01/03/01

I should point out I’ve had notions of doing detective work since I was a boy. I was actually a deputy sheriff for a time though for the duration of about a single eye blink. That was just before I was drafted into the Army. I was only hours away from shipping out to ‘Nam when Dad got caught up in the PTO shaft of the hay baler and got thrashed centrifugally to a bloody pulp. He survived as a minefield sweeper in World War II, prayed a medieval prayer to St. Joseph everyday from a prayer card he kept with him at all times to protect himself from sudden, unexpected death--- even named his only son in honor of St. Joseph--- and look what it got him. I know it sounds kooky, still, sometimes I wonder if maybe in a karma sort of way he took away the violent death that may have been destined for me in Vietnam. I say this because his death certainly became my rescue. . . .

I was discharged from the Army as a hardship case shortly after Dad’s demise to return home to take care of mom and the farm, which was considered her only source of livelihood. My uncle Hank (short for Henry David Thoreau, a real fucking hoot on my grandparents part, I know) had predicted at that time that land values in Orange County would skyrocket in twenty five years. He convinced me it was better to take a pass on becoming a cop again and hold on to the farm as long as I could. Told me the simple path to riches was to make due with whatever machinery and buildings I had and just keep qualifying the place for the farm exemption year after year. He told me to compare my fortunes to that of a retired deputy twenty five years down the line. He said I could count on him on this prophesy. Thirteen years later, the bastard died too, the way of Rock Hudson as I understand it. That was back when there was nothing much they could do for you for that shit. The old fucker sure was right though. Land values have sure gone crazy. Got assets now like an ass-scratching cop could never imagine. I never thought I would have such a hard time at this stage seeing things to the finish. I’ve been told my 5 million dollar asking price is about 3 million too high, but maybe in another 5 years it’ll be snatched up at 5 or 6 as a bargain. Phebe’s not keen at all on selling, but she said she’s not at all worried that it will happen at the price I want. She says I’m either delusional or attention-seeking. Yeah, who cares if I turn out to be both. You know, fuck anybody who says I set my price too high because deep down I don’t want to sell. Good fucking gracious. I wouldn’t keep replacing that big ass sign out front all this time if I didn’t intend to sell, and they damn well know it! My only obstacle has been getting my rightful price. I didn’t work as hard as I did all these years just to give the damn place away! Phebe keeps saying she’s going to find a way to buy me out and then I can be on my merry way without her if I want. Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it. The buying me out part, I mean, not the part about me being on my merry fucking way.

I could be on my merry fucking way anytime I want, don’t worry.

01/02/01

Of course Porch Rot’s story— or, as I should say, Porch Rot’s stupidity— made the news ‘round the world. Wasn’t a person this side of Hong Kong who heard the pathetic story of the lousy fucker’s passed up treasure who didn’t shake their head and wonder how in hell he could have been so fucking unimpressed about such a wondrous thing. How damn fucked-up do you have to be anyway when a stray piece of the planetary system wailing down on your place barely impresses you as out-of-the-ordinary? Says something, I’d say. Says something indeed. It was after that day, Ascension Thursday 1999, as I recall, that the scant clues regarding the disappearance of Porch Rot’s putative son, Clean Phil— the great Michael Stipe impersonator— finally began making sense. For a kid who believed so much in alien abductions, UFOs and other crazy, fucked-up, galactic what-not, maybe it was only fitting that a crashing meteorite ultimately led the way— in combination, of course, with my Asshole Redneck Detective Work— to finally uncovering the mystery of Clean Phil’s whereabouts. . .

Yes, my name is Joe Thoreau and I count myself an Asshole Redneck--- though the more polite phrase for us nowadays may be Asshole Woodchuck. Not that there’s anything that can be done about my assholeness at this late stage in the game. All bark and no bite though, like so many Asshole Woodchucks you'll find. I’m really just a wussy when you get right down to it. All this obscenity-laced bluster is just pathetic bravado really--- an indictment of my own deep-seated insecurities. Nazi I am not. And just why can’t I make myself feel better at someone else’s expense once in a while when I’m really the most pitiful creature there is to be found on the land?

I actually think of myself as a lot smarter than most people give me credit for, but maybe still not smart enough to be classified beyond the high end of idiocy. . .

If you’re a white male in rural America you’re not suppose to ask for anybody’s understanding— and you’re certainly not supposed to whine about anything— but damn if it doesn’t seem like the world has run out of room for the likes of me. Some days I feel like one of our fucking illustrious Orange County mastodons of yore left standing out on a sinking island with nothing much around to sustain me. Why can’t the cocksuckers caught up in all this Political Correctness shit take some damn time and try to come to some understanding of my kind for once before we’re all fucking gone? Where the hell is the cry for the endangered Asshole Rednecks, er, I mean, Asshole Woodchucks of the world?

01/01/01

You’d think someone with the money woes of Hiram Palfrey would have at least tried to find out what the meteorite was really worth before he all but gave it away. Here the damn thing came all the way from Mars— from fucking Mars!— to crash down on Porch Rot’s farm and there’s no damn sense of wonderment at all! All that registers in the guy’s clinically depressed mind is that some darn rock came through his barn and killed one of his best Holsteins. He’s a got a Mars meteorite on his hands— a Shergottite basalt they call it— a piece of planetary rock knocked off Mars’ surface by an impact event and turned into a meteorite of its own kind. It’s one of the most sought after kinds of meteorites there is. But ol’ Porch Rot has no thought to safeguard the thing! And the thing’s a damn hammer! Collectors especially love meteorites that hit and destroy things. And they love destroyed things too! Like what happened back when that fireball landed in Peekskill in ‘92 and crushed that car. People loved that damn wrecked car so much they took it on a world tour! I tell yah, Hiram could have sold steaks at a premium as celestially slaughtered beef. All that’s on Porch Rot’s mind though is: it’s just another darn rock. Yeah, like the kind that fills his fucking head!

So when Hiram calls over Cadaver Dog--- the downer livestock guy--- Cadaver Dog goes into the barn to look at the dead cow and see how he’s going to winch it out to his truck, and there he finds the cow’s skull mysteriously bashed in. Then he looks up and sees sunlight shining through this hole in the ceiling of the barn.

What happened here? Dog asks.

Darn rock fell out of an airplane or something, Porch Rot replies.

Really? Dog remarks, That could be worth something. You still got the rock?

Yeah, I got it, Porch Rot grumbles as he pulls it out of a nearby pail, Darn thing!

How much you got to get for it? Dog inquires.

You think it’s worth money? Porch Rot asks with surprise.

Sure it is, Dog speaks, I’m sure it’s got to be worth something.

Enough to replace this cow? Porch Rot chuckles.

Sure, Dog replies, much to Porch Rot’s astonishment, I could get a new Holstein over here this afternoon in exchange for it.

Well, that sounds like a deal to me! Porch Rot says exuberantly, I’ll take a cow for a darn rock any day.

Yeah, I’ll take a Holstein cow over a hunk of fucking Shergottite basalt any day. Never mind that you can trade a tiny sliver from the fucking thing for like a small herd! Yeah, slick move there, Hiram! That’s the way to save the farm. Hand your saving good fortune over thoughtlessly to the local carcass hauler. . .

Good fucking gracious.