What makes your left eye twitch?

First installment

~

(Things that drive you crazy, insult your senses, or simply cause you intense pain.)

Let me show you what I mean.

Your wife screams, “MOUSE,” as she jumps up onto the bed. You’re her protector, her supreme protector, so you pick up the small brass trash bin and slam it down over the little guy. You put one foot on the trashcan, stare at your wife and pound your chest like King Kong.

“Take it out of the house, Honey. But, don’t hurt it. It’s so cute.”

Cute? You think that all undomesticated creatures carry life-threatening disease so decide to put on your cloth garden gloves. But first, you flip your bedside table upside down and balance it on top of the mouse dungeon. For good measure, you add a stack of books. And your size 13 UGG slippers.

You run back for the garage, gloves on hand, clear off the weights, then lift the wastebasket until the mouse makes his escape. As her Royal Defender, in one quick swipe, you capture the wild beast in one hand. You turn to show off for your wife who simply points one finger toward the back door. You make a run for it as you feel him squirm to free himself. You’re amazed at the strength of the tiny creature.

As you exit through the kitchen, he manages to free his head. You look at him. He looks at you. You look at him. He looks at you then winks. Is he smiling at me?

You spend far too long pondering about whether the mouse is smiling or sneering. During this National Geographic moment, his jaws open wide exposing pointy dagger like incisors that look too long for his body. He licks his lips then instantly chomps down on the tip of your forefinger.  How are those thin, cloth gloves working for you now?

You want to scream from the pain, but your wife follows you outside. “Don’t hurt him,” echoes through your brain. However, you are the Brave One, so you suppress the pain by slamming your left eye shut.

Thinking that just maybe a little shake will detach the carnivorous mouse, you stick your arm out and do a finger hokey pokey. It only ramps up the pain. You bend down and tap him against the back door stoop. “Don’t hurt him,” your wife demands. Is that a tear in her eye?

You want to scream, “Tell him that,” but hold back. You’re sporting the brass balls, remember? You have the chest hair. You still have some testosterone left, right?

At this point, the mouse decides he wants to taste what’s under the cotton glove and clamps down with a ferocity that gives you tunnel vision.

Feeling that you will soon black out from the excruciating pain, you slam the mouse against the corner of the concrete step while screaming, “Die you motherf@#^er,” over and over. You increase the volume of your screams in an attempt to drown out your wife’s. The little guy finally falls off and rolls down another step. His head is twisted around, but his eyes are still open. He looks so small and pathetic, but is it smiling at me?

Your wife slaps you on the back of your head and scolds you, “You killed him. What’s wrong with you,” then storms back into the house. You look at your wife with “I’m so sorry” eyes, which came easy as they still overflowed from torture tears.

With much satisfaction, you kick the pathetic corpse into the bushes. You’re still afraid to take your gloves off to access the damage. You can’t go inside until your left eye quits twitching. Wait, do mice carry rabies?

This mouse ain’t no vegan

Poplollies, huh?

Beware of the red one

Did you know that breast reduction surgery among men was on the rise? Seemingly due to a catastrophic outbreak of Gynecomastia. WTF? I researched the internet where all pertinent information is found and learned that gynecomastia means manboobs in Greek. I gotta learn me some Greek.

Breast reduction surgery among women has always been prevalent and the most frequent breast operation way ahead of boob enhancement. Pretty surprising. But I ponder… what happened to all that extra discarded boobage?

Is it tossed directly into the medical waste bin? Is it saved for cosmetic surgery…you know, tossed in a Osterizer then injected in someone else’s butt or lips?

Nope! It’s frozen, packed in sterile body part shaped containers and shipped to Washington D. C. Just look in the White House and the Congress. Crap, that tangent took me in the wrong direction.

But now I have to wonder, why manboobs, why chesticles, why moobies, why now? Once again I went to the internet where the greatest minds reside. Their extensive research shows the following factors are the cause of this insidious outbreak;

The Environment- You gotta know that everything we eat has some type of chemical, hormone, preservative, that find its way into our bodies. Those evil food producers are putting chemicals in our food that is designed to change men to women. No shit. Most of the injected chemicals have molecular structures very similar to female hormones. Additionally, cosmetics and plastics contain weird chemicals that are very similar to estrogens in their micro-structure. Every time you wash your hair, put on deodorant, or wipe your ass with scented TP, you are smearing estrogen all over your body or worse, your butt cheeks.

I believe that there could be a critical mass of estrogen that when reached will cause a sexual transformation in men. I based this premise on a little known theorem just found in Einstein’s early lost notes As you know, Einstein became famous for his equation E=mc² (mass-energy equivalence theory). But did you know that years earlier he had been working on another theory with the same mathematical statement, E=mc²? Check Snopes.

The letters had nothing to do with quantum physics. Back in the 20s, he saw it coming. The young Albert; the visionary. In this instance;E=Estrogen, m=male, c=catamenia (the Latin word for menses). The equation states that if given too much (critical mass) estrogen, men will develop breasts and possible start to menstruate. He was a genius. But as physics started to interest him more he was unable to expand his male-female transformation theory which could have predicted what other female tissue/organs might develop on men. My predictions are that we will see those changes in San Francisco very soon.

Global Warming- Can you believe that global warming may have an effect on manly mammaries?  There seems to be evidence that the excessive heat and intense sun causes guybreasts to increase in cup size in addition to causing most of the rest of the world problems.

This could explain all the topless beaches in Europe and Australia. The women there cannot afford boob jobs so… Ah, what’s a little skin cancer?

Obesity. Being a fat guy is a double whammy if you’re worried about poplollies. Seems to me to be the least of your worries if you can no longer see your genitalia or your feet and a family of gerbils has moved into your cavernous navel. If you are lucky the extra fat does not deposit itself on the chest, as it often does. But most heavy weights are not lucky and their chesticles get larger and saggier as the poundage increases. More bad news; the more fat, the faster it stimulates the body’s production of estrogen, further spurring the growth of droopie moobie tissue.

Believe it or not there are big guys out there so mortified about their new sagging poplollies that they gain weight on purpose, thinking that a big belly might draw attention away from their breasts.

I see a capitalist opportunity here. As far as I know Maidenform® does not sell bras for men, but to increase their market share they should consider the development of the ‘Macho-bra.’ I can see it now, studded like Levis; pockets on the side to hold cigarettes, a knife or a can of beer. Proud guys would wear them on the outside of their shirts. Hey, I think I just started a new fad in men’s wear.

I can believe the above factors may contribute to gynecomastia, but I know what the root cause is. It’s been worming its way through society for a long time. Einstein saw it. I see it. I have named it;

Masculine Feminification (or MF for short)

This ongoing process was never deliberate, but a deceptive side effect of the desire of women wanting to more like men. And it’s happening right now as I write this. Hold it a second. I think I just had a hot flash. It’s insidious. It’s emasculating. You know, when I think about it, I wouldn’t mind losing my facial hair.

Let’s examine the evolution of MF, shall we.

If you thought all this started in the 70s, you’d be wrong. It all started with the first married man. His name was Fred Flintstone.

Not too much into hygiene, Fred had hair on his knuckles which he tended to drag in the mud when he walked. Well, until he married Wilma who kept yelling at him to stand up straight.

Immediately she insisted that he shave his face with a piece of sharp flint after using a desiccated pterodactyl rib cage to comb out the debris from his hair which he would save later for a midnight snack.

With no Ralph Lauren outlet nearby, boxers were not an option. In fact, skivvies were not an option. Wilma forced him to squat over a prickly pear cactus to remove all the dingleberries before climbing into the cave with her.

