Straight from the holler.

                          

  by "Buck"

October 7, 2005

Everybody is doing their part for the victims of Hurricane Katrina.  A co-worker tells me about this site.  Apparently you can make a donation to the relief effort and get a subscription to tons of chicks flashing their boobs Mardi Gras style.  Everybody using their talent for the common good...it's that American Spirit that brings a tear to the eye...ya know? 

 

Here's another example.  Britney ain't my brand of music, but damn if that ain't the finest set money can buy.  To quote my mentor Larry the Cable Guy…. "Them's nice titties right 'er, I don't care who ye'are, them's nice titties."

 

A guy with whom I work says he's considering the purchase of a shotgun.  Of course this sparked my interest and I asked "Why?"  He doesn't hunt and has probably never fired a gun in his entire life.  He said the insanity in New Orleans made him rethink personal security, but he and his wife are having the big argument over the gun in the house.  I noted that I'm considering adding a gun to my downstairs bathroom—it's the only room left that isn't "secure."  As for the argument, perhaps when a couple of thugs break in, he can handle the shotgun and kill one of them—and his wife can TALK the other one into not raping and killing her.  Just my thought.

 

I'm proud to say here and now, that I've never shot anybody.  I figure most of us can make that claim, but I've come close on a couple of occasions---one of the closest came when I almost blasted the gray-haired head off of my geriatric landlord in the early 1990's.  I was working insane hours when I lived in Morgantown.  I had a small, three room apartment.  The front door came into the living room—the kitchen was just a part of the living room—then past the kitchen was the bedroom, and past that was the bathroom at the dead end of the abode.  I was always working until midnight to two o'clock in the morning, then going back to work at 10 or 11 am.  So, I was sleeping oddly as well.  It was on a morning after one of my late nights at work that I was lying in bed well after sunup—somewhere in the neighborhood of 7:30 I think.  I heard the front door open.  My immediate reaction was What the Fuck?  I reached under the bed for a 12-gauge sawed-off (and highly illegal) shotgun that is kept there, loaded, for just such an occasion.  I pulled it off the hangers that hold it securely to the bed slat, and moved to the door wearing nothing but my Fruit of the Looms.  I didn't see anything, but just around the refrigerator I could hear somebody fumbling with stuff in the living room.  I eased to the back of the fridge, gathered my nerves, then jumped from there with the shotgun trained and ready for fire.  Moments later I noticed just inches past the muzzle was the face of my landlord who was apparently in the process of shatting himself.  He screamed and grabbed at his chest, stumbling backward and tripping over a coffee table to the floor…then tumbling into my TV and knocking down a cactus.  The guy was in his 80's, always grumpy, and a crochety old bastard.  I never liked him, but he apparently liked me more than any other tenant—with the exception of the Crazy Lady in Apartment 3…more on her in a moment—because I paid my rent on time and in full.  He apparently found it perfectly normal to come in while I wasn't home and have himself a look around.  I told him he was damn lucky I didn't put double-ought buckshot through his face—and might do it the next time.  He assured me he'd never come there again.  He never did either—even when something broke.  He'd send a hired hand over to fix it, PROMPTLY.  I think I made my point.

 

This was my first and only apartment.  It wasn't a bad pad. It was a three story building with two units on each floor.  Most of them were built about the same way—although I was only in one other unit.    I'm told the apartment where I lived was originally built to be a laundry mat.  That would explain why I had so many high intensity outlets and water spouts around the room.  I lived in Apartment Number 0.  Have you ever heard of that?  I'm told that my apartment was added as an afterthought when Crotchety Old Bastard decided he could make more soaking rent than soaking underwear in a laundry mat.  The reason for the number however had something to do with a city law.  Rental units in Morgantown, I'm told, came under a different set of rules if there were six or more together….this way the Crotchety Old Bastard could tell the city he only had five and mine didn't count.  Whatever.  

 

I had some odd neighbors in that place.  Upstairs was a revolving door of tenants.  We had one that I'm sure was an ax murderer—the only time he and I interacted was when he came down to tell me to turn down the TV.  I told him it was down, but I'd watch it.  He said I better---I showed him the shotgun sitting in the corner and we had no more words.  He moved out and made way for a fire and brimstone preacher and his wife.  They were in their late 50's and both weighed about 400 pounds—and they had sex like two teenagers.  Their bedroom was just above my living room and at night—I was pretty sure that bed was coming through the ceiling and two large masses of flesh would be flailing about my carpet.  They weren't sexual screamers though—that was reserved for the Horn Dog woman next door.  She was a middle aged divorcee who was constantly horny.    She was old enough to be my mom, but on more than one occasion—offered to let me spend the night. Yikes.  She was a screamer and a moaner and was apparently into circus sex.  It got so crazy over there one night that some guy banged her against the wall—and knocked a picture off my wall.  I found the whole thing highly amusing.  Then there was the Crazy Lady in apartment three.   She was "special."  She had some mental problems and was placed there by one of those agencies that looks after folks who can live fairly well on their own—but need to be looked in on from time to time.  The cops were always coming around looking for her since I think she was suicidal and a paranoid schizophrenic.  However, I learned from the Horn Dog divorcee next door that Crotchety Old Bastard was riding the Crazy Lady like a rented mule.  The very thought of such a thing caused a full body shiver.  This was all pretty well documented since Crazy Lady had told Horn Dog all about it one night during a heart to heart girl talk.  Apparently every time she put out, Crotchety old Bastard would buy new furnishings for the apartment.  She had new carpet, a new fridge, new stove, new sofa and love seat—and a new bed.  She was also getting some cash on the side when he'd run out of stuff to buy.  Ironically, I never knew anybody that lived up on the third floor—never had any interaction since they entered through the back—and my door was at the front.   I have no idea who lived up there, but there was never a dull moment.

 

Buck Out

 

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