TEXAS SIX-GUN DOUBLE TOILET CHILI WITH ALL THE FIXINS!

The secret for making any type of good chili is quite obviously in the
preparation. So, with that in mind make sure you have plenty of your
favorite potables on hand before you start.   I'm a beer man so that
means I'll need 5-7 cases of beer before I even go to the store to buy
the ingredients for TSGDTC.   If I want the chili on Sunday I'll buy the
beer on Monday or Tuesday.   I usually take plenty of time off from work
for this too.   Generally an entire week is needed if I want to do it
right.   I like to have an attitude before I start making the chili.
That means I have to get up early in the morning, put on my favorite
pair of boxer shorts and start drinking beer in front of the TV.   I
won't watch Good Morning America either.   I need to watch something that
will really get me pissed off, so I'll watch either CNN, The Home
Shopping Network, the Women's Entertainment Channel, Lifetime, The
Religion Channel or reruns of Will & Grace. Maybe I should give a brief
description of what is needed for TSGDTC on a day by day basis?   I think
this approach will be much more plausible.

Day One (preferably a Monday)
Drag your happy ass out of bed at 5AM.  Slop on your favorite pair of
boxer shorts and get ready for 'The Week That Scared Satan.' Look at
yourself in the bathroom mirror.   Try and remember what you look like
because soon you'll have no recollection.   Make a couple of 'muscle man'
poses for good measure and then remind yourself that you need to drop at
least 5-10 ponds this week.   With any luck, you should lose at least 20.

Walk through your living room and flip on the TV.   Next, go to the
kitchen and grab yourself a beer.   You should be shaking your head in
disgust at yourself at this point because things ain't gonna be pretty
for the rest of the week.   Pop the top on your beer and kiss sobriety
good bye for the next 7 days. This is gonna hurt and you know it.

The first beer may go down a little rough at 5 AM, but don't worry about
it.   You'll be losing all form of streaming consciousness soon enough.
Flip through the channels until you become so bored that farting starts
to take on a new meaning in your life.   You should have about 6-7 beers
drained by this point.   You may as well masturbate now too.   You'll
probably be so drunk the rest of the week that a hard cock will be an
impossibility.   A decent porn collection is an essential.   Pick out one
of your favorites and treat yourself to an old fashioned flogging
session. Drink a few more beers.  

After you clean up after yourself, go get another beer and then spend
the rest of the morning in front of the computer looking at porn and
drinking beer.   Send an email to all your buddies and tell them that you
are making TSGDTC this Sunday for the football game(s).  'Won't you
please come over and join me?' 

At this point, you should have just woke up from a nice little nap with
the keys of your computer keyboard indelibly stamped into your forehead.
Your computer screen will undoubtedly have an image of the nicest set of
jugs/hooters you have ever seen. Where did those come from??   Why do  men do this?   It really doesn't matter.   You look at your watch and notice it's noon.   YES!
Time for Andy Griffith.  

Andy Griffith comes and goes in a flash. You get tired of going to the kitchen for beer so you fill up a cooler with beer and ice and set it next to your Lazy Boy. Now, if the thing only had a urinal you'd be all set. So, you improvise.   You go to the garage (drinking another beer on the way) and get a large funnel and a twenty foot section of garden hose. You secure the funnel into one end of the garden hose with duct tape and drape it loosely over the arm of your Lazy Boy.   You stretch the other end of the hose out the patio door or window. You drain another beer and test your new invention.   It WORKS.   GOD!   You are a fuckin' genius.   You should patent this and enter it for Pulitzer consideration. Now you're all set.   A PISSER!  This will save you from making those pesky trips to the bathroom.  You might want to put a towel down on the floor too.  Just in case you dribble a little and accidentally miss the funnel. You know that us men aren't the best of aim at times--especially when inebriated/shit faced. 

You pop another beer and return to watching TV. Judge Judy is now gnashing her teeth at some poor dummy who obviously can't count her tits twice and come up with the same number.  She's full-flow pre menstrual today.  GOD!  That woman is a total bitch!  Why does she pick on stupid people like that?  Oh well, it must make her feel superior.  You finish off a few more beers and take a little nap.

When you wake up you grab another beer and notice it's dinner time.  Hell, you're not even close to being hungry and besides, you'll be eating TSGDTC on Sunday, so you skip the idea of food altogether and have a few more beers.  You drift in and out of consciousness for a few more hours and decide to play on the computer again.  You email all your buddies again to remind them that this Sunday is TSGDTC Day.  Please come over and bring your own beer, damnit!  You end up in a Gay/Lesbian chat room and try to have an intelligent conversation with some Nazi Bull Dyke aerobic instructor.  You end up pissing her and her other 58  Nazi Bull Dyke friends off.  You get reported to AOL Terms Of Service and a member of the CAT team IM's you.  Turns out, she's gay too.  The bitch!  So your AOL account is temporarily frozen.  Luckily you have a whole stack of free discs that they keep sending you and you go drain another beer and test your new invention again.  It  still works.  Damn this is more fun than Cub Scouts.  Taking a whiz in your own living room turns out to be great fun!  You should have thought of this years ago. 

You go back to the computer and drain another beer while waiting to sign on under a brand new screen name.  You try and come up with something cute for a screen name, but IveGottaBigDick   and  MyTenInchTool  are already taken by some other sick pervert.  You settle for IvaSorwinki.  You go back into the same Gay/lesbian chat room and pretend you are a woman.  You make a date with the Nazi Bull Dyke that originally got you kicked off line.  You tell her you have big fat fingers and she can't wait to meet you this Thursday at 7:30 at The Rainbow Cattle Company Bar & Grill. You email all your buddies again and try to make them think your new screen name is 'brilliant.'  You invite them over again this Sunday for some TSGDTC.  You also ask them to bring their own beer and porn.

You suck down a few more beers and notice it's about 3 AM.  Damn!  You've been up for close to an entire day drinking!  You are a hero!  The urge to masturbate comes over you again, but you couldn't raise wood with a piece of string and a helium balloon.  You decide to give your old girlfriend a call instead.  Hell, it's only 3 AM--SURE, she's awake and will love to talk to you about old times again.  This will be a real treat.  You know she still loves you and will be here at your place in a matter of minutes wearing a sexy teddy when you tell her how much you miss. love and need her. Thirty seconds later you're wondering about your first wife because your last girlfriend is a stuck up bitch who never understood you in the first place! You drink a few more beers and pass out until noon the next day.

Days Two thru Six 
Repeat Day One

Day Seven

At long last the day of reckoning is here.  You've lost 15 pounds and are severely dehydrated from the lack of food and the over abundance of beer.  You wake up and look at the clock.  FAWK!  11:00 AM.  Your friends will be here in an hour and you haven't even gone to the store to buy any of the ingredients for the TSGDTC.  Once again, you improvise.  You look in your refrigerator and notice you are down to your last 12 beers out of the 9 cases you started with only 6 days prior. You find a whole chicken that was once warmed up in a pot of water earlier in the week.  Hmmm.  This would make a good base. You tear the meat from the bones and put it in a pot.  You empty 4 cans of kidney beans, 2 cans of sliced mushrooms. an onion a half a can of Chef Boy Ar Dee spaghettios and a jar of Chi Chi's Salsa into a pan and hope for the best.  DAMN!  This is gonna be great!  Cold beer, all your friends over for football and the TSGDTC. At least it smells palatable.  Should be a GREAT day for everyone concerned.  You wait and wait for your friends to show up.  You're about out of beer and you want to drink some of theirs.  Finally there is a knock at the door!  You open it and some muscle-laden Nazi Bull Dyke aerobic instructor named Gwen is standing there with 58 of her Nazi Bull Dyke friends waiting to kick your ass.  This isn't gonna be your day after all.  Better go have a beer.   
* Winner of the Better Huts & Compost Pile National Chili Award for
Dipsomaniacs.   

