Comedy’s Mask and Cat Jaks (Redneck Fulfillment Series E)

Now, this whole leaving thing did have me a bit scared, to be honest, but having Hush with me changed many things. Hush was such an asshole that being steeped in his company had a real redneck mindfulness to it. The more I was with him, the better everything else would seem.  As we prepared to leave and get tickets, we stopped at a rundown eatery called, “The Worst Place You Will Ever Eat.”

I heard of people eating crab brains, something some weird Marylanders would do, but here the delicacy was cow brain. Now, I witnessed some awful shit in my life. But at that moment of seeing a plate of cow brain mush on two pieces of bread, something that looked more like a high school biology class than a delicacy, had me beyond nauseous. This triggered Hush’s “save the world” thing.

One of the many brain delicacies served at “The Worst Place You Will Ever Eat”

You really don’t want to know the thing, but it’s Hush’s “gift to the world.”

“Now, Frank, while you chow down your mad cow disease sandwich, I have a plan to get rich.”

“Hush, I am not eating that shit, and don’t tell me this is your cat thing again?”

“Yes, it’s about pussy fur?”

“Do you know how many there are in America?”

“I don’t know … maybe 10 million?”

“Nah, no way. Listen to this.  60 million. I cannot stand them.”

It was sad really, just the sight or even the sound of a cat, especially, would set Hush off. He hated cats, but no matter how many times I’d tell them that many people like cats, that his idea would cause him certain death, there was no getting through to him.

“There is one good thing about cats. Only one. One thing.”

“Oh, not that. That is gross.” I complained knowing too well what was coming.

“Their fur. Yes, Frank, we can make cat hats, gloves, jackets, and there are so many of the little pussies. We can just drive around and lure the buggers off the street.”

Excitedly, he went on, “Think of this, we can call the cat fur jackets “Cat Jaks,” and, wait, listen to this, we can call the gloves “fits just like a good pussy cat.” And the hats, “little pussy giving head heaven.”

I always thought that if Hush was a bit less of an asshole, he could actually be good at marketing.

But this idea was so horrible that my brain, unknown to me at the moment, decided that eating cow brain at the risk of mad cow disease was better than listening to Hush go on about cat fur mittens for preschoolers.

With cow brain dribbling from my lips, “Hush that is a horrible and offensive idea.”

“No. It’s great. We can tell the little kids that they can now take little puss with them wherever they go. We can name the product “Puss and Go,” wherever you go, pussy cat is there for you!”

The Puss and Go Cat Fur Series, as developed by Hush

“Just stop it, Hush, dammit or I am going to regret going along with you.”

I blubbered out, “Is this a product for kids, too?”

“Look,” he said smiling at me with these creepy eyes, you’re eating it?”

At that moment, I realized that Hush was smarter and more of an asshole than I thought. He wasn’t just an asshole, he was a Hall of Famer. He’d pull this shit whenever I was facing something unpleasant, like a brain sandwich.

I came conscious of having formaldehyde-style mad cow brains invading my mouth. I ran out of that place with Hush giggling after me like some horny schoolgirl.  I needed to dump what I had eaten in a hurry.

In the process of barfing, the only thing I could see in front of me was a stream of partially liquefied cow brain ejaculating from my mouth. The sad thing was that it did not really taste that bad. But that wouldn’t be the first time taste and common sense wrestled in my mind.

I guess I picked the same bush that little Miss Muffet was fond on shitting near. Now, Miss. Muffet is not a person but a timid little poodle that, come to think of it, looks like a brain sandwich, an off-white, dirtied by the thoughts of time.

Close-up of Miss. Muffet before the vomit-truck incident

It turns out that my cow-brain eruption engulfed poor little Muffet and the poor thing went scurrying out of the bush in mid-defecation across the “The Worst Place You Will Ever Eat” parking lot. To my horror and to that of her walker who was ironically named Mrs. Walker, the beer truck rumbled into the parking lot at that very moment.

Undoubtedly, the driver was not expecting a little brain-covered shitting poodle to fly across his path, nor Mrs. Walker, in nothing but a “princess” bathrobe, a broken leash, and a cigarette in in her other hand, waving at him as if she were an air traffic controller.

The spectacle of Mrs. Walker’s persona, a once cute child princess gone cigarette dog-vomit-shit walker startled the driver so much that instead of stopping, he gunned the truck.

