LIFE CAN BE THE PITS

     Have you ever stepped onto an elevator full of people and a moment after the door closes you pick up a faint odious disturbance in the atmosphere? Then by the third floor you’re convinced that someone had a dead squirrel in their pocket or purse? Or maybe you stood in one of those long lines at the amusement park during the summer and after a few minutes you detect the presence of an atrophied zombie? Yep….odorous persona! Better known as BO.

     This is the real world and in the real world all creatures smell. From fish to whales….mice to elephants….preachers to politicians. We all have our odors and on occasion those odors can cause havoc within our zones of influence. We can stink! Our Mom’s bathed and wash our little tushes until we reached an age when we wouldn’t drown in the tub and even then they continued to supervise the procedure. In the military, you learn from the first day of boot camp that hygiene is of utmost importance. Most likely to prevent giving away your position to the enemy or from being shot by the guy you share your tent with. Like caring parents, they instructed you in the use of soap, toothpaste, toilet tissue and foot powder.

     In the real world of adults, we are expected not to stink at work. ‘A showered employee is a good employee.’ We may spend our work day in an obscure cubical or on the sales floor of a dynamic department store and it is expected of us not to leave a vapor trail whenever we walk by anyone. Perfumes and male colognes only offer a temporary mask to the offensive affliction and sometimes even these can produce torturous tears.

     I have always felt that next to all public restrooms, there should be pubic showers. Modeled on the principle of today’s car washes; you strip….step into a booth….you’re hosed down and then soaped up….non-erotic brushes engage and scrub your corpus magnum….then you’re hosed down….disinfected and finally blown dry. Total time: 5 minutes, less time than taking a dump. (Feminine application, $2 extra).

     I know what you’re all thinking….how do I come up with these ideas and why am I not a billionaire? I’m just doing this as a service to humankind in an effort to eradicate the heartbreak of body stench and sour pits. It seems that some of my best ideas come to me after my noon medications.

                                                                                                                                                                                         Charlie

 FIRST AK 47′s….NOW LAWNMOVERS!

    My lawn mower died this weekend. Strange how we equate objects to mortality. Our car died, the garbage disposal went kaflooey, we deep sixed the a/c unit, granny’s heart monitor went kaput and the vibrator fizzled out. Seems nothing ever breaks anymore. Facing reality is hard and closer is more so….back to my lawnmower. John Deere passed away while I was cutting along the bed of Wifey’s rare Tibetan Walrus lilies. There was a cough, sputter and finally a terminal gasp. I tried resuscitating with the pull cord, but, even full of gas, it was no use. It was over. John Deere had been an important part of my estate and now I planned on giving it a proper send off at our next yard sale.

    My son-in-law drove by and noticed that the lawn was only half finished so he stopped in to see if I had suffered a coronary and needed a probate lawyer. I explained my dilemma and he immediately offered to go purchase me a new one with the aid of my credit card. Instead, I gave him cash, (money and in-laws don’t mix), and with the limited funds he went to Home Depot and purchased me a new lawnmower with the hopes of borrowing on multiple occasions. He returned with what was called a SUPOW. It was a name I had heard before on an episode of Power Rangers, I think, and that concerned me.

    He helped me to remove it from it’s thick cardboard box. It was in multiple segments and there were also eight assorted bags containing nuts and bolts, wires, instructions, shiny screws, plastic stuff and what looked like someone’s lunch of Ramen noodles. We laid everything out and then spent the next few minutes looking for the Americanese version of the instructions. Several of the words were misspelled and the grammatical structure was worse than a high school senior’s.

    Okay, I know what ya thinking….Chinese made….right? Well, it was packing a good old fashion 4-stroke BRIGGS&STRATTON 850 OHV engine!! Most all the lawn equipment I’d ever had was powered by this classic Minnesota made engine. So, what if the plastic wheels were slave produced….so what?

