 Welcome to Tuesday everybody. Hope it’s a good one for you. Me, not so much. As you may recall from yesterday’s post, Cousin Fred was talking about rebuilding the Cabinet Saloon replication out on the north lawn. As of yesterday morning, at 0430 when I posted about it, that’s all it was - TALK. Then yesterday afternoon an absolute sh*tload of lumber was delivered here and unceremoniously dumped on the north lawn. As the little guy on the forklift was running back and forth from the truck to the “drop zone” my illustrious cousin was signing his (read as “our”) lives away for a load of termite bait and a lifetime of indebtedness to the local lumber guys. Cousin Fred assured me that it will all work out. He’s going to get the members of our fraternal Protective Order of the Jackrabbit, Original Charter (P.O.J.O.C.) to do all the work. Great…so instead of going broke paying builders, I’ll go even broker BBQing ribs and providing free drinks to a bunch of has-been drunks (remember, alcoholics go to meetings) with little or no building experience. Ain’t life grand? Friends, do you believe America is great? Of course, it is. But you know what sucks about democracy? No, it’s not a free press, despite whatever The Trump will tell you. Okay, maybe it is a free press, but that’s not what this post is about. Nope, the thing that genuinely sucks about American democracy is the one thing that makes American democracy a…ummm, democracy. Politics, that’s what. Well, that and Bob Evans Mac & Cheese, but I’ll save that for another post. This year is likely to be a lively one given that the Dems are all bent on getting rid of (GOP) incumbents and moving toward control of…well, the world…sort of. You have Dem candidates out there trying to dig up the most heinous stuff on their opponents that can sink said opponent’s chances for a trip to Washington. In fact, sometimes there’s not even an incumbent, it’s just disgruntled Dems bent on taking control of Congress. Take for instance, a race in Virginia as reported by Huffington Post. On the left you have a nice, well-meaning Dem candidate, named Cockburn (we aren’t making that up) who has uncovered and is slinging mud at her opposition on the right, a guy named Riggleman. According to Cockburn, opponent Riggleman is a white supremacist and (loud gasp of air now) a purveyor of Bigfoot porn. No, I’m not making this up! Now, let’s stop there for one second, please. As you long time readers of this blog know (all four, maybe five on a good day, of you) Mr. Robin has made some mileage with Bigfoot lore. There was a huge chunk of this blog dedicated to Cousin Fred and I putting together a reality show for TV in which amateur naked Bigfoot hunters went into the field in Colorado to track the legendary beast. I, personally, leveraged all those posts into a screenplay for a feature film entitled, “Bigfoot: Naked & Untamed” which I’m happy to report has garnered some praise, but so far, no checks. So, I consider myself something of a Bigfoot expert. I can tell you that I have certainly never heard of Bigfoot porn. I was shocked. I was astounded. I was…ummm…stupefied. Yeah, that’s it, stupefied. Apparently Brother Riggleman has been associating with known white supremacists, even allowing himself to be videoed campaigning with them. He also wrote a book…again, I’m not making this up (I couldn’t possibly), entitled, “Mating Habits of Bigfoot and Why Women Want Him!” The book is set to be released in the fall. Until recently, he has been promoting his self-published book online, “Mating Habits of Bigfoot” on Facebook. Hmmmm. On the one hand, I’m pleased to find a fellow Bigfoot devotee. On the other, it’s a little creepy. Or is it? Yeah, it is. Cockburn (again, I can’t make that name up) re-posted Instagram posts that Riggleman had previously posted showing a drawing of Bigfoot with its genitals blacked out (see above). Riggleman has now switched his Instagram account to private. Okay, maybe Riggleman isn’t the weirdest candidate for Congress ever…okay, yeah, he is. Besides his rather creepy fascination with Bigfoot’s mating habits (and why women want him – Bigfoot that is), there’s the whole white supremacist thing. American is decadent and depraved enough without Virginia Nazis popping up. Just sayin… That is all!  Yeah, yeah, it’s Monday…get over it…get to work…the hangover will improve after lunch. You’ll see. It was a relatively quiet weekend here at The Compound, the only real disturbance was me yelling at the TV as the Washington Nationals fell further and further behind the Marlins yesterday. They wound up splitting the four-game series, but they’re now 6.0 games behind Philadelphia in the National League East. It’s not looking good, sports fans, their hearts just don’t seem to be in it this year. Thank heavens college football is just around the corner! Cousin Fred is talking about rebuilding the Cabinet Saloon replication out on the north lawn. I pointed out to him that to this point, every structure or semi-structure (e.g., Hellkat One’s Trailer) has burned to the ground. We don’t even have the original building plans, they burned up in the Cab during the fire caused by overly zealous law enforcement. Cousin Fred seems to think he can get a grant to fund the reconstruction since we’re talking about the replication of a historic building. Hmmmm. Speaking of