If you’re under 18, or do not have a sense of humor please exit now.
No, this episode is not about a cockfights held in the courtyard, but it does involve a police report. No, it doesn’t end in any arrests, but it does involve an illegal activity. Yes, what we will delve into was the product of dirty minds, but it resulted in the cleanest hands our town has ever witnessed. Prepare yourself for another foray into one of the most sacred places in our seedy little barroom – The Ladies’ Room, and what happens when one or two customers go a little crazy for co…, um, CoCo for Coconuts.
Disclaimer: This Episode, like the rest of the Barroom Chronicles is designed for adults, if you are squeamish or don’t have a sense of humor please exit through the door on the left.
The idea was awesome, the execution was flawless, and all I had to do was go to an adult store to purchase the proper cock, a task which ended up being harder than I imagined, especially when my wife and I had to ask the salesgirl for a tape measure so we could get the proper girth. Her expression said she had seen it all, except this. When we explained what we were up to, she was more than willing to give a helping hand. If you haven’t figured this out yet, we were on a mission from Nate B, the designer of the best soap dispenser ever, to procure the right penis for his creation. After a half hour or so of comparisons, both size and texture were taken into consideration, a purchase was made and we walked out with a phallus which was destined to be busy during its lifetime, only we were shocked at how short of life it would have.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so in the interest of economy, please cast your eyes to the right. Genius, it was designed that when the penis was lifted soap would be dispensed through the
The genius and an admirer
head. And it worked! The night that it was installed could have been one of the gayest events I’ve ever witnessed, seven guys standing in the women’s room playing with a cock on the wall, laughing as it dumped soap into our hands. It worked so well that we went through a bunch of soap. In its short time in existence it was the star of many photographs taken by those passing through. Then it happened. It disappeared!
As fate would have it, I was lucky, the cock was lucky, everybody was lucky, except the original Cocksnatcher, yes, the name given to the first woman who vandalized the soap dispenser by ripping the dildo off the wall. What follows are the highlights to my written statement included on the police report. Names have been changed to insult and humiliate:
On Thursday night, XX/XX/12, during my shift, The Cocksnatcher stepped into the lady’s room. I noticed she spent an inordinate amount of time in the restroom, piquing my index of suspicion. When she left the restroom, I approached and took a deep breath, just in case of odiferous offenses. (Okay, this wasn’t in the report, but, hell, why not embellish a bit?) Upon inspection, part of the soap dispenser was missing. The soap dispenser is a novelty, it’s a penis - commonly referred to as a dildo. If confused, see attached photo… (again, another embellishment, I didn’t attach any photos, I had reason to believe the responding officer knew what a dick was, he’s a cop. right?) I immediately confronted Ms. Penisnapper about the whereabouts of the dispenser. She said she didn’t have it.
Cut from police report narrative to the scene: I ran from the lady’s room out onto the front deck and spit fire while confronting Ms Polly the Penile-Lifter, I have to admit she did a good job holding her ground, she told me that she stuck it up her anal aperture and if I wanted it I could dig it out, to which I responded that if she’d it anywhere else it would have fell out. When your being raked across the coals, accused of larceny of the Phallic kind, there’s only so much that you can say, especially in front of a half-dozen people, including your husband. In disgust she spit on the ground and walked away, chewing her husband’s ass as they went. The tirade continued at least a block before they walked out of earshot.
Who will have the cleanest hands in town?
What about the dildo? I can hear you asking. She had stashed it in the garbage can. So, after a call to the cock doctor, who made a special house call, the dispenser was up and running again, this time with what we thought was a better attachment. For two more weeks, the soap dispenser was the center of attention, hell, it even survived an inordinate amount of attention from a motorcycle gang that was passing through. And then, as fate would have it, our wonderful device fell prey to a professional snatcher. On a busy Friday night, it went missing, never to be heard from again. No ransom notes, no communication, nothing. Everybody was heartbroken, and wishes, prayers and spells went out that someone would have an eternally irritated vagina. Oh, we have our suspicions, like a couple of ladies from Idaho who were staying at the Ghost Rails Inn that weekend, or the known kleptomaniac who was visiting relatives, but, unlike the first snatcher, there was no trail. Disgusted and defeated, I waved the white flag, I gave up.
