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Sunday, January 30, 2011

and in a totally unrelated story........




Cousins, Georgia (AP)--An unexpected announcement rocked this backward, rural farming community early this morning, when Buford Stubbs, father of Cousins Elementary School’s star quarterback, Bubba Stubbs, stated publicly that his son would forego the 5th grade and make himself eligible for the upcoming draft of the Georgia ‘Tasty Chicken’ Football / BBQ League.

Young Bubba, 4 feet, four inches of explosive offensive ferocity, led the league’s recently canceled 2010-11 season, with a total of 18 yards total offense, on 2 completed passes, 3 rushes and one crawl.

“Boy’s gotta ‘nuff book-learnin' ...time for him to ‘man-up’ an’ git him'sownself on to earnin’ a livin’,” continued the elder Stubbs.

Insiders have begun to speculate whether the diminutive quarterback’s urine test came back positive for dog milk. Young Stubbs has tested positive twice before this season, once for Roundup and once for battery acid.

Bubba, according to unnamed sources inside the league office, is expected to go high in the upcoming draft. “ I ‘spose he could get hisownself an extree signin’ bonus, what him havin’ a driver’s license, mostly his own teeth , an’ ownin’ his own farm, an’ all,’ observed the source.

“I reckon we’d a'kept doin’ right good, iffn’ we’s a kept a playin, but as you know, we ain't” observed the soon-to-be pro.

League officials confirmed, late last night, that the season was abruptly canceled when Spyder Borgg’s blue-tick hound, Elvis, attacked and ‘violated’ the league’s only football, just before halftime of the Tuber/Cool Creek game last Tuesday afternoon.

“It was a horrible thing to see. Di’nt no body want to teech the ball after that,” league commissioner and hardware store clerk, Jess “2 Fingers” Weeb. “The dog looked happy, but he were t'only one.”


Elvis is being held, without bail, in the Spludder County Corrections Facility/Walmart, pending the outcome of the on-going investigation and DNA results.

Friday, January 21, 2011

At Starbucks on Broadway
7 o’clock this morning


You—smolderingly hot, sipping your Green Tea, pretending to read your paper, while, oh so erotically, gently rubbing your bare foot up and down the ankle of the luckiest man who ever drooled between two lips.

Me—realizing my socks don’t match.

You—leaning forward to whisper something to the drooler.

Me—Trying to remain ‘Valley Cool,’ while dribbling molten hot chocolate down the front of the same sorta-white shirt I wore yesterday.

You—shooting looks of open, wanton, animal lust towards your oblivious and
undeserving table mate.

Me—trying (and failing) to stifle a highly-explosive, full contact, nasal clearing sneeze, the reverberation of which scares dogs 3 blocks away.

You—looking demurely over your right shoulder to find the source of the eruption, all the while more aggressively stroking hunky boy’s shin and ankle with your unclad right foot.


Me—remembering what it was like to be a high school sophomore -- inept, socially bungling and devoid of even the most nominal dribble of hope.

You—slowly….ohhhhhhhhhh so slowly raising your hands above your head and seductively stretching. Your arched back, amplifying and accentuating those miraculous attributes
.
Me—searching for napkins, towels… anything to staunch the flow of qusai-transparent, chunk-laden mucosal pudding from my left nostril.

You—leaving, arm-in-arm, with whatshisname, your head resting on his shoulder.

Me—acutely and unrelentingly aware that mine will be a life lived in a melancholic emotional vacuum.

You—looking back over your shoulder, blessing me with a small smile and a glance.

Me—clinging zealously to the aforementioned, life-affirming smile and glance.


Mother will wash and iron my wardrobe tonight, as I polish my shoes and floss my teeth.

This can work, my goddess.

Ours is a destiny preordained to redefine love, commitment and doing the wild thing
frequently, feverishly and frollickingly.

Same place tomorrow?

I’ll be wearing my new purple
polyester leisure suit.

Until then, my nameless destiny,
I count the seconds.


