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Kindly Ol' Unca Doug



Last Updated: 3/29/2009

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Gender: Male
Status: Married
Age: 57
Sign: Virgo

City: Lompoc
State: California
Country: US
Signup Date: 9/9/2006

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Saturday, April 11, 2009 


So you don't always know how long your car has been parked there.  "Did I leave the house today?"  "How long have I been at work?"  "Was the sky dark when I got to the gym?"  Sometimes short-term memory is a necessary burden, other times not.  I just hope my car doesn't decide to go ramblin' of it's own volition.  Other things that I claim to possess do, on occasion.  Car parts (or carp arts) like gas caps and keys will wander off,  there's always at least one sock at large, the Verminator lately has taken an interest in a gopher burrow in the backyard of the house two doors down.  The folks who live there were wondering about him.  "Looks well-fed, no collar, seems suspicious of the kids."  Then I showed up on at their door asking if I could retrieved the large, fur manufacturing unit from their back yard.  It was OK, their kids waved bye to Vermi as we walked up the street.  I had no idea how long my cat buddy had been parked in their backyard.  Sometimes you have no way of telling.  Now, in the case of a rain storm, you can look under your car (or cat) and know for pretty much certain "I know it's been parked there when it was still dry because underneath is dry, the inside edges of the tires are dry, so it's been parked there since before it started to rain."  "How long has it been raining?"..."Damn!"  The other day my car got caught in an unrain storm.  "An unrain storm?" You ask?  "What in toffit is an unrain storm?"  "I'm not sure" I reply.  I had gone to the gym that fateful morning, as is my custom, and, after finishing up I walked out to my car.  The parking lot all around my car and under everyone elses car was dry, HOWEVER, the space under my car was wet.  The sky was clear, no driplets on top of mine or anyone elses car, but the space under my car was wet...with water...not oil...not coolant..water like what falls FROM the sky when it rains.  Since I know the average intelligence of my blog-reading buddies is at least much greater than mine, I'm sure you have come to the same conclusion as I.  There is no other earthly possible explanation than an unrain storm.  If I had been driving, the sun would have been out, but the unrain would have been sushing up under my auto as it motivated along, but, since I was parked, it puddled...underneath my car.  Unrain...had to be!
©2009 John D. Scudder


Currently listening:
The Heart of Saturday Night
By Tom Waits
Release date: 1990-10-25
6:56 PM 
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Saturday, September 08, 2007 
I have been absent from the ol' blogosphere for some time now.  I see I had eighteen views this week all for naught.  My apologies.  Work on the lobotomizer upgrade at the penal colony is just about finished as is my patience with the warden.  Our best "flogger of peons" (FOP), Florida, left for a better job wrestling anacondas for sheep.  There are some cool cowboy boot and seat cover perks involved.  I can't blame good ol' FLA,  I would have jumped (or dove as the case may be) at the chance myself.  Good luck Florida, no one could flog them peons as good as you!  I am turning 55 as we speak.  It speaks to the cruelty of fate that our Denny's here in Lomphox closed about a year ago so I can't toddle down there for a Senior Damn Discount on a Grand Damn Slam whatever.  I am anxiously awaiting my AARP card.  When it arrives the world will be my oyster, or stewed prune, or Fleet, or...you get the picture.  As far as adventures and derring do, there has been little or none lately, to speak of, to write of, to rant of, so I guess I will sign off.   Smiles, hugs, and slack-jawed glances to you all.


