Honea Express

Archive for the ‘Sgt. Honea’s Lonely Posts Club Band’ Category

It’s Monday. Again. Wasn’t it just Monday a few days ago? Sad excuse for a day if you ask me.

Today, in an effort to brighten the beginning of your week, we will be reading a lonely post by one DJ Dan of All that comes with it.

Dan is quite the character, and seems like a pretty fun guy, even though he has taken it upon himself to tease me and make me cry. It’s okay. It will make me stronger. I hope.

But I digress. Here is Dan’s story. Please read it quietly.

Originally posted August 25, 2006.

In many respects I’m a very responsible person. I keep to the speed limit, try to shop ethically, and very rarely pull a sickie at work. In other ways, however, I am a raging torrent of heady irresponsibility. I’m forever leaving the margarine out rather than put it back in the fridge, I’ve been known to forget to feed the dog on occasion, and I really don’t brush my teeth as often as I should. However, perhaps the most financially damaging of all my irresponsible traits is my inability to return library books on time.

In my life I have amassed incredibly large fines in the public libraries of at least three major UK cities. Fines, I must add, that remain unpaid to this day. Furthermore this antisocial behaviour has caused two separate universities to threaten to withhold qualifications from me, insisting that I paid them for overdue books before they would even consider granting my degrees. I have even potentially caused a bomb scares by dumping carrier bags full of overdue books in the middle of the reference section, all because I was too much of a coward to face the rather stern woman at the returns desk.

Not only have I racked up fines on my own library cards, I’ve also tarnished the records of friends and relations. My friend Neil regularly reminds me that I owe him money for a fine he incurred because I didn’t return a book I borrowed on his card when we were 18. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a photo fit of my face behind every library counter in the country, emblazoned with warnings of kissing their timely returns targets goodbye should I even be allowed to cross their threshold

Strangely enough the career of librarian has always appealed to me. When I used to collect comics I revelled in the task of categorising, organising, and cataloguing them, using a wide variety of complex systems which changed almost weekly. In fact in a parallel universe somewhere I probably am a librarian; I once was corresponding with the head of the local television station’s archive department about a potential opening for me. In the end I decided to go for my nurse training instead, but you never know what might have been.

There are many wonderful things about being married to Kerry. She is patient, understanding, and brings me diet coke from the shop on her way back from work. One of the many things I value about her is the organisational influence she has on my life. It is this influence that has allowed me to venture through the doors of a library once more without the feeling of impending financial ruin. She does strange and wonderful things like: remember when a book is due back and ring up the library to renew them! Breathtaking.

Because of this steadying impact she has I am now able to regularly take Amy to the library. It saves a fortune in books and stops our brains turning to mush as we read the same bedtime stories to her over and over again. She hasn’t quite grasped the fact that when we return books she no longer owns them yet; and I’ve had a couple of discussions with her recently about the benefit of choosing new books over the ones we’ve just taken back. But overall our visits are a positive experience.

I can now say, with hand on my heart, that I’m a reformed man. I am no longer a library outlaw, and it’s all due to the love of a good woman. I’ve just got to hope that the library doesn’t dust off that photo fit under the counter and realise that I’ve no longer got a beard.

Today’s victim offering comes courtesy of Tracy from her blog, Whim.

Tracy has written a nice piece about pointless conversation and television role models. You jackasses in the blog world didn’t give her time and energy nearly enough love. I know, because I was one of you.

Before we continue, there are still spots open for your submissions. It’s a win-win. I get to slack on posting and you get link love, and quite possibly crabs. I have a lot of riff-raff in these parts.

Now, with nothing further ado, I present “Lofty Goals” from Whim:

Originally posted on June 28, 2006.

Here is something you may not know about my husband and me…we are masters of pointless conversation. We thrive on inventing hypothetical questions to guide us into the most obscure possible discussions. Proof positive of this occured two years ago when we took a two week road trip to Kansas City. Over the course of the 4000 mile round trip, we never ran out of crap to talk about. It was at that point that I realized our marriage would last forever. Much has been said and written about what happens in a relationship when you’ve heard all of each other’s stories. In our case, we just make shit up.

