The Gallows Ape

I'm sure I could induce many winces and groans by describing each little detail of my current sad condition after having a jolly pre-weekend Kidney Stone removal, but I'll try and forgo most of the gory details.

Suffice to say that my current condition is uncomfortable to say the least; so much so that today I've been seriously thinking of just setting my dick on fire and then putting out the flames with a brick simply to distract me from my forty times plus a day sessions of peeing what feels like molten lava and thumb tacks.

In between my horrid bouts of pissing boiled Drano and gravel I somehow managed to go pick up my two dogs from the kennel, where they had been happily stashed until I got over the worst of my post-op discomfort. (Ha!)

Naturally, as soon as I got them into the car, the most stupid and easily excitable pooch, named Bean, a.k.a. "Chopper", immediately jumped onto my lap. This created in me a unique physical sensation, not unlike having my spine sawed in half, vertically, from the ass upwards.

The sudden tears in my eyes, engendered by small paws pummeling my penis inspired my other dog Gus, a.k.a. "Poopdeck", to whine frantically and make repeated, urgent attempts to lick my face, which only made Chopper shift quickly from his impromptu Foxtrot on my nuts to a very agitated and spasmodic Rumba accompanied by lots of loud high pitched barking in my ear at point blank range.

Fortunately I'm back home now and I have popped a handfull of pills to smooth out the general agony. It should take the edge off sometime next week I imagine.
 
Yeah, yeah, I get it... This is definately more information than anybody needs to know.

Sorry.

It has been ages since I've been onto this blog, and I can honestly say that I've been too far out of it to miss it much, though now that  I've returned it does seems nicely familiar and it does make me recollect that Vox can certainly be a lot of fun.

Today I am stuck at home suffering from a jolly case of kidney stones, for which I'll be rewarded tomorrow by having to endure a bit of outpatient surgery followed by a day or two of prescribed narcotics to distract me from the ache in my junk bag and bladder. What fun!

Maybe I'll get blitzed enough to write some dreadful slop off the top of my wee cranium, or I'll track down the 5Word Challenge and scribble off some complete nonsense. In any case, I'm back on Vox, at least for awhile, and I'm looking forward to scanning the posts between changing my Pampers and knocking back Percocets.  Cheers & Best Wishes!

At four A.M. Vic Halyard gave up on trying to sleep and went to the kitchen to make himself a pot of coffee. Being wide awake at odd hours of the night didn’t bother him but lately the random surges of adrenalin that came upon him unbidden in the night were beginning to gnaw at him.  It wasn’t that Halyard liked or disliked the chemical push that would arrive and scuttle any chance of sleeping; he was not used to rating his physical and emotional states in terms of good or bad. But having a sudden call to action surge through his veins with no avenue for release had lately become to feel like an unwelcome judgment, one that his mind held up to him like a mirror, reflecting back to him a personal vacancy and lack of mooring he found increasingly difficult to endure as time past.

Vic stared out of the window above the sink at a new moon poised above the outline of the desert mountains and shook his head in wry disgust. Was the upturned crescent on the rise or about to disappear with the dawn? Halyard’s jaw tightened and he wondered how long this day would be. In two days it would be eighteen months since he had been retired from active duty. Without his former comrades, a mission to plan, or a cause to channel his lifetime of training Halyard felt he was just collecting dust and leading a half life that was as purposeless as a scabbard without a sword.

As Vic poured his first cup of coffee the phone rang. He caught it in the middle of the second ring.

“Yep?”

“Hey Yard Man, done any walks on the wild side lately?”

The connection sounded distant and was breaking up slightly but Halyard would probably have recognized that voice even if it was whispering through a sponge.

“Sweet pogoing Jesus Miller! Long time.”, Halyard growled as he felt fresh surge of adrenaline. “Are you still cluster fucking your way through the tribal areas Colonel or are you back on a leash stateside like you aught to be?”

It had been at least three years since he had last spoken to Carson Miller, the man who had been his first field commander in Afghanistan when Vic was still a fledging in Special Forces. He remembered that Carson had arrived at their rendezvous point dressed like a Muhjadine and smelling of hashish, cardamon and goat.

“Well Victor, I know you’re off book, and probably happy as a clam playing shuffle board and drinking cocktails all day with some golf widow, but a situation has come up suddenly and my masters have me on the bubble to resolve it. Any chance I might be able to sway you into trading your life of leisure for a midnight recon with some very evil shit?”

Halyard took a slow deep breath and watched in silence as the last bit of the moon slipped below the horizon.

“Uh, which direction do I go from Taos, Carson?”

