Here’s a simple blog for all those who enjoy the smell of Meth. I don’t know, nor wish to know the correct spelling of the drug known as Methosuperwasted. One of our cats just pissed in my lab of solitude, and it smells just like a drug people have described. I am unable to describe it further because paper towels aren’t enough to clean up this meth.
Does punctuality really exist? For some, yes. For others, negative. It’s really just a matter of vanity. While working the same job for 15 years, I may have looked awful, smelled dreadful, and forgot to wear two shoes, but by gosh, I was always on time, almost to a fault. Women aren’t quite the same. They like to look nice, smell wonderful and wear two matching shoes. This requires them a bit more time preparing for pointless meetings. I’ll give this to females. They usually do have more hair than the common man, thus requiring more time to ready themselves for the daily battle.
The weekly or morning meetings at our place of employment were always a joy. My friends and I showed up on time to more meetings than Jimmy Conners had balls. Isn’t that the old saying? My good friend, Jack, taught me that. Other than for comedic purposes, these meetings were utterly useless. Yet, our contract and principal stated by abstract law we should be present. We’d sit at attention at tables just prior to meetings scheduled for 7 o’clock, right on the dot, praying for our fellow female employees to be there at the same time so we could get this show on and off the road as quickly as possible. That’s one of the reasons I lost a little faith in God. Our prayers were never answered.
At 7:15 am, the meeting would proceed. The guys on time at our table were already quite disgruntled, thus setting up the gathering of nitwits to be that much more meaningless. As vigilantes, we would deliberately ignore, distract or destroy the judge of the meeting’s pointless point. Several times, it would get us in a bit of hot water, but we always managed to laugh our way through it. Case in point: When a piano keynote speaker would be presenting us with information we already knew, someone at our table, very seriously, and with supreme maturity would do something such as draw a large middle finger on a notepad, pass it from person to person at the table giving each of us a chuckle. One of my friends once drew a beautiful picture of another friendly employee smoking a cigarette, which is exactly what that employee wished to be doing, amongst other things at the time. My belly laugh almost caused me to be removed from that particular meeting. If I could live it over again, I would have laughed even harder, ensuring my expulsion from nonsense.
Let’s get back to punctuality. For people in the wrong, they usually try to make things right by accusing the accuser. The people tardy for these meetings could not fathom how all these men who most likely were at a bar until midnight could possibly show up on time for a 7 a.m meeting. They were simply disgusted. So, while we were laughing and making fun of acronyms we didn’t know or would fabricate, non punctual people would stroll by with their nose, not in the air, but in your face, and say, “It smells like booze at this table”. We’d all look at one another and say, “It didn’t until you showed up”. Then, we’d laugh and piss people off further. They were actually the worst of times and the best of times. Didn’t a famous author say something like that? It must have been something about punctuality and meetings.
My wife and I play a little game called “Punctuality”. It’s a simple game requiring spreads, just like gambling on a football game. She will state she’ll be home by 6 o’clock from work or perhaps the salon. Knowing this is an abject lie, I recognize that 7 o’clock is really what she means. That’s why I give her, instead of 60 points, 60 minutes. (Gamblers would understand this. If you were never a gambler, let me give you some advice. Don’t gamble unless you are betting on your wife being late) It’s a simple matter of mathematics. Basically, I double every time limit she has, whether it has to do with how long we spend at Target, a local drugstore, the I-Hop with her Nanna, or when she finishes her hair or even perhaps completes an expedition to any shoe store. It’s a terrific game because it eliminates quarrels. If she covers the time spread, I’m happy to get the hell out of target and she gets a foot rub and watches extraordinarily mind bending shows such as Desperate Housewives. If she doesn’t cover the time spread, I watch baseball and football with her until I fall asleep. Secretly, she loves sports, so she wins either way.
You may find this game at Ben’s and Noble.
P.S. It’s 5:30 and she was supposed to be home by 4:30. Now, we have to watch the Seattle Seahawks. I guess I lose again.
Unless it’s Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein, I’m really not into this crazy culture known as rhymes. I’m not even good at it, but since meeting this new friend, I am compelled to write about him.
Here we Bo;
Our new friend is named Bo, comma
We treat him as if he was our Bro, comma
He’s really quite mellow and an extremely nice fellow, but he maintains this interesting quirk of pissing on our flo. (floor) The End
You won’t be able to find Bo on Wikipedia so I will provide some TRUE background knowledge regarding our four legged friend. He has short legs, a wonderful personality, terrific parents and is our two dogs’ new toy. I hope our dogs don’t eat him like all of their former toys.
