We now return you to our regularly scheduled progamming...

Neighbors. We all have them; whether they're a few feet or a mile away, we all have them. Some are nice, bring us things like cookies or frozen treats. Some aren't so nice, bring us dog and cat shit on our front lawns or toss our mail in the garbage when they receive it by mistake. My parents have one of each. The neighbors to the right are a nice old couple that occasionally cut the ditch in the front yard with the riding mower they own, simply because it's easier than my dad doing it with his push mower (and his bad back, and his arthritis, and those ungodly white legs of his). They've brought my parents Christmas cookies, and my mother's delivered a tasty frozen concoction made with strawberries, Cool Whip, and Oreo cookies. They get along just fine. And where would the fun be in talking any more on the subject of their good neighbors, when they have a perfectly good, perfectly ignorant, dumbfuck of a bona fide cultural illiterate living on the opposite side? You want the ranting and raving? Hang out and enjoy!

First, a little background on said dumbfuck: his wife, according to him, is in a mental institution, because she's mentally unstable (gee, really, is that why?). His daughter's currently serving time for theft... of HIS Jeep. And recently dumbfuck moved into his girlfriend's house (and back), but when he left, he also left his unemployed 18-year old son behind to fend for himself (and trust me, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, which makes the fact of his being left alone all the more tragic). Dumbfuck rides his motorcycle when it's raining, takes his pick-up truck when the sun's shining, refuses to keep his lawn cut, and oh yeah, did I mention he has a beagle puppy he keeps outside ALL THE TIME? He had two dogs before that which disappeared. I don't know, don't want to know. There are so many examples of illiteracy I could pick apart, but I'm going to stick to the two that directly involve yours truly. After all, you want it from the horse's mouth, right?

The first and second interactions I had with him were very similar, both involving trees he has in his front yard. One's more a bush, I suppose, but the other's a crabapple tree. The "bush" is quite large and the branches stick out every which way, leaning out so far they nearly hang out into the road (this is a country road, 45 MPH until a quarter mile north of Roundtown, where it hits 55 MPH). Exiting my parent's driveway, it's nearly impossible to see what's coming through the branches. When my mother mentioned this to me one day, I asked why they didn't just cut it back to where they had a clear line of sight? Not getting the response I really needed, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I took the electric trimmer they have and cut the branches back. I suppose I should mention dumbfuck wasn't even living there at the time, it was when he was staying with his girlfriend. By sheer luck, he came back that day. The branches were obviously cut back, and I happened to be on the front porch when he pulled in his driveway.

"Did you see who cut my tree?" he asked.

"Yep. I did. It was blocking the view out of the driveway, and it makes it dangerous for my parents to pull out onto the road."

"I'd appreciate it if you asked next time." And he begins to walk away, as if the conversation's over. It might have been, but what'd we talk about in regards to the culturally illiterate? Right! Education! So, I tried to educate him. It obviously didn't work; I already said there were TWO examples I was going to discuss, didn't I, Roundtowners? Keep up, now, so far so good...

I responded "I'll ask, but the result will be the same. If those branches are blocking the view, they're going to be cut." He turned around, as if he were going to respond, then didn't. He just looked at me and walked away. The next thing I hear is banging and cursing coming from his garage. Perhaps he's not used to being talked to that way. Perhaps he's upset he didn't have a good comeback. Who the fuck knows. For that matter, who the fuck cares? I took the book I was reading back inside, and that was that. Pretty tame, right? No big deal. But the SECOND time, well... that was a tad different...

The crabapple tree hangs out over my 'rents' driveway turn-around. It's summer, so they're abundant on the tree, and in fact make a mess my mother sweeps into dumbfuck's yard when they cut the grass. Many crabapples equals a lot of weight on the branches, and they hang quite low. Low enough, in fact, to scrape the top of my parent's van when they turn it around. Electric trimmer, anyone? This time, I cut the tree back to the property line. It looks really funny, actually; one half of the tree's huge, the other's a bunch of stumpy branches. Looking at it after, I actually burst into fits of laughter I couldn't quite control. This was the cause of the escalation in the argument I had with the dumbfuck when he came home.

