Ad astra

Oh, yeah, and with everything else going on in my life…I’m starting a new job. I haven’t been talking too loudly about it, because since I am still at Asher Agency for a few more days. It seemed unprofessional to go crowing about my sweet new gig when I was still working as hard as I could to serve current clients. But enough people have asked me about it, I figured, well…time to crow about my sweet new gig.


As of June 21st I will be assuming the role of Creative Director at AdLab Advertising, filling the stanky, musty, fungus-ridden shoes of Shane Albahrani (his feet, dude…) as he transitions into the role he was born to play, the full-time radio voice of your Ft. Wayne Komets. He’s been running the show at AdLab for years. Now he tosses the torch to my hands, to hold high. (Habs fans will recognize the paraphrasing there.)


And while this new gig will be really, really sweet (a corner office! FOR ME!!) it will be very different, as the client list for AdLab is a bit more personal, local, downright homey, compared to some of the larger clients I’ve handled for the past three years. Not that Asher doesn’t have some of those types of clients: 3RRC, Turnstone, FWCS…there are tons of campaigns I have been so very proud to work on for those clients, and others. But with the enormity of Subway and some of Asher’s higher education clients always looming, it will be quite a change to do something different. I’ll be trying my best to help AdLab grow, to elevate our profile, to expand our scope and capabilities. It’s exciting. It’s challenging. And as a competitor, I love it. I can’t wait to roll my sleeves up and get to work.


As for my time at Asher, I can’t say enough good things. Dan Schroeter and Kelly Gayer took in a completely inexperienced copywriter and gave him a shot. Tom Borne said “Okay, sounds good.” Into the frying pan I went, concepting, writing, casting, directing, and producing all manner of print, TV, and radio spots. Over the last year and a half, I’ve added digital video and content creation, working alongside talented individuals like Morgan McIntire and Sean O’Leary and crafted digital and social media campaigns with Anthony Juliano, Brandon Peat, Brandon Wolf, Anthony Boyer, and Caity Rose. (In fact, if you see a video for FWA, Indiana Tech, or FWCS pop up on your timeline, there’s a good chance I did it, and those folks all added their parts to the process to make it work.) It’s crazy to sit back and think about how many wonderful people I got to know and love within the walls of that building on Wayne and Fulton. My work wife Jenna, my loveable uncle Larry…hell, I could go on and on and not mention everyone who has made my time there so enjoyable. So I won’t even try.


And of course, there’s Motia. Her alter ego has appeared in many of my science-fantasy short stories here in this blog from time to time, but the real AJ Motia is a hundred times as powerful, brave, smart, and kind. It was she who initially told me “I don’t know if you’d be interested in the Asher copywriting gig. It’s sort of entry-level.” But she also knew what I wanted to do, and she has been my champion every step of the way.


Finally, there’s my Sweet Baby. She and I are sat here on a Saturday, discussing life and how wonderful things are and what a strange, often trying trip it’s been for the last 13 years or so in Ft. Wayne. And how it really does feel like home, and we never want to leave. And how we can do whatever we want. And we will. And we love you guys. Thanks.



I Didn’t Choose the Pug Life…

I’m a cat person.  That is, I prefer cats to dogs.  Don’t get me wrong, dogs are swell;  they just ain’t my cuppa tea.  Friends’ dogs?  Hey, they’re A-OK.  Any pooch I can play ball with or run up and down the beach beside for a few hours is cool in my book….as long as I can go home without the burden of canine companionship.  I imagine my thoughts on man’s best friend are much like the attitudes of those folks unburdened by children who find themselves at a family gathering which includes toddlers.  You know how it goes.

AUNTIE: Oh, she’s so cute!  Oh!  Look at her little face!  I just want to eat it up!  Who’s a cutie pie?  You are!  Oh, yes you are!  Oh, can I hold her?  Wow, she’s so tiny!  OOoooOOO!  She’s smiling at me!  Yes she is! She–


At which point the stunned, soaked, smelly relative hands the wailing kid back to the parents.  Quickly thereafter, auntie swears to NEVER give birth to living young. Ever.  She even considers a life of celibacy, just in case.

