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    yoop
    Participant

      Wouldn't it be great to have Sarah Palin as President, Rush Limbaugh as VP and Kate Gosslin as Secretary of State.  We would all be safe. 

      Where's Phil? Amy?  Dyke?

      On a sidenote, I was driving through the local town the other day and saw a road sign that had no words on it but a picture of what looked like a library.  This got me to thinking…. If I had to rely on a sign of the library to find the library wouldn't I then not be able to read???  Why would I want to go to the library then??

      Wouldn't it be great to have Sarah Palin as President, Rush Limbaugh as VP and Kate Gosslin as Secretary of State.  We would all be safe. 

      Where's Phil? Amy?  Dyke?

      On a sidenote, I was driving through the local town the other day and saw a road sign that had no words on it but a picture of what looked like a library.  This got me to thinking…. If I had to rely on a sign of the library to find the library wouldn't I then not be able to read???  Why would I want to go to the library then??

      Took me years as a kid to figure out what my mom meant when she told me to put the seat down.  Why would she want me, and my 3 brothers and dad to put the seat down when we would then just end up peeing on the seat???  Poor woman.

      yoop

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        TinaR
        Participant

          You'd use  the library for Internet access to porn. Duh. Oh, and President Palin's reality show out-takes on YouTube.

          Yes, that poor woman. You're not alone, though…we have a nation of  Palin voters / seat pee types ;)   Since you CAN read…how about this to while away the time spent  between flooding the restroom floor :

           

          The Weeper of the House

           

          Crybaby. Wimp. Sensitive man. The reviews of John Boehner’s sobfest in a “60 Minutes” profile last Sunday have been all over the map, fueling a debate on when it’s appropriate for men in public life to cry.

          Barbara Walters said the incoming speaker of the House has an emotional problem, and that if Nancy Pelosi had been such a serial bawler, she’d never have heard the end of it. Walters’s colleague on “The View,” Joy Behar, called Boehner “The Weeper of the House.” And Sean Hannity of Fox said people should lay off Boehner, because when right-wingers cry it’s not a sign of weakness.

          What’s been missing is the reason why Boehner cries so much. Around Washington, he’s known as a chain-smoking, Merlot-swilling, golf-loving conservative hardliner. Lobbyists love him, no more so than when he handed out checks from the tobacco industry to compliant members of Congress on the House floor.

          It’s when he talks about how he rose from his humble past — the son of a bar owner, one of 12 children who grew up in a small home with a single bathroom — that Boehner starts to weep.

          “Making sure these kids have a shot at the American Dream like I did is very important,” he said, choking up, when asked on “60 Minutes” about his crying.

          But a look at Boehner’s record during his two decades in Congress shows a man who has voted against nearly every boost for the working stiff. There’s no empathy for those with the longest shots at the American Dream in his voting pattern. Instead, we see a politician who is hard-hearted in his legislative treatment of the people now coping with the kind of economic conditions in which the Boehner family grew up.

          The American Dream that Boehner evokes between tears has never been more threatened. By some measures, social mobility — that is, the ability of people to move up a notch in class — is at an all-time low in this country. Poor Americans now have less than a 5 percent chance of rising to the upper-middle-class within their lifetimes.

          At the same time, the gap between the rich and poor, and the concentration of wealth owned by those at the very top, has never been so great. After examining these trends, The Economist wrote that “the United States risks calcifying into a European-style class-based society.”

          Numerous studies have shown that what knocks people out of the middle class, or keeps them from ever joining it, is a catastrophic bill or two — usually from getting sick and not having health care. Then, those debts go on credit cards, which leads to a misery hole of high interest and limited choices.

          Rep. John Boehner fighting back tears after the midterm elections.Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images Rep. John Boehner fighting back tears after the midterm elections.

          Against this backdrop, Boehner has fought against strivers and strugglers at the lower end, while shilling for ever-more concentrated corporate power and banker control. The one thing that stirs his passion is tax cuts. But nearly half of American households don’t pay any income tax at all, so Boehner’s crusade doesn’t affect them. And a decade of aggressive tax-cutting has done nothing to reverse the woes of everyday working people.

          Boehner voted for the major trade agreements that make it easier to ship jobs overseas, while voting against assistance to workers who lose jobs to globalization. He voted no on expanding health care for poor children, no on raising the federal minimum wage to $7.25 an hour, and no on a bill to allow people to purchase F.D.A.-certified prescription drugs at a cheaper price from certain countries.

          So: he wants to deny health care to poor children, let millionaires hold onto more of their money while blocking a small raise for the lowest earners and prevent people on fixed incomes from getting a break on the costliest item in their personal budget — their meds.

          Boehner got a zero rating from Citizens for Tax Justice, a nonprofit founded in 1979 to give average people a greater voice on tax policy amidst a stadium full of lobbyists for the rich.

          More recently, he voted against modifying bankruptcy rules — rebuffing an effort to help people avoid mortgage foreclosures. He said no to the federal rescue of General Motors, which saved the American auto industry, countless jobs in Boehner’s Midwest, and did it all without a long-lasting hit on the Treasury. And he gave a thumbs down to regulation of the subprime mortgage industry.

          Like Boehner’s father, my grandmother in Chicago owned a small bar that catered to a working-class clientele. She lived above the bar, a widowed single mother, working seven days a week. What saved her in her old age was a great, expansive government program that allowed so many Americans to live out the last decades of their lives in dignity — Medicare. Yes, that single-payer, socialized medical system that Boehner would surely vote against if it came up today.

          For whatever reason, Boehner’s life story never gave him a broader governing vision for the folks he knew in his hometown of Reading, Ohio. When he turns on the waterworks while talking about them, it raises two questions:

          Is Boehner crying because he escaped that fate? Or because of the person he has become — a politician whose votes show he couldn’t care less for the people he left behind? 

           

           

           

          Loading spinner
          TinaR
          Participant

            You'd use  the library for Internet access to porn. Duh. Oh, and President Palin's reality show out-takes on YouTube.

            Yes, that poor woman. You're not alone, though…we have a nation of  Palin voters / seat pee types ;)   Since you CAN read…how about this to while away the time spent  between flooding the restroom floor :

             

            The Weeper of the House

             

            Crybaby. Wimp. Sensitive man. The reviews of John Boehner’s sobfest in a “60 Minutes” profile last Sunday have been all over the map, fueling a debate on when it’s appropriate for men in public life to cry.

            Barbara Walters said the incoming speaker of the House has an emotional problem, and that if Nancy Pelosi had been such a serial bawler, she’d never have heard the end of it. Walters’s colleague on “The View,” Joy Behar, called Boehner “The Weeper of the House.” And Sean Hannity of Fox said people should lay off Boehner, because when right-wingers cry it’s not a sign of weakness.

            What’s been missing is the reason why Boehner cries so much. Around Washington, he’s known as a chain-smoking, Merlot-swilling, golf-loving conservative hardliner. Lobbyists love him, no more so than when he handed out checks from the tobacco industry to compliant members of Congress on the House floor.

            It’s when he talks about how he rose from his humble past — the son of a bar owner, one of 12 children who grew up in a small home with a single bathroom — that Boehner starts to weep.

            “Making sure these kids have a shot at the American Dream like I did is very important,” he said, choking up, when asked on “60 Minutes” about his crying.

            But a look at Boehner’s record during his two decades in Congress shows a man who has voted against nearly every boost for the working stiff. There’s no empathy for those with the longest shots at the American Dream in his voting pattern. Instead, we see a politician who is hard-hearted in his legislative treatment of the people now coping with the kind of economic conditions in which the Boehner family grew up.

            The American Dream that Boehner evokes between tears has never been more threatened. By some measures, social mobility — that is, the ability of people to move up a notch in class — is at an all-time low in this country. Poor Americans now have less than a 5 percent chance of rising to the upper-middle-class within their lifetimes.

            At the same time, the gap between the rich and poor, and the concentration of wealth owned by those at the very top, has never been so great. After examining these trends, The Economist wrote that “the United States risks calcifying into a European-style class-based society.”

            Numerous studies have shown that what knocks people out of the middle class, or keeps them from ever joining it, is a catastrophic bill or two — usually from getting sick and not having health care. Then, those debts go on credit cards, which leads to a misery hole of high interest and limited choices.

            Rep. John Boehner fighting back tears after the midterm elections.Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images Rep. John Boehner fighting back tears after the midterm elections.

            Against this backdrop, Boehner has fought against strivers and strugglers at the lower end, while shilling for ever-more concentrated corporate power and banker control. The one thing that stirs his passion is tax cuts. But nearly half of American households don’t pay any income tax at all, so Boehner’s crusade doesn’t affect them. And a decade of aggressive tax-cutting has done nothing to reverse the woes of everyday working people.

            Boehner voted for the major trade agreements that make it easier to ship jobs overseas, while voting against assistance to workers who lose jobs to globalization. He voted no on expanding health care for poor children, no on raising the federal minimum wage to $7.25 an hour, and no on a bill to allow people to purchase F.D.A.-certified prescription drugs at a cheaper price from certain countries.

            So: he wants to deny health care to poor children, let millionaires hold onto more of their money while blocking a small raise for the lowest earners and prevent people on fixed incomes from getting a break on the costliest item in their personal budget — their meds.

            Boehner got a zero rating from Citizens for Tax Justice, a nonprofit founded in 1979 to give average people a greater voice on tax policy amidst a stadium full of lobbyists for the rich.

            More recently, he voted against modifying bankruptcy rules — rebuffing an effort to help people avoid mortgage foreclosures. He said no to the federal rescue of General Motors, which saved the American auto industry, countless jobs in Boehner’s Midwest, and did it all without a long-lasting hit on the Treasury. And he gave a thumbs down to regulation of the subprime mortgage industry.

            Like Boehner’s father, my grandmother in Chicago owned a small bar that catered to a working-class clientele. She lived above the bar, a widowed single mother, working seven days a week. What saved her in her old age was a great, expansive government program that allowed so many Americans to live out the last decades of their lives in dignity — Medicare. Yes, that single-payer, socialized medical system that Boehner would surely vote against if it came up today.

            For whatever reason, Boehner’s life story never gave him a broader governing vision for the folks he knew in his hometown of Reading, Ohio. When he turns on the waterworks while talking about them, it raises two questions:

            Is Boehner crying because he escaped that fate? Or because of the person he has become — a politician whose votes show he couldn’t care less for the people he left behind? 

             

             

             

            Loading spinner
              yoop
              Participant

                I've been dinking around writing some stories for my friends and family about true events of our misspent youth and I wrote one about this topic.  Yes, kinda long and my editing lacks but here it is:

                  

                The Unthinkable

                By Yoop         

                                        I am going to go places with this story that no man should go.  Great fear of retribution from my fellows might ensue but since this is my story I’m writing it.  To me, this is like self-help medicine or a purging of shame I felt in the past. 

                                        Today I am going to write about the dreaded MANCRY.  Already getting squeamish?  You should be since we’ve all been there, some are worried I might even mention names. 

                                        Generally it starts out like this; You make some plans with buddies, buy enough beer for a weekend, throw in some Boone’s Farm to pass around and maybe even a fifth of your favorite spirit.  You are all excited because it’s Friday night and you have the whole weekend in front of you.  Soon, things start to happen when three quarters of the beer you bought is gone, the Boone’s Farm has been passed around and drained and of course it was necessary to take a couple shots from the fifth, since you told yourself you hardly even had a buzz.  Then it happens and it ain’t pretty.

