Troy's Rants and Ravings

I have been dealing with a load of garbage here at home and and at work lately… Service writers who don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground, lot attendants who should be buried in ant hills, and the infamous, nefarious and dastardly Sun City Drivers who are bent on making u-turns from the far right lane… I have to wear glasses now as old age and rampaging infirmity is finally catching up to me. In other words I am feeling my age.

I have not sat and felt the urge to write anything requiring thought lately and it occurs to me that finishing the incredible adventures of MIKE KELLER – WARRANTYMAN is at the top of my list of writing projects.

However all the above being said and done, does anyone ( besides me ) want to see a return of the stories from the old website? I know I have a huge list of things to do and I may never have enough time to do everything in this lifetime, but I really enjoyed the characters I created. They are all as real to me as my favorite “Vanishing Daughter Sarah” (who really needs to call her dad at least a few times a month…) and I have a ton of ideas to bring in “Sherrif Larry” to the neighborhood and the whole interaction of the vast assortment of charaters…

For those who think I’ve blown my last fuse I am including here the first few episodes and a special request at the bottom…

#1

Troy’s Neck of the Woods

Well, I guess it all started with The Princess, deciding my house was too small…

I did not have a problem with my house. I mean it held my TV and my big, giant La-Z-Boy recliner and my food supplies. I had a real bed, a real dresser and 2, (that’s right 2!!) bathrooms. The Princess, however, declined to see that 800 square feet of a “Real Man’s House”, complete with dirty socks on the floor in every single room, saw horses with a plank across the top for a dining room table, milk crate end tables, my very “bachelor cool” Brick and Board Entertainment center and a closet ½ the size of a telephone booth was going to be sufficient for her “needs”. So like men who have fallen prey to womanly charms throughout the centuries, I caved in to her outrageous demands for a larger home.

After touring 23,429 model homes we settled on entering the lottery for a particular builder in the suburbs of Phoenix, AZ in April of 2005. After watching our particular model go up in price every single week that we entered and failed to win, we were, to say the least, discouraged. Finally the day came when we were drawn for a newly opened cul-de-sac neighborhood and we secured our “lot”. Luckily for us, we were drawn, the house built and we moved in right before the collapse of the real estate market. Oh well.

The Princess and I ran off to Las Vegas and got married, planning to settle down in our over-priced Mansion outside of Phoenix. We were the first to move in to our neighborhood and wondered what kind of neighbors we would eventually have. My old neighborhood was filled with those young cretins with too much money for lowered import cars and “systems”. I was once told by a co-worker that “Calling a car stereo a car stereo is SO over…”

“What are they called now?” I asked, innocent of my Faux Pas.

“Systems!” he said, his eyes glazing over in some kind of rapture. He too drives a lowered import.

To me “system” = a level of sonic vibration that tries to turn your insides into your outsides and just shows that the sound level is equal to an inverse proportion of the owner’s IQ.

Anyway, out first new neighbors have moved in this week!

A retired British Colonel and his Sergeant Major have moved in down the street.

Yes, I said “A retired British Colonel and his Sergeant Major have moved in down the street.”

Of course the model of house he chose is British Colonial…

I have yet to introduce myself, but I overheard the builder’s people making sure that everything was satisfactory. I distinctly heard them use the title “Colonel” and there was no mistaking the Colonel bellowing “Sergeant Major!!” and the Sergeant Major bellowing back “Suh!!” with a very cool kind of double stomp of his combat boots and a snappy British, palm out springy salute.

The Princess thinks this is all “so cute!” I on the other hand am worried, very, VERY worried about what my other neighbors might be like. Especially since the builders rep that we bought the house from seems to slither away and disappear every time I try to approach him…

2

Well, another 3 “people” moved in this week.

I am having serious doubts about the builders and the “screening process” if one even exists.

