Sunday, January 13, 2013
Shake Hands With Beef!
January 27, 2006
Howdy folks, I’m lakrfool. I was flattered by an email from our own Internet funnyman Jeff Kay where he asked me if I would like to write a column for the WVSR. After wiping away the tears of joy tinged with shame, I accepted, and treat it as a high honor, Summa Cum Funny. I would first like to thank all of the little people that made this possible…Mr. Barty, Mr. Villachaize, Muggsy Bogues, the Oompa Loompas and the Lollipop Guild.
I currently utilize public transportation in the Dallas Metropolex, where I too am an ugly American living on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, with the Missus, a he-cret and a little she-crette in tow. When I’m not shaking my fist at the TV pleading for Kobe Bryant to pass the basketball, or trolling the Internet for images of shirtless lumberjacks, I will share with you some of the tales I have accumulated over the years in and around this fine state, along with observations on the mundane and dangerously retarded, and some rants worthy of giving an auctioneer with Tourette’s Syndrome a run for his money. It seems I made my mark in these parts with some painstakingly detailed toilet humor, so until I get my sea-legs with this column, I’ll stick with the tried-and-true formula for my first offering.
I came home recently one fine day for lunch break, and to my surprise no one was home. The peacefulness of the empty house paired with lunch on the horizon made it seem like a good time to expel the Jethro Bodine sized bowl of Grape Nuts Flakes I had enjoyed earlier that morning.
With Sports Illustrated in hand, I set about my business. The articles were entertaining, and the mission was seemingly a swimming success, until I cut my eyes over to the toilet paper holder, and I could see there was going to be trouble. Wrapped tightly around the cardboard tube, I could see there was only about 3-4 plys of TP to be had, and any full-sized man can tell you that’s not going to be NEARLY enough for the job. Fate was plotting against me, as there was no one else around to beckon for a fresh roll.
Using some creative folding paired with skilled multi-directional wiping techniques (Wu Tang style,) I was able to do a fair job with the available paper and avoid an all out smear-a-thon, but there were still some Klingons that needed to be evacuated from the neutral zone.
I pondered the always fun exercise of going through the house with your pants around your ankles in search of some sort of wiping implement, but decided against it. There was always the off chance that my wife could be hosting some sort of impromptu Tupperware party, and they would be opening the front door just as I was making a break for it. And then there’s always Jeff’s fear of becoming a Fark link…I could just see the CSI team in my living room, standing over my half-naked lifeless body after I tripped over my pants and broke my neck on the coffee table, with David Caruso probing a piece of toilet paper with metal tongs, saying something like “there was no sign of forcible entry or foul play, but this guy DID have corn-on-the-cob and something with pimentos in it for dinner last night.” No, that wasn’t going to be an option today.
Now we have two bathrooms in our house, Men’s and Women’s. The he-cret and I share the one with the shower, while the Missus and the she-crette share the one with the bath for convenience and sanitary considerations. (*ahem*) The young Jedi has still not mastered his light saber and is not the 'neatest' person when it comes to toilet related activities. For that purpose, we keep some baby wipes handy for him to do some spot cleanups when necessary. But alas the wipes were not at their station on the back of the toilet, nor were they stashed under the sink… the Dookie Gods were conspiring against me….I just knew it.
At this point, the McGuyver instincts kicked in and I started to scan the bathroom for some makeshift TP. The trash can is always a good source for a TP substitute, so that's where I first checked. Eureka!! Therein was what appeared to be some discarded baby wipes whose moisture had evaporated. Upon closer inspection they appeared to be quite clean, so I deemed them worthy for the task 'at hand.'
Success. The “all clear” siren sounded, and I returned the SI to its rightful place, flushed, zipped, buckled and was on my merry way. However, my Spidey sense was tingling, and I knew something was awry. Turns out my Spidey sense was nestled in my ass crack, and the tingling quickly escalated to a burning...a fierce, violent burning at that. What could it be?? It must have been....NO!!! Please God no!!!
I returned to the scene of the crime...the bathroom trash. I remembered there were other discarded wipes...but these were no baby wipes! After more rummaging, I spied at the bottom of the trash an empty towelette dispenser of Orange Kleen, so those were not harmless kiddie wipes but cleaning sheets that had once been saturated in that oh-so-effective Orange Kleen citrus cleaner!! The Missus must have cleaned the Men’s room recently, and there lay the evidence! The vigorous rubbing had activated the dried citric acid in the wipes...if you have ever been eating an orange and you accidentally bend the peel to where the citric acid squirts in your eye, imagine that burning times 100… up your ass. Sweet Lord, the pain was not showing any signs of leveling off. For a moment there, I wished a lit a match and burned the residue off instead of trying to wipe it clean.