It is in this way that we have, over the years, finely honed our parenting philosophies. One of our favorite topics of hypothetical conversation has been our unborn child/ren. These discussions started out simply enough (How do you feel about spanking? What kind of chores are fair to give a child? What should we say when our child inevitably discovers us having sex?), and eventually evolved into longer, more philosphical inquiries (What if our child is gay? What if our child wants to become a vegetarian? What if our child is a Republican?). In this way, we have mentally prepared ourselves for whatever Twitch throws at us.

One of our favorite parent discussions, though, is who we should use as parenting role models. Of course, discussing real people here would be no fun at all; rather, we choose to analyze the parenting skills of television characters. Thus it was that one day we challenged each other to come up with our personal lists of the top three TV moms and dads. I thought it might amuse our gentle readers to see the results.

Tracy

1) Ma Ingalls. Ma is the greatest television mom ever. Period. I accept no argument on this point as it is FACT. Raising seven children (four her own and three adopted) in the harsh landscape of 19th century Minnesota was no small feat, and yet she succeeds at maintaining a happy family life against all tragedy. She is a rock. A gorgeous, eloquent, talented, tireless rock. At the worst of times, when even Pa loses it, Ma holds it together. If her children go blind, fall down old wells, become sick with plague, get their hearts broken…whatever, Ma is still her strong, beautiful self. She is wise and well-educated. She is gentle but firm. She can whip up a fantastic pie and then go out to the fields and help Pa bring in the harvest. Best of all, she always knows the exact right thing to say to her kids to help them through tough times. Conversations with Ma inevitably end with one or more kids exclaiming “Oh Ma!” and throwing themselves into her arms. She makes great coffee; sews all of her family’s clothes; and lances her own infected wounds whilst in the midst of horrendous fever. Oh, and having the hottest husband in town ain’t such a bad thing either!

2) Kitty Foreman. I just love Kitty, and really, what’s not to love? Kitty is the type of mom who is so great that she becomes the coveted mom, collecting kids from all over the neighborhood who hang around because they secretly wish that she was their mom. Kitty is a career woman but still makes sure that her kids have hot breakfasts in the morning and fresh baked cookies when they need a snack. Much like Ma, Kitty can bake a mean pie. (Pie always works its way into any discussion of my future happiness.) She is a strong believer in the power of a mother’s love, though, like any mom, gets upset when that love is taken for granted. (“You know I love my family. It’s just sometimes I want to get in the car and run ‘em all over!) Although Kitty can become easily frustrated, she knows when to hit the juice to get herself through a crisis. She laughs easily, yells sparingly, and gives lots of hugs. Best of all, she embarrasses her kids regularly and could care less. That’s the price they have to pay for her undying maternal devotion.

3) Lois Wilkerson. If Ma and Kitty lack one thing, it is the ability to inspire fear. And let’s face it…sometimes you need a healthy dose of fear to keep your kids in line. Enter Lois. Admittedly, Lois is far from the perfect mom. All of her kids are seriously screwed up. Even so, she keeps them in line through a reign of terror to rival even the most bloodthirsty dictator. She is also cunning. It takes weeks of planning for any of her kids to pull one over on her. Lois’ ability to sniff out a lie is spooky. Her talent at knowing exactly when one or more of her kids is getting into trouble is inspiring. It is Lois’ near-psychic connection to the sick minds of each of her children that I most admire. I can only hope to someday perfect that singular look that conveys to Twitch, “I know what you’re thinking and you’d better stop. Disobediance will be swiftly punished.” When Twitch withers under this look, I will know I have achieved the ultimate in parenting. I don’t think Lois has ever baked a pie, but I’m sure she buys them at the store once in a while.

