NUTS! and Wingnuts

A "NEW" Report from Don! This is.. heck I dunno... less than 6 months old I think. We're now all caught up! Hopefully.

Anyhow, you have my solemn promise that from here on out, it's all new Reports!*

-jebby

*-unless I post more Old Reports, that is. 

NUTS! And Wingnuts

Ok. So about last night.

Actually, let me preface this. Tuesdays and Thursdays, I take Lia (the 3 1/2 years old) to speech class so she can work on the "F" sound. This is so when she counts, it doesn't come out as "one, two, three, sour, sive."

No problem. Now it comes out "one, two, three, FFFF-sour, FFFFFF-sive.' Good work, teachers!!

I get the grocery list on those days; Lia and I do the shopping after speech class (it's a long list week, which means I miss half of the Simpsons due to shopping and unloading and watching Lori put everything away). This means that, by 6:30pm, we're usually staring at each other wondering what to do about dinner; no one quite willing to think.

Back to the story. Let's establish the timeline.

• 6:30pm. Luckily for the kids, we had some leftover pizza and whatnot for them, and I grabbed some leftovers for myself.
  
  
• 7:30pm. As we were getting the girls ready for bed, I grabbed some cashews (honey roasted!) to eat.
  

• Shae wanted some, so I gave her one.
  
  
• Lia wanted one, so I gave her one.
  
  
• Brenna wanted one. I found out 2 years ago not to give a 1-year old a nut the hard way (the swelling from the slap went down in a few weeks....). Brenna got nothing.
  

No problem, right?

• 7:35pm. About 5 minutes after she ate the nut, Lia started to look bad. She had a sour look on her face, complaining that her tongue was itchy.

I took care of Brenna for the night (brushed her teeth, put her down in her crib).

Lia started to complain more that she wasn't feeling well, and looked a bit like she was going to puke.

Lori, (who's allergic to nuts mind you), got concerned.

I went outside to deal with the trash (as all good fathers do).

Lori went to the basement to find all the parenting books to see what they had to say about nut allergies.

Mind you, she's allergic to nuts.

When I got back inside from dealing with the trash, Lia was on the couch. Her lips looked like Anglena Jolie's. She was lethargic. Lori had about 57 books stacked up, including but not limited to:

• encyclopedias
  
• self-help
  
• doctor-help
  
• parenting-help
  
• child-help
  
• help-help
  
• house-help
  
• allergies for dummies
  
• Beatles Help!

...and she was flipping through them. Occasionally, she would grab a stepladder, climb it, reach to the top of the pile and replace a book with a new book. I’m not sure, but I think she spent most of her time looking through the "Ghosts of Ireland" book.

I said "Hey, if you think it's bad enough, I'll drive her to the Urgent Care."

• 7:45pm. It was snowing heavily outside. We belong to St. Joe's which means I would have to drive to Canton for this. Lori was still frantically flipping through glossaries and thick books to try to find the info. I suggested MD.com.That didn't go over well.So, I called St. Joe's Urgent Care to see what they suggested, and being an urgent care kind of place, I hung up after being on hold for 10 minutes.

• 7:55pm. Hung up after being on hold for 10 minutes (see previous item)
  

Back in the living room, on TV the hockey announcers were talking about some massive benchmark, and the ref dropped the puck at center ice. Hey! Did Schneider just score his 200th??

I should mention that I'm a Red Wings fan. The game was on. Back to the story..

Lia was still resting on the couch, lips still puffy, lethargic. Shae was patting Lia's hand and informing us all, 'Shhh! Sissy sleeping!" Even though it was bedtime; Shae was still fully clothed. She had been hiding under the end table so we couldn't get her changed.

Lia didn't want to be disturbed, wouldn't open her mouth, etc.

I cannot reiterate enough that Lori's allergic to nuts. With this in mind I said, "Hey, why don't I just drive her to the urgent care? I mean, I have my coat on still, from dealing with the trash."

The Good News: The Trash was out! And now back to the story.

A few more flips through parts of 90 other Good Parenting books later, Lori finally said, "Let's just call 911."

A fire truck came.

Shae was now running up and down the length of the house because we had to open the blinds to see when the ambulance (Nay! Fire truck!) would show up. She finally ran up to the window to look out, beaming about the snow and amazed at the "twirley bright red lights" and blaring sound of the fire truck. Fire Truck!

Meanwhile, all I could think was: "I have to brush her teeth and get her to bed?!?!"

The firemen came inside, and examined Lia. She was of course still on the couch, wheezing, breathing shallow. They listed her as 'unresponsive'. I listed her as 'sleeping'.

Shae was having a blast, she'd stand next to the firemen, 'examine' Lia,* then go running down the hallway to check out the pretty lights and the snow. The ambulance showed up about 5 minutes later, much to her delight.

*This consisted of Shae petting Lia's hand and saying "SSSHH! Sissy sleeping"

• 5 minutes after 911 is dialed: Ambulance shows up

The firemen grabbed Lia, and I gave them her princess blanket** so that she was properly covered up as they carried her to the ambulance through the snowstorm. Lori went them.

** Well, it’s not really 'her' blanket. Both Lia and Shae fight constantly over this blanket. They have 2 blankets; a princess blanket and an Elmo blanket. When Shae naps, she likes to be covered by both. When Shae sleeps, she likes to be covered by the princess blanket. When Lia sleeps, she likes to be covered by the princess blanket. We’ve never bought a second princess blanket.

Shae of course was still running around.

Later Lori said that, literally, as soon as the they all went outside into the cold, Lia perked right up and was her usual self. BUT, since she was 'unresponsive' and had this allergic reaction, they wanted to take her to Oakwood Hospital for 'observation.' So off they went.

Our neighbor came over to see if everything was ok. I asked her to stand by I'd come over and get her to watch the girls later so I could pick up Lori and Lia whenever they were done.

On one of Shae's return paths down the hallway, I grabbed her and told her it was time for bed. To which, she responded, "But I'm not tired!" Which was true. To prove it she sprinted and leaped onto the sofa. Nonetheless, I grabbed her and start getting her into her room. Which, she promptly replied with, "But brush teeth!" Oy.

So, we went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She wanted to know where sissy was, they usually brushed their teeth together. Oy.

After the teeth got brushed, she did one last lap around the living room, and 'hopped' to bed. I mean, literally. She hops down the hallway every night to her bedroom. She crawled up onto Lia’s bed, looked at me, and said, “Me want princess blanket!!” Great.

I had to try to explain to a two year-old that the princess blanket is gone. Gone with the unconscious one. Smooth move; let the one who’s fully awake wonder where the world’s most important blanket is. She stared at me and repeated, "Me want princess blanket!!"

Without missing a beat, I grabbed the Elmo blanket and tried to put it on her. To no avail. She flung it off and emphatically cried, “ME WANT PRINCESS BLANKET!!”

“Sorry, pumpkin, but that’s gone. Elmo blanket’s just as good!” I ignored her crying and grabbed the first book I could lay my hands on and started reading a story to her.

• 9:40pm. I got the first phone call. "Hi. We still haven't seen a doctor, but we should be seen soon. They're moving us into a new room, so-". Evidently, the 'new room' had shielding or something, so the cell phone cut out.

• 10:15pm. Wings game was going into overtime. I was tense. Oh right, the other thing. Lori called again, this time from the hospital phone. "So, what's going on?" Wait. Shouldn't that be MY question? Oh well. I answered her with "well, we're going into overtime." Never ask an asshole a dumb question.

It was time to go meet them at the hospital. My next task was to get the neighbor to 'quasi babysit' the two kids in their bedrooms:

Status:

1. Brenna is dead to the world asleep, but has as of late been 'sans pacifier.' There was opportunity for a crises here. She was only 3 week into her new way of life.
   
   
2. Shae of course was STILL wound up. Crises in progress. Adding to the potential for disaster here was the fact that she is deathly afraid of 'strangers'. I take her to a parent-child swim class every Saturday, and she nearly chokes me once when she sees these people she's only seen every week for the past 6 weeks.

I got the neighbor as quickly as I could. As we walked back to our house, I noticed through the window that Shae had put her touch lamp to the highest power. I had my coat already on, and I was not about to go into her room to see what was up, since she'd see that I'm in a coat and would want to tag along, and of course notice the neighbor. I just let sleeping dogs lie and moved on.

It's now at the shootout stage of the hockey game, and I had to leave to drive to Oakwood to pick up Lori and Lia. The sand-blast blizzard made it hard for me to concentrate on the important thing - the hockey game - and I nearly missed the Emergency Room Entrance sign (well, mostly because the 8-1/2 x 11 sign is poorly lit).

I drove down this alleyway the hospital claims is a road, and went past the ER entrance, looking for a place to park. No such luck.

On my way back DOWN this 'road' (I've seen wider roads in Jamaica!), the salt started to work on the snow, and I noticed that the yellow line on the pavement must have been applied by a guy on PCP - this thing was all over the place!! Not straight at all.

I drove around the hospital looking for a place for patient pickup, but no luck. I went BACK to the ER entrance, and I noticed a snow-covered sandwich board: 'Valet Parking'.

No valet.

