Indoor Plumbing

Here is a story my dad related to me when I was younger, regarding his attempt to get my grandfather to have indoor plumbing installed back during the Great Depression. They lived on a farm somewhere around Rolla, Missouri, far from the comforts of modern living. Someone told me a few years ago that they had heard the same story told from another person, so it sounds like lore. My dad was a great storyteller and like other great storytellers, probably mixed fact and fiction for maximum effect. Anyway, it is still hilarious and worth sharing…

The family had taken a trip to one of the larger towns near Rolla and my dad, Curtis, came across his first indoor toilet. He was amazed that all you had to do was pull a chain and WHOOSH! The waste went down into a little hole and was gone. He thought it was the greatest thing he had ever seen, a true engineering marvel.

On their way back to the farm all he could think about was the commode he had seen. He questioned my Grandfather about it; How did it work, where did the water come from, where did it go, etc. My Grandfather explained it to him, but cautioned him against wishing for one. It was the depression and they were poor. Besides, the ol’ outhouse worked just fine for what they needed it for.

Months passed by and though there were things to do to keep him busy, my dad still dreamed of having an indoor toilet. He thought if they could just get one, his family would be the envy of everyone around.

Eventually, winter came with its cold and snow. It was pure torture to go take care of business with snow, wind and cold. The outhouse was situated next to the creek that ran through the property about a hundred feet away from the house. My dad explained that if you had to “Go number two”, it meant getting dressed, walking all they way out to the crapper, dropping your drawers and sitting down, hoping against frostbite on your butt cheeks.

Well, one night the weather was particularly bad, with heavy winds and snow. He could hear the wind howling through the tree and see the branches swaying back and forth, making it look like the whole tree would come falling down at any moment.

Then it hit him.

What would happen if the wind blew the outhouse over and into the creek? Without old reliable, would his dad be willing to finally get an indoor toilet?

The thought was tantalizing.

He decided at about four in the morning he would go out and push the outhouse into the creek, thus ending the misery once and for all.

He got dressed, put on his coat and trudged through the snow to the old outhouse. Finding suitable footing, he put both hands against the side and pushed for everything he was worth. All of a sudden it tilted and over it went, down the hill and into the creek with a mighty splash.

My dad then ran back to the house, got undressed and quickly crawled under the blankets and quilt. As he warmed up, he couldn’t help but think about that new toilet and the luxury of going to the pot inside the warm house. He also thought of the envy of the other kids in his school when they found out that the Barton farm had indoor facilities.

All of a sudden he heard the back door open and footsteps coming toward his room. In the dark doorway stood my Grandfather. As he reached over to get a lantern, he asked my dad, “Curtis, did you push the outhouse over into the creek?”.

As much as he wanted to stick to his plan and blame it on the wind, he just couldn’t bring himself to lie to his father.

“Yes sir, I did”

After a long pause, my Grandfather lit the lantern and my dad could see that he was soaked head to toe.

“Curtis,” my Grandfather said, “Go and get my belt”

A lump the size of a baseball formed in my dad’s throat.

“But daddy, I told you the truth!”

“Doesn’t matter, boy. You knocked the damned outhouse into the creek. How in the hell are we gonna go to the bathroom until I build another one? Go get my belt, NOW!”

“But daddy, I told the truth. George Washington didn’t get punished when he told the truth after chopping down the cherry tree!”

My grand father bellowed, “YEAH, BUT GEORGE WASHINGTON’S DAD WASN’T IN THE DAMNED TREE WHEN HE CUT IT DOWN EITHER!”

Where’s Waldo?

Well, NASA has found him…On Mars!

Read article here

The Black Patch

Take a look at the patch below the U.S. flag…Enough said!

(Yeah, I know it’s been photoshopped, but what the hell…)

Argo The Wonder Clutz

Following closely (Actually, I would call it tailgating) on my last post, I thought I would pass along just how I came across Argo.

It was a rainy Saturday night at work in July, and I had just finished rolling on three intense calls almost back to back. Following up on my last call, I was on my way to the hospital on the east side of Columbus to check on the injuries of a victim of a pretty bad assault (M.C.E. to those who are familiar with my neck of the woods). They guy got beat up pretty bad and had a badly broken jaw, some teeth missing, and a head swollen to the size of what looked like a watermelon. Just before leaving my area I was dispatched to check on two dogs wandering in the street.

I arrived in the area and immediately found the two dogs, a Siberian Husky and a large German Shepherd, wandering around in a subdivision. I have encountered more loose dogs than I can remember, and only three or four actually trusted me enough to get into the back of my cruiser. After much coaxing, I got these two into the car and immediately realized that they had encountered a skunk somewhere along their journey.