I undressed in what must have been less than 10 seconds and bolted for the shower. With the cold water on full blast, I bent over to receive its sweet cooling glory...when it initially 'hit the spot' I swear I heard it sizzle. So there I was spread eagle in the shower, humming Johnny Cash to myself, as the BTU's in my ass eventually lowered to an acceptable level. I dried myself off very gingerly, and put on my underwear, which at that time housed the cleanest asshole in three counties, if not the world itself.
So let that be lesson to you. I created this little couplet that you too can use to avoid such a situation: Before you have a seat on the bowl Look around and check for a roll.
You and your ass can thank me later.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Shake Hands With Beef!
February 8, 2006
I really wanted to make a break from the trend of toilet humor in my second column…to let the WVSR readers know that I wasn’t a weirdo that was so totally focused on that particular brand of juvenilia. But over the weekend, I had an experience that must be shared. I had never thought these types of stories that you read on the Internet were true, until I had a unique encounter of my own…
So I was doing my pre-Super Bowl Saturday errands, and happened to stop by the Tom Thumb Flagship Grocery in Plano en route to the casa for a few items. Chips, dip, and the essential foodstuffs needed to fuel a Super Sunday. Starbucks was doing its’ job however, and I needed a place to do business, and here I was at this busy and trendy spot.
Now, unlike our fearless leader Jeff, I will take a dump somewhere just because. It’s surely some hyperretarded alpha male instinct, and probably just a matter of “marking turf.”
(Since the Steelers won the title, I will give up props to my buddy and former roommate, Doug H, the king of the random dump, for punching one out at the U Pitt dive bar “Chief’s” during a busy Friday night in the late 80s. A foot on the door for security, and I think he might have been hitting on a with it slightly ajarS. Totally shameless and beautiful all at once.)
But I digress.
I go into the facilities at said upscale grocery thinking I might add it to my “pelt.” I hit the men’s room with optimism, but was soon turned back violently. With extreme violence.
Rounding into the back stall of the Man’s room, it was one of those moments where all of your senses go into a revolt of disbelief, and you nearly fall over…not sure whether to furiously vomit aloud, or just squint and go ‘Nam style like it was just another day “in the shit.” Appearances indicated I had barely missed the Ex-Lax Chili Cookoff’s winner of the ”Cool Hand Luke” Boiled Egg Showdownthey must have had out in the parking lot just before I got there.
The word “horrific” has never been more applicable than it was when I witnessed in the contents of this stall…it was a most terrific brand of horror.Sweet Sainted Mother Of(-JK) Hoss Cartwright , Frank Cannon, and a flat of prune danishes!! There in the back stall, it looked like a mortar shell full of French onion soup had found paydirt at the right angle where the toilet joins the tile wall, and in finding said paydirt , had created a foul, foul brand of mud.
I whipped around and staggered out of the bathroom like an over-dramatic James Dean, blindly grasping for someone or something to offer support. When my senses finally came to, I was near the pharmacy desk, and felt that it was my civic duty as an American to report that a savage act of terrorism had been committed in the men’s bathroom.
Eventually , I was able to regain my composure and refocus on the errand at hand. However, as I navigated my cart about the store, instead of openly mocking all of the self-absorbed yuppies whimsically hogging an entire aisle with random stops and starts, I instead wondered how the government was going to deal with the carnage in the men’s bathroom. I hurried about the place with my shopping list before all lanes were closed, and a team of HAZMAT specialists secured the area.
But it never happened. Out of curiosity, I doubled back to the restrooms to see if this issue was being dealt with covertly, as not to alarm the public. As I closed in, what I saw instead of police tape and Men In Black, was a couple of teenage bagboys, strapped with facemasks, rubber gloves, and mops next to a janitor’s cart.
Those poor young bastards would be the first to see Dresden after the firebombing…it would be their own “Slaughterhouse Five” that they would have to deal with for the rest of their lives. God bless their souls.
So I wheeled my cart over their way and confessed that I WAS THE ONE that had reported this profane act to the proper authorities. Somehow, I was to blame for their impending gruesome task, but I needed their blessing before I could travel on. I had indirectly thrust this unenviable task upon them, but I was not Major Asscannon.
“This happened before.” Said the elder yet pimpled management oriented employee. “It looks like the same shit I had to clean up 2 weeks ago.” So there was a pattern developing here. Yes, once again the CSI Team would roll into the scene, put the pharmacy on lockdown, and David Caruso would survey the damage, also proclaiming that the “spray pattern” was similar to those he had encountered before. Now it was a job for the “Rectal Ballistic Team” to see if they could make a match…assholes are like guns, or snowflakes you know, they are all different. Can you “dust for shit,” or is that like a Spinal Tap drummer vomit scenario??
