Googling gopdebeek

You know what I like about the Facebook web site?

It’s not just that you can show off how staggeringly popular you are. Or how you can cram a phone-booth-full of good-looking friends into your profile pic and demonstrate what a cool crowd you hang with and how much gosh-darn fun you have. It’s not so much that you can align yourself with a myriad of fave movies and TV shows and let that serve as some kind of identity. It’s not the shallow whuzzupping splattered on everyone’s ‘wall’.

What I like is that we now have an environment where it’s acceptable – hip even – to reach out and contact old long-lost friends and associates.

It seems that as much as we love to run into old acquaintances, we fear to actually attempt to make it happen. As if those friends we’d vowed to stay in touch with might secretly despise us by now. As if we might appear to be some kind of desperate loser for phoning out of the blue.

Well, no more. I’ve made contact with estranged coworkers, lovers and even a Katimavic student I met only once, three years ago in a sports bar in a town where neither of us knew anyone. We’d traded email addresses for kicks.

But there are special people I’d love to reconnect with who aren’t likely to be on Facebook. I’ve searched for them and come up dry. There’s one fellow though, who’s absence there did not deter me. I left the Facebook site and went to Google and tried a few searches, hoping to find an email address. This didn’t prove easy. On the cusp of defeat I tried one last phrase – and found an address. I sent an email.

I hope the address is still valid. I hope he gets it. And I hope very much to get a reply.

From: Landriault, Rich
Sent: Tue 6/12/2007 11:15 PM
To: gopdebeek @shaw.ca
Cc:

Subject: 25 years later...

Mr. Op de Beek,

I read this on a web site relating to a 'Lahr Senior High School':

OP de BEEK, Gys and Angela , 83-87. LSS Computer Science and Math; Angela taught Home EC. Now living in Kelowna BC. Love to hear from anyone. Contact us at gopdebeek @shaw.ca

I'm hoping the gesture extends to St. Gabriel’s alumni!

You had me in your class in '82 (I'm guessing). It was your last year at St. Gabes before you went to Germany - I think it was - to teach at a Canadian military base. I was disappointed at that. I remember high-school kids dropping in to our class-room to visit you and I knew that would be me one day - dropping in like that. But of course life is not that predictable.

Perhaps you'll remember me. I chummed around with John Chalupka - the Quarterback, and the big Greek - Emil Fiorantis. You were generous to us, granting us privileges. Computer tutoring after school. Recess breaks indoors playing Dungeons and Dragons. Not having to do my homework! More than once you glanced right past my unfinished work without a word and carried right along with the inspection!

I have more memories of grade eight than any other school year. I can't even remember the names of most of my other teachers.

You selected me for the school volleyball team - for reasons not entirely to do with athletic merit, I suspect, but I loved being a part of it. Loved the uniform. For a shy sensitive kid it was a confidence-booster.

The week at Camp Tawingo. You took us on a night hike. An excellent experience. And the climactic night-orienteering competition on the final night. I was on 'your' team - the one you supervised. It was your last time participating in this contest and we read all kinds of significance into that. We were so proud to be on your team. We gathered out of earshot from you. "We're gonna win this for Mr Op de Beek. We HAVE to. Whatever it takes!" We all nodded solemnly. And then we went out and kicked ass. We flew by two other teams like they were standing still. A girl named Julie lost her shoe in the mud. "Leave it!" she cried, and finished in one shoe and one sock. Awesome memories.

You told me to exercise my choice. It was mine to make. So I did. I chose not to undergo Confirmation. You might say that that was the first big step in a very grand adventure. I've since escaped a great many trappings of society. It's extremely cumbersome to try to explain the journey I'm on. I'll say this much - I'm almost surely the happiest person I know and I'm more at peace with the world than most people could dream. I see my place in the universe with remarkable clarity. And I mean that in a very sincere tangible way. There's no mysticism whatsoever in my life. But forgive me, I didn't look you up for the purpose of bragging about my strange euphoric existence!

I googled 'gopdebeek' and a few similar phrases out of curiosity - because this 'facebook' social networking web site I recently got sucked into has awakened a bit of a nostalgic yearning as I've been re-introduced to old friends, and I started thinking of you. And because I just wanted to tell you that you're the best teacher I ever had. But I must be more honest than that. I really have no idea if you're the best teacher I had or not. To say so legitimately would require more examination into the essence of teaching and the education system than I'm prepared to undertake.

