Thursday, November 30, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Omar
Ron was at a tournament with a kid named Omar. They both had suffered through tough days. Ron lost his final game in the middle section and Omar went from having a winning position against a Grand Master, to drawing him. He was clearly bothered, but Ron tried to console him pointing out that the fact that he was able to even draw a player of that caliber was an amazing feat...which by the way, it was.
So the got back to the hotel room and Ron grabbed the remote control and laid on the bed. Omar went into the bathroom. After a while Omar didn't come out. Concerned, Ron tapped on the door, " hey dude, you alright in there ?". He leaned up against the door and could hear Omar half mumbling, half wimpering. Concerned, he cracked the door open to see what was happening.
The room was a haze.
Omar had filled the tub to the to top with the hottest of hot water. When Ron walked in Omar was gathering himself up and getting ready to toss himself into the scalding hot water.
" WHAT THE FUCK !?!?!" Ron yelled.
" I must be punished !!!"
Omar took his chess very seriously.
THE STORY OF OMAR THE CHESS MASTER
Omar is a cuban kid who walked into the chess club one day. He didn't speak any English at all. He sat down and played a game with Ron and pounded him...repeatedly. He then went about pounding everyone else in the club, and then as mysteriously wandered in...he left.
A couple weeks later he showed up again, and beat everyone again.
Finally the guys in the club went and got Marty. Marty is the embittered local chess master and the hero of the chess club. He rarely plays anymore, preferring to spend his mental energies on booze and setting up 3 ways with hot roller derby lesbians ( not a bad choice really). So they got Marty to show up and they waited for the Cuban kid to show. The kid sat down and after a furious battle, played Marty to a draw.
After finding a translater they figured out his story.
His name was Omar and had been on the Cuban junior national chess team. But after some of his relatives made a run for the US, he was no longer permitted to travel outside of Cuba and he was kicked off the chess team. One day he strapped him self only some two-by-fours and old tires and just about killed himself floating over to Key West.
Soon after, Omar became a regular at the club. And as his English improved he started coaching the younger players. One player in particular was hassling him one day and Omar kept telling the kid to cut it out. When the kid didn't listen, Omar reached over...and with great speed and dexterity...flipped the kid in the air.
As it turns out Omar, in addition to being a chess master, is also a karate master.
In communist countries chess is elevated to the same status as Olympic sports. So as a prodigy Omar was sent to the Cuba National Sports School for training. There with the chess team was the boxing team, wrestling team, baseball team and basketball team. Most of the time was spent on schooling and athletics. Most of the free time was spent beating the crap out of the chess team. At one point the Cuban Federation, through and exchange program with China, brought over a Chineese chess teacher. This guy got sick of his players showing up with black eyes, and missing practices after a beat down so he included Jujitsu and Karate into the chess players curriculum. Soon all the chess players were proficient in self defense.
So now this chess master karate master super genius has found freedom in the United States. No one has been willing to hire him for any quality work because he has no accredited schooling and he speaks with a Cuban accent. He's living here in a $300 a month apartment, playing chess, and making minimum wage as odd jobs. But at least his ass aint in a Cuban jail.
God Bless America.
So the got back to the hotel room and Ron grabbed the remote control and laid on the bed. Omar went into the bathroom. After a while Omar didn't come out. Concerned, Ron tapped on the door, " hey dude, you alright in there ?". He leaned up against the door and could hear Omar half mumbling, half wimpering. Concerned, he cracked the door open to see what was happening.
The room was a haze.
Omar had filled the tub to the to top with the hottest of hot water. When Ron walked in Omar was gathering himself up and getting ready to toss himself into the scalding hot water.
" WHAT THE FUCK !?!?!" Ron yelled.
" I must be punished !!!"
Omar took his chess very seriously.
THE STORY OF OMAR THE CHESS MASTER
Omar is a cuban kid who walked into the chess club one day. He didn't speak any English at all. He sat down and played a game with Ron and pounded him...repeatedly. He then went about pounding everyone else in the club, and then as mysteriously wandered in...he left.
A couple weeks later he showed up again, and beat everyone again.
Finally the guys in the club went and got Marty. Marty is the embittered local chess master and the hero of the chess club. He rarely plays anymore, preferring to spend his mental energies on booze and setting up 3 ways with hot roller derby lesbians ( not a bad choice really). So they got Marty to show up and they waited for the Cuban kid to show. The kid sat down and after a furious battle, played Marty to a draw.
After finding a translater they figured out his story.
His name was Omar and had been on the Cuban junior national chess team. But after some of his relatives made a run for the US, he was no longer permitted to travel outside of Cuba and he was kicked off the chess team. One day he strapped him self only some two-by-fours and old tires and just about killed himself floating over to Key West.
Soon after, Omar became a regular at the club. And as his English improved he started coaching the younger players. One player in particular was hassling him one day and Omar kept telling the kid to cut it out. When the kid didn't listen, Omar reached over...and with great speed and dexterity...flipped the kid in the air.
As it turns out Omar, in addition to being a chess master, is also a karate master.
In communist countries chess is elevated to the same status as Olympic sports. So as a prodigy Omar was sent to the Cuba National Sports School for training. There with the chess team was the boxing team, wrestling team, baseball team and basketball team. Most of the time was spent on schooling and athletics. Most of the free time was spent beating the crap out of the chess team. At one point the Cuban Federation, through and exchange program with China, brought over a Chineese chess teacher. This guy got sick of his players showing up with black eyes, and missing practices after a beat down so he included Jujitsu and Karate into the chess players curriculum. Soon all the chess players were proficient in self defense.
So now this chess master karate master super genius has found freedom in the United States. No one has been willing to hire him for any quality work because he has no accredited schooling and he speaks with a Cuban accent. He's living here in a $300 a month apartment, playing chess, and making minimum wage as odd jobs. But at least his ass aint in a Cuban jail.
God Bless America.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Saturday afternoon
Saturday afternoon I was sitting in the living room watching TV when there was a knock at the door.
Standing on my stoop was some dude I'd never seen before and some woman I'm presuming was his wife. " Great," I figured...probably Jahova Witnesses or someone trying to sell me something.
I opened the door and the dude said, " Do you have a little black and white dog ?"
That's an odd opening. "Ummmm, yeah"
" Are you HotGril's Dad ?"
" Ahhhh, yes again," now I was really starting to get befuddled. Where the hell was this guy going with this.
" Well I was in my front yard and heard the mail truck slam on it's brakes and almost kill your dog."
I quickly asked, " Did it get hit ?"
" No, no, " he said in a reassuring voice, " the little guy is fine."
" DAMN !"...it just came out like a reflex.
My comment stopped the dude in his tracks. He was obviously a dog lover. The dude had driven all over the neighborhood like Inspector Clouseau finding out who this dog belonged to...and now he couldn't believe what I had just said.
" Maybe I should just KEEP the dog !" he said with rightous indignation.
