Boogers

Posted on by Kip

What’s up with you guys anyway? After two years and 300+ blog posts, what’s the one observation on this fine site that gets the most hits? Snot!

See: http://misterass.com/2011/03/28/snot

Where’s the fascination? It’s not even that funny – in terms of humor, it doesn’t compare to Ivan and the Key Card, or The Garden Hose. And yet it’s had over 1000 page views. I don’t get it.

But what is snot, anyway, that makes it so interesting? According to Wiki – who would still be offline were it not for my scathing condemnation of Barbara Boxer and her SOPA antics, thank you very much – gives the following definition:

“Nasal mucus is produced by the nasal mucosa, and mucal tissues lining the airways (trachea, bronchus, bronchioles) is produced by specialized airway epithelial cells (goblet cells) and submucosal glands. Small particles such as dust, particulate pollutants, and allergens, as well as infectious agents such as bacteria are caught in the viscous nasal or airway mucus and prevented from entering the system. This event along with the continual movement of the respiratory mucus layer toward the oropharynx, helps prevent foreign objects from entering the lungs during breathing. In addition, mucus aids in moisturizing the inhaled air and prevents tissues such as the nasal and airway epithelia from drying out. Nasal and airway mucus is produced continuously, with most of it swallowed unconsciously, even when it is dried.”

Wait a minute? You mean I’ve been swallowing that crap? And what are these goblin cells? Sounds scary, having goblins inside my nasal mucosa – what if they escape?

But why does anyone care To me, snot is nothing more than that nasty goo that dries to a crust on the sleeve of some middle-school kid’s parka when he’s been out sledding too long, or the funky crap you find stuck to your pillow in the morning. It’s not worth talking about.

True, it’s fun to plug one side of your schnoz and blow a big wad of it into the nearest creosote bush, and there’s nothing better than hawking up that last green monster at the end of a long run of the flu. It’s the same kind of gratification as…popping a zit, perhaps, or picking a scab. Plucking a nose hair. It’s one of life’ s simple pleasures.

And here’s a little poem for you:

If you kiss your honey,
And her nose is runny,
Don’t think it’s honey,
‘Cause it’s not

Get it? Cause it s’not. Sadly, I can’t take credit for this gem – I found it on the Internet. But still – it goes to show people’s weird obsession with their bodily by-products. Humans are really sick sometimes.

So, 1013 page views of Snot? If I were paid a nickel for each visit…well, I might not be a millionaire, but I could certainly buy half a tank of gas and a triple-mocha latte at the Super Pumper, or maybe the Blue Ray trilogy of Back to the Future at Sam’s Club. So come on people – send me some nickels, and I’ll tell you everything you ever wanted to know about phlegm, mucus,  snot, boogers, loogies, nasal gems, snorters, trouser grout, snot rockets,  green slimeys, nose gold, tunica mucosa nasi…did I miss any?

Soup and Music

Posted on by Kip

This morning the Nordic Warrior Queen wanted to know how many people die each year on cruise ships. Since that’s one of the things I don’t know much about I had to look it up in Wikipedia.

But Wiki wasn’t there! What the hell? There was only this cryptic message about SOPA and PIPA, which I thought were Spanish words, and a little box asking me for my zip code. Why is Wiki going on about soup and music in Spanish, and asking where I live?

Okay, I’m easy – I entered my zip code. What’s the harm? In return they gave me all the contact information – Twitter addresses, phone numbers, even contact forms – for my state’s elected officials. That sure is going to come in handy for Christmas cards next year.

But wait, what’s this? Turns out that SOPA and PIPA is how a bunch of Technogeeks and former Napster junkies are pissed off about Congress trying to infringe on their rights and just generally making things difficult for them. If it means no more Wiki, I have to agree.

So, now that I realized that SOPA and PIPA don’t refer to soup and music (at least not in this instance), I decided to learn more about them, so I could decide which side to cheer for in the upcoming war between the free-speech Technogeeks with their army of AI nano-bots (that means smart little machines that can hide in your underwear and you’d never even know it) against the Washington “we want to control everything, especially if it means we can make more money” politicians with their Superpacs and Cayman Island bank accounts and all their rich Left-Wing Hollywood friends.

