Bestiality, necrophilia, and that perfect holiday parking spot

Bestiality, necrophilia, and that perfect holiday parking spot

I seriously loathe the act of parking, especially during the holiday season. I will not drive the parking lot waiting for a "good one", I'd rather just park and walk. So there I was heading to the mall to pick up the xmas pics the kids and I had only taken 2 weeks prior. I puttered along slowly through the parking lot, and as luck would have it, bright white reverse lights shined only 10 spaces ahead and 2 spaces from the handicap parking. I hit the blinker and waited patiently for the occupant to vacate the "choice" spot. I could see one lane over, Mr. Fast and the Furious speeding to the end of his row. And just like the sequel he hit the turn Tokyo Drift style. But it was still too late to get my spot. As I pulled in, he honked, I ignored , other than watching him park about 12 spaces beyond me in the same row. As I was getting the kids out, he and his girlfriend (no ring) were walking by. He mumbled something under his breathe about me stealing his spot. Now I have this genetic deficiency where my mouth processes a lot faster than my brain, which in some cases can be bad, but in this case I didn't steal shit. Even though I had the kids with me I couldn't hold back my mouth. So in a very loud voice, not quite yelling I said, "Hey kids ain't this a great spot, we won't have to walk far, at all". So little man, all 5 foot 4 of him, turns and says, "Go fuck a dead goat". Yeah, now there's trouble in river city. 2 things...First of all you don't drop F bombs in front of my chitlens without taking a verbal beating, if not more. Second, and ironically, that's the second time someone of indian descent told me to "go fuck a dead goat". One of my closest friends is indian (dot, not feather) and he assured me that is not a common indian saying, but I wonder. Anyhow, as I was about to deliver my lingual weapons of mass destruction, when little man took a Coach purse upside the head from his girlfriend. She turned to me and said, "He is very sorry for the language he used in front of your kids". I tried not to laugh, thanked her, then disarmed...

As we were walking into the mall, my son asked why that lady hit that guy with her purse. I responded, "When Santa's not around, and elves get out of hand, sometimes Mrs. Claus has to put the smack down on them"

Good Luck in finding that perfect holiday parking spot...

~S

One short, according to my ThanXgiving math...

One short, according to my ThanXgiving math...

So last ThanXgiving i wrote a short, let's call it an anecdote, about a turkey named Shorty. Shorty survived last years ThanXgiving math against what i thought were insurmountable odds. To recap the story, there is a cyclone fence that separates the property i live on from the neighbors multifaceted farmville parallel. And what i mean by that is, even though its mostly unattended to, it seems to be minimally revitalized with just an hour of wasted time that you'll never get back. About 2 months before last ThanXgiving the "Farmville" let loose 21 turkeys, free range. I would arrive home from work each day and have gobblers along the fence line. But one turkey was smaller than the others and had a bum leg, always last to the fence. Now Shorty as i named him, not because of his stature, but in honor of Too Short's rap "Shorty the Pimp, He walks with a limp" according to my ThanXgiving math would be on the chopping block first. But to my surprise what i learned watching Charlotte's Web as kid does not relate to all farmers, allegedly. He must have been "Some" turkey. As the days leading up to last ThanXgiving dwindled, so did the head count. Subtraction was the only math i was doing when i arrived home each day. And Shorty was the sole survivor. So last year, in his honor, i decided to abstain from eating turkey. Until i arrived at ThanXgiving dinner, i couldn't help it, I'm a tryptophan junkie.

So an update... Shorty surprisingly survived Xmas. Say that five times fast. And spent most of his spring and summer hobbling the farm with the likes of chickens. Almost like a pimp and his corral of hoes (or coup, to be politically correct in the barnyard). Up until today. Which leads me to believe he will be resting comfortably on the good china this ThanXgiving. So this year, in his honor, i will not kid myself. Hello, My name is Scott and yes i am a tryptophan junkie. One leg will go uneaten in his honor... unless of course it makes a delicious leftover turkey sandwich...

Happy ThanXgiving to all, including Shorty

Walmart Man and his trusty sidekick Pussy Boy

I will admit this is a repost from my old blog site, but it is one of my favorite stories. Happy Halloween and Enjoy....
 
Walmart Man and his trusty sidekick Pussy Boy

So i want to start off by saying, the only reason i am posting this is because someone i dig, called me a pussy for not posting this story. So here it goes...

So while trick or treating with my kids last night, I ran into an old acquaintance. Ya know the kind of acquaintance that you see once a year by accident. Quick small talk, then gone. But before we said our goodbye's for another year, they suggested we go trick or treating at the retirement home. The words "Mother Lode" were used. (I think that is the correct spelling). So we were off to the "Mother Lode"...

When we arrived we were greeted at the door by, i swear a 100yr old man wearing a Walmart vest. Which i found quite amusing. Especially the part where he kept asking me if i "got" his costume. Probably the coolest old man ever, next to my grandpa. We made small talk and he made very "Unfair" candy trades with my kids, taking 1 piece of "Un Eatable" (his exact pronunciation) candy and replacing them with 3 pieces of the "Good Stuff" (his words again). He did this more than once while he escorted us to the correct path. He then escorted us to the "Mother Lode". It was the perfect trick or treating experience. Approximately 40-50 elderly folks sitting in a large circle, in the rec room. Each with their own bucket of candy, no more than 2ft apart. The kids were reluctant at first, but were soon in line for the gold mine. As i watched my kids, (and all the kids), receive their candy in happiness, I saw an even happier elderly person. I know it sounds kinda cheesy but it kinda choked me up a bit. Okay now before i hand you my balls, let me just tell you that i wasn't going to continue this story any farther, for the sake of my manhood, but it has a great ending... As we were walking out, Walmart Man (I never caught his name) turned his attention from the nursing staff (He was makin' the moves) to us. He stopped us in the lobby where we first met. I figured it was just gonna be another "Unfair" trade. He sat down in his walker/chair thing, to get to the kids level, while ignoring me and said something like this (I don't remember exactly what he said for reasons my manhood will not let me reveal) I paraphrase.
 
"You kids need to come back here every year, This is always our favorite time of the year. We see more kids tonight than we see all year. It's a little overwhelming for us to do this all in one night, kinda like Santa Claus does at Christmas. So, You kids are more than welcome to stop by anytime for your "Unfair Trades" of the "Un Eatable" candy. It'll be waiting here for you."
 
Well played sir...
 
I did get a tad bit emotional and yes the door did hit me in the vagina on the way out.
 
I hope everyone had a Happy Halloween. We did. And i suggest next year, calling around to your local retirement home to see if they will be handing out candy.
 
-Scotty (Pussy Boy) 

Kansas City Shuffle (everybody looks right, and you go left...)

