Grandchild-and-all-around-pansy Rick sent me this video of an Asian pretending to be an old man and doing magic on a train.   Rick thought it would give me some sort of purpose in life since I’m spending a lot of time writing letters to the editor of the local newspaper/birdcage liner about how ungrateful all generations after mine are.

Oh Percy, how idle are your hands?!!!!

I was not amused by this video.  Magic is for the weak!  Weak in spirit!  Weak in throwing ability!  Weak in intestinal fortitude!   I just called Rick’s mom and told her to do her matronly duties and restrain her son’s magical tendencies.   If you’ll excuse me, I have some letters to finish before Raymond comes on.

- Percy Johanson

Grandchild and jack-of-all-gay Rick came over the other morning with the meds I get to take for my gland.  I’ve never been one to take the drugs.  Once you’ve tasted God in a Korean hash house the Mormon pleasure of a Tylenol just doesn’t cut it.  But when it comes to peeing, I suppose I’ll make an exception .

Oh Percy, how you’ve been humbled by your Prostate!

Rick felt bad about my condition. Not so bad that he’d finally learn to throw a goddam baseball without emitting gay radiation like some sort of gay microwave, but bad enough that he bought his ol’ granpa Percy a Macaw.  General Douglas MacArthur, as I named him, came in a fancy brass cage complete with a New York Times newspaper lining the bottom.  Just how I like my New York Times!

What a grandson!

General Douglas MacArthur, with his bright blue and yellow coat of feathers, is an altered beast of a gift. I think that’s some sort of electrified wolf; I’m not sure myself, but that’s how Rick described it and I kind of like how it sounds.  Altered beast.  Hmm.

Considering some of the gifts I’ve received from my kids, which included…

• ceramic skull ashtray
• ceramic plumber (with ass-crack ashtray)
• ceramic Korean (not an ashtray)
• rare Precious Moments figurine of Charles Bronson inscribed with the words, “I love you this much!”
• lottery ticket

… I’d say General Douglas MacArthur was the greatest gift I’ve ever received.

But, as they say, there’s always a catch. Much like the greatest military commander of our time, General Douglas MacArthur is loud as a banshee!  I try to watch my stories on the television and every time one of those infernal car alarm commercials comes on, General Douglas MacArthur is squawking and I gingerly walk to the window to make sure no one has stolen the hood ornament off my friend Geri’s Cadillac Seville.  The first few times I thought it was pretty amazing General Douglas MacArthur could sound so much like the car alarm Geri installed on his Cadillac, but now I’m starting to get pretty jazzed about it!  General Douglas MacArthur is even starting to mimic some of the singers on Grand Ole Opry, Tuesday nights at 7 p.m. on PBS.

So now I have a swollen prostate and a macaw General Douglas MacArthur.  If you were an alien from the future and you told me I’d have trouble pissing and would develop a creeping paranoia about auto theft I would have told you your full of space shit!

(Continued from here)

Grandchild Rick just called to remind me to finish the story I was telling all you quiet and lonely readers about the casino trip from hell.   It’s little things like that which make me forget that Rick enjoys impersonating a girl throwing a medicine ball whenever we play catch. 

Ok, where was I? 

The bus left the Shaded Veranda of Oaks With Shade On Them Community Center in the afternoon with only myself and neighbor Harold on it.  The blue hairs and other veterans and America-hating neighbors of mine were safely in the center’s craft room/fallout shelter preparing for the storm equivalent of the second coming of His Son as we passed time on the bus asking each other what the other person just said. 

We arrived at the Casino and stepped off the hydraulic steps of the bus into humidity that I could have sworn tried to stop short with me.  My vinyl jacket was sticking to me in the heat and Harold’s glasses fogged like that time Geri Hatrick, Harold and I snuck into Gladys’ apartment while she showered.  Thankfully, we were able to park close since we brought our handicapped parking pass.  Next thing you know, we’re inside the casino and on our way to Vanna White’s nurturing bosom of slots. 

Two hours, two diet Pepsi’s and two cashed Social Security check later, Harold and I were back on the fun bus waiting for our driver to finish pissing underneath the LeBaron parked next to us.  That’s right, he was under the car!  He was all worried about security seeing him, but not wanting to run inside since he doesn’t have a license, so I told him to do what we used to do in Korea: crawl under the car, lay on your side, unzip and let it flow.  Needless to say, the driver crawled out from under the LeBaron a new man.   In much the same way, we were forever changed when the bus pulled out of the parking garage and onto the highway. 

I swear I saw more trees uprooted and garbage strewn about the landscape than I ever saw in my ungrateful grandchild Tony’s room.   It was a sight! 

Shit.  Jimmy, my ungrateful son who put me in this place because he secretly enjoys my sadness, is coming over so he can feel better about leaving me alone 6 days a week.   We’ll just have to finish this story tomorrow. 

Rick, when you’re finished with your Wednesday throwing class please give your gramps another reminder call.  And start extending your arm when you throw.  You don’t play with sausage-themed dolls like your sister, so stop throwing like you secretly want to set a small table with your finest china and have a damn tea party with those slutty dolls!  

Hello readers!  Johnanson Enterprises is back in business after a rough patch last week.  No, I’m not back in the textiles game, that’s just how me and Rick refer to ourselves (sometimes, I call him The Rickshaw). 

It turns out, high winds, old trees and power cables don’t mix well.  That meant I wouldn’t be watching my stories on the TV all weekend because of the giant storm that blowed through the Soon-You’ll-Die Apartment Complex on Thursday.  

