I was conversing with my brother about that post and he shed a bit of light on the circumstances in which he found out about the plastic center of the earth.
Apparently, he was reading a text book that had a split section diagram of the earth, and someone had told him that there was plastic in there, and since the diagram was so small, it was easy for one to think "This over 9000 foot layer of soil and clay must only be 10 feet at beat! Look at the diagram!
Case in point.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Fields of Gold: Deconstructing the Fire Escape/Spare Ribs
Eventually, long after the fire escape had proven it's uselessness, the decision was made to tear the bitch down, and ironically enough, set fire to it. This was done with what is known as a winch. The winch (or, Wench as we called it) was used for various tasks around the property, but this was by near and far the most epic of all, second only of course to the Indiana Jones-esque escape from a falling awning (which is, sadly a story for another day). We hooked up the wench to a nearby tree and my brother, herein referred to as "Monkey Boy", on account of his climbing abilities, hooked up the rope end of the wench to the fire escape and we were ready to go!
The original plan was to just have the fire escape get pulled off the wall and crash to the ground, where it would be promptly surrounded, doused in gasoline and set on fire, with the three of us dancing around it chanting tribal things. Anyone who's met a Fortune can attest to the fact things don't normally go our way
The fire escape creaked and cracked as the wench was torqued and the rope which was to be the escape's death warrant grew tighter. There was a moment of silence here we all thought the thing would pop off and murdefy (yes, I said murdefy) us, but no such thing happened. It was only when my father made one last repetition on the wench that the crazy wooden bitch on the wall started to break free. We all started cheering and high fiving each other, because we were certain the plan would go exactly as we had assumed. The fire escape fell, but not down. It was still attached to the wall at the end, so it kind of swung down and crashed through a window. Conveniently, my grandmother was on the otherside of the window playing Solitiare on the computer. The terror she must of felt when she decided to put the Jack of Clubs in with the King, only to find that, moments later, a Jack of Massive Freakin' Wood Contraptions was ramming its way into her home.
We all shouted cries of dismay at the general failure of our seemingly foolproof plan and rushed inside to see if everyone was okay. they were, score one for us. We broke the fucking window. Penalty, 5 points. We boarded up the window, and with the help of the wench, pulled the fire escape the rest of the way down. Mission: accomplished. Well, sort of. When all was said and done, there was still a bit of wood left up on the wall. It was one horizontal board with 4 or 5 others attached to it vertically. In a way, it vaguely resembled a ribcage.
It was then decided it should be forever referred to as "The Spare Ribs"
Caption #1 says "Vile bitch"
#2 says "Yellow Terror was here"
#3 says "A nearby tree"
The original plan was to just have the fire escape get pulled off the wall and crash to the ground, where it would be promptly surrounded, doused in gasoline and set on fire, with the three of us dancing around it chanting tribal things. Anyone who's met a Fortune can attest to the fact things don't normally go our way
The fire escape creaked and cracked as the wench was torqued and the rope which was to be the escape's death warrant grew tighter. There was a moment of silence here we all thought the thing would pop off and murdefy (yes, I said murdefy) us, but no such thing happened. It was only when my father made one last repetition on the wench that the crazy wooden bitch on the wall started to break free. We all started cheering and high fiving each other, because we were certain the plan would go exactly as we had assumed. The fire escape fell, but not down. It was still attached to the wall at the end, so it kind of swung down and crashed through a window. Conveniently, my grandmother was on the otherside of the window playing Solitiare on the computer. The terror she must of felt when she decided to put the Jack of Clubs in with the King, only to find that, moments later, a Jack of Massive Freakin' Wood Contraptions was ramming its way into her home.
We all shouted cries of dismay at the general failure of our seemingly foolproof plan and rushed inside to see if everyone was okay. they were, score one for us. We broke the fucking window. Penalty, 5 points. We boarded up the window, and with the help of the wench, pulled the fire escape the rest of the way down. Mission: accomplished. Well, sort of. When all was said and done, there was still a bit of wood left up on the wall. It was one horizontal board with 4 or 5 others attached to it vertically. In a way, it vaguely resembled a ribcage.
