Warm and twisted suger cubes...
Starry-eyed wookie stunt doubles...
Disco Magic and spin cycles...
So randomness is hard to plan and even harder to duplicate.
Case in point, Reality TV has taken on a life of its own caught somewhere between fact and fiction by picking and choosing what reality can be. Let's take a step back and a sideways glance... feelings are not as easy to fake as emotions. Although you were caught up in the drama and realize it was just for the cameras did you not become affected by the human condition and at the same time took solace in the fact that you were comfortably shielded by the fact that you were just watching / along for the ride. I do not believe we can chalk this up to escapism as much as it is forced immersion into the human condition by witnessing and internalizing social interactions that we are not fortunate / unfortunate enough to experience...
When are my fifteen minutes up and can I spread them out Ala NFL by taking well timed time-outs?
Can we then pose questions on the poses taken?
So much planning and no real training...
Had we truly started freeing the pink?
So much time had been spent on organizing that our muse had taken an extended coffee break. This dawned on me as i got stuck on Animal Planet when trying to find the Gold Cup game...
Watching these turkeys get, for lack of a better word, herded and collected I could almost hear the light bulb get switched on.
We did not need a dry run or another crazy scavenger hunt. We needed hands on, grab a freagin angry bird, and run training. I started making phone calls to every turkey packaging company I could think of to ask how and where one could become a Turkey-catching-grabbing type person... It was not till the 50th phone call that I had found the needle in the haystack. You gotta love some of the hippies. The voice on the other line told me that they were a time-banking operation and would love for a group of us to stop by to help with the "harvest" and in return we could gain the equal worth in service hours or products for our work...
(Time banking is an awesome concept / practice:) look it up)
We rounded up the crew and set to the task of organizing the trip.
Next stop Hippie Turkey Farm!!!
Channel surfing on borrowed time...
Procrastination and deadlines.
Smile if you can and laugh if you want to. Who can stop you from doing either?
Take joy in what you have and stock of your dreams. In sleep we are creators and in day light we are believers of those dreams. Make it happen my friends.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Tickled to be Near
So I found the Rabbit hole?
Velcro parachutes and nickle-plated bungee cords...
After a long day of setting up straw-man arguments do you light a candle or visit the local psychic?
Freagin spray cheese is more tempting.
I was minding my own business and like an alien abduction it showed up just outside my field of vision when I lost my train of thought...
So we got the pink menace back o the barn while we fenced off the back forty catch that use t be a burn pit . We would certainly get pinched if we left him at the tank. Chupacabras might show up for a cameo appearance.
Thongs are less complicated and pose less of a challenge that the simple task of re-locating the hormonal fowl, but in true form I managed to complicate this well outside of the usual expectations.
Mesquite bushes do have a lot to share when you are wanting to catch something pink and wiry. I was surprised that I managed to keep my manhood in tact after the sprint I had just completed. Out of breath, holding the bird, and in need of stitches is how they found me. Any man less anesthetized would have asked for help or at least waited till daylight to track the creature, but true to form I was in full effect.
I could only think of how much like sushi Pinky would taste like so close to Thanksgiving...
So much time had been spent in figuring out how to cause the largest amount of havoc that the relations between me and the pink phenom were wearing thin.
It was obviously time for a heart to heart...
I had saved the once living remnants of mescal bottles for just an occasion as this. A little sal de gusano and Pinky was acting like I had found the ambrosia version of brine shrimp. I sat there with the feathered pimp for a couple of hours bonding in the least creepy way imaginable communing with the big pink cock (male bird you dirty bastards).
After sunrise I finally picked up the pickled bird and set him just inside the fence line with a strong sense of victory I walked back to the barn to catch at least a few winks.
"Sharks only bite when you touch their privates", Ulah...
Is The Piper on a specific pay schedule?
Velcro parachutes and nickle-plated bungee cords...
After a long day of setting up straw-man arguments do you light a candle or visit the local psychic?
Freagin spray cheese is more tempting.
I was minding my own business and like an alien abduction it showed up just outside my field of vision when I lost my train of thought...
So we got the pink menace back o the barn while we fenced off the back forty catch that use t be a burn pit . We would certainly get pinched if we left him at the tank. Chupacabras might show up for a cameo appearance.
