Should I Go For It? Naw. Screw it.

Wad’yall Say?

ShouldI go for it?

‘Could’ I go for it?

(I ‘could’ and ‘would’ really use the ten bucks!)

Enthusiastic Homer Says

“Hell-To-The-Hell Yeah!

Will definitely require some strong, mighty resolve and determination. Not to mention uncommon valor and courage…

And…

Some

REINFORCEMENTS!

So I sent out an urgent ‘Mayday! Mayday!’ to Three-Star General Woodbridge requesting he Muster his Marines:

Through a secure internet line I was able to listen in ‘real-time’ as The General briefed his men:

“Men, I’m not gonna Bullshit you, nor sugar-coat this. We are tasked with a very dangerous mission, fraught with peril. But I know you are up to the job. Many Men will die; not return alive, but remember this: No man left behind.”

Our mission is simple in concept, but will be difficult in execution. We have received a recon film from our man on the ground. He bravely risked his life in obtaining this intelligence, so pay close attention.”

Additionally, Sergeant Ihrke will be passing out a complete ‘Mission Objectives Packet’ containing still photographs and the most up-to-date intelligence available regarding the current situation on the ground.”

“Sergeant, you may proceed.”

Sergeant Shannon Ihrke USMC

Study all these items carefully, closely, and completely, with nothing but ‘attention to detail’ and the successful completion of the Mission Objective in the forefront of your minds.”

Succinctly put, our sole Mission is to Clean-Up This Shithole, taking as few casualties as Our Almighty General ‘Chesty’ Puller, will allow.”

(“RIP, Oh Great One”)

“Wheels up at zero five hundred hours.”

“OK. That’s it then!”

Now, let’s go Get Some!

“Fall Out!”  

Recon Film:

MUST STUDY THIS ONE FIRST MEN

Street Cred for Vid: Lance Marcom

***

Items Contained in the Mission Objectives Packet For Your Perusal Below.

But Be Thee Forewarned, The ‘Packet’ Was Compiled By a Moron: Possessing Not Much ‘Intelligence’ for an ‘Intelligence Officer.”

Not Sure If Any Value To The Marines

Oh My Goodness! We Got Ourselves a Natural Disaster!

Yep! A Natural Disaster!

Heavy casualties taken

But we were not yet done

We stacked them up as cordwood

‘Til the Battle could be Won!

A Brief Interlude To Take You From The Carnage,

If Only For A Moment:

A War Poem”

By Lance A. Marcom

I Knocked a beer off my chair

It spilt everywhere

I wept

I cried

I did not die

(Just opened a new one)

And Carried On!

And Was Happy Again.   

We Captured A Spy Who Had Stealthily Penetrated In Behind Our Lines.

We Executed Him On The Spot

Having Been Thusly Compromised, General Woodbridge Ordered We Fortify Our Defenses.

We Did So

With A Bigger Wall

Coming Under Heavy Artillery Fire

We Were Forced To Hunker-In-Our-Bunker

The Enemy Was Amassing Large Numbers of Troops For A ‘Tet Offensive’

When It Finally Came

We Doggedly Held Our Ground.

And Punished Them All Around

Thusly They Ended Their

‘Gallipolian Endeavor in Shame

***

The War Dragged On For Months and Months

The Men Were Growing More and More

Fatigued and Morose

“How Long Will This Bullshit Go On?”

Could Often Be Heard About The Mess Tent At Night

Morale Was Low

***

Then One Day Word Came Down That ‘Peace’ Talks Were On-Going Somewhere In Europe.

“Paris, France” Was The Scuttlebutt

Made ‘Parfait’ Sense To ‘Moi

Those ‘Frogs’ Sucked At War, But They Were Damn Talented When It Came Time To Sue For Peace.

At Any Rate, Morale Was Lifted By The News.

This War Had Become Not Unlike ‘The Korea’, or Perhaps ‘The Nam‘, Or Perhaps ‘Le Deux’.