LAST WEEK'S COLUMN:

Somebody is sick, and I really mean that

Well, It's cold and flu season once again and I have been fortunate enough to have succumbed to the evils of that nasty little thing known as 'The Flu Bug.'  What a pain in the ass.  Why can't God just warn you in advance about these things?  He could just tell you something like "OK bub, you got a week of down time coming.  Better get some extra Kleenex, aspirin and stock up on fresh juice.  Don't forget to return those XXX movies or you're gonna have some hefty late fees too."  But NO!  The Flu Bug has to sneak up on you in the middle of the night and choke any recollection of healthy living cleanly out of your body.  Your sinuses swell with copious amounts of phlegm.  It comes in such quantity and color that you would swear someone had shoved exploding diuretic crayons up your nose while you were sleeping.  Your head and face ache from the swelling of your sinuses.  The incessant headache that accompanies the sinus problem is merely another minor consequence of what is yet to come.

You get the chills.  You get the sweats.  Your bed linen is so soiled that you have to burn it before you throw it away.  You lay awake at night wondering if you can use the new Black & Decker power drill you got for Christmas to punch a few new holes in your sinus cavities to alleviate some of the pressure. 

Every joint and muscle in your body feels like it's been stretched, bent and pulled.  It's a major chore to raise your arms to blow your nose.  Your eyes feel like they are going to explode out of your head and splatter on the wall 25 feet away.  You'd welcome the relief.  Anything!   GOD, just make this go away!

Of course there is the food factor involved when you are ill.  You want to eat, but your bowels have no intention of retaining any of the offerings you make.  So, you give up food altogether.  It lowers your immune system even further.  This is a no win situation.  Your insides are nothing more than an expressway for chewed up bilious nutrients.  Ah, the joys of diarrhea.  I almost feel like making some corn and peanut omelets right now just to fool my stomach into thinking I've eaten something nutritious.  Hmm, maybe I could recycle that and really fool my stomach.  It wouldn't make any difference.  I couldn't taste it anyway. 

I just want this to go away.  I want someone to come and read me a story.  Someone to tuck me in bed and rub my feet.  Hell, I want to be breast fed too.  What the hell, I'm sick damnit!  I'll be back when I'm better.  Right now I have to brave the cold, icy outdoors and return a few movies before I get charged too much in late fees.  I hope this adventure outside won't kill me, but I'm sure it will.

Cya Next time!

Sicky Pickle   

Colloquialisms

One of the great things I've learned since moving to the South is that there is an abundance of colorful language.  It's not particularly worldly or vulgar, but it does have certain earthy connotations that make the dialect a language all unto it's own. The woman I'm dating has opened my eyes (and ears) to a whole new world of idiosyncratic vocabulary that I never knew existed.  She was raised in the Smoky Mountains and if I pay attention to her I can learn several new phrases daily.  Of course, her accent (she doesn't have one, I do) is deliciously charming.  I could listen to her talk all day long and usually do.  I'm totally in awe of how she can stuff 3-8 syllables into a monosyllabic word. 

Hearing the word 'it' with 4 syllables is just about as common as grits, Stucky's and a Waffle House on every exit off of I-75 in Georgia.  I'm learning to accept this new language.  I know I'll probably never speak it, but I am learning it (AKA ee-ee-ee-ee-tt).  I guess I'm a hard core Yankee and will never lose my Mid Western dialect. It sure is fun learning what some of the phrases mean though.

For instance, one day we were having a discussion about a story in the news and how surprised the gentleman must have been when he returned home to find his trailer missing after a tornado ripped through the area (OK, no real surprise for most people in a trailer park).  I said "I'll bet that guy would have been "shittin kittens" if he were inside the trailer when that happened.  She got a blank look on her face and didn't know what to think of the term 'shittin kittens'.  Then a light came on and she had done the translation in her head.  She corrected me and said "OH!  You mean Shittin Squealy Worms."  I'd never heard this phrase before and there was no way I was going to ask what Squealy Worms were.  It sounded like a terrible disease you get after eating too many Moon Pies and drinking too many RC Colas.  That was my introduction into the amazing world of 'Southern Speak.' 

Since my introduction I have learned a plethora of other phrases as well.  I have been fortunate enough to 'luck up' in certain situations, which basically means my particular circumstances at the time could have been a lot worse.  We stopped along a Country Road one day so I could relieve myself.  I knew she had to go too and asked her why she wasn't doing so.  She stated "ain't no way I'm 'shinin my hiney' for the whole world to see."  I'm pretty sure that meant she wasn't about to piss on the road side with me.  Oh well, so much for that magical moment.  I'm sure it would have been a special remembrance for us.  Especially if we both would have contracted poison ivy. 


I've also learned that there are two different ways to be nude in NC.  One way is being Nekkid.  The other way is being Naykid.  If you happen to be nekkid, chances are good that you're all alone in a bath tub or a shower.  If you're fortunate enough to be naykid, well I don't think I have to explain that one........Let's just say it's a LOT more fun being Naykid than it is being Nekkid.  I have experienced both ways and I'll attest to the fact.


Then there are the pet names you get when you are involved in a relationship.  I never knew these existed.  Terms like 'Lover,' 'Darlin', 'Baby', 'Sweetie' and 'Shugger' all seem to be common place amongst people involved in relationships here.  I do admit to having a hard time embracing these terms and feel a little embarrassed using them.  Maybe I'll keep practicing, who knows?  It does feel pretty good when a cashier at the local grocery says something like "Y'all have a nice one, sweetie."  I usually respond by saying "Thanks for noticing."  They seem to be about as thrown off guard with the response as I am with their statement.  I guess that one is a fair trade in verbal gymnastics.  

Last, but not least are the condescending "Well, bless you're lil' heart" and "You're SO precious" colloquialisms.  Be real careful with these two.  These statements are little more than an omnipotent way of calling a Yankee a dumb ass without his/her knowledge.  Yes, I am precious and yes I've had my lil' heart blessed on more occasions than I care to remember.  I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but it must have taken me at least 2 dozen good 'blessings' before I finally realized that my girlfriend was telling me that my actions were considered 'stupid' and really weren't acceptable in this region.  Example: Some of the roads here that lead to the tops of the mountains can be filled with tourists (generally from Florida). These roads are also very curvy and have drop offs of more than 100 feet at any given point.  I once had to follow a tourist (a Floridiot) 18 miles up the side of a mountain at 10 miles per hour.  Yes, I was pissed off.   When I finally reached the top of the Mountain I explained why I was late.  All I got in response was "Well, bless your lil' heart."  At first I thought it was genuine concern for my tribulations coming up the mountain.  I found later that 10 miles an hour behind a Flatlander is the general rule of thumb.  I was simply being placated and without my knowledge at the time, was also being called a dumb ass because that's the way ALL tourists drive here. 

I know there are a lot more sayings that I have heard and just can't think of at the moment.  Maybe I'll come back and up date this story in another year after I've immersed myself into the local culture?  I doubt it, but I might.

Well Y'all, I gotta get.  My Grits is gettin a lil' chilly on the breakfast table.

See Ya'll next time and Y'all have a real nice one!


Sticky Pickle

flatulence

The fart.  I think God was demonstrating his wonderful sense of humor when he created the human body and allowed us the pleasure of farting.  Of course, some would view farting as obscene, rude and done in poor taste.  Especially the female gender.  Women can't even say the word without grimacing.  They have invented their own terms for it.  A 'Piff,' a 'Poot' and my all time favorite, 'the Vapors' are all terms invented by women which are employed to avoid the use of the word. Why not just call it what it is?