Squirt me an email. We’ll begin
choosing names for our children.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Pet Psychic/Penguin Whisperer


I’d like to be contacted by a certified pet psychic, because I have the overwhelming feeling that, in my most recent past life, I was a circus elephant or perhaps a penguin, not a circus penguin, the wild kind, not that I think penguins are particularly wild, you know, just the kind that live in Antarctica, but maybe ones that live somewhere else, but I am pretty sure about the circus elephant thing. Mother told me when I was really young that she (my Mother) thought she had been, had been, had been a poodle sometime in the past, because she said the hair she had then was poofy, fluffy and smooth like poodle hair is.


I am new to this area and have yet to make any really close friends, or any un-close friends, for that matter, ( I got here really early this morning, or maybe it was late last night, I don’t know, but I don’t think it really matters that much, since I’m looking for a pet/animal psychic) so if we could meet, it would have to be at your place, because my place is my car, and I never let anyone in my car, in my car, in my car, although we could meet for coffee somewhere, because I really like coffee, although I’m not really supposed to have much of it, maybe only 6-9 cups a day, and none after lunch.

Well, that’s about all, I’m just hoping I can find a pet psychic, or maybe it doesn’t have to be a pet psychic, maybe just an animal psychic would do.

What you think?


I like your town, or maybe I should call it a city-- I can never tell the difference and sometimes wonder if there really is a difference, but I don’t understand all the duck stuff I see everywhere, because it's like I see ducks everywhere, and i really like ducks, not to eat, but just to see, so, I guess it's like a good omen that I arrive at a town/city that has a lot of duck stuff everywhere. Do a lot of you people here hunt? That’s cruel to ducks, I think. I mean, really, how do you think you would like to be a hunted duck, or may be a duck or some other small woodland creature that was startled and scared of gunfire and afraid of being shot, cooked with brown rice stuffing, and then eaten?

Doesn't sound like a lot of fun to me...really.

Squirt me an email and tell me if you’re a certified pet/animal psychic, and if you're not scared to meet with me, and maybe you could tell me what’s up with all the duck stuff.


Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Surly, chain-smoking cat

Last Wednesday evening, my neighbors hauled the last vestiges of their meth-infused junk down the road, and out of my life—or so I thought. The only thing more inbred than my former neighbors, was their collection of cats. Wormy, ugly, three-eared, mouse murders. The cats are pretty nasty too.

I mistakenly thought that the four blue 55 gallon garbage pails duct taped atop their ’89 Cavalier contained all their cats. Not quite so.

It seems the foulest of the foul eluded the dragnet, and has staked claim to the entire neighborhood. In the past, my dog, Snorp, would have gleefully dealt with the issue. Not this time.

Snorp has issues with cats. Serious issues.

The feline in question is the grisly remains of a ‘fixing’ gone wrong. Something unspeakable and foul went amiss during the procedure. Although I never learned the full story, I know for a fact that the cat left Kentucky before the investigation was completed and blame affixed. The vet closed his practice and is now known for his excessive alcohol intake. The story goes that the cat wander aimlessly, leaving a trail of scorched earth and shredded bulldogs every step of the way. He somehow ended up with the neighbors, and they brought him here.

Where he still is.

That’s the problem.

He’s still here.



They called him ‘Cat.’ He is without a doubt the singularly most disgusting example of chain-smoking, anti-freeze swilling, hairball yakking Felis catus, ever seen.

He is big, surly, bi-lingual, mange/mite/lice/worm ridden and has the most profanity-laced vocabulary we've ever heard. He emits noxious odors from both ends and hisses in his sleep. He is badly disfigured by countless ‘to-the-death’ skirmishes, and marks his territory with the unrepentant zeal of the born-again. Clumps of dead, dying and matted hair cover the precious few unscarred patches of his emaciated body. His ‘normal’ foot has 7 toes. Both eyeballs constantly fight an unwinnable war to congregate in the same socket. Undiagnosed gastrointestinal issues cause a deep bowel-quivering rumble just prior to his uncontrolled high-pressure ejection of an eye-watering, grass-killing, tree-wilting, molten, steaming stream of ‘kitty-poo.’

Like I said, in the past, Ol’ Snorp would have savored the prospect of dealing with the problem, but things have changed for my dog recently.