Himself

1) Julius Rock. Here is a man who knows the cost of everything, and despite this horrifying knowledge, comes home from work and raises three children anyway. His wife is constantly quitting her jobs because he has two, but he doesn’t get a divorce. When he chooses to do the housework and cooking, he is three times as good at it as his wife is, but allows her the conceit that she is a better domestic than he. He is tall, attractive, and one of only three fathers on his street (and in Bedford-Stuyvesant, for that matter) who meets his responsibilities as a man, and yet he does not cheat on his wife with the stream of women who come to his door looking for a man just like him. Were I in his shoes, I’d take the one useful member of My household (Chris) and run to the hills, but he stays, works from before dawn until after dusk, pays every bill on time, raises his children correctly, loves and encourages his wife (and cedes most authority to her), and walks the line with head held high. What is his reward for all of this? Smothered chicken-fried bacon, gout, and baldness. His life is the example I would point at when asked, “Master, why choose the Dark Side?” But he chooses to live this way, and for these acts, I must anoint him as the greatest TV father ever. That’s 42 cents worth of soda you’re wasting, fool. Pick it up and drink it before the next entry.

2) Reginald “Red” Foreman. Kitty Foreman is, as She notes, beloved by the entire neighborhood. Red, however, has only Kitty. This is all he needs. Kitty provides all of the love, support, and emotional connection that any child could need. Red provides the rest. Failing math? How about a foot in the ass. Arrested by the police? Would you like a foot in the ass? Marrying your girlfriend in spite of your parents? Hmmm, Let me think. Oh, I know! How about a FOOT IN THE ASS. Red has one job: to provide the impetus for his son Eric to succeed in the world and be a good man. He has the perfect tool for this job: his foot. Red does not need to go to church, because he and God had a heart-to-heart when his destroyer was going down in the Pacific during Korea. He need not worry about the spectre of Communism, because he has lots of experience killing Commie bastards like you. In fact, he does not worry about violence at all, because he is the only local guy who has ever killed anybody, and he will be happy to give anyone who forgets their place a generous sized helping of foot in the ass. His only regret is that he does not have 2000 feet, so that he can put 500 feet into Eric’s ass and the asses of his idiot friends, who are coddled by Kitty and clearly have no idea what a hard life is. Everyone in the neighborhood loves Kitty, but they fear Red. Everyone. Even the professional wrestlers who come to visit have the good sense to fear Red. This is why Red has no problems being a father to Eric, and despite his best efforts otherwise, to all of the other neighborhood children, who, he notes, quite obviously need a tender fatherly foot in the ass. Did you finish that drink yet? No? How would you like a foot in the ass?

3) Jonathan “Jack” Donahue Bristow. How do you know that Jack Bristow is a good father? Simple. He will happily kill anyone who interferes with his daughter in a negative fashion. Anyone. Including her mother. Now there is a father that can be trusted to follow through. He is a master spy, knows everything about everything, is sexy, deadly in combat, speaks almost every language, is an unsurpassed actor when he needs to be, and even in the throes of radiation-induced hallucinations is still ten times more sane and rational than anyone else. Oh, and he nailed his wife’s hot sister. But this is acceptable, since they were divorced and he later had to shoot her in the face for putting a contract out on his daughter anyway. His advice to Sydney (who, despite also being a spy, and having two master spies for parents, is a complete moron) is always 100% correct, he always shows up to rescue her, he constantly monitors her like any good parent, and whatever his mistakes, he corrects them, usually by killing the cause of the mistake in the first place, to insure that it doesn’t happen again. His reward? He has to blow himself to pieces to protect his daughter, who repays him by naming her first son after him. Is that all, you ask? Yes, but Jack does his duty out of love, not for the reward. Jack’s love for his child is so great, that like any good father, he will commit treason and kill all of her other relatives by gunshot to the head to make sure that she grows up properly. That is the kind of father I want to be. (Do not take this to mean that I want to shoot Herself in the face, I’m merely pointing out what I find the appropriate level of devotion. I will happily shoot your interfering ass, though, so watch it). Ah, I see you finished your drink. Too bad I poisoned it to keep TWITCH safe from you.

