I live in fear of Fred the Mail Guy.  It’s true.  It doesn’t matter that I am a high-ranking member of the IT group at a major business.  It doesn’t matter that I am a certified Microsoft professional.  It doesn’t matter that I was once a cliff diver (literally meaning I dove, er…jumped off a cliff into the water that was, um, all of 15 feet below me…technically, I *still* cliff dove!)

Fred’s a great guy, a really nice man.  You just have to look beyond the fact that he talks to himself.  And spits.  It’s not his fault.  He’s kind of like my dog…meaning he’s slightly ‘bent’.  He’s like a soup spoon, but with holes.  Like a TV remote where the buttons don’t match the labels, and it actually controls other things.  You think you’re pressing ‘On’, when in fact you just activated the rinse cycle on the dishwasher.

That’s the way it is with Fred.  You never know what you’re gonna get.  Except for the spit.  THAT”S guaranteed.  He just gets so excited when he starts rambling on about his favorite sports teams.  It’s the physics of it all.  He has a drool issue, and when you combine that with a lisp, it’s splatter city.  The only safe way to have a long chat with him is if you are wearing a raincoat.  And one of those blood-spatter shields doctors wear is a good idea too.

But the sports chats are what cause me my fear.  If Fred gets you cornered, you might as well start making plans to pee in your pants, because chances are you’re going to be there a while.  You can’t escape from him, and if you try you run the risk of pissing him off.  And yet if you stay and he thinks you’re interested, he could start thinking that you’re now buddies.

What I learned shortly after starting here is that there’s an internal mafia-like protection system that operates under the covers.  You have to pay for certain ‘services’, and one of the most popular is known as Escape From Fred.  You see, the only real way to end one of his one-sided spit chats is to have a sudden excuse.  But it has to be good.  Lighting your hair on fire when Fred isn’t looking probably won’t get you excused…he’l l talk right through your screams (and, chances are, the spit will put the flames out anyway).

So what you do is hire a protector whose job it is to keep an eye out for when Fred has you cornered.  If this happens, your protector is supposed to come by and say something like “Server A, the one that handles all of the company paychecks, just crashed!  We need you NOW!”  That’s the only escape, and it has to be good.

The problem is that I get in early, and so does Fred.  The issue is when I go to get my tea.  I have to run the gauntlet out to the main hallway where the water dispenser is, and where Fred makes his rounds of doom.  I often hum the Mission Impossible theme as I slink around the cube walls, peering down the hall for Fred, listening for any sounds from his wobbly mail cart, my heart racing…

And so it is…I can brave endless status reports, I can tackle sudden server issues, I can breeze through doing live presentations about potential projects I know will never be funded but we invest hours anyway talking about what we’re not going to do.  But I am humbled by Fred, and his Spittle Death Ray.

 I discovered a new invention, and it’s going to make me rich.  It’s a simple thing that will solve one of the major dilemmas of drivers everywhere.  It may even bring world peace.

Like most inventions, mine happened purely by accident.  There I was, making my way along in the center-lane of a 3-lane highway, trying my best to avoid taking any part in the daily mess that is the Afternoon Commute (aka the “Idiot and A-Hole Parade”).  I don’t drive slow, but I don’t drive fast either (unless I get in the passing lane…in which case I do that most rare and unusual thing…I actually PASS people).

When I can, I prefer to mind my own business when I commute, and stay as far away as possible from the Retard Factor.  One of my favorite RF scenarios is the Creeper in the Passing Lane.  This is the guy who either refuses to accept the reality that some people drive like NASCAR wannabes, or he’s well-aware of it, and likes to try and slow them all down.  What he does is park his ass in the PASSING lane, and go just a little bit faster than the cars in the middle lane.

This has two main effects.  One, it REALLY pisses off the NASCAR / Starbucks-Infused crowd.  These are the people who ‘absolutely, positively have to be there in the next few seconds’.  They show about the same level of patience as Donald Trump would with an unattractive female contestant on “The Apprentice”.

The other effect is that it pisses off ME.  Why?  Because I’m usually in the middle lane, (minding my own business, remember?).  Normally, I’m semi-content.  But like most people, I don’t like being boxed in.  So while I’m sitting contentedly in the MIDDLE lane, here comes The Creeper.  And he’s got about 30 cars in his wake, all jockeying around like agitated hornets, buzzing in and out of all three lanes in a frenzied attempt to get around this idiot.  Traffic is somewhat heavy, but moving.

Now, I don’t like to be caught up in this stuff.  Generally-speaking, I like to side-step tornados…rumor has it that they kind of suck.  If this guy was going the typical speed in the passing lane, I’d probably be OK.  But here’s what usually happens – as Zucchini-Brain gets closer, traffic ahead of me invariably slows down drastically (for no apparent reason other than the fact that *I* have arrived). 

I could cut over to the PASSING lane, but right at that moment the idiot is now on my left, having decided that this would be a good time to speed up a little.  Besides, I’ve lost count of the number of times that I have lost my patience and tooled into the passing lane pushing 90, only to see a State Trooper materialize out of the nether.  I swear I can make the law appear just by THINKING about running a yellow light.

So now I’m in the thick of it.  Mr. Clueless is slowly leading an entire pack of really angry wolves, several of which are now stacked up right behind me like I’m a slow guy at Daytona.  I myself can’t go anywhere due to the now-slower traffic in front of me, but that doesn’t matter…I’m now bearing the brunt of the mess that the Idiot slowly pulling away on my left created.

Tailgating is perhaps one of the more annoying things anyone could do to me.  I’m fairly certain I could be the sole adult at a day-care center for aspiring Bart Simpson’s, and come out of it less aggravated than being tailgated in situations where there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.  I always wonder what’s going through the pea-brains of these idiots while I sit there counting the hairs on their faces.  Do they expect me to just start plowing into the cars in front of me, all so THEY can go faster?  I can’t even pull out of their way due to the traffic.  And they took away my rear-mount RPG hookup, so I can’t just blow them up, tempting as it is.

That’s where my new invention comes in…The Tailgate Buster.  As I continued to drive along, I saw a few cars ahead of me swerve a bit.  This usually indicates some type of road debris.  Most times it’s harmless.  I love it when somebody drastically alters the path of their 4,000 pound SUV tooling along at 75 mph because they almost hit a plastic grocery bag. 

In this case it turned out to be a big ball of black twine.  It was fluttering about loosely enough as cars went by it, which implied it was lightweight, so I ruled out the chance that it was some type of cable.  It was definitely in the “string” category.  Given the fact that if I swerved to avoid it I would probably cause a 20-car pileup, I opted to run right over it.
That’s when the fun began, because it apparently got stuck under my car somewhere.  But it was an end-piece that got stuck, not the main ball of twine itself.  The main ball of twine began to play out behind me, reaching a length of about 30-40 feet or so before it knotted up.  I was now ‘towing’ a spastic ball of twine.

I immediately noticed an effect…the cars behind me BACKED OFF.  It was as if I was dragging a small nuclear device.  People scattered faster than what happens when a stranger yells “HELP” in New York City.  All these macho guys who moments ago were ready to scrape the chrome off my bumper were now retreating in the face of…a killer ball of twine.
So for the rest of my drive home I sat back and smiled as my twine gleefully skittered from side to side behind me, keeping the Idiots and A-Holes at bay, while I mused over the various names under which I would market my new invention.

It all started innocently enough.  I was at my doctor’s office to get a pain in my foot checked out.  As per the usual quality of HMO’s in these fine United States, I had spent over five minutes just trying to make the appointment, I had to leave work thirty minutes early to get there, I arrived five minutes early, then sat in the waiting room for fifteen minutes, all so I could get about three minutes and twenty-five seconds worth of quality health care from my doc.