Now, all that being said, pugs are pretty goddam cute.  I’ll give the little bastards that much.  I mean, look at this guy.  His name is Gene.  He was so named because his tongue, usually lolling out of the side of his mouth by a good eight inches, so resembled that of legendary KISS bassist/God of Thunder Gene Simmons that the moniker was perfect.  Personally, I think he looks more like Samuel L. Jackson, but hey…diff’rent strokes.

Say "what" again!

Say “what” again!

My lovely wife and I agreed to foster Gene for a while through a great organization known as Kentuckiana Pug Rescue.  They do great work finding loving homes for otherwise neglected or abandoned animals.  I know, I know…who in their right mind would pay top dollar for a purebred pug an then simply walk away from it?  But it happens.  Sometimes the new pet owners have sorely underestimated the financial cost of owning a pet or the time required to care for a living, breathing, furry member of the family.  Sometimes it’s an even sadder tale:  Gene’s human mom succumbed to cancer, and he needed a home.  Simple as that.  My wife and I, the good-natured, animal-loving liberals that we are, offered to keep ol’ Gene for a while.  It was sort of trial run for us as well, as we’d considered adding a small dog to our two cats and two human boys.  The boys wanted a dog, and we decided that the middle of the worst goddam winter in Ft. Wayne history was the perfect time to add another animal to our home.  Not just another pet, mind you: no, another animal which required closely-monitored feeding (pugs will literally eat anything and everything) and trips outside to the bathroom.

You know what love is?  I’ll tell you what love is.  Love is going out in negative-ten-degree weather and shoveling a 40-by-20 patch out of the two-foot deep snow in your backyard for an animal to defecate in.  Love is hoping that the plows come through again so that you can take the little bastard on a walk around the block.  Love is picking up what seems to be a chewy Lincoln Log from the couch because somebody didn’t get outside fast enough.  Love is putting the kitchen trash can up on the counter top so that the lovable bastard doesn’t knock it over and dig through it to find the empty microwave popcorn bag you threw in there last night.  Love is dealing with pug breath in your face at 5:30 am.  Love is your cute little ball of energy barking incessantly at the inflatable Santa Claus in the front yard.

But, yes, love is also a warm, fuzzy, full belly presented to you out of trust and affection.  Love is also the squeals of laughter from the kids as that stupid beast chases his tail around and around and around until he falls over from dizziness.  And, okay, fine…love is the feeling of happiness as Gene goes off to live with his forever family.    Was it worth it?  The heartache, the angst, the frustration?  Fine. Sure.  Okay, yes, unquestionably.  Did I tell myself “never again?” Damn right I did.

So, yeah.  This week we’re sitting for a friend’s pug.  Goddammit.  His name is Mr. Chubs.  He looks like this.

Taken shortly after eating a one-pound bag of Iams cat food, I shit you not.

Taken shortly after eating a one-pound bag of Iams cat food, I shit you not.

And when he goes back home this weekend (awwww, so soon?) I will be quietly relieved.  My cats will be delighted to have my lap back.  I will be pleased to not have fawn-covered hairs all over everything and thrilled not to worry about stepping into what seems to be melted Tootsie Rolls on my way to the restroom.  The thing is, I’m a cat person and I’m not ashamed to admit it.  Hell, I’m proud of my status.  The entire internet exists because of cats (citation needed.)  Cats have even given me some of my favorite expressions; you could even say they’re the ‘cat’s pajamas!”  And scooping a litterbox in the safety and elemental comfort of my garage in January is infinitely preferable to picking up steaming piles of dog waste at any time of year. So will I ever welcome dogs into my house again?  Absolutely not.  No way.  100% negative on the doggie-sitting.  All done.

Aw, who am I kidding…



Jokes aside, kindly check out the good folks at Kentuckiana Pug Rescue.  Browse the pooches, foster a dog, make a donation.  And may the odds be ever in your favor…)


One Last Job

Quick backstory on this thing.  I live in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, and we’ve had one of the worst winters ever.  No, seriously.  Record amount of snowfall, record low temperatures.  Hell, one week the average temperature here was lower than either of the poles and all of Canada.  Absolutely true.

