Freddogg Off The Chain

A young mother rolls around Sam’s Club pushing a cart in which sits a little boy and his not so little older brother. It was obvious to me that the older kid was big enough to walk and he was what my grandmother Rose used to describe as a sneaky little punk ass.
Every time mom would turn and reach for a family sized household item “big boy” would noogie his little brother making him cry.
Mom would turn around and tell the little guy to stop crying that he was getting on her nerves. And it would happen again and again and the only person noticing was me and I wanted to noogie the big boy so badly but I believe you can go to prison for laying a power noogie on a non related five year old stranger.
I knew I was watching a serial noogier in the making. Striking deftly and without conscious willing to persecute his little brother and send his mother to the “nervous hospital” without remorse. A totally cold and non-caring, punk assed noogier.
If some sadistic school-yard noogier ever attacked one of my grand daughter’s I would lay in wait at the bus stop secure him in the power German headlock as the red lights went to yellow and jump up and down rubbing his head raw no doubt to thunderous applause from his bus mates.
Go out in public and lay a friendly noogie on the head top of a stranger and see how quickly you end up a Tier Two moderate risk on the Noogie Offenders website?

Freddogg

My world of writing prompts never stops dogging me. I stood at the hardware store register yesterday with a flame igniter in one hand and two pig’s ears in the other. I had my lame-assed joke already for the depressed middle aged white woman who was on the last hour of her day shift.
“I hope I don’t get busted for pig paraphernalia,” I was going to say, but instead I said nothing, exercising my right to remain silent and to change unspoken jokes from pig paraphernalia to Mommy sleeps like a horse.
The woman was standing there sleeping so soundly I was going to scour the store for an apnea mask. And I thought she might need sleep so I didn’t want to stimulate her startle reflex and get stabbed with that tiny register key.
I wondered what I would do if it were my store and I walked by a sleeping check out woman otherwise known as a sales clerk.
“A hem! Code Blue! Bar Code Blue! Jumper cables to register six! Debit my charge card! “
Three people were in line to my left because no one in a check out line stands anything but sideways. I motioned my hands down like they should be quiet and wait for the power horse nap to round the club house turn and head for home.
She then started to sleep talk while barely moving her lips.
“She’s a ventriloquist,”I told the impatient patrons. ‘We’ll have to go over to the bagel shop to hear what she is saying.”
No one got the “throw your voice” joke, the freaking idiots.
Then the clerk looked at me. Nothing else changed just eyeballs open, peering out from the somnolent body.
“What do you want,”she asked, as I rolled dried pigs ears in my right hand compulsively but not obsessively.
“I want you baby,” I thought, going regressively high school. ‘Somebody saddle up this pony!”
But I said nothing, just went to the car, tossed dried pigs ears with actual blood vessels visible, to the retrievers and reminded them that they were lovable but most certainly disgusting.
Darby responded,”Hear you tell it!” At least I think it was Darby.

Freddogg

This stupid human tricks reality episode actually happened in California on December 31. Most of us are saddened with all the bizarre behaviors in the news where people exit the planet and take innocents with them but the demise of a dog just rubs us wrong which is why Hollywood never hurts animals in fictional films although they are quite fond of serial sadistic sexual predators murdering women.
Read the story summary below


“CORONADO -- A police pursuit that began in Oceanside has ended with a man jumping off the Coronado Bridge, taking a police dog with him.
The man survived, but the dog, named Stryker, died.
Police say the pursuit began about 6:45 p.m. Monday in Oceanside on State Route 76 with a report of a man driving erratically.
California Highway Patrol Officer Larry Landeros says the pursuit continued onto southbound Interstate 5 and onto the Coronado Bridge where the driver came to a stop. Landeros says Oceanside police released Stryker. The man then picked up the dog and jumped about 200 feet over the side of the bridge.”

Just imagine the split second instantaneous decision not to jump away from attack dog but to pick him up and jump over the side as the dog is biting you about the face and neck on the way down. The dog died and the guy goes to the hospital to be treated for bite marks. Will he go to prison and get major time?
“What are you in for, Dog?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s right?”
“What you just said.”

