 Yeah, I know, these Saturday posts to the Cosmic City Blog are beginning to be a habit. But, I was too busy with The Compound’s latest invaders yesterday to post anything. So I’m dishing it out today! Let’s see now…where to start? Oh, well, how about the Thursday evening arrival of a horde of vintage Buicks carrying a whole bunch of…ummm…really vintage women from all over the danged country? They’re from a group that calls itself the Secret Ladies Society for the Study of Earthly Psychic Occult Phenomena…or SLSSEPOP, for short. The youngest is their leader (from Nebraska) and she is easily 85. They apparently have been hearing the reports of the spiritualist gatherings here at The Compound and decided to make a trek to see for themselves. All were wearing bright orange t-shirts with SLSSEPOP in purple lettering. One of the sisters (as they refer to themselves) – Sister Edna – is 95 and drove here from Maine. I did my best to assure them that the spiritualists gave up trying to conjure the ghost of Temple Houston after several days. They seemed unfazed by the earlier failures. According to Sister Tilda – the society’s leader, or as they call her, The Grand Exalted Sister Guide – the society has determined that The Cab is a portal to the spirit world and they’re after more than a mere hard-drinking, ill-tempered, gun slinging lawyer. Sister Tilda informed me that they will need at least ten days to explore the opening and see who they can summon forth “from the other side.” Now, if it had been anyone other than a herd of great grandmothers gathered on the lawn, I might have considered resorting to violence to rid them from The Compound and lock the gates. Sister Tilda began chanting “taro, karo, ab-salami” and was soon joined by the others. Guess I’m stuck with them. I sent Cousin Fred into town to pick up some groceries. We appear to be in the business of the care and feeding of a secret ladies society now. More Buicks arrived yesterday. Sister Tilda tells me that they expect several more coming from California. The Cali chapter is expected to arrive today. Cousin Fred offered that we could post stuff on Facebook for a vintage Buick show and charge people $5 a head to come into The Compound. Hmmmm…will have to give that some thought. And, speaking of ways to make an extra buck or two… I know I sometimes rant and carry on in this blog about Oklahoma’s secret society of idiots, namely the state legislature without offering any sort of reasonable alternative to their shenanigans. But, today won’t be any different. It has come to my attention that House Bill 1686 has passed out of committee and moved to the floor. I’ll do my best to explain this without too much hyperbole or fuss. Nah, that’s not true. The Oklahoma House, whose motto, taken from the Aramaic, is “We know what’s best for you!”, is now debating the merits of 1686, which, while eliminating the sales tax on beer and spirits (not a bad thing in my humble opinion, at least on the surface) more than doubles the excise tax on the wholesale end. Who do you think the wholesalers are going to pass those additional costs to? Yup, you and me…the drinkers of Oklahoma. By some estimates the increased excise tax would raise the cost of spirits by as much as $3.50 per liter. BUT, it won’t stop there. If the wholesalers see that kind of increase in what they have to pay, they won’t simply pass it along to the consumer. They will add in their “load” – administrative costs in connection with calculating the higher excise tax, etc. – so that $3.50 increase per liter of your favorite rot-guy vodka will show up as an increase of as much as $7.00. Now I’ve tried to figure the angle here, but Oklahoma’s tax apportionments are so complex that it would take days to figure it all out. Almost certainly, it will add additional money to the state treasury allowing them to spend more on rural freeways and lavish orgies at the crumbling state capitol. It is also in line with Queen Mary’s roll back the sales tax to help the little people plan (which screws municipalities, by the way). And, most importantly, it allows the moron bill writer to go back home to Bugtussle and tell his constituents that it is the first step toward total prohibition in the state! They’ll name the town square after him! The idiot who wrote the bill, Rep. Harold Wright, or, as he’ll henceforth be known, Rep. Prep-H Wrong, added some tax apportionment language to his bill so the municipalities, counties, etc. wouldn’t raise too much hell if this thing actually makes it through the door to Her Royal Highness Mary of Fallin’s desk for signature. If you live in southern Kansas or anywhere near the Oklahoma border of Arkansas, Texas, or Missouri…heed my words – open a “real” beer, wine, and liquor store immediately. You’ll make a fortune from the Okies driving pell-mell across the state line to find cheaper booze if this latest act of genius by the Oklahoma Legislature makes it into law. That is all…for now!  Happy Thursday to everyone. We’re sneaking up on another weekend! Hang in there for another couple of days and then you can sit around in your underwear watching mindless marathons of some inane show you can’t possibly turn away from.
