 Happy Friday everyone! You made it through another stinking week, mostly unscathed. Just checking in ‘cuz it’s been a weird week here at The Compound.
By that, I mean, it’s been, for the most part, quiet. Cousin Fred and the hairdressing hydrologist Gigi have remained underground apparently maintaining their cosplay fun as a WWII German U-boat crew. Who knows what’s going on down there? After their daring resupply the other day, they can probably remain submerged for weeks. The Wife has been remarkably quiet this week. Despite the occasional launch of Old Crow bottles again the U-002, she’s pretty much kept to herself. Suspect she’s been binging on Law & Odor episodes where they exhume the characters who have died over the years and have them reprise their roles. Fascinating stuff…no, really. Friends, if you know me well, and for those of you who do, I pity you. But if you know me well, you know I have soft spot in my head for punk rock. If you’ve read this blog over time you know that I can positively wax poetic about The New York Dolls being the advent of punk. Okay, technically, actually it was The Beatles with the so-called White Album, but that’s another post for another time. The Dolls were it. The Ramones and Sex Pistols came along and took it (kinda, sorta) mainstream, which I know is the very antithesis of punk, but it is what it is. Over the years, nay decades, punk has risen and fallen with the times, with each artist putting their own spin on it (e.g., Glam-Punk, Proto-Punk, Retro-Punk, etc.). No matter the spin, it was the same idea…snappy three-chord songs played through an amp cranked with as much distortion as the laws of physics will allow and a singer who belts out angst-ridden lyrics that no can understand, but bounce to anyway. Here in the most dysfunctional state in the union, there is an underground punk culture based in OKC. Who knew? I only found out about it a couple of years ago. And no, I’m not talking about Wayne Coyne (he stole my idea, you know). Alas, some of the punk pioneers are no longer with us or are so burned out they barely know what day it is. The thing about aging punk acts is that while they may appear to grow older, the concept remains – though atavistic angst is replaced with just plain anger. Take for instance the LA-based band Superbean. They’ve been around for a while (four decades to be exact). They’re over 50. They used to be known as just Bean, their incarnation in the late-20xxs, Superbean. They just released a new album with a song called, “F**k Youth”…it provides a view of today’s youth through the eyes of us aging baby boomers. The video (including an aged man yelling at kids for being on his lawn) can be found here. Warning, this is not something you play at high volume at work. Unless, you just don’t give a s**t anymore! Rock on! That is all!  Here we are, still yet and not soon to be forgotten, another humping Wednesday. I hope everyone is safe and well. The dreaded flu seems to be overrunning this part of the world. We here at the CCB command center understand that a flu shot this year may not protect you from the strain of virus going around. You’re screwed!
Of course, any of you who know me, know that I never take flu shots. Even when I was in the military I managed to avoid them. The shots are a government conspiracy intended to plant a nano-tracking device into your body that allows the jackbooted thugs to find you when they suspend the constitution and declare martial law. …or words to that effect. Seriously, I never take a flu shot and probably never will. So stay the hell away from me! All of you! You cootie encrusted creatures. I was hoping yesterday to have a lengthy conversation with Cousin Fred about his idea for creating a prepper ranch here at The Compound. The royalties checks for Bigfoot: Naked and Untamed have stopped coming in (Viceland decided we were too edgy for them…really?) and I need to find a source of income soon. Unfortunately, Cousin Fred wasn’t available yesterday. It was replenishment day aboard U-002. I asked what happened to U-001 and got an icy stare. Gigi shed a tear. Guess we don’t talk about U-001. I approached the entrance tube on the north lawn yesterday to discuss with Cousin Fred our future plans, but he was busy scanning the horizon with binoculars as he sat atop the tube. I asked what he was looking for and got a response, stupid me. He said that he was scanning for surface targets. He seemed agitated as he continued. He told me that he felt very vulnerable sitting atop the surface, but it was necessary for making their rendezvous with a resupply vessel. I was about to walk away, figuring Captain Nemo was too far gone to have any sort of meaningful discussion when suddenly the hairdressing hydrologist Gigi roared onto The Compound in their latest chopped car. The resupply vessel I presumed. She came to a stop on the side of the entrance tube away from the Main House. Cousin Fred brought a bullhorn to his mouth and began barking orders that the resupply team would muster on deck. He also announced that there would be no skylarking and to