Lizard Tales

by Ron Shirley

  Well, we rounded the corner and there was this girl standing there by herself. She had long, flowing, silky black hair to the top of her waist, legs that looked like they ran all the way to Georgia, and a pair of booty shorts hugging her behind. Jason puffed up like a rooster at an all-you-can-handle chicken feast and walked on toward her. Me and Johnny just waited, knowing we had this one in the bag: she was alone and Jason was in rare form.

  Jason walked up behind her and said, “Do you know what would look really good on you?” He paused for effect. “ME!” She didn’t even flinch.

  About ten seconds went by. Jason thought maybe she didn’t hear him, so he said, “This isn’t a beach; it must be heaven with fluorescent lighting and you’re the chosen angel.”

  Before he got the last word out of his mouth, the girl started to turn around. Her black hair fanned out in the breeze, her long legs pirouetted, her shoulders glistened in the sun. It was like a movie in slow motion. Then I noticed her Adam’s apple. This beautiful, sexy, long-legged, black-haired angel was a dude! To top it off, he must’ve had thirty facial piercings, and on the left side of his face was a full tattoo. This guy was so horrid that if he would have walked into a cornfield, the crows would’ve brought back the corn they stole last year.

  Jason looked like the bear that had just got his head stuck in the hive. A deep voice bellowed, “Look, chump, I appreciate your compliments, but this rear has an Exit Only sign on it.” With that, he turned and walked away.

  Now, Jason, being a man’s man, was more tore up than a pay toilet in a diarrhea ward over the idea of hitting on a dude. Of course, Johnny and I were in stitches, having watched Jason try to pick him up like a lost dollar. So not only had he just crossed the gender line, but he crossed the bender one too! We started singing the Oscar Mayer song: “My bologna has a first name, it’s O-S-C-A-R …” While we serenaded Jason, he got madder than a wet hen in a Laundromat dryer, but we couldn’t resist riding him the whole rest of the day.

  Well, needless to say, our chances of picking up a girl that day were shot. Jason was so upset, he couldn’t have pounded sand into a rat hole. As we laid out on the beach that night, listening to the waves crash and looking up at the stars, we started planning our course of attack for the next day. When Jason finally spoke he said, “I reckon Pops was right when he used to tell us, ‘Boys, God gave y’all two heads, but He only gave you enough blood supply to run one at a time.’ ”

  Johnny looked over at him and answered, “If you’d played your cards right, you could’ve had three heads tonight—and a few stickers to boot!” Then Johnny and I just started whistling the Oscar Mayer theme song again.

  Jason threw us a few choice words and rolled over. I heard him mumble, “I ain’t ridin’ no more horses till I check under the saddle.”

  We all drifted off to sleep on the beach that night, but I couldn’t help but wonder, What would Jason do if this story ever got out? I guess now we’ll know!

  [Dumb]

  1. He’s so dumb, he’d try to run the forty-yard dash in a thirty-yard barn.

  2. He’s a few bricks short of a wheelbarrow load.

  3. He’s not the sharpest tool in the woodshed.

  4. He’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

  5. He’s a doughnut short of a dozen.

  6. He’s so dumb, he tried to slap his reflection.

  7. He’s so dumb, he thought Johnny Cash was a pay toilet.

  8. He’s definitely nine dimes short of a dollar.

  9. He’s so dumb, he couldn’t get into college with a crowbar.

  10. He’s so dumb, he couldn’t hit water if he threw himself off a boat.

  11. He’s so dumb, they had to burn down the school to get him out of fifth grade.

  12. He’s as dumb as a barrel of spit … and half as useful.

  13. He took an IQ test and the results came back negative.

  14. If dumb was dirt, you’d cover ’bout half an acre.

  15. If brains were dynamite, you couldn’t blow your nose.

  16. I know you’re not as stupid as you look, ’cause no one could be.

  17. I tried seeing things from your point of view, but I couldn’t get my head that far up my tail.

  18. The closest you’ve ever been to a 4.0 was your blood alcohol level.

  Me and Jason with my first sooner, Lil Jo (sooner be this kinda dog than that)

  Mom locked me and Pops in the stockades at Busch Gardens

  Feeding pigeons at the capitol building in Raleigh

  Me, Pops, and Jason modeling our Christmas hats

  Me and Shane Murray at Atlantic Beach

  Catching some walleye in North Dakota with the KFYR radio guys

  Pops—just not giving a damn

  Packing a rat to give to my pops for Christmas—he hates rats!

