Do you have time for a few random thoughts?

Well the summer heat has just started to kick in with temps in the mid-nineties and the humidity at about the same, but some have found ways to beat the heat.

I think it has fried my brain. With that in mind, let me share some of my hallucinations, delusions, and general meanderings.

• I have a small scar at my hairline from a bad zit I had as a teenager. It bugs me.


• It is tough living with three artists in the house. There isn't a room in our house that does have an example of their art DRAWN ON the wall. The youngest won't quit drawing on the walls and playing her guitar really loudly at all hours. The oldest enjoys cutting things up with scissors, even things we wanted to keep, to create some of her art. While Flannery is a grand master at good conversation, wit, and sarcasm and it takes a lot out of me to keep up with her.


• I asked my dad once why they call a bottle opener a churchkey. He asked me, "What is there to steal in a church?". Well, nothing I could think of. "There you go, why bother to lock the door if there isn't anything to steal?" It didn't really answer my question, but I had it answered two weeks later when thieves broke into our church and stole three air conditioners, two computers, and the Minister's ivory chess set, but all of the robes and hymnals were still there.


• I have that "not so fresh feeling" more often than I care to admit.


• I hate advertising so much I quit listening to the radio, and I tape all four of the shows I watch on tv so I can skip the commercials, as well as canceling my subscription to the newspaper. I only wear clothing that endorses something that I would recommend to friends and loved ones (e.g. B.B. King, Harvard, Monopoly, Jimi Hendrix, Guinness).


• On Cap'n Ergo's visit, he took a photo of the books in our bathroom. Two Foxtrot collections, a Calvin & Hobbes book, as well as the new, revised Aristotle Reader. Three comic books and a philosophy book. I'm sure he did this for some future blog post, but what does this say about us?


• I never liked the phrase "chewing the fat" or "Bullshitting". I like "Shooting the Bull". It sounds like we are getting something done.


• I can honestly admit I have learned something, when to speak up. I'm still a little shaky on the keeping the mouth closed thing though. At any given time, I have at least six wrong answers to any seven questions.


• I have never been arrested for a violent crime. Wacky, stupid, and midly drunken -yes, but never violent. I've been busted and escorted home for throwing a water ballon. Funny story that is.


• Somewhere out there, you have a Doppleganger, but you are having much more fun than they ever will, look better, make more money, have a nicer place, much better taste, and a mysterious quality that just makes people want to be your friend. The only drawback is they have a cooler car and have a lot more sex, but they are never as happy as you always will be.


• Look in your silverware drawer. Do you have a fork or a spoon that you have no idea where they came from? I keep finding odd spoons and forks that just don't match our pattern and I don't know where they are coming from. And for some odd reason, it is never a butter knife. All of those are ours.


• The pumpkin patch is doing well. We have a contest going to see who grows the best with a case of Good Beer on the line. John and Meshell are the judges, but I know they can be be bribed with the right amount of Bud Light Lime finding it's way to the right fridge.


• A guy stops into his favorite watering hole after work and notices a new machine next to the jukebox and pinball machines. He asks the bartender about it and he tells him that it tells your fortune if you pee into a cup, but it costs $10. So the guy puts in his money and a little paper cup drops out like a coffee vending machine. He goes to the Gent's and takes a whiz and returns it to the machine and puts it in. The machine whirrs and beeps and in thirty seconds, kicks out a piece of paper. It reads, "You Will Be Confounded By The Future". "Crummy piece of shit," he pronounces, "I'll show it!" and he heads home. He has his wife, his teenage daughter, and the dog pee in a cup. To top it all off, he pours in some oil from his car and masturbates into it as well. He returns to the bar, inserts $10, and pours in his mixture. The machine whirrs and beeps for a good five minutes and kicks out a piece of paper. He snatches it up and reads, "You Wife Is Cheating On You With Your Best Friend, Your Daughter Is Pregnant By A Haitian Drug User, Your Dog Is Going To Have Puppys, Your Car Needs A Valve Job, And If You Keep That Up You Will Go Blind."


• Is it weird that I can understand why someone would want to have something pierced, but I don't understand the desire to get tattoos? A hole grows over if you don't use it, but tattoo's are for life.


