Fuzzy Bunny Slippers!

One day, several months ago, I was "cyber-surfing" the blog sites of the universe by way of the multiple click of the blogger.com next button.


This results in a ricochet rabbit type bank shot off of one unknown blog to the next, to the next, to the next. Eventually, this has you far afield in the cyber-stream of discourse that 55 million people add their torrent of textual and visual imagary to daily. In their desire to share with the world at large just exactly what it is that has awakened them at 3:05 am with the burning need to post.


O.K. the burning desire needy thing was in almost every instance a bladder control problem. But none the less! Sleep is no longer an option until something, anything is hammered out and flung like a heavy metal folding chair at the still mostly asleep consciousness of the world.


Yes! so far afield in the raging river of cyber-repartee that no amount of electronic cookie crumbs existant could ever lead you home.


Fortunately, Blogger.com makes available a user name icon to do that!


Below, you you find one of my textual missives. Written when I was lost, and alone in the magical, mystical dark forest of both the blogger universe and the one located somewhere in the synaptic "no fly zone" of my mind.


Remember; If it gets too scary, quickly click your user name icon to escape.


If that fails, pull the plug connecting computer to electrical source.


Also;Try and restrict your fluid intake after 8 pm if you have a bad experience during your "twilight sleep trance like" posting and surfing.


Below; Case in point.I was doing the random cyber surf thing when I was cowabunga'd by a huge rouge wave/post from a woman with a highly erotic user name.Here is my response.
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Hello fuzzybunnyslipperz!!!!!!!!!!.........!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!......!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!..........!!!!!!!!!!!!-!!!!!


I'm glad that you enjoyed my manic mental meanderings that skitter hither and yon like a waterbug on meth.Held up by the surface tension of the last thing that caught my attention.Whether or not it should have is for you to decide.


But I have to tell you that your user name combines three of the things that raise my heartbeat, temprature, and..., I don't know you well enough to get even remotely descriptive about the explosive exponential three dimensional growth of that third aspect of my person.


I mean, "Sweet Jesus with a woody!" I can't believe that you were not aware that by combining; Fuh Fuh Fuzzzzy! wi wi with, Buh Buh Bunnnny!And th, th, then adding ...uhh,....uhhh ssslsssllippperrrzzz...!!!!!!!!!!!........!!!!!!!!!!!. .......!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!.......... !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.................. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!....!!!!!-!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!............!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.........!!!!!!!!.......!!!!!!......!!!...!!..!....???!!!!!!!!!...??
.....????


Where am I? Oh yes. Sorry.


Didn't you know that by hotwiring this particular cobination of words into one "manage a trois word" that 87 percent of all living males, and 19 percent of all deceased males will have a "system overload" that results in...


Well never you mind exactly what this results in. Let's just say that Both wonderful and embarrassment end up dancing cheek to cheek. So to speak.


So, if it is all right with you, and please tell me it is, from this moment on I will refer to you as fbslpz.


I know what you're thinking. That I just "made up" this whole scenario because I'm too lazy to type out fuh...,fuh..,


Oh hell! here I go again!


I'll talk at ya later fuh, fuh, fuhzzzy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!....... .!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.... ...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!..............!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Repairs to my groove. - AND - I was a groovenile delinquent!

Recently, someone e-mailed me, with an offer to; "evaluate the state of my spiritual groove." Going on to say that they would then do a complete over-haul of the areas of my groovy-ness that were determined to be deficient.


All of this very difficult, but necessary work performed for three easy payments of $69.99. Plus shipping and handling for any groove parts needed for the repairs that were not in stock, and had to be special ordered.


Before they could "get started" they needed me to write down and send to them my own personal assessment as to the general state of my "groove" at this time.


Below you will find my initial response.
*******************************************


To groove, or not to groove? What was the question?


Hello,I'm wordwaymike. I live in Oxnard, California.


My groove has one foot in the grave. And the other foot my groove gave to science.


The rest of my groove was divided in to three "allegedly" equal portions. That were then transported to the four corners of the ear..?


Wait... O.k. I remember now! Three portions were sent to the three corners of the earth.


It sounds weird I know, but hey! You're not looking at the same map that I am.


I know that for I fact cause I just drew it (after running into the three portions, four corners conundrum.)


Anyway. I'm digressing from the amazing three simultaneous trips that most of my my groove was taking. While the remnants off my groove's totality, which if you remember were not part of the whole equal portion thing, were doing what they do best. Which is?


Hell I don't know, Ask them.


I'm tired of digressing. And I'm tired of typing out this groovifesto, as it were. Or will be, if I ever get them three equal portions reunited with both of my legs.


I mean, I was drunker than; "A barrel full of drunkies who were seeing flying monkeys." when I signed that "donate a leg to science" form that I found on the inside of a match book!


I mean sweet Jesus on a Honda! That won't hold up in court will it? I mean I was really attached to that there leg. Until I wasn't.


What's worse, I heard that one of those portions was due to be rendered down to make a tasty groove-stock, that you can make a really groovy gravy out of.


But why would they want to do that?


How am I supposed to reconnect some groovy gravy thing to the other aspects of my groovyness?


I can't even get anybody to pick up the phone at either of the other "two out of three" corners of the world.


To be honest, I can't seem to find them again on my map.


It seems that when I was drawing the dang thing there was a crease in the paper.


A REALLY BIG FRIGGIN CREASE! O.K. Several really big creases.


Apparently my "map" is more akin to a grade school rendition of the folding of time and space.


What does that mean?


Are one, two, or all three of my "three corners" crappy map delusion to be found only by visiting the delta quadrant? Or by going back in time to when giant groove eating reptiles ruled the world?


How am I supposed to do that? I don't own a warp drive spaceship, or a time machine.


I can't be taking that much time off from work! Going off on some time traveling, inter-dimensional, "I'm two thousand light years from home" gallivant. Groove or no Groove.


But Sweet Jesus at a jute joint! Please don't let em make a gravy out of my groove.


But, if they do...


I want some!
*****************************************
I WAS A GROVENILE DELINQUENT!


I had been contacted by a spiritual resources company (Groovin’ on up! ®) and they offered to make any and all necessary repairs to my less than Nirvanic "state of grooviness" at present. For the introductory offer of three easy payment of $69.99. (plus the cost of parts, plus shipping and handling for any groovy parts that weren't in stock and had to be special ordered.)


Before they could get started, they required an honest assessment by me, as to how my "groove" had deteriorated into such a grooveless state.


