Nathaniel Sewell's Blog, page 23

Want Another Biscuit? (a short story)

Want Another Biscuit?

Breakfast was short that day, I had hoped it might not end, scrambled eggs and crisp hog bacon, bold black caffeinated coffee stoked my internal engine, oh, the new day had started so fine, so grand, so sublime.

“Want another biscuit?” she asked, as the skinny waitress sashayed past.

“Why yes, yes, indeed, but this will have to be my last,” said I, Mister S. Ass. “Don’t want to grow and expand into the size of an enormous rhinoceros’ ass.”

She sort of grinned at me, in a weird-sort-of-funny- way, at the time, well, I could not see why. But, I’ll get to the why, at the end, (that’s why you write these poems my dear friend), and then, perhaps you’ll understand, I trust you will not laugh at me then, and only then.

“Can I call you my Dear Friend?”

Let’s remember that for the end…

Alas, this is the beginning of this tale, about water, skin and buttermilk biscuits, and in the end, a great white whale. So let me begin to recount what I learned, that I’d like to share with you my Dear Friend?

“Yes? You’ll still be my Dear Friend, at the end?”

Fresh water’s the nectar of life, we swim in it, we splash our giggly babies in it, we bathe our carcass’ in it, we do just about any and every ‘thing’ possible within it, and yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking Mister Dirty Minded one, we do, do that, even that! Yes indeed we do, do ‘IT’, as they say. (But let’s not belabor the point today.)

We need our water fresh, clean and pure; we have other smart people to figure out how to filter dangerous minerals to make it even more and more pure, if you can be more of more? “I’m not sure?”

Pure for me and you, Dear Friend, so we can drink it to live in this magical world, it is of course, since we’ve been told by our high school chemistry teacher, Mister R. ISTY, that being Mister Robert “I’m smarter than you,” snot nosed kids, “Listen to me!” he begged.

Did you have a teacher like him too? I bet you had more than one too.

It is, Hydrogen Oxygen Hydrogen, or as it is said, H2O, but some contrarian might read this and say.

“What you really mean is HOH, two parts Hydrogen and one part Oxygen, HOH just to put a fine point on your prose, dear Mister S. Ass, I’m sure you will hammer forward, recounting this story for us, as best an ass, as an ass you are.”

“Thank you Mister S. Ass, Junior? (I suspect, but, I digress. Sorry, I was interrupted by another member of the up and coming Smart Ass class.)

Water, this chameleon it can be, cloaked as a liquid, solid, or gas, covers seventy-percent of our home planet, approximately two-thirds inside our collective Car-Cass, it seems this stuffs even hidden within our skin, in our nooks and crannies, making up our organs, all held under our epidermis’, dermis, dermis, yeah it’s true, all in and out of us it is, every where it would seem, inside me and you.

We need to drink it, to quench our thirst, otherwise, we get dizzy, and die, and I can’t imagine anything worse.

“Yes, H2O, Mister Junior S. Ass in training,” said I, Mister S. Ass. Thinking, H2O must be quite important, that is what my superior mind has decided should be reported.

Water comes in many other forms, rivers, creeks, streams flowing to and from a major tidal source, some comes to the party as fresh water, of course, no salt found here, but most water is different, in a salty way, in turbulent oceans and seas, a place for fish to live, until we pluck them from their aquatic home, and we eat them in some delicious new way, baked, blackened or deep fried.

“All these methods I have tried, but, sorry, I digress, I guess it’s my superior pride, here on display with my jesting repartee.” (I smugly laugh.)

So then, the question at hand was asked.

“Want another biscuit, Mister S. Ass?”

“Oh, no thank you said I, I’m still quite full from breakfast time,” said I, Mister S. Ass. But I stopped in mid-sentence, thinking what harm can this be? Then I stopped her and said. “But maybe, yeah, why not, just a corner before lunch. And maybe just another for just before church, and maybe another for after, never can be too careful, don’t want to get caught in a hungry lurch.”

But I wondered why, why the odd question, what does these three all have in common, water, skin and biscuits? Why all the bother? Well then, if you must know, what else could this all mean? Then let us carry forward, okay then, on with the baking show…

Biscuits, as we shall learn, made with buttermilk, or if you’re boring, Vitamin D milk. (Just be cool cat and use full-on, high-test stuff, nothing like skim, or two-percent, not those liquid’s that approach close to nothingness…sorry about that, I’ll not get lost in some existential verse again, just showing off my superior mind for you, my Dear Friend.)

Let us move forward shall we, to the sifted flour, no lumps to be found here, add a pinch of salt and, not to be left out, our other Dear Friends, Doctor and Misses D. A. Baking Powder, very important folks no doubt, kissing each other with a pinch of sugar and using some butter and shortening to help their journey happen sooner.

The D is for double, A is for acting, fancy change agent acids, added to this glorious fusion.

(Sorry to say, the happy couple is not part of my way, neither a smart ass, no, not in anyway. Sorry, I digressed again, it will not happen again.)

Doctor and Misses Double Acting, married to science, are kneaded gently and folded together and flopped on a tin conjugal bed, and as one with experience might expect, he starts out fast, but then she goes slow, she’s not in a rush, just warming up the pre-heated oven of love, and as one might expect, after all the build-up and heated moments of self-rising food lust, after all this transacting, ten minutes later, our biscuits blow-up.

(Remember, do not prematurely pull them out, or you will miss the magic no doubt. You see, the quiet warm moments must last, so they can create some carbon monoxide gas, and those extra moments creating wonderful baby bubbles inside.)

Yes, baby bubbles I said, some big, medium or some small, we love them all, formed for us inside the dough.

Something the smart ass baker will claim was formed with the help of Mother Nature. Alas, a biscuit we have, we can smother with butter, syrup, molasses, or whatever we like, topped with bacon, egg’s, ham, maybe all of them at the same time?! OH the little children scream with delight!

“Yeah for buttermilk biscuits, yeah indeed,” the obese little buggers all happily screamed.

In reality, my Dear Friend, the biscuit‘s just a biscuit, fat, fluffy and golden-brown, you see it is just a conduit to lure Mister Big Flatulent Artist to roll into town. He’s bulbous and round, our biscuits just a blank canvass for him to begin, to help satisfy his narcoleptic cravings, then after he slugs them down, he rolls over stuffed, all happy and proud, his own self styled food lust, he collapses to the ground. Then he’ll crawl away from town. (Back to sleepy time, post carbohydrate binge.)

