The Most Ron Swanson Thing My Dad Ever Said

Everybody likes my dad.  Everyone gets along with my Dad.  He's just the most genuine and caring person I know.  He doesn't go out of his way to say anything rude about anyone or anything.  However, if someone is rude to him, my Dad just ignores them.  He just lets things slide off his back like water off a duck's feathers.

So it surprised me one day when my Dad blurted out the most Ron Swanson thing I had ever heard.  Well, from anyone but Ron Swanson.

For those that don't know, Ron Swanson is a character on the NBC show, "Parks and Rec."  Here's the Wiki description of him:

Ronald Ulysses Swanson is a fictional character portrayed by Nick Offerman from the situation comedy television series Parks and Recreation on NBC, created by Greg Daniels and Michael Schur. In the series, Ron is the director of the Parks and Recreation department of fictional town of Pawnee, Indiana, and the immediate superior of series protagonist Leslie Knope (Amy Poehler) until Knope's election to the Pawnee City Council at the end of Season 4. 

In demeanor, political philosophy and work ethic, Knope and Swanson are polar opposites: where Knope is sunny and outgoing, decidedly liberal and constantly working, Swanson is distant, and as a staunch libertarian, is a strong advocate for small government—stating his belief that government should be privatized—and therefore believes that the parks department should not even exist.

There are quite a few memes and web pages full of Ron Swanson quotes.  If the show was still in production I would suggest my Dad's quote to the good folks at NBC.  

So what did my Dad say?  Well, we were watching TV when the commercials came on.  The station had repeatedly shown Corona Beer commercials throughout the day.  For those who don't know, this is a Corona Beer.

Notice that it has a lime in it?  The commercial said the best way to enjoy a Corona was with a lime.  To which my Dad replied,

"If you have to put fruit in your beer, it's probably not a very good beer."  

I almost fell on the floor when I heard that.  It still cracks me up to this day.  That is the perfect Ron Swanson quote.  I can hear Nick Offerman's voice when I think about that quote.  

So that's your laugh for the day.  I hope it brings you a smile.  Of course, I'm sure the people over at Corona aren't laughing.  But then again, try to make a better beer.  You know, one that doesn't need fruit in it to taste okay.  

New Guitar Day: Dean Custom 450

I know, I need another "New Guitar Day" like I need a hole in my head.  However, there's a story behind this one.  There's always a story, but this one is pretty good.  You see, it was a dark and stormy night on Facebook Marketplace.  I had noticed an add that simply read, "Guitar" in the Musical Instruments category.

I opened up the ad and saw it was a Dean guitar.  Now for those of you who've read my blog for a while, you know I love Dean guitars.  When I looked at this one I recognized the shape, but couldn't remember the name of it.  So I went to the Dean Guitars official page.  It wasn't listed there.  It seems they don't make it anymore.

After that I went to my trusty friend, "Google."  It was there I found the name of the guitar was the "Custom"  But something didn't look right.  The listed guitar was a set neck with EMG pickups.  The Custom 350 wasn't.  As I wandered around the internet I found out that Dean made a "Custom 450."  That's what this guitar was.

It was exactly as pictured.  It was a set neck with EMG pickups in a natural color.  I think the seller made the same mistake as I did.  He thought this guitar was a Custom 350.  You see, he was selling the guitar for $200.  The Custom 350 sold new for $300.  But the Custom 450 sold new for $600.  Again, they look a lot alike.

When I talked to the seller, he said he bought the Dean to learn to play guitar.  It just didn't happen for him.  So he was moving on.  That's one reason he probably listed the guitar as, "Guitar" on Facebook Marketplace.  He just didn't know the in's and out's of the music industry.

So while I don't need another guitar, I just couldn't let this deal pass me by.  And if I want to sell it later on, I can do that.  Hey, even I realize the resale market isn't great for Dean guitars, but I could possibly make a small profit.

So now let's go onto the photos!

And it came with a leather soft case to boot!  So that added to the deal.

First up, the good.  

All the wood and parts are top notch.  It's really well balanced.  After setting it up, the fretboard doesn't have a wave or twist in it at all.  It's perfect.  Dean likes using the super jumbo frets.  I ended up fret dressing it for two reasons.  The first, is that, I always fret dress my guitars.  Every guitar built needs one, but only high end guitars end up receiving them.  

The second reason is the frets are so dang high it knocks them down a bit for easier playing.  The third is I can set the action extremely low with a great fret job.  

Next up, the gray area.

So Dean factory installed EMG pickups on this model.  That's quite a step up from the usual overseas pickups.  However, players tend to either love or hate EMG pickups.  I've never been crazy about them.  I've always been with the crowd that says, "EMG pickups make all guitars sound the same."  I've found that to be somewhat true except for two guitars.

The first was on an ESP Eclipse 3 that I jammed on in a Sam Ash.  That guitar has an EMG 81 bridge/ 60 neck set.  For some reason it wasn't overly bright like so many I had heard before.  I don't know what made that guitar different?  I had never played that model before, but it was an amazing guitar.  I can see why players like them.

Of all the EMG pickups, I have to say I liked the EMG 85.  It has an EQ that is similar to a Seymour Duncan Distortion.  I'd say the EQ was:  Treble:9, Mids: 8, Bass: 5.  I always thought it should be the main bridge pickup for active pickup equipped guitars.  Instead, they always put it in the neck.

So I immediately decided to so a little pickup swapping.  Since EMG's are quick connect, I just swapped the EMG 81 and EMG 85's positions.  I have to say that was one of the best musical decisions I've made in my life.  The EMG 85 rocks in the bridge position, where the EMG 81 makes a clean neck position pickup.  

Like I said earlier there were only two EMG equipped guitars that I've played that didn't sound overly bright.  This was the second one.  I'm not sure why it sounds so balanced compared with so many other EMG equipped guitars, but this one sounds really good.  

The next upgrade for this guitar, is that, it has 24 frets.  Take a look at the double dots on the last fret.  Yep, that's a 24 fret guitar.

I put this under my "Gray Area" since some players don't need or want 24 frets.  I realize that for some songs you need those two extra frets.  But I realize that a lot of us don't play past the 15th fret.  In fact, a lot of us just play "Cowboy Chords" on the first three.  So again, this would be great for some players, and dismissed by others.  It's really up the individual player.  

The Ugly:

Let's be honest.  This guitar is supposed to compete for metal player crowd.  Specifically, this is Dean's alternative to Ibanez's RG Prestige series.  Here's an example:

So if you ask any metal player what Ibanez guitars are best known for they'll say, "Steve Vai!!!"  But after that they will tell you, "The Ibanez Wizard 2 neck.  For those not in the know, Ibanez has extremely thin necks.  Shredders love thin necks.  They help make playing easier and faster.

So what kind of neck does the Dean Custom 450 have on it?  Well, it's not good.  You start with a Gibson 50's neck, then you make it wider.  By the time you are at the 12th fret, it starts to feel like a seven string guitar.  At the heel this has to be the biggest neck I've ever played in my life.  I know Dean likes big necks.  Heck, I own six Deans and have owned a bunch of others in my life. 

However, this is ridiculous.  The neck up to the first three frets starts off just fine.  It just keeps getting thicker and wider as the neck goes on.  Any player who would put this up against an Ibanez RG is going lean towards the easier playing Wizard 2 neck on the Ibanez.  

The New:

As I mentioned earlier Dean has discontinued the Custom 350, 350-F, 450, and 450-F series.  However, they have replaced it with something that I think will compete with Ibanez a little better.  It's called the Exile series.

The first time I saw the photos I was amazed.  This one comes with the new EMG pickups, the 57 and 66.  It's also built with 24 frets.  However, it also comes with a heck of a price, $1,100.  Whew!  And if you buy the Floyd Rose or seven string models the price only increases.  

