Snakes on a Desert Plain

Snakes on a Desert Plain

I have a friend who is scared to death of snakes, as is the case with lots of folks.  A few weeks ago she was out in her yard doing a little landscaping and recoiled in horror as a she watched a black snake slither under her front porch.  End of landscaping session; start of frantic phone rant session.

“I hate snakes!  I hate snakes!” she shrieked into the phone for five minutes. Then she lifted the receiver and called me.

“I hate snakes!” she screamed again. “I hate ‘em!”

“What happened, did you see a snake or something?” I asked.

“Fuck you! I just saw a big-ass snake crawl under my porch!”

“That was just my pet snake, Reggie,” I reassured her. “Come on!  Show a little backbone will ya?”

Feeling confident that I had satisfactorily comforted her after hearing her final words of, “Can you PLEASE come over here and – ” <click> I hung up.

I have a few snake stories of my own. But most of them are of the "you-had-to-be-there" variety and also of the "dull" variety (no deaths), so I'll only relay a couple dozen of the good ones to you. Here’s one:

When I was in the Air Force stationed at godforsaken Edwards AFB in the Mojave Desert, I saw quite a few rattle snakes. Most of the rattlers I saw were sidewinders, which are very creepy and harder to run from than you might imagine.

I was once put on a week-long detail where about 50 of us were loaded into trucks and traveled about 30 or 40 miles out to a 1920s-era wooden shack in the middle of the Mojave to decontaminate a bombing range. The bombing range was to be converted into a parachute drop and it seems the Air Force didn't want any poor, unsuspecting paratroopers to land on any shrapnel or unexploded ordinance, so they sent our sorry asses out there to step on and remove as much shrapnel and unexploded ordinance as we could.

Anyway, the snakes -- they were everywhere!  Along with tarantulas and scorpions and all kinds of other indigenous wildlife personnel I'd never seen before. Between the various assortments of venom and the hidden, unspent ammo, I was pretty sure I was gonna die.

Well somehow, for some reason, somebody caught a sidewinder and managed put it into a burlap sack. A couple other wing nuts caught two scorpions and put them in a wooden-framed wire cage.  They were placed in the back of a pickup truck for safe keeping.

When we got back to the shack after a long day of bombing range decontamination, it was decided by mob rule that the scorpions needed company, so the cage lid was lifted and the contents of the burlap sack were emptied into it.

What transpired after that rivaled anything ever seen in "Them!" – the rattle snake and the scorpions, mano a mano. The snake coiling and striking and the scorpions grabbing the snake with their claws and stinging it endlessly with their barbed, poisonous tails. It was a hell of a sight. I’m talking PTSD stuff.

Then King Kong showed up in all his full stop-motion-animation glory, ate the snake and both scorpions, then made off with the pretty blonde screaming jeep driver. We never saw her again.

So my advice to all of you is to get out there and crawl under that deck or front porch on your belly with a flashlight and a burlap bag and show a little backbone, will ya?

Brave, PTSD-inducing scorpions "showing a little backbone"

The Hustler

The Hustler

I read "The Hustler" over about a 3-day period this week at work.  The boss was on vacation and there wasn't shit to do anyway. Hardly ever is.  Anyway, that's about the 3rd or 4th time I've read it.  There are some big differences between the book and the movie, as is usually the case, the main one here being that <spoiler alert> Sarah doesn't die.

I skimmed over it again today with a pen and pad beside me.  I did my best Evelyn Wood speed reading job on it because I wanted to see how many times the word "hustle" and all its derivatives appeared.  The book has 214 pages and some form of the word "hustle" appears 72 times.  So that averages out to about, what, once every...?  Hey you're the math genius, you tell me.  On page 160 it appears 4 times: hustle; hustling; hustlers; hustled. 

Now your job is to explain why. 

My daughter came into the room today and asked me why I was reading with a pad and pen next to me. When I told her I was counting how many times the word "hustle" appeared in the novel she said, "You have no life."  I told her to shut the hell up and go hustle us up some grub.  I actually meant to say go rustle us up some grub, but I'm sure you can see how I made that small slip.

I once read something about the inordinate number of times the word "green" appears in the book, "Deliverance," but I can't remember how many or why that was. Or how many times Ned Beatty acted like a sow instead of a boar in that one scene.  Or why the thing about a shark, it's got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eyes. . . .

Maybe I'll run that down tomorrow.

