Copyright The Quipping Queen 2005.
BRAZEN BACKYARD BLUNDERS
– Or, how to avoid doing things you shouldn’t being doing in your backyard –
By Aphrodite Beamish, a half-witted, hey-nonny-nonny harridan and makeover maven of bliss-challenged, breathtakingly bewildering if not botched-up backyards of America
The dog days of summer are clearly upon us, judging from the plethora of pesky pets and people gadding about in the nooky-conscious neighborhoods of America.
Statistics say, (and you known those nifty numbers never lie), that seven out of ten Americans prefer to spend their leisure time lollygagging at home rather than lusting out and about in the dens of impropriety and iniquity. So, if the ‘moral majority’ is just a tad hot and bothered this summer, it’s not surprising that 84% also want to “revitalize their outdoor living space” (provided they haven’t gone bankrupt remodeling the kitchen and renovating the bathroom).
For those with decadent dreams and a dismal credit rating, the following advice will warm the cockles of your heart (more than a new hot tub, patio heater, or a blinking barbecue).
Here are the top ten things not to do in your backyard this summer:
1. Do not make your back nine more “wilderness-friendly”, (we already have far too many Big Birds, Pink Elephants, and One-Eyed-One-Horned-Flying-Purple-People-Eaters schlepping around sampling pet bowls for freebie eats and drinks than urban dwellers can cope with).
2. Avoid extreme fantasy recreation or humungous backyard sports (like Tiddlywinks’ Tournaments, Toe-Wrestling Competitions, and Classic Hopscotch Games which cause far too many injuries to adults who enjoy acting like kids, Billy goats, and jungle-gym bunnies).
3. Squelch the need to showcase one’s nincompoop avocations, (whether they involve the storage of rusted relics or recycled refuse including pitted pick-up trucks, beaten-up bikes, limp lawn-mowers, well-worn what’s-its, whatever’s, and whatnots).
4. Hold off on organizing a “Backyard Blue-Movie Night”, (unless you’re ready to provide oodles of finger foods, fizzy drinks, and fashion eye-wear for Freedom-Fifty-Five Club members).
5. Refrain from erecting pretentious potties, outrageous outhouses, or loud latrines to experience that “happy camper” feeling of days gone by, (unless you also want to provide your high-and-mighty neighbors with clothes pegs for their noses).
6. Exercise caution in conducting “controlled barbecue burning”, (unless of course you have a comprehensive insurance policy that covers carcinogenic-cooking incidents).
7. Forget about mulching and manure spreading to improve the productivity of your carnivorous plants, (you already have one too many Venus Flytraps as it is).
8. Steer clear of pools, ponds, and pinking shears (you haven’t learned to walk on water yet and Green Thumb pruning is not exactly your forte unless “limbless” is in this year).
9. “Creative Taxidermy” has its place, (but erotic garden ornaments of titillating trolls, pleasant pixies, and feisty frogs is probably not such a great idea in your neck of the woods).
10. Dodge the notion of building a backyard bunker to escape the bothersome bugs (be they pesky pets, petulant people, or plague-challenged pests… just tell everyone and everything you don’t like to “Buzz Off” or you’ll be obliged to call in the folks from RAID).
So now that you’ve got the TOP TEN DON’TS …get cracking on what you can do with your boring backyard. After all, anything is better than living another day with that egads eyesore! And before breaking out the booze to celebrate your fun-loving fantasyland, BEWARE OF BACKYARD BOZOS - BUNGLING IS AS BUNGLING DOES.
About the Author
Aphrodite Beamish, a lost soul of sorts, can be found flapping around in her own flights of fancy together with some very vapid vagabonds at the The Court of the Quipping Queen
A man approaches. A fearsome gaunt figure stands at the ready on
what seems to be an innocent wooded path. A sword of fabulous
light is drawn casting its perimeter into shadows. It is dusk
and the man does not hesitate armored in only an Irish cable
knit sweater, Lee jeans, a leather vest crafted in Pakistan, and
leather sneakers. The messenger of the light beckons for him to
stop or else face sudden death.
“Hey Charlie, can we stop the dramatics? We only been doing this
now for, what, a little over 30,000 years?” says the man in the
sweater.
“I know but it is my job, you know.” says the man with the still
blazen sword.
“Can you douse that thing Rudolph. Right! I come here every ten
years or so to see if I can stroll down the garden path, what do
you do in the mean time? I mean Gabriel kicked us out and has
posted you here ever since, Can’t do his own dirty work.
Destroyer of cities and great mistakes, remember those giant
chickens, I think they were called dinosaurs, well you remember
it took Gabe over fifty years to kabob that lot and fricassee
them. Only if the Colonel was alive.”
“Why do you go on about time, you know it does not exist for us.”
“Well I prefer it, it keeps my head straight, but to the point
are you going to let me in this time!’
“Did you not just ask me that just ten minutes ago?”
“No that was ten years ago!”
“Oh right, I never got that thing right, it is a hard concept
for me.”
“So you agree to time?”
“No,…!”
“Then why did you accuse me of just being here ten minutes ago,
in that statement you acknowledge the existence of time or else
you would not use it in your accusation?”
“I was just using it in the temporal standpoint…”
“The prefix of temp as in tempo, or temporary refers to time
once more, are you a bit confused old man!”
“No, you know what I mean..”
“Just because I ate of the apple does not mean I know
everything. But since time is irrevelant as you say to us, you
know very well that you will eventually let me pass and
everything is honky dory, so why can not that time be now. If
all moments run continuous in the same space and time, why ain’t
the moment you let me by not be the same as this singular moment
that we both know to be all time. Including the moment you let
me through, which is the same as now!”
“All right, go on pass.”
“Thanks Charlie.”
“Right, don’t mention it, say hi to Pops for me, I hope he
won’t be too mad with me.”
“Hey he did tell you guys to serve me any hows, right! Remember
the war and all, how that statement didn’t set well for all.”
The man in the sweater proceeded on down the dusky wood, for the
right path was found. The woods emptied onto a garden path
blocked by a high retaining wall with no gate.
“Sheep tricks will not work on a shepherd, now really!” the wall
had a spot where an opening was cut into the wall at a forty
five angle making the opening invisible to any one looking at it
straight on but becomes visible as seen from an angle.
“Eden, it looks much better than Baghdad is of late. Now where
is that tree?”
“Halt, who goes there. It is forbidden to all to enter, for
certain death shall follow!”
“Dad, get off the soap box, it is ok to be short, leave that
trick for Dorothy and her friends.”
“You spoiled little brat, how is the world of basket weaving
treating you?” Says Yahweh.
“Look it ain’t basket weaving, it is synchratic weaving, making
all the coincidences string togethor to lead people to certain
inalienable truths that…”
“Basket weaving, when are you going to get a real job. When are
you going to be the tyrant of your own universe, God knows I
need a break…”
“Dad, are we going to go through this again, see I am here for
that tree..”