There's a little driveway up the side near the ER, so I went there, and saw a paper sign, ripped to shreds by wind and age, states (after piecing the 36 pieces together):

"Please use Valet or Security assistance for parking."

Sure.

Back to the ER entrance, no luck, notice YET AGAIN, that there's no valet or security. I wander back to the sign, and press the 'help' button, which instantly lifts the traffic arm so I can park. Thanks.

I went to the sardine-can ER reception room and saw a lady literally puking her guts out at the front door. Another patron, a kid, had an ankle the size of his forehead. The place was choc-full of sick and injured people.

In the midst of all this, sitting behind a plastic desk was a 90-year old nurse with what appeared to be an abacus.

I walked up to her. "Hi. I'm here to pick up my daughter. Where's pediatric ER?"

The nurse looked at me, and says, 'What's your last name, sir?"

"Murphy."

"Mackenzy?"

"No. Murphy. M, U, R-"

"No, the first name. Mackenzy?"

"No, Lia."

This nurse was very lucky, by the way. If all those sick people realized that, even though they were half-dead, they could easily outnumber and overpower a 90-year old lady, then heaven help her!

She walked me down some corridors to where Lia and Lori were sitting.

Lia was bouncing on the gurney. Lori informed me that as soon as they got into the hospital, Lia was doing the chicken walk down the hallways.

I truly felt bad. Here's this facility, filled past capacity (I mean, even the Who would say, 'Damn, you need to get some people out of there,') with truly sick and injured people. But since Lia came there in an ambulance, she was considered 'hi priority', even though she was just partying away in that ambulance and then spent her time doing the chicken walk down the hallways once she got here.

Back to the Timeline:

• 10:40pm. Still waiting for the doctor to come back with... something.

• 11:30pm. Finally, the doctor showed up, all 22 years of her, with..... a prescription. All of this, for an Epipen prescription. 11:30pm, and she walked in with a prescription. OY!

During the drive back home, Lia was babbling about something (luckily, no "f" words, Although I had a few I could have used). Outer Drive and Cherry Hill were covered with about 2 inches of fine, slick snow, so I literally skidded into our street.

We were home. Lia of course was all wound up after this adventure and we wondered what lay in store for us inside.

However, Jasmine, the neighbor, said things went fine. Shae had evidently opened the door at one point and looked down the hallway to see.... a stranger. Wondered to herself "where's mommy. Where's daddy.... where's sissy. Where's nana." But amazingly, she didn't go ballistic. Shae looked at Jasmine, got the answers, then wanted to be tucked back into bed.

The most important thing of the night: Wings win in overtime!!

Judgement!

Well kids; this is the last "meaningful" entry from the Archives of the "Redneck Reports" That I'm blogging here. What's left after this one are 3 blogs about the Oscars. In my opinion, far too dated to bother with. No longer relevant Unless you beg me for them. If so I'll post them up. Or, if Don discovers any more old material, I'll post that up.

In newer news, news that's new, and of a newer nature than older news; Don posted a NEW Report not too long about about his kids and peanuts. Look for it next. Because

The "Redneck Reports" blog will continue on into the future!

..stopping in the present only briefly for a piss and a refuel. And maybe one of those large bags of pork rinds... mmm boy,. I likes me the pork rinds. Them tastes good, like peanut butter off my sister's mustache.

I plan to bring Don himself on board this blog vessel (Blessel?), so we can combine forces and Report and goof around. Full speed ahead, one quarter impulse power!

In the meantime, enjoy this last entry from the Redneck Archives, a nice little recollection from Dementia Don about a legal event during his 4th senior year in High School. He lived on an Island, dontcha know.

Viva Dementia!

-Jebby

JUDGMENT

"Donald Murphy. Do we have a Donald Murphy here?"

I was emerging from a deep sleep; I wasn't quite sure if what I heard was real or part of a dream. Forcing myself awake, I looked up from underneath my folded arms. At the front of the room a female student was talking to our History teacher, Mr Parkurst. "I'm not sure if he's here today," he muttered from behind his desk.

He never really moved from behind that desk; unless it was to point at a new name on the board, as if we were obliged to write it down and remember the sacred doings of some dead general.

He handed the slip back to the girl. The door was open, so I knew that she had come into the class from the hall. She was probably from the office. I decided not to reveal my presence.

John Fike answered for me. "Yea, he's here, Mr. Parkurst."

Fike sat to my right. That way we could cheat on tests easier. Mr. Parkurst would write up "study sheets" on the board which were essentially lists of names of famous people for that period. We would copy them down in our notebooks and fill in a brief description of each person based on his lectures. When we had tests we would lay out these notebook pages between us on the ground facing up, and cheat off them. Foolproof.

To make things even easier the answers would spell the name of a famous American from that period.. Unfortunately, these tests weren't the sole basis for the grades. And my sleeping gave me a poor mark in "class participation." Fike's class participation score wasn't any better; once he was kicked out of class for a month for informing Mr. Parkurst that chemistry was a much more important class than history.

Back to the female student and the slip of paper with my name on it. Fike and I were being called down to another classroom to testify, his name was on the slip too. Another student, Ian Douglass, had been caught selling coke and we were being called as witnesses. Fike had spoken up because he remembered that we were scheduled to be summoned to testify. I had totally forgotten.

Good news! This was a great opportunity for me to get out of a class without having to hear Mr. Loso, our vice principal, say that he "would never have believed a Murphy could do that." Whatever "that" was for that day. My family had a certain reputation with Mr. Loso.

So Fike and I bolted down to the proceedings.

It really wasn't coke that Ian Douglass got busted for; it was flower. And he didn't really get busted. In fact this wasn't a real trial, it was a scenario acted out for Law class. Ian's role in the class project was to be the law breaker. His task was to sell "coke" to "coke heads." To do this he had to find out who the users were and sell to them without getting caught. He accomplished that by delegating , much like a real dealer would do. Fike and myself, with help of other people further down the supply chain, sold for him. It was a perfect scam used on the streets.

The "cops" were too dumb to figure it all out. Pretty much how it works in real life, actually.

Even though Ian Douglass had not been caught by the "law," someone had ratted on him; which ultimately had the same result.

So Fike and I were subpoena'd to state our affair in the business.

I walked into the room in a very groggy state. Mr. Bodell, our law teacher, made sure that we took our seats in the back of the room. We were going to be up shortly. There were only two other people set to testify before we had to take the stand. I took a look around to see who they were. Adam Bauser and Scott Casas. Yup. There they were, sitting at the other end of the class.

I chuckled to myself, for I knew what was going to take place soon enough. I had just started to sit back to enjoy the show, when someone caught the corner of my eye. Shit. My brother. How the hell did he get into this class? I could tell that he was registered for it, for he sat near the front. But, dammit, I could have sworn he had it during fourth hour.

He sat there in his usual hyper manner, quietly bouncing up and down in his chair while he eyed the audience. Before long, he saw me, and started to shake his head. I could tell what he was thinking. "Stupid idiot. Gets his head stuck into the wrong area again. Sooner or later he'll burn, and I hope he'll already have his name changed by then."

Well, I thought, there goes my fun. If I let any of my family see that I really do have a personality, they would probably throw me into the seventh floor of Wyandotte General Hospital. I would probably share a suite with Tim Coakley.

"Bugs.Bugs.Bugs.Bugs.Bugs.Bugs.Bugs.Bugs.Bugs.Bugs.Bugs.Bugs.Bugs.Bugs....."

I still knew we still had a lot of fireworks coming our way; Scott and Adam had everything planned out. I knew there'd be no stopping them. These are the same two people who thought of and formed F.R.O.G.I., probably the most underground and radical network in America.

Unfortunately, though, the network never got anywhere outside the living room of Scott's home.

As the audience continued to bustle with chatter, my brother decided to be morally conscious. "Shaddup in the Peanut Gallery," he shouted. Good job, class president.

With the peanut gallery quieted down, the trial could now begin. It was a very quiet start, in light of what was going to take place shortly.

Scott Casas strolled up to the bench.

He took the oath in a nonchalant manner. For some reason, the prosecution had decided to use him first. Perhaps the lawyers thought that he had the strongest case, and they wanted to lead off with a trump card. Unfortunately, they didn't know who they were dealing with. A joker.

The lawyer looked him in the eyes. "State your name, for the record."

"I am Scott Casas."

"Mr. Casas, did you see Mr. Douglass at any time deal drugs to this man?" the lawyer said, as he pointed to the squealer sitting behind him. He swung his body around in an over-inflated state of confidence, facing the defendant.

Scott looked at him. "NO."

The room was silent. The lawyer was positive that Scott was going to say, "Yes." He took a deep gulp of air. Looked at Scott again and asking more assertively, "Scott, did you see Ian at any time dealing drugs to this man?"

The response did not change. "NO."

The lawyer glared at him. He looked like a brother staring at a sibling who just told his mother what they were actually doing with the matches. "Well, what did you see, then?"

Scott stood up. "I SAW ALIENS! THEY WERE GREEN!! AND THEY HAD THIS!!!"
Suddenly Scott reached into his pocket and lobbed green jello at the lawyer. The lawyer lunged behind the desk.

Mr. Bodell dropped his head and put his hands on the sides of his temples. His receding hairline fell back three inches.