I’m kind of excited actually, because at this rate I will earn my “100 Minutes With My Doctor” mug before I reach 70.

So we were chatting away about my foot…

Me:  “Doc, it hurts when I walk on it.”
Doc:  “Does it hurt when I do this?”  (presses hard where it hurts)
Me:  “Tell you what, let me put a pair of forceps around your nuts, then repeat that little procedure you just did.”

At the end of my visit, he asked me if anything else was giving me any trouble.  In retrospect, this was one of those classic “Shoulda kept my mouth shut” moments.

I casually mentioned that I had seen blood in my crap a couple of times.

I guess this was kind of like when Keanu Reeves in the first Matrix movie mentioned his déjà vu incident.  My doc immediately sprung into action, and before I knew it I was all signed up for my first colonoscopy.

Colonoscopy…such an innocent word.  Whatever happened to the simple language that is so often ascribed to Native Americans?  Why can’t they just call it what it is…Long Hose Inserted Up Ass.

Over the next few weeks I became more familiar with my impending probing.  I learned about the procedure itself, including every thing I could expect during the operation.  I even had an initial consult at the office of the doctor who would be performing this little diddy on me.

I also learned about Trilyte…with flavor packs.  And I quickly became aware of a pattern…no one who has ever had this done really recalls the procedure itself, but they sure remember the alien skank fluid called Trilyte that they had to drink as part of the prep.

Trilyte is another one of those medical misnomers.  I have a few other, more appropriate names for the stuff.  Like how about:

Bowel Flush
Rotten Egg Surprise
Kolon Klense
Rectum Purge

I don’t fully know what Trilyte is, but I sure know what it does.  It came as a powder in a four-liter jug.  I mixed it up the night before, along with my flavor pack of choice. I picked Lemon Lime. 

When I had my first drink of the bowel wonder juice, I was reminded of an old axiom: shit…sprinkled with a little bit of flavoring…is still shit.

The whole point, of course, is to flush out your digestive tract.  There are obvious reasons for this, but in retrospect I think I would have preferred if they could have just stuck a blow hose down my throat and forced my cavities clean that way instead.

It took about 3-4 glasses before I felt the first twinge in my nether regions.  The next thing I learned is that you don’t get a whole heck of a lot of time between “twinge” and “sploosh”.

When I felt the first rumblings, I was sitting on the couch.  I thought “Wow, that stuff works kind of fast.”  Seconds later I was scrambling for the can, almost running in a half-bent position.  Along the way I was looking for possible alternative locations to deposit my load, because I figured I wouldn’t make it.  One of the larger potted plants in the entryway was barely spared a rather gruesome fate while I briefly admired the broad rim of its container.

That first ‘expulsion’ was a work of art.  Trilyte really is some type of wonder fluid that will take whatever is in your bowels, break it down into some type of amorphous goo, and then force it all out at once in a mini enema explosion that could probably clear twenty feet or more if all you did was step outside, bend over, and aim. 

I could probably make a small fortune if I set up some big canvases outside as targets.  I could create truly unique ‘frescos’.  I mean why not?  They sell that crap that elephants paint, don’t they?

When I was done, I didn’t know if I should flush my toilet, or administer last rites.  Were it not for the holding tank, I’m not sure I would have even recognized it.  I could have sworn I saw a blueberry or two in there, which is really impressive since I ate my last one over 24 hours prior.  I didn’t want to think about where those little suckers had been hiding all this time.

This pattern repeated for the next several hours.  I just set up shop in the bathroom…figured that was easier.  If it had gone on much longer I was going to run some cable in there so I could at least watch TV.

Finally, it was time to go.

Now, nothing against those people who see long objects around them and say to themselves, “Hmmmm…I wonder how that would feel stuff up my coo?”, but I really wasn’t relishing this whole tube-up-my-ass deal.  I mean really…is there such a thing as a gay plumber?  Because I would think it would be too tempting to be surrounded by all that tubular paraphernalia day in and day out, not too mention those retractable pipe cleaning things.  Ew!

So as my way of voicing my protest at this entire event, I downloaded three little “signs” from the Internet.  I printed them, then cut each one out.  Next, I had Melissa tape each one to my backside, just above the target zone.

The signs said:

“DANGER:  Trail Closed”
“STOP:  No Spectators Beyond This Point”

And my favorite:
“Do Not Enter:  Dogs Running Free Inside”

I’m sure people have done similar things.

When we arrived they did the pre-op check in, and then I was taken to the patient area.  I was told to strip down and put on a hospital gown.  Somebody has got to invent a better model of the classic hospital gown.  Calling these things a gown is like calling a thong a pair of shorts.

After setting up an IV, I was given a briefing by the nurse.  One of the things she put a lot of emphasis on was the fact that I would feel very bloated.  She kept saying “Don’t be ashamed to blow those bunnies out”, and “When you feel a little gas, just push those little bunnies right outta there.”

OK, not for anything, but when I’m visiting a doctor’s office to have a tube shoved up my coo for the first time in my life, hearing analogies about the possibility of fuzzy, little bunny rabbits ALSO being stuffed up there doesn’t help my overall motivation factor.  I mean really…is there some line of children’s books out there that explains flatulence by depicting cartoon bunnies popping out of little kids’ buttholes???

I was next taken to the room where the probing would commence.  I told the doc that if he finds Hoffa, all he gets is a finders fee.

It was at this point that they gave me the anesthesia, and for the rest of the procedure I was in happy happy unconscious land.  As for the whole tube thing, it’s greatly overrated as I was pretty much running on one brain cell, and never felt a thing.

When it was all done and I began to come out of it, it would be a stretch to say that I was ‘conscious’.  I don’t remember too many details.  My wife was there, and I was still in my gown.  Apparently at one point the nurse was telling me to get dressed, and I misinterpreted this to mean lay on my side because they were going in again.  Guess I didn’t mind it after all!

We had planned to go to a local Italian place for food afterward, and this is where things got REALLY interesting.  You see, one of the things they do when they probe you is to blow air up inside you.  Guess this helps expand the colon, and give the doc more room.

Thing is though, if there’s anybody out there on this big planet of ours who really should not be subjected to yet more ‘air’ blown up his ass, it would be me.  As Melissa can readily attest, there’s already a healthy volume of air that comes OUT of my ass…there’s really no need to pump in any more to the mix.

So there we are at this little eatery, surrounded by other couples and families.  In particular there was a family of four, including two young boys.  My state of being is pretty much akin to being three sheets to the wind, and I’m not really aware of too much beyond my own drool.

But, I knew I had a gas problem, and I was ‘sober’ enough to stumble my way to the men’s room, whereupon I entered the one and only stall, and sat down.

Shortly after I sat down, I heard the door open.  This was followed by the unmistakable sound of two young boys standing at the urinals.

Being who I am, and recognizing that these fine lads are at an impressionable age, I began to quite deliberately release huge volumes of all that extra air that was stuffed up my ass waiting to come out.

I felt bad for one of these kids because he clearly was having allergy problems, or perhaps he had a cold.  I could tell because I literally heard the snot come out his nose as he and his brother tried in vain to control their laughter.  Which of course only made them laugh harder, at which point I proceeded to fart harder.  They couldn’t take it any more and ran in hysterics back to their Mom and Dad.

Apparently it was quite the show because they were still laughing when I came out.  And pointing, of course.  It seemed like the whole place was wondering what was so funny, and I just stood there grinning like a drunk fool.  It crossed my mind to perhaps do an encore for a wider audience, but I either fell back into my seat, or Melissa kicked me out of sheer embarrassment.