“The tree that I forbidden you to eat from, isn’t anything
sacred, with the help of that astral minded interferer, you
already were duped by that woman to eat from the first tree,
where is that being now any ways…”
“She is at home taking doses of Prozac, she has had a bum deal
from the whole thing, man I preferred the days of Sodom and
Haight ashbury, now them were some good drugs, man that shit
makes me hunt out some sheep, because she is no help anymore.
Can we lay up on the women for a change, or you still not
talking to Best a Mom?”
“Do not mention that infernal woman’s name in my …”
“I guess that answers my question, see Pop I buried the axe a
long time ago even though part of my brain says it should of
been in yours, but it is over, I learned a few things from those
guys down there you keep interfering with, Christ is sick of
patching up your shit, man seven days was a bit of a rush job,
Hey!”
“Don’t go on about that…”
“Only a C on your College boards, hey, good thing you gave those
beings some intelligence, but too bad you gave them your
psychosis as well, some of them are real greedy bastards. When
are you going to realize that happiness does not come from how
many black holes and stars that you can Nova, but from within,
Best a Ma is just feeling a bit separated from you…”
“Do not mention …”
“What, Best a ma, Best a MA, Best a Ma…”
“So you want the tree, I already gave it to Chipendale to make a
lovely end table.”
“Oh move out of my way..”
“Or else…”
“Or else we can shine a bright light upon you and you can play
with your shadow, Hey Luce, are you there?”
Adam pulls out a giant mag light and shines it on his father
casting dark shadows on the wall. Out of the one to the left
appears an impish person, about the same height and built as
Yahweh, but more acute angles rendering his drawn face
terminating in a Mephistocles beard and mustache.
“Ah, Adam it has been a long time since Sodom, how is the
misses, are you still playing with those sheep, the cliff and
all, hear they are jolly good that way, still trying to get out
of your father’s shadow, feeling a little inadequate..”
“Get off of it, the two of you are so inept in the endowment
area you had to scour the earth to find one woman who would be
pleased by the two and a half inches the two of you could muster
up. Good thing for wet dreams hey, I think you guys put the
truth in advertising, politics, and used cars. Talk about wild
fish stories…”
“I see you have not accomplished much, nephew! Still running
with those apes?”
“Hey wasn’t you I saw a few years ago do the funky tango with
that green monkey!”
“Hey J, how bout me and you finding some Job character and
torment him some….”
“Son, now I mean everything in your best interest..”
“Best interest, I was very content picking up berries and
painting on cave walls until you took me away from all of that ,
just on the account that I looked up into the sky and asked why,
to tell the truth I think I was just mumbling something in
response to indigestion, and Off I am whooshed to this garden
only to be kicked out so you can rip a rib out of me so you
could transform it into someone who gets a bum rush deal and
gets strung out on Prozac and forces, yes Luc, to play with the
sheep after she yells my head off for no good reason and….”
“Are you done!”
“Yeah!”
“Good…”
“Now where is that tree..”
The man in the Irish knit cable sweater heads out to the center
leaving the dynamic duo to themselves. After some walking he
hears the uncanny tune of Look On the Bright Side of Life and
enters the clearing as he sees a man in a tree house singing the
verse..”Life is a piece of shit, when you look at it..”
“Oh excuse me, I did not see you coming, would you like some
tea, my are you looking fine as of late! Have I ever thanked you
for caring me over that ocean, or I Have, well thanks again, I
always did prefer the name St. Christopher, so how have you
been, I always knew you would come.” “So this is where you been
hanging out at?”
“No, I just knew today was the day and I wanted to return to the
place of our first meeting, you know your father only means
well, it is just that Sophia just bums around to herself up
there. Stuck between here and there, Very straight forward
thinker, that is her problem can not think in circular motions
of events. Always point a terminating in point B, very lonely
that one is.”
“Any room for them in that tree house of yours?”
“Sure they just have to realize it for themselves, is that
incarnation of us writing that story yet?”
” I am pretty sure.”
In a ugly little house on a sinking street that leaves the house
settling a little to the right and a little more to the left is
a man named Christopher, who at that moment, not the one in
which you are reading this but the moment he was writing this as
the one in which they had asked if he was, but then as we have
seen earlier time for them, or that matter anyone does not
really exist, so it is safe to say that this writing was done
light years from now or just a few moments ago, but this
referencing is inadequate because it uses flawed speech that
refers to time that in its self is non-existent…..
“Get on with it” rings in chorus from the heavens…
“Yeah, we just got to get him to hug her.”
“How do we do that, the only words she ever said to him was
‘Liar!’ and that was an end of it.”
” No remember she added he was a minor little psychopomp with a
mania problem, I think they were her exact words.”
“Never-less, we need him to hug her. Ever learn anything from
Mercury hanging in that threshold?”
“We can try dressing her up as a Cow, which won’t be too hard
she has been eating a lot of chocolate and Ben and Jerry’s. Bit
depressed you know.”
” A cow?”
“Yeah, one of Mercury’s tricks. Hide a cow in the cave and
pretend that it really is a woman that he is hiding from one of
his wives so when she finds out she will never know the better
he is really tickling some udders. Quite ingenious trick I must
say, but he likes cows. I prefer the milk maids myself and a
little butter to go on my crepes and a tall drink of milk…”
“Isn’t that a bit of incest.”
“Now how did you populate the world again, Adam.”
“Enough of that, those other cro-mags were not as intellectually
stimulating.”
“Well I was planning to stop things before they got that far,
Hell I am suppose to marry the old Broad.”
“You old snake you, Christ come down here and lets get started.
You think we can get rid of that hormone and bleeding thing with
women and go back to the stork, I think they will really like
that, I would really like that. For once it would be nice to
know what I am getting yelled at for.” “Sure.”
“Good.”
So Adam and Christ went into the limbo and put Sophia in a cow
costume, led Yahweh up there, stopped things from getting kinky
and stuck their names onto the family tree of life with the rest
of humanity and the species of the earth. Yahweh got his comfort
and stopped chasing golden cows, Sophia was able to think in
circles and now is racing the Nascar circuit, Jesus is enjoying
solitary walks in the Jersey Pine Barrens and dancing at night
at the local pub, Adam knows what he is getting yelled at for a
change, Eve has put out of business the Tampax company along
with prozac and is happy just being, and the stork is real busy
once more.
WASHINGTON,D.C.- In a stunning move sure to send shockwaves through the nation, President Bush has declared that he will actively seek to induce his own impeachment by receiving a blowjob in the oval office.
It was a bold maneuver that may confound historians for generations. George W. Bush announced in an informal press conference earlier today that he will not resign the presidency, but will rather request he be impeached by Congress after receiving a sloppy gobble of his bald-headed hermit underneath the presidential desk in the West Wing.
