25 Things About YOU

Everybody seems excited about this latest “25 Things About Me” Facebook fad; no real surprise there since a basic tenet of life is that your favorite topic will always be…..you….but after reading a few of them lately I have to admit: you guys are pretty mundane.

If you want me to read 25 things about you, they better be good enough to tear me away from focusing exclusively on typing up my favorite 25 interesting things about ME. Knowing the names of your first 5 pets just makes me feel dumber: get creative, folks.

Let’s get right to the nitty-gritty. Here are the 31 things we’d REALLY like to know about you:

1. Please describe, in detail, your single greatest betrayal including (but not limited to) names, dates, and rationale.
2. List your top three favorite people to smooch with (bonus points if it’s me).
3. Who is the worst person you’ve ever smooched with. Bonus points if I know him or her, or if they’re famous. (Lets take me out of the equation on this one).
4. Of all your friends: who has the worst breath?
5. What’s the nastiest thing you’ve ever done?
6. What do you feel the absolute WORST about in life?
7. Who do you secretly love?
8. I know you have a weird fantasy about something: what is it?
9. Tell me the 25 biggest secrets you’re NEVER supposed to tell anyone.
10. You have a friend who thinks you’re best friends, BUT YOURE REALLY NOT!! (HA HA!!) Who is it?
11. Somebody got hurt. You laughed. Who was it?
12. On a scale from 1-100 where is your self esteem?
13. What was the last real, soul-scorching lie you told?
14. You make fun of someone regularly. Who is it?
15. Who did you vote for?
16. What do you think about during church when you should be listening to the sermon?
17. You were madly in love with someone once and it didn’t work out, you still think about it quite alot. Who was it?
18. Your significant other doesn’t know that you ______________.
19. You’ve been publicly naked _____times.
20. The worst thing you’ve ever done was _________________.
21. You lied to ________ about __________ and you’d do it again.
22. You stole something once. You still have it and you’re not going to give it back. What is it?
23. You’re extremely proud of yourself for _______________ and you can’t WAIT for someone to bring it up again.
24. If you seriously had it to do over again you definitely wouldn’t _______________.
25. You’re way, WAY lustful. Primarily over _______________, and generally because ___________, and in church it’s _________ because ___________, and you’re probably going to keep it up.
26. You’re on __________ medication for ____________ and OH MAN you hope nobody finds out!
27. You cheated once and found out that cheaters DO sometimes win. When was it?
28. When someone swears you to secrecy it generally takes you ____________ minutes to tell someone else.
29. Your boss doesn’t know that you ____________ pretty regularly on company time.
30. You hate me right now, don’t you?
31. You firmly believe no list should ever end on a number indivisible by either “2” “3” or “5.”

There, now don’t you feel better?

My Surgical Residency

I pulled into the ICU parking lot Wednesday to visit my cousin Beau; I got out of my car, and walked out the front of the deck. Then I realized the deck I was in WASN’T the ICU parking lot – it was the Women’s Center parking lot, which would account for all the pregnant women wandering around; so I had to traipse around downtown Macon for awhile in my cowboy boots.

They hurt my feet.

I finally found the right place to be, mostly lost my truck, but managed to get inside without incident. Then there was the topic of elevators. Which to choose? And why all the signs with arrows pointing this way and that? How about just a “YOU ARE HERE” sign with a schematic of the hospital? I can figure that out, but I always have to stop under the stupid signs and think to myself “Well, ok. That arrow there is pointing UP. Does that mean ‘straight ahead’, or am I on the wrong floor?” Like I said – show me a damn schematic.

The elevators were marked A B C and D, and color-coded, so presumably somebody, somewhere, came up with a brilliant idea how to get around in this hospital and make it really easy for non-hospital folks. They failed and I hope they’re all dead so they can’t be held accountable for their folly in this life.

The problem is: the first four elevators that came slamming open in front of me I let go on by because they looked like “service elevators” inside - really deep, wide, and full of stainless steel and rubber bumpers – like the ones the catering crew used in my old office. I’m accustomed to mahogany, plush carpet, and mirrors you’re not supposed to look at yourself in.

Sometimes I look at myself in those mirrors and occasionally even try to “fix” my knappy hair – even when other people are there: sue me.

No mirrors here, but people behind me were starting to look REALLY pissed off because I guess I was blocking the entry. I figured I must be screwing it up some way so I just bit the bullet and got on the next one. I don’t know what I thought would happen if I DID ride on a service elevator: “get in trouble?”

With WHO? I still always feel like I’m just about to “get in trouble” for something. I live in a world full of adults and can never remember that I AM one. Stupid.

Halfway between floors three and four I realized: ALL the elevators look like this. It’s so a gurney will fit and you can puke and holler and skeet bodily fluids everywhere and it’s easy to hose down. There ARE NO “service elevators” - they’re ALL service elevators.

