Rejection Hurts

City License Dept.

City Of Merced.

Dear Mr. Grublygold. We are writing to inform you that your request for a license concerning your latest proposal, Wolverines for Widows, has been rejected.
We do recognize that Widows can be lonely and may indeed require companionship. However it is our opinion that perhaps a Wolverine is not the animal to provide this.

The City of Merced prides it’s self as being on the cutting edge of bisness enhancement, and this City has a long history of opening it’s doors to all business owners, but in considering your latest license we were forced to look at your past enterprises.
We are sure that you’re Porcupines for the Blind foundation was meant to be in the best interests of its participants, but ultimately resulted in three costly lawsuits, and a black eye on the face of this department. Despite this we here at the City License Dept. were willing to forget this mishap and grant you a permit for your short lived Rotwilers for Retards therapy effort. Though we understand the outcome of the wrongful death suit is still pending regarding your latest tragedy, we are never the less leery of any further dealings with you or any business offer you may in the future put before this committee.
We at the City License Dept. are well aware of the needs of the small business man in today’s changing economy, and do not wish to appear unsympathetic. But frankly your record of introducing wild animals to the general public has been abysmal.

Here in Merced there are many great opportunities for wealth and happiness. Have you for instance considered hot dog vending? This town would very much appreciate someone like you opening a stand in one of our fine local parks.

It’s not that we don’t like you Mr. Grublygold, and despite our many attempts to have you arrested, we here at the City License Dept. remain on your side, and on the side of all small business owners. BUT HONESTLY!!! Do you really expect us to write you an open ended check for disaster!!! Drop the animal theme Grublygold!!
Should you in the future decide that hot dog or pretzel vending is for you, please do not hesitate to re apply for a license, and we will do our best to accommodate you. In the mean time sir, please stop sending us proposals regarding dangerous animals and the handicapped.

As well as rejecting your Wolverines for Widows project. We have also voted to reject the following ideas.

Asps for Asthmatics.

Anacondas for Amputees.

Narwhals for Newborns

Chainsaws for the Physically Challenged.

Please do not resubmit any of these or other similar projects, for they will not even elicit a response.

Sincerely Greg Boswald.

City of Merced Division of Business Management.

Paddle Or Die

One day while hanging out at the local park, my attention was attracted by a small group of kids playing around with a little yellow raft. They would tow the boat up stream, then all pile in and bounce down through some small rapids, then start all over again. It looked like fun! With great sneakiness I crawled into a small shrub at the waters edge and waited for them to float by. As they drew along side of me I kicked out with both feet, violently upending the little raft and sending the ankle biters thrashing off down stream and around a bend. The raft was mine!! I gave the small rapids a few experimental try’s, then headed off to find a bigger game. I quickly stuffed the boat into my shopping cart along with a small plastic oar then pushed the cart out on to state rout 140. After a short wait I lassoed a passing RV by the back bumper and my cart, raft and I were off for the Merced River.
As the RV passed through the Briceburg camp ground on the way to Yosemite I simply unlassoed the bumper and I was all set for some fun. Before hitting the river however I walked up to the ranger station to survey the local river map, rafting could be dangerous and I wanted to be well sure that I wasn’t heading towards anything nasty. The map informed me that due to high water, all the class three stuff was now at the class four level, and two big class fours were now at the class five level. This was good news!! The lower the number the bigger the rapid…… I think that’s how it goes……. So I just had one nasty class 3 to deal with then I was home free, the fours and fives were not worth bothering about, anything with a number like five could hardly be more than a riffle an a rock. (Man I hate it when I’m wrong) With much enthusiasm I tossed the tiny raft into the river then piled in my various odds and ends for picnicking and sun bathing, then a good shove and I was off. The swift current quickly moved the small boat into mid stream and through a set of nice sized waves. The boat rode well with me whacking furiously at the water in an attempt to keep straight. After a small set of white water the river leveled out and I lay back contentedly for a snooze. I was awakened by the roar of upcoming rapids, ah yes, this was the three I had seen on the map. Inching up to a small drop I surveyed the river ahead, nothing to bad, just some easily avoidable rocks and a good sized wave or two, rather easy for a class three, the ones and twos must be the really bad stuff, I was glad there weren’t any of those on this run. With much mad paddle whacking and abit of bailing I was soon through the worst of it and on to smooth sailing, not bad, I was liking this rafting stuff. Once again in calm water I let my hand trail over the side, and enjoyed the sunny day. Soon however the current quickened its pace, and a roar of falling water grew ever louder. What the hell? Putting down the sandwich I had scrounged from a camp dumpster I stood up for a better view, but the narrow canyon I was entering prevented me from getting a look down river. Though slightly rattled I attempted to calm my nerves by singing an old Viking song……

Through the mist bum bada bum rides a ghastly sight
A ship dum de dum with keel upright
Slashing rain on giant wave I shout through storm sail on ye knaves.
Bum da bum de bom bom baaaa….