“I lied to Congress about the reasons for invading Iraq. I violated international law by invading a sovereign country without the backing of the U.N. I violated the Geneva Convention by torturing prisoners,” said an unusually contrite Bush. “Seems like the only way I can get impeached is if I can get someone to slob on my knob!”
Congress has been reluctant to consider articles of impeachment for Bush despite seemingly insurmountable evidence and rising public support. Experts think this stonewall has been due to Republican unwavering control of the entire federal government and the volatile, partisan atmosphere in Washington.
Modern precedent for violations deserving impeachment can be traced to the Gingrich-led Republican Congress during the Clinton presidency of the 90’s. Even after Bush authorized illegal wiretaps on American citizens in direct violation of the Constitution and displayed gross negligence in the response to Hurricane Katrina, impeachment hearings seem unlikely without the push a good sperm burper would provoke.
Sources in the White House admit they’ve long suspected Bush had been searching for a way out of the presidency, that he felt he was in over his head. “At first he’d been sure the American public would have had enough after failing to capture Osama for so long,” said one source close to the President. When that didn’t materialize, Bush had hoped the ongoing Abramoff and Plame scandals would rub off on him.”
“He soon realized that unbelievable malfeasance, unbridled corruption and utter incompetence wouldn’t be enough. The only way out was to commit the one action that Republicans find unforgivable: getting his purple helmeted yogurt chucker slobbered all over.”
New House Majority leader Rep. Boehner agrees. “A Republican president could kick a puppy down the street, feed babies to crocodiles and punch a pregnant woman in the gut and we here in the Republican controlled House would pretty much just sit around with our thumbs up our butts.
“But if he got a hummer on Capital Grounds, we’d have to impeach him or we’d look like unprincipled, hypocritical assholes.” Boehner added, “Hey, stop laughing at my last name. It’s not pronounced like that.”
Bush has appointed Henry Kissinger as chairman of the ‘Commission to Head Oral Acquisitions for Democracy’, or CHOAD. The committee that will make final recommendation for who will be chosen to bite Bush’s crank. Although Laura Bush is the most likely candidate and the crowd favorite, Sean Hannity is rumored to be making a late run for the position.
Fwips News Service is America’s source for fake news, commentary and humor from the heart of the Rocky Mountains. Award-winning, hard-hitting and fiercely original comedy from the Mile High City. Visit us if you prefer to receive knowledge and enlightenment without the normal work involved!
We view the world from a slightly off-kilter cosmic prism glass, and that suits us just fine. We’re Newsweek on crack, USA Today on Prozac, The New York Times as written by Larry David’s slightly medicated cousin.
Fwips offers weekly updates, breaking stories, astute commentary, cogent analysis, and cold, hard booty. We’re committed to bringing you the latest in local and national news, entertainment, sports, business, current events, non-current events and non-event-events.
Gloog is a website dedicated to funny image edits. On www.gloog.net you can find funny
edits of images/logos and also animations have been added
recently. Go here for an enjoyable time on the web!
Daylight Savings Time is a curious burden on the ease of our lives that many of us have come to despise. I never know what time it really is anymore. Is it actually this time now, or was it actually that time then? I don’t believe anyone truly knows.
This past round trip, I declared war on Daylight Savings Time. Here’s how it happened.
Back in March or April or May, or whatever month it is that The Time Tyrants first toy with our time — when our clock settings were supposed to be changed — I simply refused. Not all around the house. Just on the digital clock on my bedside table.
I’d like to say it began as a matter of principle, a noble declaration of Chrono-War on “Them.” When they say “frog,” we’re expected to spring forward, and I’d like to say I was resisting like a good Freedom Fighter.
But no. The ugly truth is, the clock is old, and the buttons are stuck and very hard to push, and I am plain lazy. I just put it off. I knew that I would have to reset the clock anyway, the next time the electrical power went off, so I just waited for that to happen, as I figured it was bound to.
But a week passed, then two, and the electricity never did fail. A month went by. Two months. Three.
That’s when it actually became My War. I realized that I could beat Them. Outwait Them. An all-out Time Siege that would go down in history. I smirked. This was War, and I was 3 months into it before I even realized that it was War.
Nothing good comes without sacrifice, of course. For the entire duration of my siege, I had to do arithmetic in my head. When I awoke in the early morning hours to see what time it was, I had to perform a sleepy mental calculation. “No, it’s not 4:30 a.m., it’s 5:30 a.m.” When I went to bed, I had to realize it was 11 pm, not 10. For all those long months, I was forced to do the math every time I looked at the lighted red digits on that old clock by my bed.
But it was a worthy exercise, for it had become my own personal protest against this madness known as Daylight Savings Time. If the world wouldn’t join me, then I would do it alone. History has taught us, in fact, that most heroes do act alone. I knew that if I endured, finally one day my clock would be correct again. Not having “sprung forward,” there would be no need to “fall back.” I was going to beat Them. With each passing day, I came closer to glory.
This entire battle strategy presumed, of course, that the electrical power would never go off during the months of summer and early fall. If that happened, then a draw would be declared between me and the Timemasters. No harm, no foul, and I would just reset my clock to the correct time.
But the power never failed, and I realized this was a sure sign that God was on my side. For six months now, I had been reading the incorrect time, and doing the mental math, and waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting for that victorious day when my clock would be correct again. When My War would be won, and the world would be set right.
It happened. Saturday night, sometime in the middle of the night when no one was watching, my clock corrected itself. Or rather, time conceded. The next morning, Sunday, when my clock said 6 o’clock, it was actually 6 o’clock. I had WON!
I woke up early that morning, and with a huge grin, told Roxanne how I had beat the system. I bragged that my clock, with the unwavering red digits and the pulsing red dots and the buttons that are hard to push, that my good old bedside clock, was once again displaying the correct time. I may not have won The War, I declared, but I certainly won this battle.
Roxanne just sniffed as if she thought the entire exercise had been dumb. Well, still. I won. My clock was right, and I hadn’t had to push a single button. I won. “OK, fine,” I told her, “if you don’t care. Still, I did win. I did.”
“Good for you,” she said, and rolled over, sleeping until 10:30 on Sunday morning, according to my now - so - correct clock.
As the day went by I gloried in triumph sublime. Roxanne could think whatever she wanted; no one was going to diminish my victory. I’d fought and beaten Daylight Savings Time. How many people can say that? I looked proudly at that clock several times during the day. I was in tune with its correctness. I was content with the rightness of the world.
Now jump ahead to the next day.
It’s Monday, only a single day after the time change and my historic victory. The morning household rituals are going on, my family getting ready for school and work. I walk past the bedroom door, where I see Roxanne sitting at her makeup table. A four-light bar over the mirror glares as brightly as the sun. A curling iron rests on the vanity in front of her. A hair dryer is in her hand, humming its frizzy Monday morning blues.
