Under The Bridge

One day I will start blogging again.

2010-12-11T13:51:00.000-08:00

One day I will start blogging again, this I swear to you.........................But for now it's winter time, so due to annual flooding on Bear Creek I plan to spend the next 4 months up in a tree.

2010-02-25T10:36:00.001-08:00

hey yall still alive

2009-10-14T15:56:00.000-07:00

Hey all my loyal readers. Sorry for the lack of posting. I'm still alive...........take comfort in that.

2008-11-18T06:52:00.000-08:00

Sorry I'm still not posting again, but if I don't add something now an then the Blog Spot Commies will take my blog down.

Busy Busy.

2008-01-04T18:42:00.000-08:00

Sorry to all my loyal readers, you would not believe how busy one can get living under a bridge. But I'm still alive, take a mesure of comfort in that. One day I hope to return.

A bridge dweller hunts for cray fish

2007-08-14T17:31:00.000-07:00

Still Alive, Still Under My &@# Bridge.

2007-08-14T16:31:00.000-07:00

Hey!! My old Blog................. yup, how bout that.............Well I am still alive, I hope that gives you, my faithful readers some comfort. One day, I just might start blogging again................ someday.

How To Tell If Somone Is Staring.

2006-03-15T13:57:00.000-08:00

How To Tell If Someone Is Staring At You: And What To Do If You Stare.

First we must not overlook the obvious. If you whirl about real fast, and some asshole is staring at you, then it is reasonable to assume that they are staring at you.

Sometimes however, it is not so obvious, then you must look for the subtle signs.

1: You get the sensation of beady little eyes boring into the back of your head like a red hot poker.
Before you assume that you are being stared at thou, make sure that it’s not someone actually stabbing you in the head with a poker.

2: You turn around quickly, and the volume of the conversation at the table behind you raises twenty octaves. ( SOOO MARY, ERRR, SO THEN WHAT HAPPENED AFTER YOU DROPPED THE CAN OF TUNA ON YOUR FOOT!!)

3: You look up from your book to see that the guy across from you has suddenly become transfixed with the logo on his Starbucks cup.

4: You snap out of a deep daydream and realize that you have been simultaneously drooling, and singing the theme song from the Smurfs cartoon, but no one else in the crowded bank line looks the least bit interested in you. WRONG!! When you do something absentmindedly embarrassing and NOBODY appears to have noticed, it’s a good bet that until a second ago, everyone was staring like hell.

No one likes to be caught staring, but every one does it, and it’s a good bet that you will to. So what do you do if you get caught??
My usual approach when caught staring, is to make a lunge for the nearest object, and bash myself in the face with it, thus rendering myself unconscious, and avoiding an explanation. But there are also other ways of handling it. Such as, screaming at the person: I WASN’T FUCKING STARING OK!! GOD! WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM!! Or you can pretend to be retarded, this works great!! The person you were starring at usually gives you a nice big smile and goes back to what they were doing. I use this approach when ever I feel the uncontainable urge to stare at a strange woman’s breasts. But pick the option that seems right for you and you’ll make out all right…………..good luck!!!

Just one of many reasons why swiming in Bear Creek is a horrible idea.

2006-03-02T17:28:00.000-08:00

The Male Dating Ritual.

2006-03-02T13:26:00.000-08:00

Once again I find myself down town hanging out at Starbucks, trying with out success to look in a direction that would not be met with the sight of two unbelievably happy people trying like hell to suck each others lips off their faces. Why was it that I found myself alone night after night? It wasn’t in the looks department I was sure of that, for I saw all sorts of beautiful women hanging off the arms of assorted cretins with out so much as a single glance at their lameass sideburns and the vacant nothing upstairs expressions plastered on their faces. So if not looks or intelligence, then what?? What was it that made these assholes so attractive to the opposite sex?
Then it hit me like a Revelation from God!! It had to hinge on the initial contact!! The Mating Ritual. So I set out to try and observe this ritual. I strolled down to the local Bar, The Fire House, along the way making numerous detours to avoid happy couples on the side walk running through the various Bases, oblivious to the world around them. I found myself a dark hiding spot to the left of the front door, behind a potted fern, and set about observing the complicated often confusing ritual performed by the male Homosapian on a quest for a mate. After a short wait a small male wandered up and took a position on the sidewalk out front. He was dressed in pants that were obviously twenty sizes to big, his baseball cap, also ten sizes to big was slewed at an angle that seemed to defy gravity. His shirt if such it could be called hung to his knees, and bore the garish logo of the newest winning sports team. I took all this in, my pen scratching away furiously on my note pad. The young male paced back an forth in front of the bar, obviously searching for a mate. Soon a car drove slowly past containing an assortment of beautiful girls, most likely looking for mates themselves. At the sight of them, the young male exploded into action!! He danced a furious sort of jig, arms flapping wildly. His hands fairly flew between grabbing his crotch, and spinning his oversized hat around on his head. “Haaaaaeeeey Bizisnitches” he yelled!! “Howz a bout you n meez gitin it onnn like dee dogs! Yeah dats right youz supa fine me bitch!! Yah I’d sooo hit dat shiiiit!!”
The young females obviously impressed with his mating antics came to a stop, and began a complicated ritual of their own, involving adjusting their shirts so as to allow a look down the front, and fooling with their hair in a teasing sort of way. After completing this odd sort of dance, the young male was allowed into the car, and off it went into the night.
And that was it!! I quickly stowed my notes, and set off to the clothing store, intent on duplicating this ritual, in the hopes of warding off another lonely night spent watching others make out, then drinking my self into a coma.

This post has run long, so I will conclude the results another night.

2006-02-22T23:20:00.000-08:00

I did not before today think it possible that one could laugh so hard that his spleen would come out his nose, but after hours in the hospital having a team of doctors painfully stuffing my spleen back into it’s proper place, I am now a much wiser man. My mistake was simple enough, I strolled into the local Barnes & Noble in Merced, and began browsing through the various new country albums. Barnes & Noble has a neat feature that allows one to swipe a CD across a scanner, then listen to a thirty second preview of any song on the album. All was going well until I came across Willy Nelsons newest song titled,
Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond Of Each Other. By god, there ought to be a warning on this one!! I played the song woefully unprepared for it’s content, and what happened next I have already mentioned.
After my release from the hospital I returned to Barnes & Noble where they gave me a free copy of this album due to my earlier troubles in the store. I now plan to take this CD back under my bridge and attempt once more to listen to this song at really low volume while wearing earplugs to prevent a repeat of my earlier mishap. One day I might be able to turn the volume up, and perhaps even remove the earplugs once I have built up an immunity to the song. I do not wish by any means to discourage one from buying this album, but be aware that this one particular song should be approached with extreme caution.

Valentines *&%#@ Day

2006-02-16T13:26:00.000-08:00

Despite all my efforts to stave of this past holiday, ( Running in circles counter clockwise does not turn back time) Valentines Day has again arrived. For all those who have sweethearts to warm their beds on cold rainy nights, FUCK YOU!! You need read no further. For all the rest of you, you may have an idea what I feel at this time every year. It has been almost 18 years since I have had a girlfriend, and now living under a bridge like I am, I can only look forward to another 18 years of the same.
I spent this past Valentines Day in much the same fashion as I have spent the last 18, sobbing drunkenly on the urine stained floor of a shithole bar clutching at the hem of the waitress’s dress every time she passed by. At two in the morning when they finally tossed me out I crawled to my Drunken Train Dodge Bridge, and sat on the tracks clutching my knees and listening to Leonard Cohen songs until I passed out and fell off the bridge into the creek. (Whew thank god it’s over) With this holidays passing, every day now brings me farther away from it, instead of towards it, and that is definitely a good thing for the sake of my sanity.

HAPPY @&*%$ VALENTINES DAY.

GREAT BLUNDERS IN SPACE SCIENCE

2006-02-13T13:03:00.000-08:00

Just what in the hell was NASA thinking when they sent a monkey into space? Can you imagine what would have happened if he had been picked up by a passing alien craft. The only logical answer would be for them to believe that the monkey was Earth’s master race, and that shamelessly scratching ones buttocks and flinging poo were traits that the inhabitants of this planet deemed as acceptable behavior. In the tense and oftentimes dangerous world of inter galactic politics I should hope that we could do better than a monkey as a potential candidate for ambassadorship.

In the 1960’s we set foot on the moon, a remarkable feat to be sure. But leaving behind a commemorative plaque and flag is just asking for trouble. We do not own the moon, touching something is not grounds for declaring ownership, I cannot simply stroll down the street planting flags and plaques on peoples lawns and expect it to go uncontested. ( I know this because I got drunk one night and tried it.) Maybe the moon is free land, and maybe it’s not, but before we go sticking flags into things I think more research should be in order. If years from now the Human race finds it’s self dragged before judge Blork in the intergalactic high court, don’t for get I told you so.

Not to long ago we fired a missile at an asteroid. WHY?? To all the scientists who say we can unravel the mysteries of the universe by studying asteroid dust I say BULLSHIT, you assholes just wanted to see if you could hit one. Well you did, you happy now? Oh sure you say that the effects on it’s trajectory are negligible, but two thousand years from now when the thing wanders three millionths of a degree off course, glances off another asteroid it would otherwise have missed, then wipes out 99 percent of life on earth we all will know who to thank.

The biggest blunder by far, was the Voyager space craft. I hardly know were to begin on this one.
Voyager was designed to make a leisurely stroll through our solar system, then use the gravitational field of Saturn to slingshot into the vast reaches of space. I must first question the wisdom of this, I am strongly of the belief that our continued existence on this planet is due in large part to the simple fact that nothing has noticed us yet. Blasting probes at people is a good way to get un noticed in a hurry.
On board the Voyager is a picture of a small dark skinned man holding up a large white baby. Lets think what an alien race could decipher from this.

A: Kidnapping babies is considered a sport on this planet.
B: The male spices on this planet is capable of giving birth.
C: Hey aliens!! Look at this nice fat baby, want it? Well come an get it.
D: The males on this planet are all dark skinned dwarfs, and the females all look like fat white babies.

Along with this rather odd photo, the space craft also contains a taped greeting in six different languages.
I can see it now, “Hey Splork, can you understand what the hell their saying?” “Umm nope.”
“Ok how bout now?” “Not a clue.” “Well how about this then?” “HEY I’ll be dammed! That’s French.”
Call me a pessimist but I really doubt that sending a greeting in different languages is going to make much of a difference. We should have sent a message in Binary code that said please don’t kill us, our planet is rather small and uninteresting, hardly worth the trouble of crossing the voids of space to wipe us out.

My last and by far the biggest problem I have with the Voyager mission, is that the space craft is powered by Plutonium, the most deadly substance on earth!! One spoon full of this stuff would be more than enough to wipe out the population of a large city for the next billion years. And we just sent some poor unsuspecting race of aliens enough of it to kill every living thing on their planet. What is the first thing an alien race is going to do upon discovering our little craft?? They are going to dismantle it, and when they do………..What the hell NASA?? And god forbid the aliens should realize ahead of time what we’ve sent them. It’s an open declaration of war if I’ve ever heard one.

So by all means NASA, reach for the stars, but for Christ’s sake use a little common sense, or the stars may just reach for you.

SIMPLE WORDS THAT OFTEN PRECEDE A MESSY DEATH

2006-02-09T16:40:00.000-08:00

“Hey, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“ Well, only one way to find out I guess.”

“ Do those things always look at you like that?”

“That’s weird, I could’ve sworn it wasn’t there a minuet ago.”

“Hey Jeb! Lookit what I can do.”

“I’ll just go out an have a look-see.”

“I think their finally gone.”

“You think this thing is loaded?”

“It’s more afraid of you than you are of it.”

“I wonder what this button does?”

“If you stand perfectly still it can’t see you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.”

“Do you think it wants a piece of my sandwich?”

“I don’t think you need another drink Kid Relish, I’m cutting you off.”

The Search For The Saddest Sound In The World

2006-02-03T15:00:00.000-08:00

One morning not to long ago I awoke from a fitful sleep. Peeking out from under the bridge I faced a cold foggy morning. It was always cold and foggy in Merced, but this morning was worse than usual. Minuets later while scuffing about on the banks of Bear Creek looking for my breakfast, a most pitiful sight emerged from the mist. A young man dressed in jogging attire was kneeling on the path, desperately grasping at the ankle of a pretty young women who was likewise dressed. “Oh god please he sniveled, I swear to god It’ll never happen again, you just can’t leave me alone like this.” The young women, her beautiful face contorted with rage gave her ankle a hard jerk, spilling the man onto his face. “ I can’t even go jogging with you she raged, I turn away for one instant and you are in the arms of another woman.” “It was the fog” he cried. “We collided by accident I swear!” “Good bye” the pretty woman said coldly, and stalked away into the mist. “Noooo” the man wailed, “noooo god no come baaaaaaaaaaaak” But the women was gone. I stood unnoticed in the murk and studied him thoughtfully, his snot filled nose was making snail trails on the wet pavement as he continued crawling spasmodically forward. He was making some awfully sad noises, maybe the saddest noised I had ever heard, But were they? Or were there sadder noises out there? Right then I decided to go on a quest for the saddest noise on earth. I wandered aimlessly through the M.St. Park, and soon spied a cute little girl playing on a swing set. In her hand was a huge red lollypop. I quickly closed the distance, and was at her side before she noticed me. Looking up she was at first surprised, but then smiled sweetly. It was obvious that a fear of strangers had not yet been beaten into her head. With one quick swoop I snatched the lollypop from her hand and dashed it to the ground. “Oh, sorry little girl I sneered, “but don’t worry, one side is still clean.” her face showed hope, but as she reached, I brought the heel of my boot down on the big red lollypop with a sickening crunch, over loud in the morning air. For a moment she stood still, staring at the broken mess that once had been her lollypop, then she sagged to the ground, fat tears welling up in her blue eyes, I listened closely to her quiet gasping sobs full of hurt and betrayal. It was quite a sad sound I assure you. But was it the saddest? I decided to press on. Soon I came to the railroad tracks that run through the muddy back lots of town. With a quick look around I saw a forlorn looking hobo sitting on a wooden box, and clutching a bottle of whiskey like it was life it’s self. I ambled over to him, lifting my hand in a friendly wave. Weakly he returned it, and in doing so nearly toppled of his box. Obviously he had been at his bottle for quite a spell. That looks like good whiskey I said. Mind if I have a sip? “Jusht a shmall one” he replied. “Itsh all I have to keepish me warm” I took the proffered bottle, and smashed it at his feet.
“Buh wuh wibbish??” He could not at first speak, but then launched into a string of drunken oaths, followed by a horrible blubbery caterwauling. As the poor hobo lay in the mud bawling into his beard, a train whistle sounded far off through the fog. Yes!! This was almost it, but still I walked on. Passing the local cemetery I saw an old Scotsman standing by a grave, attempting to play the bagpipes while crying. I was almost overcome by a melancholy so deep that before I knew what I was doing, my hands had grasped a length of rope, and had tied it in to a noose. I only just managed to stop my self from slipping the noose around my neck. This just had to be the saddest sound in the world. Then I spied a pair of Mourning Doves sitting on the dew soaked grass. Mourning Doves mate for life, if one in a pair dies, the other will lose the will to live, refuse to eat, and parish as well beside it’s mate. Armed with this knowledge I crept up on the Doves who were pressed together watching the sun rise. Grasping a large rock, I bashed the Dove on the left into a bloody pulp. The surviving Dove did not understand this. He urgently prodded his mate, willing her to rise so that they could escape from me into the trees, but it was no use. The male Dove raised his beak to the sky, and sang for his lost love. One note so pure and sad, that had I not wisely been wearing ear plugs It most surely would have killed me. I had found it!! The saddest sound in the world. I happily trudged back towards my bridge, but as I approached the fountain near Apple Gate Park I was brought up short by a sight that will forever haunt me. There beside the fountain in the pale misty light of dawn I saw a Scotsman crying because his little girls icream cone had been knocked out of her hand, by a Hobo who was diving to save his whisky bottle, which ultimately broke and killed one in a pair of Mourning Doves. The Dove never saw it coming because it was busy watching a sobbing man whose girl had just left him for throughing her kitten into the creek. Unwisely I had removed my earplugs, and thus was left defenseless against the sound which followed. My world turned inside out, I convulsed violently and sprawled onto the ground. Spasms wracked my body, my fingers clutched into claws, tore deep grooves in the dirt, then all went black.
I awoke many hours later to find that all involved in the incident had dropped dead. Victims no doubt of their combined sadness. Only distance had saved my life, had I been any closer I would surely have died with them. Deeply shaken I crawled back under my bridge. With time, drugs, and alcohol my wounds would heal.

Cad's King Kong Movie Reviue.

2006-01-30T13:07:00.000-08:00

The other night I snuck into the theater to see the remake of King Kong. I don’t mind a remake, as long as it is done correctly. This remake I had issues with.
For one thing it was way to long. If you shave before going to see a film, you should not have a friggin beard when you come out of the theater!! I so did not need the life story of the girl. I was so relived when she finally got on board the damn ship I nearly wet myself, finally we are getting somewhere!. You already know she is going to go!! For gods sake man just get on with it.
I did not need to know that Jack Black was crooked and destitute to make it plausible that he would bring Kong back, It’s a thirty foot fucking ape!! Of course he’s going to capture it!! Mother Teresa would have done that! I had no problem with Kong killing stuff, that’s what he did in the original film. I did not however need to watch a thirty minuet battle between the rescuers and a pack of crickets. Stick to the original script Mr. Jackson!! I felt I was watching the Battle For Helms Deep all over again, except this time one side had guns, and the other side was a bunch of fucking crickets. All was ok after that. They capture him and bring him back, la de da, he escapes, oh no!! Arrrgh run man!! I was just starting to feel that the movie was worth braining the ticket collector and sneaking into the theater, and then the girl and the big monkey meet in Central Park!! Weeeeeee the monkey discovers ice for the first time!! Oh soooo cute!! Just like Thumper in Bambi!! Awww how cute, and oh the girl so looooves the monkey………..
I don’t know what happened right after that, because I jerked my knee up into my face, and woke up with a bloody nose about the time that Kong was climbing the building. I had no issues with the rest of the film, The monkey dies as he did in the original, too bad so sad.
Peter Jackson is a damn good director when it comes to epics, but after this movie it would seem that that’s all he can make. He tried way to hard to turn this film into a huge sweeping tale of love greed and heartache, when all he needed to do was follow the original script and enhance the effects, and he would have had a very good movie.

