Posts - Rick Baldwin

Fergus MacDuff

Oct 18, 2018 | 0 comments

For as long as I can remember, the name “Fergus MacDuff” has been a part of my consciousness. When I was a child, my parents used the name as a threat or motivation for correction. “If you don’t clean your plate, Fergus MacDuff will get you. Clean your room or Fergus MacDuff will find you in the night.” As kids, we imagined old Fergus MacDuff lived under our beds, his long, dirty fingers grasping for our ankles every time we went to turn in for the night. Most of the time we would run to our beds and take a long dive onto the safety of the mattress, relieved we avoided another murderous, grasp by Fergus MacDuff.

The reality was Fergus MacDuff didn’t live under our beds but, rather, in an old hovel a block from the abandon gas station, a quarter of a mile from our house. At least that’s what all the kids at school said. We were all very aware of the dilapidated Fergus MacDuff house that sat in the middle of the overgrown plot of land we had to pass when we walked to the ball field. People would tell stories about seeing Fergus MacDuff standing in the shadows of his porch, watching all of us kids playing across the street. Some people said they saw him clutching a butcher knife. Ginny Blair said she saw him holding a chain saw. Troy Bolin claimed he once crept up the weedy pathway to Fergus MacDuff’s door, only to find him sitting on his porch pulling feathers off of a dead, bloody chicken. No matter the variety of stories, one detail was always consistent. Everyone claimed they saw old Fergus MacDuff wearing a dress. Why that old man would wear a dress, I couldn’t imagine but that was the thing about him the creeped me out the most.

In sixth grade, my best friend was Dewey Milk. Yes, that was his real name and no, you couldn’t come up with a new name-joke that Dewey hadn’t heard a million times before. For three or four years, Dewey Milk and I were inseparable. We always pretended we were Mulder and Scully only, in our fantasy world, I was Mulder and Dewey always wanted to be Agent Scully. He always said it was because of his red hair but I knew he had more personal reasons. Dewey Milk and I would travel the neighborhood investigating all rumors of paranormal activity. It was usually just blowing the lid off crazy tales we heard around town like Mrs. Stallings’ possessed cat or the space alien someone said the Berrier’s were hiding in their dairy barn. We never really found anything, of course, but we thought we were making some sort of difference to the safety of the neighborhood. It was all just innocent fun. Innocent, that is, until one day when Dewey Milk suggested we climb the back fence of the abandon gas station, crawl through the weeds and get our own view of Fergus MacDuff.

Sometimes in life you do things you would normally find so terrifying, you just have to shut your mind off and do ’em. Like pulling off an old band-aid. Don’t think about it, just do it. That’s how I felt about Dewey Milk’s suggestion. I said “yes” without thinking much about it and I told him we should do it immediately, since it was starting to get dark and I knew in a few more minutes my mom would be calling me in for dinner. But, really, I just wanted to get moving before I talked myself out of it.

We scaled the gas station fence and soon found ourselves, on our stomachs, in five feet of weeds. The sky was that deep blue glow which happens right before everything goes completely black dark. Dewey Milk was right next to me and I was sure he would be able to hear the thumping of my heart, if it wasn’t for the pulsing screams of the cicadas. We laid there for what seemed like two hours. I wasn’t exactly sure what we were looking for. We stared at the silhouette of the old shack.

“I think I see him,” Dewey Milk said in a low whisper that scared the shit out of me.

“Where?” I asked. I couldn’t see anything but black.

“Right there in the middle,” Dewey Milk said. “See? It’s a window. You can see a little orange glow coming from it.”

I stared at the scraggly black building for a few moments. I’d been looking at the remaining light from the sky but when I let my eyes adjust to the darkness of the old shack, I, too, could see a glow coming from what looked like a window. It was the first time I really thought about what we were doing and, at that moment, I realized I didn’t want to do it.

“We gotta go back, Dewey,” I said. “My mom’s gonna bust my ass.”

“It’s too late, Mulder” Dewey said. “We’re in this too deep.”

Dewey Milk was right. We were engaged. It was too late to abort the mission. And, before I could agree, I heard a whimper come from him, then a low, gurgling, choking sound. Before I could ask if he was okay, I felt cold, leathery fingers grab the shirt at the back of my neck and pull it tight. I couldn’t tell what was happening but I could feel my entire body being lifted from the ground. I looked over at Dewey and could barely see him as he looked behind me. I knew from the panic on his face, the bony fingers which had me in their grasp, belonged to none other than Fergus McDuff.

