Word for the day: Fat. FUH – AT… FAT.

We went out to eat last night. A bit of a rarity for us. Seems we never *go out* anymore, thus life with a teenager I guess.

It was almost romantic, in a not sort of way. Besides, Leonard, The Bass Murdering, Fish Slayer was with us. So I told Les she HAD to keep her hands to herself. Of course it was tough for her, what with exercising all that restraint, but we had good conversation instead.

We got to the restaurant, and were seated right away. I was starving. All I had had all day was a bowl of Cheerios and a handful of pomegranate seeds (Anti-Oxidizing Poop Food of Champions).

The waitress came over and took our drink order. Leslie got a water. My dad– water. Me? I decided to live on the edge. I figured it was Saturday night. We were out on the town. It was [almost] a special occasion. So I ordered Sweet Tea (on the rocks).

Conversation continued. There was a point in the conversation where Leslie revealed that she’s never eaten at Outback Steakhouse. Even though there’s an Outback less than two miles from our house. She’s never eaten there. At this point you’re free to ask WHY Leslie has never eaten at Outback, because that’s exactly what my dad did. She’s never eaten at Outback, “because their Bloomin’ Onion has over 65 grams of fat in it”.

Good enough reason? Well it is for her.

Later the waitress comes back over and takes the order for our meal.

Leslie asks for a bowl of crab soup. My dad gets shrimp. Against my better judgement, and against daggers being shot at me from Leslie’s eyes, I go all out and get a combo platter– fried alligator, fried shrimp, a herd of hush puppies and cheese grits (NOT “the bes’ cheese grits evah“).

Leslie looks at me and does one of those double blink looks that underscores the point that tonight definitely won’t be THE NIGHT. It was like the needle scratching off the vinyl record playing a 70’s Bwaam Chigga Bwaam Bwaam.

FAST FORWARD > Eat. Talk. Listen. Laugh. Pay. Leave. Drive back to my dad’s house.

The Florida/USC game was on the tube. My dad and Leslie were talking and watching the game. I was rolling around on the floor like a dead bloated sea cow writhing in pain because I just ingested my annual intake of lard in a single sitting. Thankfully Wally Love (aka Wally, aka Walter, aka Albert, aka Waldo, aka Court’s Dog) was on the floor with me, keeping watch over me just in case I quit breathing due to the severe bloatage rising from my gut.

At some point in their conversation the word “fat” comes up again. Not in a derogatory way, more clinical if anything. It’s not Leslie’s way to talk bad about anybody. She’s not the type to point out the fact that Lois McGillicuty has a fat ass. It’s just not her style. My style, maybe… but not hers.

Anyway, the word “fat” came up again and I interrupt and [mistakenly] point out that she has used the word “fat”, at least once, every single day for the last year and a half.

FAST FORWARD > Talk. Laugh. Pet the Wally. Missed field goal. Game’s over. We leave. In the car on the drive home.

I started coughing. A deep cough. Maybe the Crisco had leached over into my lungs. I was hacking.

“Sounds like FatPneumonia.”

“Yeah.” cough “but it’s FatMonia. Not FatPneumonia.”

“You pro’ly got it from Fat Mona.”

cough “I think I got it from making Fat Mona Moan” cough hack

“So what else did you get from Fat Mona? FatNorrhea? Fatphlis? FatAids?”

“Crabs.” cough

cough, croup,“Oh yeah…” cough, cough, hack, cough “How was your soup?” cough.

FAST FORWARD > We laugh. We make it home. She goes to bed early. I fall asleep while bloatedly watching The Shield marathon, writhing in pain.

The day my ass caught fire and my penis turned into a rifle.

PICTURE UPDATE: See I told you.

I had just left Kaly’s school this morning. Les and I had just ‘done our time’ at the parent/teacher conference thing at the school, and I was heading off to work.

As I was merrily driving the Invisible Passat up Riverside Drive, I felt a sting in my butt. I was wearing new(ish) pants and figured maybe a tag had poked me in the wrong way so I squirmed around in the seat and repositioned myself. The pain went away.

As I did this I reached over and turned on the heater.

A few seconds later, another sting. And another reposition. Damn tag.

Another few seconds later, things started to stink. It smelled like somebody was smoking a cat.

I thought that maybe since the Invisible Passat was a used car, and this was probably the first time the heater had been on in several months that maybe the heater coils just need to burn off the dust and stuff.

I continued to drive on in my invisible bliss.

The stink gets worse.

Then as I glance down at the radio I noticed a puff of smoke.

In slowed time, my mind does simple algebra:
sting + stink + smoke = Hmmm. I’m on fire.

blink. blink.


As if I was announcing this fact to some huge audience, I yelled at the top of my lungs… I’M ON FIRE!

I decelerate and pull over into a parking lot as fast as I can. I stop, drop and roll out of the car. Actually it’s more of a real quick get out, pat my butt and realize my ass is on fire, then I hit the pavement and butt-scooch.

