the rabid terrapin primitive visits franksolich

[franksolich]

Note: the rabid terrapin primitive visits franksolich, which one may reasonably expect to be a merry, light-hearted tale with much about college football described in it, is dedicated to its subject, the “madinmaryland” primitive.

As usual, this is a work of fiction, but based upon real-life people and events.

And as a courtesy to readers, each chapter will be headed with the appropriate rating, “G,” “PG,” or “R”--there will be no “X”-rated material in this story.

RATED “G”

- - - - - - - - - - -

“Dude,” the property caretaker said as he came into the living room and saw all that was going on.

Tipping his cowboy hat to her, “sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but I need to talk to him.”

She’d been a surprise visitor, coming to visit friends, showing up the night before.  I’d wanted to get started then and there, but she had been tired, having been on the road nearly all day, and hadn’t been up to it.

She was a friend from the opposite end of the state, 450 miles away, who’d stayed with me during the summer six years ago, studying the William Rivers Pitt for her Ph.D. thesis in soil science.  It’d been a glorious, bliss-filled summer, during which time we’d discovered that while we weren’t compatible in love, life-styles, or interests, we really liked hopping around in the sack with each other.

However, one must retain an image of public propriety and properness, and so whenever she comes here, she uses the bedroom while I sleep on the couch in the living room, and we avoid the bedroom during the day, lest others think we’re up to something.

- - - - - - - - - -

Sitting in the recliner, one leg crossed over the other knee, he checked the screen of his cellular telephone.

“The reason I’m here is that I got a call, and I’m supposed to call her back before noon; some primitive woman from Ohio, but born and raised in Maryland, is coming out here, and as she doesn’t want to stay in crowded congested Lincoln for a Nebraska football game, she’s wondering if she could spend a couple of nights here--not camping down on the river, but just staying in here."

“Ah yes,” I said; “that must be the rabid terrapin primitive, the ‘madinmaryland’ primitive.

“I know nothing whatsoever about the rabid terrapin primitive,” I continued; “what she looks like, how she’s shaped, how old she is, what she’s like as a person.  All I know about her is that she reads franksolich.

“That’s a big ’plus’ that she reads franksolich, so tell her yeah, sure, no problem, whatever,” after which I thought of something else.

“Because she reads me, she knows I’m deaf, so no need to put on any act.

“However, if she dares try using sign language or somesuch so as to show off her ‘sensitivity,’ I’ll turn to ice on her.  They’re all like Skippy that way; they condescendingly think we’re weak and retarded, and can’t figure things out, and they consider it mighty magnanimous of themselves to ‘stoop’ ‘down’ to our ‘level.’

“She does that, and the Arctic in December’ll be like the Sahara in July, when compared with here.”

to be continued

[njpines]

I think Madinmaryland is a guy . . .

[landofconfusion80]

I think Madinmaryland is a guy . . .

The DU, where the men look like women, the women look like men and on a steady creep towards a bland amiguity.

[franksolich]

I think Madinmaryland is a guy . . .

Well, I guess we'll find out as the story begins (it of course begins with the appearance of the rabid terrapin primitive; what's going on now's just the back story).

But I always got the impression she was a she.

[franksolich]

RATED "PG"

We were laying on the couch, sucking face.  She was on her back, wearing a blouse and shorts, and I was buff, on top sliding and rubbing against her.

“You’re very intense this morning,” she said.  “Be careful that you don’t chafe yourself.”

I know, I know, I said; “but the more I have, it seems the more I need.”

She changed the subject.  “I’m probably years late in mentioning this, but doesn’t it make you nervous, having people walk in on you?  I’ve gotten used to it, but still--”

It’s my own rule, I explained; that because I’m deaf and live alone way out in the middle of nowhere, it’s in my own best interests, for my own safety and security, that the caretaker at all times is aware of who else is out here, and as much as possible about that person, or those persons.

“That way, if something bad happens out here, he already knows the back story before he even gets here.

“I used to be concerned about offending his sensitivities--he after all can come out here 24/7/365--as he’d been born and raised over in Iowa, and Iowans tend to be pretty uptight about such things.  We’re all God-fearing church-going people around here, but not nearly as prudish as people from blue states.

“However, such concerns’d been erased when one time, his wife being irritated with him, confided in me that he’s a clown in the matrimonial bed.  Not a ‘clown’ in the sense of being an oaf or clumsy or stupid or something like that, but a clown in the sense that he impishly wishes to amuse, make one laugh.

“So I don‘t worry about it any more; how one is behind closed doors and no one‘s watching, is how one really is, despite contrary impressions--he apparently being someone who takes sex in a light-hearted manner, rather than the staid proper prim image he’s obligated to radiate.

“Trust me, it really doesn’t bother him.

“And [the neighbor]’s the same way, different behind closed doors than when out in the open, as his wife related to me one time when she was upset with him.  He likes watching things.

“So while as a respectable figure of the community, as a family man with small children, he’s obligated to not publicly show any interest in base carnal things, even though he really is.

“You know,” I said, stopping in mid-course, “I’m really intrigued that so many women come to me for advice and counsel when they’re having problems with a man of theirs, and ask me to explain men to them.  And being one myself, I’m of course an expert; I know what makes us tick.”   

- - - - - - - - - -

As I concentrated on sliding and rubbing against her, she commented that she’d met someone who used to know me, a very long time ago.  “We were talking about how you are now, and he remarked, ‘You know, franksolich never had a chance to sow any wild oats when he was younger, because he was too busy trying to get started out in life.

“’He was stalled, and was always waiting to get going again.

“‘True, a few wild oats happened to drop out from a hole in his pocket, but generally, he didn’t sow.’”

That was very nice of him to remember me, I said, as I slid and rubbed against her thighs.

- - - - - - - - - -

She feeling a need for a cigarette, the two of us walked out to the back porch, where she eyed me for what seemed a long time.  It was windy, and I was having trouble lighting my cigarette.

She commented, “you know, the next woman who shaves you down there, I’ll personally kill.  Hair does something for a man, and shorn like that, it robs something of your allure.  That’s the feminine side of you; you’re a natural flirt, a tease, and one can‘t beguile when it‘s all out there already.”

I know, I know, I said, finally having gotten the cigarette lit.  “I feel bereft, naked, without hair there.”

It was way past sun-up, when I should’ve gotten dressed; in fact, it was already mid-morning, and the three ancient balding hippies who’d camped down by the river the previous night were approaching us.  Rather than taking cover, I shielded myself standing behind her.

Apparently it was just a courtesy call, to thank me for having let them camp there, and so I let her deal with the conversational chores, my chin on her right shoulder, the rest of me sliding and rubbing against her covered derriere, my hands clasped in front of her, protecting that which makes her a woman, although it wasn’t necessary. 

“They must’ve been stoned,” I said as they walked out of hearing distance.  “They didn’t even notice.”

She laughed.

“Well now,” I said, “when are you going to let me undo you?”

“Don’t worry,” she said; “you’ll get your way.  It’s just that I’m not quite in the mood yet.”

Well, I was trying to help her get into the mood, I replied.

“It’s working, it’s working,” she replied, “but don’t be so impatient.  Give me time.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “PG“

After some more time back on the couch, she got involved chatting on her cellular telephone, and missed hearing someone coming here, and inside, but fortunately it was only Romeo, who’d been working across the road, and waited until the caretaker left, before coming over for a pre-lunch beer. 

He and the caretaker don’t care much for each other, but Romeo of course understands it’s far better for him to stay out of the caretaker’s way, than for the caretaker to stay out of his way.

He saw what was going on, and it was obvious he ached.  But he was at work, and couldn’t.

“Careful,” he said; “the way you’re going, you might chafe it.”

I silently agreed; the moment I’d seen him, I felt compelled to redouble my efforts, speeding up the rhythm of sliding and rubbing at a much-faster pace. 

In fact, there’d lately been a phenomenon evolving that gnawed at me; it was starting to turn out that, present woman excepted, unless Romeo was there too, alone or with a second woman, I found myself much less eager to hop around in the sack.  And I’d picked up, through the “grapevine,” that unless I, either alone or with a second woman, was around, Romeo was practically a celibate.

It seemed as if I needed Romeo to watch how I was doing, and apparently he the same, even though we’re both scarcely novices at this sort of thing.  I wasn’t sure if that was a problem or not; it hadn’t been going on long enough yet.  But I figured I’d worry about it later.

- - - - - - - - - -

As he sat in the reclining chair watching, Romeo explained that the three Hebraic-looking women from Omaha--the Italianate, the Greek, and the Argentine--were probably “out” now, as he’d been in Omaha and never found them.

“Well, they were stood up two times,” I said, without interrupting what I was doing.

“And besides,” I continued, “I have bad news too. 

