[GaryO]

If I cross my legs. One leg falls asleep or I crush my penis.

I should have been more clear in my writing.
He’d actually squat, like practicing yoga. The ol’ guy is quite limber, really.

But, yeah, Schultzy, these days I have to be careful as to how I sit. Actually, briefs keep the low riders in place. Otherwise lefticle or righticle can suddenly awaken my giddyup.

This happened to me a couple times not that long ago.
Once in a library.
While waitin’ for the missus, I commenced to sit down on a bench.
Jumped straight up. Letting out a HEEEEYAHHHH!
The librarians all looked at me like I was some kinda deranged Tourette victim.
My lady came around the corner and told them ‘he’s just acting up cause I’m taking so long’…..it worked.

The other time was in the Portland Fine Arts Museum.
It’s not good for me to get bored.
We toured the new exhibits, exhibits of things like a chunk of torn cardboard with scribbling on it. Nicely matted and framed though….$3500usd.
An outstanding sculpture of this nude guy was parked in the middle of the grand foyer, life size, clarity down to the color of his molds and freckles.
This father with his 10 year old daughter, then me and a half dozen others, were all encircling the roped off sculpture.
The girl looked spellbound.
I said ‘touch it’
‘No, really, go ahead, touch it’
She looked at her dad. He nodded.
She reached out, one finger moving slowly toward the hind end.
‘AAAAACH!’
I couldn't help myself.
Poor thing, I really didn’t think she’d jump that high.
The father whisked her off, and the Barney Fife looking security guard assigned himself to me.

We toured the fine arts dept, and man, those guys knew their way around oils and brushes.
Huge paintings of fine ladies and scenes.
These were of course roped off, with little signs that read DO NOT TOUCH, GARY

Details unimaginable.
Such clarity of life itself.
How in hell did they do it?
What was their beginning and final brush stroke?
When were they satisfied with it?
Were they ever satisfied?
‘Oh-a yeah-a, that’s-a bich-a I-a painted when I’-a was-a so-a loaded-a I couldn’t-a stand-a up-a.
It’s a real-a piece-a of-a shyt-a.’

We went back to the current framed masterpieces of dumpster findings.
I leaned up against this public scale lookin’ thing and asked the guy admiring it what he weighed.
Guards were moving my direction, so I decided to sit, stay.
I was tired anyway.

Sat square on a pant spud.

I leaped to the air.
‘HEEEEYYAH!’

Sometime later, maybe 5-10 seconds, four security guards swarmed me from all directions. Barney said something like ‘Sir, you are going to have to leave.’
I said something like ‘What, you think I want to spend the night here?’
Then more authority figures came.

It was a nice day outside.
The aroma of the hot dog cart was too much for me.
People of all sorts, strolling thru the park blocks, held my attention while my lady fully satiated herself with ‘art’.
Things just work out sometimes.

[Schultz1]

Those Getty Museum security guards follow me. I am well known there for feeding birds and touching urns.

[Schultz1]

Dammit, Schultzy, if you haven’t done it again.
I’m sittin’ here laughing my ass off, knowing it’s not (entirely) meant to be funny.

Ever read Jack Handey (Deep Thoughts)?
You, sir, are Jack Handey.

This is killer stuff.
All the writers of ‘Deep Thoughts’ would have to do is copy what you write.
‘He was a nice man who smelled of peas and ginger’
"Hey Vladek how are you today?!" I would rarely respond because I knew sometimes he couldn't hear me.

I’m sorry if you’re being serious….. It all just hits my funny bone square on……OK OK I’m not sorry.
.It's fine Gary. Don't care if you laugh.

Cheers to you, Schultzy

[GaryO]

Those Getty Museum security guards follow me. I am well known there for feeding birds and touching urns.

1) Is it Ok if I just call you Jack?
2) Can I steal yer material?

OK, serious, I'd really like to sit with you one fine evening, sip a few beers, and talk about yesterday.....with a recorder.

No, really. You've got stories. Poland for god's sake. Police officer in Poland....man.
I have no idea what that would be like......

[Schultz1]

Well. Back in Poland there was not much going on. So we would just sit and wait for a call to come in from some guy on patrol. If one came in it was usually two drunks fighting, robbery(few items taken) or a car is stolen. Our old cruisers were sold to the public(very few were bought) I used to see young kids take them out and go do little races or some drunk men using it as a party van.

[GaryO]

Geez, sounds like a buncha heaps.
Well, sounds like working town USA.
Good wages for a patrolman?
Benefits?
Good hours?

[Greeny]

100?

[Schultz1]

I was rarely on patrol. Hours were nice. I got home at any random though because it depended on what was going on. Wages, enough for me to get bills paid, live in a home(take note that Poland has a high living price) get food, go on trips.

[GaryO]

100?

Uh, Greeny, in regard to your numeric dissertation (and quite eloquently written I might add), my astute forensic abilities can only come up with a reference to the page count of this thread. And this only due to the wonderful ramblings of some talented folk, young, middlin’ and old.

And it’s a good place to say that I’ve sequestered this weekend to compile the pile of 200+ pages that’s taking up most the surface of the roll top desk in my den.

Yeah, rain is in the forecast, so no excuses for me to put it off any longer.

Tomorrow morn, about 4:30, I’m going to get up, scare myself to consciousness in the mirror, put my fingers in the grinning glass of water, putting the better half of my teeth in my face, scratch my hind end while peeing for the third time since midnight….., soak my face in the water of my cupped hands, realigning my beard that looked as though I was in a cross wind, loosening the dried drool, the drool of a night filled with REM dreams of chasing (uh) 'cats', wet my scalp, ruining the coif that Patti Labelle’s hairdresser would consider a masterpiece, turn on the coffee, toast a couple English muffins, take a huge dump, stroll to the deck, scratch myself, burp like a sea lion, build a little fire in the pit, and sit in the swing, eventually reading the paper with my lady.

Then

I…..will…..compile.

Edit

Change things

Compile

Edit

All this done on the dining room table.
Neat little piles

Then take a little break

Stroll to the deck, down the steps, and out to the garden.

Open the bunny cage.
Pet the little rabbit.

Delicately take him outta the cage,
using care to keep my hands under his little thumping feet (they get skittish if you don’t),
stroll the path to the end of the garden,

and hurl him over the phucking fence into the waiting teeth of the ravenous mongrels the neighbors call pets.

Then calmly stroll back to compile, edit, change, re-compile.

And if my darling grand kids happen to show up, I’ll be sure to guide the little sweeties toward the back yard for a fun game called search for bunny guts and fur clumps, gently guiding them away from the dining room table with tender words like ‘GET YER MUTHERPHUCKIN’ HANDS AWAY FROM THAT PILE!!'

Yes, tomorrow.

May god be with me.

Ps right now the title is ‘Does a Boy Poop in the Woods’
Catchy, aey?

[Rick69]

Ps. Right now the title is ‘Does a Boy Poop in the Woods’
Catchy, aey?

I seem to be getting your drift... If you get my whiff that is...



(On a completely unrelated note: If I, henceforth, re-name GaryO to Gary Old Dude... See what the initials of the new name make...)