I go into the kitchen, where the lights are on, and the microwave, cooking morning oatmeal. The microwave? NOOO! That will be too much wattage for the circuit breaker to handle!
I step quickly toward the buzzing oven to turn it off, but before I can reach it, I hear a series of sharp, furious clicks, coming from the closet in the hall that conceals the main circuit panel. Click, click, clikclickclickbzzzzzzzzz…then a final, resounding CLAAAAKKK! as the breaker switch is thrown.
As power goes out, I am engulfed in silence and darkness and despair. The kitchen has become a cold, dark, lonely place. There is no joy in the world. Tears form on my cheeks.
From the bedroom, Roxanne asks, “What happened?”
Choking back the sobs, swallowing the lump in my throat, I reply in as few words as possible, “Threw a breaker.” In the darkness, I turn the microwave off. But it’s too late. I have been sucker-punched, blasted by friendly fire, my short-lived victory nuked by a microwave oven.
Shell-shocked, I make my way to the door of the closet, open it in the dark, reach around and find the circuit panel, feel for the vagrant flipper, the one breaker switch that is pointing wrong, all wrong, so wrong. I throw it back to the left. Light and sound return to the household.
I walk into our bedroom; hopelessly hoping that maybe, just maybe, a spark of life remains in the 9-volt battery that is supposed to back up the clock when the power goes off. But the battery is seven or eight years old. I look, and I see the truth, and I feel the savage agony of loss and defeat, as my bedside clock blinks its blood red message of surrender:
12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00
Ted Thompson is a freelance writer living in Harrison, Arkansas. More of his works can be seen at his website http://www.phfft.com
You know your breath may be a tad funky when….
You eat a big plate of spaghetti and meatballs for dinner along with several slices of garlic bread, and notice that more people are coming up to you and talking with you after dinner than before.
The group standing alongside you waiting to board an elevator hang back and decide to wait for the next one once you’ve entered.
Your old maid aunt who has tried kissing you right on the lips for years offers you just a handshake at your most recent family reunion.
Bargain packs of Tic-Tacs start mysteriously appearing on your desk at work.
At a Halloween party you are repeatedly urged to bob for apples, even though you’ve done so several times already.
At the movies, your date whispers that she would love for you to pick up a big box of Junior Mints, you proceed to do so, and then she refuses to eat any of them when you come back from the concession stand.
Your toothbrush gets replaced without you having to ask.
No one wants to ride in your pick-up truck with you, even if you offer to take them over to Wal-Mart for a free ICEE.
People treat you exactly the same after you eat an “all the way” dog from Nu-Way as they did before you ate it.
The group of guys you hang out with stop telling stories regarding the stinkiest moments they’ve ever endured with various and sundry friends and family members whenever you happen to be around.
You notice dead insects strewn around the rooms in your house that you frequent the most.
Getting someone to slow dance with you takes an Act of Congress.
When it’s windy, people seem to like you better.
Your children break into uncontrollable laughter when a Pepe LePew cartoon is shown on TV.
You ask someone for a piece of gum, and they give you two (or more) pieces.
You’re sitting outside with a group of friends on a patio and the mosquitoes aren’t buzzing around you nearly as much as they are the rest of the group.
People walk in and ask you to open the windows in your office, even when it’s cold.
At the kissing booth at the local fair, the woman kisser pays you not to kiss her.
No one around you really seems upset when you tell them your throat is sore and that you probably won’t be talking very much the next several days.
When you wake up each morning you note that your wife’s head is hanging off the mattress on the opposite side of the bed from you.
At your child’s birthday party, you’re not asked to blow up the balloons.
At the gym you seem to have no problem getting on any piece of equipment that you want to.
When driving a group of people around, someone notes that the local paper mill really seems to be paying off…
Dogs don’t seem to spend much time around you as they used to.
People around you wince when you use your breath to help clean your glasses.
Everyone in the room with you gets an embarrassed look on their faces when a mouthwash commercial suddenly appears on TV.
When visiting the local petting zoo, your kids seem to want to stand closer to the pig pen than they do you.
Nobody seems to care when you announce that you’re going to pick up some Ex-Lax.
People start asking you if you have an affinity for dairy products.
You’re the undisputed arm wrestling champion at your local bar because no one seems to want to challenge you for the title.
No one notices that you had two bowls of raisin bran for breakfast.
Your wife starts making comments to you about the need to keep your mouth closed while eating.
Friends start asking you when was the last time that you visited your doctor for a check-up.
Several of those same friends ask you if you’ve read Ed Williams’ current column…
About the Author
Ed’s latest book, “Rough As A Cob,” can be ordered by calling River City Publishing toll-free at: 877-408-7078. He’s also a popular after dinner speaker, and his column runs in a number of Southeastern publications. You can contact him via email at: ed3@ed-williams.com, or through his web site address at: www.ed-williams.com.
(Extended spoof, presented In 10 installments of 4 pages each. This is the third installment; previous ones are available on this site and presented below each new installment at NewsLaugh, in case you miss one or more.)
He closed it, thought for a moment, and recomposed himself. Then he walked to the bookshelf, took down another copy of his work, autographed it, and headed for the den with it.
“All signed up?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Dan replied. “She took care of everything. Even gave me a copy of your book.”
“Good,” he said. “But I have a special inspiration for you.” He held out the copy of the book he had signed. “An autographed copy.”
“Gee, thanks, Doctor Coburn,” Dan said, and took it. He read the inscription aloud. “‘To Dan Fox: I know you can do it, kid. Abstinently yours, Dr. Coburn.’ “Wow, dynamite!” Dan exclaimed. “I really appreciate this.”
“My pleasure,” Doctor Coburn told him. “In the beginning, you and I will work one on one. Got it?”
“Yes, sir. Sounds great.” “Good. Then, as you make progress, Melanie can lend a hand.”
“But, Daddy!” she objected.
“Please, dear. You’re my most accomplished pupil and, due to the volume of students I expect, I need an assistant. Are you OK with that?”
“I suppose,” she conceded.
“Good.” He turned his attention back to Dan. “Now, let’s get started.”
“I’m ready,” his new student said.
“Can I leave now?” Melanie asked.
“Of course, dear. Dan and I need to spend a lot of time together.”
“Have fun,” she told the star athlete, and then she walked out with a bit more swagger in her hips than she usually allowed herself.
Dr. Coburn turned to Dan. “During the first week, you’ll require almost total immersion.”
“Let’s go for it.”
He looked sternly at Dan. “Don’t mind if I get ’sexplicit,’ do you?”
“I guess you have to,” his willing acolyte replied.
“That’s exactly right. If we don’t take the bull by the balls, we can’t hope to wrestle it to the ground. Have a seat.”
He indicated the couch and Dan plopped down.
“First things first. You must understand the transcendent importance of the lifestyle adjustment you’re about to commit to. Question: why must you learn how to say no to sex? Think before you answer.”
