I run into many interesting people during the course of my day in Boston.
This morning a customer took me by surprise with a true story that was just too damn funny not to share. I am not making this up folks.
May not be suitable for reading the kids before bed either.
I made mention of the fact that I had made chili on Wednesday when BLH said, “I gotta good chili story for ya.”

In the (somewhat) paraphrased words of BLH:

“This was several years ago when I was living next to two gay guys.
Great guys, too.
They did their thing, I did mine, ya know?
Live and let live, I say.
Anyway, my kitchen window looked right into theirs as it was less than 15 feet away.
So this one summer day, I’m making chili.
Beautiful day, windows open, music on and I’m chopping up onions and garlic and Habanero peppers for my chili.
I leave the kitchen for a minute to go and take a piss and resume my cooking.
It’s not even 2 minutes later that  ‘Mr. Willy’ starts to heat up.
Like really heating up.
I look at the Habanero peppers now nicely chopped and look down at my crotch and think, “Dear God, no.”
Within 5 minutes, I realize that ‘Mr. Willy’ needs some serious medical attention.
This is getting painful.
And really hot.
I get a facecloth, soak it in cold water and drop my pants right there in the middle of the kitchen.
It didn’t take long to realize that all the wet facecloth did was move all the hot stuff down to my
two soon-to-be ‘Hot Mexican jumping beans’.
I was in too much pain and making too many oohs and ahhs to realize that I was also gathering something of an audience 15 feet across the way.
With my crotch turning into a smoking Mojave desert, I was getting desperate.
(Is that steam?)
Christ, I’m on fire down there!
I suddenly remembered buying a big container of sour cream for the chili and
waddled like a penguin over to the fridge.
I ripped open the container like a madman, took a fistful of the cool white stuff
and began rubbing it in gobs into the raging fire down below.
My oohs, ahhs and general sounds of relief were obviously misinterpreted by my now smiling neighbors across the way.
There I am with my pants down, breathing heavy, and sour cream smeared all over my crotch.
Beautiful.
A proud Kodak moment for me, ya know?
I’m close to my mother so I told her the story, and man, did she laugh.
Two weeks later, I’m out to breakfast with her at a place she frequently goes.
The waitress brings my breakfast of fried eggs, home fries and bacon
but on the side of the plate is a small tub of sour cream.
I asked the waitress, “What’s up with the sour cream?”
She winked and said, “Your mother says you really like it.”
(I am laughing hysterically now)
You’ll be thinking about this every time you make chili now, right?”

Yeah, BLH, you are sooo right.
Was it a funny Thursday morning for me?
You betcha schweet bippie.
Thanks for a great tale, BLH
You have total attribution.
I just hope I did you some justice.
(BLH’s version is much funnier but has a different rating)
Hopefully ’Mr. Willy’ has found some cooler climes by now.
And, BLH, I hope you were using low-fat sour cream.
That regular stuff is just plain nasty . . .

Malarky Monday =
the one day of the week me and my blogging freaks/friends try and make you
laugh, spit, giggle and hopefully pass a bit of coffee out your nose.
Actually, all we really want is a smile.
You are not done until you visit my fellows in hijinx.
Links will follow!
This week I have some favorite clips.
They're not long but damn they're funny.
If you have some YouTube stuff or some zany webpage that you think I haven't seen, email me
and I will put your name in lights.
(*translation, you will get some linky-love, or a mention if you don't have a blog)

First up, a product infomercial gone horribly wrong.
Epic FAIL!

I hate used car salesmen so I really enjoyed this clip.
Almost too much.

Last up, a short vid from 'The Kids in the Hall', a comedy show years ahead of its time.
Sadly defunct now.
This video deals with the abuse of a particular word in the workplace.
A classic, tbs (to be sure)
I ascertained the fact that you should watch this . . .

Now, go and visit my fellow hucksters!
And get more coffee!
They won't disappoint.
I promise.
HaPpY MaLaRkY MoNdAy!

Moe
Mark
Dilligaf

Chill.
Grab a coffee, English Breakfast tea, Chai, cognac, scotch, bourbon, water and maybe a smoke,
all depending on where you are in the world of time zones.
Plug in some decent headphones and give yourself 7:40 minutes to just . . .
Chill.
This is 'Both Sides Now',  Herbie Hancock from River: The Joni Letters
Hancock is and has been a jazz piano God to me.
Forever.
And believe it or not he is 70 years old. (born in 1940)
At any rate, get a drink, perhaps a smoke and just
Chill.
for 7:40 . . .
Your brain will thank me.
This is musical/cerebral Zen at its finest.

