Friday, August 10, 2007
The first post on Buffalo’s Path consisted of this one line, “Reading the instructions is for those who lack a sense of adventure.”
This is the last post. Buffalo’s Path has served its purpose.
Thanks for reading.
Monday, August 06, 2007
A Long Weekend in Canada
It is a Long Weekend throughout Canada. I’m not sure if “Long Weekend” should be capitalized. It isn’t a holiday that celebrates anything in particular. I think they call it a “statutory holiday.” As near as I can tell, the Canadian Government decided that everyone in Canada should have a three-day weekend about every month so they made it happen. It is a civilized thing to do.
Friendly Manitoba, at least the part I am in, was covered with a canopy of gray when I more or less willingly climbed out of bed this morning. There wasn’t a whisper of wind. A couple of blue jays had diarrhea of the mouth, but that isn’t particularly noteworthy. Blue jays always have something to bitch and moan about.
I killed a blue jay once. As I recall, I was 13 or 14 years old and full of whatever boys/young men of that age are filled. I’m guessing that would be a combination of an almost lethal amount of testosterone, a dollop of arrogance, and a liberal helping of piss and vinegar. Anyway, this blue jay was sitting on a fence post about 20 yards from where I was standing. It was a fence post in name only. Any wire that had been affixed to the post was long since gone.
The blue jay wasn’t doing anything other than taking his or her ease and singing what it considered to be a tune. At least, I assume it was singing a tune. In actuality, it could have been taunting me in bird language. It could have been making disparaging remarks about my pimple farm.
I don’t know if you knew that I was a pimple farmer when I was a teenager. I did everything I knew to do to get rid of the damned things. I even scrubbed my face with lava soap and a scrub brush. It didn’t do a damn thing other than make me look as though I had a sunburn. Obviously, I didn’t want to be a pimple farmer. What I wanted was to look like Elvis Presley and have a harem of gorgeous, nubile, non-virgins at my beck and call.
Anyway, the damned bird was sitting there on the fence post that wasn’t really a fence post. Suddenly, with absolutely no forethought, I decided to see if I could hit the bird with a rock. So I bent over and picked a rock of the appropriate shape and configuration. I didn’t have anything against the bird. After all, it was just sitting there. Neither did I have any real hope of hitting said bird. There are those who can chunk a rock with amazing accuracy. If I tossed a rock at my foot, I would have missed by a mile.
So I reared back and gave the rock a sidearm toss; sort of like I was trying to skim a flat rock across a farm pond. In case you’re wondering, I was pretty darned good at skimming stones. I’d tell you my world record but I probably misremember the true amount of skips it made.
You know what happened. I hit that bird dead on the head and it fell over the same way – dead. I went running over to it and picked it up. As the warmth of life fled from its’ little body I felt like absolute shit. So I buried it.
And I’ve never tossed another rock at another bird. I have, however, gone out with a shotgun and done some serious damage to eating birds. There isn’t much in this world that tastes better than quail and homemade dumplings.
Feel free to supply your own moral to this little tale. There isn’t a prize for coming up with the best one though.
Life is sweet – because it is a cool, cloud-covered day in Friendly Manitoba.
Friendly Manitoba, at least the part I am in, was covered with a canopy of gray when I more or less willingly climbed out of bed this morning. There wasn’t a whisper of wind. A couple of blue jays had diarrhea of the mouth, but that isn’t particularly noteworthy. Blue jays always have something to bitch and moan about.
I killed a blue jay once. As I recall, I was 13 or 14 years old and full of whatever boys/young men of that age are filled. I’m guessing that would be a combination of an almost lethal amount of testosterone, a dollop of arrogance, and a liberal helping of piss and vinegar. Anyway, this blue jay was sitting on a fence post about 20 yards from where I was standing. It was a fence post in name only. Any wire that had been affixed to the post was long since gone.
The blue jay wasn’t doing anything other than taking his or her ease and singing what it considered to be a tune. At least, I assume it was singing a tune. In actuality, it could have been taunting me in bird language. It could have been making disparaging remarks about my pimple farm.
I don’t know if you knew that I was a pimple farmer when I was a teenager. I did everything I knew to do to get rid of the damned things. I even scrubbed my face with lava soap and a scrub brush. It didn’t do a damn thing other than make me look as though I had a sunburn. Obviously, I didn’t want to be a pimple farmer. What I wanted was to look like Elvis Presley and have a harem of gorgeous, nubile, non-virgins at my beck and call.
Anyway, the damned bird was sitting there on the fence post that wasn’t really a fence post. Suddenly, with absolutely no forethought, I decided to see if I could hit the bird with a rock. So I bent over and picked a rock of the appropriate shape and configuration. I didn’t have anything against the bird. After all, it was just sitting there. Neither did I have any real hope of hitting said bird. There are those who can chunk a rock with amazing accuracy. If I tossed a rock at my foot, I would have missed by a mile.
So I reared back and gave the rock a sidearm toss; sort of like I was trying to skim a flat rock across a farm pond. In case you’re wondering, I was pretty darned good at skimming stones. I’d tell you my world record but I probably misremember the true amount of skips it made.
You know what happened. I hit that bird dead on the head and it fell over the same way – dead. I went running over to it and picked it up. As the warmth of life fled from its’ little body I felt like absolute shit. So I buried it.
