One of the funnier stories I've heard in my life was told to me by a man in the early stages of Alzheimer's. It has been a number of years since "Flaps" told this story, and time has worn smooth some of the more precise edges, but I'll do my best to push this story across to y'all as well as it was told to me.
During World War II, Flaps was training to be a fighter pilot. He had cleared every hurdle, and was scheduled to report for duty on the USS Wasp within a few weeks. They were still training in Rhode Island while they were preparing to ship out, and they ran drills almost daily. One fine morning, Flaps was taxiing down the runway when his plane did an abrupt face-plant. Undeterred, he ran back to their staging area to try and get in another plane and rejoin his flight group. He turned a bit too soon as he was pulling the Hellcat out the line, and managed to drag the back of his plane through the spinning prop of the plane next to him, ruining both aircraft. Not one to crumble in the face of adversity, Flaps finally managed to get airborne in his third plane of the day. That plane promptly malfunctioned over the bay, and he had to put it into the drink.
After he was fished out of the bay, military protocol required him to report to the clinic and rest for a minimum of two hours. Two hours and five minutes after he reported to the clinic, he was standing in the office of his commanding officer, inquiring about his next mission.
Without glancing up from the papers at his desk, his CO barked the following:
"Churton (Flaps), I see you're scheduled to go up again at 4:30. I'd love to let you go up this afternoon, but according to this report, we are running low on planes."
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Maybe Flaps was just trying to get all of his bad luck out his system early. It must have worked, as Flaps went on to fly Hellcats off the Wasp in the Pacific theater, and his luck held out through that war and for a long string of years and decades to follow.
Paul "Flaps" Churton, my ex-wife's paternal grandfather, passed away this morning at the tender young age of 87. He was a magnificent man with a twinkle in his eye and a warm laugh, and he will be deeply missed.
They don't make them like that anymore. __________________________________
I have this mental "trick" that I break out when I lose someone I care about. I image that person forever engaged in an activity that made them happy. Each scenario for each lost loved one is as different as the individual, and sadly my list is longer than I'd like, and will never get shorter.
So today I've been picturing Flaps, aviator's helmet pulled down over his massive namesake ears, grin on his face, and twinkle in his eye. And he's just blasting through the gap in the two blues: the sky above and the Pacific below. Sunlight glinting off the fuselage, and his Hellcat's engine a mere extension of his own ambitions. Throttle wide open, mind calm, soul at peace, and eyes on the horizon.
Note: photo and post are unrelated, aside from the "missionary" part.
I have a friend that I've known over thirty years. Growing up, he was the voice of caution, and a model of patience: the perfect counterbalance to my half-crazed youthful exuberance. I am sure that about 90% of the trouble he was called to account for as a child was a direct result of my involvement. Even to this day, I believe his parents must think of me with some trepidation. The two times I've seen them in the past five years, they still seem a bit leery of me; as if at any moment I might start shouting profanities while flinging feces and starting fires.
But they came by their apprehensions honestly. I was (for lack of a better phrase) a total shit when I was younger: headstrong, impulsive, naïve, and shameless. I literally have the scars to prove it. I often did brainless things like removing the rubber suction cups from the end of darts and (with the help of tape and glue) replacing them with hat pins.
Like this, only extremely pointy and dangerous.
And once I learned that blow-molded plastic could be easily altered with the judicious application of heat, I set about negating the earnest safety efforts of manufacturers and parental watchdog groups while simultaneously equipping my neighborhood friends with the finest eye-removing toys I could create.
It's a miracle no one was seriously hurt.
But perhaps the greater miracle is that I was never banned from seeing any of my childhood and neighborhood friends, and to this day remain on good terms with many of them. The aforementioned friend is no exception. In the thirty years since we first met, my friend has managed to become a minister/pastor/reverend of a popular denomination, and I've managed not to shoot out one or both of my eyes. So things have worked out well for both of us.
Three or four times a year we get together and do lunch, and our conversations are always fun, even if our interests and lifestyles aren't quite in synchronization.
Typical conversation:
Rev. Friend: We're expanding the church and adding a "cry room" to the sanctuary.
Me: Hmm. Cool. I ate bacon off my counter that had been sitting out for two days.
