Post One
My Plans for Oct. 16th. (Perfect Day)
Plans for a Saturday:
Well, the beautiful and kind Mrs. John Q. Public and I were going to go skiing on the slopes of beautiful Mt. Etna. I truly think those slopes to be better than ones close to my childhood home of Mt. Zion. Indiana has so many natural wonders to behold, so many things to do, that it really is difficult to decide what to do with your free time on weekends. However, I was on-call today at the hospital yet again, (it’s like no one else there can do brain surgery, I mean, come on, didn’t we all go to med school, that and do you know how hard it is to park a school bus in a hospital parking garage).
Mrs. Public was displeased, but these things happen when your married to a humanitarian, and it was either that or going with a group from church (my real one, you know that catholic one, the one with the steeple and all the lawn statues) that is currently involved in building a clinic and a school in a small village across the border.
I, like many other Hoosiers, feel some degree of guilt about the high quality of life we enjoy, when those poor Buckeye children go without, oh well perhaps I will join them next weekend, it is my understanding they will be heading up to Michigan to build a bridge that will cut 10 miles off the trip of the local indigenous population as they drive their chicken herds to market. Hoosiers are a very giving people, and there is something about the joy you feel in your heart when you give a Buckeye child his first pair of shoes.
Now that I am off duty, in a manner of speaking (because are we ever really off duty?), I have made my plans for the evening: I will be attending a Macedonian anniversary party and hog-roast, since I have recouped my bearings from my evening of excess, I plan to enjoy the company of a select group of friends (yes, dear reader, I have taken great lengths to ensure that Pastor Bob doesn’t find out about this evening of fun and festivities). I can barely wait for the fresh roasted pork, pickled farm products and large amounts of eastern European and Mediterranean liquors. I might even dance like Zorba the Greek again this year, however there will be no repeat of the “kiss the goat contest” I understand that it is still discussed in some circles, behind closed doors.
Wishing you and yours all the best, JQP esq.
Post Two:
Line of the Day:
“You came into my life like vermouth to gin, quickly and a little to smooth.”
It begins
It was a weekend like any other, with a few minor exceptions. I decided to brush off my investigative skills and work with a old friend as a Bounty Hunter, so after asking Sister Mary Margaret to cover my ESL class, I was off on the investigation beat, to coin a popular expression oft heard these days; I was go’en get me some of the’m evil-doers.
Dear friends, little did I know that a that the undertaking I was entering would take me to the highest levels of power, and the lowest levels of depravities, in what can only be said is a story that would make the epic-documentary director Roger Moore blanch.
I developed what I assumed would be an effective cover-story and wardrobe change (I was glad I saved all those clothes from my days in Seattle with the grunge-band, nods to Pastor Bob who had recently returned my Red Army over-coat, and East German ruck-sack.
My cover story was quite simple (given my belief that in covert-ops the simplest plan is often the most appropriate). My name was to be “Spike” and I had jumped ship from a North-Korean Iron-Ore freighter that at that time was docked in my sleepy port town. With those preparations made dear reader I dove into the steamy-under-belly of the “City of Churches”.
My friend and I, (who for the sake of this story will be known by the cover-name I knew him best as (when we were mercenaries in the killing fields of Principality of Monaco) “Lolly-Pop”, a name that is still both blessed a cursed in some parts of Europe.
We soon found ourselves at the water front of our port city, replete with; seedy bars, tattoo parlors, happy-ending massage establishments, Buy-Here Pay-Here car lots, Pay-Day Loans, and the local republican headquarters. All places the “low-people” are known frequent, yes, our path into the darkness would begin here.
We were on the trail of close knit gang of thugs and bail jumpers, whose last offence was strong arming the patents at the local VA hospital, into keeping their mouths shut about a proposed plan to close the hospital leaving them without the sub-standard health care they had grown accustom to, in their wake they left broken hips and shattered the dreams of these proud veterans, everyone a hero. Oh, yes dear reader it was personal now, “Lolly-Pop” and I were going to make someone pay.