But I can say this. I count myself among the most fortunate of all people for having made friends of the highest character and quality - who are central to the joy in my life - and for having had access to the finest of mentors at the times I needed them and I count you among them. I will say that you're the finest human being that ever was my teacher!

So thank you - sincerely - good sir. I very much hope that you're well and happy and in good health.

I'd very much love to hear from you if you're inclined to write. It would be a thrill.

Rich Landriault

Ask FWG, not Jeeves - edition 4

More google questions. more answers.

1. deseronto hanger storage
For how many hangers? I have an uncle in Marysville who’s only using half his hall closet. I’m sure he could use the cash. Oh. Or did you mean hangar? I don’t think he has room for a plane.

2. pin her down struggle fantasy
Oh no. Oh dear. There goes the pervert alarm again. Why do I get so many perverts here? Look – I can’t help you with your struggle fantasy. Isn’t there a 976-number you can call?

3. guy noples
They’re mostly the same as girl noples but much more difficult to squeeze milk out of.

4. At the mercy of caning officer
Oh gawd, there it goes again. Can someone please reset the damn pervert alarm? Why me?

5. g2 oakville rout
Oh I’m so sick of these drive-test questions I could scream. 90 per-cent of my traffic is would-be motorists getting side-tracked while looking for drive test info. That and perverts. What a sad state of affairs.

6. lipoma forehead picture
I’m sorry. We’re fresh out of lipoma forehead pictures but can I interest you in a shot of Bob Runciman with three foreheads each bearing a swastika? No charge.

7. g2 oakville route
Oh – you again. And you remembered the ‘e’ this time. Good for you. But you forgot that clicking ‘Fantasy Writer Guy’ doesn’t lead you to the government drive test web site after all. Strange. You’d think it would, eh? Why don’t you go back and try it one more time?

8. fruitopia stain
Depends where the stain is. Is it on your bed sheets? Do you engage in rough sex? It might not be Fruitopia. Start by soaking in cold water. If that doesn’t work, let me know.

9. passing grade for g1 test Ontario
Piss off. Go away.

10. I fuck you back to ın the vevenıng!!!
Well! I guess I’ve been told. But really – change it up now and then. Try a little mormning session some time.

11. "jack handy" "deep thoughts" pickle jar
Yes. It’s true. Jack stores all his deep thoughts in pickle jars. Sometimes he has a hard time getting them out. He tries to stab them with a fork and the damn things just bob around, you know? It’s exasperating.

12. dvd ontario g1 drivers licence
Don’t rent it. It sucked. Lame plot, wooden characters and the car-chase was awful. They never went over 55 mph.

13. knowledge test for ontario,s written and vision test questions and answers
It’s called the Drivers Handbook. Buy it. Read it. Stop trying to cheat, you cretin.

14. imbibage
J’ne parle pas Francais, monsieur.

15. G1 testing centre eglinton Mississauga
Snorples. That’s right. I said snorples. It’s my web site and I can say snorples any time I please. Just try and stop me.

16. driving exams 5555 eglinton avenue west
Snorples to you too, Jack.

17. fantasy pictures wrath lust envy
That’s it? What about greed, pride, sloth and – and – crap. Why can I never remember all of the 7 deadly fantasy pictures?

18. purchasing naan bread in etobicoke
It’s quite easy. Really. You just say, ‘I’ll have some naan bread please.’ And they’ll give you some and ask for some money and you give them the money. It’s really nothing to fret over. Just tell the merchant it’s your first time. I’m sure she’ll be gentle and help you along if you get confused.

The information above has been tested on a closed track by professional drivers. Do not attempt at home. The author bears no responsibility, financial or otherwise, for any manifestations of the use or misuse of the above counsel, including but not limited to: financial loss, motion sickness, dimentia, groin pull, purple nurple, burnt toast, night sweat, goose pimples, heart palpitations, compulsive masturbation, split ends, hang-nails, terrorist bombing or unpopped kernels.

Steve-o: Popular Favorites

That's right. More ridiculous, regrettable, random regurgitations from the roommate. As always the songs are in italics.

