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Current Events => The DUmpster => Topic started by: franksolich on November 21, 2013, 11:42:39 AM

Title: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 21, 2013, 11:42:39 AM

note: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich is of course a work of fiction, but all events and persons described therein are based upon real-life people and happenings out here on the eastern slope of the Sandhills of Nebraska the eight years I’ve lived here.  I don’t have enough imagination to make this stuff up, and so have to “borrow” from actual people and events.

the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich is dedicated, obviously, to the brain-damaged primitive, in hopes that it cheers him during the coming holiday season, but mostly to make amends for that he’d been intended to be the main character, but as the story evolved, the brain-damaged primitive got overshadowed by others, and ended up the most-minor character in the story.

My apologies, but the story wrote itself, and that’s how it came out.

the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich.  As he approached where one turned off from the highway to the two-mile drive leading home, through the driving snow he spotted a motor vehicle sitting by the side of the road, and what appeared to be four primitive-looking people surrounding it.

Geezuz, he thought to himself; Thanksgiving Eve, this highway’s been closed for hours, there’s nobody around to help them, and these idiots are still trying to drive through.  As he got closer, he noticed the rear license-plate advertised New Jersey.

Stopping in the middle of the highway--there wasn’t going to be any other traffic anyway--he got out of his automobile, and walking through the swirling snow approached the stranded travelers.  There were in fact four of them, and they were headed for haven in the big city…..forty-two miles away, nothing in between.

They’d hit a snow-bank, one front tire was flat, and possibly the accompanying tie-rod bent.

And it being the eve of a holiday, nobody was going to come from town, six miles the other way, to fix it for them.

These people had to be put somewhere, until both the snow and the holiday were over.

He sized them up; there was one male, circa 500 pounds, heavily tattooed, and with a nose-ring.  He was identified as a friend of a friend of the other three--who’d been left home in New Jersey because of loose bowels--and obviously their leader.  His name was “Brian.”

There was a second male, circa 275 pounds, with either a bug-eye or a glass eye--he couldn’t tell, because it was getting dark, other than that there was something wrong with the eye--his walrus-mustache decorated with glistening precipitation.  His name was “Doug,” and he too was from New Jersey.

There was a red-haired porcine-looking woman, maybe about 300 pounds, with an upturned snou--er, nose, hugging tightly to herself a lap-top computer.  She said she was from Arizona via Missouri, and that her name was “Amber.”

There was a second woman, with closely-cropped hair, and of thin build.  She told him she was from Colorado and gave her name, but he didn’t catch it, and so let it go.

None of them pleasant-looking people, but they were people, and needed shelter.

- - - - - - - - - -

He proposed that they all come to his place, which was only two miles up the driveway--and the only place for miles and miles around, to get warmed up while they figured out what to do.  

The four of them had a whispered conference away from him, unaware that he couldn’t hear them even if they were right in front of him, yelling.  It seemed a good idea--in fact, it seemed the only idea--but the porcine-looking woman expressed some qualms.

“I dunno,” she said; “he’s a stranger, and we’re out here in the middle of nowhere, and he might be a pervert or an axe-murderer or something.”

“Yeah,” walrus-face agreed; “and there’s the way he talks--this is some real retard here, what with his slow, flat, monotonal voice.  He could be both a retard and a pervert, and those are the worst sorts.”

“But he looks like a nice guy to me,” the fizzy one said, “and despite his voice, a rather good-looking dude.”

Their leader, the bloated obese nose-ring, settled the matter.  â€œWell, even if he’s a pervert, there’s four of us against one of him.  We’ve got to get someplace warm and dry.  I’m about three times his size, you’re”--pointing to walrus-face--”almost twice his size, you’re”--pointing to the porcine-looking woman--”twice his size, and”--pointing to the fizzy one--”you’re about his size.

“He lives alone, out here in the middle of nowhere.  If there’s trouble, I think we could handle him.”

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: fatboy on November 21, 2013, 01:29:47 PM

Oh, I really can't wait for you to get to the part when the intrepid franksolich discovers that all 4 of the primitives have the same cell phone number and.... um.. sorry. I'll shut up now and let you continue. sorry.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: delilahmused on November 21, 2013, 01:30:25 PM

Can't wait for the sequel(s)! This is going to be more than one, right? You need to put all these together in a book.

Cindie

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: hillneck on November 21, 2013, 02:20:30 PM

where's the dealership remote?????????????

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 21, 2013, 03:20:01 PM

Quote from: hillneck on November 21, 2013, 02:20:30 PM

where's the dealership remote?????????????

Damn.

I already wrote the whole entire thing, and was good to go, two chapters each for the next three days, and then you spring this idea on me, sir.

It looks as if I'm going to be devising a new ending.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 21, 2013, 04:27:29 PM

They all arrived here safely, although it was a tight fit in a Toyota, even a four-door one.

The four guests were letting down their luggage and taking off their winterwear when the neighbor drove up, in his snow-plough; he was coming to find out if all was okay, and to remind that the turkey was to be started in the oven circa 3 a.m.  His wife had been over the previous day, before the blizzard, cleaning it up, buttering it up, and otherwise getting it ready for roasting.

The situation of the four visitors was explained to him, but alas, no, he didn’t think there’d be anybody around to help until after Thanksgiving dinner the next day.  “It looks as if you’re stuck here until tomorrow afternoon,” he said; “but at least your car’s safe, because there’s nobody, but nobody, out on the roads tonight.”

In the kitchen alone with the host, he said, “I feel for you, dude, having to endure them until then.

“Those are some real winners you got here.

“But I’d keep my eye on the red-haired heavy woman,” he added; “she looks like the type who wants to cuddle, and she’ll hog-tie someone down to get cuddled if she has to.”

“I can handle it,” their host said; “I mean, it’s not like I’m not used to dealing with unpleasant people.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

After the neighbor left, the fizzy one came into the kitchen and looked around.

“There’s nothing in here,” she said, awed.  “This kitchen’s as big as a ballroom, and there’s hardly anything in here.”  She walked around, tapping the items that were there.  “Miles and miles of counter-space, nothing on them, big boxes of cupboards, nothing crowded in them, and--whoa--a hospital-sized four-door refrigerator--oops, there’s lots in there--and a hotel-sized eight-burner range, a table and two chairs, and…..acres and acres of floor.

“How do you live?”

Very comfortably and uncongestedly, he answered.

“You see, this is why the neighbor’s wife fixes the Thanksgiving turkey, the Christmas turkey, and the New Year’s turkey here, rather than at home.  They live in a pretty big and pretty new house, all the modern conveniences, but with four kids underfoot, all under the age of twelve, it’s easier for her to fix everything else if she doesn’t have to worry about roasting the turkey too.

“It’s a 36-pounder this time, because they’re having a lot of people over,” he added, courteously omitting to mention that he too was to have been part of it, but these unexpected guests put a kibosh on that.

“Here, we have a 14-pound turkey breast, white meat only, and all the other accoutrements, so we’re good.”

- - - - - - - - - -

He then went into the living room, to check up on the other three guests.  The porcine-looking woman was walking around in circles, flailing her arms. 

“There’s nothing here,” she shrieked, although not too loudly.  “There’s nothing here, not even a television or radio or stereo or…..anything.  Just a little bit of furniture, lots of books, and pictures on the walls and acres and acres of carpeting with nothing on it.  Such a big house, and nothing in it.

“How is it possible to live here?  There’s nothing here; your computer doesn’t even have a sound system.

“You can play tennis here in the living room, or over in the dining room, or in the bedroom, without having to move anything, because there’s hardly anything in this whole house.

“And all these windows--there’s more windows than walls, all around, there’s more glass than lumber.

“And not even window-shades, everything all wide open.”

He interrupted, apologizing.  “There were shades when I moved here eight years ago, but as I always associated pull-down window shades with poverty, I took them out.  I meant to get some venetian blinds or curtains at the thrift store in the big city, but never got around to it, leaving the windows bare.

“But we’re out in the middle of nowhere,” he insisted; “there’s nobody around to peek inside anyway.”

“You might as well be homeless,” the porcine-looking woman said, hugging her lap-top computer to her sagging jugs.  “There’s nothing in here.  How do you live?”

He arched his eyebrows, looking out the window, where the snow was still cascading down, the wind howling, and the temperature surely near zero.

“Well, at least it’s warm” he said, still apologetically.

