BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I’m calling this Version 1.0 because I have a sneaking suspicion that as my brainpan continues to leak, I am going to remember something else that fits this title and will need to use it again.

You know how it is… The leakage simply can’t be rushed any more than it can be contained. Believe me, I’ve tried. All the earplugs and cotton balls in the world won’t stop it. I’ve avoided having the little Dutch boy stick his fingers in my ears for the obvious reason – that being I don’t want any paint in my ear canal, of course… And, yeah, E K offered to plug my ears for me, but something told me I might not survive whatever she had in mind, so I declined. The point here being, the leak trickles on and what drips from the old brainpan doesn’t always happen in chronological order.

So, on with this little ditty…

Now, I want to point out that no matter what you read here, I am not in any way purporting, nor am I denying, the existence of “God”. Be it, ummm, he… uhhh… She?… I think we’ll stick with it… Be it the “one true God” as some would have you believe, or one out of an entire pantheon. My particular religious beliefs are my own, and yours are yours. In the interest of avoiding overt ridiculousity we should keep it that way.

However, there are  sayings that many of us use in our everyday lives that invoke this “God”, whoever he, she, or it may be. (BTW, if you ask Evil Kat she will tell you that God is in not only a she, but that She is She… However, she prefers to be addressed as “Oh High Exalted Queen Bitch of the Entire F*cking Universe”… Except in informal situations when you can just call her Mistress. She says “God” as a moniker is simply too passe.)

So, anyway, there are all these various sayings that invoke God, one of which is a bit of an exclamation I heard people use when I was growing up in the Southern U.S. –

“You don’t have the sense that God gave a goose!”

Fortunately, I don’t recall anyone saying this directly to me, but I definitely remember hearing it spouted at other folks who, in all honesty, didn’t have the common sense of a rock, so it wasn’t exactly a slanderous statement by any stretch of the imagination.

But, be that as it may, this very saying is what spawned the IBGG Local 747.

At this point I suspect you are wondering just what the hell the IBGG Local 747 is. Well, obviously it is a union. To my knowledge there have only been 3 members in the past 25 years – moi being one of them. None of us have ever paid union dues, but by the same token the union has never done anything for us either, so I guess we’re even.

BUT MURV! WHAT THE HELL IS THE IBGG?

Chill out. You don’t have to yell at me. Sheesh…

You see, to make a long story even more complex…

Well, no… I won’t do that. Let me see if I can simplify it instead… You see, I had this acquaintance who had a tendency to get tongue tied with every single sentence he spoke. Unless he was yelling at someone, but that’s a different story. Anyway, whenever he got frustrated and was trying to NOT yell, his tongue became so entwined in his eye teeth that he would go blind and you never knew what was going to come out of his mouth. One day such an instance occurred when he was trying to explain something extremely simply to someone, and said someone just wasn’t getting it. All of a sudden, we’ll call him Gary because that’s his name, shook his head, looked at this person with disgust and spouted –

“Dammit. You don’t have the sense to give God a goose, do ya?”

I dunno. It was pretty damn funny at the time. Maybe you just had to be there. At any rate, the IBGG – International Brotherhood of Goose Givers – was born. Our motto was, of course, “Go give God a goose.”

You are perfectly welcome to take that however you want.

Since I have God’s ear on a regular basis these days, I asked E K recently if she would like a goose. She slapped me, of course. Hard enough to rattle my brainpan and incite more leakage in fact. After she was through being a vengeful Goddess, she told me she could go for a Grey Goose and Tonic. I wasn’t surprised by this as she usually enjoys a drink or two after handing out a severe beating.

So… That’s all for now. I have to limp into the kitchen and mix a drink so I can go give God… Umm, I mean “Oh High Exalted Queen Bitch of the Entire F*cking Universe” a goose.

And as we know I’m all thumbs…

I wonder if this would be a good time to pay my union dues and look into their insurance options?

More to come…

Murv

This is probably going to sound a bit weird, but I think maybe Jerry Garcia came back as a squirrel and he’s living in my back yard with a whole raft of furry dead-heads.

Yeah, I’m sure you are probably wondering what I’ve been smoking that would make me think such a thing, but interestingly enough, that’s kind of the point behind this whole blog entry. Not the smoking per se, but the ingestion of psychedelic substances, and no, I’m not talking about a rainbow bomb pop from the ice cream dude.

