MySpace

LOST IN A CLOUD OF CONFUSION *The short stories and articles posted on this Blog are loosely based on real events and/or places in my life. However each should be considered to be a work of FICTION.

MySpace.com | rss | sign in
Lattie Odell

Lattie Odell


Last Updated: 12/21/2009

Send Message
Instant Message
Email to a Friend
Subscribe

Gender: Male
Age: 49
Sign: Cancer

City: SALT LAKE CITY
State: Utah

Blog Archive
[Older      Newer]
 /  / 
Monday, December 21, 2009 

Category: Friends
Dear Santa,

Let me begin by apologizing for the length of time since my last correspondence.  Checking my records I see the last time I contacted you was December of 1965, when my request for a new, fire engine red, Schwinn Stingray bicycle proved unfruitful.  There was however, the time in 1981 during my period of spiritual awakening that I wrote you concerning world peace and harmony among all mankind.  This was a brief and fleeting period for me which ended before I found the time to make it to the post office.  The letter still rests in my bottom drawer right under the "Suggestions for a better world" letter I wrote to President Regan in 1983.

Despite my inexcusable lack of contact, you always have seen to it that I awoke Christmas morning to find the latest new gadget, fad, or latest new invention of electronic wizardry tucked under the tree, waiting just for me.  There was the Kung-fu grip GI-Joe doll with his jungle fortress in 1967.  The one you left me even said four different phrases when you pulled his dog tag!  There was the Pong game in 74, the Sony Walkman in 78, and the Atari 2600 in 80, and who could forget the Christmas of 82 when you made sure that my little girl found that 'impossible to get your hands on', Cabbage Patch doll under the tree.

I could go on and on but the fact is every single year you have made sure that I received that certain latest something that I just couldn't live without.  Now after 48 consecutive Christmases of being recipient of your undaunted kindness, I find that I do not want, need, nor "cannot live with out" any of the latest fad's or craze's.   Instead I find that the items I need this year are not advertised or found on the isles of my local Wal-Mart store.  Below I have listed a few of the items I would like to find under my tree this year.

1. The super deluxe model, steering wheel mounted "ASSHOLE Zapper" with the fender mounted, dip-shit seeking missiles.  Perfect for blowing that stupid S.0.B. Who cut you off in traffic then flipped YOU the bird, clean off of the Freeway and into the moronic state of oblivion from which he belongs.  Okay, to keep things legal maybe I should settle for the sound effect version.  My imagination can fill in the rest.

2. An erectile dysfunction pill that you don't need to take two hours before the fact, or that wears off eight hours after taking.  Quite frankly Santa, my timing isn't such that I can find success in such a narrow window of opportunity.  I have gone through seven pricey bottles of Viagra without once benefiting from its amazing effects.

3. A hair replacement product that is just as likely to grow hair on the top of my bald head as it is the palms of my hand.

4. A Newspaper who's print I can actually read without wearing these ridiculous reading glasses that I JUST DON'T NEED!

5. Knees that don't buckle while walking from the bed to the toilet at 1:00, 2:30, 3:15 and 6:30 am, each night

6. A bladder that can actually hold out throughout an entire night.

7. A full body condom to give to all the pricks I work with, rendering that in which they spew, harmless.

On second thought, with so many people in which so little would mean so much; a hot meal and a warm place to sleep for that homeless man on the street.  A short phone call from a son in Baghdad for that proud but oh so worried family.  A decent break or two for that little infant in the Children's Hospital hooked to all those tubes and wires.  One last dinner in which that empty chair at the table could be filled once again, for all those who have lost a loved one… 

This year Santa, why don't you focus on these folks.  Heck, I can go one more year shooting middle fingers and obscenities at all the Asshole's I pass driving home from work.

Your friend and TRUE believer,

~Lattie Odell~
7:52 PM 
24 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Friday, December 18, 2009 

Category: Life
Here we are folks… Just a mere week away from yet another Christmas!  What a ride this past year has been for the "Lattie Odell Family!"  I would like to personally thank all of you for sharing it with us.  We've had a lot of laughs and even shared a tear or two. Along the way we have made friends with so many of you fantastic people, from all over the world.

This time of the year always stirs up a whirlwind of mixed emotions inside of me.  I love the hodge-podge of memories and traditions that are associated with the Holidays.  In our family only two occasions could bring our family members close together; funerals and the Holidays.  On those unfortunate years when not a single family member met their great reward, it would be Christmas alone that served as the mortar bonding together the Odell family wall.

As the years have rolled on and the senior generation of Odell's began dropping like flies in a mist of Extra Strength Raid, funerals soon began to number two or three a month, and Christmas began to lose its importance as a family bonding agent.

Finally toward the end of the eighties the Family Christmas Parties I treasured as a child came to a complete halt, as Family Funerals began to outnumber the weeks of the year.  Now the senior generation is all but gone.  Gone too are the wonderful Funeral get-together's as well as the tradition of our Family Christmas Party.

I suggested to a cousin this year that perhaps we should try to revive the old "Odell Parties," in order to reunite our family once again.  My cousin suggested he would rather see a few select members of the new "Senior Generation" drop dead and reunite over the wonderful dinners our church provides for grieving families.

So as we approach yet another Christmas, my fond memories and a couple annoying Christmas form letters from some "Holier than Thou" second cousins, are all that remains from what once was a grand tradition.

This brings me to the one and only aspect of the Christmas season that I despise. Those God-Forsaken Christmas form letters we receive each year from pompous, self-righteous, so called friends and family members, who's sole purpose in littering our mailbox each year with their candy coated Holiday Bullshit is to point out just how misguided and dysfunctional YOUR family really is.

You know the letters I'm talking about, they usually come accompanied by a heart warming Holiday portrait of the "perfect family."  Nine times out of ten these letters will be written by the fat-assed, thirty-something, stay at home mom, who has nothing better to do with her life than to wash down a couple of Valium with an extra dry Martini and sit on her ever widening ass writing Christmas form letters to the rest of us less fortunate, dysfunctional family members who just couldn't care less!

The other day was the straw that broke the camels back for me.  As I was fishing through a stack of bills, Christmas cards, eviction notices, and court summons, I happened upon the third "Holiday form letter" sent to me this year.  This one from no less than my Butt ugly, personality deprived Cousin Carol and her bucked tooth, Ambulance chasing lawyer of a husband, Earl.

Cousin Carol has had so many face lifts paid for by the outrageously high percentage rate Earl receives from his crooked out of court settlements, that she now has pubic hair growing from her chin.  She is the only woman in North America that can reach an orgasm simply by clearing her throat.  Her last two Children were conceived by unprotected oral sex.

Two paragraphs into Cousin Carol's letter I had reached the end of my Yuletide log.  I decided right there and then that this year I, Lattie Odell, was going to write my own "Holiday form letter" to send to all those self-righteous Hemorrhoids  who have ruined my Christmas year in and year out with tall tales of their wonderful, perfect little families.

I would like to share with you the first ever Lattie Odell Holiday Form Letter:


Dear friends and family members,

As we draw to the close of yet another year, I hope the Holidays have found your family as happy, healthy and prosperous as they have our humble but enormously blessed family.

Teresa and I are so fortunate to have been blessed with such loving and talented children.

Our eldest daughter Teri ventured out on her own this year to attend medical school in Southern Utah.  Unfortunately only two weeks into her first semester, Teri was falsely accused by a less talented and jealous fellow Med student of stealing assorted narcotics from the school's Lab.  Being the industrious young woman that she is, Teri soon found a job working the graveyard shift as a C.N.A. at a State run facility for indigent Senior Citizens.  But misfortune reared its ugly head once again when the State of Utah ran an audit and found several bottles of Oxycontin missing from its inventory.  Again, Teri refused to let false accusations and a nine month jail sentence set her back and now is making wonderful money at an establishment outside of Las Vegas called the Chicken Ranch.

Our second eldest daughter Jenntry conceived her first illegitimate child this year. After twenty-seven blood and DNA tests we were able to establish the identity of the biological father of our forthcoming Bastard Grandchild.  This last November I was honored to travel back South and retrieve our Grand-babies Daddy from the upper most regions of the Ozark Mountains.  Strange one this boy, but Goddamn, he sure can play a mean banjo!

The youngest of our three daughters, Kirstin, has once again found Jesus by joining a communal order in San Francisco, where she has shaven her head and dances semi naked in the streets in order to bring wayward souls back to the Lord Jesus.

 The youngest of our four children, twelve year old Brandon, continues to amaze and astound both Teresa and I with his curiosity and intellect.  Spending thousands of hour searching and studying the internet, Brandon has devised thirty-four different ways to construct a bomb designed to inflict the maximum amount of injury upon one's enemies.  Recently Brandon has been obsessed with reading the classics such as Mien Kampf and Book of Shadows.  As parents we couldn't be prouder of the way Brandon is transcending from Childhood to Manhood.

As you can see this has been an exciting year for our family.  We can only hope that the Good Lord will continue to smile down upon us and keep us in his grace in the coming year as much as what he has this year.

So from our family to yours,

Happy Holidays

PS.  Just for your information, little Brandon is currently working on a lethal "form letter" mail bomb which will automatically be sent to all you S.O.B's who insist on sending us your God-Forsaken letters next year!

~Lattie~



9:34 PM 
64 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Wednesday, December 09, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
It was The Night Before Christmas, sometime in the past
I was feeling quite poorly, with a bad bout of gas;
The poinsettias were placed in each window with care,
now wilted and drooped, in the putrid foul air;
 
Our children were screaming as they jumped on their beds,
having ate too much sugar, needed a good whack to their heads;
mamma in her Teddie, and I in the nude,
fanned the covers over her head, thus killing the mood
 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I yelled out the window "What the f&%* is the matter".
Outside was a woman who had tripped on our trash,
Then she screamed out loud, "Oh my God, I've been flashed!"
 
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
reflected in our window and gave her a show,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
A couple of drunks, I knew they were queer
 
They ran up my driveway, so lively and quick,
Then one hollered out "My God! What a dick!"
As rapid as eagles more gay friends they came,
they whistled, and shouted, and asked me my name;
 
"Hey Gregory! Hey Rodger! Hey Rick and Paul!
Oh Vincent! Oh Brad! Come one and come all!
Look to the top of the porch! Second window on the Right!
Come quickly! Come quickly! It's really a sight!"
 
I dropped my hands to my crotch to cover my dong,
as each began singing a sweet, Gay love song,
Then up to my house-top these fairies they flew,
With their arms full of toys, and a big butt plug too!
 
I yelled and I shouted as I ran for my gun
as prancing and pawing they came for my bum.
With pistol in hand, I took careful aim,
at one who had stripped then towards me he came
 
Pulling the trigger I shot at this big naked queer
I did so in defense of my sensitive rear;
He fell on his back and rolled in the hall,
in a panic he yelled "You shot off my ball.
 
His friends -- were quite pissed! They didn't feel merry!
I knew what they wanted, they wanted my cherry!
Bending me over the railing, they called me a ho!
Last thing I remember was shouting out nooooooo!
 
Like a scared little girl I let out a scream,
When a voice suddenly said; "Lattie, you're having a dream!"
I looked at my wife my heart beating fast.
"You know how you dream when you suffer from gas",
 
I laughed in relief, still grasping my heart;
Then lifted my cheek and blew out a fart,
My sweetheart she grunted, then got up to leave
got half way to the door, then bent over and heaved
 
I lay in my bed, fingers pinching my nose
as from under my covers a cloud slowly rose;
despite all the stink, and not feeling well
this still was much better than my Gay Christmas Hell.
 
You can imagine my horror when this night turned to day
And the Santa on TV Called out…   "Be Happy, Be Gay!"

 

HAVE A VERY, VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

~Lattie~
4:46 PM 
83 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Friday, December 04, 2009 

Category: Life
During the six week period that my mother-in-law was a resident of the Rocky Mountain Convalescence Center, I visited with Robert Kessler every other day or so. True to nurse Borgnine's word, the old man had his up's and down's, good day's and bad. There would be hours, even days on end that I was certain Robert didn't recognize me, or realize I was there in the room with him. Then as suddenly as his lights went out, this unseen switch would be flipped back on and once again I would be submerged in the salty wit and wisdom of Robert F. Kessler's eighty-five years of life's lessons learned.

The old man offered his unique opinion on a wide array of subjects during the six weeks I was fortunate enough to spend with him. Concerning his feelings about religion he once told me;

"Boy, I ain't a religious man. Hell, I don't know if one religion has any faster road map to God than another. But I do know this; every man, woman and child born on this here earth knows in his heart what is right and what is wrong. Some Preacher will tell ya that it's the Holy Spirit a talkin to ya. Another will say its the silent words of the almighty his self. I don't know which it is, or even if it be either, but I do know this, no man will ever do himself wrong if he just follows his heart."

These simple spoken words offered by an equally simple old man, ravaged by a disease that threatened to rob him of the most basic function of his thought process, touched me and made more sense than any words or scripture translations I have ever heard come from the mouths of scholars or holy men alike.

On another occasion Robert spoke to me about his fear of dying.

"Its not that I'm afraid of dyin'," he said in a barely audible voice as he struggled to contain the tears that filled his milky gray eyes.

"What fears me is the thought that after I'm gone I'll realize that the eighty or ninety odd years I spent on this earth didn't mean diddly," he moistened his lip's with his tongue and continued.

"See, the only business a man has on this earth is to leave his mark. A legacy. Be it good or bad. But if a man spends the time he's given here doin' nothin' but exsistin'. . . Well Hell, he might just as well never been born in the first place."

Once again, a simple thought from a simple man. But this time I didn't find comfort in the trueness of his words.

In late January I received a letter in the mail that did not exactly my spirits soaring. It was an invitation to attend a 28-year High School Reunion of the Class of 78. Every five years, after my graduation, I had managed to find a way to avoid being invited to mix and mingle with the "have's" and "have not's", that were once my classmates. Intelligent but underachieving friends, of day's long forgotten.

However this year, someone had thrown a monkey wrench into my best-laid plans, and planned an odd year reunion. Thanks, but no thanks! I thought to myself as I tore the invitation into little pieces, before my well-intentioned wife got the chance to know of its existence.

That night the old man could sense I had more on my mind than a leisurely visit of tidbits of wisdom and tall tales.

"What's the matter boy, ya' seem like ya' got a cactus stuck in yer' puckered hole." The old man grinned, waiting for a reaction.

"Nothing" I replied doing my best to conceal my emotion. "Just thinking about something I got in the mail today."

"Well. . .?" He said waiting for me to offer a reply. "Is it a matter of National Security or are ya' gonna' let me in on it?"

"Its no secret," I said trying to downplay any emotion the old man had obviously sensed. "Just an invitation to my High School reunion."

"Ya' gonna' go?"

"No," I said with a slight chuckle, never diverting my stare away from the floor.

"I see. Life went a little sour on ya' after graduation did it?"

"What? No, what the Hell are you talking about?" I asked, knowing only too well exactly what he was talking about.

