smithismyrealname.com

Baby and Bucky

2009-04-30T07:32:11-04:00

The late afternoon sun broiled the self-storage units' flat rooftops. A mirage effect created the illusion of a cool lake floating atop wide, low block buildings. Bucky leaned back until his plastic deck chair quivered on the blacktop.

"Why do they call it late?" Bucky said to Baby and no one in particular. "It's here at the same time every day, more or less."

Baby's hair permanently screened her right eye like a curtain of fine blonde steel wool.

"You are the mighty oak that shades my babbling brook, King Dynamite," she said with a yellowish smile. "I dream constantly of your stout trunk and overspreading limbs."

Leonard "Bucky" Sawtooth was not handsome, unless he stood in a crowd of ugly men. Bucky did not seem to be particularly intelligent, unless he was packed into a room full of idiots. He was tolerated and mostly adored by his common-law wife, Doreen Shaker. Bucky called her "Baby."

"We are the cream of the trailer park," Bucky said to Baby and no one in particular. "The top of the food chain."

"Folks such as us, we eat what we want," he continued. "Few if any creatures can eat us in return, what with our mastery of weapons and metaphors and all."

"You got a mind like a fine stainless steel colander, my Hunky Man-Tree," Baby responded. "The big thoughts stay put."

Bucky considered her words. He tugged on the stringy, salt-and-pepper moss that adorned his weak chin.

As far as Bucky was concerned, life itself was a rich and bountiful banquet served buffet-style.

Three months at a job was the maximum an employer could expect from Bucky Sawtooth. Although he never stayed long, Bucky felt any occupation worth pursuing was one that also deserved respect on the way out.

"I choose to end my tenure, right now, here, today," Bucky would declare without warning -- sometimes during the mellow minutes of a day's first coffee -- and walk away, his still-warm I.D. badge and mug of Maxwell House cooling on the shelf next to the time clock.

Sometimes it went other ways. Most recently, Bucky misunderstood a notice on the bulletin board in the employee lounge. That was an exciting Friday: the SWAT team and a TV news crew showed up and Bucky's employment was terminated.

"Why announce a concealed carry-in if you're going to fire anyone what brings a piece to work?" Bucky asked a reporter on the way outside. "That's not a rhetorical question; I'm talking about the right to bear arms and defend my five-layer taco salad."

Having reached the apex of underachievement, Bucky accepted a job as the live-in manager of a Stor-Yor-Stuf on Dixie Highway right where the gas stations and fast food joints end and the long gravel driveways begin. Moving from the suburbs to the sticks wasn't easy but Bucky and Baby took the quarter-mile migration in stride.

"I am like a nomadic camel jockey of the faraway desert badlands," Bucky said to Baby and no one in particular. "It is my destiny to roam."

"If you were a pack of Camels, Love Widget," Baby cooed, "I'd smoke you down to the butt."

The times Baby had doubted her love for Bucky was a number less than zero.

Bucky balanced a glass of iced tea on the sloping arm of his chair. Condensation flowed like the brief rivers that chase summer rain.

"I'll give you exactly one hour to quit talking like that," he told Baby. "Keep it up if you don't believe I'm serious, or are perhaps unsure."

"Unit 76, right now," Baby hissed. "He stopped paying and I just cut the lock this morning."

They shut the gate and hung the "Closed" sign on the office window. The empty 7 x 10 was one row away. Baby's bare feet were the same color as the freshly swept concrete floor. Her toe ring gleamed in the fading sunlight.

"I'm going to bone you, and not like a chicken," Bucky told her, and paused. "Likewise, you understand I am not a chicken boning you -- you will be the chicken what's boned. Except your actual bones will not be removed."

He paused again. "I was using words to paint a colorful, erotic picture."

"Honey Bottle, you go ahead and say or do anything to me your heart desires," Baby murmured. "I'll just lie here quietly until you're finished or one of us falls asleep."

"I love you so much."

"I love you bunches."

Baby smelled like Ivory soap, Altoids, and microwave burritos. Her fingers were stained from nicotine and Orange Crush.

"Your stretch marks are a road map what leads me to my heart's desire," Bucky rasped into Baby's navel. "I enjoy all of your points of interest."

"Please hurry-- and don't stop to ask for directions," Baby replied. "You know every inch of my horny terrain, you Red Hot Love Scavenger."

"Follow me," Bucky whispered to Baby and no one in particular, as if in prayer. "Follow me."

