Tag Blog, p.1

A+ certification Arnold Schwarzenegger aztec gods Botox Brain surgery causality cavernoma CompTIA Conditions and Diseases Dog double vision Family Futurama Germanfest Health hemorrhage Hobbit Home hot water heater Kurt Vonnegut Life Alert Magnetic resonance imaging Medicine Mr. T Neurosurgery orange juice OWFI Physical therapy Recreation Rocky Satan Shopping Skylander spasticity sporks tattoos TBI Technology the big lebowski Tolkien Trauma and Injuries TRILS United States vomiting Zumba

The above words were on my “most used” tags a few months ago. Most of these I only used once, so I thought I’d bring them closer to a true “most used” by making up a story.

I started a story when I first checked the  the list – didn’t like it. As such, this is my second attempt at “tag blog”. There were a lot of people maimed and injured in the making of this blog, especially those who read it and didn’t audibly guffaw –

The Hobbit sat quietly at his computer studying for the CompTIA A+ exams. All of a sudden, he heard a hearty knock on his door.

He scampered down the hallway to the big round door, and opened it very cautiously. On his doorstep, he saw a very large man in a grey cloak and a matching tall grey cap. The man looked down at him and, in a very strong Austrian accent, asked “Aw yoo da hah-bit named Zoomba?”

The hobbit considered the hulking pilgrim in front of him. “I’m a hobbit, not a habit. And yes, my name is Zumba. Who are you?”

The man seemed pleased to hear this, replied, “I’m Schwarzenegger the Grey. I’ve come to ask yoo to help wit a special ehrind.”

Zumba invited Schwarzenegger inside to hear about the errand.

Schwarzenegger the Grey started telling Zumba about Mr. T and his terrible vomiting sickness. “Da Aztec gahds put a cyurse on Mistah T, now he has dah-ble vision and he throws ahp every 10 minutes.”

Zumba grimaced in disgust, “How can I help? I’m not a doctor.”

“I know dat. I read a book by Kyurt Vonnegut that said that hah-bits aw viery handy for special ehrinds, what wit yoor abilidy to turn inveezable.” Replied Schwarzenegger proudly.

Zumba looked at Schwarzenegger with confusion, “Sorry to tell you, but I can’t turn invisible. Also, you must be thinking of a book by JRR Tolkien, not Vonnegut.”

Schwarzenegger sighed, “Dat doesn’t mattah. Doo yoo hyaf any special pahwas?”

Zumba furrowed his brow in thought, “hmm…” He paced a few steps and suddenly stopped with a jerk. “I’m very good with technology and fixing hot water heaters. Do those count?” Zumba asked hopefully.

Schwarzenegger let out an even deeper sigh, “Dehr going to hyaf to count. Rocky already tyurned me down.

Pleased with his better than nothing status, Zumba asked, “What is the errand?”

“Yoo aw to accompany Mistah T to da yunited states to confront the Aztec Gahds dat poot da cyurse on heem.”

“Aren’t the Aztec Gods from Mexico?” Asked Zumba, puzzled.

Schwarzenegger nodded, “Dey decided dat Mexico was too haht, then moved to Denvah.”

Zumba tilted his head. Perplexed he asked, “Gods can do that?”

“Dey aw gahds, dey can doo whatevah dey want.”

Zumba considered this for a moment, then asked, “When do we leave?”

“I hyaf tah go get Mistah T, I left him at a jyermanfest bathroom, dehr weel be lots of people vomiting dehr, he’ll fit right in. I didn’t want heem to throw ahp all over your home.”

With that, Schwarzenegger got up and lumbered toward the door and pulled it open. Just before he walked out, he turned to Zumba and declared, “Al be back” and turned to leave.

Not wanting to be bored, Zumba quickly asked, “Do I have time for an episode of Futurama or Family Guy?”

