Tag Archives: humor

Lonely guys on a mountaintop

4 Aug

“A blonde, a brunette and a couple of dogs,” Ritter said hopefully.

Moran nodded. It was the confident nod of a sage, who knew the score. “Are you sure Jon? I mean … it’s late October for God’s sakes, and there’s a chance of snow. I don’t think a pair of voluptuous women are going to venture up into these hills this time of year.”

“I didn’t say they were voluptuous for Pete’s sake,” Ritter said.

“Well … the way you described them ol’ chum. I mean … ”

Ritter picked up a piece of wood and poked at the campfire. “I think I said, they looked fetching … at least from a distance.” Why get his hopes up? he thought. I mean … life was full of disappointments and missed opportunities and shitty circumstances. Hell, if they wanted to meet women, why didn’t they just join some church or become dog owners and go to the park every day. I mean, he’d once heard somewhere – talk radio? freakin’ Facebook? – that daily walks with a pooch was a sure-fire way to meet women. Next thing you knew, some great looking gal was petting your dog and you were in like Flynn. Ah … but that wasn’t him … or Moran, for God sakes. On the other hand, he wouldn’t put it past Moran to try it.

Ritter peered down the mountain from their campsite, but he could see no sign of any ladies. It was late afternoon and the cool autumn breeze chilling his face more than hinted of a chilly night – his favorite kind of fall evening. Sure, who needed women anyway? He’d stare into the flames of the campfire, groove on the wind snapping the bare branches of the trees, gaze upward into the stars and the mysteriousness of the Rocky Mountain night. And yet … and yet … he had this gnawing hope that these women would appear.

Moran brought the binoculars up to his eyes, training them on … what? The trail disappeared into pines and aspens. Good God, it was impossible to see anything.

“What in God’s name are you looking at?” Ritter asked.

Quite suddenly, a smile creased the old professor’s face. “Bing-GO,” Moran said.

“What?” Ritter nearly shouted.

“There they are … as gorgeous as co-eds traversing the lawn of Penn State’s Old Main on a sunny spring afternoon.”

“Wha-a-a-a …” Ritter sputtered. “Let me see those binoculars.”

“No need, my boy.”

Sure enough, Ritter saw for himself the two women, the pair of canines trailing them – a blonde and a brunette, just now emerging from the thick canopy of trees along the trail.

“Holy jumpin’ juju bees,” Ritter said. “I look like hell.” He scrambled to his feet and looked toward the tent. “What do we do?” He knew full well he probably didn’t smell too good. Three days of hiking without a bath didn’t exactly result in pleasant bodily odors.

Moran coolly lowered the binoculars and smiled at his longtime protégé. He slowly stood, pulling a beret from his pocket and placing it atop his head at a rakish angle. He looked toward the tent, and trotted off toward it, leaving Ritter next to the campfire.

“Where are you going,” Ritter whispered loudly. He stole a glance down the trail. The women were drawing closer.

“Getting into my old Army dress uniform,” Moran called back before disappearing into the tent.

“But you were never in the Army for God sakes,” Ritter said, gritting his teeth. Ritter stole another glance down the trail. Hell, they were perhaps just one hundred yards away. In a few minutes, they’d be here. What the hell was he supposed to change into? The damn filthy blue jeans and sweatshirt he’d worn yesterday?

“Remember the old Boy Scout motto Jon?” Moran called out from inside the tent. “Be prepared.”

“You were never a Boy Scout,” Ritter screamed.

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The meaning of life on a fall night

1 Nov

Professor Fred Moran peered into the darkness of the woods. The rustling sound from deep in the forest had faded.
“Hell-o-o-o-o … ” he yelled rather tentatively.
“Forget it Fred. The bear is gone.”
“Bear? Who said anything about a bear?” Moran lowered his trusty cane, Misty Blue and came back to the campfire where Ritter and Reuther were huddled, their faces aglow from the flames.
“I suppose the Penumbra State Spy Network is out there again,” Reuther said.
“Yeah,” chortled Ritter. “Out to track down Fred and his stolen manuscripts.”
“Real cloak and dagger dangerous missions,” laughed Reuther
Moran took two steps forward and pointed a finger at them. “Now that’s enough right there.”
“Aw lighten up Fred,” Reuther said. “The days of cold war literary espionage are gone.”
“Quite right,” said Ritter, pulling out his pipe and his pouch of tobacco. “They want to steal your stuff they go online.”
Moran looked deflated. He shuffled off toward the fire and slumped to the pile of rocks he’d fashioned earlier that evening as a seat. “Alas. Who cares about my stuff anyway? I’m a hack.”
“Er … now wait a minute,” said Ritter, taking a long drag on his pipe as he studied his old mentor. “That piece you wrote earlier this year on Annie Klondike. Top notch, I thought.”
“Right,” added Reuther. “I mean … the sexual tension was not only erotic, but clearly showed the underpinnings of fading youth.”
Moran nodded his head. “It certainly was one of my favorite sections of the book.”
“Buck up Fred. You still have it.”
“Even if your powers of sexual virility have faded,” added Reuther.
Moran looked from Ritter to Reuther. He emitted a long sigh and peered skyward. “What the hell are we doing here anyway?”
“Camping,” shrugged Reuther. “What else?”
“No I mean … What are we doing?”
Ritter took a long pull on his pipe and studied Moran.
“Sometimes I think life is just one long masturbation,” Moran said.
“Mmmmm …” mused Ritter as he took another long pull on his pipe.
“Just might be at that,” said Reuther.
The three of them stared at the dancing flames of the fire. A soft wind shook the bare limbs of the trees on this late October evening.
“You’ve certainly given us something to think about Fred,” said Ritter.

Waiting for Godot

10 Feb

Idleness and Wanderings

My dream job is to review movies for some cheap underground film magazine. Think of it, hanging out in second-run movie houses in sketchy sections of downtown cities, my pack of black market Turkish unfiltered cigarettes rolled up into the upper arm of my tie-dyed t-shirt, my beret pulled low on my head. Meanwhile, up on the silver screen, a blonde scantily clad Swedish babe astride a motorcycle – doing her Kerouac thing – roaring off into the Scandinavian wilderness, subtitles keeping me abreast (pun intended) of the action. Afterwards, hanging out in coffee houses, discussing the merits of the films of Bergman, Truffaut with like-minded bohemian sorts – awaiting Godot. Being idle, getting bored, wondering in God’s name where our lives are going, only to be admonished by J.R.: “There is something heroic about casting off real jobs, middle class trappings and doing our thing dudes. Believe me when I say, Godot will arrive.” Ah … J.R., the wise and wonderful J.R., pacing before us like a fire and brimstone preacher, his eyes aglow, stabbing the air with his pipe to drive home the more salient points of his diatribe against 401(k) plans, respectable jobs and neckties. “Those things were created to strangle mankind,” he screams, flinging the pipe into the wall, his piercing eyes now narrowing in on the bespectacled Ralph, shaking him to the very core of his being. But of course, this is all a preliminary, a warm-up, don’t you see, to the debate to follow. Fred M. and the great J.R. will once again lock horns, get down and dirty to argue about life and love and the whole of existence. “As soon as that S.O.B. gets here, you guys will see what I’m trying to say.”