So I Wiki’d SOPA and…damnit, I forgot. Wiki’s broken. Today Wiki looks more like a “Who Died on This Day in History” memorial site, with this dreary, ominous new theme, than the can’t live without encyclopedia I’ve come to depend on. I sure hope it goes back to normal soon.

Anyway, I Googled SOPA instead of Wiki’ing it, and while I found some great soup recipes, I also found a link to a newspaper article that explains SOPA and PIPA (not the Spanish versions) and how the politicians both for and against SOPA are receiving “campaign contributions” both from the freedom of speech Technogeeks as well as the Hollywood “don’t you dare copy my crappy movies without paying me first” media industry.

You know, I always regretted not becoming a doctor, because doctors save lives and get paid a lot of money, and when they’re not cutting people open and shoving uncomfortable things inside their bodies they get to golf four days a week and go on month-long Caribbean cruises piloted by non-Italian ship captains, but now I know I should have been a politician, because these assholes are not only getting money from the people who like the way they think and want them to keep on thinking that way forever and ever, but they’re also getting money from people who hate the way they think and are hoping that by shoveling enough cash into their Cayman Island bank accounts they might convince them to think differently.

Barbara Boxer, who I’m sure is a pleasant enough lady if you’ve been invited to her house for barbecue pork sandwiches and a few beers next Saturday (I admit, I don’t know her on a first name basis, so I’m probably being unfair – and she does have a bitching hairdo for an older gal), is raking in close to a million bucks a year just on this one ridiculous issue. And she’s only one of a hundred or so Washington assholes who get paid for how they legislate - for or against, doesn’t really matter – and the more powerful and influential they are (like Barbara), the more they get paid by the lobbyists.

I don’t know. I’m not an especially smart man, and I slept through Social Studies in school, but I don’t think democracy is supposed to work like this. What do you think?

The PEZ Event

Posted on by Kip

When I was a kid, it was all so simple. I could load one of these up – Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, even Frosty the Snowman, it didn’t matter – in about four seconds flat, all while watching The Brady Bunch, or Gilligan’s Island. And I never once dropped a single piece of candy.

What the hell happened?

I’m talking about PEZ dispensers. Someone put one of these in my stocking for Christmas. It was a merry old Saint Nick model, together with six or eight of those little packs of candy. Assorted flavors, like Cherry, Grape, and Orange. Cherry was always my favorite.

I could probably hand a PEZ dispenser to anyone on the planet – as long as he or she is under eleven years of age and boasts an IQ of at least 72 – and they’d be popping candy into their mouth in no time.

You don’t need instructions to load a PEZ dispenser, but somehow I spent fifteen minutes just getting the fucker out of the plastic thermoform package. There was a small crack in Santa’s stupid grinning head by the time I was done.

Then it took me another five minutes to open the candy pack, and when I finally did, the candy flew all over the place. The Nordic Warrior Queen’s little mutt immediately ran in and began snarfing up the PEZ candies like they were some sort of new Kibbles and Bits. Since then she’s been crapping grape-colored turds all over the house.

I took a deep breath and carefully opened another pack of candy. This one was orange-flavored. Success! I spent a few minutes rearranging the stack so it would be ready for insertion into the PEZ dispenser, then pulled the spring loaded end down with one hand while gently lifting the stack of orange-flavored mini-bricks.

I was halfway there when disaster struck. Two events took place simultaneously – the stack collapsed, spraying orange candy all over my desk like a deck of cards. At the same time, the ass end of the contraption snapped shut, pinching the hell out of my finger and giving me a plastic cut on my pinky which later required several stitches.

They ought to put a warning label on these things.

After bandaging my hand, I gave it another try. This time I was slightly more successful – I managed to get half the candy into the device’s plastic torture rack, but somehow the other half wedged itself in there sideways. I tried to pick the trapped confections out with the only thing I had handy – a ballpoint pen – but I broke one of the plastic rails while doing so and ended up coloring the sideways bits of candy with blue ink. I’ll probably get food poisoning.

In the end I said screw it, and chucked the Santa Claus PEZ dispenser in the trash. Besides, it wouldn’t close anymore. I broke open the remaining packages and poured them into my wife’s candy dish. As it turns out, they taste like crap anyway. Maybe I’ll feed them to the dog.

What Just Happened?