Like me, Bo gets a little lonely sometimes and wags at our door wanting to play. It’s hilarious and we can’t turn him downtown.
We all have our Thanksgiving traditions. Some people uncomfortably hold hands and pray giving thanks for what they are receiving on the table. Some people don’t pray at all but give thanks to that mouth guttering turkey on the table. Some people don’t have turkey at all. I’ll brighten this up a bit.
Our family of 13 had many traditions, but only one of them was truly glorious. It wasn’t the nose bleeding fights we’d have in the basement that thankful day causing our father to ban us from boxing gloves. He was a wise man, but bare knuckles weren’t a wise alternative for us……brothers and sisters both. It wasn’t someone drinking so much eggnog that precious day causing them to throw up at the dinner table, thus causing me not to partake in Mom’s exquisite cuisine. It wasn’t even mom being irritated because, in later years, that there was a beer can in every sacred picture. Mom wasn’t, is not, and never will be a drinker. That’s probably why she’s 80 something and in better shape than all of her children. This other tradition is one I believe most can relate. There are three rounds of Thanksgiving dinner. The first round consists of mass quantities of food, mixed in with someone, (my nephew, Dean), vomiting, followed by those capable of witnessing that event, and actually finishing their dinner. Second round: Mom and the sisters doing dishes until next Thanksgiving came around the calender. Third round: The boys becoming hungry enough to make turkey sandwiches two hours after eating turkey, mash potatoes, sweet potatoes, (I once remember swimming in mom’s gravy as though imagining we could actually afford a pool), and as usual, some idiot would show up with this weird salad known as a Waldorf. This contains fruit. I am a fruitcake and I love fruit but not on Thanksgiving. That thankful day, I would say “no thanks” to fruit. When I sat down at the table, I was watching Carnivore Central, and nobody was going to change my channel.
Now for the best tradition of all. It wasn’t always just mom, dad, and the 13 of us in this humble house. Brothers and Sisters eventually began getting married (to other people who were not related to us…..sorry that happens in some states) and started having children of their own. That added a bit to the table. Remarkably, we also had friends showing up to mother’s magnificent feast. So, now we’re talking about five or six hundred thousand people we have eating, drinking, fighting and throwing up. Growing older and a bit more crotchety, and mysteriously wiser (that usually doesn’t happen with men my dad’s age), he, my father, wanted these people, sons, daughters, uncles, aunts, friends, sons in law, daughters in law, potatoes, turkeys and people he didn’t even know to get the Hell out of his and my mother’s house. Therefore, the ideal tradition began. He confiscated all the keys of people capable driving home with their children and started each one of their cars up. Sometimes, when dad made a point, it didn’t have to be with words. He was a man of action. With exhausted fumes blowing through our block, driveway and house, everyone collectively said, “well I guess this party’s over…..see you next year”.
I never knew my father was a genius.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Sarcasm is a wonderful weapon when it’s used properly upon others. When it’s tossed back at you with wicked power, it can be equally effective.
I write so I can help pay the rent. If I wrote to make a ton of money, I don’t think I’d see, hear, or have any contact with earthlings I enjoy……i.e…..relatives, friends, and even an occasionally friendly neighbor.
Britt (AKA…Yoko Gannon) and I recently moved to a new neighborhood, thus befriending and defriending members of the community. Sir John Ellingson and his wife have welcomed my wife, Britt, and I into this humble neighborhood. His wife, Megan, and their daughter, Emma (AKA…Peanut) have also made us feel welcome. They bake us magnificent banana bread, prepare terrific omelets and invite us to their daughter’s dance and ballet classes. Genuinely, and without any sarcastic tone, they are great people. John actually irritates me because he is taller, maintains more hair, stays in shape, has a good job, is a great father and is just generally better than me. He also has a sense of humor and sense of dry wit, making mine sound infantile.
Britt, Megan, John, Emma, Chris, (John’s friend) and I had some appetizers the other night at their house. John was a bit irritated with me because I don’t update my blog enough. I tried to explain why my updates aren’t always up to date. My editor always wishes to read my blogs before sending them to the world.
