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

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

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!"

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