Monthly Archives: October 2007

>Absurdity Rules!!! For the children!!!

>

One billion dollars for ‘abstinence only’ programs that don’t work.
Let’s put this concept in perspective.
Top 10 Dumbest things to spend money on

10. ____ Hunting quail that were raised in a pen and released mere seconds before they are shot. See our Vice President for information.
9. _____Premium gasoline
8. _____Body Thetan removal
7. _____Penlargement pills
6. _____Steven Segal movies
5. _____Betting on the Cowboys
4. _____Processing fees to release your Nigerian Lottery money
3. _____A free form jazz dance concert
2. _____Convincing teens not have sex
1. _____ N.A.M.B.L.A.

Add that to the Top 10 dumbest things to tell your children:

10. _____If you clap hard enough, Tinkerbell won’t die.
9. _____Don’t go swimming for an hour after eating
8. ______Easter is about the resurrection of our lord, now paint your colored eggs or the Easter bunny will kill us all.
7. _____Don’t let the cat near the baby!
6. _____You can’t have your pudding if you don’t finish your meat. How can you eat your pudding if you haven’t finished your meat?
5. ______Because I said so.
4. ______Sex is bad. If you have sex, there’s a good chance that you will catch AIDS and die.
3. ______Don’t dig your finger in your belly button. In the back is a tiny screw that God put there. If you accidently un-screw it, your butt will fall off.
2. ______Every time you masturbate a puppy in doggy heaven is burned to death.
1. ______If you tell mommy your little brother could die.

It’s all in my book, “Tinkerbell died and now I only eat pudding.” (Soon to be a major motion picture starring Vanessa Del Rio). On the top 10 lists they came in at #2 and #4. Add them together and you get 6. As in 6-6-6. The devil’s number. Think about it. Well, the Pat Robertson crowd would understand.

You can’t talk about abstinence only programs without talking about the golden age. The 1950’s. Forever in the Republican mythos, blacks were barely citizens; those of the wrong religion were persecuted, as per Jesus’ explicit instructions, and anyone who dissented was immediately labeled as a communist. In the 1950’s sex before marriage meant eternal damnation. It was easier to persecute the damned. All was perfect in the world. The 1950’s became the Republican ideal and they’ve been searching for that promised land ever since. For a billion dollars they’d have a better chance of building a time machine.

On it’s face it seems such a strange concept; ‘Don’t have sex until you’re married.’ It’s as if their goal was to create an unhappy marriage. Holy rollers have traditionally handled this sexual incompatibility with the same deep insight used in handling homosexuality. From the 1950’s sex ed propaganda film, You and Your High School Sweetheart: Narrator: “Discovering that you and your mate are sexually incompatible does happen. Luckily, if your mate was a virgin and inexperienced at sex she’ll be more suggestible when you send your wife to your pastor or a clergy member who will make her feel worthless and weak for not satisfying her man. Don’t worry. She’ll come around. It’s what Jesus wants. A happy marriage.”

One billion dollars

I can’t get over the sensibility of not spending the money on real social programs. How many families can you house with a billion dollars? How many children can you save through expensive medical treatments? In a world where money is life, it’s a demented decision making process that values sexual propriety over health. When Pres. Bush vetoed SCHIP “for the children” my emotion chip overloaded my neural pathways creating a feedback loop which short circuited my internal Matrix. Before I knew it I found myself in a pod which was draining my energy to power the great machine city. “For the Children.” Sigh.

Last night I went to see Austin’s own, Alex Jones. He was showing his new conspiracy theory movie at the Alamo Draft House. It’s called End Game. Jones was there, live and in person, to give a rant, uh, I mean give us a pep talk before the flick. You may not know this but the new world order is coming and we may soon we’ll all be rounded up into concentration camps. The guys in power want the population of the Earth to be around 500 million, so some people have to go. It’s like watching the Evangelical Christians pay money to Israel to help hasten the coming Apocalypse. What makes it sad is that believing in these fantasies is much more comforting than ‘for the children.’ Its like a warm security blanket of madness. As long as it make some kind of sense.

