OperationMonkeyLovin

Imagine that one day you decide to take a walk through a city park. A stroll, if you will, maybe even with a significant other or loved one.

You walk, arm in arm, chuckling at each other's musings as the gentle breeze commands the trees to sing and place falling leafs upon your coats.

Sitting down at a bench, you sit serenely watching two young children chase ducks by the meandering creek.

It couldn't get any better, right?

BANG!

BANG! BANG! BANG!

After retrieving your mental faculties and realizing that you might have to change pants, you look for the gang members responsible for the drive-by killing of two ducks nearby. But there are no thugs.

Quickly, you look for terrorists, wondering why they would strike ducks at a small city park. Nope. Not them either.

Turning one last time, you see the culprit who just disturbed your day. He is 6-foot-5 and 350 pounds, and he wears camouflage, waterproof overalls, a bright orange vest and a wide smile.

"WOO-HOO," he screams. "GOT ME SOME! IT'S MILLER TIME!"

That's right, it's a duck hunter. And if I had my way, this would be the scene at city parks nationwide.

You see, there is a real opportunity to make money here people. Think about it.

Time after time, cities are forced to stretch budgets for even the most basic of necessities -- public schooling for one.

Teachers are underpaid and forced to use old materials at times simply because the money isn't there, and the children of this great country pay for it.

Some have suggested allowing gambling, and using those profits. Others have intimated that confiscated drug and gun money could be used for good.

But we must not use dirty money to stimulate the minds of impressionable children.

No, there is an answer. Legalized duck hunting in city parks.

Honestly people, this will work. There are always ducks at city parks. They may come to drink muddy water or eat old, sometimes moldy bread from the grubby hands of well-intentioned kids.

However, something inevitably is left behind. Feces. And if left unchecked, parks become covered in it. That means the city has to pay to clean it up, more expenses flowing from the bank accounts of municipalities.

I mean, seriously, what has a living duck ever done FOR you? Huh? 'Ah, they're cute," someone whines. "Ducks are God's creatures, too," another cries.

Very true, I would answer, but a lot of God's creatures get killed every day just for being themselves (i.e. cockroaches, spiders, fish, whales, those funny-looking thick black fur-covered worms). Why not make some dough off it?

Look, I can think of tons better uses for dead ducks. They can be eaten. Their feathers are good for use in pillows, comforters and coats. So just let the hunters and big business take care of it already. Even the country's economy benefits from duck feather availability.

Besides, it's not like the city parks will miss them. Fish in the river, squirrels on the grass, birds flying up above ... there are still good things to admire at the park.

So let's recap. Selling of licenses to hunters makes money for city, leading to better schooling for kids and less need to use dirty money. Good.

Less parks covered in duck feces. Good.

More warm and comfy products from American business. Good.

Bad? OK, maybe a few children will get injured or killed during the process. I contend they shouldn't be wearing brown coats at a city park during the hunting season. I mean, come on, where is parental responsibility?

And, OK, maybe there will be a little more noise pollution because of all the shotgun blasts. But this is only during hunting season, and maybe we can mandate they use silencers. Granted, that would make it harder to realize a bullet would be in the air, but you can't have your cake and eat it, too.

This is a good thing. Maybe in the future when I feel the need to hold public office and run on a pro-legalized duck hunting at city parks platform, this can happen. But I'm sure there's a politician out there who knows this is good, and it is good right now.

Believe you me, There will come a time when lover and lover will walk arm in arm with hunter to ensure ducks aren't a nuisance to their together time.

It will be so. It's all about killing two birds with one stone -- er, bullet.

Please love the monkeys.

But love them gently, now.

OK, so I was wrong about the Rangers and Alfonso Soriano seems to be thriving in Texas (read post below). I guarantee no one else would have put money on the Rangers being over.500 at this point.

But the team from New York that is not the Mets is still disgustingly putrid.