  Me and Jason bar-hopping back in the day

  Hunting in Maine: the bear that made Pope and Young status

  My sister, Sandy, and me at Momma’s house

  Jason working on the roof of the very house where I was struck by lightning

  Johnny Perry with Amy and me at our first powerlifting meet with our four first-place trophies

  Me and Jason during our party days when I was first dating Amy

  Me, Jason, and his wife, Wendy, at Myrtle Beach after I took a beating at the hands of six marines

  Amy’s first night bar-hopping with me and Jason

  Me and Amy at our first full power meet

  Johnny Perry at the 2002 Met-Rx World’s Strongest Man competition in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, where he took fourth place

  My first Vulcan snatch truck and Budro, the blue Neapolitan mastiff that Amy gave me

  Jason after winning the Masculine Misfits award at the Lizard Lick Festival

  Bobby Brantley eating barbecue at our engagement party

  Leaving our wedding on my Harley

  Honeymooning in Aruba

  Me and Alexa Rayne Shirley, my little girl, after getting her picture tattooed on my arm

  Bobby, Brooks “Bubba” Ray, and Amy after a 24-hour shift

  Preaching at a Power for Life team event

  Amy and me when I officiated at the marriage of my tow manager, Brian

  14

  Tighter Than a Frog’s Butt … And That’s Watertight

  One full moon–lit night in early spring, I didn’t have any money, so I called up a lifelong buddy of mine and coaxed him and my brother into going frog gigging. Now, I ain’t saying I’m the best frog gigger out there, but out of the six best in the country, three of them send me Christmas cards every year. I loaded up the johnboat and got my two homemade gigs, which consisted of two six-foot bamboo poles with small, three-pronged forks on the end. I grabbed a bottle of Pops’s ’shine, and me and my brother went to get our friend.

  Now, other than being a professional frog gigger around these country towns, I was the most hell anyone had raised in years; rumor had it I was so tough, I could eat gunpowder and fishing weights, wash it down with a Coke and a burrito, lay on my back, and cut one that could drop a deer from a hundred yards away. Fighting was all me and my brother were known for, and we could be meaner than a skillet full of rattlesnakes. So, as brothers do after about the third frog pond and half the bottle of ’shine, we started swapping “who’s tougher” stories.

  It just so happened that the Friday night before that, I had an altercation with a guy in a store. The guy jumped in his Camaro, rolled up the windows, and locked the door. Well, I had a gal with me who I fancied, so I was trying to impress her, and figured I’d punch the window and maybe hurt my hand and get some sympathy lovin’. I drew back and swung on that glass like Ken Griffey Jr. on a change-up and, to my amazement, the window shattered. I connected with ol’ boy’s jaw and he was out like a fat kid in dodgeball. I was happier than a possum eating fish steaks, but the girl wasn’t impressed.

  I knew this story made me the top dog of the night, but my brother wouldn’t believe it. There I w
as, driving my five-speed Ford Ranger to the next frog hole with my friend in the middle between me and my brother, and he’s telling me I’m lying like a rug in a dog kennel. Well, one kind word led to the next, and before you knew it, I locked the truck up in the middle of Jackass Road in Knightdale and we got out to do what brothers do best: test each other.

  Jason was always a lot smaller than me, but he hasn’t ever been scared of but two men: Pops and some other guy I ain’t never seen. My brother’s a sneaky little fellow too, and before I knew it he’d grabbed a frog gig and was slinging that mug in circles, screaming like a gladiator on crack and coming right at me. Every time he made a rotation, sparks would fly and the gig would make this crazy screech. I knew I’d better act fast.