In his day, manliness meant hair and lots of it. Nose hair, ear hair, back hair, chest hair and eyebrows grew wild. Skilled hunters could use their eyebrows to catch small foul, even carry their newborn cave kids.

Fred hunted and killed stuff. Wilma dug up roots and harvested stuff and buried the garbage. This division of labor was strictly maintained for millennia.

Fred, although somewhat domesticated and very hairy, was your typical man until the 1970s when women’s liberation kicked in. Women wanted their men to be more like them: sensitive, nurturing, caring, gatherers rather than hunters.

So, over the next four decades, men started their touchy-feely journey into womanhood. The main focus was to get men to connect with their sensitive side, meaning their feminine side. They lined up for mani-pedis. They started watching movies on the Lifetime channel. They started caring about fashion. They took out the garbage. Ugh.

In the 21^st century, MF took a more intense twist. Women started to put pressure on their men to be ‘metro-sexual’ meaning that women wanted their men to look like a fully fashionable, well groomed gay guy, but continue to have the hots for her. Below are a few of the stand out features of a metro-man, if you can call them men:

1. He tweezes, plucks and sculpts his eyebrows, repudiating his natural, God given look. In fact, one of his most time consuming daily chores has become hair manipulation. A hairy chest used to be symbolic of a he-man. Now the freshly waxed chest has become emblematic of the she-man. Fred Flintstone would club him right now.

2. Another big time waster involves all the exfoliations, facial scrubs and moisturizers that have to be applied at just the right time and the correct order. Some of the more rabid she-men actually apply makeup. Eeeeewwwww.

3. Of course, he wastes more time learning useless facts, like wine vintages, wine pairings, and all things wine. But on a positive note, he learns to cook; a skill with some value. But once again, he wastes time learning about the minute details of the food he prepares (i.e., like which teat, on which cow, in which northern France farm produced the butter in his Beurre Blanc).

4. He owns more than 20 pairs of shoes, half a dozen pairs of sunglasses, just as many watches and the hard core metros carry a man-purse. He calls it, his murse. Forget Fred, I want to smack this guy. Gimme your club, Freddie.

5. He sees a stylist instead of a barber, because barbers don’t do highlights. And not the total lost cause, he prefers it when a woman styles his hair. There is still hope for him.

6. He is now getting lots of flirtatious attention. He is flattered and surprised how much comes from guys. He still believes that getting intimate with a man is pretty gross, but that last guy looked pretty cute. He starts to wonder about himself. Maybe he is a lost cause.

What can a guy do? The environment is pretty hard to change, but there are things that he could do to minimize the Estrogen invasion. I have listed below the most effective “Estrogen Blockers.”

Lose weight and stay thin.

1. Quit griping, crying and whining.
2. Take off your pinky rings.
3. For God’s sake, throw away your murse or cut your balls off. Choose one fast.
4. Cut off your pony tail. Donate it if it’s not too ratty.
5. Use only unscented TP.
6. Eat, drink or inhale Horny Goat Weed. Every goat cannot be wrong.
7. And finally…grow more hair. Lots of it.

Dickie Rant#1

There are some things that people do that drive me crazy. Not because they are stupid and make the person look stupid; no.  It’s those stupid things that could ultimately injure or kill people, including themselves, that really bugs me. The rant starts …now.

Do you know what the above sign means? Do you know what the word means? If you do not, you should not be driving. Some of you think you do…but…

I bet half of you do not, you frickin’ dolts. Or you chose not to abide by its meaning. Or you think it’s only for the other guy; not you, you selfish twit. Do you know how many people are injured by ignoring that little yellow triangular ‘YIELD’ sign? You don’t give a shit, do you? Could the word have too many letters for you? Have you worked your way up to five letter words yet? No? Still stuck on four letter words? So why pay attention to a ‘YIELD’ sign? It’s just a small yellow sign.

Let me tell you why. First put your phone down. This rant is directed toward all the losers out here that see the sign and blow right through it, like the idiot in the blue SUV this morning that almost ran me off the road.

Now I wouldn’t expect someone from Somalia to understand the sign. They don’t have a written language. Although, I would expect a Somalian to be driving without a license.  I’ll cut them some slack. Last I knew though, those that speak English (and Espanol) have a written language which may still be taught in school. Or maybe it has been replaced with more important classes like “The Deadly Effects of Global Warming” or “Green Energy” studies.

Read the next sentence slowly…without drooling. Yield means give way, to watch out for a car coming up on your left (you know, the guy that has the right of way by law). Notice, that ‘give way’ are shorter words. Only four letters or less.

Why do they put that pesky sign in your way? There has to be some purpose. Listen up, idiot; there is reason; a big safety reason. When two cars are travelling in the same direction, but in two different lane approaching an intersection where they both must merge into the same lane, that’s where the guy on the right must give way to the guy on the left.  (Wait! Is the word ‘merge’ too long and complicated for you? Merging is the same as hooking up. Got it now?).

In other words, if you are the car on the right, you must allow the car on their left to enter the lane in front of you. You must not cut in front forcing him to slow just because you can. Those of you with at least a half a brain might ask, after putting their tongues back in their mouths, “But Dickie, why does the guy on the right have to let the car on the left get in front? Did the traffic control gods use a coin toss to determine that or what?”

Or what? Here is the best way to explain why. An IQ of only 55 is required to understand this explanation. Other than a very low IQ, this demonstration requires three things; 1) you, 2) a car, 3) your fat mother-in-law (Note; any fat annoying person with wild hair will work here).

Step 1- Put your lazy butt in the driver’s seat. The seat behind the wheel. In front.

Step 2-Put your fat headed mother-in-law in the passenger seat. Next to you.

Step 3A- This is the first part of the test. But first I must caution you. You shouldn’t be driving when you take this test. Leave the keys in your pocket. Now look out your driver’s window. That would be the one on your left. The window closest to you, jeez. Look at the nice view. Very clear. Nothing in your way, right?  Feel free to take notes here.

Step 3B- This is the second part of the test. Now, look out the passenger window. The other window. What do you see now? For one thing; a big fat yapping head that won’t shut up. A head rest covered in hair spray. Your mother-in-law’s dog jumping up against the window. Those runny nose prints are so cute? Compare the visibility of the two windows. This requires you to rotate your head; left to right, etc. Which window can you see out the best? Confused? Have another cheap beer purchased with your food stamps and try this again.

It must be obvious at this point. You can see out your left window with fewer obstructions (shit in your way).

So when two cars are side by side, the driver on the right has the best view of the car on the left. Therefore, he must yield…sorry…give way. It’s all about safety.

Let’s use a real life example. Those with IQs below 55 should relate.

First, slap some water on your face. This may save your life.

Suppose your 300 pound mother-in-law calls you to take here to the hairdresser. Turns out she survived the tornado that ravaged her town, dammit. Although the category five tornado destroyed her town, it was unable to lift her fat ass off the ground. It did, however, make a complete mess of her ‘do.

So after you wedge her into the front seat of your royal blue Smart car, with the gentle help of the jaws-of-life, you speed off hoping to minimize face-to-fat-face time.

Meanwhile, your best buddy, Hector, flies out of the car lot in the largest available black Hummer that he scored after his most lucrative drug deal. He’s extremely happy, giddy, and stoned. Oh, and he’s heading your way.

