Freddogg Off The Chain

There is a burnout point reached in every job or endeavor no matter how noble but recently I witnessed a bad attitude in a situation I never anticipated that of the “seen it all and I’m sick of this shit” volunteer rescue worker.
I have rescued and saved people and it is exhilarating. I have failed at rescues but in the attempt the adrenaline was pumping and I have never been so selfless.
But I know a person, who is just sick of individuals getting hit crossing highways, passing out to heat stroke, nearly drowning in Oceans, shooting themselves with nail guns, cutting their penis with a circular saw, choking on wing bones, sticking twigs into a nest of yellow jacket, shooting a cousin during turkey season, putting out a microwave fire with a sink sprayer, or spaying his itchy feet with roundup because he thinks he has chiggers then breaking out in hives inside his windpipe.
And there are calls to rescue animals up trees down wells and surfing the pipeline.
I heard rescue man summing it up for all these acts of bad decision making. ‘I’m out here in all this summer traffic risking my own life trying to save these stupid asses.”
I think rescue workers should be forced to retire at 50 because that is the age where we all just begin to grow intolerant and by age 60 we just hate everybody.

Poppa Freddogg

I taught high school for 35 straight years and I’ve heard lots of stupid shit come out of all types of containers and I never used it to make me feel better about myself.
I can’t be the only adult who has said some of the most outrageously wrong stuff in the history of the universe.

Mario Lopez making faces as Caitlin as she gives the answer below but did he forget his career had sunken to emceeing beauty pageants. Shit even I have never dropped that low.

I watched cable news losers whose erudite points are dropped on the spot in favor of a ditch collapsing on a sewer worker in New Jersey. They were giddy about this girl calling her stupid and Joe Scarborough an inbreeded dueling banjo dude from the Panhandle kept saying “you know what Mario is really thinking” only revealing what Joe was thinking ’he found the perfect woman for him” cause Mario is gay enough to take over a republican Senate seat with a shake of his right leg.

Once on a field trip standing high above a dune I pointed to a coastal town north of Lewes called Broadkill Beach and asked if anyone knew what it was. “Pee yelled out, ”Rhode Island man!”

Six black kids hit the ground and started rolling and laughing. I went after them
“You’re all so smart, what is it then?”

“We don’t know what it is, ”Chuckie said. “But we know it ain’t no mother fucking Rhode Island.


Here are the girl’s remarks about why some students can't find American on a world map.



“I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, uh, some people out there in our nation don't have maps, and, uh, I believe that our education like such as in South Africa and, uh, the Iraq everywhere like, such as and I believe that they should, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., er, should help South Africa and should help the Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future for our children.”

Here’s your question. “If a distance runner from Slovakia running six minute miles runs directly at a runner from Slovenia running five minute pace in what country will they meet and how long will it take?


Professor Freddogg

A man walks into a bar and orders Potato Crusted Halibut with cheese along with wild rice, skinny gourmet asparagus all to be kicked off with an appetizer of seared tuna slathered in Wasabi sauce.
I called my wife last early Friday evening as I was out looking for column and blog material. ‘I have three words you have never ever in your entire life used in a sentence.”
“O’K.” she said, and then patiently waited.
“Potato Crusted Halibut” I paused and repeated it more slowly. “Potato Crusted Halibut.”
I looked around the upper level bar at the Lewes Yacht Club overlooking the bay and inlet and there were lots of white wine drinking “halibiters, and kabobbers” talking about trips abroad and the travels of their high performing adult children and all I could think was all of them and me too for that matter should be driving gasoline supply trucks through downtown Baghdad.
Let’s focus the war and exchange volunteer young soldiers with citizens who have reaped wealth and property and ordered potato crusted halibut.
The man next to me said,”this is very good and a big piece of fish but I can’t eat anymore.” The bartender asked “Box it up?” and he said, ‘No throw it away” then I whispered to her “box it for me I’ll take it home for the cat” she looked back like I was joking and I looked back like I wasn’t.
I drove home with the Potato Crusted Halibut and a stolen beer glass and summoned Raven, the bent spine psycho skinny pet shop inbreed Siamese from Charles Manson kennels.
“Here’s some Potato Crusted Halibut for your sorry boney ass,”I said. ‘He ate it while purring, the snob.”