After last week’s short sortie against his feline adversary, Snorp bolted back into the house without stopping to open the door. True to form, Snorp paced relentlessly back and forth, chain-smoking and muttering, all the while casting a wary eye in the direction of the cat/destroyed front door. Constant trips to the toilet for slurps of cool, refreshing water left a trail of drool, cigarette butts and the occasional tear between the bathroom and Snorp’s lookout.
Normally, I refuse to believe one word that comes out of Snorp. He is unrepentant liar and always has been. My view of him is changing. It was only after I saw him blessing himself and as he says, ‘getting into the word,’ that I detected a turning leaf.

Most mornings now, Snorp peers apprehensively through the pulled drapes, looking for his rival. He’s smoking more, sleeping less and has taken twitching to a new level. Unexpected loud noises, such as the beating of a ladybug’s wings down the street, reduces my once fearless warrior canine into a puddle-producing, tail-tucking, quivering mass of canine anxiety.

Someone needs to do something with this cat.

Property values have plummeted and the school district has re-routed its buses. Mail is no longer delivered. The police are unavailable. The neighborhood IQ has slipped and the internet has quit working. Milk sours in the refrigerator. A chilling, evil wind blows from the North.

The cat reclines quietly in the parking lot, eyeballing his domain. Drivers, unwilling to incur the cat’s wrath, watch dust, leaves and bird poop accumulate on their unused, unapproachable vehicles.

Screw the ‘re-homing’ fee. We have cash, and a lot of it.

It’s bad here. We need help.

Squirt me an email.
We'll talk contracts and plausible deny-ability.

Monday, January 10, 2011

I need work. I need money. I need it now.



If you’re looking for an experienced multi-talented multi-tasker, I’m your man. I am clean, thrifty, honest, obedient, fearless, humble, wise, skilled, courageous, devoted, humorous, focused and completely selfless. I am an accomplished ballroom dance instructor, a four octave yodeler, and a snappy dresser.

I am always immaculately groomed.

I have been called, "boyishly charming."

I travel well, eat lightly, drink sparingly, and have impeccable social skills. I can plan weddings, basketball tournaments, formal dinners, insurrections, community events, coup d'états, skeet shoots, blood drives and bingo parties. I have experience in early childhood education, bovine management, high-altitude mountain rescue, sign painting and floral arrangement. I am a certified Tango instructor and have a concealed weapon permit.

I am the original SNAG (Sensitive New Age Guy).

I am a long division expert, published author, dedicated drywall installer and a bondable break dancer. I can hit a curve ball, and have twice attended the World Curling Championships, and have been decorated on the field of battle. I have extensive experience in all facets of fish-farming, pet grooming, explosive ordinance, and plumbing repair.


I own three tuxedos and know all the words to
“Bohemian Rhapsody.”

I weep on command.

I am kind to children and am not repulsed by the wafting, decomposing aroma of the elderly. I am an experienced dog-walker, fish-feeder and cat-flosser. I bring order to a chaotic world and am a much admired omelet chef. I am a certified Combat Medic. I have the patience of Job, the grace of Mother Theresa, and the court-awareness of Pistol Pete.


I do crossword puzzles in ink, calibrate computers and have been known to quell riots with a single stern glance.


I show up ready to work and enjoy making coffee, roses, slow dancing in the dark, and long walks in the rain. I was a Ranger Honor Graduate. I have the uncanny ability to seamlessly realign my moral agenda to perfectly match yours. I work well with others and willingly share. I was a four sport high school athlete, and although graduation was over 40 years ago, I still have a few good games left.

I have good teeth.


I am your man. If you need it done, it will be completed--perfectly—before you have the time to ask.

I file flawlessly, type tirelessly, bowl beautifully, sing superbly, fight ferociously, write wittily, conserve conscientiously and sparkle splendidly.

If you need it done, I can do it.
If I can’t do it, you don’t need it done.

Squirt me an email and let me know how I may ever-so-humbly serve you and
alter the path of your life.