Tweet tweet. Twiddle twiddle.
It’s the only one candy with the hole in the middle.

Welcome to Ground-Porkville, population this.

You’re a strange animal
That’s what Gowan knows
Cause he’s a strange animal
Larry Gowan…

Would you say I have a plethora of piñatas? Yes?
Do you know what ‘plethora’ means? No?
Then why would you say I have a plethora of piñatas?
Ha ha ha ha ha! That’s from ‘Three Amigos!’

Bacon fat… It’s not your fault…

Where are the midgets! I ordered fifteen midgets!

I’m fryin’
I’m fryin’
I’m cookin’
I’m not lyin’.
Fiiiiiiiive onion riiiiiings…

Man, that blows. That blows like a French whore with a wooden leg.

Willowby wallaby woo
An elephant sat on you
Willowby wallaby wee
An elephant sat on me.

You want some eggs for breakfast? I have to warn you they’re expired but just barely. They should be fine. Oh. Um. And the octopus has leaked all over them. Don’t worry, it’s just octojuice.

Book: After the Plague and Other Stories

“Who’s the author?” asked Steve-o, from the other end of the breakfast table – as I started in on the last of the stories in this collection.

“Last name’s Boyle,” I said and turned the book sideways, showing him the spine. “Middle name is this word.” I pointed at the name, Coraghessan. “Don’t ask me to pronounce it. And if you think that’s bad, I can’t imagine how ghastly the first name must be. They’ve only dared provide the initial, T.”

Reading this book was a bit of a breakthrough for me. I’d been in a pretty bad funk over my inability to trust the authors I’d been reading. As my own writing endeavors were maturing and intensifying I was becoming an apparent literary snob, finding flaws in everything I was reading and mentally re-writing it. And I was not happy about it. I thought I’d lost a sort of innocence that would never return.

Trust is a big issue for me. When an author both writes well and tells a story well (two different things, I suggest) and there are no serious flaws in the first chapter or so, I develop trust with the author, I suspend judgement and I fall into his or her hands – to be carried away into their world and to forget about my own. When these conditions aren’t met, I keep the story at arm’s length and reading it becomes a chore. I suspect this is true for most readers. I find it’s an instinctive organic response.

The situation improved as I returned often to authors I’d already developed plenty of trust for over years (Poul Anderson, Ray Bradbury, Stephen King for instance). But here’s the thing: This collection bears a flaw that should have been a stumbling block and yet I was able to overlook it. I was able to suspend annoyance each time it occurred and fall quickly back in to T. C. Boyle’s hands. I’m extremely happy about this.

I suggest that Boyle is both an excellent writer and storyteller. The writing is powerful. He mentions nothing off-hand just to make you aware of it but delves into the essence of everything. But succinctly, mind you, without hampering the pace. There’s a delicate equation behind the ability to do that. Clearly Boyle has lived a life of intense observation. That’s part of it. And his mastery of the metaphor and simile is another part.

The only thing eclipsing his mastery of the metaphor is his penchant for it. They’re on every page. When they work they’re magnificent, painting clear pictures both visually and texturally. But some of them don’t work very well. That’s the flaw that I was blessedly able to tolerate. Metaphors have to work perfectly. Otherwise forget it. When an awkward metaphor makes you stop and re-read it twice – it’s one that should have been edited out. It’s not useful at that point. And that’s my only criticism.

The stories here tend to involve highly relatable characters – regular nice people with regular nice idiosyncrasies and perfectly good intentions – that gradually, perhaps logically, slip into the state where desperate or unlawful acts are committed. He blurs the line between everyday people and freaks. Or perhaps he reveals that there is no line.

Very useful work. I recommend it to anyone.

Why machines will not take over the world

I pulled into a Canadian Tire gas station last night about one A.M. A fellow stood next to the pump that would be the most likely for me to pull up to – which I did. I figured he was more likely a panhandler than an employee and one glance at his name brand running shoes told me he was less in need of cash than I was. Regardless, I had none on me.

He was a bit sloppy, a bit scruffy, but was alert. He hadn’t the half-comatose doormat personality common to the street-resident community.

“Could you do me a huge favor?” he pleaded – just as soon as I was half-emerged from the truck. I smelled scam all over him. “Could I pay for your gas with my credit card and you can give me the cash? You’re gonna fill up, right?”

