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Category: Psykosity Pstories

My Weekend With Mike Part 3

(The story so far: Psykosity has been effectively kidnapped by his younger brother Mike, under the pretense of going to a “Biker” gathering on the spur of the moment. AGAINST HIS WILL, Psykosity has been force-fed copious amounts of alcohol and substances, both legal and illegal in most states. The truck that Mike is driving is little more than a rolling death machine: Nothing on the dash board works but the radio, the passenger door has fallen off, the exhaust is held onto the bottom of the vehicle by wires, and there is a constant smell of smoke, burnt wires and…sauerkraut??? We pick up the story as our intrepid adventurers arrive at the gathering. The event is being held in a gravel pit. Things look grim…)

Mike parked the truck and shut off the motor. For the first time in a little over an hour, I didn’t have to scream over the metal-on-metal screeching of the motor and the contemptible sounding radio turned up full blast. Mike opened up the vial and soaked a handkerchief with the contents and held it up to his nose. It was at this moment that everything I had drank, smoked, or otherwise ingested, had finally kicked in. That’s when Mike shoved the handkerchief under my nose…

Hunter S. Thompson called it “Demon Ether”. A straight body drug. Your mind is largely unaffected, but trying to operate your body is like trying to run a backhoe with no idea of what all the levers are for. Though Mike was now operating on the level of a dumb, drunken animal when he managed to get me into the wheelchair, my situation was far dire: I was little more than a breathing bag of body parts and serious weirdness. I was almost at the verge of having an out of body experience when we plunged into the maw of the fat, sweaty, writhing mass of leather clad humanity.

There was a makeshift stage where a band was playing fast, loud, and angry, and the singer was screaming through a terrible P.A. system: the sound was essentially loud white noise with a beat. I managed to look around, but couldn’t see much: Mike was having a terrible time getting me through the crowd on the gravel bed of the pit, and from my vantage point in the wheelchair, all I could see was big, fat rear ends and stomachs the size of bean bag chairs. It was then I smelled…food?

“FUUUUD!” I yelled up at Mike, managing to get my arm to point to the other side of the crowd.

“WHA?” bellowed my brother, bending over and screaming in my ear, almost losing his balance and catching himself before he fell over into my lap.

“FUUUUUD!” I shouted again, finally getting him to notice the tables full of fried chicken, salads, and burgers on the other side of the pit.

Mike tipped me up on the two back wheels and shoved me through the crowd towards the food tables. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I needed to get something real into my body. I managed to get a couple of rolls, something in my stomach to soak up some of the alcohol. There was lots of water…I got a couple of bottles and started gulping the liquid down, spilling a lot of it, but I knew water into my system would help later on. Then, I saw some small bottles of orange juice.

Orange juice would help cut the effects of some of the substances I had coursing through my system. Between the hallucinogenic mushrooms and the constant, never ending, overly distorted, pulsing noise of the band, I was beginning to experience some rather particular sensory perceptions: the people gathered were turning into leather-clad, chain wearing, menacing looking blobs. The crowd was melting into a formless mass moving to the beat of the noise, ever changing, forming into a huge, almost demonic. fluidic organism. I could make out some Confederate flags scattered through the crowd, and there were some other flags and banners flying above the mass of fat balls writhing around us that I could not make out.

The orange juice was beginning to help bring me back down and the ether was starting to wear off. I could actually speak and operate my arms again though I was still slurring my words and my arms felt like they were made of wood. Mike was talking to a few people at the food tables, but I would not let him drift off. In the chair, on this gravel, I would be screwed if things got strange. I knew he had a fully loaded Glock under his jacket. He never went anywhere unarmed.

After about forty minutes and my third bottle of orange juice, my mind started to clear enough to see a structure sitting on top of a hill just beyond the gravel pit. The sight of it made my stomach sink right into my socks.

“MIKE!” I screamed. “MIKE! GET OVER HERE!”

He shook hands with a huge, hairy mound of flesh wearing more leather than a sex shop and walked over to me.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SCREAMING ABOUT?” shouted my brother.

I reached up and grabbed his jacket, pulling him closer to me.

“Look up on the hill, you BASTARD! What the hell have you gotten me into?”

My brother looked up at the structure on the hill.

“Oh, shit!” he muttered.

There, up on the hill, was a cross. There were five people up on that hill, three of them holding gas cans, all of them wearing white robes.

Very distinctive white robes.

“Fecking HELL, man!” I said angrily. “LOOK at what you’ve DONE! This isn’t a BIKER RALLY, this is a KLAN RALLY!”

“Shit! SHIT!” muttered Mike, looking around at the crowd, trying to find a way out. “We gotta get outta here!”

“Ya THINK?” I said sarcastically as he bent down and started to pour ether onto his handkerchief again.

“NOW?” I exclaimed. “YOUR PLAN IS TO GET WHACKED OUT ON ETHER NOW???”

Mike shoved the handkerchief under my nose.

“Take deep breaths, then start screaming and try to lurch around in your chair. I will get us out of here!” He instructed.

Suddenly, my body felt heavy. I slumped down in my chair.

“AAAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHH! AAAAAUUUUUGGGHHHH!” I screamed, trying my best to work my body back in forth in the wheelchair.

“GIVE WAY, PEOPLE!” my brother shouted as he shoved me through the parting crowd. “GIVE WAY, PEOPLE! MY BROTHER IS HAVING A REACTION! I HAVE TO GET HIM TO THE HOSPITAL! GET OUT OF THE WAY!”

We got to the truck, my brother virtually picked me up and through me into the passenger seat and pitched the wheelchair into the bed of the truck. He jumped into the driver’s seat and tried to start the truck. Suddenly, in the distance, the cross caught fire.

Mike turned the key again. The engine was turning over, but it wouldn’t start.

“Mike?” I said, trying very hard to get my mouth to form words.

“What?”

“You know that passenger door that is laying in the bed of the truck”

“What about it?”

