Dirty Ert Versus The Lake

My friend and business partner, Lyle, recently bought a boat. I use the term "boat" loosely. In the world of boating, this is the equivalent of a power chair. She is 10 feet long on a hot day. Her "power source" is a 12 volt car battery. Which Lyle claimed would last for 12 hours. The little electric motor that propels her has a top output of 3 horse power. It fits entirely in the bed of my Ford pick up. This boat is best suited for fishing on mid to large size ponds. I have dubbed her the USS Death Star.

Last weekend, I got the hankering to drink on water. I am fully aware that this is not an impulse felt by normal humans. I surrendered to my unusual urge and borrowed the Death Star from Lyle. My lovely wife, Ginger, looked at the silly thing in the back of my Ford. Laughing through tears, she informed me that it would be a cold day in hell before she would venture onto water in that boat with me drinking. Undaunted, I filled my cooler with a special blend of Vodka and Lemonade and made directly for the nearest TVA lake: Fort Patrick Henry.

With no small effort, the Death Star was muscled out of my truck and into the water. But at last! My strange desire for the combination of lake water and ethyl alcohol was fulfilled. The Death Star made a fairly decent speed out of the cove where I launched her. The vodka and lemonade was tasty, delicious and very satisfying.

I spent the next three hours just trolling around the lake. Sure people were pointing and laughing at me. I was on a ridiculous boat and wearing only bright red shorts and sunglasses. But I really did not give a fuck. The sun felt so good on my skin as I worked on my first good tan of the year. All my troubles and stresses of late just faded away to the relaxing day on the lake. I achieved an almost Zen like state of outdoorsmanship and drunkardness.

The only thing that broke me from my dream like state was when a real boat came zipping by. The Death Star did not do well in the waves and wake of other boats. I had to turn her directly into the waves to keep her from turning over. But all was well and Dirty Ert was immersed in a little redneck heaven.

Suddenly and at the farthest point from my truck, all hell broke loose. I downed my last bit of vodka. Longingly, I looked at the bottom of the jar, hoping more vodka would appear. As I chided myself for not bringing more booze, I heard it. The little motor that pushed the boat around, gurgled, stumbled and stopped.

"What the fuck?" I asked, aloud.

I was sitting on a swivel fishing chair. As I turned around to inspect the motor, I heard what sounded like coins hitting the boat floor. The chair broke underneath me. Grasping for a handhold, I tossed up my vodka jar. My body flailed around like a mannequin dropped from an airplane. The vodka jar landed squarely on my chest. After what seemed like an eternity, I achieved personal and watercraft balance. My feet hung off the left side of the Death Star. My right hand and head off the right. The remnants of the chair ate into my back. Taking a deep breath, I began planning how to recover from this ridiculous position.

Then I heard a really big boat go blasting past me. Panic began to set in. I knew that big ass waves were headed my way. I cursed the big boat heavily.

There are no words that I can find to describe what happened next. I was drunker than a five legged frog, only wearing a pair of shorts and flung oddly across a small boat. The wake of the big boat hit and tossed me around like a rag doll. At some point, I lost any sense of where my arms and legs got off to. In the middle of this horrible situation, I figured "Well, fuck, there goes the boat and my favorite cooler."

Old Neptune himself must have stepped in and saved me, I certainly did nothing productive to save myself. The storm passed. The Death Star, her contents and myself were miraculously spared harm.

As I regained my bearings, I heard laughing. There were people fishing on the bank who had witnessed the whole thing. The motor refused to come back to life. The entire time I spent diagnosing the problem, the humiliation from the shore fishers continued. I could hear them, and their liberal use of the terms idiot and dumbass.

Finally, I gave up on the motor and dejectedly picked up the paddle. This brought a new round of laughing from the shore. I motivated myself to paddle hard; thinking of hitting the bastards in the nose. I found myself three miles up shit creek, but I did have a paddle.

After one mile of paddling, my tired poor-old ass just gave out. I was exhausted. With what little strength I had left, I grounded the Death Star on a rock beach in the woods. Desperate for any sustenance, I ate the ice out of my cooler. The sun was still high, so I just stretched out on the rocks and hoped for divine guidance. After an hour of breathing heavily and cursing, inspiration came. I decided to just hook the battery back up and see what happens. One hour of heavy thinking, that was just all I had in me.

Neptune must have smiled on me again. The motor did come to life, only it was not lively. The boat was propelled forward, but at a painfully slow pace. A fish actually passed me. I swear the mother fucker was laughing at me.

It took almost three hours to cover two miles back to the boat ramp. People in their yards actually stopped and stared at me. I could read their thoughts. "Why is he going so slow?" I waved to them, as if this was my normal speed. I figured the only way to salvage any dignity, was to act like this was just the way I roll.

