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Friday, April 22, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Catharsis by S.E. Hicks
Catharsis
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
I have had the pleasure of meeting a large number of truly unique individuals in my short time on this earth. As a personal trainer I learned very quickly that we are all so very different and excepting a person’s distinctive personality quirks comes with success in the service industry. The first three customers that came to my fitness studio were gay men. When the third gay male walked in dressed in flaming gay attire I immediately pointed him towards the door. Big mistake as I soon realized gay folks have money too and if you just take time to get to know them, their sexual orientation has absolutely nothing to do with why they sought fitness advice. Once this was realized I overcame my homo-phobia and over the course of eighteen years developed professional relationships with both gay and lesbian clients some of which I could easily label as good friends.
Aside from getting to know great people, one of the most satisfying aspects of the field of personal training was helping a client reach their fitness goals. Helping diabetics reduce or even eliminate their insulin use or helping a stroke victim regain use of their arm and walk again are achievements that surpass all the athletic achievements by a long shot. One young boy whom had Hydro Encephalitis as a baby was probably my greatest challenge and the most rewarding relationship I have ever experienced. The young man at the age of eleven walked with a severe gimp and had a nearly useless left arm that he carried drawn up toward his chest. What made his case so difficult was his endocrine system was compromised and he had a very difficult time sweating which drove him crazy with over stimulated surface nerve activity that caused him to itch like he had a bad case of poison ivy. His Dad had been a university level back up quarterback to a fellow that is now in the NFL Hall of Fame. Pretty tough for a kid to be like Dad. His Dad was great however and gave his son nothing but praise for his effort at overcoming this affliction. When the young man was eighteen he could bench his weight for fifteen, run five miles with out a hitch and could sweat with the best of them. He went on to enroll in the Air Force Academy where I understand he flies drones. What a great achievement for him and his family and an extremely satisfying, rewarding result for me.
One day I had the pleasure of meeting a gentleman who was quite disparate from most of my clients. Roger was a classic example of a guy tired of getting sand kicked in his face by all the bullies of the world. He was a very small man weighing in at maybe a buck and a dime. Standing only about 5’6’ he not only was weak and frail but had very poor self esteem. Roger however, was a very pleasant man with a spark in his heart and gleam in his eye. He said all he wanted was to be strong enough to left the heavy luggage in and out of the trunk of the limo he drove but what he really needed was a shot of confidence and a self esteem boost. He worked his ass off in the gym. He ate like I told him and did all the little things necessary to gain muscle weight. Two years later Roger weighed in at 132lbs of lean muscle. He could do things with his body he never thought possible. The guy walked with confidence and carried himself with great pride.
One day Roger came in the gym and informed me that this would be his last workout for a while has he had either been fired as a limo driver or quit, he wasn’t sure which. When I asked what happened he told me. For several years he had taken a older woman to the airport once a month and would pick her up when she returned. Roger described her as a bitter old crabby bitch who verbally abused him at every turn. During the most recent trip she mouthed off to Roger one too many times and Roger slammed on the brakes of the limo right in the middle of the bridge that crossed the Missouri river and promptly tossed her over packed high price designer luggage into the Missouri river. Roger was quite confident of himself now and nobody was ever going to kick sand in his face again.
I got a degree of catharsis from Roger’s story as I had heard the stories of this woman’s verbal abuse many, many times. Wish I had been there to see her face, she also happened to have been a one time client of mine and had verbally abused me a time or two. Good for Roger.
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
I have had the pleasure of meeting a large number of truly unique individuals in my short time on this earth. As a personal trainer I learned very quickly that we are all so very different and excepting a person’s distinctive personality quirks comes with success in the service industry. The first three customers that came to my fitness studio were gay men. When the third gay male walked in dressed in flaming gay attire I immediately pointed him towards the door. Big mistake as I soon realized gay folks have money too and if you just take time to get to know them, their sexual orientation has absolutely nothing to do with why they sought fitness advice. Once this was realized I overcame my homo-phobia and over the course of eighteen years developed professional relationships with both gay and lesbian clients some of which I could easily label as good friends.
Aside from getting to know great people, one of the most satisfying aspects of the field of personal training was helping a client reach their fitness goals. Helping diabetics reduce or even eliminate their insulin use or helping a stroke victim regain use of their arm and walk again are achievements that surpass all the athletic achievements by a long shot. One young boy whom had Hydro Encephalitis as a baby was probably my greatest challenge and the most rewarding relationship I have ever experienced. The young man at the age of eleven walked with a severe gimp and had a nearly useless left arm that he carried drawn up toward his chest. What made his case so difficult was his endocrine system was compromised and he had a very difficult time sweating which drove him crazy with over stimulated surface nerve activity that caused him to itch like he had a bad case of poison ivy. His Dad had been a university level back up quarterback to a fellow that is now in the NFL Hall of Fame. Pretty tough for a kid to be like Dad. His Dad was great however and gave his son nothing but praise for his effort at overcoming this affliction. When the young man was eighteen he could bench his weight for fifteen, run five miles with out a hitch and could sweat with the best of them. He went on to enroll in the Air Force Academy where I understand he flies drones. What a great achievement for him and his family and an extremely satisfying, rewarding result for me.
One day I had the pleasure of meeting a gentleman who was quite disparate from most of my clients. Roger was a classic example of a guy tired of getting sand kicked in his face by all the bullies of the world. He was a very small man weighing in at maybe a buck and a dime. Standing only about 5’6’ he not only was weak and frail but had very poor self esteem. Roger however, was a very pleasant man with a spark in his heart and gleam in his eye. He said all he wanted was to be strong enough to left the heavy luggage in and out of the trunk of the limo he drove but what he really needed was a shot of confidence and a self esteem boost. He worked his ass off in the gym. He ate like I told him and did all the little things necessary to gain muscle weight. Two years later Roger weighed in at 132lbs of lean muscle. He could do things with his body he never thought possible. The guy walked with confidence and carried himself with great pride.
One day Roger came in the gym and informed me that this would be his last workout for a while has he had either been fired as a limo driver or quit, he wasn’t sure which. When I asked what happened he told me. For several years he had taken a older woman to the airport once a month and would pick her up when she returned. Roger described her as a bitter old crabby bitch who verbally abused him at every turn. During the most recent trip she mouthed off to Roger one too many times and Roger slammed on the brakes of the limo right in the middle of the bridge that crossed the Missouri river and promptly tossed her over packed high price designer luggage into the Missouri river. Roger was quite confident of himself now and nobody was ever going to kick sand in his face again.
I got a degree of catharsis from Roger’s story as I had heard the stories of this woman’s verbal abuse many, many times. Wish I had been there to see her face, she also happened to have been a one time client of mine and had verbally abused me a time or two. Good for Roger.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Acute Flatulent Technique by SE Hicks
Acute Flatulent Technique
Written by Fletcher “ Butchwax” Ferguson
Having a reputation for processing a skill is one thing. Consideration as a talented athlete or craftsman is a note worthy honor. Rising to an elite or professional rank puts one in the highest significant percentile. If in fact, farting was a professional sport, I would have been inducted into the hall of fame long ago. In my minds eye, I should have been and according to those who have a nose for such skill admittedly agree. I am or was a professional farter. A skill, that unlike most older men, has dissipated with age. Primarily due to a trendy change to an almost ubiquitous organic diet including the drinking of raw milk. This diet change has permanently placed me on the disabled list and forced me into early retirement.
Holding a social faux pas world record carries with it an automatic degree of respect. I am the only person known in my wide circle of influence to have cleared out an entire section of spectators at an outdoor, open air, division one football game. Unfortunately, there was no wind that day. Had there been just a gentle breeze the devastation would have spread around a good third of the lower level. Twice in an outdoor setting, I have induced asthma attacks in previously undiagnosed victims, at a world record distance. You got to catch the wind just right in those circumstances.
In order to be considered a pro, one must be able to fart on demand. Not always for entertainment sake, but for the cause and effect results a well timed fart can have, say… during an argument with you wife for example. Another classic skill is to fart with directional auditory volume and skillfully blame it on someone else. Kind of like anal ventriloquism. Like the time I was in line behind a troublesome older female customer at the grocery store. “God lady change your diaper.”
Crowded parties are my favorites. Mingling in an uncomfortable social situation puts my game in high gear. Not only could I saddle up on a unsuspecting sole, I could change flavors and cause a multitude of suspects to be considered. On one occasion there were so many different retched plagues released from my sphincter, the caterer was blamed, for it was concluded by the many guests that the food caused the malady.
Quality farts when used to entertain or torture my three boys should not go without mentioning. After saying prayers and a sincere good night hug and kiss. There’s nothing like hearing the combined complaining laughter heard after closing the door behind a loving wisp of methane. They would be forced to get up in the dead of winter open the windows and turn on a floor fan they kept handy for just that sort of bed time story.
Hall of fame farts, I have had many. The three epic farts that I care to share with the readers of this manuscript credit me as Worlds Greatest. Each of these single efforts have unique features to them and could be classified as new life forms do to their residual residency.
Several years ago I was asked to be a stand in for a buddy who had entered a drawing for a brand new Chevy Malibu. The catch was that he had to sit in the car with six other people until only one person remained, resulting in that person winning a new car. My friend needed a car badly and was acutely aware of my rare skills. I sat in the back seat with three woman. I just had to out last the other contestants. There were no bathroom room breaks allowed.
I sized up my competition. One of the women, a house wife and mother of three, had experience with diapers which gave her a strong tolerance of odors. The practical nurse might be able to with stand a certain amount of methane, but the female mortuary employee looked to be the toughest of the three women.
The other male competitors, sitting in the front seat consisted of an elderly gentlemen of eighty some. A Mexican American plumber, and a male librarian.
My pre game meal was comprised of a couple of healthy stewed cabbage quarters, some raw broccoli, a refried bean dirty rice pilaf, six pickled eggs, followed up by a quart of milk. The milk was a risk, as bladder concerns might cause me to exit the car prematurely. I didn’t think it would take me that long. We were in the car a good hour when the build up of methane began collecting in my descending colon. Now an average person can produce one to three pints of methane a day. I could hold better than a pint in my colon and release all of it at a given moment. I had to time this perfectly. I needed to release the effort right after one of the other competitors slipped one out that got the attention of the olfactory senses. I waited for just such an opportunity. As the amateur’s methane caused some mild discomfort and before the affected could recover I passed a pint or better. The competition was over as my six competitors fled the scene due to their inability to breathe.The only real draw back of the strategy was that my buddy’s wife could not deal with the remaining odor the car held. Thus, he was forced to sell it at far below the market value for the same odd reason.
The second world class effort occurred at a poker tournament in Reno, Nevada. I was a member of a professional business organization that held a yearly poker game for charity. The 700 members stayed at a large high rise hotel. The entry fee was one hundred dollars. Each player had fifty dollars in chips to start the tourney. The game was Texas Hold-em. There was a simple elimination process. After two hours at a table who ever had the most chips advanced to the next round. That winner took every one’s chips at the table with him. The place winner’s received the proceeds in the form of a tax deductions to a charity of their choosing. All in all a fun weekend.
On this particular year I had managed to make the quarter final round. During the games when the appropriate number of competitors were reached the ante went up as did the maximum bet. Now at the end of the time period, the top three at each table plus the best fourth in the bracket, advanced to the semis. The time limit was strictly enforced. Maintaining a constant vigilance I determined that I was in the top three positions and easily made it to the semi final. In the semi’s I was again successful achieving top three status and I advanced to the final table. At the final table I had to fall back on a very devilish tactic. I had won a pot that put me in the chip lead, when it was my turn to deal and the bet came a round to me I went all in and before I could be called by any other player, I immediately farted, clearing the room. The room remained void of any players other than myself, until the time period elapsed. The judges adhering to the rules were forced to award me the winning hand and thus the tournament.
The two prior efforts were deliberately planned premeditated acts, executed with perfection. The last hall of fame effort I am sharing with you was purely an accident, having not intended to be the cause of the utter chaos that followed my ill timed release.
The personal training client I was seeing was the most high and mighty of all the residents in a 36 story condominium that was home to a collection of retired multi-multi millionaires. She was the matriarch of the building. Of course any one that she used as a personal trainer would in fact be the “must have” if nothing else than for a one up’s on the person they were bragging to. Accordingly, I was well known through the building and I knew most of the residents by their first name.
On this particular morning I had finished with the old she boar and was making my way down the elevator. I had been holding in the plumes of methane that collected during the course of the work out. Because it was early and I never ran into any one at this hour say for the security guard Gary who was most likely at his post and due to the fact that I had reached my storage capacity I released the beast. Just as I had completed the lengthy project and as I was just catching a whiff of what appeared to have been a real paint peeler the elevator door opened.
To my surprise there stood the old Korean women with her walker. The old Korean woman was a very nice lady that lived with her daughter and son-in-law who was a famous cardio vascular surgeon. They lived in one of the four, three floor penthouses the building had. The old girl got in, just smiled at me as I quickly exited the elevator. About the time he door was closing --it hit her. I could hear, as well as Gary the guard, what sounded like muffled but displeased Korean poignant commentary. Keen eyed Gary caught my grin and asked what was so funny. I told him. He was laughing and drawing the possible domino effects that might result, i.e. someone else is getting on the elevator thinking she did it-- when the phone rang at the front desk.
It was another resident of the penthouse cluster that had discovered the fainted old Korean woman on the thirty-fourth floor. Her comment to Gary over the house phone was, “we need an ambulance and a maintenance person up here.” It seems there was an awful sewer gas emitting from the elevator and Mrs. Wong had passed out.” Gary, barely able to control his laughter, looked at me and said you better go and you better be glad that the old women can’t speak English. I left thinking proudly of the two milestones; a fart that caused a woman to actually faint and the fact it had traveled thirty-four floors and still packed a punch upon arrival. Worthy.
Written by Fletcher “ Butchwax” Ferguson
Having a reputation for processing a skill is one thing. Consideration as a talented athlete or craftsman is a note worthy honor. Rising to an elite or professional rank puts one in the highest significant percentile. If in fact, farting was a professional sport, I would have been inducted into the hall of fame long ago. In my minds eye, I should have been and according to those who have a nose for such skill admittedly agree. I am or was a professional farter. A skill, that unlike most older men, has dissipated with age. Primarily due to a trendy change to an almost ubiquitous organic diet including the drinking of raw milk. This diet change has permanently placed me on the disabled list and forced me into early retirement.
Holding a social faux pas world record carries with it an automatic degree of respect. I am the only person known in my wide circle of influence to have cleared out an entire section of spectators at an outdoor, open air, division one football game. Unfortunately, there was no wind that day. Had there been just a gentle breeze the devastation would have spread around a good third of the lower level. Twice in an outdoor setting, I have induced asthma attacks in previously undiagnosed victims, at a world record distance. You got to catch the wind just right in those circumstances.
In order to be considered a pro, one must be able to fart on demand. Not always for entertainment sake, but for the cause and effect results a well timed fart can have, say… during an argument with you wife for example. Another classic skill is to fart with directional auditory volume and skillfully blame it on someone else. Kind of like anal ventriloquism. Like the time I was in line behind a troublesome older female customer at the grocery store. “God lady change your diaper.”
Crowded parties are my favorites. Mingling in an uncomfortable social situation puts my game in high gear. Not only could I saddle up on a unsuspecting sole, I could change flavors and cause a multitude of suspects to be considered. On one occasion there were so many different retched plagues released from my sphincter, the caterer was blamed, for it was concluded by the many guests that the food caused the malady.
Quality farts when used to entertain or torture my three boys should not go without mentioning. After saying prayers and a sincere good night hug and kiss. There’s nothing like hearing the combined complaining laughter heard after closing the door behind a loving wisp of methane. They would be forced to get up in the dead of winter open the windows and turn on a floor fan they kept handy for just that sort of bed time story.
Hall of fame farts, I have had many. The three epic farts that I care to share with the readers of this manuscript credit me as Worlds Greatest. Each of these single efforts have unique features to them and could be classified as new life forms do to their residual residency.
Several years ago I was asked to be a stand in for a buddy who had entered a drawing for a brand new Chevy Malibu. The catch was that he had to sit in the car with six other people until only one person remained, resulting in that person winning a new car. My friend needed a car badly and was acutely aware of my rare skills. I sat in the back seat with three woman. I just had to out last the other contestants. There were no bathroom room breaks allowed.
I sized up my competition. One of the women, a house wife and mother of three, had experience with diapers which gave her a strong tolerance of odors. The practical nurse might be able to with stand a certain amount of methane, but the female mortuary employee looked to be the toughest of the three women.
The other male competitors, sitting in the front seat consisted of an elderly gentlemen of eighty some. A Mexican American plumber, and a male librarian.
My pre game meal was comprised of a couple of healthy stewed cabbage quarters, some raw broccoli, a refried bean dirty rice pilaf, six pickled eggs, followed up by a quart of milk. The milk was a risk, as bladder concerns might cause me to exit the car prematurely. I didn’t think it would take me that long. We were in the car a good hour when the build up of methane began collecting in my descending colon. Now an average person can produce one to three pints of methane a day. I could hold better than a pint in my colon and release all of it at a given moment. I had to time this perfectly. I needed to release the effort right after one of the other competitors slipped one out that got the attention of the olfactory senses. I waited for just such an opportunity. As the amateur’s methane caused some mild discomfort and before the affected could recover I passed a pint or better. The competition was over as my six competitors fled the scene due to their inability to breathe.The only real draw back of the strategy was that my buddy’s wife could not deal with the remaining odor the car held. Thus, he was forced to sell it at far below the market value for the same odd reason.
The second world class effort occurred at a poker tournament in Reno, Nevada. I was a member of a professional business organization that held a yearly poker game for charity. The 700 members stayed at a large high rise hotel. The entry fee was one hundred dollars. Each player had fifty dollars in chips to start the tourney. The game was Texas Hold-em. There was a simple elimination process. After two hours at a table who ever had the most chips advanced to the next round. That winner took every one’s chips at the table with him. The place winner’s received the proceeds in the form of a tax deductions to a charity of their choosing. All in all a fun weekend.
On this particular year I had managed to make the quarter final round. During the games when the appropriate number of competitors were reached the ante went up as did the maximum bet. Now at the end of the time period, the top three at each table plus the best fourth in the bracket, advanced to the semis. The time limit was strictly enforced. Maintaining a constant vigilance I determined that I was in the top three positions and easily made it to the semi final. In the semi’s I was again successful achieving top three status and I advanced to the final table. At the final table I had to fall back on a very devilish tactic. I had won a pot that put me in the chip lead, when it was my turn to deal and the bet came a round to me I went all in and before I could be called by any other player, I immediately farted, clearing the room. The room remained void of any players other than myself, until the time period elapsed. The judges adhering to the rules were forced to award me the winning hand and thus the tournament.