But then…suddenly…spring!  50 degrees!  Sunshine!  Melting snow!  And then…our dreams were dashed once again.  Tonight it’s supposed to start raining.  That rain will become sleet.  The sleet will become snow.  Up to seven inches worth, total.  Then, as the Midwest would have it, our high on Friday is once again near fifty.  It’s cruel, giving us a taste of Spring before hitting us in the nuts again with Winter.  And Winter isn’t going anywhere any time soon.  No, there are forecast highs in the 30’s off and on for the rest of the month of March.  It’s a goddam Greek tragedy.

As a bit of therapy, I had this little short story form in my head and decided to try and put it down in writing.  The formatting is shite because WordPress doesn’t let you import MS Word formatting without a great deal of coding and plug-ins and I’m sort of just throwing this together, so…try and enjoy it nonetheless!

    The bar was small and dim. Not pitch black, as there was a small rectangular pane of glass in the front door.  The glass had long ago been covered with what at one point must’ve been khaki canvas, but now resembled yellowed, dusty muslin.  It glowed faintly, but not enough for true illumination.  One interesting side-effect was the clear, black silhouette it presented whenever someone arrived at the doorstep

     At that hour, not quite midday, the place was almost empty.  There was Delores behind the main bar, her Salem hanging from the corner of her mouth and dropping ash while she perused the latest ‘Us’ magazine.  Slumped across her bar, sleeping or worse, was Dan.  Dan showed up each morning with a bag of McDonald’s breakfast burritos, sat down on his stool, and ate the burritos while drinking gin. He’d stir sometime after noon, shuffle to the men’s room for about fifteen minutes, then return and order rye. Nobody knew what Dan did (or had done) for a living or how old he was.  He was just there, and everyone was okay with that.

     The old man sat at one of two round tables near the front wall.  He could’ve picked one of the dirty, dark green-leather upholstered booths in the back.  That’s what he’d do if he were some rookie, some young fucker that’d seen too many movies.  He shook his head and smiled at the thought.

     “Who does that?” he mused.  “What dumb son of a bitch sits back there with no escape route, no way to outflank ‘em, no way to even see ‘em as anything but shadows against that bright light from the street?  Stupid.  Stupid fuckin’ kids, that’s who.”

      The old man couldn’t even recall being a kid, so ancient was he.  Anyone that knew him would agree:  he’d always just been…old.  An old man. 

     A dangerous old man. 

     That’s why he’d chosen that table.  It had a full view of the entire bar, and if someone were to burst through the front door, they might blow right past him. He’d be at their right rear-quarter, and have them dead to rights.

     He waited. He sipped his water, stirred the disintegrating piece of lemon until the seeds separated.  A rivulet of condensation ran down the outside of the Mason jar mug.  Another sip.  A glance at Delores and the immobile Dan.  Another sip.  Any second now.

     The room grew slightly, almost imperceptibly, darker.  A shadow at the front door.  It was time.

     The old man tensed.  The door swung wide, seemingly all by itself.  A pause, a beat…then the Company Man stepped in.  Double-breasted grey suit and matching fedora. He turned immediately and made eye contact.  He smiled.

     “Hello, Winter!  Sorry for making you wait.”  The Company Man doffed his hat and started towards the table.  Old man Winter’s tactical advantage was for naught, and both of them knew it. 

     The old man lifted his glass, finishing off the last of the water, eyes locked on his adversary.  He didn’t quite slam the empty jar, but brought it down with conviction.

     “What now?  What more could you possibly want?” He half-whispered.

     A bark of laughter flew from the well-dressed figure sitting casually on the other side of the table.  He had one leg folded, resting across the other, like he was sitting down to breakfast and the paper.

     “Well, you certainly get right to it, don’t you?  Got somewhere to be, Winter?  Hot date, maybe?”

     “None of your concern.  Don’t matter.  We had a deal.  Now it’s done.  Done, y’hear? I got no time for the likes of you, and don’t give a shit what you think.”