As I loaded the Death Star back into my Ford; I thought of Lyle bragging to me that the battery lasted 12 hours. I made a mental note to shove that battery up Lyle's ass.

Dirty Ert

I am a bad ass

Long have I been excessively and oddly proud of the pungent stench that my gastrointestinal system produces.

It gets bad, real bad. My wife will often slide a pack of matches under the bathroom door. "My God, what is wrong with you and is the marriage still valid?"

A while back, my daughter had a friend over. I blasted both of them out of the kitchen; the commode was two walls and a hallway removed. I started down the hallway after my award winning movement when I could see the girl in the hall mirror. She waved her hand under her nose and tried to fan away the toxins. "Oh! My God" she cried. "I can smell it, Oh my gosh, I think I am going to vomit."

Silently I listened down the hall and was filled with a tremendous sense of pride. The only way it could have gone better was if the teen queen had actually puked.

And then there was my fourth day on a new job.

The restroom that we machinist used could be considered frightening, or possibly unnerving. It was nasty. The kind of place that no woman would use, no matter the circumstance. However, we did have an assortment of cleaning supplies and paper products at the ready. That way, you could clean off a spot when the time comes. It was also not a very private restroom. If you sat on the commode and leaned down on your knees, looked to your right, you could see into the foreman's office.

I had been at the company for four days. The owner of the company, a multi-multi millionaire had come down to the shop to speak with the foreman. Along with the owner was our CEO, also a millionaire. The three of them were standing in front of the foreman's office.

That is when it hit me. I had been holding back unleashing my bowels at work. The hour was neigh. Let me tell you something, this was no ordinary fecal matter I was dealing with. It was the hot quasi-liquid, jalapeno hot sauce inspired, bring on a sweat kind of turd. As I said, the point of no return had been crossed. Like in Star Wars, when the Death Star fired off the big gun. Once the firing sequence had begun, a planet was going to get the shit blown out of it. There was no going back.

Many people may have been unnerved or embarrassed or intimated in this situation. Not the most relaxing scenario. I mean, one could be pinching the proverbial loaf while looking your new boss, the CEO and the owner square in the eye.

But not me. No sir! I am a bad ass. And it was just about time that these bastards found out just who in the fuck they were dealing with.

I made my way to the restroom, with slow, short and deliberate steps. I passed behind the back of the power trio of the shop. They were busy looking away from the restroom at a pallet for the moment. I approached the receptacle. I began to clean it with a paper towel and scouring powder. Then, No! I am too late? A crisis narrowly avoided as the Death Star that was my ass almost fired the main weapon before locking on target. But, I am a man of unusual bowel control. Three deep breaths and the cleaning began anew. At last the target was prepped and ready to receive.

I turned around to get into position for final approach. The three most important people at the plant were 15 feet away with their backs to me, in plain view. That is when I experienced one of the most remarkable bowel movements of my life. It occurred swiftly and fluidly. One sweeping motion of steady movement with now stops or hesitations.

I dropped trou and sharply moved into a squat. The moment my buttocks touched the seat, all hell erupted in the blink of an eye. My squat movement never came to a stop. I never stopped moving. It was like I did a repetition of a weight lifting squat. At the bottom of the movement there was no sitting, stopping or even a hitch in my motion.

Suddenly, I found myself standing with my hands still clasped to my belt. Quite frankly, I was confused. Could it be? Did that just happen? Then screaming trough my brain like a bull with its nuts on fire.

"Then we shall crush the rebellion with one swift stroke!"

The words of Grand Moff Tarkin from Star Wars rang through my head. I had indeed just crushed a rectal rebellion in one swift stroke.

I began to laugh. The only problem being was that I was standing over the commode with my pants down and my penis flapping in the breeze. The company power trio was still 15 feet away and looking in the opposite direction. As I began to "mop up", the smell hit. It stunned me. Over the smell of welding and a hundred other dirty industrial operations, it hit like a freight train. Now I was laughing, wiping my ass, looking at the power trio and holding my breath.

I finally got myself together. Slowly I washed my hands, letting the smell waft out into the plant. Still, the power trio were unaware of the horror that had occurred literally behind their backs. Did I walk back to my work? Nay! I strutted like a damn peacock.

From where I was working I could see them. I had not been working 30 seconds when I saw the stench hit. The CEO ducked and flailed his arms like a vampire bat had just grabbed his hair. The foreman shook his head like he had just plucked four nose hairs at the same time. The owner took three quick steps away from the restroom, as if he had just seen a snake.

