A friend of mine who’s a dog expert convinced Dian and I that Jasper wasn’t a good match for us.  Dian quilts, I write, but Jasper needs to run and play, and plenty of outdoors attention.  In the absence of lots and lots of supervised play, he tended to tear up, chew up, or otherwise destroy things.  Not because he was being bad, just because he was looking for something to play with where we were, inside.

My friend contacted a friend in the local Humane Society who checked out Jasper and agreed that, although we were good dog people and Jasper was a good doggy (yes he is, yes he is, isn’t he, yes he is), that Jasper needed a different type of home and surroundings.

The Humane Society lady searched around and discovered a nice family up at the lakes, one that had other Australian Shepherds, who would be a good match and arranged for a meeting.  They met Jasper and loved him from the beginning.  Jasper liked them a lot, but loved their other dogs even more.  We checked out their home and grounds, talked it over, and decided that Jasper would be much happier with them.

So Dian and I are puppy-less once more, but the Humane Society lady is going to keep her eyes open for any Keeshond or other couch potato breed that’ll be more suited for our laid back life.

We’re gonna miss out little maniac, but he’s much happier now and that’s the important part.

I dismissed it at the time as simple rudeness, but it made me think some since.

Humans are, for the most part, ignorant assholes.  Now, that’s not to say that I think anyone reading this is an ignorant asshole … hell, as far as I’m concerned, just reading my bits of silliness move you way up on the asshole scale.  I’m sure that each and every one of you are well educated and thoughtful assholes and I’d swear to that in court.

However, sadly, the vast majority of humans are ignorant and they are assholes.

For instance, there are millions who do not believe in the moon landings, the Holocaust, or evolution.  There are millions who believe that they are superior to those with different skin color, religions beliefs, or genitalia.  Every hate mongering asshole who’s walked the Earth has had followers and people who would have you believe they are God-fearing Christians routinely picket the funerals of those noble souls who’ve fallen in the service of their country, just to spread the word that God killed them because their country doesn’t condemn homosexuals.

Deep within damn near each of us is a small little person who, given the right incentive, will rise up against anyone it perceives as different or a threat.  Hell, we – as a people – mostly stood by and did nothing as our country rounded up and imprisoned American citizens who’s only crime was being of Japanese descent.  What a bunch of assholes, huh?

Many still think of that period as our countries finest hour, too.

And did you know that there are even those who will pay, and pay handsomely, to watch movies with Pauly Shore in them?

Me, I’d like to be remembered as a fairly enlightened asshole, myself, but will settle if there are only a few thousand people out there who consider me to be as much of an ignorant asshole as themselves (and, thereby, only fit for contempt) as long as they add that I was a fairly funny ignorant asshole.  I’d like to believe that my little bits of silliness have brought a grin to the faces of some of my fellow assholes and would be overjoyed to be remembered that way.

So one of the ignorant assholes who overrun this sad little mud ball doesn’t know anyone who likes my wife?  Not a single person?

Thank God for small favors, eh?

World President Timberlake, in-between performances of a history making reunion tour, addresses the problem with the world’s foremost scientists and penal experts.  “What we need is a secure prison; one that is not only as close to escape proof as possible, but one that is far enough removed from the citizenry that there is no danger whatsoever to them.  Moreover, if at all possible, we need this prison to be as self-sufficient as possible, in order not to break the World Bank and bring back the bad old days of taxes.  Finally, we have to do all this without relocating any citizens, so any plans to use Australia is right out of the question.

“Suggestions, gentlemen?”

They wrangled deep into the night, dismissing idea after idea, until they finally reached the point of tossing out totally ridiculous ideas for consideration, such as transporting all prisoners to the moon (which was voted down when it was discovered to be already copyrighted) and sending them all into the past (which was very quickly voted down once they realized just how unlikely that would make the current reality).

President Timberlake, however, grasped part of that last suggestion and combined it with a distant memory.  A radical scientist had applied to the World Government for a laughably massive grant to pursue the ludicrous idea of creating physical time stations; actual way points – much like rangers cabins – in the time stream that could be used by historians to study various periods with far greater accuracy.  A few phone calls and that slightly insane inventor was brought to the meeting.

After reviewing his math and frankly laughable ideas, the general consensus was a sheepish “oh crap … this could actually work!”  When the intellectually gifted, but obviously mentally twisted, genius also pointed out that, theoretically, there was an infinite amount of totally free real estate available in time, the vote was unanimous.

