(Neh-neh neh-neh-neh neh neh nah)Tequila!

Once again, this story takes place in 2001. That was Year One; it’s just how these things are going to start. Deal with it. Anyhow, we were all sitting around on a Tuesday night talking about what kind of liquors we had imbibed, and which we had abstained from. Everclear was a universal. Everyone had had it. No one had really enjoyed it, per se, but it was a standard. I think because it’s illegal in ohio. You see, we had to go down to West Virgin-i-a to score a bottle. And if someone was making a “Duke Boy Run” they would take orders, and thus provide illegal booze for most of the surrounding parties. It was a moonshine ring of sorts, taken right out of a movie starring Burt Reynolds and shit.

The code words for someone was going to WV soon were “The last train to Clarksville is leaving soon.” Yeah, the Monkee’s are lame, but when you can’t trust some of the people you party with to not take orders from some asshole 15 year old living three houses down, you have to speak in code. It’s just how it is, dude.

Where am I going with all this? We alphabetically got to “tequila” and it turns out only 2 people in attendance had had the stuff. This would not stand, especially since I was one of the majority of people to have “not drank the worm juice”, as the kid were calling it. This had to be remedied, as soon as was possible. I had the next Saturday off, and the other brave lads of The Oregon didn’t work weekends, so a date was set. Friday was going to be Tequila Friday this week. No cover charge, and we don’t take American Express. The innocent will pay with blood, and so forth.

DW was put in charge of getting the drinkables, as was the standard of the day, and I was put in charge of rustling up some ladies to come and watch us make fools of ourselves. I promptly called the girlfriend and placed an order for at least three girls of the age of eighteen or above (See The Oregon: Year One - The Tale of Cock Blockery for the Why of the Voting Age Party Rule of 2001) with low moral standards, all having had their vaccinations, and with a strong enough stomach to handle our kind of hijinks. She confirmed herself, Carolina roommate and at least three other ladies to be named at a later date. All was good.

Friday came around, DW got a fairly nice bottle of mexico’s finest, the limes, the salt, and we sank jumped in full force. Salt was applied to necks, cleavage of the Kent Crew, and, in all gay-fairness, other dudes. Then came the shots. And the lime wedges. finally, came the complete loss of memories, and zany antics we were famous for.

I had quit smoking at the time, due to my girlfriend being a complete twat about me always skipping out to smoke. In all fairness, it was to get five minutes of silence from her insane ramblings AND to get some calming nicotine in my blood stream. But I quit, once again to get her to stop talking, and went cold turkey. To say I was a complete bastard for a couple of weeks was a bit of an understatement. I was a trainwreck. And a verbally abusive one to boot. I had been cigarette free for about two weeks when Tequila Friday took place, and was Jonesing for some sweet sweet Camel lovin’. Camel Lights. Soft pack. $2.99 at the Dairy Mart behind our house. YES! A smoke run HAD to be made!

So I stumbled down the hill to Dairy Mart and saw that Mac AKA ‘Carolina’ was working. Carolina was a kindly older southern gentleman, who worked midnights five days a week. He was familiar with the boys, and we with him. We called him Carolina because his car had North Carolina plates on it, even though he had lived in Ohio for well over three years. We knew this information due to Mac being a kindly gentleman who loved to get to know his customers. By talking to them, weather they were intoxicated or not. He kind of sounded like Foghorn Leghorn. You know, if he was a real person and not a cartoon chicken.

I walk in, put a dollar on the counter, and grab on to the lottery machine to steady myself. I tell him my story of quitting, and ask him to sell me one, but only ONE, camel light. “Sorry there, son. Now, you fella’s know I caint open these here pack’s and sell y’all’s single’s. I’d lose my job! Smokin’s a terrible habbit to have anyhow, son!”, he said as he took a drag off a menthol light.“But Carolina! If I buy a whole pack, I’m going to smoke the whole pack! Can you sell me like 5?” No deal, he said. So naturally I bought a whole pack. With no regrets. I would just cleverly hide them from the girlfriend.

So I’m back at the house, taking more shots and smoking my happy little drunken head off. And Carolina roommate sees me. Even though she was a smoker, she supported my quitting full force, and promptly took my cigarettes and hid them. Where did she hide my cigarettes? “Oh, I saw her put some cigarettes in the toaster” said a passer by. Carolina roommate and I were equal distances from the toaster. Eyes narrowed. Distance was judged. Gun hands twitched. a tumbleweed rolled by. A mad dash was made, towards the vicinity of the toaster. She made it there first. But me, being of a safer mindset than she, went to unplug the toaster before we struggled over my ill-gotten smokable's. Wiped out on tequila or not, I'm not sticking my crazy hand in a toaster plugged into the wall. So I unplug it, and she has it in her hands. I reach in and grab my smokes and make a break for the back door, all in one smooth move. I was hoping to make it out and down the hill to safety before she noticed they were gone. But tequila, apparently, made her into a ninja-like assassin. She Double Dragon jump kicked me as I was halfway out the door. In the middle of the back. Needless to say, I went flying. Soon I was rolling down the hill. Then she came up to me, took my smokes, lit one, and kicked me in the ribs. And walked away mumbling about how bad a habit smoking was. I got mugged by a drunk Kent girl. One who smoked.

I decided to cut my losses, cleaned the grass off my ass and out of my hair and went into the house. Somehow I wound up in a fur coat. Grabbing a beer in each hand I went to find DW to procure some more cigarettes. Finding him in the front yard, I proceeded to dance the robot, down both beers and somehow throw both bottles simultaneously without moving my arms. Right into Frito Lay’s truck across the street. “After that wonderous dance, I dub thee “Atomic Robot” and will go buy you some cigarettes!” he proclaimed to everyone in the front yard. I went back to dancing, my victory sealed in mock silicone.

Quite honestly, I don’t remember much more of that night. I woke up at around 4 a.m. wearing nothing but the fur coat and some boxers. I had $14 worth of one dollar bills and an almost fresh pack of cigarettes and disposable lighter in my waist band. I was laying in the yard, smoking. The girlfriend yelling at me for starting smoking again. I looked up and saw a familiar pair of pants on the roof. “Hey…..why are my pants on the roof? And where did I get all these $1 bills? ” I asked myself aloud as she stomped off. And to this day, I’m not entirely sure….

Thanks for reading, but that’s it for now, kids

Dr. R.

Episode I: DUI

The phone is what woke me. I sat up and answered it, the long hours I had worked the day before evident in my voice. “Mmmm…..hullo.” I mumbled into the receiver, “Adam, you NEED to wake up! Dad’s drunk and Mom is going to murder him” shouted my sister into her end. Well, now. Not the best way to start a day, is it?

