Feeding the Birds

First of all, I am ashamed of myself for including the following list on my blog—it is jejune in its attitude and has no redeeming qualities that I can see. The events described did however, take place, and being the prisoner of truth that I am, I feel an obligation to share. Please be aware: this is a remarkably childish (and masculine) account. Those with an appreciation of the finer things of life may want to go back to Google and start looking for something else. This true life adventure is primarily for men. Real men.

Some years ago, while serving time working in a video production facility, my fellow workers and I, (a great bunch of guys), were working late one night and I asked them for some euphemisms for vomiting. While this may sound like a junior-high level goal (and it was), I did have a purpose. At that time I was (on the side) contributing ideas to a company in South Carolina (High Cotton) that produced t-shirts and other popular printed merchandise. Coming up with the right combination of words that were humorous and had a broad appeal worth putting on a shirt was not an easy task—my batting average wasn’t all that great and I was always looking for an idea that could make a few bucks for High Cotton and me.

The college crowd seemed like a good target (or market). After all, many had money from mom & dad to squander and they are well known for being irresponsible, silly and drunk much of the time, so if I could figure out what might appeal to them, I might have a clear shot at success. As they also seem to be proud, or unashamed of their own asinine behavior, binge drinking and vomiting ranking high on the list, it occurred to me that a t-shirt listing the many euphemisms for vomiting might have a certain dark attraction for our leaders of tomorrow. So, I needed euphemisms. The idea for the shirt was to have a bold headline, something like:

Charles can’t come to the phone, he is too busy ____________

Which would be followed by the list of vomiting euphemisms. In a surprisingly short amount of time, my fellow workers and I came up with these: 

1. Throwing up.
2. Puking his guts out.
3. Upchucking.
4. Tossing his cookies.
5. Hurling.
6. Humbling himself in the tile cathedral.
7. Gushing a taco.
8. Hauling garbage uphill.
9. Entertaining the chipmunks.
10. Projecting snacks.
11. Filling and flushing.
12. Spitting up.
13. Feeding the birds.
14. Laughing at his shoes.
15. Driving the porcelain bus to hell.
16. Blowing chunks.
17. Kacking.
18. Heaving.
19. Doing a Technicolor yawn.
20. Sharing breakfast.
21. Serving kibbles & bits.
22. Being a fountain.
23. Speaking French.
24. Launching lunch.
25. Making trail mix.
26. Returning the goods.
27. Singing opera.
28. Being Vesuvius.
29. Flying down to Rio the hard way.
30. Delivering pizza.
31. Cashing-in.
32. Racing to Cleveland.
33. Making a harsh contribution.
34. Giving back.
35. Spouting niblets.
36. Rejecting his din din.

I don’t mean to suggest that this list was exhaustive—it wasn’t, it’s merely what we came up with that night, in an embarrassingly short amount of time. (Feel free to pass along any examples you may want to share, but don’t feel obligated.) Surprisingly enough, High Cotton rejected the whole idea after only one focus group analysis. I suspect that the people in the focus group had never attended college—what else could explain such a negative reaction? Then again, maybe a focus group made up of college dropouts would have been more appreciative, or maybe just men.

As I recall, the job we were working on didn’t suffer from this mild diversion and we all went home feeling we had contributed something to the lexicon of American Pop culture—extremely small, but a contribution none-the-less.

I have yet to discover a way to make a buck with all this brilliance, but I remain hopeful. If you think you could add to this collection, all suggestions are welcome and anyone with the time on their hands to add to this quest, have at it.

Thanks-a-million! 

©2010 Tom Roy

Free Parking

The Baxters were over again. Herb and Audrey Baxter. They brought a Monopoly game with them and begged Jack and Millie Harper to play a game. Millie thought it would be a lot of fun—Jack wasn't so sure. He hadn't particularly liked Monopoly as a kid and had no reason to believe he would like it anymore now, however he didn't want to make a scene and went along with the program. Before the game started, they argued about Free Parking. The Baxters wanted to start the game with $500 in the middle of the board, to be awarded to anyone landing on Free Parking and to have all fees and penalties go to Free Parking instead of to the Bank. Jack became visibly angry over this stipulation and complained, "You're reducing the game to a pure chance proposition! Anybody that hits the Free Parking jackpot is going to win!"