commence resupply. At that, Gigi began handing up bags of groceries. I noticed there were two entire cases of booze and several boxes of ammo. Guess they’re expecting to do a long patrol. In the middle of it all, I heard a siren go off behind me from the Main House. Cousin Fred screamed, “Incoming!” just before a bottle broke against the tube. It was the Wife! She was launching yet another barrage against U-002! I began running for cover. I could hear the Wife cackling from somewhere around the Main House. Cousin Fred was screaming, “Mach schnell! Mach schnell!” Gigi was heaving bags atop the entrance tube as fast as she could. Finally, the resupply finished. Gigi disappeared down the tube. Cousin Fred took another look around and then shouted through the bullhorn, “Secure from resupply detail. Prepare to dive!” With that he disappeared down the tube, the hatch closing behind him. Another Old Crow empty smashed against the metal tube. More cackling. Mission accomplished…I guess. Well, at least the Wife wasn’t firing guns at the entrance tube. Friends, did you hear the one about the woman out in Goodyear, AZ who, after two days of constant fighting with her husband, finally decided enough was enough? We don’t know what they were arguing about, but after two days of constant argument, the husband’s bowels were apparently in an uproar. He retired to the bathroom where he seated himself upon his porcelain throne seeking some peace and quiet. Eh, not so much. His wife throws open the door and fires two rounds over his head from a pistol. The husband, who will likely suffer from fecal impaction (actual medical term) for years, jumped up and ran out the door where he called police. The wife told the cops that she fired 10 feet above his head. The cops measured…it was more like seven inches. She also told the officers that she fired the gun because she wanted her husband to listen to her. She was arrested and charged with one count of aggravated assault. Ummmmm, shouldn’t that be two counts, one for each bullet? Let this be a lesson to you all…stay the hell away from Goodyear, AZ! That is all!  Well, well…here we are. Yet another stinkin’ Monday in January. The holidays are behind us. Time to start trying to lose all the weight you put on eating cookies and fruitcake. By the way, if you didn’t eat the well-intentioned re-gifted fruitcake you received from Aunt Hattie, there is still time to drop off your tins at the entrance to The Compound. I wouldn’t recommend driving to the top of the U-shaped driveway. It’s post-holiday, we’re back on Compound footing. For a limited time only, when you drop a tin of fruitcake at the entrance you’ll receive an autographed photo of Cousin Fred in his Das Boot outfit suitable for framing or scaring the crap out of barn rats. On Saturday, I made a big pot of homemade minestrone soup that was (if I say so myself) larruping good. No meat in that, just healthy stuff. Didn’t lose a pound though, so Sunday night I had a grilled steak. I’m feeling much better now. Say there, sports fans, do you know what today is? It may or may not be the birthday of everyone’s favorite lunatic fringe despot with weird hair…no not The Trump. I’m talking about Kim Jong Uno! I say, may be his birthday because no one knows for certain. His birthday is a closely guarded secret for some reason that would only make sense if you’re a rabid NoKoan. Wonder what people get him for his birthday? When you have a really big button, what else do you need? It’s a closed country so it’s not like you can run to the store to get something…because there isn’t crap on the shelves! But, whatever you get him better be good! Otherwise, you’re likely to get disappeared. You suppose The Trump will send him birthday wishes? Probably not. Oooo, maybe he can have a copy of Fire and Fury delivered in a diplomatic pouch. The Trump could inscribe on the inside, “To Kim…or Jong…or Un…whichever name you prefer to go by. Let me assure you that I am mentally stable and a remarkably fantastic genius unlike you, you stupid NoKo fiend! Oh, and my button is much bigger and works better! With sincere tthhhhhhhhhpppppppppppttttt!, The Donald.” Eh, not likely to happen I guess. The Trump has had his hands full since that book was released late last week. We’ve had to listen to what a stable freaking genius he really is. Blah, blah, blah. No one asked me (thought they should), but the best way to have dealt with Fire and Fury would have been for all of his speaking minions to sing the same tune, “We will not comment on what is obviously a volume of fabrications that seeks to smear the legacy of this presidency.” Okay, I wasn’t able to even type that with a straight face. But, my point here is that even The Trump himself should have showed an ounce of dignity and just let it roll off. Two things happen when you start tweeting a response to every sentence in the book…one, you sell more books for the guy who wrote it…and, two, everyone thinks you protest too much (“I’m the most mentally stable motherf***er I know! Ask any of my relatives who work for me, they’ll tell you!) Fished eyed, in-bed cheeseburger eating, orange haired fool. Now, he even has the RNC involved. Over the weekend, the Republican National Committee issued a parody of the book. That’s the way to stay above the fray, RNC! Nice going. And, now, the multiple shirt wearing freak Bannon is even feeling some remorse. He’s apologizing, nay, puking apologies to The Trump saying he didn’t mean to say the things he is quoted in the book as saying. Hmmmm…me thinks The Banster is having trouble finding work. And then, if the weekend wasn’t strange enough (and it was mighty strange), we hear the Oprah Freaking Winfrey may run for president in 2020? Sure, why not? Hey! Maybe we’ll all get new cars if she’s elected! Yeah, that’s the ticket! That is all!  