“Crystal and Annette from Joplin, and Amber from Tucson, were coming here--the real reason the first two were coming, of course, was to take their sister Amber away and have her committed into an insane asylum down in Missouri, for her own good--but now they aren’t, because Amber seems to have disappeared.”

“It’s Arizona,” Romeo said; “anything can happen down there.  I wonder where her bones are bleaching at.”

I wasn’t worried, despite the loss of six women with whom we could have fun. 

There’s plenty of women around; Romeo could always get us women.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, from what I’ve heard, you’re making up for lost time,” she said after Romeo left, and I resumed where we’d been interrupted.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I said; “you know how people always talk.”

“You know, it’s your life, and you’ve done pretty well with what you have, but there’s many who seem concerned about the company you’ve been keeping--”

I stopped.

“Romeo’s fine,” I said; “it’s just that people misunderstand him.

“You see, Romeo discovered sex at too early of an age, his ‘first time’ being when he was fifteen, a profoundly impressionable age.  It’d been such a mind-blowing experience for him that he got the impression sex was the only thing to life, the only thing that mattered, the only thing he wanted.

“If it’d happened a little bit later, he would’ve by then had some perspective on it; that sex is, yes, a part of life, but it’s not the only thing.

“He could’ve gone away into the military or college, and made something of himself.

“But it was burned into his brain; sex was the only thing that mattered, the only thing he needed, the only thing he wanted.”

I shifted, so as to straddle her in midriff.

“His employer finds nothing wrong with him; Romeo’s one of the hardest-working, most dedicated, ranch-hands he has, and despite that his standard of living gives the contrary impression, he’s very well paid because he’s good.

“It took a while, but I got to like Romeo.  True, he’s a narcissist too much in love with himself, he can be boring at times--who can’t--he’s got no sense of taste--you should see his home, his ’sex palace’--and he’s a condescending ass, treating me as a naïve younger brother who needs guidance and help, and lots of people don’t care much for him, if they care at all.

“But I’m beginning to see a different side of him, and it’s not all bad--”

She’d met Romeo only a very few times, and only short times at that, in the past, but obviously such fleeting glimpses had left an impression on her.  “You know, it’s too bad he’s the way he is, because he’s so good-looking, and such a good talker.  I can see why women fall for him.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She put her hand on my upright stomach.

“But really, don’t you see there’s something wrong here?

“People are talking about how you two just use women for personal gratification, the way you two sit around after each ‘session,’ comparing notes and critiquing each other‘s performance, and suggesting possible improvements--”

“That’s it, madam, that’s exactly it,” I interrupted, “but it’s all for noble reasons.

“Women have complained since the beginning of time that men don’t satisfy them, and so this is simply sociological research into what pleases a woman, and what doesn’t.  It’s dispassionate scholarship, for the Good of Humanity.” 

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “G”

I was making progress, having pulled down her blouse an inch or two, and was getting ready to nuzzle my nose into her, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I looked up; it was the village idiot.  The village idiot is of indeterminate age, maybe in his 30s, about five feet tall--meaning pretty short for around here--and he has hair, but it’s cut close, almost shaven off his head.  He has a bug-eye and a withered hand.

Rumor is that his old man used to thwack him with a 2x4 when he was a kid, for being stupid.

“This is Hortense,” the village idiot illuminated us, in what‘s apparently his high-pitched falsetto voice..  “Romeo got us together.  We’re going to go to [the big city] to eat, and then we’ll go back to my place to hop around in the sack.”

I looked, seeing a face more horizontal than vertical, topped with violently-red hair.  She was surely no more than a yard and maybe a couple of inches high, but as broad as the doorway.  She had no neck, and the shortest arms I’ve ever seen on an adult.

She wore bottle-bottomed eyeglasses with a “jeweled” chain reaching from bow-to-bow behind her head.  She wore way too much rouge on her cheeks, and her fingernails were painted green-and-orange. Her purse borne in front of her, she was wearing a polyester Hawaiian-style muu-muu, and white slipper-looking shoes.

I’ve never seen a torpedo in my life, but I imagined her jugs could sink a battleship.

I told Hortense it was nice to meet her, and then went back to what I’d been doing.

- - - - - - - - - -

Harrumph, the village idiot let out.

“I’m taking her to lunch.

“I need the thousand dollars you promised me, for cutting you loose the time those women’s-libbers handcuffed you to the back of Romeo’s truck so they could get a lock of hair from you.”

Oh yeah, that, I thought.

I got off of her and walked into the kitchen, the village idiot and the red-topped Hortense following me.

Since it’s sometimes necessary to keep substantial amounts of cash around here, but as this place is easy to break into, I stash the cash where a thief’s least likely to search, among the frozen foods in the freezer of the refrigerator.

Not all in one bundle; it’s scattered around in there.

I took out an opened bag of frozen corn, and extricated three $5 bills and two $1 bills, giving them to the village idiot.  “I’m sorry,” I lied, “but this is all I have at the moment.  I’ll give you the rest later this week.”

The village idiot looked disappointed.  I thought of something.

“Well, where are you taking her for lunch?”

“The ‘Peking Fried Chicken and Curry Carry-Out’ place,” he said.

I was familiar with the Peking Chicken, although I’ve never eaten there.  “Well, it seems to me two people can eat pretty good there on seventeen bucks, if they order the daily specials.”

The village idiot frowned; obviously, he’d counted on fine dining.

I wasn’t going to extract more cash from the freezer, lest it give away that there was more in there.   I rather like people thinking I’m poor; it discourages them from asking me for money.  I remembered there’s several jars scattered around the place in open view, into which I dump one-cent and five-cent pieces, dimes, and quarter-dollars.

We went back to the living room, where I found a jar of five-cent pieces.  I carefully counted out 200 of them, putting them into a plastic “baggie,” giving them to the village idiot.  “Here’s ten dollars more,” I said; “for twenty-seven dollars, you two can dine like bison at the Peking Chicken, with enough left over for a tip.”

That seemed to placate the village idiot, at least for the time being.

- - - - - - - - - -

Now, the village idiot can’t drive, and so I was curious how they’d gotten way out here. 

I was informed, proudly, that Hortense had driven them, in her nicely kept-up 1979 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham.  I stopped in my tracks; that’s a pretty big car, about as long as an aircraft carrier, and I was curious as to how a lilliputian dwarf could possibly drive such a thing.

I walked out into the front yard with them, where I was shown the pedal-extenders, about as long as stilts, and the booster seat.  “Nice,” I said. 

“Well, okay, we’ll have a good time,” Hortense said, looking up at me.  “But probably you’d better get inside and get dressed, because people might come by, and see you naked.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “PG”

“Well, I’ve heard you may have a problem upcoming,” she told me the next morning.

After nearly all day of exerting, she’d finally let me poke her the previous evening.

We were standing in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to finish, she wearing a neck-to-ankle furry white bathrobe, while I was still buff…..as I‘d been since she first arrived thirty-six hours ago.  But as she had nothing on underneath the bathrobe, I figured it’d be shorter work today.

The coffee done, we poured ourselves cups, and went out to the back porch to smoke cigarettes.  She laid down on the chaise longue, while I stood against a porch railing in front of her, subtly but impishly bending my mid-section towards her, so she’d get a hint.

“I’ve heard that this rabid terrapin primitive might not be what you think she is,” she said.  “There’s rumors it’s a guy--”

Yeah, I interrupted; “I just heard that too.

“If it’s true, there goes the whole blueprint of this story--and damn, I had a great blueprint.

“I rarely make outlines, or lists of things to describe, but in this case, because of the fiasco with Big Mo’s story, I took special care to decide what this story should be, how it should evolve, and its ending.

“Big Mo’s story had been a disaster because I wrote it off the cuff, extemporaneously, and it had too many primitives in it.  And so I wasn’t able to give any of them their due.

“This time, I was going to concentrate on only one primitive, and I had it all planned out how it was going to go.

“But if the rabid terrapin primitive turns out a guy, well…..back to the drawing-board.

“Damn.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“What made you think she was a woman?” she asked.

“Well, I’d been pretty sure she was a woman, based upon what I used to read of her on Skins’s island during the college football season.

“It’s been two or three years now, but there used to be some primitive who ran a ‘football predictions’ thread there--I forget the name, it was some guy from Iowa State University, who was shacking up with, freeloading off, some chick also a student there.

“It was really odd, because this guy was my age, and still an undergraduate in college…..and he’d been in college since Jimmy Carter was president.  He wanted to become a sports writer, but instead stayed in college for years, decades, to get deferments on all his student loans.

“Anyway, so he ran this ‘football predictions’ thread every week during autumn.

“Primitives as a general rule aren’t into college football, but he did okay garnering an audience.

