I came up with that title figuring some of you would be screwing around surfing the web, and I figured on getting a bunch of hits just by mentioning the “Duke.” Baseball is only mentioned because it’s October and the end of the season is near. However, if professional baseball keeps going the way they have, we won’t have the World Series until the day after Christmas. I just thought I’d throw that in as an editorial comment. But I digress!
Some years back, in the middle of the night I woke up to this god-awful noise in the backyard, and a lot of splashing. If you’re not aware of it, we have this huge pool that has attracted many things that are not human – and least of all, poor swimmers. I hauled my butt out of bed, turned on the outside lights and discovered two raccoons in the pool on top of my thermal pool blanket. They couldn’t get out of the pool because they were heavier than the solar blanket. So every time they would move, they would sink. They couldn’t swim because they were on the blanket and their nasty little sharp claws were not doing it a lot of good. They were in what you could call “panic city.” There was a third one sitting next to the pool watching this action. For a second or two, I thought this insensitive beast was laughing, but I couldn’t be sure. At the very least it was grinning, if indeed a raccoon can grin.
So like a Good Samaritan that I am, I grabbed the pool cleaning net and fished the two raccoons out. They did not take off like I would’ve expected, but instead continued the fight which more than likely had caused them to take a dive in the first place. One of them went splashing back in the pool again and the others just stood there. Raccoons can see well in the dark, but don’t do real great with the lights on. Clearly, the two combatants were fighting over the third raccoon which was most likely a female. I guess raccoons have some human traits after all. Clearly, the female was at fault, as usual. Possibly, it was two females fighting over the male, which is the way that it should be in the first place. I digress!
So, I fished this love-sick diminutive bandit out of the pool again and decided it was time to chase this trio into another county. I had a large push broom sitting next to the pool, and got it with the intent of scaring these potential participants in a ménage à trois into my flaky neighbor’s yard, with the hopes that they would wake him up. Much to my surprise and immediate concern, the female got up on her hind legs, showed me a huge amount of her teeth and clearly she had decided she needed a chunk of JJ. At that point, I decided discretion was the better part of valor and did a hasty retreat into the bedroom.
By then, Blue-eyes was awake and had been watching from the door. As I scurried into the house, her comment was, “I didn’t think anything could make a Marine retreat that fast.” I think I grunted and began humming the Marine Corps’ hymn. We watched as the trio silently made their way into the darkness. A couple of nights later, there was another fight, but this time they did not end up in the pool, but did manage to knock over some patio furniture.
A few years ago in the early spring, Blue-eyes came in and exclaimed that a bunch of ducks were in the pool. I went out and sure enough, there were 15 or 16 wild ducks paddling around in our chemical-infested pool. They paid no attention to us whatsoever. I didn’t know if it was duck season or not, but I was really tempted to go get my Remington 22 and have smoked duck for dinner. But then I started to think about Donald, Daffy and Daisy and decided it really wasn’t a good idea. Besides, firing a 22 where we live would have the Sheriff, FBI, the National Guard and the Border Patrol in our front driveway in a matter of seconds. It was kind of fun to watch them paddling back and forth, then all of a sudden I realized that they were leaving a whole bunch of deposits that were completely unwanted. So I ran around waving my arms and eventually they took off.
About two weeks later they reappeared, only this time there were more. I did the same routine that I had done before, barking like a dog and making loud noises and attempting to emulate a shot, assuming that would get their attention. They eventually flew off, but returned the next morning. I couldn’t figure out how to dissuade them, but Blue-eyes, in her omnipotent wisdom came up with a solution. “Go get a large picture of a 12 gauge Winchester shotgun and hang it up by the side of the house.” I didn’t do it, but I thought it was a hell of a good idea. I did get my leaf net and attempted to capture one. They were too fast. Blue-eyes rushed into the house to get a camera, because she wanted to have evidence that I had finally gone over the edge. They eventually left and we only had one other sighting, but that was only three birds.
The other day, while I was standing at the back patio door, I saw this demented squirrel absolutely intent on planting walnuts in the seat cushions of my patio chairs. I chased her away and found five walnuts stuck in the creases of the cushions. This girl didn’t go far, sat about 40 feet away on the lawn and looked at me. I threw the nuts at her hoping she would get the message. She scampered away leaving her winter’s dietary supplement laying in the middle my lawn. I suspect she figured that nobody in JJ’s family would realize that they were sitting on a bunch of walnuts. Hell, she may have been right! I’ve certainly been called “hard ass” more than once. For the educators reading this – first of all, shame on you, and second, I want to explain that this is a figurative condition and not literal.