Freddogg

Projection is a human defense mechanism employed to take the focus off your own fat ass. That’s why I hate group feedings because those who arrive early or are punctual to the second get nervous when a big person like myself shows up late.
“Better watch out, Fredman’s here, hide all the food, you knew he’d show up.”
Well let me tell everyone something. I have never organized my day around food one way or another. If I feel like eating I do, if I don’t, I won’t, it’s just that simple.
If someone has a tray of deviled eggs and offers me ”Are you hungry” my response is “what is your point and I hope that’s a salt shaker in your 9 vault pocket so please turn it off.”
There is just too much ritual surrounding eating and the flip side not eating. You know why alcoholics like to bartend? Because they enjoy watching people get messed up the way underweight people like making cupcakes then watching everyone eat one but them.
Once a Yuppy hostess proudly pointed to the grill and the hotdogs purchased right from the Slaughter House. “Those hotdogs are your size, ’she said, and I just raised my eyebrows and the joke started to be gotten by a new person every 10 seconds as the non humorous men with serious issues said things like ‘Better get some Smokey links for Fredman’s size, fire up the bratwurst “ but I refused to participate in some ball park wiener ghetto game of the dozens.
Twenty minutes since the cowbell rang for lunch. I’m off on my social psychology journey. I’ll be right back!
Nothing left but a few potato chips and Old Bay salsa but speaking of sexual food references I did see someone plugging a watermelon.
No thank you I only eat seedless. I don’t know what it means either.


Ball Park Freddogg

I was cruising north in the right lane early this morning one removed from the Bus lane because Super G was on my mind and I don’t mean Giant Slalom rather Genoa Salami.

My Tundra cab was quiet, alas too quiet- no radio and no IPOD on my head, although I am capable of wearing an IPOD and turning up the radio and answering my camera if there is a ringing in my ears.

They I saw a young Russian Couple crossing the highway from one outlet mall to the other. I was watching them and thought, “how incredibly dangerous not to mention Darwinian in a self eliminating herd thinning sort of way except she was fit and young and of value to the herd I’m no longer a part of, the victim of social vasectomy“

Anyway, the girl stepped right in front of a car and gets whacked ten goes into Olga Corbett and I believe the Spanish words are “El Smacko!”

I thought the bitch was dead no joke. I stopped and got out. The woman who hit her had a five year old on board. She was hysterical. She told me her husband was an emergency room physician back in Baltimore and how ironic was that? But she was emotionally distraught so I patted her shoulder and she hugged me like the hugging aunt from hell and there was traffic going by and I know too many people and I’m thinking “The story will spread that Fredman killed a young girl who by the way and thankfully was not dead or near dead simply shaking like the sister Kate I Don’t have and maybe a broken leg and a few ribs so it was all relatively good in terms of endings.

And that’s why you don’t drink and drive because a Russian girl may suddenly appear in your lane and you may hit her through no fault of your .08 ass but if she dies you may as well send Vladimir Putin your home address because the KGB is coming to spike your red bull with heavy metal thallium.

Life comes at you fast especially if your on foot crossing a highway.

FReddogg

Modern day lacrosse and bike helmet manufacturers recently figured out what my track athletes understood 30 years ago: The human head is aerodynamic—or not!

Downstate Delaware is big into nicknames most of them unimaginative letters in the Caucasian community like T.C., G.W., J.R. and my personal favorite, C.R. Fanny, written on a Milton man’s mailbox who didn’t understand the joke because it was just a family name.

Afro American nicknaming in my experience is much more personalized and starts with the head and often doesn’t get any further. I remember a minor league black kid back in 1975 leaning over the major league fence looking up and staring at 12 year old Hank as he stretched and rotated his trunk in the on deck circle.

Hank looked back. “What is your problem?”

“You got a big old water head,” the youngster said with amazement in his voice. “Yaw know you need a bigger helmet.”

I was teaching Special Education that year and had a room filled with black kids with high I.Q.’s who had been labeled “Culturally Disadvantaged” by the culture of C.R. Fanny and other local Caucasian educators who regularly objectified the subjective pronoun saying things like “He did it hisself or “I’ll do it my own dam self”

There was this family in Cool Spring where every kid in the house had a nickname. The last name was Beckett but mom Madeline married a guy named Cox and some of the kids changed their name and some didn’t. I advised a hurdler, Peter Beckett, that he should keep his name and not change it to Peter Cox but Peter said he kinda liked it and it forecast what would be his life’s story. And he was right because today Peter is the father of 13 children and also the person responsible for calling me Cabbage Head, which is a term of endearment used by the Cool Spring Connection to describe their old coach.

One time about 1978 I called the Cox homestead which housed Pie, Chico, Candy Man, Dino, Horse, Granny, Feedy and Petey. The phone was picked up and then dropped on a desk. It sounded like a house party going on. Finally, Granny picked up the phone, laughed and asked,”Who you want?”

This was a time period when a white man calling a black household in southern Delaware always drew suspicion. I tried not to sound too officiously like the dorky and annoying white guy. I had never called the house before.