“Well, sir - ” Dan pondered with indecision.
“- I’ll tell you why. Because, my son, you carry within your loins the potential destruction of the human race.”
“I do?”
“Of course. Therein lie the sperm that can continue to overpopulate the world and the compulsions that could lead you to become infected with the AIDS virus or another STD. Get my meaning?”
“Yes, sir. But can I say something?”
“Go right ahead.”
“I practice safe sex.”
“My boy, you can practice all you want. But you’ll never perfect it. There is no such thing as safe sex. It is, in fact, an outright contradiction in terms.”
“I mean, I use condoms,” Dan told him.
“Not safe by any stretch of the imagination! The only safe thing to do is, as the saying goes, to keep your pecker in your pants. Got it?”
“Yes, sir. But can I say something else?”
“What?” Doctor Coburn asked.
“I don’t call it names like that.”
“What don’t you call names like what?”
“My pecker. I guess I just have too much respect for it.”
“Oh. Well, then, what do you call it?”
“My love maker,” Dan confided.
“Really? Where did you learn to call it that?”
“Well, I thought about it for a long time and what I use it for. The name came to me and just stuck.”
“I see. Well, it’s irrelevant. Call it whatever you want to. Just remember: the goal is to keep it in your pants. OK?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Excellent. Now, let’s move on. When I say the word ’sex,’ tell me what you think of.”
“You really want to know?” Dan asked.
“Of course.”
“I think of women.”
“Ah, ha! And there we have it. The very root of the problem - and the fundamental association we must redefine.”
“What am I supposed to think of?”
“I’ll demonstrate.” He walked to the door and called, “Melanie, can you come in here for a moment?”
He headed back to Dan. “I think you’ll find this demonstration helpful.”
Melanie poked her head in, a bit uneasily. “What is it, Daddy?”
“I want to demonstrate something for Mr. Fox. When I say the word ’sex,’ what do you think of?”
“Tyrannosaurus Rex.”
“Very good. And if that fails to take your mind completely off the usual meaning of the word, what do you think of as a reinforcement?”
“Texaco.”
“Excellent, Mel.” He turned to Dan. “See how the method works? Soon, you’ll think like that, too.”
“I can’t wait.” He looked at her. “How do you do it, Melanie?”
“Daddy will explain.”
“Pure sound association,” he informed Dan, and went on with great fervor. “Once you’ve been properly trained, the word ’sex’ will key off the word ‘Rex’ or the syllable ‘Tex.’”
“You mean, like ’sex-Tex?’”
“Exactly! And that counter-association will, of course, immediately distract you from thinking about the word ’sex.’ Notice also that there is no equally resonant association in the potentially disastrous conjunction of ’sex-woman.’ Or, in Melanie’s case, for the conjunction of ’sex-man?’”
“‘Sex-man?’” Dan queried, glancing at Melanie.
“Right,” Dr. Coburn assured him. And, since the sound association of ’sex-Tex’ is much more resonant, she has virtually nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, I see,” Dan said, catching on. “Sex-Rex, sex-Tex. Hey, it works for me.”
“Great, Dan.” Dr. Coburn turned to Melanie. “See how quickly he’s catching on?”
“Oh, he’s really brilliant,” she slightly scoffed.
“But, doctor, what happens if someone goes on and on, really trying to break down your resistance?” Dan wanted to know. “Do you just keep saying the same two things to yourself?”
“As long as your willpower remains unassailable. The moment you feel that your resistance may be weakening, you must turn to your tertiary line of defense.”
“What’s that?”
“Mexico.”
“You mean, like ’sex-Mex?’”
“Precisely. That is, in those very rare situations where you may require more than Tyrannosaurus Rex and Texaco. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, once you’ve got these interruptive associations working, you can resist nearly any activity that the word ’sex’ keys off.”
“I can?”
“Yes. Permit me to explain why. It’s a matter of having the enemy outnumbered. Here’s this person, making every effort to seduce you, but what does she have to work with in this elemental area of sound disassociation? One word: sex. Meanwhile, what do you have to work with? Three words. You’ve got her outnumbered three to one. So how can she defeat you?”
“Say, that’s good,” Dan admitted, and looked at Melanie out of the corner of his eye. “So let me get this straight. A girl says to me, ‘Let’s have sex.’ And I think -”
“- Come on, come on, you can do it, kid!”
“Tyrannosaurus Rex!”
“Right! And then, if she persists?”
“I switch to ‘Texaco.’”
“Extraordinary. And then, should the occasion arise?”
“I pull out Mexico!”
“Come on! Come on!”
“There’s more?”
“You switch back and forth between the words, creating an impenetrable array of counter-associations, until finally the temptress abandons all hope.”
“Great! I’ve got it now! ‘Tyrannosaurus Rex! Texaco! Mexico! Tyrannosaurus Rex! Texaco! Mexico!’ And so forth.”
“Perfect, Dan. You’ll have my course knocked in no time. Right, Mel?”
“I’m overwhelmed,” she said.
“So am I,” Dan admitted. “Gee, I never thought learning how to say no could be so easy.”
“Stick with me, son. We’ve only just begun your no-sex education.”
“Daddy, can I speak with you a minute?” Melanie asked.
“Of course, dear.”
“Privately.”
“Excuse me a moment, Dan.”
He followed Melanie out of the den, while Dan stretched out on the couch, beaming with a curiously triumphant smile.
“Daddy,” Melanie told her father, “he’s not sincere at all.”
“What on earth do you mean, Mel?”
“I didn’t want to tell you this, but he’s been chasing me all year.”
“He has?”
“Yes. I think it’s all about his ego. He wants to prove he can get me to have Tyrannosaurus Rex.”
“Really? Glad you told me, dear. Now, don’t you worry your pretty little head. Soon, he’ll be a changed man, and he won’t care a hoot about seducing you. I promise.”
“If you say so,” Melanie said, with what perhaps might be described as marginal conviction.
“Leave it to me, dear. Soon, he’ll be about as interested in sex as a castrated lion.”
“Can I leave now? I have to continue with my own studies.”
“Run right along, dear.”
She headed up the stairs, and Dr. Coburn returned to his study.
“Anything wrong?” Dan asked.
“The craziest thing. She doesn’t think you’re sincere.”
“Really? What makes her think that?”
“She says you’ve been pursuing her?” Dr. Coburn dared to give voice to.
“Really? Where did she ever get an idea like that?”
“Then it’s not true?”
“No way. I’d never try to do anything with her. I have too much respect for her and for your method. That’s why I’m here.”
“Spoken like a true gentleman. Now, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover. So let’s keep going.”
“Go for it,” Dan encouraged him.