Children think farts are fun too.  Have you ever had a child pull your finger when you have to fart?  It's great!  They look up at you with wonder and amazement in their eyes.  Then they start giggling and try pulling their own fingers to see if they can mimic you. Ah! the power of influence.  I don't like to hear a child use the word 'fart.'  They need to be at least 13 to be able to use it effectively.  That's why I've taught my 6 year old daughter to use another term.  She now calls them 'Trouser Sneezes'.  She doesn't get into nearly as much trouble in school when this term is properly applied.  I'm sure she impresses some of her class mates as well with her extended vocabulary.

Farting has the power to produce effects that can be either welcome or lurid.  I had a nine hour layover in the Dallas/Fort Worth airport about 4 weeks ago and decided to try a personal experiment. I had been eating beef jerky, pickled eggs, cabbage, Num Tok and Larb the previous evening.  I'd also washed down all these culinary delicacies with a half bottle of good Sake.  I was primed.  I was in the best shape of my life for making my presence known in a large public arena.  This was going to be fun!  My first target: An annoying fat lady who wouldn't get off the phone.  I could feel my stomach bubbling with anticipation as I slowly meandered past her space.  I slowed momentarily while passing her and let the gas pass.  I immediately filled her space with he most rancid, festering odor I ever had the pleasure of producing.  I quickened my pace and stopped about 6 phones down.  It took less than 10 seconds for the fart to manifest itself to her. It was a moment I'll cherish for a long time.  At first I heard her gasp for new air.  But that wasn't possible.  I had eliminated that possibility.  The fart I produced would have knocked a Buzzard off a Shit Wagon.  Parts of it had followed me and I was getting some of its effects as well.  My eyes started to water.  The fat lady looked at me as if to say "what crawled up YOUR ass and died?"  I returned her gaze with a quizzical look, shrugged my shoulders and continued making a phone call as if all was right in my world.  I wasn't about to take the blame.  It was too nasty. 

This is when I saw trouble loom on the horizon.  The woman I had been dating for the past 3 months was closing in on the area I had attacked with my ass only moments before.  She was flying home with me to meet my family.  Oh Shit!  Here comes a true test of love, I thought to myself.  When she hit the Nuclear Zone around the fat lady she stopped dead in her tracks.  It was like she hit a force field.  She paused momentarily, shook her head a little bit and then started laughing.  God bless her!  She came up to me and said "I think that fat bitch is shittin' squealy worms."  I had no idea what 'squealy worms' were but I agreed with her on the spot.  There was NO WAY I was accepting responsibility for that noxious bowel disturbance.  Thank God, I now had a patsy to accept the blame for me. We were both laughing like second graders.  I was laughing because I had got away with something and didn't have to take the blame.  She was laughing because it smelled so bad. 

We continued walking through the airport visiting all the overpriced little shops.  I was still feeling like a hero because some fat lady was blamed for my gastrointestinal anomaly.  The feeling was short lived.  I felt another fart wanting to make an encore appearance.  There was nowhere to turn.  Nowhere to run. I grabbed my girlfriend's arm and said "Let's take a ride on the express walk" in hopes that a little air rushing past me would alleviate some of the ribald fumes. No luck.  The next fart was worse than the first one.  I should have known the first one was only a precursor.  Before the aroma overtook us, I noticed the same fat lady coming at us from the other direction.  Right after she passed us on the express walk, the aroma hit.  My girlfriend had noticed the fat lady and when the smell hit us she really started laughing.  I heard a couple of teenagers behind us say "GOD DAMN."  Most of the other passengers around us were polite, but I could tell they were highly distressed.  Thank goodness that was the last one.

I've decided not to indulge in the hot, spicy, gassy foods when flying again.  Cabbage will work just fine and I'm sure it will make for some fun noises as well.  So, if you're at the airport and hear a loud TTTThhppptttttt!  Just turn around and give me a wave hello!  I'll wink at you and let you pull my finger!


Cya next time!


StinkyPickle

Mixing gasoline and alcohol can be FUN!!

 I had an interesting experience today. I came close to spending a few thousand dollars for a new riding lawn mower.  Granted, I've done some pretty stupid things in my life. Hell, I've been married twice and I have two monthly support payments. But, I've learned from the marriages and I know damn well I learned how to put gas in a lawn mower back in the first grade. I don't know what the hell I was thinking today.
I was cutting the lawn for the guy who runs this web site. He was out of town with his wife and I figured I'd have some fun out in the sun and cut his lawn. He has a huge lawn and I was about an hour through the ordeal when his riding mower ran out of gas about 100 yards away from the replacement fuel.& SHIT!  Why can't I do anything right? I could have run out of gas a little closer to the shed, but no! So, I hoofed it up to the shed and brought the gas can back to the mower. I lifted up the hood of the mower and opened up the first spout I saw. I took the dip stick out and put the funnel in to the hole. ( OK, I'd had about 8 beers). The funnel sure looked pretty. The dip stick looked good too. I was looking at it when I heard the first few drops of fuel spill out of the gas can. That is the exact moment I realized that the mower was low on OIL and NOT gas! It was too late. I had poured gas into the engine block. I stood there for a moment and cursed myself. Then I saw myself as that cartoon that says "SUCKER" all over Bugs Bunnies face.
I have lived on a farm and have driven at least 12 different types of lawn/farm/garden tractors. I have repaired them. I have replaced fuel lines. I have rebuilt the engines on old Ford tractors. I know where the oil goes. I know where the gas goes. I have NO idea why I poured gas in the oil slot today. I did know enough to NOT try and start the engine with gas in the crankcase. I searched for oil in his shed, found none and went to the closest gas station to buy some. I hoped that 4 quarts would blow the gas out.
I got back and drained the oil and gas that was in the crankcase. I hope the fire ants don't mind me accidentally spilling a little 'fire' water on their dwelling. At least I didn't leave a stain on the lawn. I just killed a few pesky critters. All of the liquid was drained from the motor. I was still feeling pretty stupid. I filled the crank case with oil and let the engine sit for a few minutes. I was dreading the smoke that the engine was going to produce when I started it. Twenty minutes later I decided to start it. Damn smoke! I know some of his neighbors had to see it. Hell, I was in the front yard. Five minutes later the smoke stopped. Two minutes after that my heart stopped racing. I went back inside and grabbed another beer and finished cutting the grass.
Oh yes, in case any of you are wondering, the gas opening is under the seat. I already knew this, but beer affected me today. I was a lawn mowing SCHMICKLE! I'd write a little more right now, but I just got a call to meet a friend at a bar called "Turf Time."
Cya all next time!
Sticky Pickle

HELL-BENT FOR RUFUS -N- BOOZE

OK OK

I know it's been about a month.  Sue my happy ass.  I promise to try and do better at updating this in the future.  I can tell by the voluminous emails I've been getting that BOTH of you care!  At least I'm not stoned while I'm writing this.

Lemme see, what seems to be amusing me today?  I know--I moved to Atlanta since my last writing.  I like it here.  It was 78 degrees here today. I did a weather check on the town where I last lived and it was 21 degrees and they had over 6 inches of snow.  Do you think I miss it?  I don't.  I'm not moving back.  I'll visit in the summer to get away from the heat here, but I don't think I can do another winter up there.  Snow sucks.  I guess I'm turning into an old fart. 

My first week here was spent in a geographical haze.  It took me over an hour to find a liquor store one day.  MAN, I was pissed!  They don't sell liquor in drug stores like REAL states do.  They don't even sell beer on golf courses on Sundays. Thank God my golf bag holds a 12-pak and ice.

Traffic here kind of sucks.  But that doesn't really matter to me because I drive better than anyone else anyway.  I'm a definite Type A driver and any car that gets in my way will be run off the road.  I really don't care.  ....... Speaking of really not caring......

