Friday, April 29, 2005

Bad Joke Day

Friday can be the bad joke day. I was going to tell this one awhile back but I held off for obvious reasons. Now here goes the worst joke I know and love.

Stretch Starbucks was slapping back his last beer for the evening when a young man sat next to him at the bar and asked if he could buy Stretch another beer. Stretch obliged and drank another beer and another and another. After awhile he opened up with the young fellow and asked him his name. “What is your name my new young friend?”

The young man told him, “My name is Fred Johnson.”

“Fred Johnson, my name is Stretch Starbucks. It is an absolute honor to meet you. I have now met every person in the world.”

Fred first thought it was the beer talking for Stretch, but as the evening drew on Fred came to realize Stretch wasn’t kidding when he said he knew everyone in the whole world. At least it was obvious that Stretch thought that to be the case.

Then the evening turned toward the adventurous, Stretch looked to Fred and said I’ll bet you $1,000 I do know everyone in the whole world. Fred instantly seized on the easy money making opportunity. “You’re on.” Fred slapped $1,000 down on the bar in front of Stretch.

“What do I do to prove to you I know everyone in the whole world, Fred Johnson?” Stretch asked.

“Let me think of someone you will not know.” Fred began to think. “Okay you don’t know George Bush”.

“I certainly do know him. Are you speaking of the son or the dad?”

“The dad”

“Fred, George and I go way back to the early 80s or the late 70s. It just happens to be that I read this morning in the local paper the ex-President will be in town for a speech tomorrow. Let’s go together and see him.”

“Your on.”

The next morning the two met at the Hilton downtown and walked to the front desk. As they walked up to the desk a secret service man came up and said, “Stretch, Mr. Bush is waiting for you up stairs.” The two were led up stairs and to Fred’s surprise it became very obvious the two, George Bush and Stretch Starbucks were friends.

As the Stretch and Fred were leaving the hotel Stretch told Fred that it wasn’t fair because he had known the ex-President for so long. He gave Fred another opportunity to make back his money.

Fred wanted to make this one count. “Let’s see. You don’t know, um, Bill Gates.”

“I’m sorry I really do. But I’ll prove it to you”

That day the two chartered a plane and flew to Seattle. Took a ferry across the sound and arrived at Bill Gates secluded and well-guarded island estate. At the dock Bill Gates himself met them. Fred was just beside himself. “What is a guy to do?”

Stretch looked at Fed and told him how terrible he felt about taking Fred’s money. So he offered another double or nothing chance.

Fred went to work on this one. Who could he think of that didn’t know Stretch? “I got it. The new Pope Benedict XVI.”

Stretch laughed and laughed. “That is a nice try but I do know him as well.” So off to the Vatican they went.

When they arrived at the Vatican and they were standing outside, Stretch told Fred that only invited guests were allowed into the Pope’s apartment. “So how am I to know if you actually know the Pope?” Fred asked.

“Let’s see. Will you allow me to go in and see if the Pope would come to that balcony up there and wave to you? And I’ll be standing next to him.” He asked pointing to a balcony way overhead.

Fred thought, well if he can get in and actually get to the point of that balcony that’s proof enough. “Sure. I’ll wait right here.”

An hour or more passed as Fred stood idly below the balcony. Looking up and all around he waited. Then after an hour and a half two men appeared on the balcony waiving down at Fred. Fred couldn’t quit make out the face of the man standing next to Stretch. He squinted and squinted but no clear image availed him.

Then out of nowhere a drunk and disheveled man or wino if you will, stumbled up to Fred and asked for money. Fred looked at the man and said, “I’ll give you money if you could tell me who is standing on the balcony up there.” He pointed the two men out to the drunkard sot.

After several minutes of trying to focus the old drunk looked to Fred and said, “I don’t know who the guy in the white rope is, but that’s Stretch Starbucks standing next to him.”

I told you it was bad. Have a nice weekend.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Dragon Fighting

I am out fighting the dragons again today. My goal is to save two different businesses from being shut down and putting all those hard working people out on the street. The state sees it entirly different than I do. They think all these evil businessmen and businesswomen need to be put out of work and enslave them in some state work camp.

Two years ago I had to do the same in Pablo and Fortine Montana. The state was willing to put the hard working folks in those little towns out of work because they were hicks.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Heads Up

Marijuana Party Launches Campaign

I don’t know if anyone has seen the news from Canada today but it’s worth taking note. They have a new political party, The Marijuana Party, has fired their first shot or more like, lit its first bowl. First there was Bush who coined the phrase “Freedom on the march” and now not to be out done, Canada gives us “Stoners on the march”.

Its about time someone stood up and told the rest of the world that the 70s generation is taking over dammit. From the generation that brought you disco, polyester, The BeeGees, Lionel Richie, Barretta, and Mork and Mindy. They now bring us procrastination at its best. The “Party” is starting an international push to take over the world, as soon as they get off the damn couch. The revolution has begun, so are you with them or not? I mean if you’re tired or have something better to do right now you can join them later. They move rather sloooooowly. They aren’t in a real big hurry.

I don’t know about you but I’m joining today and by god my wife and kids are too. Hell even the two dogs and both cats will throw in and join. Actually I don’t know about one of the dogs, we’ve always thought he was working undercover for the FBI.

I have no idea why no one has ever thought of this before. With the word “party” in it they should have come up with years ago. I can see the slogans now. “Got Fritos!” “Hay dude, I forgot.” “You know we’re your best friends, we have a bag” and a whole bunch more I just forgot what they were.

The party spokesman says that their party is either criminal or mainstream because he believes everyone has smoked, still smokes, and knows someone who smokes or has smoked the blessed herb. I think if he’s looking for a party that truly represents everyone he needs to have a party of those who know Rosie Palm or have played with their own man in a boat.

