A Few Ideas For Those Engaged In National Blog Posting Month

November is National Blog Posting Month and those who sign up for this grueling task are required to post every day for the entire month. Every year I tell myself that I am going to do this marathon of blogging and every year I fail for the same reason. My birthday falls on 11/1 and after a full day of celebrating, I am rarely sober enough to find the keyboard, let alone write in coherent sentences. So I've botched it from the start.

For those of you looking to pad your blog with something other than YouTube videos of cute kittens or music that no one but you could give a fig about, let me offer up a few suggestions for topics to write about. These are also good suggestions for those of us bloggers who only have one good idea a month or have run into a "dry spell" or the even more debilitating "writer's block", the most dreaded of blog diseases.

What follows is a list of topics/titles that anyone can pick up and run with, without any real preparation and require only a smidgen of thought to complete. The linked suggestions are ones I've tried myself. Such as: Eight rules for dating my Ex. An article written as if it were an auditory tour of your home. Frigidity in Men. The goofy advice column. A parody of the hard-boiled detective story. Off-kilter fantasies or four short-lived crushes. An inappropriate children's book. What people thought of you at ages eleven through fifteen. Cartoon lawsuits. Aesop's screwy fables. Why aliens would want to kidnap you. An unlikely conversation between two animals. Someone famous from history uses Email or Twitter or Facebook for the first time and is addicted. How you embraced the concept of total honesty for a few days. Waiting for someone who is late, broken down by time. How to suffer fools gladly. Your blog is presented as a PBS pledge drive or a QVC commercial. Advice that an elderly James Bond might offer over drinks. An article written like the descriptions for expensive things in a catalog. A faux high school reunion newsletter. Describe your home as if it were a travel brochure for a foreign country. Write about yourself as if it were a celebrity "tell-all" book. A prayer to God to not let you die in a funny way. Write your living will. Explain something hard to understand stupidly. A character study of an idiot or boob that you know. If you were one of Jesus' disciples, what kind of disciple would you be? (Great for atheists or agnostics!) Tell us about your first sexual experience and the hilarity that followed. Describe a new drug on the market with it's unlikely side effects. What would your resignation letter to your blog sound like? You are publishing your first CD, what would you put in the liner notes? Tell us about doing a simple task badly. (This is perhaps my best video ever!) Make a long list of ideas you stole from comedy articles in the New Yorker magazine and pass them off as your own in the vain hope that this will make your friends think you are bright, savvy, and above all, generous.

I'd put a link up to the last one but you're reading it.

The staff here at Social Zymurgy; the culture of beer, would like to offer the above in an effort to aid struggling bloggers and writers everywhere because we all know that only poets and writers can save the world. We have left it in the hands of others for too long.

Doc

The Marshall Tool And Die Company

***FFF #9 comes not with a starter sentence per usual but with a short list of words that need to be included. Please enjoy this dark tale that was composed around Lies, Compromise, Disguise, & Redemption.***

"I hate like hell to drag you out of bed at this hour Mr. Levarr but you might be the only man in the state who can help me," Slane said as he plopped down behind his desk. Frank rubbed his sleepy eyes and yawned, "As long as you make it worth my while, I can miss a few hours of sleep."

"Oh the money is there. Don't you fret about that. I just-"

"What kind of money?" Frank pressed.

Slane sat back in his squeaky swivel chair and rubbed his jaw, "Now Mr. Levarr, we have always been very generous with you in the past. Why should now be any different?"

"One, you never knocked me out of bed at two in the morning before, and two, I've always dealt with old man Marshall in the past. Where is he?"

"He took sick. Got cancer in his thyroid or something. He went to Chicago to get some kinda radical treatment. Super chemo or some such. He left me in charge while he's gone." Slane leaned forward on the desk and looked him in the eye, "You want the job or not?"

Frank lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling, "Now Slane, you and I both know that Marshall got the contract with the new shock absorber plant going into Youngstown. Tomorrow is the first of the month and I'm willing to bet that the machine is due for delivery, and it isn't ready yet is it? Why else would you drag me out at this ungodly hour? A machine like that has got to be worth at least $750,000 right?"

"850," Slane grumbled.

"Now it wouldn't look too good if you had to explain to Mr. Marshall how you suffered a big penalty on that contract because you couldn't have it ready on time, now would it? What does the penalty run?"

"Ten grand," Slain said flatly.

"Lies," Frank said as he flicked some ash from the knee of his jeans, "It's got to be at least fifty or perhaps even more? I'll take thirty and save you the grief. You can make the check out to cash." Frank took a long pull at his cigarette and watched the sweaty fat man squirm.

"Surely we can come to some compromise?" Slane pleaded, "I have a wife and family to think of! And what about the business? These are hard times Mr. Lavarr and there are a lot of folks counting on this money!" Slane's eyes grew wide.

Frank dropped his butt on the office floor and made a slow motion of crushing it with his heel. He looked Slane in the eye. "Your wife is a no-good slut and everyone for three counties knows it," Frank cocked a crooked smile, "and if it wasn't for this contract, this place would have folded six months ago, but I am not a blood thirsty vulture. Mr. Marshall was always good to me in a roundabout way, so why kick a man when he's down? I'll take twenty-five and we will call it even. Take it or leave it." Frank began to button his coat as a cold rain began to patter against the window and plink against the metal roof of the pole building.