I needed to go to the fourth floor, but nobody had pushed the 4th floor button and I sure as hell wasn’t going to actually TOUCH an elevator button in a hospital; every bugger-ey, infected, finger in Macon, Georgia has touched those buttons. I had to ride all the way up and then back down again; then back again until finally, mercifully, someone said “which floor – 2?” and looked at me quizzically. I realized later I’d seen them a time or two already. I looked at the floor 2 office list later and realized – that’s the psych ward – they had seen me riding around on the elevator, thought I was retarded, and were trying to help.

That happened to me twice, actually, because later I got on the elevator to go home and an orderly got on with an empty wheelchair. All I could think was “where did you put the person that was in that wheelchair!??” but I didn’t say anything. If you want to push an empty wheelchair around the hospital - thats your business. I don’t tolerate hospitals well and I must have looked a bit wild-haired, or shell-shocked or something, because the orderly started asking me how I was doing, and “if I was ok?” I said “yeah this place kinda wears on me a bit after awhile.” He said “yeah man. I hear you buddy, I hope you feel better” and I realized that he thought I had some kind of chronic disease. I started to explain, but the door “ding-ed” and I hopped off without thinking.

It was the second floor.

I needed the first floor - NOT the second floor, so stood there with the other people who were waiting on an elevator until the next one came along. They knew I was the idiot that got off on the wrong floor - everyone always does. You’re kidding yourself if you think people don’t notice you got off on the wrong floor. If you avoid eye contact its better, but I didn’t. I looked the big lady behind me dead in the eye and said “I just didn’t like that elevator.” She didn’t think that was funny, I guess, because she just nudged her husband and they both looked at the floor. Then I realized: “second floor – psych ward - she thinks I belong here.”

A minute later the door opened. Same orderly from earlier. No wheelchair this time (where the hell is his wheelchair?). Nobody said anything for a second......then my resolve crumbled. I looked up and said, “Man, can you please tell me how to get out of this place!?”

He paused for a second, then asked: “Have you been discharged by your doctor?”

I looked at him, blankly, for a second.

“Yes” I said.

Juan Huang Lowe

Some time ago my roommate, Matt, burst into my room and, without so much as a “Hi, how are you”, dropped his trousers, looked me dead in the eye and said:

“Jimmy, does this look normal to you? Tell me straight. It doesn’t look normal, does it? I’ve got testicular cancer, I JUST KNOW IT. Something AINT RIGHT. WHAT DO I DO?”

I took a few moments to give the topic my full attention before replying: “to be perfectly honest with you I’d have to say no - that does not look at all normal (in general) but I don’t really think there is a problem.”

Despite my complete lack of medical training, he looked immensely relieved, sat down on the edge of my bed (trousers still at half-mast) and launched into a very long explanation concerning testicles in general, and, among other things, a certain size discrepancy which led him to the belief that he was suffering from testicular cancer (none of which made sense and all of which bordered on hypochondria).

Ultimately we came to the conclusion that he should merely keep an eye out for any sort of real anomaly, and perhaps run down to the doctor for a quick peek at the goods. Unfortunately, he understood that to mean that I had a vested interest in his reproductive health, so for the next three months the scene I just described replayed itself on a daily basis.

Nightly after work a mostly-naked Matt would throw my bedroom door open and say: “hey man – what do you think? Everything ok?”, I would reply simply: “Looks ok to me”, and he would respond with “Ok, as long as you’re sure” sigh, and walk out looking relieved.

Finally, his long-awaited doctor’s appointment came around and he went in (somewhat shakily) for a full-physical. The dudes of The Duderanch waited in eager anticipation for a report that evening, and, as Matt walked in; we turned to him and with one voice said: “everything ok with Lefty Hognut??”

He was extremely excited to show us graphically on his new 3"x5" doctor-provided diagram that yes, everything was indeed ok. He then took that small sheet of paper and taped it to his shaving mirror as a constant reminder of what to look out for; where it remained for the duration of Matt’s Duderanch career.

Matt moved out a couple of years ago and got married, but that diagram lives on. I found it this week under my bed between two canisters of dried-out “Floam” (the origins of which I could not even begin to imagine); and it made me miss the days of Matt “Caveman” Dunn a bit.

I guess it was nostalgia that led me to flatten out the water-stained edges, and tape it to MY shaving mirror for a change. It reminds me of Matt, and all those fun times……and the importance of good testicular health.

So, with that happy history fresh in my mind I was not at all surprised to overhear Matt at a rehearsal dinner recently, eagerly describing his previous testicular concerns…..to the mother of the bride.

She later confided in the bride her concern for Matt’s health, to which the bride responded:


“Mom he’s perfectly healthy! Whatever are you talking about?”


