Freddogg Off The Chain

Do we all have a dark side that we can be pushed towards like a Sears refrigerator with non swiveling caster wheels? Do we all have a breaking point, a precipitating single or series of events that would glaze over our eyes and send us into a frenzied homicidal mission of revenge and atonement?

Three years ago I presented a report in a graduate class on the 1968 Mai Lai massacre in Vietnam. I had read everything available on the subject and remember drawing the conclusion that these morons were sick and twisted going into “Nam” just like some of the imbecilic rapists and murderers representing us in Iraq. The question I posed: “was the killing an aberration or an operation”?

A woman in the class, a former marine whose husband had worked for General Westmoreland , told me that it was clear throughout literature that we all have that dark side just waiting and lurking for the proper trigger.

“I don’t have it, ”I said. “There are no circumstances that could drive me to gun down unarmed women and children in a ditch or stick a lighted flare up a baby’s butt, toss it into the air, then cut it in half with machine gun fire. That monster is just not inside me.”

I read this morning where a 29 year old Geeky looking Fairfield educated lawyer from Connecticut who believed a 58 year old neighbor had molested his two year old daughter climbed through the guy’s window and stabbed him 18 times with a big assed kitchen knife then returned home with the knife and bloody clothes.

The police arrived and pretty much said “good one and nice job” now Jon Edington is “FREE” after posting the one million dollars in bail money.

If you were sitting on a jury and believe the molestation story to be true and your only choices were murder one or not guilty how would you vote? And could the molestation of a child in your extended family trigger you into a murderous rage?

Judge Freddogg

My non-threaded casters or are they coasters or just plain refrigerator wheels arrived by overnight mail minus two new screws which by Sears Law passed down from the Code of Hammurabi-1780 B.C.-It's Hammur Time-they are not allowed to sell me.

One more time I wrestled with a refrigerator which left a cold spot in my heart. I blocked up one side, removed a screw that called for a nut driver tool not vice grips- but hell, if it works- and began to put on new shiny wheel number one. But the used nut wouldn't catch in the threads of the new wheel because the new wheel came unthreaded rendering it useless.

I was off to Ace Hardware with a refrigerator wheel and old used machine screw in my left hand. The Ace Hardware guy minus the two middle fingers on his right hand-proof he makes mistakes- started to advance all kinds of wrong theories and offer impossible solutions even for a customer with all his digits. I bailed out of the Ace plane and flew down the highway to talk to Appliance Store Service Guy.

He just kept looking at me non threaded caster wheel assembly and saying,"Why did they send you something like that" followed by,"We don't sell Sears products, would you like to stick your head inside a Frigidaire why I turn on the Freon."

This technician wanted me to take a drill bit too big and power it through the smooth opening telling me it may just thread itself- "and then again it may not," I added, taking my wheel and heading out into the high heat where a tornado watch was in effect and it felt like the inside of a dryer which is where I was going next to ponder my unsolvable problem.

Then I remembered my neighbor, Rainman John, who turned the dining room of his house into a shop, we're talking plywood floor,benches and corkboard all around.

John listened to my problem with some amusement then produced a metal case labeled tap and dye set. He made threads like a magician, handed me the appropriate sized nut driver, then followed me to my kitchen because although John would give freely and generously of his time and talents his nut driver wasn't going anywhere without him.

I belly flopped onto the floor and replaced both wheels and I was one happy guy,so happy that I saw myself as Big Loser Guy,a nickname I use for myself when I get happy about things like working refrigerator wheels.

I de-blocked the icebox-and when I pushed it to the left but it would not move. What's wrong with these wheels now,"I screamed.

"You can only push it front wards and backwards not side to side that's the way all refrigerator wheels work,"John said. "I don't know why that's just the way they make them."

Now what good are four wheeled appliances where none of the "Thread them yourself we're busy"-wheels rotate for turning?

This is the stuff they should be teaching in school and my neighbor Rainman John should be a full professor. I remain Special Ed Big Loser Guy more brawn than brains but if you ever need a guy to make a refrigerator moved sideways I am your gorilla.