     “Don’t you?” the Company Man whispered.  His smile left his face, which somehow made him look less menacing. 

     “No,” came the terse reply.  The Company Man sighed.

     “You can save your glare for someone else.  This isn’t my fault, not my decision.  You know the way this goes.  You work until we say stop.”

     “I’ve done enough!  More than enough” Winter’s hands clenched into fists, and his nails pressed hard into his palms.

     “Not so.  We need one more job.  One more, and I swear you’re done for a while.”

     “One more.  It’s always one more.”

     “One more.  Then you can go, until we need you again.”

     Old man Winter leaned back in his chair, knowing that his protests were useless.  The Company would get their way, they always did. 

     “Why?  Why so much?  Why so…hard?  What have they done to deserve this?”  his old voice cracked, thinking of those that had already suffered and those that would continue to.

     “Not your worry.  Or mine. The Company doesn’t let us in on their plans, their schemes.  You know that.  It’s above our pay grade.”

     The Company Man leaned back as well, a reflection of old man Winter.  But while Winter’s body language whispered ‘resignation’ the Company Man’s stated ‘confident repose.’  They both sat, silent, unmoving.  After a minute passed, then another, the Man stood and replaced the Fedora on top of his head.

     “For what it’s worth, you know what I think?  I think this is more than a hit.  This is something else.  Do you ever question what they’ve done to deserve this?  Like, look at what they’ve done to Her.  Maybe we’re sending a message this time.  Maybe it’s payback.   I’m really curious to see what happens when they let Summer off the leash, if they ever do.  Just a thought.  An observation.  Maybe it’ll help you sleep.”

     The old man watched him go. 

     “One more job,” he muttered.  He wiped a hand down across his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.  One more.  Then it would be done.  Didn’t matter that Spring had jumped the gun.  It was cruel, sure, but not his concern.  The thought occurred that perhaps the Company had arranged that little bit of cruelty.  Give the poor bastards in the Midwest a chance to catch their breath, to let hope grow in their hearts, before slamming the frigid hammer down once again. 

     Cruel, yes.  But not his concern.  The Company Man was right about that.  Winter no longer cared.  The job.  One more job.  That was what mattered.  Then he could rest.  His cold, tired, aching bones could rest.

     One more job.

     He stood, and nodded at Delores, who, engrossed in the latest Brad and Angelina scuttlebutt, missed his parting glance.  Dan snored softly and gurgled.

     Winter turned and pulled open the front door.  The light was blinding, but he stepped out into the cold sunshine with ice in his heart.  The job.  The job was all that mattered.

     One more.

Q & A, Part Two

**Cracks knuckles.  Sips Scotch.  Exhales.  Turns to keyboard.**


Into part two.  Moar questions answered!  (And thanks for liking my Facebook page.  Seriously, it means a lot.  If you haven’t yet, feel free to visit it on the right-hand margin over there. I’ll wait.               Got it?  Good!)

Leslie asks “Is you mother still writing?”

Leslie and I are old theater cohorts, and she’s asking, literally, about my mom’s writing career.  Many people don’t know that my mother used to write romance novels.  She started out at Harlequin Romance, doing those monthly soft-core romances that you mom likes.  She dabbled with other publishers, and actually had a few books out with her name above the title.  In other words, her books said “LYNN TURNER” and then “NAME OF STORY” underneath.  And yes, Lynn Turner was a pen-name.  She took my middle name (yeah, so?  Lynn is just as masculine as…as…like, Dale or something) and first name, transposed them, and BAZINGA!  Fun fact:  later on, as the internet became “a thing” mom would do Alta Vista searches (remember AltaVista?  It was the Google of the mid-90’s) for “Lynn Turner” and found out that…SURPRISE!  Lynn Turner was a 90’s porn star.  Anyway, sadly, it’s been a  while since mom published anything.  She contributed a few items to anthologies and such for old editor friends, but nothing of late.  Perhaps she should start blogging…giving tips to aspiring writers and such.  Hint-hint, mom.  (Then again, she could be my editor, as I just finished a damned manuscript and have no self-control…)

This is actually still available for your NOOK reader!!

