Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Bovine Spongiform Revengcephalopathy

I know where they research the madness of cows
Misshapen proteins
Misshaping the brains
I know who deserves the resulting sponge holes
Yellow car driving
Yellow heart beating
I know how to mix prions with Mickey D's
Savory toxin
Savoring the sin
I know when pores make mind flow retardedly
Delayed my revenge
But it would be fucking sweet.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Haiku revenge

a car so yellow
matched perfectly to your soul
how does my ass taste?

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Revenge by Jessiiiiiieeee

I'd make you have sex with Jessie
on her period, extra messy.
Her cats would watch with shock and awe,
strap-on stuffing your exit maw.
The look in her eye is not meek,
how 'bout the tear upon your cheek?
How 'bout the pit inside your soul
as she runs off pinching your pole,
without explanation or note
she's gone with a flick of your scrote.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

52 Odes to Vengeance

So, until my car got wrecked I didn't know what I could come up with another 52 posts about. Now I've got it. Every Wednesday for the next year there will be a new bit of vitriolic verse or pissed-off prose comemorating the asshole in the yellow car. Okay, maybe this will burn itself out before a year, but until I decide what I'm really going to do here, this will have to do. Today's is a re-tread just to get things kick-started.

The Things I Would Do

Oh, the things I would do
if I could find you
Oh, if I could find you,
the things I would do.
I would gouge out your eyes
with a grapefruit spoon,
Go for the jugular
but think, "No, too soon."
I would gnaw through fascia
and tear out your spleen,
I would shove up your butt
a hamster named Dean.
I'd make you a trach tube,
insert with my thumb
After prepping the area
with wine from a bum.
Then I'd shit down your throat
in this brand new tube,
And sodomize you well
while using no lube.
I'd tear out your toenails
one by one by one;
But suppose I got bored
and thought "That's no fun."
I might cut out your tongue
but only the tip,
And then mock you like mad
because of your lithp;
As you plead for "Merthy!"
and cry out in pain,
But for you I'd have none
but purest disdain.
For you coward, you fraud,
you purulent cunt,
You just wrecked my new car
and then off you runned.
And so now I owe twice
what my car is worth
All thanks to your trimming
of its front-end girth.
Oh, the things I would do
if I could find you;
Oh, if I could find you,
the things I would do.
Alas, you are long gone
my car's fucked and worse -
I'll get nothing but rage,
and this page of verse.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

My hero


When we were small, I was probably 4 or 5, I remember doing this skit with my dad. It's something completely out of character, but a memory I hold dear. My dad was watching Ojo, me, and Snake because my mom was out running errands on a Saturday. We were in my parents' bedroom playing around their bed. This may be the same time that my dad recorded us on a little Radio Shack tape recorder. I said my favorite food was potatoes. And that I must have smoked a lot as a kid because my voice made Redd Foxx's sound smooth as silk.
My dad got out a kleenex or napkin and twisted it so that it was pinched in the middle and fanned out to either side, approximating a bow shape. My dad would put the kleenex on Ojo's upper lip, turning it into a mustache. "You must pay the rent!"
Then he'd put it on Snake's head, like a bow on a little girl. "But I can't pay the rent."
Back to Ojo's lip. "You must pay the rent!" Back to Snake's head. "But I can't pay the rent." Then to my neck, turning it into a bowtie. "I'll pay the rent." Back to Snake's bow. "My hero!"
I don't know where he came up with that. I'm just glad he did. I know at times in this space it seems like I've been dogging him out, and at times I was. Underlying every pixel in this blog, however, is the abiding awe which fathers inspire in their children and which stays with them the duration of their lives. The whole purpose of this blog was to understand some of what makes my dad my dad, to have a little fun doing it, and to realize what sort of impact I'm having on my own kids. I think I've accomplished all three goals. At the end, though, I can't really explain my dad or why he has held such sway over my life (whether he intended to or not), but I can accept that influence as the burden of fatherhood. For all the jokes about temper tantrums, cursing, and fucking cripples, my dad provided an excellent example of fatherhood, one I hope to match and improve on, so that one day when my son's on the holodeck reliving memories of his childhood he'll recognize the same dedication and love I recognize in my own father.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Other dogs ...


This is my dad extolling the greatest of my mom's virtues. In contrast to his own inability to hold in flatulence, his wife can apparently hold it for 25 years. And yet she does not blow up.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

for those not on my email list or on facebook

This goes out to the driver of the little yellow car, you know who you are ...