Kansas City Shuffle (everybody looks right, and you go left...)

This story involves 3 long time friends. Two guys who switch between mastermind and thug when the opportunity calls upon the needed title. And the damsel in distress who has always been drawn into their madness, mostly unwilling. But her transformation from “precious moments” to “devil in a blue dress” is pure artistry when backed into the metaphorical corner. Bonnie and Clyde and Clyde.

With fifteen years since their last “encounter”, It was time to reunite the team, reminisce, and restore the name. Their last “job” together was a failure landing one in jail, the other two charged, and seven innocents also charged. Not really a brains operation on this one.

It began as just a get together with lots of drinking and bowling, then led to karaoke. As Clyde #1 laid down an excellent rendition of Beastie Boys “Paul Revere” he was interrupted by an annoying patron with a Mexican drum of sorts. The drum continued through other peoples performances with the same discontent. Then when Clyde #1 dropped Violent Femmes “Blister in the Sun” accompanied again by the drum, something had to be done. So the old team’s natural instincts took over. A Kansas City Shuffle, everybody looks right, and you go left…

Like clockwork no words were spoken. The plan filled their heads telepathically and since Clyde #2 had a bowling ball bag he would be the decoy. Bonnie would serve as the actual thief, with her long jacket. And Clyde #1 would accompany her escape out of the building and provide a getaway ride…

The karaoke DJ provided the catalyst by taking a “Now here’s a word from our sponsors” break. As the crowd thinned for bathroom breaks, Clyde # 2 scooped up the drum and his bowling bag. With a little slight of hand it was passed to Bonnie who tucked it under her arm like a football running back, and covered the evidence by hanging her jacket over the same arm. Clyde # 1 took her other arm to accompany her and “The Goods” out of the building and to the getaway car. Clyde #2 took the lead to set the bait for much needed decoy, about 20 feet ahead. As they exited the front entrance, so far so good. Now out of the building, they made way to the getaway cars when security yelled “Hey I need to see your bowling bag”. Hook, line, and sinker. As Bonnie and Clyde #1 continued their paths uninterrupted, Clyde #2 gave the performance of his life showing how appalled he was for being accused of taking a drum. Drum? What Drum? What the hell are you talking about drum? Bonnie and Clyde #1 entered the getaway car and made way to the meeting place, while Clyde #2 convinced security of his innocence…Just like old times, they never skipped a beat. Partners in crime forever…

Love you guys...

.

Lime and Tonic

Lime and Tonic

Recalling the events that led me to this moment started a year prior in which I past up the opportunity to “party” with three horny bisexual women. Then months ago when I gave up a “spirited” night with two willing female participants in a limo. And finally when a booty call was denied her tongue lashing for being a bad girl (or married). Now in all instances, I made the conscience choice not to participate (close to unconscious, in one instance). There's a point in your life where you get tired of drowning in a sea of pointless pussy (not my own line but I like it). And as it seems I've choosen to drown in Jagermeister instead...

She caught me off guard with her cliché opening. Almost desperate with a dash of evil innocence. A broken princess. And with that weak opening, I could tell she would need my assistance to close. This could be fun... I could send her yelping with her tail between her legs, or wake up between them. Maybe it was the boredom, or the self loathing, or maybe the fifth shot of Jagermeister was kicking' in, which would mean another lime and tonic chaser would be needed. I was in the mood to send her running no matter how beautiful she was. As memory served, my record holds at about one minute and fifteen seconds, in drunk math of course. Not counting the simple, “Sorry, but I'm drinking alone tonight”. This time it would be one minute flat...

And it went a little something like this... I'll skip to what I thought would be the last fifteen seconds.
Me - “So, what do you do again?”
Her - “Blah Blah Blah” (I wasn't actually listening)
Me - “Did you say your a fluffer at a mexican donkey show?”

Needless to say it wasn't my proudest moment, but I couldn't endure two more minutes with her, let alone two more hours about her cats, in the hopes that maybe just maybe we'd end up dry humping on her couch, where she would stop and explain to me that's as far as she was going. A home run in Christian baseball. The gold cross around her neck gave it away.

But to my surprise...
Her - “Please? Fluffer? I was the star of the show, not counting Mr. EDuardo, of course. There isn't nothing a little tequila won't wash out of your mouth”

I thought to myself, 'Holy Shit! I'm in love'. This girl just took one of my 'piss off' lines and threw it right back in my face, oh it's on...

I tried to ignore her while I got the bartenders attention,
Me - “Two shots of Jager, Please”.
Her - “Oh, no Jager for me thanks.”
Me - “Wasn't ordering for you. I just thought I might need to ruffie myself to continue on with this conversation. Obviously you didn't get the hint from south of the border.”
Her - “Oh, so you've given up on ruffying others, I guess I won't be the only one safe tonight. I'll call the news stations and have the amber alert turned off.”

Did I just meet my match? What can of worms did I open? At this point I was losing confidence that I could actually get her to walk away. This cannot happen. I'm normally very good at pissing people off.

Me - “Well, I guess you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but can't take the trailer park out of the girl. Let me guess, a double wide with lots of back door action. And just to clarify I am talking about your ass.”

Her - “Oh not again...You can always tell, the borderline homo's checkin' out a girl's ass to see how manly it is. Might wanna try the hole two inches away for once. You know what two inches is right?”

Ouch! Usually by now, I would have been called a prick, dick, or asshole and would have enjoyed my triumph with my german buddy in the green bottle. She was forcing me to change my strategy, or give up. So i'll jump on the logical side...

Me - “Okay, so now, you know i'm an asshole. Why are we having this conversation?”

Again she flips the script on me...

Her - “And you know, i'm a bitch. But your not pushing me away because of that. In fact, I think your getting off on it. And I haven't figured out yet if you're more amused by the ones that walk away, or intrigued by the way i'm staying one up on you at every glib remark you make. But i'm pretty sure it's the latter, so why don't you cut the shit and have a drink with me.”

Me - “Okay, so I almost put up the white flag and screamed for the medic after that spectacular piece of manipulation. And you're definitely right about the intrigue piece. But i'm not sure you understood the question, so I will rephrase. What is your underlying motive for this conversation? For even walking over here. That is if we're cutting the shit...”

I could see a small power shift in my direction, with her pause. So i barreled on.

Me - “I only ask because we all judge a book by it's cover. And our books are probably at opposite ends of the library. So your either slumming, rebounding, or genuinely interested, which I doubt. If slumming, well, nothing gets lower than your seventh shot of Jager, my little german soldier probably wouldn't be marching tonight. And if your rebounding, well, I already had my chance at a triple double (I'm sure she didn't understand, but you the reader can gather the basketball reference from the first paragraph, if it hasn't hit you yet). And not to be redundant, but genuine interest never crossed my mind.”