Whatever the case, I bid those unfortunate young fools godspeed, but not before we hypothesized what kind of menu a maniac like that could have ingested to give birth to such foulness (4 McD’s double cheeseburgers, a box of Raisin Bran, and a gallon of Green Apple Cider…for the record.) After that, I was on my way to the checkout line.
So, the rest of the weekend went as planned, but I was a bit shaken as a result of this trauma…sometimes I couldn’t stop imagining the various types of explosive diaharrea that douchebags around the nation would experience during Superbowl weekend, and the poor souls that would be forced to deal with the aftermath.
Just remember good people of the WVSR, that your “Superbowl Party” is another incontinent and inconsiderate man’s “Pooper Bowl Farty,” maybe even up against YOUR tile wall. Let the chips fall where they may.
Smitty Werbenmenjensen (aka- #1)
Shake Hands With Beef!
March 13, 2006
LF Meets Wilt
On the “seeing a celebrity in the bathroom” topic from Thursday, I’m going to stretch the premise a bit, and tell you the story of meeting my childhood idol in a locker room.
As I have previously divulged, I have been a diehard Lakers fan since their majestic ’72 Championship Run. Wilt Chamberlain and West Virginia favorite son Jerry West (AKA- Zeke from Cabin Creek) were my idols, but especially so with Wilt…he was so much bigger than life, and in my young mind, his legend (100 pts in a single game?!) made him a god of sorts to me. In a box somewhere in the attic of my old house, my Mom has a glued pasta likeness of Wilt Chamberlain that I made in Baptist Sunday School as a wee lad of four. Making the number 13 in macaroni shapes is tough for a kid that age, but through the process of creativity and steely reserve, I was able to manage it.
Fast forward a year or two into the Christmas season of ‘74, and I'm nearly 7 years old. The family trip was to see my aunt in San Antonio over the holiday Break. She was the manager of some “nice” apartments where Red McCombs’ elderly mother lived. Red McCombs was a very successful car dealer, and the owner of the newly founded San Antonio Spurs of the ABA…he was quite a big wheel in the Alamo City. As a courtesy, my aunt checked up on Red’s mom for him daily to make sure that she hadn’t fallen and couldn’t get up, and to reciprocate, Red would hook her up with various fringe benefits, including good deals on Chryslers, and courtside Spurs tickets when I came to town, because I was (and still am) a hoops junkie.
The San Diego Conquistadors were in SA for a game during the holidays at the old Hemisfair Arena, and Wilt happened to be the interim head coach for San Diego at the time. This was my chance to see my Laker idol in the living flesh (my bedroom was wall-to-wall posters of Wilt, Logo, and the Bucks era Kareem/Lew Alcindor) and hopefully get his autograph…I was beyond psyched. Our seats were choice, center court about 5 rows back from the scorer’s table.
I was there with my 2 older sisters, the elder of which was quite a looker back then. Six feet, blonde, blue eyes, full lips, lots of curves...about in her mid-20s. This brother who was seated behind the Conquistador's bench had been digging on her with some eye contact, and eventually decided to come over and get his mack on.
Before you know it, we find out that he's one of “Wilt's homeboys,” and he can hook me up with a trip to the dressing room after the game to meet Wilt and get his autograph. It all seemed a ruse just to get in her pants, but she worked it properly and won favor with him in case he was legit, just so I could meet Wilt. I was on the verge of spontaneously combusting in my stadium seat.
The Conquistadors wound up losing badly, and as the final buzzer sounded, the big moment was upon me... time to meet the “Big Dipper.” Homeboy was good on his word, and escorted me to the visitor's dressing room. Upon opening the door, it was a long, very narrow dressing room with lockers along either wall, wooden benches in front of the lockers, with roughly 4-5 feet between the benches, forming a narrow passageway through the middle. But there at the end of it all in front of a chalkboard stood Wilt the Stilt, talking Xs and Os to one of the players, illuminated by the chalkboard lights as if he were some sort of a shiny oversized double-knit polyester god.
Now as I was walking alongside my new friend in that long narrow area between the benches towards the Holiest of Wilts, homeboy was calling guys out by name and giving brother fists and fives and shit along the way, and in doing so drawing some attention to us as we passed through. Keep in mind I was 6 yrs old, blonde-hair, blue-eyes, and barely waist high to many of these huge physical specimens in various states of undress.
For the sake of clarity, I must divulge that my Dad was a high school basketball coach at the time, and as a lad I was a permanent fixture in the gym during practices and games. I had already seen a fair share of penises en route to and from the showers, so it was no big deal for me. However, the school he coached at was very suburban, very Texas, very white.