“If you don’t get this pile of crap going right now, the last thing I am ever going to do on this earth is beat you senseless with it.” I exclaimed, speaking very slowly and deliberately as he tried yet again to get the engine to start.

Just then, the motor screeched into life, belching smoke and backfiring, and the radio, left on and turned up full blast, just happened to be playing the beginning of one of my favorite songs:

“Hey, hey Mama said the way you move, gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove…”

To the strains of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog”, Mike jammed the truck into reverse to get it back onto the dirt road, and then muscled the truck into gear and hit the gas. As we roared off, the cross on the hill was almost completely engulfed, leaving the truck’s exhaust pipe in the middle of the road.

“Mike” I said, still trying to speak clearly over the blaring radio, the squealing engine, and the throbbing rumble of the much louder, exhaust pipe-less engine. “I swear, if we survive this, I am going to get our sister and our mother together and the three of us are going to tie you up and take you to an exorcist!”

Mike lit a joint and passed it too me. “Shut up and smoke this,” he ordered, taking the Glock out of his holster and setting in in the console between our seats. “Keep your eye open for someone following us. Things might get tricky before we get back into town…”

To be Continued…

My Weekend With Mike Part 2

(Dear Sparky: This is Psykosity’s wife. Due to some unforeseen side effects from changes in his medications, Psykosity is in the middle of what can only be described as a ‘fit’. He is sitting in his lift chair, looking forward, hardly blinking, gripping the armrests and occasionally screaming about “Hottentots”. Thank goodness the godawful drooling seems to have stopped. At one point, he shoved a thumb drive across the table at me and just said the words: “Free lunch, final wisdom, total coverage”. I checked out the thumb drive and found a sound file on it, probably recorded on his phone. I assumed he wanted me to transcribe it, which was difficult; with all the screaming, the wind sounds, and the distorted music, it was hard to figure out what was being said. I did the best I could and send it to you now. P.S. thanks to you and Mod for the blowgun and the tranquilizer darts. They came in handy two nights before when he decided to shoot bottle rockets at the neighbors and try to ‘annex’ the alley behind the house.)

 (The sound file opens with a loud, coughing and spitting engine whine, the sound of wind, and the loud, distorted sound of music which could be… “Whole Lotta Rosie” by AC/DC?)

PSYK: JESUS JUMPING CRACKERS, MAN! SLOW DOWN! WATCH THE LEFT TURNS! I’M HANGING ON FOR DEAR LIFE HERE, YOU BASTARD!

MIKE: I TOLD you not to LEAN on that DOOR! I TOLD you that the door was BARELY HANGING ON!

PSYK: WHY is there no SEAT BELTS in this Death Trap?

MIKE: They didn’t put seat belts in trucks the year this was built. Besides, seat belts are for WUSSIES! HANG ON!

(There is the sound of metal banging…the phone possibly being dropped…undecipherable yelling…)

PSYK: …will you PLEASE slow this pile of crap DOWN! You hit that bump there and I smacked my head on the roof! I almost lost my phone!

MIKE: Where we’re going, you don’t NEED phones!

PSYK: What does that mean? Why do you SAY shit like that? I’ve had a bad feeling about you since Mom and Dad brought you home from the HOSPITAL!

MIKE: Shut up and smoke another joint. Hand me some more of the ‘shrooms!’

PSYK: Holy SHIT does that creep up on you!

MIKE: Pretty good, huh? Check out the stuff in the vial.

PSYK: No, not now. It’s important to pace yourself. You never know when you’ll need that “fight or flight” reflex. We have to be ready for ANYTHING. I need a drink.

(Sound of furious rooting through a cooler)

PSYK: Old Granddad? OLD GRANDDAD? YOU CHEAP BASTARD!

MIKE: Shut up and drink it! You are always so prissy about your alcohol!

PSYK: Do you know WHY our sister calls you “.5”? Do you have ANY IDEA WHY THAT IS? When Mom and Dad got married, the standard family size in the United States was 2.5 children! They had ME, and then they had HER: a boy and a girl! Perfect! And then YOU came along; the “Oops Baby”. THAT’S why you are “.5”! You are only SLIGHTLY more a part of our family than all the PETS we used to have!

MIKE: HOLD ON!

(Another sickening ‘THUD’…the sound of metal bouncing around and screaming…)

PSYK: OOOOOWWWW! Fucking HELL! SLOW DOWN! How fast are you going anyway?

MIKE: No idea. Nothing on the dash works. Probably ninety.

PSYK: WHY did you buy this rolling piece of SHIT???

MIKE: Well, this truck isn’t exactly mine. MY truck has a water pump problem. I borrowed this from one of my neighbors. He’s pretty cool…

PSYK: YOU STOLE IT, DIDN’T YOU?

MIKE: Borrowed…

PSYK: I’m riding in a STOLEN metal death machine going NINETY MILES AN HOUR with no door and a cooler full of at least TWENTY YEARS IN PRISON if we get caught! Probably more! I’m telling the cops you KIDNAPPED ME! I SWEAR I will!

MIKE: You’d DO THAT? You’d SELL ME OUT LIKE THAT?

PSYK: YES! If we were in prison, I would sell you for a couple of cigarettes and a plastic spork! NOOOO!

MIKE: DON’T TOUCH THAT FUCKING RADIO!

PSYK: IT’S JAMES TAYLOR! JAMES TAYLOR, YOU BASTARD! We can’t go into battle to the ‘soft rock’ sounds of JAMES “YOU’VE GOT A FUCKING FRIEND” TAYLOR! We need to be listening to something like Japanese Death Metal! Why doesn’t this piece of SHIT have a CD player???

MIKE: Get a GRIP, man! You’re riding in a truck that has no passenger side DOOR and you expect a CD player??? You’re lucky I didn’t stuff you into a cannon and SHOOT your crippled ass over to this shindig!

PSYK: Doomed, I tell you. We are well and truly doomed.

