 Wow, it's Wednesday. Who'd have thought you'd make it this far? Since it's Halloween, we here at CCB thought we'd rerun a post from October 2017, in which utter chaos ruled at The Compound. I mean this post has everything! We got your Swarthy Texans, your TV weathermen out on bail, Korean bootleggers, moronic state legislators, Temple Houston impressionists, soon-to-be former IRS agents demanding receipts from the dead, overzealous law enforcement...and more. Eh, I guess it's just another day here at The Compound. Happy Halloween. Enjoy!
Good morning, everybody. For those of you who showed up at The Compound last night to personally view the mayhem, I hope you aren’t forever scarred. It was quite a night. If you weren’t here, consider yourself lucky. If you’ve not done so already, you should probably read the post from yesterday so you’re up to speed. In the meantime, I’ll try as best I can to recount the events of yesterday. It was a virtual cavalcade of events: the sheer stupidity, destruction, and chaos of which defied anything else I’ve ever witnessed. Here’s a hint, folks: If ever you decide to attempt the summoning of a spirit…don’t. So, let’s see…things began quietly enough yesterday with people milling about trying to avoid another plate of beans and bacon being doled out by the Swarthy Texans. The Vintage Buick Princesses began handing out cinnamon rolls around 9 AM. There were still donuts remaining after feeding the phalanx of law enforcement out on the road. Cousin Fred was offering leftover donuts and coffee inside the Cabinet Saloon replication (aka, The Cab) on the north lawn. Everyone was happy and seemed peaceful enough. Around 11 AM, the TV stations in OKC bailed their respective pilots and accompanying one-air personalities out of jail. As the pilots were doing a quick check of the helos in the north pasture, the two personalities, Hands Morgan and Tornado Payne-in-the-Ass began making rude gestures toward one another, but kept their distance. Soon, both helos were airborne and out of sight. Again, things seemed calm. Around 1 PM, I noticed that Cousin Fred was beginning to get antsy. At first I thought he was just uncomfortable in the wool-serge cavalry uniform he was wearing. I was too busy keeping an eye on the crowd and the various camps spread across the lawn to pay much more attention. At around 2 PM, I saw Gigi run out onto the porch of The Cab with her phone in hand pointing to the north. She kept yelling, “He’s coming!” I looked up on the roof of the main house to see the Wife looking through a spyglass and pointing also. I looked down the road and saw what they were pointing at…a largish RV with Mr. Kim at the wheel. He had apparently bought a new RV and was likely bringing a load of his Korean Plum Wine Hooch. At that point, I knew all was lost…we were doomed. Remarkably though everyone seemed to practice self-restraint when it came to sampling Kim’s product. Everyone was here on a mission! All of the camps came in to Fort Apache on the center lawn where the Vintage Buick Princesses laid out their plans for the evening. Since the former location of the original Cabinet Saloon in town was on the site of the current H & R Block tax service, the Princesses sent the Soon-to-be-Former IRS agents there and instructed them to take up positions. Next the Rocky Mountain High Coloradans were sent to the cemetery to maintain a watch over the Temple Houston grave and point the way to The Compound. The Moronic State Legislators were posted along the highway to chant, point the way to The Compound, and tell motorists passing by what a super great fabulous job they’re doing on behalf of the taxpayers of Oklahoma. The Swarthy Texans were left on The Compound, mostly to keep them from running off with the remains of TH which they are forever seeking to repatriate to the Lone Star State. The Burning Man Refugees, the Florida Gator Head Cultists, the Wannabe Temple Houston Impressionists also remained to help the Princesses with the chanting on The Compound. Everything was set. Finally, at the appointed hour (9:50 PM), the Soon-to-be-Former IRS Agents began chanting, “Temple, come to us now. We have fresh ammo and rye whiskey! We summon thee! But, we’ll need to see your receipts.” The Rocky Mountain High Coloradans began the same chant, but then forgot what they were supposed to be chanting. They kind of stumbled along though…hey, give them some credit. “I don’t know, man…something about fresh something…” The Moronic State Legislators along the highway were also chanting, but it would be interrupted by, “Saaaay there, angry motorist have you heard what the State Legislature is doing for yoooouuuuuuu? Have a nice daaaaay!” as cars passed. All of this was being simulcast using speakerphone features on phones connected over a conference call app. Cousin Fred was booming the collective chants through a Bluetooth speaker at The Compound. The Princesses began their chant of “Taro, Karo, Ab-Salami” while the others on The Compound began the chant, “Come to us, Brother Temple. We have fresh rye whiskey and ammo for you. Come to us now!” All of this continued for several minutes until one of the Princesses let out a shriek and yelled, “It’s him, it’s him” before fainting to the ground. The Impressionists caught up in the moment, drew their weapons and began firing in the air. That got the attention of the law enforcement out on the road. One of them yelled, “Breach of security!” before they all drew their weapons and commenced firing. Everyone hit the ground…except the Wife who stayed up on the roof, cackling and yelling at me that I had f#@ked up another weekend. She threw one of her empty bottles of Old Crow, bouncing it off my head. Cousin Fred made a run for The Cab where he jumped behind the bar for cover. Law enforcement on the road, not to be outdone began firing tear gas canister after tear gas canister through the windows of The Cab. TWENTY-FIVE canister shots just to roust my unarmed broke-d*ck cousin from inside! Curiously, Cousin Fred wasn’t moving. I knew he had to be choking to death in there so I made a run for the building to pull him out. One of the canisters landed in a trash can full of paper and set it afire. Soon the entire building was in flames. I found Cousin Fred and pulled him to safety. The Wife was on the roof, now wearing a gas mask and cackling. Oh, the humanity! Law enforcement on the road, deciding that they had possibly overreacted, soon departed for the various corners of Oklahoma whence they had come. The Cab burned to the ground…literally nothing left. The Princesses soon departed. The Swarthy Texans headed due south. The Burning Man Refugees suddenly remembered where they were supposed to be and departed. Mr. Kim drove out of here like a fiend when the shooting started the remaining plum wine hooch sloshing around in the bladder in the main cabin. The Florida Gator Head Cultists ran off into the south pasture and were never seen or heard from again. The Soon-to-be-Former IRS Agents quietly slipped out of town. The Rocky Mountain High Coloradans are still wandering around town wondering there are no smoke shops. The Temple Houston Wannabe Impressionists went in search of a new gig. The Wife, expecting me to let Cousin Fred and Gigi start staying in the main house now that The Cab is ash, drove off in the night to her favorite resort motel on the edge of Shattuck. Did I cover everyone? I was left with the lingering odor of tear gas, a burned-out building, a line of overflowing porta-potties, and four bottles of Old Crow. I commenced drinking. Eh well, just another weekend at The Compound, I reckon. That is all!  Today's post from posts-past (8/17/2015) was certainly action-packed...I apparently had a lot of time on my hands that day. This post charges around from ideas for spectacular movie blockbusters to daring public nudity to acts of sheer stupidity launched from a one-story roof. It's a ride, that's for sure! Enjoy!