“Hell's bells Vic", Miller laughed, "I was just about to say you could think it over for a few minutes, but since you obviously can’t make up your fucking mind what to do, I’ll just swing by your trailer in, let's say, about five minutes if that’s okay?”

Lady Morona gasped at the savage sight of the golden haired and manacled form which now towered menacingly above her. Even in the half light of the oil lamp she knew that the muscled torso and chiseled profile could belong to no other than Flatulus, barbarian leader of the Wind People!

“You!” she said in a quavering whisper as flood of emotions welled up in her stomach.

Flatulus, silently but deadly in his warrior ways moved like lightning; throwing aside the massive wooden table that stood between them like it was no more than a bundle of twigs. Morona shrieked in terror as the barbarian cruelly grasped the front of her gossamer tunic and with a short grunt of satisfaction reeled her supple body in close to his massive chest. She could hear his breathing and smell his sweat tinged by the rust of the iron bands that encircled his wrists.

“Yes, it is I Morona standing before you once again, just as I swore to the woodland gods that I would on that terrible, bloody day in the gladiator’s pit so many seasons ago.”

Eyes wide with fright and brimming with tears, Moronda tried to speak but found she was rendered mute by the force of the barbarian’s intense gold-green eyes. Feeling her tremble, Flatulus tugged her closer still, roughly tearing away the fine garment that covered her delicate shoulders.

“But now I’m free my haughty Roman princess. Now I’ve come to claim that which I’ve longed for from the moment I first saw you smirking at me like I was nothing more than a pitiful goat tethered for the slaughter. Back then you dared to mock me from the safe company of your pretty Roman friends, but tonight Lady Morona I will not be hindered from having my desire fulfilled!”

Quick as an eagle’s strike the barbarian pinned Morona's slender body against the frescoed wall of the bed chamber. Her proud Roman blood was pounding in her ears and her half exposed breasts heaved in expectation as the peasant king pressed his lips next to her ear. She knew then that she hated him, not for his rough barbarian ways, but out of shame for the elation and molten desire she felt for him, and so wished she could deign.

“Now, upon pain of death my lady, you will please me!” Flatulus commanded as he ran a chained hand down the length of her belly; the cold links feeling to Morona like they were burning into the skin of her naked thighs.

“What, what do you want of me, you damn forest devil?” Morona stammered breathlessly.

A faint smile curled across the mouth of her rugged captor and the corners of his eyes crinkled with a secret mirth. He carefully reached into the sheepskin pouch lashed around his narrow hips and carefully removed its contents. The first object he wielded appeared to be round and hard.

“Lady Morona, I want you to take this piece of Greek cheese here and hold it between your knees for me and then I want you to take this black olive and squeeze it in the cleft of your noble Roman bootie!

Lips parted, the princess’ face flushed red and contorted in disgust.

“Oh man, that’s totally fucked up Flatulus!”

“Yes, yes I know”, the barbarian softly replied.

After having spent three days and nights hoovering up monkey dust and gargling Jack Daniels, Trevor White wasn’t so sure that the two hits of acid he had taken was proving to be such a brilliant idea.  He was pretty sure his attorney, Jenna Stanfield wouldn’t think so, especially since their upcoming dinner meeting was intended to be all business this time rather than pleasure.

Worn and looking for some reassurance, Trevor found himself trying to catch the eye of his chauffeur in the rear view mirror. Felix, his long time friend and handler finally peered back at White as he hunched over the wheel and anxiously clenched his jaw.

“What the fuck Trev.” Felix asked the mirror. “You doing okay back there?”

Trevor sighed and slumped back into the soft interior of the stretch. He slowly rolled his eyes back into his head but was quick to open them again when he found a troupe of neon colored squirrels dressed as cowboys square dancing behind his eyelids. He wiped at his brow distractedly and realized that his face felt a bit like chilled cookie dough. Glancing up again, he saw that Felix was still fretfully assessing his condition in the rear view.

“Aw fuck me sideways mate”, Trevor offered. “I’m feeling about as steady as two Rhinos having sex in a gondola.”

In no mood for a laugh Felix just grumbled and angrily and shifted his massive frame again in the driver’s seat. He hated feeling pissed off and on edge, and on this particular binge he’d already had seventy two hours of both. As the limo continued to hurtle down Broadway he fought off the urge to tear the steering wheel out of the dash.

“What did you expect you’d feel like, you fucking pillock?” Felix’s reflection growled. “Packin’ your daft self full of coke and hallucinogens like some brainless git. Christ!”

