Seems that everyone is posting pics of the enormous amount of snow that has fallen in their yards. I think I have everyone beat…not that I want the white stuff. By the way, if anyone wants snow, I have lots and can deliver…
Seems that everyone is posting pics of the enormous amount of snow that has fallen in their yards. I think I have everyone beat…not that I want the white stuff. By the way, if anyone wants snow, I have lots and can deliver…
This week’s Trifecta Challenge entices us to use the word FUNK. In 33-333 words, we are asked to use the third definition,SLUMP <an economic funk> <the team went into a funk> Without further ado, here is my story:
Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Harry Lowe. Having inherited his hard working father’s company, Harry has spent most of his life living well, mostly off the backs of the people that worked for his company. Harry drove the best cars, ate the best food, and bedded some of the finest women in town. Harry bragged that it was ironic that he was so rich, but did so little.
This all came to an abrupt end when the stock market took a dive and his business went into a major funk. Kar-E-Out, a major supplier of grocery bags since the late eighties took a major hit and eventually closed its doors. This left Harry broke, owing money to everyone in town.
Eventually all his fake friends and lovers were gone and he found himself alone. This was when he took up drinking. Harry virtually drank himself homeless.
Bouncing from one shelter to another, Harry made his way by robbing those even less fortunate than he was. Harry felt it was his right to have more than the rest. He figured society at least owed him that.
One morning, while sifting through the pockets of a homeless man, he found a lottery ticket. He slipped it into his pocket before falling to his knees in pain. One of the workers at the shelter picked him up and brought him to the hospital where Harry met with the doctor.
“We have some bad news. We did a few tests, and found that you have severe liver disease. You have two, maybe three weeks to live. I am sorry.”
Distraught, Harry went into a fit of rage. “Why me? I was so rich, so lucky! Now look at me, dying and nobody gives a damn!”
With that, Harry reached into his pockets and found the stolen ticket. He scratched it and noticed three bars. SET FOR LIFE: $2000 per week for the rest of your life!
Before Harry could collect his first check, he was gone. Talk about irony!
A bright young man
raised in a small town
His future was bright
no end in sight
he left home for the big city
This was 1950
Hey there Matey
He joined the Navy
and quickly became a man
On the Canadian Warship Athabaskan
Being green and too shy
he hung with the wrong group of guys
They used his naivety as a distraction
They barred him in the hold
for three days I was told
causing the young man pain and grief
he questioned his sanity and beliefs.
sitting alone in the dark
without even a spark
lots can happen to a man’s mind that way
Years of counselling at hospitals and the VA
on drug and shock therapy that was experimental
one day he left the hospital
He returned to the island, to start a new life
in a few years he met his wife
He got a job with the railway
and passed the days away
and for once, he enjoyed his life
but bouts of depression
and drugs set to stimulate
or even manipulate
the very thoughts that haunted his sleep.
Regular visits to the doctor
took away his honor
When nothing worked, he hit a wall
Tried twice to end it all
or to get someone to listen to his Plea
and then finally, a doc from the other side of the world figured it out
and all of a sudden he got help
and with this new found peace
his life took a new lease
a chance to live happily
and he settled down and had a family
to his three daughters he gave the world
but would not utter a word
about his past in the Canadian Navy
or his being considered ‘crazy’.
I woke up early this morning. Actually couldn’t sleep. Started thinking about how I am raising my son and how I must have given my mom so many grey hair while growing up.
I wouldn’t think of letting my son do the things I did as a kid; however, mom had no knowledge anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t the type of kid who was involved in anything bad, like smoking or drugs, but I was quite the daredevil in my day.
When I was a kid, my best friend ever, Ricky and I spent all our time together. We build cabins, we fished, camped, rode our bikes, and built go-carts.
The go-cart incident still sticks out in my mind. Ricky was quite the carpenter in his day. He could build anything with just a few pieces of wood and old junk he found in his dad’s garage. I remember once, we scrapped his dad’s old snowmobile. The suspension featured little wheels called ‘boogie-wheels’. Ricky tore the suspension apart and retrieved these wheels, which measured about five inches in height. With that, we cut a piece of plywood in two so that it measured 8 foot by three, and fastened the wheels to the board. Ricky fixed two pieces of rope to each side of the wheels and inserted a long bolt in the middle, and created a steering system. Our own invention for brakes was a hole in the floor in which we inserted the lug wrench from his dad’s truck (I still remember his dad cussing at us for taking it without asking him).