End Of Third Installment
|
Tom Attea, humorist and creator of NewsLaugh.com, has had six shows produced Off-Broadway and has written comedy for TV. Critics have called his writing “”delightfully funny” and “witty” with “good, genuine laughs.” |
An artist/bohemian type working for themselves is perceived in a variety of ways by the general public. A lot of the perception has to do with a combination of the artist’s cashflow and apparel strategy, as opposed to the stirrings of their soul. Strangely, as a young man, people often saw me as a responsible, solid guy. Ha!
In the early eighties I ran my screen printing operation out of a funky old warehouse by the railroad tracks in Eugene, Oregon. Enormous pastry and coffee in hand, I’d get to my shop a bit past nine and dig in for the day. Usually I’d run out of work between 1:00 and 3:00 pm, leaving the rest of the day to run, draw comics and hang out.
Being that the economy had had the shit kicked out of it just then, I was moderately proud that I’d been able to scape up enough business to keep a roof over my head… ultimately I turned enough of a profit to embark on my checkered career publishing my own wacky comic books, but that’s not the subject of this rant.
Warehouse Artists Studios was the literal name of the co-op warehouse wherein I rented space. The studio took up the second floor of a truly dilapidated old funkster warehouse that had most recently been used to store spices. Add to that the gay girls who lived illegally in the space next to mine, burning patchouli oil night and day. This place had a certain bouquet!
I’d been printing T-Shirt jobs out of my flat, and it was getting a bit ridiculous. At an opening in a local gallery, I saw a flyer for “Warehouse Artist Studios”, a 5000 square foot space that magically divided up the floor into 170 square foot units that rented for forty bucks a month. I went down the next day and rented two adjacent spaces, which apparently I’d be paying $75 or $80 a month for. A slight, nervous man named Lynn rented my space to me. He was the manager, he had a chair upholstering business in the studio. Straight away, I could see ‘ol Lynn was a duck seriously out of water.
This impression was dramatically confirmed like three days later when Lynn informed me that the Warehouse was failing economically, and that he was resigning as manager. He handed me the studio ledger and checkbook saying “you seem like an astute fellow, why don’t you manage this dump?”.
I was rather taken aback at this, but sure enough at the next meeting of the co-op, the members all but begged me to save their studio. I had my serious doubts, but figured there wasn’t much to lose, so why not? It wasn’t lost on me either that as manager my rent for my 340 square foot space dipped to $35.00 per month!
The co-op had about 12 members. We were several hundred dollars in the hole. We could pay rent, but couldn’t pay the heating bill. We were required to carry basic liability insurance, which had gone unpaid and lapsed, for starters. I sat down and did a bit of math. I figured if we raised the rent on the basic space about $10.00 a month for five months, and attracted a couple new members, we’d squeak by and could continue renting the dump.
The measure passed at the next meeting. At least with the eight or nine people who decided to stick it out, as a couple members dropped out with the news of the temporary rent increase; we did indeed need to attract new members straight away. We papered the town with flyers for the warehouse, and got free listings in any newspaper we could. Miraculously, the plan worked. We lowered the basic rent back to $40.00 per month ahead of schedule and got an infusion of fresh blood. I can’t take too much credit for it, as the place snapped to with an esprit de corps I’ve rarely encountered… I’d say it was goddamn grassroots socialism is action, almost.
Now here comes the fun part, the personalities that made the place click, the swashbucklers, crackpots, con men, assholes, and outright brilliant geniuses I encountered in my stint at Warehouse Artist Studios. First comes a woman named Kathy Caprario. She was a dramatic beauty from New York of Italian descent, the best known painter in Eugene, an “older woman” to me of maybe 33-35 years (I was all of 24 at the time). Kathy is the person who was singlehandedly most responsible for the survival of Warehouse Artist Studios at the time of the financial crises. To say she was resourceful and a bit of an aggressive shark is an understatement. For starters, she marched me down to see the owner of the owner of the building when the lease came up. The guy was a real estate money grubbing slum lord type, who claimed an artistic background. Right. Our rent was $650.00 per month. Kathy figured that Jeff, the slum lord, was lucky that anyone at all was renting this dump in a crappy ecomomy. She advises me to offer the guy $450.00 per month. No problem! It was an invaluable early lesson in having brass balls.
So we’re in this real estate lizard’s office, and I make the rent offer. Jeff, the lizard in question, completely ignores me and starts this serious, near lecherous flirt with Kathy. She plays this guy like a fiddle, and we walk out of there with a lease for the next year of $550.00 per month, a hundred bucks per month rent reduction. Yes folks, in 1982 in Eugene, you could rent a 5000 square foot studio for that low price. I should mention too, the year after that, Kathy had moved on to a private studio space, but I’d learned well and got that damn rent down to $475.00 per month!
Kathy also had us apply for City of Eugene room tax grants. Turns out there was actual civic support for the arts afoot! We hastily threw together grant applications to run a gallery in our common space, such as it was, and to offer figure drawing sessions to the public. Given the level of initial interest in these projects, we all saw it as a way to get the city to help pay our rent with minimal execution of said projects.
But who knew! The figure drawing sessions maintained a core of attendance for a couple years. The gallery stared off as nothingan unrented space was hung with art. But before long, a 22 year old painter of promise named Mike Perkin rented a space and started doing some pretty cool work in his cubicle. He tried his best to ape Francis Bacon, but the works looked a bit like Francis was a werewolf Mexican wrestler or something.
When it came Mike’s turn to show his work, he turned a critical eye at the tiny room where I asked him to hang his paintings. He asked me if I had the studio checkbook. What do you have in mind, Mike? He directed me to the Eugene Planing Mill, a massive lumber yard across the street from us. “Let’s stud up couple walls so I can hang my big paintings”. Outragous! Here’s this wild kid, plays the same tapes over and over (Scarey Monsters by Bowie, anything by Lou Reed) and yells at his paintings. At the drop of a hat, we get some lumber and flail away for a couple hours with hammers. Before you know it, instant gallery! We build some pretty decent walls in a jiffy (other studio members drifted in a pitched in) and whitewashed them.
Mike’s paintings for that show were terrific. They were done in ruddy reds, earthtones and orangey yellows, with wood and burlap assemblage fastened to the canvases. The average size was maybe 3′ across by almost 5′ tall. My favorite was called “The Inside of Lou Reed’s Stomach”. If I wasn’t blowing every cent on publishing comic books, I woulda bought it. The opening was a revelation. Mike’s family showed up, and they were the most amazing bunch of open minded art, theatre, film and literature lovers you could imagine. A lotta beer went down. I remember late at night, Mike’s mom was wrestling on the studio floor with one of her four sons. From there on in, our little gallery stood a few decent shows, and even better parties. And through it all, the city kept the checks coming!
Keith the retired Air Force colonel is next in our cast of characters. Bald, prim, post heart attack, gentle former Texan Keith. A late life painter, an ultra practical man. Ruled by logic on the outside, soft as a grape inside, he had a good heart even if it was failing him, he did his share to keep the warehouse afloat. He painted small landscapes that revealed a luminous take on Oregon’s rainy colors. Nothin’ amazing, but nice. Fluid, painterly, sea foam light permeating the canvas with a bit of warm ochre and alizarin crimson, tacking it to the surface of the earth.
