 Friends, it’s Thursday morning. The rains are continuing here at The Compound this morning. If there’s any advantage to DISH and KFOR-TV squabbling, it’s that I’ve started getting my weather from Channel 9. Tornado Pain (sic) called this exactly right. As opposed to Happy Hands Morgan on Channel 4 who likes to predict rainfall totals to the hundredths of an inch, only to be wrong…again. Though I do still miss seeing weather hottie Emily Sutton on Channel 4. Lacey Swope on Channel 9 is a close second.
As an added bonus, Lacey Swope friended me on Facebook. Emily Sutton took out a no-contact order signed by a judge in Grant County. A quick check of the forecasts indicates that there is a chance of rain nearly every day headed into the weekend. Perhaps Lake Mountebank will re-form and Cousin Fred can forget the artesian well nonsense. Now granted, we’re always grateful for rain in this part of the world, particularly at this time of year, but the pit that Cousin Fred dug Tuesday is unstable. I’m concerned about the sandy soil caving in on Cousin Fred while he is down there digging. The next day, there he’d be, all naked and muddy as he’s dug out of the pit, on the front page of the Woodward News, whose motto from the Latin is “More Pictures, We Need More Pictures on Page One!” But, the pit is creating even more problems for me. I was about to head outside yesterday morning to pull the extension ladder up out of the hole in an effort to protect Cousin Fred from, well…Cousin Fred, when I saw a white pickup pull into the drive. Both doors of the vehicle were marked with the seal of Oklahoma and identified the vehicle as belonging to the Oklahoma Corporation Commission, the world’s most unethical (but somehow still legal) governmental organization. But as you longtime fans of CCB know, we pointed that out a long time ago. Near the end of the truck’s bed were the words, “Artesian Well Inspector.” Holy crap! Cousin Fred digs a hole 15 feet deep and now I have the OCC crawling up my ass?! So, the inspector of fake artesian wells gets out of the truck with his clipboard and an envelope. He asks me if I have a permit for digging an artesian well? Of course not, I respond. It’s not really an artesian well. It was a well-meaning drunken prank inspired by a hairdressing hydrologist. He told me that isn’t really his problem. I had publicly declared the pit an artesian well and now was required to have a permit. He handed me an envelope and told me to insert $500 cash into it and mail it to any one of the three OCC commissioners of my choosing. He then handed me three brochures, each one featuring a different commissioner with their home address and a brief description of why they deserve my money. And, if I don’t, I foolishly asked? He said they would turn The Compound into a field headquarters for ODOT to secretly hatch their sinister plans for acquiring more right-of-way (than they can possibly use) from ag producers, followed by paving over all of rural Oklahoma. Just because they know what’s best for us. With that, he departed. No lectures about digging safety or rate sheets about paying so much per thousand gallons produced by the well. No weird groundwater removal fees to help pay the costs of Her Majesty Mary Queen of Fallin’s next cosmetic surgery. Just a “voluntary” donation to one of the three OCC Commissioners to help defray reelection costs. Isn’t that special? I hoped then that Cousin Fred had $500 stashed somewhere since this was his doing. At that point, I was more determined than ever…there will be artesian well on this place, if I have to sink a pump to make it appear so! So yesterday, once I was able to get a completely sober Gigi outside Hellkat One’s trailer to question her belief that the spot of “The Hole”, as we’re now calling it, is in fact the correct one. She certainly laid out a reasonable explanation for why that spot would likely produce an artesian well. Or, even failing that, she felt that we could have, at the minimum, a spring-fed Lake Mountebank. It’s great having your own amateur hydrologist around. I began making plans in my head for boat ramps, bait shops, lakeside cabins and even a dam at one end. Oh, yeah, there’s the downside. I’ll have to build some kind of earthen dam at one end to keep the water here, lest I flood little Fargo. But, hey, enough of that nonsense. I saw something this morning on the Huffington Post web site that caught my eye. A woman, who worked as a Registered Nurse at a state mental hospital out in the great state of Washignton, decided she’d had enough and couldn’t take any more. She goes to Walmart (center of universe for freaking weirdness) buys one of their sheet cakes and then decorates it herself. On it, in yummy blood red frosting, she declared, “I quit!!!” Nurse Sara said it was her way of giving her employers a piece of her mind, not to mention a piece of cake. According to Nurse Sara, the hours were long and staff are not given enough training. She also said that management spent far too much time writing staff up for violations and meting out punishments. The hospital responded with an official statement saying, “This was quite likely the most unusual “resignation” letter ever submitted to Western State Hospital. Meanwhile, we thank the 2000 dedicated staff who do come to work day and night because they find it both challenging and rewarding to help our patients on their journey to recovery.” Huh? How big is this place that they would have 2,000 staff? Well, 1,999, I guess. And, “journey to recovery”…??? Really? It would be interesting to know how many people actually recover in one of those places. But, I’ll save that for another posting. The HuffPost (it’s what us hipsters call it) site also listed three other cool ways to quit your job. Let’s see, there was: 1) A female TV anchor up in Anchorage, Alaska (what better place to be an anchor?) who announced on air, “F**k it, I quit!”…hahaha, classic; 2) A female film animator who made a video of herself doing an interpretive dance of Kayne West’s “Gone”…too much work, me thinks; and, 3) A guy who quit his job at an insurance company (no, not Figley-Salz) by dressing up as a banana and hiring a mariachi band to perform for the office…not sure I get the banana/mariachi thing, but whatever. Hairdressing hydrologists, digger dogs, and shrunken pods...just another day at The Compound6/28/2016
 Good morning everybody! It’s Tuesday…I’m so happy to be here…no, really…I am.