So, again you ask, “What’s all this about?”

“Want another Biscuit?” someone hidden in the back asked.

“Or, are you just being yourself, Mister S. Ass?” someone else asked.

“Why yes of course,” I said. Thinking they know me well, S is for smart, quick as a whip, winking my eye lash, this collection of desperate objects, all bouncing inside my superior head. “Of this I’m quite genuine.”

But alas, someone in the back of the room had to ask.

“Who anointed you to write this sort-of-poem like thing? Don’t you all think we’re trapped inside his weird brain?”

“Harrumph, harrumph,” went the class, all seemed unified in disagreement against me. But I was not to be undone; I’d started a journey with my Dear Friend, which will circuitously come to a fateful end.

“Me.” I felt superior with my quick answer back. “I’ll say this as I pass a little personal gas, I’m a certified smart ass, I’m allowed to do these things, you see, it’s written in my life’s handbook,” said I, Mister S. Ass, king of the world in my orbit of the smart ass.

“Why?” another potential smart ass asked.

(I’ll explain the why, my dear friend. It’s all part of my hidden greater plan.)

“It started the day I was born, my life’s handbook was a bit worn, you can blame my Mom, she got it for me on day one, bought a third edition hard copy on Amazon dot com, and to be clear, it’s on page three, see, read right there, and, if you like, you can have your own copy to study, to think, to debate and fight about or do quizzes with your friends, to figure out who among you might eventually qualify to join our ranks, as a sergeant-first class, in the grand army of The Smart Ass.” (Sorry, I digress, a hardy chuckle to clear my parched throat. It’s hard work being a smart ass. Sorry, I need to pass some more gas.)

“Excuse me,” I said to the crowd. “Don’t try,” said I, Mister S. Ass with a hint of self-pride. “Let me leave no doubt, the effort for you, will be in vain, you see, if you have to study to be one, well, you’re not really one of us, now you all know this to be true?” My superior mind is now fully engaged and in complete view.

“So then, don’t waste anymore time, to think you actually thought it might happen, oh please not in my lifetime.” (You can insert your own chuckle here, but let us move on. There is important work yet to be done.)

Now to the answer to this riddle, that has seemed to be laced with moments of rather interesting drivel.

Water, skin and buttermilk biscuits, three odd things needed to create ONE, (not three in one, in a biblical sense, but three INTO ONE), as in a BIG HUMAN, as in, one bulbous mass, pounds and pounds of fatty-human-flesh. Some are yellow as a school bus, some are red as a scolded lobster, some are white as boiled chicken meat or some darker than midnight, but not to fret, this lecture crosses all races and creeds, bigots and racists need not intercede, because this is an analysis of our interplanetary GINORMOUS disease. (That has no known cure.)

“Don’t believe me?” said I, Mister S. Ass. I slightly turned my head for effect and coughed with a faint smirk sneered across my perfectly coiffed face.

Like lemmings on a collective fast trot to no where, unaware, gravity will win when caught alone in mid-air. They all fell in line, behind me for our field trip to a sensory deprivation death.

“Come walk with me, we’ll laugh together as I point out some of ‘them’,” said I, Mister S. Ass, the one with the superior mind. “I’ve noticed them in big-box-super-stores, usually covered in bolts and bolts of non-silky spandex clothes, or, for that fact, any stretchable garment will do, they seem to roam freely here, as human ‘free-range’ debris. I suppose you can say, see them sloshing into the automobile section, sporting goods too, or god forbid, yes, women’s shoes!” said I, Mister S. Ass. I smiled at them all, proud of what I had taught them at the mall. (But another moment has come for me to digress.)

“One has to wonder about women’s shoes, why all the fuss?” asked I, Mister S. Ass.

For these massive, mountains of food luster’s, why buy something they’ll never see, without the assistance of a floor length mirror, the visible light of the store will be required to project the relative tiny shoes, in relation to the massive, flesh mountain that could hide a black hole, shoes that might otherwise substitute for a child’s summertime swimming pool.

But the terror has no bounds, as you shall see, on hot, dry Saturdays, to my emotional disgorgement, I saw a bathing suit with an obnoxious orange imprint, draped over, a Big Human, Bulbous Mass. (Yes, it is true, I am not just to being an ass, as I normally do. Sorry, again, as I digressed on a digress.)

“Using a tenting method I deduced, something usually attached to a clipper ship’s mast,” said I, Mister S. Ass. “Yes, I’m not making this up. I shall rely upon my previous evidence to prove my point. Seen them with my own horrified eyes, they’ll likely tell the story at my wake, of the day I saw them in their natural habitat, near an Alabama lake.”

(But, maybe at this point I should digress some more, because the one great stretchable human organ, is our baby soft skin. At least mine is velvety smooth, as you might expect.)

“It can ‘nuclear mushroom’ to an incredible size, I’ve seen the result with my own superior eyes, it expands to epic proportion, not just reserved for Neolithic creatures that used to roam the land and forests,” said I, Mister S. Ass. “But the actual, living, breathing, I shall call them, ‘people’, but because I’m just part of the academically lazy tribe of The Smart Ass, and not in Darwin’s intellectual class, who I’m sure he would devise a Latin word or phrase, note one of his journals to define these known ‘species’, then likely get selected for sainthood after he cures the ginormous disease that dots our planet.

(“Wish I could,” said I, Mister S. Ass, under my breath, from the jealous and envious part of the tribe of The Smart Ass big tent.)

Now, as the story goes, “I was minding my own business, driving here and there, looking at a bountiful forest, flowers, plants, the occasional, chirping bird with its wings out stretched, it was glorious!” said I, Mister S. Ass, “All of God’s creatures, happy at play, living out their lives, under a clear, cloudless blue Alabama sky.”

But unbeknownst to me, our family was on an accidental safari, (most great discovery’s are by accident after all), and this is where, “I observed them in nature, it was not so long ago, no, not in a big-box-store, or a restaurant with a neon sign that reads.

“All-You-Can-Stuff-In-Your-Mouth” buffet.

