Elmo Pigglesworth
Category: Writing and Poetry

Elmo Pigglesworth was an eccentric ex-con, who swears to the day of this writing, he'd been wrongly set up. As the story goes; he claimed at one time to have the ability to predict the future. Though it was all bunk, he made quite a lot of money at it. Soon, he became very publicized around his neck of the woods, but in an opposing way.... Word got around among his followers that many of his predictions turned out to be frivolous.

After most of Elmo's clientele quit coming around, he 'fessed-up about being a fraud, as far as having the ability to foretell events, but maintained he still had supernatural abilities. Only, not as most would understand. He took out a giant ad in the Los Angeles Times, claiming not only was he truly clairvoyant, but was blessed with a gift no other has ever claimed... The miraculous ability of 'For-sawing The Past!'

He listed 36 major world events that in fact did happen, including times, dates, years, centuries, decades, and believe it or not, temperatures! He named who won the World Series the previous year, and by what score! People marveled over his 100 percent accuracy so much, that he was paid one million dollars in advance; to write a book on '1000 post-dictions of the 1st millennium.' But the apple cart was soon to turn over (though he couldn't see it coming).

Rumors began to circulate about his authenticity, so much so, that the FBI launched an investigative probe, to determine whether or not he was a fraud. Soon afterward, a librarian claimed to have identified Pigglesworth, in spite of women's panty hose pulled over his face, engaged in incriminating activity.... reading!!!!!!!!. To back up her story, she presented to the authorities a library card with his name and address on it. He supposedly left it behind by accident. That was all they needed to get a search warrant.

Searching his home while he wasn't there, they found over 125 books, 45 magazines, various video tapes, and a complete collection of newspapers dating back to 1962. But what they found that really could have nailed him, what convinced them to bring him in, what left him without anyone willing to vouch on his behalf... was....a.........(GASP!).........TELEVISION!

They interrogated him for five hours, but the evidence was all circumstantial. They had to let him go. But being the likable guy he was, there weren't any hard feelings. He talked motor racing for awhile with some of the cops, traded Vietnam adventures, and bragged about his kids. Out of friendly curiosity, the police chief casually asked him where he bought his solid gold Rolex watch, because he had one at home just like it. Elmo thought for a minute, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I can't recall..." He got 10 years.

8:45 PM - 2 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

Losing Sight Of You
Category: Writing and Poetry

I was 25, sort of a man and still a boy when you came into my life. What a great friendship we seemed to share, but as time went by, I began to put you way above myself, somehow not able to please you anymore.

I woke up one morning and you were gone! I wondered what I had done and began looking for you everywhere.

I thought I had found you once, in somebody else's life. They said they knew you and knew where to find you, so I followed the directions they gave me....but, you weren't there!

Rumor had it that you were attending a certain church, so I went the following Sunday. Everyone I asked said they knew you and that you did attend that particular place of worship. I must have shown up a month of Sundays, to find you nowhere in sight.

I thought I'd never see you again. Then one day I found your diary on a table. I began to read it, and was amazed as to how much you loved me. You seemed to know me better than I knew my own self. Still, I couldn't understand why you were gone.

I began hanging out with those who kept in daily contact with you, and they said that your coming back into my life was conditional, that if I did all the right things, you'd get word and come home. So I started doing all the right things.......I guess no one told you.

I began to live without you, and sometimes even forgot you. But one day I became overwhelmed with bitterness when some of your friends were speaking to one another of the intimacies you've spent with them. Remorse fiilled my eyes. I felt the loss go down my throat as I swallowed.

I began running down the street, desperately calling out your name, hoping you'd hear me, and begging you to forgive me for whatever wrong I might have done. I fell to the ground in total brokeness............And then a soft voice replied:

"You've lost sight of me because you have quit looking over your shoulder. Instead, you've been running, trying to catch up with me, when I've been alongside you all this time."

Forgive me, Lord, for forgetting that you are not only Almighty God Himself, but that you lived, died, and rose as a human being also.

To think of you as some distant, cold, and impersonal god, and not as my friend is truly idolatry in the worst form.

I no longer promise to please you. I want to, but I know I'll fail.

I can't understand why you would want these filthy rags of deceit, malice, and envy, but I give them to you, asking that in return you would give to me a joyful heart to share with others, the diligence to constantly repent of things that might cause me to lose sight of you, and if I should.....the faith, to once again, look over my shoulder...

12:43 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

The Front Porch
Category: Writing and Poetry

I remember looking up at the Missouri moon and wondering if it was the same one as back home in California. The sultry summer night was filled with fireflies, Grandpa's fiddle, and Mom's poetry. Seemed like everyone had something worth contributing, save for the annoying jokes of a crippled eight-year-old kid. But, when the night was through, Grandpa would pull me aside and ask, "Now, what was that joke again?"

At least a dozen riddles would make their way from the Mojave Desert to the Ozarks each summer. The world would flash by our Volkswagen Bug and I'd be thinking each new place was being created just for us as we passed through.

The trip wasn't always pleasant, though. Especially through the winding roads on Highway 166, through the twist and turns of the mountain roads. Dad glanced once in the rear view mirror and noticed that my face was beginning to match the green upholstery.

"Scotty, do I need to pull over?"

To keep from getting another lecture or something I just answered, "Naw, Dad, I'm fine."

"Hmm, well, ok, if you lose it...you'll eat it!"

Well, I lost it. And my father, whom I always thought of as sort of mountain, had a hard time keeping his as well.

"How many miles to the border?" my brother Kent asked, though nobody answered, because Dad was trying to hear the news and Mom was looking at an Oklahoma map. When we did finally arrive at the border, "Welcome to Missouri" brought a sigh of relief from the back seat of the sweaty cramped car.

With only three more miles to go, my Dad said "Look over there, boys. There's the mountain you can see from Grandpa's house."

Kent looked out the window. "Yeah, I think I can see Aunt Sandy's eyelashes!" She was known for wearing a lot of makeup.

As we turned on to Route Double E, just past Gotney's grocery, Dad held the horn down til we pulled in the drive. There he was, sitting like always with a cigarette in his hand....just thinkin'.

I immediately got out of the car. "Grandpa, I got a joke for ya!!!"

"Well, come over here and tell me fer heaven's sake!!"