The little worry mouse that had until now had been gnawing its way through the lining of my stomach now became frantic, butterflies hell, I had condors up my nose. Passing around a sharp bend my worst fears were realized, who ever had made the friggin map was a twisted and evil man, for I was not facing a placid class five, but a white frothy hell. If Satan owned a washing machine, this is what the inside would have looked like on the spin cycle of the super fragg setting. Mountainous waves sloshed about drunkenly careening off of rocks and pounding through massive holes, logs washed down by the recent snow melt clashed viciously together like the gnashing teeth of a mad man. And into this cold wet hell dropped a scared hobo in a pool toy raft, with a blue plastic paddle and a long forgotten sandwich. Like a wingless plane my raft soared skyward off the crest of a large wave. Soon however the raft changed its mind and dove like a submarine under a ghastly pour-over. Now deep below the water the raft again changed into an Orca and breached the surface, spraying water in all directions. Once on the surface I sprang into action, with arms pinweeling I lashed out with my paddle, the blue handle and rubbery blade becoming a blur as I fought a desperate battle with the foamy river gods. Suddenly through the spray a large rock loomed dead ahead, with my paddle held out like a spear I braced for impact. The end of my paddle connected squarely with the rock and for the briefest of moments held against the current, then with a noise like a rifle shot the over stressed plastic shattered sending broken fragments into my flimsy craft, instantly sinking it. The handle impacted with my groin, and with an ungraceful back flip I was tossed into the full fury of a river that had declared me a mortal enemy. Things get rather murky at this point. I believe at one time I almost pulled my self on to a ledge, only to be knocked back under by a large salmon. At another point, I may or may not have attempted to fashion my now limp raft into a set of water wings.
I awoke hours later in the grass far up the bank away from the river. How I got there was a mystery, but due to a set of unusual tracks leading away from my body, and the strong taste of fish in my mouth, I strongly believe that I was given mouth to mouth by a beaver, and was thus rescued from certain death. What the fate of my raft was I care not. Nor do I care for the fate of my sandwich and ratty old Sponge Bob beach towel. I can only hope that these items have found peace, but I shall not go looking for them. Despite my brush with death, the Merced River has not yet seen the last of Grublygold. I shall return to do battle once again, of that I can be certain.

On a recent trip to Yosemite, a tourist snapped this picture of me with a large ape that I belive to be Big Foot.  

The Roots Of Merced

Most old towns have a long and storied history, Merced is no exception.

Recently I was down at the Merced library attempting to smash Indiana Jones style through the floor hoping to find an entrance to the underground bunkers which run for miles under the streets. I did not however find them. What I did find was a water main, which I might add should never have been constructed of such flimsy material that one errant whack could burst it into a geyser rivaling Old Faithful.

This mishap however is not the subject of this post. As I was dashing from the now flooded library, an old manuscript fell from the copy of the Dickens classic Sense and Sensibility I had been using as an umbrella. I quickly rescued it from the water and made my way through the back alleys until I reached the relative safety of my bridge.
Once underground I sat down to read this fascinating find. It was a complete history of Merced.

To read the whole thing to you would be far too long for one post, but I’ll give you the gist of the town’s beginnings, it’s not word for word, but close enough.

The area now known as Merced was first inhabited by a small band of prehistoric Indians who lived in harmony with the land, and eventually came to believe that all living things were sacred. This belief however proved tragic, unable to bring themselves to harm anything they soon starved to death. Much Much later, another band of Indians who called themselves the Heapmuckabouts came to build the first settlements on what is now Main Street. Lead by the great chief Grublywampum (no known relation to yours truly) they soon flourished. Years ahead of their time they invented such things as the Property Boundary, the Spiked Dog Collar, and Itching Powder. Infact they were so advanced that they would have noboubt become a Western Europe. But despite these technological advancements, their weaponry never advanced beyond the pointed stick, and this oversight was their downfall. On a never ending quest for the seven cities of gold, the Conquistador Salvador Grumpypuss marched north and attacked the tribe, whose only defense was to rush the Spaniards head on, sprinkle itching powder down their armor then attempt to poke them to death with their sticks. The battle lasted less than ten minuets and resulted in the wholesale slaughter of all but one of the brave Heapmuckabouts.

