What's Good for the Goose...

I have an idea.

If we as a society are so intent on using torture as a way of protecting our country, then let's have some real skin in the game. I will stipulate to the use of torture by our government if our government stipulates to a little quid pro quo.

It goes like this: So long as the people doing the torturing - or "enhanced interrogation" as they politely call it - are right, then no harm, no foul. However, if the people doing the torturing (including those who ordered it) are wrong, then those people ought to be subjected to whatever atrocities were visited upon the innocent party or parties.

This policy of geese and ganders certainly seems fair to me. If you’re going to “rectally rehydrate” or waterboard someone, you really ought to be damn sure the person you’re torturing really has the information you need, that the information is of critical importance to saving the lives of Americans, and that you're not just fishing for any information you can extract. You also had better not be profiling based on race or religion.

And if you’re wrong, get ready to have your worst day at work – ever.

The same goes for holding someone without formal charges (or informal ones, it appears). For every day someone is chained to wall in cold, dark cell, deprived of food and sleep will be a day you spend in exactly the same deplorable conditions. Make sure to kiss your wife and kids before leaving for work. Who knows when you'll see them next?

We'll find out right quick how we really feel about torture, won't we?

Random Observations and Thoughts

If you are even an occasional reader of my blog or my social media posts, you've probably gathered that I have a variety of unusual - yet brilliant - thoughts coursing through my brain at any given time. Most of the voices in my head work for me, though there are a few renegade, uh, personalities who operate independently of the collective.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending upon your frame of reference) these rogue outliers have access to the command and control department of my brain, and thereby often force me to think about some purely unconventional things. Even worse (or better - again, depending on where you sit) I am often cajoled into sharing some of this strangeness with friends, family, and even total strangers. I can't help it. Really.

I've shared some of these thoughts on Facebook (often "de-weirding" them a little for mass consumption) while some of them are new and/or improved thoughts. If after reading this, my adoring public decides to elect me to public office, I will duly consider it. However, I suspect that rather than elevating me to a position of mass influence, y'all might suggest fitting me for my very own straitjacket.

I think I've got pick 'em odds.

On skydiving

I'd happily jump out of an airplane, though I have some non-negotiable conditions:

1. One or more of the following key conditions must be met: a) the plane must be on fire, b) the plane must be missing at least one engine, c) the plane must be missing one or both wings.

2. The pilot and co-pilot must be dead, or they must have given up the controls and in the process of strapping on their own parachutes.

3. The inflatable autopilot must have failed to inflate; attempts by flight attendants to "re-fluff" the autopilot must have failed.

4. There's no one named Stryker on board.

If any combination of the previous conditions are met, then by all means, hand me a parachute and listen to me scream like a little girl all the way to the ground.

On my dream jobs

While I am tickled pink with my current career as a book editor boy, there are a handful of careers for which I'd leave my book editing career in a cloud of dust and ribbons of burnt rubber on the pavement:

1. Professional pole vaulter
2. Ventriloquist
3. Large mammal dentist
4. Pogo stick quality tester
5. Music critic
6. Belly dancer
7. Heavy machine operator
8. Playboy Mansion groundskeeper
9. Fishing guide
10. Cowbellist in a honky tonk band

On my latest invention

I am in the beta testing phase of a new Facebook program that will spray a fast acting anesthetic into the face of any Facebook user who tries to share a politically-charged photo or meme without first fact checking it to ensure that said inflammatory material tells the whole truth instead of being shameless, accuracy-challenged propaganda.

So, if you wake up face down and drooling on your keyboard, you'll know what happened.

Carry on.

On a missed marketing opportunity

[Note, I am staunchly non-violent, and I support efforts to end domestic violence. The following "ad copy" is pure sarcasm intended to mock those wearing "wife-beater T-shirts" and not to celebrate violence of any kind.]

You ever think that the Hanes people ought to just run with the whole "wife-beater" angle for their advertisements? If everyone calls them "wife-beaters" and generally, the only people you see wearing them are people likely to have anger management issues and/or a misogynistic attitude, then why not form an entire marketing campaign around that idea? I can see an ad goingsomething like this:

[Burly, sweaty hill-jack wearing a stained, used-to-be-white wife-beater T, complete with cigarette burns, climbs out of his pick'em-up truck, spits a dark brown stream of tobacco juice on the ground and says]:

"When I am workin' out on my woman, I appreciate the added flexibility that the generous cut shoulders in the Hanes wife-beater T provides. The waffle weave fabric is extra-absorbent, so it soaks up every beer, tobacco, blood or grease stain that comes near it, givin' it that lived-in look right outta the package. Its tight, contouring fit shows off my beer belly with pride. I paid fer it, and hell, I'm proud of it. So, before ya slap the daylights out of yer woman, make sure yer suited up in the proper attire - Hanes Wife-Beater Ts. Y'all be glad ya did."

On socks

You ever notice how suddenly a pair of socks go from being perfectly good to having a series of holes in them? It's as if one day they're performing their sockly duties without complaint, and the next day there's suddenly not enough sock molecules to hold them together. Today was that day for a beloved pair of my socks. S'long, my molecularly-challenged friends.

On kitty mortars

I have been working all morning to determine the exact telemetry necessary to shoot my kitty via mortar tube from my backyard and have him land in nearby Tipton. Math was never my strong suit...

On the strangest conversation I've ever had

[Scene opens with me standing at the counter of a locally-owned restaurant, trying to get the owner's attention who has his back to me.]

Me: "Hi, I'd like to place an order, please."
Salesperson: "Sorry, I had Rush in my ear," he said as he pulled an earphone out of his ear.
Me: "Which album?"
Salesperson: "Limbaugh"
Me: "Oh..."
My Inner Monologue: "Why don't you just keep those tacos..."

On another brilliant idea involving bay leaves

I have a brilliant idea. Someone needs to design armor made entirely of bay leaves. Think about it. A bay leaf can sit all day long in a pot of 400-degree stew and come out unscathed.

I should start charging a fee for all of my great ideas...

On the Apocalypse 

So is it weird that I am a teensy-weensy bit disappointed that *nothing* happened with this much ballyhooed end-of-days thing? Really, how hard would it have been for just one dead person to pop up out of the ground and stagger around a little? I mean, really?!? Apocalypse-schmocalypse...

On stupidity

Stupid thing heard on the internet recently:

"Most of college is just Liberal indoctrination."

