A library should have a full service bar.

A library should have a full service bar.

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

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

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

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

Holy Smokes and Sweet Desire!

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

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

Dirty Ert

What if that tire blows?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I broke into a mild sweat just picturing the scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dirty Ert

Places not to fish

I was at a party for wealthy people. The kind of party where I am bound to get into trouble. Folks hemming it up this evening where doctors, lawyers, professors, etc. who were not from my beloved Tennessee hills. These professionals had not found a social scene to their liking in my motherland, so they took to running in their own circle. Somehow I got invited as the token local hillbilly. I felt like Ohura on the bridge of the Enterprise.

I stayed fairly quite for the first half an hour after arriving. There were several reasons for my silence. Most importantly, my buzz wasn't buzzing. Talking would only slow down my drinking. I was also scoping for possible women, of which there were none. Being a careful and cautious drinker; I was looking for quick vomit exits and a comfortable place to pass out. As well, the whole group was in a tizzy discussing Honda Gold Wing accessories and these new fangled cell phones everyone was getting. It was the nineties.

Some old hag was bitching about how few places she could actually use the phone. This led to the group discussing local geography. One member caught my attention when he said, "Well Dirty here is local. Dirty tell us something about Sullivan County that we do not know."

I cannot remember what it was that I was originally going to say. Before my mouth moved; I could almost hear it turn off. A sound like when a computer shuts down. My Super Ego unexpectedly went off line. I was there, in front of thirty yankees, a captive audience. With all my self monitoring gone; God help me, I can't control what happens.

"Well," I said. "Despite, two rivers, two TVA lakes, hundreds of streams and dozens of ponds; Sullivan County has a surprising number of places to not fish."

The party stopped dead in its tracks. A hush fell over the room. Only the sound of the fish tank bubbles could be heard.

"I am sorry," said the host timidly. "But did you say places NOT to fish?"

"Hell yeah!" I replied. "There is an ass load of places you can't fish." The party goers looked at each other nervously. "Let me tell you about old Branson's tree. Old man Branson lives up Arcadia way. He's got this old tree; an old chestnut. It stands 150 feet tall if it stands ten. The trunk on it is bigger round than a Volkswagen. The damn branches on it are bigger than a whale's pecker. But they ain't one place in 500 yards of that tree that you can catch a fish."

Two guys in the group and one drunk chick in the back started nodding, as if I were actually making any sense. The others shifted uneasily, but took this as a good time to kill their cocktails.

"Take old Emmit Jarnigan. He was desperate one night to do a little fishing. Emmit loves two things, fishing and smoking weed. Now on this particular night Emmit had rolled and then consumed what we locals like to call a "fatty." Son of a bitch was stoned. Some say he was too stoned to fish. But Emmit didn't see it that way. He was a Jarnigan, his daddy was a Jarnigan and his grand daddy was a Jarnigan. So by God, he was a gonna fish."

"At this point Emmit grabs his fishing gear and sets out to find hisself a fish. Well, we really weren't near anywhere that Emmit had ever fished. He just lit out the door; figuring if walked west long enough. He'd find a spot to fish. Emmit had got about 200 yards due west when a black man hit him upside the head with a mop. Hard, really hard."

"It was Mr. Nelson that hit him. Mr. Nelson was fine man and gym coach at school. Back in the day, he won a medal for bravery in the Corps. He had been a Marine Drill Sergeant. His fondest dream was turning gym class into a miniature version of Paris Island. But, you see, Mr. Nelson had a daughter, Sarah. She was our age and we followed her around like sad puppies. Beauty and brains, Sarah had them both."

"So when Mr. Nelson sees Emmit coming up the way, he figures hormones are flying. Not wanting anymore babies around the house, Mr. Nelson chose putting Emmit on his ass as his favorite form of birth control."

"As you can see, if Sullivan County had more places to fish; than Emmit Jarnigan wouldn't have had to dig mop hairs out of his asshole."

I was never invited back to another of their parties.

Dirty Ert

Games I like to Play

I have some nerd-ass friends. They seem to spend a lot of time discussing computer games. One day they asked me "What kind of games do you play Ert?"