And lo, as fate would have it, I walked right past some brother right as he dropped his jock, and at least 6 inches of flaccid, uncircumcised Alabama blacksnake seemed to leap out at the side of my head from its’ mesh cotton trap. I swear I heard it cut through the air, like some sort of low-budget kung-fu movie, as it swooshed right by my ear.
Involuntarily, I whipped my head around to behold this marvel. My eyes went as wide as saucers, and I suppose my jaw hit the floor. Even as we kept walking, I craned my neck to stare at it some more as we went by…it was horrific…horrible and terrific all at once. If you had one of those Tootsie Roll change banks when you were a kid, and wondered if there was actually a Tootsie Roll that big, the answer is yes. Sweet Sainted Mother Of(©JK) Rocco Siffredi!!
A couple of other players on the team had noticed my predickament, and started to bust a gut laughing on the little white boy who got scared by “Player X's” monster johnson. Then a couple of other guys noticed (including the owner of said dick) and they began to guffaw as well. By the time I get to Wilt, he is laughing too, and I just stand in front of him and stare up at him, program and pen extended, agog with total shock and awe.
Wilt asks me my name, whereupon I somehow remembered and told him in a cracking and nervous voice. He signs my program, tousles my tow-headed mop, acknowledges my newfound brother-friend with a 70s jive handshake and salutation, and sends me on my way.
As I then turn, I realize I must begin the long walk back towards yonder door, down this longest valley of freak schlongs. I keep my eyes firmly fixed upon the polished concrete floor before me, in order to avoid another such embarrassing spellbinding encounter. Yet this opposite action also gets a round of chuckles to my dismay. I then make my exit swiftly, clutching the freshly inked program hard against my chest, obviously traumatized, and in desperate need of the comfort of a tall glass of chocolate milk and a grilled cheese sandwich.
The new brother-friend returned me to my sisters waiting outside in the arena corridor, whereupon his overtures were stopped abruptly, and we made our way to the parking lot. He had been played for a sucker by my sister, but I suppose to him it was worth a shot forsome o’ dat.
And although I was richer one much coveted Wilt autograph, I was also a bit wiser about the world and the way things are. Holy crap…I had met “The Stilt.”
Shake Hands With Beef!
May 15, 2006
Sorry for the long delay between updates, but I've been mentally shitting the bed in an explosive manner outside of my usual daily routine (work, commute, family…and as much precious, precious SLEEP as I can squeeze in.) I'm just not as clever as people such as Jeff Kay that keep a portable notebook and pen on their person at all times, so when 'the funny' strikes them, be it at a grocery store, barbershop, or ethnically themed dildo factory managed by retards and handicapped people, I would be armed and easily able to transcribe and share with others my crippling witticisms.
Nope, I've just been holding down the fort and wasting sweet comedy on unappreciative audiences in lines at 7-11, stoplights, on the DART rail to and from work, or with my immediate nuclear family. A total waste. In defense of mine however, they are either too young or too offended (or both) to give me some love, but still I persevere.
Speaking of immediate family, the Lakrfool family unit made the pilgrimage back to "The Heart O' Texas" for Easter to see my Mom and the rest of the family. My 'momz' (for those in ATL) is an old-school Southern Baptist lady of the highest order. This is both sweet, nostalgic, and somewhat annoying all at the same time. There are certain constants with her that exist, just as the sun rises in the East and sets in the West, and we got a sampler platter over a couple of days, and I have gleaned a few Easter stories to share.
I honestly can't think of a time in ages (save Thanksgiving when turkey rules the roost) when I went with the assembled LF unit to visit my Mom, and we weren't greeted at the front door with warm hugs, kisses, and the smell of seared porcine flesh hanging heavy in the background. Ham. Always ham. And whenever we get inside the house, she asks if we are hungry, because she "just cooked a 'hay-um'," (the way she says "h-a-m", more than one syllable, but less than two, smothered in a sweet glaze with a hint of a pineapple drawl, is truly a conundrum ) Without fail, there is a ham, some sort of jello (or 'congealed') salad, and if not incorporated into the jello salad, another concoction with cream cheese. I'm not complaining though…I grew up with these items as a staple of my diet, so it's comfort food for me, and the he-cret loves him some hay-um. The missus gives the whole affair the Spock eyebrow, which is fair…not every person can warm up to Mom's idea of a righteous spread.She got the jello salad gene from my grandmother, a very reserved 2nd generation German immigrant who lived her entire life on a farm, and never lived more than a 10 mile radius from where she was born (sort of like a deer.) Whenever we would visit the farm, "Memo" would have made a lime jello salad that incorporated fruit cocktail, pecans, and tiny marshmallows. This was a constant even years before I was born. Once my older sisters were enjoying the salad for dessert before my time, and the elder of them made the younger (about 8 or 9 at the time) laugh in such a manner, that jello salad was forced through her nose, which in itself is fantastic comedy (green jello out the nostrils is pure gold) but it didn't end there. A couple of days later on the 3 hour trek home, the younger sister kept inquiring "what smells??" No one else was able to detect anything, and after they had been home for a couple of days and the questions didn't cease about the smell, Mom took her to the doctor. After a few questions and a probe of her sinuses, the doctor got out some tweezers and extracted a rotting pecan half wedged in her nostril. Thus ended the mystery of "what smells."