The two prior efforts were deliberately planned premeditated acts, executed with perfection. The last hall of fame effort I am sharing with you was purely an accident, having not intended to be the cause of the utter chaos that followed my ill timed release.
The personal training client I was seeing was the most high and mighty of all the residents in a 36 story condominium that was home to a collection of retired multi-multi millionaires. She was the matriarch of the building. Of course any one that she used as a personal trainer would in fact be the “must have” if nothing else than for a one up’s on the person they were bragging to. Accordingly, I was well known through the building and I knew most of the residents by their first name.
On this particular morning I had finished with the old she boar and was making my way down the elevator. I had been holding in the plumes of methane that collected during the course of the work out. Because it was early and I never ran into any one at this hour say for the security guard Gary who was most likely at his post and due to the fact that I had reached my storage capacity I released the beast. Just as I had completed the lengthy project and as I was just catching a whiff of what appeared to have been a real paint peeler the elevator door opened.
To my surprise there stood the old Korean women with her walker. The old Korean woman was a very nice lady that lived with her daughter and son-in-law who was a famous cardio vascular surgeon. They lived in one of the four, three floor penthouses the building had. The old girl got in, just smiled at me as I quickly exited the elevator. About the time he door was closing --it hit her. I could hear, as well as Gary the guard, what sounded like muffled but displeased Korean poignant commentary. Keen eyed Gary caught my grin and asked what was so funny. I told him. He was laughing and drawing the possible domino effects that might result, i.e. someone else is getting on the elevator thinking she did it-- when the phone rang at the front desk.
It was another resident of the penthouse cluster that had discovered the fainted old Korean woman on the thirty-fourth floor. Her comment to Gary over the house phone was, “we need an ambulance and a maintenance person up here.” It seems there was an awful sewer gas emitting from the elevator and Mrs. Wong had passed out.” Gary, barely able to control his laughter, looked at me and said you better go and you better be glad that the old women can’t speak English. I left thinking proudly of the two milestones; a fart that caused a woman to actually faint and the fact it had traveled thirty-four floors and still packed a punch upon arrival. Worthy.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Peeping Park Techs by S.E. Hicks
Peeping Park Techs
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
I was twenty three, in grad school and in need of a good summer job. When told of an opening at Lake Perry for a park technician I applied and was granted an interview with the Colonel Joseph M. Millencamp a U.S. Army Corps of Engineer full bird. He was the commander of the lake and park operations. He lived on site with is wife of 35 years. The Colonel commanded a staff of three full time personnel and three seasonal park technicians. The second in command was a park ranger of notable character. Mobe Wilson was six foot nine of well groomed officer, the epitome of park ranger professionals, a beast of a man. Mobe unfortunately had a deputy ranger Travis Craig who was by all definition a cross between Barney and Gomer but a tireless worker nonetheless. Maggie a full time park technician was the most intelligent of the bunch, a friendly kind person whose love of wild things was beyond reproach. Then there were the three seasonal summer park techs. Nash a fifty five year old teacher/track coach from Topeka and Benedict also a teacher/track coach who was old as the lake itself. It seemed Benedict and Nash had been working for the Colonel since they had started teaching. They were great guys and a real pair, full of tom foolery. When I was hired there were now three track coaches on the staff. Turned out the Colonel was an ex track star himself. He claimed to have been a hammer thrower back east some where, prior to the Korean war. Thus his partiality towards track coaches.
The job was a breeze. All I did was drive around in a little pick up truck and collect camping fees from the campers. Of course there were a lot of pubic relations, an occasional request for directions to stores, gas stations, liquor stores, bait shops and the like. There were fringe benefits, left over fresh cooked fish, of course cold beer and great scenery. It was not all fun however. Once we had to drag the lake for a drowning victim. The fifteen year old Mexican kid had been under a hour or so before we started the dragging. I was volunteered to man the drag connected to a wench mounted on the stern of Mobe’s Park Ranger boat. The drag had several large treble hooks on it strung from a piece of heavy five inch angle iron about eight feet long. When we hooked him and winched him up, the hook was set in the soft place behind the victim’s Achilles tendon. The first look at a drowned corpse caused me to puke and I dropped the drag. Mobe who was driving the boat caught me as I had turned white and nearly fainted. I got the kid but not without a military style ass chewing by the Colonel and Mobe.
The next day, a slow Monday, I took a lunch break and fished at the mouth of a little stream where the white crappie were spawning. I caught my limit (50) in thirty minutes and brought the creel to the Colonel who was fond of the taste of crappie. By the time my shift was over the Colonel had them filleted and mostly fried up. We ate good that night. The Colonel had a new appreciation for me, all was forgotten.
On weekends I was usually paired up with Nash as the camp sites were too full for one man to cover by himself. Benedict would take the small camp sites on the other side of the lake. Occasionally there would be a bathing beauty that warranted a shared observation. Due to the fact that we used a two way radio that was monitored by the Sheriff, Mobe and the Colonel, code was used to notify each other of the various locations of such beauties. Now Benedict and Nash were both dirty old men but harmless other wise. They just enjoyed a peek at bikinis just like any other red blooded American boy does. Once the beauty was located a call went out for everyone to come look at a fisherman’s legal stringer of fish. Over the course of our shift we would venture over and take a gander. Legal meant over eighteen. Nice little stringer meant possible under age or small in size. You know what I mean. A big pair of catfish meant the obvious, with lbs of fish referring to over all estimated size i.e. 40lbs. etc.
Well, one particular Friday afternoon the lake was not so busy. Nash and I were collecting fees together and came upon a couple, naked in a lawn chair doing the herty gerty. As the lawn chair collapsed at the surprise of our arrival there were port holes and elbows frantically trying to cover up. We politely said we would come back, did so in a few minutes and collected the fee. Then a call went out over the airways to Benedict who was on the other side of the lake. He was told to bring his car jack as we had a flat tire--code for peep show in progress. Benedict was there before we told him where we were. Spotting scopes and binoculars were used to view from a safe spot the goings on in the back of the van. It was my idea to sneak down a deep grass covered ravine and get a close up. Well the boys were in the ravine before I completed the suggestion.
After using great stealth we were perched no more than fifteen yards from the couple with the back end of the van fully open. They were really going at it. We each took turns with a high powered binocular and got way to close a look at the details. This went on for some time. When Benedict said he could see the sweat dripping of her----nose. We laughed a little to loud. Suddenly the biggest dog in the world came boiling out from under the van. It was the biggest Saint Bernard I had ever seen. Really big because it had teeth, was roaring like a lion and was on our asses. Adrenaline charged flight was the urgent result. Thank God for track training and the gift of speed.
Still being fleet footed at twenty three I out ran the old guys like a mountain goat evading a cougar and beat feet all the way up the steep ravine. At the top of the grass covered ravine was a steep bare slope that was covered with a thick thicket of wild plum. When I grabbed for a hold on one of the trees to pull my self out, to my surprise, I grabbed Mobe’s leg. He then grabbed me by the collar and yanked me out of the thicket. He started laughing and I turned to watch Nash struggling up the hill with the 275 lb 65 year old plus Benedict right on his heels plowing through the buffalo grass, as was a dog the size of a dinosaur. Nash tripped over a sapling that sprung back up and hit Benedict square in the nuts, knocking him down. The dog was then seen licking Benedict, mounting and humping him like the big puppy had two peters. That’s when the Colonel who was still in Mobe’s truck busted his gut laughing. I can still hear the Colonel’s deep throated belly laugh.
The Colonel had a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck, as did Mobe. They had seen the whole thing. “Let’s go Mobe. Fun’s all over,” said the Colonel. It seems our code was busted and so were we. They gave us the business for the rest of the summer.
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
I was twenty three, in grad school and in need of a good summer job. When told of an opening at Lake Perry for a park technician I applied and was granted an interview with the Colonel Joseph M. Millencamp a U.S. Army Corps of Engineer full bird. He was the commander of the lake and park operations. He lived on site with is wife of 35 years. The Colonel commanded a staff of three full time personnel and three seasonal park technicians. The second in command was a park ranger of notable character. Mobe Wilson was six foot nine of well groomed officer, the epitome of park ranger professionals, a beast of a man. Mobe unfortunately had a deputy ranger Travis Craig who was by all definition a cross between Barney and Gomer but a tireless worker nonetheless. Maggie a full time park technician was the most intelligent of the bunch, a friendly kind person whose love of wild things was beyond reproach. Then there were the three seasonal summer park techs. Nash a fifty five year old teacher/track coach from Topeka and Benedict also a teacher/track coach who was old as the lake itself. It seemed Benedict and Nash had been working for the Colonel since they had started teaching. They were great guys and a real pair, full of tom foolery. When I was hired there were now three track coaches on the staff. Turned out the Colonel was an ex track star himself. He claimed to have been a hammer thrower back east some where, prior to the Korean war. Thus his partiality towards track coaches.
The job was a breeze. All I did was drive around in a little pick up truck and collect camping fees from the campers. Of course there were a lot of pubic relations, an occasional request for directions to stores, gas stations, liquor stores, bait shops and the like. There were fringe benefits, left over fresh cooked fish, of course cold beer and great scenery. It was not all fun however. Once we had to drag the lake for a drowning victim. The fifteen year old Mexican kid had been under a hour or so before we started the dragging. I was volunteered to man the drag connected to a wench mounted on the stern of Mobe’s Park Ranger boat. The drag had several large treble hooks on it strung from a piece of heavy five inch angle iron about eight feet long. When we hooked him and winched him up, the hook was set in the soft place behind the victim’s Achilles tendon. The first look at a drowned corpse caused me to puke and I dropped the drag. Mobe who was driving the boat caught me as I had turned white and nearly fainted. I got the kid but not without a military style ass chewing by the Colonel and Mobe.
The next day, a slow Monday, I took a lunch break and fished at the mouth of a little stream where the white crappie were spawning. I caught my limit (50) in thirty minutes and brought the creel to the Colonel who was fond of the taste of crappie. By the time my shift was over the Colonel had them filleted and mostly fried up. We ate good that night. The Colonel had a new appreciation for me, all was forgotten.
On weekends I was usually paired up with Nash as the camp sites were too full for one man to cover by himself. Benedict would take the small camp sites on the other side of the lake. Occasionally there would be a bathing beauty that warranted a shared observation. Due to the fact that we used a two way radio that was monitored by the Sheriff, Mobe and the Colonel, code was used to notify each other of the various locations of such beauties. Now Benedict and Nash were both dirty old men but harmless other wise. They just enjoyed a peek at bikinis just like any other red blooded American boy does. Once the beauty was located a call went out for everyone to come look at a fisherman’s legal stringer of fish. Over the course of our shift we would venture over and take a gander. Legal meant over eighteen. Nice little stringer meant possible under age or small in size. You know what I mean. A big pair of catfish meant the obvious, with lbs of fish referring to over all estimated size i.e. 40lbs. etc.
Well, one particular Friday afternoon the lake was not so busy. Nash and I were collecting fees together and came upon a couple, naked in a lawn chair doing the herty gerty. As the lawn chair collapsed at the surprise of our arrival there were port holes and elbows frantically trying to cover up. We politely said we would come back, did so in a few minutes and collected the fee. Then a call went out over the airways to Benedict who was on the other side of the lake. He was told to bring his car jack as we had a flat tire--code for peep show in progress. Benedict was there before we told him where we were. Spotting scopes and binoculars were used to view from a safe spot the goings on in the back of the van. It was my idea to sneak down a deep grass covered ravine and get a close up. Well the boys were in the ravine before I completed the suggestion.
After using great stealth we were perched no more than fifteen yards from the couple with the back end of the van fully open. They were really going at it. We each took turns with a high powered binocular and got way to close a look at the details. This went on for some time. When Benedict said he could see the sweat dripping of her----nose. We laughed a little to loud. Suddenly the biggest dog in the world came boiling out from under the van. It was the biggest Saint Bernard I had ever seen. Really big because it had teeth, was roaring like a lion and was on our asses. Adrenaline charged flight was the urgent result. Thank God for track training and the gift of speed.
Still being fleet footed at twenty three I out ran the old guys like a mountain goat evading a cougar and beat feet all the way up the steep ravine. At the top of the grass covered ravine was a steep bare slope that was covered with a thick thicket of wild plum. When I grabbed for a hold on one of the trees to pull my self out, to my surprise, I grabbed Mobe’s leg. He then grabbed me by the collar and yanked me out of the thicket. He started laughing and I turned to watch Nash struggling up the hill with the 275 lb 65 year old plus Benedict right on his heels plowing through the buffalo grass, as was a dog the size of a dinosaur. Nash tripped over a sapling that sprung back up and hit Benedict square in the nuts, knocking him down. The dog was then seen licking Benedict, mounting and humping him like the big puppy had two peters. That’s when the Colonel who was still in Mobe’s truck busted his gut laughing. I can still hear the Colonel’s deep throated belly laugh.
The Colonel had a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck, as did Mobe. They had seen the whole thing. “Let’s go Mobe. Fun’s all over,” said the Colonel. It seems our code was busted and so were we. They gave us the business for the rest of the summer.
Last Batter by S.E. Hicks
Last Batter
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
It is a well known fact that I love baseball. I loved playing the game, watching the game whether on television or live at the stadium. I loved listening to the game on the radio. When I was a kid and I was sent to bed before the sun was down I would plug the ear piece into my little transistor radio and lay awake tuned into the old Charles O Finley owned Kansas City A’s, a franchise with a dubious historical won loss record. As bad a team as they were I would be listening intently to every play by play segment the announcers voice would carry across the air waves. It seems that as the years went by, baseball announcers began to lose the art of painting the picture of the game. Their announcing techniques have definitely degraded and they have filled the experience with unrelated gibberish that I find distracting, uncomfortable to listen to and an over all disparaging insult to the sanctity of the game I hold in high regard.
I couldn’t do much about that as I didn’t have any influence over Major League Baseball. Where I did have influence was coaching my middle son’s T-ball team. As it happened, the Dads that had historically coached the little league teams had jockeyed for positions to coach their sons and I was politically denied the opportunity with my oldest and youngest boys. The opportunity presented itself with my middle son due to the fact that I bought the franchise, e. i. sponsored the team. I bought all the necessary equipment bats, balls, catching equipment batting tees, helmets and designed the t-shirts and hats the five year old T-ballers would wear. The Fifty-Ninth Street Gym Trojan Big Dogs (The name the kids came up with, it barely fit across the tiny shirts) was our name. The T-shirt had a rendition of a muscle flexing body builder with the head of a dog.
When I went to the preseason coaches meeting I was shocked that there was no coaches education program to arm the well meaning Dads with a minimum of education relative to the coaching of elementary age boys and girls. I had a four year degree devoted to the five sciences of teaching physical activities. Most of the coaches were just frustrated ex-players and uneducated Dads without a clue has to how to develop young tender-hearted athletes. I suggested a coaching education program but the board of the youth sporting authority was comprised of men and woman of lesser intelligence than the would be coaches. I also asked a very poignant question,” Why are we keeping score for T-ball?” It seemed to me that if everyone who played the game left it thinking they were winners, it would aide in developing positive self esteem. Ten years later they woke up as did the nation of T-Ball and those very ideas became part of the game, but my ideas at the time where not well received, probably because they weren’t “their’ ideas.
My son had the pleasure of going with me to purchase all the equipment and was infatuated with the catching equipment, something T-Ballers didn’t need as the only job of the catcher was to place the ball on the tee and cover any plays at the plate. Nonetheless he was going to be our catcher, face mask and all. He wore the mask all the way home and seldom took it off except to eat. He would save his milk for a straw which allowed him to wear the mask and drink. The chest protector offered great protection from his older brother who liked to give him a pink belly from time to time, which he didn’t care for.
We practiced three days a week in the early spring and had good success teaching the sleepy easily distracted five year olds the fundamentals of the game. Hit the ball, throw the ball, catch the ball, run the bases, that was our mantra. My middle son had the benefit of having access to the batting tee all day every day. Consequently he became quite good at hitting the ball off the tee a country mile, figuratively. We would play nightly in the back deep lot of our yard, and hit ball after ball. I would then time him to see how fast he could run and pick up the two dozen balls we had. We had a blast, but the exercise was not without purpose.
According to T-ball rules every player batted every inning regardless of whether or not they were playing in the field (good rule) and no matter how many outs there were. The players hit the ball off a tee, no pitching, hence the name. Actually there was only one out that mattered, the last batter. If he was out or safe the inning was over. As a result of this rule the last batter’s goal was to run the bases Katy-bar-the-door until he reached home plate or until tagged out. During the course of the inning when the pitcher stepped on the rubber with ball in hand, all runners must stop at the next base. Only the last batter had a different rule to play by. If the ball was thrown to the catcher and he stepped on the plate the last batter was out and inning was also over. So being the last batter and the catcher was a very critical position in the game of T-ball.
It was important to me that each player took a turn at each position so to enhance their over-all understanding of the game. My son didn’t like giving up the catcher’s mask. He wore the mask despite the fact that the mask was unnecessary and not required by the rules. He would continue to wear the mask at every position he played, denying the new catcher the mask. There was no point in fighting him. Before long I had several players wearing catcher’s masks and by the start of the season they all wore one, at every position mind you. After the first game when the other team made a joke out of it most the guys dropped the mask. Not my son. He was going to wear it regardless. He would even wear it when he went to bat. Obviously, my coaching and parenting philosophy was one of responsible freedom. The mask wearing habit eventually waned.
As the last batter, my middle son would stroke the ball and run until he hit the plate. He was as exceptional at it as a five year old could be. He especially enjoyed the receptions at home plate his teammates rewarded him with after he slid into home plate whether he needed to or not. He didn’t knock a home run every inning but darn close. On one occasion, after the cry of LAST BATTER resonated across the field and with the bases loaded with Trojan Big Dogs my son hit a shot into deep left center (85 feet). The ball ricocheted of the home run fence sending the defenders scrambling after it. My son got confused after hitting the ball, having spun completely around in the batter‘s box. Instead of running to first base he ran to third passing our player who was on third coming home and then passing our players that were on second and first respectively. He ran for all he was worth with the biggest of grins on his face. When he got to first he realized his mistake. Thanks to the corrective screams of supporting coaches, he ran back the way he came. All the while the opponents were still chasing after the elusive ball he hit. Safe at the plate he was. Grand slam the hard way. The laughter and cheers from the crowd only added to his enjoyment. He took a bow, tipped his cap, went into the dug out and put on the catcher’s mask.