I should probably start at the beginning. Or as near the beginning as this whole story requires. On December 30^th, 2002 my father got up, had his coffee, grabbed a shower, and got ready for work as he did every day. When he got to work he had a big of the bubble-gut from all the coffee, and had to use the facilities. He went in, sat down, and started shitting blood. Not just a little red in the bowl “no big thing, but I should get to the hospital” thing. No, he fell off the toilet and ruined the bathroom with pretty much half the blood in his body. Someone had heard the racket and promptly called for a paramedic. He was taken, via ambulance, to the hospital and life-flight back to Mercy Medical. Turns out he ruptured his colon, and nearly bled to death.

So due to a ruptured colon, he spent some time in the hospital. 3 weeks to be specific. My mother had planned a trip out to Tucson, and was pissed that he ‘ruined it’. Never mind the fact that her husband of 25 years was nearly dead, she was upset about having to give up the trip away from the snow. But she put on her “Public Face” and took all the sympathy in turn. ‘Woe is me’ and all that shit.

They fixed the colon after about 4 days, but the remaining time we dedicated to getting him though detoxification. It seems that “a little vodka here and there” throughout my childhood was really “about a 5^th a day, for the past 20 some odd years”. And as the medical profession will tell you, the body starts to depend on and even alter its own chemistry to cater to such an intake of what is basically complete poison. After the forth day, he started to dry out like so many fine washables on a line during a spring afternoon.

If you’ve never seen anyone go through delirium tremens. (Colloquially, the DTs, "the horrors", "the shakes" or "rum fits;" literally, "shaking delirium" or "trembling madness" in Latin) its quite an experience. They pretty much, as the name states, go completely batshit crazy and lose their collective shit. Bruce had to be tied to the bed. He thought he was in the Epcot center, in a shuttle pod reminiscent of the craft that brought Superman to our planet. He tried to escape about a dozen or so times. What he saw, or rather thought he saw, was a complete fabrication of his booze starved mind. And to make matters worse, due to the high amount he drank he was nearly impossible to sedate. It turns out if you spent years drunk with your mind only functioning at 60%, you can fight the haze of morphine pretty well. And still have the energy to call your son a “cock fucking bastard” when he refuses to get you a cigarette or a pocket knife to saw through the restraints to go fight Mickey fucking Mouse.

Where am I going with all this? Oh, you’ll see soon enough. Back story is important to completely flesh out this series of events. So Bruce gets out of the hospital after about a month, clean and sober, and is required as part of his release to attend AA meetings. He goes, and pulls his life together and all is well. For awhile.

Its August of 2003, The Oregon has been abandoned due to mutiny and I am back living with the old folks. I’m working a shitty night job to pay the bills accrued from the mutiny and have my 2 weeks in so I can go work the kitchens at a friend’s parent’s restaurant. Since it was a night job, I started the new job while still working out the old one. Sleep is for suckers anyhow. One Saturday I work a 9 hour shift at Bachelli’s (the restaurant) and an 8 hour shift at the shitty night job (Sheetz). I get home early Sunday morning exhausted, shower, shave and pass the fuck out. Dreamland is wonderful, as I have earned it. All 4 or so hours of it.

I hear yelling in my sleep, and write it off as dreamlike nonsense from my sleep deprived mind. Then the phone rings. It is my sister. The situation she describes is somewhat out of the ordinary, but not all the surprising to me. Not much really shocks me, to be perfectly honest. Unexpected, yes. Not at all that much of a surprise though.

Crazy Liz had gotten up early to go to church, as she did every Sunday morning. Bruce, pagan like me, had stayed home to sleep in and mow the yard and do whatever it is he did in the garage for hours at a time after the inner boozehound had been laid off. He decided, in his infinite wisdom, that the 2 hours my unstable mother spent at church was enough time to go to the gas station down the road, buy a plastic bottle of hobo-grade spirits, have only ONE drink, and mow the yard. Leaving Crazy Liz none the wiser. There was a flaw in his little plan. He was completely sauced. After 9 months of sobriety, he had lost his ability to turn alcohol into riboflavin and vitamins. It was just alcohol at that point. And it was still noon on a Sunday.

He had parked his van in our twisty S-shaped driveway (see photo),

and had to back it out so Liz could park in the garage when she got home from churching up. And there was a 3 foot deep ditch right across from the driveway, on our side street. Some of you know where this is going, just by the setup. Keep reading; it gets better. Anyhow, Bruce hops behind the wheel of his rundown work van he'd been putting new Bondo on, or whatever, and promptly backs into the ditch at 88 miles per hour. (See exhibit A)

Like he had an appointment with the Old West or something. He stumbles out from behind the wheel, looks at the situation and solves the problem. He then gets behind the wheel of his travel van, and backs it around my car, and company truck in the street. Backs it right into the ditch, 15 feet from the first van. (see exhibits B and C).

Instead of calling AAA and getting his fantastic parking job to the second power removed by sober professionals, he decides he can rock the first van out of the ditch, pull van 2 out with van 1, and still be on the lawn mower by the time my crazy mother Liz got home. I’m sure the ‘Mission: Impossible!’ theme was playing in his head; like the A-team one would me mine while all this is happening. He gets behind the wheel and tries like hell for about 10 minutes before promptly falling asleep in the hot sun, behind the wheel, from all the alcohol-fueled funny car business advertised on late night television.

Liz pulls up, looks at 2 vans parallel to each other in the ditch, and runs inside to call the realtor. “I’m going to fucking KILL Bruce, so you’re going to need to sell this house!” she shouts into the phone. Shouts at the speed of crazy. The realtor calls my sister in Cleveland and tells her how my mother has lost her goddamned mind, and something needs to be done before a 165^th trimester abortion takes place in my side yard. The sister calls me, and wakes me with this fun bit of news, hoping ill be able to do something about it. I throw on a bathrobe and some Chuck Taylor’s, grab an icy cold coke and my cigarettes out of my mini-fridge, and step out to investigate.

I walk out into the bright sun to complete chaos incarnate. Car batteries thrown, the garage trashed. An empty vodka bottle perched neatly on the seat of the riding mower like a small child waiting for a ride with Daddy. My insane mother talking to a cop in the driveway. One of Bruce’s friends rattling off cop names trying to keep Bruce out of jail. My fathers vans like twin Autobot's synchronized swimming in the ditch across the street. And the icing on the cake? The old man himself, Bruce, failing a field sobriety test and being placed in the back of a cop car. The part where they say “stand on one foot”? Yeah, he fell over. Into the ditch. And rolled around in the mud and muck trying to get up. “Hmmmm…..this is not the way I had my day planned.” I said as I took a drag of my cigarette and ground it into the pavement near some random shit from the garage.