Wow, and I thought I was there to drink beer, pick up women and occasionally go to class. I didn't know I was being surreptitiously indoctrinated. You would think a guy would feel it when he's being
indoctrinated.

Doesn't that pinch or tug or something?

On the wizard living in my backyard

NOTICE: To the wizard who keeps fire-balling my backyard and scaring my dog. I respect your right to practice your spells, but I'd appreciate it if you found another location to do so, preferably away from my pets. Should you insist on practicing your incantations on my property, I will be forced to take action.

You should know that I am 12th level thief with a +4 dagger and Boots of Sneaking. You'll never hear me coming. I am also friends with the local Wood Elves. You don't want to mess with them...

On testing a new invention

Wanted: Someone willing to be a test subject for the time machine I have created using my trusty AMC Pacer, a sack of ball bearings, a carburetor from a Lawn Boy mower, and 6,000 9-volt batteries.

I cannot guarantee that you will survive or that I can get you back to the present. I'd go myself, but I am the only one who knows how to operate this thing. Must sign a rather broad waiver, and not have any family members who are likely to sue on your behalf.

Bring your own tinfoil suit.

On having a big brain

You know, while I have an enormous brain capable of many things, making it do what I want, when I want it to do it is something of a challenge at times. I often feel like my brain is a jelly-smeared kid running pants-less with scissors.

On running for political office

Awhile back, I was having a dream that I was running for mayor. As part of my campaign commercial, I was singing Eric Carmen's "All By Myself." Why? How should I know? Dreams are weird. Anyway, I was just getting to the crescendo at the end when my bride woke me to take Alexa to school. In my dream, I was annoyed with her because she was interrupting the high point of my song.

I was killing it, too.

On my decision to live in Kokomo

You might not know this, but I am the sole survivor of a Peruvian jungle mission to find lost riches. The rest of my party was killed and eaten by cannibals. I used my professional evasion and combat skills to fight my way back to civilization. I only talk about it in detail after a sufficient amount of whisky. Most times, however, I just have that thousand-mile stare...

My ill-fated Peruvian expedition happened shortly after college. From there, I had stints in the French Foreign Legion, herding goats on a Grecian hillside, selling flowers at the airport with my fellow Hare Krishnas, and singing bass in a traveling doo-wop band that logged 58,000 miles singing at sock hops and senior nights in retirement homes from Maine to San Diego. While I enjoyed my adventures, I had a deep yearning for a place I could call home.

At some point during my days as a devout Hare Krishna, I heard tale of a magical place where tropical drinks melt in your hand, and steel drums fill the cool moonlit nights. Imagine my surprise when after moving to Kokomo, I learned that this *wasn't* the place about which the Beach Boys sang so lovingly in 1988. The removal of my soul and loss of all fashion sense came along pretty quickly after that.

On dwarf tossing

Little known factoid about yours truly: I currently hold the state record for dwarf tossing. Don't knock it. If you bend your knees just so and get the right arc, you can toss your average dwarf a country mile.

Unfortunately, I don't toss in my home Howard County - not after the whole dwarf/sheep mishap of 2007 anyway. (And I must strenuously insist I had nothing to do with the aforementioned egregious incident.) I only toss in Vigo and Posey counties where it's still legal.

My family's lineage can be traced all the way back to the Principality of Liechtenstein where my great-grandpappy Hans Kughenborscht was prime minister in the 1930s. Dwarf tossing is a seasonal event that my family has enjoyed for centuries. The dwarf tossing craze crossed the Atlantic and made its way the U.S. in the early 1900s where it was mostly enjoyed during fall festivals that often coincide with more traditional Oktoberfest celebrations.

However, Grampy Frans Kughen (the "borscht" part of our name was dropped thanks to an unfortunate record keeping snafu at Ellis Island in the 1930s) made dwarf tossing a mainstream sport after successfully tossing a dwarf 271.3 feet in the 1960 Summer Olympics held in Rome. From the point on, dwarf tossing was all the rage.

It's only been in recent years that the proverbial shine on dwarf tossing was lost. Opponents of our beloved sport refer to it as inhumane and degrading. After the previously mentioned dwarf/sheep mishap of 2007, dwarf tossing was banned in all but two Indiana counties. It's sad really. Dwarf tossing is healthy and fun. I'm not sure where I will get my cardio if the good counties of Vigo and Posey ever outlaw it.

On things you can't say

You ever want to say something like this to someone? I do:

"You couldn't get a clue during the clue mating season in a field full of amorous clues, even if you smeared your body with clue musk and did the clue mating dance while not wearing pants."

On cat herding

Let me tell ya, having been a cat, goat and frog herder - hell, I guess I justa 'bout herded everything that can be herded at one time or another - I can tell you that herding them long hairs is serious work. Backbreaking, really.

You wouldn't think it given their diminutive size, but herdin' cats across a scrubby prairie is twice as hard as herdin' cows or horses. Take fer instance yer lassos. You have any idea how small a cat lasso is and just how accurate you got to be with the dadburn thing?

And just you try "hog-tying" an angry short hair after you get her lassoed. I gots the scars to show fer it.

The hours are long, the saddle sores are plenty and the hairballs are just plain awful. Spend enough time around a herd of cats and you'll unknowingly ingest more cat hair than you can possibly imagine with your city slicker mentality. Bringin' up them hairballs ain't fer sissies either.

On the fart heard "over there"

Have you heard of flatulence virtuosos known as "fartriloquists" who can "throw" the sounds of their rectal emissions? I have.

Legend has it that they train for seven years on a cold Siberian tundra honing their gas-play skills. Only after climbing to a mountain peak and seeking an audience with a grandmaster fartriloquist monk are they even allowed to call themselves fartriloquy acolytes. Another seven hard years of windtalking in the Himalayas precedes being granted the rank of fartriloquy seers. A fartriloquist seer finally attains the level of master fartriloquist after another seven years of pure silence - aside from the voice from down below and over there.

The fact that the budding fartriloquist's devotion to his/her craft is a testament to his/her inner drive to conquer what few dare to achieve. If you happen to be married to a fartriolquist, remember just
how lucky you are, especially when he/she Dutch ovens you with a fart that you could swear came from behind the dresser.

On brushing your cat's teeth

Our helpful vet recently sent us a pamphlet explaining how to brush a cat's teeth. The cat depicted in the *drawings* appears calm - happy almost - to be having its teeth brushed.

