Hell 2 Pay

Last month a suburban paper printed a news item about a suicidal youngster whose sister called the cops on him. They came in the back door and chased him down the street before tackling him. Whereupon he punched an officer in the face. And I thought I would let him tell you about the incident in his own words.

Apologies in advance . . .


U can't HIT policemen, I mean, u don't wanna go runnin from them but u can't be hittin em, either, even after they break down the back door of the house were u are stayin with ur sis & u are so SCARED u can't help runnin so fast u didn't even no ur legs were movin til u miraculously hit the turf on the neighbor's side of the hedge, ok it's miraculous b/c my pants were like 1/2 off at the time w/o shoes so I'm still not sure how I did that



THIS IS NOT ME . . .

BUT THIS IS HOW I FELT



ur runnin right past this 1 girl u used 2 like (do u remember Astrea???) of course it would HAVE 2b her and now ur like S--T! NO! I'm toast! & then u realllly are toast when some1 grabs u & ur rollin through the neighbor's kiddie pool & his screamin kids (my neighbor is Jerge btw he's a total IDJIT but that is another story) and there's water like evrywhere & it's cold n slippery & the Jerge's dog has ur LEG in his mouth WTH I mean bite me


& ur layin there flat on ur back under this monster blotting out the whole entire sky like a building & it's only after u hit him that u think U DID IT AHOLE like ur fist jus f-ing took off w/o thinking & slammed into this head that happen 2b sticking out of a uniform & YES u did u hit a cop & there WILL B HELL 2 PAY as usual but the bad news may NOT be just what ur thinkin howevr maybe that's cuz of my spelling? neway that is all 4 now. More l8r.

The Interpretation of Dreams

This is a serious post, so let's not have any monkey business. Uh, yeah. Sorry, Siggy old buddy. I have to admit, I did sort of steal the title from what may have been Sigmund Freud's greatest work, The Interpretation of Dreams. But, hey, he wrote a bunch of stuff. He can spare one title, right? *cough* Thanks, Siggy.

Dreams are interesting things. A hundred years after Siggy published his book, we're still studying them. And there's lots of confusion and disagreement about what dreams mean. Just ask me. I'll contradict everything you say and then I'll try to confuse you. See, what did I tell you?

Lots of studies have been done on dreaming, including one in 1978 on the effects of brain damage on dreaming. The idea was to chart the dreams of a bunch of monkeys after driving nails into their heads. Only, so many monkeys died they gave up. (sorry if you were eating)

If you follow that link to wiki you'll find another link at the bottom of their page to something called The Dream and Nightmare Laboratory in Montreal. Don't tell me you wouldn't have clicked on that. But you can see it got me nowhere. I guess if you want decent health care you really DO have to go to Canada. Unless you're a monkey, that is . . .

While I was facing this impasse, my daughter saved me and my car quite a few miles by suggesting that I google this laboratory instead. We discovered that it was struck by lightning twenty years ago in a freak thunderstorm, killing everyone inside -- and their bodies were never found.

Blah, blah, blah. Okay, I made that up. Maybe I've seen too many TV shows? The true story is quite a bit funnier. What I found was a former employee of the laboratory who's offering books, workshops, and internet classes promising "online dream mastery."

Can't you see THAT on my resume? Or at least it would be something to impress people at parties. When there was a lull in the conversation I could simply ask, "did I tell you that I'm an online dream master?" (fill in sounds of crickets chirping)

What is an online dream master, anyway? How is that different from an offline dream master? It's worth asking. Smart people like Siggy might think so. After all, we're still wondering what our dreams mean and how to interpret them.

Witness the popularity of someone like Charles McPhee, author, former radio talk show host and founder and president of Ask the Dream Doctor. I'd like to be founder and president of something, too! Hmmmm. Maybe I'll call it "I Am Wonderful."


Do you think I'm dreaming? What do you think about dreams? Have you had any interesting dreams lately?

Warning: Big Fat Lies Ahead

Several days ago, I got an email from zella at grammatically motivated (the same zella from zella kate -- do I sense this woman has a future in the publishing industry?). Her email stated that I had a limited amount of time to accept the award she'd offered me on her blog.

In the general flow of busyness I didn't think much more about it until last night. I was working late in my office when suddenly the window over my desk exploded and what felt like a concrete fist knocked me out of my chair. When I picked myself up off the floor, lying on my desk surrounded by pieces of my window, was a brick. And wrapped around the brick was this:
I suppose thanks are in order, (???) so let me begin by thanking my wonderful neighbor, Lucy, who helped me clean up the mess and who stayed until the police arrived. She also managed to eat all the hummus in my refrigerator.