I wandered over the carnage with the nearest police officer to inspect the damage. My eyes took in the contents of the street in under a second. Two vans. 45 degree angle. Log chain on the ground. Jumper cables. Spare battery. Brake fluid pooled on the pavement. “I got it! He backed this one into the ditch trying to get it out of the driveway. The second one he ditched in the, well, ditch trying to pull the first one out with the chain! He drained the battery trying to rock it out alternating from drive to reverse! Simple case, dear Constable. I don’t think you lads really needed to call me in on this one!” I said to the man with a charming flip of my bathrobe belt as I finished my Coke. He stared at me blankly and blinked. “Sir, your father is blowing well above the legal limit. We’re going to have to take him in and book him.” “Oh. Ok then. You boys be back early, he’s had kind of a rough day, you know.” I said to the man as I patted his shoulder and walked back towards the house leaving a baffled public servant in my wake.

The police left with Bruce in the back of the cruiser, and I went inside to call AAA. “Can you make this not dangerous?” my mother asks as she hands me a gun. I look from the gun to her and back, several times. “Were you….were you going to SHOOT him?!?” I asked with shock. The vans? Not a shock. Attempted murder? Yeah. That fits the bill nicely. “Yeah, I think the safety is on or something.” She answers me with not a bit of regret. “OK, I’m just going to….make this….safe.” I say as I take the gun from her, and remove the cartridge. Full of 38’s. One in the chamber. Safety half way on. ‘Holy fucking SHIT!’ I think to myself. ‘She was going to shoot him for falling off the wagon. After church. No going back to sleep now, I guess.’

I cal my sister and explain the situation, in detail. She and the brother in law hurry down. We decide to order a pizza and figure out a game plan as we go pick it up. Anything to get away from the crazy lady with the gun for a little while. “Oh, lets to Applebee’s!” my mother says. “Um…yeah….that sounds great!” We answer after sharing a look that speaks volumes about her sanity.

An hour later, after fishing the vans out of the ditch with the AAA freaks, I’m eye humping the menu at Applebee’s like a chunky girl on prom night. “I need a fucking beer” I say as I decide on my order. Liz is talking like nothing is wrong. Like Bruce is doing the yard work he had planned for the day and not in jail for DUI. After nine months of sobriety. Like no attempt was made on his life. On a Sunday, of all days. We finish out meal and return home, batshit crazy lady in tow. Bruce gets out later that night, but I am already over at the girlfriends’ house, sleeping on her couch after explaining the story, avoiding the aftermath and cleanup of a complete fucking shit storm.

TO BE CONTINUED….

Thanks for reading, but that’s it for now, kids

Dr. R.

The Oregon: Year One - The Tale of Cock Blockery

As with all Year One this story takes place during 2001. And as I’m sure some of you are reading this second in a row Year One: Oregon Tale and feeling like the left out kids listening to the stories of the previous campers at Camp Candy. What the fuck was up with that shit? Those kids must have felt like a rebound girlfriend from that. Always telling stories about the kids they didn’t even know, while I’m sure crazy shit was happening day in and day out while they were there. I mean its John fucking Candy. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, Year One, right. So this takes place during Mike’s sappy ass “Tale of Love” blog, so you should go read that right now (http://biffcalhoon.blogspot.com/2006/12/oregon-year-one-tale-of-love.html), or you’ll have no frame of reference. Its cool, I’ll wait. See? That was some ‘Dawson’s Creek’ type shit, wasn’t it? But you know the time frame, and a little background, so I suppose I can continue now.

It was a Friday night, sometime in the early fall. Loads of ill gotten beers were floating up the chain from Dairy Mart, and there were lots of people carrying on at the house. I had managed to finagle a WHOLE weekend off out of my batshit crazy boss at Subway, and I decided to celebrate by starting drinking at 4 P.M. The drinking was in full swing by about 8 or so, and due to the confinement of the four walls, someone had decided to take the party to the yard, and indirectly, the street. Lying in the warm, warm road and pouring cold alcohol down their throats seemed to be a sacred ritual for D.W. and Mike. So they’re out there yelling at cars as they pass, trying to charge people tolls for using ‘our road’ and generally being traffic nuisances. After about an hour of this, hunger seemed to grip these self-appointed makeshift toll booth operators, and having nothing resembling eatables in the house, they decided to venture over to The Main Street Café for fried dead animals of some sort. Because they were men, dammit!

The thing to remember about the Main Street was that it was pretty much in out front yard. As much as Dairy Mart was the rear perimeter of The Oregon, The Main Street served as our front yard, auxiliary parking lot, and source of entertainment on Sunday mornings when the over 60 crowd came out in full force. In summary, we ate there often. Not because the food was particularly good, but because it was literally within crawling distance. If you were too drunk to get to The Main Street, you would probably have choked on any food given to you at that moment. Like a field sobriety test given by the friendly LCPD, it was a barometer of your alcohol content at any given moment.

So as I stayed and watched the house and drank like there was no tomorrow, because for me there wasn’t. Mike and D.W. wandered over to get some food, and due to going there on pretty much a daily basis, came back with the promise of some waitress’s as soon as the doors closed at 11. A roar went up as the brave lads drinking and breaking glass in the front lawn were promised illegal womenfolk, of the waitress variety. Needless to say, Mike’s Hard Lemonade had to be purchased to make the ladies feel welcome, and Everclear had to be added to make us feel amused.

We had a whole process for this. We’d get at least 3 guys sitting at the corner booth in a semi-circle with said lady-friendly drinkables. One of us would carefully pop the top and place the cap in a pile. Then, usually the Top Popper, would take a hearty swig to make room for much harder, and thus funnier, liquids. The Middleman in the operation would pour Everclear, through a dirty funnel, into the previously swigged upon bottle, until it looked ‘kinda full’ and pass it to The Finisher. The Finisher had the fun job. He’d put the cap back on, hit it with a random boot to seal it, and throw it back into the 6 pack from whence it came. All in all, it would take us as little time as 4 minutes to spike a six pack. And before you go thinking it was a date rape thing, it really wasn’t. It was more of a contest to see who could get a random girl to throw up in the yard first. I mean, we were pirate jerks, but date rapists? Certainly not.

So at about 11 or so, several VERY underage girls walked the ten feet between the back door of The Main Street and our front door, bags in tow. The bags? They held the clothes that they packed for a ‘slumber party’ that they had told their parents they were going to. Crafty little pixies, these jailbait waitresses. The bags were stashed in the front room under the table and the ladies grabbed some Uber-Mike’s and headed to the front lawn to tempt fate, the police, and the moral fortitude of everyone at the party in one fell swoop.

