My dad sent me this - thanks, Dad!

Montana State Trooper

In most of the United States there is a policy of checking on any stalled vehicle on the highway when temperatures drop to single digits or below.

About 3am one very cold morning, Montana State Trooper Allan Nixon #658 responded to a call there was a car off the shoulder of the road outside Great Falls, Montana. He located the car, stuck in deep snow and with the engine still running. Pulling in behind the car with his emergency lights on, the trooper walked to the driver’s door to find an older man passed out behind the wheel with a nearly empty vodka bottle on the seat beside him. The driver came awake when the trooper tapped on the window. Seeing the rotating lights in his rearview window, and the state trooper standing next to his car, the man panicked. He jerked the gearshift into ‘drive’ and hit the gas.

The car’s speedometer was showing 20-30-40 and then 50 mph, but it was still stuck in the snow, wheels spinning. Trooper Nixon, having a sense of humor, began running in place next to the speeding (but stationary) car. The driver was totally freaked, thinking the trooper was actually keeping up with him. This goes on for about 30 seconds, then the trooper yelled, “PULL OVER!”

The man nodded, turned his wheel and stopped the engine. Needless to say, the man from North Dakota was arrested and is probably still shaking his head over the state trooper in Montana who could run 50 miles per hour.

Who says troopers don’t have a sense of humor?

Die, human! HAH, HAH, HAH, HAHHHHHH!

It would probably be a good idea if I just put a disclaimer at the top of this blog saying something like: "Almost everything you're about to read was in some way influenced by the consumption of alcohol." I'm certainly not proud of that, it's just the way it used to be.

This is yet another of those instances.

Uncle Ed's Cabin. Private property. Boy's weekend out. That should tell you something right there. Boats, guns, liquor and stupidity. I'm only an expert in the fourth category.

First a brief story within the story, I became a dubious legend that weekend for what has become known as, "The Upside Down, Between the Legs, Annie Oakley Shot". I'm told the clay pigeon sat reverently on Uncle Ed's mantle for years as a reminder of that famous shot. A .22 pistol, which I fired bending over, between my legs, from 50 feet away. They thought I missed. I didn't think so. When we checked, it had gone straight through the center of a clay pigeon target without shattering it and left a neat hole. First shot. Only shot. End of contest. Nobody wanted to try to top that. I autographed it and it went on the fireplace mantle.

The weekend deteriorated as planned.

Saturday night, Sunday morning, I don't know, LATE, many, many drinks later! I'm on the pond in the boat with my friend's oldest son and he's showing me the fine art of frog gigging. Only he's not using a gig. That would be cruel. Instead, we're using a different plan. I man the boat's motor and hold up a flashlight, he spots the frog's eyes glowing in the dark and yells, GO! I gun the motor and drive the boat and him into the bank, trying not to skewer him with a tree as we hit. He grabs blindly in the dark at the eyes. Sometimes he was successful. Sometimes not. All I know is eventually he had a cooler full of live frogs in the boat. I wasn't ABOUT to try that shit no matter HOW much I had to drink.

We switch places, he's driving, I'm in the front playing George Washington. I spotted a jug floating in Uncle Ed's pond. That will never do. We can't have these sacred waters sullied by trash. So I grab the jug to toss it in the boat. But it's tied to a cord. And the cord is stuck on something. So I grab the cord. I pull on the cord. Now I'm a pirate hauling up tray-zhure, ahhhrrrrrr. And then KLUNK. The treasure hits the side of the boat. Remember, it's 2:00am and dark so I can't see the treasure yet. It's REALLY heavy and scrapes along the side of the boat as I drag it up. I give it one good yank, it flops over the side of the boat and WHAMMMMM into the bottom of the boat between my feet. The treasure HISSES AT ME, HAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!! See the picture at the top of this article? That's similar to what was between my legs. OH HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, CRAP!!!! It's a snapping turtle. I've never seen one before and I sure as hell am not happy about meeting this REALLY PISSED OFF one now at 2:00 am in the dark, eying my crotch like a midnight snack. I lunge backward to protect "Bob and the Boys" as the damn thing is flopping around trying to eat me and in doing so, the boat lurches knocking the cooler of frogs over into the boat.

