franksolich acquires a primitive harem (now rated R)

[franksolich]

It’s a hot miserable Saturday afternoon and so when I was preoccupied polishing the light-bulbs in the ceiling light-fixtures, I was happy no one was around to hear me storm and curse.

It’s an ordeal, doing this particular chore; the ceilings are pretty high, and one has to use a step-ladder to get up there, carefully undo the intricate coverings, polish the bulbs, replace the complicated frosted-glass coverings, and go down the step-ladder again, on to the next one.

I thought no one was around, when I suddenly saw a flicker of movement near a doorway.

I carefully went down the ladder--I’m physically agile, but being deaf, I have no natural sense of balance--and upon reaching the floor, found the wife of the retired banker standing in the doorway.

She’d just wanted to say “hello;” she was here to collect some of the William Rivers Pitt, for her gardens in town.  She’s a prize-winning gardener, and her seven gardens have been featured in national magazines before, full-color full-page spreads.

She uses no fertilizer but that from the William Rivers Pitt, a Jungfrau-looking mound of antique swine excrement dating from 1875-1950; back from when pigs were fed table-scraps and garden produce with no chemicals or adulterants in them.

- - - - - - - - - -

The wife of the retired banker is 84 years old, but looks no older than a well-kept 70.

She resembles no one more so than the late H.R.H. Alice Montagu-Douglas-Scott, the dowager Duchess of Gloucester, not only in appearance, but in the grace and elegance of her manners.  She was wearing a plain unadorned light grey dress, and a big white floppy hat with fake flowers on it.  Diamond earrings, pearl necklace, and bracelets too of course, but oddly also pink tennis shoes.

Her husband, the 86-year-old Grumpy, wears his plaid polyester pants hiked clear up past his midriff.

But Grumpy wasn’t with her, because it’s too hot.

Instead, she’d brought along her 11-year-old grandson, to put shovelfuls of the William Rivers Pitt into aluminum one-bushel containers in the bed of the pick-up truck.

I’m not all that familiar with the world of kids, but I suspect the grandson’s what his peers might call “the class nerd;” four-eyed and a bit chubby.

He’d heard I’d recently got a haircut, and so was anxious to come out this day.  Years ago, he’d heard that I was born without ears, and since then has left no stone unturned in endeavors to see what I look like under my hair.

Normal kid curiosity, I suppose, but I don’t care much for it.

And much to his disappointment, the barber as usual had done a skilful job, keeping covered up the absence of ears.

- - - - - - - - - -

I mentioned to the wife of the retired banker that I was having special visitors two weeks hence, Big Mo and a horde of anti-men primitives camping down on the river.

“Oh, but since it’s you, they’ll have a great time,” she said; “if anybody, you can change their attitude.”

I escorted her and her grandson out to the back porch, where they looked at the miniature Swiss Alpine chalet 500 yards away, through the telescope that’s mounted and screwed to a porch-railing.

“What a charming outhouse,” she said; “but it’s awfully close to the river, and surely it’s not just a hole in the ground.”

No, I assured her; “what’s inside is a Clivus Moltrum--”

I had to say no more; she knows all about Clivus Moltrums, besides hundreds of other composting utilities.

- - - - - - - - - -

I find the wife of the retired banker unnerving at times.  She oozes grace and class and elegance out of every pore in her being, but once in a while she talks about things even hardened coarse crude sewer workers are hesitant to articulate.

During a summer about five or six years ago, when a Ph.D. student was studying the William Rivers Pitt as a soil-science project, the student, the wife of the retired banker, and I were sitting at the dining-room table, supping upon broccoli-and-cheese.

My eyes grew as big as saucers as I watched the other two talk about the qualities of swine excrement as compared with other sorts of manure, including human, as casually as if discussing the differences between a woolen bed-spread and a cotton bed-spread.

- - - - - - - - - -

After she finished describing the workings of a Clivus Moltrum, I offered, “well, I suppose it’d make good compost, good fertilizer.”

No, she said; “it wouldn’t be worth it--even with all those women, including one of them so elephantine she probably puts out mountains, and even for a whole week, by the time the Clivus Moltrum got done with everything, it wouldn’t be but a regular-sized brick of grey ash.”

Since I didn’t want it put into the water, I proposed that it be tossed onto the William Rivers Pitt, to augment, even if only minusculely, the fertilizing properties of that.

No, she said, alarmed; “actually the best solution would be to deposit it at a nuclear-waste storage facility.

“These are primitive women, women who dine upon pharmaceuticals as if fistfuls of popcorn, and what’s ingested of course gets ‘processed’ and then eliminated.  Their wastes are loaded with all sorts of drugs.

“The next-best thing would be to have [the property caretaker] just toss the brick into a campfire so it’ll all burn up, and he’d know enough to stay upwind of the fumes.”

to be continued

[delilahmused]

Wow, frank! These really need to be in book form. The DUmmies would probably be the first in line to buy one, just to see if they're in any of the stories, attention whores that they are.

Cindie

[franksolich]

Wow, frank! These really need to be in book form. The DUmmies would probably be the first in line to buy one, just to see if they're in any of the stories, attention whores that they are.

But always keep in mind, heart of my heart, love of my love, about who it's dedicated to.

I have nothing against decent and civilized women, nor anything in particular against the primitives starring in this story.....I have a lot against the screeching banshee she-women of Skins's island.

They for example whine and bitch and moan about "sexism" in the English language, alleging it's the worst, the most violent, crime against women.

But think of poor Big Mo, walking from this house to the campground, a yoke on the back of her neck, two buckets of water at each end of the yoke.

Of all the water in the world that's transported by human labor, I'll bet nearly all of it's on women's shoulders.

And the women's-libbers on Skins's island think they're used and oppressed.

[franksolich]

“So…..tell me why you don’t advertise this,” I said to Swede, the cook of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, when the femme and I showed up at the bar for supper, shoving the Michelin guidebook, Haut cuisine d’Nebraska nord-est at him.

“That book’s in French,” he said; “I don’t want to read it.”

