First Place Tumbleweed

During Labor Day Weekend, the fair comes to town, with the same shitty meth fueled carnies installed rides and crap games that I know I could call Shenanigans on and probably get a stupid cheaply made stuffed animal that those same carnies would try to talk me into spending a hundred dollars on to play some rigged game. Those carny barkers are the most annoying pieces of human shit I've ever seen, first don't call me “Tubby” if you want to run your confidence game on me. What few teeth you have there carny, might not remain in your face much longer should you decide to insult the wrong person. I just walked by, saying hello to the few people I knew that had returned to town just for this silly shindig. And of course, this being a rural county fair, there's the standard judging on various farm products. Couple of pigs, some goats, a few hundred horses, and one not so lonely llama. This llama had an entourage of at least ten sheep, and it towered over those fluffy animals, and was a part of the petting zoo, with some very talented escaping goats. There's the judging on baked goods, my boss entered alongside my sister in a grudge match from the previous year, my sister beat out the priest with her gluten free pie, and I fully believe that reflected in the amount I got for my end of the year bonus and raise. I tried to sabotage her stuff this year but she baked that damn pie while I was at work and I never got the change to add a little bit too much salt by “accident.” My sabotaging attempts being thwarted did not matter as neither of them made it to the final judging. I still might not get a good enough raise again this year, out of spite for that outcome as well.

One of the stranger things that are judged, is the 4H stuff, at least to me, I was never in 4H, and since they are mostly children they have various entrees like, best chicken eggs, some kind of sewing projects, a model made from Lego, and the biggest weed. Look, this town is pretty much in a desert and we have huge tumbleweeds just growing everywhere around the city limits. These things are common as hell here, and at work I'm constantly pulling these things out of the park behind the church. The fair gave out blue and red ribbons for a goddamn tumbleweed because some kid conned their mom or dad into going out into the desert and pulling one out of the ground and then hauled it to the fairgrounds. I do not see the point of this, the other plants that are judged are grown in a garden, and tended to, with pulling weeds and turning soil and trimmings to get the best product they can grow.

That first place ribbon is trying to get away!

That makes sense at a county fair where the town was built on the premise of growing food for people a hundred and fifty years ago. But a fucking tumbleweed? Who the hell is farming just tumbleweeds? Can I do this, can I get money for not growing them like other farmers get for not growing wheat to keep prices down or up? Because I can totally farm tumbleweeds, it's easy, just spray water on the ground and wait two or three days and tada, there's a tumbleweed. Also who is buying these things other than a movie studio that is shooting a western movie? I want to know if there's a huge call for these things, because I don't see how I would need a lot of start up capitol for this kind of venture.

The food vendors sell crappy food that is way too over priced. I used to get a corn dog, or five, from the Lions Club, along with four or five beers, because who the hell needs a paycheck through a holiday weekend? I didn't get one this year, a corndog, I got a paycheck. I found out I'm  highly allergic to mustard. Have you ever had a hot dog without mustard? Ever see a commercial for hot dogs without mustard spread on that thing? No, and the reason is because they are horrible tasting and the mustard is there to cover up that godawful taste. I miss mustard, it's the best of the condiments. But I pass on it, because I like breathing and not being stabbed in the leg with an EpiPen more than covering the taste of a hot dog with that sweet golden yellow sauce. Damn that sounds dirty when I read that back to myself.

The only reason to even go to the fair is to see people that haven't been here since Mule Days or the previous fair the year before. I'm not into rodeos, or country music, or a destruction derby. The prices for those are unbelievably high for those, plus the cost of food and booze, the tickets for the frighteningly poorly put together carnival rides, more booze, and some stupid souvenir. I do like seeing people I haven't seen in a long time, because it's about the only time I have social interaction anymore, that doesn't involve family or coworkers.

Filters

I know I swear a lot. People have pointed this out to me for decades now. I'm sure most people are offended when I start speaking. I learned many swear words when I was a kid, shit my grandpa cussed around me all the time, but nothing really on the list of The Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television by George Carlin. His favorite was “goddamn” and because he said it all the time, I use it all the goddamn time now too. When we had his memorial, I told a memory of him and the crowd was not ready at all for some unshaven, long haired thirty some year old saying saying the words, “goddamn vacuum cleaner,” at what is basically a funeral I think I've promised to post that story on here too, and I'll get to it eventually. My mom and grandma told me to stop taking the “lord's name in vain” and then my grandpa would get yelled at as well for cursing around the grand kid again, both of us ended up rubbing our heads from where we got smacked. But when I got into high school, I had learned syntax is everything with swearing. I have turned it into a fucking art form. I put them into other words, I know other people know this as well. Thank you Eddie Murphy and Richard Pryor for adding to my fanfuckingtastic vocabulary. The vulgarity that comes out of my mouth at times sometimes shocks even me, and like the Hulk, the madder I get, the worse the swearing.

