BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

THE PUF REPORT: Part 1 of 5

Some of you may have actually “friended up” with E K on Facebook. To you I say, “What in the hell were you thinking?!” I mean, after all, I warned you. I have cited examples, explained, warned, waved flags… But, did you listen? No. So, as far as I’m concerned you have no one to blame but yourselves. If you willingly walked into the web of the evil redhead, well… All I can say is, told ya’ so…

Anywho… Those of you who were silly enough to end up pinned to the wall like a butterfly in her personal collection have likely already seen this next bit of text. For those of you who were smart enough to not end up in her killing jar, firstly, good on ya! Secondly, here’s the text in question:

Now, as you can see, this was her status on May 27. The following morning we were set to leave for PUF (Pagan Unity Festival) in Burns, TN. This is an event where I have been presenting workshops and signing books every year since 2001. In fact, I have even been told that if I die prematurely, they will dig me up and bring me to Tennessee so that I will always be at PUF. It seems that much like the brewers of Guinness and the bit of real estate where the brewery is located, PUF also has a 999 year lease on me. Fortunately, I don’t mind. 🙂

But, back to our story… Also as noted in that status update there is a little winky face behind the bit about Johnathan getting pouty. Johnathan, by the way, is a very good friend of ours. We’ve known him almost forever… As in, ever since he was a snot nosed, skater punk kid. He’s grown up with a kid of his own now, so that should give you an idea on “forever”. He’s also a fantastic artist who is responsible for the covers of my books. Yeah… I am one of the fortunate few authors out there who is friends with his cover artist. Makes life a bit easier when it comes to collaborating on the vision for the artwork. However, the long and short of the deal is this – Johnathan always accompanies us to PUF. He has for several years now. In fact, he is even considered a part of the PUF Staff now.

And, so our story begins…

Friend or not, E K will not pass up a chance to torture a male member of the species, whether physically or psychologically. Usually it’s both, but since we were short on space in the van she didn’t pack any of her prized instruments of the inquisition. Of course, this didn’t preclude her from invoking her psychological ops.

And, it all began with a winky face.

Now, for you to properly understand the depth of this torture, there are some things of which you need to be aware. To start with, Nicky’s BBQ is in Clinton, KY, not terribly far from the small town of Fulton. It has been around somewhere near the edge of forever. They fix real, honest to goodness, BBQ pork shoulder. Now, when I say BBQ, I mean BBQ. Not some grilled meat with some sickly sweet sauce globbed all over it. I mean slow smoked pork shoulder that has cooked forever and a day over a low, wood fire. Then is pulled apart (hence the term pulled pork), maybe chopped a bit, and served with coleslaw, tater salad, beans, and a couple of slices of bread. If sauce is a necessity, one begins with a liberal dash of Tobasco or Louisiana Hot, followed by a few squirts of a good ‘ol vinegar and pepper based nectar. Of course, this is all served on a paper plate and eaten with a plastic fork.

To anyone from Kentucky, and other parts South, this is heaven on a plate.

As you know, I am originally from Kentucky. ‘Nuff said.

Now, while there are many, many BBQ places dotting the countryside, Nicky’s is one from my youth. As I said, it has been around since the edge of forever. I can remember it way back into my childhood. Of course, being one who likes to share, I introduced my family – and Johnathan – to this oasis of pulled pork on Highway 51.

But, back to E Kay’s evilness…

The reality of the matter is this: the route to Burns, Tennessee does not actually include Clinton, Kentucky. In fact, to go to Nicky’s takes us better than an hour out of our way. This usually isn’t a problem, however, due to the fact that I still have family in Fulton, and we make it a point to take the detour and visit for a bit. And, since we are usually heading down 51 right about lunchtime, Nicky’s is the preferred stop.

Not only that, Johnathan has pretty much come to anticipate it. Much like Pavlov’s dogs, as soon as the trip to PUF is mentioned, he begins to salivate and the first thing he says is, “Are we stopping at Nicky’s?”

E K, being Satan incarnate in a pair of stilettos, usually just smirks and says, “Maybe. What’s in it for me?”

When the actual day of departure draws closer, Johnathan begins babbling incoherently about “pulled pork” and “vinegar BBQ sauce”. His ramblings are overtly punctuated by the word, “Nicky’s” followed by a maniacal cackle. Truth be told, he sounds kind of like Beavis and Butthead on a mission to get BBQ.

E K, of course, continues to torture him with “Maybe’s” and “I dunno’s” right up until we cross the bridge into Kenucky, right there at Cairo, Illinois. You see, that’s pretty much a dead giveaway that we are aiming ourselves for Fulton with reckless abandon. Once we pass by the paper mill at Wickliffe, well then, it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that Nicky’s is on the menu.

This year, however, my kin had funeral to attend on the day we were passing through. Since timing was everything, we weren’t exactly sure if we would continue on through Fulton, or continuing on. E K, again being evil and all, couldn’t resist getting Johnathan under her heel and twisting it just a bit. At each T intersection she would announce that perhaps we should circumvent the backroads and hit the highway. She would even feign turns in the complete opposite direction of Fulton, all while watching poor Johnathan in the rear view mirror.