Now I was in a real pickle. On one hand I've already stepped over a fine line whereby this neighbor of mine is assuming...and is about to confirm..that I'm a total a-hole who set his dog free in the hope that it would get run over. On the other hand...I think this dude might be serious and actually take the fucking dog. What's a brother to do. Then I remember that he dropped my daughter's name....which means he problably knows her AND Mrs. Flick and I if I have him take my dog he'll be telling everyone in the neighborhood what a maniac I am ( as if walking around in a whoopie cusion outfit hadn't already ruined me).
So in order to save my reputation I had to go full on in the other direction, " No no no, of COURSE I'm just kidding...where's the little guy...thank you SOOOO much for returning him to us...one of the kids must have left the gate open"
Then to really make a show of it, I had to pick the thing up and hug it and pet it and pretend that I was so greatful for its return.
I'm not sure if they totally bought it, but reluctantly they got in their car and left.
I immediately ran upstairs and showered with a scrub brush. Thankfully I didn't contract any sort of rash.
Standing on my stoop was some dude I'd never seen before and some woman I'm presuming was his wife. " Great," I figured...probably Jahova Witnesses or someone trying to sell me something.
I opened the door and the dude said, " Do you have a little black and white dog ?"
That's an odd opening. "Ummmm, yeah"
" Are you HotGril's Dad ?"
" Ahhhh, yes again," now I was really starting to get befuddled. Where the hell was this guy going with this.
" Well I was in my front yard and heard the mail truck slam on it's brakes and almost kill your dog."
I quickly asked, " Did it get hit ?"
" No, no, " he said in a reassuring voice, " the little guy is fine."
" DAMN !"...it just came out like a reflex.
My comment stopped the dude in his tracks. He was obviously a dog lover. The dude had driven all over the neighborhood like Inspector Clouseau finding out who this dog belonged to...and now he couldn't believe what I had just said.
" Maybe I should just KEEP the dog !" he said with rightous indignation.
Now I was in a real pickle. On one hand I've already stepped over a fine line whereby this neighbor of mine is assuming...and is about to confirm..that I'm a total a-hole who set his dog free in the hope that it would get run over. On the other hand...I think this dude might be serious and actually take the fucking dog. What's a brother to do. Then I remember that he dropped my daughter's name....which means he problably knows her AND Mrs. Flick and I if I have him take my dog he'll be telling everyone in the neighborhood what a maniac I am ( as if walking around in a whoopie cusion outfit hadn't already ruined me).
So in order to save my reputation I had to go full on in the other direction, " No no no, of COURSE I'm just kidding...where's the little guy...thank you SOOOO much for returning him to us...one of the kids must have left the gate open"
Then to really make a show of it, I had to pick the thing up and hug it and pet it and pretend that I was so greatful for its return.
I'm not sure if they totally bought it, but reluctantly they got in their car and left.
I immediately ran upstairs and showered with a scrub brush. Thankfully I didn't contract any sort of rash.
What a weekend
So between a case of Yuengling, a liter and a half of wine, 250 miles on the Turnpike and a trip to Wal-Mart....oh, I have plenty to write.
Unfortunately I also have 468 messages in my box and 16 voice mail messages. I have to clear the plate before I can do any writing. Hopefully I can get something out tonight.
Oh yeah, I broke a new personal best this morning on the scale....208. I'm on fat bastard. 210 by New Years shouldn't be a problem.
More later.
Unfortunately I also have 468 messages in my box and 16 voice mail messages. I have to clear the plate before I can do any writing. Hopefully I can get something out tonight.
Oh yeah, I broke a new personal best this morning on the scale....208. I'm on fat bastard. 210 by New Years shouldn't be a problem.
More later.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
poker
Motherfucker Motherfucker Motherfucker Grandmotherfucker
Motherfucker Motherfucker Motherfucker Grandmotherfucker
Motherfucker Motherfucker Motherfucker Grandmotherfucker
Motherfucker Motherfucker Motherfucker Grandmotherfucker
Motherfucker Motherfucker Motherfucker Grandmotherfucker
Motherfucker Motherfucker Motherfucker Grandmotherfucker
Motherfucker Motherfucker Motherfucker Grandmotherfucker
Motherfucker Motherfucker Motherfucker Grandmotherfucker
Motherfucker Motherfucker Motherfucker Grandmotherfucker
Motherfucker Motherfucker Motherfucker Grandmotherfucker
Motherfucker Motherfucker Motherfucker Grandmotherfucker
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
dreams
I only have a few reoccurring dreams, two good ones and two bad ones.
The first bad one I haven't had in years, but is pretty straight forward...all my teeth fall out.
The other one is a shade more complicated. There are variations on the theme, but at some point I figure out that I haven't graduated college. That I missed some class someone along the way and I find out that I haven't graduated...AND that the class I need is only offered once every 10 years or something like that. That spawns a flood of bad thoughts like, " how am I going to get job ?", " my wife is going to be pissed ", " wait...when did I get a wife ?!"...then I wake in a panic and it usually takes me a few minutes to reassure myself as to what date it is, and that I have a job and a wife and kids.....not that that's entirely calming.
Anyway, those two things are offset by two nice dreams.
One takes place in my high school. That's weird in that I have almost no recollection of being in my high school during waking hours. If i think really hard, I can remember some aspects of the building, but by-and-large my long term memory is really really bad anymore ( see kids, don't drink or do drugs). Anyway, I'm back in my high school and the entire school is filled with 4 feet of water. I spend the whole dream swimming around my school. And it's fun ! The really weird thing is that I've had this dream for a long time...even before I knew how to swim. In fact, the dream played a large part in getting me to learn how to swim. I don't have the dream that often, probably because I found out that swimming in real life isn't really all that fun.
The other dream that has replaced the swimming dream is the ice skating dream, and that's the one I had last night. I can't remember any of the details other than I was ice skating and it was fun. So I think it's a cue for me to learn how to ice skate. My only fear is that I'll learn how and it will turn out to be like the swimming thing.
My limited experience with ice skating is that I once played goalie for an ice hockey team. When I was a professional drunk, I used to hang out at this neighborhood bar. I was only 23 years old, but all the other guys in the bar were in their 30s or 40s. The Pittsburgh Penguins had Mario Lemieux and hockey was getting really big in the area and these drunks all decided that they wanted to start playing hockey. They sent a messenger over to the bar across the way and challenged the drunks on the other side of the street to a game and in short order the town and a bar based hockey league.
I don't know much about hockey, or winter sports or Canadian history for that matter, but I'm pretty sure that this league would get a nomination if there was a category for worst hockey league in the history of sports. Almost everyone was fat and out of shape. Most guys hadn't been on skates in years. And at least 30% of the people on the ice at any time were over the legal limit for driving a car. My favorite part of the league was what were referred to as "the Tripods". These were dudes to had to use their stick on the ice in order to not fall down. They'd press their sticks to the ice and the shufffle to get around. Each team seemed to have one guy that could actually play and a slew of drunken tripods. The two guys who could really play would play a game of one-on one by bobbing and weaving and hiding from each other by using the tripods as interference. They'd fly around the rink with tremendous speed and grace while the tripods shuffled around looking like that vibrating football game that you used to have as a kid.