There are a few times that I never utter swears. I have never used the worst ones in front of my family, saying words that are fowl even to the British just don't come out of my mouth around my uncles and aunts. Hell, I didn't even let them know about this blog, just because I'm trying to spare them from my potty mouth. I also would not swear around the old people at the old folks home. That one shocked my coworkers because I was pretty bad in the break room, the laundry room, storerooms, the kitchen, pretty much anytime there wasn't an old person hanging about. And kids, because... Do I really have to put a reason for this, their kids damn it, they don't need to hear an adult say those filthy things and it pisses me off when they use them. First they don't know how, and sometimes a three year old repeating what dad says is pretty funny because it was either really wrong or just too correct. When my sister was four or five she told my dad he was a “fucking athhole” because she had a lisp and she was pissed at my dad for telling her she couldn't have something. My dad said he just stood there not knowing what to do, because how can you punish a kid for using a phrase correctly, and I think that lisp threw him and he just froze. We all get a laugh about it even now.

There are places I don't swear at as well. I won't swear on holy ground, and I work for the local Catholic church, but I don't cuss at the cemeteries, or other church grounds either. I will when I'm outside by myself, because I'm alone, and usually have a loud machine running that drowns me out. There are some exceptions to my self imposed rule, ever hit your finger with a hammer and not yell out a swear word? If not, you sir, or ma'am, are a fucking liar. I'm not Catholic, hell I'm pretty close to being an atheist, and the priest knows, and doesn't care. If the priest respects me enough to not preach his faith to me and try to force me to convert, I should have the respect to not befoul his place of worship with my swearing. I also never swear at Disneyland, I have and I felt dirty afterward. It's just wrong to go cussing up a storm in that place. I've heard many adults there swear just because, and I look at them like some sinner defiling my holy sanctuary. Disneyland is my happy place. I frown at people that swear at Disneyland, and just pity them.

I see nothing wrong with my swearing, I have my filters, and I stick by them. After all, they're just fucking words. 

Hmm, Okay.

I'm the maintenance guy for the Catholic Church here. Fixing shit around the place isn't too hard, and if its something I can't do, like electrical work, or something I refuse to do, like plumbing, I get to call someone to take care of that crap. I have had various jobs that have led me into this way of life, I was a construction worker out of high school. That's most of my building shit experience. Mowing lawns was easy to begin with, and with four acres to take care of we have a huge riding mower that is a blast to drive around at a good 20 mph. It is built chariot style, no seat, and I fell off the back of the damn thing a few times, high speed, zero point turns can knock anyone's ass off this mower, and the damn thing would just slam itself to a dead stop in two or three feet. It's a beast of a machine. And I also do yard, perimeter checks to look for the various shit people tend to do to churches through their hatred of the place. So far in the seven years I've worked there, I've had to deal with busted rock work on the bell tower, scratched “666” into the paint in various places around the property. Once someone decided to use sidewalk chalk to do an entire scene on the sidewalk of several demons ransacking the church with everyone burning. It was pretty nice artwork too, and I only slightly felt bad pressure washing the crap off before the funeral started.

That's the view I have to deal with every day.

Quite the bitch but someone's got to.

I was hired at the church to help put in a security fence around the back part of the property, a new lawn had just been installed with a nice path and one hell of a view of the mountains here. There is a nice statue of the Virgin Mary sitting out there with a mound, and roses, and some awesome flowers around it. The reason for the fence was because someone decided to decapitate the previous one. It was a plaster cast for the statue and wasn't too hard to remove the head but the person thought, “I'm taking this.” Just like the episode of the Simpsons, where Bart cuts off the head of Jebidiah Springfield. So nine hundred feet of fence attached to poles with some barb wire has pretty much kept all the hooligans away, also the new Mary statue has a nice cage for her own protection.

The past couple years, I haven't had to deal with any vandalism, some odd scratching into the paint in a bathroom is pretty much it. Lately though we've had a lot of homeless people. I knew we had a slight homelessness problem in Bishop for a long time but it seems to be getting worse. The thing I learned is that not all homeless people are homeless because of shit just happening to them, or drug use. Sure those are for most cases, but there are two people that have chosen homelessness as a lifestyle choice. One guy drives with a van, stocked to the hilt with fucking trash, and bike parts attached to the roof. The guy is a know it all type of person and felt the need to preach to people coming to the church to pray, or you know, listen to the fucking priest preach. The guy has always been an ass, and he's been asked so many goddamn times that he's not welcome on the grounds. He didn't think a restraining order was a good enough hint, that he should find a new hangout. Until I caught him bathing in the restroom. By the time I get to work, church services for the morning have long ended but the problem wasn't that he was using the bathroom, we leave it open to the public. The problem was that he propped the door open and had stripped to his not so tighty-whities. When he got hauled off by the cops, I felt that it was a good day. And he has only come back once, and when a six foot two inch tall, two hundred-mmmmm pound guy tells you to fuck off, you tend to comply. Of course holding a pitch fork was just for the show. He hasn't been back. I used to be a bouncer at the local dive bar, which describes them all in town, and if you think it's a nice kind of job, good for you, that is the most boring job I ever had. After the first night I would have quit, but I really needed the money. And because of that, I'm now the bouncer for the church grounds. Church bouncer, check that off the bucket list.

