Say Uncle

George swung the boat around past the main lodge and we slid to a stop as the gravel drive gave way to our truck and boat trailer tires with a loud, sliding, "crunch." We hopped out, each with a small overnight bag and a toothbrush (we've learned to travel light) and walked into the old farmhouse.

"HOLY GAWD LOOK WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN" twanged a wiry gentleman, swarthy and brown, to my right. Then:

"Hello George" (looking at me)

and

"You must be Jimmy" (shaking George's hand).

"No I'm Jimmy; he's George" I laughed pointing to my brother as George responded in kind.

"WELL, I WONDER WHICH THE HELL ONE OF YOU IS JIMMY THEN, DAMMIT?" he mused aloud to himself, scratching his chest absentmindedly; but not to stress over it, he immediately followed with:

"GLAD TO SEE BOTH OF YOU; WHICHEVER ONES YOU ARE. YOU BOTH LOOK LIKE TROUBLE." while simultaneously pumping both our hands.

George (to me, under his breath): 'That's 'Uncle Carlos'."

Uncle Carlos: "YOU'RE DAMN RIGHT." "YOU'RE GEORGE. NOW I REMEMBER. I WAS A TAD UNDER THE WEATHER LAST WE MET"

I: "Glad to meet you then, Uncle Carlos".

A languid flutter of movement caught my eye from across the room and I noticed another gentleman waving gently towards us, grinning out from under a large straw hat. He tipped his hat back, waved again, and, mopping his face with a hankerchief, said "Well, I'm John" - and promptly went back to sleep.

Just then my (real) Uncle Wayne popped around the corner and, grinning, interjected:

"Well, you're here then. Good. The grease is getting hot and we should have dinner going by about 9, unless Carlos here gets too deep into that mason jar of his." "CARLOS! Let loose of that jar long enough to bring the fish out here."

We heard a mumbled curse and the muffled crash of crockery from Carlos back in the kitchen, which Wayne accepted as a positive response.

Then it was "Ok boys, Let me show you around" and we were off on a tour of the property.

We followed the snaking two-track dirt road through the center of the land and quickly noticed that someone had planted a substantial stand of corn every few hundred yards throughout the property. The truck slowed nearly to a halt at each rectangle of plowed ground and I noticed Uncle Wayne cut his eyes around and furrowed his brows at us, knowingly, as we passed each row. Guessing at the crop's origin I loudly exclaimed "MY, now THAT is a nice stand of corn somebody has planted there, Uncle Wayne."

He slammed on brakes and, grinning ear-to-ear, the boy who was my Uncle shouted "you know who's corn that is boys??? THATS UNCLE WAYNE'S CORN!!!" Been working on it all season! Figured it was high time I learn to plant something useful.

Here, let me show you where I broke the tractor."

We made our way slowly through the fields and timber and we talked, ever more softly, of streams and deer and the changing of seasons; and we made our plans for the coming year. We planned for autumn and winter and the ducks and the doves and the deer; the squirrel hunt that was more drinking than hunting; and the great v-shaped flights of geese that would pass over late at night, silhoutted, against the moon.

Then, as the sun folded its wings in the timber behind us, we pointed our faces towards the lodge. The wheels hummed on the packed clay keeping time with the cicadas and, for a moment, our talk faltered and the fields whispered for us.

The rich purple-brown of twilight had overtaken us as we rounded the final bend and were greeted by the smoky glow of the porch light; one naked bulb, dangling, wreathed in smoke from the gently hissing fryers arranged neatly on the porch. The door opened and Uncle Carlos came out, beckoning, and I heard him say: "Pass me that jar, John, the boys have come home."

Doomed

So, I met this woman on the plane and we really hit it off. She was awesome. Great conversation, really deep talks, impressive character and charm. It was neat. Man, we had ball! Its so rare in life to come across another human being you truly connect with on a deep, personal level.

I walked off the plane enlivened with a sense of renewed faith in humanity, womankind, and my prospects for the future. As I rounded the corner and headed into baggage claim we shook hands, wished each other well and parted ways. I felt vaguely sad to see her go, and something inside me rebelled at the thought of being forever seperated...............by her 7 grandchildren in Arizona...

Then, I turned and saw the lovely blonde from 12B who drank the beer I offered, smiled politely at my sweaty-palmed witticisms, then collected her bags and hopped in a brand-new Lexus driven by a rich boyfriend.....who had just enough panache to catch a wheel as they blew past the cabstand where I hid.

I stood and pondered these things in my heart as I waited expectantly for a richly-scented Moroccan cabdriver to drive me around in circles before dropping me off at the airport hotel; and I realized:

I am doomed.

Nursing School

Lets talk briefly about nursing mothers.

I know everybody has a joke about public infant-feeding, nearly everyone has been in that uncomfortable situation, and nobody likes it.

Sure, yes, I know.

But here's the thing I think about - from the kid's perspective, what makes the miserable little midget think he has a right to 4-courses any time he feels a mite peckish? Thats pretty selfish, if you ask me. I think its just plain weird. If my mealtimes involved nudity of any sort I think I'd be a bit more discreet about it. Babies ought to get to eat when everybody else does - at mealtimes.

2:23PM in the afternoon is not an ok time, neither is 6:11PM during a wedding (for instance).

It just ain't right.

I'm going to start carrying around a ziplock bag containing a nice cut of filet in port wine sauce, some grilled asparagus, and one of those little flowers of mashed potatoes you squeeze out of a pastry tube. Whenever I see nursing going on in public I'm going to unfold some chinet, pull out my swiss army knife (with knife and fork included), plunk down right next to the offending parties and have a nice, loud, smacking, meal. That should get my point across - its called passive aggression and it works like a charm.



I'll let you know how it goes.

Everything'll Be Alright

So, I’m laying flat on my back in the crawl space under the Deer Camp floor; I’m covered in mastic compound and sheet-metal cuts from installing new HVAC ductwork, its 98 degrees outside, I’ve got that golfer-buttsweat thing going, and I’m red from basement dirt and fiberglass insulation particles (of which I have inhaled a good pound or so).

Now, typically, this is exactly the sort of situation wherein I do my best thinking (that and between the hours of 12AM and 4AM, or anywhere icecream is served) but in this instance all I could consider was – “why is the dirt so damp in this one spot where I’m lying?”

Then I heard a dripping sound; so I followed it up the floorjoist above me to a PVC connection and realized – everything is wet down here because a toilet is leaking and I’m lying in it.

…And then I heard a "flush"….So, generally, that’s “bad”, but what’s worse is – there really wasn’t anywhere else to go. That was the spot to be in order to install the new airhandler, so I had to keep laying there….for 7 more hours….

Sure, that would be “traumatic” to most people and I understand your revulsion, gentle reader, but a friend said he’d bring us KRYSTAL HAMBURGERS when we got done – and that made it worthwhile.

That is what I learned this weekend: everything is o.k. when you’ve got a Krystal on the way*.

Incidentally, a friend pointed out to me the other day that she couldn’t very well eat Krystal hamburgers as they violated her “anti-red-meat” diet; but that is a huge fallacy. Krystal hamburger “meat” is actually GRAY, not red at all – so you’re in the clear on that count.

Enjoy.

*I’m a poet and don’t know it.

Greetings From the War House

I awoke this morning to the sound of my bedroom door opening ever-so-softly. I immediately had the distinct feeling that someone had invaded the inner sanctum of The Duderanch, so I stealthily cut my eyes over towards the door and was surprised to see a very large black gentleman gently tiptoeing around my room. I must have rustled the covers a bit because he turned towards me, startled, with eyes as wide as saucers and announced in a shaky stage whisper “MR EWING! ITS ME, CLIFFORD! PLEASE DON’T SHOOT ME MR. EWING!”

Then it all came rushing back to me. It was CLIFFORD - the pest control guy! I had told him the night before not to mind us – just to go on into every bedroom at 7AM and do all the spraying his heart desired. He initially balked at the idea based on his observation from his last quarterly visit that we “sure did have a lot of guns laying around” (I have a gigantic safe, but that particular morning we were gearing up for a hunting trip and armament was everywhere). I finally convinced him that my roommates actually trying to shoot him would probably guarantee his safety – I’ve seen them shoot (and it’s not pretty).

Clifford apologized again for waking me up, so I said “no worries Clifford!” And immediately drifted off to sleep to the gentle whooshing sound of Clifford spraying various carcinogens underneath my bed.

A short while later I heard a shout and some muffled commotion followed by Clifford’s loud, infectious, laughter, and a bear-like mumble from Austin Lee down the hall. Apparently a similar situation occurred when Clifford tiptoed into Austin’s room; but it seems Austin somehow startled Clifford a bit more than I did, because I heard him explaining to Austin the rationale for his intense nervousness. Then he said it – in loud Clifford-style I heard him announce “Man, I just gotta be careful you know? This place is The WAR HOUSE!”

Ahhh!!! I lay in bed gently ruffling my chest hair and beaming; confident and secure in the knowledge that yes: I am officially, 100%, MAN.

It was my proudest moment.

VIVA LA DUDERANCH!!!!

Growing Pains

“YEEEEOOOOWWWWW!!! HEY DOC, WHAT IN THE HELL???!!!!! DAMNNNNATION!!!”

I hollered at the pair of white Nikes tapping gently underneath my perch. The Nikes briefly paused their tapping and the disembodied voice floating up from somewhere behind me cheerfully announced “Well, I think that was about the worst of it!”

“UGHH. DAMN. DAMN. DAMN. DAAAYYYAAMMM. AWWW HELL. WHY AM I ALL SWEATY? WHERE ARE WE? MOROCCO? ITS 900 DEGREES IN HERE, DOC!!”

A gentle chuckle and a reassuring pat on the rump were my only response and the Nikes resumed their off-beat tapping. As this was not the sort of event you backed out on mid-way-through, I resigned myself to my fate and stared dully ahead at the square, vinyl floor tiles (there were 28), the only other thing in my field of view; and I tried not to hate Nike tennis shoes quite so much.

Actually, let me back up a bit: it all started at the beach (the pain, that is). It was dull at first – more of an aching “throb” than a true stabbing-pain. Naturally, I hoped it would go away. I have a high pain tolerance, so I decided to wait it out – outsmart the pain, if you will. I played my Ipod, ate some Twizzlers (my favorite), enjoyed a refreshing beverage on the beach, ate out, slept in, crunched Froot Loops out of a solo cup all afternoon, used too much sunscreen, and got sand all over me (all the normal things I would typically do at the beach), but the pain remained.