For me right now that’s the show on STARZ called, Black Sails. Very cool show about early organized crime in the Western Hemisphere…aka, pirates. The Wife of course hates it, but then she’s still on her latest resort vacation to Shattuck (where she gets three out of four local channels plus one ESPN channel) so I get to watch what I want. The Black Sails marathon will start on Saturday at 10AM. If you’re interested, stop by The Compound and bring your own rum. Well, I say there will be a marathon on Saturday, but that assumes I’m totally rid of our latest pest, The New Anti-Elvis (TNA-E). He and his entourage showed up again yesterday. They kept the tour bus parked out on the road, even though I had inadvertently left the gates open when Cousin Fred made a run into town for donuts. I was frankly a little surprised to see TNA-E return after the debacle at the cemetery the day before. The tour bus driver found Temple Houston’s grave easily enough and TNA-E was rolling around on it, trying (in his words) to pick up some Temple Houston vibe. It wasn’t long before his tour bus was spotted from the road. Within minutes, every screaming teenaged girl within forty miles had gathered around the bus. TNA-E suddenly felt obligated to perform and climbed atop the bus to show the girls some of his famous moves. It all came to an end when two of Cosmic City’s finest – they’re down to two-officer shifts now – showed up and one officer began writing tickets which they taped to the outside of the bus. The other cop grabbed a bullhorn and yelled at TNA-E to come down from the top of the bus. The girls were screaming and TNA-E was busy lip-syncing his latest hit from up on high where the police couldn’t get him. There was talk of calling in the Fire Dept to bring a ladder truck and/or water cannon, but that department was much too busy having a BBQ on the roof sunporch of their new fire station…”We’re just grilling some brats, catching some rays, and digging the aura of this very groovy city,” one firefighter was quoted as saying. When the lip-syncing ended, TNA-E climbed back through the roof of the tour bus which started immediately and began easing through the crowd, citations waving in the air. They left behind a herd of heart-crushed teen girls who were now rolling around on Temple Houston’s grave in an effort to absorb some of TNA-E’s scent. It was scandalous, I’m tellin’ ya! And now, here he was – TNA-E, that is. He and the entire entourage dressed in 1890’s style apparel. I stood in front of The Cab, uncertain as to what, if anything, I was going to do. The road manager, John Z. Quick, clutching his briefcase to his chest, charged ahead of the group to me. He was dressed as a stereotypical 19th century riverboat gambler. He informed me that the entourage just wanted to play some Pitch inside The Cab for a while. He made it clear that they had to depart for TNA-E’s next gig in Kansas City and wouldn’t be staying long. As TNA-E approached, I made a comment about his Peacemaker hanging off his hip. I pointed out that Temple Houston was right-handed, but TNA-E was wearing his gun on his left hip. With that, he stopped and glared at me. He then announced to the entourage that I had ruined it for him. “Everybody back on the bus!” And, then…they were gone. I went inside to commence drinking. Speaking of doing weird things with the dead…say, my application of segues is improving, don’t you think? It turns out that Oklahoma does NOT have the wackiest state legislature in the United States. We at CCB have found reports of one that really wastes its time on nonsense legislation. Namely, Illinois. It seems that a Republican representative in Illinois introduced a bill that would make October Zombie Preparedness Month. (Cue sounds of crickets and pins dropping.) Seriously, they’re doing this. Now, of all of life’s real things that go bump in the night…let’s see there are bats, snakes, spiders, hacking Russians, Kellyanne Conways, and Bigfoots (Bigfeets?). Zombies are not on the list of crap keeping me awake at night. So, it will be a law to prepare for a zombie apocalypse in October in Illinois? And, I thought we had trouble! The thing is, the bill has made it out of committee and is on the floor for debate, as we speak. (More pins dropping.) But, wait, there’s more! AND, the debate is raging as to the type of zombie that they should direct people to prepare for. Type of zombie? WTF? This in a state where there are more murders per night than the rest of the 49 states combined…for a year. And this is how you’ll spend your legislative session? Seriously? Maybe we aren’t so bad off here in Oklahoma after all. Our legislature looks pretty normal compared with the zombie preppers up there. Okay, not really. That is all!  Good Tuesday morning, everybody! It rained, it rained! Not enough to refill the dry buffalo wallow that is the former Lake Mountebank, but it rained by golly. We got just a hair over .30 inch here at The Compound.