Posted on by Kip

2011? All I can say is…wow. It’s been a busy year. According to the United Nations, Spaceship Earth now carries seven billion souls. That’s a big number, to be sure – when I was born, it was just over three billion, and people were wondering where we were going to put all the…well, all the people. Scientists estimate that, in another fifty years, there will be over nine billion humans calling Earth home. I doubt I’ll be around to see it, but with medical advancements these days, who knows? Maybe the real question will be whether I can still afford a doctor.

Of course, if some theologists are right, there will soon be a lot fewer of us around to make a mess of things. Whatever happened to the Rapture this year, anyway? I had fifty gallons of water, seven cases of Pork and Beans, and my entire library of Stephen King books packed away, yet the End of the World never came. What the hell? To hear those end of days enthusiasts tell it, someone made a small boo-boo in the date calculation, but they’ll get it right next time, you’ll see.

But…maybe it’s already started. This year we had earthquakes like it was nobody’s business – Turkey, New Zealand, Burma, and a great big one off the coast of Japan. Twenty-some thousand people gone, just like that. In fact, Wiki shows we had more earthquakes this year than in any of the last ten, but the USGS says there’s nothing to worry about. They’re just better at detecting them. Really.

And the storms. Holy cow. We had Hurricane Irene, the Groundhog Day Blizzard, historic flooding along the Mississippi River Valley, and finger-of-God tornadoes throughout the Southeast. There’s drought in Africa – well, maybe that’s nothing new, but a killer storm hit the Philippines, Cyclone Yasi struck Australia, and record floods drowned much of Thailand, China, and Vietnam. This past year was a meteorologist’s wet-dream.

So while the US had Snowmaggedon, the Arabs had an early Spring. You say you want a revolution? How about new governments in Tunisia, Egypt, and Libya, and uprisings in Syria, Yemen, Jordan, and elsewhere? Thomas Jefferson once said that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, but these guys are overachievers, and there are thirty-thousand fewer Arabs in the Middle East to prove it. I wish them luck with democracy, or whatever form of government they end up with.

Even at home, people are unhappy. Unemployment sucked, home foreclosures continued, and the debt ceiling went through the roof while our credit rating fell. Dozens of US cities were Occupied. I don’t think the 99% accomplished much with all their protesting, but politicians and dictators beware – there are a lot of pissed-off people out there.

And who can blame them? Representative Weiner showed us his wiener, Arnold got caught screwing the maid, Congressman Chris Lee went shopping for transsexuals on Craigslist, and Congressman David Wu dressed up in a tiger suit.  What’s up with these guys? And then there’s that grinning Mitt Romney, sticking out his hand to make a $10,000 bet, which is far more than 80% of the world’s population earn in a year. Can’t we get some normal people in public office? Vote them all out and start over, I say.

A lot of bad guys left us this year. Kim Jong-Il and al-Awlaki have gone to meet their maker, and Gaddafi discovered too late that his countrymen really didn’t love him after all. And those fools in Washington did something right for once, sending Osama Bin Laden off to look for his fifty-seven virgins in hell. Bye bye to all, and good riddance.

Of course, we lost some good guys, too. Over four-hundred American soldiers gave their lives defending us this year. Apple lost the heart of their company, Steve Jobs. Amy Winehouse joined Club 27. Smokin’ Joe made his last left hook, Anne McCaffrey went to Pern forever, and Dr. Kevorkian followed his patients, unassisted.  Colonel Potter is gone, as is The Family Circus. Weezer lost their bassist, Liz Taylor will never remarry, the only thing Jack LaLanne will push up now is daisies, and Dan Wheldon drove his last Indy race. What a spectacular ending he made.

Nobody will ever again call Ryan Dunn a Jackass, except perhaps the family of Zachary Hartwell, who was riding shotgun in Dunn’s fiery car crash. Macho Man Randy Savage did his last Double Slap – had a heart attack and then crashed his car. Ex-First Lady Betty Ford, Columbo’s Peter Falk, Major League Baseball Hall of Famer Harmon Killebrew – all gone. And I’ll certainly miss A Few Minutes with Andy Rooney each Sunday evening. I agreed with much of what he said even when others didn’t, and respect that he went ninety-two years without trimming his eyebrows.

There was plenty of news in 2011, both good and bad, but I suppose that can be said of any year. That grinning asshole Jared Loughner managed to kill six people, one of them a nine-year old girl, and wound thirteen others before being tackled by two heroes in the parking lot of the Tucson Safeway where he chose to deliver his obscene message. Gabriel Giffords, whom I never much cared for as a politician, is a hero now as well, showing us the meaning of courage as she struggles to regain the normal human functions Loughner took away from her.