Mrs. Walker, a regular at “The Worst Place You Will Ever Eat”

Let’s just say that poor little Miss. Muffet became a grey carpet.

Hush was laughing so hard that I don’t know if I was more scared of him or of Mrs. Walker’s anger, but a smooshed poodle seemed a perfect distraction. We ran into my old truck and took off toward the travel agent. At this point, any hesitation of leaving on my part was taken care of.

Hush later found out through Humperdick, via text, that Miss. Muffet survived the ordeal but had a broken hip. She said Mrs. Walker wants to sue me for vomiting on her dog. She didn’t seem to make the connection to the whole broken hip, truck thing, but that is okay.

“I ain’t paying shit. It’s good we are leaving.”

Hush was still laughing.

As I was driving and calming down, I felt bad for mom. It must be hard to be alone after living with someone, even a jackass, for over forty years. I thought, it’s tough to be a parent. All you get to do is screw up, but then again her screwing up felt better than dad’s kind. At least, she watched me screw up, not like my dad. He ran away. And I screwed up, too.

Here I was running away from a cigarette waving woman. Well, okay, maybe I was running away from myself, my present life in hopes of, well, I have no idea, but I was running away but toward something. I was scared, but I knew I could not turn around and go back.

I teared up thinking of mom being alone, of what a loser I was. Embarrassed that Hush may see my tears, my eyes glanced toward him.

I know he saw me.

His eyes caught mine, a tear rolling down my face, and he kind of nodded, as a shy kid does.

He wasn’t laughing anymore. It was true. As stupid and childish as he was, sometimes a guy that laughs a lot on the outside cries a lot on the inside. I guess it’s that Greek mask thing, comedy and tragedy. I think we understood each other. Being with Hush had its moments, and the world did seem much better with him in it so much so that sometimes I even do something disgusting.

To be continued in Series F


Please follow the story as I write it here. Please comment and give advice; I will write according to suggestions and comments. 

The Squirrel and the Fox

Chinese zodiac.

Once upon a time there lived a squirrel, which was used to gathering nuts in a small town in Upstate New York. Now, New York and the small town, for that matter, had fine nuts—too many of them really, so the squirrel finally left the Apple state and sought kinder, gentler nuts in Western Pennsylvania.  He felt that Pennsylvania would be the land of trees and though there may be even more nuts in such a place, he heard that this place carried some great nuts of knowledge.  These would make him a better, smarter, and even a gutsier squirrel, but little did he know that there is more to happiness than simply good nuts.

One day, not long after he arrived in Nuttyanna, PA, the squirrel was scampering around in desperation trying to find and gather these great nuts of knowledge when, suddenly, he came across this beautiful, dark-haired fox.  He was taking a break by and old, fallen tree—a pleasant place—with wonderful odoriferous flowers of white, blue and purple sown in throughout the landscape. This delightful fox approached him. Once the two made eye contact, she glided toward him with beaming eyes and an enticing smile; she almost seemed happy to see him. The squirrel twitched nervously but greeted her with his big, brown gentle eyes.

“Hello,” said the fox, “My name is Young; you must be new here.”

“Hi, Young, my name is squirrel and, as you can see, I am a squirrel. I am new here; how did you know?”

The fox sighed, “Well, I don’t get a chance to meet nice squirrels often, so I know you are new here. “

“Really? I would have thought there were many squirrels just like me here.”

“No,” she smiled, they all are ugly and do not have bushy tails.  Your tail is handsome and you have gentle, good eyes.”

Young smiled with confidence, while squirrel blushed somewhat.  He was not used to compliments from pretty foxes, and nothing was a bigger compliment to a squirrel than noticing his tale.

“Well, you, too, are quite pretty and …”

“Witty? Yes, I am witty though not as much when I speak squirrel.  You should hear me speak fox.  I am much better really. So why are you here?”

“Well,” feeling much better now that he felt he knew Young a little, “I am trying to find the great nuts of knowledge. I came here from Upstate New York where there are many nuts, but I want something more…”

The fox giggled quietly, “There are a lot of nuts, nuts with bad taste, everywhere.  There are probably more here than in New York.”

“Oh, really,” said the twitching squirrel. “So there are no great nuts of knowledge here?”

“I wouldn’t say that, grinned the fox. But you have to come on a journey with me to find them.”

