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I was watching a basketball game on television and during a commercial break, there he was! Starkist Charlie. I said, "Oh jeez, not this knob again." My son, home from college on break, said, "Whaaaat.....??"
Charlie was before my son's time, and that led me to wax rhapsodic about how some of the most successful ad campaigns of the 1970's played upon the worst aspects of human nature. Worse, most were aimed at children. When I had finished foaming at the mouth about it all, my son advised me to write it down. Rgr that.
Low Self-Esteem:
Starkist Charlie, the bespectacled, beret-wearing tuna whose greatest desire, and seemingly only goal in life, was to be murdered, hacked up, canned, consumed, and shat out by humans. Why? Merely to prove he was as good as the other tuna who got murdered, hacked, canned, eaten, and shat. But he didn't measure up to Starkist standards. I'm sure they suspected mercury poisoning, albino brain chiggers, or some other nefarious reason for his mental illness. There is probably a multitude of liability issues that would stem from selling psychotic tuna for consumption. And imagine if this dipshit was your son. "Son, what do you want to be when you grow up?" "I want to be murdered, canned and shat, papa!" That's when you point to your wife and say, "He gets that from YOUR side of the family!"
Sadism/Schadenfreude:
Sonny the Cuckoo Bird was a mentally unstable avian whose psychotic episodes were triggered by the proximity of Cocoa Puffs cereal. Despite trying a variety of activities and strategies to prevent himself from going apeshit, such as bowling, dancing, watching television, and even padlocking himself into a booth, a couple of shitty kids would show up with a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and trigger him into completely flipping his lid. Just to watch him do it. These are the kinds of kids you can imagine pulling the wings off flies and setting cats on fire. But hey, young serial killers in training have to eat too, right? Might as well sell them some crap for breakfast.
Selfishness:
The Trix Rabbit. All this guy wants is one lousy bowl of some wretched cereal and the kids won't give him any. Actually, even though the kids are being blatantly selfish, it's hard to blame them on this one. The rabbit is such an obnoxious putz. Imagine every time you sat down to eat a bowl of cereal, some idiot showed up and tried to scam you out of your food. Seriously, the rabbit has nothing better to do? Evidently he's got enough money to buy costumes and props, so why the hell doesn't he trundle his fluffy white ass down to the market and buy his own damned box of Trix? He's a grifter. A swindler. And he gets his jollies from bilking people. He ought to be in prison for his repeated attempts at theft and extortion. Let him eat prison food for 3 to 5. Maybe that'll put some sense into his head.
Willful Destruction of Property:
The kids are in the back yard or the park playing and getting all sweaty. One decides he/she is thirsty and needs another sugar bump. The other says, "Great idea!" They shout, "Hey Kool-Aid!" and this giant, pitcher-shaped clown busts through a wall or fence, singing an obnoxious song in a voice like Wolfman Jack. Who pays for the damage? The homeowner? Taxpayers? Certainly not the Kool-Aid creature, who loads the kids up with a neuron-popping sugar dose and shambles off on his red, stove-pipe legs. Seriously, this idiot looks like he should be leading cheers in a bush-league ball park. And even then, in my mind's eye, I can see all 1500 fans howling in rage and pelting him with beer bottles as he bursts through the bullpen wall. I wouldn't drink anything proffered by this twat. He's probably got a crawlspace somewhere stuffed to capacity with children's corpses. Remember what Jim Jones was swizzling with cyanide? That's right. You know where he got it? That's right.
Assault and Battery:
Hawaiian Punch used a couple of dickweeds to sell their beverage. One, a malevolent misanthrope named Punchy and the other, a borderline Downs Syndrome-type named Opie. Punchy would ask Opie if he wanted a nice Hawaiian punch. When Opie would inevitably say yes, Punchy would curl up a fist and blast him right in the fucking face. On second thought, maybe Opie doesn't have Downs, but brain damage from the accumulation of bolo-punches to the teeth. Gosh. Watching someone Pearl Harbor his buddy with a vicious haymaker sure makes me thirsty!
Charlie was before my son's time, and that led me to wax rhapsodic about how some of the most successful ad campaigns of the 1970's played upon the worst aspects of human nature. Worse, most were aimed at children. When I had finished foaming at the mouth about it all, my son advised me to write it down. Rgr that.
Low Self-Esteem:
Starkist Charlie, the bespectacled, beret-wearing tuna whose greatest desire, and seemingly only goal in life, was to be murdered, hacked up, canned, consumed, and shat out by humans. Why? Merely to prove he was as good as the other tuna who got murdered, hacked, canned, eaten, and shat. But he didn't measure up to Starkist standards. I'm sure they suspected mercury poisoning, albino brain chiggers, or some other nefarious reason for his mental illness. There is probably a multitude of liability issues that would stem from selling psychotic tuna for consumption. And imagine if this dipshit was your son. "Son, what do you want to be when you grow up?" "I want to be murdered, canned and shat, papa!" That's when you point to your wife and say, "He gets that from YOUR side of the family!"