Slane shook his head as if to rid himself of an uncomfortable truth, but he couldn't shake the reality that he was over a barrel. "I'll get the checkbook from the safe," he said quietly as he rang a buzzer. He tried to disguise his defeat but his hangdog expression gave him away.

The door to the grimy office opened and a hunched man in overalls entered. His slitted eyes took in the scene.

"You remember my brother-in-law Wenzel don't you Mr. Levarr?" Slane said as he crouched in front of the antique safe and waved a hand at the newcomer. Wenzel nodded his hello and slid his hands deep in his pockets. "Why don't you take Mr. Levarr to the machine Wenzel. It is going to take me a few minutes to get this old bastard to open, as it's always temperamental when it's damp out."

"Come on," Wenzel said in a gravely voice and motioned with a jerk of his head that Frank was to follow him. Frank grinned at the thought of easy money as he followed the hunchback out.

Wenzel lead Frank out into the factory with a peculiar shuffling gate as his twisted back seemed to make him wobble from side to side as he took his short, hobbled steps forward. Wenzel let his work boots scuffle along the dirt floor. They ambled past steel stock of all shapes and sizes, and huge presses that were to cut pizza boxes from cardboard three feet thick. The air reeked of grease, dust, and exhaust. The bare light bulbs hung low and it seemed as if only every other one was lit. The rain picked up and began to pound the metal roof like lead shot falling on a drum head.

Wenzel paused at a hard-used red tool box at his feet and rummaged around for a moment. "Here we go," he muttered as he pulled out a heavy-duty metal flashlight. He clicked the switch to make sure that it worked and the light fell into the tool box. "So that's where I left it," he muttered as he pulled a pint bottle of cheap whiskey out. He unscrewed the cap and took a long pull. "You want a snort?" he offered. Frank noticed how he wiped the bottle off on his grease encrusted sleeve before he held it out. "No thanks," Frank said, "not before breakfast."

"Suit yerself," and most of the bottle slid down his gullet before he tucked it away in his back pocket. "C'mon," he said as he handed the flashlight to Frank and they mounted the narrow metal stairs up the huge gray machine. Wenzel pointed out each feature and section as they went along, from the feeding system of the metal stock to the stamp that produces the cylinder that was the body of the shock. He motioned to the entry of the milled piston and the measurement of the fluid that was used. All the while, Frank was shining the light from each connection and joint, checking every air hose and belt, his critical eye was taking in all the facets of this complicated machine in much the same way a surgeon lays open his patient and surveys his project.

Wenzel stopped along the high catwalk and shouted above the sound of the torrent of rain on the metal roof, "Here's where we got the problem. This bit is supposed to stuff the rubber washer into the grommets at the ends but it just won't do it. I've checked the feed. I checked the air pressure, the timing, and the placement, but the son of a bitch just don't want to line up." Wenzel had another sip from his bottle, "I can't figure it out, maybe you can," he said with a toxic grin.

Frank ran a few pieces and saw how the rubber washer was consistently crushed and mauled. "It just doesn't have enough throw to the mounting arm," he said with resolve as he climbed the ladder to the access panel on the top. Frank removed the loose panel and stuck his head in. The hole was small and it took him some effort to work his hand holding the flashlight into the confined space.

What greeted him was the anguished face of a seventy-year old man with gray hair who had had his throat cut out with a jagged, sharp object and had wedged himself in the machinery in an effort to hide from his attacker, and had promptly bled to death.

Frank yanked his head from the machine with a startled cry, "It's...it's Mr. Marshall...he's dead!" he managed to sputter out.

Wenzel's pale face lost what little color it had and he turned his slitted eyes on Frank in an insane way, "So that's where he's been hiding," Wenzel nodded as if it all made sense now. "I think you had better climb down now Mr. Levarr," his gravel voice turned deeper as the lightening began to flash through the high windows.

Frank stared at him in disbelief, "The man is dead Wenzel! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"He said a dirty thing about my sister," Wenzel said in a monotone.

Frank's mouth moved but he couldn't make any sound.

"You said a dirty thing about her too!" Wenzel shouted, and to punctuate it, he broke his bottle on the hand rail and waved the jagged glass at Frank's face. "I heard you! I was outside of the office and I heard you!" The lightening flashed again and seemed to leave it's bright spark in Wenzel's maniacal eyes. Frank trembled and the flashlight fell from his fingers and made a wildly tinny sound as it clattered down through the machinery until it struck the floor with a thud.

"You can't talk like that about her!" he screamed. His face screwed itself up into a look of rage as tears welled in his eyes. "She was the only one who protected me from Pappa! He would beat me when he was drunk and curse me for killing Mama by being born, and she would always lead him away. Sometimes she would sleep in his bed and I would hear her cry out and scream, like the devil had her by the ass, and maybe he did! But in the morning, when he was sleeping it off, she would bring me hot towels and patch my hurts..." Now the tears wouldn't stop and Wenzel couldn't see straight through his madness and his wet eyes.

He lashed out at Frank with the broken bottle and cut a large gash in his side. Frank crumpled to the catwalk and tried to hold his guts in as he scooted away from certain death at the hands of a mad man. Frank pulled himself along, his gaze never wavering from Wenzel's slow plod after him until his back bumped something solid and he looked up into the eyes of Slane.

"So you figured out what was wrong?" Slane asked in a calm voice.