“The audience was all guys, and what at least seemed to be, one member of the female race.

“Her vocabulary and word-usage betrayed that she was a woman; she wrote like a woman.

“From all the back-and-forthing between her and the other college football primitives, I got the impression she was a woman who preferred hanging around with the guys, not with other women.

“Which of course is okay--the femme being the classic example--because some women can’t stand women who feel and behave ‘womanly,’ where judgements are based upon emotions and not facts, where perception’s more important than reality, where what one wants to happen is more important than what actually happens, where fantasies trump reason.

“The rabid terrapin primitive was no women’s-libber, that’s for sure, but she’s no guy either. 

“At times, unless I was misreading something, it seems to me she was flirting with the guys.

“Well, when she shows up here, and she’s a guy, I got problems…..”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “G”

The rabid terrapin primitive, as planned, arrived here late at night two days later.

I was awed that the primitive could come all the way here from Ohio, in just two days and one night, having stopped at a motel on the Illinois-Iowa border on the primitive’s way.

When I was 20 years old, and in college, one time I drove all the way from Winnipeg, Manitoba, to Lincoln, Nebraska, and that stressed me considerably.  When one’s already seeing hallucinations when barely inside North Dakota, with South Dakota and most of Nebraska to come yet, one’s got problems.

More recently, a few years ago, I drove from here to northeastern Pennsylvania.  I spent one night in Iowa, a second night in Illinois, a third night in Indiana, a fourth night in western Pennsylvania, and finally reached my destination the evening of the fifth day.

And on the way back here, the same thing, but reverse.

I think it’s because of deafness; one can’t listen to the radio, chitchat with passengers, or yak on the cellular telephone.  No distractions or diversion at all; one just…..drives.

And burns out rather quickly, from the focused, intense concentration.

Now, I pay $84 every six months for automotive insurance; as far as I know at least, no one else around here pays that little.  I’m a good driver, an excellent driver, even under the most unfavorable of circumstances.  But just because I’m good, doesn’t mean I like to do it.

- - - - - - - - - -

The rabid terrapin primitive stuck me as okay.  I set the primitive up in the bedroom, and as it was late at night, went to sleep myself on the couch in the living room.

Since this was company and I didn’t wish to offend, I wore a pair of gym shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt, in which I was still attired the next morning, when I was out on the back porch, having a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette.

The primitive came out a short while later, smiled, and sat down across the table from me.

“So…..tell me,” I was asked; “how did you end up being franksolich?”

“It’s a long story,” I replied, “and it’s almost twenty years old now.

“When I came back from the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants in the summer of 1995, the internet was finally coming into popular usage, and a friend of mine decided it’d be good for me to have it.

“When I came back, I’d gone back to Lincoln, where I’d lived before.

“So I got a computer, and an account with America On-Line, and promptly proceeded to register there, and on various message boards.

“I wanted to use my real name--it seemed a lot of people were doing that, in those more-innocent days--but I found I couldn’t; I was blocked everywhere I tried to register, including on America On-Line, being told that that name had already been taken.

“I was floored.  I don’t have an unusual name, but still, it’s not a common one.

“Well, somebody else already had it, and so I had to think of a different name.

“By chance--or perhaps by the Will of God--I saw the sports section of the Omaha World-Herald laying on the table next to the desk, and the headliner was a story about the Nebraska football team, citing a then-obscure assistant coach.

“Immediately, I knew I had to have that name, franksolich; it suggested sturdiness, solidity, integrity, and seemed so quintessentially ‘American.’

“I was delighted to find out I could use that name almost anywhere on the internet, and so I did.

“At the time, he was still pretty unknown; it was just by coincidence that a few years later, he became head football coach at the University of Nebraska, and one of the best we’ve ever had.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, don’t you think that might’ve been somewhat, uh, dishonest, stealing another man’s name?” asked the rabid terrapin primitive.

No, not at all, I said.  “My intention was not to impersonate, not to use the name for dishonorable purposes--and in the past nearly twenty years, I never have--I just liked the name, but of course kept in mind that I had to take special care so that even the most dense person wouldn’t confuse me with the real man.

“For a couple of years, I was host on America On-Line’s ‘college football chat,’ under that name, and I don’t recall even a single instance of a dumb kid mistaking me for the real article.  The real man of course is all class, total class, and so one could easily tell I wasn’t him.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Did you ever find anyone using your name?” the rabid terrapin primitive asked.

Yeah, I did, I said; “and in a really short time, too.

“My best friend since we were 19 years old had been a computer geek long before computers were popular, but was by then a criminal defense attorney.  He hadn’t liked the idea of my going to the socialist paradises--as did not hardly anybody else but God--and had hoped that when I got there and looked around, I’d come back really soon.

“But I didn’t; I stayed and stayed and stayed.

“Because I wasn’t around, and because it seemed as if I was never going to come back, one day he expropriated my name, and all versions of my name, for his own purposes.  He made me a presence on the internet, making it look as if I’d lived places I’d never been near, and done things I’d never done.

“The last I checked, he’s still doing it.”

“But didn’t you resent that?” the primitive asked. 

No, not at all, I said.  “He was my best friend, we’d been best friends since forever, and he never did anything dirty on me.  I had no idea what he was using my name for, but as it was him who was using it, it was okay, I was cool with it.

“And besides, being an attorney, he wouldn’t misuse it, do anything illegal with it.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “G”

“Why did you kill Andy?” the rabid terrapin primitive asked me.

The primitive was setting up a fire in the charcoal grill, as I’d suggested lunch, pointing out there was plenty of food in the refrigerator, both new and leftovers.  The primitive decided upon two three-quarters-pound sirloin steaks, and I took a hamburger that’d already been cooked, slapping it down on the grill to cook again.

Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, I said; I killed the late red round one.

“I know; I stopped Paypal from dispensing the funds for the operation, and stopped--or at least delayed--a possible life-saving operation.

“All by myself, although some allege there were others who helped.

“Being a private person with no connection, blood or civil or legal, no connections at all, with the red round one, a major corporation and a major hospital allowed me to interfere with transaction of their usual-and-normal business.”

As I poured blue cheese salad dressing on the bun for receipt of my well-done hamburger, I went on; “you know, I doubt the primitives really want to know what happened to the late red round one.

“They came to a conclusion that they liked, and are still sticking with it, despite that it was a lousy conclusion, and totally wrong.  I, and all those associated with me, had nothing to do with the demise of the late red round one.

“But the primitives came to this certain conclusion, and by God, they’re standing with it.

“Your chief investigator, Judy grasswire, for example, lives less than forty miles away from the founder and president of Scamdy--out there in Oregon--but she’s never bothered to check out that individual, concentrating instead upon someone 1500 miles away, who’s never been further west than Anaconda, Montana.

“And some years ago, after the web-site ‘Scamdy’ had run its course and I was waiting for the internet registration of the site to expire, evaporating it, I contacted lala_raw_raw, then a ‘journalist’ on Skins’s island, who’d covered the scam, offering to give her all the files of the site, which were voluminous.

“The deal was, about 80-90% of what the web-site had was information that’d never been revealed, generally because we’re decent and civilized people who respect boundaries.  This was mostly stuff from off the internet, out in real life, and Scamdy had--and observed--a policy of not publicly revealing something unless corroborating material was on the internet too, where one could check it out.

“It also included contact information, and messages to and from, our sources on Skins’s island itself.

“And personal information about ourselves.

“But by then, it was all pretty much harmless information, being so old, that I had no qualms about lala_raw_raw seeing it, all of it, every bit of it, and reporting her conclusions to the primitives.

“This ‘investigative reporter’ never bothered getting back to me, and so when the registration expired about a month or six weeks later, I just let it go, let it evaporate.

“The primitives, having already made up their minds, weren’t about to change them.

“It’s too much trouble to change one’s mind, I guess.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Why are there forty $10-bills in this bag of frozen potatoes?” the rabid terrapin primitive asked me, “and also, why did you get DainBramaged fired from his job at that automotive dealereship?”

Ha, I snorted.  “We had nothing to do with walrus-face’s getting fired.

“Or any other primitive’s getting fired.

“All we did was report on it.

“To claim that we got walrus-face fired is the same thing as blaming Walter Cronkite for the war in Vietnam…..simply because he reported (or, really, lied) about it.

“In fact, we weren’t even the ones to discover walrus-face’s real identity--he was exposed on another web-site.  Having simply verified already-publicly-known information, we just ran with it.

“We’re always being accused of starting things, and I really wish we would, but the blunt fact is, all on which we’ve reported about the antics of the primitives, first came from other sources.  We just grabbed the material, and ran with it.

“You know,” I said as I dumped blue cheese salad dressing on top of my fried potatoes, “we have a ‘trophy room’ at conservativecave, a great big vast hall with acres of wall space. 