Evidently, my vet has never seen, touched or treated a cat in his life. And I will bet my life he's never successfully brushed a cat's teeth either. Exhibit A is the usage of cat drawings rather than photos
in the aforementioned pamphlet. That's proof positive that the vet would never risk his skin from the forearms down on such a risky endeavor. Rather than instruct cat owners on how to brush a cat's teeth, I thought the vet really ought to provide first aid instructions for cat owners who attempt to brush their cat's teeth.

Here's what I suggested:

1. Throw angry, violent cat as far as you can and find a safe location.
2. Apply pressure to wounds.
3. Use tourniquet if necessary.
4. Call 911.
5. Treat for shock.
6. Take a picture ID and your insurance card with you in ambulance.
7. Never do anything this stupid again.
8. Did you get that?
9. Never.
10. Really.

I then mailed the amended instructions to the vet's office along with a quite reasonable royalty contract in which I was paid for each copy of the revised pamphlet sent to cat owners. Strangely, the vet's office has asked me to not contact them in the future. Go figure.

Oven Broasted Carp

On this Thanksgiving, I'd like to share one of my family's seasonal favorite recipes: Oven Broasted Carp. 

Ingredient List:

• 1 freshly caught carp
• Juice of one lemon
• 1 lemon, thinly sliced with rind on
• 4 T minced, fresh flat-leaf parsley
• 3 garlic cloves, minced
• 1 hickory plank
• Vegetable oil or spray
• Salt and pepper

Follow these simple directions:

1. Scale carp using de-scaler or spoon.
2. Remove carp's head and entrails.
3. Thoroughly wash carcass inside and out.
4. Place carp on lightly oiled hickory plank.
5. Squeeze juice of lemon liberally on carp.
6. Sprinkle minced garlic over carp.
7. Cover carp with thin lemon slices.
8. Spread 4T of minced flat-leaf parsley over carp.
9. Salt and pepper to taste.
10. Cover carp and board with aluminum foil.
11. Heat oven to 450 degrees.
12. Place carp in oven and bake for 6 hours.
13. Carefully remove carp from oven.
14. Discard foil and carp.
15. Eat hickory board.

From my family to yours. I hope you enjoy this wholesome family classic recipe during this holiday season.

Bon Appétit!

Pee Wee Power

Anyone who knows me also knows that I don't like mornings. And by "don't like," I mean I hate mornings with the fury of thousand beagles when the UPS man rings the doorbell.

I am an unapologetic night owl and have been from an early age. I've had to get up early for most of my life, but I have never learned to like being awake before, say, the reasonable hour of 10 a.m. - and no one can make me. So there.

At any rate, I work hard to keep my morning chagrin to a dull roar, especially around the people I love most (everyone else just has to take their chances). That means that I fake morning happiness for the sake of my wife and kids, two of whom are morning people (commies!) and the other who isn't really a morning person, but who has to be awake early so she can go to school. She and I grunt our way through our morning car rides to her bus stop. And we're both okay with it.

One of the ways in which I've learned to manufacture morning joy is come up with funny names for my kids. I've spent many a dreary morning, staring into the mirror while brushing my teeth, trying to come up with a funny name with which which to greet Thing 1 or Thing 2 (a.k.a. Fred and Frank). This tradition has resulted in classics, such as:

• Little Miss Dangerous
• Kid Funky Fly
• Pinky Tuscadero
• Sir Poops-A-Lot
• Sister Christian
• E.W. McPoopy
• Jimmy Pop

There have been hundreds, if not thousands, of  names over the years. My thought has always been if I can make the kids laugh, then I'll have reason to smile when I'd really just prefer to be in a dark room with the blankets over my head.

So, that brings us to this morning.

I saw Eric before Alexa and I left the house (Alexa's bus stop is in her mom's neighborhood, requiring a short drive and wait for her bus to arrive). I wasn't quite awake enough yet for the Kughen Name Generator (Patent Pending) to have booted up and be fully operational, so I greeted both kids with stock terms of endearment, such as "sweetie" and "buddy."

Upon returning home and walking in the door, I was struck with today's funny name for Eric. Our conversation went like this:

Eric: Hey, Papa! [Said as he ran up to me to hug my legs while I pulled off my coat]
Me: Good morning, Pee Wee Reese.
Eric: Why did you just call me "Pee Pee Grease?"
Me: [Laughing hysterically] What?!?
Eric: Why did you call me "Pee Pee Grease?"
Me: [Still laughing - actually LOLing, and quite nearly ROFLMAOing] No, I called you "PEE WEE REESE."
Eric: I thought you said "Pee Pee Grease."
Me: "No, I said Pee Wee Reese."
Eric: I like "Pee Pee Grease" better.
My Inner Monologue: Of course you do. You're Kughen Spawn.
Me: Hmmmm, yeah, well, let's not share that one outside the house, okay?
Eric: [Running off] Pee Pee Grease, Pee Pee Grease, Pee Pee Grease...
My Inner Monologue: What's the over and under on whether we'll get a call from the school today?

If every morning opened with a belly laugher like that, maybe I could get the hang of this morning thing. Maybe.

101 Absolutely True Facts About Me...Really

While I have shared some of the things you see here, there are many previously unknown facts about your wayward author. Everything you read here is true. I swear. I am not making any of this up. Trust me.

1. I don't like to brag - I really don't - but I am the butt model for Loverboy's "Get Lucky" album.
2. I think it would be great if 1970s fashions came back. I'd look groovy in bell bottoms, platform, zippered boots, and gold neck chains.
3. I wear my sunglasses at night. That's just the way I roll.
   