Posting Mav's

2006-01-30T13:05:00.000-08:00

Due to the unfortunate destruction of my internet tower, which I had oh so cleverly constructed out of coat hangers and tinfoil, I am forced to walk down to the local Starbucks to post on my blog. I cannot however just stroll on in there and start posting, as they have a very strict anti Cad policy. The various reasons for this are way to numerous to mention, so I won’t go into it, but because of this ban I am forced to wear a disguise. To day I was dressed as a White Mocha Frap. I waited until the door was opened then rolled stealthily across the floor to a quiet table in the back. Once there I logged on and began making minor revisions to my Mavericks piece before posting it. I was almost done, when a voice spoke up from behind. “Hey” said the voice. “That article is wrong, you can’t possibly have done what you said you did.” Irritated at the interruption I turned around and came face to face with a surfer. “And why the hell not?” I asked. “Errr, well for one thing you are a White Mocha Frap, you don’t have legs.” I sighed, this was going to be one of those days. “ I’m not actually a White Mocha Frap” I replied a bit testily, “I just have to dress as one to get into Starbucks.” “Ahhhhh, ho kay, gotcha bra, I knew you wasn’t a real frap.” I rudely turned my back on him and continued typing. Seconds later I felt a tap on my shoulder. “You say in that article you’re writing that you surfed Mav’s , but I never seen you out there.” I slowly turned back around “You’ve never seen me, because I disguise my self as a breaking wave so the other surfers stay away from me.” He nodded his head slowly, a thoughtful expression crept over his sunburned face. I went back to typing. Soon however there was another tap. “What?” I snapped! This guy was really starting to get to me. The surfer grinned and leaned in close to me. “Seeing as how you’ve surfed at Maverick, isn’t it just totally awesome how all the hot girls just like totally want to sleep with you!! I’m like so tired from fighting them off that like the sea is my only refuge. But I’m sure you know all about that being like a fellow big wave rider and all…….” What ever else he had to say I’ll never know, because at that point I’d had enough, and using the straw that I had glued onto the top of my head, I poked him in the eye. Ahhhgh!! NOT COOL MAN!! He yelled, collapsing onto the floor. I quickly hit the send

Stuff That Would Make Life Way More Exciting.

2006-01-27T15:08:00.000-08:00

1: exploding Snails.
Snails that go off like land mines when you step on them.

2: Anthrax pollen.
Inhaling this through your nose causes quick and violent death.

3: Carnivorous field mice.
( No explanation needed)

4: Land Jelly Fish.

5: Huge Venous Fly Traps that disguise themselves as park benches.

6: Invisible Skunks.

7: House Crabs.

8: Flying spiders.

9: Fresh water Narwhals.

10: House cats prone to spontaneous combustion.

Mavericks the battle for everlasting glory.

2006-01-25T15:54:00.000-08:00

The water temperature at Mavericks falls somewhere between a Penguins scrotum, and a Narwhal’s nose. But I wisely anticipated this and dove head first into a vat of Paraffin Wax before embarking on my adventure.
What I had not anticipated though were the horrendous riptides which prowl around the bay like a pack of demented vacuums, alternately sucking you out to sea, and blowing you head first into one or more of the craggy selection of rocks which dot this chaotic patch of ocean. After taking one or two on the chin however I managed to locate one of these run-amuck vacuums which had made up it’s mind to head strait out to sea.
Having survived the currents, and for now avoided the sharks, the only thing left to do was sit apprehensively in the line up and wait for my wave. I realized I had only one shot at this, so I had better wait for the mother of all to take my place in history. I bobbed around in the break like a scraggly paraffin cork, while down in the black deep Poseidon waited for me to turn my back on him.
I awoke with a salty snort, and realized I had dozed off…….. Something was different. The water around me had grown darker. So had the sky for that matter. Maybe rhe sun had gone behind a cloud. Hmmm…..I looked up……..no that wasn’t it, the sky was clear. Now a good sized breeze had sprung up at my back, odd. And what was that strange noise I was hearing? Kind of a slurpy roar, like a freight train being swallowed by a tornado. I calmly looked behind me, and into the eyes of a startled porpoise, but not just any porpoise, this was a flying porpoise. Why he had to be at least eighty feet up……..wait a minuet……porpoises can’t fly, so he must be swimming, but how could he be swimming at roughly the cruising altitude of a jetliner?……………yep……that’s weird all right………….wait………..why is the horizon rushing to meet me??…………………OH *#@&**@#%*!!!!!!!!

What I felt at this moment is hard to put into words, but I will try my best.
Imagine an English man is having tea out side at a trendy little café, when quite unexpectedly a brick lands in his cup. He would no doubt be vexed by this. Now imagine that he looks up to see that the rest of the building will shortly be joining him as well. If you can picture this, then you will know how I felt when an eighty foot wave landed on my head. I had no chance of riding this beast. You can only ride something that’s coming at you or going away from you, if it’s landing on you you’re kind of screwed.
The force of the water drove my face through the flimsy plywood of my makeshift board, driving splinters further up my nostrils than any booger had ever dared to go. Then pushed me deep to the bottom. So deep in fact that I met the fucking crab from The Little Mermaid down there. For two hundred yards my face was scrubbed across the abrasive sand of the sea floor as the massive wave above whisked me along., until my unpleasant ride was halted by a vicious head first encounter with Sail Rock, the largest and craggiest in the bone yard. This impact would no doubt have killed me, but in an odd twist of fate, my head connected not with hard rock, but with the soft underbelly of a Great White Shark who had unluckily chosen that precise moment to dart in for the kill. The impact polaxed him on the spot, and I then had only to grab on to his fin, and ride the monster’s belly up body to the surface like an Argo naught riding a big toothy balloon.
Once on the surface I made an immediate dash for the beach, arms and legs churning the sea into froth, closely matched by a gnashing hoard of the dead sharks friends. It was touch and go for a bit but at last I made the beach and ran to the wondrous safety of the jetty. So engrossed with my triumph over all the sea could through at me, it was fully ten minuets before I noticed the girl standing there watching me. On seeing her I wished that I had not been so boastful of my deeds to the little band of Hermit Crabs who had scuttled out onto the rocks at my approach. Then looking down I wished that I had managed to keep my swim trunks. But then with a start I realized that my nudity didn’t matter! I had just ridden a wave the size of Texas!! The pleasures of any woman were now mine for the taking!! Slowly with a rakish grin I turned and faced her. “Did you see that” I asked “yes” she replied, “that was really something” “I just rode a wave the size of Texas” I said. “Now you must make instant sandy love to me on this very beach.”
“Had you indeed ridden a wave the size of Texas” she replied, “I would gladly have done just that. However, you did not ride a wave of this size, you were asleep and one just happened to land on you.” This statement took a bit to sink in, then I was outraged!! “I DID TOO RIDE IT” I screamed, “I had that thing in the palm of my rough manly hand” She looked at me smugly, the wind blowing through her wispy blond hair. “Having a wave sneak up and land on you is not the same as riding one, I’m afraid that the only thing you’ll have in the palm of your hand tonight is that which god gave you, such as it is. “However” she added hopefully, there is still some daylight left, perhaps you might paddle out and try to catch another.”
Briefly I considered doing just that, though it would shurly end as a messy form of suicide. In the end however I simply stood there in the fading light watching her walk away across the jetty while an impish Hermit Crab tweaked my exposed testicles.

After every misadventure I swear I’ll never set foot from under my bridge again, but this time I really mean it. I’m happy here in the deep shadows of my G.St. bunker. If ever you, my faithful readers should need me this is were I will be. And after all is said and done, I was landed on by a wave the size of Texas, few people can say that.

2006-01-22T19:21:00.000-08:00

Since the beginning of this blog, I have from time to time written historical facts regarding the history and lore of Merced. Being a small town it is far easier to uncover it’s past. The more I look however, the more amazed I am at how truly remarkable this little unknown backwater really is. In past post’s I admit to adding certain embellishments for the sake of telling a good story, this is known as creative license, and every writer does it from time to time. When it comes to the little town of Merced though, no creative liberties are ever needed. Truth they say is stranger than fiction. The following is a short list of facts about this town, just as they are, with no need what so ever to stretch the truth. The extent to which this town is ignored by the outside world is astounding to the point of utter disbelief, many of the true facts I have listed below would be Nation wide news if it occurred in any other town. One or two of these facts would have easily made the news on an international level, but because they occurred in Merced they did not cause so much as a ripple out side the county line. Amazing!!!

1: Merced was named after the nearby river. This river was first discovered by Spanish missionaries from the south. The original name of the river was, The Clear Cold waters Of Our Lady Of Mercy.
This name of course was ridiculously long, and gave map makers migraines as they struggled to fit this stupid long winded title on to their documents, so the name was shortened to Mercy. Or in Spanish, Merced. The town was then named after the river.

2: Bear Creek, which runs through the center of town is home to the last known population of wild Beaver in the state of California. What the hell they eat, or how they have survived all this time in what is essentially an open sewer is unknown. A team of biologists went to this creek once, observed that there was indeed a viable breeding population, then simply shrugged their shoulders and walked away never to return. It made all the local papers, and that was it.

3: Ten years ago, a small group of school children playing on the banks Of Bear Creek unearthed a massive bone. A small party of curious locals returned to the site days later and unearthed the remains of a Woolly Mammoth, beautifully preserved in the mud. Shortly after, a grade school science teacher did some research and discovered that local farmers had been digging these things out of their fields for years, and simply casting them aside. Even today it is not uncommon to find an old farm house on the edge of town with odds and ends of a mammoth lying in the yard next to a broken down old jalopy. Even as I write this the giant leg bone of a god knows what is sticking out of the mud just down stream from the M.St. bridge!!! It’s sitting there right out in the open, but no one has ever bothered to dig it up, or see what it’s attached to!! The town just shrugs and goes on about it’s business. Four months ago workers at the town land fill unearthed a prehistoric bone yard of immense size. The find included the remains of Mammoths, Saber Toothed Cats, Giant Sloth’s, A species of prehistoric Rhino, and the remains of ancient humans. A small team was sent to the site from UC Berkley, and after poking around for a week or so they announced that the find exceeded that of the famous Labrea Tar Pits in LA. The city quickly laid plans to turn the site into a multi million dollar museum. But then due to budget woes they changed their minds, said fuck it, and continued using the site as a land fill. They never gave a reason as to why the project was scrapped, but I have a good guess. This is Merced, we could unearth the fucking Ark Of The Covenant, and it wouldn’t even make the front page of the next days paper.

4: Merced has the highest unemployment rate in the nation! It stands at 40%. That means that for every hundred people in the town, forty of them don’t have jobs!! ( Not that I can talk of course) Merced is also highest in the nation for teen pregnancy, and single mothers!! This is per capita of course, Oakland has more pregnant teens in it than Merced, but it is a bigger city. Merced also leads the nation per capita in crime and gangs, and ranks third in air pollution. If any other city on earth had these numbers, the national guard would be called in, and martial law would be declared until things could be sorted out, but once again this is Merced, and no one gives a damn.

5: Merced just weeks ago ranked second in the nation in housing costs. It was reported ( on CBS amazingly enough) that a house in Merced on average costs 77% more than a house in another city. If a house in Fresno was selling for 120,000. The exact same house would cost roughly 340,000 in Merced!!
This statistic is by far the most amazing of all, what kind of mind blasted sociopath would pay 70% over fair market value to live in the shit heap of the world??? I just defies all possible logic. Those who think themselves mighty smart will puff out their chests and say “ Well you see, Merced has become a bedroom community for San Francisco, people by houses in Merced, then commute to the Bay Area. This at first may seem like a sound theory, but riddle me this Mr. puffy chest. Why would someone buy a house in Merced, two and one half hours from San Francisco. When they could buy a house for way cheaper in Livermore and only be one hour from San Francisco?? When faced with this logic all those who think themselves smart simply sniff at you and stalk off.
All I can truly say on all the above subjects is that it’s just a Merced thing. The longer I live here, the less I seem to care weather or not I stub my toe on a Mammoth while jogging, or face a higher risk of being mugged on the street than in most inner city neighborhoods. One day I suppose I will just stop caring all together.

Cads Hilarious Camping Gags.

2006-01-22T19:14:00.000-08:00

Ah the great out doors. Fishing, hiking, trail mix and mositos. Every year when the snows melt in the high country, people across the nation unfailingly turn their heads to gaze wistfully at the high mountain peaks.
( Unless of course you live in Kansas or Nebraska. Who knows what the hell you guys gaze at.)
Drawn by some unexplainable primal urge, scores of people each year leave their well ordered lives behind and set forth into the wilds. Sadly however most of those who do this are wholy unprepared for anything having to do with non dammed rivers, non trimmed bushes, or non tamed animals. For many this trip back to a simpler time ends in a horridly gruesome death. Others are luckier, the lucky ones arrive safely at their destinations, only to realize that they haven’t the slightest idea what the hell they are going to do for the next week of their lives. It is for these people that I have created my list of Hilarious Camping Gags.
Weather fighting extreme boredom brought on by an absolute ineptitude at anything wilderness related, or just looking for a chuckle, this list is for you. But first, a word from my lawyers.

Warning!! Trying any thing at all in this guide can and most definitely will cause extreme pain and in some cases nasty death. Use said guide at your own risk.

1: Wait until your buddy goes off to collect fire wood, then stuff a porcupine in his sleaping bag.
Imagine his surprise when he crawls in to bed at night and gets hundreds of sharp barbed quills in his leggs and ass. “Oh you guys” he’ll say, then you will all share a huge laugh.

2: Empty the food out of the cooler, and place an enraged badger inside. you can enrage the badger by picking up the cooler and shaking it once the badger is safely in.
( Remember, shake the badger after you put him in the cooler!!! Not before!!)
Wait for your friend to return from his unsuccessful fishing trip, then ask him to go to the cooler and get you a beer.

3: Wait until someone from your party dozes off while fishing down by the lake. Sneak up on him or her, and gently place the hook from their line in their mouth. Then shake them awake and shout hurry pull!! You got a big one!! Their knee jerk reaction will set the hook and provide hours of entertainment as they struggle to remove the hook from their lip with a pair of combination tweezers, saw, spoon and mini wrench tool.

4: Wait until all have left camp for the day. Then drag all the tents aside and dig deep pits beneath every one of them. Line the bottoms of the pits with sharpened stakes. Once you are done, move the tents back into place. This is a fun spin on the old Russian Rulet game, the first one to crawl back into their tent plunges head first onto the stakes!! (GOTCHA!!) All are sure to find this very funny.

5: Use a syringe to pump gasoline into all the marshmallows. Sit way back when it comes time for roasting, and have fun watching everyone get burning napalmy marshmallow goo blasted into their faces.
( Kids find this joke especially funny)

6: Transplant a nest of yellow jackets in to your buddy’s guitar before he hauls it out to play around the camp fire. They’ll be asleep at night, but a few good strums will wake them up in a hurry!
If you can get a friend who is allergic to bees this gag is even funnier. Then as a side gag, you can replace their life saving Epinephrine shot with a syringe that contains pancake syrup.

So you see friends, the woods don’t have to be a hopelessly boring place, with a little imagination camping can be loads of fun for all ages!!

Waves break on the bone yard at Mavericks

2006-01-20T21:36:00.000-08:00

Cad gazes out at Mav's

2006-01-20T21:34:00.000-08:00

2006-01-20T21:24:00.000-08:00

I was sitting under my bridge naked one day, boiling my clothes to rid them of fleas.
( This should be done at least once a week to avoid embarrassing public scratching) When I spied a DVD box floating past me in Bear Creek. After some fishing about with a stick I was able to retrieve it, and found that it was a big wave surfing movie. Riding Giants the cover blared. In my pot a few hardy fleas climbed desperately up an underwear mountain in a vain attempt to escape the boiling agony that awaited them, but I took no notice. My eyes were glued to the back of the box. The picture was that of a man god, riding a wave so insanely large it defied imagination. This I had to see.
Two hours later I emerged from my G St. bunker in a daze, my mind spinning with the images of the film I had just watched. Oh the glory, the raw courage, no pretty girl on earth could deny pleasure to a man who had just ridden a wave the size of Texas. I had to try this. In a frenzy I packed everything useful into my duffle bag………I had nothing useful however so I just said fuck it, left the bag and set out at a run for the nearest trucking yard. After some mucking about I caught a pallet of cabbage for the coast. I had no board, but this was no big deal, so much shit washes up on U.S. beaches I was bound to find something suitable.
I arrived at Half Moon Bay on a cold foggy morning. All appeared calm and quiet in the mist, but in the distance a rumble could be heard, like thunder in hell, there could be no mistaking this sound. The surf was up. I strolled along the beach examining various candidates upon which I would ride to glory. After rejecting a Styrofoam float as being to crunchy, and a dead seal carcass as being to floppy, I finally settled on an old plywood board, warped into a pleasing curve by the sun and surf. Turning left onto a dirt road I walked along a muddy path, around the head of a large cliff and out onto a stone jetty for my first look at the Mount Everest of big wave surfing, Mavericks. Mav’s as the locals call it is the largest big wave break on the North American continent. On cold winter days with giant swells heaving out of the North this place is capable of producing waves over eighty feet, Roughly the size of a seven story building. And this day was no exception. At Mav’s however, the waves, while stupefyingly big are the least of your worries. After rolling along for an astounding two hundred yards, the waves at Mavericks slam with an eye watering impact into a jaggy forest of rocks called the bone yard. Should one be lucky enough to survive all this, his efforts will be in the end wasted for beyond the rocks swim huge packs of man eating White Sharks. The man who first rode this watery disaster was one sick sick motherfucker. His single act of machismo has led to the deaths of legions of would be heroes, following blindly in his shadow hell bent on oneuppance. On a good day the waters of Half Moon bay are awash with their rotting wetsuit clad carcasses. On a bad day the bodies pile up and overflow into the shipping lanes creating a navigational hazard akin to the seaweed of the Sargasso.
Waiting for break in the surf had given me plenty of time to think about all this, but in the end I had come to far to chicken out. The last wave to decimate the rocky bone yard had barely topped fifty feet, I had my lull, it was now or never. With one mighty lunge I flung myself into the arms of fate.

How will it end? Has Cad at last met his mach? I guess you'll just have to wait for the next installment.

2006-01-20T16:38:00.000-08:00

Ten Reasons Why Sponges Are Better Than Guinea Pigs For Washing Dishes.

1: Sponges don’t shed.

2: A wet sponge smells better than a wet Guinea Pig.

3: Sponges don’t sneak off while you are rinsing.

4: Sponges don’t squeal and try to bite you when you wring them out.

5: PITA never opened a hot can of woopass on anyone for wiping a sponge across a soapy cheese grater.

6: If you ruin your sponge you can just go buy another one. Pet stores get mighty suspicious if you ruin to many
Guinea Pigs.

