 Happy Tuesday everybody! We’re off and running with a new day. I’m up at 3 this morning to write this danged blog and then work on a PowerPoint presentation I’m supposed to make on Friday morning at the Woodward Hospital…or whatever the hell they call it now.
I need to learn to sit on my hands and not volunteer for stuff. Volunteering sucks. The more you do, the more someone wants. But, actually, 3AMish is the only chance I get to have some quiet so I can do some work. Well, fake work anyway since I’m not getting paid for any of this. I know, I know…stop complaining. I put myself into this predicament, didn’t I? With Cousin Fred and Friend Lamont staying here at The Compound now, things are getting a might crowded despite Cousin Fred and Lassie the barking goat living in Hellkat One’s travel trailer and Friend Lamont residing in the RV that we used last week to go to Cali. The Wife is getting kind of surly about it all. For instance, last evening I was attempting to have a solemn Presidents’ Day observance. I set up a ring for freestyle wrestling and we held Lucha Presidente matches. I was dressed as George Washington. Cousin Fred did his best to look like Thomas Jefferson. Friend Lamont, who is kind of a big dude, was Grover Cleveland. Lassie the barking goat even got in on the action dressed out as Checkers (Richard Nixon’s mutt). Best two out of three falls, last man standing wins. Unfortunately, we’re all so out of shape that there wasn’t anyone standing when it was over. But, damn it, we had observed Presidents’ Day and that was the important thing. By the way, for all you budding promoters out there…how about bringing Lucha Libre (Mexican freestyle wrestling) to Cosmic City? I’d definitely pay money to go see that. I mean, there’s the (seemingly) monthly cage fights and summertime fun with monster truck rallies. Wouldn’t you rather watch guys in leather masks fly thirty feet through the air to smash their opponent in the ring? Sure you would. In fact… But, I digress. So once we finished our stupid wrestling games, the Wife brought out a cast iron pot of ham and beans, a pan of cornbread and a warm twelve pack of Bud. She set it all on the table outside. I was hoping for a more traditional Presidents’ Day feast of pheasant under glass, with grilled asparagus, and sautéed truffles. And then after dinner we would sit around sipping sherry and discussing presidential stuff like how to rob the Treasury and not get caught. I mentioned that to the Wife. She just stood there glaring at me through the haze of smoke rising from the filterless Pall Mall dangling from the corner of her mouth. When she spoke, it was more of a growl than words, “Eat or starve.” There was no “I’m sorry Snook’ems, United was all out of fresh pheasant today” or “you lads need protein after all of that jumping around you did and acting the fools…here let me get you fresh towels so you aren’t dripping sweat into your dinner” not even a “kiss my ass”…just “eat or starve.” See what I mean? Surly. Still, she was nowhere nearly as surly as a housewife in Ohio over the weekend who decided to take batting practice on her husband’s head. That’s her mugshot at the top. Doesn’t she look remorseful? Of course, she does. She has that look on her face that says, “I’m really really sorry I beat the living bejeezus out of my idiot husband with a baseball bat. No really, I won’t do it again. LET ME OUT OF HERE!” It seems that our Ohio housewife, we’ll call her Mighty Casey was miffed that husband didn’t get her anything for Valentine’s Day. Oh sure, she tried to drown her misery in alcohol, but was still angry. A verbal altercation ensued, followed by her hitting and scratching his face. When that didn’t get his attention, the Might Casey called her shot in the outfield and then swung for the fences at the back of his head rendering him unconscious. It didn’t end there…nope. As her husband, we’ll call him Mr. Spalding, began to regain consciousness, the beating re-commenced. Deputies arrived at the home (sweet home) to find a bludgeoned Mr. Spalding on the floor and Mighty Casey with her bat. She blew a .223 on the ol’ breathalyzer which put her blood-alcohol level at something approaching drunker than Cooter Brown. She’s been charged with felonious assault and domestic violence. Bet the husband doesn’t ever again forget to buy her a gift! What have we learned here today? 1. Never forget holiday gifts (even made up holidays). 2. When you buy a holiday gift, remember to never buy anything that can be used as a weapon. 3. If you do buy something that can be used as weapon, please for goodness sakes, hide the booze. 4. If your special someone realizes you’ve hidden all the booze and buys some on their own. Leave…drive fast…move to Alaska – lots of places to hide there. 5. Above all else, stay the hell out of Ohio.  Happy Presidents’ Day everybody! Do you suppose that’s a proper greeting? I can’t think of any of the presidents who have held office in my lifetime that I was so thrilled about as to wish fellow citizens a “happy” Presidents’ Day.