I had to stick my head in a machine for ten minutes, pretending to clean it out, as I laughed my damn ass off.

Yeah, I am a bad ass.

Dirty Ert

The metal markets are coming back!!!????

If nothing else, being a scrap metal dealer is interesting, if not entirely unprofitable.

I recently had the displeasure of attempting business with a married couple who own a scrap yard, and are completely bat shit crazy. The names are changed, in order to protect the mentally volatile.

My business partner, Lyle, and I find this place via a referral from another customer. This place is way the hell out in the middle of no-damn-where. We literally had to turn off the paved road and dodge livestock to get there. But much to our surprise this place had a lot of scrap and junk cars. Lyle and I figured we could be in luck, very few other scrap buyers would venture this far off the beaten path.

Lyle and I introduce ourselves to Gwen and Will. After about ten minutes of discussing business, Will leads us to pile of scrap he wanted to sell. Lyle looks it over and gives him a price. Will is thrilled, he sells us the metal immediately. As Lyle and I load our bounty into the truck, Will fetches Gwen. He excitedly tells her about the good prices we just paid him. Gwen seemed impressed with us as well. All seems to be going well; Lyle and I have made another good customer.

"Hey boys," Will says to us. "Do y'all cut scrap off junk cars?"

"Yessir!" I reply. "But we usually only do large quantities."

"I got a 150 cars to cut. Is that enough for you?"

Mine and Lyle's excitement is almost palpable. In these lean times, this is a mother load of scrap; enough to pay the next mortgage. We make an appointment with Will to come back in two days to start harvesting the scrap; the whole process will take a week. Will is so excited about our prices that he even volunteers to loan us his forklift and an employee to help. For the rest of the day Lyle and I are floating on cloud nine.

For those of you who are not roving metal buyers, this is how it works. Harvesting scrap off junk cars is like shopping at Wal Mart. There are thousands of different kinds of scrap on automobiles. Guys like me go into old junk yards and take various parts off the cars. Then we go to "check out." We lay out all the stuff we got, tell the customer what it is worth, then pay.

Lyle and I arrive on our appointed day to start harvesting the scrap. Will walks out to our truck, there is an odd look in his eyes.

"You boys just go down there and look at all them cars. When you are done, come back here and we will talk price."

"Hey Will, no need for all that" I say. "The prices we gave you the other day are still good."

"No, that ain't what I want. I want one price for all of it."

"So you just want us to look at the entire junk yard and give you one price for all the scrap on it?"

"That's how we do business here boys. If you don't like it, you can just go on down the road." Will is getting kind of cold.

"Well, we'll have a look." I attempt to smooth him over.

Driving out into the yard, Lyle and I huddle. This is not the way anybody really does business. It would be like going to Wal Mart, loading your buggy and then guessing how much it is all worth.

Out in the junk yard, Lyle and I look around. There are not 150 cars, there are over 1,000. Most of the scrap has already been removed. What is sitting in the field is mostly hunks of steel and plastic, neither of which scrap guys like us buy.

"Dude" Lyle says to me. "Somebody done hit this yard. They just got the expensive stuff and what is easy to remove. About 1 in 10 cars actually have anything valuable. Dirty, just talk him into letting us get to work and doing our thing. We planned a week here, I just want to get to work." Lyle lacks several things, including timing and patience.

"Lyle slow down. Let me take the lead talking to this man. Whatever you do, don't say what you just said. Will thinks he's got a gold mine out here."

"Alright then, but lets go."

"Give me a fucking minute Lyle. I am thinking."

"Fuck man. I don't want to sit out here all morning while you just fucking think. LETS FUCKING GET GOING."

With a half ass plan in my head, I bow to Lyle's impatience. We make our way back to Will and Gwen's office.

"So men, how much are you going to pay us today?" Gwen says as we walk in.

"Miss Gwen, can I ask you and Will a few questions right fast?" I say.

"Go right ahead honey."

"Have any other scrap or core buyers cut in the southern corner of the yard?" I ask.

"Yeah!" Breaks in Lyle "Looks like somebody done gone in there and got the high dollar and easy stuff. I looked at about 30 cars and only 3 of them have any real money left on them."

Immediately Lyle looks at me with the "OH SHIT, I WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO TALK" face.

Gwen and Will go through the roof.

"If you boys are gonna be like that, get your shit and leave." Will says angrily.

"We ain't gonna be crooked again." Gwen says with venom.

Gwen and Will are in a shit storm of anger. I glare at Lyle. Sheepishly he sneaks out of the door during the tirade of heat from Gwen and Will.

I am a tenured veteran of sales; I have dealt with many angry customers before. After five minutes, the situation calms down and cooler heads prevail. I see an aerial photo of their junk yard on the wall.