You’re doin’ 65 with the radio blaring. Unfortunately the tiny speakers are not loud enough to block out what sounds like walrus mating calls next to you. You are coming off the exit about to merge into the lane on your right, the lane that barely accommodates Hector’s monstrously wide vehicle. His stereo is so loud his chest is vibrating from speakers are as big as your house. He’s also on cruise control set at 85. And he’s on the phone setting up another deal.

But you have no concerns. You’ve merged into that intersection many times. No biggie. As you approach the junction point, cautiously you look to your right but see nothing but double chins, sagging boobage and frizzy dyed hair. You think, “Okay, the other guy has to yield, right?” and you speed on.

Hector’s feeling supreme in his 8500 pound tank. He sees the yield sign and wonders, “WTF do dat mean?” and flies right through barely noticing a small blue thing beneath his left bumper. He giggles as he feels a slight jolt when the small blue thing disappears up into his wheel well. But then gets pissed off because he dropped his new iPhone 6.

When Hector gets home, he’s really pissed because he had to buff out a couple blue paint smears.

When you enter heaven, hand-in-hand with your mother-in-law you scream because you know that you are in hell.

Maybe if the sign was designed like the one below, Hector may have not squished you like a gnat. No, probably not.

I gotta go, but that bad?

You had a great night. The wake exceeded your expectations. Even got a phone number from an attractive widow.

But as you look at your watch you realize that you have to split immediately in order to catch the season finale of Dexter. Someone was going to die a horribly bloody death. SWEET.

As you take off you promise the bleached blond cutie that you will call. What more can you do? Confident that you can handle the beer buzz, you strap yourself in, crank on the key and speed off.

You take a shortcut through the seedy side of Seattle to save time. Your new Land Rover rebels; the red engine light flashes on. You are sympathetic and scream.

“Don’t you dare crap on me now, you eighty thousand dollar piece of shit.” Rule of thumb; never call a fully loaded Land Rover a ‘piece of shit.’

She quickly backfires a throaty, “Fooock yoooooh,” and rolls to a stop, then all the lights fail.

After you blurt every curse word you know at 100 decibels (the windows almost fracture), karate chop the fine leather seats with both elbows and pound on the heated steering wheel with your fists, you regain your composure and call AAA.

While you listen to the sleepy AAA operator explain that they will rush out in two hours, your bowels rumble, twisting you into a human unsalted soft pretzel.

Now in the fetal position on the driver’s seat, you reprimand yourself for going for the cheap beer and bean nacho basket. But you have more pressing issues. You are stranded in the dark, in a bad neighborhood and you have no idea where the nearest restroom is located.

You imagination gets the best of you while you try to sit up.

You can feel the half case of Hamm’s still fermenting, feel the CO₂ expanding your guts. You can see a potential brown eruption equaled only by Mount St. Helens, it pyroclastic flow wiping out a hundred mile radius. You look up pyroclastic flow on your iPhone®. Yikes! Just as you thought. ‘A lumpy fluid type of downhill massive wasting.’ That visual torques you into a tighter ball.

You need a restroom fast. Evacuating your bowels on the street is not an option; no toilet paper. Rolling out of your car is the only option and, damn, the seat is so far above the pavement. You now wished that you had bought the new 360Z. Fortunately for you, the pain in your shoulder masks the cramping pain and you are able to stand up.

You kick the front tire for good measure. Now your ankle hurts and it’s angled funny. You can still walk, but with a limp. Hallelujah, there are lights. It’s only 1:30 a.m. Must be a bar. State law demands that all bars have restrooms, right. Gotta move.

Snaking your way through the dark streets, listening to moans and what you think are gun shots, you pucker your butt cheeks and start jogging. You wonder what will blow out first; your damaged ankle or high pressure bowels. The night’s not looking so good any more, nor is the blonde. But there’s a bright red neon “BAR” sign just up the street. You think you can make it.

You finally hobble into the musky bar and like a blood hound on the prowl, sniff out the Men’s Room.  It’s very dark inside. You see only men, two of whom seem to like your bent over posture. You ignore them and head to the bathroom. There’s a handwritten sign on the door. “KNOCK FIST”

Did the sign contain a typo? Or were you in a tough gay bar? You do not care at this point. No one would touch you in your condition. The ensuing explosion would be a big turn off to all but the weirdest of the weird.

You knock loudly, three times.

You hear nothing so charge in.

But…there’s a guy the size of Lou Ferrigno, and just as muscular, sitting on your throne with his pants down around his ankles.

He looks up at you.

He smiles a very big smile.

He says, “I’ll be done in a second. Hang tight.”

What do you do?

There are 24 hours in a day. Get busy!

Another brilliant example of How to Make It as a Pathetically Weak Manager (PWM)

How do you know that you are a PWM?

Easy. Are you most effective when you stay home?

Side note- It helps to be tall if you are a PWM. This way, you get to look down at people all day.

One more side note- I heard that you can get leg extensions in China. They honor AAA.

Does the following seem to happen to you?

Your projects are never on time. Your people never seem to get it right. What’s going on? When the rubber meets the road you are forced to blame someone. In order to deflect personal blame, you need a fall guy and a good excuse. This is where I come in.

Your busiest person usually works best for the blamee. But sometimes a better choice is an employee that will give you the least amount of blow back. Heaven forbid that your pigeon uses logic and reason against you. How uncomfortable would that be?

But to save your ass, the blame game is a must. What can your peons do anyway? They are at your disposal. In our new socialized economy, no one can afford to quit and job hunting is near impossible. You got them by the balls. In fact, I would recommend that you keep two racquetballs in their office and squeeze them when talking to your gophers. It helps maintain flexibility in your hands, too.

After you chose the candidate to blame, this guide is designed to give you, the PWM, the perfectly irrefutable reason and the tools to use it most effectively and what I mean by that is most painfully. Making a peon squirm or cry releases endorphins into your brain, releasing stress, thus extending your life.

As you know, ‘On time’ can mean many things. Unfortunately, you, as PWM, are responsible for ensuring that projects meet schedule, regardless who set the schedule. And dammit, wouldn’t you know it that your boss is pressing you to meet schedule, the prick. One of my next installments will supply workable excuses for why your schedule always slips. Standby.

So are you ready for the best reason ever for why your chump made you late? TIME MANAGEMENT! Now you DO NOT want to use those exact terms. A smart toiler will often respond, “Time Management? Aren’t you the manager? Aren’t you supposed to be managing me?” You have to avoid such a confrontation. You do not want the truth. Way too hard to argue away. Use the term TIME DILIGENCE. I mean, you are not a dillinger, for God’s sake. Although dillinger does sound pretty cool. Do I get to carry a machine gun? I know many managers would carry one if they were allowed. I can hear it now, “Get busy or I’ll fill ya fulla holes.” What a motivational tool. Did I digress again?

So you now have to internalize the fact that your people just do not know how to spend their time efficiently between endless meetings. Hey, you give them almost an hour a day between those meetings to get their jobs done…and there are 24 hours in a day.  A person fearful of keeping their job should not hesitate to put in more hours. You know if they put in 20 hour days, that they would easily meet schedule, but the selfish minions want to be home with their families. See now how it’s really their fault.

So by using the time diligence ploy a PWM can successfully push back their responsibilities onto their minions. A PWM’s goal should always be to push back all their responsibilities.  During this ‘pushing back’ process, you can call it ‘delegating’ or ‘engaging the team.’ This will allow you to play more golf. Ten bucks says your boss is a near scratch golfer.

Not convinced yet? Then learn this chant, “It is never my fault. I am great. I am all knowing. My people are here to do my bidding. It is never my fault.” Repeat until your tongue dries out. Many managers already have this secret chant memorized. The really, really weak ones have it written down on a card hidden behind their driver’s license.