Rev. Friend: Hmm. Cool. They're bringing in another pastor to help with the visitation of the hospitalized and the shut ins.
Me: Hmm. Cool. I keep noticing weird bones amongst the piles of dogshit in my backyard.
Rev. Friend: Hmm. Cool. Blah blah blah.
Me: Hmm Cool. Blah blah blah.
And so things have gone for the past five years since he's been back in town. It's not awkward or uncomfortable; we know each other well enough by now that we aren't unsettled by each other. Plus we're both over thirty, and therefore as about as exciting as the Helen Keller Simulator. Our lives have become models of predictable banality and routine, and I think we are both thankful for the stability.
But throughout our conversations that are carried out through a series of disinterested grunts, he keeps mentioning his (and his church's) in-town missionary work. Every time he brings it up, he sees my eyes light up, and finds me listening with rapt attention (a opposed to "rapped attention," which is just Chuck D repeating the word 'attention' to a cheesy backbeat). Also, every time he brings it up, I offer to go with and help out the next time the spirit moves them to help others.
A few Wednesdays gone, he finally took me up on my offer, and I found myself leaving work a bit early, so that I might tend to my dogs before racing across town to the local John 3:16 Mission. I arrived with time to spare; time that I subsequently wasted trying to get my car alarm to engage. Up to that very moment, my car alarm had never given me a moments trouble, and it had apparently decided to wait until it was parked in the roughest area it had ever seen to leave itself vulnerable. Fine. Whatever. NowI'm late. I hurried off to find my friend.
Turns out he had been watching me from across the street, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing, what with my opening and closing my car doors multiple times. After a brief explanation, he introduced me to one of his parishioners we headed off down the block towards the Mission.
Me: Hmm. Cool. Anybody else gonna show? Or is it just the three of us?
Rev. Friend: Hmm. Cool. Well, it's summer, so most people are away on break. But we should be able to keep up with just the three of us.
Me: Hmm. Cool. What will they have us doing?
He explained that we'd be helping serve dinner to everyone, or anything else they needed. And then he clarified: The church member and I would be serving dinner - my friend would be taking prayer requests and praying with the people gathered there. I quickly realized that he had the harder of the two jobs, as I was in NO way prepared to hear about the hardships of those gathered there. Serving food should be a snap compared to that. I'd be able to keep smiling the entire time if I wanted to.
We walked in the front door and I was struck by the diversity of the people at this shelter. Racially, the shelter's occupants were more varied than this Dove ad, although not quite as female or unclothed. And even though I suspected they likely weren't, they appeared economically striated as well: some looked like they had walked straight out of a Bumfights clip, while others looked like they just finished off the back nine. All types and kinds. Even a few families.
We made our way to the back of the building, washed up, and started preparing everything for the evening meal. Apparently, we had pulled a "lucky" meal for our shift: pizza. Not much to do in the way of preparation. Load 96 trays with pizza, mixed veggies, and peaches. Place them at one of many tables, along with tea, napkins, and utensils. Pretty easy, and made even easier by the help of the mission's "students"; at-risk youth that John 3:16 was mentoring. One of the students started singing "Basketball" by Kurtis Blow, and it was all of ten seconds before I was singing harmony on the chorus (the only part I could remember). The prep and distribution flew by.
Then, as people were filing into the dining room, I was asked to serve seconds to anyone that wanted them. As it turned out, almost everyone wanted seconds. It also turned out that I had exactly 5.2 boxes of medium pizza left. Now, I've never been a crackerjack at math, but I could tell pretty fast that fifty slices of pizza wouldn't split well between 96 people, especially when the first ten or so people through the line specifically requested more than one slice. Being new to the whole "hand out second helpings at the shelter" routine and having no staff member nearby for guidance, I obliged every individual in line as best I could as I got closer and closer to the last box of slices. When I hit that last box, I just started giving out one slice at a time.
Shit, I'm going to run out and there will be an irate mob accusing me of giving out too many slices to the first people... I set my jaw and handed out the last of the pizza. Then I turned and addressed the rest of the line.
"Sorry, we're out of pizza. We still have some mixed vegetables and peaches left," I said while mentally bracing myself for a chorus of angry shouts.
