Friday, June 26, 2009

Enough is Enough

As they tend to do, the day wound down. I didn’t mind, although some small part of me most assuredly did.

Things progressed seemingly innocuously at first. I must pause here to make two notes. Firstly, I must posit a theory regarding a rather interesting phenomenon that I have experienced on multiple occasions. I assume the science behind it has been adequately researched, but I am far too lazy to spend my evenings hopping around a keyboard and researching for myself. The presumption is as follows: the moments preceding many an extraordinary event are often entirely forgotten or reduced to mere assumptions and generalities as a result of the gravity of subsequent events, which are much more easily recollected as a result of specific physical processes. Secondly, and more obviously, innocence is presumed by very, very few. The corollary of these two notes, in this case, is that alcohol and formal record-keeping go to whatever is precisely the opposite of “hand in hand.“ Oil and water, my dear friends; immiscible!

Prior to what, both inevitably and unfortunately, was a place I’d grown to enjoy, an event transpired that I must relate that could not go unreported for fear of presenting a homogenized, biased, and all too cheerful image of my travels. Huddled around a telecast stand, we encountered a woman who could only be described as simultaneously confused and intrigued. This was pretty much ‘thirty-seven degrees Centigrade’ on this particular day, if it has not already been made apparent by this point. Let it be known that the following three images were captured within a span of less than two minutes. I will keep my comments roughly as brief as the scene that unfolded.

Being my jolly self, with my handler’s good-natured friends, surrounded by contentedly rotund fans of equestrian competition, I was greatly obliged to answer, with some assistance, any and all of the questions her mind could muster:

With her curiosity’s requirements having been met, she agreed to pose for one of the most genuinely content photos thus far taken with yours truly, complete with an equally interesting cast of characters in the background:

At this point, it became quite clear to her significant other that, to speak out of tense, “enough is enough,“ and, returning to tense, my newest friend was possessively tugged away from my presence…

...by her hair.

I haven’t yet figured out what it is, but the purpose of this blog is not to speak of the human condition or any of that. If anything, it’s baseless, often Bacchanalian (for myself) entertainment, jocular faux-self-aggrandizement, and the use of words whose meanings I pretend to understand.

Thus, I will not dwell on it, both by choice and by a lack thereof, as I was immediately transported somewhere to be “with my own kind,“ as I obviously could not come easily enough to a social compromise with some humans:

Very funny, sirs. Very funny, indeed.

And yet we danced on. Through the park, through the race of life, or at least through whatever the immediate future had in store for each of us. And for each one of those hair-tugging buffoons, I can only assume there are a hundred as pictured below, dancing with me, innocuously—or perhaps accidentally enough, covering her face:

Perhaps it’s best to remain anonymous, but that’s not for me.

We danced on.

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/26 at 12:54 AM
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Thursday, June 25, 2009

The Stakes Raised; The Finest Quote Levied.

After the spectacle of a phenomenal competition had subsided, an mixed air of joviality and exhaustion overtook those with the stamina to remain within the confines of the park. Alas, this meant that I was duly placed on parade as if some sort of five cent carnival sideshow wonder.

I tried my best to escape the clutches of my handler’s associates. I am truly sorry for admitting this but, for a brief moment I felt rather exposed. Even the police (as evidenced in my first entry from this wonderful location) and security officers seemed amused by my presence. No matter the humiliating context, heed went unpaid to my uncomfortable situation. If only I could speak at moments like this; such cases of abuse would not go unreported!

Ignorance to my predicament aside, the ice had been broken! I had met a fellow blogger! I am afraid my vocabulary does not contain the proper terminology to express the kinship I felt at this very moment. From her explanation, the blog consists of her travels from the perspective of her feet. This is a rather novel spin on a relatively straightforward concept and I wish her the best.

Unfortunately, my sole vice again got the better of me, and I failed to note her contact information. If anyone reading this is aware of the location of her blog, the proffering of its location would be greatly appreciated!

As I reflect, I sigh upon another bitter disappointment in my forays into what is currently called social networking but, at one time, was merely referred to as making acquaintances. That is not to say my ventures in this regard went entirely unrewarded; pleasantries were exchanged with numerous friendly females who were only happy to pose with yours truly. I seemed to gain notoriety as the evening progressed and, at a certain point, it could be argued that I was getting too friendly with the locals (or perhaps vice versa). I have nothing but the kindest words and sincerest apologies to these lovely ladies for, respectively, their warm hearts and my delay in posting this image. Unfortunately, I’ve been basking in the amazing New England weather as of late. Nearly three consecutive weeks of 70 degrees Fahrenheit with precipitation. It’s been, much like spending time with these three, toad heaven!