Currently listening:
The Magician’s Birthday
By Uriah Heep
Release date: 25 October, 1990
5:42 PM 
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Saturday, March 31, 2007 
Just a few words (maybe) about a few things (oh no, not few²).  I went on a search of myspace one day to find as many Scudders as I could, hokey smoke!  There is a metric butt-ton of Scudders on this here deal.  I then searched the Scudders for all the musicians I could find for, you see, whatever I might do in this life (Pachelbel swelling in the background), wherever I might go, I am, in the deepest part of me, a musician...sniff, sniff.  Anyway, I am flirting with digression.  I found several bands, that I can appreciate musically, that have Scudders as members, a couple of them with Scudders as bassist!!! (see photos, if you are so blessed)  So, if for no other reason than the Presence of Scudder, I wholeheartedly recommend anyone checking out "Battle", "Uncle Shaker", and "Loverock Road" even though they have all daned to be my "friends."   Their music is noteworthy.  Since this is a very modest bit of bloggage, additions may be forthcoming.  Oh and yes, one other thing:  In case you haven't deduced the reason for my obession with things Scudder, I noticed that I mention my surname nowhere on my profile page.  So, the secret is out, I am Kindly Ol' Unca Doug Scudder!! 
(Reference the copyright thingy below)
©2007 John D. Scudder