This is actually still available for your NOOK reader!!

A very special query from my dear friend Joe:  “Why do you do this on a weekly basis after our hockey games … Stand like Captain Morgan while holding a beer wearing ONLY your birthday suit or if I’m lucky you’ll throw on a shirt, but that’s it ?!?! I’ve seen your hog more than I’ve seen my own. Welp, see ya later.”

For those of  you that don’t know, Joe is one of my very best and dearest friends ever.  And I’m 43 years old, so that’s saying something.  Anyway, Joe is also the drummer in the band RAINS and my linemate on our beer-league hockey team.  Next to Smallville’s Michael Rosenbaum, he’s the most famous guy I’ve ever shared the ice with.  But his distress comes from the fact that, yes, I often throw my “hog” out for display.  See, my “hog” has gotten me attention in the past (due to its shimmering, glistening beauty…and a purplish vein on the side that spells out ‘radiant’ in cursive and OH GOD, STOP TYPING!!)  Anyhoo…ol’ Joe’s penis has been known to cure blindness and make the crippled walk.  It also, ironically, has crippled non-believers who won’t accept that it is the ultimate power in the universe and STOP TYPING!!  NOW!! THAT IS AN ORDER!)

Rather than post a picture of my "hog" I decided to remind you that 'Back in the Day' is available right now on iTunes.  Ahem.

Rather than post a picture of my “hog” I decided to remind you that ‘Back in the Day’ is available right now on iTunes. Ahem.

Daniel (or, as we call him in da Fort ‘Porch’) has a good ‘un:  “Why are you a closet case for your love of Batman over Spider-man.. or.. what attracts you to Spider-man and when did you first feel that chub?”

I intend to do an entire blog about Spidey, who is the super-hero with whom I most identify.  He really does deserve his own blog, so deep are my affections for ol’ Web-Head.  But my Batman love isn’t closeted in any way.  I love Batsy. In fact, Batman and Ambush Bug are my all-time favorite DC Comics characters.  And if you don’t know who Ambush Bug is, please do yourself a favor and run (RUN, I SAID!! MOVE YOUR GODDAM FEET!) to your nearest (local) comic book store and inquire.  They’ll steer you right.

Ambush Bug: the ORIGINAL Deadpool.

Ambush Bug: the ORIGINAL Deadpool.

Time for one more?  Okay.  One more.

Finally, this question from Jess:  “How do you balance family/real life with the bear?”

She’s referring, of course, to my primary job, which is hosting the midday show on 98.9 the Bear in Ft. Wayne (but with online listenership spanning the literal globe!  Wae’aye, Newcastle!)  The thing is, the radio side of my life is part of my “normal” life and vise-versa.  See, nowadays radio guys are just like audio bloggers.  We use our lives as show-prep.  By that, I mean that what happens to us away from the radio station informs upon the show itself.  Follow?  John the Mexican talks about his new house during his show, Barry Thickk talks up his latest blowjob adventure (SPOILER: it was with a LADY!)  Hell, I just had my kids in to do a show with me AGAIN.  This, because I am sick and tired of trying to find childcare during this hellish winter that we’re having in the midwest. The point is that if you have a family, and you’re going to do radio, well…they’d better just get used to the idea.  This isn’t TV or movies.  You don’t get to shoot the scenes and go home.  You work at it, constantly.  24 hours a day.  Your life is show-prep, and radio is your life. That’s just how it is.  Concerts, remotes, appearances, guest-judging wet t-shirt contests…it’s all part of your life, and the other way around.  It’s why radio is so trying, demanding, and exhausting.  It’s also why it’s so blissful.  If you’re gonna stay in this biz…and I’ve been doing it for over twenty years…you learn that there’s no other way.  Radio = your life.  And the other way around.

Of course, sometimes your life demands that you hang with Corey Taylor.

Of course, sometimes your life demands that you hang with Corey Taylor.