Judging from the latest line up of candidates, I’m not sure we’ll ever get there. I saw one click-bait company on the web is now offering an article called, “13 Reasons Trump Will Be the Best President, Ever.” Frankly, I’m afraid to open that. Guess I’m afraid it may make sense. We’re back at The Compound now, everyone intact. Friend Lamont is parking his RV near Hellkat One’s trailer where Cousin Fred lives. I guess Friend Lamont will stay here until we head up to Colorado once production on the reality show, “Naked and Untamed” begins in April. Made it back Saturday just after the ‘big’ earthquake here. Came into the house to find the Wife under the table chain smoking her filterless Pall Malls and muttering something about the earth opening up to swallow her. Fortunately, there weren’t any aftershocks, at least that we could feel, otherwise I’m not sure I would ever have gotten her out from under there. Early Sunday morning, about 3AM, I couldn’t sleep. I was up watching the knife show on one of those channels that always seem to have just what you need at a price that you can’t resist at 3AM. The littlest dog, was looking out the patio door between the vertical blinds and began a low growl that got louder. That eventually became fierce barking so I got up and looked out into the dark thinking there was a coyote or something moving through the yard. Although I couldn’t see much, it was 3AM after all, I thought I saw some movement back into a shadow. It wasn’t a coyote. This was an upright biped, or at least it looked that way before it disappeared into the shadow. I got the Wife up and told her to find her phone – she’s forever hiding it from herself for some reason. I grabbed my shotgun and told her to call the Sheriff if I started shooting. Of course, it would have taken the sheriff’s deputy on call at least 20 minutes to find his pants, shoes, and gun and another three hours of driving aimlessly around the countryside trying to find The Compound, but they would have made it here eventually. In the meantime, I’m out the door with my flashlight and weapon. I found nothing, not so much as a hint or track…nothing that would indicate something was out there. I came back inside to find the Wife at the table, her hand hovering over the last digit of the sheriff’s office phone number. A lit filterless Pall Mall dangling from her lips. There was an almost empty bottle of Four Roses Whisky on the table. I gave her the all-clear and told her to go back to bed. The Wife looked at me like I was insane and got up from her seat. She shuffled back to her bedroom muttering something about “And a happy F%$#ing Valentine’s Day to you too!” I got online to check to see if anyone had walked off the 18th hole of the William S. Keyless Country Club, but all seemed well there. Since they put up the perimeter fence with razor wire across the top, I’ve noticed there haven’t been any country club members walking off the property without paying their bar bill. About that time, there was banging on the north door. It was Cousin Fred, who had heard the commotion and saw me sweeping my halogen “Varmint Light” across the property in search of whatever or whomever that was. I told him what I saw. He offered that perhaps it was the Bigfoot and that maybe, just maybe, we didn’t have to leave The Compound to film the series after all. I told him I seriously doubted it was the Bigfoot, but that we would look for tracks in the daylight. You know, one of my joys in producing this blog on a nearly daily basis, besides sharing my personal adventures with the three or four of you who read it, is that I get to share the benefit and wisdom of my experience. Today is no exception! It seems a couple in Ft. Smith, Arkansas (Cousin Fred says he bets he knows who this is), decided to spice things up a bit. So they bought a pair of handcuffs (I know, nothing says romance like lockable restraints) and the woman handcuffs her husband to the bed (probably to keep him from going to the Dixie Pig bar where it was naked olive oil wrestling night…with pigs). Only problem is, she can’t find the key. Tsk, tsk, tsk…dang, now that is a problem, isn’t it? Rule number one when playing with handcuffs is to always ensure you have a key. Both parties should lay eyes on it and it needs to remain in plain sight. Okay, so you’re in this predicament, what do you do? Well, first of all, chances are the handcuffs aren’t real police handcuffs with hardened steel, so I’m betting in a worst case scenario, a simple hacksaw would cure everything. Here’s another tip, just about all handcuffs utilize a universal key. That’s so one cop can undo the handcuffs that another cop put on someone. Doesn’t matter that the manufacturers are different, they’re all the same. And it’s that way globally…I know, because I once had to buy 400 pairs of handcuffs from some little town in eastern Germany (long story). Consequently, if you know what you’re doing, chances are you can pick the lock. It's actually a very simple lock to pick…trust me on this, I’ve had to pick them (again, long story). Failing all of that, you probably have an AAA membership. Guess what? Locksmith service is part of that. Now, granted, in Cosmic City that means getting some guy who works for Roach’s Towing out of bed and to your door which means you’ll have to listen to him tell you that he’s lost count of the number of people he’s had to bust out of handcuffs, but…it’s an option. I think the LAST thing I would consider doing is calling the cops. Not only will you become the butt of all shift jokes at roll call, but police have to collect info on subjects for any call they roll on. So let’s say Officer Friendly and Officer Steroid show up. They chuckle at your situation and ask if you want them to arrest your wife for illegal detainment before using their universal key to free you. They tell you they need to see some ID so they can fill out their report…still snickering about the fig leaf you have covering your business. You hand over your ID, just wanting them to leave so you can try to find some shred of your remaining dignity (hint: it’s in the back of your closet beneath your collection of 1970s Stag magazines). But then, the cops realize you have a warrant. Now, they’re slapping their cuffs on you and dragging your ass off to jail – fig leaf and all. That’s exactly what happened to our Ft. Smith naked pig wrestler. Cops show up to help, figure out genius has a warrant…goodbye, Mr. Kinky. So what have we learned? 1. ALWAYS make sure the handcuff key is in sight before playing female prison guard with a bad inmate (also, watch out for the nightstick). 2. Go buy new blades for your hacksaw in case you don’t follow rule #1. Do it now! 3. Get the AAA Premium membership. Call today! 4. Never, ever call the police to get you out of handcuffs. They enjoy it too much. 5. Stay the hell out of Arkansas! That is all!  Good Thursday morning to everyone. Hope you’re well. I hear we missed some great weather in NWOK. Hopefully some of that will remain until we can return from what is quickly becoming the trip from hell.