It's wonderful guitar.  I only hope they haven't priced themselves out of the market.  I mean, I had a hard decision on paying $200 for the Dean Custom 450.  Paying $1,100 is a big jump up from that.  

But let me get back on track.  I'm digging my new guitar day.  I'm having fun with it.  Now I just have to find a place to put it.  Maybe it's time to build a new wall hanging guitar rack?  Yeah, right after I add a new wall.  Till then, keep rocking, and above all else, have fun with it.

House Repair, Err, Actually Bird House Repair

A year and a half ago I put up a number of birdhouses around the property.  I've actually written quite a few blog posts about them.  I was really proud of the work I completed.  Not only did I customize them with "Squirrel Guards," I also made sure there were drainage holes for water.

And to absolutely make sure they would last, I painted them with enamel paint.  Next, I used enamel spray paint so the birdhouses would match the colors of an oak tree.  Honestly, I went all out for those houses.

So it made me pretty angry when I found the roof tore off of one.  Well I decided to do something about it.  I was going to make a new roof, but when I went to take the birdhouse down, I found the roof sitting inside the house.

Then, a Cuban Tree Frog jumped up out of the house, hitting me in face, causing me to fall off my ladder.  I really hurt my left toe falling.  But after I felt a little better, I took the birdhouse to my workshop.  I made sure to take lots of photos of the repair.  I'll explain my work as I show the photos.

So here's the birdhouse and roof on my bench.

It's not in that bad a shape.  The wood was a little warped, but other than that it's alright.  Let's take a peek inside to see if there's anything wrong with it.

No, it's just a little dirt.  I decided to use some "helping hands" in the form of clamps.  They held the top on while I nailed the roof down.

I found these awesome tiny white finish nails in one of Dad's parts buckets.  They were perfect for this job.

And here she is, as good as new.

Now it was time to put the birdhouse back on the pole.

Now that I've fixed the birdhouse I'm hoping to have a pair of birds nest in it this spring.  If not, I'm sure the Cuban Tree Frogs will hang out in there.  They will bide their time until I walk by, jumping with all their might, smacking me right on the forehead.  

Bartender! My Personal Recipes For A White Russian Snowball And Toasted Almond Snowball

I'm one of "those" persons who likes to cook at home.  I actually enjoy having friends over and stuffing them with a ridiculous amount of food.  So you'd think I would be good at mixing alcoholic drinks and such.  Well, kinda.  I'm really good at making two kinds of mixed drinks.

You see, due to health and medications there is no way I should drink alcohol.  It's a recipe for disaster (pun intended.)  It's a real shame because I have created/adjusted a recipe for White Russians and Toasted Almonds that I love.  The people who I've made these drinks for absolutely love them.  Which kills me because I undeniably love a White Russian.

I had mentioned this subject on Facebook to my friend Kathy.  She asked me what I did differently to make a "White Russian" into what I call a "White Russian Snowball."  I went over step by step what I did, but I got to thinking.  Wouldn't it be much better if I made a blog post about it?  I could show photos of my step by step process.

So thanks to my dear friend Kathy I am sharing this recipe on my blog.  There is another reason I want to share this.  If you've read my blog you know I'm a woodworker.  What's made me a better woodworker is other artists' sharing what used to be called "Trade Secrets."

I had a violin luthier tell me one reason so many amazing violins were being made right now, was that, the internet had helped them share information.  If no one has to keep reinventing the wheel, then they can concentrate on other things.

So I gladly share this recipe so that others can use it.  Then, they can share it.  So let's start first with the "White Russian Snowball."

Let's start with the correct kind of glass you will need.  You will want to use a "Double Rocks Glass."  It's sometimes referred to as an Old Fashioned.  You will want one that is at minimum 12 ounces.

Now it's time to start adding alcohol.  Add one shot of vodka.  And remember folks, it doesn't have to be a high proof vodka.  80 proof is fine.  

The next step is to add one shot of Kahlua.  

After that add TWO shots of heavy whipping cream.  Of all the ingredients, this may be the most important.  Don't use regular milk.  Don't use half and half.  Don't use regular whipping cream.  You want HEAVY whipping cream.  And since I'm from Florida I absolutely use Publix brand heavy whipping cream.  Remember TWO shots!

You can start to see why I recommend a minimum of a 12 ounce glass.  So far you have four shots of liquid.  At 1.5 ounces per shot you are already up to 6 ounces.  Stir it around so that all the liquid is mixed.  Now comes the part to make it a "snowball."

You want to use crushed ice.  Some of you (like me) are lucky enough to have a refrigerator that has a crushed ice setting.  You want to use fine crushed ice.  The finer the better.  

Now what you want to do is pack that Double Rocks Glass with crushed ice.  I mean pack it like a snowball.  You were wondering when that term was going to pop up, huh?  Stir it as best you can.  It will be thick.  You are now the proud owner of a "White Russian Snowball."

(Sidenote:  I'm sure professional bartenders will tell me that I need to "shake a cocktail" if I am using ice in it.  I won't disagree with them, but I'll say I've never needed to do so for this drink.)

The good news, is that, alcohol has a lower freezing point than water.  So the ice will melt rather quickly.  The flavor will be smooth, flavorful, and creamy.  I like this because it feels like you get your moneys' worth from this drink.  The ice will all be melted by the time you are finished. 

I made one of these for my former girlfriend years ago.  Her response to it was, "Oh my!  This is dangerous!"  

I said, "Oh no!  I'm sorry!"

To which she replied, "No.  You don't get it.  This thing is so smooth and delicious that I'll have one, then two, then be on the floor.  You can't taste any biting alcohol at all.  This is dangerously good!"

I have to say I was rather proud of myself when she told me that.  That's when I knew I had a killer recipe on my hands.

So now let's go over how to make a "Toasted Almond Snowball."

A Toasted Almond isn't that different from a White Russian.  Really we are just trading the vodka out for Disaronno Amaretto.  Let's start from the beginning.

First up, let's grab our trusty Double Rocks/ Old Fashioned Glass (minimum 12 ounces.)

Next we pour one shot of Disaronno Amaretto into the glass.

Next we pour one shot of Kahlua into the glass.

Now we add our two shots of heavy whipping cream.

Now we stir our glass around some mixing up the liquids.  Next we pack the glass with crushed ice like a snowball.

If you really want to be fancy, and I completely suggest you do this, add a maraschino cherry to the glass.  Or add about four.  I love those things.  And if you really want to make it special, add some of the maraschino cherry juice to the Toasted Almond Snowball.  

Now stir the glass, and you have the ultimate "Toasted Almond Snowball."  Please enjoy, and please, please, please!!!!  Drink responsibly!!!  Remember each one of these drinks has two shots of alcohol in it.  

A 90 pound young woman might get white girl wasted after having, "Just two drinks."  Yeah, because she just consumed four shots in half an hour without realizing it.  So please drink responsibly.  

Again, please feel free to pass this recipe on.  As a history buff/major/graduate I believe in the sharing of information.  Also, as a history buff/major/graduate I am still mad about the destruction of the Library at Alexandria!!!  But it's that anger over the loss of information that propels me to share things.  It's one reason I write this blog.  

So please, if you are a bartender, or just feel like sharing drinks with friends, please try this recipe.  If you like it, please pass it on.  Take care and enjoy everyone.  

A Coach's Prayer

About a year ago I was listening to Howard Stern on Sirius XM.  He was playing a clip of a football coach yelling at his team's players.  One of the players on the team secretly recorded the screams, curses, insults, and threats of his football coach.  I think the player had enough of being demeaned game after game and recorded the coach to show people what was going on.

Once the tape hit the media listeners/viewers were aghast.  Many women were shocked that someone would use that kind of language at high school players.  A lot of men responded, "That's exactly the kind of things my coach said to me."  Howard asked his employees that had played high school football their thoughts.  Every one of them said, "Yeah, that's exactly what my coaches said to me.  Exactly."

