A Cob Up Everyone's Bottom

Part 20 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Here’s one that centers on a profession I probably should have followed, the law. I think I would’ve made a good lawyer, since I've always been so worried about doing something wrong and getting in trouble. It would pay — say I memorized everything legal and illegal and searched it for excuses why I didn’t know the difference. People would be coming to me like the legal eagle I’d be. Nobody would get away with anything because I’d be there forever suing for damages and banking the profits.

My dad said he always wanted to be a lawyer but he never got up and did anything about it. Just sat on the chair telling everyone who went by, “I wish I were a lawyer.” Since there’s a law office every other door downtown the places we lived, it was like saying he’d like to breathe. No one else was saying it, so why didn’t he just be a lawyer instead of yammering about it all the time? With the same thing going for me. Now that I’m old and out of live options it’s amazing to look back and see all the options I used to have, which at the time seemed completely impossible and far off. I might look into a lawsuit against those who beclouded my imagination and fogged my sight when everything should’ve been clear.

Here, though, we see our rodeo friend, Omar the Tent-making Clown, standing before a most dour judge -- who obviously had lemonade for breakfast -- and is now either extremely serious about the law and its so-called sanctity or has a cob wedged in a particularly personal body cavity and might actually have lost it sometime in the last day. That’d never happen to me, of course -- body cavities are for natural processes -- but if it did I dare say I wouldn’t have the clarity of mind to render a fair verdict; I would’ve gavelled the proceedings closed at least long enough to extricate it, explaining demurely that World War III was taking place in my pants, and on the off chance I failed, I'd look for a discrete physician to help, someone who thankfully didn’t go into law instead.

Omar’s trouble before the judge — and I’m not judging the judge's choice of personal toys, although something made of plastic or one of the more supple plastic-like materials is a lot better than an actual corn cob, which has a lifespan of what? A minute under ideal conditions? Let alone the heat of a cavity like that, the moisture, peristalsis. The fact that you’re in court is a problem too. You can’t be worrying about something getting lost and working its way upward — I suppose it’s possible, why restrict gravity’s self-defining choices — and making its presence known at an embarrassing point in the proceedings, just as you’ve made up your mind to hang Omar. The gales of laughter would ruin your credibility. And everyone’s appetite!

Well, as it turned out I didn’t save the day legally, but during the three or four recesses I managed to plant enough doubts about the judge’s sexuality — human, animal, or mineral — that Omar's next court date is in 10 years, probably five years past his life expectancy, going by what’s typical for rodeo clowns who've been in legal trouble.

A Bull of Attainder

Part 17 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

The first case I know of a guy being chased downhill by a bull was with a guy we called Judge. Judge was a judge, which you can probably tell by his stupid dumpy look. And, speaking of bulls, he might pass on a bull of attainder — sounds highly technical — which was a summons from the judge one step up, as much as saying, “I’m the judge one step up and you will do as I say, and if you don’t, we’ll get the judge one step up from me and he'll make you.” It’s like kids double-dog daring, triple-dog daring, and if that doesn’t work, just going full bull, at which point the opponent is gored and leaks when he's out swimming, blood out, stagnant water infecting the wound in.

Essentially this is the stuff they teach you the first day of law school, right after clearing up the point about No. 2 pencils being preferred to other numbers. The computer needs it that way when it reads your essays and reports. It’s been a while since I applied for law school and was rejected because of outstanding parking fines. Memo to any kids out there, make sure you’re up to date on licensing your cars, dogs, and if you’re married to a beautician, her certification. Or they’ll issue a bull of attainder and you’ll be working that punch press at the factory for life. Until you lose a hand and your reason for living.

Anyway, back then the Judge naturally had to hand-deliver the various bulls he was in charge of. And that meant going there fully looking the part, keeping his Judge costume on everywhere he went. He'd be at your door, your barn, your garage, the other out-buildings, the fishing hole if you were down there. And up and down every field between there and the county line if that’s what it took! These rural areas, don’t look on your phone to find your way around; you're either born there or you're lost. If you were born there there’s no mystery at all — or if you’ve been out there hunting over the years. Then you just look at the back of your hand and you're there.

So there goes the Judge, proud of his get-up and the respect he instantly commands by his great role in society. He inspires fear, trepidation, and envy. Personally I wouldn’t want a son or daughter who was a judge. It's like this, I’m such an egalitarian guy I wouldn’t want any favors from my kin, because others would then be jealous and hold a grudge. But with my perpetual good cheer, they’d still think I was getting favors and hold it against me. They’d be right in my face, barking, “Why don’t you ever get any bulls of attainder?” And the true answer would be, “I take care of my affairs as I go, so I’m never in arrears.” They’d be nodding their head, their eyes rolled back and their mouth indicating they still think I’m getting favors from my kid.

And when you call a man a liar in those areas of the country, that’s as good as wishing for your own death sentence. I might issue a bull of my own, a bull to chase you downhill, kind of like the one that got free and chased the Judge downhill. Something Judge never did much of was exercise. So it was his own fault that the bull easily caught up with him and … That was a bull of attainder, easily attaining enough speed to gore the Judge straight through. A fitting sentence.

REDRUM, He Wrote

The paper had an interesting story today -- and photo -- of a guy charged with murder. That's everyday stuff, of course, but what made this interesting was the tattoo on his neck. Looking at him straight on, he had REDRUM tattooed, reversed to see it better in a mirror. And it was huge, estimating it to be a 1000 pt outline font. Counsel has moved to allow him to cover it or have it removed, lest the jury find him YTLIUG and he's YAWA TUP.

Whatever happens to that guy, I'm sure you'll join me in wishing for him a completely fair trial, with the prosecution prevailing only if they prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. The fact that he has REDRUM on his neck, in my opinion, doesn't say anything incriminating necessarily.