It was then decided it should be forever referred to as "The Spare Ribs"
Caption #1 says "Vile bitch"
#2 says "Yellow Terror was here"
#3 says "A nearby tree"
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Fields of Gold: The Fire Escape
Let me take this time to tell you about something my grandmother had built in her days as handywoman of the house. She felt it necessary to build a fire escape on the side of the house, maybe about 20 feet up, in the unsightly event of a fire, which was fine. Safety first, right? But the worst part about it was the manner in which it was constructed.
What she had done was take her trust ladder and essentially build a scaffold onto the side of the house, along one of the bedroom windows and the bathroom window, with the goal being to be able to escape from said bathroom in the event of a bonfire going awry (Of course that's why). What she didn't count on though, was the improbability of this plan succeeding, for you see the window was about 5 feet up from the floor, and no normal sized adult could get out of it, and certainly not elderly folks. My brother and I did test runs with moderate amounts of difficulty ourselves, so how was anyone else to use such a thing?
A great idea on paper, not so great when played out, sadly. This construct had led from the window, onto a second roof which was actually added onto the house after it was built. Apparently my grandma added another couple of rooms to the house, or something. Then, one would be able to traverse this sloped second roof, onto a wobbly homemade wooden staircase and make your way to the bottom. If you made it that far, you can say you not only survived a fire, but the fire escape as well.
Fortunately, years went by, and no fires happened in the house, and the the fire escape was left to rot in the elements. One winter, my brother and I were climbing it, and an icicle dislodged and cracked him in the head.
Safety first.
What she had done was take her trust ladder and essentially build a scaffold onto the side of the house, along one of the bedroom windows and the bathroom window, with the goal being to be able to escape from said bathroom in the event of a bonfire going awry (Of course that's why). What she didn't count on though, was the improbability of this plan succeeding, for you see the window was about 5 feet up from the floor, and no normal sized adult could get out of it, and certainly not elderly folks. My brother and I did test runs with moderate amounts of difficulty ourselves, so how was anyone else to use such a thing?
A great idea on paper, not so great when played out, sadly. This construct had led from the window, onto a second roof which was actually added onto the house after it was built. Apparently my grandma added another couple of rooms to the house, or something. Then, one would be able to traverse this sloped second roof, onto a wobbly homemade wooden staircase and make your way to the bottom. If you made it that far, you can say you not only survived a fire, but the fire escape as well.
Fortunately, years went by, and no fires happened in the house, and the the fire escape was left to rot in the elements. One winter, my brother and I were climbing it, and an icicle dislodged and cracked him in the head.
Safety first.
Fields of Gold: the Slop Pail
This, unfortunately is a short story about the grim horror that is/was/forever will be known as "The Slop Pail". Now, you may be saying "An organic bin isn't that big of a deal." Well, you've clearly never dealt with country-style organic waste.
When it was evident we couldn't burn organic waste in our fires (egg shells and orange peels don't burn as well as paper and bug spray cans do, apparently), I suppose, the slop pail was invented to give those misfit organics a place to go and be organic. This place was one of those massive plastic compost bins with lids that never fit (And fruit flies that clouded in front of you if you dared try to open it). And the means to transport aforementioned organic waste to this shoddy compost bin was: The Slop Pail.
On a weekly (yes, weekly) basis, when my brother and I would go for our visit, the slop pail would be waiting patiently in the kitchen, greeting us with a mixture of enthusiasm and rage. Normally, this festering mass would consist of eggs, coffee grinds, vegetables and liquid hell(?).
The smell that emanated from the slop pail was one I've never smelled prior, but it was the same every time I took it out. Since then, I've only encountered a similar scent once or twice.
I'll consider myself lucky.