"Let me ask ya' something Boy"

Oh Christ! Here it comes I thought to myself as I rested my head in the palms of my hands, another lecture tainted with geriatric wisdom.

"Why do you think any man would attend one of those school days reunions?"

"To meet old friends and acquaintances," I said not hiding my irritation for being asked such a stupid question.

"Ah, Bullshit!" The old man snapped. "If they really gave a dead cat's ass about old friends they'd pick up the phone and give em' a call," he said, giving pause to let his words sink into my hard head.

"Only reason any man ever attends one of these fancy social events is to brag about what he's made of his self. No one wants to go talk about how they didn't quite live up to expectations."

This time the old mans simple truths struck a very raw nerve.

"That's why these here functions are usually filled with every odd-ball and dead assed looser ya' ever attended school with."

I looked at him confused. He seemed to be contradicting every point he had just made. For a brief moment I wondered if someone had changed the old mans on/off switch with a dimmer switch.

"That's right," he said confirming his statement "Think about it Boy, the fact that a man with only a single brain cell continues to breathe over a sustained period of time is an accomplishment in its self, and by Christ he ain't about to miss a chance to brag about it!"

In an instant all of the anger and resentment I had harbored inside of me that entire day diminished and was replaced with an explosion of laughter, which caused the old mans face to light up and beam like I had never seen before, as he chimed in on my chorus of laughter.

"So just what is it you had planned for yourself?" Robert asked after our laughter had subsided.

"I wanted to be a writer" I said, looking him straight in the eye, now willing to pour my heart out to him.

"And what is it you do now?"

"For the last 27 years I have worked manual labor for a copper mining firm." I answered no longer able to look the old man in the eye.

"And where was it this derailment from your dreams took place?"

"Well, I got married, didn't finish school, had kids and. . ."

"So ya' let yer' little head do the thinkin' fer' your big head, ended up with a couple little darlin's that you loved and adored, but who needed to be fed," Robert cut in, not allowing me time to finish with my list of excuses.

"In a nutshell" I said finally looking the man face to face once again

"Little darlin's still needin' ta be fed do they?"

"No," I chuckled "They're grown and doing quite well on their own now."

"So, what's the problem?"

"Problem?"

"Yeah, why ain't ya' writin' now?"

"Too damn old now. I missed my window of opportunity years ago," I said with resignation hanging heavy on each word I spoke. To this Robert let out with a deep, raspy belly laugh causing his entire skeleton frame to shake and convulse.

"Window of opportunity," the old man snapped when his convulsions had subsided.

"Good Jesus in tennis shoes, don't go tellin' me about windows of opportunity," Robert scolded shaking a bony finger at my chest. "Boy, you don't know a thing about no windows of opportunity. I'll tell ya' when yer' window will close," he continued, stopping just long enough to cough and clear his throat.

"When yer' lovin' stepdaughter commits yer' eighty-odd year old ass to one of these store em' and forget em' till they die homes. The first time ya' get lost cause ya' can't remember yer' way home. Then ya' can come and dig me up and tell me about yer' windows of opportunity."

A seriousness had set in on the old mans face, the likes of which I had never seen before.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right." I said, more out of obligation than acceptance.

"Of course I'm right." Robert said, enjoying his newfound authoritarian role far too much.

A silence ensued between us allowing me time to ponder the old mans words. "I guess I'm just scared," I admitted, breaking the long and uncomfortable moments of silence.

"Scared of what?"

Another uncomfortable silence fell upon us as I struggled to say what I had long felt, but would never admit, not even to myself. Finally the words broke free from my soul where I had long held them hostage, then escaped my mouth.

"Of failure." The words small and faint but at long last free.

"Take a hold," the old man said with urgency as he shoved his forearm in my direction. "Help me outta' this God-forsaken, box spring, torture contraption"

Taking hold of bone and flesh, I pulled him up to a sitting position.

"How many manuscripts have ya' peddled this week, Boy?" He asked, leaning toward me in an effort to demonstrate the importance of what he was about to say.

"None."

"None?"

"Nope."

"This year?"

"None."

"Okay, well how bout since ya graduated High School?"

"I just smiled and shook my head."

"None?"

"Nada," I smiled sheepishly.

"Then what the Hell are ya' scared of Boy?" The old man shouted as loud as his raspy, old voice would allow. "Lord all mighty, yer' batting a thousand. Ya can't get any better than that!"

I had long since learned that as soon as Robert Kessler's words made absolutely no sense whatsoever, the heavens would soon open up to reveal some great and noble truth. Breathing deep, I steadied myself for just such an event.

"What in the Hell are you talking about Robert?" I asked, giving him his cue to open the heavens around us.

"Let me ask ya' somethin', you like baseball?"

"No, not really," I answered truthfully.

"Je-sus Ceer-issst Boy, will ya' just play along here for a second?" Robert squealed.

"Alright, alright," I chuckled

"I love Baseball, there ain't another game on God's green earth quite like it. But I'll tell ya', there is one thing about Major League Baseball that has puzzled me since the day I saw my first game in Brooklyn, New York, a couple hundred years ago."

"And what is that?" I asked, doing my best to play along as requested.

"Well, when a rookie enters the league and steps up to bat for the very first time, do you know what his batting average is?"

"He doesn't have one." I answered, sorry to have burst the old man's hot air, wisdom balloon.

"He's also never been called out in the major leagues, so in my books, that's batting a thousand."

I smiled and allowed him his convoluted logic.

"Till he walks up to the plate for the very first time, the rookie has a perfect record. And every other time he steps up to the plate for the rest of his career he's takin' a chance at whittlin' away deeper and deeper into that perfect record till in the end, all he's really judged on is how much of that battin' average he was able to salvage."

"Okay," I said pretending to buy into the old mans theory.

"So what puzzles me is why he would ever want to step up to the plate in the first place. Hell, if he cut his losses and just walked away, he could have bragged to his Grandkiddie's how he had a perfect record in the big leagues."

The heavens didn't open, nor was there a great clap of thunder, but the old man's convoluted logic was beginning to hit home.

"I tell ya why," he said after sensing that the meaning of his words were taking shape in my head. "Because till he steps up to that plate and puts all that he has on the line, their ain't one soul who gives a long log shit what his record is, or how much talent he thinks he's got."

Once again, the ninety-pound, ghost of a man with Alzheimer disease, had me cornered.

"Ya see Boy," Robert continued. "Ya have to step up to the plate, put it all on the line. Otherwise it don't matter if yer' ole Billy Shakespeare his self. No one is gonna give a shit."

"You're right." I said giving in to the truth of which he spoke, but not yet willing to surrender in defeat. "I guess I just don't know what to write about, nothing inspires me, and everything is just so dull and ugly in this world."

"Yeah, and it just keeps getting' uglier everyday." he said placing his bony hand on my arm.

God, I hated it when this old fool agreed with me. Without a doubt it would be my very words Robert would use as the weapon to once again, cut me down to size.

"I understand you have taken a shining to my paintings out in the hall." Robert said, seemingly changing the subject.

"Yes, I like them very much." I admitted.

"What is it ya' like about em'?"

I didn't have to think long about my answer this question.

The beauty of the subjects you chose to paint, and the meticulous detail you gave to them," I said.

"Well, I'll tell ya somethin'. Most those paintings you so admire out there were done in some of the most God awful, ugly settings you can imagine. Run down city ghettos, abandoned old air fields, even an industrial waste site or two."

"I didn't see any of that in those paintings."

"Of course you didn't," Robert said, grinning from ear to ear. "Thats because I didn't paint em' exactly as they were. I painted em' the way I saw em', the way I wanted the world to see em'."

"Playing God?" I asked

"No, never been crazy enough to think I could fill his shoes," he chuckled. "I just thought of it as helping him tie up a loose end or two."

It never ceased to amaze me how this old man could make me feel like a cornered wild animal, and make me want to hug him, all at the same time.

"What is it you like to write about?" Robert asked in a voice that steadily grew weaker by the length of our conversation.

"I like writing satirical comedy," I answered. "Humorous articles, short stories."

Robert shook his head and looked down at the floor. "I Never thought of you as being very damn funny but if you insist. Go out there and make the world laugh Boy!"

At that very moment I knew what it was my heart had been telling me for the last twenty-seven years.

"Use your words to paint the world a picture, Lattie," he said grasping my right hand into both of his. "If along the way you manage to turn a tear or two into a smile. Well, then you'll always know you've left a mark on this world."

With a pleasant smile on his face, the old man slowly laid back down on his box spring, torture contraption, exhausted.

My Mother-in-law was released from the Rocky Mountain Convalescence Center on February 17. As my wife and I walked her mother down the hall in route to her long awaited, and coveted ride home, I stopped by Robert's room to bid him farewell.

The salty old bastard was having another bad day, staring at the ceiling with milky blank eyes not realizing I had even entered the room. As was the case on all the old mans bad days Nurse Borgnine sat in the chair beside his bed clipping and filing his fingernails.

"Let him know I stopped by, will ya?" I said as I leaned over and gently gave my old friend a kiss on the cheek.

"I'll do that, but please come back and visit him." The kind hearted, ugly old nurse implored.

"You can count on it." I said as I walked out of the room.

It was amazing the speed at which February turned to March, then April, then May. My Stepdaughter had introduced me to a web sight called Myspace. Here it seemed possible that I could begin the process the old man had suggested to me, of Stepping up to the plate.

By June I had over 450 subscribed readers to my Myspace Blog Page, where I posted my articles and stories. Though I had let the months escape me, I still couldn't wait to see Robert once again and let him see how "The Boy" was fairing at home plate.

With printed copies of my web sight in hand, I returned to the Rocky Mountain Convalescence Center in search of my old friend. But all I was to find in his room was an empty bed void of covers.

As I stood there wondering where on earth they could have moved my friend Robert, I heard a familiar voice behind me. As I turned the massive arms of Nurse Borgnine grabbed me, and pulled me to her.

"Lattie, it's so good to see you again," she said as she hugged me to near suffocation.

"It's great to see you too," I said after I had managed to escape the death grip she had on me. "But where have you moved Robert?" I asked.

The look on her face said it all, no words were needed.

"When?" I asked feeling as if my heart were about to beat it's way out of my chest.

"Robert passed away in April," she said, her sweet smile doing little to mask her ugly face.

I stood there in the empty room silent. "Was he alone?" I asked as soon as I was able to form the words.

She shook her head yes.

Filled with a thousand thoughts and emotions I walked out of the room and made my way down the hall.

"Wait!" Nurse Borgnine called after me. "We wanted to get a hold of you, we couldn't find a number, or. . ."

"It's okay," I said as I waited for her to catch up, noticing for the first time the walls void of Roberts paintings.

"His stepdaughter came and gathered them up soon after he passed," she said as she noticed me staring at the bare walls.

"I'm sure that's what he would have wanted," I said trying to envision even one of the beautiful paintings I had so admired of Robert's world.

"Well don't be too sure" she said with a big grin. "Follow me."

With genuine curiosity I followed Nurse Borgnine down the length of the hall, then into the Nurses station.

"Seems old Mr. Kessler left a note attached to two paintings. He left one to you and the other to me," she said as she pulled a large painting from behind her desk. "This one is for you." She said handing the painting to me.

It was of what appeared to be a young Babe Ruth, standing in a warm-up circle waiting his turn at bat. The color and detail of the painting was unlike anything I had ever seen before.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Nurse Borgnine asked

Words seemed to be an insufficient response. I nodded as a tear ran down my cheek and onto the painting,

"Old Robert must have been having a bad day when he left me my painting," she said with sincere bewilderment.

"Why is that?"

"Because I can't for the life of me figure out why he would leave me this particular painting," She said as she pulled the second painting from behind her desk, revealing a large portrait of actor Ernest Borgnine.

"It's beyond me," I said, biting my lip to stifle my laughter.

There were only three things I knew for certain as I walked out of the Rocky Mountain Care Center that hot June day in 2006.

One was that God had seen fit to grant me a six week visit with an angel. the second; In two years the graduating class of 1978 would be holding their 30th Class reunion and Lattie Odell would be in attendance.

The last and most assured certainty of all was that I was well on my way to what promised to be a very successful career as an author and columnist.

Batter Up!

 
~Lattie~
3:30 PM 
55 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Tuesday, December 01, 2009 

Category: Life
Robert Francis Kessler was born July 27, 1921 in the township of Wells, Elko County, in the State of Nevada, to Bethany Jean Kessler (father unknown).  Gail Freemont, a Midwife, assisted in the delivery which took place in the home of Maternal Grandparents Ralph Graden and Lydia Kessler.  Robert attended grades 1 thru 6 at Wells School, Elko County School District, no other educational records exist for Robert F. Kessler.

An arrest record out of Ogden, Utah, dated May 2, 1936, shows Union Pacific Railroad Police placed one Robert F. Kessler under arrest for unlawful trespassing of a Union Pacific Railcar.  After being detained at the Weber County Jail, It was determined the young man's age was fifteen years, ten Months.  Sixteen being the minimum age a Juvenile could be held at the county facility,  Robert was returned to the custody of his Grandparents in Wells Nevada.

On August 3, 1941, Robert enlisted in the United States Air force and was later assigned to the Eighth Air Force under the command of Major General Carl A. Spaatz.  The Eighth Air Force was responsible for carrying out daytime bombing operations in Western Europe from airfields in eastern England.   Robert was honorably discharged from the United States Air Force on September 9, 1946.

Robert was married 5 times between the years of 1948 and 1971.  His final marriage lasting twenty-two years, March 8, 1971 to June 4, 1993, at the death of his wife Eva Marie Cavinoli Kessler.

This is the extent of information that can be found on public record about Robert Francis Kessler.  To discover more about this fascinating mans life and learn from the lessons of his eighty-five years, one would have had to spend time with Robert himself and listen to the wisdom of his words.  Something very few took the time to do.

Three nights had passed since my first encounter with Robert Kessler and his urine soaked pajama bottoms.   Having completely depleted my vast treasure trove of lame excuses why I couldn't possibly visit my Mother-in-law Chloe  at the Convalescence Center, I surrendered to my wife's wishes and returned to that "Emporium of a thousand scents" which offered a whole new meaning to aromatherapy.

Much to my relief and our sheer delight, we found Chloe resting comfortably.  I held dear those rare occasions in which Chloe remained in a state of total unconsciousness for the duration of our visit.

Remaining true to her promise, my wife Teresa did not subject me to a depressing, over dramatized, and poorly acted, Lifetime Channel Mini Drama on this night.  Instead she unselfishly flipped the station directly to the Soap Opera Network.  In no time at all I was strolling through the hallways in search of my urine soaked friend.

Reaching Roberts room I knocked on the frame of his open door.  Nurse Borgnine was crouched at the old mans feet, scrubbing his toes with a brush and a tub of soapy water.

"Hello Robert!" I called in a cheerful, upbeat tone.

The old man stared directly at me with milky, dead eyes, obviously seeing nothing more than the wall behind me.