4. I've been asked by the local authorities to not visit the states of Iowa or Nebraska ever again. I'd tell you why, but part of my pre-trial agreement dictates that the facts of the case remain closed.
5. I once had the extreme misfortune of getting the chorus from "Elvira" stuck in my head: "Elvira! Giddy Up Oom Poppa Omm Poppa Mow Mow, Giddy Up Oom Poppa Omm Poppa Mow Mow." I thought I was a goner.  Dave Grohl rescued me.
6. If you see me and I don't acknowledge you, please assume that I am engaging in international espionage. Please don't blow my cover.
7. If I had to dress as one of the Village People, I'd choose the Native American chief. I look great without a shirt.
8. When I am at home, I wear my tinfoil hat to prevent the aliens from reading my thoughts.
9. Speaking of aliens, I once was abducted by little green men. They found me rather perplexing and sent me packing - after an uncomfortable and invasive (ahem) exam.
10. I grok. Do you?
11. I am the other white meat known as "Kid Funky Fly."
12. I do all my own stunts. I like to keep it real.
13. I am dressed like a Spanish Conquistador. Right now. Really.
14. I suffer from terrible spine issues that have caused me to give up my much beloved career as a gymnast. The uneven bars were my specialty. I even had to give up men's synchronized swimming, which just broke my heart.
15. My beagle, Peter Franklin Kughen, pilots his own World War I-era Sopwith Camel. Though it looks an awful lot like a doghouse, he has flown me behind enemy lines many times.
16. I am your boogie man. I'm here to do whatever I can.
17. I once hooked what I thought was Jimmy Hoffa's long lost corpse while fishing in a nearby river. It turned out to be an old sneaker – a red Chuck Taylor.
18. I have an imaginary friend named "Ted." Ted has an imaginary dog named "Steve."
19. I wish capes and cloaks would make a comeback. Being rather tall, I look GREAT in a cape.
20. I like movies about gladiators.
21. I once had a torrid love affair with the bearded lady in a traveling circus. Don't ask. The memories are painful.
22. I once conducted experiments to determine the exact height from which a cat can fall and NOT land on his feet. 136.7 feet is the answer.
23. Speaking of cats, my cat, Milo Montgomery Kughen, and I recently broke the sound barrier in a rocket ship that we built from a rusted out AMC Pacer.
24. I once ordered a rocket from ACME. I waited by the mailbox for a whole 10 seconds before it arrived.
25. I am the sole survivor of a Peruvian jungle mission to find lost riches. The rest of my party was killed and eaten by cannibals. I used my professional evasion and combat skills to fight my way back to civilization. I only talk about it after a sufficient amount of whisky.
26. For several years, I lived on a Grecian hillside where I herded goats.
27. I survived in college on a diet consisting of Ramen noodles, canned ravioli, mac and cheese, and Wisconsin Club beer. I have no idea why I have digestion issues now.
28. In my spare time, I follow the Google car around, acting entirely abnormal. To date, I appear in 361 cities, often dressed as a Hare Krishna.
29. I used to be able to belch the entire alphabet. Currently, I lack the requisite diaphragm strength to get beyond the letter "N."
30. In college, I studied to be a rodeo clown. I suffered some head injuries.
31. Also while in college, I made extra money dancing at a fine establishment known as The Golden Fox. I made mucho deniro on wet t-shirt night.
32. I once inadvertently glued myself to a ladder and lost much of the skin on my palms.
33. When I get bored, I drive around neighborhoods in my car with the windows down, playing ice cream truck music really loudly. Kids follow me everywhere.
34. I sometimes follow people on a sidewalk until they say something to me. At that point, I accuse them of following me, the long way around. They usually don't get it. Sometimes, they call the authorities.
35. Because the authorities are sometimes notified - and because I lack the physical ability to run like the wind - I have perfected the art of urban camo. I'm right behind you, right now, and you didn't even notice me, did you?
36. The voices in my head often perform as a barbershop quartet. It's distracting, but they sound fantastic. They also dress alike, too.
37. Sometimes, I sing like nobody's watching. I don't get invited to business meetings anymore.
38. Currently, I am lead cowbellist in a honky-tonk band.
39. I really hope that when the aliens come back to visit me a second time that they bring the hyperspace technology that they promised me.
40. I often climb onto rooftops and smile for a Google photo.
41. Sometimes, I feel like a nut. Sometimes, I don't.
42. Yesterday, I worked the entire day while wearing a grass skirt and a coconut bra. The bra was exceptionally uncomfortable. Unfortunately, coconuts only grow so large.
43. Let's see...I have a skateboard, some duct tape and a cat. Gonna be a long day for the cat...
44. I have spent hours deep within my subterranean lair hatching my latest mustache-twisting evil plan for world dominion using only genetically-engineered crocodiles, non-stop playing of Barry Manilow records, and reverse gravity fields.
45. It is my considered opinion that many people LOL too much. I'm all about funny, but most things really aren't LOL kind of funny. And don't get me started on the ROFLMAO'ers...
46. Earlier this year, I Evel Knieveled my way over a row of brave Chihuahuas on my 1976 Huffy Evel Knievel dirt bike. Next, I'll jump a row of taller dogs. Irish setters, maybe.
47. Have you ever dialed 867-5309 and asked for Jenny? I have. I learn some really bad words that way.
48. Though we touched and went our separate ways, I still love you.
49. When Jay-Z doesn't know what to do, he calls me.
50. I often help little old ladies across the street - whether they want to go or not.
51. I have an unreasonable fear of squirrels. Just look at them. LOOK AT THEM! They're all twitchy and stuff. And they have beady little eyes that say "helter skelter." To me, anyway.
52. I've been through the desert on a horse...named Barry. Why are you looking at me like that?
53. I don't share this with many people, but my dog, Pete, is quite the conversationalist. Last night, we talked about string theory, chaos mathematics and the perplexing density of fruit cake.
54. When they make a movie about my life - and they will, oh yes, they most certainly will - I want the closing credits to roll while Ram Jam sings "Black Betty." Why? Because that song rules. That's why.
55. For fun, I sometimes get a bucket of street marking yellow paint and make my own creative road markings. Sometimes, I paint "STOP" right before a set of zebra stripes that stretches across the entire road. Much hilarity ensues.
56. Speaking of signs, I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes.
57. When I was a kid, I used to carefully place Snap-Pops under the feet on the toilet seat and then tell my dad and brother to stay out of the bathroom. When mom went in, we'd all gather outside the door and wait for the screaming to start. My mom went gray earlier than some moms.
58. I recently made arrangements for my funeral and burial. When the undertaker asked what I wanted on my tombstone, I said "pepperoni." He didn't get it.
59. I would like to be Jack Bauer. Well, except for the episode in each season in which he was tortured. Then, I'd like to be me again.
60. Now you can call me Ray, or you can call me J, or you can call me Johnny, or you can call me Sonny, or you can call me Junie, or you can call me Junior. Now you can call me Ray J, or you can call me RJ, or you can call me RJJ, or you can call me RJJ Jr., but you doesn't hasta call me Johnson!
61. Really scary movies, well, scare me. I have a pretty vivid imagination. I don't really need Hollywood's help. If my imagination were a thing that I could take out and put on the ground, it would don a top hat and cane, then begin singing "hello! ma baby, hello! ma honey, hello! ma ragtime gal..."
62. Did you know that with a pen knife and some careful craftsmanship you can make a G.I. Joe with Kung Fu grip make obscene gestures? Well, you can. So I've heard.
63. I currently hold the state record for dwarf tossing. Don't knock it. If you bend your knees just so and get the right loft, you can toss your average dwarf a country mile.
64. My dad was a television repairman. He had an awesome set of tools. I can fix this.
65. My dream is to open a bait/tackle, liquor, and baseball card and dirty bookstore. How could that business model not make money?
66. I don't know why, but I often think that clowns are following me. The one under my bed tells me I'm crazy.
67. I sign autographs every Wednesday evening, though I won't sign anything relating to the aforementioned gluing-of-the-hands-to-the-ladder incident. Sorry. No exceptions.
68. I found a free cat at the side of the road the other day. He doesn't purr. Or eat. Or use the litter box. He smells bad, too. He appears to be defective.
69. After a suitable amount of liquor, I do a pretty mean Mick Jagger impression.
70. After I die and I am ready to come back as someone else, I hope I come back as someone as cool, as intelligent, and as good looking as me. Otherwise, it's going to be a real let down.
71. Speaking of dying, because I believe reincarnation is entirely possible, instead of “RIP” I want “BRB” on my tombstone.
72. And then I saw her face. Now I'm a believer.
73. If you like, you may refer to me as Doctor. Doctor Johnny Fever. It will be even better if you just sit right down, relax, open your ears real wide and say, "Give it to me straight, Doctor, I can take it!"
74. I'm still pen pals with a feisty member of the TSA in Atlanta who took his hands-on pre-flight search a little too seriously.
75. I once lost a fight to a Asian midget lady. While small, she had tiny fists of fury.
76. Sometimes, when the wind is just right, I can hear the sweet call of the smallmouth bass. Really.
77. I once performed a bris. Once. It didn't take. I hung up my brissing tools after that. 
78.  My motto: Live hard. Play hard. Visit the ER often. 
79.  Unfortunately, I once fell for the ol' "banana-in-the-tail pipe.
80. "Why you be mad-doggin' me, punk? I don’t suffer no fools mad-doggin’ me
81. I have reached Polomalu levels of scalp and hairness.
82. After a series of bad life choices, I am now concerned that I am going to end up living in a van down by the river.
83. I am not sure which is worse: forgetting to remember something, or remembering that I forgot something.
84. I am the superhero known as Adjective Man. I have a cape and everything.
85. I think life would be better if random groups of people broke out into Monty Python-like musicals from time to time. What shopping trip wouldn't be made better if everyone in the produce section suddenly broke into a perfectly choreographed musical that spilled out into the parking lot? I mean really...
86. I think it would be great if someone followed me around narrating my every move. The narrator would announce the mundane things, such as "and with a steely grin, Rick proceeds to dig lint from his belly button," to the more serious matters, such as "and thanks to Rick's boundless courage, the free world will remain free, the forces of evil thwarted yet again." And don’t be thinking that I stole this idea. I had this idea long before “Stranger than Fiction” came out. I am still waiting for my royalty checks.
87. I was born a poor black child. I remember the days, sittin' on the porch with my family, singin' and dancin' down in Mississippi.
88. I once fought off a pack of meat fork wielding pixies using only a pellet gun.
89. I'll eat most anything, though I think grapefruit is an abomination. Really, it's a crime against humanity.
90. In my spare time, I like to pole vault.
91. I really like it when I am hailed as "O Captain, My Captain."
92. I would like it if you brought me a shrubbery.
93. When I finally got rid of my mullet, I discovered that with the improved aerodynamics, I was much, much faster.
94. I really wish I could yodel.
95. I name each and every fish that I catch.
96. If they still made Hai Karate cologne, I'd wear it...just so I could say that I'm wearing Hai Karate cologne.
97. I have a new line of Rick Kughen action figures, complete with Kung Fu grip, coming out soon.
98. I write the songs that make the young girls cry.
99. I once saw Elvis in a K-Mart. He had fried peanut butter and banana sandwich smears on the front of his sequined jumpsuit.
100. Sometimes when I am trapped in a long phone conversation, I pace around the house pretending I am a swashbuckling hero while making jabbing, cutting motions in the air.
101. I have a pet tree frog named Thurston.
102. BONUS ITEM! I sometimes cover myself in olive oil and sit, cross-legged in my backyard, while singing show tunes. Why? Because it makes me happy. I don't get invited to many neighborhood barbecues though. Perhaps there's a connection.