Hopefully, the diversion of the eyes of the blonde are the result of a true distraction and not an aversion to my appearance.

In the midst of the boisterous early evening, a female member of the most excellent park facilities staff levied what, in my earlier years, I might have taken to be a grave enough insult to merit violence. In my toddling manner of late, I kept it all in stride and, upon further reflection, presently view it as a compliment. Spoken to my friends in reference to my appearance, I repeat it here in what I believe to be its original form:

“That looks like some pussy I seen, and I ain’t never seein’ that shit again…“

As one must always assume, she was a liar; she had her price:

“..maybe for a million.“

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/25 at 12:45 AM
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Thursday, June 18, 2009

Movin’ on… Down?

To be perfectly blunt, I expected a zeppelin or blimp of some sort to be overhead during the course of the races. The best Long Island could manage was a pair of poorly-piloted whirlygigs, one of whose hovers were rather drifty.

A mind simultaneously aroused and dulled produces some awkward thoughts, and as a result, our party decided to view the middle races, which awarded considerably higher purses, from a better vantage point. Apparently, carrying a briefcase and wearing a preposterous outfit are the lone prerequisites for attaining an improved perspective. Additionally, oversized binocular telescopic devices pointed in the opposite direction of anything remotely of interest, as evidenced below by the man in the lighter blue shirt behind myself, also proved to assist one’s ease of entry:

As an aside, I must briefly note that, much like your driving, your equestrian speed competitions are done precisely in the opposite manner that was intended. When attempting to beat the clock, it’s best to run against it. Apparently this concept has been lost upon the proprietors of this fine establishment known as Belmont Park. Emboldened by both our dramatic vantage point and the diminished weights of our respective wallets, we decided to pursue even lower ground. Given that none of the equestrian competitors were in contention for a victory that would entail three more hats than a horse could comfortably wear, we again made ourselves to appear important and rustled through the brightly sunlit masses to an ideal location.

How’s that for a $22 seat?

Here I must pause to embarrass my handler, who rather fancies the above image of himself. I must admit that his eyes are nearly as concerting as my own. Apologies for the shadows. And the flower. Many regards must be paid to Bill, Alex, and a fellow Belmont virgin, Matt, for both their congenial manner and provisions of fine tobacco products. You will not go unremembered, sirs. I will send my regards to you, via (of course) my handler, at another running of this fine event.

Alas, boxed exactas did me in yet again during its course. Nevertheless, for a horse that is known for its late charges, I feel the pre-race favorite was brought on rather impatiently. Despite our losses, a certain exuberance was shown on behalf of my handler who, in his relative sobriety AND per his father’s direction, remembered to place a rather substantial bet (to win) on a relative of the one to which my friends and I had pinned our hopes and currencies so tightly. Had the wager been doubled, we would have had to fill out a tax form!

I must lastly declare that the name Dunkirk has somehow managed to be further sullied by the results of the race. 68 years after costing countless lives, it cost our party a profoundly tallyable sum.

Surmise it to say, our evening continued. Further wagers were not placed solely on the merit that this horse was not entered in any of the races.

I apologize for any implication as to the appearance of the aforeshown young woman, who was truly charming, but her hat befuddled me nearly as much as I confused her. Obviously, I reigned my response in much better than she could manage but, to be honest, I would have loved to see two races of drunken fans giving it a go for 6 furloughs or so following Race 11. It would keep the audience at bay, maintain the enthusiasm, and award monstrous cash prizes for the winner, merely at the expense of the reputation of the track and its representative sport.

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/18 at 10:41 PM
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Saturday, June 13, 2009

Seeing a few men about a horse.

Novel experiences are always held deeply within one’s heart; be it the birth of a first child, one’s first sip of alcohol or first drag off someone else’s finely rolled cigarette in the south, or any other event of slightly more mundane character. It’s hard for me to present to you such an awe-inspiring event without the due juxtaposition of the less novel, but equally entertaining events that followed.

