Keelhauled

keel-haul

verb:

To punish (someone) by dragging them through the water under the keel of the ship, either across the width or from bow to stern.

Surprisingly, I had a gift of drafting students to be my educational assassins.  I think most of them liked me, but learned if they weren’t well behaved and didn’t turn in assignments, they would be keelhauled.  They would also rat others out so them may witness me punishing them.  I didn’t encourage that.

Collectively, we were reading a book and keelhauling was an ingredient to a story both women and children appreciated.  While reading excerpts from of a book to the students called “The Secret Life of Charlotte Doyle”, a girl secretly aboard a ship was threatened to be keelhauled upon disapproval of the sailors.  Her bravery properly developed the respect from the men aboard the ship.  She was willing to go from bow to stern under water without a snorkel’s chance in Hell .  She made it, and was recognized as a true mate.

While teaching English, this terrifically well behaved and bright young girl in my class  who had read the book was the ace up my sleeve when supervisors attended my class to witness if I was worthy of being a teacher for a second year in the district.  When the principal and superintendent arrived to observe, they were questioning students.  I interjected.  I told the one particularly bright student if her assignment was’t turned in properly, she would be keelhauled.  My supervisor didn’t know what the hell we were talking about.  He simply asked the student what that meant.  She described it properly, using references to the book, and not only did it make my principal laugh, the district signed me to another contract.  It was that easy.

Actually, it was never easy.

 

Thank This

Everyone hold each others’ sweaty hands.  We must give thanks and pray.  blachch…

All of you will have your turn at the table to release your souls and “out loud” tell us all what you are most thankful for this evening.

Gravy!  No.  Good gravy.  That’s all I’ve got.

Start thinking about it.  You only have a couple weeks to go before Thanksgiving judgment day.  I’m ready.

I’m thankful for paper towels.  I keep them with me, especially on Thanksgiving, like a man carrying his gun in his holster.  Spills will fly and herbs and spices will be splattered.  Since I am cooking here, that’s what I’m thankful for this evening.   I don’t care about the drunk uncle telling terrible stories at the child’s table.  I’m not thankful for him.  That may have been me a time or two.  I’m also thankful for my wife who is a septic inspector.  Not a fun job, but she has to earn the meals I provide her.

Fully loaded for Thanksgiving.  That turkey will pay for his sins.

Plaques

My sister has a plague in her bathroom,   She’s a nut, but I love her unconditionally .

She made a mistake with her spelling.  It was plaque verses a  plague.  What do you do with locusts in your bathroom?   Call the yellow pages.

To her benefit, she was looking at a plaque in her bathroom . She does not have a plague .

Those silly plaques . They get us every time .

How to Reason Without Baseball Season

My wife finally believes me.

Make no mistake, I have told lies.  This is no lie, but much like most lies, this admission of guilt is a bit embarrassing.

Unlike a special blanket, I slept with a plastic helmet with the La Dodger logo.   I dreamed of being in the World Series those nights at the ridiculous age of 6.  My family made fun of me.  They still do, but they also knew they couldn’t have pried that helmet off me with a ball peen hammer, pick axe, and a wrecking ball.

As a catholic, I’d go to confession with very little to talk about at the age of six.  When I confessed to the Father regarding sleeping with a helmet on, he told me, “That’s not a sin.  It’s just kind of  goofy.”

After my wife spoke with my sisters and brothers, they confirmed it properly.

Now, she just thinks it was pretty cute.

Nobody sleeps with a helmet…..except me.

I wore that helmet until the start of the next season.  That may be stretching it.

Profanity Diner

My brother, Greg, can make anyone blush.  It’s usually in a diner when others are eating biscuits and gravy or a six pack of pancakes loaded with every diabetic’s dream.

He also deals with reality, and at this point in my life, I’m grateful he does.

Years ago, he met a girlfriend of mine in a diner.  I was also there with my brother, Tom.  He was primarily there for the coffee and steak and eggs.  Greg was there to evaluate.  I was merely in the diner to introduce them to this odd girl they’d never met.  My date at the time had a name.  I can’t quite recall it.  I do remember her profession.  She helped impound repossessed cars.  What’s wrong with that?  I was merely a teacher repossessing and impounding students, so I thought we had a great deal in common.  My brother, Greg, frowned upon her as though she was just another one of those dirt diggers, hoping to get whatever money I didn’t have and place it in her filthy back drawers.  According to Greg, she wasn’t up to snuff.  It was then when I asked Greg to give her a chance.  Tom had a mouthful of food.  Greg had a mouthful of advice.  After speaking to this girl for almost five minutes, he turned to me and said, in his loudest of diner voices, “If you f–k, this up,  I will kick the living s–t out of you!”  People turned their heads at how vocal he was,  appalled by his profanity.  Greg was just recognizing her intelligence, beauty, wit, charm and sense of humor all in those five minutes.  I wouldn’t say it was his most charming of moments, but it did stick to me like Greg’s gorilla glue always did.

I took his threat into consideration and asked her out for another date, this time without my brothers.  She decided, upon my brother’s advice, she would accept, only because she didn’t wish me to get the s–t beat out of me.

I finally figured out the girl’s name and she later became Vice President of a local repossession dealership in Seattle. Britt and I have been happily married for the last 12 years and I haven’t had any s–t kicked out of me.

These days,Greg frequents diners working for tips or free bacon while giving other couples solid advice.  Most of those customers end up properly divorced.  We were two of the lucky ones.

Tom gave up coffee for smoked trout and hikes.