A ‘See-Saw’ War of Attrition

It Simply No Longer Made No Sense

Nor Showed No Sign of Contrition

We Had Gained A Little Ground, But Nowhere Near Enough To Justify All The Lives Lost Or Destroyed

***

Late One Evening Some of the Men Were Rummaging Around in the Galley Looking For a ‘Late-Night Snack’

Don’t Despair About The Frigidaire,

‘Cuz Now It’s Clean In There

Just Take My Word. You’ll Have To:

I’m Outta Film

Suddenly The Communications Officer Appeared, Running And Screaming Throughout The Camp:

“The War is OVER! The War is OVER!

‘Cease-Fire’ Effective in Twenty-Four Hours!”

Joyous Pandemonium Quickly Ensued

Whoa! Not-So-Fast Hot-Rod!

Twenty-Four Hours Can Be a

Very, Very Long Time

Beaucoup Bullshit Can Go Down in Twenty-Four Hours

After That Initial Orgasmic Spurt of Elation The Men Grew Nervous and Paranoid

Never A Great State Of Mind For A Fighting Man

No One, it Seemed, Wished to be The Last Man To Die in ‘Marcom’s Hooch War’

****

With The War ‘Over’

(For The Time-Being)

Things Settled Into ‘Détente Lite’

Nothing Left To Fight

The ‘Cold War’ Did Commence

And Stuck Us On The Fence

And Even More Stressing

The Bills Kept A-Coming

Never ‘Paid’ Them Much Attention Before

Way Too Busy, So… Ignore

But No Way Now To Relieve That Stress Somehow

Nor The Boredom

I Suppose I Could Work On Cleaning My Hooch Some More…

My Depravity Knows No Boundary

I have stocked up on Honourable Food & Beverage.

Brain-Food, Health-Food, Writer’s-Food & Liquid Propulsion.

Should be able to ‘Honourably’ Write Now.

I splurged and purchased a surprise ‘treat’ for the Gnats

*Evil Grin*

Yeah. Gonna give them the night off, so that they may binge–watch

“Alien”

Can you spot the ‘Surprise’ out of the

‘Many Other Myriad’ Goodies?

Parting Shots:

  1. If You have read this far, seek counsel.
  2. If you have read this far I ‘for-real’ love you.
  3. If you have read this far, I leave you with a little ‘touch of Joni.’

Far Too Many of Her Songs Make Up My Life’s Soundtrack.

Cheers My Friends!

Vid Cred: JoniJourney

I’m The Reason God Made Oklahoma

Bank Shot Rebound

Yeah, moldy oldie repost.

*****

When I was fourteen or fifteen and living in NE Texas, ‘Famine’ County to be more precise, I used to frequently cross the border. Not Mesico. No, Oklahoma. Yep. Go figger.

You see, back-in-the-day (Early Seventies), the drinking age got lowered to 18, mainly because it just was not fitting for a boy to go to Vietnam and not even be able to buy a beer ere he got there. Time enough for that once he got there, but you see, it became a matter of principle.

Well, my ‘group’ took advantage of that. You see, it was very difficult to tell a teenager’s age: I mean,

“How do you know he ain’t eighteen? He looks twelve, but hell! Ok, serve it up.”

And even better: In Oklahoma, well, they just did not give a shit. If you had money and could reach the bar, well, there you go.

OK, enough preamble and background. Early one morning (after about 0100hrs) my buddies and I, after having closed down the bars in Commerce (Texas), decided we were not drunk enough. So, natch, we drove to The Border, as I said: Oklahoma. Our mission: To hustle Pool and make the next day’s beer money.
Our favorite hang was a place just ‘cross da river. A place who’s name escapes me, but trust me: it was famous. There is a very long, very dark, very narrow bridge across the Red River. If one could successfully navigate that, being drunk… well, you needed a drink.

Now, do not mistake me, this establishment was always ‘closed’ by the time we usually arrived at thereabout 0200hrs, but I knew the guy behind the ‘Speak-Easy’ window and I knew the password: “Joe sent me.”

Good to go.

pool.jpg

They legally closed the bar at 0100hrs, but then remained open until first light. If one arrived around 0200hrs, one could shoot pool for four or five and then migrate to the back room where the crap tables were. I knew all the drills.

