Javalinas are noteworthy as one of the most unusual creatures on earth. Javelinas are bizarre. Javalinas are hysterical.
So, it’s Javalina Time! Enjoy.
I’ve transferred some of my favorite blogs from the other sites and hope to add more fun stuff that’s original, links to other sites and everything javalina-like.
Whenever we have strange weather, I think of the early cavemen who endured the first winter.
“Leaves gone. Earth… dying,” Ugg whould say.
“Cold as hell,” says his lovely neanderthal bride, Barbarella. “Ugg, start a fire.”
“Fire not invented yet. Use bear skin I hunted for you.”
“Oh, no. Not me, Ugg! Remember last time we use bear skin?”
“Yes, I remember. Female bear skin. Male bear want cave back for hibernating. Think we were mama bear.”
“Ugg, where is that cave drawing?”
“I cross it out, Barbarella. Bring back bad memory. Me no sit for moons. But we learn, bears no sleep all the time when they hibernate.”
“Ugg, I think cold punishment from the gods.”
“Me think maybe I clubbed you on head too hard.”
Raising her voice, Barbarella says, “ME THINK gods punish you for sleeping with wife of Og.”
“Then me think I got punished twice. Og beat crap out of me. No, I already punished for sleeping with Paris. Cold come because you are barren, and have no children for me because you withhold sex.”
“Ugg, I just 13.”
“Yes, and in two years, we both die of old age.”
“Cold not because of me. Cold here because you not hunt enough meat.”
“Cold here because you nag.”
“Cold here because you sit on ass, looking at sky all day.”
“I sit on ass looking at sky wondering if it will get cold. Me think cold come because Barbarella not gather enough berries.”
“Me think berries make Ugg irregular. Cold come because Ugg make skid marks in his loin cloth.”
“If wheel invented yet, I would take it to the corner bar and drink fermented water.”
“Rambo have wheel.”
“Rambo have wheel, but no axle. Rambo have high forehead.”
“I could have shared cave with Rambo. He tried to club me before you.”
“Now, I suppose he got many hot chicks because he got wheel.”
“Rambo invent fire. His cave warm.”
“Rambo no invent fire. Rambo have gas problem. That why cave warm.”
“Rambo have stone tools. Rambo invent many things. What you invent, Ugg?”
“When I sit, Barbarella, me think I invent something. I call it ‘weather.’ I tell people when it get cold, and they pay me shells and metallic objects.”
Barbarella sits up straight, curious about this new technology. “How you tell when cold come?”
“Leaves go. Cold come. Bear disappear to caves, cold come. Bear come out, streams get full and move fast, it get warm again.”
“How you know you right?” Barbarella asks.
Ugg shrugs. “Not matter. Ugg only need be right part times. All men want to know weather of future. Ugg be rich man. Ugg have many wheels. Ugg be first to have fire. Ugg be first to have icebox. Then meat not smell so bad.”
Thanks to Ugg, Barbarella and the others made it through that first winter. The following year, Ugg was mauled by a bear. Barbarella became wealthy making pornographic cave paintings of Ugg encountering a high pressure system, if you know what I mean.
Sometimes, I can sneak it past the bank clerks, but certain tellers are way too anal about that sort of thing. I decided that even though this will likely be a moot point in another six weeks, I’d get a DBA to match the way everybody seems to want to make out the checks so that I can pay the bills and keep my internet connection. Because I would die without friends on Facebook.
So, today I ventured to the County Clerk’s lair to arrange the DBA. I put enough coins in the meter to cover more than an hour, based on previous experiences. I took my place in line, and there were only three people in front of me. I have no clue what transactions all those other people had, but the line did not move. Finally, they called the other fine folks in front of me, and it was apparent that one lady was going to be at the counter all day. The other had two manilla envelopes with neat stacks of orderly documents which she presented to the cashier. The cashier told her something was missing with one of the stacks, and the woman delved into her soft-sided briefcase, and pulled out another manila envelope with a different stack. The clerk processed those, and the women pulled out another stack, and another, and another. I was in amazement because the briefcase didn’t appear to be that large, and yet she was extracting big, fat volumes of paperwork.