You might even say the pain continued to “grow”, until finally, I cornered my Uncle William and said: “William, listen - my butt really hurts.” His enigmatic response “I bet it does” was no help – neither was Uncle Robert’s suggestion that I “give Orajel a try” followed by the admonishment that I avoid using any kind of opened container of salves or creams at HIS house that “came with a nozzle on the end” because “there is no telling where its been.”

I briefly considered finding a local proctologist to take care of business, but I thought better of it. I have developed a strict, on-principal, avoidance policy concerning rural beach-town proctologists. I can’t imagine what going to one would be like, but I absolutely CANNOT imagine that it would be good. So, in short: I manfully stuck it out.

I made the trip home in just under 6hrs (slightly sweaty) and in intense, throbbing, pain. My decision to fish in a bass tournament the following morning at 5AM is a simple testament to sheer determination, gin & tonic, Goody’s Headache Powders, and the gigantic outdoorsman’s heart beating in my chest.

We weighed in 5 fish for 12.2lbs - garnering third place (a new record for my fishing efforts), but I had sweat on my upper lip the whole time and once or twice I thought I might cry.

So, by Monday morning we really had a problem and for the first time in my life I found myself enormously relieved to be walking IN to a proctologist’s office; normally I don’t feel that immense sense of joy and accomplishment until I’m limping slowly AWAY.

So, there I was – sprawled out on a cold steel table, facedown, when the door opens, and voice says “Hello Mr. Ewing lets take a look” and without so much as a “hi, how are you?” the table I’m on breaks in half like a drawbridge (highest in the middle) and there I am – facedown, dangling like a big, hairy, rag doll with my naked butt the highest point in the room.

And THEN the nurse walks in (At least, I think it was a nurse - she sounded female and she had small shoes – that’s all I could see). She was followed by a medical student…...and a secretary with a pressing question concerning the duration of her lunch break. (Don't mind me - you know? I'm just the throbbing, naked, butt in the center of the room, but let me continue).

“Hellooooo Mr. (pause as the student tries to read my chart)…Errrwings.”

I didn’t reply.

I just cut my eyes over at the nurse-shoes and loudly announced “listen here – if either of you give THAT guy THAT syringe I saw on the way in - you’re going to wake up and wonder where in the hell you are and why you’re bald” and that, my friends, THAT is just exactly when the blazing bolt of proctological lightning dead-centered my sensitive nether regions and I found myself furiously dog-paddling thin air and cold steel.

I didn’t get far though - they had me by the feet.

Preaching for Supper

"WELL BOY, COME PREACH ME A TEN MINUTE SERMON. I NEED TO BE WITNESSED TO" rang out across the den in Uncle Robert's trademark gravelly, smoke-cured voice; and I immediately regretted telling him that my cousin Jimmy is a licensed Presbyterian minister.

Jimmy, vaguely uncomfortable and new to the annual beach trip, stood in the den shifting his weight foot-to-foot; unsure how to respond.

He didn't have long to wait for the next salvo:

"HE AIN'T A PREACHER. I KNOW THAT MUCH. LOOK AT HIM. HE LOOKS TOO MUCH LIKE YOU. THAT AIN'T HOW PREACHERS LOOK."


"WELL, IF YOU AIN'T GONNA PREACH THEN MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL AND GO GET ME SOME CIGARETTES."

The beach is great, but we don't need the beach to have fun - we just need Uncle Robert and one unsuspecting guest and we're in business.

We ended up having a ball that night and no, cousin Jimmy didn't have to preach for his meals (much to Robert's chagrin), but we did hear a series of in-depth lectures on love and marriage compliments of Robert between the hours of 3 and 4AM that I'll treasure always. I think Cuz will too, so when he woke me up with "Pssstt..Jimmy. Are you asleep? Do you really think Robert did all that stuff? I can't quit thinking about it." I wasn't surprised. All I could say was "I don't know, but it sure did sound pretty great, didn't it?"

Its been fun having insane geniuses like Robert in the family. Even now I can hear Uncle John (thats John T. Slocumb, MD to you) in the kitchen behind me cooking low-country-boil and teaching the grandchildren gynecological terms. "Taint" was immediately accepted as purely clinical by virtue of John's hard-earned MD, but "Episiotomy" is their new favorite. Its medical explanation garnered a chorus of howls from grandkid middle-management (and one neighbor boy who slipped in under the radar) that startled Uncle William out of a deep slumber and widened John's trademark slow-spreading grin nearly to his ears.

Unfortunately, their howls startled William a bit too badly and he, in his fright, rolled over on the large box of Big Cheezit crackers and Nilla Wafer Cakester soft cakes he had fallen asleep cradling - crushing his Big Cheezits and mussing his Cakesters. A fountain of profanity and couch cushions soared for the heavens. After he collected himself and sent Daniel back out for more snack cakes he noticed me sitting nearby, glared from behind now-crooked polarized Vaurnet's and hollered "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, NASTY?"

Hey, I'm just sitting here minding my own business.

Artistic Expression

I think it was about ¾ through the process of painting the windows of Jeremy Gray’s white Chevrolet Equinox in preparation for his honeymoon getaway that it dawned on me: “this may not have been my best idea ever.”

It was late at night – nobody was even able to witness the magnificent result of our handiwork, and certainly no one saw Jeremy and Kelley cruising down the rural highway just outside Santa Rosa Beach that evening in his well-painted post-wedding car. It was too dark for that, and probably not many travelers on the road - so I’m sure he wasn’t even the tiniest bit embarrassed.

I doubt if anybody even saw it but me.

Unfortunately, somewhere in the midst of all the wedding festivities I lost both my sense of propriety AND all recollection of my promise to return Jeremy’s car to the Atlanta airport. And THAT, my friends, is how I came to find myself at noon on Sunday driving the length of I-85, quite alone, in a car decorated entirely in a collage of gigantic stylized penises.

Decimules

I just realized that I overpaid my waterbill last month by $491.00. I wanted you to know in case any of you had any sort of reservations about going on a date with someone WHO IS STUPID.

I (apparently) need to be shepherded around like a small child or my entire financial empire comes tumbling down. Don’t mind me - I’ll just be over here buying fishing lures and playing the fiddle while my financial Rome burns to a smoldering crust.

It’s not my fault, really. It’s the decimal point. Sure, I work in finance, but I can’t be expected to get the DECIMAL point right EVERY TIME. Correct? They're pretty stubborn.

It’s so tiny. Look at it : “.”. Easy mistake to make in online banking, if you ask me.

Unfortunately, YOU asked me; but the water authority DIDN’T. All they wanted to know was my account information so they could send me the money back…..in 3-6 months.

No kidding.

Based on the volume of my correspondence with “Martina” at the Water Authority over the last few years I’m guessing I’ll be getting a Christmas card from them again in 2008. I also suspect I may have been assigned my very own case-worker. That fact is comforting on some level I guess, because now if I have a problem I have someone specific to call about it. Unfortunately, now that someone has absolutely no faith in my cognitive abilities and no longer sees the humor in my constant water predicaments.

I don’t even understand them myself to be honest with you. I STILL don’t know where $681.59 worth of water went last summer, and why the entire DudeRanch hasn’t floated off its foundation on the 70ft column of water that dollar value represents. I swear to you - I don’t have it hidden in an underground lair or anything. Even if I DID have an underground lair, would I store 40,000 gallons of water in it? NO. I’d store guns and ancient artifacts in it and perhaps the ark of the covenant (which is currently in my attic); but certainly not 40,000 gallons of water.

Had I know earlier that stockpiling illegally-pirated water could bring the City of Atlanta to its very knees; I MIGHT have built myself an underground lair, hijacked all your water, and attempted to gain control of the city; but I did I see it coming in time?

NO - I can’t even get a decimal point right, much less focus on world domination.

We Have a Bleeder!

Generally I don’t like nosebleeds.

As a kid they were fairly entertaining; due at least in part to a general sense of amazement over the sheer volume of blood that could suddenly spout out of your snoot without a moment’s notice. But nowadays – they’re really not that great. I especially don’t like them in any sort of date-ish situation. Were I to pick a great first impression; it would not be “HI!!!!! GUESS WHAT?? I JUST GUTTED A DEER IN THE BATHROOM!!”

I think I’ll draw the curtain of good taste around the remainder of that story and say only this: practice good nasal health - your future progeny may depend on it.

You Have Meredith To Thank For This One

So, on the heels of my last blog post Meredith Quarrelitia Jollay, my fabulous ex-girlfriend, brought this fun little story to my attention. Check it out:

OLDSMAR, Florida — A Florida woman found an 8-foot long alligator prowling in her kitchen late Monday night, authorities said. Sandra Frosti, 69, said the alligator must have pushed through the screen door on the back porch and then walked through an open sliding glass door at her home in Oldsmar, just north of Tampa. The alligator apparently then strolled through the living room, down a hall and into the kitchen.

A trapper removed the alligator, which was cut by a plate that was knocked to the ground during the chaos. But no one inside the house was injured. (FOX News Online).

I can only assume Meredith was at work googling "alligators" and "pop tarts" and accidentally combined the two. Regardless, something strange is DEFINITELY afoot. I've got deer and zebras trying to kill me in Atlanta, THERE MIGHT BE LIONS IN MY BATHTUB, and this lady has an 8ft reptile perusing her pantry? Are you kidding me?

First of all: lets face it - the plate didn't just get "knocked to the ground." Sandra definitely broke it over that alligator's head; of that I am confident. She's scrappy....and old - a winning combination. That having been said: this story also indicates an alligator trapper somehow became involved too which, to me, indicates great presence of mind on the part of wily ol' Sandra.

I doubt I'd have the presence of mind to thumb the yellow pages for "alligator trapper" while an 8ft specimen makes free with my Fruit Loops. For roaches - sure, I'd immediately think "ok well - lets call Chemical Technologies. They'll send Clifford out to spray and he'll stay for a beer and watch some football on the couch like usual. No big deal."

Key difference: that roach isn't likely to eat my refridgerator.

The only way I'd get Clifford in there with an alligator is if he thought the beer in the fridge was in real danger. Otherwise - I promise you'd find us both standing in the front yard in our boxers. I dont know what it is with me and life-threatening situations, but somehow I nearly always end up standing around afterwards with no pants on.

Even speaking as an Outdoorsman I'm not really sure what I'd do in this situation. It definitely wouldn't involve the telephone up until the point where I made the "Uncle Buster, can you help me?" call; and normally that call doesn't get made until there is real potential for a Department of Fish & Wildlife violation.