We picked up our trail at a bar known as the Boom-Boom Saloon. For those readers who have never been to this particular tap-house, let me paint a mental picture for you. There are three things that Boom-Boom's is know for they are:
The quality of the exotic female dancers (dear reader, if ever the word exotic was appropriately used, it is here now). Your typical dancer often is a sweet lass, between the ages of 18 and 61, track marks plainly visible, replete with tattoos, piercings (fish-hooks, were most often seen on this visit, given its water-front local) knife and/or gunshot scars or wounds in various stages of healing, and advanced cases of gastro-intestinal disease. (How would one tip these ladies? I use the dollar per tooth method, I love attention to detail, and it always insures I leave with money).
The building itself, while offering an extensive lunch and dinner menu (hats off to the chef) it is still best known for its beer-drinking cockroach population, (it is often best to drink quickly and cover any remaining beverage with the fine wire mesh the wait-staff provides). I tend to stay away from beers brewed in St. Louis due to the notable fact that the roaches seem to prefer them to all other domestic and imported beers. Also, I must inform the reader that shootings and stablings occur with such a frequency among the customers that after a brief adjustment period, they take on an almost surreal effect, that is most easily compared to current Swiss post-modern film(my most recent viewing was Schlorkbabies an der Raststätte, two thumbs up).
And last, the thing that has allowed this place of respite for the wicked, such renown, is the fact that they (the owners, who it might be added are also big funders of the Mitch Daniels campaign for governor, of our fare land, our great state, Indiana) ..always pride themselves on having at least one midget dancer (or little person, as I was informed they prefer to be called, at the point of a knife, while looking in her mouth in an earnest effort to gage the amount of my tip).
It was soon after finishing a ninth pitcher of beer, and a wonderful petite roasted Capon in garlic and walnuts with a cream sage butter sauce, polished off with Cream Brule, that “Lolly-Pop” gave me the heads up, a C.I. (confidential informant, to those of you not familiar with trade-speak) had some information that could help our investigation, and we should meet him in the ally between the gun-store and the rescue mission. His C.I was only known as “green-teeth”.
I am sorry, dear reader, but the nurse is here now to give me my sponge bath, and drop off the flowers just sent to me by the Truthful and Compassionate Mrs. John Q. Public, who has I type this is on the road with the Boy-Band, filming a interview with Kansas Public Television, in preparation for their show Wednesday night, (my understanding is that they are opening for a Monster-Truck Show & Pull, at the 4-H fair-grounds). I will continue later, if my injures allow it.
Yours,
JQP, DDS
Post Three:
On Catholic Education and Chiropractic Arts:
Helping a Friend:
Last night, Father Phil called me, and asked for a meeting. I could tell by his tone it was not going to be a meeting I would enjoy.
It seems while the church has been rather indulgent in some of my activities (the “Come has your favorite Saint and/or Sinner” dinner and dance for the senior citizens and of course my driving of the Greater Grace New Tabernacle Faith Church and Show Choir church bus), but they have taken a rather less enlightened view on a few (very few, rest assured) of my other actions.
First some back-ground. A dear friend of mine from my days in the regiment, upon discharge from duty, came across one of those problems we all face, ergo: which career path to chose? When faced with the decision he chose the profession of chiropractics rather than his first dream of a profession in the world of dance. Some may say he sold-out, I however believe he bought in (that and I have seen him dance on several occasions, clogging is not for the faint of heart).
After completing his studies at the well regarded: “Inst. For Chiropractic Studies and Diesel Mechanics” located just off Exit 5 in beautiful Richmond, Indiana, a community known for its roses and RV sales.(its should be noted however that I am not an un-biased observer of said school, if you were to read the current catalog it lists myself has adjunct facility).
