Sandy tossed this one out to me, I wish she hadn’t, because she is definitely a hard act to follow. But I sure don’t want anybody accusing me of being a lazy toid, so (deep breath) here goes…
If I could be a scientist, I’d invent Magic. That way I could conjure up anything else I wanted.
If I could be a farmer, I’d grow crablegs and moon pies. I’d have that shit planted all over my 3 or 4 acre spread.
If I could be a musician, I’d master the jaw harp and the kazoo. Man, those are romantic instruments and will flat out get you the chicks.
If I could be a doctor, I’d be a gynecologist. Not such a far stretch since I’m already an amateur gynecologist.
If I could be a painter, I would paint my house.
If I could be a gardener, I’d plant some of those silk flowers my wife pays so much for. Damn those are expensive!
If I could be a missionary, I’d practice the missionary position until I got it right, and then I’d be sure to do it 4 or 5 times a week to keep in practice.
If I could be a chef, I’d introduce New Yorkers to Southern Haute Cuisine: Pork chops, mustard greens and field peas with snaps, along with a big hunk of cornbread. And if they cleaned their plate, I’d let them order some banana pudding for dessert.
If I could be an architect, I’d design an underground skyscraper. That would be cool.
If I could be a linguist, well, I had a girl accuse me of being one of those, once. I broke up with her over that. Besides, I prefer regular spaghetti.
If I could be a psychologist, I’d hypnotize women, have my way with them and then make them act like chickens out in public. I wouldn’t snap my fingers, neither.
If I could be a librarian, I’d fill the library with books like Meter Maids In Bondage, and Juggs and make the library card have punch outs where you get every tenth one free.
If I could be an athlete, I'd shake my head like a wet dog and get sweat all over everybody and they would be like, “that’s cool, I ain’t never washing that off!”
If I could be a lawyer, I’d be happy because then I could screw anybody, anywhere, anytime.
If I could be an innkeeper, I’d learn to speak English, but I’d still try to bring my whole family over from India and Pakistan. Oh, and I'd have somebody clean the rooms and change the linens sometimes.
If I could be a professor, I’d be a doctor of brainiatrics.
If I could be a writer, I’d write a blog that more than 2 people read.
If I could be a backup dancer, I’d be in the ballet. Man, those chicks have great bodies and are so limber and all the other guys are gay so the girls would be like all over me and my package would look pretty good in those tights.
If I could be a llama-rider, I’d ride all over my crableg ranch, roping crabs and tying them to the saddle to take home for dinner.
If I could be a bonnie pirate? I’d be a pirate if I didn’t have to be bonnie. I’d have to figure out what part is the swashbuckle, too. Oh, and I’m not so much into losing eyes and limbs and stuff, so I would have to be able to hire people to do that for me. My workman’s comp claims would probably eat me alive, but damn, I want to keep my hands and feet. Swords are cool too. I would have a collection of them.
If I could be a midget stripper, people would laugh and say, “damn, look at the size of that thing on such a small dude!” And, the chicks would put twenty dollar bills in my g-string because they all want to see what it’s like to perv with a well-hung midget.
If I could be a proctologist, I’d say, “Okay, now cough,” while I was back there and they would look at me all confused and I would bust out laughing. Then, I would stop suddenly, become very quiet, snap the rubber gloves loudly and exclaim, “this is going to hurt you a lot more than it will me.” Then I’d start laughing again and they would really look confused and then I would leave the room and have the nurse come in and do the exam because she would be totally into that, like a fetish and all, and I’d sit in my office and drink gin and look at the illegible scribbling on the charts that the nurse did after each exam because she was so excited. And, I'd chuckle thinking about the look on their face when I left the room.
If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I’d interview the Teletubbies. Nobody has ever done that before, as far as I know, and we’d find out once and for all if they are gay or just misunderstood.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Sunday, April 10, 2005
The War on Drugs
The war on drugs in the state of Arkansas has taken some nasty turns in the last few years due to the meth lab epidemic. But, back in the day, it consisted mostly of rural police agencies using good common sense, mountaineer intuition and some balls out illegal search and seizures that would stand up in their court.
I can talk about this due to the statute of limitations having run out about 30 some years ago, but suffice it to say, at one time I could not visit certain counties in this beautiful, rugged state.
I wrote in an earlier post about having Wyatt’s ’65 goat break down and nearly getting caught with a couple of ounces of pot in Stone County, having my pistol confiscated, but being let go. A year or so later, we camped in the same area and got busted for pot. Long story, but in those days they wrote you a ticket and you appeared in court on a set date. Well, let’s say I didn’t make it back for that date.
