Global Warming, My Ass

Instead of a robin red-breast pecking at the soft fertile earth, a fucking penguin is in my back yard trying to break a hole in the ice with its beak.

Here we are just a week and a half away from June and I was at a bluegrass festival freezing my ass off. I was wearing a heavy shirt and my cool-ass camouflage goretex rain jacket; and it was so cold and windy that brass monkey balls were falling like hail.

None hit me though; as they could not see me in my camo jacket.

Can it be that George W’s scientists are right? There is no such thing as global warming? What the fuck is going on? We are at the start of the fucking hurricane season and FEMA still hasn’t cashed any of the checks they distributed during Katrina. I think El Niño (which, BTW, is Spanish for The Niño) has reared his ugly head and is blowing this way.

I say get out your hair spray and Freon 12, tape down the button, and blow it into the air. We need to destroy some more of that ozone layer and let the sun shine in. I am fuckin’ freezin’ ---. Death to the Ozone.

If I had the wings of a Gonder, I’d fucking fly south.
GonderMon

The Death Penalty

The Gonderguy is really pissed off. I have never really come to terms with which side I should take on the issue of the death penalty, but under certain circumstances I do believe that the death penalty is appropriate; however, it must be clear that the perpetrator is indeed guilty and we would not be executing an innocent person. When, then, should the death penalty be imposed? What crimes are so heinous that they deserve the ultimate punishment?

This weekend I have been the victim of such crimes that I must no longer remain silent. What’s the crime, you say? Well I’ll tell you. There are two categories that deserve the death penalty:

First, there is the exaggeration of what actually is. When a handmade road sign says BIG GARAGE SALE, there had better fuckin’ be something worthwhile to make me deviate from my intended itinerary to pursue the ultimate yard sale find. But I have found, to my chagrin, that garage sale magnitude is inversely proportional to the size of the sign times the square of the number of signs. For example, if all you have to offer is a dozen empty wine bottles shaped like a fuckin’ fish with a bottle nose and 6 empty Avon bottles, why the fuck do you need to put up a sign that is 3 feet by 4 feet and tack twenty-two of them to telephone poles at every intersection within a five mile radius of your shit-ass yard sale? Or, some pissed off heir of some old dead guy thinks he’s going to take home a bundle as his inheritance and puts up fifty fuckin’ signs and advertises in the newspaper saying "HUGE ESTATE SALE" and you go there to find some shit from 1970 that is not vintage anything but just old shit that nobody on welfare would fucking accept and he has price tags on an old iron saying $25 or a shit box full of kitchen utensils at $5 apiece. Like you really need a used egg beater with bent beaters for 5 bucks. You can stick that eggbeater up you ass and plug it into a 220 volt line. You cocksucker. Do you realize that I just drove 4 miles out of my way with gas at $3.15 a gallon to see your “HUGE” estate sale? Fuck you. You deserve to die! And there’s no fuckin’ way you can say we got the wrong guy. We have your DNA on your "HUGE" estate sale sign. You are DEAD, motherfucker.

Second, there are all the sons of bitches who had a Yard Sale, huge or otherwise, LAST FUCKIN’ WEEK and have not removed their signs. Don’t you realize that there are some compulsive assholes that just have to follow any sign that might lead to an actual yard sale or some other guy, like the Gonderguy, who enjoys the thrill of the hunt of looking for the ultimate find, and will be willing to piss away a half a tank of gas going to actual yard sales that are being conducted TODAY, not some TODAY that occurred in a time-space continuum in some other fuckin’ universe, or a day that WAS today when the "YARD SALE TODAY" actually occurred. When the yard sale is over, TAKE DOWN THE FUCKIN’ SIGN. Failing to remove a yard sale sign up after the sale is over is a capital offense. But we do have a problem with sometimes getting the wrong man. What if an irate neighbor or lunatic were to post a sign of a yard sale at someone else’s address, just to frame him, have him arrested, tried, convicted and hung? We could actually execute the wrong man. Ah, fuck it. If I drive to a yard sale that does exist or was held last week, kill ‘em all, even if it’s a mistake. Maybe we have to be tough to whip this piss-ant society into shape.