“No, I was in a public space, paid for with our tax dollars, nature protected for all of us by government’s grace, near a lake, which was the intended center of our journey, I must admit,” said I, Mister S. Ass.

Then alas, I made a turn, we took the third fork in the road and went down the wrong brightly lit blacktopped path. All seemed usual, all custom afforded to those I was with, normal courtesy I extended back to them and they to me, then, I spied something in the distance and slowed down like a highway voyeur inspecting a nasty car crash.

“Oh, what could it be?” someone in the back asked.

Perhaps it was the shadow cast, wide, along the river bank, a prehistoric predator hidden in the depths? No, it couldn’t move particularly fast, but then, more of them emerged from the bright sunlight, in numerous locations around the natural park, some on the land, some in the lake, there were so many, in my panic I lost count. At times, the sun seemed to disappear, my vision started to fade to black, sort of a momentary lunar eclipse caused by all the herd of human pacaderms slothing about.

“They’re over there, over there, and yes, yes, over there too,” said I, Mister S. Ass.

Manatee like creatures ‘sort of swam’, others obviously drank beer, smoked multiple cigarette’s again, and again and again, a smoky haze hung around their gargantuan noggin, all under the watchful single eye, of their skinny master’s, leaning against their supped up pick-up truck nearby, wearing their customary garb of the ‘wife-beater t-shirt’ tribe, with mandatory cut-off blue jeans, combing their fluffy mullet, sharing with me the same, clear, blue, beautiful Alabama sky.

But thankfully being Mister S. Ass, I grinned and thanked god. (Again, and again and again.)

“At least I’m not like them,” said I, Mister S. Ass. A great chuckle erupted in our safari car, if the day was not so surreal, and it had been a planned trip, I would have gladly paid a guide a healthy cash tip and said, “thank you for an amazing journey my dear friend, the rest of my life, I will never be able to top this again!”

You see, I think I should explain something here.

(Self-discovery is hard work, even when it’s not an intended insult. I say to you, dear friend, I hope you will not think me a shrew for my awful views of those that I am clearly superior too.)

So we left the Alabama Park, laughing along down the road we went, for a congratulatory massive meal, oh, and then that fateful question reappeared.

“Want another biscuit?” the waiter asked.

Seemed like an innocent thing to say.

“Why yes, thank you,” said I, still dreaming at the time as, Mister S. Ass, the world’s number on smart ass.

(I had had a full day, making fun of others, so nothing makes me feel so superior, so self important and well, I felt quite regal, almost giddy at this point.)

After getting back home from the accidental safari, where we had observed a herd of human buffalo grazing along the unintended safari road, I made a fateful mistake. I decided to shower, to clean off all the accumulated stink.

After my shower, standing in front of my expansive bathroom mirror, accepting I’m still quite superior, the man-catch of all time, my wife should thank me, I thought in my simple mind.

(But then the earth quaked under my fat feet. Likely a karmatic Heaven sent note, addressed to Mister S. Ass, a member in good standing of the tribe, The Smart Ass.)

“My cotton towel had fallen from my white pasty frame, so, I turned to pick it up off the floor,” said I, well you know my name by now. “It was only brief, but what I caught, was an unaccustomed glimpse.” A great sigh, I need to close my eyes. The moment caused me to be briefly paralyzed.

I froze very still, no quick movements, quiet as I can expected to be, didn’t want to disturb what I saw. Don’t panic and get scared, no need to act shrill.

“Is that similar to the homosapien elephants from the accidental safari?” I whispered. It was weird, I sensed one had snuck into our bathroom and it had caught my stare. It seemed to be looking at me from some far away time portal from hell. Then it occurred to me, the awful truth, I had cast the shadow on my own, just like the herd near the lake. It was I, who was a massive fat fruit cake!

“This cannot be me?” What was I to say to all this pasty white truth? All laid bare, right in front of my expanded naked posterior of a caboose.

Quite full-in-body I was, belly round, a pear shape had emerged, from my once athletic physical form. As if I’m hidden within a cream colored cocoon waiting for my monarch butterfly to be birthed from me soon. Struck by the thought, next Christmas, I get to play Santa Clause at the Big-Box-Mall, without any additional padding to trick the children into thinking I’m the jolly-old-one from up north.

Troubled with this revelation, of the additional pressure against my skin, of my pasty white natural cummerbund that I had earned, with a fatty tissue of a full body cloak I’d become, I’ve had to make some changes, and so, the next time I decided to dine out. And the fateful question was asked. (What for it smart ass.)

“Want another biscuit?” The ubiquitous skinny waitress asked, with the lilt of a smile across her thin, smart ass lips. I coughed for effect, for my Dear Friend.

“No thank you, I don’t want to be an even bigger ass,” said I, Mister I’m sorry, formerly of The Smart Ass tribe.

Then I sat next to my dear friend. I frowned and shrugged a few times and took in a deep breath.

“So, I guess I learned that I’m not so cool,” said I, imperfect person looking in the mirror that night. “Are we still dear friends after all?”

And my Dear Friend looked back at me and said.

“I’ll always be your dear friend, particularly now, because you’ve learned not to call someone a big fat cow!”

“That’s true,” said I, Mister not so thin guy.

“But it’s these times I look forward to the most, because now you know, which friends love you, even when you burnt your own toast.”

“I learned a lot today,” said I, Mister humble pie.

Then my dear friend put his hand on my shoulder and hugged me like a brother. And then he said to me, in a rather humble manner.

“These sorts of problems would never exist, if we simply remembered, as the good book sort of says, to just love one another, no matter race, or creed or color.”

NS

Distant Sparkle

Distant sparkle in the night sky,

I stare up at you,

I wonder, why, why, why?

Light of the world I’m asking you,

How can this be, why is this tragedy true?

My feeble brain squishes inside my head,

Searching for answers from this dread,

But I feel nothing, just my numb, blank stare,

At a television picture reflecting true fear, true hell,

I search for you dark star,

For I know you are there,

I sense your evil everywhere,

This time as a violent thief of tiny, innocent souls,

Distant sparkle in the night sky,

I look up at you, I humbly wonder, why?

Light of the world I’m asking you,

Why did this happen? Why is this true?