I was taken aback. What kind of scam involved the scammer buying me gas on his card? Okay – you’re probably a little swifter than I and have figured it out immediately but I was a tad slow last night.

“I’m only getting forty dollars worth and I’m using debit. I have no cash.”

“Oh, well there’s a bank right over there at the mall next door. Could you do me a big favor and take out some cash? It would really help me out. I just got my credit card in the mail you see and I haven’t got my PIN number yet so I can’t withdraw any cash. I just need a few bucks so I can go to the bar, you know? I just want to buy a few drinks and have a good time!” His expression was wildly comical here, with eyebrows and shoulders severely raised and palms turned skyward.

Not comfortable declining good-Samaritanship without a solid reason I nodded slowly and said, “Okay. Sure. It’s a Bank of Montreal, right?”

“No, it’s a TD-Canada Trust. The Bank of Montreal closed down a while back. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t okay. I wasn’t about to surrender three bucks in service charges so that Credit Drinkie Boy could have a good time. But at this point my vague intention was only to stall him until I figured out what was going on and how to get out of it. I’m sure you already know what’s going on and are dying to get to the comment box and enlighten me in but don’t worry. I’ll come around. You’ll see.

“Sure,” I said and climbed into the truck.

“I’ll meet you over there,” he said.

Alarm bells went off in my head. ‘Yeah, you and how many creepy friends?’ “Uh – no, that’s okay. I’ll meet you back here.”

As I navigated the various obstacles between the gas station and the mall, I saw that he was running, making a bee-line for it. (Why are parking lot arrangements so wildly convoluted these days? Invest all your money in curb-manufacturers, people. It’s the wave of the future). As our paths joined I slowed and lowered the window.

He stopped and pointed ahead. “It’s up there by the three arches.”

“Gotcha,” I said and added firmly, “I’ll meet you back at the pump.”

He went no further. The bank was a fair distance away. As I proceeded I looked at the clock. It was many hours past the last possible mail delivery and there was almost no time at all for Drinkie Boy to get to the nearest bar before last call. The time of day did not support the plausibility of his story at all. It then occurred to me that any bar in town would surely accept his credit card. His PIN was not even required.

Finally I realized the nature of the scam. I’d been so concerned about how he might try to scam me that I’d missed the obvious. The victim was a third party. He had one or more stolen credit cards.

I drove past the bank and well away from the scene. I stopped at the next gas station and went to the pay phone and dialed 4-1-1.

“For service in English, say English. Pour service en Francais-”

“English.”

“Do you want a residential number?”

“No.”

“For what city?”

“Hamilton.”

“For what name?”

“Hamilton Wentworth Police Service.”

“Please repeat that name.”

“Hamilton. Wentworth. Police. Service.”

“Thank you.”

A human being than came on. “Is this a regular non-emergency call?”

“Yes. I wish to report a crime in progress and I have no money on me so I want to make it a collect call.”

“I can’t do that from here. Only an operator can do that.”

We then proceeded to fall all over each other trying to come to an understanding. He seemed to keep trying to tell me that there was nothing he could do without receiving payment.

“Can’t you just tell me the number and I’ll write it down and then I’ll call the operator and request a collect call?”

“Yes. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Great. My pen is ready. Shoot.”

He gave me the number. I thanked him, hung up and dialed it with a zero in front. More recordings. I chose the collect call option.

“Please state your name.”

“Reporting-a-crime-in-progress.”

“Please hold.”

I could here the phone ringing. It was answered by an automated voice system. I knew immediately I was wasting my time. This wasn’t going to happen.

Now let me clarify the thrust of my post here. It’s not to demonstrate that there’s a crook on every corner, waiting to pull a scam. You already know that. It’s not to expose the fallacy of the idea of police being ready, willing and able to serve and protect at any given time. In my experiences only 9-1-1 calls garner any kind of useful response. Otherwise, getting the readiness and the willingness and the ability out of a police force is some kind of serious jackpot. I assume this also matches your experience. Hey, not that I’m complaining. I assume they do the best they can given the resources and legislation they’re provided. I’m just sayin’s’all.

No, the thrust of the post is this. You know movies like Terminator and The Matrix where the future is controlled by machines that have defeated humankind?