A special Valentines wish for my wife, Pamela and three incredible daughters.
I will never be at a loss to find love in my life on this one day of the year.
You are my life, my loves, precious lights in the deepest of darkness, the sweetest inspiration.
Put on your headphones.
The orchestra is phenomenal.
I love you all dearly.
Happy Valentines Day.
Be mine.

In the deafening silence of 12
I stare into the shiny anthracite eyes of midnight and wonder about
the pointlessness of it all;
the means to an end, the ying and yang of it all,  black splashes of time that seem to
ebb and flow
washing away the truths I once knew,
an innocence I once possessed,
a faith that now longs for the simplest of me,
the purity in this long begotten soul of mine
My harbour of solace and hope is now closed to a raging sea
I toss and turn, praying for some kind of rescue instead of praying for
mercy . . .
mercy, mercy me
Maybe the reality is that I am truly broken, maybe I’ll just anchor far away from the rocks on shore
but maybe I’ll just drift back and away, and away
wait until 12 turns to 3 for me,
all for the stygian likes of me
Maybe . . .

It was 20 years ago tonight that my wife elbowed me at 1:30 in the morning saying,
“My water just broke. Get some sleep.”
Get some sleep?
Yeah, right.
I called Pamela’s mom and told her to come over immediately (to watch a sleeping 3 year-old Sarah)
and it wasn’t soon after that we were changed and in my silver Datsun 210 on the way to the hospital.
It was cold as hell and my brakes were grinding to the metal.
Pamela thought we would never make it to Hannemann Hospital.
We did.
At 8:11AM (2.7.90) Pamela gave birth to our second daughter, Jenna.
Tomorrow afternoon we will have a house full of family and Jenna's college friends
and more Chinese food than you can shake a stick at.
We will also be watching some Supernatural episodes (Jenna’s favorites, methinks)
We will basically have our own ‘Supernatural Bowl’.
Could be much better than the actual Super Bowl itself.  (no Dean)
Happy birthday, Jen.
Mom and I love you and your sisters more than you will ever know.
Have a ‘supernatural’ day, okay?
Here's a Supernatural gag reel that you may not have seen.
See you tomorrow afternoon, kiddo.

Reading 'Carver' right now.
Please READ THIS.
You will spend 20 minutes of your life and thank me.
This is one of Carver's most amazing short stories.
Please take the time and read it.
The man was amazing.
Simply amazing . . .

A guy comes into the store today and says,
"I want 4 packs of American Spirit Yellow."
We ring him up, take his money and say, "Would you like a bag?"
He says, "No thank you, I have gloves."
I have gloves?
More like you have a frozen mush of a cerebellum.
Jesus Krispies.
It must be the cold here in New England, huh? (7 degrees)
That would be like ordering at a drive-thru Burger King
and telling them, "I want to eat it here though, thanks."
A definite WTF moment.
Damn, I encounter far too many these days.
Maybe it's me.
Not!

He stares blindly out the window of another night
down on Bleeker Street, where nothing seem to change except a world gone mad.
He exists.
I exist.
I go to him, touch his shoulder feeling the quivering bone underneath my hand
but he doesn’t move, nobody is home it seems.
As I bend to kiss his forehead,
I think back to my childhood remembering the smell of him;
a rich elixir of leather, spice and a fatherly scent I could never quite put my finger on.
It was a smell of  total comfort and one of extreme familiarity.
His scent is different tonight; he smells clinical, preserved and abandoned.
He smells like a familiar stranger, an ancient decade of melancholy memories,
echoes of voices lost in an obsidian mist . . .

I sit there with him as we both blindly stare out the window, watching a world gone by
and we sigh,
we cry,
we say goodbye to the too many words left unspoken,
the things we once took for granted,
and the once welcome spaces where we no longer belong.
I take his frail and shaking hand and wonder (as I have thousands of times before)
how many more nights will he sit here all alone and stare?
And simply exist.
There is little left to say but with my father, somehow that’s okay.
Somehow, I know he understands.
He has taught me well.
He was never big on words anyway.
It will be very hard to forget the nights down on Bleeker Street and even harder to forget
the little man just sitting staring out the window . . .

A dear friend has asked that I please reply to my recent comments.
I looked and realized that the last comment I replied to was from Lynn on January, 3 of this year.
God, I've been terrible.
Can you folks ever forgive me?
I am going to answer each and every comment starting tonight.
I just won't finish tonight, sorry to say.
I am happy that people visit and comment but lately life has had a stranglehold on me.
I do apologize.
If you have been kind enough to leave me a thought or three, check back.
All comments will be answered by this weeks end.
Promise.
I thank all of you for taking the time to send me your thoughts.
Know that every comment has been read by me.
Now for the replies . . .

[ps, the picture has nothing to do with the post, I just thought it was funny (and true)]