Once all your responsibilities have been successfully transferred, you can then focus on getting the job done by commanding, “Get it done.” Now you can sit back because just by saying “Get it done,” that “it” will happen. And the more you say “Get it done,” the faster “it” will happen. This management skill is priceless. Genius. It helps to scowl now and then when you say it.

Sorry, I could not hold that priceless tip back. So on to the time issue. Let’s suppose your boss starts to get pressure from above him. Pressure, like shit, flows downhill. You must blame someone fast. Follow the steps below to relieve yourself of all blame and get endorphins pumping through your brain:

Step 1. Call the patsy into your office that will give you the least amount of flak or the one that may break down into tears.

Step 2. Just after they sit, wait for them to get comfortable, then ask them to close the door.

Step 3. After they sit back down stare at them with a neutral face. Watch them for any nervous ticks or eye moisture. Try not to blink during this step. Buy the Nicolas Cage blinking video is necessary.

Step 4. In a loud voice meant to startle, ask them, “Do you know why you are here?” and watch them scramble for thoughts. It’s fun. At this point they know they are in deep shit and may confess to something that you can use against them later. Break out your note book. Open to the page that has a folded PINK piece of paper inside.

Step 5. Remove the pink sheet, leaving it folded. Set it down between the two of you and tap it lovingly before you bring your hand back.

Step 6. Observe your sap’s eyes scanning the mysterious pink paper.

Step 7. Start the interrogation. Note this will go better if you have a light in your office that blinks at random or even some white noise. Start by unloading the sad facts. “It has been brought to my attention that your Blankity-Blank project is quite late. This was news to me. What can we do about this?” The use of the term “WE” shows that you’re part of the team. You sneaky bastard.

Step 8. Listen to all his lame excuses. Nod your head like you care. When something strikes your fancy, put your hand back on the pink paper. If he keeps babbling, interrupt him to tell him that he has a TIME DILIGENCE issue. You may have to explain the term. And for Pete’s sake, avoid the word management.

Step 9. Ask him what you think he can do about it. Remember you transferred all your responsibilities. It’s up to the schmuck now.

Step 10. If the sucker does not agree to work longer hours, pick up the pink paper and suggest it yourself. While swishing it through the air, demand 14 hour das and work your way down if necessary, but not below 12 hours.  C’mon, you are giving away a full half day for him to enjoy with his family.

Step 11. As the doormat surrenders half his life to you, give him something back. Show him that you value him. Rip up the phony piece of pink paper. Let the tiny pieces slowly fall into your trash can.

Sit back. Breathe in the power. Feel the energy flow.

Win-win.

Arachibutyrophobia scares the bejeezus outta me.

GAG REFLEX TEST

Have you ever imagined that a gob of peanut butter could kill you?

I have. My throat tightens up, just thinking about it.

People have told me that I miss out not enjoying a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Seems like everybody I know eats them. Growing up, I think my sisters ate at least one every day. Just to drive me out of the kitchen. I think they liked them only because I hated them.

First, you have to know that I had a wonderful childhood. Thinking back, my only trauma was finding itty-bitty peanut butter turds in MY jelly.

As much as I complained to my mom, she’d answer the same way, “Work it out with your sisters.” Did hear her say, “Work it out ON your sisters?”  I think so.

The first thought that went through my mind was…Torture. I knew not to draw blood or leave bruises. Any telling evidence would doom me. Mental torture would have be my get-even weapon, but first, I’d have to try diplomacy. I’d play nice-nice. I mean, they were flesh and blood, although I often wondered about Dale.

To my detriment and subsequent pain, my sisters had learned my evil ways and used them against me. Their fast learning kept pushing me to seek higher levels of sneakiness. Just so you do go off thinking that I’m the bad guy here, let me describe one of the moves that Dale would use on me. Then you tell me if it was a nice thing to do to a sweet, loving brother.

After making her PB&J sandwich, very often, my sister, Dale, would leave the soiled table knife out on the counter top coated with an amalgam of peanut-and-jelly goo. Our yellow Formica counter tops highlighted every little, smudge, spot, dot, glob of peanutty sludge. Oh. I forgot to tell you that I have a thing about stickiness. Drives me crazy.

Strangely, I love peanuts, but this roadside bomb activated my gag reflex—in a bad way. I am pretty sure that al-Qaida got their ideas for IEDs from Dale; she was that sneaky and deadly. I’d have to hold my breath when I went past to rummage through the fridge.

Using logic and calm reasoning, I presented my case to the highest court, Mom. Got me nowhere. Only my baby sister had that privilege. She did need protection; she was too small to beat up, but too big to fit in the washing machine.

I tried to be nice and pleaded with them to spread the jelly first, thus not cross-contaminating the peanut butter. What was the big deal? How hard could that be? That wasn’t the way to make a PB&J sandwich, they told me. Everybody knows that the peanut butter won’t stick to a knife with jelly on it, stupid.

Very quickly, I realized that any jar of jelly in our kitchen could be infiltrated with peanut butter. Even at friends home, I had to stay away. Maybe my imagination got the better of me, but here is what I saw happening if I used the contaminated jelly or what I called jelly from hell or just plain helly.

1. In a weak moment, I grab the grape jelly (my favorite), inspect it very carefully, approve it, then spread it on my toast.
2.  But unbeknown to me, hidden deep inside the shiny purple jiggly lumps, a slew of tiny globules of peanut butter hide out—waiting. These microscopic mini-coagulums can only be seen by an electron microscope.
3. So these millions of tiny carriers of death stay hidden until I start to wolf them down. They are very clever that way.
4. During the chewing process, the infinitesimal bits come out of hiding and attach themselves to the roof of my mouth. They have lots of time because my mom taught me that you must chew food at least 28 times before you swallow. You must listen to your mother.
5. When their numbers reach a critical mass, I mean like a billion of the little buggers, an insidious transformation takes place. Remember that scene in Terminator 2 where the assassin composed of a “mimetic poly-alloy”,that silvery liquid metal, and how he breaks apart when frozen with liquid nitrogen? Then how he reformed when he warmed up. And how pissed off he was then? I think I’m gonna gag.
6. I affectionately assign the name Okra (because I really hate Okra and all the slime it came in on),  to the jillions of peanut butter curds that form a murderous, single minded blob. Slowly, Okra  snakes its way back along my palette as I desperately try to scrape it off with my tongue.
7. Cleverly, Okra sacrifices some of its own to distract me while grossing me out simultaneously.
8. You know that little thingy back there, hanging from your throat entrance? You’re not sure what it’s for. That’s fleshy dangly thing is your uvula. Some think that it’s there to tell you when to stop pushing in your fork. I believe that it’s an on/off switch for your puke reflex. Well, Okra heads straight for that switch.
9. Once Okra has squirmed its way within an inch of my uvula, it shoots out two stretchy tendrils that stick to it like a frog’s tongue, then it flattens and wraps itself around it.
10. Okra, in its entirety, then mounts my uvula, partially obstruction my trachea. It starts to tug on it in an attempt to rip it off my palette. Fortunately, I was born with a tough uvula.
11. Breathing becomes difficult and I can still taste the peanut butter.
12. The impulse to puke is winning out.
13. Desperate to breathe again, I run to the mirror and open my mouth wide. Okra’s smiling back at me.
14. I watch in horror as Okra shoots tendrils down my throat.
15. My breathing is cut to mini-wheeze. I have to look away.
16. In full out panic I look for something to dislodge the beast.
17. Then I spot the toilet plunger.
18. Will the handle reach?
19. Then my engineering mind kicks in.
20. I turn the plunger around, put the open end over my mouth, and push and pull frantically, hoping no organs get dislodged in the process. I swear I can feel my lungs banging into my diaphragm.
21. Everything goes black.
22. I pass out. On my way out, I see THE LIGHT. I’m sure that I am dead. Would my sisters miss me? Would they still keep eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?
23. Hours later, I wake up in the bathroom, the plunger next to me. It is covered with what looks like baby shit.
24. Very cautiously, I smell it.
25. It’s Peanut butter.