His reasoning was ignored, and play began. Within a few quick rounds, Herb Baxter had all the utilities and the yellow monopoly. Audrey had all the railroads and the red monopoly. Millie had the pale blue and orange monopolies.

Jack had nothing. Nothing at all. He was the last to begin play and on his very first roll he had landed on Connecticut Ave., Millie’s property.

Within a few more rounds everyone had fully developed their properties—hotels on every square. Jack was low on cash because he kept rolling bad numbers and repeatedly landed on everyone else's squares. He lost money every time he tossed the dice. 

Play continued uneventfully for a few rounds. Jack finally landed on Boardwalk and he bought it. He landed on Chance or Community Chest the next three throws, and had to pay penalties each time. He was almost broke. Herb Baxter rolled a seven, landing on Free Parking and collected a whopping $1,700!

Unbelievable. Jack shook with anger.

Millie rolled a three, landing on Park Place and immediately purchased it, dashing Jack's last hope of getting even one monopoly.

Irritated with Millie’s insensitive purchase, Jack turned to his wife and said, "I want to buy Park Place from you. How much do you want?"

Millie looked at Jack as if he had just grown another head.

"Why would I sell you Park Place? I just bought it,” she answered.

"Because I'll make life a living hell for everyone in this room if you don't. That’s why you’ll sell me Park Place," he replied without a trace of humor.

Millie could see that Jack was prepared to be childish. "All right, how much money do you have left?"

Jack counted out $83.

"No, I'm not going to sell Park Place for $83!"

Jack gave her a look of sheer hatred, baring his teeth and squinting. "You will sell it for $83!" He seethed.

Millie saw that Jack was both perfectly willing and utterly capable of becoming a complete ass, so she sold him Park Place for $83.

Audrey rolled a seven and landed safely on her own property. It was Jack's turn. He rolled a three, putting him on Herb's fully developed Marvin Gardens. Jack was busted. Like a child, he threw the deeds to Boardwalk and Park Place at Herb and said, "Here! Take everything!"

Herb was so far ahead by now, he could afford to be big. He gave the deeds back to Jack saying, "Forget it. You had a bad run of luck, let's just call it even."

"Don't patronize me, Baxter. If you want to give me a break, let me take it over."

Herb generously agreed. Jack moved the damn shoe back three spaces, and then rolled a three. This put him back on Marvin Gardens.

"Do it over," Herb suggested.

He did, and rolled another three. Millie giggled, which Jack always hated. Jack got up and stormed into the kitchen. He poured himself a tall glass of vodka, and drank it down like lemonade.

He staggered back to the game and took a seat. His stomach was on fire and he could feel the nachos slowly making their way back up.

The last thing he saw was Audrey landing on Free Parking and collecting $800. Jack keeled over, fell on the floor and spewed nachos and vodka.

It was a pathetic end to a shameful evening. The Baxter’s folded up their Monopoly board and said good night to Millie while Jack remained on his knees, regretting most of the choices he had made earlier that night. 

©2010 Tom Roy

Shufflemania XII

Somehow I had completely missed the growing phenomenon of Table Shuffleboard in America. I had stumbled across shuffleboard tables in lounges, recreation rooms and community centers from time to time and thought of it as merely a mild diversion for couch potatoes and senior citizens. I was very much mistaken. A week ago, my boss handed me a plane ticket to Vegas to cover “Sufflemania XII," the premier event in all table shuffleboard. It is an elimination competition that allows the winner to face the current champion, the previous year’s winner, also known as the “Master of the World.”