7: A sponge doesn’t pee when it gets scared.

8: A sponge is easier to clean up if you accidentally drop it in the garbage disposal.

9: A sponge won’t drown.

10: A sponge was designed for dish washing, that’s it’s primary reason for being. I don’t know what the hell a
Guinea Pig is for, but it’s not for dish washing that’s for shure..........kittens however.........

2006-01-18T15:16:00.000-08:00

You know what I really hate? People who start a sentence with the words,
“You know what I really hate”
As soon as you hear those words you know that some jackass is going to spout off about something he really hates!! As if your day isn’t bad enough, now you have to hear about someone else’s pet peeve. I hate that. People who start a sentence like that aught to be beaten about the head with something they really hate.
( Like a jar of mayonnaise….. I hate mayonnaise.)
Know what else I hate? People who say “You know what else I hate” . These words signify that after finishing a long pointless rant about something you care nothing about, they are getting set to do it all over again. There aught to be a law against people like that, I hate them all. People like that should have a mackerel shoved down their pants……………………What? ........Why are you looking at me like that?……………..I’m just saying is all………….Hey!! PUT DOWN THE FISH!!!

2006-01-18T15:13:00.000-08:00

Cad’s Tips For Getting People To Really Notice You, While Pretending Like Hell Not To.

1: Bring a large Yam into a crowded Applebee’s restaurant, lay it on the table in front of the cashier, then start shrieking at it. Works like a charm.

2: Approach people on the street, get right up in their face and scream, “STOP NOTICING ME!!!”
They sure as hell will notice you then, no matter how hard they pretend not to.

3: Glue a gigantic bottle of catsup to the top of your head. It’s simple but effective.

4: Grow a humongous mustache, then wax the hell out of the thing until it sticks out twenty feet from both sides of your nose. If for some strange reason this does not get you secretly noticed. Then accidentally on purpose stick the tip of it into some guys ear as he walks by.

5: Pull out your cell phone in a crowded bank line, pretend to dial a number, then shout
“DON’T HANG UP” into it over and over. It usually takes ten or more times before people really start to pretend not to notice you.

6: Bring a photo of your girlfriend on to a city bus.
( If like me you don’t have one, any photo will do)
Stare at the photo and alternate between crying hysterically and laughing maniacally until you are asked to leave by the bus driver. As you walk down the isle towards the door I guarantee everyone on that bus will be trying so hard to pretend not to notice you, they’ll all have brain aneurisms.

7: Walk into a crowded Vetinary Hospital, pee on the floor of the waiting room, then start beating yourself with a rolled up newspaper while yelling “BAD” Even the fucking hamsters will pretend not to notice you!

You may be wondering at this point how I know so much about this subject…………lets just say there isn’t a whole lot else to do in this town.

2006-01-18T15:08:00.000-08:00

Hello my friends, I have returned after a regrettable absence. To long I’m afraid I have neglected you, my most loyal followers. So where you ask have I been? Mayhaps I turned the miserable existence that passed as a life around? Did I return triumphantly to LA and retake my Bank Executive throne?
Nope, not hardly. I remain now and I’m afraid until the end of my days where you first found me. In the depressing little town of Merced, under a smelly bridge by the vile polluted flow of muck that passes for a creek in this patch of the world.
It has been over six months since I last posted, and for this I do believe I owe you all an explanation.
So here it is.

The Top Ten Reasons I Have Not Posted In Over Six Months.

10: Having lived under ground so long, I awoke one morning to discover that I had become a potato.
Potato’s are by nature very suspicious, and in this I was no exception. Every time I thought it safe to leave the fetal position, I would spy a crafty little Irish man with a spade looking to dig me up and boil me.
Even now I can’t bring my self to approach the local bar Maloney’s. As this is an Irish name.

9: I decided one morning to write an article about jogging for the local paper, The Merced Sun Star. In order to live up to my high literary standards however, I did not feel that I could write a proper jogging article unless I wrote it while actually jogging at the same time. At the first bend in the path however I was so engaged in my article that I missed the turn and plowed head first into a tree. My face impacted into the keyboard and damaged it fatally. The doctor at the hospital spent seven hours attempting to remove the Space Bar from my left nostril.

8: The afore mentioned incident knocked all the keys off my computer key board, so in order to type anything I had to guess at where all the letters were and therefore could produce only gibberish .
And if you tell me I should have just relabeled all the keys as I found them on the blank keyboard then you can just shut the hell up!! I never thought of it until it was too late. I shoved what remained of my computer down the fangy maw of an attacking Grass Weasel to save my own life.

7: Umm, I shoved what remained of my computer down the maw of an attacking Grass Weasel to save my own life.

6: One day some asshole snidely remarked that blogging was old school, and that My Space was were the action was. While scrolling through the my space world I met a girl. She seemed nice enough, and I swear to god she claimed to be 18. I was not aware that playing nude Patty Cake with a four year old was a crime, but the police said it was…………… Prison is quite a place, remind me to tell you all about it some time.

5: Drugs do strange things to a man, like make them believe that their Jesus, and in order to ascend back to heaven they must clime the tallest building in town and jump off while wearing a white bead sheet toga.
You know what sucks about being in a full body cast? If your nads itch, (and they always do) asking a cute young nurse to scratch them for you with a coat hanger causes you to have boiling antiseptic thrown in your face.

4: One day I decided to see what being blind was like, so I tied a bandana around my eyes and made the knot super duper tight to discourage peeking. I found that being blind is really hazardous to ones health if one is not used to it. Long story short, I tied the blasted bandana so tight that I couldn’t get it off. After three weeks of blundering randomly about I finally managed to get hold of a pair of scissors and cut some eyeholes in the thing. I still can’t untie the knots or get the thing off my head, but wearing a red bandana with eyeholes kinda makes me look like Raphael from the Ninja Turtles so I guess it’s cool.

3: Inspired by the musical pioneer who decided to write the longest classical piece in history, a momentous work of art which is scheduled to last 26 thousand years. ( A true story ) I decided to write the longest blogg post in history. I held down the P key until my laptop exploded in my face.
( This took thirty six days, seven hours, fifty nine minutes, and eight seconds.)
On the whole not bad for a single post. To bad it will never be read, as the post died with my hard drive.

2: The computer store considered it unethical to sell me a new laptop after what I did to the other two.
I’m sure the insurance company had a hand in this, I guess they took a big hit from the full coverage policy’s I took out on them.

1: The world exploded……… At least for me it did. One night I mixed a bottle of Mescal with a can of gasoline and a bottle of hydrogen, drank it down, shoved a fire ant up my nose, then calmly lit a cigarette.

All that really matters though is that I’m back. And baring any unforeseeable events, and I can’t rule that out. I hope to stay back with you my dear readers for along time to come.
Faithfully Yours.
Cad

I'm back yall

2006-01-17T19:56:00.000-08:00

Ahem!!! Cad Lives!!!!!

From the lost archives, A History of Merced.

2005-07-02T08:08:00.000-07:00

This was written by a different author than the one who wrote the original History of Merced.

Obviously much older, these pages were tucked into the manuscript that I boosted from the public library. Pausing briefly to swat at a huge fly, hell bent on nose spelunking, I settled deeper into the shade of my bridge and continued reading.

Satan only knows what cursed hunk of earth old Tinplate blew out of. From the ocean deep to the starry heavens you’re not likely to find another so downright poisonous as he. Crab apples used to be sweet as honey, till old Tin went and peed on one, ever after them apples been sour as an old crone with a lemon up her ass, its true! Never was there one so mean as Tin. I guess it’s fitting in a way that old Tinplate, a man so cantankerous that a Rattlesnake would sooner jump off a cliff than risk getting in his way, would go on to found a town like Merced. If just plain old meanness could rub off a someone, Tinplate must a done a lot o rubbing agin this town.

Near as anyone can figure, Tin came west from Fort Dodge in the spring of 1840. He had a run down wagon which he hated and a team of oxen that he just loathed. Old as he was, Tinplate could have made better time pulling the wagon himself, but instead he’d just a set there and watch his poor starved oxen toil in the hot sun. Tin was just that sort. It took over a year for Tinplate to make the trip west, that’s mighty slow going, but the fact is ol Plate hated them oxen so much, that when he got over a particularly nasty stretch of trail, he’d turn around an make his oxen do it again, just to be ornery. Tin didn’t know any shortcuts, but he sure knew plenty of long ones.

Tinplate arrived in what is now Merced in 1842 intending to keep heading north, but at the Bear Creek crossing his meanness caught up with him. After watching his poor oxen pull his creaky overloaded wagon through the neck deep mud and finally reach the other side, he promptly made them about face and cross back. This went on for the better part of two days, until finely the poor beasts could take no more. In a fit of desperation the oxen gored themselves to death stranding Tinplate, and forcing him to stay on in Merced to the end of his days. Ever the entrepreneur, Tinplate proceeded to mark off the plots of land into lots, using the nicest plots for factory sights and rubbish dumps, and the swampiest squishiest plots for parks and churches. Once he had lured in the town’s folks with the promise of a better life, he proceeded to sell rotgut and rifles to the local Indians, just for his own amusement.

From here the manuscript became unreadable, the combination of age and water damage had taken its toll. But I do believe I saw the words noose, and angry mob in the last pages. What ultimately was Possomgrumbles fate? Perhaps we will never know, but his legacy lives on all around. Every year when the creek floods, the parks fill with swamp flies, and the churches sink a little deeper into the muck. I can’t help but think of Mr. Tinplate up there laughing at us all, happily living in the backwards town born out of his sick twisted imagination.

Rejection Hurts

2005-06-27T18:29:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-21T19:10:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-06-17T19:17:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-13T00:57:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-06-07T00:08:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-02T00:32:00.000-07:00

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.

Send My Dieing Love To Polly

2005-05-30T11:07:00.000-07:00

Send my dieing love to Polly. This was the final chapter in the story of a broken heart.

One day while I was scouring the banks of Bear Creek for cans, gold, or food, maybe all three, one never knows, I came across a sad sight. Far down the creek, well into the great waste lands I found a body. He was a young man of good looks, and by his clothes he must have been quite the dandy. He lay under a weeping willow gazing over the creek towards a large beautiful house with Greek columns and ivy covered walls. Across the young mans chest lay a gold bound diary, through which the young man had impaled a silver dagger, directly into his heart. On seeing this sad sight I temporarily forgot my hunger, and upon carefully removing the knife, I sat down beside the corpse to read.

My Diary: By Fopworth Spiffypants.

May 10: To day was a most warm and wonderful one, keen to go for a stroll I soon forgot myself, and found that I had wandered farther than ever before. Stopping for a spot of shade neath a lovely willow, I beheld a most interesting house. Built in the stile of the old Greeks, this was most odd for a small town. Just as I turned to leave, I spotted her.
Like an angel she was, sitting in a soft chair and gazing at me with eyes that flashed of silver and steel. I could not breathe, stunned I could not find the strength to look away, and alas I fell into a swoon. When I awoke the darkness hid her from my sight. Though I waited far into the night, never again did she reappear.

May 11: Today I returned to the house, and there she sat looking ever more lovely. Standing on tiptoe I called to her and waved a greeting with my neckerchief. The distances must have been too great though for if she heard me she showed no sign. I continued trying to catch her eye for the rest of the afternoon. At one point I attempted to climb the willow for a better look, but only managed to fall, rend my waistcoat, and scrape off the tip of my nose. When I regained my senses after this nasty spill she once again had vanished due to the cursed darkness.

May 12: This will be the day, I’m sure of it. I simply must let this darling creacher know how I feel about her. Arriving at the now familiar willow, I soon spotted her sitting upon her velvet chair staring as always across the creek at me as though deep in contemplation. I needed to get closer, so I set off down the bank in her direction. Brambles are indeed a bother! No sooner had I started than I found my self in a merry mess. Thorns tore at my knickers and my flesh until defeated I was forced to give it up for the day. As an added insult, a vole rose up from the ground, and bit off the little toe on my left foot.

May 13: An unlucky day indeed. While puffing on my pipe neath the shade of the willow, and gazing longingly at the girl across the creek. I nodded off and set fire to myself. The day was not a total loss however, for the fire also consumed all the brambles which had so vexed me on the last visit.

May 14: I was so sure this would be the day. Arriving at the willow tree, I set off with all speed down the now clear bank. My Angel was sitting as always high up on the garden terrace across the creek. I stopped briefly during my descent and noted with satisfaction that the vole which had so wronged me on our previous meeting had burned horribly in yesterday’s fire. From on high beneath the spread of the majestic willow the small creek seemed clear and inviting, but alas when viewed up close I found it to be a stinking morass. Mud and water weeds soon sucked my britches off, and as I sought to retrieve them, a troublesome turtle nipped off my right index finger. I managed to crush the vile beast with a rock, but the blood only attracted more of these awful things and I lost a thumb as well in my hasty retreat.

May 15: Hacking about with my dagger, I finally crossed the wretched brook. I quickly scaled the garden wall and came face to face with my love. Oh such beauty, like white doves on a gilded roof. My love, I have come through the valley of death for you I cried, and through myself prone at her feet. If she heard me though she gave no sign. Desperately I kissed her feet and stroked her hand. But through it all she sat still and cold as death, never shifting her gaze from the far horizon. In desperation I rose up and shook her violently. Her only response was to slowly topple sideways and crash to the ground. I was on her in an instant, kissing her pale cold lips and stroking her marble colored hair. I wanted her, but not like this, never like this!!! Grief stricken I returned home.

May 16: From the shade of my willow I can see that my love has not moved from the ground. Though I have sat here for hours now, she dose not move. My mind is telling me what my heart can not bear to hear, I have killed her. So surprised was she to see me vault over her garden wall, bloody knife clenched in teeth, creek mud slopping from dirty brow, that she simply died of fright. Rooted to the velvet pedestal where she had sat all these long days.

May 17: Final entry. With out my love I can not go on. All is misery and death. I killed her, God be merciful. In the shade of the willow where I first saw her I shall through my self upon my own dagger, farewell.

Once I finished reading I carefully set down the diary and turned to look across the creek. To my great surprise I saw the girl, still lying on the ground where she had fallen when this poor love struck dandy had shaken her. She was indeed beautiful!! However there was something funny about her. Rummaging through my things I pulled out an old pair of binoculars and had me a closer look see. After a minuet I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. The grin turned to laughter and soon I was howling. Long minuets later my laughter subsided and I turned once more to look at the unfortunate man lying dead behind me. So blinded by love was he, that by the time he finally overcame all hardships to reach the butiful girl he saw sitting in the garden, his mind refused to see what she really was. Poor poor basterd. He named her Polly, cute name……..

Can you my faithful readers figure out what poor Fopworth Spiffypants could not? Leave me a Coment, and find out if you can.

Part 2 Get Alot For What You Got

2005-05-26T00:15:00.000-07:00

Just when all hope was lost however, my fortunes changed in an instant. A giant bum, seeing my white shirt produced a black pen, and began using me as an IOU. His writing complete, he picked me off the floor and thrust me into the arms of the small cashier. Here he screamed!!! Now give me food!!!! Seizing my chance, I hopped from the arms of the startled cashier, and made a mad dash for the deep fryer, collecting taco fixings by the armload as I ran. Arriving at my destination in the back, I began to franticly assemble what I had collected in to the shape of a #6 with all the trimmings. But just as I started, there was a loud splintering crash behind me. The front counter, under tremendous strain had finely given way, spilling a mass of humanity out into the small kitchen. With the way open to them, the kitchen became a war zone, pots and pans flew, diced tomatoes and chopped onions changed hands faster than the eye could follow. Taco and tostada shells were ground into dust beneath the feet of hundreds. To my left, the giant bum was attempting to stuff the store manager head first into the deep fryer. To my right, a hunger crazed tramp was mashing his own hand in the quesadilla maker while screaming “would you like hot sauce with that sir!!!!!” With the onset of open war fast approaching, I wisely gathered what I had managed to put together, and fled towards the back door. Safely away I turned to watch the carnage that continued to play out behind me. The police had finally arrived, and began launching teargas in an effort to clear the crowd. High pressure water canons joined the effort, and soon order began to take shape. With the show over, I wondered back down to the creek and was soon enjoying a sunny picnic. The contents of my order were slightly mixed, but I had managed to put together a passable feast given all that I had gone through to get it.

This was what I escaped with.

1 half a Tostada shell, topped with onions and fry grease.

1 Tortilla partly fried topped with chip dust and lettuce.

1 Rat, (not sure were I picked him up) covered head to toe with hot sauce.

1 Deep fried employee name badge rather scuffed, still pinned to a shirt.

Get Alot For What You Got

2005-05-24T08:57:00.000-07:00

Get a lot for what you got the ads proclaimed, the town of Merced had just moved in to the 21^st century. Despite the disproportionate crime rate and astounding unemployment rate, I have always found this town endearing. It was only missing one thing in my opinion, and that was a Del Taco, but now we had one!! The addition of a Del Taco to the Wal-Mart shopping center sparked a massive fervor among the thousand or more Tramps, Bums, Hobos, Bridge dwellers, and Homeless people who call Merced home. Get a lot for what you got!!! This was great news!! We didn’t have anything, and now we could get something for it. I was up at the crack of dawn on opening day, I dressed quickly in my best tattered slacks and catsup stained shirt, then ran out from under my bridge to join the long line of Homeless persons already on their way down Bear Creek towards the new Del Taco. Along the way, I stopped to rest with various groups, and always the talk was the same. “I’m going to trade my squirrel jacket for a tostada salad” proclaimed one little tramp. “Yeah well I’ve got my whole bottle cap collection with me, that will get me at least one of everything” stated a large evil smelling bum resting beside a wheel barrow. I began to have nagging doubts about this Del Taco place, would they really give you a lot for what you had? What if you only had moldy cheese, would they still give you a lot for it? I was glad that I had opted to bring cash money just incase.

After an hour of steady marching, a buzz ran the length of the hot tired column, someone up in the front claimed to have spotted it!! Soon rumor became reality, and with a ragged cheer better than 500 hobos broke from the creek bottom, and into a run across the large parking lot, all headed for one place. The small squat stucco building with the sun emblem on the roof, DEL TACO!!!

