A Short Anectdote...

I was sitting there in a nice little restaurant the other day, having lunch with a friend, and there was a table of six teenage girls sitting across the room from us.

They were laughing and giggling and I started to wonder if they were looking at ME.

That's when I realized that I was wearing my Bunghole Liquors T Shirt.

Bunghole Liquors, Salem, Mass.

Walmart Women

So, the other day I went to Walmart.

I'm not proud of it.

Walmart shoppers are an entirely different subspecies of human beings. I don't want to be one of them.

You'll see lot's of sloping foreheads and chinless jaws, and they have fewer teeth than most homo sapiens.

They walk slower and do not possess the intelligence to get out of the way. They just stand there dazed and drooling, blocking the aisle, squatting behind their shopping carts. Perhaps they're thinking about bones and antlers.

I go there to buy socks and underwear. 
Socks and underwear are cheap at Walmart because most Wal-Mart shoppers still wear loin-cloths.

On this particular day I broke through a geriatric roadblock, entered through the doors which are on the wrong side and waved off the slack-jawed decrepit "Greeter."

They always prop up a dead guy at the front of the store. 
Why? I don't know.

Who wants to be greeted by a dead guy? Not me.

Who's idea was this? Getting some 100 year old man to stagger toward you with a shopping cart...is this good for business?

I made it to the center aisle.
Towels were on sale for $3 each!

Squatting directly in front of this display were two Wal-Women.

One of them was tall and skinny with bleach-blond weeds coming out of her head. She wore a skirt so short you could see what she had for breakfast.

She was yelling into her cell-phone while eating Nacho Cheese Doritos from an opened bag.

Her stubby scantily clad friend stood next her, squinting and text messaging while blocking the other side of the aisle like Teddy Bruschi.

She was a chubby girl who didn't mind exposing her large beach-ball breasts.

Now don't get me wrong. I usually love big boobs, but these were not the kind of boobs you wanna see.
They looked like they might pop. You might get splattered with something.

Some boobs...you just wanna say, "Put those things away, you're makin' me sick!"

I was trying to get to the $3 towels to check out the quality, but these two stunning beauties were blocking the way texting and squawking and chomping Nacho Cheese Doritos out of a giant unpaid-for bag.

Blondie finishes her phone call with a flourish of loud swears, and puts her phone away.

Suddenly she looks at her hands and says, "Jesus Christ! Look at my hands! They're all ORANGE from these freakin' Doritos!"

She walks over to the $3 white towels and wipes her hands on them!

I couldn't believe it.

Then, with a gap-toothed grimace she turns to me and says, "Don't tell anybody."

I promised her that I wouldn't, and ran away. 

I think I peed a little, and I had bad dreams that night.

The Dead Parakeet

I remember we had a parakeet when I was a kid.
His name was Pete.
Pete The Parakeet.

He talked a little, and flew around the house all the time.
He'd land on your shoulder, sometimes without any warning, and scare the hell out of ya.
He'd fly into mirrors and windows and knock himself silly quite often.

One day we found him dead on the kitchen table next to a bowl of sugar.
There was sugar all over the place.
Looked like he sugared himself to death.

So we dug a grave and buried poor Pete out back.

...Many years later, at Thanksgiving, one of my brothers told us the truth;

He said he came home on his lunch break, and went into the bathroom with the Herald, to take a dump...

"The friggin' bird flew in, and tried to land on me, and I sez Get the hell outta here! ...and I swatted the bastard with Herald and killed him.

Then I threw him onto the kitchen table and sprinkled the sugar all over him to make it look like an accident,
...and then I went back to work.

I hated that friggin' bird!"

True story.

The Famous Camper Story

In honor of Father's Day I'm re-posting this old story:
When I was sixteen, my father bought a camper...
Not just any camper, - a super deluxe motor-home.
An immense road ship and loaded with features.
It had a full kitchen, a nice stereo system. It slept six, and it had a bathroom.
You could even take a shower if you wanted to.
My father beamed with pride as he showed it off to the neighbors, coloring his sentences with flourishing adjectives that would make a salesman blush, as he gave extended tours to friends.

The camper was the pride of the neighborhood that first week we had it.
Dad's plan was to retire soon, and take his wife and his two youngest kids on a three month tour of the USA. ...but first, he decided that we would spend a long weekend up at Sebego Lake to test it out.
The four of us spent three days in it, cooking and washing dishes, eating and using the bathroom, getting dirty and using the shower.

It had a 35 gallon holding tank.

We awoke on the third morning and gradually, we detected a very unpleasant odor.
"Jesus! See a doctor, will ya?" My father huffed, blaming my mother,my brother, or possibly me for the gastric outrage. "

Which one of you just died? God! Open a window!"
We protested and explained that it wasn't us. We certainly did smell it though!

He went to the bathroom door and opened it. Suddenly the entire camper smelled like Big foot's ass!
An overpowering sickening sour cloud of stench bombarded the air, the smell of ten nursing homes.
"The waste tank is full. It has to be emptied." my father announced, holding his nose.
The smell was so overpowering that we were forced to evacuate as we gasped for air.

Outside the camper ,the four of us discussed what to do. We were new at this camper business, and we had no idea how to empty the friggin' waste tank.

There was a hose that went from the camper into the ground. We needed to find out how to open the tank to release the sewage. We had no clue how to do it.

"Look around for a lever or something!" my father barked to my older brother.
"Find me the manual to this thing," We each took a deep breath and went back into the rolling porta-potty to find the manual.
Mom checked the glove compartment in the stinky cab and I went deep into methane hell to open the windows and look for the manual there. My dad scratched his bald head, looking high and low for the lever or button that would release the sewage.

There were other motor homes near us arranged in neat little rows . A very nice gentleman appeared from the camper next to ours, saw us all wandering around looking for something and offered to help.

The two men shook hands and introduced themselves. I think his name was Ted.

His motor home was even bigger than ours, so he had to know what he was doing.
They walked around the camper looking for buttons and levers, discussing the problem. It smelled like sh*t all around the area. Ted suggested that maybe because it was new, there might be some sort of factory seal keeping the tank from emptying.
He unclamped the hose from the bottom of the camper.
He examined the outlet pipe carefully.
He layed on his back with a screwdriver in his hand and looked up into the pipe.

...Meanwhile, on the other side of the camper, my father announced, "Wait a minute! I think I found it!"

There was a low rumble, a loud gurgle, followed by an erupting splash.

An explosion of filth gushed from the pipe like a firehose directly into poor Ted's face.
He rolled to escape as a flood of toxic waste. Three days of voided leavings, toilet paper, Lincoln logs, and ripe whiz juice, thirty five gallons of indescribably disgusting nastiness washed over his body.
He was almost swept away by it.
He scrambled to his feet, soaked in pee and made a sound halfway between a moan and a retch and then ran to the lake and dove in.
He splashed around washing himself for a while, then put his hands on his knees and hurled.

