Fuel Price Fables

Once upon a time, in a land not far from this one (O.K.—pretty much right fuckin’ HERE and pretty much right fuckin’ NOW!), “The Media” were ALL OVER a story about falling oil prices, $2.00 per gallon gasoline prices, happy days are here again, etc. People were dancing in the skreets, doing the Hitler Jig all the way to their respective SUX-6000 dealer (shameless “Robocop” reference) to trade in their Econo-Shite-Box for some good ole’ American Big Steel; gasoline was flowing in the gutters, and all you had to do was to pick a biscuit offa your biscuit tree, walk out into the skreet, and dip long & deep. “How Low Can You Go?”—the party song about the Limbo, was making its way to the top of the airwaves again; in short, as long as you weren’t in some way connected to the petroleum industry, you were one happy Mo-Fo!

But—in the spirit of ALL things of late it seems—someBODY other than you, me, and all the OTHER working class schmucks, had the last laugh queued up in the batter’s box. Here in Kalifornia, filling stations are installing those new electronic price signs—the ones where the price digits are constantly spinning like the #’s in a Vegas slot machine; where they stop nobody knows!

And as usual, the media aren’t talking about how they FUCKED UP ROYALLY in reporting how the prices were gonna keep on dropping; nope, it’s like those stories of Hope & Change never existed! I blame that evil demon Ben Dover at work here yet again, the result being a virtual laugh RIOT ever’ time you or I drive by our favorite Gas Emporium—about as funny as a man with a wooden leg in a forest fire, ain’t it?

I guess that sub-fiddy dollar fill-up on my 2001 SUV was just a fuckin’ dream; meanwhile, all’s we’re hearing TODAY is how prices are gonna go up in the Spring (“adjusted” for seasonal driving habits; in other words—”This is ME fucking YOU in the doodie hole—WITHOUT a reach-around”); prices are STILL a buck a gallon lower than this time last year, blah blah blah.

You know what it reminds me of? It reminds me of when your wife or girlfriend goes on all day long about the hum-job you’re gonna get that night; then when you get home, she’s conked out on the sofa, snoring like Curly of The Three Stooges…

This is me—Dick E. Jones—goin’ down to the courthouse THIS very week to legally change MY name, so EVERY time I pay for gas from that day forward, I can hand my Visa card to the filling station attendant and give him/her my message:

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The Geico Gecko

Is there anyone out there besides ME that wants to squash that slick-talking, fancy British-accented little son of my beech I wanna know? “Oh—you’re gonna buy my insurance, because I am a vulnerable little lizard with a sophisticated tone and demeanor—which means that I’m really talking DOWN to you, even that you’re bigger than me and could crush me with a single application of your Nike Air.”

Well I say THIS: “Shut your little grub hole and crawl back to the safety of whatever rock you were hiding under, before Dick E. Jones drives the fuck OVER you in his AAA-insured 14 year old SUV, then brakes; then backs the fuck OVER you, then brakes; then drives the fuck OVER you one MORE time—you green & crimson road pizza. “You’re Only Human”—No shit, and I’m behind the wheel of a 4,000 pound instrument of Mechanized Death, you little fuck; here I COME…

Ah, I feel better ALREADY…

Some things just ain’t RIGHT!

O.K.—Rant time here at the Dick Jones “Retart Ranch” once again. Here’s my quick list of things that are just WRONG WRONG WRONG; I don’t give two Navy Yard Shites HOW many people/entities/alien beings here on Earth endorse them:

  • Tattoos on the head/face/neck. There’s just NO way around this one! I’m no fan of tattoos ANYWHERE/ANY WAY, but I suppose that if you gotta, you gotta; just keep that hideousity below the shirt line, will ya’?!
  • ANY tattoo on a woman’s breasticle(s); AKA: “How to fuck up a perfectly good tit in one easy lesson”…
  • “Gauging”; AKA: Stretching the living FUCK outta your ear lobe(s). Do the Planet Earth a favor if you’re even REMOTELY considering doing this—EUTHANIZE YOURSELF IMMEDIATELY; that’s a Dick Jones ORDER! Alternately, or if you’ve already DONE so, go directly to ISIS and request a quick decapitation; at least THEN you’ll get your 15 minutes of fame & glory, you attention-starved MORON!
  • Square automotive steering wheels. Came ‘atcha from left field on THIS one, didn’t I? Yeah, I know—Ferrari does it, so how wrong could it BE?! It’s just wrong, pure & simple; unless maybe you’re Freddie Flintstone, and you’re too lazy to finish carving out that block of oak before you install it on the Dino-mobile. Wheels, breasticles, and basketballs—started OUT round, need to STAY round; any questions?
  • ANY mutha-fuckin’ thing (other than maybe a pinky finger, and then just up to the first joint) that is inserted up ANYONE’s doodie-hole for ANY reason other than a physical examination by a doctor (Dr. Mengele excluded). Upon reflection, I AM O.K. with sticking a bayonet up a Taliban/ISIS fighter’s bungport; now THAT’s fully appropriate! But the above exceptions aside, that’s categorically a “One Way Skreet”; any questions, you freakin’ pervs? There’s SHIT up on in there; no need to send any “explorers” on ANY kinda mission to find this out…
  • Sex with (non-consenting) farm animals. I wouldn’t think that I would even HAVE to include THIS one; regrettably we all know that I DO; not that anyone who fancies Mr. Ed the horse, Elsie the cow, or Mary’s Little Lamb is gonna let THIS Blog entry cool their fiery ardor for same. Geez—buy yourselves a Fleshlight, will ya’?! And let’s not EVEN talk about chickens…
  • Ball caps with the bills “flattened”, worn sideways, with your ears tucked up under the hat portion: It’s been my observation that, almost WITHOUT exception, that any gape-mouthed mongoloid idiot that embraces THIS fashion foible has already drank the “Tattoo Kool-Aid” AND signed on for the “Piercings In Every Available Place” Cruise Ship, so I’m prolly wasting my energy here—but come ON! Buy a fuckin’ MIRROR, f’er Chrissakes, and USE the damned thing!