I played 5A high school football in Tampa, Fl. during the early 90's.  Here's a list of things that were said to me by coaches when I played.

1.  (Wide Receiver's coach)  (Note:  I was an Offensive "Strong Side" Guard.)  "I don't give a fuck about your parents, the school, or any of that shit!  I will fucking MURDER you if you don't move!"

He didn't so much say or yell it at us, but just kind of snarled with spit coming out of his mouth.  And get this.  That day was a rainout!  We were in the gym practicing basic skills.  You know, running, jumping, squats, stretches, and walking through plays.

I honestly, in my heart of hearts, thought the coach was going to take a swing at one of us.  To this day I have no clue as to why he was so pissed off.  It was complete overkill for nothing.

2.  (Defensive Coordinator.)  As you can see my last name is "Long."  He liked to call me, "Shlong."  He was also a former Navy S.E.A.L.  He could be a cruel man.

3.  That same D.C. just lambasted the entire defense at halftime during spring season football.  He used every curse word I knew at the time, and a few I didn't.  I have never heard someone yell so loudly in my life.  Like I said earlier, I was on offense.  He was yelling at the entire defense in the next room, and it felt like he was yelling directly in my ear.

4.  (Linebacker's Coach)  I had the LB's Coach grab my facemask, and twist it.  As in, he was intentionally trying to hurt my neck.  He was mad because I was going after the defensive tackle's knees.  I was told to block a certain way by the Offensive Coaches, and instructed to tell the D Linemen to, "Watch your knees."

I did this before every play where I was supposed to block like that.  I knew it.  The D-Linemen knew it.  Everyone knew it except for this LB's Coach.

Still the LB's Coach really tried to hurt me.  He actually stopped practice to come over, grab my facemask, and yell at me.  Yeah, this happened in front of the entire team.  And when I say "team," I mean the players, coaches, and trainers.

This coach had played for the Pittsburgh Steelers in the 1950's and at one time was the highest paid defensive player in the league.  He admitted he had the, "Old School" attitude when it came to
coaching and playing football.

I told the LB's Coach, as he was twisting my helmet, "Coach Tolley (the Offensive Line Coach) told me to block like that! If you don't like it, you need to talk to him!" He didn't like that, or didn't believe me.

Once play continued, the coaches met up, and informed the LB Coach why I was blocking the way I was.  After about five plays he came up and apologized to me.  Somehow he didn't know about the blocking scheme.  I was still pretty angry about how no other coach stepped in when he was twisting my facemask.

5.  I was huffing and puffing since we were running so many plays in row during practice.  I was just sucking wind when the head coach yelled, "God damnit Tolley (the O-Line coach) is he going to fucking die on me?!!!"  Coach Tolley was the most level headed coach by far.  He just stepped in and calmed the situation down.

So that brings me to my title.  There was one week when Team Chaplin Lane was not able to make it that Friday (game day.)  So our Head Coach took over the inspirational words of the week.  How did it go?  Exactly like you think it would.

He said, "Now you may not believe in Jesus, but you have to admit, it took BALLS to do what he did!  He rode into that city KNOWING that they were going to fucking kill him!  He KNEW they were going to painfully crucify him to death, yet he walked into that battlefield despite the odds being against him!  But you know what?  Despite the odds, three days later he emerged from that cave VICTORIOUS!"

At seventeen years old I had never heard the story of the resurrection put that way.  Actually, I'm sure no one else had either.  The good news, was that regular Team Chaplin Lane was back the next week with a more levelheaded inspirational talk.  He didn't miss a game after that.  He was a real good guy.  However, when it came to that week's game, we lost badly.  But hey.  You win some, you lose some.

Birds of Prey... In My Backyard

It started out innocently enough.  I wandered outside the house to take a few photos of my garbage cans.  Pretty boring, right?  Last week we had a storm come through, and a few tornados touched down.  Even though we were miles away from the tornados, we had some extremely high winds.  I realized that I was going to have to pick up a bunch of fallen limbs if I was going to mow the lawn.  Otherwise, I would end up destroying my lawnmower blades.

I was aiming to post on Facebook about picking up four garbage cans full of limbs when I thought, "Why not take a photo of the garbage cans?"  A photo can express the things I can't put into words.  I realized that it's a somewhat uninteresting photo to take, but I had the time and didn't mind.

While I was out there I heard a bird screeching loudly.  I immediately knew what it was.  You see, we've had a pair of hawks that have lived around us for over twenty years.  I'm not sure if this is the same pair, but we've always had a pair hang around the property.  What's funny, is that, they had a nest in a pine tree behind us for almost fifteen years that I know of.  The pine tree was perfectly straight, and right at the top the hawks built their giant nest.

However, the pine tree ended up being hit by lightening and dying.  I hated to see that, because the hawks kept their nest in the same place.  Every year they would add to it.  That's one reason the nest was so big.  And that brings me to today.

I heard the screeching, and looked up.  I saw one of the hawks sit up on the electric pole near my house.  When I took a closer look I saw it's mate was sitting up there with it.  I took a number of photos, but here are the best ones I shot.

In this part of Florida we have both "Red Shouldered" and "Red Tailed" hawks.  I'm not sure which species these are.  Either way, these two are always hanging around the property.

There was one time I was mowing the lawn, and one of the hawks hung out in the oak tree I was mowing around.  It was looking for bugs and mice that I could scare up.  You know what?  One time I did scare a mouse, and the hawk managed to grab it.

Which brings me to their nest.  You know that oak tree that the hawk was watching me from?  Well, it's the same oak tree they have their nest in now.  Here are a few photos I took of the nest.  These two photos are the ones I took before I saw the hawks.

These two photos I took later.  I tried to take the photo from almost underneath the nest, instead of an angle.

I'm going to keep an eye out on the nest.  It won't be long before a few eggs are laid, and chicks hatch.  I won't be able to take photos directly inside the nest.  You can see just how high up it is.  Even if I had a drone to take photos, I'm sure the hawks would take it down hard.  The hawks can be a bit aggressive.

So I'll try to get a few photos once the chicks leave the nest.  Maybe I'll leave a steak out for them?  I'm sure they'd like that.  Okay, I won't do that.  It would be funny if I did, but I won't.  I'll stick with shooting photos.  Stay tuned.

Creative Writing Paper: The Great Dope Run

Back in 2001 I took a creative writing class in college.  I felt really good about my short story, "Strom Thurmond's Body Must Be Destroyed."  I felt so good about it I decided to continue the story of my lead character, Raymond Steele.  (Yeah, that's a 90's name if there ever was one, huh?)

My creative writing teacher loved me.  She absolutely adored my writing.  But then again, I took her class seriously, and turned in quality papers.

So, if you are out there in internet-land I hope you enjoy this story.  But please!  Last minute writers!  Do not plagiarize this work.  It will easily show up in Google Search.  It will take your professor two seconds to check it.  Otherwise, enjoy!

The Great Dope Run



"Oh..., ah..., pain..., unbearable... pain," I barely muttered. "Oh my God..., the pain..., get me a.... Budweiser for God's sake.., get me... some sort of alcohol."

I could barely open my eyes, couldn't even lift my arms. It felt like they were chained down. Now that I thought about it, I couldn't feel my legs either. Which was odd, because I generally had to drink a lot before my legs would go numb.

"Ray!" someone shouted. "Ray, are you awake? Do you know where you are?"

"Who... is that?" I asked.

Truthfully, I didn't know where I was, if I was awake, or if my name was Ray, although that did seem familiar.

"Ray, it's Jack, your friend and lawyer. Do you remember what happened?"

"Hey..., I'm the one... who should be asking.... something like a question.. I .. , where ... am....," I didn't get a chance to finish.

"Nurse!" yelled Jack. "Get this man something! He's in excruciating pain!"

