![]() Well, things have reached a sort of oddball equilibrium here at The Compound. Or, maybe I should say that we’ve come to a new definition of normal. Nah, that’s not it, there’s nothing normal about life here at The Compound. The Francesca has taken over the nursing duties with regard to Cousin Fred. That’s not a bad thing. After all, it could be worse, it could be me. The herd of attorneys waiting out on the road to sign Cousin Fred as a client has dwindled now to about four. Basically, the four attorneys in Cosmic City without any prospects whatsoever. Let the pen clicking continue! I got a look inside the Mobile Mutt Rescue Unit. Very posh. There is a complete animal surgical suite located just past where the driver sits. That takes up about one-third of the interior space. The rest is set aside as quarters for the vet. I guess it’s in case he or she has to travel or is taking care of cattle way out in the country or something. I asked The Francesca where she went to vet school. I soon learned that she isn’t actually a vet, but works as a veterinary assistant for some big-time vet in New York State. Wow, a vet assistant and she’s driving a $200,000 RV-cum-surgical-suite? I thought about saying something, but decided it wasn’t my business. Cousin Fred seems very happy and has slowed down on his consumption of synthetic opioids. Even the Wife seems to have taken a liking to the Francesca. Yesterday afternoon they were both up on the front porch chain smoking filterless Pall Malls and finishing the bottle of Fightin’ Cock Whisky as Cousin Fred sat in a wheelchair soaking up some sun. Once that was bottle was gone, the Francesca went back over to the RV and came out with a bottle of Old Crow (shudder). The two of them went back to drinking and cackling about something. Okay, I’ll admit it, there’s something rather unsettling about the Francesca. I can’t quite put my finger on it. When I asked her how long she had been a veterinary assistant, she told me only nine months. Prior to that she worked as a storefront psychic in Brooklyn. That’s when I got really nervous. I hate psychics. They creep me out. But, again, everyone seems pleased with her, save for me. Friends, have you noticed that everything in the world is just getting increasingly insane? You haven’t? Well, you have only to look at the mess here at The Compound to gain some insight into the chaos and general dumbassosity going on in the world. Yes, I’m saying that this blog reflects the lunacy around all of us. That’s what a shrink would call “projecting”…or maybe narcissism since, upon re-reading what I just wrote, it seems that the world revolves around me. Hmmmmmmm. But I digress…Let us cite some examples of the craziness around us, shall we? First up, there was general panic at LAX (the airport, not the laxative – although I suppose under certain conditions that could cause its own special panic) when FALSE rumors spread of an active shooter roaming one of the terminals. LAPD (the police, not a Pomeranian rapper) jumped into action. In the middle of scouring the terminal in search of a nut with a gun, the cops find a dude with a plastic sword dressed as Zorro sitting on the curb. The police (with weapons drawn) swarmed the guy. Why not? You’re on the hunt for a lunatic shooter inside an airport and find a lunatic actor dressed as an 18th century fictional character – that’s probable cause to at least Taser him! This is why I’m not a cop (well, one of several reasons). Turns out he was just some broked**k actor waiting for a ride. The cops let him go. Next, let’s pretend you’re a fugitive on the run. If you really are a fugitive on the run, you should definitely read this. But, for most of us, let’s pretend. You’re on the run, the cops are hunting you down (or attempting to) and put your mugshot on the evening news. Now let’s pretend that you’re so ate up with yourself that you don’t find that mugshot particularly flattering. So via social media you go public asking the media to not use that photo and offer up a much better (in your humble aesthetic opinion) pic of yourself (if you’re Anthony Weiner maybe it’s a pic of your…well, you know). That’s what happened when a young woman in Australia managed to escape from a jail that she was being checked into. The cops put up the mugshot of her (that they had just taken) on the evening news. Said alleged escapee simply hated the photo and via Facebook tried to get the media to use a different pic. Her post with the better photo was “Can you use this photo please, and thank you. Yours truly Amy Sharp XX.” She included an emoji with a smiling face and a halo above her head. Cops didn’t buy the whole haloed emoji thing and the newer, better photo led to her being found and arrested near where she escaped. Finally, there has been an outbreak of random clowns hanging around an apartment complex in South Carolina. CCB recently reported on the appearance of Gags the Clown walking around Green Bay, Wisconsin late at night scaring the crap out of people. Now this, in SC…there are reports from children living in the complex that the clowns come out from the surrounding woods and attempt to lure children into the woods. There are reports from adults of a clown with a blinking nose hanging around the outside of the apartment complex late at night. One adult clown-spotter claims that she waved to the clown…and the clown WAVED BACK! Creepy stuff! Police responding to the reports have not yet found any clowns (send in the clowns!). Maybe they’ll get lucky and the clowns will start posting to social media. So there you have examples of how the world is going to hell in a hurry this summer. Maybe all the nonsense caused by the presidential election cycle this year is fomenting an increased level of stupidity, depravity and chaos. Who knows? All, I know is that if the Francesca shows up at the door some night wearing a clown outfit, I’m out of here! ![]() Good Monday morning everybody! Hope you had a great weekend. It was a bit of a strange one around here what with: the care and feeding of a partially plaster-encased Cousin Fred following the “Elevator Incident”; the return of the Wife from another of her fabulous vacations; the gathering of a herd of attorneys outside The Compound; and, finally, the show stopper of all show stoppers - the arrival of the Francesca to