The one mistake these young ladies had made in their little con game was that one of them had given the phone number of our house to a parental unit. Not usually a big deal, had they managed to tell one of us. So it’s about half past midnight, and I’m sitting in the dark computer room, with nearly a retarded amount of alcohol gushing through my veins, downloading music for the party and the phone rings. Since its dark, I don’t bother to check the caller ID, I just pick it up and drunkenly mumble “ ’elo?” into the microphone. A pretty sounding voice answers me “Hello, is Amber* there?” I shrug, and then giggle because she obviously can’t see the shrug over the phone. “Hold on, I will check, it won’t take but a MOMENT, my dear!” I slur into the receiver. Like I said, pretty sounding voice. I look around for someone that looks like an Amber, and see several jailbait waitresses drinking and making out with my roommates and friends on the lawn through the window. “Yep, she’s here all right. But she’s making out with someone in the front yard right now, can I take a message?” I ask as I spill rum and coke into the ashtray. “*Pause* No, that’s ok…. Hey, it sounds like you’re having a great party over there! How close to The Main Street are you?” the sultry tones ask me. “OOOOOh, if you pull up to the restaurant, you can pretty much figure it out. It’s the big blue house on the left with the Pirate flag on the roof. You CAN’T miss it!” I reply into the phone as I take a swallow of rum and light another cigarette. “Thanks, I’ll see you in a bit then!” she says and hangs up. Proud of myself for recruiting another lady to out party, I hung up the phone and went back to downloading music.

Perhaps it was my shoulder devil, or maybe the ghost of Ben Kenobi, but about five seconds after hanging up the phone a voice said in my head “Do you have any idea what you’ve just DONE?!?” “Gotten another lady to show up for the party?” I replied aloud. “Not even close” the voice said, “Think about it for a moment. You pretty much just cock blocked everyone you know at this party.” I jumped from my chair and exclaimed “Oh COCK!! That was Ambers MOM!” I yelled to the dark empty room. “I have to DO something about this!” I bellowed, as I ran from the room, tripping over my chair in my haste, out the back door a plan already forming in my mind.

As plans go, to say this was half-assed was somewhat of an understatement. I decided the best coarse of action was to throw my grappling hook around the chimney to get the best possible view of the chaos that was due to ensue any moment. That was my plan; just watch the bad stuff happen. As I'm sure you have already guessed, I went and got my grappling hook and started to climb. I was sitting on the roof for about ten minutes when a minivan pulled into the driveway, yet stayed far enough in the street incase the need to get away fast became a factor. “Well thought out plan, soccer mom, well thought out indeed” I mumbled to myself, leaning on the chimney. “AMBER!” a voice yells from the drivers’ window, “This is NOT a slumber party! All of you get in the van NOW! You are in BIG trouble, young lady!”

Now at this point the fact that this mess was at least partially my fault had occurred to me, and the Shoulder Angel spoke up and said I should fix the mess, put the wrong things right, and hope that the next leap will be the leap home. So I did what any man sitting next to a pirate flag with a grappling hook at 1 A.M. would have done. I grabbed some rope and jumped. My arc took me sweeping into the driveway in a move that would make both Batman and Spiderman rigid in the tights**. I landed in the light beams of the minivan and hoped that my acrobatics would impress the mother of this drunken High Schooler enough to let her stay. I walked up to the door, just as D.W. was approaching, and said “Well hello there! You must be the owner of the dulcet tones I had the pleasure of addressing earlier. You should let the girl stay. Know what? You should come have a drink with us yourself.” At this point D.W. leaned on the van, peers in and trying to keep this lady from bringing the police into this, and thus, arresting everyone, says “You’re right, dude, she does sound kind of foxy.” She kind of giggled weather with genuine flattery, or amusement at the fact that I had figured out her little plan and tried to put a stop to it in the worst way possible. “No, I think well all be going. But thanks for the offer. I'll keep it in mind” she said as all the underage girls piled into the van. “Good enough for us.” I said as D.W. and I walked back to the house.

Surprisingly no one wanted to kick my ass for letting Amber’s mom know where we lived. I’m not sure if it was the pimp rope move, or the fact that deep down they knew it was partially Amber’s fault for giving out our number as the place she was staying. But the music went back on, the three remaining Uber-Mike’s were drunk by men, and the party went on.

Thanks for reading, but that’s it for now, kids

Dr. R.

* - Amber probably wasn’t her name. It was just the first random name I pulled out that sounded right in the story.

** - This is how I saw me from the rope perspective. It may have been a completely clumsy clusterfuck, and came damn close to killing me from the less intoxicated ground view.

The Oregon: Year One - The Tale of the Council of Evil

OK, now this, ladies and gentlemen, is my slump buster blog. It is my coming out of my funk and getting off my pudding ass and writing something amusing as I have been asked to for the past…fuck, 6 months. I really have no excuse for such a lapse in story telling. For the first 4 months of 2007 I was working midnights at Sam’s Club and pretty much gripped by crippling depression, a green bathrobe, and Justice League DVD’s. Then I recently started back at KFC, the first job I had in High School. But this time I’m running the show. While the Pre-Doctor of 1997 was a mere Padawan cooking the chicken, the Doctor of 2007 is the fucking Jedi Master pulling the strings, and telling some other fuck to “Cook me some chicken or I’ll have to use your (his) face to keep my pimp hand strong!” But I digress. A lot of shit has happened in the past 6 months that I need to write about. I was saving most of these stories for a book, but I think it’s easier to just throw them on the internet one chapter at a time and maybe publish them later. Hopefully I can get someone (Professor Tillman, I’m looking your way, dear brother) with some artistic talent to draw them into a graphic novel.

Now, this blog serves as my rebuttal and very minour correction to the recently posted The Oregon Year One: The Council of Evil. While I have no doubt as to the moral fiber of my good friend and former housemate Biff, for he is a learned scholar and a king amongst men, I do doubt the validity of his rum soaked brain of the evening in question. Being that I was in the minority of sobriety that evening, a foreshadowing of the forthcoming years, no doubt, I shall tell my side of the Tale of The Council of Evil.

