Prof. Jas. M. Stacy's Odditorium of Minutia: October 2007

Well, as usual Laffo's best laid plans can be dashed into lil' pieces by one Customer Nonservice Representative after another. We contacted our Corn Dog Kiln Manufacturer as we were missing the shielding and fuel rod holder that power the mighty furnace. Bob (our physicist at the plant) put all the missing equipment on a plane, on Thursday, in Ohio. Now Ohio is where all great Corndog Fabrication Equipment is made. Detroit may be known for Elephant Ears, Iowa for Roasted Corn and San Francisco for its Cotton Candy, but the great and progressive state of Ohio, smells, tastes and eats like Corndog. The "shipping" company, referred to in all lower case letters, and in quotation marks, will henceforth be known as PMS, as they are a pain in my cooze, and made me so mad I couldn't wear white pants. On the PMS website it shows the "Heart of the Furnace," for ease we'll call it "HoF" from now on, leaving Ohio on Thursday 11 at 1611 and arriving at the PMS terminal 1 at 1835. It then went to Sharonville, Ohio around 2249, loafed around and caught a ride out at 0055 on the 12th. The HoF touched down in Louisville, Kentucky, at 0250, got a cup of coffee and was on its way by 0350. All is well. HoF's making great time, and just glowing with the possibility of making Corndogs for all the fine people. Hapeville, Georgia is just a scant 3 miles from Our Laboratory and I would have jumped into Pallookaville Prime and greeted HoF as he made his way down the gangplank – but PMS didn't call. I was up. I wouldn't see sleep for 46 hours during the launch. I was up, do you hear me? He saw Hapeville at 0433 in our fair burg. It's now Friday. The HoF was loaded onto a transport vessel at 0800 hours, buckled himself in and left the terminal at 0830… Now the mystery begins… At 1330 Laffo calls Bob From Ohio to see if everything's okay. "Yes sirree buddy, everything's just right as rain," he Midwest drawls to me. Boy Howdy this shit's gonna work. At 1430 we check the PMS Website and see HoF is still "Out for Delivery." Before I go any further let's discuss this last sentence, as no one who works at PMS will give me an answer. I want to know what "Out for Delivery" means. Now English might as well be a second language to me, but I think I know what this means. "Out" means not "In," "for" is expressing the item's intention which it will undergo, and "Delivery" is the act of someone receiving something. So let's get this straight: "Out for Delivery" means "The HoF is no longer inside the Terminal and is going to the Person who requested it, so it can be in their possession." According to PMS this is not what "Out for Delivery" means; in fact they wouldn't tell me what it means, because it's a secret for example… "So what does 'Out for Delivery' mean then, it's almost 4:00 p.m.'" Says Laffo. "It means 'Out for Delivery,'" says the delightful woman at PMS. "Okay, I know what the phrase is, I need you to give me your definition of 'Out for Delivery,' so I know what to expect from you guys," Laffo coos. "It means 'Out for Delivery,'" chimes the precious woman at PMS. "Am I getting my Part?" Laffo, getting frustrated, pants. "Maybe. It's 'Out for Delivery,'" counters the princess at PMS. Who's on first at PMS? Who cares? With same the quality of information on the HoF's whereabouts, I could have caught the 911 terrorists. The HoF now goes missing. Into thin motherfuckin air, A magic Corndog part. I call Bob, as he's leaving the plant, "Hey Bob, is this a magic part?" He replies, "Well there Laffo, there are magic parts to it, as the rods are whittled owt of Unicorn Horn by an Elvin Craftsman of Nod, but we've double bound them in place with a cordage spell from beyond the Carpathians and triple shielded them with the good intentions of a fair virgin." "Really?" Laffo quizzes. "No you dumb ass," he says, "It's a galvanized shoebox, stuffed with slightly unstable Uranium 238, which at one point was weapons grade, but I can't vouch for the 238's quality, as we step on that shit pretty hard, and you know the money's in the cut. Now can I leave? I got Bitches in the car, hot and ready to go Dawg. Forget my motherfuggin digits for the weekend boo. If you have issues call somebody who cares what yo white ass needs, now bounce." Shit, I've been read the riot act by a fuggin Engineer. From now on he'll be The Whiggasist. This will be the first "Fuck You" of the tale. I call back PMS and let them know that it is indeed not a magic part and therefore should not dematerialize. The Mensa member at PMS says, "It's 'Out for Delivery.'" Good Keerist... "Where's my part," "Will it be here," "Why is it not here," "When will it not be here," "Where would one look for it," "How long before someone will START to look for it," "Could a Supervisor be called," "Will someone please return JUST ONE of my calls," "Can someone else help me," "Why do you insist on doing this," and lastly," "is there anyone who knows what's going the fuck on over there?" these are some of the questions my new best friend at PMS, could not answer. Why in the world would you have tracking information if you can't track the package? I was told they can't get a hold of the driver. What? My goddamn Father knew exactly where the fuck I had snuck off to every Saturday Night, regardless of how well I covered my tracks, and they're telling me they can't find a package I paid them $90.00 American to deliver? It was over-knighted, which means the 8 day investigation you're gonna do is not gonna help me. It's 7 days too late you shithead. That's insulting. Number Two. "Fuck You."