The final phase of my story happened on the way out.  After attracting a whole lot of undue attention, and still stumbling, we walked out just as a cop was coming in.  Great…just what we need!  In my state I’m sure I would have gone out of my way to explain that I wasn’t drunk, but that I had just had a tube stuffed up my ass, and did the nice officer want me to show him for proof?

We managed to make it home, and luckily I went the whole way without another gas attack.  Which is a good thing because Melissa probably would have dumped me by the side of the road.

Our dog Mickey is such a joy to have around.  That’s what I tell people anyway.  In reality, he’s evil and he hates me.  How do I know this?  Because he torments me, and no one realizes it.  It’s worse than a bratty kid sticking his tongue out at you while in his Mommy’s oblivious arms.

I know what you’re thinking…he’ s a dog, you idiot.  Dogs run around, pant a lot, shed, chase cats, and drool.  They don’t concoct clandestine plans of constant revenge and games of mild torture.

Oh, but you are so very, very wrong.  THIS dog does just exactly that, and he’s damn good at it too.  Here’s one sample:

We have a small pillow for him set up in front of the TV.  When he’s not constantly berating us to throw him his slimy, little toy for the umpteen-billionth time, he lays on the pillow.  But he doesn’t just lay down.  Instead he proceeds to immediately partake of that time-honored male doggie pastime that is the source of much jealousy in their brethren’s human world – he licks his balls.

Now, I realize that my own inherent jealousy may be clouding my judgment here a bit.  It certainly looks that way on paper at least.  Dog licks balls…I yell at dog…therefore I yell because if *I* can’t do it, then *he* can’t do it.  Seems logical I suppose, but there’s more to it than that.

The issue is the WAY in which he, um…’grooms&r squo; himself.  You ever happen to be around a cow when she’s licking up her newborn’s cud?  It sounds like she’s slurping up jellied road kill.  And that’s EXACTLY what my dog sounds like.

HOW he manages to do this is beyond me, which leads exactly to my point…the “physics” of the sound he makes just aren’t there.  I mean, there’s no freakin CUD!  So how the hell does a dog make that damn sound?  I’ll tell you how…the little shit PRACTICED until he got it just right, knowing full well it can take the enjoyment out of whatever we’re trying to do at the moment (which often is trying to eat).

Why does he do this?  It’s simple…we stopped playing with him.  You are not allowed to stop playing with He Who Must Be Played With, for as soon as we do, he resorts to the commencement of The Licking of the Gonads.  It’s a cunning ploy to annoy the piss out of us, and force us into more toy-tossing.

Naturally I yell at him to stop whenever he does this.  At which point he looks directly at me, and then starts licking his paws.  The look says it all…”Listen, just because YOU can’t pleasure yourself this way doesn’t give you the right to deny ME of it.  But since you’re yelling, I’ll just push your buttons a little more and lick my paws instead.”

So I yell again, and what do you suppose the bastard does next?  He starts to lick his pillow.  It’s like “Hel-looooo???  ; You’re 9 years old!!!  The teen years are over, so CUT THE REBELLIOUS CRAP!!!!”

I yell once more…he looks my way with dagger-eyes…grunts a doggie “Harumph”, and then finally lays down.

You’d think that would be the end of it, but if you start counting you will see a new pattern emerge.  In a little while he will dream up some excuse to bark at something, which 99.9% of the time is actually nothing.  But doing so gives him the excuse to get up and rush to my wife’s feet, ostensibly to protect her from whatever he barked at.

Thanks Mickey, but you just barked at a dust ball…I may be going out on a limb here but I’d say that we’re all pretty safe from harm at the moment.

Now that he managed a coy excuse to get his ass off his pillow, this frees him up to begin his usual attention-sucking routine in which he moves back and forth between me and my wife, getting as much attention as our arms can endure.  If we stop for just an instant he immediately nudges our arm (with a cold wet nose of course) as a gentle reminder that his needs are not being fully met.  Truth be told I think a nuclear-powered auto-petting machine that ran 24 x 7 would still not fill his “needs”.

Once he realizes that Attention Time is fading, then he moves onto Slobbery Plush Toy time.

Do you see where this is going?  This story started out mentioning toys.  And guess what?  That brings us back to the beginning of the cycle.

Dog lays down.
Dog commences cud-licking.
Dad yells at dog.
Dog licks paws.
Dad yells at dog.
Dog licks pillow.
Dad yells at dog.
Dog flips off Dad, grunts “F-you”, and lays down.
Dog barks at leaf that fell from tree in neighbors yard two houses over, thinks there’s some risk, gets up and goes to Mom.

And it goes on…and on…and on…

The thing is, I KNOW what he’s up to, and I know the he knows that *I* know, and I know he does it knowing that it torments me.

Man’s best friend my ass.

I have an unhealthy relationship with my toilet.  I think we need each other, in some warped, symbiotic way.

On my end (no pun intended), I really find it hard to do a good dump anywhere else but on my own little throne of human detritus.  Even when I have to go at work, it’s a struggle.  I have to squeeze so hard I feel like a vital organ’s gonna pop out.  It would be just my luck to give myself an aneurism while on the crapper…such a noble end.  I can hear the epitaphs now:

Here Lies Pooped Out.

Dumped His Last Load

Shit Out Of Luck

I bet even Aunt Edna would get in on the fun…”He looked so flushed last time I saw him”, as she stifles a chuckle.

That’s OK auntie…if you begin to notice a mysteriously high number of occasions when you discover the toilet paper roll is empty right when you need it the most, think of me.

But seriously, if I’m away from home, I can go days without leaving any racing stripes on any toilets anywhere.  In fact my body doesn’t even seem to need to go at all.  It seems to ‘know’ that ‘The Toilet’ isn’t in the vicinity, so it goes into some type of catatonic state.  Inside, somebody has flipped the old Crap switch to the off position.

Now, I know this isn’t healthy, so often times wherever I am I go and sit anyway, just to give it a try.  I find I have to play mind games.  You know, like I try and sneak up on my bowel movement.  I pretend I’m not interested in dumping, and I sit as relaxed as I can.  Sometimes I whistle.

Then, when my body least expects it, I do a major squeeze hoping to catch it off-guard.  But it never works.  Best case is this little marble-sized thing that looks like it came from a rabbit pops out.  It can be so embarrassing too, especially if the guy next to me is making noises akin to the sound of a logging chute as tree after tree splashes into the river.  Meanwhile there I am squeezing so hard my eyes are bulging, and all you can hear is “squeak”, followed by the tiniest of plops.

So what usually happens is I go for several days or more of nothing.  But my diet doesn’t really change.  I still take in the same excessive amount of food each day.  So where the hell does it all go??  It’s scary to think of it.  If I ever get killed in some accident, my body will probably discharge days and days worth of crap.  Ug.

Now, whenever my time away from home is up, that’s when the fun starts.  For all of the time I have been away, not a single cheek twinge has occurred, nor barely even a stomach grumble.  But no sooner do I begin to make the journey back towards home, the Gotta Crap switch begins to turn on.

It’s like my ass has toilet radar…like it has some genetic predisposition which allows it to sense the fact that the return trip has begun.  I almost wonder sometimes what would happen if I could somehow levitate my body…I’m willing to bet that my ass would find its ‘own’ way home by following the constant pull of porcelain…ITS porcelain…like a salmon returning to spawn.

The ‘pull’ gets stronger the closer I get to home, which can make whatever mode of transportation I am using very uncomfortable.  Trust me, after three days or more of lots of intake with no corresponding output, I can’t even take the risk of squeezing out a small fart to relieve the discomfort.  There’s just way too much stuff backed up in there to risk any cheek openings unless I am seated firmly on an oval ring.

I even did an experiment once…halfway home I promptly turned around and headed the other way for several miles.  Sure enough I could feel the need begin to fade.