Winner, winner chicken dinner...As she took her first step in the opposite direction I almost felt guilty. I no longer had the urge for alcohol so I ordered a just the lime and tonic. It wasn't as refreshing as I thought it would be. A few sips later I felt a tap on my shoulder. To my surprise she did not look angry.

Her - “I would guess that your charm is not immediately appreciated by most. But I kinda liked it, up there until the end. I wish you could take that part back, as do you, I would bet. And how do I know that...Well, see that mirror across the bar. As you turned to order, what I would have thought to be another shot of Jager, I also turned. I watched the guilt on your face in the mirror, up until the bartender brought you the lime and tonic. After the first sip, it turned back to the self loathing I noticed earlier. And maybe if you would have noticed what I was drinking, lime and tonic, you would have realized that I was genuinely interested. Two lonely people drinking the same drink, minus the Jager of course, was enough motive, asshole.”

Wow, no more Jager for me...

~S

Exhausted Sarcasm and Urinal Etiquette

Exhausted Sarcasm and Urinal Etiquette

So every time I fly I have a great story of my misadventures. This time my plans to knock the earth off its axis were squashed by an overabundance of work hours (Sorry, Cam we really could have done some damage this time). This last business sponsored jaunt from west to east coast left me exhausted to the point where I didn't even have enough energy to spread my dry sarcastic wit to the people who really deserved it. And believe me I had plenty of opportunities. I spent a lot of time using the go to phrase “Reeeally?” Don't get me wrong you can put a lot of sarcasm behind that word and make it work to the point of completely demoralizing someone. But we'll get back to that...

So obviously my company was trying to save a few bucks on my flight home. Philly to Chicago, an hour and twenty five minute layover. Chicago to Phoenix, an hour and fifteen minute layover. Phoenix to Portland. Four airports, twelve and a half hours from start to finish, so not even enough time to get a good nap in to dream about saving the plane from a bunch of snakes with Samuel L. Jackson. And since I encounter at least one douche bag in the random seating chart that is my air travel hell on every trip I take, the odds were not in my favor for some well deserved sleepy time (for further reference to the last statement, see my past blogs “PDX to Las Vegas, 7C” and “A glass of shut the f*ck up and karmic luggage in aisle 24” I can send the links upon request). Either I was too tired to put up a fight or my single serving friends weren't so bad this time. So when I arrived in P Town I thought I had averted all the simpletons, but I was wrong.

So in the last leg of my flight I had only made it to the bathroom once and it was to join the mile high club with the blond stewardess. Oh excuse me, flight attendant, and as you may have already figured out I had a very imaginative snooze. My first priority once my feet hit terra firma was to take a piss. I rushed to the restroom with one thing in mind. When I entered the bathroom there were 12 urinals, 6 each on 2 opposite walls. Now before I go any further I need to mention that there’s a certain unspoken etiquette that men have about urinals. The two most important of those are personal space and eye wandering. In either case, if not followed correctly men will question your sexuality. In simplified terms always put at least one unattended urinal between you and the guy already draining the main vein and eyes forward at all times or your considered a homo. As luck would have it there was one open urinal that kept me within the code, so I parted the red sea and began to flood noah’s ark. With eyes forward admiring the grout work of the wall tiles, I noticed out of my peripherals someone breaking the rules right to the left of me. “How you guys doin’?” Okay an unmentioned man law, not a good idea to hold a conversation while holding your fire hose. I heard a “Fine” two urinals to my left, and I nodded never losing eye contact with the wall. I could not have been prepared for what happened next… Mr. business suit guy double fists his Blackberry above the urinal and starts typing an email, obviously letting go of his aim. As I buttoned up, the only thing I could say was “Reeeally?”

One sugar, two creams, and a small sip

I sit staring at my coffee, hunched over. Guarded, like a prison meal at a table of convicts. On one side of the cup, a small envelope of sugar torn open like a long awaited love letter. A few particles still glaze the counter top resembling spilt salt, but the evidence proves different. On the other side, two liquid calcium thimbles topple over each other in emptiness. Tucked nicely between the cup and saucer, lays the utensil used to stir the simple ingredients. Both elbows come off the table, hands cusp the mug. A quick lift and tilt, to spill the lukewarm perk over my bottom lip. Followed by a slow descend, to pilot the java back to its perch where it belongs. The spoon rattles with a cascading echo, til silent. And I sit staring at my coffee.

Physical Expression Declination

Physical Expression Declination

It's fascinating to me how certain physical gestures have lost or changed their meanings over time. Deteriorating messages from simple bodily actions. For instance, the "Nod" used to be a cordial greeting. Now it's a territorial warning that, I'm watching you. The "Pat on the back" used to express a job well done. Now it's just an extra push to do more next time. The "Finger point" used to identify someone other than you. Now it's 3 fingers pointing back at yourself. The "Handshake" used to seal a deal. Now it's a 30 page contract with loopholes. The "Wink" used to be harmless flirting. Now It's sexual harassment. The "Hug" used to be for multiple occasions of intimate interaction. Now it's only used to console. The "Kiss" used to be for support, comfort, and testifying love. Now It's a lip to lip transfer of false security. "Sex" used to be a declaration of pure love. Now it's a hook-up or booty-call only for gratification. The atrophy of all these action has led me to trust only 3 precise gestures that will never divert from their true meanings. Rock, Paper, Scissors.

Toy Story 4

So my son's birthday is very soon, and as it's always been, I'm a last minute shopper. Now, there's one store I avoid with vengeance, and you can probably guess which one. I have a real hard time keeping my opinions to my self, and that charm is not always appreciated by most. I'm just saying what's on everybody else minds, but they don't have the jawbreakers that I do. So here's some basics for shopping... I'm not sure what you've been told but hygiene is important. I mean come on at least wipe your kids nose let alone washing last night dinner off his/hers face. Shit I'll pitch in for a washcloth. Hell you can get free handy wipes at Taco Bell now. And yes parental supervision is required. The attendants in the toy section are not cross trained to run a day care, so don't drop them off there while you do your shopping. Here's a tip, make your shopping list a scavenger hunt and involve your kids. Unless of course you want your child to make friends with the guy in the toy section giving out free candy offering free rides in his van. And last but not least disciplining your child in the store is not a UFC pay per view event. To complete the metaphor, If I was Dana White the only ultimate fighting you'd be doing is removing my size 13 out of your rusty sheriff's badge or filthy ax wound, whichever applies. All this means is I've been told to “Mind my own fucking business” on more than one occasion. But today was different...I can't make this shit up

So I wandered aimless through the toy section, and no one had yet broken the holy trinity of bad parenting listed above. Although I thought to myself give it time. The white trash FAO Schwartz was plastered with Toy Story 3 graffiti down every aisle. The marketing budget on this movie must have been “To infinity, and beyond!”. Since my kids never really liked the Toy Story dynasty, it was a little rough wading through to find something not bearing the Toy Story name. So i'm strolling down an aisle and I hear this couple semi-arguing about which toy to get...