Midlife Banking Crisis

2009-03-17T07:08:33-04:00

Special Report -- Here's why I should start my own bank:

I appear very trustworthy and can project an image of calm reassurance that I combine with the illusion of giving a rat's ass.

You should see me when I'm wearing a suit jacket and without my body jewelry. Seriously, you won't know whether or not I mean what I say! If the bank venture doesn't work out I can apply my faux social skills to the restaurant or hotel industries.

Anyone who believes looks don't matter is a moron. Let's use Bernie Madoff as an example of public image eye candy. The guy is the financial investment market equivalent of a mass-murderer but he closely resembles George Washington. No wonder his clients never saw it coming. I wish I looked like someone popular or famous or printed on currency.

Commerce is not that hard to figure out. You scratch my back, I'll scratch my back.

If I "borrow" something from you, at the time I receive it I really, really intend to give it back. It's still yours -- you'll simply never see it again. When I ask my next-door neighbor if I can use his Husqvarna chainsaw, I always, well, almost never, return it. "Stealing" denotes acquisition through violence or sneakiness; "borrowing" is defined by unreasonable expectations of repatriation.

Listen, if I'm accumulating assets like cash and lawn care tools, I'm the guy who is hustling. It's not a passive enterprise! I should be compensated for my efforts. No one ever got rich sitting around in their jammies doing nothing, except for rich people sitting around in their jammies.

Why shouldn't I be paid money for acquiring money? Once it's my money I'll do any damned thing I want with it. What a robber baron I'll make. It'll be great.

Look at AIG. Paying bonuses to the account executives partly responsible for the company's distress is ballsy, but it's just so right. Television meteorologists, for example, earn a comfortable living making lame predictions that don't pan out very often.

Think of AIG Financial Products sales associates as weatherguys who failed to forecast Hurricane Katrina and yet were rewarded like the progeny of kings. Hey, they showed up for work and everything, right? They don't sound like losers at all.

I can't believe you loaned me a chainsaw with an empty fuel tank.

Excerpts from the Future Testimony of Harriet Miers and Karl Rove

2009-03-05T07:17:51-05:00

MS. MIERS: I have no recollection of that conversation.

MR. ROVE: Could you repeat the question, Congressman?

MS. MIERS: I don't remember.

MR. ROVE: Are you referring to the first President Bush or the second?

MS. MIERS: Sounds familiar but I can't say one way or the other.

MR. ROVE: At this point I would like to invoke my Fifth Amendment rights.

MS. MIERS: I don't remember.

MR. ROVE: I hope you can back that up with some, you know, hard evidence.

MS. MIERS: You're acting as if I did something wrong, and I resent your tone.

MR. ROVE: Once again, Congressman, I must plead the Fifth.

MS. MIERS: Are you shitting me?

MR. ROVE: If I broke any laws, and I'm not saying I did, it wasn't me.

MS. MIERS: I don't remember.

MR. ROVE: Whatever.

MS. MIERS: Go ask Mr. Big-Shot Limbaugh.

MR. ROVE: I suggest you ask Rush Limbaugh.

Fashion Week: As Luck Would Have It

2009-02-16T07:19:37-05:00

Special Report -- I wore my lucky shoes today.

It's been close to fifteen years since I paid thirty dollars for those black cross trainer/walking shoes at El-Bee Shoe Outlet. Inexpensive, amazingly comfortable, go-with-everything footwear. My back never hurts when I wear them, even when I have to walk on or stand on concrete floors all day.

Those shoes were on my feet for many grueling stage productions. Lots of trade shows and factory visits, too. I wore my lucky shoes to China in 2005 but didn't walk all the way there -- I sat inside an airplane that flew over the North Pole.

My lucky shoes are casual enough to wear with jeans, yet smart-looking enough to complement dress pants. I wore them once with shorts and ankle-high black socks. It was a long day outside in the summer but my feet felt great. I don't think people in Ohio dress like that, though.

The older you get, the less you worry about fashion or playing chicken in your car or finding sex, and the more you worry about your teeth and feet.

Recently, my life became more complicated.

I stepped in dog poop one morning about a month ago. Fortunately it happened in the backyard that time. That's not luck, it's fate. I was late for work and didn't have time to clean my lucky shoes, so I just changed them instead. I had to switch to a brown belt, too, for goodness sake.

The past thirty days have not been my best. It's hard to focus on my work, or even on the possible reasons why I might not be able to focus on my work. Everything I eat tastes like aspirin and chalk. I can't digest food or important information.