It started out as a perfectly normal weekend eve in the summer of 2001 on The Oregon. The rum was flowing like wine, the music was wafting up through the floorboards from the basement jam room into the kitchen, and 90% of the occupants were thoroughly intoxicated. I was playing some glorious wonderful tunes on my newly acquired green Strat, and D.W., Mike, Joe, and Jim decided they wanted to see what was shaking at the Bailey Estate. So they took off and I used the time wisely to play my guitar even louder. A few hours later, I heard a ruckus in the living room and I went up to investigate. I saw a party in my midst, and decided to go back to playing guitar, with a freshly minted drunk Jim accompanying me on the drums. We’re rocking out, and I hear the volume of the party reaching critical mass. Next thing I know, Joe stumbles downstairs wearing what can only be described as the hand-me-downs of Cyrano Jones. (look up ‘Star Trek TOS: The Trouble with Tribbles’ to get that obscure visual. Mike, you just do whatever it is you normally do) “Hey Fucking Joe, what’s up?” I asked as I muted my guitar. “Some shits going down HARD, and I’m going to kill Lanzer!” he said with venom in his voice. “Ok, have fun!” I replied as I started playing ‘Hey Joe’ by Hendrix. Joe was less than amused with my witty antics, and said “No, Dan’s knocked out in the yard, you have to stop Mike, he's gone rogue.” So I put down my guitar, and followed the smallest of my roommates up the stairs.

When I walked out the front door, I saw quite the picture or mayhem. D.W. knocked out in the yard, Tiki torches strewn about the front lawn, and Lanzer bleeding profusely from the head. Now let’s back it up a little. ‘Why was Lanzer bleeding from the head?’ is probably the most logical place to start. Well, a hobby of this self appointed Council of Evil was to hit each other with household items to prove their dominance over the land and all of the creatures of the Earth. Lanzer had taken a hit to the cranium from a cookie sheet that had previously been smashed over Joe’s ripe melon and bent to a fine point. The effect was paramount to hitting someone with an ice pick at speeds that baffle the human eye. So Lanzer’s been concussed by a housemate, and one of my cookie sheets has been murdered before its time. No pizza rolls were to be had that late summer evening, I shall tell you.

Anyhow, I walk out the door to D.W. knocked out in the yard and Lanzer swinging a lit Tiki torch around like he was keeping Frankenstein’s monster at bay. So I do the first thing that comes to mind: jump off the porch motherfucking A-Team style and restrain Mike from behind. Now, I can actually see this from the patented A-Team camera angle made famous by Faceman and Murdock in, well, pretty much every episode. I deftly toss the torch to a bystander, and pin Mike’s arm behind his back, catching my cigarette between the inner crook of my elbow. Why I specifically remember that, I have no idea. So after I release Lanzer, knowing that he has no weapon, and has calmed down a bit since I put the fear of Mr. T into him, he shoulder checks me, runs into the house, throws on his hat and duster and runs off into the night, like a man on a mission.

I wake D.W. with a few gentle slaps to the face, grab a few beers for he and Jim, and we pile into Jim’s car. In Mike’s defense, it was Dan’s car until Jim threw up in it and kicked the mirror off the windshield, so I can see why he was a bit confused. But that’s neither here nor there. We take off towards Lanzer’s last known vector, and eventually find him going towards his future ex-wife’s house. I get out of the car and try to Jedi Mind Trick him into the car, but he’s too drunk. He just repeats what I say, looks confused at The Force, and keeps walking. D.W. grows tired of this little farce and try’s to restrain Mike with his body. I hear Mike yell at the top of his lungs “Fuck you, Warner! Always on your quests to SAVE the goddamn WORLD!” Jim and I look at each other, puzzled, and keep watching like it’s the most entertaining television program in existence. Mike keeps walking, D.W. keeps talking, and I trail them in the car. Fifteen minutes, four beers in Jim, and about seven rants later we arrive at Mike’s foggy destination.. I park with the front of the car facing the road in the event we need to retreat post haste, and Dan walks Mike to the door, like a surreal prom date. There is a pause, lights come on, and I light a cigarette and wait. A haggard looking woman answers the door, D.W. gestures grandly, shakes her hand, runs to the car and Duke boy slides over the hood and yells “fucking PUNCH it Robo!” and I take off. We arrive home shortly thereafter, clean the blood off the carpet, and call it an evening.

Thanks for reading, but that’s it for now, kids

Dr. R.

To see what happened after the rest of the residents of The Oregon left the house, and to see some of the motivation behind this sordid little tale, read Biff’s blog at:

http://biffcalhoon.blogspot.com/2007/06/oregon-year-one-tale-of-council-of-evil.html

Batman LLC

The following is a conversation the good Professor Tillman via instant messenger. It’s been awhile since my marshmallow ass has put up a blog, since its cold out and I've got Justice League DVDs. so this is it for a week or so until I get my other shit typed up. And I’m working on another picture blog. So sit back and enjoy the random conversations we have.

Dr. Robinson (3:32:53 PM): I’ve got like 4 blogs that I’m too lazy/tired to type up

Professor Tillman (3:33:06 PM): Do it. I look forward to them

Dr. Robinson (3:34:07 PM): I need to start bringing a notebook to work. I have to take my smoke breaks in my car, and it’s pretty boring

Dr. Robinson (3:34:15 PM): but I have had some really random thoughts

Professor Tillman (3:34:22 PM): Such as…

Dr. Robinson (3:35:50 PM): ok, like if Bruce Wayne gets unmasked, would the police get him for embezzlement from Wayne tech?

Dr. Robinson (3:36:06 PM): because that’s a serious charge in today’s world

Professor Tillman (3:36:14 PM): Huh...

Professor Tillman (3:36:19 PM): I would not have guessed

Professor Tillman (3:37:21 PM): He could have made Batman a limited liability corporation with himself as sole-proprietor and then taken the money from Wayne tech as part of a consulting fee. Common tax-shelter shit in the super hero world

Dr. Robinson (3:37:34 PM): hmm

Dr. Robinson (3:37:36 PM): good call

Professor Tillman (3:37:45 PM): Yeah man.

Dr. Robinson (3:37:57 PM): but then the IRS would be in his shit for writing off so much stuff

Dr. Robinson (3:38:15 PM): "you could have caught The Riddler with like 4 less clues”

Professor Tillman (3:39:29 PM): Not necessarily. One company is writing off expenses as they sell/give shit to Batman LLC (I wouldn't necessarily call it that but you get the idea) and Batman LLC is itemizing each individual tech thing on their taxes. It's all good. If Wayne Corp gives it away then they can deduct it.

Dr. Robinson (3:39:54 PM): true, but the paper work would be staggering

Professor Tillman (3:40:29 PM): Robin's fag enough for some accounting work

Dr. Robinson (3:40:58 PM): but who would Alfred work for? Would he get two W2's? or would he be self employed and just free lance it?

Professor Tillman (3:41:51 PM): Not necessarily. He's Wayne Tech all the way I think and then would be a tech consultant for the burgeoning Batman LLC.

Professor Tillman (3:42:01 PM): Not a conflict of interest at all

Dr. Robinson (3:42:06 PM): hmmm

Professor Tillman (3:42:23 PM): I think we just wrote your next blog entry.

Dr. Robinson (3:42:33 PM): so would Batman need to report all his stuff as self employment, or Batman LLC?