By the time I do get home, I walk the stairs up to the house looking like I’ve been in the saddle for a week straight.  Unpacking can come later…right now I have some ‘special’ unpacking to do.  And sure enough, no sooner does cheek touch porcelain then the explosion begins.

And once again, my ass is content…if I ever get rich, I think I will arrange to have my toilet shipped with me and temporarily installed wherever I go, even if it’s on an African safari.  At least that way I’d be able to vacation longer…

I love my neighbor.  Well, not really.  I just say that to be polite in mixed company.  In reality he’s got the smarts of a carriage bolt. 

But, he IS somewhat entertaining.  Like with his dogs.  I get a kick out of most guys and their dog-buying habits.  Seems to me most guys acquire dogs with less research than they put into their latest set of rims.  Much less.  I’m willing to bet that if they sold dogs at the liquor store, right along side the 30-packs of Bud, that dog sales would skyrocket.

“Hello sir, anything else besides the 30-pack?”

“Uh, yeah, a pack of Marlboros.  Oh, and toss in the Schnauser there.  Oh wait, what’s that?  A Rottweiler?  Cool, I’ll take one of those too.”

I imagine the fun continues at home too.

“Hey honey, I got the beer.  Oh, and they had these things on the counter there.  Whaddya think?”

“Um, you just brought home a Schnauzer and a Rotty.  You do realize these are dogs, right?”

“Yeah sure, of course I do.  I love dogs!  Always had one as a kid.”

Guy pops a Bud…loud bark in background from the Rotty…

Guy says “What was that?”

Wife says “Ummm…that would be called a ‘bark’.  Dogs do that you know.”

“No shit.  I don’t remember that as a kid.  What else do they do?”

OK, so I’m exaggerating a bit, but not much.  In reality, here’s what happens (almost every day):

Neighbor lets dog out of house, presumably to do duty.

Dog takes off.

Neighbor proceeds to yell at dog to come back.

Dog says “Yeah right dude.  You’ve got a beer gut that looks like you swallowed a pony keg.  Come get me.”

Neighbor gets more and more upset at dog (ie, yells louder and louder).

Dog continue to ignore.

You get the idea.  So every day we hear this:

GINGER!  GET OVER HERE!  GINGER, GET OVER HERE NOW!!  GINGER!!  GINGER, I’M TALKING TO YOU!!!  GET THE HELL OVER HERE!!!  GINGER!!!!!

It’s like that movie “50 First Dates” where the girl has a funky amnesia problem, and starts each day with no recollection of the previous day at all.  Only in this case it’s more like “50 First Brain Cells”, as in he can’t get past that point with each thought.  He can barely mumble the word “Duh” without losing his train of thought.  It’s funny to watch though.  He manages to say “Du…”, but can’t quite grasp the concept of the letter “h” and stalls right there in mid-word.

He’s also one of those people with a voice that could penetrate Donald Trump’s ego (I would have used a ‘thru lead’ analogy, but I needed something denser).  On many occasions we have been treated to full details of his life as he chats on his portable phone outside.  Now, there’s actually a good amount of land between us, so you can imagine how this guy’s voice carries.  We get to hear amazingly fascinating diatribes about his job, his job, and um…his job.

That’s in between yelling at Ginger, of course.

A short story I wrote...

“Hey Jack, any chance you can stay late tonight?”

“No way, buddy. It’s my anniversary, and if I don’t take my wife out to Kemp’s on the Bay like I promised, it’ll be my hide AND yours!”

“Good point. Annie may be small, but I have no doubt she’d drop me to the ground in one shot if I pissed her off enough. OK, well you two have a good time. But don’t forget I need you back here early tomorrow…and sober!”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I won’t forget.”

With that Jack grabbed his coat, and headed out the door. At six foot even and 180 pounds, he was a solid man. Somehow even with running the show at the seafood place, a wife, and two little boys, he still managed to squeeze in his usual four-mile runs now and then. His sandy blonde hair was still wavy, but the pony-tail was long since gone.

He opted to keep a small moustache though, even though Annie said that it ‘tickled’. He and Annie would always laugh at their secret joke. Their boys, Jake and Matthew, would always ask “What’s so funny?” Annie would just shake her head and say “Never mind, you’ll find out soon enough when you get older.”

Jake, the oldest at seven, was starting to catch on to these things, and Annie wondered if he probably knew exactly what was being discussed. He had such a devilish grin that she could never quite tell. Matthew was barely four, and still clueless about anything beyond his prized GI Joe collection. Annie had no idea how the kid was able to sleep at night based on the number of little, green army men she’d find in his bed each morning.

After almost nine years of marriage, they were finally starting to get on their feet. It had been difficult, especially since neither of them exactly came from ‘money’. Almost everything they did, they did on their own. The small three-bedroom ranch where they lived was already showing its age when they scrounged up the five percent deposit and secured the loan.

But after five years it was really taking shape. They had redone the roof, rebuilt the back deck, and added on a small addition with a garage (after taking out an equity loan, of course). Money was tight, but they still seemed to manage.

Jack thought of all of this as he made the short ride home. With all they had done, and with two boys to raise, they rarely spent any time alone. And it was starting to show. Years ago when Jake was first born, it was kind of cute when he would surprise them in their bedroom, usually at the most awkward of moments.

“No, baby”, Annie would explain. “Daddy’s not hurting me! We were just playing, that’s all.” It probably didn’t help Jake’s confusion that Jack would often laugh so hard he’d damn-near pee himself. The times that Jake would hop right onto the bed were especially interesting. Annie’s face would go white while she quietly mouthed the words “Is he still hard?”

Smiling as he remembered these moments, Jack next began to imagine how nice it would be tonight, just the two of them enjoying a nice dinner. Annie’s Mom was undoubtedly already at the house, spoiling the boys rotten, and effectively undoing all the discipline he had embedded in the boys till now.

The sun was just starting to dip behind the trees, reflecting a few last rays off the water in the distance. The wind had just picked up in the last hour or so, and as Jack drove, the branches above swayed ever so slightly. It was the most peaceful moment he could remember in a long time.

Jack looked up at something ahead, and he almost began to laugh, as if what he was seeing was too surreal to fit the moment he was enjoying. The smile was still spread across his face by the time he realized what was happening, as if it was to stubborn to accept it.

The tree limb smashed straight through the windshield, with the bulk of the heavy end catching Jack square in the face. The old oak was weakened by the last storm, and the nearly one ton branch that fell sliced through the cab like it was not even there. Had anyone witnessed the accident, they would have been dumbstruck by the fact that the man behind the wheel appeared to be laughing.

The pickup came to an almost immediate halt, pushed slightly sideways with the impact. It traveled up onto the lawn of a small house, pushing over one of those vandal-proof mailboxes like it was a toothpick stuck in the sand. The front tires, now weighted down with the addition of the massive limb, tore into the lawn leaving deep trenches.

Jack reeled from the impact. His entire face felt like it was on fire, and he instinctively rubbed his hands across it thinking there were flames tearing into his flesh. When he pulled his hands away, instead of burn marks he saw blood. A lot of blood.

But at least he was moving. If it was only a few cuts he could still make dinner. He fumbled around in his top pocket, fishing out his cell phone. He had to call Annie. As he tried to dial, blood was getting everywhere but he didn’t care. All he could see was her face.

He began to laugh again. ‘She probably won’t believe me’ he thought as he heard her voice on the other end.

“Jack, you better be calling to tell me you’re on your way.”

“Hi baby. You’ll never guess what happened.”

“Are you still at work? You better not still be there? Where’s that ass of a boss of yours. Tom! Can you hear me! You better let him leave work right now or so help me I’ll clobber you!!”

