She Said She Was Down to Her Last $3

There's been a rash of homicides in my town lately. I live in a quaint little burg, not exactly the murder capital of the world. The place is so small, when someone gets murdered it's still front page news. Then over the next few weeks, we're treated to every lurid detail, over and over, along with the official police statement of "No comment."

The last two or three have had a common theme. Not drugs, not a break-in, not a crime of passion. The victim had taken it upon themselves to invite the (alleged) perpetrator into their home to stay. The person was at their wit's end, it seems, casting about for somewhere to stay, for some blessed soul to say "Yes." And this very helpful person was the one.

I know something about this in my own life, even though it's very limited. Once over 40 years ago I let some guys I met hitchhiking stay overnight at my place. I even slept on the couch and gave them my bed. I slept well and didn't worry about a thing. Morning came, they got up, and left. Now, today, the same scenario would've ended with me in a pool of blood, a knife through my heart, and "PIGS" scrawled on the wall in blood, in a very gnarly font.

I believe it's still good to be helpful. If someone comes to you -- usually wild-eyed, super creepy, talking crazily, although they could be just normal-eyed, not creepy, and talking pleasantly -- wanting a place to stay, the best response is some version of "No." Along with general directions to the nearest shelter, bridge, campground, or city limits. Whatever they say about staying with you, put them off till they finally get the message. These killers are brutal.

If you invite them in, I can see how things would build over a week or so. You'd probably be quite safe the first night. They're just grateful for a place, and you're feeling pleasant. But by the end of the first week, they're busy thinking, "Why isn't this my place? I deserve more." And you're putting off a less pleasant vibe too, still being helpful but with a passive-aggressive "Why don't you leave?" tone in your voice.

He or she (and the suspects in the last two cases I know of have been women) already thinks the whole world's against them, and now they're not so happy with you. So they test you one last time. "I'm down to my last three bucks, three measly dollars!" she complains, moving the apricots sullenly in her dish before putting one in her mouth, then looking up. You don't know what to say, as you move your own apricots, having lost what little appetite you thought you had. "Well, I'm sure things will pick up," you finally say, trailing off.

OK, the whole subject is dropped. Until you have to go to the bathroom and you pointedly take your purse with you. And perhaps roll the safe out as well. I hate to say what happens next, except to say this is where you become the victim of blessed memory.

I too have the natural instinct to want to help. But these are crazy days. Without getting into a whole sociological rundown of society today -- video games, the lust for possessions, and general orneriness that demands to be sated -- I'd rather take my chance with a rabid dog, a hungry lion, or King Kong himself than one of my fellow human beings. Of course I'm personally a nice guy. If I were to stay at your house, I know you'd be safe from me. But I might not feel safe from you. I know if you said something about being down to your last three bucks I'd be gone.

Anyway, the killer strikes, then disappears, hits the road, goes somewhere else. Then it comes out in the paper. Complete with a picture of the outside of your house. Everyone's imagination is free to wonder what was going on in those four walls. Both the victim and the alleged killer walked through that very door... What else happened, we don't know. But whatever it was, it obviously wasn't very good.

The bottom line is, If you wanna help, don't! Run, don't walk! Get the hell out of there! 

Keep It Simple, Stupid, Because If You Don't...

 
Sometimes I'm sorry about the things I post here. Of course, I always know who I am and what I'm up to, but then I forget that everyone else might be confused. So I hit my head and say: "Duh, you should've thought of that!"

In other words, all those times I am guilty of forgetting the very first rule, which is KISS, "Keep it simple, stupid!" Making me the stupid one there, in case you didn't get that. I've actually expanded the first rule, making it more helpful, which might be useful to share here: KISSBIYDTSWBICATYO. Get that? Obviously, it stands for, "Keep it simple, stupid, because if you don't, then someone will become instantly confused and turn you off!"

I've had a number of people "turn me off," probably because they were "instantly confused." Again, I know what I'm up to, but it's not perhaps immediately clear to everyone else. So it's very, very, extremely important -- Note to Self -- that I remember this rule. It's important, so important that I'm going to memorize it: KISSBIYDE. No, KISSBIYDS, damn, missed it again. Let me look: KISSBIYDTS (the S is for someone, not E for everyone) Then the end, WBICATYO. I think I can remember that as a W followed by BIC AT YO, a BIC pen @ YO[u]. OK, got it!