“Gimme Chico!”

There was no hesitation. “Chico, Fredman wanna talk to you!” I have no idea how they knew and when I asked I was told that “everybody knows what Cabbage sounds like.”

In the spring of 1981 with a track meet against Seaford already in the mathematical win column I put together a Cool Spring Connection 4 by 100 relay team. It was next to the last in the order of events.

The pass between three and four runner was dropped and the guys were depressed and on the way back on the bus kept looking at me like I should know better.

The next day I arrived to my first period class right on time five minutes late and there was a stick figure cartoon on the board. There were four figures with a dropped relay baton between number three and four. Stick figure number three had a hydro head three times bigger than the other runners. There was a large X drawn over his body.

Peter Cox appeared in my doorway. “Cabbage, you know you got to get Jellybean off the relay team. You know he can’t run, his head is too big. And you put him on a curve too. How’s a Jellybean with a big old head supposed to run a curve? Sometimes Coach Cabbage don’t make no sense.”

Jellybean, my fastest 100 meter sprinter at 11.1, ran one more straightaway and then quit because he was just tired of big head jokes Coach Cabbage Head was powerless to stop.

Twenty five years later I ran into Tim-his real name- working his magic with a crowd of women on the outside deck of the Rusty Rudder. A look of panic came over his face.

“Please don’t call me Jellybean,” Tim whispered.

I couldn’t help but notice that Tim was much heavier since high school and his big old Jellybean head was “off the hizzy” Jellybean Bigger as was my corned beef boiled head of cabbage.

Life throws lots of curves but Jellybean and Cabbage are sitting on the fastball looking for Flomax.


Freddogg

This Freddoggs life found itself last Saturday afternoon emceeing a Blue Crab festival which included little people in dancing contests, trike races, hula-hoop competitions and other activities I’ve repressed with three days lag time behind me.

In fact, I turned a hula-hoop on it’s edge and said, “Greatest invention since the wheel, so easy a caveman can do it”, and that joke flew over like a radio controlled biplane which in fact did fly over and I announced that to having no idea what I was talking about and doing a dam good job at it.

As I circled the bails of straw with cordless microphone, walkie-talkie, cell phone, IPOD, program, and reporter’s notebook in various cargo pockets, I also had a camera around my neck for non posed up close shots of kids just being who they are-young and cute and annoying and suffering from lack of attention or too much attention disorder.

Back when” our” twins were seven, we hosted the dreaded little boy afternoon three hour party for too many. A boy named Billy got there and the first thing he did was sit down on the couch next to me and introduce himself, ”Hi, my name is Billy.”

“I don’t care,”I said. “See all these little boys racing around? You need to get down and race around as well.”

Little precocious pre school adult people pleasers, I know the syndrome and I was having none of it. I don’t trust anyone under 16 who is socially suave and congenial and relaxed with adults. That is always the drug dealing burglar-it’s a lead pipe cinch.

Kids are cute so what happens to them? That’s right they become us who swear we’re cute too and I know I am but I’m not too sure about you.

Get off of my couch!

Freddogg

Technology is tragically misdirected when so many Americans drive cars with satellite radios and GPS systems and yet we still send men into mines with no beacons that work to indicate where they are if, in fact, they are anywhere in a temporal flesh and blood way.
And once a little hole is being drilled into the top of the mountain to look for your whereabouts it’s pretty much certain that your life was given up for coal which no one ever talks about except when mountains collapse on top on miners. I honestly didn’t know that American companies were still mining coal with real people under ground.
Why are we in Iraq if not to steal oil so we don’t have to mine coal at home and when is the last time you ever saw a piece of coal and I wouldn’t know iron ore if it rolled in my front door or bounced off me head.
I live in a world I don’t understand and tell me again why are we in Iraq? Oh yea, to engage the terrorists? I know the terrorists are extremely stupid but what is happening in Iraq is not terror, it is every day blow up bullshit and they will never run out of stupid people and I know what you’re thinking.
How are these two points related? Mine coal or steal oil? I’m for stealing. A good old economic slap around, will not only teach everyone a lesson but drop the cost of regular below a dollar a gallon.
Fredman

A little girl I know asked me if I knew a certain woman who was fired as a substitute teacher. “I don’t know the bitch,”I said, and she said “what?” and I repeated,” I don’t think I know her.”

“Well she got fired from our school for calling some boy a ‘Bipolar Retard’” A younger seven year old asked “what’s bipolar mean?”
I answered “are you o.k. with the word retard” and she said “sure I know what a retard is.”