Monday, April 25, 2005

Pot Stirring

I have to admit the last post was a personal axe I wanted to grind. I have no intention of turning this particular blog into another political arena. God knows there are too many of those types of blogs already. I was just in one of those "fuck you" moods last Friday and I had had it with the bullshit from guys like Bill Maher and Michael "Super-size it" Moore. Then when I think about it who gives a flying fuck what those reprobates think? Hell, who gives a flying fuck about what I think? But itis fun to rile my close friend and confidant the much loved Rev. Dr. Abigambi.

I can see his blood red eyes right after seeing my post about the infamous "7 minutes". He blew out the remains of the stem-smoke, spit the resin that had collected on his lip, wiped the finger smears from his Lennon-glasses on his ever present dirty Hawaiian shirt and said, "That fucking Pirate. cough, who in the fuck does he think he is, coming to the aid of a silver spooned kid like Bush? cough! He sold us out. That bastard. I'm telling his Uncle Bob."

He hasn't been quit the same since Gonzo blew his fucking head off. Now he knows how I feel when Mike Ryko assumed room temperature. When a pot stirrer leaves the ranks of the breathing it takes awhile for the vacuum to be filled. And sometimes you see some comments in the wrong light before you can decipher what the hell the jerk at the keyboards is trying to say. Plus I'm just trying to find my sea legs and seeing if Gonzo can be replaced. Cough....

Notes to my fellow blog friends. Run right out if you don't already have one and get J.J. Cales 20th anniversary CD. And while your at it pick up John Prine's In Spite of Ourselves or his Common Sense CDs. These are excellent songwriters and not so bad singers who can spin a tale while you write. I listened to Cale all weekend while I worked on one of the novels I'm trying to complete. I don't know if the prose I was putting down did any good but I feel better anyway.

Mrs. Pirate and myself also had a great weekend as old farts. Little sister was off watching a softball tournament, Slick spent the weekend with friends and Jock had the prom. So we were left at home with our own devices. Chinese takeout, a couple microbrews and a Gary Cooper flick put us in the mood. The mood was as far as we got until she passed out. I won't tell you what happened after she passed out because I wouldn't want anyone to think I was your average low-life Pirate. No I respected her, hell she's the mother of three of my kids for Godsake. So I went up stairs and porked Rosie Palm and her five sisters and left the beautiful and gracious Mrs. Pirate asleep on the sofa. Besides Rosie doesn't care if I want to get up afterwards and watch more TV.

Until tomorrow....

Friday, April 22, 2005

Seven Minutes

I know I have said in the past that I leave my bitch sessions for Monday but I am a damn Pirate and you can't always believe what I say. The other day I was watching Jay Leno and he had Bill Maher as a guest. Now I used to watch his old show, Politically Incorrect which was misnamed of course. I don't know if any of you ever watched the program but it was without a doubt another liberal vehicle for spouting off against conservatives or Republicans. There was nothing politically incorrect about the show, unless you count the fact they always pitted one conservative guest against three plus Maher himself. The only thing that they ever saw as politically incorrect was the conservative view.

I agree with Maher on many things. I agree that many of the right-wing religious folks tend to promote zealotry more than anything else and least not compassion for an opposing view. I was always told that God gave you two ears and one mouth so you should use them in that order and many of the zealots seem to be more audio then reception as do their counterparts on the left.

This said, brings me to the constant diatribe from the half-funny comedians on the left like Maher and Jon Stewart and the war profiteer, Michael "Fast Food" Moore. If I hear another one of these dolts on television or on the radio waves discussing the "7 minutes" Bush sat there and read the goat book to the school chidren after hearing of the Twin Towers attack, I'm going to shoot my television or drop kick my radio. These dolts are always in a position to carry on this bullshit about the 7 minutes, in an arena, where there is never another person around to counter their lie.

I, like Bush, and most likely everyone else on that day, other than the heroes on the police and firefighting forces, sat stunned as we watched in horror as fellow citizens were murdered by militant Islamists. We were all stunned and from our place of observation there was nothing any of us could have done. These liars from the left would all like us to believe that Bush should have done something at the very second. They have implied that by sitting there with the children he also endangered the lives of those children. We've had presidential candidates claim they would have done differently if they had been in charge on that imfamous morning. Even though actual accounts of their actions on that day mirrored all of ours.

Now the President of the United States has many responsibilities and can make a lot of decisions that affect the world. He/she can appoint people we either support or dispise. He/she can support positions that produce debate. He/she can provide guidelines for budget spending and budget reductions, but they do not and have never had the responsibility of the President's safety.

The responsibility of the President's safety falls squarely on the shoulders of the Secret Service and not the President themselves. With this in mind, I am confident that at that very moment in our history, the Secret Service deemed the safist place for the President of the United States was sitting there in that classroom with those children reading that book about the goat. If they thought for one nano second that hiding in the ditch across the street from the school or hanging from the Staute of Liberty waving his middle finger at the rest of the world was the safist place be assured they would have carried his ass there.

To continue bringing up the "7 minutes" is simply the left telling the rest of us schmoozes how stupid they think we all are. Enough said on the "7 minutes", enough said on Bush.

I planned to post the third installment of the vampire story today but the disk gods destroyed the disk I had stored it on. So I need to rewrite the third chapter. I already have chapters 4, 5 and 6 completed. So this weekend I have a task.

I also want to thank those who have found my stories on my family and on my childhood entertaining. That means a lot to me. I too have enjoyed your postings. I would appreciate you telling anyone that you think would be interested in these stories about them. I would also encourage some of you to revisit them. My goal is to some day find a means to have some of the stories put into print. If anyone has any idea how I could do this please let me know.


Thursday, April 21, 2005

The Boys

As you may have gathered from my previous posts that God has granted me the fortune to have two boys and two girls. The daughters are the bookends and the boys take up the middle. Yesterday, my boy's high school track team had a meet with a rival school. A rich kid school if you will. It was a great sunny day, perfect for a track meet.