"Will I am a little turned around on all this. If you would, can you show me on this aerial photo where the cars that have everything on them are?"

"Sure, it is this corner right here." He points to where Lyle only found 3 with scrap.

"Yeah!" Gwen breaks in. "But this corner right here, we had one of our boys cut the scrap off." She walks up and points to the same place that Will just pointed to.

I am really confused now. So I nicely ask for them to go over the photo with me again. With Will on my left and Gwen on my right, both pointing to the same spot; sanity leaves the room. For five minutes the two of them keep pointing to the same spot. He says the scrap is there, she says it isn't. Neither of them notice that they are contradicting each other, in fact they are looking at each other and nodding in agreement. Then as they talk, English breaks down. I suddenly realize that both of them are using words from English, but no real sentences are being made. I caught this one from him.

"When the market got up there, we had to buy a four wheeler but the man from the state said that our permit was fine." Trust me when I say, I did NOT miss anything in the conversation, this was just non-sequator.

Suddenly and with no waring Will turns around, sits in an old chair and lights a smoke. Gwen just walked off. My head is swimming, but I am a champ, not going to give up. Before I can speak, Will starts talking.

"You see, your money don't mean nothing to me. I got gold, lots of it. I told everyone in the county to buy gold last year. I bought $40,000 in gold last year, now it is worth over half a million."

I keep up with gold prices. Gold has not gone up over 10 times in the last year. "Damn good investment Will! Did you leverage to get those kind of profits?"

"Leverage? What the hell is that? No I GOT GOLD. I got it hid up on the hollers, no one will ever find it."

It occurs to me that this guy is either insane or fucking with me. He has a very serious, yet a far away look on his face. I stopped to really take a look and Gwen and Will. There is perhaps 8 teeth between the two of them. Neither looked like they use a shower much. Both of them were smoking cheap cigarettes like freight trains.

"I don't understand you scrap men. Y'all talk about Platinum going down. It is the same price it was last year. I know, I check it every day."

Will would be correct to say that Platinum was the same price as last year: if you believe that $1,200 per ounce is the same as $2,300 per ounce.

"Hell I got so much going on, I don't have time to fool with you. We have already done a bunch of business today. Gwen what have we done so far today?"

Gwen walks in and looks at me very seriously. "$140! And it looks like we are about to sell $200 more!"

"Honey you forgot about that old Ford headlight I sold! That's another $40. You see I got a lot going on."

I am desperately trying to understand the situation I am in. That is when Will hits me again.

"Really, I am an investor. I watch Bill O'Reily and listen to Rush Limbaugh. I know all about investing. Hell I'll just leave that scrap on them old cars. If there ain't more of it, and there will be, I just sell it off to the shredder. If just leave it laying, there will be more of it. Did you know that the shredder called and offered me $12 on my steel?"

"Did not know that Will. That is one hell of a price." I know he is out of his mind now. That morning I had talked to the shredder. A good friend of mine works there. The shredder would be lucky to sell steel for $7."

"I am telling you metal is going to be back at all time high prices in less than 30 days."

"Will, you are the only one I know that optimistic. What makes you say that?"

He stands up and whispers in my ear, his big secret. "Japan is going nuclear."

"Really?" I ask as he sits back down. I am feeling terribly lost.

"South Korea too. Both of them are going nuclear. They are gonna need all the scrap that they can get. I heard it on Bill O'Reily."

"Hmmmm." I am speechless. "You think I might could check back with you in 30 days when scrap is higher?"

Gwen and Will shake my hand and let me leave on that one.

I jump in the truck. Lyle winces.

"I know, I know, I fucked up. Dude don't punch me or anything."

"Lyle, get us the fuck out of here as fast as you can; these people are fucking nuts."

Later on, Lyle and I run into another scrap buyer that we know.

"Hey man, you ever buy any scrap from Will and Gwen up in the holler."

He starts laughing. "I tried too, they are bat shit crazy."

Dirty Ert

Redneck Thinking Caps

I have several caps depicting the assigned number of several different NASCAR drivers. But my hats are confusing. Some of them have some years behind them and the driver/number/sponsor no longer match. Number 39, used to be the Interstate Battery, Dale Jarret driven car. Then 39 was the M&M's, Elliot Sadler piloted vehicle, now it is something else entirely. Fuck, I really do not know if there is a 39 this year. Now all my #8, Budweiser, Dale Earnhart Jr. stuff is someone else. And Dale now drives some kinda Mountain Dew car.

This is why rednecks are confused, our thinking caps change more often than Hollywood marriages.