Nurse Borgnine took the towel which was neatly folded beside the tub and quickly dried the old mans feet.  Putting a half slipper on each dried foot, she rose on creaky knees and walked toward the door where I stood.

"Robert has had a bad day today," she said putting her hand to the side of her mouth and whispering toward my ear, as if keeping this revelation a secret from the old man himself.

I nodded my head and gave the kind hearted; ugly old nurse an understanding smile.  She patted my shoulder then disappeared down the hall.

"Well, I guess I'll see you later Robert, you take care now" I said awkwardly, searching for the right words to share with an empty room.

Robert's deadpan stare remained focused on the wall in back of me.  No expression of recognition on his face, just the cold, blank look of the living dead.  With a small wave of my hand I backed out of the doorway and continued down the hall.

Poor old Bastard, I thought to myself as I walked from the old man's room.  Just three nights ago he was pissing his pants afraid of dying, never knowing there may be something far worse.  Now it seemed death might be a blessed release.

Soon the hall opened into large room where a group of elderly women sat playing Bingo.  Finding an inconspicuous spot at the far corner of the room, I sat and watched the excited expression that washed over the faces of each woman every time a number was called, then melt into a defeated groan as they discovered the number did not give them their coveted Bingo.

The game quickly deteriorated as the number B-7 was called. Two old ladies in wheelchairs parked side by side began bickering over who had called out "BINGO" first.  Without warning one woman took hold of the others hair and gave it a yank.  A blue fur, beehive wig came loose from the second woman's scalp causing the first woman to topple over backward in her chair.  The now hairless woman jumped from her chair directly on top of the fallen hair thief, scratching and digging in an effort to regain possession her blue fur head mop.

This beats anything the Soap Opera Network has to offer I thought, as two over matched nurses aids tried to pull the battling seniors apart.  Still chuckling to myself I began my journey back to my wife and mother-in-law.  Half way down the long corridor I heard a familiar, raspy voice calling from the room directly at my side.

"Boy!  Boy!  Come here"

"Is that you Robert?" I asked in honest astonishment as I poked my head into the room.

"Come here, come here," he barked, motioning me inside with his hand.

Feeling as though I was witnessing a resurrection, I walked into the room and sat down in the same chair I had sat in three nights earlier.

"I wanna' show you something," Rober said propping himself up in his bed on his skinny elbows.  "Hand me my trousers Boy."

Leaning forward I handed the old man a pair of brown, polyester pants which had been neatly folded on the foot of his bed.  His shaky hands searched each pocket meticulously till he found what he was looking for.  With noticeable effort he pulled a thick, old wallet from deep inside one pocket.  Fumbling to open the wallet the old man took his time flipping through plastic pages containing various cards and photographs till he found what he was looking for.

"Take a look at this," the old man said shoving his wallet toward me.  Inside was a black and white photo of an attractive woman.  Judging the woman's hairstyle and the obvious age of the photo I thought it to have been taken sometime in the 70's.

"Very nice" I said looking up at Robert seeing him glow with the pride of a new father.  "Is this your daughter?" I asked.

"Nope"

"Granddaughter?"

"Nope, I don't know who she is," he said still beaming. "Picture came with the wallet when I bought it, but ain't she purty?"

"Oh yes, very pretty" I chuckled, "Very pretty indeed"

"I named her Betty; don't ya think that fits her, boy?"

Studying the photo in front of me, I tried to imagine this wallet model named Betty.  It seemed to fit her every bit as well as a half a dozen other names that quickly came to mind.  "Yeah," I said, nodding with mock approval. "Betty seems to fit her right fine."

The old man let out with a high-pitched, raspy laugh, delighted by my approval.  "Ya can't tell by the picture, but I'm thinkin' she has nice thick thighs and a cushy caboose on her" he said with another raspy laugh.

I continued to nod in agreement, not sure where this old fool was going with this conversation.

"Now that's a real woman," Robert continued to philosophize.  "Not like these scrawny-assed, model type they try to sell you on in picture-shows and such.  A man wants something soft he can take a hold of, isn't that right boy?"

I smiled an uncertain grin and continued to agree.

"Well Robert, welcome back dear." A voice rang from behind me as Nurse Borgnine walked to the bed giving the skeleton of a man a hug.  "I see you found Robert home with the lights on this time," she smiled looking at me, her arm's still holding Robert tightly.

"Yes," I said, "does this happen often?"

"Robert has his bad days," she said, giving him a squeeze.  "But he always comes back to us, don't you dear?"

Robert gave a little chuckle, which was soon smothered by a thunderous squeal as Nurse Borgnine sprung from the bed.

"Why, you dirty old man!" she scolded, mocking a slap to Roberts face, as she struggled to withhold the laughter that burst out upon her face.

The old mans chuckle turned into fits of laughter as Nurse Borgnine made her way out of the room.

"Now there's a good old gal," Robert said after regaining his composure, "But Goddamn, ugliest woman I ever did see!"

This bold, but ever so true statement caught me off guard.  For several seconds we silently stared at each other, before simultaneously erupting in fits laughter.  Wiping the tears from my eyes, I flipped the plastic page in Robert's wallet to reveal yet another picture of a woman.  This one had a message scrolled in the corner in barely legible faded ink.

For my Robert
Daphne 52

"Is this your wife?" I asked tilting the wallet toward him.

Robert took the wallet from my hand and held it high in the air towards the light.  Squinting, he slowly brought the wallet toward his face.  "Hand me my spectacles boy," he said tilting the picture in various angles to capture the best view.  "I can't see a damn thing without them"

Handing him a pair of wire framed glasses from atop his bedside table, Robert took the glasses from my hand and hung them on the tip of his nose.  A big smile came over his face as the picture took focus.

"Yep, she's one of 'em," he said as he continued to study the picture, obviously reminiscing of a day long passed.  "She was a looker, this one.  Nice, big titties and nipples the size of dinner plates."

Again the old mans stark revelation caused a moment of shocked silence.

"You don't say," I said breaking the uneasy silence.

"I'm tellin' ya boy, you could serve up a seven course meal on them nipples."

At a loss for words, I shook my head and gave in to nervous laughter.

"You never want to marry a gal with big nipples, you know why that is boy?"

Having never contemplated such a question, I struggled for a plausible answer.

"Because a woman with big nipples is the most head strong, stubborn, independent and ornery creature the good Lord ever seen fit to put on this planet and that's the God's honest truth." He declared, never giving pause for my answer.

"No kidding?"

"I'm tellin' ya true," he said, pointing his bony finger at my chest to emphasize his point.  Then throwing his legs over the side of his bed and struggling to sit up straight, he leaned toward me as if he were about to share a highly guarded ancient secret.

"I'll tell you something else," he said looking into my eyes to make sure I was paying attention.  "You want to shy away from them gal's with the small, perky nipples as well.  Ya see they are the opposite of the dinner plate women; they're shy and insecure.  Mark my word boy; they are the type that'll be runnin' home to momma before the marriage is a full year old."

"You know an awful lot about women don't you?" I said, shaking my head in wonderment.

"Yes" he chuckled, "I suppose I do.  I suppose I do.  I think they have a name for men like me," he said, pausing to search for the word.

"Lecherous?" I asked.

Again we broke out in harmonious laughter.

After a rather lengthy first lesson of life according to Robert Kessler, I helped the old man up into bed, turned out his light and walked out of the dark room which was now filled with the rhythmic sound of the old mans slumber.

Silently closing his door, I turned to find Nurse Borgnine standing directly behind me.  The old man's comment about the ugly old nurse filled my head, and I bit down hard on my lip to keep from laughing.

"Fascinating man isn't he?" she smiled

"Fascinating would be an understatement," I answered.

"See these paintings," the nurse said taking me by the elbow and leading me down the hallway.   "They are Roberts," she said pointing to beautifully framed oil paintings that hung on one wall for as far as the eye could see.  "He painted every one of them, brought them with him when he moved here."

Together Nurse Borgnine and I slowly walked down this corridor, as we were transported into Roberts's world of vintage aircrafts, old boxcars, rail yards, deserts, small towns, and large cities.  Never before had I seen such beautiful and highly detailed oil paintings.  A third of the way down the Hall I spotted a portrait of a nude woman holding dinner plates in front of her breasts.

"What is it?"  Nurse Borgnine asked when she noticed me silently laughing in front of the portrait.

"I know this woman," I answered, "That's Daphne"

Smiling, she gave me a little squeeze, then continued on her way leaving Daphne and I alone to admire each other.

Not one time in the coming weeks did my wife have to beg or coax me to join her in her nightly visits to the Rocky Mountain Convalescence Center. With each visit I came to know, respect and love this old man with the raspy voice, more.

And never again would my life be the same.

TO BE CONTINUED . .

~LATTIE~
4:51 PM 
49 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Wednesday, November 25, 2009 

Category: Life
As we come upon Thanksgiving and the Holiday season I would like to give to all of you a gift directly from my heart.  It is my first "Short Story Mini-Series" and the one closest to my heart. 

It's not a traditional "Christmas Story"...  Nor is it even a story of the season.  It is a Story of ignored angels living among us and taking advantage of the gifts they have to offer.

After all...  Isn't that what the Holiday season is all about?

Hope you enjoy this story of my own personal angel and the gift's he had to offer...




             LIFE'S LESSON'S LEARNED

 

Only three things were known to be certainties by me and the tight knit group of oddball, overly intelligent, under achievers I called friends on that Friday, June 2nd, 1978.
 
The first being that Sony had just released the coolest thing to hit the planet earth called the Walkman.  Second, as of 7:30 PM we would be given the key to freedom from the gates of Hell in the form of a High School diploma.  The third, and over all most convincing certainty of all, that this day would mark the starting point in my pursuit of what undoubtedly would become a promising career as an author and columnist.
 
As I stepped out of my car into the parking lot of the Rocky Mountain Convalescence Center on that cold, snowy, January evening in 2006, something had gone terribly wrong with all the certainties of that warm June day twenty eight years earlier.
 
Nothing had been going right for me the entire fifteen days of the New Year.  I hated the dead end copper mining job I had dedicated 26 years of my life to, resentful of the fact that it paid just enough to keep my uneducated testicles tightly held in its iron grip.
 
I hated the fact that once again I had to spend an entire evening visiting my semi-conscious Mother-in-law, Chloe, in this God forsaken convalescence home she found herself in after taking a swan dive that would have earned her a 10 from the most critical of judges, off of her icy porch-steps onto the concrete sidewalk below, all this in an effort to retrieve a Newspaper for her lazy, parasitic, alcoholic, good-for-nothing nephew whom she refused to throw out of her house.
 
Above all else I hated the fact that the crunching sound coming from my back pocket as my ass made its third bounce off that frozen parking lot asphalt that night, was without a doubt, my most highly treasured Christmas Present, my Apple Mp3 player, the coolest thing to hit the planet earth.
 
With my arm around my wife to help bare the weight load of the injured right half of my body, I limped down the sanitized hallway of the Convalescence Center enjoying the many aromatic aromas such establishments have to offer.
 
Upon reaching my mother-in-laws room, we found her engaged in a heated, all be it one-sided conversation, with someone living in a time period which predated my wife and I.  Another fascinating night watching Chloe argue with ghosts from her past I thought to myself ,as I sat down and prepared to referee this debate before it grew out of hand.
 
After a while the ghosts from Chloe's past must have given in to her stubbornness and went back to whatever year they belonged, leaving Chloe to fall into a deep, nasally, and sinus impaired sleep of grunts, snorts and an occasional oink.
 
Already my wife Teresa had emerged herself in a Lifetime Channel made for TV melodrama, about a dysfunctional white family that adopts a black baby from a shady Hispanic adoption agency, then later has to defend their legal paternal rights by hiring a gay Asian lawyer whose sociopathic lover turns out to be the brother of the babies' biological mother.
 
Carefully calculating my options, I reduced my choices of entertaining myself the rest of the night down to three.  One; become totally entranced watching the upper plate of Chloe's dentures rhythmically slide in and out of her mouth in harmony with her deep breaths of grunts and snorts.  Two; double up on my Prozac and engross myself in this nail biting; Lifetime drama.  Or three; walk the halls of this warehouse of the near dead and dying in search of new tantalizing aromas.
 
Being a life long victim of Attention Deficit Disorder, I chose the latter.
 
I had only been walking a short time when I heard a faint, raspy voice calling out to me.  Just then a portly, ugly old nurse whom uncannily resembled Ernest Borgnine in a wig, stopped at the door from which the voice had called.
 
"What can I do for you Robert?" the nurse asked.
 
"Not you for Gods sake!  The Boy!  The Boy!" the raspy voice answered with much greater volume.
 
The ugly nurse turned, smiled at me and shrugged her shoulders.  "I guess he wants you."
 
It had been an awful long time since anyone had referred to me as "The Boy" which amused me.  Without much hesitation I walked toward the raspy voice's room.  Just before I entered Nurse Borgnine put her large, wrinkled hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear.
 
"Don't pay much mind to old Robert, he ain't got all his senses"
 
I looked at her puzzled.
 
"He's suffering from Alzheimer's.   Don't know where he is half the time."   She said shaking her head.  "But the poor old fool is lonely.   He don't have any family to speak of," A genuine look of concern shown through her ugly face.  "Wouldn't matter much though," she chuckled.  "He wouldn't know who they were if he did."  With that Nurse Borgnine turned and disappeared down the Hall, leaving me alone in the dimly lit room, with the raspy voice.
 
"Get over here Boy" the raspy voice called.
 
Walking toward the reclined hospital bed, I struggled to adjust my eyes to the sole light bulb burning above the head of the bed.  What I could make out was a skeleton of a man sitting on the edge of the bed in boxer shorts, his pajama bottoms draped across his legs which dangled a good six inches off the floor.  One slipper had fallen off his foot revealing thick yellow toenails, which hadn't been clipped in months.
 
"Sit down" the old man said, pointing to a chair directly in front of him.
 
Sitting in the chair I extended my hand to the old man.  "How are you sir, my name is Lattie Odell."
 
"Lattie Odell, you Irish?"  The old man demanded rather than asked.
 
"My Grandparents were from Scotland."   I said, still holding my hand out without a responding gesture.
 
"You Drink?"
 
"I drink socially" I said bringing my hand back down to my side
 
"Socially," the old man chuckled "Yes, I know how an Irishman drinks socially."
 
"Scotsman" I corrected.
 
"What?"  The old man snapped.
 
"Scotsman" I repeated, "I'm Scottish."
 
"Yeah, and damn proud of it too it seems."
 
"Was there something you needed help with?"  I asked, anxious now to help the old man with whatever he needed and get the Hell out of there.
 
"What do you make of these?" the old man asked as he tossed his pajama bottoms at me.
 
Dragging them from off the top of my head where they had so skillfully landed, I wadded the damp flannel pants up in my hands.  "Did you spill something on them?"  I asked, not quite sure what this crazy old man expected me of me.
 
"Christ no, I didn't spill something on them!" the old man shouted, "I think I pissed them."
 