Anyway, the only rule for the league was that all the players had to be over 30 years old...except goalies. Goalies could be any age. Since nobody wanted to play goalie, almost all the goalies in the league were teenage sons of someone on the team. Except our team. I was the goalie for out team. They came to me one day and said, " you wanna play ?". Seeing as we got free wings and beer after each game I was in. The only problem was that I didn't know how to skate. " That's fine", they told me, " you can play in your sneakers." I did that the first game. In that game I spent the entire time on my knees. For the record, you can't play in sneakers without hitting your nads a dozen times. From that point on I wore skates. The first time I played in skates it went well....until I left the goal to go after a puck. I skated over to the puck, hit it, and kept going. I had no idea how to stop. So I fell down, slid for a while, then crawled on my hands and pads back to the goal. Of course the other team scored. After that I took a lesson with some 6 year olds and learned how to skate, stop, and return to the same spot....all provided I don't travel more than 12 feet. Not really the stuff of my dreams.
So anyway, this is rambling a bit, but the point is I think I may take some skating lessons. Skating looks like fun.
The first bad one I haven't had in years, but is pretty straight forward...all my teeth fall out.
The other one is a shade more complicated. There are variations on the theme, but at some point I figure out that I haven't graduated college. That I missed some class someone along the way and I find out that I haven't graduated...AND that the class I need is only offered once every 10 years or something like that. That spawns a flood of bad thoughts like, " how am I going to get job ?", " my wife is going to be pissed ", " wait...when did I get a wife ?!"...then I wake in a panic and it usually takes me a few minutes to reassure myself as to what date it is, and that I have a job and a wife and kids.....not that that's entirely calming.
Anyway, those two things are offset by two nice dreams.
One takes place in my high school. That's weird in that I have almost no recollection of being in my high school during waking hours. If i think really hard, I can remember some aspects of the building, but by-and-large my long term memory is really really bad anymore ( see kids, don't drink or do drugs). Anyway, I'm back in my high school and the entire school is filled with 4 feet of water. I spend the whole dream swimming around my school. And it's fun ! The really weird thing is that I've had this dream for a long time...even before I knew how to swim. In fact, the dream played a large part in getting me to learn how to swim. I don't have the dream that often, probably because I found out that swimming in real life isn't really all that fun.
The other dream that has replaced the swimming dream is the ice skating dream, and that's the one I had last night. I can't remember any of the details other than I was ice skating and it was fun. So I think it's a cue for me to learn how to ice skate. My only fear is that I'll learn how and it will turn out to be like the swimming thing.
My limited experience with ice skating is that I once played goalie for an ice hockey team. When I was a professional drunk, I used to hang out at this neighborhood bar. I was only 23 years old, but all the other guys in the bar were in their 30s or 40s. The Pittsburgh Penguins had Mario Lemieux and hockey was getting really big in the area and these drunks all decided that they wanted to start playing hockey. They sent a messenger over to the bar across the way and challenged the drunks on the other side of the street to a game and in short order the town and a bar based hockey league.
I don't know much about hockey, or winter sports or Canadian history for that matter, but I'm pretty sure that this league would get a nomination if there was a category for worst hockey league in the history of sports. Almost everyone was fat and out of shape. Most guys hadn't been on skates in years. And at least 30% of the people on the ice at any time were over the legal limit for driving a car. My favorite part of the league was what were referred to as "the Tripods". These were dudes to had to use their stick on the ice in order to not fall down. They'd press their sticks to the ice and the shufffle to get around. Each team seemed to have one guy that could actually play and a slew of drunken tripods. The two guys who could really play would play a game of one-on one by bobbing and weaving and hiding from each other by using the tripods as interference. They'd fly around the rink with tremendous speed and grace while the tripods shuffled around looking like that vibrating football game that you used to have as a kid.
Anyway, the only rule for the league was that all the players had to be over 30 years old...except goalies. Goalies could be any age. Since nobody wanted to play goalie, almost all the goalies in the league were teenage sons of someone on the team. Except our team. I was the goalie for out team. They came to me one day and said, " you wanna play ?". Seeing as we got free wings and beer after each game I was in. The only problem was that I didn't know how to skate. " That's fine", they told me, " you can play in your sneakers." I did that the first game. In that game I spent the entire time on my knees. For the record, you can't play in sneakers without hitting your nads a dozen times. From that point on I wore skates. The first time I played in skates it went well....until I left the goal to go after a puck. I skated over to the puck, hit it, and kept going. I had no idea how to stop. So I fell down, slid for a while, then crawled on my hands and pads back to the goal. Of course the other team scored. After that I took a lesson with some 6 year olds and learned how to skate, stop, and return to the same spot....all provided I don't travel more than 12 feet. Not really the stuff of my dreams.
So anyway, this is rambling a bit, but the point is I think I may take some skating lessons. Skating looks like fun.
Friday, November 17, 2006
One good cop
I'm known for not having the highest opinion of the police.
I appreciate the work that they do. Its a tough, dangerous, shitty job. But sitting across this side of the bargaining table I have to say that I have never met such a group of dysfunctional and disingenuous people. And considering who my friends are, that's saying something.
But it wasn't always that way. When I was growing up, the best friend of my buddies father was a city cop and he was a pisser. Two stories about that guy stand out to me.
One day he came up and handed my a packet of tin foil. I opened it up and inside was tar hash. HOLY SHIT ! You have to admit that even though i knew the dude, having a cop hand you some hash is a mind blowing experience. He said that he pulled over a 17 year old kid driving too fast in his parent's sports car. He ran the kid's license and it was clean. When he went to give the license back the kid was completely pale and sweating. My buddy didn't know why, but he knew something was up. On a whim he said to the kid, " Come on. Give it to me...NOW !" Low and behold, the kid reached under the seat, burst into tears and handed the cop the tin foil. The cop was astonished....here he was going to let this kid off with a warning and how he's got the kid for speeding, for posession, and who knows what they're going to do with the car. This is far more than the cop wanted to be dealing with and you know that the kid is, at this point, considering suicide. My buddy looked at the kid and said, " Get lost. Don't ever let me see you around here ever again."....and let the kid go. In my opinion a hell of a nice move. I mean the kid is out his drugs, you know that fucker probably never smoked weed again ( at least not that week anyway), and my buddy get a check mark in the karma file. Justice served. Oh yeah, I got some really boss hash*.
* this of course is way back in the day before I knew better. Drugs are bad...don't do drugs.
The other story occurs on the high seas. This dude was a chain smoker. He woke with a cig and fell asleep the same way. One day we all went out deep sea fishing out into the Atlantic. Once we set out, this dude realized that he had forgotten his lighter but all he did is when he got 3/4th down on one he'd light another one up. Once we got a few miles out, the seas got a little choppy with 3-4 foot swells and between all the rocking and putting all the lines out he got distracted and let his cigarette run out.
" Shit !"
He was pissed, but what were we going to do. We kept fishing. About 20 minutes later.
" Goddamn I'm starting to get sea sick. I need a cigarette. You don't have a lighter anywhere in this fucking boat ?
10 minutes later
" OK, fuck it ! We gotta go in."