Dad bought a watermelon later that day. We enjoyed it almost as much as the flies did. I don't remember the exact conversation, but everyone was in hysterics at the neighbor, Mr. Cosper, whose cup had runneth over that day, putting up a barbed wire fence with his son. The job was almost completed, down to the last few stakes, when all of a sudden, Mr. Cosper suddenly lost his balance and took about three acres of fence down with him. I didn't quite understand the moment, but Dad and Grandpa could hardly catch their breath from laughing so hard. Grandma peeked through the front door screen and scolded Grandpa, "Ira, you oughta be ashamed of yourself!"

That summer was filled with a lot of stories. Grandpa would make them up as I would swat flies in the hot shade.

"I threw John Wayne off his horse, once."

"Whadja do that for?"

"Had to....he was in my way."

"What'd he do then?"

"Told me to put up my dukes."

"............Well?!?"

"So, I just strattled him around the neck and whupped the tar outta him!"

I remember one particular story about an Indian chief whose ancestors were supposedly buried somewhere in Grandpa's garden. This Indian chief was quite upset that my grandfather wouldn't forfeit his garden so proper burial rites could be performed. Grandpa had me going. I almost believed it as I awoke the next morning and was startled to see an arrow, decked in chicken and turkey feathers, stuck through the bedroom window screen. After a close examination, I laughed to myself with the realization of how much Grandpa loved me.

Grandpa's day would begin long before mine did. The light from the kitchen would often wake me as he'd be sipping his coffee around five o'clock every morning. He'd work in his garden until about mid-morning and drive up to the house in his tractor with a trailer full of cantaloupe and green beans. I especially remember the green beans as Dad would make my brother and me snap them, when I'd rather be out fishing or hunting for turtles, instead.

Grandpa Endsley worked hard. As the story goes, he didn't get much schooling because his mother died when he was young. Since he was the oldest, and his father wasn't around much, he had to raise his siblings. He never learned to read or write, but it never stopped him from finding work. Even during the depression when some had to beg for food, he managed to feed his five children, and quite a few other relatives besides, in spite of the hard times of those days.

My parents decided to move back to Oklahoma from California when I was in my mid-teens. Having to say so long to all the old friends was just as hard as making new ones. With not much to do, I found a lot of time to myself. I had always envied Mom's ability to write poetry, so I began to make some fairly decent attempts of my own. She was very encouraging.

Later, I began incorporating Dad's sense of humor into my own lyrics. I earned an "A" during middle school in creative writing with "The Ballad of a Dead Skunk". It was a poem about this character who was out on the highway, driving alone. Suddenly, a skunk runs out on to the road. Well, this character is thinking of the consequences of running over the furry little critter, but once he does, the smell is not as intense as the moment of triumph. So, he makes a U-turn and runs over him again, basking in the glow! It was to be the last "A" I'd receive until at least my second or third semester of college.

I started writing melodies in my head to go along with the lyrics I was busy writing. Dad bought a used guitar one day, and told me it was mine if I'd take lessons. So I gave it a shot....for three whole weeks! Then I learned on my own.

My brother often got after me for taking music and poetry more serious than school. "What does it take? Do Mom and Dad have to get Paul McCartney to call you on the phone and beg you to do your homework?!"

I had also turned that age where your father stopped thinking about three years ago. He hated my long hair, though it only covered my ears. "When are you gonna start wearing panty hose?" He'd often ask. One day I found the courage to quip back, "As soon as you up my allowance."

I spent about three weeks on the farm that summer. It seemed forever, because I was lovesick over a girl I was seeing at the time. Every morning I would follow Grandpa out to the mailbox, hoping for a letter from Christy. I was let down every day.

"Don't let them women get the best of ya. You gotta show'em yer tough!" Grandpa advised.

I looked up at him and asked, "How did you and Grandma finally get together, Grandpa?"

He pulled off his hat and seemed to look inside of it for the answer to my question. "It wasn't really romantic er nothin'. I just said 'Marry me, or I'll kill ya'!" We had a good laugh.

I went to spend the night that evening with my Uncle Bill in Branson. He was a country music promoter and wanted me to see one of his shows. I really didn't like country music, but I enjoyed it just the same. After the show he decided to relax with a cup of wine. I was offered a glass, but insisted I didn't drink. "For God's sake, I'm your uncle!" he insisted, so I gave in. The stuff tasted so good I had another glass. His phone rang in the living room and he excused himself, leaving me alone with the bottle. I don't remember how many glasses I had, but when he returned he was a bit shocked by my behavior. I was a little perturbed when questioned as to whether I was drunk or not. "No, I don't think so...but, I can always walk a straight line for you....as soon as I find a straight line. He! He!"

He was disgusted, as well as ashamed of himself, and tried to get me to go on to bed, but I was more interested in finding the outside balcony. I somehow found the bathroom instead. Looking into the mirror, I was confused as to why my reflection appeared to be on an elevator. It took only a couple of minutes to realize my eyes were rolling up in my head. I fell to the floor and found good ol' John. I woke up the next morning next to John, only he seemed so cold and impersonal now.

I immediately felt my heart thumping in the temples of my brain and I had a terrible taste in my mouth that wouldn't go away, no matter what I did. I remember thinking "wow, this must be what's known as a hangover!" The road back from Branson, with all its twists and turns, seemed like a cruel joke.

Grandpa was out in the henhouse when we drove up. I stumbled up to his chair and dozed off as Uncle Bill went inside. Grandpa rounded the corner with a sack full of eggs, and sat down next to me. He was trying to show me this one egg that was darker than the rest, when I suddenly blurted out, "I got drunk last night!"

I expected him to be at least a little disappointed; instead, he slapped his knee and started laughing, then yelled toward the front door towards Grandma, "Bonnie, guess what?...Scotty got drunk last night!" She, of course, wasn't so happy about it, and got after Grandpa for making light of it.

Grandpa left to do some business in Cassville later that morning, and I stayed with Grandma as she prepared lunch. I was sitting at the kitchen table twirling a bar stool around and around with my finger. Then I began finger painting in some salt I had poured on the table. "Grandma, did you hear about that poor young girl who was scalded to death in Oklahoma City?"

She dropped the spoon she was stirring with and turned with a painful concerned look..."No! That's awful!"

I twirled my finger in the salt a little more and shook my head and deadpanned, "Yeah, she wet her hotpants."

I thought lunch was going to be burned to a crisp before she stopped laughing, and I was looking forward to that blackberry cobbler I had been smelling all morning.

After lunch, Grandma sat in her rocking chair and I laid down on the couch with my guitar, banging the few chords I knew at the time.