"Oh Shit!" I shouted tossing the urine soaked ball of flannel aside.
 
"You know when the last time was that I pissed my pants, Boy?" the old man asked, paying no mind to my dramatic reaction to his rather startling announcement.
 
"No sir I don't know when the last time was that you pissed your pants, and I'm really not interested in finding out!"  I shouted as I sprung from the chair and prepared to walk out of this disgusting old mans room.
 
"July 9th, 1942, in the gunner seat of a B-17 bomber, flying over Hamburg Germany" the old man said somberly, as if he hadn't heard a word of my scolding.  "See any significance in that?" he asked as his raspy voice cracked with emotion.
 
"Last time you were afraid of dying?"  I asked quietly, choking back and swallowing my indignant attitude.
 
The old man just shook his head and stared down at his toenails, as a single tear rolled off of his cheek then disappeared into the dimly lit room.
 
TO BE CONTINUED. . .


~Lattie~
8:50 PM 
43 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Tuesday, November 17, 2009 

Category: Life
As often seems to be the case with life's misadventures, my latest began innocently enough. A much needed day off from work, a brisk, sunny, spring day and a leisurely ride with my wife to pick-up some fast food, and perhaps do some bargain hunting at our local Wal-Mart store. What on earth could go wrong??
 
 
Our first mistake was ordering our meal at the "Jennyfur-Burgers" drive-up window. I have yet to understand why it is that fast food joint's across our great nation, will hire employee's who's English vocabulary consist of three words, and their comprehension skill's are two words less than that, then immediately they are given a headset and told to take orders at the drive-up window?
 

I did my best to force down the two tacos and large bean and cheese burrito I had been given in place of the cheeseburger, fries and coke I had actually ordered. The two tacos began their hostile maneuvers as we drove out of the "Jennyfur-Burgers" parking lot. The cheese burrito quickly joined forces and made a direct frontal assault on my lower intestine while I was meandering with my wife on aisle 14 of our neighborhood Wal-Mart store.
 

All my life I have been plagued by Gruntandsmellious-Inpubliosia Phobia, more commonly known as a disabling fear of doing "number two" in a public restroom. However on this occasion the stronger fear of shitting my pants in the middle of aisle 14 of Wal-Mart overruled any lesser phobias I may have harbored. Hastily I made a dash to the front of the store in search of any door which vaguely resembled being a men's restroom.


Glorious relief was mine as I perched my buns on Wal-Mart's public porcelain throne. Cutting loose with reckless abandon all the grunts, toots, splatters and moans highlighted by a vast array of putrid and pungent aromas that under normal circumstances would have been my worst nightmare. But as I sat there this day, basking in the sheer delight of expelling my unwanted tacos and burrito, I gave no mind to the embarrassment of what may have been heard or smelled from the other side of my stall door.
 

Having answered Mother Nature's most urgent of callings; I turned to my right in an effort to grab a couple of sheets of extra thin, single ply, melt in your ass tissues. No sooner had I begun the wiping process it happened. A 60-volt jolt of electricity shot from my lower back then made its way down the right side of my butt cheek, zapping it way though my upper thigh before bursting out of my kneecap. The pain was excruciating as I sat there paralyzed on my porcelain throne, tears running down my cheeks and a long tail of ultra thin, single ply toilet tissue dangling from my ass.
 

With overwhelming despair, the realization that given my predicament of total paralysis; my pants hanging from my ankles far beyond my current ability to reach, coupled with the obvious infrequency of janitorial duties performed in this particular Wal-Mart, the possibility that I may very well spend the last of my remaining days sitting bare assed on this very toilet seat was greater than I cared to fathom.
 

In a state of sheer panic I struggled to lift myself up and off of this Cranny of doom. My efforts, noble and heroic as they were proved futile, the pain in my lower back was much too severe. The 60 volt jolt shooting down my bare ass cheek thwarted each and every effort I made to straighten myself to an upright position.
 
Again I pictured myself being discovered in the weeks to come, when the smell of my rotting flesh finally overpowered the natural Wal-Mart restroom odors, my lifeless body sitting here, pants around my ankles. If that weren't enough to urge me up and onto my feet, the knowledge that it is a commonly held belief that the spirit hovers near the body till it is laid to rest caused me to defy all odds and painfully rise to my feet. . . All be it bent in a ninety degree angle at the waist.
 

My mission now was clear; Find some way of reaching my pants and pulling them up my legs and over my upturned ass! I have never been a man easily given to prayer, but every man seems to find the Lord in one's own way, and at that very moment as I stood there bent into an "L" shape, with my pants lying on the floor in a two by two men's room stall, I had one of only three intense religious moments I have experienced throughout my life.
 

"Dear Lord," I prayed "If you grant me the ability to reach my pants lying there on the floor, and raise them over my hips, and let me walk out of this stall with my dignity intact, I promise I will. . ."
 

Before I had a chance to decide upon a reasonable promise I lost my balance. Falling forward my head banged against the stall door, causing the super-secure metal privacy lock to come flying off of its hinge as the stall door swung wildly open. Like a foul piece of meat, my partially nude body was regurgitated out of the stall and onto the cold, sticky, tile men's room floor.
 

"Goddamn Pervert!" a man retorted as he yanked his young son away from the urinal allowing the still peeing boy to dribble down onto me, as he pulled his son over my disabled body and out the exit, leaving me alone withering on the floor, pants around my ankles, dribbled in urine, and a tail of single ply, melt in your ass tissue dangling from between my legs.
 
 
It seemed hours had passed before two teenage boys dressed in baggy black pants and hairnets nearly tripped over my body as they came strutting in to relieve themselves.
 

"Oh my God! Dude shit himself to death!" one boy hollered as he grabbed a hold of his buddy a fraction of a second before his foot would have stomped down upon my head.
 

"Oh Shit!" The second boy screeched as he sprung away from my resting spot. "Goddamn, I nearly stepped on it" he said, shuddering at the thought.
 

"Dude whadda we do?" The first boy asked, "Like, shouldn't we give him some of dat CPR shit?"
 

"CPR shit? Man, what you talkin' about?"
 

"You know, CPR," the first boy said rolling his eye's. "Like where you beat da crap outta his chest, den like French kiss da dude till' he starts chokin' and spitten' up and shit. . . I seen it on TV er' something"
 

"Hell no, I ain't doin' dat," the second boy sneered "Dude still has toilet-paper hangin' out his ass, I ain't getting' close to dat."
 

"Yeah, me neither," the first boy said almost in a giggle "Come on Dude, let's get da Hell outa here."
 

"No boy's, wait!" I called weakly from the floor. It was too late. All that remained of the two boys was the echo of their footsteps running out of the men's room door.
 

Seconds later a husky middle aged gentleman came strolling in the door, hands already in his fly fishing for the goods when he spotted me lying on the floor.
 

"Oh my God!" he shouted as he jumped back nearly tearing the head off his Talley-Whacker. "Somebody, stop those two boys, they just killed a man in the shitter!" he shouted as he ran out doing his best to put his injured Whacker back in its nest, on the fly.
 

In no time at all I was surrounded by every male employee and customer in the store.
 

"For the love of Jesus, would ya look at that," a voice rang out from the crowd. "Little Bastard didn't even give the poor son-of-a-Bitch time to pull up his trousers"
 

"Looks ta me like he was still in the middle of wipin'" another voice rang out.
 

"Damn kids just have no decency er respect fer notin' "
 

"Isn't there some kind of additional charge for killing someone when they are movin' their bowels?"
 

"No! You're thinkin' of that Hate Crime Bill. There's only an additional charge if ya hate the person ya kill."
 

"Well, why in the Hell would ya kill someone ya didn't hate?"
 

Sucking in a large breath of air, I lifted my head up from the tile floor. "Wait a minute, nobody killed or tried to kill me" I said, the effort of my words sending waves of pain down my back.
 

The crowd that surrounded me let out a collective sigh as they stepped back in unison.
 

"Well boy, what the Hell are ya doin' wallerin' around on the floor with yer pants down?" Asked an elderly gentleman with a thick gray moustache wearing a blue vest, whom I recognized as a Wal-Mart door greeter.
 

"I threw my back out," I whined "I was trying to pull my pants up when…"
 

"Ya threw your back out?" the old man roared. "Boy, that must have been one Helluva log"
 

The crowd erupted in laughter as I succumbed to complete and total humiliation.
 

"Well come on boy, if that's all it is, let's get ya on your feet, and get your britches pulled up" the old man chuckled as two large men took me by the arms and yanked me painfully to my feet.
 

Thirty minutes after I had frantically ran from my wife on aisle 14, I was returned once again to her, still shopping on aisle 14, oblivious to anything that had taken place.
 

"What happened to you?" she asked as I limped my way toward her.
 

"Ah, he just had a little accident while shootin' off a missile," the old man said in a friendly voice, "but he ain't none the worse for wear, just a bit bent over. You just take him on home and give him a good rub down and he'll be right as rain in no time."
 

For the next two days I hobbled around the house, looking much like a question mark, bidding my time till I could get in to see my doctor. Back pain isn't new to me, I have suffered with bouts of lower back pain on and off for the last twenty years. I knew exactly what I was in for right down to the worthless exercise pamphlet Dr. Crookston insisted you take home, to the wonderful pill he would prescribe which did nothing to cure the pain in your back, but did wonders making you feel as if all was well and right in the world.

Yes, I knew exactly what I was in for on my road to recuperation . . .
 
That is until Sidney Dupree and his lovely wife Marge stopped by to pay a visit. Then again, that's a whole other story!

~Lattie~


First posted as:  "Horrid Beginnings, Happy Endings Part I"
November 7th, 2006
7:45 PM 
98 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Sunday, November 15, 2009 

Category: Food and Restaurants
With Thanksgiving day just around the corner, thought this re-post might be appropriate.  Hope you enjoy!


Here we go again!   I'm on another diet and as usual not by my own choice, but because a member of my family, this time my daughter, stumbled out of bed one morning, stood in front of a full length mirror and looked over her shoulder only to be horrified to find she couldn't fit both of her ass cheeks in the width of the mirror.

I tried to explain; "Sweetheart, you don't need to go on a diet, just take two steps forward.   The farther away from the mirror you are, the more of your ass you will see."

She didn't buy it.

Throughout my life I have lived in households that were predominantly female so dieting is old hat to me now.  I'm not certain why it is that women feel more pressure than men to lose weight whenever they gain five or ten additional pounds.   Perhaps it's the pressure society puts on them to have that perfect hourglass shape and "Barbie doll" look.

Personally I think it's because they spend too much time trying to fit their Asses in narrow mirrors.

The first memory of dieting I have dates back to the mid 1960's.  My mother was what they call now a "BBW".   In the 60's they had far less attractive names for it.   At some point mom's caboose must have outgrown her five foot wide mirror and she decided to join a weight loss support group called TOPS Club.

Now this was 40 years ago when weight loss groups were not nearly as sophisticated or sensitive as what they are now.  Granted I was only seven or eight years old at the time, but to my knowledge TOPS Club didn't have any formal diet plan.  Rather, they seemed to work on a system of humiliation.

Each week members would go to a "weigh in" meeting.   The member who lost the least amount of weight (or God forbid gained the most weight) was awarded with the distinction of being "Pig of the week."
 
The TOPS Club piggy would have to bring home a 5-foot cardboard cutout of a cartoon pig to hang on the front door and a smaller version to hang on the refrigerator door.  If this wasn't enough humiliation to make you stop eating for a month, you also had to answer your phone with the customary Pig of the week greeting; "Oink-Oink" instead of hello.

Club member secret callers would phone the Pig of the week randomly throughout the week.   If you were caught answering the phone with any other greeting you were subjected to further humiliations of mammoth proportions.  Mom put up with this until she had won the Pig of the week distinction so many times dad began calling her his little pork chop.

That was the end of TOPS club.

The last diet I was forced into by proxy was the Atkins diet.  One evening I overheard my wife Teresa and our next-door neighbor speaking of the relative circumference of their Asses in proportion to the bathroom mirror and I knew I was in trouble.

They took the time to explain to me how the Atkins diet worked; a diet where food items such as bread and noodles were substituted for two inch Porterhouse Steaks!

 
"Hell yeah, count me in!"
 
The first week was great, steaks from the back yard grill every night!  It sure as hell beat the grapefruit diet, or that God Forsaken cabbage soup diet we had spent a month on.  It was the middle of the second week that I began to notice just what effect a high fat, low carbohydrate diet was having on our bodies.

One night as we lay in our beds watching Letterman my Teresa rolled over to kiss me goodnight.  As she did a green hue emerged from under our covers followed by a stench that brought me to verge of heaving up all 32 steaks I had consumed over the last two and a half weeks.

The next night it was my turn.  The next a combination attack from both of us.  By the end of the third week the mere mention of red meat caused me to dry-heave.  I would have traded the entire side of beef we had purchased for just one peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  I knew with certainty that if I ate one more hamburger on a goddamned lettuce bun I was going to scream!

I threatened Teresa that if we didn't soon stop this insane diet I was going to fill out my official membership application for P.E.T.A. and start a protest right in front of our house.  She didn't need much convincing.  It took two and a half weeks after we had stopped the Atkins diet for the air in our bedroom to be deemed safe for breathing.  To this day I break out in a cold sweat whenever my wife turns over in bed to kiss me goodnight.

This time my daughter has chosen the Weight Watchers diet to thrust upon me.  Two weeks ago when she was explaining the plan to me it seemed quite sensible.  Each food item or menu entree has a point value. You are given a certain amount of points depending upon your personal situation that you are allowed to consume each day.  She was given a value of 26 points a day and suggested that as a family we use 26 points to keep things uniform.

This seemed pretty simple to me, we could eat any thing we wanted without limits, not JUST grapefruits, cabbage soup or red meat.  All we had to do was make sure we cut down on whatever we ate and stayed within our daily point value.  No problem.  What she failed to explain was that the point system was but the tip of the iceberg.  To stay true to the diet you had to be a freaking mathematical genius!

It seems that you can divide your total points in half for one meal, then times them by two for the second meal.  However the remainder has to be carried over to the next day then divided by the total weekly points minus your daily remainder of the first and second days.  Should the point value carried into the third day be less than half of the total points of the remaining four day's left in the week, you then can take one forth of those points to add toward weekend meals.  If you choose to do this you lose the remaining three fourths of those points that you could have if you didn't leave them as a remainder carried over to the next day

"WHAT???"

Sometimes progress isn't always for the better.  I'm buying my daughter a five-foot cardboard pig to hang on our door.

"Oink-Oink."

~Lattie~
12:34 AM 
76 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Sunday, November 08, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
   Yesterday was a dark and bleak day upon the calendar of my life.   Not because I, as a tax payer had to shell out $85 billion to help save another mismanaged financial conglomerate, nor even because the stock market fell 450 points leaving my 401k plan penniless.  No, the reason for my "Black Wednesday" went far beyond either of these minor and soon to be forgotten events, for you see yesterday I had a dentist appointment.