Well, there’s nothing to fear. Ain’t gonna happen for a very very long time. Here’s an indication of two machines trying to cooperate. Here’s what I heard on the phone more or less:

“You have reached the Hamilton Police Service. If you have a life-threatening emergency or wish to report a serious crime in progress-”

“You have a collect call from.”

“Please hang up and dial 9-1-1.”

“Reporting-a-crime-in-progress.”

“Immediately. If you know the 4-digit extension.”

“To accept the charges.”

“Of the person or unit you wish to reach.”

“Please press one.”

“Please dial it.”

“Now.”

“Now. Many frequently dialed numbers.”

“You have a collect call from.”

“Can be found in the white pages.”

“Reporting-a-crime-in-progress.”

“Under Hamilton Police Services.”

“To accept the charges.”

“If you are calling from a rotary-dial phone.”

“Please press one.”

“Or if you wish to speak to an operator.”

“Now.”

“Please stay on the line.”

“I’ve got my head stuck in the cupboard!” I cried.

“And someone will be with you shortly.”

“The party you are dialing is not responding. Please-”

“Oh fuck off.” I hung up and went home.

Pretty bad eh? Like a Monty Python skit? No sir, I don’t think the machines are gonna take over the world any time soon.

Now, call me crazy. Call me utterly kookoobananas if you will, but how about the automated collect call script containing a signal that could be interpreted by automated answering systems as a collect call which would then be patched directly through to the operator? Just a thought. I realize this is far more difficult than say – putting a man on the moon for instance but hey – that was 38 years ago. By now perhaps we’re ready to look into the technology of signals transmitted through phone lines…

Okay. Enough dream-building. The real tragedy is this. I mismanaged the whole affair right from the beginning. If you ever find yourself in such a scenario, do this: Offer to give the thief $40 cash if he’ll buy you $80 in gas. If only I’d been thinking!


[Editor’s note: The author does not in any way endorse the spontaneous fencing of stolen property nor any illegal profiteering of any nature nor the frying of bacon in the nude.]


[Senior editor’s note: There shall be no further references to nude bacon or use of the word kookoobananas on this web site ever again. This decision is final.]

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #99

The dumb hath inherited the earth.

And they were anything but meek about it.

This has been an original nugget o' wisdom from the brain of Fantasy Writer Guy. Do not use nuggets o' wisdom without advice from your physician. Do not use if you are left-handed. Do not use if you are meek. If you are meek you don't have time for this crap. You need to get out there and win back the earth for Christ's sake.

Poetry: Eating the Young

Oh to be that crystalline assemblage,
Unique in design, so intricately symmetrical,
Free falling from winter sky,
Sailing on chill winds.
Oh to be one in the flurry of my brothers,
Soaring down to mother earth
Before cruel heat dissolves us.

Oh to be that flake of snow
Before the inevitable melting.

Oh to be that apex racing 'cross the sea,
Free between two worlds;
Of life-bearing ocean and life sustaining air.
Oh to be that crest, surfing the fold,
Where rushing water meets salty breeze,
Before immovable rock lays me low.

Oh to be that wave
Before the cruel shore breaks me.

Oh to stand tall in the forest,
Limbs upturned to cherished sun,
Feet planted steadfast; stronger than stone.
Oh to be that regal structure,
Branches aflow with the juices of life
Before steel teeth sever my arteries.

Oh to be that tall tree
Before the logger strikes me dead.

Oh to be that summit commanding the horizon,
Keeper of rare snow,
Rising to imperial height.
Oh to be that pinnacle;
Object of man's most daring endeavor,
Before steam and lava flow, scorching to death my domain.

Oh to be that mountain
Before the malevolent eruption.

Oh to be that maelstrom of fire,
Womb of birth to all around me,
Bestowing rays of sustenance
Upon trillions of seekers.
Oh to be that star, centre of creation
Before my fuel is depleted
And I consume my own children.

Oh to be that sun
Before its certain red doom.

Oh to be that tiny one,
Helpless to exist but for the truest love evoked.
Drawing wonderment from onlookers.
Oh to be that beacon of purest light;
That miracle of shining truth,
Before that blackest of days when poison omnipotent
Crushes in an instant all hope of freedom.

Oh to be that child
Before her first word is spoken.

