Drivel, Chapter 1

My God, People! I once made payments on vacuum cleaner. But I have not fucked it. No! Seriously, the powerfully motor and micron level filtration worries me more than it turns me on. I have thing about vacuum cleaners.

Won $33 on the lottery the other day; reinvested in more tickets. Back down to $15. You see folks, that's how you make money. If I don't when some damn lottery money soon, all hell is gonna break loose.

I know a guy that might train me to do stained glass work. I'd be more excited if I could make money doing that. Nobody will hire me because I am simultaneously over and under qualified. It gets confusing for me.

I am not sure what you would call how I make a living. It's like a career, only it pays less.

There is, however, a steady source of beer and liquor. I am on a first name basis with clerks at two liquor stores. In Tennessee, you must be 21 to sell alcohol. At the food mart, all the clerks are high schoolers. To scan beer, checkers call the dreaded "Code 2" over the PA system. Then an adult comes, checks my ID and scans my beer. Last week, I walked into the food mart, only one register was open and nobody was in line. Barely 30 feet into the store when I hear "Code 2 on register 1" The girl looked at me and said "You always get beer."

Currently I am considering taking back up smoking, stopping brushing my teeth and moving my family into a trailer. Then I'll scatter trash and random shit all over my yard and the front of the "manufactured home." Perhaps then, I can split my time between sitting in front of the TV and in the ER waiting room (watching TV). I could get excited about the first Thursday of the month; that's when the government checks come in the mail.

I feel myself being sucked into a stereotype.

Send me pictures of your vacuum cleaners.

Dirty Ert

Relationships: A man needs an indicator

I was thinking about the relationship between a man and a woman. At the same time, beer was migrating from the refrigerator to my belly and on to the grassy spot in the back yard.

The general consensus among couple's therapy books seems to be: men need sex the most and women need attention the most. This I pondered deeply.

How does a woman know when her man has had the sex need fulfilled? It is obvious to even the most casual of observer. A man's cock pukes up the fluid from below. If a woman provokes this response in a man, one to three times a week, ole boy has his need met.

But what about a woman? How does a man know?

Questions were rolling in my head when my wife came home from work. She finds me in the back yard. I've got a beer in one hand and my penis in the other. I am putting an application of urine on a rose bush.

I look at my wife and ask my nagging question.

"Honey, could I get you to spit on me when you've had enough attention?"

The combination of the question itself and my watering of the flora throws her into a loop. She gives me the most quizzical face. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

"Well," as I zip up my pants. "I got to thinking. It is easy for you to tell when I have had enough sex."

"Yes, you fall asleep."

"Exactly! You have an indicator. I need a way to tell when you have gotten enough attention from me."

"You want me to spit?"

"My dick spits at you when I've had enough. Baby, when you think about it, equality in our relationship can only be achieved if you spit on me like a llama."

"When I have had enough attention, you want me to spit on you like a pack animal from South America?"

"It's only fair!"

She lights a cigarette and shakes her head in disbelief. "You're taking me out to dinner; try that on for an indicator."

Dirty Ert

Locals Are Funny, Vol 2, Slow Police Response

A great story hit the local papers; here are the facts as I have gleaned them from the reports.


A man in his sixties comes home. There is a window broken on his house. He calls 911 wanting a Deputy to come out. Police can ensure that no felon is hiding in your closet. Should any thing be stolen, the nice patrolman will make a report for your insurance. So far, so good.


Then our intrepid hillbilly home owner takes a turn for the worst. He decides that the Deputies are taking way to long to respond to his call. Maybe this guy had beer that was getting cold. Or perhaps, his beer did not get cold, because he drank it. Either way, the plot was about to thicken.


His patience exhausted, our home owner calls 911 again. This time he tells the dispatcher that there was someone in the house. And he has just shot the intruder. Then he told 911 “that there was no longer a need for officers to respond.”


Law enforcement does not think in these terms. "Well, we were going to make our way out there to investigate a possible burglary. But, since the homeowner has shot the invader, then there is no need for us to even show up, now."


It was a "calling all units" kind of response. Officers dropped what they were doing and scrambled to the scene. Ambulances were called in. A swarm of flashing blue and red lights descended upon our hillbilly's home.


Police found the hillbilly in his front yard, probably scratching his ass. It did not take the deputies long to uncover the truth. Our hillbilly home owner had, in fact, not shot anyone. He did not even have a gun. Shortly, the ole boy confessed. He felt that the police were taking too long. He figured if he told 911 that he shot someone, the police would come out to his house faster.


He was right. The Deputies immediately hauled his ass to jail and booked him for filing a false report.


Adding insult to ole boy's injury; nothing was missing or damaged in his house. He just had a broken window.


You just can't make this kind of shit up.


Dirty Ert

Fantasy Job #3: Women's Sex Toy Repairman

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #3: Women's Sex Toy Repairman

For Pete's Sake! Web sites that sell these things give technical specifications. You can find out the total weight of the machine, stroke length and occasionally torque (in inch-pounds no less!)

With that many moving parts there will be breakdowns and I want to be there when it happens.

I'll have my own van; drive around like an ambulance waiting for some wore out old hag to call when her Fuckzilla has a viscosity breakdown. I'll show up, Johnny on the spot, fix it then ask the old bitch to test it before I leave. She'll beg for my cock, sure, but she can't have it. I need to make a living and her filthy cunt needs to seize up the main bearings in the damn thing. Cash, the old road whore will have to pay me in cash.

That is just one possible service call in my busy days as a Women's Sex Toy Repairman.

I am afraid that no young, hot assed, college volleyball player will have one of these. There are two reasons for this grade of woman not having a sex toy. One, she cannot afford it. Two, she is too young to understand what her "box" really does for her. Nasty little Indy bitch won't stop talking on her damn cell phone long enough to turn the fucking thing on any ways.

