As you can well imagine they threw a kegger that had registered on the Richter Scale. I was told that when the cops arrived it looked like the breakout scene from “The Great Escape”. Not surprisingly, the guy that supplied the beer was the first one over the back fence. Needless, the boys ended up paying some serious fines and got some community service.

“Dad, did I wake you”? this is one of those 3 AM calls that never brings good news. My response was, “No, I was out shingling the roof”. It turns out that he and a few of his college chums were on a night on the town. They were outside a saloon in Atlanta and my boy decided it would be funny to let the air out of the tires of a police car.

While the car was empty, the cops were observing nearby and found no humor in the prank. The lad got hauled off to the callibozo and wanted me to pay his fine. I told him, “Enjoy your stay”, and hung up.

“Who was the last person in here”! This was yelled by a guy who came stumbling out of the men’s room that I had just left. His face was red, tears running down his face, and was violently fanning his hands. Everybody in the newsroom slowly turned their heads and looked at me.

A word to the wise, if you lunch on a double bean burrito with extra hot sauce washed down with a cold beer and you need to use the facilities back at the office, bring along a can of industrial strength air freshener.

“Screeeeeech! Who left the door open”? I am a lover of the great outdoors. However, as such I prefer it to stay outdoors. Didelphis virginiana, loving referred to as ‘Brer possum’ had managed to get through the screen door and was helping himself to the cats’ food.

The ensuing pursuit and capture could have been choreographed by ‘Wiley Coyote’. To dispute the common belief that the marsupial ‘plays possum’ I can assure you they can move like furry lightning, have teeth and claws, and are not afraid to use them.

“It’s a piece of cake. Nothing to it”. When these words precede your first zip-line ride, cliff dive, invitation to pet a large predator, go down a ski jump, or try your hand at bull riding I can only hope your insurance is paid up and you can handle pain. If the speaker has a smirk on his face, watch out.

“Oops”! Not particularly threatening, but when it comes from the surgeon who is giving you a vasectomy the consequence can be frightening. © 2012, Jim McGowan

Strange as it may seem if I decided that I wanted to run for office one of the first things I would want to do is to insure I got my paperwork right. I would even take it one step further and insure it was in early in case there was any corrections were required. But, that may just may be me.

In Harmony County we are used to having our candidates heaved off the ballot. Besides the usual reasons i.e., arrests, a sudden attack of sobriety, or even their mothers would not vote for them etc., our boys and girls have managed to come up with some ways to be bounced off the ballot. When the state auditors come by to check they find some rather startling rule bending.

It has been noted that the signatures on the petition to be put on the ballot bears an uncanny resemblance to ‘dearly departed’ found on the tombstones found in Harmony County bone yard. This has elicited responses from the inspectors such as, “Gee I didn’t know that he passed away” or “If this is the same guy, he must be around 134 years old”.

The petition has also attracted the interest of such persons as state and federal law enforcement agencies and divorced spouses with over due alimony payments. This is because of the uncanny resemblance it has to the inmate roster at the Harmony County Detention Facility.

Some comments have also been made about the similarity in handwriting of the signatures on the petitions. Possibly it is because of the insistence of Sister Mary Fast-Break at St. Bingo’s Elementary School when it came to doing ‘push, pulls, and ovals’.

Another problem seems to be the mailing address for the write-in ballots. Oddly enough it is the same address as the ‘Flippin’ Dippin’ and Sippin’ Redneck Bar’ and since none of the patrons cannot vote because of felony convictions, one has to wonder why so many people use the place as a mail-drop.

Not only does this ‘flea-milking’ attitude on the part of the inspectors towards the rules cause the usual Harmony County ballot to be printed on a postcard, there are some economic consequences.

Where, in other counties, sales of pints of cheap whisky skyrocket and the banks are required to provide bundles of $5 bills, in Harmony County it is business as usual. Who needs to give ‘Thank You for Voting’ gifts when running unopposed?

However, Harmony County voters usually turn out in droves. Candidates rent buses to get the people to the various polling places as a courtesy to potential voters or, perhaps it is to validate the old Chicago saying, “Vote early, vote often”. One can never be too sure. © 2012, Jim McGowan

My SGIC, Senior Grandchild In Charge, is a delightful young woman. She has a great heart and by way of illustration when she is not studying at Lander University, she volunteers her time in the local animal adoption center.