The younger brother, Slick had been suspended or academically ineligible until yesterday so it was his first meet. He was nervous as he could be. Being a freshman and not ever participating in an event this big he was all nerves. During his suspension he had been practicing with the team but not able to participate in the meets. This being the case his participation in practice had been lacking at best (I secretly think he is only doing the sport so he can check out the girls in shorts and tank tops, a good little Pirate). His coach had put him down for the 1500 meter run. He came and sat by me prior to his run and got his "dad hugs" in (he's that kind of kid) and kept telling me he was feeling sick. He tried everything he could to have me say, son why don't you skip it this time. Unfortunately I wouldn't play. You'll do just fine bud, go do it.

Suffice it to say he did great. He didn't place and he didn't tear up the track but he finished strong. At the end of the second lap I could see he was looking for away to quit. He ran by with his hand on his stomach and a glance up to me. I kept yelling for him as if he was beating the pack. "Come on Bud you're looking great, keep it up."

After the race he walked around proud as a peacock. You'd thought he had just kicked everybody's butt. Then he hit me up for money for the snack bar. I watched him wonder about the rest of the meet talking with friends, laughing and encouraging others. He made me proud.

The older boy, Jock faired a bit better. He being one of the premier sprinters at the school enjoyed the success he has came to consider common place since his freshman year. He ran personal bests in the 100m, 200m and their 4X100 relay kicked ass one more time. Then the event of the day, the 4X400 relay. The race that pits the four best runners from each school against each other. The stands were packed. The student bodies were in their places at the final turn, both teams were hitting on all pistons. The meet came down to this last event. The winner would get 5 points the loser would get 0.

Each leg was a battle, one team would fighht for the lead and the other would quickly relinquish it. It gave the appearance of a real horserace. Both student bodies and both stands of parents were screaming their lungs out.

Jock was to run the fourth and final leg of the race. He was pitted agianst a senior who currently held the fastest time in the 400m for the year. The leg prior to Jock began to wane, he fell seconds behind. When he passed the baton to Jock, their team was 2 to 3 seconds behind the lead. Jock took the baton and sprinted faster than I had ever seen him start. He nudged closer and closer and closed in on the back stretch. The boy in the lead then kicked in another gear as Jock began to breath down his neck. Going into the last corner Jock appeared to be losing ground. He may have spent too much effort to catch him in the first place.

As they came to the last straight stretch, student bodies on both sides of the last corner screaming encouragement and school pride, the stands laying parallel to the final run were rocking with the adults all jumping and yelling. Jock closed the gap, 100th of second seperated them down the stretch. As they passed I was sure my boy didn't have any left. He was to surely leave it all on the track. At the tape, Jock leaned forward and stole the victory. The student body sprinted to meet the exhausted Jock. He fell to his knees and piled into a lump on the track. The throwers ran to him and hoisted him into the air they ran his exhausted body to the finish line and laid him back on the tarmac as the rest of the team piled on him. They tore off his shoes and ran around going nuts, jumping with excitment. They had finally after years of effort beat the rich school. The past taunts of "ghetto kids" had gave them the drive to overcome. They were now the team to beat in town.

As the two boys and I drove home. I watched the two brothers through the rearview mirror they were both seated in the backseat both humbled by what they had just experienced both exhausted for different reasons, Jock looked over to Slick and without any false pretense high fived his little brother and said, "Good job. You looked good running the 1500, I'm proud of you." Slick always the comedian said, "Will you autograph my shoes?" They both smiled at each other and their dad gave thanks.

Monday, April 18, 2005

On the run

Sorry I'm a little disposed this week. I spent the whole day today being deposed by attornies who work for the enemy. Tomorrow I'm with another client helping them keep the state from closing their business. Its funny how the state needs revenues to spend, spend but does everything possible to close down the businesses that actually create the wealth we all prosper from especially the government. Well, I will be out there fighting for the, little Piratres that want a piece of the pie themselves. Until Wednesday I will be thinking of all of you. Is that summer coming around the bend?

Friday, April 15, 2005


The joke on the previous post has been one of my favorites for years. I first heard it when I was working my way through college as a night janitor at a hospital. An ER doctor told me. We were up on the roof checking out the stars and putting on an illegal smile (remember that Opie the next time you're in a hospital) and he told me the joke. I about feel off the roof not because of the joke but because of the smoke in my eyes.

I also told this joke to my ex-mother-in-law while she was sitting with her husband of fifty plus years, he was 96 years old and a week from his own funeral. She laughed her head off and wanted me to tell it again several times throughout the day. He seemed to like it too. My ex Mrs. Pirate and the current Mrs. Pirate looked like they swallowed a goat. Now you know why I am often invited to parties late. My invitation always seems to have the start time around the clean up time.

What Do I Do?

I’m posting something a little lighter today and not so damn revealing.

A distraught husband worn from his wife’s illness and the thought of losing her sat across the table from her doctor. The doctor had called the husband in to talk with him.

The doctor took out two folders with obvious labels from the local lab on them. “Mr. Wright, I asked to meet with you today because I have a problem.” Informed the doctor.

“What kind of problem, Doc?” Inquired the husband.

“The lab has mixed your wife’s test results up with another person’s results.”

“Can we just do the tests again?” asked Mr. Wright.

“No, you see, the tests we put her through were too excruciating and detrimental to her health, we don’t want to risk further damage.” The doctor went on.

“What do you mean? What do we do?” cried the husband. “What kind of mix up are we talking about?”

Putting it bluntly the Doctor told the husband. “Well, apparently the lab has two results for your wife’s tests. One she either has Alzheimer’s or she has AIDS.”

“My God what can I do?” cried again the husband.

“I suggest you take her to the mall this evening, look at some shops have a little bite to eat and when she has her attention elsewhere sneak off and leave her at the mall and go home.” Suggested the doctor.