I myself prefer to paint my own delusions. In mine, the great wizard McAngus LaRue has placed a spell on the populace. A spell disbursed through churches. White is black. Up is down. All values of Jesus are reversed because the end times are coming.

I thought of including UFO’s and a pedophile science fiction writer but the Scientologist beat me to it. In my religion Bigfoot and the Dali Lama (big hitter the Lama) have joined forces with the Olson twins to fight the Tri-Lateral commission in a World Wrestling Federation cage match. Our side uses alien science to resurrect Andy Kaufman. For the fate of the world he’ll be wrestling the female clone of Bea Arthur in a no-holds barred, steel cage match. Two men enter. One man, uh, whoever, leaves. In the end it doesn’t matter who wins, just as long as they do it, ‘for the children.’ There. It all makes sense now. A warm enema of truthiness.

Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008!

Absurdity Rules!!! For the children!!!

One billion dollars for ‘abstinence only’ programs that don’t work.
Let’s put this concept in perspective.
Top 10 Dumbest things to spend money on

10. ____ Hunting quail that were raised in a pen and released mere seconds before they are shot. See our Vice President for information.
9. _____Premium gasoline
8. _____Body Thetan removal
7. _____Penlargement pills
6. _____Steven Segal movies
5. _____Betting on the Cowboys
4. _____Processing fees to release your Nigerian Lottery money
3. _____A free form jazz dance concert
2. _____Convincing teens not have sex
1. _____ N.A.M.B.L.A.

Add that to the Top 10 dumbest things to tell your children:

10. _____If you clap hard enough, Tinkerbell won’t die.
9. _____Don’t go swimming for an hour after eating
8. ______Easter is about the resurrection of our lord, now paint your colored eggs or the Easter bunny will kill us all.
7. _____Don’t let the cat near the baby!
6. _____You can’t have your pudding if you don’t finish your meat. How can you eat your pudding if you haven’t finished your meat?
5. ______Because I said so.
4. ______Sex is bad. If you have sex, there’s a good chance that you will catch AIDS and die.
3. ______Don’t dig your finger in your belly button. In the back is a tiny screw that God put there. If you accidently un-screw it, your butt will fall off.
2. ______Every time you masturbate a puppy in doggy heaven is burned to death.
1. ______If you tell mommy your little brother could die.

It’s all in my book, “Tinkerbell died and now I only eat pudding.” (Soon to be a major motion picture starring Vanessa Del Rio). On the top 10 lists they came in at #2 and #4. Add them together and you get 6. As in 6-6-6. The devil’s number. Think about it. Well, the Pat Robertson crowd would understand.

You can’t talk about abstinence only programs without talking about the golden age. The 1950’s. Forever in the Republican mythos, blacks were barely citizens; those of the wrong religion were persecuted, as per Jesus’ explicit instructions, and anyone who dissented was immediately labeled as a communist. In the 1950’s sex before marriage meant eternal damnation. It was easier to persecute the damned. All was perfect in the world. The 1950’s became the Republican ideal and they’ve been searching for that promised land ever since. For a billion dollars they’d have a better chance of building a time machine.

On it’s face it seems such a strange concept; ‘Don’t have sex until you’re married.’ It’s as if their goal was to create an unhappy marriage. Holy rollers have traditionally handled this sexual incompatibility with the same deep insight used in handling homosexuality. From the 1950’s sex ed propaganda film, You and Your High School Sweetheart: Narrator: “Discovering that you and your mate are sexually incompatible does happen. Luckily, if your mate was a virgin and inexperienced at sex she’ll be more suggestible when you send your wife to your pastor or a clergy member who will make her feel worthless and weak for not satisfying her man. Don’t worry. She’ll come around. It’s what Jesus wants. A happy marriage.”

One billion dollars

I can’t get over the sensibility of not spending the money on real social programs. How many families can you house with a billion dollars? How many children can you save through expensive medical treatments? In a world where money is life, it’s a demented decision making process that values sexual propriety over health. When Pres. Bush vetoed SCHIP “for the children” my emotion chip overloaded my neural pathways creating a feedback loop which short circuited my internal Matrix. Before I knew it I found myself in a pod which was draining my energy to power the great machine city. “For the Children.” Sigh.