  I grabbed the other gig and held it by the steel end, and when he got in range, I just popped him with the bamboo end right in the mouth. Everything went silent. He dropped his gig. In the headlights of the truck I could see his lips swelling. Bo, the last time I had seen a mouth like that, it had a bit in it. He couldn’t even talk. He just turned around and started walking off in the darkness.

  Now my buddy started in on me: “You can’t let him walk, Ronnie. Heck, if a car stopped they couldn’t even understand him to give him a ride home ’cause his lips are so swollen NASA could orbit satellites around them.”

  Swallowing my pride, I got in the truck and eased down the road, driving up right beside him. I tried to talk him into getting back in ’cause, to tell you the truth, we hadn’t even hit the good ponds yet. The window in my Ranger would only roll down about four inches; I was yelling, “Get in!” and he was mumbling something that sounded like “Spew knew” while my buddy was laughing his tail off and swigging back the ’shine.

  Just about the time we crested the hill, I’d had about enough and called my brother yeller. He stopped—and I could see the rage in his eyes. “Yeller” was one of the few words that would get him hotter than a hooker’s doorknob on payday. All of a sudden his temper flared, his eyes went blank, and before I could say another word there was glass shattering all around me and blood pouring out my nose like a broken faucet. I had seen the punch coming, but I was frozen right there in the driver’s seat.

  I jumped out of the truck, ready to skin him like a Georgia catfish. We were nose-to-broke-nose when I heard yelling and laughing coming from the truck: “You busted the freaking winder!” I looked back over my shoulder and my brother looked around me, and we both realized at the same time that he had just punched the window out and broke my nose, all in the same swing. We looked at each other and just busted out laughing. Then we hugged, took a shot of ’shine, loaded back up, and headed out to the pond to finish the night.

  On the way I told him, “Little brother, if I tell you the creek’s gonna rise, you’d better get some waders. No matter what happens to us in life, we’re brothers, and that means we’re tight as a frog’s butt … and that’s watertight.”

  He just smiled. Then he reached into the truck, grabbed a piece of glass, and tossed it to me. Without saying a word I knew he had just one-upped me again.

  [Cold]

  1. Colder than a banker’s heart.

  2. Colder than an Eskimo’s toilet seat.

  3. Colder than a brass toilet seat on the dark side of the moon.

  4. Colder than my mother-in-law’s heart.

  5. Colder than day-old penguin crap on Christmas Eve.

  6. Cold enough to freeze the balls off a pool table.

  7. Colder than an Eskimo fart in an ice storm.

  8. Colder than a Colorado collie in an ice storm.

  [Food]

  1. That’s too thick to plow and too thin to drink.

  2. It’s so good, your tongue will jump out and lick the eyebrows off your head.

  3. That could gag a maggot in a gut barrel.

  4. So good, my tongue is digging a hole to the top of my head and trying to slap my brain.

  5. So good, it could bond a marriage back together.

  6. That’s like eating a TV dinner in the backseat of a car.

  7. I’m so hungry, my stomach thinks my throat’s been slit.

  8. Ain’t nothing salt and ketchup can’t make edible.

  [Hard]

  1. Harder than Chinese arithmetic.

  2. Harder than three-day-old snot on a hot oven door.

  3. Harder to do than herding blind chickens.

  4. Harder than nailing a raw egg to the wall.

  5. Harder than pulling fly poop from a pepper shaker.

  6. Harder than nailing Jell-O to an oak tree.

  [Enterprising]

  1. He could sell ketchup to a tomato farmer.

  2. He could sell ice to Eskimos on Christmas Eve.

  3. He could sell fish sticks to a crab-boat captain.

  4. He could talk a stray dog into buying fleas.

  5. He could pedal fire stock in hell and make a good living.

  6. He could sell an angel a set of red horns.

  7. He could talk a deaf man into buying a CD player.

  8. He could sell thermal shoes to a legless man.

  15

  Either Fish or Cut Bait

  It was the middle of summer and me, Jason, and Brian were about as bored as a beakless hen at an omelet breakfast. We didn’t have enough money between us to buy misery, but we figured we could go quarter surfing till we got enough gas money for a ride to the beach. Now, if you haven’t ever been quarter surfing, here’s the way it goes: You call all your friends and see what they’re doing, then you invite yourself over to their house. While there, you flop on the couches or chairs and dig like a miner snorting coal for some change. If you hit enough houses, you could come out with ten dollars or more—and we were the quarter-surfing champions. Heck, ol’ Brian could pull a quarter through six feet of garden hose and come out with fifty cents!