I could only hear. I couldn't see what was going on. I heard the nurse say,

"Ray, Ray, give me a sign. Can you hear me?

"Yes...," I whispered.

"That's good Ray," said the nurse that I could just start to make out. "Are you in pain Ray?"

"Oh God yes," I muttered.

I felt like I was starting to come around. My voice was a clearing up as well.

"You should not be in pain," said the nurse with puzzlement in her voice. "You're hooked up to a morphine tap."

"Nurse...," I started. "I am a professional drug addict..., and you're going to have to give me a hell of a lot stronger stuff than a simple morphine tap. I would kill for a Bud to drink, and a bud to smoke, as well as some Vicodin, Heroin, Percocet, whatever thirty-one flavors of drugs you have."

My eyes were starting to focus. The first thing I saw was Jack and the nurse standing over me. This was not one of those twenty-seven year old hot body nurses fresh from college. No, she looked like my grandma. Right now she was looking at me like I was being completely ill rational. So I made myself a little more clear.

"More... drugs..., please!" I exclaimed as best I could.

"I'll get the doctor," she said as she took off out the door.

Well, at least she had a good work ethic. Anyone who would run that fast to get drugs for me can't be all that bad.

"Ray!" yelled Jack... again.

"Jack..., you're at an eight...., I need you at a two and a half," I said.

"Thank God you're alive," he said, much quieter this time. "Ray, do you remember anything, and I mean anything that happened."

"Happened?," I asked. "When, what, I don't know. My head is still spinning. Tell me, I've been unconscious haven't I?" "It feels as if my brain was shoved into a blender, and poured back into my head. Jack, why can't I move my arms and legs?"

"Ray," he said with a look of extreme sadness. "You can not move your arms because the police handcuffed you to your bed, and you can not move your legs because you bruised your spine in the accident."

"What accident?" I wondered aloud.

"I'm still trying to put the all the facts together. All I know is ....," he paused. "There was an accident involving your boat. It somehow flipped and crashed. After it crashed, the beach was littered with drugs, pieces of your boat, dead Cubans, and an injured manatee that is now recovering at the Lowery Park Manatee Hospital in Tampa. Ray, I hate to tell you this, but your political enemies are coming out of the woodwork on this."

"A manatee?" I asked. "I love manatees..., they're so... darn cute. I have... a... manatee... license plate."

"Yeah, well, the press loves them too. This one's getting more air time than President Bush. They're calling him Snuggles, Snuggles the Manatee," stated Jack with an irritable look on his face. "Damn it Ray! What the hell were you doing out there? What happened?

That was a good question, what the hell did happen?

(48 hours earlier or, what the hell happened)


In the land of waffles, the man with the biggest waffle iron is king. In the land of fishing the man with the biggest rod does not always catch the most fish. That's why I use dynamite. The underwater shock wave obliterates anything near the initial blast. After the fish come floating up to the surface, it's as easy as throwing a cast net out to collect dinner, and the cat's fish head buffet. It's been hard to fish for mullet as of late, with the illegal netters and all. Almost as hard as finding a hungry hooker with no front teeth.

I love fishing. A true fisherman has no excuse to waste a day of his life. Every day has potential, and the excuse to get away from crazy housewives who's minds are more fucked up than West Virginia's gene pool. My boat is a thirty-five foot Excalibur cigarette style boat with a seven-hundred horse power inboard engine. Cigarette boats are built for one thing, and that's speed. However, I like using the Natural Disaster for dynamite fishing because the hull is reinforced for high speeds. Fishing puts men back in touch with their roots. Where else can a man get totally shit-faced, kill animals in obscene ways, drive at inappropriate speeds, and still be legal?

Tonight was a dark and stormy night, well, no it wasn't. True, it was dark on account of being nighttime, but a nearly full moon echoed like a soft lightbulb across the water. The few puffy clouds that were in the sky made me think of my pillow, and that I should really be at home sleeping right now. 

I, however, was on another mission. At 2:00 in the morning and 20 miles off Miami's shore, I was here to meet somebody, or should I say pick up a package for a friend of mine from Cuba, by way of South America. At three foot high, the waves were not that bad for being so far offshore, I hated any kind of rocking of my boat. Especially when I'm trying to cut cocaine with a fishhook, because I forgot my razor. My friend's associates were already an hour late, which gave me plenty of time to savor every drop of my gin and Gatorade. The gin was to get drunk as fast I could, so I would actually go along with this plan, and the Gatorade was to keep my electrolytes up so I wouldn't get that nasty hangover in the morning, which I probably deserved. Mainly for going along with this crazy scheme.

After some heavy drinking, a few lines, and enough speed to kill a horse, I finally heard the plane. Looking out with my Bushnell binoculars, I could see the lights of the small single engine plane. Those morons probably hadn't changed their watches over to Eastern Standard Time. I grabbed the CB and let those egg layers have it.

"Breaker, breaker, this is Flapjack, did you get lost? It's only ninety miles straight up, you mentally deficient red commie bastards."

They started spouting something back at me over the CB, but hell if I knew what they were saying.

"Hey Castro!" I shouted. "You're in the U.S. now. Speak English or die!"

Again, all I could hear was mass confusion over the CB.

"Listen, you are acting way too unprofessional for a drug dealer. I am going to have to report that your work is very unsatisfactory to your boss. Also, I don't give a hoot in hell what your problem is. I am here to do a favor, and you are not making this easy for me you fucking retards."

At this time I could see the plane coming in. It was one of those water landing, single engine, prop planes. I also noticed a much bigger plane sitting almost on top of it trying to force it down. I guess they had a reason to be panicking.

"Sico..la...ah..no....ah.....no...Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" yelled the pilot over the CB.

At least, that's what it sounded like to me.

"Hey Chico!" I shouted into the CB. "Get your head out of your ass, and land the damn plane!"

At this time, both planes were flying low and fast. I could just make out the letters on the big plane. D.E.A.

"Oh fuck me like a thirteen year old runaway." I muttered.

The United States Drug Enforcement Agency. This guys were worse than the Alabama Highway Patrol, and twice as vicious. These guys would rip your guts out with a plastic fork, or nearest utensil. Well, at least they were predictable. Their next move would be to bump the plane, and send it spiraling into the Atlantic ocean.

"Yep, yep," I muttered to myself. "Here they come."

With one almighty swoop, the federal pig's plane blew over the smaller aircraft disrupting the air flow, sending Pedro and the grass into a tailspin straight into the ocean. As all this was going on, I cranked up the engines on the Natural Disaster, and started making my way to the aerial dogfight.

The show was spectacular, from my perspective anyway. Lupe was probably shitting his pants right now. A very unprofessional thing for a smuggler might I add. The light display was grand, almost too grand. That's when I realized that the LSD that I was carrying in my sock had gotten wet from the saltwater, and was starting to kick in. Thank God for those little blessings.

"Hey Jorge, pull the goddamn plane up you worthless excuse for a smuggler!" I yelled over the CB.

This was starting to become way too much work.

"Where did you get your driver's license?" I screamed. "New York or Walmart?"

Ricardo might not have heard me, seeing as how he was still in a tailspin with the nose of the plane pointed straight down at the ocean, and he was only five-hundred feet off the water. I just knew that a lot of good home grown pot was going to end up in Davey Jones' locker, along with a small plane and some dead Cubans. At about two-hundred feet above the water, Lupe somehow managed to pull the nose of the plane up enough for it to land.

"Thwap!" echoed across the water as the plane touched/crashed down.

Thwap, a kinda half thud, half slap, a thwap. Although the plane was mangled, it did manage to float, although probably not for long. I kicked the boat up to seventy miles an hour to pick up my delivery, now that they had finally landed. 

I thought to myself, most people would run from this sort of situation. I mean, it's pretty obvious that they've been caught, and why should I put myself at risk? I've got a dog and a turtle at home that need me. However, the bacon isn't expecting the pickup to be so close to the crash site. Hmmm.