My brother and I couldn't believe how this could happen. We simply turned to rubber with laughter.
My father, seeing what he had done to poor Ted, was in shock, horrified at the disaster he had caused.

He alternated between apologizing to Ted in a crying voice, "I'm so sorry! Oh my God! I'm sorry!" to barking at my brother and I, "Shut up! God-Dammit! This isn't funny!"
...But it was!

I went into the camper to hide, and roll on the floor with my brother, laughing hysterically with tears running down our faces, but trying not to be loud about it, so Dad wouldn't kill us.

In the front of the cab was my Mother. Head in her hands ducking down. For a second, I thought she was crying, but I saw her shoulders rocking.
She was trying so hard not to laugh, but she was falling apart, laughing her ass off, slapping her knees, tears rolling down her cheeks, helplessly convulsing in laughter.

The three of us were inside the camper flopping around like fish, gasping for air, while my poor father, riddled with guilt was pleading with Ted to please forgive him.


Later that night the two men sat by the campfire drinking Crown Royal, My father continuously apologizing for what he's done to poor Ted.

My father said, "Ted in my life I've given a lot of shit to people, but I never gave anyone the amount of shit I gave you tonight!"Ted laughed like hell.

He really was good at taking shit from people.

S(p)itting In With The Band

S(p)itting In With The Band

A while back I let a guy sit in.
I never met him before, but I could tell by the way he talked that he's been around, and he was respectful when he asked if he could get up on one of our breaks and play my acoustic.
So I told him he could do two songs, and he did, and he was good too.
I got to enjoy the guy's playing and see what my guitar and PA sounded like out in the crowd. So after being convinced that he didn't suck, I let him play out the rest of my break. Why not?

He was a big fat hairy guy and he began sweating like a pig as he played.

When break was over I thanked him, he thanked me, and then he handed me my guitar.

It felt like he'd sprayed Pam on the friggin thing!
It was all buttery and greasy on the fret-board and sticky on the pick guard like he'd just pleasured a mule or something.
So I took a huck-towel and wiped it off.

Luckily, I keep several huck-towels around on stage.

What's a huck towel? I'll explain...

I go to the auto parts store and buy a big pack of those towels you wash your car with. They're perfect for when you're singing and you have to huck one up.
I've seen BB King do this for years. He's always hawking and hucking between and even during songs into these towels.
He may be the King of the blues, but he's also the Headmaster Of Hucking.
He's great at pretending he's just wiping up sweat with them, but one time at Lowell Auditorium I saw him cough up a lizard or something. Then he looked at it, and it moved and it called him Papa.

Anyways... I wiped the sticky excretions off my $2000 Gibson and went back to work.
THEN in the middle of the first song my lips brushed up against the foam windscreen on my microphone... And I felt something gooey!

I pulled my head back and looked.
The bastard had spewed up a clam! Right there on my microphone! EEeewww!
It looked like a cross between some sort of chowder or lab specimen from a sick ostrich or something you'd expect to see sliding down the inside of an aquarium.

I knew that I must have got some of that slime on my lip, and it made my stomach curdle and my skin shrink.
I forgot where I was in the song, flubbed up the chords, I forgot the lyrics, and spazzed out.
I retched, and then I ripped the foam wind screen off of the mike and threw it on the floor.
I had to resist the urge to stamp on it like a cockroach.

Grabbing my trusty huck-towel, I gave my mouth a good scrubbing and sucked down an entire scotch and soda with one gulp to kill any bugs. I had to finish the set worrying about where that fat bastard's mouth had been.
It was horrifying!
It was almost like I had been making out with the guy!!!
God knows what kind of hoof and mouth disease he might have given me!
Maybe he was married to Sasquatch.

During the next break I took the wind screen into the men's room and washed it in hot water and some of that squeezy soap for about five minutes.

When I got back that hairy sweaty spooge-mouthed hippo asked if he could sit in again.

I told him there was a booking agent in the room checking us out, "Sorry."
I didn't need any more of his Jurassic lung-butter.

So, if you're a musician, remember to be careful who you let sit in, and bring a spare microphone and some Lysol to every gig.

Oh Say Can You See?

Last summer I jumped off a boat in the middle of Sebago lake with my glasses on.

(That's what they say, anyways)

I swore that I had taken them off before the plunge.
I suspect that there was a vast conspiracy by those who wanted to drive the boat.

Either way, I had an old pair of glasses in the glove compartment and wore them for exactly a year, even though they were the wrong prescription.

Two days ago I said to myself, "Self? You're about to turn fifty years old and you have the vision of Mister Magoo. Go get your eyes checked."
So I did.
Randomly I made an appointment with an eye doctor.

The eye doctor's name was Dr. Siriboonsirsermsook, O.D.
I liked the name because reading it was actually sort of an eye test in itself.
I figured with a name like Siriboonsirsermsook it had to be good. I went for the eye test.

She turned out to be a really exotic looking woman too. Not too hard on the eyes, if ya know what I mean... I was expecting some smelly old guy for some reason.
She said I needed Tri-focals.
TRI-FOCALS!?!? Me?
I didn't even think I was in need of BI-focals, let alone TRI-focals, but if the exotic Doctor Siriboonsirsermsook said so, then who the hell was I to argue?
So I picked out the frames and an hour later they put them on my aging head.

When I tilted my head downward and looked out the top of the lenses I could see the pimple on the ass of an eagle high in the clouds.
If I looked through the center I could see the cleavage of Doctor Siriboonsirsermsook vividly.
She was obviously a very good doctor.

Looking through the bottoms of these amazing Tri-focals would finally allow me to tie trout flies that did not look like snots with wings.
I paid them the price of a ticket to see The Rolling Stones at Fenway Park, and I left the exotic optometrist with a smile.

Suddenly the ground was way tooo close!My depth perception was completely screwed up!
Driving home was a real challenge.
Everything was all blurry and uncomfortable and I had to concentrate and squint just to get home.

To take my mind off it, I studied the amazing patterns of Eagle's ass-pimples high above me.
I got home and promptly stubbed my toe on the steps. Someone had moved them closer than they used to be.

I tried to put the key in the door and missed so many times it looked lke I was fencing.

I changed my shirt because I had spilled some food on myself when I missed my mouth.

When I put my arm into the new shirt, I scared the shit out of myself by sticking my hand directly into the ceiling fan!
BRRDDDD DITTT DDDITTTT DDDDITT!!!"OUCH!" and I had to run my sore fingers under cold water for a while.

Now take into consideration that my right arm is already in a friggin' cast, now I've "La Machined" the first three fingers on my left hand, and I'm praying to God, "Please God! Not THIS hand too!" I was okay though, just a bruise on my index finger.

