A library should have a full service bar.

A library should have a full service bar.

After 20 years of searching for my million dollar idea - Eureka - I have found it.

Private library/bars, a chain of the fuckers all across this great land. Strap in and hold on to your venture capital people, let the free association begin.

Start with a library, add a bar. Also, make sure that there are cocktail waitresses. Imagine doing research in the reference section and having a Whiskey Sour brought to you. My heavens, if fiction needs anything, it's a Kamikaze. You can even have discussion groups; everybody reads the same damn book, and then gets together over drinks to discuss the fucker.

There could even be a facilitator, trained in the arts of drinking games. Like every time Goethe makes a prophetic statement - everybody hits a Purple Hooter Shooter.

Holy Smokes and Sweet Desire!

Singles events! Yes! Read those damn Mars/Venus fuckers. Then everybody does shots.

Think of it! Bad day?? Tired of your ole ladie's shit? Applebees just don't fucking cut it? A variety of quality micro brew hefeweizens and lagers while perusing the periodicals, yes, that is where I could go when I need a break.

Dirty Ert

What if that tire blows?

In my old truck, I choogled around town without a care in the world or a decent stereo. My dog and me were the only usual riders in my 12 year old Ford with over 200,000 miles. Then my most valued possession, my wife, took a 250 mile journey in my truck.

Normally we took her vehicle on trips, but it was unavailable that weekend. A half an hour, for me to yank old Mountain Dew bottles and Reese's Cup wrappers out from under the seat. An hour of vacuuming extracted the dog hair from the upholstery. The chariot was now fit for my queen.

We headed to a party in Knoxville. I wheeled the truck up on the interstate at the 70 miles per hour. Setting the cruise control, I let it ride. My truck has an old school cruise control; it's called 'hold your foot still'. The wife and I chat and sing along with the radio. At last, she crawled into the back seat for a nap. Alone with my thoughts, I took a turn for the worst.

The truck had a tendency to pull to the left. Abruptly, I remembered. "The front left tire is completely worn out, and the spare is flat." Just driving around town, I didn't give a damn. I figured "Hell with it. Run it to the steel belts." But now, I was making top speed with my queen onboard. What if that tire blows?

The question haunted me. A mind might be a terrible thing to waste. But I wish to hell it had a mute button.

I began running scenarios in my head of that left front tire exploding. What would I do? Could I control my truck? In my mind I was practicing for the incident. Waiting till I found myself sandwiched between two rigs and a minivan on my bumper; I'd rehearse my emergency procedures. "I'll turn the steering wheel slightly to the right to compensate, then brake firmly and steadily but not too fast. There is a gap about 300 yards behind me and I can make it to the right shoulder."

I broke into a mild sweat just picturing the scene.

Then it got worse. I envisioned the tire blowing and the left side of the truck knuckling under at 70 miles per hour. The front bumper "grabbed" the pavement. I predicted my truck flipping end over end down the highway. My mind's eye saw fire trucks, ambulances and police, a horrible accident scene. Watching helplessly as a helicopter whisked my beloved wife off to the emergency room.

Suddenly, I come back to myself. "Get hold of yourself man!" I was shaking, sweating, suffering heart palpitations and about to cry. Peacefully my wife continued napping as I battled neurosis. I began breathing exercises, attempting to relax. Then a disturbing "Whaaaaaannnannn" noise screamed up from the road. "Jesus Christ this is it!" I sprang to emergency procedures and braced for impact. Nothing happened; I had simply drifted onto the rumble strips. Alarm gracefully yielded to laughter, my mind caught up to itself. Softly I chided myself for allowing my imagination to run wild.

I hit the Knoxville freeway; "Malfunction Junction" as it is unaffectionately known. Panic returned. The main interstate was closed. All traffic detoured to the bypass. It was a throng. Confused tractor trailers, flashed their blinkers, attempting to change lanes. Young girls in zippy cars darted around like hummingbirds. Jack asses in luxury SUVs plowed ahead like blind bulldogs in ring full of cats. Everyone talked on a cell phone. The only thing in my mind; "what if the left front tire blows out right now."

I recalled a World War II movie. It was about a bomber crew attacking Nazi Germany. The crew was gripped with terror. Fighter planes tried to strafe them with machine guns. Cannons on the ground puked black flack clouds of shrapnel at them. The crew fought off panic and paralyzing fear; hoping each moment was not the last. That was exactly how I felt.

I thought I could not take it anymore, then I saw a sign. The sign I needed and my salvation. My exit was one mile away. I swear my blood pressure dropped along with the speed of the truck. The red light was a god-send. I got fifteen seconds of peace as I tried to catch myself. My queen arose. "Hey baby," her soothing voice. "Could you pull into that store for cigarettes and a six pack?"