Some would say that this food fear is extreme, irrational, maybe even debilitating.

Maybe.

Surely there are some of you out there that have similar food fears. Right?

Welcome to my writing class...................... from Hell.

My name is Dick—for real. The rest of the real names have been changed. They had to be. The following story describes my last writing class, most of which I skipped. I had to.

The class took place at our local book store. The new book smell tickled my nose as I entered. I love that smell. I want to grind up new books and make a nasal spray from them. The book shelves, filled with fat, fragrant reference books, surrounded me. An old wooden table took precedence in the center of the room. None of the ten chairs around the oblong table matched and few were designed for long term comfort. I moved a straight back Hitchcock, the least painful option, to one end, next to where our instructor, a local author named, Eliza, would soon sit.  I sat patiently as the other students walked past the ceiling-high book shelves and joined me. Sauntering in last, a thin, old guy entered with his half glasses perched on his fleshy nose. He sat at the far end; his chair cocked back, arms folded. I did not know it yet, but things were about to get dicey.

The nervous silence ended when Eliza arrived, arms full of books, face beaming with kindness. Before she could drop her pile of books, Mr. Half-Glasses blurted, “Hey! What’s this class about? I wanna know if I’m gonna learn anything?”

“Excuse me,” Eliza answered sweetly, ignoring his impertinence, “we’ll get to that soon enough.” She then addressed the group, “But first, welcome, everyone. I see lots of new faces and one old one. Welcome back, Dick. I like your curly hair now, and those black rectangular glasses make you look like an author I know. The class should get a kick out of your stories.” Pushing her shoulder length, blonde hair behind her ears, she went on to briefly discuss her qualifications and publishing prowess almost like it embarrassed her. “Now, I would like everyone to introduce themselves and tell us why you’re here and what you’d like to get from this class? Why don’t you start us off, Dick?”

“I’m writing my memoir about my crazy experiences in the Navy during the Sixties. The first draft is done, now I’m editing and rewriting. I’m here to learn and get feedback. I have fun stories. It’s just the writing. I want to make it better.”

“Thanks, Dick… and you are?” Just after I sat down earlier, the guy next to me walked in like his knees were ready to explode. His high water, khaki pants exposed his sockless, tasseled, Gucci loafers. He had dyed blonde, Donald Trump hair, the comb over a blatant eyesore. He worked way to had to look cool and I am sure he had his SLK-Class Bariatric Rollator Walker valet parked.  Refusing to wear his glasses, he kept close by tucked in the monogrammed pocket of his starched white shirt.

“My royal agnomen is Regis Sterling. My ancestry can be traced back to Adam and Eve. Since my family came over on the Mayflower, oh, and you must know that my ancestors built the ship, I have hobnobbed with this country’s aristocracy most weekends. The DAR was established by my great-great-great-great-great- grandmother. Was that five or six greats? I want to make…”

“Excuse me, Regis, can you please tell us why you took this class?” Eliza interrupted. Regis looked annoyed and kept his right hand in the air almost like he was telling Eliza to ‘Talk to the hand.’ Those liver spots he was waving around were huge and as thick as chocolate NECCO® Wafers. One hung like Florida, panhandle and all. I used to love NECCO® Wafers.

“Of course, if I have to. You see, I own my own very successful financial firm where I’m in command of…”

“So why this class?” Eliza interrupted again, her bright face forcing a smile.

“Hmmmf. Like I was saying…with such a famous family, I reckoned that a prominent historian would write volumes, but to date…”

“So you want to be your family’s historian?” Eliza cut in again in her usual sweet manner, the smile a little harder to produce.

“I guess I must. I am hoping to improve my craft. Don’t get me wrong; I am a good writer. My hopes are that this class will make me even better if that’s possible. Even though I am eighty-nine, I need new challenges. You have to know that I am proficient in various forms of the arts: photography, painting, sculpture…”

“Okay, okay, thank you Regis.” Elize hesitated and gazed toward the next man, the impatient one. “Now I hope we can answer your concerns, sir. Can you please introdu…”

“My name is Sevelle.” His tousled gray hair fit the ornery face. He sat back casually, then spoke, staring at Eliza over his glasses.

“Do you hear the pronunciation? The accent’s on the first syllable and it is spelled with three Es. Please get it right. Everyone else in the country, maybe the world, has only two Es in the rendition of their names. As far as my research has shown, I am the only person with my name spelled that precise way. I have hired investigators to support my claims if you’d like to see the reports. I go by no nicknames so do not even try calling me anything except Sevelle. Is that fully understood?”

I flipped him the bird under the table. Wiggled it around a few times. Made me feel better.

“So you are here, because…?” Eliza said tentatively, working hard to remain civil. Regis had taken way too much time and continued to mumble something under his breath about Moses or Jesus. Probably knew them personally.

“I’m not really sure why I’m here. I’m already a novelist,” Sevelle said, a look of obvious disdain on his face. Leaning further back in his chair, he continued, “In fact, I have written several novels, mostly romance novels. The specialty in my novels lies in describing the female orgasm. No one does it better. I have had women tell me that my descriptions are G-spot on.” He snickered to himself while he waited for us to appreciate the witty word play. One person did—a little too much.

Imagine the face of an grizzled Goth girl seeing Satan for the first time—in her bedroom. That was Dr. Vivian, one of the two women in class. She had started making her dinner, shaking the oil and vinegar and slicing a tomato during the soliloquy of Moses’ friend.  She lost control of her plastic ware when the word orgasm knocked on her eardrums.

“So you hope this…?” Eliza tried to ask, sliding an oily fork back to the Dr.

“I’m not sure. Maybe I shouldn’t be here. You know I am a novelist.”  He pushed his glasses up his nose and that was that.

“Okay, thanks Sevelle. And your name is?” Eliza said then took a deep breath. Probably some kind of prayer. The next guy looked like a black lumberjack, his bright green turtle neck sticking out of his woolen, red Pendelton. This poor guy shifted in his seat, putting the notebook and pens back in their valise at least three times, he was so nervous. Of course, who wouldn’t be, following the two most accomplished people on planet Earth?

“Hi, I’m Ed. Ah, I’ve just retired from the fire department and, ah, I thought writing would be fun. I want to get good enough to write essays to help Smokey the Bear.” Ed answered, pushing his fingers through his salt and pepper Afro-textured hair.

“Smo…,” Eliza let the word slip sounding like a question.

“Don’t ya know, hardly anyone pays attention to him anymore. Have you seen all those forest fires? I mean someone has to do somethin’.”

After a long pause, Eliza said, “Okay, good. I’m looking forward to reading your first essay. Thanks, Ed,” Her gaze then went next to the first woman in class who looked like a ready student in her pink polo shirt and lime green Capris. She kept straightening her note book, not out of nervousness, but compulsion. She lined up everything by placing her left eye on the table first. Her shoulder length blonde hair and clear skin made for an attractive combo. I had high hopes.