“We’d hoped to use it for hanging stuffed-and-mounted heads of primitives--trophies--whom we’d nabbed, for whose demises we were responsible.  We’d anticipated it’d be jammed full in no time at all, and wondered if the Great Hall was big enough to display all of them.

“The sad fact is, the walls are still bereft of any trophies, and the place is congested with cobwebs.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “PG”

“Why do you always make so much fun of us?” the rabid terrapin primitive asked me.

As it was a hot day, we’d gone down to the river to swim, and were now laying in the sand.  I suppose I’d surprised the primitive when I’d taken off my shirt and shorts before diving into the water; it was the first time, ever, I’d been voluntarily buff in front of a primitive, but I didn’t care.

I’m deaf; while hearing people are wasting their time listening to spoken words, I’m watching the nonverbal physical clues--the body doesn’t lie--to catch what the other person really thinks, and in this instance I’d detected that while I’d startled, I hadn’t offended.

“Because Skins’s island is there,” I said, “and begging for attention.

“Professional Democrats and liberals don’t really care what primitives think; remember, Skins’s island was founded almost fourteen years ago, its specific purpose being to identify, attract, and gather in the fringe lunatics of the party, sequestering them out of sight of the general public.

“The Democrats had been losing too many elections, and they correctly perceived it was because the weirder among them, the nutcases, the wackos, the extremists, were turning off the general public.  And so they were compelled to hide those elements out of sight.

“Democrats and liberals want the votes, and whatever pocket change they can extort, from the primitives, but as the primitives embarrass them, they’d just as soon the primitives not be seen, like the crazy aunt or retarded Johnny who’s pent up in the attic.

“The result of this being nobody pays attention to the primitives…..excepting us.

“And so, really, the primitives need to be grateful to us; not only do we pay attention to you, but we also quote and disseminate you out to the wider world.

“You guys should love us, helping spread your message around.”

Needing to stretch, I got up, my back to the rabid terrapin primitive, and did so, clutching each haunch.  The nonverbal clues I got when I turned around to sit back down again, was that the primitive was awed, impressed…..but I dunno if by my brazen audacity, or by my ass.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, you scare people away from there,” the rabid terrapin primitive insisted.

Bah, humbug, I said.  “That appears to be an effect we have, and it’s not good for us.

“There’s lots of primitives who used to provide us with first-rate, top-notch comedy material, who apparently felt intimidated by us, and quit posting, depriving us of good stuff.

“I won’t name names, but really, it’s stupid, running away like that.

“In the first place, it’s not as if any of us pose any physical or other real-life peril to any primitive.

“In the second place, why should it worry anyone, being quoted?  I thought you guys had a message you’re trying to get out, and we’re helping you get it out.

“Maybe a primitive’s embarrassed about, or ashamed of, sentiments the primitive’s expressed?

“Well, whoop-whoop-de-do,” I said, getting up again.

“All of us have said or done some really stupid things that we later regretted.

“I’ve had my fair share of faux pases on the internet the past twenty years; said and did things I probably shouldn’t’ve.

“But what’s said is said, and can’t be unsaid.  What’s done is done, and can’t be undone.

“Everybody’s been a jerk before,” I said, standing over by a bush, letting flow the contents of my bladder.  Shaking off the excess water, I added, “but we get over it.  It’s not the end of the world, to be caught looking stupid.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “PG”

I was out on the back porch enjoying the fresh air of the Sandhills when the rabid terrapin primitive walked out.  It was before 6 a.m., when anybody’d be around, and so I was, well, the way I was.  It’d been a very hot and stuffy night, and my visitor gets the air-conditioned bedroom, the only air-conditioned room in the house.

“Why are you so obsessed with us?” the rabid terrapin primitive asked me.

I lit a cigarette as I answered the question; “I’m not obsessed.  Most people think I’m rather more obsessed about working for a living, getting along with other people, and doing good for humanity.

“But obsessed with the primitives, no.

“I suppose it might seem I’m watching the primitives 24/7/365, but what seems to be, usually isn’t.

“I don’t imagine, when the time’s all added up, I spend more than an hour and a half a day, watching the primitives.  Most people spend more than that, watching television, or in the case of Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor, the NJCher primitive, at least three times that just making supper.

“I’ve never heard a primitive complain about anyone being obsessed with watching television.

“You see how I live here, and know why it is; no television, no radio, no movies, no video cassette recorders, no compact discs, no plastic 33.3 records, no music, no movies--in fact, no means of entertainment as usually had by hearing people.

“Primitives are really obsessed about ‘rights’--which are actually usually ‘privileges,’ but never mind--and it strikes me as odd, that they think franksolich is up to something I shouldn’t be, watching the primitives, as if a deaf person has no ‘right’ to be diverted, amused, illuminated.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “G”

“Well, you watching us too closely creeps people out,” the rabid terrapin primitive said; “and it discourages them from posting.”

Two things, I replied; “number one, it shouldn’t bother the primitives being watched any more than it bothers actors on television screens being watched.

“Watching Skins‘s island after all is a great deal like watching television; the dramas, the episodes, the characters and their predicaments.

“One simply watches; one doesn’t get involved, one doesn’t interfere, as the show wends it way to the end.”

“But people do quit posting because they’re being watched,”  the primitive insisted.

- - - - - - - - - -

Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, I said; “there’s been absurd allegations that we’ve chased primitives away.

“The classic one’s that of the hippywife primitive Mrs. Alfred Packer; Judy grasswire insists I chased her away by writing all those short stories about her.

“But that wasn’t the real reason hippywife left; she left because hippyhubby Wild Bill got tired of her paying so much attention to the other cooking and baking primitives instead of to him, and so he ordered her to quit.  Wild Bill’s pretty jealous, and possessive of his woman.

“Another one’s that of the sparkling old dude, about whom it’s been alleged the DUmpster chased him away by ridiculing him so much.  The real reason he left was because he was distracted by problems with his much-younger trophy wife, who was getting tired of him.

“And when the Top DUmmies awards are given out every December, there’s been allegations that many of the top ones left out of embarrassment or humiliation.  Now tell me, when someone’s honored with an award, they run away?

“Bah, humbug; it‘s usually just coincidence, nothing more.

“Coincidences happen.”

- - - - - - - - -

I lit another cigarette.  “And right now, there’s something going on, with accusations being flung around.

“It seems dear old sweet Lu, hostess of the cooking and baking forum, has been missing for two months, and it’s being bandied about it’s because we intimidated her, scared her away.

“Bah, humbug, again.

“Now, to digress for a moment here--if we’d in fact scared dear old sweet Lu away, we actually did the primitives a favor, ousting some non-productive dead wood over there.

“When dear old sweet Lu became hostess of that forum, it was the largest and liveliest of the ‘little’ forums on Skins’s island, something always happening there, and dozens and scores of primitives dedicated to making it an interesting place to be, providing the DUmpster with lots and lots of good material.

“But alas dear old sweet Lu wasn’t around long, before the forum began declining and withering away; these days, the forum’s about as lively as the bird-watching forum, and congested with cobwebs.

“That happened because while dear old sweet Lu wanted the title of hostess, she was too lazy to perform the chores of hostess.  She thought all she had to do was post a ‘what’s for supper?’ thread four or five days of the week, and that was it--a one-line post with no other text.

“Now, dear old sweet Lu lives in the mountains and valleys of western North Carolina, eastern Tennessee.  She knows cooking, and probably has a big vault of unusual recipes.  And because she’s where she’s at, she probably has a lot of interesting stories to tell, about how life is there, in a place unfamiliar to most of the rest of us.

“As hostess, she should’ve been posting recipes, anecdotes, and stories every day, to excite and attract attention to her forum; to get some discussion going among the other primitives.

“Like what happened with the DUmpster on conservativecave.  Not many people remember, but the DUmpster was once a little itty-bitty tiny forum on conservativecave, drawing little or no interest.  At first, nobody paid any attention to the DUmpster.

“However, under the moderation of members such as DemonicUnderwear, Chris_, LC EFA, asdf2231, DixieBelle, bijou, Freeper, and now the illustrious SGT Snuggle Bunny, all of whom posted much and often, the DUmpster’s now a major forum on conservativecave.

“In the meantime, the situation over at the cooking and baking forum was that many primitives, seeing that dear old sweet Lu wasn’t lifting a finger to keep it animated and lively, thought to themselves, ‘well, if she’s not going to post and comment, why should I bother?’

“If we’d in fact scared dear old sweet Lu away, we actually did the primitives a favor, ousting some non-productive dead wood over there.  Maybe they’ll now get a hostess who cares, restoring the Good Old Days to the forum.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Putting my used-up cigarette out and lighting another, I went on.