Her mother, fresh from the hairdresser, bedecked in all her wedding finery; inclined her head gently to one side and, with a quizzical look on her face, said in halting half-whisper: “Honey, did he not tell you about Lefty Hognut?”

Thank God I was near enough to hear it.

The Year to Come

I bumped noisily down the narrow drive to the camphouse; swinging past a large dog kennel housing the three shorthair pointers who eagerly announced my arrival. The driveway quickly petered out and I found myself very much in the front yard. I circled twice around the sprawling ramshackle building that was my destination trying to decide where to park, turned around a few times, then left my truck on the grass just by the back door.


Inside I found the usual accoutrements of male activity: crumbs, shotgun shells, congealed bean dip, cheap liquor, a few solo cups roundabout; but the inhabitants were nowhere to be found. I noticed no boots or waders on the stoop so I deduced that my late arrival did not long keep my friends from the chase. Later, the distant hollow "boom" of a late afternoon duck shoot in a neighboring swamp confirmed my suspicions.


Unfamiliar with the territory, I made myself comfortable in the game room listening for shots and reading 3-year-old sporting periodicals while I awaited their return.


Shortly after dark I heard voices and laughter proceeding up the drive then the loud clump-clump of booted feet on the wooden stoop as the men returned with their stories.


In came The Wingfields (3 of 4), Josh, Strib Stribling, his children, Bill, a dog named Maggie. Greetings all around. Bottles opening. Soon a pot boils, we talk of the coming days. Warm weather, dogs, hot noses, quail. Man-style spaghetti appears - lots of meat. The Wingfields descend on it like a sweaty chain gang and Joseph (the tallest) makes away with most of the meatsauce. I wonder aloud if years of similar deprivation have made Jared the shorter brother. We laugh. Josh, grinning, steals a plate from a Wingfield brother. The bread is ready. We crowd around the table, too short for 7 pairs of knobby knees, and our first meal together begins.


Bedtime finds us piled into a small bunk room stacked high with guns and gear. I walk in last to find Joseph, Josh, and Jared choosing bunks and discussing duck strategy; not at all unusual bunkroom talk except that Jared is standing idly in the center of the small room, loudly expounding wood duck theory, naked as a jaybird. No one seems to notice. Underwear, it seems, make him feel distinctly claustrophobic. Claustrophobic is no way to go through life, we agree on that, and he nonchalantly jiggles his way into his sleeping bag.


I mention that I tend to snore a bit. No one listens. Midway through the night I awaken to peals of uprorious laughter and Josh peeks over the edge of my top bunk to announce "Man, you sound like somebody is strangling a bear in your nasal cavity." I respond, but he can't hear me through the toilet paper stuffed in his ears.


The coming days bring bonfires and food, ducks and waders and shotgun shells. New rifles shoot well, rains come and go, we forget that there is no cell phone service. Late in the evening the coyotes howl their hunting song away back in the swamp, the fire burns low, and we agree - its a good year already.

Hunting For Buster

From halfway across the yard at TDC Uncle Buster hollered "we're headed out to hunt - do you want to go?" I responded in the only way one can in that situation (if one wants to be invited back) which is to look away like you don't really care, spit, scratch around the crotch-al region a bit, mumble "I reckon", then make sure you beat him to his house to load up your gear first so you don't get accidentally left.

There is also the question of funds to consider. LAST time I went hunting with him I was swaying in the breeze 15 feet up a tree half-in, half-out of a stand when, from the comfort of his four-wheel-drive golf cart Uncle Buster announced: "Ok, good luck. Oh - also - if you shoot something big its going to cost you $975."

Based on that new information - as soon as Uncle Buster was out of sight I unloaded my gun and left it on the ground to avoid temptation; then I spent the evening watching a monster 8-pt with a 20" inside spread gently hump the first 2 steps up to my stand. All I could think is: that's $121.87 per point.

After awhile I noticed through my binoculars that, at 8x, the coal black eye of a monster buck standing directly underneath you looks extremely malevolent. When the sun set that fact, compounded with my already profound fear of the dark, AND my recent viewing of Pet Sematery I made me extremely scared - enough so that someone eventually had to come find me with a flashlight and help me get down. In the process I managed to step on my favorite rifle which, in my excitement, I had forgotten was still on the ground.

After a great deal of introspection on the way home, what I ultimately realized is that my purpose on that occasion was not to hunt FOR ME or WITH Uncle Buster - it was to hunt FOR Uncle Buster. He wanted to sit on BOTH stands himself, but hadn't figured out an effective way to do that yet with current technology, so he was willing to settle for two pairs of eyes and just one gun (his). Either way he would get most of the benefit of having hunted both locations at once with very little downside at all. A brilliant plan.

