Ken's Efforts on Rubber Duckie's Behalf
Entered: Tuesday, 24 August 2004 - 11:04 HDT
Name: Ken
URL: http://www.eyecreate.net/
E-Mail: ken@eyecreate.net


Dad, who are you trying to call?

A candy manufacturer.

Why?

Because a nice lady on Rance's blog wants me too.

Why?

They have discontinued Wacky Wafers. Shhhhhh. busy again.

Just hit redial.

Thanks, you are a big help.

Daaaad

Yes

Who is Lolita?

She is in jail for trying to kill someones wife.

Daaaaaad, do you love her?

Shhhh, no.

Was she trying to kill Willy Wonka's wife?

Willy Wonka isn't married...shhhhh...I think its ringing...busy

Daaaad, the dog farted.

Shush, I am on the phone and stop pulling on the dog's tail. Damn, its still busy.

Dad, if the phone is so busy that must mean that there are lots of people trying to get Wacky Wafers back into production. Perhaps if they started a nostalgic ad campaign targeting the baby boomers and the baby boom echoers, they may gain a significant market share and revive the product line. It is amazing how short sighted some companies get.

Shhhhh. I am on the phone. Look, here is 50 cents, go to the store and buy yourself some Pixy Stix and quite buggin' me while I am on the phone and take that smelly dog with ya.

A Plea From Rubber Duckie
Dear A.S.,

If you have any love in your heart for me at all, even a tiny speck, please give this front page billing. You have loads of visitors to your site...Perhaps you could make a difference in the world, bring an icon back to life. Please, help the cause!

**********************

I went to visit nostalgic candy sites as I have a sugar tooth the size of Mount Rushmore. I love candy cigarettes, bubblegum cigars, lipstick candy and fun dip, but my favorite of all time was Willy Wonka's Wacky Wafers. I had no idea, but apparently, they've been discontinued! What am I to do? There is nothing similar on the market to satisfy my craving! I found the following information on a website...

Bring Wacky Wafers Back !!!!!

When Nestle Bought The Wonka Line Of Candy They Discontinued The Wacky Wafers.

Nestle Says There Is No Demand For Them.

Let's Show Nestle They Are Wrong !!!

If you Love Wacky Wafers Please Call Nestle And Let Them Know We Want Them Back

1-800-358-1971 M-F 8AM - 8PM ET


Please, FOR THE LOVE OF LOLITA, call. Call if you love Wacky Wafers, call if you love me, call for the sake of saying you did something proactive today, but please, if you're reading this, CALL!

Wheeler's Story Part II (of II)
Part II- The Incredible Railroad Fiasco and Brown Paint

Before I finish the story, let me point one important thing out. Aside from certain names, this story is true. It is not my attempt to gain an audience ... it just happens that I like the tale and deem it worth sharing with the loyal crew here:

Peeler had the Jag. Some may point out that the Jag was a better car than the `Vette, but not so... if was older and in need of some bodywork: like any respectable Jag, that is. It was brown, and Peeler wasn't too keen on the color though. What this meant was that he didn't plan to drive it delicately, if you know what it's like to drive a car that's not yours and that happens to be brown.

So off he went to visit his friend in the woods. The friend was a well known, um, well, let's say doctor as the profession is too easy of an identity give-away for the story.

His name was Simon for this story.

Peeler and Simon went way back. They'd been best friends, violent enemies (a short spell of a year when they fought ceaselessly over a certain ballerina from Russia), and accomplices in many nefarious plots and adventures, usually ending up with legal intervention. This was in their younger days though. They were a kind of a regional version of Hunter S. Thompson Twins. (writer not band)

Dropping by unexpected was part of the friendship package.

If Peeler drove the back roads in the most direct route, he could make it to Simon's house in the woods in just under 2 hours.

One night, many months prior though, Simon showed Peeler an alternate route, and this was Peeler's mission.

This route cut half the time off the journey. It was along railroad tracks though. Or ON railroad tracks to be more specific. As the crow flies, right past Simon's house.

So that day, Peeler found the spot to get on the tracks.

What he realized quickly though was that the Jag's wheelbase was substantially different from the car Simon drove on the tracks, and there was no way for him to smoothly "ride the rails".

After a few feet of bouncing up and down on the railroad ties violently, Peeler once again thought about the color of the Jag, the Chinese babies, the nurses, the chicken he never got to eat, and the sickening thud of the mannequins, and vowed not to give up. In his words:

"I was STILL down 2 grand and I suspected I may never see it. In fact, I sat there on the tracks and became CONVINCED that the boss was ratting me out to the cops after all... and that when I got back to my apartment, there would be more than just raimen noodles and a box of adult diapers in my living room."

(Obviously I just let that explanation go)

Convinced now that he would be in jail in less than 24 hours, and making eye contact once again with the hideous brown paint, he resolved to continue the journey.

An obvious lesson, perhaps, but 40mph on slatted railroad ties does bad things to a car- and also bad things to the driver. Peeler bounced around madly in the Jag, but he made time. He smiled happily through the crazy ride though, knowing how much time he would be saving and looking forward to drinking whiskey with Simon.

Now as Peeler told me this story between large gulps of cider, I already saw the unfortunate ending, and I'm sure you do too. But you're wrong, as was I. It had absolutely NOTHING to do with a train or a moose, or even a ferocious rabbit. It was much more unexpected.