I’ve had about all I can stand. The RV is really starting to reek of chili-powder laced Doritos, stale beer, and cold pizza with anchovies. Add to that the biologicals with whom I’m traveling – Cousin Fred desperately needs a shower; Lassie the barking goat smells like a…well, goat; and, Friend Lamont seems to douse himself in cologne at rest stops. I swear, when we head to Colorado as production on “Naked and Untamed” begins, I’m getting a motel room. I don’t care what it costs me. Let this malodorous stew continue to simmer inside this petri dish of a RV. Six days into this trip and I’m really beginning to realize that I’m not cut out for RV-living. We limped into Coyote Springs late last night. We soon realized I had made a mistake. The old west town that had been Coyote Springs is now an unfinished golf course and resort. A ghost town of sorts, I suppose, but not the right kind. Cousin Fred insisted on using the crystal skull bottles as lanterns as we rolled down the road. He once again adorned Lassie with a pair of sunglasses, but this time he found a pair at a truck stop that had some sort of lens application that turned the round lenses into pentagrams. I have to admit it was kind of fun to see the aghast looks of people we passed on the road. Most were using their phones to get photos or shoot video. So far, no one has put the law onto us. I’m actually surprised that Lassie is going along with the program, but I guess if you feed a goat enough chocolate donuts they’ll do anything. With Coyote Wells a bust, we continued rolling southeast until we hit Glendale, NV. Very small, but we managed to find Stinky Pete’s RV Park so we pulled in for the night. Once the RV was in its space, Cousin Fred asked about night life in Glendale. Stinky Pete pointed down the street and muttered something about the Lost Spur Bar & Grill. He looked us over and muttered, “Take care in thar.” Cousin Fred shrugged his shoulders and began walking in the direction Stinky Pete had pointed us. “Follow me, men.” We debated leaving Lassie behind at the RV, but Cousin Fred wouldn’t hear of it. So, off we go. Outside the Lost Spur there isn’t a sound. There were several pickups parked in front, along with a couple of saddled horses tied to a hitching post outside. But not one decibel of sound was issuing from inside. I cautiously opened the door and Cousin Fred squeezed past me with Lassie in tow. The bartender looked at Cousin Fred and then down at the goat. He was a huge man probably in his late 50’s, but with a full head of very long dark hair that was pulled back and tied in a braid that went down his back. “We don’t allow his kind in here.” Cousin Fred offered that it was his service dog, at which point Lassie began barking. The bartender moved one hand down below the bar and then said, “Mister, I don’t know what kind of a jackass you take me for, but you get that goat out of here or I’ll drop it in the pit out back for barbecue.” Cousin Fred moved Lassie out front and tied him to the hitching post near the two horses. Fortunately, he had brought along a chocolate donut and gave it to Lassie. As he was doing that, Friend Lamont and I took seats at a high-top table on one side of the door. In dim light of the bar, I could see several customers at tables and along the bar. All had the look of working cowboys. All seemed very sullen, most picking at the plate of food in front of them. Others staring off into space while turning drink in front of them with their fingers. The mood in the place hung like a heavy dark cloud. Cousin Fred stepped back in and called to the bartender, “Barkeep, three menus please!” “Ain’t got menus. Daily special is two boiled hot dogs with mac and cheese. Have two-week old pickled quail eggs if you princes want an appetizer.” Cousin Fred, never missed a beat, “Three specials please. Oh, and three of whatever you have on tap.” The bartender reached down behind the bar and came up with three cans of PBR Beer that he set heavily on the bar. I was nearest so I stepped over and grabbed the cans. I noticed they were warm. Cousin Fred noticed too and looked as though he were about to say something. I kicked him under the table. At that moment, the door burst open, hitting Cousin Fred in the back causing him to spew warm beer across the table. In rides another huge man on the back of a horse. The bartender reached beneath the bar and comes up with a sawed-off double barrel which he pointed in guy’s direction. “Damn you, Cletus! There are people trying to dine here…” The three of us are looking around the inside. “…I wouldn’t let these greenhorns bring a goat in here. I’ll be damned if you’ll bring your mongrel horse inside.” Cletus kind of growled and muttered something before backing the horse out the door. He soon came back inside and took a seat at the bar. The bartender returned the shotgun to its hiding place. Without a word between them, the bartender put a glass in front of Cletus and poured whiskey out of a bottle. Cletus leaned on one arm against the bar and stared at the glass. Our food arrived. As promised, each plate held two pale, boiled (hopefully) hot dogs with two spoonfuls of something resembling mac and cheese, though it was a weird color. I sampled the mac and cheese, it was salty to the point of toxicity. I tried the hot dog. It too was salty beyond belief. I figured the cook must have lost his sense of taste or something. I couldn’t eat it. Friend Lamont was of a similar mind. Cousin Fred was slurping it down as though it were his last meal on earth. I slid my plate over to him and soon he was working on finishing my meal as well. Friend Lamont seemed reluctant to follow suit. I’m sure he was thinking we have a lot of miles to cover and he didn’t want Cousin Fred stinking up the RV as we rolled through the desert. When Cousin Fred was done lapping up his “sumptuous” evening repast, I noticed he kept looking at the big cowboy sitting at the bar. The guy hadn’t moved except to down the glass of whiskey and indicate he wanted a refill. Cousin Fred seemed to be in buoyant mood. He looked at Friend Lamont and me saying, “Another round, chaps?” With that, he got up from the table and walked over to sit next to the cowboy. “Three more beers, barkeep!” He looked over at the hulk of a cowboy next to him and said, “Howdy, pardner!” As he said this, he kind of slapped the guy on the shoulder. In a move that was so fast that I barely saw it, from beneath the long duster coat he was wearing, the cowboy produced a big-ass knife and drove it into the top of the bar. He looked over at Cousin Fred and said, “I work for a living.” At that, Friend Lamont and I were out of our chairs. I moved over to the bar and told Cousin Fred it was time to go. I threw a $50 bill on the bar and we left. I didn’t get any photos, but I did get a story I guess. Not sure that moth-eaten daily periodical that is close to banishing me forever will print it, but oh I have a story!  Happy mid-week, hump day, whatever you want to call it. Friend Lamont, Cousin Fred, Lassie the barking goat, and I are about to leave California and head back to NWO.