On the other hand, the best yard sales are the ones with a single sign written in crayon on an eight and a half by eleven inch piece of construction paper with an arrow and the house number. You can go to a yard sale like that and find some pissed-off, about to be divorcee, who has thrown all of her soon to be ex-husband’s stereo stuff, musical instruments, auto parts, hunting and sports equipment, of which she has no fuckin’ idea of what its worth, out on the front lawn and wants to sell it all before the fucker gets back from the bar he’s at after he beat the shit out of her for some minor transgression like serving him coffee that was too hot or too cold, or maybe for no reason except she just didn’t fuckin’ listen. So you say, "Hey, lady, how much for this car stereo 400 watt amp and the six 12 inch sub-woofers?" and she says, "You can have ‘em for a buck each if you get them outta here right away," or say "what about this here guitar, it’s a Les Paul or somethin"?" and she says "Oh, I guess about twenty-five bucks" and I says, "I’ll take it for twenty?

Now, that’s a fuckin’ garage sale.

Grade School Drop Out

One day a substitute teacher came to our 8th grade class. Eighth grade is the perfect time to have a substitute teacher. You are still in grade school, but you think you’re hot shit because you are the oldest kids in the school. And substitute teachers were fair game. Especially on their first time in your classroom.

There were the classic bits that were pulled on the substitutes. Like when they passed the attendance sheet around, and you sign in as “Mike Hunt” or “Dick Kurtz,” along with your own name in a different handwriting. Then you wait for her to call attendance and wait for her to call out, “Where’s Mike Hunt?” Or, “Whose Dick Kurtz?” Lot’s of yucks.

Our classroom was on the second floor, but on one side of the building it was actually three floors above ground. So one day when Miss Substitute was having a particularly difficult time controlling the room and had to run out for a minute, I left the room and ran down the three flights of stairs, and lay down spread eagled on my back on the ground, three floors below the windows of the classroom, about ten feet from the edge of the building. It only took two or three other guys to stand by the open window with their mouths agape pointing down at me. They didn’t even have to say, “He fell,” or anything.

Miss Substitute looks out and screams, “Oh my Godddddddddddd!” and runs out of the room to go down to me or to get help, or whatever, but as soon as she left the room, I high tails it up the stairs on the back side of the building and back into my seat. Most of the other kids had no fucking idea about me dropping out or what was going down, no pun intended, but a pun nevertheless. We didn’t dare look out the window to see Ms. Substitute, but remained seated, with our hands neatly folded on the desk, eyes straight ahead.

She came back into the classroom and never said another word. We never saw her again.

The Frog in the Closet

Once upon a time there lived a frog in a closet. Actually, there was no frog and he didn’t live in a closet, at least not in my closet. But if one has a little imagination, you can believe that there is a frog living in your closet, and if you could believe that there was a frog living in your closet, you could probably convince someone else that there was a frog living in your closet. Especially, if the someone else you are trying to convince is younger than you. It also helps if he is a younger sibling, because then you don’t have to bullshit him too much, as he probably already sort of trusts you.


So, here is what you do. You drop a subtle mention of something to do with a frog. Don’t make a big deal about it. Just like in the middle of any sentence (FROG) you simply stick the word in your conversation, like a subliminal message on a screen. Maybe you’d mention (FROG) just once the first day; maybe skip a day, and then stick in (FROG) once or twice (FROG) in a day or two. Don’t actually use the word “frog” in any real conversation or any sentence that make sense with the word “frog” in it. Never, say anything like, “You know that tadpoles grow into frogs.” That would really fuckin’ spoil it.

So after about a week or two with the word (FROG) sprinkled randomly more or less throughout the day’s conversation, you actually want to skip a day or two without even mentioning that fuckin’ amphib a single time. You really need to keep up the entire subliminal “frog” shit for another week, for a total time of about three weeks; never mentioning the “f” word more that three times in any one day.

What you have now effectively accomplished is preconditioned the “someone else” to be very suggestible to anything even related to the word “frog,” and that certain someone will very likely not even realize he has been mind fucked, until the frog has jumped out of the picture, or maybe not even ever.

Finally, and believe me I know how hard it has been to keep up the fuckin’ subliminal instant verbal messaging, you ask the other someone if they want to know a secret. Of course, who wouldn’t want to know a secret? Shit, if you say “do you want to know a secret?” to anyone, they won’t stop hocking you until you tell them a secret, even if it isn’t the secret you had asked them about. How would they know? Of course they can’t ever know, unless you fuckin’ tell them. And the first rule of survival is “Never rat out yourself.,” so if you blow this deal you got no one to blame but WHY OOOH YOU, asshole.