- - - - - - - - - -

At 10 p.m., he announced to his guests, “Well, time for me at least to hit the sack.  You guys can stay up and continue on what you’re doing [they were all drinking beer from the refrigerators in the garage, and chitchatting, none of which he could grasp], and it won’t bother me.”

There was however the question of sleeping arrangements.  He offered the bedroom to the two women, suggesting the three men could sleep in the living room, although he winced at the idea of being near--and asleep--the nose-ringed one.

However, that was no problem at all, as the women immediately insisted upon being with their men, not separated from them.

So he went to the bedroom.

- - - - - - - - - -

“You know, he’s really an odd one,” walrus-face said; “he acts like he knows what’s going on, but if you look closely, he has no idea, no idea at all, what’s going on; he‘s in a wholly different world all by himself.  He's so spaced I'll bet he's on drugs--I wonder where they're at here.”

“Yeah, like a blind man who acts like he can see,” the porcine-looking one said.

“Or a deaf man who acts as if he can hear,” the obese nose-ring said.

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on November 21, 2013, 08:51:17 PM

What's this ? I thought I was inviting Doug over for thanksgiving.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 22, 2013, 01:34:18 PM

Quote from: obumazombie on November 21, 2013, 08:51:17 PM

What's this ? I thought I was inviting Doug over for thanksgiving.

Well, we'll see what happens.

Mention of the remote control for the television, about which I'd forgotten, put a speed-bump into the story.

The story was wholly written, all done, ready to be posted a bit at a time.  I didn't have to think to write it; I just sat down, and the fingers automatically bounced across the keyboard.

But damn, the remote control's got to be worked in somewhere.

Or perhaps maybe not; there's a chance I'll just continue posting the story as it was originally written, minus that irksome little detail.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: Dori on November 22, 2013, 02:19:45 PM

Quote from: franksolich on November 22, 2013, 01:34:18 PM

Well, we'll see what happens.

Mention of the remote control for the television, about which I'd forgotten, put a speed-bump into the story.

The story was wholly written, all done, ready to be posted a bit at a time.  I didn't have to think to write it; I just sat down, and the fingers automatically bounced across the keyboard.

But damn, the remote control's got to be worked in somewhere.

Or perhaps maybe not; there's a chance I'll just continue posting the story as it was originally written, minus that irksome little detail.

You can just throw it in there in passing.  Maybe after you went to bed he turned on your tv and programed FOX out of the channel  lineup.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 22, 2013, 02:49:39 PM

Quote from: Dori on November 22, 2013, 02:19:45 PM

You can just throw it in there in passing.  Maybe after you went to bed he turned on your tv and programed FOX out of the channel lineup.

As I explained to Chris_, who's my literary consultant, the problems are two: the story wrote itself without any help from me.  All I did was sit down, and the fingers automatically bounced over the keyboard.  Not the least bit of intellectual effort on my part was required for this story.  The story's been done, finished, ready to be doled out.

And then the matter of the television remote control came up.  I'd wholly forgotten all about the remote control, and my fingers didn't remember it either.  No remote control whatsoever in the whole story.

And then someone here--not my literary consultant--suggested the remote control.

Ooops, I and my fingers had forgotten that, and the remote control's an important part of the story of the brain-damaged primitive.  So probably I was going to have to insert the remote control somewhere in the story.

Problem, however.

If in real life, I really had a television here, it'd be easy to somewhere, somehow, insert a remote control into the story.  But I don't have a television here.  And this story, while fiction, is based upon real-life people and real-life experiences (although at different times, and not necessarily in the same order).  I can't seem to insert a remote control into the story without having it stick out like a sore thumb that doesn't belong there.

If the story had been written describing the primitives and their host franksolich going somewhere--someone else's home, a shopping mall, a store--where there would logically and reasonably be a television, a remote control could be worked into that.

But the story takes place only inside the home of franksolich, nowhere else.

At present, I'm leaning towards just continuing to post the story without changes--and remember, it's all already done--and no remote control.

We'll see how it goes.

The third chapter's been ready to be posted, but it needs some toning down, and so I'm working on softening it a bit, to make it fit for a family audience.  As it now stands, I'm sure it would incite every gay primitive to eagerly hightail it here for Thanksgiving, and I don't want that.  Fat Che's little brother's "husband" is more than enough gaiety for it.

On the other hand, for many short stories here, lurking primitives vastly outnumber decent and civilized people in the audience--some of the Mrs. Alfred Packer stories, they were 6-to-1, it not more--and so one's torn between illuminating the primitives or entertaining decent and civilized people.   

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: Skul on November 22, 2013, 07:54:27 PM

There are a lot of toys out there, with remote controls.  :whistling:

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 22, 2013, 08:04:30 PM

Quote from: Skul on November 22, 2013, 07:54:27 PM

There are a lot of toys out there, with remote controls.  :whistling:

Yeah, but unfortunately they're toys with which I'm not familiar and so aren't here, meaning I can't credibly write about them.

I think I'm going to ditch the idea of using a remote control, and carry on with the story as it wrote itself.

But then another--but a very short one, though--speed-bump was hit, when the fizzy one's husband was apparently fired today.  In the upcoming third chapter, the fizzy one's the main character.  In case one's forgotten, the fizzy one's the primitive who likes to run around inside her house with no clothes on.

Well, this happened, her husband getting fired, and the third chapter had the fizzy one as the butt.

Bering a nice guy, I had to quickly turn things around, making myself the butt of the chapter, so the primitives can't whine that franksolich "picks on" them.

<<<a good sport; doesn't "pick on" primitives.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: Skul on November 22, 2013, 08:19:11 PM

Quote from: franksolich on November 22, 2013, 08:04:30 PM

Yeah, but unfortunately they're toys with which I'm not familiar and so aren't here, meaning I can't credibly write about them.

I think I'm going to ditch the idea of using a remote control, and carry on with the story as it wrote itself.

But then another--but a very short one, though--speed-bump was hit, when the fizzy one's husband was apparently fired today.  In the upcoming third chapter, the fizzy one's the main character.  In case one's forgotten, the fizzy one's the primitive who likes to run around inside her house with no clothes on.
Well, this happened, her husband getting fired, and the third chapter had the fizzy one as the butt.

Bering a nice guy, I had to quickly turn things around, making myself the butt of the chapter, so the primitives can't whine that franksolich "picks on" them.

<<<a good sport; doesn't "pick on" primitives.

I ain't sayin' squat. Nope.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 23, 2013, 12:45:08 AM

After their host went to bed, the four guests sat around the dining room table a little while longer, and then decided to hit the sack themselves, the “sack” in this case being three single-bed mattresses placed side-by-side, amply covered over so there wouldn’t be any gaps.

But since nose-ring took up much of it, the fizzy one retreated to the couch.

The porcine-looking one wanted to cuddle, and so cuddled with walrus-face.

The snow had stopped falling, although one could see through the windows that it was very cold out there.

The moon, the stars, and the blinking light atop the William Rivers Pitt, and that there were no coverings on the windows, and further that the walls of the living room were mostly enormous windows, made it not quite totally dark, but the porcine-looking woman was uncomfortable anyway.

“I’m scared,” she said, cuddling even tighter to walrus-face.  “I’m scared.  We shouldn’t be here.  That framed picture of George and Barbara Bush over on the wall there bothers me.

“And that cross, hanging over the thermostat; this guy’s a freaking Christie, a fundie. 

“I should’ve never left Tucson to chase my dream.

“I’d feel better down there with my luvvie Dave, my huggie-bundie Dave.

“My soft cuddly teddy-bear Dave.”

The nose-ring, tired of her whining, smacked her on the side of her head, knocking her out, enabling everybody to get to sleep.

- - - - - - - - - -

About 3 a.m., the host got up to go into the kitchen and put the turkey in the oven; about an hour later, while he was bending over eyeballing the turkey in the oven, he sensed a shadow in the semi-darkened kitchen, and stiffened; oh my God, I hope it’s not the nose-ringed one, he thought.  Or worse, the porcine-looking one wanting to cuddle.

He relaxed when he stood up and turned around; it was only the fizzy one, standing at the doorway, staring.

It being too late to establish eye-contact, as hers were riveted on something else, he instead nonchalantly walked over to the kitchen table and took a cigarette and the lighter.  The lighter must’ve been low on fluid, as he shook it vigorously, but the flame wouldn’t stay lit.  Giving up, he walked back to the stove and turned on a burner to light the cigarette.

Well, he thought to himself, at least she’s only surprised, not offended.

And besides, with her short-cropped hair, it was easy to “see” her as just another guy, no big deal.