My wife comes home and I show her my new glasses. We decide to go out to dinner, because I'm afraid to cook. We drive down the street, by the bank.
She says, "Wait a minute, I want to go to that ATM machine.

I stop, put the car in reverse, BOOOOM! Right into a pole!
Scared the shit out of everyone.
I tried to explain that the pole seemed much farther away.

I couldn't help noticing a hawk high above us with a startling case of impetigo on his rectum.
There's a nice dent in my new van.
She starts singing the theme song to Mister Magoo, and my son sings along.
"ROAD HOG!" he says.

The next day I called Dr. Siriboonsirsermsook, O.D.
"This is Missa Magloo. I want to return the Alice In Wonderland glasses. Time for ziss one to come home."

They gave me a hard time, but I finally got some regular glasses, and everything is okay now.
In fact I'm looking out the window right now.
You should see the size of the zits on bunghole of this osprey.

I can see them. And I'm over fifty years old!

The Skunk Epic. A True Story. Chapter One

Chapter One: Skunk Attack!


One night in February of the year 2002, My wife, my son and I came home from food shopping, opened our front door and smelled a skunk. This was no ordinary skunk smell. It was like an invisible punch in the nose. It was a skunk attack. We were overpowered by this toxic odor. We gagged on skunk funk as we brought the groceries into the house from the car, astonished by the fact that the smell of the skunk was actually stronger INSIDE our house than it was outside.
The stench was so powerful that we could actually taste it. It was hard to breathe when were inside. The air was poisoned, and the house was unlivable. We choked as we opened all the windows and fled to my mother in law's house to wait for the smell to subside.
Later that night, we went home. It still stunk something awful. I could not get over the fact that it smelled much worse INSIDE the house than it did outside. Was the skunk IN the house? It sure smelled like it!
Something had to be done! We couldn't live in there. I called my friend Gunther who gave me the phone number of an exterminator he had used. His name was "Bob The Skunk Guy."
I called him. He answered the phone like this: "Hello, Bob, the skunk guy!" I explained our predicament. Bob said, "I'll be right over. It will cost you a hundred bucks. If the skunk is in the house I'll find him and get him out of there for ya"
At that point I would have gladly paid him a thousand.
Bob The Skunk Guy showed up less than an hour later, by now it was about 11:00 at night.
Bob The Skunk Guy was big. Bob The Skunk Guy had a big flashlight and wore a big flannel shirt. Bob The Skunk Guy may have had a few big cocktails earlier that same evening.
Never the less, Bob The Skunk Guy was there, walking around my house at 11:00 with his big flashlight stumbling through the shrubs, looking under and around everything searching high and low for our stinking terrorist enemy. A PROFESSIONAL RODENT ELIMINATOR doing what he does best. My hero!
By midnight however he had not accomplished his mission and it still smelled like Bigfoot's ass in my home. Even Bob The Skunk Guy had to admit, the smell was stronger inside the house than it was outside ""Bob," I said, "I really think this skunk is in here, not out there."
"It's possible, but it's very unlikely," Bob said, sounding a bit like a professor. He explained that skunks aren't good climbers and they can't jump, so he probably couldn't have made it up the stairs.
Bob The Skunk Guy went down cellar with his big flashlight. He tore the place apart but found nothing. Then he asked us if we had any flour.We gave him a bag of flour. He produced a can of sardines from his pocket.(wierd) He placed the opened can of sardines in the center of the cellar, and then he sprinkled the white flour all over the floor around it. "What the hell are you doing?" I asked.
"If that skunk is down here he's gonna go for those sardines," Bob explained, "Skunks love sardines, and we'll be able to see his footprints in the flour, then we'll be able to see where he's hiding."


"Ingenious!" I said, and we went upstairs. The man had techniques, and proceedures! He was clearly a skunk catching expert. Even though I was still choking and gagging I felt a bit more at ease.



"I think it smells more upstairs than it does down cellar," Bob announced. I had to agree. Who was I to argue with the trained nose of a professional rodent eliminator? He paced from room to room sniffing. We followed him, doing the same. It was getting close to 1:00 AM. My little boy was upstairs in bed with the covers over his head.
Bob stopped in front of the closet in the front hall, sniffing with his nose in the air. He shined his big flashlight into the closet. Suddenly he seemed very alert.
"Open the front door, and leave it wide open!" He ordered. "We need to take all the clothes out of this closet so I can get in there!" he explained sternly.
It was the voice a sergeant would use before ordering his men to take Porkchop Hill.
We removed every coat, shirt and sweater from the closet and threw them on the dining room table, like good soldiers.
He shined his big rodent seeking flashlight beam into the deepest recesses of the cluttered closet. "Holy shit! I think I see him!" he announced. "Where?" I asked peering over his shoulder, but not really wanting to get too close.
"Look right there behind those brown boots! Can you see that bristle of black hair sticking up? I think that's him." There behind my old winter boots I could clearly see black fur. That bastard!
Bob put on a pair of big brown gloves.
"Stand back!" he ordered. We did. Way back. My wife retreated into the kitchen. "What are you gonna do?" I asked the brave skunk hunter.

"I'm gonna grab him by the tail and throw him out the front door," he said, "So stay the hell outta the way."
"What if he bites ya?" I whined, biting my fingernails.
"That's what the gloves are for." Brave Bob growled, with a steely wink.

What balls he had!!! I had to admire him. Here was a guy who was willing to grab a nasty stinking wild animal by the tail for a hundred bucks!
He was like Marlon Perkins from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom... only drunker. God, I admired him! How brave can a man be?
"Here goes!" Bob announced, taking a deep breath of polluted air.

Bob The Skunk Guy charged into that closet with balls like angry John Wayne! He lunged as I cowered, watching from the dining room.
For a second or two all I could see was his big ass, sticking out of the closet.
There was a lot of bumping around going on, and some grunting, and a loud thump, and some muffled swearing. Some shoes flew by me. This was getting exciting!
He swore and jumped backwards out of the closet and spun around like James Brown, holding in his big brown glove, the hood to my wife's black Eskimo style snorkel jacket.
The hood with the black fur trim.

"Sorry," he said with an embarassed smile, "False alarm." His words hung in the scented air.


I went down stairs to check on the sardines, trying not to breathe.

...Continued in Chapter 2...

The Skunk Epic. Chapter 2. The War Begins...