It appears that my first attempt to quantify the current state of my grooviness was in some aspects..... O.K., many aspects lacking.


They couldn't get a vector on my "groove" because I hadn't been entirely forthcoming. Making it impossible for them to total the number of "skidmarks" on my spiritual underwear. They had to know just how many there were that needed to be sandblasted and steam-cleaned into submission.


I was hoping that with this additional "confession" the repairs to my Groove could commence.
****************************************
To: "Groovin' on up!" Coordinator
At: Groovin on up! Inc.
Subject: The additional information you requested.
************
I apologize for the wild tangents that the initial biographic cross-section of my bonafides took off on, in my first response to your request for "present status of "Groove" that you needed before repairs to my Groove could begin.


I now know that these are areas of my persona best left unexplored.


I will try harder to supply a simple sample of the man I am. As befits the parameters of the whole thumbnail sketch-hang-nail sketch-synopsis of my Groove concept.


I'm aware that my first narrative offering was more akin to a "police artist sketch"My bad.


To start with; I wasn't always a guy that was moving in the groove of life. Oh no! As ashamed as I am to tell you this, I must. (As it is a matter of public record, and you will find out eventually.)


There was a time in my life when I was a; "Groovinile Delinquent!"


Please! Hear me out! Then cast me out. If you must.


But my sad, and for the most part, near enough to true tale of Grooval loss, forgiveness, (all right parole), and redemption, is a cautionary tale. (On so many different levels) that might help some poor, unfortunate groove less creature, such as I was, to change their ways.


And by so doing, get "lucky".


Not just once, but periodically!


To see someone make that miraculous leap of desperation, excuse me, faith! Across that chasm of anti-groove! (as I will call it for lack of a better word that springs to mind) That elevates this searcher and seeker of Groove from a person that is scorned, up to the next level where he is merely pitied.


Much like a train wreck, this is a sight that you just can't quite tear your eyes away from.


And from there, it is just a few years in "pity's purgatory" (it builds character!) before they crawl their way up to where those that have a recognizable "smidgen" of groove to call their very own reside.


Yes! "The realm of minions and gophers!"


Becoming one of those that are finally, somewhat, tolerated!


And from there?


Hey! Your guess is as good as mine.


For as we all know, "The Groove Giveth." But not nearly as often as the; "Groove has the repo-man come and taketh away."


But we also know that the path upward from there has been climbed before. And will be climbed again.


But I wouldn't suggest a frontal assault on the Throne of Groove!


I mean that place is heavily fortified! And those dudes and dudettes up there might be "in the Groove," but they have a real strong "take no prisoners" and "no solicitors" kind of attitude!


I mean, from right there at the wrought iron gate that blocks the drive way, "it is on!"


And on up from there to the main house. We're talking sniper teams, landmines and Groove knows what! That's a lot of open ground. They'd chew us up and spit us out!


And have you seen the canine patrol! "Sweet Jesus with a pork chop tied around his neck!!"


I'm talking Irish Wolfhounds! That speak with an Irish Brogue!


German Shepard's! That speak German! Fluently!


No, I think that were gonna have to lay siege to the joint. Starve em out. Smoke em out, or something.


Err...


Pardon me for digressin' once again.


The above was an example of how my groove-less mind would have tempted me with all the bright shiny things to be found at or near the Throne of Groove.


Things that mean nothing, or a little less at least, than being a living breathing repository of groove.


Sadly, this is the craven creature that was me.


In my formative years, when I was not yet fully formed, fully informed, routinely framed, and rarely conformed to the ever changing eclectic standards of one who dwells within the city limits of groove.


These are the kind of thoughts that would have my groove-less soul salivating like some half starved hound in a Pavlovian bell ringing experiment!


Conditioned response? I kept my response in top condition! At all times!


I could see the neon like glow that was thrown off by those that were imbued with the groove.


But I had to be content with the mere scraps of groove that were tossed my way a few times in life. If I was willing to fetch, or roll over.


But not nearly as often as someone in the Groove, while inebriated and distracted by the groovy hottie he was with accidentally dropped a wad of cash imbued with groovy vibes still attached, to the ground unnoticed.


Unnoticed by someone who had pockets full of groovy cash. But not unnoticed by me!


So as you can see, it was in this way that I developed a lust for all things groovy.


I must have them!


I will not be denied!
I...


Uhh...?


I'll try and nail this sketchy thing I have to submit later.


After I have had some rest.


My bad.

My short lived conversation with Lusty Duck!

Here is a photo of Lusty Duck making his move on the wrong sex, as well as species.

Hey Karl,

Below is a story that I posted on a friends writing blog.

("Vic Monchego's sudden fiction.")

It's called; "My cyber-query of; "The lusty duck."

If you get the time, check it out. Some of the writers are pretty good. 

Especially my bro, Vic Monchego.

He's the head word rustler riding the "that was a hoot" owl trails of the Bad Lands of New Textico.

As you will see, after reading this, I have too much free time.

Mikey

************

Hey Vic,

Always good to hear from you.  I'm always amazed at the many faceted,  synaptic connections that you manage to necklace together into a whole. That is imbued with a bright shiny humor,  or a stark crystalline reality.  

Your word craft unfolds in such a way that it keeps a person's attention front and center, on where ever the hell it is that you are intent on taking a reader. Not a bad thing at all Vic.

I hope that I continue to have the pleasure of a Vic Monchego, "sudden fiction" read for some time. 

Tilt your literary lance at the windmills of the mind, and the dragons of the real world.

Both are fair game when they cross your path without proper respect for your joust, or jest.

This is something that I have been playing around with for a few months.  Let me know what you think.

gmw

***************************************************************************************

My  cyber-query  of;  "The  Lusty  Duck."

I was recently cyber-gabbing with some folks on a variety of mundane subjects.  When I received a response to one of my asides.  I can't even remember what my comment was, or what it related to.  Which is a sure sign that neither one was of any particular import. 

None the less,  It registered enough on someones; "word-o-meter" scale to cause the person to generate a bland,  short text-ed; "thumbs up" to some turn of phrase,  or twist of meaning that I employed. 

Whether the twisting,  turning,  meaning or phrase was intentional,  accidental, or even actual,  I couldn't tell you.

But this guy had a user name that he signed off with that started to work on my thought process.  Not in pleasant ways either.

His user name was; "lusty duck" 

Below is my response to his comment,  on my comment,  on somebody else's comment,  about something or other.

*******************************************

Howdy, and hello Lusty Duck!


