I’m Not Picking Up Your Dog’s Shit

Howdy, folkpeople! I hope you’re all full of mirth and not forced to pick up someone else’s dog shit like me!

Percy, how you’ve been taken for a fool!

I recently moved into a new home for folks waiting to kick the tin bucket.  Lick the final stamp.  Thatch the yard one last time.  You get the idea, faithful blog readers.

Anywho…

The new place, Terminal Pines Senior’s Paradise, is down the street from a dog park.  All morning as I sit and read the transcript from the prior day’s Paul Harvey Show I’m forced to observe my lazy neighbors walking their three-legged dogs and yapping furballs past my bay window.  And if I had a buffalo nickel for every time I had to throw my remote control gun at the window, I’d have enough money for an extra case of Pabst every month!

Percy, why do you refuse to buy the party-sized 30-pack?!

The other day, though, I was at my wit’s end!  The three-legged dog and his mill rat owner were traipsing in the grass outside my window when I saw the last lawn deposit I ever wanted to see in my life.  I was overcome with rage — the kind of rage you get when someone cuts in front of you in line at Wal-Mart and you realize they have a full cart to your bottle of Maalox and box of Jalapeño Poppers.

I hobbled my way to the front door of Terminal Pines and yelled at the Lathe Lackey as he tried to dash off with his odd mutt in tow.

“How’d you like it if I shit in your front yard?” I screamed at him.

“What? Oh, I.  That wasn’t from my dog’s ass, you old man.”  he bellowed at me.

I didn’t bother replying because at the moment I’d already forgotten what I had planned to say to him.  It was good, I know that much.  But sometimes you have to practice patience and focus on the war instead of the battle.  I learned that from Bob Hope during his USO Tour back in Korea.   In this case, that meant waiting until he wedged himself in his tiny Korean car and made his way to the cardboard factory he’ll eventually lose a finger to.

I sauntered down the sidewalk towards his cottage house and proceeded to make a little lawn deposit of my own.  Nothing like a little vigilante justice to right the wrongs perpetrated on Terminal Pines!    Next thing you know, dear reader, his wife pops out of the house screaming like I’d just taken their first born to the prom.   I fastened my velcro belt and tried to pretend I didn’t know what was going on, but she kept insisting I pick up the lawn ornament I donated.  I relented, dear reader, when she threatened to call the police.  Last thing ol’ Percy needs is another lawsuit to juggle while I’m trying to get this RWI (Rascalling While Intoxicated) dropped.

The lesson, readerfolk, is that you need to wait until it’s dark out before you exact revenge.  No one can see you; it’s why ninjas wear black and it’s why my son waits until the midnight hour to steal my pills.   Now if you’ll excuse me, readers and readerettes, I have to go wash my hands.

-Percy

Where’s My Skull Candle?

Hello readers!  Johnanson Enterprises is back in business after a rough patch last week.  No, I’m not back in the textiles game, that’s just how me and Rick refer to ourselves (sometimes, I call him The Rickshaw). 

It turns out, high winds, old trees and power cables don’t mix well.  That meant I wouldn’t be watching my stories on the TV all weekend because of the giant storm that blowed through the Soon-You’ll-Die Apartment Complex on Thursday.  

What a bitch that was. 

The Bingo Bus picked me up Thursday for our weekly pilgrimage to Epilepsy and Diet Coke Casino.   Normally, the “High Noon Flyer” is filled to the gills with the money-lusting blue hairs angling for the next inheritance-filled walking corpse they can canoodle with under the flashing lights of the Wheel of Fortune slots.   Not this time.  Oh no.  Apparently, all the frisky blue hairs’ children actually give a damn about them because that bus was as empty as the local VFW when they’re out of Old Fashioned mix. 

Harold Schotzen’s kids must hate him as much as mine do me, because we were the only ones on the entire bus.  Since no one told us about the “Fat Man” on track to strike the area in the afternoon, Harold and I were like cattle on the slaughterhouse conveyor belt of stormy weather. 

Would the line end at the casino, our retirement community or on the road to the Seizure Palace?  Come back tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion to “Where’s My Skull Candle?”

To be continued…

I’ll Fuck Your Car Up

Hello campers! Percy’s back from his summer vacation with the son and his terrible horrible family! My grandchild Rick told me that’s how the kids are speaking these days; talking all in the third person like a goddamn fool. Fool or no fool, do I have a story to tell whoever is reading this.

Rick, you know how I told you some things aren’t meant for grandchildren? Well, this is one of those stories. I probably shouldn’t have given this internet blog post such a blue title if I didn’t want you to read this, but my Fig Newtons are jammed into the backspace key on the old keyboard and there’s no turning back.

Rick, go practice your throwing now. 

Ok, so last weekend was the annual Ungrateful Children of Percy Reunion at the Olive Garden in whatever city my son, Jimmy, lives in.  I like the bread sticks.  

On Saturday morning, Jimmy and his wife, Deborah, along with their spoiled children, picked me up at the home they forced me into so they could steal my house.  We then drove for three hours in the comfort of their children’s incessant wailing.  Talk about a blast! 

Finally, we arrived at the parking lot of the Olive Garden in whatever urban wasteland my spawn moved away from me for.  All my kids, and their kids, were there, which for the first few minutes made me about as happy as I am on Ribeye Night at the home — just pink enough, but not too bloody! (Geri always laughs when I say that for some reason. Hmm…) — but then things turned sour.  My ex-wife showed up with her batch of Percy seeds.  Oh boy. 