“You have a three-star rating,” I reminded him.  “We’re not talking small potatoes here.”

“Yeah, I remember when the wife got a letter with all these French stamps on it,” he said.  Swede’s wife owns the bar.  “It was all French, no readable language, with all these papers, and a certificate on really good high quality top-notch parchment.

“To us, it looked like one of those ‘we found your family coat-of-arms, and if you send us thirty bucks, we’ll send you a copy’ scams, so into the trash it went.

“Later on, we found out what was up, but we didn’t care.

“We want people to dine here because they like the food, not because some frog told them to.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The femme and I took a table.  She’s still going through “that time,” and I had to be careful, because the least little thing can set her off like a ton of dynamite.

I ordered my usual, a hamburger very well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, french fries cooked on the grill and not in the fryer, and a side-dish of sour cream.

The femme, who’d been with some of her students doing a performing-arts thing at a nearby county fair, was still dressed in her Elizabethan finery--the show had been about English dances of the Renaissance--her dark blonde hair tinted a tiny little bit red.

As it was a hot day, she ordered lightly; crostini con condimenti misti, ragù alla salsiccia, pane casareccio, bucatini alla sorrentina, risotto con la lüganega, caciocavallo, and for dessert, cannolo siciliano.

Despite the inauspiciousness of the time of the month, I decided to tell her that Big Mo and a whole horde of men-hating primitives were going to be at my place during the county fair.

But alarmed for her safety because she can eat like a bison without putting on an ounce, while they can munch on a celery-stalk and lard on more poundage, I commented, “they’re not nice people; you wouldn’t want to meet them.”

The jealous harpies would scratch her eyes out, among other violent stuff, if they saw that.

She said that was fine; she’d be busy doing the shows at our county fair anyway, with little or no time for social courtesies.

- - - - - - - - - -

Somewhere along the line, I mentioned that the property caretaker and I were going to be designing some sort of system--temporary--to transport water from the house down to the camp-side, for their convenience.

“That’s odd,” she said; “you never worried about anybody there’s convenience before.”

This is a special case, I reminded her.  “These are women who’ve borne infants, doing a lot of wear-and-tear on their bodies, weakening them, and so I want to make their lot in life easier.

“I had nightmares last night of Big Mo, the only one who’s got any muscle, and hence the only one capable of doing it, putting a wooden yoke on the back of her neck, with two buckets for water hanging from each end, carrying that load from near the back porch all the way through the meadow down to the river-side.

“Big Mo’s got some heft, but it’d be Calvary for her, a stumbling via dolorosa.”

“Well, lucky for her you’re her host,” the femme said, “franksolich, friend and reliever of the weak and oppressed, the taker-on of their burdens.”

The femme’s usually a kind, sensitive, caring person, in case one forgets.

It’s just the time of the lunar month, that makes her this way.

“You know, I can’t figure it out,” she said; “you’re a man, but at the same time, you’re the biggest women’s-libber I’ve ever met, always concerned for the rights and well-being of women.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

Since it was so hot today, it was pretty late when others stopped by; in fact, it was already pitch-dark.

I went over things with the property caretaker; “you know, we got 675 yards of garden hose on this property, and I don’t see why we just can’t run the hose down to the river-side, and put a shut-off valve at that end.

“It’d be water coming through a hose, but it’d be good water.

“And obviously, it’d be temporary.”

“No,” the property caretaker said; “I have a better idea, and when I’m in [the big city] on Monday, I’ll get the stuff for it.

“But you’ll have to give up any idea for providing hot water, and for giving Big Mo air-conditioning down there, because both you and I’ll be too busy to do anything about those.

“After the water’s there, we can do something about confinement for Big Mo’s chickens, but that’ll have to be it.

“But hey, for people who want to ‘rough it,’ they got no reason to complain.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor, the neighbor’s wife, and their five children came over late in the evening, as it was now cool enough for him to work on a tractor out in the garage.  The kids hung around with him, while the neighbor’s wife and I went to sit on the back porch.

I was really concerned about the femme, these stupid mood-changes, and confided in the neighbor’s wife, as I always do on anything regarding women problems.

“Well no, she’s concerned about you,” the neighbor’s wife said.  “She thinks you’re setting yourself up for yet another catastrophic disappointment, and you’re no good when you’re in a funk after one of those.

“She thinks you need to stop it, stop trying to get everybody to like you.

“Almost everybody likes you as it is--you’re a very likeable person--but it’s impossible to expect everybody to like you, no matter how hard you try.

“It seems an obsession with you; you want 100% of everybody, no exceptions, who comes your way, to like you.  ‘Almost everybody’ or ‘ninety-nine percent of everybody’ isn’t good enough; you think you won’t be happy until everybody likes you.

“It must be some trauma from your childhood.

“[the femme] already knows you’re going to break your neck, trying to get all these anti-men primitives to like you--you’re going to do anything and everything to get them to like you.

“You put more energy into lost causes, than in winning ones.

“But it’s futile; there’s just some people in the world who don’t like nice guys.

“Look at the primitives who’ll be here, for whom you’re working desperately so they’ll be comfortable, and hence get to like you.

“Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive might end up liking you a little bit, but all the rest are hopeless; they’re nasty, negative, rude, self-pitying, unpleasant, selfish, malicious, annoying, exasperating, disgusting, people, and you could give them earth and heaven, and still, they’re not going to like you.  They’re never going to like you; you need to understand that.”

I ruminated upon that.

Well, okay, I finally said; “I’ll be nice to Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive, but towards all the rest, I’ll make an effort to be really rude and offensive, seeing as it won’t matter anyway.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

When I got up this morning, I noticed the red light on the telephone answering-machine was blinking.

Because I can’t hear, usually I just wait until someone who can hear, shows up, and listens for me.

However, I noticed from the “caller identification” screen that it was dutch508, who’d called during the middle of the night from his cattle barony on the other side of the Sandhills 300 miles west of here.

Sometimes I can make out what’s being said on the machine, by pressing it very closely to my head, some part where the layer of the skin is the thinnest, so as to facilitate bone-conduction.  It’s sometimes adequate; not always, but sometimes.