We brought our contraption to the top of the steepest hill in the community. The contractors had just laid a covering of new pavement, and the hill was as smooth as a baby’s ass. (Ricky’s description, not mine)
Like two Olympians on a luge, we lay on our backs, me manning the brake and Ricky steering, we took off like a light, only to have the steering rope break. We should have used new rope, but we were too poor to buy any, besides, Ricky’s dad had lots of used rope in the shed. Anyway, without steering, it was up to me to apply the brake. I shoved the lug wrench handle into the hole and it scraped on the pavement, but to no avail. Perhaps a trial run was in order, but hey, we were kids!
The little cart (or board with wheels attached) took off, the two of us screaming like banshees, and headed down the hill. Just when things couldn’t get any worst, we seen it. A Honey-Bee bread truck heading towards us. With the two of us on our backs, not six inches from the road, he couldn’t have seen us. He didn’t apply his brakes, but headed straight for us….and over us. That’s right, we went right under his truck.
Ricky used to stutter, but for a brief moment, and I will never forget it….he didn’t. He let out a ‘WHOA” and said “HOLEEEY FUCK! WHAT A FUCKING RUSH! LET’S DO IT AGAIN!”
Of course, I didn’t. Scared me straight I guess!
Ricky was such a good carpenter for an eleven year old kid. He could have done something with his life if only he didn’t discover drugs and booze.
They say everyone has a double. Some believe it to be true, some deny it. I know it to be true. Ask anyone here in this small town, they will agree…
My double lives in the same town as I do….and he is a criminal, a con artist, and an outright idiot. Every time I get a haircut, he seems to do the same. Everywhere I go I am asked whether I have a twin or if I am related to this jerk. Once, I almost got killed because someone that he ripped off thought I was him. I had to show ID before the big ape would let go of my neck.
You may think I am joking, I am not. I am totally serious. I don’t actually see the resemblance, but enough people have mistaken me for this guy that it makes me wonder. I have to admit, it is scary to say the least.
Once, this guy sold a poor family his minivan. Problem was, he didn’t own it in the first place. He had a loan from the bank, and without a single payment, he unloaded the thing on the unsuspecting family who desperately needed it. When asked, the guy said that he bought it because he knew I was an honest man, and that he thought he was buying it from ME. He didn’t know me very well…I would never own a Dodge, I am a Toyota Man.
This dumbass who is lucky enough to look like me has been getting me in trouble all my life. When I was just seventeen, the two of us were dating sisters. That’s how I met the guy. When someone seen him cheating on his girl, they mistakenly identified me as the cheater. My girl wouldn’t believe me, seeing how it was her MOTHER who seen him with this other girl.
I almost lost a job once because this guy came into my place of employment and STOLE something in broad daylight. The new guy at work figured he was me. Next day I get called into the front office by the boss as he urged me to confess. Of course I wasn’t even in town on that day.
Just seeing him walk up the street makes me sick. When people approach me and ask if I am related to him, or if I am him, I could scream. So annoying. Thankfully my lady doesn’t see the resemblance. She said that while he is my height and build, she doesn’t think I look like him…or he looks like me. God Love her!
Right now I am waiting for something. Last time I seen him, he had a huge bald spot on the back of his head. Any day now, the rest of his hair will fall out and we will look different…unless some stupid person comes up and comments me on my new wig! ARRRGH!
When I was a kid, I didn’t spend my holidays or weekends indoors during winter like kids these days. We went outside slidin’.
Behind my grandfather’s house, across the cow pasture, there was a gigantic hill, about a mile long. the hill was created when my grandfather took his dog team up the mountain to haul firewood during winter. He cut the path out and from then on, it became ‘Teddy’s Hill’. My dad used to slide there as a kid, and so did I.
The hill wasn’t without danger, as halfway down there was a giant rock that stuck out. When the kids played on the hill, my grandfather would first go out and using his shovel, he created a bank around the rock. When kids hit the bank, they made a jump that led them over the rock and on down the hill. My dad said that they couldn’t afford sleds, so the made due with the hood from one of Grappy’s old pickup trucks, waxed with animal fat.
Of course, we didn’t need the truck hood, we had modern sleds. First we had wooden toboggans. I remember climbing on a ten foot toboggan, along with six or more other kids, and flying down the hill. The walk back up wasn’t easy, and took almost twenty minutes, but it gave us kids time to chat and plan our next trip down the hill.