I have never; conversed with a duck before.  Lusty, or other wise.  But hey!  When in Rome,  loot and pillage like the Vandals,  Visigoths,  and the other Germanic and Teutonic hoards are a doing,  is what I say!


By my way of thinking,  a lusty duck,  would be a lucky duck. That is,  if there are other lusty,  or horny ducks near by.


Perversely.  Excuse me.  Conversely,  said lusty duck,  would be an unlucky duck,  if he was stuck at this hormonal apex of a mounting,  building,  "where the f**k is there a duck that I can f**k!"  With no duck,  lusty or otherwise  within duck shot.


It would seem to me,  that you'd be needing a duck that shared the mutual urge of ducks that are lusty.


Or at the very least,  a heavy drinking duck.  That you could ply with high proof alcohols,  combined with some sweet and fruity mixer.  One of them; "Stealth Bomb" cocktails.


You know,  one of those liquid; "persuasion enhancers" that will have the soon to be; "lucky duck" drunk, and plucking her feathers  and yours at the same time. 

Until you are two completely shucked ducks.


Are you getting all this?

Are we even on the same page here?

Or do I need to slow down?

Back up?

Or maybe it would be best if I just stopped right here,  and waited till I knew you a little better?


But I gotta tell ya,  this whole duck lust thing is gnawing at my brain stem.

I had never thought about ducks; "doing it" till now.  And; "Sweet Jesus with a 12 gauge,  in a duck blind!"

It's like a badger is racing around in my brain pan.  Gnawing away at my inner child or something!


Sooner or later,  I'm gonna have to get some answers.  I mean,  I need closure on this whole; "f**k a duck" thing!


That's all I got to say for now.


Sorry I said this much.

Mikey

*********************

I never pick up beer!

A friend of mine has invited me over to his house this Saturday around noon. He is going to be in his full on "Bar-b-Que" mode and he wanted me to be there specifically.


Because he has been aware for years that I have never met a grilled steak, slab, shank, flank, hunk, chunk, slice, cut, leg, roast, rib, breast, or thigh that could be found on any kind of critter that didn't set my gastrointestinal juices to rumbling like the Bloods and the Crips over a crack deal.


I told him that he could count on me to "hold my own" when it got down to grabbing growling, chomping and chewing on the wide variety of meats, and tasty meat by-products that he was threatening to unleash. On the mostly unsuspecting digestive tracts of his blood relations and low rent buddies.


I'm not bragging, but I have been diagnosed as being an incurable "meat-a-holic."


And I love beer! What's even better is; "Beer loves me."

The fact is; "Beer loves me so much, that I never pick up beer. Beer picks me up. (It's the liquor picker upper!)


I can be moseying, or meandering my way down the highway, road, or goat path of life and all of a sudden, my forward progress is blocked by some vivaciously friendly Saint Paulie Girl.


She's holding one of those Oktoberfest 256 ounce pitchers, full of the kind of beer than goes down as smooth as honeydew vine water. And if you chug the whole pitcher at once, (and who the hell wouldn't?) it comes back up as sweet and as smooth as it went down.


Now that's beer!


I never refuse. I mean Sweet Jesus in a nudie bar! How could I?


You've seen her, I'm sure. Leaning over to pour you a taste. Filling up some "Stien-o-saurus Rex" container all the way to the top.


As you watch this wonderful sight, an even more wonderful sight over rides the "keep your eyes on the beer" part of the brain. Replacing it with commands from the "Sweet Jesus with a tittie fetish" part of the brain.


What exactly, you ask, could possibly over ride such a completely hardwired into the psyche brain command such as the "keep eye on beer" one is?


I'll tell you what! Two of the most milky white, ample to the tenth power, flawless breasts that have now poured themselves all the way to the top of her overwhelmed, and undersized blouse.


A blouse that is so low cut to begin with, that the only portion of these mouth watering perfectly fashioned ear protectors that isn't visible, is the tiny mole underneath the firm fold of her mammalian magnificence.


Not visible that is, until even the high grade steel cable straps of her custom made bra simultaneously suffer "catastrophic structural failure."


Each one of these portable suspension bridges was designed and built by some of the world's best structural engineers. Dedicated men that did their post graduate work in the field of "mega-boob dynamics" at the highly respected University of T&A. At the main campus in "Boulder" Colorado.


Alas! There are some forces of nature that man will never completely overcome.


But why oh why does this have to be one of them?


There is some good news that results from this tragic, and yet strangely wonderful upheaval.


Which is this;


It takes months, for a crack team of some the best boob men to be found anywhere, working around the clock, to build another harness, that for a little while, if she doesn't lean over, will be able to harness what is essentially unharness able.


Which is fine by me 'cause once you've seen them beauties, the first thought that runs through your head is that every one on the planet that is intent on restraining what neither God, Man, or even the "cloven hoofed one" ever dreamed of making captive, should at the exact same moment, have a fatal "accident".


And if we all stick together on the "fatal accident" story, there's no tittie hating jury on earth that's gonna be able to prove a thing!


Sure they'll suspect, but they'll be pounding sand if we just stick to the; "It was a series of simultaneous fatal accidents. It's a real shame" Game plan.


So as you see.


I've had beer. Beer has had me.


But I never pick up the beer.

President Bush is a member of the Illuminutty! (Part two)

This is wordwaymike
Reprorter/Janitor U.S. News and World Retorts

Breaking news!

This is part two of my searing, and quite possibly true interpretation of a bunch of random numbered encrypted White House e-mails. E-mails that this reporter/janitor obtained in the bizzare fashion that I outlined in my first post; "President Bush is a member of a secret cabal. The Illuminutty."

Over the last two weeks this reporter/janitor has been working feverishly to ascertain just exactly where my son Cronk (short for Cronkite) has stashed the latest batch of these deciphered e-mails.

Which were the back and forth, almost daily correspondence of senior White House personnel. Who along with a much younger Bush, had also recieved their graduate and post graduate training in the field of; New World Order-Maniacal Mayhem, at Torquemada University.

Where" Men are men. And sheep are dirty rotten lying little tramps. And therefore have no rights to counsel, or access to the courts under Habeus Corpus protections.

Initially, I was hoping that my son had deciphered more of the encrypted e-mails, that would have shed light on the fascinating doings of one particular Illuminutty member, Condoleeza Rice.

But now I fear greatly that this is exactly what has wrought this strange transformation in my son's behavior.