Q & A, Part One

Oh, this year has been awesome so far, hasn’t it?  Man…things are happening, wheels are in motion, and ol’ Uncle Turner needs a break already.  (It sucks being old, kids.)

That’s why I decided to turn the tough part of blogging (inspiration!) over to you.  Over at my Facebook page, I asked you to ask me questions.  Nothing was off-limits, and you guys are so creatively insane and brilliantly stupid that I got some really good questions.  Too many to handle all at once, lest this be a 48-page blog entry.  Nobody wants that.  Hell, my radio consultant said the last entry was too long, so…let’s begin.

Ryan asks: Does God have feet?

An excellent question, and quantum physics teaches us that God both does and does not have feet.  Also?  This explains the dual nature of God as both male and female simultaneously.  Hence the old line about us being created “In God’s image.”  Whoa, it got really serious right out of the gate.  Let’s change gears…

"I saw two pairs of footprints, and said HOLY SHIT, GOD!! DON'T STEP ON ME!!"

“I saw two pairs of footprints, and said HOLY SHIT, GOD!! DON’T STEP ON ME!!”

Mike submits: Do you think Hollywood should do a reboot or sequel to Real Genius? And are you available to play Chris Knight, cause Val Kilmer is fat now?

I’ve covered reboots and sequels in previous blogs, and I’d be down for a sequel to this film (one of my all-time faves) if they mixed it up and made Chris the professor or even the project lead at some company.  He’s lost his way a bit, and needs a young, brilliant student to bring him back to the irreverent Chris Knight we all know and love.  Alas, I am also old and fat, so it’ll prolly end up starring Ryan Gosling somehow.

Negative, ghostrider.  The pattern is full...of donuts.

Negative, ghostrider. The pattern is full…of donuts.

From Joe: Colecovision…best gaming console ever?

Son, you know that it’s a war between NES and Sega.  A very tightly-contested war, with no clear victor.  That being said, “Buck Rogers” on the Colecovision was incredible.

My brother and I called this level "Holiday Road" and would sing the Lindsey Buckingham song from "Vacation" as we played.  True story.

My brother and I called this level “Holiday Road” and would sing the Lindsey Buckingham song from “Vacation” as we played. True story.

Brian asks: Rick Flair or Stone Cold Steve Austin ?

No question, it’s always going to be Rick Flair.  Ask me again in twenty years.  It will still be Rick Flair.  WOOOOOOOO!

One of these guys dresses with class.  The other might be Goldberg.  I can never tell.

One of these guys dresses with class. The other might be Goldberg. I can never tell.

The music-minded Tuler submits: What’s your favorite local bands?

Ft. Wayne has a surprisingly deep well of local talent.  And like most Midwestern towns, it seems like there’s a bedrock foundation of cover bands, upon which a layer of metal and blues rock lays.  Then you get all the other genres sprinkled about like feldspar. (Geology, bitches!)  I have talented friends in bands like Beneath it All and Valhalla, standout metal bands.  KTR and Downstait are great, too. I’ve always figured Left Lane Cruiser would be a huge national act by now, and it boggles my mind that they aren’t as popular as, say Cage the Elephant (I know, different styles and such.  LLC isn’t easily quantified and packaged, so there’s that.  Perhaps I should’ve compared them to Leon Redbone instead.)  But my tastes are decidedly more punk-rock in nature, so I’d say that you can’t go wrong with Flamingo Nosebleed.  They’ve had (and totally earned) the opportunity to tour with the likes of The Suicide Machines and other “national” acts.  One could make the argument that they’re more popular outside Ft. Wayne proper, which is a shame.

Okay, running out of space, so let’s have one more, hopefully from someone too drunk to stand…ah!  Perfect.

Jake asks (slurringly): If you were half man, half sausage, which half would beer man.

Every man is half sausage and half beer and beer man, beer, man.  Beer.

Yes, this stock photo exists.

Yes, this stock photo exists.

Random Pancake Tampons!!