Knock knock. The door opens and an angry, red-faced neighbor is standing there, asking my dad who cut his apple tree. "I did!" I shouted from the couch, and stepped around to the door.

"You have no right to cut down my tree, that's MY tree, it's on MY property!"

"Wrong. It's hanging onto THIS property, and that makes the branches I cut THEIR property. THEIR property was scratching the roof of THEIR van. So I cut the offensive branches back." (I type this a bit more eloquently than was the language actually used, but hey, creative license and all that.)

"You can't do that without my permission! I know the law!" (Isn't it funny how people who don't have a leg to stand on think the law is always on their side?) "I'll get a conjunction against you!" A... CONJUNCTION? I couldn't help it, there was never any doubt the laughter was going to burst out, so I didn't even try to hold it in. And it did burst out, like a fucking volcano! If I'd have been taking a sip of beer, dumbfuck would've had a faceful of foam!

This guy was PISSED! He turned as red as those fucking apples he's complaining about, and that association made me double over! The thought of that tree, the "conjunction," and the beet-red face on this dumbfuck was more than I could take! I closed the door on him, still laughing, and heard the small gate my parents use to keep the dog on the porch skid across the driveway as Mr Grumpy took his leave. I laughed for next 20 minutes, my mom joining in, my dad shaking his head the whole time and wondering if things would get worse.

Look, ladies and gentlemen, if I already know you're one of the illiterates I pontificate about in the Sanitorium, and you make yourself an ACTUAL illiterate by showing the type of ignorance dumbfuck demonstrated to me, expect to be laughed at. I may not be the smartest guy in the world, but I paid attention during the Saturday morning cartoons of my youth, and Schoolhouse Rock in particular, and I know what a conjunction is...

It's that little train with the words on it... right?

Don't you hate that fucking song "Seasons in the Sun?"

Okay, I don't know exactly how to begin, so I'm just going to... well, begin. I'm going to get all warm and fuzzy on you guys tonight, so if that's not your gig, not your scene, not what gets your wizzy woo off, skip it. This is one just for me. This one's something I need to write for the simple fact of a simple pleasure. And if you don't give a fuck about me personally, if you only come to the show for the bitching and ranting (and I'm not complaining, I'm just happy you show up at all!), then you'll just have to wait until the next post. But if you've ever lost touch with someone that reminds you of who you were, and how far you've come, or how far you still need to go... read on. You are, as always, welcome to come along.

I'm a Facebook guy. I have a few friends there, ones that I genuinely give a shit about. I may not always send a message asking how they are, but I always remember their birthdays! (Here's a big old *wink nudge* for those of you on FB who also never forget a birthday...) I seek out people I know, people I've met on other sites, and people I've lost touch with over the years. I've reconnected with old girlfriends, old I-wish-they'd-been-my-girlfriends, and old high school buddies. It's a lot of fun catching up. But tonight was different. Tonight was special. Tonight I reconnected with a guy I haven't seen in fifteen years. Before that, I hadn't seen him in ten, when he told me he was moving to West Virginia, which was about to get a whole lot more wild. And certainly more wonderful.

I was a sheltered kid growing up. Always reading, always got the good grades, didn't listen to any music my parents didn't own. But then I met a guy who showed me what being a kid was all about. He introduced me to football, and pick-up games of baseball, and basketball. We smoked our first cigarettes together, and we cut our first classes together (oh, shut the fuck up, we were kids; and all kids, even yours, try stupid shit!). We stole his brother's car and took our first joyride. We saw Star Wars and Indiana Jones in the theater first, not DVD. We sat in awe of his grandmother's car that spoke to us (a Chrysler New Yorker that said "the door is ajar, the door is ajar"), before there was GPS. We watched the first video on MTV, before there were no videos on MTV. We were going to grow up to be sports stars, and comic book artists, and we were going to be rich and marry Tina if she quit being such a bitch, or Debbie if she lost the glasses, or Joan because she had a trampoline. We were best friends, and we were always going to be best friends. Then, life happened.