Well, she’s back, and now unfortunately she is digging a hole into a $20 cushion and I suspect it’s to get even with me for throwing nuts at her. Notice I say “she” and “her!” Do not assume that I’m being a chauvinistic, because the females are mainly responsible for the “nut burying process.” Ask any squirrel devotees and they’ll confirm what I just suggested. You can also tell that they are females because they have to carry a GPS system to remember where they put the last nut. Oh hell, I just couldn’t resist!
I made a decision to get out my trusty Red Ryder lever action BB gun, and pop this little product from an illicit relationship in the butt. I don’t want to kill it, but only to make sure that it gets the message that it and its actions are persona non-grata. I assure you, if you’ve ever been popped in the butt with a BB, you remember it. It hurts you just enough to make you a little squirrely. I didn’t really say that, did I?
The squirrel episode reminds me of an event last week or so when I was driving downtown behind an SUV with a bumper sticker saying “I brake for Squirrels.” I thought, “Now that’s a kindhearted soul!” After following her for a few moments, I came to the conclusion that the squirrels had to be about the only thing that she could possibly brake for! She (this is an assumption on my part because it could’ve been a weird-looking dude in drag) didn’t stop for pedestrians in a crosswalk; blew through a stop sign; honked at some old guy with a cane, jaywalking; and cut off another driver on a left turn. All of this within three blocks. If you read one of my blogs you might assume this could be the same lady that kicked my left front tire while she was talking on her cell phone while parked in the middle of the street. At the very least, these two went to the same driving school. Had that been me, I would’ve had at least five tickets and be qualified for the ”three strikes and you’re out” law.
My turn to cook, so I started dinner, which is going to consist of a shrimp and lettuce salad with creamy ranch dressing, steak and potatoes served on paper plates because it’s also my turn to do the dishes. I’m a little worried about the potatoes because they have these little green things growing on them, so I figure it best to use them quickly before they develop into large flesh eating carnivorous beasts. I suspect I will have to go plant the unused spuds in my garden, as I’m sure that the gophers that have infested this area are starving to death.
What’s the derivation of the word “spud?” I think it’s from a World War I movie! “Capt. Goodheart was flying his trusty, bullet-riddled “Spud” when the German “Fokker” came out of the clouds and into his gun-sights. He pressed the trigger of his twin Balfour machine guns and saluted as the Fokker went down in flames. Actually, I don’t think it was “spud,” I think that was “Spad.” Fokker is another one of those words you have to be very careful pronouncing.
Why do they call those little spots on potatoes “eyes?” Can they really see what you’re about to do to them with the potato peeler? I use the tip of the peeler to gouge these spots out because I’m not keen on eating eyes. Most everything else is okay, but I draw the line there. I could swear I heard one of them screaming in a loud voice “Help me! Help me!” (That’s from an old movie called “The Fly,” and could have ended within the first 5 minutes if they’d had a spraying can of Raid handy.) This event could go down in history as the Great Potato Massacre of Wounded Knee, which is a reference to my left knee cap or whatever still remains.
I’m recording a baseball game so that I can go back and play it on a fast-forward basis. I can watch the complete nine inning game in 22 minutes. Baseball is at best semi-boring as a player, and extremely boring if you have to watch it. I am fascinated by the fact that the batters play with their Velcro batting gloves, taking a long time adjusting the gloves after each pitch, whether they’ve swung at the ball or not. What did these guys play with before they allowed the batting gloves? Don’t go there!
Think of the time they would save if they would outlaw batting gloves. This is something that I’m absolutely certain you will ponder over for the next three or four days, and more than likely come up with a meaningful solution that can be inserted into the rulebook for next season.
Another thing that strikes me as bizarre is the amount of “crotch grabbing” when they get on base. These professionals should have an award for whoever grabs their crotch the most during the season. The trophy could be a Golden Cup and a lifetime supply of talcum powder.
Tonight after dinner and throwing away the plates, I’m going to watch a John Wayne film called “Sands of Iwo Jima.” I always cry at the end when “Duke” gets killed, but I do the same thing with “Old Yeller” and ”An Affair to Remember.” I really didn’t think Nicky was that great of a painter! Based on the one scene where you see her portrait, I can understand why the dealer gave it away. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’ll have to watch the movie.
As far as Old Yeller is concerned, I think the guy that shot him would have been better off using a shotgun. If he had missed with that rifle and just wounded him, it would have pissed Yeller off no end, and he was close enough to cause all kinds of problems and that would’ve made a whole different ending to the movie. Yuck! The movie promos would’ve been “Come and watch the latest Disney family thriller about a rabid dog that kills family of six. This film is rated PG-4.”
Moral of the story – If you’re going use paper plates make sure you don’t forget the plastic utensils.
J.J. Addingnuttin 