"He's fuckin' crazy!" Frank blurted out.

"Yes, yes, we all know that," Slain dismissed the statement with a casual wave of his hand, "what's wrong with the machine?"

Frank was not a religious man but at that point he began to mumble the only prayer he knew. He got to "Who art in heaven" before Wenzel's broken bottle scooped out his throat from chin to collar bone.

Slane looked down at the dead man and sighed, "I guess there is no need to worry about redeeming ourselves in Mr. Marshall's eyes now," he concluded.

"They ain't no redemption for guys like us," Wenzel muttered as he ran his bloody fingers through his long, greasy hair. "Go get the van and call Velma. We can cash the check in Cleveland," he said.

Doc

**Author's Note** This idea was "lifted" from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Engineer's Thumb" and in no way should be viewed as an invention of the author himself. While the author takes much pride in his work, he is deeply indebted to those who came before him and tries to give them credit where it is so often due. The author also knows nothing about how shock absorbers are made.

Fear Not The Dark You Bright And Risen Angels!

On Halloween, Flannery took the girls trick-or-treating while I was at work. They canvased the neighborhood with the other local kids. They made a pretty good haul and when they were done they plopped down in the neighbor's back yard in a huge pile of leaves and compared candy.

Lucy, age five and pictured above in her costume as a Star Wars Jedi decided she wanted to go to one more house, so Flannery led her to the home of an elderly Italian couple who live the next street over. Now these folks are from the old country and their English isn't very good.

Lucy rings the bell and when the old man answers, holds out her bucket and cries out, "Trick or treat!" with all of the enthusiasm that a five year old can muster. "Good costume! Great costume!" he says with his thick accent as he puts a large handful of candy in her bucket. The old woman, hearing the sound of visitors, bustles to see who it is and joins her husband at the doorway.

She looks down at little Lucy in costume and her breath catches in her throat and her hand flies to her open mouth. "Jesu," she mutters, "Jesu Christi!" Without another word, she fills Lucy's bucket with all it will hold and crosses herself.

Flannery thanks them for their generosity, takes Lucy by the hand and they turn to go. "More children should dress like this!" the old woman calls after them. She kisses her rosary and takes the old man's hand as she closes the door.

Flannery didn't have the heart to tell them that Lucy was dressed as a character from a Sci-Fi movie that they had never heard of and not as Jesus Christ.

I choked up almost as much as our Italian neighbor lady did when Flannery told me the story, but I am a sentimental son of a bitch.

Doc

An Established Curriculum

FFF #8

"Warning: choking hazard, small parts, not suitable for children under 3 years" was what the Li'l Edgar Allan Poe Posable Figure box said, but Johnny didn't listen because he was almost thirteen so he ripped off the head and ate it. "There, you old bastard," he muttered as the taste of Chinese plastic faded from his tongue, "that will teach you and Mrs. Kessler! Screw the stupid book report! I ain't doing it!"

The head of Poe seemed to lodge itself halfway down and it felt as if it was gnawing at the root of his tongue. Johnny coughed and sputtered a bit, but the head refused to move on to the indignity that he had planned for it. "A cold drink will fix this right," he thought. There wasn't any milk in the fridge, but the carton of grape juice was full. Johnny wasn't the kind of kid to stand for the formalities of cups and glasses, so he drank right from the carton in the way his mother frowned upon.

"There's your case of Amontill...Amantill...Amandildo!" Johnny thought to himself, "Try and unbrick your fuckin' way out of this one, you creepy old son of a bitch!" as the grape juice loosened Poe's head. It seemed to make a subtle thud as it hit bottom.

"Johnny! Time for bed dear!" his mother called from the sofa.

"Aww Mom! It's only nine-thirty!" Johnny whined.

"I don't care. You are a growing boy and you need your rest. Besides, it's a school night and I want you bright eyed and bushy tailed in the morning. Go to bed!" she said with a mother's resolve.

"G'night," he mumbled as he shuffled off.

The sheets were cool as he slid between them and settled his head into a comfy spot on the pillow. His belly rumbled as his limbs went slack in relaxation. "Stuffed green peppers must be sitting wrong," he considered as his eyes closed and sleep quickly overcame him.

Like most nights, Johnny quickly fell into a dream state and pictured himself in school the next day. Mrs. Kessler called his name to give his book report and Johnny swaggered forward to the head of the class with all the confidence of a flinty western gunfighter. Mrs. Kessler and the class looked at him with rapt attention. Johnny turned his back to the black board and looked out across the sea of faces. "For starters," he began, "I didn't read the effing book!" The class gasped along with Mrs. Kessler who held her hand in front of her mouth to hear such a blaspheme. "You want to know why? This stupid son of a bitch has got nuthin' to teach us for one. He ain't scary for another, and nobody talks like this any more! Who the hell can follow what the fuck he is talkin' about? I can't, and you shouldn't have to suffer through any more of this hack's bullshit!" At this point, the class broke into cheers and Mrs. Kessler dabbed her wet eyes with her hanky and shook his hand. She held it for a long time and thanked him for his honesty and in helping her see the light. She gave him an 'A' and promised that they would never study Edgar Allan Poe again in PS 128! Johnny basked in the glow of his fellow classmates and looked down the front of Mrs. Kessler's ample sweater as he did it.