This scene not in movie -- but should be

Aaron Neville and John Boy Moles

Aaron Neville and John Boy Moles

I wish to hell Aaron Neville and John Boy Walton would take a hint and do something about those unsightly moles on their faces. 

You mean to tell me there's not some kind of laser procedure that would eradicate these evil epidermis splotches? These melanoma-inducing, woolly mammoth freckles; these rotted conjoined fetus covers; these La Brea tar pit-looking voluminous liver spots.

What, they can't make a trip to CVS and pick up some gauze bandages and some vanishing cream?  Makeup?  White-Out?  Paint?

I think I read somewhere – possibly in Variety or maybe the Bluefield Daily Telegraph – that John Boy finally succumbed to his deformity last summer at the age of 55.  It got to where the whole left side of his face looked like a giant tick about to pop and he began to look like he could be Batman's latest nemesis.

And that latitudinous lentigo above Aaron Neville's right eye – why, you could hide the Lindbergh baby under that thing.  You may have noticed Mr. Neville hasn't performed before any live audiences lately or even made any public appearances.  That's because his "thing" didn't expand the way John Boy's did; it extended outward and now very much resembles a Black Rat Snake trying to bore its way into a totem pole.

Perhaps, Dear Reader, you could assist with this tragedy before Mr. Neville's appendage reaches the ground lest he, too, suffers the fate of our beloved John Boy and the many unfortunates afflicted with this same malady. 

Walk-up Robbery

Walk-up Robbery

Typical Baltimore "perp" demonstrating proper walk-up robbery technique

A buddy of mine from down DC way read something in the Washington Post the other day about a brazen walk-up daytime robbery at an outdoor DC café.  He seemed a bit stunned by it all – especially the “at gunpoint” part – and thought enough of our friendship to advise/warn me to “get ready” because this type of thing will probably be coming to Baltimore soon.

Bitch, please.

Baltimore invented the brazen walk-up robbery.  Regardless of the fact that we have no outdoor cafés (brazen walk-ups being the principal reason for that dearth), in Charm City anybody can simply walk into an establishment, be it a bar, restaurant, bus station or perhaps even your home via the marble steps of your squalid rowhouse, and relieve you of your belongings without so much as laying a finger on their gun. They merely lift the front of their T-shirt a few inches, exposing their "chrome" and the deed is done quite simply, with an almost routine elegance about it.

And take note: "belongings" are not necessarily just money.  Could be anything – your watch, your shoes, your coat, your underwear (true story for another time) – any damn thing you have on you.

I can remember a time back in winter of ‘84, I was taking a lovely young lady out to dinner in Baltimore City.  She was looking fine, clad in her stylish, mid-80s rabbit fur jacket and above-the-knee black skirt with matching fuck-me pumps (yes they were also black and above the knee, so not exactly "pumps" I suppose).  I, being the style-conscious fashion plate that I was and still am, was nattily attired in my green, satin-finished USAF flight jacket, faded blue jeans and white Converse high-tops. We were out on the town.

It was a cold winter's night in the city, about 5:30pm and already very dark.  I didn't have any cash to tip the homeless so we had to stop at an ATM along the way.  In Baltimore this is known as "being a fucking idiot." This was somewhere over on the west side, another mistake.  My girl is standing there shivering with cold and, unbeknownst to me, also a little fear because at the time she was witnessing something that I wasn't.

As the money comes out of the ATM slot I hear what she is seeing.  And then, from behind, a man's voice, speaking lowly:

"I'll take that."

I turn slowly, yet coolly, to face the "perp" as we like to call them in B-more. (Actually we prefer using several other terms we have at our disposal, but for this story "perp", regardless of its inadequacy, will suffice.)

I continue to put the money into my wallet, then the wallet into my back pocket…

Now, I will mention again that this was in the mid-80s, back when I was in my late-20s and was still – in my mind – an invincible bad-ass.  I just stood there staring at the guy.  The gentleman robber took exception to this and gave me a look of stunned disbelief.  He was being "dissed", you see; a fairly common term back then, but one that is listed as "archaic" in today's Urban Dictionary, lest you felt the need to look it up.

                                 

Anyway, he stares at me and reiterates.

"I said I'll take that."

I spread my arms a little and say, "So take it."