Jive Talkin'

Recently, I found myself embroiled in a rather hairy situation.

While my wife, Charlotte, and I were cleaning up after dinner, I was waxing poetic about how pleased I've been with the beard I've managed to grow, just one-third of the way through Movember.

After a pause that can be only accurately described as "pregnant," Charlotte looked at me and said something like, "Well, it's definitely better than I thought it would be. I can actually call it a beard without feeling like I'm insulting beards. Now, Jeff Riley's beard could jump up and take your beard's lunch money, But, you can most certainly call what you have, 'a beard,' if you really want to."

For those of you unfamiliar with the hirsute tour de force that is Mr. Riley, Jeff and I worked together for many years as editors at Pearson Education prior to him retiring to a life of self-employment, Cheerwine and Bojangles Chicken-n-Biscuits somewhere in the uncivilized reaches of North Carolina. His wit, rakish good looks and Sasquatch-like hairiness are known far and wide.

Now, I wouldn't normally throw a friend under the bus like this, but when my bride called into question the manliness of my scruff by invoking the ferocity of the Riley beard, I had to think fast. And besides, he lives roughly 660 miles away. I figured any bent feelings he might have wouldn't survive a car ride that long. By the time he got here, I was banking on him having forgotten why he wanted to bludgeon me with a tin of body wax, and we'd just go have some beers, and talk about why I am his funniest friend or something.

So, without missing a beat, I said, "Well, Jeff Riley's knuckle hair could jump up and take my beard's lunch money. So, there's that."

With my machismo safely defended, many a laugh were had here in the kitchen at The Kughen Home for the Mentally Divergent while we slogged through the evening dinner cleanup ritual.