Last night I went to see Austin’s own, Alex Jones. He was showing his new conspiracy theory movie at the Alamo Draft House. It’s called End Game. Jones was there, live and in person, to give a rant, uh, I mean give us a pep talk before the flick. You may not know this but the new world order is coming and we may soon we’ll all be rounded up into concentration camps. The guys in power want the population of the Earth to be around 500 million, so some people have to go. It’s like watching the Evangelical Christians pay money to Israel to help hasten the coming Apocalypse. What makes it sad is that believing in these fantasies is much more comforting than ‘for the children.’ Its like a warm security blanket of madness. As long as it make some kind of sense.

I myself prefer to paint my own delusions. In mine, the great wizard McAngus LaRue has placed a spell on the populace. A spell disbursed through churches. White is black. Up is down. All values of Jesus are reversed because the end times are coming.

I thought of including UFO’s and a pedophile science fiction writer but the Scientologist beat me to it. In my religion Bigfoot and the Dali Lama (big hitter the Lama) have joined forces with the Olson twins to fight the Tri-Lateral commission in a World Wrestling Federation cage match. Our side uses alien science to resurrect Andy Kaufman. For the fate of the world he’ll be wrestling the female clone of Bea Arthur in a no-holds barred, steel cage match. Two men enter. One man, uh, whoever, leaves. In the end it doesn’t matter who wins, just as long as they do it, ‘for the children.’ There. It all makes sense now. A warm enema of truthiness.

Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008! Colbert 2008!

>The Breakfast Machine and the American Circus on acid

>The Visa Toy Store ad

Has anyone noticed the music from the Visa toy store ad? It’s originally from “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure.” It’s called “Breakfast Machine” by Danny Elfman. If you want to hear it:

http://www.archive.org/download/Breakfast_559/Breakfast_559_64kb.m3u

I can’t think of a better theme song for the Bush administration. It needs to be played during every briefing. “Breakfast Machine” reflects our industrious nature while blending in a healthy dose of bat shit crazy. This music speaks to me. It says: We are America. The land of the free, and home to a three ring circus on acid.

I’m looking at you, Fox news.

Last blog entry I did “freaky weird crazy.” This time I thought I’d tackle “Bat Shit Crazy.”

Bat Shit Crazy

“Bat shit crazy” was originally termed regarding those infected with bat guano rabies. In Austin, Texas, bats are it. Our hockey team is called the Austin Ice Bats. Yes, we have a hockey team, and yes, that’s a dumb-ass name. We have a bat hospital:
http://www.austinbathospital.com/ which is nearing 12 years old. (I wonder if they’ll have a bat mitzvah.) We even have a monument to the bat. All this bat-a-monium is because Austin is home to the largest urban bat community in the world. Located downtown, underneath the Ann Richard’s bridge, there are over two million Mexican free tail bats.

To comprehend ‘b.s. crazy’ you need to understand the degree of severity. Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah’s couch doesn’t make the cut. Think more in terms of 20 naked Pentecostals in a Pontiac.

http://www.skepticfiles.org/atheist/20-nudeg.htm

In August of 1993 police in Vinton, Lousiana pulled over the naked Pentecostal’s who were told by God to: “rid yourself of your clothing and go to Louisiana.” “The devil was after them and Floydada, Texas (it’s near Lubbock) was going to be destroyed if they stayed there.” What makes it funny is the naked reverend and his congregation tried to run from the cops and later hit a tree. No one was hurt. Twenty people – five kids in the trunk – emerged from that wreck without a stitch of clothing. The sight must of been clown car surreal. I honestly can’t figure out how they did it. On its face, it doesn’t seem possible.

On its face, it doesn’t seem possible that our vice-President would get drunk and shoot a lobbyist in the face while hunting for birds that have already been caught, but there it is, bat shit crazy. “B.S. crazy’ often comes with delayed punch line. The Pentecostal’s punch line came when a semi-famous country song relayed their naked adventure to millions. In the case of Cheney, the delayed punch line arrived when the victim actually apologized for being shot in the face. (That never stops being funny.)