Oh yeah, there’s PLENTY more things that ain’t right—but even my own vague sense of decorum prevents me from putting them to print; they generally have something to do with putting your man-tool someplace that’s not even in the same fuckin’ AREA CODE of where it belongs…

I’m glad we had this talk!

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The “Assisted Care” Incident…

A very good friend of mine is going through some struggles in his interaction with an elderly person; in responding to his situation (Of course—MY advice was the usually sound “Drink Heavily”) I recalled an incident that occurred when I put my Dad in an assisted care facility for 3 months back in 1996.

I say “three months”, ’cause that was about as long as it took Dear Old Pops to completely and utterly alienate the ENTIRE staff, including the Nurse Ratched-like Director; his walking papers soon followed, earning him the honor of being THE only person who was kicked OUT of that place in its history—but that’s a story for another entry…

Upon admittance to the “God’s Waiting Room” assisted living facility, my 88 year old dad attracted more interest/attention from the female staff than an Altar Boy in a Priests’ Pool Cabana.

Here’s the thing—after about the age of 50 or so, men start dropping off this ball o’ mud faster than you can say “I’m sick of my nagging wife—just let me die NOW!” By the time that folks get to be 75+, when most kids start offloading “the problem” that IS an aging parent, women outnumber men by about 8-1; so a man that shows up at a place like that gets virtually POUNCED on—”You mean you can drive at NIGHT?!”

Dear Old Dad, being a career alcoholic, with brass plaques that said “Reserved for Richard Jones” in front of ~50 barstools in watering holes spread out over the whole state of New Jersey, had 52 THOUSAND old jokes—before long there were two women virtually SCRAPPING IT OUT for his affections—Mary & Beth. Dad made (what appeared to be) the “correct choice”—the same one that 99 out of 100 men would make; to wit: The woman with the larger breasticles—’cause that’s what men DO.

During one of my weekly visits to see him, he recounted his and Mary’s daily post-lunch ritual—they would lay down together face-to-face on top of his bed; Dad would fondle Mary’s breasts, while she would simply hold his “manhood” in her hand; a touching and tender picture that brought a tear to my eye…

After a mere two weeks of this, he suddenly (and mysteriously, at least until his explanation) “switched alliances”—he took up with Beth. During a subsequent visit, I asked him why—”Gee Dad, I see you’ve taken up with Beth and dropped Mary like a bad habit; what gives? Beth isn’t prettier.” “Nope”, was his monosyllabic reply. “And Beth’s breasts are smaller”, I pointed out. “Yep”, he said. “She doesn’t seem any friendlier”, I countered. “Nope”, (Dad was never too chatty with me)…

“So what does Beth have goin’ for her that Mary DOESN’T?” I queried…

“Parkinson’s”—BINGO; case closed!

Three Childhood Buddies

When I was a kid growing up in New Jersey, there were three guys who were pretty much best friends with each other and no one else; it stayed this way all through high school, and even on through college—they all happened to go to the same college that I did.

Now, we all have our bad habits and these guys were no different. The first guy—let’s call him Ralph—started drinking in high school; although he went on to become a fairly successful (and wealthy) attorney, he continued to drink. As he got to his 50’s, it began to “show” on him; his marriage fell apart, his practice began to winnow, his finances tumbled; yet he STILL continued to drink…

Buddy #2—let’s call him George—was a committed 2 pack a day smoker, starting in 8th grade. Never EVER saw him without a cigarette, all through high school and college. He developed the usual “smoker’s hack”, which continued to get worse and worse, yet he STILL continued to smoke into his 50’s…

Buddy #3—let’s call him Bruce—was, even in grade school—obviously gay. Always “the life of the party”, with a great sense of humor and a quick wit, he fully embraced the gay lifestyle—he moved to San Francisco after college and went through a “revolving door” of lovers.

Being the most sensitive and intelligent of the trio, Bruce urged all three of them to get physical exams when they hit 55 years old; they all met in New York City to visit a physician friend that we all grew up with.