These deer skulls sure do fancy up the place.

But yesterday has been the weirdest I've seen so far. Two well sun bleached deer skulls, and a rusty ore car wheel. Just sitting there, I go into the office ask about what I found. I was guessing someone was either getting ready to perform some mystic demon ritual, or someone camping on the grounds again and thought they needed something to make the place feel like home. No one in the office knew anything about it, and told me to just toss the stuff into the dumpster. That took no more than five minutes, two minutes solid just for laughter, and I go back outside to the park and the fucking stuff is gone. Like it had never been there. I looked at my phone to make sure I wasn't just having a dream, and no the pictures were there. And now one of them is here. And if that fucking picture is just blank to everyone else, I'm having one hell of a hallucination.

My Kidney's Are Great

I don't know what the correct amount of drinks should be consumed at a restaurant. But I can drink a lot, when I went to Comic-Con in San Diego, back in 2010, I would sit through panel after panel sipping on a large water bottle I took in with me. I sat in one of those ball rooms for a solid eight hour day, only getting up to hop to a better seat between panels. Not once did I hit the bathroom, by the final panel, Futurama FTFW (For the Fucking Win, trying to be hip, probably failed with that), and I had a good seat from three rows back. Fuck the big screens, I got to see those voice over actors pretty much up close and personal, and didn't really need to use the zoom on my camera for those pictures either. And after that panel I met up with my sister and mom at the Hard Rock Cafe, which they turned into Cafe Diem from the SciFi show Eureka, for dinner. When the waitress came by with a glass of water for me, they were charging $30 for a fucking salad and I was not going to pay for something to drink with ten pennies worth of sugar flavoring in it. Fucking rip off, even if that salad was damn good.

That waitress was damn good, she never let my glass empty. She told me after we got our food that I had drank two pitchers of water by myself. She was just impressed that I hadn't pissed myself at the table, or flooded their bathroom. She even asked if I had a catheter running to a bag tied to my leg. It would not surprise me at all if some of those geeks were going to those lengths so they didn't miss anything for that weekend. I told her I was just a desert creature and would drink like a camel at the oasis. I ate there the next day too, and the same girl was working the table I was seated to and she just left the pitcher there at the table and came back to refill that, easier on her feet with the less trips.

I have always had this condition, in high school, for lunch I would drink a three liter bottle of soda. Sure an hour or so later I had to piss like a fucking racehorse but that still won a number of bets that I could in fact drink that much fluid and not die. And now when I go to my favorite restaurant in town, I try to limit myself to only four glasses worth of iced tea. And one of the waitresses got the idea to bar back my drink. Here's a picture from lunch.

Those are two 32 oz cups. Two of them, they were both refilled twice. And I have that much every day. Sure this could be a sign of a problem but at least don't have kidney stones.

Thank You

Thank you to everyone that has been reading my stupid little stories. I like looking at stats, I'm a nerd, this is built into my DNA, and this blog site has enough to keep me entertained. They track a few things, like what OS is being used by the reader and what browser they use. I don't judge for what is being used, but seriously, Internet Explorer? Come on, there are better ones out there. It also lists where the reader is from, and nearly all are from the USA, this is where I'm from and the friends I have that I know were reading are here in town, so that one is easily explained. I probably said hi to you at least once this week, somewhere around here. But I was kind of astonished to see one listing for France and several more from Portugal. I want to know a couple things about these people; do you find me interesting? Just clicked through, and then shared with a neighbor because I'm trying to be funny, and you are making your own joke at my expense? Are you running my posts through Google Translate, and you get something funny as hell like “All your base, are belong to us!” going on. Because that got old really fast. Should I be translating my shit from English to french to Portuguese and for good measure throw in some Greek and Italian then, back to English to see what's been lost? Because I did that with swearing when the internet was new, and I became quite fluent in just swearing at people in multiple languages.

Anyway, thanks for reading. I found out I enjoy writing this crap out, and I plan to continue to do so for the foreseeable future. 