In June, Gary Aldridge, died of autoerotic asphyxiation.

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/years/2007/1008072scuba1.html

He was found hogtied and wearing two complete wet suits, including a face mask, diving gloves, slippers, rubberized underwear, a head mask, two ties, five belts and eleven straps, according to the autopsy report. He also had a dildo covered with a condom that he had inserted into his own anus. As Pee Wee would say, “Ruber-ee.” Another scuba related fashion death. When will they learn!?!

Oddly enough, strangling yourself in a rubber suit only reaches the ‘freaky weird crazy’ standard. ‘Bat s. crazy’ is only in effect when Gary Aldridge turns out to be a pillar of the community and a Baptist minister to a large congregation in Alabama. Take a ride on my “Republican Culture of Corruption” to better understand.

If ‘b.s. crazy’ was incorporated, a major stockholder would have to be Michael Jackson. Lately, Jacko has been negotiating to have a fifty foot robotic replica of himself walk around the Vegas desert firing lasers from its fingers. http://music.yahoo.com/read/news/41620594 Needless to say, I am already assembling a crack team of drunken nare-do-wells to kidnap this ego bot and hold it for ransom. If things go according to plan, Jacko will hold his soon to be famous, “please don’t hurt him” press conference at the exact moment we set it on fire and drop it from 20 thousand feet. It has to be done. Who’s with me?!?! Aaaaaaaaa! (This is where I run out of the room like Bluto in Animal House.)

On the lighter side, ‘b. s. crazy’ goes hand in hand with the second funniest things ever.

Top 2 Funniest Things Ever

I can’t mention the second funniest thing ever without mentioning Number 1. Coming in at number one: Pres. George Bush, Sr. vomiting on the Japanese Prime Minister.

The inherent comedy of world leaders vomiting on one another seems bi-partisan, but my petitions to the History channel to immortalize this moment with its own documentary have sadly gone unanswered. Apparently, appreciation for this glorious nexus of puke and politics doesn’t “do it” for the snobs at the History channel.

What’s the protocol for our top guy vomiting on your top guy? A hundred years ago things like this would of been a prelude to war. In the end, we all paid a hefty price for that vomit. It was because of this diplomatic incident that American children were infected with Pokemon. The Bush administration tried to retaliate with the Barney, the purple dinosaur, but we were thoroughly trounced when the Japanese counter attacked with Yu-Gi-Oh! and the Power Rangers. Fifteen years later, Abu Ghraib. Why doesn’t the History Channel return my phone calls?

Coming in at #2 on the list of funniest things ever is Stephen Colbert at the White House Correspondence Dinner. Wow! If you haven’t seen this, please take the time.

On a personal note: Stephen, if you have been Googling your own name and read this; Oh, my God!!! You have balls as big as Texas. I salute you.

Click here for Stephen Colbert at the 2006 White House Correspondents Dinner

The delayed punch line to Colbert’s speech came a year later when Bush personally selected Rich Little to be the keynote speaker. Rich Little?!? Bush’s choice to replace Colbert gives us a excellent insight into our President’s psyche. You don’t have to be clairvoyant to guess how the conversation went:

“Uh, Mr. President?”
“Yes, Turd Blossom.”
“Uh, yeah. You remember when you told us to never to mention that comedian’s name, from the correspondence dinner?”
“Is he dead yet?”
“Oh, no, Mr. President. But in the meantime, I’m afraid that if we hire a comedian for this year’s correspondence dinner he might try to ‘out-do’ the previous host.”
“You’re right. We need someone that is really funny but may be dead. How about Rich Little?”
“Perfect choice, as always, Mr. President.”

‘Bat shit crazy’ is thinking Rich Little is funny. Add that to my ‘freaky weird crazy’ and you get a President who has boldly gone where no man has gone before. (Much like Bush’s self mandated mission to Mars.) I haven’t figured out what to call it yet. ‘Lunatic, panty waste, nut job crazy’ doesn’t quite fit. Feel free to e-mail suggestions.

(Please make a note: two million rabid bats under the Ann Richard’s bridge are less than a mile from Bush’s former home, the Texas Governor’s mansion.) Atticus Fitch would know what to do.