Freddogg

A kitchen project becomes a monumental undertaking like whoever gets to carry Aunt Rose to her final resting place but I digress.
The hardest part became the easiest, ripping drywall tape off a ceiling and re-doing the joints over three coats of skimming and sanding.
My block out paint rubberized in progress and I had to keep stopping to pull wet pieces out of the paint. Hey, did I say this was interesting? I did get to play a jazz CD my soul friend Eric made for me and I hit repeat for the ‘Baby it’s on Tonight” track and my wife who saw me pawing the vinyl floor said, ”I hope that lyric means paint.”
Two coats and the walls looked great. Susan painted a door and slider on Friday night while I covered the Eagles. I returned late to the Kitchen to an anxious family where not even the dog wags her tail when I come through the door—which was now a burnt orange and just looked way wrong. It was supposed to be deep brown with a tint of red.
Then the trim color which was supposed to be a sort of Williamsburg Bracken House Brown was more like Golden Mustard’s yellow.
We went to the Sherwin Williams store where all the real painters hang not at Lowe’s even though Consumer Reports magazine rated them the best paint because of a 10 million dollar kickback.
It was cool because it was good old American practicality like “hand me your old stuff and we’ll throw it away and make new stuff and not charge you.” Then we changed to high gloss green on the door and were given some 60 dollar a gallon designer paint for 27 and life was good and now the kitchen looks so cool except the store that was supposed to order my vinyl didn’t because they didn’t think I was serious even though I’ve known them forever and so I reauthorized and acted serious so now I’m back on the schedule.
Sunday was change the florescent light fixture day with the help of my neighbor John who makes Rainman look like Mr. Flexibility. John wouldn’t use green wire nuts on black wires because even though the wires don’t know green means ground but brown doesn’t mean anything so John would mix brown nuts with black and white wires but refused to use green This job went on all afternoon because one light fixture after another from Lowe’s was defective and it dawned on me that Americans spend a lot of time returning defective parts that American companies then send to Central America because of the NAFTA treaty. Finally we got it to work and John said he would give me a call later to carry his 39 inch Sony CRT television to the second floor of his house.
Everything was done except I needed to order a wheel from the front of my refrigerator because one of the two front wheels had gone missing—not broken because then I would have found it-it is just missing.
I called the SEARS 1-800 number and to borrow from Rainman “Sears Sucks”. I negotiated the automated choice system to parts and service listened to stupid music while on hold five times and each time a person would get on and ask, ”Can I help you?” then they would disappear and I’d be handed off to another person finally I said to this girl, ”Will you all stop asking me if you can help me and actually help me?”
We found a wheel together and we will always have that like Bogart and Bergman have Paris but then she said there were two screws that went with the part and asked if I had the screws and I’m like, ”Yes, I lost the wheels but I’ve been saving these two screws" and she said “good because I’m not allowed to sell you the screws because there’s a Service Center near you" and I said “No there isn’t and are we still talking about screws” and she said “Salisbury” and I told her Salisbury was in another state and she said ”yes but less than 100 miles from your house” then I said “Are you nuts” and she said “Would you like to buy a 4 dollar brush to clean your coils?”
I cut my losses, ordered the wheel for 37 dollars overnight shipping figuring I’ll get Rainman John who has been saving screws for the last 3O years to help me so if he ain’t got them then they don’t make them.
I think our workforce is in real trouble. Mostly automatons with no imagination who spend leisure time surfing porn sites.