The squirrel was all too happy to oblige his pretty new friend, and he agreed and even went out of his way to hang out with the fox.

As time went on, the squirrel began to fall in love with the fox, even though his search for the nuts came up empty.  She, too, seemed to grow more attached.

But one day, Young was gone.  The squirrel searched everywhere but could not find her.  He grew frantic, even more than usual for a squirrel. He searched high and low, and even called her name. Finally, he thought to look for her where they first met, by the tree with the odoriferous flowers.  He wasted no time in returning to his favorite spot.  When approaching, we saw the fox sitting there, with her head bent downward.

“Young,” the squirrel called, “where were you?”  I thought we were going to go out today?”

The fox looked at him with a somber smile and spoke. “I got scared.”

“Scared? Scared about what?”

“Of being together. The timing is right, but you are a squirrel and I am a fox. I am afraid of what my family, what my friends will think, how they will react.”

The squirrel stood there speechless for a moment. He had felt the same way at times.  How could a fox live in a tree or how could he live in a burrow? Though he thought of these things often, he never let it get in the way of his search for love, for companionship.

He then spoke, “so you are worried about how to live in a tree, and I am worried about how to live in a burrow?”

Her old smile returned. “Why don’t you and I meet here later?  Don’t worry I will be here.  I am a fox of my word.”

The squirrel knew that Young was a fox of her word, so he agreed and then scampered off.

Later on, the squirrel returned to his favorite place and saw the fox sitting here.  He suddenly froze and hesitated to approach her.  He realized–while gazing at her in the midst of the heavenly flowers, the downed tree, and all the powerful trees towering all around them–that Young would be the most important and significant being in his life that no matter what, he loved her, even if he did not find the great nuts of knowledge.

Then he heard her speak and looked up in surprise.  While thinking this, his feet must have carried him toward her.

“I thought you were going to walk away.  I was going to get angry, but you came.” She smiled.

“Yes, I came…and was thinking about you…us.”

“Me, too. I was always thinking about us.” She grew serious, “I need to go away for a month and meet my family.”

“Oh, no,” said the squirrel, “I love you and don’t want you to leave.”

At this moment the squirrel cried, and they both embraced.

“I love you too,” said the fox crying.

At that moment, the squirrel felt much better.  He knew that she would not run away.  She was going to visit her family.  They agreed to keep in touch, and they did.

The squirrel never found any great nuts of knowledge.  He never found any nuts at all. What he did find was that though the fox could not live in a tree and he could not live in a burrow, they could live in the whole forest together.  That was a good thing, because ten years later, they became parents of twin white tigers in the year of the white tiger, a boy and a girl. One nutty and lonely squirrel became part of a family of four.

The tigers now rule the forest.


Dedicated to my wife, my son, and my daughter on December 25, 2011-

Love, your squirrel, husband, and father, Dropout Professor.



When Garbage Men Became Sanitation Workers

Garbage trucks on a city dump of dust

Even back then, I thought it ironic that I was hired to guard a landfill, but as I pulled many back-to-back isolated, twelve-hour shifts, I began to see much more of my nation than I cared to in what really was the rectum of the country. They say we can tell a good deal about our health looking at our crap and sniffing our own gas. This is only true if we know what to look for and what to smell for.

First, I found it humorous and sad that the way we get rid of things we don’t want is to bury them. I watched that Hill grow like a tumor, and I watched the liquid liner they would lay down, the barrier that would keep millions of tons of seeping sludge out of the ground water. The canal was maybe one-hundred feet from the Hill. When the landfill was open, I would log-in every truck from seven to seven bringing in tons and tons of “non-hazardous” waste, but waste is only as non-hazardous as the one who resides over it. Will the ones on the Hill protect you and the lifeline that runs right next to death?

Yes, it was enhanced interrogation at the Hill to work there as the first line of defense, but what was I defending? I envisioned myself at the bottom of the Hill where I noticed a tiny rupture, a tiny leak, and with a total disregard—more out of the thoughtlessness of the moment than the selflessness of heroes—I stuck my bare hand in it. But I soon realized that my hand was holding back a country’s worth of shit, and not just shit, but shit of the worst kind. Before long, I would be consumed and drowned in it.