My brother's jaw dropped.

The bailiff lunged at Scott.

"BACK OFF, MAN, I'M LOADED!!" Scott reached into his other pocked and drew a water pistol. He took direct aim and hit the bailiff in the face. The bailiff dodged a few more shots before subduing the subject. Scott Casas was quickly and quietly ushered out of the door.

Everyone stood silent. Fike and I stood silent in the back, holding back tears of laughter.

The lawyer finally looked up. Pathetically, he said, "Next witness."

Adam, with a huge smirk on his face, stood up.

Mr. Bodell looked at him with dread and understanding. "Ah. . . No. . . . Next witness, please."

But that, too, was too late. Adam reached in for his gun. "BUT I TELL YOU, IT WAS ALIENS!!!"

He rushed at Mr. Bodell, gun blazing. Like Scott, he was quickly subdued by two people, the bailiff and, of course, my brother.

It was my turn. The excitement was over. We were real witnesses.

We had gotten our shares of coke from yet another person; and like good droogs, we held our tongue. Our source? She was never identified.

Of course, I knew that the next day, some green aliens would make a surprise visit to Mr. Bodell's second hour law class.

Ultimately, Ian Douglass was found innocent.

The Top Seven Signs

The nigh-apocalypse is penultimately near, and the only hope for Man is Beer. Read on for important details, true believers. 'Nuff said.
-Jebby

Well, it has become official. Nearly ten years ago, scientists uncovered a sealed document in the Nike Missile Bases on Grosse Ile. When they opened said seal, they uncovered the most horrifying, most shocking truth yet; the Top Seven Signs. They wanted to keep it quiet. They didn't want the population to know. How close are we to apocalypse? How close to Hell? How close to the end?

With the help of Prophet Schnock, the truth can be told, in all its gory detail. Here, for the first time in the history of Man, you shall know the Truth. Read on, oh yea Brave Hearted, and find out how near we are to the End. How close we are to the Satan Child:

The Top Seven Signs
as foreseen by Prophet Schnock

1. Ian Douglas, formally known as the Ianator, finds something hideous and evil. Instead of doing the right thing and burning it, he sleeps with it. It turns Ian into a spineless yellow-bellied dog, who's only objective is to complete the mission of McSatan.
   
   
2. Jose Casas attracts a member of the opposite sex.
   
   
3. Mitch Range steals his answering machine message from a "girlie show." (90210 to be precise)
   
   
4. Michael Bauser joins the working force.
   
   
5. Donald Murphy stops drinking.
   
   
6. The Prophet Schnock puts in less than 178 hours per week as a member of the working community.
   
   
7. Michael Bauser drives an automobile.
   

After all of these Signs appear, McSatan shall be able to enter into our Earthly realm. This shall be attained through the First Sign. The Unknown Mass shall be with child. This child will have the Mark of McSatan. It's name shall be forever embroidered onto the very fabric of fast food forever.

So, yes, Dear Reader, we see how close we are to Hell's door. How close we are to death.

BE WARNED!!

Realize that the only way out, the only Safeguard from Hell on Earth, rests in the Hands, nay, the Bladder, of a "True Warrior." Please, help mankind. Please, send your beer, in mass quantities, to:

Well, actually, since I don't live there anymore, I won't give you the information. In fact, just send it to your local Ronald McDonald's house. They'll know what to do with it.

THE SEVEN SIGNS© is a trademark of McSatan, Inc.
All rules and regulations of McSatan are followed by the standards of the General Law of Occults.
Have you experienced McDeath today?

Boy, don't you just hate those paid advertisements?

Kinda spooky, though, when you come to think of it. . . . Suddenly it makes sense.

I think I'm almost totally caught up with what's been going on lately. From here on out, it'll all be mop up. No connection between stories. Just pure nonsense. Just like it always is. . . . In Murpher World.

Why does Kevin Costner's face always appear whenever I say that?

Well. Had a grand time watching Adam's wedding on the ol' VHS. Something spooky happened, though. After Adam and Lauren said, "I do," a gigantic picture of Scott's face appeared on the screen, saying, "Sorry I couldn't be there, guys!"

Wahoo. The irony just killed me. Well, actually it wasn't Scott's face that first appeared; it was flying fish. But it just wasn't as funny. It was Wayde's fault, I swear to God! He forgot tapes, and. . . well, you'd never believe what Adam found in the overnighted package!

Actually, it didn't happen that way at all. Nightmare's over for everyone.

Wayde actually . . . erased the tape containing Scott's toast by tossing it into the Detroit River. Well, maybe not that, either.

OK. OK. The God's awful truth is that only Adam and I have seen it. And I'm holding on to it until Mitch gives Dex the copy of Cronos, or whatever the hell that Hunter S. Thompson book is called. There, don't I fell better now?

You know, I'm kind of glad I don't live in Delaware. What the hell is there to do there? It's almost as bad as Ohio, for crying out loud!

"Hey, let's go out and watch the corn grow!"

Doooh! Well, at least it's not as bad as. . . Indiana.

"Hey, let's go out and watch the corn grow!"

Argh. Same thing. OKOKOKOK. Well, thank God I live in . . . Michigan. Detroit. Plus CORN!

Nuts, foiled again. OKOKOKOK. Well, thank God I live in California. More Mexicans than Mexico, and a gangs at every corner for your convenience! ARRRRGH!!!!

Thank God for Canada! Nuff said.

Hockey and Movie Stars.....


Polar Bears and Molson Beers.....


Hey look, it's the Beer-Drinkin' Hillbillies!

Big Boy©® Saga™

I'm combining Big Boy©® Saga™ excerpts from two separate Redneck Reports for your reading convenience. There is more to the Big Boy©® Saga™ that remains as of yet undiscovered, for example there is a first chapter that I do not have access to, nor have ever seen. Perhaps Don will pull a 'George Lucas' on us; later giving me the resources to publish a Big Boy©® Prequel™ blog and explain the origin of Big Boy©® and how Mitch "Spice Pirate" Range fits into the storyline. We can only hope.

For now, we work with what we have. We join the saga with Episode 2, culled from Don's infamous "Wedding Report," then I'll continue with the final entry from this Big Boy©® Trilogy™, harvested from a later Report called "The Top Seven Signs." I'll follow this up with an insightful epilogue about Big Boy©®'s later years. Enjoy!
-Jebby

Big Boy©® Saga™
Episode 2: The Badge Wars
culled from "Wedding Report"
Special Internet Version
Collector's edition
*special guest non-appearance by Mitch Range as
'Wacky guy from earlier part of the story that remains untold'

Not too long ago in this galaxy, fairly close to here, Mitch bought a Big Boy©®*. And it's still on my dashboard.

*Editor's note: get those emails out to Don , start the campaign to uncover that lost Redneck Report. Mitch is depending on you!

But today was to be an important day. Today BIG BOY©® GOT A BADGE.

Well, not a real official actual badge, but he definitely got "a badge," that's for sure.

Every year, there's a "big" festival which takes place in the center of Plymouth (Motto: We ain't Royal Oak, that's for sure). Actually I really wouldn't call it big. And it's really not a festival (Not like Mardi Gras, that's what I mean).

It's more or less a "Small Outing." Like the Black Creek Swamp Festival, for those of us Hicks who've seen it That's all three of us, Adam and Lauren! I know what you're thinking: Why would Don call Lauren a Hick? Well, I'll tell you. It's because it's a small festival.

I mean, the whole city goes out and eats barbecue ribs, some burgers, maybe a few hot dogs. And at the end of the day, everyone pukes in the nicest car. And, Big Boy©®, did they have a lot of those. Including a fully restored Karman Ghia, Adam. Well, it really wasn't fully restored; they merely took the engine and interior of a Ghia and built a concept car around it. But you could still tell what it was. After the man next to me pointed it out.

Sorry, I was diverging again. I'll get back on topic. John and I walked around this quiet little afternoon festival, soaking in all the festivities, and praying to Satan. It was most festive. And, boom, I'll do a flashback.

We woke up in the morning, wanting to eat. Imagine that, me wanting to eat! We went to John's most favorite diner. And for some dumb reason, the name's just not coming to me.* But it's nice, and if you're ever up in Plymouth, eat there. (Big sign, I think it says, "John's favorite diner," but don't quote me).

*Editor's Note: It's called Bodes. Pronounced "Bow-dees." It's awesome, their hash and eggs special is to die for. They even stock Frank's Red Hot. I don't know Frank personally but I'd die for that magnificent bastard and his unbeatable hot sauce. Oops back to the story, sorry for the disruption.

Whatever it's called, it looks like a typical greasy spoon: Booths lining the wall, a dozen bar stools at the front counter, two really ugly cooks, and many young girls working the floor. Well, some weren't that young. Especially ours (she was about twenty. Old age in waitress talk). And, Big Boy©®, did she look nice with that toy badge resting on her. . . oh, sorry. Didn't see the ladies. She had a toy police badge on her uniform. And did it look good where it was resting!

So, after a few, "You can pat me down any time you want!" jokes later, we left to the above-mentioned festival. Flashback ends.