My gang and I sauntered in, bought some beers and Bob and I proceeded to ‘hustle’ pool. For beers. ONLY.

Shit!

We were already drunk; we did not need to hustle beers. We wanted money for the crap game. Bob and I spent the better part of two hours hustling beers, and had pretty much drained the joint, when this dude drops his quarter on the table. He was long and lankly and had his right hand missing. Yep. He was ‘handicapped” Errr… handless. I nudged Bob and said, “This chump cannot beat me. At pool.”

And, of course, I was right, but… damn! He was good. He used his ‘stub’ as a bridge and shot a mean Eight-Ball. I beat him outta bout a case of Coors. He got pissed and walked by me:

“You done stepped on my foot,” he said.

“No Sir, I did not, but if you think I did, well, I’m sorry…”

“YOU done STEPPED on my FOOT!”

“No Sir.”

Bob took me aside along with my other entourage; Peanut, Gene, and Jessie (a big black kid who had played star halfback for the Honey Grove Warriors back in the day—yes—he was older, and I did notice him putting razor blades between his fingers)

“Many-Feet” Peanut said, “That there one-armed man gonna beat you to some death with that nub.”

“Bullshit!” I said.

“No bullshit. Go ahead; hide an’ watch.”

To be continued….

Okay. Continued:

He beat me ’bout to death with that nub, just as Peanut foresaw.

Wish I had ‘foresaw’.

His paw.
Dem Okies…well.. they some tough sons ah bitches, all I gotta say.

END

Aw Hell! Thursday is Coming: “Don’t Rain Shit On My Parade”

The version I wanted, but WordPress is stupid.

“Three A.M., it’s me again.”

Three A.M. and I was in the middle of a dream about ‘Shit River’ in Ologapo City, Philippines. (Freud would’ve loved me)

Then I woke up.

Woke up to a very un-dreamy-like smell of real shit. Real potent shit. Horrible smelling shit. Knock a buzzard off a shit wagon smelling shit.

I was living in an old two-story house in Commerce. Just outside my bedroom was the walk-in closet where I kept all the clothes I owned. I have never owned much in the way of clothes, by the way.

I heard something dripping like rain behind the door, but it wasn’t raining outside. I opened the door and sure as shit, shit was raining down from the ceiling.  All over my clothes. Spattering on the floor. My Chow Mix doggie, Tizzy, was obviously responsible.

Chow

I went around the corner, and there  he was  in that dog-taking-a-shit posture at the top of the stairway: Obviously with a really bad case of the doggie drizzling shits.

Took me until seven a.m. to clean up the shit and wash all my clothes.

I called in sick to work telling my boss,

“I feel like shit.”

Jury Duty, Texas Style: A Re-Post

Several years ago (before I went to Iraq) I was called for Jury Selection.

jury-summons

My first thought was, “Damn it! I cannot afford this; I live paycheck to paycheck.” I was living in Commerce, Texas and though I had a decent and secure job, the pay just barely supported my lavish lifestyle: Beer, Cigarettes, a three DVD per week habit, computer games… Not to mention dog food, cat food and Lance food. Gasoline was not an issue: I had no car.

On the appointed day I dutifully showed up at the Hunt County Courthouse (in a borrowed car) along with about one hundred twenty thusly cursed potential selectees. They assembled us into a large room and passed out the questionnaires. It was quite noisy and seemed disorganized. I don’t recall any of the questions, save one:

“What is your religious affiliation”?

That was easy: I scribbled ‘atheist’, which was an honest answer and one certain, I surmised to exempt me, as Hunt County probably has more churches per capita than most counties in Texas.” Brilliant!

Imagine my disbelief (no pun), when I was selected.

The trial, as it turns out was for a felony charge of robbery and assault. I will summarize to the best of my recollection. The defendant was a young man, say, twenty something. The plaintiff, a young woman, also twenty something.

The alleged crime: The defendant (white male) broke into the trailer-house of a third party again twenty something, with the intent of stealing a shotgun and maybe a few beers. By the way, all the principles in this event were white and actually knew each other and were supposedly ‘friends’.