I began telling her that the Beatles were now old hat. With me, folk music was where it was at. I got out a cassette tape of my new hero, Bob Dylan, and played her one of his songs. Before it was finished playing, she scoffed, "Sounds like an old man! Why don't you play one of your songs?"

I him-hawed around 'til I thought of one worth singing, then began plucking away at the guitar, and closed my eyes as the story poured out of my soul. It was quite incomprehensible, because at the time I tried to impress people with my multi-syllable words. Mom would often say, "Ooh, that gave me goose bumps...but, what does it mean?"

Before I was finished singing, Grandpa walked in the front door and sat down to listen, taking off his hat and fiddling with it. The song came to a dramatic end and Grandpa slapped his knee, "Even better than the Beatles!!!" Just as he spoke there was a distant clap of thunder. Grandma ejected from her rocking chair to unplug the television.

Just finishing my first semester of college and still living with Mom and Dad, I was beginning to take seriously the notion of being a professional songwriter. After getting kicked out of at least a dozen bands, I went at it alone. I decided I didn't really like to perform much, so I just concentrated on writing. School took a back seat; instead of concentrating on my homework, I was usually between a pair of headphones studying the works of other great authors.

I recall one night listening to Judy Collins, not paying attention until the song "My Grandfather's House" started playing. It took me back to the farm... I thought about my best friend.

It wasn't too long after that, that I had a dream that seemed the most vivid I ever dreamed: I was walking in a field of tall grass, that was swaying gently back and forth in the wind. Then I turned and saw my grandfather walking in my direction with a fishing pole in hand. He looked up at me as I commented, "Grandpa, you never go fishing. You're always too busy!"

He didn't stop to talk with me, he just looked back as he passed and said, "Well, Scotty, I've got all the time I need now to enjoy myself."

He kept walking away as the dream faded and I awoke. I had a strange feeling about it for days, until I finally forgot about it.

It was a Saturday morning. Mom had been up most of the night, packing. I woke up feeling groggy from not having much sleep the night before. I was excited about the trip...We hadn't been to the farm in at least a year. I got up and got myself something to eat. On the refrigerator was a note from Dad letting Mom know that he had gone to the mall. The phone rang.....I waited for Mom to answer, but realized she was outside in the garden, so I picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Yes, is this the Endsley house?" an elderly lady inquired. "I'm very sorry to inform you of this, but, your father just passed away."

I nearly dropped the phone, picturing my old man laying all sprawled out on the floor of some department store. Then I realized the call was long distance, and the caller had mistaken me for my father. Mom came in from outside and sat on the couch. She didn't seem too surprised when I hung up and informed her Grandpa had died of a heart attack.

I went to my room and sat on the bed, resting my head on the wall. I was more stunned then saddened. It just seemed too strange of a coincidence that he died the day before I'd finally get to see him again. Dad's car pulled into the driveway just as I heard the kitchen door creak open. I went over to the window as Mom approached my father. They stood there talking for awhile, then Dad sat down on an old tree stump and sat straight up, nervously playing with a toothpick in his mouth. I knew my father a lot better than he thought I did....He probably cleared his throat and tried to hold back the tears.

The farm was quiet, though just about every relative I ever knew, and then some, were either watching TV, looking in the refrigerator, or out tending the chickens and farm animals. I was all to myself that day. I walked around the house just remembering things. On the kitchen table sat some wildflowers that were still fresh from when Grandpa picked them for Grandma the morning before.

I walked into the wash room and found Grandpa's twenty-two rifle hanging on the wall. Right below it hung his old bullhorn. I remembered how excited I was, as a lad, blowing that thing and hearing it echo off the surrounding mountains, as dogs would bark and howl. I can also remember Mr. Cosper, verbatim, echoing off those very same mountains his lack of appreciation of my newfound musical abilities, especially at one o'clock in the morning!

We all stayed up that night as the older folks made funeral plans and were trying to write an obituary for the paper. "Us younger folks" were laughing among ourselves, remembering some of the silly antics he would often do to amuse us. Everyone finally turned in somewhere after midnight. Laying there in bed, I noticed a strange silence--a particular absence that brought into my mind a funny story:

When my brother and I were very young we shared the same room. He had the top bunk bed and I had the bottom bunk. One evening, my grandparents surprised my parents by driving in, in the middle of the night. I was alseep and didn't know that my parents woke my brother up and asked him to sleep on the couch, so Grandpa could sleep in his bed, and Grandma had the small bed in the guest room. I woke up hours later, hearing what I swore was my brother being mauled by some growling grizzly bear! I was afraid to move, but somehow found the courage to call out for help. Mom rushed to the rescue! Now, I was too young to be embarrassed, but I sure felt a lot better finding out it was just Grandpa, in the top bunk...snoring. After remembering the incident and laughing to myself, I was saddened by the quietness of the night.

I woke up very early the next morning while everyone else was still sleeping, and went out the front door and sat in Grandpa's chair. The same chair he'd sit in and chew on a cigarette and think. The same chair he'd sit in and play his fiddle, while everyone else tapped their feet and listened. The same chair from which he'd tell me his tall tales to my heart's delight. But now, it was the same chair he died in. I sat there trying to understand the paradox of how someone so alive in me could be dead. Haunted by his absence more than I could ever be by seeing or feeling his ghost, I looked at the sun rising over the pasture and realized I'd never see him again....in this lifetime, anyway.

"Aaron, get in here and pick up these toys!" I called out to my son as I looked out the bay window to make sure my daughter Sarah wasn't playing in the dog's water.

"If you don't get in here and pick up these toys at the count of five, we'll have to call the fire department to put out your rear end!!!"

I finally got a reaction somewhere around number three. He drew a heavy sigh, slapped his arms to his sides and shook his head, then began to clean up his mess. I got upset with his attitude, but my wife suggested he was just a normal five year old. Her coming to his defense reminded me a lot of my mother defending me when I was young.

"Oh, what's today's date?" I demanded excitedly.

But before she could answer, I realized it was the 24th, and my parents' 40th wedding anniversary. I rushed to the phone and stopped for a moment, trying to remember the Area Code in Arkansas.

Mom answered the phone. She began telling me how hot the Ozarks had been lately, and like always, she asked how my health was. We talked for a little longer, then Dad came in from the garden, and Mom handed him the phone. Before I could ask him how his farm business was going he began probing into my well being, but, I didn't mind... we were friends now. As we talked, my son Aaron tried to grab the phone from me. Finally, I gave in. His eyes lit up as he took the phone from my hand.