So I finally cleaned my lucky shoes this morning. A little soap, some bleach, and a scrub brush. The dog poop didn't even smell that bad anymore, not really. The soles, though worn down smooth, were now as clean as they were the day they first scuffed the El-Bee Shoe Outlet's carpet

My douchebag jackass supervisor gave me a lot of grief at work. I willed him to spontaneously combust but it didn't take. If he had burst into flames I suppose it would have been murder, not spontaneity.

The day dragged like a 1985 Honda Civic's rear brakes. No one at my cubicle farm even mentioned the redeployment of my lucky shoes. I could probably skip wearing pants next week and that would also pass unnoticed -- and hurt my feelings very badly indeed.

On the way home tonight I began to wonder about my life and my feet. If shoes are the window to the heart then doubt is the scabies of the soul. I was beginning to believe that my shoes had lost their luck.

About a mile from my house, the dog that runs along his property's fence line was back, racing me from the stop sign all the way to the next driveway. He kept up with me until I hit third gear and then he ran out of steam as usual.

I haven't seen him in months -- I thought he was dead. My shoes saved him. Lucky dog.

Brush Off the Fuzz and Dig In

2009-01-30T07:30:09-05:00

Special Report -- Today's special: salmonella 'n' jelly sandwiches and tainted milk. Your choice of side dish includes cultured mayonnaise rind, fruit roll-up kimchee, or refrigerator-blackened cherry tomatoes.

Is the nation's food supply at risk or are people just belly-aching?

A lot of perfectly good groceries are thrown away simply because of paranoia, misinformation, and perversely conscientious eating habits.

Although sensational stories of pathogenic contamination grab headlines, some experts are still reheating debates as old as last Thanksgiving's turkey carcass.

"Expiration dates are for the weak-minded," according to food archivist Denny Frisch. "Food Nazis want you to think it's wrong to leave tuna salad on the kitchen counter for more than seventy-two hours in July."

Thanks to modern refrigeration, chemical preservatives, and ambient radiation levels, perishable items stay edible for much longer than what is dictated by tradition or common sense.

Mr. Frisch insists the public's perception of "wholesome" and "appetizing" should be reconsidered.

"If something's worth eating," he continued, "it's okay if it sits out for a few days or a month. That's how yogurt, cheese, sauerkraut, and vinegar were discovered, right?"

The United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) and the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) appear powerless to regulate the quality standards of America's food supply.

The two federal institutions complain of budgetary cuts, manpower shortages, and confusion over overlapping or overlooked areas of jurisdiction.

"I usually visit meat-packing plants," Chicago-based USDA inspector Donald Farley Dayspring, who requested anonymity, said in a phone interview, "but my supervisor told me to go investigate contaminated snacks from vending machines instead. How am I supposed to know what's bad?"

Set aside "quaintly obsolete, sensible" notions of delectability and personal safety, say the new wave of old-food fans.

"Consumer advocates and government agencies are reckless and full of mischief," said Mr. Frisch. "Gray ham and green chicken are the new white meat."

You're Full of It, Says Manure Industry

2009-01-26T07:02:31-05:00

New York, NY -- What a load. Hits the fan. Runs downhill. A lying sack of it.

Enough is enough, according to manure processors and resellers. Image is everything when it comes to marketplace perceptions, and the much-maligned poop business has decided to litigate for respect if it can't earn it.

"It's impossible to turn on the TV or use a computer without being bombarded by flawed examples harmful to our hard-earned brand equity," Manure Trade Association president Raymond Tonewell said in a press release. "Gov. Rod Blagojevich, former Merrill Lynch CEO John Thain, indicted broker Bernard Madoff -- calling one of these guys 'the biggest pile of feces' damages our product's reputation."

"For the record," Mr. Tonewell added, "the world's largest mass of solid waste resides in our museum: a 900 lb. bat guano sculpture of the late hotel heiress Leona Helmsley. Rush Limbaugh can't hold a candle to that, and he shouldn't because it's highly combustible."

Determined to fight back against defamation, excrement processors filed suit in a New York district court on Friday seeking to protect their interests and force an end to casual trademark infringements.

"Crap producers are the global economy's unsung heroes," said corporate scatologist Dana F. Mellon. "Fresh and processed dung are constituent components of fertilizer, fuel, blogging, and many popular varieties of fast food. Our country does love its shit."

The case's outcome is hard to predict, say other leading stool enthusiasts, as established legal precedent seeks to assert itself over the general public's horrified fascination with entertainment celebrities, politicians, wealthy industrial robber barons, and Hummer drivers.