Since I am moving to a new home, I casually mentioned that it would be nice if I had some pets around to keep me company. Therein lies the problem. The SGIC heard this remark and took immediate action.

Consequently, I have two new roomies. They are of the young feline persuasion and as such have completely taken over the place. A wise person once observed, “Dogs have owners, cats have staffs”.

Mary Katherine gave them names when she got them. They were ‘Tommie’ and ‘Joey’. I thought that this was rather pedestrian and after a few days of observation, they got the new monikers of ‘Lazy Jake’ and ‘Fast Eddie’ much more appropriate to their personalities.

Lazy Jake is exactly that for most of the day. Cats are notorious for having lousy internal clocks and Jake’s clock needs rewinding. To him yawning is an effort and an occasional trip to the food bowl and the litter box is exhausting. There is an exception to this lack of activity and I will discuss it later.

Fast Eddie on the other hand goes from point A to point B at full speed and he does it all day. He is constantly underfoot and is talking all the time. All this activity leads to Eddie’s major shortfall. He has a serious gas problem that makes one believe he is jet propelled.

Jake has a characteristic not normally associated with pets. At the risk of sounding politically incorrect let me just say that Jake is ‘gender confused’, much to the chagrin of Fast Eddie who does not scratch that way. Draw your own picture, enough said.

The one collective problem I have with the two of them is the daily reenactment of the Oklahoma Land Stampede. Unfortunately, the historical event is celebrated at 4:30 a.m. The Stampede come complete with hisses, spits, growls, head banging and thumps. It lasts for about an hour so I feel like I am back in the Army and the Platoon Sergeant kicks the metal trashcan down the middle of the platoon bay as a wake up call.

They just beat the daylights out of each other so here is a little ditty that describes my roomies;

There once were two cats from Kilkenny.

Each thought there was one cat too many.

So they fought and they spit,

And they scratched and they bit.

Until only their nails and the tips of their tails was left

and the rest of the cats wasn’t any. © 2012, Jim McGowan

For example, where the other folks have top patrician style outdoor events, we have more plebian affairs. Do not get me wrong, I like sporting events that involve animals as much as the next fellow does, but there is a limit.

One of the uptown favorites is the Steeplechase. Contrary to the name, the horses do not chase steeples. We all know that steeples do not move, except in California during earthquake season. The race is for the horses and their riders go around a two to three mile course jumping over a bunch of obstacles 52 inches or more tall.

I must admit it is rather exciting, but for most of the event, the racers are out of sight. So while the big brown things are out on the back forty leaping about, the folks in the box seats are enjoying champagne cocktails and shrimp. Not bad ways to kill time until the ponies arrive. (Most have riders, but occasionally one or two show up without supervision.)

Meanwhile back in Harmony County we have something similar. It is a little competition called a Mule Race. The normal field consists of ten mules and riders. This means that there are 20 opinions on to how the race should be run.

Once the mules are placed into the starting gate, no mean feat because of the mule feet flying around, the race is started. Things go immediately downhill from there.

First, there are opinions as to what direction the race should be run. Some participants do not believe the race should be run at all, while others see the lush grass in the infield and wander over for a quick snack. Some go a few hundred yards and tire out or just loose interest.

Quite simply put I have gone to Mule Races that started in 2009 and I am still waiting for something with long ears to cross the finish line, riders, or mules.

The chow at a mule race is not found on the menu at a Steeplechase. The beverage selection instead of going ‘pop’ then ‘whoosh’ ours goes ‘click’ then ‘gargle’ to be followed by an extended ‘burp’. In addition, you do not usually see someone trying to crush a champagne bottle on his or her forehead.

Where there is shrimp and those scrummy cucumber sandwiches the hoi polloi prefers something along the lines of deep-fried ice cream wrapped in bacon and dipped in chocolate. In fact, anything chewable, notice I did not say edible, that is deep-fried is preferred.