Jack felt a little twinge in his neck. ‘Better explain quick’, he thought. Just then he saw a face at the side of the truck. Jack went to lower the window, but it slowly occurred to him that the window was gone. Instead he just held a finger up to the woman standing there and mumbled “One minute. I’m OK”.

“Jack?”, Annie said. “Who are you talking to, and what do you mean by ‘I’m OK’?”

“Babe, I’m afraid I got into an accident. A tree limb came down and landed on the truck.”

Annie paused for a moment, then began to laugh.

“Are you shitting me?” Then she laughed again as she covered her mouth. “Ooops, forgot about the boys.”

Annie’s Mom called out from behind her in a whispered voice.

“Annie! Now you stop that! Don’t you be teaching my grandkids words like that!”

This was followed promptly by a slap to the back of Annie’s head.

“Annie”, Jack said. “I’m sorry sweetie but this is no joke. The truck is smashed up pretty good, and I must have a cut somewhere on my head.”

“Jack?” Annie said, the laughter in her voice immediately replaced with concern. She realized Jack would never joke about something like this. “Jack, are you serious? Are you OK?”

“Yeah baby, I think I’m OK. I think we can still make dinner, but I will need to get patched up here.”

By now Annie could hear sirens in the background. She also thought she heard a scream but she couldn’t tell.

“Jack, where are you? Are you sure you’re OK?”

“Yes, I’m OK. In fact I feel better already.”

There was a slight pause. Annie had just gone from laughter to shock, and for a brief moment she wasn’t sure what to say. Her emotions were running like crazy.

“Annie, listen, don’t worry. The truck is insured, and I’ll be fine. I think I hear the ambulance. They’ll take a look, maybe do a few stitches. But I’ll need a ride for sure, so can you come pick me up? Up just before Four Corners.”

Annie regained her composure.

“I’ll be right there Jack. Don’t you move. And for God’s sake don’t try and drive the truck anywhere.”

Jack looked around the cab area, and while something seemed extremely odd about it, he knew for sure that the truck wasn’t going anywhere.

“Don’t worry baby, I’m through driving for tonight. All I want to do is get cleaned up and go to that dinner. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I’m leaving now Jack. Please just try and stay still, OK?”

“I will, I will. Oh, and Annie?”

“Yeah baby?”

“I love you immensely, you know that don’t you? You know I could never live without you by my side, which is why I will always be by yours.”

Annie began to cry, the emotion of the last few minutes swelling over her uncontrollably now.

“I know Jack. God I love you too. Now stay put, I’m on my way.”

Annie flew out the door, barely stopping to pick up her keys. She shouted out to her Mom to keep the boys occupied. Even though Jack sounded OK, she still wanted to get to him as quickly as possible.

She almost ran the stop sign at the end of their street. Had she not stopped she too might have been in an accident as a rescue truck careened by, headed towards where her Jack was now.

She pulled out and quickly accelerated to match the speed of the truck ahead of her. In no time she reached the scene of the accident, and right away something struck her as odd.

There were a lot of people standing around, many more than should have been there. She pulled off the road, and was quickly approached by an officer.

“Ma’am, please don’t stop here. I need you to please get back in your car and continue on wherever you were going.”

Annie managed a smile as she explained she was the wife of the man sitting in the cab, assuming Jack had listened to her and stayed where he was, that is. She craned her neck to get a glimpse of Jack’s truck.

“Yeah, that’s him over there”, she said, pointing towards the accident scene. She couldn’t quite see him fully, but she could see a lot of activity there.

The officer paused for a moment, and then reached out to touch Annie’s shoulder.

“You’re Mrs. Kinsley?”, he asked.

“Yes”, Annie said. “I’d like to see my husband please.”

The officer paused again, then said “OK, wait here for a moment please.”

He walked over towards the cab where two EMT’s were standing along with two fireman. He spoke briefly with one of the EMT’s, who looked over the cop’s shoulder towards Annie. They spoke some more, and then the EMT began to walk towards Annie.

Annie couldn’t stand waiting, and so she stepped between the rescue truck and a police care. The EMT broke into a short run as he intercepted her.

“Mrs. Kinsley, please, I need to talk to you for a moment.”

The EMT grabbed her by her forearms, almost forcefully. Annie was not the type to put up with much procedural bullshit, so she immediately tried to pull herself free. But the EMT’s grip strengthened, to the point of causing her pain. She turned to scream at him, but the pleading, pained look on his face stopped her struggle. “Please!” he said, followed quickly by another

“Please”, the second one a little softer.

“What’s wrong?” Annie said. “Where’s my Jack? Why can’t I see him?”

“Mrs. Kinsley, listen…”

“Annie”, she interrupted. “Please call me Annie.”

“OK”, he said, clearly struggling. “Annie, I’m afraid…I’m afraid to say that your husband is dead.”

Annie muttered a brief laugh as she stared at him in disbelief. “Dead?” she said. “Is this some kind of a cruel joke? Because if it is I swear I will…”

The EMT persisted. “Mrs. Kinsley…Annie&hell ip;I am so sorry to be the one to tell you. But your husband was declared dead a few minutes ago.”

“But…that&rs quo;s not possible. I was speaking to him just ten minutes ago. He seemed fine. He called to tell me he was in an accident. We talked for about five minutes. He said he probably just needed to get cleaned up a bit, but that he could still make dinner tonight. I don’t understand.”

The EMT’s face went white.

“He…your husband…he called you? AFTER the accident?”

“Yes”, Annie said. “He said a tree limb had fallen on the cab and that he was bleeding, but he felt OK.”

The EMT turned away, trying hard to stifle the puke that was forming in his throat. His mouth went completely dry. In a cracked voice he began to explain.

“Annie, I hate to be the one to tell you, but your husband was decapitated almost instantly. There’s nothing left of the entire cab section. I’m sorry but there is no way he was able to make any type of phone call.”

Annie stared back incredulously, unable to speak. A short laugh escaped her lips and she began to speak.

“No…no&helli p;that can’t be. We were just talking. He even said he saw someone standing next to him. He…”

The EMT interrupted her, trying to explain. He pointed over to a young girl sitting on the sidewalk of the house across the street, surrounded by two adults as she blankly stared ahead, her eyes red from obvious tears.

“Annie, that girl sitting over there was the first one to come across the accident. She’s in complete shock right now. She was the first one to see your husband. Her mother came running out and immediately screamed at the sight as she dragged the girl away. Please, Annie, you should talk to the coroner.”

Annie couldn’t take her eyes off the little girl, who now looked her way. Their eyes met, and the horror in the girl’s eyes sent a chill through Annie’s body. She then looked back towards the truck. That’s when she got a good look at the cab.

It was as if a bulldozer blade had plowed straight into it. The entire front area was occupied by the limb, and the passenger door was partially crushed by the weight of the massive oak. The limb itself appeared to be about two feet around at the thickest point. The weight of it on the passenger side caused the driver side to lift up off the ground a bit.

The back seat area of the cab was sprawled back in an uplifted mix of twisted metal and seat fabric. It looked like something had exploded outward, shearing anything in its way.

Then she saw the blood-stained sheet, laying where Jack should be sitting. It looked like whatever was under the sheet was slouched down, but that was impossible. The massive amount of blood where Jack’s head should have been made her stomach turn.

That was the last thing Annie remembered from that day. She almost fell to the ground when she passed out, but several of the rescue workers nearby stopped her fall. She didn’t even recall asking for Jack’s cell phone, which was lying on the seat next to his lifeless body.

Nor did she remember determining the exact time of his death. According to the dashboard clock, the limb came crashing down at about 5:09 that afternoon. She refused to let go of Jack’s cell phone, even though it was covered in blood. She had used her thumb to wipe the display, and even through the streaks she was able to bring up the call log. The last call was outbound…to their home…it lasted almost nine minutes, and was placed at 5:10.