What the hey… it was his money so I packed, got on a plane and took a shuttle bus to my hotel. It was the Cashman Field Convention Center Hotel, which also was the host site for Shufflemania XII. To my amazement, when I made my way to the Convention Hall, which holds 9,000 people, it was packed with fervent fans—many in garish costume! It also smelled like a Bob Marley concert.

In the center of the hall were three, brand-spanking new 22’ Champion Vintage Charleston shuffleboard tables, which go for about ten grand each. Five ceiling spotlights were trained on each table surface and the rest of the room was kept dim. The opening rounds were far more colorful than I had expected, and even though there were a number of memorable moments, I’m going to skip ahead to the main event.

After the winner of the eliminations was determined, a half-hour break was called as the center of the hall was prepared for the main event. The two tables on the left and right were removed and a raised dais was positioned under the center table. An installation crew swept the surface of the table clean and a fresh sprinkling of table wax (actually very tiny silicon balls) was applied and the table leveled to perfection. The room lights went down and the challenger was introduced over the public address system.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Cashman Center and the AASE (American Association of Shuffleboard Enthusiasts) are proud to present the main event of Shufflemania XII—Redemption! Please welcome this year’s challenger. Hailing from Durkee Junction, Nebraska and weighing in at 197 pounds, please welcome this year’s Challenger Supreme, Jimmy “The Dream” Valentine!”

Two large video screens on either side of a double door entrance came alive with footage of The Dream competing at various venues around the country and the speakers blared out the opening strains of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love.” The crowd roared as a spotlight illuminated a deep-tanned, bleach-blonde Jimmy Valentine, wearing pink boots, pink short-shorts, and a pink vest with long white fringe flowing from each shoulder. More than a few women fainted as he made for the dais, blessing a few with a long, lingering kiss along the way.

He took his place at the shuffleboard table and allowed the referee to frisk him for foreign objects. The lights dimmed and the dreadful sound of “I’m So Hood” by G-Unit filled the hall. People got to their feet as insane images of street violence filled the video screens and a spotlight hit the backside of an enormous, silhouetted figure standing in the entrance way.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the five time World Champion and the current Master of the World, hailing from Stuttgart, Germany, and weighing in at 378 pounds, here he is, the Ruler, the SplitKreig, the NudgeMiester, Charles “The Hammer” Kleirkooper!

A spotlight hit the Hammer from the front and the place exploded. Kleirkooper wore a black cape that concealed his body, and he wore a black head mask with zippers encircling the eyes and mouth area—it was a terrifying image. Kleirkooper strode down the aisle defiantly and gave the finger to various by standers (who returned the gesture with considerable zeal) as he approached the center table.

The referee stepped up to give him a frisk but the Hammer stood aside and held up a hand. He unclasped his cape and in one smooth motion swept it aside and let it billow to the floor. He was dressed in a skintight leopard-spotted body-leotard and black boots. He also wore a brilliant orange atheletic cup supporter, on the outside of his leotards! As he was not the overtly sexual animal that Valentine was, I wondered why he bothered with such a device but the crowd seemed to like it. He wore thick leather wristbands and black leather, diamond-encrusted gloves with the thumbs and forefingers cut out of each—the middle finger was fluorescent orange. The referee frisked him while he made defiant gestures to the excited crowd.

It took the crowd some time to settle down, the theme music to die and the competition to begin. Valentine lost the coin toss and had to go first, giving Kleirkooper the advantage for the first round. The crowd quieted as Valentine slid his first puck (also called a weight). It rested in the Brooklyn Corner—a solid three pointer if it remained till the end of the round. The crowd roared.

The Hammer took his place and shoved his first puck with deadly accuracy, displacing Valentine’s and hanging slightly over the edge of the board—a four pointer! The crowd went nuts. Valentine took his time and released his next puck with a dizzying spin. It traveled straight and sure, knocking Kleirkooper’s puck off and ever so slowly spinning toward the center of the board. It was a brilliant shot and the crowd responded in awe.