(A distant relative of this last Indian still lives in Merced. A hopeless drunk, he spends his time on a small hummock of land behind the Seven Eleven parking lot, which he has declared as his own Sovran nation. Approaching him is not advisable unless you want to be poked in the eye with a sharpened stick)

Salvador Grumpypuss never did find gold, in a strange twist of irony he left his hut one night to relive him self. On his way back he became lost, and while stumbling around in the dark he stepped on a long discarded pointy stick and died of blood poisoning a few days later. Salvador’s men, now with out a purpose decided to erect a mission, and become monks. The mission was the first ever built in California, but is never mentioned in the text books. The life span of this mission was far to short for that. One night Brother Enrique dozed off in prayer and set his beard alight with an alter candle. In blazing panic Brother Enrique ran into the powder room and blew the building and all two dozen of it’s occupants to kingdom come.

After this mishap the Area of Merced became a waste land, feared by all both red and white. Then in 1840 an enterprising old man, Tinplate Possumgrumble became the grudging founder of what is now this great town. But how that came to be is a story for another night.

Eight Rules For Swimming In Bear Creek.

With summer time fast approaching and temperatures soaring into the triple digits, the temptation to swim in Bear Creek becomes very great indeed.

Sadly however, this temptation often leads to death. Weather you drown instantly in the murky polluted waters. Or linger on to die days later of some horrible disease related to the murky polluted water is not important. The simple fact remains that with out some basic guide lines, you should never go within two city blocks of this horrific place. Sadly though these simple rules are often ignored, and every summer, the mounting death toll adds the stench of rotting children and tourists to the already overpowering smell of one of the nations most polluted water ways. I doubt very much that anyone will heed these simple rules, but hey just for the hell of it here they are again.

The first and most important rule for swimming in Bear Creek is….FOR GOD’S SAKE, DON’T DO IT!!!!! NEVER SWIM HERE!!!

The second rule is to always wear the proper protective devices. In the case of Bear Creek, your wardrobe should include:
A full suit of armor to protect against puncture wounds inflicted by hypodermic needles of which there are plenty.
A life jacket rated for 1,000 pounds or above to keep your head above the torrid waters while wearing a full suit of armor.
A gun, 45 caliber or above for your personal protection while swimming in bum/ mime infested waters.

The third rule is to always swim with a buddy. Your buddy should be a third degree black belt in some nasty pain causing form of martial arts. And should also have a current medical license in case of an accident.

Rule Four. Always notify someone of your intention to swim in Bear Creek. This notification list should include the National Guard, and your local Suicide Hot Line.
(Maybe they can talk you out of your madness before you need the Guard called out to save you)

Rule Five. If you have followed rule # 2 you will be swimming with a large gun. Rule five is to always and I mean always shoot anything that moves in Bear Creek while you are in the water. Nothing good lives in this place, if something is swimming towards you, it wants to kill you. If something is swimming away from you, it wants to get its buddies so they can all kill you. So just shoot like hell, swim, and keep shooting like hell until you are at least 100 feet away from the water if you sense any movement what so ever.

Rule Six. Don’t drink the friggin water. Drinking Bear Creek water causes instant violent pain, coma, and death in 100% of all cases of ingestion.

Rule Seven. Consider setting up a safe swim area using 50 gage steel mesh to close off a perimeter, then dump in 85 pounds of iodine tablets for water purification.

Rule Eight. Have a good time. Although swimming in Bear Creek almost always results in death, it doesn’t have to, by simply following these few safety tips, Bear Creek can be enjoyed time and again by all people young and old.

Well Done To All

Very good all, poor Fopworth did indeed fall madly in love with a statue. However Flint, it was not the Talking Bear of which you speak. It was a garden statue of Gretchen Fink, the town of Merced’s first librarian.

This story may to some seem rather far fetched, so I have been doing research into this phenomena and I have found much to my surprise that this was not an isolated incident. Infact it is not at all uncommon to fall madly in love with a statuette. Here are some true incidents that I have gathered from various well known news sources.

On June 3^rd 1935 the Cleveland Herald reports that Pintsized Penny, a well known side show midget was found dead in her tent of an apparent suicide after the plaster Garden Gnome with which she had been having a steamy affair was stepped on by Bonzo the elephant.

April 5^th 1956 the Boston Globe ran a story about a night club singer who was crushed to death soon after marrying a seven foot tall marble replica of Michael Angelo’s David. It seems the wedding night bliss was cut drastically short when the singer attempted to mount the statue, causing it to tip over on top of her.

And finely in 1993 the Weed Patch Daily reports that Jeb Winkler carved a statue of his wife out of an old oak stump as an anniversary gift to her. In a bizarre turn of events however Jeb ended up falling deeply in love with the statue of his wife he had carved. His real wife became enraged and one night burned the stump to the ground. Jeb, heart broken killed his wife with a pair of hay tongs, then took his own life by jumping down a well.

Despite these instances however I still find it hard to believe that one could become passionately involved with an inanimate object. I have discussed this at length with Jenny, my inflatable companion who shares my bed every night under my bridge. Jenny agrees with me that this sort of thing is all rather silly.