Bad FWG's brush with the law

I went to dinner with a hoard of co-workers – associates from across the country, most of whom I know only through phone and email but rarely see in person.

The venue: Lone Star Bar & Grill or something of that nature. Lone Star Texas Steakhouse perhaps. Or Lone Star Corral and Beefery. Or maybe it was Texas Lone Star Cow Tippery and Twinkle of Solitude. Okay, that’s highly unlikely and I’m really just padding my word-count at this point. I’ll spare you further speculation and get on to the meat of the story:

The employer picked up the tab and not having enjoyed a particularly good meal out in some time, I didn’t hesitate to indulge. I began by loudly ordering a diet Coke and then, having established a soberish reputation, I quietly purveyed a pair of ‘Texas-sized’ margueritas (doubles) and then a half litre of wine (presumably Michigan-sized?) to go with the 18oz Texas T-bone.

One observant co-worker gauged my intake to equal roughly six and a half drinks and expressed concern over my ability to safely drive home.

Now – I very much adore these good responsible people who so caringly monitor my behavior. They’re just so sweet when they do this that I just want to squeeze their cute little cheeks. You know - until blood pours out their eyes.

That I’m centred out and made to awkwardly discuss the physiology around fat people and excess blood and alcohol dilution etcetera is really no bother at all. I don’t mind a bit.

Upon leaving the Texas Long John Bull Horn and Briefery I happened immediately upon a RIDE program installation – a police spot-check that is (Reduce Impaired Driving Everywhere). I confessed my imbibage accurately (Hmm. Spellchecker poo-poos imbibage. Oh well. It was a good try. I’m leaving it) and was asked to provide my drivers license and a breath sample.

I nervously rifled through my wallet, spilling cash and receipts onto my lap. Not that I was nervous that I might be over the limit. Not for a second. I was nervous because my vehicle ownership document was missing and driving without it carries a fine of $150 or so.

I told the policewoman that I’d be happy to provide a sample but that I was not drunk, had not broken the law and was not inclined to willingly be imprisoned in the back of her cruiser.

Besides the public humiliation aspect, there’s approximately three inches of legroom in the backseat of the average police cruiser. The discomfort is significant. I’ve been there many times – and never blown over the limit, mind you.

I braced myself for conflict. I expected her to say that I must cooperate or else be arrested for failure to do so. Instead she requested that I sit on the back seat of the patrol car but with the door open and I could leave my legs outside the car. I had to confess that seemed reasonable and went along.

The terms were a tad misleading though. With the officer in the front seat and her door closed, we were forced to conduct business and conversation through the small portal in the centre of the front seat/back seat barrier. Thus I had to move well into the vehicle anyway.

She handed me my own special plastic mouthpiece, individually wrapped. I popped it open like a bag of chips and the device flew to the floor. I had to then climb out of the car in order to reach down and retrieve it. I’m sure the officer at this point had no doubt I was drunk.

We performed the test. I blew good and hard until she told me to stop. The limit is .08

“Point zero two nine,” she said, and showed me the display. “You’re free to go.” She gave back the license. Thank goodness she’d never asked for my ownership.

“Thank you,” I said. I held up the plastic mouthpiece. “May I keep this for a souvenir?”

“Yes, you may.”

“Okay. Thank you for all your hard work.” Now – these were somewhat awkwardly constructed words of praise which she did not reply to. It was supposed to sound sincere but I think she mistook it for sarcasm. Oh well. I should have just said, ‘Have a good evening officer.’

Or perhaps I should have said, ‘Have a guh vevening occifer!’ and then belched loudly. Perhaps we’d have shared a good laugh at that.

FWG

Me and my souvenir

(Editor's note: The above post is not intended to in any way endorse drunk driving or direspectfullness towards police officers or of Texas style restaurants.)

Mid-day in the Garden of Dogs and Cats

Woke up in the ex-darling's bed this morning with two kittens romping beside me - oh - and no ex. Yikes. Don't misconstrue. The ex is on vacation along with parents and twin sibling and the ilicit sweetheart and I are members of the committee to babysit the pets and plantlife of the three vacant households.