And I’ve never tossed another rock at another bird. I have, however, gone out with a shotgun and done some serious damage to eating birds. There isn’t much in this world that tastes better than quail and homemade dumplings.
Feel free to supply your own moral to this little tale. There isn’t a prize for coming up with the best one though.
Life is sweet – because it is a cool, cloud-covered day in Friendly Manitoba.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Assault with a Deadly Look
It is a good thing dirty looks aren’t lethal or I would be lying dead in the parking lot of the library. A little more accurately, I would be stretched out in the morgue waiting for the cutter to find evidence of death by look.
I was sitting in the truck minding my own business and no one else’s. The radio was tuned to the talk show I often listen to whilst waiting. They had an engineer who could barely speak Canadian talking about the state of the bridges in North America. His Canadian wasn’t all that bad, just heavily accented. I’m in a snarky mood. It makes me feel superior to take cheap pot shots at innocent targets. He spoke a lot better Canadian than I speak whatever is native to wherever in the hell he came from.
Oh, gee. What is wrong with Buffalo? He is being so politically incorrect!
Anyway, I was sitting there minding my own business. There was a young Mennonite woman swinging a wee one on a swing in the park. She was wearing sandals and one of those brilliantly colored, floral print, calf length, dresses that seem to be their trademark. Of course, she had that black thingie covering the back of her head. I idly hoped the kid she was swinging wasn’t her own. She was too damned young to be breeding. The woman hadn’t lived long enough to even be thinking about having kids. If it took living rather than years to determine when one had a child, I’m thinkin’ there would be a whole lot of this girl/woman or woman/child that would never procreate.
A man and woman, along with their seven kids that all looked to be under eight years old, climbed into a mini van. They had been picnicking. The woman had walked past the truck a few times with a vacant expression on her face. She was wearing a fairly short denim skirt, flip flops, and a dark blouse. It took them a while to get all of the kids strapped into their respective car seats.
And then along comes Miss I’m All of That and a Bag of Chips, and a two litre Pepsi. Her hair was short, white, and spiked. Unless someone had scared the living bejesus out of her, I’m sure the color was choice, not nature. Whoever gave her the haircut, and whoever told her it looked good, should be drawn and quartered by four very slow moving Belgiums.
She was going for the layered look and succeeded. Her outer shirt was black and unbuttoned. The middle shirt was a gray slipover that stopped about where her belly button should be. The undershirt was black and partway covered her butt. The skirt was significantly short washed denim. On her feet were a pair of boots with 3” heels and tops that ended just below her knee. Naturally, she had earrings on that were large enough for a reasonably slender child to use as a hula hoop. She had strong eyelashes. At least I assume they were strong. There was so much black mascara caked on them it would take some muscles to hold her lids open. Against the pallor of her face, it was an interesting contrast.
I’m not saying this gal was ugly. She didn’t need a pork chop around her neck to get someone to play with her. Her face didn’t stop the clock in the truck. It was more the face of the girl next door.
As she was coming out of the library and walking toward the truck, I smiled at her. You know the kind of smile. That one you use when you are being polite. It never reaches your eyes, you don’t flash teeth, but you do observe the nuances of polite society.
The woman went turtle on me. Her neck disappeared as her head began to retract. She kind of angled her head over in that way witches do when they are giving you the sneaky evil eye along with a low grade cackle. The look that shot out of her eyes was sheer hate. You’d have thought she had caught me dropping something smelly and nasty in the communion bowl.
I know it was terribly rude of me, folks, but I couldn’t help it. I started laughing – loudly and genuinely. Well, shucky darn. It was like someone stuck a red hot poker up her arse and she took off at a lope. I was still laughing when her Jeep Liberty laid rubber on the street in front of the library.
Life is sweet – ‘cause I survived an encounter with a kill look. Well, as kill looks go, it wasn’t much, but I have to end this somehow.
I was sitting in the truck minding my own business and no one else’s. The radio was tuned to the talk show I often listen to whilst waiting. They had an engineer who could barely speak Canadian talking about the state of the bridges in North America. His Canadian wasn’t all that bad, just heavily accented. I’m in a snarky mood. It makes me feel superior to take cheap pot shots at innocent targets. He spoke a lot better Canadian than I speak whatever is native to wherever in the hell he came from.
Oh, gee. What is wrong with Buffalo? He is being so politically incorrect!
Anyway, I was sitting there minding my own business. There was a young Mennonite woman swinging a wee one on a swing in the park. She was wearing sandals and one of those brilliantly colored, floral print, calf length, dresses that seem to be their trademark. Of course, she had that black thingie covering the back of her head. I idly hoped the kid she was swinging wasn’t her own. She was too damned young to be breeding. The woman hadn’t lived long enough to even be thinking about having kids. If it took living rather than years to determine when one had a child, I’m thinkin’ there would be a whole lot of this girl/woman or woman/child that would never procreate.
A man and woman, along with their seven kids that all looked to be under eight years old, climbed into a mini van. They had been picnicking. The woman had walked past the truck a few times with a vacant expression on her face. She was wearing a fairly short denim skirt, flip flops, and a dark blouse. It took them a while to get all of the kids strapped into their respective car seats.
And then along comes Miss I’m All of That and a Bag of Chips, and a two litre Pepsi. Her hair was short, white, and spiked. Unless someone had scared the living bejesus out of her, I’m sure the color was choice, not nature. Whoever gave her the haircut, and whoever told her it looked good, should be drawn and quartered by four very slow moving Belgiums.