Thongs are less complicated and pose less of a challenge that the simple task of re-locating the hormonal fowl, but in true form I managed to complicate this well outside of the usual expectations.
Mesquite bushes do have a lot to share when you are wanting to catch something pink and wiry. I was surprised that I managed to keep my manhood in tact after the sprint I had just completed. Out of breath, holding the bird, and in need of stitches is how they found me. Any man less anesthetized would have asked for help or at least waited till daylight to track the creature, but true to form I was in full effect.
I could only think of how much like sushi Pinky would taste like so close to Thanksgiving...
So much time had been spent in figuring out how to cause the largest amount of havoc that the relations between me and the pink phenom were wearing thin.
It was obviously time for a heart to heart...
I had saved the once living remnants of mescal bottles for just an occasion as this. A little sal de gusano and Pinky was acting like I had found the ambrosia version of brine shrimp. I sat there with the feathered pimp for a couple of hours bonding in the least creepy way imaginable communing with the big pink cock (male bird you dirty bastards).
After sunrise I finally picked up the pickled bird and set him just inside the fence line with a strong sense of victory I walked back to the barn to catch at least a few winks.
"Sharks only bite when you touch their privates", Ulah...
Is The Piper on a specific pay schedule?
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Borrowed Stop Watch Glitter
Salmon would probably agree with the rush hour traffic.
Tuning in to a good read or setting up digital horse shoes?
Drug screening your gardner may not be a good idea.
So we were somehow legit again.
Freag'n revolutionaries who would teach them all a lesson as soon as we figured out who they were.
Was I missing something?
Apperantly the Sherrif had been alerted to some kind of a wild animal sighting that he had to respond to out by the Overbee place. Luckily it was after dark and he did not get a chance to travel around with a spotlight to put the Pastor's wife at ease. She had called the station frantically telling the tale of a strange colored giant bird that had attacked her. The officer could only grin and take her word for what was going on and later would express to the Cowboy that he suspected she had been hitting the cough syrup again.
Of course I got the call about Pinky within minutes of that conversation taking place and made my way back to the tank we had used as a sanctuary for Pinky so many weeks ago. It seemed that he had lost interest in his surroundings and decided to stop by the Pastor's land for a little quality time with his domesticated turkeys. That Pink horny bastard had apparently injured a few of the birds in his quest for affection.
All I could do is hope that he would be enticed by the plastic lawn ornament I had brought with me and we could move him to a more secure location. So I sat there in the truck with the plastic Flamingo in the passenger seat with the door open waiting. Pinky came into the clearing just to the West of the tank to see if we had brought the usual brine shrimp treats for him when he spotted his next target and rushed at the truck doing his usual pre-game-I-am-gonna-get-some dance. Something was different about him. He seemed more aggressive. Maybe the turkey tale had toughened him up. The Feathered menace started squawking at me and flapping his crazy wings in an obvious show of force. I started laughing and was met with a wicked wake-up call. Pinky jumped into the truck and started snapping and pecking at me in what I can only describe as a the-girl-is-mine ambush. I opened my door and rolled out of the truck kicking the door shut when I hit the ground. Pinky somehow managed to shut the door on the passenger side with his feet.
So there I was.
Sitting in the bed of my own truck while Pinky and the plastic playmate made the beast with two backs.
What could I do?
I opened the tool box / ice chest and commenced to hydrate and text my fellow revolutionaries on my progress. Pinky was in no way bashful and was having his way with the oil-based friend he had made. I toasted to their health and waited for the crew.
A few hours later the BBQ was in full effect and the same Peace keeper that had tipped us off to the situation was greedily pumping the keg as he was now off duty. Pinky had humped himself into a post-nookie slumber, the fajitas were on the grill, and I sat both triumphant and concerned with my capture and pending relocation of my hormonal, feathered companion...
Lotioning your hands at the beginning of the work day at your desk = cool
Lotioning your feet at the beginning of the work day at your desk = not cool
My popcorn is mine and you should really get your own...
Do garden gnomes appreciate being compared to persons that will not leave at the end of a party?
Tuning in to a good read or setting up digital horse shoes?
Drug screening your gardner may not be a good idea.
So we were somehow legit again.
Freag'n revolutionaries who would teach them all a lesson as soon as we figured out who they were.
Was I missing something?
