the building.

"Yeah," you say. "But you ought to be glad someone -- even a scurve like me -- chooses to read your crummy blog. Obviously you're not getting that much traffic." To which I reply, and this is my final word on the subject, "Don't do me any favors, loser. Please don't."

Mouthbreathers

I saw the term "mouthbreathers" a little while ago. It was from a guy who wrote a nasty diary (Daily Kos) against Obama. I didn't read the entire thing, but it's got recipes and other responses that indicate it's not getting widespread approval among the community. It also has dirty language, cleverly disguised with asterisks and @ signs in the place of vowels.

(My blogging policy being a strictly "nothing blue" policy, I will not be quoting the guy, nor will I be linking to his potty fingers diatribe. My avoidance of prurience also extends to buying nothing but edited versions of CDs at Walmart. The more blips and gaps in my music the happier I am.)

But it was the guy himself (if he's not a guy it doesn't matter here) who used the word "mouthbreathers," in the sense of preempting any kind of, from his point of view, ignorant comeback to his objection. It would seem that his contention is that Obama ought to govern according to some "progressive cause" agenda. (Find one singular "progressive cause" where everyone agrees and maybe we'll have something.)

The word "mouthbreathers" is an interesting one. I breathe through my mouth sometimes, like if I'm stuffed up. And I think snoring is basically breathing through your mouth. You can't make that many noises from your nose, can you? Just a few snorts is what your nose is good for. When we see the term online, to me it usually means some kind of neanderthal, knuckledragging ignorant hothead. Like Freepers, only smarter.

Mouthbreathers. That's what your opponents always are. And knuckledraggers, like cavemen. Like those idiots on the commercials who are still so primitive they don't shave their foreheads. Just because they talk in a suave way (that's the humor) doesn't mean they're not still stupid.