Strangely enough, the actual work of building the time prison was almost over before it began.  Since everyone “up-stream,” time-wise, was already aware of what was being attempted, they helped … and it became a matter of many, many, MANY hands making light work.  Within a month, the massive complex was built and ready for occupation.

The transfer of the prisoners went surprisingly easy, with only a few ACLU lawyers voicing objections, which were quickly overturned when their clients discovered that their sentences would be over in a few seconds.  Of course, that was subjective time.  From our point of view, in went a defiant young murderer, wait a few seconds, and out came an old and repentant old parolee … along with tons of goods produced by the prisoner during his twenty-five sentence.

(As a matter of fact, several extremely clever men and women realized, shortly after the first few prisoners started in, that here was the solution to having to deal with high school and college students … but that’s another story altogether.)

By the end of the year, the world government decided to name the new prison after the president who had made it possible and held a press conference to officially name it, The Timberlake Time Prison.

A modest President Timberlake, however, asked that the facility be named a little more informally and a bit more colloquially, suggesting a name that was reluctantly agreed to by a grateful world … but, as most political pundits agreed, led to the president losing the next election.  I mean, there’s a limit to gratitude, y’know.

Which is how the first penal facility anchored in the time stream became known as, “Justin, the Nick of Time.”

Thank you.

Oh, I can recognize truly excellent achievements across the board.  Sculpture by Rodin or Remington, paintings by Rembrandt or Gogh, music by Mozart or The Beatles … excellence is easily identifiable and always a pleasure to experience.

However, for pure enjoyment, I adore crap.  I admire Citizen Cane, but would rather re-watch The Barbarians.  I adore haute cuisine, but prefer pizza.  I spend hours reading fine literature, but would rather spend an evening with a Carter Brown.  I have several excellent recordings of classical opera, but know all the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta by heart … and still rather listen to Barry Manilow Live.

The bottom line is that I have the intellect and taste to respect and appreciate the finest in human achievement, but find that – for my personal enjoyment – I’d rather swim in the shallow end of the pool.

A tad disappointing, really.

The only consolation that I can claim is that I won’t go, and never have gone, near any Pauly Shore movie.  Even I have standards, you know …

I have this computer game, Links 2001, which I have never beaten.  Never ever even come close.  The object is to play golf, hence the Links bit, and enjoy yourself, but there is a tournament aspect.  You chose a foursome and play an actual tournament.  Three rounds of golf for a share of a bloody huge purse, depending on your final score.

I play with Arnold Palmer, Keith Clearwater, and Sergio Garcia.  Real golfers of a bygone era and damn good ones.  I have never, ever, beat them.  Every fucking tournament, I come in no better than forth.

For eight damn years, ever since I bought the stupid game, no better than forth.

Well, today I went into the final round of a tournament only one stroke behind Palmer and three behind Clearwater (friggin’ Garcia was around a dozen strokes ahead of all of us, so he doesn’t even figure) ... a real chance of doing better than forth!  We were playing at Mesa Roja, which is one of my favorite courses, and I knew that Palmer always, without fail, bogeys the eighteenth at Mesa Roja!

All I had to do is stay even with Palmer, maybe catch a small break and gain a single stroke on him, and I can come in third!  A couple of birdies and an eagle, and I could even maybe come in second!!

So I concentrated and brought everything I had to the round.  At the end of the front nine, I was solidly in third, one stroke up on Palmer, and gaining on Clearwater.  By the fifteenth hole, I was one up on Clearwater, three up on Palmer, and getting ready to cruise into my first ever non-forth place finish.

So, okay … I went four over par on the fifteenth, due to overshooting the green and ending up behind the only damn bolder on the hole.  I couldn’t punch it over and my shot bounced off the rock and into the water.  I ended up having to make a hell of a chip shot just to come in at four over.

Okay, that put me one behind Palmer (who’d parred the hole) and put Clearwater (who’d managed a birdie) well out of reach.  Fine … Palmer still always bogeyed eighteenth, so all I had to do is stay even until then.  If I parred eighteen, then I’d still tie Palmer for third!

And we both bogeyed eighteen!  I blew an easy two iron shot and dropped into the water, close to two dozen yards from the green, and that was all she wrote.  My first chance to actually do better than forth since I got the damn game and I screwed the pooch.