Let’s see, where to start? Okay, well, it’s 4:45AM right now. I woke at 3:45AM to the sound of something going on out front here at The Compound. I wasn’t sure what I was hearing at first and lay there wondering what could possibly be going on. I could hear music, I thought, just strains of tunes. There was a loud metallic clanking. And, then, outbursts of streams of profanity, the likes of which I have not before heard. That was followed by conversation, sort of. I could only barely make out one side of the convo. That voice, I recognized. It was Cousin Fred. I got up to go see what was going on. The mutts were all up in the front window peering into the darkness. They growled and whined willing me to let them loose, but I couldn’t do that. I stepped out onto the front porch, fighting with the mutts to keep them inside. Savages. From the far end of the porch I heard the raspy laugh of the Wife and saw that she was seated there, the ember glow of her unfiltered Pall-Mall illuminating her face slightly. When I asked why she was up, she pointed toward the scene in the north pasture saying, “Who the hell can sleep with that racket going on?” I turned my attention to the north pasture just as I heard a female voice call out, “Dig baby, dig!” Gigi is back! That was followed by Cousin Fred’s voice saying, “I’m digging baby, Ima digging!” I couldn’t see Cousin Fred anywhere. Gigi’s Lexus, with its lights on, was turned in the direction of what was Lake Mountebank last year following the extraordinary spring/early summer rains we received. The radio was blasting the Outlaw Country channel on Sirius…I could hear Mojo Nixon doing a PSA for something. Gigi was lounging on the hood of the Lexus, sipping wine from a glass. It was freakin’ surreal, I’m telling you! As I neared the scene, I could hear Cousin Fred grunting, but still couldn’t see him. Gigi looked at me, took another sip of wine and said, “He’s my digger dog, you know!” She laughed and emptied her glass. And to think, I moved back here for the tranquility, well, that and the chicken fried steak. That’s when I saw small puffs of something. I soon realized it was dirt. Shovelfuls of dirt flying up from the ground. THAT’s when I realized that Cousin Fred was in a deep hole that he was still digging. There was an extension ladder at the edge of the hole, the margins of which I could now make out in gloom of darkness. I walked cautiously toward the edge and peered in. Cousin Fred was naked in the hole, filthy and covered in sweat. He had a bandana wrapped around his forehead, presumably to keep the sweat out of his eyes. He had a kerosene lantern in the hole with him. The kerosene lantern was what disturbed me the most. I noticed that he had dug deep enough that he was past a natural gas pipeline that crosses the property here. The pipeline had been abandoned years before, but still… The extension ladder had been extended. My guess was that he was about 15 feet down. I told him to come up out of there. He grudgingly complied. Gigi was drunk on her ass saying, “Oh, don’t stop my digger dog. He’s headed to China!” She began laughing hysterically and rolled off the hood of the Lexus and onto the ground. As Cousin Fred emerged from his diggings, I could hear the Wife cackling up on the front porch at the sight of the naked digger. I turned to see the glow of her Pall-Mall. I said to him, “What the hell are you doing?!” He responded, “Well, Cousin, it’s like this. Gigi showed up late last night. Got dropped here by a big ass limo. Imagine that? So, I told her I was going to have to work today to uncover at least one of your Brother-in-Law’s fishing boats here. That led to a whole discussion of Lake Mountebank and the fun we had last summer. Gigi pointed out that this place must be the Bermuda Triangle of the southern plains. She said we should try to develop it.” I looked down the hole again, and responded with, “Huh?” Cousin Fred went on to say that her idea was dig down to create an artesian well that would fill Lake Mountebank forever. I quickly pointed out that it didn’t work that way. First of all, you have to have a specific ground formation and a cooperative aquifer to have an artesian well. That’s when he tells me that Gigi is something of an amateur hydrologist and said that the spot where Lake Mountebank was located with its natural bowl shape was exactly the kind of formation that could create pressure on the aquifer and form an artesian well. Great, now we have a hairdressing hydrologist on The Compound? Can life get any weirder? I looked down the dry hole again and then mentioned to