Half way across the parking lot I could see that all was not well inside the building. The noon rush had begun in earnest, sounded by superstores, the blue collar work force in the area was large, and bored of all other lunch options better than 95% it looked like had chosen on opening day to try out the new place. Add to that over a thousand Homeless people, and you had the makings of a disaster not seen since the food riots of the French Revolution. One hundred yards from the entrance, the crowds began to constrict into one solid mass of smelly humanity, all hope of escape vanished as the frantic crowd bore me helplessly along, as I approached nearer, the sound of fighting, shouting, and pushing grew louder. My nagging doubts grew stronger. I reached the side of the building and breathed a sigh of relief, surely the worst was over, once over the thresh hold, order would be restored. All comers would be waiting in formed lines for their various food items, served fresh and hot by a friendly staff. But one quick look inside and my worst fears were confirmed, if the out side was a nightmare, the in side was sheer hell. Chaos reigned, the small Del Taco looked for all the world like the floor of the NY Stock exchange. Every ware people were shouting and waving money, each one trying to out yell the other in a desperate bid to have his or her order heard and processed first. Those at the front were being beaten down and trampled by those in the back. All completed orders that managed to make it to the pickup counter were soon ripped apart and ravaged, their contents being flung violently into the crowd that soon began piling up on the floor, desperately scrabbling for a stray bit of onion or nacho chip. None the less, I had not walked for the past few hours only to be turned back when I was so close to quesadilla goodness, so in I plunged, fighting for every inch of ground. Commando crawling across the hot sauce smeared floor, and between the legs of frenzied patrons, I soon found my self up against the front counter. So far so good. Gathering my strength, I burst upwards like a crazed Orca in a Sea World stunt show. “I’LL TAKE A NUMBER 6 AND MACHO SIZE IT”!!!!!!!!!! I bellowed at the stunned cashier, “I GOT CASH MONEY’

But just as I pulled a wad of crumpled up bills from my pocket, hundreds of hands went for me, ripping and tearing, my dreams of a #6 turned to confetti as I was stomped to the floor.

Will I get my #6? Will Del Taco survive the onslaught? Is fiddlefaddle the funniest word ever? At least one of these questions might be answered in the conclusion of this post, which I may or may not write depending on whether or not I have survived to write the first part.

Haunting The Back Alleys

2005-05-20T12:51:00.000-07:00

While haunting the back alleys of Merced, I have heard many rumors, such as the one about the Yeti that lives under old man Finnegan’s apple tree west of the city. I however know for a fact that this is not a Yeti, only a rather smelly Hobo named Smellobad The Wise. This shows that most rumors can be excused as urban myth, or crazed drunken rambling. I know, because I have admittedly started most if not all of them.

One rumor however can not be explained away so easily, and after much research I can only believe it to be fact. According to various reliable sources, there is a vast underground bunker and tunnel complex beneath the city of Merced. Some say it was a war time command center, others insist it was part of a large smuggling operation. What ever the reason for its existence, I have become fascinated by it. So a few days ago I set out to put the matter to rest. The entrance would noboubt be well hidden, and probably in some dark place that nobody would expect. I spent most of the morning drinking Rum spiked with Mr. Clean Toilet Wiz Bowl Wash for flavor, and into my third glass it hit me, the town librarian, Mrs. Tarnacles jam cellar! It was the perfect place for a hidden tunnel, and nobody would suspect it ever……..sneaky sneaky…………..

Dark was the night, a wary shadow detached it’s self from a leafy fig tree. A startled poodle is choked off in mid yap by the heel of a boot. A soft basement window squeak is drowned out by a passing train, and the shadow disappears inside.

I was in! Now to get down to the business of finding the entrance. I had no idea jam cellars could be so dark, and after the fourth rafter head bash, I was wishing that I hadn’t blacked out my flashlight with paint, so as to not give my self away. I reminded my self to make a note of this. Being a bridge dweller though, I was accustomed to the dark, we bridge folk have the innate ability to feel our way in blackness, using a kind of mind radar to see, like that used by bats, or pigmy shrews. But sadly, the highly volatile combination of pitch blackness and thousands of glass jam jars proved too much for even my well honed senses to cope with. Striding out confidently in a half crouch, I had only moved a few steps before my knee collided with the sharp edge of a pruning spade, the pain was instant. Hopping backward with my right knee clutched in agony, my left foot encountered a spilled pool of strawberry marmalade, causing my one good leg to skid sideways in a most unexpected fashion. With arms pinweeling, I began a slow tragic descent backward, my wild gyrations serving only to bring the contents of half a jam cellar down on top of me. Deafening silence followed, broken only by an occasional drip splot of jam falling from a broken jar on the shelves above. Gingerly I rose from the ground, and still favoring my hurt knee I began a painful hobble towards the open window, all thoughts of hidden tunnels forgotten.

This one set back however has in no way dampened my desire to put this mystery to rest. I am certain that these tunnels and bunkers exist. I am committed to keep searching, and will continue to pass along up dates to my faithful readers.

In Retrospect

2005-05-14T08:02:00.000-07:00

In retrospect, I could have been nicer to the Boy Scouts of Troop 15. They may very well have mistaken the area around my bridge for a camp ground. Perhaps I to am partly to blame, I do freely admit to using a large KOA highway sign as a sun shade. This may well have played a part in the confusion leading up to the incidents of last night. I was quite unhappy at being disturbed late into my nightly drunk, and the destruction of my azaleas to make room for a latrine pit had me distraught. But this alone should not have warranted the punishment I handed out, I am not ashamed to put myself at fault. Regardless of weather or not they shredded up my cardboard blankets and roasted marshmallows over them, or opened my secret stash of whiskey and dumped it all on to the fire just to watch the pretty blue flames it produced, this alone was not enough to merit what happened to these unfortunate members of a most esteemed organization. For what it may be worth to the families, I’m sorry. I am not always this violent, normally I’m rather quiet and demure, and I’m not really sure why this incident occurred. Perhaps it was the marshmallow fight the boys had, in which I ended up with sticky gobs of them in my hair, even though I attempted to isolate my self in a far corner. Maybe it was the large “Troop 15 Rules” that one of the scouts carved into my prized teak guitar that pushed me over the edge. I may never know for sure. It is undeniable that young Scouts who through a homeless bridge dwellers clothes into the creek because they are board, or steal a pair of his ripped underwear and make fun of them as they hang them up on a tree branch should face some sort of punishment. But did the punishment fit the crime in this case? At the time I sure thought so, but at the time I was admittedly drunk, and some what irritated at the members of Troop 15 for carelessly setting my doorway drape on fire, skewering my tooth brush newt with a hot dog stick, singing off key camp songs for hours with out letup, and for stomping on my raccoon filled mattress bag just to tick it off, causing it to bite me when I attempted to lay down. Even through this laundry list of incidents though, I kept my temper admirably. That is until the annoying soccer mom Scout Leader bitch called me a frowny face, and issued me a time out for cursing at one of the boys who had just poked me in the eye while waving a fire ember stick in the air to watch the red trails it made. After that I guess I just snapped…………………

I have since made a mental note to try and check my temper should I ever face another such incident. I do not wish to hurt anyone. Sadly all this is in retrospect, which I’m sure provides little comfort to the families of Troop 15, whose rotting innards now decorate the local flora and fauna of this little stretch of Bear Creek.

Random Questions For A Crazy Indian

2005-05-10T07:37:00.000-07:00

Random Questions For A Crazy Indian.

On the vast plains north east of Merced there lives a crazy Indian tribe. I managed to corral one of them long enough to ask him some random questions.

Cad: Hi there Big Chief Crazy Whoop, lets get started.

Crazy Whoop: How white eyes, what you want to know?

Cad: Why is the sky blue?

Crazy Woop: Long ago in the before land of my fathers fathers, turtle and rock were having a fight…..

Cad: Hold it, how can a rock fight with a turtle? And what the hell does this have to do with why the sky is blue?

Crazy Whoop: This is the story the great spirit has passed from the sky world down to my people, for one day long ago the great chief Wobbly Arrow asked the same question as you did.

Cad: Ya know what, let’s just forget that question and move on.

Cad: If you lived on Jupiter, how many months would there be in a year?

Crazy Whoop: Months?

Cad: Oh yeah, how many moons?

Crazy Whoop: Ah yes, I read once in a white mans book about this Jupiter, He was much smart.

Cad: What? No wait that was Jupiter Jones, one of the Three Investigators. I’m talking about the planet Ju……..ah never mind…..lets move on shall we.

Cad: How many Muskrats do you think would fit inside a 1979 Dodge Charger? And remember they all have to be inside, no tails hanging out the windows or doors.

Crazy Whoop: Hmmm is the white eyes talking about the thunder horse that moves across the land like the wind of a storm?

Cad: No that’s a train, I’m talking about a 79 Dodge Charger. So take a guess, how many Muskrats.

Crazy Whoop: Errrrrrrrr ummmmmmmm ooooooh A HEAP!!! HEAP LOADS!!!

Cad: You know, I’ll except that answer, you are correct.

Next question. A rabbit in the arctic grows fur to stay warm, but why does a rabbit that lives in the desert grow fur?

Crazy Whoop: One day in the before time, Rabbit and Fox lived in a tree. One day Fox said to Rabbit……

Cad: Aw Christ, not another story, just answer the dang question. Foxes live under ground any way, not in trees.

Crazy Whoop: Now this is so, but in the time before my father’s father’s uncles………

Cad: NEXT!!!!!! Why are teepees round? Why not build square ones?

Crazy Whoop: Square is the white mans way, only white man stupid enough to build stone teepee that needs many holes to drain off water from the roof! Indian say, ”haw haw look at stupid white eyes”. His teepee fall down when water collect on roof……….

Besides teepees are conical, not round.

Cad: Yeah Yeah what ever jackass, don’t you have a buffalo to go scalp or something.

Crazy Whoop: Yes I have talked the sun high into the sky, now I must go.

Cad: Sure, good luck, hope you step in a prairie dog hole you son of a *&#@*.

I’m not quite sure what I called Chief Crazy Whoop at the end of our interview, my Indian is rather rusty. However, seeing as they staked me naked to a red ant nest while buzzards circled over head eyeing my exposed testicals, it couldn’t have been anything very polite. I there for am deeply sorry for my offence.

YOU HEAR THAT DAMIT!!!!! I SAID SORRY!!!!!! NOW UNTIE ME FOR GOD’S SAKE!!

Random Questions For An Inbred Redneck

2005-05-07T07:21:00.000-07:00

There is an ongoing column on this blog called Random Questions For Grublygold, however due to the trouble I have in finding someone willing to come and interview me, I have decided to go out and interview others. So with out further ado I give you…..

Random Questions For an Inbred Redneck.

Cad: Who did you vote for in the last election and why?

Clem: Uhh lessee I votered fer dat guy what wear’s dat big ol hat.

Cad: You mean Bush? He wears a cowboy hat now an then.

Clem: Naw dat tall feller what freed them slaves an such.

Cad: Lincoln?

Clem: Yeah eyeup.

Cad: Errr Lincoln wasn’t on the ballot, fact is he died like a hundred years ago.

Clem: That so…………dern shame……….good feller that one.

Cad: Rrright…….so next Question. If a square is three, and a circle is eight, then how much would two squares time’s six circles come out to?

Clem: forty eight.

Cad: Well I’ll be damed. Ok next question, if an apple a day keeps the doctor away, then what does an orange do?

Clem: Turns yaw into a dang sissy, my mama bless her never raised me an my fifty nine brothers on no oranges, no sir, it was apples or nothin, only you big fer your britches city folk eat them sticky orange thingers.

Cad: What’s the difference between a comet and a meteor?

Clem: Dang if I know, but one er tuh other dun kilt my best milkin cow yonder in the barn bout a week back I reckon. She were just a standing there when all tuh once it, this big ol rock comes whooshing down an laid her out flat like.

Cad: Wow, probably a meteor, a comet would have flattened half of California had one of those hit your cow.

Clem:Well which ever one of them thingy’s it was it chaps my craw to loose old bertha like that.

Cad: yeah I’ll bet. Ok here’s one you might know. If a small rifle is a twenty two caliber, and a larger rifle is a forty five caliber, then what caliber is a shotgun?

Clem: Shotgun?

Cad: Sorry, what caliber is a scatter gun?

Clem: Ah, one o them scatter guns, I likes them guns, I kin git me a passel o quail wit me ol scatter gun I kin. I runned me offt a passel o boys what come a callin on Mary Lou wit me old gun to I did.

Cad: Yeah but what caliber is it?

Clem: Now them squirrels is tricky little varmints, I swear they kin smell a scatter gun a comin, cuz just as soon as you pull the thing out of your ruck sack, them squirrels done light a shuck.

Cad: What caliber dang it!! Just pick a number you old bumpkin.

Clem: Errrr eight.

Cad: Hah, wrong you stupid dirt farmer, shotguns are un calibrated.

Clem: Hey now just back yer hoss up there feller, who you callin a dirt farmer.

Cad: Sorry, last question. Suppose one of these days you saw me sneaking out of your daughters window, how long would it take you to load your scatter gun, un chain your hound, and launch an effective pursuit?

Clem: Eh, what’s that now?

Cad: long enough for me to reach the river you think?

Clem: Well I’ll be a pickled possum, just who’s window are ya sneaking outa!!! Boy yer about ta find out how many!!!

At this point I wisely ended my interview and ran for it. Or as you redneck folk say, I lit one hell of a shuck strait for the Mississip.

2005-05-02T16:56:00.000-07:00

Due to all the rain that fell in Merced this year, I once got trapped on a hummock in the middle of Bear Creek for 1500 days, this picture was taken just as I was going to attempt to swim off

The Great Big Anticlimax

2005-05-02T16:26:00.000-07:00

By the simple fact that you are reading this, you can safely assume that I survived the battle between the forces of dirty darkness, and the City Planning Commission. In this assumption you are correct. As well, as of this writing, the tower still stands, a great monument to homeless ingenuity. But how you may ask??............... Well I’m glad you asked.

My head hurt, it felt as if a midget had somehow crawled inside my ear as I slept, and was now pounding around in my brain with a midget sized sledge hammer. As I slowly opened my throbbing eyes, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something important. With a groan I heaved my self to the top of the bunker wall, and gazed groggily out at a sea of uniformed city workers, each one armed to the teeth and wearing spiffy new riot gear. My poor abused brain struggled for comprehension, this had to be important……… it had to be……. Then it hit me!!!! This was the day of the big Merced Spring Hoopla Parade!! This must be a staging area………… no……that was last week…………….uuuummmmmmmmmmmm……… Right!!!! It was trash pickup day!!......... In riot gear??? Think stupid brain think……… ARRRRGH!!!!!! My Tower!!! The last great battle to decide the fate of all Merced!!!! Wildly I glanced around, expecting to see my forces assembled to meet this dire threat. All that remained of my grand army however was a jumbled mass of drunken bodies, sprawled this way and that. Out side across the small creek, the city forces had begun beating their rifle buts against their riot shields, womp womp womp. Slowly they advanced. I desperately listed my options, I had no army, all the ammunition had been consumed the night before in the drunken hope that gunpowder might produce some sort of intoxicating effect if snorted. All the gas for the flame throughers, and even the boiling oil had been likewise misused. My grand moment of glory it seemed had just ended before it had begun. After an exploratory volley, the city troops meeting no resistance halted their advance, reluctant to dirty their new uniforms, but obviously disappointed that the promised hordes of the Merced underground had not materialized. The Mayor himself who had opted to lead this fight also looked rather deflated. His glory to it would seem had been snatched out from under him. After short pause, and several dirty looks at my unresisting bunker the Mayor ordered his rocket launcher brigade to advance. Taking aim at my precious tower, the sound of fifty rocket launcher safety’s clicking off in unison echoed in the still morning air. This was it….the end. The Mayor opened his mouth for a mighty bellow, I closed my eyes, unable to look…………..but the order never came………I opened one eye experimentally…….the tower still stood. The Mayor still open mouthed was gazing towards the heavens in disbelief, and down from the blessed sky flew the prettiest sight I ever beheld. With all the grace of a ballerina with Downs Syndrome, a small bird crash-landed on to the top of my tower. It was the rarest of all North American bird species. The Fluff Bottomed Fiddlebooby, and clutched in its beak was a large clump of dried moss and straw, which it happily began arranging in nest like fashion. Bursting from my bunker I ran towards the shocked mayor, LOOK!! I yelled pointing up at the Fiddlebooby. HAH HA!! It stays!! My tower stays!! But my happiness was short lived, my sudden out burst had startled the bird, causing a large stick of straw to become lodged in the Fiddleboobys throught. Lacking opposable thumbs the poor creature could only flap its wings uselessly, whacking at its chest in a weak attempt to dislodge the offending twig. The fate of all hung in the balance, fifty rocket launchers followed every motion of my tower, which now swayed alarmingly due to the frenzied wallowing of the dieing bird. The Booby staggered towards the edge, and once more the Mayor filled his lungs to give the order to fire, but once again he never would get the chance. With one last fluffy hack, the Fiddlebooby expelled the straw from her windpipe, then calmly but shakily returned to her nest building.

It was over, I had won, so long as the nest stands my tower is safe from the threats of the city. The mayor however did not take his defeat lightly, and posted a permanent rocket launcher wielding guard at the base of my receiving tower, waiting to strike should anything ever happen to the towers protector. This makes me awful nervous, as the Fluff Bottomed Fiddlebooby is not known to be the brightest of birds. As I speak though, I am hatching a secret plan to kill, stuff, and animate the Fiddlebooby so as to ensure my towers permanent safety……I’ll keep all posted………………..

The Last Days Of My Tower

2005-04-26T10:04:00.000-07:00

The days tic by until the scheduled removal of my tower, which I rely on for net access. As of this writing, there remain only 24 short hours to come up with a plan. Deep inside my fortified bunker, cleverly disguised as a Rohedendron bush, my forces are gathering. Only a miracle will prevent this stand off from exploding into the next Ruby Ridge. Outside my bunker the city commissioners are prowling about in preparation for the up coming assault on my precious life line to the outside world. Keeping well out of rifle range they have spent the past few days practicing the destruction of my tower by blowing up trees with rocket launchers, and conducting simulated raids on Rohedendron bushes similar to that under which my bunker lies. In side my bunker, I have amassed the dirty forces of Merced. The castoffs of society gather to me, egar to fight. For this struggle represents more than just a home made receiving tower, this is a fight for the rights of those whom society has deemed un fit. For if my tower is allowed to fall, next could go the shanty towns and crack houses that are a mainstay of homeless life in this town. Further talks are scheduled for Tuesday afternoon, but at this point they are more of a formality, this fight has been brewing for far too long, and all it needed was the spark to set it ablaze. I have at this point resigned my self to fight, as I do not believe that the town leaders will allow them selves to loose face and stand down, time my friends will tell the tale. The following is a brief summary of the last few days leading up to this final battle for homeless justice.