I received this forwarded e-mail from my uncle and thought it was so funny that it had to be posted. I cannot credit anyone, because no one was credited in the e-mail. Enjoy.

I never quite figured out why the sexual urges of men and women differ so much. And I never have figured out the whole Venus and Mars thing.

I have never figured out why men think with their head and women with their heart. I have never figured out why the sexual desire gene gets thrown into a state of turmoil, when it hears the words "I do."

For example, one evening last week, my wife and I were getting into bed. Well, the passion starts to heat up, and she eventually says "I don't feel like it, I just want you to hold me."

I said "WHAT????!!! What was that?!"

So she says the words that every husband on the planet dreads to hear ... "You're just not in touch with my emotional needs as a woman enough for me to satisfy your physical needs as a man."

She responded to my puzzled look by saying, "Can't you just love me for who I am and not what I do for you in the bedroom?"

Realizing that nothing was going to happen that night I went to sleep. The very next day I opted to take the day off of work to spend time with her. We went out to a nice lunch and then went shopping at a big, big unnamed department store. I walked around with her while she tried on several different very expensive outfits. She couldn't decide which one to take so I told her we'll just buy them all. She wanted new shoes to compliment her new clothes, so I said lets get a pair for each outfit. We went on to the jewelry department where she picked out a pair of diamond earrings.

Let me tell you...she was so excited. She must have thought I was one wave short of a shipwreck. I started to think she was testing me because she asked for a tennis bracelet when she doesn't even know how to play tennis. I think I threw her for a loop when I said, "That's fine, honey." She was almost nearing sexual satisfaction from all of the excitement.

Smiling with excited anticipation she finally said, "I think this is all dear, Let's go to the cashier".

I could hardly contain myself when I blurted out, "No honey, I don't feel like it."

Her face just went completely blank as her jaw dropped with a baffled WHAT???!!!"

I then said, "Really honey! I just want you to HOLD this stuff for awhile.. You're just not in touch with my financial needs as a man enough for me to satisfy your shopping needs as a woman."

And just when she had this look like she was going to kill me I added, "Why can't you just love me for who I am and not for the things I buy you?"

Apparently I'm not having sex tonight either.

On behalf of all Rangers fans, I apologize.

I apologize that Tom Hicks is an opportunistic, misguided midget (sorry, little person) masquerading as a "man" who has proven he will sell his soul (and his best freaking player for that matter) to the Evil Empire, the likes of which won't be seen again until certain people head south to reside with Satan in unending "warmth."

I apologize for the fact that the Texas Rangers played a part in giving said Empire an MVP-caliber player and did so without taking at least ONE starting pitcher in return, instead settling for one of the few Yankees (whether he's 26, 28 or 72) that dragged that team down defensively last season.

I apologize that for a certain number of games next year, ESPN will force the general public to watch either a possibly catastrophic Rangers team or a disgustingly putrid Yank(insert Jim Carrey-like full body gag here)ees team on national television.

May the Evil Empire crumble under the combined weight of its own monetary debt and inflated egos, and may the Red Sox do it because that would be the only true justice.

Thank you, and let me retire into the fetal position to suck my thumb and weep in peace over the ashes that were the Texas Rangers.

Bryan
President of the unofficial "Pedro Is My Hero Even Though He Didn't Go Far Enough In Knocking Don Zimmer On His Butt" fan club.

P.S. - Somebody get Affleck to take off that dang NASCAR jacket. He's disgracing the sport of NASCAR, and every one of my Southern redneck friends who support it!

The Destruction of Society -- The slightly-edited, but not watered down version
By Bryan Read

I told you my latest economic theory was coming and now that the FBI, CIA, NSA, KGB, Mossad and every other security organization in the world are reading this because of the headline, without and further ado . . .

MOM AND POP STORES.

Oh, they look innocent, don't they?

They sit there with their quaint intrigue in the middle of some small, seedy little village in the middle of nowhere beckoning you in.