Wow…it was an action-packed weekend here at the compound. In fact, a bit too action-packed perhaps. I managed to sustain an injury to my leg (thankfully, they don’t shoot Robins who sustain leg injuries around here). More on that later. First, there was Friday night. I decided to convene a round-table discussion here at the compound late Friday afternoon to discuss ideas for the screenplay I’m currently at work on in preparation for the 2016 Twister Alley Film Festival in Woodward. I’m thinking of my work as a Mel Brooks style of comedy and was looking for some feedback, but all eight of my round-table participants indicated that from what they could read it was “maybe” somewhere between Hal Roach and Ed Wood, with a dash of the Koch Brothers thrown in. That wasn’t helpful. It was about that time that someone suggested that I needed to throw out the script in progress and start with something new. Several unsolicited ideas were thrown around including one that sounded like the Northwest Oklahoma version of “Casablanca” (though the suggested title was “Tangier”). Here’s the scenario as discussed at the round-table: Our protagonist, a ne’er-do-well oilfield refugee has opened a local hotspot (which, in Tangier means it doesn’t have a covering overhead) among the ruins of the old Tangier school. He has a small wooden stand from which he sells watermelon and a small variety of other produce including onions (gotta watch for the sandburs in those), cucumbers, squash (for those of you who live outside this Paradise, the local dialect pronounces that ‘squarsh’), and potatoes. Ah, but behind the wooden stand he is selling quart jars of watermelon flavored moonshine. He has a couple of thugs who stand out at the road to vet any potential customers who stop by for produce. When someone pulls up, they look back at our protagonist (we were calling him Mick for purposes of the round-table discussion) who nods if it’s okay to let the person get out of the car. If the customer is unable to get Mick’s approval, the thugs hand a free cantaloupe through the window and tell the person to keep moving. So much for scene setting…the story centers around a beastly hot Oklahoma summer in which not a day passes that the temp doesn’t reach 120 degrees. People are seeking to escape NW Oklahoma in search of cooler climes, like the Mojave Desert. Mick himself longs for the frozen tundra of Alaska’s North Slope where he harbors dreams of opening his own igloo-housed craft brewery. But Mick, like everyone else, faces the same problem in that with the downturn in Oklahoma’s budget, the roads have become so impassable with potholes and endless “construction” that no one can escape without ruining tires, throwing their front-end alignment irretrievably out of whack, or becoming hopelessly lost following detours. Tis a troubling time indeed for Oklahomans who long to escape the ravages of heat and the impotent grasp of the morons on North Lincoln Blvd who steer the good ship Oklahoma like an overloaded runaway oilfield transport with a stuck throttle and no brakes. That’s where our hero Mick comes in. Mick has found a series of connecting county roads running deep into the Texas panhandle that are little traveled and in very good shape. He has a map that he provides only to his closest friends who seek to escape the hellish landscape that our make-believe-movie-Oklahoma has become (cough). Then, one day it happens. A jet-black Mercedes pulls up in front of the old Tangier school building. The driver exits the front cursing at having just crossed the rickety old bridge that spans the railroad tracks. He falls to the ground swearing that he left a piece of his exhaust system at the top of the bridge. Such a bold move catches Mick’s thugs off guard. They step forward to insist that the driver remove his fine German automobile from the premises when, from the passenger side, emerges “the woman.” She’s a long lost flame of Mick, someone lost to him after he left for college following the war. He recognizes her in an instant and murmurs her name, “Helsie.” She introduces the still-cursing driver as her husband, Hector Badtoe. Mick immediately recognizes both the name and the face of the husband. He was well known in Oklahoma City and environs for his efforts at reforming Oklahoma politics to bring a sense of common decency, ethics, and a modicum of intelligence to the state legislature. Alas, for his efforts, he was banished…exiled to Kingfisher to serve out his solitude running a roadside motel at which no one ever stopped to rent a room. He and Helsie were making their way to Texas where an underground resistance was forming made up of moderate conservatives, ethics professors, and generally anyone with an IQ of more than 85. Blah, blah, blah…in the end she gets a copy of the map, but only after making love to Mick on an asbestos-laden pile of rubble at the old Tangier school (probably the only original part of the whole scenario). I listened patiently, told the person that it wasn’t a bad idea, but I was pretty certain it had already been done. Soon thereafter we commenced drinking…heavily. The wine flowed and the liquor poured. I’ll have to be more careful about picking my round-table participants next time. At some point around eleven o’clock, one of the women in our group and her husband decided it would be a good idea to strip naked and go drive into Fargo. They drove off in the darkness, various pieces of clothing flying out the windows. Not finding anything in Fargo at that hour, they soon returned, but had lost their clothes along the road. Robes were provided. The next morning, I had to drive into Fargo to get the mail. The Oklahoma Highway Patrol had set-up a roadblock on State Route 15 that prevented anyone from going into or out of Fargo without stopping. It seems that our nude drivers had decided to take a midnight swim in the stock tank near the school’s FFA barn and their images had been caught on a security camera. The Troopers on the roadblock were comparing drivers’ faces with those of our round-table participants. Maybe they should have been comparing parts…just sayin’. I suspect we’ll be hearing more about this in the near future. Saturday afternoon, the wife and I headed into Woodward for a reception in honor of photographer Jim Ybarra’s exhibit (runs through the end of the month) at the museum. Nice artistic effort and definitely worth seeing. Mr. Ybarra has that rare, innate ability for combining light and composition that turns a photo into art. Upon returning to the compound that afternoon we discovered that the umbrella that is normally in the middle of the table we have on the front porch had taken flight. I know, I know…this isn’t Virginia anymore. Can’t leave anything out that can become a windborne missile. Apparently, a gust of wind had lifted the darned thing straight up into the air from the table and it was caught on a lightning rod on the peak of the roof. And me, scared of heights. Fortunately (I think), at that moment the brother-in-law pulled into the driveway. He said he had come by to check the residual pressure on our well system water tank or some such nonsense. Truth be told, I suspect he was able to see that big-assed umbrella on our roof from his house and couldn’t resist a good yuck at my expense. As we stood there looking at the umbrella, I casually mentioned my fear of heights. He suggested taking a couple of shots of whiskey before I attempted anything so daring. It seemed like a good idea at the time. After a couple of shots of rare Tennessee sipping whiskey, I was ready (amazing how brave a little alcohol can make a person). I climbed up a step ladder that only barely reached the bottom of the eaves and then vaulted myself onto the roof. Freeing the umbrella from the pesky lightning rod was easily achieved. I was just beginning to collapse the umbrella’s canopy when the brother-in-law called up suggesting that it might be fun to see if I could descend from the roof using the umbrella as a parachute. That seemed a fun and entertaining way to end an afternoon. The brother-in-law told me to wait while he computed whether the canopy was big enough to lower my big behind without injury from the top of the roof. His calculation revealed that the descent velocity would be something on the order of 4.5 to 6.0 meters per second. Looking over the edge of the roof, that didn’t seem too bad. I wasn’t looking for sustained flight or anything. What I FAILED to take into consideration is that the peak of the roof of a one story house is only about 6 meters anyway. This was going to be a fast trip. I also failed to take into account that I was planning to go off the south side of the house with a steady south wind blowing in my face at roughly 12 mph. I can say that I did feel some resistance to gravity for a nanosecond until my weight combined with the force of the wind blowing against me cause the canopy to rip loose in the wink of an eye. I plummeted to earth with all the aerodynamics of a box of bolts. The emergency room doctor, when he learned how I came to injure my leg, suggested to the wife that she could probably get an emergency committing order. He said he knew a judge in Grant County that would only be too happy to sign such an order. Fortunately (I think), the brother-in-law stepped forward and said he would take responsibility for ensuring I was no longer a danger to myself or others. So, that was my weekend. Learn nothing from me, except how to stay alive!  Happy Monday! Aren't you glad to be here? Yeah, I know...not so much, but hey, Friday is only a few days away. You can do this! I tell you, I should have been a Life Coach. Okay, enough of that, today's post from the past looks at the case of a hapless woman who wandered into a West Virginia convenience store while naked and tried to rob the place, armed with nothing more than a smile. Enjoy!