Kleirkooper threw his next puck surprisingly hard. It knocked Valentines puck off but it, too, careened off the board. The crowd booed its disapproval.

Valentine’s next shot rested in the center of the two-point area. Kleirkooper followed up with an amazing Go-Around, placing his puck just in front of Valentine’s! Valentine studied the board and slid his puck down the left edge of the board with a ton of spin. It traveled straight and sure and then miraculously took a sharp right and rested at the very edge of the board directly in front of Kleirkooper’s! It was in the leading position and with the other pucks in the way it left Kleirkooper with an almost impossible shot.

The crowd hooped and hollered and then suddenly grew quiet as a seductive,  blonde woman in a skin-tight yellow t-shirt walked up to the dais, placed her arms around Jimmy Valentine and planted a big kiss right on the lips. The referee went over and scolded the woman for interrupting the competition and warning Valentine to refrain from such behavior. In the meantime, Kleirkooper reached into his cup supporter and pulled out a puck and placed it in the trough while palming the official puck in his left hand! The referee didn’t see any of it, despite the shouts and howls coming from the enraged crowd.

The sinister blonde took a seat and the referee signaled to Kleirkooper to continue play. The crowd booed and hissed and the Hammer turned and gave them all the finger. He placed his puck on the table and slid it down the center of the board with some speed. As the puck approached, the other pucks slid out of the way of Kleirkooper’s puck, off the board! Kleirkooper’s puck didn’t hit anything—the other pucks just flew off the board as if Kleirkooper’s puck was rigged with a magnet or something! Kleirkooper’s puck came to rest hanging over the edge—a solid four!

The referee looked bewildered but awarded the four points to Kleirkooper. The crowd went stark-raving mad. Snacks and beverages were thrown at the referee and chaos ensued. Security Police were summoned to surround the dais and order was partially restored. Kleirkooper had to be escorted out of the hall while Valentine and the referee looked on in stunned disbelief.

A few minutes passed and the crowd was still plenty surely. The Master of Ceremonies, Rex Romano, stepped onto the dais with a microphone and announced that the Shuffleboarding Commission had reviewed the video and has decided to disqualify tonight’s contest and that a rematch would take place tomorrow night following the finals of the teams competition! The crowd shouted its approval. Romano then announced that this would be a sanctioned Cage Match, and would follow Texas rules! The crowd went berserk.

©2010 Tom Roy

The Third Room

It had already been a long day in the District Attorney’s office and Assistant D.A., Donald Spearman, was looking forward to getting out of the office and knocking back a few cold ones. The Whiteman case was almost sewed up but they needed one more name to lock it down airtight. Spearman was on his way to Interrogation Room Three to talk to an old-time wise guy, Eddie “The Cliché” Samoza.

Samoza was always a good suspect and he had spent a lot of time in interrogation rooms. He was well known for giving useless answers to serious questions, but as he was also usually involved, he had to be questioned. Samoza was known to undergo a brutal police grilling for hours waiting for his lawyer to show, talking continually without giving up an iota of useful information. As they weren’t after Samoza directly this time, just some information, the D.A. thought that with nothing to lose Samoza might be helpful. Spearman entered Room Three and took a seat across the table from Samoza.

He began with a direct question, “Okay Samoza, who are you doing business with these days?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” Samoza answered.

Maybe a little bait would help so Spearman offered, “Look, we’ve already got DiPonio cold—prints, DNA, and a witness,”

“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” Samoza chirped.

“I don’t like this any more than you do, but you gotta give me something,” Spearman implored.

“Don’t get your nose out of joint—you gotta break the ice before you get down to brass tacks,” Edward Samoza suggested with a smile.

“I’m serious, your testimony is crucial,”

“Relax, it’s not what it’s cracked up to be, and besides, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Samoza sneered.

“That’s not what Skylar tells me,” Spearman lied.

“Yeah, well he’s nuttier than a fruit cake—he’s off his rocker,” Samoza protested.

“I thought you liked Skylar,” Spearman guessed.