    My son-in-jerk was reading the directions while I did the grunt work. At one point, he looked around at all the parts spread out on the garage floor and asked me did I see any kind of chain? I said no and what in the world did a lawnmower need a friggin chain for. He told me that the info literature for the BRIGGS&STRATTON 850 OHV engine mentioned “the Chain”. I took the sheet of paper from his spotless hands and read for myself……This engine manufactured and assembled in ‘Zhe-jiang‘, China! “It says Zhe-jiang numb nuts, not the chain !!”  The entire friggin mower was made in some slave camp in the desolate interior of some forbidden forest in Zhe-jiang friggin China!!! BRIGGS&STRATTON had gone over to the other side!!

    I had my son-in-dork pack up the Commie lawnmower and return it to Home Depot. I told him to explain to the store’s commissar that I was a war vet and that the lawnmower was causing me to have flashbacks. “But it was made in China, not Vietnam,” replied my son-in-twit. I then explained that I had been part of a Commando-Operative-Battalion, (better known as a COB). Some of our missions had been covert and that was all I had to say on the matter, other than telling him not to divulge my address to Home Depot, which obviously was a Red Cell.

    I now pay this Spanish guy to cut my grass. I was willing to pay my son-in-turd to do it, but he said he was having some problems with his cartilage, and couldn’t do it. Anyway, my yard looks great, but any day now I expect an assault team from either the FBI….ICE….DEA….or Homeland security to jump through my picture window screaming…….“USTED ES ARRESTADO!!!”

This rant was based on a true event. Some terms, facts and complete thoughts were bastardized by me to hold the interest of those who may have accidentally stumbled onto my humble site and to prevent any comatose boredom……..Charlie

   PLEASE DON’T PROBE ME!!!!

    March 16, 1993.…was the date I was abducted by aliens. First off, I resent some of the smirky smiles and gargling throat sounds many of you are making right now as you read this. But, let me first tell of my ordeal before you become skeptical.

    As I stated, I was abducted back in 1993. I was leaving Sassy’s Bump and Grind social club around 2 am. One of the club’s associates had slapped me in a misunderstanding over the placement of a one dollar bill, and during that altercation, my glasses were rendered obsolete. In the back parking lot, while I was trying to figure out my key-chain, a bright light exploded over my entire body and totally blinded me. I stood frozen and was knee knocking terrified. Thank goodness I was blessed with the forethought of going to the restroom before I left Sassy’s. Then a deep and hollow voice came out of the brilliant glow. “You been drinking tonight sir?” Strange question. Why did the voice want to know that? “Do you understand me sir?” I felt cornered and bewildered by the questioning. Then I finally opened my mouth and with trembling lips I responded.

    “What planet you boys from?”  That’s when the aliens seized me and within moments I was harnessed and extracted into their craft. I sat in some strange and dark environment that smelled like the bottom of a mortician’s trash can. I was blind without my spectacles, and could barely make out the gyrating movements of my captors. I was, however, able to detect the hideous head on one of them. It was huge! Wide and circular at the top and lumpy around it’s wide neck. My abductor spoke in a strange gibberish of static and clicks. Then there was silence as the craft ascended carrying me most likely to the mother ship.

    During the trip, I must have been zapped with a stun ray, as I woke later with my face buried in the foul smelling seat of the shuttle craft. Powerful appendages then seized my arms and I was extracted from the craft. I was soon dragged into the brilliant glare of the mother ship where I could hear multiple languages of other poor abductees. I was quickly taken to a cold chamber where I was disrobed and handled like I was in one of my fantasies. I was then fitted with an orange gravity flight suit and once again dragged to another part of the ship where I was tossed onto a padded examination platform. I heard the clang and click of metal, which told me the aliens were preparing their probing instruments. Across from me I could make out, in a visual blur, a very large alien seating and staring at me. This most likely was to be my dreaded examiner! The creature rose up and came towards me speaking in it’s galactic tongue….“Yo, sweeeeeet tang.” Then I was probed!