He decided to play it cool.  He pointed to the faraway door to the bathroom, thinking that’s what she wanted, but it wasn‘t.

“So…..” he said, “I hope you slept well.  I’m sorry for the rough accommodations, but it beats sitting in a car.”

That didn’t elicit a response, so he pointed out, “As soon as this turkey’s done in here, we’re going to start the one for our dinner, unless you think it’s a good idea to roast them both at once.”

She wasn’t hearing him.

“At least the snow’s stopped,” he said, looking out the window.  Crossing his arms over his chest so the hands touched the shoulders opposite, he added, “But brrr, it’s still pretty cold out there.”

He walked over to the coffee-maker on the counter, only a couple of feet away from her.  “However, you being from Colorado, you’re probably more used to it than we are here.

“Want some?” he asked, pulling out a second cup.  She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

He gave her the cup, and pointed to the cream on the table across the room.  She went over there and sat down.  He followed her to get a second cigarette, and then went and stood by the stove, facing her, his arms crossing his chest.

“I figure what’s going to happen,” he said, “is that one of the mechanics from town’ll come out, oh, about three o’clock, to drag your car out and look at the damage.  If it’s only a flat tire, he’ll probably fix it on the spot, but if it’s a bent tie-rod too, he’ll have to drag it into town to the garage.

“He keeps a full supply of parts on hand, and it shouldn’t, at the most, take more than a couple of hours, and then you can be on your way to the big city.”

He decided to smear more butter on the carcass in the oven, but when he bent over in front of the opened door, the warmth blasting out swelled him, and so he quickly turned, so she wouldn’t see.  Slamming the door shut, he sidled over to the counter and looked out the window, his back turned to her.

“It’s not quite ready for more butter,” he said, after which passed half a minute or so of silence.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Why are you naked?” she finally asked.

It now being safe to turn around, he shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “Since it was so early, I didn’t think anybody would be up.  It’s purely an accident, not meant to happen.  But what’s been seen can’t be unseen, so…..here we are.

“Does it bother you?” he asked.  “I mean, I’m not going to touch you or anything, and I’m outnumbered and outweighed by the four of you.  I can guarantee I’ve got no malicious motives.”

No, it didn’t bother her, she said; “Your house, your rules.”

He heaved a sigh of relief.  She didn’t feel threatened, which was the last thing he wanted.

However, he was somewhat discombobulated that she gave no suggestion she’d be more comfortable if he went and put something on.  It was if she found it interesting, which was another last thing he wanted.

“Well, it is interesting,” she said; “I’ve never seen a naked Republican before.”

In an exaggerated act of feigned shock and dismay, he crossed his hands over his front part, acting surprised to find they wouldn’t cover it all.

“I sleep this way, but usually only when I don’t have overnight company.  But you’re hippies, that ‘let it all hang out’ thing.  You guys run around without clothes on all the time, and in public.

“Surely you’re not seeing anything you haven’t seen before, what with all your wild raucous love-ins and be-ins and sit-ins and drop-outs and rock concerts.

“It saves wear-and-tear on the underwear, and besides, even here, in the reddest part of one of the reddest states, we’re not prudes.  It‘s just that we don‘t do it with reckless abandon, like they do in blue states.

“I’m way out in the middle of nowhere; nobody’s around to be upset or offended--”

“But don’t you worry about if--” she began.

“Sure, it happens a few times,” he interrupted, not wishing to let her know it actually happened quite a lot, “that someone who I didn’t know was around pops in, but it’s cool.  But it’s never ancient people or respectable women or children, because they’re all sleeping in bed at the time.

“Most of the time, it’s somebody I know, who‘ve seen it all before.”

“But they all can’t be people you know,” she insisted, “and you’re out here all alone.  Hasn‘t anybody ever tried to, you know, rob you and attack you and stuff?

“There’s some vile people out there, and here you are, with nothing on.”

“Oh,” he said, “there’s been a few times one’s had to deal with rough characters in the middle of the night, all drunk or crazy on drugs, looking for a fight, three or four of them all at once, and alas each of them bigger and stronger than me.

“But something usually happens, and they run away.

“The sour-faced guy who cooks at the bar in town, Swede, says I’m the luckiest son-of-a-bitch he’s ever seen in his life, and this is one of the reasons why.

“I only get worried if it’s women high on drugs or booze or from a trailer court or otherwise the trashy sort, who get ideas I don’t want them to get. 

“You can tell them right away; you can see them reeling out the measuring tape in their eyes.  No way in Hell, any of these women.”

Thinking he might’ve given her the wrong impression, he added, “I’m already spoke for.

“By a femme--so nose-ring out there can shelf it.”

“But haven’t you ever been embarrassed?” the fizzy one asked.

Oh my yes, he thought, too many times to count, but to relate those would require him to reveal to the fizzy one that he was deaf, and he didn’t want to do that, so he lied, “No, never, not once."

The three others in the living room began to stir--he caught the movement of shadows through the door from the kitchen to the dining room--so he decided it was time to get decent, especially since he didn‘t want them to get any ideas.

And then coquettishly flaunting it all, just as he did long ago in the boys’ locker room in high school to the accompaniment of others snapping towels, he strutted past her into the bedroom to get dressed.

- - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor arrived in late morning, aboard the snow-plough, bringing with him an empty 60-quart thermos cooler, in which to cart the cooked turkey, partially cut up, back home.  While he and the host were in the kitchen, he mentioned there wouldn’t be anybody available to fix the stranded vehicle until after mid-afternoon, it being Thanksgiving and all that.

The neighbor brought along his oldest son, the 10-year-old eager young lad, who stood in the living room staring at the jiggling jugs of the porcine-looking one, wondering if they were real or not.

“Did the guests behave last night, no problems?” the neighbor asked.

Yeah, no problems at all, their host said.  “As easy as strawberries-and-cream, dealing with them.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Since the fizzy one looked as if she might be competent in the kitchen, while the porcine-looking one seemed as if she couldn’t even handle a wet fork and a dry dish-towel competently, he assigned the first to the kitchen, showing her all the equipment and chow, and ignored the second femme, who sat on the couch in the living room, typing on her lap-top computer.

The one-eyed guy and nose-ring sat at the table in the dining room, watching the snow fall on the other side of the picture-windows, drinking beer from the refrigerators in the garage, and gabbing.  Probably about college football, he figured, unable to hear them, although nose-ring could be discerned staring from the corner of his eye at his host’s lower regions.

Geezuz, his host thought; I should’ve put on boxer shorts and too-big pants so he wouldn’t get any ideas, as the jerk‘s a professional crotch-scanner, who can detect through regular underwear and regular-sized pants, no matter how thick the material.

He didn’t care for people looking at what wasn’t supposed to be looked at; it gave him a sense of being violated, much as if someone were to lift his hair and see he‘d been born without ears.

While the fizzy one prepared the breast of turkey, the mashed potatoes, the gravy, the fresh corn and fresh peas, the whole-wheat buns and real butter, the sour cream, and the apple, pumpkin, cherry, and rhubarb pies, he got ready to set the table in the dining room, but prudently using only the second-best china (a wedding present in 1910), silver (an anniversary present in 1935), and Belgian linen and napkins (from the 1920s), which had belonged to grandparents of his, rather than putting out, as he usually did, the more-exquisite and fragile antiquities of his great-grandparents.

But first, the table had to be set up.  The table was solid walnut, one of those dining sets sold mail-order by Montgomery, Ward in 1926 for $140 (an enormous amount of money back then), and with extensions.  It was usually set up so as to accommodate eight, three on each side and one at each end, but as he reminded everybody, there was going to be plenty of food, and so the table needed lengthening.

Pulling the table apart, he took three leaves and four extension legs, inserting them into the gap, making the table so as to fit in eighteen, eight on each side and one at each end.

And then he assigned the places to sit; the porcine-looking woman at the far end, nose-ring on her side to the left, walrus-face on her side to the right, and the fizzy one next to walrus-face. 

For himself, he assigned the end opposite the porcine-looking woman, seemingly half a football field away, and a large ornate 32-taper sterling-silver candelabra in between.

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 23, 2013, 06:01:07 AM

Somebody paid me a probably undeserved compliment, saying I write like this guy, about whom I've never heard:

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Patrick Francis McManus (born August 25, 1933) is an American humor writer, who primarily writes about the outdoors. A humor columnist for Outdoor Life, Field & Stream, and other magazines, his columns have been collected in several books, beginning with A Fine and Pleasant Misery (1978) up through The Horse in My Garage and Other Stories (2012).

