Big Fat Ostrich

Well, old Dobson has entered the 21st century and is trying his brittle arthritic hand at some good old fashioned card games on the Internet. Everything was quite muddy to these wise old eyes so I called up my nephew Royston for some advice.

After he hung up on me, I waded into this affair that one calls “Googling” and I’ll be honest with you. When I first heard about Googling, I thought it had something to do with cricket, that violent old game that left me with some permanently bruised privates. In fact, Googling open up a wide world of information! Now I have traveled the world far and wide, but this Internet has taken me to places that I never dreamed possible. Primarily my den, where my personal computer is located.

At any rate, a few months back, when Royston was still talking to me, he installed something called Linux on my personal computing device. He said it was for my own good as I had contracted a “virus” which he said was not unlike the clap, which I certainly have some amusing tales about, but which shall be stowed away until a later date. This “Linux” would act like a sort of digital prophylactic and keep my personal computing machine from having to visit the doctor (aka Royston).

Alright, now what was I here to talk about again?

Right. Gambling on the Internet. Well it seems that you could play poker and other casino style games on the computer without having to suffer the embarrassment of getting kicked out of one of those hoity toity establishments every single time you visit one. Royston programmed my computer to use Wine so that I can call up something called a Poker Stars Client which doesn’t normally run on this Linux, but now it does because of the Wine. Well let me tell you, that most things do run better with wine, namely yours truly (big deliberate wink).

I tried everything. I tried to shoo them away with a broom but they overwhelmed me with their thick rimmed glasses and plaid fedoras and hunting hats. There was awful fur everywhere!

I called pest control. I even tried salt! Nothing. They keep coming around like a whirlwind of obscure bands and independent film reviews. My neighbour suggested I use sand, but that didn’t work either.

Every morning, I have to clean up after them. Their refuse. The Hipster calling card..an empty case of PBR.

Hipsters...they must be close...

Well hello! I am back with another fascinating look into my life! Yes my dears, I have heard as many fascinating tales from some equally fascinating characters, and some of those characters have been none other than myself! Although, you must know by now that your dear Dobson is quite modest. Quite modest indeed!

I was told this gem of a tale and I wish to parlay it to you. It was somewhere back around 1977 if memory serves, and if my memory is indeed correct, I was sitting in the Dominion Square Pub nursing a glass of vermouth. It was a sodden night it was, and this poor man walked in to the bar. He was so drenched in fact by that cold October rain that he may as well have sluiced right in.

He began to tell the barkeep how his life had disappeared. I moved over a few barstools so that I could politely eavesdrop on the tales from this sullen man. As I bent my ear closer, I realized that he had said that it was his wife that disappeared! Oh ho! Well, old Dobson’s hearing never was very keen. Probably damaged from my years of spending too many hours listening to the incessant cacophony of coins dropping from slots in the adjacent casino. You wouldn’t know it, but gambling was once legal in this town.

I introduced myself to the poor sot and he told me that his name was John McClendon. Now this McClendon fellow had bored the barkeep just by mentioning that he was a jilted man, and was now having quite a time trying to get a drink. It was my duty to help this drip of a man, so I used my influence and got him just what he needed.

“Thanks old man, I owe you..pah!”, he spat. “What the hell IS this?”
“Why it’s vermouth! The finest liqueur a dollar can buy!”
“Well I’m more of a scotch man”, he said as he lit a cigarette before starting to cough.
I patted him on the back as he choked . “Not tonight you’re not. Not tonight.”

It took four more vermouths before McClendon began to loosen up. He told me how he had received a call from an old friend. A friend whose name he refused to repeat. This friend he said, was sick, and needed his help. So McClendon went to his motel to see what he could do. Room number 4. It was worse than he thought. The man was barely coherent and the room reeked of opium.

“John”, his old friend called to him, reaching a shaky arm in his direction. “John…have you ever heard about the colonists? The colonists of Roanoke?”

