Gay News Bureau

An evening at Mouseburgers

Yip — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 15:27:27 +0000

Picture it:

1970. A hot summer night.

Friend Libby and I are cruising through the Westport area, when we get the munchies. A couple of Libby's REALLY good doobies will do that to a person. Just down the street is Woolfburgers, a greasy spoon (really greasy) where the 'hippy set' dines. Libby parks her Pontiac right in front. We run the gauntlet of people like us, sitting in front of Wolfburgers, panhandling.

'Spare change? Got some spare change for me buddy?'

'I'm real hungry, man. Spare change?'

We enter. The floor is slippery. It's always slippery.

Grease.

We slide to a table and order two coffees and one order of French fries. The waitress scowls. She's accustomed to people like us, who order small quantities of food. She's probably thinking she should be waiting tables in the suburbs, where people order full meals and tip 15 percent. Instead, she's stuck in this chintzy neighborhood where 50 cents is considered a large tip.

It's a small restaurant. Maybe 8 or 10 tables. Most of their business is carry-out, from the panhandlers who finally beg enough money for a burger or two. So we're sitting there in Woolfburgers giggling over our coffee and fries. Libby's REALLY good doobies will do THAT to a person, too.

A girl sitting at the next table is staring at the ceiling for quite a while. Libby and I just figure she's stoned or something. Then, the girl says to the guy with her, 'Mike, they're back. Look. There they are.' Mike looks at the ceiling. 'Oh, wow!'

Of course, Libby and I look at the ceiling to see who 'they' are.

The ceiling in Woolfburgers was one of those suspended deals, with tiles that are about 2 feet by 3 feet, with light fixtures the same size, flush with the ceiling, with 4 fluorescent bulbs in each one.

There 'they' are.

Mice.

Two good-sized mice, scurrying across the frosted plastic just below the light bulbs. Libby squeals just a little and looks at me, 'Is that real, or am I stoned?'

'Oh, it's them alright!' says the girl at the next table. 'They show up every now and then.' Mike says, 'They ain't hurtin' nothin'. I think we should name them Heckle and Jeckle.' The girl giggles and says, 'But there could be a lot more of them. What would we name all of them?' Mike says, 'The Mormon Tabernacle Choir?' The girl giggles uncontrollably and, gasping between giggles, says, 'We call this place Mouseburgers.'

Libby and I decide it's time to go. We leave most of our French fries. The waitress is sitting in the back, smoking a cigarette and looking at the ceiling. We never went back to eat at Mouseburgers.

The place isn't there any more. I can't imagine why.

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Well SHIT! Welcome home, Yip.

Yip — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 16:03:47 +0000

Well now. Ain't this a fine how do you do!

I arrived back in the flatlands Sunday afternoon after a nifty weekend in Eureka Springs.

When I escape for a weekend, I usually stop by my office to check mail, phone messages, make sure the place is still there, etc. before the work week starts. Sort of a jump-start on Monday morning.

Well, this past weekend, while I was enjoying adult beverages and conversation in Arkansas, someone got a jump-start on me.

I walk into the building to find broken glass all over the bathroom. Someone broke one of the two windows there. The bathroom is at the back of the building, as are two back doors on different ends of the building, overlooking a parking lot that is not visible from the street.

Shit.

I walk to the other side of the building....the window in the door there is broken too.
Double shit.

Nothing is missing in the building, as far as I can tell. Nothing really messed up, except glass all over the place.

I figure if I'm going to report this to insurance, I'm going to have to have a police report. So, I call the police.

Copper shows up. 'Well, Yip, this is an attempted burglary.'

Yip: Yeah? I just figured it was kids. I don't think anything is missing.

Cop: You have a cash drawer?

Yip: Yeah. It's got about 68 cents in it. And it's all there.

Cop: I'm still going to call it an attempted burglary.

Yip: Well, whatever works.

We look around the parking lot in the back. Ah ha! Part of a cinder block is laying beneath the bathroom window. That's probably what they used to break the glass. But wait! There's BLOOD! Little spatters and drops all around the base of the window.