During the later winter months, when the snow became sticky, we fashioned jumps toward the bottom of the hill. Again, several kids on one sled, the added weight hurling us even faster down the hill, but when we hit our ramps, kids went everywhere. Can you say FUN?
One Christmas, I was lucky enough to get a Krazy Karpet from Santa. Whoa! This thing was cool! A thin piece of space age plastic that rolled up under your arm until you were ready to use it. No longer did I need to drag a heavy wooden toboggan up the steep hill, I could walk effortlessly with my sled rolled up under my arm. And Go! Did it ever go, it flew! The trip down the hill went at least two times as fast. I was the envy of the other kids. Imagine, me being the envy…in no time, all my friends had these cool Krazy Karpets, each a different color.
One day I seen an ad on television for the newest sliding sensation. The ad was from K-Tel, and it was the latest craze for kids. Mini-Skis.
Those short plastic skis were made from the same space age material that made the Krazy Karpets fly so fast, but molded in a tough, sturdy style. The skis were red in colour and although they were only about a foot and a half in length, standing on them was fairly easy….at least they were in the ads.
I asked mom and dad for a pair, but being so poor, I had to wait for Santa. On Christmas morning, I was the first to get up, and the first under the tree. I ripped my gift open, excited to find my cherry red mini-skis, only to find…..
Sno-Skates. Stupid Sno-Skates. Essentially Krazy Karpets that tied to each foot. I remember the ad on TV. A kid headed down a hill, a terrified look on his face. He only had a few teeth in his mouth, possibly from some Sno-Skating accident. I almost cried.
“Mom, what the hell?” I pleaded.
“Santa said the store was sold out, but these are better.” My mom assured.
Reluctantly, I headed up the hill that Christmas day, trying to make the best of my disappointing Christmas morning. The other kids laughed their asses off at my stupid gift. Like the kid in the ad, I too headed down the hill with a terrified look on my face. I only wish I would have made it to the bottom of the hill. I didn’t. I went face and eyes into the rock. The same rock that our Krazy Karpets and our toboggans and even our cheap plastic sleds were able to avoid. The Sno-Skates took me head on into the rock. When I was dug out of the snow by laughing kids, I was surprised to find that one of my Sno-Skates had broken. I wasn’t all that sad.
Later that winter I did manage to buy a set of Mini-Skis. Well they weren’t actual Mini-Skis, at least not the ones made by K-tel. They were called Super-Skis. Some Japanese knock off of the originals, but it didn’t matter, they were all that I expected them to be. Down the hills, over jumps, even being towed across the fields by a ski-doo, I used my Super-Skis until the bottoms were all but worn out. What fun.
Ah to be a kid again.
These days the hills are but barren mounds of dirt. Kids these days don’t ski or slide. They play video games. Boring!
What I Wanted
What I got
I woke up early this morning, fresh out of some strange dream. I got up and had to write this crazy story down. Last time I eat spicy food before bedtime!
Billy Borden was a young man who always had questions for his ma. He used to wonder why the townspeople called him crazy.
When Billy was young, Aliens took his pa away. He remembers playing in the kitchen with his little brother when suddenly a large brass container appeared between the stove and the wall. He remembers his little brother going close to the object and a door opening. Billy can still remember that day. In fear for the smallest child, Billy’s dad pulled the baby from the opening and went in himself. The door closed, and the thing disappeared, taking his father away forever. The aliens came back one night and took his little brother too.
Billy still remembers posting signs on the wall, begging the aliens to return his dad. He spent so many nights staring at the night sky, wishing those horrible creatures would bring his father home to him and his ma. Oh, they took his kid brother as well!
Growing up wasn’t easy for Billy, who was treated as a nutcase by the people in town. Everyone sang the same song, Crazy Billy and the aliens. This made Billy ashamed, and eventually he became a shut in. Now at twenty four, Billy met a girl. She had been working with the town nurse, visiting homes and vaccinating kids for some disease. Billy was smitten with the young lass, and the two of them hit it off.
Everything was going great until she asked Billy why his mother lived alone. Billy’s reply? “Dad was taken by aliens!” Cathy laughed in his face. “Aliens, c’mon, I was just curious, you don’t have to tell the truth, but aliens?”
With this, Billy ran away from the girl and home to his now aging mother. “Mom, how did Daddy really die? Did Aliens really take him away?” he asked.