The Things I Would Do
by Llogg

Oh the things I would do
if I could find you
Oh, if I could find you,
the things I would do.
I would gouge out your eyes
with a grapefruit spoon,
Go for the jugular
but think, "No too soon."
I would gnaw through fascia
and tear out your spleen,
I would shove up your butt
a hamster named Dean.
I'd make you a trach tube,
insert with my thumb
After prepping the area
with wine from a bum.
Then I'd shit down your throat
in this brand new tube,
And sodomize you well
while using no lube.
I'd tear out your toenails
one by one by one;
But suppose I got bored
and thought "That's no fun."
I might cut out your tongue
but only the tip,
And then mock you like mad
because of your lithp;
As you plead for "Merthy!"
and cry out in pain,
But for you I'd have none
but purest disdain.
For you coward, you fraud,
you purulent cunt,
You just wrecked my new car
and then off you runned.
And so now I owe twice
what my car is worth
All thanks to your trimming
of its front-end girth.
Oh, the things I would do
If I could find you;
Oh, if I could find you,
the things I would do.
Alas, you are long gone
my car's fucked and worse -
I've got nothing but rage
and this page of verse.

what could he possibly have to forget?


This one's from a trip to Houston for an Astros game. It serves as an example of my dad's persistent road rage. All his sons acquired some of it, Ojo probably the least, but we've all more or less grown out of it. Not so my dad. He is just as likely to utter this line today as he was 20 years ago. The only difference is that now he might expound on the underlying problem a little. "People in this country don't know how to queue."

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

a lot of birthdays to keep track of


This is another quote directed at Jessie. (Remember to read that as JehhsIEEEE.)

I can't remember how she came up in the conversation. I think she had recently barged in on a family event as is her wont and a couple days later my dad and I had gone to Mamaw and Pawpaw's for something and were driving home together. Dad started talking about Jessie's flaws and quirks, describing her mountains of videotaped soap operas and her herd of semi-tame cats. He mentioned that she was bad with money but that she had enough from a trust fund of sorts that she should never want. The problem, he felt, wasn't that she would outspend her means. No, the problem was that she couldn't be bothered to take the trust fund check mailed to her home, endorse it, and take it to the bank for deposit so she could use that money. The way he put it was, "She can't decide whether to eat another twinkie or deposit her check so she can pay bills. That's a big decision for her." I'm certain that's almost a direct quote from a fairly meaningless conversation 20 years ago. Be careful what you say around your kids, they remember the most random shit.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Looking to the future

Here's the leading candidate for the redesign of what this space will become in the next couple months. I've got an idea what I'm going to do. It won't be as light-hearted, but hopefully it will be as useful to me as this year has been.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Why

Changed up the format for this one because the quote was so long. I thought about just using "You know he ain't clean!" but ultimately liked this way.

Recently I was home and the subject of eating at my grandparents' came up. For some reason my parents, especially my mom -- but dad, too, have always had a hangup about eating at my grandparents' home. I will probably never figure out what the reason was years ago, but I have a clue as to why my dad resists it currently. His dad, my grandfather, has gotten infirm at an accelerated pace the last few years. He can't raise his arms above his head, he can't turn his neck, he's nearly blind from glaucoma and macular degeneration, he's only not deaf in comparison to his wife, and he's got some mild cognitive impairment. Also my grandmother has chronic pain issues and probable psychiatric problems, so he is doing most of the cooking and putting away of food. According to my dad, Pawpaw no longer has the strength or dexterity to use utensils for putting food away, so all the turkey and gravy, mashed potatoes, brisket, and green beans get picked up in his bare hand and tossed into a container that he assumes is clean (because he can't see for himself).
Anyway, while I was home we were trying to plan out the next day's events and the subject of eating at Mamaw and Pawpaw's came up. Dad put on uber-disgust face and uttered, "I will not eat there, ever." I laughed and asked why. The response is above, delivered with the disgust turned up to 11. My favorite part is the end where you have to imagine why this former physician wouldn't be clean. It gets a lot less funny when you realize it can only be because he either can't move his arms enough to get to the soap and water, he's too blind or otherwise sensorally impaired to find the soap and water, or he's too demented to remember to wash his damn hands after he wipes his ass -- if he can reach his asshole in the first place.
God this post went depressing on me in a hurry. I miss playing Scrabble with Pawpaw. I miss it a lot.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

counting down

Down to just three more posts to write to complete the cycle of 52. I've got 47 up already, and two in the hopper. I've got another two already started. That leaves just the ultimate post, and I already know what it's going to be. I've really enjoyed this blog, and I'm going to miss it.

what's coal?