Fred the Fireman moved in next door. By all outward appearances, he seems like a nice enough guy, although the Princess and I are wondering if he is working or on vacation since he is always at home. Moreover, I am wondering about his taste in decorating…

It seems as if everything he owns is either “Fire Engine Red” or “Fire Hydrant Yellow”. This includes the biggest red Ford truck I have ever seen in my life. He has to use a ladder to get in the beast! Conveniently, the ladder hangs on the side, like an old fashioned (what else) fire truck.

A gaggle of construction workers were seen by the Princess carrying a long brass pole over to Fred’s house on Tuesday. Curious, she stepped outside pretending to tend the front garden.

(Her attempt at camouflaging her nosiness may be all for naught since our front yard consists of fake grass, a few boulders and a lot of what I call gravel and she insists is “Decorative Stone!”)

The gaggle of construction workers walked up to the door and rang the bell. And I really mean “rang the bell,” because from her description, it sounds exactly like the bells from the kind of fire stations I grew up around when I was a kid. She tells me there were a lot of sawing and banging noises and then an eerie squeaking noise followed by Fred thanking the construction guys and sending then on their way.

Tuesday also saw our new neighbor Floyd move in. I wish I had been there for this one.

Seems that a herd of very good looking, scantily clad young ladies in a vast array of cars and trucks helped move this new member of our community in and get settled. The Princess was, of course, adjusting and readjusting the front window curtains for over an hour as, with much giggling, the herd stocked Floyd’s house with all manner of “stuff”. The Princess absolutely swears he has three refrigerators. 1 went in the house and 2 in the garage. These were followed by 140 cases of Miller beer.

I was incredulous to hear that last part.

“Genuine Draft or Regular? Bottles or cans?” I asked while rubbing my hands together in glee, thinking that, according to Man Law, it is common courtesy to share one’s stock of beer.

I was promptly rewarded with THE LOOK. Switching gears quickly, I asked if she noted anything else.

“No,” she said, “just the usual. But all his stuff looks like it came right off the floor of a Wal-Mart store. I mean, it’s ok for someone single, I guess….”

Knowing the Princess as I do, and having enough sense to not “go there,” I turned my attention to other matters. Although in the back of my head I was already warming to Floyd before I even met him.

Friday saw something unusual even for this street: As I was heading to the car to go to work, I saw a plain white diesel tractor trailer rig pulled up to the house on the corner and a group of people, all in white lab coats and talking in hushed tones, pointing at clipboards, setting up laser transits and using every type of telecommunication device know to mankind as they gathered around and starting to move items covered with “olive drab” tarps from the truck into the house. The unusual part was they always were looking around as if they did not want anyone to see what they were doing. A cordon of what looked like Tommy Lee Jones clones dressed in Men In BLack garb were all talking into their sleeves as they “setup a perimeter”…

Staring down the street with me was the Colonel.

“SERGEANT MAJOR!!” bellowed the Colonel.

“SUH!!” bellowed the Sergeant Major, coming to a stop with his patented two step stomp and crisp salute.

“Retrieve my binoculars.”

“SUH!” And off strutted the Sergeant Major, swinging his arms impossibly high in the standard British Parade March. He returned and after the normal stomp, salute and “SUH!” he handed over the binoculars.

During the military demonstration, the Princess happened to join me.

“What have we gotten ourselves into?” I muttered.

“Oh, stop it. I think they’re cute,” indicating the military men.

I studied the Colonel as he studied the newest member of our neighnorhood…

“Right!” said the Colonel. “Let’s get on the wireless! MI6 will want to know about this!”

Sighing, I got into my car, wondering who or what would be moving in next.

3.

Well we have been in our new house for 5 months or so and I am starting to wonder why I wonder about wondering who will move in next. It just seems like everyone from “Twilight Zone”, the “Outer Limits”or maybe “Night Gallery” has decided to move in.

Ok, so maybe it isn’t that bad, but I don’t see how it could get any stranger.

The neighborhood has filled up and there is only the one house across the stret diagonally from me that is still vacant. There are a few ( and me emphasize “a few” ) normal neighbors, but, being evidently intellegent, they stay inside and never venture outside for too long.

