Lizard Tales

by Ron Shirley

  Wildman eventually jumped out of the truck and ran off into the woods. Pops was jumping up and down and screaming, “Judy! Judy! Wildman is back!”

  I had never seen my daddy that happy. He looked like a two-headed mule in a one-hundred-acre hay field.

  We were supposed to be going fishing, but Pops ran into the shed and came back with two shovels. He handed them to Jason and me and told us to move the rocks off the grave, and to dig up the box and open it. Pops wanted to make sure there was still a cat in the grave because he just knew Wildman had come back from the dead. It was like a scene out of Pet Sematary. Pops swore that his cat had come back from the grave.

  Jason and I started digging, but we were so mad. We were hotter than a toothless dog in a sausage factory. We dug up the box and sat down. By then, the box smelled like somebody had licked the butthole of a skunk after three or four days. The box was just rancid. We opened the box and sure enough there was still a cat inside it.

  To this day, if you ask Pops about Wildman, he still swears it was a reincarnation. But I know there are two certainties in life—cats don’t come back to life and chasing your tail gets you nowhere, except back to where you started.

  [You’d Rather …]

  1. You’d rather jump off a five-foot ladder into a ten-gallon bucket of porcupines.

  2. You’d rather be superglued to the Tasmanian Devil in a phone booth.

  3. You’d rather slide down a mountain of razor blades naked into a swimming pool of alcohol.

  4. You’d rather be duct-taped to a bar of soap on the shower floor of a men’s prison.

  5. You’d rather have a knife fight with Freddy Krueger in a phone booth.

  6. You’d rather drink five gallons of gas and piss on a forest fire.

  7. You’d rather be pecked to death by a rooster with a rubber beak.

  8. You’d rather be chewing buttholes off of skunks.

  9. You’d rather give a grizzly bear a backrub with a handful of razor blades.

  10. You’d rather have hemorrhoids the size of grapefruits.

  11. You’d rather stare at the sun through a set of high-powered binoculars.

  12. You’d rather fight a tiger with a switch in the dark.

  13. You’d rather be hog-tied to a grizzly bear fresh up from hibernation.

  14. You’d rather eat a cold scab sandwich and drink a glass of green snot.

  15. You’d rather shove a wet noodle up a wildcat’s tail with a hot poker.

  16. You’d rather rub the hair off a bobcat’s tail with sandpaper in a bathtub.

  17. You’d rather pound salt up your tail with a steel brush.

  18. You’d rather be a Russian racehorse at the Kentucky Derby with a busted leg and a glue truck on your tail.

  19. You’d rather ride a tornado through an ape pen wearing banana underwear.

  20. You’d rather be poked in the eye with a blunt stick.

  21. You’d rather go fart peas at the new moon.

  22. You’d rather grab a wildcat by the tail with your teeth.

  23. You’d rather skinny-dip in a pool of piranhas.

  24. You’d rather be super-glued to a tornado in an Oklahoma pigpen.

  25. You’d rather wear pork-chop panties and run through a lion’s den.

  26. You’d rather pole-vault over a barbed-wire fence with a rubber stick.

  27. You’d rather be a short-legged rooster in a high-water hog pen.

  28. You’d rather be superglued to a chimpanzee with a blowtorch in a room full of dynamite.

  29. You’d rather be chained to the underbelly of a moose during mating season.

  30. You’d rather light a match in a room full of old grandma fart bags.

  31. You’d rather dip yourself in honey and throw yourself on a nest of fire ants.

  32. You’d rather jump out of an airplane tied to a cinder block.

  33. You’d rather swim with great whites after bathing in razor blades.

  34. You’d rather slap a kitten at a PETA convention.

  6

  Go for the Ugly Early … And You’ll Never Go Home Alone

  Back when I was a teenager and more out of control than a racecar with Ray Charles at the wheel, there wasn’t a weekend that me, Jason, and our cousin Brian didn’t make the hour-long trek down to East Carolina University.

  We spent most of our teen years—and all our money—between the bars there. ECU was a young man’s playground; the girls down there were hotter than a pig roast at Satan’s house, and the only fake things on them were their purses. My pops once said that even a blind hog can find an acorn every now and again; well, down there a dead hog could still root up a whole bushel of ’em!