And just for the hell of it, here is a swear word I like to use, translated, multiple times. Gǒupì, merda, jaraāva, mut, sranje. 

Me vs the Shave Club

The most noticeable feature about me is my red beard. I haven't shaved in years, and this was the best thing I have ever done for personal grooming choices. Shaving is a total pain in the ass, I hated it but I did look cool with a fu manchu from high school until I was thirty. I had some nasty acne in high school and left some pretty decent scars on my face so having the beard is nice because it covers them up. I show off my other scars because they have a cool story to go with them, most I was doing something stupid dangerous and came to near death. I've nearly cut off my thumb with a pressure washer, because I was stupid. I have a scar that zigzags down my spine because I slipped in a shower I was demolishing after turning on the water (which the plumber told me was “totally off, Dude.” Fucking pothead) and a nice sharp piece of metal sliced through my shirt and cut the ever living fuck out of the skin of my back, like one hell of a tribute to Harry Potter, because I was klutzy and is only partially my fault. I have white dotted scar where a long bit of metal stabbed me between my thumb and finger and stayed just under the skin halfway down my forearm, that is not at all my fault but just fucking cool that it happened. Sure, it was nasty to pull that out of my hand like a wood sliver, and I should have gone to the hospital for them to do it, but no infection or lock-jaw happened so I'm good. I developed a slight tick and swear a lot more than I did then. I don't think there was a connection.

Contrary to popular belief, the beard keeps my neck cool Spray it with water, and BAM! I have my own personal swamp cooler while working. The beard keeps me warm without a scarf in the winter. Don't need to cover my pale skin with sun block. Long beards are great! So to all those commercials about shave clubs, I say “Fuck Off.” These commercials make no sense to me, when I did shave, I never worried that I was breaking the bank because I bought a razor. Wow, a dollar per razor is the new deal? A pack of ten Bic Razors is still like $4. Even shaving daily, I didn't just burn through one razor, I cleaned it and used it again the next day. And if that's still too expensive, go get a straight razor. They still make them, you just have to have good control so you don't slit your own throat, and maybe learn to sharpen the fucking thing. And they give the best shave. Do these clubs charge dues? Or just a flat rate for the fancy little box of razor blades that are delivered to your door? Does some guy come back to pick up the used ones, like the old milk delivery guy? I'm not sure I really want to know.

People seem to need to inform me that, I do, in fact, have a kick-ass beard. Like growing the thing is a monstrous feat that I trained daily for. Yes, person on the street, growing out my facial hair is tiring. You go to the gym, leg day ain't got shit on my beard growing abilities. That surgeon that is preparing to crack open a skull to do an intricate removal of a brain tumor, can't even compare to me saying, “Nah, not shaving today either.” And to those two Japanese girls at Disneyland, that I thought were asking me to use their camera to take their picture in front of the castle, but instead wanted a picture of me. All because of a big bushy red beard. I say thank you. This is the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me, anywhere. And we all know that a guy with a beard is so much more interesting to travel thousands of miles and hours in a jet plane than some person in a fucking Mickey Mouse costume. 

NASA My Ass

When I was in high school, just abut twenty years ago, computers weren't new, but the internet was. The Information Super Highway, the World Wide Web, AOL on a floppy disk, all over the phone with that wonderful dial-up noise. I miss that noise. I was fascinated with computers back when the school had that one, brand spanking new, state of the art, Apple 1, that only played Oregon Trail. I don't think I ever made it through that game, I was always the first in the party to die. And it was always dysentery that killed me off. Hunted by wolves would have been an awesome way to die, not shitting yourself to death. Damn it that was a good game, and I didn't learn shit from it. I believe they only had that game in school because the teachers didn't know what the fuck to do with a computer, and a game about “history” has got to be educational. Or those teachers knew it was an hour out of their day to go take a shot or two of booze from that locked drawer of their desk, so they could handle being around us at least until lunch time.

When I got to high school, computers had been around for a while. The teachers knew what games were, and that they were a waste of our time. High school teaches you shit about life you will never use as an adult, I'm not talking about algebra, I use that shit at work all the fucking time. I'm talking about Shakespeare. The only time I've needed to know anything about those shitty plays was because I watch watching Jeopardy and I compete along with the people on the TV. No one has ever asked me to recite Othello because that'll fix your toilet so it can flush again. Romeo and Juliet does not help fix a hole in the roof. I'm not an actor, I've never considered myself to be an actor, and try as hard as I can, to not be an actor. Fuck Shakespeare.