The next few minutes moved super fast. I don’t remember moving from the cover of the weeds to inside the old shack but, in the blink of an eye, there we were sitting in front of a small, soot-covered fireplace. I assumed we were in the living room of Fergus McDuff. It was difficult to determine where we were though. In every inch of the house was piled boxes and books and paper and trash and mounds and mounds of shit. How anyone could live in that environment, I don’t know. It smelled like old water, old food and dead animals. No telling how many bodies of mice, rats, possums, raccoons, and, who knows what else, were rotting under the piles of garbage. It was sometimes impossible to tell if we were indoors or outdoors. I guess I’m still not sure. I looked at Dewey Milk sitting next to me and noticed he, too, was scanning the contents of the room while at the same time trying to figure out if there might be some miracle way of darting out of the room.

I could see the outline of Fergus MacDuff sitting in a chair in the dark. I could hear the clunking of metal which I eventually recognized as the sound of a spoon in a can. Was Fergus MacDuff eating while holding us prisoner? After a few minutes, an empty can of corned beef hash was flung out of the darkness and hit me on the bottom of my shoe. I heard a hacking cough in the middle of the void, the crinkling of paper and chewing noises. Dewey Milk reached over and touched me on the knee and pointed at the fireplace. On the mantle, I could see twenty or thirty little handmade dolls lined up in a row. They were crudely made but each one had it’s own distinctive look. Skinny dolls, fat dolls, boys with glasses, girls with braces, one doll in a wheelchair, just a lot of different dolls. I looked at Dewey Milk and he shrugged. I knew what he was thinking. What would this creepy old man be doing with all of these dolls? I was thinking something else. Why did Fergus MacDuff bring us here and what was he going to do with us?

After about forty five minutes of sitting on the dirt floor in front of the fireplace, I had had enough. “Can we go home?” I asked. “My mom and dad are going to be worried and they’re going to start looking for me.” I waited for a response from the dark and heard only a guttural noise. I couldn’t figure out if Fergus MacDuff was clearing his throat or laughing at me.

“Ginny!” Dewey Milk whispered.

“Ginny?” I whispered back. Dewey Milk pointed at one of the dolls on the mantle. It was a doll with curly brown hair and big, wire glasses, almost as big as her entire face. He was right. The doll looked like Ginny Blair. In fact, I suddenly recognized another doll. The one with braces was Carol Thornton. And there was Ray Beale. Johnny Brooks was there, Reneé Kincaid, and the wheelchair doll was definitely Kimmy Morgan.

Dewey and I looked at each other with wide eyes. We recognized our entire class there on top of Fergus MacDuff’s fireplace. I could feel tears pooling in my eyes. I was terrified and I wanted to get out of that creepy house. I scanned the room for an exit opportunity.

It was hard to see anything through the piles of trash but I noticed an open door in the room across from the living room. That was my big chance. I caught Dewey Milk’s eyes and subtly ran a pointed finger across the floor toward the open door. I counted in my mind, ready to dash toward freedom. Five… four… three… two… one…

Suddenly, a large pile of trash moved in front of me and blocked the open door. No. It wasn’t a pile of trash after all. It was Fergus MacDuff. The glow from the fire let me see Fergus for the first time. He was like a mountain. His hair and beard looked like the weeds we hid in outside his house. His face was wrinkled and looked like it was made of an old horse saddle. A wet stream of tobacco juice ran down the corner of his mouth. He reached over my head and, for the first time, I noticed the dress everyone talked about was actually an old kilt. Like the one I saw in a book about Scotland at the school library. Only, this one looked like it hadn’t been washed in at least 100 years.

I looked up at Fergus MacDuff and he grasped for a doll on the mantle. Holding his arm at a 90 degree angle he danced the doll over his arm and made squeaky noises. The doll was chubby with bright red curly hair. I immediately recognized it as the doll version of Dewey Milk. Fergus MacDuff cackled with a phlegmy laugh. He was obviously very entertained at his weird little puppet show. He slowly handed the doll to Dewey Milk but when Dewey reached out to take it, Fergus MacDuff quickly tossed it into the fire where it ignited into a ball of flame. Fergus MacDuff laughed with an even bigger cackle of phlegm.

I scanned the fireplace for my doll. I knew I was the next star of Fergus MacDuff’s show. I was a lanky girl with a short, bob hair style and tomboy clothes. But none of the dolls looked anything close to me. It didn’t make sense to me. Why would everyone else in our class be there on his fireplace mantle in doll form but not me? I turned to look at Fergus MacDuff and he stared down at me like he knew what I was thinking. His bony fingers moved down between his legs. He fondled around in the old leather pouch on the front of his kilt until he opened it. He reached inside and pulled out a crushed, misshapen doll. He ran his fingers over the doll a bit until it smoothed out and he handed the doll to me.

He started laughing the biggest laugh yet and he turned and walked into the dark part of his house and closed a door. Dewey Milk and I immediately ran to an exit door and kept running as fast as we could toward my house, the laughter of Fergus MacDuff fading into an echo behind us.

When morning came, I found myself questioning whether my experience with Fergus MacDuff the night before was real or a dream. I wanted to ask Dewey Milk, but his mom said he went with his grandparents to a church function. My dad was sitting at the breakfast table reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee. I asked him what he knew about Fergus MacDuff.

“Fergus MacDuff?” He asked, surprised. “Well, honey, I think you’re old enough to know the truth about Fergus MacDuff. There’s no real Fergus MacDuff. I mean, there was a Fergus MacDuff. Long time ago. He was a custodian at the school you go to but somebody said he was inappropriately… well, you know… interacting with some of the kids. He was fired and he just went away by himself. Everyone started using his name as a kind of boogie man, you know? “Last one to the porch will be killed by Fergus MacDuff!” It started out as something funny but I guess it just became silly. Your mom and I always did it in a joking way. I don’t know, maybe it went too far. Anyway old Fergus MacDuff died ten years before you were born so there’s no way he’s ever going to get you.”

I never talked to my parents about the night Dewey Milk and I spent in Fergus MacDuff’s creepy living room. It was a secret Dewey and I locked away in our own minds. We never even discussed it ourselves.

Even though we were so close, eventually we drifted apart. Dewey’s parents moved to Nevada and we wrote each other letters for a year but that stopped eventually. There was no email or Facebook then so it was easy to just gradually lose touch.

The last time I heard from Dewey Milk was five years ago after my husband Alan and our son Daniel drown in a boat accident while on a fishing trip. Dewey heard about it from his sister and called me to tell me how sorry he was. We both cried together on the phone and promised we would soon get together. But we never did.

Then, I heard last week that Dewey Milk was on a business trip in Los Angeles and, along with twenty-two other people, died in a hotel fire. I was devastated. I was also haunted by that night when Fergus MacDuff tossed Dewey’s doll into the fireplace. I couldn’t stop thinking that maybe that had something to do with Dewey’s death. And it made me wonder the whereabouts of the doll Fergus gave to me. I hadn’t seen it in thirty years or so. Last I remembered, I put it in a cigar box my dad gave me and I stored it in my attic.

I decided to dig out that cigar box and take a look at the creepy old doll. I went into the attic and moved piles of boxes and other stored items. For a second, it reminded me of the piles of junk in Fergus MacDuff’s living room. I found an old box of toys and mementos from my elementary school days and I pulled off the tape. It was mostly dusty, plush toys, softball shirts and gloves and sports cards. I cleared away the layers of memories until I finally located the wood cigar box. I remember wrapping the box with rubber bands, ribbons and strings which I pulled and cut off. I opened the box expecting to see the crude, straw doll, but I was horrified.

The doll Fergus MacDuff had given me was gone. In its place were two others: one unmistakably Alan, my husband, dressed in his fishing gear, and the other, a small boy with bright blond curls, was Daniel. The stitching on their mouths was crude and uneven but I immediately knew it was them.

Frantically, I dug through the cigar box, scattering its contents across the attic floor. I turned over every toy and scrap, but my doll was nowhere to be found. I had sealed this box myself thirty years ago, hadn’t I? How could these dolls have gotten in? Where was mine? Was there some way Fergus MacDuff could have reclaimed the doll? How could he and if so… why?

I shoved the box back into its hiding spot and turned to leave. As I stepped onto the creaky stairs of the attic, I froze.

Behind me, in the darkness, came a faint, phlegmy laugh. The same laugh I hadn’t heard in thirty years.

(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)

The Old Lockhart House

Oct 18, 2018 | 0 comments

[Content Warning: Alcohol use, mild adult language and sexuality, blood, supernatural events, death]

(Based upon true events.)

I come from a very rural part of East Tennessee. It ain’t “the sticks,” since there’s a large city twenty minutes away, but a person could still get lost on the winding country roads surrounding our house. It’d take someone familiar with the area to help you get back out to civilization.

Behind our house, a steep incline led to an old sawmill operated by Elmer Nicely. The train tracks ran right alongside Elmer’s mill, and when a train passed through — approximately once an hour — our house windows would tremble for a good ten minutes. Elmer slaughtered hogs there, too, so it was nice when the train passed by, masking the squeals coming from his small wood slaughterhouse.

A one-lane gravel road cut between our house and the sawmill. I had seen cars pass through at all hours, but I had never ventured far down that old road. It seemed intimidating to me. The trees and kudzu had overgrown, and the road was a path into a dark tunnel of leaves, vines, sticks, and dust. I knew people lived down that road, but not personally. They were reclusive country folk who preferred to keep to themselves, and I wasn’t one to go messing with them.

