The Village Idiot

2011-10-10T09:49:00.001-07:00

Rocket O mine

by rosewater49

I answered the door and there stood six foot six officer Murphy and a man dressed in street clothes named Smith. “Come in”, I stammered.

“You mister Goddard?” Murphy asked.

“Yes, is there anything wrong?”

“You have something in your back yard that has your neighbors concerned, Mr. Goddard.”

I looked at Smith but he was busy memorizing my front room. “Oh, you must mean my rocket”, I admitted proudly.

“That’s exactly what I mean”, was Murphy’s stern retort.

Before I could respond, Smith broke in,

“I’ll take it from here Murphy”. Murphy nodded and stepped back with his fingers dancing a jig on the grip of his pistol.

Smith looked at me, squinting like uncle Max, after he’d had a snoot full, “So you admit you have a rocket on your property?”

“Well, yeah”, I offered, “Frank next door has a skateboard trough in his backyard, so what?”

“So nobody’s going to blow something up with a skateboard is so what!” hissed Smith.

“Have you ever been hit in the chins by one of…” was all I could get out before I was staring into Smith’s sweaty palm.

“Shut it!” boomed forth from an obviously agitated Smith. “You have a serious problem here, pal, the FBI and the local SWAT team are outside waiting for my signal!”

I began to realize that my wife’s warning about my plan to travel to the moon was much more prophetic than her usual, “Just keep overcooking your bacon and your liver will resemble lychee nuts!”, although I suppose she could be right about that too.

My space obsession began when, as a boy, I watched the TV show, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. I should be honest by stating that I was really obsessed with Erin Grey, occasionally hyperventilating during scenes in which she was sashaying around some very obviously chilly planet. My parents finally required that my viewing be chaperoned by great aunt Milspickle and it was then that I noticed the show was about space travel and that there were other characters involved as well.

Since that time, I have dreamed of traveling through space. I built model rockets and space stations as a boy and hung them from strings in my bedroom. I brought home library books on the subject of space travel. I built and launched model rockets from my back yard, only occasionally setting afire a neighbor’s roof. My hobby became so expensive, I got part-time jobs in the mornings, evenings, and weekends to support it.

My parents became concerned when, one day, I tried to go to school dressed as Gort the unpredictable but obedient robot. They were further troubled when I insisted on calling our dog, Jud, Captain Kirk, and the goldfish, Death Star.

Upon my eighteenth birthday I changed my name from Frank Hutsenfruth to Bob Goddard for obvious reasons. Apparently that was more than my father could endure for I was raised to bear proudly the Hutsenfruth cognomen. The source of this pride was that the family had traced the Hutsenfruth surname to a 14^th century itinerate barber, Clum Hutsenfruth.

I can clearly recall my grandfather, Kurt Hutsenfruth, when reveling at holidays, saturated with whatever libation he could get his hands on, “You think Galileo took a chance sticking the sun at the center of the universe? Ha! What do you think your forebear risked when he invented the flat-top hair style in renaissance Florence? You watch, one day movies will be made about Clum Hutsenfruth, staring Marlon Brando or Charles Laughton!”. After which my grandfather usually feel face first into the mashed potatoes.

“How,” asked my father, shaking with shame, “could you end the Hutsenfruth line here?” My father was the lone male Hutsenfruth direct decendent and expected me to litter the future with male Hutsenfruth breeders. I was forthwith banished from the home and family until I might come to my senses and once more bear the Hutsenfruth appellation.

Homeless but not penniless I went forth to face what I expected to be the great adventures of my future. I still retained a part-time job but weeks sleeping under an overpass with Shaky Joe and Gimble Foot Frank jarred me to the realization that, although shopping-cart rodeo and games like what’s-in-the-bindle had been fun, I should probably be more serious about my future.

Tearful good byes were exchanged with my overpass mates, with Frank reminding me that grab-ass is a sign of manly respect. I then straightened up, squared my shoulders, and assertively pushed my shopping cart to the employment office.

Once the cart was secured to a light pole with a bicycle chain, I entered looking to score big in the job market. An office worker approached me smiling, but when he entered my olfactory orb he started to gag and mutter something like “rotting offal is not a scent that is likely lead to gainful employment”. I was then deposited upon the curb, the noise of the office door slamming and locking behind me.

So this is what is meant by rock bottom, I thought. Why had my employer at Hal’s Limburger Emporium not discussed my toilette? I must muster my wits and think my way to a better life, surely things can’t get any worse; at which point I stepped into the street and was sideswiped by an express bus.

*****************

The sound of hushed voices and rumbling carts awakened me to the glories of The Angel of Poor Souls Hospital, ensconced between the city’s rail yard and the heavy industrial district. This once proud establishment had devolved into an operation run, on a shoestring, by the city in conjunction with various unnamed charitable endeavors, obviously for tax sheltering reasons. Doctors and nurses alike carried out their tasks with the enthusiasm one would expect from teenagers forced to discuss their homework.

My attending physician, doctor Dailide, phlegmatically reported my assorted injuries including minor contusions and a minor hematoma of the skull. He said I would be fine after a few days of bed rest, and plenty of hot soup, which I learned to choke down by pinching my nose and thinking of Boris Badenov’s curvaceous cohort, Natasha Fatale.