Ever hopeful, this week I thought "perhaps this time I am hunting for ME!" and I hopped up into the truck. A short 30 minutes later we arrived at our location. Uncle Buster let me out on a dirt road, indicated a general direction, and said "go that way, then after dark - come back this way." I prepared to do so, but this time, with my prior experience firmly in mind, I first asked: "how much is this going to cost me?"

"Shut up" he said.

"Ok" I said.

When the cloud of dust from his 200 horsepower golf cart subsided - I unloaded my gun and checked to make sure my flashlight battery was dead. It was, so I left my gun on the ground and clambered up into my stand with my binoculars.

When you're deer hunting - two pairs of eyes are better than one.

A Strong Seat on the Matter

Thanksgiving, and the vast quantities of food it entails, exacts a heavy toll on my delicate psyche. At some point during the week I generally feel it necessary to escape the gluttonous fetters that keep me tethered within a 20ft striking range of the kitchen and actually DO something productive.

Ordinarily I’d run off to TDC for a few days of laying around in front of the fire while slowly weaning myself off of Thanksgiving leftovers, but this year the weather was so miserable I decided to remain at home. Instead of going hunting on Saturday I did the unthinkable and I actually went shopping. I, James G Ewing Jr., loaded myself into the truck, alone, and alone I essayed forth into the wilds of post-Thanksgiving shopper-zombie-hell.

Actually, I stopped off at my local federal firearms-licensed gun broker and bought a new rifle, THEN I went shopping. That’s not terribly important though; except to explain why there was a shiny new rifle laying across the front seat of my truck when I pulled up outside Joseph A. Banks (clothiers) a scant 30 minutes later. If you weren’t there you wouldn’t have noticed, but if you were: that’s why.

Now you know and you can quit interrupting.

I made myself a parking spot very near the front of that fine establishment, walked in the door, and immediately noticed two things that are salient to this conversation
1. EVERYTHING was on sale.
2. Two extremely well-dressed, extremely gay, gentlemen were making cooing sounds of delight while floating rapidly across the store in my direction.

I ended up spending roughly $351.97 more than I had originally intended ($99) in order to save approximately $898 off of quoted retail prices; a fact rapidly brought to my attention by the cheeky cashier whose smile quickly faded when I upended my empty wallet, shook it vigorously in his face, and asked him if he would “kindly bend over and pick up my $898”. Generally, I’ve found any retail conversation I start by suggesting that the other party “bend over” doesn’t go well by the standards of polite society, but this time it was worth a cool $898 if you ask me. I can’t help it if every cashier in North American thinks I’m The Un-funny.

I know certain of you can sympathize with my post-purchase cognitive dissonance; but this story really isn’t about shopping - it’s about appropriate personal interaction with strangers; to which end - please allow me to transport you to the fitting room….

It was brought to my attention recently by a certain female that “pleated-front pants” were somewhat out of vogue for men under 50 – a fact that had escaped my attention thus far; evidenced by the preponderance of pleated-front pants inhabiting my closet. So, in good faith I loaded up gay salesman #1 with a stack of high-quality wool plain-front pants, slipped a pair on in the dressing room, and marched back out for a viewing.

So, now I’m standing in the center of the store in thin wool dress pants, cowboy boots, a white t-shirt, and a camo hat; twirling around in front of a three-sided-mirror-thing surrounded by sales staff and one little Vietnamese guy who grew up out of the floor somewhere with a cloth tape wrapped around his neck and pins stuck in all his lapels; and I’m trying my best to get a good viewing angle on my backyard which, with that many people standing in my immediate personal space, ain’t easy. To make things even more difficult - the little Vietnamese clothing genii is unaccountably swiping at my crotch with a tiny bar of soap while spouting off clothing jokes in quick succession; so between slapping at his hands and twisting this-way-and-that; my natural good humor is rapidly wearing thin.

I finally managed to achieve line-of-sight on my rump and crotch at once only to conclude that what gay salesman #2 described as “a wee bit tight up front” actually looks more like a meatpacking accident during an executive tour of the plant.

Quick switch of trouser.

More plain-fronts (next size up) appear draped around the neck of gay salesman #1.

Everyone appears sweaty for some reason - which makes me sweaty - so now my plain-fronts are sticking to my plain-rump and - even worse - the backs of my knees (which makes me feel vaguely suicidal).

I power through a quick change-out and, finally, a pair fits in the waist. I can breathe again - so I’m happy.

Silence abounds.

Crickets chirp.

Then, in a very soothing voice, gay salesman #2 pipes up: “perhaps we should go to a pleated front….they’re better for someone with a strong seat and powerful thighs.”

All I’m saying is: you don’t have to hurt my feelings to sell me pleated pants.

A Brief Lesson in Supply and Demand

I’m vaguely disturbed at the current discrepancy between actual demanded volume of gasoline in the metro Atlanta area and actual gasoline supply.