NS

The Story of Lord Elmer (the reluctant stud)

“It was – SUCH – a confusing day,” Lord Elmer said. Like any high-strung, reddish-brown-coated thoroughbred, Lord Elmer refused to lie down in the rolling bluegrass pasture. His long snout flared; his voice was a bit lispy and gravely. “I am … quite confused.”

“Yes, yes, go on,” Dr. Keene said. A winter white painted four-plank fence surrounded Dr. Keene’s office. A stereotypical wise old grey owl, he hunched atop the highest point of a jagged oak limb, the ancient tree soared like octopuses’ tentacles toward the clear baby blue sky.

Lord Elmer shook his long head in disgust.

“Well, you see it all happened without any warning,” Lord Elmer said. He flicked his manicured hooves forward as he shook his head, his perfectly fashioned black hair mane wisped across his long neckline. “I have a lovely stall, I demand it be kept spotless, I simply will not accept an untidy stall, counter to our metro-sexual nature, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, yes,” Dr. Keene said. He hooted. “Oy vey–”

“Well, I was sampling some new oat mixtures, European you know, the good stuff,” Lord Elmer whispered. Lord Elmer glanced over at the other horses chewing grass. “Jimmy mixes them up for me, such a good stable hand, did you know my stall was made with mahogany and padded special just for me? And it’s larger than all the other stalls? Yet dark and cozy, perfect for entertaining, and I always have fresh hay.”

“I was not aware,” Dr. Keene said. The wise owl made no obvious facial movements, although his beak clenched, slightly. “You must be quite important, you meshuggener-”

“Its genetics, I suppose, that’s what Jimmie tells me,” Lord Elmer said gazing up at Dr. Keene, with a giant orb like eyeball, he confidentially winked, a smirk revealed his large white teeth, his front hooves dug into the turf as he sauntered around the outdoor office.

“Genetics?” Dr. Keene said. Comfortable within his own feathers, he accepted the verbal bait.

Lord Elmer huffed, and then thundered across the pasture, circled a quiet group of mares and yearling, who appeared to ignore Lord Elmer as he galloped back toward his afternoon therapy session.

“See, I’m rather fast, record time, even without shoes,” Lord Elmer said.  His massive muscled chest heaved upward as his lungs sucked in all the oxygen off the planet. “I feel so viral on a hot, sunny day like today.”

“Yes you are, you mensch,” Dr. Keene said. “But, we all know that, now don’t we?”

“Well, it’s true, I’m sometimes a bit shy about all those gold and silver trophies – you know, back in the mansion,” Lord Elmer said. He neighed. “But, I should have been in that Derby, the Triple Crown for sure – I feel robbed.”

“Life is not fair,” Dr. Keene said. He twirled his head around like a demon-possessed bird. “Born too late, to close to January? Your legs were not quite ready, tough decisions made, but you did well in numerous stakes races, the Breeder’s Cup.”

“Of course, but it was always so cold in November,” Lord Elmer said. He gazed wistfully into the late spring sky.  “Football season – lets not discuss basketball and whatnot – like some sort of cult around here, but, nobody really cared, but the horse people, and gamblers – of course, it’s not like the derby.”

“Now, let’s try to focus, tell me about that day, that has obviously been troubling you,” Dr. Keene asked. He hooted. And he hooted again.  As he hunched down to listen, he wobbled on his sharp claws that dug into the barnacled oak bark.

“Well, like I said, I was enjoying some fresh oats,” Lord Elmer said lowly.  “Jimmie seemed to know this new stable hand, it was weird, and they both grinned at me.”

“Grinned?” Dr. Keene asked.

“Well, now that I think about it, more of sinister smirk,” Lord Elmer said. He sucked in a deep, deep reflective breath, snorted as his nose vibrated. “They told me, and I quote, ‘It’s a new day big boy, time you started sharing your seed,’ they said.”

“Well, you realize this is a horse farm, and you’re a horse?” Dr. Keene asked. He blinked his black eyes and hooted.

Lord Elmer trotted out to the center of the pasture – shrieked – then galloped back to in front of the wise old owl.

“As if!” Lord Elmer said.

“Calm down, tell me more, get it out,” Dr. Keene said. He fluffed his wings. “Oy vey, I’m not judging you, besides, this is just between us.”

Lord Elmer circled the massive oak tree three times and stopped in his tracks. Lord Elmer stared wistfully across the pasture at the red metal roofed, white painted clapboarded barn.

“Well, this new man – not Jimmie – lead me to that suspicious barn over there, I’d noticed it before, it’s shaped different,  I wondered what went on inside,” Lord Elmer said. He whispered. “Yes, I’d heard rumors, but, I’d ignored the demeaning chit chat.” Lord Elmer lifted his right front hoof up near his snout. “Seems they can’t keep their hooves off each other, you know what they say … Oh, I just love your shiny coat, or I’d like to see what’s under that thick tail … it never stops.”

“I don’t understand,” Dr. Keene said. He lightly chuckled through his beak.

“Pa-leez, I’ve seen the internet sites, the conversations, disgusting,” Lord Elmer said. His head rose high with his chest stuck out. “Like were all just pieces of meat.”

“Yes, yes,” Dr. Keene said. He shrugged. “But that can happen … just stay out of Japan.”

Lord Elmer blew out his nostrils, he squealed.

“Dutifully, bravely, courageously, I allowed – HIM – to take me into that barn of iniquity,” Lord Elmer said. “But I kept my head high as I went into battle.”

“Who? Who, what’s it like?” Dr. Keene asked.

“What can I say, as if I’m reliving a nightmare,” Lord Elmer said. He scratched at the turf.

“Just take in a deep breath, let it out,” Dr. Keene said. “I can’t help you, if you don’t tell me everything, try to remember, I know it must be tough.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Lord Elmer said. He wobbled and shook his head, his black haired mane lashed across his neck. “Needed to clear my tiny brain–”

“Good, good,” Dr. Keene said. He pushed his black framed glasses back up his beak. “What did you see, try to think of details, put yourself in context … I’ll glide you through this.”

“First, he hooked me to a railing just inside the barn door, there, I spied inside, I was instantly traumatized,” Lord Elmer said. His posture stiff, as if he was looking at a ghost.

“Who, who,” Dr. Keene said.

Lord Elmer nodded toward a nearby group of horses.