Cousin Fred that first of all, the spot where he was digging - the water table is 100-200 feet down. I then pointed out, though it was difficult to see in the pre-dawn gloom that the “natural” bowl shape was because the Great Western Cattle Trail came through here. That shape came from hundreds of thousands of longhorns passing through here back in the day. I looked over to see Gigi trying to raise herself on the Lexus’s fender. She collapsed back to the ground. The Wife, in the meantime, was howling with laughter at the sight of Cousin Fred’s somewhat shrunken pod. She kept shrieking about an overly microwaved wiener. At that point, Cousin Fred removed the bandana from around his head to cover himself. I told Cousin Fred to collect Gigi and get to bed. We’d discuss the artesian well idea again later. Hmmmmm…artesian well. It has some possibilities.  Happy Monday everybody! It really doesn’t get much better, does it? If you’re anything like me and I pray you aren’t, it was tough getting out of bed this morning.
Weird dreams last night about people I’ve not seen in at least twenty years. Any Freudians out there with a thought about what that means? Seriously…nocturnal shenanigans with people I’ve not thought about for decades and suddenly there they are. Stuff like that freaks me out. I would likely have stayed in bed, but I had to be up. We’re in crunch time here at The Compound. We have three turtles that we’re getting in shape and training every day for the upcoming turtle races on July 4. As you may recall, last year I was stymied in my pursuit of terrapin racing glory when I discovered that they (race organizers) were using linear chutes to race the turtles rather than a big round circle the way the Jaycees used to do it (darn you, AMBUCs!). This year though I have a secret weapon that I did not have last year…Cousin Fred. He’s been living with our year-old racing stock in Hellkat One’s trailer. It’s going to be a contest this year, I can guarantee that! Cousin Fred is telling me that he knows the guy who’s in charge of delivering the chutes on race day and that everything will be okay. I don’t know exactly what Cousin Fred has in mind, but it will no doubt be good. I can hear him outside now screaming inspirational sports quotes through a bullhorn at our racing stock. The turtles are hunkered up in their shells, probably absorbing all that Cousin Fred screams at them. Both of the Nephew’s boys have agreed to be our “jockeys”...so, I’ve already solved the “aren’t you a little old to be entering a turtle in a turtle race?” thing. The next phase of training this week will be the sprints. We do these along a chute constructed to the exact specifications of the official ones that will be used on race day. Turtle racing glory…what else is there? Also, Cousin Fred and I are planning to participate in the Horseshow Pitching Tournament that starts at 9:30 on the 4th. The local fishwrap said that it would be “Men and Women Doubles”…not sure whether that’s doubles teams made up of a man and woman or if there are separate mens doubles and womens doubles. I guess we’ll find out that morning. Just in case, Cousin Fred plans to steal a page from the Russian Olympic manual and bring his gear to dress as a woman horseshoe thrower. Had a great weekend here at The Compound. Friday night I tried my hand at smoking a whole chicken. It was decidedly delicious. The leftovers made great chicken salad too. The Brother in Law came by on Saturday and was looking over the sunken inventory of bass boats on what was Lake Mountebank last year. He and the Sister are headed up to Kaw this week for some rest and relaxation. I guess he was hoping to take one of the boats with him. Cousin Fred suggested blasting the ground around the boats to “loosen things up”. In the end, Cousin Fred assured the Brother-in-Law that he would find a way to easily extricate a boat or two for transport to Kaw. In the end, the Brother-in-Law walked back to his truck shaking his head and muttering something about his wife’s (the Sister) freak parade of a family. I do hope that Cousin Fred doesn’t intend for me to be involved in his bass boat raising fun. I’ve got too much to get out of the way this week. A reminder that tomorrow is the County primary election, so be sure to get out and vote. Vote for the Republican of your choice, but vote. Sheesh, not a Dem to be found. Seriously? Okay, I’m late for the morning sprint training. Bob Baffert just showed up. Gotta get a move on. Enjoy your day!  Good morning everybody! It’s a great Tuesday morning. No kidding. I’m not lying like I did last week.
