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

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

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

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!"

Son Of A Bitch Won't Let Me Smoke

I was the Manager of a scrap metal yard, back in the boom days of all things metal. The Chairman (thus my boss) was crazier than hell, let's call him Jim. Jim was a local boy "done good" and spoke with a heavy southern accent. Apart from no real sense of appropriate behavior, he was also a raging pot head.

I submitted a proposal to the board to open an additional location. They were favorable and gave me preliminary approval. The board asked me to take the chaiman to inspect the new facility.

Knowing Jim, I arrived at his house an hour before I was supposed to be there. I was welcome in his house at any time. So I made coffee and woke his ass up before he knew what hit him. As he sipped his first cup of coffee; "Ert, I am gonna to fire your ass some day; if you don't let me just smoke my weed. How can you ban me from smoking killer bud in your office? The gall! You got balls Ert, and you're a funny drunk. It's the only reason I keep you gainfully employed."

For the next hour I chased my boss around his own house like a herding dog and a flock of sheep. He kept trying to sneak a bong or joint into the company truck. I looked at him as he climbed into the truck. He had a printed shirt that came from a Jimmy Buffett concert. It said "Why don't we get drunk......." on a parrot's ass. There was the cut off jean shorts he had made himself. Flip flops were the only shoes I could get him to wear. Topping it all off was a camouflaged wide brimmed boonie hat and large horn rimmed sunglasses.

"Jim, you look like a dumb ass."

"I don't give a fuck. I got more damn money than these sons of bitches can shake a thorny stick at."

It was a two hour drive to our destination. The whole time, Jim went on with his one man conversation. Half the time he blasted me for banning him from smoking weed on company property. The rest of his thoughtlessness involved his new business plan that concerned making environmentally friendly fabrics from dog hair.

The real estate I had selected for our location was an old factory. It was one of those huge industrial properties built before world war two, a maze of brick buildings, pipes and smokestacks. As we pulled in, Jim points to a nook next to the garbage compactor. "Damn that might be a good place to burn one."

"Jim, please behave, as much as you possibly can."

We met up with the real estate agent (Ron) and the owner of the property (Jason.) They were both upstanding yet stereotypical business men, well educated and well healed. Ron was: a member of the chamber of commerce, director of the economic development commission, president of the lion's club, and chairman of the quarter back club. Ron was a pillar of the community, a real "square"; he also wore an expensive suit.

As pleasantries were exchanged, I saw the sideways glances between Ron and Jason. "Ron, Jason you'll have to forgive Jim's attire. He was on his way to an all day pool party when I nabbed him this morning. It was my mistake he did not get enough time to change." Neither gentlemen seemed satisfied with the explanation, but I started talking quickly to prevent them from thinking of it further.

To tour the property, we had to ride golf carts. I rode with Jason, who drove ours. Jim jumped into the driver's seat of the other. "I play a lot of golf and I love golf carts." I winced at the thought of Jim getting out of my grasp. As the golf carts took off, Jason and I were in the lead. I looked back at Jim; the look was in his eyes. Even behind his ridiculous glasses I could see it. He was about to do something he knew was wrong, but just couldn't help himself.

Jim turned to Ron "Hold on!" The cart came up on two wheels as Jim swerved off the road. Gravel flew into the air as Ron held on for dear life. The golf cart lurched and became airborne as Jim powered it over a ditch. Driving the damn thing like he stole it, he headed for the nook next to the garbage compactor. As the cart came to a screeching halt, Jim snatched a joint from his shirt pocket. Ron's head bobbed violently. Casually Jim lit the joint and took a deep hit. As he exhaled, "That short haired son of a bitch won't let me smoke my weed." Ron's jaw dropped, the look of total surprise filled his face. "Here Ron, go ahead at take the top of this 'un." Jim held the joint up for Ron to take.

"Uhhh, well, Jim I really don't do that."

"Ah hell, you a'int gotta be coy with me. I know'd you was cool the moment I saw you." Jim took another big hit.

"Really, No. I don't do drugs and this makes me very nervous. In fact could you please stop? I do not want to go to jail."

"Serve anytime Ron?"

"No!!"

"Shit, what the hell are ya so fucking worried about? You don't never know until ya try! I made some of my best weed connections when I was in jail."

Ron was now flabbergasted. He stammered and looked around nervously while Jim finished his joint. Jim started the cart and began driving slowly to find me. "Listen Ron, I need you to be cool about what just went down. Don't tell that short haired son of a bitch we just flamed one up."

"Jim there was no WE to it! You did it by yourself."

"Calm down and be cool. I won't tell, if you don't."

"What! What do you mean? I did nothing of the sort!"

"Shit they don't know that! Just be cool man."

Of course, Jim got lost. He meandered around the place for half an hour. The golf cart got stuck and poor Ron had to manually push it out.

I was discussing with Jason my plans to install a railroad connection. Just as I was telling Jason that Jim and the board had given me $600,000 for that project alone; I saw Jim's golf cart. There was a big black streak down the side of it. I knew that it wasn't there earlier. I saw poor Ron, with mud up to his knees on his tailored pant legs. Even from a hundred yards away, the look of panic and disbelief was all over Ron's face. Slowly Jim brought the golf cart up to my feet.

Ron jumped off and cleared the sweat from his brow. He looked me in the eye. "Well, that was illuminating!"

I turned and glared at Jim. "Ron would you and Jason excuse us for a moment." Sliding onto the golf cart with Jim, "I left something in the truck." Jim made a huge circle in the cart and turned back to the truck. I stared at him. As soon as we were out of earshot; "Jim, I am going to kill you."

There was a brief moment when I thought Jim and I were going to break into a fist fight. He glared at me and said. "Damn Son! Don't barbeque just sound like the shit right now?"

Jim and I left the industrial property without saying another word to the owner or poor Ron. It was clear to me. Jim had just fucked this up beyond all recognition. It took twenty minutes to find a good barbeque joint; the two of us had driven in silence. I was so mad I could have punched my boss.

Jim led the way to the bar at the restaurant. He ordered an insane amount of food and a round of Vodka shots. "Drink this ya son of bitch and lighten the fuck up."

"Jim, do you know how long I spent on this project?"

"No, and I really don't give a fuck." He nailed his first shot.

"But I'll tell you what. This seems to have really set you off. Drink four shots with me. If you are still mad at me after four, you can punch me in the face. If not, I'll send you and your wife on a three day vacation."

"You only offering three days because you don't want me away from the office for a week, aren't you?"

"You're a smart man Ert, that's why I keep you around. That, and the fact you are a funny drunk."

My wife and I had a lovely three day vacation.

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