I am oh, so patiently awaiting your call.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Certified Organic Rocks




Organic rocks

A short time ago, I acquired a substantial number of Certified Organic/Vegan rocks. Recent, extensive, and incredibly expensive landscaping projects on my spacious estate, unearthed the collection. It is important to note that not only were the rocks harvested in accordance with the guidelines established by the International Organic/Vegan Rock and Fossil Coalition (IORVFC), but that the harvest took place directly adjacent to a Nation Wildlife Refuge in the American state of Oregon. Naturally, all harvesting assets used were certified as “Recycled.”

Please understand, these rocks are the real thing. Each has been gently sculpted by the time-tested, totally organic efforts of Mother Earth.

Individual rocks may differ in size, shape, color or weight, but each is the real deal-- a totally organic rock. Forty percent of the collection is currently being scrutinized by IORVFC experts to ascertain whether they are, in fact, to be classified as the ultra-rare “Old Growth Organic.”

To offset the expenses incurred with the landscaping project and the harvesting of this extraordinary cache, I might be reluctantly persuaded to part with a diminutive portion of the collection, but only to serious collectors, and, of course, at the non-negotiable prices established by the IORVFC.

I am currently in the process of preparing the collection for viewing by prospective buyers. In keeping with tradition, the collection will not be available for public viewing or purchase. As prescribed by the guidelines established by the IORVFC, viewing for prospective buyers will be between 2:10 thru 3:20p.m., each Thursday in May.

An IORVFC Executive Committee, as per protocol, will convene the last Wednesday of the year, in Oslo, Norway, to appraise the merit of each buyer, and, if judged worthy, will determine which Organic Rock the successful buyer will receive. The Committee will also ascertain which additional fees and charges will be levied. Needless to say, committee decisions are final and absolute.

A collection like this comes along, if you’re fortunate, perhaps once in a lifetime. This is your opportunity to view, and perhaps, take the first step towards adding another jewel to your collection.

Please respond to this advertisement by email. Please include your IORVFC Membership number and a brief description of your collection. In due course, if your credentials are in order, you will be advised, by courier, of your allotted viewing time. In accordance with the non-negotiable IORVFC guidelines, assigned viewing times are inviolate and will be deemed, quite naturally, sub-rosa.

Organic rocks.

Pure, natural, and recyclable.

The Earth’s oldest and most lasting treasure.





Squirt me an email. We'll rock!

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Saturday Night at Safeway




Saturday Night at Safeway


Magic is, where magic lives.

The first good news of an otherwise bleak day, was the Stephen was holding court on register four.

The man is magic.

“Serving you… count them… twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three sixty-five large ones in a row, with everything the experienced shopper wants, needs, and yes, dare I say, deserves. Safeway, your one-stop shopping central, featuring a plethora of high-quality necessities, from Gourmet Lite Dinner Entrees, to the dinner seven out of ten discerning dogs demand, Grrraaavy, Purina’s top of the line entry into the world of Fido food.”

I’d rarely seen him in such form. Oh, sure, he’d took the Fourth of July over the top with a dazzling display of sparklers and a fire extinguisher, and no one would soon forget his tastefully clever Dole banana disguise at Halloween? Without a doubt, he’s always proven to be the master of working with props, but tonight it was different.

Stephen was working without a net.

No gadgets, no gimmicks, nothing to fall back on. He was pushing the envelope—charting virgin territory.

“ Yes, friends, Safeway, America’s last bastion of quality, reliability, bargain, and dare I say it?... service to you, our valued friends, and customers. Dedicated to providing you, our neighbors, with the highest quality of produce, commodities and supplies. Whatever you need, whenever you need it… we’re here for you. If we don’t have it, you won’t need it.”

He was hot, and he knew it.

He smiled charmingly at the elderly couple as they approached his register. “Good evening, sir. I do hope you’ve had a pleasant shopping experience this evening. Paper or plastic this evening, sir? I see you’ve brought your lovely daughter with you this evening. What?....... no! Really? Your lovely bride of 54 years? Congratulations sir. I envy you such a rare beauty. I’m sure you’re very proud of her, and by the way, I hope you took a moment to peruse our unadvertised special on the 48 ounce boxes of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes on aisle eleven. Frosted Flakes… they’re Grrrreat!. Allow me to double bag these oranges for you, you can’t be too careful… oh, my, excuse me, I’ve detected a very slight blemish on this Sunkist Navel.”