She was going for the layered look and succeeded. Her outer shirt was black and unbuttoned. The middle shirt was a gray slipover that stopped about where her belly button should be. The undershirt was black and partway covered her butt. The skirt was significantly short washed denim. On her feet were a pair of boots with 3” heels and tops that ended just below her knee. Naturally, she had earrings on that were large enough for a reasonably slender child to use as a hula hoop. She had strong eyelashes. At least I assume they were strong. There was so much black mascara caked on them it would take some muscles to hold her lids open. Against the pallor of her face, it was an interesting contrast.
I’m not saying this gal was ugly. She didn’t need a pork chop around her neck to get someone to play with her. Her face didn’t stop the clock in the truck. It was more the face of the girl next door.
As she was coming out of the library and walking toward the truck, I smiled at her. You know the kind of smile. That one you use when you are being polite. It never reaches your eyes, you don’t flash teeth, but you do observe the nuances of polite society.
The woman went turtle on me. Her neck disappeared as her head began to retract. She kind of angled her head over in that way witches do when they are giving you the sneaky evil eye along with a low grade cackle. The look that shot out of her eyes was sheer hate. You’d have thought she had caught me dropping something smelly and nasty in the communion bowl.
I know it was terribly rude of me, folks, but I couldn’t help it. I started laughing – loudly and genuinely. Well, shucky darn. It was like someone stuck a red hot poker up her arse and she took off at a lope. I was still laughing when her Jeep Liberty laid rubber on the street in front of the library.
Life is sweet – ‘cause I survived an encounter with a kill look. Well, as kill looks go, it wasn’t much, but I have to end this somehow.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
A Quiet Day
It is a quiet day, which could be construed to mean boring, in Friendly Manitoba. During the wee hours of the morning, a rapidly moving front rolled across the prairie bringing with in a sprinkle of rain, high winds, a percussion section of thunder, and enough lightening to electrify the laboratory of the maddest scientist. It also brought with it cooler temperatures. The difference between temperatures in the mid to high 90s and the mid to low 80s is staggeringly comfortable.
Unfortunately, Kat’s Mom’s tomato plants didn’t fare well under the siege laid by the high winds. From the frantic call Kat received this morning, I expected to find the tiny garden in shambles when, stakes and hammer in hand, we mustered before Drill Sergeant Mom. The reality was considerably less than the expectation. The vines, thick and heavy with huge, not quite ripe tomatoes, were sagging. I’m thinkin’ they were sagging more from the weight of the fruit than the ravages of the storm.
It didn’t take long to set wrong to right once again. We had brought three or four wooden stakes. Dave had dropped by an equal number of slightly-to-seriously bent rebar. Considering Dave’s profession, blacksmith, and the number of forges, vises, and hammers the man owns I have to wonder why in the hell he didn’t straighten the rebar. Wonder about it is all I’m going to do. I’ve learned not to ask a question unless I’m totally prepared to hear the answer and, with Dave, I’m not sure I want to be prepared. I used to try reading his mind but quickly gave it up as a bad job. It reads a whole lot like a piece I wrote while tossing down shots of Captain Morgan and tokin’ on a pipe filled with some good smoke up from Mexico.
After the tomato plants were securely staked, we were invited in for a cup of tea and some munchies. Mennonite ladies make good munchies; at least the one Mennonite lady, and one former Mennonite lady, with whom I’m acquainted. It was apricot tea and it was nasty. What twisted mind could dream up such a concoction? Still and all, if it was the admission price to get to the goodies, I don’t mind paying it.
We weren’t back home very long when Dave came lurching through the unlocked door. I’m thinkin’ he may have had an emergency as he grabbed the new Canadian Tire flyer off my desk and made a beeline for somewhere in the house. Considering the green fog that soon was clomping about in jackboots, I have a fair idea where he went.
It is a quiet day in Friendly Manitoba. Dave is using Kat’s computer. My guess, he is cruising porn sites because that is the sort of person he is. He would do well to emulate me rather than traveling on the road to perdition that he is. ‘Tis a sad thing when a good Mennonite boy goes seriously bad. Kat is puttering around doing whatever she does whilst her only brother debases himself by wallowing in sinful pornography.
And Buffalo is sitting here thinking about life, its glories and its slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that often come calling.
Life is sweet – even when the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune come calling.
Unfortunately, Kat’s Mom’s tomato plants didn’t fare well under the siege laid by the high winds. From the frantic call Kat received this morning, I expected to find the tiny garden in shambles when, stakes and hammer in hand, we mustered before Drill Sergeant Mom. The reality was considerably less than the expectation. The vines, thick and heavy with huge, not quite ripe tomatoes, were sagging. I’m thinkin’ they were sagging more from the weight of the fruit than the ravages of the storm.
It didn’t take long to set wrong to right once again. We had brought three or four wooden stakes. Dave had dropped by an equal number of slightly-to-seriously bent rebar. Considering Dave’s profession, blacksmith, and the number of forges, vises, and hammers the man owns I have to wonder why in the hell he didn’t straighten the rebar. Wonder about it is all I’m going to do. I’ve learned not to ask a question unless I’m totally prepared to hear the answer and, with Dave, I’m not sure I want to be prepared. I used to try reading his mind but quickly gave it up as a bad job. It reads a whole lot like a piece I wrote while tossing down shots of Captain Morgan and tokin’ on a pipe filled with some good smoke up from Mexico.