“Leave her at the mall, Go home?!” Asked the startled husband. “How’s that going to solve anything?”

“Simple, if she makes it home don’t fuck her.”

I know it’s an old joke but it had to be told. Rednaked blogger reminded me of this joke awhile back and I thought it was appropriate for a rainy Oregon afternoon. My grandfather is suffering from memory loss and it has not been fully diagnosed. Every time I hear of a nutty story about him and my grandmother dealing with it I think of this story. If you knew my grandparents you’d think its funny too.

Thursday, April 14, 2005


Lillee asked me a question the other day that I have the most difficulty in answering. It is not her question that shies me away from the truth and its not that I am afraid of answering. To answer her question will undo one of the first tenants I set for myself when I began this adventure into the blog world. I began this blogging endeavor for several reasons I wanted a creative outlet, I wanted to experience something new, I wanted to meet others with similar and dissimilar likes and I wanted to inspire as I was being inspired. The last thing I wanted to do was open myself up to anyone or expose myself to God only knows what. I promised myself that I was going to remain truthful but I was not going to write non-fiction unless of course I thought the Reverend Doctor A needed a kick in the pants or there was a pressing issue in the news that needed discussed. I changed the names and mixed 70% non-fiction with the very important 30% fiction. This allowed me to avoid upsetting anyone or putting me in a compromising position. Unfortunately I mentioned something awhile back in a post that Lillee was keen enough to pick up on.

“Why were you in the Shriner’s Hospital?” was her question.

Man it hit me like a ton of bricks. I went back and read the post she was referring to and sure enough I did mention it. Ever so slight I left an open crease into my life. I pondered for the last few days on how to address the question. Do I ignore it? Do I make up a story? How do I remain honest without addressing it?

Let’s just say I was born with a disability that is noticeable. A disability that is too difficult to describe. It’s not debilitating and has never prevented me from accomplishing anything I have ever wanted to do. It has garnered stares and doubts from others but it has not made me any less of a person than anyone else. I must admit though, up until about ten years ago the situation made me foster anger. I had anger towards those that doubted me; I had anger towards my parents for having me, like that made any difference. I had anger towards people that presented their impression of me with a patronizing façade. I hated to be stared at. I hated to be asked by some unmannered child; ”What happened to your arm Mister?” My kids would then inadvertently become a shield for me. They would try their best to protect me without even knowing it themselves.

I had anger towards God. I use to cuss him every day because of the burden I believed he bestowed on me for no good reason. But I always hid behind humor, pleasantness, friendliness, intelligence and what ever else I could make others see before they saw me.

My anger toward God was escorted by many doubts about his existence and it made me accuse him of being unfair. I also hid behind the word, “WHY”. Why this or why that; why in the hell did you make me, why me of all people do I have to deal with this?

Then one day I was standing in a convenience store buying smokes and beer and a man came up to me and asked if I had went to school in Pirateville? I eyed the man really hard and couldn’t come up with a memory of him but I did say,” Yes, I did grow up there, why?”

The man’s eyes filled with tears and he asked if I had a minute to spare. I finished purchasing my vices and met him outside near my car. The man began by telling me that I shouldn’t know him but he knew me. He said that almost twenty years ago he and his wife and their young son, who had a debilitating disease and was wheelchair bound had saw me play basketball at a Christmas Tournament in Detroit. He went on to tell me that that night I became his son’s hero. The man told me that for the next three years wherever our high school played football or basketball they would drive there and watch. Their son kept them informed of my point totals and how many tackles I had a game. He knew my stats, which I had never paid any attention to. They knew no one from my town nor did they know anyone in any of the towns I played in. They never approached me and only asked a few people about me. The man told me that his son had died in 1979 from his disease, which is a year after I graduated. He went on to tell me how my participating at the level that I did was an inspiration for his son and how his son dealt with the disability he was stricken with.

I had never seen myself as anything special but rather deprived. I never saw how my infliction could be a benefit. I knew I participated in sports to do nothing but prove myself. I had figured that beating everyone and being one of the best gave me one more thing to hide behind.

The man then left, I didn’t get his name and I have no idea where to even look for him. From that moment on I realized how important we all are to each other. How we may be someone else’s inspiration without knowing it. That the world doesn’t evolve around our internal concerns. We are all interlocked and providing support to each other even if ourselves can’t quantify the support. What we perceive as our own cross to bare may be quite small to someone else. No more asking me about myself damn it.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

To comma or not to comma

You know the worlds in a downward spiral when what happened in my office this morning happens at all. I work for an appraisal and consulting firm, which does appraisals and consulting for large industrial companies all over the USA, all over the world for that matter. Our tasks range from developing benchmark studies regarding a specific industry to consulting on property tax issues. Our staff is comprised of engineers, economists and freeloaders (I’m not an engineer or a freeloader). Most of our finished products come in the form of large bounded reports. Our reports can be as small as a few pages and as large as a thousand pages. A lot of time is spent on researching, compiling and analyzing data. Then we write up a report pertaining to the data. The report usually has several pages of boilerplate bull and 50 to 75 percent of actual narrative. I am often the person who writes the narratives along with all the other tasks that I am responsible for.

Then my co-worker, the “Can of Corn” (I call him the “Can of Corn” because this is the name a woman once gave my little brother’s pecker. She had finished riding him and told him that she felt like she had just rode a can of corn. I thought it best fit my co-worker, thus his office name) reviews the report and he makes the appropriate changes. Our agreement is I don’t care if he changes what I write but never, I mean never mark the report up in red marker and then expect me to make the changes. He has a computer in his office too and he can make the changes himself and let me know about them later. This has worked well for some time. He catches the errors in the tense used and other grammar-type errors and corrects them himself. But he never changes the content, the intent or the view of the report. This has been an excellent arrangement; it has worked well without a problem.