When it was evident we couldn't burn organic waste in our fires (egg shells and orange peels don't burn as well as paper and bug spray cans do, apparently), I suppose, the slop pail was invented to give those misfit organics a place to go and be organic. This place was one of those massive plastic compost bins with lids that never fit (And fruit flies that clouded in front of you if you dared try to open it). And the means to transport aforementioned organic waste to this shoddy compost bin was: The Slop Pail.
On a weekly (yes, weekly) basis, when my brother and I would go for our visit, the slop pail would be waiting patiently in the kitchen, greeting us with a mixture of enthusiasm and rage. Normally, this festering mass would consist of eggs, coffee grinds, vegetables and liquid hell(?).
The smell that emanated from the slop pail was one I've never smelled prior, but it was the same every time I took it out. Since then, I've only encountered a similar scent once or twice.
I'll consider myself lucky.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Fields of Gold: Burn Baby Burn/Garbage Inferno!
When you live so fucking far away from civilization, garbage collection doesn't exist (like Michael Jackson), so the best way to deal with your trash is to burn the shit out of it. So that's exactly what we did.
It became a weekly ritual to set the heaps of trash that had accumulated over a 7 day span ablaze. This was achieved with a handheld butane torch (Good times), and an accelerant such as gasoline. See, back then, gasoline was astoundingly cheap, so it was thereby astoundingly easy to do this every week. There was a gas station just down the road, so a blazing pyre was only a short drive away at all times. Most of the "bonfires" we had were nothing short of epic, involving small and often intentional explosions via not-quite-spent aerosol cans and/or lighters that clearly state "Do not incinerate, you dumb fuck. What's wrong with you? Hey, wait, what are you doing? Is that gasoline? No.. No.. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Really, they did say that. As you know, however, Fortune's don't take instructions very well, and we did it anyways. Throughout the swiss cheese block I call my memory, I recall there being about 5 different fire-pits (piles?) scattered across the property and switching sites occurred only when one pile had become too great to place anything else atop it.
Some of our more memorable fires involved the burning of tires that were on the property for one reason or another, and subsequently burning a hole in the ozone. Another addition to the fire history books involved the unintentional setting-fire of a clubhouse that was built many a year prior, an incident which actually had burned a tree to the point where it just fell down. On whom you may ask? (You probably didn't, but I'm going to tell you.) My brother, that's who. He was minding his own business watching the pyre eat at our childhood clubhouse and suddenly there was a loud cracking noise, and before he could react, a tree fell on him. Fortunately, he was leaning back onto an old car on the property, and when the tree landed, it landed in such a way that he was untouched by its branches and leaning against the car.
Lucky break, brother. Lucky break.
It became a weekly ritual to set the heaps of trash that had accumulated over a 7 day span ablaze. This was achieved with a handheld butane torch (Good times), and an accelerant such as gasoline. See, back then, gasoline was astoundingly cheap, so it was thereby astoundingly easy to do this every week. There was a gas station just down the road, so a blazing pyre was only a short drive away at all times. Most of the "bonfires" we had were nothing short of epic, involving small and often intentional explosions via not-quite-spent aerosol cans and/or lighters that clearly state "Do not incinerate, you dumb fuck. What's wrong with you? Hey, wait, what are you doing? Is that gasoline? No.. No.. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Really, they did say that. As you know, however, Fortune's don't take instructions very well, and we did it anyways. Throughout the swiss cheese block I call my memory, I recall there being about 5 different fire-pits (piles?) scattered across the property and switching sites occurred only when one pile had become too great to place anything else atop it.
Some of our more memorable fires involved the burning of tires that were on the property for one reason or another, and subsequently burning a hole in the ozone. Another addition to the fire history books involved the unintentional setting-fire of a clubhouse that was built many a year prior, an incident which actually had burned a tree to the point where it just fell down. On whom you may ask? (You probably didn't, but I'm going to tell you.) My brother, that's who. He was minding his own business watching the pyre eat at our childhood clubhouse and suddenly there was a loud cracking noise, and before he could react, a tree fell on him. Fortunately, he was leaning back onto an old car on the property, and when the tree landed, it landed in such a way that he was untouched by its branches and leaning against the car.
