 Good morning world! How the heck is everybody? Me, I’m only running on four hours sleep and it’s not likely to get better anytime soon. The Daughter arrived here at The Compound last night…or should I say, this morning. So, I was expecting to have to drive to OKC to pick up the Daughter at the airport. Yes, it was a scheduled 9PM arrival and we here in Cosmic City are 2.5 hours away, but I was happy to oblige. The Daughter arrived about 20 minutes late…no big deal. But then…and it’s a big but…her luggage didn’t make it. So now we have to file a report with the airline baggage people who are only too happy to point out that the Daughter was a late check-in and it’s not their fault. They’re fairly certain the baggage will be found and arrive in OKC sometime today, but because it was a late check-in, I’ll have to go back to OKC to pick it up. And, even then, I’m like okay, I can do this. Anything for the Daughter. But then… My story of last night involves my arch-enemy – ODOT – that seemingly insatiable nefarious flock of land thieves and asphalt snorting beasts whose organization name is actually an acronym for Official Department of Oppressive Timekillers. But, I digress… So we’re rolling down I-40W moving in the general direction of The Compound. On the west side of Yukon, I see an electronic message board that reads (and, I’m NOT making this up)…”I-40W CLOSED AHEAD. DRIVERS MUST EXIT.” A closed interstate...how does that happen? Did ISIS blow up a bridge? The interstate is a crime scene. Yes it is, in a manner of speaking. Now for those of you not familiar with the landscape around here. Once you’re past Yukon, there isn’t a lot of exits and it’s too late to change plans. So road speeds drop from roughly 70 mph to O almost instantly. Some of my fellow drivers take the sign a bit seriously and literally drive off the interstate, climb an embankment and swerve onto some other unmarked road above us. Brave bastards! I squint ahead and can see red taillights stretching to infinity…and beyond. People in the left lane are turning into breaks in the oppressive razor wire fencing that ODOT puts up to keep people on the road and they’re driving back east on the grass median until they can find another hole in the fence. Me? Like the idiot I am, I just sit. ODOT had vehicles backed up for six miles as it turns out. At the end of the delay, they were demolishing an overpass. So what do they do? They force cars off of four lane interstate onto a single lane off-ramp…up and over and back down the on-ramp on the other side where we’re now back up to 70 mph, BUT having lost ONE FRIGGING HOUR OF MY LIFE. Now, then, lest you think this is merely a rant…oh no…I would suggest that the morons at ODOT take a lesson from VDOT – Virginia’s version. At the height of major construction along the infamous (notorious?) Capital Beltway, VDOT realized that they would have to rebuild SEVERAL overpasses along what is one of the most heavily traveled corridors on the east coast. VDOT came up with the idea and announced it loudly and often LONG BEFORE demolition actually started that they would set aside time between 2AM and 4AM for overpass demo. As the work proceeded, State Troopers would stop traffic, VDOT would destroy a section of overpass, VDOT would run equipment out onto the roadway to clear debris, trucks would carry away debris, and voila! said road is reopened. REASONABLE, that’s VDOT. They don’t impinge on the motoring progress of sleep deprived paranoid idiots (I’m telling you they knew I would be driving last night) like me. Now then, for those of you who know me, you know that my skirmishes with ODOT have gone on for as long as I’ve been living here again. I’ve printed columns in a local newspaper about ODOT’s inept, ill-advised, and WASTEFUL spending on what I affectionately refer to as the Fargo (pop. 26) Freeway (phase two is coming people…this spring…be ready…I’m NOT making that up). Then, I had people from ODOT headquarters in OKC calling first me and then my editor asking if I couldn’t tone it down a bit. Even the local ODOT commissioner tried to shut me up. But then again, maybe I’m expecting too much of a bunch of freaking hillbillies with too much $$$ and not enough common sense to make reasonable road construction decisions. The end of times is near…and ODOT is driving the bulldozer. That is all!  Happy Monday morning you lucky people, CCB is posting! This despite an air temperature here at The Compound of 8°…don’t gasp just yet…the wind chill here atop this danged ridge (the elevation means I’ll see “them” coming) is -3°.