CHAPTER TWO- THE WAR BEGINS


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the days following our skunk attack we suffered. We couldn't eat in the house, and spent a fortune in sub shops. The smell pervaded everything. We lost lots of sleep, and when we did sleep we'd often awaken to a new skunk attack. Where was it coming from? I was convinced that the skunk was in the cellar, but there were no footprints in the flour around the sardines! Every time the furnace kicked in it blew the stink into the air some more. Each day we were glad to go to work early, and Mini-Me seemed eager to go to school and escape the stench. We dreaded coming home, knowing that nightfall would probably bring a new stink attack. I went on the internet looking for help, and learned as much as I could about skunks.I even went bto the library to find books about skunks.
One of the articles I read suggested spreading large amounts of Cayenne pepper around the foundation of the house.
The article said that hot pepper powder spinkled all over your yard would work. Supposedly it burns their paws.
I suppose when they lick their paws, they need a cold beer, and not having a cold beer makes them run all the way to the liquor store,where they might be run over by cars or even drink themselves to death.
I went to BJ's wholesale club and bought several large containers of hot cayenne pepper, but when I tried to spread it aound the lawn, the wind blew it into my face. The hot pepper got in my eyes and blinded me, like being maced. I spent the rest of that afternoon washing my eyes out.


I called The Fish and Game Department who informed me that it is against the law to kill the striped weasels. I was definietly willing to take the risk. I called Animal Control in Stoned ham and a very lethargic uninterested voice gave me suggestions, but this highly unmotivated public servant said that he could not help me.
In desperation I went to Wal Mart and bought a gun. It was an air canister powered pellet gun with a laser scope and it shot 22 caliber pellets. It cost me sixty bucks.


I bought a big flashlight too, just like the one Bob The Skunk Guy had.

Bob The Skunk Guy came out two more times, at a cost of two hundred more dollars, and set traps with sardines in them all over the place. We caught the neighbor's cat the first night. I could hear it out there screaming at three in the morning, and I had to go out in the freezing rain and let it go.
The next morning I did some target practice with my deadly air pistol. It scared me, but I needed to know if it was powerful enough to kill a skunk. It wouldn't make sense to shoot it just to get it all pissed off. It might just limp all over the place spraying everything.
I put a pizza box up next to my camper to see how powerful the gun was. I shot the pizza box, pretending it was a flat square cardboard skunk. It went right though both sides of the pizza box, no problem. I was impressed!
Later I discovered that I had a flat tire on my camper. I guess I shot a hole in the God-damed tire during pizza practice. I put the gun away for a while, and waited for night to fall.

It was just around midnight when the next attack came. I was sitting in my big chair sipping on a large beer when I smelled it. I jumped to my feet grabbed the giant yellow flashlight, (just like Bob's) and went to the second floor window and shined the giant beam of light down into my nieghbor's yard...and there he was!
He was big for a skunk, larger than a cat, with big wide white stripe going down his back. Pure evil was waddling beneath me. I stumbled into the closet and returned to the window with my pizza gun. Where did he go? The bastard! I opened the window and shined the light down and spotted him again. There he was, that terrorist bastard, waddling through the yard. I took drunken aim and fired! Ping! Ping! Ping! "Take that you bastard!" Ping! Ping! Then I realised that I was missing the skunk but hitting the side of my neighbors house quite well. The polecat waddled around behind the house towards the barn and I continued firing, proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that I could indeed hit the broad side of a barn. I don't think I hit the skunk though and he moved into the darkness unscathed.
Disgusted with my marksmanship, I went back to my big chair and had another large beer, to think things over. I read my skunk book and pondered the problem well into the night. I began drinking Guinness and discovered that it gave me enough gas to cover up the smell of the skunk.
I considered a new plan: capitol punishment in the form of a new 50 gallon barrel, filled with 49 gallons of water, and a gallon of anti-freeze. Capture and execution by drowning would be preferable to pellet gun firing squads. It could also prevent me from getting arrested for carrying and discharging an illegal weapon in a residential area. Terrorism was causing the defense budjet to grow exponentially as the war lingered on.
The next morning I went out and spread more hot pepper aound the house being careful not to mace myself in the process. We made it through that day without incident.

Thursday morning,we were attacked by terrorist skunks again.

I got up about 5:30, no smell at all. I was beginning to think that the work I did yesterday had paid off.

I concocted a repellant solution that I downloaded off the internet. I sprayed my entire lawn with this mixture of castor oil lemon pledge and water. I also neutralized the smell in the cellar using white vinegar... and again, the rags with ammonia were placed all over the place. We have candles going upstairs most of the time, and I use this citrus spray in the vents.



NOTHING WORKS.




When today's assault occurred, I went to the second floor window and watched.



It wasn't long before I saw the assailant, a small black skunk, much smaller and blacker than the one I saw 2 nights ago. He was being chased by a fluffy multi-colored cat. The cat chased him into the culvert, or gully, or drainage area, or whatever you call it, under Lincoln Street extension.

Even though I was only half dressed, I ran for the "peace maker" my extremely dangerous 8 shot air pistol, with laser scope. I threw on my winter coat, gun in hand, I paused by the mirror...From behind the glass in the mirror, I saw Clint Eastwood sneering back at me



"What are you lookin' at? Huh, PUNK! ...SKUNK PUNK! "

.



Concealing the weapon in my coat pocket I headed out the door, determined to "make my day".



The cat ran away when he saw me coming. They can sense danger.



It was quiet...

...too quiet.



In my head, I heard the soundtrack form "The Good The Bad & The Ugly".



But then someone must have turned the station or something, and I started hearing "OOH THAT SMELL" by Lynrd Skynyrd.



To block that out I started singing "My Rival" by Steely Dan



Gripping the concealed handle of my plastic instrument of death, I sang into the sewer pipe under the gully, "My rival! Show me my rival!"

"Come on out and show yourself! Come out with your paws up! Make it easy on yourself, and you won't get hurt. I'll getcha five to ten in a relocation program up the Medford woods.

In six months time you could be swimming up Spot Pond.

It doesn't have to end like this!

What's it gonna be punk?"



The skunk, paralyzed with terror, was either frozen in fear far beneath the Stoneham sewer system, or else he might have escaped through a secret hidden terrorist escape hatch.

They're very well trained, these terrorist skunks.



Either way he didn't come out, I was freezing my nuts off because I had just taken a shower, and "Walkabout Willie" my deranged drunken neighbor was now looking at me, hearing me singing Steely Dan to a sewer pipe. Why, he may even think of ME as HIS drunken and deranged neighbor!

...and it wouldn't be good for Dirty Harry to be late for work.

So I went home unloaded and hid my dangerous bb pistol high in the closet, because let's face it; any heater that can blow a hole in a pizza box could do some serious damage if I leave it lying around. I put the trigger guard on it, and went to work.



He who sniffs and runs away, lives to fight another day.



"Peppe' Le Pew must die!" I vowed.



My friends were full of suggestions. "You need to shoot the cat, and maybe the skunk will stop spraying" one said.

"When you do kill the skunk you should either have it stuffed or make a nice hat out of it," another suggested. "You could be like Daniel Boone!"