So, anyone for a heart attack on a stick? I got some cold ones in the cooler in my truck to wash it down. © 2012 Jim McGowan

“How good a golfer are you?” you may ask. Well I usually wear out two or three putters each season. It is not the grips that I wear out but the other end of the club through use. It is not a rare occurrence when I line up my fifth or sixth putt.

By way of explanation, I offer this little ditty:

In my hand I hold a ball, white and dimpled rather small.
Oh how bland it does appear this harmless looking little sphere.
By its size I could not guess the awesome strength it does possess.
However since I fell beneath its spell I’ve wandered through the fires of hell.
My life has not been quite the same since I chose to play this stupid game.
It rules my mind for hours on end a fortune it has made me spend.
It has made me yell, curse, and cry; I hate myself and want to die.
It promises a thing called par if I can hit it straight and far.
To master such a tiny ball should not be very hard at all.
But my desires the ball refuses and does exactly as it chooses.
It hooks and slices, dribbles and dies and even disappears before my eyes.
Often it will have a whim to hit a tree or take a swim.

- The Unknown Golfer

However, over the years I have learned some skills that might be considered handy to have on the golf course. I have learned; How to hit a Nike from the rough when you hit a Titleist from the tee, how to avoid the water when you lie eight in a bunker, how to get more distance off a shank, when to give the Ranger the finger.

Other useful activities include; using your shadow on the Greens to confuse your opponent, when to implement Handicap Management, the proper excuses for drinking beer before 9 a.m., how to urinate behind a 4″x4″ post undetected, how to rationalize a six-hour round.

The list goes on; how to find that ball that everyone else saw go in the water, how to let a foursome play through your twosome, how to relax when you are hitting three off the tee, when to suggest major swing corrections to your opponent, and when to re-grip your ball retriever.

“Golf is a good walk ruined”, said Mark Twain and I agree.

Only the Good Lord knows how many times I have blasphemed while out in the woods and I am afraid that there will be some horrendous payback when I am called to that great course in the sky, but if I get off with just having to scoop up cherub poop on the greens, I will have gotten off easy.

Nevertheless, we need to fill out a foursome next Saturday. Are you busy? © 2012 Jim McGowan

Just last month we had the grand opening of a plant that manufactures golf carts. The owners of the facility are a major company from the Land of the Rising Sun. The company wishes to be anonymous, but the name rhymes with ‘Omaha’.

The management is almost exclusively from Japan and the workforce is locals. It is odd in that almost to the man the first things that the leadership did after arriving is they rushed out and bought the biggest cars they could find. Then they immediately drove their mega machines to the golf course and joined. It seems that in Japan SUVs that are visible from outer space and golf courses are both expensive and rare.

Things started slow. It seems that Japanese manufacturing processes differ from the ones in the States.

One thing was the requirement that each shift started with a brief session of stretches and exercises.  After some minor complaints, the boys and girls finally grudgingly agreed.

The first sessions were filled with creaks and cracks as if a couple of hundred people were popping their knuckles simultaneously and the jumping jacks could only be described as hilariously uncoordinated. However, eventually the group said that the activity did clear away the cobwebs from the six-pack of the night before and felt generally better for the effort.

However, heels dug in universally when the management insisted that each PT session ended with the group singing the company song. You have to remember that this group only sang songs about; pickup trucks, favorite dogs, and being left by spouses/girl or boy friends/first cousins. Occasionally, they would mumble their way through a hymn, and at the beginning of any sporting event, they sang something that has been called, “The Star Strangled Banner” in the hidden key of R.

However, the worst thing that happened was not the singing requirement. It seems that the plant director was heard on an open mike at a business meeting as referring to the workers as, “a bunch of lazy Americans”. The sushi hit the fan.

The very next day the entire workforce should up wearing t-shirts that had a picture on the front of the first A-bomb, ‘Fat-Man’ with the words, “Built by lazy Americans” on the back was a mushroom cloud and written around it, “And tested in Japan”.

Cooler heads finally prevailed and a deal was brokered. The overseas contingent agreed to lighten up. They would try sour mash, Big Macs and when speaking to two or more workers use the phrase ‘y’all’ (Which sounds funny with the Japanese problem with pronouncing ‘L’.)