To some dental visits may seem inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but allow me to make a confession.

I HATE DENTISTS!
 
During the course of my forty-eight years on this earth, I have gone to great lengths, doing everything humanly possible to avoid sitting in a Dentist's sadistic chair of horrors.

I realize that a healthy fear of Dentists is not unusual.  Most people with at least the sense of a Jackass would admit to being uncomfortable, if not right down fearful of visiting a Dentist office. However, what I suffer stretches beyond mere fear; it more aptly could be considered to be a severe phobia bordering on Paranoid Schizophrenia!  I remember once as a child forcing myself to eat three and a half cans of Alpo dog food in order to make myself sick enough to miss a dental appointment.

 Due to the severe effect of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome on my brains memory bank, I had completely forgotten about the appointment my wife  Teresa had made for me to have my top front teeth worked on and capped.

A few short hours before my scheduled appointment Teresa called to remind me of my impending doom, it is wonderful to have a loving wife you can depend on to remember those things that you have tried so hard to forget.

As she reminded me of the time and place of my dreaded appointment I could feel the color draining from my face, beads of sweat began to form on my forehead then stream down my cheeks.

"You must be wrong, that can't be today!"  I protested.

She assured me it was.  Quickly I began to search the kitchen for any signs of Alpo, Kennel-ration, anything!  Damn it!  Nothing but dry dog food.

"But I don't really feel good today, maybe I should cancel," I pleaded.

"Quit being a boob" she scolded.

Obviously she wasn't buying the sick routine…   Time for another approach.

"I'm just not sure about this," I said diplomatically.  "We don't know this guy; we have never seen his work.  What if. . ."  It was a waste of breath.  She assured me her friend at work had recommended him and said he was the best around.  He had even once had a thriving practice in Beverly Hills where he had several celebrities as clients.

"Alright, alright!"  I said giving in.  "What's his name?"

"Dr. Payne"

OH, JESUS CHRIST!

Walking in to Doctor Payne's office I felt a sudden urge to piss my pants upon hearing the high-pitched squeal of a drill that had made up ninety-nine percent of my childhood nightmares.  A bug-eyed receptionist with orange hair instructed me to have a seat and the Doctor would be right with me.  Somehow that thought failed to provide much comfort.  The walls of the waiting room were cluttered with framed diplomas and pictures, including two autographed pictures of the good Doctors "celebrity clientele," David Letterman and Alfred E. Newman.

A rather homely and over weight, middle age dental assistant led me back to my "room without walls" and asked me to have a seat in the dental chair, which I couldn't help but to notice looked incredibly like a chair I had seen on a Capital Punishment documentary.  She then was kind enough to clip a paper bib around my neck before leaving me alone to enjoy the hideous squeal of the drill from Hell, while relaxing in my chair of the doomed.

A short time later Dr. Payne came gliding into my room riding a short, padded stool on wheels.  Not that it would have made a great deal of difference, but I couldn't help but to believe that my confidence in the good Doctor may have been boosted a touch had he seen fit to simply walk into the room.

After our formal introduction followed by a bit of mindless small talk, Dr. Payne tilted my chair back until I was twelve degrees away from being completely tipped upon my head.   He then brought down what I am certain was a semi tractor's head light on a swinging arm, pulling it to within a foot of my face, before switching the son of a bitch on high beam!   There I lay, upside down and completely blind by this Godforsaken flood light, as the Doctor positions his gliding stool directly in back of me.


"Okay Mr. Odell," the Doctor said in an almost sinister tone.  "Open wide so I can stick this in."
 
"WHAT????"

Dr Payne and two of his assistants caught me in the parking lot and led me back into the office.  It was explained to me that he only wanted to place a mirror into my mouth so he could see the back side of my teeth.  Once again I was put in the chair and hung upside down.
 

"You seem a bit nervous," Dr. Payne said with an understanding smile.

 Oh this Asshole was sharp!

"Yeah, I suppose a bit," I said not trying to mask the shear terror in my voice.

"How about some gas?"  He asked.


"No," I said "I'm a bit nervous but that rarely gives me gas."

 He told to me that he was referring to Nitrous Oxide, more commonly known as laughing gas.  He assured me it would help me relax while he worked on my teeth.  Soon the homely dental assistant brought in what appeared to be a plastic pig's snout and placed it over my nose, then adjusted some knobs.

"Okay Mr. Odell breathe deep and relax," she said walking out of the room.
 
Lay here and relax, RIGHT!  I didn't pin any hopes what-so-ever that what she had hooked me up to was about to make me relax!  Then all of a sudden and without warning...  BOOM!

If you have never tried Nitrous Oxide before, I am here to tell you that it is some GOOD SHIT!  You can have your Whiskey, Tequila and Vodka.  No reefers or Valium for me thank you.  Just set me up with a couple tanks of laughing gas at the side of my bed and I'll be good to go.

 The remainder of my visit is somewhat a pleasant blur.  I do remember at one point thinking that the overweight dental assistant wasn't as homely as I had thought when I first walked in.  Then a silly thought came to me and I began to giggle.  My memory blurred by the pleasant haze of the gas, I couldn't swear to it, but I think at this point I must have goosed the poor old gal.  Not a wise thing to do to somebody holding sharp instruments in your mouth.  The Doctor said he was certain my insurance would take care of 80 percent of the cost for the extra stitches needed to sew up the inside of my lip.

 I have a whole new perspective of Dentist's now thanks to my new drug of choice, Nitrous Oxide.  I couldn't wait to schedule my next appointment to have my molars capped.  Dr. Payne tried to convince me that I really don't need any further dental work, but what the Hell does he know?

I urge all of you not to put off seeing your dentist regularly.  It is vital for good oral hygiene and your over all health and well being.  And while you're there, don't forget to ask for the gas!  You won't regret it!

~Lattie~

{Last posted: Sept 18, 2008}
10:59 PM 
65 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Friday, October 30, 2009 

Current mood:  scared
Category: Writing and Poetry
A full moon lit the midnight sky the evening before that wicked and fateful day.  Perhaps that alone should have served as a hint, a warning, indeed even an omen to the dreadful events that lay in wait just beyond the dawn.  Likewise, the sudden and stinging bite of the cold October air as I stood on my porch watching the sun slowly make its way from the peaks of the towering mountains, should have lent a clue that this was to be no ordinary autumn day. 

I have always loved the serene and peaceful hour preceding the dawn of a new day but this morning it was not peaceful rejuvenation that had roused me from my slumber and beckoned me out onto my porch.  No, today there was work to be done.  Today my attention would be focused upon that long, gnarled web of tangled and unsightly jungle grass that grew wildly just beyond the safety of my porch.  Its hideous greenish-yellow tentacles stretching far out onto the county owned street.  Reaching and hungering for any unsuspecting pedestrian who might have the misfortune of passing within reach of its mossy grasp. 

It had been less than a month since I had set the blades of my trusty Toro Super-Mulcher Mower to its lowest setting and attacked my once beautifully manicured summer lawn, till all that remained was a five o'clock shadow of green nubbins.  I assumed that would be the final mowing of the Season.  The letter I received from the Salt Lake County Sheriff''s office informing me I may be held financially liable for any search and rescue efforts conducted on my property for missing children and/or pets, changed my earlier assumption. 

I felt an eerie chill penetrate my loins as I stood upon my porch that early October morning.  Glancing down I noticed the source of the chill to be my little "Tom Johnson" peeking his head from his fur laden nest out of the open fly of my boxer shorts.  Poor little shriveled up guy was liable to catch his death of cold exposed to this frosty morning air.  Shoving "Tommy" back into his nest I turned and walked back into the soothing warmness of my house.

By 8:30 am I had gained the courage to return outside and face the bitter October chill.  Frantically I began searching the garage for my beloved, bright red, always dependable Toro Lawn Mower.  It was nowhere to be found.

"Where is it!"  I shouted as I ran back into the house in a panic.  "Where is it!"

"Where's what?" asked my wife, Teresa, calmly unaware that my prized Toro had very likely been kidnapped. 

"My lawn-mower," I moaned.  "It's not in the garage, where is it?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you?"  Teresa answered sheepishly.

"Tell me what?"

"You left your silly lawn-mower right in back of my car last time you used it, and…"

"Yes!  And, what?"

"Uh, well…  And I ran over it," she mumbled, diverting her eyes to the floor.

"You what!"  I shouted at the top of my lungs.

"I ran over it," she stated clearly, looking me directly in the eye.

"You ran over it!"  I ranted.  "You ran over it!  Teresa, how could you run over my six horse power Toro Super-Mulcher?"

"It wasn't hard," Teresa snapped, obviously growing irritated by my overreaction.  "You left if sitting against the back bumper where it was impossible to be seen"

"But, Teresa…"

"What's the big deal?" she asked rolling her eyes.  "You still have that old mower of your sisters under the tarp in the back of the garage.

"You mean the Green Beast," I shouted in alarm.  "You want me to use the Green Beast?"

"Yes," Teresa answered placing her hands on her hips in a matter of fact gesture.  "It should do for one last mowing, then we can get your beloved Toro repaired before next spring."

"But, Tereeeeesa," I pleaded nervously pacing back and forth.  "You know very well that the Green Beast is possessed!  How dare you ask me to start meddling with dark, unknown forces?"

"For Heavens sake, you're not going to start this again are you?"  Teresa retorted in disgust. 

"But…"

"I told you before and I'm telling you again.  It's a lawn mower, a piece of machinery.  An inanimate object that is acted upon, therefore incapable of being possessed."

"Then how do you explain…"

"Lattie," she said again cutting me off.  "That old lawn mower is not now nor has it ever been possessed!"

I have been married long enough to realize when I had been defeated in an argument.  After seven years of claiming Teresa as my better half the score card now read; Lattie 0, Teresa 746.  I was becoming the consummate professional in accepting defeat.  My last chance of gaining enough ground in which to claim a mere draw would be to flash my best "Sad Puppy-Dog Eyes" at her.

"Now quit making excuses and get the lawn cut before it begins to storm."

DAMN!  Make it 747 straight losses for the "Puppy-Dog Eyes."

The Green Beast was a Frankenstein of a lawn mower made up of at least seven different models of Craftsmen
Mower's, a few spare parts from a 1984 Snapper and driven by a freak engine taken from a 1975 AMC Pacer.  Assembled and brought to life by my brother-in-law's Uncle Damien, then lent to me four years ago out of sheer generosity by my one and only loving sister. 

"Be careful with her," my brother-in-law had warned with a sinister chuckle.  "She can sometimes have a mind of her own, if you know what I mean."

No, I had not known what he had meant, for if I had, I would have left that ugly, evil 'Frankenmower' with him, letting it haunt and torment his family for the next four years.

I stood alone in my garage staring down at the dust covered tarp concealing the evil that lay beneath in the corner of my garage.  I found myself frozen and unable to throw the tarp aside thus facing and confronting my own demons.  I thought back to the one and only time I had attempted to bring life to the Green Beast.  Three cats, four pigeons, a vinyl fence and a redwood deck had been lost or severely injured on that day.  That was not to mention the countless cuts, bruises and psychological damage I personally had sustained.

With trembling hands I took a corner of the tarp in both of my hands then took a deep and cleansing breath.  This was it, time to face my worst inner fears and not be intimidated.  'The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.'  That phrase ran through my mind again and again that morning in my garage.  Whatever asshole had uttered those immortal words had never had to face the Green Beast.  Of that I was certain.

With my eyes tightly shut I gave the tarp a tug, flinging it high over my head.  Slowly I gained the courage to open my eyes enough to peek through the narrow opening of my eyelids.  For the first time in four years I caught a glimpse of the Beast.  Every bit as ugly and hideous as I had remembered her to be, she sat in the corner glaring up at me.  I could almost hear her demonic growl as she taunted me, daring me to come closer.  As I stood cowering in fear she beckoned me to pull upon her frayed starter cord, thus giving life to the dark forces that hissed forth from her single spark plug. 

Suddenly I had inspiration.  An idea so simple and pure in its design it boarded upon genius. 

"Braden," I called into the house to my thirteen year old son who had been transfixed in front of the TV all morning watching a non-stop marathon of back to back Family Guy episodes. 

"What is it Dad?" Braden asked as he bounced out the back door and into the garage.

"Son, how would you like to make fifty bucks this morning?"

"Are you kidding?  Sure!  Who do I have to kill?" Braden said with visions of at least 55 new songs filling his MP3 player's memory.

"You don't have to kill anybody," I said giving him an obligatory slap to the side of the head.  "Just mow both the front and back lawn for me."

"That's all?" Braden asked in disbelief waiting for what must be a punch line from his miser of an old man.  "Just mow the lawns and you'll pay me fifty-bucks?"

"Well, and trim the edges and bag the clippings," I added trying to get as much value for my fifty-bucks as I could muster.

"How come the sudden increase?" Braden asked wearily.

"What do you mean son?"

"Well Dad, just last month that same job was only worth five dollars a lawn."

"It's my end of the season offer, now are you going to take it or leave it," I asked shoving my crossed fingers into my pockets hoping my son would fall for my offer.

"I'll take it, I'll take it!" Braden said as he paced from one side of the garage to the other.  "So, where is it Dad?"

"Where's what Son?"

"The Toro."

"Oh that," I said searching for just the right words to make light of the situation.  "Well Son, there's a slight problem with the Toro."

"What problem?"

"It was involved in a tragic auto accident." 

"A lawn mower," Braden questioned.  "How can a lawn mower…"

"Look son," I said cutting him off from his line of questions.  "An important lesson you'll learn during the course of your life is that sometimes 'Shit Happens'.  It's as simple as that."

"Soooo…  How am I supposed to mow the lawn Dad?"

"You can use your Uncle Sheldon's old mower," I said turning my back to my son and pretending to straighten some garden tools hanging on the wall.

"You mean the "Green Beast!"

"I mean your Uncle Sheldon's old mower," I said ignoring his reference to the 'Green Beast'.

"FORGET IT DAD!"

"Forget it," I said in mock disbelief.  "What do you mean forget it?  I just offered you fifty-bucks just to mow the lawn!"

"Not with that mower Dad," Braden said walking back toward the house.  "It's possessed of Satan."

"Wait a minute!" I called to my son as he reached for the backdoor handle.  "Now, wait just one darn minute!  It's one thing that all you want to do is sit around the house all day eating spicy hot Cheeto's and playing video games.  But when you become so lazy that you turn down fifty dollars just to cut the grass…"

"Dad!"  My son shouted back in defiance.  "I was only nine years old, but I remember the last time you used the 'Green Beast'.  It ate my two kittens Wilma and Waffle and chased the Milkman out of the yard and down the street."

"Oh, I had forgotten about that," I lied. 

"I saw a show about this on the Discovery Channel's Most Haunted' Dad, take my word for it and don't use the 'Beast', he said as he entered the house and let the door slam behind him.

