Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Short Bedtime Stories for the Hubby

Bedtime Stories for Hubby
by Bo Dogly

It looked pretty dicey for my village back then and it was my own fault the Germans planned to blast us all to Hell with 88s. Hitler never got over the giant Hitler head we barged across the *French Channel on D Day or how the newspapers fussed over me while I was constructing it. The giant, goofy Hitler barge diverted an entire battery of artillery, artillery that otherwise would have sunk any number of Allied ships and landing craft. So Hitler was mad at me personally.
I told the village elders to just tie me up and deliver me to the Storm Troopers, if they did that, they could save the village. The people are kindly in my village and have their pride, and, thus, rejected that idea. The elders told me that if I applied myself, I could think my way out of the mess we were in, fat chance, thought I, we're all dead ducks. For now, the citizens would be safe in the cheese cellars, in the future, who knows.
Distressed, I reclused myself to my "homemade" bunker constructed entirely of failed Wartsila and Gray Marine diesel engine blocks which I had purchased as scrap and was my little happy place and where I could think. My entire worldly fortune was tied up in that scrap metal and just who was I going to sell it to, the scrap metal hungry Germans?
I did have loads of high explosives and detonators, a brave village woman stole an entire half-track of them from the aggressive Waffen-SS swine. I had to be careful, however, we didn't want the cheeses to roll off the shelves and be split open like Hitler's ugly ass crack.
You feel somewhat invulnerable when protected by a massive construction of Wartsilas, heh heh, and that aids thinking.
"Curds," the village devil boy, did odd jobs for me in the scrapyard and was, to my way of thinking, overly interested in the explosives and detonators, kind of like I was as a teen except all I had was baking soda and vinegar to terrorize people with but this was wartime and occasionally, even Curds had a point. Curds put some HE in a large engine cylinder and blew a hefty cheese ball out at the Wehrmacht that hadn't a taste since God knows when. This bought us some time. The Nazis were all suffering from cheese deprivation at that stage of the war and Curd's attack through them off their game. That's right, cheese, the secret weapon.
I was scared. Up until that time, the only bad thing that ever happened to me was to be set loose, blindfolded in the Serengeti with 50 lbs of cat food chained to my back. this was worse or about as bad, maybe worse. All I did to deserve that fate was to simply ask the local King how to say: "what time does your husband get home" in the local dialect, big hairy deal! This occurred roughly at the same time where I had hit upon 1600 girls straight without result (result meaning a date.)
I never had a date but did get some female contact, the girls would exploit me mercilessly and make me run endless small errands with no pay or even a pat on my bald head. I didn't mind, these were girls! Real girls!
Finally, my luck turned, and inmate Bad Girl 77512 at the school for bad girls, took pity on me and flipped me a girl magazine and told me to study it cover to cover and never act like any of the boys in it. OK, I was now on my way!
Back to the war.. Curds was rummaging around in the half track the village woman liberated and discovered a secret stash of stinky Limburger cheese which has that aroma of smelly feet and was scientifically proven to attract mosquitoes to the same high degree as smelly feet. Really.
We fired off the Limburger at the Germans and they were thrilled until the entire force was viciously consumed by sky-darkening hordes of skeeters from the blessed swamp nearby. Praise Allah from whom all blessings flow.
I lost a lot of weight and I'm thinking if Hollywood wants a skinny POW type for a film, here I am. I'm equally good at looking clever and clueless, walk funny and I'm a direct descendant of The Red Robin on both sides. I walk crooked, like a hermit crab and have unusually long arms for my size.


I know it's blurry, talkative, non-listener jostling me at Corti brothers as I go for a snappy snap of the $500 vinegar in the shrimpy bottle. I think/hope it's balsamic. Couldn't get a good look because it is basically rude not to give somebody their shot of being dramatic at least once. As a critic, I am fair if not frequently wrong. Also, he had tried the stuff and said it was thick and poured slow like I forget. Wow, he tasted it, lucky him.
If I knew him well, Linda and I could take him out and do his wardrobe and I could teach him some dignity and bearing like I'm Alexander and have conquered this space.
It is dry this time a year and the grasses are brown except where watered. If my friend were to lie out there in his faded brown t-shirt you might guess there was a prairie dog mound out there, or a nest of our adorable burrowing owls, Thinking, hey, guy, you could attract nature-loving women by lying out there in the dust on your back, looking cute like the main entrance to a rabbit warren. There is hope, how about that.
The hard part of writing this is that I'm criticism adverse. For all I know, lying out there in the sun in the weeds could be curative for erectile dysfunction even if you didn't want it to be and a raven perched on your boner could be embarrassing.
I,m not going to try this lying out in the weeds bit around here and have some idiot think I'm dead and then scream. Screaming freaks me out, however biologically necessary. Bo Dogly