As I grew older, I would occasionally take walks along the gravel road. The road passed by the sawmill and the slaughterhouse, then curved left and crossed the railroad tracks. My first time past the tracks I couldn’t recognize anything. It was as if I had stepped into a secluded, backwood village. There were occupied, rusted trailers tucked away in the brush, and old houses constructed from scrap wood, plastic, and cardboard. A small creek ran behind them, one I’d never seen before. Every other house seemed to have an old, mangy hunting dog tied to a tree or a decaying doghouse. The entire area sent shivers down my spine, making my hair stand on end.

Just past the shacks, an overgrown cornfield stood tall. Perched on a wooden post was a pitiful scarecrow, its only arm raised as if attempting to hitchhike its way out of the desolate landscape. Strangely, someone had dressed the scarecrow in a burlap kilt, complete with a corncob kilt pin.

Nestled beside the cornfield, far from the main road, was a decrepit three-story white house. Every window was shattered, and a machete would be required to cut through the dense brush to reach the front door. Despite its dilapidated state, the house still held an air of grandeur among the shacks. It must have been a magnificent home in its heyday, and I couldn’t help but be curious about its history.

The following day, I shared my discovery with some school friends. One of them remarked, “That’s the old Lockhart house. I’ve heard it’s haunted.” Although neither of us believed in ghosts, we couldn’t deny the eerie atmosphere surrounding the place. I was intrigued by the story but unsure of where to find more about its background. I knew of some Lockharts around school and figured they didn’t live there anymore. Or did they?

Weeks later, I brought up the topic again, and someone behind me burst out laughing. It was Chris Mullins, one of the school football stars — good-looking, a nice guy, one of the few jocks who would ever talk to someone like me.

“That’s an excellent make-out place,” he said. “Take a girl there, make her feel scared, then tell her you’ll protect her. She’ll do almost anything you ask her to.”

I didn’t believe Chris Mullins needed a haunted house to persuade a girl to do anything he wanted, but it was good advice anyway. “I’m taking Jenny Quarles to that house this Friday after the game,” he said. “The only thing she should be afraid of is what’s in my pants!” We all laughed.

That Friday night, on the eve of Halloween, the football game was against one of our fiercest rivals. We won easily, and the celebrations continued into the night. However, I decided to head home early. The wind had picked up, and the full moon was obscured by rapidly moving clouds. I couldn’t shake the thought of Chris’s cryptic remarks about the Lockhart house. Perhaps I should drive by and check on them. I wondered if he had the guts to actually go through with it. I would drive out, circle past, and head home.

I came across the old gravel road just as a distant train horn echoed in the air. By the time I reached the curve and the crossing, the train was barreling towards me, so I waited. Once it passed, I sat for a moment in the deep silence that follows a train’s passage. I drove on past the trailers and shacks, up to the cornfield, and I noticed something peculiar. The scarecrow was gone. Its weathered and splintered post remained, but the figure was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it had toppled over, I thought. Or perhaps Chris had taken it down as part of his plan to frighten Jenny.

Ahead, I noticed a car pulled off the road in front of the house, but there was no one inside. I cautiously passed by, peering through the window. The front and back seats were empty. Surely Chris wasn’t brave enough to take her inside. Or foolish enough.

I pulled over, killed the engine and lights, and rolled down the window. The air was filled with the scent of decaying leaves, motor oil, and damp soil. The moon, now completely obscured by clouds, cast everything into a deep indigo darkness.

If you’ve never heard a hog’s death scream at midnight, it’ll send shivers down your back. It’s worse when you realize the sound you just heard wasn’t a hog at all. It was human. And it was coming right toward you.

Jenny Quarles burst from the brush, tried to open my locked passenger door, then leapt onto the hood, pounding the windshield like she meant to break through. It took me several seconds to realize it was her. I jumped out. She threw herself into me, legs giving out, still screaming. I tried to calm her, asking what had happened. She couldn’t speak, just grabbed my hand and pointed toward the Lockhart house. She could only say “Chris,” over and over, pulling me that direction.

A small path had been trampled through the weeds, and she dragged me along it. It all happened too fast to think, though nowadays I can’t believe I ever followed her in there. We stumbled through the brush until we came to a clearing under some twisted trees. Jenny pointed and screamed again.

On the ground lay a scattering of straw soaked in blood. Hanging from one of the trees was Chris Mullins — his throat cut from ear to ear, and stuck right in the middle was what looked like a corncob kilt pin.

I grabbed Jenny’s arm and ran. When she tripped, I dragged her, both of us crashing through vines and briars until we reached the car. We tore out of there and drove to my house, where we called the police and her parents.