Casey Anthony’s off the hook, but her daughter is still gone. I hope Casey dreams at night of all the things young Caylee will never do. Rupert Murdoch apologized. Big deal. Conrad Murray is off to the hoosegow, as is Rod Blagojevich. Looks like they’ll have plenty of time to repent their wrongdoings. Some political nutcase killed eighty in Norway, many of them teenagers. Coaches Jerry Sandusky and Bernie Fine got their hands caught in the…you know. What is wrong with people?

And we learned that Natalie Wood might not have drowned after all. Not that it really matters to her at this point, but it might to her husband, Robert Wagner. Octogenarian Hugh Heffner’s young fiancée, Crystal Harris, was a runaway bride. Go figure. Christina Aguilera got drunk again, Nicholas Cage beat up his wife again, and Lindsay Lohan…well, who really cares? All these politicians, movie stars, and sports figures – you’d think all that money and opportunity would raise those folks above the rest of us, but their actions prove they’re no better than anyone else. In many cases, they’re far worse.

Millions watched as Prince William made Kate Middleton into an honest woman. Iran released Shane Bauer and Josh Fattal, but I’m still wondering why they had to travel 8,000 miles just to go hiking. The Space Shuttle program ended this year, but NASA’s not dead, not by a long shot. The rover Curiosity started its long voyage to Mars, Juno is headed to Jupiter, and Messenger became the first spacecraft ever to orbit Mercury. I hope they find what they’re looking for. And the war in Iraq is over, sort of. Now we’ll see if the price was worth it. I’m sure the families of the sixty-three Iraqis killed in terrorist attacks last week don’t think so.

Someone once said, “May you live in interesting times.” From my side, I hope 2012 is a little less interesting.  All things considered, though, it was a good year. After all, we’re still here, right?

Four Calling Birds

Posted on by Kip

As he reached for the dashboard and switched on his bubble light, I realized the unmarked car had been following me ever since I left the bar. I swung into the nearest parking lot I could find, a Toys R’ Us store, jam-packed with mothers and their children returning unwanted Christmas gifts.

I put my hands on the steering wheel and waited; I didn’t want to risk getting shot.

As the cop approached my door, I had a sinking feeling – that military gait, the perfectly-pressed khakis, his hat cocked at a jaunty angle: it could only be one man. And sure enough, as he leaned into my window, the afternoon sun glinted off his polished name badge: ANDERSON

The last time I’d seen him was in San Diego, after I’d attempted to outrun the mechanical eye on a toll booth. Officer Anderson had caught me red-handed. And before that, he’d stopped my brother one snowy night in Minnesota, years and years ago. Officer Anderson and the Hansons went way back.

But what was he doing here, in Arizona?

“License and registration, please.”

I reached slowly, carefully, for the glove compartment, gently extracting the vehicle registration. Together with my driver’s license, I handed it out the window.

“Stay here,” he warned, and strode back to his patrol car.

Within minutes, he returned. “So, we meet again, Mr. Hanson. Would you step out of the car please?”

“Hello, Officer Anderson.” What else could I say?

“Have you been drinking, Mr. Hanson?”

“Well, not really.” I was screwed.

“It’s a simple question, sir. Yes or no?”

“I had two Two Turtle Doves.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes. Two Two Turtle Doves.”

“Sir, you’re obviously intoxicated. You’re stuttering and speaking nonsense. I’m placing you under arrest.”

“No! No, wait. What about a sobriety test?” I knew I was fine to drive.

“I’m taking no chances. I let one Hanson slip through already. It won’t happen again.”

“But…I’m fine, really. I only had two beers.”

“Two Two Turtle Doves? What kind of nonsense is that? And what’s that sitting in your back seat – Three French Hens?”

“Well, actually yes. It is. Three French Hens.”

“Okay, that’s it. Up against the car.” He put his hand on his service revolver.

Just then a second squad car pulled up. “What’s going on here, Duane?”

Duane? “I’m arresting this man for drunk and disorderly,” replied Anderson, sounding a little defensive.

“Anderson, how many times have we told you? You’re out of your jurisdiction.”