Friday April 22. Spent much of the morning moving supplies and ammo into my bunker, and briefly consulted with my top generals, Jeb of R street. And Jin of Mckee Ave. The meeting was progressing well until Jeb and Jin came to a disagreement on the correct placement of the boiling oil cauldrons to be used in repelling an assault. Jeb insisted that they be placed directly above our own heads, “they’d never expect that” Jin insisted that we should be standing in them so as to have something to duck into should they start shooting at us. The argument between my top generals only escalated until in a blind rage, Jin shoved a live 45 round up Jeb’s nose, then attempted to set it off by throwing wild haymakers.

Saturday April 23. The great hobo king, Smellabad The Wise arrived with his army of vagabonds and no-account’s. After a brief discussion it was decided that the Molotov Cocktails could be put to better use as a cold beverage, than as a fighting weapon. After more drunken debating we also drank the gasoline in the flame throughers. Besides the usual and expected deaths related to drinking pure gasoline, one poor fellow was vaporized after he casually tossed his cigarette down while urinating. The resulting fire took the rest of the night to suppress, and cost us most of our supplies. Investigation of the incident leads me to conclude that smoking and peeing after drinking gasoline, should be regarded as un safe.

Sunday April 24. Spent the day nursing a hangover, and picking through the charred ruins of the bunker complex. After brief consultation with my top guys it was decided that the defense of my tower was in no way affected by last night’s fiasco, and that our strengths still exceeded that of the city planning commissions.

Monday April 25. Last ditch talks with the city board broke down after Jeb, while trying to prove an important point accidentally urinated on the Mayors leg. The enraged mayor declared that “Only a violent and messy conclusion to this conflict would satisfy him at this point” I’m not exactly clear as to his intent, but I do believe he has declared open war as the only option left to us.

Tuesday April 26. So here I am, surrounded by Merceds finest drunks. Facing a tough and determined city force hundreds strong, every man willing to die to defend his own flawed point of view. This may well be my final post. Only tomorrow will tell............How did it ever come to this………dear god have mercy on us all…………..

How To Avoid Offending Bridge Dwellers.

2005-04-25T17:50:00.000-07:00

The first step towards not offending bridge dwellers is to not call them bridge dwellers. We hate that. I do, but that’s because I am one, and it is there for acceptable. This is akin to black people being able to use the (N) word two dozen times in one sentence, then turn around and justifiably shoot the first non black who dares to utter it. If you must refer to a bridge dweller, call them Subterranean Habitat Specialists.

Never ask a bridge dweller where he goes if the river floods. Bridge dwellers are generally afraid of open spaces and having to come out from under their bridges during flood season places great strain on them. There for it is a bad idea to remind them of this yearly trauma.

Never call a bridge dweller a bum, hobo, homeless person, or tramp. Bridge dwellers are just that, normal………. semi normal people who find bridge residence to be a matter of preference. There is a great distinction between them and other street persons. Bums live on sidewalks and under bus benches. Hobos live in shanty towns by railroad tracks. Homeless people live in government shelters and Red Cross tents. And Tramps live in small rural parks and down by the banks of rivers. Mixing them up is a sure way to offend someone, and perhaps get ankle bit by an offendee.

Do not stand on a bridge known to be inhabited and throw coins off into the water. This is horribly irritating. All bridge dwellers, after much pacing ultimately go and dive for it. Even if it is only a penny. I can’t explain this behavior, but it is perhaps the thought of that shiny little coin just a waiting there on the river bottom which compels us to go fetch it. Do this enough times, and once the bridge resident has collected all that you have thrown, he will kill you.

And ……NO!!! FOR THE LOVE OF HOLY GOD!!! THE FUCKING TROLL FROM
THE THREE BILLY GOATS GRUFF, DOES NOT LIVE UNDER MY BRIDGE WITH ME YOU FUCKING SNIDE ASS PUNK THINK YOU’RE FUNNY KIDS!!!!!!!!!!!!

Do not ask bridge dwellers questions. They tend to be extremely secretive. Often all a bridge dweller has down in the dark recesses is his little secrets. If while peering under a dark bridge, you hear soft, faint giggling, it is probably that of a bridge dweller, and you should slowly back away.

I am an exception to this rule, and I often allow my self to be interviewed. This is simply because I have not been living under a bridge very long

Only by following these simple steps can you ensure a peaceful co existence with your bridge dwelling Subterranean Habitat Specialists. This is important, for an offended bridge dweller spells trouble. Remember, down in the dark moist grottos of our bridges all we do is think………..and plot…………tee hee………….hee………….

Cad Grublygold Gives You Now,

2005-04-25T17:37:00.000-07:00

Ten Reasons Why Bat’s (the kind you maim people with) Are Better Than Babies.

1: Bats are intimidating. Babies are not.

2: Bats can be used to maim someone. Babies, if swung by their ankle can cause a fair amount of pain, but fall short of maiming, and there for should be considered sub par in a street scuffle.

3: Bats don’t pee on you.

4: If left in a locked closet for half a year, bats don’t _ _ _

We regret to inform all readers of this blog, that the content of this post has been deemed un suitable by the internet watch dog group, NOPE. (No Offending People Ever)

Nope. Apologizes to all readers for the inconvenience this has caused, but contends that the intended content of this post was cruel, demeaning to infants, and not in the least bit funny. Implied infanticide is not a matter to be laughed at, it is a matter for the courts. Shame on you Mr. Grublygold!!!!!!!

We instead bring you the poetry of the famous contemporary French author, Renwaux De Bleh.

Oh sun ont ma fass, kees me lah a bootyfull madmozell oft springh.

Brrringh too me bach a buquet oft rrrosses yoo maidens brrest oft a moon.

Oh a lack zat I shhood die zo yong andt whhilt as doz a flahwer undar zee face oft broken love. I die…… forgeet me loov I die……….

Bad News From Merced

2005-04-21T22:26:00.000-07:00

Bad news from Merced, the city counsel has given me until April 27^th to remove my hundred foot receiving tower that I built out of clothes hangers and aluminum foil so I can get net access under my bridge. They declared it an eyesore, a hazard, and a public nuisance. To this I say “bosh”!! The town of Merced is an eyesore to it’s self. Late one night I stole a highly endangered Condor from its nest, and attempted to duct tape it to my tower so the city would have no choice but to let it stay. However, the weight of the stupid bird nearly destroyed the tower making the reason for the birds being there moot. Sadly my satellite receiver/ killoray is not nearly ready for launch, so that is not an option. I vow to fight however, my super fortified sniper bunker is, unlike my satellite quite operational. Cleverly disguised as a large rohadendron bush, I command a fearful view of my tower and as I speak, am stockpiling ammo for the inevitable clash.

I’ll be sure to keep you all posted as the deadline approaches.

The Hobo Bartenders Guide

2005-04-15T14:01:00.000-07:00

How to party for under ten dollars. The following is a guide for making popular Hobo and homeless drinks. Hobos and Homeless for years have been experts at making highly toxic, and exotically unique drinks. And most important of all these drinks are cheap!! So drink up and enjoy.

The Hobo Bartenders Guide.

Recycle Punch:
All those cans and bottles you collect for cash contain a veritable gold mine of liquor products. Poor all bottles and cans into one big mug and enjoy.

Sex In A Dumpster:
Take a big bottle of the cheapest whisky on the shelf, add one bar of Lava brand soap. (it’s the smelly green one) poor the whisky into an empty unwashed bleach container. Shave the soap in with the whisky and shake thoroly. Serve at room temperature.
(If there is still a bit of bleach in the bottom of the bottle this only enhances the flavor)

The Wiffle Bat In The Genitals:
Poor the brackish water and juice from the bottom of an outside trash can into a black plastic trash bag. Add a bottle of Spanish Fly, and let it sit in the hot sun for one to two hours. Strain into an old MacDonald’s cup and enjoy.

(This drink should not be taken lightly, if properly made it may cause sudden death)

The Widow Maker:
(One of my personal favorites) Poor one gallon of two month old milk into a half empty gas can and let the fun begin.

(I would not recommend smoking around this drink)

The F Word:
Take one six pack of Gila monster beer, (the cheapest beer ever) and dump it into a large pot. Spray one whole can of Pam cooking spray into the mix. Add a bottle of rubbing alcohol and serve chilled.

The Minty Fresh:
Take one bottle Nyquil, poor into medium sized tumbler and add Vodka to taste. Shake like hell before serving, and remember to swoosh it around in your mouth before swallowing.

The Weapon Of Mass Destruction:
Poor one glass of bleach, one glass of pure ammonia, and one glass of chlorine into a large mug. (shaking not recommended) boil and serve steaming hot.

(Chances are the fumes from this drink will kill you long before you get a chance to drink it. But if it does make it to your lips wile they are still attached to a living body, then hold on to your hobo hat because you are in for a real treat!!)

Pink Bats In The Rafters:
Mix Two cups of Drano Liquid Plummer with One scoop of Tide laundry detergent. Add one bottle of cheap tequila, and a pint of cooking brandy. Serve warm for best taste.

(the pack of pink lions you see running towards you across the park is probably due to the potency of the drink. Just to be on the safe side however, you may want to take your clothes off and run out into traffic to confuse them.)

Cad’s Big Sweaty Feet On A Hot Summer Day:
This drink was named after me, and is a must for all trash fire parties.
Toss one glass of tobacco spit, two onions, a bottle of peppermint schnapps, and one nasty old sock into a large blender and set it for puree. Poor into glasses, and warm them in your arm pits before serving.

(The nastier the sock, the better the taste.)

The Great Crested Grass Weasel:
To make this drink you must simply combine all the ingredients in this guide into a huge pot, bury it under fresh compost for two weeks, dig it up and enjoy. Good for large pot lucks and all special occasions.

(To the best of my knowledge making this drink has only been attempted once, and the resulting explosion wiped out half the population of the town of Snelling. Sadly then I can only wonder at the taste or side affects of such an amazing drink, as the one hobo genius who tried it was instantly vaporized upon the drinks contact with his lips, taking with him three square miles of wildlife and vegetation.)

Early One Morning

2005-04-12T15:44:00.000-07:00

Early one morning there is a knock on the door to my seedy underworld beneath the Gst bridge.

(Cad) Grumpfullgwahuh? (Girl) Hello….OH jeez sorry I’ll wait till you are dressed! (Cad) Mph, naw I’m dressed. (Girl) Uh ok,….um, are you wearing an opossum as underpants? (Cad) Yeah, my cat pair are in the wash, what do you want? (Girl) I’m doing a survey for the city regarding the homeless problem. (Cad) What problem? (Girl) Well Merced county has the highest unemployment rate in the country and…….ummm….are you playing footsie with me? (Cad) errrrr mabey, does it feel good? (Girl) No, please stop. I need to ask you some questions regarding your homelessness and…. (Cad) I’m not homeless, I live under a bridge. (Girl) Well yes but… (Cad) But what, it’s not good enough for you? Excuse me for fucking breathing lady, oooh tut tut I’m sooo high and mighty because I live in a house, and youuuuu live under a bridge! Don’t make me sic my raccoon on you lady! (Girl) Hey look we got off on the wrong foot, my name is Nancy. (Cad) pleased to meet you Nancy, I’m Lord Snoozewald the Third. (Girl) uh yeah, are you aware sir….(Cad) Lord Snoozewald!!
(Girl) Um ok Lord Snoozewald are you aware that the city provides free alcohol and drug programs aimed at helping those umm…. who might not be in a position to attend otherwise, in the hope that the homeless can be rehabilitated and eventually get jobs? (Cad) What the hell makes you assume that I have any problems huh? What just because I live like this it automatically makes me trash!! Don’t fucking stereotype me bitch. (Girl) Ooookay….. I just couldn’t help noticing that you have a mural on the wall behind you depicting a drunken train dodge incident. (Cad) Yeah, I made it using over a thousand empty schnapps bottles. (Girl) Yeah and then I also noticed that you use a brick of pure black tar heroin as a pillow…… (Cad) Oh…….yeah…..that old thing….errrrr…..
(Girl) Look just know that help is out there should you need it ok. (Cad) Yep. (Girl) You’ll never go to the meetings will you. (Cad) Nope. (Girl) Christ, it’s free damnit! (Cad) So? (Girl) Good god, why the fuck can’t you guys just clean the fuck up, start living like humans and quit costing the hardworking taxpayers like me billions of dollars!! I mean shit!! Is it that hard huh?? Is it you dumb jerk!! Is it to much to ask to not have to wade through you guys every time I want to go down town for coffee!!!! IS IT YOU @$$*&%$**#!!!!!!!.....gasp…..gasp…….uh…..can I get a drink of that whisky? (Cad) sure. (Girl) Ummmm…….you going to snort that? (Cad) No, be my guest………

Another one falls to the siren song of the seedy underworld……….

An Ode To Bear Creek

2005-04-11T19:02:00.000-07:00

Soft spring rain pure driven snow soon will make your waters grow.

Cascading down from jagged peak hidden springs swell to a creek.

On past mountain and jagged plain waters rise but banks contain.

Through open field and orchards wide, clear waters mix with pesticide.

Into farms where cows do romp dirt meets creek with muddy hoof stomp.

Still quite pure but not as sweet smelling creek now bends towards town of Snelling.

Past factories whose stacks do spew carbon coated asbestos into you.

Now purity and color lack as you wind past oily race track gack.

On to towns edge you flow with hiss, cross open sewage mule piss.

Now Merced is were you head, thirsty coyotes drink and soon drop dead.

Car parts shopping carts ratty old tire, joggers loose shoes in foul mire.

Green and smelly rotting stink water not even maggots drink.

On you squelch O nastyidge right down to Cad Grublygold’s bridge.

Here sits Cad washing face in the muck, being down on your luck sure must suck.

Spring Time for Cad in Merced

2005-04-07T13:08:00.000-07:00

It’s spring time once more in the little town of Merced. The trees along Bear Creek have turned from dark gray to light gray, which is as colorful as they will ever get due to the polluted nature of the stream. Spring is also when the bums and other assorted mole people crawl out from under various rocks and bridges to blink at the sun like mutant lizards on a mutant world. Spring heralds the return of the ducks cranes and other water birds stupid enough to call the smelly brown green waters of the creek home. With the return of the birds, the hobos and bridge dwellers come out in droves looking for their first good meal of the season. The hunting techniques vary greatly, some hobos flap their arms and squawk in a rough imitation, hoping to win the trust of the flock long enough to make a diving grab. Others use reed snorkels to sneak up from below and yank the choice duck under by the legs. I prefer to dress up as a giant brand muffin and flop about on the bank until an unfortunate fowl waddles over and attempts to sample me. On a personal note however, use this method only to catch ducks. Dressing up like a large frog and flopping into a flock of egrets may well cost you your life. With the birds come nats, great clouds of them. These particular nats are known as Nose Nats, and they seem to find nothing more pleasurable than speeding up the nostril of an unwary jogger. The sound of joggers blowing nats out of their noses is as much a part of spring in Merced as the muffled warble of the season’s first song bird being smothered to death under a used diaper on the trash lined banks of the creek. Close behind the birds and nats is the annual spawning run of the Bear Creek Glop Fish. Drawn to the horrid smell of the creek waters warming up in the sun, these detestable fish are a favorite food of buzzards due to their astoundingly foul taste and eye watering smell. On a warm spring day you can see great flocks of buzzards dive bombing the muddy bottom of the creek in search of this unique delicacy. All the buzzards in the water however pose a grave threat to the fishing hobos, particularly those using hollow reeds. From below the muddy water a buzzard looks an awful lot like a duck, but yanking a buzzard down by its feet is a terrible idea. Buzzards really hate that, and will think nothing of tearing off the offending appendage. Many a hobo ends the summer months minus a finger or eye.

Spring, in my humble opinion is the best time of the year. Lounging under the stars, roasting a scorched crane on an open fire, chasing hot tourist girls through the park wearing nothing but a thong made of cat hide. Ya just can’t beat that kind of living.

Care Not Cash

2005-04-04T17:25:00.000-07:00

A recent Bay Area ballot initiative has me worried, the plan is called, Care not Cash. It would seem that some bureaucratic asshole has decided that instead of just handing out tax payer dollars to the homeless, so that they can blow it all in a one night orgy of sex and booze. The money instead will be given in the form of housing and food etc. To the uninformed this may seem like a good plan…..WRONG!!!!!!!!............ As a homeless man I tell you that this plan is the worst idea ever!! And I will tell you why.

1: Homless people do not want housing, nor do we want hot meals and beds. The fact that we live in parks and eat out of garbage cans speaks for it’s self. Hell any old moron can go get a job and buy a house, but it takes strong will and cunning to survive in the urban jungle, and we homeless love this challenge, that’s why we live like we do.

Forcing the homeless off the streets and into shelters is like forcing the fierce Apache Indians to live on reservations as farmers, it’s wrong and cruel.

2: We homeless are a solitary breed, slinking about on the edge of humanity. Fiercely territorial we will fight to the death to insure our solidarity. By pushing the homeless off the streets and into small shelters, the tensions would build alarmingly. Simply put, you can’t stuff one hundred mountain lions into one cadge, the carnage would be awful. So to with the homeless, if we are forced to eat and sleep together, the consequences will be severe.

3: Stopping the cash flow to the homeless would force us to find other methods of income. Can recycling until now has been used only as a supplemental means of acquiring income, but with the cessation of all other funds, we homeless would be forced to ramp up our recycling efforts one hundred fold. Just imagine the chaos that would be caused by desperate homeless people running about, snatching half empty sodas out of people’s hands, and breaking into houses to rummage through cupboards looking for CA. redemption cracker boxes. And of course let us not forget panhandling. Until now, panhandling has been regarded among the homeless as more sport than a reliable source of booze money, we take great pleasure from standing in public places smelling like one of Andre the Giants sweat socks on a hot day. We revel in the looks of fear that pass across pretty faces as we stretch forth our foul hands for change. Much laughter is had at the expense of all those who go to hilarious lengths to avoid us.

But take away our primary income, force us to use panhandling as that primary source, and we will stop laughing. REMEMBER THIS ALL YOU URBANITES. We homeless are usually tanked out of our minds on wonder drugs like PCP, this gives us super human strength. We do not have to ask meekly for spare change, we do not have to cast our eyes down and mumble incoherently hoping for pity……oh no……we do not have to do this at all……………..WE COULD KILL YOU AND TAKE THE FUCKING CHANGE!!!!!

Never forget that.

The money that the federal government gives us every month is not aid, it is a bribe. It is pacification money, it is money paid so that we will continue living on the fringe of the civilized world, far from the clean houses and sunny faced little children. And trust me this is exactly where you would want us to be. However there are some who forget this, and they in their stupidity may doom you all.

I urge you all to write your Congress man, and VOTE NO on Care Not Cash!!