This morning my beloved anal-retentive “Can of Corn” went completely nuts and flipped out. He asked me if there should be a “comma” before the word “and” when listing a strand of objects. I told him that it was one of those areas in writing that is up to the discretion of the writer. In my eyes it is redundant but others may see it another way. With work up to my eyebrows and deadlines knocking me about I really didn’t give a flying fuck one-way or the other. This wasn’t good enough for him. The quandary took hold of his angst and he couldn’t let it go.

Then I see him coming down the hall from the library carrying a butt load of technical writing books and books on writing styles. He is totally in a rage about the issue. He has thumbed through all of the books, sticky marked several pages and cannot find where the rule applies or any specific rule that may apply. Then the engineer next door (the Walking Dumb as I refer to him) decides this is his opportunity to get into the fray and if you have ever been around engineers, they know everything. Before you know it I have two grown men debating a non-issue in my office. The volume was getting louder and my pleas of “I don’t give a rats ass”, were lost in the din.

After twenty minutes of incoherent debate I stood up from behind my desk and said,” Gentlemen when you have decided if a comma belongs or doesn’t belong call me on my cell. I’m walking down to Starbucks to stare at the ass, the lips and the tits on the new barista. And I didn’t use a comma.”

Man I love this job.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

They got me

They finally got me. They pulled a fast one on me and finally got me to look. Who am I talking about? Have I gone completely over the hill? Paranoid? Did the Home Security Agency put the squeeze on me? Was it revealed I was raised by some underground cult? Maybe a band of hippies?

No it’s the penis enlargement hucksters. Don’t give me that, “I have never heard of them” bullshit. You know everyone has wondered or thought about these ads. Women have probably said to themselves, “Its about damn time”. Guys have said to themselves,” I’d like to do junior high physical education all over again.”

No I didn’t give in to them and buy any cream or whatever they are selling. I gave up being concerned about the prowess of my pecker when I reached 18, no 25, no 30, no more like when I reached 40. Regardless when it was, it happened. And so I have always laugh when I seen these little ads that spam our email world. They use all kinds of tricks to get you to open them. Some mention how this or that girl wants you…. Some say herbal remedies for human growth. Others promise a steady stream of wanting women to your door.

If these promises were true about men’s short comings we would have a world of 40 something men running around in spandex with a head full of hair. Men proudly primping about, strutting their quaffs and bulges. Sounds like Hollywood when I think about it.

Well anyway they tricked me the other day. I got this email from a lady named, Lilly Mack. My great grandmother who died when I was 5 had the same name. I thought is this a relative? Maybe its one of those find a lost relative thing. So I clicked on it and the whole deal was, I could buy this cream and rub it on my cock and it would grow as much as three inches in so many days. Now how stupid do these people think I am. I could rub anything on my cock and it will grow three inches and it won’t take a few days to see results either. I can rub my bare hand on it for a while and it’ll grow.

Then I pictured the same guys walking around in their spandex and thick hair again and noticed their hands didn’t look any larger than normal. How could that be? Wouldn’t the cream pretty much enlarge any part of your body it came in contact with? Remembering that I am a writer and that the penis stronger than the sword I’ll shall prevail. Do you think there maybe other Lilly Macks?

Monday, April 11, 2005

Five Best Stories about Writers

Finding Neverland
Wonder Boys
Slaughterhouse 5

What are yours?

What is a Writer?

What the hell is a writer? Is it someone who puts words down on some type medium? Is it someone who has his or her written word published? Is writing a means to convey ideas, provide information, inspire an emotion, to waste paper, or to impress the opposite sex? I have no idea myself. I just know I have wanted to be one since I was in third grade. Mrs. Jones, my third grade teacher use to read to our class every day after lunch. She read everything from Pippy Longstocking (not sure if that’s her real name) to adventure stories about Kit Carson, Lewis and Clark, Davey Crockett and poems by Shel Silvertein she read everything that was third grade appropriate. I remember what those stories did to me and how it affected the rest of the class. I found myself living in fantasyland or day-dreamville most of my elementary school days because of Mrs. Jones and the stories she read.

As I grew older I was forever impressed how certain words could affect people in certain ways. It amazed me that words like “love” were often avoided, the word “fuck” was usually followed by a gasp, or disdain and I was amazed how words worked people’s emotions. By the fourth grade I started playing hooky from school so I could stay at home and write pirate stories in spiral notebooks (that no longer exist). When I was a kid I spent a lot of my time in the Shriner’s Hospital where I did a lot of my writing. I use to write five to six page letters to my grandmother and to my classmates just so I could communicate through words on paper. I wrote hundreds of letters to friends that were never responded to with a returning letter. The usual response was a friend asking me why the heck did I write such long letters. I had no response to that. All I could think of was I was trying to include them in my experiences and wanted to be as vivid as I could in describing the experience and how those experiences made me feel. My grandmother, always a fan, just smiled and commended me on how well I wrote and how nicely I told a story.

Before I discovered the blog world I use to write letters to the editor. I went for pot stirring angles such as questioning ex-Presidents receiving the Noble Peace prizes, or what the hell’s wrong with being a Cowboy pertaining to GW Bush. I’d see my words in print but what I really enjoyed was the responses to the letters. There were some that triggered weeks of letters denouncing my position, or me and as many that supported me. It impressed me how words could develop energy in others, enough energy to make them respond. I liked how someone could be reading their newspaper at their morning breakfast for example and my letter would generate feelings that drove that person’s thoughts for the day. Once that person was affected they would go about their day thinking how to respond and how they felt about what I had written. By the end of the day they would most likely rush home to put their feelings down on paper and then put it in an envelope, buy a stamp, mail it in and alleviate their angst towards me by giving me the middle finger by responding. There were letters I would actually get telephone calls for writing. Never in support but rather to tell me how much of an asshole I was for daring to have a difference of opinion than this complete stranger who called me. Some of the calls were from whacko types others were seriously concerned people that were just beside themselves because I had written something that conflicted with their personal beliefs.