The first two days after Jack’s death were very hard on Annie, and especially the boys. Annie didn’t have the strength to be there for them as much as she wanted. Her family worried that she wouldn’t get through the funeral. But that morning they noticed a change. The dull stare in her eyes was slowly being replaced by a few flickering signs of the normal Annie.

The only strange moment was when Annie went to the casket, and slipped something in next to Jack as she said her last goodbye. It was Jack’s cell phone, and she gave very specific instructions to the funeral home director that it was to remain there.

Annie eventually recovered, as best she could. She continued to raise Jake and Matthew alone, and they seemed to adjust well, although things were of course never quite the same.

One thing the boys never quite understood is why she kept her old cell phone. Jake would swear he sometimes heard her talking to someone late at night in her bedroom.

But there was no regular phone in there, just her old cell phone. And the battery had long-ago died. It wasn’t even digital. And yet every once in a while as he laid in bed, he could hear a soft, faint ringing sound, followed by his Mom’s voice…

Let me say right at the start that I do NOT pick my nose regularly.  It’s just that every now and then there’s a stubborn little nose-nugget that is driving me crazy, and it just HAS to be removed.  The issue I have is that every time I do this, I tend to get caught.  There I am with my pinky finger (yes, I’m a pinky-picker) stuffed inside one nostril up to the first knuckle joint, and I sense someone’s presence.

What do you do?  I have yet to discover a graceful way to remove my finger without being too obvious, or worse yet without the risk of having the object of my digging stuck there on my finger tip.  It’s especially fun when the person standing there is someone who wanted to introduce themselves (and wants to shake my hand).  Now, for the most part I’m right-handed when it comes to picking.  I can switch-hit if needed, especially for those left-nostril snots that are lodged up against the inside part of my nose.  I can’t quite twist my right hand around far enough to reach that spot, so having some lefty skills is a necessity.

In fact there have been times when I have tried to reach a left-nostril, inside-track nugget with my right hand, and all I succeeded in doing was pushing it farther up.  That’s bad.  So when I switched over to the left hand it was now too far up to reach.  That’s a very uncomfortable feeling.  It’s almost like the little bastard is reaching a spot where you can taste it.  And rest assured, I definitely don’t dine at Chez Booger.

So in these cases I break down and resort to a tissue.  I’m usually a little anxious about these cases, so the problem is I tend to over-blow, and I end up with a snot projectile that is traveling at near warp speed.  It actually makes me giggle when it hits the tissue so hard that it reminds me of being a baseball catcher.  ‘Sorry, dude, but that one was low and away…Ball four!’

Then there are times when I blow that way, and I don’t feel anything actually enter the tissue.  I’ve had this happen at work…right over my keyboard.  You ever try and extract an embedded snot ball from between the F and G keys of a keyboard?  It’s not easy.  And trust me, it can be very difficult to explain to someone what I’m doing.

Hey…at least it didn’t land in my coffee cup…

My wife and I had dinner at one of our favorite seaside restaurants last night.  Having just come back from vacation, it was a way to try and ease back into the real world, assuming there is such a process.  After all these years I have yet to find the proper method of bringing my mind and body back from the feeling of warm sand around my toes, sunshine, cold beer and relaxed people, and then going right into a busy airport, grumpy returning tourists, smelly people on cramped planes, psycho drivers on the constant brink of road rage…and work.

This restaurant is classic.  Unpretentious, simple, many open windows (except today as it was closer to 100 degrees), and a great view of the river just before it hits the ocean.  Usually the parking lot is a mob scene during the summer, but we lucked out it seemed.  We were seated with a clear view of the water, and proceeded to smile, and then start to relax…enjoying each other’s company.

But the place was loud, more so than usual.  With both of us in full “totally relaxed from vacation, soft-voice mode”, it was like a scene from Seinfeld.  My wife could have said to me “I want to sniff your nose droppings”, and chances are I would have smiled and nodded thinking she said “This place is wonderful.”  But we still didn’t mind.

That’s when I saw the wait staff rearranging two tables to form one big table.  Always a bad sign, especially when it’s already noisy.  A group was coming.  Sigh.

But it got worse…at both ends of what was now a long table they placed those high-standing baby chairs.  AARRGGHH!!!  Babies were coming!!!  Why does this always happen to us!!!

And still it got worse…as expected, two cuddly, fat, little babies appeared in the arms of disinterested-looking adults, anxious to off-load the cretins as quickly as possible.  But ALSO in tow were two young girls.  At first I didn’t see them…I HEARD them.  Yelling, in that high-pitched, little-girl, shatter windows and teeth squeal that cannot be duplicated by any inhuman means.

Snot Girl 1:  “MOMMY!  MOMMY THIS is MY chair!!!”
Snot Girl 2:  “NO it’s MY chair!!”
Snot Girl 1:  “I saw it FIRST!!”
Snot Girl 2:  “I saw it first!!”

At this point both of the little snot-darlings were struggling to occupy the same chair.  And Mommy?  Ha…as far as she was concerned the girls were occupied, and that was apparently a blessing.  Daddy looked away like he didn’t have any association with ANY of these people, no doubt thankful that at least he wasn’t missing the Red Sox game.

After they sat down, normal conversation was impossible.  It would have been preferable to have a running Pratt and Whitney jet engine running at full-throttle next to us instead.  At least we’d have a chance against that.  We resorted to sign language, which is Ok but I’m a bit rusty.  I think I smiled and told her I wished I could take her away again to a remote island and shave her armpits.  Either that or I implied she had BO, because she pulled back a bit, her smile fading as she checked her underarms.

But seriously, we did our best to ignore the increasing decibels and enjoy ourselves.

Then THEY walked in.  Two older women, obviously believing they were some type of fashionistas.  When I saw them I merely smiled.  Nothing we hadn’t seen before, and hey, to each his own…if they wanted to dress that way, more power to them.  To be honest they looked like they were happy and having fun.  Good for them!

Then they sat down.  What happened next reminded me of that movie by John Carpenter called “The Fog”.  That’s where this evil fog bank creeps to shore at night, carrying within it evil demons that can kill.  Slowly and painfully, of course.  Well, we couldn’t actually SEE the fog in this case.  All I did see at first was that our wine and water glasses, which were situated between us and the women, started to cloud over, like some strange substance was enveloping them. 

It began on the far side, and then slowly advanced towards us.  Next we saw the candle flicker, and almost extinguish, like some unseen entity had attacked it.

The next closest object between us and them were our arms, extended slightly in front of us as we sat.  At first I felt a slight tingle, and then the hairs on my arms began to…contort is perhaps the right word.  It’s like they sensed something…evil&hel lip;and they were struggling to get away.

Unfortunately, these early warnings did little to protect us as the “cloud” was advancing rapidly.  By the time it reached our faces, it was too late. 

We were under attack by…perfume.  Gallons and gallons of perfume.  It’s as if these ladies ordered their favorite Eau de Crap in convenient 55-gallong drums, and before they headed out to dinner they each bathed in it.  With their clothes on.  AT first it was just a mild attack.  But then they did the unthinkable…they opened the window next to them, causing the breeze outside to suddenly push their entire entourage of stinkdom across the whole dining area.

Babies went unconscious.  Little children slumped over in their chairs.  Old men clutched their pacemakers.  The color of the paint on the walls began to change.  I could feel my nose hairs being singed off as if a ghostly flame was being held up there.  It was thick.  There was no escape.

We very quickly paid our bill and make a beeline for the exit, gagging the whole way.  What is it with people who think it’s acceptable to replace half the water content of their body with perfume or cologne?  Especially crappy stuff that remove Teflon from cookware from over ten feet away???

