Criminals and evildoers the world over: beware! Law abiding citizens: sleep soundly tonight knowing that in your neck-of-the-woods, local criminals (mostly the petty variety like vandals, jaywalkers, and internet pirates) will be taking a healthy dose of justice—justice served with a side-order of spit-talkin’ Dirty Harry style ‘plum mad dog mean’ true grit…I have absolutely no idea what that is even supposed to mean.

Inspired by my recent obsession with Dog the Bounty Hunter, I’ve taken the all-important first step toward becoming a bounty hunter myself. One must prepare mentally for the long road ahead. I’ve committed to things before but, after a brief period of some obsession or another, I usually lose interest in five to seven minutes. I was not about to let this important endeavor, too, become a bona-fide bounty hunter, suffer the same fate. I was in this for the long haul, and I had work to do. I stocked up on water, Twizzlers, and Fun Dip, and sat down for the legally required 45-minute instructional seminar/slide-show entitled, “So you want to be a bounty hunter?”

The first obstacle I would need to overcome was the fact that physically, no matter how hard I sucked in my gut while flexing, I’m just not a very intimidating presence. Me, Mr. Huntin’ that Bounty, comes equipped with all the musculature of a roll of wet paper towels. Anyone who’s ever shaken my hand with even the slightest hint of pressure—after bearing witness to the sobbing and the clutching of my wounded hand—has been known to remark, “Good God…I didn’t even squeeze that hard. He’s like a human Faberge egg” or “I’ve held baby chicks in my hand with more pressure than that!”
Clearly some sort of workout was in order. I chose Zoomba. In retrospect, I shoulda’ picked Tae-Bo or at the very least Pilates. Since me and intense physical activity were clearly NOT on speaking terms, I decided the best defense was a good offense. Why actually “BE” a no nonsense shit-talkin’ bounty hunter, when you can just give off the appearance of one? This also posed a problem for me, because, in addition to not being an intimidating presence, I also have a complete inability to look menacing. No matter how severely I furrow my brow, I still give off the appearance of one searching for his “bounty” …the quicker-picker-upper, er…to wipe the hot sauce from my face after knockin’ down a dozen or so hot wings.

Hey, maybe leather’s the key? So after a trip to the local Harley Davidson store—extremely convenient for ALL of your leather needs—I outfitted myself in a tough looking studded biker’s jacket, a leather pork-pie style cap, and a pair of leather pants. In time these pants would become so pungent with odors, so unspeakable, that I began to question how bikers, completely encased in the skin of dead cattle, could even reproduce at all sitting on a thousand pounds of hot vibrating steel. I came to the conclusion that biker-sperm is probably cultured & incubated by the Harley’s engine. This makes each individual sperm so tough & grizzled that, if you were to gaze at one under a microscope, you could probably see a faint Gregg Allman-style beard on each spermy chin. The pork-pie hat didn’t help either, as it made me look like a fat gay 60’s supermodel Twiggy on her way to Sturgis…that is, if you even want that image burned permanently into your mind. Don’t go there, really. I’m trying to help you out here.

Weapon-wise, I was ill-prepared as well. The only things I own that could come close to being useful in a combat situation with a bail-jumper are a toy sheriff badge, a Walther P-38 (it’s actually the original Megatron) and a container of ground-pepper (to use as mace). I don’t tan well, so I can’t reach the necessary grizzled sun-baked look either, and my hair can only be described as “conservative” at best. Even with all the hair style products in the world, I could not pull off the necessary sweaty pompadour cascade that seems to tell society, “I know you think this hair is hideous, but I simply can’t find the time to care. I’ve got criminals to catch, bitches.” I don’t even own any dangly earrings for Christssakes!

So, with a heavy heart, I gave up my dreams of bounty huntin’ and I suppose it’s just as well. I’m no good with confrontation, what with my innate instinct to curl up into the fetal position and whimper at the first sign of danger. And you can let go of my hand now, sir.

But I will keep you posted if I ever decide to hunt gators, or get into the burgeoning field of rock star/pest control.

Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t even own a studded belt. But she does love the condom.

I, Dave Atsals, may be looking for work soon. If any of you know of a position open for someone totally unqualified to do anything but sit on a barstool and shoot pool, let me know. My employment at the local flooring center may have hit bottom. Just be thankful they edited out the ‘pulling the rug out from under me’ joke. I had to meet with the head of human resources yesterday, which I believe has something to do with our HR department. There, we reviewed my growing list of misdeeds. I have listed the funniest five for your enjoyment. Mr. Winslow said listing them all would put too much of a strain on our server.

1. Peeing in a mop bucket on a sales floor is not permitted and will not be tolerated in the future.
2. Peeing outside on a dumpster with people loading up flooring in clear view is not acceptable either. If you must, use the mop bucket. (OK, I added that last part.)
3. Asking a customer if their breasts are real or slightly cosmetically altered is grounds alone for termination as it clearly violates our sexual harassment policy.
4. Making up your own names for carpet products will no longer be tolerated. You must start calling them by their proper names. For example, no referring to “spring mist carpet” as summer’s eve hump.” Similarly, “magic fresh carpet” should not be referred to as “anti-stink” or “hung under your armpits.”
5. Asking customers if they will keep you if you follow them home, and to feel how hard your eraser is, will no longer be tolerated moving forward. Neither is making cow or pig noises behind the back of our slightly overweight patrons.