It was probably similar to the event organizer on the day the Jesus fed 5,000 people with two fish and five loaves of bread. At first he probably watched in amazement as people filed past, and got their fill. Then, he probably nudged the Lord, and said something like, “Hey, Jesus, this wasn’t supposed to be a feast, just light snacks and hors d’oeuvres.” As more time passed, he’d interrupt again and say, “Jesus, can you move these people along faster? The entertainment is waiting. I’ve got a clown and a magician, and a Samaritan woman who plays the lyre. The magician says you’re ruining his handkerchief act.”
Back in line, a little boy started licking the stanchion, and I was forced to listen to Mom scolding him for five minutes. Lay off, Mom! In 35 years, that kid will probably be County Executive. Finally, the lady with the magic briefcase finished her show and I was called to the front of the line. My tranaction was completed in less than five minutes, and the whole ordeal was over in about a half hour. It was the most entertainment I had all day.
Sniglets are “neologisms,” or new words, that don’t appear in the dictionary, but should. The concept words were devised and given their test run by Rich Hall, a comedian, on an ’80s HBO series “Not Necessarily the News.” The series is long canceled, Rich Hall? Who knows? But sniglets endure.
I dug up 10 actual sniglets presented on the show, and then added some new ones. A few years ago, I was collaborating with my friend Valerie Perkins, who contributed one of the funniest ones, which I noted. We both use the word regularly, and invite you to do the same.
aquadextrous: adj. Possessing the ability to turn the bathtub faucet on and off with your toes. — “Sniglets”, Rich Hall
eleacceleration, n. (EL-uh-ax-sell-er-a-shun) The process of making an elevator move faster by pressing the button more than once. – Rich Hall
expressholes, n. People who sneak more than 7 items into the 7 items or less checkout line. – Rich Hall
yink, noun One strand of hair that covers a bald spot.
yinkel, n. A person who combs his hair over his bald spot, hoping no one will notice. — Rich Hall
gleemites, n.: Petrified deposits of toothpaste found in sinks. — “Sniglets”, Rich Hall
squatcho, n.: The button at the top of a baseball cap. — “Sniglets”, Rich Hall & Friends
scribline, n.: The blank area on the back of credit cards where one’s signature goes. — “Sniglets”, Rich Hall & Friends
slurm, n.: The slime that accumulates on the underside of a soap bar when it sits in the dish too long. — Rich Hall
schnuffel, n.: A dog’s practice of continuously nuzzling in your crotch in mixed company. — Rich Hall
Okay, and a few new ones:
Snuffleupugery — n. (SNUFF-el-uh-pug-er-ee) mischief, often too extraordinary to be believed.
— Valerie Perkins
girthquake — n. when overweight people walk across the floor and cause it to shake.
coupoff — n. an expired coupon.
vagabondage — n. sado-masochistic sex with a hobo.
medibuster — n. lengthy, detailed description, usually by adults 40+, of an embarrassing medical condition or procedure, often to the shock and dismay of a polite but disinterested listener.
tsunroof — n, (SOON-ruuf) a rooftop opening on a car accidentally left open in the rain.
roctogenarian — n., adj. any rock musician still performing concerts and comeback tours after they’ve received their AARP membership card. Or the British equivalent.
Twit-turd — n. Crap that people write on Twitter.
excandescent — adj. describing a type of light bulb that no longer works.
oog — n. A grunt made when striking a tennis ball in competition.
pastorized — adj. having had sex with a priest.
pastorize — v. You get the picture.
crup — n. a dirty coffee cup.
By Kerry Gleason
Having too much fun with this to pass up a chance to blog. I was researching Tulsa, Oklahoma, to write about a fictional character from there, and learned more about Oklahoma than I thought I’d ever care to know. Here are some of the oddities in Tulsa, and around the rest of the state.