Dr. Robinson (3:43:08 PM): and if Wayne tech is giving all these gifts to Batman LLC then I think it would be an insider trader’s nightmare

Professor Tillman (3:43:17 PM): You file a W9 for self-employment when you're sole-proprietor.

Professor Tillman (3:44:17 PM): You could set someone else up as CEO of Batman LLC. Like Vicky Vale or some shit. A lot of guys put their companies in their wife's name to duck out on the chance of bankruptcy. It might work in this scenario too.

Dr. Robinson (3:44:45 PM): hmm, that might be true

Dr. Robinson (3:44:56 PM): so why not set up a dummy company for the dummy company

Professor Tillman (3:45:03 PM): Does Batman still fuck with Vicky Vale? I never thought Kim Basinger was that hot.

Professor Tillman (3:45:19 PM): For what purpose though?

Dr. Robinson (3:45:19 PM): I think that movie and one comic back in the 60s

Dr. Robinson (3:45:35 PM): because Batman's crazy as hell

Professor Tillman (3:45:42 PM): Hmmm....well. Someone else then; Not Catwoman. Bitch is crazy

Professor Tillman (3:45:59 PM): I guess you could.

Dr. Robinson (3:46:11 PM): get The Riddler to do it. That dudes probably good with forms like that

Dr. Robinson (3:46:21 PM): plea bargain it

Dr. Robinson (3:46:32 PM): count it as community service, and its all gold

Professor Tillman (3:46:33 PM): I still say Robin. He's got office bitch written all over him

Dr. Robinson (3:46:38 PM): an intern

Professor Tillman (3:46:53 PM): Yes! An intern! Always make the intern do it!

Dr. Robinson (3:46:59 PM): that’s what robin is

Professor Tillman (3:47:10 PM): I concur

Dr. Robinson (3:47:22 PM): college age kid, not getting paid, shitty hours, horrible uniform....

Professor Tillman (3:47:30 PM): Tight ass pants

Dr. Robinson (3:47:41 PM): yeah, those were pretty gay

Dr. Robinson (3:48:00 PM): that’s sexual harassment scandal at Batman LLC right there

Professor Tillman (3:48:28 PM): Yeah. You know Alfred's got some dirty old man left in him

Dr. Robinson (3:49:05 PM): yeah

Dr. Robinson (3:50:30 PM): but I still think its embezzlement since Wayne tech is a public owned company

Dr. Robinson (3:50:49 PM): the stock holders don’t have a say in what Batman spent the cash on

Professor Tillman (3:52:34 PM): But he does have to answer to the board for his investment strategy, his consultants, etc. He's clear. If he has a firm such as Batman LLC handling whatever and is paying them with Wayne Tech products, Batman LLC could also be beta-testers for said products, further justifying the need for such a company.

Dr. Robinson (3:52:53 PM): good loophole

Professor Tillman (3:52:54 PM): Gravy train

Professor Tillman (3:53:05 PM): Biscuit wheels

Dr. Robinson (3:53:18 PM): if I’m ever in trouble I'm getting your ass for legal representation

Professor Tillman (3:53:25 PM): For sure

Dr. Robinson (3:53:51 PM): but would all that go for the Justice League as well?

Dr. Robinson (3:54:03 PM): I’m sure they’re suckling at the Wayne tech teat

Professor Tillman (3:54:12 PM): I don't know shit about the Justice League.

Professor Tillman (3:54:23 PM): You would think though

Dr. Robinson (3:54:27 PM): ok

Dr. Robinson (3:54:39 PM): I think this might be my new blog

Dr. Robinson (3:54:45 PM): New

Professor Tillman (3:54:52 PM): Do it dude.

Professor Tillman (3:55:24 PM): "Suckling at the Wayne Tech teat" is worth the price of admission alone

Dr. Robinson (3:55:39 PM): we need to be on some Crossfire like show

Dr. Robinson (3:55:50 PM): debating random trivial shit in Armani suits

Professor Tillman (3:55:52 PM): Oh hells yes

Professor Tillman (3:56:12 PM): Special guests each week. You know the audience would come stoned though

Dr. Robinson (3:56:27 PM): it would be Sunday morning hangover TV

Professor Tillman (3:56:36 PM): The fact that we pull this off without the use of cannabis is staggering

Dr. Robinson (3:56:44 PM): "this is all that’s on and I threw up on the remote. It’s getting watched"

Dr. Robinson (3:57:04 PM): stoned you and I would solve every problem ever

Professor Tillman (3:57:18 PM): Every problem. Ever. Yes.

Professor Tillman (3:58:14 PM): Some things will never change.

Professor Tillman (3:59:01 PM): Fuck it dude. We could have unionized the foot soldiers in TMNT. That could translate into a think tank job at the least.

Dr. Robinson (3:59:14 PM): yes

Dr. Robinson (3:59:22 PM): you should throw that on your resume

Professor Tillman (3:59:31 PM): God damn right I could

Dr. Robinson (3:59:40 PM): that’s why you’re a Professor and I’m a Doctor

Dr. Robinson (3:59:43 PM): shit like that

Professor Tillman (3:59:53 PM): Fuckin-A

Dr. Robinson (4:00:41 PM): this Batman LLC conversation is one that if wed had it in a diner people would have chipped in their 2 cents

Professor Tillman (4:01:28 PM): Yeah. You know there's someone out there studying for the bar exam who would be taking notes and shit.

Dr. Robinson (4:01:39 PM): it would be a thesis

Dr. Robinson (4:01:53 PM): shit....that’s your ticket to grad school

Professor Tillman (4:02:07 PM): You may be right

Dr. Robinson (4:02:43 PM): well, I need to go smoke; this has blown my mind for the moment

Dr. Robinson (4:02:49 PM): you going to be on in a few?

Professor Tillman (4:03:10 PM): Yeah. I may go for a smoke too.

Dr. Robinson (4:03:15 PM): cool

Professor Tillman (4:03:28 PM): We'll continue our round-table discussion in a few

Dr. Robinson (4:03:31 PM): word

Dr. Robinson (4:20:56 PM): ok I’m back

Professor Tillman (4:23:54 PM): me too.

Dr. Robinson (4:24:41 PM): so I was thinking also, wouldn’t the villain’s Batman fights be able to sue for libel?

Dr. Robinson (4:25:07 PM): defamation of character at the least

Professor Tillman (4:25:58 PM): No. It depends what's in Batman LLCs charter. If they're criminals and Batman LLC has some involvement with law enforcement, then probably not. If they're strictly "consulting" it might be complicated, but I don't know if that would result in libel.