Somewhere approximately 2 miles from Simon's house in the woods, and perhaps a minute before the axle might have finally fallen off the Jag, Peeler lost vision ahead.

Just before the chaos, Peeler thought he heard the sound of a distant lawnmower. Then there was a large thud and an explosion of white and everything went dark.

When Peeler opened his eyes from brief unconsciousness, (he hit the steering wheel soundly as he wore no seatbelt) he saw a tree has mysteriously embedded itself in the front of the car. It didn't take long before he realized that it was he who actually veered off the tracks and hit the tree.

But the unusual part was that the front of the car and most of the windshield was covered in a white powder.

Peeler extricated himself from the car and walked around to the side of it.

Just then, another loud crash nearby and another explosion of white. Peeler hit the ground fast and covered his head.

When no more crashes erupted after a period minutes, Peeler courageously went to the front of the car, dipped his finger in the white substance and sniffed it. Then tasted it.

Flour.

One thing that I forgot to mention and which makes the story actually have an ending that makes sense... his pal Simon was a pilot and owned a small plane. And on that very day he had been cruising around, above the railroad tracks, looking for the afternoon train that hauled large cars of exposed coal. It was a game of his to bring a few bags of flour, and practice dropping them into the blackness of the coal, just for target practice fun.

When he saw the Jag on the tracks, he knew it could only be one person, and decided to give Peeler a scare. What he meant by a scare was simply to hit the tracks a 100 feet in front of the Jag.

Simon wasn't good at the bombing game though, and the direct hit was pure luck.

The second hit, he assured Peeler some 2 hours and one bottle of Jameson's Irish whiskey later, was just to make sure he was ok. Once he saw Peeler panic and hit the ground, he knew everything was just fine.

Like I said. I was the 70's, and the definitions of `luck' and `fine' were substantially different then.

Peeler decided to quit the car lot though, and also never returned to his apartment. The next day, he moved nearly 800 miles away to a different city. He drove Simon's MG calmly and without incident to his new city. It was a gift in lieu of the bombing, and Peeler certainly wasn't going to argue with him. Shortly after moving to the new city, Peeler landed a job as the head accountant for a large mortgage firm: A position he held for nearly 8 weeks until he took a job as a deep mine explosives expert on the other side of the country.

But that's a story for another day.

Yrs,

-Wheeler

Wheeler Jones's Story, Part I (of II)
The Peeler Flones Chronicles- Volume 12 Part I - Bodies and Chinese Babies

(as told by Wheeler Jones)

It was the 70's. For that alone, much can be forgiven. Any error in judgement or important detail omitted from this account can only be attributed to that.

Peeler Flones, long before his recent litigation with me, used to be a car salesman. Worse than that though: he was really good at it. Automotive sales in the 70's was a cutthroat business. Perhaps it still is. Peeler doesn't sell cars anymore, nor does he like to discuss it. I received this account over a large jug of high-octane apple cider. Or 4 jugs- I don't recall exactly. At one point there was a desperate urinal pinball episode that muddied such details.

Anyway, Peeler snagged a job at a used car lot outside of ------ . It was a prime spot, only a ? mile from a go-cart track and an historic ice cream stand. In other words, there was plenty of traffic and desperate people with cash in their pocket.
Peeler was a born salesman. He knew that he wasn't selling cars. He wasn't telling himself either. That's poetic romance and sheer conceit. Peeler was selling lies. That's all.

After 1 week on the job, Peeler has amassed nearly $4000 in commission. This was unheard of. The owner complained to Peeler that while he OWED Peeler the money, he was short on cash. Peeler questioned the owner on this as the margin was great on his sales, and it was a cash margin.

The owner recanted a long, sordid, but empty tale in response about 3 adopted Chinese babies, a mistress, and something about oil prices. Peeler refused to back down though and threatened the owner in a not too subtle way. A crowbar is a very fine negotiation tool he told me.

The owner backed down and agreed to give Peeler $2000 immediately and the best car on the lot to drive for a couple of days until the rest of the cash could be wrestled from little Ling Chu.
Peeler took the cash and the car.

(Now as a reader, you might wonder why Peeler simply didn't quit... I asked him this as well and his response was the following: "I had some trouble with a gaggle of nurses and a bucket of chicken and needed to stay under the radar." That was enough for me.)

Peeler drove off that day in the car. It was a 70's Corvette Stingray. He liked the car and decided to take a tour of downtown ------- . (I promised not to mention the city as it could nail Peeler down legally) 80mph downtown in the city and a bad thing happened.

Something to do with a bicycle courier and an unexpected left turn.

The outcome was swift.

The car veered hard left, hit the curb, then through the front window of a certain large clothing store.
In Peelers words now: "I heard the crash. Felt it too. Time slowed down. That's just not some movie bullshit. It really does slow down. My life didn't flash in front of my eyes though, but I did briefly think about the Chinese babies and my two grand. Then the bodies started flying. First I saw a leg pass over the t-top, then an arm, then a whole person, each with a sickening thud. They're not lying about that either. Thuds really can be sickening. It was kind of a hollow thud too. And that made it worse. I closed my eyes and kept my foot hard on the brake. When the crashing and the thuds stopped, I opened my eyes. It was really my day. I was lucky. I didn't murder a single person. Store mannequins. Dismembered and fucked up beyond reason sure. But no people."