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
It is a well known fact that I love baseball. I loved playing the game, watching the game whether on television or live at the stadium. I loved listening to the game on the radio. When I was a kid and I was sent to bed before the sun was down I would plug the ear piece into my little transistor radio and lay awake tuned into the old Charles O Finley owned Kansas City A’s, a franchise with a dubious historical won loss record. As bad a team as they were I would be listening intently to every play by play segment the announcers voice would carry across the air waves. It seems that as the years went by, baseball announcers began to lose the art of painting the picture of the game. Their announcing techniques have definitely degraded and they have filled the experience with unrelated gibberish that I find distracting, uncomfortable to listen to and an over all disparaging insult to the sanctity of the game I hold in high regard.
I couldn’t do much about that as I didn’t have any influence over Major League Baseball. Where I did have influence was coaching my middle son’s T-ball team. As it happened, the Dads that had historically coached the little league teams had jockeyed for positions to coach their sons and I was politically denied the opportunity with my oldest and youngest boys. The opportunity presented itself with my middle son due to the fact that I bought the franchise, e. i. sponsored the team. I bought all the necessary equipment bats, balls, catching equipment batting tees, helmets and designed the t-shirts and hats the five year old T-ballers would wear. The Fifty-Ninth Street Gym Trojan Big Dogs (The name the kids came up with, it barely fit across the tiny shirts) was our name. The T-shirt had a rendition of a muscle flexing body builder with the head of a dog.
When I went to the preseason coaches meeting I was shocked that there was no coaches education program to arm the well meaning Dads with a minimum of education relative to the coaching of elementary age boys and girls. I had a four year degree devoted to the five sciences of teaching physical activities. Most of the coaches were just frustrated ex-players and uneducated Dads without a clue has to how to develop young tender-hearted athletes. I suggested a coaching education program but the board of the youth sporting authority was comprised of men and woman of lesser intelligence than the would be coaches. I also asked a very poignant question,” Why are we keeping score for T-ball?” It seemed to me that if everyone who played the game left it thinking they were winners, it would aide in developing positive self esteem. Ten years later they woke up as did the nation of T-Ball and those very ideas became part of the game, but my ideas at the time where not well received, probably because they weren’t “their’ ideas.
My son had the pleasure of going with me to purchase all the equipment and was infatuated with the catching equipment, something T-Ballers didn’t need as the only job of the catcher was to place the ball on the tee and cover any plays at the plate. Nonetheless he was going to be our catcher, face mask and all. He wore the mask all the way home and seldom took it off except to eat. He would save his milk for a straw which allowed him to wear the mask and drink. The chest protector offered great protection from his older brother who liked to give him a pink belly from time to time, which he didn’t care for.
We practiced three days a week in the early spring and had good success teaching the sleepy easily distracted five year olds the fundamentals of the game. Hit the ball, throw the ball, catch the ball, run the bases, that was our mantra. My middle son had the benefit of having access to the batting tee all day every day. Consequently he became quite good at hitting the ball off the tee a country mile, figuratively. We would play nightly in the back deep lot of our yard, and hit ball after ball. I would then time him to see how fast he could run and pick up the two dozen balls we had. We had a blast, but the exercise was not without purpose.
According to T-ball rules every player batted every inning regardless of whether or not they were playing in the field (good rule) and no matter how many outs there were. The players hit the ball off a tee, no pitching, hence the name. Actually there was only one out that mattered, the last batter. If he was out or safe the inning was over. As a result of this rule the last batter’s goal was to run the bases Katy-bar-the-door until he reached home plate or until tagged out. During the course of the inning when the pitcher stepped on the rubber with ball in hand, all runners must stop at the next base. Only the last batter had a different rule to play by. If the ball was thrown to the catcher and he stepped on the plate the last batter was out and inning was also over. So being the last batter and the catcher was a very critical position in the game of T-ball.
It was important to me that each player took a turn at each position so to enhance their over-all understanding of the game. My son didn’t like giving up the catcher’s mask. He wore the mask despite the fact that the mask was unnecessary and not required by the rules. He would continue to wear the mask at every position he played, denying the new catcher the mask. There was no point in fighting him. Before long I had several players wearing catcher’s masks and by the start of the season they all wore one, at every position mind you. After the first game when the other team made a joke out of it most the guys dropped the mask. Not my son. He was going to wear it regardless. He would even wear it when he went to bat. Obviously, my coaching and parenting philosophy was one of responsible freedom. The mask wearing habit eventually waned.
As the last batter, my middle son would stroke the ball and run until he hit the plate. He was as exceptional at it as a five year old could be. He especially enjoyed the receptions at home plate his teammates rewarded him with after he slid into home plate whether he needed to or not. He didn’t knock a home run every inning but darn close. On one occasion, after the cry of LAST BATTER resonated across the field and with the bases loaded with Trojan Big Dogs my son hit a shot into deep left center (85 feet). The ball ricocheted of the home run fence sending the defenders scrambling after it. My son got confused after hitting the ball, having spun completely around in the batter‘s box. Instead of running to first base he ran to third passing our player who was on third coming home and then passing our players that were on second and first respectively. He ran for all he was worth with the biggest of grins on his face. When he got to first he realized his mistake. Thanks to the corrective screams of supporting coaches, he ran back the way he came. All the while the opponents were still chasing after the elusive ball he hit. Safe at the plate he was. Grand slam the hard way. The laughter and cheers from the crowd only added to his enjoyment. He took a bow, tipped his cap, went into the dug out and put on the catcher’s mask.
The Emperor's New Fishing Tackle by S.E. Hicks
The Emperor’s New Fishing Tackle
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
We had moved into a little three bedroom bungalow of which was located in the heart of suburbia. My first born son was at the ripe age of two and a half, just out of diapers. A crossroad that holds special significance for dads across the globe. It means several things. It’s the third and last step in becoming Dad’s fishing buddy. If you are keeping score, walking and developing some language skills are the first two steps.
Once I was convinced that my offspring could use that degree of self control, I took him to the near by lake for an afternoon of wonder. The excitement and anticipation of the event are far more fun for me as the Dad than the actual act of fishing. Something my wife didn’t understand. As I would purposely tell the boys we were going fishing hours before we left for a number of calculated effects.The kids would go out of their minds with the thought of going. This had the desired effect on my wife’s overall attitude about the things that men do. The boy’s resulting banshee like behavior caused my wife to encourage us to leave and supported future excursions of a similar vain. This delay tactic also insured me a quality nap before hand. The wait was shear torture for the boys and an admittedly crafty self serving behavior on my part. All with a designed outcome. The boys loved to fish and the wife loved to get them out of her hair for a --little girl time. A valued psychologically manipulated learned behavior. Aren’t I special.
On this occasion I skipped the delay and just went fishing. We packed a lunch, filling the cooler with all kinds of goodies, drinks and the like. I left the wife at home with a big hug and kiss. We sang camping songs all the way to the lake. What a blast. Me and my boy. When we got to the lake the expedition began with the search for the perfect place to set up our base of operations. Each space we looked at required considerable discussion with probing questions directed to my son for his valued opinion. It had to be secluded, it had to be fishable, and there needed to be shade. The other feature of the search was the need to be close to a privy. Teaching the boy to free fall after struggling to get him to use the seat was not a risk I was ready to take. I knew a guy once who taught his toddler the trick of shitting in the woods. The lesson had back fired as the child figured if he could do it in the woods, why not on his big sister’s white bedroom carpet. A practice he continued to employ on an as needed basis after his sister’s emotional reaction pleased him, further reinforcing the new learned behavior. The last time it happened, the boy treated his sister to a steamy treat the night of her Junior Prom. The well placed stool was in a pair of shoes she was intending to wear that night.
After a complete search of the lake I left the judgment to my son giving him the decision making power of which toilet he would prefer to use in the event the urge struck. He made his choice and we started the process. Folding chairs were set up, a brand new bright red life jacket was securely placed on my most precious belonging. We ate a bite and the fishing lesson ensued.
I had bought a child’s rod and reel for the boy, a device of which proved to be too complicated. Too ambitious a step. So I strung up a stick with a little bit of line fixed with bobber, weight, and hook. At the time, my boy had a clear understanding that if I told him something was going to “hurt baby,” it was going to hurt. I mentioned this to him about the fish hook and carefully showed him how to care for and handle the hooks without getting stuck. He readily listened and clearly understood. I realized his complete understanding and his beautiful innocence as he cried --oh so hard --when the first worm was threaded on the hook. The surprising behavior dramatically touched my emotional buttons in a way only a father would understand. So much so, that I shed a tear as well, my tears caught my young son‘s attention. The tears streamed down my face causing my son to stop and tell me that “ it would be ok, the worm would be ok, I can fix it! “ We fished with wormless hooks that day.
As the day wore on the bait less hooks caught no fish. I tired of the activity as did my son who was busy throwing things in the water. I gave up on the bobber rig and switched to a favorite top water lure I had in the tackle box. I had a fine collection of tackle. Some of the tackle had been my great uncles and were close to becoming collector items. Now, why a guy packs a tackle box full of all kinds of fishing treasures he never uses can only be explained by the fact that once you’re married it is the only place that a man’s wife is forbidden to enter. I think this is why man invented stink bait. Women hate the smell thus avoid the tackle box ( it sure doesn‘t catch fish.)The small little case carries the only remaining shred-of-a-remnant of man’s prior independence. Its like Superman’s castle of solitude, only smaller and smelly. It was the last remaining collection of toy-like ideology. Anyway, the tackle box is a special thing, very special.
As I fished, repeatedly casting the lure, I kept an eye on the prodigy. He was blissfully tossing rocks and things into the water. I am certain there was some fascination with the observance of the circular ripples of which the objects’ impact created on the surface of the water. My son was busy and content with the task as if he was on a “save the world” mission. After a good hour or so of this activity, my son had an announcement to make.
He approached me from my right side. I looked at my cute-as-a-button son. My heart throb. He stood holding his arms out to his side, palms up with bent elbows, shrugged shoulders and a puzzled tilt to his head with the most serious expression on his face, eyes sparklingly a satisfied innocence, “Daddy, the fish won’t come out,” he said just as resolved as a man could be.
The remark was so emphatic and eloquently stated that I was taken by surprise absorbing the inimitable moment. That’s when I realized the apple of my eye had completely emptied my tackle box---- one lure at a time. Every hook, every weight, every bobber everything had been tossed in to the lake. I mean everything was gone! Three hundred dollars of my man toys, my most valued trinkets, memorable, intelligently engineered pieces of eight, all gone.
The feeling that hit me, I suppose, was close to the emotion of being ship wrecked. I fought back tears and anger as I looked at the now invisible tackle, my amphibious treasures gone. I was filled with anger, disappointment and felt abandoned, which was weird. The reality of the course of events set in as I sat cross legged near the empty treasure trove. He was just doing what I was doing, fishing, with my lures! My son said nothing, as he looked at me clearly scared and confused by my silent reaction. When my tears flowed it was the confirmation that Daddy was sad. “It’s ok, I’ll fix it,” came the most tender of voices. As I started to laugh and hug my boy, my son joined in. We laughed so hard. I laid back on the ground and sat him on my chest. The noise we were making forced us to eventually pick up and leave as we were disturbing the other fisherman on the lake. We laughed all the way home. My wife didn’t get the laughter as she knew the value I placed on the tackle. She could muster no more that a questioning smile as I told her the story. I ‘m certain she thought--I had lost it.
Until I could afford to begin replacing my tackle we fished in our back yard with invisible gear for a few weeks and had just as much fun.
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
We had moved into a little three bedroom bungalow of which was located in the heart of suburbia. My first born son was at the ripe age of two and a half, just out of diapers. A crossroad that holds special significance for dads across the globe. It means several things. It’s the third and last step in becoming Dad’s fishing buddy. If you are keeping score, walking and developing some language skills are the first two steps.
Once I was convinced that my offspring could use that degree of self control, I took him to the near by lake for an afternoon of wonder. The excitement and anticipation of the event are far more fun for me as the Dad than the actual act of fishing. Something my wife didn’t understand. As I would purposely tell the boys we were going fishing hours before we left for a number of calculated effects.The kids would go out of their minds with the thought of going. This had the desired effect on my wife’s overall attitude about the things that men do. The boy’s resulting banshee like behavior caused my wife to encourage us to leave and supported future excursions of a similar vain. This delay tactic also insured me a quality nap before hand. The wait was shear torture for the boys and an admittedly crafty self serving behavior on my part. All with a designed outcome. The boys loved to fish and the wife loved to get them out of her hair for a --little girl time. A valued psychologically manipulated learned behavior. Aren’t I special.
On this occasion I skipped the delay and just went fishing. We packed a lunch, filling the cooler with all kinds of goodies, drinks and the like. I left the wife at home with a big hug and kiss. We sang camping songs all the way to the lake. What a blast. Me and my boy. When we got to the lake the expedition began with the search for the perfect place to set up our base of operations. Each space we looked at required considerable discussion with probing questions directed to my son for his valued opinion. It had to be secluded, it had to be fishable, and there needed to be shade. The other feature of the search was the need to be close to a privy. Teaching the boy to free fall after struggling to get him to use the seat was not a risk I was ready to take. I knew a guy once who taught his toddler the trick of shitting in the woods. The lesson had back fired as the child figured if he could do it in the woods, why not on his big sister’s white bedroom carpet. A practice he continued to employ on an as needed basis after his sister’s emotional reaction pleased him, further reinforcing the new learned behavior. The last time it happened, the boy treated his sister to a steamy treat the night of her Junior Prom. The well placed stool was in a pair of shoes she was intending to wear that night.
After a complete search of the lake I left the judgment to my son giving him the decision making power of which toilet he would prefer to use in the event the urge struck. He made his choice and we started the process. Folding chairs were set up, a brand new bright red life jacket was securely placed on my most precious belonging. We ate a bite and the fishing lesson ensued.
I had bought a child’s rod and reel for the boy, a device of which proved to be too complicated. Too ambitious a step. So I strung up a stick with a little bit of line fixed with bobber, weight, and hook. At the time, my boy had a clear understanding that if I told him something was going to “hurt baby,” it was going to hurt. I mentioned this to him about the fish hook and carefully showed him how to care for and handle the hooks without getting stuck. He readily listened and clearly understood. I realized his complete understanding and his beautiful innocence as he cried --oh so hard --when the first worm was threaded on the hook. The surprising behavior dramatically touched my emotional buttons in a way only a father would understand. So much so, that I shed a tear as well, my tears caught my young son‘s attention. The tears streamed down my face causing my son to stop and tell me that “ it would be ok, the worm would be ok, I can fix it! “ We fished with wormless hooks that day.
As the day wore on the bait less hooks caught no fish. I tired of the activity as did my son who was busy throwing things in the water. I gave up on the bobber rig and switched to a favorite top water lure I had in the tackle box. I had a fine collection of tackle. Some of the tackle had been my great uncles and were close to becoming collector items. Now, why a guy packs a tackle box full of all kinds of fishing treasures he never uses can only be explained by the fact that once you’re married it is the only place that a man’s wife is forbidden to enter. I think this is why man invented stink bait. Women hate the smell thus avoid the tackle box ( it sure doesn‘t catch fish.)The small little case carries the only remaining shred-of-a-remnant of man’s prior independence. Its like Superman’s castle of solitude, only smaller and smelly. It was the last remaining collection of toy-like ideology. Anyway, the tackle box is a special thing, very special.
As I fished, repeatedly casting the lure, I kept an eye on the prodigy. He was blissfully tossing rocks and things into the water. I am certain there was some fascination with the observance of the circular ripples of which the objects’ impact created on the surface of the water. My son was busy and content with the task as if he was on a “save the world” mission. After a good hour or so of this activity, my son had an announcement to make.
He approached me from my right side. I looked at my cute-as-a-button son. My heart throb. He stood holding his arms out to his side, palms up with bent elbows, shrugged shoulders and a puzzled tilt to his head with the most serious expression on his face, eyes sparklingly a satisfied innocence, “Daddy, the fish won’t come out,” he said just as resolved as a man could be.
The remark was so emphatic and eloquently stated that I was taken by surprise absorbing the inimitable moment. That’s when I realized the apple of my eye had completely emptied my tackle box---- one lure at a time. Every hook, every weight, every bobber everything had been tossed in to the lake. I mean everything was gone! Three hundred dollars of my man toys, my most valued trinkets, memorable, intelligently engineered pieces of eight, all gone.
The feeling that hit me, I suppose, was close to the emotion of being ship wrecked. I fought back tears and anger as I looked at the now invisible tackle, my amphibious treasures gone. I was filled with anger, disappointment and felt abandoned, which was weird. The reality of the course of events set in as I sat cross legged near the empty treasure trove. He was just doing what I was doing, fishing, with my lures! My son said nothing, as he looked at me clearly scared and confused by my silent reaction. When my tears flowed it was the confirmation that Daddy was sad. “It’s ok, I’ll fix it,” came the most tender of voices. As I started to laugh and hug my boy, my son joined in. We laughed so hard. I laid back on the ground and sat him on my chest. The noise we were making forced us to eventually pick up and leave as we were disturbing the other fisherman on the lake. We laughed all the way home. My wife didn’t get the laughter as she knew the value I placed on the tackle. She could muster no more that a questioning smile as I told her the story. I ‘m certain she thought--I had lost it.
Until I could afford to begin replacing my tackle we fished in our back yard with invisible gear for a few weeks and had just as much fun.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Lasting Effects of a Full Moon by S.E. Hicks
The Lasting Effects of a Full Moon
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
If you are thinking this story is my theory of how the moon effects the psycho-social behavior of man you would be incorrect but only from an astronomical perspective. Nor is the title eluding to my theory of how the moon was created or about lunar phases. The story is more precisely referring to the act of mooning and it’s effects on women, a particular woman.
As we go through life we are all benefited by the wisdom of others in positions of authority whom have as their job either by proxy, job description or self appointment the need to review our work. Parents, spouses and friends not with standing we get critiqued by others whether we want it or need it. Teachers have done it and just like basketball players there are good ones and bad ones. The better the teacher the better the instruction, the less harsh the criticism. A lot of critics just like to point out to us where we went wrong, at least in their opinion, offering no positive suggestions. Spouses give you their two cents worth mostly out of an act designed to either boost your ego or deflate it. Friends offer their opinion mostly out of the need to run their mouth and voice how they would have done it, usually after the mistakes where realized. The police are quick to point out our driving mistakes and mostly assume we did what ever it was on purpose. "Well yes officer, I should have seen the change in speed limits but I didn’t. I did not intend to speed but I did go faster than the posted limit. That should be the end of it but no you got to pay for your mistakes, intentional or not.