He left for WVA and we lost touch. By the time I saw him again, I was already dating after my divorce. He had his wife and baby girl with him. We spent maybe an hour catching up before he left. I haven't seen or heard from him since.

I looked him up on google tonight. It showed his name on Facebook. Now, I'd looked him up on FB months ago, but he wasn't there, so I figured it wasn't him. But, when I pulled the page up, it WAS him. I immediately sent him a friend request, and he approved it less than three minutes later. I wrote this on his wall: "You still look like a smarta$$! *L* How are you, my friend?!" He sent me his phone number, and we talked for so long his phone died. (Fuck you, man, mine's still working... so it was either that or you hung up on me; I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt!) We talked about... life. That's really all you need to know. We've both had our ups and downs, like the rest of you. We've been knocked down and fucked around and stepped in our fair share of shit. We've grown. But tonight, we got to revisit a bit, just a tiny bit, of our youth. Talking to JC, I wasn't a guy with two kids I miss constantly, and back child support to pay, and arthritis so bad I'm on medical leave from my job. Talking to Jake tonight, I was just a kid hanging out with my best friend again. The hair's not as long, the knees don't work as well, and flag football's well beyond me. But I never knew how fresh and sweet and... kind, a memory could be. Yes, that word feels exactly right: kind.

Thank you, Jake. I love you, my friend. See you in two weeks.

Shenanigans or not, advice columnist the one with the problem

Dear Mick,

I'm writing in regards to a letter written to "Dear Abby" in Sunday's edition of The Columbus Dispatch this week. The woman writing the letter asked for advice on how to break up the marriage of her best friend from her husband so that the writer could have him for herself (the writer is also married). Apparently, the friend's husband is more successful and has more material items than her own, and she's "always been attracted to him." Of course, Abby replied that the writer must be a new reader of her column; otherwise she'd know Abby doesn't give advice on that sort of thing. I am, of course, paraphrasing.

My problem is this: If you know you're not going to answer the question, and you print it anyway, does it not lend validity to the letter? And if this is the case, why print it in the first place? Thoughts?

Confused

Dear Confused,

I am going to take what you said a step further and call "shenanigans" on Miss Abby (she's actually not the REAL Abby, but her daughter, Jeanne Phillips, who took over the column after her mother, Pauline Phillips, died in 2002). I believe what she's done in this case is invented a false article, merely for shock-value. The media has been doing this sort of thing for years, but there's a difference in what I believe Ms Phillips has done and what they do on the idiot box.

During May sweeps on television, networks use all sorts of tricks and treats to boost ratings. Everything from big name movie stars in guest roles, to surprise weddings and proposals, to the deaths of major characters. It's all part of the big money game the networks play against each other, and at times it can be a lot of fun. No harm no foul, as they say, and it leaves folks salivating in anticipation of the fall season.

However, when someone who writes an advice column, someone people go to for assistance, sometimes out of desperation, takes this route, the route of inventing stories to gain readership, it's not only childish and petty, but irresponsible. Now, is it possible that this letter is the real deal? That someone was stupid enough, had the unmitigated temerity in them to actually expect an answer to a question such as this? If you're asking that question, you've stumbled on this blog by mistake! These assholes DO exist, they're called the "culturally illiterate." But something about it just doesn't ring true. Doesn't make sense. Regardless of it's validity, it's irresponsible to print it.

Ms Phillips, you'll never be your mother, and you'll always be her shadow. But I suggest if you want to write fiction, write fiction. Call it "Dear Abby."

A retarded monkey comes through for me!

Just when I thought things had calmed down, another fine example of human ignorance presents itself, and I again return to the Sanitorium. Not that I don't see these examples every day! It's just that they're things we all experience, every day, all the time, and I like to give you something new to think about. You might say I've been given a gift... at the expense of my beautiful, seventeen year-old daughter.