• "Low Coolant"
• Tales of an automotive warning light that refuses to extinguish in the wife's car
• "Beaver Quest"
• Includes the short film, "Hot assed young bitches at the gym in tighter than hell work out pants." Yes this is a film for the married man, as the "interactive" segment of "Beaver Quest" is restricted - to the same beaver every time you play.
• "Hunt for the blue handled hacksaw"
• Lost in action, soothsayers unable to divine, can you find the hacksaw before the angry husband whips some ass?
• "God Damned neighbor's cats"
• Use your skills to stop a feline turd invasion on your personal property
• "The garbage only runs on Tuesday morning"
• A classic brain twister and game of memory
• "Burn permit, we don't need no stinking burn permit"
• Burn all the leaves and brambles before being caught by the fire chief
• "Supervise your children and their friends doing anything that remotely resembles outdoor work"
• A test of patience and possibly a complete waste of time
• "Alignment"
• Imagine you are a hillbilly redneck, you drive a truck with "THE LONG WHEELBASE" You muster your skills to find a repair shop with an alignment rack long enough for your truck. Unfortunately there are only 3 such shops in town. Two of which you "no longer trade with" due to "police instructions." No official restraining order has been issued, but the nice officer did not arrest you when you threatened to beat the service manager like "an angry monkey fucking his sister" The one shop in which "the law" has not gotten involved will only see you on Tuesdays between 10:00am and 10:30am. Hurry! Before the tires prematurely wear and you spend a week's paycheck on a new set of tires.

Outlaw Power Steering

One of my old buddies, Lyle came by my apartment some years ago. Lyle is an avid outdoorsman and was "Green" many years before it was hip.

"Hey Ert Man, I need your help putting together my new idea."

"Hell man, what's your new idea?"

"I know how to cut down on pollution. Big Time!"

"Cool dude! How's that?"

"We just need Congress to pass a simple law that outlaws power steering."

"I am sorry Lyle; did you say power steering or power queering?"

"Steering!"

"You think banning power steering will cut back on pollution?"

"Hell yeah it will! Don't you see it? It is so simple. Without power steering people will drive more slowly and more efficiently."

"Drive efficiently because it is more effort to dart in and out of traffic?"

"Yeah man, you get it! Now I AM willing to make concessions. I guess it is all right if grannies and cripples have power steering"

"Lyle, were you huffing gas when you hatched this one?"

I lost the next twenty minutes of my life to his god damned nonsense. Unable to convince me to schedule an appointment with our Congressmen, Lyle left in a huff. On his way out the door he called me a narrow minded fart bag. As he heavy handedly closed the door, "You ain't visionary enough for me to drink with."

He was back at my place an hour and a half later. Two ole girls we knew showed up at my door, with a bottle of Jack. One girl called him up and he appeared at my refrigerator door in ten minutes.

"Dirty Ert, your vision has definitely improved."

Please reconsider not selecting me for the job

For months I suffered under one of the worst cases of unemployment that I have ever contracted. At the height of the worst recession in generations, I reached the fuck it point. It became crystal clear that my career was over.

I had a pile of those, "thank you for applying, but we are not hiring you" form letters. Inspired, I wrote my own form letter in response to their form letter.

Curiously, nobody has responded.....

Dirty Ert
4445 Beaver Ridge Road
Kingsport, TN 37660
February 23, 2009

Director of Human Resources
Sperry Univac
100 Sperry Drive
Bristol, VA 24201

Madame Director,

I am writing you to follow up on my submission of employment credentials.

Your form letter of February 15th was enlightening, if not terribly disappointing. It is my apologies that my qualifications do not currently meet your employment needs. It is a relief to know that my application will be "kept on file for further consideration."

Allow me to strike at the heart of the matter. I am fucked. I lost my dream job. There are no employment needs that fit my qualifications. Yesterday a bill collector threatened to stab me in the balls. I am going bankrupt and I think my wife is leaving me for a 20 year old college swimmer from Puerto Rico. Drastic times call for drastic measures. So here goes.

I know what "kept on file for further consideration" means. My résumé is currently in a landfill covered with coffee grinds; sandwiched between a soiled condom and knot of used paper towels.

But you need me, yes you do. I have qualifications that perfectly match an employment need you don't even know that you have.

You need to hire me as Auggie Boo-Boo Wormbelly, the Towmotor Driving Toad Boy.

First, I'll explain the name. Auggie was the name of a baby calf I raised on the family farm. I cared and loved him every day; right up until I sent him off to slaughter. It was an awful thing to do on my part. This is probably the reason why I am fucked now, Karma is a bitch. Boo-Boo is the name of another baby calf who suffered the same fate as Auggie. Wormbelly was also a cow I had as a teenager. One day, Wormbelly kicked my old man, right-square in the nuts. It was one of the funniest fucking things I have ever seen. THEN we sent Wormbelly to the slaughter. I guess you could say the ole girl had it a comin'.