Skunk smells bad enough, but you put it on a wet dog and the odor is hideous.

Once in the car, The odor was quite intense. It was a twenty-five minute drive to Lancaster, the closest place I could drop them off at almost four in the morning, and I must say that although it was a very, very long drive, my sinuses have never been more clear…

The Humane Society in Lancaster is the place to take wayward dogs. There is no one there at that time of the morning, but they have a kennel in the back you can put them in until the warden arrives. We call it “Doggy Jail”.

As always, I followed up on Monday morning just to let the clerk at the Humane Society know what area they came from in case the owners called. While speaking to her I learned that the they, as well as the shelter next door, were at capacity and couldn’t keep the dogs long, meaning they were going to be put down rather quickly. I gave the clerk my number and told her to call if no one claimed the dogs.

Wednesday rolled around and I hadn’t heard anything, so I decided to call.

I spoke to the clerk and she told me that a lady had called about them and when she was told it was $85.00 per dog to get them out, she said she would have to talk to her husband. That was Monday afternoon and they both were scheduled to be put to sleep later that afternoon. The lady never called back.

I am no stranger to rescue. I had rescued a number of Shepherds, trained them and adopted them out, so I told the clerk I would be back that afternoon for the dogs. She said she would hold them for me.

I called my wife and told her, and she immediately called a Husky rescue near our house to get the other dog. We went in that afternoon and got Argo. We loaded him into the Jeep and off we went, skunk smell and all.

We got him home and introduced him to our female, Sasha. I always do the introductions when we bring an orphan home as Sasha is extremely territorial and distrusts any other dog that comes around. They sniffed each other’s butts, circled and stared. Everything seemed to go pretty good for about one minute and thirty seconds. Then Sasha attacked, immediately pinning Argo to the floor by his throat. And that was it. Sasha held on for about a half minute and let go. Argo showed no sign of aggression toward her whatsoever. That is Sasha’s way of saying “Welcome. I am the boss”.

We soon realized that although Argo was about a year old, he wasn’t potty trained. About a half hour after the episode with Sasha, Argo proceeded to mark his territory in the living room. I corrected him and took him outside so he could learn proper potty etiquette. We were out for about twenty minutes and came back inside.

I no sooner than went to the kitchen to look for something to eat and Argo took a dump in the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. It was the largest pile of poop I had ever seen, except for maybe an elephant’s pile.

This went on for awhile. He had no idea he wasn’t supposed to poop and pee in the house. We would just be sitting on the couch watching TV, and he would wake up, walk around for a few minutes, and stoop and poop right in front of us. No shame whatsoever.

We’ve had Argo for almost six months now and he has turned out to be a fantastic dog. It took about a month to get him on the right track with his potty habits and he is doing great. That is good news for our carpet shampooer.

Gone With The Wind…

I love my dogs. Most of the time, anyway.

I have two German Shepherds, Sasha and Argo, and they are great dogs. They are both rescues and I couldn’t ask for anything more than they give me. I found out quite a while ago that you don’t have to spend a bunch of money to get a quality dog. When you pay five-hundred dollars, your just buying papers. If you are interested in bloodlines, that’s okay with me. It’s your money.

Sasha is a female (Of course), and she is of East German lines. The East Germans generally distinguish themselves by their build, usually being shorter, stockier and their nose is more blunt and squared. She has the classic black muzzle and black saddle with a hint of blue. Sasha is the protector of the house, and she lets passers-by know where her turf ends. She would give her life for our family.

Argo, on the other hand, is about as American as you can get with a Shepherd. He is gray and black with a hint of tan, has a mixed saddle and muzzle, and a nose that only Pinocchio could love. He is also rather large, to the tune of about 135 lbs. Now, when people come knockin’, he probably sounds like Satan incarnate, but would probably stand aside while Sasha eliminates the threat.

Due to his large stature, Argo tends to be clumsy at times. He trips over his own feet, runs into door jambs, and is constantly tangling himself up in his lead on walks. He is the Dick VanDyke of the canine world.

Argo’s biggest problem, though, is his intestinal distress.

I have rehabilitated many dogs, mostly Shepherds, and I have yet to find one that can match Argo’s farting prowess! He can out-fart most humans, and in the dog world he is the champion of the air biscuit. Certainly, there must be some kind of award for that, an award that would declare him ‘Grand Champion of Flatulance’.

I know, all dogs fart. If they didn’t they would explode for sure. But most release what you would call S.B.D.’s, sneaky popcorn style farts that are invisible to the human eye, detected only by infra-red goggles. Argo, on the other hand, blasts his menace at a rather loud decibel, alerting everyone within earshot that green death creepeth, and it creepeth quickly!

