Wacky World Putt-Putt and Spa

Greetings to all daredevils,

Went job-searching in Mount Olive, MS and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.

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My name was airbrushed on the back for an extra $4.50. Reasoned with the designer and he gave me a 12% discount after tax. Still haven't lost my touch.

On the way back, I stopped in the cutesy little town of Louisville, but only because my GPS system led me astray. Noticed lots of cattle staring at me as I crossed through an unkempt pasture. This is when I began to question my GPS "navigational" system. Tossed it out the window and put the Kia in reverse. When the owner of Triple C Farms flagged me down, I waved back, assuming he was extending southern hospitality. In his extended hand was a cell-phone, which was being used to communicate with the sheriff's department. Spent 3 hours trying to convince the local authorities that this was all a great, big misunderstanding. When they asked me to show proof, I drove back to the pasture and pointed out my discarded so-called GPS navigational system.

§ 97-15-29 states that your first offense for littering requires you to pay a fine of not less than $50 and no more than $250. Good thing I got that t-shirt deal down in Mount Olive.

Got back on the highway later that evening and decided to use the old-fashioned GPS system, my BRAIN. Technology is so overrated I can't even begin to fathom a world in which we place all of our trust in their inefficiencies.

When I finally took a pitstop in Red Bank, AL, I decided to ask for directions. No way in the world I would ever buy a map, especially not during this economic downturn.

Grabbed 4 bottles of "Fuji" water and asked the cashier if she knew how to get to Oxford, MS. She started laughing uncontrollably and pointing in all directions. This type of customer service should be reported to the proper authorities. The manager then informed me that, in the future, I should purchase items from the actual gas station, and not from some vagrant squatting behind the building selling knockoff Fiji water and bootleg copies of "Fish 'N' Bloopers." Sorry, fella, but I couldn't ignore some of Bill Dance's finest work selling for less than $5.00. After using the restroom, I jumped in the saddle and prepared to head home.

The mechanical horsey didn't get me far, but Stonewall (the name I gave the horse) seemed to wink at me when I passed the video game room. I could almost hear the horsey naying, "Come ride. Only 75 cents. I won't bite." Sure enough, he didn't bite.

I filled my car up and pulled out of the gas station, remembering that I'd forgotten to ask for directions. "Screw it," I thought, "It's only 11 PM."

My car followed the winding highway and the country song on the radio accurately explained my situation.

"Been on the road all day/ not sure where I'm going

Headed home I sure hope/ least my age ain't showing

This ole' car full of miles/ not sure if it'll last

Headed home I sure hope/ least it's full of gas

Drove through an unkempt pasture/ saw a bunch of cattle

Stopped at a pit stop in Bama/ rode a mechanical horsey"

As my mind began to drift to happier times, the radio station lost its signal and a gospel song tried to fight against the static. Sometimes I feel like radio stations fight one another for space and time, but that might just be the physics nerd in me.

Nearly an hour after I'd crossed the Alabama/Mississippi state line, the steering wheel to my Kia began to take a life of its own. It started swerving to the left, then the right, then centered itself. Felt like a higher being was taking over my vehicle. Decided it was best if I let the higher being win this battle and minutes later, I was in an abandoned cemetery.

I say abandoned because all of the plots had been dug up and the flowers were missing. (I assume there were once flowers) The gate to this cemetery was rusty and the fence outlining the acre of land was hardly a fence at all. It saddens me to think that as time goes by, people stop visiting the graves of their loved ones. This is probably what happened in this case. People stopped coming and grave-robbers took action. Hey, that is American Capitalism for ya. Who knows how much a suit from 1954 would be worth today?

I gathered what was left from the empty graves, piled them in my trunk (Kias are spacious) and said a little thank-you to those who had passed before me and had left these little tokens of appreciation for taking the time to visit them even if they were no longer there.

The rest of the ride was uneventful until about one mile later when I spotted blue-lights in my rear-view mirror. Great, another ice-cream truck trying to solicit me.

Turns out it was a sheriffs deputy (go figure) asking me if I had visited the local abandoned cemetery lately.

"No sir," I replied as flies and other insects of the night hovered around my head.

"Well, somebody about a mile back said they spotted a car with this specific description leaving the cemetery around, well, the amount of time it takes for a Kia to drive exactly one mile."

"Nonsense," I said to the yokel. "That sounds absurd. Does that make sense to you?"

"The witness described this exact model, sir," the officer explained.

"HA," I said loudly, causing him to step back an inch from my car. "HA," I said again, inching him back one more inch. I noticed a pattern and continued until he was on the other side of the road.

"HA," I said for the 42nd time until he finally noticed the same pattern and walked back to his original spot.

"Sir, they saw a silver and gold Kia with a "Don't Tread on This" bumper sticker leaving the premises."

"And?"

"And, that description fits this car."

"Sir, I've already been cited today for one minor offense and I don't have time for another."

The Tippah County Sherrif's Department is not all what it's cracked up to be. For one thing, when they say they offer free breakfast, they forget to mention that it's only served hot. What if you are a fan of cold grits? Get with the program, Sam. Also, when I request reading material, don't suggest a state law book explaining exactly what sort of trouble I'm in. That's why I hire public defenders. They read that mess, not me.

Everybody in my phone book refused to bail me out, mostly because nobody answered my phone calls or text messages. I'd blame technology for this, but I covered that earlier. For now, I'll rant about so-called best friends.

Let's say for example, you are chosen as the "Best Man" for your best friend's wedding:

You show up to the bachelor party with a keg of vodka, party favors, party hats, free ringtones, wacky sunglasses and gift cards to Wacky World Putt-Putt and Spa. Naturally, you'd expect everyone to be like, "Holy cow, this is the best "Best Man"ever." Instead, you are greeted to, "What are you doing here?" and "You weren't invited," and "Somebody call the police."