I wish I could say I was making this up, but those who know me understand it’s all part of a complex and difficult-to-treat personality disorder. Or at least that’s what that shrink-wanna-be, Zano, keeps telling me.

I then explained my side of the story, point by point, in reverse order:

5.   Yes, I am really sorry about the pig noises. The oink stops here. But the fact is these people were not slightly overweight, but morbidly obese and often dressed as if this fact were news to them. Hell, a few even smelled bad. What do they expect?

4.   I already apologized for making up my own names for your carpets, but quite frankly your names suck. I cannot look that 6’6″ man in the eye and tell him that carpet named “Teddy Bear” would be a great fit for him.

3.   If she did not want a comment on her breasts, she shouldn’t have been flopping them around in my face. This isn’t a ‘blame the victim’ thing, it’s a blame the surgeon thing. Did you see those puppies?

2.   I am sorry for taking a leak outside, but trust me Billy Bob did not mind. He told me earlier they had no running water at their house so I was trying to make him feel more at home—just as you instruct me to. And, yes Mr. Billy Bob, I am sorry your wife saw my manhood, but that wasn’t the first time, so relax.

1.   Well, I guess there was no excuse for this, but it was funny as hell! Ask anyone. Except the victims, of course.

The head of HR was not really impressed with my answers for some reason and a lecture ensued. She stated, “Dave these are not the only things you’ve done to jeopardize your employment. Just your general day to day attitude needs an adjustment for you to continue working here. There will be no more standing still with a sign in your hand like a manikin and yelling “BOOOO!” to scare customers. You also really upset that older women when you told her she better buy today, because it didn’t look like she’ll be around much longer. Switching the men and women signs on restroom so the male owner walks in on two women using the stalls…well, let’s just say, not that good at all.”

Because of all this I would like to stay in front of the curve and get a jump on any new employment prospects. My resume is all ready posted on this website. Now I had better get back to work. There’s a fat woman with fake tits heading to the restroom. If I change the signs before the owner gets out of the men’s room. Heh, heh…it will be a real classic if he took his blue pill this morning.

As I enter my pool after a hard day’s work, I’m greeted by the momentary chill one gets when going from over 105° to a frigid 88°. As I start my exercise routine, I soon warm. Fifteen minutes of calisthenics, followed by ten minutes of “floundering” as I don’t really swim, per se. When I decide I’ve had about enough of this whole “healthy” thing, I float like a dead man for another ten minutes…or, as I call it, the ‘Fuck You Richard Simmons’ position.

Then, after finally reaching the edge of the pool under methane power alone (which is great fun), I proceed to remove my protuberant posterior from its watery retreat and hit the lounge chair to dry off…which in AZ takes about three minutes. Then I always get chilled, “Shit, it’s cold.” As I look at the backyard thermometer the absurdity of the situation comes into frightening clarity. It’s 104°. The water was nearly 90°.

I’m cold? Kill me now, dear lord, as I have truly become just what I have dreaded for so long. I’m officially an old Arizonian. I can remember when I was in my thirties, on Lawn-Guyland, in the winter. If it was over 40°, I was in short sleeves. No problem. I worked in a refrigerated room for almost 27 years! I always went fishing on St. Patrick’s Day, when it was usually a balmy 45° with a stiff wind and stiff drink. And, when it passed 70°, I was in danger of breaking the local public nudity ordinances.

I am standing by my pool with a towel wrapped around my shoulders, freezing. It’s 104°! The term “WTF?” doesn’t begin to capture how I am feeling. As my feet become one with the now glowing-hot cool deck around my pool—a misnomer of the highest order—I have goose bumps on my arms. It’s like not knowing whether to shit or drink Drano. It’s not for lack of body hair, as I am a true ethnic Itralyun gorilla (see picture above). I am also not without the obligatory self-insulation (aka, body fat).

So what exactly IS the fuck, as it were? Am I sick? No. Have I somehow managed to transport the upper half of my body to the arctic, whilst leaving the lower half in Hellazona? No. I am just getting old. And that, my friends, sucks Burro beganga.

As I look at my reflection in the sliding glass door, with flames coming off my feet and icicles hanging off my chin, I am truly mortified. Next I’ll be exchanging my Metallica CDs for Sinatra! Will my Ram pickup magically change into a Buick LeSabre while I sleep? Am I destined to smell like an ‘old person’? Dinner at 4? Will I….(gulp) GOLF? I shudder to think of the string of atrocities yet to befall me…

I’m just a little cold, that’s all. Yeah, that’s it. Just a smidge of those chronological blues. I’m not heading for the great Bingo hall at the rec. center, right?

Or is this the way it all begins?

But I’m not ready…not ready by a long shot. I will fight! I will not go gently into that evil night. Time to play Nothing Else Matters on Spinal Taps’ level ‘11’ and maybe I’ll sneak out into the woods and throw a kegger. Ah…no woods, just the saguaro wastelands…and it’s a little hot and cold today. Maybe tomorrow. Now, where’s my fucking sweater?!

Cranky tip for today: Diesel smoke makes a very good Prius repellent.

Crank