The kitties are Kody and Kayla (oh how I yawn at such dreary pet names; I assure my next pet shall have no less than eight words to its name, each of no less than six syllables!) They're sisters of a litter and joined at the hip (figuratively) - forever playing, fighting, cuddling or grooming each other. They have separate snooze-baskets but you'll only ever find them mashed into one, wrapped up in a fuzzy bundle and looking for all the world like a wildly deformed two-headed cat.

I'm now in the back yard of the parents' place and feeling happy and peaceful. The weather is heavenly as is the afterglow from a delicious evening with the sweetheart.

With me is Buddy, the noble companion of the ex's twin. He's a wise old Lab of regal - though a bit tippy - stature.

Also here is Sasha, the outrageously rotund beagle; eater of McDonalds packaging. There's a McDonalds restaurant right next door. With that and the wind and the perpetual ignorance of their clientelle Sasha's work is never done. Though spelled S-a-s-h-a, her name is almost exclusively pronounced 'SashaSashaSashaSashaSasha!' and strictly in falsetto voice. I can't seem to bring myself to participate in this.

She's just launched into a frail barking at the sight of the empty driveway.

"Chill, beagle," I say, "There's no one there."

There's something different about beagles generally. I've heard many call beagles stupid. A very unfair pronouncement, I say. People, almost without exception, measure a dog's intelligence by their willingness to cooperate. A flawed way of thinking. The dog who obeys no rules and gets what she wants has achieved more freedom and success than the obedient slipper-fetcher. Which is really the more intelligent? This particular beagle has perhaps achieved too much success. She's become a belly-dragger with four nubbins for legs. She moves about like some kind of Isle-of-Moreau-ish penguin/centipede cross. Imagine that if you can.

So get a load of these shenanigans. The parents believe themselves to be vacationing only with the twin. The ex has departed covertly. They're planning the classic twin-switcheroo gag but on their own elderly parents, and on another continent to boot.

"Everyone's telling me not to do this," said the ex. "They say my mom will have a heart attack."

"I don't think your mom will have a heart attack," said I.

"Me niether."

"I think she'll have a mild shock in which she despairs the apparent loss of her sanity and then she'll recover and beat you half to death with the nearest stick."

FWG

Praises to the Whipper Snipper

Vrimm vrimm vrimmm! We trim, we trim!
Whippery snippery zippery zimm!
Grass blades torn and broken away,
We edge the turf to a perfect array.
Hydro or gas, we fuel the machine
That buzz-carves our yard border clean.

Guests arrive to our pristine lawn.
Cold drinks flowing; the barbeque's on.
We lounge in our chairs agog at the scenery
Born of the Snipper and nature's greenery.
All is beautiful! All is serene!
As we scream to be heard 'bove the neighbor's machine.
.
.

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #80

Concerning lingering leftovers in the fridge:

A meal consisting of three-day-old pork chops and 4-day-old iced coffee is a sure-fire formula for an evening spent too often in the bathroom where idle observation can lead to reckless comparisons involving substances in soap dispensers and other such meanderings perhaps deemed good blogging material at the time but which is actually nothing more than embarrassing.

Fresh food, people. You can’t go wrong with fresh food.

This has been an original nugget o' wisdom from the brain of Fantasy Writer Guy. Do not use nuggets o' wisdom if you are pregnant or may be pregnant. Do not take orally. Do not take within 60 minutes prior to swimming in deep water. Do not take them within 72 hours of going out with a gun to shoot random people. FWG doesn't want to take any heat for that kind of shit. There's nothing subliminal here. KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL...

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #79

Upon the emptying of a jug of white hand soap and the breaching of a new bottle of clear hand soap, one should not mix the two together in a hand soap dispenser of transparent structure, for the resulting cloudy, milky mixture, resembling precisely that dread substance having legitimate business only in acts concerning procreation, will lead your houseguests into believing you an outrageous pervert and leaving your bathroom with unwashed hands.

And thus we understand the words of the great poets who say:

‘Combineth not the soaps of different ilk lest ye destroyeth thy good name’
- ancient anonymous philosopher

[Editor’s note: That last bit was a load of malarkey.]

This has been an original nugget o' wisdom from the brain of Fantasy Writer Guy. Do not use nuggets o' wisdom if you are pregnant or may be pregnant. Do not take orally. Do not take them with a spoon. Do not take them on the moon. Do not take them on a boat. Do not take them with a goat.