But he was already gone…

To be continued…

@JarrettLWilson

Sh*t Happens, Part Two +1

The exciting conclusion to “Shasterikit Happens” –

Ben didn’t make it to work that day to inform his staff to avoid using the pre-treated “Germicide” wipes on the east wing of the third floor. Ben was called into Dr. Hoenikker’s office the day before and told by the lab supervisor that they were working on a chemical called “item #9” for the Army and they’ve stabilized it, but exposure to noxious chemicals would cause it to become very volatile.

Unaware of this change, the evening custodian,  Aaron Ellis, used copious amounts of the wipes to clean up what appeared to be spilled milk.

Damn scientists, he thought to himself. He put on a labcoat that was wrapped around the back of a chair and started mocking the scientists. He looked through a nearby microscope, gasped and jumped back in mock amazement, shouted “I’VE DISCOVERED THE SECRET INGREDIENT IN THE COLONEL’S SECRET RECIPE!” He clasped his hands together and shook them from side to side around his head. He picked up a nearby Petri dish and held it up like it was the Nobel prize. Acting choked up with emotion, said “I would like to thank my parents for being rich and powdering my ass until I went to college; where I learned how to make drugs that help cure cancer, but never learned how to clean my own messes.” As he spoke the last few words, he reached into a large container of “Germicide” wipes and slapped them onto the counter and lazily wiped the milk stained area, leaving a sopping puddle of   “Germicide” on the countertop.

In his haste to get to the break room to eat the cheese enchiladas he snuck out of the new Mexican buffet the night before he overlooked an errant wipe on the counter.

The next morning, Dr. Frettoloso, an intern from Italy, arrived very early to show his zeal and commitment to Cheney labs. He went to the vault with all the chemical samples, grabbed a few vials of Item #9 and walked back to his work area.  He took the lid off of one and reached over for a Petri dish, but it wasn’t where he had left it the day before, his tired hand tipped and let a small drop of item #9 hit the counter.

Dr. Frettoloso really didn’t have time to observe safety precautions. He looked over and a saw a moist towel. He grabbed it and very hastily wiped up the chemical, leaving a slight residue on the counter.

The day passed on without incident until lunch. Sitting at the same counter with the item #9/Germicide mixture, he ate his lunch, the usual – a pepperoni pizza Hot Pocket with a small bottle of milk.

He tore into the Hot Pocket, anxious to finish and continue working. He had skipped breakfast that morning to save time, making him all the more ravenous.

After one particularly hearty bite, the pouch split open and spilled out a single pepperoni. It landed in the residue. Instinctively, he snatched it up and threw it in his mouth.

He felt fine for the rest of the day, even took his wife to that new Mexican buffet for dinner. He wasn’t sure about the cheese enchiladas. He made sure no one was looking and used the serving spoon too cut off a bite from a nearby enchilada, lifted the spoon to his infected mouth, leaving behind an ample amount of his tainted saliva. He decided that the cheese enchiladas were sub-par and moved on to the chicken enchiladas to sample them.

Later that evening, Dr. Frettoloso started having stomach pains – he attributed them to the buffet. Like the other diners at “El Comedero Mexican Buffet” that night, his symptoms started as what seemed like food poisoning, but quickly evolved into bloody feces and vomit, ataxia, hallucinations and paralysis before an agonizing death by stroke or heart attack.

The virus, having been spread to so many at the buffet, slowly spread across the whole town by means of bodily fluid exchange and unwashed hands. FEMA seemed to have it all contained, but it was engineered to go airborne to propagate itself. After that, it quickly spread across the nation and, with the help of some disgruntled customs officials at an airport in China, across the world.

Back at Rob’s apartment complex, patio ornament lady took her dog, Shiva, for a walk. She noticed the headline she walked past the newspaper vending machine by the apartment mailboxes, “PANDEMIC! Deadly Virus Spreads to Asia.” She contemplated this as Shiva pooped in nearly the same spot where Rob’s foot found that mound of poo weeks before.

 THE END

I’d like to hear your opinions on this story, please comment.