Damn, I wish I still had my #01 Harry Gant, Skoal cap from 1989, or my Morgan Sheppard, Folgers Coffee, #12 cap from 1982.

Life was much simpler back then, I had no concept of calculus.

Dirty Ert

What are we making?

I used to work for a machine shop that made parts for industrial, electrical and mining equipment. Not the kind of crap the average person would ever run into. Here is how I tried to find out about the parts I made. I went up to the lead man.

"Hey big daddy! What does this stop block; I am making, go in?"

"That goes at the end of the switch barrel on one of the pad mounts that they make down the hill at the assembly plant."

"What kind of switch is it and what the hell is a switch barrel?"

"Shit, I don't know and I've worked here for almost 30 years."

"So what is a pad mount?"

"Some sort of electrical distribution thing that mounts to a concrete pad."

"So what does it distribute power to, or look like, good god man where do they use these mother fuckers?"

"Fuck, I don't know, the bitches are blue and shaped like a box. That I do know, if that helps you any."

"You have worked here 30 years and all you know about what we make is that it goes in a blue box that gets bolted to concrete and vaguely has something to do with distributing electricity."

"Yeah, fucking sad isn't it. Since the early 80's I've been so busy cranking the fuckers out, I never really cared to find out more about them other than the blue print."

"So you never got curious about where 16,000 of the aluminum mother fuckers go and what they do?"

"Yeah, I got curious twice."

"When?"

"1984 and 1999."

"What happened?"

"I got busy with something else."

Dirty Ert

Being a Southern Hillbilly is Like...

Over the years I have noticed people's reaction when I proudly proclaim that I am a Southerner and a Hillbilly. The stereotypes attached to these groups are powerful. But, it is always the bad ones that people latch onto. So when I say that "I am a Southern, Hillbilly, Redneck from East Tennessee." Folks from other parts of the world look at me as if I were a racist.

I often attempt to educate people who are not of my stereotyping; that being a Southerner does NOT make you a racist. After many years of searching for the best metaphor to explain this; Eureka, I have found it.

Being a Southern Hillbilly is like being an American when George W. Bush was President.

Look at it this way. People who were not Americans figured that we all wanted to torture and mutilate Muslims and fuck up their countries. During the early part of the 21st century the rest of the world saw us as Imperial assholes of the first order. They figured that all Americans must think that waterboarding was the best idea since vitamin enriched white bread.

Of course, there are the few misguided souls who think that what we did was a good idea. There were people, who decided to ignore the evidence of no weapons of mass destruction, and proclaimed that invading Iraq was "visionary." They also extorted that torturing suspected terrorists was a good idea. Their thinking was; since we started torturing people, nothing has been blown up, so it must be working.

The vast majority of Americans felt that fucking up Iraq and Afghanistan was not a good idea. And we sure as hell would not appreciate it if the Chinese and Russians did it to us. The bulk of our population felt that torture was wrong and should not be done. So perhaps now, folks of Non-Southern persuasion can understand this: Just because you are an East Tennessee Redneck, that does not mean that you are a racist or think slavery was a good idea. Most all good Southern people fell that holding humans in bondage was wrong and a black man is still a man, just as God made him.

Dirty Ert

P.S. All that said, we still despise Yankees. Go figure.

Fantasy Job #6: Fortune Teller

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

Fantasy Job #6: Fortune Teller

Y'all know anything about I Ching?

Here is how it goes. It came from ancient China - old Chiner is alright, the pre-commie era. Damn, I just can't stand a Red-Chinaman. Anyways, what you do is throw some old bones or dice or some shit. Then you look at the direction and pattern of how it all landed. Then you look the pattern up in the book. The book will then give you a statement that you have to interpret. For example:

"The dragon walks slowly across the green meadow, his left arm slightly lower than his right. While in the saffron bush the hedgehog grooms his leg hair."

This is, of course, allegory. You have got to decide what in your life is the dragon is and what the significance of the saffron bush is and so on and so forth.

What the fuck??

No wonder the Chinese invented gun powder, land mines and all kinds of shit; but the pasty faced faggy British made them bow down and kiss the King's royal ass.

So I Ching was the original "I" app, predating the I Pod by about 3,000 years and the I Phone by about 3,002 years.

This all got me to thinking. My career is not really "climbing the ladder" but bumble fucking over a series of step stools. Since I ain't got no job, there ain't none on the horizon and unemployment will run out in a while - I need a back up plan.

ERT'S BEER EMPORIUM AND FORTUNE TELLING.