Some employers are among those that for the most part look for all the things you do poorly and are very quick to point out mistakes only for the purpose of keeping you from earning more than they think you are worth. Building inspectors have a job to do when they point out the errors of construction but a lot of the rules that apply to construction are in place because some bureaucrat who has never lifted a hammer has decided it is necessary. Not unlike the neighborhood covenant police that require wooden shake roofs which in turn invite squirrels and silverfish into your home, don’t hold water very long, are designed to look nice for only a short while, force us to pay for constant repairs and are a guarantee that if there is a fire, the house will burn much better.
Any way there is always somebody checking on us. Our tax filings are checked on by the IRS. This happened to me. I have to say that the process of an audit is not fun, extremely stressful and demands a great deal of time costing major money directly and indirectly. The year I was audited came on the heals of the loss of two businesses directly caused by the government. One business, a mobile blood chemistry lab was bankrupted over night after a certain U.S. Senator made a nationwide press release stating that we were unregulated along with a lot of other lies. My first gym was bankrupted due to an announcement that a street was going to be put right thru the building. After that hit the paper I could not give a membership away. Eventually I received Right of Way money that afforded a move but bankruptcy was still the result. A year later came the audit.
When I received the Right of Way money it came with a copy of the Federal Register that specifically stated that the money was non taxable and that when I filed my taxes I did not have to claim the money. Well I lost that publication, some how. When the audit began, the prune faced old bitty that conducted the audit used intimidation, scare tactics and threatened me with jail time if she found anything. She did.
The agent claimed that the Right of Way money was taxable and I was in deep shit. She verbally abused me day after day. I contacted the Right of Way office and they said "yes, that money is taxable." I hired a high dollar tax attorney who said “yes, that money is taxable” and sent me a $1800 dollar invoice. Three weeks of hell later I received in the mail a copy of the Federal Register I had requested six months prior. Low and behold I was right the money was not taxable. I send a copy of the publication to the tax attorney with an invoice for $1800, he never paid me. When I showed the IRS agent the publication she accused me of forgery. That’s when I lost it, dropped my pants and mooned her from across the desk and left the office. She called two days later offering no apology but asked instead for my wife to come to close out the audit. It seemed after hundreds of auditing hours, we owed the government 37 cents.
Twenty years hence we have not been audited again. I guess one look at a full moon can change even the government’s perspective.
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
If you are thinking this story is my theory of how the moon effects the psycho-social behavior of man you would be incorrect but only from an astronomical perspective. Nor is the title eluding to my theory of how the moon was created or about lunar phases. The story is more precisely referring to the act of mooning and it’s effects on women, a particular woman.
As we go through life we are all benefited by the wisdom of others in positions of authority whom have as their job either by proxy, job description or self appointment the need to review our work. Parents, spouses and friends not with standing we get critiqued by others whether we want it or need it. Teachers have done it and just like basketball players there are good ones and bad ones. The better the teacher the better the instruction, the less harsh the criticism. A lot of critics just like to point out to us where we went wrong, at least in their opinion, offering no positive suggestions. Spouses give you their two cents worth mostly out of an act designed to either boost your ego or deflate it. Friends offer their opinion mostly out of the need to run their mouth and voice how they would have done it, usually after the mistakes where realized. The police are quick to point out our driving mistakes and mostly assume we did what ever it was on purpose. "Well yes officer, I should have seen the change in speed limits but I didn’t. I did not intend to speed but I did go faster than the posted limit. That should be the end of it but no you got to pay for your mistakes, intentional or not.
Some employers are among those that for the most part look for all the things you do poorly and are very quick to point out mistakes only for the purpose of keeping you from earning more than they think you are worth. Building inspectors have a job to do when they point out the errors of construction but a lot of the rules that apply to construction are in place because some bureaucrat who has never lifted a hammer has decided it is necessary. Not unlike the neighborhood covenant police that require wooden shake roofs which in turn invite squirrels and silverfish into your home, don’t hold water very long, are designed to look nice for only a short while, force us to pay for constant repairs and are a guarantee that if there is a fire, the house will burn much better.
Any way there is always somebody checking on us. Our tax filings are checked on by the IRS. This happened to me. I have to say that the process of an audit is not fun, extremely stressful and demands a great deal of time costing major money directly and indirectly. The year I was audited came on the heals of the loss of two businesses directly caused by the government. One business, a mobile blood chemistry lab was bankrupted over night after a certain U.S. Senator made a nationwide press release stating that we were unregulated along with a lot of other lies. My first gym was bankrupted due to an announcement that a street was going to be put right thru the building. After that hit the paper I could not give a membership away. Eventually I received Right of Way money that afforded a move but bankruptcy was still the result. A year later came the audit.
When I received the Right of Way money it came with a copy of the Federal Register that specifically stated that the money was non taxable and that when I filed my taxes I did not have to claim the money. Well I lost that publication, some how. When the audit began, the prune faced old bitty that conducted the audit used intimidation, scare tactics and threatened me with jail time if she found anything. She did.
The agent claimed that the Right of Way money was taxable and I was in deep shit. She verbally abused me day after day. I contacted the Right of Way office and they said "yes, that money is taxable." I hired a high dollar tax attorney who said “yes, that money is taxable” and sent me a $1800 dollar invoice. Three weeks of hell later I received in the mail a copy of the Federal Register I had requested six months prior. Low and behold I was right the money was not taxable. I send a copy of the publication to the tax attorney with an invoice for $1800, he never paid me. When I showed the IRS agent the publication she accused me of forgery. That’s when I lost it, dropped my pants and mooned her from across the desk and left the office. She called two days later offering no apology but asked instead for my wife to come to close out the audit. It seemed after hundreds of auditing hours, we owed the government 37 cents.
Twenty years hence we have not been audited again. I guess one look at a full moon can change even the government’s perspective.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Tits and Tires by S.E. Hicks
Tits and Tires
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
When a young man turns sixteen a whole new world opens up to him. He can now legally drive a car. Dad said, “if you want to drive, buy your own car and pay for your own insurance.” It would have been nice to have known that when I was three so I could have saved up for the big event but no, he made that little announcement on my sixteenth birthday. At the time 1971, we had but one car, a 1960 Chevy station wagon that drove like a truck. No power anything. The thought of taking that gun boat on a date was less than appealing. So I went to work mowing lawns and what ever I could do to make a buck.
In addition to the lawn mowing, I had an opportunity to shovel the lead out of water traps for my Dad’s employer. The gun powder manufacturing and distribution company he worked for owned and operated the only indoor shooting range in town. The water traps were four feet deep, six feet wide, better than 100 feet long and there were two of them both needing to be emptied of lead. I was hired to clean them out. When I say something is heavy as lead I know what I am talking about. Once the traps drained I shoveled the lead from gazillions of spent rounds into buckets and loaded the very, very heavy buckets into the back of the station wagon. I was going to smelt the lead and make bullets in the basement. I worked two long days at “getting the lead out.” I also know the true meaning of that commonly used phrase. All totaled there was over 3200 pounds of lead.
Over the next several months I smelted lead and formed bullets in our basement. I made mostly .38 caliber bullets but did make a couple hundred pounds of .45 caliber. Even made some with brass jackets. All that lead, poured into bullet molds and sold back to the shooting range for the avid shooters that reloaded. Six months later I had enough money for a cheap car and enough for the insurance. Only I had to take a driver education class first and that fee set me back as did the need to replace Dad’s old Briggs and Stratton lawn mower, that I had totally used up. Dad was tough.
Then there was the realization that girls cost money. Fortunately, the folks grew tired of shuttling me and my dates so the old man coughed up the insurance fee and I was going to start driving. A second fortuitous wind fall occurred that winter as Dad was given a 1964 Lincoln Continental as a Christmas bonus. Hot damn charley I was picking up my dates in a Lincoln. She was jet black in color (the car that is) with 450 cubic inches of tire squealing power. The Lincoln was equipped with an over drive transmission that made ninety effortless. The song “Hot Rod Lincoln” by Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen was released the same week I was to drive the car on my first date. Get this, the song was originally written in 1955 by Charley Ryan, the same year I was born. It was destiny that I was King of the world. Everybody knew Butchwax was driving the “Hot Rod Lincoln.” When I cruised through all the teenage drive in hangouts, heads turned and people talked. The soft leather seats and the power windows made dinning at the drive-in a unique pleasure as well. I was the envy of every kid I knew. At first I was way too stupid to take full advantage but I would quickly learn the effect a fully loaded Lincoln sitting on tires had on the accessibility to tits. By the time I graduated high school I had seen more, fondled more tits than could possibly be imagined. I am in the union you know.
Unfortunately, there were those dads that felt I was a bit to rich to be associated with their daughter so dating was often times an act of futility as I was rejected at the door simply because I pulled up in a Lincoln. We were so far from rich it never crossed my mind I would be thought to be from money. Heck Dad barely made twenty grand a year and we ate liver and onions once a week because we had to. There again there were other parents who mistakenly thought I came from wealth and encouraged their daughter to…… “best be nice to that boy his Ma and Pa’s gots bucks.” Bras came off pretty enthusiastically on those dates. Older more worldly chicks became the focus.
The drive-in theater offered the Lincoln a chance to help the effort of bra removal; my move. I had the move down to a smooth flawless motion. Once parked at the weekly outdoor feature I hit the power seat control and reclined those soft leather seats to an irresistible romantic posture just as the first kiss was placed. The bra came off so easy it was like a hot knife though butter. My dates just couldn’t help themselves. It was then that I drew the connection of tits and tires as a combination that was made in heaven. The girls were swooned by the luxury and apt two fingered bra unhooking talent. That was the case until my head was fully connected to my neck.
You see anything with tits or tires is going to cause great strife in a man’s life as both cost large quantities of money to maintain, bring great heartache, result in frustration and may very well be the root cause of the all trouble the world over. I trust I don’t have to explain the obvious, wars over oil, fights over women, divorce lawyers and all. The two items are man’s greatest conundrums and they both drive world economy, think about it. They do.
It isn’t just oil, the world has a tit based economy as well. Just think of all the money associated to tits just in the medical related industries alone, not to mention magazines and what about how tits effect the insurance premiums we pay. Oh my god, let me not forget mentioning the advertisement industry and the products tits are used to sell. Tits are used… to sell tires. Radio is even benefited by tits, as man’s imagination runs wild at the sound of the female‘s voice which is attached to a pair that need to be tuned in. The list of linkage to cleavage is endless and exhaustive. It may have been unavoidable but how tires and tits were put together is something that primitive man didn’t worry about… I have to and wish it was not so.
As I have grown older I put less energy into tires and even less into tits as they both go flat after while. The one you drive comes with a radio, the other drives you and comes with a mouth you have to listen to. I like them both as necessary evils. What they independently do to me/ for me is unparalleled by any two other unlike objects in the universe and yet, they always seem to be connected some how.
I need them both terribly. I sometimes resent that fact, wish I was blind and rode a horse, completely eliminating both from my life. No fun in that, I guess I will have to take the good with the bad. Tits and tires, a guy can’t do without either and why should he.
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
When a young man turns sixteen a whole new world opens up to him. He can now legally drive a car. Dad said, “if you want to drive, buy your own car and pay for your own insurance.” It would have been nice to have known that when I was three so I could have saved up for the big event but no, he made that little announcement on my sixteenth birthday. At the time 1971, we had but one car, a 1960 Chevy station wagon that drove like a truck. No power anything. The thought of taking that gun boat on a date was less than appealing. So I went to work mowing lawns and what ever I could do to make a buck.
In addition to the lawn mowing, I had an opportunity to shovel the lead out of water traps for my Dad’s employer. The gun powder manufacturing and distribution company he worked for owned and operated the only indoor shooting range in town. The water traps were four feet deep, six feet wide, better than 100 feet long and there were two of them both needing to be emptied of lead. I was hired to clean them out. When I say something is heavy as lead I know what I am talking about. Once the traps drained I shoveled the lead from gazillions of spent rounds into buckets and loaded the very, very heavy buckets into the back of the station wagon. I was going to smelt the lead and make bullets in the basement. I worked two long days at “getting the lead out.” I also know the true meaning of that commonly used phrase. All totaled there was over 3200 pounds of lead.
Over the next several months I smelted lead and formed bullets in our basement. I made mostly .38 caliber bullets but did make a couple hundred pounds of .45 caliber. Even made some with brass jackets. All that lead, poured into bullet molds and sold back to the shooting range for the avid shooters that reloaded. Six months later I had enough money for a cheap car and enough for the insurance. Only I had to take a driver education class first and that fee set me back as did the need to replace Dad’s old Briggs and Stratton lawn mower, that I had totally used up. Dad was tough.
Then there was the realization that girls cost money. Fortunately, the folks grew tired of shuttling me and my dates so the old man coughed up the insurance fee and I was going to start driving. A second fortuitous wind fall occurred that winter as Dad was given a 1964 Lincoln Continental as a Christmas bonus. Hot damn charley I was picking up my dates in a Lincoln. She was jet black in color (the car that is) with 450 cubic inches of tire squealing power. The Lincoln was equipped with an over drive transmission that made ninety effortless. The song “Hot Rod Lincoln” by Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen was released the same week I was to drive the car on my first date. Get this, the song was originally written in 1955 by Charley Ryan, the same year I was born. It was destiny that I was King of the world. Everybody knew Butchwax was driving the “Hot Rod Lincoln.” When I cruised through all the teenage drive in hangouts, heads turned and people talked. The soft leather seats and the power windows made dinning at the drive-in a unique pleasure as well. I was the envy of every kid I knew. At first I was way too stupid to take full advantage but I would quickly learn the effect a fully loaded Lincoln sitting on tires had on the accessibility to tits. By the time I graduated high school I had seen more, fondled more tits than could possibly be imagined. I am in the union you know.
Unfortunately, there were those dads that felt I was a bit to rich to be associated with their daughter so dating was often times an act of futility as I was rejected at the door simply because I pulled up in a Lincoln. We were so far from rich it never crossed my mind I would be thought to be from money. Heck Dad barely made twenty grand a year and we ate liver and onions once a week because we had to. There again there were other parents who mistakenly thought I came from wealth and encouraged their daughter to…… “best be nice to that boy his Ma and Pa’s gots bucks.” Bras came off pretty enthusiastically on those dates. Older more worldly chicks became the focus.
The drive-in theater offered the Lincoln a chance to help the effort of bra removal; my move. I had the move down to a smooth flawless motion. Once parked at the weekly outdoor feature I hit the power seat control and reclined those soft leather seats to an irresistible romantic posture just as the first kiss was placed. The bra came off so easy it was like a hot knife though butter. My dates just couldn’t help themselves. It was then that I drew the connection of tits and tires as a combination that was made in heaven. The girls were swooned by the luxury and apt two fingered bra unhooking talent. That was the case until my head was fully connected to my neck.
You see anything with tits or tires is going to cause great strife in a man’s life as both cost large quantities of money to maintain, bring great heartache, result in frustration and may very well be the root cause of the all trouble the world over. I trust I don’t have to explain the obvious, wars over oil, fights over women, divorce lawyers and all. The two items are man’s greatest conundrums and they both drive world economy, think about it. They do.
It isn’t just oil, the world has a tit based economy as well. Just think of all the money associated to tits just in the medical related industries alone, not to mention magazines and what about how tits effect the insurance premiums we pay. Oh my god, let me not forget mentioning the advertisement industry and the products tits are used to sell. Tits are used… to sell tires. Radio is even benefited by tits, as man’s imagination runs wild at the sound of the female‘s voice which is attached to a pair that need to be tuned in. The list of linkage to cleavage is endless and exhaustive. It may have been unavoidable but how tires and tits were put together is something that primitive man didn’t worry about… I have to and wish it was not so.
As I have grown older I put less energy into tires and even less into tits as they both go flat after while. The one you drive comes with a radio, the other drives you and comes with a mouth you have to listen to. I like them both as necessary evils. What they independently do to me/ for me is unparalleled by any two other unlike objects in the universe and yet, they always seem to be connected some how.
I need them both terribly. I sometimes resent that fact, wish I was blind and rode a horse, completely eliminating both from my life. No fun in that, I guess I will have to take the good with the bad. Tits and tires, a guy can’t do without either and why should he.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
I am a Genius by S.E. Hicks
I am a Genius
By S.E. Hicks
I have never been one to stand on ceremony nor am I a person who feels a need to comply with society's designated traditions. Valentine’s Day is no exception. Everyday is Valentine’s Day at my house. I love my wife like nobody’s business and it isn’t. I tell her every day that I love her, tell her that she is pretty too. I have done so everyday we have been married and I mean it. Sure, I complain about her but she is my everything and the absolute very best partner a slob like me could ever hope for.
Due to a tiny level of obligation but primarily due to the fact I am flat broke and wanted a burger, I took my wife out for dinner this past Valentines Day. I took her to Burger King and it only cost me thirteen bucks. There were no other customers in the place the entire time we ate. No crowd, no waiting and plenty of easy parking to chose from. I wonder why? We could talk without having to shout, enjoyed the few lights of State Avenue, made goo goo eyes at each other while we ate all we wanted. It was like being in high school all over again. I told my wife if she used her imagination, broke the onion rings in half and pretended the half ring was a shrimp we could act as if we were having a fancy shrimp cocktail. Ketchup and tired fryer grease helped pull it off. Oddly enough she was thrilled with the evening. I’m thinking of making it a tradition. Although, the wife is not in total agreement.
The best part for me was just being out with her, not another soul around us. No pesky waiters. No obnoxious guests, no hectic cajoling annoyances from society, just me and my gal. One other little side note. The wife did not feel …obligated, if you know what I mean. So I didn’t have to put in another couple hours of labor late into the night. Just came home, ate a few chocolate truffles and went to our separate corners to sleep. You see after thirty years of marriage, a roll in the hay is better performed on a Saturday night. That is assuming of course I got the energy. Generally speaking, it just too much work. I am…… a genius.
After informing one of my good friends of my minor acheivement, he told me how he handled the holiday with his wife. He told me he heated up some instant pasta poured some canned pasta sauce on it, left it on the counter and went to bed before his wife came home from work. He said it only cost three bucks and he didn't have to go anywhere. I have in fact been humbled by the master.