As it reached my knees, I remembered the poor landfill worker that got off the garbage truck as it dumped its many lost Bills, Earmarks, Policies, true history, and those damn shredded documents and emails that keep disappearing, and he was run over by a bulldozer. Now these are not big like the bulldozers you see on the road or at the side of them. They are even more consuming than big State politics. They are earth movers. The tires alone can swallow a monster truck. They never found him. I imagine the first responders, the police and rescue teams digging through tons of State Capital with Seagull crap falling like torrents of rain looking for something human, when all they could find was a heap full of lost history.

It was not only history, for history is always written by those that won, but true history is found among those that lost and are tossed away along with the documents that bite. No they were not just trucks carrying trash, but they became trucks carrying humans. Whatever the reason, the type of “garbage” was always written on the outside so that it was disposed of properly. As I took in the fresh air of springtime flowers at the beginning of one breath and then got the stench of a rotten corpse near its end, I understood the Forefather’s need for balance. For what was written on the truck may have started as good intent or political correctness only to end as genocide and tyranny.

So I reflected, since that’s all I could do waiting for death: I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I was smelling shit. It smells like crap so it is, right? No, not all shit smells, so I need to have reasonable suspicion that I am smelling something, and before we know it, what we think is a dead body turns out to be a flower. We execute the florist and the murder all the same and bury them in the Hill.

It was none other than a garbage man or the politically correct term sanitation worker (or sanitation engineer) that noticed me and pulled me to safety. Not only was I grateful for a new chance at life, but I had a new appreciation for the people that take on this country’s shit every day and buy it for us. We may not be getting the truth, but at least we have a sanitary nation. To all those men and women that handle the shit democracy brings, I thank you. Besides, you have really cool trucks; just be careful what you write on them.

The Mission: Mother and the Five Sisters (Redneck Fulfillment Series A)

I am kind of worried that I am addicted to porn but don’t know what else to do. Girls don’t like guys who smell like shit. I cannot get the smell off me from the farm.

Shit and milk go hand and hand, and, sometimes, the suction cups come off the cows’ teats and sucks up the urine and liquid shit on the floor. I am just covered in shit by the end of the day. I always thought the “Got Milk?” statement should read, “Got Shit? But I guess people don’t like the truth much.

This is my theory as to why I don’t get girls besides being in a town of five thousand where everybody is past fifty and the cute girls go away to college. Those left over are too little to think about or too … well, I hate to say it, common even for us very commoners. I don’t want a lady who looks too much like me, or I’d feel that I am fucking myself. And I’ve been fucking myself for ages, as you will see.

If I had to describe myself, I’d say I am a cross between George Clooney and Pee-wee Herman.


Pee-Wee Herman

As creepy as that is, I think the Pee-wee in me marinates with the Clooney. While I don’t look hot and have flawed teeth, I am not much of a pervert either. In all, I’d say I look decent except I have to wear shit-stained clothes. So this leads me to my whole mother and five sister’s incident. The incident would come to change my life.

Now, you got to understand men and pornography to get why we look at the shit we do. My plan at eight o’clock that night was to get a coffee to wash down the beer and then sit and look for some girls online.

I’ve never been into the webcam girl kind of thing, but that night I stumbled on a website called Live Gasm. The girls looked great, and every little icon, if you scrolled over it, would show you the girl live. These girls were in lingerie, usually on beds. They were dancing.

I clicked on one chick that looked half Asian and half white. She was really hot. Then she wiggled her tongue, and I almost shit my pants. Let’s say that she could KO Gene Simmons with that thing.

Now, I don’t know exactly why I got turned on by her tongue. Giraffes have long tongues, and I am not into them, but I did and I found my hands, much like my penis, having minds of their own. Soon I was registered. My penis and my eyes watched my hands in anticipation as I put my credit card in the Live Gasm system.

Now, I never had a two-way with a cam girl before, but she charged three dollars a minute. That seemed fine with my hands and my penis, but my head was in a fog.  They clicked on “live performance;” I heard a jingle, and the hot lady appeared.

“Hi honey, what’s your name? Where are you from?” Said the tongue girl in pigtails and white stockings.

I was so overcome that I think I wrote, “Hi, nice rear” and before I knew it, she dropped her drawers, got on all fours, rear facing camera and made some strange shoulder movement. I watched in stunned anticipation as she inserted her hand and then her whole arm up her bum.