    The next ten hours were a mixed confusion of disjointed events. Strange cries of “Who’s ya daddy?” and me screaming and throwing up. Then, in the morning, I awoke to find that the police had rescued me and when I told the judge of my experience, I was placed in the security ward of St. Glock hospital for observation. Time has long passed now and I no longer relate my tale to anyone, for fear of stronger medications. But, as strange as it is, I now get these romantic and chilling emails from some inmate in the slammer named ‘Big Daddy Klingon’.

  HOW DIFFICULT CAN IT BE????

    All my adult life, I have heard the feministic harpings about childbirth. “If you men had to give birth, nobody would get pregnant,” or “You men don’t know what pain is until you give birth!” Give me a break! Let me enlighten those of you who tolerate my rantings. First off, God gave the job of birthing to women because men in the early millennia, were too busy. Men had to put meat on the fire, fur on the backs of their litter and draw things on the cave walls…..it never ended. Women, on the other hand, were just standing there scratching their body hair, so the first God gave the job to women and it’s been that way ever since.

    It’s worked out fair enough in most cases, but…..let me tell you how things would be different men acquired the obligation. First off, men would not get pregnant at the drop of a thong! We would use a well defined rhythm method. The ESPN rhythm method is based on sport seasons. Pregnancy would only occur if the scheduled birthing date happened during an off season for major sports. ‘Half time’ births would be for premature situations only.

    Another thing….pregnancies would only be five months long, longer than that constitutes stalling for attention. Delivery day would always be during the week and never on weekends. The current concept of hospital births would be a thing of the past. The archaic stirrup table surrounded by total strangers viewing all your hydraulics hanging out would be considered barbaric! Men would have all their babies at home. All prenatal treatment would be done on-line. As soon as their water exploded, they would group text all their birth-support buddies to come over right away.

    The boys would show up with beer and pizza and in cases of twins, there might be a stripper evolved. The expectant father would set his La-Z-Boy recliner to the prone setting while sucking on a tube connected to two beer cans in his ‘Raiders’ game hat. He would also watch ‘Seinfeld’ reruns to help ease what little pain there might be. His friends would cheer him on with a running wave around the room echoed with over used expressions like, “git-r-done,” or “Push it out…push it out…way out!”

    At the right moment, the father would shout, “Stand back boys, I’m gittin ready to rip a biggin!” Then moments later, the place would go frantic with cheers, shouts, back slapping, chest butting, laughing and vomiting. It may well be more efficient, but ‘anal delivery’ is not a pretty site to witness. Moments later, as the new supportive mom comes out of the kitchen to clean up the mess, friends would be helping the tired father to his feet and escorting him out the door on the way to ‘HOOTERS’ to celebrate. The exhausted father would turn to his wife and say, “Hon, can ya take care of the little darling? The little turd nearly kilt me.”

DISCLAIMER: I wrote this in a moment of humorous anxiety and in no way feel men are qualified or courageous enough to bear children…..besides, most men are still confused about what causes pregnancy anyway.

                                                                                                                                               Charlie

 Truck load of love

    We had a few of the younger grandkids over yesterday and as I watched them run around with cherry popsicle juice dripping from their mouths and chins….it reminded me of crazed cannibals running amok in a blood lust. Grand yunguns are, (next to wounded grizzly bears), the most dangerous mammals on earth. They all feed like frenzied piranhas. Throw them a hunk of raw buffalo, fur and all, and if you add ketchup….they’ll eat it all!

    On occasion, I’ll sit at a safe distance, and tell them stories of the Civil War and how I led a company of Confederates against General Grant of the Liberal army and whooped his ass, (behind). Or, maybe I’ll tell them how their “other” grandparents spied for the Russkies and that was why their Dad , (my son-in-law), was brain washed so they had to be careful not to give him any information about their granddad.

    Grand yunguns laugh a lot and I love that! Most times they laugh at my clothes or evil things grandma says about me. Sometimes, when they start one of their 100 question marathons, they tend to laugh at some of my more serious answers which tends to irk me somewhat, but I learned long ago that when in doubt, just mumble and they will still shake their heads and agree. I think that’s because I know where all the candy is hidden in the house.