Johnny awoke with a start as the dream ended abruptly. He was in his own room and was nestled in his own bed, but the warm feeling of adulation from his classmates evaporated in an instant and was replaced by a very cold sense of fear. The house was quiet. Nothing broke the stillness of the night as Johnny stared at the ceiling above him in the darkened room until the distant howl of a lonesome dog pierced the night. Johnny's belly howled along with the mysterious hound.

Johnny wasn't old enough to know what fear or despair smelled like, but his room was filled with a grossly uncomfortable stink, and it wasn't from fluffing the covers after stuffed pepper night. His alarm clock started to tick progressively louder despite it's digital operation. It seemed to be ticking in time with his heart in a familiar but uncomfortable tick-tick, thump-thump manner, as if one was calling out to the other, and the other answered in it's own kind.

Johnny reached up to wipe the fat beads of sweat from his forehead before they slid into his wide eyes that were trying to penetrate the gloom. He struggled to ascertain from which direction this nameless fear would strike out at him. He found his hand to be numb and lifeless as he pulled it across his brow, as if he had been laying wrong on his arm and it had gone to sleep of it's own volition. As his own hand passed over his eyes, even this limp member could detect a volcanic temperature that arose from his head.

As he tucked his arm beneath the warm covers, Johnny tried to convince himself that it was only a good dream that had drifted into fear on his awakening and there was really nothing to be afraid of. Johnny stared hard at the covers that were bathed in a sliver of moonlight from his blinds to steady his rattled nerves. He needed to be fully awake or to quickly drift back off to sleep, as this was the only way he could think of to shake these late night jitters. As he pulled the covers up to his neck, he tried to return to his lost dream of class-wide admiration, and moved his feet a little deeper into the bed.

He was surprised when one foot struck something cold and hard. His eyelids shot up and his focus studied his feet in the small stripes of moon light that fell from his blinds. He looked at his feet intently in the dim light.

Whatever his foot had struck had a life of it's own. To his amazement, it seemed to cling to his little toe with a vice-like grip. He heard the soft snap of toe bones crunching before the pain ever registered in his sleep addled brain.

Johnny kicked and thrashed, and he shook the painful attack loose. "The hell.." was as much as he could muster before the covers revealed that, whatever it was, it was climbing up his leg towards him and the bump under the covers was moving with a steady pace. He held still and watched. He could feel tiny fingers clasp one hair and then the next in an effort to pull itself up his leg. He could feel tiny shoes dig into his shin and push themselves along by their own perverse exertion. The covers humped up and moved with the sensations to reassure him that something wicked was crawling up his leg.

"Arrgh!" Johnny screamed as he squirmed and threw back the covers. A six inch figure in a tiny black suit was clinging to his leg hairs and looked at him with a death stare, or would have, if it had a head. Johnny thrashed around some more and tried to kick it off with his other leg, but it was as if his limbs had been paralysed and he was held in place by glue.

The figure continued to pull himself along by the hairs on Johnny's leg, and as he did so, the clock grew louder and the figure grew bigger with each tug at these fine hairs. As he reached Johnny's knee, he was three feet long. As his cold gray claws hooked into Johnny's underwear, He was four feet long. When the figure reached his cold, plastic hands around Johnny throat and began to gently squeeze, he was a six foot plastic headless corpse and his weight was a hundred and sixty pounds heavy on Johnny's chest.

Johnny struggled to loose himself from this death-like grip. He fought against his foe with limbs that wouldn't answer. He tried to cry out for help, but his voice only made a rasping, gurgling noise and he knew that no one would ever hear him again. He quit fighting and resolved to die at age thirteen, beneath the crushing weight of a life-sized plastic corpse who would consume his very soul.

The body seemed to turn it's non-existent head on him and recognise him for the first time. The bloodless plastic hands slowly crushed his wind pipe a little harder as it leaned close to his face. He could feel the hot breath emerge upon his cheek from a severed plastic esophagus and it seemed to have quickened it's breath to match the timing of his pounding heart.

The plastic hands gripped tighter still and Johnny felt the life ebbing from him when the figure leaned into his face and muttered from it's throat hole, "Read it," in a ghastly hiss.

Johnny ceased to be and grew cold where he lay.

Johnny's mother got up early like she always did and stopped at the bathroom to relieve herself, then headed off to the kitchen to make her morning coffee. "What are you doing up?" she said with a startled cry.

"I couldn't sleep," Johnny admitted, "and I had some homework to finish before school today. I made coffee already. Have some. I did." Johnny's eyes were as bloodshot as a crack addict and he spoke in a monotone so different from his usual bouncy self. He turned his red eyes back to a book and scribbled like mad on a paper already filled with notes.

"Why the sudden interest in school work?" Mom asked as she filled her mug, "You never cared this much before?"

"I got up early cause I had to take a crap," Johnny explained in a disembodied voice, "There was a head in it and it told me so." he turned his eyes slowly back to his book and his notes as if his life depended on it.

Of this, he would never speak of again.

Mom got used to his new all black wardrobe and his vegan diet, but he was never the same again.

Doc

**Author's Note** This story comes from meeting Riley's teacher at an ungodly hour of the morning today after a long night of celebrating my birthday. I can only pray that you have average kids, as the gifted ones are tougher to handle. As a parent, you owe them to start putting your boot in their ass now. I'm finding out now, it is my job.

My .38 Special Birthday

"Just hold on loosely, but don't let go. If you cling too tightly, you're gonna loose control!"