John and I walked up to this cop working a corner. I know what you're thinking. And no, I didn't ask him how much he charged an hour. And, no, he wasn't in a red dress! But he was in a cop uniform. And he had toy badges. Badges?! Badges?! We don't need no stinking badges!! But we grabbed some anyhow. And now Big Boy©® is a certified Junior Police Officer of the city of Plymouth. And, him sitting on my dashboard and all is quite a cool thing!

Big Boy©® Saga™
Episode 3: Revenge of the Funky Pheasant
culled from "The Top Seven Signs"
Special Internet Version
Collector's edition

Did you realize that Officer Big Boy©® can really get down and get funky? No, really, it's true. Many years ago. . . gather around, kiddies, grandpa's telling a story. . . Big Boy©® looked a lot like John Travolta.

There was one big difference, though: Travolta had a speech impediment, making him a poor choice for movies. Oh, and Travolta couldn't dance worth spit, either. Those two selling points landed him the leading role in Saturday Night Fever. Or was it his ability to suck dick better than Madonna? I forget.

But, anyhow, the director needed someone to fill in for Travolta during the dance sequences. And, believe it or not, driving around Plymouth one day, as all famous movie directors are known to do, he saw on the hood of a newish green Escort LX something that changed the movie for the better. Big Boy©®! Doin' the Funky Chicken. Or Funky President. Ask Jebby which one it was, because I was too busy laughing at Big Boy©®'s antics. For that matter, everyone who passed us was laughing. . . . But they were pointing at me. . . wait a minute. . . THEY WERE POINTING AT ME!!!!

Well, anyhow, Big Boy©® was a-struttin his stuff on the hood, and on the roof, and on the window. Arms a-swingin' and butt a-shakin' like he just don't care! God, it was a sight. Just like the time I was in Nam, blastin' down those gooks. They could fight hard and fierce, ya know, but I had my trusty 50 caliber with me. Betsy, I called her. God, she was sweet. Had the strongest odor of gun powder on any gun this side of Saigon. And Black. Whoo Boy!

Where was I. . . . Oh yea, the director obviously was blown away by Big Boy©®'s Funky Pheasant dance moves and subsequently used him as John Travolta's dance double in Saturday Night Fever. In fact, when you watch the movie if you look closely at the movie's dance sequences, you can actually see the famous Big Boy©®'s checkered t-shirt under the tacky white suit Travolta made famous.

Travolta was not happy. About Big Boy©® doubling for him. And maybe about the tacky white suit.

So he tricked Officer Big Boy©®* into becoming fat by eating too many hamburgers. Nothing as tasty as McDonald's hamburgers, mind you, but they were good. See, Travolta had Wayde cook up special hamburgers. Ones with real cow meat.

That's hard to come by these days, mind you. Now, they're mainly pig and horse by-products. But, that's America for you. And Big Boy©® liked them. He liked them so much, he bought the company. Now, his likeness stands outside his world famous restaurants, making sure Wayde never leaves. . . . What? He did leave? Doooh!

*Big Boy became an official Junior Member of the Plymouth Police Force in Big Boy©® Saga™ Episode 2: The Badge Wars. In case you already forgot


Insightful Epilogue:
Big Boy©® went on to star in many Loose Change TV©®™ sketches, often stealing the scenes from such accomplished performers as Dementia Don™, Poppa Palooza™, Jebby™, and others. Most say his shining moment was in a sketch about a Christian Gun Coalition where his dancing stole the entire sketch right out from under Palooza. Big Boy©® lived a productive fame-filled life up until the early oughts, and then surprisingly faded into obese obscurity, going missing sometime between 2005 and today. His whereabouts are currently unknown. He is officially listed as "missing, presumed chubby."

Details regarding his disappearance are not even sketchy, they are completely unknown. Meaning I totally forgot what happened to him. I blame society. Did he slip away one night, looking for a life I could not give him? I never promised him a burger garden.

Some say he's goofing on Fat Elvis with Andy Kauffman, others say he's swimming with the tunas alongside Jimmy Hoffa. The world may never know. He could be off somewhere finding out how many licks it takes to get to the bottom of a Tootsie Pop©®™. Or, he could be using the alias of Patrick Stewart or Harvey Keitel at a strip bar near you.

Live or dead, his chubbed out physical form continues to inspire us all to eat too much. His sacred likeness can be seen towering, sometimes spinning, with a delicious burger in hand, other times motionless with a piercing stare that makes you fear for your stomach, in front of Elias Brothers©® restaurants™ everywhere. Just who is this St. Elias©® and why is he such a key member in Big Boy©® Mythology™? That's a story for another time.

-Jebby

The Wedding Report

There's been a lot of talk about this next Redneck Report segment. Maybe too much talk. This is not a Rebel Blog. This is, Wedding Report, Bloody Wedding Report. I now give you over to Bono. Bono, your mic is on.

BONO:
"Thanks Jebby. Ladies and Gentlemen this is the Edge! Adam Clayton! Larry Mullen Jr! I'm just a fly on the wall. Start that sniper drum beat! Let's go!"

I can't believe the vows today

I cant close my eyes and make them go away
How wrong...
How long must this day go on?
How wrong? how wrong...

Tonight...we'll get shitface drunk Tonight...

Crazy wedding shoes don't fit his feet
Smoked a bowl in the Escort, discreet
the pot didn't help at all
No escaping from
The wrongness of it all!

Wedding, bloody Wedding
Wedding, bloody Wedding
Wedding, bloody Wedding (Wedding bloody Wedding...)
(alright let's get blitzed!)

And the battles have just begun
Soon they'll fight all day, so who has won?
The trench is dug within their hearts
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart

Wedding, bloody Wedding
Wedding, bloody Wedding

How wrong...
How long can this day go on?
How wrong? how wrong...

Tonight...we'll get shitface drunk Tonight...
Tonight...

Wedding, bloody Wedding (tonight)
Reception Tonight
Wedding, bloody Wedding (tonight)
(we'll get numb tonight!)

Drink the beer from your sweating glass
Lift your leg and pass some wedding gas!

Do a shot today
Drink those beers away
I'll drink my beer away
(Wedding, bloody Wedding)
I drink a bloody mary
(Wedding, bloody Wedding)

Wedding, bloody Wedding (Wedding, bloody Wedding)
Wedding, bloody Wedding (Wedding, bloody Wedding)
(here come some drunks!)

And it's true we are aghast
Her fact is fiction and her TV reality
And today she wines and moans
blogs and emails, sometimes through cell phones

The real battle's an endless route (Wedding, bloody Wedding)
To lose the "victory" Amy brought about (Wedding, bloody Wedding)
At the...

Wedding, bloody Wedding
Wedding, bloody Wedding...

"I hope we didn't 'bug ya,' we didn't mean to 'bug ya.' Let's bring it back down..Edge play the blues!"

From the whining wife comes a harrowing howl.
See it driving nails into the brain of this working owl.
From her the fire flies, his face has a dull red glow.
See a full glass of beer draining fast into his mouth below.
why why, why why?... why why, why why?
Screaming from Amy.. Screaming from Amy...
Screaming from Amy.. screaming at...

"Ian comes up to me ...His face red like a rose on a thorn bush..Like all the colors of a royal flush, he tells me about his married life. He tells me about his married life. Yes I can see them fighting now. I can see them fighting now. Peeling off those insults, slapping em down. 'YOUR FAULT!' 'YOUR FAULT!'

Across the messy rooms where the children sleep, through the hallways where the rage runs deep. Take the staircase to the upstairs floor, Turn the key and slowly push open the door. As a man breathes into his homebrew, through the walls we hear a cat sneeze (achoo!) Outside it's America! Outside it's America!"

Thanks Bono. Well done. Now go away, save some baby seals from the tree forest or something.

BONO: "Thank you! Goodnight!"

OK. So this is part 2 of Don's Infamous "Wedding Report" Redneck Report, I split the report up into 3 parts as I mentioned in the last Blog. Enjoy!

-Jebby


You've read this far. Might as well keep reading!

And in the classic words of Paul Harvey: "And now. . . .the rest of the story. "

Hey, I said they were classic, not good !

The Wedding Report

Ah. The world's most unprepared wedding. I remember. Sure, step right up to hear the tale. Please, excuse the excess invitations, but not all were mailed out.

Unfortunately, I had the ring, so the wedding was a go.

the ceremony was swell. Strange, but swell. Not that I'm 'Mr. Wedding' or anything, but I've never seen the entire groom side enter behind the Pastor. That's usually reserved for the 'Man of the Horror' and the Best Man. But, this wasn't the usual wedding. So there.

As I said, the wedding ceremony went well. It was afterwards that really took the cake. Most of the time, all the uncertainties are ironed out at the Rehearsal. Information is given out, like "Go here for the wedding, there for the pictures, here for the reception, there for the after-hours." But not here. No, sir.

After the ceremony we were presented with a unique plan: Go to the Ford Yacht Club after the wedding for the pictures instead of here at the church or where the reception was to be held. "Wha? Well, whatever, it's your wedding."

So, I grabbed John after everyone was leaving, told Ian that I'd see them at the yacht club, and we bolted to my house for new shoes (for me) and beer (for both of us). That relaxed us.