Tulsa is home of the largest pair of praying hands sculpture. It is also the only city in America with a six-figure budget line item for a manicurist. It’s also home to the Center of the Universe, which is an attraction described as “astonishing,” “eerie,” “free parking” and “no traffic.” The gist is that when you stand in the circle, you hear an echo that nobody else can hear. Sounds like a Kathie Griffin stand-up appearance. There’s the Golden Driller Titanic Oil Man. Every guy would like that nickname, but there’s only one, and he stands in Tulsa. Detractors of the statue, one of the hugest in America, point out that the Driller is somewhat hermaphroditic, that the model for the statue was a woman, and apparently, he wears a sting of beads that is unmanly. Tulsa also has a time capsule featuring a 1998 Plymouth Prowler, already a collectible keepsake, and local restaurant menus. That’s gonna be a helluva party when they dig that baby up in 2048!
Other Okie Oddities include:
Clinton – The Elvis Stayed Here Motel. It was Elvis Grbac, former KC Chief’s QB, not the one you were thinking.
Arcadia – the world’s largest pop bottle. Underestimated is the world’s largest drinking straw.
Ardmore – a music box allegedly shot by Jesse James. I figure I’ll pass. If Jesse hated the music that much, then I don’t need to hear it, either.
Avard – a haunted gymnasium and cafe. Vinne Rae’s Grill and Graze is in an old gymnasium that is haunted. No doubt by customers who died from the food at Vinnie Rae’s.
Beaver – The Cow-Chip Throwing Capital of the World. Now there’s a testament to the excitement this place has to offer. “What dya wanna do, Clem.” “I dunno, Cletus. What dy’all want to do?” “Bet I can throw this here cow dung further than you.” “Bet ya can’t!” And a city gained an identity.
Boise City – has a “replica bomb crater.” Because some dumbass filled the original in before some other dumbass thought there might be people stupid enough to visit a bomb crater.
Claremore – has the Will Rogers’ Memorial, featuring the contents of his pockets at the time of his death.
Durant – The world’s largest peanut is here. I love peanuts. Why didn’t they plant it and grow more giant peanuts? Selfish bastards.
Erick – The home of the Roger “King of the Road” Miller Museum. I loved Roger Miller. Knuckle down, buckle down, do it, do it, do it!
Guthrie – gunfights in the streets. We have that here in Rochester, too.
Foyil – World’s largest totem pole. Ed Galloway built it after retiring “so that I would have something to do.”
Guymon – World’s straightest road, for 50 miles. As opposed to Toronto’s Church Street, which is the un-straghtest road I’ve ever encountered, if you get my drift.
Hugo – Called “Circus Town USA.” Also called “Carnie Heaven.” Otherwise known as “The Greatest Freak Show on Earth,” and “The Off-Center of the Universe.”
Magnum – Home of the Rattlesnake Roundup Derby. Three words that should not be used consecutively in any sentence.
Nowatka – Is this Tornado Alley? The Dust Bowl? See the famous Bowling Ball Fence. Probably a model for those desktop clacker things from the ’80s.
There’s a bowling ball rosary (too heavy to wear), and a bowling ball alphabet, but it only goes up to the letter “V.” No, they still have plenty of bowling balls, but they forgot the other letters.
Oklahoma City has a Milk Bottle Building. A dairy, perhaps? A mini-mart with ice cream? A training center for milkmen? Nope. It’s a Vietnamese sandwich shop. And in Oklahoma, that might be more rare than a building with a giant milk bottle on top of it.
Pauls Valley – Come one, come all to the Action Figure Museum. If you are able to leap tall milk bottle buildings in a single bound.
Oklahoma City – World’s Largest Mound. Not even close to the World’s Largest Home Plate.
Okemah – Barbara Sue Manire, interred in the Highland Cemetery, has an expired parking meter tombstone. Sucks to run out of quarters.
Wynnewood – G.W. Exotic Animal Memorial Park, which features many of God’s strangest and most dangerous creatures, “all of which you can get disturbingly close to,” claims one review. The review calls it: “Amateurish,” “Run by weirdos,” and “they have a restaurant that is only open at certain times.”