                                        Wando Maki, one of my best friends, had one of these days.  You wouldn’t even think Wando and crying could be uttered together because he is about six foot five and close to two-seventy.  The man also keeps his hair cropped short, like Skeeters, but Wando could gobble up Skeeter in one bite. Some might say he is big enough to eat hay but I think he would prefer potatos, and he’s a good-looking sort in a self-proclaimed type of way.

                                        You could almost see it coming just by the look in his eyes, kind of glassy, almost misty, half in part from the drink, and half from the mood you see approaching.  Wando’s big mitts dropped on my shoulder and it looked like the weight of the world was on his mind, he pulled me in close enough to smell the emitting last drink.  Out came a series of life changing words,  “I gotta tell you something and I’m serious.”  Huh? What’s this all about as I panicked.  And then, “You know, I love you.”  Huh again?  What just happened here?  Discomfort is what I felt at this moment and since I wasn't as drunk as he was and couldn't just say ‘me too’, YOU have to say it back “I LOVE U TOO.”  Instantly you look around to see if anyone heard or saw this breech of manhood.  You feel like you just kissed your cousin for God’s sake.  How can I look him in the eye tomorrow morning?  Are we going to have to talk about this too?   There was instant anxiety as these thoughts shot between my ears.  Oops, sorry this story is about crying and not about man love so I best get back to the topic.

                                        Wando has cried in public before and I was a witness.  We were at a country music festival and a famous singer took a young girl out of the audience, sat her on his lap and sang a pretty song for her.  Huge, alligator tears dropped from his head pounding the ground like a summer storm.  I thought about crying too, after that little episode.

                                        I’ve cried, I’ll admit it.  Remember the last episode of MASH, where BJ wouldn’t say goodbye to Hawkeye?  Then off goes Hawkeye in the helicopter and BJ spelled out goodbye with those white rocks, cried like a baby, I did.  But at least I hid it.  Gotta put down ‘Ol Yeller?  Noooooo, I cried.  What?  Half-Pint’s sister Mary goes blind on Little House on the Prairie?  I cried then, too.  There I sat, Heemping like no tomorrow.  Heemping, by the way, was coined by the columnist John Kass who said it was the sound men make when they see old Yeller die.  Like trying to hold back the wave of emotions only to let it all go and have to suck air back rapidly.  I’ve seen it, heard it, and a good Mancry definitely has some heemping in it.

                                        My brother, Bishop, and Ducky Andrews cried together before.  They jumped to even worse levels because they were equally buzzed and included hugging with their Mancry.  Turns out drinking almost a gallon of homemade dandelion wine can pull out tears from the depths of your soul.  He told me that it wasn’t your typical boo-hoo type of cry but almost a wail of despair.  ‘Mental note: No to any homemade wine for fear of gross displays of hysteria’.  Brother Bishop did say he felt better afterwards.  Who needs a shrink when Dandelion wine is available?

                                        My Pappy always used simple reasoning .  “Remember,” he would say, “what we say and do when we have a few cocktails are to be forgotten”, kind of like ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.’  Seems like a good way to deal with the shame, knowing your fellow man watched as you blubbered on about everything from baby seals being clubbed to how you were misunderstood as a child.

                            Maybe I’m all wrong about the MANCRY, maybe it’s OK to have public displays of emotions, maybe the world would be a softer place and we could all cry together.  Then again, maybe not, since if we’re all crying, when are we going to be laughing?

                Loading spinner
                yoop
                Participant

                  I've been dinking around writing some stories for my friends and family about true events of our misspent youth and I wrote one about this topic.  Yes, kinda long and my editing lacks but here it is:

                    

                  The Unthinkable

                  By Yoop         

                                          I am going to go places with this story that no man should go.  Great fear of retribution from my fellows might ensue but since this is my story I’m writing it.  To me, this is like self-help medicine or a purging of shame I felt in the past. 

                                          Today I am going to write about the dreaded MANCRY.  Already getting squeamish?  You should be since we’ve all been there, some are worried I might even mention names. 

                                          Generally it starts out like this; You make some plans with buddies, buy enough beer for a weekend, throw in some Boone’s Farm to pass around and maybe even a fifth of your favorite spirit.  You are all excited because it’s Friday night and you have the whole weekend in front of you.  Soon, things start to happen when three quarters of the beer you bought is gone, the Boone’s Farm has been passed around and drained and of course it was necessary to take a couple shots from the fifth, since you told yourself you hardly even had a buzz.  Then it happens and it ain’t pretty.

                                          Wando Maki, one of my best friends, had one of these days.  You wouldn’t even think Wando and crying could be uttered together because he is about six foot five and close to two-seventy.  The man also keeps his hair cropped short, like Skeeters, but Wando could gobble up Skeeter in one bite. Some might say he is big enough to eat hay but I think he would prefer potatos, and he’s a good-looking sort in a self-proclaimed type of way.

                                          You could almost see it coming just by the look in his eyes, kind of glassy, almost misty, half in part from the drink, and half from the mood you see approaching.  Wando’s big mitts dropped on my shoulder and it looked like the weight of the world was on his mind, he pulled me in close enough to smell the emitting last drink.  Out came a series of life changing words,  “I gotta tell you something and I’m serious.”  Huh? What’s this all about as I panicked.  And then, “You know, I love you.”  Huh again?  What just happened here?  Discomfort is what I felt at this moment and since I wasn't as drunk as he was and couldn't just say ‘me too’, YOU have to say it back “I LOVE U TOO.”  Instantly you look around to see if anyone heard or saw this breech of manhood.  You feel like you just kissed your cousin for God’s sake.  How can I look him in the eye tomorrow morning?  Are we going to have to talk about this too?   There was instant anxiety as these thoughts shot between my ears.  Oops, sorry this story is about crying and not about man love so I best get back to the topic.

                                          Wando has cried in public before and I was a witness.  We were at a country music festival and a famous singer took a young girl out of the audience, sat her on his lap and sang a pretty song for her.  Huge, alligator tears dropped from his head pounding the ground like a summer storm.  I thought about crying too, after that little episode.

                                          I’ve cried, I’ll admit it.  Remember the last episode of MASH, where BJ wouldn’t say goodbye to Hawkeye?  Then off goes Hawkeye in the helicopter and BJ spelled out goodbye with those white rocks, cried like a baby, I did.  But at least I hid it.  Gotta put down ‘Ol Yeller?  Noooooo, I cried.  What?  Half-Pint’s sister Mary goes blind on Little House on the Prairie?  I cried then, too.  There I sat, Heemping like no tomorrow.  Heemping, by the way, was coined by the columnist John Kass who said it was the sound men make when they see old Yeller die.  Like trying to hold back the wave of emotions only to let it all go and have to suck air back rapidly.  I’ve seen it, heard it, and a good Mancry definitely has some heemping in it.

                                          My brother, Bishop, and Ducky Andrews cried together before.  They jumped to even worse levels because they were equally buzzed and included hugging with their Mancry.  Turns out drinking almost a gallon of homemade dandelion wine can pull out tears from the depths of your soul.  He told me that it wasn’t your typical boo-hoo type of cry but almost a wail of despair.  ‘Mental note: No to any homemade wine for fear of gross displays of hysteria’.  Brother Bishop did say he felt better afterwards.  Who needs a shrink when Dandelion wine is available?

                                          My Pappy always used simple reasoning .  “Remember,” he would say, “what we say and do when we have a few cocktails are to be forgotten”, kind of like ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.’  Seems like a good way to deal with the shame, knowing your fellow man watched as you blubbered on about everything from baby seals being clubbed to how you were misunderstood as a child.

                              Maybe I’m all wrong about the MANCRY, maybe it’s OK to have public displays of emotions, maybe the world would be a softer place and we could all cry together.  Then again, maybe not, since if we’re all crying, when are we going to be laughing?

                  Loading spinner
                  KyCyn
                  Participant

                    Yoop, great article!!!!

                     

                    Keep writing …

                     

                    Cyn

                    Loading spinner
                    KyCyn
                    Participant

                      Yoop, great article!!!!

                       

                      Keep writing …

                       

                      Cyn

                      Loading spinner
                      yoop
                      Participant

                        Thanks Cyn,

                        Wrote this one yesterday.  I laughed as I wrote.  Funny how I can't remember anything short term but have good memory of childhood suff.

                        The Art of Not Being Cool

                         

                        By Bill

                         

                                    Long ago when I was a young lad I had a goal to become cool.  Fonzie-like cool to be exact.  My school locker would be stuck and with the absolute knowledge that I possessed coolness, I would give it a wack and expect the door to fly open.  After the 50thtime in trying this, I concluded no ice flowed in my veins and the only coolness I had were the feelings girls bestowed upon me.

                                    Brother Bishop was cool, even for a grease monkey.  The flowing feathered hair and a Farrah Fawcett t-shirt sealed the deal.  I’m pretty sure he even dated a senior when he was only a freshman, now that’s cool.  He had the ‘dog chasing a car and car stops now what to do’ problem, but the several years of moving toward his GED educated him just fine.

                                    I had no other option in the quest of coolness than to reevaluate my situation and personal self.  First, analyze the looks.  Hmmm, my teeth had more curve and curl than my hair, except for the persistent cow-lick jutting from my upper right forehead that no amount of water or spit could keep down. The Austin Powers look wasn’t in fashion so flashing the smile and running my hands through silken locks were out.

                                    Jumping off-topic for a second I can’t help but remember younger brother Sprout when his eye teeth started popping out.  He had this right wolf tooth jumping straight forward rather than down. 

                                    Braces for any of us was out of the question due to our financial situation in the family so my mom came up with a solution.  “Russell, rather than looking like a future Unicorn, keep your finger on that snaggle-tooth and keep pushing down,” mom would say.  Us brothers had a lot of fun telling on him, “Mommm, Sprout’s not pushing down his fang,” we would cry.

                                    Ok, back to the issue of not being cool.  Looks were out so I thought my superior intellect and savvy way with words were the answer.  It came to me as an epiphany, ‘become a girls best friend’ was my solution.  I jumped into every covey of girls and soon knew the business of every person, dog, cat, senior citizen and adult in Iron River.  This wealth of information gave me power and I spewed out cattiness that even Desperate Housewives would frown upon. 

                                    At this moment, I have to implore youth in pursuit of coolness:  KEEP YOUR FLIPPIN YAP SHUT.  The ‘Girls Best Friend’, idea doesn’t work.  I repeat, doesn’t work.  Try listening instead and keep your thoughts in your head.

                                    Two ideas down and I am no further ahead.  In desperation I resorted to my dressing.  Poverty was one step above our financial state so I had to make do with what I had. 

                                    My Aunt sent me a pair of Levi’s and I would wear these with chest out and head high.  People would notice, I said to myself, and notice they did. 

                        Auntie must have shopped at St. Vinnies and this must have been where the Levi Company gave away the pants that didn’t suit standards.  The pants I received from her were somewhat flawed, the zipper was a little crooked and two inches off center so when I unzipped only the hernia scar was revealed.  One leg was a little longer but not noticeable if I walked kind of tilted.

                        The cool thing about Levi’s were its tags.  They had a little red one in the back and the big leather one on the belt ring.  In the case of my free pants, both of these tags were haphazardly cut off.  I wore a thick belt to cover the partially cut leather tag and hoped nobody would notice the little red one being snipped off. 