THAT call is normally followed by the gradual accumulation of burly steel workers and crane-trucks at my location. For some reason Uncle Buster accesses crane-trucks like you or I use duct tape. He has an overly-elaborate way to fix nearly anything using three (3) steel workers, two (2) cherry pickers, and a megaphone. It works, but someone nearly always gets hurt.

Uncle Buster aside; the best way for you to know if there has ever been an 8ft alligator in my kitchen is to walk inside and look up. If there is a me-shaped hole in the kitchen ceiling, then yes, there was an alligator in the kitchen.

While you're in there: see if you can find my pants.

Ungulate Death Squad

I was headed down GA400 on my way to work this morning when I noticed a dead deer on the shoulder just south of the Lennox road exit. Now, before the chorus of “AWWWWWWW”s drowns out my thoughts here, let’s think a moment: what was that deer doing on Lennox road after midnight? Hmmmm? Are we really supposed to believe that was an innocent little deer out for a midnight stroll who just happened to sneak a bit too far out of its lane? NO. C’mon. Not me. I see what is really going on here.

Deer don’t shop at Phipps folks.

The truth is: that deer was on a mission of some sort, I’m certain of it. The only conclusion I can draw is simply this: the deer have finally found out where I live; and they are coming to kill me. I've feared this day since the early '80s.

Oh right, you laugh. Sure, but all this just on the heels of a gigantic news story in which a LIVE ZEBRA was found wandering around in the Atlanta interstate TWO DAYS AFTER I BOOK MY TRIP TO HUNT IN NAMIBIA FOR…ZEBRA (among other things)??!??!

What’s next? Lions in my bathroom? If I come home and there is a lion in my tub I can absolutely guarantee you I’ll never be right again. YOU spend the rest of your life wondering a full-grown male lion is going to come out of your shower drain and tell me how normal you feel.

Something ain’t right here, I don’t need a diagram to point that out for you. So, listen if you find me splayed out on the bathroom floor with little cloven hoofprint bruises all over my body – you know who to blame.

They’re not deer. They’re four-footed ungulate killers…and you could be next.

Sometimes You're the Shar-Pei

I was standing in the line at Kroger some time ago when I noticed the lady in front of me was giving me the eyeball. You know – sneaking a quick peek now and again when she thought I wasn’t looking.

I love that.

As a guy - catching a woman looking is always a lot of fun because we automatically assume that, clearly, this person is eyeballing me because she would love to make out.

With me.

Right this second.

She’s not staring because I’ve just cut her off in the parking lot, accidentally knocked over the display of gefilte fish, I’m riding on the back of the buggy like it’s a skateboard, or because I’m pushing a cart full of nothing but dried meat snacks, Pringles, and toilet paper. None of those reasons are legitimate – it MUST be something else, and it MUST somehow directly relate to my innate virility.

Don’t get me wrong - I’m not apologizing. I’m single and it’s a fun thought – like winning the lottery or somebody giving me a Porsche.

I’m also not saying I’d engage in anything smooch-related right there in Kroger – or near the Kroger for that matter. In fact, I’d say the likelihood that I’d so much as brush cheeks with a checkout-line-companion is slim because (even beyond the obvious moral implications) what about cold sores? That’s enough incentive for me - I don’t want ‘em and maybe she’s got ‘em, but you don’t know until it’s too late because cold sores are the silent killer. Say what you will, but that’s an STD stuck right to your face – and everybody knows it. They’re like the creatures in that ALIEN movie with Sigourney Weaver; everything feels fine - then you wake up one morning and WHOA! WHAT IS THAT THING ON YOUR FACE!!??? Then you die.

So, I’m standing in line thinking about all this when the full import of the situation hits me: I’m staring blankly ahead into this woman’s checkout basket (as if carefully studying its contents), my lips are moving and I’m gently smiling to myself. When I come to my senses I realize: the only two items in her basket are the largest package of Maximum-Strength Midol Cramp Relief I have ever seen and a bottle of red wine.

She is looking at me quite firmly and it slowly dawns on me: I am one buggy-length away from the beating of my life. This woman does not want to make out with me...Ever...and I know of 96 blister-packed reasons why.

That changed my entire perspective on things.

I think a key part of the male maturation process is realizing early in life that, despite what your mother thinks: not everyone is going to want to go out with you. It’s just that simple and there are myriad reasons why that’s the case. Moreover - it's ok! If everybody DID want to go out with you – you’d never get anything done.

There are so many legitimate reasons why NOT to date someone, but everybody always gets so up-in-arms when they get cut for their looks. I just don’t get that at all. What bothers ME is when I get sent down the shaft for my PERSONALITY – think about THAT next time the door opens and there’s no elevator.

Looks you're born with, but personality was all YOUR fault.

Looks bias I can understand – I don’t like shar-peis, but maybe you do – you know? If you don’t like the way I look – fair enough. You drive an ugly car. So, you're stupid and I win.

This thought will probably ruin your life, but listen here - what gets me is: if its not how you look – it must be something much more sinister that you can’t comb-over.

Like cold sores, for instance.

The Wrong Stuff

I realized tonight that my mind spins in so many directions at once; its a miracle I can successfully get the cap off a ball point pen without losing interest midway through.

I didn’t come to that realization until I was laid out underneath the remains of a solid oak table I initially intended to modify into a workbench, covered in woodchips and sweat (and sweaty woodchips), and realized: I bought THE WRONG BOLTS.

That wouldn’t be a huge deal, except that I just went to Lowe’s to get bolts – because I bought the wrong bolts the day before.

The same wrong bolts.

The Lowes metal fastener section may as well have a gigantic bin in it with a huge “GET THE WRONG BOLTS HERE” sign over it. That would help me a lot. I could just go straight to that bin, GET THE WRONG BOLTS, pay, and leave – and not have to go to the trouble of looking through every tiny drawer of bolts in the place to find THE WRONG BOLTS, buy them, go home, and realize they’re useless (and I don’t have the receipt).

From now on I’m just going to drive over there, walk in, walk right back out, drive home, get out, go inside, drive back to Lowe’s, go in and GET THE RIGHT BOLTS. I figure that’s the only way to outsmart myself – I average about 2-3 visits per successful, useful, item; and at least this way I don’t have to go through the checkout and return lane twice.

I think maybe I’m easily distracted.

I saw a very bright-colored new circular saw on the way in that I couldn’t quite get to because of how the entryway works – so I went straight to the bolts.

I came for bolts, but in all honesty the only question pressing on my mind at that moment was whether the green stripes on that circular saw contained a vibration-dampening gel substance. I don’t know why they would (and they don’t) – but they looked like maybe they COULD contain a gel-substance, and I figure anything with an unidentifiable gel squeezed into it has to be high-tech and necessary. So, I sort of skimmed my way through the bolt-selection process.

I rummaged around with my big ham-hands and dug up some bolts, then plodded on over to the saw section; drawn like a moth to a bug zapper. I’ve never seen a circular saw with gel baked into it – so, that’s worth a quick gander, right?

I was disappointed to find a lack of vibration-reducing gel. Fortunately, there was a dead-blow hammer with loose BBs built into it nearby and I thought I might need that sort of a hammer (for something). It also was very brightly-colored, so I worked my way on down past the drill bits (got one in 5/16” but I set it down someplace and can’t find it), and located a suitable dead-blow hammer.

In short: now I’ve got a big plastic hammer with BBs in it, 8 of THE WRONG BOLTS, 7 of THE RIGHT NUTS, and two different sizes of washers that fit neither THE RIGHT BOLTS nor THE WRONG BOLTS….and I can’t find my drill bits.

And now I’ve been thinking about how I think for so long, it’s time to go to bed.

I need some rest so I can get up and go to Lowes.....

For bolts..I think.

T.W.A.

I was in the Deer Camp (TDC) bathroom studiously engaged in currycombing my (rapidly-spreading) pelt of chest hair with Dad’s favorite brush and, generally, I don’t appreciate being interrupted during this important evening man ritual. However, mid-way through the process I heard raucous laughter pealing out across the adjoining bedroom and, as there are few things I dislike more than missing the joke, I opened the door and stuck my head into the bunk room.

The door swung open to reveal Tommy Statham, clad only in his aging Fruit of the Looms, flopping, stranded, across the highest bar of a top bunk; just a smidge shy of making it into bed; George and Thomas Benton, literally, rolling on the floor in merriment.

Tommy, looking for all the world like a giant naked turtle, with big hound dog eyes soulfully locked in mine, bravely announced, “Jimmy you know I got cerebral palsy! I cain’t get up into this top bunk,” and immediately slid off onto the floor in a blinding flash of white, hairy, Statham.

What could I do? I said, “TOMMY! YOU BETTER GET YOUR BUTT UP THERE!!” and collapsed in an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

I haven’t laughed that hard in two years. Tommy howled so hard he cried, Thomas fell out of bed, and George convulsed for so long he had to brush his teeth again.

We gave Tommy the double bed.

Tommy.

Mom always said there are few things in this world worth more than a great friend. I say there are even fewer things in this world worth more than a great friend with a handicap sticker, which I’ve often told Tommy is the main reason we’re great friends: good parking.

He laughs.

Which, to me, is another reason we’re great friends: he thinks I’m funny; a sentiment often not shared by various members of the female set, a whole host of state troopers, and on, on occasion, Emily Jones after I’ve tripped her in public (which is funny, I don’t care what she says).

Tommy , my friend, weighed 2.2lbs at birth – that’s less than a “keeper” bass. Trust me – I know, because I’ve never caught a “keeper” bass in a tournament. He spent the first three months of a life hard-clung-to in an incubator at Grady Hospital. Typically he reminds me of that birth weight figure when there’s some question of sleeping arrangement (one bed, one couch), who drives (he doesn’t want to), or what time we meet for church (he likes the 11AM, I prefer the 6PM). It’s one of the few times in life when my high birth weight ( 8.11lbs) doesn’t stand me in good stead, but I’ve taken to suggesting that maybe when his Mom said “incubator” at “Grady Hospital” she really meant a “shoebox” in an “oven” set on “warm” for a few days.

It worked for Simon Birch.

Tommy does not appreciate that line of argument so, generally, I end up driving him to the 6PM and he sleeps in my bed while I take the couch.

As I write this Tommy is seated next to me on the couch in my Uncle John’s “little cabin” (mansion) overlooking Sky Valley, Georgia, as the fog rolls in on a cool April night. He’s sleeping in the master bedroom; I’m staying in the maid’s quarters downstairs.

