Wednesday, June 24, 2009

S. Tom "Red" Tubbler, 1912-2009

Wall boys, ah shore am glad t' be standin' up here in front o' y'all t'day! Those ladies back there n' the kitchin' shore can throw out a fine spread, cain't they? Let's have a big hand for them gals!

I heard one time from a fella I once met that there ain't no kinda barrel like a cracker barrel, and I believe that just may be what brings us all here t'gither t'day! We're just sittin' around here a-whittlin' and a-talkin', and jist no kinda fuss is gonna be made a-bout it! Putcher feet up on th' pickle barrel, pass thet whiskey bottle 'round. No one gon' see it; it's inna pay-per baaag!

I'll never f'rgit th' one time back up in 1931, when I come up all hell bent fer election over that dad-blasted Cabbage Hill down outta Poverty Flats and inta thuh...Inta thuh Pennelt'n there. I had just got caught in a dust n' rainstorm, and I walked inta the newspaper office there in my duster n' Stetson hat, all drippin' and droopy, makin' a puddle on the floor! The man at the desk looks at me and laughs, sez; "I knew if I sat here long enough, I'd see this day!" Then we laughed about it, and he let me marry his daughter!

Where was I? Oh, right: God! He come to me one night in m'sleep, and he taught me how to frame plywood! Joined unions, 'came a journeyman, involved in local organizations n' so-cial functions! Slapped t'gither th' Woodsman of the World headquarters n' exhibition pavilion, and walked a hundred miles!

Later, when the movies come t' town, I set myself up as a stuntman for Tom Mix's horse! Later, after his head was pulverized by the Death Suitcase, I was legal-guardian-in-waiting for his wife! Then the communists came, and we wuz' all outta a job!

I was the first man in the county to build a house on the lake, and I was married to my wife! My children? They're all in there! One of 'em grew up to ride that horse! He jus' looked at me and shook his head, tied 'im to a stick, threw it down a well!

Like any king hell bullshitter'll tell ya', you're only worth your last best story, and that's why I come here to tell you how you really need to drive a Pontiac today! Believe me folks; it really is more car for less money! Or take Greyhound Bus Lines, and let death take another holiday! Good night! God bless!

Peter Aaronson, 1947-2009

Crony, toady, pogy, lickspittle.
Apple-polisher, follower, hanger-on, backslapper, well-wisher.
Empty suit, coat holder, guy-we-kept-around-to-empty-the-ashtrays, "associate", errand boy.

These are just some of the ways we will remember Peter Aaronson.

With his omnipresent, ingratiating smile and looking around nervously to see how everyone else was reacting, he spent many undistinguished years doing whatever the hell it was he did for a living.

Raised in some podunk jerkwater somewhere out in the toolies, he got out of there the minute he finished high school, and then spent the rest of his life talking about how lucky he was to be born and raised in such a fine setting. What a strong moral grounding it gave him. Then he spent the rest of his life with his tongue up some mid-level supervisor's ass.

For the record, all the more specific he ever got about it was, "I'm employed by a private fiduciary concern." Jesus. Look, if you can't describe what it actually is, it's illegal. Or at very least, you don't talk that way about things that you're proud of.

He went to college in some bucolic, stagnant backwater and got a degree in 'Business'. Oh, bravo. Now here's a guy with some fresh ideas! Hey guys; here's this other guy who wants to do things for money! You think we oughta hire him? I mean, he doesn't actually do anything, and says he wants to come in here and sit at a desk, make money off of actual work being done by lesser-paid Others Elsewhere! I like the cut of his jib!

Making himself essential to the mysterious workings of the Managerial Class, this nonetheless introduced him to pretty much nobody interesting at all. He met other men and women just like him in his travels, which were, paradoxically, constant. There wasn't a Residence Inn (tm) that didn't see ol' Pete at one time or another!

When he was called upon for his ideas, there would be that reliable nervous chuckling he constantly emitted. Because he had none. This would be the case with everybody else up there in the Brain Trust; they had been talking to and surrounded only by other people just like them for too long. No amount of corporate seminars regarding 'thinking outside the box' were ever going to change that.

He married a woman that worked for the same company. She worked in another state though, because this company, despite having no noticeable reason to be, had offices in every state in the continental U.S., and in five countries overseas. Their union was noted with approval by the company, who then pooled their modest 401 Ks and health benefits.

They lived in a neighborhood that...Oh god, I can't do it. It's just too goddamn depressing.

He never met a stranger. By that I don't mean "...just a friend he hadn't made yet." I mean "he was terrified of people he didn't already know." Kinda hated 'em, actually.

Y'ever meet a guy like this (and of course you have; they're everywhere) and think, "Now there's someone who's going to climb up in a clock tower one of these days with a high powered rifle and start taking people out"? Well, you wouldn't be too far off the mark with Peter, except substitute 'congestive heart failure', and you'd be there.

Remembrances to...Whatever. Leave me alone.

-His Wife, employee # 48682976

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Your Mom ?-?

Your Mom, after battling for many years with being so damn greasy she used bacon as a band-aid, has died. She was...Old.

In fact, she was so damn old that her Social Security Number was 1. In Roman Numerals. She was told to act her own age, and she died.

Damn, she was stupid. She was so damn stupid, it took her two hours to watch '60 Minutes'. One time when you told her it was chilly outside, she ran out there with a goddamn spoon.

It's true that her weight certainly contributed to her poor health. She was so damn fat, she ate Wheat Thicks. She'd go to a restaurant, look at the menu and go, "Okay!" She fell in love and broke it. We're standing in her right now.

But it's true that she was unique from an early age, and was born into challenging circumstances. For instance, the wooden leg with a kickstand certainly couldn't have helped. Neither did the glass eye with a fish in it. Ten fingers -all on the same hand- and missing so many teeth, it looked like her tongue was in jail. The hair on her upper lip was so thick, she could braid it.

Poverty dogged her many days: her house was so small, you had to go outside to eat a large pizza. Instead of a car, she drove a peanut. She'd drive it on down to KFC to lick other people's fingers, or over to McDonald's to put a shake on layaway. One time I saw her kicking a can down the street. I asked what she was doing, and she said, "Moving."

I don't blame her though; her house was so dirty, you had to wipe your feet before going outside.

Possible causes of death include getting tangled up in a cordless phone, or having an arm chopped off and all the gravy running out. In any case, would you just get off your mom, please? I just did!