“Sure, it’s a marriage made in heaven, the blind leading the blind,” Samoza responded with sarcasm.

“Come on. Skylar’s lookin’ at five years,” Spearman reminded.

“Misery loves company. You gotta take the bitter with the sweet,” noted the gangster.

“He tells me you know all the players. Come on, talk!”

“You want me to jump out of the frying pan into the fire?” Samoza asked.

“Maybe you should. The DA can make things hard for you,”

“I wouldn’t touch that line with a ten foot pole,” Samoza taunted.

“I’m looking for some answers, damn it! Talk!” Spearman reacted.

“Pal, you’re in over your head,” Samoza explained, “Look, the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing--in a nut shell, you’ve got a tiger by the tail. A distinction without a difference—you can make nice all you want but you’d better lay your cards on the table; it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity! It never rains, but it pours, but it’ll all come out in the wash. You can let the cat out of the bag now or let the chips fall where they may; hey--I’m not my brothers keeper!” 

Spearman saw that any further questioning would be a waste of time so he got up and left the room. As he walked down the corridor he could hear Samoza’s voice continuing,

“I need this like I need another hole in my head! What he’s got ain’t worth a hill of beans. Sure, he’s got a heart as big as all outdoors but he can’t have his cake and eat it too! A friend in need is a friend indeed but forewarned is forearmed…”

Spearman closed the door at the end of the corridor and heard no more. Eddie “The Cliché” Samoza was released after twenty more minutes, spewing tired clichés to anyone willing to listen.

He had gotten his nickname the old-fashioned way—he earned it!

©2010 Tom Roy

Jim Tyler's Luck

Jim Tyler was a good kid.

He had been a communications major and did well in school. He interned for two summers at the M.J. Salisbury advertising agency and then landed a job there as a writer when he graduated. His first assignment was to come up with a TV spot for “E-Z-Kleany!” brand dishwashing soap.

E-Z-Kleany! had been around since the late 60s and its sales had plateaued about thirty years ago. The Art Department had come up with a new label; the client had deep-sixed all the good looking labels and went for the joke sample that Dan Crocker had slipped in for a gag. The type used was over-the-top industrial looking and clashed with the cartoon basket of white kittens at the bottom of the label but the client didn’t see anything wrong with it at all—he liked it and threatened to pull the account if they changed it.

The television ads for E-Z-Kleany! had gone through a myriad of styles over the years—neither “Klancy, the Kleaning Leprechaun” nor “Granny Kleany” had ever caught on and the client expected M.J. Salisbury to come up with something new that would work. After reviewing decades of mediocre campaigns, Jim came up with a relatively straight-forward approach, concentrating on the virtues of the product instead of relying on the allure of a another lame, gimmicky character. He handed-in a script before lunch and an outline for subsequent spots based on the same characters, a typical Middle American family. At two o’clock he was summoned to Jessica Spanger’s office, the account executive for E-Z-Kleany!

No one looked at Jim as he made his way through Creative and on to Spanger’s office, Jim walked in and took a seat across from Jessica who was just finishing a phone call.

“Have a seat, Jim” Jessica gestured and Jim sat. “I just read your E-Z-Kleany! script,” Jessica said, and then paused for a long time.

“Oh, good. You read it,” Jim interjected, trying to fill the pause with something.

“I just said I did,” Jessica snapped. It was the first clear sign that Jessica didn’t like the script. “Tell me, Jim, were you born in this country?”

Jim was surprised. What kind of question was that? “Yes, I was,” he replied.

“Okay,” Jessica allowed, “were you raised in this country?”

“Yes—of course. I’m sorry, Ms. Spanger, I don’t know what you’re getting at,”

“Let me ask you this, Jim, did your parents let you watch TV when you were growing up?” Jessica posed.

“Sure. I watched a lot of TV growing up,”

“Okay,” Jessica continued, “then tell me why you submitted a script for an American television audience that we couldn’t air in a million years?”