Dr. Robinson (4:26:58 PM): I still think the IRS would be in his shit hardcore for all the gadgets he has

Dr. Robinson (4:27:17 PM): they’d have him fighting crime by the numbers in a year

Professor Tillman (4:29:00 PM): I'm saying dude - he's in consulting and in beta-testing for Wayne Tech. He could also be a development firm, testing the tech stuff in new settings etc, which could be used to distance Bruce Wayne from Batman even. Like "we just make such and such gadgets and then license them to independent firms" aka Batman or the Justice League.

Professor Tillman (4:29:36 PM): I'd invest everything I had in such a corporation.

Dr. Robinson (4:29:44 PM): I still think there would be a Martha Stewart like scandal

Dr. Robinson (4:30:15 PM): and with the latter two Robins, I don’t think either of them were 16, so I think there are child labour laws to contend with there

Dr. Robinson (4:30:34 PM): he’d get the 'sweatshop' branded on Batman LLC and it would all go downhill

Professor Tillman (4:31:41 PM): You may be right. But I think a stock option would be the least that Bruce Wayne would get for bankrolling a company so integral to the success of Wayne Tech and, let's face it, the Gotham economy as a whole. The Robin thing is something for Immigration though - I think he's really a Mexican personally.

Dr. Robinson (4:32:09 PM): you think Robin the boy wonder is a fucking day labourer?!?

Dr. Robinson (4:32:23 PM): NAFTA isn’t going to like that

Professor Tillman (4:32:44 PM): Night Laborer really. He's a crafty little beaner

Dr. Robinson (4:32:52 PM): ...wow

Professor Tillman (4:32:58 PM): yeah.

Dr. Robinson (4:33:23 PM): so is that why he’s so quick to get away from the villians? He’s got no green card?

Professor Tillman (4:33:44 PM): Most likely yes.

Dr. Robinson (4:33:59 PM): is that why the first Robin became Nightwing? Robin II would work cheaper with no benefits?

Professor Tillman (4:34:18 PM): And underage. Don't forget.

Dr. Robinson (4:34:32 PM): well that’s a given

Professor Tillman (4:34:36 PM): Business ethics are really slipping nowadays.

Professor Tillman (4:34:58 PM): But he's doing the work that no one else wants to do so I guess it's alright

Dr. Robinson (4:35:08 PM): there’d be a website protesting Batman LLC like there is for Wal-Mart

Professor Tillman (4:36:17 PM): Which requires a PR department to handle such affairs. You see the business is growing. This isn't just some Mom-and-Pop shit anymore.

Professor Tillman (4:36:38 PM): 401Ks and profit sharing man.

Dr. Robinson (4:36:44 PM): and dental

Professor Tillman (4:36:58 PM): Fuckin-A right, there better be dental.

Dr. Robinson (4:37:21 PM): but Batman LLC seems to be a non-profit organization. Would they be exempt from certain tax codes?

Professor Tillman (4:38:40 PM): Non-Profit status is tricky. Then he could accept the materials from Wayne Corp directly and they could write off the donation, but that would be tricky when it came to the conflict of interest that would arise in Bruce Wayne being a part of both companies.

Professor Tillman (4:38:50 PM): Wayne Tech rather

Dr. Robinson (4:38:54 PM): my point exactly

Dr. Robinson (4:39:03 PM): that’s a whole new can of worms

Professor Tillman (4:39:44 PM): That's why they could be a for profit group offering a service to Wayne Tech as opposed to a 501(c)(3) with one donor. That shit gets hairy man.

Dr. Robinson (4:40:34 PM): I think Wayne could get religious status since he’s pretty adamant about it

Dr. Robinson (4:40:41 PM): it’s nearly a cult

Professor Tillman (4:40:54 PM): Or make it a family foundation, in which case they would need to be giving money back - like a Batman scholarship or some shit. Send Robin to beauty school or something

Dr. Robinson (4:41:17 PM): for only a dollar a day

Professor Tillman (4:41:24 PM): Hell yes

Dr. Robinson (4:41:27 PM): you can feed this boy wonder

Professor Tillman (4:41:37 PM): Buy him some new pants

Dr. Robinson (4:41:39 PM): give him badly needed medicines that his country doesn’t have

Professor Tillman (4:41:51 PM): Viva Mexico!

Dr. Robinson (4:41:52 PM): yeah, the pants issue is a big one

Professor Tillman (4:41:56 PM): Indeed

Professor Tillman (4:42:27 PM): In which case I actually think he's Cuban. They'd wear some fruity shit like that. Think of fucking Sosa in Scarface...

Dr. Robinson (4:42:49 PM): I wasn’t impressed with Scarface

Dr. Robinson (4:42:58 PM): so he makes it to the top, big deal

Professor Tillman (4:43:14 PM): Me too! I thought I was the only motherfucker alive who thought it was pure unfiltered cheese

Dr. Robinson (4:43:17 PM): he still winds up with a blow problem and wants to hump his sister

Professor Tillman (4:43:27 PM): Don't we all?

Dr. Robinson (4:43:30 PM): and I know of another man who came up the ranks

Dr. Robinson (4:43:39 PM): who went from poverty to riches

Professor Tillman (4:43:39 PM): ...

Dr. Robinson (4:43:44 PM): a man who went from nothing to everything. Who was head of a mighty empire.

Dr. Robinson (4:43:48 PM): his name? Colonel Sanders

Professor Tillman (4:44:08 PM): It always comes back to the Colonel. Now I really want some fucking wings...

Dr. Robinson (4:44:23 PM): it’s the same story

Dr. Robinson (4:44:27 PM): poverty to empire

Dr. Robinson (4:44:33 PM): chemical addiction

Professor Tillman (4:44:44 PM): Chemical addiction?

Dr. Robinson (4:44:49 PM): plus I’m pretty sure the colonel got shot to death by the dude that owns Churches chicken.

Dr. Robinson (4:44:56 PM): 11 herbs and spices my man

Dr. Robinson (4:45:05 PM): that’s addiction

Professor Tillman (4:45:06 PM): Ah...

Professor Tillman (4:45:22 PM): Yeah. One that I share with him. I stab a man for a chicken pot pie right now.

Professor Tillman (4:45:35 PM): I would stab a man I mean

Professor Tillman (4:45:49 PM): No one's been stabbed yet. I don't know who has those

Dr. Robinson (4:45:57 PM): pot pies are good, but they take too long to cook at home

Professor Tillman (4:46:43 PM): Fuck it. It's worth the wait. I had a weird realization the other day that I would in fact cut a bitch for a chicken pot pie. Perfect winter food if ever there was one

Dr. Robinson (4:46:56 PM): indeed

Professor Tillman (4:47:02 PM): In-deed

Dr. Robinson (4:47:14 PM): like fighting over cracker barrel breakfast

Professor Tillman (4:47:17 PM): We've progressed far in this roundtable

Professor Tillman (4:47:32 PM): By the way, the girl I saw at that table found me on Myspace

Professor Tillman (4:47:39 PM): Do you remember?

