As I continue to struggle through a temporary writer’s block (Kind of like running in soft sand) figured I’d just throw this blast-from-the-past against the wall and see if it sticks.
Apologies to those who have already seen and read this one (both of you 😉 )
Happy Thursday to you, wherever and whatever time-zone you may find yourself in.
–Your Humble Servant: Merde Le Roi
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. Bring out yer dead, Shit.
“Must be a king”
“He hasn’t got shit all over ‘im”
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.
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. Made me miss my ant farm.
Obviously, I was “not a king” (see above video)
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.”
Then I did the only prudent thing that came to mind and would give me peace.
When I was ‘growing’ up in California on good, red-letter days, I would capture a jumping spider. Having caught same, I would place her into a mason jar with wood chips. You see, jumping spiders do not build webs (this makes them ideal pets, by the way); they like to live in caves made by little boys using wood chips. Well, that is what I always heard. And my experience bore that out.
Anyway, once I moved to Texas, I missed my spiders. Not that Texas has a spider shortage, mind you. I just did not know where to look. “Looking for Spiders in all the wrong places.”
One day, lo’ and behold, I found a jumping spider which looked so much familiar to me,
“Natasha! (I have always named my spiders), Natasha! did you walk all the way here from California?”
“Of course,” she said, “Yes.”
I gathered her up and placed her into my mason jar. I did not ask if she wanted to be my pet. I just assumed.
Months later, I announced to my Grandparents:
“My spider is gonna have babies.”
“Lance, Son” my Grandmother informed me, “There is no daddy spider in there. Your spider cannot possibly have baby spiders.”
Excerpts from a couple of emails I sent from Camp Dwyer in 2012:
The boys are still moving cots and I think we just had a heat casualty. At least that’s what I heard on the hand-held radio. At first I thought it was here in LSA 2. (LSA—‘Life Support Area’—euphemism for ‘Small Tent City’)
I went to the tent where Kushal was supervising but the casualty wasn’t there; apparently he was in LSA 6. The radios aren’t good enough to transmit from here to LSA 6 so details are sketchy. We don’t need any safety issues. Management gets all stupid over the slightest incident. Personally, I would just put the dude in the shade, give him a cold beer (NA of course) and continue on with the mission. But in Corporate America these days, a “Safety Stand Down” is required. All work stops while they “train” us once again to “drink plenty of water.” One would think that since humans have been drinking water for some years now, it would not be necessary to conduct this training, but hey! Guess that’s why I’m not in Upper Management. “Keep on spendin’ Boys! It’s only money!”
Speaking of management and such, I suppose I should get my butt back to work…
–Lance, just another worker-bee schmuck.