My nurse, Hilda Freidericschnitzle, was a humorless leviathan with a bedside manner reminiscent of Josef Mengele. She insisted on using a rectal thermometer the size of a billy club and administered it as if she was stuffing sausages. I was informed by her of my pre-registration regimen that involved being bathed in the parking lot with lye soap and three waters of flea dip. She appeared crestfallen when I informed that I had no memory of the event.

On the fourth day of my incarceration, I mean, stay, a pretty young nurse came to take my vitals. “Oh you poor thing”, she exclaimed upon entering the room. She clearly had missed the concentration camp guard indoctrination the other nurses seemed to have completed. “Don’t you worry, I will take good care of you and get you back on your feet in a jiffy”, she warbled.

Stunned by my good fortune, but suspicious that this was a joke, I whispered, “Are you new?” She informed me that she was the replacement for Frau Hilda, who had come down with bubonic plague, apparently the result of numerous flea bites.

“What’s your name, have you met the other nurses?” I inquired.

“I’m sorry, I’m Carla, and, yes, I have met them,” she pronounced, “They don’t seem to be real talkative, though; but I think I will fit in just fine.”

“You will if you have worked in a slaughter house” was my response.

‘You’re surely joking” was her timid rejoinder. “They can’t be that bad, can they?”

I proceeded to describe, for Carla, the various Torquemada inspired treatments delivered by the doctors and nurses while she shook her head in disbelief.

She finally accused me of over exaggerating and left the room.

Her dismayed looked forced me to re-examine my charges. Maybe putting my tongue in traction did prevent bed sores and, who knows, I suppose laying under the iron lung attempting to bench press it, is better for my lungs than being in it. I was now uncertain.

My uncertainty began to evaporate as, each time Carla entered my room, she carried a more concerned look. Finally after a few days, Carla whispered to me, “How’d you like to get outta here?”.

“You mean I’m being released?” was my surprised response.

Carla looked around furtively and winked, “Well, not exactly, let’s just say I’m releasing you, OK?”

“Oh, you can do that?” I asked, apparently looking and acting much like Alfred E. Neuman.

“Oh for God’s sake, Bob, you were right; this place is a hell hole.” She confided. “I began noticing little signs, like the wheelchair, that’s used to move released patients to the curb, is covered with dust and cob webs. And that truck with the name on the sides, Body Bags R US shows up every day and brings in bundles of them. But the kicker was when a nurse asked me to get her 500 ccs of blood and I asked her what type? She said, ‘Doesn’t matter’.” Carla shuddered.

Carla had hustled up some scrubs and shoes and left the room to return with a gurney. She instructed me to climb aboard and lay on my back. She then covered me with a sheet and wheeled me out the door. In more upscale hospitals, pushing a dead patient down the hall would likely draw some attention, but in Angels of Poor Souls it was a common scene.

As Carla proceeded down the hall I peeked out the side of my covering and saw several people wheeling a machine with several wires dangling from it. Carla noticed my glance and bent down and whispered, “Trainees, they were going to use you as a subject in some shock treatment demonstrations.” With this, my heart began beating like conga drums, and when I jumped off at Carla’s signal, my knees nearly buckled.

Down the stair tower I ran, passing no one, and out, I entered the hospital lobby. I grabbed a brochure from a stand and feigned absorption in its contents while walking briskly to the entrance.

Just before I was to dart out to the street a nurse approached me, handed me a clipboard, and asked, “Doctor, what would you recommend in this case?”

I glanced at the chart and said, “Amputation?”

Astonished, she blurted, “For pneumonia?!”

“I suppose that is a little severe,” I murmured, attempting to avoid drawing a crowd, “give him two aspirin and have him call me in the morning.” At that I pushed through the revolving door and rushed down the street.

*******************

Author’s note:

Do Bob and Carla get together? How does Bob become able to build his rocket? We will find out more about these two in the second installment of “Rocket O Mine”.

Veggies - an Unadorned Dialog

2011-09-14T11:08:00.001-07:00

W: Waiter

C: Customer

M: Manager

W: Welcome to Rich’s, May I take your order?

C: I’m a vegetarian and I watch what I eat. Are your chickens free-range?

W: Free range, ma’am? Do you mean do they run around unfenced?

C: No, it means they are not caged, they run around in a fenced enclosure, I am sure.

W: You mean before they are killed and plucked?

C: Of course, I know they are killed! Are you being impertinent?

W: No, ma’am, I just never heard of the term. But I can ask.

C: Well if you don’t know, then they probably aren’t.

W: Well then, we do serve venison which is harvested by local hunters.

C: Oh No! That would not do at all; I don’t eat animals!

W: What do you call chickens, ma’am?

C: That’s not what I mean! I don’t eat mammals. What kind of fish do you have?

W: The second page of the menu shows our fish selection.

C: Red Snapper?!

W: Why yes, ma’am, one of our most requested, it is baked in a…

C: I don’t want it!

W: garlic and herb sauce and…

C: This fish is endangered!

W: (Chuckles) Ma’am, I think our red snapper is past any more danger, it’s in the cooler.

C: No, you idiot, this fish is in danger of being over-fished!

W: You don’t have to get upset, ma’am, as far as I know it was only fished once, but it may have gotten off the hook and…

C: You, sir, are clueless! How is the salmon prepared?

W: Well, someone catches them too, is that OK?

C: Are you being serious? Or are you trying to insult me?

W: No ma’am, I’m just trying to take your order.

C: Well then, how is the salmon prepared?