My ex wife had a(n) hysterectomy today.  I'll bet that hurt.  I'm wondering if a woman suffers from any type of post partem when her uterus has been removed?  It was a 'Belly Button' surgery so at least she wasn't ripped open and gutted like a fish.  I called and talked with her too.  She was on morphine; At least she won't remember all my silly comments about the joys of being 'barren.'  I'm a prick, huh?  I was going to ask if her uterus could have been transplanted in another woman, but she said she wasn't on a donor list so I dropped the entire subject and asked her if she thought IU had a chance in the Final Four.  I was crushed to find out that she really didn't give a shit about Basketball at the moment.  She does live in Indiana, her last name used to be 'Knight' and she has an Uncle that most people hate!  I hate him too.  At least he doesn't live in Indiana any longer.  He never sent us Christmas cards or basketball tickets, so why should I like him?

I live in the Soul Patrol part of Atlanta and neighbor Rufus has his bass speakers turned up a little too loud again.  I'm getting sick and tired of having to knock on his door to tell him that the 'Sickle Cell Shuffle' is just tad too loud and bass-ridden for my tastes.  I'm thinking of wearing a pillow case over my head the next time I have to visit him.  Poor Rufus.  Maybe I'll give his bass speakers a(n) hysterectomy.  That's not wrong is it?


Cya next time,

Sticky Pickle            

DUDE, WHERE'S MY CAR?

Sorry I've been gone for a few weeks (OK, over a month) but a lot has been happening.  My five year old lost a tooth, I'm getting ready to move to Atlanta and my mother was arrested for prostitution (again).  At least Dad had a few days of peace and quiet. 

Plus, I did something so stupid, so arcane in my mind, so DUMB!  I got stoned last night.  Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against people smoking dope.  I rather enjoy watching a stoned person trying to function.  The mind wanders, the hand-eye coordination malfunctions, the words that come out of the mouth seem to be reenacted from another life time.  Yup, seems like a wonderful time to me!  NOT!  But that's the way I was last night. 

I felt like the Village Idiot and I LOVED it!  I don't plan on making this a regular experience, but I guess I could be talked into it again in the near future.  Hell, I can't even remember the last time I smoked pot.  I guess I just got caught up in the moment last night and decided, 'what the hell?' 

I took a puff off the joint that was being passed and could feel my head get dizzy.  Hmm, I thought to myself.  This could be fun.  Maybe I should take another puff on the next pass through.  So I did.  And another.  And another.  And another.  By the time the roach clip was employed I was so stoned I couldn't even fart.  Hell, I could barely think.  That's when the provider/dope pusher/my new best friend told me the name of the stuff.  After he had taken the last puff, he looked at me and euphemistically pronounced the following two words: Train Wreck.  I sure felt like I had been in one.  Then my mind wandered for a few moments (hell, it could have been hours for all I know) and I told him he could probably call it Exit Wound too.  I was fucked up.  Thank God he had beer there.  My mouth was drier than a Carpet Jockey's camel.  I could have sworn I had four arms, three legs and there were elephants crawling out of my chest.  My mouth felt like there was a coat hangar stuck inside of it.  I had a smile that wouldn't go away.  The TV was on and I tried to concentrate on the Olympic Snowboarding.  That proved to be futile as well.  I looked at the competitor and wondered how much mousse he must have used to get his hair to stand straight up like it did.  Then I started wondering why Snowboarding was an Olympic event.  Then I started wondering how television really worked.  Then I started wondering why I was doing so much wondering.  Then I started wondering if I would ever stop wondering.  My brain was doing overtime.  I hadn't thought this much since I was in jail.  The buzz I was suffering from started to annoy me.  I felt retarded and I said so out loud.  " I think I've done smoked myself retarded."  The look I got in response pretty much alerted me to the fact that all of us had done the same thing.  We all looked retarded too.  I was starting to wish the feeling would go away, but then I started wondering again and that thought flew out the window only to let another fly back in. I was waxing and waning philosophically about the virtues of our Swine community and pondering the assumption of whether or not they had any religious affiliation.  I hoped they did, because I knew their lives weren't very long and they may as well enjoy what little time they actually had on Earth.  My next thought was a sobering one.  I was five miles from home.  SHIT!  Why did I drive here this evening?  That was about as dumb as smoking pot!  I grabbed the Yellow Pages and started to look for a Taxi company to haul my happy ass back home.  I accidentally stumbled upon the Taxidermist section and forgot about the taxi for at least an hour. I finally caught a ride home.  I'd write more but I have to go get my car.  I hope I can remember where It's parked.   


cya next time!

Sticky Pickle

IS THE POPE CATHOLIC? DOES A ......PICKLE...SHIT IN THE WOODS?

I don't know why things like this seem to happen to me all the time, but they do.  I was recently out in California and had the opportunity to see and do many things.  One of the high lights of my trip was my last night there.  I was able to have an enjoyable dinner in the Mill Valley area before heading to SFO to catch the red eye home. 

On the way to the airport you have to cross the Golden Gate Bridge.  There is a little side road that allows you to drive up in the hills above the bridge.  You can get a spectacular view of Oakland, San Francisco and the bay from this spot.  It was late at night, and for once it was clear in San Francisco.  You could actually see stars in the sky that evening. 

I was with a person who had lived in the area for most of her life and I was getting a treat that most tourists don't know about.  We finally made it to the vista and got out of the car to take a look.  It really was a wonderful view.  Directly beneath me the Golden Gate Bridge stretched out straight into San Francisco.  To my left I could see Oakland.  It was a clear night and I could see the stars twinkling above all of this. 

This is when trouble arose.

I suddenly felt my stomach begin to get mad at the dinner I had eaten less than an hour before.  I don't know if 'mad' is a good word or not.  Maybe 'angry or 'pissed off' or "Postal" would be a little more apropos.  Whatever had gotten into me wanted out and it wanted out now!  And guess what?  I didn't have to throw up.  That would have been too easy.  There were no bathrooms in the immediate vicinity and I could tell that my time with unsoiled clothing was quickly evaporating.  Luckily I had earned my 'Shitting in the woods' merit badge when I was in Boy Scouts.  I located the nearest log and plopped my happy ass down.  My butt cheeks had barely touched the lumber when I let out a blast or colon pudding that I thought had put the lights out in Alcatraz. It sounded a lot like a wounded Canadian Goose.  MAN!  It was a relief. 

My friend brought me a few napkins she had stashed in her glove compartment.  She also brought me a moist towelette.  Sheesh---you women!   I was going to ask about the towelette but suddenly thought better of the idea.  I think it was at about this time that I became musically inspired.  I started singing:  "I left my shit in San Francisco."  Well, that weak attempt at humor went over like a pregnant pole vaulter with her.  Hey, I tried.  I always thought it was a good thing to laugh in the face of adversity, especially when your pants are down around your ankles. So much for my attempt at humor.  It failed miserably.

I know what you must be thinking.  Dude!  You need to get a life!  I also know that this little escapade was not a crowning jewel in my personal resume of life.  It is merely another bullet statement  that will hopefully be overlooked when I pass through those pearly gates.  Somehow, I doubt it.


Cya'll next Time!!

Sticky Pickle

 I CAN'T FIND MY MOMMY

I don't know about the rest of you, but I did something today that I promised myself I would never do again. Yes, I went Christmas Shopping with MOTHER.  It seemed harmless enough at first.  After she extended the invitation I thought to myself sure, why not?  It will be good to spend a few hours with Mom. 

