by Stephen Johnson
Uriah Heep—Into The Wild
This is the time of year that I set aside some time to think about where
I’m going to go on vacation.
Actually, “vacation” might not be the right word since I don’t need to
work cause I’m loaded down with more money than I know what to do with
(helps knowing peeps in the oil business!). “Time-away” seems too
work-oriented so I’ll use my favorite term:
We’ve went to the east coast the last two years and I feel that’s
getting a bit old. Twice was fine, but it’s not too special anymore, at
least at this time. It’s kind of like shoving needles into your scrotum:
the first time sure feels good, the second time not so good and the
thought of a third time gives you the dry heaves.
So I decided that this year we would head west.
To Nebraska, to be exact.
I mean, why the hell not? Not that I didn’t live and slowly rot away
there for almost 50 years. Maybe the place had changed (plus there’s a
really cool truck stop on the way, one with a magnificent buffet). Maybe
they’ve entered into the 21st century. Probably not, but one can only
Since that’s where the home office is as well as home to Bob, I figured
he would be nice enough to put us up for a week or so. He has a big
house with many, many rooms (or so he says).
Good person that I am, I sent him a postcard showing a lovely picture of
a murdered Detroitian and congratulated him on winning the chance to
have me (and the woman) stay with him and his lovely family.
Cheap person that he is, he sent back an envelope with postage due.
Inside the envelope was a ratty Post-It with one single word on it:
Seriously? I mean, I can remember way back in high school I was his
saviour. Just because he was tiny and a different shade than the rest of
us, the children would constantly beat the shit out of him.
When I got tired of doing this, I figured I should make amends and one
day, in the midst of a brutal beatdown (probably deserved) I commanded
my fellow beaters to stop and pulled him from the melee by his bloody,
I took him home and put him down in the basement where he stayed for
many years, shielded from those evil children. He was fed, watered and
allowed an hour of light a day. That’s a hell of a lot more than kids
got back then!
The authorities finally tracked him down to our house and, after taking
away my parents for abducting him so they wouldn’t have to do any yard
work, he was reunited with a family. Not his previous family since they
were glad he just up and left that one day, but a nice Greek couple on
their death bed that lived next door.
There’s much more to this story but I’m not in the mood to bore you with
anymore details. I think you get where I’m coming from and are probably
as shocked as I am that he’s not welcoming me back to his dusty state
with open arms.
Why Bob? Why?
COMING NEXT: Seriously. Why?