The Breakfast Machine and the American Circus on acid

The Visa Toy Store ad

Has anyone noticed the music from the Visa toy store ad? It’s originally from “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure.” It’s called “Breakfast Machine” by Danny Elfman. If you want to hear it:

I can’t think of a better theme song for the Bush administration. It needs to be played during every briefing. “Breakfast Machine” reflects our industrious nature while blending in a healthy dose of bat shit crazy. This music speaks to me. It says: We are America. The land of the free, and home to a three ring circus on acid.

I’m looking at you, Fox news.

Last blog entry I did “freaky weird crazy.” This time I thought I’d tackle “Bat Shit Crazy.”

Bat Shit Crazy

“Bat shit crazy” was originally termed regarding those infected with bat guano rabies. In Austin, Texas, bats are it. Our hockey team is called the Austin Ice Bats. Yes, we have a hockey team, and yes, that’s a dumb-ass name. We have a bat hospital:
http://www.austinbathospital.com/ which is nearing 12 years old. (I wonder if they’ll have a bat mitzvah.) We even have a monument to the bat. All this bat-a-monium is because Austin is home to the largest urban bat community in the world. Located downtown, underneath the Ann Richard’s bridge, there are over two million Mexican free tail bats.

To comprehend ‘b.s. crazy’ you need to understand the degree of severity. Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah’s couch doesn’t make the cut. Think more in terms of 20 naked Pentecostals in a Pontiac.

http://www.skepticfiles.org/atheist/20-nudeg.htm

In August of 1993 police in Vinton, Lousiana pulled over the naked Pentecostal’s who were told by God to: “rid yourself of your clothing and go to Louisiana.” “The devil was after them and Floydada, Texas (it’s near Lubbock) was going to be destroyed if they stayed there.” What makes it funny is the naked reverend and his congregation tried to run from the cops and later hit a tree. No one was hurt. Twenty people – five kids in the trunk – emerged from that wreck without a stitch of clothing. The sight must of been clown car surreal. I honestly can’t figure out how they did it. On its face, it doesn’t seem possible.

On its face, it doesn’t seem possible that our vice-President would get drunk and shoot a lobbyist in the face while hunting for birds that have already been caught, but there it is, bat shit crazy. “B.S. crazy’ often comes with delayed punch line. The Pentecostal’s punch line came when a semi-famous country song relayed their naked adventure to millions. In the case of Cheney, the delayed punch line arrived when the victim actually apologized for being shot in the face. (That never stops being funny.)

In June, Gary Aldridge, died of autoerotic asphyxiation.

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/years/2007/1008072scuba1.html

He was found hogtied and wearing two complete wet suits, including a face mask, diving gloves, slippers, rubberized underwear, a head mask, two ties, five belts and eleven straps, according to the autopsy report. He also had a dildo covered with a condom that he had inserted into his own anus. As Pee Wee would say, “Ruber-ee.” Another scuba related fashion death. When will they learn!?!

Oddly enough, strangling yourself in a rubber suit only reaches the ‘freaky weird crazy’ standard. ‘Bat s. crazy’ is only in effect when Gary Aldridge turns out to be a pillar of the community and a Baptist minister to a large congregation in Alabama. Take a ride on my “Republican Culture of Corruption” to better understand.

If ‘b.s. crazy’ was incorporated, a major stockholder would have to be Michael Jackson. Lately, Jacko has been negotiating to have a fifty foot robotic replica of himself walk around the Vegas desert firing lasers from its fingers. http://music.yahoo.com/read/news/41620594 Needless to say, I am already assembling a crack team of drunken nare-do-wells to kidnap this ego bot and hold it for ransom. If things go according to plan, Jacko will hold his soon to be famous, “please don’t hurt him” press conference at the exact moment we set it on fire and drop it from 20 thousand feet. It has to be done. Who’s with me?!?! Aaaaaaaaa! (This is where I run out of the room like Bluto in Animal House.)

On the lighter side, ‘b. s. crazy’ goes hand in hand with the second funniest things ever.