More oddball attractions, as we find ’em, folks!
All photos copyright Kerry Gleason 2010
This is my next sport to try. Hurling.
Hurling Girl
One point!
He scored on this hurl.
I took a short trip on the Cherry Creek Bike trail, and just about a mile from my home is a weed-strewn patch of land between some of the Cherry Creek waterfalls and the John F. Kennedy Golf Course. I call it Prairie Dog City, and subsequently learned that the nesting areas of prairie dogs are called “towns.” This is where prairie dogs go to work, play and do their laundry.
Prairie Dogs are amazing creatures and oh, so cute! Most of them are timid around strangers, but I found a few very close to the bike path who allowed me to get within a few feet to take some glamor shots. These have been cleared with their agents so I can publish them. Other prairie dogs, further from the path, were a little more skittish about having their pictures taken. Scientists claim that prairie dogs have the most sophisticated language and communication skills of any creatures in the animal kingdom, with more than 5,000 different warnings, each associated with a different predator. I witnessed this amazing skill at Prairie Dog City, where about a dozen of them were out sunning themselves, playing polo and dining on locally grown vegetation. As a hawk flew overhead, an alpha male chirped out a warning, and with every bleat, it thumped its tail on the ground. Those who strayed from their holes returned.
If you are looking for nature to entertain you, Prairie Dog CIty is the place to go.
All photos Copyright 2010 by Kerry Gleason.
“Where’s the cable guy? He was supposed to be here an hour ago.”
“You kids! Stay offa my lawn!”
“Take me down to the Prairie Dog City
Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty,
Oh won’t you please take me home?”
One of the prairie dogs’ fiercest predators, a hawk, flies overhead, and the prairie dogs hunker down. This alpha male was thumping his tail and barking a warning to his mates.
A prairie dog home. The dirt mound keeps waters from flash floods from drowning the rascals.
Being transient has its drawbacks and benefits, but I felt it was my civic duty and a legal responsibility to answer the census questionnaire. I went to the website, which was useless for providing me a point of contact. For grins and giggles, I figured I’d ask Google, because Lord knows they’re smarter than the government. There, I found my answer, and not only that, but the census office is on my very street! Not really — you kave to understand the road names in Denver to realize that Denver has only 12 street names that they just keep repeating over again.
I called, and a woman named Laurie answered with great bureaucratic authority. And kindly said, no thank you.
It was a strange call, and I thought afterward that I should have used an alias. After all, I’m a census evader. The conversation with the Census Bureau would have sounded something like this:
CB: Good morning, Census Bureau. This is Laurie.
OBL: Good morning, Laurie. This is Osama Bin Laden, and I’m hoping you can help me with a problem.
CB: I can try. How can I help you, Mr. Laden.
OBL: I was traveling, and unable to receive my mail forwarded to my cave in the mountains of Pakistan. Now that I’ve set up permanent residence in the United States, I’d like to participate in your Census 2010.
CB: What is your ZIP code, Mr. Bin Laden?
OBL: It’s the same as yours at the Census Bureau.
CB: Well, the deadline for that has already passed.
OBL: I know. But it is my civic duty to report where I live so that my elected officials will have more government subsidies for local porkbarrel projects for the next decade.
CB: Yes, that is true, but you don’t need to send in the form.
OBL: Really? Well how do I make sure that I am counted among you infidels.
CB: I’m not an infidel, I’m a Gemini. But you need not worry, we will find you.
OBL: Right, well let me give you my new address.
CB: No, Mr. Laden. That won’t be necessary. We have census takers who will be going door to door.
OBL: Well, let me give you my location. My dwelling is very hard to find.
CB: Nope. We’ll find you. Our census taker will knock on your door and ask you to take a brief 10-question survey. Winners will be randomly drawn for a gift certificate to Applebees.
OBL: I love Applebee’s!
CB: Everybody does. So, you see, Mr. Laden, there is nothing to worry about.
OBL: But what if I’m not at home.