We spent last night at the New Rochelle Motel in Azusa. We had to move the RV from in front of Chick Farris’s palatial estate after his neighbors created a mob scene out on the street…seriously, pitchforks and torches…these decadent and depraved Hollywood types have a real flare for the dramatic. Finally, the WeHo po-po showed up when the mob began rocking the RV and threatening to barbecue Lassie. They cited us on some weird old ordinance against parking Conestoga wagons on the streets of West Hollywood. Wouldn’t you know it, the model name of our RV was Conestoga. Rat bastards! But, all in all, it was good to be out of the RV for one night. By the way, in case you’re wondering, there’s nothing new about the New Rochelle (see above). The place is a dump, but it was the only place we could find that would allow a barking goat. The New Rochelle is owned by a guy whose first name is Erasmo…insists everyone call him Don Erasmo. He claims to have descended from Aztec royals. Uh huh. And, now here he is in Azusa, proud proprietor of the New Rochelle Motel. Don Erasmo wears a hunting knife on his belt that has a 10-inch blade. He told me it was in case he has any more problems with guests. He has two daughters who work in the place, both with names that I assume are Aztec. The first, Zuma, which Don Erasmo told me is a feminine short form for Montezuma, the fifth Aztec king (and one of his ancestors), runs the continental breakfast for guests in the morning. I noticed she also worked the front desk during the morning hours. The other daughter, Ohtli, which the Don told me is the Aztec word for road, well…I’m not sure what her function was other than sitting in the lobby watching the people walk through while chain vaping. Neither daughter was particularly pretty or otherwise remarkable though that didn’t stop horndog Cousin Fred from making a run at them both. He told Ohtli how sexy she looking when the vapor escaped from her lips as she sucked on the vaping pen. He finally got the message when she began exhaling the vapor into his face. According to Cousin Fred it was the essence of raspberry mustard. Hmmmmm. His next target was Zuma to whom he pointed out that our production will be located in her Colorado namesake, the town of Montezuma. He offered her a role in our reality show “Naked and Untamed” and oddly she seemed interested. I figure she just wants out of Azusa. In the end, she told Cousin Fred that he would have to ask Don Erasmo’s permission for her to travel to Colorado with us. I guess the thought of asking someone who makes others refer to him with a formal title of respect and carries a big-ass hunting knife for permission to carry his daughter off to Colorado to appear nude on basic cable television was more than Cousin Fred wanted to deal with. He retreated to the room where Friend Lamont and I were planning the trip home. Friend Lamont had earlier walked down to a local market and picked up a 12-pack of beer, along with a couple bottles of booze for the trip home. Since we can’t drive back across New Mexico, just in case there are felony warrants on us, we’ve decided to take a more northerly route. We’re leaving this morning and heading back up toward Barstow and continuing northeast to Vegas Baby!. Cousin Fred is hoping to do some talent scouting there. Our ultimate destination for the night though is Coyote Springs, NV - north of Vegas Baby!. The place has a very old west feel to it. I’ll be able to get some photos and maybe do some writing for that moth-eaten daily periodical that forbids me from mentioning their name. Actually, the editor hasn’t used any of my on-the-road features thus far. Wait until he learns that I’m resigning my position so I can gear up for to start production on “Naked & Untamed” in late March. I know he was counting on me to cover the 4-day World Bingo and Pitch Tournament in Arnett then. Oh darn, my bad luck. Cousin Fred and I are executive producers. I’ve not yet figured out exactly what that means, but I’m sure it will be great. We decided to hire Friend Lamont on as our very special assistant and driver. He seemed pleased with that. Note to self – must let The Wife know that Friend Lamont will be living at The Compound. So we’re off for Coyote Springs. More to follow!  Happy Tuesday! I have it on good authority that the week is flying by. You know the weird thing about living here in the Great Northwest of Oklahoma? Everyone here is desperate for volunteers for anything. And volunteering brings with it a whole lot of meetings and no cash. Eh well…it’s still great to be here.
Tonight I was supposed to attend my first VFW meeting, but here I sit in a RV parked outside of Chick Farris’s luxurious home in West Hollywood, or as we “moneyed” hipsters call it, WeHo. We arrived yesterday and I was a bit concerned about where we would park the RV. Chick’s street is the very definition of an anti-RV street and there isn’t a Walmart within 50 miles of there. Chick wasn’t concerned. He told us that as president of his homeowners’ association, he can keep the “natives” at bay for a couple of days. We have meetings today with our production team and then we’re outta here, headed back for home early tomorrow morning. But, more on the present later. Let’s return to the past, a couple of days ago while we were still making our road trip west. Before we got completely out of New Mexico, Cousin Fred produced two bottles of Crystal Head Vodka. It’s Canadian vodka that comes in these crystal skulls. Dan Aykroyd is one of the partners behind the product. That stuff is really expensive, but Cousin Fred said he figured that we deserved it since we were about to hit it big in Hollywood. Cousin Fred and I started tipping one bottle between Gallup, NM and Winslow, AZ. We parked at the Walmart Supercenter in Winslow for the night and Friend Lamont, who had been driving joined us in the back. The Winslow police showed up twice asking us to keep it down. Apparently, the bar at the end of the Walmart parking was complaining about the noise coming from the RV. We got a late start the next day, all of us (except Lassie the barking goat) with hangovers that would kill a horse. It’s about six hours from Winslow to Barstow, CA so I wasn’t particularly concerned about timing. The daily periodical that forbids me from mentioning their name wasn’t/isn’t running my embedded travel pieces anyway. Before leaving the Winslow Walmart parking lot, Cousin Fred disappeared inside for a bit and came out with a bag full of snacks. After putting the snacks inside the cabinets in the galley, from the bottom of the bag he produced a box of red chemlights, known commercially as Glowsticks. I asked what he intended to do with those, but he just smiled. Honestly, I was still too hungover to even care. I grabbed a handful of cheese puffs and sat down. It was mid-afternoon when we pulled into Flagstaff. I asked Friend Lamont to steer us toward the nearest point of the Grand Canyon so I could get a few photos to send back to that rancid daily periodical that won’t claim me. It was starting to get dark as we left Flagstaff and began making our way toward Barstow for the night. I have to hand it Friend Lamont, he really hung there with the driving. Lassie the barking goat sat in the front passenger seat, occasionally looking back at me and making a weird noise to indicate he wanted more cheese puffs. After the sun had set, and we were purring along the highway, Cousin Fred emerged from the bedroom in back. He stood wide-eyed looking around and declared, “It’s dark outside!” No shit cowboy…it happens at the end of a day. About that time, Friend Lamont steered us into a travel plaza place for fuel. He and I went inside. Cousin Fred said he would stay in the RV with Lassie the barking goat. After bathroom breaks inside, Friend Lamont and I came outside to see a crowd gathered around the RV. I muttered, “Now what?” Not actually wanting to know. As we got closer, I could see that Cousin Fred had placed one of the empty Crystal Head Vodka bottles up on the front dash with three or four of the red chemlights glowing inside. He had put a pair of sunglasses on Lassie the barking goat. There were