Cop: I'd better take a swab of this. If this is in the data base we might be able to connect the perp with other illegal activity.

Yip: Wow. That's cool. Maybe we can collar a perp!

Cop: (now sounding even more 'official' than before, lowering voice slightly) That's what I do, Yip. Collar perps and put away the bad guys. It's my job.

The copper takes a little thing out of his pocket. It looks like a Q-Tip. He breaks one end of the Q-Tip. 'See that liquid? That's saline. It will soak into the cotton so I can swab the blood.'

Sure enough, I see liquid flowing down a tube into the cotton at the end. The copper dabs the cotton on one of the larger blood drops, then puts it in a little vial for safe keeping.

Cop: You never want to touch the cotton. It will contaminate the sample. We don't want our DNA on here. Only the perps'.

Yip: Isn't it supposed to turn purple or something?

Cop: Not in the saline. You know, a lot of what you see on those CSI shows is Hollywood at work.

**I'm thinking to myself** Too bad you're not as hot looking as one of the CSI dudes.

Cop: Okay. I'm going to file this report. If I were you, I'd try to secure this window and door with plywood until you can have it replaced.

**again, thinking to myself** No shit?! I figured I could just leave it open for weather, small animals and .... PERPS to enter my building and make themselves at home! Not only are you not as hot looking as the CSI dudes, you're not as smart, either!

(apparently the cop read my mind) 'Those actors have scripts, Yip. What I do is all REAL.'

So, while wishing the local cops were as handsome as CSI actors, I begin scouting around for plywood. The only good thing about this is that whoever did the deed got cut in the process. Bastard. There was no blood trail leading to a corpse, so I guess he got away.

Welcome home, Yip.

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My brother thinks he's SO smart.

Yip — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 18:49:58 +0000

He is pretty smart, I guess. He reads a lot. Mostly Batman comic books. But, you know, one can learn a lot by reading.

Last night we were sitting around talking about that Jeopardy show, and how difficult some of the questions are. We were drinking Coconut Blazers (with little paper umbrellas!). By the third Blazer, he was saying

Brother: Naw, they ain't that hard. I know most of them.

Yip: Bullshit.

Brother: No, really. Go ahead - ask me ANY question, I'll bet I know the answer.

Yip: You're on! Okay, let me think for a minute here. Okay, here's one:
If revenge is a dish best served cold, what is a dish best served to 14 people in a row boat headed for disaster?

Brother: HA! Simple! The answer is purple bath robe!

Y: Okay, that was pretty easy. Here ya go:
If no English words rhyme with 'orange', what is the distance, in meters from Nebraska to the roof of my mouth?

B: Um....Venetian blinds.

Y: NO!! The answer is Benjamin Franklin! HA! GOTCHA!

B: Damn. I should have known that one. *thinking to self for a moment* Wait a minute here!! This is Tuesday! The answer is glycerin suppository!

Y: Shit! You're right. I keep forgetting about The Tuesday Rule.

