Monthly Archive for September, 2005

September 30, 2005

Published on 9/30/2005 in Dear Diarrhea. 0 Comments

A girl in a purple cast just hobbled out of the coffee shop and it reminded me of how badly I wanted a cast as a kid. Never had the option to have a colored cast back in my bone breaking fantasy days, only the white ones, which would’ve been the perfect blank pallet for all my friends to sign. But nope, never had a cast. Man, purple!? That would’ve been fun to have on a limb for six to eight weeks… I wonder how long a kid will hang on to an old cast after he or she gets it removed. I mean, there are a lot of memories written on a cast. I’d love to get my hands on a few vintage casts for an art project. It would be pretty hard to find a used child’s cast, not like mothers really give them away to the Goodwill or anything. I could see it now, a mother getting in a fight with her son and then threatening to give his old cast away. It would go something like this…

A young mother is sitting in the kitchen with an acorn-patterned apron around her waist. She is tired and is making a peanut butter and jelly bagel for her son of 12.

SON: But…. But…. But, Mom! But, but but-

MOM: Don’t but me, mister! I told you I will NOT get you a fishing rod! If you want fish, go to the store and buy some fish with your allowance but I’m not about to get you a fishing pole for you to run around with and ruin my basement. The answer is NO!

SON: But, but MOM! Alex and his dad go fishing and they say it’s really good for their relationship. It’s not about catching anything-

MOM: Shut it off, Jimmy! Shut it off! If you ask me one more time for a fishing rod I’ll take your cast that you love so much and give it to the Salvation Army. You know how many starving and lonely kids out there could use a good cast? They can’t AFFORD a cast and when they do break a bone they have to get their friends to sign their broken limbs right there on the skin itself. You know how badly that would hurt, Jimmy? Do you!?

SON: No… I don’t know if it would hurt or not Mom, I, I just want a fishing rod so Dad and I can spend some time together, that’s all.

Mom slams down her apron and goes into her purse and hands Jimmy a wad of cash.

MOM: Here Jimmy! Go on down to the butchers market and get you and your father some goddamn snapper! Go! Get about ten pounds of it, put it in a bucket of water, and sit with your father in the back yard and act like you’re fishing! Go!

SON: (Beginning to cry) That’s not it mom… It’s not about catching any fish… I… (sobbing) I just want to go fishing with dad, that’s all…

MOM: That’s it! That’s it! The cast is coming off right now!

Mom goes into the drawer and gets a pair of industrial poultry scissors and goes over to Jimmy and starts cutting the cast off his arm.

SON: No! No, Mom! I still have another week to go! Nooo!!!

MOM: No you don’t young man! I let you keep that cast on for THREE MONTHS longer than you were suppose to have it on! THREE MONTHS! It’s coming off right this minute! (Cutting it off and muttering under her breath) Fishing pole… I’ll give you and your father a goddamn fishing pole, right up both your asses… Geez-us, that man is brain washing you now with all that fishing pole shit…

SON: Please don’t give my cast to the Salvation Army? Please!?

Mom cuts it off and puts the bright neon green cast with all of it’s signatures and doodles all over it and slams it into her purse with authority, causing plaster dust to fly up into her face. She begins to sneeze uncontrollably.

MOM: (sneezing) Ha-chew! Ha-chew! Damnit Jimmy! Ha… ha… ha-chew! Shit! Ha-chew!

Jimmy is smelling his crusty and lifeless looking arm, flaking and smelling scaly dead patches of skin like a scratch’n sniff from a crackerjack box.

MOM: Wash your arms off with soap… ha-chew! Stop smelling your arm, Jimmy! Ha… ha-chew! Jimmy! Go wash your goddamn arm and wait for me in the car! We’re going to the Salvation Army right now!

SON: But, but NO Mom! I wanna keep my cast! All my friends signed it and I-

MOM: NOW! Wash and MOVE, Son!

Cut to fifteen minutes later in the Salvation Army.

Mom has a bag of random clothes, Jimmy’s cast, and a dead ficus tree all laid out on the counter. She is filling out a tax form. Jimmy is holding a framed picture of a father and son sitting on a boat holding a huge catfish with a blue ribbon around the fish’s neck. A sign behind the boat reads, “1976 Cable County Fish Olympics”.

SON: Mom?… (Nothing) Mom?

MOM: What!

SON: Can I get this?

Mom is not looking.

MOM: As long as it can fit on your lap and I don’t have to carry it, I don’t care what you buy with your allowance.