"Hey, Grandpa, guess what?......I gotta joke for ya!

11:35 PM - 6 Comments - 9 Kudos - Add Comment

The Bugs!
Category: Writing and Poetry

(C) Copyright 1999 By Scott C. Endsley

It had been a miserably, sweaty and smelly night, at the Cavern Club on the outskirts of Liverwurst, England. Johnny and the Mooners had just wrapped up the first half of their gig, when John blurted out,

"Man, this blankin' place is blankin' blank, blank it!"

"Whad he say?" George asked

Paul put aside his bass. "John's just a bit cheesed off about the sorry acoustics, tonight...Hand me a ciggy, Pete."

Pete hadn't been with the band for very long, and he didn't play drums worth a crap, which John thought was great, because it drove their critics batty. Paul suggested they find another drummer, or perhaps, even let him have a crack at it; but John was unrelenting.

"Don't blankin' mess with my blankin' decisions, blank you! If I blankin 'wanted your blankity blank opinion, I would have blankin'asked, you blankin,' blank of a blank!!"

"Whad he say?" George asked again.

"No," Paul sighed.

The intermission soon ended as the Mooners then strapped their guitars back on, and set up the drums. "Blankin' Paul has a blank of a song he's gonna blankin' do called 'And I blankin' love the blank!"

In the middle of the sappy, crooning tear-jerker, Brian Einstein, a Professional Philanthropist Pleader, walked into the club, sat down, and ordered whatever the band was drinking. The no-foolishness waitress came back with a coke and rum, along with a blankidy, attitude.

Brian couldn't believe what he was hearing, and assured himself that he wouldn't even put his mother-in-law through such torture. However, after six or seven glasses, he began to hear a lot of potential. After the concluding number, he staggered up to the stage and offered a proposition,"How would you boys like an ambitious manager?"

"Blankin' manager, how much would have to blankin' pay you?" John asked suspiciously.

"Whad he say?!" Brian, George and Pete asked in three-part harmony.

"You'll have to forgive John, he's got a bloody speech impediment. He wants to know how much you'll charge us?" Paul clarified.

Brian immediately drew up the contract, and convinced them to award him 20% of their earnings in 10 years. "First thing we need to do is, change your name for something more wholesome....Say, how 'bout the...the Beetle Bugs?"

"Blankin' Beetle Bugs," John laughed, " I blankin' dig the blankin' Bugs."

"Whad he say?"

"He says the Bug idea is hip, but the stupid Beetle thing has got to go! If you do manage us, you'd better get us a recording gig by year's end. We've paid our dues in numerous ratholes, and we deserve the best, considering we're the great musicians that we are!"

"He said all that?!" Brian, George, Pete and a couple of eavesdroppers, asked.

John, Paul, George and Pete soon became a discussion piece all over Liverwurst, as girls would scream, then run, looking for the exits--- ever since George shaved his head and super-glued a toilet plunger on top of it. John thought it was a stroke of genius, on George's behalf, and suggested they all do the same.

Nearly a year's search went by looking for a record company ready to sign them. In those days it was easier than the present to get a break; however, Elvis, for instance, played in clubs for years under his real name, Arnold Gupduddle; but wasn't getting anywhere.

Finally, in desperation, he auditioned to model for a denim jeans ad. He was quickly picked out because of his back-in-the-woods dumb hillbilly look. The company suggested, for some reason, that he act as if he was playing a guitar for the photo shoot, hoping to attract young girls' interest in the ad; but the camera man got extremely frustrated and impatient with him most of the day, because of his lack of sex appeal.

While venturing to try a certain pose, Arnold tripped and stubbed his foot, causing him to gyrate in excruciating agony with a pained look on his face, for around 5 minutes; while the photographer excitedly took pictures. Life magazine, who ran the ad, didn't catch a typo error until the week after the publication was released. The caption below the picture was supposed to read "LEVIS!", however someone carelessly switched the L with the E, making it read "ELVIS!". Women who saw the ad went into a frenzy and jammed the magazine company's phone lines. He immediately, thereafter, agreed to change his name and was offered a huge contract. The rest is history.

The Bugs, like Elvis, paid their share of dues, but were eventually discovered. George Martinique, a Record company president of a small label, left his home in the Caribbean for Liverwurst, to audition them. He had caught their act in a Hamburg, Germany nightclub, while vacationing there one summer, and was interested in producing them. He was looking for a white, British, punkish band that would intermix polka, flapper music, and a touch of Buck Owens alongside of Englebert Humperdink, with a style of music that was popularly growing in his homeland, called reggae.

The Bugs were willing to do ANYTHING to get a contract and signed on with Ganja Head Records in a barely visable, smoke filled room. "If ja don't like something, just let me know," Martinique smiled.

"Well you blankin' don't need this blankin' toupee'!" John cracked, ripping it off of his balding dreadlocks.

The big day arrived, and the Bugs released their first album, "We Mean To Bug You," in America. The first single, "You're Stepping On My Hand," got instant airplay, but not on pop stations; rather, from various religious programs warning parents of the evils of such hullabaloo. The nationally known Right Reverend Ronald R. Ramrod, stated, "We're not gonna subject our kids to this sadistic combination of catcalling and cow butchering! I'm calling on all patriotic and sane Americans, to buy up as many copies of the Bugs' album as possible, and hold a national Bug album-torching a week from Sunday!"

Irate do-gooders, all over America, joined in tens of thousands of record bonfires, and by week's end, "We Mean To Bug You," became the biggest selling album in all the history of the recording business. This was quite phenomenal considering nobody had even listened to the record.

Manager Einstein soon called a news conference and announced that the Bugs wanted to play Shea Stadium, but that they'd hold out for the best offer. A little over four months later, Malcolm, Brian's cousin, whose father-in-law had a friend with a step-brother, who coincidentally owned the stadium, himself owned a sporting goods store and promised each of them a genuine pro-series pogo stick, if they would, in addition, give him a privy performance of his favorite Englebert Humperdink selections.....

After a week of negotiating with the realization it was the best offer so far, they accepted; and the following Saturday night, the coliseum was packed full of thousands of anticipating teenagers.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Ed Sullivan stepped up to the mike, then announced, "And now...The Bugs!"