If you felt something weird in the Universe yesterday, we hit the summer solstice at 6:34PM CT (Compound Time) yesterday. Making things particularly extraordinary this year is that the solstice coincided with the strawberry moon. An event that won’t happen again until like 2062. I didn’t realize what was going on until I looked out the window yesterday morning to see Cousin Fred wearing nothing but a loincloth and a smile dancing – well, skipping really – around Gigi’s car which he had moved into the center lawn here at the compound. It actually took me a while to figure out it was Cousin Fred. He was wearing a mask I’d never seen before. Turns out it was a Justin Bieber mask…I know, fascinating right? Poor Cousin Fred has been so despondent lately. There’s not been a word from Gigi, The Trump’s hairdresser. Her vehicle is still here though. Kind of like, Hellkat One’s trailer remained. Cousin Fred seems to have that sort of karma where he absorbs women’s toys as they move on. I tried to console Cousin Fred yesterday, pointing out that The Trump has been in desperate need of Gigi’s services, what with this being the windiest June in the history of presidential campaigns and all. I pointed out yesterday morning that Gigi wasn’t part of The Trump’s campaign shake-up. So she’s still on the team. But, back to the dancing. So, Cousin Fred is hooting and hollering as he dances around Gigi’s Lexus. At some point, I noticed the windows were down on the car. Cousin Fred was lighting matches as he went past the open windows and throwing them into the interior of the car. Oh my. Fortunately for all, the interior of a fine Lexus automobile takes a lot more than a paper match(es) from the No-Tell Motel in Powder City, AZ to ignite. This went on until he ran out of matches, at which point he collapsed sobbing next to the vehicle. The Wife came out onto the porch in the middle of this. It’s generally her custom to greet the summer solstice in advance and then go back to bed. As she gritted the filterless Pall-Mall between her teeth, she grunted, “What’s with him?” I responded, “I think he misses Gigi.” The Wife grunted again, muttered something about “Yankee b**ch and then went back into the house. So much for summer solstice 2016. I’m glad he wasn’t able to set the Lexus afire. I don’t have a hose around here that will reach that far out onto the lawn. The Cosmic City Fire Dept. refuses to come out this far what with the budget cuts and all. Fargo’s Fire Dept. would never make it across the bridge over Boggy Creek without their rig breaking down. Another crisis averted. As I stood there watching the pathetic scene unfold before me, I was reminded of an article I read over the weekend about a new web site called yougoatmail.com. The company will send someone you know a tiny stuffed goat in a box along with a handwritten note. Now, isn’t that special? The cost is a mere $30.00 (including shipping) for each goat. I toyed with the idea of sending one to Cousin Fred, but then realized it would just remind him of the loss of his pet barking goat, Lassie. Okay, besides me, does anyone else think it’s just a little creepy that someone would send – unannounced – a small stuff goat to someone? It’s not like tiny goats have found their way into the hearts of Americans the way, say, teddy bears have. Of course, I suppose it’s still better than the company we reported on back in November of last year that sent a tub of fresh horse crap anywhere in the world for a mere $16.95. Now, that’s a bargain! You want send a gift that screams creepy, that’s the way to go.  Good morning everybody, welcome to a special Monday edition of CCB. Why so special, you ask? It’s special because I was able to drag my tired old ass out of bed and to the computer this morning, that’s why.