Tommy is staring with rapt attention at some nameless basketball game on television. I don’t even know the score, but you could run a freight train through the living room and he’d just lean in a little closer to the neon glow. He likes that basketball stuff; so does Stewart Grace who is asleep in the adjoining brown leather chair and has been, off and on, since Friday afternoon.

Good times.

I see people on a daily basis that I would bet don’t have great friends like Tommy Statham. I feel very sorry for them. Well, sort of sorry. Mostly I just wish they’d get on through the drive-up window so Tommy and I can get our Krystal hamburgers (onions, pickle, mustard).

My favorite Tommy story goes something like this:

One day Tommy was in New York City. He hailed a cab and was approaching the vehicle when a spry young lady with two children sprung out of nowhere, slung her children into the backseat, turned to Tommy and triumphantly crowed “HA!!! I BEAT YOU!!!”

Tommy leaned back, smiled, and said, “That’s no big deal. I’m crippled.”

Tommy Wins Again!

Sudden Realization

Have you ever realized you were naked?


And by "realized you were naked" I mean - it came as a bit of a shock?


Knowing you're naked is one thing, realizing it is something else altogether. Normally, when you realize you're naked - its because someone else pointed it out; generally because they weren't expecting it either, so they're like - whoa! There's a naked guy!


As I understand it - generally, if TWO or more people are naked (and near enough one another to converse) there's sort of a general understanding that "hey - we're all naked here and nobody's surprised." The understanding being: there is a reason for this nakedness - an implied covenant of nudity, if you will.


I'm talking about situations like locker rooms, Matt Dunn's house (any day), or Weekly Naked TV Day at the DudeRanch. Naked? Ok. Sure. No big deal and while you're up - get everybody a beer.


Nobody in the locker room points out "hey buddy, you aint got a stitch on." Why? Because they saw it coming.


BUT, when you REALIZE you're naked - you've got problems....and buddy, it happend to me.


In the not-so-distant past I was wakeboarding on the lake (first mistake). My second was not cinching up the 'ol board shorts tight enough.

The first wipe-out took my breath away and my shorts right along with it; and I quickly realized: Hey, wait. I'm naked....


At noon.



On the 4th of July.


In the middle of a crowded lake.

Accounting for Ricochets

So, I pulled up to the Deer Camp ("TDC") late on Friday night, (prior engagements kept me out later in Atlanta than anticipated), I walked in the front door, and plunked my bag down in its normal resting spot near the head of my bunk.

At this point, nothing particularly interesting had happend. I spotted a luna moth AND a tiger moth side-by-side on the lamppost, both of which allowed me to pick them up and look at them very closely without flying off - that was extremely cool; but other than that it was business as usual.

I made a couple of trips in and out, got myself situated, locked the truck, headed back inside AND GOT THAT FEELING.

You know that "something is eyeballing me" feeling? I'm extremely sensitive to that feeling on most occasions, but when I'm alone at TDC, or walking out of a swamp in the dark (for instance) - it gets out of control. The something-is-eyeballing-me-and-not-in-a-good-way feeling you might consider my 6th through 19th senses when I've got my antennas up. Its very similar to being quite afraid of the dark, EXCEPT that I am not at all afraid of the dark and I'll fight any man who says differently.

Fortunately, I didn't have to sit there and stew, paralyzed, for very long because I quickly noted that the furry figurine that I originally assumed was a new addition to our stuffed squirrel collection - was actually very much alive and looking me dead in the eye with malevolent fury.

Thats right dear friends. There was a flying squirrel loose in the house. Our eyes locked and he came at me with a blood-curdling shriek that momentarily turned my feet to stone. Before you laugh - listen - we're talking about a RODENT THAT FLIES. What could be more terrifying than that??? Unable to run, I immediately struck a defensive pose, threw myself on the floor and rolled up in a throw rug like a big, hairy, oriental-rug-wrapped hotdog.

In the ensuing melee I lost my hat, one flip flop, and somehow ended up with my Bass Pro Shops shirt around my face like a Berber desert camel herder, BUT I still had my pants on - which I consider a minor victory.

When the shrieking stopped, I peeked out of my rug-hide and surveyed the landscape for my sharp-toenailed, furry, assailant. I just managed to spot his devilish tail disappearing into the swampmoss adorning our largest bobcat mount (possibly the crowning insult to the soul of that great cat).

By this time I am not at all emotionally stable. So, I did what any other emotionally unstable person would do if attacked at home, late at night...and I went for a gun.

Now, its at this point that I suddenly realize - I'm at TDC (one of my favorite places on earth) and I'm hunting something - IN THE HOUSE. It was like the collision of my two greatest dreams - hunting something that wants to kill me, AND doing it INDOORS without having to go to Africa and get all sweaty. That was the turning point.

I bravely put my shirt back on, cocked the Red Ryder BB gun I always keep handy, hid under a barstool, and lobbed a shotgun shell up into the rafters towards the stuffed feline.

The hail of BBs that followed was nothing short of spectacular. I'm proud to say that I went down in a blazing, furious, rain of copper-coated steel.

What I DID NOT account for was: ricochets. That squirrel paid dearly for his misdeeds, but it ended up costing me quite a bit more.

I have since reached an agreement with our groundskeeper concerning such terms as "responsible behavior", "me", "gun safety", "capacity for rational thought", and "exaggeration", but I'm pleased to tell you: I'd do it all over again just to hear those BBs whizzing off the sides of that TV set on more time.

DMV

I’m about to head down to the DMV. So, basically there is no telling when (or IF) you’ll ever see me again. However, should I return; I’m almost certain there’s going to be a story.

I also have a few other stories as-yet untold. Such as: the Fishing with Tommy Statham story, and the Lake Hartwell Swampbass Bass Championships Team Jimmy & George Story – that’s a good one because it winds up with a half-eaten Little Debbie oatmeal cream pie (opened) somehow getting into my dryer.

As long as I’ve gone ahead and told you the end – let me just say that you WOULD NOT BELIEVE what a 2.5hr dryer cycle does to half an oatmeal cream pie and a load of clothes. I’m not lying - it took me two days to figure out what the brown patties of smeared gunk stuck to all my favorite shirts were – and then the only way I figured it out was to chip a bit off my favorite fishing shirt (“the shirt of broken dreams”) and taste it….So, let no man question my bravery.

And now that you know it exists: please STAY OUT of my oatmeal cream pie stash – the reason they’re hidden is because I don’t want YOU to eat them.

JGE

In Case of Emergency

It was all my fault, really, because apparently when your driver’s license expires like mine did (Saturday) – you’re automatically a criminal in the eyes of Hartsfield Int’l. I tried to explain to the airport checkpoint lady this morning that I was turkey hunting on my birthday, hence – unable to make it to the DMV. I’m not sure I was able to convey to her exactly what that meant, but I think I left her with the fuzzy idea that wild turkeys somehow prevented me from getting a drivers license. I’m glad I was able to connect with another human being on that level, but ultimately it did me little good.

I made what I would consider my first "serious mistake" in the situation when, upon being asked for "alternate identification" I cheerfully produced my nicely-laminated firearms license. I said, "well, no I don't really have anything else - how about my concealed carry license? Will that work?"

Without further ado she immediately scribbled all over my boarding pass in orange highlighter and handed me off to somebody else for “extra screening” which, I now know, means “gloved man-on-man rubdown.”

Don’t get me wrong – everybody should experience the healing power of a little physical touch now and again, right?

Well, I certainly think so……and since I have no internal monologue - I said so - out loud......to the big airport security guard just as he wrapped up the first "leg" (no pun intended) of the highly scientific groping process TSA calls “patting down."

Based on the thin-lipped expression that settled like a dark cloud across his face at 5:42AM this morning, I’d say he did not want to be my source of healing.

It was early, so I figured, “well – that didn’t work, but I’ve still got time to cheer him up!” Which I believe is consistent with my habit of repeating a joke louder, and longer, when it doesn’t float over well the first time. Somewhere deep in my head I assume that if you’re not laughing - you must not have heard me well.

It is probably no surprise to you, then, that my next attempts: “whoa, just a little to the left there, buddy!!” and “Don’t touch me there ‘less you mean it!!” were also not well-received.

Some people can’t take a joke. Fortunately I can – and I had plenty of time to think of my next one because Mr. Security Guard, Sir, left me an extra 10 minutes in that big glass frisking box where they keep all sorts of terrible people including criminals, bad people, terrorists, farmers, and nursing mothers.

Having never actually been inside a hamster cage myself, I never thought much about how it must feel to be a glass-enclosed rodent, and buddy, it ain’t a great feeling. There is something about being enclosed in 4-sides glass in the middle of a crowded room that just makes one a tiny bit self-conscious. I don’t really know why - the only real difference is that, instead of standing alone in the center of a room, you’re suddenly find yourself standing alone in the center of a room surrounded by a thin, clear barrier. But in case you’re wondering – its incredibly weird; and people definitely stare. I mean straight at you – from inches away. I guess they figure there aren’t that many opportunities in life to really, seriously, commit yourself to stare at somebody straight in the face from inches away in a crowded room AND not have to worry much about consequences. I guess I can see that; a stare-for-free opportunity is like money in the dryer.

One little chubby lady held up the security line a full 30 seconds while she committed my form to memory. She looked so satisfied, that when they let me out – I decided to hang around for a second and see what the next person looked like under glass myself.

I missed the window though because security asked me to “take my bags and move along.” I noticed the designated patter-downer was eyeballing me and snapping his gloves, so I took their advice (and my bags) and immediately tripped over one of those little rubber floor mats, got up, and headed for the train.

The underground train ride at Hartsfield is always exciting for me because, as soon as I set foot onboard, I immediately start to wonder about underground-train-related deaths. Whenever I say that; people look at me like I just bit the head off a live pidgeon or something. So hey – listen, I’m not crazy. YOU are crazy! Have YOU ever seen an actual DRIVER on one of those trains? ME NEITHER, but I’m the nutty one for thinking, "hey – we’re hopping on back of the headless horseman here at 50mph and I’m a little nervous about it???"

All I’m saying is – who’s driving? It ain’t me and I know for sure it ain’t you, but somebody’s in charge and for all you know - HE got off at Concourse T. That thing doesn’t just “wind up” like a watch and even if it did – I’m not riding a windup watch at 55mph UNDERGROUND for you or anybody. While we’re talking about it - if you think that leather handle thong thingy hanging off the ceiling is going to help you – you’re out of your element.

So, that’s what I’m thinking about. That’s also why, when that door opens at my destination, you’d do well to stand clear.