Only half the crowd cheered with enthusiasm, but soon looked bewildered when the band appeared. They thought they came to see a new Alfred Hitchcock movie; after all, it had been a good year since the release of "The Birds." The other half were there because someone announced the wrong date for a Girl Scouts Of America convention.

Once the girly teenyboppers caught sight of the toilet plungers on the boys' heads, they went screaming, running for the exits, followed by the moms in close pursuit. The 30 or so ardent Bug fans remained, holding their flaming plungers high above their heads, and singing their favorite songs; until the stadium burned to the ground.

After a year of failure and anonymity, the Bugs released their next album, "The Bugs' Second Chance," which was greeted far better than their former effort, because of the bouncy polka song, "She Loathes You (Nanny Nanny Boo Boo)," which became very popular among the German folk around numerous Amish communities, all over the Pennsylvania region.

In the latter part of the early years, the Bugs were in their "crest of the wave" success. In 1965, they became millionaires!.... Thanks to a careless New York City bank teller, who accidentally deposited a royalty check made out to John D. Rockafeller Jr., into their joint account. Mr. Rockafeller never realized a thing.

But the Bugs became, in their own right, even more wealthy in the summer of love and hallucinogenics, with their best selling album so far. It all started when John was offered a certain substance at a party. It changed his life. Then he offered it to the other Bugs...they liked it too. Paul suggested that they all put their heads together, and record a concept album, inspired by the experimentation of this stuff. Each song would refer to it, whether in subtle clues, or out right blatantly. Ganja Head executives were reluctant, at first, to release the album...because of the controversial subject surrounding it. But when all was finally said and done, "DR Pepper Comes In 12 Ounce Cans," was an instant hit.

The album included such hit songs as the title track, and a little ditty that Paul wrote called "When I'm Dead And Gone." But the most brilliant song on the album, graced the end of the second side. It was a 5-minute track that finished the album with a spine tingling, loudly building, crescendo; as John gluttonously slurpped down a can of soda pop. As it dramatically came to an abrupt end, he managed to hold out a long, tumultuous, resoundingly diminishing belch........... for an entire 45 seconds! "One day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich," was based on the novel with the same title, by Russian Nobel Peace Prize winner, and Soviet dissident, Alexander Solzhenitsyn. This was a stroke of genius for John; considering Solzhenitsyn didn't write the book till 17 years later!

The DR Pepper album was a gamble for the group, since most of their fans in America preferred Coca Cola. However, the drink DR Pepper, was in its grassroots infancy all over Europe, ever since John F. Kennedy went to East Germany and stood in front of the newly erected iron curtain, and proclaimed to the cheering West Berliners, "I AM A PEPPER!!!"

"The Beige Album" followed suit in 1968, as being one of their best sellers. It mysteriously came wrapped in a beige barf bag. Differing fans, to this day, debate whether this was just artistic expression, or a serious warning that listening to the record would literally make one nauseous.

In January of the following year, John attended an international yodeling contest in Zurich, Switzerland. In the audience, a lady of his liking caught his eye. A 4 foot, 5 inch Ukrainian Olympic team weight-lifter named YoYo, who was also a speech pathologist on the side. She was everything he needed. He kept trying to converse with her all night, but she mostly ignored him by reading the contest program flyer. But, John finally won her heart that night, by telling her he was the great-nephew of Vladimir Lenin.

Two weeks later they were married in Leningrad. Leonid Brezhnev, who performed the ceremony, gave both husband and wife an immensely saturating smooch on the lips... And, of course, the bride wore red.

YoYo complained to John, months later, that her youngest brother, Nikolas, who was an exchange student in America, couldn't play soccer for the school team, because he was one year too old to play with his peers. John became irate, and the two of them got dressed in their pajamas and headed to FDR Head Start, in New York City, to hold a week-long slumber party/sit in with the kids. He told them to rebel against the current establishment, by refusing to make their beds for a month. They then lead the kids in a new song, called "Give Nick A Chance," before handing out autographed copies of "Revolution, Just For The Bleedin' Heck Of It."

Later that day, John announced his support for YoYo's efforts in the feminist cause. He tore his super-glued toilet plunger off of his head, and handed the crown to YoYo.

None of John and YoYo's antics seemed to catch the public eye, nor any intrigue from the press. But, after desperate attempts, they soon made the newspaper front pages all over America and Western Europe, by vowing, in the presence of dozens of reporters to do the absolutely unthinkable.....take up golf.

The Nixon administration immediately called on the FBI to start a file on them, wiretap their phones, and put them under 24 hour surveillance; after the newly sworn into office president stormed away from the Washington Country Club Course, having to forfeit to YoYo on the 17th, because some neurotic, impulsive, stray hound had darted in between his legs (while he attempted a short putt that would have put him ahead)... and ran off with the only ball Mr. Nixon hadn't lost all day.

Bug manager, Brian Einstein, had just taken up the exciting and challenging hobby of Skydiving. On the morning of his first lesson, he was feeling a bit uneasy, after having taken an abundance of fiber pills over the last few days. Before he had the chance to put his parachute on, he felt a sudden urge and galloped to the lavatory at the back of the plane.

He sat comfortably for about 20 minutes, humming a Bug tune and reading "The Wallstreet Journal;" until, without looking, he pulled on what he thought was the lever to flush the commode. Unfortunately it turned out to be the emergency escape lever.

Having just been ejected out of the plane, at 14,500 ft, and nearing the end of his, anything but graceful, descent, a group of enthusiastic amateur skeet shooters happily took aim at what they thought was a "huge, grotesque pink bird with an enormous wingspan that awkwardly flapped in all directions!" But, Brian conquered all odds, having not been shot, and survived!!! ....................until he hit the ground.

The Bugs at this time, were in Queensland, Australia, taking digeridoo lessons from an aboriginal village high priest, Bob Stanley, and hadn't heard what happened to Brian, until a news reporter pushed a microphone up to Paul and informed him. "What can I say?" Paul shrugged, "Brian was no Einstein."

Bob tried to cheer up the boys, by suggesting he was in a better place now, "And besides, mates, without him you all are 20% richer!" he smiled.

They all felt much better and sat in a circle, singing a round of "Tie Me Kangaroo Down."

The next few albums, amid the latter years of the group's history, proved to be somewhat half-hearted. The musical marriage within the band was clearly on the wane. John was into a much more radical political message, whereas Paul was still writing silly love songs. George, on the other hand, was hardly ever showing up for recording sessions; he was spending too much time at home, playing his digeridoo.