Curious because it was dutch508, perhaps giving a report on the unannounced arrival or an unanticipated guest from Minneapolis, I jammed the machine against my lower jaw.

It was dutch508, yelling and swearing and cursing at me, but I still couldn’t decipher much more than that; only that he was all upset and bent out of shape.

Excresence happens; I was going to have to have a hearing person listen to it for me after all.

I put down the machine, but being distracted by something outdoors, while I meant to press the “save” button for the message, I hit the one next to it instead.

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Why’d he do that?” the nephew asked; “why’d he direct her to there, instead of here?”

“Because [the business partner]’s a sensitive, caring guy, my best friend, who knew I was going to have no time to spend with a hysterical primitive woman, and that I had no desire to, either.

“She’s got really big jugs, and I’m no fan of supersized jugs.  I like women who are appropriately proportioned, everything on them exactly the right size.

“dutch508, on the other hand…..”

The distraction that’d caused me to inadvertently delete, rather than save, the telephone message had been one of my nephews stopping by a visit.  He’d been in Omaha for a few days, and was now on his way back to Denver.  Omaha-Denver is a straight line running southwest, and this detour causes an “arc,” northwest from Omaha and then southwest to Denver, but he wasn’t in any hurry anyway.

“What makes you think she fell for it?” the nephew asked; “I mean, you’re here, and dutch508 is way over on the other side of the Sandhills--”

“She thinks she’s intelligent,” I interrupted, “and people who think they’re smart usually aren’t; in fact, they’re usually dumber than a rock.

“Although no blonde, she’s got big ones, she’s a primitive, a women’s-libber, from a blue state, and thinks she‘s smart.  She knows nothing about the geography of Nebraska.  She fell for it.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I have several nephews, all of them adults and some of them near my own age, as I’d been a late child.

Most are married with children, and they live all over, usually in blue states.

My relations with their parents, my older brothers and sisters, when their parents were still in this time and place, had always been strained, the vast chasm in our ages not being the only reason.  We all had come from a good family, great parents, but when I was a kid, they’d evolved into hippies, liberals, and Democrats.

I always attributed the early deaths of the parents, who were only middle-aged at their demise, to all the worry and stress and tension the older brothers and sisters caused them, which then deprived me of the care and concern and guidance of parents at too early of an age.

The nephews are the only “family” I have left, and yes, while it’s unfair to blame the sins of the parents on the children, I’m not much more comfortable with them, than I had been with their parents, my older siblings.

However, myself being a mature person, our relations are at least formally cordial.

And there’s a lot of relations between people that are a lot worse than merely “formally cordial,” so it’s all copacetic, cool, okay.

- - - - - - - - - -

This particular nephew had been a favorite of his mother, who considered him a sensitive creature of the “artistic” sort, and so he’d gone away to college to become an artist.

The only problem being, he’s got no artistic talent in him, and it’s obvious this uncle of his isn’t the only one who thinks so, because now approaching 40 years of age, he works in a coffee shoppe in Denver, where he sits around all day with other hippie wannabes, griping about “the Man,” Republicans, conservatives, “right”-wingers, pro-lifers, George Bush, “fundies,” “oppressors of women,” Jews, Israel, and whatever else primitives don’t like.

It can be said for him, however, that these are not his honest sentiments, of which like Skippy he has none; he’s just aping the attitudes and feelings of people he likes, nothing more than that.

He lives with a primitive women’s-libber, who’s a registered nurse.  I’ve heard from the other nephews that she’s nuts, not all there, but I’ve never met her.  I dunno why, because I’m a nice guy, but it’s said she’s “afraid” to meet me in person.

Some years ago he got tired of her, and tried to break away, but couldn’t.  The deal is, he works in a coffee shoppe, and she’s a registered nurse--meaning that, essentially, she’s his means of support.  And he’s not cheap to support, given his liking for expensive bicycles, mountain treks, camping out in exotic places.

All for which she, not he, pays.

She’s a silly woman, but I think it’s unmanly of him to parasite on her like that, to use her like that, but he doesn’t pay attention to what franksolich thinks.

One has to love him as a member of the family, but it’s more of a duty than a joy.

- - - - - - - - - -

I explained to him that Big Mo’s going to hold a vast convention, a big primitive get-together, of men-haters, right here on this property.

“That should be fun,” he said; “I wish I could come up to see it--it’ll be epic, franksolich alone against the primitives.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

The business partner came by here on his way home early in the evening; as it’s time to clear out the refrigerator in preparation for a big cook-out here this coming Thursday, we dined on the some of the leftovers still in there, left over from previous cook-outs.

He fixed himself a big steak and a salad; I found a couple of already-cooked dried out hamburgers, and warmed those up on the grill, and for a change of pace, used sour cream instead of ketchup as the topping.

Italianate Jesus and hippyhubby Wild Bill’s brother, the one born with both eyes on the same side of his nose, were here to pick up their camping gear, as the carnival this night’s going up into South Dakota, and it’ll be too far for them to commute, no matter how much trouble they get into up there.

They’ll be back here on Saturday, August 9, to start getting things set up for this county fair the following week, the same day that Big Mo promised to arrive, after which the deluge.  They joined us, and like the business partner had steak and salad, and then took off.

“Nice guys,” the business partner said; “with them around, one doesn’t need a security force--or a zoo--as I imagine they pretty much scare people off.”

Yeah, I said; “the salt of the earth, good people, carnies, great people.  I love having them around.”

But then I thought of something, getting worried.

“I still haven’t figured out how to keep the carnies from discovering the men-hating primitive women camping here; if they do, it’ll make the Sack of Rome in 1527 look like a Victorian tea-party in an English country garden.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The business partner had brought my mail from the post office in town; he usually does this because my mail’s on his way, while I have to go out of my way to get it.

