Today, I Wrote You A Love Letter

Today, I wrote you a love letter. The letter is:




Don't you love it?

Doc

***Editor's Note*** Do you ever think of a stupid joke that only seems funny to you?

Winter Wonderland

"Now the ground is white
Go it while you're young,
Take the girls tonight
and sing this sleighing song!" - Jingle Bells.

Winter wonderland my ass! I look out my window and see some nightmarish Gary Busey cocaine fantasy with a foot and a half of the white stuff covering everything. I've been away from the computer mostly because I've been working quite a bit but that's all about to change.

I missed last week's Flash Fiction Friday for the first time. I'd like to tell you I had a damn good excuse but I just plain old forgot.

Here at the Lodge, we are gearing up for Ground Hog's Day and playing with all the cool swag we got for Christmas. I made a few New Year's resolutions but I have been treating them more like guidelines with lots of loop holes. I find them much easier to keep that way.

I'll put up a new post on Sunday with lots of sex, beer, and general silliness. Until then, I gotta run. I haven't read any of your stuff for a week or two and I just know you've been up to your old hi jinks!

Doc

After A Long Night At Tiki, I Brought Home A Bum

After a long night at Tiki, I brought home a bum. Needless to say, Flannery was not amused. What follows is an animated photoplay of what happened. In this, I am played by the gentleman in the crumpled top hat while Flannery has her hair up in curlers. You may recognize the pink gentleman as he is one cool cat.

This is from the time when drunks were still funny and is one of Lucy & Riley's favorites.

Have a grand weekend you bums,
Doc

I Found I Needed A Bubble After Every Meal!

I have never had a formal physics lesson in my life. I have however had some practical applications on occasion. I have fallen down before and have proven the theory of gravity. I have also been struck in the head with an apple, but it was only because my buddy Matt was proving a point at the time and he had no interest in theories, despite the orchard we found ourselves in. I have fired several firearms and shot a fair amount of pool, so while I have no formal education in physics, I do have a passing familiarity.

That being said, in my amateur "expert" status, this guy is a flipping genius!

I'm considering stealing his act and going on the road, but it will take me a while to grow the mustache and I'm trying to quit smoking.

Doc

Can I Use Your Daughter's Underwear To Make Soup?

I didn't bring you a puppy because you just don't seem to be a puppy person. You strike me as a scotch, filterless cigarettes, and fast dames kind of person. The kind of a person who plays by their own rules and knows how to do their talking with their fists if you have to. Sure, you come off as hard-boiled and cold blooded, but deep down, you've got a heart of gold and you long for the gentle caress of the one who loves you, but when it comes to love, you've been run over by that freight train before. You tell yourself that you will never go down that road of pain again and you are one floozy away from a bad case of the clap, but you are still looking for that one broad that you would care so much about that you would use her underwear to make soup.

You are the tough talking gumshoe who doesn't need a puppy. You just need a shot of rye and another clip for your .45 automatic.

What I brought you is in the hanky...



No need to thank me,
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

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

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

How I Would Make Coffee For a Swede

The key is the eggs, as they take the bitterness out. It is a sure-fire hangover cure and can be used to revive dames who've fainted. Just be sure to have a bullet sucker handy.

In my mind, this is the funniest damn scene in a film full of funny schtick. Buster Keaton once said that the audience loves a slow thinker and I believe that's true.

Doc

You Can't Take Away My Dignity!

"The right to appear ridiculous is something I hold dear" - U2, from the song "I'll go crazy if I don't go crazy tonight"



You really can't take away my dignity. I lost it years ago in a poker game on a train to Philly.

Doc

Did You Jump?

I gotta say, I'm starting to take a shine to this webcam business. It saves me from doing a lot more typing, and if you have seen me type, you know I type like old people screw. Slow and sloppy.

On with the joke!



Doc

Wash In The Holy Water Please!

**Editor's Note** The video has been fixed. Feel free to try it again.

What can I say? It's another joke. Wash up afterwards please.



Doc

Redneck Logic

**Editor's Note** this is a joke I read at Southern Sage's place. I enjoy his insight and all the pretty pictures he puts up. Thanks for the joke Sage. I hope I did it justice.



Doc

The Flare Gun

By Ohio law, any boat over sixteen feet is required to have a flare gun aboard. My canoe is only thirteen feet long, but I purchased a flare gun just the same. The expense was way more than I was willing to part with, but by my logic, who could put an accurate price on my life?

I have a wife and two kids who relied on the money I bring in to insure that they have a good life. Should my life be extinguished in a freak canoe accident, they are out quite a bit of money, not to mention that my kids grow up without a father and my wife will enter the dating market. Both of these I find distasteful, not to mention that I am dead. To prevent this, the forty dollars I spent on a flare gun seemed nominal.

