Monday, January 23, 2012

I Never Sausage A Thing!

[NOTE: This might be sorta NSFC (Not Safe For Church)]

Just a little something from the “All My Friends Are Going To Hell” files …

A couple of weeks ago, a few friends and I drove up to the lovely town of McCall, Idaho (home of the McCall Winter Carnival, featuring the Monster Dog Pull and the Snowshoe Golf Tournament), for a day of skiing and a couple of nights of drunken debauchery baking cookies for orphans.  Sometimes a little break from the high-stress life of being an anonymous governmental bureaucratic number-crunching pencil-pusher is needed, doncha know.

The friend that I drove up with is a Sister in the local convent, which explains why she has a plastic Jesus on her dashboard with a mirror in his belly and the words “Look Good For Jesus” inscribed at his feet.  It’s very tasteful:

Above:  The can had been discarded at the side of the road by litterbugs, so we transported it to the nearest recycling bin.  Keep Idaho Beautiful!

Anyway, we had a wonderful Friday night and a great day of skiing Saturday, and gathered at the home of a friend who lives there that evening for enchiladas, all sorts of homemade elk sausages, cheap tequila, and riveting discussion on the folly of the austerity measures being enacted on the continent.  A magical time all 'round.

Eventually, the revelry wound down, and a few friends who were staying at a nearby cabin borrowed the car that we drove up in to get back there, giving assurances that they would be back bright and early Sunday morning with multiple vehicles.  They were, and we had a nice chat arguing what constitutes “planethood” (Dear International Astronomical Union:  Your momma thought I was big enough!  Sincerely, Pluto.) before deciding to head back to the Big City.  I thought it a bit odd that the friends who stayed in the cabin were so giggly as we departed, but they’re giggly people in general, so I didn’t dwell on it.  But then we got in the car …

… and found this:

Above:  I don’t care if it rains or freezes, long as I got my sausage Jesus, riding on the dashboard of my car …

It’s going to be lonely in Heaven, what with all my friends being down in Hell and all.  I later asked one of them where they got a raw bratwurst, to which she responded “Oh, Sheila-JoMarie* had it in her pocket.”  Yes … yes, of course she did.  That makes perfect sense.

Sausage Jesus made the entire trip back sporting his new headware, and I suspect that the holy bratwurst has been preserved and will be resurrected sometime in the future for a bit of revenge tomfoolery.  I did get an update on the state of Plastic Jesus the next day:  “Well, the dishwasher wasn’t enough to wash the blood off of Christ, so I had to give him a sponge-bath.”

That’s Ninth Circle material right there.

Not her real name … nobody is really named Sheila-JoMarie.  That would be ridiculous.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

A Frosty Tale

It’s been a nasty winter, as far as snow goes, here in our little metropolis.  Until yesterday, we didn’t have any whatsoever, save for a dusting in October, resulting in the latest Opening Day for the local ski area in its 69-year history*.  Fortunately, the Weather Bunny rebooted the computer or whatever it is that she does at the Weather Bureau National Weather Service to make it precipitate, ‘cause yesterday, we got tolly dumped on.  The sky was filled with more flakes than a parachuting Elvis convention (you know, why do I even try to make those?), and by the time I was released from my governmental work shackles, there was at least 4"-6” of soft, fluffy, newly fallen powder on the ground.

Ok, 4"-6” of incredibly wet, slushy cement on the ground.  But still … it was snow, and that’s all that matters.  Further, it being so wet made it ideal for packing, and I, having not lost my child-like innocence and joyful appreciation of the simple pleasures in life (unlike my cynical and jaded friends), decided it was a perfect occasion to build a snowman.  (After, of course, throwing back a couple of shots of rye to temporarily mask the pain of knowing that I’m going nowhere, stuck in a dead-end job, and that I’m helpless to change the course of my sorry-ass life, if you can even call it that.)

So after donning boots and gloves, the husky-wannabe and I went outside and began our project.  O, how the snow packed so perfectly!  “Indy!” I cried with glee.  “This will be the best, most colossal, awesomest, ginormousiest snowman ever!  People will drive for miles to marvel at its beauty, its enormity, its Christ-like perfection!”  And so I rolled and rolled, for what seemed like hours, until I finally felt that I had truly attained my goal:

Above:  I knew I’d pay a price for that half-assed job of leaf raking last fall.  Whatever.