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McManus writes mostly about his outdoor adventures from his childhood with semi-fictional characters such as his old woodsman mentor Rancid Crabtree and his childhood friends. The stories' humor is mostly based on elaborate exaggerations of his surreal adventures into the outdoors. McManus's writing is characterized by a dry wit that has drawn comparisons to Mark Twain and Robert Benchley.

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McManus' shorter works include a recurring cast of fictitious characters and running jokes, both from the stories set in his childhood and as an adult. The foremost among the childhood stories is his "mentor" Rancid Crabtree, a colorful woodsman who lives near Pat's childhood home, who hasn't bathed because of his fear of getting wet.

Other recurring characters are his childhood best friend, 'Crazy Eddie' Muldoon, and his adulthood friends, the goofy and dim-witted Retch Sweeney and his straitlaced neighbor, Alphonse 'Al' Finley. Throughout the majority of the stories is a recurring theme of McManus's lifelong love of hunting and fishing—which is mostly an excuse to just enjoy the outdoors, often in good company. Most of his friends likewise enjoy hunting and fishing, even if they aren't particularly good at it. McManus, in his stories, has a certain amount of disgruntlement for people who take great pleasure in the minutiae of various sports (such as encyclopediac knowledge of firearms calibers and ballistics). He refers to firearms enthusiastics as 'gun nuts' and treats their excited sharing of the fine points of ballistic arcs and grain sizes as something to be endured to get on a good hunting trip.
 
Some of the elements show up in his longer works, and are even worked into the plots. Bo Tully, the protagonist of the Bo Tully Mysteries, shares McManus' views about firearms—in the course of his job as Sheriff and his hobbies, Tully uses guns, knows about guns, but isn't particularly excited by them or even sentimental towards them. He is, however, aware that many people are.

This even serves as plot point in one of the Bo Tully mysteries, Tully is investigating an absent murder suspect and sees that the man has a gorgeously mounted collection of antique, original, or unusual firearms—with a gap in it that would correspond to the type of handgun used in a murder. Tully realized it's likely that an ardent gun collector would be reluctant to destroy or permanently discard such a gun, and operates on the hunch that the murder weapon is hidden nearby and carefully preserved to prevent possible damage.

I wish.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 23, 2013, 07:56:21 AM

While he was laying out the plates and silver, the porcine-looking woman, curious, came to inspect the candelabra placed in the center of the table.  It was a big, bulky thing for holding thirty-two candles, and sterling silver.

It wasn’t his; he’d found it in the cellar when he’d first moved here eight years ago, cleaned it up and untarnished it.  It belonged to the owners of the property, even if they’d forgotten they’d even ever had it, but he assumed it was his for use while he lived here.

“Isn’t this what Jewish people use on a certain holiday?” the porcine-looking woman asked; “that holiday where they light up candles and stuff?  I didn’t think you were Jewish.”

Yeah, he said, not particularly interested in correcting the record.

“But you have it in the middle of the table, blocking the view from one end to the other; can’t you put it somewhere else, so that we can see you, and you can see us, while we’re eating?”

He winced.

“Blocking the view” was precisely his intent, as his guests didn’t seem the most-refined of company; they probably talked with their mouths full of food, and even sprayed it.

This had been a bane of his all his life, because he was compelled to read lips to help “hearing,” and what he’d seen since he was a little lad were things that made his eyes cross and his face turn green.  Chewers of tobacco, methamphetimine users, epileptics who used a certain drug, and others with bad teeth for one reason or another, presented the same problem.

He never wished to be unkind, but really, it all made his eyes water and his stomach queasy.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d just been left alone, but his parents were set on integrating him into society even though he was deaf, and so it was mandatory that he join conversations at the dinner-table, as if nothing was wrong.

By the time he was ten, he’d probably seen the insides of more mouths than dentists, and it’d never been a pretty sight.  Especially not when one was dining.

That was the age when he finally rebelled, and started reading at the dinner-table, his face buried in a book as others around him chitchatted, ostentatiously showing off their various masticatory propensities.

He’d gotten away with it, because there was a rule someone reading wasn’t to be interfered with, and apparently that rule superseded the rule that one was supposed to be social, and converse.

After he’d grown up, he for the most part solved the dilemma by simply associating only with people who didn’t talk while their mouths were full of food.  If it were unavoidable, such as at church dinners or community barbeques or neighborhood pot-lucks, he simply found a seat far removed from everybody else, ate, and after that walked around being social.

But he didn’t want to tell the porcine-looking woman that he suspected she and her pals had bad table-manners, and he was likely to upchuck while eating, if he had to look at them; being a nice guy, he didn’t want to hurt feelings.

Instead, he just told her that the candelabra had to remain where it was, because it was an old Hebraic superstition that if the Hannukah lights weren’t right in the center of the table, the land would become bereft of all meat but pork, and the people would starve.

He was gratified that she found it a reasonable explanation.

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 23, 2013, 10:06:30 AM

After the table had been set, nose-ring and walrus-face came to inspect it; their big bulks had been banished to the living room while the work was in process. 

“And so--what are we going to have for drinks here?” nose-ring asked.

Oh, the usual, he said; coffee, tea, milk, orange juice, water, whatever one wanted.

“Just the usual,” he repeated.

Nose-ring and walrus-face looked at him as if he were Bozo from Outer Space.

“But what about the real stuff?” walrus-face asked.

Their host looked at them blankly.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh come on now,” nose-ring said; “the liquor, the alcohol, the booze.  What’re we having, and where’s it at?”

Their host hesitated.

“Uh, it’s not done around here, or in most places in Nebraska.  It’s probably done in some blue-collar lower-class ethnic neighborhoods in Omaha, but for the most part, we don’t do alcohol with dinner.”

They looked at him again, as if he were Bozo from Outer Space.

“People usually drink, but not at the table,” he tried explaining.  “At cocktail parties, at the country club in late afternoon, or beer out on the patio after supper.  But not when they’re eating.”

They kept looking at him, their mouths sagging open.

“And a lot of people just don’t drink at all,” he went on; “when I was growing up, the only alcohol consumed in our house was that on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s, everybody got a crystal custard-cup with chunks of pineapple swimming in crème de menthe in it.

“I dunno where that came from; I assume it’s a custom in Pennsylvania, and the parents brought it with them when they moved here, long before I was born.  I never cared for it, and I don’t have it.

“Now, I don’t impose my practices on others, but I quit drinking when I was in my early 20s--the only member of the family who ever sucked on the bottle--which was, well, a long time ago, and so one’d be hard-pressed to find alcohol here.”

That wasn’t quite correct, as nose-ring and walrus-face already knew.  There’s four big refrigerators in the garage, where the neighbor, the neighbor’s older brother, the property caretaker, and the ranch-hands who work across the road behind the William Rivers Pitt keep their beer, cases and cases of it, so that their wives don’t know how much they drink.

It’s not wholly a carte blanc, but he’s allowed to swipe some of the inventory in case there’s a pressing need, such as intemperate guests who need calmed down.

“Well, there’s beer you can have with your dinner.”

They both snorted.

The femme’s father kept certain wines in a cabinet down in the cellar, meant for special occasions, but their host didn’t know rocks about wine, and was hesitant to illuminate his guests of their existence, lest they hog all the good stuff.

But as they wanted something, he decided he’d check, and try to pick out what appeared to be the cheapest ones; no point in casting pearls before swine.

He told the others he had to shovel the snow off the back porch, and donning his winter garb, went out there, but to go down into the cellar, to the carefully-regulated and super-insulated wine cabinet.

Inspecting the inventory of fifty-three bottles, he guessed at which ones looked to be of Ripple quality, taking five of them.  Because he’d have to explain their absence to the femme, he carefully copied down their names, a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, 2007, from Poggio il Castellare, a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet les Pucelles, 2010, from Domaine LeFlaive, a bottle of Hermitage Blanc, 2009, from J.L. Chave, a bottle of Le Desir, 2008, from Verite, and a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape Curvee Perrin, 2004, from Chateau de Beaucastel. 

From their labels, those looked like the crummiest and cheapest wines, maybe about the same quality as Mogen-David, but still good enough for primitives, he figured.

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: BattleHymn on November 23, 2013, 10:22:42 AM

Excellent work, frank.  

I'm particularly enjoying the treatment the porcine one receives from you, and from her fellow primitives.  She is the perfect buffoon character.  :-)

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 23, 2013, 12:31:15 PM

Quote from: BattleHymn on November 23, 2013, 10:22:42 AM

Excellent work, frank.  