Apperantly the Sherrif had been alerted to some kind of a wild animal sighting that he had to respond to out by the Overbee place. Luckily it was after dark and he did not get a chance to travel around with a spotlight to put the Pastor's wife at ease. She had called the station frantically telling the tale of a strange colored giant bird that had attacked her. The officer could only grin and take her word for what was going on and later would express to the Cowboy that he suspected she had been hitting the cough syrup again.
Of course I got the call about Pinky within minutes of that conversation taking place and made my way back to the tank we had used as a sanctuary for Pinky so many weeks ago. It seemed that he had lost interest in his surroundings and decided to stop by the Pastor's land for a little quality time with his domesticated turkeys. That Pink horny bastard had apparently injured a few of the birds in his quest for affection.
All I could do is hope that he would be enticed by the plastic lawn ornament I had brought with me and we could move him to a more secure location. So I sat there in the truck with the plastic Flamingo in the passenger seat with the door open waiting. Pinky came into the clearing just to the West of the tank to see if we had brought the usual brine shrimp treats for him when he spotted his next target and rushed at the truck doing his usual pre-game-I-am-gonna-get-some dance. Something was different about him. He seemed more aggressive. Maybe the turkey tale had toughened him up. The Feathered menace started squawking at me and flapping his crazy wings in an obvious show of force. I started laughing and was met with a wicked wake-up call. Pinky jumped into the truck and started snapping and pecking at me in what I can only describe as a the-girl-is-mine ambush. I opened my door and rolled out of the truck kicking the door shut when I hit the ground. Pinky somehow managed to shut the door on the passenger side with his feet.
So there I was.
Sitting in the bed of my own truck while Pinky and the plastic playmate made the beast with two backs.
What could I do?
I opened the tool box / ice chest and commenced to hydrate and text my fellow revolutionaries on my progress. Pinky was in no way bashful and was having his way with the oil-based friend he had made. I toasted to their health and waited for the crew.
A few hours later the BBQ was in full effect and the same Peace keeper that had tipped us off to the situation was greedily pumping the keg as he was now off duty. Pinky had humped himself into a post-nookie slumber, the fajitas were on the grill, and I sat both triumphant and concerned with my capture and pending relocation of my hormonal, feathered companion...
Lotioning your hands at the beginning of the work day at your desk = cool
Lotioning your feet at the beginning of the work day at your desk = not cool
My popcorn is mine and you should really get your own...
Do garden gnomes appreciate being compared to persons that will not leave at the end of a party?
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Pink Chrome and Cupcakes
Hardly moving or stationary living?
Consequences lead the parade...
Wrinkled time makes for some awkward first encounters with oneself.
So we haven't quite figured out how to unfreeze the millionairs but they keep comming around to have themselves preserved...
The real trick is to know how tuff you are not and how willing you are to follow through when blufing. This is a lesson not always easily learned...
So we had lost a bit of the following but continued the recruiting efforts at the gun range and the local watering holes...
Where else could we find the cream of the crop? I had no idea.
Many of our newest members were borderline schizophrenics with as many conspiracy theories as one liners. Often times our meetings were more like Icke rallies than revolutionary parties. Did this scare me? You bet your drunken goat of a granny it did...
Too much attention was being given to who we were running from rather than why we were doing what we were doing. To be perfectly honest I had somehow started buying into what I was peddling... What had started out as a monster of a prank was now evolving and becoming just a bit more dangerous.
This was no longer your typical beer run during curling semi-finals...
Not since the Donnie Osmund Fan Club or the "Professional" Fraternity (that will remain nameless) did a simple excuse to have a little fun get out of hand.
It was like the Boondocks Saints had been re-written by a person living in a soft room eating soft food.
So the core membership had not changed but somehow started being less willing to broadcast its whereabouts. Strange considering our normally personable demeanor. What was happening? Did we need a wake up call? Did we need to be reminded of who we were?
In short, yes.
The Cowboy and I decided to help all of us we would need to dumb it up a little and set upon constructing the running of the gauntlet that could re-inspire. Word on the wire was that the museum was going to have some sort of a natural history of flight exposition and we wanted in...
Now I must take a moment to recognize how little of a background check many night watchmen get these days...
Rodneyy had been a loyal and trusted friend of the Cowboy for a few years and had somehow managed to pass both the drug and background checks of a local security company that had won the museums bid by cutting its costs by using interns from the university's law enforcement program.