Top 2 Funniest Things Ever

I can’t mention the second funniest thing ever without mentioning Number 1. Coming in at number one: Pres. George Bush, Sr. vomiting on the Japanese Prime Minister.

The inherent comedy of world leaders vomiting on one another seems bi-partisan, but my petitions to the History channel to immortalize this moment with its own documentary have sadly gone unanswered. Apparently, appreciation for this glorious nexus of puke and politics doesn’t “do it” for the snobs at the History channel.

What’s the protocol for our top guy vomiting on your top guy? A hundred years ago things like this would of been a prelude to war. In the end, we all paid a hefty price for that vomit. It was because of this diplomatic incident that American children were infected with Pokemon. The Bush administration tried to retaliate with the Barney, the purple dinosaur, but we were thoroughly trounced when the Japanese counter attacked with Yu-Gi-Oh! and the Power Rangers. Fifteen years later, Abu Ghraib. Why doesn’t the History Channel return my phone calls?

Coming in at #2 on the list of funniest things ever is Stephen Colbert at the White House Correspondence Dinner. Wow! If you haven’t seen this, please take the time.

On a personal note: Stephen, if you have been Googling your own name and read this; Oh, my God!!! You have balls as big as Texas. I salute you.

Click here for Stephen Colbert at the 2006 White House Correspondents Dinner

The delayed punch line to Colbert’s speech came a year later when Bush personally selected Rich Little to be the keynote speaker. Rich Little?!? Bush’s choice to replace Colbert gives us a excellent insight into our President’s psyche. You don’t have to be clairvoyant to guess how the conversation went:

“Uh, Mr. President?”
“Yes, Turd Blossom.”
“Uh, yeah. You remember when you told us to never to mention that comedian’s name, from the correspondence dinner?”
“Is he dead yet?”
“Oh, no, Mr. President. But in the meantime, I’m afraid that if we hire a comedian for this year’s correspondence dinner he might try to ‘out-do’ the previous host.”
“You’re right. We need someone that is really funny but may be dead. How about Rich Little?”
“Perfect choice, as always, Mr. President.”

‘Bat shit crazy’ is thinking Rich Little is funny. Add that to my ‘freaky weird crazy’ and you get a President who has boldly gone where no man has gone before. (Much like Bush’s self mandated mission to Mars.) I haven’t figured out what to call it yet. ‘Lunatic, panty waste, nut job crazy’ doesn’t quite fit. Feel free to e-mail suggestions.

(Please make a note: two million rabid bats under the Ann Richard’s bridge are less than a mile from Bush’s former home, the Texas Governor’s mansion.) Atticus Fitch would know what to do.

>FREAKY WEIRD CRAZY

>I can’t think of our President without thinking of Gerald Caldwell. I was 13. My brother was 11. Gerald was that really weird kid that lived down the street. He was more than socially awkward. Gerald was weird freaky strange. Not spastic or goofy. More of a dweeb.

1974 in Austin Texas: Drunk driving was legal if you didn’t throw up on the officer; signing bonus’ for U.T. Longhorn football players was a new car, and kids out of school for the summer roamed the neighborhood at night harassing the late night tennis players at the park near our homes. In retrospect, operation “lights’ out” seemed simple enough.

Usually we were Indians. On “The Night of Gerald Caldwell” we were ninjas. Behind the tennis courts was a jungle of tall weeds and bushes, all skillfully navigated by our ninja skills aided by our smaller than average size. Between the courts and the jungle was the light switch for the tennis courts. Early incarnations of operation “light’s off” involved a long string, stealthily attached to the switch, pulled remotely from behind our camouflage. Now that we were older, strings were for wimps. If you were fast enough you could cover the ten feet of open ground and be gone before the player’s eyes could adjust to the sudden darkness.

Through stealth and guile we would maneuver the high weeds; wait patiently for the players to turn away, and then our cat like reflexes would take over. Who turned off the lights? There’s nobody there. It must be a ghost. We were masters of the night.

Gerald’s introduction to the night ninjas was an overwhelming success. We met up after the highly planned and brilliantly executed mission behind the elementary school. Gerald was in overload. Howls of laughter and electric adrenaline captured Gerald’s emotions like he was smoking crack.