Currently listening:
Shana Scudder
By Shana Scudder
Release date: 04 May, 2004
5:18 PM 
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Saturday, March 17, 2007 
It's Saturday March 17, Saint Patrick's Day, and I'm sitting here at work waiting for data to finish copying so I can complete the upgrade of a mail server that developed mysterious problems after Daylight Savings Time Sunday.  I checked the date of my last entry and it was right after Christmas, so, whilst being consumed by guilt, I press on to try to blog something blog-worthy.  I am trying to learn to speak Spanish without embarassing myself.  Our Clerk-Receptionist, I'll refer to her as Eugenia, is Mexican and I  try her sanity and patience with constant questions about nuance and idiom.  I sometime have to wait until she picks herself up off the floor, wipes the tears of laughter from her eyes, and regains her composure before she can help me with a word or phrase that has been giving me trouble.   So far I can say "good morning" (buenos dias), "good afternoon" (buenas tardes), "good evening" (buenas noches), "how are you" (como esta), "I am very well" (estoy muy bien), "my dog doesn't bite" (mi perro no muerde), "have a wonderful day" (tienen un maravilloso día), "I farted" (Me tiré un pedo), "Eugenia is sick" (Eugenia esta enferma),  "Eugenia can't breathe" (Eugenia no puede respirar), "someone please open a window" (por favor alguien abra una ventana)... so you can see I am progressing.   I have even started to listen to Latin music in an attempt to exercise my ear for listening to Spanish.  Currently #1 on my playlist is "Buena Vista Social Club."  I tried to translate some of the lyric, but it is fraught with idiom and, apparently, quite suggestive.  "El Cuarto de Tula", (Tula's Room) is a sort of Cuban version of Van Morrison's "Gloria" with firemen out on the streets, putting out fires (nudge nudge wink wink).  We took a vacation to Mexico in December.  I was aquiver with anticipation, hoping to flex some of my newly acquired, bi-lingual muscle.  In Mazatlan we hired a van to take us around the city.  As we arranged ourselves in the van I spoke to our driver "¿como se llama?" I asked confidently "My name is Dimitry" he drolly replied.  In Puerto Vallarta, in attempt to bargain I said "demasiado caro" to a vendor, she replied "take your money and get out of here!"  I guess tourista stops aren't the best place to practice your Spanish.  I have much better response right here at home on the Central Coast of California.
©2007 John D. Scudder
Currently listening:
Buena Vista Social Club
By Ry Cooder
Release date: 16 September, 1997
10:27 PM 
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Saturday, December 30, 2006 
So here it is the day after Christmas and I'm on the Amtrak Surfliner heading south to San Diego to spend a few of the holidays with my sister, brother, Mom, cousins, niece, and brother-in-law.  I was trying to think of a catchy acronym that would suffice for the aforementioned folk, but let's just refer to them, for the sake of this missive, as Mi Familia.  I tend to be an impatient typist, especially when the Blog Muse (or BM as long as we're about acronyms) comes a' urgin'.  I have to confess, I haven't done much typing on a train and I am finding that if I stare at the screen of Good Ol Lapster that I start feeling a bit queezy.  So I am looking away from the screen and enjoying the wonderful scenery along the Central Coast and hoping my fingers are in the proper position so I'm not typing gibberish.  That is not to guarantee that what will come out won't be perfectly legible gibberish,  but it should be legible.  There is a storm blowing in from the Pacific so the surf is wild and beautiful.  Even though we just passed Jalama Beach, a revered surfing spot along the California Coast I haven't spotted any wet-suited fools out there surfing.  I would imagine that, if I were a learned surfer-type that I would probably be wacky enough to give it a try, but there was this issue of my patience (again) and, after not mastering surfing to Kahuna level after my fourth try, I moved on to something else.  I wanted to put down some poignant thoughts about Christmas and all, and I probably will use this as a clumsy segue to get away from the Train-Surfing-Patience thing not assuring that any or all might not come up again.  Oh oh, the conductor is singing the "Tuesday Is A Beautiful Morning For A Train Ride" song.  I'm guessing the "Club Car" is open again.  Just so long as I don't get the TIABMFATR song stuck in my head.  I would have to leap from the rear platform if that were the case.  Oh yeah, Christmas.  Every year I try to be alert when The Christmas Moment comes along.  Sometimes its a grand thing, Handel's Messiah, or a slight thing, the wiff of evergreen from a wreath, something that transports me to the Christmas Place.  This year, the week before Christmas I received a call from an very close friend.  He asked a favor on which I will not elaborate other than to say that what the favor entailed was completely, utterly, and boringly legal.  Oh oh, now the conductor is singing Deck the Halls.  I'm thinking he is assuming everyone on the train was gifted an iPod this Christmas, or he was trying to cover the sound of the train slowly (or otherwise) disintegrating beneath us.   Anyway, back to the favor.  It was something I was fully capable of and more than willing to do for him, so I did it.  I knew what I was doing for him would ease his mind and help him relax and enjoy the holidays.  That was my Christmas Moment this year.  Well the train is still moving and I don't see too many ear-budded ears about so I guess the conductor must either be in a slightly altered state or some kind of enigma,  a happy, dedicated person employed in the public sector.  Hey, wait a minute, I'm a happy, dedicated worker in the public sector and...I have been know to break into song...Hot Damn, I'm an Enigma!.  Where were we before I got in touch with my enigmaness?  CHRISTMAS!  We went to sister-in-law's house for Christmas dinner.  Her husband is of Mexican heritage so dinner is usually a multi-cultural sort of affair.  We had tamales, ham (or jamon, if you will) and a bunch of other goodies.  It was quite delicious.  After dinner we adjourned to the family room to open gifts.  Our Beloved Niece had stacked the gifts according to recipient at strategic areas about the room.  My wife and I usually don't exchange huge quantities of giftage preferring the time honored custom of, during the remainder of the year when one or the other of use wants to purchase something more personal that costs more that say, forty dollars, the purchase is deemed a gift for the next appropriate gift-giving occasion.  I am covered for birthdays, Christmases and anniversaries stretching well into the next millenium.  Sister-in-law's family gives tons of gifts.  Beloved Niece, who has gone into double digits age-wise was blessed with a new keyboard that will do all the standard midi stuff.  She was putting on some pre-programmed soft jazz-fusion kind of stuff and ad-libbing along with it.  Her talents know no end.   We're pulling into Goleta, our first stop south of Lompoc.  The train will probably fill up some more so I guess I'll save and close.  (thiry minutes transpire) So, I'm back.  The conductor has decided that, as his contribution to the Christmas season, he will sing a Christmas Carol after every stop.  This wouldn't be so bad if he could sing, I should rephrase that.  I'm not a big fan of random modulations.  I know, one could make the argument that it is experimental, even jazzy, but I doubt if The Duke or The Count would be on board .  Notice how I snuck in a railway analogy.  I wasn't even trying, really!!    Oh crap, Feliz Navidad!  And the train hadn't even stopped!  We're pulling into Simi Valley now.  We've left the coast and the scenery has turned to Urban Railway Raunch.  There are some comfy looking shanty towns under a few of the viaducts, but they look uninhabited at this time.  Their occupants have probably headed further south since locally the weather has been quite chilly at night.  Architectural observations:  Just because something is covered in stucco and capped with "Spanish" tile does not make it a Spanish or Mission or Moorish style.  I believe that, for most of Southern California, it's more...AAKKK NOOOO!!...Little Drummer Boy!!!...I'm going to shoot a conductor...I don't have a gun...slit his throat?...damn, no knife.  I bet if I strangle him during a song the sounds of him gasping, gurgling, and argle-bargleing over the public address system would get me a standing O.  Ahem, as I was saying, for most of Southern California it could be referred to as SoCal Festering Carbuncle Moderne (that would be infectious , architectural oozing from the urban boil).  Let's throw in some odd angles and geegaws for geegaw's sake like those raised, eight inch wide borders around windows and the texture, oh mercy, don't get me started on the texture!.  Real Spanish-style stucco is SMOOTH, dammit!  OK, here goes the conductor again.  Oh Oh, he's the Cafe Car Attendant Anthony, my apologies to the conductor.  I feel an insurrection in the air.  It's amazing how complete strangers can band together in a common cause, murder the Cafe Car Attendant!!!  We're doing a weapons inventory.  Do we file him to death with a nail file/clipper combo, or go for the messier dismemberment by nail clipper.  I'm thinking the pain we inflict with a nail clipper should be nearly equal to pain he has inflicted on us all, so far.   Strangulation with a computer bag strap is an option, so is the ever popular bludgeoning with a thermos.  One can only hope it's full of something heavy, though not so heavy as the end would come quickly.  If one is provoked sufficiently, one can kill with just about anything.  Guns, explosives, how unimaginative!   