• When are spats going to come back in style? Can anyone tell me?


• For every mosquito bite you don't get, thank a bat, a spider, or a duck.


• Some of my favorite phrases are, "You Win!", "The Money Is All Yours!", "Here...", "I've got a present for you," "Your turn," No, I'll pick up the check,"and "What would You Like Me To Do Next?' Runner-Up Phrases include, "Sir, I believe you dropped this $50 bill,", "Would you like a free one?", and "The name on the grave is Arch Stanton."


• I seldom give dictation.


• Have you ever found a bruise on yourself you can't account for?


• Why does cold beer in hot weather work so much better in you rather than on you? It doesn't really cool you off as much as you would hope, but you don't seem to mind the heat as much.


• I'm thinking of adopting a Slovenian, or an experienced teacher. Any suggestions?


• The older I get, the more I start wondering where and when I spent my misspent youth.


• Impeachment is not enough; A good spanking then a Firing Squad.


• Did anyone catch the weather? It's very hot here.


• I wish I had an automatic ice-maker. I'd fill the hot tub.


• I took Spanish in High School because I have trouble spelling English, why try French?


• A bottle in front of me is better than a Frontal-Lobeotomy.


• I cry at movies and it makes me ashamed of myself. Who cries at the end of a porno?


• "Ped" is Latin for foot & child. That is why we have pedals on a bike and pedophiles in jail.


• I hate the fact that our money is becomeing more colorful. Can't we just stick with green? I like green.


• Why would anyone file their teeth unless they were a cannibal? And if they were, I bet they only had a few close friends, and they didn't work in customer service.


• Do you own a bathing suit that you look great in? I don't, but somebody must. They keep selling them.


• Why have I never gotten one single telegram?


• Water Polo should be banned. It is tough on the horses.


• Join the fight against metrics. We don't want no Foreign Rulers.


• I'm addicted to reading bumper stickers even though my eyesight isn't that good. I'm apt to be a jerk and tail gate you for a mile or two just so I can read what it is you endorse. I'm funny like that.


• The new Indiana Jones movie was very good, almost as good as the first one.


• I have regretted eating squid, organ meats, and a small portion of Flannery's chili.


• I'm sure your mother had her faults, but she was a fantastic person, and everyone who knew her would agree, except this one guy in high school who hit on her and she wouldn't come across, but he is generaly ignored because it is understood that he is an asshole.


• I've played marbles for money.


• If you raise a shitstorm, it is best not to check the weather every five minutes.


• If you have been bitten by a dog, is it okay to bite him back?
  

Cheers,

Doc

Cow Tipping Can Lead To Romance, a cautionary tale.

I had a buddy of mine once ask me to go on a date with him. "What do you need me for?" I asked, "you already have the girl lined up."

"I need a wingman, someone to make me look good, 'cause I'm really trying to impress this girl. I REALLY like her, and I want her to dig me, so you come along and tell her what a cool guy I am and give me some good jokes to tell. Besides, with you along she won't feel pressured, it'll just be like the three of us hangin' out."

I felt his plan was fatally flawed from the start, but he was a good friend of mine and I didn't really have anything better to do, so I went.

Now in my rural central Ohio hometown, there just isn't much to do on a Friday night if you aren't old enough to drink. Sure, you could go to the movies, grab a bite to eat, or do some shopping at the mall/feedstore and pick up some new overalls, but other than that, you had to invent your own entertainment. This was something I was good at, and I think it was for this reason alone my buddy invited me.

The evening started out predictably with picking her up, making introductions, as I had never met her, having a bite to eat, and over dinner the decision not to take in a flick or cruise the mall/feedstore was reached. As we exited the hamburger shop, the question was raised about what to do with our evening. Jokingly, I suggested cow tipping. I only mentioned it because she said she had grown up in town and had never been out to the country where we lived, nor had she ever tried it.

My buddy latched on to the idea like a pitbull to the mailman. "Let's go!" he said with enthusiasm, and with a laugh and a giggle, she agreed.

Now what neither one of them knew was that cow tipping is right up there with going on a snipe hunt. It is a ridiculous adventure in the dark meant to frighten the uninitiated, and often performed under the influence of alcohol. Much like two virgins having sex. And here I was nominated to be their safari guide on this foolishness. For the rest of the evening I referred to him as "Bwana", and her as "Mem'sab".