Jim was floored. “I’m sorry,” he began, “I’m not following you, what’s wro…”

“What’s wrong?” Jessica interrupted, ”You really don’t know,

do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Jim admitted.

Jessica closed her eyes and shook her head. “Alright, I’ll tell you, and you’d better listen good,” she was really angry and she glared at the young writer.

After another awkward pause Jim suggested, “I’m listening,”

“First of all, it’s wall-to-wall talk! From this script you’d think that nobody understood how to wash a dish! You go on and on about how great E-Z-Kleany! is and when used correctly it can save the customer money while having medicinal benefits for their hands!” Jessica was livid.

“Yes, that’s right,” Jim admitted.

“And you have all this great advice being spoken by…” Jessica paused and turned her head, as if the next word was so insidious it might actually cause pain to speak aloud, “a man!”   

“Yes,” Jim responded, “I thought it would be more effective coming from a man,”

“But you even have him demonstrating to his wife, a woman, how a dish should be washed!” Jessica was trembling.

“Well, sometimes men do take a more logical approach to tasks—once again, I thought it would get some attention,”

“Attention?” Jessica spat, “Oh, this would get plenty of attention! We’d be the laughing stock of the advertising world!”

“I‘m sorry but I guess I’m still not seeing your point,” Jim pleaded.

Jessica waited a beat and then screamed, “Men are stupid! In advertising, they are the stupidest people allowed to live in a house! All men are stupid, but white men are the stupidest! A black man is the stupidest person in his house, but is smarter than the white man that lives next door. A child of three is smarter than a white man. The family dog is smarter than a white man!” She looked at Jim and asked, “Is this getting through?”

“Loud and clear,” Jim responded.

“The only time a white man can appear to have any brains at all is when he appears on screen alone. With no one to compare to, he can be allowed to appear intelligent, although I still have reservations,” she took a breath, “this usually only occurs when we need to sell a “man” product like beer, toilets, and erectile dysfunction remedies. In the general scheme of things, here is the rundown on who should speak with authority in a television commercial,” she topped talking and handed Jim a sheet of paper with the following list:

1. Michelle Obama
2. White women
3. Black women
4. Any lesbian
5. Girls age three and up
6. Black gay men
7. Any teenager
8. Asian women
9. Cats
10. Boys age seven and up
11. Non-black gay men
12. Hispanic women
13. Muslim women (in burkas)
14. Any other woman
15. Dogs
16. Black men
17. Other family pets
18. Asian men
19. Nancy Reagan
20. Hispanic men
21. Muslim men
22. English men
23. Scandinavian men
24. Greek men
25. Hamsters
26. White American men

Jim read the list and was angry. “Wow, this must have taken some time to compile! You’re sure you didn’t miss anybody? I don’t see any Irish people here,” he scoffed.

Jessica opened a drawer and pulled out another copy of the list and studied. After a minute she said, “You’re right. Let’s squeeze Irish Men in right after the Greeks—number 25,”

“Are we talkin’ Boston-Irish, or does it only apply to right off the boat Irish?” Jim questioned, “And what if you hire a third generation Norwegian-American actor to merely portray an Irish Man—what do you do with that?”

“Don’t be sarcastic!” she screeched, “this isn’t a joke! It would only apply to what would appear to be an Irish Man from Ireland—he’d have to speak with a brogue. If you can find a Norwegian who can pull it off—go for it.”

“Oh,” Jim feigned surprise, “I thought maybe you were just foolin’—hey, you forgot the French!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Jessica hissed with pure malice, “The French are only used to sell wine and garlic! My God! Did they teach you nothing in college?” Her eyes were nothing more than thin slits; she bared her teeth in contempt.

Jim could see that he had just committed a mortal sin and that he had no future at M.J. Salisbury, unless he murdered Jessica right then and there. He decided to get out of the advertising business while he was still a young man—he could always come back in a few years and murder Jessica.