Dirtleg enjoys pretend games with our CORNLEONE product.

I have a small emergency. I will have no engine to launch Pallookaville with. The scientists at Grumman are off on a three day whore and booze weekend in TJ, so I can't call them. Morton Thikol is still pissed I wouldn't take out their Electron Biologist on a date, so I can't call them. I bullied Lockheed Martin in High School so that's out. Where am I gonna get a Corndog engine? I'm not. I'm gonna quit. My heart is broken. Yet another mission scrubbed, because no one gives a shit anymore. Well here comes The Weenie Queen and talks me off the ledge. This is no easy feat as I'm 18 hours into a ball breaker and I'm exhausted, disgusted, pissed and upset that these no talent fucks have lost my engine, and now my coating tubs haven't shown up from another vendor. I'm gonna have a breakdown. I'm gonna crack. I'm gonna explode. Well in the infinite wisdom that only a woman has, she throws my words back at me. MY OWN WORDS. God, I hate it when the advice I give someone else, in my smug, self righteous manner, is applied to me and it works. So she says, "Well you know you can't cancel, you're not that kind of asshole. I mean you're an asshole, don't get me wrong, but not that kind of asshole."

Coffee, Tea or Weenie?

And then she said it… "The Show Must Go On." Boom. Crash. Smack. Kachow. She pulled out the heavy artillery and put a hole right in my crystallizing plans for sleep sometime in the next day. Bap. "The Show Must Go On." Those five words made the little pieces of P.T. Barnum DNA I have squirm and contort, and maybe just maybe it was the lack of sleep, but a light shone down on me and I said, "I can do this thing, The Show Must Go On." Well, twelve hours later, Shaftsquatch and I were loaded and finally off to the Fair Grounds to make The Corndogs. Now I have to tell you, I've Okayed the Batter, I've hand-picked the Sausages off our Sausage Tree, and I've had Thai Refugees carving Corndog sticks for three months, but I haven't fried a Corndog with the Rig. There is no Rig to fry with. I'm gonna have to cook in a wash pot with natural fuels neath it. Like Caveman style. I'm a fan of being rustic, don't get me wrong, but when I'm gonna make what I consider to be the Godhead of foods, I want some stainless steel, some nuclear waste and a Slim Shady wannabe designing my containment center. I'm not really wanting to fry in gusty 15 mile an hour winds, with Dentists and Accountants in brand new leather chaps and huge mid-life cry-seize asking for Hamburgers and Fries, but I will… because "The Show Must Go On." After an ass heavy Pallookaville One crushing Laffo's clown foot, and dragging Pallookaville One off the trailer hitch on a speed bump, because the receiver was packed full of mud, we were off. No tail lights or tags, no inspections, just hairy, hairy men with 3200 lbs of makings, and dreams of making the Best Corndog on the Planet. We got to the Stone Mountain Harley Dealership at about 8:45 and started getting set up. Took a while cause it's our first time don't cha know. The first Corndogs were a little over done as I was trying to control the heat on 60 lbs of winterized cottonseed oil in the wind, which ain't rocket science, but not far off, and we got it going. Cam and Scott out at the dealership asked Pallookaville to do this party a while back and the guys are class, so I thought it would be a good shake down launch. Cam and Laffo go aways back. Cam he used to dress up Party City style and ride his motor sickle all about. So being that