The other thing they tried as hard as hell to teach, was how to use a computer, for practical business applications, that these adults knew was going to be needed because the soon to be robot overlords would need someone to fix them. The school decided to get one of the oldest men they had employed, and he claimed he had once worked for NASA, to teach us. I think it was some bullshit he was spreading to make himself seem smarter than he looked, but I doubt he helped land men on the moon, more likely emptied the trashcans in the bathrooms they used before going into space. I was a junior in high school when I took the computer class. I thought I'd learn something, like coding, or hardware repair. Fuck, I could have gone with typing and just gotten a goddamn A for already knowing how to type and slide through one class for the year. But I did want a challenge, was this going to be one? No, this was how to use Windows 3.11, in 1997, and I already had Windows 98 on the computer I had at home. Shit, they couldn't even get goddamn Windows 95 on those computers if they wanted to. These things were pieces of shit. There was no internet access, even though, by then everyone in the country knew what the hell dial-up was, and I'm sure these things couldn't have gotten on the internet if they were connected. The teacher, I don't remember his name at all because he made such a huge impact on my life, did his attendance with a time clock. A punch card time clock, because it was “Something you will all use one day.” I believe he was milking the job for a better pension. We all had computers in a lab set up, rows of tables with the same tower, monitor, and keyboard set up, all bolted together by a chain, with all those cables hanging off the back. It was a safety first type of mentality in that school. The cases even had the built in locks, I don't know why as there was nothing worth stealing out of them. I remember him setting up a login of some kind in DOS, I don't remember what the fuck it was for. It's just a memory that's clearly taking up space where I could have another Shakespeare play residing. I can remember the thirty-five characters, with upper and lowercase, numbers, those silly special characters that are used for emojis, that was randomized by a program I use to make fantastically strong, and secure passwords to slowdown the most dedicated hackers, from reading my email, from Amazon telling me about today's deals. Because I believe in securing my computer. This guy used LOGIN, for the login. And no one could ever guess PASSWORD, as a password. And this was to get into his administrative settings. Fuck, that's like locking the screen door to keep out a guy with a machete that really wants to murder you. Real secure there, Moonshot.

We had three assignments for the whole semester. I finished them in three days, and I was procrastinating. The first three fucking days of the class. Oh joy, I signed up for a great class there, what with all that learning I did for my life as a functioning adult. I think most of us in that class were done within a couple of weeks, I know there had to be some one that was a perfectionist. I did make a mistake though, I sat too near the teacher's desk, and he watched like a hawk for anyone that dared play that game inverted by the devil himself that would lead you down a life of crime, filled with drugs and whores and showing all kinds of ankle. Solitaire. A card based game that comes with the operating system, that you cannot lose at, what kind of a fucking lesson are we teaching here. Won't someone please think of the children! Third week into the class and I was done fucking around with anything I could with that stupid computer, and he busts me firing up solitaire. Minutes before it was time to go to some other class that was a waste of my time. He scolded me for wasting time when I could be using it on all those hard assignments. I told him I was done with them, he claimed “Liar!” and I called him old and full of shit. And the next day, he formatted the fucking hard drive that stored all my work. I believe it was out of spite to this day. And when I told him that he erased all my work, he had the nerve to tell me about backups. He wouldn't allow a backup with our own fucking 3.5 inch floppy disk, so he canned all my work without allowing for a back up. Asshole.

During this time, I had really long hair, longer than my shoulders, long. It was also a fucking Mohawk. I was proud as hell of it. I'm sure this was a basis of the tension between me and the NASA teacher, what with his 1950s style squared off flattop hair style. It also didn't help that I was an asshole. But I was also going through the semi-goth stage of life. Baggy pants, skater shoes (no skateboard), and walked around with slumped shoulders and didn't talk to people. I floated through school like that, I hated the place, and didn't fucking care. I also wore a big, baggy red coat all the time. It was a very nice coat, and whenever I took it off I got loaded with static. I could have easily powered a small city when I touched metal and zapped it and myself. And the rubber soles to those skater shoes made sure that all that power went into the metal I touched. So when my shit got canned by this guy, I took off my jacket, set it on the chair and promptly put my hand onto the case of his computer. His screen flickered and then went to that tiny bright white dot right in the middle as the computer crashed to a halt. Now if he had been as smart as he claimed to be, you'd think he would have put a good surge protector to use on that expensive personal computer of his. He was pissed, all his stuff hadn't been saved, or backed up. Such a shame. I got a C in that class, and I never turned in a fucking single assignment. NASA my ass.

