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Thursday, June 13, 2013

APOLOGETIC SCHOOLBOY DESERVES A WHIPPING! ...... ...... SIR RODNEY NEEDS A BEATING, TOO..... ..... SEVERAL BAD JOKES.... .... DRUNKEN INCOHERENCE.... .... ...TALES OF A MAD LUMBERMAN... .... ... ....NO NEED TO EXAGGERATE AT ALL



                  I make fun of priests, yes, I do. But let`s face it,
they`re an easy target.  And by God, some of those
holier-than-thou little pricks deserve to be punished!
        And I`m really pissed at the multitudenous
oppressions of the early EMPIRE CHURCH! The more
you learn about that shit, the angrier you`ll become,
also.
        But... if you`re going to ridicule others, as a point
of `honour` (not a word I feel up to using this early A.M.)
You really have to admit to your own ridiculousness, too.
 Unfortunately, I am also an easy target.

        I had a lot of fun last night. Some would say
I had too much fun.  I found a very fine and
expensive bottle of single malt scotch.

        I found it in the last place I would normally look...
        Question: "Where`d you find it?"
        I found it behind the official version of the New         Testament. 
         Ha! Ha!
         OK, that`s not funny... A better version of the
same joke is:  "How do you drive a Newfie * mad?"
   Answer: "You hide his welfare check under his work boots!"

        * In Canada it`s acceptable to make jokes about
Newfoundlanders ie: Newfies - people from the Province
of Newfoundland - a province which, appropriately enough,
is in a time zone which is a half an hour different
from any other time zone.
          I suppose it`s a bit racist to tell jokes about the Newfies, but the ones I`ve met really couldn`t care less.
Besides, they`re too busy making fun at the rest of us.

          I`m hung over, so I feel a slight tendency to be
apologetic, which irritates me. One of my personalities
is that of an apologetic school boy - he`s the one who
deserves a good beating.
          I`d get rid of the apologetic little fool
except for the fact that I enjoy the beatings too  much!

          Just like the time I took my brother to see
a psychiatrist. I had to sit beside him because he
wanted to run.  I tell the shrink, "Look, my brother`s in
a bad way.  He`s going through a psychotic episode.
He thinks he`s a chicken.  Doc, is there any way
 you can make him feel better?"
           The doctor says: "Well, yes, I`m sure
           I can find a cure."
           I say: " No! No, I want you to make him feel
           better... I don`t want you to cure him!"
           Doctor says, "Why don`t you want
           me to cure him?"
           I say:  "Because we need the eggs!"

           The next ones are written by Sir Rodney:

            (a) My wife likes to talk after sex.
             (b) Yeah?
              (a) Yeah, she calls me from the hotel
                                    *
           (a) My wife and I have sex more often. She`s
                found a use for me...
            (b) What use has she found for you?
             (c) She uses me to time an egg.
                                     *
            The bartender asked me what I wanted.
             I said,  "Suprise me."
             He showed me a naked picture of my wife.
                                     *
             I was lost at the circus.I was a child of four.
if I`d been younger, I would have been more innocent.
I couldn`t find my parents anywhere.
             I went up to a policeman, and told him I couldn`t
find my parents anywhere. I was getting upset. I asked the cop if he could help me.
             He said,  "I don`t know, kid. There are so many
places where they could hide!"
                              *
             At Hallowe`en my wife sends the kids out
looking like me!
                              *
             
             My father was a lumberman. He referred to himself
as a lumberjack. But he was the boss of his own company for
many years. I suppose he could call himself whatever
the hell he wanted.
             Years before he worked for his father. His father
was a real hard ass. I like to call him Colonel Will, but no
one else called him that. In the early to mid twentieth
century, the men working for him weren`t allowed
to shit on the job.
             "Shit on your own time, not when you`re
working for me."
              I would have told him to go fuck himself
but not if I had three small children during the
1929 to 1935 depression ( That depression looks
now to have been a "managed" situation. A lot of people suffered terribly in that time, and a few others made
a whole lot of money...This is a story for another
article - I hope someone else writes it before I have to)
             Anyway, my dad working for his stern father
got the job of walker between the lumber camps.
In the middle of winter he had to walk from Camp Island
to the town of North Bay and back again, dragging his
feet through the heavy snow - even with snowshoes
walking 18 miles in one day,  carrying a heavy pack
made the guy lose his sense of humour.
            He used to speak of the bush operations
with real hatred. "All that stupid, fucking walking.
Walking until you couldn`t turn left or right,
walking until you didn`t know where you were..."
            "And you`re not going to tell me the
walking wasn`t stupid, because it was!"
             "When I got two seat Aeronca..." (an airplane, called  `The Champion`in production in 1945 )
I could do in fifteen minutes what it used to
take me three days to do!  And you`re not going to
tell me that the walking wasn`t stupid... walk until
you couldn`t see, you couldn`t think, couldn`t
feel your hands or your toes....  One day
someone put an 18 pound weight in my packsack
with the mail and supplies, and if I`d found that
son-of-a-bitch I would have killed him... And
the way I feel today, I still would..."
          At this point there`d be spittle on his mouth
and on the table in front of him... and with my trained
keen eye, I noticed his powerful hands were making
clutching motions,,, open and closed... open and closed...
And being the professional observer that I am, I moved
five or six feet down the couch away from him.
         His face would be very red and he`d have
a slug of straight scotch --- what the bartenders call
a triple scotch straight up... I watched him carefully,
glaring off into space with that mad unbelievably
violent look in his eye... When he turned that look
on me and stared at me without seeing me,
but seeing someone else instead... I had to decide
whether to bolt from the room.
           He usually calmed down and I usually
stayed, but not always.
           I loved the guy but that doesn`t mean he
wasn`t homicidal sometimes.

           Frankly sometimes I thought he was nuts, right
off his rocker.  And he couldn`t be trusted. I`d think,
"Whew!  What a madman! What`ll I do?  Hit him with a
two by four... buy some chains?"
           Maybe I should have bought the chains. The next
day he drove his Cadillac right into the side of a City
bus. He was sober, but he still had that 
look in his eye........

           I might be exaggerating a little.  I`m just not 
sure how much.




           And when I look in the mirror after a hard-drinking
night like last night, and I see that same red face staring
back at me... and those same crazed violent eyes
staring off into the distance... and with those quivering
lips breaking into what? A smile?  A laugh? And those
same hands clutching and unclutching ... open and
closed.. open and closed....
           And when I look into the eyes of that mad homicidal
beast, I see...  ...  ... ... I see how reasonable he is
really, not dangerous at all,  and not about to drive
into anything...
            All I do is.... all I do is I lock the gun closet,
real quick so he doesn`t notice, and I lead him into
the other room... into the bathroom,  and I turn on
a cold shower... ... ...quick, so he doesn`t notice.
           And gently I take him by the arm and lead
him into the stinging freezing water... he doesn`t
notice the cold... I look in the mirror
and he looks much better... no need to exaggerate.
No need to move away down the couch...
 
          No need to exaggerate at all.