His old mother took Billy in her arms and began to cry. With that, Billy screamed at the ceiling. “Damn aliens, why did you take daddy?”
His mother held him tightly. “Ellen Colson” she said.
Ellen Colson was a lady who lived a few houses down the road. Her house still stands, now in ruins. A long abandoned shack on the side of the road.
“Ellen Colson? Did aliens take her as well? Those damn aliens” Billy shouted.
“No aliens Billy, it was just easier to tell you back then. You remember Ellen, don’t you? Pretty lady, never went nowhere, and suddenly she was having a baby? It was your fathers baby. He and Ellen had the baby and expected me to raise it. You never had a little brother, at least I didn’t give birth to him. He was the son of your father, your half- brother. The son of a bitch expected to bring his mistress and THEIR child to live with the two of us. At first I went along, mostly out of fear that he would beat me. When I could no longer take the lies, I kicked your father and his slutty mistress out of the house, along with the child. That damn kid, couldn’t look at the little bastard. That’s what made me so bitter.
I couldn’t tell you what your father was. You were so young, I knew it would hurt you, so I made up the alien story.
“Mom! All those years. All the time being picked on for believing that dad was taken by creatures from the sky. Always wondering what happened to my little brother. I thought they took him too. Being called Crazy Billy. You could have told me the truth, you should have!” Billy pleaded, tears in his eyes.
“I could have, and should have. I guess all this time I didn’t want to believe it myself. I have letters that he wrote, and I did send him pictures, but I wouldn’t let him come see you, and I never spoke to him face to face since he left.”
“What about the big column that appeared and took him? Was that made up too?”
“You don’t remember the old stove. It was so long ago. We had a hot water tank hooked to the wood stove. It was always red hot. We told you guys not to touch it, or you would get hurt. That was the thing you remember as the space ship that took your dad.” She explained
“Oh Ma” Billy cried as he held his mother in his arms. “I love you, always have. I know how you feel, somehow it is easier to remember dad as the wonderful man who was taken by aliens. At least now I can stop waiting for them to bring him back.”
He picked the Wildwood Flower and the Orange Blossom Special when I was a kid. Mom says that when dad used to play, I would kick up a fuss while in my crib. I would do this until he put the old Gibson Jumbo guitar away. Growing older, I used to love it when dad played music in the house. He bought all the picking records he could find, and just as he taught himself to play guitar, he taught himself to pick out the tunes as well.
Years working, everything from a logger to a construction worker has all but ended his guitar playing. His fingers, twisted and gnarled from the abuse hard work tolls on a person can no longer move fast enough for him to play the way that he used to. The guitar that provided so many great times for family and friends now collects dust from hanging on the wall, a memory from the days that my dad made the strings ring to the hits of yesterday.
Dad always sang while he played. His voice today is still as soft as it was back then, but he rarely sings anymore. Since he can no longer play the guitar, it is almost as if he hurts too much to sing.
He doesn’t talk much about playing anymore. Just the other day my son asked if he would play him a tune. My dad quickly changed the subject and offered him candy instead.
Often I feel selfish. Here I am with long slender fingers that are capable of typing over 70 words per minute on my computer, but yet I lack the skills to play his guitar. I wish for one moment I could offer the speed and limber of my fingers to my dad so that once again, he could play his heart out on the guitar. This is but a wish however, because knowing my dad and the kindness that his heart holds, he wouldn’t allow such a thing to happen, not even for one minute.
I guess I am fortunate to have the memories of my dad’s tunes. As I sit here, my eyes closed, I am taken back to a time when I was but a wee child. My dad is sitting on the couch, the body of his jumbo guitar resting on one knee. His fingers work the strings like an expert, and the beautiful melody that is emitted from his instrument eases everything around me. Thanks for the music Dad.
…as he plucked the strings on his old flattop guitar, it gave him time to think. At first he was glad that they let him bring it in here, but lately he was beginning to regret it. As he played his tunes, memories filled his mind. Memories about the life he once had, his loves and his kids. He thought about the way he handled his troubles, often turning to the bottle before turning to the woman who loved him. At first, booze made everything alright, but that didn’t last long. Eventually the booze brought its own problems, and then where did he turn?
His music used to be a way for him to get away from his pain, but here, locked behind those bars, he had nowhere to run. The others in Cell Block 13 all waited for Roy to pick up his guitar and sing, but if they really listened, they would hear the hurt, confusion and pain in the words.
