Taking Part In The Brutal & Necessary

Do you want to hear about killing a dog? Neither do I. I don’t want to write this. I want to forget about-put it in the furthest corners of my jumbled up brain while hoping it replaces itself over time. I’ve tried to write about it for over a week. Every time I sit down to the keyboard I stand up and walk away. Three times I’ve deleted the words and told myself to drop it.

One of my goals in life is to embrace all of its quirks. The greatest periods of personal growth come from some of the most wretched places, to ignore them is to disregard a chance at an unforeseen, perhaps unimaginable perspective. Only through perspective can we achieve understanding. For me, understanding is the secret ingredient of a well made life. If I can gain enough understanding, I will hopefully turn it to peacefulness, tranquility, and the real Atlantis of human mindset: contentment.

In the following I will attempt to work my way to understanding…

Living in a farmhouse off of a semi-busy road leads to a whole mess of bullshit. We have the occasional visitor who only stops to either sell something, ask for something or steal something. A couple of months ago, we had a guy fresh out of jail, who was walking forty miles, stop and ask for a ride. He wouldn’t stop asking. I would rather be in the car with a coked up mountain gorilla than this guy. He was rough looking and smelled like the aforementioned gorilla. It wasn’t happening. We have a few people stop because of car issues and I do my best to help them. It’s not all bad, but the absolute worst are the dog droppers.

What goes through the heads of dog droppers is baffling. They take their malnourished, beaten dogs, and drop them off at country houses. I guess in the sick world of justification, they feel as though the dog will have a good home. It will flourish in its new surroundings and all the damage will wash away. What these fucktards fail to realize is they have usually permanently destroyed the trust the dog may have ever had in humans. The dogs stick around because they’ve most likely been chained up for so long they have no concept of free space. They’re usually injured and sometimes dangerous to people and pets. The homeowner is now left with a tough decision.

Small towns are not hotbeds of dog rescue organizations, and city funded dog catchers are exactly that: city funded. We live over thirteen miles away from a city. You see my predicament? I’m left with deciding the dogs fate. I used to work with a dog rescue group out of Dallas and I know that even if there was a local group, dogs like these cannot take up the precious space held for better suited animals. The dropped off dog can either be left to suffer in the elements or put down.

Last week, we had such a dog. He could have been beautiful. I tried to corral him, feed him, call him, and anything else you can think to do to avoid killing him. He, like so many others, was too broken to be helped. I have two dogs of my own and I couldn’t take the risk of them getting sick or injured. (I’m having a hard time writing this. I’ve reread it and I hate it.) I made the decision to put him down.

For this part I will not go into detail. I will keep these memories. I will sum it up in one sentence: It was not a clean kill and he suffered horribly. I was angry at myself in ways I’ve never been. I kicked myself for failing this creature. I want to do awful things to the ones who put me in the position. Fuck them.

The perspective I’ve tried to gain from this experience is that of those who have to make tough decisions with no good answer but one right answer. The correct answer can be different for different people. I’ve been thinking of the choice between a mothers life and her child. I’ve been thinking of those who must decide whether more suffering would be caused by watching their loved one hold onto life through slow breaths given by a machine, or life without them. I’ve been thinking of the those who put their lives on the line everyday for strangers. All of these are much worse than what I went through. I cannot totally relate, but I think I understand.

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I Worked On A Peanut & Cotton Farm For Two Weeks

Working on the farm, for the first time since I was eighteen, was a success. I didn’t die. The hours are long and the pay is on par with wages of non pirates in Somalia. But I do it for the experience and the bitches.

Day one, I sprayed herbicide all over the place. The spray rig drives itself via GPS and some sort of wizardry I’ve narrowed down to either magic beans or prayer circles. Farming has become a highly technological field and in the process has stopped using slave labor. Who knew?

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Starfleet has acquired John Deere in what’s being called a “real coup” for the intergalactic upstart.

The amount of skill required to do farm work would shock the average city dweller. Most urban jobs are one or two skill intensive. Sales? Talk people into buying burden. Computer Tech? Fix glitches caused by people who spit in the face of NSFW. Chef? Make other peoples recipes and feel like a rebel when you go heavy on the cumin. Of course I’ve downplayed the work of others to boost my case for farmers.

Farmers fix every goddamn thing because all of it will break and break hard. Weld it, nail, glue it, duct tape it, whatever it takes to keep moving. Driving a tractor for 12 hours straight is considered downtime. Selling product to an obscure buyer who will back out at the last minute or renege on a deal in an effort to get the crop at a lower price is commonplace. Weather of all kinds can erase the past weeks work in a matter of hours. Weather will make or break you. Too much rain, you’re screwed. Too little rain, you’re broke. The rain must be spread out and time perfectly.