I say “vaguely” disturbed because, to be honest with you I hadn’t noticed it until today. I filled up in Macon on Sunday, and I haven’t thought about it since. Gasoline BELONGS to be inside gas station pumps – its where gasoline lives. The thought that I might go to a gasoline store intending to buy gasoline – and find NO GASOLINE never even crossed my mind. When I need gasoline – I drive to the pump, stick a little plastic thingy in a slot, type in my zip code, pump the gasoline, then I drive off.

I don’t even have to PAY for anything.

What in the world could make it so that I can’t do that anymore? I ask you!!?!?!

I ask you because: I don’t know.

I don’t read the paper or watch the news. I rely on other people to tell me important things and I do that on purpose for two main reasons:
1. I hate the news, newspapers, weather, weather people, reporters, special reports, breaking news stories, stories, and people on tv, in general.
2. By not watching the news; when something big DOES happen - the first person to tell me about it gets a wonderfully satisfying response. I go “WHAT?!!” ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?! And they feel satisfied all day long. It’s a little public service I provide. Have some news? Break it to ME – I promise I don’t already know.

When my work friends walked in yesterday complaining about not being able to find any gasoline I said “well, did you try the gas station?” Turns out: they had.

I ultimately have come to the following theoretical conclusion: someone ELSE bought up all the gas. They are sitting (right now) on a giant lake of my personal gasoline.

I want it back; and I want it at $0.79 per gallon.

The Price of Vanity

I like to linger luxuriously in the bathroom in the morning. Its true - I've come to terms with it. There aren't that many opportunities in life to hang around mostly nekkid, so I take advantage of it. Its a little "me" time, if you will.

Actually, its usually a little "Me AND Bud" time because ordinarily by the time I get to the bathroom he's already in there (nekkd) brushing his teeth. But hey, thats ok - we have two sinks, so nobody's nekkid space gets invaded.

I woke up this morning, yawned, stretched, and gently scratched my hairy chest. I relaxed for a second while I wondered where I was. I remembered the night before, then looked at the clock; it said time to get up, so I walked across the hotel room floor into the bathroom of my suite.

When I got to the bathroom I looked in the mirror and yawned; admired my collection of freckles for a second or two then, still looking at myself in the mirror, I reached my right hand up into my doc kit and rummadged around until I found my toothpaste tube

I craned my neck back to get a better look at my tonsils while I squeezed a very large glob of paste out on my toothbrush by feel - hey, its hotel toothpaste so I can be wasteful, right?

Satisfied with the paste quantity, I leaned back, cracked two of my toes, stretched again, then started to put my toothbrust in my mouth; but I realized something - I had forgotten to wet the boothbrush. So, I leaned around and cracekd my neck while I turned the faucet on and wet my toothbrush; then I opened both eyes wide to check for eye boogers while I began brushing my teeth.

About 15 seconds into my brushing routine I realized something was wrong.

At about 18 seconds I realized something was very, very wrong.

And at 20 seconds I knew exactly what was wrong: I was brushing my teeth with Preparation H.

Thats the price of vanity.

A Brief Word on The Truth

Several years ago I became quite enamored of a lovely young woman. We met briefly at church (neither of us were drinking) and we hit it off.

Well, I hit it off - she found me mildly irritating enough to go out with (once).

Naturally, when I managed to determine her name I did the only thing a normal red-blooded American man could do: I “Googled” her; and I mean I really Googled her. I Googled so effectively that I hit the veritable pot of gold at the end of the Googlestalking rainbow: Yes, I located her online photo album.

That’s right gentlemen. Jackpot.

From then until our first date she was googled daily by me, my friends, family, the postman - anyone who would loiter by an internet connection long enough for me to dump in my Yahoo! password and pull up that glorious online album.

My friends and I analyzed angles, pieced together family ties, reviewed her friends, and generally memorized those photos as if they were our own.

I had done my homework. I was ready for that first date.

Mid-way through dinner (which was going swimmingly, I might add) she leaned in coquettishly and breathed: “Oh? You want to see my dog? Well, you should check out my Yahoo! Photo album!! Have you seen it?”

As I’m sure you guessed: NO, I didn’t want to see the dog at all; and YES, I HAD seen the photo album, but what to do?

Does the Bible REALLY mean “thou shalt not EVER lie?” EVER? Or is it more like “Thou shalt GENERALLY not lie unless she catches you?”

I sensed the trap, but the innocently furrowed brow shading sky blue eyes lulled me into a false sense of security in my own ingenuity.

In short: I underestimated my fierce opponent - feminine wiles; and gentlemen: I lied.

Had I known that Yahoo! tracks photo album login attempts, reporting them to the album owner daily; I may have been more circumspect in my pursuit of the truth.