W: In a nice dill cream sauce and…

C: Oh no, no, no. No dairy.

W: Would it be OK if it was free-range cream?

C: That does it, get me the manager!

W: Yes ma’am.

Manager: Is there a problem, ma’am?

C: Yes, there is, your waiter is very rude and I am about to leave without ordering!!

M: I am very sorry ma’am, I will talk to him. May I take your order? The meal is on the house.

C: Well, that’s more like it. Yes you may take my order. I would like the wild salmon without the cream sauce.

M: Do you want the dill?

C: Is it organic?

M: No, ma’am, but it is grown locally though.

C: Then that won’t do. Just the salmon, please. Oh, and are any animal products used in your kitchen? I am a vegetarian.

M: Animal products, ma’am?

C: You know, leather, natural hair brushes, bone handled knives, that sort of thing.

M: I would have to look ma’am. Is it OK if the cooks or servers wear leather belts or shoes?

C: Alright, that does it, I’m leaving!

M: Ma’am, ma’am, please, I am not trying to offend you, just to understand how best to make your meal as pleasant as possible.

C: Ok, then, before you go, are these napkins 100% cotton?

M: Why yes, ma’am, let me unroll one for you. See, the label says 100% cotton.

C: But the label certainly isn’t cotton, it is some kind of synthetic material!

M: I can rip it off if you would like, ma’am.

C: THAT won’t be necessary, I will use the one I carry with me.

M: If you prefer, ma’am. Would you like a nice glass of wine, on the house of course, we have a very fine wine list.

C: Let me see, hmmm, don’t you have any locally vinted wines?

M: Not at the moment, ma’am, but we are talking with a couple….

C: Do you not understand the amount of energy that is required to ship these wines to your establishment? The carbon released, just so your customers can fortify themselves with this stuff??!!

M: Um, I guess I never thought about it, ma’am. We do have a couple of beers brewed by local microbrewers.

C: Made with organic ingredients?

M: Never mind. How about a glass of water?

C: I only drink spring water from local springs, BUT, I don’t drink anything from plastic.

M: Coffee? Um, no that won’t work; milk?

C: NO DAIRY!!

M: Oh, sorry, sorry, ma’am! Do you have any spring water with you?

C: (Sigh!) Yes, yes, I guess I will have to provide that too.

M: Oh, ma’am, when I bring out the salmon, it will be on a very hot plate, the cook removes the salmon from the cedar plank and….

C: Cedar plank? Of the sustainable cedar variety, I hope!

M: OK, forget the cedar, we’ll bake it in a pan, a cast iron pan, is that OK?

C: I suppose so.

LATER

M: Well, ma’am, I hope you enjoyed your salmon.

C: I have to say, it was somewhat bland.

M: Well, we usually serve it with….

C: Never mind. I have a suggestion; if you want more customers like me you will attempt to keep in mind our wishes as they relate to sustainability and diet preferences. Do you understand!

M: OH, you can be sure we will be keeping that in mind, ma’am!

M to W: Change the sign outside to say no vegetarian, no non-dairy, no organic, no sustainable anything, no local wines, no spring water…can you think of anything else?

W: At the end we should add ‘but good food anyway’.

M: Right!

END

River Folk - Part 1 Family Roots

2011-08-30T07:55:00.000-07:00

Part 1 - Family Roots

Leder tied Hissy around his britches and headed out for a day of adventure. Hissy was a water moccasin Leder used for a belt. This arrangement was the result of his mother, known to all as Ma Minnie, who insisted that her family would live naturally and would not allow ‘store-bought’ items to be used or even worn. Clothes were woven by Ma Minnie out of cattail leaves and various vines. Pa Henry accepted this arrangement without question for it was Minnie that had save Pa from certain death.

Leder’s older brother Pend, had grown to the age that he was expected to assist his Pa in gathering enough edible plants for them to survive. Ma Minnie also would not allow the killing of other creatures and that included fish and frogs. Ma Minnie had preached this vegan style living from the day she found Pa Henry laying over a log that was floating down the river. Henry, as she named him, was found unconscious with a large lump on his head and, upon being revived by Minnie, claimed to know nothing of his past, not even his name.

At that time Minnie was a young woman living alone in a hole in the bank of a quiet tributary off a large river running through Ozark Mountain country. Upon her arrival at this place she had seen muskrats living in holes and figured if it was good enough for them it was good enough. Minnie had a hard life up to this point and wanted little to do with others. That ‘Henry’ had no past encouraged her that he would be free of the taint of what she derisively called ‘man unkind’. Henry was about her age and she suggested to him that he should live with her in the hole in the bank. Henry, having no memory of living any other way, eagerly accepted.

Henry, from the first day, regarded Minnie with awe. He felt secure with her because of her deliberate and forceful personality. He eventually fell in love with her but he remained awestruck. Minnie for her part admired Henry’s strong back and his willingness to work hard to please her. Whether or not she loved him didn’t really matter to Henry; what did matter was that she would have him.

Minnie’s disgust with other people and her insistence that her family never kill another creature was a result of her unpleasant childhood and the guilt she felt about killing a man.

Minnie grew up to early adolescence in an orphanage, known at the time as a children’s home. The home was in a backwater area of the Ozark Mountains and the term ‘home’ would have been a generous one by anyone that had grown up in a family home.

