Sock and Buskin

The Secret of My Success

I Live in a Clown Motel

Working at a motel has helped me to appreciate that we are all just travelers here. We come, we stay awhile, and we return from whence we came. Some come and find pleasure, others find only pain. Some come to find Love, others live and die with hearts of dust. Some come to bask in the light, others complain day and night,  "It's too damn bright!" Some come and plan to be somewhere else but always stay here. Some would like to come, but they'll never make it, I fear. Some come for direction, but go disappointed because you can't get there from here. Some come beautiful but leave a mess. Some come and go, "Jesus Monica! What's that stain on your dress?" Some come from cradle to grave clean and clear. Others carry a briefcase that's a vanishing case of beer. Some stay so long you wish they'd commit suicide. Others come and go so fast they don't have time to say good-bye. Some come and ponder, "What's this traveling all about?" Others go hunting for white tailed deer and fishing for trout.  As for me, I'm amazed at all the travelers, hikers, and passing company. Please, say good-bye and drop of the key before you leave.

My Asshole Brother

There are few things in life that will totally fuck up your life than an asshole brother, especially if he is an opinionated, asshole brother like mine. Doubly so, if he is an opinionated, asshole brother who inflicts his options on you, not only without your consent, but without so much as consulting you. That, my friends, is what cancer does. It also shares a similar genetic makeup. Now, the cancer doesn't think, nor will it ever admit, that it's doing you any harm. After all, can't we all just get along. Your life is too short (and getting shorter by the minute) for such trivial matters as chemotherapy. Live and let metastasize. You see, the cancer is helping you. It's making you stronger, just like it. Who wouldn't want to be a tumor? In an inconvenient location? Destroying the very flesh you love and live... Who? I ask you, Who?

Every-fucking-body EXCEPT the cancer. 

The cancer holds a very high regard for itself. So high, it cannot imagine anyone ever wanting to be anything else. If they did... they would be mad. Stark raving mad. They would have to be. I mean, look at me... I'm cancer!

Beautiful, destructive to others, powerful, and God damn successful! I'm more popular than everything except heart disease, but I'm gaining ground... self-consecrated ground. Which is exactly where I should stand because I'm a blessing. Every word I speak should be recorded in the Great Quotes of Humanity. I make the most interesting man in the Universe look dull. There is only one thing I don't understand... with seven billion people on this planet, why I am the only one fit to command.

CANCER RULES! 

FORMIDABLE and WISE

When I was a child, my father would say the most peculiar things; odd things, indecipherable things, things beyond my five year-old comprehension. Being intellectually lazy and a quick study, I learned how to react to his curious utterances by mimicking the reactions of the adults in the room. My father was a formidable man and I understood that we were all pretending to understand his incomprehensible utterances. It made perfect sense as a five year-old. Hell, it makes perfect sense to me today at fifty-one. Like I said, my father was a formidable man.

One day my father was speaking about an unmarried cousin who was about to become a father when he made the most enigmatic comment he ever spoke,

"A stiff Dick has no conscience."

I understood to take my cue from the adults in the room, bow my head and look remorseful. I understood that this Dick guy was not a nice boy. I understood that we didn't have any cousins named Dick. I understood my father was formidable man and a complete mystery at times.

Today, I see so many overworked, exhausted unwed mothers and now these many years later...

I understand my father was both formidable and wise.

With Love for the Ladies

Men are truly simple creatures.
We come in tall or short,
fat or thin, and rich or poor.
That’s the extent of our diversity.
Don't bother looking for more.

One additional attribute
Bound to catch your eye
Is the boundless almost innumerable
Clans of "asshole” we currently occupy.

If I tried my best to hazard a guess
The Sarcastic Asshole Clan is mine
Where I have resided for a very long time

Women are a different creation, you see
When my song is sung your girl will be like
Finally a man who understands me!
Please don't take that personally.
The lyrics are an education
Learn quickly gents while the tuition is free.

There are many things a
Woman can and will be
one at a time up to twenty-three
simultaneously, maybe more.
I lose track constantly.
Count on your fingers or just nod
and smile along with me.
Here we go fasten your seat belts
tightly...

She can be
The last breath of Fall
The first hint of Spring
Awkward at times
but always a Beautiful thing.