Now, if you've been reading my blog, then you know that my imagination often runs away with me, as it were. Case in point, many moons ago, I remember sitting across from Jeff in an editorial meeting at Pearson when I noticed that each of his knuckles had what appeared to be a miniature Barry Gibb on them - all of whom looked to be prancing around and singing "Stayin' Alive" just for me.

Trust me when I tell you that it is exceptionally difficult to maintain any sort of professional decorum when 10 tiny Barry Gibbs are grinding their little white jump-suited bodies through "Stayin' Alive" while balanced on your friend's knuckles. 

This is the kind of situation that sometimes has led me laughing at inappropriate times and not being able to explain why. As my dearly departed friend, Mark Reddin, used to explain when asked about his oddly-timed and inexplicable bursts of laughter, "It's just funny shit. You wouldn't understand."

I am not without compassion, however. I felt badly about using Jeff's knuckle forestation as a distraction from talk of my thin beard. Really. I'm not making that up. Well, at least insofar as you know anyway. Ahem.

I mean, there Jeff was, minding his own business there in the wilds of the North Carolina hills - possibly coiffing his back hair - when I threw him and his densely forested knuckles right under the proverbial bus. 

Surely, he understands that I was just jive talkin'...

Be sure to check out Jeff's Facebook blog, Finding Jeffery. Jeff is one of the funniest people I know. Jeff is quite the funny (and hairy - dang, I just can't stop) human. (Also, see my MoSpace and donate if you are sufficiently impressed with my facial foliage and/or you want to contribute to men's health research).

Good Salsa Gone Bad

A couple of weeks ago, I learned a valuable and decidedly painful lesson about Chipotle hot salsa, physics, and splatter patterns.

It turns out that if you inadvertently drop one of those little plastic cups of salsa from about waist high, it will bounce and ultimately spray your recliner, ottoman, coffee table, end table, love seat and your beagle.

Said beagle will then - despite your repeated admonitions and pleas - will begin lapping up said Chipotle hot salsa as quickly as his little tongue will lap. Of course, the speed at which a beagle can greedily collect hot salsa - or any condiment, really - will far exceed the speed which his tongue will send a message to his brain indicating that said substance is tasty, but painful.

While you're madly trying to wipe up and spray your carpet and upholstery with cleaner, your beagle will then start to whine - cry, really - and look at you as if you made his tongue burn with the heat of one thousand suns, rather than blaming his selfish desire to abscond with free salsa. Of course, he'll then want to go outside and eat poop, or whatever beagles eat in place of sour cream when they get into something too spicy.

So, with the aforementioned beagle wiped down and now outside, you'll begin using your Little Green Machine carpet and upholstery cleaner and a gallon of Resolve to clean up this mess that is putting a serious cramp into your peaceful afternoon of NFL Red Zone and napping. 

You'll soon learn that even though no more than an ounce or two of salsa was involved, an ounce or two of salsa can create an amazing spray pattern. In addition to the previously mentioned furniture, carpet and beagle, you'll find it on various sofa pillows, your child's books and toys (the ones he should've put away) your blanket, the walls, the legs of your Levis and who knows what the <bleep> else.

In the end, you'll have cleaned most of the living room floor, your ottoman, the love seat and the dog. You'll also ponder a bit on just how you came up with some of the swear word combinations that you uttered while cleaning up said mess. Some of them were epic. Maybe you should have written them done. True inspiration like that doesn't come around often.

I wonder if that Luminol stuff that police spray around to find blood splatters would help me find any rogue drops of Chipotle salsa that escaped my vigorous and protracted cleaning attempts? I think I still have a black light left over from my college years around here somewhere.

It might be nice to use said black light to do something other than light up my groovy dorm room Led Zeppelin poster.

The Dog Rocket

Today's free fishing and dog owner advice:

If you own a hunting dog (even if he's never been trained to hunt) and you take said hunting dog fishing in your boat, keep these things in mind:

1. Hunting dogs hunt. All the time, even when it looks like they're asleep.
2. When you fish near reeds and other heavy vegetation, said vegetation might appear to the aforementioned hunting dog to be solid ground.
3. Ducks, geese, swans and other birds congregate in reeds and thick, dense aquatic vegetation.
4. An angler easing around said aquatic vegetation using a trolling motor is really quiet and can inadvertently flush out water fowl that have gathered in a concealed pocket of vegetation for cover.
5. Birds being flushed out of a hiding place make A LOT of noise.
6. Noisy birds being flushed from their hidey-holes immediately garner the rapt attention of any hunting dog you might have on board - even if said hunting dog is lazing around, licking himself.
7. A chubby, aging beagle who hates the water but insists on fishing with you can get from one end of the boat to the other with startling speed.
8. Remembering point #2 above (water vegetation may very well appear to be solid ground to a recently awakened beagle) your resident hunting dog might decide to launch himself from the boat in pursuit of the fleeing water fowl.
9. Dogs chasing water fowl - even portly ones that sleep on pillowy beds - are fearless and will launch themselves right off the bow of your boat.
10. A maladroit angler with a really bad back can snare a dog rocket being launched from the bow of the boat provided that he doesn't mind blowing the last good disc he has in his back. How said clumsy angler didn't end up doing a header off his boat while holding a beagle that was running in mid-air is a mystery for the ages.

Tag PhotoAdd LocationEdit

The Jimmy Olsen Blues

As a former newspaper reporter in a couple of small central Indiana cities, I covered my share of dead dog stories.

"Dead dogs" are stories that have no chance of being interesting, but are ones your editor sends you out to cover because he has space to fill on page 9 of the local section, or because she has a hole tonight's news telecast that needs filling. (Or because he not-so-secretly hates you.) Why you find yourself in possession of a dead dog story doesn't matter.  What does matter is the next few hours in which you try just about anything to breathe life into a story that you know is a goner.

Dead dogs might be stories about the weather. Maybe it's a story about a local farmer who has grown the county's biggest acorn squash. Maybe it's a story about a local woman who crochets clothes for dogs (ostensibly live ones). Maybe it's story about the Aunt Gracie Longbottom who for the past 57 years has tantalized the town with her scrumptious carrot cake. The bottom line is that a dead dog has no hope of being interesting and every expectation to be a soul sucking story upon which you don't wish to ascribe your name or likeness.