Fucked up my entire day.  Seriously.  I was in such a foul mood, I had to go for a long drive just to get my head back together. I even ended up in a screaming argument with Dian that took close to three hours and a Dairy Queen sundae just to get past.

Because of a stupid computer golf game.

Now, was that stupid or what?

Ladyqkat brought up an interesting idea, but it all hinges on Pay Pal … and I can’t even figure out their fee system.  I mean, if somebody was crazy enough to want to patronize me and sent $100 to my Pay Pal account (for the highly misguided and borderline insane purpose of keeping me writing my little bits of silliness … as if I could stop at this point [Heinlein was right, y’know]), how much of that would be Pay Pal’s and how much would be mine?  Checking out the fee schedule that they have posted is a little like finding something in ancient martian.

So, anyone actually doing business with these folks?  Any advice or explanations that make sense?

Five strangers literally brought back to life by my hand.

So what the fuck happened to them after that.  I haven’t the slightest idea since I don’t know any of their names.  I’ve tried to get the names from the Coast Guard, just to see what they did with their second chance, but the policy is not to give that information out.  (Understandable, really … I could be some sort of con man … well, some other kind of con man … out to see if I can make a buck or two from their appreciation.)

So did I save five lives or did I save five lives that later went on to save others?  How many lives did I actually save?  Did one of the five save others, did any become doctors, how many lives did I actually affect?

Or did any of those five end up taking any lives?  Crooks of some sort who’s actions led to the destruction of good men and women.  Rapists or mass murderers, rather than firemen and doctors.  Or were they doctors who were also serial rapists?

My act of saving a life was the apex of a pyramid of some sort, with the person I saved going on to alter and affect the lives of others, and those others affecting still more … but was it positive or negative?  Was there a future Jonas Salk among the five or a budding Jack the Ripper?

I think part of my obsession with alternative timeline or reality stories is linked to my obsession with those five and what they did afterwards.  My lack of knowledge inspires and fuels my predilection with what ifs, leading me to wonder about all the ripples one pebble creates.

I’ll never know what happened to any of the five.  Time and distance (added to an unyielding bureaucracy) have sealed that knowledge away, leaving me with a raging desire that will never be satisfied and can only be assuaged, however slightly, with the occasional intellectual masturbation that my bits of silliness permit.

Which is where that last train wreck of a story came from, most likely.  A hero who saved a life, but actually only extended the death for a few years and, without knowing it, doomed dozens of others to horrible ends.  No good deed goes unpunished, indeed.

I intend to somehow donate my mind and consciousness to medical science when I die … they’ll probably use it as some sort of amusement ride.

The hero in this little tale of silliness is Ruben Morese, a fairly nice guy who grew up in a small clapboard house in Dublin, California, just a few miles away from the first Safeway to open in the area.  Rubin’s family, who don’t appear directly in this story, were kind and decent folks who, for the most part, led very uninteresting lives.  For instance, Rubin’s sister, who he rarely thinks of and only occasionally calls, lives in Nebraska and is married to a shoe store manager.  Her name is Jane, which pretty much says it all, really.

The villain of our story is a nondescript adult male who sells woman’s shoes for a living.  Technically, he’s a sales rep for a rather large company that manufactures woman’s shoes and sells hundreds of pairs to stores throughout a bloody huge area, but – and let’s be brutally honest here – a shoe salesman is a shoe salesman, no matter how he sells the damn shoes, okay?  His name was never known to any of those involved with our little tragedy, but for the sake of completeness it was Bob; Bob Helker of 3356 Demont Street, Hayward, California, where he lived with his wife and four children.  Bob was a deacon in his church, a little league coach, and a Boy Scout scoutmaster for his youngest boy’s troop.  Bob also was a bigamist, with families in two other towns, and – oddly enough – an amateur serial killer.  In time, he’d quit the shoe business, killing off all his various families, and move to North Dakota, where he’d specialize in traveling the country and killing loners … but that’s some time in the future and has nothing to do with this story.

The victim is Barbara Mackey, a young woman in her mid-twenties, who believes that she pretty much has it all figured out.  She comes from a broken home, which is not a euphemism; her home was literally broken by a falling plane.  A student pilot was taking lessons when her teacher died of a heart attack, one brought on by poor genetics, but exacerbated by the fact that he was, when all is said and done, a student driver instructor who’s taught roughly five hundred feet up in the sky.  Anyway, the student was only on her second lesson (and had secretly made up her mind to quit and take up quilting, instead), so her decision to try and land on a neighborhood street could, perhaps, be forgiven due to her inexperience and panic.  The fact, however, that she missed the street and plowed straight into the Mackey home is a little less forgivable, although Mr. Mackey eventually came to grips with the loss of his wife and son and did forgive her in his heart.

The setting of our tale is a mall located a few miles from the town center.  Oddly enough, the mall is actually built on top of an ancient Indian burial site, one that contained around ninety-nine percent of the entire tribe who once lived there.  Actually, it contained every single member of that once lively tribe, save one, who lived long enough to bury all the rest, put a rather elaborate and complicated curse on the white man, who’d brought the deadly illness with them as they crossed the new nation, and who died several miles away in full battle mode attacking a wagon train all by himself.  His grave was discovered when they dug the foundation of the Mackey home and his tribe’s graves were discovered when the contractor (a Mr. Frank Mackey, whose family was going to be decimated in a freak plane crash a few years down the road) started digging the foundation for the Sears that was going to anchor the mall.  The last warrior’s remains were sent to a university for study and his people’s remains were quietly collected at night and deposited in a nice new hole, well away from the mall and any possible litigation or legal difficulties.

The fact that one of the remaining Mackey’s was almost killed on the site of the original burial grounds, which were desecrated by her father a few decades earlier, might have given the last surviving warrior a post-mortem smile.  The plane crash and near death wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d cursed the white people, but it would have done in a pinch.

(For the record, by the way, that once happy tribe was known as the Yahoo’s, so their unfortunate fate at least saved a large web company from any possible lawsuits.  This is often how it works, y’know … )

Okay, so this is where the hero, Rubin, saves the victim, Barbara, from the villain, who was nameless (but we all know was actually Bob).  The scene is the street corner in front of the mall (right above the original grave of the last surviving Yahoo warrior’s wife, if you really need to keep tract of such things) and the light has just changed.  Barbara is looking at the coffee shop on the other side of the street and thinking more about the latte she wants than the traffic.

“Hey!  Lady!  LOOK OUT!!”  Ruben leaps forward and grabs Barbara by the neck of her jacket, jerking her back just as the dark Oldsmobile roars through the crosswalk, taking a left.  “Jesus.  Are you alright?”

“Yeah … thanks.  Oh my God, he would have run me right over!”

For the record, Bob would have run over Barbara, killing her, had Rubin not intervened.  However, he also would have been caught, since Rubin was close enough to get his license plate numbers, convicted, discovered to be a bigamist and the seven bodies buried in the backyards of the three different households he maintained would have been discovered while he was still in jail for the vehicular manslaughter charge, which would have put him away for the rest of his life and spared the lives of the two hundred and twenty-six people (which included his wives and children) he eventually murdered.

Ruben, for his quick actions, ended up dating Barbara and getting laid frequently for the next year until he proposed marriage.  Barbara, who did suffer a small whiplash being saved, unfortunately was terrified of commitment, so she ran away the next day and moved to Nebraska, where she ended up having an affair with the husband of Rubin’s sister and, eventually, was the one hundred and eighteenth victim of the serial killer who the press started calling “The Shoe Man,” because of his habit of taking the shoes of his victims.  Her lover, Jane’s husband, quit the shoe business the next day and dedicated himself to tracking down the killer, using his unique experience and understanding of the shoe mentality to eventually bring Bob to justice.

This mishmash of events and coincidences goes by the unlikely title of “life.”

The end.

• * * * *

No, I haven’t the slightest fucking idea where all this came from!  I was in the middle of a game of computer chess when the need to write hit me and this is what spewed out.  I was more of an innocent bystander than author on this one.

No … not who is he, but who does he look like?!  At around 0:50, he guy behind the bar looks up and gives us that “Hmmm … there seems to be a casually dressed man singing very low in the bar” look and, at that moment, I’d swear that our president did a music video in the 80’s!

This here is the cusp of a possible viral video moment, shipmates!  A blending of Internet reality bending  that might be biblical in proportion!  Rick Ashley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up,” now with Barack Obama!

Does anyone happen to know Jon Stewart’s phone number?

Anyway, so I’m watching the video for the first time in decades and I noticed something odd.  Rather, I noticed someone odd in the video.

Shipmates, check me on this:  Here’s the video, play the silly thing (and no, this isn’t a new kind of rick roll) and, at around 0:50, check out the bartender.

That can’t possibly be who it looks like, can it?!?