murmurs among the crowd about “Satanist devil worshipers” and “look, it’s Baphomet” and such. From inside the RV, strains of AC-DC’s “Highway to Hell” was playing. About that time, Lassie began barking and the crowd moved back. I pressed Friend Lamont’s shoulder and suggested we get the hell out of there. He agreed. Soon we were flying down the highway with one glowing skull in the front, the other in the back. Friend Lamont was wearing the clip-on devil horns. Lassie the barking goat sat in the passenger seat still wearing sunglasses. Fortunately, for all, the novelty wore off somewhere around Oatman, AZ near the California border and we just kept driving. I’m pretty sure we scared a few motorists along the way though. And speaking of scary things that go bump in the night…faithful readers of this blog will recall that I’ve always been a huge fan of Batman. Of all the superheroes, Batman is definitely the coolest. I’m talking cool on a Tom Jones level here (don’t get me started talking about how cool Tom Jones is or we’ll never get this finished). Well, at least Batman is cool up to the point that some skinny bozo in a bad costume tries to impersonate him – and no I’m not talking about Adam West. From the Huffington Post site, we learn that a Disney World reject in Orlando, FL dressed himself in a Batman mask and t-shirt emblazoned with the Bat-Logo and walked into a dollar store to rob the joint. He was armed with a handgun (should have been the first clue…Batman would never use a gun) and left when two cashiers handed over the cash out of their drawers (no not their panties, you pervs, the cash register drawers) and he casually walked out. 90 minutes later, another dollar store robbery (four miles away) went down after a guy wearing a Batman outfit and carrying a gun robbed it. Police, AND I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP, are still trying to decide if it’s the same guy. Trust me, it is. Why in the world would you rob a dollar store? What do you get, a handful of dollar bills and all the Pez candy you can carry? Maybe he should switch to a Spiderman outfit and start robbing Sonics…it’s bound to be more profitable and you can spidey-leap from carhop to carhop taking the wad of cash out of their little aprons. Attention amateur criminals. Contact me for consulting advice on beginning your life in crime. You’re obviously too stupid to figure it out yourselves. ‘Nuff said.  Greetings faithful blog readers. We’re in Barstow, CA this morning on our way to a meeting with Chick Farris in Hollywood this afternoon where we’ll – theoretically – sign our deal and start work on our new reality show, “Naked and Untamed” in which naked reality stars (reality shows need stars – though not necessarily naked stars) go in search of The Bigfoot.
The trip out here was kind of fun. I did daily dispatches back to the daily local paper that forbids me to mention their name – they soooo do not wish to be associated with me. I guess that makes me an embedded journalist…swell, I’m embedded in an RV with my idiot Cousin Fred, Lassie the barking goat, and Friend Lamont, our altogether cheerful and hyper-hygienic driver. I’m certain Fox News will be calling any minute now and asking me to cover something for them. The idea behind bringing the RV was so that Cousin Fred and I could map out a full season of episodes and think through some of the mechanics so that we didn’t appear to be total bozos in Hollywood. Guess what? That plan rapidly fell apart as our “business” trip rapidly descended into something resembling more a fraternity roadtrip. No, actually nothing that cool. Just a bunch of sophomoric idiots without adult supervision is probably the best way to phrase it. For instance, we won’t be able to go through New Mexico on the way back. I’m fairly certain that law enforcement there has our license plate posted and possibly warrants for us following Cousin Fred’s stunt. Allow me to elaborate – so we pull into a convenience store somewhere on the west side of Albuquerque. There really wasn’t any place to park the RV so Friend Lamont parked over on the side of the building. Prompting the stop was Cousin Fred’s sudden craving for something sweet. He wanted a bag of Gummy Bears. The convenience store looked to be easy in/easy out so we stopped. It was really cold so Cousin Fred pulled on a dark jacket and a stocking cap atop his head…well, at least it looked like a stocking cap. It was actually a ski mask. There was a lot of traffic in and out of that store. People standing in front of the store, people getting out of cars, people in and out of the place…very popular convenience store. Next thing we see is Cousin Fred coming around the corner from the front and screaming, “Start the RV, start the RV!” He was wearing the ski mask pulled fully down over his face now. Friend Lamont not knowing whether it was anything serious started the RV and began to back out before Cousin Fred was even back inside. I sat looking out the window, there were some people who had just gotten out of their car to go inside…they got back into their car to leave. There was an elderly man who I thought was grabbing for his heart, but it turns out he was reaching for his iPhone in the breast pocket of his jacket…he began taking pictures or videoing us, couldn’t tell which. Other people in front of the store were using their phones to photograph and/or video us. Even someone that I presume was the store clerk came out shaking his fist at us. Lassie the barking goat is sitting on the passenger seat up front barking furiously and looking over at Friend Lamont like, “Come on, get us out of here!” Now keep in mind, we’re in a huge RV backing out of our spot on the side of the store and trying to get turned in the correct direction to get out of there. Friend Lamont had to back up at least twice until we were able to clear the cars parked around us and “get away”. I’m looking at Cousin Fred who starts laughing hysterically. He produced the receipt for the bag full of Gummy Bears that he bought. Said he pulled the ski mask over his face as he started for the door holding the full bag as though it were cash. When I asked what possessed him to do that, he informed me that our road trip was a bit too staid for his taste and he wanted to “rev” things up a bit. Shit…I guess his idea of revving is to give me heart attack. Soon we were all laughing about it and picking Gummy Bears out of our molars as he headed off into the night. I kept one eye out the back though expecting the law to roll up on us. I’ve heard it’s a crime to be sophomorically funny in New Mexico. Speaking of weird things that can get you arrested. I came across something on the KFOR-TV News site over the weekend that would definitely qualify. The mug shot above is courtesy of the Tulsa Co. Jail. Seems our perp, whom we’ll call Sylvester, no reason just seems to fit, got a little carried away and was pointing PLASTIC TOY guns at motorists passing through a busy intersection in Tulsa. Of course, people freaked out (and who wouldn’t in this day and age) and started dialing 911. Sly (as he’s known to his friends here at CCB) is lucky it wasn’t Western Oklahoma, where real gun toters outnumber fake gun toters by a margin of 21,221:1. He would likely have been shot dead for doing the same thing, without fear of prosecution on the shooter’s part. So the cops show up and Sly gives up his arsenal which included a fake M-16 rifle, a fake handgun, and even a fake rubber knife. Really? A fake knife? He’s in jail now on an assault with a deadly weapon charges…huh? What deadly weapon? It was all fake stuff. And, if that isn’t puzzling enough, look closely at Sly’s mug shot. We here at CCB tried to count the tatts on his face, but keep losing count. Something tells me it is something on the order of 21,221. If you have the time and inclination to count them all, please let me know. Maybe this was a guy who had a bad day at the tattoo parlor and decided to end it all with a suicide by cop. Who knows? This is such a weird state to live in.  Wow…I didn’t get much sleep last night. Tossing and turning, all night long. Guess I’m excited about the road trip this morning.