delusional, there were also The Trump tweets this weekend. He was keeping his thumbs busy as he swung his rusty axe at anyone within reach. The most puzzling tweet came with the claim that his poll numbers exceed those of Abraham Lincoln. Abraham Lincoln? I’m pretty sure they didn’t start keeping those numbers until sometime after FDR. That was kind of a stupid thing to say. Oh…I get it…he was making a joke! Hahahahaha…huh? The rest of my weekend was taken up with calling around to school superintendents around the state to take a poll of my own. I might not have undertaken the effort if I’d known what a job it would be. Did you know there are 541 school superintendents in the state of Oklahoma? Seriously. That’s a heap of administrators, most of whom hung up on me. A few screamed at me to leave them alone. 217 got emergency no-contact orders from a judge. And, three actually responded to my poll. I’m pleased to report that of those three, none has ever pooped on their high school football field. Of course, we don’t know about the other 538, but I think we’re seeing a positive trend here. What nonsense do I speak of today, you ask? Well, did you hear about the school superintendent up in New Jersey who was arrested on a variety of charges including public defecation, lewdness, and my personal favorite, littering. The media is already calling him the school pooperintendent…oh, that media, just a bunch of knuckleheads, am I right? For our purposes, we’ll call him Pooperstar. Last Thursday, Pooperstar submitted his resignation to the school board saying that his continued service to the school district has become a distraction…you think, genius? So, it seems that police kept getting calls from the high school administration last spring that someone was defecating on the football field and/or track on a daily basis. The local PD is keeping quiet as to how they caught Pooperstar, maybe they used DNA…nah, doubt a local PD in Jersey would have that capability. Chances are they rolled up on him as he was riding the bus, pinching a loaf, eh, insert your favorite colloquialism here. The resignation doesn’t take effect until the end of September so maybe Pooperstar can find a high school in another district to do his deed until then. Once he’s unemployed and fieldless, maybe he’ll move to a park…”Well, the geese do it!” But wait, there’s more! So now, Pooperstar has filed suit against the local PD for arresting him in the first place. He claims that none of the charges against is sufficiently egregious to warrant a mug shot and fingerprinting. That mugshot (seen above) went viral. He claims he’s innocent (don’t they all) and that local police are just trying to frame him. Yeah, that’s the ticket! “I was framed, I’m tellin’ ya. Framed!” So, there you have it. Further evidence of the decline of western civilization. My advice: stay the hell out of New Jersey and watch where you walk on football fields everywhere. There are 538 suspicious superintendents around the state! That is all!  Happy Friday everybody! Hope you’re well and all the parts are still working. Parts is parts after all. Here at The Compound, Cousin Fred has been utterly fascinated by the Demi Lovato saga. So much so that I discovered he has been using a dry marker to write the names of people visiting her at the hospital on the glass slider in the TV room and then drawing lines cross-referencing the names. Not sure where the analysis is headed but all the lines appear to terminate at Wilmer Whatshisname. I’ve tried to keep the vertical blind closed on the effort, so the Wife won’t see it, but he keeps opening it up to study his effort and/or add a new name when the television tabloids announce a new siting. Cousin Fred can be a bit obsessive compulsive. Okay, we’re kidding here, we at CCB hope that she gets better, gets the help she needs and gets back to life, mostly so we don’t have to hear or read about it. It’s getting old. Friends, if you survived the 70s, there are still a few of us around, you probably remember the old Steve Martin comedy routine about getting small. For those of you too young to have seen or heard it (you’re probably less than 45), the basic premise was that Martin had discovered a new drug that would make you small. So instead of saying you were high, you might say you were small. He and his friends would sit around his apartment and someone would say, “Hey, you wanna get small?” There were other jokes like you couldn’t be locked up for being small because you could just walk out between the bars. Oh, the hilarity of it all. You see what you missed by not being around in the 70s? If you’re interested in hearing a recording of the routine, here is the link on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WPgurvq6MIU My point in heading down that pot-holed highway of nostalgia, is that police in North Carolina recently found themselves having to deal with someone who was small – both literally and figuratively. It has created an embarrassing situation for them. So, police in Charlotte, NC pulled a guy over on a traffic stop and figured they needed to search the vehicle. They cuffed their suspect whom we’ll call Houdini Jr. – Junior for short – and put him in the back of the patrol car. Being humanitarian kinds of cops, they opened a small window that separates the front seat from the back seat so that