Yes! Can't you see it now?

"DIRTY ERT'S FUCKING MACHINE REPAIR, Licensed, Bonded and Insured - 24 hour emergency service. 'Call me, when it won't come on, and you can't get off'"

"She drove herself to madness, with a silver spoon" - The Eagles Witchy Woman

"Oh, thank god! Vibrator repair"
"No Mame, the police"
- Dragnet The Movie

Ert

P.S. Fuckzilla is not in my spell check dictionary. It suggested frowzily or Duckbill, whatever the hell that means.

P.P.S Cash you horny bitches - I only take cash!

Locals are funny, Vol. 1, Some Guys Have All the Luck

A story hit the local papers about some odd goings on, at a local jail. Basically the story is: man gets laid while in jail.

Here are the basic facts. A female jailor (age 25) was supervising a male inmate. The inmate was on good behavior and doing mundane labor jobs for the jail. When she escorted him to the supply closets, she fucked him. Only because she became suspiciously pregnant did the Sheriff "smell a rat." In the end, she lost her job and ended up pleading guilty to five counts of sexual contact with a prisoner.

THAT LUCKY BASTARD!

I thought jail was about dodging dick. A'int there some guy about 6'6" and 320 pounds, desperate to stab some shit? That would be my luck in jail. My anal integrity would only be saved with a victory in an all out fist fight.

This guy broke the law and was punished with one of the all time great male fantasies. He got tied up and fucked by a woman jailor, five damn times. I have no idea of what this misguided girl looks like. But who cares? When you're in jail, you can't be picky. Any she-jailor will do, even if she has the head of wombat and the body of gorilla. And to beat all, she was in her mid-twenties. She may not be great looking, but damn she's young.

The last interesting fact of the story was the inmate was transferred to another prison, "for his protection." Protecting the bastard from what? Were they worried that another she-jailor would hork him in the supply closet, only to post this tryst on Youtube? Worse yet, was the Sheriff concerned that a prison uprising might break out? All the inmates would hoist the lucky bastard upon their shoulders, for a victory celebration.

Some guys just have all the fucking luck.

Dirty Ert

Fantasy Job #2: Demolition Derby Announcer

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #2: Demolition Derby Announcer

If you have ever been to a demolition derby in the South, you know what I am talking about. Should you have failed to attend such a spectacle, add it to the list of things you must see before you die. Trust me; it's a shit-ton better than Paris.

For those uncultured in the sport, here is a quick introduction. Take a bunch of old cars on the brink of death. Then run them into each other. The winner is the last car able to move around of its own power.

The announcer has a real thick Southern/Hick (aka Redneck Gibberish) accent. An attribute I have covered. Personally, I think the secret to good public announcing work is hard liquor. As the first round of cars start their engines, I'd be on shot three. It would be a good night in the booth if I passed out just as the champion is crowned.

The personal lives of the competitors (including recent divorce) is something I've actually heard an announcer discuss. "Looks like Jimmy Douglas throwed an axle. Gotta be disappointin' fo' Jimmy. I knowed he was hoping for a good run today, he's a try'n to cheer hisself up after his ole lady stepped out last month."

Another sweet announcer move is giving instructions to the fire crew. Occasionally an old car catches a flame. Local volunteer fire departments are there to handle it. Oh! But, some announcers really get into it. This is an actual announcement I once heard. "Ays a far! Ays a far! Mon far boys, git in nar! Git Grigg out dar." Allow me to translate: "There is a fire! There is a fire! Come on, firemen, get in there. Get Gregg out of there." Ays, nar and dar are all Redneck Gibberish conjugations of there.

Perhaps my favorite job perk is the view of redneck tang. Country girls like to dress to the nines for any sport involving internal combustion engines. There is always one ole girl dressed like this: blue jeans (two sizes too small,) a black pair of fuck me pumps and a NASCAR t-shirt. The t-shirt is also way too small. Her cleavage is on display, for all to enjoy. She is constantly sucking on a cigarette.

Getting liquored up, talking Redneck Gibberish about cars mashing in the mud and scoping redneck tang. Try finding that one in Career Builder.

Dirty Ert

Fantasy Job #1: Dirty Ert's Tours

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #1: Dirty Ert's Southern Appalachian Tour Guide

See the Hillbilly South like never before! Come on down, I'll show you.....

I want to take you Yankees and other foreigners on an genuine trip through my home region. Before you leave, you'll experience the Hills like never before.

Be in the lobby of your hotel at 6:00 AM. I highly suggest you wear your drinking shoes. Clothes that you wouldn't mind getting filthy are best. Ladies should display cleavage and hats are optional.

My tour bus is like no other. It's a big ass, 70's U-Haul truck. The cargo interior has been completely refurbished. The floor, walls and ceiling are covered in green outdoor carpet. There are La-Z-Boy chairs and couches bolted to the floor. For your viewing pleasure, I've installed a sliding-glass patio door on each side. It is also equipped with a first aid kit: Goody's Headache Powders, Gatorade and Pepto Bismal. There is a complete bar and a chemical toilet.

As the tour bus peels out of the parking lot, we crack our first beer. Please keep in mind that this is a smoking tour. Throughout the day you should plan on eating a lot. We'll stop for a country breakfast. For lunch and dinner, a feast of BBQ will be had.

There are, of course, Civil War Battlefields, Historic Homes, Museums and all that crap. I'll briefly tell you about them as they whiz past the patio doors. But I want people to see the "other side" of Appalachia. And you need a good beer buzz to take it in.