So the woman says “I want to get the Woody”

And the man says “I want to get the Buzz”

So I literally laugh out loud. Now these are the times where I find it hard to keep my mouth shut. The times where I find myself speaking before thinking. The times where I can't help myself.

So Scott says to the woman, “Kill two birds with one stone...Get him drunk, and maybe you'll get lucky”

So the moral of the story...I really hate shopping at Walmart, not all trips there involve witnessing bad parenting, and one liners are a lot less funny when you have to explain them to people

And there she was...Gone

And there she was...Gone

Although my perception mirrored an acid trip mirage, I know what i have witnessed. Reality or illusion. Or an illusion of reality spilling sticky, sweet bubbles down the side of a champagne flute. Enlightened senses like an overdose of shrooms without the unhinge of Pandora's box. The crystalline blur began with me standing in a snow covered woodland on a walkabout, less spiritual, more wandering soul. The layer of snow-cone crunch cradled my feet anticipating it's next compress leaving achromatic footprints, only the white on white camouflage hid my wandering path. I tilted my head as if to talk to God, and observed the light bleached flakes falling so slowly as to repel their inevitable landing. Tiny frosted parachutes hovering without the dangled green plastic trooper. Like fabricated sound effects, the ambient racket of the constant bone cracking turbulence echoed in every ice encased limb, fighting free in the wind, to release their frozen capture. With no answer from above, I emitted a long, deep, audible breath expressive of sadness, weariness, and relief. In response to the frigid powder coating one of my baby blues my chin fell briskly to my chest, just as two magnets would be drawn together in unrestrained attraction. Blink, squint, blink and then there it was, the one crimson flower amongst the the snow blinding ground cover for which it found residence. I kneeled cautiously, not out of fear, but admiration of the misplacement, and aesthetics of the bloom. As my knees popped from arthritis, I heard a faint whisper, "Upon the proper warning, it would be in your best interest to leave the flower be". My unhurried gaze caused my eyes to focus to a point at which, rays and waves meet in reflection and refraction. And there she was...

My frigid, numb stare rebounded from a hazy refocusing to a calming leer of enlightenment. It almost felt comforting if it wasn't so cautious, not far from a small child cusping a baby chick or the egg itself, pre-hatch. The ocular copulation was unavoidable, but as i tried to look away the hypnotic pendulum of her being kept my attention. A high noon stand off, without the weapons of mass dissolution. Couldn't last either way, but it did. A quick scan from head to toe showed a small dainty frame able to withstand an eternity of solid presence. The pulchritudinous angel spread her wings, each feather much deeper and somber than the color black, to unveil the most flawless chassis. Medium length two tone locks in the dark and light shades of crimson. A cute cherub face, eyes that deserne your sole, a smile that could reflect light in total darkness, and two dimples that kindle a faint diffused illumination. Her torso included a preeminent bust atop a well developed abdomen. Slender waist to encompass a globular posterior. And where life begins so does the structure on which she stands. The pillars of her underpinning, down to her foundation, uphold her graceful stance. "About that flower " she whispered. She was giving me permission to look away. Releasing me from the eye lock. I looked down to again idolize the crimson flower, for one split second. And then she was gone...

Mom vs. The Marble

Mom vs. The Marble

There is no stronger bond than a boy and his grandpa. Don't get me wrong, a father and son can be strong, but the father has to be a father, the grandpa can be anything. And to me, my grandpa was everything. Now, I don't talk about him much, only for a couple reasons. One, he has past away and I get a little emotional, okay alot. And two, well those were our moments and talking about them seems to lessen it just a bit. But this story just came together, and I've never told it…not even to my mom. It's completely true. So mom here's an early Mother's Day gift.
 
In about the last 6-12 months before my grandpa's death, my mother took care of him in the house I grew up in. She had been a nurse for many years, a very caring person when people were sick, and above all her father was dying. I didn't visit him very often in that time, which I do regret. And as I am sure the regret was mutual, there was also a reason, which was mutual. He didn't want me to see him like that. And I didn't want to see him like that. Every time I would visit, I would end up crying and he would tell me to wait until he was gone to do that. There was only one time that I didn't cry, where I actually laughed.
 
Near the end my grandpa was taking a lot of pain meds, including morphine. He always complained of cottonmouth, which was most bothersome to him. Almost worst than the fact that he was dying. So he had this marble. THIS MARBLE. He would keep this marble in his mouth to stimulate his salivation glands, thus fixing the cottonmouth issue. He kept it in all the time.
 
On one of my last visits to him, I was sitting by his bed and he said something odd to me. This wasn't uncommon since he was all doped up on morphine. He mumbled around the marble, "You know your mom's crazy, right?" I just agreed, because he seemed to say random things, while riding the high. He followed up with, "She's crazy! She seems to think that I am going to choke on this marble and die." He smiled and continued, "She's so worried about this damn marble, she forgot I'm actually dying from congestive heart failure." He started laughing, which in turn made me crack the hell up. If you only knew about my mom and this marble you'd laugh your ass off too. I am not a talented enough writer, to express in words, the eternal battle of "Mom vs. The Marble". Soon after our laugh he fell asleep, and I left for the first time without crying.
 
…I only bring this up now, because of something my son did two weekends ago, and I'd thought I would finally share this with my mom for Mother's Day. I took my kids to a place called Safari Sam's. You know, one of those places where you spend a ton of money, to get hundreds of tickets, to trade in for worthless toys. The same toys that you could have got at the dollar store, but instead of paying a dollar, you just dropped 75. At the ticket trade in, my son Noah chose marbles among other things. We left Safari Sam's and began our journey home. About half way home, my daughter Chloe says, "Dad, Noah just put a marble in his mouth". My first reaction was this, "Noah, get that marble out of your mouth, you could choke and die". As I looked in my rear view mirror, Noah spit out the marble, and then looked at me like I was crazy…
 
Soon after my last laugh with my grandpa, he past away from congestive heart failure, not from choking on a marble…
 
R.I.P. Claude Orlo Williams
And Mom, I love you very much…Happy Mother's Day!

Salvation in Barnes & Noble

Salvation in Barnes & Noble
 
Yesterday I walked into Barnes & Noble looking for a book by Chuck Palahniuk, my favorite writer.
 