Friends, it’s colder than a __________ ___________ _____________ (fill in the blanks, there are so many of those). Friends, it’s so cold [how cold is it, Mr. Robin?]…it’s so cold that P Diddy is changing his name again…to Frozen P. It’s so cold [how cold is it, Mr. Robin?]…it’s so cold that I when I went through the drive-thru at McDonald’s yesterday and the lady accidentally spilled my coffee onto my lap, I thanked her. Hahahaha…okay, okay, don’t crowd, I’m in town all week. There’s plenty of me for everybody. Yep, it’s this cold and it’s not even winter yet. As you may recall, the dumbass weather guessers were all predicting a warmer than usual winter this year. So if the fall has been this cold maybe the winter will be positively balmy. Balmy I can do. The only good thing about the start of winter is that the days start getting longer. Makes it easier to see “them” coming for me. I’ve been burning through too much $$$ on batteries for the night vision scope. And, if you think I’m joking about that, you obviously don’t know me very well. So, it’s the end of the year (nearly) and, as usual, I find myself buried in over my head with work that doesn’t pay…yet, anyway. I am writing two screenplays: one is a short comedy film; the other, a feature-length comedy film. The short film script is about 60% done. It has to be finished before the end of December. The feature length script is probably about 30% done. I have until late February for that. The short film will finish on time, no worries there. The Daughter is coming to NWOK this year for Christmas and she doesn’t know it yet, but I’m planning to put her to work helping me with dialogue for the short film. She’ll be thrilled. You’ll see. Let’s see. I’m also on the hook to produce a web site for a local, often overlooked tourist attraction here. The content and photos are pretty much done. I just need to put it all together. I know, sounds easy enough. If it sounds as though I’m whining, I am! And then there’s this damned blog. You people get surly if I don’t contribute something at least three time a week. I’ve been doing this beast for nearly two years now. Had hoped by now someone or some web site would pick it up and/or syndicate it…besides the Israeli site that republishes my material without permission (grrrrrrr). Eh well, all of that is what keeps me getting up every morning at 4AM to trudge into the kitchen for coffee and (at least for now) a slice of Texas pecan fruitcake (Mr. Robin loves fruitcake). While we’re on the subject of this blog, I’ll give you pervs a peek into the stuff that I see on a daily basis…the backend as we in the business call it. Most web hosts offer statistics and other information that might be helpful to the web site owner in how they market whatever the hell they’re selling. My web host, Weebly, not so much. I used to own a site that used hostmonster.com as the host. GREAT statistics on that site. Information you could really use, like the IP address of people visiting the site and the time and date that they landed on the site. Helps with tracking Israeli pirates. Weebly never gives it subscribers anything that cool to use. I do, however, get some amusement by looking at the statistics on search terms used to find CCB. For instance, this month, the top three search engine terms (okay, there were only three so far this month) are: “anything” – I know, right? I typed “anything” into Google and had to go back many, many pages until I found CCB. How bored (read as borderline psychotic) was this person?; number two on the list was “cosmic city blog” – okay, that’s a good thing, the brand is getting out there; And, three: “law, robin not in my city” – now when you put that string into Google, most of the web sites that come up are for some lawyer named Robin McCarty in Texas. Again, I’m buried waaaaay down. There was a time, about a year ago, that putting “woodward ok” into Google ranked me just behind the City of Woodward, which I thought was really funny. Now granted, search engine optimization (aka, SEO) changes on a nearly weekly basis and I haven’t been working that lately, but I notice that if you type “woodward ok” into Google now, I’m buried deep in the search results. That has to change. Let’s change some things! When people type “woodward ok” into Google, I want to come out on top of the City of Woodward. That should land me with a cease and desist order! So, here’s what we’re going to do…and I need your help. At random times throughout the day, go to Google and type “cosmic city blog equals woodward ok” in the search string. I’ll change some things in the hidden bits of the web site and let’s see if we can push the site above the City of Woodward. I’ll keep you apprised as we go along. It’s gonna be great…you’ll see…it’ll turn out better than you think! That is all! Mr. Robin shares sound advice for those considering a life of crime...it's his gift to you!12/15/2016
 Good morning dedicated CCBers (all four of you). How the hell is everybody?