It was months before Jenny could tell what had happened that night. She and Chris had left the game and stopped at a store where his brother worked and sold them beer. Chris joked that he wanted to take her to his house, then drove to the Lockhart place, saying that’s where he lived. They sat on the car hood, drank a couple of beers, and made out under the moonlight.

After a while, Chris suggested they walk up to the house. Jenny didn’t think that was such a good idea, so Chris made a bet with her. Jenny had to agree to go to the house if Chris could hit the old scarecrow with all four of their empty beer bottles. Even in the dark, Chris nailed it. Each bottle landed squarely on target, the last one almost taking off the old scarecrow’s head.

Jenny reluctantly went to the dark old house with Chris, and after they got under the trees, Chris began trying to scare her by running into the old cornfield and then running back out. At one point, he didn’t come back out. Jenny thought he may have snuck back to the car just to spook her. She wandered her way back to the car, through the maze of the thicket, and, not finding Chris, she sat on the hood of the car and drank another beer. When the light of the train cut through the blackness, she once again made her way to the side of the house, and it was there she found Chris Mullins hanging from the tree.

On Halloween night, hardly anyone dared to let their kids trick-or-treat. People stayed home, locking their doors tightly, fearing that a killer was on the loose. It was the first time I had ever seen my parents lock their doors.

Around nine o’clock that night, a friend called to say some of the guys from the football team planned to burn the Lockhart house down at midnight. A little after twelve, I drove down the gravel road. The sky ahead glowed orange. When I crossed the tracks, I could smell smoke and see flames flickering high above the trees. The old Lockhart house was fully engulfed. No cars, no people. Just fire.

And, to my surprise, silhouetted against the bright orange light of the fire, hung that old scarecrow; kilt around its waist, arm stretched out, and head held high.

(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story may not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)

Prosecution Closing Arguments In The Billy Joel Fire Starter Trial

Jul 21, 2018 | 0 comments

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, good morning.

Throughout this trial, you have heard the defendant, Mr. William Martin Joel, steadfastly proclaim his innocence regarding the infamous fire that has captured all our attention. Yet, under oath, Mr. Joel himself admitted that accomplices were involved. Despite relentless cross-examination—and one notable charge of contempt of court—he stubbornly refuses to name these co-conspirators, instead endlessly repeating the cryptic refrain: “We didn’t start the fire.”

The defense would have you believe that this fire has been burning since the world’s been turning. But, ladies and gentlemen, fires don’t just ignite spontaneously. Babies don’t simply pop into existence, and universes don’t casually bang themselves into being. Someone, somewhere, is responsible. And while Mr. Joel vehemently denies his guilt, he has shown no hesitation in deflecting suspicion onto 135 other potential culprits. Among these, he audaciously implicates former President Richard Nixon—not once, but twice!—as well as a space monkey, Chubby Checker, and, most appallingly, children tragically affected by Thalidomide. The gall is almost as staggering as his aptitude at hitting high notes.

Now, Mr. Joel does not deny his presence at the scene of the fire. He even claims to have attempted to extinguish it, going so far as to declare that he and his unnamed “we” tried to “fight it.” The results, as we know, were catastrophic. Why did these efforts fail? Perhaps because Mr. Joel was distracted by delusional fantasies of rendezvousing with Marilyn Monroe, Joe DiMaggio, and JFK—meetings which, according to expert testimony, never actually occurred.

And then there’s the matter of “U-2.” What does it mean? Mr. Joel never clarifies. Was he joyriding in a military reconnaissance plane? Sharing cigars with Bono as this unforgettable fire raged around them? Or—dare I say it—does “U-2” signify a clandestine partnership? You, too, Billy Joel? I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

The defense would paint Mr. Joel as nothing more than an innocent bystander—a man whose hobbies include watching Psycho, thumbing through Stranger in a Strange Land, and bingeing Wheel of Fortune. But the truth is clear: Billy Joel is an international music superstar with multiple mansions, a warehouse full of motorcycles, and unfettered access to open flames.

The ancient Greek storyteller Aesop wisely observed, “A man is known by the company he keeps.” And what company does Billy Joel keep? Communists. Mafia kingpins. Dead prizefighters. And, most damning of all, Fidel Castro—hula hooping together, no less! Can we trust a man with such associations to tell the truth? Should we believe Mr. Joel’s 1983 plea of innocence, or take heed of his 1989 confession that he is “shameless” and “goes to extremes”? Let us not forget his chilling 1980 admission: “You may be right, I may be crazy. But it just might be a lunatic you’re looking for.” Well, Mr. Joel, I am looking for a lunatic. A lunatic who started this fire. And that lunatic is you.

In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, the defense has utterly failed to show that Billy Joel did not start this fire. The evidence to the contrary is overwhelming. I know he started it. You know he started it. And deep down, Mr. Joel knows it, too—alongside his band of fire-starting accomplices.