Well my birthday went off without a hitch and I got everything I wanted. I had the day off. I got to sleep in. I hung out with the girls. I relaxed and drank coffee while goofing around on the computer. I went to Tiki and spent time with my friends. I had more than my share of cold beer and Flannery and I had a wonderful meal out.

And boy did I eat! Most of the time I approach eating as a chore. It's just something you have to do, much like shaving or taking out the trash, but not today. It was a day of wanton gluttony. I ate a steak, fries, salad, cheese sticks, onion rings, two bowels of chili, and some fried gator meat. I washed it down with copious amounts of beer.

It was a damn good birthday!

I thank you all for your well-wishes, as it's good to be remembered on your birthday. Should you like to get me a gift, I'd love to have you as my neighbor on Facebook's Farmville as I can't seem to tear myself away from this silly game. I've been trying forever to acquire a larger farm but it takes more neighbors than the four I have. Join me and I will send you a duck every day, I promise.

I'd like to tell you more but I've got to get ready for work and still find the time to pen my Flash Fiction Friday entry.

Stay frosty my bruden,
Doc

My Day Of Recognition Has Dawned!

The only recognition that I can recall garnering involved a police line-up and the award that came with it entailed ten days in the Iron Bar Hilton and a public apology to the girl's mother in front of the entire P.T.A.

Not this time!

This time I have been recognized by not one, but two powerhouses of blogdom! I refer to none other than Freida Bee, and the bad tempered zombie herself, Barbara Bruederlin.

I can only assume that both of these young ladies have been drinking heavily and chasing it with cold medicine, but I am not above accepting these awards even if the bestowers were plowed. I do have scruples, but they are very small, seldom used, and reside at the back of the kitchen junk drawer right next to my morals, my ethics, and several antique packets of taco sauce, but that is niether here nor there.

From my irritated undead friend, I got an Excellent blog award, and from Ms. Free 2 Be, I got a Kreativ Blogger award, but like all of life's majestic wonders there is a catch. Barb asks that I nominate 10 other bloggers and Freida asks for seven things I like that aren't people. So here are all 17 at once:

1. Pulling on underware that are still hot from the dryer.
A. The Baroness Von Bloggenschtern.
2. A really funny dirty joke.
B. Ubermilf.
3. Finding money in my pocket that I didn't know I had that will be promptly blown on beer.
C. Randal Graves.
4. The feel of climbing into cool, fresh, clean sheets that I didn't have to wash, dry, and put on the bed.
D. MRMACRUM.
5. The familiar caw of a crow.
E. Beach Bum.
6. Celery
F. Alan Griffiths.
7. Beer. (What? You were expecting me to say puppies, rainbows, and hugs from small children? Not a chance.)
G. Pipe Tobacco.
H. The Right Honorable Cormac Brown.
I. Dr. Monkey Von Monkerstein.
J. And perhaps my all time favorite, Skyler's Dad.

I must admit that I work very hard on my blog and I put a lot of my heart and soul into it. It is important to me that when you come here, there is something entertaining, fun, and funny. I work harder on this than anything I have ever done in my life and it consumes great gobs of my time. I thank you both deeply for your kind nod and I hope to continue to make you laugh.

Your friend,
Doc

Why TV Is No Help

I saw a confusing commercial on TV today. It was from a law firm that was suing the makers of a birth control pill that didn't work and apparently caused all manner of health problems, including death, and they wanted you to call to join their suit. They even had an eight-hundred number, 1-800-BAD DRUG.

This was not the confusing part. With enough money, I could hire a lawyer to sue the estate of Andrew Jackson for not preventing the Civil War, and it turns out people do this kind of thing every day in these United States. This is sad, but not confusing.

The confusing part is the fact that at no point do you see some stuffy lawyer in a wood paneled office with huge bookshelves lined with thick tomes of law. No. What they show you is pictures of beautiful, desirable women, some scantily clad, in alluring poses with a "come hither" look in their eye...FOR A BIRTH CONTROL PILL THAT COULD CAUSE DEATH! To make matters worse, the voice over is of a deep, masculine voiced man explaining the serious health hazards of the drug as if he were narrating a 1950's style educational film on how to survive an atomic bomb blast.

This is the part I find confusing.

The narrator is trying to convince me to call these lawyers because there are bad birth control pills out there and I have a small hope of redress for the wrong I, or a loved one, may have suffered and he does this with the urgency of a ticking bomb or a naked blade at your throat.

This is countered by images of sexy women dashing along the beach with the surf gently caressing their feet as the spray wets her top a little more, only to be followed by the woman sprawled in front of a roaring fire place on a thick rug. She has been reading the open book in front of her but has paused to slide her reading glasses off her face and nibbles the earpiece seductively before turning to the camera to exhibit a coquettish grin. She manages to waggle her ass in time with shaking out her ponytail. The next is walking a large dog through the park and she has to jog to keep up with the hound. The camera follows her heaving breasts right through the scene despite the fact that she is braless and her navy blue polo is unforgiving on a cold day.

All this to get me to call a lawyer.

I remain confused.
Doc

The Chica Chica Boom Room

FFF #7

"There's nothing you can do that can't be done.
Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game.
It's easy." - The Beatles, "All You Need Is Love".

