Archive for July, 2010
I didn’t write this… A good friend of mine from Vegas was kind enough to share it with me and now I’m sharing it with you… Enjoy…
If you have ever used an electric fence or know someone who has one, you should read this.
The language used is a bit salty but he tells it like it is without cursing. Stop reading if salty words offend thee.
If you don’t laugh hysterically at this….CHECK YOUR PULSE…this is funny….and true.
The following was sent by a retired dentist:
We have the standard six foot fence in the backyard, and a few months ago, I heard about burglaries increasing dramatically in the entire city. To make sure this never happened to me I got an electric fence and ran a single wire along the top of the fence.
Actually, I got the biggest cattle charger Tractor Supply had made for twenty-six miles of fence. I then used an eight foot long ground rod and drove it seven and a half feet into the ground. The ground rod is the key. The more you have in the ground the better the fence works.
One day I’m mowing the back yard with my cheapo Wal-Mart six horsepower big wheel push mower. The hot wire is broken and laying out in the yard. I knew for a fact that I unplugged the charger. I pushed the mower around the wire and reached down to grab it; to throw it out of the way.
It seems as though I hadn’t remembered to unplug it after all.
Now I’m standing there; I’ve got the running lawnmower in my right hand and the 1.7 giga-volt fence wire in the other hand. Keep in mind the charger is about the size of a marine battery and has a picture of an upside down cow on fire on the cover.
Time stood still.
The first thing I notice is my pecker trying to climb up the front side of my body. My ears curled downwards and I could feel the lawnmower ignition firing in the backside of my brain. Every time that Briggs & Stratton rolled over I could feel the spark in my head. I was literally at one with the engine.
It seems as though the fence charger and the piece of shit lawnmower were fighting over who would control my electrical impulses.
Science says you cannot crap, pee, and vomit at the same time. I beg to differ. Not only did I do all three at once, but my bowels emptied three different times in less than half a second. It was a Matrix kind of bowel movement; where time is creeping along and you’re all leaned back and BAM! BAM! BAM! you just crap your pants three times. It seemed like there were minutes in between but in reality it was so close together it was like exhaust pulses from a big block Chevy turning eight grand.
At this point I’m about thirty minutes (maybe two seconds) into holding onto the fence wire. My hand is wrapped around the wire palm down so I can’t let go. I grew up on a farm so I know all about electric fences … but Dad always had those piece of shit chargers made by International or whoever that were like nine volts and just kinda tickled.
This one I could not let go of. The eight foot long ground rod is now accepting signals from me through the permadamp Ark-La-Tex river bottom soil. At this point I’m thinking I’m going to have to just man up and take it until the lawnmower runs out of gas.
Damn! I think as I remember I just filled the tank! Now the lawnmower is starting to run rough. It has settled into a loping run pattern as if it had some kind of big lawnmower race cam in it. Covered in poop, pee, and with my vomit on my chest I think Oh God please let me die …. Pleeeeaze. But nooooo, it settles into the rough lumpy cam idle nicely and remains there like a big bore roller cam EFI motor waiting for the go command from its owner’s right foot.
So here I am in the middle of July, it’s one hundred and four degrees, there’s eighty percent humidity, and I’m standing in my own backyard, begging God to kill me. God did not take me that day …. he left me there covered in my own fluids to writhe in the misery my own stupidity had created.
I honestly don’t know how I got loose from the wire…
I woke up laying on the ground hours later. The lawnmower was beside me; out of gas. It was later on in the day and I was sunburned.
There were two large dead grass spots where I had been standing, and then another long skinny dead spot where the wire had laid while I was on the ground still holding on to it. I assume I finally had a seizure and in the resulting thrashing had somehow let go of the wire.
Upon waking from my electrically induced sleep I realized a few things:
1 – Three of my teeth seem to have melted.
2 – I now have cramps in the bottoms of my feet and my right butt cheek. (Not the left, just the right.)
3 – Poop, pee, and vomit when all mixed together, do not smell as bad as you might think.
4 – My left eye will not open.
5 – My right eye will not close.
6 – The lawnmower runs like a sumbitch now. Seriously! I think our little session cleared out some carbon fouling or something because it was better than new after that.
7 – My nuts are still smaller than average yet they are almost a foot long.
8 – I can turn on the television in the game room by farting while thinking of the number four. (Still don’t understand this???)
That day changed my life. I now have a new-found respect for things. I appreciate the little things more, and now I always triple check to make sure the fence is unplugged before I mow.
The good news is that if a burglar does try to come over the fence I can clearly visualize what my security system will do to him. THAT gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling all over which also reminds me to triple check before I mow.
I was visiting my yahoo home page when the bolded caption “Marilyn Monroe’s final home for sale” caught my eye. My eyes scanned the small blurb below it and I saw a link labeled “photo tour.”
I think most of us are aware of the tragic and too early passing of Miss Monroe. I’m also sure there are many who wonder what really transpired on the night of August 4th, 1962. While I’m quite familiar with the legend that is Marilyn Monroe I’ve never felt compelled to study her life in great detail. However, this doesn’t mean I’m not saddened by how early it ended.
I clicked the hyper-link and it opened up a short article; included were eight photographs of her house. Her last house. In fact her first and only house. I sat transfixed for a moment just staring at that first picture. It showed the exterior of the house, the pool and some of the landscaping. I don’t know what I was expecting to see but it certainly wasn’t this. The house is absolutely beautiful. And small. And tasteful. I felt as if I was being allowed to see another side of Marilyn and perhaps I was. Here is the home of the girl next door. The home of Norma Jean…
I finally tore my gaze away from the picture long enough to read the accompanying article. Marilyn purchased the house in 1962 for $90,000.00. She had a fifteen year mortgage and the payments were $320.00. Wow. Now it’s on the market for $3.6 million. I don’t even want to contemplate what a monthly payment could be for a loan that size.