The defendant was unaware that the trailer was occupied by the young woman, who happened to be engaged to a fourth party, but claimed to just sleeping in the trailer, “because she had gotten too drunk to drive home.” The owner of the trailer was not home at this time.

Once discovered by the young woman, the defendant threatened her by leveling the shotgun and promising with utmost sincerity that he was about to “blow her fuckin’ head off.”

That’s the gist of the complaint.

The testimony took most of the day, and then we retired to our chambers. Hunt County Courthouse is not a new facility (1929).

The jury chambers were musty but reasonably well lit, due to the several large windows in the room. We were on the third floor of the courthouse and could see ‘freedom’ on the streets below. We seated ourselves around a wonderful solid oak conference table which reminded me of the dining room table my father had in his Victorian Era ‘Marcom Manor’. All that was missing was the fireplace and the crystal balls and the pewter figurines of demons and witches and dragons.

On the walls were old paintings of Texas pastoral country scenes, one requisite Texan Ranger on horseback with a Walker-Colt six-shooter in hand, and one poster showing “Justice is Blind” frayed at the edges and stuck to the wall with yellowed scotch tape, probably added some years after the paintings as an after thoughtful motivation, or reminder, or inspiration. Who knows?

First order of business was to select a foreperson. To my dismay I was elected through no fault of my own. I was trying to fly under the radar, and apparently had failed miserably. And after all that stealth training with the SEALs too! Shit.

We began the laborious debate on the testimony and evidence. Personally from the get go, I was leaning toward a guilty verdict, but not ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ at this initial point. As I recall, our first ‘secret’ ballot, which I called for right off the bat, just to see where we were, reflected an equally divided jury. Clearly we had some work to do if we were to come to a unanimous decision. We spent what little was left of the rest of the afternoon kicking the testimony around and getting to know each other.

Seated just to my left was a white man, about my age sporting a crew cut and an out-spoken demeanor. By his words, it became immediately clear he had an education and was also of the mind no gray area existed here. The guy was guilty. “And what he needed was to find Jesus Christ.”

There was an elderly gentleman at the opposite end of the conference table who had a mild-mannered air, quite soft-spoken. He could go either way.

Much to my surprise a woman I had known years before, who was still married to a good friend, fellow Honey Grove native, and also a co-worker of mine from the Seventies was also there. Not sure which way she was leaning.

An elderly blue-haired lady sat next to her, and I could just tell, she did not feel the young man deserved prison. (The crime called for a minimum fifteen year sentence, as the defendant had a previous record. In Texas, I think it must be two strikes and yer out)

The rest rounded out our ‘Twelve Angry Men’ scenario.

At the end of the afternoon, and having taken one more secret ballot and having not come anywhere near to a unanimous decision we departed to return the next morning.

***

Jury Duty, Texas Style Part Two

Part Two

Should I Go For It?

Wad’yall Say?

ShouldI go for it?

‘Could’ I go for it?

(I ‘could’ and ‘would’ really use the ten bucks!)

Enthusiastic Homer Says

“Hell-To-The-Hell Yeah!

Will definitely require some strong, mighty resolve and determination. Not to mention uncommon valor and courage…

And…

Some

REINFORCEMENTS!

So I sent out an urgent ‘Mayday! Mayday!’ to Three-Star General Woodbridge requesting he Muster his Marines:

Through a secure internet line I was able to listen in ‘real-time’ as The General briefed his men:

“Men, I’m not gonna Bullshit you, nor sugar-coat this. We are tasked with a very dangerous mission, fraught with peril. But I know you are up to the job. Many Men will die; not return alive, but remember this: No man left behind.”

Our mission is simple in concept, but will be difficult in execution. We have received a recon film from our man on the ground. He bravely risked his life in obtaining this intelligence, so pay close attention.”

Additionally, Sergeant Ihrke will be passing out a complete ‘Mission Objectives Packet’ containing still photographs and the most up-to-date intelligence available regarding the current situation on the ground.”

“Sergeant, you may proceed.”

Sergeant Shannon Ihrke USMC

Study all these items carefully, closely, and completely, with nothing but ‘attention to detail’ and the successful completion of the Mission Objective in the forefront of your minds.”