A short time later we pulled into the Ford Yacht Club and waited. And waited. And waited. Well, no one else was showing up. So I drove past the reception location (the Pilot House) , and saw two brides maids going in. So I parked and we got out of the car.

Mr. Douglass walked up to us. "You guys are suppose to be back at the Church for the pictures."

Great.

We headed back over to the church. Where we saw Pastor Aller. "They just left to go to Ford Yacht Club. We looked for you guys, but couldn't find you."

Great.

Back where we started.

Where we saw Amy.

Who thought she was angry. "Well, I assumed everyone was going to stay at the church for pictures."

"YOU DON'T ASSUME A GOD-DAMNED THING! YOU TELL IT TO EVERYONE!!!!" I think she got the point. She either guessed that I was angry then, or later during one of my subsequent rants about her stupidity.

She got on the phone and called up the other two brides maids who were already waiting for us at the Pilot House. "Well, they're not coming. Let's go."

"Wait. You do know, that's what happened last time. Someone had the brilliancy to decide something without telling half-of-the-fucking group."

She looked at me even more blankly. "Well, they're not here. Let's go."

Great.

We passed the other two brides maids on our way back.

Ten minutes later, they arrive back at the Pilot House. That's when things just started to get bad.

I hated my shoes. They didn't fit properly. So, I put on my Converse. A simple solution to a simple problem. Except in the eyes of our Dear-Abbey-reading photographer. "Got a problem with the shoes? You're the best man. This is not a fraternity gig, you know!"

I held my tongue. It looked as if he ate kids for breakfast. Pigs for lunch. And a cow for dinner. Boy, was this guy BIG. I wasn't sure a slap across the face would be felt. Plus, Mr. D was right behind him. I knew what was good for me.

So, for the next five minutes, I was quiet. Until he was in ear shot of me. Then, it was a free-for-all. "Where did you find this guy? In an alley? 'Here's a Twinkie. Twelve more if you snap pictures of us.'" And on into the night.

Well, not really. The reception was over at 9:30pm. But, whenever I thought he could hear me, I made sure he knew I didn't like him (duhhhh, I'm brave dat way!)

Oh yea. That reminds me. As soon as the wedding party got there, the DJ kept on saying that he'd have to break down soon. I think it was only two hours of music. Pretty hard to get drunk in that time, let me assure you.

Prologue:
And now, the funniest thing that took place on Ian's wedding day, and can you believe that I almost forgot about it?! My God, am I an idiot (and I don't want to hear anyone agreeing with me, damnit!)

The scene: Lloyd's.

Ian and Amy showed up. Wha? Yes, they show up. In the timeline of things this is:

1. Shortly after their wedding reception, and
   
   
2. Right before Ian decided he wanted an affair (and that was after only about 5 hours into the marriage. Boy this one sounded pretty solid!).
   

Michael (drunk, go figure) looked at Ian. Raising his hand high into the air, he screamed, "I know I'll probably make everyone at this table sick, but shouldn't you guys be somewhere?! You know, like a HOTEL ROOM OR SOMETHING! COME ON, YOU'RE MARRIED!!!!"

He was right. I saw many a face become green.

Of course, then Ian wanted to know if anyone wanted to go to the truck stop or maybe Denny's. Yea. Happily ever after.

Next: The final segment of "The Wedding Report," Big Boy gets a Badge!

How to make sure someone's not going to show up

The following is an excerpt from Don's infamous "Wedding Report" edition of the Redneck Reports. That Report covers so much ground I thought it would be best to split it out into several Reports, so your head doesn't explode. Not that I don't want your head to explode, I just would like to SEE your head explode, maybe get it on video, there's no point in your head exploding if I can't record it, edit it, add a nice musical score and post it up on YoutTube.

Anyways this excerpt is about how to make sure people don't show up at an event.

-jebby

HOW TO MAKE SURE SOMEONE'S NOT GOING TO SHOW UP.

So, a few weeks back I went to Detroit. I did such stupid things. Well, it was for work, so I really did do such stupid things. Gave the word out to the Boys on the Street. From here on out, it'll either be abbreviated SOBs (Street on the Boys. . . . It's French, what did you expect? I mean, you don't think they say, "Pardon my French," because the French are smelly, do you?), it will be an anagram (bone both tree sty), or will be something more coherent to what's going on (yea, Mitch and Wayde, they're SOBs).

So, anyhow, I called them up (SOBs) and we decided to go up to Applebee's for lunch around 1:00 pm. That's because that's the time I thought I'd be up there.

And now for the theme of the Redneck Report.

HOW TO MAKE SURE SOMEONE'S NOT GOING TO SHOW UP.

Now, this is a hard recipe to follow, so I'll make it r.e.a.l. . . s.l.o.w. . . f.o.r. . . t.h.o.s.e. . . o.f. . . y.o.u. . . w.h.o. . . a.r.e.n.'.t. . . o.n. . . s.p.e.e.d.. This is for making sure the following people do not show up to an event.

A warning. You must use these sparingly, for I'm sure sooner or later these people will catch on.

• Mitch: Just tell him to meet you up at Applebee's. He's sure to find something else to do. And, hey, it's already battle-tested. . . twice!

• Wayde: Just tell him you'll hate him forever. He'll call off work, sit back and wait for phone calls. Meanwhile, everyone else will try him at work and notice that he's not there. Therefore, they'll think that Wayde's out with someone else, and not even bother calling him to go out and party and eat at White Castle (Sorry, Wayde, but I truly thought you were out with Trish, Adam and Lauren).

• Trish: Just tell her that Wayde's with you. She'll know you'll never show up. Just like the class reunion, eh?
  

• Ginch: Just tell him the D.E.A. (a different definition of SOBs) will show up. The rest is self-explanatory.
  

• Mark: Just ask him if he's got to work that weekend. Sure enough, he'll have some job requiring him to put in 78 hours in two days.
  

• Adam: Just don't call him (OK, OK, so I couldn't think of anything. Sue Me!)
  

• Ian: Just tell him you're going to a bar that cards. If that doesn't work, ask him when feeding time is.
  

• Me: Just tell me I've got another wedding to go to. I'll believe it.
  

• Andy: Just remind him he's in New York. He'll believe it, too.
  

• Tell Scott and Dex they're in totally different time zones (Ohio has a time zone all of its own you know. It's called BC. For instance, you could say, "In Ohio, it's 430 BC," and everyone would believe you).
  

• Tell Greg and Michael they've got Master-type papers to write. I'm really sure you'd watch them get to work. Phfttt. Yea, right.

OK, back to something a little less meaty.

I got up to Wayde's house at 1:00. We called up Mitch. . . and got the answering machine. See, it's working already!. . . .

Lunch was swell, and this time I only left four or five messages on Mitch's Dylan-Machine. And they all could be viewed by the entire family (I'm trying to get myself a PG rating. I need the audience. I star Kevin Costner).

Anyhow, I was up there in Michigan for work related reasons. Mobil paid us a few hundred thousand to find where they're at. No, really. Mobil has no clue as to where they're all at. And, since I grew up near Detroit, I had to go up there and find out where they're at and what was going on. I was sooooo humiliated. I felt soooooo violated. I am sooooo stupid.

Well, at least I'm not as stupid as Mobil. They had no clue that the Mobil on the SW corner of Fort and West was closed. Hide and Seek with the big boys, eh?

I didn't get home until 5:30 am the next morning. The last thing I wanted to do, I assure you, was to drive around 7 Mile and John R. On top of going through the better parts of town (you know, Fort Street and Biddle on the South Side, 7 Mile on Any Side, and E Jefferson on the East Side), I had to go through Arabic Town. I thought they were all in Dearborn (fallacy: They're all in Iran, and you know it!). But, then I remembered that all near 75 on the North side is Arabs. They want to be as close to the home land as possible: Arabs with shitty property there, and the Jews all above 8 Mile. Nuff said.

They're everywhere, too. Gunshots, not Arabs. They're only in Dearborn. And Arabia. And North Detroit. And New York. And on and on. And they told two friends. And they told two friends. And so on. And so on.

to be continued in the next exciting Redneck Report!

Patrick Stewarts "A Tale of Two Titties" or "The Bad Lieutenant gets a Lapdance"

What more can be said about this Redneck Report? I'll do my best movie trailer write-up for it and leave it at that.

"In a world of greasy thrills, three plucky young men and their trouser snakes set out on a trek to a den of inequity, because they could, and because they shouldn't. Will they be overpowered by skank? Who will drink the most beer? It's a 'survival of the most sarcastic' free-for-all in this no holds barred whore mongering quest of all quests. Starring both Patrick Stewart and Harvey Keital as Dementia Don. The feel-queasy hit of the season. - Anon"

-Jebby

Strip Bar!

A friend always warned me about the place. It really wasn't a warning, but that's the way I took it. "All I gots ta do is sit in th' corner, and before I knows it, th' women're all over me."

That really doesn't matter much; the place is a strip bar. But he went on. "All ya gots ta do is sit there an' treat 'em like ladies. Buy 'em a drink er two, and pay for a few dances, and you take 'em home. 'S easy!"