After the tomato plants were securely staked, we were invited in for a cup of tea and some munchies. Mennonite ladies make good munchies; at least the one Mennonite lady, and one former Mennonite lady, with whom I’m acquainted. It was apricot tea and it was nasty. What twisted mind could dream up such a concoction? Still and all, if it was the admission price to get to the goodies, I don’t mind paying it.
We weren’t back home very long when Dave came lurching through the unlocked door. I’m thinkin’ he may have had an emergency as he grabbed the new Canadian Tire flyer off my desk and made a beeline for somewhere in the house. Considering the green fog that soon was clomping about in jackboots, I have a fair idea where he went.
It is a quiet day in Friendly Manitoba. Dave is using Kat’s computer. My guess, he is cruising porn sites because that is the sort of person he is. He would do well to emulate me rather than traveling on the road to perdition that he is. ‘Tis a sad thing when a good Mennonite boy goes seriously bad. Kat is puttering around doing whatever she does whilst her only brother debases himself by wallowing in sinful pornography.
And Buffalo is sitting here thinking about life, its glories and its slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that often come calling.
Life is sweet – even when the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune come calling.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Ramblin' about Manitoba
When I visit a blog, I rarely check the writer’s link list. If you asked me why I don’t, I couldn’t provide you with any answer other than I don’t know. I mention this only because I have added some names to my Great Reads roster and I want to draw your attention to the additions.
Melinda, the poet who runs the shop over at Sipping the Vast Spring, has recently started a showcase for her outstanding photos. For the sake of my list, I have listed it as Photos by Melinda. She takes some excellent pictures.
Walk of the Fallen, an extremely well crafted memorial to our fallen warriors, is the skilled loving dedicated work of Labrys. She doesn’t post as frequently as I would like, but then I am a greedy S.O.B. when I like something. Stop by, take a look, and give her a read.
Akinoluna is a blog written by a young female Marine. I find her observations interesting and agree with most of her conclusions.
This is Your Captain has been on my list for a while. I believe I snuck him in without mention. I don’t know how to describe the Captain. I’m more than pretty sure he isn’t playing with a full deck of cards. He is in frequent communication with Jesus and Elvis, both of whom have quite a bit to say. If you are a trifle bent, warped, and not totally full of … yourself, you will enjoy listening to the Captain meander the outer limits of sanity.
Burnett’s Urban Etiquette is written by James Burnett, a feature writer for, I believe, the Miami Herald. The man is an excellent writer.
James Shott, of Observations fame which is listed on my sidebar, and I chose the same topic for an op/ed type essay. His essay is posted on his blog. The one I wrote is posted on Gun Toting Liberal, also listed on my sidebar. I invite you to stop by both sites and give them a read and let us know what you think. I guarantee that Shott’s piece is well done.
You know, and on an entirely different note, we have a neighbor who is driving me crazy. I’m not sure what in the hell is wrong with the guy. In case you’re wondering, this is the same guy that couldn’t keep his lawn mower running more than 45 seconds at a time; we’ll call him Mr. Mechanic, because he isn’t.
Every single Saturday morning at exactly 0805 Hours, come rain or shine or snow, this guy comes outside and makes noise for about two minutes. Some days he fires up a skill saw long enough to cut one or two small boards. On another day, he might hammer on something for a couple of minutes. Every now and again, he will fire up his lawn mower. He never works long enough to actually accomplish something. He never begins before 0805.
If I weren’t a stranger in a very strange land I would go over and visit with him.
Some of you seem to be laboring under the misconception that Kat has me wrapped around her tiny little finger. That ain’t true, neighbors. That woman is wrapped around my extremely masculine little finger. Until I came into her life, her life had no purpose. She was in stasis as she waited for my supremely wonderful self to appear and give her purpose. Her greatest happiness in life is tending to my magnificence. I am the Bull of the Woods, the Cock of the Walk.
When I say jump, she doesn’t waste time to ask how high. She starts jumping until I tell her she has reached the desired height. That is the way it is and don’t think otherwise even for a micro-second.
I hope that has cleared up those misconceptions you have been harboring.
Life is sweet – because I am the Bull of the Woods – and more full of bullshit than Ferdinand.
Melinda, the poet who runs the shop over at Sipping the Vast Spring, has recently started a showcase for her outstanding photos. For the sake of my list, I have listed it as Photos by Melinda. She takes some excellent pictures.
Walk of the Fallen, an extremely well crafted memorial to our fallen warriors, is the skilled loving dedicated work of Labrys. She doesn’t post as frequently as I would like, but then I am a greedy S.O.B. when I like something. Stop by, take a look, and give her a read.
Akinoluna is a blog written by a young female Marine. I find her observations interesting and agree with most of her conclusions.
This is Your Captain has been on my list for a while. I believe I snuck him in without mention. I don’t know how to describe the Captain. I’m more than pretty sure he isn’t playing with a full deck of cards. He is in frequent communication with Jesus and Elvis, both of whom have quite a bit to say. If you are a trifle bent, warped, and not totally full of … yourself, you will enjoy listening to the Captain meander the outer limits of sanity.
Burnett’s Urban Etiquette is written by James Burnett, a feature writer for, I believe, the Miami Herald. The man is an excellent writer.