At that point I kicked the engine up to eighty miles an hour. Hey, I had a job to do, and I had to show these amateurs how it was done. This situation actually reminds me of something that one of those communists reporters over at the St. Petersburg Times said about me.

"In trying to pull something this big off, it shows just how crazy, how insane, how.... arrogant you are."

Of course, I was in a different predicament then, but I still kicked him in the nuts as hard as I could. It wasn't about the insult, it was about integrity.

I pulled up to the plane to see a grizzly scene. It seems one the Cubans was sticking though the front window. He was bleeding profusely with a piece of the plane's window in his stomach and sticking out his back. Believe it or not, he was actually moving. He was whining about his mother and some chick named Mary, whoever the fuck they were?

"Hey Pedro," I yelled. "I'm here to help you out."

"Crack!" went my Smith and Wesson thirty-eight revolver as I shot him in the head.

"That hurt me a lot more than it did you," I told the now dead body.

I now counted three Cubans in the boat. Why the hell did they send me so many? I needed drugs, not immigrants.

"Listen up!" I yelled. "Fuck the Pope, and your filthy cunt mothers! I'm your new boss, and I'm going to make you work for a living. Not like living off the government tit, like you do down there in Cuba!"

At this point they started to question my authority. A very bad move, if I do say so myself. They immediately jumped into the water, and tried to get aboard the Natural Disaster.

"Back, back!" I screamed as I beat them mercilessly with my boat paddle. "Back to plane!" I yelled as I pointed to the plane. "Grass first, boat ride second! If you don't move it, I'll turn you over to Aryan Nation, the Black Panthers, or U.S. Immigration, whichever I get to first!"

Now that I had asserted my authority, they suddenly got a lot smarter. In no time they were moving the huge, carefully wrapped cube blocks of Mary Jane out of the plane, and into the boat.

"That's it! Put your backs into it!" I said trying to sound like one of those pirate captains from 1950's television. "Arrggghhh! I'll make ya walk the plank. I'll shiver me timbers. You know, I'd hate to think that Castro has to put up this shit everyday to get you people motivated!"

Now the Natural Disaster is thirty-five foot long, but it's not very wide. It's built for speed, not comfort. It's a typical cigarette boat with it's center console located halfway between the back and middle. So cubes of pot, or square groupers as they're called by the authorities, had to be set up near the front of the boat. Therefore, by adding all that weight onto it, it's a pain to keep it balanced enough to hold the nose down so it doesn't flip.

"Here's the rope! Tie it down tight! Move the contraband up near the front to keep the nose down, and center it down the middle to keep us from leaning so bad! Stack them low, so the center of gravity helps to keep the boat from flipping!" I yelled, forgetting the fact that they didn't understand a word I was saying.

However, though my great managerial skills, and tough love, all the weed was secure.

"Get on the floorboards now! Put your fingers in your ears, and open your mouths. I'm going to cause some major destruction.!"

It was then, that I took out the rest of my dynamite sticks.

"In case you wonder what I'm doing, that plane needs to be gone when the feds get here. These twenty-four sticks of dynamite are going to help me accomplish that," I said as I wrapped the wires together.

"Thirty seconds after I light this, we need to be as far away from here as possible."

I fired up my Zippo, and lit her up.

Like Joe Namath, I threw the bundle of dynamite over the dead guy/cornerback through the giant hole in the windshield.

"Thirty seconds!" I yelled as I kicked the boat up to four-thousand RPM's and climbing.

"Hang on boys!" I told them. "We have twenty miles until we hit shore. Get down on the floorboards to keep the center of gravity low!"

At this point, I could tell by the look in their eyes that they were going to try and pull that, we don't speak English bullshit. Totally unprofessional, seeing as how I couldn't get the boat up to speed unless the center of gravity was right.

"Get on the ground!" I shouted as I waved my revolver around. "Hit the deck, you monkeys! We have fifteen seconds!"

Smith and Wesson, the ultimate in motivational techniques.

"Alright, all engines Go!" I bellowed in my best Captain's voice as I kicked the engines up to escape velocity.

I had put a comfortable distance between the plane and the Natural Disaster when I heard the explosives go off.

BOOM!

I could hear the explosion echo across the water, as well as see the fire reflect off my windshield and dashboard.

"They're not going to find anything now," I said talking out loud to myself. "I can hear the morning news now, the D.E.A.'s plane bumped a suspected smuggler's plane, and sent it spiraling into the ocean where it was destroyed upon impact killing all crewmembers."

I could pull this thing off yet, and make the D.E.A. look bad to boot. Not a bad day's work.

"Listen up mateys!" I said yelling over the roar of the engines. "The first ten miles may be a little rough! Once we get inshore, the water will be like glass, and I can kick her into high gear! Just watch the merchandise, and make sure it doesn't go sliding around!"

For the first time on this disastrous trip, things were starting to go right, grass on deck, Cubans on the floor, compass pointing me in the right direction, and Elvis on the radio.

"Oh yeah, this is what it's about boys!" I said doing my best Elvis impersonation. "Come on, sing with me! Cause there ain't nothing higher, than the sweet smell of desire! Come on, you're not singing! Burnin up! I said a hunka hunka burnin love! 

You guys are such pussies. You see boys, that's your big problem. You just roll over and play dead. Then you wonder why Cuban women act like such bitches, and not just to you, but everyone. Do they collect your balls upon receiving a certificate of marriage? You need to smack em around a little, show em who's in charge. Show some initiative."

I shook my head in disgust.

"You might think I'm being a little hard on you boys, and you might be right. What you have to understand is that the merchandise comes first. This whole thing is bigger than any one man. Me, you all, the dead pilot, the president, we are all a far second to the merchandise.

The waves were now starting to become nothing more than little ripples. This gave me the opportunity to show these tourists just how fast this boat could go. However, they would probably freak out if I really showed some gumption, so I figured that sixty miles an hour while carrying a full load might be about right. That way it also kept the engine at about forty-five hundred RPM's.

"Things are starting to look alright boys," I said.

It was that very moment that a spotlight shined brightly in my eyes. There is no greater feeling in the world than thinking that you have pulled off a great crime. However, there is no worse feeling than having the marine patrol shine their lights on the hundred bails of marijuana that are sitting on the deck of your boat.

"I am so fucked," I said knowing full well that I was, so fucked.

"This is the D.E.A., stop your engines, and prepare to be boarded!" said the voice out of the loudspeaker of the approaching boat.

Shit! These guys weren't the usual sea pigs. Someone had called out the big guns. Not only were they in the air, but on the sea. This could only mean they had been tipped off, or I had been set up. Either way, I was pissed.

"Mr. Sulu, prepare for warp speed!" I yelled.

Like I told the boys, you just can't roll over and die. Especially when you've been set up, sold out, and own a boat that can go three times faster than anything the D.E.A. is driving.

"Hold on to your hats boys! The ride is going to get... fast!" I yelled, thinking of nothing better to say.

At this point I kicked the engines up to nine-thousand RPM's, while the Cubans were in the floorboards, lying in their own urine. Almost in unison, six boats flipped their high beams on the Natural Disaster. This was starting to get worse by the second. I could outrun them, but I couldn't outmaneuver them.

"Boys," I started. "It's times like these that you know, no matter how doped up you are, that the end is near. If you believe in God, now's the time to start praying."

I only had one option.

"Prepare for ramming speed!" I yelled as I steered the Natural Disaster toward the Fed's boat that was directly between myself and land.

"I've never had her full throttle before boys, but there's a first, and a last time for everything!" I yelled as I pushed her to the max.

"Stop your engines, and prepare to be boarded!" came the voice from the loudspeaker again.

"Go fuck your mother!" I screamed, drowned out by the roar of the engines.