It was good and dark by the time we reached my uncle's dairy farm, but I had him park on a side road and not in the driveway, so I wouldn't have to explain to close family that I had brought two dimwitted strangers to knock bovines down hills to create an all natural milkshake. The first obstacle we faced was the fence. It has long been a theory of mine that how a person crosses a fence says a lot about them. I watched as my portly buddy proceeded to climb the wire fence in the middle point farthest from two posts and wobbled back and forth, and as he swung his leg over, snagged his crotch on the top string of barbed wire. It took him a minute or two to extricate himself amid hushed swearing and protestations that he hadn't really hurt himself too badly. To top it off, once he freed himself, he tumbled into a large patch of stinging nettles with all the grace of an elephant on a pogo stick. After wiping away the tears and trying not to scratch the itchy parts, he motioned her to come across and that he would help her.

At this point I intervened. I suggested that she might climb the fence near a post where it was sturdier, and very far from the patch of nettles that would leave itchy welts that would last for days. They took my advice, yet still managed to do a sketch that only Lucille Ball could have reproduced in her heyday. Now they turned and waited for me. I put one hand on top of a post and jumped over in one swift move and proceeded to lead them to the pasture.

The pasture consisted of one enormous steep hill that only leveled off at the summit where the radio tower was placed. I lead them there as they, hand-in-hand, leaned against the grade and spoke in hushed giggles of what a naughty thing they were doing. I found a nice spot that was reasonably cow-pie free, stretched out my coat on the ground for them to sit on and volunteered to head off looking for some unsuspecting cow to tip, leaving them alone under a starry night sky with the soundtrack of owls hooting and the serenade of crickets and a gentle breeze that was perfumed with the smell of wild flowers.

I should have told him that this was the time to make his move, because even Lon Chaney could have gotten laid under these conditions.

I wandered off "looking for cows" and left them alone. Now I knew before we came that we wouldn't find the first f*cking cow on the whole farm that night because these are dairy cows. These old girls are snug in the barn, dozing and dreaming of tomorrow's oats. They are NOT sleeping standing up in a field somewhere waiting to be knocked over by some rambunctious teens, contrary to popular myth.

I smoked a couple of cigarettes and watched the moonlight in the ripples of the pond as I wished my buddy the best of luck in his endeavors, and cursed my luck at being to young to buy some beer so that I could have enjoyed the night more with a wet whistle, while they hammered out the particulars of being young lovers.

"Find any?" she asked from behind me. I turned to find her there, and my buddy puffing the last few steps to join us. "Nope," I stammered at this unexpected company. It turns out, they spent the time discussing a mutually hated manager at the tractor supply company that they both worked for. Ah, youth is wasted on the young.

I lead them back to their comfy romantic spot and proceeded to instruct in Remedial Romance 101. I sat them together, while I sat off to the side, and pointed out the vastness of the universe that was unfolding above them. I made them breathe deep the air that was so full of the vibrancy of life and the smell of spring. I had them listen closely as one cricket seduced another with it's song. They listened as a pair of owls called to each other in their nightly primal hunt, as the dove cooed and snuggled with it's mate. I pointed out constellations that evoked the urgency of the ancients to understand and conquer this incomprehensible world.

If I could have played gypsy music on the f*cking violin, it couldn't have been more f*cking romantic, but these two clods couldn't even bring themselves to hold hands.

But the night wasn't a total waste. She fell for me and I had a short torrid affair with her that was based solely on sex, while my buddy married her psychotic best friend with intimacy issues. She is now fat, ugly, and married to a construction worker, but I know in my heart, she still longs for the night I took her cow tipping.

Doc

P.S.- This is a true story. Not one word of it has been fabricated, but a few were embellished. Also, this is the first post I have ever composed in the nude, as it is very f*cking hot.

The Only Time I Have Ever Frightened Anyone.

There is a reason I have never taken a job at a haunted house. First, the pay sucks and it is hard to get forty hours a week, and I am not the least bit scary. If I raise my voice and growl as I contort my face into a gut wrenching grimace, even small children just giggle and pick their nose. I'm am as frightening as say, Mr. Rodgers. But one time in my life I scared the bejeezus out of one guy.