Trevor smiled at his friend’s reprimand as he intently watched a cascade of bluish flames swirl smoothly over the back of his hands.  He was suddenly aware that the limo’s headliner was looking as high as the ceiling in Grand Central Station and that his sense of hunger had morphed into the form of an intestinal Barry Manilow who was now loudly singing at him to go eat. Attempting to speak, it felt like his voice was coming from out of his finger nails in a freakishly tight harmony.

“Good thing Jenna planned a dinner meeting Fee, I’m definitely feeling a bit peckish”.

“Yeah, well you better have some of Mama’s special pig farmer’s soup right away then.” Felix replied firmly as he brought the limo to a gliding stop in front of Mama Woo’s of Chinatown. “Hopefully it will help get the kinks out of you, you fecking sod! I’m sure Ms. Stanfield won’t mind scanning the menu while you’re having a wee bite.”

“Remind me,” Trevor said as he stumbled out of the stretch and gave Felix’s oversize neck an affectionate squeeze. “I need to get Jenna to file and injunction for me.”

“Okay, sure boss.” Felix mumbled to his charge indulgently. “What for?”

At the restaurant door White paused to look up at his friend and gave him a shaky grin. To Trevor White Felix was now looking like some huge benevolent baboon clad in a leather vest and orange jodhpurs.

 “Fuck me sideways mate. After these last few days I think I seriously need a fucking court order to keep me away from myself.”

Felix had now morphed into looking like a mutant elephant wearing a turban and sunglasses. He paused to nod his agreement as the restaurant door swung shut behind them.

“Bloody good idea if you ask me.” He mumbled to himself as Trevor wandered off looking for Jenna.

My dog Beanie, God bless his sweet little heart, is unfortunately about as bright as a damp cardboard box. I really love the little bastard but every damn time I take him out to pee his attention just seems to wander off, along with his aim, and he ends up pissing on his front paws. That is, unless Bean decides, for sheer novelty’s sake, that it’s a grand idea to lay on his back in our driveway and launch a wavering golden stream skyward.

I’ve even taken to calling him “Mr. Peabody” because of the dirty yellow shadow that has become permanently etched into his white belly fur. Repeated bathing just won’t erase it.

And of course his ring of piss feet and pee blond tummy are no airy delight either. There is always a faint but unmistakable tang that accompanies Bean wherever he goes. Undoubtedly his doggy fumes are made worse by our family feeding him a steady diet of cooked chicken and rawhide strips, frequently supplemented by bizarre food scraps slipped to him under the table by my wife.

None of this is really of much of a concern except when I’m stupid enough to think I can lie on the sofa and watch a little T.V. in peace. That’s when Mr. Peabody usually decides that the best place in the world to try and sit is right in the middle of my chest with his stinky yellow dog junk dangling under my chin.

F**k!

To me there are several blog posting styles that should usually be avoided by the relatively sane and socially conscious bloggers among us. To me these are not so much matters of blogging etiquette. Fuck that nonsense!

Nor am I the least concerned with issues of what’s right or wrong, good or bad, as if I could possibly decipher either one. I’m talking about simply seeking to avoid posting stuff that will have the unintended effect of convincing readers of your blog, (whether justified or not), that you are either as dumb as a box of rocks, as irritating as a sand paper jock, or worst of all, duller than a warm cup of mayo.

Some of these, such as posting twenty plus poorly composed and out of focus snapshots from your backpacking trip to Orlando with the twelve Sunday school kids, or nattering on tearfully about how terribly bored and antsy-pantsy ones is, are fairly benign and harmless. Like a repellant or tiresome T.V. show one can always change the channel to view someone else’s stuff and thus quickly forget the coma inducing quality of such web mutterings.

Also relatively nontoxic, but slightly more sigh inducing, are the in depth and intensely humorless postings where the bloggist is certain that by writing twenty long, convoluted paragraphs with accompanying illustrations and copious footnotes, it will serve to demonstrate their intellectual pithiness to a greater degree than a small handful of blissfully brief sentences. (Uh, unlike this last one…)

A tad more vexing are the over earnest salesman types who feel compelled out of personal rapture to use their blogs to try and convince themselves (through trying to convince the rest of us) that they have found the real inside poop on what the “True Answer Is” to: A) Living Life, B) Finding Happiness, C) Knowing God, or D) Who’s the best fucking band on the planet!

Worse still are those of our blogging brethren who habitually post whatever vague shit just pops into their heads as if the rest of us have got a magic hot link to their brain functions and thus don’t need the slightest fucking hint, introduction, or clue as to what they’re whacking on about.

Even more likely to induce grumbling and teeth grinding are those bloggers who are obviously still pissed off that they were never chosen as Hall Monitors back in middle school. These folks spend a fair bit of their blog time chastising those whom they’ve deemed to be in need of social and/or manners correction.