What a bitch that was. 

The Bingo Bus picked me up Thursday for our weekly pilgrimage to Epilepsy and Diet Coke Casino.   Normally, the “High Noon Flyer” is filled to the gills with the money-lusting blue hairs angling for the next inheritance-filled walking corpse they can canoodle with under the flashing lights of the Wheel of Fortune slots.   Not this time.  Oh no.  Apparently, all the frisky blue hairs’ children actually give a damn about them because that bus was as empty as the local VFW when they’re out of Old Fashioned mix. 

Harold Schotzen’s kids must hate him as much as mine do me, because we were the only ones on the entire bus.  Since no one told us about the “Fat Man” on track to strike the area in the afternoon, Harold and I were like cattle on the slaughterhouse conveyor belt of stormy weather. 

Would the line end at the casino, our retirement community or on the road to the Seizure Palace?  Come back tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion to “Where’s My Skull Candle?”

To be continued…

Hello campers! Percy’s back from his summer vacation with the son and his terrible horrible family! My grandchild Rick told me that’s how the kids are speaking these days; talking all in the third person like a goddamn fool. Fool or no fool, do I have a story to tell whoever is reading this.

Rick, you know how I told you some things aren’t meant for grandchildren? Well, this is one of those stories. I probably shouldn’t have given this internet blog post such a blue title if I didn’t want you to read this, but my Fig Newtons are jammed into the backspace key on the old keyboard and there’s no turning back.

Rick, go practice your throwing now. 

Ok, so last weekend was the annual Ungrateful Children of Percy Reunion at the Olive Garden in whatever city my son, Jimmy, lives in.  I like the bread sticks.  

On Saturday morning, Jimmy and his wife, Deborah, along with their spoiled children, picked me up at the home they forced me into so they could steal my house.  We then drove for three hours in the comfort of their children’s incessant wailing.  Talk about a blast! 

Finally, we arrived at the parking lot of the Olive Garden in whatever urban wasteland my spawn moved away from me for.  All my kids, and their kids, were there, which for the first few minutes made me about as happy as I am on Ribeye Night at the home — just pink enough, but not too bloody! (Geri always laughs when I say that for some reason. Hmm…) — but then things turned sour.  My ex-wife showed up with her batch of Percy seeds.  Oh boy. 

Maude is, was and forever shall be a bitch.  A giant bitch.  Queen bitch, with one of those fancy headdresses all the Egyptians wore.  Bitchopatra or something like that. 

Maude walks up with our eldest mistake, Tony, and I can tell somthing is different about him.  Same jerkoff attitude and same jerkoff voice, but he’s holding a keychain in his hand.  I think it’s from that group with the cars and the women with the legs.  ZZ Top.  

Tony has never shown an ounce of manhood since I first slapped him in the mouth for crying during the scene in On Golden Pond when Henry Fonda falls in the water.   But that’s neither here nor there.  See, Tony has a brand new used car he wants to show me and he’s all smiles as he walks up in his mesh tank top and shorts with lots of pockets for cargo. 

He helps me walk all the way over to the parking lot to gaze upon his 1984 Camaro IRAQ.  What a piece of shit.  It’s got a bird on the hood, but not like in Smokey & The Bandit.  Instead, it’s some chicken that’s touching itself like a damn pederast!  Tony keeps telling me how much of a steal the car was, but all I can focus on is the giant fucking bird’s eyes, following me as I slowly push my walker away from the masturbating bird.   I think I stopped listening to Tony describe the lamb’s wool seat covers around that time, because suddenly he grabs me and asks where I’m going.  I must have hit the record button on the new phone Jimmy gave me, because the rest of my conversation with Tony went like this:

“Don’t you want to see the inside, grandpa?” 

“No, Tony.  Your car is shit and that bird is freaking me out. Let me grab some potato salad away from your shit ass bird rubbing itself for all the children here to see.” 

“But, grandpa.  I was hoping you’d be willing to lend me a few bucks for some of those sweet mudflaps with the naked ladies on them.  You know how you’re always giving Rick money for baseball cards and throwing lessons?  It’s not fair you never give me anything, especially since I can throw a baseball and all.” 

Tony’s right on one point — he throws a baseball better than that pansy Rick can any day of the week (unless it’s in the month of Fagtober) — but Tony broke my cardinal rule:  Never Ask Percy For Money.   Next thing you know…

“Money?  Why. I. Oughta!”

I lunged at Tony’s collared shirt and pulled.  He fell into me and I kicked him in the shin.  He didn’t seem fazed, but he moved out of my way, giving me a clear shot at the cock hood.  I strained to lift my walker high enough, but the Lord blessed me at that moment and I hoisted my walker and dropped it with extreme prejudice on that damn chicken and his sinful appendage.  

Jimmy and Deborah heard the noise of my walker scraping against the aluminum hood and ran over.  Maude just stood there talking to someone else about what a shitheel I was.  Tony was on his knees crying for me to stop.  At least this time it’s not over Henry Fonda and Katherine Hepburn! 

- Percy “Big Ups” Johanson

Rick’s a nice kid. He’s got an arm like a 6th grade girl after a jump rope competition, but he makes up for his faggy-ness by helping his gramps write on the internets. I’m going to write to all you whippersnappers about my life and why you’re all stupid for not listening to me. If you’ve got a problem with something I write, go tell your ungrateful mom. I just got off her.

-Percy