“I’m Wanda, and I started writing when I was two. I’ve been working on an amazing story for forty years. Ah, since I was two. I guess that makes me forty-two. That’s funny. But my story must be told. What was I saying? Oh, yeah, it’s about a woman that is kidnapped but doesn’t know it. She is stranded on a deserted island or locked in a warehouse. Her savior may be her captor. She may not be sure that she is a woman either. Still working on that angle. Not sure where it is going but it has the makings of a classic. I haven’t worked on it for several years…”

“So you want us to review your writing?” Eliza asked, her head faintly shaking because the evil writing gods handed her one more eccentric.

“If I can get back to it or even find it. With all my kids, there’s not much time. I’ll try to find it, I think the journals are in the attic or basement or my parents house or…”

With a slight eye roll Eliza had to interrupt one more time, “Please bring them in when you find them. Thanks, Wanda. Now, last, but not the least.”

This last person was still grinning from Sevelle’s unique writing skill. She had a revealing purple, silk blouse matching the highlights in her dark, short, spiky hair. Her makeup made her look like a horny, long in the tooth, vampire.

“Definitely not the least. I would say the most! They call me Dr. Vivian. Well, after my divorce they called me that. So after I kicked his useless ass outta my house I decided to get my PhD. In record time, I produced an award winning dissertation, all twenty thousand pages of it. I plan on producing a bestselling book series from it and a TV series.”

I swore I just saw Eliza pop a Valium, maybe two. She took a deep breath and interrupted one more time, “And what do you expect of this class?”

“I want nothing but accolades, of course. I demand that everyone tell me how great my writing is. No criticism, please. Don’t want it. Don’t need it.” She stared at each one of us while eating her salad. Dark balsamic vinegar ran from the corner of her mouth. With one dramatic tongue motion, it disappeared.

Eliza had to interject, “I have worked in writer’s workshops where there was only support and no criticism, but those tended not to produce…”

After shoving in a mouthful of baby spinach, it was Dr. Vivian’s turn to interrupt, “Don’t care. Just want you all to tell me how great I am.”

“You paid three hundred dollars to have us do that?” Eliza said, losing it with the doctor, her tone a bit edgy.

“Oh yeah. I’d pay lots more. Oh, oh, did I tell everyone my three favorite things? I’m gonna write all about ‘em.”

“Ahh…” Eliza just squeezed in; slightly scared, but curious.

“Sex, food, and writing. In that order.”

I swore I saw a huge thought bubble pop out of Eliza’s head with only three vibrating letters, ‘OMG.’ Then Sevelle’s glasses fell off and hit the floor.

“I plan on writing a series of sex manuals. You should see my sex library. Then I will write about food. Sex and food. They go together very well.” She took a short break to push in another mouthful of dripping salad. “In fact, after class, I would like to take all of you out for a juicy steak then have sex. Of course, we could skip the steak.” Except for Sevelle, now on hands and knees searching for his glasses, the entire class dropped their jaws to the floor.

Eliza, thankful that she didn’t ask the doctor about her dissertation, pushed her eyes back in her head, then said, “Well, on that note I see we have just enough time for our first exercise. Everyone, please write a couple paragraphs about your name. In ten minutes we’ll take turns reading.”

“I’ve traced my name back to the Pharaoh’s. Ten minutes is surely not enough time to write about my name,” Regis blurted out. He sat back and pouted.

“Well, no one has my name. I am already a novelist. I’m outta here.” Just then I realized that selfish prayers are sometimes answered.  Bye, bye.

“What can I say about Ed?” He wrote ‘Ed’ with a question mark in the center of his paper and stared at it.

“You mean, my name?” Wanda asked, looking very confused, but darned cute.

“I think my name means ‘sex’ in Swahili. Ooh, I think I just had an orgasm, too, oooh,” Dr. Vivian said, shivering with excitement.

Eliza fell off her chair and on her way to the floor shouted, “Class dismissed.”

I love tall women, but............

It’s a horrible cliché but I walked into a bar. I chickened out and needed some courage. I read somewhere that a little lubrication prior to a first time stand-up performance could relax me, maybe help the nerve wracking situation. I wasn’t sure where my car led me through Hartford, but the flashing sign said, “Drink Here, food two.” I needed to understand that sign, at least.

It looked like a dive, but I could smell stale beer as soon as the door swung open. What a break! It was Happy Hour. Cold wings and chips were the only decorations on the bar. Hope the beer’s cold, too.

A bored barkeep clunked down a Bud in one hand and a heavy mug in the other. I drank from the bottle since the mug didn’t look frosted from a deep chill. But the beer was cold. I closed my eyes to enjoy the frigid flow down my throat, but at the third gulp I heard the door slam open.

Spilling my beer as I spun my head around, I saw no one, but heard a scream, “Give me a frickin’ beer. And make it cold, dammit.”

I thought that this guy had to be huge or stupid to be making such demands in this neighborhood, but I still couldn’t see him.

“Down here, four eyes. I’m talking to you.”

I stared at the red mushroom stool next to me. There in the center was the tiniest guy I ever saw.

This little prick is not going to intimidate me. “I’m not buying you a beer, shorty.” That showed him.

“Hey, scumbag, does it look like I carry cash?”

He had a point, but had no pants. He lacked something else as well.

“So, money bags, are you gonna buy me a beer or do I have to get funky on your ass?”

This guy must have a death wish. Normally, I’m not a violent guy, but I could smash this guy with one hand tied behind my back. Maybe both hands. But my curiosity was getting the best of me.

“Okay, I’ll buy you a beer. You just havta tell me one thing first. How in the hell are you talking to me without a head?”

“You’re no entomologist, are you, Mr. Braindead?”

“No beer until you tell me what happened to you.”

“GASP! GASP! Can’t talk without beer, slime ball.”

“Jeez, you’re pushy. What’s your swill?” I could smash him later.

“Jeez, you’re a moron. Does it look like it matters? I have no frickin’ taste buds.”

Then I wondered how in the hell he was talking to me without a head, but thought better about asking. Maybe I should simply squash him now. No. Gotta hear his story.

“What are you waiting for, an instruction manual? Pour it in. Man, you’re one lame retard.”

I moved my hand over to squish him, but noticed that he was pointing one of his front legs toward his open ended neck. Four of his other legs firmly gripped the worn Naugahyde® surface. Wasting no time I poured half my beer over the little guy.

As the flood of beer washed over him, he started to wiggle his shoulders in obvious glee. It looked like he was doing the Macarena. I lifted my mug preserving half for me.

“Ahhhhhhh. More. More. More…” He did that pointing thing again but with the shoulder bob this time.

Beer dripped all around the edge of the stool, adding some character to the black, soiled floor. This time I poured very slowly until my beer was gone. So much for my needs.

“More. More. More.”

“Sorry, I’m empty. You want more. You tell me. Where’s your frickin’ head?”

He sat back on his haunches and rested his neck on his front legs. “Well, if you have to know. I am a fully mature male praying mantis. I have very strong sexual urges. Have you seen how big our women are? And they have a strange way of showing appreciation. Know what I mean?”

The below story is true. It happened a very long time ago when I had very little ear hair. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. It was excerpted from my upcoming book; It’s All Your Fault, The pitfalls and pratfalls of being a manager.