No way. We told him there was no way were were going in. We had just suffered through a 2 hour boat ride to get out there and we hadn't even been fishing an hour. We weren't going back. He'd have to just deal with it. Everyone turned their attention back to fishing off the back of the boat. A few minutes later....
BAM !
An explosion rocked the boat and scared the shit out of everyone. When we turned around there was the cop. He was sprawled out, spread eagle, on his belly, across the bow of the boat. In one hand was his 9 mm police issue handgun. In his other hand was a cigarette. Before we could say a word, he eyed up the tip of that cigarette and.....
BAM !
He fires and then started sucking on the cigarette like someone trying to get a milkshake through a straw. That maniac was trying to shoot the tip of cigarette in the hope that it would light.
We all started screaming.
With 3 foot waves rocking hte boat up and down he was going to blow his hand off...beside that there was no freaking way that he was going to get that thing lit by shooting it anyway.
" FINE !" , he shouted..." FINE!", then he stood up, " Then I'll light the thing off the barrel !"
With that he aimed into the water and emptied the clip
BAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAM !
He put the cig to the barrel and drew in...nothing.
He started to reload.
Finally the captain acqiessed. " OK OK OK, I'll take you back in." And after another 15 minutes of fishing we turn back to shore.
See. I like some cops. You know... the normal ones.
I appreciate the work that they do. Its a tough, dangerous, shitty job. But sitting across this side of the bargaining table I have to say that I have never met such a group of dysfunctional and disingenuous people. And considering who my friends are, that's saying something.
But it wasn't always that way. When I was growing up, the best friend of my buddies father was a city cop and he was a pisser. Two stories about that guy stand out to me.
One day he came up and handed my a packet of tin foil. I opened it up and inside was tar hash. HOLY SHIT ! You have to admit that even though i knew the dude, having a cop hand you some hash is a mind blowing experience. He said that he pulled over a 17 year old kid driving too fast in his parent's sports car. He ran the kid's license and it was clean. When he went to give the license back the kid was completely pale and sweating. My buddy didn't know why, but he knew something was up. On a whim he said to the kid, " Come on. Give it to me...NOW !" Low and behold, the kid reached under the seat, burst into tears and handed the cop the tin foil. The cop was astonished....here he was going to let this kid off with a warning and how he's got the kid for speeding, for posession, and who knows what they're going to do with the car. This is far more than the cop wanted to be dealing with and you know that the kid is, at this point, considering suicide. My buddy looked at the kid and said, " Get lost. Don't ever let me see you around here ever again."....and let the kid go. In my opinion a hell of a nice move. I mean the kid is out his drugs, you know that fucker probably never smoked weed again ( at least not that week anyway), and my buddy get a check mark in the karma file. Justice served. Oh yeah, I got some really boss hash*.
* this of course is way back in the day before I knew better. Drugs are bad...don't do drugs.
The other story occurs on the high seas. This dude was a chain smoker. He woke with a cig and fell asleep the same way. One day we all went out deep sea fishing out into the Atlantic. Once we set out, this dude realized that he had forgotten his lighter but all he did is when he got 3/4th down on one he'd light another one up. Once we got a few miles out, the seas got a little choppy with 3-4 foot swells and between all the rocking and putting all the lines out he got distracted and let his cigarette run out.
" Shit !"
He was pissed, but what were we going to do. We kept fishing. About 20 minutes later.
" Goddamn I'm starting to get sea sick. I need a cigarette. You don't have a lighter anywhere in this fucking boat ?
10 minutes later
" OK, fuck it ! We gotta go in."
No way. We told him there was no way were were going in. We had just suffered through a 2 hour boat ride to get out there and we hadn't even been fishing an hour. We weren't going back. He'd have to just deal with it. Everyone turned their attention back to fishing off the back of the boat. A few minutes later....
BAM !
An explosion rocked the boat and scared the shit out of everyone. When we turned around there was the cop. He was sprawled out, spread eagle, on his belly, across the bow of the boat. In one hand was his 9 mm police issue handgun. In his other hand was a cigarette. Before we could say a word, he eyed up the tip of that cigarette and.....
BAM !
He fires and then started sucking on the cigarette like someone trying to get a milkshake through a straw. That maniac was trying to shoot the tip of cigarette in the hope that it would light.
We all started screaming.
With 3 foot waves rocking hte boat up and down he was going to blow his hand off...beside that there was no freaking way that he was going to get that thing lit by shooting it anyway.
" FINE !" , he shouted..." FINE!", then he stood up, " Then I'll light the thing off the barrel !"
With that he aimed into the water and emptied the clip
BAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAM !
He put the cig to the barrel and drew in...nothing.
He started to reload.
Finally the captain acqiessed. " OK OK OK, I'll take you back in." And after another 15 minutes of fishing we turn back to shore.
See. I like some cops. You know... the normal ones.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
phonetards
its raining here......HARD.
The idiots have been calling non-stop.
Oh ? It's raining...thanks for calling to tell me.
The best call so far went like this ( verbatim)
phonetard: Hey, someone has to get out here and do something.
Flick: How can I help you sir ?
phonetard: Well they ought to be able to do something, cause everytime its like this I get everyone elses stuff at my place. Can't you do something up there about that ?
Flick: Ahhhhh, you're going to have to be a little more specific. Are you talking about stormwater ?
phonetard: YEAH ! OF COURSE I AM ! IT RAINING LIKE A SADDAMI OUT THERE !
......It's raining like a saddami out there.......
I don't want to hear anymore shit from any of you people about me being more sensative to the need of the taxpayer.
The idiots have been calling non-stop.
Oh ? It's raining...thanks for calling to tell me.
The best call so far went like this ( verbatim)
phonetard: Hey, someone has to get out here and do something.
Flick: How can I help you sir ?
phonetard: Well they ought to be able to do something, cause everytime its like this I get everyone elses stuff at my place. Can't you do something up there about that ?
Flick: Ahhhhh, you're going to have to be a little more specific. Are you talking about stormwater ?
phonetard: YEAH ! OF COURSE I AM ! IT RAINING LIKE A SADDAMI OUT THERE !
......It's raining like a saddami out there.......
I don't want to hear anymore shit from any of you people about me being more sensative to the need of the taxpayer.
OK
Now that I got that rant out of my system ( see below) I feel good enough to share a couple of anecdotes about my person emissions experiences.
The Pacer - I think I've written here before about the burgundy pacer that I drove around with...it rocked. I was so embarrased of it that when I had my first date with Mrs. Flick I made her drive AND I made her drop me on the corner a block away from my car for fear that she'd see what I drove and refuse to go out with me again. It almost backfired as she though that I the reason I wouldn't let her near my house was that I was married and hiding her from my wife. But that's not my point.
Jus before we got married, I moved in with Mrs. Flick for about a month. So one Saturday morning I loaded everything I owned into the Pacer and started to make the drive to her place about 30 miles away. I hadn't had the Pacer on a trip that far in quite a while so just before I left I popped the hood to add a little oil. When I looked into the manmoth V8 engine block I noticed that there were a bunch of hoses detached and a couple of feet of tubing shoved over to the side of the engine block. This modification must have been done, for some reason, by the previous owner as it was obvious by the placement of things that it wasn't a random happening.
