Freddogg Off The Chain

A woman drags her husband to family therapy to sort out the dynamic that is destroying their marriage.
‘He’s a hobophobic and I can’t stand it anymore,”the wife says.
‘You mean homophobic? You mean your husband is homophobic?”
“I know what homophobic means,”she shoots back. “I mean hobophobic.”
“And what exactly is a hobophobic, ”the therapist asked?
“Hobophobic-you know-he’s a fucking bum!”

Last night at a basketball game I asked a retired doctor with whiskey on his breath where a mutual friend had been keeping himself because I hadn’t seen his rich ass in a couple of years.
“He’s a reclusive homophobic,”the guy told me, off the record on condition of anonymity.
“He doesn’t go to restaurants or bars because he is afraid of being served by a gay person.”
“Perhaps he was served in his childhood years,”I speculated. “How does a normal person develop a phobia so debilitating that his paranoia cast every male as a potential threat to his masculinity. Hey, wait a minute; this guy thinks I’m gay, doesn’t he?”
“ I don’t know, ” the Doc replied, then later told me he was going to the Philadelphia Flower Show on Sunday and asked me if I had ever been to it?’
“Now that’s straight up faggot,” I told him. “Flower show? How does your garden grow and what is a cockle shell, never mind, I don’t want to know?”
I am not phobic or racist in anyway although I admit skinny tattooed dumb-assed young white males with two earrings I’d love to hit in the face with a plank if I could get away with it.
I have a degree in Anthropology and wanted to travel to exotic places, record strange behaviors, customs and courtship patterns, then while back in the safety of my stateside office, make fun of those people in print. There is just too much serious literature that no one will ever read. My first ethnography was going to be titled: “Third World White People”.

Two years ago I counseled an ineligible 270 pound high school shot putter. “I’ll give you three explanations for your grades, one worse than the next”, I said.

“First: You’re depressed and have lost energy and interest in yourself.

Second: Drugs even marijuana robs a person of ambition and fosters poor performance.

Third: You really are that stupid you big lazy fucking moron!”

I’m going out into the world now to confront my fears. I wonder if my wife is interested in going to the Flower Show?

Professor Freddogg

There is a roundabout where bravery, stupidity, idealism, skepticism and adventurism all come together. Take the wrong road off the circle and you can be dead quicker than your idealistic humanitarianism brain can process the thought “I think this was a really dumb idea.”

I have often looked into the faces of surfers when the surf was up and raging and then watched them charge into a 12 foot set with some stupid short board. That has nothing to do with bravery it is the zest for an adventurous adrenaline rush and if you don’t feel it, then stay planted in the soft sand because those drunk with enthusiasm are like real drunks just hard to break in half.

Yesterday I heard a story on NPR about a 73 year old American nun killed in the Amazon of Brazil while delivering a landownership contract to local farmers. She was stopping on an uphill trail, questioned, then rifles were pointed at her head, she read the bible in defense, and then two nasty nun shooting jungle cats shot her ass dead.

This morning I read of another aid worker in Afghanistan missing and presumed murdered. A 50 year old American aid worker for the “Asian Rural Life Foundation” was snagged from a village and disappeared because just because that’s what happens.

Perhaps the American government who loves to send green card workers home should refuse to send women into such dangerous places poking about with no protection in the name of what exactly? Human rights?

If FARC snags your ass in Bogotá or those Howler Monkeys in the jungles of the Philippines your ass is crab grass and no humanitarian expedition will come looking for you.

A nun on radio said “The church is built on the blood of martyrs” and I’m thinking “Before the cock crows thrice thee will deny me twice.”

A car gets hit in the roundabout and catches on fire. There are kids trapped in the backseat. You are safely drinking coffee on the sidewalk. Do you sprint towards the potential fireball of exploding sheet metal and rubber or do you call 911 and begin to pray? What is your humanitarian responsibility and are you brave enough to race into the fire?

What if the rear bumper has a sticker "Taliban on Tour!"

Freddogg

A relaxing walk across a fallow field with old girl Jesse and forever stupidly young Darby Doodle.
These dogs live together and are best friends but when out for a walk all civility is cast aside as the play hard and I know they don’t mean it but when captured on film they sure as hell look like they mean it. Teeth barred with deviled ears and you’re only playing?
I am the fresh out of the MRI guy,that Utube is a dangerous claustrophobic cave for someone with such a magnetic personality. My shoulders extend beyond the chalk outline as I slide in head first my nose almost touching the ceiling I feel like a 1959 polio dyslexic in an iron lung. The old technician selects my music based on appearance but dam ‘Greatest Hits of the Fifth Dimension”.
I was in there for lower back degeneration and related left leg pain. Here is a paragraph I copied from the internet.