I'm going to switch gears from the "Momz"/Easter talk (more to come on that front) and transfer venue to the NBA. My Lakers choked on a fat Molson Golden, backbacon, and kruller turd squeezed down their throat courtesy of that fantastic Canadian asshole MVP Steve Nash (I actually love him). After the Lakers were up 3-1 in the opening series, they rolled over like bitches to receive their destiny most heartily up the wazoo. Jeezus that hurt to watch that ragged out chump Tim Thomas be suddenly blessed and steal a victory from the jaws of defeat in Game 6, but the Lakers weren't supposed to be there anyway, so I will make a feeble attempt to consider the season "a success." (That's like considering every day that you go to work and manage not to shit yourself "a success.") I pine for the Laker leadership of WV Favorite Son Jerry West and his dynastic championship ways. Current Lakers GM Mitch Kupchak just discovered the wonder of his thumbs, and will draft/sign the first player he sees with comparable opposable digit phenomenon (Kwame Brown not included.)
And speaking of LA basketball, check this shit out!! This is either what is commonly referred to as "dirty pool" against Clipp center Chris Kaman, or Sonic Reggie Evans needs to find a more subtle way to overcome his latent homosexual desires he had as a child during the holidays for the Abominable Snowman and not claw away at the junk of the biggest, hairiest, whitest cracker he can find. What the fuck was that impromptu neutering all about?? So much for the "Win A Dream Date With Reggie Evans" promotion Denver was going to have. It also gives new meaning to the phrase "Reggie Evans plays with the Nuggets." Whatever the case, Reg is watching Kaman in the playoffs from his DTV at home, so justice gets served to that dirty package groper.
That will have to do for now, but there is more to come.
Hercules Rockefeller Esq.
Shake Hands With Beef!
May 24, 2006
This past week I was barreling down a hill on my bicycle riding home from work, and had to suddenly squeeze the brakes for some yuppie asshole that rolled his BMW right into the middle of the crosswalk. It was a close call, and I managed not to fully t-bone that dent resistant feat of Bavarian engineering, but I did bump him while skidding down the ramp to the crosswalk that led directly into his driver side door.
This startled him, and oblivious to his lawbreaking maneuver, he launched into a hand waving, pantomiming frenzy peppered with some "what the fuck?"..and I shouted back something to the effect of "keep your wealth out of our crosswalk you yuppie doucheclod!" I also fingered the latch on my u-lock in case Biff decided his triple frap had given him the energy to jump out and be a hero, but I was able to roll on without any escalation or further BS. As I pedaled on, cooling down and reflecting on the brake testing experience, it reminded me of another encounter I once had…
A few years ago when we lived in Atlanta , the family trekked up to the Smoky Mountains where we had rented a cabin one Spring weekend. While there, we were taking in a scenic drive to Helen. On an impulse we decided to exit off the main highway and drive up to the peak of Brasstown Bald, one of the highest mountains in Georgia.
As we turned left off of the highway, I noticed a big white Cadillac pulled over by the exit lane from the park. The hood was down, yet the car was smoking unbelievably from underneath the front. I then noticed a somewhat elderly, portly black lady waddling back in the direction of the main entrance. The Boy Scout in me immediately wheeled around to see if I could be of any assistance.
As I pulled over and rolled close to the car, the strong, acrid smell of burning chemicals hit my nose, and I deduced it was definitely some sort of brake issue. As I was walking up to the car, a younger yet heftier lady emerged from the car.
"Are you OK??" I asked.
"We's OK, our brakes is jes' hot" she replied.
These brakes were more than just hot, something was not
"Do you think your emergency brake might be on??" I asked.
She looked back into the car floorboard and checked.
"No, it aint on" she said, gesturing towards the pedal.
As I approached the car to verify this, I noticed a large brother riding shotgun, and yet another sizable gal was nearly wall-to-wall in the back seat alone.
"Are you going to be OK, or do you me to get a park ranger to come down??" I asked. We were definitely out of cell phone range to call up any form of roadside assistance.