CB: We’ll come back.
OBL: But I’m very rarely home.
CB: We’ll keep coming back. At all different hours of the day and night, Mr. Laden.
OBL: Are you sure it wouldn’t be easier to just send me a form that I can mail back?
CB: Sir, we have a process. And that includes an army of census takers who trudge door to door with their 10-part questionnaires.
OBL: You have an army?
CB: Yes we do, Mr. Laden.
OBL: I have an army, too.
CB: That’s nice, but that’s not one of the questions.
OBL: None of them have completed the census form, either.
CB: That’s okay. We will find them.
OBL: There are many of them.
CB: Sir, we have many census takers, as well. They are like ants at a picnic.
OBL: Okay, well, I suppose there is nothing more that I can do except wait for one of your census takers to find me.
CB: That’s right, Mr. Laden. Now you have a nice day.
(click)
I bet they use Google, too.
It was the anniversary of my dad’s birthday, April 3. I had a long day at Coors Field, and learned a lot for the week leading up to Opening Day. I walked five blocks to my car, and drove two before the car bucked me like a bronco. Every picture tells a story, don’t it?
I missed Sunday’s Sunrise Service at Red Rocks. But the irony of breaking down in front of the Samaritan House was grand. Gary, the resident who called a car-smart friend to try to help. The tow truck driver, David, (“Cinco” to his friends), who made me laugh and did a masterful job of loading and unloading my car without causing further damage. The bus driver, who advised me on transfers. And finally, John, the kind customer at a Litteton restaurant who gave me a ride on the final leg of my 6-hour journey home. The repair shop to which I was towed gave me has a business card that reads “Automobile lifesavers” and “Honest, Fair prices.” That they are. The back 1/4 of the chassis must be rebuilt. The tab will be less than the 8 bills I paid for a similar repair (other side) in Rochester, but still close to 8 bills. I’m still smiling. It’s a small, monetary, price to be paid to mend a life that was broken.
So, I’m looking for work, and Coors Field has lots of temporary summer jobs, although I learned “Pitching Coach” isn’t one of them. So I did a little Park-and-Ride using Denver’s fabulous public transportation system. I carefully checked online for the correct bus to get me near Blake Street and 22nd, and the #12 did the trick. It stopped at Larimer and 18th, about six blocks shy of my goal.
But I forgot to see which bus would get me back. I assumed it was the #12, but did not know where to pick it up. Larimer is a one-way street, so any bus there would be heading the wrong way. I crossed over one more block, where I saw a #9 bus pulled over and parked. The driver opened the door.
“I’m new here,” I explained. “I took the #12 bus to get to Coors Field, but can’t figure out how to get back. Which bus should I take to get to Downing St. and Exposition?”
“Geez, I’m not sure,” the driver said. “I’m new at this and I don’t know all the routes. Let me think.” He put his head in his hands, like he was contemplating the final-round question on “So you Want to Be a Millionaire.” “Wait… I’m drawing a blank. I should know this! Uhn… I was never good at taking tests, and I feel like I’m on the spot. I think it’s the six. Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s the six.”
“Where do I get the six?”
“Get in!” he beckoned. “I’ll take you up to Broadway. It’s just about five blocks up.”
I got on the bus, and he closed the door. There were no other passengers on the bus.
“I didn’t realize there was nobody else on the bus.” The bus was not in service, yet he was driving me, chauffeuring me, to the bus stop.
Here’s where the trip took a turn for the comical.
“They won’t fire me for helping a customer, do you think?” And then he confessed to having slammed on the brakes earlier when a car cut him off. It was like Taxi Cab Confessions, reversed. He was contrite. Then, enlightened. He reminded me of actor Judge Reinhold in Beverly Hills Cop, politely absorbing my problem as his own and trying so hard to help.
“It’s the ten! You want the number ten.” Six of one, ten of the other, I thought. I believed him. We pulled up to Broadway, and before he negotiated the left turn, he asked, “Is that the 10 over there?” I looked and the bus was four blocks up the road.