My friend (who for legal reasons will be know as “Doctor J”) started his practice in a spare room above his father’s Butcher Shop (perhaps you have seen their bumper stickers “ J######” Bros. Butcher Shop: No one, but no one beats our Meat”. Now for sake of story I must also tell you dear reader that their establishment is located right across the street from “Our Lady, Chicken of the Sea Catholic Church and Primary School” my home parish.
Sadly, “Doctor J’s” practice did not take off, he was even forced to help out in his father’s shop making their well know and highly regarded sausages (now available with “Super Secret Cougar Sausage Slaw” **trademark pending). Which was my opinion at the time a waste of one of the great minds in modern chiropractic medicine.
“Doctor J”, had the presence of mind to seek out my council, and as a dear friend and comrade from our day’s in uniform (he still walks with a limp from a particularly nasty bite he received when out with me on a search and destroy mission in the red-light districts of the Philippine Islands, and I still carry a saber scar of that same event, my hat goes off to those brave ladies, the members of the elite Donkey-Dance Brigade, our gallant foes, our sworn enemies, but alas, perhaps a story for another time).
I came upon a solution, to his woes. As it happens I was recently asked if I could take over the teaching of the natural family planning class required of all good catholic couples if they wish to be married in the eyes of our great religion (how great you may ask? Well, dear reader, if you were buying Jesus, for 2,000 years we had the only store on the corner, yes…that great). I of course agreed, and also offered my skill as a cosmetic surgeon for a discounted rate as well; both Father and the Parish Council felt they would just have me do the class. Oh, well it was not only their loss, but a loss for many of us who are forced to sit through the weddings of the ugly.
I soon put my plan into action. Starting with the first class, I threw away the curriculum, much like those scenes made famous by the great dramatic actor Robin Williams in the movie “Dead Poets Society”. I proceeded for two hours every Wednesday night over 6 weeks, in the basement of the CYO, to educate my young charges. Oh, the joy of eager minds, and couples in love.
My instruction was focused on two areas I feel of great importance, the self-gratifier, and in-depth study of the Karma Sutra, while this may seem unconventional to some, I believe it was Buddha who said: “there are many paths to the mountain, but only one mountain”.
I found my focus relating to the time of conception and positioning being the most enlightened part of the whole series. I stressed that sexual activity between a loving couples should occur at least 3 times a day, 6 days a week (why did you think the good book calls Sunday a day of rest?). Also a strong point was the following (now I do realize that many readers of this posting will already be familiar with these activities, so, please for the sake of the less well rounded individuals bare with me) that the very best way to have a baby every time is the missionary position, however there is no chance of orgasms for either party, however the less well known position that will guarantee incredible orgasms for both parties with zero chance of conception is the secret Flying-S position, this is one favored by advanced practitioners of yoga, and some sects of Amish, examples of both were provided with thanks to the Beautiful and Loving Mrs. John Q. Public and when she was un-available my fat girl friend.
At the completion of the class, I handed them the business card of my good friend and comrade from our days in the cavalry “Doctor J”. Whose practice picked up quite noticeably, to the point he like all other providers of medical services fled our inter-city neighborhood and got very tastefully decorated office over by the truck terminal, about a ½ mile past the airport.
Of course this brings me to the meeting with Father Phil. While still in a state of shock over the loss of “my bar”, I went to our appointment. It seems last Sunday, the parish council had a meeting, and acting on the directions of the diocese’s investigative office (yet, another reason to never trust a Jesuit, with their pierced ears and silk shirts, they are truly the Waffen SS of the Vatican).
It seems that a large number of young married couples started experiencing strange maladies, they include but are not limited to the following: hyper-extended necks, multiple hip dislocations, yellow discharge, and sprained wrists. While these injurys may be common among the yoga and Amish communities, here they were greeted with no un-due concern. Many of these injury’s resulted in the individuals and/or couples seeking chiropractic (enter my friend and colleague “Doctor J”) and in extreme cases orthopedic attention.
Dear reader, it did not take as long as I thought for them to track it back to me and my class on natural family planning. I have heard from sources close to the investigation that at one point both the Dept. of Homeland Defense and the CDC were consulted.