Gigantic Gin and Tonic

~

Yesterday, I presented my proposed process to over fifty managers; a revolutionary way to prepare nuclear fuel loaded elements before welding. When they heard me tell them how much cash could be saved on each reactor core, their eyes lit up. Their bonuses would balloon and I would get nothing. Well nothing except that I now had to give my presentation to Bettis Atomic Power Laboratory in Pittsburg the very next day.

My boss, Elroy, a tall and lanky guy, butted in while I made my flight arrangements with our secretary, Laurie. She was a feisty Puerto Rican, took no bullshit from anyone and she could back it up. She was petite, very cute, and had a sumptuous walk that demanded attention. She could also teach sailors a thing or two in the cursing department. That trait won me over during her initial interview. Someone that could use the F word more than me deserved the job.

“So Laurie, how ya doin’ today,” Elroy said caressing her shoulder.

“What the fuck do you want now?” she said dropping her shoulder, then sweeping his hand away. The touchy-feely thing grossed her out.

“Put me on Sluder’s flight, Okay?” he requested with a leering grin.

“Consider it done. Harrison’s flight arrives two hours later. You’ll have to pick him up, ya know.”

“Let him rot. Upgrade the car if you can. We need something cool.” He walked away after checking out Laurie one more time.

“Shit, I was hoping to do this alone. It was my discovery. Mine alone.”

“Tell you what. I’ll get him a seat near the back. You in the front. Fuck him.”

“You’re the best Lor. Can I adopt you?”

“Only if my husband comes with me,” she said with a cute giggle.

I headed back to my desk somewhat bummed about my travel companion. Before I left for the night Elroy hit me up for another favor. His good little bondservant should pick up his majesty in the morning and drive him the 55 miles to the airport. I could expense it, he told me. Of course, I would love to get up an extra hour early.

All the way to the airport and in the security checkout Elroy bragged about the greatest restaurant in Pittsburg; Froggies. It had the cutest waitresses, the best burgers, the best fries, and don’t forget the biggest gin-and-tonics on the planet. You could take a bath in them. His Jacuzzi was smaller. It was getting kind of freaky how much he loved those gin-and-tonics.

As we got on the plane I let him know that I didn’t like gin-and-tonics. You would have thought that I just shot his dog.

“Impossible. No one doesn’t like gin-and-tonics. Wait till you try these. You’ll love ‘em. Don’t make me drink alone. Just take a taste. You havta…”

As I sat in seat 4A, I said, hiding my smile, “Okay, I’ll try one. See ya when we get there.” I watched his royal gawkiness stroll back to the tail section with glee. For the forty minute flight I thought hard how I could prevent Elroy from stealing all the credit.

When we left Hertz in a new red Camaro IROC-Z, Elroy pointed its hood straight toward Froggies. Elroy was a kid again and I had shotgun. I felt a tad uneasy…er scared.

I had to admit, Froggies was pretty cool. The place rocked. There were no open tables. Leaning against the bar, I staked my claim as Elroy disappeared in the crowd. Minutes later he came back perky as hell.

“You won’t believe it. It’s two for one night. Here, these are yours.” OMG. I stared at two drinks, each in what looked like a glass ice bucket. “I had them use extra gin, heh, heh.”

The world needs to know that I’m an easy drunk. One shot of booze and it’s over. Each of these had to contain easily fifty shots. We had to meet Harrison later; the head honcho. Yikes!

Somehow Elroy suckered me into playing an electronic golf game that got more fun with each sip. At the 9^th hole, with only a third of my drink gone, I looked at my watch. Time to go. I could drink no more, but Elroy was licking the ice cubes on his second. As he eyeballed my untouched gin and tonic, I suggested, “Elroy, we better go. We’ll just make it.” There was no recognition in his eyes. “Harrison, remember?”

“Screw him. We leave when you finish your drinks.” That same previous look he had for Laurie, he now had for my gin and tonic.

I had a tough decision to make; drink up and most probably pass out OR give Elroy my drink and let him behind the wheel with me as crash dummy.

“Can you finish this?” It was the gin talking.

“Thought you’d never ask, thanks.” His large Adam ’s apple rocked up and down as he chugged the pail of gin. But he didn’t finish it. “C’mon we have nine holes to go. I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“But…”

“Putt.”

After he beat me by 20 strokes, I reluctantly climbed back into the car. I had him under close scrutiny and was surprised how well he drove. Oh, shit, the Fort Pitt Tunnel was approaching fast. The lanes were narrow, the curbs were high and part steel, the breakdown lanes nonexistent. A huge sign at the entrance shouted, “DO NOT STOP IN TUNNEL.”

As we entered, I crossed my fingers and started praying. He took the left lane. Stayed straight. Still straight. Damn, this tunnel is long. Then…

“Sluder, doesn’t Laurie have the nicest ass you’ve ever seen.” I could feel that he was looking at me—not the road. I refused to look at him, staring straight ahead. “Well, don’t you think so?” He still stared at me.

Starting to drift toward the tunnel wall, I yelled, “Elroy, watch the…” Too late.

SCREECH! BA-DOOM!

“Shit, what was that?” Now he looks ahead.

“You blew a tire.”

“I better stop.”

“Don’t fucking stop. Get through this tunnel. DO YOU WANT TO DIE?” I made my subtle point and guided him to a convenient turn off at the end of the tunnel. We both got out and stood staring at the flat, which wasn’t easy with the sun gone and only the dim tunnel lighting available.

Scratching his head, with a dazed and confused look on his face, my wonder boss asked, “Wadawedonow?” I can now file him into the pigeon hole labeled TOTALLY USELESS.

“Pop the trunk. Leave the door open. Watch for cars.” As I went back for the spare I saw that Elroy had taken the proper lookout position.

Replacing the tire went very fast. If only I had seen the razor wire edge that was cold formed on the mag wheel when it ground onto the steel edge of the tunnel curb. My left thumb, now sliced open, dripped with blood as I tightened the lug nuts. I dropped the car back on the road and tossed the jack in the trunk. “Let’s go.”

Elroy noticed me holding my bloody thumb and offered a hanky from his pocket. I rapped it tight, unconcerned as to where it might have been used figuring that I could deal with the subsequent infections later.

In ten more minutes we arrived to find Harrison waiting at the curb. A premier bean counter, he reminded us that we were 67.5 minutes late. His pissed of face quickly changed to one of concern when he saw my hand. He looked even more pissed when he looked back at Elroy who shrugged his shoulders as he explained the near collision and subsequent flat. The lie seemed to work but Harrison still looked pissed.

Elroy stood there like a little boy about to be punished with his shoulders shrugged and his head hung low. “Well, let’s get to the hotel,” Harrison commanded.

Surprisingly, Elroy never lost focus through the tunnel. I don’t think he even blinked. Once at the motel, he brought Harrison’s bag inside and reached for the pen to sign in. His hand, still a little jittery, dropped the pen. In an instant, he bowed low to retrieve the pen and stood as quickly, but something fell from his pocket.

With both ends tapered, a hand rolled joint now rested between Harrison’s feet.

He looked down.

I looked down.

I looked at Harrison.

He looked at me.

We both looked at Elroy, who very casually reached back and picked it up. He looked at us with a goofy look on his face and said, “Wadayasay we get something to eat. Meet you guys back her in thirty minutes.” He slipped the little joint back in his pocket like nothing happened and left. Harrison and I were dumbfounded. Saying nothing we headed to our rooms.

In a half hour I would be starving. I was very sure that Elroy would be too.

My wife hates scary movies. Especially ones where gorgeous women get chased, beaten up, killed, or their manicures smudged. So why did I insist that she sit with me to watch Jaws? Even though the evil shark is obviously a mechanical replica, the movie was so well done that it didn’t matter.