Your first walking tour is an authentic crystal meth lab. I'll have a few rednecks explain how it is made and give a short lecture on the economics of it. If Skeeter is available; he can tell you all about a meth-dealer conviction and how not to have a stand off with the police. Skeeter was hemmed up in his trailer while the Sheriff was outside with a warrant. Using quick thinking, Skeeter looked for a hostage. Unfortunately the only available hostage, at the time, was a goat. Skeeter quickly discovered that the following phrase does not stop the Sheriff or his SWAT team. "Back off or I'll blow this goat's fucking head off!"

Next we will walk a real marijuana patch. A real-deal grower, with the guilty verdicts to prove it, will show you the art of "booby trapin'" I also have a man that gives a five minute informative lecture on "Confusing the DEA's Helicopters."

At this point in the tour, the sun is setting. Your intoxication should be reaching its peak. Then I shall take you on a romp of personal expression. Bridge and water tower painting. You will have the opportunity to paint the name of your most cherished loved one, on a municipal structure.

Should you pass out, you will get treated like one of us. I am going to paint "FART" on your forehead. Then I'll leave your drunk ass in the landscaping out front of your hotel.

The next morning, upon waking up, you will feel like a real hillbilly.

Dirty Ert

Beast more hair than woman

Spring fever, I was crawling to walls to get out of the house. Heading to downtown just to return a single library book; was the excuse I needed. Driving along, a series of clouds rolled in, ready to deliver our next April shower.

The library is located downtown on a wide boulevard. Small trees lined the street with their leaves merely green spots on the branches. Odd sculptures sat obtrusively along the sidewalk. The trees and art were the city's attempt to enliven the fading old downtown.

I wheeled my old pick up into a parking place out front of the library. Looking up, I saw a very nasty dark cloud settling over the town. Fat drops of rain had just begun to fall here and there. Moving quickly, I headed to the book drop.

Just beside the book drop was a park bench. It sat in the little flower garden the city had planted beside the library. The bench was fifteen feet away from the awning hanging over the book drop. At that moment, a woman was sitting upon that bench. Let me tell you; she was a beast more hair than woman.

She was about sixty years old. Wearing a heavy pair of boots, maybe she weight 90 pounds. It seemed like she was unusually tall for a woman of her generation. She was built like a tooth pick. An oversized charcoal gray, men's, button up shirt hung on the top over her. A pair of white washed, skin tight blue jeans were stretched across her bottom half. Then there was her hair. Brothers and Sisters, it was huge.

Light brown-dead grass would be the color I would use to describe it. There was a hell of a lot of it. To the left and right, it was nearly wider than her shoulders. Reaching to the sky, I'd say there was a good eight inches from the top of her skull. It was curly, very curly. Quite frankly, it looked like she had three or four poodles stuck on her head. This was a creature more hair than woman.

As I dropped my book in the slot; I made a terrible mistake. Eye contact, "damn it, do not look these freaks in the eye." She looked at me and smiled real big. Both of her hands reached up and started primping her absurd hair. Her face shot me an inviting look. It was if she said "come on over here and we will do it on this bench." Making it worse, I could clearly see that her pupils were dilated. She was trashed on a drug I could not understand.

I ran back to my truck at full speed. Firstly, to escape the crazy hair-whore on the bench. Secondly, to escape the heavy rain that was beginning to come down. Just as I closed my truck door, all hell of precipitation broke loose. The rain came down so hard that I could barely see the hair-beast thirty feet away. Moments later, came the hail. Chunks of ice, the size of M&M candy drilled down from the sky. The ice pelted down so hard, the cab of my truck roared like a freight train.

On the bench, the hair-beast sat oblivious. From the safety of my truck, I saw hail bounce off of her nose. She was unfazed. Her lips were in a permanent smile. It was if she was unaware of the hell dropping down around her. Casually she reached up to "touch up" her hair-do. Amazingly, rain and hail seemed to have no effect on her hair. It held its own, defiantly against wind and falling ice.

Now I became concerned. She noticed me watching her. Again, she sent me the "DO ME" look. Quickly I decided that retreat was the better part of valor. It was time to leave; before she tried to come and get into my truck. As I wheeled away, she remained upon bench. Her hair remained insolent to the rain.

It was three blocks away before I felt safe from the crazy hair-bitch. Then I wondered "what the hell is she on." Worse yet, I pondered "could I have really done her on the park bench?"

Dirty Ert

Sperm Clearance Sale

Scientific American magazine has posted a new story on it's online edition.

http://www.sciam.com/blog/60-second-science/post.cfm?id=sperm-sale-2009-04-10

It seems economic times have gotten so bad; sperm banks are discounting their goods. A single shot of swimmers is running about $300 now. The article claims that most women need to use about 8 shots. That comes to $2,400 for designer sperm.

How ridiculous is this really?

For $100; I'll crank out enough shots to do the job, guaranteed. If the first shot don't "git r dun" then I'll provide up to 12 more shots for free. For an extra $20, you can inspect me like a damn stud horse.

Hell, if you put an extra ten spot in my pocket, I'll fuck a couch. Throw in another $10 and I'll let you film it.

Who am I kidding? Put 5 shots of Tennessee Whiskey in me, and I'll do the whole nine yards for a draw off a cigarette.

Dirty Ert

A Pirate Looks at 36

Sipping burnt coffee while sitting at the kitchen table; I started reading the newspaper. Headlines in bold letters declared "Pirates take US Ship." The article went on about the dangers of modern African pirates and their doings. As fate would have it, my CD player shuffled to the Jimmy Buffett song, A Pirate Looks at Forty.

I had always wanted to be a pirate. It was noon, I was unemployed and still wearing sweatpants. Becoming a pirate was the best idea my brain had created in weeks. I was also a business manager by trade. I began to formulate a 5 year plan, for a pirating business.