Ah, here we are, yet another holiday season filled with: the sounds of cheap bells being rung by sketchy-looking people outside of Walmarts (is it possible to tune a bell?); the smell of overcooked cookies in the break room at the office (you didn’t expect Bernice to thrust that batch on her family did you?); the furtive, near-panicked look of a spouse as he/she realizes that Christmas is 10 days away and they have no idea what to buy the other (a three-pack of underwear won’t get it…try a five-pack to get them through the week); the sight of your fat, lazy self in the mirror as you realize you won’t fit into your only suit for your fancy office party this year (well, there’s always black jeans and polished boots). Don’t you just hate this time of year? If you don’t, you aren’t cynical enough. Drink more. Trust me, it helps. But beyond the personal crises in your own miserable lives, there’s the outside influences. I’m talking about the evil rat bastards who turn to a life of crime to solve their holiday shopping dilemmas. Take for example, a couple of fellows in Kentucky I recently read about on the Huffington Post website. Cue the Theme from Dragnet! So, these two geniuses are apparently short of holiday cash and decide to do something about it. We’ll call them Hillbilly Roy and Hillbilly Ray so as to make it easy to differentiate between the two when the action starts…probably have strings of the same DNA anyway. But, I digress… They make a plan, which is really no play at all. They know they’re going to go out and hold up some business. In this case, our two dropouts from the Gertrude Hazelwood School of Criminality set their sights on Dixie Pig BBQ (not the real name, but I think that's a cool name for a BBQ joint). Yep, of all of the places you could choose to hold up they decide to hit a BBQ joint, at the height of the dining hour. “Now just you hand over that money in the till…oh, and I’ll take a bottle of your spicy pig vinegar sauce. Make that two bottles.” As they begin to doubt their first choice of a place to hold up they sit in the car for a while. In order to find the nerve to actually go inside and commit said alleged crime, Hillbilly Roy and Hillbilly Ray sit out in the parking lot and get drunk. What do you bet it was maple-flavored bourbon? Rule #4 of Criminal Enterprise 101 – go into your crime stone sober. There’ll be plenty of time for drinking afterwards. But wait, there’s more. So while one of these jackasses is squirming around in his seat (probably had to pee from drinking too much liquor), he manages to butt-dial 911 on his phone. Rule #12 of Criminal Enterprise 101 – always shut off all communication devices and stow them away. There’ll be plenty of time for posting drunken selfies on Facebook of you waving fistfuls of cash after you’ve robbed the place and started drinking. That of course leads to Rule #13 of Criminal Enterprise 101 – do not use the Facebook Live feature to stream your robbery in progress. It WILL be used as evidence against you. The 911 operator listens in as the two continue to discuss (read as argue) whether to rob a BBQ joint or someplace else, say the biker bar down the street, The Gates of Perdition. Said alleged 911 operator calls the chief of police, WHO HAPPENS TO BE DINING INSIDE the Dixie Pig (love that name). Rule #40 (new rule) of Criminal Enterprise 101 – do NOT attempt to rob a place of business wherein the police might be hanging out. Said alleged police chief springs into action and with the help of the entire police force which is now arriving outside, arrest Hillbilly Ray and Hillbilly Roy – still sitting in their car, drunk on their collective hillbilly asses. Apparently, they couldn’t arrest these two morons for robbery because, well…they failed at that. So they arrest them for public intoxication, disorderly conduct, and an open container in a vehicle. Note, no weapons charges…these two idiots forgot to bring a gun. Curiously, stupidity is not a crime…who knew? Sigh. I leave you with a HAPPY holiday thought (no, this isn’t a trick). Some dude down in Australia (love that place) decided to put up a hundred jillion lights on his house and synch them to AC-DC’s Thunderstruck. Even if you aren’t a fan, it’s a cool video. And worth the watch: it is here. That is all!  Gather round my fellow babies. CCB is here to continue what we started yesterday. Namely, a rant about the dangers of flavored alcoholic beverages.