Grandkid Trip 2008

Some weeks ago I initiated the Official 2008 Grandkid Trip Plan with the email below:

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dear Fellow Tier 1 and Tier 2 Grandkids, assorted Aunts and Uncles, and Tier 3 cousins:

As the President and CEO of Grandkid Trip Planning, Inc. it is my great pleasure to inform you that 08 Annual Grandkid Trip planning efforts are currently underway. Due to recent economic fluctuations, the overall state of the economy, rising oil prices, and the sad fact that I entirely depleted my own personal funds early in the year; Grandkid Trip ’07, though seriously considered, never came to fruition.

Please accept my sincerest apologies for such an embarrassing dereliction of duty and allow me to affirm my solemn vow that there shall never again be a year devoid of Grandkid Trip hilarity.

GRANDKID TRIP 2008 ANNOUNCEMENT

LOCATION
Grandkid Trip ’08 will take place on the glorious Island of Anegada in either Mid-December 2008, or early January 2009 – pending further investigation. See the links below for the two hotels on the island and general information:

Neptune’s Treasure Hotel
http://www.neptunestreasure.com/
http://www.neptunestreasure.com/slideshow/index.htm

Anegada Reef Hotel
http://www.anegadareef.com/Accomodations.htm
http://www.anegadareef.com/photo.htm

General Info
http://www.b-v-i.com/Anegada/default.htm
http://www.bareboatsbvi.com/anegada.html
http://www.lavendabreeze.com/index.html

PRELIMINARY COST ESTIMATE
I estimate total travel, room, and board costs should top approximately $1,000 per person as follows:

Plane Tickets $500
Ferry $100
Hotel $400
Total $1,000

Food and beverage consumption will vary based on your personal consumption habits. Before you go bananas and respond with vicious cost-conscious emails, please read the “COST DISCLAIMER” below.

COST DISCLAIMER
I am aware that this is slightly higher than previous Grandkid Trips, but as each of you are able-bodied enough to obtain a weekend job if necessary (and have nearly 6 months to obtain the required funds) I don’t want to hear your whining. You do NOT want to be like Daniel and Shannon (boooo hisssssss) and forever regret missing The First Annual Grandkid Trip - the sadness has marked them for eternity. I also recommend each of you take a moment to address a support letter to each of your parents and follow it, weekly, with a modicum of begging and pleading for funds.

This email will be followed by an official “Evite” containing further details, cost updates, and definite trip dates as soon as possible.

Sincerely,

Baby Jimmy

President and CEO - Grandkid Trip Planning, Inc., Representing:

Tier 1 Grandkids
Seth Slocumb
Jimmy “Baby Jimmy” Ewing
Maggie Slocumb
Ashley Slocumb
Margaret “Spike” Ewing
Beau Slocumb

Tier 2 Grandkids
Shannon Slocumb
George Ewing
Daniel Slocumb
Natalie Slocumb
Rob Slocumb
Thomas Slocumb
Austin “Squishy” Slocumb

CC: Tier 3 Cousins and Other Interested Parties
Jim “Big Jimmy” Ewing, Sr.
John T. Slocumb, MD
Sherry Slocumb
Eric Floss
Weesie Floss
Sarah Dozier
Martin Dozier
Charlotte Jimmy Ewing
Beth Ewing
William Slocumb
Paige “Bahki” Slocumb
Emily A. Jones

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

So, that's my email, but my favorite part is the email I received from my Uncle Robert several days later when he realized I had (inadvertently) left him off the original email. Please see below:

Pot Pot Face:

Where in the HELL is MY name ? It’s too late now, but I should have been the first one in "Tier One"! I guess my wife is cooler and more hip than I am (even though she only made "Tier Three"). May the fleas of 1000 camels infest your nasty butt!!

Sincerely,

Uncle (maybe ex-uncle) Robert

P.S. JACKASS!

And THAT, my friends, is why you wish you could come with us.

Dating Regression

An email from my good friend Bobby popped up the other day around lunchtime with the subject line "hey tell me what you think about this" and a "fwd" header.

Intrigued, I opened it up and found a very brief explanation followed by a forwarded email from a woman (who I didn't know) preceeded by a (somewhat flowery) email from Tommy to the young woman. Below that, the question from Bobby directed at me (in bold) was: "Well, what do you think this means? I think I'm in good shape, don't you?"

I quickly read through the chain of correspondence and determined that he had attempted to "sling some game" in her general direction via email. She responded to a very polite and chivalrous dinner invitation with a terse, delayed, "lets meet for coffee" email and only a passing jab at an apology for the delay.

That. my friends, is the Shaft-O-Matic.

