My family has been going through alot the last few years. I needed to get some emotions out, so I wrote this poem/story stream of conciousness style until I finished. Please send some good thoughts our way.

Holiday Season 2005

Happy Holidays!

How was your Christmas they ask?

And I cringe inwardly.

It seems like my blood is acid in my veins, trying to break out of its fragile casing.  But I smile. 

'Good, Good... How was yours?'

Good does not involve taking Mom to the hospital Christmas day.  A 70 year old so frazzled by all the people visiting that she climbed up on a chair to get that one extra dish for that one extra person, and fell.  She didn't ask for help reaching. 

Her mother had died earlier in the year, and the holidays had hit her extra hard.  So did the floor.

So I took her to the emergency room.  My addict brother came along to talk to the doctors about some 'pain' he was having in his ribs that was keeping him from sleeping.  He was looking to score some Xanax.  I had to follow him around the whole time at the hospital, talking to each doctor and nurse he tried to con.

Good does not involve your brother going into seizures on the floor 3 days after Christmas in front of your nieces and nephew. 

Good does not involve following your brother's ambulance to the hospital.  Thank God my brother-in-law came with me.  I can't believe nobody else did.  What are my parents thinking?

Good does not involve your brother delusional right through New Year's Day.  His brain seems completely fried this time.

Happy New Year 2006 --- maybe it will be better.

2005, don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.

Holiday Season 2006

Happy Holidays!

How was your Christmas they ask?

And I cringe inwardly.

It seems like my blood is acid in my veins, trying to break out of its fragile casing.  But I smile. 

'Good, Good... How was yours?'

Good does not involve your mother crying over Christmas dinner, lamenting the loss of your brother who died of an overdose. 

Good does not involve looking at the newest blood work.  Dad's white blood cell count is through the roof.  His leukemia is advancing rapidly.

Good does not involve searching frantically for a new lawyer as executor of your brother's estate, because fate found it funny to send the old lawyer into the same drug spiral.

Happy New Year 2007 --- maybe it will be better.

2006, don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.

Holiday Season 2007

Happy Holidays!

How was your Christmas they ask?

And I cringe inwardly.

It seems like my blood is acid in my veins, trying to break out of its fragile casing.  But I smile. 

'Good, Good... How was yours?'

Good does not involve your father in the hospital.  Why are they taking his blood every 2 hours?  What are they tracking, and why isn't it stable?

"The doctor's say it's not the cold, " Dad adds, his voice shaking and uncertain for the first time in my memory. "It's the, uh, it's the ...  other thing."

He can't even bring himself to say the word.  His Leukemia is worse.

Good does not involve his inflated white blood cell count killing his good blood cells, preventing his body from getting oxygen. 

Good does not involve the doctor telling you he doesn't know what else they can do.  Maybe the hemopatholigist from Hopkins will have some ideas. 

Good does not involve your already anorexic mother failing to eat from the stress.  Her weight is now 68 pounds, and her heart may be breaking down from malnutrition.

God help me, I don't even know what the word 'Good' means anymore... but I know it doesn't mean this.

Happy New Year 2008 --- maybe it will be better.

2007, don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.

Holiday Season 2008

To be Determined.

For the love of God, PLEASE, let the next year be a good one.

George Bush

Here’s where George Bush lost me.  He referred to the governments of Iran, Iraq, and Korea as the ‘Axis of Evil’.  First of all, the only reason to come up with a term like that is to dehumanize a group of people, which is profoundly disturbing.  99 percent of the people in those countries are good people, who really have nothing to do with the government ‘per se’.  It’s like calling me a Nazi because my heritage is German.  The phrase ‘Axis of Evil’ is pure rhetoric, aimed at scaring people, instead of a rational discussion of a real problem.

The Justice League of America

Speaking of the Justice League – I never understood that show.  Let’s face it, Superman is almost as fast as the Flash, almost as strong as the Hulk, can fly, and is invulnerable.  Why join a super-hero group if you’re Superman?  They should have called that show ‘Superman and his Kryptonite Bitches’.  Every episode had a villain with some Kryptonite, the bitches go and get the kryptonite, and then Superman does his thing.

A sample show:

Batman: “Hey, Supes, there’s a planet sized monster trying to eat the earth.  You’re invulnerable, and I have a Bat-a-rang…”

Superman:  “Does he have Kryptonite?”

Green Lantern:  “Uh… no?”

Superman: “I think I got this one… you guys can go wash Wonder Woman’s invisible jet or something.”

Robin: “Holy Batshit Fatman!… I mean uh… “

Batman: “Wait up Supes… I think the young boy I force to wear tights and follow me around is saying there IS kryptonite!”

Superman: “Oh… so… how good ARE you with that Bat-a-rang?” 

My Heritage

Polish Roulette

Mornings

God

I once heard humor defined as ‘A surprise reaction to something that is not dangerous to you personally’.  If there’s a God, I’m thinking this might be the reason he created people and ‘Free Will’.  Being omniscient, without the concept of ‘Free Will’, God already knows what’s going to happen ahead of time.  Therefore there is no surprise, and therefore no humor. 

