Playin' Possum




DAY: Satunday mornight
WEATHER: Raining for twelve hours straight.
ATTITUDE: Awake for 22 hours, crappy, long night at work.
DAYS WEARING SAME CLOTHES: 1/24
DUMBEST THING AT WORK TONIGHT: A giant (seriously), ugly guy in his early twenties and his girlfriend stopped into the restaurant just after we’d closed so she could run to the bathroom and puke, or whatever she was doing in a restaurant restroom at 1:30 in the morning where she had not even eaten, while her sulking giant loomed in the aisle, flipping through a menu. After twenty minutes or so, she came out screaming at him, and they proceeded to fight in our foyer. Pretty girl left giant, and giant stalked sidewalk for half-an-hour looking for pretty girl. We named him “Ug” and did impersonations of him: “Ug lose pretty girl…Ug mad at restaurant…Ug still look…Ug throw cars now…” He was the dumbest thing at work tonight. And so was she.
CARTOON CHARACTER OTD: Blue
WISH FOR THE WEEK: That hairy dinosaurs from under the Atlantic Ocean would stop eating ships.
NUMBER OF WILD CHICKENS IN THE YARD: 0


So I just started using blogger yesterday, to put my blog where people can comment on it. And my wise wife informed me that my first post here probably wasn’t a good intro. She’s right, of course. It’s not that I don’t believe what I wrote, and totally stand by it, but for my first post at my blogger blog, it was a bit commando. I plan on starting a couple blogs here, probably one called, Theta Mind, about the stuff I know about healing and the old technique I helped create called The Orion Technique that has now transformed into several different healing modes--most dealing with Theta, DNA, and healing.

I thought I’d lighten it up a bit. Well, lighten it up for you, the readers, but probably throw me into some sort of flashback fit when I tell the tale I’m about to tell. I promised yesterday to tell you about the latest attempt on my life by my distant cousin Haggis.

If you haven’t been following along, let me recap for you:
Haggis MacShamel is this guy from a tiny village in Scotland, called Puddle. He found me when I launched my website, and wrote me an email. I immediately knew his noggin’ needed some adjustments, and I was a bit sarcastic about him contacting me.

He was very irate about me posting his email, thinking it made him look like an idiot, and he said a bunch of weird crap about coming to take me to a bar, and beat me up until I puked-up a cat.

Then he started his journey to America, to find me, visit Hollywood, and kick my ass. I started outright slamming him in my blog.

He was lost at sea or something, and I almost got him be-headed, and then he hooked-up with some assassins in some unnamed Asian country. Now he’s traveling the world, recruiting killers to take me out. Several attempts have already been made. One involved the President, Bootsy Collins, and a gang of giraffes. You can read all about my adventures here: Shameless Creations Blog

The latest attempt occurred a week ago, when I came home from work. I pulled into the driveway, and saw a possum (or if you prefer, an opossum) leap from my trash can, scramble across the yard, and into a lilac tree (bush?). It climbed way out onto a tiny limb, and clamored onto my neighbor’s garage.

I was out of my car by the time it made it to the roof of the garage, we were about fifteen feet from each other.

Something occasionally goes through our trash, rips open old lunchmeat bags and rotten fruit, and scatters packaging around. It’s not bad, and I don’t mind, really. I like having animals around. I wish they wouldn’t eat trash, and stick with the stuff I leave for them, but really, who could pass-up a garbage can stew when no one’s around? I thought perhaps the culprit(s) could be a raccoon or two. But obviously, it was the possum.

So I said, “A-ha! It’s you, Mr. Possum, that goes through my trash!”

I could barely see it, once the car lights were off. Just that glare in its big eyes from porch lights. I was completely taken by surprise when it said, “Why yes, it is I who goes through your trash. But I’m not any sort of Mr.”

There was a flash of blue light, as I stood in embarrassment for my social faux pas, and I was knocked unconscious. I believe I said something ridiculous as I fell, and later the possum told me I’d said, “I love The Backstreet Boys!” but I think she’s a stinkin’ liar.

When I came-to, I was in an empty swimming pool, propped up on what looked (and smelled) to be a pile of rotting canvas, with my legs in nearly freezing, brown leaf-water. The possum stood above me on the rim of the pool, bouncing a bit, and humming.

“Get up, climb out,” she ordered. Now, you’re probably thinking that she had a sort of snarling raspy voice with razor teeth clips at the end of her “t’s”, and an evil intonation. But that wasn’t true. She sounded like Kathleen Turner.

I climbed out. Into the freakin’ wind! I started shivering, and Ms. Possum said some derogatory crap about me not being covered in hair, and what a wuss I was, and how she wasn’t gonna eat my garbage anymore, because she was afraid my utter ridiculousness would rub off on her, or rot in her gut, or something about fish, which we never eat.

That’s when I noticed she had a gun. A gun with a silencer. Pointed up at me. I stopped in my tracks.

She stared at the softly-lit windows in the huge house and said, “Yes, I’m going to kill you. Yes, it’s because I swore my allegiance to Haggis after he saved me from a rampaging commune of lesbian badgers. Yes, I should have just killed you in the pool, because it would be less messy, and less hassle, and there’s that rotten pile of canvas in there, with the brown leaf-water.

"I think your bleeding body thrown back against that molding pile of tarp-sop would probably create a perfect scene, and the photos from the investigators would be top-notch, and maybe even make a few promotions happen. But, Haggis said to bash your head with a computer in some rich guy’s house, strip ya naked, write dirty words on you with permanent black marker, and stuff a cat down your gullet. And so that’s what I’m going to do.

"Especially since you’re such a gimp, the way you screamed, ‘I love the Backstreet Boys!’ when I knocked you out with my flasher-knock-out-beam-shooter. We’re going to march right into that house, and up the stairs to the den, and then I’m going to bash you and—”


That was the last thing I heard from her snarly little mouth with the sultry seductress sound, because while she was staring off at the house like a friggin idiot, I picked up a chunk of splintered diving board and bashed HER over the head with it.

After I made my way out of the backyard, I discovered that I wasn’t far from my own house. I made it back without incident. Except that whole thing with the Irbunian cab driver who, when I told him I had no money; insisted he give me a ride, promising to let me pay with margarine and thumbtacks when we got to my house. I don’t know why I bothered, probably because he drove along next to me for about five miles, and kept asking me, “Why you don’t have money?”, but I told him that a possum had stolen it, and obviously stashed it somewhere, because it’s not like she’s got pockets or anyth—Shit! Marsupial. Damnit. All those one dollar bills. How could she not look fat?

Anyway, obviously I made it home okay. All it cost was two sticks of butter (I didn’t have margarine) and sixty-eight thumbtacks. I threw in a dishtowel that was hanging on the refrigerator, because he said, “Hey, you’d better throw in that dishtowel or I’ll do something bad, like blame your cat for this fart I’m letting right now unless you hand it over.”

So, if you’d like to read more about what Haggis has done to me, and just why he hates me so, check out my previous posts at my website. And while you’re there, check out the bed head pic of the day.

Not you, Haggis. You can just F.O.