“It’s my turn next. It’s my turn next. Let’s do it again. Let’s do it again.” Everything he said, he said twice.

We thought it was fun that Gerald was vibrating, laughing and crying. The lights took about two minutes to warm back up. Smiles lit up our faces as we heard the sounds of rackets and balls starting up again. My brother and I had misgivings about the new ninja, but his energy won us over. This time, it was Gerald’s mission.

Little did we know that Gerald still had not understood the concept. It was simple. Turn off the lights. Run and hide. No, he didn’t get it, at all.

Once again we crawled on our bellies through the toughest high grass and bushes central Texas could throw at us. Other ninjas would of given up or turned back against such incredible obstacles. We were danger seekers. Living on the razor’s edge.

I first noticed something amiss when Gerald’s ninja skills seemed more like those of a robot. He walked out of the foliage, stood next to the light pole, and hit the off switch. No stealth. No running. No anything. Gerald just stood there, laughing like a hyena and pointing at the couple playing tennis.

“Hey. Did you turn off that light?”

“Haw! Haw! Haw! Oh, I got you! I got you!!”

My brother and I are in freak out. “Come on! Run! Run! What are you doing?!?”

Gerald just stood there. The tennis player told him to “cut it out” and pushed him away from the pole before turning it back on. In a few minutes they started playing again. My little brother is latched onto my arm and can’t stop saying, “Hole-ly crap.”

Click.


Gerald hits the lights again and starts laughing. My brother and I have pulled back to the edge of our super secret escape route. We can’t see as well, but we can hear just fine. Screams of obscenities and threats were met by Gerald’s hyena laughter. This time he was pushed all the way out into the parking lot. A few minutes pass and play begins again.


Click.

“Hole-ly crap!” Out of reflex we’ve pulled back to the top of the hill which overlooked the tennis courts. We could see just fine but usually from this distance you can’t hear much. Since everyone was yelling, we could hear just fine. The woman who had been playing had joined in. She starts swinging her racket at the Gerald, acting like she’s going to crown him if he does it again. In a last ditch effort, the man grabs Gerald by the upper arm and shakes him like drunk English nanny. I distinctly remember Gerald’s huge noggin whipping forward and back like a Pez dispenser. His arm looked like it nearly dislocated from his shoulder. It was violent move. Gerald stopped laughing. He staggered around the parking lot while my brother continued to chant, “hole – ly – crap!” over and over again. The lights came back on and the couple slowly played, distracted as they tried to keep an eye on the odd kid in the parking lot.

Click.


Horror filled the moment. We couldn’t believe he did it again. And then he just stood there. Laughing. We couldn’t hear what they said, but when the woman pointed her racket at us and the man turned to look, that was are cue. We bolted and operation “light’s out” was abandoned and never revisited. The adrenaline surge that previously filled Gerald had been transferred to us. We didn’t get to sleep until the early hours of the morning and spent the time dissecting the events in the sanctity of our bedroom. “Why did he do that? Did you see that? Should we go back? We got to go back, just to see if there’s any blood. That guy might kill him.”

In the end we finally went to sleep and checked for blood in the morning. We saw Gerald a week later. He just laughed and asked what happened to us.

Gerald was a freaky kind of weird crazy. There’s only been one other person that was that freaky weird crazy.














Long live the night ninjas!

FREAKY WEIRD CRAZY

I can’t think of our President without thinking of Gerald Caldwell. I was 13. My brother was 11. Gerald was that really weird kid that lived down the street. He was more than socially awkward. Gerald was weird freaky strange. Not spastic or goofy. More of a dweeb.

1974 in Austin Texas: Drunk driving was legal if you didn’t throw up on the officer; signing bonus’ for U.T. Longhorn football players was a new car, and kids out of school for the summer roamed the neighborhood at night harassing the late night tennis players at the park near our homes. In retrospect, operation “lights’ out” seemed simple enough.