By S.E. Hicks
I have never been one to stand on ceremony nor am I a person who feels a need to comply with society's designated traditions. Valentine’s Day is no exception. Everyday is Valentine’s Day at my house. I love my wife like nobody’s business and it isn’t. I tell her every day that I love her, tell her that she is pretty too. I have done so everyday we have been married and I mean it. Sure, I complain about her but she is my everything and the absolute very best partner a slob like me could ever hope for.
Due to a tiny level of obligation but primarily due to the fact I am flat broke and wanted a burger, I took my wife out for dinner this past Valentines Day. I took her to Burger King and it only cost me thirteen bucks. There were no other customers in the place the entire time we ate. No crowd, no waiting and plenty of easy parking to chose from. I wonder why? We could talk without having to shout, enjoyed the few lights of State Avenue, made goo goo eyes at each other while we ate all we wanted. It was like being in high school all over again. I told my wife if she used her imagination, broke the onion rings in half and pretended the half ring was a shrimp we could act as if we were having a fancy shrimp cocktail. Ketchup and tired fryer grease helped pull it off. Oddly enough she was thrilled with the evening. I’m thinking of making it a tradition. Although, the wife is not in total agreement.
The best part for me was just being out with her, not another soul around us. No pesky waiters. No obnoxious guests, no hectic cajoling annoyances from society, just me and my gal. One other little side note. The wife did not feel …obligated, if you know what I mean. So I didn’t have to put in another couple hours of labor late into the night. Just came home, ate a few chocolate truffles and went to our separate corners to sleep. You see after thirty years of marriage, a roll in the hay is better performed on a Saturday night. That is assuming of course I got the energy. Generally speaking, it just too much work. I am…… a genius.
After informing one of my good friends of my minor acheivement, he told me how he handled the holiday with his wife. He told me he heated up some instant pasta poured some canned pasta sauce on it, left it on the counter and went to bed before his wife came home from work. He said it only cost three bucks and he didn't have to go anywhere. I have in fact been humbled by the master.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Jingles by S.E. Hicks
Jingles
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
When the good Lord was passing out talent I didn’t get in the music line. It seemed to me that the ability to make music should be left to those folks who were seeking an identity that did not necessarily require the individual to be broad in the shoulders. Since that time I have grown to have the greatest respect for those blessed with musical talent as I really enjoy all forms of musical style and the various respective genres. Everything from Bluegrass to Beethoven, Blues to Rock, Pop to Country, I like it all, except I am a little burned out on Elvis. I really like hard to find obscure stuff, like Julia Lee’s “Snatch and Grab It” or The Dominoes singing the song “Sixty Minute Man.” I guess in lieu of talent I must have actually received great appreciation of music as both a form of entertainment and artistic expression.
Alas, making music, for me has been an act of futility. My first attempt I believe began in perhaps the third grade with a flute-o-phone. Excited I was to unwrap the plastic toy like instrument, black in color about thirteen inches long with a removable mouth piece. The mouth piece later served as a whistle which had nerve shattering effects on my kid sister that caused my parents to reprimand me. The flute-o-phone became nothing more than a noise maker. The flute-o-phone itself was taught to me and my classmates once a week by the traveling adjunct music teacher. In preparation for an all school assembly sometime later that year we learned how to play melodies such as “Hot Cross Buns,” “ Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and of course “Mary had a Little Lamb.” I could not play any of these simplistic works nor could I hit a single note despite having great enthusiasm to do so. Consequently, I was instructed to pretend to play the flute-o-phone at the all school assembly as my goose bump causing notes would have been a distraction in our effort of entertaining the parents who came to watch.
The next year brought the melodica and with it came great expectations along with even greater frustrations, as I could not get my head around the thing. I produced sounds never before heard by man. Sounds that the engineers of said instrument had not designed it to make. The result was a confiscation. Neither of my parents wanted to hear or see the damn thing ever again. Nor would there be any more money spent towards my musical career. Consequently the next year’s instrument the harpsichord was not part of my educational development. The sixth grade year brought with it an opportunity to actually participate as I was introduced to the hand bell.
The hand bell was my salvation as a musician. Due to the simple fact that it did not require me to blow into or coordinate my fingers in order to make the musical note. All I had to do was shake the thing once or twice on cue in order for me to be a part of an ensemble of other bell ringers. Unfortunately, I could not follow the notes very well and was constantly ringing my bell at the wrong time. So the teacher gave me a dramatic role in playing the very last note to but just one song. The opportunity to do my bit was an exercise in patience as I could not wait to ring that bell at the up coming Christmas concert. Tremendous effort was put in place as my classroom teacher stood by me during the entire presentation and held the bell until it was my turn to ring it. I apparently fought her the whole time.
Seventh grade was worse as I was in the choir now. Blessed with puberty I was then beset with a voice cracking phase of development. My attempt at singing was not unlike any other musical skill I had. Singing for me was more like screaming has I belted out of key an irritating primeval screech that was thought to be purposeful on the part of my music teacher. Thus, I was incorrectly labeled a trouble maker. Got in trouble with the principle and was kicked out of choir for the year. Being disciplined for possessing an enthusiastic pubescent affected singing voice scared me for life. Stupid teachers.
It was around this time that Beatle mania struck. I along with three neighborhood kids bought Beatle wigs and entertained the neighborhood girls by miming the words to “I Want to Hold Your Hand. ” As the Beatles tunes were played in the window behind us on 45 records, we fake played home made wooden guitars and used cardboard boxes as drums to entertain the masses. I of course played the part of George. One older girl even tossed her bra at us during one of our concerts. We were a sensation that lasted a week or so until ultimately the other guys took up real drums and guitars. With my history, buying an electric guitar, speaker and guitar lessons was not going to happen at my house. So much for being a Beatle.
Eighth grade brought the attention of my musical handicap to a new more sensitive music teacher. She recognized my total inability and also saw that my confidence had been demolished by the past miss handlings of my musical career. She suggested rather than sing I get involved in the up coming musical which was by the way “Oklahoma,” some other way. When the try outs were announced for someone who could make the sound of a mooing cow, I was encouraged to try out. Success at last, I was one of two boys designated to dress up as a dancing cow and at one critical moment I was to moo. Unfortunately it was later determined that the other boy was actually better at the mooing. My musical career ended that night after I performed in the musical “Oklahoma” as the backend of a dancing cow.
Since then I have tried to play the piano as I married a piano playing music major who could play but failed memorably as a teacher. Thus undaunted, I made a feeble attempt to play the harmonica. Now the piano actually resulted in some success as I was very successful in learning to play by ear the famous Budweiser Jingle “When You Say Bud.” My rendition was however off key and played out of rhythm. The mouth harp was a real disappointment as well, a waste of money and time. I gave a good old college try at the didgeridoo, couldn’t figure that instrument out to save my life but had a blast drinking beer whilst I tried.
The making of a reed whistle with a blade of grass between my thumbs as I blew into my cupped hands overjoyed my parents as well. That idle habit was broken via the butter paddle. An attempt at lip whistling tunes didn’t work either. I could not shape my lips right which may be why I am better at kissing (all the puckering at whistle practice.) Thus, the development of a eardrum shattering, head turning wolf whistle resulted. That skill, seldom effective, graduated into a “come over here” or “hey you” whistle which didn’t work on women either, except in the movies but was very affective in calling the boys home for dinner. Yes, I whistle trained my three boys. I could call them home from three blocks away…..still works.
I am not done with my life long quest to contribute to the world of music. When time and money permits I intend to teach myself the Indian Flute. Maybe I’ll get that one right. Wrapped up in a buffalo robe in the dead of winter blowing melodies on a Indian flute while sitting by myself on a deer hide near a fire can’t possibly offend anybody. In the mean time I will continue to sing at the top of my lungs in the shower, irritate my music major wife and enjoy a minor skill at singing camp songs.
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
When the good Lord was passing out talent I didn’t get in the music line. It seemed to me that the ability to make music should be left to those folks who were seeking an identity that did not necessarily require the individual to be broad in the shoulders. Since that time I have grown to have the greatest respect for those blessed with musical talent as I really enjoy all forms of musical style and the various respective genres. Everything from Bluegrass to Beethoven, Blues to Rock, Pop to Country, I like it all, except I am a little burned out on Elvis. I really like hard to find obscure stuff, like Julia Lee’s “Snatch and Grab It” or The Dominoes singing the song “Sixty Minute Man.” I guess in lieu of talent I must have actually received great appreciation of music as both a form of entertainment and artistic expression.
Alas, making music, for me has been an act of futility. My first attempt I believe began in perhaps the third grade with a flute-o-phone. Excited I was to unwrap the plastic toy like instrument, black in color about thirteen inches long with a removable mouth piece. The mouth piece later served as a whistle which had nerve shattering effects on my kid sister that caused my parents to reprimand me. The flute-o-phone became nothing more than a noise maker. The flute-o-phone itself was taught to me and my classmates once a week by the traveling adjunct music teacher. In preparation for an all school assembly sometime later that year we learned how to play melodies such as “Hot Cross Buns,” “ Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and of course “Mary had a Little Lamb.” I could not play any of these simplistic works nor could I hit a single note despite having great enthusiasm to do so. Consequently, I was instructed to pretend to play the flute-o-phone at the all school assembly as my goose bump causing notes would have been a distraction in our effort of entertaining the parents who came to watch.
The next year brought the melodica and with it came great expectations along with even greater frustrations, as I could not get my head around the thing. I produced sounds never before heard by man. Sounds that the engineers of said instrument had not designed it to make. The result was a confiscation. Neither of my parents wanted to hear or see the damn thing ever again. Nor would there be any more money spent towards my musical career. Consequently the next year’s instrument the harpsichord was not part of my educational development. The sixth grade year brought with it an opportunity to actually participate as I was introduced to the hand bell.
The hand bell was my salvation as a musician. Due to the simple fact that it did not require me to blow into or coordinate my fingers in order to make the musical note. All I had to do was shake the thing once or twice on cue in order for me to be a part of an ensemble of other bell ringers. Unfortunately, I could not follow the notes very well and was constantly ringing my bell at the wrong time. So the teacher gave me a dramatic role in playing the very last note to but just one song. The opportunity to do my bit was an exercise in patience as I could not wait to ring that bell at the up coming Christmas concert. Tremendous effort was put in place as my classroom teacher stood by me during the entire presentation and held the bell until it was my turn to ring it. I apparently fought her the whole time.
Seventh grade was worse as I was in the choir now. Blessed with puberty I was then beset with a voice cracking phase of development. My attempt at singing was not unlike any other musical skill I had. Singing for me was more like screaming has I belted out of key an irritating primeval screech that was thought to be purposeful on the part of my music teacher. Thus, I was incorrectly labeled a trouble maker. Got in trouble with the principle and was kicked out of choir for the year. Being disciplined for possessing an enthusiastic pubescent affected singing voice scared me for life. Stupid teachers.
It was around this time that Beatle mania struck. I along with three neighborhood kids bought Beatle wigs and entertained the neighborhood girls by miming the words to “I Want to Hold Your Hand. ” As the Beatles tunes were played in the window behind us on 45 records, we fake played home made wooden guitars and used cardboard boxes as drums to entertain the masses. I of course played the part of George. One older girl even tossed her bra at us during one of our concerts. We were a sensation that lasted a week or so until ultimately the other guys took up real drums and guitars. With my history, buying an electric guitar, speaker and guitar lessons was not going to happen at my house. So much for being a Beatle.
Eighth grade brought the attention of my musical handicap to a new more sensitive music teacher. She recognized my total inability and also saw that my confidence had been demolished by the past miss handlings of my musical career. She suggested rather than sing I get involved in the up coming musical which was by the way “Oklahoma,” some other way. When the try outs were announced for someone who could make the sound of a mooing cow, I was encouraged to try out. Success at last, I was one of two boys designated to dress up as a dancing cow and at one critical moment I was to moo. Unfortunately it was later determined that the other boy was actually better at the mooing. My musical career ended that night after I performed in the musical “Oklahoma” as the backend of a dancing cow.
Since then I have tried to play the piano as I married a piano playing music major who could play but failed memorably as a teacher. Thus undaunted, I made a feeble attempt to play the harmonica. Now the piano actually resulted in some success as I was very successful in learning to play by ear the famous Budweiser Jingle “When You Say Bud.” My rendition was however off key and played out of rhythm. The mouth harp was a real disappointment as well, a waste of money and time. I gave a good old college try at the didgeridoo, couldn’t figure that instrument out to save my life but had a blast drinking beer whilst I tried.
The making of a reed whistle with a blade of grass between my thumbs as I blew into my cupped hands overjoyed my parents as well. That idle habit was broken via the butter paddle. An attempt at lip whistling tunes didn’t work either. I could not shape my lips right which may be why I am better at kissing (all the puckering at whistle practice.) Thus, the development of a eardrum shattering, head turning wolf whistle resulted. That skill, seldom effective, graduated into a “come over here” or “hey you” whistle which didn’t work on women either, except in the movies but was very affective in calling the boys home for dinner. Yes, I whistle trained my three boys. I could call them home from three blocks away…..still works.
I am not done with my life long quest to contribute to the world of music. When time and money permits I intend to teach myself the Indian Flute. Maybe I’ll get that one right. Wrapped up in a buffalo robe in the dead of winter blowing melodies on a Indian flute while sitting by myself on a deer hide near a fire can’t possibly offend anybody. In the mean time I will continue to sing at the top of my lungs in the shower, irritate my music major wife and enjoy a minor skill at singing camp songs.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Night of the Tupperware Creatures by S.E. Hicks
The Night of the Tupperware Creatures
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
The invention of Tupperware is without question a fabulous invention for those of us who love leftovers. Us hard working slobs hold in high regard the Tupperware container as it has stretched our hard earned dollars a bit further than most of the other products designed for food preservation and has magically fed us on many a bachelor night to bout. Any fugal modern day cook of the house takes full advantage of Tupperware for that very reason. That reason alone justifies the need for Tupperware. However, the time leftovers save in preparation of subsequent meals when one is beat up from the day or because of daily situational constraints requiring a quick and tasty meal with that good old home cooked flavor are also strong supportive arguments for Tupperware’s ubiquitous use.
In general I love leftovers, depending of course on what is actually left over. Some things actually taste better the next day, others…..Ugh. As is the case of entrées such as chili and or pot roast versus three day old fruit salad. All of these delicacies get better with age, up to a point that is. Other food items such as left over frozen vegetables are not among the better tasting next day lunch items, as they generally lose their character after an overnight bivouac in the frig. Fresh steamed veggies tend to survive a while longer, deserve a second look but usually those treats never make it that far. Some things just don’t age as well as others encouraging total absorption.
I suppose now you are thinking, where is this story going? It is certainly not going to be about touting the benefits of using various food preservation concepts as they apply to the household economy. No, on the contrary, the story is about the habit of collecting leftovers until it is dangerously close to starting an epidemic. Twenty two cubic feet of refrigerator was way to much storage space for my wife to have access too. I’m not sure if it was because she was overly proud of what she prepared, wanted to maintain a museum for historical record, whether she viewed the act of leftover wasting as a potential sin if it was thrown out or if she just forgot she had leftovers all together. Regardless the reason, which may be one of the great unresolved mysteries of mankind, she saved leftovers in the frig (not the freezer), in Tupperware, forever. Even the most tiny of portions would be saved, mere tablespoons. Tidbits of something or other housed in Tupperware, displayed in the frig until I discovered what ever it was. Leftover food which clearly had metamorphic qualities. Food stuffs that had changed into something that could no longer be classified as food nor could possibly retain any of it’s previous nutritious elements all proudly existing in my Frigidaire X5000. It may have been by design as there was never any room for beer, that was for certain.
One fateful night after a long evening at work I stopped at a tavern for a cold one before I came home. The wife had long gone to bed so what she didn’t know would not be an issue. What I did not know, she had been preparing for such an eventuality for…… who knows how long. After more than one aluminum soldier fell to my vampire like assault, I staggered home in hopes of finding a dinner plate of what ever she had prepared that evening. As soon as I walked in the door I opened the frig. When I looked cross eyed into my top of the line frig, that I was still making payments on, I quickly discovered no plate was dished up for me. It was then incumbent on me to scourer the stacks of never ending Tupperware stores for something tasty.
Dozens upon dozens of Tupperware containers full of highly colorful food items were at my fingertips. At that point I was on a mission to fix my self a late Friday night feast of leftovers. Unfortunately, the very first container I opened had inside a portion of leftover mashed sweet potatoes that was now culturing a grayish white fuzzy mold that was beginning to take on a very unpleasant odor. I puked up the beer in the kitchen sink. Recovering soon there after, not wishing to dump the contents of the container down the garbage disposal waking every body up, I closed the lid and sat the container on the kitchen table. The next Tupperware encased treat was positively unrecognizable. It looked like a science project gone bad of perhaps a vegetable matter breaking down into crude oil. Further investigations resulted in discovery of other morbidly unique chemical reactions, possibly new life forms, some of which had no odor, others were in fact quite foul, gut retching. All protected from one another inside the patented seal tight containers.
After opening a dozen or more containers revealing the toxic and profane remnants of meals gone by, I started to chuckle. Shortly, the prodigy woke up and joined me in the kitchen. Still sleepy, my young son peered into the next vestibule of refrigerated botulism laden garbage only to let out in unison with me a profoundly expressed EEEEwwweeee! We preceded to laugh. More containers opened, more disgusting moldy creations and more resulting laughter. Soon the toddler was up, joining us in laughter and scientific observance, as more and more of Momma’s experiments were uncovered. Now we had an assembly line operation/ investigative talk show underway. We would carefully open a container, take a critical look, vocalize our individual reactions and conjecture as to what it used to be then assign a name to what it had become. Some of the containers held within it’s plastic walls coincidental works of art. Artwork that rivaled the masters i.e. Van Gough. The phrase “piece de la résistance” was never used.
The fun soon became a project as each of the respective revolting enigmas were processed. The boys took turns alternating between dumping out the contents in the disposal, rinsing out the container and placing it in the dishwasher. For safety sake, I insisted they wear rubber gloves which added to their fun and courageous efforts. This food storage habit of my wife was probably why I could never find any Tupperware in the cabinet. It was all in the frig. It is not at all clear how many biological entities we dispatched that night but one thing was for certain, I no longer had an appetite for leftovers……. Ever. We had however, experienced one of those memorable moments, a father son heartfelt bonding adventure at mother’s expense. The whole ordeal was incidentally later found to be highly reproachable to significant others. You had to be there.
