Brain Farts

(Another from 2009, on a night I found it hard to sleep.)

***

So, I was lying in bed, trying to go to sleep, and I just let my brain go wherever it wanted.

I started out wondering who played the prisoner in The Green Mile, because I knew it wasn't Ving, and I didn't think it was Tiny Lister, and I couldn't remember the other guy's name, my internet was down, and it was driving me crazy.

Then I started to wonder how dangerous cats would be with opposable thumbs. A whole lot more dangerous, I would think. Then I pictured a scenario where someone invented mechanical thumbs for cats, and I'd start to suspect something was up, because I'd catch my cat walking around on stilts. Then I'd look out the window, and my cat would be using her new mechanical thumbs and stilt skills to drive my car, and she'd promptly put it in reverse and back right into the ditch, because everyone knows cat's can't drive.

Then I couldn't remember what the blue care bear was called. I have no f'ing idea why I even wondered about it, except they were mentioned in some Cracked article, or something. So far, I've refused to look it up, but the not knowing is gnawing at me.

Then I decided I should do a target experiment with a canola oil and sand mixture, to see what the shear thickening properties would be, and how high grained a round it would stop, if any, and if it would be worth putting it in bladders, which could be fitted to a homemade ballistic vest.

Then I wondered if everyone has this kind of random, chaotic, batshit crazy kind of brainstorming session in their quiet hours, or if it's just me.

Amish Stalker

(This related an incident that occurred back in March of 2009)

***

OK, so maybe he's a Mennonite, but same beard and hat. He's driving a Dodge Ram and pulling a horse trailer. As I follow along behind, I notice that his right rear trailer tire is wobbling a good bit. As I watch, large chunks of rubber start to hurtle toward me at high velocity, pelting my windshield and grill, forcing me to back off. His tire starts to smoke, the tread comes flying off, and over the course of the next few miles, he loses all the remaining rubber. He is now running on rim, and I'm trying hard to get his attention. I flash my lights repeatedly, pull up alongside him, make circular motions, point at his trailer, mouth repeatedly that his tire has shuffled off the mortal coil, and he smiles at me like some goofy halfwit, waves mightily, and looks back ahead. I finally pass him and pull over. He thunders on by as I motion at him.

How the hell do you not realize you're driving on rim?

I take off again, start flashing him again, get pelted by crap kicked up from the side of the road as the trailer veers back and forth. I pull up next to him, try telling him again, because I figure he will soon bite into pavement and flip the trailer and maybe the truck. Now he just smiles and waves at the crazy man making monkey antics, looking for all the world like he's trying to figure out what to do about the lunatic following him. I'm forced to back off, because I'm in a no passing zone, and there's oncoming traffic.

At this point, I imagine he reaches for his cell phone, realizes his choice of ideology has gutted his options in a road crazy/rob/steal/cannibal murder situation, and hopes desperately that I'll go away.  He veers off the highway onto a side road at about 50 mph, and I decide to say the hell with it. I continue home, deciding that he'll figure it out when he wrecks.

You try to do something nice for someone, and all it gets you is a surreal afternoon and the delight of knowing that all you achieved for your efforts was a soiled pair of handcrafted Amish (Mennonite, for you purists) undergarments.

Night of the Weasels

For my new friends who might want to peruse some of my musings, I'll be reposting some of writings here on the blog, making it easier to view.

Back in 2010, I had to write a spontaneous story for a creative writing exercise in English Comp I, and I wrote about it on my Facebook page. This is what came out. Enjoy.

***

Today we had to do a spontaneous writing exercise in English. As we wrote, she gave us things to put into the story and write around, like keys, water, a cup or mug of some kind, and a house. We had to integrate all these things on the fly, and then she told us how each was symbolic of our current life situation, our view of love, knowledge, the afterlife, etc.

I asked her if she was sure about that, because mine involved weasels, pigs and bacon.

For your reading pleasure:

Night of the Weasels

It was humid. I was crouched behind the water trough, fighting the hordes of midsummer mosquitoes that were clamoring for my blood. I tried to quiet my breathing, which wasn't hard, considering the smell of mud, manure and mold.

At least I had my thermos, which was still roughly half full of cider. I felt the burn cross my lips and spread like fire down my throat. After peering over the trough again, just to verify I wasn't crazy, I took another long drink.

The water of the trough rippled in the breeze, filling my nostrils with the scent of wet metal and mildew. My legs were starting to go numb from crouching in the mud next to the fence. My car keys were in my front pocket, slowly digging into my thigh.

The weasels, decorated with what for all the world appeared to be warpaint, made their way beyond the farmhouse. They were rapidly closing on the barn and pigsties, and they appeared to be carrying rope and stakes. The small predators disappeared into the darkness of the pigpens. After perhaps a minute, during which I almost forgot to breathe again, wild hoots and hollers erupted from the pens, followed by terrified squealing. The weasels reappeared in the barnyard, dragging a trussed and horrified hog behind them.

For what seemed an eternity, I watched the weasels gather wood and build their bonfire. It was mesmerizing and surreal, and I questioned my mental health more than once. I pinched myself twice to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Once the fire was blazing, the pig was spitted and roasted alive, as the weasels danced wildly around in circles. For what seemed like hours longer, they danced with wild abandon under the moon, shaking fists full of bacon at the sky.

I was left to my own devices, cramped, more than slightly drunk and badly in need of therapy. Maybe they make a pill, because I don't think the cider is strong enough.

In the predawn hours, they doused the flames, and they scurried away as covertly as they had appeared.