“But that’s not what really happened; that’s not why dear old sweet Lu isn’t around.

“It didn’t take a medical professional to figure it out either; she betrayed all the symptoms of being afflicted with hookworm: laziness, lethargy, indolence, shiftlessness, sloth, apathy, lassitude.

“Now, hookworm’s essentially extinct in the south these days, mainly due to the exertions of private individuals, private money, and private endeavors--no costly governmental involvement and interference at all--about a hundred years ago.

“But nothing’s ever 100.0% wiped out; usually only 99.9%, if that much.

“Dear old sweet Lu lives in a remote, isolated pocket of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and it’s possible hookworm’s still there.

“However, dear old sweet Lu won’t get it treated, so that she’s lively and active again.

“You see, dear old sweet Lu is one of these older women who like to be considered ‘elegant.’

“And to get the hookworm properly diagnosed and then treated, she’d have to lift her dress so a physician can look up inside her rectal aperture.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I was thinking of when I was in high school, and worked at an old-fashioned “mom and pop” grocery store, much of whose clientele, out of sentiment and social connections, consisted of the Country Club set, including more than a few affluent old widows.

Many of these little old ladies were self-conscious about some of their purchases; personal products such as…..bathroom tissue.  They’d come down the aisle, and then look around to be sure no one else was looking, after which they’d quickly snatch up a single roll of Scott’s bathroom tissue, put it into their shopping-cart, and then heap other purchases on top so it wouldn’t be seen.

Single rolls of paper-wrapped (rather than plastic-wrapped) Scott’s bathroom tissue were pretty expensive, but at least in the pecuniary sense, these well-coiffed purple-tinted-hair little old ladies knew what was going on--that inch-for-inch, foot-for-foot, these single rolls were actually cheaper than any of the other options.

Anyway, so they’d come to the cash register with their loaded shopping carts, and if I noticed a roll of Scott’s buried among the other goods, that was usually the first thing I pulled out, using the ”excuse” that it was sales-taxable, as compared with the groceries.

I’d be really slow about ringing it up, especially if there were people behind, commenting about the color, the texture, or the design of the product.

Now, it may sound as if little old ladies, discomfited by publicity about what they were purchasing, got to not like me, but actually the opposite occurred.  When I graduated from high school, endured some family tragedies, and then graduated from college, I got plenty of cards, letters, and even checks, from most of these same little old ladies.

- - - - - - - - - -

I’m sure that dear old sweet Lu, like these little old ladies of sacred memory, is, uh, bashful about certain things, and doesn’t like the idea of having to lift her dress so that a medical professional can look up inside there.

And so when she goes to see her physician about her tiredness, her weakness, her inability to get anything done, she purposely steers his attention to her stomach or her blood or her heart or her lungs or her lack of sleep or her eyes…..just so he don’t think to look there.

Never mind that medical professionals are used to such sights, and that dear old sweet Lu’s rectal aperture can’t possibly be much different than anything they haven’t already seen hundreds of times before.  And never mind that as long as he doesn’t think to look up in there, dear old sweet Lu’s problem’s never going to be cured.

^^^that’s what’s really going on with dear old sweet Lu.

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “PG”

“So--there you have it, there it is,” I told the rabid terrapin primitive.

“She has all the symptoms of hookworm, and the symptoms point unanimously directly to…..hookworm.

“She can get her heart checked, her blood checked, her stomach checked, her sleeping patterns checked, her liver checked, her eyes checked, her whatever else checked, all she wants, but unless she gets her rectal aperture checked, dear old sweet Lu’s real problem‘s not going to be detected, and she‘s never going to get well.

“But since when has a primitive ever paid attention to franksolich?

“I kindly suggest dear old sweet Lu ask around, on Skins’s island, about the fates of those primitives who ignored the advice and counsel of franksolich.”

- - - - - - - - - -

It was about this same time that the village idiot walked into the kitchen, followed by the dwarf Hortense.

“Nice dog collar you’re wearing there,” I said, “but why?”

The village idiot glumly replied that Hortense had insisted he wear it.

I looked at Hortense, behind him.  This time, she was wearing a mini-skirt and black silk stockings, the skirt so short the garters were exposed.  Covering her torpedo-sized jugs was some sort of brown leather vest.  She had on sunglasses with jeweled frames, and instead of her purse, was carrying some sort of leather strap, or leash, or belt, in her hands.

“I need more of that thousand dollars you promised me, when I cut you loose of the handcuffs the women’s-libbers had locked you in,” the village idiot announced.

I groaned.  “But I already gave you twenty-seven dollars, for your lunch the other day at the Peking Chicken, and you spent it all?”

“We need to get some things in [the big city], to ‘enhance’ hopping around in the sack,” he said.

Hmmmm.  “Maybe I have stuff here you can borrow, so it won’t cost any money,” I suggested.

The village idiot rattled off a long list of things usually found in sex-supply stores.

“Oh now,” I said, exasperated, because I had none of those sorts of things around here, and so was going to be compelled to give him some money, “why does anybody need this sort of junk?

“It seems to me everybody’s already born with all the equipment, all the attachments, all the toys and gadgets, one needs when hopping around in the sack; it’s all free, and comes with our bodies.”

I wasn’t going to win this argument.

I didn’t dare withdraw cash from the freezer again, because he was already aware of that source, and might begin thinking of it as an inexhaustible vault.  Flipping the mental Rolodex in my mind, I remembered that I kept some currency inside the spare tire in the trunk of the automobile.

I stepped out into the front yard, the village idiot, then Hortense, and then the rabid terrapin primitive behind me.

Opening the trunk, I felt around the inside of the spare tire.  I didn’t dare pull out the whole bundle, lest it tempt the extortionist village idiot.  Instead, I felt around and pulled five bills, hoping very badly none of them were twenties.

God smiled upon me.  I had blindly and randomly pulled three ones, a five, and a ten.

The village idiot looked disappointed.

“But this is all I have at the moment,” I lied; “I’ll get you the rest next week.”

“Okay now,” the dwarf Hortense said, “it’s too bad it’s not more, but we’ll find something we can buy with it.”  And then looking at me, “don’t you ever wear any clothes?”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “G”

“Well, you--and you in particular--do seem to pick on certain members of democraticunderground,” the rabid terrapin primitive said.

“I’m thinking of the way you excoriated Atman, for years and years.”

The primitive and I were riding around looking at the scenic wonders of the roof, the northern edge, of Nebraska. 

I was becoming rather used to the rabid terrapin primitive, who’s been here several days now, and thus far hasn’t exhibited anything especially obnoxious or nuisancesome. 

Of course, I have to work, and be away from home for other reasons, but the primitive’s been remarkable in being self-reliant upon finding things of interest to see and do.  And the lack of “home entertainment” toys and gadgets--television, radio, &c., &c., &c.--didn’t seem to bother the primitive, who obviously finds the company always dropping by, of more interest.

I’d been illuminated the previous day that the rabid terrapin primitive’s staying here another nine days yet--I’d probably been told this even before the primitive arrived here last week, but ignored it as being unimportant, not worth my time and trouble to “get”-- which was cool with me.

It’s been this way all my life, people coming, staying a while, and then leaving.

- - - - - - - - - -

True, I said; “I rode Atman rather hard.

“But it was his own fault.

“He showed up on the old conservativeunderground all pompous and full of himself, and so for the Good of Humanity, he had to be knocked down a notch or two….or dozen or score.

“He wantonly projected the image of an Adonis, a narcissist, a rich kid surfer boy, a crass materialist, dedicated to a life of decadent hedonism.  But actually, what he was projecting was pure stupidism.

“I’m sure God presented Atman to me, so I’d have a special primitive to flagellate.

“The Atman-franksolich feud was surely one of the longest-running on the internet, beginning in late 2006 and continuing until recently.  It made both of us famous, he for his stupidity, and me for my wit--”

The rabid terrapin primitive, who was driving, touched me, interrupting.  “Now wait, ‘continuing until recently’?”

Yeah, I said; “it’s pretty much over.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Sometime early this past June, I said, “Atman e-mailed ownership and management of conservativecave, whining and crybabying that I was picking on him too much.

“Ownership and management of conservativecave isn’t too happy when members make too much fun of the primitives, either individually or collectively, and tries to discourage it.  They think it makes us look bad, making fun of the primitives.

“I’ve had my knuckles rapped more times than one can count, making fun of the primitives.

“When I learned that, I got all hot and decided to start a new jihad against Atman, the Mother of All Jihads.

“I was getting ready to launch it when one day, by sheer chance or accident, I ran across a bunch of primitives discussing storage-unit auctions, and Atman was there, too.

“I stopped in my tracks.”