It was 1990 and I had just gotten out of high school when my mother took me to the dentist before I was too old for her insurance to cover me. The dentist told us that I needed to have my wisdom teeth removed pronto and scheduled me an appointment with the oral surgeon. At first I was delighted, as I thought that an oral surgeon just corrected peoples ability to perform oral sex and I felt that I needed all the help in that department I could get, but no, I was getting teeth yanked.


I was going to go by myself, but my mother went with me, as the surgeon said that I shouldn't drive afterwords. The hot dental assistants rubbed their large bosoms over me as they prepped me for my operation. The gray haired old codger of a surgeon came in and we laughed at some stupid BeeGee's song that was playing on the muzak. He put the mask over my face and asked me to count backwards from one hundred. I made it all the way to ninety-seven and drifted into the world of erotic dreams of a young teenage man who envisioned the dental assistants awakening him with their soft caresses that promised oh so much more.

I came to with a buzzing in my head that was accompanied by a numb pain as if I had been assaulted with a crowbar in the neighborhood of my jaw while I was out. I laughed and giggled as they lead me to an examination table that was wedged at the back of a storage room. This was my first experience with laughing gas. I laid there until they closed the door and left me alone. I stared at the ceiling as it kept spinning in a half circle only to snap back where it belonged, only to start over again. I sat up so I wouldn't be sick and stared at my feet hanging thirty yards from the floor. This was like being spinning kind of drunk but I was stricken with an overwhelming urge to giggle uncontrollably. I had to collect myself. I had to find something to focus on. My gaze wandered about the room and settled on a box of balloons, black ones, and I plucked one up and proceeded to inflate it. I had a hard time blowing it up between bouts of giggles but I managed. What I didn't know was that I was bleeding, a lot. I just thought that my spit glands were working overtime after having my mouth open for so long.

I heard the assistant coming and she was talking to my mother in a very business type tone as she opened the door. I glanced up with a madman's grin as they looked me over and announced that it was time to go. I gurgled my acknowledgement and let go of the balloon. It made three laps of the room spraying blood and saliva everywhere. The assistant was sorry to see such a hot young stud like me get away, but she hid it bravely by gasping in horror at the mess I made.

I remember putting one arm in the sleeve of my trench coat and spinning in circles like a dervish chasing the other sleeve until my mother helped me pull it on. The car ride was a pleasant blur as my mother explained that we were going straight home after a quick stop at the drug store downtown on the square to get my prescriptions filled. She told me to wait in the car and went inside. I sat and let my head loll from side to side until this had lost it's entertainment value. I was overcome with an irresistible urge for a cigarette and I didn't have any. But here was a drug store right in front of me. They would have them.

I got out of the car, closed the door and took a few faltering steps before my progress was halted. I spent three minutes figuring out that I had shut the tail of my trench coat in the door. I tittered as I freed myself. I went inside and hoped that I could walk right up to the counter, make my purchase and leave. Such was not the case. There was a small line of little old ladies ahead of me and by the time it was my turn, my mouth was flooded with blood to the point I couldn't speak and I just had to point and grunt until the startled cashier picked the unfiltered cigarettes I wanted.

I went outside and plopped down on a bench and basked in the late afternoon sunshine as I open the pack. I fished one out and looked up as I was lifting it to my lips. A tall, portly, gray-haired old man was walking past sporting a polo shirt, plaid pants and had the white leather belt and shoes to match. He smiled and said good afternoon. I was about to return his greeting when I realised that my mouth could no longer hold back the flood. I turned and spat on the sidewalk and created a dinner plate sized puddle of blood. I looked him in the eye and wished him a good afternoon through a blood stained smile.

He stiffened. He turned pale. His eyes opened wide and he high-stepped it around the corner two blocks away before I could wipe my chin on my sleeve. I'm sure to this very day he warns his grandchildren about the dangers of smoking and drugs and retells the tale of meeting some wild-eyed madman who spat blood and told him to have a nice day.

I lit my cigarette and laughed to myself until long after the gas wore off.

Doc

Happy Birthday Paula Abdul!