The officer who responded to the call, Sergeant Scott Free, was a veritable Sherlock Holmes. He soon had my dog in handcuffs, but thankfully I managed to make bail so at least I won't have to visit Patches in jail. I'll get you a lawyer, Patches! Just as soon as Free returns my new Porsche, which he siezed as evidence for some reason.

I also want to thank Spammy, my insurance agent, who's been a real sport through the process of filing the claim to get the window replaced. He tells me that just as soon as he gets back from his cruise somewhere in the Fiji Islands, he'll get on it.





Phew. That ought to qualify me for this award! Anyone in the Stranger Links is welcome to it and may learn more about it here.

Holy Halftime!

On June 14, the six-story fiberglass colossus known as Touchdown Jesus because of its upraised arms, put on quite a show off Ohio I-75 north of Cincinatti. It was struck by lightning and burned to ashes, except for the underlying scaffolding. Supposedly, when the local fire department received the 911 call begging them to "save Jesus," they decided it was a prank call and hung up.







Hmmm. I guess they're feeling the heat now!











Hey! Get out of there you crazy kids . . .


Isn't it strange that a structure which cost a quarter of a million dollars to build had no lightning protection? Maybe this particular denomination didn't believe in lighting rods. (there's so many different churches out there, one of them has to believe that) Or, maybe they believed they had some kind of divine insurance policy.

It does seem strange that an event we sometimes associate with the wrath of God would fall so close to home. Is this indicative of some family trouble upstairs? Or could it be that we're just not as good at reading God's mind as we'd like to think we are? In case YOU need help reading God's mind, just remember this basic principle:

a. when bad things happen to you, you're being tested to prove what a good person you really are.

b. when bad things happen to people you don't like, they're being punished.

Get it?

Oh, yeah. About the fire department? I made that up. :)

This Post is the Pits! (Seven, to be Exact, But Who's Counting?)

Greetings, all. I was planning to post a treasure map that I'd discovered in the Stranger archives last week, but never mind. There are more important matters to discuss. The yin must have its yang.

If you're wondering where this is going, you're not alone. Let me give you a few more examples to illustrate the point:

French fries must have . . . . . . . . . . . loads of ketchup.

Spiderman must have . . . . . . . . . . . . really springy underwear.

Tiger Woods must have . . . . . . . . . . . crap, let's not even go there.

The point is that the post about my daughter's pickle obsession is finally going to be answered by one about my son and cherries. He walked into the kitchen the other night holding what remained of said fruit and initiated the following exchange:

Son: Guess what? There's seven cherries left.

Me: Is that a mystical portent of some kind?

Son: No, it just means I ate the rest.

Me: Mmm. Thanks.

Son: But seven is an interesting number . . .

Me: Well, that's nice of you to give me something else to think about -- especially since there's nothing left to eat.

Btw, here's a question for you. When I was working on this, I realized that I like Spiderman better than Batman. He seems friendlier and more human. Who do you prefer, Spiderman or Batman? Why?

Stranger Things Have Happened . . .

You may have noticed that the Stranger is not interested in disclosing much personal information about himself. Aha! If you answered this question in the affirmative than you have been paying waaay too much attention. I'll let it pass, though. Especially since I'm going to make an exception to that practice today by telling you that I've gone back to school.

Now, this disclosure does have a purpose. It's to warn you about what's coming. The Stranger, you see, has decided to study psychology. In fact, he's pursuing a master's in psychology. This means that he will soon be a master OF psychology. Think of psychology as a tall-masted whaling boat on the high seas. Now think of me as the bearded captain in a rain slicker and short-brimmed cap puffing a pipe in the quarterdeck.

Now, think of yourselves as mutineers. That shouldn't be too difficult. You're armed only with table legs, pewter knives, and scrub brushes, since your farsighted captain has locked everything else away. You're planning to sieze the ship and change our course for someplace more interesting -- like Hawaii or the Caribbean, perhaps? Forget it.

That metallic scraping noise is the sound of the key in the lock outside your door. Heheh. You're going to sit there and whittle a backscratcher out of the table leg with a butter knife while I read aloud from The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud. What's so terrible about that? It's only 471 pages. Now, where was I . . .

Changing the World . . . One Brain at a Time!

Yesterday on National Public Radio they were talking about "earth-shaking changes on a national scale." (You know NPR, it's the station that all the truly smart, educated people pretend to enjoy; sort of like wheat grass for the brain.) The enthused reporter used this phrase in referring to some historic event or another.

And I thought, maybe, the world would be a better place if we all strove for earth-shaking changes on a national scale. I'm not exactly sure what that would mean. But it sounds nice. The advantage is that you're starting small. You don't have to do as much.