“The husky mare over there near the tulip poplars, the big girl, she’s quite a bit older than me – cougar tramp,” Lord Elmer said. He looked up into the sky. “It was me, I knocked her up … she used me.”

Dr. Keene fluttered his wings. He hooted and chuckled.

“Congratulations, mazel tov, hey, nice looking MILF for a horse,” Dr. Keene said. “I guess I should call you Sire Elmer now, and not Lord Elmer?”

“Pa-leez, you don’t understand, MILF?” Lord Elmer said. “It was not my choosing, they made me do her, and it happened so fast, just now I feel wobbly.”

“Now, now, you know, a dirty acronym for Mare I’d Like … well, never mind,” Dr. Keene said. He leaned forward, draped his wings over his claws. “Sorry, that was unprofessional, okay, but this is a normal sensation, it’s your first time to sire, but that’s the magic of life here on the farm, right?”

“Magic? Try humiliating,” Lord Elmer said. He whispered and scratched his haunches against the fence post. “Is she looking at me? I can almost smell her, you know, I think she smokes weeds, and I think she drinks … that day, her hooves had not been shaven. She just stood there, chained to the floor. I’m surprised she was not smoking, she was so mellow, she must’ve had a few pops.”

“No, she’s just chewing grass, besides, she’s prego, she’s not smokin’” Dr. Keene said. “So, backup, why are you so traumatized? It’s what you do, it’s natural, you’re supposed to be a stud, right?”

“I don’t know anything about being a stud, but it was just weird,” Lord Elmer said. He shook and neighed. “For one thing, the room was padded, ugly puke green padding everywhere, on all the walls, like we’re going to wrestle, as if, and not much hay, very spartan interior, almost clinical.”

“Well, I’ve heard,” Dr. Keene said. He shrugged.

“Worst of all,” Lord Elmer said. He wept and blew his nose, his lispy, gravely voice sounded low. “We were not alone, all these humans were watching, I noticed some above us, behind a huge glass window, filming us, like some sick horse porn – humiliating. Likely all over ThoroubredPlaythings.com, and I’m sure I’m a sensation, it’s about genetics you know.

“Yes, yes … of course,” Dr. Keene said. He clenched his beak and chuckled.

“A couple of them – I can barely remember now – had long plastic gloves on, that’s when I knew trouble, with a capital T, was about to happen. Then the touching, yanking, pulling, tugging, I was not in the mood, but they changed that!”

“Oh dear, I’ve heard,” Dr. Keene said. He shrugged his feathers.

“And next thing I know, my front legs are up in the air, and I’m totally exposed. I sort of shook my hooves, you know, jazz hands style. I just kept looking forward, I smirked at the camera, I told myself to breathe and that it will all be over with soon. And you know, by the way, they didn’t even think to introduce us, or allow me to take her out to pasture; you know, get to know each other –

“Sorry, these folks sometimes forget you have feelings,” Dr. Keene said.

“And I’ll never forget all the lubricants, like I was a machine or something– the horror. Wham-bang, no thank you Lord Elmer … I expected them to say – NEXT!”

“I … see,” Dr. Keene said. He laughed and coughed to clear his feathered throat.

“I’ll never do that again, I won’t do it, never again, I’m bigger than them,” Lord Elmer said. He heaved in a deep breath of Kentucky sunshine. “I feel so used, all they wanted was my magic seed, as Jimmie said, I guess he was trying to warn me.  He said it’s the rules, keep us from over populating – as if.”

Dr. Keene puckered his beak, fluttered his wings and hopped down to the fence line near Lord Elmer’s powerful shoulders.

“Okay, I think I can solve your problem,” Dr. Keene said.

“Oh, thank god,” Lord Elmer said. “Help this memory go away…”

“Well, I have one word for you to remember, okay?” Dr. Keene said. “But, I should explain a few things first.”

“Oh, it’s that simple?” Lord Elmer asked.

“Yes, it will be crystal clear for you, remember this word each time you go to that barn,” Dr. Keene said, “okay?”

“Absolutely,” Lord Elmer said. “But, I’ll never go back there, no matter what.”

“Okay, I think you’ll want to reconsider, but for now, I want you to shut your eyes, listen to me carefully,” Dr. Keene said.

“All right,” Lord Elmer said.

“You should know, I’m an owl, I’m not paid to provide my talk therapy services,” Dr. Keene said.

“What?” Lord Elmer said.

“It’s true, my family and I live on the farm, as long as we hunt for rodents at night,” Dr. Keene said. “It’s how I feed my family, and earn my spot here on the farm. Talk therapy is just daytime work, and an extra benefit to help keep the farm profitable.”

“But, you’re a doctor?” Lord Elmer said. He huffed.

“Yes, went to all the best Owl universities,” Dr. Keene said. He hooted and shrugged.  “But, you should realize the big girl over there that you impregnated will spend the next 11 months of her life allowing her body to create a foal – colt or filly, to be determined. That’s one of the ways they make money. Understood?”

“Yes,” Lord Elmer said. “I have a bad feeling now …”

“My point, this farm needs seeds to grow its product, not corn or soybean, but seed from a thoroughbred, the better the track record, at least at first, the better the stud fee, understood?” Dr. Keene asked.

“Oh, you can’t mean?” Lord Elmer said. He snorted and dipped his head down and scratched at the turf.

“Yes, someone paid a significant fee for you to impregnate that big girl over there,” Dr. Keene said. He shrugged.

“I feel so cheap, so used,” Lord Elmer said. “I simply refuse to allow that to happen again.”

“I think you should realize, your seed helps to keep the farm operating,” Dr. Keene said. He shrugged and twisted his beak. “So, back to that word that will help you.”

“Ah, yes, yes, I’m totally troubled,” Lord Elmer said.

“Now, listen real careful – if you ever read Animal Farm – well, just think about this word,” Dr. Keene said. “GLUE, let me spell it out for you, G-L-U-E.”

Lord Elmer stood stiff and still for several minutes as if a granite statue of Man-O-War. He kept his eyes shut and he barely breathed. His snout flared, his mouth slightly gapped open to reveal his bottom teeth. His dry, pinkish tongue was panting forward like a bubble gum blanket floating in a brisk breeze.

“Did you hear me?” Dr. Keene said.