So now we have a homicidal turtle bent on killing me (or at least ending my child-rearing days), with frogs jumping everywhere and my friend trying to catch the frogs yelling, "DON'T LET THAT THING BITE YOU! HE CAN TAKE A FINGER OFF!" It wasn't my finger I was worried about. I'm yelling, "AHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHH!" And one of the flashlights is rolling around in the boat. Fog on the water. It is utter chaos in the boat for about 30 seconds until I scrambled over the seat into the middle compartment with the BEAST in the first compartment hissing like Satan himself. It's all so surreal. Kind of like watching the movie E.T. with a really good buzz. Only E.T.'s not cute. And he wants to kill you.

In the end. We, my friend's son and I, survived, albeit not due to our intelligence. But I can't say the same for the BEAST. All but two of the frogs got away. Poetic justice there. I'm pretty sure Darwin's Theory fits in here somewhere but I'll be damned if I can figure out how.

But I'll never forget Uncle Ed's Cabin. Thanks, Bob. Miss ya, brother.

No thanks Scooter Store, this is more what I had in mind

Jet Powered Wheelchair
* 0-300 mph in 4.2 seconds
* Run-flat high pressure tires
* Rear airfoil for added stability
* Wind sock included
* Curb feelers for easy parking
* EPA Economy: .0002 / .000012 mpg Highway/City

I got an invitation from the Scooter Store to join in on their SPECIAL SALE... WHAT?! I'm not even a member of AARP (yet)! I may not be running any marathons, but I'm not ready for wheels. But IF I were, THIS is more what I had in mind.

I said I'd feed the cats and dogs while you were gone, but you didn't say anything about the raccoon ...

I came home from a shopping trip tonight and noticed a kitty litter jug in the yard. That's nothing unusual around here. But I decided to go grab it before the neighbor started giving me the evil eye. And oddly enough, decided to actually DO something with it after I'd fetched it rather than just tossing it in a corner. Yes, I'm one of those neighbors you dread having next to you.

First, understand that the city of Jeffersonville made, I repeat MADE us buy these HUGE, $60 trash cans that closer resemble minivans than they do trash cans - I mean they are CAVERNOUSLY HUGE! Fortunately, they have an EASY-OPEN, hinged top on them so I didn't mind making a trip to the can with the kitty litter jug.

So I flung open the lid of the trash can and tossed in the kitty litter jug and just as I did, I caught a slight movement out of the corner of my eye inside the can.

Garbage isn't supposed to move, my brain told myself.

Then my brain told me to shut the can. I did as my brain ordered. But I rebelled against my brain as the synapses began to align and a picture of what I'd seen began to take shape - fur, striped tail, another, smaller brain telling ITSELF IT didn't see anything EITHER. To stay still, maybe the big pink thing that hit it in the head with the plastic jug would go away.

I opened the can quickly. YEP! And slammed it shut.

What do I do? There's a raccoon in my trash can!

I used to work for the Humane Society in another city and even though raccoons are cute as hell and we convince our kids as such by giving them stuffed dolls of them, those little suckers can be VICIOUS. And carry rabies. I've seen them pissed.

But it's cold out here, I'm freezing, back inside to figure out what to do. Maybe he/she will be gone when I go back (bounce to the future - no, he/she was still there - I don't think it can get out of the HUGE can).

There's plenty of food in there for it to eat, so I may have to leave it in there overnight until I can figure out what to do. I sure as hell don't want to try anything at night.

But I just KNOW, I'm going to forget that the damned thing's in there. And I'm going to take out the trash tomorrow and scare the piss out of myself AGAIN!!! Maybe I should leave myself a note tonight before I go to bed. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll hang it on the door:

NOTE TO SELF:

RACCOON IN TRASH CAN.
FIGURE OUT WHAT TO DO.

SIGNED:
SELF

PS. WRITE NASTY LETTER TO CITY ABOUT THOSE OVERSIZED, $60 RACCOON TRAPS THEY SOLD US.

AAAAAHHHHHH!

1987, divorced, living on the river in an apartment. Lonely. Real lonely.