two fellers are dressed as clowns, Nature dictates they speak. Well, eventually he built a Clown Harley, all polka dots and such and Laffo was doing the "Reverend Uncle Laffo's Quality Amateur Talent Sideshow," and Cam was at the Vortex doing Bike Night and showing off the new bike. Laffo's outside the Star Bar across the street smoking and what not, when Cam gets ready to leave. Not all the bugs are quite worked out of the bike, and the carb stalls the bike while the throttle sticks open. Well all hell breaks loose and Cam lays the fucker down. To his credit he's not hurt and the bike is fine, but it looks gruesome. Laffo runs cross the street and picks the bike off of him. Man, a giant clown pulling a Clown Harley off another clown in the middle of Moreland… priceless. So, that being said Laffo thinks it's good to have a buddy like Cam. Now I'm not a big motor sickle kinda guy cause they scare the shit outta me. I'm too goofy and spastic to ride a motor sickle and enjoy it. I'd have already played out the accident and resulting paralysis in my mind over and over and that gets in the way of a good time. Now because I'm not motorcycle crazy, I don't get some of it. Don't get me wrong; I defend to the death, the right for anyone to be who they want, as long as they don't hurt anyone. I can't, however, understand the yuppie biker or "Yike" as we likes to call em. I saw a fool walking around with a skin tight shirt on that was covered with fake tattoos. Fake Harley Davidson tattoos. Whatta fuggin' twat. How in hell can a grizzled Vietnam War Vet with grey hair down to his nuts, and blue tattoos of nekkid wimmens on his forearms, look at these shits and not scream. I'm not a biker and I want to. I think dressing up is fun, fuck I'm a clown. I look like a clown. I act like a clown… well I act like a shithead, but I look like a clown. These guys are pretending to be rebels. I feel that's insulting to the guys that are actually rebellious. There can be many kinds of bikers, but just be the same guy you were Wednesday Morning, on Saturday Afternoon when you pulled the bike out for a "little bugs in the teeth." Just be genuine. Please cut out the motherfucking posing. It stinks and looks really stupid. But again, to each his own, it's not my fucking business so I should shut up. Number Three, "Fuck Me."

Please Read the Menu

Corndogs are my business, and business was good. Even though we don't sell beer, we don't have Hamburgers and Fries, and you can get pissed about it all you want to, but I'm still not gonna have em, and isn't there a Chain Burger Joint literally 200 yards from where you stand? That short answer would be "YES." The day progressed nicely with "The System" showing itself and "The Process" organically becoming evident. Now when I say The System, I mean the way orders get bandied back and forth and the way a Corndog makes it to yer guts. The Process is everything else in between, like smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, shaking heads at idiots, etc. This may be a wagon but the KP Area better act like a traditional kitchen. I need a Guatemalan Dish Washer, a Meth Head Sous Chef and an Angry Lesbian Grill Cook, and then the Lesbian and the Meth Head need to get in a knife fight, after that the Wagon would be like a real kitchen I guess.

No Really, Read the Fucking Menu

And so we made Corndogs and people seemed to dig em, even thought the humor of the whole thing was lost on 95% or the people, that's with +or- 2 % margin for error, with the people who got it, really getting it.