Here it is, two days hence, and I am returning from whence I came.   I survived the trip, the Cafe Car Attendant survived, at least until I got off the train.  I take no responsibility for the actions of the remaining passengers, some of whom aren't nearly so broad-minded and tolerant as I.  I am back on the train, northbound, homeward bound.  There is a family of four in the seat group in front of me.  This leg of my journey I opted for a seat near the luggage storage, the restroom, and most importantly, the exit.  The father of the family of four is repeatedly admonishing his young boys, ages nine and eleven by my estimate, on etiquette appropriate to public mass transportation.  It is still early in the trip, but it could transpire that the repeated admonishment could very well become more irritating than anything cooked up by the expotential yourthful exuberance of his young charges.  Mother of the group just liturgically tells the boys "stop that, be quiet, don't bug me."  

A young woman sat down next to me for a while.  I couldn't tell her age really, just that she was obviously younger than me.  She was of Asian-Pacific heritage though, from her speech, I could tell she was a native Southern Californian.  She didn't seem to be the happiest of people, a fact she was all too willing to share ith me.  She has allergies and had run out of Nasonex, her remedy of choice.  So we chatted for a while about existing with allergies.  It seems that, though she was miserable with her allergies, that wasn't the real reason she was unhappy.  She then rattled off a list of psychotropic drugs she was currently taking for depression, anxiety, and mood stabilization.  I was a little concerned about that even though she didn't seem anymore psychotic than most people I deal with on a daily basis.  You can never tell what might cause someone to snap. I am truly thankful that Anthony was not working this leg of the return trip.  My life could have been in the balance had he.  

I have been dozing and blogging as the mood overtakes me.  After several hours with the Family of Four I am happy to report that my initial impressions were wrong.  They are a lovely family who enjoy each others' company, break into fun on a moment's notice, and truly seem to love traveling with each other. The young woman who sat down earlier was, I realized later, an unfortunate imbiber of the current scourge, methamphetamine.  Sometimes it takes a while for all the pieces to fall into place, the scabs on her jaw, the unpleasant breath, the anorexic physique, but I am now certain.  It breaks my heart to see people wasting themselves trying to feel good about themselves by destroying themselves.