I think that maybe what a writer is is someone that can inspire others. Or someone who doesn’t have anything better to do.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Top Ten

I don’t feel like being creative today. So I thought I’d post my TOP TEN list for a variety of things:

Top Ten Movies

The Right Stuff

To Kill a Mockingbird

Dr. Strangelove (or How stopped worrying and learned to love the bomb)



The Cowboys

Radio Days

Terms of Endearment

Annie Hall


Top Ten Songs

It’s Good to be King (Tom Petty)

Tonight’s the night (Neil Young)

Spider Joe (Jimmy Buffett)

Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain (Willie Nelson)

Black Dog (Led Zeppelin)

Roadhouse Blues (Doors)

America (Ray Charles)

Illegal Smile (John Prine)

Life’s Been Good (John Walsh)

Drugs and Jesus (Tim McGraw)

Top Ten Books

Legend of Bagger Vance

Sea Wolf

Di Vinci Code

Atlas Shrugged

Sailor on Horseback

Dubious Battle

East of Eden

Milagro Bean field War

The Stand


Ten Favorite Things




Sports (basketball and football; The Rams above all)




Arguing with the infamous Rev Dr. Abagambi

Watching old movies

Putting on a hat

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

What Goes Around Comes Around

Sheryl walked the man to the door. Gave him a light kiss on the cheek, thanked him with her smile and whispered that she’ll call him some time soon. She closed the door behind him and ran to her entertainment center reached behind her television and switched off the mini-camera control box she used to film the activities in her apartment.

“It’s show time,” she said to herself with a smile as she rewound the tape in her VCR. “Let’s see how Mr. Green did in his audition.” Sheryl turned on her television and hit the “Play” button on the VCR.

After a few adjustment lines and with a poor audio Sheryl’s living room appeared on the screen. She was sitting on the sofa with the man she had just let out. They were embracing each other. The man began to remove the dress from her shoulders. He than began to kiss her on each side of her neck and down to her shoulders. Each kiss was greeted with a moan and guiding hand from Sheryl.

Sheryl hit the “Fast Forward” button. She watched with acceptance and a bit of humor as the actions of the two on the sofa sped up to a rapid speed. She thought of the old silent movies with the Keystone Kops running about all jittery and out of sync with the natural movement of people.

The two on the sofa rapidly moved all over each other in different stages of undress. Sheryl pushed the “Play” button again when she arrived at the part where she took the man’s hard cock into her mouth. She toyed with him with a variety of tricks she had mastered over the years. The man sat back on the sofa taking in her talent and holding a crop of her long blonde hair in his hand. He led her head around his groin like he was witching for water. Just when the man appeared, as he could take no more, Sheryl lifted her head up and told him they would be more comfortable in the bedroom.

Sheryl pushed the “Fast Forward” button again and the two players on the television once again sped about as they were rushing around in a “Chinese fire drill”. In the bedroom the quirking and jerking players wrestled about removing each other’s clothes and eventually clasping both naked bodies together. Him on top of her, her on top of him, they rushed and jerked. Sheryl pushed the “Play” button again when the man was on top of her and obviously within her, he was pushing his groin into her faster and faster as she pulled on the sides of the mattress, her legs firmly wrapped around him, she commanding him to fuck her harder and harder.

The man eventually slowed his actions and moaned as to imply he had reached a climax. He slumped down on her and began kissing her neck and breasts. He told her how much this meant to him and how grateful he was to have met her this evening. He rolled to his side and held her naked body next to him and asked if there was a possibility they could get back together the next time he was in town. She seemed to ignore his question and wiped his slumping cock with a corner of the bedspread and then stoked it until it lay limp.

She told the man she had to use the bathroom and she’d be right back. Sheryl left the picture, within seconds the image of the naked man laying in her bed went black.

Sheryl took the tape to her desk and pulled out a manila envelope and put the tape inside. She addressed the envelope, put several stamps in the corner of the envelope and then kissed the seal.

Her phone rang. She let it ring four times so that the answering machine would pick up the call. “Hello, you have reached Sheryl. I am unable to come to the phone. Please leave a message and then I’ll decide if I want to call you back or not.”

“Sheryl, Sheryl honey this is your dad. What the hell is going on here? Why do you keep sending me these tapes? Sheryl if your there please pick up the phone. What’s happening with you? Who are all these men?”

“Dad, what the fuck do you think is going on with me?” Sheryl answered as she picked up the phone. “This is your doing, you fuck!” As she spoke to her father, tears streamed down her cheeks and fight came to her voice. “You’re the one that did this to me Daddy. You did it. Now you’re going to pay.” She warned.

“Honey this will kill your mother. Please is there something we can do here?” he pleads for her to soften, to forgive. “That was so long ago sweetie.”

“I’m not your sweetie or your fucking Honey. The only way this ends is when you stop breathing you fucking asshole.” Sheryl screamed into the receiver.

“Sheryl, I understand you’re hurt I have asked for forgiveness. I have repented.” Assured her father. “Tomorrow I sit in front of a Senate committee for confirmation. I can’t afford this type of scandal.”

“You should have thought about that when you’re were raping me when I was a little girl. You can’t masquerade around like some pillar of society and all along be a big piece of shit. You’re going to pay.” Sheryl slammed the receiver down. She took the envelope with the tape in it down to the mailbox in the atrium of her building. With a smile on her face and dried tears on her cheeks she dropped the envelope into the mail receptacle. “Have a nice confirmation Daddy.”