The ‘crackers’  said they would stop yelling, ‘bonzai!’ at the beginning of  each shift, not drive their pickups into the sides of the SUVs  and all get Godzilla tattoos. © 2012, Jim McGowan

Things started quietly enough with the smaller pooches timidly looking things over and sticking close to their humans. However, when the Great Danes arrived there was some serious tail tucking in the 10 pound or less set.

You could see the thought, “Does that thing come with a saddle?” going through their minds.

The Labradors and the semi- Labs were their usual goofy selves. Some dogs like German Shepard’s and Doberman Pinschers are serious minded and mission oriented. You can call them ‘men’. Labs and Weimaraners are the easy-going types. They are somewhat goofy and if they were human, they would be ‘guys’.

The party started with the usual Frisbee contests and agility demonstrations. This got the tempo up and you could see by the tail wags the dogs were getting with the program. It quickly became territory-marking time.

The wetting of the landscape is always the prelude to the impromptu dogfight. And right on queue it started. By the time the canines were brought under control there were quite a few two leggers wrapped from the knees down in leashes similar to the way calves are wrapped by cowboys at branding time, with similar postures on the ground and some very similar calf noises.

With calm restored and a couple hundred doggy treats distributed it was time for the distribution of the prizes. This is the part of the program that is a bit tricky because the humans have a tendency to ardently believe that their mutt is the best.

All went well up unto the point when, in typical Harmony County fashion, the award for the ugliest dog. I suppose this was to be considered humorous, but the owner of the first place winner did not take it that way.

The ensuing commotion between the owner and the person that handed out the prize made the dogfight look tame in comparison.

I am not fully aware of all the injuries sustained by the trophy presenter, but his proctologist said his patient should eventually recover, however he will walk funny and talk a few octaves higher for the rest of his life.

The dog show ended as many Harmony County public events do with the usual collection of law enforcement officers and first aid providers, but this time there was a contingent of vets dispensing doggy ‘Prozac’ to one and all.

However, there was another group of animals that are going to require therapy. As soon as the animal welfare folks can talk the squirrels down from the highest branches their mental health should be restored. © 2012 Jim McGowan

I greeted them with my traditional law enforcement hello, “I want a lawyer”. They assured me that they were not there for the usual reasons, but that the sheriff wanted to guarantee I left town. As an afterthought, they added, “safely”.

The moving crew showed up a bit later and we got on with the physical aspect of the migration. That is to say, we filled the truck ala ‘blivid’, e.g., ten pounds of …, in a five-pound bag.

The house that I am moving into is a bright yellow. Lemons are yellow, a canary is yellow, the ‘no-pass’ stripes in the road are yellow, but this house is YELLOW. It is so yellow that blind people can pass by and tell you it is yellow.

In the town where I am moving it is used as a geographical point of reference as in, “Where can I find a good Irish restaurant?” The reply is, “There is no such thing, however there is a good Irish saloon. Just go three blocks north from the yellow house and make a left. Go halfway down the block and when you see a journalist getting heaved out the door, that is the place”.

When the crew and I got there, waiting was one of my sons and his boy and a few of his friends. Where it took us six hours to load up it took less than an hour to unload. People carrying my junk were coming out of that truck like a platoon of Marines coming out of a landing craft. The downside is that now I am living in a seven-room storage container.

Over the years one has a tendency to accumulate ‘stuff’. For example, when my kids ask themselves, “What are we going to get ‘old da’ for his; birthday, Christmas, or “Talk Like A Pirate Day” (September 19), a bunch of light bulbs come on and a universal conclusion of “a sweater” is reached. Accordingly, I have sweaters that went out of fashion in the Carter Administration.

Another item is ‘veteran underwear’. I do not know why it is so important to hang on to the skivvies I wore when Pat Sullivan won the Heisman in 1971, but I still have them. I guess it is a guy thing.

I was hoping for a neighborly reception from the folks that live around me. You know, a covered dish of say Lobster Thermidor or Beef Bourguignon, but I was disappointed. No one stopped by and the only recognition I got of me moving into the block was an overnight springing up of ‘For Sale’ signs in their front yards. The addition of, “Distress Sale” really hurt.