John is a man who knows I stay at home attempting to write. He also knows there are times when I just get to take the dogs to the park and prepare dinner for Britter Bear Gannon. One recent day, while suffering from writer’s blockage, I purchased two pumpkins so I could surprise Britt with my carving talents. Britt happily and proudly described my artistic prowess with the pumpkins to John. In a needle like fashion, John responded, much like the mayor of West Seattle,….”so Ben just sits at home and carves pumpkins all day”?
I don’t get offended easily. I get offended really easily. If I had balls below the waist, it would have been considered a low blow. Since I don’t have balls below the waist, I merely interpreted it as verbal slander.
John, my new, and perhaps ex friend, works long hours. I wave him goodbye when he leaves for work. Other than making fun of baseball teams I root for, he supports my writing and motivates me to be a good husband, and eventually and hopefully, some day, a good father. There will never be another “Peanut”, but maybe someday, Britt and I will have a Cashew.
I shall now provide a picture displaying the 8 working hours, or 8 seconds it took to create these Halloween monuments. Easter Island, The Pyramids of Egypt, The Sphincter, all close seconds to my master pieces. These may be the eighth and ninth wonders of the world. How many wonders of the world exist? Sorry. I don’t trust Wikipedia.
I’ve always wanted to be a super hero. Who doesn’t? If we could assist distressed and endangered women, men, children and impatient travelers, what could be better? Unfortunately, with my lack of super powers such as the capacity to fly, invisibility, inhuman strength, good looks, underwater communication with sea creatures, not to mention the lack of funds to purchase cool cars and shark repellent, I have become a super zero. I don’t even have it in me to buy pepper spray. This brings me to the sad transitional point. Pepper spray doesn’t necessarily make you a Super Hero.
Recently, and I am serious, there has been an odd trend of “Real Life Super Heroes” floating around the country. It has become an enigma only I have time to ponder. Specifically, according to the papers, Seattle based, these are ordinary people roaming certain jurisdictions attempting to keep the peace. They fabricate costumes, such as masks, fake abs, capes, and most importantly, their special unique power which apparently no earthly being possesses, pepper spray. THIS IS NOT A SUPER POWER! It works when jogging down 1st and Pike St. when someone asks you for a handout, but in a crowd of drunken sailors who just wish to partake in a friendly fight, jumping in with pepper spray is only going to get your ass kicked by the only drunken sailor avoiding the spray. People, so I’m told, even have witnessed bears doused with this substance only to wipe it off and develop a use of the English Language saying, ” ok, it’s go time”. Yikes.
According to The Seattle Times, a man referred to in the “real life fantasy world” as “Phoenix Jones” designed a mask, suit, tie, and cape to fight crime only with pepper spray. A Youtube video displays him sprinting in, said costume, attempting to break up a fight prompting him to pepper spray men and women before assessing the situation. Observers and police officers noted that the men and women were merely dancing after a fun evening of partying. The video progresses to this masked crime fighter attempting to break up this street clearing brawl of talking and dancing only to retreat from a middle aged woman wielding a shoe while beating the hell out of him. Luckily, for Phoenix Jones, his plastic helmet saved him from ultimate demise. He then escaped in an SUV.
Police apprehended “Phoenix Jones” later that morning. He was booked for assault with a “hurtful and made someone cry weapon” and was released shortly after his companion, and partner in crime fighting, “Sun City Jones”, posted bail. His face was revealed, but I will spare him further embarrassment from posting a picture of this formerly masked crusader. I will, however, poke a little fun of what he could have been doing at the time to save our nation with pepper spray.
Have you ever seen a man or woman take a penny out of that sacred penny jar at the inconvenient store? Pepper spray his or her ass, including the clerk. Have you ever been sickened by the mother of three children illegally sampling a grape at a grocery store? Don’t just pepper spray her, pepper spray the children, and just to get you in the hall of fame of justice, pepper spray all the fruits and veggies surrounding this evil mother of three, thus poisoning any others who commit such crimes. That will be an eye and mouth opening experience for those who steal 2 ounces of produce while still in the store. Jaywalking! Spray that Grandma until she actually knows where she is! Where is Phoenix Jones when we need him!!!??
Honestly, I hope these real life comedians, or heroes have great intentions. However, if you are only armed with pepper spray and good intentions, may God be with you. You may run into some of my friends who aren’t so kind. Let’s leave it up to the police to pop a cap in anyone’s ass. At least they are licensed to do so.