I'm disappointed in the strip for this quote, but I got tired of trying to find a better one. I've usually been able to find a strip where the quote fits or adds some sort of absurdist humor to the situation, and where the original punchline gives a twist to the quote itself as the title. This one just makes no sense, sorry.

On to the story.

For a few years my family and those of two of my dad's high school buddies would crash my grandparents' vacation home for a week or so. The males would all go fishing balls early, come back smelling of dead shrimp and beer around 1p.m. and take a nap. Then around 5 they'd fire up the pit for dinner and start pounding beers again. I typically spent the day either stretched out on the porch swing reading Louis L'Amour or Douglas Adams or with my mom over at Grandma's.
At least two or three days of the week (often more) the men would curtail the morning fishing and we'd head out to either Sunday Beach on Matagorda Island or Decros Point. Sunday Beach was seeing more traffic and I think we were looking to change things up a little, so this time we went to Decros.
We had the place to ourselves. It was like heaven. Gulf of Mexico rolling in, just enough wave action to body surf a few feet, hot sun, cool wet sand (and scorching hot dry sand further back), and no interlopers. It starts to get close to lunch time, which means that probably 20 beers and two packs of cigarettes had been consumed among my dad and his friends. My dad had been walking the beach looking for rocks or fishing from the beach or something. The rest of us were chilling on lawn chairs waiting for lunch after frolicking in the surf for a couple hours. We saw another boat come up and choose the spot 200 feet from us out of the several miles of open beach available to them.
I think there were three or four people. The guys were wearing cutoffs and baseball caps with motor oil stains on them over their dirty blonde mullets. Shortly after they started unloading their coolers of Natural Light my dad wandered up. "Who are these Seadrift-looking shitheads?" he asked in tone suggesting interlopers were not welcome in his domain. I think either they left or we did shortly thereafter.

As an aside for those who may not be well-apprised of the local bay community hierarchy, Seadrift is a town on the intercoastal waterway much like Port O'Connor, only dirtier and with more Vietnamese immigrants (two unrelated qualities, I'm pretty sure). Now, in full disclosure, most of my knowledge of the hierarchy stems from my cousins based in Port O'Connor. What they tell me is that Port Lavaca fancies itself the top, followed by Seadrift and Port O'Connor in no particular order. Port O'Connor considers itself above Seadrift, and Seadrift seems to disagree. According to them, POC folk are Bay Rats, Port Lavacans are Wharf Rats, and Seadrifters are just Rats. I think this view informed my dad's comment, and, Will Waghorne notwithstanding, I think it's probably correct.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

due to my getting pulled to cover stroke last month I haven't completed the post for this week. regular posting to resume next week. because afraidtofail, like jesus, will rise from the dead next week. for now, content yourself with these awesome pictures and imagine the blog posts he'll someday write about me.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

THERE is an ultimatum


After I graduated from Baylor and found a job, it didn't take long to realize I was going to end up suicidal if I continued to be a generic drone. I started weighing my options. Fortunately, I had done well in school and still had most higher education doors open to me. I briefly considered law school. I had worked for a pretty cool attorney in Waco and even took the LSAT (cold turkey, with the flu, in a room full of cocksuckers -- miserable experience), but I knew lawyering wasn't my bag.
I then considered healthcare. I was pre-med when I started college but fell off the wagon somewhere along the way. I think it was shortly after my American Romantics course but before I tried to read every word written by Hemingway. It may have coincided with the borderline alcoholism and onset of 6 years of depression wrought by my ex-girlfriend's mind-fucking of me. (Don't blame her, my mind's a slut. It gets fucked by just about anything.)
Now that I had experienced something that made Dilbert real to me, medicine had a brighter appeal. I still thought of the whole medical school bit as a trifle cliche, however, so I was looking for something related but more interesting. I'd always loved genetics. Turns out there is an entire clinical field known as "genetic counseling". I found the American Genetic Counselor's Association website and tracked down some practicing GC's and even got to sit in on a few patient visits. It was very cool, and I was sold.
Unfortunately, there aren't a lot of genetic counseling programs out there. Or at least, there weren't at that time. Most of the programs that are out there only take one to three applicants per year for their two-year program. Wow. I applied to about 15 programs and got two interview offers. I only ended up taking one of them. It was to Sarah Lawrence College in New York. Yonkers to be exact. This was the largest and oldest program in the country. I had a decent shot at getting in since they took like 12 applicants per year.
My interview went really well, and I was awaiting my financial aid report from them. I was talking to my dad about my plans. He and my mom, being risk-averse as mentioned before, thought my plan to go off to New York for school was foolish. But they hadn't tasted the pirogi and wine that Summer and I had on my interview trip. I digress.
One of the objections my dad raised to the notion of sending one of his Grays up to the Yankees for a couple years was that he had never even heard of this school. I guess it's not exactly Notre Dame, but Sarah Lawrence is pretty well-known to educated folk. I mean, it got name-dropped by JD Salinger, for Christ's sake. (In Franny and Zooey, I think, but don't hold me to that.)
It became a moot point when I realized I was looking at adding at least $50Grrr in debt to potentially qualify for jobs that paid $35k/yr. Ultimately I am my father's son and I just couldn't pull the trigger on that deal. Which is how I ended up the world's most bitter neurology resident. Maybe if my dad were a bigger Salinger fan none of that would have happened.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

