Fanatica!

"I don't feel good."

- Luther Burbank, dying words


These days my pal Unca Don is not the apple in the fruit basket of Selby Avenue that he once was. These days, there is Mrs. Unca Don to put a stop to his madcap hijinks and shenanigans. In fact, if you were to call him right now on his cell phone he would have to stop walking to talk to you so that your words would not be drowned out by the rattle of the ankle chain connected to the big iron ball. In the words of Francis Beaumont, "The sturdy steed now goes to grass and up they hang his saddle."

But such was not always the case. Once Unca Don used to write in the waistband of his hygienic white briefs with a Sharpie, "Property of Unca Don. Drop in any mailbox if found." He used to eagerly await the mail delivery on Tuesday after a weekend of debauchery so he could once again properly house his equipment. What I'm saying is that he used to be a player.

One evening Unca Don and I went to W. A. Frost because Don had a coupon for a complimentary heterosexual encounter if he purchased an entrée. As he ate his dinner and chatted with the Coupon Matron to his left, I was sitting on his right nursing a scotch. Well, not so much nursing it as drinking it; I made sure the scotch was old enough to have been weaned when I bought it.

Next to me on my right sat a reasonably attractive woman with brown hair who was intently staring into whatever it was she was drinking. I observed her for a bit and thought about chatting her up. Then suddenly her head swiveled around like the turret of an M1A2 Abrams tank and I found myself facing the 120mm smooth-bore stare of a psychotic. "Uh oh, Hulles," I said to myself. "This isn't going to be pretty and it will probably hurt lots. Again."

But the conversation started off well enough, I thought.

"My boyfriend thinks I'm too hairy," she said.

I examined the hair on her head and found myself somewhat at a loss because her hairstyle looked pretty normal to me, if a bit tousled. "Ungch," I said as I suddenly realized that she wasn't talking about the hair on her head at all. "Gnnrfw." I had never made strangling sounds before without actually being strangled so that was an interesting experience.

Guys, I know what you're thinking: "Go Hulles! What a great straight line you got! Even on my drunkest night I could probably craft a decent quip out of that one, like 'Let's see it! Hyuk hyuk!'"

Not so. This woman was deadly earnest and scary crazy; you could smell the sweet stench of psychosis from twenty feet away. "Run!" shrieked my gibbering brain. "Fuck Unca Don and leave the tab! Save yourself!" But alas, I was impaled upon the besplintered wooden stake of her cold glittering stare [love that new metaphor mixer!]. I could no more have gotten off my bar stool than I could have swum to the moon. Transfixed by her unblinking gaze, I suddenly realized that this was how she captured her prey in the wild.

Sure enough, as I sat there twitching occasionally and breathing through my mouth she explained to me in great detail how she didn't think she was too hairy, what was up with that, she trimmed herself with a nail scissors once but that didn't appease him, it was really that there was too much of a hairy surface area as opposed to the hair being too long, maybe she should go for the bare cookie look, she could probably wax her vulva but that sounded like it would hurt, what did I think?

"Nnngh," I said, staring at a small pool of spittle on the bar directly below my chin and wondering vaguely where it had come from.

Just then the Coupon Matron squealed with delight (I told you Unca Don had it going on at one time) and the spell was broken.

Don later told me that when I rocketed out of my seat and ran screaming for the door he just assumed that it was a case of being poorly positioned when the aftermath of a Mexican Windbreaker binge came upon me. I should be so lucky.

We found out later that Fanatica (not her real name) was banned from W. A. Frost after that episode. Too late for me, but at least some good came of it.

The next time we encountered Fanatica, Unca Don and I were at a different bar in the same general area (Fabulous Fern's if you must know). I think it was Okra Night. I had just run into a female friend who had brought me over to her table to meet her fiance, something I had looked forward to for a long time, believe it or not. Suddenly and without warning Fanatica was at my right elbow talking to me over the conversation of the couple at the table. I was tremendously embarrassed, and finally apologized and said that I was going to go back and sit at the bar and (by implication) take Fanatica away with me. Their relief was palpable.

As I escorted the briskly chattering Fanatica to the bar, I had to figure out how to dispose of her. I wanted to plant her and have her stay in one place so I could at least enjoy part of the evening somewhere else. What to do, what to do?

Ping! Light bulb comes on.

"Hey, Fanatica, this is my friend Unca Don, noted vulva waxer and braider of pubic hair. I just bet you two have tons of things to talk about."