Therefore, I wish to conclude by saying I am your uptown girl and you must find Billy Joel guilty.

I didn’t mean to say that uptown girl part but, please, still, find him guilty.

[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, July 21, 2018.]

Forbidden

May 24, 2018 | 0 comments

He was born
desert frost,
a Kansas avalanche;
an impossibility
in her
life
posing as savage
fantasy
they both carried
under their
skin
like a virus fiend.

—Rick Baldwin ©2018

My View At Starbucks Window

May 10, 2018 | 0 comments

Metallic ocean waves
will not devour me,
this prevailing moment invincible.

Shaven-headed dude,
his raven hound gallivanting
across the uneven plaza,

eagerly visualizing
some vague triumph,
shit teetering on the verge.

Beneath this devil sun,
vociferous men,
devoid of socks,

converse sharply
about investments
in rental ventures,

their glances evasive,
ignoring my overly-long
verdant straw—

properly delivering
this shivery salvation:
iced beverage, victorious.

unconscious

May 9, 2018 | 0 comments

While you are sleeping
they are sharpening the guillotine
loading their guns
sheathing knives at their thighs.

Tiptoeing while you snore
they tie the noose,
deliver the poison,
and plant mines beneath your feet.

In your dream state,
They write the nightmares.

You have no idea
what awaits.

Pokey LaFarge at Terminal West

Dec 8, 2017 | 0 comments

I was fortunate to attend the Pokey LaFarge concert at Terminal West in Atlanta on December 6. I’ve been wanting to see him perform for awhile now and I wasn’t disappointed. You can always tell when an artist or band has been touring for years. Their shows are tight and solid. This was certainly the case with Pokey LaFarge. They played an enjoyable selection of oldies, recents and brand new tunes and there wasn’t a dud in the bunch.

Samuel L. Jackson Orders a Subway Oven Roasted Chicken Sandwich

Aug 18, 2015 | 0 comments

Good afternoon, Debbie.

Pay attention, because I’m about to order the greatest goddamn sandwich you’ve ever made in your short career at the Subway Corporation. How long you been here, baby? Three months? That’s adorable. You wake up inspired every day to craft better sandwiches? I hope so, Debbie, because I’m about to give you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to build the most incredible motherfucking Oven Roasted Chicken sandwich anyone has ever tasted. You feel me?

Debbie, today is not just another day of slapping cold cuts and lettuce on bread like some goddamn assembly-line worker. No ma’am. Today, you’re going to transcend. Take your round little ass over to that oven and pull me out a warm 12-inch Italian Herbs and Cheese loaf. Not just any loaf, Debbie. I’m talking about the cheesiest, herbiest, most Italian-ass bread you’ve got back there. Grab that loaf like it’s a feisty colt and you’re ready for some bedroom bareback rodeo.

Now let’s get surgical. Slice that bad boy open, smooth as a hot knife through sweet cream butter. Split it delicately, like you’re opening the legs of a young virgin on a warm wedding night. That’s it. You’re doing great. Now hit me with some thick mayonnaise— and let me stop you right there— you do not wait until the end to squirt mayo on a sandwich. Who the fuck taught you that porn-scene nonsense? This is America, Debbie. Mayonnaise goes on the bread, not on top of the goddamn ingredients. Slather that shit on thick.

Beautiful.

Now we come to a very important moment. Pay attention, Debbie. I’m only going to say this once.

No. White. Motherfucking. Cheese. Repeat that shit back to me. Good girl.

Lay some sharp cheddar on there. That’s the color of cheese we’re talking about. Golden. Bold. Unapologetic. Just like me.

Now for the the star of the show: the chicken. Chicken is the most versatile meat in the world. Fried chicken. BBQ chicken. Chicken soup. Chicken and waffles. Chicken and dumplings. Hell, chicken can be anything. It’s super meat.

You see that piece of chicken right there? Third one down from the top? That’s the one. Put that glorious hunk of bird on my sandwich. Gently now, like you’re tucking a preemie into a blanket.

Next we turn up the heat.

Crank that toaster to 475 degrees and toast this motherfucker like it owes us royalty money.

While that’s cooking, let me ask you something, Debbie—are you familiar with Henry V? No? Let me enlighten you: “It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will.”

That’s Shakespeare, Debbie. Cultured as shit.

All right, pull that masterpiece out and let’s cool it down with some lettuce. You know how every movie gets better when Samuel L. Jackson shows up? Same deal with lettuce on a sandwich. Lettuce is the Samuel L. Jackson of sandwich toppings. Pile that shit on.

Now here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna say some words, and you’re gonna add the ingredients.

Ready?