So, effective immediately I am not longer allowed to teach said class. Now some might look at this as a slap in the face, but I don’t, I was, after all only doing it to help a friend get his struggling practice up and running, and the way I see it, I will have even more time to devote to my latest project, life size statues of both Elvis and Bobby Knight (believe it or not, chain-saw art is a lot more difficult than is seems, and once again sorry! to my neighbor Ray who was helping me with the project last week, I am glad they were able to reattach it, the wonders of modern medicine never cease to amuse and entertain me).
I leave you now dear reader, as I am due in court (I moon-light as a public defender, it takes me back to my days with the Southern Law and Poverty Center). Still no cussing...!
Quote for the Day:
Pain (any pain--emotional, physical, and mental) has a message. The information it has about our life can be remarkably specific, but it usually falls into one of two categories: "We would be more alive if we did more of this," and, "Life would be lovelier if we did less of that." Once we get the pain's message, and follow its advice, the pain goes away.
Peter McWilliams, Life 101
Dedication:
This posting is dedicated to Fast Eddie, a prince among men and leader in the art communities on both coasts, who when he lost everything, left me with this word of wisdom: “whatever”…. Soldier on, Fast Eddie, Soldier on dear man.
Cheers!
JQP Lt. Col. Ret.
Post Four:
gee, John how was your weekend?
So, how was my weekend you ask?
Friday
Well, I took a nap after work that ended up lasting 4 hours, I then fixed myself a
a cup of lentil soup, and sat down with a good book (well, it really isn’t a good book, I got it from Hyde Brother’s Book store, (http://www.hydebros.com/bookswanted.htm) in their “almost free pile”, however now at chapter 32, I think I am more knowledgeable about the Crimean War then most of the fellow residents of my inter-city neighborhood, so much for Friday).
Saturday
I went shopping at four different groceries, spending 80.00 and saving around 140.00 (yes, I am one of those ass-holes who will drive all over town to save ten cents), however I now find myself in possession of many things I will never or seldom use (four bottles of Capers, what the hell am I going to do with that?).
I then spent the rest of the afternoon baking my world famous “Green Tomato Pies”. I made 9 of them and then a few soon to be famous hot pepper pies, (neither of which should be confused with my “Super Secret Cougar Sausage Slaw” **trademark pending). Sorry, no rib pies.
Later on that night, the beautiful and lovely Mrs. John Q. Public was able to tear herself away from her self imposed exile in the rock and roll lifestyle to join myself and a few close personal friends for some fermented hops and pickled cabbage at a local roadhouse on the unfashionable side of the city. We found ourselves leaving the company of friends around midnight and off to slumber.
Sunday
Skipped Mass again, I wonder how many times you can skip before they revoke your catholic card. Mrs. Public slept for 20 hours, and after accidentally taking her “headache medicine” I found myself sitting in front of the TV drooling while watching back to back episodes of Bonanza. Needless to say, I believe I turned in early as well, since I found myself still in the upright position this morning, while the magic of vacuum storage solutions was explained on channel 28
This brings me to today, on the road at 5 am, to drive 3 hours to talk to people for 30 minutes, and then back. You ever notice that every road you have to take out in the middle of no-where has two lanes, is under-construction, and that you are just in time for every school bus in the state? A metaphor of my life, I ask?
By request this was just a glimpse into and normal weekend for a normal kind of guy. Now, don’t you wish you would not have asked? I wonder why do we ask stuff like that?
You ever notice that when you start to tell people how you weekend was, they cut in, and tell you about theirs? Its like a contest, wow, you should of been with me/us we had a blast, or... god, you think your weekend sucked, check out what happened to me/us..., I mean come on, give it a fucking break.