This trip has officially ended.  They say the adventure is the journey, not the destination, but all can be enjoyable, nonetheless.  Here's hoping everyone has a healthy, happy, and wonderful Holiday Season.  God bless us, everyone!
©2006 John D. Scudder
Currently listening:
Blackfoot - Greatest Hits
By Blackfoot
Release date: 13 October, 2003
1:51 AM 
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Friday, December 15, 2006 
I suppose in some circles it would be considered a mental aberration of sorts, but I find myself surprised when I run into an old friend and they have aged, life has changed them, they are perceptably different than they were the last time we met.  It's as if  the moments of our last meeting should be frozen so, when we meet again, we thaw those moments and climb back inside of them. 

I had a friend who died at an early age of leukemia.  We grew up together, best friends and next door neighbors.  The memories of our adventures and enterprises are crystal clear and the desire to share those times is as strong now at it was the day before I learned he was gone.  I paused when I was typing "I had a friend" and truly wanted to type "I have a friend." He lives on in my heart as a treasured, significant part of my life.  My father lives there, too. I'll be driving to work and hear a song on the radio, or think of something funny or important, and I think "Pa needs to hear that."  When he was with us I would have called him to share what I had heard, or thought, or discovered.  I guess I feel that just by thinking of him I am sharing the moment with him.  I am able to send him a message by heart.