Monday, April 04, 2005

Blaze has Grown up

I was on the phone last night talking with my eldest daughter, Blaze. She was telling me about saving the world from the likes of people like me. You know people who drive SUVs, vote Republican, and get on our knees now and then to ask God for direction. I know you know these types; they think it’s a good idea to kick Osama in the ass before he gets another shot at us; they don’t have a hard time connecting Saddam with the terrorists of the Middle East; they believe that life is a precious commodity and not something you willy-nilly throw away because you don’t think that person deserves to live.

The two of us bantered back and forth for over an hour on a variety of topics. When I finally hung up I thought where did I miss the bus on her. She has grown to be such a joy. She has all the energy I posses, she has all the smarts you could possibly use and she is one of the prettiest women I have ever known. She’s an acorn off the old tree, but she has grown into her own oak. I began to think of the different stages of her life that may have something to do with how she turned out.

When she was five, a friend of mine and I took her pheasant hunting. A typically smart thing for a Pirate to do, take a little girl who had rarely been around a gun thus far in her life and start killing things in front of her.

On our way out to our favorite hunting place, out in the middle of nowhere we came across two rooster pheasants graveling along side a cornfield. I pulled the truck over and Mike and I snuck up on the birds. POW! POW!

We had hit one of the birds. I mean to say I hit one of the birds, God only know what Mike was shooting at. The bird didn’t die right away it started flipping around and around. My daughter was standing on the seat in the truck screaming her head off. Daddy, help the birdie, please daddy help the birdie. I ran to the injured bird and rung its neck and then threw it into the bed of the truck, but it flipped around in the bed for some time after it finally died. By now Blaze was completely losing it. Crying, pleading and sobbing her little head off.

Mike and I looked at each other and tried everything to calm her. She wouldn’t have it. No way is she going to sanction her daddy to kill birdies. So Mike suggested we go back into town and see if we can get her something to sooth her. We drove back into little Warden, Washington and went to a small café to buy Blaze something good to eat like warm apple pie alamode and hot chocolate. After she got her fill, Mike and I decided to take Blaze home and we could just come back out later or maybe tomorrow. Leaving town I decide to go another direction home so I wouldn’t alarm Blaze anymore than I already had.

A few miles outside of Warden we came upon a pig farm. There were thousands of little piggies running around. Mike looked out at all the baby pigs and said, “Look Blaze, look at all those baby piggies.”

She immediately sat up in her seat and with the look of horror. She lunged at me and wrapped her arms around my neck and began to plead with me. “Please daddy, don’t kill the baby piggies, please, please!”

I figure she has become a paramedic/firefighter in order to save the world from her Pirate daddy.


I had so much to say today about a lot of stuff then when I sat down to do it I got hit by so much more to do. The need for prioritizing took over so here is what I have to say for the day.

First off it is beautiful how the world has stopped to remember John Paul II. Catholic, Protestant, believers of all faiths and non-believers has all taken the time to acknowledge the passing of a gentle man, a humble man and a man who loves peace. Though he is suppose to be the bridge between believer and God he has always presented himself as a humble man who was open to the love of all peoples regardless if he was viewed as the vicar or not. The world will not be less off without him we are just plainly better off because of him.

Illinois and North Carolina will be battling for national championship tonight. Because of the beating I have taken from Opie and lillee, blog friends I will only say I like the team from the state that has a Joliet in it. Since I am a big Blues Brothers fan and North Carolina has won many of championships I’m going with the Fighting Illini.

I would like to say a little something about the last post. I realize it may have offended some of your sensitivities and I am sorry about that. But if you think it offended you, you can only imagine how much it offends me. Most often I appreciate the stories that come to me but there have been many times I have felt a little skittish about a particular story.

Before you go and say the Pirate has totally flipped and needs a padded room please allow me to explain what I am talking about. I believe that most stories have a life of their own. They are naturally part of our world as much as you or I or the wind is part of the world. I think stories have their own energy and origin. Some type of energy creates the story and it begins to seek an outlet, a conduit so it can be freed. Then you have millions and millions of conduits like myself and anyone else that loves to write, tuning into these stories and then presenting them to others through some type of medium.

I can hear you now, saying boy the Pirate must have gotten into a strong crop. He’s probably sitting there with the red-eyed illegal smile trying to pull us all into some pile of BS. Think about how many times as bloggers you have been writing on a particular subject or story idea and you venture into blogosphere and find that several others have the same story but with a little different spin on it.

Several years ago I had this story bouncing around in my head for a long time and finally sat down and started writing it. I could see the little boy and his mother. I could see why the little guy wanted to achieve and I could see how he was going to achieve that goal. I wrote six or seven chapters on the boy and his plight and then put it aside. I had forgotten about the story and had only shared it with a few close friends, and Mrs. Pirate.

Five years later I’m on a camping trip with my two brothers and all of our kids. I had picked up a new Stephen King novel for the trip. It was called Hearts of Atlantis. The first story was about a little boy named, Bobby Garfield who loved books and lived with his mother and his goal was to purchase a stingray bike. My story was so similar and so right on I could almost see it playing out before I turned the next page. It was surreal.

My story had a boy named Bobby Whalen who lived on Garfield Street with his widowed mother and loved to read as well. His goal for that particular summer was to purchase a stingray bike from the local Western Auto. The same bike and store as in King’s story. He then spends the summer assisting an older gentleman who opens Bobby’s eyes to a whole new world he hadn’t ever considered.

Am I saying Stephen King stole my story? No I am not. I’m saying he his better tuned in than most of us. He is the one who actually capitalizes on the story after it taps into him or he taps into it. He doesn’t wait around to get it on paper. He writes so many hours a day until he gets the story out.

Do you think I’m nuts about this or not?

