The jungle that had become my backyard glistened like the early morning rainforest as I looked at it through my window.
It was full of the assortment of suburban jungle creatures that you would expect to find. Bugs the size of hummingbirds jumped through the grass, each with it’s own screech. In the middle of the jungle backyard was what remained of an ancient dog toy civiliazation. They toys had crumbled and had been reclaimed by Mother Earth.
This was hazardous country filled with dangers. Dog poop lay like land mines ready to destroy my sandals. Is that a wasp or just a giant grasshopper? Who knows. Perhaps a spare brick had been carried over into the tall weeds by the dogs to wait for me to trip on it.
There was only one safe passage around the yard, The Fat Belly Newt Trail. It was about a foot across and encircled the entire yard. Some say that this trail is cursed and haunted. Some have ventured on it never to return. But I had no choice.
My wife has told me it is time to mow the yard. Superdad must comply as I look at the untamed wilderness infront of me. It’s time to gear up.
Like Rambo I strap on my trusty hunting knife. I have never needed it in the backyard and don’t expect to this time. However, I would rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it. There could be a leopard out there.
I go to my metal steed. It’s 3.5 horses of vengeance and justice. My mower may not look like a super model, but it acts like one. It can be bitchy, but you just know how to sweet talk the little thing. The first 45 pulls on the cord fail to get the old girls motor purring. This is when I realize that perhaps I should actually have this thing serviced every once in a while and maybe add some oil. But I use an old trick my dad taught me, pour a little gasoline on the spark plug and screw it back in. He also taught me to never, ever, take a wiz after you do this as you have gas on your hands and it transfers very easily and hurts like hell.
I give it three more pulls when the beast roars to life with a puff of smoke boiling out the side. Let’s ride.
Into the backyard I go, the natives are restless. I can see my daughter and dogs watching me from the window, tears streak down their faces. Daddy is going to be ok sweet girl, daddy is going to be ok.
I make it a foot into the tree like stalks of weeds and grass when my trusty mower decides that he can’t do this. He is out of shape and didn’t work out at all over the winter. I start him back up using expletives to motivate him, this is no time for cowards.
Again he surges forward anther foot before being bested by a milkweed the size of a redwood. It’s time to call in the heavy artillery.
I grab my one actually expensive piece of lawn equipment. My Excalibur, the gas powered weed eater. This thing could cut down the Eifel Tower in an hour. With .9 MM rope, it spins at 1000RPM for maximum justice delivering. Short of ordering a napalm strike, it is my best bet for survival.
Again I pull the rip cord to get the motor running and again I am denied the sweet music of it starting. I pull and I pull. The skin between my fingers begin to blister, but I pay it no mind. Finally, I hear a whirl and a cough. It’s alive.
I give it the pre-game preptalk. I let it know that there is danger out there and we may not make it out alive. I let it know that Jesus loves it and that virgins await it in paradise. I let it know that although there is dog poo there is also glory.
I kick in the back gate and see that my mower is tangled in the grass already. We were gone less than an hour and already the bush is attempting to ingest it’s first victim. With a battle cry worthy of Valhalla we dive in, slashing the weeds with righteous fury.
We are reaping grass like Death reaps souls. With each swing of the weedeater, order comes to chaos. Up and down the sides I roam cutting back the infernal jungle. My muscles gleam in the sunlight, kissing the sky with each upward motion. All tremble before me, all run before me.
Back to the mower, he is hungry for his chance now that the grass is no longer waist high. He starts on the first pull, growling for action and a chance to se things right. His first victim is a McDonald’s bag that the Vietdogs have left in our path. He rips it to shreds without concern that it will have to be picked up later. He mulches grass and poo like it’s children’s paste.
A half shredded tennis ball shoots out the side port, clanging off the fence announcing to the world that I am almost done, I am almost done.
The back door opens slowly. I am standing but just barely. The sun marks a halo around my head, the house is quite.
“Water” I whisper. “Water”.
But there is no one to hear me. As I was busting my hump in the Budapest backyard, my family naps. I am covered with scratches, some possibly containing poison. Thousands of dead ant bodies litter my feet. They were the toughest opponent of the wild, but quickly were subdued by man’s will alone.
Staggering I climb inside and collapse, until I am called upon again.
4/4/07
4/2/07
Lucky Lotto
I try very hard not to rant on this blog as who likes an opinionated jackass? But good God, sometimes you just can’t help it.
I hate people that play the lottery at the gas station. There are many reasons for this, but let me tell the story and then you decide.
I was on my way home to pick up my daughter. I have this routine down to the minute. I leave work at Exactly 4:42. By 5:08 I am at my exit. At roughly 5:15 I pull into the gas station. I do this every couple of days to fill up and get some nice, good, great tobacco.
I saunter inside, comfortable that I can make the 5:30 deadline to pick up the squid. It is very important that I am on time. It’s not that our babysitter charges a late fee. However, she love to ridicule. That’s my main motivation here. I don’t want my babysitter to give me judgment eyes while I explain why I am late. It is always followed by a sigh after I complete my story. It’s like telling your teacher why you didn’t have your homework. You know that they don’t believe you, they think you are full of bunk, and infact are mentally composing a letter to your parents about how you are a reject. That’s my babysitter.
I go inside and get in the line, which at this time is only 2 people ahead of me. No problem.
After not moving for a good 3 minutes, I start to wonder what the hell is going on. There is some sort of conversation going on up there.
“Ummm, how about the Lucky Lady, give me one of those, ummm, 2 of the Moneybags, 5 of the Megawinners, and lets see……………………” pause for a good 2 more minutes as she pursues the Plexiglas case of give me your money Lottery scratch off tickets.
“Yeah, ok, 3 more of the Johnny Cashes, that’s it”.
How is she going to pay for these? Why, with old scratch off tickets of course!
Crap, I am stuck behind the scratch off lottery player.
I am going to make a generalization here. You will find it true for the majority of “serious” lotto players. This is not the ones that play every once in a while. These are the people that put “Lottery Scratch off Professional” on their tax forms.
They usually have a limp of some sort. This prevents them from actually moving quickly to the line. I am not making fun of disabled people, but just pointing out a fact. This also makes it difficult to see the tickets for sale and thus they have to get a stool, climb on the counter like a grand piano, and sing out their selections.
Second, they will always ask the gas station clerk which ones are “hitting” or “hot”. Let me tell you, I did a gas station job for 3 months in college. We don’t know. The clerk has no idea which ones are going to win or not and could usually care less. Don’t make small talk, please? Just buy YOUR FUCKING TICKETS.
Third: They will always buy their current tickets with their old $1.00 winning tickets. This is normally a smart gambling move as you are using the house’s money. However, these cards have to go through an electronic reader which means that the WHOLE ticket has to be scratched off. They never do, which means the clerk has to do it for you. How fucking lazy are you that you can’t actually scratch off all of it. Is your carpel tunnel acting up, is that it????
Finally, and the most massive asswhip that there is, they are always shocked when they don’t have enough winnings to actually pay for their current lotto tickets. That means that they have to pull out their My Little Pony change purse and scrape up the extra 4 dollars in pennies and nickels. Math is not their strong point, which is shocking given that this is a numbers game.
You would think that this would end the transaction. Money has changed hands, now please god walk away. Nope, they feel entitled to scratch the new tickets right at the counter. Nope, no way, you have to go to the end of the line chump, which thanks to you has stretched out the door and to the local middle school. You don’t get another chance! And if by some small miracle you win another whole dollar, you do not get to cash it in again infront of everyone else.