You pull your car over, but you're not sure why. It's much like a Vulcan tractor beam pulling in the U.S.S. Enterprise. Even Scotty doesn't have enough power to get you out of this one.

As if in a trance, you stumble from your vehicle, your eyes fixed on the sweet, sweet face of the little old lady sitting outside in her rocking chair.

"Welcome," she crows. "Come inside, please. We've got anything a weary traveler needs."

You enter and look around. She was right. There's everything from Coke (not the drug kind, although it wouldn't surprise me if they do a little business on the side to boost profits further) to priceless eagle statuettes.

Tapes from the Eagles and the best of the 70s to a 70s-style throw rug. For those with families, a small delicatessen with enough baby supplies nearby to support Mongolia for the next century.

"Welcome," booms the authoritative male voice from behind the counter. "We've got anything you need, brother. Just let me know if you can't find something."

You nod your head while wondering how they ever got this stuff in the small building you saw from the outside. It's like the building's size multiplied when you entered the door -- truly a modern marvel of engineering.

You look at your watch when you discover you've been inside 30 minutes already and you haven't done anything yet. Bathrooms? No, the owners wouldn't waste money on the water and supplies needed to keep it clean. The old people must use colostomy bags, you figure.

Anyway, you get thirsty. The Coke case appears in front of you. You reach for a cold one and as you pull it out, you look at the price -- $2.99 for a 20 oz. bottle!

As if caught in a Steven King miniseries you stumble backwards. This can't be, you think. The price has to be wrong. Maybe the old people are Russian and want rubles.

You break into a trot to get to the counter and ask the kindly old gentleman how much the Coke would cost, when you realize the friendly old face from 30 minutes ago has been replaced with a demonic-looking sneer.

"$2.99" he gruffly replies. "And since it's now warm, you just bought it!"

As you turn to run out of the store, you hear a voice from behind say "Gertrude, we got a runner!"

You make it about five steps before a cane comes flying into your path, causing you to trip and fall. You look up just in time to see the old people chug a Red Bull and start to come after you, and, as you pick yourself up, you see for the first time a gas station off to your right.

"Mom and Pop's Gas," it reads. "Only $1.99 a gallon," it says.

You're running now. You should have seen the sign and been able to stay away, but the tall trees, they blocked your view.

You run along the dusty gravel parking lot to your car and as you slide to a stop beside it, a gunshot rings out. There goes your rearview mirror, but your door is unlocked. You jump in, get the car started and peel out only to have three more shotgun blasts remove various pieces from your now worthless automobile.

Fortunately, you're the lucky one. You got away. This scene, I'm convinced, is repeated thousands of times a day in the backwoods of America. It's all aimed at reorganizing the structure of the world's economic system. Let's look at this objectively.

Why do little mom and pop stores in the middle of nowhere charge so much? Because they can. Supply and demand taken to the extreme. But what they're really doing is hoarding all the money to drain the system dry, therefore increasing the general public's dependence on them. They have all the money. They have all the power.

Oh, there are little insurrections here and there, but they are easily quashed because if the combatants need supplies, good ole' mom and pop have them. Soon, the public realizes, there is no need to work. They can't be paid because the money is gone. Millions are laid off daily.

People can't pay their bills, so utilities and retail stores everywhere die off. Even Wal Mart, which angered the mom and pop stores early in its existence with its unforgiving pillaging of the smaller stores' customers, succumbs to the ever-growing pressure of the mom and pop organizations, its massive empire reduced to nothing.

Transportation companies disappear, because there is nothing to be transported. The military? Gone. Scared out of its wits by the mom and pop minions.

Understand that the mom and pop plan has moved into phase two. They don't need any supplies. They've been stocked for years in their underground lairs and miraculously expanding stores. They hole up and wait for the day when they return this tainted world to the old days of moral responsibility and black and white television.

The president, long ago rendered powerless with no public support -- heck, no public -- tries to rally the European nations to his cause. They, however, are also in disarray. Their monetary system, not fully dependent on the Euro, has suffered a huge blow with the devaluation of the dollar. Entire countries are falling to the mom and pop regime, selling off their assets in hopes of staying viable.