They peppered me with furious shouts of "Ok, sir," or "That's all right," or "I'd love some more peaches," or "God bless you anyway."
"Uh....Sorry again," I stammered when I realized they were in NO ways angry or upset. And then I proceeded to feel like a total dick for even imagining that they would be.
.....
Later, as I was mopping the floor, my pastor friend caught up to me. He'd been busy too, seeing that anyone with a prayer request was heard. His list wasn't 96 names long, but the names and prayers on the list once again drove home how well I have things, and how I need to get up off my dead ass more often and give something back, even if it is something as simple as volunteering.
Byron – for his family in New Orleans
Derek – for his family (keep them healthy)
Bobby – for his brother, Tim, to get out of prison, and that he himself would get an apartment
Joseh – that he would find a job with work for him 5 days a week, not just 1 or 2 days at a time
Gary – lung infection
Robert – offers a prayer of thanks to God for sending His Son Jesus for our salvation
Filip – he asks for financial security, and that he would be closer to God
Larry – for his daughters (unsettled marriages), and for his son who is living with a woman though not married (that he would realize this isn’t right in God’s eyes)
Elmer – that he would find work, and that God would protect his home and family
Eric – that he would find work
Tiffany – that God would help in her relationship with her boyfriend, that He would be with her family, and that she would find a job
Brian – that he would find a job, and that he would have good health
Justin – that his doctor appointment on July 29th would go well so that he is able to get into his apartment on August 1st (the doctor visit is required for the type of housing he is trying to get)
My "unprotected" car was completely unharmed, and my alarm has worked perfectly ever since. Maybe my car was trying to set an example. You know, letting down its guard.
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Annie Lennox - Missionary Man Missionary Man on YouTube I'm pretty sure her outfit in that video is the reason Annie Lennox was featured in most of my adolescent bondage fantasies. That and her riding crop from Sweet Dreams.
Here's a far less sexy video included in the "Mission" theme:
Lots of people will tell you that to properly hydrate yourself during a workout, you should drink plenty of water, or even something full of electrolytes. Those people are idiots. Only the truly professional athletes can let you in on a trade secret: Pound the Pabst. Before, during, and after the workout. Not only does the alcohol keep you loose, but fighting the urge to vomit up beer foam can be a welcome distraction from the grueling tedium of your routine. Your workout will just FLY by! And eventually so will your liver functionality.
The Eye Of The Tiger!
Seriously, don't drink while you workout. It's really difficult. And possibly counterproductive. Big ups to Brent for capturing this hilarious photo. _________________________________________
Regarding this last image: I'm inclined to crazy-glue a spread-legged Barbie to the knees of Apollo Creed, facing the character. That way every time you access data, Carl Weathers goes down for a light snack. He's the only one who would look like he was enjoying himself, and honestly Barbie deserves a man who is into it.
The names have been left out to protect the guilty. Also, most of the people mentioned herein are now lawyers, and I know better than to go poking a bear.
Back in my college days, I had this friend. He was an alright guy, and like most of my other college friends, he was able to consume massive amounts of alcohol rapidly with almost no discernible effects. Having never been so "lucky" in that regard, I usually wound up passed out on the floor after six or seven beers (these days it only takes four).
One evening, I was well over my limit while partying with this particular friend. And his roommate. And about four other friends. And a dog. Anyhow, we all had a wild night (except the dog) that included the strip bar followed by some mild gutter-barfing. Truly, you would have been hard pressed to find a classier bunch of people wandering the streets at half past midnight. We finally arrived back at his apartment, and after belching up beer foam for about forty-five minutes, I managed to pass out cold on their couch.
Miraculously, my friends somehow resisted the urge to draw two dicks and a chinstrap on my face while I slept, but possibly only because of their own alcohol-induced blackouts.
OK, nowyou're ready to meet the governor!
But in retrospect, I think I would have preferred a Sharpie-cock to what actually happened. You see, even the most permanent of markers will wash off in a few days, but nightmarish memories are immune to water and soap. Even that pumice-filled Lava soap won't make a dent in those occasional life events that stain your very soul. So filthy...I'll never feel clean again.
