GRIZZLY G. GUS
Grizzly G. Gus is a good ole boy, and he is M. David Lutz’s cousin, a famous author (or so says M. David Lutz).
Grizzly lives in a double-wide mobile home in a senior citizens’ park, in Florida, now retired from the Navy and Civil Service. He spends his day (besides drinking) saying and doing things none of us would. Grizzly’s works are more edgy, certainly not PG. However, Lutz pointed out an interesting point.
He stated that when Grizzly was submitting his short stories and he was doing the same to various magazines, Grizzly got published while Lutz did not.
Grizzly is happy to state that his success was such because he hired his cousin M. David Lutz to be his publisher. As his publisher, M. David Lutz is tasked with toning down Grizzly’s short stories for projects, in addition to all the other requirements for publishing. Leaving Grizzly with the task of staying sober enough to write.
Grizzly has a ton of short stories. As far as social media, Grizzly has:
His own email: grizzlyggus@outlook.com
His own Facebook page: https://fb.com/grizzlyggus
However, since he is lazy, Grizzly shares M. David Lutz’s website: http://www.mdavidlutz.com/
One last note: My specialty is short stories, blogs, and an advice column. No matter how I beg, my cousin feels I need more of a following before he will commit to helping me publish my first book.
That is my cousin M. David Lutz.
UDDER NONSENSE
What if your car broke down in the middle of Nowhere, USA? Before your cell phone died, the GPS did not show any ‘fast’ food restaurants within a mile…meaning…you might not survive.
Crazed with hunger, since you had not eaten for over an hour, you roam aimlessly over the countryside until you come over a rise. Your eyes behold a herd of cows in a pasture, otherwise known as ‘Lawn Moo-ers.’ If only, you think, I had been born a farmer, then I would know how to milk a cow and stave off hunger until AAA arrives, E.I.E.I.O…you know…
However, nearly blind from sucking down the six-pack of Red Bull you had in your backpack…to keep from being dehydrated on your trek…you failed to notice the farmhouse at the other end of the pasture, where the kind and generous farm folks would have most assuredly sat you down and stuffed your innards with heaping helpings of countrified farm freshly grown goodness. After dinner, you would have more than likely sat for a spell in the parlor, stealing glances at the farmer’s daughter. Later, you would have bedded down for the night in the bunkhouse with Jake, the one-armed handyman with the over-friendly grin.
The next day, Old McDonald would have taken you into town since he was fixin’ to go there anyhow. Upon arriving in ‘Somewhere,’ RFD, the kindhearted small-town residents would have sent Emus, Towing Service, to fetch your car. and take it to Pete’s Garage…the only mechanic in town.
You would have asked Pete, “How long do you think it will take before I can be back on the road again?”
Pete would have rubbed his chin, then spit a spat of his chewing tobacco, and replied, “Don’t rightly know…looks to me like you boogered up your ‘Johnson Rod, real bad. Gonna have to order a new one from Scooter Junction; it could take some doing.”
Then you would have asked, “What do you recommend I do…until then?”
Pete would have spat again, then said, “T’aint my problem.”
The aforementioned could have happened, but NO, you’re still standing in the pasture in the dark, covered in manure, like some cityfied goober…wondering if cows can sense fear.
If you do not want this to happen to you, then learn how to milk a cow…now…it could save your life. It is time to roll up your sleeves, Clem, and begin:
Step 1: Make sure before you start grabbing and squeezing underneath the beast that it is a female and not a bull. [that’s no bull!] The only thing you’re going to get from ‘him’ is a new best friend!
Step 2: The cow will need to have recently had a calf. If your cow isn’t pregnant—round up that bull you tried to milk and send them on a date…someplace romantic. For the sake of brevity, I have not included the steps for birthing a calf, which you should already know.
Step 3: Fetch a pail to catch the milk and a short stool or a tall cow.
Step 4: Since the udder hangs down like a rudder, you’re gonna need some soap and water to clean that mudder, my brudder.
Step 5: Before you treat yourself to the teats, you have to feed Betsy first. A movie afterward is optional.
Step 6: Milk the cow twice a day at the same time and place each day. Cows like routine. Cows follow the herd. Cows are not independent thinkers. Cows would make good politicians.
Step 7: Milk the cow in the same location each time. Duh…need I mention there is only one location on a bovine I know where you should go. Look for a big pink sack with handles on it.