Jimmy pays for the picture and the two walk out toward the door to find a strapping young redheaded model looking type of guy struggling to open the door with his foot. This guy, who will be played by me, is holding a huge bag of care-bears and can after can of rice pudding and is unable to open the door. Jimmy helps him out.

BOBBY: Thanks pal. Wow, check out that rash on your arm. You just have a cast removed errrrrrrrrrr…. Errrrrrr? Errrrrrrr?

MOM: Answer him Jimmy! Can’t you see that he is saying errrrr? That means he’s asking you a question?

SON: Oh! I was all like, errrrr? What does that mean… Ha ha… Yup, I just got it taken off by my mother and I wanted to keep it and she got mad at me for wanting a fishing pole and then she cut it off and she just gave it away to these people here at the salvation army and-

MOM: Enough Jimmy! He didn’t ask for your life story! Come on, let the man do his thing and let’s get out of here.

BOBBY: Oh, it’s all right… I think that was a good story. Anyway, see ya around and once again, thanks for holding the door for me.

Bobby walks away and nods his head at them as if to say, “See ya around”

Cut to two nights later in the same kitchen.

Mom is screaming at Jimmy and his father as the two father and son combo work on a fishing boat toy model. Mom is wearing an apron with a bunch of cats wearing diapers all over it that says, ‘If There Are Too Many Cat’s With Diarrhea In The Kitchen… Get Out!”

MOM: Can’t you take that to the roof or something?! That glue is gonna knock us all out and we’re all gonna die because of your hobbies! Take it out of the kitchen, NOW!

The father and son start to pack up the model and are interrupted by the front door bell.

SON: I’ll get it!

He runs and opens the door and standing on his porch is Bobby from the Salvation Army holding his old cast in one hand and a new fishing rod in the other.

BOBBY: Hello, is one…(Looking at the cast and reading random names off of it) Rebecca Johnson here?

SON: (smiling) No.

BOBBY: Ummm, well is there a Peter “The Ball Sniffer” Thompson here?

SON: (laughing really hard) No…

BOBBY: What about… Prezident Bush with a… Z? What’s that all about?

SON: He came to our school and he signed my cast. I know, that’s another reason why I wanted to keep my cast… It’s gonna be worth a lot of money one day with the president of the United States signature on it…

BOBBY: (pointing to “Jimmy’s Cast” written bubble letters) Oh! You must be Jimmy!

SON: Yes, that’s me! And you brought my cast back! Yay!!!

Bobby hands him the cast. Jimmy hugs and smells it, smiling and looking carefully behind him to see if his mother is coming. He closes the door behind him very softly and continues chatting with Bobby on the porch.

SON: Thank you soooo much… Mr….

BOBBY: McFriendship. Bobby McFriendship, nice to meet you.

They shake hands.

BOBBY: I also have a little something else to give you… I was reading your cast and one of the pictures that was sketched on it caught my eye.

Bobby points to a sketch of a fishing pole with a big fish hooked on it with a thought bubble coming from the fish that says, “I really want someone like a good father and son team to catch me next time…Uhggg!”

BOBBY: And so I found this old brand new thing laying around in a sporting goods store and I thought you might wanna try it out, see if you can catch anything with it.

SON: Ooh… ooh!!! I love it but I can’t-

BOBBY: And the coolest thing about this fishing pole is that it folds into this…

Bobby takes the pole apart into four smaller pieces and puts it into a little bag about two feet long and then hands it to Jimmy.

BOBBY: See? Easy as one two three four and five! Small enough to hide under your bed or even under a bush like that.

Bobby points to a bush by the porch. Jimmy smiles.

The screaming of Jimmy’s mother coming toward the door interrupts the two.

MOM: Jimmy?! Jimmy?! Who’s at the door?!

Jimmy quickly takes the rod and cast and puts it under the bush. Mom opens the door and just misses the shenanigans…

MOM: (to Bobby) Aren’t you-

BOBBY: The guy from the other day.

SON: The errrrrr guy.

MOM: That’s right. What are you doing here?

BOBBY: Ummm, oh.. (pulls out a pink piece of paper) you left this tax form at the Salvation Army and I thought you might want it for tax purposes and all…

MOM: My oh my…. That’s the sweetest thing… that was really kind of you to do… Thank you very much. (after a couple silent beats of looking at the form she looks at Jimmy) Now go inside and help your father with the glue smell!

Jimmy smiles at Bobby.

SON: Bye Mr. McFriendship! See ya on the lake!

Mom looks at Jimmy and then Bobby. She shakes her head.

BOBBY: Well, anyway. Hope you have a good night… I better go.

MOM: Thanks again.