Succinctly put, our sole Mission is to Clean-Up This Shithole, taking as few casualties as Our Almighty General ‘Chesty’ Puller, will allow.”

(“RIP, Oh Great One”)

“Wheels up at zero five hundred hours.”

“OK. That’s it then!”

Now, let’s go Get Some!

“Fall Out!”  

Recon Film:

MUST STUDY THIS ONE FIRST MEN

Street Cred for Vid: Lance Marcom

***

Items Contained in the Mission Objectives Packet For Your Perusal Below.

But Be Thee Forewarned, The ‘Packet’ Was Compiled By a Moron: Possessing Not Much ‘Intelligence’ for an ‘Intelligence Officer.”

Not Sure If Any Value To The Marines

Oh My Goodness! We Got Ourselves a Natural Disaster!

Yep! A Natural Disaster!

Heavy casualties taken

But we were not yet done

We stacked them up as cordwood

‘Til the Battle could be Won!

A Brief Interlude To Take You From The Carnage,

If Only For A Moment:

A War Poem”

By Lance A. Marcom

I Knocked a beer off my chair

It spilt everywhere

I wept

I cried

I did not die

(Just opened a new one)

And Carried On!

And Was Happy Again.   

We Captured A Spy Who Had Stealthily Penetrated In Behind Our Lines.

We Executed Him On The Spot

Having Been Thusly Compromised, General Woodbridge Ordered We Fortify Our Defenses.

We Did So

With A Bigger Wall

Coming Under Heavy Artillery Fire

We Were Forced To Hunker-In-Our-Bunker

The Enemy Was Amassing Large Numbers of Troops For A ‘Tet Offensive’

When It Finally Came

We Doggedly Held Our Ground.

And Punished Them All Around

Thusly They Ended Their

‘Gallipolian Endeavor in Shame

***

The War Dragged On For Months and Months

The Men Were Growing More and More

Fatigued and Morose

“How Long Will This Bullshit Go On?”

Could Often Be Heard About The Mess Tent At Night

Morale Was Low

***

Then One Day Word Came Down That ‘Peace’ Talks Were On-Going Somewhere In Europe.

“Paris, France” Was The Scuttlebutt

Made ‘Parfait’ Sense To ‘Moi

Those ‘Frogs’ Sucked At War, But They Were Damn Talented When It Came Time To Sue For Peace.

At Any Rate, Morale Was Lifted By The News.

This War Had Become Not Unlike ‘The Korea’, or Perhaps ‘The Nam‘, Or Perhaps ‘Le Deux’.

A ‘See-Saw’ War of Attrition

It Simply No Longer Made No Sense

Nor Showed No Sign of Contrition

We Had Gained A Little Ground, But Nowhere Near Enough To Justify All The Lives Lost Or Destroyed

***

Late One Evening Some of the Men Were Rummaging Around in the Galley Looking For a ‘Late-Night Snack’

Don’t Despair About The Frigidaire,

‘Cuz Now It’s Clean In There

Just Take My Word. You’ll Have To:

I’m Outta Film

Suddenly The Communications Officer Appeared, Running And Screaming Throughout The Camp:

“The War is OVER! The War is OVER!

‘Cease-Fire’ Effective in Twenty-Four Hours!”

Joyous Pandemonium Quickly Ensued

Whoa! Not-So-Fast Hot-Rod!

Twenty-Four Hours Can Be a

Very, Very Long Time

Beaucoup Bullshit Can Go Down in Twenty-Four Hours

After That Initial Orgasmic Spurt of Elation The Men Grew Nervous and Paranoid

Never A Great State Of Mind For A Fighting Man

No One, it Seemed, Wished to be The Last Man To Die in ‘Marcom’s Hooch War’

****

With The War ‘Over’

(For The Time-Being)

Things Settled Into ‘Détente Lite’

Nothing Left To Fight

The ‘Cold War’ Did Commence

And Stuck Us On The Fence

And Even More Stressing

The Bills Kept A-Coming

Never ‘Paid’ Them Much Attention Before

Way Too Busy, So… Ignore

But No Way Now To Relieve That Stress Somehow

Nor The Boredom

I Suppose I Could Work On Cleaning My Hooch Some More…

My Depravity Knows No Boundary

I have stocked up on Honourable Food & Beverage.