                        Kids are observant and very cruel.  It took about a half an hour of my chest out and head high for my peers to notice something different about me.  “See,” I said to myself, “I’m now cool with my cool pants”.  “Hey, ummm, Bill, I see you got new pants,” said Flash.  “Levi’s,” the new cool me says.  “You sure about that?”  The gig was up and coolness lost.  “You are like school on a Saturday,” said Fat Albert.  “How’s that?” says me.

                        “No class.”

                                    Every time Coolness came close to me, it quickly vanished.  Brother Bishop, Butchy Chreest and myself were going for a swim at Chicaugoan Lake and we pretended to be The Man From Atlantis, from the sitcom TV show.  In order to swim like Atlantis man you had to thrust your torso up and down very quickly in the water.  We never did swim as fast as The Man From Atlantis but it sure wasn’t from lack of effort. 

                                    I stated earlier that we grew up without much money so we didn’t have the fancy swimsuits with the built in liner.  We wore loose shorts and tighty-whities underneath.  Bloomers were a communal thing in our house so we all shared, this included Pappy’s Fruit of the Looms.  Pappy’s underwear can be best described as ‘Ol Yellers’.  The elastic band was stretched out, very droopy and with a color that didn’t fit into ROY G BIV.

                                    The day we were pretending to be The Man From Atlantis was a day I happened to be wearing Pappy’s bloomers.  So there we were, twisting, thrusting, flipping around underwater in our attempt to swim like Atlantis Man when exhaustion set in.  We called it quits and headed toward the pavilion at the park.  Our trio sauntered with teeny pectorals flexed in the feeble attempt to impress girls.  Our friend, Frankie Burns, was sitting with a few girls so I thought it would be cool to degrade him in front of them, thus gaining the advantage in courtship.  The girls eyes danced in delight with my wit and charm, nothing but big smiles and giggles came from their mouth.  I was Cool.

                                    We walked by them and they were in awe.  I impressed them so much, my pectoral’s got a little bigger, head was held higher and shoulders were out.  I felt some seaweed touching the back of my knee’s and turned my head to take a look.  Evidently, the Atlantis Man swimming made Pappy’s bloomers water-logged and stretched so it wasn’t seaweed that I felt behind me from each leg it was his ‘Ol Yellers’ drooping way down. 

                                    Not Cool.  When I turned to figure out the seaweed issue and then realized it wasn’t seaweed I glanced up at the girls who sat intently staring, giggling and smiling.

                                    Trying to be cool wasn’t cool I surmised and gave up the quest.   

                        Loading spinner
                        yoop
                        Participant

                          Thanks Cyn,

                          Wrote this one yesterday.  I laughed as I wrote.  Funny how I can't remember anything short term but have good memory of childhood suff.

                          The Art of Not Being Cool

                           

                          By Bill

                           

                                      Long ago when I was a young lad I had a goal to become cool.  Fonzie-like cool to be exact.  My school locker would be stuck and with the absolute knowledge that I possessed coolness, I would give it a wack and expect the door to fly open.  After the 50thtime in trying this, I concluded no ice flowed in my veins and the only coolness I had were the feelings girls bestowed upon me.

                                      Brother Bishop was cool, even for a grease monkey.  The flowing feathered hair and a Farrah Fawcett t-shirt sealed the deal.  I’m pretty sure he even dated a senior when he was only a freshman, now that’s cool.  He had the ‘dog chasing a car and car stops now what to do’ problem, but the several years of moving toward his GED educated him just fine.

                                      I had no other option in the quest of coolness than to reevaluate my situation and personal self.  First, analyze the looks.  Hmmm, my teeth had more curve and curl than my hair, except for the persistent cow-lick jutting from my upper right forehead that no amount of water or spit could keep down. The Austin Powers look wasn’t in fashion so flashing the smile and running my hands through silken locks were out.

                                      Jumping off-topic for a second I can’t help but remember younger brother Sprout when his eye teeth started popping out.  He had this right wolf tooth jumping straight forward rather than down. 

                                      Braces for any of us was out of the question due to our financial situation in the family so my mom came up with a solution.  “Russell, rather than looking like a future Unicorn, keep your finger on that snaggle-tooth and keep pushing down,” mom would say.  Us brothers had a lot of fun telling on him, “Mommm, Sprout’s not pushing down his fang,” we would cry.

                                      Ok, back to the issue of not being cool.  Looks were out so I thought my superior intellect and savvy way with words were the answer.  It came to me as an epiphany, ‘become a girls best friend’ was my solution.  I jumped into every covey of girls and soon knew the business of every person, dog, cat, senior citizen and adult in Iron River.  This wealth of information gave me power and I spewed out cattiness that even Desperate Housewives would frown upon. 

                                      At this moment, I have to implore youth in pursuit of coolness:  KEEP YOUR FLIPPIN YAP SHUT.  The ‘Girls Best Friend’, idea doesn’t work.  I repeat, doesn’t work.  Try listening instead and keep your thoughts in your head.

                                      Two ideas down and I am no further ahead.  In desperation I resorted to my dressing.  Poverty was one step above our financial state so I had to make do with what I had. 

                                      My Aunt sent me a pair of Levi’s and I would wear these with chest out and head high.  People would notice, I said to myself, and notice they did. 

                          Auntie must have shopped at St. Vinnies and this must have been where the Levi Company gave away the pants that didn’t suit standards.  The pants I received from her were somewhat flawed, the zipper was a little crooked and two inches off center so when I unzipped only the hernia scar was revealed.  One leg was a little longer but not noticeable if I walked kind of tilted.

                          The cool thing about Levi’s were its tags.  They had a little red one in the back and the big leather one on the belt ring.  In the case of my free pants, both of these tags were haphazardly cut off.  I wore a thick belt to cover the partially cut leather tag and hoped nobody would notice the little red one being snipped off. 

                          Kids are observant and very cruel.  It took about a half an hour of my chest out and head high for my peers to notice something different about me.  “See,” I said to myself, “I’m now cool with my cool pants”.  “Hey, ummm, Bill, I see you got new pants,” said Flash.  “Levi’s,” the new cool me says.  “You sure about that?”  The gig was up and coolness lost.  “You are like school on a Saturday,” said Fat Albert.  “How’s that?” says me.

                          “No class.”

                                      Every time Coolness came close to me, it quickly vanished.  Brother Bishop, Butchy Chreest and myself were going for a swim at Chicaugoan Lake and we pretended to be The Man From Atlantis, from the sitcom TV show.  In order to swim like Atlantis man you had to thrust your torso up and down very quickly in the water.  We never did swim as fast as The Man From Atlantis but it sure wasn’t from lack of effort. 

                                      I stated earlier that we grew up without much money so we didn’t have the fancy swimsuits with the built in liner.  We wore loose shorts and tighty-whities underneath.  Bloomers were a communal thing in our house so we all shared, this included Pappy’s Fruit of the Looms.  Pappy’s underwear can be best described as ‘Ol Yellers’.  The elastic band was stretched out, very droopy and with a color that didn’t fit into ROY G BIV.

                                      The day we were pretending to be The Man From Atlantis was a day I happened to be wearing Pappy’s bloomers.  So there we were, twisting, thrusting, flipping around underwater in our attempt to swim like Atlantis Man when exhaustion set in.  We called it quits and headed toward the pavilion at the park.  Our trio sauntered with teeny pectorals flexed in the feeble attempt to impress girls.  Our friend, Frankie Burns, was sitting with a few girls so I thought it would be cool to degrade him in front of them, thus gaining the advantage in courtship.  The girls eyes danced in delight with my wit and charm, nothing but big smiles and giggles came from their mouth.  I was Cool.

                                      We walked by them and they were in awe.  I impressed them so much, my pectoral’s got a little bigger, head was held higher and shoulders were out.  I felt some seaweed touching the back of my knee’s and turned my head to take a look.  Evidently, the Atlantis Man swimming made Pappy’s bloomers water-logged and stretched so it wasn’t seaweed that I felt behind me from each leg it was his ‘Ol Yellers’ drooping way down. 

                                      Not Cool.  When I turned to figure out the seaweed issue and then realized it wasn’t seaweed I glanced up at the girls who sat intently staring, giggling and smiling.

                                      Trying to be cool wasn’t cool I surmised and gave up the quest.   

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                          LV
                          Participant

                            Great stories, and well told. Thanks for letting us laugh along with you.

                            Also glad to hear someone else thinking along the same lines – surely this bad joke will end!

                            (But, oh, please, can they be "tidy-whities"? The sagginess they acquire shows they can't be "tighty".)

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                            LV
                            Participant

                              Great stories, and well told. Thanks for letting us laugh along with you.

                              Also glad to hear someone else thinking along the same lines – surely this bad joke will end!

                              (But, oh, please, can they be "tidy-whities"? The sagginess they acquire shows they can't be "tighty".)

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                              yoop
                              Participant

                                Hey LV,

                                I better think of a better adjective than tidy or tighty, since they definately weren't either.  Here's one I wrote about a guy who lived next to us. 

                                I just started a blog today so I'm going to put all my stories in that and won't bore the masses

                                Happy Holidays to All

                                yoop

                                Skeeter Pattye 

                                 

                                By Bill

                                 

                                Skeeter Pattye was a man amongst boys, a kids best friend, surely no other adult would allow a 12 year old boy to chew snuff and swear like a sailor.  Skeeter wasn’t tall, maybe five foot eight, probably a buck fifty soaking wet and kept his hair cropped short like a marine.  Marine and Skeeter in the same sentence makes me chuckle to myself.  I think Skeeter avoided going to Vietnam due to his eyes.  As Ducky Andrews said, ‘Skeeter could pick nightcrawlers and howl at the moon simultaneously,’ which wasn’t far from the truth.  I tried on Skeeters glasses once and thought they were the reason why he would look at you like a Robin hunting for worms.  His head would turn sideways with his left eye looking through his glasses and his right eye peering over the rim.  The glasses would magnify his orbits and when he looked at you cockeyed, one eye was huge and the other small, made him look a little goofy but you just had to remember to look at his left eye, (the big one I would remind myself).

                                Skeeter lived with his Aunt June, or maybe Aunt June lived with Skeeter.  June was a peach of a lady who would sit around very quiet and just take it all in, she truly was a saint to put up with Skeeters antics.  June liked her beer, probably not as much as Skeeter, but then again, not many people enjoyed a beer like he did.  June would walk up to our house every other Friday and visit with my mom.  See, it was every other Friday that my Dad got paid and mom would do the grocery shopping, it was then that June would slip my mom a few bucks to pick her up three jumbo’s of Old Milwaukee.  Like I said, Skeeter loved his beer and he would have loved his Aunt June’s beer too, except she would hide it in the holding tank on the toilet.  Skeeter would tell me that June made him mad sometimes when she had a few too many drinks and he would pour out her beer.  ‘Good one,’ I thought to myself, Skeeter pouring a beer into the sink, more like Skeeter pouring June’s beer into his glass was more like it.

                                Skeeter told me once that his Aunt June could float on her back all day, bobbing around like a pirate ship.  He said someday he would stand on her belly while she was floating and be like Captain Blackbeard himself.  Sorry, I just made that up since thinking of Skeeter as a pirate made me laugh.  Anyway, I did see June floating on the lake once and sure enough, just like a raft except she kept her sneakers on which I never understood how they would stay above water, but they really did.  

                                June and Skeeter would fight when they got to drinking and it was then when I heard June holler.  Well, not really a holler like my dads, but kind of a muted laryngitis holler.  Too bad everyone who hollered at me didn’t have Junes voice, sure would have made life more pleasant. 