So I decided to get some companions. I talked the guy at one of the local liquor stores into giving me his Bartles and Jaymes life-size cardboard cutout display. Frank and Ed became my best buddies. I put them in the window of my 2nd floor apartment so it looked like I had visitors. Yes, I was that desperate.

One thing that explains a lot is that I drank liquor back then. Lots. And one of the many side effects was I forgot a lot too. Like, for instance, I kept forgetting that Frank and Ed were there. So every time I'd walk into the room, I'd piss my pants because two strange fellows were standing in my living room waiting to attack me ... AAAAHHHHH! Or I'd be staggering home from the local bar and look up at my 2nd floor window and see the silhouette of two guys standing in my apartment ... AAAAHHHH! They're going to steal the 13" black and white TV with the broken antenna that I got in the divorce! Bastards!!

At some point I BOUGHT a Mr. Spock (Star Trek) cutout to go with Frank and Ed and put a speech balloon on him that said, "THIS DOES NOT COMPUTE." and stood him next to my computer. Clever, huh?

The four of us could have played poker more often but Frank cheated a lot and Spock, well hell, who can beat him? So we spent most of our time singing old Beatles songs and watching the 13" TV. Spock, of course, had to watch Star Trek on Sunday mornings. Ed snores a lot.

I have no clue where the Frank and Ed cutouts went. Maybe they stole themselves. Spock WAS in the basement but got wet when our basement flooded. I WILL tell you, true to the end, Spock wrinkled up in a highly logical manner.

Attack of the sourdough monster

I wanted to learn how to make sourdough bread. So I did. I got some starter and a recipe and in no time had a pretty good little factory going. Hot, sourdough bread ... OH YEAH!!!

I was single at the time and was living in an apartment.

I'd been away this particular weekend and when I returned Sunday night and unlocked the door, the smell was the first thing to hit me. It smelled like a baker had gotten drunk and had barfed everywhere. Pretty descriptive, huh? Sorry.

When I went into the kitchen, I discovered the source ... here's a tip from me to you ... if you ever make sourdough bread - DO NOT put the starter in a sealed glass jar and keep it on your kitchen counter over the weekend – it WILL explode and by explode, I don't mean "klink" it cracks and two pieces fall apart - no - KABOOM!!! A hideous dough monster was hanging from beneath my kitchen cabinet quivering and making gurgling, gaseous sounds. It was enticing me to approach it. I'm sure it wanted to absorb me like an amoeba. I didn't do it. I was wise to its ploy.

So much for my sourdough experiment.

Go here. Click the Garlic Monster.

www.verbalcartoonist.com

My favorite quote from his page so far:

I'm going to get a medic
alert bracelet and leave it
blank and when I die they
can fill it in accurately.

- Dan Liebert

I'm afraid that I'm afraid that I'm going to catch this.

pho·bo·pho·bi·a (fb-fb-)

A morbid dread or fear of developing a phobia.

With all due respect, ask around, Mr. P.

I found your GI Joe, Bro.

Oh, my bologna has a first name, it's A-i-c-h-m-o-p-h-o-b-i-a

Aichmophobia - Fear of needles or pointed objects.

I've never been one for needles. But I find myself faced with a situation in which I'll be seeing them a lot more than I care to in the coming weeks.

The needle fear goes back to a really crappy childhood experience. But in order to tell this story, I have to rat on my brother. Sorry, bro. But I have to toss you under the bus for the sake of entertainment. My brother and I BOTH collected GI Joe's when we were kids. But HE sewed his own clothes for his. Neither of us were particularly tidy as children, as a matter of fact, our room was a disaster area most of the time. The evening I'm recounting, he left his sewing materials on the floor of the bedroom on the shag carpeting. I, of course, stepped on the needle. That hurt. And off to the Army Hospital we went.