Once again The Beast and I were left alone in the garage.  There was nothing left now but the job at hand.  The lawn needed one final mowing and it was my duty to act upon The Beast to assure this task would be completed.  I had to quit letting fear act upon me.  Cautiously I walked toward the Beast and grabbed hold of her starting cord.  Then a thought entered my mind.  Perhaps a blessing would be appropriate.  Or better yet, maybe even an exorcism.   I may not be Catholic but I do enjoy a Good Friday Fish Fry, and why leave things up to chance?

"Good Lord Lattie, did I hear you mumbling to your lawn clipper?" a voice from behind me said, nearly causing me to urinate in my pants.

"Jeeeezus Christopher Christ!"  I shouted, after realizing the voice had come from Sidney Dupree, my well meaning, and ill fated British neighbor.   "Sidney, you nearly caused me a coronary." 

"I do apologize Lattie, but I heard you in here conversing with your clipper and feared perhaps your frosting had slipped off your cookie," Sidney said in his usual proper British manner. 

"Well, I'm not too sure it hasn't Sid," I said scratching my head and staring down at The Beast.

"Whatever is the matter Lattie?" Sidney asked throwing a reassuring arm around my shoulders.

"Well Sid, I need to mow my lawn one last time and…"

"Yes?" Sidney said, patting me on the back and urging me to continue.

"Well, Teresa ran over my Toro."

"Oh what a shame," Sidney said pulling me close to him and shaking his head sympathetically.  "You know Lattie; I hire a young lad to do mine.  I don't have a clipper of my own."

"I know Sid, that's okay.  I have this other mower."

"Well for goodness sake," Sidney said pulling his arm from around my shoulders.  "If this clipper works, then what on earth is the problem?"

"Well Sid, I'm afraid this mower is…  Well, I think it might be possessed."

"Possessed?" Sidney screeched.  "Whatever are you talking about?"

"You know, Possessed, by demons and such."

"Oh Poppy-Cock," Sidney said laughing at the very idea.

"You don't understand Sidney," I said as I sat on my work bench and rested my head in my hands.  "The last time I used this mower it…  It…  Well, it acted in ways that weren't of this earth."
"For Heavens sake Lattie, you are just over reacting."

"No Sidney," I implored.  "There is something evil about this mower, just look at it."

"I see nothing wrong with it at all," Sidney said as he advanced toward The Beast.

"No, Sidney don't," I shouted as Sidney reached for The Beast's starting cord. 

It was too late.  With a strong and determined tug Sidney pulled on The Beast's cord of life.  The Beast huffed and choked, gasping for its first breath of life, then silently returned to its slumber.

"Sidney Please, don't do that," I begged.  "Let's be smart about this, do you have any Holy Water?  Crucifix?  Anything?"

"Now you just stay hushed and sit there," Sidney said as he placed his right foot on The Beasts body for leverage.  "I'll get this clipper started for you and together we will clip your grass."

"No Sid, please," I protested.  Again my words of warning fell upon deaf ears.

With a second mighty tug Sidney pulled upon The Beast's cord.  Again she huffed and choked, but unlike the first attempt this time her gasps for life was not followed by silence.  Instead The Beast roared to life with a mighty growl.

"You see, she works just fine," Sidney said as he pushed The Green Beast out of the garage and toward my front lawn.

For fifteen minutes The Beast was subservient to Sidney's every command, as in tandem they worked together mowing perfectly formulated strips in my lawn.  Then suddenly and without warning it happened.  . .


TO BE CONTINUED...
IN LATTIE'S FIRST PUBLISHED BOOK!!!
DON'T MISS IT...
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
~Lattie~
11:15 PM 
55 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Friday, October 23, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
I was born and raised in the wild and rugged western portion of the United States, where men are men and testosterone runs as rampant as sagebrush in the desert wind.  Here in the West activities such as hunting, fishing, hiking and contact sports are not only readily available, but expected of each and every male over the age of eleven who has even the slightest bit of pride and respect for his manhood and "Tally Whacker" that the Good Lord so kindly blessed him with.

During the record-breaking heat wave in the summer of 1960, a baby boy was born smack-dab in the middle of the rugged West, who fit this lifestyle like a square peg in a round hole.

It was obvious to nearly anyone living west of the Mississippi on that dry, hot July afternoon some forty-eight years ago, that something about this six pound, six ounce, red-skinned, primate looking bundle of joy born to Bob and Lejune Odell was not quite right.  From his swan dive down the birth canal ending in a half pike into the doctor's arms followed up by a slithering back flip from those same arms, head first onto the sterile tiled floor.

Doctor Decker picked the six pound lump of red flesh off of the delivery room floor by his feet, then looking directly into the face of the upside down monkey-boy the good Doctor shook his head and uttered;

"Something's just not right."  With that he gave the monkey-boy a good hard swat on the butt as Lattie Odell took in his first breath of life, letting it out with a squeal that still haunts the hallways of that hospital to this very day.

"What in the world was that?" asked a startled nurse seated at her station two floors below the maternity ward.

"I'm not sure," answered her befuddled companion, "but I'll tell you this, whatever it was. . .   Something's just not right!"

Mom was thrilled to take me home from the hospital, despite the fact that I suffered from a severe case of Ugly Baby Syndrome.   A condition the doctors had assured my mother I would grow out of by the age of two, when it would transform itself into Ugly Toddler Syndrome.

"Don't you worry yourself Mrs. Odell," Doctor Olson, my pediatrician said, putting a reassuring arm around my mother's shoulders and squeezing her tight.  "I'm certain your son will grow out of this Ugly Toddler Syndrome by the time he turns five. . .  At which time it will…"

"Noooooooooooooooo!"  My mother's mournful cry could be heard from behind the doctors closed door.  "It's just not right!"

Despite the numerous Syndromes, abnormalities, and dysfunctions I was plagued with at birth, my dear sweet Mother was one proud Momma!  After five miscarriages, she had finally had one that had lived!

Filled with pride and a sense of happiness that up to this time she had never known, mom took me for my first visit to meet my Aunt Barbara.  With a smile that extended from ear to ear, and beaming with that certain glow that only a new "Mommy" can emit, she picked me up from my buggy clad only in a diaper that sagged down my scrawny legs, allowing my Tally Whacker to wave free in the wind.  She then extended my red, saggy skin body at arms length toward her sister.

"Well?  What do ya think?" My Mother asked as I dangled in front of my aunts face.

Aunt Barbara's eyes darted nervously up and down this poor, unfortunate child that dangled before her.  "Well. . ." Barbara said as her eyes continued to scan and dart.

"Yes?" Mom said, her voice mixed with anticipation and strain born from the weight of the child her sister was refusing to take from her arms.

"Well…  He certainly is a boy, there is no doubt about that."  My aunt said with a nervous chuckle.

"But what do ya think of him?" Mom begged.  "Ain't he just adorable."

"Now sweetie, I don't want you to take this wrong," Barbara said as she gently pushed my naked, dangling body back toward my mother.

"What?   What is it Barbara?"  Mom asked in a voice that virtually cried out for acceptance of her dear, sweet baby boy.

"Well honey I'm just not sure, I can't quite put my finger on it," Barbara stuttered looking for just the right words.  "but something…"  Again she eyed me from head to toe then shuddered in disgust.  "Something just ain't right with that child."

It must have been at that very moment that I realized that I didn't much care for this Bitch of an Aunt of mine.   Before Mom could return me to her protective embrace, I gave my Tally Whacker a purge then blasted my Aunt with a high pressured blast of gold, right square in her face.

At that moment my Uncle Delbert came staggering into the room in his usual drunken stupor.  Grasping hold of the wall as he walked to keep himself in an upright position.

"Sweet Mother of Jesus!"  Uncle Delbert screeched as his eyes focused on his wife's urine soaked face.  "Now that's jes' not right!"

And so it was throughout the various "Ugly Syndrome" phases of my life,  there was always something that was just not right.  At eight years old when other boys my age were out playing Army or riding bikes on dirt hills, I stayed at home watching Julia Child and Galloping Gourmet reruns.  Later when other boys my age were excelling in football, wrestling, and extracurricular fistfights, I was sending my English class into fits of laughter with my story of a diarrhea plagued German Sheppard in heat, who Terrorized Benson Jr. High.

"I am very concerned about your Son, Mrs. Odell," Vice Principal Talbart said as my mother sat in his office.

"Why is that?" Mom asked with genuine concern.

"It about an essay he wrote in his English class, are you aware of it?"

"Why yes, I believe he received an A on it, did he not?" Mom asked

"Uhhh…  Ummmm…  Well yes, yes he did.  It was quite well written," Mr. Talbart admitted as he cleared his throat.  "But you see Mrs. Odell,"  Talbart continued. "It's not so much his writing skills that has us concerned, but rather his subject matter."

"And what is wrong with his subject matter Mr. Talbart?"  Mom asked growing annoyed.

"Mrs. Odell!" Talbart huffed as he stood from his chair and leaned on his desk.  "We here at Benson Jr. High do not believe that a thirteen year old boy should be writing about a horny dog with the shits that terrorizes a school.  IT'S JUST NOT RIGHT!"

It was my activities as I reached the age of sixteen that caused my Father the most concern.  While other sixteen year old boys were looking forward to the big deer hunt, or getting "Betty-Sue" in the back of Dad's El Camino at the Friday night drive-in picture show.  I was content with growing the perfect garden in my parents back yard, with just the right flowers, surrounded by a lush green lawn.  Dad would watch from a distance as I  puttered around the garden, then shake his head in bewilderment and stroll away
.
Then it happened.  The night I was brought home in handcuffs by two County Deputy Sheriffs.

It was 11:30 pm on a muggy July night in 1976 when a loud rap came from my parent's front door.  Dad jumped out of bed and ran to the door in his white and red-striped boxers.  Doing his best to pull his fly closed with one hand, dad slowly opened the door with the other.  There on the porch I stood flanked by two large Sheriff Deputies on either side of me.

"Mr. Odell, is this your son?" One of the Deputies asked.

"Yes sir, it is," my father answered soberly.

"Well Mr. Odell," the officer said as he tightened his grip on the nap of my neck "Tonight we caught your son window peeking on one of your neighbors."

"Which neighbor?" dad snapped, as I felt his angry stare burn a whole right through me.

"The Cunluff's" the second officer answered.

"David Cunluff?" my father asked wearily .

"No, his sister Christi Cunluff."

"Oh Sweet Jesus, Thank the Lord!" My father screeched as he ran toward me, squeezing me in his tight embrace.  "Thank the Lord, son.  Thank the Lord!"  My father sobbed with joy.  "You don't know how happy you have made me.  I am so proud son, so very proud!"

The officers shot each other a look of complete and total confusion.  "Mr. Odell," one officer said as he pried my dad's arms from around me.  "Perhaps you didn't hear what we just told you.  We just caught your son window peeking on your neighbors daughter as she was in the act of undressing."

"I know, I know" my father said, unable to contain his joy.  "This must seem utterly preposterous I'm sure"

"Yes, I'm sure" the officer agreed.

"You see officer, my son here, well, he's always been just a bit different."

"You don't say!"  The officer blurted in mock amazement.

"Yes, you see officer, Lattie has never been…  Well, like other boys.  I mean he's never liked sports or hunting or fishing.  Instead he's always wanted to learn how to cook, or to write.  When his friends are spending time working on cars, Lattie here spends his time puttering around the garden, playing with…  with…  FLOWERS."

A look of gentle understanding came over the two officers faces.

"You see Officers, I was afraid that…  Well, that something wasn't quite right with the boy.  But now…"

"Say no more sir," the officer said, giving my Dad a pat on the back.  "We understand completely."

Turning to me the officer took his key out of his pocket and unlocked my handcuffs.   Then with a smile on his face as wide as my Fathers, he firmly shook my hand.  "And congratulations to you young man"

"Thank you Sir," I said cautiously, not wanting to do anything to disrupt my unprecedented good fortune.

"You've done a mighty fine job son, a mighty fine job" the officer said as he continued to shake my hand with vigor.

"Thank you again sir"

"Yes," the officer chuckled.   "That Cunluff girl…  Fine pick!  She's quite a looker!"

"Yes she is sir" I answered shyly.

"Look son," the officer said pulling me toward him and whispering in my ear. "If you want to take a peek again tomorrow night…  My partner and I, we'll be looking the other way."

"Thank you sir, thank you so much," I said as I slowly turned and sauntered back into my house towards my bedroom.

As I lay in bed trying to make sense of just what in the Hell had just taken place, my father's voice came booming through my closed bedroom door.

"Lejune!  You'll never guess what our son has done!  Yaaaaaaa Hooooooo!"

And so it has been, throughout my forty-eight years on this spinning mound of dirt. . .  There has always been something that wasn't quite right.   Always the square peg in the round hole.  Oh, I've tried to fit in, just last year I took an ill-fated "male bonding" trip in the high Utah Mountains with some co-workers.  To say that something wasn't quite right with that ordeal would be a vast understatement.

But I'm not one to be defeated.  In a desperate attempt to once and for all fit myself into that round hole, I accepted an invitation to join my company's late fall softball team.  But that story. . .

Is to be continued…

~Lattie~

Originally posted as: "SOMETHING’S JUST NOT RIGHT. . ."
5:57 PM 
75 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Thursday, October 08, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
Tomorrow I am making the 300 mile drive south to St. George, Utah, to visit my daughter, Teresa. She works as a medical assistant for an oncologist in St. George and has done so now for three years. I am very proud of her and what she has been able to accomplish in life and how self-sufficient she has become. As an overly concerned (spelled; P R O T E C T I V E) father, I am now used to the fact that my "little girl" is on her own and lives so far away from home. But I remember well the mixed bag of emotions I felt in the days leading up to her "big move" and my fateful trip south to help her move.
 
Teresa and her roommate had moved in with my wife and I for "a couple of weeks" prior to their southern migration, in order to get themselves financially stable enough to move. I had begged them to "PLEASE, stay with us at least a month or two before making such a big move."

But my daughter was insistent, a couple of weeks, she had said, would be as long as they were willing to be dependent upon parents! FIVE MONTHS later they packed up their cars and were gone.
 
In all honesty I can't say that I was happy to see them finally leave. But it was a God send to get through one meal without simultaneously having to watch a major surgery on the Discovery Health Channel (My daughter's MUST WATCH TV!). I would however recommend this technique to anyone feeling discouraged with their weight loss efforts. I myself lost an amazing 32 pounds viewing open heart, knee replacement and liposuction surgeries during mealtime.
 
I had agreed that I would follow the girls to St. George a few days after they left, with my own car filled with boxes, containers and suitcases bursting at the seams with all their worldly belongings. They had promised that the items they had left for me to bring were only the "barest of essentials." Items they just could not live more than a day or two without.

After tearing seven abdominal muscles, and popping my left testicle, I lifted the last of their essential boxes into my car. Curiosity finally got the better of me and I opened this last box to see what it was that two girls could not survive without that could possibly weigh 750 pounds!

Since when did 22 pairs of shoes, 7 make-up boxes, 9 bottles of various fragrances of bubble bath, 13 large candles in bottles, and an undetermined amount of hand and body lotions become essential to ones survival???
 