“Yes, but…”

“Go back to San Diego, Duane. And stay there.” The cop looked at me. “You’re free to leave, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

As I got into my car and pulled away, I could see Officer Anderson in my rearview, glaring at me. I’d better be careful the next time I go to San Diego.

I arrived home five minutes later. Shaken from my near incarceration, I quickly cracked open the growler and poured some Three French Hens. It was even better than Two Turtle Doves. It was so good, in fact, that within an hour or two I’d finished the entire half-gallon. I managed to stay awake until eight o’clock, then went to bed and had terrible dreams of Officer Anderson.

I awoke early the next morning to the sound of crows, cawing incessantly. Pale sunlight filtered through the blinds. My head was throbbing from the after-effects of the Two Turtle Doves and Three French Hens. I rolled out of bed and dragged myself to the window to see four crows perched on a nearby Palo Verde tree.

No more Turtle Doves or French Hens for me, I vowed. Never again. Outside, the four birds continued their calling. Caw, caw.

Turtle Doves and French Hens

Posted on by Kip

After the strange conversation I’d had with ex-Partridge Family member Danny Bonaduce, I felt the need for some refreshment. Luckily, the Yard House is just down the road, and they serve over three hundred beers. Surely they would have something to take away the weirdness of the afternoon’s telephone call.

Ten minutes later I was pulling up a seat at the bar. The bartender walked over and introduced himself as Robert. “What can I get you?” he asked.

I noticed his nametag and laughed. BARKER. “Bob Barker?”

He scowled. “My name is Robert. Please don’t call me Bob.”

“Umm, okay…Robert. Do you have any good seasonals on tap?”

“I have Two Turtle Doves.”

“Two Turtle Doves?”

“Yes. Two Turtle Doves. It’s a Belgian Strong Ale. From California.” I could tell he was growing impatient, like I should’ve known what he was talking about. “Do you want one?”

“Sure, Bob…uh, Robert. That’s fine.”

Bob Barker was right. Within a few minutes, I’d come to realize that Two Turtle Doves was an excellent choice. In fact, it was so good, I needed a second one. “Hey, Bob,” I called. “Come on dowwwwwn.”

From the look on Bob’s face, I figured he’d heard enough Price is Right jokes to last a lifetime. “How about one more, Roberto?” I was feeling pretty good.

After the second one, I was feeling even better. I knew three Turtle Doves would be perfect. But Robert shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Only two Two Turtle Doves to a customer.” He didn’t seem very sorry. “It’s twelve percent alcohol.”

“Robert, isn’t it kind of hard to say ‘two Two Turtle Doves? I bet if you say it two times, that makes eight.” Two Two Turtle Doves – this seemed pretty damned funny to me.

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” Apparently, Robert Barker (don’t call me Bob) has a dry sense of humor. “Can I get you anything else?”

“I’d better not, Bob. I have to drive.” Another beer sure did sound good, though. “Wait! Do you sell growlers to go?”

Bob seemed quite happy to see my on my way. “Of course.”

“Two Turtle Doves?” I asked hopefully.

“Sorry. I can’t sell that in a growler. Too strong.” He didn’t seem very sorry. “How about Three French Hens?”

“Really? Sounds great. Set me up, Bobby.”

…

I was five minutes from home when the unmarked car behind me switched on his dash bubble. Oh, crap. As I pulled into a nearby parking lot, I watched in my rearview mirror as Officer Anderson climbed out of his squad car.

One Unhappy Partridge

Posted on by Kip

Danny Bonaduce called me last week, all excited. “Dude, Shirley and I are starting up the band again, and I was wondering if you can take Brian Forster’s spot.”

“Umm…what? Who is this?”

“Dude,” he sounded tense. “It’s me, Danny. Danny Bonaduce? You know, The Partridge Family?”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Don’t you remember? You wrote us that nice letter, about how you wanted to part of the band.”

Was this guy serious? “Uh, Danny. That was, what? 1970? I was nine years old.”

“But…your letter said how much you love our music.” At this point, he broke into song, “You know, C’mon Get Happy and I Think I Love You. Is this ringin’ any bells yet, little dude?”

“Listen, Bonaduce. Don’t call me little dude. I’m nearly as old as you are. And who’s Brian Forster?”

“Geez, I thought you were a fan. Brian Forster played Chris, the drummer. Why don’t you know that?

“I can’t play drums, Danny.”