Step 8: Place the stool on the ‘right’ side of Betsy, your partner, udderwise she can become nervous and confused. Can you blame her? You’d be nervous and confused, too, if a total stranger tried to milk you.”
Step 9: Baby your bovine by warming your hands first, then squeeze the top of the teat between the thumb and the forefinger. This squeezing down forces the milk to stream out into the pail. As you’re milking, show some sensitivity by asking her about her feelings, rest your head on her flank, make it a moo-ving experience for the both of you.
Step 10: Continue until Betsy is udderly satisfied. You will know when you see her smoking a cigarette, raiding the fridge, or reading a magazine. Bring Junior, Betsy’s calf, back to her. Hopefully, you’ve left enough nourishment for the young one, or you will be taking the two to town for pizza.
Finally, If you’re hoping for a repeat with the teats, you need to give your little heifer a call the next day, maybe even send her some flowers…which undoubtedly…she will eat.
Grizzly G. Gus © 2024
GIVE ME THE SINGLE LIFE…NOT!
Somehow, I had gotten myself into one of those verbal relationships where the babe was getting a lot of “phone time” while I was developing a cauliflower ear. She made me talk on the phone until she was sure she really didn’t want to meet me. Maybe it was something I had said since she couldn’t see me cleaning my toes and preparing dinner while I talked to her. Those hands-free phones are great, aren’t they? It is absolutely indispensable when it comes to phone sex since it takes two hands to handle a ‘Whopper.’
When the next potential Misses Right called, I was more telephonically experienced and remained fully clothed during the entire conversation. I can’t recall the woman’s name, but I think it started with something like ‘uptight, domineering, demanding, squared-toed shoe-wearing Hun,’’, or maybe it was Doris. She wasted little time talking on the phone and wanted to get right down to meeting me. That should have been a tip right there that she had way more testosterone coursing through her veins than me. Wow, it just occurred to me…with people having sex changes these days, maybe Doris was originally a man.
Either that or, in a former life, this chick had been a Viking. She told me to meet her at some clandestine restaurant so far from the city there would be absolutely no possibility of anyone ever finding out whom she was meeting. The place was so remote the squirrels had to use GPS just to find their nuts. Since it was our first date, I went all out; I moved my shower up by a month and trimmed so much hair from my nose that my mustache disappeared.
Carefully following the directions she had given me, I became lost immediately, right after leaving my driveway. I called the restaurant to say I might be late. Later, I called again to say I would definitely be late. The third time, I begged them to send out a ‘Search and Rescue Team’ to find me. Even though we had never met, I was able to easily pick her out as soon as I walked into the restaurant. She was the only woman sitting at a table, looking mad enough to self-combust. As I sat down, I offered the standard apologies, quickly picking up the menu and propping it between us to block her homicidal stares.
The waitress asked my date what she would like to order.
Broad-zilla replied, “How about a cup of INSTANT coffee, some MINUTE rice, a little SHRIMP in a doggie bag to GO!” It felt like the longest date I had ever been on, though it was, in fact, the shortest. I have had more intimate dialogue with a stranger on an elevator, traveling from the first floor to the second. On the other hand, I was fascinated to be with a woman who already disliked me more than my ex-wife, though we’d just met. I was tempted to point out that I was only late due to her lousy directions. However, between the looks she was giving me and the way she was clenching her steak knife, I decided to let it pass. The one thing I knew for sure was she wouldn’t be giving me any directions to her erogenous zones that evening. When her food arrived, she escaped out the door like Houdini. I watched her peel out of the parking lot, running over a squirrel and two pigeons.
On a Sunday afternoon, with nothing better to do, I spotted a hair salon at a shopping center. I thought: What the heck, why not kill some time and get a haircut? It was a wussy, sissy-looking kind of place. Normally, I always go to the local barber shop, which looks like it has not been renovated since 1952, owned and operated by a Korean War veteran still sporting his regulation G.I. crew-cut and prosthetic leg. Anybody who came in wanting a poufy, mousey-wavy hairdo would get their butt kicked by all the old duffers sitting around all day cussing and discussing world events. They’d throw the fancy boy out the door.
Since I needed a haircut, I decided to take a chance and wandered into the salon.
Stepping up to the receptionist, whose name tag read, ‘Natasha,’ I inquired, “You cut men’s hair here?”
“Yes, and even you. The cost is $22.50.”
“Gee, that seems like a lot of money for a haircut, especially since I’m almost bald. Could you knock something off?” I stood there aging as Natasha thought about it. From the look on her face, I could see the effort was causing her a lot of pain.