Peeler got out of the car and did what any reputable car salesman would do. He fled.

Later he called his boss on a payphone. Told him what happened, and immediately suggested reporting the car stolen from the lot. The boss, while initially annoyed, liked this turn of events, knowing that the car would fetch more written off than sold. He also liked the prospect of having this on Peeler should there be any crowbar negotiations in the future. He told Peeler to come back to the lot.

Peeler did this.

When he got back to the lot, his boss informed him that he made the call to the police and coincidentally, they knew where the car was. They would be stopping by shortly.

Peeler wasn't worried. He changed clothes by then and had given himself an impromptu brush cut at his apartment, just in case someone could ID him. Peeler knew this was probably overkill, but he didn't want to risk it.
A few hours later the police had come and gone, Peeler sold another car, and the boss decided to cut out early. Peeler, feeling a bit frisky from the sale and the crash asked about another loaner car.

The boss, feeling magnanimous and satisfied that he was going to make out damn well in this whole fiasco, threw Peeler the keys to a Jaguar. Peeler was ok with this and jumped in, thinking a ride in the country might be just the thing for him. He had friend out there, and knew a shortcut to the house.

-Wheeler Jones

End of Volume 12 Part I

NEXT: Part II- The Incredible Railroad Fiasco and the Injustice of Speed



***********

Administrative Notes: The conclusion of this story will be posted next week. Also, a Rubber Duckie story is in the hopper.

Have a nice weekend,

A.S.

Re: Various Things
Re: Rocky. Boy, sending him to the mound was a miscalculation. The thinking: his experiences would provide, at the very least, pure, unadulterated escapism. Rock star, hot groupie, extraordinary circumstances... But you hated it. (Sadly, I think that had many of Rocky's critics known the truth about him, he'd have instead received ten times as many invitations to naked bowling parties, links to pornographic pix, etc., as I have. (Incidentally, he would like that.))

As for [Withheld]--let's call her W if only because it's easier to type--very few moments of her life are devoid of glamor. So it seemed she might be of interest to you along similar lines. In hindsight, Ben Hecht's take on The Famous should have been taken into account: "We find pleasure not in how they surpass us but how they resemble us." Maybe that's why the entry on this blog that prompted the most energetic responses was about buying toilet paper. And now that I think about it, which is more interesting? The fab details of W's trailer on her current movie set or the details of the one in which she'll be living fifteen years hence--once her star has dimmed and the money's gone--with the out-of-work grip she married, the three kids, and the additional seventy-five pounds.

I could write about when I bought Q-Tips. Also, there was that time back in my zany, younger days when I purchased gum. I'm off grocery stories and such these days however, but thanks for asking. Onto escapist stuff. If I manage to get a book out, by the way, perhaps you'll know I wrote it because I'll neither confirm nor deny writing it. Or maybe you'll recognize the writing. Or maybe chapter 23 will give away the game, the one where the hero buys toilet paper and drives away in his Viper.

In the meantime, as one or two of you have asked, what about this site?

One possibility: We stick with the Find-a-new-Rance strategy. Right, that hasn't worked so good so far. Last week, though, a large media corporation contacted the Administrative Staff and offered to run a New Rance contest. Say we agree? And say they find someone? My thinking is the blog would find itself in the same quandary it was early this summer: too many comments for the Administrative Staff to adequately moderate--at least until the government legislates a thirty-hour day. Yeah, I know, I know: the too-many-comments thing was the result of errors I made. But you've spilled milk before too, right? So let's move on to a solution.

People often suggest: Why not just have no comments at all? I like that solution least of all, because I like the community that's blossomed here. I had no idea that'd be the case at the onset, but now it is.

The comments have to be moderated though. Otherwise you'd regularly have to page through epic-length posts from lunatics. (By the way, this is not meant to denigrate lunatics in general. Dear lunatics: Some of your posts have been terrific. It's just that, on a purely statistical basis, lunatics tend to ramble more than your garden-variety sane posters.)

So what will there be to comment about? I think a lot of our regulars are more entertaining than any of the New Rance candidates. That's not saying an awful lot, is it? Let me put it another way: If Agent Pepito, BabyGirlCrow, Bard S, Curiousgirl, Gigglechick, Ginny, Jay, Lora, Wheeler Jones, Ken, Gus Openshaw, Robyn, Rubber Ducky, Shorty, or Waxwing (to name just a few) were to publish anything, I'd wait on line at the bookstore to buy it. (Yeah, we know: "DuckIE"). So I hope they keep it up--who knows, maybe some good might come of it--and others join them. Also, no promises here, but in the event some new misery befalls me, maybe I'll have something with which to entertain you. Good chance of that come November, I fear.

For now, Wheeler Jones has sent in a terrific story. It's on deck. Rubber Duckie, if you're a bird of your word, the Administrative Staff will be expecting something darkly comical from you. After that, we'll see. And if it doesn't work, maybe we'll go bowling.

Later,

R

Coverage of the Vampire
The Vampire lives the life of a vampire. Born and raised in the Miami area, he now has an apartment in Transylvania, has learned Hungarian, sleeps during the day in a coffin, and drinks blood. However, he only drinks a cup of it per day, and he purchases it. Also (most disappointing), he cannot turn into a bat.

