OK. It didn't really happen like that. Lets go back before the door got slammed and stuck. I'd spent most of the day trying to thaw out the washing machine and fix the the kerosene heater. I called the tech. support # on the heater and got a very helpful woman from sales on the line. Being a saleswoman, she knew as much about these things as anyone in tech. support. We trouble shot it together. Bad wick? No. Bad fuel? I shook the can and could hear ice crunching in the mix. Could be. The burner wasn't seated properly? Damned if I know. It went like this- ect., ect. Eventually I cleaned the mess up, dumped the frozen kerosene, and finally got it working. Success!
It was at this point I grabbed my computer to check my email. I clicked the button and the big familiar letters came up- YOU ARE NOT CONNECTED TO THE INTERNET!. I have slow satellite. Click again. Nothing. After an hour of no connection I called Hughes net. The girl talked me into an upgrade. Half way though placing an order for "gen. 4", with a rather slow Indian girl, the line went dead. I started to steam. Stay calm- I told myself. I wasn't listening.
Storming through the kitchen, beating on the groaning washing machine, tripping over the meowing cats, my slippery boots slid on the kitchen floor. Grabbing the door knob to catch myself, two cats shot by me as I crashed to the floor, slamming the door shut. In my frustrated frenzy I grabbed a cutting board and threw it at the table, turning it to splinters. I only wished it was my computer. As I sat on the cold floor I could hear the radio in the other room talking about "impulsive suicide". I heard how many people commit suicide within five minutes of having the thought. Mentally I drew a google map of every gun in my house. All were in easy access. I moved towards the closet. The 9mm. was high on the shelf....then the phone rang. It was Shewho. She was at the store. Did I need anything? I didn't. Impulsive suicide averted.
I know you've read this far just to find out about what RNButch wanted. Milawyer advises me to say nothing. But I can't help myself. Where's my foot? I need to shoot it.
Shewho and i sat on the couch, having a couple of beers when the phone rang. This time it was RNButch. After small talk and pleasantries RNButch got down to business. Seems he has a production company with his friend Daymond John from SHARK TANK and FUBU fame. I'd met this guy a couple of times across the road and he didn't seem too interested in anything I had to say. Maybe it was Shewho's assumption that SHARK TANK was a nature show. In any case it took me a minute to remember who the guy was and why RNButch would have a production company? I also was wondering why RNB would read the blog, and trying to remember what I had written that would come back to bite me. "Anyway.." RNB continued "I turned Daymond onto your blog and told him about the church and stripper pole and he loved it. I was wondering if I could come over tomorrow and talk to you about maybe doing something with us?" IFF! I'm fucking flabbergasted. We set a meeting for noon Saturday.
So there I sat, the house cleaned up, the art out, the kerosene heater working properly, the house warm, waiting on RNButch. Noon came and went. Hmmmmmm? As the sun set behind RNButch's mansion on the hill I wondered what was going on here? Was RNB pissed over something I had written in the blog and using this as some sort of ruse to twist me up? Was he some sort of evil genius, intuitively knowing how to find my soft underbelly, and slowly, perversely gnaw through it? I wanted to call, but resisted. The fucker called me. Why should it have to......? At dark I got in the car and drove to Shewho's WSSP.
By Sunday morning the only message on my phone was from a Hughes net. installer who wanted to upgrade me that day. No word from RNB. Since this was the last place I thought a reality TV deal for HWS would come from, I was more befuddled and bemused than pissed. The satellite guy showed up and I got in a giant pissing match with him when it didn't work. "You have a mac." he stated flatly, throwing up his hands, like he'd never seen one before. "I don't know anything about macs." What year is this? Again the google map of my guns went through my head as the installer stood up waving his hands. Can't be too careful who you let in your house.
So this is where it stands as of Monday morning. Assuming Daymond John and RNButch are reading this. The first thing I look for when dealing with anyone is courtesy. If they value my time on par with their own it's a good start. I eventually couldn't take it and called Carlito to get RNB's #. Being the good right hand man he didn't give it to me. "You know RNB shouldn't have left me hanging like that." I whined. Carlito agreed and told me I should tell him that. Without a phone # it's a little difficult. So I write it here. I have nothing to lose these days. I jump through hoops for nobody. Maybe RNButch has a good excuse for blowing me off with no call. Maybe it was all a big misunderstanding. Or maybe he's just evil enough to know how to fuck with me. In any case I gotta go bail the tub. Now you know as much as I do.
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