Marilyn loved this house. It was “her” house. She was extremely proud of the fact that she had purchased it all by herself. She took a trip to Mexico just to find fabrics and furnishings to decorate it. She loved the gardens. She loved the pool. Sadly she was gone before ever having the chance to go for a swim.
I sat and looked through the photographs a few more times. I enjoyed seeing the peacefulness of the house; it was comforting and I can see why she loved it. I doubt much has changed since she originally bought it. It saddened me to realize she had only occupied it for a few short months before her death. I sincerely hope they were happy months for her…
A few nights ago I received a spur of the moment invitation to the Oakland A’s versus the New York Yankees.
Ooo, what fun!
Of course my answer was an immediate and emphatic “YES!”
My friend and I arrived early. We sat outside and nursed a couple beers until game time. Well, okay, I nursed my way through two and he actually drank his… In a timely manner no less…
The beer was gone; it was almost game time so we made our way to the stadium entrance and through security. We presented our tickets to be scanned and then we were off to find our seats. It was also “dollar night” at the stadium which meant we decided to each get a “dollar dog” AND a bratwurst. Wow, talk about a lot of food! I almost couldn’t eat breakfast the following morning.
Anyway, our seats were located in the fifth row behind and to the right of home plate. Great location right?
The game had started; the late-comers were trickling in and filling up the remaining empty seats. It was the bottom of the first when an older gentleman and his somewhat younger female counterpart took the two empty chairs in front of and slightly to my left. They both sat down and then, from under his jacket, he whipped out… Binoculars…
Uh huh… Mm hmm… (Minds out of the gutter please!)
Just for the record, I’m talking about BINOCULARS! These weren’t the run-of-the-mill, compact yet powerful ones. These were the humungous, bulky, ancient, and probably the very first pair off the factory assembly-line. This pair is to binoculars what the original cell phones are to today’s cell phones. In other words they are pre-historic dinosaurs…
Dude… The sixties just called… They want their binoculars back!!
So at this point I was sitting there in horrified silence. I was wondering how I was supposed to see around, or better yet, through those monstrosities! I could no longer see home plate. I could no longer see the batters AT the plate and I had just lost sight of a third of the first-base line.
Did I mention he was in the FOURTH row?
Really?!? A person needs binoculars to watch a game from that distance?
The first couple of innings were quiet which meant I was sort of watching the guy, his date, And. His. Binoculars. In my defense I really had no choice with regards to the binoculars. They kept swinging through my line of sight with a timeliness that would have made “Old Faithful” jealous.
I also took this time to make a few scathing comments about the man, the woman, and the binoculars to my companion. Judging by the way the woman kept asking questions while still looking completely mystified when she received the answers I decided they were on a first or second date. The real reason the guy needed binoculars was because he didn’t want to wear glasses… Personally I would have just sucked it up and worn contact lenses…
Of course at this point my sarcastic side reared its ugly head. I started giggling uncontrollably at my thoughts. I leaned over and softly whispered in my friend’s ear…
“If he has to use binoculars from this distance do you think he uses a magnifying glass in the bathroom?”
Returning to the game…
The stadium was packed. The game itself was great, as long as you were a Yankees fan…
Another woman sitting directly to my left was an A’s fan. She wasn’t happy but how upset could she really be? She arrived. She sat down. She then proceeded to discuss someone’s new baby, how great so-and-so looked, someone else’s high school graduation, some trip she went on and in her downtime from talking she texted, facebooked AND played scrabble on her new 4G. I contemplated asking her if she actually knew she was coming to a baseball game or if her husband just showed up at the stadium with her in tow… Something like: Surprise!! Happy Anniversary honey!!
Meanwhile, sometime during the sixth inning, my binocular toting nemesis decided he no longer had any interest in watching the game. From that point forward he proceeded to use those hideous things to scan the stands.
You know, I can sort of accept the fact that this guy felt he needed to bring, and use, his binoculars. Maybe he didn’t understand where his seat was. Maybe he figured since he brought them he should use them. However, when a person repeatedly covers up my view of the ENTIRE baseball field so he can check out people in the stands I kind of have an issue with that.
I successfully made it to the bottom of the eighth before I could take no more!! Those binoculars were moving side to side and up and down faster than a professional dancer performing the “Jump and Jive.” Smoke was beginning to waft from my ears!
I leaned forward and tapped him gently on the shoulder. I explained in a very nice manner (Really! I did!) that I was having difficulty seeing around his binoculars since he was moving them all over to look at the stands.
His immediate response was a dirty look. He kind of shrugged his shoulders and opened his mouth in an attempt to reply but nothing came out. I leaned back in my seat. Frankly I wasn’t interested in what he had to say. I just wanted the madness to end!
Oh my goodness!
He stood up! And then? He did an incredible thing! He moved to the empty seat on the left of his female companion and sat down!!
I heard the “angels in the outfield” singing “Hallelujah!”
His date leaned toward him and with her mystified expression still firmly in place she asked him a question. He answered and at this point she turned in her chair to give me the “look of death” as my friend so succinctly put it.
I knew it was coming. I ignored it, and her, and just kept watching the game. That was all I had wanted to do from the first inning.
The moral of this story?
If you’re sitting in the fourth row ANYWHERE close to home plate you really can leave your binoculars at home… Right next to the antique Alexander Bell telephone…
However, if you really can’t see, at least do the rest of us baseball lovers a favor and bring a more compact pair…