The truck seemed to thank me when I parked at the store. The wife pondered her beer selection. I hit the restroom. My emotional trauma resulted in a full and painful bladder. I used a visualization technique to calm myself down. The urine contained all my anxiety. As it left my body: stress, fear and worry went with it. I stood at the urinal; it was working. The negativity drained away and headed out into the sewer system, where it belonged.

Then it hit me. I had to drive back the next morning, doing it all over again. A shock wave of panic flowed over me. I lost my balance. My head smacked into the wall and I literally pissed on myself.

Dirty Ert

Fantasy Job #8: Bluegrass Rebel

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

Fantasy Job #8: Bluegrass Rebel

I want to be the radical outcast that takes bluegrass mainstream.

There is no musical talent in my body and I hate bluegrass. Not withstanding, I've got some good song titles and a dream in my heart. Theses songs are hard-core obscene and vulgar.

My first album, entitled "Songs I wrote while driving a great distance"

Track List

1. Shit Bitch (I love taking you anal)
2. Loving you is like ridin' a motor sickle with highly inconvenient handle bars
3. Did you fart? Or did your sister take her pants off?
4. You ain't doing nothing with it (The married Wednesday night song)
5. The race is on, lets do it dog like
6. Breeding Season
7. It ain't gonna lick itself
8. I'd rather wipe my ass with a belt sander
9. Don't just stand there, bring me a beer
10. Toothless women
11. Hillbillies do it in the hollow

Dirty Ert

The Cipro Story

My brother and one of his bestest friends had a joint bachelor party, in the Bahamas. The trip in and of itself is a hell of a story, but this story spring from that trip.

During a drunken episode, me and a friend decided to play full contact volleyball in the resort pool. Of course, it is all fun and games until somebody gets hurt, then it is hilarious. I was the one who got hurt. I skinned my knee, it left a spot with no skin on it, about the size of a quarter. With no confidence in Caribbean medicine, I just slapped Neosporin on it until I got home, a week later.

Arriving home, the wound had not yet begun to heal and was emitting puss. Figuring this was a trivial medical matter, I went to a walk in clinic for help instead of my doctor. It took a little time, but I told the doctor the full story of my injury including the final score of the full contact volleyball match. The doc cleaned the wound and wrote me a prescription for Cipro.

"Cipro is a very powerful drug, but there have been stories of some bad infections coming out of Central America the last few years and I want to err on the safe side. Cipro is probably more fire power than you really need but lets be sure."

Not being a doctor I did not argue geography with him. The Bahamas is in the Caribbean not Central America. But ole boy had a Phd and his reasoning was reasonable. I dutifully filled my prescription and began taking Cipro. All went well that night save an odd bad dream about snakes.

Around ten the next morning my rear was back in my desk chair at work. Nature called me to the restroom. I stood up and almost lost my balance. Shrugging it off as nothing I heeded nature's call. What came out of me was horrible. Had I seen such a liquid like substance in the wilds; I would have never guessed that it came from a human. Standing up from the commode, I almost lost my footing again. This pattern continued for the rest of the day. Every time I stood up my head swam; I had to be careful not to fall. My bowels were constantly churning out a vile liquid. By the end of the day I was having trouble completing my work; I kept getting confused.

At home that evening I continued to feel awful. It got worse when my breath started getting short. As I lay down for sleep; I thought "This is the worst hang over I have ever had." That night I got no rest. A series of nightmares haunted me incessantly. There were snakes coming out of walls, the world turning totally dark, hideous creatures hunting me. Day break found me exhausted, light headed and gasping for air.

Driving to work I got lost; despite having driven the same way for years. I began to freak out because of the road. There was a sharp curve to the left in the road. But my senses told my brain the the road was bending to the right. But just yesterday it went to the left! Surely the highway department had not changed the road since yesterday? I wondered if I weren't still asleep and having another nightmare.

Once at work it only got worse. The first thing I tried to do was read an office memo. All the memo said was: "There will be a company wide meeting Thursday at 3:00PM, everyone's attendance is mandatory." After twenty minutes of trying, I still did not understand what I was reading. The individual words were clear, I just could not put them together and make any sense of it. My desk became very unnerving. Things just were not quite right. The stapler looked like it was two feet long. I lost my pen and could not find it, until I stabbed myself in the head with it; it was in my hand. The computer screen looked like it was 50 feet away. I would have sworn to you that my office chair was rolling away with me in it. A coworker came into my office.

"Delores, is my chair moving at all right now?"

"Uhhhhh? What?"

"Is my chair moving?"

"Mr. Ert are you okay?"

"DELORES, stop hemy hawing around, am I moving or NOT?"

"NO, No, you have been perfectly still since I came into the room."

"DAMN!"

"I take it that this is not a good time to go over the past due accounts. Would you like some help?"