If the flare gun itself had been only forty dollars, I would have felt cheated, but it came with a bright orange waterproof case, and a water dye pack in lime green to signal our distress to the Coast Guard. It also included two whistles that were less than a quarter of an inch thick and an inch and a half long. These were to call the attention of our rescuers when they were within hearing distance. Initially I scoffed at the whistles until Lucy got one between her lips and deafened the neighbors for six blocks. After that, I changed my position and attached one to each life vest, just in case. I have heard small bombs that were quieter.

When I was unpacking after the trip, my brother-in-law noticed the emergency orange box and asked about it. "It's for the flare gun," I told him. "Does it work?" he asked. "I don't know," I admitted.

His jaw dropped and I have never seen his face strike this position before.

"You mean to tell me that you brought this thing along, carted it over hell and gone and never tried it?" He asked incredulously.

With more than a little shame, I admitted that he was right. I had made the cardinal mistake of not checking my equipment before taking it on a long journey. How could I have been so stupid?

In my defence, I wasn't that stupid. The instructions that came with the flair gun warned that there were severe penalties for firing it off when there was no real emergency. I took these warnings to heart. I was tempted to try it out the day I brought it home, but I live in a residential neighborhood about a half mile from the freeway so it was pretty likely someone would have noticed.

The other night I staid up late writing on the computer and the cold beers kept evaporating quickly until I had lost enough of my good sense that I thought firing it off might be a good idea. Much like gunshots, it takes two to really figure out where it's coming from and somewhere in the neighborhood, some boob was setting off the last of their leftover fireworks.

"Perfect," I giggled to my drunken self as I loaded up the four inch 12 gauge shell into the chamber, " no one's going to notice this!" I stepped out my back door, aimed it straight up and cocked the heavy hammer. I gave the trigger a gentle squeeze.

The glow of the flare was mildly unimpressive as well as the zenith of it's height. The noise however was enough to deafen me in my right ear for an hour. I have at one time or another fired many different kinds of firearms, rifles, shotguns, large caliber pistols, etc., but while this baby packed all the kick of a BB gun, it went off with the roar of artillery.

I hurried inside and put the flare gun away before the Law was called on my dumb ass. I had another beer and played a few games of Solitaire on the computer as iTunes and Youtube would have been lost on me.

Doc

"Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death!"

I feel so silly for having put up the last post for Independence Day. That is totally not what I wanted to write for our nation's greatest holiday. I posted it as a late night one-off and it never occurred to me that it was after midnight on the third. As far as I was concerned, it was a thought that had occurred to me after a long, grueling day at work and a couple of beers. Whizzing on common tools isn't how I want to commemorate The Fourth of July.

Growing up, there were three High Holidays: Christmas (of course, & it was my Dad's birthday), Easter (Mom's favorite, and she always had a beautiful yellow dress), and Independence Day. The first two had their own set of expectations and rewards, but 7/4 was one that trumped every other holiday you could name. As a kid, I'd have traded my birthday for one extra Fourth any year. It was that good.

It was a day that had everything! It had all the feast of a good Thanksgiving without all the stuffiness and there was the collection of relatives that you really liked. There was warm weather with sunshine instead of the typical rain/sleet/snow that usually accompanied most holidays in central Ohio. The real topper was the presents. The presents that went bang.

It was tradition at my house to rise up early in the morning and eat a light breakfast and then hike the quarter mile up the road to the gravel pit that was along the crick and set off a brace of bottle rockets and fire crackers, the kind of stuff that is only really good and safe for children to light in the daylight. I can't tell you the amount of beer cans I've sent to their collective doom, or at least launched several feet into the air.

After that it was home to help Mom prepare the big afternoon meal that wouldn't take place for five hours. At noon, things would be half ready and the family would start to trickle in. Aunts, uncles, cousins, etcetera, would fill the house and then the back yard. We caught crawdads and swam until lunch and then we put on the feedbag. It was grill food, potato salad, and deviled eggs as far as the eye could see.

Then the afternoon got interesting. Now it was time for the annual family skeet shoot. My mother was always the best shot, even though the shotgun was taller then her. Remnants of the clay pigeons would show through the receding snow the next spring to remind me again of the last years holiday and I would smile.

The rest of the day was spent playing games, grazing on the food, and catching up with family. The kids, me included, would keep pestering my Dad to see if it was dark enough to start letting off the fireworks.