"No we 'aight, we's jes' gonna wait a li'l while 'til they cool off" she said, and then thanked me for my concern. It seemed as if she already knew what the issue was, and time was the remedy.
So I jumped back in the LF-mobile, and we entered the park. The road was lined with tall trees that led into a sharp left turn. As we rounded the curve, the road suddenly shot up to what seemed like a 45 degree angle to climb the hill. I had to shift down to second to negotiate
the steep winding road, and it was roughly 4 miles to the summit from there.
It was at that time that I thought back to the plight of my chunky friends in the smoking Caddy at the bottom of the mountain, and I started considering the laws of physics that were at play while they made their descent. After some postulating, I came up with the following conclusion:
If you were to load a car with 30 cubic feet of soul food and give it a 25mph freefall start down a steep decline, the car would need brake pads the approximate size of a 20 pound ham hock to have any chance of harnessing the runaway cargo.
Sweet Lord!!! If she didn't shift her car into low gear, that poor Caddy's brakes must have gotten absolutely white hot and boiled the brake fluid from the constant pressure and friction needed to keep
the car from barreling through a protective rail and exploding in a fiery ball on some canyon floor, showering the park with a hailstorm of random car parts, charbroiled fatty tissue, and smoldering Mrs. Winners boxes.
As we then started our journey down from the lookout point, there were numerous warning signs of the 'SHIFT INTO LOW GEAR' variety. I had issues keeping our Volvo in check as we descended the summit, whining between gears. I really have to give it up to the engineers at Cadillac for going above and beyond industry standards with respect to the suspension and braking systems that they implemented on their late 90's models. Truly exceptional workmanship that we as Americans can...nay...SHOULD be proud of.
Back to my bicycle commute, I roll past this place every day leaving from work en route to the DART station. What the fuck is up with that?!? Isn't it already implied that the condoms would be "to go?!?" Maybe during a previous time, a guy bought a pack, and then threw his slab up on the counter, rolled one on, and asked the cashier what time her break was. Or perhaps the shop once had 3-way mirrors where you could scope your junk all nicely wrapped and snug in latex…"oh dear, this fuchsia colored number with raised spirals makes me look fat… I'LL TAKE A CASE!!" I dunno, it remains a mystery why the proprietors elected to hang their rubber store with such an obvious moniker.
Oh well…see ya in the funny papers.
Anton van Leeuwenhoek
Shake Hands With Beef!
October 29, 2007
FORECAST: A CHANCE OF SHOWERS
I'm going to shelve my incredibly bizarre dream sequence (starring Scatman Crothers!) I had planned for my next offering and chime in on Buck's highly scarring topic of junior high showers. This began as a Haloscan entry, but quickly grew into a full blown column the more I reminisced. (I know…it's about fucking time.)
My pops was a basketball coach and I had seen my fair share of swinging dicks in the locker room, so I had been desensitized to the noodification of it all. However, I was in 6th grade in
East Texas for my first public shower experience, and at that age young men are in various stages of "development." There was about a 50/50 ratio of blacks to whites, so there were those physiological differences to consider as well. Showers were not mandatory, but occasionally after a heated match of dodgeball, the coach would strongly suggestshowers.
There was a young brother named Heath who was a good athlete and excelled in all the PE activities (especially dodgeball,) but that wasn't all he had going for him. On the first quasi-mandatory shower day, Heath dropped his jock, threw a towel over his shoulder & paraded through the locker room showcasing a very impressive uncircumcised work of God. The thing looked like a summer sausage as it slapped from thigh to thigh attracting many looks and much gravity.
Now I had been 'exposed' to such things over my 12 years as a basketball coach's son, but many of my pale comrades had not. This was 1980 in the South, and there was still a division between races, and for many another difference was realized. Slack jaws and bug eyes were in abundance amongst the pasty contingent…yes, it was a rude lesson in the ways of the world for many that day, the rumors were true. Then as Heath and his Duraflame log disappeared into the fog of the showers, you could sense attention shifting back to one selves, the harsh reality that many frightened albino turtles would soon be required to join in on the schlong parade.
I can only imagine the horrific sense of fear and intimidation many in the Caucasian nation must have felt that day. Not only had Heath left a welt with the pattern of a 4-square ball on your milky thigh earlier that day, but now he would further demoralize you by waggling his savage jungle wiener in your face. The humanity!! There your tighty whiteys housed a Vienna sausage perched upon a hairless walnut, and soon everyone would know. Perhaps even when you disrobed, all the nude pubescents would huddle around you, point at your unimpressive package and laugh aloud, their junk bouncing up and down at each guffaw seemingly mocking you. Oh, there were many deer frozen in the headlights of the Wienermobile on that day.