In fact, why not take this further by reducing the scale of your earth-shaking changes to the local, or even the personal level? That's probably more realistic. And besides, if you mess up it will go easier on the clean-up crew.


Seriously, many philosophers seem to feel that the only earth-shaking changes are those which occur at the personal level. And maybe, in reality, those are the toughest changes of all? Yeah, forget I said anything. I'm going fishing.

What Are You Looking At? (Pickles Without Borders)

I haven't written anything in a couple weeks and suddenly it seems like I can't stop. This is partly my daughter's fault. She's home from college for the holidays. I walked into her bedroom the other day and discovered a pickle jar on her headboard.

Dad: Let's see. Some people have alarm clocks on their headboards. Books. Hairbrushes. Tissues. And you've got . . . a pickle jar?
Daughter: (still waking up at 3:00 in the afternoon) Nnnh.
Dad: Honey, why is there a pickle jar on your headboard?
Daughter: There was only one left and I didn't want anyone else to eat it.
Dad: Ah. (exit stage right)

The Spirits of Christmas Spirits

Does anyone object to hearing more about Christmas? Too bad. I mean, if you're in retail then the season actually starts in September, I guess. So why should it end before May? All right, for anyone who's still in the Christmas spirit, perhaps I can ruin it for you right now. I got this post from my subscriber, Martha, and I liked it so much I had to share it.

Make sure you read and follow the directions.

Jose Cuervo Christmas Cookies

1 cup of water

1 tsp baking soda

1 cup of sugar

1 tsp salt

1 cup of brown sugar

4 large eggs

1 cup nuts

2 cups of dried fruit

1 bottle Jose Cuervo Tequila

Sample the Cuervo to check quality. Take a large bowl, check the Cuervo again; to be sure it's of the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink.

Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl.

Add one peastoon of sugar. Beat again. At this point it's best to make sure the Cuervo is still okay, try another cup just in case.

Turn off the mixerer thingy.

Break 2 leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit.

Pick the frigging fruit off the floor.

Mix on the turner.

If the dried fruit gets stuck in the beaters just pry it loose with a drewscriver.

Sample the Cuervo to check for tonsisticity.

Next, sift two cups of salt, or something. Who geeves a sheet. Check the Jose Cuervo. Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts.

Add one table.

Add a spoon of sugar, why not? Whatever you can find.

Greash the oven.

Turn the cake to 360 degrees, and try not to fall over.

Don't forget to beat off the turner.

Finally, throw the bowl through the window, finish the Cose Juervo and make sure to put the stove in the wishwasher.

Cherry Mistmas!

No, you're not done in the kitchen. You still have some cutting and pasting to do if you'd like to follow this link to some strange Christmas decorations:

http://mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/42711.

A Modern-Day Iceman. Or, What the Hell does a Guy Have to Do to Get a Plumber in This Town?

Remember the mummified stone-age dude who turned up in the Alps in 1991? He'd gone out hiking in high altitudes and when he died up there his body was preserved for 5000 years. The best part of the whole thing was that the Italian police finally were able to cancel the missing persons report they'd issued back when they were still working out the letters of the Roman alphabet. Anyway, I think I can settle the scientific debate over what caused that guy's death.

I was cleaning out my x-files today and I found a newspaper article from several years ago that I'd saved primarily because it confirmed much of my suspicions about what's really going on in this stranger world of ours. And I decided that I had to share it with you. I have to say, it's stuff like this that makes the newspapers worth reading for me. This is an actual article and not my invention. However, the names were changed to protect the innocent.

Mummified Man Found in Front of TV
Hampton Bays, N.Y.

Called to investigate a report of burst pipes, police found the partially mummified body of a man dead for more than a year in a chair in front of his television, which was still on (I never thought about calling the police to fix my pipes. Given the difficulty of finding an actual plumber, I may try this). Vincenzo Ortega, 70, apparently died of natural causes, said Dr. Stuart Tinsley, deputy chief medical examiner. The home's dry air evidently preserved the body. Ortega lived alone, Tinsley said (that's a relief). "He hasn't been heard from in over a year," he said (also a relief). "Nobody sounded the alarm." Neighbors said they had thought Ortega was in a a hospital or nursing home. "We never thought to check on him," said neighbor Diane DeVries (of course she didn't. It's New York. He could have been sittting on the front porch the entire time and they still wouldn't have checked).

Please, God, not another commercial!


Thanks for visiting the stranger world archives today. In case you're interested, they're housed in the attic, where the air is dryer. My secretary says that helps to preserve the files. I wish it would help her work faster. I haven't heard from her in ages . . . Oh, you're still wondering what killed the Iceman? He was looking for a plumber, obviously.