The Compound. How’s that for weird? No, you don’t think so? Well, guess you had to be here. Allow me to divulge. By Friday, I was sweating bullets as Cousin Fred continued to lounge around on the sofa. He certainly wasn’t able to get through the door of Hellkat One’s travel trailer with that half-body cast of his which was keeping his right arm cocked at a weird angle. So it was that by Friday morning, he was laid out on the couch and constantly asking for assistance with something. In the meantime, I knew the Wife was due back sometime later that day and I also knew she wasn’t going to be happy with having Cousin Fred parked on the sofa all day, every day until the body cast could be removed. I considered for a time moving myself into Hellkat One’s travel trailer just to make certain I was out of the line of fire. And then to top it all off, there was the great unknown, to wit: The Francesca, who by all accounts was moving this direction from somewhere at light speed. I say somewhere because I don’t know whence she is driving to get here. At one point, I asked Cousin Fred how long it would take her to drive here, figuring that would give me an approximate range with which to work. He just chuckled and swallowed another couple of synthetic opioid tablets and muttered something about, “You’ll see soon enough, cousin.” The herd of attorneys parked up and down the road outside The Compound is particularly disturbing. I mean, it’s kind of like having a neon sign pointing the way to The Compound. I’ve always taken great pride in the fact that it takes the average Sheriff’s deputy at least 36 hours to figure out where this is. How did these ambulance chasers find us? All of them, to a body, wanted to sign Cousin Fred as a client in a lawsuit against the Cosmic City for the injuries he sustained in the fall from the grain elevator. So it is that we have a veritable high-end car-park outside the grounds here filled with an assortment of Lexuses (Lexi?), Mercedes, BMW’s, and every other manner of vehicle that isn’t sold locally. They were all stand out there facing the house and clicking pens in one hand while holding client agreements in the other. So, if you can’t find an attorney in Cosmic City today, they aren’t in court, they’re out here. I was explaining to the Wife (for the umpteenth time) how it was that Cousin Fred came to be in a half-body cast when suddenly we heard the sound of, well, what I can only describe as the sound of a dog puking. We both glanced at the Mutts (who should have been outside chasing away ambulance chasers) and Cousin Fred (who the wife was about to roll out the door and into the waiting hands of the herd of attorneys). All seemed okay. Cousin Fred’s phone went ding. He exclaimed, “She’s here! She’s arrived!” The Wife and I moved out onto the front porch to see the herd of attorneys looking to the north. They began clicking their pens in a frenetic cacophony of cheap ink pens and expectations of exorbitant fees. Coming down the road was the biggest diesel pusher RV I think I’ve ever seen. Atop the front was an array of emergency red and blue lights that were flashing. From somewhere inside the thing, the sound of a dog puking was blaring…guess that counts as a siren. Down the 40 foot-plus side of the cruise ship on wheels was the image of a dog with its tongue hanging out and the words, “Mobile Mutt Rescue Unit LLC”. With a hiss of air brakes, the thing slowed to a crawl before turning into The Compound, promptly taking out my mailbox. The front door of the house opened and Cousin Fred crashed out onto the porch screaming, “She’s here, she’s here, I’m saved!” He tried to run across the lawn, but with the half-body cast and a head full of synthetic opioids, it was hopeless. He kind of stumbled along, weaving a bit before collapsing. The herd of attorneys at that point surged forward clicking their pens and calling out in unison, “lawsuit, lawsuit, mo’ money, mo’ money!” The Compound Mutts, whipped into a frenzy by all the activity, raced off the porch toward the herd of attorneys who quickly retreated to their vehicles parked along the road. The Wife looked at me with disgust before disappearing inside the house. The RV screeched to a halt in front of Cousin Fred’s collapsed, unmoving form. Two sliding doors on the side opened and a moving ramp slid forward from inside. Standing on the ramp was (I presumed) the Francesca. She was dressed in surgical scrubs with a nameplate over her left breast that read, “Francesca.” I was marveling at her beauty, not to mention her entrance, when the Wife came back on the porch with a bottle of cheap Fightin’ Cock whisky and an entire carton of filterless Pall-Malls. She parked herself in a chair and began alternately chain-smoking the Pall-Malls and swiggin’ from the bottle. I think I heard her begin to hum, “My Philadelphia Home.” I say I think I heard that because it was difficult to tell. Coming from the inside of the RV was a sample of the worst 70’s disco music I’ve heard in well…decades. Once on the ground, the Francesca moved toward Cousin Fred. She helped him to his feet and all but carried him back to the ramp with promises of a “nice sponge bath.” As the ramp ascended back into the RV, Cousin Fred looked at me, smiled, and winked. That was my Saturday. ![]() Good morning…it’s Thursday, August 26. Today is National Burger Day. So, go out and buy a local burger. Eat and shut up already! There will almost certainly be no wood pulp filled burgers for me today. Woodward Hospital (or whatever they’re calling themselves this week) is kicking Cousin Fred to the curb – well, actually they’re rolling him out to the curb in a wheelchair. His insurance says they won’t pay for another night of care so the hospital is showing him the door. I was concerned about him coming home so soon after his fall. The dude has a body cast covering his body from just above the waist to his neck. His right arm is in plaster too and cocked at a weird angle to the rest of his body. The only arm he has free is his left arm – thankfully – it means he’ll be able to take care of his own bathroom business (familial stuff only goes so far). The bad news for me is that I’m not sure he can even get through the door of Hellkat One’s travel trailer with his plaster-encased right arm sticking out like that. That of course means that he’ll be up in the main house. The problem with that is that The Wife will be returning from her latest fabulous vacation tomorrow. She won’t be happy to find Cousin Fred in the main house. But, what can I do, he’s family. I guess I have to take care of him. Cousin Fred, on the other hand, is positively giddy. And no, it’s not because the synthetic opioids are taking effect. I sent the video of Cousin Fred’s crash and burn from the side of that derelict monstrosity grain elevator that casts an ominous shadow over Mazzio’s to Francesca. Interestingly, that got her attention. She’s on her way to The Compound as we speak to look after Cousin Freddy (as she calls him). Of course, she asked me if he was able to take care of his toilet business with the body cast before announcing that she would come here. Great…just great. Now we have Francesca, whom I know nothing about en route The Compound. I keep thinking that I should wave The Wife off. Tell her to just stay on vacation. Eh well, we’ll deal with it all tomorrow I guess. Local lawyers have been hounding me, wanting to represent Cousin Fred in a lawsuit against Cosmic City for leaving such a dangerously decrepit structure up in full view of the public. They all ask the same thing. They want to know if Cousin Fred is irretrievably brain damaged from youth or merely stupid. Either way, the lawyers swear they can make a case. With the video of Cousin Fred’s fall going viral on YouTube, people from all over the world who are fans of this blog (hey, it’s more than a handful – particularly the people in Israel who steal bits of this to post elsewhere) have been sending me emails of support and sympathy. Mostly sympathy for being saddled with Cousin Fred. One savvy reader in Pittsburgh sent me links to the local TV news there with a story about another dumbass who tried to impress his girlfriend and failed…miserably. It seems this guy took his girlfriend up on the roof of a local restaurant, presumably to look at the stars (less light on the roof) and commence a personal body search of the girlfriend (have to check for weapons). At some point in the proceedings, he told the girlfriend that he would jump from the roof they were on to the roof of the business next door. The girlfriend begged our macho Batman wannabe not to do it (as she’s pulling her clothes back into place). So, our insipid boy wonder gets a running start and misses, falling in between the businesses where he got stuck. Hang with me a second…I know, I know…I was thinking the exact same thing. Firefighters and police show up (the poor guy never has any fun) and they can’t figure out what to do for our action-movie-extra-reject-lothario. The firefighters decide (it was a slow night) to bust open the wall immediately behind our leaping-Don-Juan and just pull him into the building. They start banging away at the wall with sledgehammers, but guess what? The wall is cinderblock filled with concrete and rebar…it’s going nowhere. The inside of the restaurant is a mess though. Finally, they lower a skinny firefighter on a rope down between the buildings to free El Stupido Supremo. Like Cousin Fred, when they got Fred Jr. to the hospital, the police covered him in citations for trespassing, blah, blah, blah. Now the owner of the restaurant is suing to have his wall repaired. Oh, and junior has a broken ankle. All of that because he wanted to impress his girlfriend. Wonder how it worked out for him? Oh, WAIT, for those of you who are still scratching your head because this story doesn’t make much sense. Here’s the money shot (as it were)…it seems that the two buildings were only 16 inches apart. So…Dumbass tried to leap a 16 inch gap and fell in! WTF?! One of my steps is more than 16 inches. Couldn’t he just walk across the gap? Mind the gap! (Brit humor). My recommendation to the girlfriend is to run. Run to California if you must, but get away from this idiot…change your name…get new ID…have your face rearranged by one of those Hollywood plastic surgeons. That is all. ![]() Good morning everybody! We’re looking for some, well, unexpected rain this morning at The Compound. I say unexpected because the last I saw of the weather guesser show (aka, News 9 at 6PM), we wouldn’t see rain until sometime this evening. Eh well, I’ll take it whenever we can get it…even if Tornado Payne in the Ass can’t get it right. This wouldn’t have happened with weather hottie Emily Sutton…her forecasts are almost always dead on. Of course, we’re currently deprived of Emily’s forecasts what with DISH TV holding Channel 4 hostage and all. Rat bastards. But, I digress… Friends, have you ever considered just how much the decline of man…and, I’m not speaking of “man” as human beings considered collectively. No, I’m speaking of the male of the species and how his inevitable decline is likely being propelled forward by the female of species. Seriously, how many men have you known who have done really stupid things trying to impress a female? After spending time over the weekend taking pics of Cousin Fred in various poses around The Compound, he sent those off to his new love interest, Francesca, and eagerly awaited her response, which he expected to be something along the lines of “Wow, what a manly man you are!” or “My, my Fred, you are a handsome devil, aren’t you?” What he got back was more along the lines of “Oh, that’s a nice car” and “It looks beautiful around there” and my favorite, “Ummm, how come there are no trees around there?” So, of course, Cousin Fred decided he needed to do something really spectacular to win the heart and mind of Francesca. I awoke from my mid-morning nap yesterday to find him standing directly over my face. He was encouraging me to get up, grab my video camera, and come with him to the Cosmic City. By the time I got myself outside, he was loading the back of the Lexus that the hairdressing hydrologist Gigi left behind with several coils of rope and a bag full of rock climbing gear. I was afraid to ask. On the way into town, Cousin Fred gripped the wheel looking down the road in front of him. He asked me, “Cousin, what do you know about grain elevators?” Stupid me, responded, “Not much…why?” I cringed as I asked why. I didn’t want to hear the answer, but it’s like looking at a horny toad that’s been run over in the road, you can’t help but stare. He informed me