More like copper


My dad could be described as financially conservative. If you were trying to win Understatement of the Year. Very averse to risk and debt, he and my mom didn't buy much extra when we were kids. All their friends had boats and nice cars and whatnot, but they didn't care. In fact they scoffed at all these people "living beyond their means".
One time, not too long ago, Ojo asked dad about this philosophy versus the spend-spend-spend philosophy. His question was basically, at what point does denying yourself these things become worth it in comparison to those who were buying things when they wanted them rather than waiting for the time they could afford them. Dad's answer was pretty glum. "If you're us, it never pays off." My dad, Eeyore the mortgage lender.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

my brain doesn't mind at all


About a year ago my dad called me. This has happened probably 8 times since I moved out of his house 13 years ago. Anyway, he was calling because he had a medical question. It turns out his doctor had recently started him on a medicine to reduce his cholesterol. Those medicines can potentially damage your liver and doctors usually warn patients about drinking while taking them. So my dad calls and asks how bad it would be. I told him somewhere between no problem and fulminant liver failure where his only hope would be solid organ transplant but that it was probably okay. I mean, millions of people are on these medications and I bet most of them drink a beer every now and then.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

You think you're pretty smart


Snake will hopefully fill in some details on this one, because it's a great story when he tells it. Snake was, I'm guessing, a sophomore in high school, probably 5'9", 120. My dad was working on a car, it might even have been the Datsun 280-Z of Farquar fame, and he needed some help. He had to get to a really tight spot underneath the engine to replace something structural on this car. In order to do this he had rigged a chain around the engine, yes the whole engine, that ran through a pulley. The idea was that Snake would lift this 800 pound engine into the air while my dad worked on replacing the part, his head position for certain death should his youngest son prove not up to the task. Anyway, I actually wish I could have seen the expression on Snake's face when he heard dad say, "You hold this engine up ... " I mean, you thought giving him the wrong size socket was a capitol offense? Try death and/or complete cranial dismemberment. At his most bitter moment I think I've heard Snake refer to this as a missed opportunity.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

It's nice to see what's going on


After Ojo moved on to college and was out of the house for a few years tensions between dad and him really eased up. They were able to relax a little and share certain joys of life, like cigarettes. One night when Ojo was home visiting he and dad went to the back porch to smoke. Ojo hadn't yet gotten his best Christmas gift ever, or maybe he was just out of Zippo fluid. At any rate, he asked my dad for a match. To which my dad replied, far too quickly, "My ass and your face. That's a match." Ojo was stunned by this middle-school sweet burn.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

a pretty face


I'm pretty sure this comes from our trip to the San Antonio zoo when we were kids. I remember two things about this trip: 1. It ended in a deluge with us taking shelter under an interstate overpass like a bunch of Katrina refugees; 2. This quote. We were going through the primate exhibit when we got to a baboon cage. My dad says, pretty loudly, "That monkey's got a bad case of redass!" My mom was embarassed, but we laughed our asses off at that.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Don't say it!