But the tell-tale signs didn't become very clear to the fans, until the release of their last album and motion picture, "Laissez-Faire." In the movie, Paul was being very patient with George as he attempted to nail down a guitar riff Paul suggested for the title track. George, feeling humiliated, cried out, "Look, I know how to play the blanking guitar!"

Paul lost everything, reared back his Hofner bass and split it over George's skull. "You're not going to be able to play a blanking thing if you continue to blanking talk to me that way!!"

Fortunately, George was still sporting his toilet plunger headdress; it softened the blow.

"Comrades!" John interrupted, "Don't you see what greedy capitalism has done to you? We must unite for the good of all, for we are all brothers in oppression!"

"Whad he blankin' say?!" Paul and George asked each other.

"Laissez-Faire," the album, contained one of their biggest selling songs, "The Long And Winding Bike Trail," a song which Paul wrote about having a newspaper route in his early adolescence, and remembering the dread of having to get up every morning at 5am, travel a long and confusing dirt trail to deliver papers; only to get lost....everyday. His loving parents would often suggest that the directionless path was merely "challenging", and begged him to persevere every time he threatened to quit.

One particular rainy morning, Paul wandered around that "challenging" route for five whole hours, banging on doors and crying for help. When Paul did make it to school, he was immediately sent to the principal's office, where he tried to explain to the "rather ripe prune" that he wasn't just screwing around. All the kids in school knew she had a sadistic disposition in the first place, but were horrified when she sent Paul home and demanded he take the same "challenging" route he got lost on; this time without his bike!

Paul was extremely hungry, exhausted, smelly, all covered with lice, but elated when he finally arrived home after wandering around that dad blasted, mind bending, "challenging" trail for seven days; only to find a note taped to the mailbox, explaining that his parents had moved, leaving him their best wishes and God's speed; but no forwarding address.

Despite the song's success, there wasn't much to celebrate. Following its release, Paul announced to the world he was leaving the band, and filed a suit against John, George and Pete. He then gave up music to work for the UN as an interpreter for foreign ambassadors with speech impediments.

Then John announced he was quitting too, and filed a suit against Paul, George and Pete. Shortly after leaving the group, John and YoYo began recording an avant-garde album surrounding a new kind of music they thought they were first to conceive. "Rock Music" was a 45 minute recording of a 1000 some-odd-pound boulder of granite, extemporaneously and silently projecting its inner thoughts. Upon its release, the critics quickly interjected that the album would have been brilliant, if YoYo had had no part in it.

Then, to top things off, a Canadian geologist slapped a plagiarism lawsuit against them, claiming that "Rock Music" was an identical replica of HIS efforts 10 years earlier. However, a jury in Toronto, after taking three hours to deliberate, agreed that since there was a lack of evidence, due in part because the half-ton rock refused to testify on the behalf of the plaintiff, and because John and YoYo's version contained 12 MORE seconds of silence than the original...that they were similar, but not the same.

"Mr. Stone" as his sympathizers call him, is to this day on a 25 year old hunger strike in a Canadian jail, serving time for contempt of court. Stone's cell-mates often complain about waking up in the middle of the night, finding themselves stuck between a rock and a hard place.

John and YoYo performed numerous benefit "rock concerts" in his honor, but the two became very disenchanted with the dog-eat-dog music business, and returned exclusively to their political endeavors.

George soon followed with a suit against John, Paul and Pete, then went to Sydney, to work on his Ph.D., researching the spiritual, political and historical significance of the digeridoo. DR George now lives in an overturned dumpster, 20 miles south of London. He occasionally walks in to town to panhandle by standing on street corners playing his......well, you get the drift.

Pete decided to stay in the band, and instead of filing a suit, he bought a new one, and has been touring ever since as "The Bug;" trying to promote his album, "Once Upon A Drum."

One October evening, Pete was the opening act for Welsh punk band, Johnny Proboscis and The Post Nasal Drip. He had just completed the first half of his set, and while he went backstage to change, his manager stepped up to the mike and tearfully explained that poor Pete was being sued for two thirds of his income, for child support and alimony by his wife of 20 years; in a divorce settlement. His compassionate manager informed the audience that his solo album, released 22 years to that date, had only sold around 250 copies since, and begged, "Buy an album or tape tonight, please, for Pete's sake!?"

The scheme worked beautifully, so they both decided to try it at every gig. Soon Pete acquired an income exceeding that of all the other Ex-Bugs combined, and had enough money to begin taking drum lessons for rank beginners, pay off all his legal debts, and spend a summer at Rosco's Ruffian Rough Rider Dude Ranch in the US state of New Mexico, where his manager and he frequent, from time to time, just to ride the"horseys."

Just what was the magic ingredient to the Bugs' success and world wide fame? Some believe it was the constant rumors about the band that kept the press moving and fans fascinated. A good example: A Cleveland disc jockey, in 1969, had accidentally played their hit song, "I Am The Egg Plant," in reverse. The listening audience as well as he himself, had found what appeared to be a message of some sort, as they clearly heard John and George singing, "Paul is Fred, Paul is Fred; and he don't like Fried Tomatoes!"

Rumors immediately flooded the airwaves while the scandal produced several books, magazine articles, and an investigating watchdog, fan based, organization called WHIF (Who the Heck Is Fred?!). Fans began playing Bug albums backwards, looking for more clues. The controversy became so intense that Paul called a press conference, insisting, "If I'm Fred, I'm the last to know about it!"

But the frenzy failed to die. Finally, George decided to call a press conference of his own to let the cat out of the bag. "Any half-witted or 'Intellectually inept' idiot with a good pair of headphones, surely could clearly hear that John and I were singing, "Paul is dead, Paul is dead; cause he choked on Fried Tomatoes!"

There was an instant sigh of relief released by all fans, all over the western hemisphere. Paul wasn't Fred! He was merely dead!... Rolling Stone magazine hastily released their next issue adorned with Paul's bearded kisser on the cover, with the caption: "Better Dead, Than Fred!"

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My Interview By Hummingbird Magazine

Are you hopelessly whacked out, or does medication help?

Wow, that's a heck of a way to start an interview... I don't know about being "whacked out;" my world is probably a little more intriguing and thought provoking than average. The meds just help make the ride a little more pleasurable.

Do people cross the street when they see you coming?

No, most of the people I know are Catholic.. they usually cross themselves.