Lucky break, brother. Lucky break.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Club Live: A Vicious Harlot
I think this blog is getting on its feet, even though the collective sum of people viewing it is upwards in the single digits.
I guess that's how all blogs start, as nothing.
I'm taking this post to inform you of something I'm going to be referencing a lot in the coming months (Or years? OMG, YEARS?! CAN IT LAST THAT LONG?! CAN -I- LAST THAT LONG?!). It's called Club Live. Basically its a Microsoft-run program where you play shitty-ass word games, and earn points which can eventually (and I mean that in every sense of the word) be redeemed for prizes. Since this is an American program, I've had to ship items I've won to friends in the US (You guys fucking r00l), and they'd ship them to me. Thus far, I've received (Vicariously through them), An Xbox 360 controller, a Microsoft wireless keyboard/mouse, 2 T-Shirts, another (black) Xbox controller, and a deck of cards. At this point, I only have the white controller in my hands, but I'm patiently (HA!) waiting for the others to get here.
Over the last 4 days, I've placed orders on the Xbox 360 games: Lost Odyssey, Gears of War(1), Too Human, Scene it! 2: Box Office Smash, and another Xbox controller that doubles as a controller for windows-based games and/or emulators.
I'll be keeping this blog posted on when/if I receive my shit (They have a nasty habit of with holding errors. I can't imagine why.
O_o.
I guess that's how all blogs start, as nothing.
I'm taking this post to inform you of something I'm going to be referencing a lot in the coming months (Or years? OMG, YEARS?! CAN IT LAST THAT LONG?! CAN -I- LAST THAT LONG?!). It's called Club Live. Basically its a Microsoft-run program where you play shitty-ass word games, and earn points which can eventually (and I mean that in every sense of the word) be redeemed for prizes. Since this is an American program, I've had to ship items I've won to friends in the US (You guys fucking r00l), and they'd ship them to me. Thus far, I've received (Vicariously through them), An Xbox 360 controller, a Microsoft wireless keyboard/mouse, 2 T-Shirts, another (black) Xbox controller, and a deck of cards. At this point, I only have the white controller in my hands, but I'm patiently (HA!) waiting for the others to get here.
Over the last 4 days, I've placed orders on the Xbox 360 games: Lost Odyssey, Gears of War(1), Too Human, Scene it! 2: Box Office Smash, and another Xbox controller that doubles as a controller for windows-based games and/or emulators.
I'll be keeping this blog posted on when/if I receive my shit (They have a nasty habit of with holding errors. I can't imagine why.
O_o.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Fields of Gold: Vespid Wasps Revisited
I figure I should explain why Vespids and I are enemies, since I kind of left that unresolved in my "Yellow Terror" post.
Picture this. It's 199(1?), at some nondescript cabin-camp site in a town called White Fish Falls, which as is my understanding, was somewhere near sudbury. My brother and I were just little-'uns and were playing a game of "Hide the Rock" with our stepbrother (not official by marriage). We decided the best place to hide said rock was on a small mountainous rocky structure, inside of an old abandoned log. Our stepbrother (Eric) clearly knew this and dumbly went along with it
"Hmm... I wonder where it is... Could it be HERE?"
He kicked the log, giggles from my brother and I. How could he possibly figure out that it was in there with the giveaway chuckles pointing out that his assumption was correct? The laughter faded once we heard what could only be described as the sound of a power generator. But, what's this? no one had a generator! But what was this noise?
I'll fucking tell you what it was..
THAT!!! TIMES LIKE, OVER NINE THOUSAND!!!!!!!
They swarmed us. You know how in the cartoons where the cloud of bees attacks those intent on pilfering honey? Well, its true. they do that, and so they did, and so we felt.
We ran like hell down the stony structure, wailing tales of agony and defeat as the neighboring children looked in awe. When all was said and done, we both individually wound up with over 50 stings.
This my friends, is why I fucking hate Vespids.
They can fucking die for all I care. fuck pollenation.
Bitter much?