I set the "Have A Heart" trap each night and waited. Each morning I got up and checked. One morning I saw something in the trap and went out there, only to discover that it wasn't a skunk in the trap. It was a possum. Jesus are those things ugly! Have you ever seen one up close? They are truly disgusting! He snarled at me and everything! A rat with an Elvis sneer. I opened the cage and set his ugly ass free. Anything that ugly deserved to live.
Besides he kinda scared me a little.


...To Be Continued in Chapter Three... "The Capture"


STAY TUNED TO THIS BLOG!







--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Skunk Epic. A True Story. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE - THE CAPTURE:

I slept well last night. I got up this morning, very early, and looked out the window. Something was moving in the trap... not a possum this time!
I had captured my enemy! The terrorist had been confined! A black skunk witha big fluffy white tail was munching on the sardines in the trap.
It would be his last meal.

I ran upstairs and put on some old clothes, and prepared myself for the execution. I went down cellar and turned on the water to the hose outside.
The hose had been previously run, into a large blue plastic bucket, in my driveway, two steps away from the trap.
I then got an old blanket and went outside. Holding the blanket up as a shield, I slowly walked towards my dangerous prisoner. I threw the blanket over the trap, picked up the trap, and carefully placed it in the bucket of water. Then I got the hell out of there.

By now, Katie was up, and we both looked out the window at the bucket.
That's when the smell came.
I took a shower. I threw my old clothes down cellar.

At 6:30 am, Peppe the skunk was officially pronounced dead. I rushed to work, a little late but victorious.

I left Peppe' floating, motionless in his watery death chamber.
I considered a short memorial service to be held in the afternoon, VERY SHORT, due to the smell.
Peppe's body would be double bagged and dispersed to a secret locationn used for terrorists.
This was a victory in the battle against odiforous terrorism for Wright Street, but I knew that the war was not over.
Constant vigilance is needed, for all of us to breathe freely.


...To Be Continued....in chapter 4, "The Aftermath."

See Chapter 4 in the Blog Menu on the left.

The Skunk Epic. A True Story. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR - THE AFTERMATH



Work was over. On the long ride down the highway, I had time to
ponder just what I had done.
Making a stone of my heart, I told myself that it was necessary. I
had to protect my family. Peppe had to die.

I tried to submerge my guilty feelings, but they kept swimming
frantically, scratching at the stainless steel bars of my conscience,
forever trapped in the have-a heart cage of my mind.
I told myself that it didn't matter. Nothing mattered now, not the
essence of the tiny life I had extinguished, or the guilt that kept
bubbling up to the surface of my consciousness like the last gasps
of a desperate weasel.

Nothing mattered except for one thought;
"Finish the job". I had to dispose of the body.

I drove forward, each ticking second bringing me closer to the watery death chamber I had created.

My murderous inhuman heart skipped a beat as I pulled into the driveway, and the smell of death filled the cold winter air.

I would have to work quickly, carefully, efficiently, but most importantly;

secretly.

What if the neighbors were watching?

Luckily it was barrel day.
If I did this thing right, no one would notice.


I chose 3 large heavy-duty contactor type trash bags, and I
approached the blue plastic tub which had now become the briny casket of my odoriferous dead enemy.

I lifted the lid, and looked
down in horror at what I had done.

Long bristly black and white tail hairs stuck out of the bars.

A green oozing slime floated on the surface of the scummy water, and pieces of the sardines I had used for bait were floating inside the
cage.

Had he regurgitated them, as he struggled for life?
... I didn't
want to think about it.

The smell was powerful and obnoxious, an insult to the senses.

I began to breathe from my mouth, but that only caused me to taste it.

I had to tip the blue bucket and dump the water to get the cage
out without getting my hands wet.

I groaned under the weight of it as I lifted, and the stinking brine splashed out onto the driveway.
I had to step back, as the tide of
liquid filth spread towards my shoes.
The smell increased dramatically as the wind spread it through the neighborhood.

The tub was near empty, and I could see the face of my victim.

It's eyes were rolled back in it's rat-like head. It's fanged teeth were bared in a final frozen grimace.
The claws of the animal were
extended infront of it's face, and I could tell that it had died trying to scratch it's way out of it's watery grave.

I lifted the cage out of the water and placed it on the driveway.

Then I looked around.

Across the street, my nosy neighbor, the loudmouthed
schoolteacher with the half retarded husband, was staring at me.

Her pug-like nose sniffing the air, no doubt.
I waved to her and
began pretending to put out the trash barrels.
I dragged one to the curb and waved again.

She did not wave back, she merely tilted her bulldog face toward the ground in recognition, and went into
her house.

I knew she was looking out the window now.

I crouched down next to the flat tire of my camper, where she could not see me, and I placed one of the bags over the mouth of the cage and opened the door of the trap.

It slipped, and the spring door snapped down on my cold fingers.

I didn't yell out loud,
because I didn't want to attract her attention.

The last thing in the
world I needed now was her half-retarded husband coming over to talk to me!

I lifted the cage and tried to slide the waterlogged lifeless carcass of the striped weasel into the plastic bag.

Somehow he got stuck in
the opening, and would not fall into the bag.
I had to reach in and
tug on the soggy tail of the rodent to free him from the trap.

I gagged and suppressed the bile rising in my throat.

With a liquid thud, the animal was now in the bag.It was heavier than I thought it
would be.

In order to tie a knot, I spun the bag quickly, and drops of
skunk-water spattered my sleeves, and the front of my coat.
I triple bagged him as fast as I could, and tied three knots on each bag.

Then I stuffed the corpse into a black trash barrel and dragged it to the curb.

Next, I had to dispose of the evidence.
The soaking wet blanket I
had used to commit the murder.
I triple bagged it and stuffed in
into another barrel, placing a pizza box on top of it to make it look natural.

It was the same pizza box I had blown a hole through while
testing my skunk gun, and giving my camper that flat tire.

All the evidence was in the barrels now, where it would wait overnight
for the trashmen to come.


I turned on the hose and washed down my driveway, which reeked
of death, skunk piss, and sardine juice.

I had to wash it down 3
times. with ammonia, lemon pledge, and white vinegar.

I also washed the blue death bucket and the cage meticulously.

Satisfied with my work, I went back to my normal daily routine, bearing the tremendous weight of my guilt, as I will for the rest of
my days.


The end.


-Kenny Hogan 2002

A good barbecue recipe!

Try this!
It's easy and it's GOOD.

Brick Chicken [click here]

How To Go To The Beach

The beach can be as boring as a Yanni concert UNLESS you do it right.

A few years ago I was happily unemployed, and I became a "Going To The Beach Expert."

I got one of those wheelie things you put all the crap on. A good move.

You can hang your lawn chairs and a ton of other beach crap on these wheelie things...
...oh, did I mention the CHAIRS?