A security cam captured a bird harassing this squirrel outside the window of the laboratory. It would fly down and jump on his head every twenty seconds or so. I was concerned that the rodent would panic and get tangled up in the concertina wire and get an electric jolt, flop to the ground and a raven would try to peck out its eyes. The lookout raven is perched up on the roof atop one of those cheap plastic great horned owls that even the pigeons seem to cackle about, and tease and dare. I told them the owls were a waste of money. Why not a duck decoy up there, Einstein?
Oh, I know, why, the hunters would migrate over from the marshy waste and ask if they could shoot it down, it apparently being the very last duck in the territory. Then they would ask other questions, couldn't risk that. It can be extremely difficult telling a real duck hunter from an agent.
I lost my security clearance because I let one in, him pretending that, if he didn't get in to use our restroom and be on his merry way, calamity would strike. Then the damn guy convincingly did the poo poo dance! Not too James Bond, I'd say, but bloody effective. It's evil when they appeal to the humanity in you. They're laughing it up in Moscow, no doubt about it.


I'm not military material even though 2 General Officers begged me to join back at Fort Wayne in Detroit. I think it's Fort Wayne. I got over on the Generals in more ways than one. I'm the King of getting over (John F. Kennedy, Nancy Reagan, Gov. Romney of Michigan, big conservative movie and TV star, I made up Limbaughzbub and spread it across the globe. Heh. Countless judges, motorcycle gangs, wielders of might and power, the California Lottery The big top dude at UC-Santa Barbara, exempting Barbara Walters on the little turbo jet, she sat next to me and we chit chatted cozily. Showed her pic of my lovely family and made her chuckle. Gored by a bull in Mexico, ha ha funny. Rest is private except to wife who knows all and can pick my brain like a ripe pomegranate. Bless her hundreds fold for greatness surrounds her like a brilliant light.
This wasn't my first encounter with a General. The general rule is never obey a General unless you have to. Why would you? That drives them nuts. Drop your pencil next to the General sitting in his chair. Pick it up in a practiced way so that the creepy mask on the back of your head turns and scowls. Watch him flip backwards off the chair and bonk his brain on a flagpole. Ha ha. Express concern and back out of his office. Now there are woman Generals, don't mess with them, they're all light years ahead however gone fruity.
Respectfully, Bo Dogly
Captain of the Polar Cyst

The old time way to track down a mole or security breach Is to put out a little red meat for the spy, something credible that when obtained (say by an email hacker re.: Cliton, truly a typo, sorry. Clinton) is expected to create a trackable result.
As a first aside, if Hillary wanted top security for her personal electronic mail, to know if it had been hacked, Are there no professionals in DC to at least set up some harmless but revelatory tidbit for her as a security feedback mechanism? She could pretend, say, that she fisted Bill in an unloving way after the Monica debacle, Stick that in her email, see if The National Enquirer gets it and she can go haha and sue them.
If I ran a string of safe houses in Slovakia Where, oddly, I have a certain popularity), I would start wondering who the scapegoat is to be, but I know already the answer to that. Hillary could confess all and tearfully admit, bless her, that Monica did it and that she, Hillary, nursed the battered Bill back to full health. That's what she might say unless ticked at Bill. Sky's the limit, Bill, she could say anything.

@farrellhamann on Twitter

Need $500k, mostly for real estate. Adult and kid friendly.
"Unique collection" The J. Paul Getty Museum

If hubby is bad, tell him the jackal will get him.

(Wifey will never let me forget that she was a model in Sanra Barbara and San Francisco. Giant blue tube is for the cats.)

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