There could be lots of reasons -- from an artistic bent to sheer antisocial cussedness -- for his tattoo. I know a lady with a pretty flower on the back of her leg, and that doesn't mean she's good at gardening. In fact, she lacks a green thumb.

I've always been that way about fair trials. As an average citizen, I read the paper and form opinions. But these accounts are always lacking some of, usually most of the evidence. In a different case, this other guy charged with murder, who is allegedly a hothead, went with some folks on a pleasant outing in the country. Apparently something turned sour, as everyone but him was brutally murdered, including a toddler whose body was found in a creek. Of course my first thought is Bigfoot. Then I start considering this guy. But if I'm on the jury, or I'm the judge, I go for the reasonable doubt conclusion.

I think I would've made a great judge. We've got a pesky defender or prosecutor, moving for a bathroom break. I go, "I'm the judge, I'll say when we have a bathroom break ... bathroom break! 10 minute recess. Be back in 9. If you take 11, you'll spend the rest of the trial in stocks. And anytime I see a juror even start to nod, it'll be one lash of the cat 'o nine tails for you. OK, sorry, I went long, be back in 8."

Other than messing with them like that, I'd be impartial and good. Soaking it in, proud when the bailiff calls out, "All rise! The honorable Tobias G. Slump presiding!" I look out, nod, have everyone be seated, wink at the cute bailiff, which whom I've just been in quarters, and admire the defendant's interesting tattoo, a guy sneaking a canoe out of Walmart, coincidentally the same crime he's charged with. The final verdict: Innocent! (I believe the defense, that the canoe was put in his truck by person or persons unknown, invisible to video surveillance.)

It's my prayer -- which I expect to be answered -- that someday soon we shall get past all this. For you see, I fervently believe in the perfectibility of man. Call it the new heaven and new earth, call it the Millennium, or just call it the pink-starred la la land I'm favored to live in. But I see a day when there's no REDRUM, drug-dealing, bank robberies (even by bankers), or the stealing of canoes.

In my new world, every person is so content in their being and Ultimate Being, in fact we're One! Each of us will follow -- by a redeemed nature and social setting -- the Golden Rule. Or, to refine that statement, our will won't will evil, our wont won't be toward evil. All mankind will possess their own person in peace, dwelling peaceably under the communal fruit tree, nothing really their own except maybe a nice shirt, a pair of pants, suspenders, and shoes that shall never wear out.

The Dog Gutterer

This is the story of The Dog Gutterer, sort of like The Dog Whisperer, except this guy has to get in there down and dirty with psychological tricks to trick the dog back into complacency.

I heard this story, I think its first roots are in the dog show circuit, where any nasty thing can happen. They may look like innocent friends, but the animus is raw ... because of what they've seen and had to put up with. Just as an aside, I don't believe I could show dogs. It's just such utter nonsense.

Let's pick out a scofflaw dog, since the way the story came to me there was one. And since there is a particular dog that we're not a fan of -- the pitbull -- let's let the pitbull stand in for our bad boy. (I was actually warming up to pitbulls a few weeks ago, then I heard of another one ripping up some girl's hand again, and that ruins it again for everyone.)

All right, the dog show (another damned dog show) is underway. And since we started this story, off camera, everything's gone completely to pot, with one dog, a pitbull, having taken over. He's got the judges rounded up and has chased them out on to the ledge of the building to a corner. They're cornered and he's leaping at them, his attitude not quite as raw as long as they heed his authority. But anytime he discerns a false move from any of the gathered party, he's nipping at them fast and furious. Even nervous moving of the feet bothers him. The party is looking down at taxis and bystanders looking up pointing. At this height, all hope is gone.

Inside, all the people have the other dogs in pens. There's a guy with the pieces of a stun gun on the floor, and a few guys are trying to figure out how to put it together. They're cussing and wringing their hands. The pitbull's owner is over pleading with them. He's at his wits end, pleading, "Don't kill him!" (Those closest to the dog are of course the most blinded.)

Then, at some point in this whole sad gathering, someone has called The Dog Gutterer.

The Dog Gutterer comes through the door. No tools, no bag, no cape, no superhero costume. About all he has is complete confidence and a special in with dogs. It turns out dogs both hate and love eye contact. They hate it if they don't see confidence behind it. They love it if they know you're going to put them in their place and be their boss. But you've got to speak their language!

The Dog Gutterer looked around, found the person who'd called him, went over and scoffed at the stun gun proceedings on the floor, then did a few knee squats and took a cleansing breath. It was like yoga. He had to tell himself, mentally and in silence, that he was the Dog Gutterer!

Then it was to the window and to the ledge, and around the corner and to the scene of the crime. The pitbull had the judges huddled and wasn't letting up with his threats. But now he had The Dog Gutterer behind him to deal with! He was split. What if the judges get away? But what if this guy behind him jumps him?

To make a long story short, let's just tell what happened in the barest of terms: 1) The dog backed up, feeling that a confident attacker from the back was a priority to the huddled judges. 2) The Dog Gutterer started in with his "guttering," making guttural noises, very tricky stuff that was confusing to the dog. 3) The dog thought to leap at him, but the look of confidence on The Dog Gutterer's face, as well as the queer up and down, weird cadence of his guttering took away the dog's resolve. 4) The Dog Gutterer led the dog back into the room, then down the elevator, guttering all the while, then out of the building, where he was hogtied and disciplined by his master in the parking lot.

The judges were so traumatized that they left their sham work of judging dogs behind and got honest work. Because as everyone knows, there's no dignity in judging dogs. It's pure idiocy.

As for The Dog Gutterer, he's still out there somewhere, waiting ... patiently waiting for a dog, maybe your dog, to act up.