So this is where I was at. Waiting for a lady to count out 2 bucks of pennies. ONE AT A TIME.
If I ever snap, this is the kind of thing that will make it happen. I find this odd as I have seen a lot of bad things over the years. I investigated abuse for 6 years, so you would think that would have done it. Nope, it’s going to be the Lottery player that is going to make me go crazy. I am going to snap and fall to the ground. I am going to rip off all my clothes, cover myself in gas station air fresheners, and call it quits. I’ll mumble something about Mega Millions, and then slowly fade away to crazy land where there is no lotto.
I finally was able to make my purchase of tobacco and gas and got the hell out of there. I picked up my daughter late and got the lecture even though it was only 5 minutes late. Yes, yes, so sorry, I will not do this again. It’s the lottery player.
The next day comes along and again I find myself in the gas station. It is there that I realized that there is something worse than the Lottery Scratch off player. It’s the Lotto drawing player.
Up at the counter, he has five tickets, each with 5 play cards for a total of 25 tickets. They are not filled out. He is bent over, at the counter, asking the clerk what the last numbers were. Then he starts counting in his head, every once in a while saying a number out loud. There is a god damn kiosk right next to the counter, you would think he would use this. But no, that would not delay the whole freaking store the 30 minutes it’s going to take you to add your birthday to your wife’s birthday then divide by 2, which is your IQ, butthole.
Fuck it, I turn around and leave the store. It’s not worth it. I secretly hope and pray that if he should win the 300 million jackpot that he blows it all within the first year on hookers with the HIV. Yes, I know that it is mean, but he has it coming. Here, let me make this easy for you. Your numbers are 4, 8, 15,16, 23, 42. Play those jackass and I hope that everything you wish for comes true. Although I also hope that a meteor destroys that new Chicken Shack that you are going to buy.
I hate people that play the lottery at the gas station. There are many reasons for this, but let me tell the story and then you decide.
I was on my way home to pick up my daughter. I have this routine down to the minute. I leave work at Exactly 4:42. By 5:08 I am at my exit. At roughly 5:15 I pull into the gas station. I do this every couple of days to fill up and get some nice, good, great tobacco.
I saunter inside, comfortable that I can make the 5:30 deadline to pick up the squid. It is very important that I am on time. It’s not that our babysitter charges a late fee. However, she love to ridicule. That’s my main motivation here. I don’t want my babysitter to give me judgment eyes while I explain why I am late. It is always followed by a sigh after I complete my story. It’s like telling your teacher why you didn’t have your homework. You know that they don’t believe you, they think you are full of bunk, and infact are mentally composing a letter to your parents about how you are a reject. That’s my babysitter.
I go inside and get in the line, which at this time is only 2 people ahead of me. No problem.
After not moving for a good 3 minutes, I start to wonder what the hell is going on. There is some sort of conversation going on up there.
“Ummm, how about the Lucky Lady, give me one of those, ummm, 2 of the Moneybags, 5 of the Megawinners, and lets see……………………” pause for a good 2 more minutes as she pursues the Plexiglas case of give me your money Lottery scratch off tickets.
“Yeah, ok, 3 more of the Johnny Cashes, that’s it”.
How is she going to pay for these? Why, with old scratch off tickets of course!
Crap, I am stuck behind the scratch off lottery player.
I am going to make a generalization here. You will find it true for the majority of “serious” lotto players. This is not the ones that play every once in a while. These are the people that put “Lottery Scratch off Professional” on their tax forms.
They usually have a limp of some sort. This prevents them from actually moving quickly to the line. I am not making fun of disabled people, but just pointing out a fact. This also makes it difficult to see the tickets for sale and thus they have to get a stool, climb on the counter like a grand piano, and sing out their selections.
Second, they will always ask the gas station clerk which ones are “hitting” or “hot”. Let me tell you, I did a gas station job for 3 months in college. We don’t know. The clerk has no idea which ones are going to win or not and could usually care less. Don’t make small talk, please? Just buy YOUR FUCKING TICKETS.
Third: They will always buy their current tickets with their old $1.00 winning tickets. This is normally a smart gambling move as you are using the house’s money. However, these cards have to go through an electronic reader which means that the WHOLE ticket has to be scratched off. They never do, which means the clerk has to do it for you. How fucking lazy are you that you can’t actually scratch off all of it. Is your carpel tunnel acting up, is that it????
Finally, and the most massive asswhip that there is, they are always shocked when they don’t have enough winnings to actually pay for their current lotto tickets. That means that they have to pull out their My Little Pony change purse and scrape up the extra 4 dollars in pennies and nickels. Math is not their strong point, which is shocking given that this is a numbers game.
You would think that this would end the transaction. Money has changed hands, now please god walk away. Nope, they feel entitled to scratch the new tickets right at the counter. Nope, no way, you have to go to the end of the line chump, which thanks to you has stretched out the door and to the local middle school. You don’t get another chance! And if by some small miracle you win another whole dollar, you do not get to cash it in again infront of everyone else.
So this is where I was at. Waiting for a lady to count out 2 bucks of pennies. ONE AT A TIME.
If I ever snap, this is the kind of thing that will make it happen. I find this odd as I have seen a lot of bad things over the years. I investigated abuse for 6 years, so you would think that would have done it. Nope, it’s going to be the Lottery player that is going to make me go crazy. I am going to snap and fall to the ground. I am going to rip off all my clothes, cover myself in gas station air fresheners, and call it quits. I’ll mumble something about Mega Millions, and then slowly fade away to crazy land where there is no lotto.
I finally was able to make my purchase of tobacco and gas and got the hell out of there. I picked up my daughter late and got the lecture even though it was only 5 minutes late. Yes, yes, so sorry, I will not do this again. It’s the lottery player.
The next day comes along and again I find myself in the gas station. It is there that I realized that there is something worse than the Lottery Scratch off player. It’s the Lotto drawing player.
Up at the counter, he has five tickets, each with 5 play cards for a total of 25 tickets. They are not filled out. He is bent over, at the counter, asking the clerk what the last numbers were. Then he starts counting in his head, every once in a while saying a number out loud. There is a god damn kiosk right next to the counter, you would think he would use this. But no, that would not delay the whole freaking store the 30 minutes it’s going to take you to add your birthday to your wife’s birthday then divide by 2, which is your IQ, butthole.
Fuck it, I turn around and leave the store. It’s not worth it. I secretly hope and pray that if he should win the 300 million jackpot that he blows it all within the first year on hookers with the HIV. Yes, I know that it is mean, but he has it coming. Here, let me make this easy for you. Your numbers are 4, 8, 15,16, 23, 42. Play those jackass and I hope that everything you wish for comes true. Although I also hope that a meteor destroys that new Chicken Shack that you are going to buy.
3/30/07
The High Five
I realize that my daughter is going to Harvard. I would take a Yalie, but I prefer Harvard. No Oxford though, I don’t trust the Brits around her.
She is continuing to learn a great many new things at 1 year old. In fact, I believe that she is creating havoc at a 3 year old level. She’s a genius that no doubt takes more after her mother than her father.
I say this because my wife has a very freaky ability. She’s a speed reader. I have seen my wife go through a thick paperback book in less than 4 hours. When we go on a plane, we have back several books just to last her the ride. It can get very expensive. The Barnes and Noble’s discount card is by far the only discount card that has been worth it. When she reads this blog it takes less than 30 seconds per story. This irritates me because she is somewhat my editor and I wish to know what makes her laugh.