- - - - - - - - -

Atman (27,679 posts) Fri Feb 3, 2012, 10:11 AM

6. This SUCKS. These guys are predators.

I lost damned near everything to one of these "auctions." Including my wedding album, my golf clubs and over 600 lps. We were broke, rented a bin for $35 a month to store our stuff as we put our lives back together. Or so we thought. We couldn't pay online or with a credit card...we had to show up each month with cash. We moved to another town, now our storage bin was an hour away...I showed up one day, a week after our due date, and my bin had a Master Lock on it. They wouldn't take my money. They sold off all of our stuff at one of these "auctions." DON'T EVER USE A STORAGE PLACE. One of the biggest scams in America.

http://conservativecave.com/index.php?topic=97294
 
“Okay, now some months earlier, my attitude about Atman had started to turn when he made a jocular comment about something--I forget what, though--and the rabid women’s-libbers on Skins’s island, led by BainsBane, the redqueen, the seabeyond bitch, and the Bostonian beanie, ganged up on him and tore him to shreds.

“Hate-filled ugly old hags, those screeching banshees.

“But that was only the next-to-the-last-straw.

“Then suddenly there was this revelation by Atman--while it’s laughable to think that he ever knew poverty, he’s at least known financial desperation.

“Whoa--rich boy’s had financial problems before.

“It suddenly made him human; he’s had problems in life before.

“So I put the jihad on the shelf for a while.

- - - - - - - - - -

“However, shortly after that, there burst out another startling revelation, that finally convinced me to drop forever any ideas of a jihad against Atman; the guy’s suffered too much in life.

“Atman was showing off his infant granddaughter, and I happened to notice the walls behind him.

“I dunno if this was his house, or his son’s house--probably his son’s, though--but anyway, there were framed pictures on the walls.

“Framed in those god-awful tacky kitschy cheap frames people--lower-class ones usually, for their single-wide trailer homes--buy for two bucks or so at Dollar General. 

“They’re the ones, usually the metal frames painted brown, where the matting behind the glass has squares, rectangles, and circles cut into it, behind which one puts small photographs of family and friends.

“They scream ‘low brow!’ so loud even a deaf man can hear it.

“Yikes.  I’ve been dirt-poor myself, but I’d kiss LynneSin--on the mouth, even--before I’d think about hanging any of those frames in any place I ever lived.

“I almost cried, my heart and soul weeping for Atman; the desperate degradation, that one’s compelled to use such things where they can be seen in public.

“So out of pity, I’ve left Atman alone since.

“However, I need a primitive to flagellate and I’m impatiently waiting for the right one to emerge, so I may take up the lash once more.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “G”

“Who’s your favorite member of democraticunderground to pick on?” the rabid terrapin primitive asked, as we drove alongside the Missouri River.

“Now, that’s unfair,” I insisted; “I don’t believe it can be said I ever picked on a primitive.

“At least maliciously.

“My interest in the primitives isn’t of a vindictive nature; it's purely of an anthropological nature, finding out what makes them tick.

“But one can’t just sit back and watch the primitives, recording their behavior and comments--yeah, sure, one can do that, but it doesn’t provide as good analysis, than when one puts a primitive into a staged situation, to observe how the primitive reacts.

“In high school biology classes, one doesn’t just stand there and look at a live frog pinned down on a board.

“One also pokes, probes, and teases the frog, to see how the frog reacts.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We stopped at a highway rest-stop for a bit, so that I could have a cigarette while the rabid terrapin primitive snapped photographs of the river.

“I suppose,” I said, “my favorite primitive of study was the sparkling old dude, who’s there only rarely any more--the ‘Husb2Sparkly’ primitive, later the ‘Stinky the Clown’ primitive.

“Many found him boring in his monotonous obscenity-laced rants, but I found him awesomely intriguing.

“The first thing--long before I knew anything else about him--that struck me was his utter subservience, his acquiescent submission, to his wife.

“Okay, okay, so then I just naturally assumed he was another wife-owned wimp, much like the magisterial one or the truemud primitive.  But still, there seemed more to him than just that.

“Over time--remember, I’m talking several years here--it became apparent that no, the sparkling old dude was much more than those two cowering simpering sissies.

- - - - - - - - - -

“In real life, the sparkling old dude, born in 1946, was raised on the crime-ridden streets and sidewalks of Bridgeport, Connecticut.  He had to deal with some pretty nasty characters, while growing up.  His mother of blessed memory wanted him to become a priest, but he got drafted into the U.S. Navy right out of high school.

“During 1965-1967, he served the chow on a minesweeper located off the shores of Charlestown, South Carolina, protecting that part of our coastline against invasion by the Tangierians or Sao Tomeans.

“After that, he joined a little itty-bitty food service corporation, one of those businesses that runs kitchens and cafeterias and other food services in colleges and other institutions.  During the 1970s, the business grew and grew and grew, and the sparkling old dude grew with it.

“Some time in there, he got an undergraduate degree in something, from somewhere, and then later got a professional degree from an exclusive college in Chester, Pennsylvania.

“In the mid-1980s, that flourishing food service corporation was grabbed in a hostile takeover by a hotel corporation, leaving the sparkling old dude without a job.  But while it’s true he didn’t get a golden parachute, he got at least a silver one.

“He moved to Baltimore, Maryland, and did that one thing his mother most feared--that’s why she’d wanted him to become a priest--resuming boyhood connections, getting in good with the corrupt d’Alessandro machine that ran the city, and had a branch in Bridgeport. 

“The machine’s like any other business; they have a main arena of operations, and then a bunch of branches in smaller areas.  He helped set up a branch office for the d’Alessandro machine in San Francisco, the result being…..Bela Pelosi.

“While all this was going on, the sparkling old dude was getting tired of his first wife.  She loved him to death and all that, but she was getting stout, older, and some hair on her upper lip. 

“He ditched her, and married a younger chick.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I continued as we walked back to the car.

“Well, now the tables are turned.  The sparkling old dude’s trophy wife is getting tired of him.  After all, he’s a senior citizen now, and can’t get it up like he used to.

“It’s all very sad. 

“I think the sparkling old dude’d be better off dumping his second wife, and going back to his first, so as to find some solace and comfort in his old age.

“The sparkling old dude’s the only primitive I’ve ever wanted to meet in real life.

“You see, he’s a raconteur, a spell-binding story-teller, and I’ll bet he’s chock full of colorful stories about personalities he’s known, in organized crime, in the Navy, in the food service industry, and those things need to be told, before he springs loose of this mortal coil.”

to be continued

[GOBUCKS]

Actually, Sparkly Monica is only ten or eleven years his junior.

She owes her appearance to the miracles of plastic surgery and old photos.

If Mike's still active in the Mob, and elsewhere, Sparkly herself could be replaced with a newer model at any time.

[franksolich]

Actually, Sparkly Monica is only ten or eleven years his junior.

She owes her appearance to the miracles of plastic surgery and old photos.

If Mike's still active in the Mob, and elsewhere, Sparkly herself could be replaced with a newer model at any time.

It's been a few years, but you might remember that thread by the sparkling old dude, where he waxed all sentimental and tearful because a big old diseased tree had to be taken down.

I wonder if, those times the sparkling old dude sits around staring off into space, thinking of things old men think of, if he gets similarly sentimental about his mother of sacred memory, who so wanted him to become a priest, or about his commanding officer in the U.S. Navy, who so wanted him to become an admiral, or about his first wife, who loved him dearly.

[franksolich]

RATED “G”

“There’s one you haven’t mentioned,” the rabid terrapin primitive commented, as we drove homeward.

“Your good pal Manny.”

Ah, yes, I said; “my good pal, my good friend, the ‘MannyGoldstein’ primitive.

“Manny could charm a cat out of a tree, he’s so good.

“I actually met Manny in real life, in Boston, many years ago.  He wouldn’t remember me, because even back then, he was surrounded by throngs of admirers and adulators, but damn, I remember him very well.

“Manny’s awesome.”

- - - - - - - - - -

For six years in a row, I went to Boston every year to visit friends.  The first two times, I went there during the summer, but finding the air suffocating with the stench of dead fish and human waste--no matter where one was in Boston, those odors were there, and they weren’t mild--the next four times, I went during the dead of winter, when all was frozen and so there were no insults to these discriminating Nebraska Sandhills nostrils.

“These friends had connections in the publishing business--not big names, but at least medium-sized names, some of who’ve since become big names--and as they were convinced that I ‘had it’ when it came to writing, they always took special pains to get me introduced to these people, and to have these people read things I wrote.

“The problem was, while at the time, many years ago, I might, or might not, have been good at writing, it just didn’t rock my chair, row my boat, push my buttons, turn me on. 

“Being a nice guy, I cooperated best I could with these people, but my heart wasn’t into it.