I’m even happier to report that The Cab is watertight. No leaks. Of course, we still have the rain driven by 45 mph winds test to go through, but, hey, I’ll take it. And, as promised, JB-Hisself, and the entourage showed up yesterday. Cousin Fred and I were seated in chairs out on the north lawn in front of The Cab, just letting the rain cascade down our faces and enjoying something other than dust falling from the air, when he arrived. I had actually closed The Compound gates in anticipation of new lunacy coming in off the broken pavement of the county road out front. Cousin Fred and I were sipping Margaritas on ice through straws with little hula skirts attached. Now, I’m not going to mention his real name. In fact, I’m not even going to keep repeating his telegram name of JB-Hisself. My reluctance to name names is mostly because he’s a punk who would likely sue the living beejeezus out of me. For purposes of this blog, he shall henceforth be known as The New Anti-Elvis. As soon as I saw the entourage unloading from the bus down at the road, I told Cousin Fred to ignore them. He pointed out that if I didn’t open the gate they couldn’t come in. That didn’t stop The New Anti-Elvis. He and a few others began scaling the gate. Cousin Fred asked if he should get the shotgun under the bar in The Cab. I said no, let’s not have any gunplay here today. Cousin Fred went back to sipping his Margarita through a straw. I hit the remote and the gate began swinging open with the climbers nearly at the top. The New Anti-Elvis hung on for dear life and screamed like a 12 year old girl. The others fell off the swinging gate and hit the ground with a thud. Mr. Robin 1. The New Anti-Elvis 0. When the gate stopped moving, The New Anti-Elvis climbed down from atop the gate. He rolled his head looking our direction and began sauntering up the drive, his lackeys falling in behind him. He wore a sneer on his face as he walked up to us. Some little squirrelly weasel-faced looking guy came running from the bus with a briefcase in his hand. He ran ahead of The New Anti-Elvis and introduced himself as John Z. Quick, The New Anti-Elvis’ road manager. The New Anti-Elvis stood about ten feet away from us, he removed his shades and scanned the front of The Cab. “So, this is it,” he said. “Yes, it looks familiar. I’ve been here before.” He smiled and made a move toward the door. I leaped from my chair (didn’t spill a drop of Margarita) and in my best Dirty Harry voice said, “Where do you think you’re going?” I then began sipping Margarita through my hula-skirted straw watching him through squinty eyes. Cousin Fred jumped up and ran inside The Cab. I knew he was going for the shotgun under the bar. John Z. Quick jumped between us and explained that while on a tour date in Omaha, The New Anti-Elvis had visited a psychic who specialized in figuring out who people had been in a previous life. According to the psychic, The New Anti-Elvis had been Temple Houston in a previous life. Soon thereafter, The New Anti-Elvis began reading up on his former self. While looking around the internet, he discovered The Cab and broke off two tour dates at that casino in Dodge City so he could visit The Compound. At that point, my first thought was to burn the damn thing down and be done with all of this. But that would be letting the crazy people win…and, I wasn’t going to do that. After a lot of staring through squinty eyes at one another, my Margarita was beginning to get watery and his coiffure was beginning to fall down. The entourage headed back to the bus, still parked out on the road. John Z. Quick handed me a business card and told me that they were going to head into Cosmic City to visit the grave of Temple Houston before it got too late. He then informed me that they would be back the next day. It was definitely more of a statement than a request. He said that The New Anti-Elvis wants to play some cards inside The Cab. That’s all. About that time, someone on the bus began blowing the air horn and John Z. Quick made a quick (hahaha) departure. As he ran toward the bus, he hollered over his shoulder, “We’ll be back tomorrow!” After he was on the bus, I hit the button on the remote and the gate swung shut. Cousin Fred stepped out onto the porch with the shotgun over his shoulder. “You want I should get the razor wire from the storage shed,” he asked? “Nah, we’ll see what happens tomorrow,” I replied. That is all.  Happy Monday everyone! We’re all off and running with a new week filled with workplace intrigue, petty bosses, gossipy co-workers, watered-down drinks, and overcooked lizard tails.
Not me though, I have Cousin Fred to deal with. Don’t you wish you could be me? The spiritualists have pretty much cleared out of The Compound now. I figured once the two Johnny Be Good Porta-Poos down by the road were full enough, they would take the hint. We achieved critical crapola (actual technical term in the porta-poo business) on Saturday night and the stream of cars out of here began soon after midnight. And, guess what? Not a sign of the ghost of Temple Houston to be seen! Friday night was spent with the spiritualists in a huddle on the center lawn reviewing their video footage and listening to their audio recordings. They had nothing, save for hours of digital recordings of Cousin Fred’s snoring. “Do you hear that? We played it backwards and added the sounds of pigs being slaughtered and we could clearly hear the words, ‘Life is good.’” Still, the spiritualists promise to be back in early October, certain that TH will appear for another gunfight in the Cabinet Saloon replication (aka, The Cab). In the meantime, I received a telegram here at The Compound (and, who the hell sends telegrams anymore?) from a guy named John Z. Quick informing me that “J.B. hisself” will arrive here today. The telegram went on to say that this is an unofficial visit and that J.B. (hisself) really doesn’t want any media coverage. Note to self: must alert the local newspaper that won’t allow me to mention their name just in case it’s a really, really, really slow news day. The telegram did ask that we stock up on vitamin water and Sprite, oh…and Cap’n Crunch cereal. The telegram informed me that J.B. is traveling with a small, intimate entourage and they won’t need more than 