Friday the 13th rolls around

I’m not superstitious but Friday the 13 can be bad for morale. You can’t not think about the looming day of bad luck. It pisses me off thinking about it. I’d like to get my hands on the sick fucker that came up with the idea of Friday the 13 being unlucky. I’d throttle the bastard. I swear to God I would…

Road Rage

I made it to Saturday the 14th without incident. Well…except for a minor encounter I had yesterday with this creep I cut off turning onto paradise drive. He was speeding up behind me as I merged into his lane. He braked in time to avoid a rear ender. Swerved around my right screaming obscenities. Jackknifed in front of me. At the stop I pulled around beside him and rolled down my window.

“Hey Friend? You might could use some Asshole Idiot Anger Management Therapy. I got a number you can call.”

Now he’s going nuts. Screaming. Flipping me off. The light turns green he bolts off onto the freeway onramp. I’m watching him drive away toward nowheresville…

He’s driving a Prius.

It could’ve been real ugly. I don’t like being raged on. Don’t matter if I cut him off or not. You need to show some respect for old dudes.

I carry a weapon I keep under my front passenger seat.

A fish clubber.

It’s under my car seat now because I may need it for the next asshole I enrage thanks to my Old Dude driving skills.

If I owned a Walther PPK handgun like the one Hitler used to shoot himself in the head I would keep it under the front seat of my Prius.

I would not use it to shoot myself in the head. I would use it to shoot some road rage asshole decides he needs to pick on a old man he thinks he’s better than. Point the Walther at him. Maybe even shoot his ear off. That’ll show him what’s what.

Anyway, the Walther PPK is a real nice little hand gun. James Bond owned one.

But think 🤔 about it, Gloomer….I’m not gonna shoot anybody.

I’d end up shooting myself in the foot.

I don’t even like guns.

Fact is, I’m afraid of guns. In Boot camp I fired my gun at the wrong target. My drill instructor made me sleep with it.

You ever sleep with a M1? Maybe it was a M14. I don’t remember. I don’t remember much about boot camp except we were scared shitless half the time some bastard drill instructor would rage on us. It was kind of like every day was friday the 13th….

Where was I?

I was talking about me and lethal weapons. Take my fish clubber. I’m not gonna use that, either. Think about it. I’ll end up whacking some creep upside his head and before you know it the cops throw me in jail for assault while the creep’s filing papers to sue my ass.

The best recourse in a road rage situation is to duck and run.

Dog Rage

I’m sitting at the office. Typing up this blog post. Today is the 15th of October. A Sunday. No more friday the 13th worries for the moment. I’m sitting here trying to type while the smelly irish dude is tucked in the corner, cuddling his little dog.

He grew a mustache in my absence. Not the dog, the smelly irish dude. He’s not smelly today. He’s not Irish, either. He’s not even Scottish. I forgot to mention this in a previous blog post. He only pretends to be Scottish or Irish. He likes to put on a act.

“Hello, Mate. Aint seen you around lately. How ya been?”

“I’ve been fine. I heard you’re not Irish.”

“Who told you I was Irish, Mate?”

“You’re not Scottish, either.”

“I’m Australian, Mate.”

He’s cradling his little dog. The dog is whining. Something has upset the dog.

“Now, now, Tippy. It’s okay. You’re okay now. Take it easy, my lad.”

The Smelly Australian gestures to the front of the Starbucks where a woman sits with a service dog.

“That Bitch sikked her big ass dog on poor Tippy.”

“The old lady in the wheelchair?”

“That’s the one, Mate.”

“Dog looks pretty tame to me.”

“Dog’s a hell hound, mate. A fuck’n Hell Hound.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” says the Lobotomy dude.

I stare over at the small adjacent corner table where the Lobotomy Dude likes to plant himself.

“What do you know about anything?” snapps smelly. “You was asleep when the Bitch sicked her dog on poor little Tippy.”

“I was meditating.”

“Same difference, mate.”

“Your dog, a chiwawa, lunged at the service dog. The service dog, a mild mannered golden retriever, merely nudged your dog with its jaw, which evidently terrorized your dog. That is what I observed.”

“You’re daft, Mate.”

The dog, Tippy, is growling at the Lobotomy Dude.

“Now, now, Tippy. Settle down little Mate…”

“You’re dog’s bad behavior is self-evident,” says the Lobotomy Dude.”

“I’m done here,” says the Smelly Australian Dude.

He’s getting up now to leave. “Come on Tippy. Let’s be off. We know when we’re not welcome.”

The Dog keeps glaring at the Lobotomy Dude.

The Dog is so pissed he’s changing color!

Who’s the hell hound here?

I’m thinking Tippy is the real danger to society. Not the mild mannered Golden Retriever.

Dog reminds me of the creep that went off on me Friday the 13th.

Mass Hysterical Rage

Now I’m alone in my corner of the office. Alone except for the Lobotomy Dude, who appears to be meditating. His head is bowed while he hums his song. It’s a song he always mutters. It goes something like this:

Humuna humuna hooominy huuminy humma humuna humuna….”

Something like that.

Only now his volume has increased. He’s literally shouting his humina huma.

I can’t take it anymore.

Okay, enough. I reach over and nudge him.

He opens his eyes wide and glares at me.

“Hey man. You were shouting.”

He stares at me for a moment, then says, “I was praying for the human race.”

“What for?”

“I’m praying the world comes to its senses. You may or may not be aware of the current world situation.”

He’s staring at me.

“Okay, yeah I know what’s going on. The Middle East is on fire. Mass Rage. Same deal in Europe. Russians on a rampage. We’re all gonna end up in the shit. But what can we do? You really think your prayer will help?”

He’s looking at me now as if I should know better.

His eyes grow. He display a kind of wonder.

“When I was a boy,” he says, “I was told of a time when Peace and Love were popular concepts.”

“You talking about the sixties?”

“Yes. My mother was a Hippie. After my Lobotomy she joined the Church Of Scientology. Now she sells Real Estate. She was once a beautiful free spirit. In those days, people talked of love and…”

“Wait a minute,” I say, cutting him off. “You Mom’s a Boomer. So am I. You’re talking to a dude that grew up in the Sixties.”

“Were those days really that beautiful?” he asks, his eyes glowing.

“No. People hated each other then just like they do today. The only difference, people back then had hope. We were all young and filled with hope.”

“That’s something at least.”

“You think?”

“I don’t think.”

“You don’t?”

“No…I don’t think. I had a Lobotomy.”

He goes back to humming.

Now I’m thinking. I’m thinking of a text I got yesterday from my old time buddy Don. He sent me a song by The Quicksilver Messenger Service. A band that was big back in the Sixties. I’m thinking of that Band. I’m remembering a singer and songwriter who was a member of the group. Dino Valenti. Dino wrote another song that was hugely popular in the Sixties. He wrote it in 1965, before he joined the Quicksilver Messenger Service. It was covered by the Youngbloods. You might remember it. Especially if you happen to be a Boomer.

It goes like this: