First and foremost, here's a hoist of the bourbon glass and a tip of the old fedora to Bud Love, owner of Power Recruiting in Toledo, Ohio. Should you have need of his services, you'll find him at:
Bud Love
Power Recruiting
6029 Renaissance Place
Toledo, OH 43623
(419) 720-8708
Reading through the local bird cage liner, what should my bleary, red-rimmed eyes fall upon but a local dog story. Well now, would you look at this. I wrote about this last month here, in Being Railroaded. Tickets can be a bit expensive.
Showing posts with label train wreck. Show all posts
Showing posts with label train wreck. Show all posts
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Friday, March 21, 2014
Being Railroaded
On the morning of May 2, 2013, on her farm in Lambertville, Michigan, Stephanie Sonnenberg swears that she saw two dogs kill two show pigs inside her barn. Sonnenberg says one dog attacked her, but she was able to defend herself with a wooden board and overpower the dog, holding it for animal control. One dog is a husky, weighing in at 60 pounds. The other is a husky mix, weighing about 30 pounds. The two pigs weigh approximately 100 pounds each. The two dogs are owned by Janni Juhasz who resides just across the border in Ohio.
By Michigan law, the dogs must be destroyed and Sonnenberg must be compensated for her loss. Sonnenberg claims the pigs were worth $45,000, or about $225 per pound. Another source states that Sonnenberg was offered $9,000 ($45 per pound) and turned it down. These appear to be pretty expensive show pigs.
The first time I read about this insanity I wrote it off as just another filler for the birdcage liner, but then I got to thinking. Pigs are tough customers and have an irascible disposition. They are not anything close to Arnold from Green Acres. If the dogs actually did mix it up with the pigs, why aren't the dogs all torn up? As it turns out, I'm not the only one asking that question. Keep reading to see the latest news.
By Michigan law, the dogs must be destroyed and Sonnenberg must be compensated for her loss. Sonnenberg claims the pigs were worth $45,000, or about $225 per pound. Another source states that Sonnenberg was offered $9,000 ($45 per pound) and turned it down. These appear to be pretty expensive show pigs.
The first time I read about this insanity I wrote it off as just another filler for the birdcage liner, but then I got to thinking. Pigs are tough customers and have an irascible disposition. They are not anything close to Arnold from Green Acres. If the dogs actually did mix it up with the pigs, why aren't the dogs all torn up? As it turns out, I'm not the only one asking that question. Keep reading to see the latest news.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
and I thought I had problems...
Main Lady and I went out dancing Friday night (last night as I write this) where we met a couple we've known for a few years whom I'll call Landlord Larry and Made Mary. Landlord Larry is a retired something or other and got into the landlord business some years back. Having made his millions he's trying to get out, but no one is buying. Being a landlord has been a real learning and growth experience for Larry, and he's become very adept with common household repairs, landlord tenant relations and monthly collections. Once when I asked about the landlord business Larry informed me that if you don't collect the rent right away the average tenant will conclude that you're not interested in that money this month, and will go stock up on beer, wine and pot.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Buzz Needed
I don't know if I could simply write this off to karma or if it's just plain bad luck, but the bearings are going out on Shotgun Bob's merry-go-round. First off, there's The Girl. About a month back some Southern sawbones discovered that The Girl had a tumor in her abdominal cavity. The precise location was never revealed, but what was made evident was that the tumor was pressing against the intestine which caused The Girl to be nauseating nauseous all the time. Surgery was scheduled for June. This condition went a long way towards explaining her demeanor, which might best be described as that of a constipated she camel in heat who has been penned up away from the males. What a sweetheart, huh?
It's a well known fact that The Girl has many more living relatives in one single generation than I have (living or dead) in the last three generations, yet none of The Girl's relatives volunteered to come down to Memphis and care for The Girl during her post surgery convalescence. Although I don't know this for certain, I'd be willing to bet that in many cases the relatives were not asked for reasons that would become obvious to anyone of average or better intelligence.