“Yes … yes I did,” Lord Elmer said. His breathing was erratic, as if about to drown from diving to deep into the ocean.

“Do you have a new perspective?” Dr. Keene asked.

Lord Elmer shook his head and huffed. He shyly grinned over at Dr. Keene. He nickered, and shook his head in agreement. He smirked.

“Well, you know,” Lord Elmer said.  He scratched at the turf as he sheepishly preened for Dr. Keene. “You do know I’m part Arabian and my mother English? I’ve mysterious purebred DNA.”

“What’s that,” Dr. Keene said.

“They do say, I’m – 17 hands of hot deliciousness,” Lord Elmer said. “And, well, I’m rather gifted underneath my tail.”

“Now, that’s the spirit,” Dr. Keene said.

“I guess, I didn’t really appreciate my purpose, until … until now,” Lord Elmer said. “Thank you Dr. Keene.” And he galloped toward his stall to prepare to get to work.

And from that day forward, Lord Elmer lived a happy life, he bravely sired, and sired and sired. He was lucky in racing and in life, he was never shipped off to foreign lands to breed, they brought all the girls to him, three or four times a day. And his offspring raced just under lightspeed, and they won race after race, until one day, one of his progeny won the Kentucky Derby. Upon hearing the news, Lord Elmer instantly died – a smile across his long face. Then, they buried him whole.  All because of a wise old owl, great DNA, and the word – GLUE.

NS

Sex Crazed Teacher – NY Post

Sex Crazed Teacher – NY Post

http://nypost.com/2014/10/19/alleged-...

Unfortunately, the NY Post article about a predatory teacher has become passé. These sort of stories are regularly bubbling up from the nasty sex abuse world. However, I think the article does provide an interesting window into school administration. If I were a parent, the article would cause me to demand an audience with my school administration, and I’d want to know if every teacher has had a background check.

My point, silence is not always golden, and in fact, the children that are abused remain in silence. A silence that can be deadly. If you doubt that, I simply recommend you read the linked PBS article that I have previously featured.

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/next/bod...

NS

I Marvel

I ceased the run,

I knew it was the best my middle-age body could do,

It was my routine to keep my pasty-white body thin,

It was just what I do,

Or, was I just fooling myself,

What do you do?

In reality, does the exertion just keep us sane?

I do not know,

But I’ll try to maintain,

And then I felt a rhythmic cadence from my heart beat pulsing into my moist thumb print,

That I’m still here,

I’m alive,

Alive,

At least, the best I could feel,

Oh well,

Weird, that they tell me my finger prints are unique to me,

Was it not the same for my microscopic DNA?

But I cannot see my DNA, or my thumping heart,

Because if so, I’d be dead,

Thankfully, my invisible heart keeps coursing oxygenated blood through my brain,

It allows me to be -well – me, you know, just the same,

I cannot see the DNA strings that collectively make me – me,

But I think I know they are there,

And then I wonder,

If there was a merciful God watching over me,

Or was God simply hiding inside me,

Whispering into my ear for me to listen?

Listen?

I thought listening to the truth was hard,

Because the truth stripped me bare,

We all like to remain distracted from that conversation,

For sure,

So I shrugged,

Even so, I don’t understand that light of the world stuff,

I adjusted my wet rock band t-shirt – I let my angst feel free to fly,

I have not an answer to any existential thought,

Even so, there are questions that pick at me,

That I do not have answers too, you see?

But what I know for certain,

I am alone,

I am just like everyone,

I face reality on my own terms,

To my fates,

I accept whatever comes my way, wicked or good,

And besides,

I gazed side-to-side at the hustle and bustle,

And I wondered if anyone really cared?

Perhaps I get harpooned like Moby Dick,

A nasty death for sure for my great white blather,

Courtesy from Captain Ahab’s sharp arrow,

And then, attention, attention, my demise was on the news at 11!

But then the pretty talking-head asked, “Now, what about those Texans?”

Even so, I know each season cycles and comes and goes,

Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall,

And I stop at the same street corner, time after time for my beginning and an end,

To seek the journey for my soul,

And wonder if there was a purpose for all the whole,

As my fall breath fades into the dark night,

Sometimes, even now, I cry for hope,

I beg for what might be right,

And I wonder what lives beyond our stratosphere,

Even so,

I hate winter, because winter kills,

So, I have but one idea to share,

Resist the cold, it cheats the heart,

Because I want to leave the Devil in despair,

I’d rather be damned, than to live with regrets,

Because I will fight,

I will scratch and crawl – to my end,

IF it be near or far, it does not matter,

For I will seek an event horizon smiling,

Because I know happiness was already here.

NS

The Adventures of Pink Petunia – #4 – Bacon!

As you can see, I loved the Pinky Bone, and believe me it was an amazing thing to gnaw on. BUT, this might be the shortest lesson I can share. It is quite simple, straight forward and I can express this magic in a single word – BACON!

The author dude gave me a lot of bacon today, and he scratched me behind the ears. It seems his ‘aluminum-matter’ won a foot ball game? I don’t know what that means, and what’s a foot? I have paws. But after I engorged myself with this magical delicacy, I quickly splayed myself across the cold hardwood floor, I could not feel my paws as I took a deliriously well deserved nap. I am loved.

(Author’s Note: There are no pictures of Pink Petunia devouring the bacon, because she horked it down in Nano seconds. I almost lost my fingers to our guard dog. I wonder if canine’s have taste buds – as they inhale their treats?

I don’t know, I know Pink Petunia has a brain tumor the size of a small blueberry hidden behind her left eye. It will eventually take her away from us. So, we have chosen the medication route, and not the option to carve into her skull and radiate the cancer. I want her unstressed, and calm. And I have worked hard to discipline my emotions, as dog’s are quite sensitive. I will not mention cats, felines are evil and they lack any emotion.

But, I guess we are all on a time certain destination, we just don’t know when our last ticket will get punched. So, I don’t care if Pinky gets a little heavy, or has an elevated blood pressure. If she lives the rest of her days in a blissful, tranquil state-of-mind, it would be all that I would ask for me, for my own last days. I guess I’m doing unto Pinky, what I’d want done unto me.