“Degeneration of the lumbar spine is described as lumbar spondylosis or degenerative disc disease and may lead to spinal stenosis (narrowing of the spinal canal), vertebral instability and/or malalignment, which may be associated with back pain and/or leg symptoms. This review considers the available evidence on the procedures of spinal decompression (widening the spinal canal or laminectomy), nerve root decompression (of one or more individual nerves) and fusion of adjacent vertebrae. “

What does any of this have to do with limping through a field under an IPOD while my dogs attack each other? I talked to a new friend of mine at the gym this morning who has two artificial legs and as we exchanged small talk he said,”Any day I get up and walk around is a good day.” Why the hell would he say that of all things?

I have a consultation next week with a sadistic specialist from the Middle East who may want to scope my spine or rock me like my backbone was his own but the good news is I know where I stand before I go in which is to never let a person from the land of camels mess with a spine. Will that be one hump or two?

FReddogg

Last summer a tobacco chewing retired football coach and my lumbar 5 left leg limping self were power trudging north on the Rehoboth Boardwalk savoring the colorful sunset of our waning years as the waxing moon cast a glow over the sea that spawned the diversity of the genus homo.
An older woman sporting an Our Miss Brooks Eve Arden sundress from a consignment shop intercepted our glide path. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but can you tell me how to get to Poodle Beach?”
“It’s the beach directly off the south end of the Boardwalk,” I told her, clear as a bell on a nun buoy.
“Poodle Beach? What the hell is Poodle Beach?” Coach asked, snorting before making a dune deposit of grasshopper juice.
“It’s the gay beach off the end of the boardwalk,” I said.
“Jesus, you don’t think she thought we were gay, do you?”
“Heck no, Coach,” I answered. “We ain’t in good enough shape for that.”
Delmarva is culturally and diversity rich with more accents, dialects and clothier combinations than a 1950’s carousel of gay ponies. There is nothing straight about an up- and-down pole mounted colorfully painted hobby horse with a yellow mane and purple saddle.
I recently stepped into the Obamanizer of Political Diversity looking for a workout tee shirt but was reluctant to “come out of the walk in closet” with certain manifestations of symbolic speech I have been rejecting for 20 years or shorter.
I am the double x guy who thinks X rated shirts are rude and unimaginative and so “tourist in a resort town” overstatement. But I do have a collection of cool and unique shirts that don’t represent who I am--they are just shirts. And I am the ultimate live and let live heterosexual Caucasian grandfather, a person who reacts to diversity with no emotion and no judgments passed. So why do I keep passing on tee shirts that will most certainly cause me to pause the IPOD and answer questions?
“Poodle Beach, huh? Nice tee shirt. I can’t believe you wore it to Gold’s Gym. Where did you get it?”
“My wife got it at a gay garage sale” I would answer which is the truth. “She knows I like saying ‘Poodle Beach,’ and a lineup of pastel poodles--how cool is that?”
I also regularly pass up my red tee shirt with a logo of the Gay Fishing Company-a fleet of shrimp boats from Beaufort, South Carolina. I’m guessing inside the gay community you don’t want to be a Carolina guy from the ‘society of shrimpers.’
Twenty-two years ago I did wear my “No Gerbils” shirt-a blue gerbil on a gray tee inside a red universal “No” symbol. The shirt was created by a high school senior and sold out of the trunk of his car. The motivation for the creation was an urban myth story out of Philadelphia involving a gerbil and a newscaster named Jerry.
I received so many looks I couldn’t categorize. Symbolic speech is like a Bob Dylan lyric meaning different things to different people or like a Roy Rogers song, “Habitrails to you.”
One of my sons cut the sleeves off the “No Gerbils” shirt to wear under his equipment when he plays lacrosse. He wouldn’t think of going into the battle without Mojo Gerbil having his back, so to speak.
I am president and founder of the Lewes Polar Bears and have 25 years’ worth of designer tee shirts I just never wear because they make me look North Pole porky. But my vanity tag reads DABEAR, which I’m told in the gay community means a big burly gay dude like the construction worker in the Village People.
All we real guys want to be Macho Men--the song is way gay-- but from the shores of Carolina to the streets of Philadelphia, play it and everyone in the Village starts dancing and a prancing.
The rugged real guy doesn’t care what people think; he knows who he is. But the symbols of role confusion are hanging in everyone’s closet and it’s a personal decision when and if to come out.