Today I am providing a second chance to a very entertaining post by one T. Holmes. He blogs at The Holmes and is also the FNG at DadCentric.

He’s a funny guy, a good writer, and frankly his posts deserve better than this, but what are you going to do.

I chose his contribution to be first, despite the post being over a year old, because it is actually rather timely. He also has pictures of me and Miss New Jersey that I don’t want going public.

That said, here is “Robots in Disguise” by The Holmes:

Originally Posted on Saturday, January 21, 2006

Robots in Disguise
So Ash and I have the esteemed honor of housing an electrical transformer in a corner of our back yard, a large green box which provides power to our house and several neighboring huts. It’s an ugly little thing, but the previous owners of this place built a little mini-fence around it to make it less of an eyesore. Fine.

That is, until the other day when the Ash was outside with a fencing guy who was giving us an estimate on a new fence, and they noticed strange fluids oozing out of it. A call to the city later, and a massive crew has raced to our house like they’re the goddamn S.W.A.T. team. I came home from work to find all these huge trucks parked up and down our street and in the neighboring cul-de-sac. It looked like Optimus Prime and the rest of the fucking Autobots had swooped in to fix our transformer.

So every thing’s all fixed and cleaned up now. These guys had to come in through the neighbor’s yard with some gargantuan pieces of machinery to work on this thing and to clean up its mess. Thing is, along with getting our fence replaced, we’d also talked about putting a real fence around this little transformer doohickey to keep Henry away from it when he gets old enough to be getting himself into that kind of trouble. However, a cute little factoid we learned from the Austin Energy dudes is that they are authorized to take apart any such structures in order to get to the city’s transformers.

The city’s transformers. That’s some Decepticon bullshit.

So the fence idea is out, which leaves us wondering what we can do once Henry gets big enough to be playing in the back yard. How to keep him away from the transformer? The way my mind works, I had one initial idea that I immediately had to shelve because it pretty much violates every parenting principle I believe in, would result in years of expensive therapy and medication for all involved, and was basically just too fucked. Not to mention the technical expertise that would be required, which I simply do not possess. What follows is a dramatic textual interpretation of exactly how my idea would have played out.

KILL THE HUMANS

{still}by T. Holmes

The Holmes backyard. Cement patio, dead grass, lawn chairs with dirt where asses are supposed to go, all bordered by a rickety fence that’s just waiting for a nice strong draft to put it out of its misery. A statue of St. Francis presides over brown foliage. In one corner hidden behind brush and a small lattice fence sits a large green metal box with various markings all over it that indicate it has something to do with electricity. This is the Transformer.

Papa Holmes and little Henry Holmes sit out on the patio. Henry has a magnifying glass which, along with the sun, he is using to try to set fire to ants.

PAPA: How’s it goin’ over there?

HENRY: Okay I guess. They keep moving.

PAPA: Pretty tough to get an ant to sit still. Keep at it though, you’ll get one.

Mama Holmes enters with little Vladimir, who appears to be about Henry’s age.

PAPA: Who the hell is that?

MAMA: Hush, this is Henry’s new best friend.

HENRY: I thought Elliott was my best friend.

MAMA: Elliott’s a dog, sweetie.

HENRY: So?

PAPA: Yeah, so? Dog’s man’s best friend.

MAMA: (stressing this to dad) Well this is his other best friend. You know?

PAPA: What?

MAMA: His best friend?

PAPA: Oh. OOOH. Right, Henry’s best friend. That’s today?

MAMA: I told you last night.

PAPA: You did?

MAMA: Right before bed.

PAPA: Well there you go, you can’t tell me things right after sex and expect me to remember them. I mean, after sex, I’m friggin’ worthless.

MAMA: Well it’s today. Henry, meet Vladimir. His family just moved in down the street.

The little boys look at each other shyly.

PAPA: Say hello Henry.

HENRY: Hello.