John didn’t. His history was shoddy at best. But his friend filled him in. Telling him how, in the 16th century, the last group of colonists under Sir Walter Raleigh, vanished without a trace, and the mystery in fact, has never been revealed.

“What does this have to do with anything?”, John pleaded. “You’re sick. How can I help you?”
“John. John McClendon…it has everything to do with everything.”
“Well I don’t see how.”
“John….come closer. I don’t have the strength.”

John leaned in, and that’s the last thing he remembers. He woke up hours later in that same motel. His friend had vanished.

When he had the strength to stand, he stumbled to the bathroom, dehydrated as he was, he desperately needed some water. And there, scrawled across the mirror, one word:

“CROATOAN”

John rushed home and found his house empty. His car was gone and so was his wife. She’d left him a note. A one word note that simply said “CROATOAN”. Just like at the motel. He didn’t know what the word meant, but still, he knew what it meant. It meant he’d been played.

Now, as McClendon sinks further and further into the soft green embrace of 15 rounds of vermouth, I can’t help but wonder what happened myself. McClendon gave few more details besides the ones I’ve relayed to you, aside from the liquidation of his bank account.

Clearly his wife was in on the elaborate ruse, but why not just leave? And what of CROATOAN? What is the significance of the Roanoke Island mystery? Was it just a metaphor meant to confuse McClendon? Perhaps McClendon’s wife and her lover were now off the coast of Virginia’s Roanoke Island enjoying some luxury holiday?

Perhaps we’ll never know. What I do know, is that my billfold is 20 dollars lighter, and McClendon is twelve sheets to the wind.

The year was 1997. I was fresh off the aeroplane and back overseas collecting fantastic old wardrobes from markets in India and Thailand. Oh, the bargains I would find in those exotic places! I could scarcely imagine how those old hands laboured on those works of art. Solid wood I tell you! And the workers hands were as gnarled as the wood itself!

Ah, but old Dobson, he was quite the haggler in those days! And I was strapping too, always getting a second glance from the ladies. Sometimes garnering even a third look let me tell you. Which reminds me…

Did I ever tell you about that one particular transaction? Oh, did I? The one about the night tables, right? Well, they were quite a pair! A pair of beauties alright. Those two lovelies were solid cherry and hand worked, and I just had to have them! They would look fetching in the master bedroom.

There was one problem and that was with the dealer, Ms. Thakshila. Thakshila was the wiliest dealer in Bombay (I do so prefer the old name)

When I entered the store, the ding-ding of the bell alerted Thakshila of my presence, but greeted I her just the same. “Hello! Hello!”, I called. “Have you any night tables my dear Thakshila?”

“Mr. Dobson! Really, is that necessary? We have good paying customers and I don’t want you scaring them off.”

“Thakshila”, I said as I took off my hat. “I am enamored with your cherry bed tables. They are quite lovely.”

“Yes they are, but they are also sold.”

Sold! I couldn’t believe it! “For how much?”

“That, my dear Dobson, is confidential.”

Hmmph. I am not used to being rebutted, so I looked over the night tables myself. Excellent detailing and solid dovetail construction. “$150 I’d say. No more than that for Indian design.”

Thakshila suddenly burst into laughter. “They are not Indian you old fool!”
“Not Indian? Then what are they?”
“Maldivian.”
“Really? Maldivian?”
“Yes. From the Maldives.”
“No. You can’t be serious. The Maldives? Really?”
“YES. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a store to run.”

I couldn’t fathom it. I owned not one piece from the Maldives! This had to be remedied without delay and I set to cornering Thakshila and offered her 3 times what I initially presumed the set was worth. I did win out that day and I indeed left with my delightful cherry night tables.

It wasn’t long before my colleagues let me in on the fact that Thakshila’s warehouse is just full of cherry wood night tables. All of which are cherry, and none of which are from the Maldives.

Oh, my face was as red as those tables! But what a tale it was to spin.