See, Unca Don, unlike me, is unable to defend himself conversationally. He always politely listens to whatever wackjob happens to be sitting next to him and nods and asks questions and in general encourages said wackjob to stay and talk forever. He usually even buys them a drink. How he has been able to survive this long with his mind more or less intact is something I will never know. But because of all this Don was the perfect person to stick Fanatica with. No sooner thought than done by yours truly. Am I a good friend or what?

Probably not. I left Don to survive or not as he would and found a corner to cower in and drink myself insensate.

Unca Don later told me that Fanatica at one point had drawn sexual positions with stick figures on cocktail napkins to explain what she liked to do with her boyfriend. One drawing in particular was pretty gruesome. It involved Fanatica sort of crouched over with her ass in the air and her head stuck in a corner. "This is my favorite position," she said. "But I'm always afraid he's going to snap my neck."

"I'd like to see that," said Unca Don.

Fanatica laughed.

"No, really, I would," said Don.

We later found out that she was banned forever from Fern's after that night. Again, too late for us, but we consoled ourselves with the fact that we saved countless future generations from the mind-numbing terror of Fanatica conversations.

Don still claims he never slept with her. I remain skeptical, but maybe this time he's not lying.

Want to know something really funny? This story is all true. Unca Don says he still has the above-mentioned cocktail napkin somewhere. If he ever finds it, I'm scanning it and posting it here for all the world to admire. My bartender friends report that Fanatica has been banned from pretty much every bar in Saint Paul and no one has seen her in years.

I like to think that she somehow found some sucker to marry her then tortured and dismembered him and ground his bones into a fine powder and is now a hausfrau somewhere in Saint Paul, sitting at home in her nasty house dress like a spider in a web, waiting for you to invite her to join your book club.

As you value your life and sanity, don't do it! But if you for some reason decide to do it anyway, let me know how it goes, would you? Just morbid curiosity I guess. And find out if she bred. We might have to burn out a whole nest of them.

-- Hulles

Living The Dream, Part I

A few weeks ago Rolling Stone magazine sent a reporter and photographer out to interview me at New Lugburz. This is a transcription of that interview. This post, the first of three, takes place on the grounds of New Lugburz. -- The Management

RS: Hi there, you must be Hulles! I'm Jill Villeneuve and this is some photographer whose name I never bothered to learn. Thanks for having us out to your place up here in northern Minnesota. And thanks also for sending the helicopter to pick me up at MSP, that was nice of you.

Hulles: Well, nice to meet you Jill. I hope you don't mind I sent one of the Blackhawks, I wanted to keep the Apache around here just in case. I'm still not 100% comfortable with those tank barricades. So welcome to New Lugburz!

RS: Well it certainly looks like quite a place. I understand you haven't really moved in here yet?

Hulles: That's right Jill. Until we put the finishing touches on the compound I'm still living in Saint Paul in a duplex that I occasionally blow up. But shortly after the first of the year I plan on moving up here for good. Hey, since we're out here at the helipad anyway let me show you around some of the outbuildings on our way to the Big House.

This pole barn here is where we keep the M1A2 tank and a couple of Bradleys. This is Alex, our chief mechanic who looks to be working on one of the Bradleys. Hey, Alex, what's up? Nice cutoffs! Alex there was voted Miss Cocktail Onion during Fancy Mixed Drink Days in Aitkin last year. She had to give up her crown in midyear due to some unfortunate videos that appeared on YouTube, but we're pretty happy to have her working here at New Lugburz. She's just about done with her correspondence course on armored vehicle maintenance. Of course we paid for it, we take care of our own around here, haw haw!

RS: What on earth do you use a tank and Bradley fighting vehicles for up here?

Hulles: We use 'em in the cabbage flower fields. We find that they outperform normal tractors, plus they're lots more fun to drive. As a side benefit we've found that they tend to discourage Jehovah's Witnesses and the like.

RS: Cabbage flowers?

Hulles: Yeah, this is cabbage flower country up here. You don't see them used so much here in the States, but in many other places in the world people like to hold cabbage flowers in their ears. Foreigners, go figure. But the demand is rising and prices have held up pretty well the last couple of years, so we're thinking about planting another 80 acres next season.

See that swarm of flies over there past the pole barn? That's where we keep the dead horses. I like to come out and flog them occasionally; I find it tones up my deltoids and triceps and keeps me in shape for wielding the old Hulles cat-o'-nine-tails. When I'm dishing out a ten-lash punishment in front of the whole camp, I don't want to wimp out after eight lashes, haw haw!