Peace Freddogg

My mission, and I choose to accept it before self destruction, was to pick up my seventh grade daughter and her girl friend from the newly opened Midway Skating rink.
This was the big -social step out- arena for young teens without driver’s licenses. They were all very conscious of having the right look. Kids of that age are very tuned into “looking right” but the world is stratified and “it ain’t right” like I used to tell my students, ”All Peoples are created equal then their parents take them home from the hospital which is when the real bullshit begins.”
So I rolled up on Friday night and figured “this is a good moment because I am known throughout the community and kids think I’m cool so Carrie will get social points for having a cool dad.” I hop out and go around to the passenger’s side to muscle open the sliding side door on the three quarter ton Chevy work van with no power steering and 100 thousand miles of history.
“No way dad, I can’t believe you picked us up in an EARS van. I bet you think it’s funny but everyone in Junior High will be busting on me saying ,’where did your dad get an EARS van?”
“Climb on back there and take ‘my mommy’s got a Mercedes' Beth with you’. Just be careful no saws, old paint brushes or mineral spirits fall out of those basket shelves made of green wire. There is a drywall bucket for each of you to sit on but I would advise turning them upside down.”
Carrie arrived home in a huff and went straight to her mother. “Mom, he picked us up in the EARS van. I’m standing out front and up rolls this stupid green van with EARS on the side. EARS mom! Admit it mom, did your dad ever pick you up in an EARS van? Would dad have even gone out with you if you were from the EARS van family? I don’t think so. That was so wrong. Here he comes and he still thinks it’s funny. You need to talk to him and tell him that it’s not.”
Back in 1985 I ran a painting company I called the “Miracle Painters” because it was a miracle when we showed up for work. I can remember showing up to big jobs wearing kakis and Izod Green Golf shirt. I was tan and fit and all the hair above my neck was dark, now I look like a primed but unfinished human with drywall cracks. I knew how to bid jobs which was, ”I will paint your house for a flat or gloss rate of three thousand dollars. I make no money on paint or materials. We’ll be gone in two weeks and you get two call backs. Call a third time and I’ll come around to turpentine your tabby.”
One women who wanted me to de-algaefy then paint her stupid assed aluminum siding house said, ”That’s great, do it, when can you start?”
“Start? Did you say start? I said, I could paint your house for three thousand dollars, but didn’t say I would do it. Paint? You mean ladders and buckets and shit like that? I just ride around and bid jobs but I sure as hell ain’t starting one. And, by the way, it was a pleasure to meet you.”
I saw the pale green-many said puke green- van behind a Sears surplus store. The regular repair man had been issued a new one so parked the old horse and just walked away from it. I negotiated to buy it “as is and as it was” for five hundred dollars. I jumped the battery and drove it home.
The van had a security door separating the front from the back which was lined with those "oh so cool" repair man shelves. I put ladder racks on top and felt so “redneck working guy” . I listened to Springsteins “Born in the USA tape over and over, ”We busted out of class had to get away from those fools. We learned more from a three minute record baby then we ever learned in school” but wait—I was the teacher-“No retreat baby no surrender.”
The problem with owning a lettered Sears service van is that the desperate housewives of Lewes were throwing themselves under my tires pleading with me, “Fix my dryer, it don’t get hot no more”
"Does it rattle or hum--you must pick only one condition" i would say and hwen they did I said I only worked on the other condition then drive away.
On a hot Saturday too hot to go to the beach I commandeered a hair dryer and a six inch drywall knife and began the de-lettering process- which my redneck buddies said—“that lettering shit will come right off.”
Well after 90 minutes the S finally was scratched away along with all the paint underneath. I did the S on the other side just to achieve symmetry otherwise I’d have the Bell Palsy EARS van, then I quit somewhere between ADD and closure.
The EARS van was so cool but then student Joey who worked at a body show said he could get rid of all the letters and paint the van white for 300 dollars. Back when I worked at a private school for emotionally disturbed teens this student John-who worked in a body shop- arrived in a baked candy apple red 1950 Plymouth he had restored. It was beautiful. The Phys Ed teacher arranged for John to paint his green Karmann Ghia and high gloss, hard shelled, baked enamel white. John returned three weeks later after having painted the roll out the balls moron's car with antique white house paint with the help of a small roller. It was hysterical.
Joe painted my van white and it was perfect. So perfect that when I came out from a Sunday night football meeting the van had been stolen.
“Did you leave the keys in it, ”the state cop asked? “I always leave the keys in it that’s the only way I can find them again, ”I said.
The next day my van was discovered in the parking lot of the 911 center where operators are protected behind heavy and locked steel doors in case someone wants to come by and kick the asses of thier “please describe the gun pointed at your face” high school drop out selves.
Nothing was stolen from the van and the cops thought it was a prank perpetrated by one of my friends. I told them if my friends did it they would have disassembled then reassembled the van in my living room.
Two years later a farmer from outside of Milton walked around the back of his barn because real rednecks don’t much like indoor plumbing and became confused because the tractor in the high weeds- that had sat-or set in redneck- and rusted there over 30 years was gone.
He called the cops who once again advanced the “your friends are pranksters” theory of social deviance but an hour later Charles, the compulsive but non malicious joy rider of unauthorized and unusual vehicles ,was pulled over by cops for driving a 1953 John Deer farm tractor, it’s double front wheel riding on a double yellow line, down the middle of a country road.
I was sent a “personal loss form “ from the state when it was determined that Charles had stolen my Sears van—now The White van- two years earlier. Charles was linked to hundreds of joy rides involving unusual vehicles. He was sentenced to two years in prison and no victims ever asked for or got money back because people who own crazy shit are cool like that.
Now Carrie drives a black Jetta with spoiler and fancy wheels with leather interior a sunroof with blue in dash lighting which adds to the ergonomics.
Gone are my Glory Days of EARS vans which I wouldn't trade for anything except perhaps a HOMO DEPOT truck.