Bobby walks off. The mother looks at the tax form, smells and inspects it, then folds it up and puts it in her pocket and closes the door.

THE END

And that’s about it for me and this diarrhea. I love it when I can bring a family together like I did. Makes me really happy…

September 22, 2005

Published on 9/22/2005 in Dear Diarrhea. 2 Comments

I’m thinking about how wonderful it is to visit home. Home being the western North Carolina foothills. Elkin, NC to be exact. My folks live in a little mountain house tucked under a dozen or so walnut trees and it’s that time of year when the nuts fall onto the roof and in the yard leaving green tangerine-sized walnuts everywhere for my father to harvest and for the squirrels take for burial. I did my part of walnut removal by shooting one of the walnuts out of the trees yesterday with my mothers new 22 rifle. Ya see, my sister bought my mother a gun so she could fend off a rabid animal or any other crazed animal… oh, I don’t know… like a HUMAN… if she had too. Which she reluctantly agreed to after we reminded her that she and my dad lived out in the middle of the woods with not a whole lot of immediate help to be found. So, I’m warning ya now if you read this and have the urge to go out to my parent’s house and test their will, my mother is a hell of a shot and if you want keep your pinky finger, I’d stay the hell off her property, by god!

Anyway, I got to love target shooting while I was out there because there isn’t a whole lot to do in the county and I ended up being a pretty good shot if I do say so myself. It only took me two tries to shoot a walnut out of one of the trees which was about forty feet up in the air. Took it down by the stem too, which was what I was aiming for I might add. No need for hitting it in the meaty part of the nut, too easy… Of course I used it as a target right after it fell from the tree, propping it up on an old Dell Computer box and slowly taking about twenty-five paces, turning around and blasting the innocent nut into tens and tens of pieces. Now THAT was satisfying! Just like the retarded retarded west! I love shooting that gun! Geez, the more I think about it the more I want one! Target practice is much more fun than I ever gave it credit for. Especially now that I actually get the chance to do it.

I can remember BEGGING my mother for a pellet gun as a kid starting at the age of seven probably, and every year she’d reject my request sighing that guns will never be introduced into the house as long as she was around. At the time we lived in downtown North Wilkesboro and not in the country like they are now so a pellet gun wasn’t really an option in the big city. But then FINALLY, after years and years of spastic tantrums and breath holding, she eventually caved in and bought me a BB gun when I was about 12. But it was the wimpy kind that you cock once and it shoots just hard enough to break a wine glass. Nothing that KILLS anything like my friend George had. He had the kind of gun that not only did you have the choice of shooting the shiny and fashionable BB’s or the much more dangerous and lethal lead pellet, but it was the kind that you pump as many times as you could for about 20 times the power of mine. Just about as powerful as a small caliber rifle. I mean you could take out a streetlight from fifty yards away! Powerful! But not mine… All old cock-and-shoot was good for was a back-up gun when George’s arm got tired from pumping his man gun into a killing machine. No, mine was mainly used for show when we wanted to lay out our cache of guns knives and throwing stars for the neighborhood kids to gaze at. Mine was always the “cute gun” or the “queer shooter” while George’s was the straight shooter.

I did have a wonderfully stupid memory with my cock-and-shoot. I remember doing what to this day is ranked in the top ten of the most stupid things I’ve done to myself. We had a lot of daffodils growing around our house and they became pretty good targets for me for some reason. Probably because it was one of the few things that I could destroy with my gun. So, if you looked around the yard in early spring you’d see a bunch of yellow daffodils with holes shot in them from ranges of twenty yards all the way down to two inches. That’s right, I would take out a daffodil point blank if I was in the mood. Maybe out of pure spite or just the young, pent up anger towards my mother for not getting me a pellet gun, but I did a number on a pack of wild daffodil, by god! This one time I was really pissed at an old yellow and I pushed the barrel of the gun down the middle of the flower, and while holding the stem, shot a BB point blank through the flower and into my thumb. That’s when I realized that my little wimpy BB gun was PLENTY powerful enough, thank you. Powerful enough to rip right through the flower that I was holding in my HAND!!! And right smack into my thumb for a bloody reminder of why my mother didn’t want me having a gun in the first place… Oh, and by the way, my sister who is sitting right beside me (not the one that bought mom her gun. I have two sisters and this is the other one) just reminded me that I shot her in the leg and she still has the scar to prove it. Or was it from one of my throwing stars!!! That was my weapon of choice! Something that mom never knew I purchased for myself… Even then I was a good shot. You give me a throwing star and a sibling’s leg or an unruly daffodil and I was gonna hit my mark or shit was hitting someone in the fan! Which brings me back to my accomplishment yesterday in the country with my mother’s gun and plenty of time to kill. In the pictures below you will see an ordinary quarter dollar coin. Then you’ll see a picture of me aiming at that quarter dollar with a 22 caliber rifle owned by one Claudia Tisdale…. And the last is the result of me standing twenty-five feet away and blowing a hot lead injection into the mouth of George himself with oh, I don’t know… ONE TRY!!! I kid you not! I hit it on the first try and I’m proud to say that sharp shooting will soon be on my resume from now on. Under special skills that is… It will be added to… Golf, Hiking, Physical Comedy, Throwing stars at movie stars, Basketball, Eating Squash, and now… Sharp Shooter!!! Yay!