10 rooms max. At that, I threw the telegram away. I have bigger things to worry about than another bus load of looney-toons showing up here at The Compound. Friends, do you know what makes America great? No? Let me tell you, it’s that anyone can achieve anything here. Seriously. What other country in the world do you know of where an orange-skinned, follicle-challenged failed entrepreneur and TV star facing a mountain of litigation can be elected King? Once again, an American has stepped forward to snatch a world record that no one else was interested in pursuing. I’m speaking, of course, of John “Hammer Head” Ferraro, of Boston. Hammer Head just broke the world’s record for hammering nails into a board with his forehead…in Italy…and brought glory home to U.S.A. Hammer Head Ferraro is a great American with a really thick skull. No seriously, it’s been medically proven that Hammer Head has a skull that measures more than twice the thickness of you and me. Unconfirmed press reports have that he was The Trump's number two pick for Education Secretary behind Madam DeVos. His record for breaking concrete blocks on his head using a bowling ball still stands (since 2011). That involved 48 blocks inside of three minutes. To set the new record Ol’ Hammer Head drove 38 nails into a board inside of two minutes! U-S-A! U-S-A! It should be a new Olympic sport, me thinks. People doing weird-ass sh*t with their body parts. Now, I would sign up for pay-per-view for that action! And, doing wacky stuff is not even Hammer Head’s full-time job! He’s an actual professional wrestler who goes by the name, Gino Martino. So, if you’re thinking about taking up wrestling and you draw an opponent named Gino Martino whose song from the curtain contains the lyric, “…when my head hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s Martino…”, I would suggest sneaking out the back of the arena. All of this talk about Hammer Head’s record has Cousin Fred stirred up (Note to self: need to shut down the broadband in The Cab). He’s down there now poring through a copy of the Guinness World Records to find a record he can break and heap even more glory on the United States. Ain’t America great (again)?! That is all!  I don’t believe it. We’ve all made it to Friday, yea us! It was an action-packed week here at The Compound. The sophomoric antics of the morons on N. Lincoln Blvd., hundreds of spiritualists gathered on the center lawn chanting all night, Cousin Fred finding the bottom of every Schnapps bottle on the place, the proper christening of the Cabinet Saloon replication, aka, the Cab. Oh, and let us not forget The Wife holed up in a deluxe “resort” motel in Shattuck (her room is right next to the ice machine outside, need lots of ice to help the Old Crow go down).
Eh, just another week around here, I suppose. And, people wonder why I have high blood pressure…sheesh. So let’s see. We’ll start with yesterday. I really thought I was going to be rid of the spiritualists, at least for a time. Yesterday morning the leaders of the various sects (tribes?) met in supreme council around the fire pit up near the main house. Of course, we didn’t light off the fire pit for fear of burning the place down (it’s very dry here), but they didn’t seem to mind. All were too busy picking the sandburs out of their velveteen robes (the center lawn is all buffalo grass and filled with sandburs). At the heart of the meeting was that it was getting too darned cold for tent living among sandburs. They were moving toward a vote to adjourn until October 8th when there is another anniversary of the shooting at the Cabinet Saloon in which Temple Houston and Jack Love shot it out with the Jennings Bros. But then one of the spiritualists streamed a broadcast by Tornado Payne-in-my-ass, who giddily announced he’s breaking out his Speedo swimsuit and shaving his back in anticipation of near 90 degree weather this weekend. Of course, he glossed over the part about horrific winds accompanying the high temps, eh details, details. Tornado’s enthusiasm was infectious apparently because even Amanda Taylor jumped into the act and said she would join him (wonder if she shaves her back too). Tornado looked at her and muttered “please don’t” before moving on to the rest of his forecast. Based on that forecast, the spiritualists have decided to stick it out for a bit longer and continue the all-night chanting (they’re a hardy bunch), which is taking a toll on Cousin Fred who sleeps in the upstairs portion of The Cab. I’m always quick to remind him that he’s the one who invited the spiritualists onto the grounds of The Compound in the first place at which point he generally takes another swig of Schnapps and shrugs his shoulders. In the meantime, The Daughter has arrived at The Compound on her way back to Ol’ Virginny from Utah (whose state motto translated from the Latin is “Only Oklahoma has Weirder Booze Laws”…or words to that effect. She asked to stay here for a few days until the weather on the East Coast improves a bit. I had her park her truck at the top of the U-shaped drive in front of the house as a buffer to the chanting. It didn’t do much good really, but at least I don’t see a yard full of freaks when I look out the front window. Instead, I’m looking at a Mack truck with “Over the Road with Veronica” painted on the side. And, while we’re on the subject…okay, this is worst segue ever, but this has to end at some point. Recall the whole fiasco about how the state legislature, hillbillies that they are, have essentially screwed us by refusing to play ball with the Feds over the Real ID thing? Basically, after a certain date when you’re down in Florida visiting your weird Uncle Carl, who likes to chew on his toenails at the table after every meal, you may find yourself being turned away at the TSA checkpoint because you don’t have a legitimate government-issued form of ID. Maybe you could offer pedicures to Uncle Carl in exchange for room and board (he doesn’t chew them while he’s cooking). Regardless, you’re screwed thanks to the Oklahoma State Legislature. Soon thereafter the law down in Florida will declare you a refugee and The Trump’s thugs will have you deported to Syria…at your expense. So one of the dummies residing at N. Lincoln Blvd., genius that he is, has