Usually we were Indians. On “The Night of Gerald Caldwell” we were ninjas. Behind the tennis courts was a jungle of tall weeds and bushes, all skillfully navigated by our ninja skills aided by our smaller than average size. Between the courts and the jungle was the light switch for the tennis courts. Early incarnations of operation “light’s off” involved a long string, stealthily attached to the switch, pulled remotely from behind our camouflage. Now that we were older, strings were for wimps. If you were fast enough you could cover the ten feet of open ground and be gone before the player’s eyes could adjust to the sudden darkness.

Through stealth and guile we would maneuver the high weeds; wait patiently for the players to turn away, and then our cat like reflexes would take over. Who turned off the lights? There’s nobody there. It must be a ghost. We were masters of the night.

Gerald’s introduction to the night ninjas was an overwhelming success. We met up after the highly planned and brilliantly executed mission behind the elementary school. Gerald was in overload. Howls of laughter and electric adrenaline captured Gerald’s emotions like he was smoking crack.

“It’s my turn next. It’s my turn next. Let’s do it again. Let’s do it again.” Everything he said, he said twice.

We thought it was fun that Gerald was vibrating, laughing and crying. The lights took about two minutes to warm back up. Smiles lit up our faces as we heard the sounds of rackets and balls starting up again. My brother and I had misgivings about the new ninja, but his energy won us over. This time, it was Gerald’s mission.

Little did we know that Gerald still had not understood the concept. It was simple. Turn off the lights. Run and hide. No, he didn’t get it, at all.

Once again we crawled on our bellies through the toughest high grass and bushes central Texas could throw at us. Other ninjas would of given up or turned back against such incredible obstacles. We were danger seekers. Living on the razor’s edge.

I first noticed something amiss when Gerald’s ninja skills seemed more like those of a robot. He walked out of the foliage, stood next to the light pole, and hit the off switch. No stealth. No running. No anything. Gerald just stood there, laughing like a hyena and pointing at the couple playing tennis.

“Hey. Did you turn off that light?”

“Haw! Haw! Haw! Oh, I got you! I got you!!”

My brother and I are in freak out. “Come on! Run! Run! What are you doing?!?”

Gerald just stood there. The tennis player told him to “cut it out” and pushed him away from the pole before turning it back on. In a few minutes they started playing again. My little brother is latched onto my arm and can’t stop saying, “Hole-ly crap.”

Click.


Gerald hits the lights again and starts laughing. My brother and I have pulled back to the edge of our super secret escape route. We can’t see as well, but we can hear just fine. Screams of obscenities and threats were met by Gerald’s hyena laughter. This time he was pushed all the way out into the parking lot. A few minutes pass and play begins again.


Click.

“Hole-ly crap!” Out of reflex we’ve pulled back to the top of the hill which overlooked the tennis courts. We could see just fine but usually from this distance you can’t hear much. Since everyone was yelling, we could hear just fine. The woman who had been playing had joined in. She starts swinging her racket at the Gerald, acting like she’s going to crown him if he does it again. In a last ditch effort, the man grabs Gerald by the upper arm and shakes him like drunk English nanny. I distinctly remember Gerald’s huge noggin whipping forward and back like a Pez dispenser. His arm looked like it nearly dislocated from his shoulder. It was violent move. Gerald stopped laughing. He staggered around the parking lot while my brother continued to chant, “hole – ly – crap!” over and over again. The lights came back on and the couple slowly played, distracted as they tried to keep an eye on the odd kid in the parking lot.

Click.


Horror filled the moment. We couldn’t believe he did it again. And then he just stood there. Laughing. We couldn’t hear what they said, but when the woman pointed her racket at us and the man turned to look, that was are cue. We bolted and operation “light’s out” was abandoned and never revisited. The adrenaline surge that previously filled Gerald had been transferred to us. We didn’t get to sleep until the early hours of the morning and spent the time dissecting the events in the sanctity of our bedroom. “Why did he do that? Did you see that? Should we go back? We got to go back, just to see if there’s any blood. That guy might kill him.”

In the end we finally went to sleep and checked for blood in the morning. We saw Gerald a week later. He just laughed and asked what happened to us.

Gerald was a freaky kind of weird crazy. There’s only been one other person that was that freaky weird crazy.














Long live the night ninjas!