Until now! A year later, there’s a new soap dispenser in the works, and this time it’s coming with an alarm. Pull it the wrong way, and a fire alarm will ring in the bar and the humiliation will be instant. I’ve been advised that bets are already being placed on who will inherit the title Cocksnatcher of the Year 2013… Whoever it will be, they’ll have to wait until the sash and tiara arrive, then it’s game on!
This post could very easily be an addition to The Barroom Chronicles, except that this is a fictional story, even though the Humming 
A while back I was interviewed for the inaugural issue of the online magazine Write Mag. During the interview, Anthony Vernon asked if I could write a good flash fiction
story that could make Mike Tyson eating a carrot seem interesting: Here’s the result. For the rest of the interview of more info on Write Mag, 
LOVE YOUR GRILL. MY MOM COOKS ON IT ALL THE TIME.”
I’ll be on the radio on Saturday, Feb 9th at noon eastern to yap it up about writing. You can catch the show across the globe by clicking the link. Here’s your chance to call in and rough me up a bit. The number’s toll free! (888) 436-7591 
You read the title right Sports Fans; I peered into my crystal ball while reading tea leaves and saw that sometime in the late 3rd or early 4th quarter the 
Ravens will be leading 21 -17 when Colin Kapernick will become the meat in a Lewis/Suggs sandwich. Deli’s across the nation will be inspired to add a new pastrami sandwich entitled The Kapernick. Rescued from the abyss of being forgotten, Alex Smith will step in in relieve and engineer a 49er victory that would make Joe Montana proud. Get ready for the biggest QB controversy in history and an act of redemption for Mormons everywhere, even Joseph Smith will stop turning in his grave.
Can ghosts be homeless? Never mind the daunting question that they exist. For the sake of this blog, let’s assume they’re as real as huckleberry pie. If you’re an unbeliever and have made it this far, I have a feeling you’ll bear with me. I have never given the question of homeless ghosts any thought, until now. By a homeless ghost, I’m not talking about the ghost of a homeless person that may haunt any given street corner - I’m talking about one that haunts a house, or a bar, or a hotel, and suddenly the building goes away. The building I’m talking about didn’t vanish in any otherworldly sense, it burned down. During the wee hours of Christmas Eve morning a fire ripped through the Ghost Rails Inn, a ‘spirited’ bed and breakfast in our little Montana town.
It was a warm afternoon, the sun was shinning, the sky was a deep cobalt blue. Music was playing in the Ghost Rail’s kitchen. Grace had stepped out for a moment and when she returned, there was a woman standing behind the butcher’s block dicing vegetables. Grace claimed she was real, flesh and blood – corporeal – not the ‘apparition’ that everybody associates with ghosts. The woman looked up in horror, as if she herself had seen a ghost. And in a snap of a finger, she faded away. Creepy, I got gooseflesh writing it. I get gooseflesh every time I tell the story.
of an old, unsolved crime.
So what does all this mean? Can ghosts be left homeless? I haven’t a clue. But I’m certain of one thing. The lady who looked up and saw Grace walk into her reality, will never, ever have that haunting again. It was the last time she’ll ever see the ghost we know as Grace. I wonder if she’ll long for Grace’s apparition to appear like those who have experienced Bertha’s? Who knows? But, it’s fun to think about. I do know, when the building is razed and an empty lot remains, the apparition of the old Hotel will loom on foggy mornings or shimmer on moonlit nights, haunting all of us who left part of our souls inside its walls.
The door swung open, nobody paid any attention. All eyes were glued to the television and the tenth rerun of A Christmas Story. It was Christmas night and the bar was crowded enough to put a smile on my face. Until that night, I had never worked the holiday, and being my first year at the helm, I penciled my name on the work schedule. I was pleasantly surprised both at the amount of business and the relaxed mood. I didn’t know what to expect, whatever I was expecting wasn’t the softball of a night I was enjoying. Heck, I was so naïve about Montana culture, that three years after moving here, I thought all bars were closed like in my home town. A more cynical explanation was given that by 4:00 PM Christmas afternoon most people were sick of their families and needed an escape.
“Nope,” I said before turning to the crowd. “Anyone got any epoxy at home? Any glue?”