I entered B & N on a mission, so did she. I noticed her almost immediately. Not for beauty, but for oddity. She wore dirty knock off Uggs, a ratty undetermined brand of jeans, and a sweatshirt. The sweatshirt, yeah, uh, let me explain. Either she was suppose to wash it in cold and hang dry, or the designer should be shot for creating a half-shirt sweatshirt; a fashion oxy moron. What was even more interesting was the woman that wore this costume. A forty-something sea hag, with mangy hair and lunatic eyes. When I scanned the store, the employees were inconspicuously aware of her presence, all of them. I forgot why I was even there and turned my attention to the train wreck that I knew was inevitable. She walked around with meth-head autism speaking loud enough to hear herself, but not to bother others. I tried follow, out of curiosity, but kept my distance. Ah, I fucking love crazy people. I couldn't figure out what she was doing. She would go from section to section, pick up a book, and put it back. I never got close enough to see what she was actually doing. Plus I was getting restless, but as I always say if you watch a crazy person long enough they will give you something to write about. Queue the security guards. 3 security guards, accompanied by what looked like the store manager, made a be-line to the section that she was now in. They grabbed her and began to escort her out of the store. They knew her name, so I'm assuming this wasn't the first time. She struggled a bit and began to yell out things like…
 
"You need to burn these evil books"
"These books are written by the devil"
"You're all going to hell"
"You're all sinners, every single one of you"
 
The show was over. Although everyone had perma-grin on their face, they continued their business, including me. I began to search for the Palahniuk that I came for. In my journey, I noticed an interesting book, for 2 reasons. One, it was tipped over and out of place. And two, its title was "Smut, Volume 1" with a partially nude woman on the front. I picked it up to put it back in place, and a small pamphlet fell out. I'm sure the author of this compilation of erotic stories didn't put it there. But I'm sure you know who did. It read, "Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?"
 
Yesterday I walked into Barnes & Noble looking for a book by Chuck Palahniuk, my favorite writer. Instead I found salvation…but then security took her away, thank God.

Circling the block...

Circling the block...

The traffic signal had been green for less than 10 seconds, but her taillights stayed red through the last 3 cycles. Green, yellow, red, green, yellow, red, green, yellow, red, and green. Silent and gridlocked without another car in sight. She reached across my lap to open the door, avoiding touch like playing Operation with fresh batteries, surrounded by upright dominoes just waiting to be knocked over. I was inclined to interrupt her arm's course but I knew my grasp would only be avoided with ninja like skill. She pulled the handle with grace, and pushed with power. The now open portal allowed for escape, and I knew I needed to seize the opportunity. As I stepped to the pavement my ankle rolled, not enough to sprain, but enough to distract me momentarily from the night's events. I regained my bearings just in time for the brisk, dark air to encase my whole body. I turned just in time to watch the ruby red disappear from the taillights and reappear on the stoplight, setting the car in motion to break the law. As I watched her pull away a chill without goose bumps struck deep, and the pouring rain wasn't going to help our state of affairs. Almost immediately, the drench soaked through to my skin adding, even more, to an uncomfortable situation. I made my way to the sidewalk, unsure of exactly what just happened, and hoped the rain would just wash this day off. I kneeled to the curb, and even with opposable thumbs, a bit of DE-evolution was finally realized. Maybe she's right, I show only what I want to show, and feel only what I want to feel. But if it only means walking home on a cold, dark, rainy night then so be it. Or maybe the headlights coming this way means she was only circling the block...

Cataclysmal Triad

Inspired by a friends blog about bad doggy style...Some names have been changed to protect the innocent, or not so innocent.

So back in the day, Will (perfectly good pseudonym) was lucky (or unlucky, you decide) enough to experience 2 threesomes. Although he still believes that their overrated, mostly from the hype surrounding them, his last one just might have scarred him forever...

Will used to hang out at Joe's apartment all the time. It was party central every night of the week. Will was jockin' these two fly girls (maybe you can guess the era). They were both friends and both named Heather (Oddly enough much like the movie, Heathers, Okay then, Will is now Jason Dean or JD to follow true to the greatest black comedy of the eighties). One being brunette, the other blond, JD was more attracted to the brunette. The brunette was an all star softball player (imagine that, bi-sexual) and the blond was a ninja (okay, she just was some kind of belt, that included really hard groin kicks but we'll get back to that later). JD had learned all that, in the pre-game leading up to "The Night". After large amounts of coercing and alcohol, JD led the Heathers into Joe's lair. Which was really weird cause he never slept in there. Probably cause it was the room that everyone had sex in. It was well equipped with a small fridge sporting a variety of beverages (Not unlike a hotels mini bar). A cigar box full of condoms laid open, right next to the king bed. And a tower of clean mismatched sheets were stacked in the corner. The only 2 rules were to hang the pooka shell lei on the door knob so that you would not be disturbed, and change the sheets when finished. Everything was set and started off without a hitch. Everyone began to undress each other and JD grabbed a beer from Joe's mini fridge. Before he could crack it open, he was invited to the bed, so he set it on top of the fridge. They engaged and continued with the foreplay which was quite awhile. Now JD knew that equal disport was important, but he was just a bit more attracted to Brunette Heather. When the time came for intercourse, JD's decision was obviously already made. As JD started his business, Blond Heather got up out of bed and began to gather her clothes for redress. JD interrupted his act and got up to see what was wrong. When he asked, he was abruptly answered with a karate kid style kick to the groin followed by the comment "Threesome means three people, not two". Being his first completely naked barefoot nut shot, JD fell to the floor in writhing pain wondering why God didn't give him two penis's. His first instinct was to grab his package, but also Blond Heather's foot. She fell to her hands and knees. As she began to crawl away on all fours, Brunette Heather had already shot out of bed and grabbed the unopened beer that JD left upon the mini fridge. With only what JD could imagine as a softball style pitch, Brunette Heather whizzed the silver can right across the plate (Or JD's head) hitting the strike zone (Or Blond Heathers right ass cheek) while screaming "You bitch!". Brunette Heather jumped on Blond Heather, but as it seemed Blond Heather's ground game was much better delivering quite a few shot's to the face of Brunette Heather. The bedroom door swung open, and Joe stood there with the most indescribable look on his face. The Heather's were pulled apart and everyone was tended to. Busted balls, a bruised ass, and a broken nose...Threesome's can be dangerous.

I was never allowed (by my friends) to engage in these activities ever again. I mean JD was never allowed (by his friends) to engage in these activities ever again...

The "Lucky" Grandson...