that he was going to scale a grain elevator and then rappel from the top back to Earth. He needed me to video the action for later sending to Francesca. When we pulled into the parking lot at Mazzio’s, I thought perhaps he wanted to stop for lunch – a last meal? – before attempting his stunt. I thought maybe I’d have a chance to talk him out of his idea. Then it hit me. We weren’t there for lunch. Nope. His target was the derelict grain elevator immediately behind Mazzio’s. Where Mazzio’s stands now used to be the Woodward Farmers Co-op. That grain elevator was deserted decades ago and is just waiting for the right amount of wind or an earthquake to cause it to crumble and smash people stuffing pizza in their pie-holes. When the elevator goes (and it will go) – even if it manages to avoid massacring the assembled pizza eaters grazing on sotsy crust pizza – it will raise a plum of asbestos-laden dust into the air wreaking havoc in the lives and health of Cosmic City residents. But, for whatever reason, the City figures it’s worth it to wait for the thing to fall and let insurance deal with the rest. Seems like poor risk management to me, but what do I know? When we got out of the Lexus, Cousin Fred soon realized that his plan to scale the outside of the structure was doomed. There was a much rusted ladder that stopped approximately 40 feet off the ground, but even getting to that would be a mega challenge. Fortunately, kids had subverted the City’s efforts at keeping kids out of the damned thing by rigging the door so that it looks locked, but is actually easily opened. Cousin Fred disappeared inside and reappeared atop (a few hundred feet in the air) the structure 15 minutes later. He hollered to me that he was lowering his rope, which he did and which stopped about 50 feet above the ground level where I stood capturing on video the events for posterity (and/or prosecution). I hollered up at him that the rope was too short. He hollered back down asking why I was calling him, sport? After some hollering back and forth, he finally understood. His answer? Move the rope so that it would lay next to the much rusted ladder coming down the side. Seems reasonable enough, right? It might have been cooler, not to mention more dangerous, for Cousin Fred to simply have wrapped the rope around him for the rappel. But no, he put himself into a harness equipped with a braking system for the descent. Smart move, I guess…but, much less Spidermanish. He hollered down asking if I was ready with the camera. When I responded in the affirmative, I saw him step up to the edge before leaping off backwards. Having rappelled before, I knew he jumped out too far. The rope immediately swung him back into the side of the elevator. There were a few seconds of no movement. But finally he hollered down that he was okay and wasn’t bleeding too badly. He managed to get his feet up against the concrete and pushed off with much less force this time. He began a slow rappel of that damned derelict elevator. About a third of the way down he paused and pulled a can of black spray paint from somewhere on his person and painted “For Francesca 8/23/16”. He then continued down. As he neared the end of the rope, he swung over toward the much rusted ladder. As he set his feet on its rungs, he declared loudly, “I did it!” At that point there was a creak followed by the groan of overly stressed metal followed by the ladder, from a point above Cousin Fred’s head, snapping loose from its moorings, and falling backward with a now panicked Cousin Fred still holding tight, to the ground. I got it all on video. Even the cloud of dust when his body hit the ground. YouTube here we come! At the hospital later, with Cousin Fred’s upper torso encased in a plaster body cast, members of the Cosmic City’s crack crime fighting team showed up and began writing tickets-o-plenty. Let’s see there was a citation for trespassing on City property (entering the structure), vandalism to City property (spray painting), damaging City property (the much rusted ladder), creating a public nuisance (traffic grinding to a halt for emergency vehicles trying to get to him), public performance without a permit (rappelling down the side), on and on. I figure this was all Cousin Fred’s way of contributing to the City’s budget. As he lay there covered in citations, he looked up at me and made me promise that I would get that video to Francesca as soon as possible. Some of us just don’t learn, I guess. ![]() Ahhhhh…still another stinking Monday. Yet another weekend survived to tell the tale. Didn’t see much of Cousin Fred over the weekend. He was too busy electronically communicating with his new love interest, Francesca, whom he met over his web site, lovesick-leftovers.com. In fact, the only time I saw him was when he would ask me to snap pics of him in various poses around here (his selfie-stick is in the shop). Let’s see, there was a pic of him sitting in the Lexus that the hairdressing hydrologist Gigi left behind. For that one, we removed the New York state inspection sticker from the window so it couldn’t be tied to any state other than Oklahoma (I guess). He told Francesca that he prefers to surround himself with luxury. That life is too short to do otherwise. Uh huh. This from a man who actually surrounds himself inside Hellkat One’s trailer with old Sonic coffee cups accumulated during his twice daily runs into Cosmic City for coffee. That Cousin Fred, always honing his bona fides. When it came to Hellkat One’s travel trailer, he had me take a pic of him sitting at the table inside wearing reading glasses (borrowed from me) as he carefully examined a roadmap of the United States with Walmart locations marked in blue. Seems he told Francesca that he enjoys RVing throughout most of the year. Such a man of the world, this guy. For action shots, around The Compound, he adorned his head with my Turkish fez and had me take a pic of him standing next to the fireplace with a pipe in his mouth. For that pic, he was also wearing a silk smoking jacket and pajama bottoms. He told Francesca that over the years he had been a frequent guest at the Playboy Mansion and that he and The Hef were on each other’s call lists. He’s a catch, ladies! Get him while he’s hot (and please take him home with YOU). Oh, and then there was the pic of him standing