Tomatoes.
Cucumbers.
Black olives.
Red onions.

STOP.

You didn’t hear me say pickles, Debbie. DID I SAY MOTHERFUCKING PICKLES? No, I did not. So why in the holy hell are you reaching for pickles like they belong here? Did Jared himself rise from his dank prison cellblock to whisper, “Add pickles to Samuel L. Jackson’s sandwich”? No? Then back the fuck off with those pickles, Debbie. I didn’t ask for them and I sure as hell don’t want them.

Let’s move on.

To make things right, add two or three slices of crispy bacon.

That’s it, Debbie. You’re killing it now.

But we’re not done yet. You see that shaker of seasoning over there? Pick it up and shake it so hard I can hear your titties clapping together. Don’t be shy. That’s the sound of culinary excellence and it’ll also garner you an Oscar nomination. I know what I’m talking about.

All right, here comes the grand finale. Take that magnificent creation and cut it—not in half—but into four motherfucking pieces. Yes, I know it’s unorthodox, but trust me. It’s the way this sandwich was meant to be enjoyed.

Now wrap it up.

Let me tell you something—I’ve been in over 100 films, Debbie. More than any other goddamn actor in history. But do I know how to wrap a sandwich? Hell no. That’s your department. Just make it tight enough to keep it from leaking on my lap but loose enough so I don’t have to hack it open like a cockpit full of snakes.

Perfect.

Now stick some extra napkins in the bag, grab me a bag of BBQ Sun Chips, and tell me how much I owe you.

What the hell do you mean you don’t accept Apple Pay?

[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, August 18, 2015.]

I Wish I Wasn’t Dead

Jul 2, 2015 | 0 comments

— by Wallace Thatcher Hogg 1842-1929

(as dictated to Harmony Rae, psychic medium, clairaudient)

I wish to state right from the start: I completely and without reservation wish I wasn’t dead. If I had been aware of what death would feel like, I would have fought harder to stay alive. Sure, the last few years of my life, I went around saying things like, “I can die now” or “I’m ready to meet my Maker.” Poppycock! What was I thinking?

First and foremost, there is no “Maker.” I don’t know who conceived the notion of mansions, streets paved with gold, or angels strumming harps on fluffy clouds, but let me assure you, it’s horseshit. Hell, I haven’t seen a cloud since 1929! The reality is, you’re buried in a pine box, and that’s the end of it. No music, no clouds, no angels. Just you and the darkness. And let me emphasize: this darkness is unlike anything you’ve ever encountered. You could light a torch, but it wouldn’t make a difference. Not that I have a torch. Or hands to hold one, for that matter.

I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat, if I still had one. What I wouldn’t give for anything that beats, pounds, or throbs. This place is too quiet, too dark, and the smell… Good God, the smell! I hate to admit it, but I think I’m the source of it. And it was much worse those first few years, especially with the farting. Did you know corpses fart? Oh yes, decomposition gases. It’s absolutely revolting. And don’t let anyone tell you “your own farts don’t stink.” Those people clearly haven’t been dead. Or farted.

Now, you might be thinking, “Well, at least you can catch up on sleep.” But let me stop you right there. Sure, it might feel like a twelve-year nap at first. However, you wake up with an itch on your face, and guess what? You can’t move your hands to scratch it. It’s absolute torture. Although, now that I think of it, eye weevils are even worse. Nobody warns you about those little bastards. In the first 24 hours underground, they move in, suck your eyes dry, and you just have to lie there and let it happen. Like Mrs. Hogg on our honeymoon.

Speaking of Mrs. Hogg, she’s lying a foot and a half to my left. We can’t communicate, hold hands, or even make love. It’s just like the last twenty years of our marriage. Despite this, I miss Schatzi. That’s what I used to call her. She made the best blackberry cobbler. And her ironing? Flawless. I’m actually wearing one of her shirts right now — no wrinkles, even after decades underground. Sometimes, I try to catch a whiff of Schatzi on the fabric. But alas, I haven’t smelled anything since blowfly maggots hollowed out my nose during the Great Depression. A man can dream, though. Even a dead man. I sure do wish I wasn’t dead.

Sometimes, I try to distract myself by reminiscing about my happier days. For instance, there was this time in Budapest when I shared a sarsaparilla with Mari Jászai. An actress with a doll-like face and a laugh that could melt icebergs. She was engaged, but I couldn’t resist kissing her. She grabbed my necktie and pulled me toward her, then dunked it in her drink. It was my only necktie! I was furious! But then, she giggled that irresistible giggle of hers, and suddenly, we were laughing like fools. See? For a fleeting moment, I almost forgot about the family of millipedes living in my skull.