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The first job I was stuck with, after they baited me in with the spray rig built on alien tech, was seedman. A great job if you can get it…. in the porn industry. As far as farming goes, it’s bitch work. The seedman will park his ignorant self in a pickup truck pulling a flatbed trailer loaded with five pallets of seed. The pallets have roughly forty eight bags of seed each. The bags weigh fifty pounds apiece. He will open up bags and align them along the edge of the trailer in eager anticipation of the tractor drivers need for fill up. He will then open up the planter boxes on the planting implement, swiftly fill each box while trying not to spill seed or fall to his knees while screaming to whatever deity he wronged to deserve this lot in life. The temperature hovers around a hundred. Air conditioning isn’t part of the benefits package either.


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The next step after shooing the driver away is to burn the empty bags of seed. Starting fires while sweating your tits off makes for pleasant feelings. After the bags have been burned and no pasture has caught fire (it happened twice), he’ll take a fifteen minute break, of which he’ll spend eight cussing and seven hoping the tractor blows up. The day will average out at 14 hours.
Here are a few pictures of my misery and it’s tools.

More, Keg, more. Don't shiest me, you lazy bastard.

More, Keg, more. Don’t shiest me, you lazy bastard.

A standard planter runs between 8-12 boxes. The farmer custom made a 16 box because he's an efficiency queer.

A standard planter runs between 8-12 boxes. The farmer custom made a 16 box because he’s an efficiency queer.

The wind picks up randomly which throws flaming bags screaming in whatever direction the wind is blowing. It's hell on s'more prep.

The wind picks up randomly which throws flaming bags screaming in whatever direction the wind is blowing. It’s hell on s’mores.

On occasion I’d have to go do a menial chore such as picking up parts from John Deere. I’d live for those. I’d get to drive a truck with A/C. I’d leg wrestle a high functioning leper to get the chance at cool air. I felt like the one person who got away from the villain in a horror movie. I’d laugh manically and think about all the things I’d do with my new lease on life. Such as learn how to use Twitter, pen a letter to Robin Thicke asking if he understood wrapping girls in plastic makes you sketchy but kudos on turning the final steps of a well thought out murder sexy, form a drug addiction and blame it on my time farming, play one on one with a little person, ride topless in the sidecar of a motorcycle driven by a burly biker and stare down EVERYONE, and lastly I’d sleep until my depression healed itself. The feeling was short lived. For prides sake, I’d return and submit myself to the torture normally reserved for ones with low education or questionable citizenship. I had to complete it. Quitting is for people with better things to do.

I stayed on as seedman for about ten days. The Farmer eventually moved me to tractor driver ,which was a horrible decision on his part. He immediately regretted his talent evaluation skills after watching me drive like Amy Winehouse on a sad day. I got scolded. It was uncomfortable. He apologized after he realized that the tractor was improperly weighted. I was embarrassed and pissed off. We moved passed it. I only worked a few days after that. Hell, maybe we didn’t move past it. I wasn’t fired but planting season was coming to an end, and my bitch skills weren’t needed.

I learned more about farming than I ever thought possible and I left with a gratitude for the amount of work it takes to bring raw materials to the masses. If you ever have the chance to work on a farm, do it. You”ll regret it and be glad about the experience all the same.

P.S. Side story
One day, we were blessed with a land owner spending the whole day watching and evaluating. He was in the medical field so his expertise on farming was astounding. I snapped a picture of him. I was about ninety percent sure he was gonna pass away right in front of my eyes. His breathing was labored, and bending over took the effort of running a 16K on horse tranquilizers while wearing a bee keepers outfit.

He ingested enough booze in is day to keep Coors Brewing out of the red.

He ingested enough booze in his day to keep Coors Brewing out of the red.

I feel a bit mean by posting that but I can’t stand meddling with an air of superiority. He was nice in his own way. He also thought he was greater than the people working. He shouldn’t have done that.

 

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The Fridge Won’t Fill Itself

Cris and I went grocery shopping yesterday. We have to travel a decent distance to receive reasonable prices on goods. The journey for budget pretzels is about an hour round trip, and is lacking in scenic views, unless you find visual serenity in the world of sheet metal buildings.

building2“Look at that one, Martha!”

Upon arrival at our destination, Cris needed to take a wiz. I stood at the front of the store, cart in hand, looking like a child who’s mother had given up on the traditional views on raising your own children. I pretended to be interested in the new brand of Sriracha Pringles, praying no one would notice my fear of abandonment by way of the tried and true method of break-up “I need to take a wiz”. I’m left leaving the store with no girlfriend, no food and no answers. I waited just long enough to create a profile on match.com, before I see Cris eyeing the produce. She had hoped to meet me there because true love.

grocerystorelove“If you like our sensual strawberries, you’ll love our lettuce panties.”

