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It Was October of 1972

October, 1972. The Mighty FID (First In Defense), USS Forrestal (CVA 59) was on a diplomatic visit to Turkey. America had been deep into the Cold War for about 27 years. Of course, over in The ‘Nam, my brothers & sisters were dealing with hot lead; with a few years to go before Emperor Richard I called it quits and brought the survivors home.

We’d been at sea for about 30 days, just long enough to run out of all the alcohol & other stuff that we’d smuggled aboard before deployment. Our port of call was Istanbul, formerly Constantinople. Since our aircraft carrier was far too large to dock in most ports, we used liberty launches to ferry people ashore for visits. These could carry up to 100 men (no ladies back then) ashore for port visits.

At the time, I was a lowly E-3, ashore for a little cultural exchange and a lot of drinking. My first taste of ouzo was from an old Turkish vendor at the ancient indoor mall, Misir Carsisi, that attracted many tourists; then and now. It was in easy walking distance from the place where our launches came and went during “Liberty Call”. They were usually running about every hour to and from the ship.

Here, I should mention that Turkey was under martial law (for some reason) during our visit. One could see Turkish Army soldiers scattered about the city, keeping the peace. One of their stations was at the launch docks to protect their American visitors. So, one mild October night, I’m walking back alone from one of the many watering holes, with a full head of steam on.

As I reached the landing, I saw a soldier nearby who was holding a WW2 model of a Thompson sub machine gun. Being a curious drunk who grew up around firearms, I walked closer for a better look at his weapon. He smiled when he saw me and said in fair English, “Cigarette? American cigarette?” Well, fiends & naggers, I saw a great opportunity here for a little olde timey horse trading.

I pointed to his weapon and said, “Machine gun for cigarette?” Now, I should point out that both he and I KNEW that the gun was unloaded, with the bolt locked back and NO magazine attached. He had those on his utility belt. Seeing the humor in the situation too, the soldier handed me his weapon as I lit the cigarette that I had just given him.

Since drunks find the oddest things funny, I pointed the machine gun at about a dozen of my shipmates (including some officers) who were waiting for the liberty launch. I hollered, “Hit the DECK, motherfuckers!” Well, they all started kissing concrete as the Turk was about to piss himself laughing! Realizing that I was now in a bit of a small pickle, I immediately handed the weapon back to the soldier and hauled ASS back up the street away from the docks.

After waiting about 2 hours, I returned to the fleet landing and quietly caught the next launch back to the ship. Most of my buddies refused to believe my story, but the ones who knew me well also knew that I was telling the truth. As we old Southern rednecks like to say, “That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ with it!!”

Play Is How A Child Learns

Psychologists say that play is a child’s work. I can kind of understand what they mean. A few years ago, we moved back to West Wilted, Ohio, population about 4500. We had been away from this small town for about 45 years. I live down the street from the house we lived in when I was 5 years old. I pass that house several times a week and my throat tightens up and my neck aches each time I pass. Not from nostalgia, either.

Did you ever get your head caught in anything? I did once. I guess I just wanted to see if I could fit my head through the wooden slats of one of our kitchen chairs. See, we lived in a house that had the kitchen and living area joined…kind of like a modern day open concept plan. So kitchen chairs were often used when visitors came…and they were always coming.

 World War II was in full swing and believe me, I was taking it all in. And we were taking family members in. Aunts, sisters, mothers and their kids, were coming and going as their men in the family came home on leave or were shipped out to the war zones. The only men left in the neighborhood had white hair or a limp. For example, Mr. Oburn next door was short, chubby, and had flat feet. I tried to look to see what that was all about after I heard my mother and grandmother talking about him…but he always had his shoes on.

There was never a dull moment for the adults; but for a 5 year old inquisitive, day dreaming tomboy like me, there was. So, as my grandmother was cooking and my mother was out in the wash house doing laundry, I was bored so I decided to check out a kitchen chair that was sitting in the living room. I don’t know how many slats were in the chair back. There could have been 4 or 40. But as it turned out, with a struggle, I was able to get my head between the slats….up to my neck. But I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t even raise my head up! I just had to stare at the seat of that chair for 4 hours. I can still see the imprint of the seat when I close my eyes.

There I was, bent at a 45 degree angle, while the entire neighborhood was alerted because I couldn’t get my head unstuck. Nor could anyone else. People came streaming in. News travels fast. Mr. Oburn came with a hammer. And his wife, also, because she worked for the West Wilted Record and thought there might be a story in this event. Also, she liked my grandmother’s hot chicory water; which was a substituted for coffee, which no one had because there was a war on.