I am not making light of this because if some “I’m such a loser I’m high speed chase guy” jumped off a bridge with my dog and the guy lived and the dog died… well …I’d have to kill the bitch and I’m against the death penalty.
I’d kidnap this guy and take him to the Golden Gate at Midnight, toss a tennis ball over the side and him after it. If he swam to the shore with the ball in his mouth I’d tell him, ”Good Boy” now get in the back of the truck. And if he just went splat I’d call it a draw.

Freddogg

Around the year 1981 in the Cape Henlopen school district I was reassigned from Special Education teacher to Social Studies what became known over the next 25 years as “The World According To Fredman”. I do not boast or offer excuses I can only say that no one in earth’s history had ever done a better job at being me than I did myself.
Earlier this week I made a new friend taking a picture of a 15 year old sophomore basketball player for Athlete of the Week. Her name is Shanika and her broad smile and engaging personality won me over and I spoke to her like a Great Uncle.
“Shanika I taught your mother when she was in seventh grade. I drove to Milton to teach one class of Geography to multiple repeaters. There were 30 of them. One little white boy with long hair drove his car in December when he turned 16. Everyone stood at the windows and cheered before they began to make fun of my 1970 three door khaki colored Chevy suburban. That class wore my out. We battled every day. They remain the strongest personalities I ever encountered in one classroom.”
Shanika Smiled-won’t find that on a Hall and Oates album-and said,”I know. My mother talks about you all the time. Everybody loves Fredman.”
And you know with all this bullshit state testing and tracking and predicting and academic theories of recycling poverty there is one thing that cannot be measured and I’m serious about this and that is A Mother’s Love.
I have seen the next generation come through and I can’t tell you-cause I don’t want to-how many Honor Society students I’ve meet who are children of parents who were special education and given up for Wawa when they were in high school. The immeasurable ingredient is an honest and unreserved love for their children along with smart discipline. I see it all the time which is why we should never categorize people in school or give up on them as hopeless.
I was a sticker and jabber and counter puncher and I waded into each class without headgear. Respect students and they almost always respect you back and the bigger and more accomplished you are as an adult person the more important your respect is admired by students because only trifling losers disrespect children who are hard to reach.
I’m out-don’t know what I’m talking about-but I do know I discovered something that appears nowhere in the education literature wherever that does appear.

Welcome Back Freddogg

I want to push a baby blue shopping cart into a dinner time crowded Food Lion then scan the aisles left to right on your radio dial from produce to Popsicles before breaking into a full throttle frenzied physical freak out.
I want to play speed racer and collision other carts. I want to screw the tops of Vitamin water bottles, toss them, and yell “grenade!”
I want to Fosbury flop into ground chuck. Knock over display tables. I want to stamp prices on top of bald people’s heads. I want to go into a Goose Gossage stretch and throw a bell pepper 90 miles and hour at attitude Checker in the express line. I want to slap the perfect woman with new permanent hair coloring with a thin slice of boiled ham right across the face just leaving her three for the next three days to make lunch for her fat assed husband.
I’m not done! There are laps to run and people to corner until they bark. I don’t want to hurt anyone and just want reactions. I will go crouching dragon and wait for a friend to cautiously approach before sprinting to attack and nipping them in the ass with a soft bite.
I envy my dog Darby. He is a young male who gets “full of himself” on walks into the wild. He runs and bounds and actually looks back at himself like “this is so great and I am so full of myself. I am uncontained and unrestrained. I’m going to get wet and funky and drink rain water. I am the bowling ball to a thousand snow geese, the nightmare to the scraggly fox. I am annoying and it feels so good! I will push it to exhaustion then go sleep in the truck waiting for a WaWa ride and plain donut. My life is perfect!
All that survivor reality bullshit is about losing oneself but the secret formula is “play outside-sleep inside.” We spend too much time stifling exuberance!

Dr. Freddogg

Pardon the disruption but five thousand snow geese just hanging out on a late afternoon prior to kickoff need a little unpremeditated flight time, you know, the old freight and flight natural reflex of nature.

Darby Doodle was herding the geese like white people at a Sheriffs sale. Back in the town of Lewes there are leash laws and pooper scooper people but out here on the hallowed fallows it is every dog for himself.

That’s it, nothing earth shattering, just four paws lifting ten thousand wings.