James Shott, of Observations fame which is listed on my sidebar, and I chose the same topic for an op/ed type essay. His essay is posted on his blog. The one I wrote is posted on Gun Toting Liberal, also listed on my sidebar. I invite you to stop by both sites and give them a read and let us know what you think. I guarantee that Shott’s piece is well done.
You know, and on an entirely different note, we have a neighbor who is driving me crazy. I’m not sure what in the hell is wrong with the guy. In case you’re wondering, this is the same guy that couldn’t keep his lawn mower running more than 45 seconds at a time; we’ll call him Mr. Mechanic, because he isn’t.
Every single Saturday morning at exactly 0805 Hours, come rain or shine or snow, this guy comes outside and makes noise for about two minutes. Some days he fires up a skill saw long enough to cut one or two small boards. On another day, he might hammer on something for a couple of minutes. Every now and again, he will fire up his lawn mower. He never works long enough to actually accomplish something. He never begins before 0805.
If I weren’t a stranger in a very strange land I would go over and visit with him.
Some of you seem to be laboring under the misconception that Kat has me wrapped around her tiny little finger. That ain’t true, neighbors. That woman is wrapped around my extremely masculine little finger. Until I came into her life, her life had no purpose. She was in stasis as she waited for my supremely wonderful self to appear and give her purpose. Her greatest happiness in life is tending to my magnificence. I am the Bull of the Woods, the Cock of the Walk.
When I say jump, she doesn’t waste time to ask how high. She starts jumping until I tell her she has reached the desired height. That is the way it is and don’t think otherwise even for a micro-second.
I hope that has cleared up those misconceptions you have been harboring.
Life is sweet – because I am the Bull of the Woods – and more full of bullshit than Ferdinand.
Monday, July 30, 2007
This Monday in Friendly Manitoba
Canadian League Football is in full swing, in case anyone is interested. The BC Lions are kicking some serious ass. I didn’t watch them play the Montreal Alouettes. The outcome of that game was pretty much a given, barring divine intervention. The contest between the Lions and the Calgary Stampeders the other evening was better than okay and at the end of it, the Lions remained undefeated. I would surely enjoy watching a couple of games between the NFL and the CFL; alternating home fields and rules of course.
Kat and her Mom had carepractor (chiropractor) appointments this afternoon. I’m thinking it would be a good thing if there were “practors” that adjusted attitudes. They would probably do one hell of a business and contribute dramatically to peace, quiet, tranquility, and a massive lessening in the stress index.
As we were driving over to pick up said Mom, I turned a corner in a residential area and had to immediately slow down. Skating down the middle lane was Hans Christian Freakin’ Canuck. How did I know he was Canadian? Well, my first clue probably was that we are in freakin’ Canada. I mean, how many Americans come up here to skate down the middle of the lane? The dead give-away was the hockey stick he was carrying. Who but a Canuck is so nuts about hockey they are going to be playing the game outside, on inline skates, when the temperature is 96 degrees and the humidity is high enough to give Tarzan a bad case of jock itch.
The ride over to the little town where the chiropractor practices wasn’t too bad. The air conditioner wasn’t working worth a tinker’s damn, so I put the windows down. At 115 KPH, and a stiff wind out of the south, conversation wasn’t going to happen and that definitely wasn’t a bad thing.
We came up on a road crew busy patching the potholes and ripples in the road; an exercise in futility if there ever was one. Canadian winters hate roadways. The road crew had a full lane blocked so they put signal persons out for the sake of safety. It seems a reasonable precaution when the road is as straight as a ruler.
The ol’ boy what had charge of our lane was bedecked in a safety vest you could see from ten miles away. In his left hand was a walkie talkie and in his right hand he held aloft a sign that read ‘STOP.’ In case you’re wondering, the sign was red and was an octagon. As I slowed to a stop, he drew an imaginary line with the antennae on his walkie talkie to indicate the exact spot my stationery tires were to rest and he was damn serious about it. I figure he once worked in some Washington bureau some time or another.
Kat is so polite it sometimes amazes me. I was going to say that sometimes it drives me to distraction, but I figured I’d get some flack over that. Just before she finished fixing dinner tonight, I pulled the band off my pony tail and shook my hair loose. She calls me to dinner. I go in and sit down. She looks at me and asks, “Would you like me to brush your hair?”
“Not particularly,” I tell her. “Are you trying to tell me it looks like crap and needs brushing?”
“Oh no,” says she. “I thought you might be more comfortable if it were brushed.”
Comfortable, my aching ass. So I let her brush it and put the pony tail back in. And now I’m so much more comfortable I can’t begin to tell you.
Life is sweet – because I’m comfortable and my hair is back where it belongs.
Kat and her Mom had carepractor (chiropractor) appointments this afternoon. I’m thinking it would be a good thing if there were “practors” that adjusted attitudes. They would probably do one hell of a business and contribute dramatically to peace, quiet, tranquility, and a massive lessening in the stress index.
As we were driving over to pick up said Mom, I turned a corner in a residential area and had to immediately slow down. Skating down the middle lane was Hans Christian Freakin’ Canuck. How did I know he was Canadian? Well, my first clue probably was that we are in freakin’ Canada. I mean, how many Americans come up here to skate down the middle of the lane? The dead give-away was the hockey stick he was carrying. Who but a Canuck is so nuts about hockey they are going to be playing the game outside, on inline skates, when the temperature is 96 degrees and the humidity is high enough to give Tarzan a bad case of jock itch.