There are two things a little boy is “lucky” to have. A loving grandpa and his first dog. Or in my case a loving grandpa and his first 100 dogs...As a boy I spent a lot of time with my grandpa. As far back as I can remember, all the way to my mid teens, my grandpa raised greyhounds. It was his livelihood and almost every weekend I got to be a part of that. These dogs were athletes, and were treated as such. Like the athletes that they were, they had a seven acre training ground fully equipped with multiple gated runs, heated kennels, a mini racing track, barn with feeding area (a full cafeteria size kitchen that served 2 daily meals of beef stew with veggies), and a lot of room to roam. My grandpa treated every dog with the love and respect that any dog owner would give his long lasting companion. Only they weren't his dogs, he was only the trainer. These were racing greyhounds, and his job was to get them ready to race. Now if you know anything about greyhounds, you would know that they are not in any way an aggressive dog. In fact they are very gentle, and I would suggest to anyone to adopt a retired racer. You will not be sorry. But they do love to chase...Especially rabbits. Now let me stop all you PETA freaks right now. This is not a story with a political agenda and I'm not condoning the training methods that were used, it's truly just a story of a boy and his grandpa. And furthermore don't think if I picked you up from one of your naked photo shoots and dropped you off in Antarctica with a hunting knife and a fur coat, that I wouldn't find you later all bundled up chomping on a seal sandwich. So back to the rabbits. There was a very simple training method. It would start with a trip to the feed store where I would get to help pick out a dozen or so jack rabbits. And to spare all the particulars, yes a chase would ensue that would end the life of thumper and his 11 other forest friends(and just to clarify the dogs were never the executioner, again they were in it for the chase). Like Clarice and her silence of the lambs, I had my own feelings about the velveteen slaughter, but it was how they trained the dogs. So this is all really just back story for my tale (or tail if I wanted to stay on theme).

So sometime around the mid 80's two things started happening that sparked my young entrepreneurial mind. Only years later did I truly understand how ridiculous my idea was, but I'll never forget the way my grandpa dignified my attempt to supplement his now lacking income from the greyhound industry...

So these animal rights activists started attacking the greyhound industry for their training methods, which in turn, years later put my grandpa out of business. But at the same time, when he was just beginning to feel the financial burden of “Watership Down”, I noticed a fad at school that would save the day. And to put this all in perspective for you the reader, I was about 11 or 12, 5th or 6th grade. Almost every kid I knew had a colored, lucky rabbits foot on there backpack or belt loop. (If your my age you can't deny you owned one in the eighties). So here was my somewhat morbid scheme. Not only could we train greyhounds, but we could sell rabbits feet to make up for the loses (remember that this was 5th grade economics and we did have an abundance of rabbits feet).

I'll never forget pitching this idea to my grandpa telling him, we were selling “luck”, and I'll never forget his response...

With just enough laughter not to elicit a feeling of stupidity on my part, my grandpa said, “Having a rabbit's foot doesn't necessarily make you lucky, most of the rabbits we get have four, and look where it got them.”


Miss you very much, grandpa...

Jagermeister in the land of OZ... (a re-imagining)

So this is going to be more of a re imagining of the original. Most will not understand, but will be obligated to at least parallel themselves with the moral of the story in one way or another. While most of the individuals involved will "get it", only one person will truly understand.

*This has been modified to fit your screen, edited for time constraints, and the names have been changed to protect the innocent (or not so innocent).

Jagermeister in the land of Oz

She was Dorothy, and Dorothy wanted to run away. The spinning tornado encompassed her life and complemented her spirit. Broken, trying to put herself back together with shiny jagged red pieces, now glued to her Manolo Blahnik heels. No Toto, which would mean I'm leaving the dog out of this story. But in Esperanto, defining my purpose (way to obscure, might want to google it). I was the tin man, a broken heart instead of the absence of one. Not broken like her, more like rusted. His oil can was a green bottle boasting validity of being a master hunter. Or put simply, Jagermeister. We met up with the lion and the scarecrow along our yellow brick trail of downtown Portland. Only for the fluidity of the story, would I attach these two stigmata's to the actual people involved. Neither a lack of courage or stupidity plagued these two. We partied with the lollipop guild until way past their curfew. Then we trampled the yellow brick road using every path and hitting every bar on our way to Oz. And finally, when we ignored the warnings of “Authorized Personnel Only” to look for flying monkeys from the hotel rooftop, we realized things were getting out of hand. The lion was cut off for “showing” off her “courage” and the scarecrow decided it was time to bale...(had to throw in the cheesy hay joke) So the lion and scarecrow left Oz, and Dorothy and the tin man left their inhibitions. They were not behind the wizard's curtain, but under the covers unleashing their own tornado. I did hear Dorothy click her heels and say "There's no place like home" at least 5 times.

Moral of the story…

Beware of company sponsored Christmas parties, bottles (yes plural) of Jagermeister, and make sure you turn off the TV during your incredibly unbridled, drunken, sexcapades or you will wake up next to a co-worker, with the worst headache you've ever had being serenaded by the real munchkins of the lollipop guild.

So Much Better On (Recycled) Paper

A recycled version of my original...

So Much Better On Paper

Small talk annoys us both, but we still converse about shit that don't matter with the intention of finding a common, alluring relay of thought. She knows I'm bored. Somethings wrong. Somethings missing. I can't remember the last time we had a sober discussion that held my A.D.D. attention span while sober in the light of day or the calming shade of night. Bartender, please save me. Please make her interesting again. There's definitely an awkward idiosyncrasy between ordering a drink in thirst, and ordering a drink to numb yourself from the company you keep. Either way it can't be poured and/or drank fast enough. Please don't speak; the tranquilizers haven't taken affect. Only seconds went by and as my delusions hit my bloodstream like a junkies fix, and so did her question. "So, what do you want in a girlfriend?" "My penis", answers my second brain. Luckily, anatomy never connected a man's second brain to his mouth, so she didn't hear that. Plus that's not what I was really thinking anyway. The funny thing about that question was I saw it coming, even expected it. Yet I never intended to ever answer it. Not because I don't want to, or refused to, but because I don't know the answer. Another long sip injects more phantasm into my veins and prevents me from speaking. Even when I finish drinking I leave my lips upon the glass to avoid a reply, keeping eye contact with an ice cube instead of her. Out of my peripherals I could see her reaching def con 5 due to my avoidance of her query. When she realized I was not going to answer her or use my 3 remaining lifelines to at least fake an answer, she walked away. But before she was out of audible range, I heard these words, "When you know the answer, let me know". The sad truth is I won't let her know, but it was then, for the first time, I really cared what came out of her mouth.
 
