We were in a recession

I noticed something interesting in the news back in early 2008. There was all kinds of bad economic reports. It prompted The President, The Chairman of the Federal Reserve, The Commerce Secretary, The President of the National Banking Association, and even the drunken whore intern in the senate - to all say the same thing.

"We are not in a recession and we are not heading towards a recession."

It could mean only one thing.

We were in a recession.

I like how they try to narrowly define the term "recession" - trying to reason it away like a high school debate. Bill Clinton tried to run the same semantics with "I did not have sex with that woman." He just left off the follow on sentence "But she did blow my balls clear out of my sack!"

So when you hear "We are not in a recession." the follow up is actually "But, the lower half of the middle class is getting mildly fucked. While the higher income brackets, will notice no difference in their life - what so ever."

Recession is defined as "six consecutive months of economic loss." Our leaders pointed out that we had yet to go more than three in a row. But, were getting two bad months for every good one. Perhaps our leaders will enjoy it when the middle class rises up and reworks a few definitions.

Ass rape will be defined as: "60 consecutive minutes aggressive anal assault with a oaken shovel handle." Then when can smile as we point out that the ultra rich leadership jackasses have only received aggressive anal assault for no more than 25 minutes at a time. And then, it was with a fiberglass wiffle ball bat.

Bastards.

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

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

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

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