                                I could go on for hours about Skeeter but since life’s time is precious, I will only recount a couple of stories.  Skeeter loved to fish, and he loved to take me fishing, too bad he was such a terrible fisherman.  We would troll for hours in his fiberglass boat with the three and a half horse Evinrude purring along except for the occasional fouled up plug cough.  Skeeter used the same rig every time, the one up model of the Zebco 202, a no name rod with electricians tape fastening the eyelets on, old crinkly twelve pound line you had to pull out of the reel and his lure of choice was a wooden, hand painted (not very good), flatfish with about eight treble hooks on it.  We trolled around the lake twice and it took one and a half hours per lap.  Skeeter made me sit in the middle seat and look back at the rods while he steered the boat and looked forward.  I wanted to sit in the front but he said it was then too hard to steer, so in the middle seat I sat. 

                                Skeeter drank as much coffee as he did beer, there was always a coffee pot plugged in and it was the kind of coffee pot used at funerals and family reunions, a thirty six cupper if I remember right.  Skeeter would put two teaspoons of grounds for every thirty six cups and never threw the grounds out but kept putting two new scoops when the pot ran dry.  His coffee tasted like, well, I can’t really describe it, but if I tried it would be like hot water and, well, I’m not sure.  Ok, kind of like the taste you get in your mouth when you smell the sneakers that you wore for a week without socks, that you wore through loon muck, catching crayfish and running to play kick the can.  That’s the taste exactly. 

                                Sorry, I got off track, so Skeeter drank gallons of coffee which made him have to pee, now remember each trip around the lake was one and a half hours and we never would dock the boat.  This meant that he had to pee in the boat.  Since Skeeters eyes were dysfunctional, they messed up his equilibrium so he couldn’t pee over the side of the boat and had to do it in a three pound tin coffee can.  He would stand up all wiggly legged, put the can down in front of me and pee like a racehorse.  Skeeter would holler at me when I moved around in the boat and I couldn’t go to the front, so there I sat with hands over eyes to block the unsightly sight and any overspray that ensued.   Geez did I hate that.

                                We trolled for days without a bite and Skeeter kept the same lure on, he called it lucky for reasons I’m not sure of.  He would tell me over and over how this lure catches the big ones, he’ll show me, I don’t know nothing about fishing, etc.   And I would laugh at him which would make him mad and cause him to start cussing. 

                                One day during a frequent late afternoon troll, Skeeters pole almost whipped over the side of the boat and line was screaming out.  He grabbed the pole and fought this monster of the depths with finesse I thought he never had.  Ten minutes go by, Skeeter’s still fighting, except now his face is red with excitement, there’s sweat on his brow and he’s asking me to light a cigarette and stick in his mouth, (I took an extra drag to make sure it was lit.)  Just about the time the cigarette’s cherry touched the filter, it happened.  The fish was off.  Utter disappointment was carved into Skeeter’s face as he reeled the line in.  I tried to offer sympathy, like ‘way to go’, ‘good one’, ‘maybe next time’, ‘tee hee’, but nothing seemed to cheer him up until he pulled in his lucky flatfish.  The flatfish had broken in two and had these huge teeth marks that chomped through the lure.  Skeeter’s face brightened into a smile as he told me over and over, ‘I told you this lure catches the big ones’.  I didn’t want to squash his moment and never told him he didn’t actually ‘catch’ anything but decided not to say anything.

                                The rare times that life brings me down, I think back on my childhood and playback memories so vibrant that it feels like if I squeezed my eyes shut hard enough and concentrate real hard it will shoot me back to those days.  Instead, I just relive them in my memory and go real slow and concentrate hard on the details, I always end up feeling better and throw a smile back on. 

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                                yoop
                                Participant

                                  Hey LV,

                                  I better think of a better adjective than tidy or tighty, since they definately weren't either.  Here's one I wrote about a guy who lived next to us. 

                                  I just started a blog today so I'm going to put all my stories in that and won't bore the masses

                                  Happy Holidays to All

                                  yoop

                                  Skeeter Pattye 

                                   

                                  By Bill

                                   

                                  Skeeter Pattye was a man amongst boys, a kids best friend, surely no other adult would allow a 12 year old boy to chew snuff and swear like a sailor.  Skeeter wasn’t tall, maybe five foot eight, probably a buck fifty soaking wet and kept his hair cropped short like a marine.  Marine and Skeeter in the same sentence makes me chuckle to myself.  I think Skeeter avoided going to Vietnam due to his eyes.  As Ducky Andrews said, ‘Skeeter could pick nightcrawlers and howl at the moon simultaneously,’ which wasn’t far from the truth.  I tried on Skeeters glasses once and thought they were the reason why he would look at you like a Robin hunting for worms.  His head would turn sideways with his left eye looking through his glasses and his right eye peering over the rim.  The glasses would magnify his orbits and when he looked at you cockeyed, one eye was huge and the other small, made him look a little goofy but you just had to remember to look at his left eye, (the big one I would remind myself).

                                  Skeeter lived with his Aunt June, or maybe Aunt June lived with Skeeter.  June was a peach of a lady who would sit around very quiet and just take it all in, she truly was a saint to put up with Skeeters antics.  June liked her beer, probably not as much as Skeeter, but then again, not many people enjoyed a beer like he did.  June would walk up to our house every other Friday and visit with my mom.  See, it was every other Friday that my Dad got paid and mom would do the grocery shopping, it was then that June would slip my mom a few bucks to pick her up three jumbo’s of Old Milwaukee.  Like I said, Skeeter loved his beer and he would have loved his Aunt June’s beer too, except she would hide it in the holding tank on the toilet.  Skeeter would tell me that June made him mad sometimes when she had a few too many drinks and he would pour out her beer.  ‘Good one,’ I thought to myself, Skeeter pouring a beer into the sink, more like Skeeter pouring June’s beer into his glass was more like it.

                                  Skeeter told me once that his Aunt June could float on her back all day, bobbing around like a pirate ship.  He said someday he would stand on her belly while she was floating and be like Captain Blackbeard himself.  Sorry, I just made that up since thinking of Skeeter as a pirate made me laugh.  Anyway, I did see June floating on the lake once and sure enough, just like a raft except she kept her sneakers on which I never understood how they would stay above water, but they really did.  

                                  June and Skeeter would fight when they got to drinking and it was then when I heard June holler.  Well, not really a holler like my dads, but kind of a muted laryngitis holler.  Too bad everyone who hollered at me didn’t have Junes voice, sure would have made life more pleasant. 

                                  I could go on for hours about Skeeter but since life’s time is precious, I will only recount a couple of stories.  Skeeter loved to fish, and he loved to take me fishing, too bad he was such a terrible fisherman.  We would troll for hours in his fiberglass boat with the three and a half horse Evinrude purring along except for the occasional fouled up plug cough.  Skeeter used the same rig every time, the one up model of the Zebco 202, a no name rod with electricians tape fastening the eyelets on, old crinkly twelve pound line you had to pull out of the reel and his lure of choice was a wooden, hand painted (not very good), flatfish with about eight treble hooks on it.  We trolled around the lake twice and it took one and a half hours per lap.  Skeeter made me sit in the middle seat and look back at the rods while he steered the boat and looked forward.  I wanted to sit in the front but he said it was then too hard to steer, so in the middle seat I sat. 

                                  Skeeter drank as much coffee as he did beer, there was always a coffee pot plugged in and it was the kind of coffee pot used at funerals and family reunions, a thirty six cupper if I remember right.  Skeeter would put two teaspoons of grounds for every thirty six cups and never threw the grounds out but kept putting two new scoops when the pot ran dry.  His coffee tasted like, well, I can’t really describe it, but if I tried it would be like hot water and, well, I’m not sure.  Ok, kind of like the taste you get in your mouth when you smell the sneakers that you wore for a week without socks, that you wore through loon muck, catching crayfish and running to play kick the can.  That’s the taste exactly. 

                                  Sorry, I got off track, so Skeeter drank gallons of coffee which made him have to pee, now remember each trip around the lake was one and a half hours and we never would dock the boat.  This meant that he had to pee in the boat.  Since Skeeters eyes were dysfunctional, they messed up his equilibrium so he couldn’t pee over the side of the boat and had to do it in a three pound tin coffee can.  He would stand up all wiggly legged, put the can down in front of me and pee like a racehorse.  Skeeter would holler at me when I moved around in the boat and I couldn’t go to the front, so there I sat with hands over eyes to block the unsightly sight and any overspray that ensued.   Geez did I hate that.

                                  We trolled for days without a bite and Skeeter kept the same lure on, he called it lucky for reasons I’m not sure of.  He would tell me over and over how this lure catches the big ones, he’ll show me, I don’t know nothing about fishing, etc.   And I would laugh at him which would make him mad and cause him to start cussing. 

                                  One day during a frequent late afternoon troll, Skeeters pole almost whipped over the side of the boat and line was screaming out.  He grabbed the pole and fought this monster of the depths with finesse I thought he never had.  Ten minutes go by, Skeeter’s still fighting, except now his face is red with excitement, there’s sweat on his brow and he’s asking me to light a cigarette and stick in his mouth, (I took an extra drag to make sure it was lit.)  Just about the time the cigarette’s cherry touched the filter, it happened.  The fish was off.  Utter disappointment was carved into Skeeter’s face as he reeled the line in.  I tried to offer sympathy, like ‘way to go’, ‘good one’, ‘maybe next time’, ‘tee hee’, but nothing seemed to cheer him up until he pulled in his lucky flatfish.  The flatfish had broken in two and had these huge teeth marks that chomped through the lure.  Skeeter’s face brightened into a smile as he told me over and over, ‘I told you this lure catches the big ones’.  I didn’t want to squash his moment and never told him he didn’t actually ‘catch’ anything but decided not to say anything.

                                  The rare times that life brings me down, I think back on my childhood and playback memories so vibrant that it feels like if I squeezed my eyes shut hard enough and concentrate real hard it will shoot me back to those days.  Instead, I just relive them in my memory and go real slow and concentrate hard on the details, I always end up feeling better and throw a smile back on. 

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                                  TinaR
                                  Participant

                                    Very nice, Yoop- but it's nothing to do with Boehner's problem-ha!

                                    Crying due to true empathy or emotional attachment is an attractive quality in a human- male or female. Crying because your past is at odds with your present isn't unusual…but his crying appears pathological. I'd rather see his voting record display his feelings about his gratefulness and humble upbringing…support the children ( and adults ) instead of consistently voting to deny them the same opportunity for success he enjoyed. Legislate to assure equity and responsibility. Conservatives insist they are all about taking personal responsibility for financial obligations—this as they committed our country to 2 wars without raising the taxes necessary to pay for them – this helping to plunge all into a financial mess. How can he expect people to believe he cares for those who suffer!  Many of the socially conscientious wealthy admit their class has not been paying a fair share ( Warren Buffet and Bill Clinton come to mind)…this  invalidates Boehner's tearful claim of connection to the struggling children and adults in America.

                                    I don't care if he is a crybaby-but do the right thing!! . His crazytears could stem from a mixture of shame over his past and his present sell-out. He has become a hardass conservative because that's what this type of pathologically unstable person does…you  find those still struggling repulsive and you beat them down due to your shame and past humiliation. It's similar to the sick, evangelical fallen…they condemn filthy choices as they indulge themselves in filthy ways.  You cannot accept the bribes (tobacco) or give unfunded support ( the military) to the industries that kill or vote to commit your working-class citizens to near poverty and then cry your way out of responsibility. Mr, Boehner needs to DO the right thing for a change so everyone else can stop crying real tears about their circumstance.

