June 2008


We had a security guard at the front gate.  She was older and was a roughneck … leathery skin, balding, no teeth, smoked two packs a day, wore glasses thick as my hand.  But she was cheerful.

Every morning when I pulled up … “Geeewed marnin!”

“Hello Lorinda”

For her birthday one year, we all pitched in to buy her a pie.  We sent Peggy to get the pie.  She went the cheap route and bought a pie that was discounted.  We gave it to Lorinda who proceeded to cut into it and partake.  She gave us each a piece too.

Lorinda ate it up like a cow eats hay.  I took a bite and nearly barfed.  The cherries in it had the texture of plastic.  The crust was rubber-like.  I shuffled over to Peggy and leaned into her ear.

“Where the hell did you buy this artifact?”

“The baker said he messed up on it.”

I grabbed the box the pie came in and looked for a date.  It was made a month ago.

I looked up to tell Lorinda to stop eating, but it was too late. She was snarfing down her second piece.

A few days later, Lorinda was unexpectedly admitted to the hospital for kidney failure.  She died shortly after.  Peggy felt horrible.

Good ‘ol Lorinda.

The squids are out of school and enjoying the summer.  One of the summer’s first activities for the kiddos was basketball camp.  We enrolled Little Apollo in the Josh Howard basketball camp back in March.  Little did we know that it would change our son’s life forever.

“How was your first day at basketball camp?”

“Wiiiikeeeed” he calmly replies.

“Are you OK there sport?”

“It’s all good man.  It was high times to sundown baby.”

“C’mere bud.  Lemme see something in your hair.”

I pretend to be taking something out of his hair and then I bend a little closer and take a whiff.  Yup … Mary Jane.

“Hey listen bud, you’re going to go to a basketball camp a little closer to home tomorrow, OK?”

“No problem dad … it’s all good.”

I can’t believe I’ve missed adding The Smoking Gun to my list of links.  There is always something interesting to read over there.

Here is a story from The Smoking Gun about a father and son who share the distinct passion of tattooing their foreheads.  I’m filing this story under Discovery Moment because now that father and son have their faces plastered on The Smoking Gun, perhaps they will take a few moment to reflect on their position in life.  Maybe they will turn their lives around and find a cure for cancer or win the $300M McCain car battery prize.

Of course before that happens, these boys would have to make a few minor course corrections.  Getting a steady job that requires the use of ones brain might be a good start.  I can only imagine how a job interview might go.

“What skills do you possess for maintaining a Unix server environment?”

“I can git-r-dun.”

“Indeed, but specifically, what kind of Unix or any kind of server experience do you have?”

“I can git-r-dun.”

“Thank you for your time Mr. Bebees. You may be excused.”

“Can I take some of that there candy?”

“You may.”

I honestly don’t know how I got them.  I am a clean person … regular showers, clean clothes every day, I wash my hands … I’m clean except for those ogre toenails.

Several of my toenails have some sort of fungus ailment.  My big toenails have ridges like Ruffles and are a dirty pearly white.  My pinky toes are thick.  When I clip my pinky toenails, it’s like cutting cheese.

On the bright side, I’ve been able to sell my toenails to a local witch.  She uses them regularly in her brews.

I visited my doctor about this ailment.  When I took my shoes off and then peeled away my socks, she clapped her hand over he mouth and gasped in horror.

“My heavens!  How long have your toenails been like that?”

“About 10 years.”

She took a few samples to diagnose the fungus.

A few days later, I was reading the newspaper when I came across an article entitled “Medical Office Shut Down by Fungus”  Upon further reading, I learned that the lab had been overcome with an aggressive fungus.  The technician was doing late evening work on toenail clippings when the sample unexpectedly began growing exponentially.  By the next day, the fungus had overtaken the entire office.

The day after that, two federal agents in bio-suits and masks knocked on my door.  I’m finally going to get my toenails cured.

I was shooting the basketball at the local gym.  Ten of us had just finished a game in which my team won.  Then everyone left except me.  I stayed to practice my deadly 3-point shot.

The ball swished through the net and bounced to the wall behind the basket.  I walked over to pick it up.  I bounced the ball once and then stopped.  My right (shooting) hand was gooey and discustingly wet.  The ball had bounced in a puddle of spittle.  It wasn’t the watered down kind … it was the snotty white-greenish kind … absolutly sickening.

I threw the ball away and dried my hand off with the towl and picked up another basketball.  I continued to shoot 3-point shots.  I hit the first, the second and the third.  I shot a fourth and nailed it.  Ten shots later and I still had not missed.  No … no way … it couldn’t be.

I backed up three feet behind the NBA line – swish.  Halfcourt – off the backboard and in.  Insane.

I have an appointment today with an NBA team representative.