Here’s the kicker of being dead: you can hear everything. It’s as if my hearing has become superhuman. Super dead human. Conversations from miles away, halfway across the globe — I can hear them all. Last week, I had to endure an Alabama farmer whistling “I Get a Kick Out of You” while milking cows for four excruciating hours. I’ve never been so close to clawing my way out of this bone hole. Not that I could, because — you guessed it — I’m dead.

I try not to complain, but honestly, what’s worse than death? I think about all the moments I squandered while alive. Night after night, I passed out in a scotch coma, while Schatzi cried herself to sleep. I wish I could relive those nights. Instead, I spent my life chasing career aspirations. I aspired to be the Shoe Polish King of the Northern Hemisphere. And for what? Even George Vanderbilt is lying nuts-up in a crypt somewhere. Probably listening to a goat herder yodel.

Anyway, I should return to lying still and rotting. I’m not even sure if this whole “communicating with the living” thing is permitted. The rules here are quite straightforward: Be still. Rot. I’m mostly bones at this point, but I must admit, I haven’t looked this good in years. My suit finally fits, and it makes me want to dance. That whole “dancing skeletons” thing? True. We’d cut quite the rug if we could actually move.

But we can’t. Because we’re dead. God, I wish I wasn’t so fucking dead.

[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, July 2, 2015.]

A 57 Year Old Man’s Sexual Diary

Jun 22, 2015 | 0 comments

6:00AM

Morning wood! So awesome! I still got it! I could change a tire with this thing!

7:00AM

This hot water feels good. Should have showered earlier. If I masturbate right now I won’t be able to stop at Panera Bread on the way to work. Scew that, I need my Cinnamon Crunch bagel! Maybe I could skip shaving. Even better, I’ll just stand here in the hot water.

8:00AM

Julie in accounting is wearing that outfit. I think I’ll go by and see how her weekend was. I’m pretty sure she has a thing for me. She’s young enough to be my daughter. Did girls have asses like that when I was in college? She smells like cookies. I’d never fool around on Sarah. Look but don’t touch, right?

9:00AM

Sarah just texted me ❤️❤️❤️. I texted 👉🏼👌🏼 three times in a row, Ha ha!

10:00AM

Sleepy. I can tell it’s gonna be an early one. Hope Sarah doesn’t want to have sex tonight.

11:00AM

Sarah wants to have sex tonight. She just texted me 👅👅👅👅. I’m going to have to start working on a plan to get out of this. I’ll tell her I have an early meeting. Better text her now.

12:00PM

Lunch with Clark, Telly, Mary Ann and Julie. Didn’t realize I could see so much of Julie’s cleavage. Does she have a tattoo on her boob? Why would she want that? I think Mary Ann has a thing for me. Need sleep. Why does Telly keep looking at Julie’s boobs? So obvious. He’s old enough to be her father.

1:00PM

Went to the restroom and thought about masturbating but I need to print some stuff out.

2:00PM

So, incredibly sleepy. Shouldn’t have had that beer at lunch. Might take a nap as soon as I get home. Maybe Sarah will order something. She’s going to want sex. Christ.

3:00PM

Sarah just texted 💋. She wants sex. I can’t do this tonight. So tired. Tomorrow. I’ll promise sex tomorrow. I’ll feel more rested tomorrow.

4:00PM

Working on a report and my penis fell asleep! When did this start happening?? Also I think it’s shrinking. Can that be true? I need to walk around a few minutes. I wonder what Julie is doing…

5:00PM

Why am I so tired? I couldn’t have sex right now if I wanted to. Which I don’t.

6:00PM

Home. Sarah just kissed me and grabbed my crotch. Oh, come on! There is no way possible I can have sex tonight! I’m going to start talking a lot about how tired I am. She’ll get the clue.

7:00PM

Every time I say I’m tired Sarah says “Then maybe we should take off our clothes and go to bed.” No! So sleepy! I don’t want to upset her but this is not going to happen tonight. She’s mentioned sex six times since we’ve been home. I keep changing the subject to Telly’s new car. Not sure how long I can keep this up. She hates Telly.

8:00PM

Sarah keeps staring at me during dinner. It’s her sex stare. I need more garlic bread. I could go to sleep right here in this chair.

9:00PM

Told Sarah I was too tired for sex. That didn’t go over well but I feel relieved. Went to the bathroom and masturbated. What the hell is wrong with me?

10:00PM

Bed feels so good. Amazing. So much better than an orgasm. I’ll be unconscious in 5 minutes. Sarah has forgiven me. She scooted over so our asses are touching. Wait, I hope she’s not still trying. I just pretended to snore. I don’t think that sounded fake. I can hear her breathing heavy now. She’s out. Whew! Danger has past. I can relax now. Why does Julie have a boob tattoo?

[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, June 22, 2015.]

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