come up with a bill that only serves to distract those angry Oklahomans who are most likely to be stuck with weird Uncle Carl. State officials admit that even if they get off their lazy asses and do something to first overturn the past legislation that said we would not play and then pass Real ID legislation for Oklahoma, there is no way to get everything in place in time to comply with FEDERAL LAW. Let me explain something to you idiots in OKC. I don’t care how independent or secessionist you think you are…Federal law trumps (hahahaha) state law. See how this works? You obviously missed that week of 8th grade civics in school when you agreed to be a House page. But, I digress… So the latest bill concerning Real ID doesn’t solve a damned thing. This week’s prince of dummies is arguing a bill that would allow Oklahomans to choose whether to comply with Real ID or not. In other words, I go to the Tag Office which sends me to the other Driver’s License place which then sends me back to the Tag Office (WE GOTTA FIX THAT) for the photo and subsequent actual DL. The nice lady at the Tag Office asks me, “Mr. Robin would you like to comply with Federal law and be able to board an airplane and fly somewhere? Or, not?” In true Oklahoman fashion, I turn my head 45 degrees to the left, staring off into space and announce that, “No, in opposition to the Muslim socialist Obama, I will not accept your fly-away ID. Why would I want to leave Oklahoma?” And, yes, I know my statement completely ignores the fact that Obama is no longer president, that he is/was neither Muslim nor socialist, and that the Real ID thing actually started during King George II’s rule. But, I’m a proud Oklahoman and don’t need to ride no stinking airplanes. So there! Okay, I digress again. Here’s the deal stupid legislator. You may look like a deal maker to your constituents back home. “That, Buck, he sure showed them a thang or two in the City.” and “He’s a good boy, bless his squirrel huntin’ heart.” In the end, dumbass, it’s an all or nothing proposition. No choices, you’re in or you’re out. This is yet another example of how the legislative body of this state WASTES it’s time…every single session. Enough! That is all!  Hey, hey…look at us! We’ve made it to Wednesday without losing any body parts (disclaimer: if in fact you have lost a body part or two this week, we at CCB are genuinely sorry for your loss). It’s hump day, people. Get up and hump something! For me, it’s generally a guitar amplifier from which I’m trying to pull a bit more electronic feedback as I channel Hendrix.
And, even if you did lose a limb or two, you think you have problems? The Compound has suddenly become the center of Universe for spiritualists’ paranormal research. Monday, we had a group from North Dakota arrive here, all with their EMF meters and digital recorders. Word has gotten around the spiritualist community that the Cabinet Saloon replication (aka, The Cab) is a hot spot for things that go bump in the night. They’re all looking to meet the ghost of Temple Houston. The only thing that’s gone bump in the night at The Cab so far, has been Cousin Fred who got a little too far into a bottle of Schnapps on Monday and face planted on the floor of the bar in the downstairs portion. I was inside the main house when it happened and heard a murmur rise up in the crowd outside, so I went out. The thud created by an unconscious Cousin Fred got them stirred up. There’s nothing like the sight of a 100 or more fervent ghostchasers with their EMF meters in the air. All of them were chanting, “Come to us, Temple, and make your presence known. We will give you whiskey and ammo!” All of this going on while Cousin Fred lay face down on the floor snoring with a decibel equivalence of an F/A-18 jet in full afterburner. But that’s not the worst part. Yesterday, even more arrived. There was the group from New Jersey who are convinced that spirits reside on the planet Saturn. Their rap is that the rings around Saturn are actually a ghostly freeway that spirits use to come and go to Earth. They were followed by a group from Florida whose beliefs include that alligators act as a conductor, if you will, for ghosts who wish to appear on Earth. They wear dried gator skulls on their heads and all of them to a person, man or woman, go by the name Wally. So now, I think, we’re up to around 200…let the freak parade begin! There is a rumor moving through the crowds that one of the paranormal shows on TV is sending a crew. Late last night, as I was outside before bed, the lead Wally from Florida asked me when I thought Temple would reappear. It seems that bunch, at least, is on a schedule. Reappear? I told him that as far as I knew, the ghost of Temple Houston had not yet appeared. Why would he? After making that statement, some of the horde out front split off. Ten of them went to Elmwood Cemetery in Cosmic City to chant over Temple Houston’s grave. Others scattered along State Route 15 as guides for his spirit to find The Cab here on The Compound. “I’m picking up something on the EMF…it’s very strong…it’s moving this way…it’s him, it’s him. No wait, just another oilfield tanker. False alarm.” There’s no reasoning with zealots of any shade, I suppose. Not even, fake zealots who use their alleged zealousness for financial gain…speaking of which. Friends, have you ever thought about the sheer number of stuff you hear about that people do in the name of one religion or another? You know, “…Satan made me do it…” or “…God spoke to me and told me to barbeque those people…” - stuff like that. Well, meet John Michael Haskew of Florida (bet he has a dried gator head under his bed). Mr. Haskew is a friend of Jesus. Mr. Haskew was unemployed and got into trouble with the Federal Government, owing them a ton of dough. Mr. Haskew claims that Jesus created wealth for him and all of us, to be shared. Mr. Haskew set out to claim as he stated to the Judge, “…the wealth that Jesus Christ created for me and belongs to me.” Over a 48 hour period in December, over the course of 70 transactions, Mr. Haskew committed, against a “well-known and renowned” bank, wire fraud in the amount of $7 billion…yes, that billion with a big fat B. Having some experience personally in moving huge amounts of cash domestically and overseas, I can tell you this is astounding on a level heretofore never dreamed of. Soon after he was arrested, Mr. Haskew began his rap that Jesus told him to do it. It’s his story and he’s sticking to it. In a plea bargain…I know how this works, too…he had to tell investigators EXACTLY how he was able to pull off an electronic heist of that magnitude, they only charged him with one count of making a false statement to the Federal Government. And, guess what? That false statement was NOT that Jesus told him to do it! The reporter covering the story in Florida pointed out that Jesus was not available for comment (hahahahaha). He’s (Mr. Haskew) facing five years in prison and a $250,000 fine. Somehow I suspect that Mr. Haskew won’t have much trouble raising that kind of money. He seems to have the inside track. That is all!  