I knew the judge would not look kindly on my case with the concealed weapons thing on my record and all. So I figured I was better off taking my chances two hours away in the city.
This would serve to cause some tingly episodes when I would be lured back into that part of the country on various adventures and of course, narrowly escaping re-capture. America’s Most Wanted – did I mention that the statute of limitations has expired on this?
One such occasion was when some mountain hippy music producers decided to throw a rock festival called the Ozark Mountain Strawberry Jam. My bud Bill and I decided to attend. Being the ex boy scouts that we were, we prepared for every contingency and loaded the car with food, water, blankets, clothes, a trunk full of cut, split firewood and two cases of beer in an ice chest. Oh, and a bag of doob in the glove compartment.
My pard, Bill, is probably a certifiable genius. I’ve been known to have a good idea occasionally, but we’re not so observant that any alarms went off as we saw police cars of various and sundry jurisdictions and constabularies, filled with hippies and driving the opposite direction. Hind sight tells me now that this should have raised an eyebrow or something.
We rounded the last curve coming into Shirley and ran smack into a roadblock situated such that there was no turning back. Instinct said to place the open beers between our feet on the floorboard. Cop instinct said look down at their feet when you ask for dl and registration. It was at that moment that our attention was directed to a church parking lot down an incline from the highway and the lot was full of cars, each having the legs of some kind of cop sticking out of the open doors as they looked under seats and dashboards.
Since I wasn’t driving, I was able to get away with not having identification to present so I passed myself off with the name of some kid I went to school with that I knew had never been in trouble with the law, much less in Stone County. But I was a little nervous about the ounce of dried green substance rolled up in a sandwich bag, laying at the bottom of the glove box.
The cop looks through the car pretty well, opens the ice chest, counts the number of beers to determine if it was too many to be in possession of in a dry county and swung up and out of the car.
“I couldn’t get the glove compartment open,” he said. “Can you open it for me?”
Bill nodded and started to walk around to the passenger side with the cop in tow. “Wait,” he said as they got to the back of the car. “Let me see in the trunk.”
Bill dutifully opened the trunk to reveal the entire compartment loaded level to the top with beautifully split oak firewood. “What the hell?” the sheriff exclaimed.
“It’s firewood,” said Bill, “want me to take it out so you can look underneath it?”
“Naw, that’s alright,” he said, “but I need to look in the glove box.”
About that time, a real Gomer Pyle looking fellow in jeans and a Levi’s jacket with a police badge hanging from a chain around his neck comes running up yelling, “Leon, get over here! We got possession of LSD with intent to deliver, possession of heroine with intent to deliver, possession of…”
Our assigned officer started to walk off and I called after him, “Are we done?”
“Yeah, have a good time at the concert. Hope you enjoy your stay in Stone County.”
We did have a good time, but we smoked up the herb as fast as we could when we got there so we wouldn’t have to face that problem again…
I can talk about this due to the statute of limitations having run out about 30 some years ago, but suffice it to say, at one time I could not visit certain counties in this beautiful, rugged state.
I wrote in an earlier post about having Wyatt’s ’65 goat break down and nearly getting caught with a couple of ounces of pot in Stone County, having my pistol confiscated, but being let go. A year or so later, we camped in the same area and got busted for pot. Long story, but in those days they wrote you a ticket and you appeared in court on a set date. Well, let’s say I didn’t make it back for that date.
I knew the judge would not look kindly on my case with the concealed weapons thing on my record and all. So I figured I was better off taking my chances two hours away in the city.
This would serve to cause some tingly episodes when I would be lured back into that part of the country on various adventures and of course, narrowly escaping re-capture. America’s Most Wanted – did I mention that the statute of limitations has expired on this?
One such occasion was when some mountain hippy music producers decided to throw a rock festival called the Ozark Mountain Strawberry Jam. My bud Bill and I decided to attend. Being the ex boy scouts that we were, we prepared for every contingency and loaded the car with food, water, blankets, clothes, a trunk full of cut, split firewood and two cases of beer in an ice chest. Oh, and a bag of doob in the glove compartment.
My pard, Bill, is probably a certifiable genius. I’ve been known to have a good idea occasionally, but we’re not so observant that any alarms went off as we saw police cars of various and sundry jurisdictions and constabularies, filled with hippies and driving the opposite direction. Hind sight tells me now that this should have raised an eyebrow or something.