Sh*t Happens, Part Two

As promised, here is part two of “Shasteriskit Happens” –

Mrs. Sanderson was making pretty good time until she reached the intersection of Main and Lyle streets. The light turned yellow, she was going to run it, but an old Ford pickup turned right onto the road ahead. She peered at the driver, an older man with long grey hair coming out of a brown cowboy hat. Stupid hick, probably late for a date with his cousin. Wouldn’t wanna be late. She chuckled to herself, amused by her own wit.

The light finally turned green, but by that time she was on the other side of the intersection; she had been eyeing the adjacent light, as soon as it was yellow her foot pounded the gas pedal.

The Jetta screamed as she flew through another intersection. She looked at the clock – 7:52 – things were looking up. She could still make it in time and have the whole hour to make her butt as tight as that waitress’s. She was coming to the intersection of Main and Whitley. The light turned yellow; even though she was sitting, she felt her butt jiggle. Not this time. She tightened her grip on the wheel and put the accelerator on the floor. After clearing this intersection she’d only be a few miles away – no more lights.

There was a long line of cars to her left, waiting to turn onto Whitley. Other than that the roadway looked clear. On the other side of Whitley was a blue Ford Econoline van marked “Squeaky Clean Maid Service – We Were Maid to Clean,” trying to turn left. The driver, a middle aged man named Flint, was having a lively debate with his passenger, Janice Jenkins.

“If Pinocchio says, “my nose will grow,” he’d be telling the truth and his nose would stay like it is.” Declared Flint smugly.

Janice shook her head, “No no no, he just lied, so his nose would grow. Are you gonna go?”

Flint smirked, “He said his nose will grow, suggesting he might lie in the future. I can’t see past this line of cars.”

“But what if he doesn’t lie? Then he woulda just lied and his nose would grow. I think it’s clear, gun it! We need to get to Dr. Hoenikker’s house by 8:30, that way we can finish by 11:30 and have a long lunch at that new Mexican buffet.” Said Janice with anticipation.

“Then that statement would turn out to be a lie and his nose would grow, which brings us back to the start. I’m gonna go for it.” Flint could see the steaming plates full of enchiladas and refried beans as he started to turn.

“Is he a real boy or…HOLY SHI…”

*CRASH!*

Before he could finish his expletive, he bit off the end of his tongue as his head snapped forward violently.

The passenger window exploded, showering Janice’s face with shards of glass.

Mrs. Sanderson, in too much of a hurry to put on her seat-belt, flew through her windshield, hit the asphalt about 40 feet away and slid another 20 feet, leaving a bloody trail laced with pink cotton from her Juicy sweat-suit. Her butt jiggled as she came to a stop.

A few miles up the road from Mrs. Sanderson’s bloody, jiggling posterior, Ben Jenkins was getting ready for work. Ben was the head custodian at Cheney Labs. Getting ready for work didn’t take long – put on clean underwear, a plain white tanktop, then slide on coveralls and he’s ready to go.

He was about to walk out the door when the phone rang. Why won’t Janice get rid of that damn thing? We both have cell phones. He reluctantly walked over to the phone, picked up the receiver, “Hello?” He huffed.

“Is this Ben Jenkins?” Asked the voice on the other end.

“Yes, and I need to go to work; I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.” Replied Ben, impatiently.

“Mr. Jenkins, this is Officer Ozey with the highway patrol, are you the husband of Janice Jenkins?”

“Yes sir.”

“Mr. Jenkins, your wife has been involved in a collision at the intersection of Main and Whitley.” Said Officer Ozey, solemnly.

Mr. Jenkins gasped, “Is she ok?” He asked, half knowing the answer.

“There’s no easy way to say this sir, so I’ll just say it – she died. I’m so sorry.”

Ben dropped the phone and started weeping.

End of part two. Tune in tomorrow to find out if Ben broke the phone when he dropped it and if the phone was under warranty…

Sh*t Happens, Part One

Don’t forget that I don’t curse, so the title is pronounced “Shasteriskit Happens”. I’ve mentioned before that I fancy myself a writer, and do so enjoy writing. I would like to share some of my fiction writing with you. The following is a short story I wrote for a short story contest (that I somehow did not win, I blame Satan). It’s pretty long ( fast what she said!), so I dare not post the entire thing. I’ll put up the first part today, this third part tomorrow, and the second part the day after that (approximately).