at The Compound fence here holding a Kalashnikov rifle while searching the horizon (with eyes squinted against the setting sun – very Clint Eastwoody) for dastardly coyotes. That was the funniest of all, given that he’s terrified of firearms. I have no idea where he got the weapon, but it actually had a bayonet attached, which is really funny because he’s as afraid of wild animals as he is firearms. A man of action, when the situation calls for it. Uh huh. I had to show him how to hold the Kalashnikov so he didn’t look like such a dweeb. There was also a photo of him standing near the spot that may become Lake Mountebank in the future, wearing a hardhat and looking at a largish rolled set of plans. He told Francesca that he is “helping” to engineer a manmade lake here in Oklahoma that will provide both water-borne recreation and drinking water (along with a host of diseases) for people in this area. A man of vision and intellect…the whole enchilada wrapped up in one package…Cousin Fred. Renaissance Man. Truthfully, the plans he was holding are for the paint scheme of a Blue Angels A-4F Skyhawk (don’t ask). At the end of the day (literally, it took all day to take and re-take those pics), I came to realize that Cousin Fred’s bona fides would hold no more water than Lake Mountebank at the moment. But, hey, while we’re on the subject (and, yes, I’m purposely digressing here), what the heck is it with RVs and Walmart parking lots? I’ve never really understood how those stores came to serve as a pseudo-harbor for wayward modern-day gypsies looking for a safe place to park for the night. I guess the store figures they’ll come in to shop and spend some money resupplying the wagon for the trip across hostile territory? For those of us who live here in hostile territory, there is a certain amount of risk. Seriously. Who knows what manner of deranged or irretrievably psychotic manner of individual those hellish cesspools on wheels may contain? Take for instance, the recent event at a Walmart in Ohio (I’ve warned you people to stay the hell out of Ohio) wherein a monkey in a diaper escaped from a RV and began a marauding reign of terror around the parking lot. A helpful Walmart employee, who was gathering shopping carts in the parking lot (probably left behind by atavistic RVers) tried to help by grabbing said monkey when it jumped up on the Cart Corral. People are dialing 911 and taking video with their smartphones (and, not necessarily in that order). The monkey reportedly bit the Walmart dude. The female RVer came running over screaming, “Let him go. If he bites you, they’ll put him down.” Hmmmm…who is “they’ll” and why would they put him down? I’m betting this wasn’t his first Walmart rodeo. The RV soon left to begin making its way out of the immediate area. There is now a statewide simian-hunt going on. Ohio officials want to check the beast to see if it’s registered. Here’s a hint Ohio officials, it ain’t. As they’re rolling down the road, unknown to Mr. and Mrs. RVer (and little diapered Junior), toward an Ohio Highway Patrol roadblock where they are conducting RV by RV searches for the petulant primate pet, Mr. RVer is probably saying to Mrs. RVer, “I told you to keep that damned thing locked up when we’re at Walmart!” Indeed, Mr. RVer…indeed. ![]() Finally, Friday! What a week this has been here at The Compound. There have been a couple of meetings with hydrologists and aquatic architects to determine the feasibility of establishing a permanent spring-fed Lake Mountebank here. Is it feasible? Not really. Will that stop me? Not likely. Normally, I would have thrust Cousin Fred into the limelight of those meetings so I could focus on really important stuff like determining how to zero the sights on…well, anyway. Cousin Fred has been far too wrapped up in getting his new web site www.lovesick-leftovers.com up and running. By the way, for those of you who don’t access this blog via Facebook and have been complaining that the link to the site didn’t work and that the text spacing looked weird on Wednesday, I have the dummies at my blog host to blame. Every damn time they try to tweak their platform and service offerings, it pushes everything off the rails. Then there have been raids on The Compound this week by school-age children from all over trying to sell us something…clothing, magazine subscriptions, fruitcakes, Christmas wreaths (in August!), and even pet grooming supplies. They’re all trying to raise money for various school functions since the do-nothing buffoons aligned with the wholly inept, freakishly misguided, and undoubtedly corrupt Oklahoma State Legislature have seen fit to end public education as we know it (one man’s opinion). After all, a woefully undereducated constituent is more likely to ensure their continued incumbency without asking tough questions. But, I digress… Normally, The Wife would deal with the little goomers coming to the door, but she’s off on another of her fabulous vacations for the next 10 days. So, again, it’s left to me. I have no idea how they’re finding this place. They have to send first responders out with lunches and extra batteries for their flashlights if they’re coming here. It’s gotten so bad, I’ve closed the gates to The Compound. To get in now, you’ll need the secret handshake. Email me and I’ll give it to you. Actually, Cousin Fred has had some success with his web site. That seems to be lifting his spirits, which is a great thing. There’s nothing more depressing than a depressed Cousin Fred. He’s been chatting online with a woman named Francesca and believes she may soon come here for a visit. This should be interesting. But, hey, I have more important things to delve into, like, why poop in Russia is exploding. I had gotten word on this from my sole source for news (since DISH has taken KFOR hostage) – the Huffington Post. The site is running a piece (of sh*t) right now with video showing a septic pumping truck exploding in the middle of traffic and a buried sewer line running along a highway exploding and causing a wreck. The link to see the videos is here (assuming the dumbass blog hosts don’t d*ck with things again). Both of these events were captured for our viewing pleasure with one of those dashboard cameras that Russians seem so fond of installing in their vehicles. I have to get one. We must ask ourselves