What about the middle eastern companies, you ask? They're rich enough with oil and they supply mom and pop. They have to be in a good position, right?

Wrong. Mom and pop drove the price up so high in the first phase that the price of oil plummeted. No one could pay the outrageous prices, so supply overran demand. Soon all the oil was drained from the fields and sent stateside, with the companies not realizing that the mom and pop stores were stealing it and whisking it away to their hiding places. The Middle Easterners were the first to go.

Stock markets everywhere crashed. Entire countries disappeared. People are going hungry and have lost all will to live. A meteor didn't kill the dinosaurs. Their version of the mom and pop stores did.

This doesn't have to happen.

No, when you see a mom and pop store with its exorbitant prices and its curious little building, drive away. Drive fast and far. Think twice and remember this little story I've taken the time to relay to you.

Remember the prices. Remember the economic impact. Remember the danger.

Remember there aren't any bathrooms.

Hello all.

I know by my site counter that two people (I'm pretty sure I know who you are, thank you) a day have been checking my site for posts since I opened it.

However, I opened it, started writing a few things, then got really busy at work.

Though that comes as no consolation, I hope to get back on the bandwagon rather soon.

This post is one of my more well-known endeavors, the Krispy Kreme Treatise.

Enjoy!

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Friends,

A scourge has infiltrated our society. A sickness, a death camp, if you will.

It has taken aim at one of the most sacred, if not awe-inspiring, institutions of our time.

Krispy Kreme.

Yes, Krispy Kreme. The people who know how to do doughnuts right. The people that give millions around the world hope daily with their warm, delectable pastries.

Friends, the scourge is commercialism. Commercialism has tarnished the Krispy Kreme name and it must be stopped!

I'm driving around looking for something to snack on in Round Rock, TX after covering a high school soccer game. I pull into an Albertson's Grocery Store thinking I'll settle for some gummy bears or something, when something catches my eye.

''WE HAVE KRIPSY KREMES,'' a banner shouts out. ''COME IN AND GET SOME TODAY,'' it screams.

I am there in a heartbeat. I search the store for 10 minutes before I finally find the treasure trove of happiness.

I bound up to the counter (Honestly, can you really not picture a 295-lb. male bounding?) and search for my prey.

Instinct leads me to the cake doughnuts -- you know, the ones with cinnamon and sugar on top? Yesssssss.

I reach for three when I see it. A sign. A Krispy Kreme sign. And it's just sitting there.
It's doing nothing. Not hanging proudly, basking in the glow of spotlights. Not beckoning. Not happy.

IT'S NOT EVEN FREAKIN' NEON FOR GOODNESS SAKE!!!!! IT'S A STINKING LIGHT BRITE!!!!!
LITTLE PIECES OF PLASTIC STUCK INTO AN ELECTRICAL MACHINE!!!!! DOES ANYONE ELSE NOT SEE THE INHERENT DANGER IN THIS? MUST CHILDREN DIE REACHING FOR A LITTLE BIT OF HAPPY?!?!?!?

I then touch one of the doughnuts and pull away in horror -- COLD!!!!! THEY COULDN'T EVEN WARM THEM UP!!!!! WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!?!?!?

Still, the sign (shudder) says Krispy Kreme. I must keep the hope alive, so I buy the three and retreat to the sanctity of my car.

I begin to partake when I notice something is horribly, terribly wrong. The feeling I had way back in Colorado when I had my first taste of Krispy Kreme perfection was not there.

These were REGULAR doughnuts. REGULAR Albertson's doughnuts!

I finished the doughnuts in silence and sadness. Nothing can overcome the anguish I share with you now.

What if this had been my first Krispy Kreme? What would I have to look forward to? Imagine the hate I would feel when I finally had a genuine Krispy Kreme and learned I had been duped the entire time.