In sum, there was little in the way of real anecdotal value in his 1,622 Hungarian words, other than that people do strange things, the price of coffins is astounding, and occasionally our man cuts the blood with club soda.

Next vampire, please. And if you cannot turn into a bat, please do not apply.


Administrative Notes:

Rance will post in the very near future. In response to a reader query as to whether Rance and the Administrative Staff are one, Rance will neither confirm nor deny it. He added that, similarly, he will neither confirm nor deny that he is Rance.

Vampire/Rance Update
The Vampire's essay, which arrived during the night, is in (we think) Hungarian. We are reluctant to post it until we have some idea of what it says.

In the meantime, Gus Openshaw has agreed to pinch hit. The initial entries from his "Whale-Killing Journal" are below. We are pleased to share them with you.

Lastly, at some point in the near future, Rance will write in on the significance of Rocky and [Withheld]'s entries, and share his hopes for the future of this blog.

Have a nice weekend,

The Administrative Staff


GUS OPENSHAW'S WHALE-KILLING JOURNAL


Friday, 11 June 2004: I Got A Fish To Kill

Don't make me relive the details just now. The short of it: a whale ate my wife, kid and right arm. And he got away. For the time being.

Now, there are these Indians in the state of Washington. They have one of those licenses you can get--because of a special religious dispensation or whatever--to kill one whale a year. For probation agreement reasons that I can't get into, I had to get myself one of these licenses before I could go back out on the water--let alone set a toe on a dock--without getting shot at by the damn Coast Guard. So I went up to Washington to pow-wow with those Indians.

Prior to the incident, I worked on the line at a cat food cannery. Literally the worst stinking job you can get. Point is, I was earning just north of squat. But I'd married way better than I deserved. And when she died, I was worth--including everything from the house to my boxer shorts--$515,200. Oddly, the Indian Chief priced the license at $515,000, take it or leave it. I took it, gladly. I later learned that my lawyer had "coincidentally" done some "legal work" for the same Indians that same day, getting him a check $51,500. But I was too busy readying my boat to care about the lawyer. My thoughts were on getting to the neck of the Caribbean where a particularly fat sperm whale had been sighted.

I bought an old wooden cabin cruiser from a geezer in Port Helslop, Washington for $20. Wood boats are a bitch is why. Takes a good couple hundred hours to scrape and paint the hulls every year. Invention of fiberglass made wood boats' asses obsolete. So folks with wood boats they don't use no more are left with this dilemma: "Do I keep paying two grand a year to keep this sucker in dry dock, or do I pay some guy twice that much to come over, chain saw my family heirloom apart and haul it to the dump?" So the price for these craft is zip. The twenty bucks was for the gas in her. And it was a good fifty bucks worth of gas.

A few days later, a few leagues north of the Equator, I upgraded to a 180-foot superyacht that came with this computer I'm blogging on now. I'll get to that next time I blog. Now I got to hit the head.


Saturday, 12 June 2004: For Once, I Get Lucky

A few leagues north of the Equator, I was dozing at the controls. Had been sitting there like a statue for three straight days. Suddenly, I looked up and realized I was about to broadside a 180-foot superyacht.

I grabbed the wheel and spun for all I was worth. Unfortunately, my damn body keeps forgetting that, thanks to the bastard, I got no right arm no more. So I wasn't worth much. It was enough though to swerve just in time to miss clipping the stern.

It was odd the yacht hadn't so much as honked. No one seemed to be aboard. Doubtful everyone on a boat that big'd be below deck at one time. No lifeboats lowered. Copter still on the helipad. No swimmers in sight. She seemed empty and adrift.

I tossed up a line and climbed aboard. My panting from the two-story climb (having forgot I only had one damn arm again) was the only sound on the whole craft. I nosed around. Most of the staterooms had people's clothes and crap in them. Dinner for a dozen or so--three-day-old steak and flat-as-my-first-wife champagne--was sitting on a dining table the foredeck. A bunch of clothes were splayed out on the quarter. Weird as fuck, huh?

Here's what I think happened: There's an old maritime tradition that when you cross the equator on a new boat, everyone--passengers, crew, chihuahuas, whoever--jumps in. This champagned-up bunch evidently stripped down and hopped over the rail without realizing they had no way to re-board. These sleek superyachts got no ladders and crap like that. Hull's too sheer to climb up unless you got suction cups up and down your limbs. So they drowned. Poor bastards, I thought. Truth is though, I always feel a bit better when people are stupider or have worse luck than me.

There's another old maritime tradition. It goes something like, "Lost at sea, belongs to me." It basically means if you're enough of an idiot to lose your boat, you don't deserve it, and whoever's the finder is the rightful keeper. I doubt that would stand up in court. And if it gets even within a whiff of court, I'll probably take the rap for the missing passengers and crew. But I've got bigger fish to kill. With that in mind I cut loose my S.S. Piece of Crap cabin cruiser, which at that point was only afloat cause the termites were holding hands, and took the helm of my new superyacht. Unlike the cabin cruiser, she'll be able to keep pace with the bastard (sperm whales can do 30 mph). Then turn him into cold cuts.