Soooo, take a look-see and gaze at the magic that a gun can do to a quarter. You can’t find a cooler looking souvenir! And YES, it will be on BobBay in the near future once I finally get it up on my site… That’s another topic that I’ll get to later but for now, enjoy the pictures!!! Let’s go violence!!!

The victim

The shot

The result

September 13, 2005

Published on 9/13/2005 in Dear Diarrhea. 0 Comments

I just saw an interesting thing… A man in an incredibly wrinkled suit just walked past me carrying a brand new ironing board and a bag from k-mart, that if I was a real detective, (one that gets paid for his observations and deductions) I would guess the bag contained an iron. But this guy practically sped-walked past me to what I’m assuming would be a random electrical outlet somewhere in a park so he could press his suit. This is where I’d like to have a team of photographers that I can call at a moments notice and we could follow this wrinkly suited man like a pack of paparazzi and document his every move. I mean what would you do if you were in a hurry to get to work or to a meeting and out of nowhere, a pack of paparazzi starts following you asking you questions and stuff like that; putting microphones and tape recorders in your face, flashing away with their Cannons and Nikons as fast as they can pull the trigger… Let me act out a scene that might have happened if I questioned the iron man with my paparazzi in tow…

It would go something like this…

Open up on a beautiful late summer day in downtown Manhattan.

A man in his late thirties comes slamming through the revolving doors of K-Mart holding an ironing board under one arm and a bag of irons in the other hand. (I’m adding more irons for the story to make it more dramatic. I could see this guy double fisting a couple irons to remove the massive amounts of wrinkles in his suit, so it IS possible)

He looks both ways for oncoming traffic in the busy Astor Place intersection and darts down Lafayette Street heading downtown walking at a super fast clip…

As soon as he about a fifty yards down the street, a team of trigger happy paparazzi follows me (Bobby) as I hold out a microphone running along side of the man asking a barrage of questions.

BOBBY: Excuse me Sir… Excuse me!… Sir, please… One second of your time, Sir…

The man is shocked. Looking around him to see if Bobby and the photog’s were talking to someone behind him.

BOBBY: No, I’m talking to you Sir… You with the ironing board…

MAN: Me?!

BOBBY: (a little out of breath) Yes YOU! You’re the only one running with an ironing board! … Quick question… I noticed that you were running out of K-Mart with that Ironing board!… Is it because your suit is wrinkled?!… Sir?!

The man stops at a stop light… Panting a little, he wipes his brow off with the K-Mart bag. The paparazzi snaps away like hundreds of little explosions, blinding the man temporarily… He squints his eyes. People are now stopping on the street to watch the scene. Bobby yells at the crowd.

BOBBY: Stop staring at him! Can’t you see this man is wrinkled!

Bobby pulls out a can of pepper spray and sprays it in the direction of a family that Bobby just yelled at. A father and mother in their early forties pick up their ten year old schoolboy and cover his eyes.

BOBBY: Yhah! Yhah!!! Now GET! Yhah! Yhah! Get outta here!

The family scurries away just as the light turns green. The man follows the family across the street as they run away. Bobby and the photogs follow both the man and the family, taking photos as fast as they can.

BOBBY: Wait!!… I just want to know if you’re about to iron your suit!… I’d be careful if I were you!!!

The family thinks the whole group is after them and they begin to panic. The mother begins throwing bottles of old baby formula at the paparazzi. One of the bottles hits Bobby in the face, cracking a bloody gash over his upper lip. Blood is everywhere.

BOBBY: (Tasting the formula) This is old baby formula! She’s carrying around old baby formula!! Let’s move!!!

Bobby waves his hands to the paparazzi and they move in on the family. The iron man takes advantage of this and stops at a park bench to catch his breath. Bobby and the group fly right past him and towards the family.

Bobby catches up to the terrified family with his outstretched microphone.