Because …

After God’s tap on our shoulders, I hope we all gracefully pass away – doing and being with those that we love,  and die with a childlike grin and a surprised expression that it was our turn.)

NS

The Adventures of Pink Petunia – Lesson #3 – The Pinky Bone

I think this is my best lesson to date, and even though it is only #3, I think it is the lesson that should be remembered – daily!  Perhaps it was from the late evening glow that the idea, thought, concept, or a deceptively simple habit embraced me.  It seems so simple, Pink Petunia, a lady of leisure, well, that night I even got a Akaushi Beef bone from my royal subjects.

They NEVER give me bones, as in, never, ever, ever … It had to be a special occasion, because they rarely leave me to go ‘out-and-about’ much, and besides, I don’t even know what that sort of beef was, but the remnants were, in a word, “WOOF!”

But let me show you what I mean…

IMG_0522

Of course, not unlike post-Thanksgiving, after I devoured the Pinky Bone, I did what all canine brethren do, I took a restful nap. And yes, I snore louder than an obese 60-year old, long haul truck driver-  parked for the night after ingesting a juicy triple-cheese and PBR tall-boy six-pack.

IMG_0411

What has brought me to this lesson –  comes from what the pasty-white author dude said to me the other night. And I quote, “Pinky, within each stolen moment, I think we see paradise.” I merely responded in the only way I know, I said, “Woof!” And then I rolled onto my back and begged for a belly scratch. (Of course, he gave in, and even gave me an asparagus treat – SAP!)

Instinctively, I know something is not quite right with me, because of all the doctor visits and the nasty tasting things they put in my food from these vessels. I will tell you, they are a big YUCK! But if I don’t take them, well, I get the big gag-o-finger, down the throat move, from you-know-who!

Perhaps, what Mr. Author Dude was trying to tell me, it’s the moments my royal subjects hold me close in the middle of the night, after I wake up with moist fur, and I’m shaking from a nightmare, a nightmare that I do not remember. And then the author dude takes me into his office, so I can lay down on the cold bathroom tile. And the blond business babe can get a good night’s sleep.

Or, perhaps it’s the time we spend together as they wait for me to do my bid-ness. Or, it’s the time the blond one, you know the business woman with the fancy shoes, well, she spends a great deal of time on Sunday’s giving me a luxurious, soapy bath. And then she blow dry’s my fur as she brushes through any tangle-wangles, after all, a lady needs to be properly, professionally groomed.

But, I guess what the author dude meant by, “within those stolen moments, I saw paradise…”, was that each day we should hold those that we love close. And each day we should express in our own fashion – the fact that we love those that we choose to hold close to our heart. Because he told me, he thinks from each spark from a happy moment – it flashes in our mind’s-eye like a 1960’s paparazzi flashbulb, and then it becomes an fading ember within our memory.

And then, he reminded me, after the lightning storm, Devine Providence shares a colorful rainbow that only hints at the perfection that awaits us within the harmony known as a hoped for paradise.

So, at each happy moment, we should take a picture postcard within your mind’s-eye, and then file it away in an easily retrieved spot – for the times we need to clutch onto a happy smile, a wondrous laugh. After all, it is a choice to seek happiness, so we should choose your happy trigger from a happy collection of stolen snap shots.

For one day into the future, we will all become a memory for those that loved us, and it should be a happy memory from all the collective times that formed a whole life. A life well spent.

Now, even though I know I’m a dog, I do feel the sensation that they love me. And I do feel the author dude gently scratching behind my ears. And I feel at ease, I feel sleepy.

I think I will roll over and go back to sleep, as I know they are always nearby me, watching over me, and making sure all my needs are met. After all, I’m a lady.

NS

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Sister at 50

50 years old? Funny idea, it seems so casual to express your age at the DMV before they digitally mash your fingerprints, and then they coldly snap your candid jailhouse photo with your eyelids half-shut, that hopefully does not end up on the evening news. But, like the day you were born, or the moment you will die – they are specific dates to your life’s journey. I wonder at what point in our life we stopped expressing our age in months or halves, as in, “I’m 5 and 1/2 or, I’m 7 and 3 months.” And we begin to round down our age? “I’m 48, but I’m closer to 49.” No, I’m 48 until further notice, thank you very much gray hairs.

I think life is meant to be lived in the present tense, because as we age, we begin to realize we don’t get a lifetime mulligan, a do-over, or any real second-chances. Right? We live, right now!

So, my lovely sister has lived to the age of 50. Yeah! I won’t show her picture, that would embarrass her, you see, she’s a bit shy. But, I bet those reading this blog post can remember a traumatizing moment from their childhood’s with your brother’s or sister’s nearby mentally recording the moment, that on special occasions like birthdays, weddings or funerals they decide to remind you about?

I do.

I remember the time my sister stood there barefooted in the JCPenney’s department store near the girl’s brown changing room curtains. She appeared humiliated from being the ‘adults’ – blushing Caucasian, child-spectacle-on-display, as she modeled what would now be considered on ETSY ‘a vintage red colored Polly Flinder’s dress’. Her brown haired, five-year old brother, (that would be me), was nearby with a mischievous smirk, pleased that it was her turn to be the seven-year old spawn being gawked at as if she were not there, and being talked about in the third-person. And not to be forgotten the unmerciful parental dapping of their saliva onto a handkerchief – to wipe away your childhood grime. Oh that smell, YUCK!

I have more memories, but I’ll keep them hidden. I have a strong sense I have the proverbial, ‘sword of my sister’ hanging above me, that if I share more examples, Damocles would nudge her to use it. And I don’t want to be sliced up into sushi sized pieces to entertain her two, now adult, young men. After all, she’s a lot smarter than me.

However, I should point out, our DNA was sprinkled with 23 defective, drunken, dark Appalachian coal dusted chromosomes, but brightened from an altered genetic code that had bloomed from 23 sober religious tolerance chromosomes that had been driven from Route 66’s termination point, navigating east, from a time when young men were advised to go west, as they were called by God direct from California – with a brief stopover to pay their respects in a Kansas farm’s cemetery.

It should not be overstated that sometimes in life, luck counts, and even though we did not win Gold at the Sperm Olympics, and they did not play our countries fight song, we did get a respectable fourth-place ribbon, and a friendly pat on the back.