Just let us collect our damn money and we will leve you alone…………..

My Happy Easter

2005-03-29T19:25:00.000-08:00

My Happy Easter: By Cad Grublygold.

6:00Am. Woke at the crack of dawn and nursed my hangover by polishing off the last forty of Gila monster Beer.

7:00 Staggered to the park to collect hidden eggs for breakfast.

7:30 Found to my disgust that the eggs were plastic, tossed them into the creek, picked up my fishing rod and headed to the awning of the Denny’s out door patio to (catch) a school of pancakes that happened to swim by below.

9:00 Walked back to the park to watch the little kids look for all the nonexistent eggs. Immensely enjoyed all the crying.

10:00 Attended church at the Biker Church of the Wrathful God. Sat politely and watched the hundred plus biker gang church goers pray, then stood up and loudly proclaimed that Easter really was a Pagan holiday, and they were all fools to think it had anything to do with the resurrection of Christ.

10:30 Ran like hell.

11:00 Crawled out of the dumpster I was hiding in. Beat the snot out of, and robbed the Easter Bunny on his way to the mall to pass out candy.

12:00 Used the stolen money to buy copious amounts of alcohol. Hopped down Main Street in the Easter Bunny costume, reeking of whisky, chasing and hurling candy at terrified little children while yelling “ hey you fucking little shits!! Have some god dammed candy……Take it you basterds or I’ll gnaw your fucking little legs off!!!!!!!”

1:00pm. Evaded a mob of police and irate parents by hiding in a dog kennel.

1:15 Forgot to take bunny costume off and was ripped to shreds by a pack of hungry Rotwilers.

2:00 Crawled to the creek to pack mud in my many wounds, passed out from blood loss.

6:00 Woke up feeling somewhat better and returned to the Church for evening mass.

6:30. Repeated my above statements loudly, while making devil signs for emphasis.

6:35 Attempted to run like hell but hampered by my earlier run-in with dog pack, was captured and beat down like a little bitch.

9:00 Awoke in alley behind church, and limped groggily back to my bridge thankful that another Easter had come and gone.

Merced Veterans Park.

2005-03-23T17:33:00.000-08:00

The day was sunny, and I strolled along unmindful of where my feet traveled. The day dream was pleasant and the warming sun calmed my nerves and soothed my hangover.

All this was shattered however by a sudden loud explosion, and harsh words shouted full volume in Vietnamese. I recoiled in horror, I had inadvertently wandered into the Homeless Veterans Park, and I was on the wrong side of the lines. This unassuming park sits at the far end of town, avoided wisely by all but the poor insane masses of war vets who every day play out a human drama of chaos and death. The lines change daily as various park features such as the drinking fountain and bathrooms are hotly contested. I ducked a hail of dirt clods and snuffed out a homemade fuse before diving into the bushes to watch the current battle. A group of Vet Cong had just ambushed an aging party of WWII Veterans on their way to the battle of the Bulge being fought by the rest of the fogies from the Great War near an abandoned soda stand. The WWII boys were old, but gave back well in the struggle against the Cong. Fists flew and homade bangers went off willy nilly until the Cong leader looked to the heavens and screamed something about napalm, causing his motley command to dive for cover. The old WWII guys picked themselves up and headed off towards the far end of the park where, by the sound of things the Battle of the Bulge was really heating up for the fifth time that day. Off to my right, a group of crazy Marines were sneaking up the Bear Creek version of the Mekong Delta, intent on ambushing a small flock of ducks. While on my left a flag was raised amidst a heavy artillery barrage on the top of Mount Iwogima. ( Aka the roof of the girl’s bathroom)

This is how it goes in this sad little park, twenty four hours a day the lost vets of the great wars, driven insane by their past combat live out their never ending nightmares in heart wrenching scenarios. Having escaped capture by the Vet Cong, I crawled towards the creek to see how the D day invasion was going. The ancient Germans, clad in torn faded uniforms were raining rocks and chicken bones down on to the confused mass of old men in soggy tattered US Army fatigues who were trying to get organized for a mass charge up the hill. Crawling down the creek I managed to avoid two Jap patrols and one Drunken North Korean, but found that my way out was blocked. Cursing my bad luck I once again took refuge in a leafy bottle brush tree, and watched yet another fight in the endless hell on earth that is the Merced Veterans Park. The lone footbridge over Bear Creek was now renamed Arhnem Bridge and, was being held at all costs by a platoon of British paratroopers. Besides holding off the Germans however, they also blocked the path of a Russian battalion desperate to join the battle of Stalingrad, being fought twenty yards away underneath the monkey bars. The British held fast, but in the end lost out to sheer numbers after a small army of Japs, intent on invading the island of Baton, joined up with the German and Russian elements who were struggling to gain the far side of the creek.
Having lost the bridge, the British forces rushed off to join with the old Marines, who having gained the Normandy coast, were now racing towards the gazebo in the center of the park to invade Berlin. With the bridge temporarily forgotten I made a break for it, but did not get two steps before the bridge was blown by a Navy Frogman, attempting to deny access to Rommel and his Panzer division which consisted of a rusty wheelbarrow and a tricycle. I may well have ended up a prisoner like so many other lost joggers who stumble by accident into this eternal battle field. But luck was with me this day, and for the low price of a pack of cigarettes a destitute member of the French underground smuggled me across the creek on a reed boat, cleverly disguised under a stack of hay.

If you haven’t already guessed, this is another place in Merced to avoid at all costs. Unless you like being locked in a flea infested bamboo hut while a former Vet Cong officer suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder urinates on your festering rat bites while screaming at you to give away the American positions.

2005-03-23T17:31:00.000-08:00

Heavy rains turn G.st into a raging torrent. I am pictured here moments before being swept into a tree.

Monkey drama.

2005-03-22T15:22:00.000-08:00

Crap, I think the monkey is wining........no wait, he fell.........or more like I pushed him.......either way he's weasel chow. And I'm still up in a stupid tree.

Cad attempts to out clime a monkey.

2005-03-22T14:57:00.000-08:00

It’s currently raining so hard in Merced, that I have been washed out from under my bridge and into the top of a tree, along with three Grass weasels and a Monkey. It’s darn lucky I opted for the water proof model when I purchased my laptop. As of this moment the monkey and I are trying to out clime each other to stay above the ever hungry weasels. I’ll keep you posted as this riveting drama unfolds.

Places to Avoid in Merced.

2005-03-20T14:44:00.000-08:00

Merced is a small town, but it’s an important one, located on one of the two main highways into Yosemite, it sees huge numbers of tourists every year. Due to the extremely high casualty rate, I feel compelled to compose a list of places to avoid should you ever find you’re self there. ( In Merced that is, not Yosemite……pay attention )

Ahem…cough cough…PLACES TO AVOID IN MERCED!!!

The Gst. Bridge: This is where I live, and I hate visitors. Should you visit god help you. If I’m not drunk, I’m strung out on something. And if I’m not drunk or strung out then god really help you because that’s when I get mean.

The Mst. Bridge: This is where the Mimes live…..burrrr….gives me the willies it does. Matter of fact, it’s best to avoid all the bridges in Merced.

Bear Creek: Aside from being home to the feared Grass Weasel, the creek has become so polluted over the years that you could catch a virus just by looking at a photo of it. The creek is not hard to avoid, the smell attracts great flocks of buzzards that circle above as though it was a rotting moose carcass. The smell once got so bad during the summer months, that a pack of hyenas migrated all the way from Africa to get in on the action.

The Evil Place: Located off of Olive Ave on the eastern edge of town, this place is so scary, that you can only approach it while wearing a welding mask to block out the sight and prevent insanity. Over the years I have been building up my immunity to the place, and can now get to within a block of it with a bandana over my face.

The Wrong Side of the Tracks: Trust me you’ll know if you have crossed over. And my advice, cross back quickly. The wrong side is a fascinating look at the great melting pot that is America. See, over on the Wrong Side it goes like this. The Blacks hate the Mexicans, and the Asians hate everybody. The Mexicans hate the Asians, but not half as bad as they hate the Rednecks. The Rednecks don’t care for anybody, but would shoot a Black over a Mexican. Asians and Blacks like hunting Rednecks but only if there are no Mexicans around. Mexicans hide from the Rednecks they hate for fear of attracting the attention of the Asians who will hunt Mexicans for sport if the Rednecks are all off looking for the Blacks who are sneaking up behind the Mexicans who are hiding from the Rednecks Who are being stalked by Asians. ( are you with me so far?......good )

Asians don’t obey traffic signals as they are too short to see over the tops of their steering wheels. Blacks obey them and will shoot at anybody who does not. Rednecks want to obey them but are too drunk to do so and therefore tend to get shot at a lot. The Blacks though don’t stand a chance of hitting anything because the shitty old cars that the Mexicans drive produce so much smoke that seeing is not an option. Mexicans use their smoke screens to try to ram the Asians who are trying to spot the Rednecks who are drunkenly rear ending the Blacks who have stopped at the red lights to shoot in to the smoke clouds in the hopes of killing Rednecks.

So you see, the Wrong Side of the Tracks is a great place to steer clear of.

Really come to think of it, just stay the hell away from the whole bloody town. With the highest unemployment rate in the country, and a Bum to working man ratio of 15 to 1, the place should rank somewhere below Owl shit, and used Kleenex on your things to see list.

I'm a lying bitch.

2005-03-18T17:47:00.000-08:00

Friends I must apologize for my deception. I have posted pictures on this blog and claimed that they were of me, but this is untrue. The man in the photos is John Bosco, a former friend from days past. The likeness between us is rather striking, but we are unrelated. I thought nothing of claiming to be him, and would still think nothing of it. But just yesterday, John showed up out of friggin knowere and demanded that I set things right. I have stricken the disputed pictures from my blog, and as of this moment claim no knowledge of their ever having been posted.

If you wish to see photos of John B on the sets of various movies, you may access his blog at johnthenobody.blogspot.com John states on his blog that I helped him post his pictures for the sake of helping and old friend. This is false!! The dick head ambushed me under my bridge and made me do it at knife point. John is an egomaniac who thinks he's so cool because he works in Hollywood.

It's the begining of the end boys.

2005-03-16T22:37:00.000-08:00

I Cad Grublygold am not political, and I do not use this blog as a political forum, truth be told I do not favor any party, but believe firmly in the mob rule form of government. I think the party in power should be the party who can get the biggest pitchfork wielding mob together the fastest. With all that said however, once in a great wile I come across a story so extraordinarily stupid that I am forced to comment.

The other day, wile stuffing my hole riddled shoes with newspaper to guard against the recent cold snap, my gaze happened to fall upon a story so insane, so completely brainless as to shatter my thin faith in humanity.

Two years ago a twenty something peace activist from the U.S was over in Palestine protesting the Israeli occupation, in the course of her vigorous protests she sat down in front of a moving bulldozer. Now any sane person could tell you that this was not the smartest course of action, but she apparently was not aware that bulldozers are built mainly for the purpose of squishing stuff, and that pitted against a human they will almost always win. ( I say almost always, because just last week I stumbled drunkenly into the path of an oncoming bulldozer, and seconds from death my shirt was sucked into the intake manifold , causing the unfortunate machine to spontaneously combust.) But this is the exception not the rule and in the case of the girl, win it did. The driver, unaware that a small stupid object was in its path, lowered the blade and spread her moronic carcass across the ground like butter on toast. End of story right? Live and learn you stupid feeb? NO!!! OF COURSE NOT!!!! BECAUSE IN TODAYS FUCKED UP BACKWARDS SOCIETY, IT’S NEVER THE IDIOTS FAULT, ALWAYS SOMONE ELSES. The family of the girl is now suing the Israeli government, (as if they had anything to do with their daughter’s lack of brain power)
And if that was not stupid enough. Get this; the family is suing the Caterpillar tractor company for millions claiming that they sold the bulldozer to the Israelis for the sole purpose of squishing retarded American girls. The parents ranted in the article that their daughter was murdered, killed in cold blood, the thought that maybe their daughter had no right going to a forin country to protest the creation of an Israeli wall to stop the slaughter of its people never even entered their thick sculls. The fact that the only way a bulldozer can really stop is to hit something, and that lying in front of a moving one is mentally akin to kicking a pissed off lion in the genitals wile wearing an antelope costume seams to have escaped their attention.

Upon finishing the article I could only stand open mouthed. As the implications of what this lawsuit could do to society as a whole started to sink in I collapsed trembling on the ground. I may well have committed a messy suicide right then and there, but luckily the Barbiturates and Spanish Fly that I pounded down for breakfast kicked in, and I lapsed into a coma that I only just came out of. This world is doomed boys and girls. Make no mistake about that, we are witnessing the beginning of the end. And I say fuck it, let it end, I’m going back under my bridge with my blowup girlfriend and my amphetamines to wait for it.

Ten Reasons Why Bowties Are Better Than Bats.

2005-03-11T16:33:00.000-08:00

Recently the Chief of police in Merced got married; I of course was over looked when they sent out invitations. In fact the Chief has a restraining order against me. But despite this little inconvenience I was determined to pay my respects and attend. By cashing in assorted recyclables, and selling some supposed gold that I had supposedly mined from Bear Creek to some kids who were to dumb to know better, I managed to scrape together enough to rent a tux for the event. There was just one problem, my cash ran out before I could get a bowtie. Now a tux with out a bowtie is a huge fashion fux pas, so instead of a bowtie I used a bat. A sleeping bat looks an awful lot like a bowtie, but this proved to be a bad idea.

Ten Reasons Why Bowties Are Better Than Bats For Formal Occasions.

1: Bowties stay in one place. Bats are rather fidgety. A bow tie will not crabby crawl across the front of your shirt while you are talking to the Mayors wife.

2: Other bats are not attracted to bowties. Bad news having a love sick bat swooping around your head trying to have its way with your bowtie during the ceremony.

3: Bowties are silent. Bats tend to squeak at just the wrong moments…….

…….Do you Mary….( screeek) ………take Chief …..( Sreeeeeee!!!!!!!) To be your lawfully wedded……( skrrrrrrrik?) ……….(heads turn to look at you)

4: Bowties do not mistake black olives for June bugs and snap them up off other people’s plates.

5: Bowties are not known to carry rabies.

6: Bowties are not opposed to bright lights, a bowtie will not make a sudden dive for the comforting darkness of Mrs. Blum’s ample cleavage.

7: Cologne will not cause a bowtie to break out into violent sneezing fits. You may not think that a bat could sneeze very loudly, but trust me during that moment of dead silence following the “If there is any reason why these two should not be wed” line, a bat sneeze is deafening.

8: White doves, and bats are mortal enemies, I never knew this until a flock of doves were released as the bride and groom kissed. My bowtie bat launched it’s self from my shirt front, and into the dove flock like a black missile. The resulting carnage left three dead doves, and the shocked bride blood spattered.

9: You do not have to pay a huge fine for wearing a bowtie with out a permit.

10: Wearing a bowtie to a wedding does not usually result in you being sent to prison by a furious Police Chief.

Lost Lambs of God.

2005-03-08T18:30:00.000-08:00

While sitting under my bridge the other day, I heard the sound of someone approaching. Cautiously I peered out and beheld two nervous youths fidgeting out side my chiuawa skin door flap. I glowered at them threateningly, unhappy at being exposed to direct sunlight with a hangover. Before I could unclip the chain on the large half crazed attack raccoon which I keep for just such purposes however one of the youths shoved a pamphlet into my hand and the pair of them retreated hurriedly. The anguished howls of my raccoon adding much swiftness to their flight. Scratching my head, I pulled back into the comfortable gloom to see what they had given me. It was a religious something or other, blah blah Christ loves the lambs of the Arc who doth make bread out of fish blah de blah. I was about to thrust the pamphlet under my raccoon’s nose in the hopes of giving him the boys sent so he could track them down and gnaw them to shreds, when something caught my eye. A dinner for the lost lambs of god at the Holy Church of the Christ on a Crutch or something…. A free dinner! That I wouldn’t pass up.

I arrived that evening to find the other lost lambs milling around in the church parking lot with hungry looks in their eyes. The Mimes of M. Street were there, as was my old partner at the bank, Jeb. As well as numerous other down an outers. At 7:00 just as straws were being drawn to find out who would be sacrificed as an appetizer, the door opened and a grandly dressed priest bade us enter. I don’t know what the priest was expecting, standing in the door like that, squarely in front of a hungry hobo pack and the promise of food, but to my thinking, the foot prints on his face were well deserved out of shear stupidity. The mob surged into the church, but found only empty tables. As one we turned to stare at the now disheveled priest, and he hurried to calm the masses. “Gently my good lambs, gently” he soothed. “Before the hungry Israelites feasted upon the bread that Jesus did bestow, they first listened to him speak upon the mount.” “Yeah” said a voice in the back, “and look what he got for speaking so damn long to a hungry crowd.” Grudgingly though we took our seats and faced front. The voice of the priest dragged on like a bland muddy river in the large emptiness of the church, the priest gamely raising his voice above the noise of a hundred growling stomachs. A hundred heads nodded forward in boredom, the mood growing uglier by the minuet. (STEAK!!!!! ) screamed the priest!! One hundred heads jerked up! “Steak” the priest continued “was called fish and stale bread in the day of our lord Jesus, so be you thankful for all his little blessings. You know not how good you have it.” Well that was just plain old stupid of the priest. Up until then he might have gone unharmed, but that last remark cooked his Godly goose, yess sir. The place erupted in a riot. Better than one hundred hobos proceeded to tear about, looking for the promised feast, the priest was violently defrocked, his pleas going unnoticed by his lord, the candles by the alter were devoured by the mob. A cadge containing white doves was literally shredded and consumed wire mesh and all. Finally a large bushy hobo tore down a door and we beheld a rather sorry array of second hand food, from wilted vegetables to watery soup. Guarded by a pair of aging nuns. At this point however the rabid pack was beyond caring, the nuns upon seeing our most unholy faces fled sobbing into the night, and soon the sorry repast was inhaled down to the last mushy beet.

It is my sincerest hope. That the lessons taught at this Sunday dinner are heeded by the Church in the future to prevent similar scenes of chaos. For I hold no animosity towards those in the lords service, and no priest should be stripped naked, hung upside-down from his crucifix, and have a pack of hungry Mimes pantomime the shower scene from American History X upon his naked buttocks, while one hundred smelly hobos poke fun at his small manhood. It just isn’t genteel behavior. Live and learn Lamb of God………..

The tower is fixed.