Naurally, I wanted to be the one to let him down easy; so I said (gently): "Bobby, she hates you" and followed with the comments below. I thought you, gentle reader, may appreciate the following show of depth and character:


Bobby:

I recommend the following general, non-specific advice to anyone in your position. Bear in mind some of this does not apply to you, but I went ahead and threw it all in for good measure:

Just meet the girl for coffee. Don't talk about anything serious, how you feel about her, dating, or anything like that. Keep it light and be funny. Don't talk politics, don't mention your shrink, don't share your thoughts on abortion, Obama, Osama, Hillary, Florida football, female softball players, ethnic groups, the NRA, liberals, or public pools. And please, please, PLEASE do NOT mention that buying feed for the cows you keep in your backyard is one of your highest monthly expenses.

Anytime you talk about YOU for more than 30 seconds you're already screwing up. You'll have to share stuff about you, but keep it brief. At the same time - don't pepper her with questions about HER; just follow whatever rabbit trail she lays down and be ready to suggest your own if she falters.

If you get in a jam, remember: everybody loves the Olympics, panda bears, great restaurants, funny stories, and John F. Kennedy. "Hey, did you hear about John F. Kennedy's pet Panda Bear choking to death on water chestnuts during the olympic opening ceremonies" is no good though; its too elaborate. If you must fabricate a news story to keep the ball rolling - mind the two rules of thumb: keep it simple and don't kill off any endangered species.

DO - open the door, pay, and MOST IMPORTANTLY: be the one to suggest you leave shortly after coffee is over.

DON'T loiter and give her the opportunity to say "hey ok....well.....I gotta go....."

If she starts playing with her her keys, fiddling with her phone, or looks around for her purse - shout "Oh MAN!!! I gotta meet so and so for such and such - so we better go!!!" as fast as you can blurt it out, then seek shelter.

DON'T hang by her car, park near her, or walk her to it. Let the door be the bifurcation in your parting.

Afterwards, a great thing to do is: DON'T email her! Then another great thing to do is.....DON'T DO ANYTHING INVOLVING THE INTERNET OR EMAILING HER. Instead: wait and see what happens.

If she later emails to say 'hey I had fun at coffee; we should do it again sometime!' say, "hey that's a great idea - when are you free next week?"

It is important you memorize that line. NEVER suggest a firm day immediately, because if she's NOT free that day you'll have to say "what about Friday" and it looks like you're a complete loser and have nothing to do.

If you blow it like a big dummy and follow with "what about Friday" like I just told you not to, and you get lucky and she says "yeah Friday works" you can recover with "NO, wait! I forgot I'm busy Friday" and then say "ok this is ridiculous!! What works for you other than Friday?"

If she says no to Friday you're in complete loser territory; thats two no's in a row - get out immediately.

If she says "thanks for coffee I had fun", or she says nothing at all; you're done - move on. Don't be the guy who can't take a hint.

In the even of a misfire (click! - no "boom!") - make sure youre always happy and smile alot anytime shes around. Talk to lots of people and be friendly, acknowledge her and be friendly to her, but let her see that you didn't care. You can still turn a "misfire" into a "hang-fire" http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hang_fire (click!! POP!!! wait for it...wait for it.......BOOOMMMM!!!) if you're lucky.

If you do as I say - your kindness will be a splinter in her mind. She'll hate it, and despise you so efficiently that she might just come full circle. Remember - women are perverse. They only like you if you're not interested.

But like I said: you should definitely go to coffee.

Sincerely,

Jimmy The Love Stallion

aka "LoveMonster"

aka "Lonesome Dove"

aka "Take what I can get"

aka "Please Don't Leave Me"

aka "Homeschool"

A Commitment to Good Health

I believe that paying for a gym membership on a monthly basis is the cornerstone of good health. I haven’t actually BEEN to the gym in several years, but just knowing that I could (if I wanted) go sweat my face off with 20 strangers is enough for me. I may not ever go, but I definitely pay for it once a month – and that’s inexpensive peace of mind if you ask me. I consider it part of my general life-long commitment to good health.

I have no excuse for avoiding it other than that I HATE working out; plus something inside me rebels against the idea of running in place. It makes me feel like a big sweaty, hairy, hamster on a giant mechanized hamster wheel – and I don’t like that. At no point in my life do I want to feel that I have something in common with a tailless rodent. I also hate running, in general. In fact, if you see me running down the street – shoot whoever is right behind me. I’m running FROM him, not WITH him.

I’m sure you see my dilemma.

It’s not like there are hungry lions lurking in the neighborhood. If I need to get in great shape in case I feel predatory eyes trained on me out by the garbage cans – I believe I’ll learn to love running. The fact is - I don’t need to be in great shape to do what I do. In fact, I could spend 90% of my day tethered to a mule and it wouldn’t seriously cramp my style.

Certain people in my life don’t understand that. These certain people seem to feel that gym membership alone isn’t enough. Apparently, there is a widely-held misconception in the world that suggests gym ATTENDANCE is the heart of the matter.

It’s a tough argument and honestly, I don’t have a great excuse. I JUST DON’T LIKE IT and, consistent with my habit of not doing things I don’t want to do - I don’t work out.