So for the rest of the night, I sat alone scribbling, which was actually refreshing of sorts. I went through 7 keno pencils, and the sound of ice cube rattles kept bringing me pages to write on, as each drink's companion was a small square napkin. At each delivery I asked for extra folio in lieu of the novel I was drafting. I never saw myself composing in a bar, but it was the best way to observe the asinine, male/female coital reciprocity. Metaphorically perfect, since this environment is where I met my first wife, and that worked out well didn't it.
 
Observe. Write. Listen. Write. "No this seat is taken". It wasn't entirely untrue. I was frankensteining my napkins in a nice neat stack sitting across from me. Observe. Write. Listen. Write. I took bits and pieces of every woman that stole my attention. Observe. Write. Listen. Write. I felt much like a serial killer, with one gross difference, I wasn't there to designate a victim, just to gather the attributes of the perfect woman. And then it hit me, just as I heard the words "Last Call!"
 
I gathered up all the napkins but one, and drowned them in my last watered down drink. I grabbed keno pencil 8 and for some reason i had the death grip of a high school student at the Saturday Afternoon Test.(Obscure reference to my favorite love story) I jotted this down on the last blank napkin and left it on the table right next to keno pencil 8…
 
…Divorcee's, widower's, the broken hearted. We make lists. Lists that define our next journey; learning from mistakes, and embracing quality's of the once loved. The problem is, they always look so much better on paper…

A day at Starbucks...

Every so often I treat myself to Starbucks. Now for me, it's not really for the coffee since i don't partake. My crack rock is not a little brown bean, but instead steeping in Boston Harbor almost 200 years before i was born. In all honesty I fucking hate coffee, but I love people watching. Starbucks is a great place to people watch, and for some, to enjoy a cup of TAZO with some much needed downtime. Starbucks is the second best place to teabag a hot cup of H2O, while being entertained by the caffeine junkies that venture into the corporate franchise without a wicked jump shot(I miss you, B.I.G.). Today I paid extra close attention to the customers. I named each species…


Tricera-Teens – Teenage females, Always in 3's, 2 on their cell phones and 1 texting or, vice versa, 1 on their cell phone and 2 texting. Top of the juvenile food chain for popularity (Probably all named Heather). Speaking fluent Starbucks like it was their first language, since their second language consists of electronic LOL's and BRB's. Dictating coffee orders quickly, and they exit the same way. A new trio every 15 minutes.

Uber Goober – Always male, Calvin Klein wannabe. Acting just butch enough to stay off everyone's gaydar. Like Dieter from "Sprockets", waiting for him to ask, if anyone "Wanted to touch his monkey" (SNL reference). Gestalt coffee ordering standards. Very impatient, because he needs his caffeine for a steady hand prior to punishing himself to gay Hitler porn, aiming for the center of the swastika.

Hairy Carrie – Always female, Reincarnated 60's hippie chick, but the SUV she drove up in shows it's just style not politics. Whiplash attitude, as she removes one Ipod earbud to place her coffee order. She continues to explain to the barista that August 5th 1993 was the worst day of her life, when Natalie Merchant left the 10,000 Maniacs. According to my algebra that would have made her 7 years old. She dances while waiting for her cup...like a 7 year old.

Starborgs – Male or Female, Utlra busy, acting more important than they really are. Cybernetic bluetooth ear piece surgically attached to the aural canal. Always in an obligatory conversation from the minute they walk in, until the time they leave, only stopping to order their coffee. During their call the word "Corporate" is mentioned at least 11 times. If it wasn't for their look of professionalism you'd almost believe they were robots, or maybe they are???

Why?-Fi'ers – Male or Female, Apple or PC. The stench of free wi-fi and coffee grounds attracts like a techno-savvy pheromone. They spend their time surfing random websites, checking email, writing their thesis, WOOO-ing (working out of office), or downloading MP3's illegally. Although they seem productive these laptop dogs are basically just licking their virtual genitalia. They never surf for porn at Starbucks, but at home???

Adam, or Eve - Male or female, If they didn't have a cup of coffee in their hand you'd wonder what the fuck they were doing there. Neither sex has yet to realize that it's a coffee shop, not a singles bar. A sip of joe, a wink a smile a head nod, uneventful pick up lines, and flirting summarize their attempts at a successful Rom-Com. For some reason, "How about we get a cup of coffee sometime" doesn't seem to close the deal.

Coffee People – Any race, creed, color, national origin, sex, political affiliation, or beliefs. Not only was this one of Starbucks competitors (Coffee People in Oregon, and thus bought out by Starbucks) but it's the most common patron. From the soccer mom running her kids to school, to the construction worker who forgot his thermos. These are the run-of-the-mill coffee guzzlers. They are not texting with their girlfriends 6 feet away. They are not dancing on SNL. They are not worried about style or music. They are not acting way to important. They are not using free internet. They are not courting their future ex wife/husband. They are just there for the daily octane boost to get through the day.

And last, but not least...

Aspiring Writer – Me sitting in the corner, with pen and notebook, sipping my tea, observing and writing.

Goldilocks and the 3 Bars

So I frequent these 3 bars...and just like goldilocks, there's always one that's just right...


1st – The meat market dance club with overly exited hormones far louder than the beat trance techno, that can only be tolerated when my undiagnosed, unmedicated, bipolar is in it's upswing. Zippity fuckin' do da.


2nd – The middle of the road cheers, where everybody knows your name (and place of residence in some cases) and you can pass out on the floor in the fetal position earning a free ride home without ridicule cause everyone has "been there at one point in time"


And 3rd – The black and white rainbow with a pile of shit at the end, and if checked, the beginning too. Where you stare into your empty drink attempting to fill it with dry tears instead of jagermeister just hoping that fuckin' leprechaun will stop pointing and giggling.


98% of the time I choose door number 2, Bob...because with it's comfy chair's, unlimited supply of porridge, and the possibility of ending up in bed with goldilocks, It's just right.


...But nothing could have topped the last visit to the black and white rainbow (not the real name for those of you that are googling).


So there I sat battling some low self esteem, dealing with things way beyond my maturity level, taking on duties above my pay scale so my boss could take the credit, and in drunk math, figuring out how many packages of top ramen I need to make it to next payday (in which half will go to my ex wife, the paycheck, not the top ramen). I wanted to order another drink but Mr. X (The bartender, obviously a pseudonym) sat among the worker bees (as he always did) trying diligently to suck the hive empty from the queen bee we call the Oregon Lottery Video Poker. Which is really not my bag, i'm more of the barfly on the wall hallucinating swatters out my peripherals, when in full self loathing mode. Up until this night, the most excitement this bar had seen was when Mr. X went home sick at 10pm and asked us to lock up at 2am. Oddly enough everyone stayed honest, and elected a vice-bartender democratically (As a side note she's now on the payroll as relief bartender). Anyhow back to the story...