My daughter starts her senior year in high school this month. I know, I don't look near old enough to have a daughter that age, I get that all the time (yeah, right). She plays the trumpet in the high school band, and has worked very hard for the past four years to make lead, and this year she's it! I'm extremely proud of her, and was looking forward to a few stories from band camp, which she'd left for on Monday. Yesterday, Friday, I got a call from my ex-wife telling me a story I didn't want, nor ever expected, to hear.

Apparently on Monday, she fell down and hurt her knee. I don't know what caused the fall because once her mother picked her up, they went straight to the ER and the doctor there put her on pain meds, so she's a bit tired, a bit loopy. The story my ex is telling me is that she pulled up Friday to pick my daughter up (this is on FRIDAY, keep this in mind, Roundtowners), and she's hobbling along toward the car. Even the other parents are apparently asking what happened, because my daughter's knee is facing the opposite one and her foot's still pointed straight ahead. The picture I get in my head when thinking about this is making me very angry, and I don't believe it has anything to do with the steroid regimen I've been on for the last month. I mean, what would you feel? Concern, certainly, anger, absolutely, but what I experienced when my ex was telling me this was flat-out, no-holds-barred RAGE! Now, you might be asking yourself "Why is he this angry, this enraged? Kids get hurt, don't they?" Yes they do. Indeed they do get hurt. I'm going to tell you why my anger, even as I type this, is building yet again.

No one, not one person, called my ex to let her know what happened. NO. ONE. AND, they didn't take my daughter to the ER when it happened. Let me say that again for the other retarded monkeys who weren't in attendance at this camp: NO ONE CALLED AND NO ONE TOOK MY DAUGHTER TO THE ER WHEN SHE FELL AND INJURED HERSELF! ON MONDAY! IT'S FRIDAY! Who the fuck was running this show?! Who, exactly, is the incompetent fuckhead who was in charge, and where the fuck did his tiny brain take it's vacation this week?! Oh, but wait right there, friends, this gets SOOO much better...

When my ex asked the retarded-monkey-fuckhead-who's-brain-picked-this-week-to-take-it's-vacation in charge if she was seen by a doctor, his reply was: she said she didn't need to go to the ER. Now, I can see my daughter saying this, maybe even believing it. But the fact of the matter is SHE'S SEVENTEEN! AND there was not one goddamned phone call to her mother making her aware of the situation, so that her mother could make the decision! Seriously?! I mean, SERIOUSLY?! Are you getting the picture? They let a seventeen year-old girl diagnose herself as okay to continue practicing marching formations on a knee that was clearly (even to parents casually strolling by to pick up their own kids) injured. Now, I've been through a knee injury, a very serious injury, in fact. It required surgery, and left me without an ACL and sans cartilage in my left knee. And after much physical therapy and drugs and crutches for months and a knee brace I still use occasionally, I can get around. And that's it. If there were a crazed gunman after my sorry ass for calling him a retarded-monkey-fuckhead-who's-brain-picked-this-week-to-take-it's-vacation, I'm fucked. I can't run on it. I can't take a jump-shot. I can't even do push-ups to stay in shape. But I'm mumble-mumble years old, and those things aren't as important to me as they might be to, say, a SEVENTEEN YEAR-OLD GIRL WHO HASN'T EVEN MADE IT OUT OF HIGH SCHOOL YET!

So, after she was seen by her doctor, who determined her knee was "loose," she has an appointment for an MRI on Wednesday. And I'll admit, it worries me. But what worries me the most is the disappointment my daughter will feel if she's kept from marching in her high school band her senior year. As the lead. A position she's worked so fucking hard to achieve.

I thought I'd take a bunch of peeled bananas to Sheridan High School in Perry County, Ohio for the retarded monkey who's clearly incapable of peeling his own. But I'm too afraid of my own anger for that. Because when it comes to my kids...

King Kong ain't got nothin' on me. Even a retarded King Kong.