I made it through the headless train ride (this time) but it made me really hungry. Fortunately, there was a Krystal handy – and coffee, which; 2.5 hrs later (30,000ft over Texas) I realize may have been a key strategic error on my part because, friend, if any of that bizarre blue water in the lavatory gets anywhere on my person – there’s going to be a me-shaped hole in the side of this plane. They wouldn’t be nearly as worried about the smoke detectors if they knew the speed at which I can get that emergency door open.

Don’t bother to tell me about the flotation cushions; thats not what I'm worried about. I just need to know how to get away from that blue stuff.

Short on Talent

This year my compatriot, George M. Ewing, and I decided to make our initial foray into the wilds of competitive bass fishing. George bought the boat, I bought several thousand dollars worth of rods, reels, and stuff we don’t need (mostly plastic tool-like devices that DO NOT FLOAT); and off we went.

We joined the a prominent local Bass Club (40 two-man teams fishing one tournament per month) and I attended the first Bass Club meeting; held in a small employee meeting room in the back of Bass Pro Shops. I initially didn’t go in because the sign on the door clearly said “employees only.” I stopped with my hand on the knob and thought to myself:

“Wait. Am I an employee? No. I am not an employee. Then this sign is for me. If this sign is for me, then how did those other people get in? Are they employees? They must be. I do not see a Bass Club sign anywhere. I suddenly find that I do not know what to do or where to go. I also am not sure I can go through this door with all this un-purchased merchandise in my hands.”

Doubtless my evening would have ended differently had a voice belonging to the man behind me not said, “son, are you going to go in or not?” as he gently nudged me into the room.

The first thing I noticed as I entered the rear of the room is that the meeting room smelled strongly of smoke and dude, but nobody was actually smoking. This lead me to believe that various members of our esteemed club have not read the recent literature on tobacco use. I also noted a proliferation of blue jeans, boots, spit cups, carhartt logos, and beards. As I took note of these things it came to my attention that the registration table was at the front of the room, whereas I was standing at the back…..in my business suit, tie, and little tassel loafers.

There was nothing for it but to go so, resigned to my fate, I trudged (tassels flopping) down the center isle to the front of the room. Clippity, clop.

After the twitter in the audience diminished to indoor levels, the man at the tournament registration table said “Can I help you?”

Yes. I want to register for a bass tournament. My team name is ‘Swamp Bass’.

Had I pranced through there naked in a coon skin cap I doubt anyone would have been more surprised.

“Well alright” he said, “but we don’t really do team names here. Just your first names go right here on the board.”

Then we’re Team Jimmy and George, but can’t we just be ‘Swamp Bass’? We came up with it today.

“No.”

Well, I guess ‘Team Jimmy and George" is fine.

“It’s just going to read ‘Jimmy and George Ewing.’”

Not “Team Jimmy and George?”

“No.”

Ok then.

Our first tournament was this past weekend. We took stock of our gear and found that we had dual sonar, swimbaits, trolling motors, crankbaits, worms, jigs, jigheads, line, bags, culling bags, culling markers, motor oil, and various motor fluids, fuses, lights, vests, raingear, and crawfish scent spray. Anything a reasonable person might need to catch a fish, we have, and its brand new.

What we’re short on is: talent.

After 9 straight hours of fishing we weighed in exactly: zero fish. We’d have been every bit as successful fishing in the bathtub.

But have no fear! The Swamp Bass will ride again.

SQUIRRRRREEEELLLLLLL!!!!!!

I’m taking this opportunity to thank all the attendees of the Tripp Maddux and James G. Ewing, Jr Memorial Deer Camp Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament* for their patronage and to congratulate the Winner (Dad), First Loser (Seth), and Losingest Loser (Thomas Benton) on their new titles for 2008.

Subcommittee Estimator, Reid Maddux, through his exhaustive review of tournament results has estimated for us the following:

1. Rounds fired: 2,000
2. Squirrels killed: 42
3. Collateral damage (chipmunks and birds): 6
4. Alcohol consumption per person: lots, mostly by Tripp
5. Tenderloin consumed: 25lbs
6. Rounds required to sight in Mark Stephen’s 1942-vintage rifle: 300
7. Profanity: average
8. Food: excellent

In all, I deem it a “huge success”.

I’d also like to congratulate the winners of the Telling of the Lie Ceremony (which we forgot to hold). Had we not been so consumed with tallying the scores we’d have recognized Buster Slocumb and Bryan Nix for their fine, upstanding, RSVP card responses. Here they are:

Name: BUSTER SLOCUMB
Please Address me as: BBBUUUSSSSSTAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH
My rifle’s name is: JEANNE (incidentally also his wife's name)
The worst thing I have ever done is: FELL ON a 2’ LONG PIECE OF BAMBOO, ANAL TRACT FIRST.
The money buried on my property is located: IN THE BARN.

Name: BRYAN NIX
Please address me as: WORLD CHAMPION, SIR.
My Rifle’s Name is: SUZANNE
The worst thing I have ever done is: BRUNETTE…TEQUILA….NAVEL……OH NO WAIT, THAT WAS THE BEST THING I’VE EVER DONE.
The money buried on my property is located: 3’ SOUTHWEST FROM THE NORTHEAST CORNER OF MY SEPTIC TANK.

Among my favorite non-winning responses were Seth’s response to both questions which was “BEND OVER AND I'LL SHOW YOU” and Uncle Robert’s rifle’s name: “SPARKY” as well as the worst thing Uncle Robert ever did which he succinctly stated as: "A FELONY" (which he was completely unable to explain in mixed company).

I named my rifle Betty (a.k.a. Thor the Destroyer) – in honor of my friend at work who does not appreciate hunting…at all. She also does not appreciate that I now tell people “Betty killed lots of squirrels this weekend”, so I sort of win twice like that; and you know I like to win.

Despite suffering from an intense amount of depression due to the full month of zero hunting activity between now and turkey season - I’m happy to report that I’ve begun mentally planning the next BIG EVENT for this summer, as well as mulling over details of the next annual Squirrel World Championship in 2009.

So, please raise your glasses and join me in a toast: TO THE WICKED SQUIRREL!

SALUT!

JGE

*Celebrating the Dance of the Wicked Squirrel since 2008.

Financial Obligations

In response to my well-intended invitation to the Tripp Maddux & James G. Ewing, Jr. Memorial Deer Camp Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament I received the following email from the spunky wife of one of my favorite invitees:

"Let me warn you VERY STERNLY that I have a child growing in my belly. My husband is NOT to get shot on this little trip. I need his money."

Ahhh. Honesty. Its so refreshing.

A Normal Year

So, despite 2008 cranking up to an inauspicious start on many levels (and my generalized angst over kicking off a round-number year to a rough start): I have a great amount of faith - faith that in 2008 at least one or more of the following will happen:

1. I will make money.
2. I will eat something when I am hungry.
3. I will make sure the thing eaten in #2 will under no circumstances be "dog".
4. I will go to the beach
5. I will not inentionally burn down my own house
6. I will not increase my love of cubicles
7. I will either gain or lose weight, but likely will not stay the same.
8. I will go to another country
9. I will watch tv and read books
10. I will build something in the workshop that takes me 12 times as long to do as it would a professional.
11. I will unsuccessfully pursue some sort of wild game animal
12. I will successfully pursue some sort of wild game animal
13. I will continue to invest in happy, successful, exciting relationships with all sorts of people.
14. I will be overappreciated and underappreciated. Both will lead to drama.
15. I will wish I could be a fly on the wall.
16. I will realize someone else was a fly on MY wall
17. I will avoid prescription drugs (including tylenol) on principle
18. I will love at least one new movie. It will most likely involve guns.
19. I will laugh until I hurt myself.
20. I will go to a superbowl party and I will not watch the superbowl.
21. I will complain significantly out-of-proportion to my illness in the event I get sick.
21. I will constantly wish someone else washed my clothes.
22. I will constantly remind myself that nobody else is going to wash my clothes.
23. I will avoid malls.
24. I will shop online.
25. I will forget to take my vitamins.
26. I will lose the pill organizer I bought to make sure I didn't forget to take my vitamins.
27. I will shoot at squirrels on my neighbor's birdfeeder when he is not home.
28. I will spend entirely too much money and wonder where it went. When I wonder where it went it will remind me of Granddad who squandered his
money on me.
29. I will pay taxes.
30. I will not gripe about paying taxes. I will make sure I get a refund every year so it feels like THEY are actually paying ME to live here.
31. I will squander the tax refund in #29 on trips, stuff that I ultimately lose, and people who don't realize I'm squandering my money on them.
32. I will, as always, appreciate it if you squander YOUR money on ME.

See, it could still be a normal year after all.

Sophiserated

I made a quick run down to the Woodruff the other night to see "Sophisticated Ladies" at the Alliance. Naturally, I didn't bother to look at the program, read up on the performance, or otherwise educate myself ahead of time. I had a general, fuzzy, sort of idea that I was going to see "a play," and I knew exactly how to get there, and where my seats were - so I decided not to stress too much over it. I've learned to give myself some leeway on the tiny details. It’s the little surprises in life, you know.

So, first of all its miserably cold out. We're talking nose-hair-crackling, eyeball-watering, meat-storage kind of cold. I don't mind the cold really, except when it makes ME cold. This time: I was cold, but I get there and manage to guide my lovely, charming, unspecified-non-date-accompaniement-person into the theater without taking any significant down-stair tumbles (quite a feat in the monstrous black buffalo robe she was wearing). Breathless, we plunk down, Nanuk of the North arranges her many robes about her, and we begin to take stock of our situation.

I quickly realize: we're in a nursing home. My generic-unspecified-non-date-individual and I have become literally, the single youngest people in the room. I'd estimate Becca at roughly 32 or 36 and I'm a light, flavorful, 27. Our seat neighbors (Norton and Donna) were in their late 70s and the rest of the crowd would have seated them at the children's table.

The "show" starts and, in a moment of shining clarity I realize: "oh, THAT Duke Ellington." We're quickly listening to jazz music and we're surrounded by geriatrics. Norton, to his credit, is sitting ramrod-straight and, literally, dead asleep before the first dancer skips out. I'm busy checking out the crowd when I hear non-specific-un-date beginning to cackle under hear breath. Upon directing my attention at the stage I realize the dancers are jumping around on stage clawing at each other lasciviously in skirts of fake bananas.

I am, to put it mildly: surprised.

The third banana-shaking pelvic thrust sent poor Norton's eyebrows nearly through the roof and he started furiously unwrapping candies and popping them into his mouth.