Grab the Bull by the Life

I was going to write up something about tourists and how they piss me off because of the local county fair and the people going to and from Burning Man, all of them seemingly willing to forget how to completely drive a car. In fact I wrote most of it up yesterday but I was just getting mad all over again. So I decided to tell a story my grandpa told me. My grandpa died from complications of the flu earlier this year. He lost the ability to talk about ten years ago due to getting hit in the head by a machinist's lift back when I was a little tyke running around being stupid like all children. I was six years old when this happened, according to my mother, I don't remember it. Thirty years is asking a bit much to recall something like that. The hit to his head caused tears in his brain and he was then diagnosed with a dementia called Speech Aphasia. It's a shitting thing to end up with, I know, I took care of the man for the better part of my adult life. The one thing my grandpa did was he always told stories. About his life growing up in the same town as me, and how all kids do stupid shit growing up and could get away with for a time. I gave a eulogy for him at his memorial service which included our little war about who got to use the television after he got home from work and my parents picked me up from their house when they were done with work. Grandparents, the cheapest babysitters you can get. I titled the story Goddamn Vacuum, because that's what it was really about, and I doubt any of the five hundred people that attended were ready for a man with a long bushy red beard to get up there in front of them to say the words “Goddamn” at what is essentially a funeral. But I did, and I was scared near shitless. I hate public speaking, but for my grandpa's sake, it had to be done. I'll just state that I had people crying for something other than sadness that day.

This story isn't exactly how my grandpa told it, because every good story needs to be embellished by the person currently telling it. It must become their own. I have hundreds of these tales crammed into my brain, all I have added to even though I wasn't there for them. I called my grandpa, Pa, because a two year old picks what they decide to call a parent or grandparent and it sticks for life. At thirty-five I still called him that, and will until I die. This tale does involve the harming of an animal. It didn't die, just lived out a long life as a stud with a profound hatred for two boys that would one day be known as my grandpa and his brother Clint. When my grandpa was seven years old, he was a smart ass whelp known locally as Mutt, short for mutton head, meaning dumb. That name was from when teachers could not only call a kid stupid to their face, but smack them around. The family ran a local ranch that supplied beef to the mining towns around, like Body (now a ghost town) and down to LA. My grandpa's brother is a few years older and they owned a bull. A prize winning bull. A bull that was there for one reason. And I shit you not, when my grandpa told me this story he used the words “To train men for deep sea fishing and the Coast Guard.” I laughed at that once, and he proceeded to add it to the story every fucking time he told me it. You'd think it would get old after the twentieth time he told it. It did, I just chuckled because he thought it was funny as hell, and I just humored the old man. And I use it, because I am witty and think I'm funny as shit too. And everyone better be laughing at it when I say that or so help me, I will bust out a god-awful knock-knock joke.

This prize bull was bought for a couple hundred dollars, and this being 1940, a car was twice that amount. I hope it was a shitty old car, because damn, that's a lot of fucking money. My grandpa, got the brilliant idea of daring his older brother to got ride the bull. My mom tells me this this was docile as shit, except for around my grandpa, that bull lived a long time and had one hell of a grudge. There were some claims of double dares, then the no take-backs, a couple cross your hearts bullshit that kid do, and the passing of chores and cold, hard, cash money. My uncle Clint talked my grandpa into going first. And thus proving my grandpa was the Mutton head that his teacher said he was. My grandpa agreed to go ride that docile bull, he soothed that beast with kind words, the promise of all the cow tail he could ever hope to get, cash, who couldn't use some extra coins during the Depression. And he made it to the back of the animal, with no problems at all but he forgot his brother was as much of a smart ass as he was, just older with more experience and style. My grandpa said, “We were out in that pasture because we were shooting targets with a slingshot. I had forgotten that.” He laughed when he told me that, but I could see the terror of that lingering in his eyes. See when he got on that bull, he turned to showoff to his brother, proudly, with a smug look on his face, because he had just showed up his older brother and was about to call him a coward when he looked back to see his older brother standing there. With that slingshot. Pulled back with a small stone resting in it, waiting to be fired. Aimed at the backside of that poor docile bull, and when it was let loose, the aim was pure, perfect and true. I can picture it as if it were a movie, there would be doves flying in super slow-mo, an award winning score by John Williams playing loudly. JJ Abrams' would have the perfect lens flare. Michael Bay, pyrotechnics would astound the audience. And when that stone struck its target, Uncle Clint was laughing his ass off. This perfect shot, guided by the hand of God, whom I believe must have the most kick ass sense of humor, hit upon that poor docile bull's testicles.

When ever I was hit in the nuts by a flying object, I fell down into a fetal position, crying silently for my mother, wishing the pain would go away, and for god sake, please don't let one be ruptured. Even reading this makes me cringe as most men would. That bull did not do that. No, the whole outlook on life changed in that moment for it. Yoda said, “Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.” That bull skipped all that shit and went right for the suffering, bucking with a seven year old clinging to his back, nostrils flaring, foaming at the mouth. It only wanted nothing more than the death of the child clinging to its back. When it finally bucked my grandpa off and he got his ass back to the fence his brother was behind, whom I can only assume was out of breath from laughing so hard. When their dad got home, from where ever because that was never part of the story, he noticed his prize bull was not happy. Fuming would be a good word. And after a while that bull calmed down, had a shitload of kids that made all kinds of money for that ranch. It was happy. Except when my grandpa or his brother were around, which brought back all that hate and anger of that one nut shot. So don't go hitting any animal in the nuts. It's remembered for all time, and the basis of a worthwhile grudge. Also my great grandfather never found out why that bull hated his sons.