VLAD: Hello.

PAPA: Wow, listen to that. No accent or nuthin.

VLAD: My parents were born here.

PAPA: Cool.

MAMA: Right on. Well you boys play and have fun. Henry, you be nice to Vlad. He’s your new best friend.

HENRY: Sure.

PAPA: And remember, stay away from the transformer. You got that?

HENRY: Yes dad.

PAPA: Damn straight.

Mama smacks Papa on the arm and gives him a “stop that shit” look. Parents exit, leaving the boys to play.

Henry goes back to playing with his magnifying glass, somewhat ignoring Vlad.

VLAD: So whattcha doin?

HENRY: Frying ants.

VLAD: Cool.

HENRY: It’s hard though. They won’t be still.

VLAD: Maybe we should get something that would sit still.

HENRY: Like what?

VLAD: I don’t know. A piece of wood?

HENRY: Mmm nah, I like ants better.

Henry tries some more, Vlad watches.

VLAD: Ooh, there’s a straggler, get that one.

Henry aims the deadly rays at the ant Vlad pointed out.

VLAD: That’s it, you got him! Hold it steady!

HENRY: Just a little more…

A plume of smoke rises from the patio. Henry and Vlad cheer. United by their ant-burning efforts, they are now buds.

HENRY: That was awesome.

VLAD: He just burned right up.

HENRY: He’s not even there anymore. He’s completely gone.

VLAD: That was so cool.

HENRY: You wanna try one?

VLAD: Sure.

Henry hands over the magnifying glass. Vlad makes a few half-hearted attempts, but seems distracted by the Transformer.

VLAD: Say, what’s that thing.

HENRY: That’s the transformer.

VLAD: The thing your dad said to stay away from?

HENRY: Yeah. He always does that, and I don’t know why. I have no interest in going anywhere near it.

VLAD: We should check it out.

HENRY: What for? You heard my dad.

VLAD: Don’t you know that when grown-ups say not to do something, it’s because it’s something really cool that they want to keep from you?

HENRY: But my dad said to leave it alone. And my dad knows everything.

VLAD: Come on, let’s just go have a look at it.

HENRY: I don’t know.

But Vlad is already on the move. He walks across the yard towards the squat green box. Henry starts to follow, but doesn’t go very far.

VLAD: Are you coming?

HENRY: I don’t know, I don’t think–

VLAD: (now up to the Transformer) Hey, there’s a bunch of buttons back here.

HENRY: Maybe we should leave ‘em alone. My dad said–

VLAD: Hey, screw your dad, okay? I’m pushing these buttons.

HENRY: I don’t think that’s such a good–

VLAD: (pushing buttons) Wow, you should really check this out.

HENRY: Vlad, maybe we should stick to burning ants.

VLAD: I wonder what these do.

As if in response, the Transformer suddenly begins shaking and generating a series of mechanical sounds. Robotic legs sprout from its bottom, lifting the box off of the ground. Arms extend from the sides, which in turn sprout hands. Various panels open, lights blip on and off, gears turn, until a headless robot towers above them.

HENRY: Holy fucking shit.

The boys are in terrified awe. All is quiet for a moment until, with a horrible wheeze of hydraulics, the thing’s head emerges from the box that previously sat on the ground, which is now the robot’s torso.

VLAD: See! I told you! Your dad told you to stay away from it because he didn’t want you to know he had his own robot!

HENRY: That asshole!

TRANSFORMER: Scanning vicinity.

The Transformer scans the backyard and spots Vlad close by.

VLAD: I think it sees me. Hi there. My name’s Vlad. What’s your name?

TRANSFORMER: Target located. Proceed with neutralization.

The Transformer whips out a laser cannon and shoots Vlad dead. Vlad falls to the ground with an agonized scream and lays there twitching, which he continues to do for a long while.

HENRY: OH FUCK!

TRANSFORMER: Target neutralized. Continue scanning.

Henry hides behind a stack of lawn chairs. The Transformer walks towards him.