I can get these kinds of doughnuts at any store within driving distance. The image projected is not one with the company policy of making people's days just a little bit better.

Therefore, I -- no, we -- must act quickly to stop this horrendous atrocity. I hereby form an organization dedicated to the preservation of the Krispy Kreme philosophy. I start an organization that will push for reform in the commercial markets, to make the name Krispy Kreme stand for something!

Some you may argue that commercialism is good for Krispy Kreme. I say to you, "No sir!" Again, "No sir!"

The selling of the Krispy Kreme name and image to stores wanting nothing more than a quick buck from unsuspecting patrons is unconscionable!

Is expansion good? Yes, there needs to be a Krispy Kreme franchise right next to every McDonalds and Wal-Mart, in my opinion. A place where quality control can be implemented and taken seriously. A place where people can go and congregate and be merry like the squirrels.

We must lobby Washington for laws protecting this great American work of art.
So far, the only detraction to this entire course of action is that maybe one day a trucker may pull over, grab a defective Kreme, drive off, taste it, careen into an embankment and destroy his entire load of peanuts. That's all I've got. (Justin [a friend of mine that wrote a treatise about how peanuts are overtaking the world], I may be on to something here!)

We must act now! We must stop this! Now all we need is a name. I submit these.
--People for the Ethical Treatment of Krispy Kremes (PETKK)
--National Organization of Krispy Kreme Enthusiasts (NOKKE)
--The Alliance of the Krispy Kreme (AKK)
--The Krispy Kreme Preservation Society (KKPS)
--Reformed Krispy Kreme Observationists Regime (RKKOR)
--The Mature Organizations of Krispy Kreme Buyers Alliance (MOKKBA)
--A Group of People Really Upset That Krispy Kreme Has Been Subjected to Commercialistic Endeavors (GPRUTKKHBSCE)

Thank you for your attention. The battle is just beginning, but I think we can make a difference in society!

Bryan Read

Charter member of the Militant Alliance of Krispy Kreme Enthusiasts (MAKKE) – no, I don't like that one either. I'll figure it out.

Everyone, take notice!

I must warn you of a new problem, growing worse by the week -- senseless car violence!

So there I was ...

At the speedway I cover every Saturday night. I was standing in the pit shack, waiting for the results to be printed from the night's action. People trying to set up their cars are on the track running hot laps (racing around the speedway without competition).

Then, a call over the radio -- ''There's been a bad accident at the north end of the speedway."

I look at one of the owner's wives and say, "I hope it's not bad."

She agrees and goes back to work as I ponder the fact that I had parked my six-month old Chevrolet Monte Carlo at the north end of the speedway.

Then, another call -- "This is bad. She went through the fence." (that separates the track from the parking area)

"No," I think. "Please, no."

I look out the shack's window toward my car, and there are security vehicles all around it. I couldn't see anything; I just stayed there, hoped and prayed that no harm had come to my ride.

Suddenly, the door bursts open and the girl who was driving (and incidentally, works with track) flies through with her mud-scarred helmet in hand.

"WOW," she exclaims. ''That was so amazing."

The people in the pit shack ask if she was OK. She said she was.

I'm sorry, I don't have quotes on that. You must realize, I'm figuratively curled up in the fetal position sucking my thumb in the corner, at this point.

Then came another comment from the driver-- ''I almost took out a brand-new car!''

Added a track owner coming through the door, "Yeah, she nearly missed a blue Monte Carlo."

OK, I need to tell you it's at this point that my heart officially stopped.

I managed to say, "That's my car," but no one heard me in my weakened condition.

So I said again, this time more loudly, ''That's MY car.''

Picture everything stopping. There ya go.

The track promoter broke the silence, saying "Are you sure?"

I said, "New, blue, Monte Carlo. Yeah, it's MINE."

He said, "Well, get out there and check it."

I went to the sheriff's deputy and he let me borrow a flashlight. To my complete happiness, there was nothing to fret about. Completely all-right.