B: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!! You dumb ass.

~~~
Guess I'd better read more comic books.

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Hey Yip! Where ya been lately?

Yip — Mon, 31 May 2010 17:27:06 +0000

I haven't posted anything here in almost two months. Where have I been? Well, it's like this:

I was over England way doing a line with Whitney Houston. Whitney has enough money that she can buy some really GOOD shit, too. Just about the time we got to feelin' pretty good, some super model whose name I can't remember right now (SSMWNICRRN), walked in the room and threw a cell phone at me!

Now, I'm a pretty easy goin' guy, but I'll tell you what! When SSMWNICRRN throws a cell phone at me, while I'm doin' a line with a pop diva (most ANY pop diva) well, that's when I tend to lose my cool.

I stood up, told SSMWNICRRN, 'I don't like that very much!' (Yes, I can get verbally abusive under such circumstances. Guess I really told her!!) and I stormed out of the room.

It was a grand exit, too! Sort of like Loretta Young when she would come through the door at the beginning of that show she had on teevee, only it was in reverse. And I wasn't wearing a long, flowing gown. On that particular day I had chosen Capri pants and flats, with a simple knit top. It seemed appropriate attire for doing a line with Whitney.

I think Ms. Houston knows I'm upset over the brouhaha. She hasn't tried to call me or anything, but she knows I'll cool down soon enough. After all, it wasn't really her fault.

Besides, on the plane back to the good ole' U. S. of A., I was seated next to that cute little gal who didn't win American Idol. (First class, of course.) We sang all of Gale Storm's hit all the way home!

She invited me into the toilet to do a line with her, one of the cabin attendants, and the co-pilot. Unfortunately the toilet wasn't big enough for all of us, and the co-pilot was a bit pushy about getting his first, so I contented myself with reading a month-old copy of Cosmo and sipping a dirty martini. It all turned out fine in the long run. I learned a lot about the female orgasm from Cosmo, and the martini was absolutely delicious!

So, that's where I've been. Not masturbating, or anything like that, just flying around the world doing lines with famous and not-so-famous pop divas.

You're welcome.

Categories: Travel News.

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Cheap wine makes anything taste good. Especially when one is naked.

Yip — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 17:20:45 +0000

Got home from work last night and found there was nothing in the house to eat.

Not surprising, since I'm the only swingin richard in the place that does any grocery shopping or cooking, and I haven't had a chance to get to the store in a few days.

Glanced in the icebox, there was some cheese. Had a few taters over there in the Tater Storage Bin. (TSB) Ah ha! Found a round steak in the freezer! Threw that in a bowl of hot water to thaw.

The Boy would be getting off work in about 2 1/2 hours, and I have to pick him up, so I quickly whipped up some au gratin taters (agt), sliced up a couple of onions and threw them in a pan with the not-quite-thawed round steak and some red wine.

Tossed it all in the oven on low heat, poured a glass of cheap Merlot and waited.

Now, I'm no Wolfgang Puck. I'm no Jamie Oliver (but I do cook naked sometimes), I'm no Bobby freakin' Flay, but I gotta say, it turned out pretty good.

Gawd, I'm awesome! Sometimes my awesomeness amazes me.

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Kvetch of the day - April 1, 2010

Yip — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 16:33:47 +0000

While walking through a local store yesterday I was seduced by a large sign reading

«BUY ONE, GET ONE FREE!»

It was attached to a display of body wash. (or, as I am wont to say, body worsh.)

Bright red and blue squeeze bottles about 8 inches tall. The labels on the bottles had little hints of the scents; 'SEA BREEZE', 'SPORT', 'FRESH', 'WORKOUT', and 'NIGHT'.

Wow! I can smell like a sea breeze! Or I can smell fresh! Not only that, I can do it TWO times for ONE money! I've always been a savvy shopper, and considering my usual odor, this seemed to be a pretty good deal.

I picked up a bottle of FRESH and a bottle of NIGHT. Damn. They were sealed, so I couldn't get a whiff. Still......two for one........

I thought to myself what George Clooney might smell like. SEA BREEZE? SPORT? If I can't look like him, at least I can smell like him! I was sold. Yeah. FRESH and NIGHT would do the trick. May even land me one! Worth a shot.

So this morning I'm headed for the shower in wild anticipation of smelling like George Clooney. I lathered up with FRESH.
Oh JEEzuz! This stuff smells like citrus fruit! So now, not only am I a fruit, I smell like one.

What an April fool I am.

But I shall not be deterred. I'm going to pick up WORKOUT next time I'm in the store.
And I'll probably smell like a dirty locker room. You know, that intoxicating blend of sweat and bleach. Yeah. That's a turn-on.

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As I see it, it was a gentle greeting from beyond

Yip — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 19:15:11 +0000

Got a call here at work from my father yesterday.
'Yip, I've been cleaning out some stuff laying around here. I want you to come over and look at some things before I give them to Goodwill. See if there's anything you want.'

This happens about once per week. It usually means he's found the lid to a Tupperware bowl - not the bowl, just the lid - or a yardstick advertising the Livingston County co-op, or batteries he bought back in 1984 because they were on sale.