“Since you’re bald, we can knock off some of the ‘time’ we would have to take with our regular customers.” She scanned her appointment book. “Debbie can do you in fifteen minutes.”
It had been so long since I’d been with a woman—I would have bet Debbie could have done me before I got unzipped! I thought it best I kept that to myself. It turned out that Josephine, not Debbie, though equally desirable, beckoned me to follow her to the back room. Once we were alone and comfy, she said, “We will start with a shampoo.”
As I began to strip down to my skivvies, I called out, “Don’t neglect to scrub my back, Honey.” By the disdain on Josephine’s face, all you get for $22.50 is a shampoo and a haircut. Obviously, this was not the same sort of establishment that I had encountered when I was in the Navy at a liberty port in ‘Betyouwanna,’ Jamaica. Josephine, seeing my look of bitter disappointment, suggested I pull up my pants, and for $8.00, I could run naked through the truck wash across the street.
The beauteous beautician had me lean back in my chair and began to wet me. Her ample bosom-ness was pressing against my cheek. Then, with her long, delicate, silky, sensuous fingers, slowly massaging, rubbing, kneading, manipulating, squeezing, caressing, stroking until she had worked up such a lather…I cried out my own name!
I wanted to give her a big tip, but Debbie came in just in time and applied an ice pack to it. They charged me double, then threw me out. It was the most uplifting haircut I’d ever had and the most intimate I’d been with a woman that entire year.
Being single, dining alone has always been especially challenging for me, unless it is a place that serves the food on a tray or has a drive-thru. Ordinarily, my idea of ‘getting dressed for dinner’ means putting on underwear before I sit down at the kitchen table.
Fed up with Soup-for-One and Hungry-Man- Dinners that never filled up this hungry man, I decided it was time I enjoyed a finer bill of fare in a more formal dining atmosphere, even if it meant going alone.
Looking for a classy place, I was pleased to see the restaurant I chose had a dress code. The sign read, ‘No shirt, No Shoes, No Service.’ I assumed it specialized in Southern Cuisine because it also stated, ‘No teeth–No problem.’
The hostess greeted me, “How many in your party?”
“Just one,” I mumbled.
“Will that be sulking or non-sulking?” Have you ever noticed when you are by yourself, you don’t get the cozy booth in the corner, but the one right in the middle of the room, under the spotlight with a neon light flashing, ‘Loser, Loser, Loser.’ Everyone there was with someone, and they were talking about me.
This place had cloth napkins that were so stiff I had to wipe my nose on my sleeve, which I would have done anyway. They were serious about silverware. They had extra knives, forks, and spoons beside my plate. It was a good thing, too, since I was out of practice and kept dropping them on the floor. After rearranging my utensils, reading the menu, cleaning my ears with a fork, clipping my fingernails, and staring blankly off into space forever, my waitress appeared.
“Hello, my name is Susie. I’ll be the only woman talking to you this evening, and since there’s no way in hell we’ll be going home together…ever…you can stop looking at me like I just hopped off the dessert cart.”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” I apologized, “I’ve never done this before.”
Susie laughed. “I can tell by the way you are gripping the table…your knuckles are turning white. Don’t worry I’m a professional server. I’ve never lost a customer yet. However, once you leave the premises, you’re on your own. Did you know you’re safer eating here than when you are driving down the expressway at seventy mph, trying to steer with your knees while eating a Big Mac in one hand, holding a bag of super-sized fries in the other, and cradling an ice-cold cup of Coke in your crotch? Judging by your girth, Slick, you’ve done that more than once. Am I right?” I nodded.
“Since there is no chance anyone will be joining you this evening, I’ll quickly remove the rest of these place settings so that you won’t get your hopes up. Please place the napkin in your lap and remain seated until your plate comes to a full stop. Thank you for dining with us tonight. While you wait, here is a basket of hot buttered buns for you to fondle…er…I mean sample.”
Just when I was about to slip into a starvation-induced coma, my food arrived. Porterhouse steak, baked potato with butter, chives, and anything else they could sweep up, a house salad with steamed broccoli on the side, obviously placed there for decoration. As I sat there counting each bite, I couldn’t help thinking that it would have tasted better if there had been someone sitting across from me.
I continue to dine alone on occasion, but now I bring my own set of crayons so I can color the placemat while waiting. One day I hope to have my own showing.
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Grizzly G. Gus © 2024