    All said and done, I wouldn’t take anything for them, (considering how strict the laws are now), and do enjoy watching them grow up. I now tease the boys about their voices changing and warn the girls about future boyfriends. I see so much of me and grandma in them and it makes us both feel so lucky. No matter how out of sorts I feel, just a simple hug or peck on the cheek from one of them, will cure all my ills. I have to put this in a blog, because…..well, my words won’t come out without tears if I try to tell Grandma. But that’s OK, she already knows, so we just say it with our smiles. My grand yunguns are special….all 12 of them!

                                                                              Granddad Charlie

            BALD HEADS AND BABY BUTTS….BEAUTIFUL!

    I started to go bald in my mid thirties. Hair transplant doctors say that when you notice your hair getting thin….you’ve already lost 50% of it! Into my forties I no longer had a hair style, just combed back and done. By my fifties I no longer owned a comb. There was no horror in going bald. I never observed my tresses slowly cascading off my shoulders in hand full’s, because they went one hair at a time, around the clock, 24/7. This is natures way of being humorous! Then you wake up one morning and look into the mirror at a gleaming scalp and scream out as if you had been robbed and molested all at the same time. Nature can really be cruel.

    Most men accept the curse as hereditary, as I did, but I did hold out hope of a 50-50 chance I might not go bald, as my mother was not bald. No such luck. I never did the comb-overs and if I tried today, I would have to use my nose hair as my cranium is fuzz challenged now. Wifey tells me I still look sexy and virile, but I’m sure she tells me those things to keep me from buying a toupee. Not that I ever would, mind you, as it smacks of taxidermy to me. I do wear a lot of hats, but not from vanity. Hats prevent sunburn in summer and chills in winter. The reason I wear hats around the house is because of bats!

    Right from the get-go, I need to say that being bald really isn’t an issue with me nor has it ever been. The fact that women weaken and go vaporous when first they view my gleaming plat or that children beg to have their little heads shaved once they set their beady little eyes on my gleaming magnitude, is not a matter that effects me. My baldness is not who I am. So what if I am exempt in matters of leading men in the movies or a rock star with flowing butt hanging tresses. Of course I could never be a commercial success as a front man for a hair gel line or do those infomercials for hair extensions.

    When I attended my 30th high school reunion, I was shocked to see that I was the only “truly” bald male there. At my 40th reunion the place looked like the melon section of the farmer’s market….nature takes no prisoners.  The way I see it, God only made a few perfect heads….the rest he covered in hair.

                                                                                     Charlie

      If you are close to 40, or even a little older, you might think this is hilarious! When I was a kid, adults used to bore me to tears with their tedious diatribes about how hard things were when they were growing up; what with walking twenty-five miles to school every morning….up hill!.….barefoot…BOTH ways? yadda, yadda, yadda. And I remember promising myself that when I grew up, there was no way in hell I was going to lay a bunch of crap like that on my kids about how hard I had it and how easy they’ve got it! Well…that’s bullshit! Now that I’m older than cave cheese, I can’t help but look around and notice the youth of today. YOU‘VE GOT IT FRIGGIN EASY!! I mean, compared to my childhood, you live in a damn Utopia! And I hate to say it, but you kids today, you don’t know how good you’ve got it!

    I mean, when I was a kid we didn’t have the Internet. If we wanted to know something, we had to go to the damn library and look it up ourselves, in the card catalog!! Plus, there was no email!! We had to actually write somebody a freakin letter – with a freakin pen! Then you had to walk all the way to the street and put it in the mailbox, and it would take like a week to get there! Stamps were 10 cents!

    Back then, Child Protective Services didn’t care if our parents beat us. As a matter of fact, the parents of all my friends, also had permission to kick our ass if we stepped out of line, because Child Protective Services only looked into cases of child cannibalism.