So it goes sometimes that you just fall into things unexpectedly, good or bad. Do you know what I mean? For instance, one day you’re walking along minding your own business, the next thing you know you’ve fallen into your neighbor’s illegal septic system (where is ODEQ when you need them?) and all because you were trying to see what your neighbor was really building inside that shop near his house. Or, you go to bed poor as dirt and wake up to discover you hit the lottery and are now filthy, f-you rich. Okay, the second one has never happened to me. This morning I’m up reading through the overnight newsfeeds and find that this new book coming out next week about The Trump’s first year presidency has had even more leaks than before I went to bed. You’ve gots to love to a 24-hour news cycle. What has this to do with me falling into an illegal septic system or winning the lottery, you ask? Patience dear blog reader…patience. So among the alleged crap cited in the alleged book, which has included…let’s see…that The Trump goes to bed alone at 6:30pm where he eats McDonalds cheeseburgers (he’s supposedly convinced someone will poison him), watches the news on three TV screens at once, and then gets on the phone to rant about coverage of him…allegations that his son is traitor…ummmm, that he berates staff constantly…and then, there it was…the hair thing. It seems, according to alleged book, that Princess Ivanka confided to friends that her dad (aka, The Trump) had scalp reduction surgery to pull together hair follicles closer to shrink an ever increasing bald spot. And then whatever hair remained was whipped around and sprayed with stiffening spray to lock it all in place. But, wait, there’s more! The reason his hair is so orange is that he applies Just For Men to his hair, but is too impatient to leave it on for the time you’re supposed to and his hair gets that orangish-blonde glow to it. After reading all that and thinking, “who cares?”, it hit me! I care! And, do you know why I care? In case you long time, dedicated readers of this nonsense (all four of you) have forgotten, the very person who cared for The Trump’s locks prior to and for a short time after being elected is our one and only Hairdressing Hydrologist Gigi! She’s on The Compound! Of course, now she only answers to the name Hans Richter as she plays her part of a WWII German U-boat sailor in Cousin Fred’s weird little (a certainly creepy) Das Boot scenario. I’m telling you people, this is like winning Powerball and MegaMillions jackpots in quick succession. This is like ODEQ finally doing what it’s supposed to and shutting down your neighbor’s illegal septic system and revealing what the hell is going on in his shop. I immediately began thinking of ways to exploit Gigi’s…er, Hans’…firsthand knowledge to our own best advantage. After all, what good is inside information if you can’t use it to your own advantage? That’s always been a personal motto of mine…well, that, and “Leave no glass of Jack Daniel’s unfinished!” I raced across the north lawn toward the entrance tower of Das Boot. Apparently, Cousin Fred has installed sensors out there, because my approach triggered alarms inside that I could actually hear above ground. Shouts in German of “man die torpedos” and “bereite mich vor, auf meine marke zu schießen.” The periscope came up out of the tower. I looked directly into the lens and shouted, “Mein Herr, I wish to speak with first mate Hans!” The periscope moved higher to survey the area up near the Main House. He was looking to see if the Wife was with me or anywhere near. I could hear the Wife cackling softly somewhere behind me in the darkness. I thought I could see the faint glow of the end of her Pall Mall as it dangled from her lips. The hatch opened slightly. I could Cousin Fred peering out at me. “What do you want, Cousin?” “I want to speak with Gigi or Hans or whoever. Suddenly, The Trump’s hair is a big deal again.” As I spoke another Old Crow empty smashed against the metal tower. We were under fire from the Wife. The hatch slammed shut and locked. The Wife was in full cackle now. Cousin Fred shouted through the hatch that they need more spätzle and sauerkraut. All of this before sunrise. That is all!  Happy hump day everybody! I trust you all made it through the New Year’s weekend? If you didn’t, I really don’t want to hear about it.