The inspiration for this story comes from Kurt Vonnegut and the way he trivializes major events. ENJOY!

“PEE-PEE!” Shouted Rob in the highest octave he could muster.
Sandy buzzed with excitement at those words. Rob bent down to clip the leash onto his dog’s collar, but the dog was so spastic with excitement, he couldn’t secure the clip.
“Sandy, help me help you!”
After a few more minutes, Rob had the leash clipped on, potty treats in his breast pocket and a baggie for poop in a back pocket, with that they were out the door.
Sandy led Rob on their usual morning walk – on the sidewalk in front of his apartment, then around the corner into the courtyard of his complex. She went pee, Rob gave her a treat. They continued to the other side of the complex, Sandy scrunched over and pooped on a patch of grass close to a window. Rob decided that, since he was in a hurry and it was dark with no one around, he’d leave the poop there. No one’ll walk there, he assured himself. Rob and Sandy started walking back to the apartment. Sandy was leading Rob through a grassy field. The walk was going speedily until *squish*. Rob slipped a little as warm poo spread onto the bottom of his workboot.
Rob composed himself and used the rest of the walk to scrape his shoe against the grass in hopes that it would remove all traces of poo.
Rob lifted his boot to see the damage, the sole still had a heaping glaze of feces, with a few ambitious clumps that, in an outright “up yours” to gravity, were crawling up his ankle.
Rob thought back to the last tenants meeting. Patio ornament lady brought up the issue of dog owners not picking up their dog’s “excrement” – she refused to say or respond to any slang word for shit. The tenants at the meeting all agreed that they’d do a better job of picking up their dog’s “excrement”.
All the same, Rob’s foot found a very stinky, sticky and gooey pile of “excrement”. Rob didn’t want to show up smelling like poop, so he started scrubbing off his shoe, choosing to be late instead.
Rob woke at six, extra early that day because the central office called him late in the evening on the previous day to assign him the job. Rob, an AC repairman, already had a job lined up for that day; but Mrs. Sanderson, his boss’s sister in law needed a technician right away, she said her AC wasn’t cold enough. She gave strict instructions that he was to be there no later than 7:15.
He arrived about 7:40. Mrs. Sanderson was pacing back and forth on the steps of her porch, yelling into her phone; no doubt at Rob’s boss.
She noticed the van pull up, abruptly ended her phone conversation and stormed down the steps. “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” She shrieked.
“Well you see, there was this grizzly bear chasing after some orphans…”
“OH, CAN IT! Do you know how much Zumba classes cost?”
“Eleven dollars?” Rob said sarcastically. “What’s a Zumba, anyway?” He asked with mock sincerity.
“I don’t have time to answer your bullshit questions, you’ve already made me late. Air conditioner is in the attic. I’ll be back in an hour, try to be outta here by then!” Before Rob could respond, she was halfway to her Jetta.
She sat down and turned the car on. Neil Diamond blasted through the speakers. She mouthed the line, “Hurting runs off my shoulders. How can I hurt when holding you?” She took her iPhone from her purse, she stopped to examine the new pink and white checkered case she just got for it, “Sorry, Neil. It’s Steve’s turn.” She said apologetically to her stereo. She plugged her phone into the cord coming from her car’s auxiliary port, pecked at her phone and Journey flooded the inside of the car. Mrs. Sanderson always listened to Journey before working out.
She usually leaves at 7:30 sharp. It takes about 20 minutes to get to the gym, ten minutes to check in and get situated. For a minute, she thought that being a few minutes late would be ok; then she thought about catching her husband staring salaciously at the waitress’s butt at Olive Garden last week. The young girl’s tight ass whirled in her mind’s eye – she floored the accelerator.

End of part one. Tune in tomorrow to find out if Mrs. Sanderson was able to work the jiggle out of her bottom…