This diverse group of alleged image-stealing weasels is coming under fire from all directions.

Bayonne, New Jersey's American Hot Water Bottle Corporation -- the nation's number two manufacturer of douche bags -- announced it would proceed with its own claim of "willful misconduct" and "malicious misappropriation of its product's image, name, and squeezy-soft pouchiness."

The douche bag lawyers insist their legal action is unique and in no way related to that of the doody vendors, despite a steaming mountain of evidence that appears to indicate otherwise.

"It's not unusual for the average person to be confused by the differences between a douche bag and a sack of shit," said chief counselor J. Robert Barley. "As successful practicing attorneys, however, we are quite used to hearing those expressions."

Unreleased Songs and Forgotten "B" Sides

2009-01-20T07:29:28-05:00

From the vault. The archives. Rejected singles. Hidden treasure. Secret hits. Basement tapes. Forbidden melodies.

"March of the Damned" -- John Philip Sousa

"Razor Blades, Broken Glass, and Model Airplane Glue" -- Alison Krauss

"That's Not a Roll of Quarters in My Pocket, Darling" -- Irving Berlin

"Smack Yo Ass" -- Yo-Yo Ma

"Loving You is Like Biting Tinfoil" -- Metallica

"Party Like You Really Mean It" -- Yanni

"I Can't Find My Socks" -- Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band

"Champagne Bubbles and Your Perfume Tickle My Nose" -- Aaron Copland

"You Left a Big Hole in My Heart (But I'm Filling It with Whores and Gambling)" -- U2

"A Summer Evening's Introspection" -- James Brown

"Blowjob for Spare Change" -- Trans-Siberian Orchestra

"I Didn't Know Those Were Laxatives" -- Black Eyed Peas

"Dressing Up Always Makes Me Feel Pretty" -- Miles Davis Quintet

The Sucker Punch of a Brighter Tomorrow

2009-01-15T07:26:35-05:00

Special Report -- I awake in the 4:00 AM gloom, unable to breathe. A bearded, brown-eyed Cyclops wearing a feathery plumed hat lies on my chest staring at me. My Indiglo watch's pale luminescence reveals the intruder's identity: cat #27 nuzzling my pajama pants drawstring again.

I am by necessity a cat rancher. Felines are useful for their varmint-hunting prowess, pelts, and milk. A dozen or so can keep you warm when no other heat source is available. Milking them is not an enterprise to be underestimated, but I have small hands so no problem there.

I'm enjoying my time above ground. Most of it, anyway. It's hard to sleep at night -- I have trouble resting because every day ends with a sense of unfinished business. I can't relax. And then those effing cats come around again.

Fully roused now, I shuffle outside to see what is passing in the wide world. I stroll along the well-worn backyard path that leads to my main bunker. Stars are scattered across the sky like cigarette butts on a street median's landscaping mulch.

Despite my extensive research and powerful intellect, I've jumped the apocalyptic gun a few or many times. I don't know everything! I'm not twenty-five years old! It isn't a lack of information that hampers me, it's too much.

The signs that foretell the End of Days are like the special effects at the Beijing 2008 Olympic Games opening ceremonies -- too much to bear at times, but impossible to ignore. I am resolved, though, to never resume wearing my tinfoil headgear. Better to fret away the remainder of my life in a continuous state of data overload than to die in the muffled sleep of ignorance and let those damned cats feast on my eyes.

I lean against the bunker's reinforced door. Its cool, mossy permanence comforts me. If only I could just relax and let things go. When news is too general, it's annoying. When it's too specific, it's a federal indictment.

There have been a lot of dickish mass media reports about stalkers.

I don't "stalk" because I'm lovesick or sexually obsessed. Far from it. I'm satisfying a need to know every minute aspect of every targeted individual on my list -- what they eat, to whom they speak, what they write in their secret journal, what they throw in the garbage. That's not obsession, kids, that's attention to detail!

Why are reporters talking smack about this? Give me a few days and I will find out. These punk-ass journalists do forget that information flows both ways through "unnamed sources." I got yer reliable informant right here, Mr. Hearst.

Maybe the press should just play it safe and concentrate on covering unfathomably popular television shows like American Idolatry and Legislating with the Stars. Compile a sort of bikini montage featuring Caroline Kennedy, Simon Cowell, and Roland Burris. Must we endlessly discuss Barack Obama's inaugural balls? I'm interested in a lot of things, but not that. Give the man some privacy.

The barbarians who had gathered at our gate are now living in the attic.