I leaned in and said "hey, can I get one of those?" He arched a bushy eyebrow in my direction and said "you want a nitroglycerine tablet?"

Yeah, why not.

Full Circle

I ran out to lunch yesterday. On my way back in I rolled my window down, entered the parking deck, parked, and hit the "up" button on my window.....Nothing. After several minutes of banging furiously on the "up" button I looked up and realized a woman in the car next to me was staring; looking at me quizzically with a look bordering on concern. I shuddered involuntarily because I knew that I had initiated an inescapable sequence of events known only as The Eternal Wheel of Destruction. Once you're on the Eternal Wheel of Destruction you have no choice but to come full-circle.

The wheel has three phases:

PHASE ONE - "Get Some Pliers"
So, my first thought was "I better get some pliers" because, generally, I can fix nearly anything with some good pliers. If I CAN'T fix it - it at least feels good to have a pair of pliers handy. Then I'm standing there with some pliers instead of....just standing there. Standing there with some pliers announces to passers-by that "you are actively engaged in remedying your own misfortune." It doesn't matter what the misfortune is. You can spill a gallon of popcorn at the movie theater, whip out some pliers and begin frantically squeezing the lip of the empty container and people will think things are under control. If something happens and you're just standing there empty-handed - you look stranded and helpless; like a baby seal in a parking deck. Plus, if you're just standing there chances are good you're also "gaping"; and that's no good. If you gape - somebody will offer to help you - then its over: you're officially never going to be self-sufficient again. No matter what - you'll always know there was that one time when a stranger had to help you.

I am no stranger to The Wheel; so I quickly rustled up a pair of pliers and commenced to standing there with some pliers. That was okay. I felt relieved and I know several people saw me and approved, but I got tired of it pretty quickly and figured I could at least try to "get it unstuck." This is PHASE TWO

PHASE TWO - "Thrashing The Water"
Now, if you've ever attempted to get something unstuck you know that there's a 50/50 chance "unsticking" will also involve "crushing", "shattering", "mutilating", or at least "chipping."

In this instance I quickly went from trying to get it unstuck back to just standing there with some pliers; except, this time I was just standing there with some pliers holding a piece of my window which is, as you may have guessed, Phase Three.

PHASE THREE - "Complete Destruction and Defeat"
So, there I am pliers in one hand, chunk of window in the other, door panel in pieces in the parking deck. There was only one thing to do: bang furiously on the "up" button.

The wheel was complete.

1-800-STOOPID

I had a missed call on my way out the door to work the other day. I operate tangentially to the rest of the world in that if I DON'T recognize the number I'm much more likely to answer the call immediately. That seems to be opposite the normal tide of human behavior.

The truth is: I harbor secret hopes that answering an unknown number will culminate in a really good surprise, and you know how much I love surprises.

I've found that when you know the number - you generally have a solid idea on whats about to happen. Sometimes its good, sometimes it ain't so good; but its typically not much of a surprise either way.

Of course then 800.555.2391 shows up on my Blackberry screen. My friends don't have 1-800 numbers, right? But you know who does? Publisher's Clearinghouse, the Georgia Lottery, Cabela's, Beretta USA, Remington, Harvard, Puff Daddy, Gregg Allmann, Dave Mathews, Chifuti Safaris, the White House, and Winchester (to name a few).

So, yes: I'm going to answer that 1-800 number and I'm going to do it fast. A tiny glimmer of hope drives me.

In this instance I answered the phone and the guy said something garbled that sounded like "work on your tap." I had been waiting on a call from the county to come work on their part of my sewer line (the county "tap") so I immediately launched into a long description of my plumbing issues culminating in my frustration over having to pull up and dispose of $4,000 in fine laminate flooring RUINED from a sewer line backup. Before I wrapped up the inning I went into my final stretch and came across the plate with a high, hard, fastball describing in detail what its like to come home and find your brand-new, recently-finished basement covered in an inch of standing water.

I paused briefly to admire the black plume of complaint swirling smokily over my head; when nervously over the phone line I heard: "I'm sorry sir this is Tim from Tech support. I was just calling to see if you got your Blackberry fixed."

Thanks Tim. Its fine.

Stupid Snuck In

I was at dinner with Matt "Caveman" Dunn last night talking finance (thats "f'nance" to you, my highbrow friends). I was just slinging some advice around; you know - testing out the 'ol CPA license. I am, after all, in f'nance. I'm not sure if you knew this or not but: I know about stuff.

I apparently know just enough about stuff that all I need is a well-intended friend and some cheap mexican food and I will have made a complete ass of myself by the time the cheese dip gets cold.

The rosy glow from my brilliant advice on credit cards hadn't worn off yet when I got to thinking - maybe I should look into the 'ol credit balance and see just exactly who's getting fat in MY pigsty these days. They know I'm a CPA over there, so I'm nearly certain Chase Manhattan wouldn't dare to tinker with my interest rates, right? It makes sense. You'd think that having one's very own CPA would be sort of like having anti-finance-charge balm on at all times - like mosquito repellent. Flap that CPA card around hard enough and creditors buzz on down to the next picnic. Intimidating, I know.

Normally.

In this case it'd been so long since I looked at a Chase statement I hadn't noticed the 14.5% rate increase. Initially I wrote "couple" of months ago, but lets be honest - it was definitely a "few" which, to me, typically means "more than two, but I'm not man enough to admit how many." At least, that’s what the credit woman at Chase said; "a few."

She was completely resistant to all of my charms; even the "wheedle" which I consider particularly effective against callcenter women. So, my early Christmas present to myself was: paying off a credit card for major home improvements.

Sure, building the basement was a good idea. And yeah, a little outstanding debt is Smart if it pays for itself, right?

Well, Smart left the door open and Stupid snuck in.

Bandito

I couldn't help but notice the other day that my friend Ernie's parents have something horrible and terrifying standing in their yard: tiny midget horses. Several of them actually. I find them extremely disconcerting and, to be perfectly honest, I'm more than just a little bit scared of them. But for some reason every time I see one all I can think about is: "I'd really like to ride that little horse."

Despite years of requests, his parents still won't let me.

All this "you weight 215lbs and that horse only weighs 30" business is ridiculous. Everybody knows horses can lift much heavier things than themselves.

Look at the Budweiser horses and that big wagon they're always dragging around. I find it hard to believe that thing is hollow and weighs less than a horse. Its got kegs of frosty, delicious beer in it. And we all know that's not light stuff. Even lite beer is heavier than say, feathers, for instance - you know? And a whole wagon full of feathers would be heavy as lead if you packed them down right.

I saw an impossibly small children's saddle on a hobby horse the other day, and I thought: that would be just the ticket for riding one of those tiny midget horses. You could strap on your capguns and plastic spurs, spur that little midget horse into a gallop and you'd be 300% faster than the kid on that hobby horse any day of the week.

If I was a kid again, and I managed to get myself a midget horse I'd be THE MAN. All the other kids in the neighborhood would be tooling around on there stupid Huffy bicycles, and I'd come galloping in on the wings of a dove - clippity clop!! There'd be 7-year-old girls camped out on the lawn day and night.

I guess its a good thing I didn't have a crazy little midget horse in 1987, because I'm not sure I could have used all that power for good.

Sure, the potential would have been there for me to become a little Lone Ranger - serving the cause of all that is good, noble, and right: I might have been a one-child neighborhood watch on ponyback.

BUT I probably would have ended up a tiny little bandito instead; terrorizing the neighborhood on my ignoble steed - pasturing in your geraniums, watering in your sprinklers - it would have been chaos.

No Further Questions

I've always wondered if every person in the world eventually comes to a crossroads where he or she is confronted, unavoidably, with the questions: "Am I completely okay? Is the way I perceive the world right, wholesome, and good? Is my character lacking in some fashion that I'm unaware of? When people see me, do they think I'm normal; or do they sort of 'wonder' about me a little bit?"

I began tackling those tough issues this morning during my commute - headed south on I-75 right about Mt. Paran Road. I'm not sure what it is about the Mt. Paran Rd. exit, but if I'm going to have a deep thought before noon; chances are good it'll start right there. Maybe its my lack of cell service from there to Moore's Mill Rd. - I really couldn't say.

Regardless, as I passed by the Northside Drive exit I glanced in the rearview and realized I'd been lip-synching the words to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" by Cyndi Lauper since Moore's Mill Rd, you know - really getting into it, and a guy in a dump truck one lane over was staring at me.

Girls, after all, just want to have fun.

No further questions.

Double-Entendre

I went to an ASA "Late Model" stock car race the other day, which despite the concrete bleachers; was incredibly gratifying. I always forget how loud the cars are and I love that racing-fuel-smell.

Take some of that fuel smell mixed with burning rubber smell and maybe a little sweat and you've got yourself a seriously marketable cologne. I'm surprised more perfumeries don't think of the simple things like that. Sort of cuts down on the need to collect 1,000,000lbs of jasmine blossoms off the north side of Aghanistan, wouldn't it?

If you wear designer colognes your options are limited to stuff like "Suede", "Eternity", and "Obsession" and I can't help but think - those guys don't know what "eternity" or an "obsession" really smell like, you know?

I bet a real full-on obsession smells more like sweaty palms, stale popcorn, binoculars, and dirt - not that fruity-alcohol smell that comes in the bottle.

I don't even want to know what eternity smells like. It would most likely make my brain explode.

That should be the rule: you should have to name cologne what it smells like, and vice-versa - and NO foreign names. For all you know "Aquadigio" means: "hydrated redneck" in Italian. And French colognes? Please - if its not spelled out clearly in English I sure wouldn't say it out loud. Those guys haven't liked us much lately and I wouldn't put a little good-natured double-entendre past them. Seriously - we're talking about the country that INVENTED the double-entendre. Stamping something snide all over a product Americans PAY for like that would be a nationally-celebrated French triumph. You have to watch for that.

Actually, that’s not a bad name for a cologne now that I think about it: Double Entendre. I bet it would smell like mustard mixed with cocktail olives, linen, freshly-mown grass, hairspray, and gin.

I can smell a double-entendre coming a mile away.

Shark Bait

You know the funny thing about lakewater is that when you hit it hard enough - it really hurts. And I mean "real bad." I spent a full hour on Lanier last weekend getting dragged through the water like hairy shark bait and let me tell you: go from 20mph to 0 once or twice using only your face and you'll see what I mean.