I’m further troubled this morning because we have no internet here at The Compound. When you live such that the repair people at Pioneer Internet know you by name and you know their names and life histories, they’re at your house too much. Our losing internet here has become a near weekly occurrence. Fear not friends, I’m able to turn my iPhone into a hotspot and get this blog published. It was a great weekend here. I got to try out my new smoker on Saturday and smoke a pork butt (aka, pork shoulder, Boston butt). It turned out great. Took the resulting pulled pork over to my sister’s house where we had a little party in honor of Father’s Day. Yesterday, I was out on the motorcycle for an extended period of time in the morning. Wanted to make it home before the day got too hot. Yes, sir…all in all a great weekend, well, at least until I got up this morning to discover that our Pioneer broadband is down again. So as I was preparing for this morning’s posting using my cell phone as a hot spot, I came across an article on the KFOR web site. All of you have probably heard about this by now, I wouldn’t know since WE DON’T GET KFOR (CHANNEL 4) RIGHT NOW BECAUSE THEY’RE FEUDING WITH DISH TV (OUR PROVIDER). Rat bastards! But I digress… It turns out that CCB is prescient. People sometimes give me crap for whining too much about snakes and stuff that go bump in the night. I do that for a reason, people! There’s plenty to whine about as it turns out. And for those of you who are unable to look up the prescient because YOUR INTERNET IS OUT ALSO, I’ll save you the aggravation. It’s a fancy way of saying that we at CCB can predict stuff before it happens…sort of. It seems that down in Cement, OK (a bit south of Anadarko – bet you couldn’t access online maps either what with your internet being out) a 15 year old kid heard his dog barking fiercely out in the yard. He went out to see what the matter was and found a snake…not just any snake mind you…a 14-foot python. Python? In Cement, Oklahoma? How the hell does that happen? All very good questions likely without an answer. The snake is now dead…AS ALL SNAKES SHOULD BE. But, I’m getting ahead of myself here. This is the actual conversation between father and son as recounted by said 15 year old to the KFOR team in Cement (they have nothing else to do what DISH TV taking them off air). “I like come outside, and the snake is like literally slithering in our yard, and I’m like, ‘Oh, no, this is a dream.’ So, I shut the door and open it back up, and it’s for sure not a dream. So, I go tell my dad.” “My dad was like, ‘Hey, just go get the shovel’ and I was like, ‘No, we need the gun. Like, this is a huge snake.’ I didn’t know how long it was at the time, but I knew it was big enough to like eat someone, you know?” So, like the kid and his dad like shot the friggin’ snake and then buried it. Following my sound advice on this sort thing, Shoot, Shovel, and Shut-up. Except like they forgot the shut-up part cuz like KFOR broadcast the details. Of course, no one heard the broadcast BECAUSE DISH TV IS NOT ALLOWING US TO WATCH KFOR. So, like back to the prescient part…heretofore, python’s in North America were limited to the Florida Everglades where people have been releasing pet pythons that got too big to handle. Now they’re breeding and doing very well in FLA. Well, there were also the pythons on retainer out in CA where former 70’s rock stars keep them hoping to go out on tour again. And, so, like now, they’re here among us and probably moving northwest. It’s only a matter of days before we’re shootin’ and shovelin’ dead pythons here at The Compound (note to self, buy more ammo). All blog readers within our readable area, please note to check your toilet before you sit down, lest you wind up like the poor chap from Thailand we at CCB posted about a few weeks ago who sat down on his toilet, minding his own business when a python in the toilet managed to snag the bait dangling between his legs. Just sayin’! Actually, I wonder how many 14 foot pythons it would take to make a nice pair of knee-high python boots? That way I can spend the remainder of summer touring Ramada Inn lounges doing my Alice Cooper show. That way I don’t have to live out the summer here during the Year of the Python! We’re all gonna die!  Yea! If you’re reading this you’ve survived another workweek!! Good for you!!! Fear not though. Another stinkin’ Monday is just over the horizon.
See, that’s why you come to read CCB, to be uplifted and then slammed back to the floor! But, hey, that’s why we’re here. You glutton for punishment, you. Things are quiet here at The Compound. The pastures are so green around here with all the rain we’ve had lately that the jackrabbits are staying out of the yard. As long as the jackrabbits stay in the pastures, so do the coyotes. We’re finally out of a really cold May where we saw little in the way of sun or warm temperatures. The tomato plants are finally beginning to take off, as are my cantaloupe vines. The Wife is back from her trip to North Carolina. There was really no announcement that she was coming back. I pulled into The Compound one afternoon and she was sitting up on the porch smoking filterless Pall-Malls, swigging whiskey from the bottle, and humming “My Philadelphia Home.” When I said hello and welcomed her back, she didn’t even look at me. Just clinched the smoke between her lips and asked whose car that was parked next to Hellkat One’s trailer. When I told her it was Gigi, The Trump’s personal hairdresser, the Wife grunted and went back to humming. The good news is that the Wife bought me several bottles of The Shed BBQ sauce while she was back east. This stuff is undoubtedly the best store bought sauce I’ve ever had. It hasn’t made it west of the Mississippi yet. I did discover that you can buy it online though. I can highly recommend the vinegar-based sauce for pulled pork and the mustard-based sauce for ribs. Now I’m itching to make pulled pork. May have to work on that over the weekend. In the meantime, while we’re on the subject of southern kinds of things. You dedicated, loyal readers may recall that back in January, I posted in CCB about my adventure at a Waffle House on Meridian in OKC. I wrapped into that a vignette about a Waffle House in Georgia wherein a woman who was having breakfast there stood up, removed her clothing and began throwing stuff around inside the restaurant (guess she didn’t want to get any egg yolks on her clothes). I just came across yet another story about a Waffle House in Georgia (something in the water, perhaps?) wherein a man gets out of his vehicle (a BMW no less) in the parking lot naked…he was naked, not the parking lot. As he’s standing next to his vehicle, he begins ummmmm stroking his one-eyed Georgia eel, presumably to make it somewhat more presentable. He then attempted to enter said Waffle House, but was blocked when employees locked the door and called the law. So now he’s standing outside the door pressing ummmmm hisself up against the glass and walking up and down in front of the restaurant to the disgust of customers, many of whom began streaming live video of the action. One parent who was in the restaurant with her child told reporters, “I wouldn’t know what to tell my child about what was going on, a grown man. He was built like a potato.” So the cops finally show up and Mr. Potato begins urinating. He was arrested for public indecency, but later released. RELEASED?! Are you kidding me? The man is a menace. Tip of the day: Stay the hell out of Waffle Houses in Georgia. Okay, just stay the hell out of Georgia.  Happy Wednesday everybody! Hope everyone is well as we slide toward another weekend…it’s all downhill from here, I’m telling you!