Condoleeza Rice. The U.S. Secratary of State, for the Bush Administration. Known by fellow Illuminutty members as the; Illumi-Hottie!; Illumi-Naughty! Butter-Milked-Biscuit. Spungetta. And; Countess-Chocula. Just to name a few.

But, if my son has run accross these specific e-mails as of this date, and has already managed to glean from them more information about the one member of this "crazier than a shit house rat" cabal that seems to be the; "Power behind the Bone," I mean; "Throne" of the Illuminutty.

He has grown as diabollicly crafty at keeping things hidden that he doesn't want to share with his dear old Dad, I mean, share with the world, as the black-hearted individuals who have sold their souls, or at the very least, have leased their souls to Demons from the seventh Hub of Hell, for 99 eons. (With an option to re-lease for 99 more.)

I am almost positive that he has uncovered more information on Ms. Rice as it has become almost impossible to get that little horn-dog out of the bathroom!

I fear that he has fully decoded Countess Chocula's, I mean, Condoleeza Rice's dissertation on; "World Domination Achieved." Which, if you remember was titled;

"With just my one set of firm, female hips,I could have 10,000 ships,launched, and raunched. All the way to World Domination!Queen Bee style!"

What has brought me to the belief that this is so is that every moment that Cronk isn't; "Busy as a Bee" in the bathroom, he is locked in his room, with both his PlayStation 3 running, and his computer downloading information from the internet.

During his last "sabbatical" to the bathroom, I was able to "jimmy" the lock on my sons bedroom door, and I noticed that all of his internet informational print-outs dealt with the "Hive structure" intricacies of the Africanized/Americanized "Natural Born Killer Bees."

I fear that the allure of getting some "strange" that is so far beyond the pale of what that school-boy, soldier, sailor, candal-stick maker, euphemism use to imply, coupled with the raging hormonal imbalances that all boys that age are subject to, has created, fantasies, and appetites that no National Geographic photo spread of young nubile indigenous ladies will ever be able to compete with!

But I digress!

While in my son's room, I did run accross several deciphered White House e-mails that would suggest that President Bush, mentally speaking, is one of the dimmer bulbs in his father's; "Thousand points of light."

It appears that several e-mails, from Nigerian Internet scammers have made their way pass the presidential security measures that one would assume, and hoped, would have been in place.

Stranger still, it would seem that President Bush BELIEVES that these blatantly unambiguous fantasy offers of "abandoned account" riches are not the work of illiterate, larcenous, Nigerian hooligans.

It is evident from reading the excited e-mail that Bush sent to Vice-President, Dick "let's go hunting" Cheney, soon after recieving these scam e-mails, that President Bush is convinced that these "offers" are rock solid, true.

Below, is the Bush/Cheney e-mail that can leave no one, after reading it, with any other conclusion other than President Bush is indeed; "crazier than a shit-house rat."

wordwaymike
********************************
FROM: The Decider in Chief
TO: The Vice-Decider

Hey there you old Dick!

I couldn't wait till I see you this weekend at the "Chili Willie Texas Cook-off/Shoot-out" that Laura and myself are throwing at the ranch in Crawford. The soirree will be MC'd by that old reprobate friend of mine Shabby Hayes.

As you know, he is the illegitimate son of Gabby Hayes. Don't you believe those spurious rumors that he is really the illicit offspring of Box-Car Willie, and a catamount. That there catamount was Gabby's private little slice of "wild tail." As anyone who follows the geneology of such things would be able to ascertain just by noting the similarities in Gabby's, Shabby's, and Mama Cat's chin whiskers.

I know that I can count on you to be there. I bet that both your your chili, and your six guns will be blazing hot! You old son of a who...

But I almost forgot why I am doing the old "hunt and peck" at ya in the first place!

In the last two weeks I have recieved five internet offers. Each one was from an individual that desired to make me the recipient of a bodaciously huge sum of cash. Three of these offers were from various Nigerian bank employees. Men with larceny in their hearts. Who were looking for the same among folks in the good old USA.

Them fellas sure enough found the right tree to go barking up.

Starting with; Dr. Ramadan Abdu. Who is, or was until recently, (I'll get to that part in a minute) the; "bill and exchange manager" of the; "African Development Bank."

Dr. Ramadan Abdu is; "Trusting to hear from you. (me) immediately." As he has "found" a 30 million dollar account that was abandoned! All of which is in good old American, greenback, legal tender denominations!

Dick, it gets better! This truck-load of cash was just laying around somewhere in, or near the bank's; "bill and exchange" department. A pile of dead presidents that was just begging to be given to some stranger. For a mere 40 percent of the "out of coutry" take. (He sounded pretty damn desperate, so I'm thinking that I can wear him down until he agrees to 25 percent.)

I was still chewing the fat off of this here tasty offer when I get another e-mail offer from the Nigerian B of A!

No, it wasn't the "Bank of America," which was what I thought it was at first, but the; "Bank of Africa!" Which to my way of thinking, (and I'll do my best someday to try and explain to you exactly how that process works) is a lot better than just "The Bank of Nigeria."

I mean, for Chrise sakes Dick, this is the Bank for the whole damn African continent!

Mr. George Williams, the; "bill and exchange manager" of; "B of A" had located another COMPLETELY DIFFERENT ACCOUNT! containing the; "abandoned sum of 30 million U.S. dollars" that he wants to hook me up with!

Now my mind is chewing on two huge meaty, fatty, tasty, greasy, gobs of some kind of; "African roadkill surprise." And two of such is a feast for any man's mind to masticate his way through.

When; KA-BOOM! The Hat Trick; "Mother of all internet offers of outrageous finacial fortunes, that are yours for the taking," arrives in my inbox. A Mr. Ellis Lee, who also works at the African Development Bank. And is also the; "bill and exchange manager" there, had an; "offer" for me.

Which made me wonder if Dr. Ramadan Abdu was caught doing the "Nigerian two step" with the 30 million dollar account that he was going to send my way. Leaving an opening in the; "bill and exchange department," that Mr. Lee had the good fortune to be assigned to.

I use the term; "good fortune" because Mr.Lee no sooner has the job, title, and access to the banks; "letters of account" and WHAMO! He roots out another 11 million dollar abandoned account!

Like one of those truffle sniffing porkers from France that ferrets out those tasty fungi!

Obviously, Mr. Lee was plugged into the same mysterious; "mumbo jumbo, chili gumbo, whodoo, voodoo, hey you, who gnu?" energies that seem to be highly concentrated in, or around the; "bill and exchange" departments of Nigerian banking institutions.