Junior could get some air in the back. It’s damned hot in NC in July. While they’re going through Junior’s car in which they find marijuana and associated paraphernalia, Junior is busy working his handcuffed arms from behind him to in front of him. That accomplished, he was able to slip through the small window and get into the front seat of the cruiser. With me so far? Guess what happened next. Go on, guess. Yep, he drove off in the cruiser. Lights still flashing. Shotgun still on its mount. Police radio blaring telling Junior they were on to him. But wait, there’s more! So, they find the cruiser abandoned about 10 minutes from where Junior was initially arrested. But guess what? Go on, guess. Yep, no Junior. Police used a helicopter and dogs to try to find him, but he remains at large. The thing is, how hard would it be to find some dude handcuffed and trying to get away on foot. Apparently, very hard. He probably headed to his weird Uncle Carl’s house. Uncle Carl has lots of tools and will free him of those cuffs in no time. Or with any luck, Uncle Carl has a universal handcuff key and will then throw yet another set of handcuffs onto the pile he has at the back of his garage. Now the cops have tacked on more charges to the drug stuff. They include larceny of a motor vehicle, fleeing to elude arrest, and impersonating a police officer. Impersonating a police officer? Really? Because he made his escape in a police cruiser? That’s kind of a cheap shot it seems. What has Charlotte PD learned from this? What is the lesson learned? Well, they’re already trying to figure a way to prevent perps from wiggling through the opening between the two compartments…oh, and that being humanitarian doesn’t pay. If you see Junior, you might let him know that he should try out for a shot at America’s Got Talent…they like escape artists on there. That is all!  You know, Thursdays kind of suck. Seriously. You’re just to the right of Wednesday (aka, Hump Day), but still left of Friday (aka, Freedom Day). Guess that would make Thursday In-Between Day if you’re keeping score at home. Maybe it’s why people generally meet people for after-work-drinks on Thursday night. Everyone is drowning their sorrows that Friday (Freedom Day) is so slow in coming. Of course, here in Cosmic City, all Thursday means to me is that I have to roll the trash cart out to the road before 6AM for pick-up. When you have the length of a football field (including one end zone) of driveway to get down there, it’s a freakin’ job. Well, you say, Mr. Robin how come you don’t roll the trash cart down the night before? Good question, astute reader, good question. The answer is because this is Oklahoma, and anything can happen overnight. There could be horrific winds overnight that the weather guessers failed to predict properly and your trash finds its way to Kansas (cheaper there you know). Also, a trash cart becomes an easy temptation for any of a host of animals in these here parts…including the coyote, raccoon, bobcat and/or atavistic teenaged farm boy in daddy’s white Chevrolet pick-up careening down the road feeling somewhat tipsy on low-point beer. Haha…we’ve all been there. But, I digress… Friends, as you long-time followers of this stupid blog probably (read as hopefully) have noticed, we at CCB are masters at spotting trends in the news overnights and reporting them. We are beginning to see a new trend as it emerges and feel compelled to take up some of your precious Thursday telling you about it. I speak, of course, about the trend of men exercising naked in public places (note that I didn’t make the cheap pubic places joke…Doh!). I can guarantee you that Carlton the Doorman on the CBS Evening News isn’t touching these stories. Take for instance, the guy in New Hampshire, who after being forced to watch repeated Planet Fitness commercials on television with their “No Judgement Zone” message decided to take them up on it. Police reports of the incident indicate that our alleged truth-in-advertising-tester, hereafter Yogi, walked into Planet Fitness where he immediately disrobed down to naked and left his clothes in a neat pile near the front desk before taking a stroll through the facility. When police arrived, they found Yogi over in the yoga mat section in “a yoga-type position” – bet it was downward facing dog. Now you have a reason to go drinking on Thursday night just to get that image out of your head. People stayed around the gym to give police statements that included words like, “sick, disgusting, unsafe, and uncomfortable,” yeah, no judgement there huh? Reportedly, people who weren’t even in the gym at the time have been coming to the police to make statements. Eh, there’s apparently not much going on in New Hampshire. Not surprisingly, police found drug paraphernalia in Yogi’s clothes though it’s unclear as to whether he was under the influence. He is charged with indecent exposure, lewdness, and disorderly conduct and is awaiting a hearing in September. Our disbarred and disgraced CCB attorney doesn’t feel the charges will amount to much. After all, the truest traditions of yoga have participants wearing as little (or no) clothing as possible. Yogi was just trying to free his…whatever. Next! Now we look in on Nashville, where over the weekend, a 25-year-old (we’ll call him Jumpin’ Jack Flasher – JJF to his friends – that’s his mugshot above) allegedly went into the women’s restroom in a McDonald’s and stripped naked before commencing a lengthy series of jumping jacks. After management was unable to get him to leave, they called the cops saying he’d been in there “all day.” The cops arrive to find JJF doing jumping jacks and then throwing himself against a tile wall. They noticed a strong chemical odor about JJF. Apparently, he had been huffing something and felt the need to demonstrate his super human powers by performing jumping jacks and trying to bust through a wall in a women’s restroom. Officers were not impressed and JJF was arrested for criminal trespassing, public intoxication, and public indecency. Turns out JJF has a long history and is known to Nashville police as a huffer. He has been warned repeatedly in the past to stay away from McDonald’s. CCB’s disbarred and disgraced attorney rolled his eyes when we showed him this. He suggested we warn women to carefully check inside McDonald’s restroom prior to stepping inside. You’ve been warned. That is all!  Good morning everybody. Hey, it’s Wednesday, mid-week, you’ll make it to the weekend. Just you wait and see! Seriously, it’ll turn out a lot better than last week. Well, maybe…as long as that stupid woman in HR doesn’t take another bite out of your peanut butter-sardine, red onion, and mustard sandwich on Wonder Bread (a Wednesday tradition) as she did last week. You seriously need to find a new job. Update on the Burning Man festival road trip. Friend Lamont called yesterday to tell us that his RV is serviced and ready to go. Today the window goes up on ticket sales again and Cousin Fred is ready. Speaking of that fool (Cousin Fred), I caught him calling around to skydiving services in the Reno area yesterday. He was trying to figure out what it would cost for someone to carry us all aloft and parachute us into the festival site. While that might make for a grand entrance, I’ll grant you, I’m not sure I want to venture out into that desert without the comforts of an RV. The Hairdressing Hydrologist Gigi wants to come along. She’s insisting that Cousin Fred buy her a pass along with those he’s buying for Friend Lamont and me. Cousin Fred is resisting, but he’s a weak simpleton. Eh, if I get cold feet she can have my pass and I’ll stay at The Compound keeping the looters at bay (oh, they’re out there). Friends, I don’t recall if I’ve ever mentioned it in these blog posts, but I had two occasions over the years to sit in a room as the great futurist Alvin Toffler discussed the future of technology and its potential effects on humanity. The first time, I was a bit star-struck. I had read his seminal book, Future Shock, when I was 12 years old. I should say, I devoured that book when I was 12. So, there I was in my early 30s and one of 10 people in a room with the great Alvin Toffler. I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say. But, you know what? It was a bit disappointing. If you asked a specific question, he was evasive in his answer. He kept saying that we should ask Heidi (his wife and partner) about that – whatever that was. So, the second go around, I was better prepared personally and before the meeting mentioned to my colleagues not to expect any astounding predictions or futurist proclamations. Again, Mr. Toffler offered not very much. He attentively listened to what people had to say and then would provide a very contemplative “hmmmm” and “uh huh” but nothing substantive. Again, there was a “you should ask Heidi about that.” I came out the second time thinking, if there was ever a next time, I would insist that Heidi be part of the package or no package. Alvin Toffler wasn’t the only futurist I met over the years. The others were pretty much the same. Very evasive about specific answers to direct questions. I heard one, don’t recall her name, actually use the phrase, “If I could answer questions like that, I’d win the lottery.” Yeah, thanks, very helpful. The point in relating those anecdotes is that I came to realize that futurists make their livings spending a lot time in deep thought about crap. Tossing the pros and cons of one concept or another around until they can come up with a reasonable idea. Great work if you can get it. I also came to realize that not all futurist “predictions” work out as predicted – in fact, I suspect they rarely do. If you’re a futurist nerd and keep track of such stats, please let me know. Take for instance, a recent concept known as “electronic immortality” is being pushed forward by a futurist named Ian Pearson. Dr. Pearson sees a time in the future (he pinned it as 2050) when we will be able to achieve a form of immortality by merging our brains with cloud technology. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, “head in the clouds.” The salacious details, there must be those - futurists make their living with this stuff after all, includes being able to attend your own funeral. Or attaching your cloud brain to a new improved android body and living forever. For life pigs, like me, that has appeal. Dr. Pearson however cautions that once our minds move to the cloud, we would no longer own it. His concern is that we would become enslaved artificial organisms. Damn you and your ethical dilemmas Pearson! Other futurists are jumping on the band wagon. Some saying the time could come as early 2045. Others, saying the idea is transhumanism, which has a lot of bad connotations attached to it (again, with the ethics). I’ve decided it’s time to become a futurist myself. Why not? Doesn’t require a license or anything, right? I’ll start small. For instance, I see a Sonic breakfast burrito and a cup of coffee in my immediate future. See? I’m one for one, so far…or will be soon. That is all!  