2005-03-04T00:38:00.000-08:00

I do believe that I finally figured out what was wrong with my internet receiving tower, as I have stated before, a beaver gnawed down my hundred foot tower thinking it was a tree. Then upon seeing his mistake attempted to fix it, but as is the case so often the attempted repair ends up causing more damage than the original mistake. It’s been driving me crazy trying to figure out what all he did, but then last night I am almost certain I found the problem!! That wacky beaver connected the transmodular wire to the jiggy bong transceiver, then he molded the fragg blasticator voomping device to the nit port. It was an honest mistake really, once I found the problem it was a simple matter to re ply the dingy blat cable to the spaggnump box, and tune the wigg dish to pick up my internet signal and relay it to my bridge.

Now though with my tower up and running, I no longer need to detonate the massive bomb that I found while gold mining in Bear Creek. So I am left with the question of what to do with it. At the moment it is sitting beside my bridge with a sign hung on it that reads, “This is not a huge bomb”. That way no one will get suspicious. But truth be told I would rather not live next to it. As well as being a pain to live around, the bomb has also become a security risk, word somehow leaked out that I had a giant bomb, and now it keeps getting stolen by the different warring hobo factions that live along Bear Creek. As much as I don’t like living with it, I still sleep better knowing I have it rather than someone else, like the homeless Mimes of M Street for instance. They stole it one night, and pantomimed blowing it up in a crowed shopping mall, it was a horrible sight to see, but as soon as they all were mimicking being blown to bits, I managed to steal my bomb back and return it to my bridge at G Street. Another night a crack addict speed freak got hold of it, and attempted to rob a Seven Eleven with it. Using a large dolly, he dragged it into the store and threatened to whack it with a hammer if the clerk did not hand over all the money. So you can see what a problem the stupid thing is, I suppose I could just rebury it, but I’m still thinking I may find a use for it. For now I guess I’ll just prop it up against my bridge and paint beady eyes and a frown on it to scare potential thieves away.

2005-03-04T00:28:00.000-08:00

I thought it would be funny if I turned a detour arrow around to point off my bridge, seeing if anyone would fall for it......ooop.....my bad.

2005-03-02T22:04:00.000-08:00

Cad has a bad day

2005-03-02T20:38:00.000-08:00

An unwary newt is snagged by a bridge dweller.

2005-03-02T19:28:00.000-08:00

Cad freshens up with a toothbrush newt.

2005-03-01T19:31:00.000-08:00

Cad's Map Of Merced

Yet another week in review

2005-03-01T19:19:00.000-08:00

Yet another week in review.

Good day all, my internet is still giving me problems, ever since that giant beaver gnawed down my receiving tower. I am however working on plans to send my own satellite into space which would provide for all my bloging needs, as well as serve as a dooms day weapon should I ever feel the need to use it. While grubbing for gold one day, I came across a large bomb. Most likely lost from the near by Castle Air Force Base. By detonating this bomb, I should be able to easily send a home made internet receiver / laser killobeam in to the stratosphere. The problem though is that it is hard to make a hundred foot blast crater look like an accident. Not to mention all that down wind fallout stuff. I have been advertising my bomb in the local terrorism newspapers though, and hopefully I can entice a hidden terror cell to use my bomb to blow something or other up, and send my receiver into space at the same time. Until then though, here is yet another week in review.

I started an organization on Monday, called the North American Modern Bridge Living Association, or NAMBLA, then posted flyers all over town, for a getting to know you sleep over for all members under my bridge. I was at the time not aware that there is another Association with that same name, The North American Man Boy Love Association………..yeah……it was bad……..Half the people who showed up that night were Man Boy Love members, the other half came armed with torches pitchforks and shotguns. The National Guard eventually got things under control, but three Man Boy Love supporters were killed, and one small Boyish looking Guardsman was anally violated in the melee. I am once again lying low, leaving my bridge only in the black of night wearing funny nose glasses to hide my identity until things settle down.

As if the NAMBLA fiasco was not enough, While making shadow puppets with my hands under a street light one night. I inadvertently insulted the local deaf biker gang. Who new that making a shadow dog urinate, spells out “Hey you deaf gay wad, last night I rode your mom like a Harley” in sign language. I escaped by hiding in a wind chime display out side the Home Depot. Lucky for me they were deaf………see……because wind chimes are all noisy an stuff………….

The Nike commercial a few years ago was spot on. Joggers really do hate it when you run behind them with a boom box blasting the song Eye of the Tiger. In the commercial however, the guy only gets pushed to the ground, then helped back up. This is not in keeping with reality. The reality is that you’ll wind up sitting in a creek wearing your boom box on your head like a sombrero.

In honor of the upcoming Star Wars movie, a blanket and a welding mask makes a passable Bobafett costume. However, he must have had some trick for seeing through his dark faceplate. Because I couldn’t see jack when I dodged into traffic on my land speeder

( mountain bike )…………I wonder if Bobafett ever caused an accident by zooming into traffic on his speeder?......... I wonder if that large irate driver who swerved to avoid me and hit the light pole could recognize me without my costume on…………..

A Booby really is a type of bird, and I really did see one in Bear Creek the other day while walking with the local bird watchers club. It was just bad luck I guess that right as I spotted one, a large breasted girl and her bulldog boyfriend stepped out from behind a tree and passed in front of it. I must have looked awfully rude staring through my binoculars, pointing and shouting HEY!!!! I SEE A BOOBY…….. HEY GUYS A BOOBY……. NO WAIT…..TWO!! I SEE TWO BOOBYS!! DAMN WHAT A PAIR OF BOOBYS THEY ARE!!! It was nice of the bird club president to step up and try to explain the matter…….. in my opinion he so didn’t deserve to have his field guide shoved up his nose.

Porcupines for the Blind

2005-02-26T20:29:00.000-08:00

Though woefully short on funds I have never the less decided to go a head with my foundation, Guide Porcupines for the Blind. This pet project is just my little way of giving back to a community that has given me so much kindness, and spare change now an then. Initial testing shows promise, however there are still issues to work out. On the up side, porcupines are rather easygoing by nature, but they tend to have a comfort zone which they don’t like to have violated by groping hands. As well the porcupines in my foundation have been violently and criminally abused, and there for tend to be a tad on the edgy side, this is not an obstacle though; it only means that their new blind masters will just have to love them that much more. Field tests are also showing promise as far as using the porcupines as guides on the street. None the less, here too there are one or two sticky points to work out. The main one is that porcupines are tree dwellers, and there for have a tendency to lead their blind masters into the tops of trees. This obviously is not ideal. The fire men have been awful patient in getting my test subjects down, and I am currently experimenting with electroshock therapy to try to motivate my porcupines to remain on the ground. Also porcupines are solitary creatchers, and tend to wig out now and then in public areas like a crowded shopping mall for example. The area which shows the most promise is in the around the house protection duties. Let us imagine that a blind person is about to grab a hot object like a curling iron, the porcupine will sense the danger, move the hot object out of the way, then curl up in its place, so in stead of getting burned, and having lasting scars, the blind simply grab a hand full of porcupine and get a sharp reminder to be more careful in the future. This also works for house pets that are in danger of being trod on by a blind bare foot. The porcupine will once again move the pet and dutifully take its place. By giving the blind these painful but important cues, they learn to think long and hard before they make a move, which is a good thing if you can’t see. I learned also that matching the right porcupine with the right owner is tantamount to ensuring a good relationship. This lesson was learned in the early days of my foundation when I matched little blind Billy with a rather frazzled old porker who had had a hard go of it in his life. I’m sure Billy meant him no harm, but I guess porcupines really hate having their ears pulled by a little blind kid. The doctors expect Billy to recover though, and he has undoubtedly learned a good life lesson about the feelings of woodland animals. It is stories like this and the magic of watching the exiting learning process that all new applicants undergo that makes it all worth the effort. The blind and the porcupine working towards a better tomorrow hand in hand.

A week in review

2005-02-24T00:35:00.000-08:00

To all the readers of my blog, I Cad Grublygold must deeply apologize for the lack of posting lately. My internet connection has been on the fritz as of late. It seems that a rare Bear Creek beaver mistook my hundred foot receiving tower made from tinfoil and clothes hangers for a large tree, and gnawed it down. Upon realizing his mistake he attempted to fix it, but he couldn’t complete the wiring, but hey after all he is only a beaver, and he tried his best. But worry not about missing anything due to this problem, for I have prepared a week in review.

The rain has yet to let up, having run out of sand bags I’ve resorted to stacking all the drowned children that come floating by like cord wood to protect my seedy underworld from flood damage. The poor little children are just such suckers for a muddy creek bank.

My attempt to tunnel under Taco Bell has failed, I was not aware at the time that high tension wires can be buried. I thought they were always run above ground. My hair is growing back nicely however, and PG&E is certain that the power will be fully restored to most of the city by tomorrow.

Sponges are not effective for plugging leaks in a sand bag wall, if you had enough maybe, but you’d need more than a family pack from Costco, trust me on this one.

I was informed last Monday, that there is a city ordinance in Merced prohibiting someone from dressing up like a giant lobster and scuttling towards people aggressively out side the local Long John Silvers resurant. I was not aware of this, but a delegation from the mayor’s office visited me at the sheriff’s station and assured me that it is so.

I finally struck it rich while digging for gold in the local park, I found a gold nugget! It was roundish with a large hole in the middle. The local jewelry store owner however attempted to tell me it was most likely from a box of Cracker Jacks, not a nugget at all, but a cheap plastic ring!! He lies, I bet he could hardly contain his greed as he examined it; he even tossed it into the trash can beside the counter, no doubt hoping to fool me into giving it up HA!! Not likely shop keep, I have taken to walking backwards around town incase he tries to follow me to see where I dug it up. It’s kinda hard to follow someone who is walking backwards. You would have to stay in front of them, but then you wouldn’t know where they were going.

My non profit organization: Guide Porcupines For The Blind has hit a snag; I am having trouble collecting donations, no doubt due to all the publicity being given to the tsunami efforts. Hopefully once the situation in South Asia settles down abit, I can launch my program that partners criminally abused porcupines with loving blind owners who are in need of companionship. As this will no doubt be a howling success, I plan also to expand my foundation to include retarded children and sexually abused stingrays.

I shall continue my efforts towards reestablishing internet access, but in the meantime just be patient, and I will continue to post sporadically, when ever I can fool someone into leaving their computer by making crow caw noises in the next room, giving me time to publish my posts.

The G street Arc

2005-02-24T00:31:00.000-08:00

I Cad Grublygold am sick an tired of rain, the water in Bear Creek has been rising daily. Only by mad sandbagging have I managed to save my seedy underworld deep under G street. The other day, I began construction on a great Arc, placing onto it every rodent and stray house pet I could find. ( Grass Weasels are not allowed on my Arc.) Noah however must have had divine help in keeping his animals at peace with one another, because my Arc is one of most heinous discord. I lost most of my animals to squabbling and preditation within the first day. The raccoons ate all the newts, the skunks ate anything resembling an egg, and my stray dingo ate most everything else, including my left shoe. So then it was pretty much just a great Arc with the skunks slouching against one side, eyeing the dingo with hungry eyes, and the dingo in turn was giving the beady eyes to the surviving raccoons who were pacing nervously clenching and un clenching their tinny fists in anticipation of trouble. Then of course there was the tough stray cat Muffin who leered at me through his one squinty eye, and toyed menacingly with the big knife he wore strapped between his shoulder blades. Things would no doubt have spiraled horribly out of control, but a local jogger noticed the unrest, and notified the local animal control. The round up went peaceful enough, until one of the poor fools reached out to grab Muffins by the scruff of the neck, I’ll spare you the gory details, so let’s just say that some were around here is a really tough cat wearing a necklace made from human ears. So with my Arc a total bust, I’m back to simply trying to stay ahead of the rising water.

The Raccoon Insanity Experiment.

2005-02-17T19:28:00.000-08:00

While sitting beside the creek one night, my attention was drawn to a small raccoon. The creature wattled down to the water and began happily washing his nights scrounging with great relish. Ever curious, I had an idea. What would happen if a raccoon was unable to wash something? Would he starve? Would he go mad? I was determined to find out. Trapping a raccoon is easy if you’ve read Were The Red Fern Grows, if you haven’t, well you are out of luck. Once caught, I starved my little test subject for three days, all the wile teasing him by waving tasty treats under his nose. Then it was time for the experiment. I placed the raccoon in a large wooden box next to a recording of running water, just to irritate him. Then I placed into the box, the biggest juiciest apple you’ve ever seen. Now all that was left was to stand back and watch. The starving beast upon seeing the apple let out a squeak of pure joy. He snatched it in both hands, then made a dash for the sound of the water barreling head long into the side of the box. No doubt thinking he had made a misjudgment in the waters direction, he then spun about and repeated his head plant. This is when he first realized there may be a problem. Setting the apple warily down in the center of his enclosure he began to urgently run the perimeter of the box, all the wile casting longing glances back at his prize. Now fully aware of his predicament, he held the apple up to the sky as if begging the gods for rain. With no help forthcoming he began furiously rubbing the apple as if by will alone he could wash away its impurities. But after much rubbing along with frantic sniffing the thing was still sub par. 100,000,000 years of evolution proving too strong to over come. The rubbing was followed by other experiments, includeing urinating on it, and even attempting to wash it clean with his own anguished tears. Defeated at last the beast collapsed with a howl and lay shaking on the floor of his prison. It was now time for phase two. Upon awakening, the raccoon found that one side of his box was now open. A scream burst forth, and the maddened thing tore like a streak to the waters edge. But alas, I had removed the apple while he lay in his exhausted stupor. Finding his tinny fist empty at the waters edge he shrieked and beat the ground. Tearing back to the box, he found the apple waiting for him, as plump and juicy as ever. With his most precious cargo in hand he again launched like a streak for the stream, but oops the once open box side was now closed. The raccoon was aghast, stupefied, the sound that burst forth from deep down in his soul was that of a thousand demons from hell, the scream of ten thousand fathers viewing the butchered bodies of their ten thousand children. In one last ditch effort the raccoon smashed the apple into his face repeatedly until he had rendered himself senseless. Over come with pity I gently placed the poor wasted varmit at the waters edge, hoping he could recover from his torture with no lasting scars. The apple having been beaten into an inedible pulp I discarded into the creek were it soon sank below the water.

If I had had another apple I swear I’d have given it to him, I did feel bad….honest I did. But I was fresh out of apples, and this proved tragic. Finally as if from deep sleep the raccoon awoke. For a brief moment he seemed to be of sound mind. But sadly this was not so. He rose from the ground. and sauntered into the water, I could have sworn he was smiling. Slowly he washed himself, scrubbing all his hard to reach places. Then after a satisfactory sniff, he proceeded to eat himself, tail upwards until with the last of his strength he dislocated his jaws, and stuffed his head in.

This experiment has left me slightly unnerved. I wouldn’t recommend it for school age children.

2005-02-16T21:57:00.000-08:00

THIS HISTORICAL COLLEGE WAS BURNED DOWN BY AN UNRULY MOB IN 1910: THE GUBLYGOLD HISTORICAL INSTITUTE.

2005-02-16T21:45:00.000-08:00

TOMB OF THE UNKNOWN JOGGERS 1908: GRUBLYGOLD HISTORICAL INSTITUTE

2005-02-16T21:37:00.000-08:00

A wary bridge dweller digs for newts

Just one in a long line

2005-02-16T21:24:00.000-08:00

Through many failures I have ended up destitute, most notable of my failures was signing all of my worldly assets over to my *@%*# ex wife Ophelia to avoid a tax mishap…….yeah……oops. But my character misjudgment far pales in comparison to those of my other relatives through out the ages. Dwelling under bridges you see, has been the fate of most Grublygolds since great great great great great great grate great great great grand pappy Akutanon Grublygold ended up living under the Great Nile reed bridge for laughing at the Pharaohs silly beard. So here is a brief list of others whose fame slipped just beyond their reach.

Lord Snootyfop Grublygold. Lord of the king’s guards, head butted King Henry the VIII in the crotch with his pointy helmet while attempting to retrieve Ann Bolin’s dropped glove.

Casius Grublygold. Insisted that the Trojan Horse would make a fine substitute for his broken lawn gnome.

Judas Grublygold. Ratted on Jesus.

Braithwaite Grublygold. Mistuned Mozart’s piano, causing him to write the entire 5^th symphony incorrectly.

Guido Grublygold. Emperors Adviser. Spitty sprayed a flagon of wine on Caesar’s new robes upon hearing of the capture of the city of Titicaca. ( Spffffffffffft.)

Zapata Grublygold. Sold water damage insurance on the island of Atlantis.

Bosco Grublygold. Made up the song, London Bridge is Falling Down. Then taught it to all the school children in England. ( actually upon hearing of this fiendish act, the King had him beheaded, disemboweled, burned at the stake, then sent to live under a bridge.)

Enrique Grublygold. Commodore of the Spanish Armada. Forgot to bring canon balls along for the big attack on England.

Rutigar Grublygold. Ran General Washington’s under garments up the flag pole at Valley Forge to lighten the mood during the winter of starvation.

So you see, there is no shame in falling off he horse as long as you get back on.

Random Questions For Grublygold

2005-02-14T18:53:00.000-08:00

Random Questions for Grublygold.

Q: Where do you live ?

A: Under a @#*%* bridge

Q: You smell like a rotting Yak, don’t you wash off in the creek now and then ?

A: Yes, every day, but have you smelled the creek lately. Rotting Yak is an improvement.

Q: Do you have a girl friend ?

A: Just what do you think you stupid @#*&**^#*&@ son of a motherless #@*!!!

Q: So that’s a no ?

A: Yeah, that’s a big negitory.

Q: Don’t you look for work ?

A: Hah, you go bathe every day in a swamp filled with dog urine and cow crap then see if anyone wants to hire you.

Q: If all the monkeys in the world sat on each others shoulders, would they be taller than Everest ?

A: Is this what you academic types think about all day ? No wonder this world is so fucked. And yes, they most definitely would be.

Q: What do you have in your pockets ?

A: Errr……..an old gum wrapper, a doll leg, five cents and three newts…….no wait one newt, this big guy ate the other two.

Q: If I make this face..( bletharrrthrpt ) do I look like the clown from It ?

A: Christ asshole!! Would you please never do that again.

Q: Sorry, um… if it meant that you could sleep with Hillary Duff for a year, would you give up alcohol for Lent ?

A: Nope.

Q: Oh come on, are you serious?

A: Hey pal I’ll let you in on a little secret. Drink enough alcohol, and all girls will look like Hillary Duff.

Q: No kiddin, even my girlfriend over there?

A: Over wh…Yipe!! Sorry dude, drinking ain’t gonna cure that type of ugly, I’d kiss a baboon on the ass before I’d try drinking that one pretty……….umm she’s behind me isn’t she………

Due to injury the segment, Random questions for Grublygold was cut short.