I get up (with zero dignity at this point) and look back at the driver’s seat and the spot that was causing the sting earlier. The same hotspot that I, the last time I squirmed around, had repositioned my wallet between it and my hairy ass, was on fire. A tiny, smoldering fire, but a fire all the same.

The seat warmer on the driver’s side had shorted out.

Once I snuffed out the flame, and poured a little water in the smoldering hole. I get back in the car and drive off. I called Leslie to tell her all about my burning ass. All she says is, “That’s not good. That’s not good at all.” Gee, ya think?! Thanks for the flakes of wisdom there Miss Pointer Outer of the Obvious.

Then… THEN!… Later today around 2:30, as I was “going number 3” (you know, number 1 and number 2 at the same time), I get this blinding, excruciatingly intense, brief flash of pain (a pain so bad in fact, I saw God) along the length of my penis.

I let out a real quick scream. Before I even got the scream out of my mouth the pain was gone.

I turned and looked into the john, lo and behold I had not just simply passed a kidney stone the size of a black-eyed pea, but I had shot that muthuh out. Thankfully it didn’t have claws and teeth or I’d still be screaming.

It has not been a good day.
Not a good day at all.


Dark Trail

I got to the Trail parking lot around 7:30 Saturday night. Jim and his daughter Meggie had followed me down. We took separate cars since I’d be finishing up late. I had to do night shots of the Trail for a project Jim and I are working on.

We park, get out and start walking the Trail. There was a spot I wanted to set up on to get a sunset shot that overlooks the cemetery on the other side of the river. As we were walking and talking, I hear somebody behind us in a low voice say “beek”. “Beek” again, then I look around and see it’s a rollerblader. He was motioning for us to get out of his way. We later figured “beek” was him saying “Bike”. In other words he was telling us to get over and let him pass.

He sped passed (actually he was hauling ass) and waddled as he did because his balance wasn’t that great. Don’t get me wrong, he was decked out in full gear, knee pads, wrist pads, bandana, helmet, dark Oakleys sunglasses. He was dressed well for the part, he just wasn’t as well balanced on the Blades.

We laugh about the “beek” thing and walk on.

As I’m setting up for one of the shots here comes Beek again. And there he goes again. We weren’t counting, but we did mention to one another that Beek laped us at least six or seven times, non-stop at full speed.

The three of us walk on, stopping every now and then to setup for another shot, then we get to a spot on the Trail, do a U-turn and start heading the other way. Beek zipping past as we turn.

As we get to the Spring street bridge, Beek comes by really close. Close enough where I feel the hairs on my arms move from his breeze. I look at Jim, and Jim comments that it would take much more than a low shoulder for Beek to wipe out. We laugh because “we’d just hate to have to take the guy down.” (the irony here is it’s been at least 30 years since either of us have been fight.)

On we go for more pictures.

It’s getting late. The sun’s already down, but the lights on the Trail aren’t all on yet. I’m shooting with the tripod since the exposure times are running into the tens of seconds.

We stop, setup the tripod for yet another long exposure. I get the shot framed, release the shutter and just as I’m pulling away from the camera I see this blur of Beek heading straight at us.

Well, you guessed it. Beek plowed smack into us. It was one of those events where reality slows. Beek nailed me, the camera, the tripod and Jim. He faceplants the concrete, slides and finally comes to a stop. He gets up. Throws off his wristguards and his helmet. The boy is pissed, no… He’s raging. He says something about us getting in his way. Jim tells him we were standing dead still. He’s still mad as all hell.

He stares.
We stare.

He glares.
We glare.

Eye to eye. Neither of us blink.

Then the shutter on the camera closes and the only sound heard is a gentle “click”. It was just the thing needed to break the tension. He picked up his stuff and huffs away. His ego bruised.

To the crowd who saw the whole thing we were heroes. I think Jim and I were just glad we didn’t have to rough him up any more that we just did. Who KNOWS the ugliness and brutality the two of us could’ve wrought?!

I thought about the whole thing on the way home, and came to the following conclusions:

– You don’t wear sunglasses after dark

– You don’t bump into somebody without saying “I’m sorry”

– You don’t spit into the wind

– You don’t pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger

– And you don’t mess around with Jim


So I’m out back the other day, last Thursday to exact, swinging a 40+ pound solid steel rod against a tree. I’m giving it all I got. Beating the everliving CUH-RAP out of that tree. Blowing out years worth of angry. I’m swinging. And hitting. And swinging. And raging. And swinging. And sweating. And swinging. And cussing. And swinging. And slobbering. And swinging. And screaming. And swinging. I’m sure the neighbors thought I’d gone full-bore spastic bozo. As I’m nuttin’ up, and spraying testosterone and stressballs everywhere, a little voice in my head said something… “Do you realize you’re bending this steel rod with your bare hands. Dude I’m Impressed.” And so was I.
Then in the midst of all the raw emotion, heavy metal swinging, primal cuss words, flying ropes of drool, and internal conversation– I farted, and laughed until I couldn’t breath.

It was a Hallmark Moment (for the criminally insane).

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