Rubber Duckie's Story Part II
The Organ Lady, as the younger crowed fondly christened her, had become a livin' historical landmark of sorts in our small town. Her silhouette was recognizable to the undressed eye from a quarter mile away.

The shape of her figure was akin to that of an eggplant with her hair standin' up in support of this observation, havin' a distinct purple tint to the soft gray curls. She was never seen out of doors without one of her homemade hats adornin' her head like a halo. I say homemade, in truth the hats were rummage sale finds from years gone by. No, it was the ornamentation that bedecked each crownin' glory that came straight from the imagination of Ms. Deanie Roze. You never knew what to expect, especially on holidays, bein' as The Organ Lady was a unique individual. Unique in the sense that she marched to a different drum, danced to her own band, spoke her own langauge...you get the drift.

I remember well the first time I set eyes upon her. I was fairly new to town, only havin' lived there since June and it was the end of October to be exact. I had ran down to the fillin' station to fetch a pack of smokes for my old man. I was 7 at the time, but the station was only two doors down and it was the 60's. A time when nobody locked their doors, everybody knew their neighbors and kids weren't considered an endangered species.

I was a regular to the joint, scopin' out the candy selection, buyin' an icecream or drinkin' a coke, not to mention the countless trips to satisfy my old man's nicoteine fits.

It must be mentioned that there was a daily assemblage of patriarchal men who rubbed eyeballs at the soda fountain bar. They passed their time playin' cards, chewin' the fat and pesterin' kids like me. That day would be no exception.

You see, The Organ Lady and me, we had somethin' in common...hats. Where as she had many, I had one. One very special hat that I wore at all times, 'ceptin for when I was in school or sleepin'. It was a black felt cowboy hat with white leather lacin' around the brim. I almost felt naked without it. The old farts liked to rib me about it, but I paid them no mind...water off a duck's back and such.

It was Halloween and I was already dressed and rearin' to go. As you may have already guessed, I was in full cowboy riggin'. I had on real suede chaps, a brand new pair of boots, pistols at my sides fully loaded with caps, a white western shirt with them pretty pearlized buttons and, of course, my black felt cowboy hat. I must say I was feelin' about ten foot tall and bullet proof. I strode into the fillin' station as if I were Billy the Kid himself back from the dead. All of this was not lost on the band of thieves sittin' on their thrones. Needless to say, it made me a sittin' duck and they couldn't resist firin' away, but this time they went too far.

As I walked the gang plank that is the aisle behind their stools that leads to the register I could sense that somethin' big was about to happen. They were way too quiet and laidback. I nervously picked up the pace and I was almost homefree when I felt my hat rise off my head.

I spun around just in time to see them pass it down the amen pew as if it were a collection plate, with each one takin' a turn at droppin' in some change. When it reached the end of the line it was passed behind the counter to Joe the Clerk, the high school dropout, the "I'll do anythin' for a buck" kinda guy.

Mr. Walter Smart, the mastermind of the small congregation who very much resembled a weeble wobble from the top of his shiny bald head to his pristinely starched clothes that just barely contained his egg shaped figure, then proceeded to tell Joe the Schmoe that the money was his if he'd pee in the hat.

Joe thought about this proposition for, oh, say, ten seconds, upon the expiration of which he dumped the change out on the bar and placed the hat atop his head while he unzipped his pants.

It is at this point where things become fuzzy for me. I think I suffered some form of outerbody experience brought on by the shock of what was occurrin' in front of my very own eyes. I remember Joe loomin' like a gargantuan Howdy Doody with my too small hat perched upon his too red hair and his big ears stickin' out like two open car doors.

The trigger that would set off the ensuing events was the sound of a trickle, like that of a fountain...or a stream of urine, splattering out into space. The state of emergency that now existed within my own mind was causing a river of adrenaline to flow throughout my body that I'm sure rivaled that of the great Mississippi herself. It was from this driving force that I drew my pistol and bounded over the counter like a hurdler on speed. Things were serious now...I had me a hostage.

Now I know you're wonderin' how a seven year old boy with a cap gun could hold a grown man hostage, but really, it was quite simple. You add a little bit of desperation with a dash of creativity and a touch of temporary insanity and wa la, you have what I fondly call "the trigger rigger"...

Rubber Duckie's Darkly Comical Comedy, Part I
It was a dark and stormy night...Bwahahahaha, just kiddin'


"Obituary of the Organ Lady"


The front page of The Weekly Tribune read as follows:

Grenadine "Deanie" Roze Quick, age 93, slid off the organ bench and into the Almighty's hands this past Wednesday, literally, in the middle of her stirring rendition of "Ain't Got Time to Die". She was the organist of the First Baptist Church where she had dutifully and selflessly served her Heavenly Father for the last 50 years.

Nary a service went by without Deanie Roze pressing the pedals and tickling the ivories. Her fellow churchgoers say she was as reliable as the U.S. Mail. Whether rain, or snow, or sleet or ail nothing was going to prevent Deanie Roze from showing up in her hat and veil to caress her beloved 1955 Casavant pipe organ. She loved working the Sunday crossword puzzle and enjoyed the company of her two dogs, Ho and Hum.

Deanie Roze was born January 13th, 1911 right here in our own Community Hospital to Abraham Taylor and Mary Porter. She was proceeded in death by the love of her life, her husband, Jack B. Quick...and quickened he was way back on October 31st, 1976.

She is survived by her daughter, Mary Love Quick, of St. Louis, Missouri.

A memorial service has yet to be scheduled as an inquisition into the incident of death has been ordered by Judge Woodrow T. Wiley.

(to be continued)

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.