I stood watching it, beaming with pride, for several minutes, then decided it was time to head to the pub do something or other for the better of humanity.  By that time, the snow had turned to rain, and I knew that Elwood P. Dowd (the name he chose for himself) would not be long for this world.  A short life, yes, but one well lived, and one that would not soon be forgotten.  In fact, as I left the house a short time later, Elwood P. Dowd was leaning rather precariously at a seemingly impossible angle, and I gave him a sad smile and bid my fare-thee-well, expecting to return to nothing but a pile of slush and a handful of fond memories.

Never did I imagine what horrors this world can hold, and what evil dwells in the hearts of some.

It was fairly dark when I got home, but not such that I couldn’t see where Elwood P. Dowd once stood.  “Odd,” I thought.  “I would have expected a small pile of his remnants to lay where once he stood so proudly.”  As I grew closer, I gasped in horror as I realized that there were footprints other than mine surrounding the space he once occupied.  A space now flattened, stomped with such apparent cruelty that even the most fastidious forensic investigators would have been hard-pressed to confirm even the existence of Elwood P. Dowd.

After a brief moment of silence and a tearful goodbye, I walked around the corner to the front door, and was shocked to find this:

Above: They … they … they tortured him first … those sick bastards 

Who could have done this?  What sort of blackened souls walk among us that can commit such heinous acts?  My god ... where was his other eye?  “NOOOOOOOoooo …” I wailed into the wet night.  “WHOEVER YOU ARE … WHATEVER YOU ARE … I WILL FIND YOU … I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN … ELWOOD P. DOWD WILL BE AVENGED!”  Slowly, I walked inside, poured myself a warm brandy, and began to plot my revenge.

The forecast for Sunday is snow.  Justice will be served.

* hehehe 69 ...

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

A Plane Disgrace

I’m sure that most of us have a few inner demons hanging around from our childhoods (I’m using the plural form of “childhood” as I’m writing about “all of us,” so if you, in fact, had a touch of the ole Dissociative Identity Disorder as a kid, please don’t take that as me singling you out).  One of the primary sources of angst for me in adulthood is the fact that not once as a child did I ever successfully assemble one of those goddamn balsa-wood airplane models.  (Just to be clear, I’m referring to this type of model, rather than this, though to be honest, the latter type proved quite vexing to me as well.)

Even back as just a wee lad, I already showed signs of the impatience, lack of attention to detail, and complete absence of any sense of pride in my work that essentially defines me as an adult. I would slap pieces of the model together, barely letting the glue set up before attempting to adhere the next. My dad would watch in horror, sobbing, only finding solace in the fact that at least his elder son seemed to grasp the concept of “set tail structure aside to dry” and other such helpful advice provided by the instructions (not that I often acknowledged the existence of the instructions in the first place).

That was then, however, and this is now, and I am completely confidant that my years of experience in dealing with life’s trials and tribulations has finally prepared me to conquer this particular devil.  To that end, I purchased this as a Chriskwanzukkahdam present for myself:

Above:  I will OWN this balsa beyotch!  (The side of the box reads “Guaranteed to fly if instructions are followed!”  Well played, Guillow’s, Inc … well played indeed.)

As of this writing, I have all of the body parts glued together, and tonight I begin the most harrowing process of all:  applying the tissue “skin” to the balsa skeleton, which involves a substance known only as “dope,” and which, to secure, required driving to three different hobby shops, and eventually conversing with a shady character named “Stukey.”  But I can do this.  I can DO this.

I also bought my aforementioned brother a similar model.  Similar, I guess, in that they’re both balsa airplanes.  Whereas mine, however, is of the “Junior Builder” series (I had to convince the store person that it was for my 9-year-old nephew), his has several thousand pieces and requires a Master’s degree in structural engineering to even be allowed to purchase it.  Further, he has a family and a demanding job, while I live with a dog and have plenty of free time.  I figure that with me ruining at least several kits and having to start over multiple times, we should probably finish up around the same time.

Probably Chriskwanzukkahdam 2014.