Her voice is a perfect tenor.
the angels say, “God sent her.”
Have you heard her sing
(Yup, a beautiful thing)

She’s a cool summer shower
A hot masseuse who won't
Charge by the hour.
It's a contract deal you see
Is that seven or eight so far
It's a mystifying mystery

She’s a mom and a mistress,
A professional prom dress seamstress
She'll make an igloo a cozy place
With her tasteful knickknacks she got
at a steal shopping with Whatsherface
Her best friend for twenty years,
but her weird name always escapes.
So, it's "Whatsherface".

Now, I've lost my place, oh yeah
She's a Maytag repairman,
Sorry, Miss, repair ma'am
Do the math or a make a wild guess
You'll be wrong at what comes next.

Aw, what the hell? She changed
from a bathing beauty into an alchemist.
She'll turn lead to gold while feeding the
Baby on her breast, with absolutely no mess.
Hell, the baby and I are both impressed

When she enters the room,
She’s the girl next door
Meets Rosie the Riveter
Who won the Second World War
(While being cute)

Germans never knew what hit ‘em.

"Mine Got! It vas a whole bunch of Vimen!"

She’s got the caboose and the engine
Home or office freight train
running just a little late again
She had to stop to make snowmen
in the pouring rain.
Don’t ask her to explain
There she goes again!

She’s a doctor, nurse,
And ambulance driver
A sushi chef or a
Deep sea diver.




She’s a Queen, Jack,
Or a fighter Ace. 

Just give her ten minutes 

to put on her face.
An hour or so will go to waste.
(She was beautiful to begin with!)

That’s okay she can win the race
At the gym, the mall, office
or for that parking space.

"Back off! It’s mine!"

That's the Parking Lot
Asshole Clan kind.

She’s a silent poem and
Every love song.
In an argument you’ll
Always be wrong.
(Don’t you love that?)

In the end we both win
Some tender loving and...
What was that problem again?
(It never mattered)

She’s a broker, a banker,
and a naughty boy
Bare bottom spanker.

Ouch!

She’ll be late on foot,
by car, or unicycle.
She’s insists she can be
late for anything...
except her menstrual cycle.
(Amen!)

She’ll get the kids to bed on time
On that you can bet your last dime.
(She wills it!)

She’s a soothing ointment
or a witches brew
At night she’ll be a fine wine
In a glass or two
So will you when it’s
Just the two of you
Dancing around the room
Like you used to do
(Why’d we ever stop?)

She’ll fall asleep
With her head on your chest
In the morning, you made
Her hair a mess!
Hair Messing Asshole Clan 

is my guess.

She’s a caregiver
And a lunch order taker
An interior designer
And birthday cake baker

She’ll plant a garden
Watch it bloom
It’s her laughter
That lights up the room
(I love you.)

She’s Mrs. Santa, a reindeer,
Or a friendly elf,
Cleopatra, Laura Croft
Or Mother Eve, herself.

She’s a photo finish
And the forbidden fruit
She’s the hottest model
in a photo shoot

Well, guys this song is
down to the wire.
Put it to work.
you’ll discover
I’m no liar..

We’re just simple men
Short, fat, lean, or tall
So, for the ladies let's take a
moment of pause in awe.
(Look into her eyes, dummy.)
Now, let’s give ‘em all
A HUGE round of applause!
(Keep clapping. No, seriously keep clapping.)

Keep loving them, too
That’s the best we
simple creatures can do
A goodnight to the ladies
And your simple creatures, too.

HTB Chronicills - Current Crimes, Vol. III (An HTB Alcohology)

Character Color Index:
  Narrator’s lines: Black Text
  Author’s lines: Red Text
  Harold’s lines: Snorted hours ago

Begin your journey where you’ll meet Harold’s Tails. Stagger forwardish through Harold’s HTB Chronic-ills: Collection of Current Crimes, Vol. III the first two are in hock at the pawn shop (just like Spielberg when he started Star Wars with Episode IV). Meet Harold the Bum and his assortment of sordid sorts; mostly habitual, usually criminal, one magical, another non-corporeal, and a couple are exclusively cranial. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll throw up blood, and die. It will be fun, you’ll see. Follow me, I’m the Narrator who knows all and sees all. You’d be amazed at all the stuff I know. Being a Narrator is about as close to being God as any entity can achieve without being the Supreme Being. So, if you have any quest…

(Indecipherable grumbling from off stage.)

Well, I just thought it might be nice if the audience could participate in a dialogue with the Narra…

(Much louder and angry indecipherable grumbling from off stage.)