what those pesky Russians are up to that their poop is exploding. Is this some manner of weird Putin (hahaha, pun intended) exercise in advanced weapons development? A sh*t bomb? A crapper cruise missile? Actually, the Russians are probably asking themselves why their poop is so darned explosive lately. Bet it has something to do with GMOs gone wrong. Or perhaps it’s simply that there is a strong temperance movement underway in Mother Russia and everyone is flushing their remaining stores of Vodka down the crapper. Be assured faithful readers that I’m on it! I am, this morning, forming the CCB Committee to Report on Atomic Crap (CRAP). I’m summoning members of the Pathetic Order of the Jackrabbit (Original Charter) (POJOC) to serve as committee members. They were the only people I could get on short notice. Everyone else is out selling crap (hahaha) to raise money for schools. We expect to release a report as soon as we stop watching the exploding sewer line covering that car. Have a great weekend and watch out for sewage trucks and magazine selling goomers. ![]() Yea! It’s Wednesday! We start the downhill slide into the weekend! Yesterday evening, more information was revealed as to Cousin Fred’s plans for his new dating service Lovesick Leftovers. He says the service is designed for everyone who doesn’t already have a matchmaking or dating service designed for them…like the Farmer’s, Over-50’s, Christians, Non-Christians, Splotched, Pet Lovers, and Terminally Horny people do (to name a few). As the “natural” (?) outgrowth of that philosophy comes a new web site (of course) for the lovelorn - Lovesick-Leftovers.com. Seriously, he’s moving out on this thing. Okay, actually I have no idea what he’s moving out on…or words to that effect. But, it is Cousin Fred. He says the idea behind the web site is to create a spot for the lovesick to go to gather more information about being lovelorn and possibly meet others in the same condition. Always hoping that Cousin Fred can find a way to make some cash, I asked if he was planning to charge or sell ads or something on his web site. He looked genuinely offended that I would even ask and responded that it’s all for the “greater good.” Whatever the hell that means. He did say that he hopes to create a blog on the site soon. That got my attention. I pointed out that writing a blog is serious business, a responsibility he should take very seriously. I know, I’ve been doing it daily for more than a year now…well, okay, almost daily. He also told me that he plans to write a weekly column for the Woodward News called Cousin Fred’s Call of the Lovesick. He says they pay good money over there for that kind of stuff. After that, I kind of tuned him out. Although, come to think of it, that might make an interesting addition to the page with Ask Dr. K. and that darned Bridge column that no one has read since the early 1980’s. Just sayin’… Eh, I’ll let him wallow in his self-pity for a while. This likely won’t last long. Cousin Fred has all the attention span of a rusted and bent trashcan. In the meantime, though, he told me that he’s come up with a way to bring some additional cash to The Compound. Always interested in hearing something along those lines, I was all ears. He told me about an article that originated in the Washington Post, but had been picked up by KFOR along the way, again with news from KFOR. The channel we don’t get BECAUSE DISH IS HOLDING IT HOSTAGE. How is it that he’s getting it? But I digress… Starting back in 2004, some couple in southern Kansas (it’s cheaper there, you know) began getting harassing calls and visits from law enforcement. All because some company called MAXMIND (they map IP addresses) had pointed 600 million (yep, 600,000,000) generic IP addresses at the location of their home, which happens to sit at the geographic center of the Continental United States (38°N, 97°W for you geography nerds and 38.0000, 97.0000 for you digital freaks). As a result, these poor Kansas church-going farmers found their front yard had become the default location in those cases when MAXMIND could only get information linking an IP address to the country. I guess this is like entering Woodward, OK into your GPS without a specific address sends you to a house just north of Main on 5th Street, I think. At one point, a blogger (I swear it wasn’t me) created a heatmap of internet usage in the U.S. according to MAXMIND’s data from April 2011. These poor Kansas farmers were responsible for more web usage than New York City or the Silicon Valley combined. Law enforcement has shown up at the door more than once over the years, first looking for child pornographers and another time looking for runaways and still other times looking for stolen vehicles. Someone even threw a broken, well-used toilet at the end of their driveway. What the heck is that about? The couple has now filed a lawsuit in federal court against MAXMIND. MAXMIND in an effort to finally fix the problem is now pointing generic IP addresses to the middle of a lake near Wichita. Cousin Fred’s point is that having those IP addresses mapped to The Compound might prove to be a money-making proposition. As I was listening to this, I asked the all-probing, concrete question, “How?” Cousin Fred hadn’t figured that part out yet, but told me that if people have figured out a way to make money from YouTube, then this should be easy. He also pointed out that this is a Compound, so we can likely defend against pissed off people looking for blood. And, what’s a broken toilet or two at the end of the drive in the big scheme of things…particularly compared with the pile of beer cans left out there by marauding unsupervised teenagers rat-racing their pickups through the night. He may have a point. That’s what genuinely concerns me. Cousin Fred having a point. ![]() Happy Tuesday morning everybody! Things have been a little frenetic around The Compound lately. Cousin Fred and I returned from our (mis)adventures at the Watermelon Festival(s) in Rush Springs (and environs) over the weekend feeling rather worn out, but nevertheless facing a full agenda of things to do this week. I no sooner land back here than The Wife informs me that she’s off on another of her fabulous vacations tomorrow. She says the weather here in NWOK is too nice and she’s off to the East Coast to enjoy some