Dirty Ert's Pirating and Pillaging LLC
5 Year Business Plan
Prepared by: Dirty Ert, Chief Executive Pirate

Executive Summary:

Dirty Ert's Pirating and Pillaging LLC (DEPP) seeks to take strong advantage of the market opportunities.

The primary location for DEPP's operations will be the North Fork of the Holston River. Selected because it is close to Ert's house and is impossible for any US Navy ships to navigate.

The methods for DEPP to create positive cash flow is: Dirty Ert will paddle around the river in a boat, while in splendid costuming. When he sees another boat; he will paddle after it like his ass is on fire. Upon reaching the other boat, he will yell "Heave to and hand over all your loot and libations. That means give me your money and beer mother fuckers." Then Dirty Ert will egress, quickly.

Market Opportunity:

Any stretch of the North Fork of the Holston will have 2 or 3 people pass by a day. Perhaps 1 in 10 will actually have money on them. 7 in 10 will have beer. DEPP seeks to capitalize on both assets.

Management:

Dirty Ert brings a twenty year career to DEPP. None of it is useful for pirating. But he does have his own pirating hat.

Competitors:

None. Currently there are no other pirates operating on the North Fork of the Holston River. There are rumors of a gang of pirates on nearby Boone Lake. However, reports characterize this band as "butt pirates." Therefore they do not appear to be competitor, merely a threat to anal security.

Capital Requirements:

Sources of funds:
Dirty Ert $0.00
Kid's Piggy Bank $26.30

Preoperational Expenditures:

Boat: $0.00 - can steal one from the junkyard next door
Hat: $0.00 - got one
Parrott: $120.00 - will require financing

Closing Remarks:

Our boat has been christened "The Commode Runner." Her hull be strong and her mast be true.

Christmas at the Fraley Springs fire tower

Back when we were still single, my group of friends had a Christmas tradition. Wrap up family time, meet at Ert's and head to the Fraley Springs fire tower.

It was a cold, bleak winter day that Christmas. In typical humor, the weather deprived us of a White Christmas. The last vestiges of the sun were dropping behind the ridge across the way. The headlights of Herman's Oldsmo-Buick darted down my driveway. Oscar jumped out of the passenger's side. He looked like a little kid who got a pony from Santa that morning.

"I got nitrous!" He held aloft boxes of nitrous oxide canisters.

"Top that off with a little hair of the dog, I'd say we got a party!" Herm held up a Wild Turkey bottle.

"Gentlemen and I use that term loosely. This calls for an immediate round of shots. Such will be followed by a hasty departure from this place unto another place." I declared that as if reading a legal verdict. And let the record show that was exactly what came to pass.

The hills flashed by the windows of my Ford SUV. The three of us caught up on the day's events. Eric Clapton played on the stereo. We came to a thorny issue.

"Dude, where is the weed?" Oscar seemed a little put off.
"Yeah man, you promised." Herm put in his two cents.
"My guy didn't come through. Don't ask why and all that shit. I don't know. It's the guy that always wears that 'kiss my ass' hat. You know, it has the picture of the donkey on it." I was fending off wolves.
"Who gives a fuck about his hat?" Herm was indignant. "You relied on a guy who wears a hat that says 'kiss my ass'. What did you expect? Four star service? This was your one task over the whole holidays. God Damn you!"
"Your taking this a little overboard, don't you think?" Still trying to keep the wolves at bay.
"I want my money back, mother fucker." Oscar hit on a point where I was really going to be in trouble.
"I'll give it to you Friday." I winced.
"Friday? Ahhh! When you get paid! You already spent our money? You miserable rat fucker." Herm smelled blood.
"Alright! Alright! Ya' bastards. Confession time." They had me.
"Fucker" Oscar mumbled under his breath.
"I went to kiss-my-ass hat boy's place. He had the stuff and the exchange went cleanly. He had some friends there, a couple and the girl's best friend."
"Oh god no, a girl! You are going to die." Herm knew where this was going.
"Kiss MY ass, fucker, shut up. Back to the confession in progress. Ole girl wasn't really hot, but hell, I'd fuck her. As is custom, after the exchange we matched some bud for the ceremonial, end of drug deal, joint. Ole girl came and sat down next to me. She laughed at one of my stupid jokes and gave me the arm touch."
"SAVE US THE FUCKING DETAILS." Oscar yells from the back.
"Yes please, answer the only two things we care about. One, did you or did you not get laid? And, where is our weed. MOTHER FUCKER." Herm, angry as usual.
"Okay bitches, damn! No, I did not get any. Ole girl used me to get stoned. She has your weed."
"You gave some random whore our weed?"
"No, she stole it."

The groaning and moaning continued all the way up the mountain. I paid no attention to the bitching; I was planning. If I could quickly get some shots in them all would be well.

We arrive at the tower. Getting out of the Ford, Herm and Oscar's bitching goes unfettered. Suddenly, Herm freezes and breaks into laughter. He is looking at the passenger's floor board. Oscar joins him. He breaks down horse laughing. Standing confused and feeling left out, "What you bastards, what?"

"Dirty, you are an idiot." Herm can barely breathe.
Laboring to breath, Oscar exclaims "You are a complete dumbass. She didn't steal your weed; you dropped it on the floor board."

In an instant, all was forgiven.

While Oscar set to work on our herbal remedy. Herm and I checked out the scene. The mountain was about a thousand feet above the surrounding towns. While there was no snow in town; the mountain was capped with it, a good four inches. The air was cold, crisp and clean; not a cloud in the sky. A half moon shown down with a pale, eerie light.

Oscar glanced up, "Man, this place looks like Hoth."