To this very day, that is how I think of fireworks, they need to be let off in much the same way a little stream needs to be let off occasionally. Here is this compact bundle of energy that is simply looking for the chance to burst forth and create something bold, brilliant, and brief. Marvelous in it's brilliancy, and impressionable on the mind, much like being a kid.

One of my favorite memories of Independence Day is the cold, wet, rainy day my brother came home from Oklahoma after spending four years working in the oil fields. One the way home, he had stopped at some roadside stand and bought a 500 pack of firecrackers. This was his contribution to our annual Fourth celebration. That year money was tight and Dad didn't buy fireworks. The relatives were all staying home with ailments and there would be no grand party that year. On top of it all, it rained for a week straight and we had record rainfall. The temperature dropped and the crick arose. It got cool enough that my Dad lit a fire in our WWI barracks stove just to drive the dampness from our stone house and left the fire at a slow smolder.

My brother arrived and much hoopla was had. "Wait right here," he said with a smile as he ran through the summer down-pour back to the truck. He returned, drenched, and by the front porch light ripped open the package of firecrackers enough to find the main fuse and then dashed back out into the pouring rain long enough to place it on the millstone that was the centerpiece of our front yard, light the fuse and got away.

Of the 500, six or eight went off. It was the biggest let down. It was a few bangs in the rain compared to a day of frolic to a small boy. No comparison.

The next morning I learned the funny side of the tale.

Any fire needs fed, and since my dad retired early and arose early, first thing in the morning, he went to throw in a couple of logs. What he didn't know was that my brother had thrown the 494-492 wet firecrackers into the stove at midnight the night before. They had been drying out for at least six hours, but it wasn't until my Dad lifted the lid of this huge cast-iron Army stove at six in the morning that the aforementioned four hundred and some odd firecrackers decided to go off!

Needless to say he was caught off guard. Let me take this opportunity to mention that my Dad ALWAYS slept in his birthday suit. When he got up in the morning, he was dressed in what he went to bed in. Namely nothing.

Now if you will, picture a 56 year old man, naked, well tanned tall but very skinny, startled by small explosions, who then drops a log on his right foot and in an effort to seek cover from the eruption of flaming coals, runs into the dining room screaming gibberish past his loving family as they are having breakfast.

I have every reason to celebrate 7/5 as 7/4 as who can brag that they have seen this sort of fireworks enacted to such low comedy. To see your father run naked and screaming through the room does tend to make an impression on one.

That my brother is a dick occurs to me first.

The other is that I remember how he would take the time to explain to his fourth child the importance of being a good citizen. How you owed a lot to those who came before you who went to a lot of trouble to insure that we could be free, even to to trouble of dieing for it. He also pointed out our failings, even though we live in a land of law and equality, and we supposedly respect learning.

His lessons stick with me to this very day and I hope to pass them on to my kids. Independence Day reminders me of my freedom, my family, my commitment to be a good citizen, and savor all the good qualities of being an American.

But mostly, it makes me wish my Mom and Dad could have seen my girls.

Your Fellow American,
Doc

The Coolest Gift

I often kid my girls that as a child I had both kinds of toys, a stick AND a rock. They always look at me with a mix of pity and disgust. The truth of the matter is most of my toys were hand-me-downs, but I did have one uber-cool toy all to myself, this:





I played with this thing for hours. Somewhere I still have the little green monster that hid in the trash compacter amongst the foam bits of "trash".

What was you favorite toy as a kid?

Doc

Help! Help! I'm Being Repressed!

***Editor's Note*** For those who don't want to bother to read this, an audio version done by the author is provided below. Mind you, the author had had a few beers before recording and does it badly, but it is provided for those with busy lives who can't spend that much time reading.***

Have you ever been discriminated against? I had not. As a white male living in America it just never happened to me, until recently.

Last weekend, I was working in the bakery and the bell rang signaling that the was a customer at the counter who needed service. As the most junior member of the bakery, it often falls to me to handle the counter and the telephone. I don't mind as I have met a lot of really interesting people this way. I wipe the strawberry juice from my hands on the tail of my apron and go out to answer the bell.

No sooner do I round the corner than the lady at the counter yells out to anyone who may be listening, "Oh great. I got a man!" She spits these words out at me as if to instantly suggest that I am an idiot by my gender alone. She shakes her hatchet-shaped head from side to side, as if she knows that she is going to have to suffer through a long drawn-out conversation with a simpleton, namely me. I am the turd in her punch bowl of life.

"I'm looking for a chocolate cake with chocolate icing," she whines to me as if I am a stupid drooling, snot-nosed child. In her hand is of 7" round layer cake.