I spent the better part of yesterday trying to call someone at Channel 4 in OKC and/or DISH Satellite to see if I could contribute anything to the negotiations and get KFOR back on air. Many phone calls were made, things were said, feelings were hurt…can’t we all just get along? The end result is that DISH is now blocking my calls and KFOR got some judge over in Grant County to issue a no-contact order against me. I’m guessing I won’t be watching “America’s Got Talent” tonight! Rat bastards. Eh well. I just realized this morning that I failed to mention to you loyal readers (all two of you) that Gigi isn’t actually here at The Compound. Her car is…Cousin Fred drove it from California last week. He said that Gigi threw him the keys and told him she’ll catch up to him later this week. I’m sure she’s been busy this week what with The Trump raising even more hate and discontent. By the way, in case you missed the DC primary results (zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz) last night, The Queen of the Unindicted won. The Republicans had their DC primary back in March, I think. That meant that The Trump was ensconced in his private skyscraper in Manhattan tweeting out hateful messages about Her Highness. Personally, I hope Gigi gets here soon to retrieve her Lexus with its New York plates. Frankly, it’s raising the profile of The Compound a bit much. The Sheriff’s Office might get the idea that Cousin Fred kidnapped some wealthy person or something. Think I’ll have him move it into one of the storage buildings here…just get it out of sight. Besides with that car just sitting out there next to Hellkat One’s trailer there’s no telling what manner of wild critter (kittens for example) might climb up into the engine compartment. Just this morning I was reading a report online about a woman in Arkansas who was driving along an interstate, minding her own business when a four-foot snake dropped onto her legs from beneath the dash. Could you imagine? I can’t. Hell, I’d likely have had a heart attack right then. This woman is braver than me though…she managed to get the vehicle to the side of the road and call 911. The snake in the meantime moved to the back seat making it easier for animal control to catch it. The animal control dude identified it as a rat snake, rarely dangerous to anything other than a rat. But, still… I suspect if that had been me, I’d have gotten the car to the side of the road after which I would have jumped out, set the vehicle on fire, and walked away. Yeeesh! Let’s be careful out there! No more Channel 4 means no more Emily Sutton in the morning...we're in mourning at The Compound!6/13/2016
 Good morning everybody, and happy Monday! Here at The Compound this morning, we’re in a bit of quandary.