So I explained, using dramatization, manic and depressed behaviors, which they found highly entertaining. Creativity in writing is among other things putting words back to back you never see together, like Bipolar Retard.

“Jimmy, why are you so morose and somber if not down right melancholy?”

“Dah, because I’m retarded? And in school they make me take retarded classes taught by retarded teachers. MY class is filled with retarded kids just like me. And everyone knows who we are and they think we don’t know they know but get caught one time spraying Windex on a cafeteria table and wiping it down while two adults watch and record your actions and you are pretty much outed as the retarded guy.’

The on a manic Monday Jimmy bounds down the steps and dumps a baby bowl of sugar on top of his breakfast sugar smacks before annoying the dog to freaking death running the risk of being the first child in history attacked by a Golden Doodle.

But seriously I would love the opportunity to go Hannibal The Cannibal on any adult who called a child a Bipolar Retard or any other name. Kids have immunity and enjoy the right to annoy those who are paid to watch them.

Freddogger

Mans search for meaning brought a distraught reflective thinker to the foot of the Himalayas where there was talk of a great hermit prophet at the summit. The man journeyed and it took months to get an audience as thousands from around the world stood in line.
Finally, the audience was granted and the man knelt exhausted. The prophet was blind but saw everything.
“Tell me, sage of the mountain peaks. What do you see? What noises do you hear that I do not? What is the meaning of life?”
“Life is like a bridge my son” and he whisked the man away.
The man was heartened because he understood the metaphor of traveling forward over the current of life experiences but by the time he reached the bottom he had as many questions as answers so he simply turned around and headed back up. Eight months later he knelt once again at the foot of the wisest man on earth.
“Tell me great prophet because I don’t understand. How is life like a bridge”?
The prophet turned towards him and shrugged his shoulders,”So it’s not like a bridge.”

I don’t know about the rest of America but I am cable vision bridged out! Life is like a bridge, tunnel, airplane, train, building and anything else man made. Shit falls down and blows up, people get electrocuted, chain saw trees that drop on their own heads, fall out of boats that come back and slice them to ribbons ,throw rocks at hornets nests and wrestle carnivorous psychotic aquatics and feed great whites under water and film the experience. It’s all high risk, like life itself.
You know that expression in the marriage ceremony? What god has joined together let no man put asunder or is that pull asunder? No matter, what man has joined together is just so much tinker toy bullshit because “One Fine Day” that shit will crumble, rust and be pulled asunder, just pray that you are someplace else. It’s all just luck of the draw.
My heart goes out to victims of this infrastructure failure but do I need to hear how many bridges across this great country of ours are rated 50 percent safe. Life is all about 50 percent. One day you’re here and the next day your not. Pretty simple, approaching beautiful and perfect.
“First there is a mountain then there is no mountain then there is” Donovan McNabb or somebody?

Freddogg

CHICAGO -- Although religious doctors are more likely to consider medicine a calling, that doesn’t translate into caring for more underserved patients, a survey has revealed. [more]
http://www.medpagetoday.com/PublicHealthPolicy/HealthPolicy/dh/6306

This Doctor-hungry for attention-was in WaWa getting morning coffee


In other words, a real spiritual calling, aligns with a fat bank account, in more cases than not, because if you have a “fancy assed education” and life kicks you about anyway, you are likely to deduce “Looks like I picked the wrong god.”
My grandmother said, ”Poor people pray, rich people whine and zealots simply blow up in your face.”


Say it ain’t so Pro Bono but shut my mouth and call me Charlene my wife hasn’t seen a doctor in 10 years and so when she called to make an appointment and discovered she had been dropped by whom she thought was her doctor- the price of good health and self managed care- and no one else in the yellow pages would schedule her because they were full and not taking patients. All of that, in spite of the fact that she has comprehensive Blue Cross Coverage.

And so religious calling or not do you think any of these private practice physicians be they M.D. or D.O. are opening their doors and windows to the shirtless underclass? Think again during the second collection but it ain’t happening.

I sit places where people gather and I observe and study. Some summer nights ago I was tailgating on my Tundra in the Food Lion parking lot when a four foot ten squared Harley riding woman pulled up next to me. A helmeted head with flames indicating motion and a belly that rested on the gas tank like a biscuit on a Weber grill and I loved her for not being an augmented stair stepper.

Go to the emergency room and you will see the uninsured sometimes an entire family sitting and waiting because someone stepped on a bee who didn’t sting just buzzed but you can’t be too careful then imagine this uninsured family sitting in the doctors office smothering the 10 a.m. group appointment hour for insured hypochondriacs.

‘IT may be the devil or it may be the lord but you’re gonna have to serve somebody” Bob Dylan


Freddogg off the Scale