The poor bastard started with yelping, “Nicky’s?!” repeatedly, and before long was shaking uncontrollably and mumbling about pulled pork. With each intentional but aborted wrong turn, his anxiety grew and E Kay’s grin widened. By the time we were finally cruising down 51, Johnathan was on the floorboards in the back, curled into a ball and mumbling, “N-n-n-niiiiccckkkky’s… N-n-n-niiiiccckkkky’s…”

At the last minute, the evil redhead whipped the van into the small parking lot of the whitewashed block building, then kicked a blithering Johnathan out onto the pavement. Feeling sorry for him I helped him in the door and to the lunch counter where we placed our orders. Fearing the inherent cruelness of the redhead, Johnathan not only ordered the BBQ plate like usual, but also a pound of pulled pork to go – with extra sauce on the side.

Adding insult to injury, E K kept reaching over and swiping his plate before  his fork could touch it. She would cackle and grin, he would get all teary eyed and plead with her. When all was said and done and she allowed him to eat in relative peace, the poor guy shoveled it in so fast he ended up looking like a toddler who’d had spaghetti for the first time. Pork bits were stuck to his face with a swath of vinegar based BBQ sauce. Potato salad was in his hair, and coleslaw was all over his shirt. He was backed into a corner, clutching a plastic fork and watching E K like trapped prey watches the predator that is about to make it into dinner.

We finally coaxed him out, hosed him off, and managed to calm him down. It took some doing, but I finally got him to leave Nicky’s with the pound of pulled pork hugged tightly in his arms. In an attempt to reverse some of the damage, I offered to take a picture of him next to the Nicky’s sign.

I’m sure Johnathan has a copy of this framed and hanging on his wall. He might even have a smaller one in his wallet to take out and look at throughout the day as he anticipates next year’s excursion.

E K, on the other hand, is already plotting to tell him they moved and left no forwarding address.

More to come…

Murv

Next installment in THE PUF REPORT: Part 2 of 5 – Where’s Kat?

… Continued from: I Cannot Tell A Lie…

I can still hear all of you grumbling about the way the last entry ended. Well, what did you expect? You should know me by now.

So, anyway, toss the bones, pull out the wet naps, and clean yourselves up. It’s time to continue the story. BTW, just put the bucket in the fridge. I like cold fried chicken and I’m going to need something for breakfast tomorrow.

Now, back to the Tupperware.

You see, E K is probably the least gullible person on the face of the planet. Really. I have noted before that it takes an entire covert task force, the involvement of major governments, and a whole fleet of black helicopters to even make a dent in her stoic armor. And, even with all of the above brought to bear on her she simply doesn’t fall for it. I think she might be psychic. I already know she’s psycho, but that’s a different story.

All I can tell you is that you simply cannot fool this woman. It’s probably the hair. She actually has a T-Shirt she wears that has written across it, “My Red Hair Gives Me Superpowers“. Given the past 22+ years with her, I sincerely believe that. Now, I really have to point out here that I wouldn’t have bothered to reiterate this fact if it wasn’t of absolute importance. In fact, the humor in this missive hinges entirely on this fact:

You just cannot fool the E K. The odds against your success in doing so are so astronomical that even making the attempt is an exercise in abject futility.

I’m serious folks.

Therefore, I’m sure you can understand that I was completely flabbergasted when I realized I was getting away with the lie.

What lie?

I already told you – the lie about the Tupperware.

Here’s the thing… In addition to being unnaturally impossible to fool, The Evil One is also a creature of habit. Not that she’s terribly predictable, mind you, because she isn’t… Not by any stretch. However, when she sets her mind to something she will institute a routine that is to be followed exactly, and until such time as she, and only she, decides said routine is going to change, you best follow the instructions you’ve been given by she who must be obeyed, lest you end up incurring her wrath. The problem with this is, she does not warn you about the changes, so you end up incurring her wrath at some point anyway, no matter what you do. Yes… She uses fear very effectively. You live your life knowing for a fact you are going to “get it”… You just never know when.

But, moving right along… One of E Kay’s structured habits is that she takes her lunch as opposed to spending money on fast food. Yeah, she’s pretty damn frugal like that. Of course, this also involves me being responsible for making her lunch, to her exacting specifications, then packing it, again to her exacting specifications, then having her “lunchbox” sitting in exactly the right spot, for her to pick up on her way out the door each morning.

Of course, on those days when she is feeling particularly cruel and unusual, she will simply stand next to the “lunchbox” tapping her dainty Mary-Jane clad foot while glaring at me with a look of disdain and expectation. This is the signal that I am to drop whatever I am doing and tote her “lunchbox” out to the vehicle for her. Failing to do so in a timely fashion generally results in severe bruising and even a few minor abrasions.

I would be remiss, of course, if I didn’t point out that the extent of the injuries is in direct correlation to whether or not she is feeling so evil as to pick up said lunchbox and beat me with it. That is why she has several lunchboxes with various designs. Unfortunately they just don’t make them like they used to, and these days they tend dent easier and have to be replaced often.