I sensed the disturbance in the force and realized I should somehow intervene….by showing my dick. I was fairly popular and well-liked across the board among my peers, so perhaps my genitals could serve as a bridge between black and white, pubes vs non-pubes…aneveryman's penis if you will (I really don't like the way that sounds.) Now I was a far cry from Rocco Seffredi, in fact, I was what coaches might refer to as a "late bloomer" and was still pretty early on in the maturation process. As I said, I had been desensitized to the whole process, so I had little reservation displaying my bald soldier and marching to the showers.
I guess it worked to a certain degree. The showers began to take on a few more freshly freed penises in various stages of development…dongs, stubbies, peters, wangs…it was all good. If my actions on that day were enough to liberate one, just one penis out of its cotton prison and give the owner a shot of confidence, then my mission was accomplished. Over time the others became desensitized as well, even to the degree that a perverted form of origami began to develop, featuring such offerings as "the fruit basket," "the Elvis," "the foldover," "the snail," and so on.
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to undersell the dick. When it comes to the fairer sex, it's all about the dick. The hygiene, the posturing, the sell, the presentation, the appearance, the performance…all of these revolve around the magic wand. The penis has the power to overpower the brain and cause men to accomplish incredible feats of stupidity. It can make women convulse, scream your (or someone else's) name aloud, and see visions of God when used properly...and if you can do that, then brother, that's one powerful tool. However, as a heterosexual male, I guess the difference is that around women, the penis has the potential to be an almighty thing that can bring intense pleasure to all parties involved. But, when you're in locker room changing clothes and showering around a bunch of other dudes, it's just a dick.
And ladies, you are free to enjoy my column whenever you want...
Shake Hands With Beef!
July 10, 2006
I’m trying to hit on the WVSR topics of the past week, so bear with me…Fireworks**
When I was about 10 we lived in Far West Texas in a town called Alpine. A trip to the fireworks stand there was always good for bottle rockets, a 500 pack of Black Cats, and a couple of Roman candles. Dad usually kept a $10 ceiling on the purchases because my Pops knew any more than that would most likely lead to trouble and/or injury. And he was right.
Red ant hills were my casualties of choice with my Black Cats. Those big honkin' red ants that would sting me unannounced when I stood out in left field waiting for a fly ball, or during another absent moment when those fuckers would climb up my shoe and sting me during the year…oh yes….they would get their due on the 4th of July. Blowing up an ant hill is great because every blast opens up another cavern of angry ants scampering around madly, just begging for it. The deeper you go, the more the satisfaction…or so I’ve heard that about such things.
The worst fireworks injury I ever sustained was in a “bottle rocket fight.” We had a bunch of BR’s and decided that we would station ourselves around the dry creek bed as if preparing for combat, and then let the rockets fly. In my day, bottle rockets were bigger and more powerful than the scaled back version they use today, and when my "friend" launched a beauty that caught me in the neck and left a burn hole about the size of a dime by my jugular...ouch. I got him back a couple of weeks later during a “rock fight” in the same creek bed and gave him a goose egg on his forehead, which prompted a communal, parental mandate that ended all creek bed related "fight" games of any sort. A good thing too because at the rate we were going, in a couple of weeks we would have had a “claw hammer fight”, and Little Timmy would have gone missing, and the police department would be forced to investigate why the buzzards that been circling the dry creek bed.
Fast forward 20 years later and I’m visiting my Mom during the holiday, but for the night of the 4th, I’m actually at a lake party with some old friends at a Texas lake. The local city in conjunction with the local fire department sponsored a fireworks display over the lake, and in a hilarious turn of events, the Fire Dept burned down all the vegetation on the tiny island they were using as the launch pad for their pyrotechnics display.
I was situated at a friend’s house on the lake that was no mere “house.” This expansive, swanky place was situated on the lake right next to the primary boat docks, boat ramp, and the dam, where many people had gathered to see the display. The multi-level deck had a long diving board that was about 8-10 feet over the water.
When the actual fireworks display went awry, in an unsolicited act of beer fueled extroverted stupidity, I grabbed a Roman candle from the ‘personal stash’ and Old Glory from her spot on the deck, and wrapped myself like Jim Craig after the “Miracle On Ice” hockey game, and marched to the end of the diving board.
Yes, with Old Glory as my cape, and a Roman Candle tucked between my legs at a 45 degree angle, I lit the candle, and saluted like an officer from the end of the diving board. This was indeed performance art at it’s highest.
The hicks loved it. My flaming patriotic erection was met with some “fuck yeahs” mingled with “woo-hoo’s.” When the candle got too close to my actual junk though, the show was over, but I knew I had done my patriotic due instilling a feeling of pride, and likely some disgust in the hearts of my fellow Americans.