I went back to the shack, and made the announcement that everything appeared to be all-right. Everyone then smiled, and the owners began to tell me how lucky I was (How lucky I was? They would have paying for a new car!).

See, the driver was going down the frontstretch when the steering wheel came off in her hands. She panicked and hit the gas instead of the brakes, sending her hurtling off of turn one. The car arced back down and somehow slid between the bottom of the billboard and the billboard's supports (seriously, no one can believe she got through that thing) and tore through a chain link fence that separates the track from the parking lot.

It's at this point she's approximately ten feet away from my Chevy. She said she saw the car, she grabbed the steering column as well as she could, and turned it with as much force as she could muster while applying (finally) the brakes.

She said the car spun and stopped in a cloud of dust.

Then one of the owners says, "You don't want to know how close she was."

I disagreed, saying I did. He said, "Really, you don't."

I disagreed in a more strong fashion this time, and he said, "OK, it was CLOSE."

"How close," I asked?

"So close you don't want to know."

Seeing that conversation was going nowhere, I picked up the results and went to leave when the promoter stopped me and said, "I'm glad it was you. At least with you we could have worked out a deal."

I just laughed and left. But I wanted to show him a deal. It just wouldn't have been right.

Moral of the story: Who let this woman drive a race car? Women can't drive regular cars.

All right, all right. I'm just kidding.

New moral: MAKE SURE YOUR STEERING WHEEL IS LOCKED DOWN BEFORE YOU FREAKIN' DRIVE A RACE CAR!

(or, if you prefer this one)

Don't buy new cars. Then you won't have to worry about them.

(There was no dramatic license taken in the above post. It's all true.)

Looking out of my window Saturday, Aug. 2, I saw what I considered to be a truly wonderous event.

Three of the most beautiful cardinals had gathered beneath the bushes just outside of my window and were chirping almost in unison. Very heart-warming.

Then came the attack.

The one on the left jumped on top of the one in the center and began to peck as his head. As I watched in utter amazement, the creature on the right bounded up to the combatants and added his beak to the mix.

I was horrified, and yet frozen at the same time.

Did I hit the glass to scare them away? No.

Did I start screaming to scare them away? No.

I simply stood there and watched as the two pummeled the other time and time again. I can only guess the wrestling fan inside of me finally reared it's ugly head.

Finally, after a few minutes of screeching and tumbling, the three separated. The very angry one in the middle hopped around for a little bit as the others flew away.

As I watched, I could only think about what he had done to deserve the beating. Had he intruded upon another's nest? Had he shouted expletives about one of the other bird's sisters in bird-talk? Had he farted in one's general direction?

Whatever the reason -- where was the love?

(And, yes, I believe the bird was OK. He later flew away after sulking for a bit.)

Hi, all.

I am Bryan, a sports writer in Texas. I will be using this space to relay (what I think are) funny stories that happen to me or others around me.

From time to time, (hopefully more often than not), I will add original works of creativity (some might say, paranoia). These are usually based on experiences I've had with, let's say, some dramatic license added to the situations.

I am already somewhat well-known for my "Mom and Pop Stores Economic Theory" and "The Krispy Kreme Treatise," and those will be coming to this space rather soon. I have to re-type them, which is taking time. But I digress.

I'm not allowed to write about sports, even though from time to time it relates and will make it into stories. Sorry, it happens.

But most importantly, I am a Christian. I believe there is a God, and that He made the ultimate sacrifice in sending His Son, Jesus Christ, to die on the cross for my sins, and that Jesus rose from the dead three days later. Should anyone who reads my page want to discuss how knowing God can change their lives, feel free to send me a comment and I will do my very best to get back to you as quickly as possible.

Also, please take time to read the blogs of my compatriots -- The Aardvark of Freedom. These are all talented and opinionated (in a good way) writers that have a lot to offer.

And I'm spent.

Hasta.

This is a test monkey. Poor Monkey.