I don't mean to infer that you hope for death and mayhem to serve as fodder for interesting news reporting, but dead dog stories are the ones that make your career flash before your eyes. In journalism school, you had visions of exposing injustice, of shining a light on the dark underbelly of crime, and of your acceptance speech when you're inevitably awarded the Pulitzer. Six years later, you're trying to make a story about town hall meeting in BFE sound remotely interesting. I can remember standing there, covering that meeting, reporter's notebook in hand, thinking "how did it come to this?"

Recently, I was watching one of my local news channels when I heard a news reporter utter a statement that was the verbal equivalent to pinning a note reading "goodbye, cruel world" to your shirt and leaping off a bridge.

This unfortunate reporter was attempting to report a "story" concerning an Indianapolis neighborhood in which people drive too fast. Really? A story about people driving too fast? Clearly, news was slow in the Circle City on this sunny April afternoon.

Apparently, however, this dead dog story actually contained a real live, er, dead dog. The dog in question allegedly met his maker after being hit by a vehicle that was traveling too fast through a residential area. I am a dog lover through and through, but a story about a dog being hit by a car is about as newsworthy as the boil your Aunt Barbara had lanced last week.

As the reporter was valiantly trying to make this dead dog into a real story, he said, and I quote, "the dog, affectionately known as....'Poopy'...is now buried in the backyard."

Trust me when I tell you that whenever your editor sends you out on boondoggle assignment such as this, the person you interview will always, always be a crackpot, have a bizarre name, be missing most of his or her teeth, or have a dead dog named "Poopy." 

Always. 

This is what I call The First Axiom of News Reporting.

It's an immutable law of reporting. Ask any reporter.
 
I looked into the reporter's dead eyes staring at me from my television screen and I swear, he was silently emoting, "someone, please, please for the love of all that's good and holy, someone please smother me with a pillow."

His pain was palpable - and a pain that I know all too well.

Unfortunately, dead dog stories aren't the only way in which a reporter can see his career flash before his very eyes. Sometimes, the biggest news stories are invaded by The Crazy Passerby.

The Crazy Passerby (also known as The Second Axiom of News Reporting) is the inevitable witness to whatever news story you're trying to cover. You might not know this, but no newsworthy event in the history of journalism has been witnessed by a relatively sane person with a decent command of the language, and the owner of most of his or her original teeth (or at the very least, a decent set of dentures that he or she is actually wearing).

You can't avoid The Crazy Passerby. You can ignore all of the obvious card-carrying crazies - the ones that look like Aqualung; the ones covered in cat hair and wearing purple spandex; the ones that carry a pocket knife in one of those little leather belt pouches (oh yes, every single one of those folks is plumb crazy). You can avoid all of the usual suspects and set your eyes on the most normal looking person in sight, and without fail - WITHOUT fail - he or she will open his or her mouth and the crazy will flop right out and wiggle around all over your shoes.

One such Crazy Passerby tried to nose her way into possibly the biggest news story of my young career. It was April 1992, and I was a police reporter for the Kokomo Tribune. It was a Saturday and like most days off, I was running errands with my police radio lying on the passenger seat of my car. To say that I was dedicated to my job is an understatement. I literally slept with my scanner, running out at all hours of the night to cover shootings, fires and all manner of police and firefighter fun. Dates were hard to come by in those days. Go figure.

On this particular day, I just happened to be on the city's north side, when a call went over the air regarding a plane crash near Grissom Air Force Base, located near Peru, IN and about 12 miles north of Kokomo. 

At any rate, the crash itself was a tragic event in which a Air Force Reserve pilot crashed his A-10 Warthog fighter plane into a wooded area near the base, killing him and destroying the plane. 

(I want to say at this point that I am in no way trivializing the pilot's death. His death was a tragic loss to his family and our country. The rest of the story I'm telling here has little to nothing to do with the crash itself.)

There were several people nearby who saw or heard the crash. I got a line on one such woman and after ditching a bubble-headed blonde television reporter who was following me around, leeching off my journalistic instincts, I managed to find the "witness." One look should have told me to stay away. 

Far, far away. 

Her eyes were flashing "Helter Skelter" like a cheap neon motel sign on the fritz. Being the ever intrepid reporter, however, I pressed on.
 
After getting the proper spelling of her name and writing down her phone number (something I always did so that if I needed to call back later for clarification, I could) I asked her what she heard or saw, and I will never forget her response:

"Well, I was a'sittin' on the pot when I heard this loud WHOOOSH and BOOM!"

I resisted the natural urge to ask her if the loud whooshing and booming might've come from the porcelain throne upon which she was perched, but I managed to refrain.

She continued: "I got up, ran outside and saw the biggest dadburn fireball you ever did see."

The snapping sound heard by people nearby might have sounded as though someone stepped on a dry tree branch, but it was really the sound of my reporter's notebook slamming shut.

One would think the sudden and very decisive closing of one's notebook would ward off further comment, but Little Miss Helter Skelter was not the be deterred. The Crazy Passerby continued: "I didn't even flush, I just got up and ran outside to see just what IN THE HELL was going on out there. I didn't even bring my gun."

At this point, I was doing my best defensive back backpedal, trying to get away from this Looney Tune and she just kept walking with me, offering all kinds of helpful advice about the secret goings on at the sinister military base.

"It was one'a them military planes," she said with a strange hand gesture that I think was supposed to represent an airplane flying through the air. It was as though she thought I might not have gleaned the fact that a military plane was involved even though there were scores of military officers and vehicles in the immediate area that pretty much had already given that nugget of precious information away. 

"They fly right out of Grissom, you know. At all hours. Lots of 'em."

By that point, I was thinking of ways that I could end my suffering by taking a mental inventory of the items in my possession at the moment that could be used to take my own life. I had a ballpoint pen, a notebook, a Bic lighter and a police radio. My options were stab myself in the neck with the pen, eat my reporter's notebook and hope that the spiral binding did bad things down there, light myself on fire, or bludgeon myself with the radio.

Perhaps sensing my discomfort, the lady asked me if I had a business card. In my dumbstruck terror, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to her. I can still see that moment in slow motion, my hand holding the card as my brain sent signals to my arm to move it forward while grasping said card, and stopping just in front of The Crazy Passerby so that she could take it. Over and over, I see a slow motion replay of my arm moving toward her, stopping and her taking the card.