Keith enjoyed regaling the Warehouse crew over beers with stories of flying B-52’s through mushroom clouds after bomb tests in the Pacific, back in the day. Knowing that I was involved in the anti-nuke movement of the day, he teased me “I did H-Bomb tests all day long, and I’m not glowing yet”.
Although he had a son who was around forty, Keith took a fatherly interest in me, and used to take me to lunch in his enourmous four door GM pickup truck (with one of those worthless diesel engines they tried to manufacture for a couple years). He’d take us to the local Lions clubhouse. The food sucked. He’d insist we have a beer with lunch, which I didn’t like as I usually would go for a run later in the day. Hell Steve, have a beer, indulge the old boy! Unbidden, he told me his life story. Before retirement, had risen as an assistant to one of the joint cheifs of staff. After retiring from the military, he’d been a ROTC instructor on the University of Oregon campus in the sixties. He’d have run ins with various rag-tag groups of pseudo Maoist college kids. Then one summer, Keith and his wife were vacationing in the Cascade mountains east of Eugene. Hiking in the foothills, they came upon an encampment where some of these same youths were enacting a military training drill with assault rifles! They were indeed serious about the revolution bit. After a tense momentary face off with no word exchanged, Keith and his wife turned on their heel and hiked out. “I felt like I had a target on my back”, he said, adding that he never saw those kids again.
There was another older painter at the studio, one Nick Nickolds. He was maybe 60-65 at the time. He was the real deal, a life long bohemian, painter and philosopher dedicated to the pursuit of his art. He’d been an orphan from Denver who lived the middle decades of his life in Mexico. Nick scored the studio to the right at the top of the stairs. It was the best studio there, as it had a separate private entrance.
Nick Nickolds painted in a style that at once reminded me of William Blake and Titian. His color was rich, saturated and full of light, yet he built up layers of delicate glazes that gave body and air to his figures. He was painting the figure, faces, and the natural world, yet it was semi abstract. It was as if Blake had decided to lapse into abstraction and gotten about 73% there before deciding he still had to have a face here, an eye or a breast there.
This work was technically masterful and evoked images and emotion like a skeleton key. It alluded to everything while putting it’s finger on nothing, like a Robert Hunter lyric. Nick was so consistently true, dignified and full of heart that you had to love him. He was a slightly rotund, dapper little man with ample sparkle in his eye.
Once, Nick showed me a vial full of crystalline dust, claiming that it was a sort of emulsified, crystal LSD. He stuck a pin in it, putting a miniscule amount on the head of the pin. “That’s enough”, he said. He claimed he’d had the vial for years, had been in San Francisco in the sixties with it (it was full back then). He asserted he’d provided hundreds and hundreds of trips from his little vial. Today, I almost wonder if I made that part of the story up! It just sounds too good to be true.
Nick was a guy who was always fascinating, who revealed himself to me a little bit at a time as we became friends. He approved of my comic books, and my attempts to explain the nature of reality, time, the singularity of the eternal now in cartoon form, and all that jazz. Nick told me I was on the right track as an artist. “All you have to do is be careful about the beer”, he advised me, and boy was he right, as I developed enough of a drinking habit that I ultimately had to stop altogether for my own good. Nick eventually moved back into what he considered the morass of Marin County, as he had money connections down in California. I never saw him again, don’t know if he’s still around or not. I often reflect on what Nick taught me about maintaining integrity as an artist, and about having respect for every human being regardless of anything. I consider it immense good fortune to have known Nick and been his friend, albeit for only a couple of years.
P.S. Nick is indeed still around, at http://www.nicknickolds.com
Freak Magnet!
If you manage to set yourself up as a successful Boho freelancer/self employed artist, you will attract an amazing array of people from all walks of life to bask in your glory. Say what? Take my word for it, people will be attracted to your good thang, offering everything from sublime lessons in human dignity, to blatantly vampiric attempts to hi-jack your time and energy.
With a bit of practice, it becomes easy to recognize the latterwithin minutes of meeting the vampiric leach, they attempt to wrangle the discourse to a place where you are somehow in the position of owing them something; most often a deep discount on your product or service. You’ll see a red flag, and you will get rid of them asap. Try adding a 50% “asshole fee” to your usual rate. When they get ugly, be sweet as pie but stick to your guns. And remember, you don’t owe them a thing.
The other sort, offering the sublime lesson, a peek into the bottomless well of the beauty of the human spirit, can be a real pleasure. They will probably try your patience a bit too, but it’s worth it. My rule of thumb is to attempt to offer the same basic respect to any person I come across in the course of my business. Easier said than done, but something to aim for.
As a self employed freak magnet, it’s been my great pleasure to encounter quite an array of swashbucklers. How about the charismatic actor who financed his theater company (and his t-shirts) with a successful drug dealing operation? He did quite well with it, but I guess his success was tempered by the little fact that he was a junkie…
One of my favorite encounters with an unusual person came early in my “career”, when I maintained a screen printing operation at Warehouse Artist Studios in Eugene, Oregon in the early ’80s. One fine rainy morning, when nothing much was going on, a slightly bellicose balding guy named Abner Burnett stepped through the door and asked how much I would charge to print one t-shirt. Sorry, minimum order is two dozen. OK, how much for two dozen?
Abner ends up ordering something like 2 shirts. He understands that the economies of scale are not working for him, that with set up charges, these will be very expensive shirts, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I wish I could remember what the design wasit may have had something to do with his beloved Chevy Vega (those were great cars, right up there with the Ford Pinto!). As Abner cuts me a downpayment check, he notes that he lives off a trust fund, and is bored, and is really glad he met me. Great.
When will the shirts be done? I can print them on Tuesday, I’ll call you when they are done.
Arriving at the warehouse on Tuesday morning, I am less than thrilled to find Abner at the door waiting for me with a curious half smile on his face. This is the first time I think, “axe murderer”. Turns out Abner wants to watch me print his shirts. He wants to learn about screen printing. Usually, it unnerves me to have a customer watch a production run, but hey, it’s only two shirts. And, Abner said he wants to learn about screen printing. He said the magic words. I love teaching people how to screen print. I figure it’s like teaching a poor man to fish. Or, it’s like giving someone a lesson in a tool that can be used to exercise your first amendment rights. So I am into it.
As I set up and print his job, Abner opines, “Mr. Lafler, I can tell that you are independently wealthy”. I bark out such a hearty laugh that I almost botch a print. “What makes you say that, Abner?”
“Well, you just leisurely hang out at your studio every day, doing just what you want.”
The fact is, Mr. Burnett, I am here in the studio to try to scrape together a couple bucks, with which to buy some burritos, beer and a can of food for Ed, my cat. If I make some extra cash, maybe I’ll publish a comic book or two, but independently wealthy? Ha!
