Bordering on Awesome

I've had this thing hanging about my palatial estate for a few years. It's kind of like an arial servant or something. It's way out back past the corn field and the old well, near the access road I built for the servants. I pass it y whildst riding my tractor from time to time.

One day, I stopped and asked its name.

"Rock Hudson," it said.

"Now stop that," I said, "What's your real name?"

"If I were to give you my real name," it said, "Then you'd be at liberty to command me."

"Indeed," I said. "I'm guessing you won't tell me."

"Nope," it said.

"Twenty questions, then?" I offered.

"Sure," it said.

"Liberal?" I asked.

"Yes," it said.

"Spectacles?" I asked.

"Yes," it said.

"Bachelor?" I asked.

"No," it said.

"Ghost of the Angry Veteran," I said.

"Fuck," it said.

"Go wash my car," I told it. So, you see...

Liberal. Spectacle. Not Bachelor. = Angry Veteran.

So

I was walking though the Hindustani Section of Westport, looking for bargains as I'm want to do on Wednesdays, and who should I see sitting there in the central tile mosaic square? You know, the Square with the Seven Fountains and three story water clock?

I SAW the Angry Piper. He was playing chess against one of the natives, and he wore his dour face of distracted hatred.

"Dearest friend!" I shouted, sweeping away all the pieces on the board and slipping the native a crisp dime. "You look glum, little guy. What's wrong?"

"First," he said, extending his middle finger, "that's for ruining one of the finest chess games I've ever played. Second," here he cleverly held up his second middle finger, "My sheep got into a radish patch and now all of my newly woven kilts smell like cocktail sauce."

"Delicious," I said, "But I see your points. Do they burn?"

"Aye," he said, "Twas a good crop of strong black angus radishes. They burn indeed. But it's not all bad," he said, donning what would never pass for a smile, even in the Crimea. "My hut was robbed by robbers who plundered my goods, ate my food, and soiled my best woman. They left the wine and ale."

"That's good," I said.

"Napes," he shook his head, "They pissed in 'em. And they shat in the bread. Not on top of it. No. No. They tuck it way inside, third bite you get cold turd in the back of your throat and the doctor says he wants to wire your jaw shut in case of thrush."

"Look," I said, sitting on his lap, "I'm not an optimist, but I'm not quite a fatalist. So when life gets bad I keep one thing in mind."

"What's that then?" he asked, brightening up.

"You always have it worse than me," I responded.

"Cheers you up?" he asked.

"It does," I said.

"Alright," he stood and placed me on my feet, "I'll buy you an iced cream to eat and you can watch me get Scottish Carnival Style Drunk."

"I've got a few hours to kill," I admitted, "Can I rap you about the head with my cane?"

"Honest you can," he smiled.

And so, my shopping curtailed for the moment, we set out. It was two hours before I told him the population, being largely Muslim, did not serve alcohol. There were many a happy misunderstanding in between.

"I shoulda learnt my lesson," he said. "First," he said, "Never go on a bender with a sober man in tow. And second," second middle finger, "...go fuck yourself."

I waved as he sulked his way off into the sunset, growing smaller as my story ends, and I thought to myself, Murk old bean, you are the world's greatest asshole.

It made me smile.

Job Interviews

So, I decided to go on a few job interviews. Did I need a job? No. But I figured it would pass the time. So, I came up with some great one liners to try out when being interviewed.

Q: So, what would you say is your best quality?

"Taste. I taste fantastic."

"I don't steal like the other people."

"Cable TV?"

"I'm Batman."

"My best quality is better than my good quality, and much better than my worst quality."

"My tireless ability to sabotage everyone."

"I burp names backwards. Lwohsa!"

Q: What is your greatest weakness?

"My volcanic temper, why?"

"Magnets. They make me weak."

"I get caught up in the sodomy thing a lot..."

"Zoltar has no weaknesses."

"You."

"I can't paint portraits very well."

"I refure to towel. Air Dry Only."

Q: Why do you want to work for this company?

"I'm looking for that special someone."

"Free lube."

"I'm planning an insurance scam."

"The Doctor said I could."

"So I can prove the parole board wrong."

"Spicy Taco Fridays."

Q: Why did you leave your last job?

"It was crowded."

"I left? SHIT!"

"I couldn't hide all the bodies."

"I spit on the Boss's kid."

"I got FIRED!!! WHOOOO!!!!"

"Oh. I should have asked them, eh?"

"I had bees."

"Men's Room Fight Club."

Q: When can you start?

"As soon as you stop."

"No no no. Only if you tell me I'm hired first."

"I can't. Makes this kinda pointless I guess."

"As soon as the meth wears off, Cochese."

"That's a secret. I'll tell you for a dollar."

Death of a Colony

The Grill. Man's (occasionally woman's) domain. The Grill sits on the patio or porch or deck outside, waiting. It calls to the very soul of a man. This man.

I have a Weber Genesis with a two parallel pipe burner setup, with ignition flow, one push start, heavy iron glazed grate, flavor enhancing super V drip distributors, a grease trap and and a drip bin. It's not the classic brushed stainless steel, but it's a black beast and has no cold spots. I've had it for 4 years and it looks brand new.