Maybe insanity is too strong a word for what is happening here in my neck of the woods. But if insanity is too strong, looney tunes is just too damned weak… Maybe I have broken the law of averages and I have been sentenced to life without parole in our local Casa De Loco… You see there are about 15 houses here in out little area, 1 is vacant, 3 or 4 have occupants that hide and the rest…well…the rest are…uh…Jesus H. Christ!!! Sorry, but DIFFERENT just does not seem to convey the reality!!!

**********

OK special request time, folks…

Will anyone who has had the fortitude to get this far please comment and tell me what you think? As long as there is a no huge amount of swearing and what not, I will post all the comments and then decide what to do…

Ok, So I'm an Idiot...

Well, pardner, there seems to be a new sheriff in Rock Ridge.

Heard tell he don’t look like much – kinda scrawny, heard tell… Not good ta cross him though! Heard he’s the fastest firin’ hombre in the west!! This is, if’n he does fire ya… Heard tell some are just leavin’ and never being heard of agin’…

But then agin’, I may be gettin’ ahead of m’self…

I guess it started ’bout oh, 8, maybe 9 months ago… We got this here sissified piece ‘o cow dung fer a sheriff. He was bad, just plain bad. Back east sort, if’n ya know what I mean. All greasy smooth, he was. His axle didn’t squeak, if’n yer catchin’ my drift. Said he had plans, BIG PLANS!!! Brought in a bunch of no account saloon gals to run his outfit fer him. Pretty soon, though, those gals just outright ran off all the good folks from around here. Got so bad you couldn’t even get the telegraph answered on a slow day! It was sure a bad time at Rock Ridge.

Well, sir, it got to the point where the shop folk was afraid to even say anything because of him drawin’ a bead and firing with no cause no how! And it was never man to man, neither! Naw, he liked to wait ’til yer back was turned before he’d fire. The guvner, well, he was busy with sellin’ horseflesh and I don’t rightly think he knew what was bein’ done in his name, no how.

I tried to warn them there boys that they was going in a box canyon with a range fire on their heels… Hell they didn’t listen to an old timer like me. I tell ya, them boys were feelin’ more ‘an a little snake bit ’bout then.

What chapped my hide and got me involved was when he up and fired the school marm!! Yes sir!! No warnin’ or nuthin’, he tossed her out on her pretty little kiester!!! After all she had done to try and teach them heathen bastards, she was tossed out like last month’s bath water.

I’m a’telling ya I was fit to be tied!! I sent a telegraph to the guvner but they had the lines cut and were whispering in his ear the whole time anyway so I just had about given up.

Then it happened!!! Word took it’s time getting out here ta me but “good news is always welcome late as it is early”, I always say. Seems that the sheriff who was lower than a snake’s belly had got’ caught with his finger in the guvner’s pie and was shot by the guvner his self!! I liked to whoop and holler my own self sick when I heard that! And the ice cream for the pie was that the guvner wanted the school marm back teachin’ letters and numbers again!!!

Well, sir, ol’ Rock Ridge had it self a dance and party the like we never seen before. Word came down from Doc Adams that the old sheriff had, dad gum it, only gotten winged and the bastard had been screamin’ like his ass was full of rock salt. Figures the varmit was going to live. His wheel was spiked though as he was now just a bartender at the saloon.

That’s when we heard about the new sheriff. He has a lot of mud to scrape off his boots before he can run, but being scrawny, like I hear tell, he can check under the bushes for any more snake bellies, I’ma thinkin…

And by the way, the old sheriff finally did get his ass filled with rock salt as a “goin’ away present” and it’s lookin’ like he sees another town that’s more to his liken’. I would try to warn ‘em but you know them fellers would not take no damned advice from an ol’ timer like me….

By the way if’n ya see the new sheriff, let him know I writ down my histry for his self to gander at…

Work

I find it highly strange how the world works.