A friend of mine I hadn’t seen in years came by for a visit recently.  He came with his wife and two kids.  This story is about the youngest one…cute, little Tyler.

Now, if you don’t know, I tend to lean towards the sarcastic side.  So in reality using the word “cute” to describe this little shit is akin to seeing Bin Laden hanging out in the New York Subway system carrying a briefcase with a nuclear symbol on it.  “Oooooo!  Look at the bearded man with the nuke, mumbling to himself about 72 virgins!  How cute!!!”

Yeah…that’s Tyler.

From the minute this kid arrived I knew there would be trouble.  He stormed out of his parent's car, dropped his soccer ball in the driveway, and immediately eyed our garage doors.  Some type of parental instinct took over and I glared at the little hellion with a look that said “Kick that ball at my garage door and I’ll deflate it…with your face”.

He got the message, and from that point on our private battle raged.

Over the next two hours I aged two years.  I could feel my hair turning gray with every Tyler incident.  Tyler completely ignored all of us and disappeared around the side of the house with his soccer ball.  While I shook my friend’s hand and gave him a hug, I heard the distinct thud of a ball hitting the side of our house.  The side with two windows.

Within less than five minutes I was already plotting little Tyler’s death.  Seriously, I was trying to think of what kind of “accident” could befall the twit.

Mind you, the parents are the real culprits here, and I know that.  But in reality it came down to my friend’s wife, an iceberg of a woman who could break a sweat raising her finger (so therefore she never did).  Unless of course it was to begin an hour-long diatribe about something inane.  She would always begin these sessions by raising her finger high in the air, risking cardiac arrest no doubt.  But when it came to keeping an eye on Tyler, the extent of her involvement was to say to my friend “Mike, what’s Tyler doing?”

I felt like shouting, “Ooo!  Ooo!  I know the answer to this one!  Is it ‘Destroying the old shingles on the side of my house?’”

Next little Tyler came into the house.  I heard the front door open (we were in the kitchen around the corner).  Then I realized Tyler never showed up.  So I peered around the corner (neither parent bothered), and I observed the front door…wide open.  This would be a Tyler Trait.  Tyler does not have the slightest idea on how to close things.  He only knows how to open them.

Speaking of opening things, after I discovered the front door open, I then realized our bedroom door was open.  And guess who was inside, poking around in all our stuff just as you please?

Apparently I finally got the attention of my friend, who came around the corner as well and called little Tyler away from checking out our intimates.  And what did Mommy say?  “Oh, he’s like that.  He’s got such great curiosity.  He’ll roam around and check out everything.”

The thing that got me was the way she said this, like it was all cute and harmless.  I paused briefly at this, and then cursed myself for buying those “safe” mousetraps…the ones that aren’t fully exposed.  What little Tyler needed was a good, old-fashioned 3-pound spring trap, followed by a quick run to the ER.

Yup, my brain was a workin’…

During Tyler’s brief stay he did all of the following, and more:

- Wandered through everything we owned, picking up object after object, inspecting it, then leaving it where he saw fit.
- Sat on top of our little spa cover (the one NOT designed to hold any weight), while his legs kicked the side.
- Took off his shoes and started to enter our backyard pond (we’re actually missing a fish ever since his visit, and I swear it was his fault).
- Snapped off a large branch from one of our blueberry bushes (so long blueberries).
- Snapped off another large branch from our butterfly bush (oh, how I wish butterflies attacked)
- Drove my dog absolutely crazy.
- Interrupted any and all attempts at conversation that my friend and I tried.

This is just a sampling.  Finally, I decided to start a campfire.  I figured it would distract him, and at least keep him focused in one spot where I could watch him.  It seemed to be working, except fire turned Tyler into more of a monster than he was already.  The fire became HIS fire.  And his favorite way to tend it?  It was to throw anything and everything that would burn into it.  And I do mean throw, as I found out when a large stick went hurtling past my shins (Tyler isn’t an accurate thrower).

I could feel a special moment coming on rapidly…me, Tyler, and a 1,000 yard roll of duct tape…

For days after Tyler left we found evidence of his stay, mostly in the form of dislodged things.  Sticks and branches were strewn all over the place (Tyler would run away to “round up” wood to burn).  It was especially touching when he stood in front of the fire and began screaming for more stuff to burn.

In a way I feel a little bit of gratification, because maybe by exposing Tyler to the power of fire I may have in fact created a monster.  And as much as I like my friend, I sleep a little better at night wondering if little Tyler often harasses him and his excuse for a wife about creating a fire of their own.  Too bad their local laws prohibit it…

• Is that your squishy?  Where’s your squishy?  Is this your squishy?  Issssss this your squishy?
  
• Who’s our little monster?  Are you our little monster?  Is you our widdle monster?
  
• La la la la la la la … (accompanied by dual-clapping)
  
• Vroom!  Vroom!  Is that the plane flying?  Here we go!  Vroom!  Vroom! 
  
• Dad in total ga-ga mode doing nothing but humming ahhhhhhhhhhhhh
  
• Booooooooooooo ba-la-la-la-la.  Boooooooooooo ba-la-la-la.
  
• Where’s your nose Monster?  Is that your nose?  Is that your nose?  Blow Monster…get those boogers out.  Ooooohhh, look at that!  Way to blow Monster!
  

Perhaps my favorite was when Dad kept asking ‘Monster’ if he remembers the last time they flew, to DC.  The kid had barely moved beyond Drooling 101, let alone talk.  I doubt he remembered five minutes ago, and yet we all got to listen to Dad asking Junior if he remembers the time they flew to the capitol.  I should have known this guy was trouble…he was wearing sandals…with white socks.

Oh, and when the guy wasn’t cooing at his son, he would fill in the silence with spontaneous whistling.  He also was one of those types who asks for stupid things, like he wanted a buttload of cream.  The flight attendant was a trooper, especially when he said she reminded him of Elvis.  I’m like, “Elvis?  Was it the sideburns?  Or was he calling her fat?”  Somehow I think that was a first for her.

The last note about the flight is about the guy behind us.  He must have been one tired puppy as he was pretty much asleep even before takeoff.  The deal was that he snored.  But this wasn’t just any snore.  This guy had actually mastered the Shemp Snore.  Swear to God…the best part was the way his lips would ripple when he exhaled.  “Zzzzzzzzzzz", followed quickly by "dwee-dwee-dwee-dwee -dwee".  Luckily he only did that once or twice!

Here’s another in the Bad Date series…I had picked up my girlfriend of the time at her parent’s house.  We were both pretty young, so neither of us had an apartment.  But I had a brand new car (A sexy Subaru station wagon…woo woo!  Granted that big back area could be a benefit, but we never made it back that far).

We drove a little ways to a wooded area she knew.  It was near a small pond, with houses across the way.  We pulled in, killed the lights, and, well, you know...let’s just say that clothes were quickly becoming optional.  It was dark, and pouring out, so it seemed perfect.

Ah yes, there’s that word “seemed”&hell ip;

We were still pretty much in our own seats, but that was changing rapidly.  I won’t go into details about “whose head was where”.  Suffice it to say at least one of us was very happy, and both of us were distracted.  That’s when the first set of headlights appeared behind us.

When I saw these first set of headlights I was mildly annoyed, thinking another couple had crashed our party.  “Don’t you know to dim your lights, moron!  Have some respect!  We’re BUSY here!”  Those were the first thoughts going through my head (the one with brain cells).

Then the next set of headlights appeared…followed quickly by the 3^rd set.  “Wow…that&rs quo;s a lot of suddenly horny people”, I thought.  That’s when the brain started to get some blood back and began to actually think.  That was also right about the same time when I saw the first of several uniformed officers heading our way.