Oh, and if one more fucking person says at some point in a conversation "...at the end of the day" I am going to bite their fucking nose off, so if you run into folks with taped up noses, know that there is a good chance they misspoke in front of me and they are prone to using old worn out speech patterns last trendy when the Spice Girls were a un-stoppable pop force. And yes, I am a bit moody today, thank-you
Post Five:
To this we give thanks
A few words of thanks:
I wanted to take a moment from my work here at the clinic fitting prosthetics to the legs of poor children (have you ever fitted prosthetics to a child who has fully functional limbs and then made them run, my god, but its good for a belly laugh, and people wonder why I volunteer) to make a comment of thanks to the countless people world-wide who have offered their condolences via e-mail, blog-comments, in-person, telephone, and in one very special case by carrier pigeon. It was very heart-warming, to you dear readers, I say thank-you.
Thought for the Day:
In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning. A. E. Housman English classical scholar, poet, & satirist (1859 - 1936)
Post Six:
11th month, 11th day, 11th hour
On Veterans Day:
You know, it’s funny. I got wished a Happy Veterans Day by six people before 9:00 AM this morning. I don’t think I was wished that until after the first Gulf War.
The first time I came back from someplace that people were shooting at us, no one even noticed I was gone, other than my father. I remember when he came to pick me up at the airport. He looked me in the eye and I think that was the first time I ever looked him back, square in the eye. Funny the things that you have to go through before you can really understand your father.
Cold gray Indiana days, always make me miss him, as does anytime I see a documentary on Arlington. My dad, after I got out of the service always called me on Veterans Day, much like when your mom calls you about Midnight Mass or Easter Services, to tell me when the service was at the graveyard. It depended on which organization he was least pissed off with as to where we would stand.
My father was a joiner; he belonged to the VFW, DAV, the Legion, the Korean Vets and the Vietnam Vets. Dad got around. We would go and I would stand there with him and my Uncles (military service was a family business) and his buddies. We would listen to a speech about duty, honor and sacrifice, given by someone who knew what it meant and said to people who understood it more that anyone who has never been could.
After taps, I always went home, most often back to bed, now that he is gone, I wish I could ask him so many things. How do you make sense of it all? How do you pick-up and move on, what worked, and what didn’t. And does it really ever stop?
God-Damn, I am sitting here right now and I would trade so much for a chance to go to the bar with him and his buddies and just listen to their stories. Wow, that caught me by surprise, I am fucking crying, good thing I got up and shut my door.
On another note, I was at a meeting with a bunch of other professionals on Monday, and the subject of PSTD came up and its treatment. I being the only veteran was asked for my prospective on the subject. Being in military is much like having someone stand right behind you with a loaded gun to your head. (Let’s say, for the sake of visualization a Smith and Wesson 44 Magnum revolver, just like the old Dirty Harry movies) you don’t know if the trigger is going to get pulled, but you know its pointed at you head, now this gun is there, 24/7, yes, 24/7, when your training, when your eating, when your sleeping, when your driving your car, when your taking your shower, when your making love, its always there.
I then asked how they thought they might handle the stress, and what long term effects that might have on them the individual. I then proceeded to make this example for someone who goes to combat. You see, in my experience, it’s a little different, The Smith and Wesson 44 Magnum revolver is still there, but instead of all six chambers being loaded, one is, and instead of just pointing it at you, someone is pulling the trigger and you know that one time its going to go boom, your going to run out of luck playing the odds game. You just hope you’re out of the shit before it gets a chance to. Once again, I asked how long they thought they could take that level of stress, and then think about road side bombs, ambushes and snipers, not for an hour but for days that crawl into weeks that slowly add up to months, that will eventually be years. I like giving other professionals models to examine their views.
I will tell you, the long term effects do tend to suck.
To my bothers and sisters, who stand or stood their turn on the wall, I salute you and I give you not only my thanks but my respect. In peacetime or combat, you were willing to go in harms way and give it all for America.
On going to the Dentist:
I hate the dentist, no really I hate the dentist. People often say, well everyone hates going to the dentist. Well they may, but do they have reason to? When I was a young man, in the service of my nation I visited a dentist.