  We all had our fake IDs—and they looked about as real as Joan Rivers’s face—but we always got into the clubs just the same. Oddly, it was never the doormen who nailed us on those IDs; it was always the bartenders. When it came to checking everyone every time a drink was bought, they were tighter than a skeeter’s tail in a nosedive heading toward a can of OFF. So we started getting innovative and made sure to buy our beer before we went, and to always have a designated driver. By the time we got to the bars, we would already be as tore up as a football bat on a Friday-night light. We learned to let the beer get a little warm before drinking it so we could smuggle the bottle in our drawers and not draw up tight as a horsefly’s tail stretched over a fifty-five-gallon drum.

  One Friday, I remember we were gonna drive the old Mercury Grand Marquis owned by one of Jason’s friends. That thing was uglier than a monkey’s armpit after a snot bath, and it ran about as well as a legless dog. But if we had a chance to get to ECU, then the choices were to backstroke it all the way to the front door or get left behind. So we all decided to pile in and let Jason’s buddy do the honors. We packed into that old heap, cranked up some Hank Williams Jr., and got ready to get right until daylight. Brian brought the booze: four individual six-packs (one for me, one for him, one for Jason, and two beers apiece to sneak inside). We never were smokers, but being from the dirty South, there’s one thing you could be sure of: we were dippers. Skoal Long Cut Traditional was our dip of choice. Heck, me and Brian had the can rings worn out so bad in our back pockets you could read the expiration dates in the denim! Get me a hot woman, a cold beer, and a new can, and I’d be happier than a hungry baby in a topless bar.

  Now, being that we were of the young faction, it didn’t take us long to get more bent than a butcher’s hook. About fifteen minutes out from ECU we saw a convenience store and figured we all needed to go see a man about a horse—and grab some gum, while we were at it, for when we hit the clubs. When we wheeled into that place, there must’ve been thirty people inside, and poor Brian was about to explode! So we all decided just to back woods it behind the store.

  Well, just about the time we were getting out, who pulled up but the local sheriff! You could just look at this fellow and tell he was meaner than a pit bull’s ex-wife. When he stepped out of his car we could see he had one of them old burnt-up faces. He had more wrinkles than a bull elephant’s ball sack, and his eyes were real beady—like a possum caught in the headlights of a semi on a downhill run. He had a wad in his jaw, and when he saw us he walked right up and spit on the end of Brian’s shoe.

  “You boys ain’t been drinking, now, have you?”

  I could tell ol’ Brian’s tail drew up tighter than a camel’s butt in a sandstorm, so I chimed right in and said, “Naw, sir. Not since we ran out a few miles back.”

  Well, that ol’ fellow actually cracked a smile. He asked, “What about your driver?”

  I said, “No, sir. He’s more sober than a Sunday morning preacher at a Saturday night prayer service.”

  He glared at me for a minute and said, “Well, there’s two things this world is running short on: common sense and honesty. I can tell you ain’t got none of the former, but you’re full of the latter, so I’m gonna let you boys go on and have a good time tonight.”

  Well, I was gr
inning like a baked possum. And Jason was heading on out behind the store. But it tore Brian up worse than a naked man rollerblading down a hill of razor blades, so he just eased back into the car. I asked him, “Brian, ain’t you still gotta see that man about a horse?”

  Brian said, “Nope. I’m gonna corral mine right here.”

  Now, since we was raised in the cut, I knew that meant he was gonna fill up an old bottle and toss it when we got goin’ down the road. But I forgot Brian couldn’t engineer his way out of a paper bag with a box cutter. We all loaded back up and headed straight for the main strip.

  Back on the road, me and Jason each reached up to the front seat to grab another beer out of the six-pack and cracked the lids on them mugs. I said, “Jason, if you go for the ugly early, you won’t go home alone.” He just smiled and we turned ’em up.