A few years back give or take five or 10 a senior girl in my “You want to talk Problems of Democracy Class we’ll talk Problems Class” used to stay in the room instead of going to lunch. She was a nice kid and had that built up one shoe thing going on and she was very self conscious about it.

She was sitting in the back of the room across from an open door because no way I’m sitting in a room with a high school girl behind a closed door- built up shoe or not- grading papers—which I assume were from someone else’s class.

Kids were passing in the hall and a girl looked in and said, “Hi Mary! Good to see you.” Mary smiled back, ”Hi how are you?”

As soon as the hallway greeter passed by Mary turned to me and said, ”I hate that girl!”

“You do, why is that” , I asked?

“Ever since she talked me out of committing suicide when I was in ninth grade she thinks I owe her something.”

Mary to me is the tip of the iceberg lettuce on the pleasures of disliking people for whatever thin reason.

Another year and another class of seniors with a split lunch. They left my entertaining version of “The World According To Fredman” went to lunch and 30 minutes later returned mostly on time with a few bedraggled stragglers.

I had the room split down the middle like the desk has been arranged by Moses and to quote Moses Malone “When they came back I be red” which was pre hip-hop Ebonic for I was ready.”

A cadre of preppy girls always sat together to my left. They were cute and rich poised and nice and I can’t really say anything bad about them—the spoiled bitches.

One of their group returned a little late from lunch went over and sat among her elitist sect but they were not happy as indicted by their collective sigh like the alligators had fallen off their Izod sweaters.

“What your problem, ”one of the girls said like an Hezbollah street fighter looking at Anderson Cooper.

“What do you mean, ”asked the girl who was facing a collective prep peep peer review board?

“How come you didn’t have lunch with us? How come you sat over there with the skuzzy people?”

The day before a new girl from Fishtown Philly had transferred into “Prepville By The Sea". She was authentically nice and of solid character and made a friend of one of the alligator women who had the courage to break from the rigid rules of the clique to welcome a new friend into her life who didn’t look and behave exactly like her.

“Did you guys just say Scuzzy people, ”I said jump starting the class? “Do you ask her why she had lunch with the skuzzy people? It reminds me of an old Folk song.
‘It takes a skuzzy man to sing a skuzzy song, I’m skuzzy now, but I won’t be skuzzy long.”

Do these skuzzy people know who they are? Are their parents skuzzy? How about the family dog? “You better get your skuzzy ass off the couch!” Do they look in the mirror after taking a morning shower and say, ”O.K. I’m too young and healthy looking time to pierce my face and throw on some skuzzy Kmart shit and perhaps some black lipstick. Man I’m sure glad I'm overweight and out of shape and not being recruited to the field hockey program.

The rest of the class was loving my rant which was a valuable lesson in the inherent nastiness of some young and cute and privileged peoples who evidently were missing the point about peace love and understanding.