Friends, have you ever been to Egypt? Hmmm? You know, to see the felucca’s ply the waters of the Nile or see all the marvelous structures at Giza? Those structures are pretty spectacular, sort of. The first thing everybody says when they stand next to the Sphinx is, “Is that it? I thought it would be bigger.” (Could make a that’s-what-she-said joke, but I’ll resist…doh!) You stand next to the pyramids, thinking to yourself, “Gee, how did they get all of that rock out here on this desert?” Your local tour guide rolls his eyes, as he has done a gazillion times over the decades that he’s been leading tourists out to this spot, knowing exactly what you’re thinking. You gaze over at the edge of the desert complex of monuments to mankind’s (or ancient aliens’) creativity and see a Holiday Inn. Seriously. It’s there. And you begin to feel sad that crass commercialism has taken its spot at the edge of one of the wonders of the world. But then you think, “I should have stayed there! The Wife would have been so impressed with my ability to plan a trip!” Oh, and then there’s the trip through Cairo to get to Giza. Narrow, crowded, filthy streets with towering apartment dwellings lining the entire way; blocking out any hope for sunlight or a wisp of fresh air. Along the way, you view poverty and a surge of humanity on a level you’ve never witnessed (unless, of course, you’ve taken the pre-dawn drive from New Delhi to Agra to see the Taj Mahal in India – intrepid traveler that you are). As you stand out on that barren piece of desert gazing at the wonderment that is the Great Pyramids, you’re trying to recall whatever it was that the at-times rather bizarre-looking Ph.D. on Ancient Aliens said on the episode when he was trying to explain the theory that the pyramids in Egypt and Central America and Asia are all perfectly aligned to create some weird power grid that was utilized by space aliens visiting earth a long, long time ago. You ask yourself, “Could it actually be true?” Ancient alien theorists say, “Of course it’s true, you dolt!” Could it be that ancient Egyptians with the help of extraterrestrial visitors unlocked all the secrets to life and perhaps, just perhaps, left us with some hint in the hieroglyphics they left behind? Nah, probably not. But it makes great television on a Friday night before Hawaii Five-O comes on. Aloha! In truth, ancient Egypt was probably not much different than modern Egypt with its slums teeming with will-never-haves on one side and the well-educated, abundantly wealthy elites on the other. But, people are going to believe what people are going to believe. Take for instance, a petition going around the world seeking to allow a handful of people to drink from a soup believed by some to be the elixir of life left bestowed upon us by ancient ones. Haven’t heard of this yet? Well, strap in my babies, here we go. So, recently a “sealed” sarcophagus was unearthed in Egypt that revealed the remains of three people who were stewing in a putrid, rust-colored liquid. A change.org user calling himself Innes Mick began an online petition that seeks to “…drink the red liquid from the cursed dark sarcophagus in the form of some sort of carbonated energy drink so we can assume its powers and finally die.” I’m not making this up. This despite the Egyptian government declaring that the nasty slurry is simply decades of leakage from an aged (ancient?) sewer system. The government points out that’s why the corpses in the sarcophagus have rotted to bone rather than remain in some form of remarkable preservation as observed with other mummies. Innes Mick, not to be deterred, counters saying that “…please stop trying to tell me the skeleton juice is mostly sewage that’s impossible everyone knows skeletons cannot poop.” Ah, interesting counterpoint Innes Mick, interesting counterpoint. NOT! As of this past weekend The Mickster had gained 8,000 signatures on his petition. The Egyptian government isn’t buying it and apparently won’t allow it to happen. A video has appeared on YouTube posted by an Egyptian news outlet that purports to show the government draining the sarcophagus and pouring the buckets of the slurry out in the street. Welcome to Egypt! That is all!  