Married men seem to be almost required to have a friend of whom their wives, and in ssome cases society at large, disapprove. James Record is probably that guy for Ojo. Will Waghorne will be that guy for Snake. Snake is that guy for me.* And Jackie Farquar (spelling?) was that guy for my dad.
White trash, redneck, lousy, choad-nibbling meth-addict is too kind a description. One time dad went out with Jackie and came back with a broke-down 1970-something Datsun 280-Z. It sat in his garage for months, brewing a rift in my parents marriage with every passing day. My dad eventually triumphed by getting the piece of crap running pretty good with a new paint job. I think he got to drive it about three times total.
Anyway, one of the last times dad hung out with Jackie and his band of redneck roughians they were out in somebody's pasture tossing back Milwaukee's Best or Natural Light, maybe a couple Bud Lights that dad took himself. I imagine there was a bonfire, or at least a little campfire fueled by ample lighter fluid from a bottle placed far too close to the pit. The stars were probably stark in the country brightness, with a 3/4 moon shining down so everything was just visible without a flashlight. One guy in his second-best flannel hunting shirt (the red one) asks if anybody needs one while he digs his 13th brew out of the ice-chest. A chorus of affirmation rings out into the still night. Somebody farts. The men laugh.
Then the BBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!! of a high-powered semi-automatic weapon rips the night apart.
Now, my dad used to love to start his morning picking off gophers with a .22 from the back porch, but I'm not sure he was down with military-grade arms. When he told the story about his last night out ever with Jackie Farquar he ended with this quote. "Uzis, buddy. That's how they party."

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

I apologize for nothing

Sorry for no post last week. I spent 10 days wallowing in the throes of swine flu. Or lymphoma. The jury's still out. I recovered just in time to start working my skinny ass off for people who don't give a shit. I'll have a post tomorrow and should get back on track after that. BTW, there have been 39 posts to date, so only twelve more to go. Two are in the bag and there's only 10 left. It's getting down to it.

Also, read the title of this post in the voice of Norman Dale.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

I'm having my regular ...


I mentioned a couple weeks ago that I was running out of stories to go with the best quotes. I'm not even sure this is a direct quote. If it is I think it was said to Snake, possibly on the roof of the Bay House. It may just be the cursory paraphrase of my dad's self-image that we've all adopted over the years, however. Snake and Ojo are once again called on to fill the gaps.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

and how do i cure...


This is one of the all time greatest stand-alone quotes in dad's canon. I could hide behind that fact, but the truth is, the awesomeness of this quote has whitewashed the surrounding story from my mind. Ojo or Snake will have to fill us in.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

nobody laughs


No real story for this one either. Just a favorite expression. I've never really understood what it meant. I could imagine it meaning something along the lines of "don't bother with the hypothetical." Sort of like "If a frog had a glass ass it wouldn't jump so high." Just even more vulgar: "If I could shit fire I wouldn't have to buy matches, but I can't shit fire so why think about it? Just go buy matches. Take it in the ass and move on down the road."

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

They don't say much


Another one without a single story that stands out to me. I like this quote, however, because it exemplifies how dad expressed his affection for his kids. Now that I have kids I realize that dad must have been overwhelmed with pride and love for us. But this is the most he could say out loud.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Afraidtofail's call for submissions

I'm getting down to some of the quotes I've been avoiding writing about because I either never knew or can't remember the genesis. So I'm wondering if the readership would like to do some audience participation. (Especially since, contrary to my original concept of the absurd humor of pairinc Charles Schultz and Dad, people seem to mostly enjoy the back-stories.)
I've got quotes lined up for the next four posts but two of them are generic phrases Dad tosses about all the time and two I can't think of how they came up. Let me know in the comments or by email if you want to take a crack at this.
Payment is thirty-two rimjobs a word.

Incidentally, I just counted and we've had 36 posts with quotes from dad so far. There are only 16 left to get to my goal of one-per-week for a year. I've only missed two weeks so far, which far exceeds my expectations, honestly. I just looked through the list and I've got plenty of quotes written down, but only about 13 or 14 really good ones. If you've got any quotes that haven't been featured yet you could also email me or put them in the comments.
No payment for quote suggestions. Okay okay. One rimjob per quote, but that's it.

There's something symbolic


Another one that only Snake had the honor of witnessing. I think I was a freshman at Baylor when this one happened. Snake was outside playing basketball and my dad was in the garage working on something. I'm not sure what he was doing but I know it involved a hammer because Snake saw him hit his thumb and jerk it up, squeezing it with his other hand like a cartoon character. The only thing missing was the giant, red, pulsating thumb. It sounds like it looked pretty funny. Snake thought so, too, and laughed.
Dad did not appreciate the humor of the situation. His response to Snake was the scowling, "You think that's funny? Why don't you come over here and let me hit you with a hammer. See how you like it."