But I am nothing if not stupid and adventurous which is why I was popular so I sent a kid to the cafeteria and told him to bring back some skuzzy people because I needed them to complete the lesson.

“Make sure they freely admit to being skuzzy, ”I said. “And tell them what they’re walking into to.”

Now some of my best friends among the students were skuzzy people so when they had a chance to come and see me and get a late pass to their next boring ass class they jumped on the opportunity.

The came into the room a happy collective of bad haircuts and styles wearing dark black to contrasting flannels and one kid in a McDonalds shirt.

“I live in a trailer with six half brothers and sisters everyone of us half related to somebody but none of use related to everybody, ”Chris said. “I love electronics and I work at McDonalds because we all have to chip in to support our parent’s alcohol problem. I proclaim right now to be the biggest skuzzy loser in the school.”

The rest of the self proclaimed Skuzzies cheered and clapped. I began to feel bad for the Alligator Girls but I never brought them out in the open.

The Skuzzy kids loved me because I so easily related to them. And they were skuzzy by choice or happenstance and thought the entire Homecoming week at High School was so homo gay and they just would never be players in that game.

Garth Brooks sang about Friends in Low Places, other country songs “Moving Up To Better Class of Losers” or “I like my Women A Little ON The Trashy Side” but people who represent these lyrics don’t sing these songs but they live the life.

Admit it we mostly hang around with people of the same color and economic class and let’s not bring religion into it because when the last time Raheem stopped over for a non meat dinner with your skuzzy family?

I don’t now how I ended up here from the “no thanks for this life” built up big shoe girl other than to make a point “It’s tough out there so why not be nice to everyone and never say an unkind word to anyone”?

What do you mean that’s no fun?

Addendum: Just remembered once at a Cape School Board meeting they were discussing changes in the discipline code when a porky State Policeman on the Board interjected with a lazy delivery, ”That’s all well and good but what about the Dirt Bags?”

I was going to recruit and bring a bunch of Dirt Bags to the next meeting but it conflicted with my scheduled meeting on non recovering social drinkers for life club which was adequetly represented by Skuzzies,Dirtbags and people with removable and replacemnt parts.

“Snakes On A Plane” is one of the summer’s biggest hits along with "Talladega Nights"? There is no question that here in the New Millennium three hundred years beyond the Great Enlightenment period we have sunken to the depths of moronic escapism.
The Age of Reason has given way to the Age of Unreasonableness. Snakes on a mother fucking plane starring a black action hero? Black people may be the same as all other people when it comes to combining the fear of flying with the fear of snakes and throw in a few phobias while you’re at it but I instinctively believe that some stupid assed white people would be snatching snakes by the back of the head then getting bitten before fucking crying about it. I don’t have the same vision for black passengers.

Back in 1973 I was sitting in our West Chester apartment with 11 foot ceilings watching the "Untouchables" on a black and white television. Santa was ringing a bell on a Chicago street corner. “Santa, Santa “toddler Davey said with enthusiastic recognition. A car load of Frank Nitti’s boys standing on the running boards came around the corner and machine gunned Santa to the pavement. He quaked and quivered before coming to eternal rest

“What happened Santa?’ Davey asked. “Santa just got waxed son. Lit the fuck up! Santa is now Swiss cheese!”

Just when my wife told me to stop, that it wasn’t funny, a bat flew into the big room. We all screamed! I sprang from the couch to the toy chest where I snagged a waffle ball bat. Oh the irony of bat versus bat. It was game time!

I was the designated batter and I didn’t need the rage from Roids, I was instantly in homicidal hyper drive. I wasn’t sharing my niche with a hideous bat that kept flying from one end of the room to the other, the sonar sounding freak.

Talk about batting practice combining bat speed with hand eye coordination against a speeding target with sonar. It was a classic match up, lost by the bat as I knocked his ass silly into the cast iron radiator for a ground rule double.

He was still alive because ugly dies hard but I took the bat and pushed his head against the cast iron. The bat looked back—“keep on squawking and don’t look bat” and made this clicking sound as blood began to ooze from his eyeballs. It took him a minute to die as veins popped from my forearms.