MIKE: HANG ON!

(Now, there is the sound of squealing tires, tires digging into gravel, screaming, and bouncing metal)

MIKE: We’re HERE!

PSYK: Patches! You remember Patches, the dog? The dog that always HATED me and kept trying to bite me? That ugly black and white dog we had when we were kids that gave birth to a litter of puppies under Mom and Dad’s bedroom window ALL NIGHT LONG that one summer? SHE was more a part of our family than YOU were!

To Be Continued…

My Weekend With Mike – Part 1

It is sometimes said that when evil appears at your door, you almost always can recognize the knock. In my case, I could hear it coming from half a mile away while home, sitting in my office…

It was a horrible, anxiety inspiring noise, almost revolting in its way; the metal grinding against metal sound of the gears changing, the coughing and burping of the engine, the loud, rhythmic, window-rattling thump of the exhaust, the occasional gun-like ‘CRACK’ of the backfire…lurching down the country road like some poor, lumbering metal animal in desperate need of a misery ending bullet between the headlights, getting closer and closer and then turning and clambering up my driveway…

I thought to myself, in the immortal words of the late, great Bette Davis: “What fresh hell is this?”

Whatever mechanical monstrosity that had deposited itself on my doorstep emitted a tailpipe shuddering, bolt rattling gasp, and then there was silence. Everything will be fine, I thought, as long as I don’t get out of my chair. If worse comes to worse, I have a nice big lock on the office door. Let my wife open the portal to hell that is our front door: she can handle it. She has a black belt in Shaolin Kung Fu. She knows where the guns are. “Just mace it in its face, honey. That’ll take care of it”, I thought. Destroy the enemy invaders at the door and we will bury the poor unfortunate bastards in the backyard. No one will be the wiser. I’ll just sit in my bunker and continue drinking my beer. Pretend that I didn’t hear the terrible calamity.

Ignore the impending Doom…

“Mike! What are YOU doing here?” squealed my wife as she opened the door.

DAMN! This was not good! Rarely, in all the time since my parents brought the little bundle of crazy home from the hospital and sprang him on my sister and I, sweet, innocent, and unsuspecting as we were, did he and I being together unsupervised by parent or partner not end up in some weird, awful, mind-bending trouble. “Quick”, I thought to myself as I heard the muffled but excited voices of my brother and my wife talking in the living room, “turn the laptop back on! Type something! Look busy!”

Then, I remembered: the lock on the door! I could hear the heavy, powerful, Bigfoot-like thud of his boot-clad feet stomping down the hallway, and the ominous sound of rattling chains that hung from his old leather motorcycle jacket as I reached for the door…

TOO LATE!

My office door swung open with a crash as the door knob bounced off the wall, denting the plaster.

“Dude! Come on! We gotta go!” he said with a grin; the kind of sly grin that serial killers get on their face as they are peeling off the skin of their victims with toenail clippers.

“Whatta ya mean, ‘We gotta go’?” I said, feigning interest in my laptop, which was STILL booting up (I am REALLY going to have to clean out some files on that damned thing…). “Go where?”

He walked over to me, grabbed the back of my chair, and pulled me away from my desk, swinging me around to face him.

“I was driving over to Mom’s when I saw this huge biker gathering in this field about an hour and a half from here,” he exclaimed. “They have a stage set up and bands playing! We HAVE to go!”

“Really?” I said, taking a last swig of my beer and a puff off my cigarette. “Sounds like real trouble, and we ARE just the men for the job, but Patricia and I were just about to have dinner…”

Just then, my wife, who had been standing behind the heaping mound of potential catastrophe with feet that is my brother with a knowing smile on her face, chirped: “Honey, it’s only two o’clock in the afternoon! Besides, you’ve been cooped up in this house for days…you should go with Mike…you could use an outing together!” she grinned. “Besides, while you’re gone, I can get in here and clean this junkyard you call an office!”

Zounds! There was the sneaky reason for her support for this suicide mission! She wanted me out of the way! She wanted access to my Fortress of Solitude so she could (shudder) CLEAN in there!

She was going to move all my stuff around! I WOULD NEVER FIND ANYTHING I NEEDED EVER AGAIN!

“Don’t you DARE move anything on this desk! I have everything right where I can find it!”

“Don’t be silly,” she cooed condescendingly. “You lose stuff in this pile of rubble all the time!”

“But we are going to need supplies! We are going to have to load the wheelchair!” I protested, making a mental note that if I DID go with this madman to God-knows-where and survived, I would have to sit my wife down for a long, hard talk to review all the reasons why this is not now, nor has it ever been, nor would it ever be a good idea for me to go off on a lark with the embodiment of riotous mishap that is my brother, as well as why I NEVER want my office messed with.

“Everything’s in the truck,” he said excitedly as he reached over and began unfolding my regular, non-powered wheelchair, beckoning me to sit down in it. “We’ll have to take this. Your electric wheelchair is too heavy; it will get bogged down in the field. When we get there, we are going to want to keep moving through that crowd!” he explained. “Lots to do! Lots to see! Get a move on!”

My fate, such as it was, was apparently sealed…

It was as grim a vehicle as I could have ever imagined from the sound of it. Standing there looking at it while my brother threw my wheelchair into the bed of the truck with a clank, I almost felt sorry for the pitiful bucket of bolts. It was a Ford pick-up truck of indeterminate age. The original paint, whatever color that may have been, had been worn away down to the primer. The dented rust bucket had what looked like black house paint on parts of it that seemed to have been applied with a paint brush.

It had two bullet holes through the sides of the truck bed, and the passenger side door was newer; painted green, and the exhaust pipe was held onto the bottom of the vehicle by a series of what looked like metal clothes hangers.

I reached for the passenger side door handle to begin the process of hauling myself into this rolling death trap.

“No! Don’t touch the door! You’ll have to get in from this side,” said my brother. “That door is just about ready to fall off!”