The bar is more of a whore house than anything else. It stands in the middle of Inkster, which says more than enough. So what the hell was I doing here? I always took Mark's advice and did just the opposite. When he started selling hard drugs with a few friends, I cut out of the scene. Lucky for me, too, since they're all fucked up; Mark has a fake hip from getting baked and crashing his car into another car; Bubba is a vegetable after getting half his head blown off during a bad deal; Dennis can no longer show his face in Michigan. Yea, and I took off to college to avoid it all.

But, then in other scenes, the circle came complete. Tim canceled his wedding because there was someone else. But that went sour. Then, he started hanging around strip bars. Dates? One never knows for sure; I do know several people who fell in love with strippers. Of course, they all fell flat on their face.

Rob, a friend of mine from the Eastern Michigan Marching Hurons, went head-over-heals for Candi (the following week she was Daisy, followed by Barbi, etc.). The first night he met her, she did the usual stripper routine. Be friendly, have similar interests, come from the same area; just like a regular easy girl, but the guy has to waste more money to see her naked. Anyhow, she sat on his lap, which sent him into instant orgasms. He put his arms around her waist, and, after she stated that she was only doing this to earn her way through college (that's every stripper's excuse), he said "See? They're people just like us!" Yea. She never really gave him her real name. And, every time he would go to Deja-Vu to see if she wanted to go out sometime, the response was always the same.

"Come back tomorrow, Rob, and I'll tell ya if I can go."

Kiss 100 more bucks goodbye.

I went with John and Tim more or less to laugh at the place. I always heard of Henry the VIII, but I never dared step into it. I was always afraid that my friends were telling the truth: That it really was a skanky slime-ridden hole in the Armpit of Disparity. And they were right.

It started out good enough. I called up John to see what he was up to for the night. "Oh," he said, "Tim's been going to Henry's for almost the entire week. I'm going along with him for the helluvit. Join us?"

Sure. Curiosity got the best of me. I could have stayed down in Bowling Green and partied 'till the cows came home (literally, too. There's a cow heard right out of town.), I could have joined two other friends and partied 'till the sun came up, or I could have stayed home and drank cookies and baked milk; just like what we did at Adam's bachelor party, right guys? But, no, I went up to Plymouth to meet John and Tim and go to Henry VIII.

When I arrived, I thought I was slightly under-dressed. Tim and John had ties and slacks on. I preferred a pair of washed-up blue jeans and a button down shirt. But, I wasn't going to impress anyone. I was just along for the ride.

To make a short story long, we walk into the bar. Some gut with a tux on said, "Five dollars and ID, please." He looked at my Ohio driver's license, and instantly became an asshole. "You know, your football team really sucks. Michigan will really kick your ass."

"Gee, that's funny, I never realized I went to Ohio State. All these years and I thought it was Eastern Michigan. Thanks."

But, evidently, he couldn't put two and two together. "And what kind of colors are those, anyways? Red and Silver?! Ha! Maze and blue all the way."

I guess he thought that I should retaliate, for he wasn't giving me my ID back yet. I looked at him and quickly snatched my ID back. Well, this is going good.

I walked deeper into the cave and, when my eyes adjusted to the total pitch-dark surroundings. I never knew that women needed to inflate their breasts. That was the first thought that came to mind. Every single topless person I saw had these two bags hanging from their chests. They were flesh in color, so I guessed that they were tits. But they were all. . . deflated. I mean totally deflated. Like some 13 year old kid ran up to them when they weren't looking and stuck their breasts with a pin. Totally disgusting. So the ball was on the roll.

The first stripper that sat down next to us was the one Tim "set up for John," if I can remember right. She said hello to John and to Tim and then she looked over at me. "Who are you?"

"Why, I'm Patrick Stewart!"

"No you're not."

"You're right. I'm Harvey Keitel."

"No you're not."

"Yes I am."

"No you're not."

"Oh yes I am!"

And on like that. I told that to every stripper who asked me for my name, and - you know? - none of them believed me! The nerve!

The strippers could be placed into one of three categories. First, the trainees. These were the ones who were just learning the trade. Then, there were the ones that had their time in the bigger, better places. They found out that their time was over, but they had no other training and didn't want to become waitresses. And, of course, the last group was the scariest. They were the ones that decided that turning tricks on the street was just too dangerous and decided to become strippers. Of course, there wasn't too much difference between the last two. The easiest way to see if they were new was to look at their skin; if they had less than two tattoos on them, they were fresh.

The waitresses were as bad as the strippers. Usually, the waitresses in a strip bar have some looks to them. But these looked like old whores, too. And one looked like Orca the Whore. 220 pounds of pure woman only wearing a bra, g-string and a tuxedo jacket. MY GOD!!! I'VE GONE BLIND!!!!!

I had plenty of time to look around the place. Dark. Really Fucking Dark. There were red alternating lights running across the top of the walls. The main tabletops had 10,000 watt light bulbs flashing alternately on the strippers then at every males' eyes. That blinded everyone, probably so no one could see how ugly the strippers actually were.

This brings us to the section that scared me the most. In the back corner, there was a totally dark room with two obese men standing at either side of the opening. I thought it was complementary VD testing. Especially when I noticed strippers entering and exiting. That's when I looked around and noticed nobody had lap dances.

John stood up and walked with his "sure thing" to the VD testing area. Tim took off to get food. I was alone. Easy prey. And it wasn't too long before I was found.

"Need some company, stranger?"

She looked like a more-drugged out version of Chris Robinson of The Black Crowes. And, of course, if you've ever seen him, you know that's a hard thing to accomplish. Oh, and her skin looked like she fell asleep and a gang painted her with graffiti.

To say the least, she pulled every single old trick in the book.

"You live around here?"

"Nah. I live in Bowling Green."

"No way! I live in Rossford."

Yea. Sure.

"First time here?"

"Yea."

"Me, too. Well, there's a first time for everything. . ."

"Yea. And a last!"

"What, you don't like it here?"

I looked at her as if she were on drugs. "No. Do you?"

She stared at me for a second and didn't say anything. Poor wretch.

She took me to the back for a dance. One of the men at the opening said, "Hay, you got a wrist band?"

So, I showed him my watch band. "Pretty nice, eh? It's lizard leather!"

Evidently, paying five bucks to get into the bar wasn't enough. Oh, no. They were a "classy" whore house. You also had to pay five buck to go into their secretive back room. But you did have unlimited access to it all night, and you get a nifty wrist band.

Needless to say, I got two more dances, and each time I was more fearful than the last. Luckily, though, no strange welts have appeared on my skin. Although every stripper that came to talk to me only got my name as Harvey Keitel, and every one found out that this was my "first and last trip to this slime hole." And they all look at me as if I were insulting them. Hmmmm. . .

Wonder why?

XFBill

Please join me on this nostalgic trip down memory lane to the days immediately following the end of the Bill Clinton presidency. Here's a Redneck Report from just before the damage of GWB and his administration started to sink in. Let's journey back to the days where there was an XFL, and people were still snarking about Clinton's "evil," blissfully ignorant of the upcoming EVIL of George W Bush and Co. Remember, ignorance was truly bliss. I've thrown in a few editorial comments just to be a dick.

-Jebby

XFBill

Let's talk about Bill Clinton. What better way to define his character than observing the ending of his presidency? He said he didn't want to leave office, and he sure as hell tried to live up to the promise. He took the couches, sofas, silverware, ... hell, I'm sure if he had a chance, he'd have lifted FDR's wheelchair.

Editor's note: this was in regards to the then popular urban legend that Clinton's staff looted/trashed the White House on their way out. The legend has since been debunked. But it's fun to imagine Clinton and friends having a huge kegger on the final day, looting and trashing the place; setting little traps for the Bush people as pranks to laugh about later as they bang Clinton groupies back at Bubba's post-presidential plantation.

He's almost the perfect analogy of America: Smart as hell, but when someone actually examines his actions as President of the Free World, the only thing that can be said is, "What the fuck!?"

Here's a man who was at helm during the most prosperous, peaceful time in the nation's history. And what does he do? He gets a BJ from a bona-fido heifer and an untold number of other people (What, at last count didn't the Republicans dig up 88 people to claim that he came on to them) ?

Part of the problem is, with all these attack-dogs setting their sites on the Clintons when they do something stupid; everyone's on them like flies on horse manure. Even when they don't do something stupid, they're still lambasted and ridiculed like a the hillbillies they are.

Look at the Presidential Pardon situation: Reagan and Bush pardoned a comparable number of numb-nuts. Hell, even Carter pardoned Billy Bob. So Clinton pardons a Republican. One would think that this would make Republicans happy. Now the guy can come back from his Sylvester-Stallone-inspired Swedish vacation and start pumping up the GOP cash coffers again. Bubba gives him the old "get out of jail free" card (for either an arranged BJ or a few hundred thousand dollars, perhaps) and suddenly he is the world's worst ex-President.

Does anyone recall who Reagan pardoned? We know he doesn't, but that's not the argument here.

Like every other "leader" we've elected for the past 40 years (with the exception of Carter), the Big Thing is the almighty dollar. No matter which way we look at our modern presidents, they're all whore-mongers. It will make no difference when GWB leaves office in 4 years; he'll simply pardon the entire executive board of Exxon for turning Alaska into the La Brea Tar Pits. Bush pardons will be passed out to just about every Texan drug dealer Bush has ever had relations with.