Our inner nerds came burning to life. We all completely memorized Star Wars, Episode Five, The Empire Strikes Back. As the joint made its rounds, we divided up roles. Herm was to be Hon Solo. If you looked Herm in the face, closed one eye and squinted the other; he could have been Harrison Ford's distant cousin. Oscar was chosen for Luke Skywalker. Herm and Oscar forced multiple roles on me. Chewbacca, I hated that one. I once dated a girl who was a little hairy. She also was not aware of razors and their application, thus her nickname "Chewbacca." The bastards jabbed me bad. I also had to be the visage of Obi Won Kenobi. This was a plot on their part to get even with me for the weed thing. I had no idea of what was coming.

We reverted to eight years old. Running around, like kids, reenacting the movie. Then came the Kenobi scene. In the movie, Luke is in a blizzard. He falls down, on death's door. From the afterlife, Kenobi becomes an apparition. He talks a bit, as he fades away, Han Solo rides through his apparition. Where Kenobi fades away, I was going to simply step behind a tree. As I got to that point I heard Herm's foot steps behind me. I thought he was right on cue. But Herm had started a few moments early, on purpose. I was caught flat footed. He rammed me in the back at full steam. I rolled down the mountain a good fifty feet. Bastards.

The theatre of the idiots was over, time for the serious business of getting fucked up. We smoked more and drank a lot more. Presently all reached the promise land of a real good buzz. It was time to climb the abandoned fire tower.

We each carried one inebriant as we shimmied up to the first set of stairs. Herm and I forged up to the second flight. Looking down, we saw Oscar frozen at the first flight. He looked up at us. "This is incredibly fucking stupid."

Herm and I exchanged confused looks "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"We are all so fucked up that not one of us could find our own balls. This rusted old tower must be at least fifty years old. Half of the wooden steps are either: rotted, broken or missing. And you want to climb up 150 feet of that? Did I mention that the two of you can barley stand up right? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MINDS?"

Oscar may have well been speaking in French. Herm and I could not comprehend his arguments. He and I looked at each other, confused. Then at the same time we looked down and Oscar. "Pussy" We turned and headed up the fire tower.

We made it up the first three flights of stairs just fine. Half way up the fourth there was a stair missing. Herm lead the way boldly. Until the stair, just before the missing one, disintegrated under his foot. In an amazing furry of moving arms and legs, Herm suddenly shot up the stairs, rolling to a stop at the next landing. It was funnier than Hell. He looked like a cat dropped on a slick kitchen floor. I shimmied up the metal supports until I made it next to Herm.

He lay on the ground clutching a support girder with all his might. Terror covered his face. I was laughing at him so hard I couldn't breath, that made me oblivious to the surroundings. Then it hit me, the wind. The wind started to gust, real hard. I felt the entire tower sway in the wind. For a moment, I thought was going to be blown off the tower. I panicked. I lunged for the same girder that Herm was wrapped around. Herm obviously felt that there was a sturdy support shortage. He began to fight me off. We were now both trashed and in a full on panic and fighting for the right to hold onto a metal girder. Sadly neither of us noticed the other girder, two and a half feet away.

Another big gust hit the tower, it swayed. Herm quit fighting me so he could hold the girder with both hands. I immediately grabbed the damn thing in a death grip. For what seemed an eternity, the two of us clung for our lives. Loud, heavy gusts of wind rocked the tower. The two of us were knotted up, holding on for dear life. Then we heard it.

From below we could hear Oscar in a fit of laughter. Herm and I looked each other in the eye. Without saying a word, we both knew what the other was thinking. "Oscar Mother Fucker." Grim determination set in. We were going to show that bastard. For reasons that no sober mind can possibly comprehend, we started back up the tower. We were both terrified, but some broken line of thinking drove us on. Oscar later described the two of us panicked sloths. He timed us. It took an hour for us to climb the last eight flights of stairs.

Finally at the top we sprang into the little booth. The thin sheet metal walls kept the wind at bay. Both of us were visibly shaking. We could feel the tower continuing to rock about six inches. The terror was palpable. Then I had a great idea.

"Dude, break out the whipits."
"WHAT?" Herm looked at me confused and afraid.
"Yeah man, whipits, it is our only hope. Trust me! Do it! It is the only chance we have."

The wind howled even harder. Herm was loosing it. His hands were convulsing and his head bobbing wildly. In a few seconds he was going to loose all control of himself. I reached over and grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.

"Damn it man, pull yourself together! You are the keeper of the nitrous. I am depending on you." The tower now began to rock back and forth violently. "We can beat this. All is not lost. You have the whipits. The whipits will save us. Whipits man, the whipits. Think of the whipits as our personal Obi Won Whipit Kenobi. We must travel to Alderaan, but we must whipit and whipit real good. Reach deep into yourself and bring forth the whipit of life. I know I am saying whipit a lot, but whipit man!"

Suddenly the panic eased from his face replaced by a deep understanding. This gave way to grim determination as he pulled out the box of cartridges and the "Whipit Gun."

Honestly, I thought we were going to die. The tower was going to fall over, I just knew it. Really, I had no idea of how whipits would save us. I simply wanted one last good buzz before I died in a horrible tower falling incident.

We hit the first round of whipits. The familiar wha-wha sensation took over. Outside the storm hit its crescendo. Snow was now coming down hard; we could not see the ground. The tower made horrible creaking noises as if to finally cave to the wind. Death was certain. Herm and I sucked down the nitrous oxide as fast as we could; laughing like mad men in the face of death.

Suddenly, I awoke. Looking around I saw Herm lying three feet away, passed out. Nitrous cartridges were everywhere. I nudged Herm. "Man wake up, you are alive fucker." Slowly we came back to consciousness. The storm had passed. All was calm and relaxed. The moon hung reassuringly in the sky. Herm and I broke into a fit of laughter. We had made it. A thought crossed my mind. I said to Herm, "Oscar Mother Fucker."