Hope everyone had a great weekend. Here at The Compound is was quiet enough. We’re all glad to see the temps are supposed to moderate a bit this week. Hell, the week following this one I think we’re in the upper-80s. That beats the heck out of 108 degrees! And, there’s even a little hope for some more rain this coming week. Things are looking up I’m telling you! The Wife had her birthday this past weekend though it was spent the way it generally is every year lately with her sitting on the roof chugging Old Crow, singing my Philadelphia Home and cackling between verses. Yeah, the only difference between her birthday and any other day is that she’ll flick her lit unfiltered Pall Mall at anyone who wishes her a happy birthday. She isn’t fond of birthdays. Cousin Fred has decided that he and I need to attend this year’s Burning Man festival at the end of August out in the remote desert near Black Rock City, Nevada. He says it will be good for me and help me to find my muse, which according to him has been on vacation for a year or more. The thought of being out in the middle of a barren desert with 80,000 of my closest and youngest friends with the whole deep playa music thing going on is not normally my idea of relaxation. If my muse is hanging out there, it’s probably there for a reason and can stay. Still Cousin Fred insists this just what we both need. Uh huh. He plans to get our other co-conspirator Friend Lamont to drive his RV over from western Arkansas and we’ll all head for Nevada in it. Well, at least there would be some comfort. For those of you not familiar with Burning Man, this year’s festival will be the 32nd consecutive year for the event. It began in 1986 on a beach on San Francisco Bay with 8 people in attendance and an 8-foot burning man. By comparison, last years event drew close to 70,000 with a 105-foot burning man. See the burning man is the culmination of the 8-day event when festival staff burn it to the ground as tens of thousands of drug-addled brains watch and then think, “This is what I spent $425 on?” Think of it as the day-long Fourth of July celebration in Cosmic City. The only difference with Burning Man is that it’s stretched over several days with constant EDM blasting and blowing dust. Okay well the constant EDM is a differentiator anyway. Oh, and no turtle races. Over the course of those several days, there is a lot of merriment, naked people, art installations, fun, nonsense, on and on. It’s gonna be great, you’ll see. The next ticket purchase period is coming up Wednesday. Cousin Fred is eagerly standing by and ready to pounce on tickets for us. Actually, the Burning Man’s days may be numbered, at least for the Black Rock location. The Feds are starting to make problems for Burning Man organizers. The area is a federally-protected conservation site and have always insisted that there be nothing left out in that barren landscape once the festival ends. Organizers are constantly telling participants that they must pack everything out that they bring in. But does anyone listen? Nah. That leaves festival staff scrambling sometimes for days afterward trying to clean up everything left behind: mattresses, diapers, baby wipes, piles of poop…wait, what? Yeah, it’s become a problem in the past few years despite hundreds of portable toilets. Cleaning up the piles of poop left behind by revelers who figure…eh, it’s a desert, who cares? So now, the Bureau of Land Management is very strongly suggesting that everyone attending the Burning Man be issued poop bags. No, seriously. Hmmm…I’m not sure I understand exactly what a poop bag is or how to use it. But if the Feds are distributing them, I’m guessing there are directions on the bag. But then what? So let’s say I’m a Burning Man attendee who has paid $425 for a ticket to play in the desert for more than a week. You’re certainly not expecting to have to haul your own body waste out of there. And even if organizers are able to convince all the Millennials to do so, what about the poor people of Black Rock City? Seriously, those Millennials are going to drive off the desert with poop bags stuffed in the trunk and at the first town they come to (Black Rock City) out they go. “Well, Martha and I were having our dinner out on the porch when suddenly rolling down the street we see this here tidal wave of sh*t. I sez to Martha, Martha better go git the hip waders! We are up sh*t creek without a paddle!” Typical “We’re with the government and we’re here to help.” Uh huh. Do I have the solution? Nah, not really. Maybe double the number of portable toilets? Or shoot people found crapping on the ground? Okay, granted that’s a big radical, plus then you’re hauling bodies out of there. But there it is. If you’re interested in going please let us know…soon. Ticket sales this year are capped at 80,000. In dust we trust. That is all!  Welcome to Friday everybody. Hope it’s a good one for you. Here at The Compound we’re trying to stay up with all The Trump’s reversals on one thing or another that happened during the Helsinki trip. But it doesn’t stop there…oh no! The world, or at least our little piece of it is going insane. While I’m beginning to think it all starts with The Trump, but it almost certainly doesn’t end with him. He’ll pin that someone else. Honestly, it’s more than Cousin Fred and I can possibly keep up with. Let’s see, there was the news that the Oklahoma Attorney General (remarkably) told the group of doctors and pharmaceutical company execs who made up a bunch of impossible-to-comply-with rules regarding medical marijuana that they overstepped their authority and need to try again. This from an Oklahoma AG? He can’t possibly be from this state! Bet he grew up in Kansas! Yeah, that’s it. It’s cheaper there you know. Then there’s all the calls from people ratting other people out to the cops for being in the wrong neighborhood or barbecuing in the wrong spot in the park and then becoming famous (or, is it infamous?) for having done so, getting video of their call and/or mugshot on TV along with a social media nickname. And, for