                                    His tears are NOT a case of  drunken " I love you, man".  But you He is

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                                    TinaR
                                    Participant

                                      Very nice, Yoop- but it's nothing to do with Boehner's problem-ha!

                                      Crying due to true empathy or emotional attachment is an attractive quality in a human- male or female. Crying because your past is at odds with your present isn't unusual…but his crying appears pathological. I'd rather see his voting record display his feelings about his gratefulness and humble upbringing…support the children ( and adults ) instead of consistently voting to deny them the same opportunity for success he enjoyed. Legislate to assure equity and responsibility. Conservatives insist they are all about taking personal responsibility for financial obligations—this as they committed our country to 2 wars without raising the taxes necessary to pay for them – this helping to plunge all into a financial mess. How can he expect people to believe he cares for those who suffer!  Many of the socially conscientious wealthy admit their class has not been paying a fair share ( Warren Buffet and Bill Clinton come to mind)…this  invalidates Boehner's tearful claim of connection to the struggling children and adults in America.

                                      I don't care if he is a crybaby-but do the right thing!! . His crazytears could stem from a mixture of shame over his past and his present sell-out. He has become a hardass conservative because that's what this type of pathologically unstable person does…you  find those still struggling repulsive and you beat them down due to your shame and past humiliation. It's similar to the sick, evangelical fallen…they condemn filthy choices as they indulge themselves in filthy ways.  You cannot accept the bribes (tobacco) or give unfunded support ( the military) to the industries that kill or vote to commit your working-class citizens to near poverty and then cry your way out of responsibility. Mr, Boehner needs to DO the right thing for a change so everyone else can stop crying real tears about their circumstance.

                                      His tears are NOT a case of  drunken " I love you, man".  But you He is

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                                      TinaR
                                      Participant

                                        Ooops…erased the end… …but YOU can cry drunk all you want- you're a nice person – HE IS A JERK.

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                                        TinaR
                                        Participant

                                          Ooops…erased the end… …but YOU can cry drunk all you want- you're a nice person – HE IS A JERK.

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                                          yoop
                                          Participant

                                            Yes, yes, I know his crying is very different than the "Love You Man" cry.  The sight of him crying made me think of my buddy's blubbering.

                                            This guy is an a hole.  Same syndrome as 'little man's syndrome', 5'2" guy buys a Hummer:  George Bush Jr. acts tough, etc. 

                                            This guy cries as he laughs to himself. 

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                                            yoop
                                            Participant

                                              Yes, yes, I know his crying is very different than the "Love You Man" cry.  The sight of him crying made me think of my buddy's blubbering.

                                              This guy is an a hole.  Same syndrome as 'little man's syndrome', 5'2" guy buys a Hummer:  George Bush Jr. acts tough, etc. 

                                              This guy cries as he laughs to himself. 

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                                              jag
                                              Participant

                                                DERAILLED

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                                                jag
                                                Participant

                                                  DERAILLED

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                                                  yoop
                                                  Participant

                                                    What's going on with almost 1,000 views?  Odd. 

                                                    Should write the story of a blue hair that gave me a New Years Eve kiss.  Stuck her tongue down my throat so that I almost gagged.  Even have the nasty picture.  Wasn't right then and still isn't.  Had the taste of Polident in my mouth for a couple hours after that.

                                                    Shout out for Sweeeet Marie….. you still around?  Only so much food to cook, you need a break.

                                                    yoop

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                                                    yoop
                                                    Participant

                                                      What's going on with almost 1,000 views?  Odd. 

                                                      Should write the story of a blue hair that gave me a New Years Eve kiss.  Stuck her tongue down my throat so that I almost gagged.  Even have the nasty picture.  Wasn't right then and still isn't.  Had the taste of Polident in my mouth for a couple hours after that.

                                                      Shout out for Sweeeet Marie….. you still around?  Only so much food to cook, you need a break.

                                                      yoop

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                                                      jag
                                                      Participant

                                                        Yoop, impressive, I thought I was reading the next episode of "Stand by me" or maybe "The Wonder Years".

                                                        Keep it coming.  

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                                                        jag
                                                        Participant

                                                          Yoop, impressive, I thought I was reading the next episode of "Stand by me" or maybe "The Wonder Years".

                                                          Keep it coming.  

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                                                          yoop
                                                          Participant

                                                            Hey John,

                                                            Thanks.. Stand by Me is great one.  Liked watching the Wonder Years too.  Here's one you might like I wrote a couple months ago:  I'm not creative enough to make this shit up either so all based on true events.

                                                            One Ball Bill

                                                             

                                                            By Bill

                                                             

                                                            It’s fall again, my favorite time of year for it’s the season of hunting and football.  I’ve written about hunting before so I’m going to relay a little self-depracating story about football. 

                                                            When I was a mere boy in 6thgrade, we could join a Pop-Warner football team and I thought this would be a great start to my future career in Pro Football, or so I thought. 

                                                            All was good, my buddies were going to join, smack talk was already going on and the season was going to be perfect.  Bad news hit when I learned we had to have a physical.  “Physical?” I asked my older brother Gump, “Yep, they grab your balls, make you turn your head and cough,” says he.  “Why they wanna grab my balls?” says me.  “I dunno, was his well-educated response.”  Now I’m nervous, real nervous, all kinds of thoughts run through my brainpan.  What if I have to be naked in front of all the other kids?  What about the guy doing the probing?  What if he chuckles prior to?  I almost drive myself insane with these thoughts and there’s no way I’m going to talk about my FEELINGS, with my older brothers, like that would help. 

                                                            The scheduled day comes for the physical, we are all in the gym lined up wearing our little tighty-whities waiting for the humiliation to begin.  I slide my way to the back so I can see how this operates. Open Mouth, check; touch your toes for scoliosis, check; neck feel, check.  Ok, not so bad.  Hmmm, what’s going on in the area with the guy sitting on a chair behind a 1 foot high curtain?  Are you kidding me???  “Eeeee,” I scream in my head as I see a fellow cow-to-slaughter boy drop his drawers with snake belly white arse exposed. 

                                                            Did I just see a glimpse of hair in the unmentionable area?  No flippin’ way I think to myself, hair, down there??  Oh boy, I’m in trouble now, all I’ve got is fuzz like a baby’s bottom and manhood that only a possum could be proud of, “I’m a goner,” I say to myself. 

                                                            I’m next to go meet Mr. Prober.  “All right, boy, drop your underwear,” he says.  Nothing but shame is felt as I expose myself.  Touch, touch, feel, feel, then more touch, touch, feel, feel.  Something is not right as this guy continues to probe my squirrel size nuts.  “Hmmm,” Mr. Cucumber finger says.  “Stay here, I’ve got to get the other doctors,” and so he does…  Six hands poke and feel around.  A concensus among them was reached.  “We think you have a hernia,” the doc said.  At that moment, my Pro Football debut was put on hold.

                                                            I walked out of the gym with my head hung low, thinking that now everyone in the world knew I had something wrong with my squirrel nuts.  I had no idea what a hernia was in the first place.

                                                            “A hernia?” my mom asked.  “Let me see.”  Absolutely, definitely, no one was going to peek or probe my genetalia for a while. 

                                                            Surgery was scheduled for the Thanksgiving break so I had a couple of months of torment from my brothers and friends.  I still didn’t know what a hernia was, but it had to do with your balls and that was bad enough.

                                                            Brother Gump was very informative, as well he should be.  A yearly TV sized box of porn magazines my dad got from his brother gave him a plethora of information that Gump absorbed like a sponge.  Gump must know everything, I thought.  “They’re going to cut off one of your balls,” he said in his all-knowing manner.  “One-ball Bill, One-ball Bill,” he heckled.  Then he told his friends, who told their friends, etc.  Ohhhh, the shame, life was hell.

                                                            Fast-forward a couple months and I’m getting prepped for surgery.  Pretty nurse comes in with shaving gel and a disposable razor.  “Ready for your shave?” she said.  Now I’m in a pickle, and blood rushes to my head.  If I say I don’t need a shave, she knows I have squirrel nuts and no hair.  If I go ahead with the shave, there wouldn’t be enough hair to clog the razor.  “I’m ok.  I already shaved at home,” was my reply, she smiled politely and left me to wallow in my own shame. 

                                                            Surgery is performed and everything goes as planned.  I even got a Yo-Yo to play with.  Two nights were spent in the hospital, then home for a day and back to school on Monday.

                                                            Monday, I’m at school and the rat-fink kid named Doug Coleman shouts out at recess, “One-ball Bill, One-ball Bill.”  Off go my gloves and I doink the kid in the head, he hits me back and we end up rolling on the ground kicking and scratching.  Thankfully, my dad was in the cafeteria at school and was keeping an eye on me.  He sure was moving quick as he lifted me off Doug and gave me a cuff upside the head.  “You want to rip out your stitches?” he said.  I ended up staying in for recess a couple of days after that.

                                                            Having surgery back then was a big thing and my mom let everyone know.  “Hey Carol, take a look at Billies nut scar,” is what I heard, although she probably just said scar.  I then had to pull down my pants, push the underwear down and show the scar, while the neighbor ladies took a good look.

                                                            Thank God I suppressed that terrible time in my life.  Not too smart on my part to write about it since I’m sure therapy is right around the corner. 

                                                            Loading spinner
                                                            yoop
                                                            Participant

                                                              Hey John,

                                                              Thanks.. Stand by Me is great one.  Liked watching the Wonder Years too.  Here's one you might like I wrote a couple months ago:  I'm not creative enough to make this shit up either so all based on true events.

                                                              One Ball Bill

                                                               

                                                              By Bill

                                                               

                                                              It’s fall again, my favorite time of year for it’s the season of hunting and football.  I’ve written about hunting before so I’m going to relay a little self-depracating story about football. 

                                                              When I was a mere boy in 6thgrade, we could join a Pop-Warner football team and I thought this would be a great start to my future career in Pro Football, or so I thought. 

                                                              All was good, my buddies were going to join, smack talk was already going on and the season was going to be perfect.  Bad news hit when I learned we had to have a physical.  “Physical?” I asked my older brother Gump, “Yep, they grab your balls, make you turn your head and cough,” says he.  “Why they wanna grab my balls?” says me.  “I dunno, was his well-educated response.”  Now I’m nervous, real nervous, all kinds of thoughts run through my brainpan.  What if I have to be naked in front of all the other kids?  What about the guy doing the probing?  What if he chuckles prior to?  I almost drive myself insane with these thoughts and there’s no way I’m going to talk about my FEELINGS, with my older brothers, like that would help. 

                                                              The scheduled day comes for the physical, we are all in the gym lined up wearing our little tighty-whities waiting for the humiliation to begin.  I slide my way to the back so I can see how this operates. Open Mouth, check; touch your toes for scoliosis, check; neck feel, check.  Ok, not so bad.  Hmmm, what’s going on in the area with the guy sitting on a chair behind a 1 foot high curtain?  Are you kidding me???  “Eeeee,” I scream in my head as I see a fellow cow-to-slaughter boy drop his drawers with snake belly white arse exposed. 

                                                              Did I just see a glimpse of hair in the unmentionable area?  No flippin’ way I think to myself, hair, down there??  Oh boy, I’m in trouble now, all I’ve got is fuzz like a baby’s bottom and manhood that only a possum could be proud of, “I’m a goner,” I say to myself. 