The above expression about "alcohol-induced blackouts" was not 100% accurate. Or perhaps the blackouts were just short lived. Whatever the case, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I awoke because my organs had completely processed all of my beer and needed to give it back to nature. I didn't open my eyes or sit up, I was just awake and lying still on the couch, needing to take a wicked piss. But I couldn't move, because something was WRONG.
As an aside, I'd like to point out that it's a shame that humans haven't developed earlids. Want to stop looking at something? Close your eyelids, or just look in another direction. Want to stop hearing something? Tough shit. Short of sticking your fingers in your ears, there's not much you can do beyond humming a happy song in your head while praying for an end to the offending cacophony.
The first noise I noticed was the obvious sound of two people fucking. Assuming you're not high on glue, there's no mistaking that noise for anything else. As I had been roommates with both of the current occupants of this apartment, I had (sadly) become familiar with their wails and shouts and grunts, as well as those of their respective girlfriends. Only this didn't sound like either of them. In fact as I listened further, I realized that these sounds weren't muffled by walls and doors... Oh, goddammit! That's coming from in THIS room. A few more seconds passed before I pegged the noise: audio from a porn flick. Shit. I listened for a few more seconds, trying to pick out a noise I didn't want to hear. Fuck. There it is. You filthy bastard. During a lull in the porno's "dialogue" was the unique sound, like the flat side of a spatula repeatedly and rhythmically slapping a glazed ham.
Muthafucka!
Don't ask what's in the glaze. Just don't.
My friend thought I was passed out, so he took advantage of the opportunity to pop in a porno, pull a kitchen chair in front of the TV, and grease the weasel. I guess I should be thankful he didn't just sit down on the edge of the couch upon which I "slept".
So, there I am locked in the horns of a dilemma. Do I lie there, feigning sleep while he finishes hosting his own one-man crotch party? Or do I sit up and start asking questions I don't really want answered? Couldn't you do that in any other room? Or maybe just wait until after I stumble home in the morning?Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK are you thinking? As unappealing as the second option seemed, the first scenario was even worse. I couldn't just lie there. I just couldn't. No way. Too fucking weird. And I REALLY had to pee.
I quite suddenly realized the solution to the problem. Taking care to keep my eyes as closed as possible, I stood up and staggered off into the bathroom, acting like nothing out of the ordinary was going on. After I took care of my most pressing concern in the bathroom, I loitered for a few extra minutes, making fake fart noises and throwing in a few extra flushes to try and really sell it. Three or four minutes later I walked out of the bathroom and into a living room that was now empty, silent, and dark. Not wanting to endure a reprise the next time I awoke, I decided to play it safe and I trekked home.
The next day, as we all gathered to continue our wild adventures of young ignorance, I had to confront my friend, especially since there were others present to join in the ridicule. And there was much mockery and laughing and shame. Well, maybe not shame. But as soon as our throats became raw from all the taunting, one of my other friends shared another story. Apparently, this wasn't the first time my friend's chronic masturbatorial habits infringed upon the comfort of others.
About two months prior, his roommate and another friend had returned home with a few "dancers" from the skin bar. As the roommate unlocked and opened the front door, there sat my friend, passed out in a chair with his pants around his ankles in front of a TV that was blasting out Dirty Doctors Volume Four. The "ladies" had to wait on the stoop for three or four minutes while my friend was helped to his room by the shouts and sharp kicks of his roommate.
But even that tale isn't the crown jewel of his escapades. The best story came from my friend himself. To this day, WHY he chose to tell us this story remains a complete mystery. Perhaps he was able to step outside his body, and see that the story was so fantastic that it couldn't be contained. Or perhaps he was born without a sense of shame or dignity. He did become a lawyer, after all.
...
My friend was (and still is) an avid golfer, and was constantly striving to improve his game. Hours at the driving range, some coaching from a golf pro, gimmicky products...my friend tried all kinds of ways. He even went so far as to video tape himself both putting and swinging, in an effort to see where he needed to make improvements.
So, the Thanksgiving before he headed off to college, all of his extended family was at his parents house, and he and his uncle began discussing golf. My friend mentioned that he had taped his swing and his putting, and his uncle insisted that they watch the tape. Soon cousins and aunts and grandmothers were all gathered around the television in the living room, waiting to see the golf swing tape.