I apologize if this seems to be turning into something of a confessional. There were many times I wanted to call, but didn't for reasons that seemed perfectly valid at the time, reasons that are forgotten now while the desire remains.
©2006 John D. Scudder
Currently listening:
A Salty Dog
By Procol Harum
Release date: 30 March, 1999
4:44 PM 
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Thursday, November 09, 2006 
I have an old friend, actually he's the same age as me, but friends, as do peer groups, as does everyone for that matter, usually start out young, though they might not be young when you become friends, that would make them new friends but not young friends and certainly not old friends who, as it would follow, were young or younger when you became friends, then remained friends until they became old as did you thereby becoming Old Friends.  It's rough sometimes getting all this straight, and, not being one who relishes being misunderstood; I sometimes digress in the interest of greater understanding.  An Old Friend would know that.  And that might be why my Old Friend lived under a Howe Truss bridge across the South Fork of the Payette River somewhere near Grandjean.  He lived there for nearly a year.  He had initially moved there from his ancestral home on North 12th Street in Nampa with high aspirations of making his way in the Hotel/Motel Management Field.  He had answered a Help Wanted Ad in a copy of the 'Grandjean Tattler' that had come wrapped around his left sandal in a package returning the sandal he lost at a New Friend's cabin he was visiting in a ghost town somewhere in the hills above Ketchum.  His New Friend was there, however, there were no ghosts about, at least none that were interested in doing the ghostly-human-boo-scare thing so it seemed strange to my Old Friend that anyone would refer this deserted hamlet as a Ghost Town, per se.  Consequently his parting of ways with his left sandal did not occur while fleeing in terror from some ectoplasmic apparition, rather the sandal was kicked under the divan during an period of drunken revelry celebrating (or lamenting as the case may be) the imminent departure of my Old Friend from the Unhaunted Hamlet in the hills above Ketchum on his return journey to the Ancestral Home on North 12th Street in Nampa.  That is how he, my Old Friend, came to be the afternoon proprietor of Bart's Motel and Tackle Emporium in Grandjean.  Grandjean is one of those vacation secrets that no one has trouble keeping so, consequently, Bart's Motel and Tackle Emporium always seemed to be, not unlike the proverbial water glass, damn near empty.  Knowing the level of prosperity that didn't abound at Bart's Motel and Tackle Emporium, my Old Friend thought it would be a golden opportunity to practice Artistic Seclusion in a Woodland Setting and produce Great Works of Literature and Rhyme.  That was before the robbery.  One afternoon at the motel my friend had just finished cleaning a room that had been rented for a week.  He was sitting in the Motel Office behind the Front Desk re-wrapping soap when The Miscreant hobbled in.  My Old Friend noticed that The Miscreant (though he didn't yet realize the miscreant-ness of the person) was missing a left sandal.  My Old Friend, trying to be helpful in that small town way that people in a small town are expected to be asked the Miscreant "lose your sandal?"  "No" the Miscreant replied "I got this pair on sale, quite reasonably, I might add."  My Old Friend, thinking they had established a real rapport continued "I LOST my left sandal once at cabin up there in the hills above Ketchum."   The Miscreant stared back and replied "don't have much truck with spooks, try to avoid 'em."  "So, you know the place" said my friend.  "Not really" said The Miscreant "but I DO know I need some of that soap."  "Sorry" said Old Friend "that soap's not for sale, it's for the exclusive use of our guests."  "Who said anything about BUYING" growled The Miscreant.   Suddenly the reality of the situation came crashing down around my Old Friend.  This Miscreant wanted to ROB Bart's Motel and Tackle Emporium!  Fearing for his life my Old Friend threw a half-wrapped bar of soap at the Miscreant's eyes and ran for his life out the back door of Bart's Motel and Tackle Emporium.  The world was a blur as my Old Friend ran through the street of Grandjean, out to the Highway and down to the Howe Truss Bridge Across the South Fork of The Payette River where he hid for the better part of a year.  When I asked him why he hid there for so long he replied "you know, you just can't be TOO careful."
 ©2006 John D. Scudder
Currently listening:
Do You See What I See?
By Todd Agnew
Release date: 03 October, 2006
9:11 PM 
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Wednesday, November 08, 2006 
Wow, am I in trouble.  I've been sitting around waiting for the elusive muse to whisper in my ear before starting in on some bloggage whilst all along Life has been beating me about the head and ears with worthy blog-fodder.  I see the Vivacious Vanessa has been quite prolific, keeping her blog smartly up-to-date whilst her hubby hast been blogging elstwhere and I, well, I have been remiss-t.  I started a blog concerning the strange sounds heard coming from our neighbor's backyard, but the sounds stopped!  I am still not sure what transpired in the yard back there, but I am certain it was of no good to me.  I know for a fact that they practice bonsai, you know, midget tree torture.  I spoke with the man of the house one afternoon as he was loading one of his victims into the back of their Toyota Tacoma.  I did my best to control my horror and revulsion.  I couldn't sleep for weeks.  In Marin county only lesbians drive Toyota Tacoma's!  All this time I thought this individual was of the male persuasion when, in reality, this person was a butt-ugly tree torturing lesbian with a bad toupee'!  I pretty much leave everyone to do their "own thing" but those sounds I heard most likely were some sort of arborly anguish and, tolerance for lifestyle aside, I cannot abide that!   I reiterate: YOU CAN'T BE TOO CAREFUL!!!  Keep an eye on your shrubbery. No matter how cordial neighbors might seem they are all up to something.  As a former in-law once said "they're like cats and Baptists, you know they're up to something, but you can never catch them at it."  I smile and wave to all my neighbors and go to bed by eight o'clock just so they will never be seen on the evening news saying stuff like "he was rather quiet, kept to himself, you know, up late at night..."  I send our cat, "The Verminator", (see photos) out to spy on our neighbors.  He always comes back with mice and news, and rats and news, and rabbits and news, and a ferret and news, and moles and news, and bats and news.  He leaves the various vermine bits by the patio door and comes in to tell me the news.  As far as I can tell, they capture him and torture him because all he can tell me is "me ow, me ow."  He must have vengence in his feline heart because he keeps going over there and he keeps coming back with the same story "me ow, me ow!"  One night he'll get the upper paw, I know it. Then the next morning he'll come home with toupee' bits in his teeth and then, in a week or so, one of the other neighbors will complain of a foul odor emanating from the house, the cops will show up, there will be questions, reporters will swarm, and I'll be on the evening news saying stuff like "they were kinda quiet, kept to  themselves... I generally have nothing against lesbians, but I'm pretty sure they practiced midget tree torture, you know, bonsai..."
©2006 John D. Scudder
Currently listening:
Joe's Garage: Acts I, II & III
By Frank Zappa
Release date: 02 May, 1995
9:28 PM 
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Friday, October 20, 2006 