The two day high school Delaware state wrestling championships were pushed back a day due to a Delaware exaggeration of inclement weather disproving the cliché “you can’t be too careful.”
What struck me was an announcement that because finely tuned quality athletes with little body fat would be on Nutter Butter lock down with fa-assed adults, a one pound allowance was being granted for the Saturday morning weigh in. If a teenage 119 pounder with 6 percent body fat, a heart rate of 52, and blood pressure of 108/65, can gain weight while snow bound, what hope do the rest of us have?
During one long Thanksgiving weekend in 1969, a year I was living with three other football linemen, we made a bet as to who would gain the most weight over the four day vacation.
We were all mesomorphs with Mesolithic sexual tendencies-drum stick seen a sex toy- but at the apex of our physical prominence we just didn’t know it at the time.
Tom “Hog Body” Rupert won the weight gain contest-he wasn’t trying to win or lose- none of us were- putting on 22 pounds. Two days later Tom had dropped back 8 pounds proving control and the lack thereof was easy for a big guy on an accordion diet who sang Lady of Spain every time he took a shower. (Accordion Joke Book)
One day last week three different people reluctantly paid me a weight loss compliment one woman saying “you were a lot fatter when I first came to work here..no really, you were..and my trainer friend asked.”what did you change in your diet?” I told him the only adjustment was I didn’t eat ice cream the last three nights but just sat on the couch like a loser zombie waiting for the little hand to go from the 7 to 11 so I could go to sleep.


Freddogg

Darby Doodle loves to scare up unsuspecting wild life including feral cats and someday I know he is ripe for a good ass kicking but meanwhile how much fun is it to get the drop on a rain pipe full of homeless cat-napers who never see his 90 pound stuffed animal ass until he freight trains through their habitat.
Two petrified tabbies treed themselves then perched in the crook of a branch as the women where I work told me the expense of getting them down would be born by Darby’s handler. I immediately threw a parking lot stone at the pussy in tree number one then asked, ”How much did that cost?”
Here is the bigger animal planet question? How could an animal so perfectly designed as a cat, an animal so stealth, a hunter so agile in the wild or so adept at jumping from counter to table top have the one limitation the one dead end evolutionary flaw of not being able to come back down a 40 foot tree scaled in seconds.
Imagine a leopard up a jungle tree that dies from hunger because it won’t come down. “The bitch should have jumped.” The basic rule is a watch cat won’t look un-cool because how they get down is a trade secret.
Three hours after being treed I was back at the office and the cats were back in the pipeline. I left Darby at home because I didn’t want to be in a catfight where I work.
I’ve broken up a couple human catfights in my day and I didn’t even feel the pain until raised welts on my arms screamed for salve.
One of the human catfights was between two drunken white women in a loose stone parking lot in front of a bunch of white drunks. I grabbed the one on top by the elbows pulled away her arms and she said “ were are fine” and they started consoling each other saying Brandon wasn’t worth it and Brandon in the crowd said, ”I am definitely not worth it”. And as she was getting up the one on top grabbed a fistful of stones and whipped them into the face of the one on the bottom. It was the nastiest cheapest shot I’d seen since my grandmother low bridged a lady in the Acme who cut in front of her.
I just did what I do went from a wild cat in a pipe to my grandmother in the Acme market.
I am not creative I am insane.

Freddogg

The guy in the Castro photo is actually some retro hippy nerd.


A locked vault in Dallas Texas evidently revealed boxes of original documents pertaining to the Kennedy assassination 45 years ago. Ironically the next day Castro resigned as God of Cuba.
I saw the boxes on the news as one hair spayed media wanker after another made comments. None of these clueless snoops caught the obvious which was that several boxes were labeled Office Depot which was founded in 1986 and really a cardboard box from the sixties looks nothing like a box from the eighties.
And I remember when the Castro look was cool here in America coinciding with the beatnik look, a precursor to the happy hippy style that gave fat women like momma Cass and beardy wierdy scrawny 10 year undergraduate matriculaters a place to hide and fit in and have barnyard group sex which even had the barnyard animals hee hawing in simultaneous disgust and laughter. In a way you have to hand it to the old guy for resisting the giant to his north and not becoming another Hawaii or Alaska and becoming overrun by fat-assed white people on vacation who came back with slides to dog their state side neighbors.
That’s what is lost on the whole Woodstock nostalgia the fact that the LSD crowd was nothing if not hideously ugly and out of shape and more shallow that any ipod teenager of today raving off ecstasy.
I am amazed at the irreverence shown to the memory of John Kennedy who last I checked still had a brother and daughter running around America. O.K.,in Teddy’s case perhaps ambling around-talk about the midnight ambler.
I saw a brand new Volkswagen sitting on a corner lot in 1972 and on the windshield it read “If Teddy had been driving one of these he’d be president today.”