Good morning, everybody! It’s Tuesday! We’ve made it this far, I’m sure we’ll get through to Friday without too many of us dropping out. You’ll see, it’ll be great!
Eh, okay, I admit, there isn’t much to live for really. Football is behind us. But, pitchers and catchers report for spring training next week. But then again, the season doesn’t start until the very end of March and even then we only seem to get Yankees, Cardinals and, far too often, Royals games here. Mr. Robin seldom never misses a Nationals and/or Padres game when its on. Then there’s the apparently nutty president we elected who never seems to fail at pissing off someone new on a daily basis and then blaming it on someone else. Oh, and then we have our own very special Governor making a state of the state address, that well…makes me want to make a run for Kansas (it’s cheaper there, you know). But, more on that later. I don’t know if you heard, but the weekly county commission meeting yesterday didn’t go well for us here on The Compound. Of course you didn’t hear. The nearly daily newspaper that covers those meetings wouldn’t report anything like that…and you know why. It seems that the Widow Farkis got up in front of the commission to complain about the “Godless pack of heathens” operating an “illegal den of inequity” along the county road where, by coincidence, The Compound is located. The commissioners seemed unmoved. The sheriff rolled his eyes and faked a call on his cell that he said he had to take and departed. One of the commissioners went back to drawing out a three-panel pamphlet for guiding fishing expeditions along Boggy Creek. Another tried to appear interested in what the good widow had to say, but could only manage the 500 meter stare. The District 3 commissioner asked the good widow to kindly elucidate the commission as to what the hell she was talking about, this time with less gobbledygook (county commissioner speak for, talk plain English). It seems that the Widow Farkis was talking about The Cab here at The Compound. She pointed out that the Pathetic Order of the Jackrabbit – Original Chapter (P.O.J.O.C.) is running (as she put it) an illegal place of business, to wit: an unlicensed, unapproved bar and/or tavern. She wanted the commissioners to shut the place down. Fortunately, the Dist. 3 commissioner pointed out that he knows exactly which building and property she was speaking about and that as far as he knew, it was a private clubhouse for a fraternal organization dedicated to the health and welfare of veterans, widows and orphans inside the county (so much for the pack of heathens argument, am I right?). He told the good widow that unless she had proof that we were selling alcohol to any moron in off the road, there wasn’t anything they could do about it. The Widow Farkis was not assuaged and stormed from the room in a huff. Before she slammed the door to the commissioner’s room, she announced that she was notifying ABLE…Oklahoma’s liquor cops…and let them get to the bottom of it. Ah, nothing like a raid from ABLE in the middle of night to set the tone for the rest of the week. We have that to look forward to, I guess. But, on to even more serious matters. Her Royal Highness Mary of Fallin made her annual State of the State Address to members of the moronic state legislature yesterday. Frankly, her speech was full of big words that seemed to fly right over the heads of most of the bunch. The rookies sat up straight and only occasionally looked down at their Big Chief Tablets while trying to make notes with a No. 2 pencil. The veterans did their best not to snooze, though the camera caught several nodding off. Her Highness’s remarks focused on taxes, education, infrastructure, and public safety. Same as last year. Same as the year before. While she offered no concrete solutions to any of the state’s woes, she absolutely hypnotized the gathered morons in her bright red blazer and bedazzling scarf. There was talk of eliminating the grocery tax and corporate income tax, but raising taxes on gas and diesel. Hmmmm…let’s see. I like to eat so eliminating the grocery tax is a good thing. On the other hand I drive 30 miles round trip daily so I can earn enough to eat, so raising the taxes on gas is a bad thing. OHHHH, of course, I get it…this is robbing Christina to pay Mary…it makes sense when you put in a Fallin Family context! She’s all for giving teachers a raise, again, a good thing though she made some comment that the school districts are top heavy. Hmmmm…and, she didn’t offer any ideas for where the money would come from to pay teachers more. That one is dead on arrival for another year, I reckon. She did mention she wants to see a consumption tax on cigarettes. Wait a second, didn’t she ask for that last year? And, didn’t the Republicans in the legislature offer that cigarette smoking is the right of every Oklahoman and that a consumption tax was cruel and unusual? The only thing unusual is that the morons even got around to discussing it last year. So with a flourish of her tanned self, fresh off a working (smirk) vacation in Italy and a few platitudes about rolling up our sleeves and doing the tough work, she was gone. Bet she’s planning her next working (smirk) vacation. And the morons were left to fend for themselves. Let the spitballs fly! Yep, not much to live for…eh well. That is all.  My goodness, a second Saturday straight we’re posting to CCB. I need to get a life…and, some sleep!