Dear reader let me tell you, all those dental students who squeaked by on C- grades found respect and a steady pay-check in the service of this great land. Let me say that skills in DDSs were somewhat lacking at beautiful and sunny Ft. Bragg, NC. In having my wisdom teeth removed, I found myself 4 days later having to call in my own medivac while engaged in a field problem. (field problems for those not familiar with the term, involve little or no sleep, bad weather, extreme heat or extreme cold, bad and/or little food, and walking around a lot mostly at night, stoping every now and then to dig holes). I spent the next nine days in a military hospital (yes, much differs than those in the civilian world, but they are still better than any VA facility I have had the joy of going to, lets just say Bethesda it wasn’t). Seems I developed a nasty little bone infection from having my wisdom teeth removed.
While working for a state contract agency in an un-named state on the coast of the south that begins with an S and has the same last name as a state to the north, I decided to again give density a try. I had a cavity, and it hurt. I summed my courage and off I went. Well, thinking that hey what’s a cavity? No big deal. Well, about 45 minutes into the root-canal that I was told I needed, that sweet girl from the front desk came back and told the dentist. I juss c-a-ll-ed Bluue Cross and he don’t have no in-sure-ance (I spelled it out for those of you who have never lived in the low-country).
Funny me, I thought my employer was telling truth when he said we had dental insurance, even going to the point of giving us “temporary cards”. It was one of those insurances I was to find out that were only in existence if you didn’t need them. The dentist, true to both form and oath, stopped his work exposed nerves and all. Luckily, there was a retired dentist from New Jersey who lived three doors down from me at the time and he finished the root-canal in his kitchen for 50.00 cash and free golf passes.
Which leads me to today. I have a good dentist and I have learned they are worth their weight in gold and at times they have been known request their payment in that tender. Best of all he hands out drugs (to help with my anxiety, which I don’t have, but the Sweet and Sedated Mrs. John Q. Public enjoys the meds greatly). So, I have just returned from my visit, in and out, no waiting, pleasant, I still don’t like dentistry, I however have a new found respect for the art.
Post Seven:
Oct 14th, and I am John Q. Public
Cause and Effect:
Soon after my return from the hospital this morning, I realized that this no-cussing thing could have some serious health consequences, many that I had not foreseen, which given my amazing powers of perception is in and of its self, odd.
Allow me to start my story, it started as one of a typical fall afternoon in Indiana, sun peeking over the mountain sides, the last of the summer’s flowers in bloom, and the ever present gentle breeze blowing down from the high meadows. It was five, after working in the salt mines all day; I thought to myself that for a bit of recumbence, some distilled sprits were in order. I then proceeded to a little place I know in our friendly harbor town, and placed my order with the tavern keeper who knows me by name.
Ok, who am I kidding…? I was in East Chicago, and ended up enjoying the Blade-Runner like scenery that is Gary, Indiana. After several hours of driving I was close to my home (I was volunteering with the local Lions Club Organ Donation program, northwest Indiana is a great source for free organs. But please! keep that in mind if you ever ask me to drive, my panel van has taken on what at times can best be described as the odor of a meat truck, that and there isn’t any beer in my coolers).
When, suddenly my cell-phone rang. It was Pastor Bob, calling to remind me that I had volunteered to drive the church bus and that the youth group outing to the Roller-Ram-A, was ready. (I know what you think, John Q., Didn’t you say you were a catholic? My answer, why, yes I am, and if you think I am a bad catholic, you should see what kind of Pentecostal I am, I mean, I don’t even like snakes, however…I am fond of Aramaic, and large women in polyester.
My former therapist thinks it goes back to a traumatic experience I had in the all boys elementary school I attended, involving a large lunch lady, but hey, come-on aren’t all lunch ladies large when your 8 years old, thus the second reason I quit seeing my therapist, the first having something to do with an involuntary commitment for 72 hours last month, and further more I don’t care what you or my probation officer say, I am not going back to her, skinny girls, they are all the same, even when they have PhD after their name.