So you say to the other someone, whom at this point we can call him “the mark” or “the schmuck”, “Let’s go up to my room, because I think there is a frog in my closet.” “A frog?” he thinks. “Of course, it must be a frog.” They might even say, “I wonder how I knew that?” So now, of course, he’s really eager to see this mysterious frog. You say, “I think it’s way back in the corner,” so he has to walk into the closet and all the way into the back corner. That’s when you “step on the frog,” the euphemism for “cutting the cheese,” or “bisecting the melon,” or any number of equally childish expressions which are so fucking funny. At the sound of the foot upon the frog, you quickly step out side the closet and slam the door behind you. You then hold the door closed for at least a minute, or until the eau d’ toad disappears. Oh, it’s best to do this when your mother isn’t home.

Hall Bearings

Someone called me tonight to ask if I had any ½ ball bearings, well I didn’t, only had 3/4 inch ones, but it reminded me of a true story. From High School.

I was in study hall in my first year of High School. It was the only year I had to waste time in study hall, as in my soph and junior years our school was on a two-platoon or half shift school day. The Board of Education wanted to build a new school, so they had to prove that the old school was too crowded. They said too many kids in the hall was a safety hazard, so they had the Freshman go in the afternoon, like 1 to 4; the rest of us went only in the morning, like 8:30 to 12:30. In any event, what a deal if you weren’t a Freshman. By the time they went back to a full day’s schedule my senior year, I had figured out how not to have any study halls and three consecutive lunch hours.

Anyway, back to the study hall. There were two monster study hall rooms on each floor of the school. They were on opposite sides of the building, but they went the entire width of the building; must have been about 60 feet long, at least. The study hall teacher, I think he had the study hall all day which must have been easy since he didn’t have to do any lesson plans, was named Mr. Dumont. We called him “Channel Five” because in those days, Channel 5 was the Dumont Broadcasting Network. He hated to be called Channel Five. If I had to speak to him, I would go up and say, “Mr. Five, .....?” playing dumb, like I thought his name was Mr. Five, and like “Channel” was his first name. At least that’s what I told him, “Like I realllllllly thought your name was Mr. Five, because that what everyone else call you.” It worked the first two times. I never spoke to him after that.

Anyway, the floor of the study hall, and every other hallway in the school, was made of real marble terrazzo. I think the classrooms had wooden floors, but I wouldn’t swear to it. I didn’t know the name for it back then, but the floor of the study hall is what one would now call terrazzo. If you spun a plate on its edge upon the terrazzo floor, it would make a very loud noise as it spun around and slowly slowed down. Like a “WAH,..WAH,.... WAH, .......... WAH,......” getting slower and slower and when the plate finally stopped and fell over, it make an even louder crash.

One day, instead of a plate, someone took two large ball bearings, like the kind you would find in pinball machine, and from the very back of the study, rolled them down the side aisle along the terrazzo floor. As they rolled, they, too, made this loud WAH, WAH, WAH, WAH, ... rumble, only getting faster and faster, like a fucking subway in a gymnasium. Oh, I forgot to tell you. At the other end, both ends, actually, the walls were floor to ceiling blackboards. I don’t know why they fucking needed floor to ceiling blackboards, but I guess they must have been used by some poor schmuck who got caught chewing gum or something, and had to write, “I will not chew gum” five hundred times on the blackboard. They used to do shit like that back then. I don’t know how he reached the high part of the blackboard, but I guess if you put gum on the bottom of your shoes you could actually walk up the side of the blackboard, the way Batman and Robin did in the TV series. But that would be kind of hypocritical to actually chew enough gum to put on the bottom of your shoes so that you could walk up a blackboard while you were writing on it that you wouldn’t chew gum.

So, meanwhile, back to the WAH, WAH, WAH, as the ball bearing are bearing (no pun intended) down the terrazzo and straight into the floor to ceiling blackboard. Well, I don’t have to tell you what happened when the balls hit the wall. Fucking Channel Five goes totally fucking apeshit, picks up the two ball bearings and screams, “WHOSE STEEL BALLS ARE THESE?”
The voice from the back of the room yells back, “Superman’s.” The laughter went on for what seemed to be days. Maybe it was more like 5 minutes, but after laughing so hard I had to piss real bad and left.

The Mechanic and the Penguin

Previously, on Mr. Gondersauce’s Blog:
.......... The only down side of this otherwise foolproof scheme, is that poor Gondersauce can never be a no-show at the same place more than once because, unlike Smith, Jones, Chan, Singh, or even Farquahr, no one ever forgets a name like fucking Gondersauce.