Of course, there is an entire reversed version of this routine every evening when she arrives home – I have to meet her at the door with her drink, then lay down on the floor so she can wipe her shoes, then when she eventually allows me back up on my knees, I take the lunchbox from her and scurry into the kitchen with it. Once there I have to place the ice packs into the freezer, cull out the recyclables from the garbage, etc, then get dinner on the table before she has a chance to beat me with a broom handle.

But, speaking of the lunch box, this is where the lie about the Tupperware comes in…

You see, E K is a big fan of water. She’s also a big fan of environmental stewardship. So, rather than use bottled water, she has a fancy pink reusable Rubbermaid water bottle, as well as a tall, yellow Tupperware cup with a snap on lid.

I honestly don’t know what it was that possessed me on the evening in question. Really, I don’t. All I know is that we had only recently returned home from taking the munchkin to a Girl Scout skating party. We were both standing in the kitchen, E K setting about the task of feeding the four legged felines, while I was across the room setting up the coffee pot for the next morning.

As I scooped fresh grounds into the filter basket I heard myself say, “So, Leggs… Where’s your yellow Tupperware cup?”

The thing is, I knew exactly where it was. After performing my earlier duties as drink caddy and doormat, I had washed said Tupperware cup, refilled it with filtered water, and placed it into the refrigerator so it would be ready the next morning.

Of course, her reply was, “It should be in my lunchbox.”

At this point it was almost as if I was having an out of body experience. Instead of cutting my losses and running, I heard myself say, “Nope. Not in there.”

I heard her shuffle around the center island then undo the Velcro tab on the miniature padded cooler. A moment later she muttered a “hmph.”

I should have kept my mouth shut, but apparently I still hadn’t re-entered my body. My voice was now saying, “Did you leave it at work or something?”

“No,” she replied, confusion evident in her voice. “I’m sure I put it back in my lunchbox.”

“Well, it wasn’t there when I cleaned it out this afternoon,” I replied.

The entire time my mouth was moving a little voice was screaming in the back of my skull, “Have you lost your mind! She’s going to kill you!“

But, I was committed – or, I obviously needed to be, because I continued. “Did you maybe leave it in your van?”

“No,” she replied, her audible consternation growing.

“You’re sure?” I asked, my mouth no longer governed by anything resembling good sense. “Because I haven’t seen it.”

“Dammit,” E K muttered. “But, it was right here… I’m sure I put it in my lunchbox.”

“Could you have left it at a customer’s site or something?” my voice asked, apparently driven by some kind of Kamikaze autopilot.

“No,” she snapped, and the tone of her voice was saying “don’t be an idiot, of course I didn’t“… Then she huffed and muttered “dammit” once again.

Now she stalked back around the center island and opened up the cabinet. After some clanking and knocking around she withdrew a smaller, orange Tupperware tumbler.

“This is too small,” she announced. “Don’t we have another one of the big cups?”

“Nope,” I replied. “Just the one you lost.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing myself say. I also couldn’t believe she was falling for it. It was at about this time it dawned on me that I was subconsciously keeping my back to her at all times. I continued methodically going about my task of prepping the coffee maker, loading the dishwasher, and whatever else I could find to do, so long as I didn’t turn to face The Evil One. If she couldn’t see my eyes, I was in good shape… For the moment, anyway…

E K let out an exasperated sigh and returned the orange tumbler to the cabinet with a hollow thump, then withdrew a different plastic cup. Slightly larger, but most certainly not of the proper configuration to fit between the special, curvy, blue-ice cold packs she uses in her lunchbox.

“Well,” she huffed, annoyance thick in her tone. “It’s not going to fit, but I guess I’ll just have to use one of these tomorrow. Are the lids in the drawer over there?”

“Yeah,” I replied, now stepping over to the refrigerator as she stomped her way to toward the drawer.

Swinging open the fridge I stared at the yellow Tupperware cup sitting magnificently upon the top shelf, just in front of the milk. I suddenly felt this horrible rending of the soul sort of sensation that always seems to accompany the process of your incorporeal form unceremoniously slamming back into your body. I blinked, then began laughing. Why was I laughing? To build up a surplus of endorphins, of course, because I had a pretty good idea what was coming next.

Still, my mouth hadn’t fully reconnected with my brain, therefore it was still running on the suicide mission profile. I stopped chuckling for a moment to take in a breath, then heard myself say, “Did you look in the fridge by any chance?”

After that, pretty much everything became a blur punctuated by bouts of extreme agony. The last thing I remember clearly was a lightning-like flash of red hair and  a whole lot of fire shooting out of a pair of blue eyes as a banshee like scream echoed in my ears, “It’s Not Nice To Fool Evil Kat!”

By the way, I’m writing this blog entry from my room at the hospital. The proctologist tells me he’s fairly optimistic about my surgery tomorrow morning to remove the size 7 pump from my… Well… You know. Unfortunately, he doesn’t think he can save the pump itself.

I guess I’m going to have to take E K shoe shopping when they release me.

More to come…

Murv