Yesterday, I wasn’t so sure about all of this. The Editor at that daily local newspaper that forbids me from mentioning their name in this blog wasn’t too happy that I was headed off for an unknown amount of time. Finally, I offered that we would use old Route 66 and I would send back daily dispatches from the road. You know, do features from “America’s Highway” just like everybody else does. He considered that for a while, agreed that it’s been overdone, but then declared it was a “grand” idea. Guess if it’s been done and done successfully it’s safe. So here I go…a road correspondent. I have my trench coat and beat up fedora. Driving Route 66 means a slower trip, but we have until Monday afternoon to get there so I think we’re okay. Oh, and there’s the RV that Friend Lamont laid his hands on. It has 329,000 miles, but the engine sounds okay. It has decent tires and Friend Lamont assures us that the septic tank is empty. We filled potable water last night and a bunch of food stuff. Also loaded up some Goat Chow for Lassie the barking goat, though he seems to prefer ham on rye with Swiss – hold the mustard. Goats are pretty flexible that way. Waiting for Cousin Fred to finish getting ready so we can go. He loaded the entire catalog of Laurel & Hardy movies on DVD last night. All 107, plus the 20 foreign films they made. Guess that’s for inspiration as we’re discussing our strategy for our reality show, which we’re now calling Naked & Untamed. It’s gonna be great, you’ll see. And speaking of weird realities…I came across an article on the Huffington Post site last night that I just have to share. Believe it or not, the photo above is actually a mug shot. She looks pretty normal don’t you think? Eh, not so much. Cue the theme from Dragnet… Hard to believe, but Goldilocks (above) is a lot like our favorite state representative Sally Kern…batshit crazy! Now let me set a scene for you here. You’re working retail. It sucks, but it’s a job and you’re living on the Redneck Riviera of Northwest Florida so life isn’t all that bad. Plus, it’s a slow day retail-wise. You’re just killing time waiting for five o’clock so you can get the hell out of there and head home to dive into a bag of Frito’s Scoops and a twelve-pack of Jax Beer (it’s a Florida thing). You see Goldilocks come through the door of your store and think to yourself, “Eh, she looks pretty normal. I’ll go back to neatly folding the panties in the bargain bins (it kills time until you can get out of there…duh) and checking my Facebook page to see who has a birthday today.” After a while, you notice her coming out of the dressing room near the front and head straight for the door. You call out, “Have a nice day!” Then you notice Goldilocks left the door open on the dressing room. Store policy insists that the doors be kept closed (it looks neater…keep up, people). You amble over to shut the door, only to find several anti-theft tags on the floor along with a cellphone and a puddle of urine…IT’S A WET CRIME SCENE. Cue the theme from Dragnet… The fuzz show up and find Goldilocks’ husband’s number on the phone. They call it. He answers and gives them a description of the vehicle she’s driving. What an ass!? Cops begin sweeping through the parking lot of outlet mall and find the car with Goldilocks inside (probably asleep). Inside they find several pairs of designer jeans from Saks Fifth Ave and a bunch of costume jewelry and blouses from the Ann Taylor store where she peed. The cops read her rights, after which she happily admits to stealing everything and peeing on the floor and on some other merchandise too (marking turf, I reckon). She gets hauled off to the pokey where idiot (and probably confused) husband posts a $5,000 bond and gets her released. This begs a LOT of questions. Like, how did she get all that crap out of those stores without being noticed? And, what the hell possessed her to pee on the floor and merchandise on the floor of the dressing room? We at CCB may have to launch an investigation into this. I’ll contact some people down there and see if we can get an update. In the meantime, Cousin Fred is ready to roll. The Wife has locked herself in the bedroom and I can smell the acrid odor of unfiltered Pall-Malls. Soon she’ll be singing “My Philadelphia Home.”  Cousin Fred, sufficiently recovered now from our State of the State drinking game from Monday night, came in last night practically bursting with the news that he had finally heard from Chick Farris in Hollywood. It appears that Chick and his production company, Mountebank Studios, are going to greenlight our idea for a reality show based on naked Bigfoot hunters searching for the beast.
