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The Awful Thing

[WARNING! Some content is not suitable for all people. Explicit description follows.]

It was last spring, I think, a cold, damp and windy day in Portland. Ah, spring in P-Town.

I pulled my 1990 Chevy blazer into the parking lot under the bridge. My truck is what is known as “a beater”, dying by pieces. A decade or more ago the air conditioning quit and then to make life more miserable, last summer, the power windows malfunctioned so that every time I now lower the Windows the panes of glass fall down inside the door – and stay there. The speedometer no longer works so I drive really, really slowly (except for the speeding ticket). The passenger door doesn’t open from the outside. And so it goes.



Before I could pull to a stop Jester came flying my direction. A great demented apparition, coattails flapping his wake.  His eyes were wide with terror as he approached, “Ken, you gotta see this. Hurry!” I leaped from my decrepit vehicle and raced to the scene of…I knew not what.

Well, the “what” was a circle of about 50 or 60 frightened men standing in a circle spaced about 25 feet away from a black object laying at the center; silent and grim faced. No one greeted me or even looked up but continued stare at the what was before them. I walked over to scope out the situation. There before me was a huge d….. Um… well, thing. An awful thing. A horrid thing. I would calculate its length to be 9 to 11 inches. I didn’t have a tape measure handy so this, of course, is just a guestamate. Its girth was that of a Tapatio bottle halfway between the 5 and 7.7-ounce sizes. In addition, it was fully anatomically complete and correct other than, of course, it’s massive size. I loped back to the truck, got a garbage bag and quickly returned to the scene.  Turning it inside out as one does when scooping poop for a pet, I picked up the…ah…object, turned the bag right-side-out, pulled the drawstrings tight and tied them. Heavy.

About 50 feet away is a chain-link fence enclosure that has dumpsters that we “borrow” from time to time for our garbage. I twirled the bag and its odious contents like a hammer thrower (gingerly, lest The Thing escape its confines) and let fly over the fence. It sailed perfectly towards its apogee, that is, until one of the ties caught on the top of the fence. It hung in the air, parallel to the ground, its contents straining to be free from it’s plastic prison, for a seeming eternity and then crashed back with a resounding chain-linkey tinkle/thud. Too much ginger. I started to climb the fence to untsick it and try again but thought better of it.

The foe was vanquished. The Dragon was slain. The enemy, defeated. Long live me. With visions dancing in my mind of the triumphal scene in Aida, I walked back to my grateful subjects. Soon the chorus of hundreds (skip the elephants if they wish) would begin. “He has slain His thousands, yea, His ten thousands. We worship and honor Him; our Prince, our Conquering General, our…our god. Ken Loyd with one “L”. May he live forever. May all his deepest desires be fulfilled. May his…”

Somebody said, “Where’s the coffee?” Another, “Hey, Ken, how’s it goin’?” Still another, “You got any sox?” They were now arranged in random clumps scattered about under the bridge chatting, joking and generally fooling around. Not one word about my heroism. Not one word about the…um…item. Not then or ever. It was gone, that’s all that mattered.

Such is the life of a utility outfielder. AKA Mother/Father/leader.


  1. Deborah Gohrke wrote:

    I think I saw one of those yesterday at the Flungee Factory.

    Friday, November 20, 2009 at 10:30 am | Permalink
  2. Xo wrote:

    You’re a good mom, Ken.

    Monday, November 23, 2009 at 12:12 pm | Permalink
  3. C.J. Speelman wrote:

    So…. what was it???

    Monday, December 7, 2009 at 12:16 pm | Permalink
  4. admin wrote:

    C. J.

    I don’t remember

    Wednesday, December 9, 2009 at 3:10 pm | Permalink

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