©2010 Tom Roy

On Old Highway 68

I had missed yesterday’s auction but I had made an appointment to see a guy that supposedly had some interesting information. I pulled my van into the dusty parking lot of "Henry’s Hitchin' Post" on Old Highway 68, about half way between Tohatchi and Gallop, New Mexico. I got out and took a look around. It looked pretty much like any other western cafe; a neon sign with one letter that hadn't lit up in years, in this case it was the second  “H”, making it read, “Henry’s itchin' Post.” Cactus was growing out of neglected flowerpots, and strings of dried chili peppers dangled from the doorposts. I went inside and saw that a big old saddle was mounted on the wall behind the bar. That’s when I met Calvin “Dusty” O’Grady.

Dusty had been a fixture at the place for years and he agreed to meet me and tell me some of the history of the place. 

“Let me tell ya what made Henry’s Hitchin' Post unique,” Dusty began, “it was the food, Henry’s cookin'—dang, it was good! It wasn't very fancy, but it was always delicious. Fred Winchester used to say it was the best dang stuff he ever put in his dang mouth! People would ask old Henry, the cook, "What the heck do you put in this dang stuff, Henry?" and he would always reply, "Aww, it wouldn’t taste so dang good if you knew what I put in it!" That always got a big laugh from the boys—heck, they stopped trying to figure out how in the heck Henry did it a long time ago. It was just accepted that ol' Henry was about the finest dang cook any of them had ever come across.

“A few years ago, a stranger stopped in from Kansas City, and ordered a Porterhouse Special. He was a loud one, and he made it pretty dang clear that the only place to get a real steak dinner was in Kansas City. Let me tell ya somethin,' when Bette served him a huge platter of sizzling Porterhouse steak smothered in mushrooms, peppers, and onions, and with a side order of Desert ‘Taters, the smell alone dang near sent that stranger off his chair. He soon learned he didn't need no knife to cut through Henry's steak; a dull fork went through it just fine. He took that first bite and chewed a couple of times and then all of a sudden he got up and brayed like a dang mule, and then began twirlin’ and hoppin’ around the table like an Al Gore supporter just after the last polar bear fried to death at the north pole! Nobody never saw nothing like it before. When he was done, the stranger apologized to Bette, and announced to everyone within earshot; “That was the best dang steak I ever ate anywhere bar none!” He had just climbed Mount Henry for the first time and he liked it and there was no more talk of Kansas City that night, and that’s the dang truth!

“Then there was the businessman from Topeka who said you just couldn't beat a fresh trout thrown into a hot frying pan fresh out of the river, and then he went ahead and ordered one of Henry's famous Hitchin' Post Shore Dinners. As soon as Henry finished the dish, Bette emerged from the swinging doors and hollered out "Comin' through!” and customers made way as she delivered a sizzling platter of trout and fixin's to the man from Topeka. His attitude changed pretty dang quick once he took a bite. He got down on all fours and took to bayin' and barkin' like William Jefferson Clinton on the night he met that dang intern! After each bite of trout that businessman got out of his dang seat, threw himself on the floor and barked and bayed! He later declared that it had been the finest dang meal he had ever been served anywhere, anytime, anyplace.

         “I guess the greatest testament to Henry's mastery in the kitchen was the day that Julia Child visited Henry’s Hitchin' Post. This was a couple of years before she passed on and she came in with her possey and took over the booth near the pool table. Julia was thinking about putting together a book on Southwestern kwee-zeen, and heard that Henry’s was definitely worth a try. Well, they all ordered something different and it took a while to get everything just right but when Julia took a bite of them Beef Nuggets ala Henry, plates and platters went flying as she did a dang back-flip up and over the bar and landed right-side-up in that wall mounted saddle behind the bar! Everybody cheered and Julia bought a round for the house. She ate the rest of her dinner in the saddle, and after each bite she hollered and whooped like a drunken cowboy, waving her new ten-gallon Stetson and shootin' a dang six gun! Now that must have been some tasty dang beef!