Never buy those cheap-ass, Legs-Fall- Asleep, Arse-Busts-Through-The-Webbing Chairs.
You'll be as miserable as a constipated bungee jumper. You don't want that.

What you want is a Strathwood multi-position steel suspension anti-gravity recliner.

http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41ZqdCLH6zL._SL500_AA280_.jpg

I've found this to be the best "Lay There And Fall Asleep Chair" in the world.

Next, you need a beach umbrella. I have 2.
Gotta have the ones that screw into the sand. No mallets.
Who wants to bang something on the beach?
Get your mind out of the gutter!

Next, you MUST HAVE a soft zippered cooler with side thingees for your sunglasses, and sunscreen.

Cool beverages are a must and good thermal drinking vessel is imperative.

here's what I use: The 52 oz foam insulated Bubba Keg Mug.
http://www.amazon.com/Bubba-Keg-04281-52oz-Blue/dp/B000JO90YO/ref=pd_bxgy_k_img_b

Now the Black and Blue 52oz Bubbas also include an extremely handy bottle opener built-in to the handle of your Bubba!
What will they think of next???
A bottle opener built into a mug! It makes you proud to be an American, I tell ya!

Music is extremely important at the beach!
You gotta block out those screaming brats.
You gotta have your iPod. I have many beach playlists on my iPod.

AND ONE OF THESE:

THIS IS THE GREATEST SMALL PORTABLE SPEAKER SYSTEM FOR THE BEACH, PERIOD.

I've tried out many small speakers at the beach, but this one has balls, and the batteries last all day.

The JBL "On Tour" lightweight, high performance portable sound system.

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B000BQ57BU/km-20/ref=nosim

So you got yer cocktails, your music, your sunglasses, maybe a good book, some snacks.
You get your head in an enhanced version of reality, and this elongates time and makes the snacks taste better and the music sound nicer, and really, what the hell else could you want?

THAT'S how you go to the beach.

That's all you need, (besides a ukulele)
I prefer a Fluke Ukulele to all others.

http://www.fleamarketmusic.com/store/Scripts/prodList.asp?idCategory=5


And one more thing. (speaking of music)
Don't be so cheap!
You can spend 99 cents to download this song. You need some new beach music, don't you?

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0029BYCKC/ref=dm_dp_trk4?ie=UTF8&qid=1242591531&sr=102-2

Then you can take me to the beach with ya.

And sometimes I do bring a baseball bat along to keep Greenpeace from rolling me back into the ocean.

Songs That Get Stuck In Your Head

Did you ever get a song stuck in your head?

A song that you hate?

A song that would make you risk breaking your finger when you poke it at the radio to change the station?

It happened to me the one night, in the worst way.

I was in a hotel room in Houston Texas.

It was ten something when I went to bed with a full tank of Guinness.

I had to be up at 3 am to get picked up by the shuttle so I could fly home.

I was so worried that I'd over-sleep, that I couldn't really sleep at all.

The clock on the bedstand had these big red digital numbers.

I would sleep for 15 minutes, look at the clock, sleep for a few more minutes, then look at the clock again.

Somewhere in there... the song, "MY EYES ADORED YOU," by Frankie Vallie, popped into my booze riddled, sleep-deprived head.

12:47

"MY EYES ADORED YOU... THOUGH I NEVER LAID A HAND ON YOU..."

1:10

"LIKE A MILLION MILES AWAY FROM ME, YOU COULDN'T SEE HOW I ADORED YOU."

JESUS! I HATE THAT FRIGGIN SONG!!!!"

1:28 "LIKE A MILLION MILES AWAY FROM ME..."

ARGHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

I got up and took a leak.

While returning my rented beer, or "un-drinking," as I call it, I realize that I'm humming... "CARRIED YOUR BOOKS FROM SCHOOL..."
(how do I know all the words to a song I can't stand?)

I get back to bed, sleep for a little while, and I'm friggin' DREAMING THE FUGGING SONG!

YOU WERE 16, I WAS SIX..." or whatever the fuggin words are....

I HATE that song!

But it wouldn't leave me alone!

Somewhere around 2 AM I began praying to God, "DEAR GOD! PLEASE! MAKE IT STOP!!!"

I fell back to sleep, and woke up at 2:18.

Clear as a bell in my head, I could hear Frankie Vallie go into "SWEARING TO GOD."

I felt like killing somebody. I never did get back to sleep.

I got into the shuttle and the driver had the radio on. He was listening some oldies station, and I made him turn it off.

I truly belive that if a Frankie Vallie song came on, I might have killed him.

If You're Over 50...This One's For You

How did this happen to me?
I used to be cool!
Getting old wasn't supposed to happen to ME!!!
I used to run like the wind.
Now I grunt and fart when I tie my shoes.

I tell people to slow down.
I tell kids to stay out of my yard.I've actually kept the ball!

It's hard to admit that I'm not young any more, that I'm slower and rounder, and lazier too.
I have a remote control for my friggin air conditioner!
Jesus, how lazy do you have to be to say, "It's too friggin' hot for me. I don't wanna walk all the way across this room, ...Where's my AC remote?"

I actually keep THREE TV remotes in my living room, because I'm too lazy to look for them when they get lost.

When I was a kid every house had one TV, one phone, one stereo, and that was it.
No remote.
Back then, I was the remote.
My father used ME as the remote control.
He'd say,"What the hell is this show? Mod Squad? KENNY! Turn on channel 7, Gunsmoke is on!"

We had an antenna on the roof with motor on it, and we thought that was cool.
There was a big dial on top of the TV, and you had to turn the dial to get the antenna to go around.
It made a noise like this: "Gadderrzh-ditt!... Gadderrzh-ditt!... Gadderrzh-ditt!"
...And you had to stand there and wait.
If a plane flew over the house, it would screw up the whole picture.
My 45 records and my albums were my prized possessions.
Now I love my i-pod instead. But I miss the album covers! Don't you?
Why can't they sell Cd's inside full sized album covers?

My generation used to smoke grass and take acid.
Now we mow the grass and take antacids.

I've pretty much given up playing gigs in bars.
I found myself wanting to go to bed after the 2nd set. once I had to delay the set because my ibuprofen fell behind my amp.

I wonder how many gigs I've done in my life... More than a thousand?
Maybe. Probably.
The Rolling Stones are way older than me and they're still rockin'.
I wonder if Keith Richards grunts and farts when he ties his shoes?
"Excuse me Mick I have to tie my shoe.." ffffFFFRRRAAAMMPPP!, (Grunting with an English accent)

Do you think Keith or Mick use Viagra?Why not? They've tried every other drug.
But they probably crush it up and snort it.

I once ran an eighteen mile road race.
Now when the pizza guy comes to the door, I make my kid answer it.