The interior of the diseased, coughing-up-blood pile of bolts and Bondo was just as awful as the exterior: torn seats, the glove compartment door had fallen off, the entire dashboard was barely attached, part of the steering wheel was broken off, and the fabric on the ceiling was hanging down and would flap gently against my head for the remainder of this unqualified shit-show.

Once I had myself positioned in the passenger seat, Mike set a large cooler between us, got in the truck and slammed the door, and started up the truck. After a few attempts, the dilapidated truck exploded into both a dull, headache inducing throb and a high-pitched whine while I perused the contents of the cooler.

Beer, Bourbon, Vodka, Rum and, for some reason, orange juice and margarita mix. There was a small cooler inside the large one. After consultation with my lawyers, it has been determined that I cannot, at this point in time, give an accurate and truthful accounting of the contents. Suffice to say, we were multiculturally representing the best of much of Latin America, Central America, and the bigger Pharmaceutical companies.

The truck moved forward with a stomach-churning lurch while I grabbed a beer and, as we turned onto the country road from my drive with a roar louder than Deep Purple at the California Jam, my brother handed me a lit joint about as thick as my pinkie finger.

I sucked in the smooth, tasty, sickly sweet smoke. This was VERY good stuff, I thought to myself as I held the smoke in.

“Whhaaaatt thhheee hhheeellll iiissss thhhhiiiissss?” I asked, blowing the blue smoke out into the cabin of the truck as I passed the joint back to him.

“It’s called ‘Vietnamese Monkey Paw,’ explained Mike. “We have a shit-ton of it!”, he grinned as we bounced down the road like a metal beach ball.

Stay tuned for My Weekend With Mike – Part 2

Psyk Goes Nuts And Stuff

“He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man”
-Dr. Johnson

Hello, Readers of “WTF?”! I am Psykosity’s wife, and you may call me “The Neuroscientist”, probably because that is what I am. Although I am retired from that profession, I am a published scientist, and my training has become a welcome resource that I use frequently in my dealings with Psykosity, as some of you can well imagine.

If you have read any of my husband’s articles for this fine, upstanding blog, you may wonder how I deal with someone as wild and crazy as he. The answer an immense wellspring of patience that I have developed after thirty years of marriage to a man who, on the whole, is a wonderful husband, a devoted father, and a man who risked his health to provide for his family. All that, plus the special account I have at the pharmacy for the tranquilizer darts that I use in my blowgun.

Why?

Well, for example, a few nights ago Psyk found a drink recipe that he decided he HAD to try, and he started posting about this recipe and the adventure following the making of this drink on Gab in the “Corner Pub” group which, incidentally, is a group started by WTF? owner and editor: Sparky…)


Psykosity: I need a couple shots of something called ” Two Hicks and A Spic Chase A Turkey Down A Mine Shaft.” It’s equal parts Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Jose Cuervo, Wild Turkey, and Goldschläger.
LET’S DO THIS!

(This started an eventful Friday night that went off the rails fairly quickly; an adventure that Psyk decided to post to a social network as it happened.)

Psykosity: Well, THIS isn’t good…I’ve made too much of the “Two Hicks and A Spic Chase A Turkey Down A Mine Shaft”!
EIGHT SHOTS WORTH!
I’ve downed three so far. Tastes like gasoline. I’m already feeling the effects. I need to space these out.
This may be a LONG night.
I’m going down the Rabbit Hole…

(Psyk was chasing the shots with O’Hanlon’s Original Port Stout, and the combination of the shots and the Stout seemed to get on top of him pretty fast and activated that part of his brain reserved exclusively for thoroughly ridiculous, substance infused hijinks. At one point, one of his WTF? colleagues tried to warn him off, to no avail. The ship had sailed from the dock. The Train had left the station. Mod: I will always appreciate that you tried!)

Modesty Fiona Blaise: Okay…go outside to the fire pit, throw the rest in, light a match and move back quickly…

(From this point, Psyk was five or six shots deep into his concoction, and that, combined with the stout beer and the Medical Herbs that he smokes occasionally when he has neuropathy pain, meant that he was fully on his way to what he sometimes calls a “complete and total freakout”. I loaded up a blowgun with a tranquilizer dart and kept it at the ready. In the meantime, Psyk kept posting his progress (if such a word could be used to describe his condition) to his favorite online haunt. From this point on in the story, it will be my job to interpret the posts he made throughout the evening, sort of giving a ‘color commentary’ as we continue on through the night.)

Psykosity: (To Modesty Fiona Blaise) WASTE BOOSZE?
NEVRER!
I would have my party licece revoked!

(Obviously, at this point Psyk was besotted…cockeyed…fuddled…orgiastic (hello Wildman)…pie-eyed…pissed…pixilated…plastered…soaked…sloshed…)

Modesty Fiona Blaise: Not wasting – putting to good use. You’ll make the evening news for the size of the mushroom cloud it creates.

(Oh Mod! Such stories I could tell you! What incredible tales of dissipation and jack-assery could I spin! Anyway- as you readers can plainly tell by the accuracy of his typing, Psyk was off to the races…)

Psykosity: MHY WIFE IS MUTTERING!
why do I DO this to myselgf?

(Yes. In fact, I WAS muttering to myself. I distinctly remember talking to myself, trying to determine why he does this to himself. My only answer is this: In a world that is busy setting itself on fire, the most sane person is the lunatic laughing at the flames.)

Psykosity: 7 shots\
GOD HELP US

(Determined as he was to drink all eight shots, finish the stout, and smoke another bowl of medicinal herb, his ability to type was just as impacted by the substances he was imbibing as his ability to talk in coherent sentences. Unfortunately, another member of the Corner Pub group, who thought that Psyk was ONLY drinking the concoction and did not know about the stout and the herb, tried to help out by recommending that Psyk switch to something more…benign…)

SamTheSham: Psyk: I think you might want to switch to something else. Why don’t you have a beer with me?