We climbed into the van and as she pulled out of the driveway a strange Deja-vu overcame me.  I was getting sweaty.  My hands started to shake.  I suddenly remembered the last time I had gone shopping with MOTHER.  It had been close to a year.  OH NO!  How had I got myself into the same predicament again?  I was going to regret this and I knew it. 

Our first stop wasn't too bad.  We went to a place called Stein (no, NOT Stain) Mart.  MOTHER was quick to find a few bargains and proceeded to the checkout.  I was really impressed.  Only five minutes at this stop.  Or so I thought.  I think I learned a few things today.  I learned how to get a bargain on top of a bargain.  MOTHER had found two items on the clearance tables and when she gave the cashier the 25% OFF ANY item in the store coupons she had, a delicate exchange of words ensued.  The cashier tried explaining to MOTHER that the items she wished to purchase were already marked as low as possible.  MOTHER would have none of it.  When we left the store MOTHER was in possession of the items she wanted and she had managed to get an additional 25% off of the merchandise that was already marked 75% OFF!  I was amazed.  I'm glad I was wearing my Betty Ford Clinic Outpatient hat.  I knew I'd never be seen in that store again!

Next stop; A toy store.  Guess who had competitors coupons?  Yup, MOTHER.  I've always liked Toy Stores.  Probably because I have never grown up.  Oh well. Mother blitzed the aisles once again.  We were in and out of the Toy Store in less than fifteen minutes.  She had purchased 11 items and worked her magic with the coupons once again.  I was starting to wonder if I had some Jewish heritage.  This shopping trip wasn't too bad after all.  I was actually quite impressed with MOTHER'S wizardry in the store aisles.

Next stop; A huge department store.  This place was about 100,000 square feet of shopping manna for MOTHER.  I even found a Tasmanian Devil Cookie Jar there.  Taz is cool, so I bought it.  I made the mistake of taking my eyes off MOTHER for ten seconds.  When I turned around to look for her, she was gone!  She had disappeared.  She just up and vanished.  I'm used to this happening with my 5 year old daughter, not my 74 year old MOTHER.  I searched the store for the next fifteen minutes.  One of the sales associates noticed my plight.  She approached me and asked if she could help me find anything.  I was a tad bit disgruntled at this point with MOTHER.  I didn't mean to come across as a flake with this nice lady, so I faked crying and wailed "I LOST MY MOMMY" Thank God this woman had a keen sense of humor.  She told me she knew how to reunite little lost boys with their Mommies.  She escorted me to the customer service desk and asked me my age.  The next thing I knew she was on the loud speaker system.  "Will the Mother of a 42 year old lost little boy please pick him up at the Customer Service Desk?"  I started sweating and my hands started shaking again.  I was an embarrassed wreck.  All the check out ladies were looking directly at me and laughing.  I knew I was going to regret this day.

I'm shopping on line from now on!

cya next time,

Sticky Pickle

CHILI TONIGHT, HOT TAMALE, LIGHT 'EM UP!

It's that time of year again. Yes, that's right. There is a chill in the air and not enough warm stuff in my belly. I decided it was time to break out an old recipe. It was time to go to the store and buy some major league ingredients. After I hit the Beer aisle I meandered into the Rice and Bean section of the store. I found what I was looking for. A 2 pound sack of Pinto beans. Next stop--the mushroom section. After locating another pound of essential ingredients I headed for the Raw Meat section. I located 5 pounds of hamburger and threw that in my cart too. I was doing well. That's when I passed through the "cheap" aisle in the store and found 6 cans of tomatoes and chili peppers. This really was an All Star day! My stomach was going to be happy.

I only make Texas Six Gun Double Toilet Chili once a year and when I do, I make a day of it. The beer has to be cold and the chili has to be hot! Thank God, the beer was cold. It usually is at my house. Anyway, that's not the real point. The point is this: I am allowed to cook a meal for 5 or 18 of my friends. I'm allowed, or even called upon to make some of the best damn chili that a person could ever imagine. Yes, I have secret ingredients. No, I don't stir it with personal body parts. It's a labor of love and everyone who eats it usually LOVES it.

It's football season and nothing is better than a group of guys sitting around the tube watching football while drinking and farting and just generally having a good time.  It's a day of bonding that only comes once a week in the winter months.  Women aren't allowed in this private sanctum.  It is truly a day of MEN!  Nothing more, nothing less.  No, ladies I hate to disappoint you but we don't sit around and talk about how good or bad you look in that Leopard Skin nightie.  Nor do we swap sex stories about the size and shapes of our various partners.  We are all married or have been with a woman in the not so distant past and we realize that making up stories about our conquests is futile in the most common sense of the word.  The day is ours and we revel in it!

That's where good food comes in handy.  We know we don't have to talk about sex.  Just the GREAT play that this guy or that guy just made.  The bone jarring hit that the linebacker just made on the running back makes us howl with delight.  A fart is usually laughed at and appreciated when it is done tastefully.  Chili makes us fart and we know that.  It's the perfect food for football and men.  Some of us like to show off and light the occasional fart.  We're not braggarts, it's just a fun thing to do and has been since the day some cave man invented the practice. 

Yes, that's right.  We slop our knees up close to our ears, lean back a bit and put a Zippo next to our ass.  When the proper technique is employed, it makes for some good laughs and some even better pyrotechnics.  For those of you who truly want to have fun, try doing this in a dark room.   An intimate setting is guaranteed.  ( Hmmmm, beer and Kowalski's ASS on fire again this evening, huh? )  

The Chili I make isn't made for the weak of bowel.  It's made for Men who enjoy a good healthy fart.  It's made for the man who is proud of lighting something that the Space Shuttle could see from the other side of the planet.  Yes, the proper beans have to be stewed and brewed to make this happen.  That's why the Texas Six Gun Double Toilet Chili is such an omnipotent beast!  It 'dares' you to eat it.  It says "Eat me and have a gastronomical experience like that of your forefarters."  Its smell alone has been known to attract men from around the world!

The taste is wonderful and the giggles you can give yourself from its effects are worth a pair of torch-riddled undies.  Who cares if you fart up enough gas to weld the Titanic?  Hell, I sure don't.  I'd just love to see you light the gas!  It's YOUR ass anyway.  Think of all the fun you can have with your nieces and nephews?  "Hey Johnny/Judy---PULL this"  Your Brothers and Sisters will love you if you eat enough of this stuff!  Their kids will think you're the best Uncle in the world!  You''ll be a GOD in their friends eyes.

OK, OK---we all know much fun farting can be.  Especially when water is involved.  Who can't remember back to being 3 or 31 years old and sitting in the tub?  HEY!   Those bubbles make the insides of my legs feel good!  Well, guys, have you ever tried letting one rip in the shower?  I have---here's a great way to impress the one you love (and eliminate that pesky aroma at the same time).   

Next time you're in the shower with the LOVE of your life and feel that good old 'naughty' feeling wanting to escape, all you have to do are the following three things:  ( Pay attention ladies--there will be a quiz on this later)

1.   Make certain you have a full head of shampoo going in a lather.

2.    Bend slightly at the waist; The warm water should be running down your ass
       channel with just a little bit of the shampoo suds draining down your butt crack.

3.    LET IT RIP!

At first you will hear a noise that sounds like a duck throwing up.  I was quite amused when I first heard this.  I'll bet you will be too.  The next thing you will notice is the lack of the usual aroma.  Herbal Essence shampoo covers this quite nicely.  Water really is a wonderful cover up.  Never blame one of the basics for its diversity.

Well, I guess I've babbled long enough about flatulence and you can see what an 'anal' guy I really am!  Sorry---This was FUN!

Cya next time!

Sticky Pickle!     