We’re in! Chick wants us in California by Monday afternoon so we can get all the administrative things done and meet our production team. When I asked him how he wants to go to Cali, Cousin Fred said we should drive, that way we can map out our first production season on the way so we sound like we know what we’re talking about when we get there. Read that as, we need time to get our stories straight so we don’t fall flat on our face. Cousin Fred suggested using his older model topless Ford Bronco to tow Hellkat One’s trailer, but I reminded him that it doesn’t have current tags. Her Royal Highness Mary of Fallin has the title…can’t get the tags without the title (so the lady at the tag office told us). Mr. Kim’s RV would have been great, but faithful readers may recall that the RV burned up (along with Mr. Kim) in a weird plum wine moonshine mishap several months ago. Finally, Cousin Fred had an idea. He called Friend Lamont in Western Arkansas who said he could lay his hands on an RV that we can take to Hollywood and back. Friend Lamont offered to do the driving so that Cousin Fred and I can sit in the back and think great thoughts. Taking an RV also means that we can take Lassie the barking goat with us. I certainly wouldn’t want to leave him here with The Wife, who is looking for an excuse to be rid of the goat here at The Compound. Friend Lamont should arrive at The Compound late today and we’ll head down the highway early tomorrow morning. Ah, another road trip…it just doesn’t get any better. And speaking of road trips…or, not…friends, let me give you a sage piece of advice if I may. A piece of advice that will save you a LOT of embarrassment, possibly subsequent arrests, and the scorn of decent folks everywhere (not sure there are any of those left). You will please note the mugshot at the top of the page (this G-D blog host hasn’t developed their tools to the point that I can insert a photo where in the body of the posting I want, so they will always be at the top). (sigh) But I digress… I first encountered this mugshot back in early December when an intrepid and alert reader forwarded to me a story from a web site that contained said mugshot. The story went that the male of the pair (he’s on the left) was up early on Thanksgiving morning prepping the holiday fowl for roasting when the female of the two (she’s on the right) came downstairs to find the dude (on the left) ummmmmm having sex (sort of) with the turkey. Such a fowl…er…foul deed! She (on the right) became so enraged that she grabbed a boning (er, de-boning) knife and began penetrating El Creepo’s (on the left) skin with her (again, right) rigid blade. Both (pictured above) were arrested…he (left) was charged with defiling a corpse and general perversion. She (right) was charged with assault and malicious wounding with a dangerous weapon (rigid boning knife). No mention of whether the fouled fowl was eventually roasted and eaten. I was in blogger heaven. I thought the blog posting of a lifetime had dropped into my lap. I would be able to get all cynical about holidays and holiday feasts. I had visions of winning the Prize Pulitzer for Most Incredible Blog Posting Ever. My faith in the degenerate nature of humanity was reaffirmed! And then… I discovered the web site from which I was getting my information was a fake news blog. Well, crap. Still, I sucked it up and moved on. I guess I’m the only blog on the internet that doesn’t make crap up. I guess I’m the only blogger in the known universe who publishes true stuff. Damn me! But then, yesterday, as I was perusing Facebook looking for more unbelievably stupid human antics to post, I saw the mugshot (above). This time our loser hillbilly meth-entrepreneurial couple supposedly were caught eating a homeless guy in Central Park in New York City. They get around, don’t they? So, my sage advice, faithful readers is that when the po-po kicks in your door at 3AM and drag you out of bed and take you to the county lock-up before releasing you when they realize they had the wrong address on the warrant…be sure to take time (between taser blasts, of course) to comb your hair and make yourself presentable. Otherwise your crappy mugshot (see above) may circulate forever and have you doing things that were much worse than whatever the people that warrant was intended for were actually doing. You’ll thank me later. Have a nice day.  Good morning everybody. Another day, another blog post exposing the seamy underbelly that is America.
How about those Iowa caucuses, huh? Talk about an anti-climactic soap opera. Cruz wins the GOP nod. I suspect for the last time for awhile. At least until they can get way down south where he’s the darling of evangelicals. Okay, I’ll just say it…the guy is kind of creepy. He’s got that weird chin thing that screams “I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and nuke Mexico!” I saw him kissing his wife after he declared “victory” in Iowa such that it was…a non-binding popularity vote. At least Madam Cruz didn’t cringe and try to get away like his daughter did when he tried to kiss her on national television. The guy’s a creep I’m telling you! And then, there’s the “Do”…The Trump…finished a weak second and sounded downright conciliatory after the caucus results were announced…at least until he clear Iowa airspace. All of the network “analysts” seemed to think that The Trump’s big problem was that he lacked any sort of real organization. Hmmmmm…I’ll bet he’s buying organization in New Hampshire. Cash cures everything. Seriously, I hope he hangs in there. He’s the most entertaining piece in this atavistic exercise in mediocrity. Then there’s Mr. Finished Third, But A Strong Third. Marco Rubio. Who may very well rise to the top of the GOP menagerie? He appears to be kind of a class act and smart. Something none of the others has. His only drawback for me is that he’s one of those Tea Party guys…which are really nothing but disgruntled Republicans. That could be his downfall. In the meantime, long before the caucuses in Iowa ended, Chris Christie and Jeb! were already in New Hampshire have fistfights over who got there first. On the Dems side…Iowa finally declared the Queen of the Unindicted the victor late Monday afternoon. Uncle Bernie mussed up his hair a bit more and showed up in New Hampshire for a 5AM rally declaring a victory of sorts in Iowa. Which I guess is true. Tune in next week, when we’ll replay all of this again after Tuesday’s New Hampshire primary. It’s gonna be great, I’m sure! And, speaking of great things…ain’t America great!? Seriously, where else in the world can you find entrepreneurs who combine vices for one-stop debauchery? Quickly…name seven vices. Really? You can’t? Come on, no one is that virtuous. Allow me to help here with seven vices that most creative people seem to hold dear: 1) Drinking Alcohol – certainly one of my favorites. 