"Yes miss," she has to be late sixties,"this a chocolate cake with chocolate icing. This is our Snicker's cake with drizzles of fudge and peanut butter with a sprinkling of salted cocktail peanuts and Snicker's candy pieces. It's quite popular." I'm smiling as I explain to this old battle axe that she is holding a chocolate cake with chocolate icing.

"Well, I saw that it said Snicker's but I didn't know what that was," she sniffs. "C'mere..." She leads me over to the cake cooler. "What the hell is this?" she points. There sits a 7" round chocolate layer cake with chocolate icing.

Still smiling, "This is our Ho-Ho cake. It is a chocolate cake with chocolate icing. It has a layer of French cream between the layers cake, and is drizzled with fudge and French roll vanilla icing, and topped with Ho-Ho pieces." I point out each feature as I name it in the vain hope that this woman will quickly exit my life.

"Whut?" No, it turns out this pain in my ass is going to be sticking around. She looks at me as if I have grown another head. I explain again about the Ho-Ho cake. In detail.

"Well, I saw it said Ho-Ho but I didn't know what that was," she sneered.

Her hatchet nose makes soft whistling noises as she shakes her head again. "Poor, silly, ignorant boy," she thinks to herself as she leads me over to the other cake cooler. "What's this?" she points as she growls.

"This is our 8" round single layer cake. It too is a chocolate cake with chocolate icing. The top is covered in melted fudge icing, given five good dollops of chocolate butter cream icing and finished with chocolate Hershey's kisses." She glares at me as if I blatantly lying to her. She is steamed and stomps over to the freezer. She crooks her finger as she does it, as if beckoning a naughty dog who is about to be slapped with the newspaper. "What's this?" She seethes.

"This is our 1/4 sheet almond cake, done in white butter cream icing and decorated with blue and green roses. It's ideal for a man's birthday. Feeds 15 and sells for $15.99. We would be happy to write on it for you for no extra charge."

"Does it have almonds in it?" I think I see her forked tongue lick her lips but it may have been just a trick of the florescent lighting.

"No, it is a yellow cake flavored with almond extract. It is subtle and has a wonderful flavor at the finish and is best served with coffee or tea." I am totally winging it here. I have never tasted the almond cake and have no idea what it tastes like but I am willing to concoct any story I can to send this rude woman on her way. I am trying desperately to be kind and civil to this woman, but her attitude and body language suggest nothing but scorn and disgust. She is revolted by me.

"I'll think about it..." and she dismisses me with a wave of her hand as if she had suffered as much of me as she could take.

I return to the counter and sell a few doughnuts to the fat guys who are waiting patiently there. They say please and thank-you's as I hand them their cruellers with nuts. As they shuffle off to the sea food counter to check out the price of scrod, I see the battle axe load up the Ho-Ho cake, the Snicker's cake, and the 8" Hershey's Kiss cake into her cart and she stomped off down the milk aisle and shook her head as if it was a bad business altogether, much like the time she gave Herbert Hoover a blowjob on the train.

Needless to say, I was miffed.

I was miffed, stymied, frustrated, and more than a little pissed off. I wanted to kick this woman in the shins really hard. I have been called every name in the book and there are a few of them that perhaps I've earned, but I have never been so masterfully scorned before. I t was as if my very presence was enough to make her want to retch.

I returned to my task of making cherry-filled cupcakes and repeated the story to the girls I was working with. I am the only man in the bakery by the way. I tell the tale and they literally gasp and jaws hang slack until I'm finished.

Silence hangs for a moment.

My buddy Phillis pipes up, "You should have told her that the 280 pound lesbian nympho would be more than happy to help her!" I admitted that that hadn't occurred to me.

Doc



Happy Father's Day you Mothers!

The Sign Down The Street Says...

The sign down the street says: Barney's Bar & Grill. Under new management; now open at 10 AM. I think they are trying to attract the "earlybirds". I know I start craving a beer and some pickled eggs at about 10 AM. How about you?

The sign on the church down the street says: Stop, Drop, & Roll won't help you in Hell! I don't know. You might just roll into some very interesting people. With any luck, they will be attractive and will want to continue sinning with you!

The sign down the street says: Horse Poo 50 cents. Makes a great gift!

Phrases I love and am always looking for a way to work into any conversation:

"Well that will put lead in yer pencil!"

"Let's run that up the flag pole and see who salutes it."

"Rectum? It nearly killed him!"

"Want to see the dimples on my butt?"

"I laughed so hard I coulda farted feathers!"

"Well there's your problem right there..."

"Could you get me a beer?"

Doc

For when I can't think of anything else...

Ignore the lyrics totally, as only the mastery of the musicians should be heard in this.

Happy Friday my dears and know that I'm thinking of you,
Doc