I think that my daughter takes after these traits of my wife. She seems to be able to adjust and learn very quickly.
We both take an active role in teaching her, but we seem to take slightly different roads on what we should teach her.
My wife has taught my daughter the word no, although when Little Hoss reproduces the sound it comes out more of a “go” but she gets the jist. For example, a couple of days ago Little Hoss thought it would be funny to go through the paper trashcan that we have in the living room. Hossmom said no and Little Hoss looked her, then started crying. So she knows what this means.
Hossmom has taught our daughter the following: how to eat solid foods, how to splash in the tub, how to SOFTLY pet the dogs, and how to get your “brand” out there in a very competitive baby market.
I have taught my daughter how to growl.
I have followed up this great feat of teaching instruction with another necessary and classical form of communication: The High Five.
You must remember, I live in a house of women. Normally, this strokes my ego to no end. Everyone runs from a mosquito hawk, calling for dad to bring down the righteous hammer of justice. I am the hero every time. But there is, on occasion, when I need a few dude qualities interjected into my household. Namely, when my sports teams play.
It is rare now that my brother in law has moved away that I am able to watch any sporting events with any other guys. To do so requires nothing less than a UN Security Council meeting to verify that, yes dear, I will be home at midnight. I also feel a little guilty leaving her alone with the kiddo all day when she is pregnant as well.
This means that most of my sports watching comes either in the form of late night Tivo or when I just through a satchel of books at her to keep her distracted. It’s like giving the steak to the lion so that you can sneak past, something has to be sacrificed.
When my daughter was born, it was the day before the superbowl. My daughter’s first introduction to TV was the Steelers vs. the Seahawks. It was greatness and I knew that we would do this every year, or at east until she became to embarrassed to hang around with me.
Our first week home also just so happened to be the first week of the Olympics. Anyone that knows me, knows that I am an Olympic freak. I will watch anything, anything, with a US team competing. Combine that with Tivo and 24 hour cable and we had roughly 98 hours of Olympic coverage at anytime. My daughter and I spent every waking moment watching the Olympics. It was the only month that I was happy that she woke up at 3:00am because then we could catch a nice curling match vs. the hated Canadians. (We won).
But I have been unable to express my excitement over these events. If you watch sports by yourself, you realize that you look like an idiot when you jump up and down by yourself. You look even worse when instead of yelling like you want to you are whispering “yes, yes, great catch, yes” because god help you if you wake the baby.
There was no one to hug, there is no one to relive the moment with and there is no one to High Five, the pinnacle of manly sports watching. My wife can’t stand the high-five. She hates it and absolutely refuses to do it. I have to beg for it. Begging for a high-five totally takes out the meaning of the high-five. She just shakes her head and goes back to the book. She may be a Communist.
And then it happened. But not during a sporting event. Like most great things in our life, it happened during another episode of Star Trek. I owe so much to that show.
The Enterprise had once again averted disaster while my daughter and I watched on. Playfully, I put my hand out and said “high five”. To my astonishment, she put her hand up to. Is this going to happen? Is this moment going to actually freaking happen? Do I finally have someone in my house to High Five!?
Yes. Yes it did.
I clapped my hand with hers and the father/daughter high five was born. She loved it, I loved it. In fact, we scoured the cable channels for any sporting event or Star Trek that we could find.
“Look Little Hoss, some guy just landed a radical jump on a motorcycle, High Five”
Smack, her little bear paw hits my big bear paw.
“See that Little Hoss, the Klingons have been defeated!”
She growls and gives me a high five.
Tears are in my eyes, I have found someone to give me High Fives.
So the next time my college team is on and they drive 99 yards to win the game in the closing seconds I will jump for joy and scream. Your damn right that I’m going to wake the baby.
She is continuing to learn a great many new things at 1 year old. In fact, I believe that she is creating havoc at a 3 year old level. She’s a genius that no doubt takes more after her mother than her father.
I say this because my wife has a very freaky ability. She’s a speed reader. I have seen my wife go through a thick paperback book in less than 4 hours. When we go on a plane, we have back several books just to last her the ride. It can get very expensive. The Barnes and Noble’s discount card is by far the only discount card that has been worth it. When she reads this blog it takes less than 30 seconds per story. This irritates me because she is somewhat my editor and I wish to know what makes her laugh.
I think that my daughter takes after these traits of my wife. She seems to be able to adjust and learn very quickly.
We both take an active role in teaching her, but we seem to take slightly different roads on what we should teach her.
My wife has taught my daughter the word no, although when Little Hoss reproduces the sound it comes out more of a “go” but she gets the jist. For example, a couple of days ago Little Hoss thought it would be funny to go through the paper trashcan that we have in the living room. Hossmom said no and Little Hoss looked her, then started crying. So she knows what this means.
Hossmom has taught our daughter the following: how to eat solid foods, how to splash in the tub, how to SOFTLY pet the dogs, and how to get your “brand” out there in a very competitive baby market.
I have taught my daughter how to growl.
I have followed up this great feat of teaching instruction with another necessary and classical form of communication: The High Five.
You must remember, I live in a house of women. Normally, this strokes my ego to no end. Everyone runs from a mosquito hawk, calling for dad to bring down the righteous hammer of justice. I am the hero every time. But there is, on occasion, when I need a few dude qualities interjected into my household. Namely, when my sports teams play.
It is rare now that my brother in law has moved away that I am able to watch any sporting events with any other guys. To do so requires nothing less than a UN Security Council meeting to verify that, yes dear, I will be home at midnight. I also feel a little guilty leaving her alone with the kiddo all day when she is pregnant as well.
This means that most of my sports watching comes either in the form of late night Tivo or when I just through a satchel of books at her to keep her distracted. It’s like giving the steak to the lion so that you can sneak past, something has to be sacrificed.
When my daughter was born, it was the day before the superbowl. My daughter’s first introduction to TV was the Steelers vs. the Seahawks. It was greatness and I knew that we would do this every year, or at east until she became to embarrassed to hang around with me.
Our first week home also just so happened to be the first week of the Olympics. Anyone that knows me, knows that I am an Olympic freak. I will watch anything, anything, with a US team competing. Combine that with Tivo and 24 hour cable and we had roughly 98 hours of Olympic coverage at anytime. My daughter and I spent every waking moment watching the Olympics. It was the only month that I was happy that she woke up at 3:00am because then we could catch a nice curling match vs. the hated Canadians. (We won).
But I have been unable to express my excitement over these events. If you watch sports by yourself, you realize that you look like an idiot when you jump up and down by yourself. You look even worse when instead of yelling like you want to you are whispering “yes, yes, great catch, yes” because god help you if you wake the baby.
There was no one to hug, there is no one to relive the moment with and there is no one to High Five, the pinnacle of manly sports watching. My wife can’t stand the high-five. She hates it and absolutely refuses to do it. I have to beg for it. Begging for a high-five totally takes out the meaning of the high-five. She just shakes her head and goes back to the book. She may be a Communist.
And then it happened. But not during a sporting event. Like most great things in our life, it happened during another episode of Star Trek. I owe so much to that show.
The Enterprise had once again averted disaster while my daughter and I watched on. Playfully, I put my hand out and said “high five”. To my astonishment, she put her hand up to. Is this going to happen? Is this moment going to actually freaking happen? Do I finally have someone in my house to High Five!?
Yes. Yes it did.
I clapped my hand with hers and the father/daughter high five was born. She loved it, I loved it. In fact, we scoured the cable channels for any sporting event or Star Trek that we could find.