2) Smoking – not my thing, but people who do smoke can’t seem to live without it. By the way, we’re talking (as they say in Florida) tabaccy here. The other stuff could be dropped into number 1. 3) Gambling – another of my favorites. Horseracing to slots to lottery…what’s not fun about throwing money at something you have infinitesimal odds of success? Because when you do hit, the rush you get is on a par with facing a 450 lb. Jersey Bertha in a cage match (so I’m told). 4) Oysters – admit it. There is nothing more decadent than slurping raw oysters from the shell and chasing it with alcohol. Don’t like oysters? Okay, substitute your favorite gluttonous indulgence…get naked and eat! Nobody’s watching. 5) Flashy Fashion – definitely something I need to work on. 6) Sex – need I say more? 7) Abuse of Credit – we’ve all been there. As Hunter S. Thompson said, “The first and most important rule for writers is to abuse your credit for all its worth.” Oh sure, there are probably more…like stealing your neighbor’s Wi-Fi, but it’s my blog and if I say there are seven there are seven. So the online porn video site, PornHub (sex is covered, or uncovered as the case may call for) is now moving into online gambling (still another vice, see how this works?)…ON ONE SITE! Can you believe it? Why leave your house? Oh yeah, this is Oklahoma, nobody will deliver booze or oysters. Damn! Online gamblers can play roulette, Blackjack, strip poker or even slots. And when you burn through all of your cash, you can go back over to the porn side and wiggle and giggle and think how you can come up with more cash to spend on the gambling side. It’s a vice addict’s wet dream I’m telling ya! And, remember, for all of you rabid conservative republican types out there - your own idol (no, not Reagan), Abraham Lincoln once said, “It has been my experience that those with no vices have very few virtues.”  Great coogley moogley…what a day yesterday! So much bloggable stuff, I barely know where to start.
Let’s see…we’ll start with Her Royal Highness Mary of Fallin’s State of the State speech before those horseturd-chucking morons in the State Legislature. Was it just me, or did HRH actually seem kind of moderate and (dare I say?) conciliatory, almost…human? Cousin Fred and I played a State of the State drinking game during the speech. I took a shot of Mezcal every time HRH used the word “I”. Cousin Fred took a shot of Tequila every time she used the word “we” or some form of we. At the end of the speech, Cousin Fred was trashed…dead asleep, snoring and muttering something about non-violent offenders running rampant in the streets. Of course, we have no idea which “we” she was referring to. If she’s counting on those broke-dick morons in the legislature, she needs to start hitting the bottle. It’s going to be a long, stupid legislative session. Cousin Fred is still on the floor as I’m typing this posting. The Wife took off last night as soon as Cousin Fred came through the door with two bottles of liquor. Figure she’s camping out at a local motel wondering why, oh why she ever agreed to move here. I was actually surprised by HRH’s speech. It seemed kind of moderate, middle of the road even, much to the chagrin of rabid GOP legislators who kept looking at one another in bewilderment. Course there’s the matter of how the stuff she was proposing will be paid for. She seemed to have those answers, but then again it’s in the hands of a moronic state legislature that’s more interested in writing frivolous legislation to impress the folks back home than they are in actually getting anything substantive done. And speaking of frivolous legislation…the cameras in the room kept moving past that batshit-crazy-cow Sally Kern, but every time they did you could see she was writing furiously. Probably drafting more hate legislation. Bet she was writing a proposal to burn LGBT Oklahomans in their respective town squares. How does she keep getting reelected? Will someone please run against her next time? Believe her district is NW Oklahoma City…surely, there’s a reasonable human being among you people there. At one point the camera paused on her. I guess she could sense it because she looked up at it with those weird eyes of hers and mouthed something that I swear was “Jesus was a heterosexual”. Other than that there were no bizarre antics by those legislators who were elected to their positions by citizens who wanted them gone from their towns. “I know, let’s elect Creepy Clem to the state legislature…that way we won’t have to lock up our daughters at night.” Once that was over, I flipped over to the Iowa Caucus…Judas Priest, what an evening. Cousin Fred in his near catatonic alcohol-induced state began muttering, “Donald, Donald, he’s my man! He’ll make America great again!” Immediately thereafter, he emitted a loud fart and began snoring again. I was a bit surprised to see Cruz finish on top, particularly after he threatened to have non-voting Iowans arrested. Maybe he and Sally Kern need to get together and compare notes. As far as I’m concerned, Sanders won. No one a few weeks ago gave anyone but the Queen of the Unindicted any real chance. That “virtual tie” is a definite win for Uncle Bernie. It’s going to be a long, bloody ride to the conventions this summer and then on to the general election in November. I can hardly wait. And speaking of weirdness…cuz that’s what we’re all about here at CCB. Bringing you the weird, the unusual, the borderline offensive so you don’t have to go looking for it yourself. You’re welcome. About this time last year, pre-CCB, I read about an obscure female Japanese artist who used a 3-D printer (gotta me one of those) to produce a sea-worthy kayak fashioned after her vagina. Seriously. I can’t possibly make up something like that. There were pictures of her in her vagina boat on Tokyo Bay paddling about and smiling for the camera. She called it art. The authorities called it obscene and arrested her. She was arrested again after she produced cell phone cases and landscape dioramas in image of her vagina. Apparently, prosecutors were having a tough time pressing an obscenity charge against our earnest off-beat artist. So, as prosecutors did with Al Capone (who never adorned anything with a vagina) when they prosecuted him for tax evasion because they couldn’t make anything else stick, they stuck earnest off-beat artist with a charge of transmitting images of genitalia over a cell-phone tower, or some such nonsense. They’re demanding a $6,600 fine from her. I’m sure someone will pay up. Maybe she should leave Japan for a while until things cool down. Hey, I’ll bet the Museum in Cosmic City would display her art! No, bad idea. Sally Kern would flip out and burn the place to the ground. Sigh. |
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