I anchored her off St. Kitts. I rowed ashore and pawned a bunch of Rolexes and crap I'd found aboard. Netted $44,500 in cash. I then tried to hire some crew. Found a couple old guys with harpoon experience. Best I could get otherwise was a couple drug addicts who might have waited around the rest of their lives without getting another berth. When you go into a fish-stinking island seamen's bar and offer cash for a mystery job on a boat you won't name, the best and the brightest sailors don't usually line up. Gotta log off now because one of my new hires just came into the captain's quarters and wants to kill me.

Monday, 14 June 2004: The Cook Tries To Filet Me
http://blubberybastard.tripod.com/blog/index.blog?from=20040614

Ken's Wooloomooloo Story
If Rance were to agree to every offer received from porn sites, escort services and the like of free samples in exchange for promoting their sites, he would be blind, if still alive. That said, we are not opposed to promoting some prostitutes. Accordingly, we give you the following story from reader favorite Ken (ken@eyecreate.net):


I am not applying to be Rance nor wanting to be Rance. This blog is a tremendous amount of work for no financial reward. I may apply if an Administrative Support Staff position opens.

Several years ago I lived in a hostel in a part of Sydney Australia called Wooloomooloo. We had many backpackers from all walks of life pass through this hostel. The hostel was situated halfway between the busy downtown core of Sydney and an even busier red light district called the King's Cross. The downtown was connected to the Cross with a busy arterial road called Williams street that was filled with prostitutes once the sun dipped below the horizon. Williams Street was a great place to buy a Rolls Royce, Ferrari, Bentley or Jaguar. It was quite a sight to see prostitutes dressed in frilly knickers lit up at night by the lights displaying expensive cars. The Cross was littered with junkies, sex shops, travellers, restaurants and nightclubs. As you walked through the Cross, you would be greeted by greasy looking characters dressed in faux tuxedos trying to sell you a seat to a peak show. One of the clubs had staff wear t-shirts emblazened with "We don't call police" on the chest. The Cross was a slice of humanity that most people would never see or really want to see. I went to the Cross to people watch and eat. I can tell you there is never a boring moment there and that I loved the place.

One traveller who came to stay at the hostel was a military guy from the U.K. on leave named Simon. He was a nice clean cut soft spoken guy who shared my enthusiasm for people watching. After work we would go up to the Cross and get a bite to eat and watch the locals at the park. Sometimes we would play pool with the Samoan's at the "We don't call police" club. Simon had a gift of going up to people and introducing himself. He didn't appear to care who he talked to, which was fine by me.

On the way back to the hostel one night, Simon suggested that we take the other side of the road back. I never went down this side of the road to get back to the hostel. The side of Williams street that I walked always had prostitutes dressed for the warm weather which meant for an entertaining stroll to the Cross and back. The other side of the street was populated with people in various stages of a sex change or trannies. I didn't have a problem with the people across the street, it just wasn't my cup of tea. As we were walking along, we see a large Fijian woman sitting on a bench. Simon walks up to her and says "Hi Rosie, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine, Ken". Rosie and I shake hands. Simon tells me that Rosie gives the best blow jobs in all of Wooloomooloo. I wondered how she would fit that on her resume, but way-to-go Rosie. While we were standing there chatting, a tattoo covered merchant marine approaches her. They work out a deal and then disappear behind the building. Rosie knows this customer and tells us she won't be long. When she returns, we talk for a few more minutes and then say goodbye. Rosie is the only woman that works that side of the street and has worked out her territory with the people down the street.

As we stroll along, we meet up with a large breasted prostitute whose new name was Sheila. Simon strikes up a conversation with her and is very curious about her new breasts and what her name was before she changed it to Sheila. It was unusual for me to see a woman with a deep voice and an adams apple. She didn't see us as a threat and told us her birth name was Bruce and was saving up money to complete her transformation. Words didn't appear to be enough for my friend and he asked Sheila if he could feel her boobs to see how real they felt. Sheila was more that happy to oblige and thrust her chest out and Simon began to squeeze in earnest. He remarked on how real they felt and was quite impressed with the consistency. In his enthusiasm, he looked over his shoulder to me and said "Hey Ken, these are fantastic! check 'em out" and with that waved me over. Sheila was enjoying the attention and waved me over too. In fact, a small crowd started to form and I was feeling pressured. They could see that I was feeling a little awkward as it isn't everyday that you are invited to feel the consistency of someone's breasts on a street corner and have an audience. They tried to assure me that they felt real which led me to think "uh, how many boobs have you squeezed?" The air felt electric while they were waiting for me to decide. I stood there realising that this was just about the oddest situation that I had ever been in. I am not the shy type but I just couldn't bring myself to check 'em out. After a moment of silence, I declined their more than generous offer to moans of disappointment. I said "Sorry ladies, I was brought up a gentleman and I just can't do it."



Administrative Note:

The vampire is promising us something by the end of the week.

Rocky Rebuts
Over the weekend, Rocky wrote:

"I told the same story to a bunch of people on the last tour and they pretty much all laughed. I guess I know who to fire now. Thanks to you guys for the honest feedback. I guess I learned my words play better with instruments at a ton of decibels, lights and smoke behind them. One last thing: a Dodge Viper is a Hyundai compared to a couple of my cars, so go blog yourselves."