When the blonde tornado awoke the next morning the frig was sanitized and spotless. As Bugs Bunny cartoons played across the television she found me asleep in the recliner with a passed out youngster on one side and a toddler on the other, a copy of Snow White in my lap. All the Tupperware had either been washed twice in the dishwasher with ample quantities of bleach, stored in the cupboard properly or completely removed from the house. She neither said anything or acted as if she even noticed. I didn’t dare bring it up.
For several weeks after “the night of the Tupperware creatures,” both boys begged to clean the frig out again as they where wanting to have more laughs with Dad. We didn’t, haven’t, and won’t.
The boys eventually drew colored pictures of the effort, from memory of course. I hung them on the frig. My wife did not get the satirical symbolism…… I don’t guess.
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
The invention of Tupperware is without question a fabulous invention for those of us who love leftovers. Us hard working slobs hold in high regard the Tupperware container as it has stretched our hard earned dollars a bit further than most of the other products designed for food preservation and has magically fed us on many a bachelor night to bout. Any fugal modern day cook of the house takes full advantage of Tupperware for that very reason. That reason alone justifies the need for Tupperware. However, the time leftovers save in preparation of subsequent meals when one is beat up from the day or because of daily situational constraints requiring a quick and tasty meal with that good old home cooked flavor are also strong supportive arguments for Tupperware’s ubiquitous use.
In general I love leftovers, depending of course on what is actually left over. Some things actually taste better the next day, others…..Ugh. As is the case of entrées such as chili and or pot roast versus three day old fruit salad. All of these delicacies get better with age, up to a point that is. Other food items such as left over frozen vegetables are not among the better tasting next day lunch items, as they generally lose their character after an overnight bivouac in the frig. Fresh steamed veggies tend to survive a while longer, deserve a second look but usually those treats never make it that far. Some things just don’t age as well as others encouraging total absorption.
I suppose now you are thinking, where is this story going? It is certainly not going to be about touting the benefits of using various food preservation concepts as they apply to the household economy. No, on the contrary, the story is about the habit of collecting leftovers until it is dangerously close to starting an epidemic. Twenty two cubic feet of refrigerator was way to much storage space for my wife to have access too. I’m not sure if it was because she was overly proud of what she prepared, wanted to maintain a museum for historical record, whether she viewed the act of leftover wasting as a potential sin if it was thrown out or if she just forgot she had leftovers all together. Regardless the reason, which may be one of the great unresolved mysteries of mankind, she saved leftovers in the frig (not the freezer), in Tupperware, forever. Even the most tiny of portions would be saved, mere tablespoons. Tidbits of something or other housed in Tupperware, displayed in the frig until I discovered what ever it was. Leftover food which clearly had metamorphic qualities. Food stuffs that had changed into something that could no longer be classified as food nor could possibly retain any of it’s previous nutritious elements all proudly existing in my Frigidaire X5000. It may have been by design as there was never any room for beer, that was for certain.
One fateful night after a long evening at work I stopped at a tavern for a cold one before I came home. The wife had long gone to bed so what she didn’t know would not be an issue. What I did not know, she had been preparing for such an eventuality for…… who knows how long. After more than one aluminum soldier fell to my vampire like assault, I staggered home in hopes of finding a dinner plate of what ever she had prepared that evening. As soon as I walked in the door I opened the frig. When I looked cross eyed into my top of the line frig, that I was still making payments on, I quickly discovered no plate was dished up for me. It was then incumbent on me to scourer the stacks of never ending Tupperware stores for something tasty.
Dozens upon dozens of Tupperware containers full of highly colorful food items were at my fingertips. At that point I was on a mission to fix my self a late Friday night feast of leftovers. Unfortunately, the very first container I opened had inside a portion of leftover mashed sweet potatoes that was now culturing a grayish white fuzzy mold that was beginning to take on a very unpleasant odor. I puked up the beer in the kitchen sink. Recovering soon there after, not wishing to dump the contents of the container down the garbage disposal waking every body up, I closed the lid and sat the container on the kitchen table. The next Tupperware encased treat was positively unrecognizable. It looked like a science project gone bad of perhaps a vegetable matter breaking down into crude oil. Further investigations resulted in discovery of other morbidly unique chemical reactions, possibly new life forms, some of which had no odor, others were in fact quite foul, gut retching. All protected from one another inside the patented seal tight containers.
After opening a dozen or more containers revealing the toxic and profane remnants of meals gone by, I started to chuckle. Shortly, the prodigy woke up and joined me in the kitchen. Still sleepy, my young son peered into the next vestibule of refrigerated botulism laden garbage only to let out in unison with me a profoundly expressed EEEEwwweeee! We preceded to laugh. More containers opened, more disgusting moldy creations and more resulting laughter. Soon the toddler was up, joining us in laughter and scientific observance, as more and more of Momma’s experiments were uncovered. Now we had an assembly line operation/ investigative talk show underway. We would carefully open a container, take a critical look, vocalize our individual reactions and conjecture as to what it used to be then assign a name to what it had become. Some of the containers held within it’s plastic walls coincidental works of art. Artwork that rivaled the masters i.e. Van Gough. The phrase “piece de la résistance” was never used.
The fun soon became a project as each of the respective revolting enigmas were processed. The boys took turns alternating between dumping out the contents in the disposal, rinsing out the container and placing it in the dishwasher. For safety sake, I insisted they wear rubber gloves which added to their fun and courageous efforts. This food storage habit of my wife was probably why I could never find any Tupperware in the cabinet. It was all in the frig. It is not at all clear how many biological entities we dispatched that night but one thing was for certain, I no longer had an appetite for leftovers……. Ever. We had however, experienced one of those memorable moments, a father son heartfelt bonding adventure at mother’s expense. The whole ordeal was incidentally later found to be highly reproachable to significant others. You had to be there.
When the blonde tornado awoke the next morning the frig was sanitized and spotless. As Bugs Bunny cartoons played across the television she found me asleep in the recliner with a passed out youngster on one side and a toddler on the other, a copy of Snow White in my lap. All the Tupperware had either been washed twice in the dishwasher with ample quantities of bleach, stored in the cupboard properly or completely removed from the house. She neither said anything or acted as if she even noticed. I didn’t dare bring it up.
For several weeks after “the night of the Tupperware creatures,” both boys begged to clean the frig out again as they where wanting to have more laughs with Dad. We didn’t, haven’t, and won’t.
The boys eventually drew colored pictures of the effort, from memory of course. I hung them on the frig. My wife did not get the satirical symbolism…… I don’t guess.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Testimony of the Doughnut by S.E. Hicks
After 55 years it has come to self revelation that I am very good at something that previously has not been revealed. I am blessed with an unparalleled talent of eating doughnuts. Eating the one doughnut has caused me to become better at eating the next doughnut, etc. If I could only get somebody to pay me to eat doughnuts whilst walking on a treadmill, I would be in Hog Heaven. This talent should not be construed has gluttony but rather a well developed hidden talent which is continuing to evolve, not as a habit but as an occasional practice. A practice limited by convenient access, impulse purchase availibility, blood sugar levels and the circumference of my waist. I neither crave nor seek the circular treats but when happenstance has presented me with a ring of pastry delight I take full advantage.
Once, while living as a bachelor, the small apartment I dwelled in was located up and behind a small historic doughnut shop, of which I frequented. The baking of said product would begin sometime in the wee hours of the morning. On cool nights when sleeping with the window open, the resulting aroma of the manufactured sugary discs permeated my olfactory sense to such a degree, it created a Pavlov’s dog reaction causing great quantities of drool to pour out onto my pillow in my sleep, resulting in near dehydration and the mysterious need to change the pillow case. My doughnut eating skill is clearly a learned behavior.
As my culinary doughnut eating skills matured over time, the knowledge of who's doughnuts to eat, what variety appealed to my personal preferences and at what time of day I could find nature's finest freshest best tasting doughnut was etched in my memory banks. Forget it, I will not reveal this knowledge to anyone as I do not have the patients to stand in line behind you.
While I was writing this little gem my wife ask me if I wanted to have a stick of celery. What do you suppose my answer was to that innocuous offer. "Give me that stale doughnut instead..... dear."
I wish at this time to give a shout of thanks to all those masterful doughnut chiefs whose talents I have had the pleasure of benefiting from. Keep on dropping that dough doughnut making person. I need the practice, as I am still in training for that.... next doughnut eating opportunity.
Once, while living as a bachelor, the small apartment I dwelled in was located up and behind a small historic doughnut shop, of which I frequented. The baking of said product would begin sometime in the wee hours of the morning. On cool nights when sleeping with the window open, the resulting aroma of the manufactured sugary discs permeated my olfactory sense to such a degree, it created a Pavlov’s dog reaction causing great quantities of drool to pour out onto my pillow in my sleep, resulting in near dehydration and the mysterious need to change the pillow case. My doughnut eating skill is clearly a learned behavior.
As my culinary doughnut eating skills matured over time, the knowledge of who's doughnuts to eat, what variety appealed to my personal preferences and at what time of day I could find nature's finest freshest best tasting doughnut was etched in my memory banks. Forget it, I will not reveal this knowledge to anyone as I do not have the patients to stand in line behind you.
While I was writing this little gem my wife ask me if I wanted to have a stick of celery. What do you suppose my answer was to that innocuous offer. "Give me that stale doughnut instead..... dear."
I wish at this time to give a shout of thanks to all those masterful doughnut chiefs whose talents I have had the pleasure of benefiting from. Keep on dropping that dough doughnut making person. I need the practice, as I am still in training for that.... next doughnut eating opportunity.
Confidence
When GOD solves your problems, you have faith in HIS abilities; when GOD doesn't solve your problems HE has faith in your abilities. That is to say pray, keep your hands on the plow and eat more doughnuts.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
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Friday, January 21, 2011
Little League Dinger by S.E. HICKS
The Little League Dinger That Changed the World
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Furguson.
When I was a boy of third grade age we had moved to the big city. Getting though that socially challenging year undamaged, which was rough for a new kid, I managed to develop a few new buddies. The guys and I, when we were not performing child labor tasks, played ball.
As it turned out there was a local YMCA, the South Town Branch, that had a new kid’s program director. His name was Ron Gingreckco. At the time he was starting a little league baseball team for third and fourth grade boys. My buddy Jimmy told me about the team Coach Ron was forming, I found the concept intriguing. After much posturing with my parents I was permitted to join the team, my adoptive father paid the fee and bought me a used ball glove.
The day before the first practice, my friend Jimmy and I played catch with his ball. I had never thrown a ball before and did so with poor accuracy causing Jimmy to chase the ball repeatedly. We played catch for several hours that day, developing sore arms as result that would hamper us the several practices. Jimmy was relentless and very determined to have a winning team, so we kept on throwing. He pushed me to throw the ball over and over until I was throwing it correctly according to his expert eight year old eyes.
The game plan was for the two of us to take turns as pitcher and catcher. According to Jimmy, these roles were the most fun positions to play. By doing so, we would have the greatest impact on the third grade game of baseball. Jimmy was wise in his assessment of the two positions’ importance but he had the wrong candidate for the pitcher, catcher duo.
After the first inning of the first game I had walked in twelve runs and would be relegated to right field the remainder of the next three seasons. Labeled and harnessed with a completely shattered opinion of my baseball skills that childhood fantasy had just previously just constructed into a major leaguer only a few days before. Impervious to the facts of reality I continued to play, showing up every practice and every game. Jimmy would continue to recruit kids to the team making it more and more difficult to earn a starting spot.
We always played ball, day and night, whenever the over lords allowed it. After while, we began to fantasize about actually winning a game, prior to that we always knew we were going to get beat. I was still hitless but not with out hope. I had reached base a couple of times, drawing walks and striking out reaching base due to a passed ball on a swinging third strike. Sometimes, more frequently than not, the catcher would over throw the first baseman and the ball would roll into right field. This allowed me the runner to take second base and sometimes even third but for some unlucky reason, home plate eluded me. During the course of the entire first season, I never scored, placing me in a role as a sub, a part time player.
The real problem was that I was growing very fast. The rapid growth was not allowing my coordination to develop and master new skills. I was a goofy uncoordinated kid that coach Ron saw something in. He would always give me extra time in practice and never failed to praise me even though I was a horrible player. He never gave up on me saying that, “we work for the future.”
.
I have met a lot of coaches over the years, but coach Ron was probably my favorite. He made the game fun. He never was cruel or demeaning. I’m sure that had it not been for coach Ron’s interest in me and the other guys, our lives would be totally different today. The love of the game of baseball which I possess today is a direct result of his influence and wise mentoring. Where ever you are Coach Ron thanks. Anyway, the third grade baseball season came to an end with the team record an embarrassing zero wins versus twelve losses. My batting average was .000. Now that’s not a statistic to hang your hat on.
The next spring brought new blood to the team but the record left us in the cellar, the same as before. My batting average was still triple goose eggs. We had played the same teams with the same kids from the same small towns. They were just better than we were. More practice and more coaches was the answer, so Coach Ron recruited us another two coaches. One of the coaches had a little brother that was a better player than all of us. He could actually hit the ball on a consistent basis and played a mean shortstop. This gave us some hope, but the team’s fourth grade season was a lost cause.
The next season was a little different, the team was better. We were bigger, taller and some of the guys were sprouting a little hair. Instead of losing twenty or thirty to nothing we would score some runs and on one occasion nearly won a game. The effort went for not, another 0-12 season. Our hopes for the future were bright though, Coach Ron planned to work with us all winter. When spring finally came at the end of our six grade year we were ready. Not me though I still struck out all the time and made too many errors to be a starter. As the team was actually winning some games I rode the bench more often than not, so as to not risk a loss or to maximize the chance for a win. This trend continued until half way through the six grade season.
We had been in the game until we gave up ten runs in the fourth. We were now down by fifteen runs with only the fifth inning left to play. This being the case, Coach Ron let me and a couple of the other subs bat and play in the fifth. Jimmy my friend, was still in the game. He being a lefty and by then a fairly good hitter was certainly the best our team had to offer. Jimmy took the first pitch, a ball. The next pitch he fouled down the right field line. A good well struck ball but he was out in front of the pitch. Ron signaled to the third base coach to have Jimmy step back in the box. This was new strategy and it worked, Jimmy got a hit.
The next batter Sam, drew a walk, as did the next three batters forcing two runs home. The other team changed pitchers. They brought in a kid that had a real fast pitch and was considered to be a bully at the time. He gave up a grounder to the assistant coach’s little brother. Because of all the errors, he cleared the bases with the exception for a kid named little Mike who was standing on third. Now we were down by ten runs. The next two guys walked scoring a run. This brought me to the plate with one out recorded, due to a trick pick off play at third base that occurred before I stepped in to the batter‘s box.
There were just two on and just the one out when the loud mouth second baseman on the other team opened his mouth. “Don’t worry guys, all this guy does is strike out,” said the player. This was the first time anyone had ever really criticized my play. Baseball had always been a positive experience. I didn’t like it very much-- it stuck in my craw. That heckler on second, doubting my skill as a batter. Who did he think he was? I swung and missed at the first pitch resulting in more heckling and flippant remarks knocking my skill. The anger I felt soon evolved into a compelling determination. I summoned every ounce of energy I had. The next pitch left my bat with a heckle silencing crack that left players, coaches and spectators alike quietly stunned. They stood frozen in their tracks and seats, opened mouthed as they all watched the jaw dropping hit sail at a height hundred fifty feet over the left fielder’s head. I was rounding first when the ball hit the river. I had hit the ball into the Little Blue River, an impossible distance for a twelve year old. As I stepped on home plate for the first time ever, the small crowd and the players were still quiet, dumbfounded at the remarkable feat. I the strike out king of the Southtown Branch YMCA had hit a monstrous home run of likes never seen before or again. In that fleeting moment in time, I was the greatest baseball player that there was, a hero to little leaguers far and wide. The guys called me Homerun Furguson for a week or so.
We went on to lose that game but our fortunes had changed. The hit was a life changing moment for me and our team. Not only was it my first hit, it was my first pitch hit, my first homerun, and my first runs batted in as well. Now that was a much better stat to hang your hat on. It marked an elevation in my confidence to such a degree that the next season and every season there after, until we were too old to play little league, we were the league champions. More importantly, I the strike out leader of the entire league for three consecutive seasons would lead the league in hitting, triples, doubles, stolen bases, runs scored and runs batted in. I never hit another home run. To this day that fact remains an odd stat of my celebrated athletic history.
Many years later I happened to run across the diamond on which the game was played on that fateful day. The long gone voices of the kids that played the game that day were still echoing in my mind. The memorable moment of the great hit was still vividly placed in my consciousness. Even the old smells of hot August dust, leather and bubble gum still hung in the air as that hit was relived over and over. The interesting thing of it was, the diamond was not the huge green monster that I had remembered it to be but the smallest of diamonds, placed so close to the river that I could reach it with a well thrown stone. The age related reality put the hit in prospective. Although it may have been a small diamond, a brief blink of insignificant time, it was a fabled childhood achievement. It was my memory. Mine alone. After all, everything has relevance to it’s creator in the over all plan of one’s life..
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Furguson.
When I was a boy of third grade age we had moved to the big city. Getting though that socially challenging year undamaged, which was rough for a new kid, I managed to develop a few new buddies. The guys and I, when we were not performing child labor tasks, played ball.
As it turned out there was a local YMCA, the South Town Branch, that had a new kid’s program director. His name was Ron Gingreckco. At the time he was starting a little league baseball team for third and fourth grade boys. My buddy Jimmy told me about the team Coach Ron was forming, I found the concept intriguing. After much posturing with my parents I was permitted to join the team, my adoptive father paid the fee and bought me a used ball glove.
The day before the first practice, my friend Jimmy and I played catch with his ball. I had never thrown a ball before and did so with poor accuracy causing Jimmy to chase the ball repeatedly. We played catch for several hours that day, developing sore arms as result that would hamper us the several practices. Jimmy was relentless and very determined to have a winning team, so we kept on throwing. He pushed me to throw the ball over and over until I was throwing it correctly according to his expert eight year old eyes.
The game plan was for the two of us to take turns as pitcher and catcher. According to Jimmy, these roles were the most fun positions to play. By doing so, we would have the greatest impact on the third grade game of baseball. Jimmy was wise in his assessment of the two positions’ importance but he had the wrong candidate for the pitcher, catcher duo.
After the first inning of the first game I had walked in twelve runs and would be relegated to right field the remainder of the next three seasons. Labeled and harnessed with a completely shattered opinion of my baseball skills that childhood fantasy had just previously just constructed into a major leaguer only a few days before. Impervious to the facts of reality I continued to play, showing up every practice and every game. Jimmy would continue to recruit kids to the team making it more and more difficult to earn a starting spot.