The ride over to the little town where the chiropractor practices wasn’t too bad. The air conditioner wasn’t working worth a tinker’s damn, so I put the windows down. At 115 KPH, and a stiff wind out of the south, conversation wasn’t going to happen and that definitely wasn’t a bad thing.
We came up on a road crew busy patching the potholes and ripples in the road; an exercise in futility if there ever was one. Canadian winters hate roadways. The road crew had a full lane blocked so they put signal persons out for the sake of safety. It seems a reasonable precaution when the road is as straight as a ruler.
The ol’ boy what had charge of our lane was bedecked in a safety vest you could see from ten miles away. In his left hand was a walkie talkie and in his right hand he held aloft a sign that read ‘STOP.’ In case you’re wondering, the sign was red and was an octagon. As I slowed to a stop, he drew an imaginary line with the antennae on his walkie talkie to indicate the exact spot my stationery tires were to rest and he was damn serious about it. I figure he once worked in some Washington bureau some time or another.
Kat is so polite it sometimes amazes me. I was going to say that sometimes it drives me to distraction, but I figured I’d get some flack over that. Just before she finished fixing dinner tonight, I pulled the band off my pony tail and shook my hair loose. She calls me to dinner. I go in and sit down. She looks at me and asks, “Would you like me to brush your hair?”
“Not particularly,” I tell her. “Are you trying to tell me it looks like crap and needs brushing?”
“Oh no,” says she. “I thought you might be more comfortable if it were brushed.”
Comfortable, my aching ass. So I let her brush it and put the pony tail back in. And now I’m so much more comfortable I can’t begin to tell you.
Life is sweet – because I’m comfortable and my hair is back where it belongs.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Thursday for Friday
Do you remember here while back when I told y’all there was definitely something wrong with the water in Wisconsin? At least, I think it was Wisconsin. If I recall, the remark was prompted when I read that some pendajo was arrested for having sex with a white tail deer. The deer was dead, by the way.
Well, again in Wisconsin, three hormonally and mentally unbalanced young … I don’t know what the hell to call them … were arrested for attempting to have sex with a corpse. They apparently had seen the young woman’s picture in the obituary column of the newspaper and decided they wanted to have sex with her.
According to the article, they were caught before they could complete their plan. Attempts to prosecute them failed. In Wisconsin, necrophilia, and attempted necrophilia, are not illegal.
What in the hell can I say? It isn’t often that I will say something is sick, but I gotta think this fits the bill.
Moving right along as we head south to Ft. Lauderdale, FL, we find a man arrested and sentenced for masturbating in his cell. The guy was in jail awaiting sentencing on an armed robbery beef. The cells are monitored by camera. The young lady doing the monitoring was offended by the sight of the con choking his chicken so she filed a complaint. It took 45 minutes for the jury to convict him. They added the time to the 10 year sentence he received on the other beef.
Did you know that in Readington, New Jersey they have a festival that requires the presence and participation of a virgin to ensure success? Given that it is New Jersey, and the year is 2007, one would think the festival doomed to failure. Enter Victoria Brumfield to the rescue.
In Painesville, Ohio there is a judge with an interesting bent on dispensing justice. I’m not sure where in Ohio Painesville is located, but it must be large enough to have working girls.
Two hormonally charged, (and ain’t they always?) young men decided to seek the services of a lady of the evening. Unfortunately for them, they had the bad luck of propositioning an undercover police officer. They were arrested and taken to court.
A judge known for giving unusual sentences has ordered three men who pleaded guilty to soliciting sex to take turns dressing in a bright yellow chicken costume.
Painesville Municipal Judge Michael Cicconetti agreed to suspend a 30-day jail sentence if they wear the costume between 4 and 7 p.m. Friday outside the court while carrying a sign that reads "No Chicken Ranch in Painesville."
According to the article, this isn’t the first time His Honor has come up with an unique sentence. Give the article a read.
We’re headed for Winnipeg in the morning at a totally uncivilized hour. Kat’s Mom has some medical tests scheduled. For some reason, the doctors thought their schedules were more important than our sleeping schedules.
Y’all have a good day and a better weekend.
Well, again in Wisconsin, three hormonally and mentally unbalanced young … I don’t know what the hell to call them … were arrested for attempting to have sex with a corpse. They apparently had seen the young woman’s picture in the obituary column of the newspaper and decided they wanted to have sex with her.
According to the article, they were caught before they could complete their plan. Attempts to prosecute them failed. In Wisconsin, necrophilia, and attempted necrophilia, are not illegal.
What in the hell can I say? It isn’t often that I will say something is sick, but I gotta think this fits the bill.
Moving right along as we head south to Ft. Lauderdale, FL, we find a man arrested and sentenced for masturbating in his cell. The guy was in jail awaiting sentencing on an armed robbery beef. The cells are monitored by camera. The young lady doing the monitoring was offended by the sight of the con choking his chicken so she filed a complaint. It took 45 minutes for the jury to convict him. They added the time to the 10 year sentence he received on the other beef.
The sheriff's office encourages deputies to file criminal charges to discourage masturbating in the county's jails, said Elliot Cohen, an agency spokesman. He said privacy is one of the rights inmatse give up in jail.You didn’t ask, but I think this is some pretty ate up crap.