So, after a long day on the road… I find myself behind the wheel of a 48 passenger Blue-Bird school bus circa 1968. with “Solomon’s Tribe” lead by Brother Tim and Sister Ruby (I can tell them apart because Ruby always wears these protestant girl culottes and no make-up, and Tim, has always struck me as one of Madonna’s dancers, or perhaps more like that guy they had dancing over at the “Meet-Market” last Wednesday, and you know what, they were right, his 10 o’clock show was all different from the 8 o’clock show, but that’s an aside. My point is the both give me the creeps). After about 25 minutes of weird kids asking me to help fit their stinky yellow sock covered feet into rented roller-skates all while the hits from the 80’s and today were blaring out of the sound system, only to be punctuated with shouts of, “girls only”, “boys only”, “all-skate”, I truly thought I was going to lose my mind, and there dear reader, is where my evening took an odd turn.
I left, and yes I took the school bus with me, it was a matter of my own good luck that the roller-skating rink (and why do they call it a rink anyway? how about something more accurate like flat enclosed concrete area to skate on, oh! after typing that, I can see why rink is a better term) is located on the by-pass, and luck of all luck, so are several strip-clubs and a few Asian heath spas. And, you know how I feel about the location of the viewing of political debates being tantamount to understanding the existential strife we Americans face every day. There was no way I was going to miss the last debate.
So, out of those clubs available, I picked, the Boob-Hill, a country western themed establishment, now I know what your thinking; huh? John Q, what are you doing in a country and western themed establishment? …and you would be right in doing so, dear reader; I am even un-comfortable with Ponderosa Steak houses, but please keep in mind, my mode of transportation, the bill board outside said; semi parking welcome ( do you know how long a school bus is?), thus with that key bit of information my decision was made, the die cast in a matter of speaking.
That, and I lied to Pastor Bob, I don’t have a CDL license, matter of fact I don’t have an Indiana drivers license, why do you think I volunteer at these places, well I will tell you why! What cop is going to pull over a panel van with the sign Lions Club International Organ Donation Response Vehicle, or an old bus with Greater Grace New Tabernacle Faith Church and Show Choir painted on the side? …and best of all they let me take them home! So needless to say I am less than skilled at parking that big thing, but fortuitously, there was a spot right in front.
I must have appeared visibility shaken, because the bartender and the bouncer both approached me upon my arrival, here is where I must admit, I was a little embarrassed. It seems that in my haste to flee, I had forgotten that I myself was wearing a pair of roller-skates, understanding why they though it odd, that a man would park a church bus in front of their bar, and get out wearing a pair of skates, I skated over to the bar, sitting down I proceeded to tell them about how I came to be in such a situation, including natural beauty of Gary, the Lions Club, the Church outing, my skates, the vow of not cussing for a week, and why I believe strip clubs to be ideal places to watch presidential debates.
Kindly, they agreed to let me stay, with the proviso that I don’t cause any trouble, at this point I could see the bouncer fingering his tooth necklace, I assured them, that I would be no trouble, none what-so-ever. The one draw-back to my plan so far had been that I would have to watch the event on closed captioning; however the ever present dollar dance eased my mind. I find that when driving church buses a combination of Absolute vodka on the rocks with double shots of Rumplemist go a long way to claming ones nerves, (and I would welcome any comments from my fellow church bus divers, on their self-medication of choice).
Needless to say, I enjoyed the debate, and was able to re-turn to the skating rink after only 7 attempts to call me, (it was loud in there, to the point that I still have the line “save a horse, ride a cowboy” going through my head) At my return, I apologized for my tardiness, explaining the long wait at the school bus oil change place. While driving back to the church, it first became evident, even to me…the un-mistakable scent of vomit in the stale air of that old bus.