                                                              I’m next to go meet Mr. Prober.  “All right, boy, drop your underwear,” he says.  Nothing but shame is felt as I expose myself.  Touch, touch, feel, feel, then more touch, touch, feel, feel.  Something is not right as this guy continues to probe my squirrel size nuts.  “Hmmm,” Mr. Cucumber finger says.  “Stay here, I’ve got to get the other doctors,” and so he does…  Six hands poke and feel around.  A concensus among them was reached.  “We think you have a hernia,” the doc said.  At that moment, my Pro Football debut was put on hold.

                                                              I walked out of the gym with my head hung low, thinking that now everyone in the world knew I had something wrong with my squirrel nuts.  I had no idea what a hernia was in the first place.

                                                              “A hernia?” my mom asked.  “Let me see.”  Absolutely, definitely, no one was going to peek or probe my genetalia for a while. 

                                                              Surgery was scheduled for the Thanksgiving break so I had a couple of months of torment from my brothers and friends.  I still didn’t know what a hernia was, but it had to do with your balls and that was bad enough.

                                                              Brother Gump was very informative, as well he should be.  A yearly TV sized box of porn magazines my dad got from his brother gave him a plethora of information that Gump absorbed like a sponge.  Gump must know everything, I thought.  “They’re going to cut off one of your balls,” he said in his all-knowing manner.  “One-ball Bill, One-ball Bill,” he heckled.  Then he told his friends, who told their friends, etc.  Ohhhh, the shame, life was hell.

                                                              Fast-forward a couple months and I’m getting prepped for surgery.  Pretty nurse comes in with shaving gel and a disposable razor.  “Ready for your shave?” she said.  Now I’m in a pickle, and blood rushes to my head.  If I say I don’t need a shave, she knows I have squirrel nuts and no hair.  If I go ahead with the shave, there wouldn’t be enough hair to clog the razor.  “I’m ok.  I already shaved at home,” was my reply, she smiled politely and left me to wallow in my own shame. 

                                                              Surgery is performed and everything goes as planned.  I even got a Yo-Yo to play with.  Two nights were spent in the hospital, then home for a day and back to school on Monday.

                                                              Monday, I’m at school and the rat-fink kid named Doug Coleman shouts out at recess, “One-ball Bill, One-ball Bill.”  Off go my gloves and I doink the kid in the head, he hits me back and we end up rolling on the ground kicking and scratching.  Thankfully, my dad was in the cafeteria at school and was keeping an eye on me.  He sure was moving quick as he lifted me off Doug and gave me a cuff upside the head.  “You want to rip out your stitches?” he said.  I ended up staying in for recess a couple of days after that.

                                                              Having surgery back then was a big thing and my mom let everyone know.  “Hey Carol, take a look at Billies nut scar,” is what I heard, although she probably just said scar.  I then had to pull down my pants, push the underwear down and show the scar, while the neighbor ladies took a good look.

                                                              Thank God I suppressed that terrible time in my life.  Not too smart on my part to write about it since I’m sure therapy is right around the corner. 

                                                              Loading spinner
                                                              jag
                                                              Participant

                                                                Jeez Louise, those type of memories would definitely cause a mancry.

                                                                Loading spinner
                                                                yoop
                                                                Participant

                                                                  No Mancry over most of the memories from childhood.  Being self-conscious and not wanting to be laughed at when I was a kid was tough.  Seems simple now,  I don't really get worked up over what people think and life is brighter.  If you can't laugh at dumb things you've done in the past, life would be kind of boring.  Not sure if I should keep throwing out these stories here but here's another one to read if you're bored.

                                                                  Defining Terror

                                                                   

                                                                  By Bill Stolberg

                                                                   

                                                                  I’m going to ease into this topic of Terror by first writing about its levels.  My order leading up to Terror would be this: Startled, Scared, Frightened, Shocked, and finally, Terror itself. 

                                                                  Being Startled is when your brother hides under the bed for hours waiting for you to walk by and then he grabs an ankle.  You might emit a small scream but quickly get over it.  The feeling of being startled goes away quickly and is forgotten. 

                                                                  In sixth grade I read the book Amityville Horror, every word in that book was burned in my head for several years.  Could I look out my bedroom window and not expect burning red pig eyes to be looking back at me, not a chance.  Did I have to keep the curtains drawn in my bedroom and my door opened a crack?  Yep, I was scared.

                                                                  I’ve been frightened many times.  Was I frightened to interview a doctor on the radio? Did I not sleep for two nights prior?  Yep.  Was I frightened when the radio announcer said my name, all my hobbies, where I lived, hair color and location of every freckle then told me to tell his audience a ‘little about myself’?  Was I frightened to sing solo in Mr. Wilson’s music class?  Uh hunh.  Wasn’t actually to sing but “Use my baratone voice” per Mr. Wilson to utter /‘sing’, “Iiiii’mmmmmm heeeerrrrrreeeee”.  Only to have the Iiiiiimmmmm come out then have my lips shut vice-like and I ended up humming the ‘here’ part so it sounded like “Iiiiiimmmmm, hhhhmmmmmmmm”, did the entire class erupt in laughter for about 5 minutes straight.  Yep, again.

                                                                  The level of being shocked is getting up there to near Terror, but not quite.  I could describe it with a short story.  There we were, brother Bishop, brother Gump, myself and neighbor friend Dubrav minding our own business at a tavern in Wisconsin.  Me, being the youngest at 14, Bishop was 16, Gump 19, and Dubrav 17.  We wetted our whistles for several hours then decided to take a ‘short cut’ home through the backwoods of Wisconsin.  We zoomed down the gravel roads in Dubrav’s VW Bug seemingly for an eternity and became hopelessly lost.  Brother Gump saw the humor in this and took to hollering out the window in is best Apache voice, ‘wedafugoweee, wedafugoweee, wedafugowee’.  Must have been in Native American tongue because I wasn’t able to decipher it at the time.  My mom did say that she had some Indian in her once, but then would chuckle to herself.  (I made that part up for effect)  Anyway, Brother Bishop took to navigating and was telling Dubrav the route.  About the time I heard Bishop say, “Yep, this is the road, I’m positive,” Dubrav accelerated the VW to its limits.  This is where I became shocked.  The road Bishop was ‘positive’ about, turned immediately to grass, then empty air as we sailed over the place where a bridge once stood.  We glided out 15 feet and 10 down to rest in the middle of the river.  I sure was shocked to see how pretty the moonlight looked as it reflected over the churning rapids.

                                                                  Terror is something you experience and live with for the rest of your life.  Terror brings nightmares, eeebee jeebies and twitching.  My terror goes like this.  Brother Gump took Sprout and I trout fishing.  We walked along the brushy banks of the Brule River looking for a good spot to enter.  Gump stumbled across a pine snake about three feet in length and put it in his fishing creel.  The snake didn’t like being in there and wiggled through the hole in the top of his basket and up his arm, he then screamed, dropped the creel and the snake wiggled off.  Sprout and I laughed a hearty laugh and off we went back to walking.  Brother Gump gives a small scream again as he almost steps on the granddaddy of all pine snakes.  He chases it down through the brush as Sprout and I stand back laughing at him.  Gump finally grabs the Pringle can thick, six to seven foot boa by the tail and pulls it out of the brush to a little clearing where Sprout and I stood.  He then clamps down on the tail of the snake and starts twirling it over his head like he’s a cowboy.  All Sprout and I could hear was the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh as Gump took on the look of a helicopter.  This was all very amusing until Terror struck.  See, what Gump did next was the unthinkable.  He had the snake twirling over his head going about 100 per, when he lined me up with the snake whooshing around and then let it go.  It looked like a firehose whirling towards me and I had no place to go.  The middle section of the boa hit me square on the Adam’s apple and then, because of velocity, wrapped around my neck and chin a few more times.  I dropped to the ground while the snake had me and my fishing pole wrapped tight.  I didn’t battle the snake, because I couldn’t, terror had rendered me paralyzed and from my mouth only came sounds that aren’t describable.  I can still feel how that snake felt around my neck and how it felt on my hands as I tried to pry it away.  It did come off, after about 5 minutes. I lay in the grass, traumatized, as my loving brothers squealed with delight.  “What kind of scream was that” Sprout asked, “Never heard anything like it and couldn’t duplicate it in a million years.”

                                                                  For as much joy this snake story has given everyone but me, the effects of that episode still remain.  I hate snakes with a passion.  I do play the tough guy and will wack a snake when my wife or kids are around. When one pops up in front of me, and I’m alone, I let out that scream that was shrieked 30 years ago. 

                                                                  Loading spinner
                                                                  yoop
                                                                  Participant

                                                                    No Mancry over most of the memories from childhood.  Being self-conscious and not wanting to be laughed at when I was a kid was tough.  Seems simple now,  I don't really get worked up over what people think and life is brighter.  If you can't laugh at dumb things you've done in the past, life would be kind of boring.  Not sure if I should keep throwing out these stories here but here's another one to read if you're bored.

                                                                    Defining Terror

                                                                     

                                                                    By Bill Stolberg

                                                                     

                                                                    I’m going to ease into this topic of Terror by first writing about its levels.  My order leading up to Terror would be this: Startled, Scared, Frightened, Shocked, and finally, Terror itself. 

                                                                    Being Startled is when your brother hides under the bed for hours waiting for you to walk by and then he grabs an ankle.  You might emit a small scream but quickly get over it.  The feeling of being startled goes away quickly and is forgotten. 

                                                                    In sixth grade I read the book Amityville Horror, every word in that book was burned in my head for several years.  Could I look out my bedroom window and not expect burning red pig eyes to be looking back at me, not a chance.  Did I have to keep the curtains drawn in my bedroom and my door opened a crack?  Yep, I was scared.

                                                                    I’ve been frightened many times.  Was I frightened to interview a doctor on the radio? Did I not sleep for two nights prior?  Yep.  Was I frightened when the radio announcer said my name, all my hobbies, where I lived, hair color and location of every freckle then told me to tell his audience a ‘little about myself’?  Was I frightened to sing solo in Mr. Wilson’s music class?  Uh hunh.  Wasn’t actually to sing but “Use my baratone voice” per Mr. Wilson to utter /‘sing’, “Iiiii’mmmmmm heeeerrrrrreeeee”.  Only to have the Iiiiiimmmmm come out then have my lips shut vice-like and I ended up humming the ‘here’ part so it sounded like “Iiiiiimmmmm, hhhhmmmmmmmm”, did the entire class erupt in laughter for about 5 minutes straight.  Yep, again.

                                                                    The level of being shocked is getting up there to near Terror, but not quite.  I could describe it with a short story.  There we were, brother Bishop, brother Gump, myself and neighbor friend Dubrav minding our own business at a tavern in Wisconsin.  Me, being the youngest at 14, Bishop was 16, Gump 19, and Dubrav 17.  We wetted our whistles for several hours then decided to take a ‘short cut’ home through the backwoods of Wisconsin.  We zoomed down the gravel roads in Dubrav’s VW Bug seemingly for an eternity and became hopelessly lost.  Brother Gump saw the humor in this and took to hollering out the window in is best Apache voice, ‘wedafugoweee, wedafugoweee, wedafugowee’.  Must have been in Native American tongue because I wasn’t able to decipher it at the time.  My mom did say that she had some Indian in her once, but then would chuckle to herself.  (I made that part up for effect)  Anyway, Brother Bishop took to navigating and was telling Dubrav the route.  About the time I heard Bishop say, “Yep, this is the road, I’m positive,” Dubrav accelerated the VW to its limits.  This is where I became shocked.  The road Bishop was ‘positive’ about, turned immediately to grass, then empty air as we sailed over the place where a bridge once stood.  We glided out 15 feet and 10 down to rest in the middle of the river.  I sure was shocked to see how pretty the moonlight looked as it reflected over the churning rapids.