Years ago, there was a TV show titled, “Kids say the Darndest Things”. This was a gentle way of avoiding the obvious, more honest title, “Kids say the dumbest things”. For adults, we do observe many cute phrases spewing from the mouths of children. Additionally for adults, we observe many stupid phrases spilling out of fellow adults’ jaws. I am no exception to this rule, and I have often been on both sides. Yet, this little story is not about me. It is about a young man known as Nicholoueaus Young. Since his parents were so elated and delusional at the time of his birth, they couldn’t imagine a more difficult spelling for the name Nick. Or, they just wanted to despise teachers for inevitably misspelling his name while grading his papers. I will spare us all pain, suffering and glaucoma by only using the name Nick.
Only knowing Nick as an adult and my brother in law, I can confirm that he is now a very intelligent, witty, hard working man currently serving in the Navy fighting to maintain our freedom. Stories I hear about him as a youth display him as a fun, silly young boy who possessed a great deal of knowledge regarding his childhood rights, yet didn’t know much about phones. Evidently, Nick had, at the tender age of 5,6, or 7, committed the heinous crime of using a permanent marker to create his own form of graffiti on the hallowed walls of his home. Details are a bit sketchy here, but apparently his parents sent him to his room. For a young boy who wishes to be outside pretending he is Indiana Jones, this is much like being sent to San Quentin. The punishment didn’t seemingly fit the crime.
Knowing his rights as a child, Nick was convinced this was a form of child abuse. Thus, in a fit of rage, he screamed, “THIS IS CHILD ABUSE………..WHAT’S THE NUMBER FOR NINE ONE ONE?????????!!!”.
I wish he would have called 411 for directory assistance to ask about that strange location of 911. Now that would have been simply rich.
Side note: Upon being released from his bedroom , his record and room remained clean…………right up to the moment when he was upset at his parents once again and poured cologne into his step-dad’s Stetson Cowboy hat. So, faced with two choices, being confined to a bedroom for the remainder of his life or joining the Navy, Nick chose the Navy.
I wonder if they still have brigs??
Caramel Apples, Cotton Candy, Elephant Ears, Fried anything, Footlong Corndogs…(my personal favorite) sweet potato or minced meat pie gathered with wonderful straw hat adorned fellows, bellowing, “howdy pardner” on a tractor. Is there anything more innocent, precious and simple? Just down home good folk wearing cut off jean shorts who can’t get more gosh darned genuinely kind. Well, it’s that time of year. It’s time for a great State Fair.
Step right up and win an ashtray!
Other than rock fights, potato fights, wiffleball games, basement boxing matches, and an occasional sibling showing up on Christmas with a worn down 20 dollar snowmobile, (which we proceeded to destroy), Spokane had little to offer………other than the annual STATE FAIR!
There were pigs, chickens, rabbits, bulls, cows, ducks, horses, cats, and every other animal anyone could eventually eat while living in Spokane. It was our five dollar Disneyland. There were also rides. I remember thinking to myself, “should I sacrifice this money on a corn dog, or ride the “zipper” or perhaps, the “sizzler”? Knowing I could perhaps do all three, I was both dumb enough and smart enough to skip the corn dog because it would be projectile vomited on one of the rides, thus wasting one dollar and ruining someone’s shirt.
The innocence of those days makes me remember that we didn’t have to drink and get thrown out of a bar to have fun. We simply needed a snow cone, a funnel cake, and as a good friend once told me, “you gotta get the crusty pup”. That’s a corny dog to you and me.
Deciding to further research this complex subject, I combed the streets of Seattle and Bremerton, Washington, interviewing people seeking memories of past State Fairs. My wife thought this was a frivolous idea, therefore, I did it anyway. Some of the people requested their names should be changed to protect their innocence.
Top Ten State Fair experiences and or prizes…..in no particular order: These are all tape recorded responses so forgive me for the lack of sentence structuring.
1: Craig Handjob: “winning ashtrays and beer steins only to carry them back on my bike to my mom and dad who didn’t drink or smoke”
2: John Dwellingson: “proudly displaying my half Iron Maiden mesh T-shirt I just won for my first girlfriend”
3: Taco Stone: “displaying so much corn on the cob in my teeth that people thought I had never been to a dentist”
4: Britter Bear Gannon: (that’s her native American name) “won a goldfish after playing a game costing my parents 50 dollars. It was dead by the time we got home”. (Ironically, she ended up marrying a dead fish)
5: Larry Johnson: “won or found a cat. I was stoned at the time so I really don’t remember. (Coincidentally, he ended up marrying a woman who is allergic to cats. He no longer smokes pot). These were fascinating people!