I never lost an erection so fast in my life. I’ve got to admit that it takes talent to give one’s self a colonoscopy, but I was so scared that her hand would eventually come out of her mouth and that I would never get aroused again.

I clicked out of that shithole.  Saying “nice ass” does not mean that I want my head in your ass. I was thinking more of caressing a butt cheek, gently biting it, as a horse does its young, or slapping it, not the horse but your ass if you have a nice one and are a girl.

I’d be a doctor if I wanted to stick things up your ass. It’s a biological thing though to admire asses.

Whenever I see something shocking online, I try to feel better by looking at naked girls to man up.

Somehow, in my daze and conflict with my hands and penis, I must of clicked on something in my favorites, and I went from a hot girl doing something disgusting, to a cookie-loving puppet making orgasmic sounds as he took in a massive cookie, “Oh, yes, oh yes, yum, yum, YUM!”

This commotion must have stirred up my half-witted mother, and before I knew it, I heard my door pop open. Mom’s never knock, do they?

The top of my body just froze, but my legs tried to flee by swinging my office chair toward her. There I was naked with my “five sisters” barreling toward Mother!

“FRANK JULIUS YERNING!!! What in God’s name are you doing?!”

She, too, then turned and ran from the scene, and there I was trailing after her like a horny, incapacitated ninety-year old,

“But Mom, KNOCK Damn it!”

Now I have had embarrassing moments with Mother before, but her Janet Reno demeanor and appearance as well as her being Mother always took away any future desire to masturbate or even think of women, at least for a while.

Now, I really did like Janet Reno, but this is not the time to think about her dammit.

But now I suffered my second humiliation in a few seconds, and I shut the door and stayed in there for what must have been an hour.

It turns out that I ended up paying the tonguing colonoscopy girl $180 because I never closed the session.

I guess being screwed has really lost any positive meaning for me, but I really did not want to face Mother. The whole incident brought up the time I flushed our goldfish down the toilet. Usually, they are dead, but this one was alive.

I guess I was inspired by a Nemo-like desire for the fish’s freedom, but here I am coming back around to shit again, but I guess I am better off than Sir Thomas Crapper.

Sir Thomas Crapper did not actaully invent the modern-day toilet, but did his ass take credit for it? 

I found out he did not invent the toilet but got credit for it. That is just making me confused, so I better stop.

Eventully I summed up the courage to move toward the door.

To be continued …

Please follow the story as I write it here. Please comment and give advice; I will write according to suggestions and comments. 

382 miles away


I drove back

382 miles and

39 years

To what’s no longer a home.

Searching for something.


I killed him years ago,

But we have unfinished business.

The shovel is so cold to the touch,

Sad to think that that such a thing

Puts one in the ground


Can dig one back up again.


He lay their 39 years, just outside my bedroom window

When I was a child, and I killed him.

It is dark now, rural dark, not like you NYC folks,

So dark that only the demon eyes of my childhood stare back at me.


I trace my steps, though much bigger and slower now, but no less scared, maybe more,

to 10 ½ feet just outside the willow tree.

She’s still standing, towering over it, like his anger

That drove him in it.


I hesitate; I look around at what was my identity

That no longer belongs to me, and I think that if I get …


Let me just dig a little first; I will fit nicely …

I dig in slow motion unconcerned about waking those sleeping

Unconcerned about waking him.


It is too dark to see, but I feel myself sinking

Sinking deeper into the clay-laden earth of Western New York.

I think, though numb, will some skin still be there?

Will the head I so often touched be unrecognizable to me?

Will there be his coat of tan and black and grey?


I panic, as the soil moans and the shovel screams less discrete

She’s warm to the touch now and is caressing something,

Maybe bones.


There is a flash and a bang from up above.

I recognize it, in slow motion, as my father’s window, right next to mine

Followed by the bathroom.


I felt a pulsating shock roar through my chest and something warm

Ooze all over me; then I heard another

Blowing my leg out from under me, and another

Killing the shovel this time.


I dropped into his grave.


The score is even now.

I was guilty when six, maybe seven,

When I rode over his paw with my Tonka truck.

He wanted to kill me but didn’t.


A week later my dad killed him with three shots

Just out of the window over there.

He attacked my dad,

you see,

because I made him angry when I rolled my truck

Over his paw.


I am 382 miles from home now.

Can you take me back to my daughter and son?

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