  So we made a few calls and ended up at the house of one of Jason’s lady friends. (He had more women than Picasso had paint.) If you went to a girl’s house, there was always money in the furniture because they were too scared to crack a nail digging around for it. It didn’t take us long to scrape up enough to gas up and get to the beach. Of course, the lady was none too happy when she realized we just played her like an Alabama flat-top box—but that was Jason’s problem. Me and Brian were thinking saltwater, sunshine, and small bikinis.

  The day was so hot, the hens were laying boiled eggs. Since we didn’t have much money, we figured we would swing by my grandpaw’s house and see if he would give us some of his homemade ’shine. Now, Paw was partial to his ’shine and it was easier to steal the coins off a dead man’s eyes than to get him to come off his elixir. But I also knew Paw took a nap every day at eleven and, if I was quick enough, I could sneak a bottle out of his cupboard. I also knew he had a string tied to the back of the door that was attached to tin cans. But if I slipped that off, I could sneak in and get the ’shine.

  We parked down the road and walked by his living-room window. He was fast asleep on the couch. So we eased into the kitchen and slid the door open to the pantry. I undid the string and knew I was gonna grab that bottle and be outta there like a fat man at a New York marathon. Brian and Jason were as nervous as long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs, but this wasn’t my first ’shine swiping, and I had this plan laid out.

  Well, as with most things I learned in life, I learned the hard way that there’s more ways to choke a dog than to feed him peanut butter. It turns out Paw was ready for me. He had a big old rat trap hid up with the bottles and when I reached up to get one, that trap set down on me. You would have thought I was passing a kidney stone the size of a grapefruit when I let out my scream. Jason and Brian broke out; I turned around, and there was Paw with gun in hand, tears rolling from his eyes.

  I begged, “Paw, please get it off! Please get it off!”

  He looked me square in the eye: “Boy, if you’re gonna try and steal my ’shine, you’d better be pretty slick—I can tell ya this is
one test you ain’t never gonna pass.”

  As he pried the trap from my now-broken fingers, he couldn’t help but laugh. Then he turned around, walked over to the sink, reached under it, and pulled up an old mason jar. As he blew the dust off the top, he said, “I keep the good stuff in plain view, ’cause no one ever looks there. And since it seems as you’re gonna be hurtin’ for a few days, here’s some pain remedy.”

  I was happier than a long-armed monkey with three peters. Paw said, “Y’all boys just stay outta trouble—and tell Jason I’ll deal with him next time I see him.”

  I just gave him a hug and headed back to the car, smiling like a possum eating fresh peaches. Jason and Brian were waiting. Jason asked, “Did you get any?”

  “Do rattlesnakes kiss gently?” I replied. I didn’t have the heart to tell him.

  Paw saw him, so I just handed him the jar. “Hit this and it will cure what ails ya.”

  Now, Paw’s brandy was a lot like a garlic milkshake: smooth yet strong. So it didn’t take too much to harelip the governor, and before we knew it, we were so tore back we couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel. Somehow, we made it to the beach and headed for the water. We spent the rest of the day neck-deep in the ocean, slinging the bull and polishing off the brandy.

  At dark, we decided it was about time to make like a cow turd and hit the trail. We didn’t have any money for a room and there wasn’t anywhere to go quarter surfing. Then me and Brian noticed a guy and girl laid up in the dunes making out. Well, I looked at Brian and said, “We can go home or get a free show. And my goer is skipping a little bit right now, so I say we stay for the fireworks.” So, being typical guys, we eased up there on our bellies to get a bird’s-eye view of the proceedings.