I had a rough day yesterday.  Before I hit the road for home (a 40 minute drive) I dug through my CD's to find the right combination of tune-age that would keep my mind alert and my insipient road rage at bay.  I have many home-made CD's drawn from my voluminous collection of Classic Rock, all descriptively labeled as "Classic Rock I", "Classic Rock II," etc., so it's pretty much a crap shoot as to what I might select. I decided to go with "Classic Rock I" judging that, since it was the first, it would be an epitomical embodiment of my ardor for the genre.  My hopes started to fade when Donovan's "Mellow Yellow" began wafting from my speakers.  The mood was not Donovan, the atmospheric feng shui would have been disrupted.  I quickly hit the Advance button to move to the next folder (oh the sweet heaven of mp3 discs!).  I was greeted by the unmistakable piano intro to "Tiny Dancer", ahhhh Elton John's 'Madman Across The Water'.  I am in wonder at the evocative nature of music.  Having been a professional musician for a good portion of my adult life I have been lead to believe that music is more of a left-brain pursuit for persons of my ilk, but it would seem, in my case, that the right-brain is putting up a tremendous fight for control of the action.  With the first strains of Sir Elton's digital articulation I was taken away to the time when it all was new, when we all assumed Sir Elton was playing his pavanes to members of the opposing team, when the only gay pianist was Liberace.  It was an early fall evening, the sky was overcast and there seemed to be a thunderstorm brewing.  I was in my married nineteen-year-old living room with the only light being the fading light filtering in through the sheers from the cloud-covered twilight outside.  The pain and emotional fibrillations of a too soon marriage of too young people took a back seat to the road song memories being sung by Then Only Elton.  The drive home flew by in flood of scenes from my youth, scenes I regretted only as they happened, but not in retrospect.  As I backed into the driveway I laughed, left-brain, eh?

©2006 John D. Scudder

Currently listening:
Madman Across the Water
By Elton John
Release date: 14 May, 1996
9:06 PM 
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Sunday, October 15, 2006 
So, as some of you regular readers know (and irregular ones, too),  I happen to be affiliated, through no effort on my part, with a particular astrological sign that is ruled by that most tyrannical of body parts, the bowel.  Now, ordinarily, I don't take much truck with that astrological kinda stuff, but, (no pun intended) if I were walking along somewhere, a beach, a trailer park, a shrine of some kind, or even a babbling brook and I came across the fabled "old lamp kind of thing", picked it up, gave it a rub, or even if I didn't do the lamp routine and found myself in a position to kiss a frog, or help an old lady across the street, or assist a tiny little fly with a human head that was caught in a spider web screaming "help me, help me"...wait, there weren't any wishes involved with the fly deal, were there, oh yeah, if I were in a situation where I was given only one wish I would wish that I would never, ever HAVE to break wind, cut the cheese, launch an air biscuit, lock, load, and let fly ever again in my natural born days!  Now one has to be careful with this granted wish thing.  There are too many ways something could go wrong.  I've ruminated on this at great length.  If I just blurted out "I wish I never farted ever again!"  I could be getting myself into some dire circumstances.  We all fart!  (Damn it! somebady had to say it!)  I could be putting myself in a situation where I would swell up and float away kind of like that guy with the helium balloons and the lawn chair only without the helium balloons OR the lawn chair and be sucked into the intake of a 747!!  And then Kindly Ol' Uncle Doug bits would be strewn across the sky, not to mention the stench of all that pent-up methane being released at once, and the ozone layer, and global warming.  I could, through one little slip of reason, doom the planet!!  So I decided I would add that key bit of phrasology "I wish i never HAD to fart ever again."  It's like I've said over and over, you can't be too careful!
©2006 John D. Scudder
Currently listening:
The Fart Guys
By Fart Guys
Release date: 03 December, 1998
8:41 PM 
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