The Princess has her old job back, the buffoon who had her fired is in turn fired TWICE in a single month and then claims he quit both times, my number 2 son is here for vacation, my oldest step-son is getting his head on straight and desires to move here to start over, and I feel once again the need to start blogging after a rather long hiatus…

A blog I had previously posted and then taken down is now up again due to the fact that the stupid rotten bastard is now a non-issue at the Princess’ work. I wanted to give the NEW ( and much improved ) Service Director the chance to clean house unimpeded. The long and short of it is that Boob, as the service director, suffered a mental breakdown and said he could no longer put up with the stress of his job, so he resigned, thus occasioning a NEW WORLD ORDER… In other words it was “You have 3 seconds to resign or we will fire you… one, twoooooo, two and one half, two and three quarters, thre-”

“Ok I’ll quit!!!!”

(My personal opinion is he had to see a specialist in the treatment of severe and prolonged Anal Cranial Infarction and who told him there was nothing he could do – “It’s genetic.” Which we pretty much knew anyway…)

Then seeing as he could not pay all the bills he ran up feeling his job was secure as the Service Dick Tator, he examined his options ( which, unfortunately for the world at large, did not include suicide…) and decided to beg, plead and whine for a job as a service writer at the place that had fired him less than 2 weeks previously. This lasted less than a month. He soon found out that the New Sheriff In Town (which is the name of my new Raggae Eric Clapton cover band) not only had his number but had placed the All Seeing Eye Of Doom upon him and was not going to put up with the imbecile’s crap and double talk. The final straw was the fact that (as was reported to The Princess) he was allegedly caught red handed taking credit for other writers’ work as his own by removing the employee numbers on work orders and changing them to suit his needs.

Allegedly he would write a low dollar work order and then remove his number and assign another writer’s number to it before it went to accounting so his averages would look better. Conversely he would take credit for all the high dollar work orders in the same fashion. This made asshole boy look really good on the in-house accounting reports.

At least until he was allegedly caught doing it to a writer who allegedly watched it happen.

This caused what was described (by a unnamed, confidential, knowledgable, heck-of-a-nice-guy, high ranking, informed source who wishes to remain anonymous) as a Implosion of the Blackhole Variety… This was, in fact, a meltdown of the Jimmy Swaggart persuasion – complete with tears and professions that it was not, after all, his fault…

Yes, it was not his fault when he could not put new oil filters on cars he was changing oil on as a lube kid. (they ended up un-opened on his work bench…yes I have eyewitnesses)

It was not his fault that he could not be taught how to fix cars so that they would at least make it out of the stall before exploding due to him not really caring for anything except “how much does it pay?”.

It was not his fault he had to STEAL other writer’s work credit to make himself look better.

It is/was not his fault that every time he opens his mouth, lies come gushing forth. ( And this begs the question: If Boob lies twice is it the truth? The world may never know… Although this does relate to Harcourt Fenton Mudd not being able to tell the truth and then saying “I’m Lying”… WTF????!!!!!) *

It was not his fault that he hired “eye candy” instead of hard working professionals.

It was not his fault that he would not discipline said “eye candy” because he did not want to see them cry.

It was not his fault that he did not want to work to get what he wanted.

It was not his fault that everytime he stumbled he went screaming to daddy that someone else tripped him.

So this fine example of the species Homo Dumbshiticus has decided to go to work for the same guy who he, repeatedly and with extreme malice, stabbed and stomped to death, AKA the previous Service Manager who Boob replaced.

Personally, to me, a match made in Automotive Ripoff Heaven… It will be like watching 2 naked mole rats fighting for dominance and just about as useless.

* Harcourt Fenton Mudd (AKA Harry Mudd) was a character who appeared in the original Star Trek Series and was known as the galaxy’s most notorious liar, swindler and all-around profitteer. He was singularly responsible for The Venus Drug, Tribbles and the fact that Androids nearly conquered the universe. According to Nostradamus, the Bible Code and the writings of Edgar Cayce, he is also a direct genetic result of a bizzare Boob Krotonsky inbreeding experiment gone horribly wrong…

Gawd, I hate people!!!, Work