I had hoped to resume construction of the 50-foot speaker towers for the thrash-metal-jam festival CCB is hosting here in August, but the winds were too strong to be dangling 50 feet in the air and attempting to nail boards together. So, being the model of efficiency that I am, I decided to devote that time to making another post for the blog. Although a name for the festival remains an open question, acts have already expressed an interest. Here’s the list of headliners so far…okay, actually no one has expressed interest yet. I reached out to AC-DC since they’re already in the U.S. for a tour then, but the band’s management has taken out a no-contact order on me. But, I digress…on to the blog post for today. You know, now that West Virginia (whose state motto translated from the Latin is “Why are we in the Big-12”) is part of the Big-12 (whose conference motto translated from the Latin is “Please don’t do the math”), I feel compelled to read about things happening there. I came upon an article on the huffingtonpost.com web site that certainly caught my attention. We’ll open by describing the actions of Charleston’s crack crime fighting team already en route to a call of a naked woman in the parking lot of a Motel 6 (wonder if they left the light on for her). While still headed to the first call, a second call came in that a naked woman was robbing a convenience store across the street from the Motel 6. Our clever and no doubt, now curious, officers put two and two together (insert West Virginia joke here) and pointed the police car toward the armed robbery in progress believing that it was likely the same naked woman. I told you they have clever law in West Virginia! It seems that there was, in fact, a naked woman attempting to rob the convenience store…did I mention she was naked? The alleged Naked Robber Lady was carrying a towel when she entered the store, but never made a move to cover herself with it. Once she entered the store, she grabbed the female store clerk by the hair and ordered her to open the store’s safe. The store clerk managed to get free and get out of the store. For whatever reason, the Naked Robber Lady stayed inside the store and tried to hide from police inside the store’s utility closet. As the police opened the utility closet door and discovered Naked Robber Lady, she reportedly said, “Take me to jail.” They accommodated her. She was booked on charges of robbery. In an appearance before a magistrate for arraignment, she began crying and refused to talk. Her bond was set at $50,000. This alleged attempted robbery took place at around 1:30AM. The time is important, I think. Actually, I dunno whether it is or not, but it must have something to do with this insanity. Fewer witnesses maybe? Maybe she was showering at Motel 6, ran out of hair conditioner and had an important business meeting in the morning? One of the arresting officers told a reporter that there could be drugs or alcohol involved. Noooo kidding…they’re getting cleverer as this goes along, aren’t they? Judas priest, I hope she was drunk and/or doped up. How else do you explain the fact that she was traipsing naked around West Virginia at 1:30 in the morning? What if she had been attacked by nocturnal horny squirrels or something? This could have gone from bizarre to tragically bizarre. And what’s with the towel that she was carrying? It’s a Motel 6 towel so even on a skinny person it won’t cover a lot. Maybe she thought she was covered with it? And what did the cops do with her once she was in custody? Maybe this is a frequent enough occurrence in West Virginia that police carry bags of clothes in the trunk…ha ha, junk in the trunk (I crack myself up!). At a minimum, I’ll bet they had her sit on the Motel 6 towel. Fortunately, CCB has people on the ground in Charleston. We dispatched a team of investigators to get some answers. Actually, they (okay, he) hung up on me when I attempted to dispatch him and had his attorney email a cease and desist demand to me. Something about me allegedly “stalking” a reputable TV news anchor and threatening me with (yet another) no contact order. Let’s see what we learned here:
 And now, part 2 of the helicopter assault of poor little Shattuck, Oklahoma in August 2015. And, yes, I now know that Shattuck has only one cop, one cop car (see below). Enjoy!