Maude is, was and forever shall be a bitch.  A giant bitch.  Queen bitch, with one of those fancy headdresses all the Egyptians wore.  Bitchopatra or something like that. 

Maude walks up with our eldest mistake, Tony, and I can tell somthing is different about him.  Same jerkoff attitude and same jerkoff voice, but he’s holding a keychain in his hand.  I think it’s from that group with the cars and the women with the legs.  ZZ Top.  

Tony has never shown an ounce of manhood since I first slapped him in the mouth for crying during the scene in On Golden Pond when Henry Fonda falls in the water.   But that’s neither here nor there.  See, Tony has a brand new used car he wants to show me and he’s all smiles as he walks up in his mesh tank top and shorts with lots of pockets for cargo. 

He helps me walk all the way over to the parking lot to gaze upon his 1984 Camaro IRAQ.  What a piece of shit.  It’s got a bird on the hood, but not like in Smokey & The Bandit.  Instead, it’s some chicken that’s touching itself like a damn pederast!  Tony keeps telling me how much of a steal the car was, but all I can focus on is the giant fucking bird’s eyes, following me as I slowly push my walker away from the masturbating bird.   I think I stopped listening to Tony describe the lamb’s wool seat covers around that time, because suddenly he grabs me and asks where I’m going.  I must have hit the record button on the new phone Jimmy gave me, because the rest of my conversation with Tony went like this:

“Don’t you want to see the inside, grandpa?” 

“No, Tony.  Your car is shit and that bird is freaking me out. Let me grab some potato salad away from your shit ass bird rubbing itself for all the children here to see.” 

“But, grandpa.  I was hoping you’d be willing to lend me a few bucks for some of those sweet mudflaps with the naked ladies on them.  You know how you’re always giving Rick money for baseball cards and throwing lessons?  It’s not fair you never give me anything, especially since I can throw a baseball and all.” 

Tony’s right on one point — he throws a baseball better than that pansy Rick can any day of the week (unless it’s in the month of Fagtober) — but Tony broke my cardinal rule:  Never Ask Percy For Money.   Next thing you know…

“Money?  Why. I. Oughta!”

I lunged at Tony’s collared shirt and pulled.  He fell into me and I kicked him in the shin.  He didn’t seem fazed, but he moved out of my way, giving me a clear shot at the cock hood.  I strained to lift my walker high enough, but the Lord blessed me at that moment and I hoisted my walker and dropped it with extreme prejudice on that damn chicken and his sinful appendage.  

Jimmy and Deborah heard the noise of my walker scraping against the aluminum hood and ran over.  Maude just stood there talking to someone else about what a shitheel I was.  Tony was on his knees crying for me to stop.  At least this time it’s not over Henry Fonda and Katherine Hepburn! 

- Percy “Big Ups” Johanson

Korea Was A Bitch

When I’m sitting on my favorite stool at the local VFW, getting my betting sheet ready for the 3pm visit to the nearest OTB, I like to use the pen my oldest pal Johnny gave me when we were fighting in Korea. It’s got a picture of a lady, some flapper dame, and when you turn it upside down her clothes float up and off her revealing a bush you could hide a VCR in. I’m not sure what that phrase means, or why you’d want to hide one of those giant VCR’s in a lady, but my grandchild Rick was saying that last night during the Sunday Night Johanson Clan Silent Dinner and Awkward Conversation and I suppose it’s true of my pen lady. But that’s neither here nor there. No, the fact of the matter at hand is that Korea was a bitch.

I drove a jeep around that country for two years. Territory changed hands like a Chicago Cardinals football game, but with wounded GI’s all over the field and no “Million Dollar Backfield.” Then, one day in July of 1953, Truman, that SOB, called a truce and we packed up and left like my son’s family does every Thanksgiving. At least Truman let everyone know before he left, I suppose, unlike Percy Jr., but the disappointment was all the same. And all I had to show for it was a pen with a naked lady with lots of pubes. What a bitch that was.

-Percy “Where’d My Kid Split To?” Johanson

I Hate Your Son’s Wheelies

You know what really rankles my feathers? These darned kids and their stupid shoes with the wheels on them. Back in my day, you were damn grateful if your parents bought you a nice wooden block to play Blockies with. Now, these damn ragamuffins think Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence so every little shitpube can glide in front of my Sunny Green Oak’s condo window. You’re no Nathanial Niles’s , you’re all just a bunch of ninnies with weak willed parents who think buying you those fancy-schmancy shoes will keep you from burning the family dog or touching stoves. Guess what? I bet most of those kids with the wheelies will be taking over for the current generation of kids standing on the corner of Malaise Road and Ungrateful Avenue. Get a damn job and stop twirling like a pansy!

-Percy “Fuck Them Wheelies” Johanson

My Grandchild Set This Blog Up

Rick’s a nice kid. He’s got an arm like a 6th grade girl after a jump rope competition, but he makes up for his faggy-ness by helping his gramps write on the internets. I’m going to write to all you whippersnappers about my life and why you’re all stupid for not listening to me. If you’ve got a problem with something I write, go tell your ungrateful mom. I just got off her.

-Percy