FReddogg

A former Marine and small engine repair man friend of mine plays in a blue collar band and he got very upset at a recent gig when the owner of the bar/ restaurant charged a cover to get in explaining “that will keep out the riffraff.”
“We are the riffraff,”my friend screamed, "and if you think my mother and all my cousins are paying 10 dollars you have another thing coming.”
It is true that American soldiers fought wars for the unalienable rights of riffraff. And if you designate riffraff as cool then all the parrot heads and black turtle neck jazz wannabes will want to be riffraff as well.
Not only is riffraff a relative word but it may actually be your relatives or depending on the social situation it may be you?
Some people are skuzzy I don’t think there’s any question about that but riffraff is a more physical group in that they will kick your ass or start a riot without much provocation. The good news is they will fight but they are not any good at it because riffraff tend to be all uncoordinated out of shape and shit.
You know a Cement Mixer Riffraff Bar and Grill where they serve dirty people with hats and boots would make some serious money.
“Riffraff I was taking a bath rub dub ring around the tub”
Ever sit on the stoop among an entire block or urban riffraff? Just drinking and talking dumb shit and laughing at illogical jokes that ain’t funny? It is just the best time.

Freddogg

Maybe about 20 years ago my wife was sitting on the couch watching television or I was watching she was reading when she reached behind her back and pulled an empty half pint bottle of Jack Daniels from the sofa cushion.
“Is this yours,”’she asked?
“Is it yours,”I asked back.
“No it doesn’t belong to me,”she said.
“Then it must be mine,” I answered.
“And since when did you start drinking whiskey, ’she asked. ‘I’ve found about five of these little bottles scattered about this house over the last two weeks. “So I’ll ask again, since when did you start drinking hard liquor?”
“Since I gave up beer for lent,”I said.
The joke behind the joke was it wasn’t a joke and that’s long before there was a fighter named “No Joke” and before a white pit bull from Harlem named Casper ate a neighbor and was shot dead by police causing a second neighbor to exclaim “Casper Ain’t No Joke.”
You know it’s Catholics who do the lent thing and mostly they are Caucasians who aren’t giving up anything without reaping rewards and rebates. Catholics give up cookies and candies, perhaps beer and cigarettes, then write it of as helping god rather than helping themselves.
The church got hip- notoriously non hip- and asked the laity and gayety- to stop using lent for their own diet of denial but rather use it to reach out and positively help others like community service without a court officer checking off the hours.
You know that shit never caught on.

Pax Father Freddogg

A career as a writer only leaves me to use non creative language to describe former Hollywood Madam Heidi Fleiss as “One Scary Looking Bitch.”
You all remember when Heidi was “all up in the news” for producing a black book that contained the names of certain Hollywood Celebs who paid for escorts with sex an option pegged to a pull down menu price list. Sunday morning church ushers are escorts of sorts with payment made to a collection basket but I digress. “Usher in the House!”
Heidi is back in the news after getting picked up for DUI and possession of a controlled substance. I guess an uncontrolled substance would be a nitrous oxide filled balloon actually flying around the car. Happy snaps! Whippet baby!
Anyway the haggard looking Fleiss with sunken cheeks and collagen injected lips looks like the bride of Dracula in Tails from the Crypt. That’s right, Tails.
And the best part is when not pimping desert bimbos for dessert in suburban Vegas Heidi lives off the profits of her coin operated laundry called ‘Dirty Laundry.”
Heidi is only 42 with 40 miles of bad road written on her face. What is it that makes people so dam crazy?
From crack heads to steroid users the face will always reveal the reality. In the words of comedian Sinbad: “At least try to fool somebody.”