“One of them, after six years of trying to persuade me to become a writer, finally got exasperated and asked, ‘Well, what the Hell is it, that you really want?’

“I really hated that question; it’d been constantly asked of me since I’d been a teenager, and I had no answer.  It wasn’t that I had an answer but didn’t want to say it--it was simply that I had no answer, period.

“At the last meeting, I gave the best answer possible--’The things I want are things that have no names, so sorry, I really can’t tell you.’

“I know I can be difficult at times, but one can’t help being oneself.”

- - - - - - - - - -

In between these meetings with all these book people, there were other social encounters, including the first time I met Manny.  I disremember why he was there, and what he was doing at the time, but immediately I melted under the spell of his charm and enchantment.

“I suppose that’s something that usually happens to tongue-tied deaf people, whenever we meet a good talker.

“Damn, he was gifted in all the arts of chitchattery.

“The meetings with the book people were a trial; the social encounters with Manny were a joy.

“He didn’t have to pay attention to me--although being courteous, he did--as all I wanted to do was stand there and watch his artistry at speaking and using the English language; I was very happy just to stand there and appreciate his weaving-of-words for hours at a time.

“Damn, he was awesome.

“Now, he wouldn’t remember franksolich, even though I was a cowboy from the Sandhills of Nebraska, because I was usually dressed as proper Bostonians dress, and because he was always surrounded by s-o-o-o-o-o many other people equally seduced by his conversational artistry.

“Manny may be good on Skins’s island, but meet him in real life, in person, and he’s…..awesome; he takes one's breath away.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “PG”

I was laying on the couch, trying to sleep.  It’d turned cold during the night, and I’d tossed a thin flannel blanket on top of myself, but it’d gotten colder than that.  However, being too lazy to get up to get a second, or a heavier, blanket, I just lay there and shivered.

Where my guest, the rabid terrapin primitive, using the bedroom, was, I had no idea.

I’d finally drifted off when I felt a soft tap-tap-tap on my forehead.

I opened my eyes, seeing the village idiot standing beside me.  He was dressed in his “good suit,” worn only for special occasions, lederhosen.

“I have to talk to you,” he said.

I arose halfway up, keeping myself covered.

His dwarf girlfriend Hortense, she of the torpedo-sized jugs, was with him, also formally attired, in a black silk skirt and inexplicably, a see-through blouse which was covered over with a black silk women‘s vest.

- - - - - - - - - -

“We’re going to a film festival down in Omaha,” the village idiot announced, “and I need more of that thousand dollars you promised me when I cut you out of those handcuffs the time those women’s-libbers tied you to Romeo’s truck.”

I inwardly groaned.  This guy was turning into a real money-vaccuum.

Before he had a chance to say how much he wanted, I tried to gauge how much he needed.

Both the village idiot and Hortense are on the social-security disability gravy train, with first-class seats in the parlor car.  I dunno Hortense’s personal finances, other than that her now-late parents had left her some funds that were managed by a bank in the big city.  As for the village idiot, his parents too had left him a trust fund, and the people working at the local bank treated him with much deference--in a town where nobody else does.

So it probably wasn’t as if I’d have to finance their whole day, gasoline, lunch, and all that.

- - - - - - - - - -

“What’s the film festival about?” I asked.  “And where’s it at in Omaha, on the campus of the University of Nebraska there, or what?”

“They’re old movies,” the village idiot illuminated me; “classics.  I Am Curious, Yellow, and Deep Throat.  They’re famous old movies.”

“They’re being shown at the Adult Cinema X-Women-Women-Women theatre in Omaha,” Hortense added.

Ew, I winced.  “That’s a bad neighborhood, you know.”

“Don’t worry,” Hortense replied.  “I’m ready and armed for anything.”

She pulled out a lady’s miniature three-ball Derringer pistol.

I winced again.  “That’s a pretty dangerous weapon there; do you know how to use it?”

She looked aggrieved, insulted, and shoved a folded piece of paper in front of me.  It was a concealed-carry permit, in her name, and duly signed by the sheriff in the county where she lives.

- - - - - - - - - -

The village idiot was getting ready to tell me how much he needed, but I’d already tallied up a figure in my head.  It might not’ve accorded with his expectations, but it was all he was going to get.

Preferring to keep myself covered, I pointed to a large jar across the room, in which were quarter-dollar coins.

The village idiot’s face fell.

“But that’s all I have at the moment,” I lied; “you caught me at a bad time, when everything else is due.”

Hortense brought over the jar, and I counted out 200 quarter-dollar coins, putting them into a plastic “baggie” for the village idiot.

Then I remembered something else.

“You know,” I said to the village idiot, “you’re taking your girl out.  She needs a toy, a token, a trifle, something that’s pretty, to wear.  A flower, a corsage, or something.”

There was a large jar of one-cent pieces on the coffee table.  I upended it and counted out 725 one-cent pieces, putting those into another plastic “baggie” and gave that to the village idiot too.

“Now, have a good time,” I instructed them as they left.

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “G”

“You know, if you could, I’d appreciate it if you said something to [the village idiot],” I told Romeo as we were driving around the county this afternoon.

I hadn’t been doing anything in particular, and as the rabid terrapin primitive’s still off exploring places unknown, when Romeo had stopped by, I asked to join him for the ride and company.

“There’s no point in me saying anything,” I said, “because he doesn’t trust me.  But he trusts you.”

The issue of “trust” has nothing to do with character flaws here.  It’s just that this is the village idiot, who has some, uh, problems mentally absorbing things.  I’ve been around here for almost fifteen years now, but there was a time when I wasn’t here, and the village idiot remembers that.

He’s comfortable dealing only with people who’ve been around since the beginnings of his own consciousness, his own memory, and so Romeo, who was born and raised around here, although only a face the village idiot recognizes, the village idiot trusts.

“You know, he demanded a thousand dollars to cut me loose of those handcuffs that one afternoon,” I went on, “and I said ‘yeah, sure, now cut me loose damn it.’

“You got the easy part of the deal; all you had to do was find him a fat red-headed dwarf with torpedo-sized jugs who was sackable, and that took you, what, ten minutes?

“Anyway, [the village idiot], being considerably cerebrally challenged, has no idea how much ‘a thousand bucks’ is; it’s just the name of a number to him.

“Like the time he was playing poker with [the neighbor] and me, and he wanted to bet ‘a million gazillion dollars,’ and got all bent out of shape when we let him bet only a dime.  Which of course he lost.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“How much have you given him so far?” Romeo asked.

I tallied up the total in my head; “$100.25.

“And he thinks he’s going to get the other $899.75.

“I think a hundred bucks for having gotten me free is more than enough reward.”

Yeah, Romeo agreed; “it’s not like you’re Croesus or something.”

Romeo assured me he’d think of something, and then explain things to the village idiot.

- - - - - - - - - -

Romeo had recently changed his area of exploration, for three women meeting some, uh, rather precise standards I’d set, from Omaha to Lincoln.  Having stood up the Hebraic-looking Italianate, the Greek, and the Argentine, twice, apparently word got around in the larger city, and he was finding no woman willing any more.

Normally, Romeo has no problem, no problem at all, procuring women for the two of us, but this was a case where I’d been fussy about what sorts of women they had to be.

If not actually of Hebraic derivation--my “dream” sort of woman--they had to be at least Hebraic-looking, with dark hair, pale skin, svelte, appropriately-sized jugs, long slender fingers, and interesting noses.

My “ideal” of the “perfect woman,” the woman who turns me on, is based upon my observations, many years ago, of wives of alumni of Brandeis University, although at least a little bit younger than these graceful, elegant, tasteful, chic, refined, aesthetic older women with grace and class oozing out of every pore.

When I lived in Pennsylvania and then New Jersey several years ago, finding such women was as easy as strawberries-and-cream.

But this is Nebraska, where women tend to be nearly universally blonde or carrot-topped.

And those of actual Hebraic derivation about as common as penguins in the Amazon.

Romeo assured me that while he at the moment still had only leads, they were good leads, and that we’d have three of them here when my guest, the rabid terrapin primitive, spends a couple of days down in Lincoln.

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “PG”

“Geezuz gawd,” I said, appalled.  “What ever gave him the idea I could do such a thing?”

“I think,” Romeo replied, “that maybe he once saw a photograph of Madame Chiang Kai-shek here, and that gave him the idea.

“And that’s why he’s so insistent that you, and nobody else, have to find her for him; you’re probably the only person in this whole part of the state who knows what Madame Chiang Kai-shek looked like.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Romeo, as he’d promised, had talked with the village idiot, to convince him that already having been given a hundred bucks by me, in three installments, he’d been more than well-compensated for having cut me loose of the handcuffs with which the rabid women’s-libbers had bound me a couple of weeks ago, despite his initial demand for “a thousand bucks” and my promise to give him such.