really miserable summer heat. In the meantime, Cousin Fred, on the way back from the Watermelon Festival(s), was telling me that he figures his burgeoning, on-again, off-again, sort-of relationship with Gigi, the hairdressing hydrologist is doomed like so much rational discourse in America these days. She has been tied to The Trump’s hip as things have begun heating up for the official Republican nominee. As things ebb and flow with his war on the media, he apparently needs constant attention paid to his…whatever that dead animal atop his head may be. Consequently, Gigi is no longer accepting calls from Cousin Fred. I could tell that he was down which is why I suggested the Watermelon Festival in Rush Springs. He jumped at the idea…that should have told me something. I had no idea there were alternative festivals. I’m not kidding. Who knew? I was almost afraid to ask, but I did anyway. What about the Lexus that she has left parked at The Compound for the past couple of months? Cousin Fred informed me that he plans to keep it and use it. Great…that makes two legal-gray-area vehicles parked at The Compound. There’s Hellkat One’s trailer. Her Majesty Mary of Fallin refuses to return my calls as to what she would like me do with it. The tags have expired, but I figure that unless someone (namely, The Law) comes up in the yard and/or we don’t move it down the road, we’re probably okay. Now, with Gigi’s Lexus being driven around Cosmic City by Cousin Fred, there’s an entirely new problem. The car is registered with tags in New York. Cousin Fred has an Arkansas driver’s license. And, he’ll be driving it around Cosmic City like he’s the High Lord Mayor or something. It’s only a matter of time before The Law invades The Compound and drags me off in chains because I’m harboring a known idiot (to wit: Cousin Fred). But, I digress… So Cousin Fred was telling me about a story he saw KFOR-TV, which is amazing since we at The Compound are currently cut off from KFOR because the rat bastards at DISH won’t play nice…or…the greedy SOB’s at KFOR want a king’s ransom for their programming – depending on which side of the dispute you wish to believe. Either way, I DON’T GET KFOR, WHICH MEANS NO WEATHER HOTTIE EMILY SUTTON IN THE MORNING! Will you money-driven atavistic overcooked suckling pigs kindly come to an agreement so I can go back to enjoying my morning weather reports? Thank you! But, I digress yet again… The point of this tale (I know, you were hoping I’d get there eventually) is that he saw some story (somehow) on KFOR (lucky dude) about a poor woman in OKC who paid “thousands of dollars” (which is why she’s now poor) to some matchmaking service hoping to find true love. It didn’t happen so of course she’s suing the service now, but they seem to have disappeared down a rabbit hole. The name of the service is Ambiance Matchmaking (lonely hearts take note). I was about to inquire as to Cousin Fred’s interest in the story, thinking he was about to hit me up for a loan to pay for the service for him. I was working on an excuse to turn him down when he told me that has decided to start a dating service of his own. He said he plans to call it Lovesick Leftovers. I pointed out that he’s proceeding from two negatives with a name like that. He said the Lovesick part is his target audience and, as for Leftovers, well…as he put it, everybody loves leftovers, they get better with every reheating. I started to tell him that there is a huge difference between human emotions and week-old sausage stuffing, but decided to let it go. I didn’t hear a peep from him yesterday, but bandwidth here at The Compound dropped off to near zero at various times during the day. I have NO idea what he was working on out there. More to follow, I’m sure. ![]() Good Monday morning everybody! Hope you had a great weekend. Cousin Fred and I headed south to Rush Springs for the 72nd annual Watermelon Festival. I heard one estimate that put the amount of watermelon consumed there at more than 50,000 pounds. Assuming the average watermelon is 20 pounds, that’s something on the order of 2,500 watermelons. The Rush Springs event is all very family-oriented with games for the kids. An arts and crafts fair. Stuff like that. Oh, and of course, all the watermelon you can stuff down your throat. Wonder what they do with all the leftover rinds? We didn’t stick around to find out. In fact, Cousin Fred was more interested in the alternative festivals that surround Rush Springs going on at the same time. Our first stop on the alternative tour was about 5 miles west of Rush Springs at Hurling Acres Farm owned by a Scot named Fergel Clawbaw who immigrated here 15 years ago to…well…raise melons. For all intents and purposes, Clawbaw is the King of Watermelon in that region. He has nearly 1,000 acres of watermelon planted on his place, of which he holds back nearly a ton for the annual hurling. The hurlers come from all over Oklahoma, Texas and Arkansas, which is where Cousin Fred first heard about it. Hurlers show up with their homemade contraptions for hurling watermelons. This can be everything from cannon to catapult. The only catch is, the hurlers have to dress in traditional Scottish highland garb, meaning a kilt and all the accessories that go with it. Even the women hurlers are wearing the kilts. On a typically windy Oklahoma day, it makes for interesting viewing for everyone concerned as the day wears on. At the start of the hurling, Clawbaw steps in front of the competitors and produces a huge sword from a scabbard at his side. He raises it and screams in as loud and shrill a voice as he can produce, “Shoot straight, ye bastards!” He immediately ducks back behind the firing line as the hurling from one end to the other commences. The judges, all hired hands working on the farm, are down range to mark the furthest hurl, though truthfully, they’re really just trying to stay alive down there ducking and diving to avoid incoming rounds of melons. In the end, when it’s all over, Clawbaw steps back out in front of the contraptions, raises his sword over his head and announces, “Let’s eat, ye bastards!” With that, the hurlers let out a “whoop whoop” in unison and then run down range and pick up pieces of split watermelon to eat. Cousin Fred, who had witnessed the spectacle in previous years had stripped off everything