“Look Little Hoss, some guy just landed a radical jump on a motorcycle, High Five”
Smack, her little bear paw hits my big bear paw.
“See that Little Hoss, the Klingons have been defeated!”
She growls and gives me a high five.
Tears are in my eyes, I have found someone to give me High Fives.
So the next time my college team is on and they drive 99 yards to win the game in the closing seconds I will jump for joy and scream. Your damn right that I’m going to wake the baby.
Cast of Characters--The Hippies
I suppose it’s about time to properly introduce some cast of characters that you will be reading about in this blog. It is always difficult writing about someone you know. Will they be flattered? Will they get pissed? Is there some family contention or secret that I am about to reveal? I’ve thought about this and decided screw it, the art just flows from where it flows.
Let’s first visit my wife’s brother. He’s married and I have a neice and nephew from this union. None are related by blood to me which is to their shame. My family came over in 1632 on the Good Ship Betsy, we are practically Mayflower People. My wife’s family is from Chicago, not really Gatsby material if you ask me. But we love them anyway. They were our confidants, our best friends and our future babysitters until they decided to move away.
Right before my daughter was born they decided that they had enough of the big city and would be moving to the sticks. I would write the name of the town, but you couldn’t pronounce it. Think Green Acres with Humvee’s and you just about have it.
They will deny that they are Hippies, but you can be the judge. Because we all know that we love to judge others, just not ourselves.
They have a two children of their own and their reasoning for leaving was to be able to raise them in a different way, far from the big city. It was a family decision. If I was a man that read into statements, I might take that to mean that raising MY daughter in the city is downright foolish and that I must be a bad parent. But I leave that kind of stuff to my mother in law.
So they up and left with my niece and my future nephew to be raised in a commune. Ok, it’s not like that but it’s funnier if I say it is. In my head, I just can’t help imagining them running from Nazi’s in Austria, singing as they go along. Except that my sister in law is not a nun and to my knowledge never was. I suppose it is a possibility though, she’s a quite one that has some secrets.
As evidence that they are new age Hippies, I supply the following:
1. They have no Xbox. That’s hippie if I ever heard of one.
2. They have a compost heap and a special barrel thing that makes it compost. I don’t know exactly how this works, but I’ve seen it. All I know is that it turns like a big Bingo Wheel and poof, you get compost. I want to tell them that dirt worked fine for me, but this must be the Hippie way.
3. An above ground pool. How is this Hippie? It’s next to the compost heap.
4. I’m pretty sure my brother in law is a communist or a socialist. I’m not sure which, but he’s suspect.
5. They have a Bear Bell. What is this? It’s a special bell to wear out in the woods so that bears hear you coming and don’t eat you for lunch. Granted, I gave it to them as a gift, but what was I supposed to do? That’s my niece and nephew out there, they need to be prepared.
6. Driving 20 miles takes only 20 minutes. What kind of Hippie traffic is this. Everyone knows that you need to live somewhere that takes you a good hour in rush hour traffic to go 20 miles.
7. The word “Hemp” to them implies more to them than just one use. Only Hippies find a way to make pot more than pot. No, I don’t want a hemp rope, but thank you. Look, it’s never going to be legal, give it up. Just keep pretending you have glaucoma and be done with it.
8. She’s not a natural red head and believes in colonoscopies.
I could go on, but I prefer to stop there. The point is, my wife and I were abandoned. We had just had our new kiddo and our safety blanket left us. And they took my niece and nephew, very inconsiderate.
When my niece was first born, she hated me. Couldn’t stand me. Everytime I tried to pick her up, she would scream like I was a Republican. It took 6 months of this before she finally realized that I was actually related to her. Six months of bribes, money, the offer of credit cards. And when they left, they took her with no regard to my feelings and hard work what so ever. What if I had gotten her a pony, what was I supposed to do with that now? Give it to the glue factory? The Hippies are responsible for the demise of Tinkerbell the pony, I hope they can live with themselves.
But more than anything we had lost our friends, our one true compatriots in the art of ripping on people. No one could understand us like they could. And even more important, all Hippies are pacifists so I was sure my daughter would be safe with them. No one can beat up a pacifist, otherwise, that just makes you a bully. Didn’t they watch Ben Kingsley in Gandhi?
And who would my daughter grow up with now? She and her cousins could have ruled the school. They could have been the new Justice League with faboulous Wonder Twin powers. It would have been great until the Hippies decided to cut and run and ruin my dream with their compost heaps.
It took my wife and I a long time to come to terms with this. Many nights were spent in the Hossman family bed, wondering why they had forsaken me. Was it a better life? I don’t see how it could be without me involved, but to each his own. We came to terms with our shunning and regulated ourselves to being the leper colony in their friendship wheel. Sure, we get letters and once a care package. But make an effort, we’re lonely for our friends. Let me know that I look good, ask me if I’m working out. A compliment wouldn’t be to much to ask would it?
They are doing good in Hippie land and live a nice, isolated life. My neice grows about a foot everytime I see her and my nephew is the new Fonzie. I’m sure that their hydroponic field is growing well and they are keeping tabs on K-fed. I know that it won’t be long before they get a car that runs on corn-oil and we wish them the best. We have visited a few times and hopefully will again soon. Tinkerbell II is about ready to travel.
Let’s first visit my wife’s brother. He’s married and I have a neice and nephew from this union. None are related by blood to me which is to their shame. My family came over in 1632 on the Good Ship Betsy, we are practically Mayflower People. My wife’s family is from Chicago, not really Gatsby material if you ask me. But we love them anyway. They were our confidants, our best friends and our future babysitters until they decided to move away.
Right before my daughter was born they decided that they had enough of the big city and would be moving to the sticks. I would write the name of the town, but you couldn’t pronounce it. Think Green Acres with Humvee’s and you just about have it.
They will deny that they are Hippies, but you can be the judge. Because we all know that we love to judge others, just not ourselves.
They have a two children of their own and their reasoning for leaving was to be able to raise them in a different way, far from the big city. It was a family decision. If I was a man that read into statements, I might take that to mean that raising MY daughter in the city is downright foolish and that I must be a bad parent. But I leave that kind of stuff to my mother in law.
So they up and left with my niece and my future nephew to be raised in a commune. Ok, it’s not like that but it’s funnier if I say it is. In my head, I just can’t help imagining them running from Nazi’s in Austria, singing as they go along. Except that my sister in law is not a nun and to my knowledge never was. I suppose it is a possibility though, she’s a quite one that has some secrets.
As evidence that they are new age Hippies, I supply the following:
1. They have no Xbox. That’s hippie if I ever heard of one.
2. They have a compost heap and a special barrel thing that makes it compost. I don’t know exactly how this works, but I’ve seen it. All I know is that it turns like a big Bingo Wheel and poof, you get compost. I want to tell them that dirt worked fine for me, but this must be the Hippie way.
3. An above ground pool. How is this Hippie? It’s next to the compost heap.
4. I’m pretty sure my brother in law is a communist or a socialist. I’m not sure which, but he’s suspect.
5. They have a Bear Bell. What is this? It’s a special bell to wear out in the woods so that bears hear you coming and don’t eat you for lunch. Granted, I gave it to them as a gift, but what was I supposed to do? That’s my niece and nephew out there, they need to be prepared.
6. Driving 20 miles takes only 20 minutes. What kind of Hippie traffic is this. Everyone knows that you need to live somewhere that takes you a good hour in rush hour traffic to go 20 miles.