“You know,” I said, “it’s a very good thing [the village idiot] lives around here, in one of the reddest parts of the country, where people care.  If he lived in a blue city or blue state, he’d be kicked in the teeth and ordered, ‘okay, retard, go sit in the corner and collect your welfare check, and be happy with that.’

“But because he’s one of our own, and because we care, we respect his feelings.”

Raising my eyebrows to Romeo, I said, “I don’t suppose it’d take you more than ten minutes to rustle up such a creature for him?  I’ll dig up a picture of Madame Chiang Kai-shek for you to look at, so you’ll know what she looked like.”

Uh, no, Romeo said; “he’s insistent that you find her for him.  He says you’re the one who owes him,  and he’s going to watch to be sure that you’re the one who finds her for him.  Otherwise, you still owe him $899.25, and he’s confident you’re a man who keeps his commitments.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“I can’t believe it,” I said, when the property caretaker and the neighbor were here to have lunch.

“The chutzpah, the nerve, the gall, of [the village idiot].

“He expects me to find him a woman who’ll hop around in the sack with him.”

Eww, that’s going to be hard, the neighbor said.

“Well, he already has a woman to play with,” I pointed out, without giving the details.

“And like the one he already has--Hortense--this one has to be a dwarf too.”

Ouch, the property caretaker said; “a dwarf and a woman willing to let him poke her.”

“And not only that,” I continued; “she has to resemble the late Madame Chiang Kai-shek.”

Oops, that’s someone who’d be impossible to find, around here, the neighbor said.

“But that’s not the hardest part,” I said.

“She has to be into this ess-and-em garbage, because he wants her to spank him.

“I don’t run around in pervert circles,” I pointed out; “I’d just as likely know someone who’s into ‘spanking’ as I’d know the Duchess of Cambridge.

“What is it about people, in this depraved, decadent age, when they can’t just have sex the normal and usual way, without toys and gadgets and costumes and play-acting?

“What ever happened to good basic old-fashioned poking?”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “G”

The rabid terrapin primitive returned later, apparently having had spent most of the day going about with the neighbor‘s older brother, being illuminated as to life on the upper Great Plains.

I was gratified; it‘s not that often I‘ve had visitors so able to amuse themselves without oversight from me…..and this was certainly the first such primitive guest I‘d ever had who‘s been this way.

My guest asked me if I‘d heard about Wills, the William769 primitive.

Yeah, I had, I said.

“Well, how do you feel about it?” the rabid terrapin primitive asked.

“Why?  How am I supposed to feel?

“He’s probably undergoing one of those periodic relapses people living with AIDS have to endure, after which he’ll be okay again until the next one, and so on and on.

“I’m not worried about Wills; Wills is going to be okay, no matter what happens.

“Given that he’s s-o-o-o-o-o obviously paying for his sins--his sin being his conduct, not what he is--I have no doubt God’s taken notice, and probably Wills is more assured of redemption and eternal life than I, franksolich, am.

“Always best to pay for one’s sins in this life, than in the next.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“But what were his ‘sins’?” the rabid terrapin primitive pushed me.

I’d already mentioned that in itself, being “gay” is no sin; Wills for example can’t help being what he is, any more than I can help being deaf. 

But Democrats, liberals, and primitives, having jumped to an utterly preposterous conclusion about how "we" think, always seem to get stuck here, going no further--if one’s “bad,” one’s bad simply because of what one is.

They really need to get that notion blasted out of their heads.

And of course there’s always the possibility they think that way--that we think gays are “bad” simply because they’re gay--because darkly subconsciously, they themselves think that way.

- - - - - - - - - -

“One can’t control feeling the way one feels,” I repeated, slowly and deliberately so the primitive could get my point (although I doubted it’d sink in even with the help of a jack-hammer), “but one can control the way one acts, the way one conducts oneself.

“And it appears that Wills, at least earlier in life, conducted himself in the silliest, most arrogant, most self-destructive, ways.

“If he’d shown some restraint, some self-discipline, he wouldn’t be where he is today.

“But he practiced that stupid hippie attitude, ‘if it feels good, do it.’

“After which the second stupid hippie attitude: ’I can do whatever I want to do, I can be as wanton and promiscuous as I want, and if anything bad happens, physicians and pharmaceuticals will take care of it.’

“It’s too bad, because when it comes to primitives,” I said, “Wills has some character, some value, in a group of people where ‘none’ is the usual condition.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “G”

The rabid terrapin primitive searched through the refrigerator for something for supper, taking out some leftover rigatoni con la pajata and warming it up.  As it was cold and wet outdoors, this was done in the kitchen, on the stove.

I found an already-cooked hamburger, and slapped that onto a skillet to cook again.

While I was spreading blue cheese salad dressing on the inside of a whole-wheat bun, my guest commented, “you know, you don’t eat much.”

Oh, but I eat plenty, I insisted; “I eat all that I need.

“For breakfast and then again for lunch, I had a full meal, a heaping flower-vase of ice and milk.

“The perfect food, milk.  It has all the nourishment one needs.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Okay,” the rabid terrapin primitive challenged me, “what’s impressive--to you--about Wills?”

For one, I said, “he’s not a trust-fund kiddie, like so many primitives.  He came from a modest background and had to work to where he got, however high that was.  I imagine he’s downslid since he got afflicted with AIDS, but whatever pinnacle he reached, he reached on his own.

“And there’s that as a teenager, he once read an entire set of encyclopedias all the way through.

“I did that myself, ho-hum, but that’s not the point.

“Most teenagers would whine and bawl, ‘oh, but there’s nothing to do around here,’ and just lay around doing nothing but feeling sorry for themselves.

“Wills found something to do.

“But for me, the really big deal is that Wills has a depth of feeling far more intense than I can possibly have.

“I’ve always envied people who can feel passionately about something, or rather, about other people.

“What I’ve always found impressive is the depth of feeling Wills has, or had, or whatever, for his partner, who died about eight years ago, after about fifteen years of an association between the two. 

"The guy was older than Wills, and at least in appearances looked like a brute; coarse, crude, cruel.

“But who knows what he was like in real life; he may‘ve been entirely different.

“To his credit, Wills’ anguish is real, sincere.  Wills really cared, or cares; the pain's undeniable, it's writ all over him.

“That’s both a gift and a curse, to care so much, but it’s mostly a gift, and one I don’t have.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

RATED “G”

“That’s really odd,” the rabid terrapin primitive said; “I thought there was rather more hostility about gays out here in fundieland.”

“I know, I know,” I interrupted, “you’re probably thinking of that guy out in Wyoming who was murdered a few years ago, and who’s currently on the pantheon of gay ‘martyrs.’

“That was, and is, bullshit, as later journalistic investigations showed; he wasn’t killed because he was gay.  He was killed because he’d tried to cheat someone on a drug deal.

“I’m sure that there’s legitimate cases of people being murdered for their sexual orientation, but Matthew Shepard wasn’t one of them.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Gays have always been part of life out here; they’ve certainly been visible all my own life, from the time I was a little kid.  In rural Nebraska, in small-town Nebraska.

“According to sociology and anthropology textbooks I read in college, they seem a ‘constant’ in the whole of mankind, the most common statistic citing that, in both gay-’friendly’ societies such as the Netherlands, and gay-’hostile’ societies such as Indonesia, they inevitably comprise four percent, or one out of every twenty-five, of the male population.

“I know that’s nothing near what the gay lobby insists their numbers are, but it’s a tendency for special-interest groups to grossly exaggerate their numbers, like what the rabid womens’-libbers and abortion enthusiasts do.

“Four percent’s the number arrived at by academicians with no axe to grind.

“Maybe they seem invisible to outsiders because just like everybody else the Hell around here, they’re not flashy, loud, brassy, pompous show-offs; we’re all modest, unassuming, reticent people.

“And because we’re--straight and gay alike--aren’t crowded, congested, packed together like people are in blue places, we each have more ‘space,’ and more leisure to evaluate the characters of each other…..the usual conclusion being that we tend to find the company of others agreeable despite any differences in person or tastes.

“Being so intimately acquainted with this area, and the Sandhills and central Nebraska and western Nebraska, I can assure you that the ‘four percent,’ the one-out-of-every-twenty-five males, seems consistent, as if it’s some sort of iron-clad law of nature, the way things are supposed to naturally be.

“It’s been that way since forever.

“There’s few enough people around here, that everybody knows all about everybody else, including what they are.  There’s no closets out here; everybody knows what the score is.

“And everybody, straight or gay, gets treated the way he deserves to be treated.  If one’s pleasant and polite, everybody gets along fine with him; if one’s a jerk, he gets his ass kicked.”

to be continued