Something for which I, Mr. Robin, have personal knowledge, which I will relate as a public service. You see, there was a time, back in the day, I think it was New Year’s Eve 1974 when there wasn’t anything for teenagers to do in Cosmic City. Not like it is now where an angry mob of parents lock their kids in a church basement all night. There happened to be a home west of town where the parents stayed upstairs and the kids could party in the walk-in basement downstairs. Hey, it was 1974! And, because it was 1974, Mr. Robin had gotten a brand new powder blue leisure suit. Mr. Robin was hip. Mr. Robin was hot. Mr. Robin weighed all of 120 lbs soaking wet and looked like a stick wrapped in powder blue material. Leisure suits were all the rage back in the day. Now, they sell them as Halloween costumes for people who want to dress like a geek-pimp from the 70’s. So, at said party at said residence west of town mass quantities of alcoholic beverages were being consumed. Mr. Robin became rather partial to the Cherry Vodka, at first mixing it with 7-Up, but as the evening went on, it was Cherry Vodka straight from the bottle. At some point, around 1AM, Mr. Robin’s friends helped him into the backseat of a car driven by a close friend who wasn’t quite as drunk as Mr. Robin. Suddenly, the whole locking kids in a church basement doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. Back into town we went before driving to the home of a friend whose mom wouldn’t let him out of the house. We saw lights on in the rec room of the house. Our friend and his brother were still up playing pool on a table they received for Christmas. I no sooner crawled from the back of the car and standing in the snow began spewing cherry vodka everywhere…particularly down the front of my brand new powder blue leisure suit jacket. Tsk, tsk, tsk. The snow by the way is now crimson. Thank goodness the people at whatever cleaners that was down north of the tracks…Hunter’s, I think…were able to get the stain out of that material. Somehow Mr. Robin got through that episode without the parents finding out. Now, you’re probably asking yourself why the hell I’m digging up ancient history and revisiting the sins of Cosmic City (and me) back in the day? First of all, it’s to encourage parents to lock up their children in a church basement. I would start Christmas Eve and not let the little f*^$ers out until Jan. 3rd. They’ll be fine. Let them eat communion crackers and drink grape juice (assuming they’re Methodists). Secondly, yesterday CCB exposed the blatant ruination of perfectly good whiskEy by a bunch of demented, atavistic Canadians who thrill in adding cinnamon oil to the golden liquid. AND THEN, have the gall to pack it away in Mylar balloons stuffed inside of a box. Perverts. So today, we’re going to show near-scientific proof, we’re talking empirical nirvana here, of flavored alcohol rotting brains. It’s a conspiracy man! Take for instance, the case of a 30 year old woman in Florida (recently reported by the Huffington Post web site) with the last name Schmude who allegedly ran afoul of the law by allegedly driving drunk. Of course, with the last name Schmude, she probably had good reason to drink and drive. After all, when you run low on the booze you have to get more…am I right? It’s not like 911 is going to send Officer Friendly over to your house with a fresh re-supply. So, Ms. Schmude, has an accident while allegedly driving drunk. The cops get there and find that she is topless and has her jeans pulled down mid-thigh. The officer on the scene noted that the inside of the vehicle reeked of alcohol. Hmmmm…our first clue (take notes people). At the hospital, the officer read her rights and informed her that she was under investigation for DUI. She allegedly became combative at that point and went on a 20 minute rant before mercifully passing out. Finally, she wakes up and belches loudly. The ER bay filled with the smell of alcohol. She allegedly began licking her lips and moaning and offering the officer present sex if he would let her go. Second clue! In the end, she alledgedly admitted to drinking quite a bit of Ciroc. AHA! Pay dirt! For those of you who are not as worldly or socially hip as Mr. Robin, Ciroc is a stupidly expensive flavored vodka made with French grapes. You can get Ciroc in apple, pineapple, coconut, peach, and red berry flavors…barf. Now most dedicated readers of this blog (all five of you) are likely expecting me to begin taking swings at the French or trying to tie the French and Canadians (perverts making the cinnamon flavored whiskEy) into some weird international conspiracy to zombify Americans (as if we aren’t already there). But no, I’m not going to. Do you know who owns Ciroc? What manner of deviant bloodsucker it is that has left The Poor Dove Schmude with a mountain of legal problems and a hangover that would kill a bull elephant? Why none other than Sean “P Diddy” Combs hisself. P Diddy, formerly known as Puff Daddy, Sean Puffy Combs, and for a time, just plain Diddy. And, I know, the Republicans among you are raging now that I would blame an entrepreneur such as P Diddy, Puff Daddy, Puffy, and just plain Diddy for The Poor Dove Schmude’s troubles. After all, The Poor Dove Schmude was doing the drinking. I think if I were her attorney, I would make an impassioned plea that it really wasn’t her fault. That the system was to blame. After all, it’s not like 911 is going to bring you more Ciroc when you run out. So, what have we learned over the past two days?