This is how it will work. I am going to rent three things: an old run down building next to an exit off Interstate 81, a billboard on the northbound side and one on the southbound side. Truckers, tourist and locals will enter my establishment. They will purchase from me cheap, shitty, and slightly cooler that room temperature, beer. The customer drinks the beer as hard and fast as they can go. When they get sick, they vomit on to an open, yet smooth and clean, patch of cement. For an extra fee, The Amazing Ert will interpret their vomit.

Yes, can you not see it?? Neon lights, walls painted florescent green, black lights, bead curtains, incense and Frank Zappa playing in the background.

Oh! A funny hat. Damn it! I'll need a funny hat. You can't be a sooth sayer without a proper cap. I'll wear a lot of satin and silk garments, you know, like Hugh Heffner. A coon skin cap and a monogrammed satin bath robe - by god I've got it! People will come in and immediately be able to tell that: "That mother fucker knows what he is talking about, look at the hat!"

When customer's walk in they will be able to feel two things in the air: love, because the Great Ert loves all, but he loves those with valid credit cards more. Second that can be felt in the air, electrostatic air purification; the only sure way to keep the smell of vomit from the air.

Entrepreneur Magazine - kiss my ass. Put that in a five year plan and smoke it.

I'll even serve breath mints out of a bowl shaped like Darth Vader's head. Details people, it is all in the details.

Dirty Ert

Forklifts Named For People

I worked for a forklift dealer for years. At one point, I was the dispatcher and rental unit salesman. Most rental forklifts are assigned a boring ID number, like 465-125. Our company employed the unique marketing idea of naming forklifts. Most of the lifts were named after employees and friends of the company. Yes, there were forklifts named "Dirty" and "Ert." We also had forklifts named after female employees. All of this made for some interesting conversations.



One day a salesman called on me. He was sitting in my office discussing his products when a call came in; someone needed to rent a forklift. Keep in mind the poor salesman had no idea that we named our forklifts after employees and such. This is what the poor man heard.



"This is Ert, how can I help you today?"



"Yes sir, we have several that might suit you nicely. Tell me what you are into today, so I can find something in my stable that suits your needs."



"Uh-huh."



"I see, yes."



"I think I have just what you want. Robin sounds perfect for you. She is sleek and small. That allows her to get into places and positions that my other ones just can't get into."



"Oh! If it is that big, then maybe you need Sherry. She is a little huskier, and to be honest with you, a little rough around the edges. She looks like hell, quite frankly, but she WILL do you just fine. The last job I sent her on was tough. She got beat up pretty good. It was really abusive and I probably shouldn't have sent her there. I was going have her cleaned up today, but you can have her if you want her."



"Hmm, well if that is what you are into; then I don't think you will be satisfied with Robin or Sherry. Perhaps you need Dennis. He is kinda big, but most of my customers have not had a problem with his size. The good thing about Dennis is that he can get it done just about anywhere: on the docks, in the racks, heck he can even do it for you outside in the grass. I will tell you this, I just got Dennis back here this morning. He was on a job last night. He is not clean today."



"OK, just for this afternoon. Robin and Sherry run $100 each. But since Sherry looks so rough, I'll let you have her for $85. Being a little more specialized, Dennis typically runs $175. But I hate to send one out to a customer, unclean. I can let you have Dennis this afternoon for $150. We do charge another $150 for pick up and delivery."



"OK, OK, I see. If you really want to do all that, it is my experience that one afternoon is not enough time. And it also seems to me, that no single one of my group will do everything you want. Here is what I propose: take both Robin and Dennis and keep them for the night. That way I know you can accomplish what you want to do. I can have both of them out there in about an hour and a half. It'll just cost you $500 for the both of them for the night. How does that sound to you?"



"I see, yes that is a lot of money. I do want your business and you did happen to catch me on a slow day. I'll throw in Sherry for an extra $50."



"Great, my driver, Bert will have them there by 2:00. Please make sure that they are ready to pick up tomorrow by noon. Oh! I like to remind my customers to not leave any personal property on them. Once they get back to me, we may never see your stuff again."



"OK, pleasure doing business with you and I look forward to the next time."



I turned to the waiting salesman in my office. He looked rather confused and said "Now just exactly what is it, that you do here?"



Dirty Ert

Fantasy Job #5: Local Wrestler

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

Fantasy Job #5: Local Wrestler

I want to be a "Pro Wrestler"

My first performance is two weeks hence at the Unicoi County Smackdown. I perform (wrestle) as "Nalgene the Beastmaster." My costume consists of a blue, faux, animal skin tunic and a leather tank top emblazoned with the NASCAR number 67. I carry a cane with a skull atop of it, vaguely resembling a dragon's head. As for headwear, I intend to swap between an English constable's hat and a blue and gold fedora that says "LION TAMER" on it. My footwear looks just like the boots Gene Simmons was wearing on the cover of the Kiss "Destroyer" album. For my first show, I am matched against three boar goats in an all out cage match. To get the goats going, the promoter will attached sandpaper with a rubber band to their gonads and then pepper spray them in the nose. I get a $8 bonus if I can defeat all three in less than five minutes.