I already gave my best fart stories in the forum back in mid-December, but I still have a few to share. I’m a giver like that.
My pops gave me the framework to work with to be a “showboat” (JK©) farter. He was a big man like myself (6’5”/275,) and had all the tools, but early on in his marriage, he had a moment that set the precedent for all of the gaseousness we would produce. Dad shared this story with me one night on a road trip where it was just he and I, and we were having some quality window-cracking, father/son fart bonding, and farts were the topic of conversation.
He told me that one night during the first year of their marriage, he and Mom laid down to sleep. He rolled over on his side so that he was facing the window with his back towards my Mom.
[Once again let me remind you that my Mom was raised on a farm in a family of 2nd generation German immigrants that were very disciplined, proper, and religious. At the time of this story, Mom was a budding “Southern Baptist Lady” that was very image conscious, and for the record, I don’t believe I have EVER heard her fart.]Anyway, Dad had rolled on his side, and as our fearless leader pointed out recently, such a change in position can often conjure up some wind. This was the case on this night, for as they were drifting off to sleep, my half awake Dad violated the night’s silence with a window rattling blast of epic proportions. In the reflection in the window, Dad could see that Mom shot bolt-upright in the bed completely alarmed. He hadn’t purposely done this, and decided his best way out of the situation was to just play possum, squinting out of one eye at Mom’s reflection in the window to gauge her reaction. Mom continued to glare at his back during this time, and when she saw that he wasn’t going to own up to his epic blast, she let out a somewhat startled, mostly disgusted “good heavens!!” and laid back down to sleep.
Yes on that night, in addition to the wind, the silence had been broken. About a week later Mom and Dad were driving somewhere I their car, he leans to the side and let one fly. Mom jerked her head around for another stare down, but Dad kept his eyes on the road, chuckled, and said in his best mocking tone “good heavens!!” Mom’s nostrils flared and she told my Dad that he was disgusting, but then she broke down as well. From then on in my family, a well-timed fart was punctuated with someone exclaiming “good heavens!!” and my mother would reach new depths of shame.
When Dad was coaching basketball at Sul Ross State in Alpine, at least a couple of times during the season he would disappear for weeks at a time on the dreaded “road trips.” Alpine is situated very remotely just above the Big Bend, and the nearest college in our conference was over 200 miles away. Using a university van and a station wagon, they would pack in the road team between the two vehicles and embark on journeys that would often last a thousand miles before returning.
As you can imagine, packing a bunch of oversized college aged guys into such a small space raises the fart quotient to dangerous levels. It was during one of these long road trips when Dad had reached his limit with the foul smells and the window cracking that he instituted the “fart mile.”The rules of the “fart mile” were as such: Whenever Dad would smell a fart, he would pull over to the shoulder of the road, kick everyone out, and drive a mile up the highway and wait. Yes, the penalty for a fart was a mile hike under the hot Texas sun. After a few of these episodes the guys got the message and were able to hold it in.
One time as the team had to walk one off, while my Dad was overlooking this from atop a hill. He spied a rancher in an old truck that was coming up the highway, and he pulled over when he got to the team and there was an exchange of words. The rancher then pulled away, and when he passed my Dad he waved to him and was cracking up.
When the team finally made it up the hill, Dad asked what had happened with the rancher. He had pulled over and asked if they needed a ride, or some help, and one of the players exclaimed “no, we can’t get a ride because this asshole (punches the guilty party) farted and Coach kicked us out of the car to air it out!!”**
As for me, growing up I had always heard tales about “fart lighting” but thought that it was a joke or an urban legend. I never realized that the gas we released as a fart was not only smelly, but flammable as well (I guess that’s why they call it “gas.”) Anyway it was during my Freshman year at college, when my buddy Chris was in the lounge on our dorm floor, leaning back in a chair, when he suddenly rocked forward with his feet on the table, grabbed his cigarette lighter, and proceeded to emit a blue flame from his ass. What a revelation!! It was true...you actually could light farts!!
I soon became a master of the art of fart lighting. After a hearty meal and a few beers, I would treat those assembled in the lobby (this was a men’s dorm) to astounding displays of pyroflatulence. I discovered that the fewer layers of clothes between the flame and the source created a more impressive assjet, so boxers or sweatpants only became the norm for such lobby related activities.
So it went for a few months. But then the Xmas break came up, and I had to bundle up all of my unwashed clothes and go home for the break. When my Mom was uncovering my fetid laundry, she asked why the crotch of all of my boxers and sweatpants were singed at the crotch. I blamed a homosexual dryer in the dorm basement that was crotch driven, but she gave me the “Spock eyebrow” and discarded them, and replenished my supply of undergarments before returning.
Moms are good like that.