Okay a quick update since so many of your sent me email yesterday wringing your hands over the fate of the liberal refugees being trucked to communes in Colorado. The Daughter should have dropped them deep in the Rockies sometime yesterday evening. I haven’t heard otherwise so I’m certain they’ve made it sanctuary. The Daughter will deliver her load of string beans to Utah this morning (minus a few cans) and head back with a load of empty cans. I expect her to stop here on the way back. In the meantime, the spiritualists are still here at The Compound. They aren’t moving. I got an equal amount of emails yesterday from every spiritualist group in America wanting me to update that status…so there you have it. Who knew there were so many ghost chasers in this country? Don’t you people have real jobs to go to? The Pathetic Order of the Jackrabbit – Original Charter (P.O.J.O.C.) tried to hold a solemn rite in our new clubhouse, The Cab, last night. A solemn rite for P.O.J.O.C. generally means an alcohol-fueled game of cards on one side of the room and dice on the other. It was a bit difficult to concentrate though with the torch- and pitchfork-wielding spiritualists gathered outside chanting, “Come, Temple, make your presence known. We’ll give you whiskey and ammo!” And, finally, The Wife is vacationing at a low-rent motel in Shattuck. I saw she had stocked up on the filterless Pall-Malls before she left. One of her suitcases was filled with cartons of cigs. Cousin Fred told me that a full case of Old Crow was missing from The Cab stockroom. So, I was looking forward to a solemn P.O.J.O.C. rite despite the spiritualists chanting. I told Terry Two-Fingers to crank up the new 1,000 watt bluetooth loudspeaker with some tunes to drown out the chanting, but something seemed to be blocking the bluetooth signal so instead we listened to a 58 Hz hum. Then…out of the blue(tooth)…The Compound was raided by the Sheriff’s Dept. I swear, I didn’t think they worked evenings! But here they were. The senior officer stepped forward and presented a search warrant for explosive devices in the cow pastures. Hmmmmm (30 Hz). At first, I was pleased that someone in law enforcement was reading the blog yesterday, but then the good warrant presenter informed me that they received an anonymous tip from a liberal refugee that was passing through. I laughed it off, explaining to the good presenter that my use of explosive devices in the blog is really a metaphor. Fortunately, for me, the good presenter didn’t know the meaning of metaphor so I didn’t have to come up with one. So, for the benefit of any law enforcement reading this blog, there are no explosive devices in the cow pastures around The Compound. It’s a metaphor, I’m tellin’ ya. After a cursory search around the cow pastures in the dark, they didn’t turn up anything except soiled boots and departed. As soon as they left, the spiritualists began chanting again and the solemn rite broke up. But enough of doings here at The Compound! I actually intended to spend this Saturday post discussing more of the antics of the mob of morons on North Lincoln Blvd in Oklahoma City…namely, the Oklahoma State Legislature. Actually, they were pretty well behaved this past week. HOWEVER, there was the saga of State Representatives Dan “Danny the Vacuum” Kirby and Will “Quad-man” Fourkiller. Fourkiller was a surprise, at least for me. I didn’t know he was being investigated by the secretive legislative panel formed to perform the Spanish Inquisition at the Capitol. The Covey of Cardinals recommended that Kirby be expelled from the House and any bills he authored be removed from consideration. Well, that’s one way to winnow the number of nonsensical bills I suppose. The weird thing about Fourkiller is there no mention anywhere (that I’ve been able to find) as to his exact offense. It appears to have involved a House page, which means a minor (pervert). For him, the Covey of Cardinals recommended sensitivity training (?) and no contact with the House page program participants. Sensitivity training? Seriously? What, was he telling the kids dirty jokes or something? Phew, well glad we got all of that cleared up before the regular session of the legislature convenes at noon on Monday for Mega-Mediocrity 2017. It’s gonna be great, you’ll see! It’ll turn out better than you think! That is all! Liberal refugees, the ghost of Temple Houston, and explosive devices in the pastures...TGIF!2/3/2017
 Happy Friday morning everyone! Okay, ready? Time for the weekend song! One, two, three…eh, screw it. Frankly, I’m just not up for it today.