The children of the home were treated as if they were criminals, the crime apparently being parentless in a desperately poor area of a desperately poor county. Forced to sleep in a stuffy ill lit dormitory style room, the children were roused at daybreak for a breakfast of some kind of gruel and then put to work. The younger kids cleaned up after the meal and headed to the kitchen to take out the slop and clean the pots. The older unfortunates were led to their work stations which included field work, cleaning stables, feeding the livestock, digging post holes, whatever a working farm would required, for, you see, the home was actually a working farm. No midday meal was provided and the children were worked until sunset to be fed cornmeal and bits of pork. Bedtime was immediately after that.

This ‘home’ was owned by the people of the nearby town and managed by a nasty couple that had been unable to run a farm on their own. Today this farm would be shut down in an instant and those responsible for it put away for an indefinite period of time.

Minnie had spent all the years her memory could recount at this place. Minnie had no history as far as the she could tell, no names of forebears, no names of relatives, no birth place, no birth date, no family name. She picked December 25^th as her birthday because, on that day, the children were allowed to sleep-in until 8:00 am before starting their normal day.

While in her early teens, Minnie began scheming about ways to escape. After mulling it over for some time she put her plan into action. She had been put in charge of the rabbit hutch a few years before and had been spiriting away rabbit fur for some time. Since Minnie was a hard worker, no one paid much attention to the details of Minnie’s efforts, for she had raised some very large and supple hares for past slaughterings.

In preparation for her escape, Minnie told the old farm manager that the rabbits would be ready in a spell and he should mosey on down in a bit to do the deed. In the interim, she went to the shed where she had a gunny sack full of rabbit fur. She had pilfered a pint of molasses and proceeded to rub it all over her body. She then stuck the fur all over and especially a big bunch on her behind for a tail. Ears were two fur-adorned corn leaves.

When the old manager made it to the hutch, Minnie hopped out from behind it. Startled, the old man broke out in a big grin and said aloud, “Minnie, you have outdone yourself this time.” Before he could take a swing with his axe at this huge succulent rabbit, Minnie, backed away and grabbed a pitchfork leaning against the hutch and ran him through.

Author’s note: If this were to be a musical play Minnie would sing this song to the old man before departing;

I've got a word or two
To say about the things that you do
You're telling all those lies
About the good things that we can have
If we close our eyes

Do what you want to do
And go where you're going to
Think for yourself
'Cause I won't be there with you

I left you far behind
The ruins of the life that you have in mind
And though you still can't see
I know your mind's made up

You're gonna cause more misery*

*credit – Think for Yourself - Beatles – Rubber Soul

She then walked down to the pond and washed off. The time that a rabbit slaughtering usually took was enough time for Minnie to make her break. And she did.

Fortunately for the old man, the wound wasn’t serious and he was to fully recover, at least physically. The wound to his psyche, though, was great, for he was convinced he had been attacked by a monster hare. By the time he had recovered from his wounds the image of Minnie the rabbit in his mind’s eye changed from how she really looked which was something like this:

To something like this (without the vest):

The old man told and retold his story to his wife so often while convalescing that she had images of this monster rabbit running through her thoughts day and night - especially at night.

Once the old man had recovered enough to travel, his wife and he left the home and, when passing through town, recounted the story of the viscous monster rabbit attack. This put the townsfolk in a pickle because now none were brave enough to

visit the home, much less manage it. Eventually, a local Indian by the name of

Felix Goodshot and his wife, Premium Cowhide Goodshot, stated they were willing to take up residence at the home and manage its affairs. This, the town folk whole heartedly agreed to, and to ensure the Goodshots would stay, offered a provision that the Goodshots could keep any profits the farm could make.

The Goodshots were a clever couple and immediately turned the home into a casino. They were generous as well and shared profits with the resident children. The concern was a goldmine and the children, aided by the Goodshots, bought up every mortgage for every home and business in town, which was nearly every home and business in town. They then called for full payment on the loans and since no one could pay, the entire town was evicted.

With profits from the casino, the Goodshots turned the town into Monster Bunny Land, a family amusement park, and made another killing.

Next up: Part 2 – Leder’s Float Trip

Star Lites

2011-08-17T08:46:00.000-07:00

STAR LITES*

*Those irritating little profiles of some recently famous actress you see in Airline magazines

When she is in town Carla Stoneweather can often be found in “The Blank Look”, her favorite LA eatery. The current Most-Watched New Starlet claims the Look may not have the best gnocchi in town but that at least “they have good intentions”.

Ms. Stoneweather, formerly of Clay Pot, Arkansas, migrated to LA in search of her true calling, to open a feed & seed emporium specializing in exotic varieties of corn and chicken scratch. Unfortunately for Carla, in the late 60’s a very similar idea was brought to fruition in southern California by Karl Blankenhammer, when he opened up a string of unforgettable specialty shops under the name of “Hog Slop AGoGo”. Once our starlet was made aware of this fact and that local memories of these establishments occasionally foment mini riots, she was forced to alter her focus.

Undaunted by her disappointment but aware that one meal a week results in a tendency to pal around with pigeons, the former southern belle set off on a series of shoplifting excursions. This line of work too proved to be unrewarding. Unlike most filchers who are satisfied to sell their booty on the street for food money, Carla was driven by a creative zeal that interfered with the actual point of her enterprise. The future actress was unable to accumulate her booty due to the fact that she would replace each purloined prize with what she had filched in the previous shop. Carla’s sensitivities were such that this reordering of merchandise from one establishment to the next was her way of “bringing order to a chaotic world”. However strong her artistic urges were they proved unsatisfactory in her quest for succor because at the end of a week’s incessant stealing she had kept only a Precious Moments figurine of a boy cloyingly e-trading small caps on Nasdaq.