Ralph, the lifetime alcoholic, went in first; he came out of his physical and sat back down in the waiting room without saying a word. George, the lifetime heavy smoker, went in next; 20 minutes later he too came out with the most somber of expressions, and sat down next to his buddies silently. Bruce went in last for his physical, coming out later looking like someone had walked over his grave; they all took the elevator back down to the street…

After a few minutes’ walking, Bruce could stand the silence no longer—he piped up and asked Ralph: “So—what did Tom (the physician) say to YOU?” Ralph replied: “Well, he said that my lifetime commitment to drinking has finally caught up to me; my liver and kidneys are on the verge of total and complete failure. In fact, he said that my situation was SO tenuous that ONE more drink will likely kill me…”

As he said these words, they happened to walk by a crowded midtown bar—Ralph looked in longingly at the people, all laughing, drinking, and generally having the best of times. After gazing through the window at this scene for 30 seconds, he could no longer stand it; he turned to his friends and said: “I’m going in for just ONE drink; you know how those doctors are, trying to put the Fear Of God into you and all…”

Before George and Bruce could stop him, he bolted into the bar, ordered a double whiskey, threw it down—then just as quickly came rushing back out of the bar and into the street, clutching his own midsection with both arms in a bear hug; he spun around two times and collapsed on the sidewalk, stone cold dead. Both George and Bruce looked down at their friend in abject HORROR!

Just then a city bus screeched to a stop a few yards in front of them and emptied its contents; as one of the potential riders stepped onto the bus, he tossed his newly-lit cigarette onto the sidewalk, landing 3 feet in front of George. George stared down at the smoldering cigarette, completely and utterly transfixed…

Bruce looked down at George, then down at the cigarette, then back at George…”You bend over to pick that up, and we’re BOTH dead…”

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The Goddess Of Battery Failures…

…is a fickle mistress! So much so that she ALWAYS must wake you up in the middle of the fucking night, when you’re sawing Z’s like Curly of The Three Stooges, to take her due.

“What in the BLUE FUCK is Mssr. Richard blathering about to-DAY?” I’m referring of course to smoke detector and carbon monoxide detector batteries; to wit: Why do they run out of juice EXACTLY at 2AM I wanna know?

Peggy and I own TWO freakin’ houses right now; one of them will either sell or burn to the ground w/in the next two months (“Geez Dick—sorry to hear about your house fire!” “Sssshhh—that’s NEXT week!”). And since we’re here in Kalifornia, The Law requires that you have a smoke detector and a carbon monoxide detector in just about EVERY fuckin’ room in your house; I’m not kidding! I gots four smoke detectors and two CO detectors in house #1—3 out of 6 of ’em are mounted on 18′ high ceilings.

Now lemme ask ya’—couldn’t ONE of those SIX detectors’ batteries fail in the fuckin’ DAYLIGHT, when I’m awake and vaguely ambulatory? No no no no no no NO—I replaced ever’ God-Damned ONE of ’em in the last six months, ALL of ’em failing when I’m doing my best Karen Ann Quinlan imitation (Google Search is your pal here).

You know the drill—you hear a fucking “chirp”—one eye pops open. You listen for a minute—nothing; eye closes, start to slide back to Dreamland. 90 seconds later—CHIRP! “Maybe it’ll go away…” Two chances of THAT happening, Moron—and Slim just left town on the Grey Dog…

So you get the fuck outta bed, slide into your Heckle & Jeckle slippers (What—you don’t have Heckle & Jeckle slippers? You poor, dumb bastard!), hit the pissoir, and start turning on every light in the house—like LIGHT is gonna help you find the offending detector! And that repetitive chirp is timed JUST far enough apart that it takes you an additional ten minutes to figger out EXACTLY which mother-fucking detector is the one that needs its battery replaced. “Yup—THAT’s the one; right up there 18 feet from the floor.”

Out to the garage you go, get your Gorilla A-frame ladder, crank that mo-fo up to full erection, then clamber up the God-Damned thing, summarily ignoring the “Do Not Stand/Step Beyond This Point” sticker (that warning is for SOMEONE, just not ME!), perch of the VERY fuckin’ top rungs, S-T-R-E-T-C-H your arm all the way up, stand on your tippie-toes, and JUST reach that hateful conveyance.

You unscrew it from its mount, noticing that there is exactly ONE fucking way to REATTACH it, clamber back down the rungs that by now are making your plantar faciitis chirp out its own twin warning(s), and yank out the offending battery. Go fetch you another 9 volt from inventory, jamb it in the hole the wrong way first, get it right, hit the “Test” button so as to be sure that Peggy is now awake too, then up the ladder you go again, where you get to stretch your arm out and fiddle-fuck around with trying to get that mo-fo screwed back up to its mount…

Fuckin’ DONE—think you’re gonna go back to sleep NOW? It’s no fuckin’ WONDER that 50% of the population that HAS those things never replaces the batteries with anything but a bullet…

PS:

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Insult to Injury – I had forgotten that these fucking thermostats even NEEDED a battery!  Fickle mistress INDEED…