So wanting to make sure that everything was going to run right for my big trip, I reattached all the tubing and set out along my way.
I got onto the highway and imagine that I was quite a sight. The fishbowl looking car was filled to the gills. Even the passenger seat was shoved full to the ceiling with shit...I literally had everything I had owned in the car and was barely able to carve out pigeon holes for both the side window and rear view mirror.
About 10 miles into the trip I started smelling something funny. 12 miles into the trip my windows started clouding up !?! 15 miles into the trip I started getting dizzy !!!??? Then a little voice in my head said to me, " Hi...this is the little voice in your head...how ya doin ?.....yeah you might want to pull over, you're about to die of carbon monoxide poisoning"
I yanked the steering wheel right and slammed on the brakes. As soon as the car stopped and the wind efect of traveling 55 mph stopped venting whatever was filling the car, the vehicle immediately filled with massive amounts of thick white smoke. Paniced I pulled the door handle and rolled out onto the tarmac.
As I tried to get my head about me and fill my lungs with fresh air, I watched smoke envelope the still running car. I laid there in dispair as my car, and everything I owned on the planet, was about to burn to a crisp.
Then something caught my eye.
From my position on the ground I could see under the car. And it looked like that was where most of the smoke was coming from. I crawled over and looked a little closer. When I got up next to the car I saw what was happening. Oil was pouring out of the car and directly onto the super-hot catalydic converter. As soon as the oil hit the cc, it bursth into a think smoke and filled the inside of the car. But why now ? Why me ? Then I remember hooking all those tubes up.
I hopped up, popped the hood, reached into the block and started pulling. Anything that was hooked up to the carborator or anything that looked like an emissions control had to go. I pulled, and I yanked, and I toss about 35 feet worth of rubber tubing into the woods. When I was done i walked around to the side of the car and looked underneath. No oil, no smoke, no problem.
I closed the hood, I got back in the car, and I drove the rest of the way to Mrs. Flicks house without incident. That car ran great for the next 3 months and I never had an oil or smoke problem again....although most of my shit did smell pretty stinky for a while.
The Pacer - I think I've written here before about the burgundy pacer that I drove around with...it rocked. I was so embarrased of it that when I had my first date with Mrs. Flick I made her drive AND I made her drop me on the corner a block away from my car for fear that she'd see what I drove and refuse to go out with me again. It almost backfired as she though that I the reason I wouldn't let her near my house was that I was married and hiding her from my wife. But that's not my point.
Jus before we got married, I moved in with Mrs. Flick for about a month. So one Saturday morning I loaded everything I owned into the Pacer and started to make the drive to her place about 30 miles away. I hadn't had the Pacer on a trip that far in quite a while so just before I left I popped the hood to add a little oil. When I looked into the manmoth V8 engine block I noticed that there were a bunch of hoses detached and a couple of feet of tubing shoved over to the side of the engine block. This modification must have been done, for some reason, by the previous owner as it was obvious by the placement of things that it wasn't a random happening.
So wanting to make sure that everything was going to run right for my big trip, I reattached all the tubing and set out along my way.
I got onto the highway and imagine that I was quite a sight. The fishbowl looking car was filled to the gills. Even the passenger seat was shoved full to the ceiling with shit...I literally had everything I had owned in the car and was barely able to carve out pigeon holes for both the side window and rear view mirror.
About 10 miles into the trip I started smelling something funny. 12 miles into the trip my windows started clouding up !?! 15 miles into the trip I started getting dizzy !!!??? Then a little voice in my head said to me, " Hi...this is the little voice in your head...how ya doin ?.....yeah you might want to pull over, you're about to die of carbon monoxide poisoning"
I yanked the steering wheel right and slammed on the brakes. As soon as the car stopped and the wind efect of traveling 55 mph stopped venting whatever was filling the car, the vehicle immediately filled with massive amounts of thick white smoke. Paniced I pulled the door handle and rolled out onto the tarmac.
As I tried to get my head about me and fill my lungs with fresh air, I watched smoke envelope the still running car. I laid there in dispair as my car, and everything I owned on the planet, was about to burn to a crisp.
Then something caught my eye.
From my position on the ground I could see under the car. And it looked like that was where most of the smoke was coming from. I crawled over and looked a little closer. When I got up next to the car I saw what was happening. Oil was pouring out of the car and directly onto the super-hot catalydic converter. As soon as the oil hit the cc, it bursth into a think smoke and filled the inside of the car. But why now ? Why me ? Then I remember hooking all those tubes up.
I hopped up, popped the hood, reached into the block and started pulling. Anything that was hooked up to the carborator or anything that looked like an emissions control had to go. I pulled, and I yanked, and I toss about 35 feet worth of rubber tubing into the woods. When I was done i walked around to the side of the car and looked underneath. No oil, no smoke, no problem.
I closed the hood, I got back in the car, and I drove the rest of the way to Mrs. Flicks house without incident. That car ran great for the next 3 months and I never had an oil or smoke problem again....although most of my shit did smell pretty stinky for a while.
emissions testing
Our county started emissions testing for vehicles last year.
( before I start ranting I'll convey this little ditty. I was going to college one time and had loaded up all my shit in this old Plymouth Astair Safari station wagon... it was resplendid with the seats down pimp style and shag rug stapled into the back. Anyway, the place I lived then had emissions testing and there was no way that this piece of shit was going to pass. My only hope, I figured, was that if I got there with all my shit in the car that the dude would have mercy on me. Luckily I was right. He ran the test...failed. I gave him the song and dance about how I was on my way to school and I was poor and that they didn't even have emission where I was going etc etc. He took the wand out of the tailpipe and held it over his head and ran the test. Well wouldn't you know that so much shit poured out of that stinky old car that it fogged up the entire garage and with the wand not even in the tailpipe that fucking thing failed. Finally, the dude turned on the computer, hit run, and walked to the edge of the garage and held the wand out the window. It passed. His last words to me were, " I never want to see you or this car in this garage ever again." But i got my sticker)
See ! What a load of bullshit.
Emissions testing is nothing more than another way to fuck the lower end of the middle class, and that's the truth...Ruth.
***** RANT TRUNCATED****
as you were.
( before I start ranting I'll convey this little ditty. I was going to college one time and had loaded up all my shit in this old Plymouth Astair Safari station wagon... it was resplendid with the seats down pimp style and shag rug stapled into the back. Anyway, the place I lived then had emissions testing and there was no way that this piece of shit was going to pass. My only hope, I figured, was that if I got there with all my shit in the car that the dude would have mercy on me. Luckily I was right. He ran the test...failed. I gave him the song and dance about how I was on my way to school and I was poor and that they didn't even have emission where I was going etc etc. He took the wand out of the tailpipe and held it over his head and ran the test. Well wouldn't you know that so much shit poured out of that stinky old car that it fogged up the entire garage and with the wand not even in the tailpipe that fucking thing failed. Finally, the dude turned on the computer, hit run, and walked to the edge of the garage and held the wand out the window. It passed. His last words to me were, " I never want to see you or this car in this garage ever again." But i got my sticker)
See ! What a load of bullshit.