TRANSFORMER: Possible target detected. Proceed with destruction.

The Transformer aims where Henry is hiding just as Mama and Papa step outside. Mama has a toy lightsaber while Papa wields a Lazer Tag gun.

MAMA: Over here motherfucker.

The Transformer turns towards Mama and Papa.

TRANSFORMER: New targets detected.

The Transformer fires repeatedly at Mama, who waves the lightsaber around like she’s blocking the laser beams or something.

MAMA: I can’t hold him much longer!

PAPA: I got him!

Papa fires at the Transformer.

TRANSFORMER: Trouble a’brewin. Not feeling well.

The robot makes a series of distressed mechanical sounds and falls to its knees.

TRANSFORMER: Night night.

With those final words, the robotic beast crashes to the ground, dead.

PAPA: Jesus.

MAMA: Is Vlad okay?

Papa checks Vlad’s pulse. Henry emerges from his hiding place. Vlad is still twitching.

PAPA: He’s dead.

MAMA: I thought we told you to leave the Transformer alone.

HENRY: I didn’t….Vlad said–

PAPA: Oh sure, blame the dead kid who can’t speak up for himself.

HENRY: But I didn’t–!

MAMA: We’ll talk about this later young man. Suffice it to say, I think we’ve learned a little lesson today, hmmm?

PAPA: Hmmm?

MAMA: Hmmmmm?

PAPA: Mm-hmmm!

MAMA: Mmm-hmmm!

PAPA: You heard your mother. Go to your room.

The traumatized Henry exits into the house, most likely to sit in a dark corner of his room and rock back and forth.

MAMA: Well I think that might’ve done the trick.

PAPA: I think so. (to Vlad) Hey, you can get up now.

Vlad lays there, still twitching.

MAMA: Hey, Vladimir. You can get up now.

Vlad lifts his head. He now speaks with a deeper voice.

VLAD: That’s it?

MAMA: That’s it. You got his money baby?

PAPA: (paying Vlad) There you go. Worth every penny.

VLAD: Thank you very much.

PAPA: Wow, you’re really amazing.

MAMA: Your mommy and daddy must be really proud of you.

VLAD: My mommy and–? I’m not a kid lady, I just look young.

MAMA: Oh. Well keep up the acting, you’ve got a gift.

VLAD: What? I’m older than you for Christ’s sakes. I just have this condition where I stay young looking.

PAPA: Oh, so you’re a midget?

VLAD: I’m not a fucking midget asshole! I have a condition! A medical condition!

PAPA: Okay! Sorry!

VLAD: I fought in Vietnam bro! I was getting a doughnut when I heard Kennedy was shot! Where were you two? You weren’t even thought about yet, that’s where!

MAMA: Okay dude! I think we got your point.

VLAD: Sorry, I’m just…it’s tough being a fifty-something actor in a four year old’s body.

PAPA: I’ll bet.

VLAD: Yeah. Well it’s been fun, but I gotta boogie. Hope your kid’s okay.

PAPA: Aw, he’ll be fine.

MAMA: Hey, maybe you could come back next week and pretend to be his ghost?

VLAD: Sure, cost you the same.

MAMA: Hey, it’s worth it for our special little guy.

PAPA: That’s right.

VLAD: Just give me a call, let me know.

MAMA: Bye Vlad.

Vlad exits.

MAMA: Well I think that worked well.

PAPA: Yep. Now I just gotta get Tim and Sean over here to help me clean this thing up.

MAMA: You do that while I get the boy to therapy. It can’t be easy losing your best friend after only knowing him a few minutes.

PAPA: Yeah. (kicks Transformer) Gosh, there was some warning that Sean gave me about this thing. I wish I could remember what it was. Something about self-awareness. What the hell was it?

MAMA: You got me dude.

PAPA: Ah well.

Mama and Papa exit. The Transformer twitches its hands. A few lights blip on. It raises its head and scans the area. Lights black out as we hear it whirring to life.

THE END