This show will be two Friday's from now, 8:00 PM at the Unicoi County National Guard Armory. It's just off the Beartown Road; turn after the fish hatchery but before the nuclear plant.

I am tentatively on the card for the Hancock County Snow Jamboree in early December. As of now, my opponent is to be two wet bobcats in the heat of mating season.

Technique people, its all technique.

But what of the promotion organization I intend to form, The Southern Mountain Wrestling and Fight Association? Our target audience is not, what you might say, hip people. Our shows will have stands filled with persons of poor dental hygiene, poor hygiene in general, an IQ only marginally higher than a sloth and a raging meth addiction.

There will NOT be anyone in the building who can successfully pod cast or read anything written by Tolstoy. Most of them are pretty sure that a PDA is a venereal disease. As for the internet, it is a Communist mind control plot, slowly replacing the old plot of fluoridated water.

These are people who do not trust banks, mostly because they have no money. The ones with a regular job have "checkings" accounts. The $4 entry fee to the show is almost an hour's wages for most of them. What we have here are people who still cannot handle the rules of driving through a four-way stop.

Should I promote this activity on the internet? A blog or internet link would be like giving your business card to a blind Russian whaling captain; a nice touch, but really not doing any one any good.

Nalgene The Beastmaster

A word that sells, at least to me.

As of late, I have been attempting to "monetize" my little nook in the cyber world. Far too many hours have been spent on advertising companies and their gadgets, widgets and what not. During this cluster-bumble I've discovered one thing: I may be the only person that thinks "FUCK" is a word that sells.

The little, hell-spawn, MBA in Marketing creeps have a list of "hot" words that seem to drive people to spend money. The usual list toppers are "Free" and "Value." It would appear that six long years of college clouds the mind, "Fuck" is not on the list. It is, in fact, on the other list; words you can't use in advertising.

The website you are currently on has been dropped or denied advertising due to the extravagant use of the term in question. Have these idiots lost their minds?

Fuck is my favorite word, it sells me every time.

First of all, like most people, I really like to fuck. If a woman says to me "Excuse me sir, but would you like to fuck?" I am sold, immediately.

Nextly, I enjoy getting fucked up. I drink vast quantities of alcohol because I enjoy the sensation of getting lost in my own yard. The following is a very effective pitch, "Take some of this. It'll get you more fucked up than a football bat." Now, there are some very nasty things in this world that will fuck you up, many of them to be avoided. But, if anyone throws the football bat pitch at me; I'll, at least, hear the rest of the sales presentation.

Lastly, I just like to say the word. Noun, verb, adverb, adjective, pronoun, it is all parts of speech. Put that in a sentence diagram and smoke it. It just rolls of the tongue like no other. Its the word that really says what none other can. For example, the last time I quit a job. I explained that cutting my pay and benefits was: "The worst fucking idea I've ever heard. Fuck you, I quit. Mother Fucker."

Words that sell, MY ASS!

Dirty Ert

Herman Vogel Must Die

Our friend, Nelson was graduating from the Naval Academy. Herman Vogel and I made the trip to Annapolis to join in the revelry.

The drive up was uneventful, save the Washington Beltway at rush hour. Arriving on the east side of Washington, we celebrated our safe passage. We smoked a joint, our first mistake.

I pulled my Ford into Annapolis, hours before the scheduled rendezvous with Nelson. By now, Herm and I had a screaming case of the munchies. We picked the busiest street in town and drove it, scanning for a meal. Excitedly, Herman points to a restaurant.

"Vietnamese food! Holy shit! I love some damn Vietnamese food. Pull in there Dirty and be quick about it man."

I didn't want Vietnamese food. I was "not of my best mind" and unable to fashion an acceptable argument.

"I don't know, Herm. I mean I am unsure about this here Vietnamese food. You know there was a war?"

"Dirty, you ignorant bastard! We fought Italy and you still eat pizza, you moron. Pull in damn it."

Bereft of any more arguments against Vietnamese food, that was it. Our first mistake had now led to our second.

Herm ordered some sort of god awful fish dish. It tasted like rat shit with nasty noodles. The waitress talked me into cinnamon beef. It was not good; it was fucking appalling, but I ate it anyway. Herm wouldn't stop talking about how delicious the food was. The bastard even called the manager over, complementing the rat-shit fish. Departing the Vietnamese filth food, we meet up with Nelson and the rest of the Navy boys.