Emissions testing is nothing more than another way to fuck the lower end of the middle class, and that's the truth...Ruth.
***** RANT TRUNCATED****
as you were.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
from an email discussion
--- Doucheblogcycling wrote:
> Of course he's a douche...douches become CYO
> basketball coaches (Flick coached a couple of
> seasons before he had to quit for yelling "jesus
> fucking christ" after some poor kid got taken out on
> a pick).
Flick responded:
I think you're mixed it up with the story where I
beaned the kid with a brushback pitch on my kids
little league team. And if that fucker didn't want
the heat, he shouldn't have been crowding my plate.
And I wasn't CYO, it was at a Christian High School. And I didn't say fucking.
I got in trouble twice...
Once in practice for yelling Jesus Christ. The entire gym stopped what they were doing and looked at me.
The other time was during a game against XXXX Christian when I yelled "GodDammit !" at my point guard who picked up his dribble for the 100th fucking time. That one got me called into the AthleticDirectors Office.
( I had briefly considered the arguement "Well if you could get JC to run the point for me maybe we'd win a few games" but thought better of it. Christians tend to take that whole blasphamy thing quite seriously)
I also got a talking to for playing secular music inthe team van during away games.
Doucheblog wrote:
>So what secular music were you playing?
> Was it Bell Biv DeVoe...?
Flick responded:
> Sadly..... yes.
> Of course he's a douche...douches become CYO
> basketball coaches (Flick coached a couple of
> seasons before he had to quit for yelling "jesus
> fucking christ" after some poor kid got taken out on
> a pick).
Flick responded:
I think you're mixed it up with the story where I
beaned the kid with a brushback pitch on my kids
little league team. And if that fucker didn't want
the heat, he shouldn't have been crowding my plate.
And I wasn't CYO, it was at a Christian High School. And I didn't say fucking.
I got in trouble twice...
Once in practice for yelling Jesus Christ. The entire gym stopped what they were doing and looked at me.
The other time was during a game against XXXX Christian when I yelled "GodDammit !" at my point guard who picked up his dribble for the 100th fucking time. That one got me called into the AthleticDirectors Office.
( I had briefly considered the arguement "Well if you could get JC to run the point for me maybe we'd win a few games" but thought better of it. Christians tend to take that whole blasphamy thing quite seriously)
I also got a talking to for playing secular music inthe team van during away games.
Doucheblog wrote:
>So what secular music were you playing?
> Was it Bell Biv DeVoe...?
Flick responded:
> Sadly..... yes.
Monday, November 13, 2006
damn blogger
Blogger made me move everything over to Google today. Actually they didn't 'make' me...but in any event shit's getting switched and it's affected my ability to post. Hopefully this will make it out to the net.
As you may have well figured out, I do my best to protect me idenity under the pen name Flick. While most of you still know who I am, it still leaves me enough plausible deniability should someone try to use this blog against me at work again...those bastards.
This leads to some confusion for those of you who don't know who I am. Occassionally I get emails at burthoovisalive@yahoo.com speculating who I might be. For the record I just wanted to clear the air and say, once and for all, and despite the resemblance, I am not this guy...
As you may have well figured out, I do my best to protect me idenity under the pen name Flick. While most of you still know who I am, it still leaves me enough plausible deniability should someone try to use this blog against me at work again...those bastards.
This leads to some confusion for those of you who don't know who I am. Occassionally I get emails at burthoovisalive@yahoo.com speculating who I might be. For the record I just wanted to clear the air and say, once and for all, and despite the resemblance, I am not this guy...
Thursday, November 09, 2006
SHOCKING
I just electrocuted my balls !
I was out doing an inspection of a stormwater culvert near a pasture. I stepped under a barbwire, down to the waters edge, did the inspection, and was done.
Then when I got done, instead of going under the wire again, I stepped over it. No big deal. I mean there were some barbs, but I gingerly stepped over them and just about cleared the wire. then when I lifted my back leg up I shifted slightly and tapped the wire....no problem. Then...
WHAM !
...a huge shock rocked me. I stood there stunned trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Then while my brain was trying to compute what was going on, my body decided " FUCK THIS" and took over. Before I could think about it, my legs jumped up and ran for the car. About half way there I realized what had happened...the barbwire was wrapped in a pulse wire that was periodically sending out a friggin whopper of a shock. When I slid to the side I got wolloped in the nads.
Now some people will tell you that they got shocked and afterwards it healed some ailment. They'll claim that it helped their arthritis or some shit like that. I'm here to tell you that as far as testicles go, none of that shit is true. In fact the only difference that I notice is that my pubes now look like this.
Other than that...nothing.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
I can't tell
I can't tell if I'm still slightly retarded from Hollowen night or if I'm suffering from the pangs of withdraw of not having anything to drink in a week....or both.
In any case, I can't hold a thought for more than 2 minutes, I'm slurring my speech, and I'm irritable. I had started to suggest that maybe I was developing a brain tumor but when I mentioned it to my wife the conversation went the way of the heart attack.
Anyway, I was away all day at a converence and spent the entire time trying to think of something to write. Here is what I came up with....
DUH DUH DUH DUH DUHHHHH DUHH DUH DUH DUH DUHHHHHH.
That doesn't have any tune or anything that goes with it. That's pretty much the soundtrack in my head since Friday. Glad I could share it with you.
Meanwhile, Llama sex. Sort of.
In any case, I can't hold a thought for more than 2 minutes, I'm slurring my speech, and I'm irritable. I had started to suggest that maybe I was developing a brain tumor but when I mentioned it to my wife the conversation went the way of the heart attack.
Anyway, I was away all day at a converence and spent the entire time trying to think of something to write. Here is what I came up with....
DUH DUH DUH DUH DUHHHHH DUHH DUH DUH DUH DUHHHHHH.
That doesn't have any tune or anything that goes with it. That's pretty much the soundtrack in my head since Friday. Glad I could share it with you.
Meanwhile, Llama sex. Sort of.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Jacob Painter and the Mulberry Bow
The Gable family grew up in the foothills, where the Appalachian Mountains start to diminish as they spill into Pennsylvania.
As is/was the Gable family tradition, the clan that occupied those hills from 1945-1965 had eleventy-billion boys and a couple of girls. And that group, like all the Gable's before and after, had a hard earned reputation of...well how do we say this politely...ummmm, a hard earned reputation of terror.
They were a hard working people who lived in a hard environment. The boys not only had to deal with life in the mountains with no electricity, no plumbing, and Western Pa winters, but they also had to deal with the realities of living with 6 other brothers. So if you were another kid on the mountain, you did your best to steer clear of the Gable boys. A fight with a Gable was a lose-lose. You were probably going to get your ass kicked straight up. But if, by the grace of god, you happened to hold you own, then you were faced with the prospect of having to fight your way up the food chain. And at the top of that food chain were the biggest and most feared of the Gable boys, Buddy and Kevin Gable.