That is all.  Happy Monday morning everybody. As we find ourselves deeply immersed in the quagmire that generally makes up the holiday season, I want to remind all of you dedicated CCB readers of one thing. When you’re worrying about whether you should spend the $$$ to buy co-workers, distant relatives, friends, etc. a gift for Christmas, remember this.
Whatever else you do, buy me something, anything, I don’t care what it is. Seriously, who else on your Christmas “buy” list is more deserving? Who brings you daily…well, nearly daily…okay, occasional entertainment? Me, that’s who! Who else can pick apart those things that you hold so dear in your heart and expose it like a pickled rat on a biology class dissection tray and/or hold it up to ridicule? Me, that’s who! So, remember, be sure to include Mr. Robin in your holiday gift list no matter what. I’m not picky - unlike your other gift recipients. While wholly expensive and inappropriate gifts are always appreciated. I’m happy with a box of chocolate-covered cherries or fruitcake. Oh, yes…one more thing. If you receive a fruitcake and despise the stuff, please don’t leave it upon your pantry shelf to mold before throwing it out in July. Here at The Compound we have a horseshoe-shaped drive. Simply drive to the top of the horseshoe (use GPS if necessary) and toss the tin of fruitcake on the porch before driving away. No need to stop and watch the merriment on my face at receiving a holiday fruitcake or receive my profuse thanks for your consideration. Remember, this is a fortified Compound and I am one remarkably paranoid individual. It’s okay to leave your name on the tin and I’ll thank you with a note or mention in the Blog…but, that’s as far as it goes. I really don’t like people. Okay, so much for the gift pandering...let’s move along to more important stuff. Friends, when you think holidays, what do you think about? Probably the three F’s – food, family, and friends. Am I right? You have cozy visions of family gathered around a table, everyone getting along: no kids whining about the texture of your boxed mashed potatoes; no dogs hiding under the table constantly sniffing your crotch for any food morsels you may have dropped there; no creepy Uncle Carl with his incessant “pull my finger” gag, nope…just your deluded Norman Rockwellian snapshot of what a family Christmas should be. And, you will kindly notice that I have left out the fourth F that so many of you include in your holiday thoughts…namely, that of Fireball. But, because I am an arbiter of good taste (as in the sense) and a protector of things held sacred (in this case, fine Tennessee sipping whiskey), I felt it my duty to banish the fourth F (you’ll thank me later). Just in case you’re a Baptist (Badtists excluded), a minor, and or someone who doesn’t drink (I pity you) and are generally unaware, Fireball is a brand of Canadian whisky (note no e in whiskey – stupid Canadians can’t even spell it right) with the most subtle essence – oh, who am I kidding – the overpowering flavor of cinnamon oil. Why anyone would want to drink flavored whiskEy is beyond me. But, I digress… So it seems that the flavored whiskEy business is highly competitive. So much so that its makers feel the need to come up with new and different stunts and schemes to sell more. Do you think that woman from “That 70’s Show” actually drinks the Jim Beam flavored whiskey that she hawks on TV? Hell no! She’s there to make the average millennial think, “Gee, she looks familiar.” And, then before the average millennial realizes it, the commercial is over, but the product she was hawking is stuck in your head. It’s a conspiracy people, WAKE UP! So, Canada’s answer is to roll out Fireball whiskEy in a BOX. No, I’m not kidding. I wish I were. They’re rolling it out (figure of speech given there’s no whiskEy barrels involved) in what they call the FireBOX. You know, like boxed wine, some of which, by the way, if you’re really picky, isn’t too bad. This will NEVER be the case with whiskEy. Never. WhiskEy does not belong in a Mylar balloon! I will give the Canadians some credit though. At least they’re doing it with a sense of humor. Not only have they rolled out their new product in time for Christmas celebrations, but to ensure follow-on sales they’ve offered that you may want to keep a box around for The Trump’s inauguration. The box will cost you roughly $40, which considering that each box holds 1.75 liters of (barf) flavored whiskEy, is a decent bargain. BUT IT’S STILL FLAVORED WHISKeY! Sabor de Mierda! That is all! |
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