Picture this. It's 199(1?), at some nondescript cabin-camp site in a town called White Fish Falls, which as is my understanding, was somewhere near sudbury. My brother and I were just little-'uns and were playing a game of "Hide the Rock" with our stepbrother (not official by marriage). We decided the best place to hide said rock was on a small mountainous rocky structure, inside of an old abandoned log. Our stepbrother (Eric) clearly knew this and dumbly went along with it
"Hmm... I wonder where it is... Could it be HERE?"
He kicked the log, giggles from my brother and I. How could he possibly figure out that it was in there with the giveaway chuckles pointing out that his assumption was correct? The laughter faded once we heard what could only be described as the sound of a power generator. But, what's this? no one had a generator! But what was this noise?
I'll fucking tell you what it was..
THAT!!! TIMES LIKE, OVER NINE THOUSAND!!!!!!!
They swarmed us. You know how in the cartoons where the cloud of bees attacks those intent on pilfering honey? Well, its true. they do that, and so they did, and so we felt.
We ran like hell down the stony structure, wailing tales of agony and defeat as the neighboring children looked in awe. When all was said and done, we both individually wound up with over 50 stings.
This my friends, is why I fucking hate Vespids.
They can fucking die for all I care. fuck pollenation.
Bitter much?
Fields of Gold: Journey to the Center of Plastic
There comes a time in every child's life when they get the stupidest idea in their head and it melds its way into their brain. And no matter how dull this idea is, it starts to make sense and eventually it becomes as true as night and day. What is a child (a Fortune child, no less) to do when a stupid idea almost promises to yield fantastic results? Dig a fucking hole in your grandparent's backyard, that's what!
The details to me are quite fuzzy on how this idea came to be, but my brother came to me one weekend day whilst I was playing the Nintendo, or perhaps it was some form of dangerous gadgetry... Who cares? He told me of something that shocked and bewildered me. Apparently some kid from school told him that under the dirt crust of the earth, some 100 feet down, was a layer of molten plastic! HOLY FUCKING SHITWAFERS! PLASTIC?!
I held onto his every word as he detailed a plan on how we were to acquire said plastic, and use it to make our own toys. I felt like a kid in a candy shop, only the candy was molten plastic. We set off on our journey, wielding shovels and work gloves and found a good spot to dig, from there the rest was cake. And by cake, I mean impossible to do. We got about 1 foot into the ground when we hit the solid clay layer and gave up. (ADD, anyone?) It was not until 2 days later when our Grandma discovered the hole and then made us fill it (Why is it that when you dig a hole and try to fill it, there isnt enough dirt left to fill the hole completely?). To this day, I still wonder if the center of the earth is made up of a man made material at 100 feet below ground level.
The details to me are quite fuzzy on how this idea came to be, but my brother came to me one weekend day whilst I was playing the Nintendo, or perhaps it was some form of dangerous gadgetry... Who cares? He told me of something that shocked and bewildered me. Apparently some kid from school told him that under the dirt crust of the earth, some 100 feet down, was a layer of molten plastic! HOLY FUCKING SHITWAFERS! PLASTIC?!
I held onto his every word as he detailed a plan on how we were to acquire said plastic, and use it to make our own toys. I felt like a kid in a candy shop, only the candy was molten plastic. We set off on our journey, wielding shovels and work gloves and found a good spot to dig, from there the rest was cake. And by cake, I mean impossible to do. We got about 1 foot into the ground when we hit the solid clay layer and gave up. (ADD, anyone?) It was not until 2 days later when our Grandma discovered the hole and then made us fill it (Why is it that when you dig a hole and try to fill it, there isnt enough dirt left to fill the hole completely?). To this day, I still wonder if the center of the earth is made up of a man made material at 100 feet below ground level.
I guess no one will ever find out.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Fields of Gold: The Yellow Terror
Just an intro for you, Fields of gold is a series I'll do to recap the horrors and terrors that laid in wait for my brother and I at our grandmother's house on weekend visits. Each will detail a different thing, or event that made up my childhood, and may give you all insight as to why I'm so fucked up.