"Save me, I'm lost.
Oh Lord, I've been waiting for you.
I'll pay any cost.
Save me from being confused." - Carolina Liar

"Is that you baby or just a brilliant disguise?" - Bruce Springsteen.

The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda walked into the bar and demanded to know who had taken his pet iguana. "Who the hell is this cat Bensonmum?" I asked. The bar tender leaned stiffly forward over the bar and whispered in a conspiratorial manner, "This is Senor Krackow. He is a bit eccentric, but he is very good for business. Be nice to him, please."

"I said where is my figging iguana?" Krackow bellowed, "You ass warts didn't hear me? You butt crusts better get it together! I want my Buddha blamed iguana right flaming now!" Every face in the bar was turned to him as he rested his hand on one cocked hip and let his sequined skirt with the wide slit slide to one side, revealing entirely too much leg. He awaited results. Bensonmum's finger snap sounded like a gunshot as he grabbed the attention of the waiters and the rest of the bar. Wordlessly, he raised his index finger straight up and made a small circle in the air. Instantly, every person was in motion. Women dumped out their handbags while men turned out their pockets as if this was a well practiced fire drill. The waiters began crawling under tables and rooting through the large potted plants.

Bensonmum hurried around the bar and ushered Senor Krackow to a stool, "It will take them a few moments to find Mrs. Urethra Senor. Please, come and have a cool drink on the house while you wait. It should only be a moment, please, sit down next to the good Doctor." Krackow walked like he had a rented pelvis, thrusting it out ahead of himself, but he let Bensonmum guide him to a seat. "About time I got some sodding service," he muttered, "And you call this place a reputable bar. I was prepared to make a scene if I had to!"

"No, no. That won't be necessary. We have things well in hand now," Bensonmum said as he glanced at his wait staff who were pulling down the curtains. "Senor Krackow, may I present Herr Doctor Quackenbush. Doctor, the right honorable Senor Enrique Butch Blossom Krackow the third. You gentlemen get acquainted while I fetch some drinks," and with that, Bensonmum was gone, leaving me sitting next to a raving loony who was wearing twelve pounds of fresh fruit and enough sequins to pave Vegas. "Er, so uh, tell me Senor Krackow, what do you do?" I asked.

"Whatever I jacking well please," he said flippantly as he plucked a grape from his forehead and popped it into his mouth. He chewed noisily as he looked me over then spat a grape seed on the bar as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do.

"Here are your drinks gentlemen. Gin and tonic for Herr Doctor, and a Roy Rogers with a triple vermouth back for the Senor," Bensonmum said as he set the drinks down with a flourish, "Pardon me, I must attend to my wait staff as they seem to need some assistance in removing the paneling from the walls. Enjoy!" and with that, he was off.

"Doctor eh? What kind of a doctor? Podiatrist maybe?" Krackow asked.

"Gynecologist," I lied.

"Damn! I was hoping for a foot doctor as these heels are killing me!" Krackow pulled the cherries from his Roy Rogers and gently tucked them into his fruity hat before sucking down the drink with a gurgle.

I knew I shouldn't, but I just had to ask, "What's with the costume?"

He smiled, "What, this old thing? I only wear this when I don't care what I look like," he said with a giggled of a little girl. As he laughed his great horse's bray of a laugh, he put one hand across his breast so as not to reveal too much and held the other one in front of his mouth to catch the spittle. He leaned forward and whispered, "It's a disguise you see. I'm hiding. The King of Sweden has put a price on my head and I can't be caught until we get Alexander back into office."

"Alexander?"

"The Great, you silly boy!" He patted my arm as if we were old friends. He dipped his fingers in his glass of vermouth and dabbed a little behind each ear in a well rehearsed move, then he licked a cocktail napkin. Satisfied with his freshening up, he turned to the rest of the bar and bellowed, "Someone better come up with my dirt monkey iguana before I get totally jim-jammed here! I warn you, I have mustard and I'm not afraid to use it!" He turned back to me as the chaos in the bar ratcheted up another notch and made the Keystone Cops look like a well trained S.W.A.T. team. "Are you going to be in town long?" he asked.

"Just the weekend," I said, "I've come to study the cracks here in town."

He raised one eyebrow as the maraschino cherry juice dribbled down his forehead and into his eye.

"No, no. Nothing like that," I volunteered, "The cracks in the sidewalks. This town has the most interesting cracks in the world. It's something of a hobby of mine. I have a coffee table book coming out in June published by Rickenbacker, Flemish, & Bledsoe. They are very reputable publishing house and have given the topic the proper respect it deserves." I have no idea why I said this, but it seemed like the right responce for the time.

"Pity you aren't in town longer. We could have played racket ball."

"Really? How's your serve?" I asked.

"Oh I don't serve. I just throw the racket at the ball and see how far I can get it to bounce! It's quite fun!" Krackow picked up a full sugar shaker and flung it at a passing waiter's head. It connected with a sharp thud and sent the waiter reeling to the floor. The waiter thanked him for his kind attention and crawled off looking for his false teeth that had been dislodged with the blow. "That will learn you, you gob stuffing gravy spoon!" Krakow remarked.

"Here she is!" Bensonmum called with an armful of iguana as he scurried to the bar, "She has been found at last! The little vixen was hiding in the flour canister in the kitchen," he said with a broad smile.