Now, as a rule, I think squirrels are pretty cool. After all, I am a devout follower of Foamy, and I regularly exchange Tweets on Twitter with Butters The Squirrel. For those of you who are unfamiliar with these two tree dwelling rodents, Foamy is the activist with a foul mouth, and Butters is quite a bit more of a pacifist. Basically, I suppose I am covering all of the bases in the event of an unexpected “Squirrel Uprising.”

Now, lest you think I am merely playing both sides against the middle, I am also a great supporter of the squirrel kingdom across the board. I have a pinwheel feeder which I keep stocked with feed corn (incidentally, my father-in-law calls it a squirrel gymnasium), and when winter rolls around and the temperature drops off, a big part of my morning routine is preparing breakfast for the tree rats. I do this by breaking a couple of slabs of Ramen noodles into squirrel friendly sized pieces, then coating them with chunky peanut butter and rolling them in sunflower seeds & feed corn. Not exactly gourmet, but I haven’t had any complaints yet. In fact, Clem and Cletus, a couple of my regulars, can often be found peering into our dining room from the picture window while they wait for the restaurant to open.

But, let’s get back to Jerry and the Dead Heads living in my back yard. You see, I’m actually old enough to remember Jerry. I’m also old – and experimentally curious – enough to have experienced the Dead Head culture. Now, I never actually followed The Grateful Dead across the US in a beat up microbus. Truth is, I never even attended a Dead concert in person (I could only afford just so many concert tickets). However, this is not to say that in my younger, wilder, less inhibited, and somewhat stupider years I didn’t maybe partake of a few controlled substances.

Yeah, I inhaled.

And guess what, I don’t intend to run for public office, but if for some reason I do lose my mind and put my name on a ballot, here you go. No digging required. Get over it, odds are you inhaled too.

But, moving right along… There was another substance that made the rounds with the Dead Heads, that being The Magic Mushroom. Yep… Psylocibin containing psychedelic fungus. Happy toadstools from the cow pasture. Your ticket to the magic kingdom.

Did I ever partake of them? Well, I probably shouldn’t say… But in case you are wondering, for the record those things taste like crap. (whoops… oh well… didn’t say I was proud of it, but hey, I’m being honest here…)

And so, anyway, Funny Fungus is exactly why I think Jerry and the Furry Dead have pitched a tent city in my back yard. You see, the other day I pulled into the driveway, parked and all that jazz. However, unlike any other day I heard this loud thump as I climbed out of my truck. Darting my eyes in the direction of the noise I saw a wild eyed tree rat perched on the railing of my trailer. He began chittering at me, as squirrels tend to do, then darted off down the length of the flatbed following an erratic serpentine pattern. Against my better judgment, I followed the little furbag.

Before I even reached the back gate I saw a half dozen more squirrels running around the yard like their tails were on fire and their nuts were catchin’… Aww, come on… I mean like peanuts, walnuts, hickory nuts… sheesh, you dirty minded folks… Anywho, I watched as they darted about, jumped up onto the deck railing, beat their tiny little paws against their chests while doing these squeaky little, high-pitched Tarzan yells, somersaulted onto my BBQ pit, ran up a tree, jumped 72 feet to the roof, double back flipped into the wading pool, and then started all over again.

Let me tell you, it was a sight to behold.

I stood there wondering what had gotten into them when something caught my eye. A couple of the tree rats who weren’t engaged in happy jungle gym time were sitting back on their haunches atop a stump. In their paws they held huge chunks of brownish-orange fungi. Before long, one of the crazed rodents who had been doing the backstroke in the offspring’s pool ran up to the stump, tore a hunk of the fungus from the side, then sat back and began gnawing on it. My guess is that his Psylocibin levels were getting a bit low and he needed a booster.

This continued daily until the fungus was all gone. No big surprise there. I almost offered them a boom box and a stack of Dead CD’s, but they seemed to be getting along fine without tunes.

And, you know, I can’t say as that I blame them for the rampant, repeated frolicking and going back to the trough for more, so to speak. As I recall, the magic kingdom was a nice place to visit. Not a place where I’d want to live, but hey, it had it’s moments.

Still, with that said, if I ever catch the little bastards cooking up meth in the tool shed, I’m having squirrel and dumplings for dinner that night.

More to come…

Murv