I'm particularly enjoying the treatment the porcine one receives from you, and from her fellow primitives.  She is the perfect buffoon character.  :-)

It's funny how it's turning out, the brain-damaged primitive ending up the most-minor character, barely even a cameo role, in a story about him.  But that's just the way it's evolved.

Alas! poor walrus-face!  Alas!  Left in the shadows by others, in a story about.....him.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: Dori on November 23, 2013, 01:48:51 PM

Quote from: franksolich on November 23, 2013, 12:31:15 PM

Alas! poor walrus-face!  Alas!  Left in the shadows by others, in a story about.....him.

I hope Tweak doesn't get loose and get caught in a mouse trap.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 23, 2013, 02:02:43 PM

Quote from: Dori on November 23, 2013, 01:48:51 PM

I hope Tweak doesn't get loose and get caught in a mouse trap.

You know, Tweak could've been included, if there were mice around here.

Yeah, right, I live way out in the country, in the Sandhills, in an old house.  There's mice around here.

Uh, no.  I haven't seen a mouse inside or outside since the first summer I lived here, about nine months after I'd moved here and cats started emigrating here, after which each one was shot (the regular feline shots) and neutralized, and domesticated or semi-domesticated.

I dunno why the cats never worked their way into this story; after all, there's been plenty of them (but only five still survive)--Abbie, Snow, Junior, Apricot, Floyd, Spot, Gordon, Harold, George, Ellie, Leo, William, Gustav, Jack, Fido, Agatha, and Larry.

But for some reason, they didn't, despite that the brain-damaged primitive's a fan of "kittehs," and they could've helped enhance his role in his story.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: BattleHymn on November 23, 2013, 02:05:39 PM

Quote from: franksolich on November 23, 2013, 02:02:43 PM

I dunno why the cats never worked their way into this story; after all, there's been plenty of them (but only five still survive)--Abbie, Snow, Junior, Apricot, Floyd, Spot, Gordon, Harold, George, Ellie, Leo, William, Gustav, Jack, Fido, Agatha, and Larry.

But for some reason, they didn't, despite that the brain-damaged primitive's a fan of "kittehs," and they could've helped enhance his role in his story.

Cats are way to suspicious to hang around somebody like walrus-face.   

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: Dori on November 23, 2013, 02:10:52 PM

My kitties used to bring me presents.  Unfortunately, they weren't always dead.  Just half dead.   

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 23, 2013, 02:14:54 PM

Quote from: BattleHymn on November 23, 2013, 02:05:39 PM

Cats are way to suspicious to hang around somebody like walrus-face.   

Well, there is a problem.

All of the cats excepting Junior, Apricot, and Floyd, were feral cats.  These other three were born in town, about a year before I moved out here.

(http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y223/dummiedestroyer/floydgeorge2005.jpg) (http://s6.photobucket.com/user/dummiedestroyer/media/floydgeorge2005.jpg.html)

--Floyd, top, George, below, where I lived before I moved out here

The cats don't cotton to anybody but me.

I wish they would socialize with more people--it'd widen their world--but they hang only with me.

Every time somebody comes here, they watch that person like a hawk, from a safe distance.  It's been remarked by others that the cats appear to think every human is a threat to me, their meal-ticket.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 23, 2013, 02:25:05 PM

Quote from: Dori on November 23, 2013, 02:10:52 PM

My kitties used to bring me presents.  Unfortunately, they weren't always dead.  Just half dead.   

That happens, but oddly, there's never any mice.  All other sorts of livestock, but never mice.

The cats have 24/7/365 entry-exit with the house.  One time William killed an adult rabbit and dragged it inside behind my back, eviscerating it on the floor in the bathroom.  I had no idea rabbits had so much guts in them; there must've been at least half a mile of intestines.  All over the bathroom.

Another time, I walked into the kitchen, and there was a semi-quivering snake laying on the floor in front of the sink.  I never did figure out what sort of snake it was; it was about 4' long and as thick around as my upper arm (which really isn't all that thick).  I got pissed off, and picking it up by its tail, went out to the back porch and flung it out into the meadow.  I assume it slithered away okay, because no carcass was ever later found.

For years, when coming back home after having been gone for a while, if someone else is with me, I make that person wait outside until I've first gone inside to scout all the rooms, to be sure there's no livestock, dead or alive, in here.  I'm a nice guy, and the sight of blood and guts upsets some sensitive people, and best to get it out of the way before anybody sees it.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 25, 2013, 04:42:51 PM

Okay, now at this point, I have to repeat that this is a work of fiction, and one should make no inference on the character or actions of a primitive, any primitive, based upon this, and what follows.

the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich was written simply to cheer the brain-damaged primitive, who faces an otherwise cold and dark holiday season.

After I wrote this, a certain primitive mentioned in the story had a spell of bad luck, bringing to a screeching halt the posting of any more of it.  I’m a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet; I don’t wish any primitive to get more discombobulated than the primitive already is.

However, since the story can’t be unwritten, after some days I decided to resume, with the hopes that readers draw no conclusions about the character and conduct of any primitive depicted in it.

It’s a work of fiction, although it’s based upon a real-life experience with a women‘s libber; I don’t have the imagination to make up any of this stuff.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 25, 2013, 04:52:07 PM

He went into the kitchen to consult with the fizzy one about half an hour before the noon dinner was to be served.

“There’s a problem,” he announced.  â€œThose three out there, they’ve already drunk all the wine, and they’re passed out.  My guess is all the beer they had before that--and none of them are in the greatest physical shape--and all the pharmaceuticals they take, it was just too much for them.

“It looks like three big bison carcasses out there on the living room floor.”

He was gravely concerned.  â€œYou know these people--should we maybe contact 911?”

She went out and looked, and then came back, saying no, it’s happened in the past, and nothing looked out of the ordinary, although they’d be slumbering and snoring away for a long time.

Oh no, he said; “If the car’s fixed this afternoon, and they’re in no shape to drive to your motel in the big city--”

“I’m not drunk or passed out,” she said; “I’ll drive; I’ve dealt with it before.

“Well, I suppose that puts a kibbosh on Thanksgiving dinner,” she continued; “once everything’s done, we should just store it in the refrigerator, and you’ve got plenty of leftovers for the next several days.  At least it won’t go to waste.”

“Yeah, when the femme gets back, she and I can deal with it,” he said.

“Your girlfriend’s gone?” the fizzy one asked; “maybe she’s gone far away?”

Too far away for his comfort, he sighed; she wasn’t going to be back until Sunday.

Suddenly she flung her arms around his neck, they getting nose-to-nose.

He tried pushing her away.  â€œExcuse me, but I’m kind of, uh, uptight, you know.”

She laughed.

“I’m not uninhibited; in fact, I’m rather a prude.”

“No you aren’t,” she laughed again.

She moved her hands up to the sides of his head, which alarmed him considerably, lest she feel the absence of ears, learning he was deaf, which wasn‘t anything he wanted her to know.  Grabbing her wrists, he roughly pulled them back down onto his shoulders.

“When I saw you standing here this morning, I knew right away; a free spirit.”

She made another attempt to suck face, bringing her hands up to the sides of his head again.

He pulled back.  â€œI’m sorry,” he lied, “but I have a headache, and the temples are throbbing.”

“I can cure that,” she said; “it‘s so convenient, the two of us here alone.”

He felt ill at ease at the sound of that.  He didn’t want to be alone with her.

“Uh, why don’t we just wait for your car to get fixed?  There’s not a whole lot of things here, but I imagine we can play Monopoly or something.  It’s only for a few hours.”

“I’d rather play something else,” she said.

He did not like the sound of that.

“I always wanted to know what it’s like, getting laid by a Republican,” she said.

His hair stood up on end.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “but I’m not the sort who hops around in the sack with just anybody.”

“Oh, but you are,” she insisted; “this morning when we met, I recognized you right away as a free-spirit.”

He looked at her, puzzled.

“Well, this morning, when you were standing there--”

He interrupted, “Oh no, madam, I wasn’t showing off; remember, I’d just thought that since it was early, nobody’d be up, and then when you came in, my biggest concern was that you‘d see me as intimidating, threatening--”

“But then you didn’t hurry to put anything on--”

“Madam, you’d already seen it all; there wasn’t anything more I could hide from you, in which case it’s always best to simply accept, adapt, and carry on, as if nothing’s out of the ordinary.