No gun was shown. It was implied using unconvincing hand gestures, menacing glares, and just really poor, unacceptable body language. I wasn't buying it.  Some other words were spoken, but I can't remember them exactly.  Quite a few "muthafuckers" on his part; me saying some stupid shit like, "You said you were gonna take, so take it.  I'm not gonna just GIVE it to you."  I was daring him to take the money.

I do recall hearing whimpering sounds coming from the general direction of the rabbit fur, but not much else.  Finally something spooked the fucker and he ran off.

We continued on to the restaurant – the Owl Bar if I’m not mistaken – but my date had seemingly lost her appetite and apparently any desire for eye contact or conversation with me.  She had quite a few drinks and just kind of stared into her glass while I performed a monologue about the gaudy décor, openly questioned the gender of the bartender, and Christ why are there so many gay men in here?  I tried to lighten the mood with a Caddyshack-esque comment about jockey whip-marks on the steak being eaten at the table next to ours, but it was of no use.  She was inconsolable – nearly catatonic – the sniveling little twat.

So I drank my usual ten to twelve beers and we left without looking at a menu or each other.  Never saw her again.  This was only our second actual “date”, but I had already fucked her a couple of times in the weeks prior, so all ended well.  Actually couldn’t have planned it any better if I tried.

Pet Sematary and the Banshee Wail

Pet Sematary and the Banshee Wail

Several year ago I was dating a girl who had an extreme fear of horror movies and the number 666 (yeah, she was nuts). I think she had a bad experience after watching "The Omen" or something. Afterwards she apparently suffered from nightmares, night-terrors, oily discharge and a touch of PTSD.

Anyway, one night I somehow talked her into watching Pet Sematary as long as I promised not to “do anything to scare the shit out of me!"  So I said okay. But at no time did I use the word "promise".

I don't know if you've seen it, but there's a pretty creepy cat in that movie. Well this girl I was dating also had a cat.  (I'm setting the stage here, but you already know this because you are all writers and are up on such things.)

So we're well into the movie and the cat and many other things in it are creeping her out. Plus, at my insistence, we're watching it with the lights out, reinforced, of course, by my "promise".

At one point she has to go to the bathroom and actually makes me walk her there (for real).  So I hit pause on the DVD player, walk her to the bathroom and immediately go back to the living room, pick up her cat and hide alongside the doorway.

She comes out of the bathroom, whispering, "Where are you? Where are you!?"  

I don't answer.

She tip-toes to the living room doorway extremely on edge at which point I seize my opportunity as her protector and benefactor and shove her cat in her face while doing my best and loudest "RREEEEERRRRR!!" crazy cat imitation.

Well she screamed. She screamed so loud -- and LONG -- it scared the ever-lovin' shit out of me, too. There were white lightning bolts of electricity shooting through my eyes. My hair vibrated. I thought I was having a seizure. I wished someone would shove a handkerchief in my mouth so I wouldn't bite off my tongue.

It goes without saying the cat went ape-shit. He was flying all over the house, climbing up curtains, wooden bannisters, crashing into furniture and windows. I’m pretty sure at one point I saw him run across the ceiling. What he was saying, of course, was, "Get me the fuck outta here!" 

Just as with an earthquake, it's not so much the jolt of it that does the most damage, but the duration of that jolt. And so it is with the Banshee Wail.  Imagine somebody screaming for 10 seconds. Seriously, imagine a scream and then count off 10 seconds. It was horrifying. And, I must say, rather amusing (after the fact, of course).  Amusingly horrifying. Horrifyingly amusing. You decide.

I think we broke up after that, at least that's what they told me in the ICU when I came to three days later. Least ways, I never saw her again.

But I’ve seen the cat many times: in my nightmares, in my night terrors, and sometimes even in my oily discharge.

The World’s Biggest Booger

The World’s Biggest Booger

Had a little too much to drink last night and I made with a little liquid burp.  I hate that.  It made my throat sore. Actually it was a big liquid burp.  But it was the smell as I wiped my chin off with my forearm that got me to thinking of the last time I blew chow.

It's been 17 years now, but I still remember it like it was yesterday. Or maybe the day before yesterday, whatever works here.

I was alone (as is my custom) sitting at the bar of a waterside restaurant called The Fisherman’s Inn. I was drinking heavily (another favorite custom).  I was lonely and needed someone to talk to, so I ordered a steak.  As usual the steak just laid there. In other words, a typical date for me.