“I can’t possibly read that from here.”
“Well if it’s not, it will be along soon.” He turned the bus and dropped me off, where a dozen or more people waited for their buses. He opened the door, said goodbye and good luck, and shook my hand. It was then that I started thinking he mistook me for Mayor John Hickenlooper. I should have asked the driver his name.
The distant bus drew closer, and it was the #0. Wrong bus, but after the passengers boarded, I asked the driver which bus would get me back to Downing St. He thought about it a moment, and said, “It’s either the #6 or the #10… no, it’s the 10. There’s one coming up behind me in less than a minute.”
He was right. The #10 pulled over, and I got on. I forgot to have my $2 ready, and fumbled. After I fed it into the machine, I asked the driver the familiar question, “Is this the bus that goes to Downing Street and Exposition?” He answered with a heavy Eastern European accent. “No, this bus goes to (unintelligible) and (more unintelligible).” For arguments sake, let’s say he said “Prague St.” and “Krakow Ave.”
I could not understand anything he said, except the word, “No.” I protested that the other drivers said… “No,” he interrupted. “Prague and Krakow.” Without looking at me, he ripped off a transfer ticket. “Get off … Colfax … #15, I think.”
When the bus got to the stop, he motioned to me and I got off. I asked two women if they knew which bus I wanted, and they both said no. The shorter of the two pointed across the street, and told me if I went around the corner, I could ask there. It was the RTD headquarters, and surely somebody would know. Or not.
Just then, another bus pulled up, and I again asked the driver. She said matter-of-factly, “Oh, you want the #10.” I turned away, befuddled. She called after me. “Sir, you can get on my bus, I can drop you off at (some street name). You can walk a block and get the #12 that takes you back to Downing street.” This bus driver, this Glinda the Good Witch, delivered me as she said she would. While I watched the houses on Downing street pan past the window of the moving bus, I thought of the old Kingston Trio song about Charlie and the M.T.A. Charlie was destined to ride the subway and never return, and now, Boston calls their subway passes a Charlie Card. I would be proud if the RTD began calling their passes the Kerry Card. After all, I am mayor of this town.
Kerry on the RTD
(to the tune of “M.T.A.” with apologies to the Kingston Trio)
Let me tell you the story
Of a man named Kerry
On a tragic and fateful day
He put two bucks in his pocket,
Packed his laptop and CV
Went to ride on the RTD
Kerry handed in his fare
At the Wash Park Bus Stop
And arrived at Coors Field just fine
Once there, the conductor told him,
“Here ya go, man,
Come back on the Downing Street line.”
Chorus:
Did he ever return,
No he never returned
And his fate is still unlearn’d
He may ride forever
on the streets of Denver
He’s the man who never returned.
Now all night long
Kerry rode the buses
Saying, “What will become of me?”
Crying “Larimer’s a one-way street,
Where are these darn buses goin’?”
‘Til one driver said “Take a seat!”
“I think it’s the six
Or maybe the ten
Or the fifteen’ll get you back
I’ll take you down to Broadway,”
and he hands him a transfer
“I’m new, I hope I don’t get sacked.”
As buses rolled by
on the streets of Denver
Kerry looked around and sighed:
“Well, I’m lost and disgusted
And I’m absolutely flustered;
This may be my last long ride.”
Now you citizens of Denver,
It takes the dang whole village,
to set an idiot free
You can ride to Lakewood,
You can ride to Aurora,
You can ride to the Highlands
But if you ride to near Wash Park,
Get poor Kerry off the RTD!
Chorus:
Or else he’ll never return,
No he’ll never return
And his fate will be unlearned
He may ride forever
on the streets of Denver
He’s the man (Who’s da man?)
He’s the man who never returned.
He’s the man (Oh, da man)
He’s the man who never returned.
He’s the man who never returned.
Thanks to all the kind bus drivers with the RTD.
They all went out of their way to be kind and
helpful. I’d like to think they make everybody
feel like the Mayor of Denver.
Javelinatime's Blog 