Now I don’t know about you, but all I have to do is smell up-chuck and I am gagging, so try this on a belly full of top-shelf liquors and free miniature corn-dogs. It seems some of the Christian kids and at least one of the adults suffers from the same affliction. Here, is where I came close to cussing, after dropping everyone off at the church and making a suggestion to Pastor Bob and anyone else who could hear that perhaps, just perhaps, the snack of cold meat sandwiches and Jello -Surprise (what is it with Prots. and Jello anyway, you never see that stuff in a catholic home) followed by Sams Club sodas, pop rocks and physical activity was not a good idea. I left.
Driving up the long winding road to my estate, I had to turn up the radio (AM 1380) so not to hear the swishing sound emanating from the back of the bus. Now, I have to ask, have you ever tried to get off of a 1968 Blue Bird school bus, after consuming 6 vodkas on the rocks and at least 8 double shots of Rumplemist, while wearing a pair of roller skates, keeping in mind there is about a ½ inch of emesis on the floor of said bus? Dear reader, no easy task.
At which point, I come to the nearly tragic accident, I went into my humble home, changed out of my skates and showered, climbing the stairs and heading to bed. At, which point the beautiful Mrs. John Q, Public enters the story. It seems the Boy-Band she has been promoting tirelessly was taking a break from the county fair and National Guard Amory circuit, and she was in town, I however had forgotten to pick her up at the bus station, I told her that much like the Cubs and Notre Dame's football program, I can not be depended on to come through every time.
She asked me about my day, I quite truthfully I told her that there was no way I could tell her about my day with out cussing, so, she suggested I act it out, much like the game of charades, now I like any other mid-westerner am always up for a game charades or euchre, even after as trying a day as mine. So, I proceeded to jump up on the bed and act out my day, all with out saying a word, much I imagine like a mime on acid (and you know how I feel about mimes, like clowns, they freak me out) and Mrs. John Q. did good… up until, the getting off the bus part of my story, at which time, in my effort to act it out, I fell off the bed, in the process biting of the tip of my tongue, (for the sixth time in my life, however this was the first time I myself had done it).
Now, have you ever had your tongue bitten off? Let me tell you about the first thing they will ask you, when you walk in to ER bleeding like a stuck pig, holding one of those nice hand towels your mother-in-law made for your wedding gift to your tongue, attempting to hold it on. They will ask, and I quote. “What seems to be the problem?” I at that time I took the opportunity to reply: “Whaaff taouufk theniik havened tu me, I beeit mey fugggen tong off” Yes, dear reader… I broke, not even a full 24 hours into it, and I cussed, however… I will take some degree of privilege here, and say it doesn’t count because A) neither the ER nurse nor the attending physician, Dr. Ram Av-dual-I, an old chum from my med-school days back in the Bahamas, could understand what I was saying, and B) because they both quite honestly were idiots, this is were Mrs. John Q. made the suggestion to me, "well honey…why don’t you act it out for them" (of course she thought this most amusing). Thank-Goodness, I was able to use and indelible ink marker and a bed sheet to write my story down, I almost lost them around the part about the putting skates on kids feet, but they got the over all story. And, thankfully due to insurance, I was able to get treatment before passing out from loss of blood.
Which of course brings to me the debate, Kerry, Kerry, Kerry, oh, wait lets try this on, Pres. Kerry… kind make you giggle doesn’t it, ha! Ha! Ha! We are going to win! Now of course it would be different if it was say McCain/Powel, wow… what a world that would be… But you know what I say: Vote Kerry/Edwards, Vote Early, and Vote Often!
To-days Legal Fact:
Did you know that’s its illegal to transport a human body across state lines unless you are licensed to do so? It is in fact a federal offence, a violation of the Inter-State Commerce Act. Just thought you might like to know, I found out the hard way.
Quote of the day:
and yes, its the same guy, but he is so gosh-darn-friggen-good,
A fanatic is one who can't change his mind and won't change the subject.
Sir Winston ChurchillBritish politician (1874 - 1965)