Does anyone even see you coming?

Not at the moment... Hey, I thought I was here to talk about my book!

If a man came up to you and told you he was Christ on the flip-side of his round trip airline ticket, what would you reply?

"Uh... you can have my seat next to the window... I've decided to take the bus!"

Do you believe Harry Potter is the Anti-Christ, or just an alien from another galaxy who has lost his way?

No, I think he's just a stupid kid in a movie that most parents pray they don't have to go see with their kids.

Where in hell can I get a decent Barf Burger with Bunion rings east of the Mississippi?

There's this great place east of Jackson called "The Dumpster," they specialize in recycled food... You should try their dingleberry pie!

What do you think is mankind's greatest problem, aside from mankind?

We tend to look within ourselves for all the answers, when WE'RE the ones who are screwed up! The first step in seeking wisdom is the realization, and the admittance, that you're already a fool... Ooooooh, goose bumps! Oh, and we're a bit pretentious at times too.

Do you believe Klingons (more than one or just one) fathered Scully's baby, or was she digitated by ET?

I don't have anymore problems with Klingons ever since I switched toilet paper brands. As far as the X-Files are conserned, I had to sell my TV because I needed quick cash to defend myself in court over the X-Wife Files.

If you were stranded on a deserted island, would you prefer Jerry Falwell, O. J. Simpson or Osama bin Laden as company?

Not O.J, I hate golf! Not Falwell either, he'd probably talk God into not having us rescued, until I agreed to enroll for one semester at Liberty University and take a course in "The Moral Depravation And Apocalyptic Significance Of Beanie Babies." I guess if it were a deserted island, I could really enjoy some quality time with Osam-Of-A-Bitch if you know what I mean!

Don't you have anything better to do with your time than answer these stupid questions?

I did about 10 minutes ago! What about my book?

OK, how is Elmo Pigglesworth, the character you mention quite a lot in your book, doing?

Finally we're getting somewhere! Elmo's fine. He's currently in Uzbekistan participating in the World Tiddlywink Championship Tournament. This is his third year in the running, and trying to recapture the much coveted Golden Thumbnail Trophy...

Are you still a songwriter?

I haven't written a song in over 5 years. Guess I'm running out of testosterone in my middle age. I used to write between 30 or 40 songs a month, but I've forgotten most of them because I don't know how to write music on paper. I strictly play the guitar by ear. Here, check out these callused lobes!

From whom were you most inspired by musically?

I'm a big fan of this salsa band out of Mexico. It escapes me as to what their name was, as I don't understand Spanish very well; but I met them once in El Paso, Texas. They introduced themselves as Juan, Paulo, Jorge, and Gringo. They never really went anywhere, but they were really good songwriters. Last I heard, they changed their names and moved to England.

Now that your book is written, and on the net, any plans to get it into print?

No one is stopping you from from printing it if you want to...

What is your next project?

Well, according to a poll I took on my web site, my readers seem to want me to write a part 3 to the book... Last week sometime, I sat into the wee hours of the morning, with pencil in hand, trying to get inspired enough to write a sequel, prequel, or just down some Nyquil, and hit the sack. I chose the latter and slept for 3 days straight.

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Song Lyrics
Category: Music

All Songs (C) Copyright 2007 By Scott C. Endsley

GREEN RIVER TOWN

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Analyzing The Analyst
Category: Writing and Poetry

(C) Copyright 1999 By Scott C. Endsley

DR: Well how did we do this week, Clyde?

ME: You just wouldn't believe! My world has been turned upside down ever since I started writing this book. A one-eyed midget followed me home, but sent me to the Fictional Forest, while he took my cat to Vegas. My dog and I..........

DR: There you go again! Are you still having a problem with reality?

ME: Oh no.... I don't have a problem with reality, the question is, does reality have a problem with me?

DR: You know we talked about hospitalization last week... Have you considered it?

ME: Oh no way, man! I've already been stuck in a strait jacket for the past 3 months, and I was hoping you'd be the right person to pull it off. I've just been under a lot of stress. That's all. But, sometimes I do wonder, when this personality finally splits.....Who's gonna get custody of my mind?

DR: Uh, Clyde, have you thought about doing something with yourself...like finishing college?

ME: No, I'm currently attending my latter sophomore years in the great school of life. And I hope, in spite of a few suspensions for misbehaving in class, to graduate with honors in the hereafter; thanks to my wonderful, compassionate school counsellor, who promises to speak up on my behalf that day...Why, just this morning I realized I had been doing a lot of laying around and feeling sorry for myself. So, I took that great textbook of life, closed my eyes, and asked the almighty professor to guide my finger on where it should land...he took me to the book of Matthew...

DR: What did it say?

ME: "Take up thy bed and walk!"

DR: Oh yes, speaking of the spiritual, have you ever looked into the great Gautama Buddah? Buddah was a man who, 500 years before Christ, set out to find ultimate wisdom by sitting under a tree, and...

ME: Oh yeah, it fell on his head during a violent thunderstorm one night, I remember!

DR: Uh, well no...how did we get off on religion anyway? What you need is a social life. Have you considered dating? You never know, you might just find a compatible friend, and who knows, Clyde, you might even get married!

ME: Naw, marriage is just for married people. And besides, I just recently read that life evolved out of bacteria. So, I figure, if I continue to let the trash build up in my bachelor pad, that sooner or later, I'll have a new roommate!!!... I just hope she's female.

DR: Huh?...well, lets talk about your mother.

ME: What's my mother got to do with anything?

DR: Okay, okay.... what's your earliest childhood memory?

ME: Well Um... I was breech birthed! Yep! Came into this world making a ass of myself, as usual. My parents were taking a cruise when mom went into early labor. It was May 1st, and when the doctor caught a glimpes of the first thing that popped out, which he assumed was my face, he cried, "Mayday! Mayday! Abandon ship!"

DR: Do I sense a bit of cynicism?

ME: I don't know!... DO YOU?

DR: You're making this very difficult for me.

ME: I'm just getting my money's worth.

DR: You seem so easily irritated, are you aware of that?

ME: Yeah well... Maybe that has something to do with my mother.

DR: I'm really trying to help you, Clyde. Do you not trust me?

ME: Well, as some narcissistic writer once wrote:

Drop another dollar

in the pocket of my coat.

My bank of trust had just gone bust

in other words it's broke.

DR: Did you write that?

ME: Yeah I did, but I'm no longer that person.