You should have seen the Feds scatter as they saw me and the merchandise coming straight for them at one-hundred-thirty MPH. It's a wonder that the Natural Disaster hadn't flipped yet. When a boat this big, is driven this fast, it actually rises off the water, with only the engine props touching the water. It felt like I was flying.

"Prepare for impact!" I shouted, as we bore down on the Fed's boat with only seconds left before imminent destruction and annihilation.

Woosh echoed across the water as my boat dodged to the right of the Feds. I may be eccentric, but I'm not stupid. Although, I didn't turn so much to my right, as the Feds turned to my left. They weren't in the mood to play chicken, especially with a man who can't turn the wheel of his boat too far, because he is using one hand to give them the bird.

"Sit and spin on this you monkey fucks!" I bellowed at them while giving them the one fingered salute.

"Damn I'm good!" I half yelled, half laughed.

Now came the hard part. All the boats were behind me, but I had only four miles to go until I hit shore. Speeding at one-hundred thirty miles an hour, that gave me less than two minutes to come up with a plan. I could start to make out the mangrove islands as I was coming in. I had to keep the Natural Disaster down the middle of the channel where she could run in the deep water.

"What to do? What to do?" I kept muttering to myself.

The best thing I could think of was to make a run at the boat ramp, and then cut right into the harbor so I could dock in my private hanger. I had enough distance between me and the Feds, to where, if I could make it to the hanger, the merchandise could be loaded into the awaiting truck in five minutes or so. This was depending on a lot of ifs, but's, and maybes.

I was now half a mile from the boat dock. I was going to have to time this turn just right. I needed to keep my speed up enough to avoid my pursuers, but I needed to slow down just enough to make my turn.

"Get ready boys! We're going to be pushing our luck!"

The mangrove islands were close on both sides of us. As long as I stayed in the channel we were alright. At five-hundred yards from the boat dock, I cut the speed back to ninety MPH.

"Just hold her straight." I muttered. "Only a few more yards till we..."

My eyes almost jumped out of their sockets. In the span of a few seconds, everything went wrong. It was early morning, nothing should be in the channel. Nothing except a school of manatees passing through.

"Oh shit!" I screamed, knowing they were too close, and I was going too fast to avoid them.

Just as I threw the engines into reverse while turning a little too sharp to the right, the Natural Disaster hit one of the manatees.

"Aaahhhhhh!" I could do nothing but scream, as my boat was ejected into the air, and sent into a roll.

I was flying, sent into the air trying to scream again, but I couldn't even breathe. I felt like a golf ball being hurled forever through space and time. The only thing I could do was watch myself being thrown towards the mangrove island that was originally to the right of my boat. I kept flying and flying, knowing full well that I was not going to hit the water.

This is the end, I thought. Please God, not the big tree.

Splat!

(Back at the Hospital)


"I'm sorry Jack, I don't remember anything," I said.

"Ray," Jack started. "For the time being, try to get some rest. I am going to find out everything I can. Ok buddy?"

"Thanks Jack," I said with a smile.

Jack was the best lawyer that a guy could have. His cool demeanor said everything about him. How was I to know that in five minutes all hell would break loose, and Jack would be in the middle of it all?

"Mr. Raymond Steele?" said a voice walking into the room. "I am Officer Kraft, and this is Officer Clem. We are here to read you your rights."

"Ray!" Jack halfway screamed. "They are required to read you your rights by law, ok. Just let them read them, but keep your mouth shut! Don't say anything!"

"Excuse me sir," said pig number one. "I'm going to have to ask you to step aside and let us do our jobs."

"Excuse me sir!" Jack stated with an apparently irritable attitude. "I am Jack Bourgois, and I am this man's attorney, and I am here to make sure you do your job, without violating my client's civil rights. Let me say this, you and myself are going to have a conversation about placing handcuffs on a man who can not move from the waist down."

I loved it when Jack went into full lawyer mode. He was tearing new assholes for the both of them. I couldn't understand three-quarters of what any of them were saying, but it was funny to watch.

"Alright," said Jack. "You can read my client his rights, but he will make no statement."

"Fine," said Officer Kraft. He walked over to me and started to read this giant warrant.

"Mr. Raymond Edward Steele, you have been charged by the State of Florida on this, May 4, 2001 with the following offenses. 

One count of endangering a federally protected animal, a manatee, tagged as manatee number 1247, also known as Snuggles the manatee, a first degree felony. 

One count of endangering a federally protected tree, a mangrove, a third degree felony. 

One count of possession of LSD, a second degree felony. 

One count of possession of LSD with intent to use, a second degree felony. 

One count of being under the influence of LSD, a second degree felony. 

Fifty counts of possession of a square grouper, better known as bails of marijuana, a first degree felony. 

One count of drug trafficking, a first degree felony. 

Three counts of smuggling illegal aliens into the borders of the United States, a third degree felony. 

Three counts of smuggling illegal aliens into the borders of the Untied States with intent to avoid law enforcement agencies, a first degree felony. 

One count of possession of an incendiary device, dynamite, a second degree felony. 

One count of intent to use an incendiary device, dynamite, a first degree felony. One count of using an incendiary device, a first degree felony. 

One count of resisting arrest with violence, a first degree felony. 

One count of resisting arrest using a moving vehicle, a boat, a first degree felony. 

Eleven counts of reckless endangerment, a third degree felony. 

Three counts of manslaughter, a first degree felony. 

Twelve counts of interfering with the duties of a law enforcement officer, a third degree felony. 

One count of destruction of evidence, a second degree felony. 

One count of speeding in a no wake zone, a third degree misdemeanor. 

One count of criminal mischief, a third degree misdemeanor. 

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do, can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can not afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the charges brought against you, and your rights?"

"No," I said. "I just had my head bashed in. My middle name is Edward? Yuck. What the hell kind of mother do I have?

"Shut up Ray," said Jack. He then turned to the cops.

"Under federal law, you can not take my client into custody, or take a statement from him since he is not mentally competent, and I will have any number of doctors testify to that right now. Get those cuffs off him this second or I will have your boss, the Miami Herald, and the ACLU on the phone in the next thirty seconds."

That's why Jack was worth the money. The cops knew they were beat, and my wrists were free at last. After they left, Jack said to me,

"You realized that you just created a lot of paperwork for them, don't you? Of course, I didn't make things any easier for them myself."

"Jack, I don't remember much, but I know that I love you man."

"Remember this," Jack said. "You don't know it yet, but the whole world's a show to you."

"What's the world to you?" I asked.

"Right now," he started. "It's a card came. However, I'm not playing to win. I'm playing not to lose. You really messed up this time my friend. They have enough charges to put you away for life, or at least two-thousand years. The only thing as certain as those dead men on the beach, was the marijuana found scattered everywhere. Do you remember anything?

"Truthfully," I said. "I don't remember anything."

"I was afraid you would tell me that," said Jack with a mournful look on his face. "I'd hate to think, that all this death and destruction, was the result of a few smokes.

Creative Writing Paper: Strom Thurmond's Body Must Be Destroyed

 Back in 2001 I took a college creative writing class.  I was in my Dr. Hunter S. Thompson phase at the time, and wrote this short story in the vein of Dr. Thompson.  I was quite happy with my writing.  I was thinking about it the other day, and realized that I never got around to posting it.

I've had my blog for coming up on twelve years now, and I can't believe that I never even thought of posting it until now.  My blog is for all things that come in and out of my head, and this story is directly from my head.  But the good news, is that, I am now posting this.  I hope you enjoy.

And for those high school/college students who are thinking of ripping off my story for their creative writing class... Don't do it.  This will easily show up in Google search.  Besides, this story is about 20 years out of date.


Strom Thurmond's Body Must be Destroyed


"Break out the guns and neutron bombs!" I declared as I broke into my lawyer's office. "It's an emergency!" I made a mad dash for the secretary's desk, and grabbed a hold of Jean. "Jean, didn't you hear me? I need to see Jack right away. It's an emergency I tell you!"