Administrative Notes:

Rubber Duckie: You're a hit. If you haven't already been pulled off the road and whisked away by publishing companies, please write again.

Bubba: If you've got a yarn, don't be shy.

We are currently in negotiations with the vampire to put something onto paper (or keyboard, to be literal) for us.

Rubber Duckie's Story
We're afraid even the sample of comments we posted may drive yesterday's Rance applicant, "Rocky," to O.D. Here instead of the tentatively scheduled entry written by the another Rance applicant, the vampire (who, as one reader put it, "sucked" anyway) is Rubber Duckie's story, preceded by a brief introductory note from the author:



As my pseudo partin' gift, here is....the rest of the story. I've copied and pasted it all here so's it's an easier read, especially for the new comers. Ya'll stay busy now, you hear! I want lots of tales and stories to read when I get back.

**********



As you all know, I drive a big rig, and thru the end evers of my hard work I meet lots of...shall we say interestin', yes interestin', folk. I have a regular drive-by acquaintance who has had the opportunity to ride with me on more than one occasion. She definitely walks to the beat of a different drum, but not a more genuine person will you meet. The following is a story told to me by her. I will refer to her from here on out as "drive-by". It is repeated purely for your entertainment value as I found it highly intriguin'. The name of any person mentioned herein is merely for the tellin' of this tale. They are innocent as far as I know and in no way have been connected to the crime at hand.

Okay. Here goes....

Back durin' the Beltway Sniper days "drive-by" was a cable news network addict. Since 9-11 she rarely changed the channel to even catch her local news. She was on permanent stand-by awaitin' the next big attack. I'm sure this was from a combination of PTSD and OCD, but regardless, the woman spent every waking moment watchin' cable news networks.

She flipped around from CNN to FOX to MSNBC.

On October 11th, 2002 drive-by was tuned in to MSNBC as they were givin' live coverage of a sniper hit that mornin'. Chris Jansing was on live with the 'manager' of the gas station where this latest attack had occurred. The exchange of the interview was as follows:

CHRIS JANSING: I have on the phone Michael Scenna, he is the manager of the Exxon station where the shooting occured. Michael, thank you for joining us.

MICHAEL SCENNA: Yes, I'm here.

CHRIS JANSING: What can you tell us about what happened this morning, where were you, what, what did you see and hear?

MICHAEL SCENNA: I'm the manager here and I was working when, when, when this all went down this morning, and uh, basically this gentleman, he comes into the store everyday, and he's very well known, and everybody likes him, and it was just horrible to be, um, what had happened to him.

CHRIS JANSING: Did you see anything? Did you hear anything? We know that there has been one guy who works across the street who reported seeing this white van, um, but what did you see?

MICHAEL SCENNA: I saw the man, um, being snowballed by Howard Stern.

Obviously, it was a prank call. How he ever got past the staff at MSNBC to be live on the air is beyond me. It just goes to show you how desperate the competition was to one-up the other. They didn't even verify this guy was who he said he was.

Regardless, drive-by was bothered by this whole scene, mainly because she had no idea what the term "snowballed" meant. She is a detective at heart and she began to scour the internet lookin' for a definition or explanation of "snowballed". She looked and she looked and she looked, all to no avail. (BTW, if any of you know exactly what this term means she'd be indebted to you for life. It's been a thorn in her side ever since.) She did, however, luck upon a blog where a poster had commented on the interview with a play by play of what was said. To this day, that post is still there and as proof of the authenticity of this story, here is a link to it.

http://www.inarguendo.blogspot.com/2002_10_06_inarguendo_archive.html

As drive-by re-read the words spoken by the prankster, somethin' stuck out to her....the name he had used....Michael Scenna. Now remember, I told you drive-by was a sleuth through and through and her wheels started spinnin' right about now. Michael Scenna....Michael Scenna...What was the significance of that name?

As I have said, Drive-by polkaed to her own accordion, the likes of which none of us will EVER be able to hear, regrettably so. She had paid painfully close attention to every drip of information regardin' the sniper. She was bankin' on the theory that it was a new form of terrorism bein' played out in our country's capital...or is that capitol? Oh WTH, you know what I mean. She had written notes on the backs of envelopes, magazines, napkins, ANYTHING that was handy at the time a vital piece of information came across the waves and she kept them all on her bedside table. In her mind, this kept her in control of the situation and it was somethin' she could do to be proactive against the terror that literally kept her a prisoner in her own home, in her own bedroom, in her own bed, in front of the TV 24/7 watchin' cable news.

As she read the name Michael Scenna a bee started buzzin' in her bonnet. She gathered her bedside notes and laid them out on the bed like a ladder. She purposefully climbed thru the stack a knowin' what she was lookin' for. Ah ha! There it was! The name she had been lookin' for. Was it Michael Scenna you ask? Well no, it wasn't.

It was Michael's Craft Store. "Now what in tarnation does one have to do with the other?" you ask me, and to that my only reply is... "polka".

By this time Drive-by had a "wanted" poster of the twisted perp in her mind's eye that was drawn in great detail by the numerous "experts" framed within her boob tube. They theorized and hypothesized and espoused that the sniper, without a doubt, had to be a white, middle-aged male with military experience, possibly former CIA. They went on to say that by this time (11 shootings had occurred at this point with 8 deaths) the killer would most likely try to insinuate himself into the investigation by either callin' in a tip or hangin' around the crime scene, etc. He was smart. He was calculatin'. He was sadistic.