goodness sake, then we must listen to all the drama spewing forth from Meghan Markle’s step-sister who’s still upset she wasn’t invited to the Royal Wedding. On and on and on. I’m telling you, people in this country are completely nuts this summer. Bring on the winter when it’s too damned cold for anyone to be stirring up any trouble. Or, as I’ve pointed out before, maybe this kind of stuff has been going on all along and we’re only now really aware of it since we seem to be living and breathing a 24-hour crap cycle. But enough of your daily head-shred, here’s something you come to CCB for; that is, gaining insight into the foolish nonsense going on around us. It’s everywhere I’m tellin’ ya! Take for instance the guy in Memphis (mugshot above) who asked an old acquaintance from his high school days out on a dinner date. Romeo Wannabe (hereafter, RW) shows up at the woman’s (we’ll call her Disappointed Date #1, or DD1 for short) home for their date, but had someone drop him off. Hmmm…okay, but no huge deal. DD1 had a nice car and so off on their date they go. RW is driving around Memphis (it’s a big town) trying to decide where to take DD1 for dinner. Finally, he pulls in at a gas station near the airport and asks DD1 to go inside and buy him a cigar (pronounced see-gar in the mid-south). With us so far? DD1 who apparently likes the abuse and is a compliant sort of person does so and then notices RW driving away in her Volvo. But wait, there’s more. As DD1 was waiting for her mother to come pick her up, she received a text from a friend. The friend (whom we’ll call Disappointed Date #2, or DD2) was telling DD1 that RW just called to ask her out. When DD1 was picked up by her mother they used a GPS tracking device in the car to find it. It seems that RW allowed DD2 to drive her friend’s car and she drove them to a drive-in movie (they still have those in Memphis) where he revealed he didn’t actually have any money for a date so DD2 had to pay to get them into the movie. Again, hmmm…but no big deal. You know this is starting to sound like an old Cheech and Chong movie script. DD1 and her mother find them (RW and DD2) at the drive-in probably making out and sitting in her car. Police were called at that point and RW was arrested. But guess what? It wasn’t RW’s first arrest, oh no! In 2016 he was arrested when he and two of his associates ate dinner at a restaurant before robbing the joint. This really begs the question as to who got the cigar DD1 purchased at the gas station and who bought the popcorn at the drive-in? And, what movie was playing at the drive-in? So many question, too few answers. That is all!  Friends, tell me, how weird are you? You’re living in a world where things get weird on a daily basis. Am I right? Surely, some of that weirdness must have rubbed off on you along the way? Stuff that you do that most people who might stumble upon your weirdness might go, “Ewwww!” You long time readers of this blog (all two or three of you) know that Mr. Robin can lean a little toward the weird hisself. Though mostly I like to point out everyone else’s weirdness as I post this nonsense. We also know about Mr. Robin’s fondness for snakes (oops, almost did a Trump there)…I misspoke, make that unfondness for snakes. Even though I hang out here at The Compound with people named Terry Two-Fingers, a fellow who charms rattlesnakes for the tourists over by Freedom, that doesn’t alter my innate fear and loathing of serpents of any kind. In a post earlier this month, we discussed fundraising activities by the Pathetic Order of the Jackrabbit, Original Charter (P.O.J.O.C.) that included a spirited game of Rattlesnake Red Rover and an evening of entertainment centered around Water Moccasin Mambo dancing. I put on my brave face when I posted that. Truth be told, I’d have headed to the North Slope of Alaska to avoid such shenanigans around here. And, here’s a confession for you. Mr. Robin has a tattoo on the left cheek of his butt that reads, “Mortuus est bonum nisi serpens!” – translated from the Latin is “All the good snakes are dead!”…or words to that effect. But, I digress… So, it was with dismay that I watched a segment on News Channel 4 out of Oklahoma City that was done by a CBS affiliate in Poughkeepsie, NY about a woman offering therapeutic snake massages. Yeesh! Now, here’s a little more Mr. Robin weirdness. Mr. Robin doesn’t like for people to touch him, so the thought of ever receiving a hands-on massage is well…yeesh! Now you turn that into a snake touching Mr. Robin…on purpose…as therapy…well, that’s just (sorry, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit). The news segment was made in connection with National Snake Day, which was this past Monday. National Snake Day? What manner of atavistic heathen would propose a national day of observance of f#*king snakes? Now I’m feeling queasy again. The head snake handler/creepy massager is a woman who calls herself Serpentessa. Serpentessa is a (we are NOT making this up) snake priestess at Dreaming Goddess massage and tattoo parlor in upstate New York. As she guides the six-foot snakes onto the massage table with a client aboard, she whispers in their ear, “Just enjoy them and feel them” or to paraphrase Bill Murray, “Feel the snake, be the snake.” Our snake priestess can’t force the snakes to do anything. She just drops