That evening my poison was Vodka. I put down an insane quantity of Lemon Drops and Kamikazes. Meanwhile, Herm was putting away enough Whiskey Sours to knock down a Shetland pony. The two of us had committed our final mistake.

By means that no one can remember, we arrived at Nelson's new apartment. I drug myself into the bathroom and collapsed on the floor. I got as far as the toilet itself. But, there was no energy left to pull my head up over the bowel. I lay flat on the ground; my body was in a cold sweat. Then it came.

At that point in my drinking career, my puking experience was impressive. I was, in fact, well known for vomiting. My alcohol induced regurgitating was a point of personal pride. But nothing had prepared me for this.

Vietnamese Cinnamon Beef burns like an unholy mother fucker when it comes back up.

Never had I experienced this kind of pain. The Cinnamon Beef had mixed with the rat-shit fish, bile and vodka. This was pure liquid evil I was dealing with. The right cheek of my face was stuck to the tile floor. The evil vomit gushed onto my skin, including my right eyelid, and up my nose. It burned.

In my agony, only one thought: "Herman Vogel must die!" That rat bastard was the one who picked out the Vietnamese restaurant. In my befuddled mind, I figured he knew this would happen. Herman was responsible for this. He must pay. I passed out in a pool of my own vomit, dreaming of punching one of my best friends in the face.

I awoke to pure hell. Nelson collected clocks. The whole apartment sounded of 30 different clocks going off simultaneously, at noon. It was like the beginning of the Pink Floyd song "Time."

Not really understanding what was happening, I jerked awake and rolled over. Now my head was completely covered in the vile Cinnamon Beef vomit. The smell and burning was so awful, coupled with the clock madness; I began a new hurling session. My life was now hell on earth. My eyes, ears and nose were burning from the liquid evil. The smell and feel in my stomach drove me to puke. My whole body was convulsing from the gagging and hurling. In the background, the horrible clocks chimed away. I was so confused and heaving so violently I could not stop throwing up. So I couldn't wash off the vomit that was driving me to puke more. It was a vicious cycle. There is a merry-go-around in hell like this. And all I could think was "Herman Vogel Must Die."

During these hellish moments, I mustered a Greek hero's strength. I stumbled up off the floor and fell into tub; knocking the shit out of my head in the process. I managed to turn the cold water on. If my situation wasn't bad enough this far, the cold water on my face caused me to scream in between heaves. I lay there, trying desperately not to drown, yet wash myself off. All hope was lost; I was going to die in a bathtub full of my own vomit and cold water.

Without warning the water stopped. Looking up, I saw Herman standing over me. "Here, take this." He shoved a pill in my mouth. Then he turned the water back on so I could get a drink.

That was the last thing I remember before passing out again. But this time it was such wonderful sleep! Oh, it was like laying in a luxurious bed with a heating blanket. I completely forgot I was cold, covered in vomit and lying face down in a bath tub.

"Oh my god! Is he alright? Should we take him to the hospital?" There were several unknown voices above me. Some of the Navy boys and their parents had found me in the tub. They were terrified that I may die at any moment.

"Hell no!" I hear Herm. "He's fine. I gave him a Percocet about an hour ago. Poor fellow, he was really suffering. He just does that sometimes."

"What's wrong with him?" Some stranger asked.

Herm said "I think he's allergic to Vietnamese food."

I managed to speak from the dead. "Herm, if it weren't for your mercy of the percocet, I'd kill you right now."

"Hey y'all." Herm turned to the gathered crowd and grinned. "Watch this! It'll be funnier than hell." He walked over and turned the cold water back on.

I screamed like a little girl. In that physical condition, when the cold water hit me, all I could do was shake.

"Herman Vogel, you mother fucker, you must die!"

Forklift Driver Preemployment Testing

There was an ad in the paper for a forklift driver job. The posting emphasized that there would be preemployment and continuing drug testing. All, at the outrageous pay rate of $8.00 per hour.

I worked for a forklift dealer for almost 20 years. It is my experience that forklift drivers tend to come in three varieties: bat shit crazy, drug crazed or both.

So just how in the hell does someone expect to find a "normal" person to drive a forklift?

Really, if you want a safe forklift driver; this is what you do. Hell with the drug test. Drug free forklift drivers are more rare than spotted owls. Give a personality test to candidates instead. This is sincerely the best thing you can possibly do. A non-crazy person, smoking a joint while driving a forklift, is safer than a completely sober paranoid schizophrenic.

If there is someone who is neither crazy or fucked up as a opossum in a blue barrel, they are worth their weight in gold.

Dirty Ert