Yes, our little girl is growing up. She has matured before our very eyes. Who remembers when this little kitten appear before us in the charts and gracing Mtv for the first time? I do. She turns 45 today. I know. The local radio station Wsomething or other, 94 something, told me so. It turns out Dear Paula shares a birthday with Kathleen Turner and Anne Wilson from "Heart" fame.

It turns out all of us here at the cyber-bar here at Social Zymurgy wish them all a "Happy Birthday", but especially Paula.

Please Dear, stay on the meds.

Doc

Beware The Ides Of March!

Last night, while I was at work, Big Orange called and reminded me that the Ides of March were upon us and the best thing to do was to keep our collective heads low and have an extra beer. I found this to be useful and practical advice.

I am not a superstitious person, but I have had a checkered history with this time of year. In high school, I prevented a fellow classmate from being stabbed by another classmate. It is the one and only time that your chicken-hearted editor ever swallowed a large, steaming cup-o-fear and didn’t run away, shrieking like a scalded little girl. And what did the stabber call out as he attempted to impale the stabbie, “Beware the Ides of March!” We were in theater class and we had been studying Julius Caesar. In hindsight, we probably should have covered this material in December, instead of the time of year when the actual murder of Rome’s greatest leader occurred.

The stabber was a troubled kid who took a lot of teasing. He was mentally “slow”, not stupid, not retarded, just “slow”. I had tried to be nice to him, and would chat and pass the time of day sort of thing, until he started pedaling his bicycle to my house every day and knocked on the door at all hours. He showed up at a late hour one night and I told him I didn’t have time to talk, as I was just headed to bed. He quit coming to my house after that, but a week later I discovered in my yard a human turd the size of my left leg. I think it was his “parting shot”.

The stabbie was an acquaintance of mine. His mother had been my 7th grade English teacher, and he made the honor role every month. He was a smart guy, at least as far as books went, but just lacked the kind of God given horse sense that most people take for granted. To my knowledge, theater class was the only thing that he didn’t do well in. He couldn’t tell a knock-knock joke, let alone act, but a nice guy nonetheless.

Why the stabber chose the stabbie is unknown. The stabbie had never teased or taunted the stabber. Other than theater class, I don’t think that their paths ever crossed. Maybe the stabber envied the brains and good looks of the stabbie? I don’t know. The point of the story is Scott Muto tried to shiv Tyler Knack with a six-inch buck knife, and I stepped in. I don’t know what the hell I thought I was doing. Scott was a foot and a half taller than me, had me by thirty pounds, and was crazier than an outhouse rat. I wrestled with him and gave Tyler a chance to get away. Tyler, like a dufus, took a few steps away and stared with the look of some one who has just seen a large flock of monkeys fly from their own butt. We wrestled until the teacher returned to the classroom from her midmorning smoke break. Once she entered the room, Scott wilted. Mrs. Moore didn’t break the five-foot mark in height, but she had enough grit and balls from umpteen years in the public school system to make a marine sergeant assume the fetal position and suck his thumb.

I was the only one wounded. I had a scratch on my hand and a sore wrist, Scott got suspended, and Tyler wore that dumbfounded look for a week.

I told you that story so I could tell you this one.

I don’t know how long the Ides last. I thought that it was just the 15th, but I guess not. Today, the 16th, in the first half hour after getting up, my children managed to break a very expensive lamp that the wife and I got for Christmas, spill two glasses of milk, and pore out most of a gallon jug of syrup. The battery on my phone reads charged, but only for ten minutes or so. I have thrown my back out moving the picnic table, and while I have never had one, I believe I am developing a hemorrhoid.

Have an extra beer and keep your head down indeed!

Doc

Caption This Photo and Win Big Prizes!

"No Phil, as your Doctor, I can safely say your genital warts are gone."
"I don't care what your press credentials say, I'm not speaking into your microphone!"
"So this is how you get the bannister so shiny. I just thought it was pledge!"
"This is not how you dress for a 'Fancy Dress' Ball Dave!"

or whatever you can think of. I came across this photo while searching for Friday's Tastefully Nude and I just knew there had to be a caption contest as well. Give it a go. Best caption wins a sticker book and a new bottle opener/key chain.

Doc