Sadism/Schadenfreude:
Sonny the Cuckoo Bird was a mentally unstable avian whose psychotic episodes were triggered by the proximity of Cocoa Puffs cereal. Despite trying a variety of activities and strategies to prevent himself from going apeshit, such as bowling, dancing, watching television, and even padlocking himself into a booth, a couple of shitty kids would show up with a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and trigger him into completely flipping his lid. Just to watch him do it. These are the kinds of kids you can imagine pulling the wings off flies and setting cats on fire. But hey, young serial killers in training have to eat too, right? Might as well sell them some crap for breakfast.
Selfishness:
The Trix Rabbit. All this guy wants is one lousy bowl of some wretched cereal and the kids won't give him any. Actually, even though the kids are being blatantly selfish, it's hard to blame them on this one. The rabbit is such an obnoxious putz. Imagine every time you sat down to eat a bowl of cereal, some idiot showed up and tried to scam you out of your food. Seriously, the rabbit has nothing better to do? Evidently he's got enough money to buy costumes and props, so why the hell doesn't he trundle his fluffy white ass down to the market and buy his own damned box of Trix? He's a grifter. A swindler. And he gets his jollies from bilking people. He ought to be in prison for his repeated attempts at theft and extortion. Let him eat prison food for 3 to 5. Maybe that'll put some sense into his head.
Willful Destruction of Property:
The kids are in the back yard or the park playing and getting all sweaty. One decides he/she is thirsty and needs another sugar bump. The other says, "Great idea!" They shout, "Hey Kool-Aid!" and this giant, pitcher-shaped clown busts through a wall or fence, singing an obnoxious song in a voice like Wolfman Jack. Who pays for the damage? The homeowner? Taxpayers? Certainly not the Kool-Aid creature, who loads the kids up with a neuron-popping sugar dose and shambles off on his red, stove-pipe legs. Seriously, this idiot looks like he should be leading cheers in a bush-league ball park. And even then, in my mind's eye, I can see all 1500 fans howling in rage and pelting him with beer bottles as he bursts through the bullpen wall. I wouldn't drink anything proffered by this twat. He's probably got a crawlspace somewhere stuffed to capacity with children's corpses. Remember what Jim Jones was swizzling with cyanide? That's right. You know where he got it? That's right.
Assault and Battery:
Hawaiian Punch used a couple of dickweeds to sell their beverage. One, a malevolent misanthrope named Punchy and the other, a borderline Downs Syndrome-type named Opie. Punchy would ask Opie if he wanted a nice Hawaiian punch. When Opie would inevitably say yes, Punchy would curl up a fist and blast him right in the fucking face. On second thought, maybe Opie doesn't have Downs, but brain damage from the accumulation of bolo-punches to the teeth. Gosh. Watching someone Pearl Harbor his buddy with a vicious haymaker sure makes me thirsty!
Edit: Gee, I just noticed that after Punchy whacks Opie in the chops, he freakin' tramples him. Lookit!
1987, Part 2 (A)
Hesselgrave House, Part 1
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The old lady hadn't quite kicked the bucket yet. As old ladies sometimes do in Middlebury, when they have no heirs, she stipulated in her will that her house was to become the property of Middlebury College upon her demise. Midd happened to be her alma mater and place of employment for a number of years. In 1987 she moved to an assisted living facility and thought, "why drag things out concerning the house?" Middlebury took possession and told Mike to gut it and reassemble it as administrative office space. Mike sent me and Cactus in with our implements of havoc and we spent a fun week ripping
1987, Part 1 (B)
Robert Frost's Cabin, Part 2
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I don't know who these people are. Looks like a school field trip. Surely these urchins didn't drive up the mountain and walk up the meadow to Frost's cabin of their own volition.
Anyway, I was standing by the near short-side of the extension - the wall with the sunlight and window on it - when the deer flies attacked. They came screaming out of the trees like piranha, and the worst part was I never saw them coming. I was facing the cabin, sizing up what I had to do that day, and I just had time to cock my head and wonder, "What's that sound?" before they barreled into me, each pulling a di
1987, Part 1 (A)
1987, Part 1
The summer of '87, the summer between my junior and senior years of college, was the last time I lived with my folks. My mom sensed it was her last opportunity to have her baby in the house and so she and my dad insisted I come home to Middlebury, VT. Summers in Vermont beat the hell out of summers in Memphis, so I obliged. The first few days were spent doing a little R&R, then I went to the local employment office to land a summer job.
The first place they sent me was J.P. Carrara & Sons, Inc., a cement company. I went to high school with some of the Carrara's, liked them, and thought it would be a good job. After one ful
The Great White Fright, Part 2, Section B
The rhythm guitar player in the band read my last entry and asked why I ended the story there, rather than tell the rest of it. Frankly, the rest of the story is too ridiculous to sound true, so I figured, "Why bother?" He said, "tell it and let them decide."
Here goes.
After the bigots paraded out the door, we kicked the rockin' up a notch. I think we were relieving the tension in ourselves and the room, or maybe we wanted them to hear us from wherever their rats-nest of a frat house was. Either way, we achieved some measure of catharsis, and the chorus to "Old South,"
It's time to let go!
seemed particularly significant that night.
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did you put something out? If so, you've taken my money. Where and what is it?