As I stared at the seat of the chair, I heard FDR talking on the radio, the Marine Corp band playing the Star Spangled Banner (which I couldn’t stand upright for), and people sitting around visiting and watching the men trying to get me out of the chair. People were even sitting on our front porch visiting on our swing and porch steps. I suppose they came in case they were needed.

Well, Mr. Oburn tried to hammer the slats apart. That only served to force my head to move backwards and forwards in a painful manner for the next several weeks. It confused my mom something awful…she didn’t know if I was coming into a room or getting ready to go out. And I had a rash all over.

Mr. Willouby from across the street gave it a try. So did Mr. Kelly. And Reverend Blessing came from 3 houses down the street. He was very old and gentle. I loved him. He and his wife let me gather eggs with them. (Yes, there were still barns in town in those days.) And when they invited me to sit with them in their little kitchen while they ate, I got to watch his false teeth clatter when he chewed. Fascinating! Reverend Blessing couldn’t help me but he prayed for me and told me to memorize Proverbs 22:3 “The wise are cautious and avoid danger; fools plunge ahead with great confidence.” I didn’t have anything else to do for 4 hours so I memorized it.

So what happened is this. Four hours later, Mr. Statton from across Butter Road came over with a saw. He sawed the slats into pieces to get me out. It took him at least another half hour and sounded just like a dentist drill.

I only lost some of my confidence for about a day. I still haven’t learned to be very cautious. And then I was ready to try new things. I have to wear a neck brace when I go to the dentist in case my head starts moving backward and forward. Using hammers gives me a rash and it’s a trial trying to hold my head still. I have the greatest trouble bending over at a 45 degree angle. My neck aches something awful. I still can’t pass that house without my throat tightening up.

But psychologists say children’s play is their work and that’s how they learn. I learned never to have kitchen chairs with slats in their backs when I grew up. I’m careful when I choose a dentist…I make sure my partial plates fit tightly. And I keep my neck brace handy. If I have to, I just kick things out of my way so I don’t have to bend over.

Who Reads WTF?

Every once in a while, one of us checks our reader statistics. We have a counter that tells us when  someone logs onto WTF. Even more interesting, it tells us what part of the world they’re from…yes, WTF is now global. In the beginning, all our readers were from the US, but recently we’ve had readers from the UK and Australia; Moscow (I’ve convinced myself it’s Putin) and the Ukraine. Recently Beijing showed up! And a couple of provinces in Canada have been regular readers. Lately there’s been a big influx of readers from Brazil…Hello, President Bolasanairo! and there’s a crew in Latvia who have become readers. We find this amazing…it humbles us that our little blog has a global readership. It’s like a regular UN, except with no corruption and greed. I have my suspicions that a small cable channel in Estonia is using WTF material for a show called “Americans – They So Crazy!”

Right now we average anywhere from 500-800 views a day. Now in the vast space of the interwebbies, those aren’t huge numbers. To us, they are astronomical…we never thought we’d get more than maybe 20 -30 hits a day! So discovering that our readership is worldwide and growing is mind blowing.
Knowing this drives us to keep things rolling merrily along, having our readers engaged and entertained. So keep the comments coming and let us know what you think. You can consider it your contribution to Estonia’s television programming!

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…


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

Going Gray

I’ve decided to go gray. Yep, you heard right: after 20+ years of hitting the dye pots, I’ve decided to let nature take it’s course. I’m going to be my “true authentic” self, words often used by transsexuals when announcing their transition, but I digress….

I was in my early 40’s before I dyed my hair. That finally happened when a much younger colleague said, with no malice, “You know, you’d look younger if you dyed your hair.” GASP! I was taken aback…and punched her. In the shoulder; not hard. I looked in the mirror closely. Yes, there was more silver in the gold than I thought. So I bit the bullet…and now I’m ready to stop.

 Why stop? There are a number of reasons: the expense, the time, and to me, the most important one.. why not? I’m not fooling anyone, nor do I want to. I am no longer working; everyone near and dear to me knows how old I am, and I think my hair will be healthier in the long run. Besides, my hair color does not define me. (What does is a different story for another day.)
This is not to say I’m without trepidation, I mean, let’s be real. It’s a process. What if I hate it, or worse, what if it really makes me look OLD? I mean, I AM old…older…old-ish. Not withered crone from the fairy tales, but “still rocking skinny jeans and black leather while collecting Social Security” old.
Men get a little gray and they’re “distinguished.” Women aren’t as lucky, but that has changed a bit now, with young women purposely dying their hair shades of silver, white, and gray.  I earned mine the old-fashioned way. And it’s going to look killer…

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.


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.

(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”!
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?
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…)

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\

(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

(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…)


(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…)

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.
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

(Psykosity hates bats. Fun fact.)

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

(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
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
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@!

(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…)