So why are people so instantly confused? I hate to be potentially insulting, but clearly they're not entirely focused in. Teachers tell me these days it's all video games and graphic novels, dumbing down everyone. To which I shout a hale and hearty, "Amen!" I'm sick of video games and graphic novels dumbing things down! I asked at the library why they even stocked video games and graphic novels, and they said they didn't really want to. But, it seems, when you've got morons as your audience, they can be very demanding. They throw fits and pee in the book deposit!

But to be magnanimous and not alienate these easily alienated people -- wilting violets -- naturally I will take the blame. That's only right, keeping with the first rule of customer service: TTBBIYPIWIBTWBIOJON. You probably remember the old rule: "Take the blame, because if you put it where it belongs, they will be instantly offended, justified or not."

I've known a few people in business. And believe me, they're rolling their eyes something fierce at this stuff. Always having to cater to the customers, it's an understandable drag! But the businessman gets 'em back in private, tossing around these acronyms. Like, TCAREWTNWIAATT, "The customer's always right, except when they're not, which is actually all the time!"

Revisiting The Wood Manhood Relics

FOUR DIFFERENT HIPSTAMATIC PICTURES FOR GREATER VALIDITY OF THE EVIDENCE

Summary of The Wood Manhood Affair: In India, one of Master's chelas (students) was disobedient to the work of seeking oneness with the Divine. Instead, he, Brother Unsettled, abused his member on chain-link fences, wood surfaces, and trees. The result was his turning to wood. His now-wooden manhood was preserved, to serve as a spiritual lesson and warning to others. I have custody of the relics. The yoni-shaped wood appears to have been Unsettled's only true comfort.

Being the custodian of sacred relics is a big responsibility. First, there is the physical tending to them. Second, there are inquiries I get from time to time as to their whereabouts and condition, as well as requests to see them and/or touch them. Most of these requests are denied; frankly, I think that's a sick request. But it's understandable that chelas would want to know how they are. In short, they're just fine.

It's been some time now since my post in July 2011, which made me think the whole thing needed to be revisited. At least insofar as how the relics are doing. And lest anyone thinks they can simply come on my property and take the relics, no, it won't be that simple. They are kept in a safe deposit box at the bank.

I know you'll find this interesting. First, about the photos, that's four Hipstamatic photos of the wooden manhood of Brother Unsettled, plus the yoni, plus an extraneous piece of wood, the little chip. If you examine the evidence carefully, you will see one photo is slightly different from the rest. Very interesting!

Anyway, to examine the relics, I went ... I got myself together and went ... to the bank and to the safe deposit box. If you've ever done this, you know you have to be prepared for the real life equivalent of a video game, with many challenging passages along the way.

Of course I had my ID and the passwords memorized. Then arriving at the bank, I had to machete my way through a gauntlet of part-time bank employees, arranged to test my resolve for the task. Next, there were 10 secretaries, each with one letter or alphanumeric character of the first password. Finally, I got to Sue, the little lady next to the vault. I offered Sue my identification once again and a special password that only Sue and I know.

At the threshold of the vault, I took a deep breath and sought heaven for strength to withstand the ordeal. Of course I removed the sacred golden sword from the wall before passing through gate after gate. I was surprised (but not shocked) when two guardian lions sprang out. I slew them, then in quick progression a dozen leopards, a half dozen king cobras, and a school of Great White sharks. It was like I was back in the Amazon when vampire bats swooped down and immediately attacked my pith helmet.

Going further, I cut myself through the thickest vines I've ever seen, huge thick SOBs. I didn't even know vines came that thick. They were either vines or a giant's legs, now I'm not sure which. Do vines bleed and bellow out "Oww"? Then it was a giant, or maybe a whole family. All the vines out of the way, I swam up the falls, 100 feet if it was an inch. Being a good vertical swimmer, this wasn't as hard as it sounds.

Making it to land, I rounded a corner and found another guard. But this guy was a dried up skeleton, there at the base of the wall. Obviously paid by the hour, he had fallen asleep and died. I saw the final key in amongst his dust and bones! I entered the box room and unlocked the box. This set off the final safeguard, three or four mousetraps, which hurt like hell!

All done, I pulled out the metal container. When I opened it, there they were, the relics laid out on the softest red velvet. It was at this point that I took the pictures seen above. It about took my breath away, to see Brother Unsettled's wooden remains, the most vital parts of himself that had given him such fits. It was cautionary to me: Do not rebel, do not let it go to waste. I sat right there, right that very minute, and entered into the greatest devotional ecstasy.

All in all, I was amazed at how well preserved the relics were, even in this normal stuffy bank.