To make matters worse for her, or so it seemed at the time, a security camera in a Starbucks caught her replacing a pound of coffee with a salami. Since Carla visited this Starbucks several times a day, it took the police only twelve weeks to crack the case and pin the heist on Carla. As fate would have it though, Carla’s fortunes were to take a dramatic turn for the better. The manager of the violated coffee house, Jack Dorkin while reviewing the video with police, noticed the hauntingly balletic movements Carla employed in making her switch and decided not to press charges (plus he felt a good salami for a pound of coffee was more than a fair trade).

Jack, like so many others in this magic town, was an aspiring actor and he knew talent when he saw it and he definitely saw it in Carla. Even though Jack had little success in the acting trade he was the kind of selfless man that would go the extra mile for his fellow man, and helping Carla provided potential dividends since she was a saucy dish and if he was lucky would display her gratitude by washing his car in her underwear. Jack decided to introduce Carla to his agent Tuppe.

Tuppe Biowak was a former boxer whose head had absorbed more than its share of jabs and left hooks but he had a way with many movie producers in town (his way generally involved encouraging reluctant producers to enter their cars through their tail pipes). Not easily impressed, Tuppe was enchanted by Carla’s natural approach to acting which Carla’s family stupidly mistook for spasms.

Carla finally had her first big break when Tuppe placed her as the lead cashier at the “Pants for Less” next to Freddy’s Tabac Shop. While this may seem like a far cry from snagging a part in a Broadway play or even an extra in a low budget independent film, Tuppe’s genius was soon to be apparent, for only six year later Carla caught the eye of Rufus A. Stegemon, mogul of Gigantic Studios. This fortuitous event occurred when Mr. Stegemon was returning a pair of gabardine slacks that inexplicably had all the pockets sewn to the right leg while the left leg was festooned with wicker baskets.

Some have suggested that this “error in construction” was the work of Carla, but her friends (Freddy and Clegg the janitors) knew better as gabardine caused Carla to become extremely dizzy.

Regardless, Rufus was smitten at the first sight of this beautiful counter girl and proposed to her on the spot. Carla, still reeling from the sight of the gabardine, said yes, or yeech, or something but whatever she said, wedding bells were soon to be sounding for her. Most people may think it strange that a wistful girl like Carla would agree to marry an 87 year old prune such as was Rufus, but it really is not so hard to understand. For you see, Rufus was charming, but better yet, he was clever, so clever that he had worn gabardine all through their brief courtship. Not only that, he had his car and all the furniture in his palatial estate done up in gabardine. Keeping the delectable beauty in a semi conscious state allowed Rufus to fare better than her two other suitors, a deaf and blind ex-hockey goalie and a full sized cutout of Ronald McDonald.

As head of Gigantic Studios, Rufus slowly introduced Carla to the public by providing her small roles in his most coveted projects. This way the public would become conditioned to Carla’s strangely hypnotic charm and grace (she displayed a slight limp, walking like Walter Brennan, and had an artificial eye fashioned from a yellow driving range golf ball).

The early films “Loaves of Bread” and “Gravel!” provided suitable material for show-placing Carla’s talent, but it was in her starring debut in “Ben the Grizzly Argues with a Salmon” that her true artistry was apparent to all. In that film she played a good natured woodchuck that is tragically devoured by Ben who was to eventually see the error of his ways. Carla’s triumphant splash on the screen, when Ben guiltily regurgitates her, has been compared to some of filmdom’s greatest and most heart rending moments.

Since the success of Ben (soon to be released in 3-D DVD), Carla has been involved in her first romantic role about a confused taxi driver in mid-evil

England

. For this film Carla is paired with heartthrob Jeremy Bones fresh from the successful “Yikes it’s You Again” in which he played a hapless air traffic controller who is somehow responsible for numerous train derailments.

Screen watchers are anxiously awaiting the grand opening of this film which will take place in the back room of Harold’s Pool Hall in Clay Pot.

Although there are rumors that Carla’s first romantic role has Rufus nervous, those in the know say he is quite comfortable with the pairing especially since Jeremy’s entire wardrobe is constructed of gabardine.

Strategies for Drunken Louts

2011-08-15T08:28:00.000-07:00

These economic times coincide with an increase in the sale of all types of alcoholic beverages. And I feel it is in the best interest of mankind to suggest some strategies that a man can use to mitigate marital strife caused by his occasional drunken and intemperate proclamations that he may not remember the next morning.

After a night of over indulgence, a man must be on guard for signs (some barely perceptible and others glaringly obvious) that alcohol dissolved the barrier between his better judgment and the baser elements of his psyche.

If the man notices any sign of indignation or anger in his wife’s demeanor he must proceed with caution. Never ask, ‘what’s the matter?’ because the answer will generally be, ‘nothing!’. Probing further is as productive as poking a hornet’s nest with a stick. The more cautious approach is to bring up some benign subject and let her take the lead. Once it has been established that she is sufficiently pissed, the man will then know he had said something he shouldn’t have. Again, It is best to let the wife take the lead.