There was a confirmation from Big Mo in Illinois--it was addressed in my real name, as none of them know that I’m franksolich--thanking me for the “privilege” (her word, not mine) of holding a primitive get-together here, verifying that they’ll all be here from Saturday August 9 through Sunday August 17, and as she’s bringing her chickens, inquiring if there’s any regulations as to the keeping of them here.

“She seems really concerned about that--maybe Illinois has a lot of regulations, or something--and so I’ll get back to her right away,” I said.  “This land’s zoned as ‘agricultural,’ and as tenant I’m the regulator, and as regulator, I’ll assure her it’s okay.

“[the property caretaker] and I haven’t yet figured out how to confine them so nobody gets hookworm--my hair still turns white at the image of dear old sweet Lu of the cooking and baking forum on Skins’s island suffering from them, rendering her too listless, lethargic, and lazy to do her job there as hostess.

“I’m sure we’ll figure out something, though, so that Big Mo’s chickens are just as comfortable as Big Mo herself, and don't spread any diseases around.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Uh oh, I said.

“And here’s a letter from Kali, not to be confused with the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, who’s already coming, who lives down in southernmost Texas.

“Kali wants to come, but I’m not sure.  I’ll have to think about her.

“After all, she was the primitive who so crudely and violently assailed Big Mo, and no critic of Big Mo is any friend of franksolich’s.

“When I write Big Mo, I’ll also ask if she cares or not.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Oh my, I said.

“Here’s a letter from CaliforniaPeggy, confirming that she’ll show up Sunday August 10, and stay through Saturday morning August 16--she’s coming late and leaving early because first-class airline seats from California to Omaha are mostly booked as it is, and so she has to take what she can get.

“But mostly it’s an expression of appreciation.

“And hand-written on watermarked linen stationery, too.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I continued sifting through the mail.

“And from the cbayer primitive in Italy, of course thanking me, but inquiring if kale’s available in markets around here, or if she has to bring her own.”

“That’s the lettuce with purple on it, right?” the business partner asked.

Yeah, I said, “I dunno what difference the purple makes, but if the cbayer primitive wants it, it’s available, and so I’ll write her back and tell her.  I’ll remind her we even have lettuce with orange in it too.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I laughed.  “Now, this is funny.

“Here’s a letter from Ms. Vanderbilt in New Jersey, the NJCher primitive, asking if there’s snakes out here, and how they’re prevented.

“I’m not sure what to tell her, because while I’ve never seen a snake here all the years I’ve lived here, it appears there’s some people who disagree.”

“There’s snakes out here, I assure you,” the business partner said.  “It’s just that you don’t pay attention, and so you don’t see them.”

“Well, I’ll write Ms. High-and-Mighty to not worry, that I’ve never seen a snake out here.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I pulled out another letter.

“Here’s one from Wills, the William769 primitive, asking about the ‘gay scene’ in northeastern Nebraska.

I have no idea how to answer that; I guess I’ll just write him telling him he’ll have to check it out himself.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I noticed an envelope written in a hand unknown to me, and so quickly opened it.

“Wow,” I said.  “Guess who also wants to come even though, strictly speaking, she’s not a primitive.

“Her husband is though; in fact, he’s a PoP, a primitive of prominence, and frequent award-winner in the Top DUmmies.

“Poor dear Marta says that while she loves her husband, the big guy in Bellevue, she needs time away from him, and would like to come, if she can.

“Poor dear Marta makes great rhubarb pies.”

to be continued

[Chris_]

Hilarious.  Fat Steve ranks below the Head Queen on Skins island.

I wish my own mail was that interesting.

[franksolich]

The property caretaker was unloading a bunch of pipe from a 40’ trailer hitched to the back of his pick-up truck when I returned home from work today.  There was a lot of it, and it was obviously for piping good water from the house down to the river.

I glanced at the invoice, and my hair turned grey.

The business partner’s always good for a loan, but the business partner’s not Andrew Mellon.

I was about to say something when the caretaker stopped me; “don’t worry about it; dad’s paying for it.

“The folks’ water pumping system has been going bad for a while, and this is a good excuse to replace it.

“And so after the she-women are gone, I’ll take it apart and take it to the folks’, and install it there.

“As the rest is going to be made out of scrap from around here, you’re still home free.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well,” I told the femme, “you’re all concerned that I’m going to break my neck trying to make the primitives like me, that it’s going to fail no matter what I do, after which I’ll feel like a failure, and be in a funk, discouraged and downcast about it for weeks.

“I had no idea my moods affect you; as far as I’ve ever seen, I’m always the same; yesterday, today, tomorrow, always the same.  Laid back, mellow, nonchalant.

“Okay, I accept that all the primitives, excepting maybe, perhaps Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive, aren’t going to like me no matter what I do, no matter what I am.

“It’s just not in them to like nice guys.

“And so there’s no point in even trying to get them to like me.

“I’m going to try to not be a nice guy, but it’s not in me to be rude and offensive.

“But for you, I’ll try to not be my usual self, and do my best to turn off most of the primitives coming here, since they aren’t going to like me anyway, no matter what.

“I need to find a book, though; How to Make Enemies and Turn People Off; it doesn’t appear in any of Dale Carnegie’s published works.”

“Maybe there’s no such book,” she replied.

“There has to be,” I said; “and surely it’s got to be a best-seller.

“Otherwise, where else would the primitives pick up what they know about it?”

to be continued

[franksolich]

When the neighbor was here today, he suggested, “you know, one thing you could have, just in case the carnies discover the primitives’ anti-men meet-up, maybe a pole down there with an old air-raid siren on top, for Big Mo to blast away, telling you that they need help.”

I looked at him as if he were Bozo from Outer Space.

“Now, what good would that do?

“Remember, I’m deaf; I wouldn’t hear a siren if I were standing right next to it.”

Oh, he said; “right.”

He thought for a while, then said, “well, how about this?--a pole with a light on top, that can blink the Morse Code, telling you ‘send help’?”

Well, it’s probably true that the Morse Code is one of those things Big Mo would know, I replied, “and CaliforniaPeggy probably learned it as a Girl Scout back in 1951, and the cbayer primitive, being nautical, probably knows it too.