Peace

FReddogg

Back in the school year of 1976 a student of mine named James, who always talked in deep mumbled tones while looking at the floor, was gluing Rice Crispies to a piece of art board which would later be painted blue and red for the uniform, brown for the skin and black for the hair and looked just like Julius Erving of the Seventy-Sixer's when it was finished. I offered to buy it and asked James how much and he said 50 dollars but I can’t take your weekly pay check when you have four kids at home to feed. James had been labeled Educable Mentally Retarded so I don’t know what that made me?

In another class James walked in looking proud and told me he got his health test back and ask me to guess how many he got right out of 25. I guessed 20. He looked at me completely deadpan and said ‘Three. I hope next week to bump that up to five.”

A few weeks later a long term substitute in the room in transition between parishes an Episcopalian minister named Rocky from Wilmington was sitting next to James and kept staring into his soul. James looked back and Rocky asked, “James, when was the last time you cried?”
James mumbled back,” I don’t know man when’s the last time you got off?”
Twelve years later I ran into James who was at the high school to pick up his 14 year old daughter. James was so happy to see me and said he was going to do a piece of art work for me to hang in my living room because much of what he was as an adult he owed to me including having no job.

So he met up with me one morning and handed me the color penciled drawing of Granny, hair in a bun and penis for a nose. There was a picture of Mr. Granny on the wall and he also had a penis for a nose. I asked James why the elderly white people with penis noses?
“It just reminds me of all the good times I had in high school, ’he said. “Put it up in your living room so it can remind you of the good times too.”

And then he was gone. Today while searching for a missing folder I discovered Granny-by the way I am carefully choosing my words here. I decided to scan and share and I know I should teach a class to prospective teachers to hip them to the non text book real things that sometimes happen in public school.

“It’s the little old penis from Pasadena Go Granny Go!”You're right, not so little from the perspective of the artist. Let the good times roll!

Freddogg

I saw Delaware Senator Tom Carper yesterday at Cape Henlopen High School but refused to cross the flight path of the former Navy pilot and Delaware Governor and Congressman. And that is because “Cadaver Carper” there is no way that man isn’t anorexic has introduced himself to me 27 times since I’ve been in Delaware and I’m just tired of it. And anyway I was wearing cargo shorts which the Gazette Golf columnist and full time department of transportation lawyer pointed out to me was a social Faux pas for an aging white guy.
I may vote for Hilary because she wears pants suits to hide a big old butt-known as Ghetto Booty in some cultural enclaves- knowing there is a song “whose got a big old butt?” then you just fill in a name “Hilary’s got a big old butt” but I’ll tell you if she played that song in South Carolina and peeled off the jacket and percolated just for 15 seconds while Bill played the sax she could steal that primary.
And I don’t want to hear “rock star” associated with Obama anymore. Who is he Lenny Kravitz? Barack actually resembled that lead singer from the “Fine Young Cannibals” remember their hit “She Drives Me Crazy” which he could play every time the name Hilary is mentioned.
Edwards’s father worked in the mill and so did little John portraying himself as blue collar but you know there is no way Edwards was in Dire Straights for long which summons the lyric “that little faggot has his own jet airplane that little faggot is a millionaire.” The album “Money for Nothing.”
John McCain in the words of Borat “Respect” and I give it up for him. Yesterday I heard a commentator say “McCain is tough was in a North Vietnamese Prison for five and a half years and beaten and tortured everyday but I’m sure there were some days they forgot to do it . It reminded me of a teaching day when I told a class a senator came out of the closet after 17 years. Roxy in the back yelled out “Stop tripping Fredman there is no way a man could live in a closet for 17 years. What did he eat and drink?”
And what is the Mitt the Morman Romney thing all about –cookies in the kitchen with grandchildren five perfect sons all stamped out of the same cutter-what is sensed about him? Too perfect to be trustworthy? Has a billion dollars and less soul than Al Gore.
And “Do The Hucklebuck” just what is an Evangelical? I kinda know, like there is gospel music sung by blacks which rocks and inspires and then there’s the white sort of Pat Boone version--those are Evangelicals.
Finally, I wish Tom Brokaw would stop doing Brokaw impressions barely moving his lips. I get it already because if he had a voice like Tyson or Bill Bergey no one would listen to a word he says.