7. The word “Hemp” to them implies more to them than just one use. Only Hippies find a way to make pot more than pot. No, I don’t want a hemp rope, but thank you. Look, it’s never going to be legal, give it up. Just keep pretending you have glaucoma and be done with it.
8. She’s not a natural red head and believes in colonoscopies.
I could go on, but I prefer to stop there. The point is, my wife and I were abandoned. We had just had our new kiddo and our safety blanket left us. And they took my niece and nephew, very inconsiderate.
When my niece was first born, she hated me. Couldn’t stand me. Everytime I tried to pick her up, she would scream like I was a Republican. It took 6 months of this before she finally realized that I was actually related to her. Six months of bribes, money, the offer of credit cards. And when they left, they took her with no regard to my feelings and hard work what so ever. What if I had gotten her a pony, what was I supposed to do with that now? Give it to the glue factory? The Hippies are responsible for the demise of Tinkerbell the pony, I hope they can live with themselves.
But more than anything we had lost our friends, our one true compatriots in the art of ripping on people. No one could understand us like they could. And even more important, all Hippies are pacifists so I was sure my daughter would be safe with them. No one can beat up a pacifist, otherwise, that just makes you a bully. Didn’t they watch Ben Kingsley in Gandhi?
And who would my daughter grow up with now? She and her cousins could have ruled the school. They could have been the new Justice League with faboulous Wonder Twin powers. It would have been great until the Hippies decided to cut and run and ruin my dream with their compost heaps.
It took my wife and I a long time to come to terms with this. Many nights were spent in the Hossman family bed, wondering why they had forsaken me. Was it a better life? I don’t see how it could be without me involved, but to each his own. We came to terms with our shunning and regulated ourselves to being the leper colony in their friendship wheel. Sure, we get letters and once a care package. But make an effort, we’re lonely for our friends. Let me know that I look good, ask me if I’m working out. A compliment wouldn’t be to much to ask would it?
They are doing good in Hippie land and live a nice, isolated life. My neice grows about a foot everytime I see her and my nephew is the new Fonzie. I’m sure that their hydroponic field is growing well and they are keeping tabs on K-fed. I know that it won’t be long before they get a car that runs on corn-oil and we wish them the best. We have visited a few times and hopefully will again soon. Tinkerbell II is about ready to travel.
3/29/07
Titlelist III
I suck at Golf, but I love to play. Go figure.
My golf game vaguely resembles a monkey flying an F-16. If it gets off the ground then everyone’s surprised but no one expects it to go straight. But I try to play when I can, which isn’t much. This is a good thing, because I actually don’t have to much interest in actually improving my game. This would take effort and I just don’t wanna. Other golfers out there are probably shocked by this. Hey, I am the guy that would prefer to believe that the reason that my golf game sucks is that I don’t have good clubs, not because I close my eyes and swing like it’s a piñata. I would buy a club that advertises itself as “graphite extra long distance big bertha” and assume that when it went only 25 yards that I have a defective club.
We went and played this last weekend. It’s good for me to get out of the house and do this type of thing. It recharges my manliness and lets me vent a little bit about something other than diapers and butt paste.
We were supposed to play with 3 guys but one canceled, so it was just me and my brother. This is always awkward because that means that they will pair us up with someone we don’t know. I can’t play with people like that. I am self conscious about my game and it just gets worse when people judge me. So we are paired up with a single retired guy. He’s got the golf hat, golf shoes, nice khaki pants. Crap, this guy can play. This is when I think that I will do nothing but slow him down and he will curse all that he got stuck with us. I would rather play with a homeless guy chasing squirrels.
His first swing goes roughly 280 yards, straight down the fairway.
I hit the beer girl’s cart. Time for the trusty Mulligan. O, how I love you, Mr. Mulligan. I hate the first hole. Everyone’s watching and it feels like I am doing a tap dance instead of the ballet that everyone paid to see.
My second shot goes past the women’s tee, so I am a happy camper. My brother and I jump into the cart and go down the course. Our third is walking the course, another sign that he is a much, much better golfer than me.
My irons are my strong skill in my game. I can usually hit them pretty good. By usually I meant that I get it up in the air. This one went into the trees, which will be a reoccurring theme today. I am the Lumberjack going through the woods. However, I also don’t care enough about my score to spend any real time looking for my ball. I figure if I can’t see it within 10 seconds, it’s lost. I get my balls from Walmart, so no big deal. It’s also proper golf etiquette to not waste a whole lot of time and keep those behind you waiting.
I finish the first hole with my usual 8, ending this production of hackery with a nice 3 putt. The call me the Snowman on the course. But we are already having a good time and our third guy enjoys talking to us. I am funny and have no problem making fun of my game.
We have two other groups ahead of us, a 4 player of weekend golfers with their wives driving and then another 4 some of girls ahead of that. This delayed our game, but I don’t care,. I’m in the sunshine and I know t hat now I have someone else to blame for our slow play. I can look for all the balls I want now.
But when you are playing with a lot of people around, you have to look out for Mr. Dickweed Rule boy. Everyone has seen this type of player. He is the guy that will not use his Shoe Iron to kick his ball away from a tree. He is the guy that will never allow a Mulligan. He is the guy that will insist that the player farthest away always hit first, even if I am already standing at my ball and he has to catch a taxi to the next fairway to hit his. I hate this guy.
In golf, you keep your own score and I usually play against what I made the last time out. I have no problems not assessing a penalty stroke for that wicked slice that killed the duck in the pond. I am cheating myself. We had a conference and it was decided that I had no problems cheating myself. I have to buy a new duck on occasion, but hey, that’s just the cost of playing golf.
Above all though, Mr. Dickweed hates to be stuck behind people. He is under the mindset that he should be the only one on the course. He is that kid that had the only basketball in the neighborhood and wouldn’t let anyone play with it.
We offered Mr. Dickweed to play through us, explaining that we were waiting as well for two groups ahead of us. He declined. Which surprised me because these people are very strict on golf etiquette. Ok then, we will all wait at the tee-box together then until we can go.
Around hole number nine we see a ball coming flying over our heads. There was no “Fore” yelled, no “Heads up”. Mr. Dickweed just decided he would hit it. This is a big, big no no on the course. We let it slide though and keep playing. I am not in the woods as much anymore and actually made par, so I am happy.
We are on the 13th hole when Mr. Dickweed shows up at the teebox. We are all waiting to tee off behind the family affair ahead of us.
“Did you hit a Titlelist III back there” Mr. Dickweed asks my brother. He was pissed.
“Nope” we say as we both hold up our balls, a Nike. This is Tiger’s brand which helps my game in no way.
“Are you sure.” He says accusingly.
We again assure him that we did not and again show our balls. Like I said, I’m pretty lax on the rules but I am very aware of those around me. I don’t want my poor 90 play to get in the way of their PGA tour stop. But the truth is that most everyone who plays golf sucks it hard. So usually, everyone is pretty understanding. This guy, although not good based on his drives that I saw, was one of the rule nazi’s. Considering that he didn’t hit me once in the fairway, and he took a lot of shots, he sucks balls. We again offered to let him play through, pointing at the traveling circus ahead of us. He again declined.
However, the rest of the day his balls continued to land over our heads. One time I almost did hit one of them thinking that it was mine until I saw the maker, Titlelist III. That means that his jackass was hitting when I wasn’t even to my ball yet. You don’t do this because people can get killed. Golf is a very dangerous sport.
Besides dodging crocs and drunk golf cart drivers, a ball to the back of the head is the worst case scenario. Take this series by my brother on the 15th hole.