“And it’d be useful for telling if the carnies arrived by land or by water, and how many there are.

“But still, there’d be a problem.

“I wouldn’t know the light was blinking, a message being sent, unless I was looking at it.

“And I can’t sit on the back porch 24/7, watching for a light to blink.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Later on, the neighbor’s wife dropped in, along with the two youngest of her children; she was bringing over stuff for the big cook-out to be held this coming Thursday evening.

“About things to do, I was thinking,” she said, “maybe they might like riding horses around the countryside?”

I thought about this.  “Yeah, and you’re exactly the person to show them a good time, with horses.

“Remember, however, that we’re assuming the primitive she-women’ll want to have something to do with us; maybe they won’t, maybe they plan to just sit down by the side of the river, moping.

“But also remember, these are soft city girls, and real live horses.

“Big Mo’s probably the only one with balls enough to actually get on a real live horse.

“CaliforniaPeggy probably would, if she could, but there’s this infirmities-of-old-age thing…..

“The rest of them, I wouldn’t trust them being safe riding a child’s rocking-horse.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Because she had the time, the neighbor’s wife, the children, and I walked down to the camp-site, to inspect the latest work of the property caretaker, who’d hooked up pipes running from the pump-house here for a good water supply down there.

At the end opposite, we stopped to behold a lilliputian replica of a Dutch windmill, with tulips planted around it.

“Made from scrap lumber,” the caretaker illuminated us.  “I still have to paint it, but it’s mostly done.

“And then after it serves its purpose here, I’ll transport it to my brother’s house in town and put it in the back yard there, for his girls as a play-house or something."

I’m not exactly sure, but I think the caretaker’s nieces are six and four years old, and the windmill’s suited for that age and size.  I’m a little under 6’3” tall, and each blade of the windmill was about my height, so one gets an idea of its size.

“Now,” the caretaker said, “there’s more to it,” as he demonstrated.

“You can’t hear it, but as the blades turn, pumping the water, there’s a music box that plays Frere Jacques, frere Jacques, dormez-vous?  dormez-vous?

to be continued

[franksolich]

When I got back from supper, the little red light on the telephone answering machine was blinking.

I usually can’t hear a message well enough to understand it, but looked at the “caller identification,” seeing that it was from dutch508 at his Connecticut-sized cattle barony on the other side of the Sandhills.

Given what’d happened the last time I’d tried to “listen” to a message, I decided that while I was impatient, it was best to wait until a hearing person showed up, to listen to it for me.

In the meantime, I fired off a letter to Kali, not to be confused with the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, telling her I was “full up” for Big Mo’s primitive get-together.  It’s a lie, because I could probably handle up to 200 of them--there’s been more than that out here, although just for beer parties, not camping--and I hadn’t yet heard back from Big Mo as to whether or not she had any objections, and she might not.

But Kali’s presumption in assailing Big Mo, more of a primitive than she is, had irritated me--a lesser has no right to criticize a greater--and too, I was uneasy about Kali’s plans to scatter the ashes of an obscure long-ago-departed fellow primitive here.

I also, sadly, wrote to Marta, the wife of the big guy in Bellevue, rejecting her request to come here for Big Mo’s get-together, as she doesn’t qualify, not being a bona fide primitive.

So at the moment, that leaves Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, the NJCher primitive, the great aunt from Chicago, Skippy, LynneSin, the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive, the husband-hating elleng primitive, and Wills the William769 primitive, but there’s probably going to be more.

- - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor’s older brother came by later, to drop off some steaks for Thursday’s big cook-out here, and with some dread, I asked him to listen to the message on the telephone answering machine for me.

The neighbor’s older brother and I are the same age--he’s only three weeks older--and so in theory should have much in common, but in practice we don’t.  He’s done a lot more in his life than I ever did; a master’s degree in mathematics, a military veteran although he didn’t get into any wars, married with four children, and one of the biggest land-owners in the county; he wants to buy the property next to this, owned by Italianate interests in New Jersey, but the owners aren’t interested in selling, at least for the moment, as the place is too valuable of a tax-shelter.

He thinks that because I’m the way I am, I’m going to come to a bad end, and I worry about it because he’s rarely wrong on things.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Good God, man” he said; “dutch508’s in some kind of trouble with a woman.

“I’ve never heard a grown man cry like that.”

“Well, it’s his own fault,” I said, unsympathetic.  “After all, he’s the one who likes women with great big huge enormous jugs.

“dutch508 is a nice guy and all that, but in this case, he’s made his own bed.”

http://conservativecave.com/index.php?topic=97448.0

to be continued

 

[franksolich]

The business partner came by in the morning, bringing my mail with him, which I read as we rode out to do something.  It was a light day for mail.

There was another letter from Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor, the NJCher primitive, inquiring what sort of innoculations were required for visiting Nebraska.

“Yeah, and she lives within walking-distance of the germ-infected, virus-infested, Newark,” I said.

There was a letter from the Aerows primitive, asking if there were raccoons around the place.

“Nope,” I said; “I’ve never seen a raccoon.”

“That doesn’t mean there aren’t any there,” the business partner pointed out; “remember, you have that habit of, uh, overlooking certain things.  When I’ve gone over to your place late at night, I’ve seen them, and they’re knocking over things and getting into fights with the cats, making a lot of noise.

“Out in your front yard in the middle of the night, when they get into it with the cats and the coyotes, the racket’s deafening.”

“Well, maybe,” I said; “but I’ve never seen any raccoons myself; as far as I know, all is peace-and-quiet during the middle of the night, and so I’m going to tell her I’ve never, myself, seen a raccoon around here.”

There was a love-letter from the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, but never mind.

And there was, finally, a letter from the Sarah Ibarruri primitive down over in Florida.

Yeah, I’ll tell her it’s okay for her to come, I said.

- - - - - - - - - -

“You know, it kind of bothers me,” the business partner said.  “You’ve got two groups of people coming at the same time, one group that likes you, the other that doesn’t, and you’re concentrating far more on making the second group comfortable, than on the first.