As I sit here and type away, he has passed gas four times. And Sasha? Well, she is upstairs hiding not from the stink but the pain it inflicts on her ears. Argo must be dual-toned, emitting blasts in the frequency ranges for humans as well as dogs.

Monkee, I think you’ve met your match.

Another Reason I Hate Political Correctness

At least it’s not as bad here as it is in Britain, but we’re on the slippery slopes, folks.

Recently, Radio talk pioneer Bob Grant was given the Lifetime Achievement Award by Radio And Record – an industry magazine. Mr. Grant is on the, lets say, conservative side in his views, and the liberals in the industry threw a fit. He has rubbed libs wrong for a very, very long time and now they see it as time for payback. In a nutshell, they rescinded the award.

Neal Boortz blogged about it in his “Nealz Nuze” segment of his website and, as usual, he let Radio And Records have it. You can link to it here.

Also…In Alaska, a thirteen year old girl has been arrested for ” Touching boys over their clothes”.

Uh Huh…

Now see, this is the kind of do-good bullshit that is turning the United States into one of the worst places to live anymore. What’s next, the “Thought Police”? It’s already happening in Britain and Canada, and it’s on its way here.

And the sad part? Some people think it’s okay, and most just don’t either care or pay attention. The last time I checked, the Constitution gave us freedom OF speech, not freedom FROM speech. Just wait until Hillary gets elected. It will get worse.

Oh, and on a funny note…I just got a Hillary bumber sticker. It says “Run Hillary Run”. I put it on the front of my car.

Woe Is Me…

Hi everyone…
I just had a complete computer crash from a virus that I picked up somewhere. It made it past 2 firewalls and a slew of anti-virus programs, and a proxy server. Right now it appears I’ve lost everything I’ve accumulated over the past 10 years or so.

Update all of your virus software as well as your firewall(s). Whatever this sucker is it got past everything. The only thing I can figure is that it adapted itself to one of the programs or files I was running and mimicked it. I dunno, I have never had a virus get past the iron wall I’ve built.

Be careful!

Guest Column: My Good Friend Monkee On Stink Eye

Stink/dead eye. The true meanings.

From Monkee at www.monkeychapps.com

No, this is the good one! Thats the joke I like to play on those that seem a bit uncomfortable asking me about my eye. Its actually a replaced cornea that was badly scarred. I wish I had a good story about how it happened like I was injured trying to find Ossama Bin Laden or it was injured during a fight with ghost pirates. Alas nothing as glamorous. The iris is stretched and it looks like a cat eye. I usually hear “thats cool” and I reply with my old standard ” how cool, cool enough for you to want to give me cash/ make out/ wash my car”? No takers yet, but I am patient. I digress.

The shape of the eye sometime give an ominous look leading people to think that I am scowling at them. I found out this was known as the stink/skunk/evil eye. My usual jocularity and silly antics put people at ease and I no longer am placed in the “mean guy” category. With that said I will now retell a story, a story of pain. A story of disgust and trauma only seen by trauma surgeons and homicide detectives.

It was a glorious spring day. A day that could put the most devout curmudgeon and Nair-do-well in the best of spirits. A day when I took no offense at doing one of my least favorite chores. Mowing the lawn. I hate all the prep work and extras that one does just to cut grass. Shovel poop, empty the catcher, fill the garbage bags and so on. I call shenanigans on all that! I’m a free spirit! I will just forgo the catcher and that other drudgery that keeps me from the sweet sweet smell of fresh cut grass.

I mow. I mow sans catcher(the little rocks that gently pelt my shins are not bad). The grass will fly out the catcher attachment, dry up and blow away. No problem. I mow over the dog doody. It’ll scatter all over and not be a problem.

Halfway though I see a pile, take aim and run over it. I never thought a piece of poo could exit the catcher hole, catch the wind and hit me. The odds of that are huge. Even greater are the odds of that same poo making that turn, catching an updraft and flying at my eye! The stink eye non the less. It was like a scene from the matrix only with dog poo. It was horrible and I still carry the scars. What I can’t figure out is why I felt running around like a mad man yelling “poo” would help me.

So now when I am asked about my “stink eye” I do have a good story.

Scouting Does Make A Difference

If you read some “alternative” news, you have probably seen the Boy Scouts of America come under fire more than once, usually by the ACLU. They have been accused of being everything from homophobic to Christian Extremists (No kidding!).

The ACLU seems like they just drool when they have a chance to represent a person or organization who is against scouting. When parents wanted their daughters to join scouting, probably to make a PC point, and the BSA said no, the ACLU came rushing in saying “You can’t discriminate against Females”. Why would you want your daughter in “Boy” scouts anyway? The have an organization for girls, and its called Campfire Girls (Brownies included).