below the waist, wrapped a towel around himself and with a war cry of “whoop whoop” charged off pell-mell with the others. A few more miles to the south of the Hurling Acres Farm is the farm of Elmer Schlampe. Elmer is known for cutting out holes in watermelons, filling them with tequila, sealing the hole back up and putting them down in his root cellar overnight. By the next afternoon, the fruit of the melon is absolutely saturated with tequila. He gives away hundreds of melons to people who show up. He has a band playing and generally everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. By early evening at the Schlampe farm, there were a lot of drunken watermelon eaters scattered around the grounds of the farm. Cousin Fred attended the event last year and kept telling me the best was yet to come. I was too interested in consuming tequila-soaked watermelon at the time to be concerned or even care. I had noticed a huge stack of dead trees piled up in a field just to the east of the Schlampe’s farmhouse. As dusk drew near, a small number of people pulling little wagons loaded with boxes began moving through the crowd. They were handing out ice-cold bottles of Smirnoff Watermelon-infused Vodka and encouraging us to move out into the field for the bonfire. At 9PM on the dot, Schlampe lit the huge stack of dead wood and a veritable raging inferno ensued. Clothes soon came off and people began dancing naked around the fire while holding their bottle of vodka. I’m pretty certain I even saw Clawbaw participating. I woke up the next morning naked in a bar ditch on the edge of Schlampe’s property humming an old Partridge Family tune. I was still drunk. I found Cousin Fred in a tinhorn about 40 meters away. He was in a similar condition. Is this a great state, or what? ![]() Happy Tuesday to everyone in the CCB Universe. It’s been a weird several days. Is it just me or do things seem to be spinning out of control, even more so than usual? As examples, I’ll cite several news articles that I’ve seen come and go over the past many days. Each of them stranger than the one before (in my humble opinion): 1. There was/is the guy dressed as a clown with a bunch of helium-filled black balloons. He roams the streets of Green Bay at 2AM. I’ve never been a coulrophobic (fear of clowns), but I believe I will take it up. Police there refuse to do anything – it isn’t illegal to dress up like a clown and walk around at 2AM scaring the beejeezus out of everyone. If you think about it, I guess it’s the perfect way to attract attention to…well, whatever. When national network news runs a piece about you and the cops won’t arrest you, the only thing you have to lose is a little sleep. 2. The Trump has really pissed off the GOP brass this time by refusing to endorse Paul Ryan in his primary bid. That according to NBC News – something we don’t get at The Compound anymore since DISH is holding it hostage from us. But, I digress. They (the GOP brass) feel that The Trump should be focusing his attention on defeating the Queen of the Unindicted rather than seeking the media spotlight by exacting revenge on his fellow GOPers who have done him wrong. There is a great article in the latest Rolling Stone magazine about the situation the Republican Party finds itself in with The Trump. Mostly, a party that no longer knows itself. I think the key theme was summed up thus: “…Republican propaganda for decades pushed magical-thinking concepts like "trickle-down economics" that asked lower-income voters to accept present sacrifices for theoretical bigger payoffs down the road. Until this year, Republican voters mostly bought it. But Trump was their way of telling their leaders they're done waiting. They want their piece of the pie now, even if it means unleashing the Trumpinator to get it…” There isn’t a day that someone in the party elite doesn’t call for The Trump’s head on a platter. It’s gone too far down the line for that…strap in, everyone. 3. This summer has seen the introduction of non-alcoholic wines for cats and dogs. Seriously. They’re getting the wine coloring from beet juice which apparently is okay for dogs and cats since grapes can be toxic to pets. The wine for kitties is laced with catnip to keep them coming back for more happy hours. For dogs, it’s chamomile…which is potentially toxic to mutts though ASPCA has weighed in to say that as long as it’s not a daily event it’s probably okay. The idea behind the chamomile is that it helps the pooches mellow out. Judas priest…this is where we’re at? Wine for pets? What’s next? Vodka for iguanas? 4. Up next on the weirdness hit parade…speaking of mutts, did you hear the one about the two dogs who were left in a running car outside a Walmart in West Virginia? Seems they managed to somehow get the car out of Park, causing it to roll forward and into the front of the Walmart building. Bet they wanted to remind their owner to get more of the bacon treats (she always forgets). 5. Toronto (as in Canada) Police went on high alert the other day when someone called 911 to report a man with a gun walking around the downtown area. Police issued a Twitter alert to local citizens and sent a team to investigate. Seems someone had put a life-size cutout of Schwarzenegger as the Terminator into a shadowy area off a busy street. Remarkably, the police didn’t open fire (go figure). They even kind of had a sense of humor about it, Tweeting out the all is well along with #illbeback (oh, those clever Canadians). No word on who or why the cutout was placed there. Bet it was the creepy clown in Green Bay. 6. Closer to home, there was the woman in OKC who stole three cars over a period of five days. And, after she was finally caught and OCPD was booking her, she stabbed the officer with an ink pen. Oh, did I mention she has already been in jail four times this year? She’s being held without bond (there’s a surprise). So that’s the summary…I don’t know what it is about summer that seems to foment weirdness, but it’s there, I’m telling you! Oh, I might have thrown some bits about the fiasco that is the Olympics in Rio, but I don’t anything about it BECAUSE DISH TV IS STILL HOLDING US HOSTAGE FROM GETTING ALL OF OUR LOCAL CHANNELS! From The Compound, everyone have a nice day. And, watch out for the creepy clowns. |
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