Thanks America!

To write up these posts, I go to the local library. Not for the books, or the use of their free WiFi, I could just go sit at the city park for that, or any number of other shops in town, because who doesn't have free open WiFi now a days? I'm here because they have air conditioning. At home I have a swamp cooler, that is not climate control. My taxes already pay for this so I'm going to enjoy the fruits of my, and your, labors. So thank you reader for paying your taxes so I can enjoy some nice cool air with the local homeless people that I can only assume are looking at porn.

There are a few things I've noticed since I started enjoy free AC. One they have a lot less books than I remember this place having. And I can't find a single fucking book in here. They took out the big box with the index cards and ditched the Dewy Decimal System. Do they not know I spent a good portion of my childhood learning that crap? How the hell do I find a book now? I'm not asking the librarian to point it out to me, that's what that goddamn card catalog was for. Shit, even Barnes and Noble has a kiosk so I can look up a book in their vast array of shelves, with out breaking down to ask for human assistance, that's for the weak. And I know there will be that one person that judges you for that weakness, and they're going to spread shit about you around that built in Starbucks too. “Hey everyone, that moron is asking for help! Weak. Haxors Leet for life motha fucka!” guy probably flashes the Vulcan hand thing like a gang sign, when saying that shit.

Two, they still lend out VHS tapes. These things can't still work good, I know that poor people don't have the money to upgrade to DVD but still, holy shit, VHS tapes. VHS tapes of some British documentary from 1983? Puff the Magic Dragon! Holy crap that show was awesome when I was four! And it's on Amazon Prime, sweet fucking yeah! Oh my god! They have Laser Disks! Who the hell even still has that player? I thought they went the way of the AOL disks, and Beta Max, and 8 Tracks. I'm going to have to look for the 1984 Dune movie on one of these bad boys. I was just told to stop drooling on everything and swearing loudly. And the fist bump in the air, even I regret that. At least somethings haven't changed here.

Three, I haven't had a library card in decades now, I'm not even sure if I owe anything for an unreturned book. I silently fear that I do, and I'm sure it'd be for some Where's Waldo book I checked out from when I was in school, and lost is enough to concern me. I imagine the librarian, I still picture them in my head like the old lady ghost from Ghostbusters, shushing even the slightest noise, telling me, “You owe us $3000 in back charges, and you made several kids cry over them not being able to 'read' that book. How dare you sir! You are what's wrong in America! What's your excuse! Huh!” And I also picture finger quotes, harshly waved in my face. My response would only be, “He's a tricky bastard. Couldn't find him.” But I know I'd be sheepish in my answer, looking down, twisting one foot on the toe of my shoe with my hands behind my back, just like in third grade when I was the quiet kid that got in trouble. And being judged by the librarian, that happens to be... younger than me, and by at least a decade. Son of a bitch, librarians are supposed to be old ladies that tell you to be quiet in the harshest, soul destroying, whisper on earth. Nope, not getting that card. For the principle of the whole thing. I really don't like these changes. So, I'll just sit here, and enjoy the AC. Thanks America!

Eat Your Pie

I was sitting in the local waffle shop here in town last night for dinner, I got a strong desire for pancakes at 7pm and really didn't want to make the effort of making fluffy golden disks of cake mix, and the syrup I have in the pantry... sucks. The restaurant doesn't have the godly stuff the Canadians produce, once you've had it, everything else is just above sweat from week old gym socks soaked in piss, if you can get the stuff smuggled out of the Great Nation to the North, do so, the jail time is worth it. I eat at this waffle shop all the time, going on thirty years of my life and since it's practically down the street from work, the place has become the staple of my diet for lunch for a couple years now. Hell, I know the menu better than some of the staff. The owners know me by name, and probably credit card number too. Everyone knows me there, by name and reputation. There's one waitress there that doesn't smile, and when she does it's one of those forced ones, and I have made it my life's mission to get this late twenty something woman to laugh. Not chuckle, but full out laugh until she cries. In six months I've gotten one real smile, that's it. This is also a small town, and my family has had five generations eat at that place since it opened sixty years ago, so I can't cause too much shit or they will tell my mom, and even at thirty-five, that's still a pain in the ass to deal with, worse they could call my grandma. This has happened a couple times around town in other stores, I can't get away with shit. I was dating this girl from work a long time ago, and didn't want people to really know about it, mostly because dating a coworker is frowned upon in most places, and by the time I took the girl home after our first date, I had four voicemails when I turned my phone back on; the first one was my mom wanting to know who she was, where I met her, how long this was going on; the second was my sister asking the same thing, and she freaking lived in a different state at the time; the third was my grandma wishing me an early happy birthday; and the fourth was my mom again asking that same thing, because I didn't call her back after thirty minutes of her last call. To this day, I can't fathom how my life became a big enough deal that ten different people, whom I did not know personally, spread this info around to my mom, an hour and a half before I took that girl home. Small towns are a pain in the ass if you want to keep anything on the down low.