The cosmic synergies that are a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, and covered with a spicy chipolte sauce, once again conjured up my name as the person that all these millions sitting in abandoned Nigerian bank accounts should be sent to.

Can it any longer be denied, (with a straight face) that; "God has my back?"

I must be sucking all the luck out of the known universe for two complete strangers, that are both from Nigeria, who have both; "located; run accross; discovered; and or; became aware of" two entirely different abandoned accounts that had 30 million in US buckaroos in them.

And then have another Nigerian in the know, toss towards my mind's already full hands and mouth, another 11 million dollar gob of meaty, chewy, greasy, fatty, rib of roadkill. Right off the grill.

That's 71 million Dick!

The Trifecta of internet offers of robber baron type wealth! I can finally get that 21 foot long, fiberglass bass boat! (And an extra set of oars!)

What are the odds! Never mind. I don't want to cheapen the magic of this moment with sound mathmatics, or basic applications of logic and reason!

Even more amazing, all three of these fine upstanding, hardworking bank employees with larceny coursing through their veins, have picked me to be the recipient of their grossly mispelled offer!

Choosing me, I am sure in some cosmic coniption fit connection, a la; "bury the chicken bone, kismet, whodoo, juju, coo coo ca choo Mrs. Robinson" mannner that us; "Westerners" will never understand.

It's one of those beautiful, inscrutable, immuteable, lootable, not suitable for children, or anyone else who isn't suffering from the last stages of alzheimers type offers.

One of those cosmic mysteries that occassionaly work there way up under the skin of a person's reality.

Usually to lay their innumerable in number eggs. That in a few short weeks will hatch into a hellish legion of voraciously hungry something or others. That will then perform upon your body the insectile equivalant of Shermans; "scorch and burn" march on Atlanta. Which if you remember, was during the; "Civil," but none the less, quite deadly; "War."

But not this time! No way Jose!

I figure that at least one, and possibly two of these offers have the potential of an exponential to the tenth power payout. But as you can see, with both of my mental hands, as well as my mind's mouth, full to the choking point with; "Fresh from the grill, Nigerian Roadkill Riches" I'm in need of a little help.

I could use your finely honed, and razor sharp analytical bonafides as concerns this matter. To help me navigate the byzantine intricacies of counter-scamming a Nigerian internet scammer.

Not that I think that this is a real possibility, in these three particular instances. But I didn't fall off of a turnip truck. Let alone last night.

It was a rutabaga truck. And that was years ago.

Get back to me on this one Dick. I think we've finally latched onto a real live opiated pipe dream!

I will tell you later about the two; "notifications" that I recieved from the; "Irish Sweepstakes" - Claims Department.

You won't believe how much I have won!

George "double dog dare u" Bush
Oval Orfice
1600 Pennsylvania Ave.
***************************************
Next week:

Part three of my expose of White House/Illuminutty shennannigans.

President Bush's late night, highly erotic e-mail to a mystery person with the user name of; "Fuzzy Bunny Slippers!"

Which I have code-named; "Excitable Boy."

As always, this report was filed from the synaptic "No fly zone" of wordwaymike.

This is wordwaymike. Signing off!

Trixie the inflatable doll moves uptown!

Trixie has recovered from her addiction to "fix a flat" and has moved uptown.


I see by the photo that "Trixie" has moved uptown.


At least that was her name when she used to be the go to regular, "hospitality hostess" at the annual International gathering of the Computer Dweebs Convention.


I've uhhm, never been to the "gathering" myself.


Alright, I've read about it. And there were lots of pictures, graphs and scary warnings from some guy in Atlanta, with a weird username? C.D.C?


I mean, at first I was afraid that it was like some; "Charlie Daniels Cult" or "Crazy Demonic Choirboys" gathering. Because I had enough problems at that time in my life without having to learn all the words to "The Devil went down to Georgia". (see how I hog-tied that Atlanta clue to the CDC thing.)


And their wasn't no way in Hell I was gonna be singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" A Capella in Castrato! Hell No!


But upon reading further, I realized that it was just a bunch of computer wonks that made good on their sacred oath, as "Brother Dweebs" to remove themselves from the pasty glare of their computer screens, for at least one weekend each year.


And Dweebs or not, from what the videos of last years convocation of the faithful, that were posted on youtube revealed was that these boys, to the last pimply faced man/child amongst them, all "knew" Trixie. In what you would call the biblical sense, except that I don't remember reading about no blow up dolls in the Good Book.


And believe you me, them boys brought several cases of "fix-a flat" for Trixie last year. And that girl was flat out (no pun intended) strung out on that stuff! I mean she was main lining it! Sweet Jesus in rehab! That's gotta be bad for the poor thing! She was going through one tube after another by the second night. It kept her going for a little while, then she would just collapse.


I mean it was like someone just let all the air out of a tire or something.


On the last day of the convention, some of the Dweebs tried to get an "intervention" going. Then somebody found a half of a case of fix-a-flat stuffed under the bed. Right then and there, the whole intervention thing went out the window. Followed less than a minute later by Trixie! She couldn't take it anymore!


I mean Sweet Jesus on the nicotine patch! It happened so fast! It was almost as if she "flew" out the window.


Evidently, two sick bastards, the Lionel twins, had stashed the tubes, some glue and rubbers (patches) there. They had been acting all big shotty recently. Because they had just inherited their daddy's toy train empire. (Running trains is all these boys enjoy doing ) and from the looks of things they was gonna have themselves a little private soiree, (that's french for get some)


That was the last that anyone had seen of Trixie. Until you posted her photo on your blog.


I'm glad that she has gotten her self cleaned up. And it would appear from the photo that you posted that she is finally in the company of some one who cares for the blow up doll that she is. And not just the air filled fantasy
floozy of their dreams.

Wink your way to the top!

ABOVE: Sarah is flashing her "Wanna see my Moose knuckle?" woody inducing wink to a room full of right wing frothers that haven't had sex since Goldwater.
*******************************************************
Sarah is listening to the Siren song of power. It liltingly whispers;


Sarah! You could be president! The people that vote really are gullible enough to believe that you can fix what's wrong. By the time they figure out that you can't even fix a Moose Burger without burning it, it will be too late! Your term as president will be up and you will be added to the Pantheon of ex-presidents.

Not to mention make a fortune selling access to those that have political power and influence in Washington.


She's humming along and tapping her toes to the rising beat of her heart. She thinks it's a catchy tune. As always, the thought of being the most powerful person on the planet have made her moist.