That damn night! If only he could relive it, everything would be different. Too much to drink, her cheating, the gun; before he knew it, the deed was done. He finished the bottle and turned himself in to the police. Who would have thought that Big Roy Canning, a celebrity in this little town would sink low enough to end the life of his sweet little Madeline?
The trial was quick, his lawyer tried to get him off, but Roy threw himself at the mercy of the Lord himself and pleaded guilty. An angry and disappointed judge sent him in for good. At 57, a twenty five year sentence was as good as a death sentence anyway.
Now the world has forgotten him. All the gold records, all the fans…all gone. The man who hid behind the music was all that was left. His kids never forgave him, and aside from the occasional fame hungry reporter, Roy never had a visitor. These four walls were his only friends. Cold, damp and lonely, he sounded like a line from one of his hit songs.
When he had days like this, he sat on the floor next to the dingy cement walls. With a small hook that he created from a broken fork, he scratched lyrics from songs he had written in to the walls. Writing always gave Roy a release from the harsh reality of the world outside, and for the last few years of his life, a release was just the thing that kept him going. The old crooner lived out the rest of his days in this old brick building. His body cremated, his ashes spread on Music Row by a few loyal fans who remembered him in the good old days. A few speckles of dust in the wind and Roy was gone.
As for the many songs he wrote, so many of them brought joy and happiness to those who listened. While he lived out his life in prison, his songs hit the tops of the charts. Roy may have given up on himself, but his fans didn’t. The lyrics and music that he had written, especially the ones that he left for his fans…scratched on the prison walls were recorded by the newest artists, all proceeds left to his kids and their families. This was the last request that he made to the world; a way to hopefully repay the world for all the trouble the old singer brought into their lives.
If you see Kay, tell her to relax. She has been complaining as of late that she feels used. She should feel used, as she is the most used slang word in the English language! Try to assure her that she is quite a versatile individual. I mean, how else does one use the same word to describe what they did last night with their spouse (we fucked), what they would like to do to someone else’s spouse (I would love to fuck your wife), or basically to procreate. It can be used to describe a totally idiotic individual (dumb fuck), to express your disgust for someone or something (you are a fucking dumbass) , or to do exactly the opposite (Your wife is fucking gorgeous!)
For some, the word Fuck serves as vocal punctuation, and is often used so often that we forget that we hear it. Fuck can be used to make a command clearer to the listener…’Get the Fuck out of here’ works far better than ‘could you please leave’.
When we get excited, we use the word as well. (I can’t fucking believe it, I just won the fucking lottery….or I just fucked your fucking wife!) It can also be used to express fear. (I didn’t mean that I fucked your fucking wife) or sorrow, (I think I just fucked up!)
My cousin Delbert used the word fuck in such a different way. You see Delbert had a speech impediment. He couldn’t say ‘fuck’. Instead of fuck, he used to say ‘Pug’. “Pug Off you pugging bastard…” Same effect, different word. Needless to say, Delbert got beat up a lot, especially when he told bullies to ‘pug off and get the pug outta here!’
One has to wonder just where this very used word came from. I first checked my old Webster’s dictionary, the one I used while in grade school. No such word. I guess only wholesome words were in dictionaries back then. I remember finding the word ‘fornicate’ in the dictionary and laughing my ass off. ‘Fuck’ is so much easier to say and even easier to spell.
Next I went to the web. The Urban dictionary offered a ton of info, such as usage and examples used in sentences, but no real answer to the word’s origin. Then I found Wiktionary. The website, an online ‘wiki’ slash dictionary offered many possibilities.
The website had no proof, but it offered many possibilities to the word’s origin. “undetermined, but probably from Middle English *fucken, *fukken, of North Germanic origin, related to dialectal Norwegian fukka (“to copulate; fuck”), Swedish fokka (earlier “to fuck; thrust; push”, nowadays focka (“to fire from work”)), Swedish fock (“penis”), and Middle Dutch (and Modern Dutch) fokken (“to breed”). It may go back to the Proto-Indo-European *pug-, *puǵ- (“to strike”)”…WAIT A FUCKING MINUTE!!!
What was that? Fuck may have come from the word ‘Pug’ meaning ‘to strike’? Hey, Delbert was right all along. Pugging insane! Who the pug would have thought that the little horned rimmed glasses wearing school uniform dressed functionally illiterate loser would have had the answer all along? Not me, that’s for pugging sure!