He hits a very hard shot from the rough. It just so happens to hit a tree that was about 10 feet away. It makes a large gash in the tree as it ricochets 90 degrees to land on the other side of the fairway. He is pissed. He takes his next shot. I don’t know how he did this, but it again went 90 degrees to where he was standing back to where he started. That ball was going a good 300 miles an hour and if I had been next to me, I could have been killed. It was like being in Nam and I’m sure that when I talk to my father, who is a vet, he will agree with my assessment.
I don’t know why, but bad shots are funny as hell to me. I am merciless in my laughter to my brother. That’s when Mr. Dickweed hits another shot over my head. Ok, I’ve about had it.
We go to 18 and finish the round. I go running back to my brother telling him that we need to go, now.
In the final cup, the one where Mr. Dickweed will finish his day, he will find a Titlelist III ball. I hope that I ruined his score and knowing his type, gave himself a penalty stroke.
My golf game vaguely resembles a monkey flying an F-16. If it gets off the ground then everyone’s surprised but no one expects it to go straight. But I try to play when I can, which isn’t much. This is a good thing, because I actually don’t have to much interest in actually improving my game. This would take effort and I just don’t wanna. Other golfers out there are probably shocked by this. Hey, I am the guy that would prefer to believe that the reason that my golf game sucks is that I don’t have good clubs, not because I close my eyes and swing like it’s a piñata. I would buy a club that advertises itself as “graphite extra long distance big bertha” and assume that when it went only 25 yards that I have a defective club.
We went and played this last weekend. It’s good for me to get out of the house and do this type of thing. It recharges my manliness and lets me vent a little bit about something other than diapers and butt paste.
We were supposed to play with 3 guys but one canceled, so it was just me and my brother. This is always awkward because that means that they will pair us up with someone we don’t know. I can’t play with people like that. I am self conscious about my game and it just gets worse when people judge me. So we are paired up with a single retired guy. He’s got the golf hat, golf shoes, nice khaki pants. Crap, this guy can play. This is when I think that I will do nothing but slow him down and he will curse all that he got stuck with us. I would rather play with a homeless guy chasing squirrels.
His first swing goes roughly 280 yards, straight down the fairway.
I hit the beer girl’s cart. Time for the trusty Mulligan. O, how I love you, Mr. Mulligan. I hate the first hole. Everyone’s watching and it feels like I am doing a tap dance instead of the ballet that everyone paid to see.
My second shot goes past the women’s tee, so I am a happy camper. My brother and I jump into the cart and go down the course. Our third is walking the course, another sign that he is a much, much better golfer than me.
My irons are my strong skill in my game. I can usually hit them pretty good. By usually I meant that I get it up in the air. This one went into the trees, which will be a reoccurring theme today. I am the Lumberjack going through the woods. However, I also don’t care enough about my score to spend any real time looking for my ball. I figure if I can’t see it within 10 seconds, it’s lost. I get my balls from Walmart, so no big deal. It’s also proper golf etiquette to not waste a whole lot of time and keep those behind you waiting.
I finish the first hole with my usual 8, ending this production of hackery with a nice 3 putt. The call me the Snowman on the course. But we are already having a good time and our third guy enjoys talking to us. I am funny and have no problem making fun of my game.
We have two other groups ahead of us, a 4 player of weekend golfers with their wives driving and then another 4 some of girls ahead of that. This delayed our game, but I don’t care,. I’m in the sunshine and I know t hat now I have someone else to blame for our slow play. I can look for all the balls I want now.
But when you are playing with a lot of people around, you have to look out for Mr. Dickweed Rule boy. Everyone has seen this type of player. He is the guy that will not use his Shoe Iron to kick his ball away from a tree. He is the guy that will never allow a Mulligan. He is the guy that will insist that the player farthest away always hit first, even if I am already standing at my ball and he has to catch a taxi to the next fairway to hit his. I hate this guy.
In golf, you keep your own score and I usually play against what I made the last time out. I have no problems not assessing a penalty stroke for that wicked slice that killed the duck in the pond. I am cheating myself. We had a conference and it was decided that I had no problems cheating myself. I have to buy a new duck on occasion, but hey, that’s just the cost of playing golf.
Above all though, Mr. Dickweed hates to be stuck behind people. He is under the mindset that he should be the only one on the course. He is that kid that had the only basketball in the neighborhood and wouldn’t let anyone play with it.
We offered Mr. Dickweed to play through us, explaining that we were waiting as well for two groups ahead of us. He declined. Which surprised me because these people are very strict on golf etiquette. Ok then, we will all wait at the tee-box together then until we can go.
Around hole number nine we see a ball coming flying over our heads. There was no “Fore” yelled, no “Heads up”. Mr. Dickweed just decided he would hit it. This is a big, big no no on the course. We let it slide though and keep playing. I am not in the woods as much anymore and actually made par, so I am happy.
We are on the 13th hole when Mr. Dickweed shows up at the teebox. We are all waiting to tee off behind the family affair ahead of us.
“Did you hit a Titlelist III back there” Mr. Dickweed asks my brother. He was pissed.
“Nope” we say as we both hold up our balls, a Nike. This is Tiger’s brand which helps my game in no way.
“Are you sure.” He says accusingly.
We again assure him that we did not and again show our balls. Like I said, I’m pretty lax on the rules but I am very aware of those around me. I don’t want my poor 90 play to get in the way of their PGA tour stop. But the truth is that most everyone who plays golf sucks it hard. So usually, everyone is pretty understanding. This guy, although not good based on his drives that I saw, was one of the rule nazi’s. Considering that he didn’t hit me once in the fairway, and he took a lot of shots, he sucks balls. We again offered to let him play through, pointing at the traveling circus ahead of us. He again declined.
However, the rest of the day his balls continued to land over our heads. One time I almost did hit one of them thinking that it was mine until I saw the maker, Titlelist III. That means that his jackass was hitting when I wasn’t even to my ball yet. You don’t do this because people can get killed. Golf is a very dangerous sport.
Besides dodging crocs and drunk golf cart drivers, a ball to the back of the head is the worst case scenario. Take this series by my brother on the 15th hole.
He hits a very hard shot from the rough. It just so happens to hit a tree that was about 10 feet away. It makes a large gash in the tree as it ricochets 90 degrees to land on the other side of the fairway. He is pissed. He takes his next shot. I don’t know how he did this, but it again went 90 degrees to where he was standing back to where he started. That ball was going a good 300 miles an hour and if I had been next to me, I could have been killed. It was like being in Nam and I’m sure that when I talk to my father, who is a vet, he will agree with my assessment.
I don’t know why, but bad shots are funny as hell to me. I am merciless in my laughter to my brother. That’s when Mr. Dickweed hits another shot over my head. Ok, I’ve about had it.
We go to 18 and finish the round. I go running back to my brother telling him that we need to go, now.
In the final cup, the one where Mr. Dickweed will finish his day, he will find a Titlelist III ball. I hope that I ruined his score and knowing his type, gave himself a penalty stroke.
3/28/07
Hoss I am
Hoss I am………………………….
…………………………..Hoss I am
That Hoss I am
That Hoss I am
I do not like that Hoss I am.
Would like to read my blog?
Would you like to read it here or there.
I would not like to read your blog
I would not read it here or there, I would not read it anywhere.
Would you read it with a frog?
Would you read it with a dog?
I would not read your blog with a frog
I would not read it with a dog
I would not read it here or there, I would not read it anywhere.