As she begins the unfolding of his embarrassing indiscretions, the man should never object that he didn’t say what she is recounting, because she could probably tell him anything and he would have no way of disproving it. He should also not become angry because he will then open the flood gates of her wrath.

My strategy can take some practice to perfect. If a man begins employing this strategy and realizes he is in over his head, he must bail and begin groveling. To continue will cause suspicion, especially if poor implementation of this strategy is attempted on successive occasions. It is best that a man practice on a friend before diving into a strategy that could backfire into divorce (unless that is the goal).

The man must learn to draw out clues from his wife in an attempt to shed light on his actions of the previous night. The more quick witted man will use these clues to reweave the fabric of his misdeeds. Those less able must practice enough to develop some ‘canned’ responses for most any impropriety for which he feels he is capable.

The following dialog between a drunken lout and his wife provides a good example of a quick thinker employing my strategy.

Wife: I’m mad a you, last night you called me a bitch!

Husband: I did? Well yeah, I mean I did use that word but I think you misinterpreted what I said.

W: You said just that and I DID NOT misinterpret it!

H: And remember what you said after I said that?

(The man is successfully stalling so that he may get his thoughts in order)

W: Of course I remember! I’ll bet you don’t know, though. You were really drunk!

H: No, actually I wasn’t. I remember but I couldn't hear you that well because of the TV.

(The lout should never admit to being drunk, that would destroy the foundation of his story line.)

W: It wasn't on.

H: Well, it was making noise.

W: I didn't hear any noise.

H: Oh yeah, It was loud enough that I kept missing words, maybe it was happening to you too and that is why you misinterpreted what I said.

W: You are so full of it!

(The following won’t work on more technically savvy women and the man must know his wife well before attempting this advanced technique)

H: No, really, I'll bet it was the jamliss.

W: The what?

H: You know the jamliss, the thing in the TV that sometimes emits a high frequency sound when the TV is turned off drowning out other sounds. I told you about it last year. There was a report about it on 60 minutes. Maybe you can't hear such high frequencies.

W: You never said anything to me about a jamliss or whatever. (bingo! She’s starting to buy his line. He can now proceed) Anyway if I misinterpreted what you said and you weren't mad at me, why did you call me a bitch?

H: I said "son of a bitch" under my breath because of the jamliss sound, I was angry I couldn’t hear all you were saying.

W: You looked me in the eye and said "You are a bitch"!

H: Weren't you standing right over there?

W: No! I was standing right there.

(This is included to demonstrate a mistake on the man’s part and a nimble recovery)

H: That's right! I wasn't looking at you, I was looking at a tree frog on the window; I could see it right over your shoulder. I was cussing at it because of all the chirping it does, keeps me awake.

W: What tree frog? I haven't seen any tree frogs. And why would you call it a bitch?

H: It looked like a female.

Now you see, this man successfully navigated his way through a minefield of his prior stupid actions. His wife may not fully believe his story but it should plant enough doubt in her mind to lessen the tension and allow the man to escape to the garage.

Next up - Starlites

The Village Idiot

2011-08-02T09:47:00.000-07:00

This blog is named after a story I recently wrote and posted on scribd.com under the psuedonym rosewater49. Anyway, here goes:

In a small county in a very rural area of a southern state lives Tater McPlank, widely known as the Village Idiot. He has worn this distinction for 10 years running. You might think it a derogatory appellation but in this area it is a boon to the McPlank family, for people come to the McPlank farm for miles around just to get a glimpse of Tater. All those people mean nice paydays for the McPlanks, who sell vegetables, lemonade, moonshine (behind the barn) and knickknacks pertaining to idiotdom.

Tater isn’t the first village idiot of his county. No, the commerical trade that a Village Idiot elicits has been known to the locals for decades. The honor of being the Village Idiot is bestowed by a panel of judges, all of whom must not have children nor be related to Idiot contenders. To be designated as the Village Idiot, a person must possess a prodigious amount of dullness. No ordinary dullard can expect to be selected.

When Tater’s parents challenged the then-current Village Idiot, Olaf Gunderstuble, the people of the county felt the excitement generated from the first genuine challenge to Olaf in a decade. Tater had grown into manhood with a most admirable string of failures. Never progressing past the first grade, Tater had only learned three letters of the alphabet and the number eight. He came into notoriety when he received a lower SAT score than did Harmon, the family mule. Olaf’s family protested this feat by reminding the McPlanks that it was well known that Harmon had only to fall in the family well once before he learned to avoid it making him a right smart mule indeed. Pa McPlank countered with the fact that Harmon was reacting to fear, not revelation, for the mule passed gas when frightened, and had been passing gas since his fall whenever he was near the well. In addition, he explained, Tater had fallen in the well most every day since Harmon ceased and had shown no sign of changing. Indeed, Pa McPlank said Tater’s well mishaps were so common that the chickens had been congregating around the well in anticipation of the eventual plunges. He insisted the chickens found this amusing due to their incessant cluckings after each splash, and he was forced to move the chicken coop adjacent to the well so they would return to laying. The Gunderstubles were well aware of the relocated chicken coop and conceded this point.

County lore has many examples of the challenges and counter-challenges between the McPlanks and the Gunderstubles, though not all can be definitely substantiated. For instance, Mr. Gunderstuble was said to have challenged Pa McPlank with the fact that Clucky, the McPlank’s rooster, could never beat Tater at a game of mumbly pegs, pointing to Clucky’s obvious lack of a toe on his left foot and the fact that Tater retained all his digits. Pa McPlank called Tater over and had him remove his shoes revealing two missing toes on his right foot and one on his left. There was also the story of how Gunderstuble claimed to have witnessed Tater winning an argument with a fence post; McPlank’s quick reply was that he was pretty sure Tater didn’t know any fence posts.