(Of course, this just made him switch gears, and he popped open another Stout and set about finishing the shots.)

Psykosity: BEER
WHATA GREAT IDEA

(Well, you can just about imagine what I was confronted with. He was strapped to his electric wheelchair, spinning around in circles drinking and spilling his Stout, and shouting about Hottentots (it’s ALWAYS Hottentots). Then, he grabbed a hold of a huge, police-issued flashlight and shined it into his own eyes…)

Psykosity: HOLY SHIT I CAN SEE THE INSIDES OF MY EYEBOALLS!

(It was then I sensed a shift…the air seemed to get thicker…I instinctively tensed up. He seemed to have made a decision…one that I would NOT agree with…)

Psykosity: ALL EIGHT SHOTS DOWN
iM GOIN TO MAKE 2 MOPRE L SHOTS AND GO OUT IN THE CHAIR
take my phon with me. keep yu all apprised

(Here is where I need to start interpreting. He had downed all eight shots and finished the Stout, and now he was planning on taking his electric wheel chair out for a spin on the country road we live on. Now, Dear Reader, you need to know that we live outside of a VERY small, Midwestern town on a very lonely and rarely used road. Nevertheless, I was not exactly excited about the prospect of Psyk blasting back and forth on the road in front of the house wasted out of his mind…)

Modesty Fiona Blaise: I’m sure your spelling is going to get spectacular…

(Note to Mod and Sparky: Sometime, I will have his brother come get Psyk and we will get together, have some wine, and I will tell you stories that he WON’T tell. Somehow, I’m sure you would understand…)

Psykosity: mcyg
much resistaence from the wife.
I MUST DO THIS
im going to city hall to take a lek on the cornerstome

(He announced his intention to drive his wheelchair two miles into town to the City Hall building to pee on the cornerstone at the same time he posted his resolution on Gab. Yes, there WAS “much resistance” to this plan from me. I knew that Psyk was still upset about finding a city worker on our property about to install a ‘Smart Meter’ onto our home, and after he had told the worker to leave, he drove into town to have words with the proper people. His intention to ‘leave his mark’ on City Hall was stupid, useless, and would ultimately make the situation worse. Nevertheless, arguing with him in this condition was also pointless. One might as well try to put a cat into a tuxedo…)

Psykosity: ok I have by self together
i will not nother with capital letters or punchuation, because it is dark
wife is upset. mayhave to sleep on the porch 2nite
2 o long miles down the country raod to ge t to city hall.
i have a monster endergy tdrink and a bowl and a pocket nife
there is plent y of juice in the chair
all is well

(As any parent knows, if a child is trying to put his fingers into a light socket, there are two ways to handle it: either keep the child away from the light socket, smacking their hands if necessary, or let them go ahead and experience the thrill of house current. Make no mistake, Psyk is NOT a child, but he seemed determined, and after a few minutes of tense words, I decided to let him LICK the light socket. In the meantime, people in the Corner Pub group were speculating…)

Modesty Fiona Blaise: (psst, Tans? I bet he doesn’t make it to the end of the driveway..)

Tanstaafl: I was betting on a face plant off the porch with the chair rolling to the end of the driveway.

SamTheSham: Chair ran him over…heh

Modesty Fiona Blaise: That could still happen, once he gets out of the cow pasture…

Psykosity: yew of lirtrle little faith

(And so, he was off, out the back door, down the wheelchair ramp, around to the front of the house and rolling down the long lane to our house and into the road, into the darkness and on his mission to pee on the City Hall Building)

Psykosity: cows
whatar they doing out at night
should be inn bed

(Between his inebriation and his big, long, fat fingers, Psyk was trying to post to Gab and work the joystick on his electric wheelchair, making his posts rather difficult to read. Obviously, he had come across some cows grazing in the night. They belonged to our long-suffering neighbors, The Millers. The farm grew corn and soybeans and raised cows, horses, and pigs. They are very dear and understanding people whom we like a lot, and they like us despite the sounds of our rock band recording at the house through the years and Psyk occasionally losing his mind, like he was doing on this night. At least he recognized that they were cows and not very large, four-legged Hottentots with faucets. It’s always Hottentots. Mod tried vainly to reason with him, to no obvious avail. Not to worry, Mod; I’ve been trying to reason with him for three decades!)

Modesty Fiona Blaise: Uh, maybe you’re in their pasture?

Psykosity: no sleep i like me food lrested

(Hmmmm. All this time married to this madman and he never once told me that he likes his food well rested.)

Modesty Fiona Blaise: That was sorta in English…with a dash of Yoda thrown in.

Psykosity: my hands r to big for the phon keys

(Psyk was obviously having trouble posting messages to Gab. His eyesight is not very good when he is sober in daylight, so I’m sure he couldn’t really read what he was trying to type, plus he has those huge sausage fingers, plus he was pickled. It’s probably a good idea that he didn’t pull over, set his chair on fire, and try to post smoke signals onto the internet…)

Psykosity: evry thing is all fliberygibery
car coming

(I think the phrase he was looking for was “flibberty-gibberty,” but that doesn’t matter. I would stress that, at this moment, he was in no danger of the car that was heading towards him: It was the Miller’s coming home from church bingo, and since we live in an area where there are a lot of deer running out in front of cars, they were driving very carefully and saw him rolling down the road.)

Psykosity: coming ip to the mile marl;k
why isit to cold
fecking august herewtf

(If it gets below sixty-five degrees, as it does in August a few hours after the sun goes down in our part of the United States, he claims to freeze. He was dressed in his Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and jeans, and he apparently forgot this important fact in his rush to piss on the cornerstone of the City Hall building. He was a mile from the house and halfway into town when he had this realization. He might be saved by prevailing weather patterns yet. Who knew?)

Psykosity: holy shit bad idea
turning around
abanon all hope allyew gentlemmen and ladies

(Abandon all hope, indeed. My husband is ever the dedicated protester of small town bureaucracy until he gets cold, and then he starts to sober up, come slowly to his senses and decides MOST of the time that the issue isn’t really worth the steam…)

Psykosity: fuc
bats

(Psykosity hates bats. Fun fact.)