As is customary here every morning, Cousin Fred and I tune into KFOR TV (Channel 4, OKC) to watch Ms. Weather, Emily Sutton, so we can plan our day’s activities. It seemed particularly important this morning what with the storm of the century approaching. But when I tried to access Channel 4, all I got was video of some guy telling me how KFOR is run by a bunch of war criminal pirates who can’t negotiate a deal with DISH (my satellite TV provider). Huh? When I call up the channel guide, it reads “KFOR removed NBC 4” where Channel 4 used to be. Darn you, KFOR! <Shaking fist in air> But then, I got to the KFOR web site, they’re running something calling DISH “DISHgusting”…saying DISH is run by a bunch of reckless profiteers who pulled KFOR from their channel line-up despite the fact that I’m already paying for it. Darn you, DISH! <Shaking fist in air> I don’t know who’s to blame here. Obviously, contract negotiations have hit a speedbump. I just know that I won’t have weather hottie Emily in the morning or happy hands Morgan in the afternoon! Plus, no Linda Cavanaugh. Bastards! Truth be told, I suspect DISH is the primary offender here. Last fall, they removed the Weather Channel and replaced it with some lame-ass weather channel that doesn’t provide local radar or information. With Channel 4 gone…how the hell am I supposed to athletes crumble under the Zika virus in Rio? What about all of my weekly shows like America’s Got Talent? You sonsofbitches better get this squared away! And speaking of getting things squared away…well, sort of…there I go with awkward segues again. Did you hear about the guy in Tennessee that police stopped on suspicion of DUI who was more than the cops bargained for? So the cops get him pulled over and when he exits the vehicle, they realize he is wearing see through mesh pantyhose, has a red ribbon tied to his beard, and he’s wearing some sort of very short skirt. I know, I know sounds like any Friday night police stop in Cosmic City, but wait there’s more… They find a loaded weapon in the center console of the vehicle. Okay, but wait, there’s still more… Turns out, once they got him to the station for booking, the cops realized that he was wearing a chastity belt. Yes, a chastity belt. And here’s the money shot (so to speak), the keys to unlock the chastity belt were in two separate locations: 1) the same center console of his vehicle, presumably towed off to an impound lot; and, 2) on a chain around the neck of his passenger in the vehicle who was as drunk as the driver. The cops made the passenger walk home since she couldn’t drive either. After a bit of delay a key was retrieved and the chastity belt removed. He was charged with DUI (blew a .117) and possession of a weapon while under the influence. Hmmmm…guess it isn’t a crime to wear a chastity belt in Tennessee. Of all of the places in the U.S. where basic weirdness would be a chargeable offense, I figure Tennessee would be it. What have we learned here today? 1. DISH satellite TV is run by a bunch of reckless profiteers. 2. KFOR TV is run by a bunch of war criminal pirates who couldn’t negotiate their way out of a paper sack. 3. America’s Got Talent is the best show on NBC. 4. You can never have too many keys to unlock chastity belts, handcuffs, or anything else. 5. When driving drunk in Tennessee be sure not to carry your gun in your center console…stuff it down the front of your pants instead. The metal chastity belt will protect you from errant discharge! Hahahahaha 6. Stay the hell out of Tennessee. That is all!  Happy Friday morning everybody! Welcome to the Friday edition of CCB coming to you from THE COMPOUND!
I got back here late yesterday. I tell you, I have never been as happy as I was to see the blinking yard light (NWEC, help!) and a yard filled with jackrabbits last night (Remington, help!). The trip back went okay really. I only stopped briefly to get a few hours’ sleep at a rest stop in New Mexico. I felt bad about leaving Cousin Fred behind, but knew he was in the clutches of Gigi, so it could be worse, I reckon. I tried calling Cousin Fred a few times from the road, but never got him. Guess he’s really peeved at me for leaving him in L.A. I will say that L.A. is kind of like New York City, a great place to visit, but who the hell wants to live there? Too many people, too much traffic…in fact, the only thing that Southern California really has going for it is Imperial Valley carne asada. You can’t get the real stuff outside of SoCal…which, I suppose is what keeps people going back there. So anyway, it’s about 11PM last night. I swing the car off the county road and onto the palatial grounds here at The Compound. I’m making a mental estimate as the number of furry rodent pests gathered on and consuming my palatial lawn when I look over at Hellkat One’s trailer and lo and behold – it’s Gigi’s car parked there (how’s that for a run-on sentence?)! The fiends made it back ahead of me! Gadzooks…how is that possible? Surely, I had jump on them getting the hell out of Beverly Hills! I suppose this means that The Trump will make another aerial assault on The Compound to secure his hairdresser. Great…well, maybe the rotor wash will wipe out the jackrabbits. Furry bastards! But, then it occurred to me…how can The Trump perform his version of an air rendition if she has her car here? I know, I know lots of unanswered questions that will hopefully be answered later this morning when the trailer stops rocking. Even though I got in kind of late last night, I’m up really early this morning. Need to get to work on the piece for Southern Living magazine. All the way home, I kept getting texts and calls (that I wouldn’t answer) from the virginal Brooklynn Hodesack. Be it texts or voicemail, it was always the same message, “Are you writing? You better be writing, mister! Write, write, write!” I began to get the message. They want copy and soon! Well, far from it for me to deny Ms. Hodensack anything. Actually, my biggest fear is that she’ll show up here at The Compound demanding her article. Best I get it sent off as quickly as possible. Things appear to be simmering down a bit following the California primary on Tuesday. The Curmudgeon met with Obama yesterday at the White House, after which Obama endorsed the Queen of the Unindicted. Smart move, Mr. President (not). Guess that means he’s told the FBI to back off. Bet he pardons her for any crimes she may or may not have committed while Secretary of State. The Curmudgeon says he’s still in it until after the final primary, which I think is DC on Tuesday. Whatever. It’s over. You gave it your best shot, go back to Vermont and get some sleep. The possibility that Obama will pardon the Queen of the Unindicted really pisses me off. And, here’s why. Everyone…I don’t care who you are…from the most junior person in the U.S. military to the U.S. Secretary of State sitting in a palatial government building in DC. If the U.S. Government grants you access to classified material, you have to sign a standard non-disclosure agreement. While it may not be a perfect agreement, it’s written in such a way as to cover Blackberry shenanigans and private email server faux pas, things no one foresaw when they wrote the damned thing. And, now Her Majesty is saying that she doesn’t recall signing a non-disclosure agreement or maybe it was she doesn’t remember its terms and conditions. Allow, me…it’s very clear…you’re being granted access to classified material, the release of which could cause irreparable harm to the United States. If you disclose or otherwise mishandle the stuff, you’re going to jail for a very long time. It’s why that moron Snowden is still hiding in a Moscow airport bathroom. America’s on a slippery slope here. On the one side we have an unindicted criminal and on the other…well, from the sounds of things, an unindicted criminal, but with a bad wig. Starting to sound a lot like Oklahoma politics, huh?  Well, America…the presumptive fat’s in the fire…the alleged goose has been cooked…the suspected fat lady is hoarse from singing…the smooth pavement has run out…and, Nixon’s still dead.