Did you know that in Readington, New Jersey they have a festival that requires the presence and participation of a virgin to ensure success? Given that it is New Jersey, and the year is 2007, one would think the festival doomed to failure. Enter Victoria Brumfield to the rescue.
Brumfield, 28, has worked with Freeman in the past and is a devout Mormon, proud of her adherence to the church's rules, including not drinking, smoking, gambling or cursing - and no sex before marriage.A virgin in New Jersey. Just think. It may yet be possible to find an honest politician.
Ms Brumfield became the virgin in residence last year after her younger sister, the former duty virgin, moved to California.
In Painesville, Ohio there is a judge with an interesting bent on dispensing justice. I’m not sure where in Ohio Painesville is located, but it must be large enough to have working girls.
Two hormonally charged, (and ain’t they always?) young men decided to seek the services of a lady of the evening. Unfortunately for them, they had the bad luck of propositioning an undercover police officer. They were arrested and taken to court.
A judge known for giving unusual sentences has ordered three men who pleaded guilty to soliciting sex to take turns dressing in a bright yellow chicken costume.
Painesville Municipal Judge Michael Cicconetti agreed to suspend a 30-day jail sentence if they wear the costume between 4 and 7 p.m. Friday outside the court while carrying a sign that reads "No Chicken Ranch in Painesville."
According to the article, this isn’t the first time His Honor has come up with an unique sentence. Give the article a read.
We’re headed for Winnipeg in the morning at a totally uncivilized hour. Kat’s Mom has some medical tests scheduled. For some reason, the doctors thought their schedules were more important than our sleeping schedules.
Y’all have a good day and a better weekend.
Scribblin' on Thrusday
I ran out of cigarettes and reading material yesterday afternoon, both disasters of gargantuan proportion. We could have waited until the setting sun had dragged some of the oppressive heat to somewhere, anywhere, west of here to make a book run. There are all manner of cans and packages in the pantry that could have taken the edge off my jones for the printed word. I suppose, in a pinch, I could have found something on the Internet to occupy my attention. Since Kat needed to go to the bank, we swam our way to the truck and climbed inside the broiler of the cab. It was 1615 Hours when I backed out of the drive. That would make it about a quarter after four in the afternoon.
It took less than a minute to retrieve the mail from the community mail box thingie they use up here instead of door to door delivery as they do in civilized areas. A little blond headed girl and her mother were sitting on their bicycles in front of the boxes. I would tell you that I thought for a moment about running them over just to see the look on their faces. If I told you that, you would think I’m a sociopath or psychopath. I can’t bear the thought of y’all thinking badly of me so I will remain mute.
“What time does the bank close?” I asked Kat at 1626 Hours when I stopped for a red light. My window was partly down so the smoke from my next to last cigarette would pollute the clean Canadian air rather than the cab. The air conditioning was churning at Warp Five.
She glanced at the clock. “Ah, four thirty,” she said.
That wasn’t quite the truth. The bank closed at four. I circled the block and headed for the library. As Kat was getting out of the truck, the head librarian was leaving for wherever she goes when she isn’t playing library. She and Kat exchanged pleasantries; after all, Canadians are a polite people. Besides, Kat used to spend a goodly number of volunteer hours at the library. I’m not sure she was being altruistic. I think she liked being able to snag onto new books before anyone else got their hands on them.
For those of you that think I’m not environmentally conscious, you are wrong. I rolled down the windows and turned off the engine. You may wonder why I didn’t go in with her. After all, it was hot and I needed the reading material.
For you curious few, I have an answer. First, I was shoeless. After a few decades, I decided I was tired of shoes and decided to go barefoot as much as possible. There is a second, but I think I’ll leave you wondering about that.
Twenty minutes sitting in a truck when the outside temperature is 96 degrees is a lot longer than sitting in an air conditioned blues bar listening to some kick-ass blues. Being that I was barefooted, I probably wouldn’t have been welcome in the bar either. I’d pitched my last cigarette when Kat emerged with a bulging bag of books.
For once, there was a parking place in front of the store. Kat ran in to pick up my smokes. Why didn’t I run my lazy ass in to get them since I am the one that smokes them? It really isn’t any of your business but I’ll tell you anyway since I either love you, like you, am grateful to you for reading my scribbles, or I simply want to increase the word count. We put our money in the bank up here. It is Kat’s account and I don’t have an ATM card or the pin number. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t trust me enough to give me access to all of our millions.
About two minutes later, she was coming out of the store empty handed and with a look of panic on her face. That didn’t bode well.
“Where’s my card?” she asked when she got in the truck. “It is always right here in my purse.” She was frantically going through everything in her purse and there wasn’t much in there to go through. “All I have is Mom’s card.”
“And why do you have Mom’s card?”
“From the other day when we picked up some things for her. I must have forgotten to give it back.”
“Is it possible that you gave her your card?” I asked. “Seems to me, I remember you walking in with the receipt and card in one hand and the sack in the other.”
What would women do without us clear thinking and level headed men in a time of crisis and emotional upheaval? Off we went to make the card exchange and then back to the store. All was well once again in Friendly Manitoba – at least as well as it is likely to get.
I pointed the truck west which was the appropriate direction if we wanted to go home and home is where we were headed. I caught a red light. There was one car in front of me and two cars in the lane to my right.