Psykosity: mess hugemess
I think;e my niebor saw me takea slash in the road
panicd
got pilss down my leg
shit

(At this point in our intrepid explorer’s trip back home, Psyk decided to relieve himself on the road, which would’ve been fine except he ostensibly thought he saw Mrs. Miller looking out the window, panicked, and got pee all over one of his pants legs. Not his best moment…)

Modesty Fiona Blaise: I’m going to be calling it a night…going to leave you and George in charge… just stack the glasses on the bar and make sure the guys run the dishwasher. Good night, gentlemen…and Psyk 😘

Tanstaafl: Goodnight, Miss Blaise
Once he passes out (possibly before) I’m going to handcuff him to the foot rail and give him a pillow. We’ll tidy up the place and lock up behind us.

Modesty Fiona Blaise: Thank you. Leave the key to the handcuffs in the register, please? Oh, and maybe something by his head in case he feels ill…which I think is a distinct possibility….

(God bless his friends on social media and his colleagues here at WTF? and The Beaverlick Gazette: Psyk rarely comes across people with the humor and the patience to put up with him…)

Psykosity: batteyt diwb
battery down to 10
shit
shodve checked the ho fone before i left

(Apparently, Psyk realized that his phone battery was low. I don’t know what a “ho fone” is, but he didn’t charge his phone before he left.)

Psykosity: all aleon alone
its verydark
it bowl time
mkore beer

(It was a moonless night that night; very dark. I think he decided to stop by the side of the road and fire up a bowl of some of his medicinal marijuana. I have no idea where he got the can of beer. Sometimes, it’s important in a marriage to not ask questions and enjoy the mystery…)

Psykosity: holy shit that two hik thingyu really gets on t op or u

(I’m really not sure what he’s trying to say here, but I suspect that he is realizing that ten shots of ” Two Hicks and A Spic Chase A Turkey Down A Mine Shaft” probably wasn’t one of his best ideas…)

Psykosity: fk cop

(I think, at this point, one of our Sherriff’s Deputies were driving past on their patrol of the area. Psyk should not have been so shocked, nor so paranoid: the town’s police force and our local Sheriff’s Department all know us, and we know them. Like the Miller’s, they are all familiar with Psyk’s shenanigans.)

Psykosity: wew drove past
more bowl
goodstif stk stuff

(After the Sheriff’s Deputy passed, probably waving at him and shaking his head, Psyk must have decided to finish his bowl. I can tell you this: say want you want about Medical Marijuana, he has spent the last eight years in a constant pain range (from 1 being lowest to 10 being the highest) from 7 to 9, and with the herb, he sometimes can get down to a 3 or 4. Because of this, I have NO PROBLEM with him using this as opposed to being hooked by Big Pharma on opiates, which is another discussion for a different forum. We are talking here about a drunken moron driving his wheelchair around in the dark.)

Psykosity: almost om home
ths chair has 5 grea gears
rely fast now
more cows
ana horse

(His wheelchair does have five gears, and each of those gears has five different speed variations. Top speed on the chair is approximately 30 mph., which is OK if he is outdoors on the street, but is murder on the walls if he forgets and starts up his chair in high gear inside the house…)

Psykosity: im in meoij
im in my drivway now
home
this wil be my last com ofer the phon

(Finally, I hear him coming up the wheelchair ramp and banging into the back doorjamb. I’m not mad, not even a little. Every now and then, a man like him needs to blow off steam. There are worse ways to do it, I think. Many men freak out about their lives and have affairs. Some take their frustrations out on their wives and families. Psyk occasionally goes nuts and does stupid shit, but he has never hurt me, he has never cheated on me, and no matter what you think about some of the stories he tells about himself here in WTF?, he has never crossed the line into any real danger. In fact, the most danger he faced all night was trying to get into bed when he felt like sleeping…)

Psykotic: Ok.
Im home onow. back on the computer.
Im in troubletown now. this was a BAD idea.
It was fun though
I think i took out apart of the door when I came in
More montser, another bowl Im goning to straiten out.
things will be fine@
All is well@!
Shit!

(Finally, after shooting him with one of my “Happiness” darts and wrangling him into his cage, He sleeps and wakes the next morning with a desire to take it easy.)

Psykosity: Good Morning Gabfam! Daddy is feeling a little delicate today.
I didn’t realize how bad the hangover was until I realized that I had spent ten minutes trying to log onto my daughter’s old Etch-A-Sketch.
Have a great Saturday. I am going to watch cartoons until someone comes by to shoot me in the face with a bazooka.
P.S. Does anyone at the Corner Pub know where I got this chicken?

(When it’s all said and done, after three decades of marriage to Psyk, I can say this: Yes, sometimes Psyk can be wild, crazy, a little weird, and even occasionally idiotic, but he is MY wild, crazy, weird occasional idiot, and I love him. Thanks to Sparky and the staff of WTF? and The Beaverlick Gazette for opening up an avenue of creativity for him that he didn’t know he possessed.

BTW: I will send you all some tranquilizer darts and blowguns. You will need them…)

On Becoming A Dad (Part Two)

It was time…

The ride to the hospital was quick and uneventful, largely because the hospital was around the corner and down two blocks from our apartment.

At this point, my wife and I were pretty badly sleep deprived; her by virtue of her feeling like someone had parked a Honda Accord in a mailbox, and me because I was sleeping on the floor next to the couch on which slept a mailbox that someone parked a Honda Accord in.

As soon as we hit the emergency room, there was chaos. Sick people shocked by the language my wife was using and the detailed threats of violence, my mother, busy stroking my wife’s forehead and humming Christian hymns softly; as if preparing for the exorcism that was going to have to be performed. Two nurses and an orderly appeared, having just graduated clown school, and, for the safety of herself and others, strapped my wife into a wheelchair and rode her into the examination room while a small person who looked like a bridge troll kept following me and asking me questions about my insurance.