All is well.

Quatto and Action Park

“Pain don’t hurt.”  These words were so eloquently delivered by Patrick Swayze in the extraordinarily moving and critically acclaimed 1989 film, Road House.

Pain don’t hurt?  Like hell it doesn’t.  Having two hernias residing in your body like unruly tenants you are having a hell of a time trying to evict.

These hernias have names.  One is umbilical hernia named Quato and the other, Action Park is an inguinal. Quato is affectionately named after a character co-starring in a movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger called Total Recall.  It was equally as riveting as Road House . Quato stole the show.  Action Park is named after a notoriously dangerous water park in New Jersey.  If you left the park without some bloodshed or a serious injury, the park employees weren’t doing their job properly.  They made it as dangerous as possible.

Now, my Quato hernia, much like his character in the movie, is simply annoying and sometimes, depending on his positioning, also can find a way to be quite painful. I never thought I’d to refer to a hernia as being pretentious, but this one qualifies. In the movie, while cleverly busting through the human carrying him, Quatto was disturbingly philosophical regarding the rights and wrongs of the world,  When he’d finish spewing his drunken words from his bleeding mouth, he’d slink back into his habita.That would be the man’s stomach.

Action Park is a whole different story.  Weighing in at almost three pounds, he’s been squatting along with his friends, my intestines,  in the most pliable location of my body which I don’t wish to share.

Action Park was considered to be a water park, so of course, there were drownings in its action wave pool where many of the park thrill seekers, unlike the Northwest Passage, would find.  And, even though many of them couldn’t swim, they would venture into the four feet deep pool, only to be thrashed by an eight foot wave.  When I roll over at night, I feel this great rush of blood in my mid-section, thus causing midnight profanity and even guttural shrieks of pain similar to those heard from the wild man of Squeamish County, West Virginia.

Just speaking with my brother, one of his employees has six, yes six hernias.  He is far beyond what I have tried to describe. Forgive me for complaining and say a prayer for him.

Pain does indeed hurt.

 

No Horse

Soccer is terrific if you love it.  Football is great if you can take it.  Basketball is wonderful if you can endure it.  Baseball is magnificent if you can believe it.  Other than baseball, I can’t say I love or even like all of the major sports.  However, I embrace them.

Watching the Major League Baseball Playoffs tonight, I didn’t have a horse in the race.  I didn’t care who won and I only knew of a select few of these elite players participating.  In the 8th inning, I may have been alone in our house, but there was seating room only during that 8th inning when The Washington Nationals were in pursuit of defeating the Milwaukee Brewers.  The city of D.C. blew up with joy rather than uncertainty.  You don’t have to have a horse in the race to enjoy life…..and sports, can provide that joy.

Apples and A-Holes

New York City’s famous nickname “The Big Apple” wasn’t named after the forbidden fruit.  The term was used to describe “something most significant of its kind; an object of desire and ambition.”

Playoff baseball is right around the hot corner, and the Yankees will be right in the mix.  That’s when the big apples leave for equally significant cities and you can find all the big A-Holes at Yankee Stadium

Go anyone but the Yankees!

Prep Time and the Book

I guess you could say I went to a garden party one day.  It was only fun because I could pay off a bet.  Let’s just say it wasn’t a Twix candy bar sort of bet.  I had one hour to meet up with my Italian bookie on my duty free lunch time as a middle school teacher, or they may have showed up for me at school, thus ending my career.

My Italian bookie was a nice fella.  He knew I was a nice and stupid drunk Irishman fella with friends, neighbors and family members trusting my wallet.  Errors come in trios, no matter what nationality.  I was the bank for them, and the bookie was waiting to collect at his local garden spot.  He sold flowers, plants, wilted lettuce and sausage.  He collected money from clowns like me. I was a semi phony teacher and he was a semi phony business man.  We were both part time actors.  I liked him.

With an envelope the size of a maple bar filled with dirty twenty, tens, fives, some ones and a few c-notes, I finished my English lesson before my lunch time and prep period to pay off my dues.  My driver was, and still is, miraculously, a fellow teacher and friend.  He was nervous.  I was more worried about getting back to class on time.  He wanted to drop me off and catch a bus back to school.  Then, I had to negotiate.  My driver was not going to enter the “store” with me as planned.  I told him I’d go in, and pay this bookie off as long as he would give me a ride back to our respected place of employment.  Nervously, he thought I may return to the car with something severed.  I assured him we were PAYING OFF a bet.  We may even get a free head of lettuce in the transaction.

When I entered the establishment, the bookie and I had never personally met.  At first glance, he knew I was the Irish Catholic gambler/school teacher he should be collecting debts from, and he asked me to follow him to his office.  He saw the maple bar in my pocket and was pleased.  He said the Mrs. was going to have a nice Christmas.  She hated his gambling but always seemed happy when she’d be given a load of dirty cash.  He even offered me a beer in his office.  I respectfully declined stating, “No, I have children to teach.”  That’s absolutely true and also widening the scope of abject hypocrisy.

Big News!

Hold the texts.  The Patriots are going to win the Super Bowl in 2019.

Without encouraging my gambling tendencies through Fantasy Football this year, and although I love the sport of American football, my lawn mowing duties are far more important. My wife, currently working Sundays at the local pesticide plant,  gives me an over under on when I will finish the lawn and have dinner ready upon her arrival.  She drives a jalopy, so the odds are usually in my favor.

The Seattle Seahawks will receive a participant ribbon.

Honesty on the west side of our country.