Perhaps while you are bored at work?
Perhaps while you crossdress in a skirt?
Try it, try it, you will see!
I won’t read it at work
Or when I go transvestite in a skirt.
I would not read it with a frog
I would not read it with a dog.
I would not read it here or there or anywhere!
I do not want to see!
Hoss you let me be!
How about with an extra in a movie?
What if his name is Louie?
I would not, could not, with an extra named Louie
Not at work, not in a skirt.
I would not read it with a frog
I would not read it with a dog
I would not read it here or there, I would not read it anywhere!
What if I got you a hooker?
What if she was free of disease and a looker?
Not with a hooker
Even though she is free and a looker.
Not with Louie
Who was an extra in a movie!
Not at work, not in a skirt
Not with a dog and not with a frog.
I would not read it here or there or anywhere?
Would you read it with the Newt?
What if she wore a suit?
Not with the Newt who is in a suit.
Not with a hooker that is a looker
I would not read it with Louie from a movie
I would not read it at work
I would not read it with a skirt.
Not with a frog, not with a dog.
I do not want to read your blog!
But it will make you laugh, you will see
It will make you laugh so much you’ll pee
If you haven’t read it before, how do you know?
Try it, try it, how can you say no?
Hoss I am, If I read your story
Will you leave me aloney?
………………….Pause while you read………………….
Say, I do like your blog!
I would read it with a frog
I would read it with a dog.
I would read it at work while wearing my skirt.
I would read it with a hooker who is a looker
I would read it with Louie from the Star Trek movie.
I would read it with the Newt while wearing a suit!
I would read it here or there or anywhere!
Thank you, thank you, Hoss I am
I love your blog, I will show it to my friend Pam.
Editor’s note: I have been reading way to much Green Eggs and Ham to my daughter!
…………………………..Hoss I am
That Hoss I am
That Hoss I am
I do not like that Hoss I am.
Would like to read my blog?
Would you like to read it here or there.
I would not like to read your blog
I would not read it here or there, I would not read it anywhere.
Would you read it with a frog?
Would you read it with a dog?
I would not read your blog with a frog
I would not read it with a dog
I would not read it here or there, I would not read it anywhere.
Perhaps while you are bored at work?
Perhaps while you crossdress in a skirt?
Try it, try it, you will see!
I won’t read it at work
Or when I go transvestite in a skirt.
I would not read it with a frog
I would not read it with a dog.
I would not read it here or there or anywhere!
I do not want to see!
Hoss you let me be!
How about with an extra in a movie?
What if his name is Louie?
I would not, could not, with an extra named Louie
Not at work, not in a skirt.
I would not read it with a frog
I would not read it with a dog
I would not read it here or there, I would not read it anywhere!
What if I got you a hooker?
What if she was free of disease and a looker?
Not with a hooker
Even though she is free and a looker.
Not with Louie
Who was an extra in a movie!
Not at work, not in a skirt
Not with a dog and not with a frog.
I would not read it here or there or anywhere?
Would you read it with the Newt?
What if she wore a suit?
Not with the Newt who is in a suit.
Not with a hooker that is a looker
I would not read it with Louie from a movie
I would not read it at work
I would not read it with a skirt.
Not with a frog, not with a dog.
I do not want to read your blog!
But it will make you laugh, you will see
It will make you laugh so much you’ll pee
If you haven’t read it before, how do you know?
Try it, try it, how can you say no?
Hoss I am, If I read your story
Will you leave me aloney?
………………….Pause while you read………………….
Say, I do like your blog!
I would read it with a frog
I would read it with a dog.
I would read it at work while wearing my skirt.
I would read it with a hooker who is a looker
I would read it with Louie from the Star Trek movie.
I would read it with the Newt while wearing a suit!
I would read it here or there or anywhere!
Thank you, thank you, Hoss I am
I love your blog, I will show it to my friend Pam.
Editor’s note: I have been reading way to much Green Eggs and Ham to my daughter!
3/27/07
The Toadies Revenge
The nearest town was 3 miles away. The nearest movie theater was 50 miles away. But the nearest outhouse was at our neighbors, just incase our one working toilet busted.
Southern Arkansas was a good place to grow up. I lived close to a small town called Hamburg. This just so happens to be the same town that Scottie Pippen grew up in. Yes, I have the yearbook to prove it. Our school was so small that K-12 attended the same building.
We didn’t really live on a farm although it masqueraded as one at times. At one point we had pigs, at one point we had chickens and we grew different stuff. And yes, I have ridden a pig before. When you are 6, how can you not? I lasted all of 2 seconds on it’s back before it decided that I was best suited laying in the pig filth of the pen. We later shot that pig.
But given where we lived when I was 6, there were not many friends around. There was my brother however, which was greatness. I ask you, which 6 year old would not want to grow up like this.
We had a trees behind our house so we built more forts than anyone I ever knew. We had a pond across the highway that we could fish in anytime we wanted to. I had an older brother to toughen me up. Seriously, it was some good living. This is where I learned and apprenticed as a toadie. I was a hanger on, constantly wanting my big brother’s approval and attention. As such, I was a butler, maid, punching bag, mud taster and all around handy man.
Anyone who has lived the life of a toadie knows that it can be good times. Sure, you get smacked around a little but you also get all protection you could ever want in the school yard.
A bully once punched me in the second grade. I saw my older brother pummel him. It was great. He was a big fat bastard and had it coming. He took the tire I was playing with and pushed me down. My brother, who is only a little over a year older than me, got my revenge. I had called down the thunder and I got my tire back.
My older brother was my Arkansas Mafia, he was my Luca Brazi.
Of course he turned on me sometimes. When I hear other people talk about some of the “fights” that they got in with their older brothers, I laugh. It’s mostly just wrestling and then pinning someone down. My older brother and I fought like Holyfield and Tyson. I was not the biter by the way. There were actual punches, knees and one time a hand mirror.
One of the major jobs of a toadie is to do exactly as the Big Bro says. If he says to get out of your top bunk and change the channel on our black and white, then that’s what you do. I always found it funny that he wouldn’t get up to change the channel but he would get up and punch me. That’s just lazy.
Most kids played cowboys and Indians. However, I don’t know how many played like we did because we played with real guns. You should not give an older brother a gun. I believe that as much now as I did then. It was his idea that we should not use sticks but instead the pellet guns that we got for Christmas. He never thought about how bad it would hurt if he got shot, mostly because I have very terrible aim.
But as a toadie, what are you going to do? Cowboys and Indians with real guns it is then.
There wasn’t any real running or strategy. My older brother basically told me to go stand by a tree.
Then he shot me in the knee.
I don’t remember any stories about cowboys kneecapping Indians gangland style. It hurt like hell and bleed. The pellet wasn’t in my skin so atleast I would only die from the infection rather than a bullet. Honestly, who aims for a knee?
That is when I made the decision that today I was not going to be a toadie. Today I was going to be the stalker. Today I was going to get my revenge. Today, I am Billy the Kid and you can be the god damned Indian.
I quickly ducked behind the tree as this seemed a better idea than letting him shoot me again. We were using air rifles that you had to hand pump. I lost count at about 15 pumps or so. I just remember that I had to stand on the lever to get the last five to go down.
I had visions of myself plunking him right in that big melon and sending him down like a water buffalo. I would then stand over him and spit, like Clint Eastwood, and remind him that buzzards gotta eat the same as worms. It was bastard payback time.