Back on the ground, Oscar had ball without us. While watching us climb the tower, he smoked enough weed to fell a small horse. At one point, he just knew that me and Herm were going to die. Casually writing us off, he tried to see how much he could smoke before we died. He was trying to figure out how to tell the police how we died, when he saw it. Oscar swore he saw a Keebler elf. Keebler elves always have delicious treats with them. To get the cookies all one must do is catch one of the elves. Then he gives you snacks. Everybody knows how that works, right?

So Oscar started sneaking around the top of the mountain elf hunting. That is when Herm and I awoke. We looked down and saw Oscar darting wildly around. Herm and I were confused, but knew what we must do. We gathered up the spent cartridges and started throwing them at Oscar. On the ground, Oscar was operating under the assumption that Herm and me were dead. Imagine his surprise when suddenly shit fell out of the sky at him. When the first cartridge hit, Oscar jumped straight up in the air. He squawked like a bird and ran off in a random direction. So funny, Herm and I almost pissed on ourselves. About six cartridges later, Oscar figured it out.

White Christmas Indeed!

Dirty Ert

Beer Downgrade

A late snow settled over East Tennessee. This nearly causes a panic among my people. Southern Hillbillies are fairly certain that snow is the instrument of the devil. Snow causes a knee jerk reaction in us. We scramble to the grocery store and stock up on bread and milk. No one knows why we do it, we just do. Ask a salmon why he swims up the stupid river. He don't know, but everyone else is doing it.


Feeling the primitive call, I head to the food mart. Fortunately I am well stocked with bread and dairy products. But beer levels were beginning to fall dangerously low.


Just inside the door, a big set of titties caught my eye. I pretend to examine a bag of onions, so that I have a moment to take a good rack in. Presently, the breasts in questions started to seem oddly familiar. Curious, I look at ole girl's face. Damn it! She is an old flame.


We had gone out about five times, ten years ago. It was not much of an affair. She decided that 'sure he's funny, but I wouldn't want to have sex with him.' The relationship fizzled out with me only getting her top off once, for fifteen minutes. No, there was no sex, but I did wack off into her glove compartment once. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

She headed down the snack cake aisle. It was my chance to make a break for it. With a little luck I could complete my beer run without an Exgirlfriend Encounter of the Third Kind. I arrived quickly at the beer section and unthinkingly reached for two six packs of good micro brew.

Then I saw the obnoxious bright yellow price label, $9.59 per six pack. In an instant (and without my permission) my brain went to work. Two six packs of good beer would set me back $19.18, plus tax. Glancing over, Miller High Life was $6.95 a twelve pack. The cursed math centers in my brain sprung to action. Good beer: about $1.60 each. Shitty beer: about $0.60 each.

I slumped slightly into the beer cooler as the analytical parts of my brain came to life. "Here is the deal, we are unemployed. Our current income level is zero dollars and zero cents per week. We scratch our ass all day and live off our wife. Do you think it is right to spend an extra $12 on the high end micro brew? A year from now, will you remember the deliciousness of the good beer from tonight? I am afraid it has come to this, we are experiencing a beer downgrade."

Really hate it when I talk to myself, yes I do. Even more, it is infuriating when I am right and thus wrong all at the same time. I really wanted the good beer, so I attempted to throw myself off. Thus I could then buy the good beer. Should this be confusing to you, it is much worse for me.

Motionless I hung there half slumped over the micro brew section of the beer cooler. My theory was that if I was still, then the other part of me would get bored and go away. People were starting to stare. My brain did not give up, "put the expensive beer down and back away slowly." I refused to move. Then my damn conscious entered the fray. It showed me all kinds of scenes. The images of my wife feeling hurt and being taken advantage of, filled my head.

Slowly and dejectedly I replaced the good beer in the cooler. I felt like I was 7 years old again. I went back to that time when I wanted a Reese's Cup so bad I couldn't stand it. I snagged one from the shelf at the grocery store. Timidly I approached the check out counter where my mom had started filling out the check for our groceries. I distinctly remember a cigarette in her mouth. She looked down at me and the candy. Not one word came from her. Mom's right eyebrow simply raised up and she gave me "the look." Like a brow beaten plow mule, I put the Reese's back. Thirty years later, my mother's avatar lives in my shitty-ass pea brain.

In an attempt to exact some sort of dignity from the situation, I bought twice the beer. Feeling that I had reached the sacred middle ground, I headed to the check out line. Just as the clerk was handing me the change; "Dirty Ert, what has it been, ten years?" The old flame nailed me. A brief exchange of pleasantries; then I ask "Do you still drive that old blue Honda?"

Dirty Ert

Please reconsider not selecting me for the job

For months I suffered under one of the worst cases of unemployment that I have ever contracted. At the height of the worst recession in generations, I reached the fuck it point. It became crystal clear that my career was over.

I had a pile of those, "thank you for applying, but we are not hiring you" form letters. Inspired, I wrote my own form letter in response to their form letter.

Curiously, nobody has responded.....

Dirty Ert
4445 Beaver Ridge Road
Kingsport, TN 37660
February 23, 2009

Director of Human Resources
Sperry Univac
100 Sperry Drive
Bristol, VA 24201

Madame Director,

I am writing you to follow up on my submission of employment credentials.

Your form letter of February 15th was enlightening, if not terribly disappointing. It is my apologies that my qualifications do not currently meet your employment needs. It is a relief to know that my application will be "kept on file for further consideration."

Allow me to strike at the heart of the matter. I am fucked. I lost my dream job. There are no employment needs that fit my qualifications. Yesterday a bill collector threatened to stab me in the balls. I am going bankrupt and I think my wife is leaving me for a 20 year old college swimmer from Puerto Rico. Drastic times call for drastic measures. So here goes.