After several minutes of awkward silence, I politely excused myself and headed to the men’s room where my plan was to slip out of the restaurant quietly, sticking the steak with its own check. However, guilt got the better of me, as well as the fact that I left a $20 bill and my car keys on the bar, so I returned.

I’ll make this next part quick – I woofed the steak like a dog in an Alpo commercial that had been on a forced 6-day fast.  I don’t even think I chewed it.  More about that later.

With my non-talkative date now gone, more beers were guzzled.  I got drunk as hell.  By the time I got home, my reeling head told me it was time to purge. Hurl. Puke. Vomit. Heave. Upchuck. Make some curbside quiche. Make a platform pizza. A Technicolor yawn.  Oh yeah, and barf.

So barf I did. The kitchen sink seemed to be the most convenient place, since I was already laying on the countertop. When it finally came to a merciful end, my head cleared a little and I crawled off to sleep on the kitchen table (you guessed it, another custom).

Cleaning the sink the next day was sweet, with it being full of dirty – I mean dirtier – dishes. The task was not as hard as you might think, due to the large amounts of hydrochloric stomach acid which assisted in the melting away of weeks-old dried gravy, hardened pasta, and cement-like grits that constituted most of the crap on the plates.

Okay, so I cleaned the sink, countertop, etc.  Went and cleaned myself up, too, by way of taking my weekly shower a day early.  What the hell, right?  In for a penny….

Anyway, even after all the cleaning of house and self, the funny thing was I kept smelling puke.  Everywhere I went.  I’m walking around the house going, “What the hell?  Did I miss a spot?”  Couldn’t find any stray vomit anywhere.

As the day went on, not only am I still smelling it, but my throat is getting sore.  My nose starts to run.  I grab a paper towel to blow my nose, and out comes the biggest goddamn booger you ever saw in your life.  It was a piece of the partially chewed steak, stuck up in my sinuses from the big chunk-blowing session from the night before. 

I looked at it with a combination of awe and disgust. It was huge. It was the size and color of an unpitted prune, size XL. How in the hell could this thing have possibly fit through my nostril?  It was unreal.  It appeared to have a little A-1 sauce on it, too, which is unusual only in that I didn’t have A-1 Sauce with the steak.

It is said that of all the five senses the sense of smell is the strongest trigger for evoking powerful and vivid memories. Sadly, I couldn’t agree more.

The horror….the horror….

Craigslist personal ad response, #1

Craigslist Personal Ad Response to Pretentious Bitch, #1 in a series

I sometimes peruse the Craigslist-personal-ads (Women-Seeking-Men) looking for something obnoxious in order to exercise my smart-ass muscles. Here is a recent verbatim posting followed by my response beneath it:

Reclusive debutante seeks squire - w4m – 42

I am an attorney with my own practice. I have a public, political family but I value my privacy. So I don't get out much. I much prefer going to Leadbetters than to Inaugral Balls. Also, being single, it is very hard to go to events without an escort. So I am looking for a friend who would be interested in going to some of these things that are comming up..My Lady's Manor..Grand National, some gala for a disease in May etc.

You gotta like this stuff. You have to be able to schmooze with rich people, eat with the right fork, have manners, the right clothes, etc. All of which really kinda sucks, that's why I don't like to do it. But my business depends on it. I need to network cause I am raising dough for the USO and Cheasapeake Habitat for Humanity.

Even though I went to the best schools US dollars can buy, drank-with-Clinton (he did not hit on me), I am very down to earth, authentic. I am not impressed by money and can spot a bullshit artist a mile a way. I am also charming and charismatic (when needed) funny, and smart. If you need a reference, ask Fons at Leadbetters.

**********************

(My smart-ass response) --

In response to your message posted on craigslist, allow me to make a few minor spelling corrections for the attorney who went to the best schools US dollars can buy:

Inaugral = Inaugural

comming = coming

Cheasapeake = Chesapeake

schmooze = kiss ass in order to gain an advantage or make a connection that will ultimately remove money from one party's bank account and transfer it to another's.

And what's all this about eating with the "right fork"?  Who the hell uses a fork at an Inaugural Ball? The last Inaugural Ball I attended where a fork was used was for Baltimore County's Seventh District Councilman John Olszewski at the Battle Grove Democratic Club in Dundalk and the fork was used to stab a rat that was hiding in the string bean casserole.

Oh yeah, and I checked with Fons and he said he never heard of you.

So, what disease in May are we attending a gala for and is it contagious?