They all examined his golf swing, and his uncle quickly concluded that my friend was swaying his hips too much before he made contact with the ball. They (the entire family) sat and watched and waited for the swinging to give way to the putting footage.
They were then treated to a slight amount of static, followed by roughly three seconds of my friend vigorously fingering the perpetrator, followed by a bit more static, followed by putting footage.
According to my friend, nobody talked much after that. Not even during dinner. Except for his grandmother, who burst out laughing every time she looked at him.
...
When my friend finished telling his story, every question we threw at him started with the word "why". I never did get an answer to my favorite question: "Why the fuck would you film yourself rubbing one out?" I mean, if you want to know what you look like when you're milking your own udder, get a damn mirror. Or just look down for christ sake.
I can understand why some guys feel the need to film themselves having sex with women: because those guys are horrible shitbags void of character. But solo? Filming your self masturbating is just retarded.
Rejected titles for this post: Ease Up On Your Backswing Loosen Your Grip Widen Your Stance
Need a laugh? Click THIS LINK and scroll down to the part labeled Anomalous Anal Ghost Phenomena. I almost wish it was a joke. Almost. That's just about the best excuse I've EVER heard.
02 July 2009
I would have updated sooner, but I really didn't feel like it. Still don't, as a matter of fact. But I figure if I don't put something out here every so often, the few eyeballs I've managed to attract thus far will lose interest and go back to surfing for goat porn.
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Thanks to all for participating in the photo caption from a couple of weeks past. Out of all the submissions, "BEER RUN" was my favorite.
Even still, I feel like I need to throw out a few of my own. So I will...
"Hey bro, why is your van leaking all that chunky oil onto my carpet?" or "No, goddammit! I said get dressed for an A-LIST party!" or "Jerry, I don't care if we ARE a 'Full-Serve' gas station! You can fire me if you want to, but I'm not pumping that guy's gas." or Dave finally found a way to stealthily masturbate in public.
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While I think ponchos have their place in this world (namely Clint Eastwood movies), I've never wanted to own one myself. Until I saw this ad, anyway. Now I'm not so sure.
Bitch aint even COLD.
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So, apparently if you're a celebrity needing to kick start your flagging career with low-cost PR, dying is one surefire method.
re: the 'Inside' section... Why can't it be both? Zombie Princess in Morocco! I smell a Mike Bay movie.
Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Billy Mays, and MJ have all recently cashed in on the "free publicity" death train. A bunch of whore mongering, prima donna media sluts, if you ask me. Obviously their deaths are just transparent last ditch efforts to reignite guttering careers. And apparently, I'm not supposed to say anything unkind about ANY of these people now that they're gone. Not even the awesome food poisoning joke about trying to swallow an 8-year-old wiener. Somehow, their recent passing temporarily shields them from our scrutiny and mockery, as we try to remember the good things they brought to this world. Even that alleged child-rapist, Billy Mays. [\sarcasm]
Quite a few people have told me over the past week that they felt emotionally effected by the passing of Michael Jackson. I would wrinkle my nose and comment that I was more broken up over the passing of Ms. Fawcett, which would typically elicit confused looks from whomever I was talking with. But Michael Jackson was the KING of pop! or Thriller was the best selling album ever! or He was so dynamically talented! or some variant thereof is usually thrown back at me. And I'll grant that those things are true.
But here are the twin forks of my counter argument: 1) Farrah Fawcett never (allegedly) molested children. 2) I've never tossed off to a picture of MJ in a red bathing suit (also allegedly). But now that MJ has passed, it occurs to me that I might actually be able to listen to his music without thinking about the horrors he inflicted on others (allegedly). Maybe.
While recuperating from sinusitis/summer cold/H1N1 on the couch yesterday, I attempted to watch television between the hours of noon and four. After flipping between the talking heads on the various cable "news" channels (and an occasional stop on MTV to watch some show about women who are into douche-bag guys), I was about ready gouge out my own eyes. Then, I rediscovered CSPAN. No commercials, no scrolling distractions, no shouting matches, just experts dully covering facts about issues. I hadn't watched CSPAN in about ten years, and I'd forgotten how much I enjoy it. And how easily it can lull me to sleep.
I think I'm in love with that channel. If I could find a way, I'd totally fuck CSPAN. And it would be hot, and sweaty, and droning and dull.