“Don’t worry about it, little dude. Neither could Brian. He just sat there smiling, trying to look all cool while he was whamming away on the drums like an idiot. I don’t think he even knew we dubbed in the soundtrack later.” Bonaduce let out an exasperated sigh. “C’mon, are you in or out?”

Now, I admit that I once had the hots for Susan Dey. Who didn’t, after all? And I may have one or two Partridge Family songs in my iTunes library, but this whole thing was crazy. The rumors about this guy must be true. “Danny, have you been drinking?”

There was a long pause. “What’s your point? Here I am, giving you the chance of a lifetime, and you’re questioning my alcohol use? Why you son of a b….” At this point, Danny fell into a long rambling discourse about my ungrateful attitude, and how I was not, nor ever had been, a true Partridge Family fan, and that I have no musical talent. Just before I hung up the phone, he said something about how he was going to come to my house and beat the crap out of me.

C’mon, get happy, Danny. And Merry Christmas, Partridge Family. Or whatever family you’re part of.

 

 

 

 

 

Kringle

Posted on by Kip

We were way behind schedule. Dancer and Prancer had started my morning off by breaking into the stores of magic corn, and had been laying down some serious reindeer games all day long; poor Rudolph was near tears. And of course, I’d told the team to go easy with the carbs on Christmas Eve, but did they listen? No. Now I was flying over suburban Minneapolis, stuck behind a team of flatulent reindeer while trying to find little Susie’s house. Good God, how much worse could it get?

In the back seat, Jingle and Jangle were starting on their forty-first rendition of Silent Night; I was ready to push them both out of the sled. I turned around to unleash a mighty can of whoop-ass on their elvish butts and accidentally flew through the jet-wash of a Minneapolis-St. Paul bound red-eye. We spun around three times, turned turtle, and by the time I got us right-side up there were toys, candy, and reindeer shit flying everywhere.

Finally, I spotted Susie’s house up ahead. I landed on the rooftop, leaped down the chimney, dumped the packages by the tree and got the hell out of there. And by the time I made it back up top, those fucking elves were fighting over which one of them could do the best Bruce Lee round-kick. I can’t believe the rotten help these days. I knocked their stockinged heads together and told them to straighten up or they were out. Am I the only responsible one in the entire North Pole?

Next up was Charlie’s house: another baseball mitt. Jesus, what does that kid do with them all? I’d already started my take-off procedure when I felt Jingle pulling at my sleeve. “What is it this time?” I yelled. He pointed across the street. Oh, crap: Johnny’s house. I shook my head; no way. That kid blew his chance two years ago when he set up a rope snare next to the cookies and milk. If I weren’t lactose-intolerant, he would have caught me for sure. I had no intention of going back.

But what the hell, people change, right? Somewhat reluctantly, I took off and circled his two-story, looking for traps. I landed near the edge of the roof so I could make a quick get away if he tried to pull any shit. Jumping out, I warned the elves, “Don’t touch anything,” then grabbed the cheapest gift I could find and headed towards the chimney. But just as I was starting down, there was a bright flash of light to my left, followed by a scream; Johnny had done it to me again.

There behind the sled runners was a trip wire — I’d missed it by inches. And since these elves don’t listen to a damn thing I say, the second I turned my back they’d jumped out and gone hunting for the eggnog I had stashed in the trunk. The trip wire was attached to a digital camera that Johnny had duct-taped to the satellite dish; the instant Jingle touched the wire, the camera flash went off, blinding them in the darkness. They walked right over the edge!

I should have been able to catch them. We’d trained for situations like this. But by the time I made my way across the roof, it was too late. Luckily, I was able to grab Jangle mid-air. I heaved him up onto the roof and dove for Jingle, and if he hadn’t eaten so damn much Figgy Pudding, I might have pulled it off. But as it was, I snagged the back of his jacket only to have it tear away in my hands. He struck a large pine tree, bounced like a rag doll from limb to limb and landed in a snowdrift.  Christ on a crutch, what a mess.

I confiscated Johnny’s camera, then tried to decide what to do with Jingle. Where do you take an elf with a broken leg at two o’clock in the morning on Christmas Day? I had no choice, really. I gave him fifty bucks and dropped him off at the Emergency Room of Minneapolis Medical Center, hoping that nobody called the cops on him as a cross-dresser or something. It was either that or cancel Christmas. Luckily there are so many weirdos running around these days that nobody gave him a second look. All’s well as ends well, I guess. But there’s one thing I know for sure: next year, that little bastard Johnny is getting coal.