"Mr. Steele, please, you're going to have to calm down," she said. "Besides you know you need an appointment. We've been through this before."

Damn secretaries, they always think they know everything. I never met one I liked. Especially Jean, she was the ultimate bitch. She looked and acted like an angry librarian gone dyke. I knew I needed an appointment, and she knew I needed an appointment. Why then, did she even bother telling me something that we both knew anyway? I wish I knew what her problem was. However, since I knew, that me knowing what her problem was wouldn't help either of us, I decided to drop it.

"Damn it woman! I need to see Jack pronto! Our very lives are at risk!" I shouted. Looking very perturbed in her wire rimmed glasses, she said,

"Mr. Bourgois is busy right now, you just can't barge in here and demand to see him without an appointment."

Obviously this woman didn't realize, or didn't care about the danger we all were in. I had to put up with this type of attitude all the time, she was no different.

"Jean, if you don't let me in to see Jack right now, you leave me no choice but to strip naked and run through the lobby. Come on woman, what's the point of having a lawyer on retainer if I can't barge in and talk to him?" I asked.

"You know that's not the issue Mr. Steele," she replied. "You are in here three or four times a week, and twice on Tuesdays. You know Mr. Bourgois has other clients he has to meet with."

I think she was trying to use some sort of reverse logic on me. Too bad for her it wasn't going to work.

"Ok," I casually replied. "I understand." I was down to my boxers before she finally broke down and called Jack on the speaker phone. She was unhappy, but she'd get over it.

"Mr. Bourgois, I am sorry to interrupt your meeting, but Mr. Steele is here, and he is in one of his moods... again."

Out of the speaker phone I heard Jack's voice.

"No problem Jean. Mr. Martinez and I have finished. Send Raymond up." Jean glanced up looking slightly afflicted,

"Mr. Bourgois will see you now. I'm sure you know the way."

After putting my clothes back in order, I raced up the stairs into Jack's office only to find Jack, and some well dressed Cuban guy speaking to one another. If this was "Mr. Martinez," why was he still here? More importantly, what did he want?

"Ray, come on in," said Jack. "I want you to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Robert Martinez of the Law Firm Martinez and Fernandez. He works in this building as well, on the seventeenth floor."

At this point I had bigger things to worry about, than Jack trying to get in good with one of the cites most powerful lawyers. The fate of the world was at stake.

"Yes, hello Bob, have we met? Oh, you were just leaving right. Ok, see you soon, bye." This was no time for niceties. Sometimes you have to help people help themselves by giving them a shift kick in the shins. I used to play rugby, and I can kick hard.

"We'll talk tomorrow around ten," Jack said to Bob as he quickly walked him to the door. Bob looked as if he were stuck in a black hole and didn't realize it yet, but Jack knew what was important.

Jack closed and locked the door behind him to make sure our private conversation would stay between me, him, and the goldfish. It took me a while to break him into the habit of locking all three locks on the door, in fact, I'm the one who put them there. I consider it a good investment. We didn't need any anyone on the outside meddling in our conversation.

"Ray, have a seat," he said shaking my hand. "What can I do for you today?" he said as he leaned back in his huge leather cow skin chair smiling a wide grin.

He was in one of his "smiley" moods. I hated it when he was like this. He was always so much more ineffective like this.

"Damn it Jack, there's no time for niceties!" I yelled, as I never even bothered to sit down. "We have a crisis on our hands!"

"Actually Ray," he said, as he put his feet up on his mahogany desk. "I need to know before we start if you are on any type of drugs."

I couldn't believe he said that to me.

"Hey, you know I don't do illegal drugs anymore. I've found the legal ones are much better," I replied.

"Honestly, please tell me what you are on right now so I know how serious to take this," sighed Jack.

Jack was a good lawyer, but I found his lack of faith most discouraging. However, Jack was always honest with me, so I tried to be honest with him, or at least as honest as one could be with a lawyer.

"I had two Xanax, one hallicon, a shot of blackjack, and some herbal tea. Overall, a light morning. You know, you really should have a full body cavity search performed on your secretary," I informed him.

"If any man other than you would have said that, I'd take that a lot differently. Also, please don't crawl under my desk and start looking for listening devices again. I had the place swept this morning," he said as he got comfy in that monster of a chair.

"Really?" I replied.

"Really" he said with that smiley sort of smile.

"Well, you can never be too careful." I said with a crook in my brow.

I could trust Jack. He was a good Catholic man. Not necessarily a good Catholic though. A good Catholic would have turned me over to the Pope's goon squad years ago for all the meddling I've caused them.

"Anyway, I came here to tell you something drastically urgent, and I don't think you're going to like it."

"Tell it to me straight, and I'll help you out the best I can," he replied, again with that smiley sort of smile. Looking him straight in the eye, I told him,

"Strom Thurmond's body must be destroyed."

At that point it took me a few minutes to calm him down. Some people cry when faced with adversity, but Jack tends to laugh. He laughs hard. The kind of laugh that sends one sinking into the extravagant carpet of their glamorous eleventh floor downtown office complete with big chair, and a desk the size of a Volvo. Jack was definitely taking this one hard. Being the compassionate soul that I am, I helped Jack back to his chair, and poured him some ice water. After he finally regained his composure he said to me,

"I'm not a fan of the GOP, but why does Strom Thurmond need to be destroyed?"

"No!" I shouted from across the desk. "Strom Thurmond does not need to be destroyed, Strom Thurmond's body needs to be destroyed!"

He put his hand to his forehead. Suddenly, the smile was gone. I knew he was not taking this well. Jack started to raise his voice.

"What's the difference? Ok Ray, just stop right there. This is where you need to start at the beginning, and work your way forward."

This was the hard part. This was always the hard part.

"Forty-six years ago Strom Thurmond was elected to the United States Senate representing the state of South Carolina. During the 1950's and 60's Thurmond was best known for being the main leader for the pro-segregation forces in the Senate. Because of his hard line stance, he has become a symbol of hatred and intolerance for the rest of the U.S. since the 70's." Jack interrupted,

"I know this, but that isn't a reason to kill the man. As your lawyer I am extremely concerned about you. You've never wanted to go this far before," he said with a storied look on his face.

"You have to let me finish man!" I screamed, as I stood up once again. "Do you know how old Strom Thurmond is?" I asked while sitting back down.

Jack thought for a bit,

"He's pretty old. I know that."

"Strom Thurmond is ninety-eight years old," I replied, as my knuckles turned white as I gripped the edge of the desk. "You see, it's not that the man should be dead. The man is dead! He died!" I found I was standing yet again. "His corpse was then taken over by aliens trying to infiltrate the government!"

Jack suddenly turned very white. He did however manage to croak out a few words.

"What the hell do you mean aliens?"

He looked like I hit him with a giant tuna. It was time to let him in all the way. There was no backing out now. I walked over to pour a drink of ice water from his mini-fridge.

"You see, nobody likes Thurmond except those damned racist rednecks in South Carolina. He's always a sure bet. If you were an alien race trying to infiltrate the Senate, there would be no better person to take over. Your re-election is guaranteed."

Jack sat there for a while as I poured two glasses. I didn't want any water, but he looked like he could use some. We sat there quietly for a few seconds while Jack regained his composure. This kind of info is always hard to swallow at first, but like bourbon whiskey you get used to it.

"Ok," he started out. "Let's say I actually take you serious this time, besides the age factor, what leads you to believe that Strom Thurmond's body has been taken over by aliens?"

I knew for Jack to believe me, I had to let him in slowly.

"It started when I was websurfing. I found a conspiracy site, or should I say, an enlightenment site that taught me the true nature of the world's affairs."

"Wait!" he interrupted as he threw his hands up. "You don't mean to tell me that all this commotion you've brought in here is based on some degenerate website?"