I started down this path trying to explain the last post. I too am not fond of people that hurt others and I also find it disturbing but do I just turn my eyes or tune out on the story that is trying to get out? Or do I do my best and get the story out into the open? I had this discussion with Mrs. Pirate last night and she says put it down. She said, “Pirate man if it’s in you it’s got to get out”. I told her what really effected my thinking was that my little 13 year old daughter came up to me the other day when I was writing another installment of the Charley story and asked what I was writing? She also asked if she could read it. I told her that she was too young to read the story because it was “R” rated. Later I questioned that response. Mrs. Pirate agreed that there is many things I do that are offensive to others and that hadn’t stopped me before.

Then I told her I wanted to make love with the lights on. She said close the damn car door its cold….

Friday, April 01, 2005

Charley's Roommate

Jennifer, Charley’s roommate was not about to be left out of the fun at Cooper’s. Not this night for sure. Jennifer noticed Charley leave the bar with her evening’s boy- toy, Craig; she knew she had to find herself some enjoyment for the night. Hell, finals were over and it was time to party. And Jennifer would never allow Charley to out do her. To Jennifer, life was always competition and she played every minute as if the buzzer was about to signal the end of the game. Especially, when it came to men. She always moved toward what she perceived as the best in the lot. Tonight, Craig’s friend Derrick was the choice, the prime choice. After dancing several grinds with Derrick and a few slow rounds she was confident that Derrick was her enjoyment for this night. She was also sure that Charley was somewhere leading in the race with Craig which made her encourage Derrick to go for a walk just that much harder.

With the band singing Clapton’s, “Wonderful Tonight” Jennifer pushed Derrick through the huddled couples on the small dance floor and toward the door. Her hand cupping his firmness, he was under her control. Stopping just outside the door to explore each other’s lips their passion elevated. Jennifer asked Derrick if he lived nearby or would he rather see her car? He told her that he had a van parked in the vacant lot across the street from Cooper’s. “That’ll do Scooter”, she smilingly confirmed. They both walked toward the van stopping every ten feet or so to keep their passion heated.

Craig lifted Charley’s lifeless body up against the wall to make it appear as if they were still enthralled. After assuring himself there was no witness to his killing, he carried her body further down the alley until he found an open dumpster. He took another look around and seen nothing to prevent his escape, he tossed Charley’s young beautiful body among the garbage in the dumpster. He then promptly exited the alley at the opposite end of where he and Charley began their passionate exploration of each other. When he returned to Cooper’s he beelined to the men’s room to clean away any evidence of Charley. Then resumed his place with his friends at the table.

“Where’s Derrick?” he asked. “Did he find a friend?”

“Did you have a good fill?” asked Jayce the youngest of the killers. “Did you fuck her good?”

“Later,” Craig waved his hand toward Jayce. “Not here.”

“Derrick took one of your girl’s friends to the van. I figure he’s giving her all twelve inches by now.” Jayce laughingly told Craig.

Penny, one of the girls from Charley’s group approached the table and asked if they had seen Charley? No one at their table had seen her leave the last they had seen of her she was dancing with Craig.

“What’s your name girl?” inquired the smiling Jayce. He leaned to hear her and to better smell her mortal weakness.

“Penny,” she enthusiastically replied. Penny was the one of the girls that was destine to be an old maid. Though she was beautiful in a natural and plain way she lacked much animal instinct when it came to the opposite sex. Jennifer and Charley had suspected that she was a latten lesbian who hadn’t awoken to the idea of her natural calling as yet.

“Penny, would you like to dance?” Jayce had asked as he stood and providing her his hand. “I’m feeling left out sitting here.”

“Sure, I don’t dance that well though,” she warned Jayce.

“Don’t worry neither do I” he assured her.

Jennifer had never felt so filled. She had fucked her share of boys but Derrick was bigger and harder than she had ever experienced. At first she had a hard time getting her mouth around him and had as much difficulty of bringing him into her. After some work she was riding him hard. Her moan and cry was getting deeper as was Derrick’s. His chest was tight and muscled his thrust was pushing her further into an orgasm she had never truly met. She was finding exhaustion quicker than she had found before. His large hands were holding her butt cheeks tightly, holding her as if to hit the target at every push.

Her knees were wearing; her arms were tiring as she moved on Derrick. He suddenly rolled her to her back without departing his cock from her now stretched cunt. On her back Derrick pushed her arms above her head, held them down firmly as he arched his back. Jennifer felt him grow even more within her. She wrapped her legs tighter around Derrick and begged him to fuck her harder. “Give me everything Scooter,” she demanded. “God! Oh fucking God, you feel so good.”

“At your request,” he replied then quickened his thrust and taking her left nipple into his mouth.

“I want you to cum in me Scooter, fuuuuck me, man, fuck me” she moaned through her gritting teeth.

Derrick arched his back more and tightened his grip on her wrists. He moaned a feral sound as he blew his load deep up in Jennifer. Slowing his thrust to a slow pace as if to empty his solid rod to the last drop.

Both finishing their orgasms together Derrick rolled over onto his side next to Jennifer’s slightly perspired body. Looking down at her he asked, “Did that fill your need?”

Teasingly she smiled and said, “Almost.”

Derrick leaned down and kissed her long and moved his hand through her auburn hair. He lifted away from her and told her how glad he was to see her pretty hair was natural.

“I have my dad’s hair color”, she told him.

Derrick took her hand and told her he had an idea. He slipped a silk handkerchief around her hand and tied it tightly.

“Your ready for more?” she asked. “Good, tie me up Scooter”.

Derrick tied her two hands behind her back and then slipped another handkerchief into her mouth. Tying it tighter than Jennifer felt comfortable with. She rolled over with a puzzled look but still not sure what was going on.

Derrick’s looks seem to change. Jennifer wasn’t sure but she thought she had just met the devil. “Go ahead and squirm bitch. Your mine now,” Derrick announced. He put his hands around her neck and choked until she passed out. He then covered her unconscious body with a blanket, dressed himself, slid out the back of the van and lit a smoke. He had himself a toy for the next couple of days. Derrick had always been the boy that kept his prey so he could prolong his fun and their horror.