She has been working on her wink for months now. Knowing that this was the key to victory. This knowledge based on all of the things in life that she wanted that her magical wink had made attained for her.


Starting with that passing grade in high school from the geography teacher. He thought that her wink meant he'd have a night of sex with her for not flunking her.


Culminating with "The wink seen 'round the world" during the Republican National Convention. Where she winked her way into the hearts of every right wing frothy fringer jn America during her acceptance speech after McCain nominated her to be his V.P.


Knowing that she had to be at the top of her wink game to win the presidency, Sarah has been setting aside two hours a day as "wink time" to hone her wink skill sets. So that by 2011, when the campaign for the next presidential election heats up, she'll have a world class wink, capable of convincingly "implying" (without saying) what ever the person that she is winking at wants it to mean.


She has even hired a personal trainer, wink specialist Candy Wanda Trixie. But her friends, associates, acquaintances, and late night assignations just call her; "Sweet Thang"

ABOVE:This is Candy's; "You know you want it! Bring lots of cash." working wink.


I interviewed Ms. Trixie several days ago. She was unabashedly bold in her assertion that Palin was a natural born winker.


"What she has already accomplished with her untrained wink is nothing short of phenomenal. There wasn't a man at that convention that wouldn't have handed over every dollar, and maxed out every credit card in his wallet just for a few minutes alone with that gal. I'm not easily impressed, but when I saw the immediate reaction of every man that was there to her world-wide wink I said to myself; 'That there little woman is a comer for sure!' With that one wink she not only conveyed to every man that saw it that she knew what they wanted, and needed from her, she conveyed convincingly that she was the woman that could satisfy thoses needs." Said Trixie.


All of this was taking place as she was slowly leaning closer and closer to where I was sitting. While at the same time slowly lowering her gaze to what I initially thought was the note pad in my lap.


Then, she softly said as she quickly looked up from my notepad; "There are very few women that can meet the many, complex needs of so many different men. Don't you agree?"


Then she added; "And please call me Candy from now on. Ms.Trixie sounds so strait-laced, buttoned down, and formal. I would much rather have a very friendly, very informal, very discreet, speed-dial kind of quid pro quo, keep it on the down low, "tell me where it hurts, and I'll kiss it and make it better" sort of an arrangment. Wouldn't you?"


I was lost in thought for a few moments as I pondered the image laden implications of her last statment. Shaking those off, I steered the conversation back to Palin's putting such high hopes on a physical gesture. Asking Trix...Err...I mean, Candy if a wink could win Palin the presidency.


Candy's response was; "When I get done perfecting Sarah's winking skills that woman is going to have a wink so powerful the United Nations will classify it as a; Weapon of Mass Destruction. Oh yeah! Sarah is going to be The Bomb!"


Ironically, Candy's reputation as the preeminent winker in North America was legitimately earned practicing an illegitimate trade. None the less! In less than a year Candy winked her way up from a $20.00 dollars a trick street corner prostitute, to an $800.00 dollars an hour paid "consultant" lobbyist for the International Lollipop Consortium. Candy says that the two jobs are very similar, in that at the heart of both industries are suckers. But that the perks in her new position, or, positions is much better.


Going on to say that Sarah, just like her, has what it takes to go from her current "Do it like this. Do it like that. That's it! Vote my way and like it! Who's your lobbyists? " low end political power reality, right on up to the top of the political heap. Where she only has to "take it" like that from the big boys.


Candy ended her last statement with the words of her own personal mantra for a better life; "The view from the top, even if you're on the bottom, is much better than the view from the bottom, even if your on top."


"I've actually got Sarah working on three different winks. Each designed for a specific outcome." Candy said.


Going on to say that the first wink is an: "I've convincingly implied what you want to believe. But I have complete deniability when I screw you over- You've been worked!-wink."


Candy then very slowly crossed her legs. Which made her already extremely short mini skirt ride so far up her thigh that I momentarialy lost my train of thought, and was forced to scan my notes for a clue as to what my next question should be.


Then she uncrossed them again. Even slower than she had the first time. As I saw the first brief flash of pink. I remember thinking; "I wonder if she knows that I can see her panties?." Then, quickly realized that she wasn't wearing any! Where upon, I lost my pen, notes, and composure. Not necessarily in that order.


When I looked up I saw that Candy was smiling. She had just shown me proof that her treatise on "Winkology" as I will call it for lack of a better word, was just a subset principle of a far greater power and control advancment paradigm.


Why continue to waste time explaining to me the dynamics of the power to control individuals, and masses by mastering the nuances of suggestive physical gestures? When all she had to do to make my understanding complete was hotwire my reality by slowly crossing, and un-crossing her legs which immediately drove my thought process straight to Candy Land!


Then Candy continued; "The second one is going to be her main stay, day to day working wink. A sort of; "Oh yeah! We can, and will do it just like that! As soon as you give me what I've told you it will cost." It's a smoldering, come hither, all transactions are paid in full-In advance wink, with a dash of licked lips wanton thrown in to close the deal.


Going on to say; "The third wink is for private, personal moments. Sarah can't use this wink until she has attained the power necessary to make the implications that what the wink is implying real." Said Candy. For lack of a better name, and to personalize it as Sarah's "signature" wink, we'll call it the; "I don't give a hoot if you're happily married. If you don't lose them pants and let that trophy sized trouser trout have at my bait box, I'll have you fired from the Secret Service for trying to do just that anyway." It's an; "Obey your Commander in Chief. Or else!" wild eyed, "I want it! And I want it now!" wink that is only to be used on those that you have complete, and total power over.


Candy has promised Sarah that by the time that campaigning is in full swing, her patented "WINK" will imply 10 times more than it did during the last election. Without any downside to her; "Plausible/Impliable/Deniable" factor.


"Doors opening, or zippers coming down, it's all the same." Said Candy with a knowing smirk, and a wink that gave me a woody.

The origin of the Egg McMuffin. (Both of them.)

Factoid # kabillions and kabillions sold;


About 3/4 of a mile inland from 101 at the Milpas St. off ramp in Santa Barbara, you will find the McDonald's franchise owner that invented the Egg McMuffin.


I shit you not.


And this bold, brazen, forward looking franchise owner came extremely close to losing his franchise back to the McDonald's Corp.


For the same price that he paid for it. By defying the iron clad legal conditions of only serving what the Micky 'D Corp. dictated.


And worse! Not using foods and ingredients that were bought from McDonalds "meat-gristle and tater-tumor" suppliers.