The following takes place, right now.........

Mr. Gondersauce will occasionally add something new on his blogsite starting with this issue, a feature to be known as “Weasop’s True Fables, by Mr. Gondersauce.” The True Fables will be presented one at a time so as not to overwhelm the reader, and to pique the interest to insure that the readers will return to the site for the next installment. “Weasop’s True Fables, by Mr. Gondersauce” are all taken from real life and really happened, although some may have happened only in someone’s experience not only of sight, sound and smell, but of imagination in the mind. This is what can happen when someone steps over the line and into the blogsite of Mr. Gondersauce. Below is the first of “Weasop’s True Fables, by Mr. Gondersauce.”


The Mechanic and the Penguin

A penguin was having trouble with his car. Acceleration had been slow, and it seemed to be slipping in every gear except reverse. The symptoms got worse as the car heated up. After months of agonizing procrastination due to fear of the cost that might be involved to fix the problem, the penguin finally brings the car into an automatic transmission repair shop.

The mechanic tells the penguin that he’ll put the car up on the lift and check it out, and tells the penguin to go for a walk, and come back in about 20 minutes.

The penguin walks around the block a few times and stops in to an ice cream shoppe and buys a large vanilla cone of soft serve ice cream. He starts to walk back to the repair shop while eating the ice cream cone, but the penguin has a little trouble holding the ice cream cone with his short stubby flippers. By the time the penguin walks back into the repair shop, he has ice cream dribbling down his beak and all over his chin.

The mechanic looks at him and says, “Looks like you blew a seal.” The penguin, chagrined, says, “Nah, it’s just a little ice cream.”


Moral: Not everything is what it seems.

How the Sauce Got Its Name

Previously, on Mr. Gondersauce’s Blog:

So far you only got the GONder part of Mr. Gondersauce. You will have to come back tomorrow if you want to know the rest of the story.

The following takes place, right now.........

Ever wonder how different sauces get their names? Well I used to ponder (as in “GONder”) that question a lot. If only there were one single way sauces were named, this world would be a much better place. And, a much simpler place, too. Instead, we have so many ways to name sauces that it must be very confusing to young children. It was very confusing to me, and it still is.

There is cranberry sauce, which is actually made out of cranberries. There is duck sauce, that is not made from ducks, rather, it is made from god knows what and put into little plastic envelopes and given away at Chinese take-out places to be put ON a duck or on an egg-roll. Then there is dicksauce, that is neither made from dicks, nor made to be put on a dick; rather dicksauce comes (no pun intended, but there nonetheless) from dicks.

Given the myriad kinds of sauces and brands of those sauces that abound in the aisles of supermarkets and gourmet shops, there must be some kind of sauce that is made especially from, or designed specifically to be put on, a goose. There is, of course, Goose Grease, the infamous laxative to speed the elimination of fecal matter through a goose, and we all know that the fastest thing in the universe is the speed of light and the speed at which such fecal matter can actually go through a goose, as they are, one and the same, to wit, 186,000 miles per second. On the other hand, not to be confused with Goose Grease, there is such a thing as Goose Sauce. I know this is true because of that old bromide that says, “What’s sauce for the goose, is sauce for the GONder.” So, if there is, indeed, sauce for said goose, there must be (by deDUCKtive logic), sauce for said gonder.

There you have it. “Gondersauce.” It is the same stuff that is meant for the goose, but since it would only be fair to give such sauce its own name to distinguish it from the aforesaid Goose Sauce, I, in my infantile wisdom, gave it the name of “Gondersauce.” Since, it was I who named this sauce (and I believe that it was, indeed, me who originally named it, as I have never before or since found any reference to such sauce in any literature, song, jingle, or religious chant) I decided to use it as my Nom DeSauce, and thus, heretofore and foreverafter referred to myself as “Mr. Gondersauce.”

Such a name is perfect for making reservations at restaurants or other places which you may not intend to keep, as it is much better to give a fictitious name rather than your own name if you’re going to be a no-show. Shit, if you have not showed up as often as I haven’t, they would never hold a reservation for me if I used my own name. So I always make my reservations under the name Gondersauce. Then, if I don’t show, it’s Gondersauce, not me, who becomes the Gonder Non Grata. The only down side of this otherwise foolproof scheme, is that poor Gondersauce can never be a no-show at the same place more than once because, unlike Smith, Jones, Chan, Singh, or even Farquahr, no one ever forgets a name like fucking Gondersauce.