(Originally published at this time last year by the good people at Every Day Fiction, http://www.everydayfiction.com)

Cindy and the Hounds

Posted on by Kip

Bark, bark, bark, all day long.

I asked the Nordic Warrior Queen, “Whose fucking mutt is that? I’m going to kill it.” That’s when she told me there’s a dog park a few hundred away; just next to the baseball field, on the other side of the trees.

A dog park? You mean, a park, just for dogs? What the hell? You’d think they pay taxes or something. So I Googled “dog parks,” and it turns out there are over thirty of them in Arizona alone. Do the math and that means…what, a couple thousand across the US? That’s more parks than there are for inner-city kids.

There’s even a web-site. You guessed it: www.dogpark.com

These mutts have 2/3rds of an acre, with a large shaded area, doggy fountains, and “a push button dust control feature that waters the area to keep the dust down.” Wow.

So why are they barking all the time? You’d think they would just…chill. But no, every day it’s the same old thing. Non-stop barking. What are they going on about? The evil side of me was thinking shock collars and antifreeze.

For the owners, that is.

I love dogs. I’ve had dogs for most of my life. But this dog park thing seems a little over the top to me. I mean, why does a dog need a park? When I was a kid, the whole neighborhood was a dog park. There were dogs running everywhere. Of course, it didn’t always turn out too well for the dogs.

On several occasions, disgruntled neighbors, tired of picking up poop, repairing dug-up begonias, and having their kids chased home from school, would complain to the cops and off went Fido to the pound. When this happened in our house, my Dad would post bail, and then I would go the entire summer without allowance.

If calling the cops didn’t work, sometimes those same neighbors took matters into their own hands. Two of my dogs were poisoned, one was shot, and another lost his hind foot in a fox trap.

So maybe the whole dog park thing is a good idea. But why do they have to bark…all…day…long?

I decided to go down there. Maybe I could talk some sense into them.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Jesus. It’s no wonder those dogs were mad. The place smelled like…well, a dog park. There was poop everywhere. Between the fairy rings surrounding the mounds of dried-out dog crap and the urine-burned patches of turf, the grass of this place would never qualify for the Phoenix Open. Not in a million years.

There were dogs humping and fighting, running, sleeping, squatting, and pissing. There was enough marked territory in that 2/3 acre to cover everything west of the Missisippi. There were yappy Chihuahuas, mangy crossbreeds, fuzzy Malteses, Papillons, and Shih Tzus, embarrassed-looking weiner dogs, and even a pony-sized Great Dane with the unlikely name of Fifi.

And the minute I opened the squeaky latch and stepped inside the chained-link confines of that doggy heaven, every eye in the place turned my way. They were scrutinizing me, looking for weaknesses. I felt like a rabbit on the race track, a gazelle on the African savannah, a tired swimmer a few strokes in front of the Great White. I was screwed.

Before the hounds could attack, however, this great horse of a woman came over. I guess she was the caretaker. “Hi. I’m Cindy. Can I help you?” she said. She might have stood six-foot three, and outweighed me by a hundred pounds at least.

“Umm…yes. I was wondering. Is there any way to get all these, er…damn dogs, to shut the hell up. For a little while, at least. I’m trying to work.”

Cindy pulled an attitude. “This is the DOG PARK, Mister. Didn’t you see the sign?” Around me, the pack was closing in, surrounding me.

“Yeah, but…I live right over there, and the dogs, they bark, bark, bark, all day long. Can’t you make them stop?” A huge German Shepherd was nosing at my shoe.

“Why would I want to? They have a right to express themselves. Don’t they?”

“Well, uh…” I could feel Fifi’s hot breath on my thigh; a pair of ferocious-looking pugs were circling me, killers ready to attack. With one word, Cindy could turn me into dog food. “Maybe you’re right. Dogs have rights too.” I began to back away, slowly, slowly, hoping to reach the safety of the gate before she unleashed the hounds.

Cindy and the pack watched me go, warm slobber dripping from their flappy jowels. As I closed the gate and turned for home, defeated, Cindy called out. “Have a nice day, sir.”

Behind me, the dogs began to bark.

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