NAPOLEON IS ALIVE AND WELL, WORKING IN YOUR LOCAL AIRPORT

I had an interesting experience yesterday that I feel needs to be addressed.  Especially if you are planning on air travel in the near future. Hopefully this will help some of you with the new airport security control measures that are now in place at our airports.  I was in Orlando and had a 6:55 AM flight from there to Chicago.  I figured I'd do what the airlines were requesting and show up 2 hours early to check in.  So, like a dumb ass I show up promptly at 4:45 AM.  I was the first stupid bastard in line.  I figured I'd have a half hour wait at the maximum before being able to check in and move to my gate. (I'm glad I had voided my bowels and my bladder before this happened because the lady behind me had obviously neglected to do so and I heard three or four small 'piffs and poots escape from her corpulent butt cheeks.)  Apparently United and the rest of the airlines are telling their customers to show up 2 hours early and telling their employees to show up at the usual time.  The employees showed up at 6:00 AM.  There were at least 250 people behind me by the time the check in stands were open for business.  They were an angry, restless crowd too.  I was asked to step to the first open spot at the counter.  The gentleman there told me that I had been selected at 'random' to be spot checked by the new security now in place at the airport.  At first I thought it could have been my 'swarthy' demeanor or the Taliban Polo Club T-shirt I was wearing but soon dismissed those thoughts.  So, I followed this little man to an x-ray/security room.  I could tell by looking at the man who was in charge of me that the recent turn of events in airport security had changed his life dramatically.  He was about 5' 3" but his new 'job' made him feel 7' 6".  Yes, he was Napoleon with a set of plastic United Airline Wings pinned to his perfectly creased white short sleeved shirt. I found his self importance to be extremely humorous but bit my tongue and followed his instructions.  We finally got to the security/x-ray room and I gave up my luggage for inspection.  I had nothing to hide.  All I had was a set of golf clubs in a carrier and a small leather back pack with shirts, shorts and a few slightly soiled pairs of under garments.  They were more than welcome to search through those items while I laughed at them.

I asked them why I was 'selected' for this and they told me that I fit a 'profile.'  Once again I bit my tongue.  There were two tour groups from the Middle East behind me in line that morning and I just didn't have the heart or the nerve to lay into these guys about how 'American' I really was.  I felt like telling them about cheeseburgers, haircuts and Mom's apple pie but thought better of it once again.  They sent my clubs and my backpack through something that resembled an MRI device like you'd see in a hospital.  I was just going to ask them if they had found any tumors or cancer in my belongings when they asked me to empty my pockets on the table.  No problems there either.  They waved the hand held wand all around me and found nothing once again.  Next they had me stand behind a thick screen and told me to hold still for a moment.  I did so and when I came out from behind it they wanted to know what I had hidden in my mouth.  Oh great, I thought.  Here comes the FULL CAVITY search.  They did an oral cavity search and found nothing.  Then I realized that they must have seen the bullet that's been in my coconut for the past 10 plus years.  They were using pretty sophisticated x-ray equipment.  I felt like Arnold Schwarzeneger in Total Recall.  I showed them my prescription bottle for the medication I take to prevent seizures and invited them to call my DR.  They did.  I was finally let out of the room after about 20 minutes.  I asked Napoleon if he could escort me back to the ticket counter and put me back in line exactly where he found me, but of course the worthless little puddle of Monkey Spunk told me I'd have to start over at the end of the line.  I tried telling him that my flight was departing in 25 minutes but he didn't care.  He was off on his next 'search and seize' mission and my troubles were none of his concern.  

Forty-five minutes later I was back where I started.  Obviously, I had missed my original flight and would have to be rebooked on another.  I walked up to the ticket counter and gave the ticket agent my documentation for my flight.  He punched a few keys on his keyboard and told me that my flight had been canceled 5 days ago.  Then he gave me the dirtiest little smirk I'd ever seen and said "You only get what you pay for when you book through Travelocity."  I immediately pulled out my confirmation number and the name of the agent I had spoken with only 12 hours before who had confirmed this flight for me.  I had spoken with a United agent.  I had held my tongue long enough at this point. I said, "Apparently I don't even get what I pay for when I fly United."  "Why would one of your agents confirm the flight for me 12 hours ago and now you tell me that the flight has been canceled?"  I continued, "How many other people in this line will be told the same thing as me?"  Yes, I was a little loud.  The other 200 people behind me in line heard me.  I had achieved my desired goal.  He started punching his keyboard again.  He glanced up at me while he was typing.  He was pissed.  I HAD him and he knew it!  He then procured a ticket for me on a competitors airline that got me home 20 minutes sooner than my canceled flight.  I told him that I expected double miles for the trouble his airline had given me.  He started to put up an argument as I glanced over my shoulder at the people still in line.  He acquiesced in this request also.  I think he realized that he wasn't dealing with a first time traveler.  I found myself thinking this agent was obviously 'selected' for his job because he fit a 'profile.'  He was a putz!

I don't have any qualms with airport security.  In fact I was rather happy to see what goes on behind the scenes now.  I didn't mind being 'selected' because I fit a 'profile.' Hell, it almost made me feel loved. At least I know that steps are being taken that were not in place before 9-11-01.  In fact, I feel better knowing that people are being checked like this.  My biggest gripe is still with United Airlines.  Apparently they are still hiring people on work release programs who have all the people skills of a used tampon!  If they are going to ask for 20 minutes of my time to be processed through one of their security check points then I feel the least they could do is make sure that I'm expedited through the check in process after I have been detained.

Let's recap what I've learned with the new security:

1.   You only need to show up about an hour early.
2.   Expect to meet self important assholes who make $7.50 an hour.
3.   If you get 'selected' at random because you fit a 'profile' and want a free stay at a   
local hospital make sure you swallow a roll of dimes before you get x-rayed.
4.   Ask to be checked in BEFORE you are searched or at least get a guarantee of
expedition once the process is complete.  
5.   Call at least 12 hours before your flight leaves and get an agents name and also
get a confirmation number for the flight with the times and destinations and flight
numbers for each leg of the trip.
6.   Drink heavily before, during and after your next adventure in the air.    


See you next time!

The Pickle

I recently had the opportunity to spend a week in Florida with my daughter.  I sure learned a lot while I was there.  The first thing I learned is that old age starts to kick in at exactly 41.5 years of age.  Below are some more insights I had while in the Sunshine State:

Book your air reservation at least two weeks in advance.  Great prices on round trip airfares are abundant and I think every city in the United States (with the exception of Dubuque, Iowa and Paducah, Kentucky) have straight shots into the Orlando airport.

It really helps on the budget if you have relatives who live in the area.  Luckily, my parents are there and I saved at least $500.00 on food, accommodations and car rental.  I can't smoke or drink there either so that saved me at least another $500.00.  

I took the Midget (my 5 year old daughter) to Daytona Beach for a 4 day 3 night get away so we could have a little time to ourselves.  This is when I started to notice the onset of older age catching up with me.  I had made the mistake of rushing to the beach to help my daughter look for sea shells as soon as we arrived.  She was rather disappointed with the first days haul.  At precisely 4:58 the next morning I heard my daughter get out of bed and peek out the window of our room.  We had a great view of the beach and the ocean and she noticed that the beach was deserted at that hour of the morning.  Guess who had to drag his happy ass out of bed at the Butt Crack of dawn?  I thought that perhaps she had read the solunar tables for low and high tides in the previous evenings paper but then remembered that she was only five and couldn't read those types of things yet.  I'm pretty sure she only noticed that there were no other people on the beach and she would have first crack at the shells.  I don't know how she managed to do it, but she stayed up until midnight that evening.  We had two more repeat performances of this activity on our remaining two mornings/days there.  She had enough sea shells to start her own store when we departed. We hadn't even done the Disney thing yet.  We'd been there three nights and she had only slept fifteen hours.  I was starting to capitulate into a coma.