Eventually the Village Idiot Panel was called to order to end these disputes. After examining all the evidence, they were deadlocked. It was decided that a true test of idiocy was required. Two wooden sheds were constructed, 10 feet by 15 feet by 15 feet high with no roof. The judges stood upon a 15 foot high platform that was placed between the two sheds.

One open window was placed in each shed, the bottom of which was at 10 feet. A 10 foot long ladder was placed along on the floor along one wall. Olaf was locked in one shed and Tater in the other. Each shed was set afire along the wall opposite the window. After a few minutes of Tater and Olaf running in circles, the judges noticed Olaf looking at the ladder and glancing at the window. Had Olaf’s parents been standing on the judging platform they would have been screaming, “NO Olaf! Don’t do it!”

Olaf eventually decided that the ladder should be placed under the window but had not advanced up it but stood scratching his head. Tater, though, was standing looking at the ladder as if in deep thought. Although Olaf never set foot on the ladder, Tater was awarded the coveted prize, for he had grabbed the ladder but was swinging it at the flames as if he was going to blow it out. “Exceptional stupidity!” murmured the judges. They ordered the fires extinguished and freed the two dummies. Olaf’s family hung their heads in shame as the judges placed the desirous dunce hat upon Tater.

As has been said, Tater was a goldmine for his family for 10 years but the string of good fortune almost came to an end at the end of the fourth year when he was beaten out by a newcomer named Clod Arngst. The McPlanks were crestfallen and demanded an investigation which proved that Clod wasn’t an idiot at all, but was instead a sack of oats with a face painted on it. Jubilation abounded on the McPlank farm and Pa McPlank beat Tater only six times that week.

Tater’s family felt fairly secure that no one in the county could challenge Tater’s deeply entrenched stupidity nor did they fear Tater would “learn” anything during his daily toils that would erode his chuckleheadedness.

That being said, the admonition against looking a gift horse in the mouth was not just a trite saying in the county that the McPlanks called home, it was a tried and true warning to anyone that fortune smiled upon too fondly. The McPlanks were well aware of the good fortune Tater had brought them through no effort of his own, and at the back of their minds, Ma and Pa McPlank dreaded that something, anything, would someday end their largess. For that reason, although there was some discussion of half-starving Tater in an effort to enhance his lunkheadedness, it was finally agreed that Tater should be fed a proper amount of food and not work him any more than 18 hours a day. And the weekly beatings were confined to chucking rocks at his head because hitting him elsewhere could result in infection or inability to work.

One cool fall day while Tater was walking to school, he spied something that piqued his curiosity. That Tater was walking to “school” needs to be explained, for Tater was expelled from the county school some years before for lowering the average IQ of every first grade class he attended to just above negative numbers. So to keep him occupied, his family had convinced him that school was the chicken coop and that the chickens were his classmates. The Rooster, Clucky, of course, was the teacher. If the Gunderstubles had known about this arrangement they could have rightly questioned the positioning of the chicken coop next to the well.

Anyway, back to Tater. He had glanced at the sky and noticed something that confounded him. It was an airplane. This is not to say that airplanes had never flown over this part of the country before, they had, and had for years. You see, Tater mostly walked with his head down to protect his eyes and teeth from the rocks his family chunked at him. But this particular morning was cool and clear with a breeze that pronounced the mournful buss of the airplane’s engine to an unusual pitch. Tater was puzzled, astonished, thunderstruck. This thing didn’t look like his class mates, the chickens, nor was it a bird. Or was it?

After an especially difficult day at class (Tater’s nose was getting raw from pecking chicken scratch) he ran home and asked his mother about what he had witnessed. After some careful questioning, his mother decided that Tater had indeed seen an airplane. Most parents would see this as a sign of blossoming awareness, and Tater’s parents were no exception; they were terrified.

Pa McPlank blamed his wife for suggesting the chicken coop school scheme. He was fully aware of the dismal track record of public education and, therefore, feared that Tater had actually been learning something from Clucky and the hens. Ma McPlank was nonplussed. She suggested that frying up Clucky for dinner might be a solution worth trying. Pa, though, stated that the damage had apparently already been done and that eating tough old Clucky didn’t sound too appetizing anyway.

They finally decided upon an approach of carefully watching Tater for signs of increased intelligence. This approach was not without its drawbacks, and chief among them was the time involved watching him. There was barely enough time to get the daily chores done as it was without spying on Tater too. They decided that their only course of action was to have Tate with them as they conducted their daily labors. This, however, presented them with another problem; what if Tater were to learn something, anything, from his parents’ example that might endanger his hold as the Village Idiot.

They mulled over this problem and decided that the best approach would be to have Tater blindfolded. But what if he hears something they then wondered. It was agreed that packing his ears with mud would do the trick. So they set about implementing their plan. The test was to be conducted over a month’s time.

While Pa McPlank plowed, milked the cows, fed the hogs, Tater was there at his side. While Ma McPlank did her household chores, collected eggs, churned butter, Tater was there at her side.

