Midnight Madness

Let’s take 10 seconds for a station identification break.  Do radio stations get amnesia?  I can see wanting to fucking kill yourself if you tune jockey at 157.6 F.M. The Breeze, where they play all Kenny G all the time.  But forgetting what station you are?  Nah.  If that were true, there would be a Lifetime Movie for Women, Amnesiacs and Amnesiacs who think they are women.

This message is being brought to you by Insanity.  When low oxygen flow or acute trauma to the brain just isn’t enough, quit taking your meds and turn to those good ole’ voices in your head.  If you can’t do it, maybe some of you can.

“It is what it was.”  This is my wife describing something that was and still is.  See, it happened, so it was.  It also still happens every time you talk about it happening.  So, it is.  Flow charts are being passed out at the back of the room.  Use only Number 2 pencils – and don’t eat the paste.

I think I’m being stalked by Transformers.  No, I don’t mean there are a bunch of men dressed like women chasing me around.  I am referring to the fact that Transformers II seems to be on every time the ole Samsung HD DirectTV Super Charged Flat Screen with the remote control an Indian who wind-talked in WWII couldn’t figure out is powered on.  This is the second time I’ve seen that shit today.  I don’t know what is scarier.  It always being on?  Me continuing to watch it?  Or me writing about it always being on while watching it?

I’m going to mass market a new brand of mental health therapy I discovered – Cock Therapy.  No ladies and gay men, don’t get your throats up.  I’m talking about good, ole fashioned wild life observation.  Watching chickens, you idiot!  I have found over the course of a Summer that people seem to naturally calm down while watching yardbirds go about their ignorance.  The vast majority of the chickens in the backyard scratch and they pick (Hayes Carll.  iTune him, and we’ll talk.).  After many cases of assorted swill varieties, many of those still standing have had monikers thrown about themselves.  We can’t really tell if they like them or not, because chickens are fucking stupid.  Well, really, we don’t give a damn if they like them or not.  Because, ultimately, chickens are fucking stupid AND they are fucking food.  According to the Chicken Bill of Rights, chickens have the right to remain edible.  But apparently being given a name saves you from the strangulating stylings of my dad’s right arm.   Statistically speaking, the right arm is the best wringing arm, as I’m sure any of you who have choked a chicken or two before have discovered.  I’ve never seen the circle of life, but I have seen Ed (my dad) spring the circle of death on many an unsuspecting yardbird.

There really is no madness to his method.  He walks into the yard, and picks up the motherfucker dumb enough to come near him.  Now, he will not pick up Goldie, Blackie Diamonds, Scratch, Scritch, Alton, Sylvia or any of the guineas.  There may be some others that have not been named, but they’ll have to be mentioned at a later date.  I don’t take fucking attendance when I go out there.  Back to the death.  So, Ed grabs the yardbird by the head, drops the body and starts moving his arm in a violently fast circle.  This causes a moderate to severe separation of the neck and head of the yardbird.  Once the feathered 8 piece bucket is separated from the weasel meat, the bucket-to-be runs around the yard like, well, a chicken with its head cut off.  I guess chickens are the only things on the planet that tear out once they physically lose their mind.  You can lay the dark meat meal on its back to keep it from entering the death 100 meter dash, but what fuckin’ fun would that be?  You have to get some sport out of it.  It ain’t like you can dress in clothes that only hide you from blind animals, drink beer, shoot more shit than animals and hunt those motherfuckers.   Have you ever seen a chicken fly?  Prince didn’t write a song about that shit.  What would the hunting limit on chickens be?  A 16 piece family meal per person, per day?  Could you kill three, three piece wing meals with one tag?  Would there be different limits for extra crispy versus original?  Would Lee’s Famous Recipe be considered a protected species?  My pappy told me they’s used to be a lot more Lee’s Famous Recipes, back before city folk started movin’ on out in the hollers with all their fancy needs for lectricity, faucet water and indoor toilets.  He said befer ye knew it, the Colonel had come to town and done convinced everyone from Holler West to Holler East that throwin’ a bird in an atom splitter-type contraption was the only way to eat yardbird.

So, like I meant to say about 2 run-on sentences ago, after the bird is previously alive meat, Ed dips the bird in water.  The yardbird becomes waterfowl for a brief moment.  The water is approximately the temperature of Holy water when I show up late for mass.  You dip the bird in heavily heated H2O for facilitating the defrocking of its feathers.  Back in the olden days of my hatching, the method of doing so was boiling water and good ole fashioned hand pulling.  This took longer than two shakes of a lambs tale I’ll tale ye.  Then, after all was de-feathered and done, you had to singe the remaining whisker-like anomalies off with heat produced by a burner off a gas stove.  Well, times they have a changed-ed.  You think ole Bobby D thought he was pontificating on chicken murderin’ when he sung such?  Ed has purchased a circular vestibule that connects via hosiery to a water source, as indicated by its easy to ignore instructions.  It’s got wirin’ and such connected to a plug that can be plugged directly into a baby trap or extension cord.  You turn the thing on, let go of the Earth juice and drop the bird into the center of this depanting oscillator.  It’s got these “rubber finger” things that pulls the feathers out while the bird bounces around on the inside.  Basically, think of a big cock ring with French feather ticklers.   That works on so many levels, I might have to put on a hard hat and frame a fucking garage.  The feathers are pushed out the back by the water.  Within 15 seconds, you’ve got yourself a nude bird ready to be gutted.  And the gutting…well that is a story for a different day.  I can’t blow all my wad talkin’ cock in one day.

If Transformers can look so real in a movie, why does plastic surgery look so fucking fake?  Titties ain’t round.  They shouldn’t be able to be traced by your kindergartner who is working on capital O’s.  Noses aren’t suppose to look like the Straight of Barbara Walters, or whatever the fuck.  Nostrils are normal.  We’ve all got them.  Skin does not naturally look so tight that pelts could be tanned on it.  Buckskin is a type of hat.  Not after plastic surgery aftershave.  Pecs ain’t square or rhomboidal.  Asses don’t naturally look uplifted and Brazilian, unless a hot chick from Rio Dinero is standing on her head.  That can’t be natural, because you’d sprain your wrist or break a digit every time you had to wipe your ass.

No matter which way your Flowbee blows, you’ve don’t really care about who was REALLY at fault for Tiger’s divorce.  Everybody blames it all on his serial, kinky philandering.  Bullshit.  It was her fault.  She’s Swedish.  Everyone knows them motherfuckers don’t ever stand up to anything.  She’s also albino.  Tiger should be allowed to pick up some puss with pigmentation every so 18 holes or so.  She was also dumb enough to stay at home.  I guess she’s never read the magazine she is appearing on the cover of, which is on newsstands now.  Give me a break People.  If she had read one episode of that rag, she’d see that the rich and famous are supposed to pawn their kids off on a bevy of nannies, maids, helpers and other hanger-ons.  Who has time to parent when you’re galactically rich?  Photo ops and text message updates are good enough.  Rich people who try to parent eventually start beating their kids with coat hangers.  And while the kids are getting beat, they’re wishing their parents would go back to partying and leaving the premises.  “Help me Page One.  You’re my only hope.”  You’re going to need a copy of Sanskrit Metaphors for Dummies to figure that one out.