Platypi

A camera is focused on 3 guys talking at an average looking bar.

Guy 1 says emphatically: “I don’t care how you say it – You CANNOT put the words diarrhea and platypus in the same sentence without being funny!”

The camera pans slowly to the right, revealing a man in a platypus outfit, holding his stomach and groaning loudly.

Odd songs to hear Back to Back

Next Song

The next song on the I-radio was Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal”.  I’m a reasonably smart guy, and I may have just put together something about the song no one else has realized before:

THERE MAY BE SOMETHING WRONG WITH ANNIE!

Reality TV

I’ve decided I want to get on a reality TV show.  I think I’ve figured out a way to get by the censors.  I’m going to swear, but in a rhythm that spells “F_U_C_K” in morse code.

Beep out my cursing will you!

I wonder if the stalking incidents have gone down since the Reality TV boom.  Sure, I’ve always meant to stalk someone, but I’m pretty damned lazy.  Stalking is work… I’ll just turn on ‘Rock of Love’!

This story is a repost.  A few of you have read it, many of you have not.  I'm told it's the funniest thing I've ever written; granted, that may be a little like being the strongest guy in a girl scout troup.  If you've liked anything you've ever read from me, trust me... read these sadly true stories.

In my life, I have had three highly improbable, flying-insect with stinger related, traumatic events.  Any one of them I could forgive, but now I'm pissed.  All stinging insects should be exterminated.... completely wiped off the face of the planet.

I know what you're going to say; bees polinate flowers, which in turn convert carbon dioxide to oxygen.  If we got rid of all bees, we'd eventually screw the ecosystem and destroy life as we know it.  Cry me a river, liberal.  Bees die when they sting us, and we'll never defeat them until we adopt the same mentality.  Once you read my 3 bee stories, you'll understand my point of view.

Bee story #1

I believe I was 5-ish years old.  I was in the backyard behind my parents house.  I had to go to the bathroom, but was feeling too lazy to walk across the full-acre backyard to the house.  I decided the haystack behind the barn would be a good place to take a piss (pardon the rather vulgar wording). 

I admit, I noticed a yellow jacket flying around, but I didn't pay any attention to it.  I hadn't learned they were the enemy yet.

I unzipped my pants, and started to take a leak, when the yellow jacket decided to land directly on my penis.  I repeat - the yellow jacket landed directly on my penis.

I've heard the true measure of a man can only be taken in situations of dire stress: war, family members dying, etc.  That's wussy stuff; you don't truly find out who you are until you've had a yellow jacket land on your penis.

Incidentally, it turns out that I'm a very stupid man when measured.

I looked down my penis and stared at the yellow jacket.  His eyes met mine; I swear to God the little S.O.B. grinned.  I think a tumbleweed might have fluttered by in the distance.

Apparently my knee-jerk reaction to noticing an insect on my body is to hit that part of the body as hard as I can.

That's right, I hit myself in the penis as hard as I could.

I missed... the damn thing had already stung me... and flew away.  I'm pretty sure he was laughing his ass off.  Not only did he sting me, he conned me into punching myself in the gonads. 

Like any good 5 year old, I ran back into the house crying.  My mother and brother were sitting in the kitchen.  Between sobs I let them know a bee had stung me.  My mother asked where I was stung... she could rub some salve on it to ease the pain.  I said I was stung in my "special place". 

My Mom, ever sympathetic, choked out "Are You Serious!?!?!".  Then she nearly fell over laughing.

My brother Chris, laughing so hard he could barely breathe, quipped "So Mom, are you still going to rub salve on it?"

I ran away embarrassed, crying to myself.  Thus my deathly fear of all flying insects that sting began.  To this day I claim I had an allergic reaction to the sting, permanently causing the affected area to grow to tremendous size ;).

Bee Story 2:

(Note this story has one bee-stress related moment of stupidity, and one moment of stupidity that I can only claim as my own)

Fast forward about 18 years later.  I had been playing alot of basketball, and had torn my meniscus.  I had to get arthroscopic surgery.

The surgery went well, and I was sitting in my room recovering.  They had given me an epidural for the surgery, numbing me from the waste down.  They had also given me a number of sedatives to calm me down.

I was still groggy from the surgery when the doctor said I could go home as long as I demonstrated I could go to the bathroom.  Through my drug induced haze, that sounded pretty easy.  I tried to locate the hole in my boxers so I could pull "Mr. Happy" out and urinate.

I had no idea how much finding the hole in your boxers depended on not being numb from the waste down.  Normally, your boxers bulge near the hole, and you simply pull apart the bulge to reveal the hole.  You can tell the difference between the bulge near the hole and the bulge created by "your manhood" by feel.  Until you are given an epidural.