The problem is, Cheney will be dead by then and someone else will have to learn how to write the pardons out for GWB.

So, what should we do about this?

Think of the power of the South. Who chose our most recent president? Well, aside from the Supreme Court, the South. And, which metropolis of America picked GWB? Tennessee. And what is Tennessee translated into from its native Choyhunga tongue? "He who watches far too much wrestling."

Vince McMahon has shown us the way. The XFL. I say, let's put a stack of pardon certificates on the 50 yard line of an XFL stadium, and put 150 people on the 30 yard line. The first 60 people to scramble to pardon certificates gets them.

Yes the XFL. Where else can one pretend to be watching football, while instead secretly ogling at scantly-clad stripper wannabes? Who can turn away from these Hooter girls moonlighting as cheerleaders? Those fine women are the prime example of why everyone needs to live in a double-wide. Get her home, and if your living establishment has axles, they're a comin' off! Woohoo!

I'm not sure which is more pathetic, the stripper "cheerleader" chicks or the players. Come on. These guys couldn't even get drafted by the Detroit Lions. Before now they would have ended the day going back to their jobs at Wall Mart and Valvoline.

And let's talk about the quality of performance required by the game. They announce the play live over TV, tell us the count, then announce the count OVER THE STADIUM SPEAKERS! If the defense can't figure out when to blitz, they just need to give up.

Most importantly; the cheerleaders can't even do a decent lap dance (trust me, just trust me).

Editor's Note: There is no *verifiable* evidence of Don getting lap dances from XFL Cheerleaders. If you watch "XFL Cheerleaders Gone Wild" (Volumes 3, 5, or 12), you will be forced to concede that the black bar across the eyes of the person who exactly resembles Don in every way shape or form is enough to cast the required shadow of doubt.

I'm not even sure if these "cheerleaders" can sew their own uniforms let alone perform a coherant 'cheer' in them. It looks like they went to a homeless shelter, maybe beat up a few hookers on their way, and - bammo presto! - their new outfits are complete.

I'm not saying that the NFL doesn't need help. It does. It needs help in going away. It's taking far too much time away from China and Triple H. What ever happened to a nice helpful little Smackdown for the night? If you ever wondered why it's titled as such: What do husbands do to their wives after watching an hour's worth of a wrestling program?

Clinton's out of the oval office, and .... who the hell is in? Oh yea.

Cheney will be forced to try to warm up our economy. Will he be able to do it? I sure as hell hope so for your sake! There's only so many head-fry positions available at the local McDonald's franchise, and I intend to get hired before you can!

Who can we now watch with OJ-like glee and guffaw?

Who else will lift the mirror to America and say, "See, you're as shallow, self-centered and crazy as I?"

Surely GWB won't. He's having enough trouble reading it as we speak. At least now the GED-owners of the country have someone to aspire to.

The Redneck Gospel of St James, Chapter 3 Verse 2: Ohio Driver's License

And now, a harrowing Michael-Moore-Style journey through the process of getting a driver's license in another state. Your guide? Dementia Don, enlightening us with an Allegory of James. James is in no way an official representation of Don for all intensive legal and intensly-fried illegal porpoises. What you are about to read is in the doorway between the realms of surreal and puree'. A portal between the realms of man's subconscious. For you have entered... the Redneck Zone.

-Jebby

"Baby, you can Drive my Car"

Subtitle: The reflections of a Michigander lost in the world of the deep South

Second Subtitle: Even you too can become a Red Neck!

Third Subtitle: So, why do Michigan natives hate Ohio so much, anyhow?

The alarm woke James up at 6:30. In most cases, he would slap the snooze button on top of the small radio unit once or twice and get up for work. But, this was a weekend, and he drank more than usual the night before. The country station was purposely set to make him get up and move. Today, it would only send waves of nausea through his system. He threw the pillow over his head and knocked the radio off the metal night stand it faithfully sat upon. The radio gracefully went through the air and hit the Beatles poster on the wall. James would sleep some more hours for sure.

Having to work conditioned James to get up early in the morning, no matter how hung over he was. Usually, three or four hours would satisfy his need for the day. Even if he felt like shit. By the time 8:00am rolled around James could not force himself to sleep anymore. And his head felt like a freight train about to explode.

A few hits of a bowl and a long hot shower later, he knew that he could face the day.

There was a reason that he took his shower before noon on this weekend. He was about to officially become a hick. Ohio law stated that people with out-of-state drivers license had to take the Ohio drivers test in order to prove their worthiness.

James found this out the tough way.

The Bureau of Motor Vehicles was open late on Wednesday nights. James knew that this would be the only day he could get a new license; he worked half an hour away from the only license bureau he knew of. At the earliest, he arrived back to his apartment at 5:30pm, half an hour before the Simpsons aired on Fox 36. So, since this entailed leaving right on time from work, he knew he would be hassled from his co-workers. Mainly because they were all women, but also because it's just basically impossible to leave on time in an office with only six people working. But he did it. He ran right out of the office with only one woman asking him, "Couldn't you just stay to. . . ?" He didn't catch the rest; the office door started to swing closed by the time he reached the stairs, leaving the sounds of the hens behind him.

Not that he actually worked. Most of the day he stared up at a computer screen. Luckily, the computer specialist had not taken the pre-installed games off the system. Which meant that he was quite good at the two games on the system. Think about it. If you played "Solitaire" for eight hours every day, you'd turn out to be one hell of a card player, too.

The drive from Sylvania to Bowling Green could be nerve-wracking. People from Ohio didn't really have to take drivers test. The responsibility only falls onto out-of-staters. Because of that, people with Ohio plates are scary. Most of the time, they haven't really learned the use of the mirrors in their cars. People coming from entrance ramps just pulled into traffic, causing fender-benders every few miles. Luckily, Ohio citizens think it's their duty to stay in the right lane at all times. All James had to do was get into the passing lane and it was relatively smooth sailing. Once in a while, some over-confident driver would get into the left lane, still traveling 55 mph. James, cruising at 75 mph would get unnerved quickly by this . To make it even worse, tailgating didn't help. Instead of getting the hint and moving back into the right lane, the drivers tended to stomp on their brakes, wondering why they have so many dents in their bumpers.

Ohio people have a strange concept about their roads. They think the highways should be considered the autoban. As soon as a driver is behind some other car, they start to flash their brights. This is to let the front driver know that mirrors reflect light. If not, then the lead car would never know what's around him, and continue going the speed limit in the passing lane. James hated this, because nobody knew when the hell to use this amazingly European driving courtesy.

The drive down the express way was like this day in and day out. But, without fail, he got to his beloved city unscathed. The B.M.V. sat right off I-75 in B.G., right behind the Chi-Chi's. It took up about half of the bottom floor of what used to be a posh racquetball building. With small trees growing in the middle of the building, it was quite a sight. James quickly walked to the center of the first floor, where the entrance was. Looking like a young Yuppie, he quietly stepped into the B.M.V. office and waited for his turn. Only three other people were in front of him, but with the speed of dead snails, the employees chugged on with the customers. In about ten minutes - quite a quick time for Michigan Secretary of State employees, though - James got his time in the spotlight.

"May I help you?" The lady was short. Her blond curly hair drooped down past her shoulders. With a few beers in James system, he might considered her cute. But not right now.

"Yes. I want an Ohio driver's license, please." He reached into his slacks to his wallet. Somewhere inside was his Michigan's license.

The lady looked at the piece of identification. "You mean you didn't take the test?"

"What?"

"You know. You've gotta take the test if you're from out of state," she informed him. "We got to make sure you can drive you know."

Yea, right.

"But wait," he protested. "What about the good faith clause?"

The employee looked at James questioningly. "The what?"

Just as James figured. Ohio is like Florida, only in Ohio the citizens don't have to tattoo swastika on their foreheads. According to most states, licenses and plates are just as acceptable as that state's licenses and plates. But not in Ohio. If a cop wanted to, he could pull over Michigan and Pennsylvania drivers for not having plates on the front side of their cars. Even though it's perfectly legal in their home states. No matter. You're pulled over and your car is strip-searched for any illegal contraband.

"Okay," he replied. "Then I'll just register my new car."

He had just bought a new car. A '95 Escort LX with lots of fixins. Quite a car, for sure, and James knew that he only had 30 days to register it for new plates. Running back out to the car, he searched its glove box for any hint of it being a new car. A small, green piece of paper caught his eye; a temporary tag registration. That'll do, he decided.

He ran back to the office, with only ten minutes before close, getting to the desk without any problems. Smiling, he proudly showed his slip of paper to the employee.

"This should show that I need plates," he stated.

She looked at the paper and then back up. "Oh yea, but you need registration , not temp. papers. In order to have plates, we need to know that the car is registered and not just temporarily plated."

What?! Whatever. With the taste of defeat, James goes to his car to wait until the weekend for the test.

Saturday morning rolled around on bald tires..

The warm shower helped out somewhat. His head felt clearer, but he still knew he would not be standing for very long. With a towel wrapped around his waste and a ferret snapping at his ankles, he trudged out to the living room. Both his roommates were out of town, so he did not feel all that bad about walking about his apartment nearly naked. Plus, it was before 8:30, and nobody would be outside in a college town; everyone felt somewhat like James today. Only they did not have the same ability to fight hangovers.