Insurance. What a joke. The love of my life had just minutes before threatened to gut me and use my skin for curtains. What insurance was going to give me assurance that she was going to be all right, that our child was going to be born healthy; that I wouldn’t spend the best years of my life with a curtain rod up my ass?

I answered no to all the questions I was asked about my wife’s health, possible allergies, and whether or not I wanted fries with my order, flung my insurance cards at the bridge troll, and signed my name on pieces of paper. I had no idea what the papers said, for all I know I own a nice plot of land in upper lower Slobovia and pledged my epiglottis for important medical research.

Of course, in this day and age, it had long been assumed that I was going to go into the birthing room.

Guys: DON’T GO INTO THE BIRTHING ROOM! For the man, the birth of the child should happen just like it used to happen on TV: the woman off camera in some mysterious room behind double doors that flap open and closed when nurses and doctors are rushing to and fro, the man pacing frantically, wide-eyed, smoking constantly, occasionally stopping one of the nurses to ask pitifully, “How is my wife, Nurse? How is my WIFE?”. Ideally, this scene should be in complete black and white as well.

Guy, I’m telling you, if you go into the room, you are going to see horrors straight from the very heart of hell, horror that you will never forget. Is the birth of a child a beautiful miracle? Miracle, yes. Beautiful? Short answer: No. Long answer: NNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOO!

I got strapped into my gown (It was a lovely floor length affair, taffeta, v-neck, I felt like a PRINCESS!), put on my paper shower cap and mask (gorilla) and entered the arena with the chair and whip that someone had given me.

My wife was on the gurney; her legs akimbo with her feet in the metal stirrups, and I made a mental note that it was a scene very much like this that got me into all this trouble in the first place. My wife insisted that my mother be present and she was; standing at the head of the gurney, stroking my wife’s forehead and humming softly to her.

Wait a minute, my mom was standing where I WAS SUPPOSED TO STAND! Where am I going to be? I was counting on being on the side of the little waist curtain that was NOT the business side! IF ignorance is bliss, and it is, I wanted to remain as blissful as I possibly could!

The Doctor came in, took a look at the situation, clapped his hands together and smiled. “Well Dad, with a little bit of luck, we will have this baby out before the Superbowl!”

I had forgotten, this was Superbowl Sunday. That’s when I saw the TV in the room, the sound of the never-ending pregame banter adding to the cacophony of the room.

“Dad,” said the eager physician, “I have to go down the hall. I will leave you in the capable hands of my nurse practitioner until the baby crowns.” Then, with a smirk, he added: “I want you to grab a leg and hold on!” and then he turned and walked out of the room.

Wait…WHAT???

“You heard the doctor,” said the nurse practitioner, a woman who looked like she paid for her education in healthcare by playing linebacker for the Green Bay Packers, as she assumed the catcher’s position.

So, there I was, looking down the business end of the Birthing Process. There are some things a man is not supposed to see when he is looking at this part of his wife’s body; a small, scrunched up face is one of them.

I won’t go into too much detail about what happened during the process of my daughter being born, partially because I believe discretion is the better part of valor, and partially because I like sleeping inside my house and, if my wife reads this and I go into the real details, I will be sleeping on the porch for the entire summer and no one wants that. I hate it, the neighbors complain because, in the world of snoring, I am known as a “Window Rattler”.

They told my wife she couldn’t have an epidural until it was time to push because, with the epidural, she wouldn’t know when it was time to push. I didn’t understand that, and neither did she. The baby was in the birth position, turning her head as if trying to drill out of her mother, her head grinding on my wife’s pelvic bone.

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, YOU BASTARD! I NEED THAT F#^%#ING EPIDURAL NOW!”

Now, let me just say that the staff at the hospital we were at was more than competent, but I found out later that, because this was a Catholic hospital and the staff thought my wife and I were unmarried because we have different last names (she kept her maiden name), had a little disdain for us; an attitude that was aggressively dealt with when my wife saw her own doctor after the birth. He kicked some serious ass and after that, our every wish was their command.

The baby became stuck. A pelvic bone was keeping the baby from exiting the birth canal. My baby’s heartbeat was becoming irregular, and my wife was minutes away from going into shock.

Then, my mother kicked in. My mother, who had been a nurse for my entire life, had a certain…way, a certain otherworldly quality to her touch…you immediately felt better, calmed down, breathed easier when she touched you.

She continued to stroke my wife’s forehead, ran her fingers gently through my wife’s hair, and softly murmured, “Relax, honey. Everything is going to be all right. Just listen to the sound of my voice…”

Then, the doctor appeared with the industrial strength salad tongs and, after some work, I remember my baby daughter being held by the doctor in the light…everything in that moment ceased to exist. There was just me, in the darkness, with some hands holding my baby up to the light. She was crying, a big, healthy cry; a cry that sounded like a little lamb. It was a cry so distinctive that my wife and I could pick it out from all the other babies in the nursery down the hall.

“My baby is crying,” my wife would tell a nurse from her bed in the recovery room. “Could you bring her to me?”

” I’ll check, ma’am,” said the nurse, sure that my wife was wrong. Then the nurse would come back with our daughter.

“How in the world could you tell your daughter’s cry from all the others?” said the astonished nurse.

Well, you just could.

After that timeless moment when I first laid my eyes on my daughter, the Marx Brothers came running in, grabbed the baby and put her into a something that looked like a clear plastic freezer drawer. They were counting toes, listening to her breathing, just bothering her in general. My wife was frantic, trying to get off the gurney to see if the baby was all right, the nurses were holding her down…everything was fine.

They laid my daughter in my wife’s arms, and at that moment, I lost the ability to complete a sentence or speak in any way that sounded like a reasonably intelligent human being.

I was a Dad.

Well, all that was twenty-seven years ago as of this writing. A lot of things have gone on since then.