I had enough troubles of my own: the beloved Sooners lost what was without a doubt one of the best, if not most stressful games I’ve seen them play all year…despite what the idiots on ESPN say. Oh sure, the defense made four (count ‘em four) crucial mistakes, but overall played better than they have at any other time this year. Honestly, the game could have gone either way. Came to the conclusion that I’m going to start watching games without sound. The announcers and color commentary guys suck at what they do. I’m not sure it’s really their fault either. I saw a comment online that they have more air time to fill than they have meaningful contents to spew forth. That’s a problem. That’s how we wind up listening to inane prattle…kind of like reading the nonsense in this blog. But I digress…back to my weekend (cuz it’s all about me). The Wife isn’t too pleased with Cousin Fred’s new subterranean digs. She hates the entrance tower sticking up above the ground, the escape mini-tower at the rear of the structure, and the various vent pipes and exhaust stacks in between. Cousin Fred has installed a periscope that rises up so he can look around before opening the hatch. Yesterday morning I observed the Wife down there banging on the entrance hatch trying to get Cousin Fred to come above ground. The periscope came up and immediately saw the Wife with a filterless Pall Mall dangling from her lips screaming obscenities into the lens. The periscope went back down. The hatch stayed locked. The Wife busted her bottle of Old Crow whiskey against the tower and stomped back up to the house. When Cousin Fred finally emerged, he was wearing the costume of a German U-boat captain, as you would have expected to see in that movie, “Das Boot.” Gigi soon emerged wearing the uniform of a German WW-II sailor. Despite the weirdness of it all, I’m beginning to think Cousin Fred may be on to something. The Trump and Kim Jong Uno have been flinging putrid crap at one another since late last week. It started when NoKo doughboy announced to the world that he has a “nuclear button” on his desk that he will not hesitate to press if the U.S. gets too aggressive. Hopefully the button is covered or something…would hate for him to drop some papers on it and initiate a launch. After announcing that he could take out most of the U.S. with missiles, he then offered to open talks with SoKo in a bid to allow the NoKo Olympic team to compete in the games there. Oh, and then there were images of a humongous ice sculpture of an ICBM in Pyongyang. It even lit up at night. It looked like a giant ad for a NoKo dildo manufacturer. That was followed by announcements yesterday from the U.S. Intelligence Community that it appears NoKo is getting ready to launch another damned missile. Oh, the rat bastards (NoKo, not the U.S. Intelligence Community…hmmmm…okay, apply as you see fit)! And THAT was followed by The Trump tweeting that his nuclear button is bigger and better than that of the NoKo despot with a bad haircut. The Trump was quoted as saying that his button is so big and stupendous and powerful that it is supremely excellent in a world of nuclear buttons on desks. Oh, and he made of point of pointing (point of pointing – genius don’t you think) out that his button works without the use of drugs or other stimulation. Judas priest…and, people wonder why I drink. So, after reading about The Trump’s nuclear button and being unable to erase imagery from my brain, I’ve decided it’s time to head back down inside the hidey hole. Cousin Fred has the right idea, subterranean living is the way to go at least until one country burns through its nuclear arsenal first. As I was carrying supplies and clean underwear down inside the shelter, the Wife sat in a chair over to one side muttering something about finally having the TV to herself to watch old Law & Order reruns and calling me a “p***y.” In between said comments she was swigging Old Crow and then launching the empties down range to break against the entrance tower of Das Boot. The periscope came up and looked around each time. That is all! |
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