When I reached her, she was distraught. The look of worry made me realize that she missed me as much, if not more than I missed her. I told her I loved her, and quickly stopped composing my About Me section on okcupid. She stared me straight in the eye and said “The women’s restroom smells like a pile of rotting vaginas. You, as a man will never have to deal with that.”. I concurred and knew the grocery bill would be substantially lower because I no longer wanted to eat, ever.

Through nothing but sheer will and determination were we able to complete the shopping list. Between her dealing with the stench of unclean women and my new found interest in the same sex, we had a lot to sort out.

Our checkout lady, cashier person was our final challenge. I had stepped away to look at something when the initial scanning process started so I don’t know how it came up but I heard her mumble something about Dallas.

Cashier: “Dallas must have like a million people. Maybe more!”

Cris: *defeated* “Yes.” *smile*

Me: *blank stare*

Cashier: “Dallas Cowboys! I don’t like em’ but some people do.”

Me: *defeated* “Yes.” *smile*

Cris: *blank stare*

We wanted to run out the store but instead we lightly jogged. Driving home was as exciting as the ride there.

sheet2-022“I can’t stand all this beauty, Martha. Look at it.”

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Coyote’s & Chicken Shit

You know what happens when you live in the boonies without a soul for miles around, besides your gf who is sick and tired of your shit, and you’re chatty? You post irrelevance on the internet.

I’m pretty sure my punctuation is so jacked in the above text, What can you do? Fifth grade was a rough time for me.

A strange occurrence has been going on for the past couple of months. I’m losing weight without trying. I move less while eating just as much. I’ve been mulling over a new diet plan for the masses. I’ll call it “The Biggest Loser”. It requires you to quit your job and to stop seeing your friends. I know I’m stealing a title. Maybe I’ll change it to “The Biggest Looser”. I’ve noticed a common misspelling of the word on the internet so it works. Third grade was a rough time for some. I get it.

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On to the bad news. I think I have arthritis. My left hand is giving me fits. I’m too young for such an ailment. It hit me that I turn 35 in a few months. Halfway to 70. Perhaps that’s why I have half the arthritis. I’m not a fucking doctor.

When I gave my pit bull/American bulldog a bath the other day I did so in the nude. My reasoning is solid and is based on not getting my clothes wet. My reasoning for mentioning it is to let you know how Cris has become immune to my ways. She didn’t even bat an eye as I chased him around naked. It’s nice to have someone get you.

We were offered fresh chicken shit to help our yet to be worked on garden. It was quite the gift. The gentlemen who wanted to give it to us, gave very detailed directions to his mounds of chicken shit. I found the spot but alas no chicken shit was found. He must have moved it. I didn’t know chicken shit was such the commodity that it required strategic hiding spots and black ops type of movements. I haven’t called him to find out its new location because that just seems like an awkward conversation.

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“I sold the shit, Keg. Flu season is over. Walgreens needed a gimmack.”

Have I told you about Cris’s collection of beetles? No? Okay. Cris has managed to acquire two colonies of beetles that are of the eating dead flesh variety. They clean bones. We feed them leftover drumsticks and deli meat. The beetles make homes and breed in styrofoam. We feed beetles leftovers. I’m not sure where my life is headed.

I’m the worst hunter in the region. First off, I’m not a huge fan of killing. I don’t have the heart for it anymore. I do however need to keep the coyote population in check because they don’t share my stance on killing. I think they would if they had their own grocery stores. Secondly, hunting takes dedication, patience and stealth. I’m none of these things. So, what I do is grab my coyote call, set it up at way too close of a distance for any coyote not stricken with schizophrenia to get near, sit in the bed of my truck and play on the internet. I occasionally look up. I’m not distraught about it. I enjoy nature amongst the backdrop of dying jackrabbit sounds in the distance. I’ll play with the call features here and there by simultaneously playing dying bunny with female coyote howl. I feel like a DJ for a redneck rave. I imagine a bunch of camo’d up bearded men having spasms to the sweet melodies of my stellar nature mixes.

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“You have a mighty fine erection, Carl.”

“DJ Buckshot gets me real amped up, Peter.”

I’m done being chatty now. All this socializing is mentally draining.

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Introduction to WTF

I wrote this back a few months before moving to the nowhere I’ve now been for five months.

I’m about to walk into my bosses office and notify him that December 31st will be my last day. A new chapter, my friends. Join me in my journey of self exploration! For once, I mean that in a semi serious way, not as a way to get you to watch me make a pee. Cris and I are moving our life operation to a farm in West Texas. A farm in the middle of nowhere. No distractions, no humans, no coloreds or queers, and we plan on changing all that. We will be renting out the Dallas house and putting down the dogs. We even tattooed each others initials on our buttocks. It’s an exciting time. Love and ritual killings are in the air. Hopefully, you’ll understand that most of what I just said is nonsense. We are moving however, as life deserves a change of scenery.