Abner pays for his shirts, and he’s gone. I enjoyed the encounter, but I also was happy that it’s over. Or so I thought. Abner started showing up at my studio almost daily, to “learn screen printing”. He would stand there, half glassy eyed, issuing a series of loosely related comments that weren’t quite non sequiturs. One day I tried to leave, just to shake him. “Where you going?”, Abner wants to know. “I’m going to get some screen printing supplies”, I say. Abner wants to drive. Oh hell, why not? I don’t have a car.
Although I didn’t exactly like Abner, I was just a bit fascinated by him. What the hell was he up to? What was his story? He kinda gave me the creeps, but he exuded a thickly benign sense of serenity.
The jig was up one day when he came in, affable yet strangely agitated at the same time. What’s up, Abner? “Mr. Lafler, I’m a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic, and I didn’t take my medication today”.
Okay. That explained a lot. Abner came around a few more times, then I guess he lost interest. As mentioned, he made me rather nervous, yet I was curious enough about him to indulge his presence. I like to think he was just another manifestation of Buddha nature, come to teach me a lesson, or something like that.
Steve Lafler is a self employed cartoonist and screen printer. His most recent graphic novel is SCALAWAG, from Top Shelf Productions.
http://www.bohoworker.blogspot.com
“What is your New Year Resolution?”
This was perhaps the nth time I was asked this question.
Considering the progress we make every year on these resolutions, what kind of. People look at me as if I am some strange creature when I say I do not frame any resolutions. Let us take them as it comes, I feel. What say?
Actually speaking, most of the New Year’s resolutions are all about mental and physical health. A wise voice within, that knows what’s best, which keeps urging us onward, rises with enthusiasm on New Year’s Eve and makes us commit on these resolutions. But as the year passes by, this wise voice disappears and leaves us alone to struggle with these resolutions.
How nice it would be if this voice speaks up all the year round and guide us so that we would learn to listen to it all the time and not just at the turning of the year.
New Year Resolutions are all about analyzing our negative
tendencies and nipping them in the bud, they say. We find that most of the resolutions we make are mostly physical, like reducing weight, or related to lifestyle changes or changes in our habits. When we make these resolutions, we sound as if we are determined to fulfill them all by the end of the year and continue to stick to them through our lifetime. But how many of us make attempts to fulfill these resolutions and come out successful?
The New Year Resolutions has also got its “Top 10″ list.
1. Attempt to lose weight.
2. Quit a bad habit like smoking for example.
3. Plan a budget
4. Save or earn more money
5. Look for a better job
6. Become more organized
7. Exercise more
8. Be more patient at work/with others
9. Eat better
10. Become a better person
I would say that eating better is the only easiest resolution in the “Top 10″ list, which can be followed with enthusiasm.
If anyone asks me, my take would be “Why commit to such difficult and breakable resolutions? Instead try easy ones like watching more TV serials, eating more food, reading less, take up new habits, and thus resolve to do what you like best, and not try to please others by doing what they want!
Joke apart, it is easy to make or break resolutions. Resolutions are actually made to overcome our negative emotions, nip them in the bud and become more determined and conscious of all our hard work and efforts and reap the fruits out of them. The ideal path is to analyse our weaknesses, make simple and easy resolutions and see that we not only fulfill them but also continue to follow the path till end of life.
Losing weight or finding a better job or any such simple resolutions can be made any time of the year and need not be counted in the New Year Resolutions List.
Instead, if we try to frame resolutions, which will enhance our personality, a determination that help in making the world look at us in a different perspective as a human being who is fully worth living along with a society, doesn’t it sound good?
I approached the cell where they were holding Tonto. I had some feeling of fear at the
prospect of being locked up in a 6×8 cell with the man who shot the Lone Ranger. The
guard asked me if I wanted to go in and I mentioned this.
” He also scalped him. Allegedly, that is”.
I went on in and stood there observing the man who shot America’s greatest hero. He
didn’t look all that mean or dangerous.
“Tonto? Can I ask you a few questions!”
“Tonto. It’s always Tonto. Never sir or Mr. Tonto. Just Tonto. Why couldn’t they give
me a name like Geronimo or Crazy Horse or Sittng Bull, something like that. I guess
Crazy Horse isn’t so great either but Tonto? That sucks, man”.
“Did you shoot the Lone Ranger?”
“I scalped him too, the do-gooder. All the time it’s ‘Tonto do this ‘and Tonto ,’ do that’. I
finally had enough of it. And that’kemo sabe’ stuff. What does kemo sabe mean?
Nothing. It was just something I had to say at least once a week.”
” What about the Faithful Indian Companion thing?”
“What about it? Everyone thought I was gay to tell you the truth. Ever notice how I
never got the girl? Huh? Ever notice that? LR never got the girl either but that’s because
he had a thing about Silver”.
“Sounds like you’re going for temporary insanity”.
“No , I’m not. I just got tired of the whole thing. He got to wear these nifty clothes
while I wore beat-up old buckskins. Man, those things were hot. He got two guns while I
got one, although I only needed one as it turns out. He got silver bullets! Why? That
doesn’t make sense at all.”
“He was your friend’.
” Friend? What friend? I saved his life not the other way around, I could have left him
lying in that canyon to die is what I could have done. Maybe I should have. No, no. I had
to nurse him back to health and tell him about the silver mine and go along with the mask
and all that. Why? Who cared what he looked like? He didn’t care that people knew what
I looked like.”
“That really bothered you?”
“Sure it did. Here we’d be camped outside some town. Why? We had all kinds of money.
Why camp out on the ground.? I’ll probably get chillblains whem I get old. Anyway, HE
would go to town without the mask and have a good old time. So, I got to sneaking in
after he’d leave. I go right up and stand with him. Men would point at me and know the
old prospecter was the Lone Ranger. And they didn’t give a ratass about him .”
“You two rode the west fighting for justice”.
“You been watching too much t.v. We rode around getting into trouble is what we did.
He rode a big white stallion and I rode a little paint pony. That’s another bitch I had. He
also had all the money. Everytime I had to buy something he gave me the money. I found
that silver mine, not him. But no, he had the money and I had squat.”
“How do you think the trial will come out?”
“There won’t be no trial. If I don’t get lynched I think the charges will get dropped. It
wouldn’t do his image any good to have people think his faithful Indian companion
would shoot him. We start shooting this year’s episodes next week and they need me.
Did I say shooting? Ha-ha. Tonto made a joke.”
That’s Tonto’s Lament.
About the Author
Some things are off the wall and this author takes advantage of it. It gets harder and harder to make things up when real life is getting so weird.
I don’t try to offend but I don’t try not to, either. It’s all clean enough for my grandchildren to read (Uh, I married young and so did my children). They wouldn’t understand it but they could read it.