“As much as such is possible; panic only makes things worse.

“And besides, though I hope it didn’t show, I was more afraid of you, than you could be of me.

“I’ve been cornered before.”

“Come on, come on,“ she insisted, pulling him inside the door to the bedroom.

“This cannot possibly end well,” he helplessly protested.

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: Skul on November 25, 2013, 05:44:12 PM

Oh no, this will not end well.  :stirpot:

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: Dblhaul on November 25, 2013, 09:51:32 PM

oh my....

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 26, 2013, 06:17:50 PM

The situation was awkward.  He was a head taller than her, and at 175 pounds, about sixty pounds heavier, but he was also a gentleman, and a gentleman does not get violent with a woman, no matter what. 

Guys could beat up other guys, but a woman was to be reasoned with, not hit.

All his life, he’d adhered to that conduct; he’d never struck a woman.  If one was difficult, he’d reason with her, or in the last extremity, simply walk away from her, but there was usually a third option in between, giving in to whatever she wanted and while expecting the worst, hoping for the best.

They’d never made life easy, women.

So yes, of course he could’ve shoved her away…..but she was a woman. 

“I don’t like this, I don’t like this at all,” he said.

“I’m no Don Juan,” he protested; “it takes a very long time to lead me into temptation.”

“I got time,” she said, as she divested him of his shirt and leaned over to kiss him; “and you do too.

“We got all afternoon, and we don’t need all afternoon.” He squirmed as she traced one of his nipples with her finger, her other hand planted on his midriff.

“Look, if you think I’m some sort of Casanova, the femme’d laugh her head off.”

She wasn’t paying him any attention at all, instead untying and knocking off his shoes, and then pulling off his socks.

“My God, madam,” he said, horrified as she unbuckled his belt.

“This is highly irregular, madam; trust me, you’re going to be disappointed.”

He slammed his hands on top of his lower part as she began tugging at his pants, but she managed to pull them off anyway, leaving him stripped to merely a pair of very skimpy baby-blue cotton briefs.

He wished they weren’t so skimpy, and weren’t baby-blue.

“I really don’t want to do this,” he protested, pressing himself against the wall in the corner, nearly knocking off the wall a large glass-covered framed portrait of the Duke of Wellington.

“Oh, you’ll want to, soon enough,” she promised.

He looked up, and his jaw dropped.

Oh my, he thought; how quickly everything changes when one suddenly sees something new.

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 26, 2013, 08:31:05 PM

this chapter omitted because of potentially prurient content--franksolich

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: GOBUCKS on November 26, 2013, 08:34:19 PM

BOOOOOO!!!!!

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 26, 2013, 08:35:35 PM

They were laying on the bed, she on her back and on the outside, wearing only a pair of silk panties.  He was in between her and the wall, laying on his side, totally naked, his head propped up with an arm, as he rubbed his other hand across her abdomen.

The bed was only a single-width bed, but together they fit well on it.

The bedroom itself was rather modest.  He’d had to measure it for the property caretaker some weeks ago, finding it to be 32’ wide by 26’ deep.  But there was just the single bed, a bedside table, a dresser, and an armed chair in the room, nothing more than that.

He didn’t care for congestion.

The room had a high ceiling--one had to use a step-ladder to change the light-bulbs in the fixture up there--and on the west wall, facing the meadow and the river beyond, there were three windows, each of them five feet wide, that stretched from two feet off the floor up to about two feet shy of the ceiling.  The bed was in a corner, and then the north wall, which had two more windows of the same size, looking out on the croquet grounds and the meadow beyond that.

When he’d moved out here eight years ago, finding only roll-down window-shades on the windows, which reminded him of poverty, he’d taken those down, intending to get draperies or venetian blinds, but he’d never gotten around to it, and so the windows, as with the windows in the rest of the house, remained uncovered, the outside world always visible from the inside, and the inside always visible from the outside.

It didn’t make any difference, though, because this was out in the middle of nowhere.

(Of course, in the bathroom, the large window there was of those heavy frosted glass blocks and about 6” thick, so if someone were around, one couldn’t see in, being able to discern only if the light in there was on or off.)

The walls of the bedroom were covered with framed portraits of people, usually painted by Holbein or Durer; no landscapes or still-lives or “modern” “art;” only people, as he’d always found people more fascinating than things.  Scenery and animals and somesuch bored him; only people interested him.

And on the bedside table, there was a silver-framed picture, a copy of the 1935 Jubilee portrait of George V and Queen Mary, beside a framed picture of Henry R. and Clare Boothe Luce on their wedding day, also in 1935.

- - - - - - - - - -

Appropos of nothing, she asked him, “Your first time, how was it?”

“It wasn’t much,” he said; “I was only nineteen.

“The clock on the bedside table said ‘22:07’ when I went in, and ‘22:19’ when I left.

“It was pretty quick, and efficient, and I’d learned what I wanted to know.”

She stiffened.  â€œWell, what about her?”

“She didn’t care,” he said; “it was just her job anyway.”

- - - - - - - - - -

They shifted, so that she was sitting on the edge of the bed, her feet on the floor, while he sat next to her wholly on the bed, his legs crossed.

She looked at him.  â€œWell, when are you going to take off my panties, so we can get started?”

“Let’s just talk first,” he said; “after all, we hardly know each other.”

Thinking of something, she asked, “What do you think of these?” squeezing her breasts at him.  â€œI think they’re too small, I wish they were bigger.  I feel really insecure with them; they‘re too small.  

“I couldn‘t figure out why you reacted the way you did, when you first saw them.  [detail omitted because of potentially prurient content--franksolich].”

Taken aback, he looked at her as if she were Bozo from Outer Space.

“Madam,” he protested, “I like them, I love them, they’re s-o-o-o-o-o perfectly proportioned for your body; they’re the right size, the right shape, and firm.

“Those are great jugs.

“I like them, I love them,” he insisted, cupping them with his hands; “and you’re very lucky to have them.  They’re a real turn-on, a work of art.”

“But most men like big ones,” she said.

“Yeah, I know,” he scoffed; “but a lot of men have no taste for aesthetics.  I have no idea why most of them like jugs that jiggle and droop and sag and drop; it’s really kind of silly.

“Those are great jugs there, madam; only the femme has a pair that’s more of a turn-on."

Thinking he might be going in a direction that would upset her, he slightly changed the subject.  â€œAnd what did you think of me, when you first saw me early this morning?”

“Well, I was surprised,” she said.

“Right, right, but the reaction right after that.  What popped into your mind?”

“Good ass,” she sighed.

He looked disappointed, but then remembered.  â€œOkay, so then I turned around--what did you think then?”

She told him.  He modestly blushed and thanked her.

“All right,” he said, sidling closer to her.  He reached over, and pulling the waistband of her panties, looked down inside.  He did a pantomime, his eyes growing as big as saucers and his mouth falling open in wonder and awe.

Letting go of the waistband, he leaned so as run his lips from there up to between her breasts.

Then he abruptly sat up.  â€œAre you disease-free, got nothing catching?”

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 26, 2013, 08:36:04 PM

this chapter omitted because of potentially prurient content--franksolich

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on November 26, 2013, 08:38:27 PM

Quote from: franksolich on November 26, 2013, 08:36:04 PM

this chapter omitted because of potentially prurient content--franksolich

to be continued

Will anyone (besides Coach) ever be able to see it ?

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: landofconfusion80 on November 27, 2013, 03:46:50 AM

This whole series reminds me of Jane Goodall and her studies for some reason....

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 27, 2013, 07:09:57 AM

Quote from: obumazombie on November 26, 2013, 08:38:27 PM

Will anyone (besides Coach) ever be able to see it ?

The deal with this story is that I wanted to do something special, something nice, to cheer up the brain-damaged primitive during this most joyous of holiday seasons that isn't going well for him.  If walrus-face gets two or three warm chuckles out of this story about himself, well, it was well worth the writing.

But the story's been written for three wholly different "audiences;" whose tastes and preferences vary widely.

We have the brain-damaged primitive himself; that's one of the three audiences.

We have decent civilized people, and we have the lurking primitives; those are the other two audiences.

Decent and civilized people know and understand all there is to life, love, and sex, and so really don't need to be reading this.  But if they wish to, they know and understand enough that they can fill in the blanks of the expunged parts in their heads.

There's no point in franksolich publishing things they already know.

The primitives know and understand nothing about life and love, only about sex.