DR: I see... and why is that?

ME: Well the old man, who's dead now, used to ask a lot of questions....

DR: And you being the new man, don't of course.

ME: Nope! I question nothing?

DR: That's a contradiction!

ME: What is?

DR: You said you question nothing, yet you ended it with a question mark.

ME: And you think I need help!

DR: I think I need a drink!

ME: Oh yeah, eat, drink and be Mary, or whoever else you want to be... Is that the way you handle your problems? You know, that's what I don't like about you people! Someone like me gets sucked into thinking there's something wrong with them, when everything is really quite external. When someone's lost their job, wife, kids, the house has been repossessed and their best friend (which happens to be a dog) leaves home - when that person comes to you, you say, Oh my! You're depressed, why, by golly that's not normal; you should learn to be happy all by yourself. You give pills at the drop of a hat, cause you can't accept people where they're at. No! They have to be changed into thinking like everyone else. Well I happen to think in four opposite abstractions of 13 different dimensions of mundane logic.... Can YOU boast that claim?!

DR: What did you just say!?

ME: I said; "Oh yeah, eat, drink and be Mary, or whoever else you...

DR: No, I mean what did you say at the last?

ME: Last doesn't matter, man! First comes before whatever is, and nothing is whatever isn't. Don't you get it? This is was!!!

DR: Go on! go on! I think we're finally getting somewhere!

ME: My life lately has been just like that annoying coffee commercial jingle, except my version goes: "The best part of cracking up... is Martians in your cup!" And I keep hearing this voice inside my head saying, "It's been you all this time and we both know it, don't I?" Why just yesterday, I thought I was the 16th century humanist theologian Desiderius Erasmas; until the tidy bowl man popped out of my toaster, singing a microwave version of, "Mary had a little lamb, and he weighed a healthy 5 pounds and 10 ounces."

Then Winter, who was also also inside my head and on the same O.B. unit of the hospital; screamed out in labor pains, gave birth to Spring, and sighed, "Ah isn't she beautiful! -- I think I'll call her Summer!"

But, you know doc, everything is just a cliché! There are no new thoughts, just old ones that get twisted around trees bearing the fruits of discontent. I could declare, "I stink therefore I am," and everyone would begin holding their nose pondering my poignant utterance. But, I'm a nobody!....You're a nobody!!!!..We're all just one big nobody!! Somebody!......let me out from myself!!!! AGHHH! CRASH! CRUNCH! SMASH!

DR: That's right! Get in touch with that primal inner child wanting to escape! Let him out!! Here, here's an ashtray!!

ME: SMASH! BAM! HA! HA! HA! HE! BOOM! OUCH!

DR: Here, take this! It's a telephone, but this is not an ordinary phone. This one is your father! And you've never dealt with your Oedipus Complex.... take this phone and castrate the impostor!!

ME: I'm gonna kill you, Dad!!! AGHHH! BOOM! RING ! LING! DING! Whew!

DR: Now lets sit back down and talk about what you were feeling.

ME: Well UH... Whew!... UH... you were wrong... um, it hasn't been my mother...it hasn't been my father. It's... it's me! It's been me all this time!

DR: Oh no, no, no! You're having delusions of grandeur! I'll have to increase your dosage to prevent the psychosis from getting worse!... Well, ah, our time is up. I'd like you to think about our session today, and pick up where we left off next week... Um you do have insurance don't you?

ME: Yes, my policy number is right there in your charts.

DR: Oh, okay, lets see... Ashtray; $150.00...it's been in the family for years, I'm sure they'll understand.....Telephone; $300.00... Ceiling Damage....Golf clubs.... and, uh, office visit... $130. Well I'd like you to sign an agreement that you won't do anything foolish between now and next week........

8:34 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Intro To My Novel
Category: Writing and Poetry

(C) Copyright 1999 By Scott C. Endsley

Looking out of the window aboard my own train of thought, I suddenly realized I was on the wrong track.

"Good Godfrey!" I exclaimed, "Stop this train!"

How could this happen? How could I repeat this tragic mistake, especially after being in the same situation previous to this one?

I kicked open the door to jump ship, landing head first on a large pile of rocks; before I even got the chance to jump! I was then approached by a small Merry Band of Calypso Singers who were caroling the lyrics of "Amazing Grace", to the tune of "Gilligan's Island".

"Have you any water?" I begged in thirst for an answer. But they went about their merry way, not noticing my bleeding pride, or for that matter -- my scraped elbows.

Staggering to my feet, I looked in the distance noticing nothing at all. But, after a lengthy observation, I realized I was mistaken, and moved on.

Tired, thirsty, embarrassed, and in my mid-thirties; I came across a large maple tree. I looked closer and read the carved inscription:

YOU'RE PROBABLY HERE.

What could this mean? How did they know? I became very paranoid while watching my step; then, suspicious of my own two feet, I let my fingers do the walking.

"Pardon me?" a voice said.

"Er... Ah... Yes?" I answered.

"Could you tell me the way to the Grand Entrance to the Gate of the City of the Intellectually Inept?"

"Yes, that's in the first episode of the first story," I told him.

A bit of a strange stranger he was. I couldn't help but notice his golf ball eyes, potato nose, and watermelon smile, even from my own disadvantaged perspective (what ever that means?). But, I gave him a map to Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro, and kicked him in the direction he should go.

Speaking of food, I realized I had a rather deep valley in my stomach.

"I'm hungry!" I yelled.

"And who isn't?!" Echoed the mountains.

Then a large loaf of manna fell on my head; two days later, I came to... and ate it.....

The evening and the morning were the third day, and what a wonderful day it was to be. For on that day, I, Clyde P. Hipwing, was to learn the answer to the question not yet asked by the Gentleman in the Back Row, with the Gray Flannel Suit and Funny Looking Nose.

"Why have you not asked the question yet?" I asked.

"Do what?"

I asked again: "I asked, why have you not asked the QUESTION that you were to ask?"

"You sure are inquisitive for a fellow your age," he sarcastically insulted.

This offended me greatly, so I grabbed the first available QUESTION MARK and struck him right between his optic receivers; and left him for dead.

Running from the scene, I tangled my feet in some railroad tracks as I heard the approaching clickity clacks, and I realized the dilemma I was in....... "How can it be that at the beginning of this great journey I am to partake, I am to be run over by my own abandoned Train of Thought?" I thought.

So I changed the subject -- and went home.

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