('You never know when you might need them. Just because they're old doesn't mean they won't work! I put a couple in this flashlight just last week. See?! [flipping switch] Well shit! This damned thing doesn't work! You want it? Probably just needs batteries.')

Living in the same house for 55 years, one tends to accumulate stuff. In my father's case, that 'stuff' would, by most people, be considered 'useless shit'. He grew up during the Great Depression. He doesn't throw ANYTHING away. I can appreciate that, to a point.

So yesterday after work, I go over to his place to see what goodies (read 'shit') he's uncovered before he calls Goodwill.

'Your mother had these art books in that copper boiler over there. I thought you might want them.' (My mother was an artist.)

There were a couple of nice 'coffee table' type books. One Van Gogh, a Matisse, a Chagall, a few others.

'Oh, yeah! I'd like to have these. Thanks!'
'They're only $14.00 each.'
'Put it on my tab.'
'See ya, son.'
'Thanks, dad. See ya later.'

So I get home and take a closer look at the books. On the inside cover of the Van Gogh is my mother's handwriting, 'From my wonderful son Yip, birthday, 1974.'
Wow. I didn't remember giving it to her.

My mom saying hello. I got all ferklempt.

Sort of cool that my dad saves everything.

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Adventures in Postal World

Yip — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 20:28:54 +0000

Be warned, not only is the story disturbing, the author is disturbed.

Picture it: A cold, blustery day in January, and our hero, Yip, is headed to the post office to buy stamps, and to complain to an uncaring postal clerk about the ever-rising postal rates.

He opens his office door, car key in hand, and braces against the stinging, cold rain as it stabs his bare face. He curses the cold, wishing he had worn a coat when he left for work that morning. (As it turns out, our hero isn't real smart, and doesn't watch the weather forecasters. I mean, meteorologists.)

He makes it to the car, turns the key, the powerful engine roars to life. He guns the motor, wondering how much gasoline he's wasting by doing so. The radio blares Gwen Stafani, '...tell me boy, now wouldn't that be sweet....' as he makes his way to the post office. Once there, he's faced with a line of 7,486 people waiting for the one clerk to help them. (Our hero has a way of exaggerating, too. There are, in truth, only about six people.) Finally, after 3 hours and 27 minutes of waiting in line (there's that exaggeration thing again), he is greeted by the surly postal employee.

Postal Employee: Yeah. Whatcha need.
Yip: Hello. I'd like a book of stamps, please.
P.E.: Stamps? We ain't got no stamps. I don't need to show you no STINKING STAMPS!
Yip: That's the absolute worst Alphonso Bedoya I've ever heard.
P.E.: Well, yeah, it's not all that good. I do a great Bette Davis though!
Yip: Really?
P.E.: The letter! Peter, Peter, give me the letter!
Yip: My name's not Peter, and I'm not mailing a letter. I want to buy stamps.
P.E.: No, you idiot! That's my Bette Davis!
Yip: Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.
P.E.: Don't call me 'dear'. You don't even know me. I'm sorry, but it's not like we're in love or something.
Yip: Love means never having to say you're sorry.
P.E.: You're pissing me off mister. I'm.......I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more!
Yip: So...how much are the stamps now?
P.E.: I'll make you an offer you can't refuse.
Yip: Do you have any new designs?
P.E.: Stamps are like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get.
Yip: I'll take one book, please.
P.E. SHOW ME THE MONEY!
Yip: This is getting curiouser and curiouser.

Person waiting in line: JEEzuz Christ, people! What the hell is this? Entertainment Tonight?!

P.E.: What is it you wanted again?
Yip: I've forgotten. I'll come back tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.
P.E.: Parting is such sweet sorrow.
P.E.: I'll be baaaahk.

P.E. to the next person in line: Hello. May I help you?
Person: You........had me.........at...........hello.

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Spam! Not the delicious canned stuff.

Yip — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 16:20:40 +0000

So I get to the office this morning and turn on the computer. (It's about the only thing I'm able to 'turn on' lately. Poor Yip. Poor, poor Yip.)

I check Geekfest while waiting for my email to download. After a few minutes I go to the email file. There they are; 37 emails. 37! WTF?! I've never gotten 37 emails at one time. Not even when I advertise for free sexual favors on Craigslist.

(In fact, when I do that, the only responses I get are along the lines of, 'Yip, go away. Ain't nobody interested in whatever it is you're giving away.')

So I'm thinking, 'Damn! 37 emails! I'm popular all of a sudden!'

I look at the mail. They're all EXACTLY the same!
All 37....exactly the same.

Something like: Cialis Soft-Tabs now available! By mail! PharmCo is proudly announcing this limited-time offer for YOU, Yip! Your erectile dysfunction will be a thing of the past!

My first thought is, 'How the hell did PharmCo know?'

(It's not true, by the way. I can get... *ahem*... 'excited' just thinking about Officer Malone. Or that Italian dude on the luge in Vancouver.)

Damn. 37 emails, not one of them is legit. I ain't so popular after all. Spam, I think is what it's called.

Do people actually fall for this shit?! I certainly don't.

Oh! The postman is finally here! Hope he has my Cialis order.

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Her name was Lisa. (This is a repeat)

Yip — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 17:53:04 +0000

In a break from my usual inane rantings........