You’d be amazed how fast cops can pull up, and be out of their cars and heading right towards you when they want to.  We began to scramble to get dressed.  If I recall, my pants were just down around my ankles a bit, but my shirt was nowhere to be seen.  My girlfriend was equally lacking clothes in all the right places.  Now my aggravation was growing (while something else was shrinking).  At that point I had no idea that being “aggravated” at the cops was not a good thing.

First thing I noticed that didn’t sit well was the way the cops were approaching.  Now mind you, it was hard to see because they had their spotlights shining right in on us.  Plus we had all kinds of houses across the way turning on their deck and yard spots.  I felt like we were the main attraction at Ringling and Bros.  The cops were coming up on each side slowly, their hands clearly sitting on their holsters.  “Brain to hands…don’t make any gun-pointing gestures right about now, got it?”

The cop on my side started barking orders.  Basically he wanted to see my hands, and he wanted them both outside my window.  And he seemed to want me to start doing this right away.  I put the window down on my car, and began to protest about the fact that it was pouring out and my interior was getting soaked.  So I offered to come out.  They counter-offered with something that gave me the distinct impression that my suggestion was not well received.  Go figure.  Meanwhile, they pretty much grabbed my girlfriend and yanked her from the car. 

Why all the hub-bub you ask?  OK, I’ll wind this story down with the punch line…as my continuing luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time would have it, there had apparently been some type of an assault at that very location recently, but the suspect got away.  He had taken a girl there against her will.  Luckily nothing happened as the girl managed to get away, but it was treated as an attempted rape.  Soooooooooo…with me and my girlfriend choosing that particular spot on that particular night, we unwittingly almost ended up on a COPS episode (not that they had those back then).

After some quick checks the cops realized the situation.  By now of course we were both soaked.  But we got back in my car and made a hasty getaway.  What started all of this?  A nice old lady in one of the houses across the way was playing Good Samaritan, and called the cops as soon as she saw us pull in.  Can’t necessarily blame her, but man, what a crappy way to end a night that had so much potential!

As I approach the second-half of my life, I’m happy to report that, on occasion, I actually do learn a thing or two.  Granted, it usually takes repeated applications for stuff to sink in, but eventually I connect the dots and figure it out. 
One of these life-lessons I have learned is to always check for toilet paper on the roll.  Like a Pavlovian dog, I instinctively scan my chosen stall upon entry to make sure that the trusty white roll is not only there, but that it is functional.

You might say I’ve achieved my PhD in Preparatory Ass Wiping.  When you repeatedly make sure the roll is there, that’s your undergrad.  But when you learn to also make sure that all the sheets aren’t stuck together through some freak of manufacturing, then and only then have you earned your advanced degree.  Luckily, it only takes one time of having to attempt to wipe yourself clean with a torn off wad of TP to get yourself educated.

But some of those early days in “school” were pretty rough.  One in particular stands out.  I was at a party when my body decided it needed to shed some pounds.  It was bad enough that I was going to have to face the daunting task of doing a discreet Number Two, something that for me is nearly impossible.  The skill of taking a dump, and NOT making noise, escapes me.  No matter how much I try and control it, the pre-dump gas just seems to explode out of me.  It’s like my sphincter is locked shut, and only when sufficient back-pressure has built up do the doors open.  I’ve actually made ripples in the toilet water from farting.

In this case, I did manage to control the sound explosion a bit, but only by executing a pre-squat cheek-spread that would make any porn star proud.  Course I almost started to giggle like a school-boy when I began to make hissing sounds before any skin touched the always-cold toilet seat.  But the smell was another hurdle to be overcome.  As luck would have it this particular episode featured a by-product that was relatively solid in nature (ie, no “squirts).  Generally-speaking, the harder it is, the more aromatically sealed it seems to be.

Since I was at a party, I intended to do as little as I needed to.  I mean, I don’t know about you, but my dumps seems to happen in groups of two or three at one sitting.  The initial one is usually the largest, but not always.  Thing is though, if you’re anything like me, you know that “timing” and “closure” is everything if you plan to stop production after the first wave.  If you don’t get it just right, then what happens is when you try and wipe yourself, you may encounter the leading edge of Wave Two.  And the problem is that once Wave Two tastes freedom, it’s really hard to deny it…and trust me – pushing back is not an option!

So naturally I mis-timed it, and here comes Wave Two.  OK, fine, I can deal.  That’s when I reach for the toilet paper, just so I can be ready this time.  And all I see is a few shreds of white, dangling from a dull-brown cardboard roll.  “Shit!  The same bastard who empties the water cooler at work and doesn’t replace it is at this damn party!”  I look behind me…no spare roll to be seen, and no courtesy box of tissues either.  So there I was, desperately in need of anything that resembles toilet paper, and none around.

I looked around the room.  You ever notice that nine times out of ten the bathroom in a home is small enough that you could probably extend your arms out sideways and touch both walls?  Well guess what?  This one wasn’t one of those rooms.  Not even the garbage can was in view.  And trust me, if there had been a few used tissues in there I would have recycled them!  I contemplated the feasibility of taking that cardboard roll apart and “softening it up” somehow, but wisely abandoned the thought.  My mind was racing.  I checked my shirt, wondering if it was long enough such that I could cut off a piece of the bottom and use that?  Sigh…not really.  Besides, it’s one of my favorite shirts.  How could I ever explain the fact that a chunk of it is missing? 

So, I’ve got no choice…looks like I’m going to be doing “The Crab”.  Now, “The Crab” is what you have to do when your pants are down around your ankles, and you have “brown particle matter” between your cheeks that needs prompt attention, and you need to move.  See, in that situation, you can’t stand up because standing up causes the cheeks to come together, creating a warm, mushy feeling that adults really shouldn’t be experiencing.  So you have to pretty much stay in a squat position.  Even worse, chances are the minor friction of the toilet seat is probably holding your cheeks further apart than normal, so even if you remain squatted, there’s going to be some closure when you get up.  That means you have to dedicate your hands to cheek-spreading duty.

So I grab one cheek each, pull apart, and lift myself off the seat, still in the squat position, mind you, and I start to do the “The Crab”.  I head on over to the sink, figuring the spare rolls would be there.  At this point I have no choice…one hand has to be relieved of cheek-duty so it can open the vanity door.  Knowing full-well that if I let go I run the risk of cheek-to-cheek contact, I prepare by pulling even harder with the other hand.  I also do something similar to what people do when they are bowling and they contort their body, only in this case I’m trying to control the ass muscle of the now-free cheek to see if I can make it manually spread.  Still squatting, I open the door.

Nothing.  At least nothing I can wipe with.  If I want to shove a bottle of SoftScrub up my ass I can do that, or there’s an old toothbrush there.  But I’m not that desperate…yet.  So I re-grab the free cheek.  I think there’s been some collateral damage down there, but not sure.  I crab-hobble over to the closet.  Once again I let one cheek go free.  This time there’s definite contact...oh well, no sense crying about it now.  I see the object of my desire…one full, sweet roll of TP.  I grab it, balance it on the top of my thighs, and do the crab-thing back to the toilet.  And of course the seat’s cold again.  Christ, I just LEFT!  Show some damn mercy, will ya?

Once back on I proceed to wipe, but I can already tell I’m doing more “smearing” than actual “wiping”.  The thought crosses my mind to grab a face cloth, run it under some warm water, and clean myself up a bit, but I quickly let that thought go.  Even I couldn’t do that, even though in a way my host was to blame for not making sure there was enough TP for the party.  Can you imagine finding that thing in your laundry basket the next day?  I wiped as best I could, leaving small traces of toilet paper stuck to my ass for sure.  Now that’s an attractive picture…I should have taken an anonymous close-up of my ass and mailed them the picture…”Had a great time at your party, except when I HAD TO DUMP!!!”