Dogs Chicks and Magnets

I went to a dog event yesterday.  The POP dog race event at Columbia Point in Richland.

I took "Biker" my 100 lb.  PitRotLaudor.  The place was bedlam with hundreds of dogs in attendance with their people. 

I lovely young woman came up to Biker who was on his leash.  She was totally dismissive of me taking no notice.  This lovely creature turned her back and bent down and loved on Biker throwing her arms around him rubbing him all over while talking to him softly in baby talk.  I examined her closely for conformation and found her and acceptable specimen - best of show -  in the 14 hand two inch  115  lb category .  Good Lord was she ever acceptable!

I was so jealous!

I need to change. 

I have decided that I am going to go for it.

I don't care how expensive  it  is;  I'm going to get that rabies shot.

BOLO Senior Smart Ass Alert

BOLO 

Dear Blog, 

The smart ass got out of the cage this morning.  Early.  I am out of the three major food groups TP, Paper towels and Dennison’s Original Canned Chili.  If the senior gets to Yokes (Pseudo Yuppie Emporium) Fresh market he can be on time for his scheduled conversation with is daughter at nine am so I go attired in my best Wall Mart retired old fart uniform.   

Earlier I had purchased a corned beef brisket about the size of an ironing board and cooked the entire thing in a fleet of crock pots and Dutch ovens. Having tired ten days of corned beef and cabbage and corned beef hash it is now time for Ruben sandwiches. Yokes have no rye bread, not on the bread isle (pathetic as it was) and not in the artisan bread display.  I’m irritated, as I told the clerk, at this affront to God’s Chosen… a conspiracy no doubt.  We do well to remember that the first thing that Hitler did when he rose to power was to suspend the courts of law.  The second thing he did was take rye bread out of stores.  

 

Being a gourmet cook I get other quality ingredients, possessed imitation Swiss cheese slices, Kraut made from real cabbage (none of that imitation stuff!) and coffee.

So another disappointment.  Coffee.  Yokes doesn’t sell the philistine coffees like other places.  You can’t buy a Colombian, a Jamaican, a French or Italian roast coffee there. No!  You can buy Super dark Breakfast Roast, Mystic River Magic Bean Double Roast, His and Her blend with real pheromones no doubt, Swine Herd’s Favorite, beans shot from an Asian Civet etc.  All of this designed to keep you from knowing what the smurf you are getting.  Now I’m irritated.  I like dark roasts so I get the blackest oiliest shiniest bean I can find.  Of course, the trendy tubes that vend the beans all work just a little bit differently.  I shove the bag up the spout as far as it will go.  I fill the bag with beans.  Then I discover that the bag is way down there and the plunger for the coffee-cut-off about a foot above the bag. my bag is full and the beans are going to spill.  A second bag is out of reach.  So I slowly withdraw my full-to-the-brim bag and the cascade of fugitive beans cascade out of the little catcher at the bottom (where the store blend is mixed no doubt) and filling that up and  many beans spill on the floor rattling, spinning and shining like crunchy jewels on the floor of the emporium. I steal away as best as I can with a cart full of treasures and a bad hip.  The trod upon the beans crackle and scream for store security while I smash them to dust as I make my escape.  

There is only one thing to make up for this dismal trip is more nutritious comfort food ; an eight piece of greasy fried chicken.  I go to the deli.  There is no Chicken in evidence.   A woman, standing perhaps fifteen feet away from me asks if she can help.  She is standing under a huge exhaust fan and cannot hear me.

 

 “When will you have chicken?” 

What?

 When will you have chicken?” 

WHAT?”

“CHICKEN!”

“what?”  (Jesus lady!)

I snapped but hadn’t realized it until after I said:

“YOU KNOW, CHICKEN; A FLIGHTLESS PRECOCIAL BIRD WHICH IS SOMETIMES ROASTED AND EATEN FOR FOOD.” Now I have hooked my thumbs in my armpits and I have begun flapping my elbows while clucking, bobbing my head and scratching the floor with my foot. 

That time Helen Keller got it. 

“Not until nine!”   

In retrospect; I regret not having gone to Wall Mart in the first place where you are allowed to  shoot a recalcitrant employee (they are totally expendable and most are forced to apply for food stamps in order to eke out their miserable existence so it’s almost a duty.)  (Besides they’re just “takers” anyway.) 

I used to be in fear of the grumpy senior citizen stereotype.  Now I see it for what it is; an art form.   

I forgot oatmeal.

I can't wait to discover who or what will piss me off next. 
 

 

 

 

 

Random and Symbolic Un-Victories

In 2012, November, I bought a bic.  It was at the stop and pee.  The usual bic lighter.  I needed a fire in the upstairs fireplace and had not a match in the house. It had a flag motif of Red White and Blue.  I have had it ever since.  This is unusual for me because I lose such things in the Hansel and Gretel trail of my belongings which I leave wherever I may be. 