  When I brought my bottle down, I could see that Jason’s cheeks were still blowed up like a bullfrog in a blender. It was just about that time ol’ Brian yelled, “Oh, no!” And I knew what had just happened: Brian had filled that beer bottle to the brim when he was seeing that man about a horse! To keep it from spilling, Brian had put the top back on; and since we didn’t keep our beer on ice, it wasn’t unusual that the bottle would be a little warm. Jason realized all this at the exact same time I did, while Brian just looked back on us as baffled as Adam on Mother’s Day. Needless to say, Jason spewed all over the car … and all over me and Brian. If it wasn’t bad enough we had beer and Brian’s royal fluids everywhere, it turned out this made our sober driver gag and he ended up puking all over the car whatever he had eaten before we left. Jamming on the brakes at seventy miles an hour, he threw us around that big tin can like dead trout on a Ferris wheel. When we finally came to a stop, I jumped out of the car and just stood there, madder than a wet hen at an omelet breakfast. There I was: covered from head to toe with beer and piss and vomit, dripping like a freshly squeezed tea bag.

  Everyone was sick. And there was no way we could go into the bars now. To top it off, it was an hour’s drive back to the house. We all looked like death warmed over with a side of bread crumbs, and I was more pissed off than a fart trapped in a vacuum cleaner. I pulled the driver out, told him to sit in the back, and I drove that car straight over to a car wash—where I proceeded to drive through with all the windows down!

  Now, I had been in a few car washes before—though never with the windows down. Who would’ve thought that there’d be hot water and burning hot wax in one of those things? I was figuring we’d rather be wet and soapy than ride around smelling like Brian’s insides all the way back. Besides, it wasn’t my car; I actually thought I was doing Jason’s buddy a favor. About the time that hot water hit us, we were jumping around the inside of that car like a butcher’s dog crapping razor blades. And in all the commotion, no one thought to roll the windows up before the brushes started slapping inside the car, beating us like wet cats in a washing machine. Everyone was screaming and yelling, trapped in there like tuna in a can. All I could do was stick my head between my legs and kiss my tail good-bye! Just when I thought it might be over and we were gonna get outta there with our lives, then came the hot wax, burning into me like an old hooker in a dead man’s wallet. By the time we realized we should roll the windows up, we were getting rinsed off with cold water and hanging out the windows lookin’ like a bag full of wet buttholes. We had burn marks all over our torsos—but we all had that new-car smell!

  I started heading down the highway back to the house, and no one would speak. Brian was shaking like a toothless dog at a bear jamboree, and finally he started trying to apologize. Jason stopped him mid-sentence: “Don’t say any more! We will never talk about this ever again.” He was serious: “If I ever hear one word mumbled about this, I will beat whoever says it so bad that he’ll live the rest of his life as useless as a jam sandwich is to a drowning rabbit.” He thought a moment before he added, “But there is one thing I will say.” We all got quiet. “I know that this event has scarred me for life, but I also know scars are just tattoos with better stories. Ronnie was right when he said, ‘If you go for the ugly early, you won’t go home alone. Here I am with you three, and y’all are the ugliest fellows I know!”

  We all just busted out laughing. I even thought about grabbing another beer. But thinking better of it, I just cranked up Hank and headed on home.

  [Crazy]

  1. Nuttier than a Porta Potti at a peanut festival.

  2. Crazy as a three-eyed dog in a hubcap factory.

  3. Crazy as a crack-house rat.

  4. Crazier than a bee-stung stallion.

  5. Nuttier than pecan pie.

  6. Nuttier than five pounds of fruitcake.

  7. He’s parallel parked in a diagonal universe.

  8. Crazier than a corn-fed ’coon on coke.

  9. Crazier than a hippie at a hula-hoop convention.

  [Yes]

  1. Is a pig’s rump made of pork?

  2. Does a fat puppy hate fast cars?

  3. Do fat babies like chocolate cake?

  4. Does a one-legged duck swim in a circle?

  5. Does a cat got climbing gear?

  6. Do rattlesnakes kiss gently?

  7. Does Howdy Doody got wooden balls?

  8. If the good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise.

  9. As much as fat ticks love lazy dogs.

  10. That would be the dog that treed the possum.

  7

  Don’t Ever Corner Nuthin’ Meaner Than You

  When I was in my teenage years my dad lost his job, so we didn’t have enough money to have anything but a bad time. All my friends were always bragging about the cool pets they had: pit-bull dogs, registered Rottweilers, high-dollar horses. So I generally would drag anything home that I could tie a rope around to see what kind of pet it would make. Now, Pops would always tell me when I dragged something up that, if you can’t race it or take it to bed, don’t bring it home. But I always did suffer from selective hearing.