We finally made it back to my parents home for the remainder of the visit.  Of course Grandparents are there to spoil their Grand kids and this was no exception.  My Mother had 3 full days of activities planned for us when we returned.  Three full days would have been great if my parents were the ones taking my daughter someplace.  I could have just lounged by their pool all day and relaxed.  Naturally, I was expected to go along on these adventures and supervise.  Silver Springs, Cypress Gardens and Disney were the activities planned.  Oh, yippee!  I was starting to feel older by the minute.  I was sure I could qualify for the Senior Citizens discount by now.  I felt like I was at least 75. My hair had undoubtedly turned 3 shades grayer.  

For my daughter, Silver Springs and Cypress Gardens proved to be little more than Boot Camp training for the Mecca: Disney.  She had a great time at each place but was still not satiated in the 'Amusement Park Ride' arena.  When we had arrived home from our second 14 hour day of fun, my Father pulled me aside.  He said, "Your Mother and I can't handle this any longer.  We're beat!  Here's three hundred dollars.  Your Mother and I felt that you and the Midget would enjoy yourselves more if you were the only ones to go to Disney tomorrow."  Those PUSSIES I thought to myself!  They buy their way out of a chance to experience (albeit vicariously) the joy that my daughter would be having the next day.  And for what?  Three hundred dollars?  I almost asked for five hundred.  I'm sure he would have paid it.  I decided to pocket the three hundred and keep my mouth shut.  I'm NO idiot.  He had just purchased himself a day of peace and quiet.

As usual, Disney was packed.  The average wait for a ride was 30 minutes. One of the first rides we waited for was Dumbo.  I felt like a 'Dumbo' after that ride.  It took 40 minutes in line to get there.  I timed the actual ride itself.  Ninety seconds.  I felt like the world's biggest maroon.  The same thing happened on a few of the other popular rides as well.  If it weren't for the heavy afternoon downpour that day, I think I would have been quite upset with the whole thing.  I was certainly glad to see that women still wear halter tops and T-shirts with no bras underneath.  From the looks of things most of them appeared to be without sufficient shelter when the rain hit.  Darn the luck, huh?  I sure was happy about the fact that I had purchased a pair of sunglasses with the reflective lenses the day before.  At least "Daddy" had a few jolly's too.  We stayed and watched the fireworks and headed for the gates after they were over.  Just another typical 12 hour day at a theme park.  I unlocked my daughters side of the van and let her in.  By the time I got around to my side and climbed in she was fast asleep. I wished I could have done the same thing.  I didn't even have the keys in the ignition.  I was feeling close to 85 years old at that moment and was patting myself on the back for having made my funeral preparations 5 years prior.  I was close to admitting defeat.  We made it home safely.  I think I'm going to the Social Security Office tomorrow to see when I can apply for benefits!  

THE PICKLE                      

YOU SHOULD BE AMI-SHAMED! 

This has been a GREAT week!  I was able to travel to Shipshewana, Indiana and see the start of the Amish 500.  The start of the race is pictured below.  I hope you'll notice all of the yield/warning signs on the back of the buggies.  Of course there's the old joke about the guy who threw a softball at one of those signs and dunked the driver.  That joke is a bunch of bullshit.  I took a buggy ride this past week with a man named Bontrager.  He was older, but he was pretty cool.  He sat me in the back of the buggy for a reason.  I was resting comfortably in the back of the buggy and enjoying the clippity-clop sounds of horseshoes on pavement when I felt a sudden jolt to the back of my head.  That maternal fornicating Bontrager had set me right in front of the 'yield' sign on the back of the buggy.  What a summonabidge!  At least it was funny to see a Mennonite laugh at MY expense for once.  I got a pretty good giggle out of the situation myself.  Some bastard had thrown a softball at the sign on the back of his buggy.

However, Bontrager wouldn't live to be so lucky!  That sour-breathed old puddle of worthless monkey spunk was in for a sorry ride for the next half hour.  Yes, he laughed at me for being in the WRONG place at the wrong time.  BUT!  He didn't actually know who he was fucking with!  It was time to formulate a plan, so I did.

That feckless fustian had never seen a seizure before, so I decided to fake one in the buggy.  After a good performance, I told that worthless old piece of barnyard waste that I had a serious brain injury about 10 years prior.  I also told him that since he had set me in the seat of "abuse" that his entire family could be expecting a lawsuit that would make him a pauper by the end of the month. My hour ride in the country continued. Bontrager was silent.  When the ride ended, Bontrager assured me that his 'Buggy Company' was fully insured and any injury that I may have sustained while riding in his Buggy would be paid for in full.  I told him he could expect a call from my lawyer.  What a STUPID thing to say to an Amish person.  Those assholes don't use phones, let alone electricity.  He was already gone (and probably laughing hysterically) by the time I figured that out.  Boy, was my face red.  

Believe it or not, his name was in the phone book.  At least he had an address and a 'public' phone that he could use at his own will.  I copied down the number for good measure.  I also copied down his address.  When I got home later that evening I decided to have a little fun with Bontrager.  I watched nothing but infomercials and programs that had 800 numbers offering merchandise that could be sent to ones home.  I hope Bontrager has a phonograph/CD player.  He's getting 'The Best of Barry Manilow' and "the Best Of Ferlin Huskey" on CD sometime next week.  He has also adopted several children from foreign countries.  His new Ginsu knives should be arriving tomorrow.  I hope his wife needed new pantyhose, because she will be getting 5 pair for free soon.  His kids will be able to use the "New and improved SpiroGraph" set that is on it's way also!  His barn yard cats should enjoy the new 'Automatic Litter Box' as well.  The salesman from Globe life should be trying to call.  Gold Bond Medicated Skin Powder will have thought they hit a gold mine with Bontrager.  If I could have gotten inside of his house I would have put some sort of depilatory cream in his shampoo bottle.  Bontrager is now an avid golf fan as well.  He makes bids on EBay using his home as collateral for all items purchased.  He has a library card in Tokyo and is now subscribed to hundreds of newspapers/magazines.  I hope he enjoys 'BlueBoy' and 'Deep Throat with Momma.'  His self help collection will be a Godsend for him when he has to brave the real world and return all of the merchandise that the UPS man delivers.  

Well, Bontrager is in for a WORLD of fun this week!  Stupid bastard!  

DON'T FEED THE ANIMALS

I had my 5 year old daughter for the past weekend and decided to broaden her horizons a bit by having her join me for 18 holes of golf. She has been on a golf course with me in the past, but this time I thought she might gain an interest in the game. So, I called for a Tee-time threw her, my clubs and a loaf of bread in the car and off we went.

 I met with my golfing partner for the day and we decided to get a cart because my daughter would have undoubtedly grown tired of walking after the third hole. We drove up to the first hole and I teed up a ball. I stepped back a bit and took the obligatory practice swing. "You MISSED!" were the first words out of my daughters mouth that day. Ron, my golfing partner couldn't contain his amusement with that statement. "Hey, She's a smart-ass, just like her Dad!", he said. This was going to be a long day and I knew it. 

"I'm hungry" were the next words out of my daughters mouth. We weren't even half way to the first green. I had stuffed her full of Fruit Loops, scrambled eggs and juice before we left. I was positive that I had covered the hunger issue before I had left home. I pulled out the loaf of bread that I was saving for her to feed to the ducks and geese later on the golf course. 

"Can you make me some toast"? She asked. I hadn't even attempted my first putt of the day and a 5 year old little girl was asking me to do the impossible. I went on a minor diatribe explaining the value of three square meals a day and how she had already had her first meal. The second one wasn't to be consumed for another 2 hours. " I'll be more than happy to buy you a hot dog or a hamburger at the turn" I told her. She looked at the loaf of bread and decided to eat a slice.