I looked at the rearview mirror. A black Dodge Dakota driven by a woman was charging toward us. I thought, “Oh shit. This isn’t good.” There came the butt-puckering sound of screaming brakes. I tried to relax my back because I knew it was going to hurt like a bitch. I wondered if I would be given a ticket for bumping into the car in front of me. I thought about the fact that I have never been in a wreck.
A silk scarf could not have been passed between our rear bumper and the front bumper of that Dodge. The woman’s eyes were as big as saucers and her mouth was open in a silent scream. I realized my pulse wasn’t elevated in any way and I wasn’t pissed. When you drive around here, you are pretty much courting disaster.
Considering the distance the young lady left between us when the light changed to green, and the expression that was still frozen on her face, she probably needed to go home and change thongs. Or flour sack scanties; whatever in the hell they wear up here. I’d tell you what Kat wears but you have no burning need to know.
So we reach the end of this little whatever it is. You will make note that nowhere did I drool over a woman, talk about the color of the sky or the song of a bird. As a matter of fact, there is damned little description in this whole thing. There’s no mention of politics either. Not one complaint about the weather.
Life is sweet and that is all I have to say.
It took less than a minute to retrieve the mail from the community mail box thingie they use up here instead of door to door delivery as they do in civilized areas. A little blond headed girl and her mother were sitting on their bicycles in front of the boxes. I would tell you that I thought for a moment about running them over just to see the look on their faces. If I told you that, you would think I’m a sociopath or psychopath. I can’t bear the thought of y’all thinking badly of me so I will remain mute.
“What time does the bank close?” I asked Kat at 1626 Hours when I stopped for a red light. My window was partly down so the smoke from my next to last cigarette would pollute the clean Canadian air rather than the cab. The air conditioning was churning at Warp Five.
She glanced at the clock. “Ah, four thirty,” she said.
That wasn’t quite the truth. The bank closed at four. I circled the block and headed for the library. As Kat was getting out of the truck, the head librarian was leaving for wherever she goes when she isn’t playing library. She and Kat exchanged pleasantries; after all, Canadians are a polite people. Besides, Kat used to spend a goodly number of volunteer hours at the library. I’m not sure she was being altruistic. I think she liked being able to snag onto new books before anyone else got their hands on them.
For those of you that think I’m not environmentally conscious, you are wrong. I rolled down the windows and turned off the engine. You may wonder why I didn’t go in with her. After all, it was hot and I needed the reading material.
For you curious few, I have an answer. First, I was shoeless. After a few decades, I decided I was tired of shoes and decided to go barefoot as much as possible. There is a second, but I think I’ll leave you wondering about that.
Twenty minutes sitting in a truck when the outside temperature is 96 degrees is a lot longer than sitting in an air conditioned blues bar listening to some kick-ass blues. Being that I was barefooted, I probably wouldn’t have been welcome in the bar either. I’d pitched my last cigarette when Kat emerged with a bulging bag of books.
For once, there was a parking place in front of the store. Kat ran in to pick up my smokes. Why didn’t I run my lazy ass in to get them since I am the one that smokes them? It really isn’t any of your business but I’ll tell you anyway since I either love you, like you, am grateful to you for reading my scribbles, or I simply want to increase the word count. We put our money in the bank up here. It is Kat’s account and I don’t have an ATM card or the pin number. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t trust me enough to give me access to all of our millions.
About two minutes later, she was coming out of the store empty handed and with a look of panic on her face. That didn’t bode well.
“Where’s my card?” she asked when she got in the truck. “It is always right here in my purse.” She was frantically going through everything in her purse and there wasn’t much in there to go through. “All I have is Mom’s card.”
“And why do you have Mom’s card?”
“From the other day when we picked up some things for her. I must have forgotten to give it back.”
“Is it possible that you gave her your card?” I asked. “Seems to me, I remember you walking in with the receipt and card in one hand and the sack in the other.”
What would women do without us clear thinking and level headed men in a time of crisis and emotional upheaval? Off we went to make the card exchange and then back to the store. All was well once again in Friendly Manitoba – at least as well as it is likely to get.
I pointed the truck west which was the appropriate direction if we wanted to go home and home is where we were headed. I caught a red light. There was one car in front of me and two cars in the lane to my right.
I looked at the rearview mirror. A black Dodge Dakota driven by a woman was charging toward us. I thought, “Oh shit. This isn’t good.” There came the butt-puckering sound of screaming brakes. I tried to relax my back because I knew it was going to hurt like a bitch. I wondered if I would be given a ticket for bumping into the car in front of me. I thought about the fact that I have never been in a wreck.
A silk scarf could not have been passed between our rear bumper and the front bumper of that Dodge. The woman’s eyes were as big as saucers and her mouth was open in a silent scream. I realized my pulse wasn’t elevated in any way and I wasn’t pissed. When you drive around here, you are pretty much courting disaster.
Considering the distance the young lady left between us when the light changed to green, and the expression that was still frozen on her face, she probably needed to go home and change thongs. Or flour sack scanties; whatever in the hell they wear up here. I’d tell you what Kat wears but you have no burning need to know.
So we reach the end of this little whatever it is. You will make note that nowhere did I drool over a woman, talk about the color of the sky or the song of a bird. As a matter of fact, there is damned little description in this whole thing. There’s no mention of politics either. Not one complaint about the weather.
Life is sweet and that is all I have to say.