"No! Delores, I am just feeling a little peckish. I am gonna go home and take the rest of the day off." I stood up to leave and almost fell over and shit on myself. The diarrhea had evolved into a painful ordeal.

The drive home was agony. Still the concepts of left and right were hellish. Any bend in the road confused me. On a straight away, I thought I could relax. Suddenly it felt like I was driving straight UP! Panic set in. I thought I had taken a wrong turn and was motoring up a cliff. White knuckled I held onto the steering wheel. At any moment I thought my car was going to fall over backward. Only by Providence did I make it home alive.

I tried to eat; it ended in burning vomit. Agitated and shaking I began walking in circles in my backyard, chain smoking. I began talking to myself aloud as I took a drag off a cigarette.

"Well, you've done it now Dirty Ert. You've lost your mind. It was probably the 3 shots of Tequila on the plane back from the Bahamas that did it. I've gone insane. I've lost it. My brain went around a bend and there is no going back. I am now officially a lunatic. I can't think; I am scared. All is lost."

I continued to walk in circles and smoke in silence, until my next idea hit.

"That's it! THAT IS IT!! I am going to empty my bank account and buy a one way ticket to Istanbul. I can't bring the shame of my broken life upon my family. Istanbul, YES. So it is to be."

I scrambled into the house and began hunting for my passport.

"I just had it here. I had it out for the Bahamas trip. Bahamas??"

Something about the Bahamas struck me. For several moments I stood motionless trying desperately to figure out the significance of the Bahamas. Then it hit me: the wound, the doctor, the Cipro. The pharmacist gave me an info sheet with the prescription. Where is it? I tore the house apart until I found it. With my hands shaking I read aloud to myself,

"Tell your doctor if you have diarrhea that is severe, watery or last for two days."

"OK, I got that one."

"Do not drive, use machinery, or do anything that needs mental alertness until you know how this medicine affects you."

"Now they tell me."

"Do not stand or sit up quickly. Curtail the use of caffeine, antacids and zinc products while on Cipro."

"Crap, I've been drinking coffee like a fiend, popping antacids like candy and took a zinc tablet because I thought it would help my immune system."

"Call your doctor immediately if you experience any of these side effects: breathing problems, confusion, nightmares, disorientation, hallucinations, lightheaded, falling, weakness or tingling."

"Oh my God I am having all of them."

I lept for the phone and called the walk in clinic.

"At least I ain't crazy. Maybe."

"Yes! Hello! Is this the walk in clinic? ..... My name is Dirty Ert and I was there two days ago and got a prescription for Cipro. I am having some trouble with the side effects. ....... Which side effect am I having? Well, all of them."

There was a moment of silence from the nurse.

"Mame you must see me today. All hell is breaking loose around here. ..... What seems to be the problem? Honey, right before I called you, I was on my way to Istanbul and never fucking coming back. ...... You can see me in fifteen minutes? I'll be there in five if I can keep the car on the road."

Dirty Ert

Fantasy Job #7: An Abnormal, Paranormal Investigator

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

Fantasy Job #7: An Abnormal, Paranormal Investigator

Aliens, Bigfeet, Ghosts, UFOs, Haints, I don't give a fuck. I'll investigate them like a duck on a june bug.

I want to find complete dumb asses. You know, drugged up white trailer trash. Then I will investigate their claims of alien abduction or dogs with moose antlers.

Can't you see it now? I show up at their trailer with a camera crew. It takes me five minutes to plow through the trash on their front porch to get to their front door. Then me and my brave crew spend the night drinking beer and smoking weed with the white trash; waiting for Satan to emerge from the lawn mower shed.

Nothing in this will go well. This is some redneck couple we are dealing with here. After about eight beers, two shots and three hits from a joint; ole girl is going to take her top off. This will, of course, piss off ole boy. A small domestic disturbance will follow. The ghost of old Granny Witherspoon will be missed due to the argument over exposing tittes and who bought the last carton of cigarettes.

I am worried that ghosts may be real and have a libido like mine. Somebody or something is going to get fucked. It would never be my luck to encounter the ghost of the nineteen year old, hot, Camero-Bitch, nympho. Hell no! I'll have to fend off the homosexual advances of "Thad, The Undead Art Collector."

Finding aliens, now I would enjoy that. It is one of my life's goals to kick the ever-loving shit out of an alien bastard. No good can come from aliens on Earth. Little fuckers are always up to no good. My fondest wish is to send one back to Alpha Centauri, and have him report: "That Dirty Ert is a bad ass, alien beating, sumbitch."

Aliens are simply: little shit-grazers from another solar system or dimension. Either way, when I find the shit-asses, all hell is gonna break loose. I've got a tie iron with ET's fucking name on it. If the four way tie iron don't fuck him up, the bicycle chain will.

Dirty Ert, The Abnormal Paranormal Investigator