I spent about 15 minutes trying to pull my penis apart through the fabric until I realized it was the wrong bulge.  This was my own fault; I was still wasted from the sedatives, and believe me I paid for my mistake once the painkillers wore off.

Eventually I did go to the bathroom, and they let me leave the hospital.  As I just had surgery on my knee, they wheeled me out to the car in a wheelchair.  As fate would have it, a bee landed on my leg.

I freaked... I shot out of my chair like a bullet and sprinted across the parking lot.  Surprisingly, you're not supposed to start sprinting within an hour or so of knee surgery.

I had to get another knee surgery.  At this point, I was starting to develop a very healthy dislike for all flying insects.

Bee Story 3:

I was on the freeway, in stop-and-go traffic.  I was in the "stop" portion of the program when I noticed a bee had landed on my windshield.  Now thoroughly biased against bees, I quite happily turned on my wipers to give it a smack.  The wipers hit it, and pinned that bad boy directly against my hood.

Ten minutes later, traffic had cleared up.  I was cruising down the highway going around 70 when I noticed a strange buzzing coming from the air vent in the dash.  I remember thinking to myself – no way in hell man, no way in hell.

One minute later the bee I had pinned against the hood with the wipers was struggling to come out of the air vent in my dash.  Yet again I freaked.  I started smacking the air vent as hard as I could.  All the desperate banging on the vent did was dislodge the bee, and he started flying around my car. 

It didn't occur to me until I saw red and blue flashing in my mirror that I had completely stopped paying attention to my driving.  Trying to calm myself, I stopped swinging at the bee, slowed the car down and pulled over.  The bee promptly stung me.

At least I figured I had a hell of an excuse for erratic driving.

Again I was wrong…

Apparently, if you are a cop, you hear this story twice a day.  It's one of the oldest excuses in the book for speeding.  People even go so far as to keep a dead bee on their dash to give the story more credibility.  The cops eventually notice the dust that has accumulated on the bee after laying on the dash for four months.

Needless to say, I got the ticket.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

These are 3 fluke occurrences… they are so statistically unlikely in their totality that I have to believe the bees are organized and deliberately targeting me.   

A common writing exercise from my old classes was to have one writer start a story, and then to hand it off to the next writer to write the next part.  Here's a story I've started, I'd love to see what other people can do with it!

------------------------------------------------

John had hidden under the stacks of hay in the loft of his parents' old barn innumerable times before, but this time was very different.  He didn't feel the normal nervous, giddy thrill of adrenaline as he struggled to remain quiet; this time the chemicals coursing through his veins seemed to want to explode through his skin, putting pressure on his chest, constricting his breathing.  He tried desperately to control the volume of the rasps of air entering his lungs by breathing very slowly, but the individual straws of hay were tickling at his nose, threatening to turn his slight wheezing into an audible cough… an audible cough that could give away his location and possibly get him killed.

John wasn't sure he didn't deserve to die.  He was just so scared - he didn't think back at the house, he had just reacted.  He'd always hoped that he'd be heroic if it ever came down to it, but when the improbable finally happened, he had sprinted away from danger without a second thought for his parents' safety.  And now those thoughts were plaguing him as he hid.

It had happened so suddenly, there was no warning.  There was no knock at the door, no sound of footsteps crossing the half-acre open yard that led to his parent's house.   The doors to all three entrances to the house had burst open simultaneously, two men at each door.  In each case one man had knocked the door down leading with his shoulder; the lead man at all three doors had stumbled awkwardly into the house and fallen down in almost identical fashion, the second man trailing afterwards. 

His brain had barely had time to process the scene.   John's dad reacted first, instantaneously leaping up from the couch where he had been serenely reading an old book one second earlier, as if he'd been expecting the unwelcome intrusion.  Ignoring the lead man on the floor at the front door, his dad had crossed the distance from the couch to the door and tackled the second man much faster than John could have believed, propelling both of them outside the house and down the front steps.  John had the fleeting impression of a crimson red stain spreading on the back of his Dad's white sweatshirt as if in slow motion, a marked contrast to the violent speed in which the two men toppled down the small stairway to the front porch.    

John had already been getting ready to leave to go over to Mike's farm, his best friend the last four years.  By pure chance he was right next to the front door just as it had burst open, in perfect position to take advantage of the opening his Dad had created.  His body moved without conscious thought; he immediately bolted out the front door and raced desperately across the unbroken sightline of the lawn in his front yard, only looking back once at the now limp figure of his father on top of the second man.  Somehow he knew instinctively to suddenly change directions once he was out of sight at the tree line.   

Only one thought had been in John's head, to hide.  And the only place he could think of was the hayloft in which he had hidden so many times as a child.  He had skirted the yard, sure to stay hidden in the trees, making his way to the backyard towards the old barn.  Now he hid once again in the hay, keenly aware he was no longer a child, yet still hiding never the less.  John couldn't even reconstruct the scene at the house in his head well enough to hazard a guess as to what had happened to his mother, but fear still kept him hidden under his suffocating warm blanket of hay.