Other than stepping on a needle, here's where the trouble REALLY began:
1. It wasn't a Hospital. Actually it was more of a glorified Aid Station. There was no Hospital on this backwoods post we were on. Did I mention it was in France? Rural, southern France, not the famous "South of France" the rich f**kers speak of on the southeast coast, this was just the south and was landlocked. A Polish K-9/U.S.Ammunition Post. Somebody negotiated one whacked out deal there.
2. It was the weekend so all the staff had gone home. In particular, the X-ray tech AND the anesthesia guy. Oh, that really, really sucks. The highlight of the weekend in this place was shooting pool and getting drunk. Even for the kids.
3. The doctor was Polish and spoke only pigeon English. So I couldn't understand a word he was saying, which is probably a good thing.
4. The doctor was something like 65 years old, so couldn't see very well. Not the best candidate to be looking for a needle that may or may not be inside my foot.
5. I wouldn't swear to it, but I think the doc had been drinking. Either that or he wore Eau du Pabst Blue Ribbon cologne. But who could tell? He wasn't speaking English and he had this BIG silver disk stuck in the middle of his head with a light in it so we couldn't see his face. But he sure smelled like it. Oh, well, it WAS the weekend. Yes, a tipsy, old, blind, Polish dog doctor, in southern France, with no X-ray tech. Couldn't get any more bizarre.

So, with no X-rays, we didn't know if the needle had broken off inside my foot or not. And with no anesthesia, it promised to be an interesting evening.

Ever seen one of those cowboy films where they wrap a stick with a cloth and have the patient bite down on it while they dig out the bullet with a knife, but first they give him a shot of whiskey? Give the whiskey to the doctor instead of me and that's what happened. Oh, holy CRAP that HURT!!!!! The cloth wrapped stick became my friend. Shots in the bottom of the foot! Which hurt worse than the scalpel. But didn't deaden the pain of the scalpel either. And then he, the Polish doctor, was digging around in there, like a shopper on Black Friday at WalMart ... without X-rays. And after about a half hour of rummaging around, he couldn't find anything. So he closed me up.

We waited a week and flew me to a proper hospital near Paris, with proper X-rays and a proper anesthesiologist and sure enough, they found 3/4 of a needle buried deep inside my foot.

My brother got to go to the beach in the "South of France" for a week with my Dad, while my Mom took me to have surgery to look for and remove my brother's GI Joe needle ... come to think of it ... YOU DO deserves to be thrown under the f**king bus! Fink. And how come you didn't turn out gay? Sewing your own GI Joe clothes... geez. Clearly we need to talk. I still have issues. I'm busy pushing poor Joe off the top step in his attack jeep like most 9 year old boys and you're making sure your Joe is donned in hand-sewn Speedos. Hmmmmmm. Did you take Joe to the South of France swimming with you? Hope a shark bit off his pecker. Wait, he didn't have one to begin with.

Regardless, ever since then, I do the Lamaz Breathing Technique any time anyone comes NEAR me with a needle.

Looking for investors

I discovered today that all the medical isotopes used in the US come from Canada. And the reactor in Canada went on the fritz Sunday leaving us empty handed this week.

So I had an idea and am looking for ground-floor investors.

If YOU'VE got $10 million laying around in unmarked bills, just send it to me. I've never built anything with bricks, but hey, how hard could it be? For every investor I get, I'll build a nuclear reactor behind my house and start a MADE-IN-AMERICA isotope factory. One we can be proud of. Screw the Canadians, eh?

We're going to have to hurry before someone else comes up with the idea, so send your money TODAY!

Did you check at Walmart?

I was supposed to have a bone scan today ... I mentally prepared for this all week. Not that the procedure is painful, but there's a lot riding on the outcome. So I take the day off from work. Show up at the hospital, get registered, get the little bracelet thingy on my wrist and when the registrar calls the nuclear medicine office to tell them I'm there, they inform her that the test needs to be rescheduled. They ran out of isotope and can't get any. The reactor in Canada is on the fritz. I asked if there was any isotope available at any other facility that I could go to? No, it's a nationwide shortage.

So now I get to prepare AGAIN for next Tuesday.

Ain't that the shitz?

You watch, I GUARANTEE you I'll get billed TWICE for this $10-gazillion procedure even though they didn't perform it today. Remember? ... they REGISTERED me.

My New Favorite Sport

I'm going to put pillows at the end of the lane. They'll eat them when we're done.

Belated Valentine