Brain-Food, Health-Food, Writer’s-Food & Liquid Propulsion.

Should be able to ‘Honourably’ Write Now.

I splurged and purchased a surprise ‘treat’ for the Gnats

*Evil Grin*

Yeah. Gonna give them the night off, so that they may binge–watch

“Alien”

Can you spot the ‘Surprise’ out of the

‘Many Other Myriad’ Goodies?

Parting Shots:

  1. If You have read this far, seek counsel.
  2. If you have read this far I ‘for-real’ love you.
  3. If you have read this far, I leave you with a little ‘touch of Joni.’

Far Too Many of Her Songs Make Up My Life’s Soundtrack.

Cheers My Friends!

Vid Cred: JoniJourney

I’m The Reason God Made Oklahoma

When I was fourteen or fifteen and living in NE Texas, ‘Famine’ County to be more precise, I used to frequently cross the border. Not Mesico. No, Oklahoma. Yep. Go figger.

You see, back-in-the-day (Early Seventies), the drinking age got lowered to 18, mainly because it just was not fitting for a boy to go to Vietnam and not even be able to buy a beer ere he got there. Time enough for that once he got there, but you see, it became a matter of principle.

Well, my ‘group’ took advantage of that. You see, it was very difficult to tell a teenager’s age: I mean,

“How do you know he ain’t eighteen? He looks twelve, but hell! Ok, serve it up.”

And even better: In Oklahoma, well, they just did not give a shit. If you had money and could reach the bar, well, there you go.

OK, enough preamble and background. Early one morning (after about 0100hrs) my buddies and I, after having closed down the bars in Commerce (Texas), decided we were not drunk enough. So, natch, we drove to The Border, as I said: Oklahoma. Our mission: To hustle Pool and make the next day’s beer money.
Our favorite hang was a place just ‘cross da river. A place who’s name escapes me, but trust me: it was famous. There is a very long, very dark, very narrow bridge across the Red River. If one could successfully navigate that, being drunk… well, you needed a drink.

Now, do not mistake me, this establishment was always ‘closed’ by the time we usually arrived at thereabout 0200hrs, but I knew the guy behind the ‘Speak-Easy’ window and I knew the password: “Joe sent me.”

Good to go.

pool.jpg

They legally closed the bar at 0100hrs, but then remained open until first light. If one arrived around 0200hrs, one could shoot pool for four or five and then migrate to the back room where the crap tables were. I knew all the drills.

My gang and I sauntered in, bought some beers and Bob and I proceeded to ‘hustle’ pool. For beers. ONLY.

Shit!

We were already drunk; we did not need to hustle beers. We wanted money for the crap game. Bob and I spent the better part of two hours hustling beers, and had pretty much drained the joint, when this dude drops his quarter on the table. He was long and lankly and had his right hand missing. Yep. He was ‘handicapped” Errr… handless. I nudged Bob and said, “This chump cannot beat me. At pool.”

And, of course, I was right, but… damn! He was good. He used his ‘stub’ as a bridge and shot a mean Eight-Ball. I beat him outta bout a case of Coors. He got pissed and walked by me:

“You done stepped on my foot,” he said.

“No Sir, I did not, but if you think I did, well, I’m sorry…”

“YOU done STEPPED on my FOOT!”

“No Sir.”

Bob took me aside along with my other entourage; Peanut, Gene, and Jessie (a big black kid who had played star halfback for the Honey Grove Warriors back in the day—yes—he was older, and I did notice him putting razor blades between his fingers)

“Many-Feet” Peanut said, “That there one-armed man gonna beat you to some death with that nub.”

“Bullshit!” I said.

“No bullshit. Go ahead; hide an’ watch.”

To be continued….

Okay. Continued:

He beat me ’bout to death with that nub, just as Peanut foresaw.

Wish I had ‘foresaw’.

His paw.
Dem Okies…well.. they some tough sons ah bitches, all I gotta say.

END