Buddy wasn't the oldest, he was second in line. The oldest boy was Kevin who, at over 6 foot tall and over 200 lbs was the largest of the clan. But what had in size he lacked in both quickness and brains. Buddy, while smaller was crafty, quick, and above all aggressive. These two would often test each other to see who was alpha dog with Buddy almost always winning out. Buddy's favorite move was to, just every once in a while and without warning, punch Kevin in the gut and then run for the barn. Because of his size and agility Buddy was able to climb up the barn rafters and drop between the wall of the main barn and the side of the horse barn. Kevin couldn't get up nor over the over the rafters and although Buddy was a foot away, he was on the other side of some 2x6's and untouchable. Kevin would stand there frustratedly screaming that one day he would catch Buddy and beat him to a pulp. Eventually Kevin would run out of steam, go away, and Buddy would climb out unscathed.
But the Gable boys were not without fear. There was one thing that they most definately feared....their father. No matter what hijinx were afoot, the site or sound of their father sent the boys running.
One day the boys were hanging out bored. When Kevin reached up to grab a limb of a tree he had interest in climbing, Buddy punched him square in the gut. He turned to run but Kevin grabbed a foot and a fierce battle ensued. The other boys watched in anticipation as Buddy was about to get what was coming to him. But before Kevin could really do any damage, Buddy squirreled away and the footrace to the barn was on. In a flash, Buddy was up and over the rafters. He stood there laughing right up until he felt a dull thud hit his lower back. He reached around to feel some wetness and when he looked at his hand it was blood red. Kevin, in his frustration, had picked up a sickle and not really thinking about the consequences, slammed the blade between two of the slats of wood. He had stabbed Buddy in the back.
The boys were so scared of their father, they didn't tell anyone. In fact, all the boys helped drag Buddy to the bedroom they shared and they all pretended that the boy was sick with the flu. He laid in bed for a week, somehow not dying of infection or the injury and soon returned to the mountainside games. I'm pretty sure that he never blasted Kevin in the gut again.
But I didn't write all that to tell you that story. All the corn being harvested this week locally reminded me of another story that involves this same family.
Every harvest season the boys would use the leftover corn cobs to play a game of cowboys and Indians. Actually, because they were smart enough not to shoot each other with guns, it was more like a game of Indians and Indians. What they would do is make bows and arrows. And I mean real bows and arrows that they would also use to hunt small game. Often this would take all summer. They'd find a good piece of wood, carve is out into a bow. They'd string it up. And in the end they'd have a bow decent enough to hunt rabbits and squirrels with. But when they weren't hunting. they'd take the left over corn cobs, shove an arrow into the cob and run around shooting each other. As insane as this might sound you have to remember that there wasn't a lot of cable TV on the mountain in the 1950's, so you really had to be creative to keep yourself busy. And despite how dangerous it might sound, the cobs were very effective at keeping everything safe. The game really caught on and over time all the kids on the mountain looked forward to the fall battles.
Understandably, everything in the Gable house became a contest. If one kid climbed a tree, the next kid had to climb a bigger tree. If one kid tossed a crab apple 100 feet, the next kid had to toss it 101. And so it was with the building of the bows. This came to a head in 1958, when Buddy found a huge limb broken off from a Red Mulberry tree. He spent all summer carving out a giant bow. When he was done it took four of the boys to string it. Only two Gable boys, Kevin and Buddy, could draw the finished bow. But even those two struggled and with their best efforts could only draw it a few inches. And there was not way to aim the thing with any accuracy. It was eventually put away for the rest of the summer and forgotten about in favor of other games and activities.
Finally the fall came and Indians and Indians began. After a pretty good drubbing one day by some boys who lived a little closer down toward town, the Gable boys decided that they would need some heavier artillery to help salvage the family name. They decided to break out the mulberry bow. Now since it wasn't going to be possible to use a huge gun like this as a mobile weapon, Buddy hatched a plan. What they would do is have Buddy and Kevin hide at the end of the orchard facing down a row of apple trees. The other Gable boys would, as best they could, drive the other neighborhood kids into the orchard. By working together from the seated position, Buddy and Kevin could put their feet on the bow and both pull the string all the way back. This, he concluded, would result in super high powered welt-inducing corn cob arrows. The impact of the cobs as well at the sight of the giant bow, would be enough to seal their reputation forever.
The next day everything seemed to go according to plan. As the two older boys laid in wait, the younger Gables did a fine job of luring the unsuspecting kids into the trap. Jacob Painter was the first unfortunate sole to walk into the crosshairs. The two oldest Gables drew the bow back as far as it would stretch and they unleashed, with great velocity and power, the biggest arrow on the biggest corn cob that they had. Victory was to be theirs !
Before Painter had any clue as to what was happening, the bunker busting corncob arrow nailed the kid and blew him off his feet. When he stood back up and went to dust himself off, they all realized that they had made one small miscalculation.
Corn cobs make _excellent_ bumpers when shot from a rabbit bow.
Corn cobs make _terrible_ bumpers when shot from a cannon.
Upon impact, the arrow split that corn cob in two, and was now firmly stuck in the side of a 12 year old boy. The same twelve year old boy who was now flailing, screaming and running back toward town to go tell his mother.
After some stunned silence all the boys suddenly came to the same frightening conclusion. No, it wasn't that they had shot a boy with an arrow. If he was running...and flailing....and screaming...then he wasn't dying. Getting shot was going to hurt like hell, but the cob had slowed the arrow down enough that it was only a couple inches into his side. The fear that coursed through the veins of the boys that day ran much deeper than that.
If Jacob Painter got to Mrs. Painter
...then Mrs. Painter was going tell their Dad
...and if their Dad just found out that they shot a boy with an arrow
...then the mulberry bow was going to become a mulberry ass beating stick.
In a rush, the boys headed down that mountain as their lives depended on it. They caught Jacob Painter at the end of the meadow on the towns edge. They smothered him until he quieted down, then the dragged him into the woods and yanked out the arrow. Just to make sure, they gave him a thumpin'...nothing bad, just a little something to get his attention. And they let him know if he said anything to anyone, there'd be a lot more thumpin'to follow.
In the end Painter was fine and Dad never found out.
Just another day on the mountain.
As is/was the Gable family tradition, the clan that occupied those hills from 1945-1965 had eleventy-billion boys and a couple of girls. And that group, like all the Gable's before and after, had a hard earned reputation of...well how do we say this politely...ummmm, a hard earned reputation of terror.
They were a hard working people who lived in a hard environment. The boys not only had to deal with life in the mountains with no electricity, no plumbing, and Western Pa winters, but they also had to deal with the realities of living with 6 other brothers. So if you were another kid on the mountain, you did your best to steer clear of the Gable boys. A fight with a Gable was a lose-lose. You were probably going to get your ass kicked straight up. But if, by the grace of god, you happened to hold you own, then you were faced with the prospect of having to fight your way up the food chain. And at the top of that food chain were the biggest and most feared of the Gable boys, Buddy and Kevin Gable.