So where does one begin at a horse race? My handler made no claims to be an expert handicapper, but his understanding of the racing forms was vastly superior to that of his comrades. Thus, I placed mildly ‘exotic’ wagers such as boxed exactas with his aid and my silent consent. Here we are poring over the form in a futile attempt to glean some sort of break-even proposition:

Alas, while we were not major winners during the course of the preliminary events, we had a significant sum invested in the main event. Here is a photograph of myself utterly annoyed at the news that, with nearly 20% of the race still to run, I had a virtually zero percent chance of redeeming my ticket for currency, lest two thirds of the field spontaneously combust:

At this point, it may be considered inadvisable to jump three hours forward, but I feel it to be appropriate. Half the day was dedicated to enjoying the spacious facility, and the remainder was specifically reserved for social interaction. My atria and ventricle were nearly torn asunder at the excitement of meeting what I was, in due time, informed to be horses that did not, in fact, run that day:

Oh when will this mocking of my amphibian shortcomings cease? Apparently, no time soon, as I was duly presented as the upper extremities of one of my handler’s associates:

Dear me, the embarrassment!

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/13 at 09:55 PM
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Thursday, June 11, 2009

“Cowboy Up!“

My, how I’ve let myself get carried away! Amongst the bursts of a shotgun, hours of power, glasses of mezcal, and beer miles broken by bouts of disgorgement, I have managed to survive this fine and, at times, treacherous land.  Many thanks to those who have followed my meandering monologues over the previous weeks.

I would, most importantly, like to thank my compatriots: Sean (quickest pub crawl in history), Rob (best beer die opponent, best car sleeper), Chase (dear lord, don’t point that shotgun at me, best mixed drink, tequila-based), Dave and Kristen (biggest bane to my handler’s chances of trying to score points in the decathlon), Mike and Hilda (best cameos, most amorous pocket-watch), Chris and Carina (best response to my handler’s made up ‘do you remember when?‘ queries, lowest combined blood pressure and resting heart rate, couple), and Shelley (most dominating closeout performance, loudest Guster sing-alonger, best greeting-card writer).

Even more than most importantly, the kindest gratitude my minuscule amphibian heart can output must be flowed towards Mr. Ryan, for the fine accommodations and his forgiving, albeit appropriately stern nature, which resulted, upon committing an unintentional offense against the first commandment of the ranch house (break nothing), resulted in my handler’s sentence of doing the dishes with a “man shine a,“ whatever that may imply. I am unsure as to whether or not I regret seeing it.

Oh, and I must thank this little fellow for stopping by and making me feel at home:

Unfortunately, I have a feeling we that he was as tipsy as myself and, if we indeed exchanged names, I regret that I cannot recall his.

Alas, my journey thus concluded on a glorious spring afternoon. Having alit from our rented automobile duly gone our separate ways, it was a bit easy to be optimistic knowing that, although I would be leaving my newly found friends, I was returning to a certain, safe destination.

Tucked away in my case, I was not witness to this spectacle, but the sea of camouflage shown above is a portion of a contingent of several hundred soldiers preparing to embark to Germany, en route to the sands of Iraq. I typically stray from waxing drab, but I wish them a fate involving a return as safe as my own.

All the best,

-Pooptoad

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/11 at 11:14 PM
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Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Movin’ to the Country, Gonna Drink a Lotta..

Lone Star, since they wouldn’t let me into the peach store to buy the peach cider.


I regret that I have yet to make mention of the remaining eight and, eventually, ten additional compatriots with whom I had the pleasure of making such a fruitful journey. It is not that they were loathsome, or even devoid of personality. Nary a claim could be made toward such ends. It is merely that their shared individuality cannot be brought to its proper justice through the means of a few words or the documentation of a pithy incident here or there.

What is worthy of an investment of such words, however, is their shared sense of openness, mutual respect, and ease of having the most enjoyable of times, regardless of the circumstances of the situation or availability of resources. For an analogy that I may only pray you understand: they are the MacGyvers of fun. Unfortunately, this image may speak otherwise; let it not go unsaid that they also possess a broad range of emotions, amongst which is an almost Robotic sense of nothingness:


Clearly he is awed by the historical nature of the Heritage Center (and bovine presence) behind him. Veiled sarcasm aside, There is little else I can use to efficiently describe this fine land and the people and my experiences therein but open…

Open in spirit, in expanse, in mind, in geographical diversity, after 1 AM but, unfortunately, only until 2AM. Open in its range of experiences, its depths of self-pride, its independence, and, perhaps most importantly, its unintentional sense of Darwinian self-responsibility. If you get hurt, you probably did something to deserve it.

Think of one of the moments that only you, yourself, can describe. Pause, reflect, or perform whatever rituals you must to re-instill that sense of solidarity and awed solidarity without the chill of truly feeling separated from your physically and social surroundings. Next, imagine those fleeting moments of mutual understanding, where you and another share the comprehension of equitable emotion and feeling with regards to the specifics of an event or another individuals personality—for lack of a better word, the ‘clicking’ of two souls. Lastly, combine this with the almost ironic sense of freedom that can be only known to a like-minded group of individuals drawn together for a common cause. Roll all of these emotions, along with the strongest sense of shared spirit with the truest of friends, into a spheroid and stretch it over the course of five solid rotations of the Earth upon its axis.