"Probably thought it was my stash, the poor simpering, foolish adenoid," cooed Krackow. He gave the iguana a tickle under the chin and then performed a quick bath for it in the vermouth, with most of it running off into his lap. Then he pulled an enormous check book from his brassier and dashed off a check for a million pounds or rubles or something.

"Ta-ta darlings. I must gabble out of here. I've people to do and places to meet," with that, he hiked up his skirt and made a small leap off the bar stool to land perfectly on his lime green stiletto heels. He smoothed out his skirt and adjusted his fruity hat before turning back. "Bensonmum?"

"Yes Senor?"

"If a short, squat gentleman with a large facial scar stops in tonight and asks for me, would you give him a message?"

"Certainly Senor," Bensonmum licked the end of his pencil and held it above his order pad, fully prepared to take dictation.

"Tell him..."

"Yes..."

"Tell him to eat the mushroom and forget about the tabby cat," Krackow nodded to himself as if he had done his best to accomplish a tough and painful task. He headed for the door and at the threshold screamed, "God Save Sri Lanka!" and disappeared into the night.

The patrons turned from one to another and heaved a collective sigh of relief. I took a long pull at my gin and stood up. This was as much of an adventure as I could handle for the evening. My twenty dollar bill looked pretty small next to Krackow's over-sized check on the bar. I filled my lungs with the cool night air when I hit the pavement. I lit a Players and hiked for my hotel, the Ben Wa Arms.

As I walked and smoked, I tried to make a little sense of my evening. Nothing about it made the slightest bit of sense. Not Bensonmum, the bar, and most of all, not Krackow. My gaze fell to my moving feet on the sidewalk. The more I watched my feet eat up the distance, the more I convinced myself that this was some horrible flashback from too many years sniffing model glue as a teenager or from the time I shoved white blotter acid under my eyelid in college so I could trip extra hard. It was all too surreal.

Then I stopped mid-stride. On the sidewalk, fallen between the cracks was a smashed maraschino cherry and some iguana dung. At that moment, I resolved to spend my weekend in the hotel and live off of room service, and with any luck, not run into another soul.

Sometimes you need to fall back and regroup.

Doc

This Is My Candle

This is my candle. Please note that both ends are burning. Everybody has been sick, my workload has doubled this week, and I've been living on pills and coffee. Needless to say, my creative well has been a little low this week.

This Sunday marks 12 years since Flannery and I tied the knot. To celebrate, we are going to bed early after a sumptuous dinner of Ramen noodles. We will toast the occasion with some Tylenol and split a box of tissues. No gifts will be exchanged, as we are as broke as an eight-day clock. These are lean times.

I hope all is well with you and yours. I'll drop by this weekend and read your posts for this week.

Don't let your meat loaf,
Doc

The Girl From Kansas City

"You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man's thoughts turn to love, but I think they're wrong." Fritz propped his feet up on the table and eyed the coal on his cigar, "A man's thoughts turn to love at about nine-thirty."

Javier nodded, took a sip of his tequila, and returned to the task of cleaning his rifle.

Fritz adjusted his feet and let his spurs dig into the wood of the table before he continued, "At nine-thirty, he has had his dinner and has had a couple of drinks. That is when he is ready for love. Hell, at that point, he is ready for anything!"

Fritz chuckles at his own joke and pulls out his pocket watch and examines it closely through blood-shot eyes. It is an hour until his appointment, so he closes the lid and continues to wax philosophical on man.

"About nine-thirty a man develops an itch like none other. Sure, it is a little stronger in the spring, but any man that would deny that the cold nights of winter don't make it enter his mind is a liar! On a cold night, nothing beats a warm woman!"

Javier looked up from his dirty ramrod and nodded his assent.

Fritz took a puff of his cigar and eyed the nearly empty bottle of whiskey. Javier had most of his bottle of tequila left, but cactus juice would only slow him down tonight. It would make him stupid and slow. No, the whiskey would keep him on edge and ready for whatever would happen next. It always had. Fritz upended the bottle and let the burn settle into his stomach. The burn would keep him safe and warm, while giving him the strength to carry on and be loose, without being stupid.

"I knew a girl in Kansas City that would make your eyes roll back in your head! Not you in particular, as she wouldn't hump Mexicans, but you know what I mean. Now that girl knew how to get rowdy! She'd cut loose and holler 'n yell. She had this little shimmy thing that she'd do..." His eyes glazed over as he recollected, and his spurs dug the gouge into the table a little deeper.

Javier nodded as he filled his rifle with as many shells as it would hold, worked the lever, chambered a shell, and took a bead at a point on the wall. Satisfied, he laid the rifle on the table.

"She would do things that would make you cry 'uncle' and a little more," Fritz said a little wistfully. He sat a little deeper into his chair and blew a large plume of smoke at the roof of the cabin. "What about you Javier? You ever been in love?"

"There was a girl once." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Yeah, and what happened?"

"She died."

"I..I'm sorry to hear that," Fritz muttered.

"The neighbor woman thought her husband was cheating on her with my Naomi and she slit her throat. She didn't know it was Naomi's mother. She died in the street," he said matter-of-factly, then Javier bowed his head for a moment, adjusted his hat, and then finished his drink. He looked Fritz in the eye. "But they paid. They paid dearly." He smiled. "Tell me again, who we got for an inside man?"

"My brother Cormac. He's bringin' his new bride. Some girl he met in Kansas City I guess. His letter wasn't too specific. It was mostly about the job."