Having attended college in St. George a thousand years ago, I have had a long standing love affair with this area and have made this same drive from Salt Lake City to St. George countless times. But never before had I the opportunity of driving this 300-mile stretch of road ALONE and quite honestly I was looking forward to the solitude of the drive.

It's amazing the different perspective you can get from a familiar stretch of road when traveling alone as opposed to a car full of screaming, crying, obnoxious children and other loving family members. Rather than white knuckling the steering wheel in a vain effort to keep myself from jumping over the back seat to strangle the next one of my adorable children who asked "Are we there yet???" I was relaxed and at ease. I felt almost serene as I took in all the beauty I had heretofore missed while driving down this same stretch of road under the influence of five Xanax's I had always felt the need to take in order to survive the trip with my loving family.
 
To those of you familiar with this drive down I-15 from Salt Lake City, you will know that the 300 mile trip is divided into segments of small towns that are set almost perfectly 50 miles apart. Provo, Nephi, Fillmore, Beaver, Cedar City, and finally St. George. I have always divided the drive into these six 50 mile segments, which mentally made the trip seem much shorter. This time however, as I drove in solitude, everything seemed different.
 

Not far outside of Nephi the weather began to turn sour. The clouds darkened, flashes of lightening began reflecting off my windshield, followed by a heavy rain. My attention soon turned from the beauty of the drive to paying attention to road signs and staying in my own lane. In good weather I was almost certain that I could make this drive with my eyes closed. But this torrential rain made driving with your eyes closed seem almost preferable.

Soon I spotted an old familiar sign, the "Fillmore, Beaver" turn off. Suddenly something struck me funny. Why had I not noticed that before? "Fillmore, Beaver!" Who in the Hell besides the State of Utah would put up a road sign that says "Fillmore Beaver" and not think a thing about it?
 
I was still chuckling to myself several miles later when I saw a flashing, neon light in the distance. Even before I could make out what the sign said I knew it to be the Welcome to Beaver sign sponsored by the Rotary and Lions Clubs of Beaver, Utah. That sign, featuring a large beaver bordered by a neon light, had been there since I was a child. What had always struck me as strange was that the neon light had been shorted and blinking in the same spot for just as long. This time however, for the very first time, the sign spoke to me.

"Oh, my God," I thought "A flashing beaver on the side of the road!" This had to be an omen.
 
The rain began to subside a bit, and I couldn't keep myself from thinking about the irony of the two signs I had just passed. Never before had I felt a desire to turn off the freeway and visit the small central Utah town of Beaver. Then again never before had I traveled this road alone, it was time for a change. I took the next exit and soon found myself heading smack dab into Beaver. Even that thought made me chuckle.
 
Each side of the street heading into town was lined with very neat, small, brick houses, each with immaculate yards and brightly colored flowers. Parked in front of one of the houses was a white utility truck, several men dressed in greed coveralls were busy filling the bed of the truck with tree branches. As I passed them by my eyes caught the words "BEAVER TRIMMERS" printed in big bold letters on the driver's side door.
 
No freaking way!!!

What was going on here? Was this really as funny as it seemed, or was I just being overcome by a severe epidemic of silliness? I came to the conclusion that the latter must be true. Just then I looked up in time to see a sign posted by a local real estate agency and development firm. The sign declared:

"City life have you feeling Claustrophobic?  Try Beaver!   Still as wide open as ever!"

This was too much! I knew it couldn't be just a bad spell of silliness, especially when another sign in front of an approaching fruit stand advertised "Beaver Cherries $4.99" Sounded like a Hell of a deal to me, so I stopped.

Trying to gain my composure I walked through the isles of fresh fruit. I had to fight myself to keep from popping one of the "Beaver Cherries" as I passed, but I knew doing so would throw me back into uncontrolled fits of laughter. As I headed back to my car to continue my journey, I passed a homely, zit faced young man sitting in a lawn chair who thrust a small Dixie cup in my direction.

"Sir, would you like a sample of our new Beaver Juice?" the boy asked in a high pitched, nasally voice.

That was the last straw! I could not leave "Wide open Beaver" with its "Beaver Cherries" and "Beaver Juice" fast enough. In fact it seems, I may have been just a bit too anxious to leave. Just before making it to the Freeway on-ramp I glanced into my rearview mirror only to be greeted by red and blue flashing lights.

"Oh Christ, not the BEAVER POLICE!"
 
After several minutes a Barney Fife looking fellow in horn rimmed, mirror glasses leaned his head in my window.

"Good afternoon sir," Barney said in the same nasally voice as his son back at the fruit stand. "May I ask if you have any business in Beaver today?"

"Just visiting," I answered
 
"So you are unfamiliar with Beaver?"
 
"More than I care to admit," I said staring at my steering wheel and biting my lip to maintain my composure.
 
"Do you have any idea why I pulled you over today sir?" Barney asked.
 
"For pulling out too quick?" I asked, unable to resist the wise crack.
 
"That is correct sir" Barney proclaimed while pulling off his sunglasses in an effort to show the seriousness of what he was saying. "While you may have been within the posted speed limit, that speed limit applies to conditions permitting. With today's rain fall you can see that the roads are quite wet."
 
"Yes sir," I said trying to be as polite as possible.
 
"While I'm not going to cite you this time," Barney said "I will leave you with this warning,"
 
"Okay," I nodded, receptive to any advice Officer Barney offered that would keep me from getting a ticket.
 
"After many years of patrolling this road it has been my experience that Beaver can become quite slippery when wet."
 
"Thank you very much, I'll try to keep that in mind." I said fighting back the fits of laughter that swelled within me, as Barney walked back to his patrol car.

I finally made my escape from Beaver and continued on to St. George, where my very impatient daughter awaited me.

"Dad, where on earth have you been?" she asked waiting to hear what creative excuse her old man could pull out of his hat this time.

"You're not going to believe this hon," I said putting my arm around her waist. "But I stopped for a little Beaver on the way."
 
"DAD!!!"
 
I wonder what my wife will think tomorrow as I give that flashing beaver a wink and a smile as we pass on by… Without stopping!!!
 




            THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY

Hi folks,
I would like to begin this “Story behind the story” by apologizing for my lengthy absence from posting on “MySpace”.  I had promised that throughout the month of October I would be posting my newest short story “mini-series” “THE GHOST WRITER”.   My intentions remain true to this promise.  However, as of late my focus and attention has been directed to a particular and very personal family matter.

All of my stories are derived in one way or another from true events in my life, obviously some more than others.  The story you just read perhaps is closest to being Non-Fiction than anything I have ever written.  This is because it deals with a true event when my oldest daughter Teresa, after years of fighting and struggling to find her footing in this crazy world in which we live, ventured out on her own in search of who she was and what she wanted from this life.  I couldn’t be happier to report that in the three years since she made this move she has done a whole lifetime’s worth of personal growth.  She is working as a Medical Assistant for an Oncologist in Southern Utah and after twenty-nine years she  has finally found true happiness and love in her life. 

The only problem is the source of her love and happiness is an honest, good young man from Morocco, hence the problem.   

She met this young man here on MySpace two years ago and believe it or not…  THEY FELL IN LOVE!  Of course as a concerned father I was at first, skeptical and very un-supportive of this relationship.  Then over the course of months then years, I watched as this relationship grew.  I watched night after night as the two of them alternated staying up to the wee hours of the morning local time so that they could time together each and every day of the week, month, and now, years.  I watched as my daughter scrimped, saved and sacrificed in order to earn enough money to fly to Morocco and spend a month with this young man she had come to love. 

I have always been a firm believer in strict immigration policies for our Country, so I urged my daughter to be patient and if she honestly wanted to marry this young man to do it the right and proper way and gain legal immigration into our Country for this young man who had become the love of her life.  I warned her that it would be very expensive and would not be easy but in the end, I promised, it would all be worth it. 

Both my daughter and her now fiancée agreed with me completely and set forth to do just that.  Over the course of the next year they jumped though every hoop they were instructed to, spent hours upon hours filling out countless forms and documents, spent thousands of dollars {much more money than either one of them had put away} in filing fees and legal counseling.  Finally after a Roller-Coaster ride that would leave the most extreme thrill seeker retching, they were at long last told that their application had passed Homeland Security Checks, and every other hurdle needed here in the United States and was being forwarded to the U.S. embassy in Morocco where after he passed his medical screens and examination and received all inoculation needed for entry into the U.S.  he would be granted his final interview to receive his K1 Fiancee Visa.
    
At that time countless more dollars were spent for Medical examinations and inoculations.  Here in the U.S. a Wedding dress was bought, Reception Hall rented, plans made and an extremely excited bride to be, who had sacrificed more than anybody knows to get to this point, waited anxiously. 

This Last Monday my “Son-in-law” to be, Issam Riah went to the U.S. embassy in Morocco, ecstatic that after all they had been through and so much time apart he would soon be united with the young woman he loved with all his heart. 

For four hours Issam sat in this interview nervously listening to and answering each and every question asked with his limited English skills.  Finally he was asked a question about my youngest daughter who he had earlier told them had recently had a baby boy.  The interviewer asked him if:  “She was out on maternity leave?”  Issam didn’t understand the question, he had never heard of “Maternity Leave.”  In this particular interviews eyes the process was over at this point. 

She told Issam it was her feeling that he did not possess the verbal skills he would need to succeed in America and that he had not provided sufficient evidence that his bride to be had support from her family and friends that they would need in order for him to succeed in America. 

Folks, as father and head of this so called “Un-supportive Family”, I can tell you unequivocally that this short-sighted, Embassy Bureaucrat could use my support as an Armature Proctologist!

In the end, Issam was given no promises but told he could have till October 19th to provide proof that he had support and would be welcomed here in the United States.  Our family now is on a two week mission to do anything and everything possible to prove to the embassy that Issam has a loving and supportive family and many supportive and welcoming friends awaiting him here in the United States. 

For three years now I have been sharing my stories and essays with you here on MySpace and I have made so very many wonderful friends doing so.  I have said many times in the past that the friendships I have made would be the only payment I would ever ask for sharing my stories and I have stuck to this.  But now for the first time I am asking you; if I have ever given you a smile when you most needed one, if you ever related to a certain character in one of my stories, if I ever caused you to shed a tear, or opportunity to stop and reflect…   
I am asking you to send my daughter Teresa and her fiancée Issam a short note of support to:

foreverRaih@yahoo.com

It doesn’t have to be anything long, something as simple as; “Hang in there guys, we are with you!”, or “Everything will be okay, just be strong”  I know these little notes will not assure that Teresa and Issam will be united, but just maybe the sheer volume of support might help a little.  If nothing else, it will give this couple a little bit of encouragement they so badly need right now and make a father feel like he is doing all he can.

Thank you so very much!!!
~Lattie~


    ISSAM AND TERESA



6:49 PM 
58 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Tuesday, September 22, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
    
Hi folks,
As I mentioned in the comment section of my previous post {IN LIEU OF FLOWERS} I am currently working on a new multi-part short story series entitled “The Ghost Writer”, which I hope to release throughout the month of October befitting the Halloween Season.  Though I’m still very much in the middle creating, writing and construction of this story, already it is obvious to me that this story has the potential of becoming a personal all time favorite.  Think of it as a mix of “Life’s Lessons Learned”, “Neighborhood Watch” and “And Then The Curtain Fall’s”, but on an entirely NEW plane! 

So for the next couple of post’s I will be re-posting two or three of my readers all time favorite stories, as I work on making ready Part I of “The Ghost Writer”…  To be posted the first week of October. 

THANKS!
~Lattie~

Now I hope you enjoy this essay of one of my FAVORITE hobbies...  AMATEUR PROCTOLOGY


Everyone needs a hobby of one sort or another.  A passion or an interest, that can set us apart and makes us feel unique and special.  We find people in all walks of life that collect strange, odd or peculiar objects.   Bottle caps, antique signs, ball caps, ceramic dog crap...  The list is virtually endless and often makes no sense whatsoever!
 
My wife for instance, collects spoons for God's sake!  Not useful soup or cereal spoons.  Oh no!  She collects those itty-bitty, little, sorry ass excuses for spoons with the decorative handle displaying the City, State, or Country in which it was purchased.
 
She currently is the proud owner of at least three useless spoons from all 50 States, including 4 from Hawaii and 6 From Alaska, a State she has never even visited for Christ sake! 
 
She currently is working her way down Central America and soon will have "spoon investments" reaching deep into South American Continent.
 
As incredibly silly as this seems to me, my wife simply loves doing it.   It sets her apart from the masses and makes her feel special having a collection that's unique...  Save for the 75 million other useless spoon collectors in the world.

 
If you are not collector of strange and/or bizarre items chances are you are one of the "Amateur’s" of the world.  This would include amateur photographers, amateur gardeners, amateur seamstress...
 
It's among this "Amateur crowd" that I find myself.  You see, I am an AMATEUR PROCTOLOGIST!
 
 I have devoted my entire life to the informal study of assholes.  I believe the distinction of being an Amateur Proctologist truly sets me apart from the masses, perhaps even more so than my wife's spoon collection.  There is nothing I enjoy more than to proclaim to a formal gathering, that "I am an Amateur Proctologist."  The looks I receive are priceless!

 
Of course the Assholes I study differ greatly from that of the "Professional, Medical Proctologist"   The professional studies the physical asshole…   I study the asshole of the spirit, mind and soul.  The professional looks at the asshole as a single part of the over all human anatomy…  I look at the asshole as the entire human being.

 
I have drawn many a profound conclusions from my life long study of assholes.  For instance, I have concluded and believe with great conviction that our kind and loving Lord has a special love and fondness for those among us who are Assholes.  If not, why would he have created so damn many of them???
 
Without delving too deeply into assholes, allow me to skim the outer rim of the subject.  Often the question has been pondered; "How many types of assholes are there out there?"
 
 To be honest an infinite number of asshole personality types exsist.  Let us, for the sake of time and space, concentrate on the most common types.
 
The largest category of Asshole would without a doubt be the STUPID ASSHOLE.  This particular type of Asshole can be found PARKED at intersections from coast to coast, long after the light has turned green, talking on a cell phone, oblivious to the string of 75 cars behind him all blasting their horns.
 
The STUPID ASSHOLE can achieve next level of Asshole, the F%*IN' ASSHOLE, should he suddenly become aware of the world around him as he jets forward just as the light turns from yellow to red…  The only car to make it through the intersection!!!

 
The most fascinating category of asshole is the TEMPORARY ASSHOLE.  This is your common, average, easygoing guy that everybody adores.  He's a great husband, father, neighbor and friend.  No one would ever even consider calling such a fine, upstanding gentleman as he, an asshole.
 
That is until Mr. "Easy-going, friend and neighbor" enters the onramp of any interstate in the Nation.  Then look out!  It's like Clark Kent transforming into SUPER ANUS!
 