This McDonalds franchise owner hucked a Monkey wrench into the gear and cog section of the corporate machine, that led to open revolt by his fellow franchiser's.


Doing so at the "Annual Meeting of Stockholders" he poked them all in the eye with his pie chart.


That showed that his little egg, Canadian bacon, cheese thingie on an english muffin, had added approx. 220,000 thousand dollars a year to his "bottom line."


This was in late 1970 or early 1980 dollars.


Because nobody, anywhere orderd a hamburger before 10 minutes to eleven.


But they had to be open, slinging the tasty little beef hockey pucks from 8:30 am on.


This resolute loyalty to all things beef being ordered and decreed by the Head Kroc of...


Excuse me, Mr. Ray Kroc of...


Well! This here bottom line info on the non-beef bonafides of his breakfast offering set the hearts and minds of his fellow franchisers in a mood to have him declared to be the patron saint of the breakfast sandwich.
(Domenei, Hominei, hold the pickle, hold the relish)


Where as, minutes previous, they looked upon him with out pity. As an out of step malcontent.


Yes. This really did occur. (Or did it?)


Stop into his place and read the tale from the framed wall of newpaper articles that relate a true modern day David and Goliath tale.


Goliath brought down by one Egg McMuffin pie chart report upside the noggin.


Mr. Ray Crock of... keeping his head only by quickly changing sides and declaring that every one of his McDonald franchise holders could sell these little beefless abominations.


But only from 8:30am till 11::00am


And we'll call them...


Something I can copyright, before the actual creator of it does!


Decreed Mr. Ray Kroc of...
***********************


WHAT IS TRUTH?


Post-scriptoid-factoid # (we're no longer sure)


I went searching last night for more information on the McDonalds, Egg McMuffin inventor.


I learned that his name was Peterson.


But then I learned that the story going around today is that the Egg McMuffin invention was a warm, fuzzy, "inhouse collaboration" with the head of McDonalds-Ray Kroc of....


All I can tell you is that the framed newspaper articles upon the wall of Petersons, Milpas St. franchise told a decidely different story, the last time that I was there in 1990-1991.


They related a story of a franchise owner that was faced with the impending loss of his franchise.


Until he showed up at the "Annual stock=holders meeting" unannounced.


And proceeded to show his eggy, cheesey, bacony, muffiny pie chart pugilistic skills.


Socking one and all upside their "bottom line" with the evidence of his egg, cheese Canadian bacon, on an english muffin's, undefeated financial record against the burger.


Between the hours of 8:30 am and 11:00 of course.


It has been said thet;


"History is written by the one who wins the Burger war."


Could this be the "smoking Burger" that proves that this is so?


I can see that I am gonna have to make another pilgrimage to the Egg McMuffin Holy Land Mecca, On Milpas St. in Santa Barbara.


Which is only about 43-44 miles from my present location.


To in search of the truth of this matter.


And a decent vanilla milk-shake.


The Davinci Code has nothing on this!


wwm
************


I SHIT YOU NOT! (part 2)


post scriptoid-factoid to the post-scriptoid-factoid above.


I'm sure you know the basic reverse L layout of most McDonalds.


With the bathrooms at the back of the long line of the reverse L.


And the counter where you order, accross the front of the short line of the reverse L.


The owner of the franchise on Milpas St., in Santa Barbara, who slayed the McDonalds Burger Goliath with his breakfast sandwich, has covered the walls within the reverse L with skinny framed mirrors.


Now;


We know that if you look at letters and words in a mirror, they become reversed.


But if you look at letters and words that have been reflected off of two mirrors, they right themselves again.


By covering the inside of the public dining area with these skinny mirrors, there is no seat within this McDonalds, that you can not read the menu that is over the front cashier counter.


FROM YOUR SEAT!


You can be at the back of the reverse L. Facing the doors to the bathroom at the very back of the reverse L. And still read the entire menu. Over the order counter. Which is behind you, all the way at the end of the long line in the reverse L. And around the friggin' corner!


By "bouncing" the reflected letters off an "even" number of mirrors.


I know that I have already said this once about this guy, but get ready, here it comes again.


I SHIT YOU NOT!


Smokey burger grease.
Solid walls of mirrors.
An ever changing "genisis story" for the creation of the Egg McMuffin...


Equals smokey greasy reflected and reversed quasi truths.


That while not healthy, are somewhat tasty.


And they go down easy!


These boys are up to something!

Another one of Mikey's bland and boring roadtrips.

Imagine this little baby
stuffed to the gills with
household items.


Then having as much more
in weight and volume
lashed to it topside!




I'm up in North Edwards, (Kern County) about 15 miles out of Mohave.


A friend of mine named Tom, needed a hand moving the rest of his stuff up here from Port Hueneme. Including his 25 foot sailboat. A McGregor cutter which he named; "Three sheets in the wind."


Tom has three other properties besides the Hueneme one. The one in N. Edwards was a three bedroom, ranch style house on a half of an acre. It was built as part of off base housing during the early 1960's for the families of test pilots at Edwards A.F.B. during that period.


It still looked pretty good, but was in need of some cosmetic work. Paint, molding, caulking, a new carpet, and some trash, and scrap hauling out of the back yard. As the previous renters had been doing something like a "mid-night auto parts" business from the location. That is, until a few months back. When the renter was arrested, and the rental checks quit coming.


There was also a single wide trailer in good shape, on an acre in Tecopa. This just basically needed a new water pump for the well, and a good cleaning to be back on the market. But Tecopa is pretty damn isolated, and has a population of... not many. A hundred or so.


Then; There is the double-wide trailer in Pahrumph, Nevada. This one doesn't need much in the way of repairs to get back on the market. At least Tom has finally realized that being an absentee landlord, several hours of driving removed from the bulk of his properties is just an invitation to be screwed.
*******************************************************


We had stuffed this "trailer sailer" to the friggin' gills like a giant fiberglass Thanksgiving turkey. With all of his families belongings. Then we had lashed another ton, to ton and a half, of house-hold essentials top-side Then handed the keys of his condo over to the new renters at one in the morning, (six hours later than promised) and split.


The renter's seventeen years at UPS and a strong credit rating has made Tom comfortable, for the most part, with this aspect of the move.


After gassing up, and using the bathroom, we left Oxnard at 1:30 in the morning to avoid traffic. Approx. 10 miles into our journey, about half a mile before Wells Rd. in Ventura on Hwy. 126, we blew out the left tire on the boat trailer.