There's really only one way to get up on the accursed thing to start with but I'm amazed at the number of new and graceless ways I can think of to fall OFF a wakeboard. Mostly you have to get UP to fall OFF though, and instead I just dragged around chugging lakewater like its my job: Jimmy Ewing, Lakewater Flavor Tester. Lanier '07 is piquant with notes of oak and fish and a light salmonella finish (if you're curious buy a wakeboard).

Do you ever have that experience where you hammer through the water so long that you actually pause a little at the very peak of your descent and have time to think "Hmm. I wonder when I'm going to come back up?" It happened to me - everything sort of slowed down, I hung there for a second, thunk a quick thought or two, then was completely shocked at the direction my life jacket suggested might be "up." If I hadn't taken McGuyver's advice and followed the air bubbles I'd still be down there. Its funny the TV shows you remember when you're about to die, isn't it? I'm just glad I didn't spend much time on "Start Trek" because I don't think Mr. Spock was into watersports.

Fortunately, I DID watch McGuyver and I DO remember everything he taught me about underwater rescue, makeshift weapons (that injure, but never maim), and the explosive properties of cotton socks; so I bobbed back up like a big, freckled, cadaver in a life jacket and they fished me out of the water with a boat hook.

That’s when it started to hurt.

Properly Accessorized

I was sitting around last week looking at guns on the internet (something I've been known to do) when it occurred to me: I don't NEED anymore guns (except an elephant gun, which I don't have yet). What I NEED is gun accessories.

So last Monday I changed tactics.

Did you know that a tactical stock cheekpiece (with bullet holder loops and nifty, zippered accessory pouch) is only $39.95 at StubbyGear.com? I didn't know that either, but I have so enjoyed learning.

I pretty much can't get away from anything marked "tactical". If they sold "tactical' soap on a rope I'd have 16 cases of it under my bed and more on the way. I figure that "tactical" means "special" and if its "special" chances are excellent that none of my hunting friends have it and, really, that’s the key to buying a good accessory: nobody else has one.

Over the years I've grown to understand that most people don't "get it." That’s ok with me. They think accessories should be "useful", or at least add some form of value to whatever you're accessorizing. I understand the confusion, but thats actually not true. In extreme cases not only does an accessory NOT add value, it may completely destroy the utility of the whole thing, but you'll be so excited about it you'll hardly notice. Of course, you can't do anything about that anyway - its too late! You're properly accessorized and now the finishes match but it'll only fit that one gun, they don't make weatherstripping like that anymore, tires don't come in 31.29 x 75 after 1993, BFGoodrich won't send you a price list for a replacement, Redfield went out of business, your Dad likes it, you lost the thread protector nut, nobody knows where the wrench to tighten it went, the drill bits are too small, or the instructions are in Russian.

That’s not really the point though - sometimes the added value comes from the simple act of making the purchase itself. I don't know what it was about that $39.95 in my wallet, but that particular $39.95 was making me absolutely miserable: I had to get rid of it and instead of just throwing it away; I turned it into a mil-spec nylon cheekpiece (complete with special little bullet holders and a sniper notebook) that I'll probably never use, don't need, and will likely end up putting in the attic.

17 years from now a future wife or child will find it, poke it with a stick to scare off nesting spiders, then throw it away when I'm not home. Later that afternoon I'll think to myself "I wonder whatever happened to that tactical stock cheekpiece" and I'll spend the next 17 years looking for it. I'll find the instruction booklet and warranty card. I'll know where the replacement zipper pulls are, and the optional waxed cotton lining. I'll have a copy of the receipt and date of purchase. Maybe even a UPC symbol. But the cheekpiece itself'll be long gone.

My last words in this life are likely to be a confused murmer from the floor of my special huntingstuff closet: "Tactical Cheekpiece?" I'll whisper, then I'll slip away.

Seersucker Salute

To the gentleman next to me at the gas pump this morning sporting seersucker pants, black shoes, blue socks, brown belt, and a white longsleeve shirt let me say simply this:

For exhibiting bravery in the line of fashion duty and a portraying a deep and abiding disdain for the color wheel - I salute you.

Welcome to the Family

I am extremely happy to welcome a very important addition to my family: a Beretta Mato rifle in .338 Winchester Magnum.

I bought it for grizzly bears and big hairy stuff that bites back because hey; how embarassing would it be for there to be a sudden grizzly bear infestation in Sandy Springs and I'm the only one without the appropriate grizzly bear medicine, you know? That’s not cool.

It kicks so bad that every time I shoot it a fairy loses its wings.

Shoot Me Now

I want to briefly address a recent influx of comments directed at me concerning the possibility that Meredith's recent supposed "bass catch" was bigger than mine. Friends: that spurious rumor is completely false. Despite several obviously altered photographs which may indicate circumstances to the contrary: I maintain that not only did Meredith NOT catch a "bigger" fish, she also did not catch a fish at all, period, ever. Let me be perfectly clear: under no circumstances at all, whatsoever, did Meredith on July 17th, 2007 at 11:04AM catch a bass at The Deer Camp (on MY ROD, just off the edge of the island, on a submerged hump) that may or may not have exceeded size of my bass by a grotesque and embarassing margin. You can't believe everything you see on Facebook.

There has also been some discussion concerning whether or not my acquaintance Dr. Jennie Cheesborough, MD actually caught several salmon the size of my truck on a fly rod in Alaska. Despite the clearly doctored photographs circling Facebook suggesting that it might have happened; again I maintain - impossible! You can't believe every picture you see in print. I saw winged pigs on the cover of the newspaper* last week and I don’t believe for a second that they actually flew, nonstop, all the way to the moon. We all know they'd have stopped off in Iowa. All that corn? Please, no oinker would pass that up.

I heard that Dr. C. also had the audacity to suggest that bass fishing was somewhat "lowbrow," to which I can only reply: my brow has steadily increased in recent years, and by all accounts it appears to be gearing up for an acceleration.

Anyway, lets not make this personal. I'm not necessarily out to prove that I'm right; just that you're all wrong. Even if Meredith HAD caught this supposed "fish" - it couldn't possibly be larger than MY fish: Gigantor the Horrific. It doesn't even make sense - a simple, logical, look at the circumstances and facts should indicate exactly that. In short: Meredith is "mini," hence - all fish she may or may not catch must ALSO be "mini". How can a tiny, midgety person catch a huge, massive fish? Its just not possible. Eh? It violates all the laws of the sporting universe. Am I right?

Personally, I don’t want to live in a world where I get routinely trounced at all things "outdoors" by a certain brunette little person. Unfortunately, I also don't believe in suicide and no asteroids have hit me yet - so it looks like I'm destined to suffer constant insult and injury at the hands of the freakishly talented Meredith Q.

Shoot me now.

JGE

*The Enquirer

Welcome to The Cow Show

My good friend Tommy Statham launched into a long story last night about…something - I don't remember what. I think it was something about his cousin, but I don't really know exactly. I sort of phased slowly out when I heard him say "then we went to the livestock show."

Regardless, the point is this: his story involved a livestock "show"; more specifically - a cow show…..And that set me to thinking.

At some point it seems to me that every cow owner, before he or she became a cow owner, was confronted with a particular cow and immediately thought to himself, "if only I had that particular cow in my life, everything would be better. I gotta have that cow." Then, at some point our cow owner caught a glimpse of his special cow when the light hit her just right and he thought to himself, "my, that’s a beautiful cow."

Ultimately, our virtuous cow owner decides that beauty and perfection of the magnitude exemplified in his pet cow shouldn't be hidden away on a small farm in Yatesville, GA, but should be put on display for the entire world to see. So, that is why 11 months, 8,000lbs of feed, and 14 shampooings later; we catch up to our cow-owner friend at his first cow show, nervously fiddling with his suspenders and praying for total cattle-show domination.

As I understand it: in a cow show a full-grown man walks up to the center of a ring or stage with his pet cow and another man looks at the first man and says into a microphone, "this is quite a cow you got here. I bet you've spent a lot of quality time with this here cow."

The first man says, "I won't lie to you: this really is a great cow."

The second man says, "I know a great cow when I see one, and I really think this might be the very greatest cow in the entire barn. Here, let me give you this blue ribbon to put on your cow."

The first man says "Thank you, she'll love this ribbon. It'sanhonor. ThankyouGod...Icouldn'thavedoneitwithoutGod, my family, and this here cow."

And the two men part ways.

That’s it.

To recap: what we're talking about here is a grown man taking his pet cow down to an event for the sole purpose of allowing other people the pleasure of admiring his cow, and possibly admiring some cows himself.

And that’s fine with me.

I'm just concerned about the cows. Nobody asked them if they wanted to be paraded around stark naked in front of God and country like that.

Seems to me they could at least dress 'em up a bit.

Lie 'Til You Die

I get quite a lot of questions about my deer picture here. I don't blame you for being interested, that’s a fine specimen of an animal represented there. In fact, you might even say it’s a monster, Big Bucky, Buckeronimo, The King of the Deer Herd, or even "Buckus Maximus."

Let me put it this way: if there is a more monstrous 8 pointer out there, I'm not aware of him - and if he DOES exist, I certainly don't want to know about it; so keep your grubby emails to yourselves.

Most people also seem very interested in the story of his demise, which I have told numerous times in the past; but have never gotten around to setting down on paper. It’s a pretty simple story, really. I was on my way to King & Spalding to look at some deal-related financial information and I noticed him standing at the corner of 14th and Peachtree, waiting on the bus. He leaned forward out of the wind to light a cigarette and rub one antler on a Marta advertisement and all I had to do was sneak up behind him and scream "AHAH HAHAHAHHA HA." He jumped right out in front of a Cox Sanitation truck. Once the cops left and the intersection cleared I simply slung him up into my truck and took him to the taxidermist.

See what I did there? I used the deer's natural nervous tendencies to my advantage. That’s the mark of a true hunter and I'm fairly proud of it, on the whole.

In fact, I'm inordinately proud of Big Bucky. I feel a certain sense of ownership and accomplishment in his demise; at least partly because I created him myself. Yup, I formed him from clay and breathed life directly into his nostrils. Its true.

Actually, that’s not at all true - its a face-melting lie straight from the pit of hell, but compared to some of the other hunting whoppers I've told its really not that bad. I figured I should try that lie on for size before commiting to it wholeheartedly and I needed an audience. I couldn't just waltz out on a limb with that one - it deserved a test run and you were my guinea pigs. Did you like the escalation? I like to ease into a good lie, you know: start off small, but finish up with a hell-raising crescendo of immaculate lies fit to make the Devil himself blush and shuffle his feet.