Much to their relief, Tater never objected to the test and only stood by motionless with his head down. His parents were so happy at this that they ended their test after three weeks. “He may be even more stupid after this!” declared Pa. “I think you may be right!” declared Ma.

So with the strain of worry over, they removed the blindfold and washed the dirt from his ears. Tater stood, his eyes squinting due to the unaccustomed light, and looked around slowly. “Father, mother”, he began, “I want to thank you”. Astonished and dismayed at once they looked at one another and asked, “What do you mean, Tater?”

“Why, to thank you for providing me the opportunity to think things over”, Tater stated eloquently. Stunned, the McPlanks traded terrified looks. Pa finally broke from his dumbfounded silence, “Tater, I have never heard you talk this way before, what is going on?” Tater responded, “I initially was more confused than ever but as the time you afforded me passed, my mind began to organize itself and it was as if a veil had been lifted from my understanding. I realized how stupidly I had been acting and I am sorry about that. You and Ma did, however, benefit from my stupidity so I suppose I was of value to you”. Ma fainted. Pa went for the jug.

Tater’s rise from the ashes of his idiocy was met with shock, anger, and bewilderment by the leaders of the county. They hired a professor from a local college to test Tater. They were informed that Tater was not an idiot, but had a mind to be admired. He stated, “Tater could probably pass the college’s board exams by hardly trying.”

The sale of pitchforks and torches skyrocketed over the following week. When all the angry and indignant speeches regarding the McPlanks’ treachery were concluded, the march of townspeople to the McPlank farm was assembled and set off. Tater, seeing what was about to happen, rushed home by way of shortcut and warned his parents about their impending peril. He told them to hide in the barn because he sensed that the mob would set fire to their house.

When the angry townspeople approached the McPlank house they were met by Tater lounging in the porch swing. The mob’s leader told Tater he should leave the premises if he knew what was good for him. Tater beseeched the crowd not to burn the house, after all it really wasn’t his parents’ fault for misunderstanding his condition. This, however, fell on deaf ears, “You’re only trying to protect them”, the leader stated, “Get out of the way”. What the humiliated crew didn’t count on, though, was Tater’s new found powers of persuasion. He apprised them of the blowback that was likely to occur by the state authorities if they were to burn the house with his parents inside. “If you really must make a statement,” he counseled, “burn the barn”.

That they did, and since it contained a harvest of new dry hay, the McPlanks stood little chance of escaping.

After the fire died down, Tater sifted through the ashes to see if anything was left. The blaze was so intense that even bones could be turned to ashes. Only the blackened metal parts of farm implements stored there were left, along with and four metal kerosene cans sitting at each corner of the barn. These, Tater disposed of.

The townspeople assumed the McPlanks fled the state for they were not seen again. With an Idiot void in the county, the townspeople decided to proactively award the title of Village Idiot to Clod Arngst, the sack of oats. Clod’s “parents” tried to capitalize on their unexpected fame and began a tour of surrounding counties exhibiting Clod’s idiocy. This went moderately well until Clod met an unfortunate end. In the town of Coopsickle, clod was plopped unceremoniously onto a platform built just for his exhibition. Unbeknownst to the Arngsts, Clod’s sack was caught on a nail and oats began pouring out behind the platform. A local mule brought to challenge Clod discovered the growing pile and consumed all but a handful of Clod. The mule was brought up on charges of manslaughter but was found not guilty due to the fact that the body of Clod had disappeared; the sack, stored in the jail’s evidence room, was transformed into nesting material by the inhabitant rats.

Tater settled into the family home. He found that his parents had stashed a goodly amount of money in the attic. The money was put to good use expanding the farming business which his parents struggled to make break even. Tater’s new found brilliance was manifested in an acute business sense and his farming endeavors evolved into a successful farm implement business and very well received feed supply concern, but the thing that made his fortune was the new strains of corn and wheat he developed.

Tater felt a sense of gratitude to Clucky since his parents had cured him based on falsely believing that he had learned at Clucky’s “school house”. He, therefore, made Clucky Vice President of Tater & Associates, his duties mostly testing new seed corn. This arrangement worked well for the first year or so, but when Tater noticed Clucky hanging around the chicken coop a bit too much, he tried to put a stop to it. Clucky assured Tater he would quit his romantic endeavors but he soon was back at it.

Clucky, unfortunately, was to meet an unexpected and premature end when he mistook the lid to a deep fat fryer for the door to the newly installed company sauna. The “accident” might have been considered less of one if people had known that a sign with the word “Sauna” had been attached to the lid. This sign soon disappeared as mysteriously as was event of Clucky’s end.

Harmon the mule had witnessed much of Tater’s doings over the years. He was undecided as to Tater’s responsibilities regarding demise of the McPlanks and Clucky and didn’t dare broach the subject. When he was approached by Tater to consider the open position of VP he was afraid to decline.

To this day the several businesses of Tater & Assoc. are making enormous profits, Tater married the richest girl in the county and they have three beautiful and very talented children. Harmon has been a real asset to Tater, though, he had always been bewildered by the four blackened kerosene cans and the deep fat fryer displayed in Tater’s trophy case. Harmon decided that these too were outside the realm of discussion. To this day, Harmon feels pretty lucky about his lot in life but the local veterinarian is at a loss to explain why Harmon farts every time Tater enters the room.

END

Please comment. I am consdering a sequel that will feature Harmon the Mule on vacation. Any ideas/

Next up, "Strategies for Drunken Louts"