You find out that instead of being selected as the "best man," some other numbskull was chosen who had only known your best friend for like, 10 years whereas you'd known him for 11. Sure, this nobody lived with him all through college and now practiced law with him in their hometown, but what does that even mean?

Weren't you the guy that bailed your best friend out of jail that time he was accused of stealing a purse from an old lady when really it was you that stole the purse and it was you that threw it in his trunk when the cops arrived at the nursing home? Uh, yep.

Weren't you the guy that introduced your best friend to his wife when she was a waitress at the little, dinky coffee shop that you kept threatening to sue because they always refused to serve you a "vodka-coffee" because it wasn't on the menu. Huh? Did you forget that, buddy?

And weren't you the guy that inexplicably convinced him to get married one night during karaoke when you sang "He Stopped Loving Her Today," by George Jones over and over and over again until finally the bouncer wrestled the microphone away from your sweaty hands but not before you broke into tears and started claiming that angels did exist and that one day you would marry a fallen angel? Yeah, you must have forgotten.

But I sure didn't, and I showed up to party. The bride's little brother (also a groomsmen, by the way.) convinced everyone to let me stay because I looked like a storm-cloud of fun. They reluctantly said "fine" but begged me to promise that I wouldn't stay in the same hotel room, or the same hotel, as them.

"Let the games begin!" I screamed aloud inside the luxury suite.

By the way, whenever an adult questions whether or not you should be trusted, questions your decision-making abilities or questions your motivations for dating his daughter, always turn your attention to the minor in the room because they are usually bigger risk-takers. I think it's the kid in them that tells them to take a chance. This is what I did in this case. I turned to the bride's little brother and with a wink, guaranteed him a night that he would never forget.

I say this because I felt pretty awful when he was the only one arrested for indecent exposure at "The Chicken Coup" down on highway 352. Placing a plastic fork to his throat and demanding that he strip for the friendly dancer on stage... "or else"... might have seemed a bit extreme at the time, but he should consider it a learning experience.

So the next morning when I arrived at the church 15 minutes early and the bride's father began yelling at me at the top of his lungs, obviously I was stumped.

First-of-all, this is a place of worship, and second-of-all, I'm the groom's best friend.

And wouldn't you know, the moment the bride's father pointed at me and asked if anybody knew me, my best friend slowly shook his head and turned away.

What kind of best friend does that? More importantly, what kind of man does that? Won't even stand up for your best friend? Wow. It still stings, yet I wasn't all that surprised that he didn't answer his phone when I called him from the Tippah County Sheriff's Department.

Three days later, I decided to make the most of my situation and began to ask about job openings. I told them how I had been a successful newspaper publisher for many months and how the whole town loved me.

The secretary laughed and said, "Why don't you run for mayor, then."

I laughed back. Honestly, the only reason I laughed was because I was nervous and was unsure if she knew that one of my deepest desires was to be the mayor of some town, any town. I then convinced myself that she couldn't read minds because if she could read minds, she wouldn't be working a petty desk job. Instead she would be out there with the heroes, fighting crime, because she can read minds and knows exactly what the dead bodies are thinking.

A few more days passed and I had become accustomed to the hot grits. Out of the blue, a man in a silk button-up shirt approached my cell and said, "today is your lucky day."

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"They are setting you free."

"Why?"

"Because I worked out an agreement with the sheriff. He's a good buddy of mine."

This all seemed fishy and I knew I'd probably regret leaving the cell to walk with this strange man, but I rolled the wooden dice that my cellmate, Suzie, had made and climbed out of my bunk.

"Let's go, boss!" I said with a pep in my step.

I climbed into his bulky SUV and he silently stared at me as he placed the key into the ignition.

"Where we going, boss?" I kindly asked.

His nostrils flared and his hands began to shake. His forehead began to draw up beads of perspiration and his devilish eyes sunk to the back of his head. His teeth chattered and his breaths grew heavier.

He was having a seizure. I swiftly kicked him out of the driver's seat and drove to the hospital. I wasn't sure where it was, but I used his GPS system.

Remarkably, it worked and I arrived in Batesville in less than 2 hours.

I drove straight through the emergency entrance and violently beat my head into the steering wheel, causing the horn to blow like a mighty freight train roaring through the outfield during a minor league baseball game.

What seemed to be medical personnel banged against the driver-side window as I continuously beat my head into the steering wheel. I wanted everyone to know that my guardian angel was having a heart-attack and I desperately needed someone to save him.

They finally tore the door from the SUV and asked if there was an emergency.

"OF COURSE THERE IS, YOU MORONS!" I hollered. "MY GUARDIAN ANGEL IS HAVING A HEART-ATTACK!"

In retrospect, I realize I was being a little overly dramatic.

"Where is he?" they calmly asked.

"TIPPAH COUNTY! JUMP INTO YOUR AMBULANCES AND FLOOR IT!"

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I found out today that my guardian angel is in stable condition, and is in fact, not really my guardian angel. He was having a seizure, not a heart-attack. I had been right the first time.

He had worked out a deal with the sheriff that was quite unethical. It went like this:

Apparently, the sheriff didn't even know the guy. The guy had broken into the jail, thrown tear-gas canisters before his entry, stolen every cell key and had chosen me at random to become his live-in slave. There was never a deal in the first place, HA!

My charges were dropped and all is well, except that I still don't have a job or a car. It is still in Tippah County and nobody will take me to get it since nobody ever answers my calls.

But until then, I will continue to look for a job. Don't worry, kind readers. I will one day resurface.