                                                                    Terror is something you experience and live with for the rest of your life.  Terror brings nightmares, eeebee jeebies and twitching.  My terror goes like this.  Brother Gump took Sprout and I trout fishing.  We walked along the brushy banks of the Brule River looking for a good spot to enter.  Gump stumbled across a pine snake about three feet in length and put it in his fishing creel.  The snake didn’t like being in there and wiggled through the hole in the top of his basket and up his arm, he then screamed, dropped the creel and the snake wiggled off.  Sprout and I laughed a hearty laugh and off we went back to walking.  Brother Gump gives a small scream again as he almost steps on the granddaddy of all pine snakes.  He chases it down through the brush as Sprout and I stand back laughing at him.  Gump finally grabs the Pringle can thick, six to seven foot boa by the tail and pulls it out of the brush to a little clearing where Sprout and I stood.  He then clamps down on the tail of the snake and starts twirling it over his head like he’s a cowboy.  All Sprout and I could hear was the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh as Gump took on the look of a helicopter.  This was all very amusing until Terror struck.  See, what Gump did next was the unthinkable.  He had the snake twirling over his head going about 100 per, when he lined me up with the snake whooshing around and then let it go.  It looked like a firehose whirling towards me and I had no place to go.  The middle section of the boa hit me square on the Adam’s apple and then, because of velocity, wrapped around my neck and chin a few more times.  I dropped to the ground while the snake had me and my fishing pole wrapped tight.  I didn’t battle the snake, because I couldn’t, terror had rendered me paralyzed and from my mouth only came sounds that aren’t describable.  I can still feel how that snake felt around my neck and how it felt on my hands as I tried to pry it away.  It did come off, after about 5 minutes. I lay in the grass, traumatized, as my loving brothers squealed with delight.  “What kind of scream was that” Sprout asked, “Never heard anything like it and couldn’t duplicate it in a million years.”

                                                                    For as much joy this snake story has given everyone but me, the effects of that episode still remain.  I hate snakes with a passion.  I do play the tough guy and will wack a snake when my wife or kids are around. When one pops up in front of me, and I’m alone, I let out that scream that was shrieked 30 years ago. 

                                                                    Loading spinner
                                                                    jag
                                                                    Participant

                                                                      Jeez Louise, those type of memories would definitely cause a mancry.

                                                                      Loading spinner
                                                                      yoop
                                                                      Participant

                                                                        Here's one about pounding on my little brother.

                                                                        yoop

                                                                        Float Like a Butterfly

                                                                        By Bill

                                                                         

                                                                        It was our lucky day.  We unearthed something from the depths of my Grandma’s old barn that would turn us into men.  Hidden away in the secret place where my dad and his brother stored the wine that made you partially blind and screaming about snakes, we found boxing gloves.

                                                                        Grandma Ann bought the gloves when my dad was a boy.  He and his brother would fight so she did the next best thing and got the gloves.  Thank goodness she got gloves instead of ballet shoes or we would have been goners. 

                                                                        The leather on the gloves was partially eaten away by mice and a little dry rot, but we didn’t care.  I took an old flannel shirt and cut out some patches, stripped some 16 lb. test line from the Zebco, found a big honkin’ needle and started sewing.  After the flurry of sewing, the gloves looked pretty good, even though the big knots of fishing line would undoubtedly cause some minor abraisions.

                                                                        I figured since I did most of the work on fixing up the gloves then it was my right to pick who I wanted to fight with.  Brother Gump and brother Bishop pounded the crap out of me anyway so why would I let them use the gloves to beat me more?  Youngest brother Sprout was perfect, 3 years younger, skinny, with toothpick arms and a big slack jaw just ripe for the pounding.

                                                                        Fighting started out windmill style with arms flailing and somewhat resembled being chased by bees.  We looked like a couple of teen girls slapping each other. My previous thoughts of Ali like talents were quickly squashed by a slap to the side of the face.  “Okay,” I said to young Sprout, “You have to start making a fist, kinda like you do when you’re holding your sippy cup, then punch forward, not like when you slap at a fly.  Get it?”  “Got it,” replied the eager nimrod fighter.

                                                                        It wasn’t long before we were slapping less and actually punching with reckless abandon.  During one duel, I started to pattern the lesser of the Silver brothers and watched as he threw about 10 left jabs in a row.  I was pretty sure an 11thwas coming so I lay in wait with my right arm jacked waaaaay back.  As soon as the feeble excuse for a punch came, I dodged a little to the side and launched the huge right. 

                                                                        I have to digress a moment and look back at some really perfect moments.  You know the feeling you get as your club wacks the ball in the sweet spot?  It could be getting the 30# salmon in the net or knocking a guy off his feet in football. This punch gave me that feeling.

                                                                        Okay, back to the huge right.  The fist came at the young Sprout with lightning speed and nailed him square in the jaw.  His eyes rolled back a little bit it and it seemed his knees weren’t paying attention and the boy started to fall. 

                                                                        At this time a person does not know what is appropriate.  Should I be concerned that I might have killed him, or do I start laughing and start the count?  “One, two, three, four,…” I said.  After I declared him officially knocked out, a little kick to the ribs was all he needed to come back into consciousness.  I saw the tears but no one was home so crying was futile for him. 

                                                                        Throughout the months I knocked him out several more times, which might explain how he is today, and seeing him crumble never got old.  In fact, he was going down so much we had to hold our matches in the bedroom so he could crumble on the nearest bed.  One time I clocked him a good one and as he was wobbling about I hung him by the underwear and on my parent’s doorknob. 

                                                                        After getting yelled at by my mom for the tenth time because I knocked out Sprout again, I had enough.  The feeling of knocking him out felt good but the getting yelled at part started to deteriorate my enthusiasm. . 

                                                                        The boxing stopped for a while due to me getting yelled at, but Sprout kept coming back for more.  Being the creative sort, I came up with a way to alleviate the yelling part.  I made a contract: 

                                                                        I, _______ (print here), knowingly go into this boxing match today and will not hold my brother responsible for the beating I am about to take.  This contract is binding and will waive off any yelling at me by mom for the beating of said Sprout.  Signature:__________,  “X” is good since you don’t know cursive yet. 

                                                                        With the legal issues behind us it was time to box.  Doink, doink, wack, pound and the boy is going down for the count again.  As he comes to for the eleventh time, big alligator tears started falling and the wailing begins.

                                                                        “Dammit Billie, I told you not to knock out Sprout, you just wait until your father gets home and takes out ‘the belt’.  “Sorry, no belt for me, ma,” was my retort.  “See right here, Sprout signed away my responsibility for the beating.” 

                                                                        As I learned later on in life, contracts are not always binding and mine didn’t hold up in family court and actually made it a little worse.

                                                                        On a few occasions I took some good shots from Sprout, even a few stars were seen.  There was one time that really took me by surprise.  Sprout and I took the gloves outside and were mixing it up by the mailboxes.  I was giving him a good beating when out of nowhere a huge right smashed into my temple.  I knew right then that getting knocked out really isn’t fun.  As soon as he hit me, my eyeballs exploded with stars flying through blackness.  My knees buckled and I was going down.  Just before my head hit the pavement, I came to and saw Sprout running like Ben Johnson towards the house and the security of my mom.  I was humbled for the moment. 

                                                                        The gloves provided a source of displaced aggression throughout the neighborhood.  First, I pounded Sprout.  Sprout then pounded Blake and Mike, Blake then took the gloves and pounded his sisters. 

                                                                        The gloves are nowhere to be found at my dads.  Hopefully one day, my son or nephew might stumble onto them, on second thought, I sure hope my mom threw them out. 

                                                                        Loading spinner
                                                                        yoop
                                                                        Participant

                                                                          Here's one about pounding on my little brother.

                                                                          yoop

                                                                          Float Like a Butterfly

                                                                          By Bill

                                                                           

                                                                          It was our lucky day.  We unearthed something from the depths of my Grandma’s old barn that would turn us into men.  Hidden away in the secret place where my dad and his brother stored the wine that made you partially blind and screaming about snakes, we found boxing gloves.

                                                                          Grandma Ann bought the gloves when my dad was a boy.  He and his brother would fight so she did the next best thing and got the gloves.  Thank goodness she got gloves instead of ballet shoes or we would have been goners. 

                                                                          The leather on the gloves was partially eaten away by mice and a little dry rot, but we didn’t care.  I took an old flannel shirt and cut out some patches, stripped some 16 lb. test line from the Zebco, found a big honkin’ needle and started sewing.  After the flurry of sewing, the gloves looked pretty good, even though the big knots of fishing line would undoubtedly cause some minor abraisions.

                                                                          I figured since I did most of the work on fixing up the gloves then it was my right to pick who I wanted to fight with.  Brother Gump and brother Bishop pounded the crap out of me anyway so why would I let them use the gloves to beat me more?  Youngest brother Sprout was perfect, 3 years younger, skinny, with toothpick arms and a big slack jaw just ripe for the pounding.

                                                                          Fighting started out windmill style with arms flailing and somewhat resembled being chased by bees.  We looked like a couple of teen girls slapping each other. My previous thoughts of Ali like talents were quickly squashed by a slap to the side of the face.  “Okay,” I said to young Sprout, “You have to start making a fist, kinda like you do when you’re holding your sippy cup, then punch forward, not like when you slap at a fly.  Get it?”  “Got it,” replied the eager nimrod fighter.

                                                                          It wasn’t long before we were slapping less and actually punching with reckless abandon.  During one duel, I started to pattern the lesser of the Silver brothers and watched as he threw about 10 left jabs in a row.  I was pretty sure an 11thwas coming so I lay in wait with my right arm jacked waaaaay back.  As soon as the feeble excuse for a punch came, I dodged a little to the side and launched the huge right. 

                                                                          I have to digress a moment and look back at some really perfect moments.  You know the feeling you get as your club wacks the ball in the sweet spot?  It could be getting the 30# salmon in the net or knocking a guy off his feet in football. This punch gave me that feeling.

                                                                          Okay, back to the huge right.  The fist came at the young Sprout with lightning speed and nailed him square in the jaw.  His eyes rolled back a little bit it and it seemed his knees weren’t paying attention and the boy started to fall. 

                                                                          At this time a person does not know what is appropriate.  Should I be concerned that I might have killed him, or do I start laughing and start the count?  “One, two, three, four,…” I said.  After I declared him officially knocked out, a little kick to the ribs was all he needed to come back into consciousness.  I saw the tears but no one was home so crying was futile for him. 

                                                                          Throughout the months I knocked him out several more times, which might explain how he is today, and seeing him crumble never got old.  In fact, he was going down so much we had to hold our matches in the bedroom so he could crumble on the nearest bed.  One time I clocked him a good one and as he was wobbling about I hung him by the underwear and on my parent’s doorknob. 

                                                                          After getting yelled at by my mom for the tenth time because I knocked out Sprout again, I had enough.  The feeling of knocking him out felt good but the getting yelled at part started to deteriorate my enthusiasm. . 