When we left off yesterday, I was about to board the Trump’s luxuriously outfitted Sikorsky helicopter in Des Moines, Iowa for a trip back to somewhere in Northwest Oklahoma so the Trump could make another of his appearances. The Trump barely acknowledged my presence as I boarded the helicopter. To say the inside is plush would be an understatement. It was like a flying executive office. The thing that struck me though was how quiet it was inside. In my years of helo flights in the military (and believe me, it was far too many) I could barely hear myself think, there was always a high pitched whine in the background while in-flight. But this was much different. A person could speak in a normal voice and be heard across the cabin. As we lifted off, the Trump sat at a table that folded out from one of the bulkheads. His ready assistant, Hector (the guy who had called me at 4AM that morning), sat next to him feeding folders that contained documents for the Trump’s signature. After he signed the last document, he handed the folder back to Hector who then disappeared into the back. “Sorry, I can’t let a presidential campaign interrupt my usual business dealings. Thanks for making the effort to get up to Iowa so quickly,” he said. “Now, what is it you want from me?” I must have had a completely stunned look on my face, because he gave me a wry smile and continued. “I’ve read the stuff you write about me in your blog. For the most part you have it all wrong. I’m just a very rich working guy pursuing the all-American dream of becoming president.” I blinked a few times and then said, “Well, you have to admit Mr. Trump, your approach to campaigning has been unusual and barely a day goes by that you don’t offend someone somewhere. Is that purposeful on your part…?” I didn’t finish the rest of the sentence which would have gone something like, “…or are you just that stupid?” He looked at me, squinting his eyes slightly and responded, “Let me tell you something there, blogger boy. I’ve spent my entire life doing things the unconventional way. It’s what made me a rich success. I know what’s best for America and plan to give it to the American people when I’m elected.” He paused and then raised his hand above his head, “I mean, look at this helicopter. With this, I can get into the small towns where no presidential candidate goes. The media finds out I was there, it pisses them off that no one notified them, but so what? They report it, I get some attention, and the little people in the little towns love me even more. It’s win-win.” I asked a series of policy questions, hoping to find some evidence of substance, but he always responded the same way… “I’m not going to answer that now. Next question.” Finally, I asked him exactly where he was planning to set down in Northwest Oklahoma, he responded, “Shattuck”…though he pronounced it sha-took. That led to me teaching him how to properly pronounce the name of the place he had chosen to invade. I mentioned that I didn’t realize there was an airport in Shattuck and that the nearest I knew of was outside of Gage some eight miles away. He told me then that they were planning to set down in the parking lot of the Venture Foods store on the south end of Main. He said they planned to buzz the town right down Main Street before landing so he could attract the biggest crowd. When I asked why he had chosen Shattuck, he informed me that there was almost no media around for miles to ask tough, stupid questions. At that point, he handed me a Bluetooth headset and told me that we would be able to communicate with one another and the pilot through the headsets. With headsets on, he said, “We plan to come in low from the north with the sun at our back and about a mile out, we’ll put on the music.” Idiot that I am, I asked, “Music?” “Yeah, I use Wagner. Scares the hell out of the little people and gets them out of their homes and businesses to see what’s going on. I love it!” He spoke into the microphone of his headset, “Put on psy-war op. Make it loud. It’s romeo foxtrot, shall we dance?” As strains of Ride of Valkyries began to boom from somewhere outside the aircraft, he leaned over the table toward me and said, “When we get down, my boys will set up a horseshoe pit. These people love that stuff!” I looked out the window next to me and saw that we were, in fact, low over Main Street Shattuck. As we approached the supermarket parking lot, the helo slowed and pitched up slightly for descent. I could see people standing in the parking lot, their bags of groceries blowing across the pavement from the rotor wash. People were turning away and cowering to protect their eyes from the flying dirt and debris. The helicopter no sooner landed than the Trump was out of his seat and descending the steps onto the parking lot (with me right behind him). He glanced around at the smallish crowd and the throng of vehicles now coming down Main Street to see the spectacle. He gestured to Hector and pointed to a small patch of grass on the north end of the lot. Hector and one other individual whom I hadn’t met began hammering in stakes for the horseshoe pit. The Trump next picked up a bullhorn and announced, “I am Trump! I am your next president. Thank you for coming out here today to meet with me. Please remain calm. There will be plenty of time for you meet me. No questions please. I’m not here to do that today.” The next sound we heard was that of three police cars (figure it was the entire force of Shattuck) and a few fire engines. The police got out with their weapons drawn, telling the crowd to get back. The Trump, unimpressed with a sudden small town show of force, hollered into the bullhorn, “Attention, little people. We have set up a horseshoe pit right over there.” He gestured toward the area where Hector and the other guy were working to get things set. People whose groceries had been blown away on landing or their skirts blown up around their necks were shouting at us and shaking their fists. I tugged at the Trump’s flight suit and said, “Mr. Trump, don’t you think it’s a bit risky to be playing horseshoes? Those police look as though they mean business.” He whirled on me and screamed, “If I say it’s safe to pitch horseshoes, blogger boy, it’s safe to pitch horseshoes! Now you either pitch horseshoes or start passing out brochures!” He sniffed at the air and then said, “Smell that? Do you smell that? I love the smell of angry voters in the afternoon! The smell, that smell of a mix of anger and fear. Smells like…victory!” He paused, much calmer and said, “Someday this campaign is gonna be over. Someday.” With that he walked off into the throng of people. “Now, who wants a helicopter ride with Uncle Trump?”  Happy Friday, my friends! Waaay back in August 2015, I took a flight of fancy (in two parts) with then Candidate Donald Trump as he visited a very small Northwest Oklahoma town on a campaign stop. Enjoy!
I’ve made no secret of my admiration of Batman. Of all the superheroes, I think he is the coolest. There is a deep, dark psychosexual element to the brooding character (and NO, I’m not talking about paunchy Adam West Batman). That said, I guess it is inevitable that one of the horde of lunatics running for president in 2016 would step forward to make the claim, “I am Batman!” But, why o’ why did it have to be Trump? While everyone else was reading the article on the CNN web site earlier this week, in which the author described the scene at the Iowa State Fair when Trump flew in on his customized Sikorsky helicopter. I had the great fortune to ride along on another of his helicopter assaults (or, as he prefers to call the visits, ‘Schmooze from Above’). Imagine my surprise when Trump’s people contacted me at about 0400 on Monday morning to ask if I could get to Des Moines before noon. “Ach mein Gott,” I responded! “I only went to bed at 1AM!” The caller who identified himself as Hector told me, “Mr. Trump is making another of his helicopter visits, this time to Northwest Oklahoma. He reads your blog and wants you to ride along as he visits your home state.” I rubbed my aching head…frankly, I had a hangover that would kill a horse. I thought someone must be playing a joke on me. I asked for proof that the call was on the level. I could tell that Hector was becoming frustrated with me. His voice took on a surly edge as he growled, “You’ll have your proof once you land in Des Moines. Can you get there?” I indicated that I would do my best and rolled out of bed and dressed, not bothering to shower or brush my teeth. If the Trump wants me in Des Moines before noon, he would have to take me as I am! Fortunately, the wife was already up and making biscuits at that hour. I told her I had to get to the airport in Oklahoma City pronto. I told her that I needed to fly to Des Moines and get there before noon. I was being summoned by the Trump himself. I pointed out this could be big for the blog. I imagined myself being interviewed on CNN before sundown. The wife told me to sit and have a cup of coffee…after I brushed my teeth. When I came out of the bathroom, I saw Cousin Fred sitting at the table looking even more bleary-eyed than me. The wife pointed out that Cousin Fred has a pilot’s license and a friend with a plane over at West Woodward Airport. She suggested that Cousin Fred fly me to Des Moines. I squinted my eyes looking at the two of them wondering if she wasn’t purposely sending me to an inevitable early demise at the hands of my maniac cousin. I figured death at the hands of Cousin Fred would look like an “accident” to the insurance company. I began doing the time calculations in my head. Two-plus hours to OKC…find an airline headed to Des Moines…get a ticket…get through security (they always detain me for secondary inspection following the “incident” in Trinidad & Tobago)…fly there…try to find Trump’s helo on the commercial side of the airport and board without being pummeled or shot by one of his atavistic overachiever bodyguards. I didn’t have a prayer in hell of getting there before noon by conventional means. That left unconventional means. Looking across the table at Cousin Fred (who was now drooling out one side of his mouth), it occurred to me that the very definition of unconventional is Cousin Fred. By my thinking, Des Moines is just over a two hour flight by private aircraft…this could actually work. “Hey,” I said, kicking him under the table! “Get yourself together and get your friend on the phone. We’re going flying!” We made it to West Woodward by 0800. The plane was already on the tarmac and the engine was turning. Cousin Fred was looking a lot better though I had no idea why. I still felt like a bag of dog crap that someone was continuously hammering. The flight to Des Moines was relatively uneventful and gave me pause to wonder why the Trump would ask me to come along. I kept thinking about that scene in “Scarface” where the head of the drug cartel throws an informant from inside an airborne helicopter, dangling him on a rope by the neck. Surely, I hadn’t pissed the Trump off that much! Before I knew it, we were landing in Des Moines. Cousin Fred was directed by the tower to the ramp where the Trump’s Sikorsky was parked. As we taxied closer, I could see the Trump getting out of a long black limo and begin making his way to the waiting helicopter. He was dressed in a camo flight suit under which I could see a dress shirt and tie. He disappeared inside. Cousin Fred brought our plane to a stop about 20 yards from the helo. He looked over at me and said, “Good luck.” I knew I would need it. To be continued...  Happy Thursday everybody! Hopefully the slow drip from the sky that we experienced all day yesterday is done for a while. I like rain and all, but no more than 24 hours please. As I was going through my news overnights (it's really the only joy I have anymore), I came across an article from USA TODAY told the tale of some dope in California who nearly burned down his house while using a blowtorch to kill a bunch of spiders. It reminded me that we, here at CCB, had previously done a post about people using fire to kill spiders and nearly burning down their homes in the process. Stupid is as stupid does...or words to that effect. From June 2015...Enjoy!
Not that anyone ever listens to me, but… In my years of living, the one single immutable truth of the Universe that I’ve learned is that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Here’s an example…a few years ago I read a very lengthy biography of George Washington by Ron Chernow. It’s a great book and a great read…highly recommend it. I learned things about General George that were, to that point, unknown to me. For instance, after George Washington became president, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison (I think it was those two) hired a scholar from Boston to move to Philadelphia and set up shop as a publisher. His sole purpose in life was to publish a newspaper that was highly critical of George Washington. Day in and day out, this person published his paper with stories bordering on outright fabrications, innuendo, and seething criticism of every single thing Washington did. Over time, it caused George Washington to begin to second guess any decision he made and become nearly obsessed with what people thought of him. And, you thought Fox News and/or MSNBC is something new? As the song goes, “it’s all been done.” So here we find ourselves in the midst of another presidential election cycle with a virtual herd of candidates on the Republican side and a smaller pack of maybes and wannabes on the Democrat side. I make it a point to avoid discussing politics in these daily missives mostly because this country has become so divisive in terms of political beliefs that I would just be another murmur in a cacophony of noise. We need to get past whether something is on the right or the left…but then again, it’s always been like that. I try not to align myself with one side or the other, I try to find some hint of intelligence and a few reasonably expressed ideas that may have a chance of finding their way to solutions. But, that’s a rare thing. Years ago…many, many years ago, I recall my father commenting that no one actually qualified for the job of president wants it. Why would they? Ah, so there you have another example of the more things change, the more they stay the same. Two days ago, Donald Trump announced he’s running for president. He made a rather fluffy speech with a lot of stuff that people want to hear, but no real substance or solutions. Is his heart really in it? Who knows? There’s been a lot of chatter since then that this is simply a publicity stunt for him, etc. Maybe. I thought it was interesting that he felt compelled to inform us of his net worth. Good for him. I don’t have that kind of money and will likely never see anything near that amount. Do I care how much he has? Not really. I do recall thinking that if he has that kind of money why doesn’t he do something about whatever that is on his head? Frankly, it looks like a wet string mop hanging over the top of a squinty-eyed fence post. Just one man’s opinion. But I digress… What we’re really here to discuss today is not politics…oh no. Today, we’re here to discuss something we can all get behind despising (unless of course you’re some whack-job arachnologist). Namely, spiders. So, the Woodward News in their Farm & Ranch section on Wednesday ran a piece that was fed from OSU’s Department of Etymology & Plant Pathology (whose motto translated from the Greek is, “Sure We’re Bug Nerds, But We’re Really Fun Bug Nerds”). The lengthy article entitled, “Spider Identification 101”, was a primer aimed at insect killers (me among them) on separating the spiders that can kill you from those that you leave alone because they’re our friends. Uh huh. Personally, my policy regarding spiders is the same as my policy regarding snakes, which is the only good snake is a dead snake. The article goes into great detail about markings on spiders and how to tell if it’s really a venomous spider or merely a harmless spider that looks like a venomous spider. Judas priest…like I’m going to get close enough to check? For instance, there was a paragraph describing the much maligned and misunderstood cellar spider which resembles the brown recluse (aka, the fiddleback). Now the brown recluse is bad, but its near twin the cellar spider is good. The best way to tell them apart (I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP) is that the cellar spiders like to reside near the ceiling of a home while the brown recluse prefers to be nearer the floor. WHO CARES?! Die spiders, die! Still, I’m sure some grad student got extra points for putting that article together and getting the Woodward News (whose motto translated from the Latin is, “We’ll Tell You What You Need to Know”) to publish it. If you’re like me (and I do pray you aren’t) and are quick with the shoe or rolled up magazine when it comes to bugs, I have a few safety tips that you may wish to apply when dealing with household pests…particularly spiders. I was able to find two articles, both are from last summer (coincidence?…I think not) about the use of fire in ridding your home of spiders. Believe me, you’re better off living with the spiders. The first article comes to us from the Newser web site about a dude in Seattle, Washington (whose state motto was recently changed to “Toke, Toke, Toke It Up!) who tried to kill a spider in his laundry room using a can of spray paint and a lighter. Hahaha…insert your own joke about legalized marijuana here. Yeah, that didn’t work out so well for Spiderman. He wound up with $60,000 in damage to his home (it was a rental…bet the landlord was thrilled). The second is also from the Newser site (Ha! I may have a new favorite!) about a woman in Kansas (it’s cheaper there, you know) who used her cigarette lighter to set fire to a pile of towels in an effort to kill a spider. Once the fire was out, she was arrested for arson and arachnoid cruelty (okay, just kidding about the cruelty charge…she was only arrested for arson). So my best advice to all of you reading this (all two of you now…even the guy sending me the threatening emails has given up) is to deal with your spiders the old fashioned way…the sole of your shoe or a rolled up copy of the Woodward News…I knew that fish wrap would come in handy for something. Post Redux - Mr. Robin is only too happy to advise you on how to spend your lottery winnings!10/24/2018
 It's Wednesday! Hope things are going well for you. Just in case you're only now waking up and turning to CCB as your primary news source...well...I feel sorry for you...but, if that's the case, Mr. Robin has news for you! A single ticket bought in South Carolina won the $1.6 billion MegaMillions Lottery last night. If you're the poor...make that filthy rich...schmuck that won that pile of cash, contact me. I can help you spend it (it's my gift to you)! In honor of this record jackpot, we're reposting from June 2015 at which time we offered our snarky take on instant wealth. Enjoy!