We always played ball, day and night, whenever the over lords allowed it. After while, we began to fantasize about actually winning a game, prior to that we always knew we were going to get beat. I was still hitless but not with out hope. I had reached base a couple of times, drawing walks and striking out reaching base due to a passed ball on a swinging third strike. Sometimes, more frequently than not, the catcher would over throw the first baseman and the ball would roll into right field. This allowed me the runner to take second base and sometimes even third but for some unlucky reason, home plate eluded me. During the course of the entire first season, I never scored, placing me in a role as a sub, a part time player.
The real problem was that I was growing very fast. The rapid growth was not allowing my coordination to develop and master new skills. I was a goofy uncoordinated kid that coach Ron saw something in. He would always give me extra time in practice and never failed to praise me even though I was a horrible player. He never gave up on me saying that, “we work for the future.”
.
I have met a lot of coaches over the years, but coach Ron was probably my favorite. He made the game fun. He never was cruel or demeaning. I’m sure that had it not been for coach Ron’s interest in me and the other guys, our lives would be totally different today. The love of the game of baseball which I possess today is a direct result of his influence and wise mentoring. Where ever you are Coach Ron thanks. Anyway, the third grade baseball season came to an end with the team record an embarrassing zero wins versus twelve losses. My batting average was .000. Now that’s not a statistic to hang your hat on.
The next spring brought new blood to the team but the record left us in the cellar, the same as before. My batting average was still triple goose eggs. We had played the same teams with the same kids from the same small towns. They were just better than we were. More practice and more coaches was the answer, so Coach Ron recruited us another two coaches. One of the coaches had a little brother that was a better player than all of us. He could actually hit the ball on a consistent basis and played a mean shortstop. This gave us some hope, but the team’s fourth grade season was a lost cause.
The next season was a little different, the team was better. We were bigger, taller and some of the guys were sprouting a little hair. Instead of losing twenty or thirty to nothing we would score some runs and on one occasion nearly won a game. The effort went for not, another 0-12 season. Our hopes for the future were bright though, Coach Ron planned to work with us all winter. When spring finally came at the end of our six grade year we were ready. Not me though I still struck out all the time and made too many errors to be a starter. As the team was actually winning some games I rode the bench more often than not, so as to not risk a loss or to maximize the chance for a win. This trend continued until half way through the six grade season.
We had been in the game until we gave up ten runs in the fourth. We were now down by fifteen runs with only the fifth inning left to play. This being the case, Coach Ron let me and a couple of the other subs bat and play in the fifth. Jimmy my friend, was still in the game. He being a lefty and by then a fairly good hitter was certainly the best our team had to offer. Jimmy took the first pitch, a ball. The next pitch he fouled down the right field line. A good well struck ball but he was out in front of the pitch. Ron signaled to the third base coach to have Jimmy step back in the box. This was new strategy and it worked, Jimmy got a hit.
The next batter Sam, drew a walk, as did the next three batters forcing two runs home. The other team changed pitchers. They brought in a kid that had a real fast pitch and was considered to be a bully at the time. He gave up a grounder to the assistant coach’s little brother. Because of all the errors, he cleared the bases with the exception for a kid named little Mike who was standing on third. Now we were down by ten runs. The next two guys walked scoring a run. This brought me to the plate with one out recorded, due to a trick pick off play at third base that occurred before I stepped in to the batter‘s box.
There were just two on and just the one out when the loud mouth second baseman on the other team opened his mouth. “Don’t worry guys, all this guy does is strike out,” said the player. This was the first time anyone had ever really criticized my play. Baseball had always been a positive experience. I didn’t like it very much-- it stuck in my craw. That heckler on second, doubting my skill as a batter. Who did he think he was? I swung and missed at the first pitch resulting in more heckling and flippant remarks knocking my skill. The anger I felt soon evolved into a compelling determination. I summoned every ounce of energy I had. The next pitch left my bat with a heckle silencing crack that left players, coaches and spectators alike quietly stunned. They stood frozen in their tracks and seats, opened mouthed as they all watched the jaw dropping hit sail at a height hundred fifty feet over the left fielder’s head. I was rounding first when the ball hit the river. I had hit the ball into the Little Blue River, an impossible distance for a twelve year old. As I stepped on home plate for the first time ever, the small crowd and the players were still quiet, dumbfounded at the remarkable feat. I the strike out king of the Southtown Branch YMCA had hit a monstrous home run of likes never seen before or again. In that fleeting moment in time, I was the greatest baseball player that there was, a hero to little leaguers far and wide. The guys called me Homerun Furguson for a week or so.
We went on to lose that game but our fortunes had changed. The hit was a life changing moment for me and our team. Not only was it my first hit, it was my first pitch hit, my first homerun, and my first runs batted in as well. Now that was a much better stat to hang your hat on. It marked an elevation in my confidence to such a degree that the next season and every season there after, until we were too old to play little league, we were the league champions. More importantly, I the strike out leader of the entire league for three consecutive seasons would lead the league in hitting, triples, doubles, stolen bases, runs scored and runs batted in. I never hit another home run. To this day that fact remains an odd stat of my celebrated athletic history.
Many years later I happened to run across the diamond on which the game was played on that fateful day. The long gone voices of the kids that played the game that day were still echoing in my mind. The memorable moment of the great hit was still vividly placed in my consciousness. Even the old smells of hot August dust, leather and bubble gum still hung in the air as that hit was relived over and over. The interesting thing of it was, the diamond was not the huge green monster that I had remembered it to be but the smallest of diamonds, placed so close to the river that I could reach it with a well thrown stone. The age related reality put the hit in prospective. Although it may have been a small diamond, a brief blink of insignificant time, it was a fabled childhood achievement. It was my memory. Mine alone. After all, everything has relevance to it’s creator in the over all plan of one’s life..
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Charlie the Hat..... A Childrens book
Charlie the Hat
written by S.E. Hicks
Charlie was a brand new hat.
Charlie was not just any new hat. Charlie was a brand new baseball hat.
Charlie was made in a hat factory.
Ed’s Hat Factory made lots of hats, for lots of people.
Ed made hats for Tom’s Auto Shop, Bill’s Welding, Mac’s Cafe, Betty’s Candy and Mike’s Bait Shop. There were even hats for Ed’s Hat Factory.
Ed’s Hat Factory was in Taiwan. The people there like to make hats.
Charlie was a red hat with a bright yellow bill. What made Charlie very special was the shinny silver button right on top.
Charlie really liked his yellow bill but he was very proud of his silver button.
When the people of Ed’s Hat Factory made Charlie they put him in a box. Charlie didn’t like being in a box. He didn’t like it at all.
There were a lot of other hats in the box but Charlie could not see the other hats. It was dark in the box.
Then one day the box was put in a crate with a lot of other boxes full of hats.
The crate was then put on a ship.
Charlie asked “Where are we going?”
No one knew. Charlie was very scared.
Charlie was so scared and worried about where he was going, he got tired and fell asleep.
Charlie slept a long, long time. While Charlie slept the ship rocked back and forth keeping Charlie asleep.
Suddenly, Charlie was awakened by a man who took him out of the box.
“Yea!” Charlie said. “I’m out of the box.”
“Where am I and who are you?” Charlie asked.
“You are at the hat store and that is the hat store clerk,” said one of the other hats. The clerk then put Charlie on a shelf.
There were lots of other baseball hats on the shelf. There were black hats, green hats, blue hats, purple hats, orange hats but Charlie was the only red hat with a bright yellow bill and a silver button.
The other hats made fun of Charlie, especially his silver button. Charlie didn’t mind though, he knew they were just jealous.
One day a man came to the store and bought Charlie.
“This hat is for my son Jimmy’s birthday.” said the man. He then put Charlie in a sack.
Charlie didn’t like being in a sack but he was not alone . There was Gary the baseball glove and Bob the baseball. They all became good friends.
When they got to Jimmy’s house, Jimmy’s Dad took Charlie out of the sack. “Yea, I’m out of the sack!” said Charlie.
Then Jimmy’s Dad put Charlie in a box and wrapped the box with birthday paper. Charlie said, “ Great, I’m back in a box again.”
When Jimmy opened the box, Charlie was very excited to see Jimmy. Jimmy put Charlie on his head. Charlie liked that very much.
The birthday party was fun. There was cake and ice cream for everyone. Jimmy had so much fun he got chocolate icing on Charlie’s bright yellow bill. Charlie didn’t mind, it tasted good but the icing left a stain.
Jimmy took Charlie outside to play with Gary the glove and Bob the baseball. That’s when Charlie met Mickey the baseball bat. They were five good friends and they played baseball every day.
Jimmy wore Charlie everywhere, except at school or church. That’s when Jimmy would put Charlie on a peg.
Charlie didn’t like hanging on a peg very much. He liked being on Jimmy’s head or on the bed post at night.
One day Jimmy got up in a hurry and put Charlie on his head.
“Where are we going today?” Asked Charlie.
“We are going to see my grandparents. They live in the country,” said Jimmy.
Jimmy’s Dad drove the pick-up truck. Charlie thought it was fun riding in the truck. When they got to a dirt road Jimmy got out and climbed in back.
Jimmy sat in the back of the truck hung on tight to the rail and said “Okay.” The truck then started to move down the dirt road. Faster and faster the truck went. The wind started to blow real hard and suddenly Charlie was off Jimmy’s head. Up, up in the air, Charlie was flying in the wind!
When Charlie stopped flying he was stuck up in a tree.
Minutes went by. Hours went by. Days went by. Weeks went by. Months went by. Charlie was stuck in the tree a long, long, long time.
It rained on Charlie. It snowed on Charlie. There were lots of bugs that crawled all over him. To make things worse, a bird pooped on Charlie’s bright yellow bill.
One day the wind started to blow real hard. The wind blew just right and blew Charlie out of the tree. Charlie said “ yea, I’m not stuck in the tree any more.”
Down, down, down Charlie fell. He landed in the middle of the dirt road. He laid in the road for a couple of hours.
Soon a car came down the dirt road and ran right over Charlie, kicking him into the ditch! “Great,” said Charlie “ I’m in a ditch. I don‘t want to be in a ditch.”
Now Charlie was a dirty mess. He had a chocolate stain, a bird poop stain, a car grease stain, he had tire track marks and he was covered in dirty road dust. At least he still had his shiny silver button.
Charlie was in the ditch a long, long time.
One day it started to rain. It rained real hard. Soon the ditch was full of water and Charlie began to float down the ditch.
Down, down, down the ditch, Charlie floated all the way to the creek.
Charlie floated in the creek a long, long time. He floated in the creek until the creek became a river.
Down, down, down the river Charlie floated. He floated in the river until he landed on a sand bar.
“Yea, I’m out of the river.” Charlie said.
Charlie was on the sand bar a long, long time. Charlie missed his friends.
One day a little boat with a motor came up the river. The sun was out and shinning bright. Charlie’s silver button was glowing in the sun light.
The man in the boat saw Charlie’s silver button shinning in the sun light. He stopped the boat and picked Charlie up.
He was a very old man wearing a hat. It was Mike’s Bait Shop hat. The man threw Charlie in the bottom of the boat with some fish and took Charlie home with him.
When they got to the old man’s home, Charlie was taken to a tool shed and hung on a rusty nail.
Charlie was glad to be out of the tree. Charlie was glad to be off the road. Charlie was glad to be out of the ditch. Charlie was glad to be out of the river. Charlie was glad to be off the sand bar. Charlie didn’t like hanging on a nail but it was better than floating in the creek.
There were lots if other things in the shed. There was Fred the fishing pole. Tim the tackle box, Hank the hammer, Sam the screwdriver. There was even a car jack named Jake. Charlie had new friends.
One dark night Charlie felt something chewing on his bright yellow bill. It was Randy the rat. He was chewing a hole in Charlie’s bright yellow bill where the chocolate stain was!
Charlie didn’t like that very much. Now he was a real mess. He had a hole in his bright yellow bill where the chocolate stain used to be. He had car grease stains, tire track marks, bird poop stains, and he smelled like fish.
Charlie was in the shed a long, long time.
One day out of the blue the door to the shed opened. It was the old man. He had someone with him. The old man said to the other man,
“If we are going fishing you better grab that hat.”
The other man took Charlie of the nail.
“Hey,” the man said. Where did you find this hat? This is my old baseball hat.”
Charlie then saw the man’s face. It was Jimmy. Jimmy was all grown up. Charlie was very happy to see Jimmy again.
Jimmy said to Charlie “Where have you been?”
Charlie thought for a minute. He was glad to be on Jimmy’s head again.
Then Charlie said “ I have been in a box, a crate, a ship, a shelf, a sack, a peg, a bed post, a truck, a tree, a road, a ditch, a creek, a river, a sand bar, a boat, and most recently I have been hanging on a nail in a tool shed! What about You?”
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
ARTIST/ILLUSTRATOR WANTED
Charlie The Hat is a real gas to read. It’s a cute whimsical children’s book/primary reader about an animated baseball hat that bonds with a young boy named Jimmy and is subsequently lost. Found years later after battling the elements baring the scars of life, Charlie the hat is reunited with the now grown young man.
Charlie The Hat
With the aid of quality illustrations depicting Charlie’s expressions and emotions this book will have appeal to young readers.Charlie the Hat was inspired by the finding of an old hat on a river bank by the author. The story begins with the origins of the tattered hat and takes the reader through the hat’s life. Given as a gift, Charlie the hat bonds with young Jimmie Hunter and enjoys a happy all but brief relationship with the boy playing baseball and growing up. One day Charlie is lost, blown off Jimmy’s head during an ill fated pick-up truck ride. Charlie then finds himself alone for a long, long time experiencing the weather, emotions and other indignities. Charlie is eventually found by Jimmy’s grandfather, not realizing the hat was Jimmy’s, his grandfather stored Charlie the hat on an old rusty nail in a tool shed. Several years later all grown up, Jimmy Hunter returns to see his grandfather and rediscovers Charlie, his long lost friend.
Charlie The Hat
With the aid of quality illustrations depicting Charlie’s expressions and emotions this book will have appeal to young readers.Charlie the Hat was inspired by the finding of an old hat on a river bank by the author. The story begins with the origins of the tattered hat and takes the reader through the hat’s life. Given as a gift, Charlie the hat bonds with young Jimmie Hunter and enjoys a happy all but brief relationship with the boy playing baseball and growing up. One day Charlie is lost, blown off Jimmy’s head during an ill fated pick-up truck ride. Charlie then finds himself alone for a long, long time experiencing the weather, emotions and other indignities. Charlie is eventually found by Jimmy’s grandfather, not realizing the hat was Jimmy’s, his grandfather stored Charlie the hat on an old rusty nail in a tool shed. Several years later all grown up, Jimmy Hunter returns to see his grandfather and rediscovers Charlie, his long lost friend.
Not Sure Why
Not Sure Why
Written by S.E.Hicks
“There are those that look at things the way they are, and ask why, I dream of things that never were, and ask why not.” Robert Kennedy said these eloquent words. It is a worthy creed. I have a different take on the ubiquitous question of why….. I’m not sure why. There are a lot of certainties in life, death, taxes and the like. I’m not sure why… about a whole lot of things.
For example:
I’m not sure why I don’t catch fish when I know they are biting because everyone else in the boat is catching them.
I’m not sure why I thought I could in the first place.
I’m not sure why I did.
I’m not sure, why did I?
I’m not sure why, I’m sure I did .
I’m not sure why I didn’t.
I’m not sure why I’m sure I didn’t.
I’m not sure why some one else said I did when actually, I didn’t.
I’m not sure why if I did why it is any business of yours.
I’m not sure why but I think they should consider the possibility that they are not sure, did didn’t do it.
I’m not sure why every time I look into my wife’s eyes it is better than the first time but every time something goes wrong in our lives it is my fault and I feel like I‘ve been poked in the eye.
I’m not sure why when you go about looking for something you have lost, you can’t find it but when your not looking for it, there it is right where you left it and it is now…. in…. the…. way.
I’m not sure why if God created man in his image, why we are all so different and mostly ugly.
I’m not sure why I have so many flat tires.
I’m not sure why cheap tires are so expensive.
I’m not sure why no mater how much money I bring home somebody complains about it.
I’m not sure why when I try to answer a question my wife has put forth to me, why another question is ask before I can answer and when I do answer the first question, why she didn’t hear nor understand my answer to her question nor remember her question but still wants an answer to the second question… and on and on ….and on it goes.
I not sure why I I I I I I I stutter so much.
I’m not sure why there are so many living things that bite.
I’m not sure why I always get bit and the other guy doesn’t.
I’m not sure why I ask my wife, how her day was? When she tells me, I realize I didn’t really want to know… all that. Every time, every day for the past thirty years!
I’m not sure why I just got slapped.
I’m not sure why the car fails to start when I am dressed in a tux or a dress suit on the way to a wedding or some important meeting. It just started a few minutes ago!
I’m not sure why women pee so much.
I’m not sure why the pie is in my lap.
I’m not sure why but it is not for me to question nor attempt to answer.
I’m not sure why thou shall not kill, yet thou shall take an eye for and eye. Thank God there is a church.
I’m not sure why they say turn the other cheek. Which cheek are they talking about anyway?
I’m not sure why they are who they is.
I’m not sure why they is who they are.
I’m not sure why they is.
I’m not sure, why are they?
I’m not sure why, any who.
I’m not sure why but they better not read this. They might take it wrong.
I’m not sure why little smart people call big dumb people stupid.
I’m not sure why people say “Hello” when they are really thinking, hell no!”
I’m not sure why when I wake up I’m tried, when I go bed I’m not, when I am tired and go to bed I can’t sleep and why I wake up early when I can sleep in.
I’m not sure why I take sleeping pills and drink coffee.
I’m not sure why every time I shoot and field dress a deer, I puke and gag. Every time for the last twenty five deer.
I’m not sure why my wife throws a fit when I clog the toilet……She fed me….. I use the plunger. She’s mad none the less.
I’m not sure why I didn’t get any dinner tonight.
I’m not sure why people rake leaves on a windy day.
I’m not sure why deaf people go to rock concerts in the rain.
I’m not sure why you have to jack up your wife’s car to change a tire but you better not jack with her car!
I’m not sure why women wear such revealing outfits then complain because we men gawk at them.
I’m not sure why but I would have been better off having not written that.
I’m not sure why I mentioned it in the first place.
I’m not sure why, should I have not written that?
I’m not sure why I should not write why not instead.
I’m not sure why but why not.
I’m not sure why.
I’m not sure why she just hit me.
I’m not sure why, but…. it is becoming more clear to me.