--------------
Looking back on my young life, dear reader (readers?) I would have to say that some of my fondest memories stemmed from my time (Mostly weekends due to custody bullshit) at my Grandma and Grandpa (God bless his soul)'s house somewhere in the country (Sorry, not Mapquesting it for you. Its best you don't know.). Every Friday either or Grandparent would pick us up after school in the '82 Oldsmobile my Grandfather won in the lottery some years before (maybe it was, oh, I don't know.. 1982?), and take us to their humble abode, which I will will detail in further entries. While on the way we would regularly stop at a fringe game rental shoppe and rent the coolest newest NES games, like Jaws... and..... Jaws 2....
Our grandpa used to work for Frito Lay as a truck driver, and Grand ma as a bus driver, transporting RabbleRousers to and from learning establishments and it was with this job she somehow acquired a broken down bus which served as storage and generalized unaesthetics as it sat motionless at the side of the house.What this meant for the young impressionable Fortune children was that we had a place to hang, to play, to just be. And on certain harebrained occasions, a place to climb on top of and jump 20 feet off of onto the rocky and broken glass covered ground (seriously.). Stupid? Yes. Crazy, Fun? Also yes. But, suicidal jumps aside, the bus was the focal point of numerous play adventures, some of which involved playing "SPEED". I was Keanu Reeves!!!! Among the articles stored inside this bus was an old desk from the depression and a ham radio, presumably from WW2 (my grandfather was a veteran!) and assorted junk (COMING SOON: THE STORY OF THE JUNK!). One article I'll never forget. We stumbled upon a bottle of motor oil within the Yellow Terror (That's what we called it, or, what I'm calling it now.) We shook the bottle and heard there was something inside. Curious youths that we were, we opened the bottle. What we found inside was a quarter of unused motor oil, and a mouse. Yes, a fucking mouse. A dead one. (Of course, right? Mice cant live in sealed motor oil bottles... Right? RIGHT?!). Its still very unclear after all these years how it got into the bottle in the first place, as attempts to remove him proved unsuccessful. He was too big to get out, so how'd he manage entry, then close the bottle behind him? How long was he in there? As far as I knew, no one else entered the bus, and I doubt anyone there would put a mouse in a bottle of motor oil and close it. If he was there for a long time, why didn't he decompose at all?
We diced to do the right thing and send the mouse off in one of our many bonfires. The mystery remains to this day unsolved. Now, the glory of the Yellow Terror was not without its problems and tragedies. (That is of course, to say that jumping off it isn't a problem.) Being in a countrylike setting meant mother nature could pretty much have her way with whatever the fuck she wanted and the cops would turn a blind eye because she was paying them all off, which meant my nemesis species, the Vespid Wasp, otherwise known as the YellowJacket thought the Yellow Terror to be his home. This made co-existing difficult, and at times when we didn't have RAID, impossible.
The good (?) times eventually were cut short by what can be chalked up to an act of money-needing. the bus had to be sold for scrap! The local Towboy hitched that mutha up and proceeded to haul her away, when she suddenly awoke and realized what was happening. Acting on impulse, she forced one of her own wheels off in a last ditch effort to remain beside the house. It failed, and what remained after she was gone was a giant gash from the axle in both the driveway, and the dirt road leading up to it.
One last fuck you from the Yellow Terror.
--------------
Looking back on my young life, dear reader (readers?) I would have to say that some of my fondest memories stemmed from my time (Mostly weekends due to custody bullshit) at my Grandma and Grandpa (God bless his soul)'s house somewhere in the country (Sorry, not Mapquesting it for you. Its best you don't know.). Every Friday either or Grandparent would pick us up after school in the '82 Oldsmobile my Grandfather won in the lottery some years before (maybe it was, oh, I don't know.. 1982?), and take us to their humble abode, which I will will detail in further entries. While on the way we would regularly stop at a fringe game rental shoppe and rent the coolest newest NES games, like Jaws... and..... Jaws 2....