How’s it hanging, all you leprechauns? I know. One day late. But you know what? I was celebrating St-Patrick’s Day by drinking a bottle of Glenfiddich with my old Air Force buddies. The joke around here is that we say we’re in the Air Force because we blow real hard! Ha!

Well as you now know, yours truly is unilaterally declaring the month of March as “Ostrich Month”. The reason is because it’s been just about 1 year since the boys set up this forum and they have to celebrate somehow. Plus I’ve been getting a lot of Ostrich News over my fax machine and I need to vent. I’ll have some for you in a second. Right after this limerick I just made up:

This Ostrich he had some green feathers!
And hid in a great patch of heather!
He surprised a young lass!
But then she whipped his ass!
And then found himself under the weather!

Ha! You like that? Ok, here’s another:

I drank a whole bottle of scotch!
Just to take things up a notch!
I met a young tart!
But then she broke my heart!
And I woke up with mites on my crotch!

True story.

So where was I? Yes. Ostrich News. Well, the last thing that I got over the old Morse Code was about the iPad from Macintosh. It seems you can buy exotic skin iPad cases from Padova. Big deal. $570 for the Ostrich Case. Do you realize how much Guinness I can buy for $570?? Do you have any idea? Well take my word for it. She’s not worth it. Hey that gives me an idea for another limerick:

I went to the Pub for a beer!
And this lass whispered in my ear!
She said, “hey I know you!”
“You didn’t pay for the brew!”
“Now get the hell out of my pub!”

True story.

God, it’s cold! I haven’t felt this cold since my ex told me to go sleep in the basement, when we didn’t even have one!

Anyway! Dobson here again to give you some tips on staying warm. Usually I’m up on my game, but this winter has caught Ole Dobson by surprise. It must be that global warming all those kids are talking about. Here I thought spring was right around the corner, when, bang! Old Man Winter bites me in the ass.

So open your drawers and pull out your tea bags. Let’s get toasty!

What, you thought I’d talk about clothes? Well I don’t care how cold it gets. This year Dobson is making it through just like he always has: His favorite argyle sweater and the beige raincoat. That thing cuts the wind it does, and I ain’t looking to score any fashion points anyway.

So let’s get teabaggin’!

These days I’m feeling “zen”, so I like Green Tea. Any old kind will do really. I get mine from those variety boxes they sell down at the pharmacy. You got a problem with that? My ex-wife did too.  That snob queen only insisted on loose tea. But hey, she should know about loose, hey!

Back to our teabag, just boil up the water, pour it in the damn cup, and throw the bag in. Wait about a minute and drink it carefully, lest you burn your tongue.

Enjoy.

Dr. Dobson

Well the big day has finally arrived and I couldn’t be more non-plussed. Yeah. Non-plussed. As in the complete absence of plusses. Sure, The Big Day. The day that Archie makes the biggest mistake of his life.

When I opened my electronic mail today, my alarm was flashing to remind me that today is the day that Archie Comics #600 is released to adoring fans. Now really. Are there really that many people hungrily waiting to devour this swill? The answer is yes, yes there are, and Yours Truly is one of them, albeit grudgingly.

Speaking of grudges, I hate you, Mr. Lodge as well as your snooty ass-kissing butler. What a jerk.

Anyway, let’s get to the point. I slipped into my smoking jacket and headed down to the nearest comic book store to get Archie #600 AKA The Proposal. Now I ain’t gonna lie to you young whipper-snappers. My comic book store is called Torrent Loaderdown or something. I can’t remember really. You’d have to ask my houseboy how he got it delivered to me so fast.

So in between bites of my marmalade toast and sips of my morning tea, I read it. I read the whole goddamn thing from start to finish. And lemme tell you, I had to resist not once, but 5 TIMES, the urges of my body to heave all over my monitor. Archie Comics has some of the most embarrassing, amateurish, and revoltingly bad writing I’ve seen in a long time. And I’ve seen a lot of bad writing. Just ask my ex-wife. No, don’t ask her. Ask her Pulitzer. What a total fraud.