The good news at that very moment was that the card seemed to placate her long enough for me to trot away - and trot, I did. I was literally wishing that the aforementioned bubble-headed blonde female news reporter in heels would rescue me, or that the MPs - who were looking for me and the Tribune's photographer, by the way - would just shoot me. I literally had to just walk away with her still rambling away about conspiracy theories aplenty.

Eventually, after speaking to dozens of military personnel, traipsing around a muddy creek bank, getting poison ivy, having a loaded M16 brandished in my general direction, and nearly ending up in a military brig (long story) I made it back to the newsroom and wrote like the wind, posting two front page stories in time for the first print deadline.

The following day, I was in a mostly empty newsroom working on my Day Two story - news lingo for a follow-up story that adds to deadline story from the day before. I had done several phone interviews, spoken to family members of the pilot and done as much research as a could on the A-10 fighter plane (remember, this was 1992 and the Internet was still only available on college campuses and at government facilities). 

I was about one third of the way into my Day Two story when my phone rang. This was also before CallerID was on every phone, so I had no idea who it was, but I was assuming that because it was a Sunday and that I had just left messages with multiple people, that it was probably someone important returning one of my calls. It wasn't.

You know who it was: The Crazy Passerby.

I'd barely gotten "Tribune, Rick Kughen" out of my mouth when the voice of crazy said, "why didn't you include me in your story, Mr. Tribune Staff Writer?" She put enough stink on "Tribune Staff Writer" to offend a fish monger.

As you probably assumed, I decided that a serious story about the tragic death of a decorated Air Force pilot was not the place to quote woman who was "on the pot" when the pilot met his end. I thought the visage of her running out the door - pants only partially returned to their upright position - would have been wildly inappropriate.

The voice on the other end of the line continued, "I took the time to talk to you about the big ol' plane crash over there, and I told all my friends I was gonna be in the paper. You made a fool outta me, mister."

I swear, I am NOT making any of this up.

Calmly, I said, "Ma'am, I didn't use your quotes because your quotes just didn't seem appropriate given the gravity of the story and I didn't want to sully the pilot's remembrance by mentioning that the nearest witness was relieving herself at the time of his death."

"Stop using all them big words, Mr. Smarty Pants," she hissed into the phone. "You didn't want people to know what I know. That's why you didn't put me in your story. You made me look stupid to my friends."

I resisted the urge to point out that I rescued her from looking stupid to the entire Kokomo Tribune readership. After spraying me with one of the most stunning strings of profanity I've EVER heard, the line went dead.

After sitting there in stunned silence for a few seconds, a wry smile ran across my face. After scratching around on my desk, I found my Indianapolis phone book and called the television network for which the aforementioned bubble-headed blonde television reporter worked. After being transferred to the reporter's voice mail and hearing her sing-songy outgoing message, I was finally greeted with a beep, after which I said:

"Hi, my name is Milton (last name withheld) and my wife witnessed that plane crash yesterday, but was too upset to speak to anyone. She has a lot of great information to share and she's only giving it to one reporter. She'd like you to call her, please."

I could barely keep from laughing as I said, "her number is (insert The Crazy Passerby's number here). Thank you."

I almost fell out of my chair laughing in an empty newsroom.

The Hamburglar Gets Shanked

My dad worked at GM in their tool crib - a pretty cushy job in which he was paid real money to sit at a little window and fill parts and tool orders. The most important part of his job, however, was to play practical jokes. The guys in the tool crib were a raucous bunch, often playing jokes on one another. They also were serious about their food. They had an entire kitchen set up in the tool crib and every day the west end of the plant smelled like the finest French restaurant. However - and this was a BIG however - one thing the tool crib guys never joked around with was food. 

Cover a black toilet seat with permanent indigo ink right before the boss goes in for his daily constitutional? Sure! 

Steal the foreman's coveted tool box, paint it yellow and cover it with a series of intricately painted cartoon characters? Right on, brother! 

Discover that one frequent visitor to the tool crib was deathly afraid of snakes and rig a realistic looking snake to drop onto the poor guy's head? Groovy! 

Mess with a man's food? Never! Sacrilege!

Unfortunately, one of his coworkers decided to break the tool crib's "Never Kid Around About Food" rule. Apparently, this weasel of a man was known to steal lunches and then openly brag about it. One of my dad's signature dishes was a gourmet hamburger. Guys came from all over the plant to enjoy his home cooked burgers - that is if he invited you to partake in their beefy goodness. Only a select few garnered invitations.

The aforementioned sticky-fingered coworker, however, was never invited, yet many a burger ended up on a milk carton when this man was around. He bragged far and wide how stealing my dad's delicious hamburgers was his coup de grace. Chef de Cuisine Kughen, however, was not amused. So, he and the other tool crib heroes plotted and conspired. They schemed and they colluded. I hear tale that they might have even artificed, but that might just be conjecture. It's hard to tell as the story might've grown taller in the re-telling.

But, I digress.

Back to nefarious plotting of our tool crib heroes. After discussing a variety of machinations, they settled on hitting this thief where he lived - right on the dinner plate. So, they went to Hank's - that was the local grocery store in Marion, IN at the time - and purchased a goodly portion of Gaines Burgers. Any self-respecting dog owner in the 1970s and 1980s remembers Gaines Burgers - small, hamburger-shaped patties of horse meat goodness wrapped in fancy cellophane packets and designed to fool dogs into believing they were eating a Big Mac right along side you, while you scarfed down a real Big Mac. Of course, they weren't fooled - and they exacted revenge later when they took a dump in your shoe.

But, I digress yet again.

So, the Tool Crib Gang mixed several boxes of Gaines Burgers patties with some other mystery meat that I hear might or might not have also included some of the substance Fido left for you in your shoe. They formed lovely patties and grilled them on their little charcoal grill - yes, they had a CHARCOAL GRILL inside the plant. No, this wasn't considered GM-approved equipment. They grilled up these delectable bites of brown goodness and left them right were Mr. Five-Finger Discount (and soon to be Mr. Very Sick and Have No Idea Why) would find them. And find them he did.

Apparently, if you get the mix of Gaines Burgers, mystery meat and fecal matter just right, burgers made from this concoction are purely sublime. The man ate several of these gut bombs before his stomach caught up to his taste buds and hit the eject levers - going in both directions. Word is that he made it to a waste basket for the upward ejection and was forced to scamper toward the crib bathroom for the, uh, downward ejection.

Did I mention that they liked to cover the black toilet seats with permanent indigo ink? Yeah, I think I did.