For better or worse, we’re stuck with two evils from which to choose. Let’s slap some lipstick on one of ‘em and get on with it. Shall we? In case you’re still in a drunken coma, the Queen of the Unindicted locked up her party’s nomination last night - at least numerically if you count sideways…sort of. Me personally, I woke up around 4AM to the somewhat less than gentle stabs of our peculiarly virginal handler from Southern Living magazine, Brooklynn Hodensack’s pointy-toed shoes jabbing my ribs as she leaned over my somewhat pickled corpse and screamed, “Are you writing yet? Why aren’t you writing? You should be writing! Write! Write! Write!” As I lay there for a few seconds, gathering back together whatever brain cells I hadn’t burned out during our final reception here in Los Angeles while covering the California primary. It had been quite an evening. There was a mix of Trumpsters (each with a dead cat tied to their head), Curmudgeonlies (they never really got into the evening, just sat on a bench along one wall of the suite in quiet reflection), and Clintonistas (all with faux subpoenas stuffed in their pockets). Jerry Brown, governor of California, showed up for a while. He was kind of a drag though. Just kept telling people that he could have been a contender. That he could have been a somebody. But now, here he is stuck in California, where he’s been governor (twice), attorney general, mayor of Oakland, secretary of the state of California, and a novice Jesuit priest. The Trump came by, but only stood in the doorway, wearing that stupid red cap that you see him in, but with an addition…someone has added horns to the sides of the cap. Most remarkably, the Curmudgeon even stopped by. It was the most animated the Curmudgeonlies became all evening. He said he stopped by just to tell us that he’s still in this all the way to the convention. That was just about the time that things began to turn ugly with Clintonistas shouting that he needed to drop out of the race so they can beat The Trump. The Trumpsters then picked up their chants of “Make America great! Make America great!” The Secret Service dudes with The Curmudgeon quickly pulled him from the room and whisked him away to Santa Monica airport to catch his plane for D.C. The Curmudgeon somehow figures if he can win the D.C. primary, he still has a shot…uh huh, a shot at his campaign going down in flames maybe. There were even a variety of Hollywood stars in the suite. Most seemed like normal people. Jane Fonda showed up around 10PM. Cousin Fred was not happy about that and began chanting, “Traitor bitch! Traitor bitch!” Soon the entire room was chanting along with him. She didn’t stay long. As I sat there on the floor, I looked around and soon realized there really wasn’t anyone else here. There were beer and wine bottles everywhere. Lots of oxidized rotting avocado skins…more avocado skins than I would have thought possible actually. Where the hell did they come from? Speaking of Cousin Fred, where the hell is he? He did the same thing to me in Indianapolis…deserted me. His bedroom door was open and the light was on so he likely wasn’t in there. He and Gigi probably slipped off somewhere. As I scanned the room, suddenly the Virginal Brooklynn Hodensack was back in my field of blurred vision with her own chant, “You’re NOT writing! Write! Write! You will write, maggot, or you will die trying!” The Virginal Brooklynn Hodensack was obviously a Marine Corps drill instructor in a previous life. Her phone began ringing. She answered it and began with the “Yes, Sir!” “No, Sir!” “Not yet, Sir!”…as she walked away talking, I saw my chance. I grabbed my bag and ran down to the hotel parking garage. I pointed the car in the direction of The Compound and was soon a dot on the California horizon. |
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