Don't Burn Any.

Flames licked the sky, the reflection echoed in the flowing waters below. It was an eerie scene which sent my thoughts to ancient times; of vikings and burning boats.

The old one lane bridge had a weight rating posted at either end, but that became moot as timbers began breaking away under the intense heat.

I took a cautious glance at Skrimpf. He was beaming. Clearly getting him out of the house was an improvement, but this wasn't what I had in mind. Not even close.

I picked up the case of tequila and pitched it at the fire, only to learn how truly flammable that shit is. Hair singed and in a panic, I returned to our little group. Who's idea was this!?

Skrimpf's sister in law lowered her eyes in shame, his wife looked off into space.

"That's it, I'm going home," I exclaimed.

Freaking pyromaniacs.

They say, "the hardest thing in life is knowing which bridge to cross and which to burn." Such bullshit.

For The Lack Of Cheezies, The War Was Lost.

I reached in the bowl for another cheezy, and found nothing but orange dust. Up! I hoisted my lazy ass off the couch and navigated my way to the treat cupboard, where I found nothing, except for a granola bar. I wasn't even sure it was mine.

"BAH!"

I shouted at the cupboard. The blast of power was too much for its particle-board structure, and it erupted into a flurry of fine dust.

I returned to my cheezy bowl, licked my finger, and tried to wipe up some cheezy dust to consume. It tasted dry, too dry. I looked down and saw that now not only did the bowl contain cheezy dust, but particle board dust too.

Tears welled in my eyes, and I sat down, defeated.

My life is ruined.

Happy Hippity Hop Hype.

The rottweiler twitched twice, and was awake.

The ground around it was littered in cotton. If dogs can have dreams, this one just had the best doggone dog dream in the history of dogdom or dogma.

That was a decade ago.

I didn't think I'd wake to the same situation.

The bunnies were so tasty.

Snappy Snorph Snorph Skrimpf!

It's Skrimpf's birfday.

I texted him, "Snappy snorph snorph." He responded with, "Uhhh thank you!" Like he's the sane one. Pah!

An Exercise In Manners.

Pain shoots through my nerves. I cling the back of my head. Already I can feel blood.

How smart of me to stand up directly underneath the metal sign swaying idly in the wind. I look up, cringing as I focus out the sun setting over the low rolling mountains and try to make the old sign clear: "The Mannered Bare."

Holding my head, I sigh and head back in, first for some ice and paper towl, and second, because I still haven't gotten the answer to the question that's been tumbling around my head, even before I knocked it.

Boss walks in. I pounce, "You do realize, you've named this tavern in error?"

He looks a little amused.

I continue, "You've created a name of great personification, but its nonsense. It is made up of two adjectives."

He smiles, I frown.

He looks at me for a long moment before quizzing me, "What's wrong with your head?"

I fall down.

Garbage and Pasta

So was feeling particularly needy today and decided to go to the re-use. Its that run-down shed off to the side of the garbage transfer station where people discard yesterday's treasures.

Slowly I pulled up and left the engine running, the door slightly ajar. They say not to idle because it creates pollution, but you never know when you might need to make a speedy escape.

Hopping up on the landing, I saw all manner of nothing! Some VHS tapes, a few stuffed animals, a decrepit coffee table. What bother! To think I made this trip to find no trinkets!

Glaring about, something caught my eye. A flash. Stepping towards it, I fell. Sinking endlessly through a green murky fluid I could do naught but ask myself where I may end up, if I survived this. Thud. I was on the ground, dry. A tad dazed, I strained to see in this new dark world. Peppers dangled from plants to my left, to my right, a field of spaghetti. A pink chihuahua meowed in front of me and disappeared with a bang.

I winced, the explosion was shocking.

Cautiously once more, I looked around. Nothing here but a coffee table, a few movies and some old snuggle toys.

I ran back to my car and got out of there, upset, and hungry for spaghetti.

Smell of Stabbing.

"One mustn't get stuck in routine."
I'm kicking myself. If I hadn't adhered to that mantra then, I might not have this killer headache now.

It all started when Skrimpf got it in his head to take "the short trip" to the native reservation for what he called "cheap tobacco."

Let's take a second to examine Skrimpf as I understand him. In his mind, adjectives applying to people are a commodity. I'm almost positive he thinks he can buy that commodity with seashells.
The reason I say that, is he's got a display of bowls set up in his bedroom. I saw them while I was putting those child-proof plugs in his electrical outlets. The bowls are labelled with what you or I may deem to be offensive discriminatory words; the N-word, the C-word, Justin Beiber... He places the shells in whatever one suits his mood and suddenly he thinks he owns those attributes.

Back to the story.

I awoke to Skrimpf tanning his forearms under the oven broiler. On this day he was going to be a particularly blonde Taylor Lautner armed with a fake status card and a corn cob pipe. His problem: he had no tobacco. Disgusted, I dismissed him with a wave of my hand and he went trooping gayly towards the door.

"Grack!"

In a fury I discovered one end of a leash around my neck, the other was in his hand. Clearly this was a day Skrimpf would need supervision.

Don't get the wrong idea. I don't get paid to watch him. He's a good guy, and a close friend. Things have just been a little strained since the fire, and we're adjusting.

I like to have fun. I like to get out of the house. This situation though doesn't fit my standard definition of fun.

The closest native reservation to our place is about 10 minutes away. I'm pretty sure the casino there even sends a bus around for patrons. Not good enough for Skrimpf. He wanted the "genuine experience" and was going to get his tobacco cheap. I told him I don't even know that there's a price difference. Maybe the taxes might be adjusted or something, with valid status. How would I know? Well he insisted we start driving, and he'd give directions.

Three hours later we'd driven through the Rocky Mountains, through the foothills, and now everything had become flat. I watched the single yellow line down the middle of the highway break. Space. Dash. Space. Dash. Space. Dash. Annoying. I became dazed watching the fence posts drift by. Skrimpf burst out a stuttering scream! Gritting my teeth I tried to focus and react, locking the brakes and skidding across the rumble strip and coming to a rest two feet into the gravel along the road. The tumbleweed continued its lazy journey, unconcerned that, if not for a recent bathroom break, my upholstery might need to be replaced.

Skrimpf stepped out of the car, and began frolicking down a narrow country road I hadn't seen. I spied a street marker crooked and wind-worn.

Shell Road. Weird.

Okay. I took my time to catch my breath, to stop and listen to the wind. I tried to compute how much fuel this trip might cost me. The V-6 Celica isn't exactly a VW. Numbers. Mechanical stuff. Bleh.

Oh shit, Skrimpf!

I blasted down the road, noticed the dust billowing out behind me for a mile when I saw it: a single-pump run down fuel station with an old indian chief painted on the side, head dress peeling and fading revealing the aged lumber behind. Is this spring time in Alberta?

I pulled up to the joint and hopped out, finding Skrimpf pawing through some magazines, key chains, beef jerky. I became bored. He finally came around to the tobacco that he *just had to have* while I absently started mumbling the vehicles I could see outside. Dodge Spirit, Nissan Quest. A little cliche for the setting, maybe. Skrimpf gave me a funny smirk and said, "Sure, yeah."

Time to go home.

I'm not sure what happened. Maybe one of my exhaust flange bolts broke. My memory of the drive back is a little hazy at best. I also don't think what Skrimpf bought was tobacco.

What I do know, is when I got up and got out my cereal, my bowl was labelled "Leprechaun," and it was full of sea-shells.