I know what "kept on file for further consideration" means. My résumé is currently in a landfill covered with coffee grinds; sandwiched between a soiled condom and knot of used paper towels.

But you need me, yes you do. I have qualifications that perfectly match an employment need you don't even know that you have.

You need to hire me as Auggie Boo-Boo Wormbelly, the Towmotor Driving Toad Boy.

First, I'll explain the name. Auggie was the name of a baby calf I raised on the family farm. I cared and loved him every day; right up until I sent him off to slaughter. It was an awful thing to do on my part. This is probably the reason why I am fucked now, Karma is a bitch. Boo-Boo is the name of another baby calf who suffered the same fate as Auggie. Wormbelly was also a cow I had as a teenager. One day, Wormbelly kicked my old man, right-square in the nuts. It was one of the funniest fucking things I have ever seen. THEN we sent Wormbelly to the slaughter. I guess you could say the ole girl had it a comin'.

Toad Boy, shit that just sounds funny. But, Ah! Towmotor (forklift) driving, this is your benefit.

Let me tell you about my forklift driving. I suck at it, bad. I drive a forklift like a 95 year old Jamaican man; slow and oblivious. As I drive, you will also wonder; is he stoned? But life is funny; I used to be a forklift operator safety training instructor. I have probably spent about 20 hours of my life driving a forklift. But I taught people who had driving a forklift 40 hours a week for 15 years; how to safely drive the thing.

At this point, you are probably asking yourself these questions. Why should I hire someone who sucks at driving a forklift, to drive a forklift? Why should I refer to him as Auggie Boo-Boo Wormbelly, the Towmotor Driving Toad Boy?

Every day I will show up to work in a costume.

I already have my first day's get-up picked out. Now keep in mind how I do my first day on the job. I work off Karma (even if it is a nasty bitch.) There is no need for me to start out in human resources. Quite frankly, it is bullshit and not where the action is. Tax forms and safety videos be damned. I can do those at home while I lounge in my dog hair bath robe.

On my first day, I am going to wear a three colored clown wig. For shoes, I have a lovely pair of snake skin hip boots. I also have a kilt; made from an old shower curtain (it still has the hanging hooks.) My shirt will be lime green and in bold letters say "Evan Williams for President." In case you did not know, Evan Williams is a brand of cheap Kentucky Bourbon (and it is bullshit.) Now for the outfit's piece de resistance, a polystyrene pig's nose. I particularly like this one because I occasionally breathe out of my nose. This pig's nose fits nicely over my nose and it has two holes that line up nicely with my own nostrils.

As I mentioned before, I am bypassing human resources. At 7:00 AM when first shift begins, I am going to walk straight in the employee entrance, like I have worked there for 10 years. I will mount the first forklift I see and immediately begin moving shit around. I am a quick learner and anticipate that I'll get the hang of things in my third or maybe fourth week on the job.

You should also know that I do not interact with coworkers, bosses, vendors, customers or visitors. People can certainly talk to me. But that is of limited use. I am probably thinking about intercourse or food or both, and not really listening. Best results are achieved if you leave me a message on an Etch-A-Sketch.

I can make an important and deep commitment to you. Should there be visitors in the plant during my shift; I will be a rock. I'll drive my Towmotor with my eyes locked forward. My face will be stoic. Your visitors will see the calm intensity behind that pig's nose.

As for the kind of forklift you will need to provide me. I prefer to operate a Lewis Shepard brand. I am aware that Lewis Shepard was bought out in 1972 and their products ceased to be that fall. But, you are a champ and I know there will be a shiny "new" Lewis Shepard waiting for me on my first day (which is next Wednesday.)

For future reference I have several T-Shirts picked out for work. Here is what is written on some of them:

Weed, The Other Green Vegetable
Middle Eastern Chicks, The Other White Meat
Bend Over, I'm Driving
Forklift Drivers Do It In The Racks
Hey Everybody, Lets Fart!
Two Nuns And A Duck
Tequila Makes My Asshole Hurt (Based on my 1994 trip to Mexico)
Rhinestone Hog Boy (I made this one right after I bought a Bedazzler.)

Now, it is time for the salary negations. I do not need money. I need chainsaws. We are talking barter here. Each Friday morning you are to leave a DIFFERENT chainsaw on my Lewis Shepard. I am on a quest, to start the world's only chainsaw museum on an Interstate 81 exit.

Each "payday" I will examine the "offering" of a chainsaw you leave for me. If the saw is acceptable, I will give a subtle acknowledgement. I will stand on one leg, raise my arms over my head and let loose my best hyena impression. If the chainsaw fails to make the grade; I will ram my forklift into the Coke machine. Then I will go home. When I come back on Monday, there had better be an acceptable saw on my Lewis Shepard, along with an apology on the Etch-A-Sketch. If not, I will muster a mighty turd, and leave it on the plant manager's car windshield.

I believe that you will find this both a fair and equitable deal.

Looking forward to my new career

Best wishes,

Auggie Boo-Boo Wormbelly, the Towmotor Driving Toad Boy

The Price of Financial Freedom: $19

I was sicker than a nudist camp for the obese. The mix of medicines was awesome. It felt a little like being stoned, only add really-angry. I was confused, paranoid and angry at everything. That must be what it is like to mix steroids and weed.

Then there was the bevy of physical injuries. There had been no feeling in my left foot for three weeks; due to a mishap during dog exercising (don't ask.) Then I hit my right shin so hard, my lower leg turned blue, or mayhaps that color was indigo? I fell and fucked up my right elbow and pinched a nerve in my neck. I burned my right hand so badly I threw up. Topping it all off; I'd been unemployed for three months.

