Storming The Castle

il_fullxfull.415323934_a8i5Once every lifetime or so I am granted the gift of insight. There’s a flash of light and suddenly I know something. The words that immediately follow the flash are generally pithy and pregnant with deep meaning.

“Holy shit! Fuck yeah.”

You can quote me on that.

Something like this happened to me the other day. And, my lords and ladies, it happened whilst my castle was under siege. It was a very trebuchet experience. I shall regale you with the tale anon.

Have you ever noticed anything “topsy turvy” in the universe?

sunsetranchday12Maybe you own two vehicles. One has a manual transmission but no tachometer. Weird, eh? And the other vehicle is an automatic. And guess what? It does have a tachometer. That’s fuckin’ topsy turvy. How did it get to be that way? It’s too weird to have happened naturally. It had to be deliberate. Someone is going way out of their way to mess with you. That’s what I’m talking about. (And yes, this is a true story. That bass-ackwards tachometer thing actually happened to me.)

Can you identify other instances of topsy turvy? Be observant and mindful and I’ll bet you can notice them all around.

Here’s my most recent observation.

Go out in nature where it is wild and beautiful. What do you see? Signs that scream “Keep Out” and “No Trespassing.” Or maybe a few that read “Mining Claim” if you live up a lumberjack’s asshole like me.

Incredible beauty cordoned off into chunks claimed under the concept of “private property ownership” and with you left on the other side. Yes, this great land of ours is incredibly beautiful and majestic and moving. Purple-fruited and all that. But don’t you ever try to enjoy it. You’ll end up being the meaty part of some crazy miner’s stew.

funny-no-trespassing-signs-9Meanwhile, check out the suburban maze of look-alike garage-driven architecture developments that some of us call home. The old Johnson farm? It’s now 80 postage-sized pieces of land with cookie-cutter houses dropped on top.

And, guess what? Nary a “Keep Out” or “No Trespassing” sign in sight!

Oh, bitter irony! What hast thou taste be so … bitter?

So, naturally, the thought occurred to me: Why can’t I cover my house with these sorts of anti-social signs? That would be the next best thing to being there. Take that, world. THIS IS MY CASTLE!!!

And, in my castle, in this one tiny little sanctuary on the face of this cursed planet, I am known as The King.

I thought about a drawbridge and a moat filled with acid but that would take actual effort. And a lot of acid. Going hillbilly in my suburban neighborhood would be a lost more cost effective and provide a reasonable rate of ROI.

Yeah, let’s go sign.

This is no small thing. I need a line of defense because my castle is literally under siege. For some godforsaken reason the riff raff literally loves serfing my street.

It was a quiet, lazy afternoon. I was chillin’ in my chair. One cat was on my lap, stretched out and completely relaxed. The other cat was draped across my keyboard making it somewhat difficult to type. Green Day was spilling softly out of my computer speakers. In the other room my wife was a sleeping beauty catching a little afternoon shuteye. I was feeling happy and content. Life was serenity.

$(KGrHqIOKjIE7DekTMIpBPhO9b51,w~~60_35DING!!! DONG!!! KNOCK!!! KNOCK!!! KNOCK!!!

The calm was shattered like a North Korean nuke going off in my shorts.

The cat on my lap leaped away with all the force his powerful back legs could muster. An equal and opposite amount of force was applied to my nards. “Fuck!!!” I yelled in pain waking my wife in the other room.

Meanwhile, the other cat got a severe case of Big Tail as she scrambled like one of the three stooges kicking my glass of water and sending it in a 1-in-a-million shot into my computer. I jerked in response and my arm sent my iPad arcing high in the air. As I fell backward in my chair and my head hit the ground I watched the iPad flying in slow motion before hitting the wall and shattering into a million pieces.

A chunk of the broken iPad hit my wife’s cell phone and randomly dialed a number that happened to be a secret activation for Defcon 1 in NORAD. The Russians noticed this provocative move and escalated their defenses as well. Ships went on alert. Forces were activated. An accidental collision in the Indian Ocean and warning shots were fired. One accidentally hit. There had to be retaliation. Someone set us up the bomb. Make you time. The missiles are in the air, boys. Satan is smiling with delight.

I answered the door and it was a pimple with a human kid attached who handed me a full color glossy flyer and said, “There’s a sale on at the furniture store.” I shit you not.

I decided to run directly to the animal store and get myself a dog before the radiation clouds hit. It was going to be nuclear devastation soon and I was going to need a backup food source. A boy loves his dog.


10 responses

    1. Aw, thanks! I had some fun here.


  1. The Bungalow Blog | Reply

    Remind me never to tell you any knock-knock jokes unless I’m wearing my Pith helmet.


    1. “Knock knock. Use the fucking doorbell.”


  2. This was hysterical!
    I hope to send some readers your way … this post is going out tonight (in about 4 hours). No worries; just a tip of my hat (or my epic helmet?) in your direction.
    Thank you for your wonderful blog. Gosh, I needed the laugh today!
    ps — I need one of those “purty” signs!


    1. I’m glad I could be there when you needed a laugh. I also make a stylish ottoman. (Except for the stylish part.) I try hard to be multi-use.


  3. […] Shouts from the Abyss – a sense of humor even darker than my own.  And way, way […]


    1. Thanks for the mention and grats on your well-deserved award!


  4. Every spring, there’s a rush… no, more like a raging FLOOD of “Hey, I’m just a kid and my school/group/club/team’s making me do this” underage humanoids who stalk the neighborhoods soliciting funds for whatever school/group/club/team they have been let out on parole from. Magazines, “community discount” cards, fruit, cookies, whatever the organizers think might separate the masses from their money, are offered at my front door, and in my workplace.
    I disconnected my doorbell years ago, but they don’t know that. If they choose to follow up with a knock, I try to have a plateful of nasty-looking, dried up cookies handy to offer them as I excitedly answer my door, paste a feverish, desperate look on my face, and beg them to come in “I NEVER get visitors!”
    For some reason, they don’t stay.


Bringeth forth thy pith and vinegar

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