6: Jackhole Brownstain: “winner of the best pornstar mustache competition”
7: Yawn Larson: “I ate an entire watermelon, including the rind and seeds. Threw up for two days but won an etched ACDC mirror”
8: Seamus Mcgillicutty: “I saw the biggest balls of my life on a bull. I haven’t been to a fair since” (some of these testimonials are sad)
9: Conner Russell: “my dad was going to beat up the man running the pony rides because he didn’t think it was safe enough”
10: Russ (he used this name as though it was the equivalent to Cher, Madonna, or Prince) After only providing this mysterious name, he said to me only two words. “demolition derby”. He then strolled off to find the closest monster truck show.
Initially, I began making fun of the idea of State Fairs as being complex. Currently, I am amazed at the capacity and complexity a State Fair maintains. There’s just too much to offer. Therefore, I would like to ask my friendly followers to add anything I am missing. But take caution, because I have the 12 foot corndog of dreams story to offer regarding The Spokane County Fair. It involves a man only known to some as, The Old Man. Not the dude. The Old Man.
Just wait until I talk about Carnivals. That may be dubiously better, or flat out worse.
Ben
Realistically, after moving to a larger house (meaning more bathrooms) I must admit, I required some anxiety medication.
Expecting immediate results, my wife and I visited a voodoo psychiatrist. Britt thought their potential could shatter science and save marriages. Initially, I wasn’t too keen on the procedure. Ultimately, I said, “F this noise!”. Pain used to be a code of honor amongst my family and friends. Now, it’s just an excuse for not to getting out of bed.
These pills required for assistance with anxiety maintained warnings. After wearing contacts and glasses for over 25 years, I tend to misunderstand warnings, especially when not wearing glasses or contacts. When blind and dizzy, the label read, “may cause drowsiness”. With glasses, it stated, “may cause laziness”.
more to come…..to be continued…..see you tomorrow…. not that you care….
WASTE PAPER SERVICE
This story is not about a picture of two young ganstas deciding to, idiotically, take a photo in a coin operated photo booth. Rather, it is about a hat and an ice cream man who created the hat. The WPS displayed on my brother Tom’s hat represented Waste Paper Service, a youth baseball team Tom was playing for and the business we were representing. I was merely the bat boy for two reasons: one, I was too young to legally play on the team, and two, that name (Waste Paper Service) was just far too embarrassing. We were the Bad News Bears of Spokane, Washington.
Our coach and local Ice Cream Man, Walt Mabe, a Vietnam Veteran, had a passion for baseball and a further passion for arguing with umpires. Having utmost respect for any veteran, Coach Mabe was no exception. This brave man had his left leg removed after stepping on a land mine while fighting in Vietnam. However, he maintained some idiosyncrasies which must be acknowledged. First of which being that his ice cream truck was the only one which didn’t play the traditional jingle, “The Entertainer”…he would play “Ride (Flight) of the Valkyries” from “Apocalypse Now”. Additionally, the baseball games we played would usually last upwards of 17 or 18 hours because he kept a rule book handy in his wooden leg which he would pull out on an inning by inning basis. As a Catholic, it would create an image of a baseball priest providing a homily after each strike or ball. Those poor umpires, making about 4 cents an hour with coach Mabe’s rants, are now, hopefully, and deservedly in some sort of baseball heaven.
I’m sure my brothers Tom and Greg will provide additional commentary on Walt’s quirks. Yet, I will quickly present the most memorable one. While taking infield practice, (for those of you who despise or know nothing about baseball, this is when the coach hits ground balls and fly balls to the players prior to the first pitch of the game), rather than using a bat, and I kid you negative, coach Mabe would use his wooden leg. Going to the ballpark was always genuinely interesting being coached by this good man. Bless his baseball soul and his wooden leg.
Just a typical Spokane little league experience. You play for a team sponsored by and named after toilet paper, coached by a man with a wooden leg who uses it as a bat, and the games would last 16 or 17 hours. Yet, I still love the game of baseball.
(All is true with exception of the ice cream truck jingles.)