Let me start this by pre-qualifying myself…I am not a rich man. I am, however, very capable and altogether thrilled to spend someone else’s money…kind of like the morons at 2300 North Lincoln Blvd in Oklahoma City. Yeah, I don’t know exactly where my money goes. I’m really a man of few vices and those that I do have are relatively harmless. There are the after-market parts for my motorcycle, like my new helmet with Bluetooth speakers built into the thing, oh and it comes with a Blue-Ray DVD player that projects video onto the visor. There is the occasional trip to the racetrack…love them thoroughbreds. Then there’s my favorite vice of all, my daughter, who seems to keep switching majors to ensure she’ll finish college long after I’m dead. Oh, and then there’s the lottery. I know, I know, it’s a fool’s game, but so what? They have to give the money to someone…right? Plus, supposedly the state’s cut goes to education here in the state…uh huh. Even though the morons in the state legislature can’t seem to fund pay raises for our educators without raiding the teacher’s pension funds. I’ll bet that money goes to the Oklahoma Attorney General for his “evidence fund” whatever the hell that is. So when I saw that rabid pack of lemmings otherwise known as the Oklahoma media go into a frenzy over the mystery of the individual who won $2 million playing PowerBall two weeks ago, I thought I should weigh in. The media is just aghast that no one has yet stepped forward to claim the prize, as evidenced in an article published on the NewsOK.com site. Actually, I’m kind of wondering that myself…why the person hasn’t come forward by now. It’s only a $2 million win. Honestly, $2 million isn’t that much money nowadays. Seriously, I’ll bet presidential-hopeful Trump spends that much having the string mop atop his skull coiffed on a daily basis. Hopefully, our mysterious lotto winner, we’ll call him/her McCash for purposes of this posting isn’t hiring a “consultant” – an attorney and/or financial advisor - to tell them how to “manage” their winnings. “Okay, Mr. and Mrs. McCash, the first line item on my recommendations for managing your new wealth is for you to sign a check to me for my consulting fee. I’m only asking for 30%, a discount from my usual fee of 40% because I like you.” I mean, okay, I get it. If I had won that $475 million PowerBall two years ago, I would likely have hired someone too. Not necessarily for consultation, but a bodyguard to keep the long lost relatives at bay. “Hey, Robin you old dog, long time never met, it’s Reggie, your mother’s cousin by marriage eight times removed calling from Toledo. I have a great opportunity for you to own your own lucha libre franchise up here. Call me.” Lucha libre (Mexican freestyle wrestling) in Ohio? Actually, I might jump at that. $475 million…that’s some serious dough…as Howard Stern might say, “That’s F-U cash.” But, I’m pretty sure that $2 million wouldn’t last anyone very long, no matter how frugal you think you are. Think about it…no, really, think about it. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think about winning $2 million? I’ll bet it was splurging on something you’ve always wanted, but didn’t really need. Am I right? Before thoughts of taxes or socking away a chunk for a rainy day or maybe giving your close relatives a taste or taking your spouse on a romantic cruise to Bulgaria aboard the SS Sepsis…you’re thinking a fleet of Harley-Davidson motorcycles with custom paint, one for every day of the week. “…Wait, did he just say something about taxes?” Yup, HE did. Let’s say, for purposes of illustration that half of your $2 million will go to the Federal government (rat bastards) and the morons on North Lincoln Blvd (they have to fund their lunch subsidies somehow). So now you’re left with $1 million. Okay, still a lot of dough, but half as much as when the Oklahoma media was pondering your whereabouts and identity right after the drawing. So, in the glow of being a winner, you promptly walk into your job and tell your boss, whom you can’t stand, to kiss your ass. Robin Advice #1: Don’t do it. Don’t burn bridges, don’t quit the day job. You’ll regret it. After the company security officer perp-walks you out the door, you immediately head to Oklahoma City and the Porsche dealership to buy the Carrera GT in flame red. On that long stretch of I-40 coming out of OKC you decide to see if the car can actually go 200+ mph like the sales consultant said it would do. As you speed along, weaving in and out of traffic (how dare those peasant motorists get in your way) and smiling at the OHP phalanx eight miles back, but in “hot” pursuit nevertheless, you forget that you live in Oklahoma and are subject to ODOT’s whimsies when it comes to closing lanes or not repairing potholes. After all the rains we’ve had, you hit a pothole large enough and filled with enough water to be declared a man-made lake. Your Carrera GT becomes airborne and you sail across the median and the traffic lanes on the other side and total the machine when it hits the billboard advertising the Porsche dealership in Oklahoma City. So, let’s see. There’s the $450,000 you spent on the Carrera GT. A real loss since you failed to ensure your current auto policy would cover fine German automobiles. Fines, court costs, hospital costs, etc. after OHP finally catches up to and begins Tasering you at will. There’s all of the people you frightened to near death as you careened past them on the interstate…they’re suing now, figuring that anyone who can drive a $450,000 car must have some cash in the bank. The Porsche dealership is suing you for the billboard. In the end, you’re back to where you started before you won the lottery. You don’t even have a job. “No seriously, Boss. Kiss my ass is a term of endearment in my family.” Robin Advice #2 – If you need a car, buy a Toyota. Take the rest of the money and put it into some sort of income producing fund and shut up. Robin Advice #3 – PowerBall jackpot is $50 million for Saturday night. Go get a ticket. If you win, call me…my consulting fee is only 10%...8% if I like you. Have a great weekend!  Good morning, you lucky devils...CCB is back with another blast from the past. Today's post, from 2/7/2017, finds elderly widows complaining about The Compound to the County Commission and Her Royal Highness Mary of Fallin (alleged Governor of Oklahoma) making another of her awe-inspiring (barf) State of the State speeches. Enjoy!