It’s been a weird couple of days here at The Compound. I know I say that a lot, but this time it really has been weird. I’m not sure where to start. I guess I’ll start with The Daughter. As you know, she is a recent and proud grad of the George Mason School of Truck Driving (no football team, but the pit crews recently won the National Oil Change Championship). The school’s motto, translated from the Latin is “Give us all your cash, we’ll ensure you are paying off student loans ‘til the day you die!” But, I digress… The Daughter stopped by The Compound on her way to Utah where she drives a semi loaded with cans of string beans once a week. This week though, the trailer was only partially loaded with cans of string beans. The void was filled with refugees seeking asylum. No, not those refugees. These were rabid liberals seeking sanctuary from what they fear will be an oppressive smashing under The Trump’s rusty iron fist. After the truck pulled onto the grounds of The Compound, The Daughter jumped out and opened up the back. An entire horde of people peered out from inside. All were straining their eyes against the sunlight. I heard a meek voice inside ask, “Is this it? Is this sanctuary?” The Daughter looked at me, rolled her eyes and said, “No, no…this is my Dad’s compound. Get out, stretch your legs. We still have a long way to go. But we’ll be stopping for the night. Bring out your gear and camp on the lawn. By the way, no wandering off into the cow pastures. This is a fortified compound, there are explosive devices out in the pastures.” At that, there were murmurs about gun nuts and that there should be a law. Once they were all out, we could see several empty cans of string beans scattered around the inside of the trailer. “Hey!” The Daughter yelled. “Who the hell has been eating the string beans? I told you not to touch them! Someone will have to pay for those string beans! They’re expecting a full load in Utah!” A man stepped forward and peeled several dollar bills off of a roll of cash he was carrying that could choke an elephant. It turns out that The Daughter is supposed to drop these people somewhere deep in the Rockies of Colorado. There, they will gather in a commune, smoke legal weed, dip bean curd with their fingers from pans passed around a campfire and plot their political return in 2020. That evening’s campfire discussion was whether or not the Star Trek series represented the Utopian ideal or merely a welfare society. The consensus was (of course) that it represented the Utopian ideal. So, we had that to deal with here at The Compound. They were actually a well-behaved bunch. But, still I wasn’t expecting it. The Daughter said she took them on because this week’s order from Utah for string beans was only half a load. She loathed the idea of running half a load up there. The offer to truck liberal refugees to sanctuary for cash was too good to pass up. But, that’s not the only weirdness we’re dealing with here at The Compound. Since Cousin Fred put up the Cabinet Saloon replication, aka, the Cab. We’ve had a steady stream of traffic coming by on the road to view it. After two days of that, people started parking their vehicles out on the road and getting out. They stay out there on the road, just watching. I see most of them eating from those foil pouches of tuna that you can buy in stores now. And, staring. They’re always staring. It was driving Cousin Fred crazy so he finally went out to the road to see what was going on. Turns out these people are from some spirit society that calls itself The Council. According to Cousin Fred, they all have tattoos of Casper the Friendly Ghost on their butts. The guy told Cousin Fred that they are convinced that the ghost of Temple Houston will appear at the replicated Cabinet Saloon and there may be a shooting. Apparently, Mr. Temple is mad because Cousin Fred doesn’t stock his favorite brand of whiskey. The spirit society wants to document the event as it unfolds. Suddenly, I think I want to seek sanctuary in Colorado. Idiot Cousin Fred invited them onto the grounds of The Compound to await Mr. Temple’s coming. Great. Now, I have a pack of bean curd smacking, tofu sucking (can’t really chew tofu, can you?) liberal refugees camped on one side of The Compound. On the other, a bunch of lunatic spiritualists armed with EMF meters to detect a ghostly presence and digital recorders to capture EVPs. The spiritualists keep chanting, “Come, Temple, make your presence known. We’ll give you whiskey and ammo!” All night long that goes on. I noticed The Wife was back in her bedroom packing a bag. I asked where she’s going. She looked at me and muttered, with her filterless Pall Mall cig hanging from lips, “As far from the lunacy you seem to attract as I can get!” Guess that means a fabulous vacation in Shattuck. Saturday alert…look for yet another special Saturday Edition of CCB tomorrow…Saturday…see how that works? That is all! |
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