Dr. Freddogg

The young girl “running the register” at the local Food Lion has “Cabbage Patch” cuteness. Short with puffy freckled cheeks I just watch her and I’m amazed by her intrinsically nice and kind and helpful personality.
And so when the elderly guy in front of me grew totally confused at what he called the paperless world around him as he struggled with the credit/debit touch pad that seemed at cross purposed with logic. And he fumbled through his wallet saying he had a 20 but now couldn’t find it.
Tiffany was there with him every step of the way assuring him of places the 20 may be hiding and telling him if she found one she would put it aside for him.
“Where did you go to high school Tiffany,”I asked her, as I ask all register running strangers in my knock about world.
“I graduated from Cape last year,”she said. “I graduated a year early.”
“I taught there but retired two years ago,”I said. “Do I look familiar to you? They call me Fredman.”
Her big eyes got bigger and her face softer and she said,” I never had you but you know my brother Will. He wrote the valentines poem for my mother and you published it in the paper for him. And then we all went to her graveside and Will read the poem to her then taped it to her gravestone. Will said you were the nicest teacher he ever had. I never got a chance to thank you so thank you for being so nice to us.”
And now the tragic twist. I had first met Will’s step brother inside the maximum security section of the local prison He was cuffed and in orange jump suit. Just 23 years old he had received a life sentence for murdering his step mother, the mother of Will and Tiffany. He had stabbed her 23 times on some Friday night outside a trailer. There was drinking to drunkenness and drugs to oblivion involved with other people inside the trailer partying it was just an ugly and nasty story.
That school year I had Will as a student and through some conversation realized he was the step brother of my interviewee, the guy who had murdered his mother.
I told Will I knew the story and had interviewed his step brother and we established a relationship of trust and it was an emotional release for Will to come to school knowing “his teacher” had a grasp of what he deals with everyday of his life.
“Will’s living in Florida and doing good,” Tiffany said. “He writes all the time. He said you told him to keep writing that he was good at it and has stories to tell.”
I pushed my dumb little cart across the parking lot to my 4runner. I didn’t quite know where to put myself saying out loud “what the hell just happened back there?”
I think that may be the mantra for my entire life.

I have often been perceived as the likely entry level employment adult from women asking me to check their fluid levels as I pass by the full service pump to confused soot covered guy in aisle seven at Lowe’s asking me where he can find an eight inch stove pipe elbow.
I am always congenial and loquacious rather than “how the freak should I know” rude guy because it’s my fault I look non-accomplished.
No one ever mistakes me for doctor on the way to the OR quite the contrary I am sometimes stalked by candy-stripers pushing an empty chair.
One time a ‘swear she cute” 50 year old woman smiled and said I reminded her of the detective on NYPD Blue not the handsome one played by Jimmy Smits but the other one what’s his name? “Sipowicz,”I said. “But how does a bald and fat actor with a pocked marked face remind you of me.”
“It the attitude and I guess the fat part, she sneaked in followed quickly by “just kidding” to which I replied ; “Well being as we’re just kidding here ‘bite me’”!
A short and fat, never in a million years, get a 13 foot Boston Whaler up on plane, guy once remarked to me than spandex bike shorts weren’t for “guys like us.” I simply grimaced rather than say “guys like freaking us you circus balloon mother humper?”
Knee and hip replacement guys have given me the names of their doctors and rehab facilities but I told them I don’t have those problems.
“Oh yea, than why are you limping”? a Ph D. friend who is a scientist retorted. “I have chronic jock itch”, I said, walking away, knowing he’d go home and tell his wife.
And now the heart guys who love me are on my tail with tales of silent blockages and suggestions of nuclear echo card stress tests and I told one friend “my doctor said it was contraindicated “and I was basically reassured that didn’t mean I wasn’t a walking time bomb who could blow up and combust without warning because I wrote about hot dogs and I was a big guy.
Grand mom Rose always said, “Life is not a game you can win and sometimes it is painful and depressing but tell me when is a hot dog not fun”? I paused to ponder as she snapped “Freaking never!”

http://msn.foxsports.com/nfl/pgStory?contentId=7748390&MSNHPHMA

I reflect and refract back to halftime of the 1999 Super bowl in Atlanta that I attended as a family member as my nephew Mike was on that Titans team that lost to the Rams by a yard. I sat behind the goalpost armed with a long lens to capture atmosphere.
Inside a crowded bathroom at halftime several fat middle aged white guys were jokingly telling a tall and well dressed black man that they should kick his ass just for the hell of it and the black man spoke in a British accent telling them he could take them all with one hand while the other---I’m about to make shit up here—anyway I looked and it was Lennox Lewis the Heavyweight Champion of the World-not to be confused with Ray Lewis the Ravens linebacker who was in an Atlanta jail on suspicion of murder and obstruction of justice.
I though of getting a picture of Lewis but quickly realized invading the privacy of the Champ with a long lens inside a bathroom could get my ass kicked quicker than Mike Tyson tearing up a gay bar. “I do not sound gay!”
The Super bowl is all about the power parties and personally I find it disgusting and over the top from Paris Hilton to Ray Lewis back out there partying and all those big titty actresses I never heard of strutting around like somebody did call the cows’ home.
We underlings call each other “playa” but were posers with no access and I think there should be one super day in America where none of us pay attention to anyone in sports and entertainment we just ignore their sorry asses and stop supporting bullshit.
Can you feel me playa? Don't forget to click on the link or copy and paste which you can do with one hand to see what you missed.

Dr. Freddogg