I was sitting in the booth finishing my eggs that came with my pancakes, an older, early seventies old, couple sits in the booth next to me. I people watch around my book, or computer, when I eat by myself, it eases being bored and rushing through the meal, I wasn't at a fast food place. These people looked through the menu for a solid ten minutes, asked other people what was good, and then ordered coffee and a slice of chocolate cream pie. The old guy ordered for him and his wifeI one cup of coffee total and one piece of pie, and promptly started talking about how there are too many Hispanic waiters in the world now. Shit, the waiter just turned around to go get that pie and coffee. What the hell old guy? You stem your racism until you can't see their eyes? This isn't some kid you can fool with a came of peak-a-boo. Sure he has a kind of thick Mexican accent, which can be hard to understand once in a while but he was still speaking fluent english, that anyone should be able to get though. Just old white guy racism, right next to me. The waiter brings the pie, the old guy takes it with a smile and a show of “I'm not a racist, look how I tolerate a brown person bringing me food!” I was really hoping there was spit on that pie, but I knew there wouldn't be, that waiter is just cool all the time, probably had to pat up with that a rap all the time. One bite and the old bastard says it's too old. It's a goddamn chocolate cream pie! It's not going to be old for a damn month, and I'd still eat the dame thing if there wasn't any mold, or roaches, crawling all over it. Maybe. The waiter takes it back, and the old bastard asks about their fruit pies instead. I've had these and they are goddamn fantastic. Hell I ordered a blueberry muffin, cold because they're better that way, but the place is known for their pie more so than their goddamn waffles. The waiter asks if he would like it á la mode. I have always understood that term meaning, heat the pie, slam a scoop of ice cream on there for good measure. The guy said yes. I clearly heard him say yes. I was paying attention now because, this old fucker just sent back a perfectly good pie of fucking chocolate cream pie after one bite, they had to throw that away. This pisses me off. Mind you, I'm sitting there with my book, Children of Dune, sitting in my hand while I'm eating my cakes. And I hadn't turned the page since he tossed that pie. The next slice comes out. The guy didn't want the ice cream. Now I'm starting to lose my shit over this guy's dessert. At least he didn't take a bite this time, and it goes back into the back so that the waiter can eat it hopefully. Then the next slice comes out, I can see the steam coming off the damn thing, the old fucker says his cheerful pain in the ass clearly racist thank you and eats two bites of it. He has the nerve to complain about it being heated up. “Berry pie is always better cold. Everyone knows this.” Goddamn it. I decided to give my personal opinion about this subject, to everyone in the place. I said, quite loudly, toward one of the other waiters, but not clearly looking at anyone specific, and knowing that my waiter (Same as Old Fuck's) could hear. “You know these pancakes are fantastic, the eggs were great, my water has the perfect amount of ice, and I know this muffin is going to be great. If I had ordered pie, I'd be happy. IT'S MOTHERFUCKING PIE!” I am paraphrasing that, because all I can remember is that last bit that is in bold all caps. I never turned toward those people, but I know everyone heard me because I remember hearing an under the breath voice say my name in shock. That was probably going to get back to my mom. The waiter and the busser both stood there not knowing really how to react, or were waiting for Old Fucker to challenge me to a duel to defend his honor or something, so I asked for a refill of my water, in my normal calm voice. And went back to the adventures of Leto II and his dealings with the Sandworms and  Fremen on Arrakis.

The old couple must have finished their pie because I didn't pay them anymore attention and finally noticed they were gone when my bill was brought to me. Now, there's a local's discount at this place when you sign the ticket. I never really pay attention to the cost anymore, I know how much everything is pretty much priced. But when I got the thing back to sign for the credit card usage, I noticed the price. $3 and change. My pancakes along are normally around six dollars and then there should have been another three dollars for that kick ass muffin (if you make muffins at home, this is probably about the same size as four of them combined, well worth that three bucks). I went through the little pile of papers to find the ticket I signed, and there was the correct price that I knew I should have had, with an added little hand scribbled note of “Thank you” which was not on there when I signed it. I left that difference between the two as a tip. This is why it's my favorite restaurant.