We rounded the last curve coming into Shirley and ran smack into a roadblock situated such that there was no turning back. Instinct said to place the open beers between our feet on the floorboard. Cop instinct said look down at their feet when you ask for dl and registration. It was at that moment that our attention was directed to a church parking lot down an incline from the highway and the lot was full of cars, each having the legs of some kind of cop sticking out of the open doors as they looked under seats and dashboards.
Since I wasn’t driving, I was able to get away with not having identification to present so I passed myself off with the name of some kid I went to school with that I knew had never been in trouble with the law, much less in Stone County. But I was a little nervous about the ounce of dried green substance rolled up in a sandwich bag, laying at the bottom of the glove box.
The cop looks through the car pretty well, opens the ice chest, counts the number of beers to determine if it was too many to be in possession of in a dry county and swung up and out of the car.
“I couldn’t get the glove compartment open,” he said. “Can you open it for me?”
Bill nodded and started to walk around to the passenger side with the cop in tow. “Wait,” he said as they got to the back of the car. “Let me see in the trunk.”
Bill dutifully opened the trunk to reveal the entire compartment loaded level to the top with beautifully split oak firewood. “What the hell?” the sheriff exclaimed.
“It’s firewood,” said Bill, “want me to take it out so you can look underneath it?”
“Naw, that’s alright,” he said, “but I need to look in the glove box.”
About that time, a real Gomer Pyle looking fellow in jeans and a Levi’s jacket with a police badge hanging from a chain around his neck comes running up yelling, “Leon, get over here! We got possession of LSD with intent to deliver, possession of heroine with intent to deliver, possession of…”
Our assigned officer started to walk off and I called after him, “Are we done?”
“Yeah, have a good time at the concert. Hope you enjoy your stay in Stone County.”
We did have a good time, but we smoked up the herb as fast as we could when we got there so we wouldn’t have to face that problem again…
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Behind Blue Eyes
You know, my man Bane is a favorite read, daily when he’s posting, but I can’t let this go. I’ll be the first to admit that polyester and platform shoes were not/are not attractive.
And the music, while it had a certain naïveté, for the most part sucked. The Bee Gees???? I rest my fucking case. But, bear with me for just a minute.
Aids and HIV had not been invented yet. There may have been genital herpes, but I never knew anybody that had it. Hepatitis B? I guess it existed. Herpes? Well, I knew people with cold sores, but it was so gross, I didn’t kiss them. Everything else could be wrapped up with a shot of penicylin.
What was left? Well, to start, Mexican pot. It took a few joints to get really high, not like the uber weed of today, but was more social, don’t you think? Black tar opium, windowpane acid, cross tops and peyote.
I can’t remember ever being turned down for sex, not that it didn’t happen, I’m sure it did, but the drugs prevented me from remembering it. But, I do remember mucho great sex. And all the girls I knew were on the pill so there was none of that awkward fumbling with latex wall coverings.
The ladies still had the proper amount of hair in all the right places, and I don’t care what anybody says – Patchouli smells sexy and good.
If I had to live with an avocado green refrigerator for the rest of my life in order to re-visit that aspect of the 70’s, I would.
Sorry Bane, there were some things worth saving about the era…
And the music, while it had a certain naïveté, for the most part sucked. The Bee Gees???? I rest my fucking case. But, bear with me for just a minute.
Aids and HIV had not been invented yet. There may have been genital herpes, but I never knew anybody that had it. Hepatitis B? I guess it existed. Herpes? Well, I knew people with cold sores, but it was so gross, I didn’t kiss them. Everything else could be wrapped up with a shot of penicylin.
What was left? Well, to start, Mexican pot. It took a few joints to get really high, not like the uber weed of today, but was more social, don’t you think? Black tar opium, windowpane acid, cross tops and peyote.
I can’t remember ever being turned down for sex, not that it didn’t happen, I’m sure it did, but the drugs prevented me from remembering it. But, I do remember mucho great sex. And all the girls I knew were on the pill so there was none of that awkward fumbling with latex wall coverings.
The ladies still had the proper amount of hair in all the right places, and I don’t care what anybody says – Patchouli smells sexy and good.
If I had to live with an avocado green refrigerator for the rest of my life in order to re-visit that aspect of the 70’s, I would.
Sorry Bane, there were some things worth saving about the era…
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Wal Mart
Dude in front of me bought an anniversary card and a fifty pound sack of dog food. I'm not sure what to make of that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
