Like Bulls Caught in a Net Filled with the Fury of God

I had almost decided not to do this.  I HAD decided not to do this,

But I read an inspiring post from another fellow blogger and decided to DO IT!  Yea.

You see, one other blogger who actually commented (Catch a hint, people.) asked me a question.  He said, ‘Caveman, what makes you tick?”  And I tell you what, I can tick and tick and tick and get ticked off better than any other.  But I like to slide past that question with humor.  Or, I did.  And Charm, I guess I called him, way back when…asked me what it is that makes me tick.  He said, “Caveman, what makes you tick?”  And I looked at a pile of ants today on my way to write, and I knew they weren’t the answer.  And I looked at the driver of a Dodge pickup truck trying to run me over, and I knew she wasn’t the answer.  And I asked about game consoles at the Deseret Industries, but I knew they were not the answer.  But my Buddhist friend from my home body Einstein’s land of Germany used to ask me, What makes you tick, Caveman?  I really want to make this sound elaborate.  I really want to be flowery and well-spoken, maybe ALMOST even liked.  But you know what, TO HELL WITH THAT!  Manners never did me a damn bit o’ good!  This is the internet, and as far as I’m concerned there is no censorship here.  Nor anywhere I go.  Like between me and the lady who just about ran me over.  I’ll probably see her face in my nightmares again tonight.

You see, when I was 10, my dad said to me, ten bucks if you knock the cow over that tries to do that again.  Ten bucks if you pick up that two-by-four over there, slap her in the forehead and send all 1,600 pounds of her down to the ground.  I puffed my chest out and just knew that if not by that very same afternoon, another cow trying to shear away from the pairs we had already sort, would be flying flat wondering what hit ‘er.  If not that very same afternoon, soon.  Very soon.  Very soon.  Very soon.  Very soon…

And I was very best goddamned motherfuckin’ missionary there ever was!  I wasn’t afraid to say it.  I was the very best goddamned motherfuckin’ missionary there ever was!  Sure, I made a little tiny mistake, and when I went to church the pretty ladies in front would say to us kids that just a little spot of dirt in the white ice cream made it repulsive and not edible.  But I look at my service as the very best goddamned motherfuckin’ missionary ever, and I don’t give a damn about a little dirt.  I mean, I kissed the roads I used to run as a kid.  I ran distance.  I ran all over.  Miles and miles and miles.  Dad thought I was crazy.  Told me I’d wear my knees out.  And I kissed the road and licked it, too, the same road I used to run on.  That dirt didn’t hurt a bit.  Just like the ol’ ladies that husbands claimed they were adulterous, given dirt from tabernacle floor to drink in their water.  If it made them sick, they was adulterous, and that was the proof!  If it didn’t, then no.  The woman was clean as a whistle, and the man was a liar!  And the dirt of that road did not make me sick!  No sirree bob!  No sirreeee!!

I like to think I’m a mix of Einstein and Edison.  Little ‘one stone’ and mad like eddy currents.  Sees things others don’t.  And I, too, am a stone and a rock of offense.  A gin and a snare.  Yea, a mix of Einstein and Edison.  For one thing, because I have a vice grip.  The other because my brain can go anywhere, inside or outside of the universe.  Now that was what attracted ol’ Charm’s interest.  The time I described flying in my brain outside the entire universe….he he he.  One of the little tricks and beauties of a little gizmo my dad gave me.

My dad, he’s such a builder.  Can build anything.  Fix anything.  My dad is such a builder.  And when I was a kid, Mom and Dad used to say that I would be the one who would be faithful.  I would be faithful.  They just knew it, somehow.  More than the others.  I was third of the three boys.  The girls don’t matter.  Not at all.

I’m sorry, I get a little emotional writing this testament about the great destroyer.  I mean, my dad was such a builder!  He was known as the ‘cold-iron blacksmith’ around town.  They called him that.  He could cut and weld, cut and weld, cut and weld, cut and weld into anything.  He could fix anything.  Except me…

My mother punished me for playing Ninja Gaiden on the Nintendo Entertainment system.  My mother punished me for buying a red Mask car that flew.  It was of the line of miniature ‘Mask’ toys.  One day I took a sledge hammer to that beautiful cherry red car that was only about 8 inches long.  You’d hardly recognize it now if you went to the junk pile and tried to spot it out.  And I burned my journals that I had written as a boy.  I always do.  I always will.  I destroyed the CDs that I had and that I listened to.  Games, like Apples to Apples I threw to the flames.  All my movies, too. And you wonder, why are you saying all this!?  Why aren’t you locked up somewhere??  Well, I’m getting to that.

You see, I and the father that raised me, we watched many cows break through fences, bull out in front leading the charge.  The cows escaped time and again, and our exercise was running after them.  The cows and that bull out in front escaped again and again.  And the bulls we would put together in a pen.  Now, hold on there.  I’m getting to the point.  I know you want to print this out right now and burn it in the flames just to show your dissatisfaction with me and how pissed off you are at everything I represent, but hold that flaming thought for just a second.

You see, the bulls would lock heads and go around and around in the corrals that we put them in.  They would knock down fences.  Fences could not hold them.  Gosh darnit, I am just like them.  Same model.  Same make.  Only I got the Lamborghini, they got the fake.  He he.  But my dad was willin’ to think like a cow.  My dad was willin’ to give birth to a monster and turn him into a man.  My dad was willin’ to be gentle to bulls and not make them angrier.  My dad was willin’ to put up with a monster like me.  To cut my hair.  To feed me ice cream, even though I thought it looked better smeared all over, especially in my hair.  And I’d ride on his shoulders.  He would pack me around.  He took us all to see Yellowstone.  He took us for drives on Sunday afternoons into the mountains.

My dad and I had a similar look.  And at similar ages, we each also wanted to quit.  He never finished high school.  I never finished college.  Life got in the way of each of us.  But I belonged to Las Vegas and he to the country.  I belonged to gambling and he to the hard-earned money.  And he taught me the art that I apply today.  This is really my reason for writing today, just in case you are stiiiiiiiiiiilllllll reading…

I’d ask my dad, “Hey Dad, what’re ya doin’?”  “Hey Dad, what’re ya doin’?”  Hey Dad, what’re ya doin’?”  And you know, I just figured out that this post is way too long…I’ll have to save it for another day.  Happy Mother’s day.

Sorry to be such a disappointment.  I have been a terrible disappointment to everyone who has ever known me.  I guess, get used to it?  What else can I say?  But someday, you’re gonna need help cathin’ the devil’s herd, and you’ll come beggin’ me.  Before they destroy the whole earth, you’ll come beggin’ me.  Ha ha ha.  And I’ll say, like Jephthah, What’ll you give me??????!!!!!


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