“In fact, you don’t seem concerned at all for the ease and comfort of the carnies; you haven’t done a thing to make their site better.”

“Carnies don’t need much,” I said.

“Well, they deserve a lot more than what you’re giving Big Mo and the man-hating she-women brigands,” he insisted.

“The carnies like you; they really like you.

“I think it’s because when they see you, they think, ‘aha, here’s a respectable person who acknowledges my existence, smiles at me, shakes my hand, and listens to me.’

“And when you’re with the femme, they’re reminded that you’re not embarrassed to introduce them to her as friends of yours, and she in turn acknowledges them, smiles at them, shakes their hands, and listens to them.

“The carnies think you--and her--are the nicest people they’ve ever met, and I think it’s a shame you’re not doing more over at their camp-site.”

If the carnies need something, I’ll take care of it, I promised.

- - - - - - - - - -

New chapters.

“50 shades of frank,” franksolich gets seduced by BainsBane, by dutch508, rated R:
http://conservativecave.com/index.php?topic=97448.0

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Also,” the business partner went on, “I think while your worries about the carnies playing around with the she-women if they discover them are legitimate, I think you got another cause for worry that you haven’t thought of.

“Your good friend Romeo.”

Everybody refers to him as “your good friend Romeo” because probably I’m the only friend the poor guy has, the only person around willing to have anything to do with him.

I’m not ready to rate this story--G, PG, R, X--yet, and so I’ll just quote from a previous story, as quotes from other stories aren't really a part of this story:

…..“Remember Romeo, from last night?” I was hoping she hadn’t gotten too tanked, because it was important that she remember Romeo, which is his nickname, not his real name.

“I know Romeo like the back of my hand,” I told her; “and while Romeo’s a good friend of mine, I need to warn you about him.

“Romeo’s one of the ranch-hands who works across the road, and keeps beer in one of the refrigerators in the garage here, for days when it’s hot. He’s unmarried, and makes good bucks because he’s a hard worker. Also, women tend to be attracted to him.

“But let me tell you, Romeo’s no good for women. He’s a tomcat, who uses women once, and then drops them. ‘A woman’s got one shot with me,’ he says, ‘and if she doesn’t pass the first time, there’s not going to be a second time.’

“No woman’s ever had a second time with Romeo, none’s been good enough for him, he says.

“Romeo’s a nice guy, a real charmer, but when it comes to women, he’s a real rectal aperture.

“He wants women only for their bodies, nothing more.”…..

…..“Oh my,” she said, admiringly. “You’re so very big.”

He brushed it closer to her face.

“And oh my,” she added; “it’s really clean; it’s probably the cleanest one I’ve ever seen.

“Men who weren’t snipped, when the skin retracts, there’s all sorts of nasty-smelling crud underneath.”

He smiled. “I can hardly wait to get it into you, babe, but not right now.”

They were laying in the back of Romeo’s pick-up truck out in the middle of nowhere……

…..“What’d he give you, the telephone number?” I asked.

She recited off the numbers.

“He uses a cellular telephone,” I pointed out; “why don’t you call him right now, to tell him ‘good-bye’ and that you’ll be in touch?”

She took her cellular telephone and dialed the number.

As I’d already figured out, it was the recorded “Dial-A-Prayer’ number.

“I think,” the business partner concluded, “you’re going to have to figure out how to keep your good friend Romeo away from them too; seeing all those women, he’ll want to hop around in the sack with every single one of them, even if he has to cover his eyes.”

to be continued

[GOBUCKS]

I'm thinking of carnies.

Who is the DUmmy carnie who lives in his car and travels with the carnival?

Seems to me he was facepainting kids or doing fake tattoos or something like that.

Cannot remember his name.

I doubt he'll show up in Nebraska during peak carnival season.

[Chris_]

I'm thinking of carnies.

Who is the DUmmy carnie who lives in his car and travels with the carnival?

Seems to me he was facepainting kids or doing fake tattoos or something like that.

Cannot remember his name.

I doubt he'll show up in Nebraska during peak carnival season.

That was the one that's incapable of making a grilled cheese sandwich.  Chris something... (no relation).

[franksolich]

Maybe it's different in other parts of the country, but around here, where many small carnivals are based in, oddly, Arkansas for the winter and travel northward during the summer and then back down there again, carnies tend to be dark, slight in stature, one or more major bodily defects (either natural birth-defects, such as crossed eyes, or artificially created, such as two fingers cut off in an accident or fight), possessive of criminal records minor or major.

For whatever reasons I've never been able to figure out, even though "foreign-looking" in a Mediterranic sort of way, they tend to be very articulate, very well-spoken; as a deaf person, I've never had problems understanding them.  Perhaps the directness and simplicity of the language they use?--I dunno.  They surely don't beat around the bush, and emphasize their points by vigorous jabbing.

Their personal hygiene sucks.  Big time.

And this affects me more than it turns off hearing people, because of course I have to be close, very close, in order to catch what they're saying; at times, we're practically breathing into each other's throats.

In their defense however, it needs stressed that in my time, I've had to deal up close with other sorts of people, many of them obese carbuncled Democrats or desk-sitting governmental employees whose personal odor from afar reeks of perfume or cologne, but from nearby, the stench of rancid rotten decay.

Really; one gets a totally different perspective on people if one's having to smell them while communicating with them.

The sweat one exudes from honest labor has never offended these nostrils, and so I've always found greasy-dirt-under-the-fingernails carnies more tolerable than, uh, other sorts of people.

For the purposes of this story, it's reasonable to assume 40-50 carnies, about two-thirds sinister-looking males and about one-third coarse-looking tatoo'ed females, both of all shapes and sizes.....and all trying to run away from something, or someone.

[hillneck]

I need a new primitive to pick on, to mock and deride its pretensions of holier-than-thouness.  I wanted a 100% pure unadulterated primitive; a 99.9% primitive isn't enough.
It's early in this story, but I suspect I found the one.

Suggestions could be the raccon loving Aerows, the redqeen bitch, and/or the Fizzy chick with the butch haircut.