I felt incredibly bad, just fucking awful. That is when it hit me. The cure: liquor, it was lots of brown liquor. I figured it couldn't possibly feel worse if I drank until taking a knee and hurling vomit like a fire hose.

Therefore, I commenced to crack into "Daddy's Stash" of Evan Williams. . Evan Williams is bullshit. No offense to the fine folks at Evan Williams, but damn! I had to switch from Jack Daniels to Evan Williams due to a severe case of unemployment. A sad fucking state of affairs; no job and taking a liquor downgrade.

After polishing off my "select reserve" I headed upstairs to the "public offering." Low and damn behold, my wife had finished my bourbon. I was madder than hell. So I called her at work, demanded that she not appear in the house until she replenished my liquor. She agreed and that was that. However, I had a better buzz than I realized.

The phone rang. I fucked up, I answered it. That was when I realized how trashed I was.

"Hi, Mr. Ert, this is Tina and I received your resume."

In my head I thought "Damn, this chick sounds hotter than a firecracker. I mean - really good. I bet she is a tall blonde, with C, no wait, D breasts and long legged. Hell, I bet she is wearing a pant suit with a pair of three inch 'bet you want to tap my ass' heels." While I was thinking this, she did not stop talking. Pity that women do not give you a moment to imagine your cock in their mouth, c'est la vie in the politically correct "information age."

"So Mr. Ert, would you come in tomorrow and interview with us?"

She trapped me, time to make a snap decision. She had rambled off information, of which I paid little attention. I don't think she said exactly what it was the position was for, or what the company did, or even the company name. I smelled a rat. It was probably life insurance sales.

"Sure, Tina, what time would be good for you?" I countenanced further business intercourse for three reasons.

One - I knew damn well, I did not have anything else to do.
Two - I was a fucked up as a football bat stuck in a soccer puck. Trashed I tell you. The flu had cooked my brain. The syrups, pills and effervescing shit made me batty. And then, there was the cheap ass bourbon.
Three - Ole girl sounded hot on the telephone.

The wife comes home an hour later. She finds me passed out on laundry. My better half kicked me on the painful right shin. "Wake up and drink this stupid bourbon you made me bring home." At this point, it was difficult to explain to my spouse that I had a job interview the next day. But I had no clue of the name of the company or pay or benefits or what the job was. Just that, the lady "sounded very pleasant on the telephone."

The next morning, I woke up at and ran a diagnostic on myself. My head hurt like a flaming mother fucker. The hang over head ache was resplendent. My mouth tasted like hot tire and my throat felt as if I had swallowed sand paper. My left foot was a faint echo on my leg. My right shin had a thumping, pinging, burning sensation. Mr. Spock was putting a constant "Vulcan Nerve Pinch" on the right side of my neck. My right hand squalled with burning pain. Then I realized, time to get moving, I was throwing up.

After a refreshing vomit, it became evident that I gained twenty pounds since I last put on my suit. You just can't get a fat ass in little pants.

An emergency trip was required to Men's Discount Outlet, home of the cheap shit. Had all I needed as I passed the tie display. "Hey that tie up front is perfect and only $8! No! Dirty Ert, you idiot, you got all kinds of ties at the house. Do not buy a tie." That was a decision I would regret.

At home, I spent an hour attempting to find my tie collection. I had some nice ties, the $50 a pop kind. It is not clear why I looked for them in the back of my unfinished second bathroom. There they were. And damn did they smell. Last year's minor "water containment failure" resulted in fungal colonies breeding on all my ties.

On the way to the interview, another fucking trip to the mall. The tie set me back $25. Son of a bitch!

At last I found myself at the "interview." Please keep in mind, at that moment I was still out of my head with fever, flu, hangover and cough syrup. I was in the waiting area with a guy in a Metallica T-shirt and cut off shorts. A massive lesbian in a bright orange dress suddenly appears. She kindly asked "Can I get you anything? We have coffee or popcorn."

I could handle the huge orange lesbian, but the combination of coffee and popcorn fucked my world up. My head was swimming, but I had to wrap my mind around it. Coffee and popcorn? How do these two things go together? Later on will they have Manhattan's and pancakes? I was discombobulated and breaking into a sweat.

A man walked up and introduced himself as Billy. I was still sketchy about the details of my interview, but figured maybe he was going to interview me and answer my questions; including the coffee and popcorn thing. Then Billy turned and introduced himself to Metallica T-shirt boy. "So if you two gentlemen will just follow me."

I just knew this was going to suck. A group interview with me and a dude in a Metallica T-shirt, may Evan Williams be damned!

We followed Billy into a conference room. I saw it: Power Point. My heart sank deep into my knees. No good has ever come from anything in Power Point form. There was a projector too. To my horror, the Power Point would take up a whole fucking wall.

As the "presentation" launched, I made a quick assessment of my situation. I felt roughly the same as when I woke up, minus the call to vomit. I had gotten passed the coffee and popcorn, only to find my situation had taken a horrible turn for the worst. I wished that I could go back to the lobby and gnaw on the coffee and popcorn some more. As the first slide completely filled to wall in front of me, I realized. Billy had not asked for my resume.

It was like watching a train wreck unfold in slow motion. The first ten slides talked about how stable and wonderful the company was, without saying the company's name or products. Worse yet, Billy read the slides out loud. You got to love it when someone reads a Power Point to you. I cringed for that final moment; when the lead locomotive slams into a tractor trailer full of propane.

Then it hit.

"You can achieve financial independence and help save the environment for only a $19 investment. And it all starts today when you enroll in Amway."

The vomit feeling jumped back into my throat.

This was no job interview. I had been high-jacked into a pitch for a pyramid marketing scheme. You could almost hear my career run screaming out of the building.

"Billy," I broke into his presentation. "Do you think I could get some of that coffee and popcorn?"

Dirty Ert