So the story goes like this: Archie and the gang play their last show at Riverdale and they ponder their futures.  To avoid having to develop the story, the writers throw in a ‘Flash Forward’ to a whirlwind of scenes depicting college graduation day. There’s even one hilarious moment where Archie forgets to put pants under his graduation gown. Lolz.

As it turns out, everyone will be leaving Riverdale, except Jughead who’s presumably staying behind with Hot Dog to perpetuate a worthless existence at Pop’s flipping burgers. Reggie aspires to be a used car salesman. Betty’s going to New York, Dilton’s going to MIT, Moose is off to be a lunkhead somewhere, Veronica (that bitch) is going to Hong Kong or something, and Archie has no prospects. He does have a cheque that his parents gave him as a graduation gift, and he buys Veronica a ring. Etc, etc, he proposes to The Big V.  in the jewelery store.  Betty happens in on the happenings through the window, is emotionally crushed under the steamroller that Archie blindly projected in her direction, and the rest is history.

Oh wait, he tells Mr. Lodge, who is pissed at first, but then gives his blessing and vows to hold a gigantic wedding. Veronica declares that it won’t be “as low-key as Obama’s Inauguration”. Actual quote.

As hideously revolting as most of the story is (since I hate Veronica), I cried at the end when She/It asks Betty to be her Maid of Honor. Betty barely had time to put her shattered heart back together when V. drives another thoughtless bitch-stake into Betty’s heart. Nice going ‘Moronica’. Now if you’ll excuse me, my toast is getting soggy. I should never have sold my J.D. Salinger first editions.

Well, well. If it isn’t me again, Dr. Dobson. I’m here to chew your ear off about something that has REALLY gotten under my skin. If you thought I was angry in my last post, well this time I’m fuming. Last time I may as well have been talking about a lovely springtime picnic with fruit baskets and frolicking. Today I’m going to talk to you about darkness, corpses and scorched earth. That’s right. I’m here to talk about Archie proposing to Veronica.

I am truly pissed at these developments. If you haven’t heard the news, after like 60 years of being treated like crap, Archie Andrews has proposed to Veronica Lodge, aka, That Bitch from Riverdale. She’s so totally a bitch and always has been and like, I don’t know what Archie ever saw in her. And believe me, I’m sure poor Betty is thinking the same thing.

Bah! Veronica Lodge…and her Dad is such a jerk ALL THE TIME. He flies off the handle for the most insignificant things, probably because Mrs. Lodge “‘cut him off” years ago. He probably has erectile dysfunction too, cause no guy with that much money is that much of a dick all the freaking time.

So Archie proposes to a big wad of cash, leaving Betty with a bankrupt heart. She was always so good to him, while Veronica (that bitch) has nothing to offer. Who could put up with her crap for so long? Mark my words, the most used phrase in the Archie/Veronica union is going to be, “not tonight, I have a headache”. Then, a frustrated Archie will go cool his heels on the Lodge golf course where an errant ball will hilariously smash the window of Mr. Lodge’s limousine or something. Yeah, I’m sure the storylines are going to be FAN-tastic. Maybe that snooty butler of theirs will get a golf ball in the crotch once in awhile just to keep things interesting. Always hated that guy!

I haven’t actually read Archie comics in a long, long time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about. Anyone with half a brain could see that, over the years Betty was the one who’d be true. So what if she doesn’t sleep on a cash-filled mattress! Has Archie become that materialistic? What happened to his modesty? Remember the old Jalopy? Does he need to marry That Thing to prove to himself that he’s moving up in the world? Come on.

Veronica is never gonna be there for him. Never! When Reggie kicked sand in Archie’s face that time on the beach, who was there for him? Eh? Who? Betty, that’s who. Where was The Big V, huh?  Well I don’t remember either, but she definitely wasn’t helping. That bitch.