I’m not sure why but I’m quite sure I better start running.
I’m not sure why some women can’t smell their own farts nor hear them and men are admittedly quite proud to claim theirs.
I’m not sure why but I should have run faster
I’m not sure why but I think I know why.
I’m not sure why people wash their car before it rains.
I’m not sure why people can’t see past their nose.
I’m not sure why people don’t talk to each other in the elevator and when the one rare person does break the ice they won’t shut up.
I’m not sure why people wash their car when the streets are still wet.
I’m not sure why people can’t wait for the light of day.
I’m not sure why, because.
I’m not sure why but I should probably leave because alone.
I’m not sure why but if I do leave because alone you might some how feel cheated, some how.
I’m not sure why, because it is just better that we don’t go into it.
I’m not sure why. Because you brought it up! There’s that word again.
I’m not sure why but because might be another book.
I’m not sure why self esteem isn’t the goal for all teachers and coaches of youth.
I’m not sure why there are 2600 Christian denominations all claiming the “Truth “ is only found though their better way of prayer.
I’m not sure why but I doubt He intended it to be thus.
I’m not sure why people with poor skills and high blood pressure play golf and poker.
I’m not sure why any body thinks OJ didn’t do it.
I’m not sure why Tiger Woods is not secretly worshiped by every single man on the planet, because married guys certainly can’t.
I’m not sure why when my left foot stinks, my right foot doesn’t, and why my right pit stinks before my left pit does.
I’m not sure why I thought that would throw her off the previous subject.
I’m not sure why the chicken crossed the road. After all those jokes I still don’t know.
I’m not sure why doctors schedule appointments. They never keep them. In a relative sense, my time is much more important than theirs. Dog gone it man, I’m the freaking customer!
I’m not sure why there is an it.
I’m not sure why we are so concerned about it.
I’m not sure why it is worth arguing about.
I’m not sure why it is not.
I’m not sure why arguing about it is worth it……not.
I’m not sure why it is worth it.
I’m not sure why I ever got started with it. The arguing about it that is.
I’m not sure why I don’t just let it, be.
I’m not sure why but I better not be concerned about be.
I’m not sure why but I guess I better not be.
I’m not sure why if man has walked on the earth for 100,000 years, why only now do we have a world economy based on oil. And it is so bad in every way!
I’m not sure why if man has walked on the earth for 5,000 years, why only now do we have a world economy based on oil. And it is so bad in every way!
I’m not sure why we continue to ruin our soil, our water, and our air. No body likes it, why do we still do it?
I’m not sure why but we are all just really so stupid. About that.
I’m not sure why Christendom is so fragmented.
I’m not sure why we continue to elect double talking liars to run the country.
I’m not sure why politicians think they need to lie in order to be elected.
I’m not sure why they think, who they think they are.
I’m not sure why who they think they are, are.
I’m not sure why who they think they are, bother to think.
I’m not sure why I bother to think about who they are.
I’m not sure why who they think they are say, who do they think they are.
I’m not sure why dogs smell each other’s butt.
I’m not sure why African American men look so much better in a hat than a white dude does. Same for women.
I’m not sure why one fingernail grows faster than all the rest. And yet it is never the same one but there is always one.
I’m not sure why at one time I wore bellbottom jeans and soon after purchased a leisure suit.
I’m not sure why I have a three inch hair that grows out the top of my left ear.
I’m not sure why when you go to the trouble of wiping yourself clean you still have skids marks.
I’m not sure why colored underwear didn’t come around before Michael Jordon.
I’m not sure why or if Native Americans did or didn’t have skid marks on their loin cloths.
I’m not sure why some one didn’t check.
I “m not sure why they would have.
I’m not sure why our government makes poor people pay tax.
I’m not sure why but our government has skid marks.
I’m not sure why or what happened to the great American western television show. Where is Matt Dillon of yester year.
I’m not sure why I care but what happened to Mork?
I’m not sure why Waldo is and I certainly don’t care where he is.
I’m not sure why we straightened out all the rivers and streams.
I’m not sure why the haves are fat and eat all they want, want more than they need and the have not are skinny and eat less than they need and want very little.
I’m not sure why the have not suffer the haves.
I’m not sure why Hunger!
I’m not sure why we fish out our resources.
I’m not sure why most people who don’t eat fish care so little about fish.
I’m not sure why people who do eat fish don’t care enough about fish. In general.
I’m not sure why poachers don’t get the death penalty, thrown to the loins so to speak. That would stop it.
I’m not sure why if you are just going to release it why catch it just to look at.
I’m not sure why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and not rise in the north and set in the south. Wouldn’t that be weird, given how the earth rotates …the time considerations?
I’m not sure why but wouldn’t that really mess up, your day?
I’m not sure why but thinking about stuff like that maybe why my sleep is ………………all ………….messed up.
I’m not sure why we spend all that money on space travel when we can’t go fast enough or live long enough
to get anywhere really interesting.
I’m not sure why some boogers are wet and others dry.
I’m not sure why right is right and left is left. It could be the other way around.
I’m not sure why we are fertilizing the oceans.
I’m not sure why I couldn’t hit a curve ball.
I’m not sure why there is not a standard methodology for giving directions.
I’m not sure why I have been referred to as “The Little Prince.”
I’m not sure why they called a pass play when a running play would have worked better.
I’m not sure why it is difficult to determine the relative merit of the two alternative perspectives.
I’m not sure why if opposing geometric energies are suspended in a vacuum, trapped in a quadrilateral dimension of time the resulting forces…. do what to my wife‘s menstrual cycle?
I’m not sure why my wife is suddenly thumbing thru the A section of the yellow pages.
I’m not sure why people have to sit at a red light burning gas and time, when there is no traffic in sight.
I’m not sure why or what made bottled water more expensive than gasoline.
I’m not sure why but I think it was a who.
I’m not sure why it is oil and lithium and not terrorism.
I’m not sure why but again I think it was a who.
I’m not sure why I didn’t let the dog out.
I’m not sure why they called him out when he was….OBVIOUSLY SAFE!
I’m not sure why but I’m not going to eat any more ball park hotdogs or buy eight dollar bottles of beer.
I’m not sure why, next year I’ll change my season tickets to the upper deck.
I’m not sure why I thought I had season tickets.
I’m not sure why who ever let the cat out of the bag, did.
I’m not sure why or who put the cat in the bag in the first place. How did they do it?
I’m not sure why we don’t build all homes from dirt and leave the trees alone.
I’m not sure why when your done peeing and you shake it dry you still dribble in your shorts.
I’m not sure why all the cows must be milked before work begins and why after the work is done the cows still have to be milked.
I’m not sure why you pay a lawyer $500 in order to avoid paying the court a $500 fine that you end up paying anyway.
I’m not sure why but there are a lot of good lawyer jokes.
I’m not sure why or what happened to my tools once the kids came.
I’m not sure why my wife puts things down the disposal that breaks and clogs the thing time and time again, when there’s a trash barrel at her feet!
I’m not sure why I wrote that. There’s going to be trouble, there goes two of my favorite cd‘s.
I’m not sure why I wrote this.
I’m not sure why I wrote that.
I’m not sure why I wrote any of this or that, especially this.
I’m not sure why this got ………….all mixed up with that.
I’m not sure why I ever thought I could possibly be remotely sure of this or that.
I’m not sure why I’m sure when I’m quite sure that I’m not .
I’m not sure why but I better stop this.
I’m not sure why but I can’t.
I am sure, that the one thing I’m sure of is that I’m not sure of why I‘m not sure.
Written by S.E.Hicks
“There are those that look at things the way they are, and ask why, I dream of things that never were, and ask why not.” Robert Kennedy said these eloquent words. It is a worthy creed. I have a different take on the ubiquitous question of why….. I’m not sure why. There are a lot of certainties in life, death, taxes and the like. I’m not sure why… about a whole lot of things.
For example:
I’m not sure why I don’t catch fish when I know they are biting because everyone else in the boat is catching them.
I’m not sure why I thought I could in the first place.
I’m not sure why I did.
I’m not sure, why did I?
I’m not sure why, I’m sure I did .
I’m not sure why I didn’t.
I’m not sure why I’m sure I didn’t.
I’m not sure why some one else said I did when actually, I didn’t.
I’m not sure why if I did why it is any business of yours.
I’m not sure why but I think they should consider the possibility that they are not sure, did didn’t do it.
I’m not sure why every time I look into my wife’s eyes it is better than the first time but every time something goes wrong in our lives it is my fault and I feel like I‘ve been poked in the eye.
I’m not sure why when you go about looking for something you have lost, you can’t find it but when your not looking for it, there it is right where you left it and it is now…. in…. the…. way.
I’m not sure why if God created man in his image, why we are all so different and mostly ugly.
I’m not sure why I have so many flat tires.
I’m not sure why cheap tires are so expensive.
I’m not sure why no mater how much money I bring home somebody complains about it.
I’m not sure why when I try to answer a question my wife has put forth to me, why another question is ask before I can answer and when I do answer the first question, why she didn’t hear nor understand my answer to her question nor remember her question but still wants an answer to the second question… and on and on ….and on it goes.
I not sure why I I I I I I I stutter so much.
I’m not sure why there are so many living things that bite.
I’m not sure why I always get bit and the other guy doesn’t.
I’m not sure why I ask my wife, how her day was? When she tells me, I realize I didn’t really want to know… all that. Every time, every day for the past thirty years!
I’m not sure why I just got slapped.
I’m not sure why the car fails to start when I am dressed in a tux or a dress suit on the way to a wedding or some important meeting. It just started a few minutes ago!
I’m not sure why women pee so much.
I’m not sure why the pie is in my lap.
I’m not sure why but it is not for me to question nor attempt to answer.
I’m not sure why thou shall not kill, yet thou shall take an eye for and eye. Thank God there is a church.
I’m not sure why they say turn the other cheek. Which cheek are they talking about anyway?
I’m not sure why they are who they is.
I’m not sure why they is who they are.
I’m not sure why they is.
I’m not sure, why are they?
I’m not sure why, any who.
I’m not sure why but they better not read this. They might take it wrong.
I’m not sure why little smart people call big dumb people stupid.
I’m not sure why people say “Hello” when they are really thinking, hell no!”
I’m not sure why when I wake up I’m tried, when I go bed I’m not, when I am tired and go to bed I can’t sleep and why I wake up early when I can sleep in.
I’m not sure why I take sleeping pills and drink coffee.
I’m not sure why every time I shoot and field dress a deer, I puke and gag. Every time for the last twenty five deer.
I’m not sure why my wife throws a fit when I clog the toilet……She fed me….. I use the plunger. She’s mad none the less.
I’m not sure why I didn’t get any dinner tonight.
I’m not sure why people rake leaves on a windy day.
I’m not sure why deaf people go to rock concerts in the rain.
I’m not sure why you have to jack up your wife’s car to change a tire but you better not jack with her car!
I’m not sure why women wear such revealing outfits then complain because we men gawk at them.
I’m not sure why but I would have been better off having not written that.
I’m not sure why I mentioned it in the first place.
I’m not sure why, should I have not written that?
I’m not sure why I should not write why not instead.
I’m not sure why but why not.
I’m not sure why.
I’m not sure why she just hit me.
I’m not sure why, but…. it is becoming more clear to me.
I’m not sure why but I’m quite sure I better start running.
I’m not sure why some women can’t smell their own farts nor hear them and men are admittedly quite proud to claim theirs.
I’m not sure why but I should have run faster
I’m not sure why but I think I know why.
I’m not sure why people wash their car before it rains.
I’m not sure why people can’t see past their nose.
I’m not sure why people don’t talk to each other in the elevator and when the one rare person does break the ice they won’t shut up.
I’m not sure why people wash their car when the streets are still wet.
I’m not sure why people can’t wait for the light of day.
I’m not sure why, because.
I’m not sure why but I should probably leave because alone.
I’m not sure why but if I do leave because alone you might some how feel cheated, some how.
I’m not sure why, because it is just better that we don’t go into it.
I’m not sure why. Because you brought it up! There’s that word again.
I’m not sure why but because might be another book.
I’m not sure why self esteem isn’t the goal for all teachers and coaches of youth.
I’m not sure why there are 2600 Christian denominations all claiming the “Truth “ is only found though their better way of prayer.
I’m not sure why but I doubt He intended it to be thus.
I’m not sure why people with poor skills and high blood pressure play golf and poker.
I’m not sure why any body thinks OJ didn’t do it.
I’m not sure why Tiger Woods is not secretly worshiped by every single man on the planet, because married guys certainly can’t.
I’m not sure why when my left foot stinks, my right foot doesn’t, and why my right pit stinks before my left pit does.
I’m not sure why I thought that would throw her off the previous subject.
I’m not sure why the chicken crossed the road. After all those jokes I still don’t know.
I’m not sure why doctors schedule appointments. They never keep them. In a relative sense, my time is much more important than theirs. Dog gone it man, I’m the freaking customer!
I’m not sure why there is an it.
I’m not sure why we are so concerned about it.
I’m not sure why it is worth arguing about.
I’m not sure why it is not.
I’m not sure why arguing about it is worth it……not.
I’m not sure why it is worth it.
I’m not sure why I ever got started with it. The arguing about it that is.
I’m not sure why I don’t just let it, be.
I’m not sure why but I better not be concerned about be.
I’m not sure why but I guess I better not be.
I’m not sure why if man has walked on the earth for 100,000 years, why only now do we have a world economy based on oil. And it is so bad in every way!
I’m not sure why if man has walked on the earth for 5,000 years, why only now do we have a world economy based on oil. And it is so bad in every way!
I’m not sure why we continue to ruin our soil, our water, and our air. No body likes it, why do we still do it?
I’m not sure why but we are all just really so stupid. About that.
I’m not sure why Christendom is so fragmented.
I’m not sure why we continue to elect double talking liars to run the country.
I’m not sure why politicians think they need to lie in order to be elected.
I’m not sure why they think, who they think they are.
I’m not sure why who they think they are, are.
I’m not sure why who they think they are, bother to think.
I’m not sure why I bother to think about who they are.
I’m not sure why who they think they are say, who do they think they are.
I’m not sure why dogs smell each other’s butt.
I’m not sure why African American men look so much better in a hat than a white dude does. Same for women.
I’m not sure why one fingernail grows faster than all the rest. And yet it is never the same one but there is always one.
I’m not sure why at one time I wore bellbottom jeans and soon after purchased a leisure suit.
I’m not sure why I have a three inch hair that grows out the top of my left ear.
I’m not sure why when you go to the trouble of wiping yourself clean you still have skids marks.
I’m not sure why colored underwear didn’t come around before Michael Jordon.
I’m not sure why or if Native Americans did or didn’t have skid marks on their loin cloths.
I’m not sure why some one didn’t check.
I “m not sure why they would have.
I’m not sure why our government makes poor people pay tax.
I’m not sure why but our government has skid marks.
I’m not sure why or what happened to the great American western television show. Where is Matt Dillon of yester year.
I’m not sure why I care but what happened to Mork?
I’m not sure why Waldo is and I certainly don’t care where he is.
I’m not sure why we straightened out all the rivers and streams.
I’m not sure why the haves are fat and eat all they want, want more than they need and the have not are skinny and eat less than they need and want very little.
I’m not sure why the have not suffer the haves.
I’m not sure why Hunger!
I’m not sure why we fish out our resources.
I’m not sure why most people who don’t eat fish care so little about fish.
I’m not sure why people who do eat fish don’t care enough about fish. In general.
I’m not sure why poachers don’t get the death penalty, thrown to the loins so to speak. That would stop it.
I’m not sure why if you are just going to release it why catch it just to look at.
I’m not sure why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and not rise in the north and set in the south. Wouldn’t that be weird, given how the earth rotates …the time considerations?
I’m not sure why but wouldn’t that really mess up, your day?
I’m not sure why but thinking about stuff like that maybe why my sleep is ………………all ………….messed up.
I’m not sure why we spend all that money on space travel when we can’t go fast enough or live long enough
to get anywhere really interesting.
I’m not sure why some boogers are wet and others dry.
I’m not sure why right is right and left is left. It could be the other way around.
I’m not sure why we are fertilizing the oceans.
I’m not sure why I couldn’t hit a curve ball.
I’m not sure why there is not a standard methodology for giving directions.
I’m not sure why I have been referred to as “The Little Prince.”
I’m not sure why they called a pass play when a running play would have worked better.
I’m not sure why it is difficult to determine the relative merit of the two alternative perspectives.
I’m not sure why if opposing geometric energies are suspended in a vacuum, trapped in a quadrilateral dimension of time the resulting forces…. do what to my wife‘s menstrual cycle?
I’m not sure why my wife is suddenly thumbing thru the A section of the yellow pages.
I’m not sure why people have to sit at a red light burning gas and time, when there is no traffic in sight.
I’m not sure why or what made bottled water more expensive than gasoline.
I’m not sure why but I think it was a who.
I’m not sure why it is oil and lithium and not terrorism.
I’m not sure why but again I think it was a who.
I’m not sure why I didn’t let the dog out.
I’m not sure why they called him out when he was….OBVIOUSLY SAFE!
I’m not sure why but I’m not going to eat any more ball park hotdogs or buy eight dollar bottles of beer.
I’m not sure why, next year I’ll change my season tickets to the upper deck.
I’m not sure why I thought I had season tickets.
I’m not sure why who ever let the cat out of the bag, did.
I’m not sure why or who put the cat in the bag in the first place. How did they do it?
I’m not sure why we don’t build all homes from dirt and leave the trees alone.
I’m not sure why when your done peeing and you shake it dry you still dribble in your shorts.
I’m not sure why all the cows must be milked before work begins and why after the work is done the cows still have to be milked.
I’m not sure why you pay a lawyer $500 in order to avoid paying the court a $500 fine that you end up paying anyway.
I’m not sure why but there are a lot of good lawyer jokes.
I’m not sure why or what happened to my tools once the kids came.
I’m not sure why my wife puts things down the disposal that breaks and clogs the thing time and time again, when there’s a trash barrel at her feet!
I’m not sure why I wrote that. There’s going to be trouble, there goes two of my favorite cd‘s.
I’m not sure why I wrote this.
I’m not sure why I wrote that.
I’m not sure why I wrote any of this or that, especially this.
I’m not sure why this got ………….all mixed up with that.
I’m not sure why I ever thought I could possibly be remotely sure of this or that.
I’m not sure why I’m sure when I’m quite sure that I’m not .
I’m not sure why but I better stop this.
I’m not sure why but I can’t.
I am sure, that the one thing I’m sure of is that I’m not sure of why I‘m not sure.
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