Half a century has gone by. How did this happen to me?
I used to have so much energy. Now if I walk down to the sub shop I need a nap.
The other day I drove for three exits before realizing that I left my directional on.
That's a bad sign, isn't it?
I know who Petula Clarke IS! That's how old I am.
Wait a minute, I gotta tie my shoe... bbbBRRAAAMPHFF!!! (grunt) excuse me!

I've been wondering...Is it okay for me to still look at girls, or am I just a perverted old man now?They don't look back any more anyways.

If I go to the beach Greenpeace tries to roll me back into the ocean.
I can never relax because I have to dodge the harpoons.
I can see Japanese fishing trawlers in the distance, waiting.

At least I still have hair.
Most of my friends have to put sun-block on their heads.
Think of the money I've saved on sun-blocking my head!

And at least I'm alive. Some of my friends aren't.

Mentally I don't feel any different.I'm still just as mental and different as I used to be.
My birthday is coming up on the fourth of July.
I hope the candles on the cake don't set off the smoke alarms.

Maybe I should buy loafers.

Block your nose. I gotta tie my shoe.

Scrabble - Another Crazy Band Story

One time down in Springfield back in the early eighties, we were staying at this big old run down hotel.

Outside the hotel was a big sign which faced the highway.
Thousands of people read this sign every day.

It had removable letters, BIG REMOVABLE LETTERS.

The sign said

ALL YOU CAN EAT BREAKFAST HERE!

(in big removable letters)

After a gig one night, my drummer said, "Ooh! I got an idea!

Let me stand on your shoulders!"

So I did.

He got up on my shoulders and took all the letters off the sign.

Then he spread the letters out on the hood of a car and played scrabble with them.

He got back on my shoulders and put the letters back up.

Here;s what we read the next morning and for three more days before they finally changed it:

HEY BALLFACE!

South Carolina Emergency Room

Fate leads me into some funny circumstances.

These things can only happen to me.

I was not hurt or sick, but without going into the reason why, I found myself in South Carolina on Saturday night, waiting for a cab, in front of the emergency room of hospital.

I was pissed off because I didn't want to be there, waiting for that cab, which was late.

I was there a long time.

The people who came in and out of the emergency room though... they were very interesting.

I saw people bleeding, and people who got carried in unconscious.

I saw babies crying, and drunk people staggering around yelling. I saw an old woman in a wheel chair who didn't know where she was.

But the most astonishing and funniest thing was a conversation I heard.

Three kids about 16 years old with heavy heavy southern accents. One kid was big and fat, about 16 years old, wearing a straw fishing hat with the ends poking out all over the place like huck Finn. The next kid -skinny as a rail with a straw cowboy hat and feathers on it, and this little kid who must have been about 10. He looked pretty normal.

Here's the conversation;

Fat Kid: "Oooooh is she gonna be mad atchyooo!"

Cowboy kid: "Why the hell should she be mad at me? I didn't tell him to eat it!"

Normal kid: "I cain't believe he didn't spit it out!"

Fat Kid: "Well he's the crazy ass who ate it!"

Cowboy kid: "It ain't mah fault! I didn't make him eat it!"

Fat kid: "She is gonna be so pissed atchyoo!"

Normal kid: "I really thought he was gonna spit it out... cain't believe he ate it!"

The cab came. I got in.

I have no idea what the hell that was all about.

A Message From Throbbing Weasel Records

Hi Ken,

My name is Johnny Marriott. I am a Director of A&R for Throbbing Weasel Records. A very independent record label, entertainment public relations and marketing company. We are so independent that nobody knows who the hell we are.


Today while searching for bands and solo artists in Star market, (which is what BIG A&R guys do all day long) I came across your music online. I listened to your music, and I got a boner. The song that caught my attention was “Eating Uncooked Chicken”. That WAS you, wasn't it?
The guitar work tightened my pants from the inside, and the vocal work made me go to the park and watch young boys. The voices work very well together, like mustard and whipped cream. I even peed a little.

It is important for you to know that each band I send this to, has been remembered by hand by me before they are contacted. I just don’t have time to write every one of you a personal message. I am just too important for that.

We are currently working on a Campaign called "Say No To Nose Picking." We are creating a series of publicity campaigns called "PICKERS AGAINST PICKING”. In the next calendar year, Throbbing Weasel Records will be producing large marketing and exposure projects in over 40 cities across the United States, and the musicians that are involved with this project will be getting loads.

(of publicity from me)

Yours Truly, and panting like a fat girl with a Thighmaster,

Johnny Marriott

Throbbing Weasel Records

MAMA! MAMA!!!

Is this a Gookaroon from the planet Eris, or just two stiffs on a camping trip with a flashlight?

Hubbub At The Top Of The Hub

The scene:

Top Of the Hub lounge, 52nd floor of the Prudential Building, in Boston.
Elegant surroundings, posh ambiance. Well dressed, well-to-do, well-bred clientele. The lights of Boston twinkle. The keys of the grand piano tinkle. The elevator door opens. Four shabby dolts stumble in.

Two of the stooges, a Marx brother and John Candy in dungarees.
Frank, The Emperor Bolo who resembles Chico Marx, is walking like a lobster man who's still on the boat. Reeking of Bacardi 151, he spits his way through asking the waitress for something no one can understand.
It's his bachelor party. They've been at it for a while.

They look for a table, find one, but it only has 3 seats, so they rip one away from a nearby table of romantic yuppies, and flop down near the nicely dressed Jazz trio. One of them farts. Ninja style. Horrified patrons mutter behind champagne glasses. It smells like old crayfish.

A terse unattractive displeased waitress arrives, and does them a great favor by asking them if they will be having cocktails this evening.

The Emperor orders the Green Manalishi Gasolini Martini with olives and extra roasted peppers, and the waitress exhales like a bull.

The others order aged turpentine and mimeograph solution in special glasses. Each drink costs as much as a pair of pants.

They watch the band tinkle, and the lights twinkle. Their conversation is peppered with loud swears and grunts like you'd hear in a locker room.

Morons by candle light.
Balls are scratched.
Staring is going on.

The band sounds good. The four dolts drool at the band like drugged walruses watching a card trick.

Suddenly Bolo decides to make a statement! With slurred enthusiasm he spews forth;

"Ya see that drummer? I know that fuggin' guy! That's Bob G!!! I studied with that guy for years! Heesh a great drummer! BARP! What a great fargin' guy!

He had an ashtray... and everything! That fuggen guy! I wonder if he still remembers me?"

The set ends. The band goes on break. The bitter waitress, a soul-less grimacing yeast infection in an undertaker's suit, suffers through another order. Bolo gargles at attempted joke at her though a mouthful of olives, and he hands her the empty glass.

No one knows what the hell he said. The waitress looks at him like he's a hellgrammite on her pillow. They don't use jokes on the Planet Of The Undertakers.