No… Very well. Okay then, we’ll do that then…

(Narrator resumes his PROPER function sharing his nothing like God, limited scope of knowledge with the audience as written by the author, who is much closer to The Maker, being a maker of things unlike narrators)

Yes, we’ll since the audience has read all that, I’ll just continu…

As written! As written!

Okay, I get it. I get it. (In a tone of exaggerated sincerity, the narrator resumes) Narrator resumes his proper function sharing his nothing like God, limited scope of knowledge with the audience as written by the author, who is much closer to The Maker, being a maker of things himself, unlike narrators.
(Narrator snaps) There! Was that good enough!?

(Author’s turn: Sounds of a backstage brawl which carries on for several minutes as audience listens to the pleading and alternate screams of the narrator, and then concludes with the narrator’s whimpering and sobs. Finally, thank Author, the narrator continues his narration after being penned a good thrashing in a “come to Author” encounter. A thrashing which could be easily and almost infinitely repeated should Author so choose. Anytime, anywhere, buddy.
Now, begin again.

(In a tone of serious fucking contrition, the narrator resumes) 

Meet Harold the Bum *sob* and his assortment of sordid sorts; mostly habitual, usually criminal, one magical, another non-corporeal (narrator motions an imperceptible finger at his undetectable self), and a couple of them are exclusively cranial. *sob, sniffle* You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll throw up blood, and die. It will be fun, you’ll see. Follow me, to the land of dry heave, stomach churning thrills, millions of rats, and unidentified pills, catch the latest, easily-transmitted and always terminal case of The HTB Chronic-ills.

You go ahead. I’m not feeling very well. I’ll catch up later. *sob* And now a word from our sponsor…

HTB’sHomeless Academy 

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There's more to come from your resident bum... when he sobers up, because education is the only way to fully grasp how fucked you really are.

"It doesn't take a village to raise a child. 

However, it does take a village to raise an idiot."

Hurray we're Fucked

Thomas Midgley Jr. is not a common household name, but it aught to be. Tom was a chemist who solved one of humanity’s pesky issues with the internal combustion engine. Knock and ping was nearly eradicated by Mr. Mingley’s innovative idea to supplement gasoline with safe cheap and effective lead. He was subsequently awarded the prestigious American Chemical Society’s Nichols Medal in 1922 for his contribution to a greatly enhanced chemical society. A few years later, a few minor issues of greatly reduced sanity, lucidity, and rationality was noted at the factory where Tom’s Ethyl gasoline was refined. Tom created one minor issue which may have lead led to the extinction of all life on Earth. Tom went on to invent chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs) to propel our deodorant and expel our ozone. The deleterious affects of CFCs went unnoticed until some 30 years, and a hole in the ozone half the size of the Atlantic Ocean, later. Bill Bryson remarked of Midgley, “[He had] an instinct for the regrettable that was almost uncanny.” You win some, mentally handicap others, and you almost lose everyone. That’s life. What the hell are you going to do?

Another scientist, whose name is equally alien to household discussions, stumbled upon Midgley’s oversight when he noted the ozone was evaporating faster than the Kardashian’s television ratings and an alarming number of terrestrial species, Kardashians most notably, were going retarded from lead gasoline additive. This researcher probably received a grant and a wall plaque before continuing on to fuck up other things someone else will have to figure out someday. That’s science. What the hell did you do?

In an attempt to restore his good name, Midgley would demonstrate how safe his lead laden hydrocarbons were by washing his hands in and huffing the gas for thirty seconds at a time. Inhalant abuse has seldom improved one's social standing, however his performance did improve the marketability of leaded gasoline for a few decades. That's hypoxia. He's turning blue.

In the golden years of Midgley’s life, chemistry’s karmic clown came a calling, and awarded Tom with a crippling case of polio. This may bring a smug smile of Gia’s retribution to both my post-modern druid and Seattle environmentalist readers. That’s misanthropy. What the hell is wrong with you?

Being the creative/ destructive being that Tom Midgley proved to be, he solved one of polios pesky paralysis issues by devising a harness, rope, and pulleys system which allowed others to get his now medal and award weighted, yet paralyzed body out of bed. Being a man of reason, Tom was woefully unaware of the finality karmic clown’s expect from their paybacks. Their motto is, “When the clown puts you down, God damn it, stay down.” That’s liable. What the hell is a Karmic clown going to do?

Before Tom could receive another award for his mechanical marionette ingenuity, the clown dropped the curtain on Tom when he became entangled in his harness and ropes which strangled him to death. Druids and environmentalists offer a standing ovation. That's ironic, and it's all true.