"I'm ready," Javier said flatly, "When do we meet 'em?"

"9:30," Fritz checked that his hammer was on an empty chamber in his pistol, dropped his feet to the floor and paused before he got up. "Do you mind if I have a sip of your tequila?" Javier slid the bottle to him. "I just need one more nip to calm my nerves," Fritz explained, and against his better judgement, tipped the bottle back and choked down three long gulps.

"Come on," he said as hie wiped his chin, "that stagecoach ain't gonna rob itself," and they headed to the horses.

Doc

Warning: Simian Sighting. Dr. Monkey Von Monkerstein Spotted In Dance Video With Curvey Women

Rarely is one afforded an opportunity to see a monkey in it's natural habitat, let alone one of this caliber. The following video has caught a particular simian physician doing what he loves: pointing his camera at beauty and loving every minute of it. Pay particular attention at 2:38 when he makes his appearance. The video may be preempted by a Jimmy Dean Sausage commercial. There is no irony in this.

Who knew he looked like a dancing six-foot Curious George?

Doc

"Son, you better put that old guitar away. There ain't no money in it and it will lead you to an early grave."

"But it could be that the good Lord likes a little pickin' too."

I was just thinking about you Dad. I hope you and Mom are having a fine time in heaven and I hear that the good Lord has a soft spot for carpenters. I love you and I miss you both.

Doc

Ode To A Gnat

Ode to a gnat I found dead and floating in my beer;

I regret not your untimely death,
As you are annoying.
I despise you for your method of suicide,
But must admit that it wouldn't be a bad way to go!

Doc

Who Can Question The Power Of Love?

"First time you feel it, it might make you sad,
Next time you feel it it might make you mad,
But you'll be glad baby when you've found,
That's the power makes the world go round!" - Huey Lewis & The News, "The Power Of Love"

"You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man's thoughts turn to love, but I think they're wrong. It's in the fall. I know I've been feeling a bit of an itch lately, if you know what I mean," Fritz said wistfully.

Javier didn't seem to be listening, but seemed more intent on staring at Fritz's left shoulder with an intense gaze. Fritz didn't notice and continued to elaborated on his thought.

"Yeah, I've been feeling pretty randy here as of late," Fritz scratched his chin, "You know what I look for in a woman Javier? You know what really pushes my buttons? I bet you haven't got a clue."

"A big ass?" Javier volunteered without ever moving his fixed look.

"That's right! Ha ha! You got it! A nice big, plump red ass! The redder, the better!" Fritz smiled at the thought and clapped his hands, "That's how my ex-wife Naomi was. Just redder than the setting sun, and she knew how to shake it, let me tell you boy! She was a fine catch at the time. The first time I saw her, she was just strolling by and I take one look at her and I thought to myself, 'She's pretty good looking. Not drop dead WOW, but pretty.' but when she got past me and I saw her from the back, I knew I had to make her mine! She had a walk that just exuded grace and sexiness, and...well...class, if you know what I mean. She had panache. Not like the girls today who just want to stick it in your face and mutter something dreadful like, 'Come and get it, big boy' or some twaddle."

Javier's arm shot out with the speed of a flash bulb and snatched something from Fritz's shoulder and he pinched it in his fingers. "Sorry old man, didn't mean to startle you," Javier said, "It's just that you've had this bug crawling on you for fifteen minutes and that just irritates me to no end! One of my many eccentricities I guess," Javier sighed, "I'm sorry, please continue. Naomi's ass?"

"Well, yes," Fritz shifted and eyed Javier to see if he was going to lash out again any time soon, then continued, "Yeah, that Naomi was a fine one for a roll, she was. It's a pity she was so bull-headed. I could have made my life with that woman if she could have just once and a while compromised. But no! It had to be her way all the time! What we ate, where we slept, on and on! She would just dig her feet in over the stupidest things. It was a relief when she moved back in with her mother." Fritz sat quietly for a moment and just fiddled with his thumbs. Javier didn't say anything because he was afraid to intrude on his friend's thoughts, and snuck the bug between his fingers into his mouth instead.

Fritz looked up and wiped his nose on his wrist with resolve. "What do you say we rustle up some dinner," he said, "I know this great ant mound not far from here. You could find us some sticks on the way."

"Why do I have to find the sticks?" queried Javier.

"Cause you're the better tool-maker numb nuts!" Fritz said with a friendly jab. The two baboons wandered off together.













**Editor's Note** I read somewhere that when a female baboon is "in season" her butt gets redder to attract mates. I thought this was odd and worthy of a story.

Doc

Gentlemen, How's Your Tool?

I came across something today that was so damn funny, I spilled my beer while trying to hold my sides! I was striken for ten minutes with deep belly laughs, puntuated with the occasional snort. I don't laugh like this as much as I'd like and when a good thing comes along, you feel obliged to share it.

Take one minute and read It May *Sound* Humorous, But Sadly It is True, a truthful tale of many tools.

It was penned by The Frumpy Professor, a gentleman I met through Cormac's Flash Fiction Friday. I look forward to reading more from the good Professor and catching up with your blog tomorrow, as I have the day off.

Right now, ol' Doc has to crawl into a warm bed full of kids and nurse a cold.

Enjoy your Wednesday!

Doc

What's Your Indian Name?

It was either this or "Walks With Keg"

What's your Indian name?

Doc