[franksolich]

Suggestions could be the raccon loving Aerows, the redqeen bitch, and/or the Fizzy chick with the butch haircut.

It's reasonable to assume that the fizzy one won't be in this story, as I'd already used her up pretty vigorously in a story last year, or whenever it was.

The point of that story had been, well, women want to play around a bit before men start poking them, and as the story evolved, franksolich played around with the fizzy one so much that she, wondering what was taking me so long especially since I'd looked "ready" to pop for hours, got impatient to get poked.

Hence, ergo, women should be careful about what they wish for.

I had anticipated making this into "the redqueen primitive seduces franksolich," but once the story got underway, I dropped the idea of including the redqueen primitive in any way, shape, or form; she's a turn-off to literary inspiration.

Some primitive femme's going to seduce franksolich--remember, though, this is mostly a work of fiction--but I want the characters to develop before I decide which one.  However, Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive can rest easily, because they're already being cast as the heroines, not the villains, of this story.

Those three will leave here their virtue still intact.

This story is truly writing itself; I just sit back, remembering real-life other people, other places, other times, taking all these unconnected people and experiences and trying to weld them into a consistent story.  The primitives, the fictitious part of it, are in it just to spice it up.

Seriously, I have no idea beyond the next chapter, what's going to happen in it.

[GOBUCKS]

Seriously, I have no idea beyond the next chapter, what's going to happen in it.

Not formulaic?

"Formulaic" was yesterday's English vocabulary word for nadin, and she beat it to death.

The day before it was "hubbub".

[franksolich]

“I dare you,” she said, laughing.

Standing in the water opposite her, I pulled off my shorts and flung them away, so they’d float down the river to wherever, never to be found again, just as I’d done her halter-top earlier.

She’d acted the innocent, the naif, but as she was one of two women coming out here with Romeo, I’d already sensed what she was even when we were still fully clothed and sitting on the back porch, Romeo and the two women smoking dope, me drinking iced coffee.

But as she’d seemed reasonably clean and nobody was going to be around for a while, I’d had no objections when the other three decided we should all go for a swim, after which one thing led to another.

There was of course the femme to consider, but she wasn’t around--in fact, she’s in Omaha for the next few days--and alas she happened to not be around right as my male needs recrudesced.

I had my suspicions Romeo had specifically chosen this one for me, as she was exactly proportioned, while the trollop with him had big ones that sagged.  He’d commented once that I had the “potential” to be “a Great One,” but just didn’t have the “right training;” that I needed some tutelage in the ars amatoria.

And myself being a nice guy always willing to get along with other people, had said “okay, sure, fine, whatever, show me….”

- - - - - - - - - -

Romeo and his woman were still laying on the sand at the edge of the river, cuddling and smooching, him caressing her flabby flaccidities and she playing with his pulsating hardness.

I pulled the shorts off my woman, and as with my shorts, tossed them so they’d float away, never to be retrieved.

Romeo and his woman finally dove into the water, although swimming away from us.

The two of us sought shallower water, where she laid in it and I laid on top of her, as we sucked face for a bit, at the same time me enjoying her properly-size pair while she groped and rubbed an appendage of mine.  Although I wasn’t ready, she thought I was, and tried guiding me in there.

At the same moment, I looked up, past her head, seeing the village idiot sprawled under a bush on the shore, his mouth agape and his eyes as big as saucers.

to be continued

[franksolich]

“You know,” the business partner said, “I suppose by the standards of today’s society, you’re remarkably chaste.

“But really, how do you reconcile your conduct with your values?

“It’s a contradiction, your reputation as a fine, upstanding local personage with Great Moral Rectitude, and then you go and make out with a two-bit hussy.  And then there’s [the femme] to consider.”

“They all haven’t been cheap whores,” I protested; “in fact, the cleanest, most wholesome, time was the week that [the Ph.D. student who was here to study the William Rivers Pitt] and I were together here, about three years ago, during which time both of us hardly kept our clothes on, our hands off each other.

“You know she’s the epitome of Grace and Class and Cleanliness, a paragon of virtue and probity.

“But,” I continued, “that doesn’t answer your question.

“Yes, yes, yes, it’s a contradiction, and a blatant one.

“My illumination as a good Catholic boy was that one must strive to be good.

“And you know I have no argument with the theology, tradition, and practices of the Holy Roman and Catholic Church; I enthusiastically endorse and accept it, all of it, every bit of it. 

“It’s always made sense to me.

“In fact, I suspect that’s probably most of the reason the older brothers and sisters, who’d evolved into hippies, liberals, and Democrats, sprung loose of this mortal coil way too soon; their anxiety, guilt, melancholy, and depression was all too much to bear, and so they were always pharmaceuticalizing themselves, bloating their bodies, fossilizing their cerebral cells.

“Like a fish that rejects the water that keeps it alive, as hippies they’d rejected all the values that had sustained our forebears for generations, including God and religion, for millenia.

“In doing so, they’d rejected themselves, tossed themselves into the garbage.

“Anyway.

“So one’s supposed to try to be good, and while one can’t control one’s feelings, one can control one’s conduct.

“However.

“Nobody’s perfect, and God knows that better than anybody else.

“One can’t be fully controlled, fully restrained, all the time. 

“Some steam’s got to be let out.

“As a man, there’s hardly anything I want to do more in life, than to poke a woman.

“If there was no such thing as morality, I’d be poking a woman 24/7/365, and that still wouldn’t give me all I wanted of it.

“All males are that way, not just me.

“One’s supposed to trust God to be compassionate and merciful, and I do.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

I went to town for supper alone, as the femme’s gone, running into the neighbor and the neighbor’s older brother at the bar.  Their wives and kids were in the big city this evening, and so they had to fend for supper on their own, too.

“When the cat’s away the mouse’ll play,” Swede, the cook of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, sang out in falsetto as he faux-danced to the table to take our order.

I glared at him.

Tomorrow, Thursday, is the birthday of the neighbor’s twin daughters; they’ll be thirteen, and there’s going to be a gala cookout at my place in the evening. 

