If you are even an occasional reader of my blog or my social media posts, you’ve probably gathered that I have a variety of unusual—yet brilliant—thoughts coursing through my brain at any given time. Most of the voices in my head work for me, though there are a few renegade, uh, personalities who operate independently of the collective.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending upon your frame of reference) these rogue outliers have access to the command and control department of my brain, and thereby often force me to think about some purely unconventional things. Even worse (or better—again, depending on where you sit) I am often cajoled into sharing some of this strangeness with friends, family, and even total strangers. I can’t help it. Really.

I’ve shared some of these thoughts on Facebook (often “de-weirding” them a little for mass consumption) while some of them are new and/or improved thoughts. If after reading this, my adoring public decides to elect me to public office, I will duly consider it. However, I suspect that rather than elevating me to a position of mass influence, y’all might suggest fitting me for my very own straitjacket.

I think I’ve got pick ’em odds.

On skydiving

I’d happily jump out of an airplane, though I have some non-negotiable conditions. One or more of the following key conditions must be met:

• The plane must be on fire
• The plane must be missing at least one engine
• The plane must be missing one or both wings
• The pilot and co-pilot must be dead, or they must have given up the controls and in the process of strapping on their own parachutes.
• There’s no one named Stryker on board.
• The inflatable autopilot must have failed to inflate; attempts by flight attendants to “re-fluff” the autopilot must have failed.

If any combination of the previous conditions are met, then, by all means, hand me a parachute and listen to me scream like a little girl all the way to the ground.

On my dream jobs

While I am tickled pink with my current career as a book editor boy, there are a handful of careers for which I’d leave my book editing career in a cloud of dust and ribbons of burnt rubber on the pavement:

1. Professional pole vaulter
2. Professional hippy
3. Large mammal dentist
4. Pogo stick quality tester
5. Music critic
6. Belly dancer
7. Heavy machine operator
8. Playboy Mansion groundskeeper
9. Fishing guide
10. Cowbellist in a honky-tonk band

Update: As of March 2016, I might just get to try out one of these fine professions. Stay tuned.

On my latest invention

I am in the beta testing phase of a new Facebook program that will spray a fast-acting anesthetic into the face of any Facebook user who tries to share a politically charged photo or meme without first fact-checking it to ensure that said inflammatory material tells the whole truth instead of being shameless, accuracy-challenged propaganda.

So, if you wake up face down and drooling on your keyboard, you’ll know what happened.

Carry on.

On a missed marketing opportunity

[Note, I am staunchly non-violent, and I support efforts to end domestic violence. The following “ad copy” is pure sarcasm intended to mock those wearing “wife-beater T-shirts” and not to celebrate violence of any kind.]

You ever think that the Hanes people ought to just run with the whole “wife-beater” angle for their advertisements? If everyone calls them “wife-beaters” and generally, the only people you see wearing them are people likely to have anger management issues and/or a misogynistic attitude, then why not form an entire marketing campaign around that idea? I can see an ad going something like this:

[Burly, sweaty hill-jack wearing a stained, used-to-be-white wife-beater T, complete with cigarette burns, climbs out of his pick’em-up truck, spits a dark brown stream of tobacco juice on the ground and says]:

“When I am workin’ out on my woman, I appreciate the added flexibility that the generous cut shoulders in the Hanes wife-beater T provides. The waffle weave fabric is extra-absorbent, so it soaks up every beer, tobacco, blood or grease stain that comes near it, givin’ it that lived-in look right outta the package. Its tight, belly-hugging fit shows off my beer belly with pride. I paid fer it, and hell, I’m proud of it. So, before ya slap the daylights out of yer woman, make sure yer suited up in the proper attire – Hanes Wife-Beater Ts. Y’all be glad ya did.”

On socks

You ever notice how suddenly a pair of socks go from being perfectly good to having a series of holes in them? It’s as if one day they’re performing their sockly duties without complaint, and the next day there’s suddenly not enough sock molecules to hold them together. Today was that day for a beloved pair of my socks. S’long, my molecularly-challenged friends.

On kitty mortars

I have been working all morning to determine the exact telemetry necessary to shoot my kitty via mortar tube from my backyard and have him land in nearby Tipton. Math was never my strong suit…

On the strangest conversation I’ve ever had

[Scene opens with me standing at the counter of a locally owned restaurant, trying to get the owner’s attention who has his back to me.]