His performance was better than I would have ever thought possible.

Tonight, Stephen was hot on the trail of the Holy Grail of retail, the dangerous and seldom seen continuous-checking-bagging-bantering-all-store assistance-call.

Cradling the handset in the crook of his neck, Stephen punched the code for the all-store call, while delicately placing a Safeway Select Cheesecake aside for additional bagging.

His clear, masculine voice filled every corner of the store.

“Bob, we need a Code One Sunkist Classic on Four, please. Stat!

The utterance of that single monosyllabic word, “Stat,” over the house PA, galvanized Team Safeway into action. Even before Stephen could cancel the store-wide call with the obligatory, “Thank you, Bob,” the produce manager himself had hand delivered the pristine replacement to the scanner.

Stephen offered the couple a modest smile and a wink. Undiluted talent.


“Sorry for the delay, friends, there is no charge for the fruit.” Stephen slyly pulled a coupon from the right pocket of his apron, and deftly swiped it across the scanner.

“Please allow me to offer a two-for-one coupon for your S&W Premium Whole Kernel Corn 15.25 ounce size—you are aware, I hope, that S&W Premium Whole Kernel Corn contains eight grams of natural carbohydrates in every serving, not to mention the miniscule 60 calories.

That’s going to be thirty-seven-ninety-one this evening, folks, a savings of a dime short of a ten-spot. Let me get someone to carry this out for you.”

With a twirling flair, Stephen replaced the order separator, made the correct change, and leaning slightly forward, said, “Hey-you-folks-watch-your-steps-out-there-it’s-been-raining-was-sure-nice-to-see-you-both-again-come-back-and-see-us-again-soon-good-night-now-friends”

I was watching history being made.

Quarter milers talk of a perfect stride which effortlessly consumes the track; basketball players speak in hushed, reverent tones of the game in which everything fell perfectly into place; fishermen brag of the big one that didn’t get away.

History.

Later that evening, a dampened white towel draped casually across his shoulders, Stephen reflected on not only the evening’s performance, but what it all meant to him.

“I wasn’t really chasing anything out there tonight… it just happened. It found me, and I found myself in the middle of it. It became… well… dreamlike. The change always came out correctly. I knew who needed stamps before they asked. The fives weren’t sticking together like they can in this weather, especially with the prevailing north-west wind. Register four, right next to the exit can offer some pretty contentious surprises, but somehow, it all worked.

“Look, it isn’t just me out there. Did you catch Mario’s assist on the cottage cheese? His pivot to bypass the traffic in can goods was classic. He saved at least 12-15 seconds with that move. No one can teach you this stuff. You’re born with it.


“I felt like I should pinch myself a couple times out there. Sometimes, it just didn’t seem real. But, hey, you have to take these things into perspective. This isn’t just my record—Lisha, Tom, Betty, and what about my man, Bob, the produce manager? They are part of the effort, part of the team. No one ever has, or ever will climb this mountain alone."

Stephen’s brown eyes lowered as his voice softened. “This is what we all work for, you know. This is why we all show up, day after day; ready to pull out all the stops. It’s more than…”

His voice trembled.

“Service. Service… that’s what it’s all about. These people need us, you know.”

The gleam returned to his eye as the fire burned brightly within him.

“Hey, Sportsfans, break time is over for this boy. I’m backing up Tanya on six for the next two hours and I hear there’s a spill just south of catsup on fourteen.”

He stood erect, shed the towel from his shoulders, and without another word, strode confidently back into the fray.

Confidently striding towards the front of the store, his voice boomed throughout the store room, out onto this warrior’s arena.

“Twenty-four hours a day. Everyday. All day. Our promise: a smile, honest prices and service second to none.

Safeway!

Could there be a better way?”

No way!

We’ll match any price, advertised or not. Bringing you the freshest……”

I’m afraid our little town isn’t going to be big enough to hold him.

Can the call of Corporate be too far off for this star?



Squirt me an email. We'll shop.