Good morning, everybody! It’s Tuesday! We’ve made it this far, I’m sure we’ll get through to Friday without too many of us dropping out. You’ll see, it’ll be great! Eh, okay, I admit, there isn’t much to live for really. Football is behind us. But, pitchers and catchers report for spring training next week. But then again, the season doesn’t start until the very end of March and even then we only seem to get Yankees, Cardinals and, far too often, Royals games here. Mr. Robin seldom never misses a Nationals and/or Padres game when its on. Then there’s the apparently nutty president we elected who never seems to fail at pissing off someone new on a daily basis and then blaming it on someone else. Oh, and then we have our own very special Governor making a state of the state address, that well…makes me want to make a run for Kansas (it’s cheaper there, you know). But, more on that later. I don’t know if you heard, but the weekly county commission meeting yesterday didn’t go well for us here on The Compound. Of course you didn’t hear. The nearly daily newspaper that covers those meetings wouldn’t report anything like that…and you know why. It seems that the Widow Farkis got up in front of the commission to complain about the “Godless pack of heathens” operating an “illegal den of inequity” along the county road where, by coincidence, The Compound is located. The commissioners seemed unmoved. The sheriff rolled his eyes and faked a call on his cell that he said he had to take and departed. One of the commissioners went back to drawing out a three-panel pamphlet for guiding fishing expeditions along Boggy Creek. Another tried to appear interested in what the good widow had to say, but could only manage the 500 meter stare. The District 3 commissioner asked the good widow to kindly elucidate the commission as to what the hell she was talking about, this time with less gobbledygook (county commissioner speak for, talk plain English). It seems that the Widow Farkis was talking about The Cab here at The Compound. She pointed out that the Pathetic Order of the Jackrabbit – Original Chapter (P.O.J.O.C.) is running (as she put it) an illegal place of business, to wit: an unlicensed, unapproved bar and/or tavern. She wanted the commissioners to shut the place down. Fortunately, the Dist. 3 commissioner pointed out that he knows exactly which building and property she was speaking about and that as far as he knew, it was a private clubhouse for a fraternal organization dedicated to the health and welfare of veterans, widows and orphans inside the county (so much for the pack of heathens argument, am I right?). He told the good widow that unless she had proof that we were selling alcohol to any moron in off the road, there wasn’t anything they could do about it. The Widow Farkis was not assuaged and stormed from the room in a huff. Before she slammed the door to the commissioner’s room, she announced that she was notifying ABLE…Oklahoma’s liquor cops…and let them get to the bottom of it. Ah, nothing like a raid from ABLE in the middle of night to set the tone for the rest of the week. We have that to look forward to, I guess. But, on to even more serious matters. Her Royal Highness Mary of Fallin made her annual State of the State Address to members of the moronic state legislature yesterday. Frankly, her speech was full of big words that seemed to fly right over the heads of most of the bunch. The rookies sat up straight and only occasionally looked down at their Big Chief Tablets while trying to make notes with a No. 2 pencil. The Legislature veterans did their best not to snooze, though the camera caught several nodding off. Her Royal Highness’ remarks focused on taxes, education, infrastructure, and public safety. Same as last year. Same as the year before. While she offered no concrete solutions to any of the state’s woes, she absolutely hypnotized the gathered morons in her bright red blazer and bedazzling scarf. There was talk of eliminating the grocery tax and corporate income tax, but raising taxes on gas and diesel. Hmmmm…let’s see. I like to eat so eliminating the grocery tax is a good thing. On the other hand I drive 30 miles round trip daily so I can earn enough to eat, so raising the taxes on gas is a bad thing. OHHHH, of course, I get it…this is robbing Christina to pay Mary…it makes sense when you put in a Fallin Family context! She’s all for giving teachers a raise, again, a good thing though she made some comment that the school districts are top heavy. Hmmmm…and, she didn’t offer any ideas for where the money would come from to pay teachers more. That one is dead on arrival for another year, I reckon. She did mention she wants to see a consumption tax on cigarettes. Wait a second, didn’t she ask for that last year? And, didn’t the Republicans in the legislature offer that cigarette smoking is the right of every Oklahoman and that a consumption tax was cruel and unusual? The only thing unusual is that the morons even got around to discussing it last year. So with a flourish of her tanned self, fresh off a working (smirk) vacation in Italy and a few platitudes about rolling up our sleeves and doing the tough work, she was gone. Bet she’s planning her next working (smirk) vacation. And the morons were left to fend for themselves. Let the spitballs fly! Yep, not much to live for…eh well. That is all.  Happy Monday everyone...me, I have more tests to take today. Wish me luck! In the meantime, today's post from posts-past (2/4/2017) continues the string I started this past Saturday. After reading this and what will follow over the next few days, you'll congratulate yourself that you never took up Compound living (it's not for the faint of heart). The other thing that strikes me about today's redux is that some things just never change. As you'll see below we were discussing misbehaving state legislators...morons, perverts, and dope fiends abound on North Lincoln Blvd (and still do). Enjoy!