To the primitives, their idea of heaven is constant non-stop 24/7/365, everybody swilling and screwing everybody else, mounds of sweaty, greasy, grunting bodies relentlessly rolling around all over each other.

That's what the primitives really want.

However, since that's impossible, they settle for getting high on drugs, licit and illicit, 24/7/365.  It's not as good as non-stop sex, but it's better than working for a living or doing something for the good of humanity.

The lurking primitives too can fill in the blanks, no problem at all.

There's going to be a few more blanks until the story ends the evening of Thanksgiving, because I'm willing to go only as far as the "PG" rating, never venturing into the "R" or "X" rating.

There is no smut in this story; only suggestions of soft pornography.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 27, 2013, 07:12:58 AM

Quote from: GOBUCKS on November 26, 2013, 08:34:19 PM

BOOOOOO!!!!!

I'm sure this'll set your mind at ease, but there are no plans, no plans, whatsover, to post any photographs of a bedded franksolich anywhere on this thread.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: Skul on November 27, 2013, 07:17:13 AM

Quote from: franksolich on November 27, 2013, 07:12:58 AM

I'm sure this'll set your mind at ease, but there are no plans, no plans, whatsover, to post any photographs of a bedded franksolich anywhere on this thread.

Finally, something we can all be thankful for.   :whistling:

 :tongue:

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 27, 2013, 07:23:37 AM

Quote from: Skul on November 27, 2013, 07:17:13 AM

Finally, something we can all be thankful for.   :whistling:

 :tongue:

Oh now.

I'll bet gay primitives and female primitives would really go for that picture.

On edit: it's never going to be seen again because one time a lurking primitive was within a milli-second of managing to screen-capture it, and it was my sheer good luck and God's Grace that I removed it in time.

I'll let the femmes who remember the picture judge it; guys and gays and primitive femmes don't count

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 27, 2013, 09:06:03 AM

After they untangled themselves, he got up and walked over to one of the large windows of the bedroom, one of the three that faced the west, towards the river, giving a panoramic view of the snow-covered Sandhills outside.  It was still early afternoon, but it was already starting to get grey.

She noticed something she hadn’t seen in the early morning; he had a lot of scars on his body.  Nothing grotesque or disfiguring, but obvious anyway.

And she adored his full head thick, heavy, dark-brown hair, but wondered why every time she tried running her fingers through it, he slapped her hand down.

Finally, she asked, "Well, when are you going to stop standing there, and take my panties off so we can get down to business?  We've been kissing and hugging and caressing and petting and rubbing and tickling for more than an hour now, and probably it's time for you to do your male business."

“You know,” he said, “I’d feel better if we were cleaned up first.  I myself haven’t been in the bathtub since yesterday morning.  Neither of us are dirty, but I’d just feel better if we started off scrubbed and fresh.

“But the bathtub holds only one, and there’s no hot-tub or sauna here.

“However, the water heater for the bathroom’s set at 160 degrees rather than 140 like for the kitchen, because I like hot water.  All we have to do is run hot water into the bathtub for a few minutes, and it gets like the inside of a boiler in there.

“Then we can do like the workers and peasants do, and rush outside to play in the snow.”

“It’s four degrees out there,” she protested.

“The workers and peasants do it at forty below,” he illuminated her.  “The trick’s not being out there too long.”

Brrrr, she shivered.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her.  “Once we get back inside, we’ll be warmed up quickly enough.”

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on November 27, 2013, 10:08:26 AM

The libs want no repercussion no consequence free unprotected (often depraved) sex.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: Bad Dog on November 27, 2013, 11:12:52 AM

I'm getting too old for this shit.  I'm getting this thread mixed up with Vesta's description of her wedding night on the Amber/Lorelai PTSD thread and coaches brassiere thread.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on November 27, 2013, 11:14:36 AM

Quote from: Bad Dog on November 27, 2013, 11:12:52 AM

I'm getting too old for this shit.  I'm getting this thread mixed up with Vesta's description of her wedding night on the Amber/Lorelai PTSD thread and coaches brassiere thread.

Keep mixing, there's got to be a new mixture that will be the salvation of mankind.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: njpines on November 27, 2013, 11:46:56 AM

Quote from: Bad Dog on November 27, 2013, 11:12:52 AM

I'm getting too old for this shit.  I'm getting this thread mixed up with Vesta's description of her wedding night on the Amber/Lorelai PTSD thread and coaches brassiere thread.

Yikes, do NOT provide a link to THAT!!   :panic:

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: Bad Dog on November 27, 2013, 12:02:36 PM

Quote from: njpines on November 27, 2013, 11:46:56 AM

Yikes, do NOT provide a link to THAT!!   :panic:

Well, since she claims it gave her PTSD, I would never expose innocent bystanders to it.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: GOBUCKS on November 27, 2013, 09:59:20 PM

Quote from: Bad Dog on November 27, 2013, 12:02:36 PM

Well, since she claims it gave her PTSD, I would never expose innocent bystanders to it.

If anyone was traumatized by vestanumbers's wedding night, it was the groom, though he must have already been pretty addled to get himself into such a mess.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: BattleHymn on November 27, 2013, 10:12:29 PM

Quote from: Bad Dog on November 27, 2013, 12:02:36 PM

Well, since she claims it gave her PTSD, I would never expose innocent bystanders to it.

A part of me almost wants to read the story. 


Almost.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on November 27, 2013, 11:44:30 PM

Quote from: BattleHymn on November 27, 2013, 10:12:29 PM

A part of me almost wants to read the story. 


Almost.

A good psychiatrist would ask, what part ?

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 28, 2013, 01:56:07 AM

this chapter omitted because of potentially prurient content--franksolich

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 28, 2013, 01:56:34 AM

this chapter omitted because of potentially prurient content--franksolich

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 28, 2013, 02:00:07 AM

When they got back inside, shivering, and were standing in the kitchen drinking hot chocolate, she remembered something, and looked beyond the door to the dining room, into the living room.

He looked too.

It still looked as if three beached whales, or walruses, on the floor.

“We’re still safe,” he said; “they’re not going to wake up for a while.”

“I wonder,” she said, looking out the windows towards the William Rivers Pitt and the road beyond.  “It’s past three, and already getting dark.  What if they bring the car back?”

“Everybody usually finishes dinner about four, and of course they have to go out and do something with the car,” he pointed out.  “So we got time, plenty of time to frolic and play yet.”

Then he thought of something.  “You’re doing great, madam; any man who doesn’t appreciate you’s a pig.”

“Let’s go,” he said, hurrying her back to the bed.

Some minutes later, when she was laying on her side and he was on top, straddling her, he sensed a disturbance in the force, and stopped.  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

She hesitated.  “Well, yes.  Sort of.  It’s great; I’ve never been put through this much playing around before.  You’re no slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am; I never thought a man could hold back for so long, as impatient as men are, to get it in and to get it back out, and call it done and over.

“One thing is, I still have my pants on, while you’ve been wholly naked with wild abandon all afternoon.

“I feel like this whole bit is unequal, you being totally nude and loose and carefree, while I’m still bound up, as if something about me needs covered up, hidden.  In fact, I practically feel veiled, while you’re free to show off with nonchalant insouciance.

“I’d like to be just as stark naked as you are, displaying and flaunting.”

He looked at her, puzzled.

“In fact,” she went on, “I’m thinking that despite the risks and dangers, you subconsciously like to be caught naked by people coming into your house in the middle of the night so you can show off, ha-ha, I have it and you don’t.  You have some sort of compulsion to show yourself off.

“You’re not the only one who’s read Sigmund Freud.”

Oh, but Freud had other things to say about the matter too, he reminded her.

“I’m confused,” he said; “if you don’t want your pants on, you can pull them off.”

“I pulled yours off, you were supposed to pull mine off.  That’s the way it is, in mutually-respectful relationships.”

“Don’t worry, madam,” he said; “in good time, in good time, I’ll pull them off.  I look at it as I used to look at Christmas presents, opening the biggest and best one last.”

“Well, I still feel covered up, second class,” she insisted, hoping he’d pull them down, but he didn’t.

to be continued

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 28, 2013, 06:30:00 AM

The two of them lay in bed close together, idly sucking face and fondling, not much more than that.  She turned her head to look at the clock on the bedside table; it read 5:37 p.m.

She thought she should be concerned, but couldn’t remember why.

Who cares, he said, with a faraway, dreamy look in his eyes.  “I just want to hang on to you, have you forever and ever.”

Some sort of change had happened to him the past hour.

“Have you ever tried anything kinky?” she asked.