She scribbles "I hate you,"in her leather bound notebook and stomps away terribly constipated.

The jazz drummer, on break now, slides past the table of dolts. A nerve ending crackles in Bolo's brain, and he lurches up suddenly, belting both knees against the table, sending the martini glasses scuttling and wobbling, and for a second it's like the four dolts are spinning pie plates on the Ed Sullivan Show.
Mimeograph solution and turpentine sloshes onto the table, coming dangerously close to staining their filthy dungarees.

Bolo leaps sideways, shooting his rolling chair against a romantic couple. He stumbles forward like Frankenstein toward his former drum teacher.

"Bob!"

The drummer turns, looks, confused.

"Hey! BOB!" The Emperor lunges at him with an open hand.

"Mumembah me? Ya know who I am?" swaying, as the lobster boat takes a big wave.

The jazz drummer nervously extends his hand, politely, unsure.

"You mumembah me. Doncha? I ushed ta shtudy with you for fifteen fuggen' years!

You had the ashtray ... and everything."

Uncomfortable smile, polite confused head shaking. A shrug.

"YA, YA , YA! COURSE YOU KNOW ME! YOUR BOB G ! BARP! Yer a friggin' great fargin' drummer man, no shit. Member me? Bolo? Mumember? Your Bobby G. Right?"

"No. Actually I'm not. Heh-heh... I know Bob G. He's a great drummer, and I'm flattered that you, ah, would think I WAS him, but I'm not him. I'm Bob Cervix."

"Get the f**k outta here! You gotta be shitting me! You're not Bob G? I shtuddied with you for fifteen yearsh?"

"No I'm Bob Cervix. I do know Bob G though. He's a great guy. Great drummer too."

"Oh shit! I thought you were Bob G. Barp! ya look jush like him! I ushed to take lessons from him, with the ashtray, and the ...but you're Bob Cervix instead, huh?"

"Yeah. Bob cervix."

"Oh no, that sucks!... wanna sit down with us anyways?"

AV Guy Rant (from 2002) Foot Odor & A Weird Day, (Parts 1 & 2)

Today weird stuff just kept happening.
I went to work and these people from some miserable country had taken over the hotel... In the ballroom...
It's this religious cult with some name so friggin' long and hard to pronounce that you get hernia trying to say it.
They were having this wacko-cult slurpie burpin', chant and bang fest in the grand ballroom.

All they rented from me were 6 easels to put giant pictures of some ugly rat faced hag on.
She ( The divine Rat-face Hag) was walkin' around getting adored all over the place, and all these hippies and vacant faced zombies were following her around throwing flowers and moaning, and banging tabla drums and finger cymbals while howling her name.
People were stumbling around dazed like they had all been huffing tilex, with long white robes on, and you could smell burning punks and bad B.O.

I retreated into my office to nurse a slight hangover, to have a cup of coffee and watch Maury Povitch sending bed wetters to bootcamp on TV.

When I stepped out, I tripped and almost did a header- Someone had piled about twenty pairs of shoes in front of my office door while I was in there watching the bed wetters do pushups.

It turns out that if you wanna be in this cult, you have to remove your shoes and leave them at the door before you stumble inside the ballroom to howl at Mother Rat-Face.
So now there's 1200 people in there bellowing like drilled sheep, and 2400 hippie sandals by the door, (give or take an amputee)

I have to pee my coffee out, so I go into the men's room. I stand at the urinal and this bald headed old cretin moves right up next to me and says in a seven-eleven accent, "Would you please help me untie the knot in my robe, sir?"

I'm right in the middle of makin' Godzilla cry, but Ghandi's slip-knot needs attention. So I finish the prance & dance part, and start helpin " Grasshopper" untangle his robe, but the knot is too tight, and I can't seem to loosen it, and while I'm struggling to undo his friggin "Mandress" I realize that if anyone walks in from the hotel, anyone that knows me, they could get the wrong impression and think I'm pullin' a "George Michael" here. A rest area robe-probe.
As I try to untie the belt of this robe I get a whiff of this cretin.
Woof!
Gunga Din here stinks! BAD!
So I just stop, and tell stinky-twinkie "I'm sorry,I can't get it." ...And I left him there still fighting the knot.
Screw him. Smelly wierdo! Buy some friggin' pants! ...or a knife.


So I get outta there, go hide in the office again, so I kick twenty more pair of stinky shoes away
from my office door, wondering,"if I call him, will doctor Scholls make house calls?"

I decided I'd had enough Ratface worship and bathroom encounters with Robe-probing Ravi Shankar look-alikes, so I decided to go home and take a shower in Desinex.

Part (2)

I picked up my kid and brought him to his karate school for a lesson
at 4 o'clock, and well, it isn't really Karate, it's Martial arts called Chung Moo Doe, which to me sounds like some Chinese guy who can't decide about hiring a cow as a prostitute.

Again I find myself in a place where all I can smell is foot odor.

I'm gonna get athlete's f*ckin' NOSE soon, I swear! I considered chopping up a Tic-Tac and snorting it.

The instructor is teaching the kids 2 things today;
(1) how to kick someone in the balls, and (2) how to keep someone from kicking you in the
balls.
I'm sitting in the waiting room with more smelly shoes, all this foot odor is makin' me goofy.
I secretly fantasize about kicking various people in the balls.

Meanwhile, This blouzah "Aunt Vicki" is in there with two bratty kids about 2 and 3 years old. The 3 year old, Salvi, is having speech problems, the 2 year old is having problems with the speed of light.
He's bouncin' off the walls like ricochet rabbit.
Speech impediment Salvi is playing trucks. But he calls them F*cks.
He rolls a small white one under the bench where I am sitting, he then goes under my legs and under the bench trying to get it.
Vicki sees this. "Salvi! whaddayou doin'?" she cackles hideously.
"I'm gettin' dat F*CK, aunt Vickie"
"No it's TR*CK Salvi boy," she snaps.
"F*ck," he sings.
"No no no! TRUCK! TRUCK!
T-R-U-C-K
and what kind of TRUCK is it?" She asks sweetly.
"A ICE CREAM F*CK!" says Salvi.

Zippy, the accelerated 2 year old, wings a red iron vehicle dangerously close to Swearing Salvi's head. It lands and becomes visible in the foot fungus cultivation area.
The two brats lock into mortal combat to gain control of the red toy.
"Fire Fu*ck!" I want dat Fire F*ck!

Vicki to the rescue..."Salvi you let Zippy have it!"
" I want a FIRE F*CK! He can take a DUMP F*CK!"
"What about this white one?" Vicki says.
"No! No I don't want a ICE CREAM F*CK!
I WANT MY FIRE F*CK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I stood up and walked outside, waiting in the rain for my kid to come out and kick me in the balls.

WEIRD DAY, huh?