"I'm thirsty" was next. Ron offered her a beer, but she declined. Fortunately, a good- natured soul on the adjoining Tee box noticed our plight and offered her a soda. I figured all was well for the remaining 7 holes. We had gotten the 'I'm Hungries' and the 'I'm thirties' out of the way. We played the next 2 holes in total peace and quiet. Being a father, I shouldhave known what comes after the 'I'm hungry and I'm thirsty' scenarios.

"I have to go potty" she said. I picked up the can of soda she had been drinking and it was empty. She was probably right.She probably did have to take a leak. She'd had two large glasses of juice for breakfast followed by a can of soda on the golf course. I was quite certain her poor little bladder was about ready to burst. The nearest bathroom was at the clubhouse and we were as far away from that as we could get. Luckily, we were on a heavily wooded hole. I explained our situation to her. I also explained her options for toilet use. She said she had to go pretty bad and would try the woods. 

I asked her if she wanted me to find a good spot for her in the woods and she declined. I also told her to try and find a place that looked like a Bear had used in the not so distant past. I was then asked to accompany her to the woods to look for an appropriate spot. She finally dropped her pants and let loose.

 After she was done I heard "I need some toilet paper." It's always good to have an imagination at times like this and I was glad God had given me a healthy one. I told her that toilet paper wasn't invented until the year she was born and everyone used to use leaves and tree bark before that. I then asked her which one she would prefer. She opted for the leaves.

Two groups were allowed to play through during our little foray into the woods.

The next hole was the first water hole on the course and it had all of the compulsory water fowl; Ducks, Canadian Geese  and two large Swans. It was time to break out the loaf of bread. I armed my daughter with the entire loaf and told her to break up pieces of the bread and throw them in the water one at a time. Ron and I could play the next two holes while she was feeding the birds. This was great! Or so I thought. The birds turned out to be shameless denizens who had little or no respect for a 5 year old child. All those relentless creatures wanted was the bread and they weren't very proud in their procurement. In a flash, the two Swans had my daughter surrounded. The Canadian Geese were circling the Swans and the Ducks were in (pardon the pun) the wings waiting for any left-overs. The swans towered over my daughter and one of them hissed and spat at her while the other one stole the loaf of bread out of her unsuspecting hand.

 She wasn't hurt physically, but I knew the emotional scars would run deep. I almost hate to admit it, but it really was quite funny to watch.  She returned to the golf cart in tears. After she regained her composure all she could say was "DAMN BIRDS". I'm usually not an advocate or a proponent for allowing 5 year old children to swear and I have no idea where she learned how to use those two words in the correct context, but I sure was proud of her for being able to do so.

Ron and I finished up the front nine and I bought my daughter a hot dog and a hamburger at the turn. She used the bathroom again and I bought two extra sodas to take with us for the back nine. I also stole some toilet paper from the mens room just in case.

She sat in between Ron and me for the remaining nine holes.

 She never moved from the cart once.

I think we'll try Putt-Putt the next time I have her.

THE GAYER SIDE OF GOLF

Well, I've been in California for a week or two and I've been neglecting my duties for the Weekly Pickle.  For both of you who try and read this on a weekly basis, I apologize.  Please rest assured I won't do anything stupid again like getting lazy, drunk, laid, arrested for molesting small furry barnyard animals, or committing frottage in a New York City subway ever again.  So much for my wild two weeks with heroin.

Speaking of heroin, I learned who NOT to play golf with today.  The man insisted on being called "Monty."  He was as queer as a three dollar bill and I don't care who the fuck I offend with this week's message.  "Monty" rented his own cart.  He was dressed in either Herb Tarlick's or Barry Manilow's clothing and he parked his GAY-ASS cart on the Tee Box of every hole.  I tried explaining the rules of golf cart etiquette to him, but this fairy was either too stupid or too GAY to notice my intonations.

I was getting pissed.  This STUPID ASSED FAGGOT was picking up his ball and kissing it after each shot.  Then he'd say something queer like "OH MY, I sure wish you were attached to something you could be unattached from."  What the fuck is that supposed to mean anyway?  I felt like getting out my Big Bertha and prodding his ASSHOLE so he WOULD know how pissed off I was getting. 

This queer bastard would skip and dance after each putt he missed or made.  I almost felt like getting him an Ice Cream Cone and a Pony Ride.  I probably would have, but I was afraid of him asking me out for another nine holes. 

We finally got to the 6th hole.  I had WAY to much of "Monty's" Gay-Assed antics.  This stupid fucker drove his cart onto the green.  Normally I wouldn't have been to angry about that, but he was in my line and he wouldn't move the damned cart.  I tried explaining the rules of Golf to him once more and he just flitted away like there was nothing the matter in the world.  Apparently, it was all my problem. 

So, I took out my 4 iron and whacked his stupid, fairy-assed brain.  Killed the Fag! 

THE PICKLE HAS SPOKEN  

   Obedient Wife Column

I'm hoping that the following will generate some of the pride that seems to be lacking in male awareness.  We used to have it great guys!  This week's philippic is based upon an article (can be seen below) about how great it was to be a House Wife in the mid 1950s. When I first read the article my mind immediately said "Ain't NO WAY you're gonna see this happen in YOUR lifetime, bubba."  

Maybe we should examine a few of the points listed in the article itself?  Sounds like fun, huh?  Feel free to examine the article before you read my thoughts on the subject.  

All done?   Good.  

What's so tough about being a simple house wife?  Hell, you have it made in the shade, ladies.  You can get up at the same time your husband does, throw a few eggs on the skillet and a few slices of bread in the toaster, pour a cup of coffee down his throat and send him off to work.  Then you can send your happy ass back to bed until the little Yuppie Larvae wake up.  And when they do wake up all you have to do is pour them some sugar coated cereal and set them in front of the TV.  You can go back to bed until Oprah or General Hospital comes on.  The kids will be happy with Blues Clues and RugRats and Franklin and whatever else is on Nickelodeon.  Ladies, you really should write Nickelodeon and thank them for your extra sleep time.  

And while I'm at it, what is so terrible about cleaning up a house?  I mean, what the hell, YOU live there too.  Those are your kids that make the mess.  Take some responsibility.  Either have them clean up after themselves or have your tubes tied and don't have any more!  Your husband is out working trying to support your fat, lazy, TV watching ass.  He can buy only so many boxes of chocolates and hair ribbons.  He doesn't care if dinner is ready when he gets home.  Hell, dinner is only a conceptual process for you anyway!  You're happy with a box of Ho Hoe's and a glass of Ripple.  All your husband wants is for you to get off the couch so he has a decent place to sleep for the evening.  He has refused to visit your bedroom in the last 8 months because you have turned it into a parlor of absurdities.  Who can sleep with a Cat and a Shit Zoo (spelled incorrectly on purpose) on the bed at the same time anyway?  It's obvious he can't.  

Apparently you got married to your hubby to get away from your Mommy and Daddy.  You have kids and you can't take care of them!  Your trailer needs a new septic tank because you poop like a donkey and have filled the damned thing up with shit, tampons and soiled diapers.  You hang buckets of ice in front of the wall fan and tell all your neighbors you have air conditioning.  Your best glass wear came from the local Shell station.  Your best 'outfit' consists of a pair of stretch pants and a tube top that shows off your big old floppy titties! You hold back extra milk money from your kids lunches so you can buy the Inquirer.  

Lady, your life smacks of paltry fatalism!  Your kind makes me wretch!
Get a LIFE woman!  Wake up and enjoy your surroundings!  Maybe you should take a look at the article below also?  Then you could learn how to be happy just like your Mother was when you were born!!!

The Pickle...    

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