Authors Note.

2005-02-13T20:13:00.000-08:00

All pictures posted by Cad Grublygold are the genuine article, taken around the Bear Creek area by Cad himself, using a homemade pinhole box camera. Cad never uses cheap photo editing software to make enhancements……. snort….. All said photos are then hand processed in a fabricated dark room made from animal skins and laundry lint. After the pictures are developed, they are downloaded from the camera to this lap top by printing the coded pictures on gumwraper foil, then stuffing the foil into the import slot.

This super advanced technology was offered by this writer to the manager of the local Best Buy. But he was told that his technique was out dated by about ten gazillion years….his loss.

2005-02-13T19:36:00.000-08:00

Yet another picnic outing ends in tragedy

2005-02-13T19:34:00.000-08:00

Bug off Cads Bridge

The Girl Decoys.

2005-02-13T19:07:00.000-08:00

The other day while dumpster diving, I came across an issue of Field and Stream. That I found an old magazine is unremarkable, but leafing through it gave me an idea. It seems that you can take a bunch of wooden ducks, paint them up, then toss them into a pond and they would attract the real thing. Huh…..how bout that….Wonder if it would work on women. I live under a bridge you see, and amazingly that is not considered sexy. Nor is the fact that I reek of alcohol…… so much for women wanting rugged out door bad boy types. But despite my obvious short falls, I was sure that if I could just get close enough to a woman, she would see me for the gentle soul that I am, and fall instantly under my spell. So it was that I decided to go hunting. Cashing in my aluminum cans, I took the money and headed down to Stan’s Love Boutique, and purchased a half dozen inflatable dolls. My plan was fool proof! I would take my ( girlfriends) to the local park, then arrange them in such a way as if to look like we were having a merry picnic, when a hottie babe came walking by, she upon seeing the gaiety would be compelled to join in, soon I would attract a flock and could simply take my pick. With my trap set beside a busy bike path, I began to talk in a loud boisterous tone, happily pretending to pass various nonexistent dishes back and forth between my gaily clad decoys, now and then using a high squeaky voice for my girls. And when ever someone came with in ear shot, I would loudly boast of my many exploits. “Why yes Janet, I have climbed Everest, twice actually. One time it got so cold I cut open my Sherpa and crawled inside him to stay alive. More crumpets Sally? “What’s that Suzie? Vegas, heck I own it, yup bought it off a crazy miner back in 82. Pass the yogurt Kate. “You’re damn right Becky, I forced that lion to regurgitate my leg, and I beat him to death with it before using his whiskers to sew it back on”. After an hour and a half of this and three location changes, (the local cops began to take an unhealthy interest in my proceedings) I was beginning to despair. And then I saw her. Like a ground squirrel caught in the gaze of a snake she drew closer, captured by her curiosity. Oh she was a lovely creature, willowy and shy, the very image of Venus her self. And just how close she might have come I’ll never know, for as she drifted ever closer, I became more animated in my story of how I killed those man eating baboons in the African jungle. And alas while executing a fierce saber thrust, Sally was poked in the eye with my fruit fork. The ruptured decoy let out a loud Thhhhppppthhh sound and shot up into the air, upon seeing this grizzly turn of events, the willowy girl came to her senses and bolted, I leapt up to give chase, but in my haste I stepped on Becky’s leg, causing her head to spring upright, her hard plastic sucking orifice connecting squarely with my genitals.

Under my dark musty bridge I lay in agony. Saddened by my lost love, dreaming as to what might have been. Becky however was apologetic for ruining my chances, and Sally having been re glued was on the road to a full recovery……… It was Becky who came to my bed that night, quietly slipping under the covers, talking to me in her high squeaky voice, in the dark; vinyl coating turned to warm skin, and our bodies became as one.

2005-02-12T20:30:00.000-08:00

HOME SWEET HOME

2005-02-12T20:21:00.000-08:00

Here be weasels

2005-02-12T20:19:00.000-08:00

Home sweet home

Things I found in Bear Creek

2005-02-09T20:54:00.000-08:00

Things I found in Bear Creek. An alphabetical list.

An old tin of Ajax, works well as deodorant, if you don’t mind the burning.

A fishing Boot with the toe bitten off. ( we have big fish in Bear Creek.)

A large Cod fish, with the toe of a fishing boot clamped in its teeth. ( this must have been quite a fight)………yeah yeah, I know that Cod only live in the ocean. I can’t explain it either.

Dilbert underwear, preworn.

A Styrofoam bowl filled with old Egg salad. ( I think it was egg salad, it tasted like it )

A Flute, shoved up the rectal cavity of a skeleton…… I’m not even going to guess on this one.

A stale bag of Gorp.

An old well used issue of Hotties For Hobos. The magazine that depicts nasty crack whores in compromising positions.

An Indigo Girls CD case with the CD missing………..damit……..

A car Jack, with some poor bastard still pinned under the car it was holding up, until it slipped I guess.

A bag of Kittens, lying at the bottom of the creek with a brick tied to one end. ( And you believed mommy when she said she was giving them away to happy homes filled with kids who would love them forever. )

A smelly Lump, unidentifiable, it may once have been a rodent of some sort.

Mittens….. at least that’s what the collar around its neck said. ( Dear Johnny from # 12 Olive street……your cat was delicious thank you.

A battered copy of Ninjas are watching you! Written by Hinsatogiichkaaah Hiiiikeeeyado

A dirty Oaf, sleeping until I made the mistake of poking him with a stick.

A Pin, now lodged deeply in my right buttock.

Quinn the Eskimo, ( he got lost on his way back from the wale hunt I guess…..now was it a left or a right at that last walrus carcass…….damn this infernal arctic, it all looks the same. )

A big loud Rumpus, it sounded like a Monkey, and a Weasel fighting it out in a Mulberry bush.

A Strumpet. I chased said Strumpet down the street, until she lost me in the vastness of the local Wall Mart.

A healthy dose of Tetanus from the pin I sat on.

A Unicycle. I’ll never know if it was a product defect, or the fifty shots of Yeager I consumed that caused me to face plant 100 times in a row, but I tossed the blasted thing back in the creek.

A family sized case of Valium, mixes well with Yeager, and unicycle riding.

Wanda the Heroin crazed crack whore, aka, Ms. March in the new issue of Hotties For Hobos.

A battered paper back, titled No we’re Not, Please Go Back To Drinking Your Chi Tea And Quit Looking Up At The Roof Tops. Written by Xiangiiodagithciidi Yingalingeeyarg

Yogurt…….actually at this point it’s closer to cheese, but for the sake of my list I’ll call it yogurt.

A Zygote…….I forget what the hell a zygote is……but I found one, honest I did.

An interview with the Merced Sun Star

2005-02-05T20:00:00.000-08:00

This interview was conducted by a reporter from the Merced Sun Star, the local paper in Merced, CA. Who came out to my bridge to lay this story to rest once and for all. And maybe stop the 100 frantic phone calls a day I have been making to there home office.

If you are a faithful reader of my blog, you have no doubt heard mention of this beast. The purpose of this post is to shed further light on this subject. Here is the interview, and the answers, as best I can give them.

Sun Star: So just what the hell is a Grass Weasel ?

Cad G: A Grass Weasel is a large rodent of the weasel family, but possessing many highly evolved traits.

Sun Star: Where do they live ?

Cad. G The historical extent of their range may never be known. As of this interview, they inhabit only a five mile 200 yard wide stretch of Bear Creek in Merced California.

Sun Star: Why have I never heard of them ?

Cad. G: Due to their astoundingly small range, Between G. and R. streets in Merced, and diminished numbers, there is little chance of ever seeing one. Until you are eye gouged and disemboweled by one of course.

Sun Star: How many are there ?

Cad. G Thousands.

Sun Star: How is this possible ?

Cad. G They can imitate mundane objects, like highway cones, and discarded shopping carts.

Sun Star: How big are they ?

Cad. G About 70 pounds of fang and muscle, and two and one half feet tall at the shoulder.

Sun Star: How can a two an a half foot tall rodent drag down and kill a healthy Adult ?

Cad. G: Don’t ask me, smart ass, why don’t you go tease one and find out.

Sun Star: Why are there no studies done on them.

Cad. G Studying this thing in the field would be ludicrously dangerous; I’d rather swim up an Alaskan stream and study Grizzly bears in a salmon costume. To my credit though, I did attempt to study them once.

Sun Star: What happened ?

Cad. G A Grass Weasel ate my pens paper and field glasses while my back was turned.

Sun Star. So have you ever seen one ?

Cad. G; A Grizzly Bear ?

Sun Star: No ( sigh ) a Grass Weasel, have you ever seen one of those.

Cad. G Yesss…….maybe….look I saw something ok, I’ll admit I may have been slightly drunk at the time, but it sure as hell looked like a Grass Weasel.

Sun Star: So Who died and made you the expert on something you claim to have only seen once in a drunken stupor ?

Cad. G Hey fuck you man! I saw it ok jackass, they are real. A secret society dressed as shrubs and rubbish bins drag off the bodies of weasel victims every night.

Sun Star: Soooo Mr. Grublygold, how many years did you spend locked up at Happy Valley ? Do you see anything else around here, Pink kangaroos, that sort of thing ?

Cad. G Fuck you asshole. Just go take a big flying porcupine fuck off this here bridge you dick head, this interview is over.

A Bear Creek conspiracy.

2005-02-04T19:07:00.000-08:00

They came back last night. The ones who disguise them selves as shrubs and rubbish bins. Slinking from the shadows they make their stealthy way to the edge of the wooded path where the body is lying. Another late night jogger had been brutally struck down hours before. His frantic screams for help rending the twilight calm of Bear Creek. Sadly no one was around to hear them, except me. And I would not give my aid, for I knew from the first whimper of fear that he was beyond all help. “ Yes fool, cry out to your god if it gives you solace” It’s doubtful that even God could have saved him from the menace that stalks these creek banks. For dear jogger, you have been snagged by a Great Crested Grass Weasel. 70 pounds of bone crushing fangyness and rippling muscle. It is the great weasel whom the cammo shrubs protect. Driven by environmental protectiveness, it is they who remove the bodies night after night, wiping the weasel spittle from their faces, and dumping them far away as John Doe corpses. It is only I who seek to warn of these great beasts. Though more often than not the signs I nail to trees vanish in the dark of night. I would not be surprised to find that it is the weasels themselves who remove them to protect their own evil identities. So on it goes, the three shrubs and a waste bin have finished their work this night, dragging the body of the slain jogger behind them as they move silently around the bend. Peace returns to my little bridge world beneath G street. A wind springs up, and one brave cricket sings his troubles to the night in a monotonous soprano.

A day in the life under the bridge.

2005-02-02T15:00:00.000-08:00

People tend to think that just because I live under a bridge, I must be lazy. but not so, this is my typical day.

6:00 Traffic noise on the bridge above becomes to loud to permit further sleep.

6:30 unable to fall back asleep after half an hour of sticking my fingers in my ears, and squeezing my eyes shut aginst the morning sun beam that stays directly in my face despite fierce thrashing, I roll from my ratty blanket and scrach flea bites for an hour.

7:30 Go in serch of a newt with wich to brush my teeth.

8:00 Make my morning bath in Bear Creek more interesting, by shouting " glub glub I'm drowning" to see how menny passing joggers I can fool into jumping in after me.

9:00 Go out in search of breakfast.

9:30 Cook and eat unidentifiable remains of some rodent to slow to make it safely across the highway.

10:30 Grab a hammer and nails, and post ( Beware of Great Crested Grass Weasel ) signs in the local park until noon.

12:00 Fish for lunch from the roof of Pablo's Out Door Buffet.

1:00 Stick leaves and twiggs in my hair, and loudly reenact my favorite senes from Shakespears Mid Summer Nights Dream, at the corner of G.st and Olive Ave.

3:00 Evade and escape from the bad men in the white uniforms who are trying to catch me with an oversized butterfly net.

Get roaring drunk on the bottle of Schnapps I found in the bushes wile hiding from the bad men.

5:00 Stagger down main street swatting girls on their bottoms with a Badminton racquet.

6:00 Evade and escape from the bad me who are trying to put me in handcuffs.

8:00 Crawl back under my bridge to sleep it off.

So there you have it, I cannot be called lazy. Highly unproductive mabey, but not lazy.

A gold mining poem........... sort of.

2005-02-01T20:14:00.000-08:00

This day started out with so much promise, but ended in almost total disaster. Rehashing the days events would be to hard on my damaged psyche, so I have summed it up in a short poem.

Up in tree, mouth agape with wonder.
Hair on fire clothes asunder.
Moments before digging gold was he.
With hands and pick marrily.
Long buried pipe did crack
Due to over eager shovel wack.
Out flows gass with quiet hiss.
Gold fever struck miner thinks nought's amiss.
If left alone much gold he might get.
To bad he lit a cigarette.

10 Reasons why Tooth brushes are better than newts for brushing your theeth

2005-01-31T16:56:00.000-08:00

Cad Grublygold the VVVVXXXXIIIXXXIIIIVVVVVXXIII will answer the burning question every homeless bridge dweller has asked, which is better for brushing your teeth, Newts, or tooth brushes. I have found after much trial and error that tooth brushes are indeed better, and have compiled a list to prove it.

10 reasons why tooth brushes are better than Newts .

1: Tooth brushes have bristles, newts do not. Tooth brush bristles don't try to bite your tongue.

2: Tooth brushes have rigid handles, newts are floppy.

3: Tooth brushes do not turn your tongue purple.

4: Tooth brushes leve your mouth fresh, newts leve your mouth smelling like newt, a favorite food of racoons. ( Ever been french kissed by a racoon in the middle of the night )

5: A tooth brush will sit were you put it until needed, newts make a mad dash for freedom while you are busy flossing.

6: Tooth brushes are not violently allergic to minty toothpaste.

7: Tooth brushes do not mistake your tonsils for grasshoppers, and attempt to eat them.

8: You do not have to chase a tooth brush into traffic so you can finish brushing.

9: A misplaced tooth brush will stay misplaced, and not end up in bed with you.

10: By now it should be obvious, tooth brushes are simply superior to newts when it comes to personal hygiene. Trouble is, I don't have one. Hmm..... toads mabey, wonder if they would work better........

500 Skunks does not a mattress make.

2005-01-30T18:16:00.000-08:00

Being of the great Grublygold line, Iam used to sleeping in the very lap of luxury. However due to circumstances that were very much in my control, but not deemed important at the time , I ended up living under a bridge. I have genraly coped well with this. But late one evening I was awoken with a sharp pain in my left buttock. Obviously some errant rock or tree root had chosen to creep under me during the night. I tossed and turned this way and that, but to no avail. The only effect my thrashings had, was to knock loose several bats from their perch, thus adding to the genral mayhem. Later, wile nursing several bat bites, I came to a sudden realization. I needed a mattress.
Monetarily a store bought one was out of the question, so I decided to improvise. The first thing I had to do was collect as menny burlap baggs as possible. then I sewed them all together to make one big bag, six feet by six feet. Then it was time to fill it. the vicinity of the G st. bridge is home to thousands of rodents, the most plentiful being skunks, due to a lack of preditation. Now you may not know this, but skunks love eggs. Mention eggs around a skunk, and soon his snout will start to twich with anticipation. So I simply tossed a dozen or so eggs in the large bag I'd made, and lay in a nearby bush to wait. The minuets ticked by, then I heard it, a quiet rustling, followed by the sound of stampeding skunk feet. They soon broke from the brush, hundreds of them in a head long dash to be the first to reach the eggs. At once the bag was full of snarling fighting skunks all vying for an egg. while they were preoccupied I simply walked up and baggie tied the oppening, instant mattress. The sun went down in a cloudless sky, and soon it was time to test my new bed. My first try however ended in failure, sencing my weight, the occupantsof my mattress magically split to both sides, causing me to land flat on my back. Three further attempts met with the same result. Finaly with one last flying leap I managed to subdue enough skunks under me to make a comfortable resting place. I awoke to a strange sensation, my matress was on the move. I sat bolt upright, and was slapped accross the face by a large branch. My mattress was indeed moving, infact it was sprinting, and I soon relized the cause. Old Ms Blumbottom whose house stood on the bluff above the bridge was cooking eggs for breakfast, and the occupants of my mattress had caught the sent!!! Up the hill hurtled my matress, baring me along unwillingly. How unfortunate it was that Ms Blumbottom stepped from her house to retrive her paper as we crested the hill. The onrushing mattress swept the startled lady off her feet, barely slowing it's mad rush. Into the kitchen we flew, crashing to a hault aginst the large oak table on wich the breakfast was laid out, the impact split the seams of my mattress spilling all five hundred frenzied skunks across the floor. After this things become fuzzy in my mind, but I do know that in the chaos surrounding the event, most of the town of Merced lost power, and I recived a personal death threat from the Governor himself, along with a fine beyond the value of my life. If you hear not from me in the next few days, I am wisely keeping a low profile.

Cad"s Urban and Suburban survival guide

2005-01-29T19:48:00.000-08:00

1: Swamp grass is a poor substitute for cabbage.

2: Dead Buzzards taste worse than they smell. ( much worse )

3:Take care to thoroughly pluck your poodle before eating, the fuzzy hair will make you sneeze all your stew out of the bowl. ( Trust me, a lap full of hot sneezy soup hurts )

4: When collecting gophers for soup, make veary sure they are dead before stuffing them down your pants, due to the lack of pockets in the tatterd raggs you call clothes.

5: 500 skunks do not a mattress make!! Racoons work marginaly better, provided you can keep them togeather long enough to lie on them.

6: When asked by a police officer to come out from under your bridge, " stick it in your ear jackass " is not an appropriate rebuttal.

7: Cardboard boxes and rain don't mix, they mix better if you cover the outside with sewn together animal skins. Be sure however that you remove all collers and dog licenses from the afore mentiond skins to avoid legal troubles.

8: Snakes could care less that " You mean them no harm"

9: If something is running at you, run away. If something is running away, chase it down.
( This does not apply to bears, Hairy Women, and Great Crested Grass Weasels. If these run from you it is only because they are laying an ambush, or cutting off your escape.

10: Midgets are short but awfuly strong, never attempt to wrestle an apple core away from a hungry midget.

11: Strapping box turtles to your feet does not give you instant floaty shoes.

12: simply living under a bridge does not make you a troll, and does not give you the right to jump out in front of joggers, and ask them riddles. ( Should a jogger take offence at your riddle" why did the fat dum dum cross the bridge at six in the morning, stuffing mud up your nose works well to stop the bleeding.

Good day gents.

2005-01-28T20:29:00.000-08:00

Good day gents, I am Cad Grublygold.