My own family was slightly scared because they had never seen me snap before. I’m killing snakes on a plane by whatever means available but making a movie of such an unlikely scenario is frivolous appealing to what in our basic nature? The fear we may go psycho when threatened?


Professor Freddogg

Frankie the Philly row house patrol cop rolled down Hemberger Street at 8 a.m.flanked by four story crack houses with the occasional urban homesteading revitalization Yuppy Dens of Ostentatious Arrogance. Frankie hated them all from the dark skinned to tan to Casper white.
The long tunnel effect gave Frankie an awakened sense of an attitude nightmare like he was looking into a parallel universe of lawless insanity overridden by the general stupidity of stoop dwellers, home slices that couldn’t put a fucking sentence together without saying mother fucker double digit times.
Bulging Frankie looked like a black leather donut in sunglasses and hat. He could care less if these skinny bastards smoked crack or sold it to suburban drive buyers. But he didn’t like the arrogance of an Orange BMW with tinted glass “bumping the bass” on a slow drive through the neighborhood. He didn’t like the homemade vanity plate with said “Tupper Mother.” He decided to pull the car over and get ready to listen to all the “profiling bullshit” like “how come he didn’t pull over the snowflakes in the Churkee?”

Alonzo was a menace and his fat shotgun friend was Andy Divine as a black man but half as tough. Frankie’s light spun around followed by some siren pulses then the speaker, ”pull over asshole.”

“Asshole? Did that mother fucker just say ‘pull over asshole’” ?

Alonzo got out walked back to Frankie’s car jumped up on the hood and empties a clip into his body through the windshield. Andy Divine was way gone experiencing the same shock as the late Frankie.

Alonzo had lost his mind and rushed into a vacant house knowing that hell itself was on its way to light his ass up.

Alonzo went through an attic opening and was the much sought after black cat on a hot tar roof. He had transitioned from cold blooded killer to “sniveling scaredy cat” in a matter of minutes.

Cops came from everywhere and blocked off the street. They were armed, their weapons cocked and loaded. Crack Heads hid in actual plaster cracks because all they knew was somebody black was going to get shot.

Alonzo slithered on his belly slugging along without a plan. He traveled over a flush mount skylight then crashed into the occupied claw foot tub below right on top of some fat assed big breasted bath oiled white woman. The room was steam filled all around with zero visibility.

The woman screeched a volume 10 cut through steel scream! Alonzo was more scared than the buoyant bimbo as he processed a problem with no good solution. Deductive reasoning didn’t fit the profile of the impulsive killer.

He clamored and banged against shit looking for a door. Finally he found a can of hairspray and started spraying his entire head. Then he set himself on fire.”

Yuppy Momma found the door for a narrow and naked escape and the steam chased after her and so did “Toasted Almond Man” as the cops would later call him.

First Naked Came the Stranger screaming and steaming out the front door soon followed by a running man on fire from the neck up.

The cops on the street employed all their specialized training and everyone said the same thing at the same time. “What the fuck?”

Frantic woman was safely in the hands of a police woman at least that’s what he said he was.

Flaming Alonzo’s legs was swept from underneath him—KaBOB jokes were plentiful- as cops just circled and watched him scream and punch himself to death.

Alonzo melted away to his parallel universe on the far side of socialized sanity. A police Captain earned the respect of all his men as his stood over the body and said,”Thank god it’s Fryday”!


**say it didn’t happen but I’m afraid it did!

This day started for me at 5 a.m.when I opened an email from a former Temple football teammate who is on my “off road” mailing list, telling me that another teammate was “Dead and Cremated” and for a person who knew so much I didn’t know shit and it wasn’t up to him to tell me. He requested I take our dead friend off the list and him also and I told him that the late John could speak for himself.

People are all the way whack that is for sure and I’m certain that includes me. Last Friday at a Happy Hour I was telling a friend and small audience about being attacked by yellow jackets. This woman was standing there and thought I was so clever and funny but when I said I sprayed hotshot into the ground's access hole and mentioned “you are not supposed to stand behind the can for safety reasons” and she asked “well what are you supposed to do” and I said, ”hire a Mexican.” It then got weird because her husband standing there was Mexican in a Don Diego looking sort of way.