See? I regret to refer you to my original statement, but words are of little use here. Justice has not been properly fulfilled.

The title of this blog can often be misleading; it is not merely my location that is relevant. The irony might be lost with a title such as “How’s That Pooptoad doin’, anyways?“—to speak not of how difficult it would be to remember such a preposterously obtuse title, but needless to say—and to cease these utter ramblings—the answer is fantastic, and full. Look at how well they’ve fed me! Carnivory lives on and so shall I!

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/10 at 08:52 PM
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Sunday, June 07, 2009

Off to the Races!

Fear not, loyal readers. Updates shall recommence promptly, but I am still recovering from a rather busy Saturday, watching large mammals run around an oval.

I shall spare you the obvious as to my whereabouts with this photo:

More from both journeys to come in due course!

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/07 at 07:12 PM
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Friday, June 05, 2009

Deep in the Heart of../Screw You, We’re From…

It’s funny how a good night’s sleep can refresh a set of rubbery legs on a toad such as myself. The rejuvenation of the mind via the means of a proper circadian rhythm cannot be underestimated, as well. With mind and body thus refreshed, I was carefully nestled into the boot of an automobile, eager to display my now-egotistically (and I suppose, latitudinally) adjusted wit. Surprisingly, this was all done in the face of what I was warned would surely be a hangover—something that apparently only affects homo sapiens.

Upon reaching our delightfully shaded destination, I engaged in a lengthy discourse with three stoic figures of proclaimed local writ and someone (my handler) who can only be versed to rhyme as another figure slightly dim of wit:

We, in due order, further assaulted the asphalt (my apologies, again, to my handler, but your skills in vehicular operation are rather brutish) on our way to a friendly game involving the shoes of a horse, food produced by authentic Mexicans, and, lastly, music, as well as a delightfully intoxicating beverage known as beer, both produced by authentic Americans.

Alas, Mr. Wiley Hubbard’s bassist remained staunch in his prior agreements with my favourite country star to perform my favorite song of the South, “Screw You, We’re From Texas.“

In gambling lingo, I guess you could call this day a push, albeit an enjoyable one.

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/05 at 10:24 PM
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Thursday, June 04, 2009

Oh the Inebrity!

While the temporarily traveling unit, hereafter to never again be referred to as the TTU, was not dropped in transit, I must admit that the return trip had me pining for a mild dose of Dramamine. Two brief respites were made at a combination of both my relief and expense. I will spare you the details and let the photographs perform the majority of the dictation:


I can only surmise that this was an effort to epitomize triumph—over what, I do not know.. perhaps the relative inoccupancy of independent phallically branded purveyor of ultratransient living quarters versus that of a major hotel franchise? The fellow providing the elevation is the aforementioned friend from my previous musings.


Ah! How dare I forget to mention the other ‘new friend!‘ Perhaps the ethanol had clouded my memory, but our acquaintance was brief but nevertheless fruitful, and my handler and I shared the above moment of tenderness with her. If only we’d had additional reserves of the currency of time to spend together. I also must note that, while my handler may have his arm confidently wrapped around the belle’s shoulder, I am clearly the nearest to that region to which only those with whom a certain unspoken communication can be truly entrusted.

Thinking back upon this moment nearly gleans a tear from my lone visible eye.

Following another tumultuous transit, I was returned to rest, nestled in the ‘dry heat’ of a ‘Republic’ that I was beginning to know and love.

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/04 at 11:08 PM
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A Night Out, and a New Friend

Upon rudely awakening me, yet again, from a pleasant dream, my handler informed me that we would be going out for an “evening upon the town,“ to properly paraphrase his somewhat slurred speech. I experienced my first sojourn in a taximetered caboose to the city’s center. I must, however, pause to note that this only occurred subsequent to the proffering or, to better term it, solicitation of multisyllabic herbs and cacti—something which apparently necessitated the prerequisite of my handler’s astrological sign NOT being that of the lion. I must apologize, as I failed to glean much from the muffled conversation from the confines of my increasingly comfortable portable accommodations. I truly do need to find a name for it; perhaps the Toadabode? Fear not, I speak such merely in jest.