"Oh, Hell yes we'll come - whats fambly fer if not tah come? Yew all jest step back and we-uns-uhl take care-ah ever-thang." Including keeping a good supply of beer on hand and plenty of ammo for the shotgun. Nothing like setting up the lawn chairs in the side yard with a cooler or two of beer and shooting at the empties - what a great way to invite the neighbors over to be sociable and all!
When Mom got wind of all this she immediately took the initiative and booked a flight to Memphis. However good Mom's intentions are, she's still in her 80s and not as spry as she once was. Therefore it was deemed a good idea if Auntie Annie went with her. Uncle Sardonicus wisely stayed at home, reassuring Auntie Annie that he'd have no trouble being a bachelor for two weeks. So the two sisters headed South to chez Shotgun, arriving the day before The Girl went for her laparoscopic surgery. The Girl is now at chez Shotgun, the operation having been proclaimed a success. Meanwhile, there have been a few complications and adjustments around the house.
Shotgun Bob lives North of Memphis in the middle of no where. I'd describe it as somewhere East of Hell's Half Acre and North of Jerkwater, but he claims to like it and there are certain attractions. The closest store is about 30 minutes away, but it's a giant Walmart. The nearest gas station is about the same distance, although if you go shopping for fuel during normal business hours (9 to 5, M-F) you can pay a higher price and patronize a gas station that's only a 20 minute drive from the house. There used to be a closer station, but last year it went bankrupt for the third time in five years and no one has stepped up to that plate this year, so there you are - a business opportunity. Keeping that in mind, there are two things in this world that Auntie Annie cannot do:
Mom tackled the laundry, and by day three Mom feels that the laundry is mostly done. Auntie Annie tackled the kitchen and cooking, and as a result the rest of the household is faced with a brand new novelty: healthy dinners. That's one side of the coin.
On the other side Mom is having to bite her tongue fairly often as her younger sister tries to take charge of everything, thus creating more work and running around than there should be. Like I said, organization. So since she's doing the driving, it would follow that the clock is ticking on Auntie Annie, and today I learned that she ran over the weed whacker on her way to the store.
Then I got the topper. Flounder has been spending her days at the local YWCA and last night it was discovered that Flounder has come down with head lice. Yep, good old head lice. They have a lousy foster child. Now think. Mom and Auntie Annie are WWII kids, and head lice are not a brand new item, oh no they are not. According to Mom's Grandmother Quaker, the only people who have head lice are those with questionable personal hygiene. They don't bathe often enough and they come from the wrong side of the tracks. This is a great truth here, so remember it.
I suppose I could have let the whole thing rest, but I didn't. I assured Mom that head lice were not particular and that they'd cheerfully settle in with anyone. Flounder likely picked them up at the YWCA, but modern medicine will eradicate the pestilence in short order.
So imagine old Shotgun Bob coming home after a hard day at the office. He has a one hour commute through Memphis rush hour traffic and when he gets home he finds that the pickup has a new dent in the fender, the weed whacker is toast, The Girl is tanked up on painkillers and Xanax (prevention of anxiety attacks, you see) and whatever impulse control existed previously is now suppressed, but the pain isn't. Suppressed, that is. Flounder has nits. Dinner is going to be some kind of health food concoction involving plenty of fiber and a dearth of calories and carbohydrates. And he doesn't dare have a drink, because Mom will give him the stink eye for drinking, and Auntie Annie will say something which he'll have to suck up because he can't find anyone else to look after The Girl and he knows it.
What Shotgun Bob needs is a solid dose of the old two buck buzz.
It's a well known fact that The Girl has many more living relatives in one single generation than I have (living or dead) in the last three generations, yet none of The Girl's relatives volunteered to come down to Memphis and care for The Girl during her post surgery convalescence. Although I don't know this for certain, I'd be willing to bet that in many cases the relatives were not asked for reasons that would become obvious to anyone of average or better intelligence.
"Oh, Hell yes we'll come - whats fambly fer if not tah come? Yew all jest step back and we-uns-uhl take care-ah ever-thang." Including keeping a good supply of beer on hand and plenty of ammo for the shotgun. Nothing like setting up the lawn chairs in the side yard with a cooler or two of beer and shooting at the empties - what a great way to invite the neighbors over to be sociable and all!