         “When Ol’ Henry died a year ago, folks were sad of course, but they really wondered what would become of the Old Hitchin' Post. Well, Bette tried to keep it going for a while, but it just wasn't the same. They closed up the place a couple of months back and auctioned off everything yesterday. 'Julia's Saddle' went for $200 but Floyd Bonner had mounted it with so many dang bolts and screws nobody could undo it from the dang wall!. The last item on the auction block was Ol’ Henry's secret recipe book. Some fancy On-tray-Pee-noour from Cincinnati came in and bid three hundred bucks! I don’t know if he was a Jeen-yus or a just a dang fool but he got the works—all of Ol’ Henry’s secrets!”

I looked Dusty in the eye and asked him, “Did you ever get a look at the book yourself?”

“You’re dang tootin’ I did,” he said with an all-knowing smile.

“Well, what was Ol’ Henry’s big secret?” I begged.

“I didn’t look and nobody showed me. I ain’t no dang cook!”

©2010 Tom Roy

Date Night

Sherman Ramsey got up to answer the knock at the door. He knew it would be Tiffany's date. His daughter Tiffany had a knack for attracting boys that he didn't like. It was the one ritual of parenthood he detested, having to be civil to Tiffany's boyfriends. She sure could pick 'em. Sherman often wondered if she had a brain in her head. He opened the door and beheld the focus of his daughter's affections. This one looked perfect.

He stood about five feet. His black and white hair grew into a single, twisting spike, ending in a blaze of florescent orange.  "Is T-ti –tif-tiff-tiffany ready?" he stammered and slurred. Was he drunk?

"I'll check.” Ramsey assured. “Would you like to come in... uh, I didn't get your name…."

"Yeah." he said, and shuffled in, grabbing a fistful of candies out of a dish in the hallway, spilling some on the floor.  Sherman Ramsey went to the foot of the stairs and hollered up, "Tiffany! Your date is here!" There was no answer.

"So, what was your name?"

"Tom Cruise,” he replied with an irritated smirk.

"Really? Wow! That's pretty wild. I bet you get a lot of startled reactions with a name like that."

"I guess I would if it really was my name. God, I was kidding," he said as he rolled his eyes and stuck a finger down his throat.

Ramsey stood with his hands on his hips, glaring down at the young suitor. "You've got a lot of nerve, coming to take my daughter out for the evening, and then act like that..."

He paused as the little punk started making faces at him. "All right, you're not taking my daughter out tonight or any night! You can just leave! Right now,"

"Oh, like I'm real scared!" the rotten little punk taunted.

"All right, stay there a minute, I'll be right back..."

Sherman Ramsey came back with a rifle. "Okay laughing boy, let's hear some smart-ass remarks now!" he chuckled as he took aim.

Tiffany entered the room.

"Get back Tiffany," shouted Ramsey, "I'm gonna teach Tom Cruise some manners," The rifle was pointed at the young man's kneecaps.

"Go ahead old man. Shoot if it’ll make you feel better. Go ahead! I bet you don't have the guts,"

Sherman Ramsey was beside himself with rage and his body shook. He took aim.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Sherman was so angry that he forgot the first rule of good marksmanship! You’re supposed to slowly S-Q-U-E-E-Z-E the trigger. Instead of slowly squeezing, Sherman had pulled, and far too quickly! This careless approach made the rifle barrel drift from its target each time he pulled, causing him to miss his mark. This made him even more frantic than before and as he was reloading, Tom Cruise and Tiffany ducked out the front door.

Sherman was furious and dropped many shells on the floor as he reloaded. He shot off two rounds by accident as his shaking fingers fumbled with the reload. By the time he was ready, Tom and Tiffany were long gone.

He sat on the floor, facing the front door and waited.

He would wait a long time because Tiffany and Mr. Cruise (or whatever his real name was) were on their way to Las Vegas. Whether they would get married or not, no one knew—they were young and their hormones were racing and anything was possible.

©2010 Tom Roy