BOBBY: (Spitting blood as he yells) Excuse me?! Ma’am!… Excuse me!… Why are you carrying old baby-

The mother throws one of her son’s shoes at Bobby. Bobby ducks just in time as the shoe hits one of the lead photographers, causing him to fall.

Then it’s like a paparazzi domino effect as they all fall over each other, one by one hitting the ground in a huge thud as they neglect to brace their falls so not to hurt the cameras. Bobby slows down as the family takes off into the sunset.

MOTHER: (A distant scream as they run off) Freaks!

BOBBY: You and who’s army!!!

Bobby stops and then turns to see if the paparazzi are okay.

Bobby immediately picks up one of the cameras and snaps one of the most ironic scenes he’s ever experienced in his life. He snaps a picture of the paparazzi all knocked out cold, unconsciously snapping photos, looking like a bunch of smashed lighting bugs randomly lighting up before they die.

Bobby then wipes his bloody mouth off with his sleeve and walks back towards K-Mart to by a new shirt and some stitches for his cut.

Bobby walks about a block before he notices the man from before ironing his suit in the park across the street from him. The man had hotwired his irons into a street lamp and was double fisting a couple irons and pressing his jacket as fast as he could, completely tuning out everyone around him, including a bloody mouth Bobby who was quietly approaching him.

Bobby is now a few feet from the iron man.

BOBBY: (clearing his throat) Uh-hummm!

The man looks up and is terrified, like a deer with head lice.

SNAP!

Bobby takes his picture.

BOBBY: Just as I suspected… Just as I suspected…

Bobby wipes his bloody mouth again, turns away and walks toward K-Mart.

The End…

And that’s what would probably have happened if I turned loose a paparazzi on this wrinkle suited stranger. Or something close to that..

September 7, 2005

Published on 9/7/2005 in Dear Diarrhea. 2 Comments

This is a strange time and I haven’t had the energy or funny to write too much with all of the shit that’s going on with the world. Anyway, life must go on and that includes me…

I just got back from Woodstock and it was such a beautiful trip that I’m ready as hell to get a place up there. Might as well throw this out… AGAIN, but I want to go in with a few people to buy some land near the Woodstock area and start a commune. A place to live off the land just in case more crap happens where we need to get out of the city and raise goats and chickens and build a green colored green house and dig out a pond for the chickens to swim in and do all the little things necessary to make life easier during times of war and crisis. Not trying to be a doomsayer, but I think it would be nice to have that option anyway, even if nothing ever happens to the world in a negative way again, it’s still pretty cool to be able to live off some land. Soooo, anyone that is interested, let me know… I’m being very serious too.

We can call our land something special too, something like “Happy Farms” or something like, “God’s Town and Country” or “Heaven’s Party Prairie”… You get the drift… But if we had a little land that was sectioned off between a few people and we had in the deed that we could never sell it to anyone else but the original buyers, we would have the makings of an affordable community that would house the coolest kids in town. I would be the president of the land and then we could elect a VP and an electrician and a doctor and a dentist and a lawnmower repair guy (or girl!), basically start a new town and not allow mean people in it at all costs. We would have goats walking the streets and chickens living in mailboxes and all sorts of crazy country life that would amuse each and every one of us…. The more I write about it the more and more this “land” thing is starting to turn into a “town” thing, which is not completely out of the picture. Why the fuck NOT buy an old ghost town and revamp it with only people that we like and have common interests in. And instead of me being president of a plot of land, I’d just anoint myself the mayor of the town and rename it, “Tisdaleville”
or something like, “Bobbykill” or “Tizboro”… Whatever, I think ya get my drift… And hey, I’m not against naming the town after one of you guys either… and when I say you guys, I’m talking about the people that contact me with a huge wad of money and a stellar FICO score and are ready to pull the trigger on buying a ghost town in the Catskill region. Let’s say someone with the name of, oh, I don’t know… Anyone from the College Humor dot com corporation, someone maybe with the name “Ricky” or “Josh”, something like that, and they help me buy a town and let me be the mayor… I’d be more than willing to call the town “Rickyton” or “Josh Cove”… Or collegehumor.comville… Something catchy like that… As long as I’m the mayor and I own and operate the only comedy club in town, I’d be super pumped to give up my name of the town to someone else… Done and done!

Soooo, if you are interested in starting a town that we call our own, give me a call and get on board… There is a ghost town waiting for us to buy it.

Oh, you’re probably wondering what we are going to make money to live up there in our new town? Trinkets! We make cool trinkets and sell them on the Internet! Who doesn’t love a good trinket anyway?!

Let’s do it!