A more pressing problem developed when we packed for our vacation to Bermuda a week later. “You know I can’t go in the water now. I shouldn’t even pack my new bathing suit. You ruined our tenth anniversary vacation.”

There was nothing I could do. Are there worse hubbies? She had to make me suffer, continually reminding me of those pointed, flesh tearing, blood stained teeth. The ‘It was just a movie’ defense fell on deaf ears.

After we checked in to the most expensive hotel in Bermuda, my wife signed us up for a presentation on the island’s ocean life. I whined and complained, but relented hoping that she might accept the water as perfectly safe. I felt relieved when not one shark was mentioned. But then that lady from New York raised her hand, “Are there any sharks in Bermuda?” I could see her husband cringe along with mine. Ten bucks says he made her watch a shark movie, too. Idiot!

The perky moderator hesitated a few seconds then went on to say that Bermuda was home to over 300 species of sharks. But then emphasized that none were man eaters like Jaws. Ha ha, he was so funny.

My wife caught my ear and whispered, “That’s a lot of sharks.” My only hope was that there were plenty of people (aka, shark bait) in the water at our beach with tastier thighs.

Prior to going to our beach we took a cab to a three hundred year old pub. On the way over I took a peek at the driver’s license and asked crossing my fingers, “Tell me Benjamin, ever have experiences with sharks around here?”

I assumed that the Tourist Bureau had briefed him, but no, “Sharks around here can be a bit dodgy. Just last week one about ripped the oar right out of my hands. Took a big chunk out, he did.”

Why can’t I keep my big mouth shut? Maybe if I pour enough expensive champagne into my wife tonight, she might forget the whole thing. Worth a try. Oh, and remember roses, pink ones.

But then as we walked back through the hotel, the friendly concierge welcomed us back. My wife had to stop and ask, “Do you have sharks at your beach? Just curious.”

“Oh no, ma’am. There has never been shark attack at our beach. In fact, I’ve never heard of one in the whole of Bermuda. If you do snorkel and get pretty far out, you may be followed by barracuda. But don’t be scared, they won’t hurt you, but they do go after shiny things. Leave the jewelry in our safe. You must see our parrot fish. Just beautiful. If you need anything, just stop and see me, or ask for Renee if you don’t see me.” She pointed to her brass name plate, hanging precipitously from her ample left boob.

Well, maybe I’ll get away with the cheaper bubbly. “See Sweetie. There’s nothing to worry about.” Shiny things? My only jewelry is my wedding ring. That’s not shiny. No worries.

The next day early, I rented a moped and drove it around trying to get familiar with driving on the wrong side. On my drive, I passed an amazing beach, almost private, beautiful pink sand with black volcanic cones standing tall at over twenty feet, erupting out of the sand. The reefs stood out at about fifty feet from shore with another row even further out. Gentle waves and breezes prevailed. This was our beach.

After promising her a new BMW, she agreed to climb on the back of the moped, but perked up when we arrived at the beach. “You check it out, Honey. I’m gonna lay here and enjoy the sun.” Smart woman to use her hubby for shark chum.

The water temperature-85°F. The air temperature-85°F. Heaven. Clumsily, I duck walked in my flippers to waist deep water, slipped my mask on, then went under. The clear water had me searching in every direction for sharks. The sand appeared pinker underwater, then I looked around again. Can’t be too cautious.

Approaching the first reef, the parrot fish gleamed and shined. I hovered over a nest of pink corral, red lacy sponges and black sea urchins of every size. I tried to focus on the tiny multi-colored fish swimming in and out of corral pockets when a large shadow appeared next to me, way too close. In a blink all the fish vanished. The shadow remained.

I rotated my head until a large silvery image came into view. The concierge forgot to tell us how big barracudas get. Now I know why. Its jaw alone extended a foot past an espresso cup sized eye. Very slowly he opened and closed his pointed jaw, its teeth, at least three inches long, poking into deep sockets in the opposing jaw. How does he floss those deep holes?

His glassy eye stared right at me while a glint of light reflected off my mask from below. Peering down slowly I could see my wedding ring glowing like the Hope diamond. “They like shiny things.” Shit, was he eyeballing my left hand as an hors d’oeuvre?

Very slowly I covered the band with my right hand then slid it off pushing it into my swimsuit pocket. Unknown to me at the time, the moped key fell out as I struggled to lodge my ring deep into the pocket. It now lay 20 feet below me.

Now that I no longer shined, I backed away while concentrating on the large jaws. I needed a defensive plan if the big fish came after me. I had nothing. Would my wife miss me?

Then in a blink of an eye and a speedy tail swish he disappeared. Evidently, since I no longer sparkled, he lost interest. I searched some more and saw him about 100 feet away through the clear water. Why does the water have to be so clear? I calmly swam back to shore never noticing the Morse code flashes of light emanating from a brass key tag below me. Two seconds later a crab dragged it into its hole and tried to have sex with it. Typical guy.

Back on the beach, I told my waiting wife about the beauty at the reef. “Put on your mask. You’ll love it out there, Honey.”

“Where’s your wedding ring?” Oops.

“Oh, remember when the concierge said that barracuda like shiny things. It’s right here.” Like a big prize I pulled out my new wedding band. It was then I realized, “Shit!”

“Shit what, Sweety?”

“I lost the moped key.”

“Screwed is more like it. What are you going to do about it? We’re a long way from the hotel.”

You being the operative word, I stepped up to the plate. “I’ll run up and catch a bus back to the rental place. Be back soon. You just sit and enjoy the beach.”

“Please don’t be too long, the Bermuda sun is pretty intense.”

I kissed her goodbye and ran up the hill in my suit, boat shoes and tank top. Once on top I saw the bus coming around the bend and knew I needed to hustle. If I ran along the road, I’d never make it. Time to cut through the banana field. If only my lovely wife knew the sacrifice I was about to make.

With the first step, I sunk almost knee deep in rotted bananas and decaying banana leaves. This biological batter was wet, black and squishy. I lifted my feet as fast as possible, but gravity wasn’t helping. Then I felt a sharp pain on my right calf, barbed wire sharp. Not stopping, I looked down and saw a familiar creature. It was the miniature version of that huge monster that swallowed Will Smith in Men In Black and it was rearing its head back for another bite.

I tried to smack it off, but it blocked my hand with three of its hind legs. I quickly responded by running toward a thick banana trunk. Kicking hard, I jammed him between the crusty green bark and my shin bone. That did it. He fell off leaving two long zipper patterns of blood on both sides of my shin. As I heard him tumbling behind me, he let out some sort of warning cry.

The putrefied floor came alive. In front of me, to my left and right, the heavy shag carpet of debris started to move. Running became more labored, more unsteady.

Dark twisted banana leaves turned over to reveal large venom squirting lizards snapping at my ankles. Two headed worms sprung up, red eyes bulging, with each precarious step. My arms stuck out for balance, hands grasping at the thick upright stalks.

Heavy bunches of bananas began to fall, carrying dense swarms of flies. Twenty five yards to go. My feet sunk deeper and deeper. Vampire bats starting dropping from above, squealing in ear splitting frequencies.

The suction of the decaying muck pulled the shoes off my feet; the bats tore off my tank top with their fangs. I couldn’t go back, I couldn’t fall. I’d never make it out alive.

Well, it was pretty messy through there and one of those iridescent horse flies did bit me early on. I imagined the rest. And, yes, there were things moving around down there. I was just afraid to look. Hey, it was really creepy, alright.