My goodness, a second Saturday straight we’re posting to CCB. I need to get a life…and, some sleep! Okay a quick update since so many of your sent me email yesterday wringing your hands over the fate of the liberal refugees being trucked to communes in Colorado. The Daughter should have dropped them deep in the Rockies sometime yesterday evening. I haven’t heard otherwise so I’m certain they’ve made it sanctuary. The Daughter will deliver her load of string beans to Utah this morning (minus a few cans) and head back with a load of empty cans. I expect her to stop here on the way back. In the meantime, the spiritualists are still here at The Compound. They aren’t moving. I got an equal amount of emails yesterday from every spiritualist group in America wanting me to update that status…so there you have it. Who knew there were so many ghost chasers in this country? Don’t you people have real jobs to go to? The Pathetic Order of the Jackrabbit – Original Charter (P.O.J.O.C.) tried to hold a solemn rite in our new clubhouse, The Cab, last night. A solemn rite for P.O.J.O.C. generally means an alcohol-fueled game of cards on one side of the room and dice on the other. It was a bit difficult to concentrate though with the torch- and pitchfork-wielding spiritualists gathered outside chanting, “Come, Temple, make your presence known. We’ll give you whiskey and ammo!” And, finally, The Wife is vacationing at a low-rent motel in Shattuck. I saw she had stocked up on the filterless Pall-Malls before she left. One of her suitcases was filled with cartons of cigs. Cousin Fred told me that a full case of Old Crow was missing from The Cab stockroom. So, I was looking forward to a solemn P.O.J.O.C. rite despite the spiritualists chanting. I told Terry Two-Fingers to crank up the new 1,000 watt bluetooth loudspeaker with some tunes to drown out the chanting, but something seemed to be blocking the bluetooth signal so instead we listened to a 58 Hz hum. Then…out of the blue(tooth)…The Compound was raided by the Sheriff’s Dept. I swear, I didn’t think they worked evenings! But here they were. The senior officer stepped forward and presented a search warrant for explosive devices in the cow pastures. Hmmmmm (30 Hz). At first, I was pleased that someone in law enforcement was reading the blog yesterday, but then the good warrant presenter informed me that they received an anonymous tip from a liberal refugee that was passing through. I laughed it off, explaining to the good presenter that my use of explosive devices in the blog is really a metaphor. Fortunately, for me, the good presenter didn’t know the meaning of metaphor so I didn’t have to come up with one. So, for the benefit of any law enforcement reading this blog, there are no explosive devices in the cow pastures around The Compound. It’s a metaphor, I’m tellin’ ya. After a cursory search around the cow pastures in the dark, they didn’t turn up anything except soiled boots and departed. As soon as they left, the spiritualists began chanting again and the solemn rite broke up. But enough of doings here at The Compound! I actually intended to spend this Saturday post discussing more of the antics of the mob of morons on North Lincoln Blvd in Oklahoma City…namely, the Oklahoma State Legislature. Actually, they were pretty well behaved this past week. HOWEVER, there was the saga of State Representatives Dan “Danny the Vacuum” Kirby and Will “Quad-man” Fourkiller. Fourkiller was a surprise, at least for me. I didn’t know he was being investigated by the secretive legislative panel formed to perform the Spanish Inquisition at the Capitol. The Covey of Cardinals recommended that Kirby be expelled from the House and any bills he authored be removed from consideration. Well, that’s one way to winnow the number of nonsensical bills I suppose. The weird thing about Fourkiller is there no mention anywhere (that I’ve been able to find) as to his exact offense. It appears to have involved a House page, which means a minor (pervert). For him, the Covey of Cardinals recommended sensitivity training (?) and no contact with the House page program participants. Sensitivity training? Seriously? What, was he telling the kids dirty jokes or something? Phew, well glad we got all of that cleared up before the regular session of the legislature convenes at noon on Monday for Mega-Mediocrity 2017. It’s gonna be great, you’ll see! It’ll turn out better than you think! That is all!  Today's post from posts-past is an overview of a typical day here at The Compound wherein chaos reigns supreme. This was posted in early February 2017 and was the start of a series of posts focused on The Compound which I'll likely run throughout next week. Enjoy!
Happy Friday morning everyone! Okay, ready? Time for the weekend song! One, two, three…eh, screw it. Frankly, I’m just not up for it today. It’s been a weird couple of days here at The Compound. I know I say that a lot, but this time it really has been weird. I’m not sure where to start. I guess I’ll start with The Daughter. As you know, she is a recent and proud grad of the George Mason School of Truck Driving (no football team, but the pit crews recently won the National Oil Change Championship). The school’s motto, translated from the Latin is “Give us all your cash, we’ll ensure you are paying off student loans ‘til the day you die!” But, I digress… The Daughter stopped by The Compound on her way to Utah where she drives a semi loaded with cans of string beans once a week. This week though, the trailer was only partially loaded with cans of string beans. The void was filled with refugees seeking asylum. No, not those refugees. These were rabid liberals seeking sanctuary from what they fear will be an oppressive smashing under The Trump’s rusty iron fist. After the truck pulled onto the grounds of The Compound, The Daughter jumped out and opened up the back. An entire horde of people peered out from inside. All were straining their eyes against the sunlight. I heard a meek voice inside ask, “Is this it? Is this sanctuary?” The Daughter looked at me, rolled her eyes and said, “No, no…this is my Dad’s compound. Get out, stretch your legs. We still have a long way to go. But we’ll be stopping for the night. Bring out your gear and camp on the lawn. By the way, no wandering off into the cow pastures. This is a fortified compound, there are explosive devices out in the pastures.” At that, there were murmurs about gun nuts and that there should be a law. Once they were all out, we could see several empty cans of string beans scattered around the inside of the trailer. “Hey!” The Daughter yelled. “Who the hell has been eating the string beans? I told you not to touch them! Someone will have to pay for those string beans! They’re expecting a full load in Utah!” A man stepped forward and peeled several dollar bills off of a roll of cash he was carrying that could choke an elephant. It turns out that The Daughter is supposed to drop these people somewhere deep in the Rockies of Colorado. There, they will gather in a commune, smoke legal weed, dip bean curd with their fingers from pans passed around a campfire and plot their political return in 2020. That evening’s campfire discussion was whether or not the Star Trek series represented the Utopian ideal or merely a welfare society. The consensus was (of course) that it represented the Utopian ideal. So, we had that to deal with here at The Compound. They were actually a well-behaved bunch. But, still I wasn’t expecting it. The Daughter said she took them on because this week’s order from Utah for string beans was only half a load. She loathed the idea of running half a load up there. The offer to truck liberal refugees to sanctuary for cash was too good to pass up. But, that’s not the only weirdness we’re dealing with here at The Compound. Since Cousin Fred put up the Cabinet Saloon replication, aka, the Cab. We’ve had a steady stream of traffic coming by on the road to view it. After two days of that, people started parking their vehicles out on the road and getting out. They stay out there on the road, just watching. I see most of them eating from those foil pouches of tuna that you can buy in stores now. And, staring. They’re always staring. It was driving Cousin Fred crazy so he finally went out to the road to see what was going on. Turns out these people are from some spirit society that calls itself The Council. According to Cousin Fred, they all have tattoos of Casper the Friendly Ghost on their butts. The guy told Cousin Fred that they are convinced that the ghost of Temple Houston will appear at the replicated Cabinet Saloon and there may be a shooting. Apparently, Mr. Temple is mad because Cousin Fred doesn’t stock his favorite brand of whiskey. The spirit society wants to document the event as it unfolds. Suddenly, I think I want to seek sanctuary in Colorado. Idiot Cousin Fred invited them onto the grounds of The Compound to await Mr. Temple’s coming. Great. Now, I have a pack of bean curd smacking, tofu sucking (can’t really chew tofu, can you?) liberal refugees camped on one side of The Compound. On the other, a bunch of lunatic spiritualists armed with EMF meters to detect a ghostly presence and digital recorders to capture EVPs. The spiritualists keep chanting, “Come, Temple, make your presence known. We’ll give you whiskey and ammo!” All night long that goes on. I noticed The Wife was back in her bedroom packing a bag. I asked where she’s going. She looked at me and muttered, with her filterless Pall Mall cig hanging from lips, “As far from the lunacy you seem to attract as I can get!” Guess that means a fabulous vacation in Shattuck. Saturday alert…look for yet another special Saturday Edition of CCB tomorrow…Saturday…see how that works? That is all! |
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