~~~~~~~~~

30 years ago this month:

My roommate at the time, Mark, had been out of town. 'Yip, I'm coming in tomorrow night. Plane gets in about 10:00. Can you pick me up at the airport? Use my car. The keys are on the hook in the kitchen.'

About 9:15 I hop into Mark's bright yellow VW and head for the airport. It's a nice, warm evening. Lots of moonlight, not much traffic. I pick Mark up at the gate and we head back to his Midtown, K.C. house. At that time, there was not a lot of development between downtown K.C. and the airport. It was pretty much farmland with an occasional old drive-in motel.

We're driving along, talking about California, the flight back, how many drinks Mark had indulged in, the lousy airline food, (back then they still served food),
when an old pickup truck sped by us. Must have been doing at least 80 mph.

'Oh! Babycakes is in a hurry!' said Mark.

A few minutes later, we round a bend of the highway. There's something up ahead that just doesn't look 'right'.

I slow down a little.

'What's going on up here?'

There are car headlights pointing at us, but.....there's something different....something....out of the ordinary.

Then it hits me.
The headlights are vertical. One above the other, about 3 feet apart. Not horizontal, like they should be.

Oh shit! There's been a wreck.
It's a car off the side of the road, on its side, pointing in the opposite direction of traffic flow.

I pull over, even with the overturned vehicle, which is about 30 yards away from the highway. A taxi pulls up behind us. Dust is flying everywhere, dimming the moonlight. The wreck has justмебель в болгарии happened. I get out of Mark's car and yell to the cab driver,
'Can you call the police with your radio?'
'I already have.' he says, getting out of the cab. We both trot down to the overturned vehicle, with Mark not far behind us.

It's the pickup truck that had sped passed us moments earlier, apparently going too fast to negotiate the curve in the highway. I approach the cab of the pickup, hoping to find someone in there not too banged up. There's nothing in the truck.

I hear the cab driver, who's at the back end of the pickup, 'Lord have mercy! Lord have mercy!'

I run to the back of the pickup.

She's there, crushed under the bed of the truck. Her body is covered by the truck from her stomach on down. All we can see is her upper torso and head, with her arms stretched out above her face.
She's dead.
Apparently thrown out during the wreck, the truck rolling on top of her.

The cab driver pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, unfolded it and placed it over her face. Her eyes were half open, a blank stare. She was pretty. Shoulder-length reddish hair, a few strands floating in the still dusty breeze.
The cab driver gently took one of her hands and cupped it in his as he prayed, 'Dear God, take this child of yours...........'

The police and ambulance showed up a few minutes later. The three of us gave our view of what had happened. We all had tears in our eyes.

Mark and I didn't talk much on the way back to his house. We stayed up late, stared at the walls and drank Scotch.

A couple of days later I found her obituary in the paper.
Her name was Lisa.
I think of her often.

And of the cab driver.

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