Drive-by was now beginnin' to formulate a theory of her own. She drug out her road maps and pulled up her Yahoo and began to plot. By the time she was done she had drawn out every major road in the tri-state area. And even though she never so much as set a foot East of the Mississippi 'ceptin for that one trip to New York, she now knew the Beltway like the back of her hand so's she could navigate it blindfolded at rush hour if she had to.

Now, the only thing left for her to do was to test her theory out. Would it fly or would it flop?

Could he be so brazen? So bold? Was the fiend attemptin' to nationally reveal himself under the cloak of his own name, all the while thumbin' his nose at the fuzz and G-men? Really, if you thought about it, it was flippin' brilliant! What better way for a disgruntled ex-goverment, possibly CIA employee to get revenge upon his malevolent peers than to make them all look like fools?

Drive-by's heart was beatin faster than a bee's wings and her stomach was boilin' up a brew. She marked them off one by one.

Scene #1 - 13850 Georgia Ave., Aspen Hill, Maryland. The exact location: Michael's Craft Store.

Scene #2 - 2201 Randolph Road, Wheaton, Maryland. The nearest Michae'ls Craft Store was 2.8 miles at a straight shot.

Scene #3 - 11411 Rockville Pike, Rockville, Maryland. The nearest Michael's Craft Store is 1509 Rockville Pike, 2.2 miles at a straight shot.

Scene #4 - The intersection of Aspen Hill Rd. and Connecticut Ave., Aspen Hill, Maryland. The nearest Michael's Craft Store is 0.1 mile at 13850 Georgia Ave, just around the corner.

Scene #5 - 3701 Rossmoor Blvd., Silver Spring, Maryland. The nearest Michael's Craft Store is 1.6 miles at a straight shot.

Scene #6 - This shootin' did not support her theory.

Scene #7 - This shootin' did not support her theory.

Scene #8 - The exact location was Michael's Craft Store in Fredericksburg, Virginia.

Scene #9 - The location was Bowie Middle School in Maryland. At the time Drive-by believes there was a Michael's Craft Store within a mile of the school. The current data from Michael's shows a store within 2 miles, just across the interstate from the school.

***It should be noted that by this time, according to news reports, employees of Michael's Craft Stores were floodin' the tip lines wonderin' if the shooter could be a disgruntled ex-employee of Michael's.***

Scene #10 - 7203 Sudley Road in Manassis, Virginia. The nearest Michael's Craft Store is 0.9 mile at a straight shot up the road.

Scene #11 - This shootin' did not support her theory.

Scene #11 brought her back to the present day, October 11th, and she sat back and surveilled the roads and dots and notes before her. It was an awesome amount of information. I figure Drive-by had more data compiled on her Vellux comforter than Chief Moose ever had lyin' on his desk.

Now, what to do....what to do? She felt she needed another shootin' for confirmation before feelin' confident enough to call the police. At this point they'd just write her off as a crazy loon, and she was right. Hell, it turned out even the dayum snipers couldn't get thru on the tip line for bein' written off as crazies. They got hung up on twice.

Yes, Drive-by had to sit back, be patient and wait....

In case any of you out there are still cogitatin' as to what, exactly, Drive-by's theory was, I'll elaborate. Drive-by had summized that the sniper had placed himself directly underneath the noses of the Feds. He was so close, in fact, that had they only inhaled they would have smelled the audacity emanatin' from his egotistical pores. He had wittingly outed himself on national television under the guise of anonymity. No prankster would call in a prank usin' their real name....or would they? As I said, if you thought about it long enough you'd soon see the genius of it all. The sniper had gotten himself on TV talkin' about his very own doin's, usin' his own VERY REAL name, and mockin every single one of them and his victim, all under the supposition of pretense. (Did I just say that? I hope you all know what it means...If you do, clarify please.)

And if all of that wasn't a bag of bubble gum and a pack of candy cigarettes, then hear this. She had also deduced that he, Michael, was leavin' a flashin' neon sign at every crime scene pointin' right at him, all to the unawares of the cops.

But as I said, she would wait with clammy hands and baited (anchovies to be exact) breath until the next shootin'. By her calculations she had narrowed down the possibilities of the next crime scene to three locations and if he struck at any one of 'em she was dialin' the fuzz.

As some of you may or may not know, Drive-by didn't have to wait for long. It was a mere three days later and the sniper had struck again. This time his victim was an FBI agent in the parkin' lot of The Home Depot in Church Falls, Virginia. "And where," might you ask, "would the nearest Michael's Craft Store be?" "Well," I'd say, "right next door, of course!"

This was it. The turnin' point. Drive-by knew what she had to do. She had to call the tip line.

She gathered her papers together and organized them by date and then went to Yahoo to print out the page that had started this snowball a rollin' in the first place. But by now, you see, Drive-by had been so overwhelmed with the drama that she no longer remembered where exactly this had all began. But YOU remember, don't you.

"Snowballed".

When she had first stumbled upon the transcript this was the word she had put in the search box that led her to find it, however, this time she would not. (Not not find it, but not use that word.)