I guess the old saw is right, ‘Your reputation does precede you’.© 2012 Jim McGowan

It seems that a standard fundraising ploy is the selling of subscriptions and to whom else but the Sucker of the Century, and the world’s easiest sale, Grandpa Jim. I have no idea how many sports teams, class trips, and Scout Troops I have supported, but I have not seen the top of my coffee table in years.

My taste in magazines runs to outdoor oriented titles and news and current event weeklies. Well, the money always goes to a good cause, but there is a drawback. Somewhere along the line, one or perhaps more of these publishing companies sold their subscriber list to a group of the most strident tree-hugger organizations around.

Do not get me wrong, I am a firm believer in conservation and wildlife management. However, things, as described by some of the propaganda, are a bit overstated. For instance, WWIII is just around the corner and it will be fought over water.

I do not know where you live, but here in South and the East coast in general you cannot walk five miles in any direction without having your hat float. There are more rivers, streams, lakes, and ponds that will insure that your socks will never get dry.

Nevertheless, if I do not use low capacity toilets and slow flow showerheads I will personally cause an invasion from countries that do not have water resources and death and destruction will follow on an unprecedented scale.

Out West, it might be a different story. However, if you build your home in the middle of the desert or build a huge city on the edge of another desert, I am talking Arizona and Los Angeles, somewhere along the planning stage somebody had to notice that there was no water in those places.

So let us figure out who is going to invade. Canadians, not likely they have more water than we do. The Mexicans, all they have to do is cross the sieve we call a border and it is bath time. That leaves those fun loving, silly willies from the Middle East. Of course, they are going to have to cross an ocean to get here so if they put their Qurans down long enough they may figure out there is a lot of water out there.

Desalinization has been around for quite some time. We have plants in the US and the Saudis have been using it for years. Currently it cost more for the treated water, but scientists and engineers are figuring out how to reduce costs.

In the mean time, the folks out West can use the water saving toilets and showerheads. Maybe they should go back to the old-fashioned, once a week Saturday Night Bath.

I know some of my grandkids would think that is a great idea. In addition, look at all the money we would save on soap.© 2012, Jim McGowan

The first is for the office of Sheriff. It seems to me that job qualifications are more important that Party affiliations. If the person elected Sheriff is a Republican does that me he will only arrest Democrats? Is the opposite true, that is Democrats busting Republicans exclusively?

Personally, it does not matter to me since I am an Independent. Whoever is packing the star is going to put me in the slammer probably first.

I am more concerned more with experience, qualifications, and ability to control the folks working under him. This brings to mind two incidents involving deputies who may have overreacted.

The first was when a deputy pulled over an octogenarian for speeding. When the old timer complained, he got a face full of pepper spray. The problem with these actions was that the alleged speeder was in the mall at the time and was in a power chair.

Word got out amongst the blue rinse set and the next morning the deputy woke up to find his bed soaked in prune juice and he was wearing a pair of Attends®. That shook him up considerably and he has since become more courteous towards seniors.

The other incident involving a deputy was when two nuns went to the aid of a man who was crawling in the gutter.

They ran across the street to assist to find out that the man was OK. He was just one of the Harmony County Weekly Blister’s editors who was crawling back to the office after drinking his lunch.

When the sister re-crossed the street, they found a deputy waiting for them. It seems that on their mission of mercy they had managed to jaywalk, a misdemeanor punishable by a small fine. When the nuns protested the overzealous deputy pulled out his Tazer and fired. Zap, Zap, Thud, Thud, Floppity, Floppity.

This time retribution was more severe. The offending deputy was found the next day wandering the streets in a semiconscious state writing, “I will not zap nuns” on an imaginary blackboard. He was covered with ruler shaped bruises and all his knuckles were broken.

His doctors say that he should recover physically, but will possibly react hysterically to penguins, pandas and Poor Clares.

Since when does the office of Coroner require a party affiliation? By the time the individual of the coroner’s ministration appears, politics is no longer an issue. Unless, of course, a Republican coroner follows the sheriff’s opposite party example. Then he had better have a very large freezer.

So, here is a recommendation. Vote for the folks who are most qualified for the job. Let you party choice be secondary. © 2012, Jim McGowan