Watching my work life become stagnated over the past decade has been a gut wrenching experience. A drop of time is all we have and I’ve spent the better part of it doing chores I do not want to do. Serving masters that are not what I want but what I’m told I need. Often times I’ll go into imagination land and dream up a scenario that I’m dying. I’ll attempt to feel all the emotions, all of the joys and all of the remorse. Usually I’m old in this scenario because a young death sucks thinking that way will only lead to group therapy sessions. Lately though, my dreary imaginary world has been me in my youth. I began to wonder why. The reason was simple, being old is not far off, dying is not far off. I’ll still feel youthful in my spirit yet my body will deceive me and decay into dusty dust, dust, dust. Very sad stuff. Wondering if I would look back on my life fondly is no longer an option I care to contemplate. I know these questions and thoughts are as old as basic human thought but they’ve been around for a reason. Accepting and fighting mortality is at the very nature of a balanced life and I feel as though the people who have the greatest grasp on this thought process also live the greatest lives.

Not that my work life has been some horrible Guantanamo Bay type of existence. It’s been fine. It’s been fair. It’s been decent. The mediocrity will lull you into a false sense of happiness and fulfillment. Insurance, 401K’s, weekends off, running water, and paid holidays are not much salve for a restless mind. I began to view them as cages. The worst of cages at that. Cages where you view the bars as privileges. It goes without saying that the items purchased with this middle class wealth only padded the cages and added decaying luxuries.

The most strenuous part of my desire to change my day to day life was deciding what the motherfuck to do. I don’t like very much and I have little to no passion. The question of how I’d spend my life if given any option in the whole wide world has always been a depressing one. I’m lazy, no motivations, no desires. Fame or fortune is of little interest. Working with my hands to create is laughable. I can’t make a straight line with a ruler, pencil and a fist full of Adderall. The laziness is my problem. Always has been. The devil on my shoulder has little interest in fucking the cute girl while in a monogamous relationship or stealing toilet paper from the office bathroom. No, my devil wants me to sit down. Sit the fuck down! Do nothing. I hate him. Unfortunately, the angel is too busy sleeping or jerking off to the cute girl to give me any help. Overall, I need new conscience representatives. I’ve put out an add in the Greensheet, wish me luck. It’s real difficult to talk yourself into making a change when the light your soul is reaching for is a half burnt out twinkle light leftover from a childhood Christmas. At times, the change seemed to be more bleak than my current situation. Total darkness. If all I’m gonna do is sit around, get fat and cynical than I should just stay put. What’s the old saying? Better to dance with the devil you know or some shit like that.

A pattern started to emerge, a flow of similar sentiments kept reaching me. I ignored them at first. People say dumb shit all the time. Filler for lack of imagination. I never viewed myself as a writer in any way shape or form. But that’s what people kept saying. “Be a writer. Are you a writer? You should write. You make me laugh. I check your Facebook page everyday to see what your crazy ass came up with. Seriously, write.” Since this was never my life goal,- What’s a life goal?-I didn’t know how to respond nor what to do. It felt amazing, making people laugh, helping them to go to places their minds won’t normally go, and maybe getting them to think about things in a nonconformist way. I’m no writer! No training. I don’t even have a a god damn G.E.D. I let these thoughts be the consensus. After all, a Facebook post is not a novel. What was I going to do? Write a book of Facebook posts? Fuck you. Thanks for the kind words but I’m a moron and you don’t know shit about shit. A funny thing happens when positive words get thrown at you. Over time you begin to believe them. Right or wrong, you believe them. I’ll write.

What I’ll write about is anyone’s guess. I have no plan.  I don’t plan any writing. Don’t know how. Maybe short stories, maybe romance novels for a new generation complete with details of modern lovemaking like Plan B and difficulty in achieving erections in the throws of porn addiction. I don’t know. What I do know is making people smile makes me happy. You could replace the word smile with squirm and I’d feel the same. I’ll mix the two and have success yet I’ll surely fail as well. I’m good with that. At least i tried.  I do not claim expertise or superiority. Quite the opposite actually, I claim an empty tank, and maybe my emptiness in ways of writing or literature in general will serve me.

The excitement of a new chapter has been delightful. The writing is only a small part of what I care to accomplish. Cris and I have plans to do comedic videos (sex tapes), a couple web pages (critical reviews of sex tapes) and any other type of creations we can come up with. Cris has been designing her clay creatures and I’m really excited for what she’s going to be able to do. We plan on learning to be more self sustaining by learning to can, grow food and butcher. So much life and so little time!

I shared this with all of you for two reasons. One- like it or not, y’all have helped form this plan, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Two- accountability, by laying out my plans I think it will add incentive to achieve at least a fraction of them. I’ll ask more from you down the road in regards to sharing our bologna or visiting our websites. I won’t spam to death and I’ll always appreciate any feedback. I’ll return the favor in any way I can. Wish me luck.

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