Nevertheless, into the flotsam and jetsam of alcohol and humanity we ventured; settling upon a fine establishment, where my handler’s game of Scrabble served as a pleasant distraction from a backdrop of what I had been forewarned bay the caboose operator would be young female humans seeking yuppy (sic?) husbands much their senior.

Undeterred, or perhaps encouraged, by the shameless advances from across the bar, I proceeded to relax with the aid of what was soon to become one of my preferred spirits, shown below, as well as the intensity, conviviality and, upon my handler’s loss, demurred conviviality of the aforementioned wordgame.

The margin of victory was 12 and, for the first time on this journey, I had felt as if I had grown to know someone a little more completely. No—not the Macallan—that was merely a brief encounter! I speak of my handler’s opponent, who seemingly possessed a switch that directed his focus to and from the specific task at hand, all the while maintaining an honest and direct manner of conversation. In this dark, heated, increasingly hazy land, I rightly believe that I had made my first new friend.

Alas, the “last call” of the evening was cried and, with the game tucked neatly away in its own portable satchel, we prepared to return to the cozy confines of the hotel. A bold agreement was reached between my handler and his compatriot to make this journey, more adventurously, by foot. Little did we know what was in store.

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/04 at 12:34 AM
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Wednesday, June 03, 2009

A Flight Out, and a Night In

Heavens to Betsy, it’s arid in these parts! Speaking to my claims of silence implying consent, I would claim I was forced here against my will, but to be quite honest, I’ve had an itch—call it an itch to explore your fine nation—no MY fine nation—after all, I was crafted upon this fine soil. All in all, I must admit, things could only have been described thus far as mundane and poorly lit.

But look at me! In the sunlight! In an automobile! With Cacti! And flowers! For a drivetrain!

I am afraid that, even on this trip, I cannot properly allow myself to stoop to the level of the creation of crude ruminative analogies that seem so popular in these modern times. I merely maintain the sarcastic stamina unbecoming of all but a few of my contemporaries—let me here at least give some credit to my handler’s profoundly dry wit. Alas, I shall give it a go.. it was drier than a dragonfly’s… no, I just can’t. That would be as utterly unbearable as this ‘dry heat,‘ which my counterparts claimed was “preferable” to a humid day. I felt the moisture being lapped off my skin by the sun. I can only imagine the torture had the damned thing managed to stumble to life, sans conditioned air.

So from where do these current ‘on line’ transmissions—ha! please, do pardon the pun—find their origins? I can only oblige you to guess, visitors, but the obvious hint of the random, muttered references to ‘Republic’ and ‘secession,‘ whatever they may imply, cannot go unignored.

Nevertheless, fear not for my health. The nearby accommodations were quite agreeable and, in due notice, I was returned to a more appropriately humidified location with an adequate absence of such repugnant sunlight. In due course, I promptly returned to slumber.

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/03 at 05:46 PM
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Tuesday, June 02, 2009

Travel

Where to begin but the beginning? I was thrust out of my subconscious by the brusquely intoned query of whether or not I wanted to go on a vacation, to which my mind could merely muster the thought, “a vacation from what?“ Nevertheless, my silence duly implied consent and I proceeded, adequately protected from the elements, to my initial destination:


A chair!






Pardon my feigned excitement, but, despite the vast vista through wide windows of a concrete expanse, I saw nothing at all to warrant a journey of such length. Hesitantly, and without a choice, I proceeded on my journey and was greatly delighted to make my first acquaintances of what I was assured was to become an epic journey:

I nodded off after returning to my quarters only to find myself awakened by both jarring shift in position and murmurs, amongst which I could distinctly detect the voice of the pleasant young woman who held the green simian as well as her friend.

Alas, we parted ways with nary a goodbye in the alarmingly increasingly expansive concrete in a town known as Altlanta. A gentle female voice informed us that “those passengers who do not have connecting flights” would be held in a higher regard were they to allow those without such high status to disembark according to such status. Apparently my handler holds such elite status as to allow him to do so whilst nauseatingly jostling me about in my already-cramped quarters.

After a distinctly brisk period of what I can only imagine can be compared to the sensations of a traveler in a rickshaw—-which I hope to soon experience—a distinct yet similarly gentle voice informed us of several safety precautions which my quarters rendered irrelevant and I nodded off to sleep as the sun set. My handler claimed to have taken this photograph precisely as I breached somnolence. He claimed we were chasing the Western sun, but I am relatively certain that the photo was taken prior to my first awakening. But toads tend to reawaken, so I shall take him at his word:


      And reawaken again I would.

Posted by Pooptoad on 06/02 at 11:54 PM
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