I had a Charbroil once. Once. That piece of crap did it's job but rusted through. The Weber is THE Grill. And I have the third smallest of the brand.

So, imagine this. Mrs. Dr. Murk wants burgers and dogs. We always open the season with burgers and dogs. I brush off the grate, heat the bad boy up, and then use the first run of burgers and dogs to re-season the Grill. Much like a good Wok, a Grill should never be extensively cleaned on the inside, just brushed up a bit. Sure, you clean the grease trap and catch pans, but animal fat acts like a polish (protecting from rust) and a thin, non stick barrier for cooking. When heated, animal fat is detoxified. Much like cooking oil and olive oil, it really doesn't rot or go bad. If heated, it's cleaned.

So, I go out to the Grill (way too late in the season, I admit, but still 5 months left) and open it. A quick brushing, clean the traps, ignite and let it self clean by closing the top. After two minutes, temp is up a but. I'm curious and so I open for a look.

I see the nests. Three Paper Wasp nests, now on full alert and scrambling fighters for action.

Oh no, you just fucked up, I though. No, not me. Them. I closed the lid and cranked and got her up to 450 degrees. Two escaped. Both stung me. Mother-fuckers. I back away. The escapees (remember, wasps can sting and sting and sting and not die) keep banging into the Grill trying to save their kin. Try little bastards! TRY!

Smoke and the smell of rendering animal juices floods the air. It's that smell when a neighbor is grilling a feast, and you have your windows open and you BEG for an invite. Oh... and my two enemies still try relentlessly to save their friends while I listen to a few small but satisfying pops and wasps drop into the fire.

Five minutes passes.

I open the lid. I knock the golf ball shaped nests into the flames as the wasp twins look on, baffled. The pheromones say attack. The smoke says run. The instinct says HOME IS BURNING.

I let them live.

I have Koi and Frogs aplenty in my little pond behind the Grill. The Koi are fed nothing. Sometimes, a piece of meat or some steak juices. As I hear the Frogs call out to me tonight, I know the other two wasps will be found and eaten. No home to go to. Patient frogs. Descendants of the Great Wasp Killer Uncle Freddy, who devoured an entire nest while I watched during my first night on that deck.

Life is fragile, and sweet.

Happy Father's Day

Papa Murk is an extraordinary man. I know his mind and I know what he did for me and my brother. Mama Murk did the same. They both continue.

Papa Murk's story is one of pain, despair and redemtion. I can't express in words my pride when I think of my Dad. He taught me things that have kept me from running off into the wood. He know what I suffer now, as he has suffered it before.

He was strick, but we were wild kids. We make him proud now and he tells us. To hear that from one of the ultimate warriors in life makes me feel superhuman, and humbled.

He almost died and came back for us (the family and has survived for over a decade on sheer will and faith in a higher plan. I follow his (and my mother's example) every day. I live in the moment (I TRY) and I live to make them proud.

But my father and I have fought tooth and nail over many things. I'm stubborn and he's stubborn and we don't always agree. But we always come back to being friends and supporters. I admit, he was right almost every time we disagreed and could have saved myself a lot of grief.

My Dad outranks any dad on the plannet. Not all sons will say that and some will even blame their fathers.

Dad, I never blamed you. We had no money, but we traveled, had an RV, cool cars, free repairs and tons of advice. We went to private schools while Mom worked and Dad suffered something he and I only truly understand and now we compare and heal each other.

I love you Dad and I'm proud of you.

Okay, now the rest of you suckbags need to bow to my Dad and get off your fat asses and tell your dads what the mean. My Dad lost his before he got to tell him. Don't make that mistake. Don't be stubborn dicks. Father's day is not about presents, but recognizing the trials and pain parents suffer for their kids. Fuck you people and your self centered pity and blame.

Give gratitude to Dads!

Go Choke Yourselves

I've come to realize that all men are stupid and all women are insane. Discuss.




Okay, the challenge is to prove me wrong. Use the comments section and I'll set up a poll. Look to the right.

The Boss

I am the boss of me, but have yu ever had a boss?

Then this is for you.

The Good Boss: Whether a pain in the ass or a civil role model, the godd boss gets the job done, corrects problems efficiently and with proper emotional control, and takes the heat for how the business runs.

Nobody is really a good boss anymore. There's something bout the old addage that management cannot be taught. Unfortunately, bosses seem to get jobs for sitting in a classroom learning how things never really work in the real world. Very few independent bosses/owners are popping up from the school of sink or swim in the real workplace. More and more bad bosses are out there.

1. They are taught to delegate, but not to trust.

2. They are taught to foster independence, but blame for failure due to independent thinking.

3. They are taught to be proactive, but not when to leave a good thing going.

4. They are taught to demand accountability, but not how to accept the responsibility for their own mistakes.

5. They are taught finance, but not how to understand the intagibles of cash flow.

6. They are taught to rationalize, but they are ruled by emotions.

The end for now.