Me: “Hi, I’d like to place an order, please.”
Salesperson: “Sorry, I had Rush in my ear,” he said as he pulled an earphone out of his ear.
Me: “Which album?”
Salesperson: “Limbaugh”
Me: “Oh…”
My Inner Monologue: “Why don’t you just keep those tacos…”

 

On another brilliant idea involving bay leaves

I have a brilliant idea. Someone needs to design armor made entirely of bay leaves. Think about it. A bay leaf can sit all day long in a pot of 400-degree stew and come out unscathed.

I should start charging a fee for all of my great ideas…

On the Apocalypse

So is it weird that I am a teensy-weensy bit disappointed that *nothing* has ever happened with all these predictions for the end-of-days? Really, how hard would it have been for just one dead person to pop up out of the ground and stagger around a little? I mean, really?!? Apocalypse-schmocalypse…

On stupidity

Stupid thing heard on the internet recently:

“Most of college is just Liberal indoctrination.”

Wow, and I thought I was there to drink beer, pick up women and occasionally go to class. I didn’t know I was being surreptitiously indoctrinated. You would think a guy would feel it when he’s being
indoctrinated.

Doesn’t that pinch or tug or something?

On the wizard living in my backyard

NOTICE: To the wizard who keeps fire-balling my backyard and scaring my dog. I respect your right to practice your spells, but I’d appreciate it if you found another location to do so, preferably away from my pets. Should you insist on practicing your incantations on my property, I will be forced to take action. You should know that I am 12th-level thief with a +4 dagger and Boots of Sneaking. You’ll never hear me coming. I am also friends with the local Wood Elves. You don’t want to mess with them…

On testing a new invention

Wanted: Someone willing to be a test subject for the time machine I have created using my trusty AMC Pacer, a sack of ball bearings, a carburetor from a Lawn Boy mower, and 6,000 9-volt batteries.

I cannot guarantee that you will survive or that I can get you back to the present. I’d go myself, but I am the only one who knows how to operate this thing. Must sign a rather broad waiver, and not have any family members who are likely to sue on your behalf.

Bring your own tinfoil suit.

On having a big brain

You know, while I have an enormous brain capable of many things, making it do what I want when I want it to do it is something of a challenge at times. I often feel like my brain is a jelly-smeared kid running pants-less with scissors.

On running for political office

Awhile back, I was having a dream that I was running for mayor. As part of my campaign commercial, I was singing Eric Carmen’s “All By Myself.” Why? How should I know? Dreams are weird. Anyway, I was just getting to the crescendo at the end when my bride woke me to take my daughter to school. In my dream, I was annoyed with her because she was interrupting the high point of my song.

I was killing it, too.

On my decision to live in Kokomo

You might not know this, but I am the sole survivor of a Peruvian jungle mission to find lost riches. The rest of my party was killed and eaten by cannibals. I used my professional evasion and combat skills to fight my way back to civilization. I only talk about it in detail after a sufficient amount of whiskey. Most times, however, I just have that thousand-mile stare…

My ill-fated Peruvian expedition happened shortly after college. From there, I had stints in the French Foreign Legion, herding goats on a Grecian hillside, selling flowers at the airport with my fellow Hare Krishnas, and singing bass in a traveling doo-wop band that logged 58,000 miles singing at sock hops and seniors nights in retirement homes from Maine to San Diego. While I enjoyed my adventures, I had a deep yearning for a place I could call home.

At some point during my days as a devout Hare Krishna, I heard tale of a magical place where tropical drinks melt in your hand, and steel drums fill the cool moonlit nights. Imagine my surprise when after moving to Kokomo, I learned that this *wasn’t* the place about which the Beach Boys sang so lovingly in 1988. The removal of my soul and loss of all fashion sense came along pretty quickly after that.

On dwarf tossing

Little known factoid about yours truly: I currently hold the state record for dwarf tossing. Don’t knock it. If you bend your knees just so and get the right arc, you can toss your average dwarf a country mile.

Unfortunately, I don’t toss in my home Howard County – not after the whole dwarf/sheep mishap of 2007 anyway. (And I must strenuously insist I had nothing to do with the aforementioned egregious incident.) I only toss in Vigo and Posey counties where it’s still legal.