When Mom got wind of all this she immediately took the initiative and booked a flight to Memphis. However good Mom's intentions are, she's still in her 80s and not as spry as she once was. Therefore it was deemed a good idea if Auntie Annie went with her. Uncle Sardonicus wisely stayed at home, reassuring Auntie Annie that he'd have no trouble being a bachelor for two weeks. So the two sisters headed South to chez Shotgun, arriving the day before The Girl went for her laparoscopic surgery. The Girl is now at chez Shotgun, the operation having been proclaimed a success. Meanwhile, there have been a few complications and adjustments around the house.
Shotgun Bob lives North of Memphis in the middle of no where. I'd describe it as somewhere East of Hell's Half Acre and North of Jerkwater, but he claims to like it and there are certain attractions. The closest store is about 30 minutes away, but it's a giant Walmart. The nearest gas station is about the same distance, although if you go shopping for fuel during normal business hours (9 to 5, M-F) you can pay a higher price and patronize a gas station that's only a 20 minute drive from the house. There used to be a closer station, but last year it went bankrupt for the third time in five years and no one has stepped up to that plate this year, so there you are - a business opportunity. Keeping that in mind, there are two things in this world that Auntie Annie cannot do:
- Organize. Auntie Annie cannot organize anything, and so one trip to the store is never going to be enough. She'll need three to do what Mom would do in one single trip, and that does not include the "Oh, shoot!" forehead slapping turn around trips.
- Drive. A car, that is. Auntie Annie is a worse driver than Shotgun Bob, and that's saying something. Shotgun Bob almost killed both of us some years back by screwing around with a Kleenex box instead of watching where he was going, and as a result he drifted into the oncoming traffic on a two lane blacktop. I yelled at him, and we're both still alive but I don't think the experience made much of an impression. Last time California Dave and I were on vacation in Memphis, we watched Shotgun Bob driving his pickup truck ahead of us, and he was drifting all over the road while screwing around with his SatNav device.
Mom tackled the laundry, and by day three Mom feels that the laundry is mostly done. Auntie Annie tackled the kitchen and cooking, and as a result the rest of the household is faced with a brand new novelty: healthy dinners. That's one side of the coin.
On the other side Mom is having to bite her tongue fairly often as her younger sister tries to take charge of everything, thus creating more work and running around than there should be. Like I said, organization. So since she's doing the driving, it would follow that the clock is ticking on Auntie Annie, and today I learned that she ran over the weed whacker on her way to the store.
Then I got the topper. Flounder has been spending her days at the local YWCA and last night it was discovered that Flounder has come down with head lice. Yep, good old head lice. They have a lousy foster child. Now think. Mom and Auntie Annie are WWII kids, and head lice are not a brand new item, oh no they are not. According to Mom's Grandmother Quaker, the only people who have head lice are those with questionable personal hygiene. They don't bathe often enough and they come from the wrong side of the tracks. This is a great truth here, so remember it.
I suppose I could have let the whole thing rest, but I didn't. I assured Mom that head lice were not particular and that they'd cheerfully settle in with anyone. Flounder likely picked them up at the YWCA, but modern medicine will eradicate the pestilence in short order.
So imagine old Shotgun Bob coming home after a hard day at the office. He has a one hour commute through Memphis rush hour traffic and when he gets home he finds that the pickup has a new dent in the fender, the weed whacker is toast, The Girl is tanked up on painkillers and Xanax (prevention of anxiety attacks, you see) and whatever impulse control existed previously is now suppressed, but the pain isn't. Suppressed, that is. Flounder has nits. Dinner is going to be some kind of health food concoction involving plenty of fiber and a dearth of calories and carbohydrates. And he doesn't dare have a drink, because Mom will give him the stink eye for drinking, and Auntie Annie will say something which he'll have to suck up because he can't find anyone else to look after The Girl and he knows it.
What Shotgun Bob needs is a solid dose of the old two buck buzz.
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