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.

The Morning After

Defeated.

Who knew the Lion Match would go South so quickly? I hope Dwayne got the footage he needed before the game, cause Suzi is gone to us forever. Apparently the ice was too thin to sustain the weight of a 300 lb seal frolicking amongst us in the finals.

Just when you think everything's gonna work out fine, some sort of drama has to crop up. Go figure.

Gotta run, Skrimpf is calling.

Prelude To The Seal Games

I slip out of the sparkly night into the new digs. Memories of those cold weeks after Skrimpf burnt down our home drift through me, making me shiver over more than the frost on the stoop. Fire Chief Brigsby said there was rubber burnt in the oven. I think Skrimpf's mind said, "boring old chicken fingers," and his body responded with "broiled rubber chicken." The guy is so wacky. We tracked him down at old Alexa's double-wide modeling nothing but his "Hi, You'll Do" cloth. Deplorable.

Focus. McAnything is determined to ruin me. I need to charge up for more practice in the morning.

Last year's Chihuahua Championship didn't pan out so well. Tomorrow evening, its the Lion Match. First off, Steve's nefarious cousin Dwayne has been poking around in the seal kennels. I've caught him three times trying to sneak in his goo. He has this vivid imagination, and spends too much time on the net. We use the seals for the trophy, but he wants to film them for his stupid video he thinks is gonna get him into the big time.

Sleep comes slowly tonight. My mind lingers on how Christmas was when we were kids. I don't think Steve or I got a wink of sleep that Christmas in the third grade. We kept both ears off the pillows, our eyes tracing the dim lines of the ceiling, hoping to hear the sound of hooves. That was the year Jackson had been drinking and Becka got upset and took off. He tried to catch her in the Bronco but lost control and plowed that elk through our picture window. We heard the hooves, but then it was a sick bray and that grating of hard rubber over ice, then the inevitable smash that led to red-stained antlers under our tree. I don't think I've been the same since.

Focus. Sleep.
He's at it again. He managed to let the bloody seal out, and he threw a dollop of his goo on her. Suzi is writhing around to the tune of Dwayne's tinny trance music. What makes it worse is she's wearing a tall white striped red hat, and a bow tie. Familiar but strange. Odd. I call out, expectant of some justification for the racket, for the defiling of our prize seal. Why must he do this!? Dwayne scampers up to me, the way he usually does, eyes averted, mouth hanging open. Sometimes I just want to reach out and smack his jaw closed, but you know what they say about undesired physical contact. I ask him what this is about, and he starts stammering about his video, how its going to be perfect. Suddenly I see an explosion behind Dwayne's right shoulder. I see the outline of Skrimpf hobbling towards us. He looks singed. Fireworks aren't the only thing exploding, because suddenly Dwayne has lost it, "LIGHTS GADAMMIT! I SAID YOU HANDLE LIGHTING, NOT THE FOURTH OF FECKIN JULAH!"

I try to step in and moderate, but I only wake myself up. Groggily, I make my way to the urination station, passing leaves scattered around the bath tub. Oh, right Skrimpf is staying with me. Figures. Guess things didn't work out so well with wild-eye Alexa.

I hobble back to my room to have a normal dream, but now I've got Silverchair stuck in my head.

Tomorrow will be a big day.

**

Wants some background? I started this blog in response to my friend's not-so-reverent feed at http://maximum-genital-comfort.blogspot.com/
Follow us both to keep in the know ;)