And that’s the way it is.

I’m thinking of a play on words on Walter Cronkite but all I I come up with is
Walrus Freddyke

Lina Baby and Darby Doodle in picture



There are many upscale communities with names like Fox Run Hollow and Red Fox Run but most people have never had the pleasure of watching some smug-assed fox with no natural enemies suddenly scampering for its life and fox are not as sly as advertised but rather frantic flyer's from danger just like the rest of us. And only in sports do you hear the expression “crazy like a fox” because “sports jargonist” mix up similes and metaphors and even philosophy –“They now control their own destiny” because destiny is by definition out of one’s control and no one understands the joke “Déjà vu all over again” or “beating a dead horse to death” which were Al McGuire misapplied expressions which have become part of the language like Denny Green’s ‘They are who we thought they were.”
Yesterday Darby Doodle Dog bounding through nature unbridled saw a red fox on a distance rise of brown corm stumps and switched into high gear. The two year old looked like an Olympic quarter miler. It was at the last second that the fox processed he may be taken out by a runaway Labba Labba Doodle doing 60 m.p.h
The fox ran from the field into what little kids call “the big woods.”
Darby was on his ass like Marian Jones on a forged check as the pair of them were missing trees like ships in a star wars movie. The fox couldn’t shake Darby so nature’s “bite in the ass” immutable law kicked into gear and the fox turned, barred its teeth and began to bark like a Corgi doing a Mike Tyson impression.
Darby had the right instincts of not going face first into a wild animal protecting itself from immanent extinction. He simply jumped straight up into the air and left Mr. No natural enemies quivering in his entire stupendous splendor.
That is why some of us are “dog people.” I was Darby chasing that fox, inside his head like a fighter pilot. I was in the dogfight. Just call me Ace who was my Uncle Tony’s dog who ate toenail clippings.

Freddogg

A friend of mine, a fellow grandfather but 20 years younger, made the front page of the statewide morning paper today for escaping from the hospital in the middle of a heart attack exam. He was brought to the hospital by two prison guards having recently been incarcerated for some bullshit burglary stuff.
This grand pop a go go is known by friends as “Wiggy” and he is about 5’4” of Indian decent and can vanish like a Coyote Trickster of Indian Mythology.
Wiggy was about to change back from his hospital gown after a series of tests but as the rooster crowed and the break of dawn the guards looked around and Wiggy was gone.
Wiggy can be easily identified by eight suction cup marks on his chest in case you’re looking for leads. Get it?
I guess these guards failed the "take the criminal to the heart exam test" and will be returned to the tower for high powered scope rifle duty.
If I were searching for Wiggy, which I’m not, I’d check all local wigwams and wig shops and corners were wigged out people hang.

Stay tuned but my guess is it will take more than a Tom Tom GPS to track the trickster Wigster.

Freddogg

Call it a “near hit” a “my bad” a bone headed stream of consciousness cut away behind the wheel of a three quarter ton Tundra with an eight foot bed rounded off above the rails with chunks of wood.
Back in 1999 I was in a roll over accident. I was unbelted lucky to have survived and so on the last day of 2007 I learned my lesson and still don’t wear a belt and there was Darby Dog riding shotgun quicker that a deployed airbag at 50 miles an hour.
I was checking my review never trusting that sticks of wood may go flying out the back and then I glanced to the right at Mr. Donut wondered if the drive in window was still there and with no sense of urgency I looked back onto the road in the direction I was traveling.
A maroon Sienna was just stopped there I guess to turn. Adrenaline kicked into crystal clear focus. No time to stop only to swerve to the right with a ton of wood on board. Speaking of dead wood I was almost part of the load. I came back left what is often described in fatalities as over correction. But the Tundra handled what I gave her and I screamed “asshole”! Because I represent!
God knows who was in that van and if I had been chased down and smacked I’d have just stood there and said smack me some more I deserve it.
And Darby remained loving and clueless the double helix of mammalian emotions.
Two Toyota's saved my life, a 4Runner in 99 and Tundra in 07. And so I must break the news to all my Christian friends that Jesus was Japanese!
Happy New Years and Feast of the Circumcision-a holy day of obligation- for you Catholics.

Freddogg