My family’s lineage can be traced all the way back to the Principality of Liechtenstein where my great-grandpappy Hans Kughenborscht was prime minister in the 1930s. Dwarf tossing is a seasonal event that my family has enjoyed for centuries. The dwarf tossing craze crossed the Atlantic and made its way the U.S. in the early 1900s where it was mostly enjoyed during fall festivals that often coincide with more traditional Oktoberfest celebrations.

However, Grampy Frans Kughen (the “borscht” part of our name was dropped thanks to an unfortunate record keeping snafu at Ellis Island in the 1930s) made dwarf tossing a mainstream sport after successfully tossing a dwarf 271.3 feet in the 1960 Summer Olympics held in Rome. From the point on, dwarf tossing was all the rage.

It’s only been in recent years that the proverbial shine on dwarf tossing was lost. Opponents of our beloved sport refer to it as inhumane and degrading. After the previously mentioned dwarf/sheep mishap of 2007, dwarf tossing was banned in all but two Indiana counties. It’s sad really. Dwarf tossing is healthy and fun. I’m not sure where I will get my cardio if the good counties of Vigo and Posey ever outlaw it.

On things you can’t say

You ever want to say something like this to someone? I do:

“You couldn’t get a clue during the clue mating season in a field full of amorous clues, even if you smeared your body with clue musk and did the clue mating dance while not wearing pants.”

On cat herding

Let me tell ya, having been a cat, goat and frog herder—hell, I guess I justa ’bout herded everything that can be herded at one time or another—I can tell you that herding them long hairs is serious work. Backbreaking, really.
You wouldn’t think it given their diminutive size, but herdin’ cats across a scrubby prairie is twice as hard as herdin’ cows or horses. Take fer instance yer lassos. You have any idea how small a cat lasso is and just how accurate you got to be with the dadburn thing?

And just you try “hog-tying” an angry short hair after you get her lassoed. I gots the scars to show fer it.

The hours are long, the saddle sores are plenty and the hairballs are just plain awful. Spend enough time around a herd of cats and you’ll unknowingly ingest more cat hair than you can possibly imagine with your city slicker mentality. Bringin’ up them hairballs ain’t fer sissies either.
And this is still the best commercial ever made. Ever.

 

On the fart heard “over there”

Have you heard of flatulence virtuosos known as “fartriloquists” who can “throw” the sounds of their rectal emissions? I have.
Legend has it that they train for seven years on a cold Siberian tundra honing their gas-play skills. Only after climbing to a mountain peak and seeking an audience with a grandmaster fartriloquist monk are they even allowed to call themselves fartriloquy acolytes. Another seven hard years of windtalking in the Himalayas precedes being granted the rank of fartriloquy seers. A fartriloquist seer finally attains the level of master fartriloquist after another seven years of pure silence – aside from the voice from down below and over there.
The fact that the budding fartriloquist’s devotion to his/her craft is a testament to his/her inner drive to conquer what few dare to achieve. If you happen to be married to a fartriolquist, remember just
how lucky you are, especially when he/she Dutch ovens you with a fart that you could swear came from behind the dresser.

On brushing your cat’s teeth

Our helpful vet recently sent us a pamphlet explaining how to brush a cat’s teeth. The cat depicted in the *drawings* appears calm – happy almost – to be having its teeth brushed.

Evidently, my vet has never seen, touched or treated a cat in his life. And I will bet my life he’s never successfully brushed a cat’s teeth either. Exhibit A is the usage of cat drawings rather than photos
in the aforementioned pamphlet. That’s proof positive that the vet would never risk his skin from the forearms down on such a risky endeavor. Rather than instruct cat owners on how to brush a cat’s teeth, I thought the vet really ought to provide first aid instructions for cat owners who attempt to brush their cat’s teeth.
Here’s what I suggested:

1. Throw angry, violent cat as far as you can and find a safe location.
2. Apply pressure to wounds.
3. Use tourniquet if necessary.
4. Call 911.
5. Treat for shock.
6. Take a picture ID and your insurance card with you in the ambulance.
7. Never do anything this stupid again.
8. Did you get that?
9. Never.
10. Really.

I then mailed the amended instructions to the vet’s office along with a quite reasonable royalty contract in which I was paid for each copy of the revised pamphlet sent to cat owners. Strangely, the vet’s office has asked me to not contact them in the future. Go figure.