I remember reading to her and noticing that she wasn’t looking at the pictures, but looking at the strange marks on the page and trying to figure out how those letters were making the words that I was reading to her. I remember her first word (Dada), her first steps, “naked baby time”, where she would run through the house without a stitch of clothes after her bath, giggling as we “tried” to catch her to dry her off.

She had me play video games with her, watch her favorite movies OVER AND OVER again. She turned me on to Japanese metal, I turned her on to Led Zeppelin. She turned me on to Naruto and One Piece, I turned her on to Hunter Thompson, Kurt Vonnegut, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. My wife and I showed her what marriage really looked like when you take the vows seriously; she grew up to find her right man and begin the journey that my wife and I begun thirty years ago this year.

I changed her first diaper. I changed a lot of her diapers, but I take pride that I was the first to change her diapers; and now we come to the point: the real question I wanted to ask and the reason I wrote this screed in the first place.

What the hell was that in that diaper? It didn’t smell, but it was some kind of black…what? Tub grout? Something to patch drywall? Some substance that they use to fill potholes?

I have no idea, but soon after that, we were home. My wife was taking a well-deserved rest in our actual bed, I was sitting with my brand-new daughter in her bassinet in the living room. I looked over the side, and saw her looking and me. She seemed to smile at me, and then she farted.

My girl!

On Becoming A Dad (Part One)

It was snowing the night my daughter decided to finally leave the comfortable confines of the womb, almost a week late, establishing a pattern she would hold to this day. The roads were passable, but they were getting slick, but in spite of the typical January snowfall, I thought surely, this child had to come soon.

I was off the road by this time; the band I was working with was rehearsing for an album, the sessions for which were to start a few weeks later and, well, I was not going to miss the birth of my first child. As I drove home through the fluffy, huge flakes falling heavily onto the ground and piling up quickly, I flashed on some of the scenes of my marriage during this pregnancy:

I remembered the day we found out my wife was pregnant. We had just decided to try to have a child only a couple of weeks before. I remembered standing up, punching my fists in the air, and shouting “Ninja Sperm!” as I hugged and kissed my laughing bride, because I am nothing if not classy at all the important times in life.

I took her out to a nice little deli to celebrate but, after we ordered, she got sick before the food had gotten to the table. She was cramping and throwing up, so I took her to the hospital. Just a case of dehydration, it seemed. All was well.

I remembered coming home a few months later after a recording session and finding her on the floor of the corner of the kitchen. She had taken an entire loaf of bread, taken the crusts off every slice, molded the remains into a ball, and was sitting on the floor eating it like a large apple.

Cravings, you know.

I remembered waking up in the middle of the night and finding my wife, seven months along by that time, sitting on the edge of the bed sobbing.

“Honey,” I said, reaching out to caress her shaking shoulder, “What’s wrong?”

“I-I-I-d-don’t,” she gulped pitifully, “I-I d-d-don’t have anything t-to w-w-wear!”

“But Sweetheart, we bought you a bunch of new clothes just a week or so ago!” I said, trying to calm her.

“T-t-they’re as b-b-b-big as CIRCUS TENTS!” she cried.

My mother had come to stay with us in hopes of being here for the birth of my parents’ first grandchild. I remember the day we called them to tell them the news: it was met with stunned silence. For some reason, without saying as much, I felt like many people in the family didn’t think my wife and I would last as a married couple, and I felt like all of our doubters, possibly my parents included, thought that we would be completely unsuitable as a mother and father to a newborn. Still, in a very short time, they came around to the idea and were looking forward with great excitement at the prospects of being Grandparents. (I asked my father how he felt about being a Grandfather. He said: “The only problem I have with being a grandfather is waking up every morning next to a grandmother!). Mom had been staying with us for the better part of two weeks. If the baby didn’t come in the next day and a half, my mother would have to go back home to Dad and would miss out on the birth.

My wife hadn’t been able to sleep on the bed since shortly after the night she woke me up crying about her wardrobe. She slept on the couch and I slept on the floor beside her. The couch was a gift from my parents. In fact, all the furniture was from my parents. When we moved into the apartment, we had our clothes, dishes, my guitars and amps, and not much else. We did like the situation we were in for a time; we bought a futon mattress to sleep on and positioned things on the floor in such a way that things only made sense when you sat on the floor and found everything within easy reach.

However, as my father explained: “You cannot have a pregnant woman sitting on the floor, son!”

I came home from the rehearsal that night intending to slip quietly into the apartment, not wanting to wake up my wife on the couch nor my mother, who was sleeping in our months old bed in the bedroom. Nevertheless, I found my wife awake.

And angry…

“Honey?” I said, as soothingly as I possibly could. “Are you o.k.?”

My lovely, diminutive wife was levitating at least five feet over the couch. Her eyes were glazed over to an almost otherworldly white, and her head was spinning around three hundred and sixty degrees.

“YOU DID THIS TO ME!” she said with voice that rang through the apartment as if it had come from the very heart of hell.

“Is it time, Honey? Do you want to go to the hospital now?”

Her eyes turned red and lasers SHOT out of her eyes, burning two holes right through my forehead! She spit what seemed to be pea soup at me! Tables and chairs were flying around the room!

“I HOPE YOU PASS A KIDNEY STONE THE SIZE OF A VOLKSWAGEN!” she hissed as she raised up farther into the air.

Just then, my mother appeared behind me, looking up at my wife floating in the air, dodging plates and cups flying all around her. She was clothed, had her coat on, had my wife’s coat over her arm and was carrying my wife’s suitcase. My Mom had been a nurse since before I was born. I depended on her professional expertise.

“Get her in the car! Let’s get her to the hospital!” she said, ducking and just missing getting hit by the coffee table flying just over her head.

I turned to grab my coat.

BANG!

Hit in the face by a frying pan flying at me from the kitchen stove!

There was no doubt about it. I was about to become a Dad…