“Anything exciting happen today?” the neighbor’s older brother asked me.

No, I said; “in the morning, I got e-mails from Tucson and Joplin; Crystal, Annette, and Amber want to come up here for Big Mo’s meet-up of primitive women who hate men, at least at the moment.

“I had to send regrets, because Crystal and Annette aren’t bona fide primitives, but suggested the three of them might consider coming up here for Labor Day.

“And then about noon, I had three visitors, and we did some stuff.

“In late afternoon, I went about on business with the business partner.

“That was it; a pretty humdrum dull day.  Maybe tomorrow something exciting’ll happen.”

to be continued

[Chris_]

I'm jealous.  You live in the middle of nowhere and have a more active social life than I do.

[franksolich]

“These men-hating primitives coming here to camp during the county fair,” the neighbor’s older brother asked, “are they going to be hippies too?”

Oh God, I hope not, I said.

“I don’t want to deal with that again, from a few years ago, when hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer & clan came up here to camp on Labor Day.”

…..But at the same time Wild Bill was looking longingly in the distance, on the other side, three boys came floating down the river on a makeshift raft. Mrs. Alfred Packer thought they were all perhaps about 10 years old, and looked rather Tom-Sawyerish, rather cute.

They hollered something towards the hippycamp, getting Wild Bill’s attention, compelling him to shuffle down to the banks of the river to hear them.

“ARE YOU HIPPIES?” they hollered.

hippyhubby flashed the “thumbs-up” sign at them.

“REAL HIPPIES?” they shouted.

Wild Bill grinned.

“HIPPIES LIKE THERE USED TO BE?” they asked.

Wild Bill, standing on the shore, flashed the “thumbs-up” sign at them again.

“EW, ICK,” one of them screamed, “REAL HIPPIES, DIRTY HIPPIES, LAZY HIPPIES, SMELLY HIPPIES.”

Wild Bill, upset, ran out into the water towards them, but the boys poled the raft further near the center of the running water, out of his reach. He threw rocks at the boys as they drifted away, hearing them scream, “ICK, HIPPIES, DIRTY HIPPIES! LET’S GET AWAY FROM THEM! EW!”

As the raft floated around the bend, the hippycamp could still hear, “HIPPIES! HIPPIES!”

Well, Mrs. Alfred Packer didn’t think much of the welcome, but these were fundiebrats, after all, she reminded herself, as she tediously rubbed Wild Bill’s dirty shirt against the wooden washboard.

Wild Bill’s ma was darning socks, grasswire was churning butter, Warpy was chopping wood, and Ms. Ed was playing with one of Wild Bill’s brothers behind a tree. All the other hippymenfolk, including Wild Bill, lazily slumbered on the ground.

- - - - - - - - - -

About an hour later, everyone heard the roar of a motor vehicle, and looked up. There was a pick-up truck coming their way, bouncing and tumbling down the ravine and gently sliding down the drop-offs.

hippyhubby cursed. More campers, he bet, and here, they’d hoped for solitude.

The pick-up truck, with three cowboys in the cab, pulled up near the hippycamp and drove slowly by, three grinning faces staring out at the hippyassembly.

After seeing the sight, the cowboys rode on down the river, towards a county road three miles away.

Mrs. Alfred Packer wondered what that was all about.

But she didn’t have much time to wonder, because soon thereafter there appeared a Buick sedan jostling along the the trail, with two old folks in it. They too pulled up near the hippycamp, drove slowly by, staring at the hippycrowd, and then continuing on down the path.

And close behind them was yet another pick-up truck, a farmer and his wife who slowed down near them, gaped and commented to each other inside the truck, and went on their way.

It appeared to be a procession, all sorts of motor vehicles coming down near the hippycamp, the occupants staring, and then going on. Some vehicles, especially those with small children in them, slowed down enough so that cameras could be taken out and pictures snapped.

hippyhubby Wild Bill ran around like a squawking wet hen, shaking his fist.

The last straw was when a pick-up truck with the logo of a television station from faraway Sioux City came down, and circled the hippycamp several times, a man standing in the bed of the truck, where a television camera had been bolted to the floor, rolling film for the noon news. The truck circled and circled, as the camera picked up the faces and expressions of each of the camphippys.

Wild Bill storming and raging, said words that couldn’t be quoted on television.

Then more cars, more trucks, more vans, bounced by, creating a soaring cloud of dust that floated way over to the house here.

- - - - - - - - - - -

About noon, the county sheriff came down there.

Seeing they weren’t from the area, he welcomed them, asking how they were doing.

Wild Bill complained about the parade that was passing by.

“That’s what brought me here,” the sheriff said; “to be sure everything was okay.

“You see, there’s three boys up on the highway with a big sign, SEE THE HIPPYS $1 ADMISION, and I wanted to check.”

He handed Wild Bill a piece of colored paper, a photocopied job in a child’s handwriting, SEE THE HIPPYS -- $1 ADMISION PER PERSON – RULLES – DONT FEED THE HIPPYS – DONT TOUCH THE HIPPYS – DONT TALK TO THE HIPPYS – JUST LOOK AT THE HIPPYS -- $1 ADMISION.

hippyhubby got hot under the collar about that, his grey ponytail bristling.

“Well,” the sheriff said, “I can’t do anything about it, because nobody’s breaking any laws. It’s not against the law for people to look at things, and since you have the owner’s permission it’s not against the law for you to be here.

"And as for the kids, there’s no law against charging admission to a freak show.”

Turning to leave, he saw the hippywomen—Mrs. Alfred Packer, Wild Bill’s ma, Wild Bill’s sister, Warpy, grasswire, and Ms. Ed—sitting in a row at the table, and tipped his hat to them.

“Good day, ladies.”

Then turning to Wild Bill, he said, “But keep it clean, G-rated. This is a family area; don’t have any naked hippie women running around doing all this ‘free love stuff.’”…..

“Well,” I said, “some of these men-hating she-women might be hippies, but I’m on bended knee praying not.”

to be continued