Uh, no, he said.  “I don’t do kinky--no way in Hell.

“I don’t relish the idea of ending up in the emergency room with a hamster up inside me, or with my fist trapped inside of you.  And leather, chains, handcuffs, whips, leashes, collars, lace pantyhose, garters, those vibrating sticks, are silly; I won’t have them.

“What’s naturally on a person is enough to play with, without resorting to toys and gadgets and games to get all excited.

“There’s nothing more of a turn-on than a good totally naked body.”

“Well, I’m ready to get totally naked for you any time,” she said.  “All you have to do is pull off my panties and, well, there I am.”

He didn’t hear her, instead continuing his own stream of thought.  “For example, madam, a good derriere on a woman--no sagging, no creases, not overly large--small and tight--is a big turn-on.  I’ve never been sure what one does with it, but I sure like looking at it.  And looking and looking and looking.”

And then he returned to her question.  “Sometimes, madam, I think that ‘kinky’ is a clue of a depraved mind, for example women who fantasize about hopping around the sack with an amputee.  There’s a certain sort of person--both male and female--who get turned on by certain bodily deformities.

“I have a friend, for example, who was born without ears.  ‘Microtia;’ his mother was a nurse, and when she was pregnant with him, one day she grabbed a bar of soap--nurses after all have to keep their hands clean--that had a chemical, Accutane, in it.  Just one thirty-second exposure was all it took, and she, who’d always had well-formed infants, some months later delivered one absent ears on both sides of his head.

“Much to my--uh, his, disconcertment, when he was a teenager, he found that there’s some women--fortunately, not many--that get turned on by playing around with freaks.

“Why, I, er, he, couldn’t figure out; after all, it’s a dreadful deformity, it’s a horrible thing.

“Like child molesters, people who get turned on by things like this should be taken out and shot; they’re vile, disgusting, depraved people, and don’t belong in the human race.”

He reached over her to the bedside table, in which the drawer had three or four little metallic-like packages, and grabbed one.

Getting up on his knees in between her legs, he donned what he’d taken out of the little package, and tugging off her panties, he said, “Okay, madam, now I’m going to come in--”

At which same moment suddenly came into the bedroom two figures.

He started, and as in the case of past intrusions, he rolled off the bed landing on the floor in a sitting position, and then leaped up on his feet to confront.  On his way to an upright position, he grabbed the edge of the blanket, tossing it to cover her.

It was the neighbor and the automobile mechanic from town.

He kept his composure; it wasn’t the first time he’d been caught in flagrante delicto; he never liked it, but at least he was used to it.

to be concluded

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 28, 2013, 08:35:08 AM

The neighbor wasn’t looking at anything he hadn’t seen before, but the mechanic was a practicing Seventh-Day Adventist, and he felt badly he had seen it too.

And as luck would have it, his wife was one of the most notorious gossips in town…..

The three men went out to the kitchen while she got dressed in the privacy of the bedroom.

It’d just been a flat tire, hardly any problem at all to repair.  The snow and wind and cold had just made it seem worse than it really was, that was all.  She paid the mechanic the requested forty dollars, and he left.

She, the neighbor, and he snapped on all the lights and made considerable noise, so as to arouse the three whales sleeping on the floor in the living room.  It took a while, but eventually they were, and filled with coffee so as to stand on their feet.

She and the neighbor walked them out to the car, and after she blew a kiss at him standing on the front porch, they took off.

When the neighbor came back inside, he apologized.

“You know, I’m sorry you had to come in on that, but, well, excresence happens.”

Yeah, it happens, the neighbor agreed, but not to worry; “Besides, if it didn’t, nobody around here would ever have anything to talk about.”

the end

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 28, 2013, 08:39:15 AM

Okay now, I hope this modest little story warmed the heat and soul of the brain-damaged primitive, to help cheer him through this holiday.  Maybe when walrus-face is at one of those church dinners for the poor today, he can tell it to them.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on November 28, 2013, 08:40:17 AM

Quote from: franksolich on November 28, 2013, 08:39:15 AM

Okay now, I hope this modest little story warmed the heat and soul of the brain-damaged primitive, to help cheer him through this holiday.  Maybe when walrus-face is at one of those church dinners for the poor today, he can tell it to them.

Is there any way the story could have ended "And they all lied happily ever after" ?

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 28, 2013, 08:44:55 AM

Quote from: obumazombie on November 28, 2013, 08:40:17 AM

Is there any way the story could have ended "And they all lied happily ever after" ?

I got a new one coming up after Thanksgiving--no sex in it, though--about my quest for a primitive for Christmas this year.  You may recall I looked for one last year, and didn't get one.

Maybe this year.  Hope springs eternal.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: GOBUCKS on November 28, 2013, 09:39:59 AM

I'm assuming the redacted chapters will be published on the super secret forum.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 28, 2013, 12:54:06 PM

Quote from: GOBUCKS on November 28, 2013, 09:39:59 AM

I'm assuming the redacted chapters will be published on the super secret forum.

Oh, you mean like the time I put one chapter from a hippywife primitive Mrs. Alfred Packer story, when the defrocked warped primitive, Warpy, seduced franksolich?

That's still in that forum, but as nobody ever went to read it, I don't think I'll do that again.

<<<apparently no good at writing porn.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 28, 2013, 08:23:02 PM

Ooops, I need to add this disclaimer, borrowed from another thread here:

Quote

All she needs to do is get rid of those stupid earrings.

<<<finds body mutilations--in this case, holes punched into the ears--decidedly a turn-off.

Other than that, franksolich finds her breath-takingly aesthetic.

NOW, I have to emphasize again, "the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksiving with franksolich," in which various primitives are used as the inspiration for characters, is a work of fiction, although based upon real-life people and events.

<<<means no impugment on, no mockery of, the fizzgig primitive; it was just by chance that she provided the inspiration for one of the characters in this story, and the way she's depicted in the story is probably not indicative of her real person and real character.

I'd thought about using Ms. Piggy, the "msanthrophe" primitive as the inspiration, but got somewhat vomitous at imagining her and franksolich hopping around in the sack.

But for the record, franksolich thinks the fizzgig primitive, what with her exquisite Hebraic features, is stunningly beautiful, and wouldn't want the least bad thing to happen to her. 

<<<doesn't want the fizzgig primitive to be all upset with, which she apparently is.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: GOBUCKS on November 28, 2013, 09:21:45 PM

Quote from: franksolich on November 28, 2013, 12:54:06 PM

Oh, you mean like the time I put one chapter from a hippywife primitive Mrs. Alfred Packer story, when the defrocked warped primitive, Warpy, seduced franksolich?

That's still in that forum, but as nobody ever went to read it, I don't think I'll do that again.

<<<apparently no good at writing porn.

Well until someone sees some coachporn, no one's in a position to judge.

The Mrs. Alfred Packer story was handicapped by its subject. Dummy hippywife was a repulsive character from the first day she lusted after the Fedex man delivering her lobsters. Now that she's been dismembered and devoured, she's more intriguing, but now everyone's forgotten that the nasty portion of her saga is posted in the super secret place.

DUmmy fizzgig is a different case. She's thirty years younger for one thing.

Even more to the point, who can resist the charms of a mentally-ill, bald whackadoodle.

There's nothing sexier than drug-drenched dementia.

Think Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, only bald, and crazier, and not very attractive, and stupid.

On second thought, never mind.

Title: Re: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich
Post by: franksolich on November 29, 2013, 07:51:54 AM

Quote from: GOBUCKS on November 28, 2013, 09:21:45 PM

I forgot where I posted this, but anyway, yesterday afternoon (Thanksgiving afternoon), I took a short nap.  Nothing was going on here, and it was grey and cold in the Sandhills.

I had a dream.....I had a dream that I was out on the town with Clare Boothe Luce, Lady Thelma Furness, Freda Dudley Ward, the current Duchess of Cambridge, and Dame Edith Sitwell.  We went to the El Morocco, the Stork Club, Delmonico's, Toots Shor's, and Grauman's.

Getting bored, we all went to a homeless shelter to try Thanksgiving dinner there.

The brain-damaged primitive came in, hat in hand and a humble demeanour on his face, and humbly asked the heavy scowling woman sitting at the desk for a ticket to the free meal.

Upon his entry, everybody got up and sang "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" to him, after which a conga-dance formed, the Duchess of Windsor in the lead, the brain-damaged primitive right behind her, his hands on her hips, and Brenda Frazier right behind walrus-face, her hands on his hips, and then everybody else.