In particular they’re aggressive toward other bloggers who tend to post vulgar pictures or use the “F” word and the “S” word a lot. Fearing that their children might be exposed to such corruptions they are blithely unaware that too often their miserable offspring have already been calling them assholes behind their backs for years and that little Cody and Brianna, if pressed, could probably reveal quite a bit more about themselves that Mom and Pop are clueless about.

The worst of all though are the bloggers, that as a group, you feel painfully embarrassed for. Like those sad, often well intentioned horny guys who post headache inducing photos of themselves without their shirts on desperately hoping somebody will think they’re hot. Also hair raising and wince inducing are the sugar sweet bloggers who write love poems to their pet cock-a-poo or favorite kitten. And of course, saddest of all, there are those truly exasperating utter nimrods… guys like me, who can’t help writing about totally useless complete bull crap like this.

What is it with me and bananas? I buy them all the time because I like them, but without fail at least one banana out of every bunch ends up sitting on the kitchen counter until it slowly begins to resemble a mummy’s dick. Only then do I find it necessary to surreptitiously usher the neglected blackened mass into the trash. Trying to be clever about it, I’ve even taken to buying one or two fewer bananas off a bigger bunch only to realize days later that I’ve lost my intended focus once again and some poor banana has been allowed to mutate into an island paradise for fruit flies.

I’ve begun to wonder how much of Latin America’s banana crop ends up in the landfill each year thanks to obsessive-compulsive banana Bozos like me. That I keep buying them, only to casually witness one or two decay, serves as a nagging testament to my general dimness, as if I fucking need one more tangible confirmation of my dizzyingly cyclical ineptitude. I can’t seem to avoid viewing this kind of habitual behavior, however human, as being the small, unwavering acts of a knuckle head. No matter how I might try to hit the heights it seems I am ultimately best at leaving my fly undone or suavely trailing toilet paper from my heel.

A classic example of this tendency occurred during the latter Cretaceous Period when I was around twelve years old. I took it upon myself one afternoon to throw a dart up into the air thinking it might look cool, kind of like a rocket in flight. Alas, as I attempted to run away from the falling projectile it found a way to make a perfect bulls-eye landing on the top of my head.

I can still vividly recall the gleeful faces of my childhood buddies as they fell about, howling with delight at the sight of me dancing around in pain and horror with a bright red dart sticking out the top of my skull.

Akin to falling darts and my body farm for bananas, I also find that any kind of house cleanup ends up casting me into a depression. Yeah, the initial orderliness of it is gratifying but like the glass being half empty I’m far more conscious of my home’s inevitable backslide into finger smears, full litter boxes, and floor crumbs.

I could excuse my generally negative self-view as being a mid-life crisis except for the fact that I’ve felt this way about my life since I was the ripe old age of three. That George Bush exists, that the roof gutters need clearing, that I dutifully promise to record T.V. shows for my wife only to forget to turn on the VCR for the thirty-eighth friggin' time in a row does nothing to inspire me to adopt a more cheery world view.

Oh fuck! I forgot the laundry!

It's been awhile since I posted on VOX, but in all honesty who gives a baboon's bollocks about that? Why in the name of pitiful ego do I even mention it as nobody is waiting with any overt expectation for me to write some new drivel, especially since I have a marked tendency to just whack on about my various brain farts, and of course, the love life, (such as it is), of one of my dogs.
 
Speaking of canines, my other little dog Bean had a knee surgery two weeks ago to correct a abnormality and now he's so ripped on Valium, spoiled from being hand fed, and continuously catered to that he's decided that rolling onto his back and peeing into air is the stylish new way to urinate...but apparently its only really fashionable for little Fountain Boy if he's lying on the carpet!

Also taking a poop is apparently tres' passe'. Bean hasn't found it suave to crap in over five days! Improbably he's been chowing down food like a starved Akita. Boy, the future sure looks bright for good old Mr. Cleanup!

The doctor also had to shave half his rump for the surgery and since then Bean has amused himself by chewing his pink butt raw, thus the doses of Valium and gobs of antibiotic ointment I have to slather on his dog ass to try and heal up the teeth marks. I've tried putting him in one of those cone shaped collars to stem the butt munching but that only redirected his attention to his stitches which he promptly consumed.

I've also tried to use some evil potion called Yuck which when applied is supposed to keep him from licking himself. What useless bullshit! He blithely wolfs the stuff down like its ambrosia! Besides, how much worse can that Yuck stuff taste than his smelly dog butt anyway?

 

Besides being a nursemaid to a hound, I've been busy building websites as well.  One of which is mine and shows off my art work. It can be found here if anyone is interested:Mr. Knuckles' Painting Site

Later...