My roommate, Austin K. Lee, has a medical condition wherein his entire body breaks out into angry hives if his heart climbs 10% over its resting rate. The man is, literally, allergic to hard work. I wish I had that problem, but I don’t. “Hey I WOULD work out, but I blow up like a big, puffy, red, hairy balloon if I get sweaty” is a much more compelling argument than “nahhhh, I don’t like it.”

Much to my chagrin, my girlfriend, Jessica, compelled me to actually ATTEND a boot camp-type gym class on Monday morning.

I didn’t break into hives....but now I can’t walk.

I guess I showed her!

I woke up at 3am on Monday morning and I couldn’t get back to sleep. So I did what I normally do when I can’t sleep - I snuck into each of my roommates rooms and tiptoed around their beds once to see how sneaky I can be (very sneaky), then I sat on the edge of my bed and tried to fast forward through all my Tivo’d hunting shows. I can’t delete a show unless I watch a little bit of it, so I’m on a constant campaign to get my Tivo memory down to zero. Then, I lay on my back and watched my ceiling fan for a little while until I got dizzy. After that I got up, dressed in workout attire, and headed out.

I arrived early and stood around in the parking lot for a little while watching cars go by until burly women in weightlifting gloves started pulling up. I picked a particularly mannish patron, followed her in the door for protection from flying medicine balls, and started warming up.

My warm-up routine involves shooting the breeze with the gym owner for a few minutes, getting a cup of water, going to the bathroom and smelling the weird air freshener, then standing in a prominent position in front of the mirror sucking my gut in for a little while. I concentrate on looking tough (which is hard to do with so many freckles) - so I end up with a sort of snarling grimace on my face.

When my warm-up routine is over the “class” starts and we end up basically running around a lot with weights, laying around on the floor a lot with weights, and rolling around on a big rubber ball a lot…also with weights. Ordinarily someone sweats on me, someone else smells really weird and gets too close to me, someone else surpasses me at some feat of strength, and finally weird/smellly accidentally touches me and I'm halfway home before the trainer knows I'm gone: usually in that order.

So, we kick that process off at about 6:40. 9 minutes later I’m 50% of the way through 100 jumping-rope-jumps (I can’t get a streak of more than about 4 in a row so it takes a while) when our trainer walks over, looks at the gigantic woman next to me, then back at me, and says “hey you look like you’re in reasonable shape. I’ve got a challenge for you.”

Well, that already doesn’t sound good to me at all, but the big lady next to me was huffing like a blue whale and she looked so grateful at the chance to catch her breath that I figured I’d draw it out a little. So, I asked him what exactly he meant, and how much challenge did he think was appropriate for 6:42AM on a Monday? I meant it rhetorically as a conversation starter, but he promptly snatched away the 45lb barbell I had forgotten to take it down from over my head, pointed at an 10ft long PVC pipe, and said “give that bad boy a try.”

I immediately think slyly to myself: "This guy ain’t real sharp. Here I am holding 45lbs of steel over my head like a prison camp intern and he wants to 'challenge' me with 4lbs of PVC." Naturally, I’ll take him up on his offer – you know?

First – a little bit about the gym. It's not more than 22 feet across. A 225lb sweaty guy stumbling around in the middle of it with an 10ft 4” diameter PVC pipe over his shoulders is what some insurance companies might call “a hazardous situation”, but I figured if the TRAINER told me to do it – it was fine.

So, I lifted all 4lbs of PVC over my head…….and immediately fell over. He neglected to mention that it was 50% full of water "for balancing". He grins. I feel stupid from down on the floor, which is where I often feel stupid.

At exactly that point; as I'm struggling back to my feet holding 10 feet of white plastic-filled water-torture across my shoulders in a melee of huffing, jogging, early-morning workout-people: weird/smelly brushes against me and I'm out the door before that PVC hit the ground.

I would go back, but going to the gym makes me not able to walk.

Daily Correspondence

I thought you might enjoy a brief glimpse into my daily correspondence. See below for a recent thread between me and my good friend and associate, Emily Jones, discussing a mutual friend of ours:

From: Emily Jones
Well, I'm not sure if she needs cheering up or not. I'm not sure what is happening. I'm trying to be patient and wait for her to call me back.

From: Ewing, James
Go over there and smack her with a broom handle. That'll put a smile on her face.

From: Emily Jones
You are just Mr. Helpful!

From: Ewing, James
I know.

From: Emily Jones
I don't know how i would get thru without you.

From: Ewing, James
You wouldn’t.

From: Ewing, James
I've left a box with my lawyer. If I die its going to get mailed to you the day before my funeral. Inside will be a gun and two bullets. At my funeral, right before they play "Free Bird," shoot at my coffin, holler something unintelligible, then kill yourself.

That way people will always wonder what in the hell was going on.

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.