I suspect that it was due to three factors;


1. The fact that we had exceeded maximum weight load for the tires by two and a
half times. (OK. Probably three times.)


2. Five years in the Channel Islands Boat Yard had resulted in some serious tire
rot.(Who knew?)


3. The loose nut behind the wheel.


So anyway; We are just over the shoulder's white line. The star lug wrench is "somewhere" in the packed van/wagon. Or inside the stuffed turkey sailboat. Tom thinks. (but isn't sure.)


And there is no way to find out, as Tom didn't pack a flash light.


High balling semis are blowing past us at 70 plus. Inches away from our fragile hold upon continued existence on this planet.


Carley, Toms 10 year old daughter is crying. His wife Quianna, is sobbing. I turn and start walking east on the shoulder of 126. Remembering that there are call boxes about every two miles on that stretch of it.


Tom, thinks that I am bailing. Just walking away from the whole dog and pony show that's in full swing. (This fear is based on no experiences with me, but evidently Tom has been; "left by the wayside" by somebody before.) He starts hollering at me..."No! Don't leave... Come back!


I turn and tell him; "I'm going to find a call box. I'll get the Hwy Patrol to come by."


Tom thinks this is just a verbal ploy by me, to move beyond his sight, and pleas for assistance.


I couldn't convince him otherwise, so I quit trying, turned and kept walking. I heard a couple of more; "Nooo! Nooo's! drifting on the wind, then nothing.


Around the first bend, about an eighth of a mile from our own personal little malfunction junction, I come upon Hwy 126 call box #42. I get the dispatcher, and ask her to send a Hwy. patrol.


She doesn't really want to, and we do about 10 minutes of verbal jousting. Such as;


"Does anyone have an auto club membership?


I tell her; "No." And leave it at that.


No sense informing her that nobody among us was within light years of being that prepared for this smokin' chokin' six wheeled (two on the trailer) adventure into the unknown that we had undertaken. Or that we didn't even have the half ass understandable excuse of being drunk, and therefore incapable of knowing better.


Then she wanted to call a tow truck.


I told her that we had a spare. We had three scissor jacks. All we needed was the use of a Hwy. Patrolman's flashlight and star lug wrench .


Her response was to suggest, (without really saying so), that there was probably more likely hood of the responding officer allowing me to have sex with his wife while he watched, than there was of him letting me fondle his four D sized battery flashlight.


I also got the feeling that she (the dispatcher) would have given me five to one odds on my never even getting a peek at his star lug wrench.


So I upped the ante by suggesting (without really saying so) (two can play that game) to this female "dispatch-enator" that there was a 10 year old girl who was screaming, and her mother who was sobbing every time that a semi truck blew past their little van wagon, like Jerry Reed in; "Smokey and the Bandit." With only about nine to twelve inches to spare between her daddys bloody mangled, pulp-non-fiction death Because her daddy was trying to gnaw the rusted in place lug nuts off with his teeth.


I also pointed out that even though she had correctly identified us as collectively being, not only idiots, but low-rent and powerless to boot, there was really no way for her to adequately ascertain how rich, powerful and loved the person was, that pretty soon was gonna crash into us, and also perish in the soon to be, flaming hot ending to our road trip.


After giving this approx. 3 seconds of careful consideration, she capitulated. Saying; "An officer is on the way."


About 10 minutes later, I materialize out of the darkness next to the driver's window. Tom doesn't see me, until I rap on the window. As he had sunk into an eyes closed despair.


Probably wondering if it was gonna be a White-Freight-liner, or Peter-Built that was gonna send him to that great scrap yard in the sky.


I inform him that the cavalry is on the way.


Two minutes later, the Hwy Patrol Officer arrives.


Now bro, you know that one of my missions in life is to single-handedly bring back the look of; "Casual disarray." I was in fine form that night my friend. My hair was flying this way and that. I was torn between smiling, and scaring the be-jeesus out of the guy with my gap-toothed grin, or not smiling, and having him think that; "I'm moody/trouble/different etc.


I finally chose friendly/smile and he called for back-up!


To be fair, the back up wasn't because he was frightened of me, or Tom, but because while he was watching us, and shining his flashlight on our lack of trailer-jacking expertise; That required ALL THREE JACKS (because, if you remember, we were two and a half times, or better, over the weight limit)he wanted another patrolman to make sure that he wasn't crushed to death along with us, if somebody drifted into the 24 inch stay alive zone


Which I swear to God was all that two Calif. Hwy. Patrol Officers could get these fucking 18 wheel high-ballers to cede to us.


We finally get the blown out, shredded, rotted remnant of a tire that a Pakistani refugee couldn't have turned into one decent sandal for a midget, only to discover that the lug-nut holes of the spare rim...don't...line...up.


Are you beginning to detect a theme here bro? Do we need another reading of the tea leaves?


You starting to see the Rod Serling, Twilight Zone, lost episode implications swirling around this road trip?


So... We drop the trailer. We go back to Oxnard. But we can't stay at his condo on Yardarm, in Hueneme, 'cause the people that rented it from him have moved in!


So, we go to Spud-nuts. Located at the Channel Islands Fisherman's Wharf. Spud-nuts is an all-night donut and coffee emporium based upon the unlikely, yet true premise that potato flour makes for a tastier donut.


It takes me twenty minutes to "sell" them on the idea of; Well lit, safe, coffee, donuts, bathrooms, etc.


I swear to God Vic, we get there 35 minutes after the fucking place gets arm-robbed!Probably for the first time in its history.


I grab a paper and coffee and sit down. I figure that I will die of old age before this joint has another moment like that.


Tom, his wife, and daughter are locked inside their van/wagon, searching the shadows for the "bad man." Too frightened to eat donuts, or sleep.


We get a tire/rim at 8 in the morning. We "get 'er done" with thirty to fifty trucks and cars a minute blowing by both of us with an average of 18 inches to spare between high velocity steel, and our mortal coil having a convergence. With no Hwy. patrol this time. We drive like two miles to Santa Paula. Get another replacement tire for the rotted one on the other side.


We turn on the hazzard lights. We do twenty-five to thirty five mph, all the way to North Edwards. The friggin' Mormons pulled handcarts from Illinois to Salt Lake City faster that we got to North Edwards.


But other than that it was fun!
**********************************


So I am going to lend a hand up here for the next week or two. Then it's off to Southern Florida. Back to the Glades, the gators, and the Gulf Coast gastrointestinal delights.


I'll keep you posted.