I am a scout leader. I have been to a lot of functions where I have met other leaders, and I haven’t yet had one spew off about their hate of anyone – including gays. We are just normal people who see scouting as a way for our kids to learn and build character.

Some of the greatest people in history are Eagle Scouts. Earning your Eagle is such a high accomplishment that it is recognized by the President Of The United States as an outstanding achievement. This is because earning your Eagle Scout is no easy accomplishment. I’m not sure what the statistics are, but it’s something like only one in ten Boy Scouts earn the rank of Eagle. I currently have two nephews who are Eagles and one who is about to earn his rank. That is a high accomplishment for all three boys in the same family to earn this rank.

My pack, Pack 227, Millersport, Ohio, is one of the most highly decorated Cub Scout packs in the Chief Tarhe District of the Simon Kenton Council. This isn’t because we push them to just earn awards. We teach them to serve others in our community with special projects. Even though the leaders are in charge, we let the boys decide what they want to do and how they want to do it.

On January 4, 2006, deputy Ethan Collins of the Fairfield County Ohio Sheriff’s Office was killed in the line of duty. The first meeting we had after Ethan’s death, we had most of our parents tell us that their boy wanted to do something for him, but they didn’t know what. They wanted to raise money for Ethan’s family, but I told them that although the money would be nice, we needed to honor his memory and his sacrifice for our community. After several meetings and brainstorming the Scouts found out that I was planning to attend the Fallen Officers Memorial Ceremony in Washington, D.C. the following year where Ethan would be honored. Well, that sealed the deal: Pack 227 was going to Washington for the Memorial.

What followed this decision was mind boggling. For the next year or so, we took on so many fundraising events that I wasn’t sure my sanity would be in check afterwards. We did car washes, doughnut sales, rock-a-thons, pancake breakfasts – you name it we did it. And we probably invented a few fund raisers along the way. What we didn’t make in fund raising, we had donated to us from prominent and not-so-prominent people in the community. In that year and a half, the Scouts raised enough money to charter a bus, obtain hotel accommodations, and a few site seeing tours for 50 people for three days.

When the time came for the ceremony and memorial, the scouts were outstanding. They were almost held in esteem by officers from various departments throughout the country – and world. Officers saluted them, media adored them, and they were given preferential treatment almost everywhere they went.

One of my favorite memories was when we went to the candlelight vigil the night before the ceremony, and there were so many officers, family, and citizens there that the scouts couldn’t see what was going on. Then, a Lieutenant from the Seattle Police Department saw one of the scouts and picked him up and put him high so he could see. Then other officers saw that and before you knew it the scouts were being hoisted up, high in the air, right where they belonged.

I think what summed everything up most to me was when a correspondent from, I think USA Today, asked one of our scouts why they were here, they told her that “We’re here for Ethan, because he was here for us”. So Simple, so poignant.

Because of their actions in 2006 and 2007, the scouts of pack 227 were allowed to do something that, to my knowledge, has not been allowed in scouting before: they were allowed by the national council of the Boy Scouts Of America to affix a “End Of Watch” pin for Deputy Ethan Collins to their uniforms permanently – a pin unique to pack 227 only that no other pack or troop can wear.

It is because of accomplishments like this that Scouting makes a difference.

Guns And God

Just a thought, referring back to the Beslan posts, in regards the shooting at the church in Colorado…

I stated that I was wholly in favor of teachers being trained and going armed in our schools. I am sure that a lot of people out there would like to crucify me for that statement because guns are bad, and they are really bad around kids (we can’t even have our children play cops and robbers, soldier, or even DRAW a gun for fear of being expelled from school for violating the zero tolerance gun policy!).

There are a lot of people who believe that a church is a sanctuary from violence (like schools) and that no one should have a gun in church (also like schools). Well, if it weren’t for the armed security officer at the New Life Church in Colorado Springs, the body count would more than likely been much, much higher – possibly in 75 to 100 range. It appears the shooter in this situation had planned for a high body count in advance for his “Mission” by placing smoke bombs in the parking lot to slow down the cops, giving himself more time to complete his “mission”.

An AK-47 is quite a deadly weapon. In the hands of a trained rifleman, he could have easily killed 15 to 30 people with one clip of ammunition, depending on the clip size. Just think of many shooters with AK-47’s with multiple ammunition clips.

From the information I have, he was armed to the hilt and prepared to take out everyone in the church.

Hats off to the security officer…She undoubtedly saved many lives, possibly dozens. She is definitely a hero.

A most outstanding job Ma’am!