Our grandpa used to work for Frito Lay as a truck driver, and Grand ma as a bus driver, transporting RabbleRousers to and from learning establishments and it was with this job she somehow acquired a broken down bus which served as storage and generalized unaesthetics as it sat motionless at the side of the house.What this meant for the young impressionable Fortune children was that we had a place to hang, to play, to just be. And on certain harebrained occasions, a place to climb on top of and jump 20 feet off of onto the rocky and broken glass covered ground (seriously.). Stupid? Yes. Crazy, Fun? Also yes. But, suicidal jumps aside, the bus was the focal point of numerous play adventures, some of which involved playing "SPEED". I was Keanu Reeves!!!! Among the articles stored inside this bus was an old desk from the depression and a ham radio, presumably from WW2 (my grandfather was a veteran!) and assorted junk (COMING SOON: THE STORY OF THE JUNK!). One article I'll never forget. We stumbled upon a bottle of motor oil within the Yellow Terror (That's what we called it, or, what I'm calling it now.) We shook the bottle and heard there was something inside. Curious youths that we were, we opened the bottle. What we found inside was a quarter of unused motor oil, and a mouse. Yes, a fucking mouse. A dead one. (Of course, right? Mice cant live in sealed motor oil bottles... Right? RIGHT?!). Its still very unclear after all these years how it got into the bottle in the first place, as attempts to remove him proved unsuccessful. He was too big to get out, so how'd he manage entry, then close the bottle behind him? How long was he in there? As far as I knew, no one else entered the bus, and I doubt anyone there would put a mouse in a bottle of motor oil and close it. If he was there for a long time, why didn't he decompose at all?
We diced to do the right thing and send the mouse off in one of our many bonfires. The mystery remains to this day unsolved. Now, the glory of the Yellow Terror was not without its problems and tragedies. (That is of course, to say that jumping off it isn't a problem.) Being in a countrylike setting meant mother nature could pretty much have her way with whatever the fuck she wanted and the cops would turn a blind eye because she was paying them all off, which meant my nemesis species, the Vespid Wasp, otherwise known as the YellowJacket thought the Yellow Terror to be his home. This made co-existing difficult, and at times when we didn't have RAID, impossible.
The good (?) times eventually were cut short by what can be chalked up to an act of money-needing. the bus had to be sold for scrap! The local Towboy hitched that mutha up and proceeded to haul her away, when she suddenly awoke and realized what was happening. Acting on impulse, she forced one of her own wheels off in a last ditch effort to remain beside the house. It failed, and what remained after she was gone was a giant gash from the axle in both the driveway, and the dirt road leading up to it.
One last fuck you from the Yellow Terror.
Post the first
Oh, how many years and blogs have gone by. Some with multiple posts, some with 3, or some with one, and a metric fuckton with none.
What would possess me to make another one? So the world can hear (read?) me, because somewhere out there, people are interested in hearing (again, reading?) what I have to say, be it a view on the socio-economic overturn, or just a rant about some stupid bitch that cut me off in the grocery store and stood in the aisle for 5 minutes, blocking it with herself and the cart, when she clearly didn't actually need to compare and contrast 5 different types of toothpaste!
Perhaps I'm getting off track here.
What you can expect, if I post anything at all, is that shit, maybe a review of a game I'm playing, or a word on a victory over online heirarchies of prize giving.
Adieu, for now, non-existent reader.
What would possess me to make another one? So the world can hear (read?) me, because somewhere out there, people are interested in hearing (again, reading?) what I have to say, be it a view on the socio-economic overturn, or just a rant about some stupid bitch that cut me off in the grocery store and stood in the aisle for 5 minutes, blocking it with herself and the cart, when she clearly didn't actually need to compare and contrast 5 different types of toothpaste!
Perhaps I'm getting off track here.
What you can expect, if I post anything at all, is that shit, maybe a review of a game I'm playing, or a word on a victory over online heirarchies of prize giving.
Adieu, for now, non-existent reader.
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