Toad Boy, shit that just sounds funny. But, Ah! Towmotor (forklift) driving, this is your benefit.

Let me tell you about my forklift driving. I suck at it, bad. I drive a forklift like a 95 year old Jamaican man; slow and oblivious. As I drive, you will also wonder; is he stoned? But life is funny; I used to be a forklift operator safety training instructor. I have probably spent about 20 hours of my life driving a forklift. But I taught people who had driving a forklift 40 hours a week for 15 years; how to safely drive the thing.

At this point, you are probably asking yourself these questions. Why should I hire someone who sucks at driving a forklift, to drive a forklift? Why should I refer to him as Auggie Boo-Boo Wormbelly, the Towmotor Driving Toad Boy?

Every day I will show up to work in a costume.

I already have my first day's get-up picked out. Now keep in mind how I do my first day on the job. I work off Karma (even if it is a nasty bitch.) There is no need for me to start out in human resources. Quite frankly, it is bullshit and not where the action is. Tax forms and safety videos be damned. I can do those at home while I lounge in my dog hair bath robe.

On my first day, I am going to wear a three colored clown wig. For shoes, I have a lovely pair of snake skin hip boots. I also have a kilt; made from an old shower curtain (it still has the hanging hooks.) My shirt will be lime green and in bold letters say "Evan Williams for President." In case you did not know, Evan Williams is a brand of cheap Kentucky Bourbon (and it is bullshit.) Now for the outfit's piece de resistance, a polystyrene pig's nose. I particularly like this one because I occasionally breathe out of my nose. This pig's nose fits nicely over my nose and it has two holes that line up nicely with my own nostrils.

As I mentioned before, I am bypassing human resources. At 7:00 AM when first shift begins, I am going to walk straight in the employee entrance, like I have worked there for 10 years. I will mount the first forklift I see and immediately begin moving shit around. I am a quick learner and anticipate that I'll get the hang of things in my third or maybe fourth week on the job.

You should also know that I do not interact with coworkers, bosses, vendors, customers or visitors. People can certainly talk to me. But that is of limited use. I am probably thinking about intercourse or food or both, and not really listening. Best results are achieved if you leave me a message on an Etch-A-Sketch.

I can make an important and deep commitment to you. Should there be visitors in the plant during my shift; I will be a rock. I'll drive my Towmotor with my eyes locked forward. My face will be stoic. Your visitors will see the calm intensity behind that pig's nose.

As for the kind of forklift you will need to provide me. I prefer to operate a Lewis Shepard brand. I am aware that Lewis Shepard was bought out in 1972 and their products ceased to be that fall. But, you are a champ and I know there will be a shiny "new" Lewis Shepard waiting for me on my first day (which is next Wednesday.)

For future reference I have several T-Shirts picked out for work. Here is what is written on some of them:

Weed, The Other Green Vegetable
Middle Eastern Chicks, The Other White Meat
Bend Over, I'm Driving
Forklift Drivers Do It In The Racks
Hey Everybody, Lets Fart!
Two Nuns And A Duck
Tequila Makes My Asshole Hurt (Based on my 1994 trip to Mexico)
Rhinestone Hog Boy (I made this one right after I bought a Bedazzler.)

Now, it is time for the salary negations. I do not need money. I need chainsaws. We are talking barter here. Each Friday morning you are to leave a DIFFERENT chainsaw on my Lewis Shepard. I am on a quest, to start the world's only chainsaw museum on an Interstate 81 exit.

Each "payday" I will examine the "offering" of a chainsaw you leave for me. If the saw is acceptable, I will give a subtle acknowledgement. I will stand on one leg, raise my arms over my head and let loose my best hyena impression. If the chainsaw fails to make the grade; I will ram my forklift into the Coke machine. Then I will go home. When I come back on Monday, there had better be an acceptable saw on my Lewis Shepard, along with an apology on the Etch-A-Sketch. If not, I will muster a mighty turd, and leave it on the plant manager's car windshield.

I believe that you will find this both a fair and equitable deal.

Looking forward to my new career

Best wishes,

Auggie Boo-Boo Wormbelly, the Towmotor Driving Toad Boy