Sometime later I bought a red bic.  This is because I knew I would lose the red white and blue one.  I week ago a friend came over and left a blue bic.  I was bic rich!

The Patriot lighter gave out but I was so proud I had it for more than a year keeping it in it's special place!  I took up the blue one.  That's when I discovered that Jerry didn't leave the blue lighter, he abandoned it knowing it was out of fuel.  So it was on to the red one. 

I seem to have lost the red one. 

I am beginning to realize how much details with no significance have to people who are idle. 

Maybe I will buy an adjustable Bic this time. 

I heart you all!

How about that pretender at the Mandela service pretending to sign! Talk about big huge salty South African balls! There was an earlier story about the appalling lack of security at the event and then some fool gets up on the podium and waives his hands about in what may have been American Sign a request for an unsecured loan or an attempt to order the antipasto in Italian. Worse yet, when the citizens of South Africa booed their president, the mime didn't put that in either. A big "L" to the forehead! I'm sure they know who they are. At the very least we could have loaned them some of our Airport Breast Milk Police.

What did I say?

Two weeks ago I had both an upper and a lower GI done at Dr. Sitti's house of gastro-something-ology.  During this procedure a team from the north was to travel through my body in  a southern direction to meet explorers from the south headed northward where they would drive the golden spike and have a photo op (or something). 

I was given a substance which caused me to become very unfocused but not unconscious.  I remember seeing lots of pink on the nifty portable TV screen the doctor had there.  I don't know if it was "up pink" or "down pink" but I'm pretty sure it was "my pink."  I thought that I would remember being penetrated at some time given that a mobile news crew was going live on location inside of me.

My first issue is that I wanted to remember it so I could hold on to the drama.  Now I'm merely another hapless victim who got so messed up they didn't remember what happened.  I know there was compressed gas involved! 

My second issue is that my chauffeur informed me after the procedure that I kept the clinic staff laughing loudly for 43 minutes some 16 minutes longer than my usual routine.  I have enough issues that I could have said any number of things like "Kiss me Doc." I might have told them about the time we took that runaway down to Ray's Shell and traded her for an oil job.  There is a lot of running room between small talk and privilege.  I wonder where my skid marks are?

I wonder, I wonder I wonder; but I really don't want to know.

Still Saturday

Since retirement my motto is "Every day is Saturday" This has caused me to have to undertake a new naming scheme for the days of the week. Today is Saturday so it is "Sat-Sat"; yesterday was Fri-Sat - you get the drift.

The other day I was going to my friends house when it struck me that I was still retired. I hadn't been in touch with that for a while and it made me giddy. Today is a trip to a friends house where I shall play three or four fiddle tunes and where I shall have Kraut Rouladen; cabbage rolls stuffed with good stuff.  

Fiddling if coming.  I am playing out from time to time.  There is a jam this afternoon at the Burbank Grange.  I'm headed for dinner so will miss that.  Still I am playing some nights at Washington Old Time Fiddlers (WOTFA) and the jams at Round Table Pizza in Richland and Pasco.  I'm presently working on "Devil's Dream" and "Liberty" and playing them with "Ash Grove", "Amazing Grace" and "Ashokan Farewell"

I have been trying to clean up my home office by throwing out 15 years of neglect.  So far the plan is a simple one; On Garbauge-Day have my 128 Gallon status can at the curb full of offerings for Trash Tringle.  Presently my home is like one of those puzzles where you shove the little numbers around in the frame to get them in order; I have to plan an escape route for every piece of stuff I throw out.  If I am to arrange some papers I have to create a spot for them to go before I can do the arranging.  So far the office is one-third picked up and I have made a shrine for my cigar humidor.  I have thrown out seven crates of an estate I worked on, and personal records back into the 1990's. I have stuff in the office that I have been stepping over for more than a year; it all needs to go. 

At least my collection of fiddle music is in one pile and I have my three hole punch located along with my notebook so my music might actually go in one folder.  (I'm not too optimistic as prior attempts have resulted in several books which are badly organized and, at this time fugitive.

My border who was to pay rent or preform labor left under the cover of darkness leaving small appliances, food and clothing.  He paid no rent, he preformed no labor having laid around downstairs for weeks at a time.  His name is Jeff Dollins; he claims to be a contractor.  I have witnessed his work ethic and should you be approached by him for anything he is best avoided because he is worthless and does not keep his word. 

In any case, I have my basement back and will retake the man cave for the Winter.  I need a new TV for down there and I'm set.  Just need a bigger TV. 

la cucaracha

I said to my Mexican friend:

"pity the poor cockroach,
he cannot walk,
because he has no marijuana to smoke."

She said; "Yes there is a song about that."

Who could have possibly imagined?