    There were no MP3′s or Napsters or iTunes! If you wanted to steal music, you had to hitchhike to the record store and shop lift it yourself! Phones?? I’ll tell you about damn phones! We didn’t have fancy crap like Call Waiting! If you were on the phone and somebody else called, they got a busy signal, and tough shit! There weren’t any freakin’ cell phones either. If you left the house, you were on your own. You actually had to be out of touch with your “friends”. OMG !!! Think of the horror… not being in touch with your BFF 24/7!!! And then there’s TEXTING. Yeah, right. Please! You kids have no idea how annoying you are while your totally engrossed in butchering the English language in order to let someone know where you are every moment of the freakin day!!!

    And we didn’t have fancy Caller ID either! When the phone rang, you had no idea who it was! It could be your school, your parents, your boss, your bookie, your drug dealer, the collection agent… you just didn’t know!!! You had to pick it up and take your freakin chances, dude!

    We didn’t have any fancy PlayStation or Xbox video games with high-resolution 3-D graphics! We had ”Pong”. Your screen guy was a little square! You actually had to use your imagination!!! And there were no multiple levels or screens, it was just one screen… FOREVER!! And you could never win. The game just kept getting harder and harder and faster and faster until you died! Just like LIFE!

    You had to use a little book called a TV Guide to find out what was on your 22” TV! You were screwed when it came to channel surfing! You had to get off your ass and walk over to the TV to change the damn channel!!! NO REMOTES!!! The closest thing to a remote we had was my little brother who had to sit in front of the TV and change one of the three stations when needed. There was no Cartoon Network either! You could only get cartoons on Saturday Morning. Do you hear what I’m saying? We had to wait ALL WEEK for cartoons, you spoiled little rat-farts!!

    And we didn’t have microwaves. If we wanted to heat something up , we had to use the stove! Holy Betty Crocker!! Imagine that! The dish washer was whomever’s turn it was to stand on the stool in front of the sink. And our parents told us to stay outside and play….all day long. There were no electronics to soothe and comfort our mushy minds. And if you came back inside….you were doing chores!

    And car seats – oh, please! Mom threw you in the back seat and you hung on. If you were lucky, you got her arm across your chest at the last moment if she had to stop suddenly, and if your head hit the dashboard, well that was your fault for calling “shot-gun” in the first place!

    You snot sleeves have got it too easy today. You’re spoiled rotten! You guys wouldn’t have lasted five minutes back in 1970 or any time before because the first time any of you said you never heard of “American Bandstand”….they would have arrested you as a Russian spy!

Regards,
Grand Pappy Charlie

CLOTHES MAKES THE MAN

    I taught school for several years and then went into management for the remaining years of my sanity. I had a respectable collection of sport coats and suits….too many to count. I had a drawer full of dress ties that you could have fabricated a rope from and climb down the side of the Grand Canyon. When I retired, I gave most all of my wardrobe to ‘Goodwill’.

    Retirement……yes! Now I do what I want, go where I want and dress the way I want. I’m a big guy, six foot tall and just this side of 300 pounds. My bulk served me well when I wrestled in college, but now I just serve my bulk.

    My current wardrobe consist of a multitude of shorts, (all earth tones), a dozen or so tank tops with multiple stains resembling a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. I also have a score of golf shirts and several beloved hats and caps, (I guess there’s a difference). For foot leather, I have two pairs of Dockers loafers and a nice pair of Nike’s I bought in 2003. I will never wear ‘flip flops’ as it makes me look like a sumo wrestler, duck walking down the sidewalk! I don’t wear thongs for fear of being in a traffic accident and I don’t wear boxers because my briefs are so old and stretched, that they look like boxers anyway, (Wifey’s comment, not mine). I don’t wear those ‘cargo shorts’, you know, the one’s just above the ankles, because I had to wear hand-me-down pants like that when I was ten and had no choice. And it also seems like every goofy clown in every circus has always worn goofy pants likethat for over a hundred years.