Suddenly his gas pedal hits the floor board, as he weaves in and out of traffic, cutting off every other motorist on the freeway.  Then without warning, he slams on his breaks, for no other logical reason than to piss off the last motorist he just cut off (who for some reason always seems to be me!).
 
SUPER ANUS will continue driving in this erratic, careless manner putting the lives of thousands in jeopardy till he makes his way to his off ramp.   Then with a gigantic poof SUPER ANUS is transformed back into mild mannered Clark Kent for the remainder of his day.

 
Finally we have the category of Asshole I most often find myself to be apart of; The MISTAKEN IDENTITY ASSHOLE.  People in this category will be going through life minding our own business, not meaning harm or insult to anyone.  Then, from out of nowhere you hear…
 
"YOU ASSHOLE!"

That Alfred E. Newman "Who, Me?" look appears on your face as you sit or stand in total shock.  Then you hear it again.
 
"Pull your head out ASSHOLE!"

It's possible to drive yourself nuts trying to figure out just what you did to deserve being the victim of such a verbal assault.   However, don't worry about it.   You did absolutely nothing at all!  Your only transgression was to unknowingly wander into the MISTAKEN IDENTITY ASSHOLE category.
 
You must realize this uncalled for outburst is merely a reflection of the STUPID ASSHOLE who mistakenly placed you in this category and has nothing at all to do with you or your actions
 
 So cheerfully give this drip the middle finger, and shout at the top of your lungs the category of asshole you choose to make this idiot a part of.  Then smile and get on with your day.
 
Wise words from an "AMATEUR PROCTOLOGIST"
 
~Lattie~

(Last posted: April 09, 2009)
 
5:40 PM 
68 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Friday, September 18, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
My uncle Orson died last Saturday.  No, do not send flowers or sympathy cards, we really were not very close.  He wasn't even a blood uncle for that matter; he was my father's sister's husband.  I hadn't seen Uncle Orson since my parents passed away over ten years ago.
 
He was a cantankerous old bastard whom I have hated for as long as I can remember.  Unfortunately my wife stumbled upon his obituary and decided for me that I had a moral obligation to attend his funeral and pay my last respects, whatever the Hell that means.
 
Of course, she couldn't attend because according to her she could not get the time off work, besides she had never met the man.  So today I went to Uncle Orson's funeral. . .  ALONE!

 
Funerals are a bizarre event to begin with.  They say they are not as much for the deceased as they are for the living.  If that be true, I am one among the living who can do without.
Open casket funerals are the worst, who for the love of God, wants to stare at someone's carcass in a tin box?  Of course, Uncle Orson had an open casket funeral, God I loathe that man!

 
I entered the mortuary, and then made my way down a narrow hall till I reached a room where a plaque displayed my Uncle's name.  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and forced myself to go inside.  On the far wall wedged between two of those funky looking pole lamps, with the soft pinkish glow, was my Uncle's coffin.
 
There was no way in Hell I wanted to get too close, but I knew I had an obligation to at least seem as if I were paying my respects.  Slowly I made my way to the mid point between the door and my Uncle's casket which was about as far as any respect I ever had for the old bastard would take me.
 
I could barely recognize the corps laying there in that sea of hideous satin.  He looked like a bad mannequin from Woolworths.  And for God's sake why do people insist on putting glasses on a dead body?   If I wasn't mistaken I think Uncle Orson had gone way beyond the point where those eye glasses would do him any good now.

 
As I stood there thinking to myself how pathetic he looked laying there in his spectacles, I felt a hand softly patting my shoulder.  I looked over to see a little old lady who looked only vaguely familiar.
 
"Doesn't he look wonderful, so peaceful?"  She said as if to reassure me.
 
I had to take a double look at the body, God, if she thought he looked wonderful now, he must have been in a world of hurt before he finally bought it. 
 
"I suppose," I said "It's hard for me to say, I haven't seen him in a while"

 
Soon I was being mobbed by relatives, some I knew, some I thought looked familiar, and some I'm certain had just wondered in off of the street.  My cousin Debbie, the only person in our entire twisted family tree who had a lick of sense, or for whom I had ever cared much for, took a hold of my hand
 
"We can find peace in knowing that he is now in a far better place" she said giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Oh come on Debbie" I said, returning her squeeze "I know Salt Lake City isn't exactly paradise, but to say where Uncle Orson must be now is far better?  That's stretching it just a bit, don't you think?"
 
She choked back a giggle, rolled her eyes and walked away.

 
Soon a man who by appearance and manner was quite obviously the funeral director announced that it was time for the family to pay their last respects privately.  He asked that anyone not part of the immediate family to please be seated in the chapel, and await services to begin.  That was my cue to get the Hell out of there as fast as possible.
 
No sooner had I taken my first quick stride to freedom I felt a hand grab me by the arm and pull me back.
 
"Where the Hell do you think you're going, your Bobbie's son aren't you" said the unfamiliar old man holding me captive.
 
"Yes, I'm Bob's son" I answered.
 
"Then that makes you family, get your ass over there with the family." He said, pulling me towards a line that had formed in front of Orson's casket.

 
As fate would have it, I ended up standing in line behind my second cousin Gloria and her 7 year old, Bastard son Edward.  The last time I had seen Gloria I was 18, and she was a fat, ugly 13 year old girl with thick eye-glasses that magnified her eye's to hideous proportions.  Not any longer, standing there in front of me, Gloria was the epitome of the of the phrase "White Trailer Trash", a slut by any definition of the word, from her bleached blond hair, to her thin, mini skirt length cotton sun dress.
 
I learned that little Edward was just one of four blessings bestowed upon her for living a deviant life style.   She had four sons ranging in age from 21 to 7 and not one of them full blooded brothers.  Though it would take a DNA test to prove it, I'm quite certain little Edwards father was Satan.
 
I have always fancied myself a conservative right-to-lifer, but in the short time we stood together in the family line, young Edward managed to convince me in the wisdom of abortion.

 
One by one, family members walked up to the coffin, touching Orson's hand, kissing him on the cheek, and whatever other fashion they could find to bid him farewell, all of which involved touching him in one form or another.
 
I hoped to Hell that wasn't going to be expected of me!  If the Son of a Bitch couldn't extend his hand for a farewell handshake, then there was no way I was going to touch him.
 
Slowly we made our way closer and closer to the coffin, every step of the way being tormented and ridiculed by the Bastard child Edward, sticking his tongue out, giving me the middle finger, and calling me degrading names

 
Tears welled up in Gloria's eyes as she approached the coffin, and looked down at her grandfather's lifeless, cold, stiff, pathetic looking, body.  Suddenly she began sobbing, bending over to hug her grandfather for the last time, her cotton sundress inched up just far enough to bare all of our families finer ASSets.
 
Despite the fact we do live in Utah, I believe even here it's at least a minor sin to lust after ones own second cousin.   I wanted to look away, but I stood there frozen unable to move.  Finally Gloria stood up straight, wiped the tears from her eyes, and pulled her skirt down over her hips.  The spell was broken.

 
Only one person now stood between me and my final farewell to Uncle Orson, Edward, the Bastardized seed of Satan.  Gloria took a hold of Edward hand pulling him toward the coffin, as he fought and struggled to free himself.
 
"Don't you want to say good-bye to Great-Granddaddy?"  Gloria asked.
 
"No, I hated him" he shouted.
 
"Come on; say good-bye to Great-Granddaddy" Gloria said, picking the boy up in her arms and leaning him over the casket.
 
Suddenly an evil grin appeared on Edwards face, and for just a fleeting moment I thought I saw a satanic gleam in his eyes.  I suppose it's true, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
 
Then it happened, as swift as a rattlesnake striking from its coil, Edward sprung forward in his mothers arms, and grabbed a hold of Orson's nose.
 
"Sweetheart, let go of Granddaddies nose" Gloria pleaded as inconspicuously as possible, but to no avail.  The more Gloria pleaded the tighter Edwards grip became on poor old Orson's nose.
 
"Edward!  Let go of Granddaddies nose this instant!" Gloria shouted, choosing a more stern approach.  It was no use, the child was beyond reason.

 
Gloria seeing no other option began pulling Edward away from the coffin.  Orson's head was lifted from off the satin pillow higher and higher with each step Gloria took, but the little Bastards grip was unwavering.
 
"Edward this isn't funny!" Gloria shouted, as if this revelation was somehow going to suddenly change the little Beast's mind.
 
Now realizing that if she took anymore strides backward her Grandfathers body would be mercilessly pulled from his coffin and on to the floor by her own child, she stopped and began tugging at the boys arm.
 
With each tug Orson's head jerked violently forward, causing his postmortem eyeglasses, to fly off his head and into the spray of flowers on the lower half of the coffin.  Finally the boys grip loosened, and with one final tug Gloria and her satanic son flew backwards, Orson's body laid helter-skelter in the coffin, his once neatly folded arms now dangled haphazardly over the side.

 
Family members rushed to Orson's aid, doing their best to rearrange his body in the same fashion the mortician had.

 
Unnoticed now, the devil child ran outside the room, giggling and laughing all the way.  Then I saw Gloria picking herself up off the floor.  No one had stopped to ask her if she was alright, or even give her a hand up.  I smiled and offered her my hand, pulling her the rest of the way up.  She thanked me as once again she did her best to cover up the vital parts with the small amount of cotton dress.
 
"Honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do with that child" she said apologetically.
 
 "Have you ever considered Exorcism?"
 
She ducked her head, and slowly walked out of the room in search of her devil child.
 

Why is it that the laws of nature always seem to work against me?  Such as the law that states; stifled laughter is always the hardest to control. 

After the family had resituated Orson as best as they could, it was my turn to pay my respects.  Walking up to the side of the coffin, I closed my eyes and did everything I could to conger up any feelings or emotions I might have for the man.  Nothing, I had absolutely no emotions what so ever for this corpse laid out before me.  Perhaps if I thought about him and my parents together, back when I was a child, the family reunions, Christmas Parties, Thanksgiving dinners, times when I thought my parents would live forever.  That was it!  It was working!  I felt the emotions swelling up inside of me, I could open my eyes now and be filled with honest emotion, and properly mourn my Uncle the way a Nephew should.
 
Slowly I opened my eyes.  But no!  Oh God no, tell me I wasn't really seeing what I thought I was seeing.  Orson's nostrils were smashed tightly together where the Devil child had it gripped, causing the end of his nose to jut straight out like Pinocchio's, and the glue holding his eyes closed had come apart ever so slightly on his right eye, giving the impression he was staring up at me.  It was the most hilarious sight I had ever seen.

 
Suddenly I found myself desperately trying to choke back the fits of laughter that was erupting from my throat.  I bit my tongue till it bled trying to gain control of myself.  I was at the side of my dead uncle, and I knew with certainty that at any second I was going to erupt in uncontrollable laughter.  That thought was all it took, spasms over took my entire body, as the laughter broke loose from my tightly sealed lips.  In seconds tears were pouring out my eyes, as uncontrollable laughter completely overtook me.

 
My guardian angles were with me today at that mortuary, and caused my family members to believe my laughter was actually sobs of grief.  Hoards of family members came to comfort and console me.  I was unable to stay for the remainder of Uncle Orson's funeral, because as I told my family, it was just too hard for me as grief stricken as I was.  They understood.

 
The whole episode this afternoon has made me ponder my life, and how it may one day end.  If my wife is reading this, Honey when I do go, PLEASE no funerals, no open casket displays, no weeping relatives, no Satanic Great Grand kids, or slutty Granddaughters.  Just have a neighbor kid dig a shallow hole in my garden in our backyard, and bury me there.  Let me find peace knowing that when I go, I can rot with dignity.
 
~Lattie~
 
(First posted: March 02, 2006 as "FAREWELL AND AMEN; UNCLE ORSON )
12:52 PM 
71 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate
Monday, September 14, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
Realizing that I have not yet reached that horizon in my personal career  where I could make a full time living from my writing, many of you have asked; ‘just what is it I do for a living?’

To this point I have been elusive as to what my “professional career” actually entails.  But for the first time ever, I am going to welcome you into and give a tour through my “professional” world.

It's 11:45 PM, I am sitting at my desk at work in a semi state of shock, brought on by 72 hours of sleep deprivation.  I get off at 6:00 AM, at which time I’ll drive home in a semi-comatose state, drag my sorry ass into bed where for the next eight hours I will remain, tossing, turning, day-dreaming, sweating and squirming.  All in all…  I will have allowed myself about ninety minutes of full sleep in the entire eight hour period. 

I've been working the night shift only a short time on 12 hour shifts, 6:00 PM to 6:00AM.  I find it nearly impossible to sleep during the daylight hours, by the time my fourth consecutive shift rolls around, I usually end up in the condition I now find myself in.  This is not good when working in a high stress, technical, detail oriented industry such as I. 

You see, I am the person responsible for placing the adhesive strips on panty liners.

Find that amusing do you ladies?  Fail to see the high responsibility and stress factor associated with my job? Allow me to explain something for you that just might hit home. 

I can't be certain, but I think in my current state of sleepless confusion, I may have just shipped out 135 cases of panty-liners with adhesive strips on both sides of the pad.  Worse yet, the protective sealant machine which puts the peel off plastic cover over the adhesive strip, will only do so on the outside of the pad. 

Should you be one of the unfortunate women across the United States, parts of Canada, and three European Countries to receive a box of pads from my shipment, I think you'll be quick to realize the grave responsibilities my job entails when time comes for you to remove your pad.

Things weren't so bad back when I was merely responsible for applying the fragrance to scented sanitary napkins. Who would know if I applied too much, too little, or even no fragrance at all to a few cases of napkins?  The scented napkin is just a gimmick after all.   I mean dose anyone really sniff these things prior to using them?  And ladies, if you think they control odor during your menstrual cycle as advertised, please think again!  Put a clam in a rose garden and it'll still smell like Charlie Tuna...   Only sweeter.

Those were the good old days of little or no responsibilities.  But time moves on, and people progress. Who knows, next year at this time I may be in charge of putting the plastic applicator over tampons.  Now there is a high stress job! 

My friend Pete was over the "Tampon string application" department.  Last year he sent out in excess of 250 cases of Tampons with defective strings.   The slightest bit of tension would cause the string to detach itself from the Tampon.  In order to save face, the company sent out coupons for tweezers free of charge to all ladies who received the defective Tampons.  In a few extreme cases, forceps were also provided free of charge to victims of Pete's screw-up. 

Pete no longer works here.

 We all have our crosses to bear; mine it would seem is to pull the wool over your eyes and spoon feed you phony stories such as the one above.  No, I am NOT in charge of adhesive strips on panty liners.   So please no emails or rude comments on my profile should yours actually end up getting stuck to your neither regions. 

But I do work 12 hour shifts at night.   The above story was a  result of sleep deprivation directly associated with these un-godly shifts.  Please, do not hold me responsible.

However...   It does leave one wondering just who is responsible for these obscure but rather important job’s… 

Dose it not???

Ciao,

~Lattie~

4:31 PM 
77 Comments
(Add Comment) |
Translate