(Now I realize some of you are thinkin' right this very minute that Drive-by was off her rocker. But I have to say that up until this point in the story I viewed her as walkin' a thin line between genius and insanity and I couldn't quite make up my mind which way she was leanin'. But the events to follow would make me a believer and I do believe that I heard an accordion a playin' in the distance, if only for a short while...)

You see, for some reason it had never popped into Drive-by's noggin to do a name search for a Michael Scenna. She had been so entangled in the mappin' and the waitin' that it had never crossed her mind. As fate would have it, instead of typin' in "snowballed" to find her site she typed in the name "Michael Scenna".As expected, the blog site popped up awaitin' her mouse's click when Drive-by's eye was drawn to the link below it. It was a web site by the name of namebase.org.

Now for those of you who don't know what namebase.org is, let me give you the run down/low-down/pertinent info...Namebase.org is a website that contains a " cumulative index of books and clippings containing citations to names of individuals and groups involving :
-assassinations, organized crime, and scandals
-Wall Street and transnational corporations
-foreign policy and media establishments
-political elites from the Right and Left
-Cold War history and intelligence

My understandin' is that it is funded and ran by a group known as Public Information Research, Inc. and basically their goal is to make everything that is "classified" unclassified. Anything they can or have gotten their hands on they make public.

Drive-by's mouse clicked away in a flash. She tore at her hair and prayed it wasn't an outdated cache and then what to her wonderin' eyes did appear.... You're thinkin' what, a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer?

Helllll no!

It was that name again, only it read as follows:

SCENNA MICHAEL A
Tanzania 1974-1976 Belgium 1978-1983

Anti-CIA Club of Diplomats. Spooks in U.S. Foreign Service. 1983 (8)
Ray,E... Dirty Work 2. 1979 (456-7)
State Dept. Biographic Register. 1977
Win Magazine 1976-06-17 (6)

In case you don't understand what all this means, once more, I'll explain. What this information was sayin' is that Michael A. Scenna had served in Tanzania from '74 to 76 and in Belgium from '78 to '83 as a spook. In Enlish, he was a CIA officer. If you want, you can copy and paste this link http://www.namebase.org/cgi-bin/nb01?_SCENNA_MICHAEL_Aand check it out for yourselves. If you click on each book title they give you a brief synopsis and if you subscribe you will actually get to read the info. on the person you're lookin' at.

Needless to say, Drive-by's jaw had hit the floor upon readin' same. Her hands were shakin' and her mouth had gone dry and she was thiiiiiiiis close to peein' her pants. This was just too much. Too much! She immediately did a People Search and no longer to her surprise, she found a Michael Scenna, middle-aged, living very near to the Washington DC Metropolitan area. I'm not gonna elaborate here as you can always look this tid bit up for yourself.

So, now we know the followin':

A Michael Scenna phoned in a prank to MSNBC regardin' a sniper shootin'.

Several of the shootin's had been at a Michael's Craft Store, and all were relatively close in distance to a Michael's Craft Store.

A Michael Scenna had served as a CIA officer in the 70's and 80's. He was now middle-aged and would be presumably retired.

A Michael Scenna lived near the Washington area.

Drive-by sucked in a deep breath and dialed the numbers. It goes without sayin' that she was scared crapless and the hairs were standin' up on her head. It was 2:30 a.m. Eastern time. Hopefully they weren't too busy to answer her call.

A man's voice was heard on the other line and Drive-by let it all out in one super sonic, run-on, never takin' a breath sentence. When she had spat it all out she came to a screachin' halt, a waitin' for what was to come next. She expected humiliation but all she heard was silence. Then a man's voice nicely asked her if she would mind holdin' on for a minute.

They put her on hold! Drive-by stood there and shook like a stop sign in the winds of a hurricane. They left her on hold for at least five minutes, I'm sure all the while settin' up their tape recorders and tracin' the call. When he came back on line he asked her to repeat everythin' she'd just said, only a little slower this time. She recounted her story just like I've told you. They thanked her, took her name, number and address and bid her adieu.

Now Drive-by was just waitin' for the news to announce the arrest of one Michael Scenna. And she waited...and she waited...and she waited. Until one day the story broke that the sniper, no, make that the SNIPERS, had been arrested and neither of them were white or ex-CIA or had the name of Michael.

I must say for the longest time Drive-by believed it all to be a cover-up. That the government had orchestrated the arrest of these two men to cover-up their own stupidity of not knowin' who the real sniper was bein' he had said his name on national TV and ever' crime scene was pointin' to the name "Michael". Had they arrested her man and her story got out as to how SHE 'solved' the Beltway Sniper case a lot of heads would roll and no one was willin' to take the fall for justice. Instead, they created a big fat cover-up. It was....a conspiracy.

The years have passed and Drive-by reluctantly accepts that it was all circumstantial evidence and her theory was the victim of coincidence...and the fact that Michael's Craft Stores in the East are like hookers in Vegas...one on every corner. Probably the only thing her hardwork earned her was a case of paranoia....and a place for her name on a government watchlist for conspiracy theorists....



Administrative Notes:

Thank you, RD. Have a good trip and feel free to send a postcard.

Other prospective New Rances, Part-Time Rances or even One-Shot Rances: We're looking forward to hearing from you too.

Have a nice weekend,

The Administrative Staff