Buddy wasn't the oldest, he was second in line. The oldest boy was Kevin who, at over 6 foot tall and over 200 lbs was the largest of the clan. But what had in size he lacked in both quickness and brains. Buddy, while smaller was crafty, quick, and above all aggressive. These two would often test each other to see who was alpha dog with Buddy almost always winning out. Buddy's favorite move was to, just every once in a while and without warning, punch Kevin in the gut and then run for the barn. Because of his size and agility Buddy was able to climb up the barn rafters and drop between the wall of the main barn and the side of the horse barn. Kevin couldn't get up nor over the over the rafters and although Buddy was a foot away, he was on the other side of some 2x6's and untouchable. Kevin would stand there frustratedly screaming that one day he would catch Buddy and beat him to a pulp. Eventually Kevin would run out of steam, go away, and Buddy would climb out unscathed.
But the Gable boys were not without fear. There was one thing that they most definately feared....their father. No matter what hijinx were afoot, the site or sound of their father sent the boys running.
One day the boys were hanging out bored. When Kevin reached up to grab a limb of a tree he had interest in climbing, Buddy punched him square in the gut. He turned to run but Kevin grabbed a foot and a fierce battle ensued. The other boys watched in anticipation as Buddy was about to get what was coming to him. But before Kevin could really do any damage, Buddy squirreled away and the footrace to the barn was on. In a flash, Buddy was up and over the rafters. He stood there laughing right up until he felt a dull thud hit his lower back. He reached around to feel some wetness and when he looked at his hand it was blood red. Kevin, in his frustration, had picked up a sickle and not really thinking about the consequences, slammed the blade between two of the slats of wood. He had stabbed Buddy in the back.
The boys were so scared of their father, they didn't tell anyone. In fact, all the boys helped drag Buddy to the bedroom they shared and they all pretended that the boy was sick with the flu. He laid in bed for a week, somehow not dying of infection or the injury and soon returned to the mountainside games. I'm pretty sure that he never blasted Kevin in the gut again.
But I didn't write all that to tell you that story. All the corn being harvested this week locally reminded me of another story that involves this same family.
Every harvest season the boys would use the leftover corn cobs to play a game of cowboys and Indians. Actually, because they were smart enough not to shoot each other with guns, it was more like a game of Indians and Indians. What they would do is make bows and arrows. And I mean real bows and arrows that they would also use to hunt small game. Often this would take all summer. They'd find a good piece of wood, carve is out into a bow. They'd string it up. And in the end they'd have a bow decent enough to hunt rabbits and squirrels with. But when they weren't hunting. they'd take the left over corn cobs, shove an arrow into the cob and run around shooting each other. As insane as this might sound you have to remember that there wasn't a lot of cable TV on the mountain in the 1950's, so you really had to be creative to keep yourself busy. And despite how dangerous it might sound, the cobs were very effective at keeping everything safe. The game really caught on and over time all the kids on the mountain looked forward to the fall battles.
Understandably, everything in the Gable house became a contest. If one kid climbed a tree, the next kid had to climb a bigger tree. If one kid tossed a crab apple 100 feet, the next kid had to toss it 101. And so it was with the building of the bows. This came to a head in 1958, when Buddy found a huge limb broken off from a Red Mulberry tree. He spent all summer carving out a giant bow. When he was done it took four of the boys to string it. Only two Gable boys, Kevin and Buddy, could draw the finished bow. But even those two struggled and with their best efforts could only draw it a few inches. And there was not way to aim the thing with any accuracy. It was eventually put away for the rest of the summer and forgotten about in favor of other games and activities.
Finally the fall came and Indians and Indians began. After a pretty good drubbing one day by some boys who lived a little closer down toward town, the Gable boys decided that they would need some heavier artillery to help salvage the family name. They decided to break out the mulberry bow. Now since it wasn't going to be possible to use a huge gun like this as a mobile weapon, Buddy hatched a plan. What they would do is have Buddy and Kevin hide at the end of the orchard facing down a row of apple trees. The other Gable boys would, as best they could, drive the other neighborhood kids into the orchard. By working together from the seated position, Buddy and Kevin could put their feet on the bow and both pull the string all the way back. This, he concluded, would result in super high powered welt-inducing corn cob arrows. The impact of the cobs as well at the sight of the giant bow, would be enough to seal their reputation forever.
The next day everything seemed to go according to plan. As the two older boys laid in wait, the younger Gables did a fine job of luring the unsuspecting kids into the trap. Jacob Painter was the first unfortunate sole to walk into the crosshairs. The two oldest Gables drew the bow back as far as it would stretch and they unleashed, with great velocity and power, the biggest arrow on the biggest corn cob that they had. Victory was to be theirs !
Before Painter had any clue as to what was happening, the bunker busting corncob arrow nailed the kid and blew him off his feet. When he stood back up and went to dust himself off, they all realized that they had made one small miscalculation.
Corn cobs make _excellent_ bumpers when shot from a rabbit bow.
Corn cobs make _terrible_ bumpers when shot from a cannon.
Upon impact, the arrow split that corn cob in two, and was now firmly stuck in the side of a 12 year old boy. The same twelve year old boy who was now flailing, screaming and running back toward town to go tell his mother.
After some stunned silence all the boys suddenly came to the same frightening conclusion. No, it wasn't that they had shot a boy with an arrow. If he was running...and flailing....and screaming...then he wasn't dying. Getting shot was going to hurt like hell, but the cob had slowed the arrow down enough that it was only a couple inches into his side. The fear that coursed through the veins of the boys that day ran much deeper than that.
If Jacob Painter got to Mrs. Painter
...then Mrs. Painter was going tell their Dad
...and if their Dad just found out that they shot a boy with an arrow
...then the mulberry bow was going to become a mulberry ass beating stick.
In a rush, the boys headed down that mountain as their lives depended on it. They caught Jacob Painter at the end of the meadow on the towns edge. They smothered him until he quieted down, then the dragged him into the woods and yanked out the arrow. Just to make sure, they gave him a thumpin'...nothing bad, just a little something to get his attention. And they let him know if he said anything to anyone, there'd be a lot more thumpin'to follow.
In the end Painter was fine and Dad never found out.
Just another day on the mountain.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
1:00 and I'm still alive
Coffee is the new manna from heaven
Here's a classic that never gets unfunny.
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/2006/07/cowboyslocker.html
And in case you thought I was kidding about the whoopie cussion
Here's a classic that never gets unfunny.
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/2006/07/cowboyslocker.html
And in case you thought I was kidding about the whoopie cussion
trick or hangover
I drank 15 beers and two shots of cognac while trick or treating last night.
10 years of behaving myself in front of the neighbors and building a good reputation down the tubes. Its tough to maintain that respect when you're a giant pink whoopie-cussion sleeping on your front lawn.
Today is going to be bad...but I guess not as bad as this guys day...
10 years of behaving myself in front of the neighbors and building a good reputation down the tubes. Its tough to maintain that respect when you're a giant pink whoopie-cussion sleeping on your front lawn.
Today is going to be bad...but I guess not as bad as this guys day...
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