them on the victim…er, client…and each snake “follows its own path.” All together now, Yeesh! The snakes glide along said client’s body wrapping around the feet, the head, and even resting on the neck. It begs the question, has anyone seen my shotgun? “They tone and stimulate the vagus nerve in our body and that releases endorphins and oxytocin,” Serpentessa is quoted as saying. “Those are the feel-good hormones.” Uh huh. Feel-good hormones? Really? The only thing it would stimulate in Mr. Robin laying on that table is a heart attack. High Priestess Serpentessa says people come in to get intimate with snakes because: they’re looking for healing or they (the client, not the snake) want to feel empowered or they’re just trying to get over a fear of snakes. Again, where the hell is my shotgun? That 12 gauge makes me feel empowered and helps me get over a fear of snakes as I blast them. So, there you have it. Fearful empowering healing for a mere $300 for 90 minutes. Oh, and the best part? Dreaming Goddess massage and tattoo parlor accepts no responsibility if one of their snakes decides your vagus is beyond repair and decides to choke and eat you. My advice? Stay the hell out of New York state, but if you must go, keep the shotgun handy! That is all!  Happy Hump Day everybody (very fitting term with regard to today’s post, read on you’ll see)! I got up this morning to find that it was still raining here at The Compound and had been throughout most of the night. What’s the big deal about that those of you who don’t live in the great state of Oklahoma may be asking? Well, let’s start with precipitation in any form or volume is great thing around here. Plus, when Sassy Cassie, the Channel 9 weather person, tells you that there is almost no chance of rain overnight and it pours it kind of makes me want to do my now-infamous naked rain dance outside. By the way, Channel 9 could you please revoke Tornado Payne-in-the-Ass’ vacation and get him back to work? Plus this little bit of rain we’re having as I type this will likely be the last we’ll see for the next several days as all the newshounds in the area (including “The Horn” at the sometimes daily local newspaper that doesn’t allow me to mention their name) are wringing their hands in anticipation over the coming HEAT DOME OF DEATH. Seriously, the weather people seem almost giddy about it. And, then, they’re also calling for a long, wet, and cold winter around these here parts. The last couple of winters have been very mild and we have the bugs and snakes and other stuff that warm winters produce here at The Compound to prove it. But, enough about the weather. On to bigger things. Yesterday, I devoted this entire blog to a careful analysis and recap of The Trump’s Tour-de-Trump 2018 wherein he visited our now former allies at NATO, blocked the Queen of England with his largish self, played golf and gave a what-me-worry interview to CBS News in Scotland, and then ended it all with vis-à-vis tiptoe détente confab with our now new ally Vlad the Poot. What a week so far, am I right? Oh, it’s getting better. No, seriously… So yesterday we were regaled with The Trump’s explanation that he “misspoke” during his presser with Vlad the Poot. He says he swapped out the correct word for the wrong word and changed the context of what he was trying to say…or something to that effect. Huh? Yeah, and then he stated firmly that he respects and occasionally will listen to his (the U.S.) intelligence community. But, he didn’t stop there. Oh no. He just kept blabbering at the mouth when suddenly the lights went out. The only adult supervision in the West Wing, Chief of Staff John Kelly got up from his seat at the table and turned the lights off to signal The Trump to shut the hell up. Surprisingly, it worked. If Kelly is going to keep doing stuff like that he’ll have to keep upping his game, we here at CCB predict that by the fall he’ll be tying a ball-gag in The Trump’s mouth to get him to stop that nonsensical rambling that he does and that often leads him into trouble. The best news of fallout from Tour-de-Trump 2018 is something you probably didn’t hear about, but we feel is worth mentioning. So, it turns out that some dude in NYC covered the famous Wall Street charging bull statue in 130 multi-colored suction-cup dildos…yes, that’s dildo with a “d”. But, it didn’t stop there…oh no…he then climbed shirtless and wearing a Vlad the Poot mask atop the bull to pose for photos. According to the “artist’s” interpretation, it was meant to represent the control Russia is now exerting over things in the United States. Wonder if he got NEA funding for the project…nah…turns out the 130 dildos were donated by an adult toy manufacturer. Probably throwaways that didn’t meet strict industry standards for rigidity or durability or color. We here at CCB were going to publish today’s post with the photo but can’t afford more time in FB jail…CCB just recently had to fill out a form for Facebook affirming that Mr. Robin is a U.S. citizen because CCB’s content is considered political. Really? F@#kers! If you’re interested in seeing the photo here’s the link on the Huffington Post site. You know you want to see. The police cited the artist but were reportedly laughing their ass off as they did. I love America! That is all! |
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