At this point, Mr. X was up about $80 dollars (but still down $20 net) so I knew I wasn't getting a drink anytime soon. I decided it was time to go, but before I could get up from my duct taped barstool, a suspicious man walked in waving a gun, as if he had Parkinson's. It was obvious this man had never popped his robbery cherry, or even seen the pictures in the kama sutra of theft. Even with his lack of experience, he learned 3 very good lessons that night


1.Don't rob a bar full of people, who in their current state, really don't give a shit
2.Drunken depression trumps fear
3.And make sure there's someone working the register of the place your robbing


Since it happened so quickly i'll give you the abridged police report that was never filed...


Suspicious man enters bar with non loaded gun.

Suspicious man says "Nobody move this is a fucking robbery"

Patron 1 says "Dude, that gun isn't even loaded"

Suspicious man says "Fuck you, Where's the bartender?"

Mr. X says (while playing video poker) "The bartender went home for the night"

Suspicious man says "Fuck you, Where's the bartender?"

Patron 2 – Female with maternal instincts says "Come on, just turn around, walk out that door, go home, tomorrow is a new day, get up early, go job hunting, and find something real to support your family"

Suspicious man says "Shut The Fuck Up, Where is the bartender?"

All patrons ignore suspicious man, and continue to ignore him

Suspicious man freaks out, yelling multiple profanities, and flees the scene

All patrons laugh...Just Right

Spitwads, Strawberry Pluckers, and Avoided Ass-Whoopin's

You know how some things can trigger a repressed memory. Or in some cases, just revisit one…

Queue the strawberry…Now I'm not a big fan of the red, cone-shaped berry but I will partake on occasion. Such as today. I held the single ripe berry and admired the lush green stem. Whiplash flashback…

…I'm sitting in the back of class, right in between X and Z (Not going to use names), 10 minutes before recess. Mrs. K was the only teacher who placed her desk in the back of the classroom to squash the mischief of 6th grade boys. She was straight out of the new Van Halen video "Hot for Teacher" and we wished she would keep us after class one day and turn the classroom into an MTV video(ya know when they actually played videos). We figured the odds were in our favor, since we spent a lot of time in after-class detention. But it had been awhile, because the new spitwad bandits, had yet to be caught. Each morning we would pick a target, and see how many times we could hit it in a day. But we had a pact; don't chance getting caught, even if it meant winning for the day. We spent some days without a shot, just serious stare downs like "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly". That same morning, that we chose our target, and Z mentioned he had something for recess. Meet in the usual spot.

Mrs. K had been extremely aware in the last week, since finding evidence throughout the classroom. Which had put us in a slump. We needed something else. As the recess bell rang, all three of us tucked our single shooter, augmented, Bic cannons in our desks unfired. Damn, not today. So we jetted to the playground and met at our usual spot, the teeter-totters. With patrols on the rise in the classroom, there was still lack of supervision on the playground. Grandma Dynamite was the recess monitor, the name says it all. Because of her age, you could get away with just about anything. But the minute someone ratted (or lit the fuse, to complete the metaphor) you were in "The Hurt Locker" so to speak. As the lowest on the pecking order of the three playground pimps, I was usually the decoy, but not always. Grandma D still hadn't figured that out.

Okay, so rewind to the previous night. Z's mom was a Tupperware representative. A very good one at that, seeing how I never saw a kitchen item in their house made out of anything but plastic. At one point she donated everything to goodwill that wasn't plastic, but I digress. That night she threw a party to reveal Tupperware's new spring line.

Back to the playground, or more geographically correct, the teeter-totters. As I said before Z had brought something for recess. We all met as planned and Z reached inside his pocket. As his closed fist exited his pocket, everything went into slow motion. A long, constant note from a church organ sounded as a single beam of sunlight hit his uncurling fingers. And there they were…3…red…something. X spoke before me. "What are those?" They looked like 3, short, stubby, wide, sets of plastic tweezers. "What the fuck?" (And yes I was dropping F-bombs at age 12). Z explained, "I stole these from my mom's party last night. Your suppose to use these to pluck the stems out of strawberries. But I thought we could use them to pinch girl's butts on recess." It seemed like a great idea at the time.

Z was brilliant, and he was always the catalyst of our mischief. X grabbed a plucker and began his campaign. A soldier, the doer and not the thinker. Z handed me mine. I was frozen. The analyzer, running scenarios through my head. Z spoke, "If you're not going to do it, at least keep Grandma D busy."

We spent the whole recess indulging our new found toys. I spent most of the time as a decoy, but was not completely innocent. There were many small screams and dirty looks flashed, but we steered clear of Grandma D. When recess was over, we agreed that this was a one time deal. We went back to class like nothing happened, and switched loyalties back to the spitwad bandits.

The next day, 10 minutes before recess, I had already hit today's target. I knew I was going to win because Mrs. K was teaching about 2 feet away from it. And there was no way X or Z would chance it. At least I thought. X was locked and loaded. Was he crazy? Mrs. K started to turn, but before X could get the shot off, we all heard a voice over the intercom system. It was Principal Mr. S "Mrs. K, I need to see X, Z, and yours truly, in my office. Please send them up immediately." Oh shit, the spitwad bandits were busted. How did he know about the spitwads? We had been so careful, even under the watch of Mrs. K

Now, we had many trips to Mr. S's office, it was nothing new. I was actually getting used to it, in a way. But nothing could have prepared me for this time.

When we arrived he ushered us into his office and slammed the door behind us. Mr. S looked more pissed off than usual. I focused my eyes on the same thing I always did. The picture hanging on the wall of his blue Porsche with the cheetah. (Some picture from some promotional thing where he raced a cheetah in his Porsche. It was his prize possession and we took every opportunity to unlevel it, every time we visited.) He starred us down and didn't say a word. This was the first moment in my life where I had to make a choice, a choice where neither outcome would be favorable. And it had nothing to do with spitwads.

"You boys have to make a choice. You can call your parents and tell them what you did yesterday on recess. Or you can call the parents of the girls, and apologize. You all have to agree, and you have 5 minutes to decide. And DON'T touch my picture." He walked out and slammed the door. X and I knew there was only one option, call the girls parents. Z didn't need another ass whoopin', and we could already see the fear in his eyes.

We spent that afternoon making multiple phone calls without dignity, with true apologies, and a tad bit of self preservation.


***To wrap this all up... When we graduated the 6th grade, and moved on to the 7th and 8th grade, or junior high as most would call it, guess who got a promotion to the new junior high principal. And luckily, before my freshman year, he was let go for fraud and racketeering. I wish I could have been there to give him the choice to tell the school board what he had done, or call all the tax payers in the school district and apologize. Oh, let me straighten that picture for ya…