I leaned out of the tree and waited like a marine core sniper. I saw his head, held my breath, closed my eyes, and took a shot at my brother’s head.
This is where I mention again that I am a terrible aim. A terrible, terrible aim.
I heard a crash which I thought was odd because when he shot me it didn’t make any sound. I opened my eyes and saw my brother turned around, looking at the house. Dear Jesus no.
Breaking a window is bad. Breaking a window will get you licks, no doubt about it.
I shattered a two panel sliding glass door. I was dead. My life was over. There would be no Clint Eastwood moment.
My father was of the mind set of spare the rod and spoil the child. I’ve gotten whipped so many times, that I actually have full on strategy’s to deal with it. I was one of the few that had to walk out to the “switch” tree and pick the stick that was going to be used on me. Don’t go thin and wispy, those hurt like hell. Try to pick something of medium strength, with little bend. Trust me on this.
We walked over and saw that the bottom half of the door was gone. The top half was nothing but spider webs that spelled out my impending doom. I could not run. My dad would find me. I knew it and my brother knew it. He put his arm around me and decided that the best course of action is to make up a story. A good big bro never abandons his toadie. I however, had decided that I had a good life and that I’m sure that the orphanage would be nice.
I spent the next 3 hours crying on the couch, waiting for my dad to get home. I was a wreck. It was pathetic. We didn’t have much money back then and I was sure that that door was worth more than what I made mowing a yard for 3 straight days.
My dad comes home with my brother in front. He didn’t look mad, which is always more scary because you don’t know what was coming. I thought that as soon as he saw the door he would forgo the belt all together and instead reach for a good piece of iron, maybe a nice stout log.
But he didn’t. He came over and gave me a hug instead and asked if I was alright. What the hell is this? I was not prepared for this. I had already written my will and given my he-man action figures to my sister. What kind of story did my brother tell? What lie did he concoct to get me out of this.
I didn’t care. I was off the hook and I have no idea how or why. My brother grew up to be quite the smooth talker and I got to see it in action before anyone else. He didn’t let me stew, he stuck up for me even though I was trying to give him a new airhole in the forehead.
I have been a toadie ever since.
Southern Arkansas was a good place to grow up. I lived close to a small town called Hamburg. This just so happens to be the same town that Scottie Pippen grew up in. Yes, I have the yearbook to prove it. Our school was so small that K-12 attended the same building.
We didn’t really live on a farm although it masqueraded as one at times. At one point we had pigs, at one point we had chickens and we grew different stuff. And yes, I have ridden a pig before. When you are 6, how can you not? I lasted all of 2 seconds on it’s back before it decided that I was best suited laying in the pig filth of the pen. We later shot that pig.
But given where we lived when I was 6, there were not many friends around. There was my brother however, which was greatness. I ask you, which 6 year old would not want to grow up like this.
We had a trees behind our house so we built more forts than anyone I ever knew. We had a pond across the highway that we could fish in anytime we wanted to. I had an older brother to toughen me up. Seriously, it was some good living. This is where I learned and apprenticed as a toadie. I was a hanger on, constantly wanting my big brother’s approval and attention. As such, I was a butler, maid, punching bag, mud taster and all around handy man.
Anyone who has lived the life of a toadie knows that it can be good times. Sure, you get smacked around a little but you also get all protection you could ever want in the school yard.
A bully once punched me in the second grade. I saw my older brother pummel him. It was great. He was a big fat bastard and had it coming. He took the tire I was playing with and pushed me down. My brother, who is only a little over a year older than me, got my revenge. I had called down the thunder and I got my tire back.
My older brother was my Arkansas Mafia, he was my Luca Brazi.
Of course he turned on me sometimes. When I hear other people talk about some of the “fights” that they got in with their older brothers, I laugh. It’s mostly just wrestling and then pinning someone down. My older brother and I fought like Holyfield and Tyson. I was not the biter by the way. There were actual punches, knees and one time a hand mirror.
One of the major jobs of a toadie is to do exactly as the Big Bro says. If he says to get out of your top bunk and change the channel on our black and white, then that’s what you do. I always found it funny that he wouldn’t get up to change the channel but he would get up and punch me. That’s just lazy.
Most kids played cowboys and Indians. However, I don’t know how many played like we did because we played with real guns. You should not give an older brother a gun. I believe that as much now as I did then. It was his idea that we should not use sticks but instead the pellet guns that we got for Christmas. He never thought about how bad it would hurt if he got shot, mostly because I have very terrible aim.
But as a toadie, what are you going to do? Cowboys and Indians with real guns it is then.
There wasn’t any real running or strategy. My older brother basically told me to go stand by a tree.
Then he shot me in the knee.
I don’t remember any stories about cowboys kneecapping Indians gangland style. It hurt like hell and bleed. The pellet wasn’t in my skin so atleast I would only die from the infection rather than a bullet. Honestly, who aims for a knee?
That is when I made the decision that today I was not going to be a toadie. Today I was going to be the stalker. Today I was going to get my revenge. Today, I am Billy the Kid and you can be the god damned Indian.
I quickly ducked behind the tree as this seemed a better idea than letting him shoot me again. We were using air rifles that you had to hand pump. I lost count at about 15 pumps or so. I just remember that I had to stand on the lever to get the last five to go down.
I had visions of myself plunking him right in that big melon and sending him down like a water buffalo. I would then stand over him and spit, like Clint Eastwood, and remind him that buzzards gotta eat the same as worms. It was bastard payback time.
I leaned out of the tree and waited like a marine core sniper. I saw his head, held my breath, closed my eyes, and took a shot at my brother’s head.
This is where I mention again that I am a terrible aim. A terrible, terrible aim.
I heard a crash which I thought was odd because when he shot me it didn’t make any sound. I opened my eyes and saw my brother turned around, looking at the house. Dear Jesus no.
Breaking a window is bad. Breaking a window will get you licks, no doubt about it.
I shattered a two panel sliding glass door. I was dead. My life was over. There would be no Clint Eastwood moment.
My father was of the mind set of spare the rod and spoil the child. I’ve gotten whipped so many times, that I actually have full on strategy’s to deal with it. I was one of the few that had to walk out to the “switch” tree and pick the stick that was going to be used on me. Don’t go thin and wispy, those hurt like hell. Try to pick something of medium strength, with little bend. Trust me on this.
We walked over and saw that the bottom half of the door was gone. The top half was nothing but spider webs that spelled out my impending doom. I could not run. My dad would find me. I knew it and my brother knew it. He put his arm around me and decided that the best course of action is to make up a story. A good big bro never abandons his toadie. I however, had decided that I had a good life and that I’m sure that the orphanage would be nice.
I spent the next 3 hours crying on the couch, waiting for my dad to get home. I was a wreck. It was pathetic. We didn’t have much money back then and I was sure that that door was worth more than what I made mowing a yard for 3 straight days.
My dad comes home with my brother in front. He didn’t look mad, which is always more scary because you don’t know what was coming. I thought that as soon as he saw the door he would forgo the belt all together and instead reach for a good piece of iron, maybe a nice stout log.
But he didn’t. He came over and gave me a hug instead and asked if I was alright. What the hell is this? I was not prepared for this. I had already written my will and given my he-man action figures to my sister. What kind of story did my brother tell? What lie did he concoct to get me out of this.
I didn’t care. I was off the hook and I have no idea how or why. My brother grew up to be quite the smooth talker and I got to see it in action before anyone else. He didn’t let me stew, he stuck up for me even though I was trying to give him a new airhole in the forehead.
I have been a toadie ever since.
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