You have to understand: the art of fabricating a good hunting or fishing story requires a certain lack of moral compunction coupled with an absolute, lifelong, dedication to the lie itself. Its not a conversation piece - it’s a way of life. You don't hop back and forth across the fence with the details of your story - you stick to it. Own it, brother! Speak that lie forth into existence and then follow it with complete, immoral, Bible-scorching, self-sacrificial dedication. If you're not going to stick to it, don't bother - you'll just ruin a perfectly good story for everybody else. Then you've got a double-handful of nothin': your lie is shot, everybody knows you weren't man enough to walk that story all the way to her door.

Well, I have to go. I would write more, but I'm late to pick up my Tyrannosaurus Rex mount from the taxidermist. Now, THAT was a hunt! Remind me to tell you about it some time - it involved a canister of weapons-grade plutonium and a nine-iron. After it was all said and done; I'm just lucky the doctors were able to sew my head back on.

In the meantime, learn from the pros and hold fast to the code because, its like my Uncle Robert taught me in 2nd grade: if you're gonna lie, you gotta lie 'til you die.

Ya Caught Me!

I was sitting at work a short while ago, feeling sort of low - a touch of general malaise I guess, when suddenly it hit me - I know what my problem is: I haven't gotten "caught" at anything in years!

I've been too good; I've lost sight of what is important in life. I no longer live on adrenaline and hot Cokes purloined from the pantry in clear violation of the "one-coke-a-day" rule. I can't remember the last Twinkie I snuck off the top of the fridge, but I know it was delicious. A Twinkie taken in honesty only tastes like creamy styrofoam, but a Twinkie greedily burgled out of Mom's stash: gustatory halcyon.

The truth is: getting "caught" was the best - it made EVERYTHING better. You remember those days, don’t you?

Sneaking out wouldn't have been fun if there hadn't been anybody around to catch you. There's no sense in blamming a ladder up against your bedroom window when you can just walk right out the front door on your own.

Why hit your sister if theres no fine? (It was $20 for angry-hitting, $10 for public embarassment, and $15 for a burp-and-blow within 3 feet - I paid for Margaret's education in dimes by the time she was 12).

Cigarettes are no fun if you don't have to steal 'em from your grandmother and who wants FRESH chewing tobacco when you can swipe a 4-year-old, moldy, pack out of Uncle Buster's bass boat?

Why shoot BBs at the garden statuary if nobody notices the chipped fingers and cracked noses?

If Granddad isn't there to freak out over a lost remote, why hide it?

Its no fun to stuff a plastic fishing worm up your nose if nobody spanks you for it in the doctor's office parking lot, you know?

Theres no sense pouting in front of the minister's wife anymore - now it just makes ME look bad, not my parents.

When was the last time you and 42 friends bought 850 raw eggs, all at once, all from the same Kroger; and thought nobody noticed? I don't want 850 raw eggs anymore because I know I can't expect to see a line of parents stacked up out front waiting to catch me red-handed. Its just no fun.

Temper tantrums in Target just get you arrested, they don't threaten to "call your father at work" (gasp). What use is a temper tantrum if you can't follow it with 8hrs of sheer terror - wondering if Dad will make good on his offer to "kill you" when he gets home?

Its just not the same anymore. Misdemeanors are felonies, nobody grounds you after going to traffic court, you can't even slam a door and get hollered at; now the glass panes just shatter and I gotta go fix it myself.

Its only a hint of consolation, but after spending some time thinking it over - I've found a way to get back a tiny bit of that just-been-caught satisfaction: Uncle Buster, remember when your hubcaps kept falling off your truck in the driveway? That was ME. I DID IT AND BLAMED IT ON THE BEAGLE!!! AAAHHHHHHHHAAAA!!!!!!

Ya caught me!

Why, Hello Placebo!

Why hello there.

Lets talk briefly about those paper "germ-preventative" disposable toilet seat covers you find in public restrooms.

You know that doesn't work, right?
No?
Did they have you fooled?
Yes, they did??

Well, let me ask you this: when was the last time you were wheeled into a surgical procedure and greeted by a doctor wearing paper gloves?
Eh?
No? Paper gloves? No - not common in your area?

Well, theres a reason for that: those seat covers aren't for your rump, buddy - they're for your BRAIN. Let me introduce you to the concept of the "placebo."

Webster's has the following to say on the idea:
pla·ce·bo n. pl. pla·ce·bos or pla·ce·boes: A substance containing no medication and prescribed or given to reinforce a patient's expectation to get well.

(2) An inactive substance or preparation used as a control in an experiment or test to determine the effectiveness of a medicinal drug.

(3) Something of no intrinsic remedial value that is used to appease or reassure another.

I bet you felt reassured, didn't you - last time you saw that dispenser on the wall? Don't let me burst your bubble, but that paper seat cover would be every bit as effective at preventing germs if you wore it around your head, ate it, or tied it into your shoe laces.

The point is: it’s a public restroom. They're nasty. If the office building you're in is so certain there will be a furious riot when the public realizes the dangers of the communal facilities they provide that they supply each little human sheep with its very own comfort blanket made of thin paper; maybe you oughtn't go in there at all! There's something they're not telling - and no amount of paper in the world is going to save your sweet cheeks from the risks.

DON’T GO IN THERE. I recommend to AVOID at all costs.

But if you must - sure, use those seat covers to your heart's content! I don't mind, because when I hear that seat cover dispenser busily dispensing its soul out in a nearby stall, I think to myself: why hello, placebo!.....And it gives me joy.

Fishing, Naturally.

I finished up part 3 of the CPA exam on Tuesday and, to reward myself for long hours spent in study, I took myself fishing.

Unfortunately, I don't have a boat.

Fortunately, my Uncle Buster DOES have a boat which, for some reason - he lets us use. It is a very large, very fast boat with lots of electronic equipment, little tiny buttons and knobs everywhere, and other things that go "Beeeeeeep" that someone (me) who doesn't really spend tons of time on a boat is liable to bend, fold, spindle, snap, or otherwise mutilate while furiously thrashing around on deck.

The other problem is - this particular boat's motor is stuck in the "OFF" position right now because something was going "kaawackitywackitywatckitythumpthumpthumpthump" last week when it was cranked up. Normally it would go "baaaarrooommmma aaaaaawoomwoomwo mwoowmm wwaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagrggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrwooshwooosh."

That is not a huge deal because you just lower the (new, expensive) trolling motor down in the water and fish to your little heart's content. Then, instead of running the boat back up on the trailer with the big motor, you take a run at it with the trolling motor and - in a complicated series of co-ordinated movements not unlike those you might see at a local performance of the Nutcracker Ballet; you pirouette on the fishing stool, snatch the trolling motor up 1/10 of a second before hitting the trailer (remembering to compensate for the big motor's swinging effect), and then hop off and balance on the edge of the trailer while quickly winching the boat back into its berth.

Of course, you should not hit the trailer off to one side, get the trolling motor hung up in the bunks, crank up the big motor when its going "kaawackity wackitywatckity thumpthumpth ump thump", accidentally back the lower unit over the top of Uncle Buster's submerged sprinkler system pump ($680), fall in, run the boat up over the trailer wheel-wells, run the boat into the tailgate of your truck, get our truck stuck in the mud at the edge, break a rod tip, step on a crankbait, or accidentally get out - leaving your truck in reverse while backing down into the water.

Those are some things you should not, under any circumstances, do to Uncle Buster's boat.

So, after I fell in, got the trolling motor unstuck from the bunks, backed the lower unit over the submerged sprinkler system pump ($680) ran over the wheel well, and got my truck hung up in the mud - we all went to the waffle house and had a patty melt. At waffle house we compared notes and realized that while I was busy thrashing around in the boat and my Uncle Buster was busy rolling his eyes at me - my Uncle John had been quietly snatching fish out of the water left and right.

Now, I'm 27 years old. I know how to operate a veritable bevy of farm equipment, motors, trucks, boats, and firearms. Seriously - I can do it. And, if nobody is around - I can even operate it without mangling the equipment into a twisted heap of steaming metal. So, last night when I went BACK out there fishing by myself - everything was smooth and easy….until I had to load up. Ordinarily there are two of you, and one person hops out to back the trailer into the water so the other person can load up the boat. As I was alone; I had to pull the boat up alongside the bank, get out, run over to my truck, back the trailer down into the water, then get BACK in the boat, and load up.

When I got out of the boat I accidentally shoved off with my foot without realizing it. After backing the trailer down into the water I went back over to the boat to hop in. Unfortunately, by that time the boat was nearer the center of the lake than the shore. Do you know what I mean by "nearer the center of the lake than the shore?"

I could have slung a crankbait over into the boat - snagged the carpet and slowly pulling it in to shore. At least, I could have done that if all my stuff wasn't already in the boat.

Fortunately, I like to swim in dark-water lakes at night, alone, in people's backyards when they don't know I'm going swimming. It adds to my swimming enjoyment. I particularly like the thick muck at the bottom of the lake that you sink knee-deep into and wonder, abstractly, about killer mud-snakes, quicksand, and lack of life-jackets. Then, the fun starts in earnest when I get OUT of the water because I especially prefer to be wet, muddy, and cold whenever possible.

I have learned to prepare for this sort of thing by always having some paper towels and a clean change of clothes under the seat in my truck. So, when the motion-sensor lights turned on - there I was - naked on my Uncle Buster's back lawn; attempting to dry myself on my tshirt.

Nature was my leotard.

Theft by Taking

I headed up JW Dobbs this morning and slipped through the first yellow light in the nick of time. That put me at the next red light just quick enough to witness the following scene:

Homeless man, reclined on low-lying concrete wall.
Gently snoring.
Arms widespread - knuckles dragging ground on either side.
Legs splayed with ankles crossed.
Small black plastic grocery bag (full) at his feet; a look of utter contentment and peace lighting his face in stark contrast to his decrepit condition.

Just as I pass our erstwhile VanWinkle; another indigent ambling shiftily down the street sees our sleeping friend and slows to a sneaky, catlike, walk. His steps become ever-stealthier as he approaches the sleeper. He appears to tiptoe. At handshake-distance our ambulating homeless stops and begins a clandestine examination of his surroundings; looking about in all directions as if fearful of being watched. His stealth is comical as it is rush hour and the street is bumper-to-bumper with cars, but he satisfies himself (erroneously) that his actions can't be espied; leans gently forward (as if tying a shoe), straightens up, and begins walking steadily across the parking lot. He looks neither right, nor left.

The only difference?....The other man's grocery bag is gone, yet he snores on. It was a case of theft by taking in a homeless-on-homeless crime.

I'd love to see that police report.