                                                                          The boxing stopped for a while due to me getting yelled at, but Sprout kept coming back for more.  Being the creative sort, I came up with a way to alleviate the yelling part.  I made a contract: 

                                                                          I, _______ (print here), knowingly go into this boxing match today and will not hold my brother responsible for the beating I am about to take.  This contract is binding and will waive off any yelling at me by mom for the beating of said Sprout.  Signature:__________,  “X” is good since you don’t know cursive yet. 

                                                                          With the legal issues behind us it was time to box.  Doink, doink, wack, pound and the boy is going down for the count again.  As he comes to for the eleventh time, big alligator tears started falling and the wailing begins.

                                                                          “Dammit Billie, I told you not to knock out Sprout, you just wait until your father gets home and takes out ‘the belt’.  “Sorry, no belt for me, ma,” was my retort.  “See right here, Sprout signed away my responsibility for the beating.” 

                                                                          As I learned later on in life, contracts are not always binding and mine didn’t hold up in family court and actually made it a little worse.

                                                                          On a few occasions I took some good shots from Sprout, even a few stars were seen.  There was one time that really took me by surprise.  Sprout and I took the gloves outside and were mixing it up by the mailboxes.  I was giving him a good beating when out of nowhere a huge right smashed into my temple.  I knew right then that getting knocked out really isn’t fun.  As soon as he hit me, my eyeballs exploded with stars flying through blackness.  My knees buckled and I was going down.  Just before my head hit the pavement, I came to and saw Sprout running like Ben Johnson towards the house and the security of my mom.  I was humbled for the moment. 

                                                                          The gloves provided a source of displaced aggression throughout the neighborhood.  First, I pounded Sprout.  Sprout then pounded Blake and Mike, Blake then took the gloves and pounded his sisters. 

                                                                          The gloves are nowhere to be found at my dads.  Hopefully one day, my son or nephew might stumble onto them, on second thought, I sure hope my mom threw them out. 

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                                                                          Bonnie Lea
                                                                          Participant

                                                                            Well, Mr. Yoop  I love reading your works.  Please keep it up.  maybe one day you can bind them together, and us and many many others can enjoy them to our best rather than on our board.  But it does give me a lift.

                                                                             

                                                                            I also have such memories, though of course not the same, but stuff I used to write, was based on personal life happenings, until brain stuff (not melanoma related)   thankyou again.

                                                                            Bonnie Lea

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                                                                            yoop
                                                                            Participant

                                                                              Hey Bonnie Lea,

                                                                              Thanks for the kind words.  I better get on the stick and pound out some more.  I've been trying to set up my flippin  blog and suck at it terribly.  Sooner or later I will get it.

                                                                              yoop

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                                                                              yoop
                                                                              Participant

                                                                                Hey Bonnie Lea,

                                                                                Thanks for the kind words.  I better get on the stick and pound out some more.  I've been trying to set up my flippin  blog and suck at it terribly.  Sooner or later I will get it.

                                                                                yoop

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                                                                                Bonnie Lea
                                                                                Participant

                                                                                  Well, Mr. Yoop  I love reading your works.  Please keep it up.  maybe one day you can bind them together, and us and many many others can enjoy them to our best rather than on our board.  But it does give me a lift.

                                                                                   

                                                                                  I also have such memories, though of course not the same, but stuff I used to write, was based on personal life happenings, until brain stuff (not melanoma related)   thankyou again.

                                                                                  Bonnie Lea

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                                                                                Bonnie Lea
                                                                                Participant

                                                                                  Not knowing much about politics especially your country's mish mash.  I do not think I would even like to have your Sarah Palin as your president, or even vice pres.  Something about her I can't quite put my finger on.  gives me the heebie geebies and for me that takes a lot.  HMMM most strange feeling when I see or hear her.  Not like me at all.

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                                                                                    nicoli
                                                                                    Participant

                                                                                      "Something about it I just can't put my finger on"…. well, maybe NO EDUCATION AND NO EXPERIENCE? Might that be it?

                                                                                      Could you just see her sitting down with the leaders of Russia, Israel or North Korea? 

                                                                                      The only vote she would get from me would be for high school cheerleader. Her little fists pumping the air would really cheer the team on!

                                                                                      And I can say whatever I like cuz I am a long time (35 year)  Republican.

                                                                                      Nicki

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                                                                                      Bonnie Lea
                                                                                      Participant

                                                                                        ha but her voice also grates on my ears as well as her use of the spoken english language and how she enjoys hunting and I cannot believe she cannot find a grocery store in wallahasha or where ever she lives for her daily rasher of meat product.  I think I will try to watch a re run of when our now infamous fastidious  mother of 8 minus Jon , Kate attempts to go weekend camping with stalwart Sarah in the mud.

                                                                                         

                                                                                        She does not carry her self well to be with world leaders I think.  I think she is a fluff.  No I cannot visualize her in any powder keg of a conference, and I bet she would be a mean girl in high school, and prob fight her way to be top of the pyramid and not really understand the rest of the team would simply just  :oh I dunno fall down> and there she be like Humpty Dumpty.

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                                                                                        Bonnie Lea
                                                                                        Participant

                                                                                          ha but her voice also grates on my ears as well as her use of the spoken english language and how she enjoys hunting and I cannot believe she cannot find a grocery store in wallahasha or where ever she lives for her daily rasher of meat product.  I think I will try to watch a re run of when our now infamous fastidious  mother of 8 minus Jon , Kate attempts to go weekend camping with stalwart Sarah in the mud.

                                                                                           

                                                                                          She does not carry her self well to be with world leaders I think.  I think she is a fluff.  No I cannot visualize her in any powder keg of a conference, and I bet she would be a mean girl in high school, and prob fight her way to be top of the pyramid and not really understand the rest of the team would simply just  :oh I dunno fall down> and there she be like Humpty Dumpty.

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                                                                                          yoop
                                                                                          Participant

                                                                                            Hey Nikki,

                                                                                            Even if you were a communist you could say whatever you wanted.

                                                                                            Here's my theory on Palin:

                                                                                            The Media (mostly Liberal), keeps Palin in the headlines.  She then gains more of a following and when 2012 comes she will want to run for president, at this time she will be pounded.  Very smart on the Liberal part, I think. 

                                                                                            yoop

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                                                                                            yoop
                                                                                            Participant

                                                                                              Hey Nikki,

                                                                                              Even if you were a communist you could say whatever you wanted.

                                                                                              Here's my theory on Palin:

                                                                                              The Media (mostly Liberal), keeps Palin in the headlines.  She then gains more of a following and when 2012 comes she will want to run for president, at this time she will be pounded.  Very smart on the Liberal part, I think. 

                                                                                              yoop

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                                                                                              nicoli
                                                                                              Participant

                                                                                                "Something about it I just can't put my finger on"…. well, maybe NO EDUCATION AND NO EXPERIENCE? Might that be it?

                                                                                                Could you just see her sitting down with the leaders of Russia, Israel or North Korea? 

                                                                                                The only vote she would get from me would be for high school cheerleader. Her little fists pumping the air would really cheer the team on!

                                                                                                And I can say whatever I like cuz I am a long time (35 year)  Republican.

                                                                                                Nicki

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                                                                                              Bonnie Lea
                                                                                              Participant

                                                                                                Not knowing much about politics especially your country's mish mash.  I do not think I would even like to have your Sarah Palin as your president, or even vice pres.  Something about her I can't quite put my finger on.  gives me the heebie geebies and for me that takes a lot.  HMMM most strange feeling when I see or hear her.  Not like me at all.

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                                                                                                yoop
                                                                                                Participant

                                                                                                  Why would this post end up with over 10,000 views and my dumb blog has about 8 views?

                                                                                                  Any techie out there with input would be great.

                                                                                                  I just came back from two weeks up in the U.P.  Now I need to relax.  Tons of fun playing host and luckily I had lots of help.  26 people were running/swimming/fishing/splashing/drinking when I decided to count.

                                                                                                  Broke my pinky toe yesterday morning and now it's swollen and purple, must be getting old and my bones are getting brittle.

                                                                                                  Celebrated 7 years NED a week ago.  (Stage IIIb)

                                                                                                  Saw a guy walking down the street the other day and he looked just like me but it turned out it wasn't him.  (I made that up and thought that it would be a good one for Steven Wright)

                                                                                                  What happened to everyone?  Sweeeeet Marie, RoxStar, Bonnie Lea, Jag, John, Fudd, to name a few…

                                                                                                    Where art thou?

                                                                                                  yoop

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                                                                                                  yoop
                                                                                                  Participant

                                                                                                    Why would this post end up with over 10,000 views and my dumb blog has about 8 views?

                                                                                                    Any techie out there with input would be great.

                                                                                                    I just came back from two weeks up in the U.P.  Now I need to relax.  Tons of fun playing host and luckily I had lots of help.  26 people were running/swimming/fishing/splashing/drinking when I decided to count.

                                                                                                    Broke my pinky toe yesterday morning and now it's swollen and purple, must be getting old and my bones are getting brittle.

                                                                                                    Celebrated 7 years NED a week ago.  (Stage IIIb)

                                                                                                    Saw a guy walking down the street the other day and he looked just like me but it turned out it wasn't him.  (I made that up and thought that it would be a good one for Steven Wright)

                                                                                                    What happened to everyone?  Sweeeeet Marie, RoxStar, Bonnie Lea, Jag, John, Fudd, to name a few…

                                                                                                      Where art thou?

                                                                                                    yoop

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                                                                                                      nicoli
                                                                                                      Participant

                                                                                                        So what kind of a name is "yoop"? Rhymes with "poop"? 

                                                                                                        And why did you pull up a really OLD posting when it is obvious you are a witty, intelligent person and could start another one equally as provoking.

                                                                                                        Male or female? I don't normally call males "witty" or "intelligent".

                                                                                                        Just saying,

                                                                                                        Nicki

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                                                                                                        nicoli
                                                                                                        Participant

                                                                                                          So what kind of a name is "yoop"? Rhymes with "poop"? 

                                                                                                          And why did you pull up a really OLD posting when it is obvious you are a witty, intelligent person and could start another one equally as provoking.

                                                                                                          Male or female? I don't normally call males "witty" or "intelligent".

                                                                                                          Just saying,

                                                                                                          Nicki

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                                                                                                          JerryfromFauq
                                                                                                          Participant

                                                                                                            Yoop, you have to respond, "MALES not witty nor intelligent"? 

                                                                                                            If I could write like you I would get her!

                                                                                                              Go, boy, GO.

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                                                                                                            JerryfromFauq
                                                                                                            Participant

                                                                                                              Yoop, you have to respond, "MALES not witty nor intelligent"? 

                                                                                                              If I could write like you I would get her!

                                                                                                                Go, boy, GO.

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                                                                                                              JerryfromFauq
                                                                                                              Participant

                                                                                                                Much as i hadt to say it.  I agree that Sarah would be better onnthe top of you ticket than Rush!

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                                                                                                                JerryfromFauq
                                                                                                                Participant

                                                                                                                  Much as i hadt to say it.  I agree that Sarah would be better onnthe top of you ticket than Rush!

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                                                                                                                  nicoli
                                                                                                                  Participant

                                                                                                                    Oh so, yoop must be male. I'm disappointed.

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                                                                                                                    nicoli
                                                                                                                    Participant

                                                                                                                      Oh so, yoop must be male. I'm disappointed.

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