Okay, full disclosure: there are no pancakes OR tampons in this week’s missive.  Sorry for misleading you.  I just thought of the word “random” and then the first two words into my head were pancakes and tampons, so there you go.  Speaks volumes about the state of my mental well-being, eh what?  Forgive me, it’s been a strange week.  I flew a plane, for God’s sake.  Seriously.  They let me have the controls of an actual goddam airplane, and I lived to tell the tale.  See, the lesson was only one dollar…but the landing cost me a hundred-forty-nine bucks!  ZING! (That’s a pilot’s-license-instructor joke.  It absolutely has ’em in stitches at the airport.)  And you know what I learned about flying an airplane (other than it’s fuggin’ AWESOME?) It is EXACTLY like every video game you’ve ever played.  Only, you know, more terrifying when you stall.  Fact.

Oh! Okay, yeah...up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, THEN B-A-Start. Got it.

Anyway, there’s no point to the blog this week.  I just wanted to point out that this place is now conveniently called!  How ’bout that!  SOOOO much easier to ignore! Notice that I’ve changed the look a bit, too.  Yeah, that’s me.  Keepin’ it fresh and real like a goddam Wendy’s!  YOU KNOW WHEN IT’S REAL, BITCH!!

One of the other things I did this week was pay one more visit to the Ft. Wayne’s Children’s Zoo.  For the uninitiated, that’s an actual zoo full of animals, NOT a collection of ragamuffins and street urchins.  If that were the case, no one would go to the Africa exhibit because it would be sad and depressing and full of flies.  And the England exhibit would have loveable scamps playing footy and picking pockets while shouting “‘Ello, guv’nah!”  The fish & chips would be bomb-diggity though, yo.


Anyway, one of the rides there at the Ft. Wayne’s Children’s Zoo and Orphanage is the Australian Outback River Ride.  Basically, the zoo got a deal on some old Cedar Point log flume ride parts and threw together a meandering little teenage make-out session on water.  It’s kinda cool, and you get to see Black Swans and they always remind me of cheap-but-tasty Australian wine. As the family (the wife, two kids, and myself) wrapped up the ride and got ready to disembark, I had a brilliant idea that would be sure to liven the day of the poor minimum-wage kids running the damn log ride day after day.  I tell you this now at the end of the season so that maybe they’ll forget about it by springtime (as if anyone read this blog anyway, amirite?)

I’m going to need an accomplice, but here’s the plan.  I’m going to get into one of the old Abandoned Saw Mill Mining Town Log Ride Boats (formerly the Australian Outback River Ride) and about halfway through, once out of sight, I’m going to bail out.  Yep.  Leave the goddam path, so to speak and find out if Nedry turned off power in the ‘Raptor paddock.  This is where the accomplice comes in.  He/she will have been in the boat one or two spaces behind me, and I’ll hop in THIS person’s boat.  “That’s it?” you’re asking yourself.  “Big friggin’ deal!  Gosh, I thought there was more to this.”

You also wish there were more to this, don't you? Me, too.

Ah, but here it is!  The reason I need another boat is because I would have left the following items in my original ride:  One (1) mangled athletic shoe, four (4) children’s teeth (My oldest son is losing his baby teeth.  We don’t just throw those away once the tooth fairy comes, do we?) one (1) hunting knife, and five (5) clumps of animal hair (likely from my fat-ass cat, Keyser.) All of these items will be covered in copious amounts of fake blood, or deer blood if one of my huntin’ buddies bags and guts a deer.  I actually just realized that I’ll need a second accomplice to videotape the reactions of the zoo employees, as that’s the whole point: to scare the living shit out of some poor pimply-faced kid who sees a vacant log boat filed with blood, carnage, and signs of struggle wash up on his landing. God, that’d be priceless. “OMIGOD!!  A WALLABY MUST’VE GOT LOOSE AND TOTALLY NOMMED ONE OF THE VISITORS!!!”  Fuckin’ wallabies, man.  They’ll fuckin’ GET ya.

Swear to God, this already existed on the internet. It just happened to be perfect.

Of course, if someone executes this plan before I get a chance, well…as an agent of chaos, I’ll sit back and smile quietly.  Perhaps I’ll even clap, slowly.

And wonder why I never get any work done.