By the way, it would be easy for me to provide visual proof my sister wore ‘cat-woman ’ framed glasses, that might get her noticed today as a fashion trend setter, but there has to be point when sister-cruelty ends, and the half-life adds up to a whole memory.

And if you possess a kind beating heart, I think there are childhood wounds that need to remain encased within a psychic nuclear fallout shelter.  A location remembered and only to be expressed by the sibling’s quick glance to the other, and followed by the ‘let’s move on’ shrug. I think that’s why God invented bourbon, and the responsible consumption of said auburn colored Kentucky nectar with shaved ice, for those special occasions when a good laugh needs to be artificially induced.

So, to be specific, my sister has entered her 50’s. But that’s not specific, in her 50’s? In reality, she has just barely crossed that middle-aged, date-line, but even so, she had a birthday. I, of course, was not there – which is typical for me.

But as I sit here writing, I don’t think this younger brother can express how much he loves his older sister using the King’s English. And I don’t know any other language. This younger brother only possesses modest writing skills, with rudimentary grammar knowledge.

I might do better if the words I’ve hooked together were expressed via the hillbillies’ red-neck language, and then read out loud with a twangy preacher man cadence. But I hide my Kentucky accent, thanks to a loving Nebraska influence. And I get uncomfortable watching someone speak in ‘tongues’, or I hate feeling trapped in a church service being assured I had chosen the wrong fork in the road, and I am heading down the evil path to burn in Hell, and then endlessly being spit-roasted by a fire breathing Satan.

Even so, given my defective nature, I can write a simple, clear note in the present tense to my still quite pretty sister, who has clear blue, doe-eyed eyes.

I love you.

NS

Bluegrass

Have you ever tak’en to runnin’ across a thick grass field at dusk?

To sprint alone unaware there ain’t no ever, no end,

The fall leaves they be a turnin’, but I’m a child so I’m not aware,

Summer fireflies they long be gone, but the scent of cattle hay rolled into thick bales now be ready for the winter barn,

As I chase that yellow sun settin’ at the evenin’ point,

I chase it ‘till I have no more air in my maturing lungs,

And I wonder,

But then I fall into the Kentucky Bluegrass,

I be rollin’ and turnin’ within my blue green reed blanket,

And I remember the moment I felt perfect love.

 

The Adventures of Pink Petunia – Lesson #2 – The Doctor Visit

I am fortunate the author dude, you know the silly looking bow tie wearing human to the right – he keeps my busy calendar well organized. As I have a great deal of daily activities, napping under his desk, snoring, breakfast, dinner, treats, treats and more treats, the regular belly rub or belly scratch, my constitutional walks, then playing with my rope, and of course the grooming sessions to brush my thick fur. I am first and foremost, a lady.

But I’m also a guard dog, I am a fierce hunter that has to inspect my kingdom each and every day for any ‘evil-doers’. However, as I told you from my first lesson, I would never go back into ‘HER’ closet! The fancy shoe flashbacks, that brown-eyed dagger stare she gave me – OH THE CANINITY! It can be quite a grind to pack all these rituals into one day. Woof! Woof!

But, I decided to share my experiences from going to visit the doctor.

    

So, the other day, I knew something was up, and a field trip was about to happen. How did I know? Well, the travel bag emerged. As you can see, it is my exclusive comfortable space for me to be hoisted about my world by the author dude, or from time to time the blonde business executive female will assist with my regal travel schedule. Hey, the Pope’s got his Popemobile, and I fit quite comfortably within my travel accommodations, a sort of Pink Petunia’s Queenship.

For those within my canine specie I recommend the following preparations. First, I get the brush down with a few sprays from the bottle of sweet smelling stuff. I think my fans that I encounter along my travels should feel my soft fur and also leave the experience with a special fragrance to remember ‘THE Pinky’.  (check) I wear my collar. (check) And I demand my special going to the doctor leash. (check)

Before I knew it I was strapped into our carriage with my doctor visitation card in-paw, so I can be properly presented. I even noted the extra poo bag, I thought that was a nice additional backup plan in the event I need to make some ‘bid-nez’. I appreciate my driver’s extra prep work for my travels.

After a short drive we arrived at the doctor’s office. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned there are other types of doctors. The author dude explained, but I have not a clue what he was talking about. I’m a dog. But the ladies at the front desk dug my appearance. It was not their fault, I am THE Pinky. I think they wanted to get me a treat, but we were there on business. Woof!

After a brief wait next to a tranquil sounding water fall, I was efficiently wisked through to my nurses who immediately adored me, and checked me out. I am quite lovely.

HOWEVER, does my face below tell a story? As in I got my temperature taken … ah, I prefer this area to be an ‘exit-only’ part of my personage. Woof! I even – Yelped! I know my nurse appears to be easy going, but trust me, do NOT turn your back to her!

Thankfully, after the poking and prodding stopped, I was able to walk-it-off and inspect the area for any ‘evil-doers’. I sensed my suite had been habitated by others within my species. So, I decided to leave a reminder that THE Pinky had been here. I lost a few lb’s, hmm, perhaps they should have re-weighed me? I mean a girl’s got to watch her belly.

It was not long until my doctor walked into the room. He’s very, very smart and quite professional and nice He checked me out. He talked to the author dude about me, I think it had to do with my blackouts, all I know is I have these shaking episodes, and let me tell you they leave me exhausted and I look like I was foaming at the mouth. That is not a good look for a lady like me – paw-leez!

I immediately gazed into my doctor’s eyes in my attempt to cast one of my favorite spells on him. I know he has extra special abilities, as he is from Kentucky, just like me and the author dude. I knew I would extract a treat from him. BUT, all my efforts did not work, this one seemed strong to me… hmm, hmm. He was resistant to my charms. I must be getting old and they do say casting your spells does begin to falter first. (Well, shrug)

Well, the good news was that the doctor invited me back in a few weeks. I look forward to feeling special again, and I just knew he would want to stare into my brown eyes again. It’s not his fault, I’ve got gifted DNA. Oh well, and before I knew it we were back into our carriage. The author dude didn’t look as happy as normal, he looked a bit sad.

But before I knew it, I was exhausted from all the adulation, and I decided to take a nap as we journeyed back toward my regal kingdom. I sleep, therefore I am Pink Petunia.

NS