    I still have a few socks in several different shades of deep blue. The one suit I still have has a “VOTE FOR REAGAN” pin on it. Last of all, I do have a large assortment of bathing suits printed with Tahitian sunsets, soaring seagulls and star fish patterns. I never go to the beach anymore because I’m afraid I might drown a Liberal. However, I do swim in our pool at home almost everyday, but I never wear a bathing suit.…go figure…..but don’t dwell on the mental image too long as it may cause a brain regurgitation . Bad enough that half the squirrels have fell dead from heart attacks!

    Wifey, on the other hand, is a walking ‘clothing bazaar’. She always dresses well anytime she goes out like to the store, flea market, gas station, drive thru or yard sale. When we go out to eat, she has to get ‘Sex In The City’ perfect! Even at home when she works in the yard she must have the proper pair of shorts and top, coordinated yard shoes, appropriate hat to accommodate the current position of the sun and NEW garden gloves! I just sit in the shallow end of the pool with my beer and watch the squirrels fall from the trees.

    Wifey dresses perfect for any and all important occasions….whereas, I only dress up for weddings and funerals. I just wish they could combine the events.

DISCLAIMER:   If I’ve offended any friends or clowns on this site, I humbly ask your forgiveness and understanding for an old fart and his above average taste .

   It seems the politicians don’t want to talk about Afghanistan anymore. My nephew emailed me from KABUL and said the troops there are starting to voice some strong attitudes and opinions about the politicians back home in the U.S. They could care less about what party anybody belongs to, as long as the Afghan issue gets resolved, and soon. No one there wants the NATO forces and especially the American forces. It’s time to bring them all home….NOW!  

   AT THE CORNER OF SANE AND DORK

    I often sit on my front porch in the morning having my cup of coffee. As I sit, I observe the ebb and flow of humanity as it slugs up and down my street like a septic drain field. Young men driving by in their cars listening to some screecher rapping about his gonads being on fire and needing love moister to put it out….or something like that. As they cruise by, they’re gyrating and shaking their heads to the music like they’re transfixed in the middle of an exorcism and the demons are winning. Sometimes they’ll flick a cigarette butt out the window or maybe an empty can of Red Bull for me to pick up later and dispose of.

    Sometimes they have their girlfriends sitting next to them with their bare feet up on the dash and the pink and purpled haired bimbet will also be ratcheting her head back and forth to the music causing her multiple ear piercings to rattle like the corset on a belly dancer. Likewise, she’ll most likely toss a butt out the window along with a half empty Slurpee cup, which I’ll also have to pick up later.

    Then the mail-lady pulls up in her truck to fill my mailbox with AARP propaganda and ’OPEN IMMEDIATELY’ junk mail. She has weird symbolic tattoos from her wrist to her pits and what looks like a bloated rattle snake around her neck. She wears what’s called cargo pants, which covers her robust legs and hides whatever ink tapestries lurk there. Ralph, from across the street, says she’s a bull dyke lesbian that killed off her lover in prison years ago during a moment of autoerotic asphyxiation using the elastic from her knickers. I usually take gossip from Ralph with limited credibility, especially when I smell NyQuil on his breath.

    A landscaping truck rolls by with a dozen fence refugees riding in the back singing mariachi songs and tossing empty coffee cups over the side……to be picked up later. The guy driving the truck looks like a brown Pillsbury Doughboy with a bandito mustache. Across the dash of his truck is the reenactment of the Passion play done in plastic figurines surrounded by empty taco wrappers and coffee cups. Still….it’s good to see folks employed.

    Before I get off my butt to head inside for my Spam sandwich lunch, the FedEx truck stops in front of the house and this sweating little brunette Barbie leaps from the truck like a gazelle and comes skipping across my lawn with a package of goat cheese that Wifey ordered. The young lady hands me this electronic device and instructs me to scrawl my signature on it, and then she waves it over the package like some kind of voodoo ritual releasing spirits and then hands me the goat cheese. She then gives me a smile and a nod and prances back to her truck with her ponytail flopping. She’s most likely on meth, I figure.

    My street is just an average American street with average American neighbors living average American lives doing average American drugs. It’s the average American idiots that concern me the most, but at lease they live in Washington on our average American tax dollars. (Sorry about sneaking in that political jab).