  I was over at my buddy’s house one day, sitting on the porch—hanging out, bored as a hooker at a funeral—when I happened to look over in the six-foot pine trees that surrounded his backyard. Well, right there, hanging out like Big Juicy in a two-piece, was a raccoon. Bo, I thought, now that would be the dog that treed the possum as far as making me have the coolest pet. So I started trying to convince my buddy to help me. Now, I love my friend ’bout as much as fat ticks love lazy dogs, but sometimes he’s as dumb as a cat trying to look pretty at a dog show, and he don’t remember plans very well either. Still, I had this all tied up. I would grab a pair of his dad’s welding gloves and he would grab a big ol’ quilt, and we would surround this critter like he was Custer’s horse. I would grab the raccoon and throw him in the blanket, and all my buddy had to do was cover him up.

  Well, he wasn’t none too convinced that this was a well-thought-out plan, because he was the one that would end up holding the ’coon. But I was the only one tall enough to reach that critter in the top of the tree. So we grabbed our gear and headed over.

  Now, the whole time this ol’ ’coon had been eyeing us. He looked as confused as a cow on Astroturf and I could tell he was getting a bit antsy. He started turning circles in the top of that little tree. But I knew that when I went for him, he had to be facing away from me so I could toss him directly toward the quilt.

  My buddy was standing there with the quilt just below eye level, and he was trying to back out. “Ronnie,” he said, “this is gonna go over like a turd in a punch bowl.” But I convinced him that we could really land some girls that were hot enough to run a buzzard off a gut barrel at lunchtime if we had a pet ’coon. So I started easing up with all the grace of a blind elephant in a china shop, and that ’coon started making a fuss. I told my buddy to whistle to distract it while I made my move.

  Truthfully, I didn’t realize how fast ’coons were. Just before I reached him, he set sail. Problem was, he could also jump farther than we had figured. Once
that ol’ ’coon took off, he was in line to land right on top of my buddy’s head. But instead of just simply raising the blanket up and letting the ’coon land in our perfectly devised trap, my buddy threw the quilt on the ground and turned around to run. We had made this ’coon pretty damn mad. So about the time he broke for the tree line through these small pines, whether it was coincidence or just plain meanness I don’t know, that ’coon was dead on my buddy’s heels. He was on him harder than a twelve-peckered billy goat in mating season, and I couldn’t catch neither one of them.

  My buddy’s running, branches were smacking him in the face, he’s screaming for me, the ’coon’s on his heels hissing like a three-tongued snake, and there I was in tow trying to save my buddy from a ten-pound critter.

  After about a thirty-second dash, the ’coon scaled another small tree. My friend’s heart was beating faster than that of a Russian racehorse at the Kentucky Derby with a glue truck behind him. He was cussing and screaming at me, telling me how he was almost killed by a raccoon, and I was trying to convince him to run and grab the quilt ’cause we now had a second chance to capture this rascal.

  Well you would have thought I had left his sister at the bowling alley on a Friday night. I saw his eyes light up and I was pretty sure he wouldn’t go along this time. He rolled right up on me and I thought he was getting ready to try and lay me out with a haymaker; but instead, he just stood there for about ten seconds, breathing hard, blood pouring from all the scratches on his face, his arms tore all to pieces from the branches. The ’coon was still screeching at us and I was still wanting to grab him. Just then, in a very sincere voice, my buddy said what probably turned out to be some of the best advice anyone could live by. “Ronnie,” he said, “I’d fight hell and half of Georgia by your side, and would paddle the life boat if life’s creek ever rose on ya. But brother, you want that ’coon, you’re gonna have to catch him yourself, ’cause I ain’t never gonna try to corner nuthin’ meaner than me again.” With that, he left me and that ’coon in the woods alone.