After properly motivating Randy after the fourth round of a harmless liquid lunch with promises of barrel racers and swimsuit models, we had our inside man. All we had to do is be at the south door of the museum at 03:00. This would give the membership a chance to make the appointment and last call on just another Tuesday night.
Final Headcount brought us to eleven. This was not our best turn out, but would promise to be fun. Each member was issued a hand truck, three crates, gorilla glue, and a six pack in the parking lot.
Like a circus entry we formed a single file line through the South entrance and began disbursing the contents of our crates after being reassured the cameras had been disabled. The laughter was contagious as we set about our task. Every member was sure to empty his crates and dispose of all six cans properly. Our mission was complete and we dissolved back into the night.
The next morning the local news channels were abuzz with our victory with descriptions of the scene inside of the museum where vandals had glued over 12,000 plastic flamingos to the history of flight hall and just like that we were on top again. One small detail would escape the news shows for at least ten more hours as the Cowboy and I had partially filled each of the flamingos with frozen bait shrimp just to let them know we meant business... Oh the scent of victory.
Time waits for no man, but will find something to read while waiting for the right lady to pick out something to wear...
We should all re-focus this week and find our inner silly and buy it a shot.
Consequences lead the parade...
Wrinkled time makes for some awkward first encounters with oneself.
So we haven't quite figured out how to unfreeze the millionairs but they keep comming around to have themselves preserved...
The real trick is to know how tuff you are not and how willing you are to follow through when blufing. This is a lesson not always easily learned...
So we had lost a bit of the following but continued the recruiting efforts at the gun range and the local watering holes...
Where else could we find the cream of the crop? I had no idea.
Many of our newest members were borderline schizophrenics with as many conspiracy theories as one liners. Often times our meetings were more like Icke rallies than revolutionary parties. Did this scare me? You bet your drunken goat of a granny it did...
Too much attention was being given to who we were running from rather than why we were doing what we were doing. To be perfectly honest I had somehow started buying into what I was peddling... What had started out as a monster of a prank was now evolving and becoming just a bit more dangerous.
This was no longer your typical beer run during curling semi-finals...
Not since the Donnie Osmund Fan Club or the "Professional" Fraternity (that will remain nameless) did a simple excuse to have a little fun get out of hand.
It was like the Boondocks Saints had been re-written by a person living in a soft room eating soft food.
So the core membership had not changed but somehow started being less willing to broadcast its whereabouts. Strange considering our normally personable demeanor. What was happening? Did we need a wake up call? Did we need to be reminded of who we were?
In short, yes.
The Cowboy and I decided to help all of us we would need to dumb it up a little and set upon constructing the running of the gauntlet that could re-inspire. Word on the wire was that the museum was going to have some sort of a natural history of flight exposition and we wanted in...
Now I must take a moment to recognize how little of a background check many night watchmen get these days...
Rodneyy had been a loyal and trusted friend of the Cowboy for a few years and had somehow managed to pass both the drug and background checks of a local security company that had won the museums bid by cutting its costs by using interns from the university's law enforcement program.
After properly motivating Randy after the fourth round of a harmless liquid lunch with promises of barrel racers and swimsuit models, we had our inside man. All we had to do is be at the south door of the museum at 03:00. This would give the membership a chance to make the appointment and last call on just another Tuesday night.
Final Headcount brought us to eleven. This was not our best turn out, but would promise to be fun. Each member was issued a hand truck, three crates, gorilla glue, and a six pack in the parking lot.
Like a circus entry we formed a single file line through the South entrance and began disbursing the contents of our crates after being reassured the cameras had been disabled. The laughter was contagious as we set about our task. Every member was sure to empty his crates and dispose of all six cans properly. Our mission was complete and we dissolved back into the night.
The next morning the local news channels were abuzz with our victory with descriptions of the scene inside of the museum where vandals had glued over 12,000 plastic flamingos to the history of flight hall and just like that we were on top again. One small detail would escape the news shows for at least ten more hours as the Cowboy and I had partially filled each of the flamingos with frozen bait shrimp just to let them know we meant business... Oh the scent of victory.
Time waits for no man, but will find something to read while waiting for the right lady to pick out something to wear...
We should all re-focus this week and find our inner silly and buy it a shot.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)