"Can I finish, please? Can I?" I asked as we both leaned into each other across that huge desk. I had to keep Jack under control to some extreme or else he might never let me finish.

"Go ahead, my time, your money." Jack said as he leaned back in his chair while throwing his hands up in defeat. He was no longer smiling. I continued.

"This webmaster who goes by the name Placebo dug up information going back to over a decade. It seems that in 1989 Strom Thurmond went on a business trip to California. On his way there he was suddenly struck ill, and hospitalized in Las Vegas, Nevada. This brings up the question, what was he doing traveling by car, and not plane, to California? Anyway, before he got sick, his route took him close to Area 51, the secret Air Force base where human/alien hybrid spacecraft are tested out. You see, if his destination was California, he would have traveled by plane."

"Again," he interrupted. "I have to interrupt."

He turned his chair to look me dead on.

"Many older persons travel by ground, because they can't travel by plane. Their bodies can't handle the pressures that are exerted on them during flight. And if he did get sick in a plane, how would he get help? More than likely he is medically required to travel by ground."

I looked at Jack. I almost looked through him, but I thought better of it. I was going to start yelling again, but I thought better of that too. I just kept sitting and continued.

"The true destination for Senator Thurmond was Area 51. A project that he helped create in the 1950's. However, while he was there, something happened. Whether by accident or purpose, his body was taken over. Then, he spent the night at a Nevada hospital, but not just any hospital, but a U.S. military hospital, and here's the kicker. He never completed the trip to California.

Since then, his behavior has been erratic, even when dealing with his own political party. As of late, he has not been acting normal at all. He has misspoke at times, can't remember at others. In addition, he has been hospitalized repeatedly in the last year for a variety of illnesses. He has taken to having two "aides" at his side at all times. Two guesses as to who, or should I say what, they really are. You see Jack, the body is dying. The alien implant inside the body is spending as much energy as possible in an attempt to keep it going, but eventually it will lose it's fight with mortality.

The two aides have been sent to collect the alien parasite once Strom Thurmond's body has finally died. They want to do this quietly so that the alien can be implanted into another U.S. Senator, like Jesse Helms. This is only scratching the surface however, the real question is, why are the aliens are here. What is their purpose?"

Jack just looked at me for what seemed an eternity. He took a long drink of water, and thought for a bit. I could hear the mouse in his brain turning the gears. Taking a deep breath, and looking me in the eye he said,

"Well I can see why you wanted to see me. The way you put it, it sounds very serious... to you. Tell me Ray, has it occurred to you that this sounds like an X-Files episode?"

"Actually, it's more Invasion of the Body Snatchers." I hated to correct Jack cause he immediately got that pissy look in his eyes, but it had to be done.

"I mean," he said harshly, "that this is over the top. This is TV science fiction. It's some asshole on the internet twisting the truth and jerking people off. Tell me, do you actually know what Placebo means?"

I stretched out in my chair and thought for a minute. Then I just half assed guessed.

"Isn't it a medication of some kind?" I said with a look of perfect innocence on my face.

"Well, it's a type of pill. It's a fake. A fraud. It's a pill that they give to hypochondriacs that demand medication. It's a sugar pill that is harmless, and causes no effects, but hypochondriacs think it magically cures all their problems." he stated as he set his hands in his lap, and leaned back in that wonderful chair.

I was wondering what Jack was getting at.

"Jack, what are you getting at?" I asked.

He again came forward in his chair, this time speaking a bit slower, and a lot softer.

"Ray, you've been a great client a long time, and you know that I have always tried to help you with advise, whether it's legal, financial, or personal. Trust me on this, and please don't do anything stupid, this Placebo guy is just messing with you and others on the net."

I couldn't believe Jack was saying this. The evidence was so clear. With a startled look I asked him,

"Are you telling me that you think all the evidence is fake, and just like that, you're going to dismiss this entire conversation?"

He calmly got up from his chair, and came around his desk. He pulled up one of the smaller chairs so we were looking face to face, just inches apart.

"No, no listen to me," he said quickly, effectively, but softly. "I heard everything you said, and yes, at first I thought it was hilarious, but now I'm concerned because you seem to be taking this too far. This theory, if you can call it that, has more holes in it than Swiss cheese."

According to your logic, why would aliens want a dead body to implant a parasite in, if Thurmond was dead at the time of implantation? This Placebo guy said that the parasite needs a live body to survive, but he contradicted himself by saying that Thurmond had already died while in Area 51."

"O' Lord I can't believe I just said that," he mumbled under his breath quickly. However, he quickly regained his thoughts."

"Not only is this guy a liar, but he's a bad liar at that."

"Another thing," he exclaimed while still sitting only inches from me. "Why control the GOP? Sure, they have the money, but their conservative philosophies might make it hard for them to accomplish an "alien agenda."

He was starting to get on a roll, speaking louder and louder.

"Why come to America at all? Trying to climb up our political ranks is impossible, trust me I know. Why not go to Iran, Iraq, or one of the former Soviet republics? They could climb the political ladder a lot faster over there.

He kept getting a little closer. I could start to feel his breathe on my neck.

You know," he started to shout. "I can't believe I'm even arguing with you about this! I don't even believe in aliens! The other stuff you bring me week in and week out I can deal with. Drugs, yeah so what. Explosives, sure why not. But, aliens in D.C. Come on! You don't need a lawyer, you need a psychologist and a padded cell."

He was almost standing with his hands resting on the arms of my chair by the time he finished.

"Uh Jack," I interrupted. "Do you need a Nardol and Vicodin? See, I'm just trying to save the world man, and I just thought you might want to come along for the ride. I didn't expect you to go Tony Soprano all over me."

I knew he was upset. Whether it was because of his straight edge moral beliefs that left him unprepared for the event of an alien invasion, or because he hadn't been getting any lately, I suspected that he just wasn't ready for this.

"Ok, let me calm down," Jack said.

He stood all the way up, and walked back over to his big comfy cow chair. After taking a drink of water, and rubbing his temples he said to me,

"To tell you the truth, I just wasn't ready for this. When you came in here, I thought you were going to take me dynamite fishing with you this weekend."

I thought that wasn't a bad idea, but I had other things to do.

"Listen, we can go fishing when the earth isn't being invaded. Although, I did just get a full case of dynamite from one of my friends in Madagascar. Traded him a few cartons of Marlboros. I think we both came out ahead."

"If I could get us back on track here," Jack interrupted... again. "As your lawyer how about if I suggest a compromise."

That's what I liked about Jack, he was quick on his toes, however, he danced like shit, but that's another story.

"What do you have in mind?" I asked.

I was anxious to see what he had thought up in just ten minutes. Like I said, he was fast off the cuff.

"First off, do not kill or harm anybody. Ok. That's a must. If you want answers about Senator Thurmond, look up things on public record. Then contact this webmaster about things you know are true, and see if he falters. I guarantee he will. Again, this guy is a fake who either has way too much free time on his hands, or gets his rocks off by jerking people around. Don't waste your time with this stuff. That's the best advice I could give you. That, and don't kill anyone," he said as he leaned back in his chair, proud of himself.

"So what you're saying is that, this is just some guy who enjoys messing with people in his spare time?" I asked.

"Exactly," Jack said with a strong look in his eyes.

"One man who messes with another just for the fun of it? Why? Why would he do that?" I asked while shaking my head in wonderment.

"Maybe he's ill rational. Maybe he's lonely, or has nothing better to do. I don't claim to know or understand those types. All I know is that they are out there, and sometimes we have to look out for them," Jack said with a look of satisfaction in his eyes.

That's the look he gets whenever he feels he's won an argument, or any verbal battle. That was my Jack. I knew the alien business would get him at first, but he never fails me. Like a true high powered attorney, he comes across great. Everyone should have their own personal lawyer. It's sad that some people don't. It's even sadder that some people actually believe in aliens.