The pot filled his lungs and started to give him the ever-hated choking felling. One hand instantly covered his lips. Smoke poured from his nose and mouth. Half a bowl later, and he did not feel anything. A bottle of orange juice would be the perfect cure for his throat, and that was on the way to the testing center.

The testing building was right down the street from where James lived. So, deciding to keep his prime parking spot for his car, he walked to the building. This could have been a dangerous affair; young people and foreigners need a driving test before the written test. And they drive down the alley where James was walking. In fact, as he headed towards the office, a girl of fifteen cautiously passed him. Half of her car was off the road, and the officer watching her drive was blue in the face from the lack of oxygen. Nonetheless, James made it to the office alive, leaving the girl to drive in reverse through the parking lot.

Inside, several people were jabbering in Japanese. Not the thing to be listening to with a hangover. James head started to spin due to the speed of the language. He quickly headed to the other side of the office, where the examination table sat.

A large lady was standing behind it, with an evil expression on her face. It looked as if she enjoyed watching people drive into light poles with there cars, crying and asking why she did not tell them to stop.

She spoke. "Yea. Whadda need?"

James reached into his jeans to his wallet. He gave the usual spiel about being a native of Michigan and needing an Ohio license.

The lady looked at him like he was nuts. Or high? Great. "Not now," James thought to himself. Just stay in control for ten more minutes and thinks will go smooth.

His heart started to pound, though. The lady just kept on staring at him. Then to his ID, and back to him. She looked too closely at him. He wasn't even carded this hard when he was 19 and using his oldest brother's ID for beer. His hands started to sweat and his heart stared to pound some more. Someone had to say something soon. Did he have to answer something? God, what was going on?!?

Finally she spoke again. "Fine. You need an eye exam. Take off your glasses. Tell me what you see and which side the light flashes in."

James was quite blind without his glasses. He knew that this would be entertaining; watching the lady enlarge the eye chart until he could barely see any number. It took well over a minute before she found out just how bad his eye sight was and decided that his license would be taken with his glasses on.

She spoke a third time. "Do both sides of the test with a pencil. If you have any questions, too bad."

She sounded strangely robotic during the entire episode. Her movements were likewise, grabbing at a predetermined stack of paper and another all-too-familiar stack of pencils.

As James laughed through the test, another young lady came in to take it. Her mother was right behind her, massaging her shoulders. She kept on giving her words of encouragement, like, "Don't worry, your sister had to take it four times, too," or, "now, you've been driving for three extra weeks, so you should know more about driving."

Great. Ohio lets people who fail the test not only more chances to take it, but also the ability to drive. Unbelievable. An entire family of poor drivers, too. The genetic pool in Ohio is low, and that should be enough proof for anyone who thinks otherwise.

Confidently, with the joke behind him, James strutted to the front counter. Setting both papers down, he looked up at the employee. She just stared back. "You've got to give it to her."

James followed her finger to the left side of the table, when an even larger lady was standing.
He quietly cleared his throat to give the expected reply.

"Oh."

Two smooth steps and he put the papers into her hands. He knew he had passed, but he still had to hear the age-old spiel about the right and wrong answers. What's the sense of taking a test if they're just going to give you the answers? Oh well. He needed the proof that he took it anyhow.

Then, she grabbed his Michigan license. "You won't be needing that."

"Hey," he exclaimed, his hand moving too slowly to grab on to any edge of the license to stop it. In fact by the time he even had his hand up to the table top, she had the license squarely seated on a stack of other out-of-state licenses. "What did you do that for?"

"Oh," she replied nonchalantly, "We just send these back to your state so they can cancel it. Just a precaution."

Well, he didn't know anyone to sell it to anyway.

The employee then ripped a sheet of paper off from a stack of paper and filled out all his pertinent information: name, age, height, weight, address, sex. The important stuff.

To finish the process she took out a notary stamp and stamped the right half of it. "This is your drivers license," she explained as if he were 10 years old. "Until you get your new license, keep this. You might need it if you get pulled over."

Yea, thanks.

She then explained the "whens" and "wheres" about getting the new picture license. Once again, she talked down to him. God, he thought, are my eyes that blood shot? He tried to smell himself. All he could check was his hands, which of course were going to smell like pot. But was it that strong? Did he give off that big of a hint? What could happen anyhow? He decided just to go with the flow.

Later.

Nine o'clock. Still an hour before "The Tick." It was going to work out. He would jump into the old clunker, which was going to go for $50 to a junk dealer just outside of town and scoot over to the B.M.V. Get a picture ID and zip back for his second-favorite cartoon, right behind "The Simpsons." And maybe "Scooby Doo." But that hadn't been shown since he went to high school. And of course Japanimation, which he couldn't consider cartoons because they were just too cool.

Driving the "Old Clunker" was a test in car diplomacy. First off, the car should have been put to rest about three years ago. And that's being generous. Nothing on the car was original, including the floorboard. That was a sheet of metal riveted on almost ten years ago; and it needed to be replaced. This car came from an age before fuel injection. Which meant as soon as the choke went, most people would have given up on it. But not James' Old Man. He went right ahead and put in a manual choke. "If it worked for my father's car," he said, "it will work for your car." Yea right.

The driver's side door of the old clunker was a perfect example of its condition. The metal was rusted all the way through the car along the bottom. Then, of course, due to the old age, the door was nearly falling off at the hinges. Nothing a little bondo would cure. Of course, James would never be able to use that door again, but safety was a major issue here. If there was one thing he did not want to hear was a traffic reporter ripping on his car during some morning radio show.

"Yea, Dick, the traffic is smooth. Wait! Some idiot just lost his door. What? Yea, you heard me right. His door just fell off and caused a semi-truck to jackknife. Oh the humanity! Why didn't the idiot do something to his door. We now have a major pile up on I-75 due to some orange car losing his door. "

Well, everything was right up to the "orange car." Oxidization does some cruel things to the color red. Even cops mistake it for orange.

But, for fifty bucks, he would no longer have to worry about it. All his Michigan disasters were behind him. A new car. A new computer. Everything was grand. A new start.

After fighting with the choke and the gas and the key and the battery and the coolant, he finally got the car rolling. Fortunately, the car wasn't going anywhere far away, so he wouldn't have to go through the standard ritual of filling the radiator up with water. Cracked blocks have a way of leaking all the coolant out. And that's not good.

But he would no longer have to worry about that. The new car beckoned him even now. "Drive me. Go ahead. Find some desolate strip of road and test me out. You can do it. You should do it. That's what I'm made for."

But, that wasn't on the agenda. The plan was to get the picture. Watch the cartoon. Drink the beer. Smoke the dope. Work on the computer (maybe). he went over this plan as he drove and before he even remembered that he didn't have a car radio, he was there. Time to end your life, James thought.

Now the easy part. Waiting in line. In front of him, some half giant spat dip onto the thick, posh carpet. "He probably sleeps with his sister, " James thought to himself. Old dry dip clung onto his uneven salt n' pepper mustache, which hung down past his lower lip. The half giant wore an old John Deere cap on his head. Of course he did. Every country bumpkin is not complete without one. His blue jean jacket seemed all the worse for wear, and it partially hid a flannel shirt. He seemed all the part for a man named "Jed."

The biggest question in the entire Ohio B. M. V. was, "Do you want to donate any organs?" This question did not go over well with "Jed." Jed looked at the employee, spat on the carpet, and exclaimed, "Hell no!" James almost reminded him that they wait until after you die before they take whatever you specify. Before he spoke though; he noticed that Jed was glaring at the poster that was hung up to advertise organ donations. It had a large picture of an ID, with the donor symbol in the middle of the ID. Atop of the ID, it said, "Do your part. Give organs." And the picture was of a colored lady.

Jed glared at that picture. Hate almost dripped from his pores. The Mason-Dixie line was drawn just below Toledo. He probably had a gun rack in his truck . And a white bed sheet in the glove box. He was probably also a volunteer cop. But that last statement is just speculation.

Anyhow, Jed was now gone and James was up to bat. He he walked forward to give his "paper ID" to the employee, walking on eggshells, trying to avoid the "land mines" laid by Jed. One wrong move and - BOOM !! - the soles of his shoes would be gone forever.

"Just sit down in front of the blue screen and get ready for a picture," said the employee. Once again, the employee sounded like she was talking to a three-year old. God, James hated that.

In Ohio, people over 21 got a regular ID picture. Blue screen and a face-on picture. But, if you were under 21, they decided to make an entirely different ID. A mug shot in front of a red screen. That way, the kids could only use their older sibling's IDs, and not try to deface their own. Smart move, if there ever was one in Ohio.

"Now just look into the camera."

He did. Still baked, he kind of looked through the camera, actually.

"Now smile. . . . . Smile. . ."

He tried to. He really did. But, something was telling his lips to stay still. But the employee didn't care. "Now, I'm not taking your picture until you smile." She was starting to sound like a K-mart associate trying to take baby pictures. "Give me a big smile. You can do it. That's right."

Driver's license should never look good. But they shouldn't deter someone from going out to the bars, either. This was both. And then some. Oh well. Better luck in four more years.