I used to ask my students. “What’s your dad do Kathy?” “He pretty much stays dead Fredman.”

There was the time I talked about a student who committed suicide and a girl ran out of the room. “What’s wrong with her, ”I asked. “That boy was her cousin,”I was told.

Another time I told the class a true story about the president of the senior class who robbed a small store and shot the woman clerk who knew him in the face just because she calmly told him not to do it that it would ruin his life.

A boy named Harry spoke up, ”That was my mother he shot.” “And how is your mother doing, ”I asked. “Fine,” he said. “You can hardly notice unless you look at her.”

The topper was a story I told about a former student and track athlete of mine who stalked a young woman and one morning hid in her van as she delivered her toddler to the baby sitter. Something dreadful happened inside the van and the woman was shot and killed.

The guy claimed he was walking along and came up on the scene. Some local guys knew he was bullshit, beat him and called the cops. He was found guilty of premeditated murder and sentenced to life without parole.

A 17 year old Afro American Horatio Alger scholarship winning girl raised her hand and said, ”That was my mother Fredman. I was the little girl in the van.”

I apologized saying I would never have told that story if I had any idea and she said she was grateful because no one in her family would ever talk about it.

So you see sending emails to a deceased friend I didn’t know had expired is not extraordinary behavior for me. And I don’t consider these forays “stepping into it” they just are what they are.

Go In Peace

Father Freddogg

It’s 100 degrees outside at 1:30 in the afternoon, no clouds and no chill but at least the light southwest winds are house fly friendly.
What kind of moron do you have to be to check in with your local television news station for tips for dealing with the heat and avoiding heat exhaustion and stroke? “Listen to me I make 16 grand a year and I know what’s best for you.”
My personal favorite for which I am so grateful is the suggestion that I drink lots of water otherwise known as hydrating myself. I also like the recommendation to avoid strenuous exercise in the middle of the day and to bring my pets inside.
I like long walks in the high heat while wearing a rubber sweat suit. I just wish I sweated more. I like to see spots and then try to connect them. I like it when my male body is so hot my testicle head for my ankles.
So I stay inside and watch Will and Grace for the first time on the Lifetime channel. A gay character laments turning 30 and sighs “Do you have any idea how old that is in gay years?” I think aging Queen is worse than aging Skeezer Dog.
I can’t watch another Mel Gibson analysis. I am happy that a Catholic boy with 100 million in the bank thinks the Jews are out to get him. I was going to write a joke about him steeping out of the car and spewing Jewish rants and joke, ”Yea, there are plenty of Jewish Patrol cops patrolling the hills of Malibu “ like that wouldn’t be the height of underachievement for a Jewish kid then I find out that the cop was Jewish and his answer to a personal verbal assault was “the guy was drunk” you know like Mel Gibson called me a fucking Jew and I am so devastated.
I always support first amendment freedom of stupidity and Americans lead the world in slang put downs and we should work from those strengths and not forget who we are. Like the “War on Terror.” We fall back to inoffensive correctness in talking about losers who target civilians who could also beat them up if given five seconds warning.
How about the war on rag headed pussy mother fuckers? Shit our enemies could be sent psycho if we simply lampooned and ridiculed them on the cartoon network.
I’m going to the gym and then I’m walking on the boardwalk. I hope rich alcoholic crack headed hamburger eaters are on display at outside bars. Somehow these people make me feel better about myself which shows how far I have to go down the social ladder of loser relativity.
“Do The Right Thing” a Spike Lee film about a heat wave in urban America. It ends in a race riot with Koreans, Thais, Blacks, Italians, Puerto Ricans and Jews beating each other over the head with big nasty metal trash cans as kids with fat butts spray firehydrant water all over a rampaging crowd.
I like Gibson for his out of control honest stupidity. And he doesn't hate jews he's simply afraid of them.

Max Von Freddogg