Dr. Robinson (4:47:40 PM): yeah, you mentioned that

Professor Tillman (4:47:45 PM): Oh yeah...

Dr. Robinson (4:47:50 PM): called you a dick or something

Dr. Robinson (4:48:05 PM): you should have walked up to her at cracker barrel and slapped her

Professor Tillman (4:48:07 PM): I'd love to make it a week without being called a dick

Dr. Robinson (4:48:08 PM): then taken her biscuits

Professor Tillman (4:48:27 PM): I'd have to fight the entire table for biscuits of that magnitude

Dr. Robinson (4:48:38 PM): id has gotten your back

Professor Tillman (4:48:52 PM): No. You'd be fucking with the peg game

Dr. Robinson (4:49:00 PM): I’d be stabbing people with pegs

Professor Tillman (4:49:08 PM): Nice.

Professor Tillman (4:49:27 PM): We've made quite a bit of progress in this roundtable, I'd say.

Dr. Robinson (4:49:36 PM): yeah, I need to not sleep more often

Professor Tillman (4:49:42 PM): But I still want a chicken pot pie

Professor Tillman (4:49:53 PM): I can't sleep for some reason either

Dr. Robinson (4:50:06 PM): so call up one of your ladies of the night and have her cook for you

Professor Tillman (4:50:28 PM): Oh - that's not going to happen. Trust me

Professor Tillman (4:50:34 PM): It came to a head two days ago

Professor Tillman (4:51:06 PM): I'm now down two crazy bitches. But there's more where they came from. Tillman LLC is always looking to hire more crazy bitches!

Dr. Robinson (4:51:52 PM): I think you need to up your screening process

Dr. Robinson (4:51:56 PM): do that background checks

Dr. Robinson (4:52:09 PM): actually have they fill out paperwork

Professor Tillman (4:52:32 PM): Doesn't matter. Apparently my permanent ad in the paper states: "will train for crazy."

Dr. Robinson (4:52:49 PM): you’re like the truck driver ads

Professor Tillman (4:52:55 PM): They develop while their here at the company. I nurture their craziness

Professor Tillman (4:53:10 PM): Or real Estate speculators

Dr. Robinson (4:53:12 PM): you’re a crazy bake oven man

Professor Tillman (4:53:22 PM): Nice

Dr. Robinson (4:53:39 PM): random crap over a light bulb and 10 minutes later - CRAZY!

Professor Tillman (4:54:03 PM): I'd be lucky if it took them 10 minutes.

Dr. Robinson (4:54:34 PM): that’s why I rarely get past the first conversation with women

Dr. Robinson (4:54:44 PM): I realize they’re crazy and run

Professor Tillman (4:55:01 PM): Yeah. Downhill from there. Except for that whole vagina business. That's a plus

Dr. Robinson (4:55:17 PM): yeah, those are fun

Professor Tillman (4:55:28 PM): That's what I hear

Dr. Robinson (4:55:35 PM): it’s been so long since I’ve seen on id probably try to throw rocks at it

Professor Tillman (4:55:45 PM): I'm on a vagina embargo right now

Professor Tillman (4:56:02 PM): No vagina allowed for at least a little while

Dr. Robinson (4:56:11 PM): it does clear the mind

Dr. Robinson (4:56:20 PM): like that Seinfeld episode

Professor Tillman (4:56:27 PM): Yeah it does

Professor Tillman (4:56:37 PM): Until the mouth attached to it starts up again

Dr. Robinson (4:56:54 PM): but after awhile you become so used to not having you just say whatever you’re thinking

Professor Tillman (4:57:30 PM): See - I'm so used to having it lately that I say whatever I want knowing that I couldn’t except a tang donation even if I wanted to

Dr. Robinson (4:57:37 PM): like the "god I wish shed shut up about her shoes" internal diatribe becomes "shut up about your shoes, stupid whore!" shouted at red robin

Professor Tillman (4:58:20 PM): You know - I'm surprised that hasn't gotten you laid. Turning on the asshole actually does work

Dr. Robinson (4:58:45 PM): true

Professor Tillman (4:59:11 PM): Yeah it's strange. When I was nice I was in the midst of a pussy ice age

Dr. Robinson (4:59:51 PM): next date I go on I’m making her pay and slapping her for talking

Professor Tillman (5:00:20 PM): And she will let you put it in her ass. I'd put money on it.

Professor Tillman (5:00:31 PM): or in it. Her ass that is

Dr. Robinson (5:00:58 PM): it’s not a coin star man

Dr. Robinson (5:01:13 PM): you can’t fire random change up there and expect cool stuff to happen

Professor Tillman (5:01:33 PM): If only

Dr. Robinson (5:01:56 PM): it’s got to be diamonds for that to work

Professor Tillman (5:02:02 PM): Hahaha

Dr. Robinson (5:02:04 PM): thus the ring of shame

Professor Tillman (5:02:14 PM): Yes.

Professor Tillman (5:02:31 PM): I'd put a ring on a bitch for a chicken pot pie right now.

Professor Tillman (5:02:45 PM): Or a #6 from Wendy’s. I'm that hungry

Dr. Robinson (5:02:54 PM): Wendy’s is good

Professor Tillman (5:03:11 PM): Yes. I had Arby's yesterday. My first meal out in fucking forever

Dr. Robinson (5:03:19 PM): I had Arby’s today

Professor Tillman (5:03:24 PM): Fuck you

Dr. Robinson (5:03:44 PM): but the tobacco shop in Louisville was closed from some gas main thing and it got cold by the time I hit alliance smoke shop

Professor Tillman (5:04:22 PM): I do have cigarettes which make my holding off on eating today not quite as urgent. But it's caught up with me now

Dr. Robinson (5:04:40 PM): you get a roller yet?

Professor Tillman (5:04:52 PM): Not yet. Next purchase for sure.

Dr. Robinson (5:05:16 PM): I got what will make 600 or so smokes for $22.22 today

Professor Tillman (5:05:44 PM): Fucking hell dude. I need to get on that. I bummed some of your cigs out when I got back and people loved them

Dr. Robinson (5:06:04 PM): yep

Dr. Robinson (5:06:09 PM): they are smoooooooth

Professor Tillman (5:06:15 PM): Indeed.

Professor Tillman (5:06:23 PM): And on that note...I need food.

Dr. Robinson (5:06:27 PM): I need sleep

Thanks for reading, but that’s it for now, kids.

Dr. R