RS: Jesus, that's a nasty smell from those horses! What's that pile of junk over there? Ouch! Did you just pinch my ass?

Hulles: Yeah, sorry, won't happen again. That over there is where we park the bandwagons. You can still read the sides of some of the older ones: see, that one says “Women's Lib” and that one over there says “Duran Duran”. The newer-looking one, you can't really read it from this angle but it says “Metrosexuality” on the side.

RS: It looks like the “Duran Duran” sign was spray painted on to hide “Milli Vanilli,” What's up with that?

Hulles: Over there underneath that other swarm of flies is our New Lugburz wood chipper. Looks like somebody forgot to hose it down after using it last, dang, that's something we're pretty strict about. If you stick around tonight you just might get to see if my dead horse flogging workouts have paid off once we find out who did this, haw haw! Janey, polish up the pillory for tonight, will ya? We've got company and we want it to look nice.

That building to your right there is the Hoe House. That's, um, that's where we keep the gardening tools. We grow our own produce here, and we're pretty proud that our New Lugburz kitchens are 100% organic.

RS: That's an awfully big building for gardening tools. Can we just take a peek ins--

Hulles: That place there with the wire fence is the Shih Tzu kennel. We raise 'em for skeet. See, we placed the kennel right next to the shooting range, that's good planning, I'm proud of that. I call it Skeet Tzu. Want to try your hand at it? Here, this is a Remington 12-gauge automatic with dog loads, tuck it tight into your shoulder when you pull the trigger. I'll just use the old Winchester pump here. Nancy, toss little Fluffy into the flinger for us, okay? Nancy there runs both the kennel and the skeet range. Occasionally she gets a little too attached to her charges -- in fact you can see her eyes misting up right now if you look carefully.

RS: I don't think tha--

Hulles: Pull! [yip yip yip yip BANG!] Got 'er! I love that red mist, that's what's nice about your Shih Tzus as opposed to your clay pigeons. What's wrong? Fluffy there had a nice litter just last week, the pups should be ready in about 6 months, it's not like we're running low or anything.

That big building we're coming up on is the barracks for the Hulles Death Commandos, right there next to the parade ground.

RS: Great! Part of the reason I'm up here today is to find out more about these so-called Death Commandos. Is it true that they're all women?

Hulles: Yep. Not only that, they're all attractive women with great bodies. Funny how that's worked out. Say, how'd you like to become a Death Commando?

RS: Ow, you just pinched me again, you old ba-

Hulles: Sorry, sorry, old habits die hard, haw haw! Most of the girls around here have taken to wearing Kevlar underwear, say it helps cut down on the bruising. This here's Nadia, the drill instructor. She looks like a supermodel but she used to train Spetznaz in the former Soviet Union, who would have guessed? Hi, Nadia! Carry on. Nastrovya or whatever. Her English isn't that good yet, but we've found that being able to speak is more of a hindrance than a help for a DI anyway. Regardless, Nadia's turned out to be superb at instilling the new Commando recruits with unthinking obedience and fawning dog-like devotion to yours truly. We're lucky to have her.

That naked woman over there with the AK47 is Black Diamond. We flew her in from Liberia just to shore up the Commandos with some experience. She's also turned out to be a wonder at intimidating blog critics and the like. I'd introduce you, but she's a little quick on the trigger if you know what I mean. Even I step lightly around her for a few days every month, haw haw! To celebrate her birthday last April she mortared the Book Depository where I store my unsold children's books and that we also use for sniper practice. High-spirited girl, that one.

Once we round this corner, there, there you can see some of the Hulles Death Commandos out on the parade ground practicing Outdoor Martini Mixing. We stress versatility in our training regimen, as you can see.

RS: Gross! Those look like Hooters uniforms!

Hulles: Word. We contracted with the same supplier as Hooters and actually got a pretty good deal on the uniforms. 'Course there's not much fabric to 'em, haw haw! Sometimes I like to have my morning Kahlua and Grape Nuts outdoors in a lawn chair and watch the Commandos do calisthenics. That, my dear, is a truly inspiring sight.

RS: I can't believe they let you get away with this. Jesus, you're a creepy and disgusting old pervert!

Hulles: Cha! What the hell good is making millions blogging if you don't get to indulge a fantasy or two now and then? Look at Michael Jackson, for chrissake. At least I don't mess with children. There's not a woman out there under 19.

RS: Point taken. How do you recruit for the Hulles Death Commandos, anyway?

Hulles: Usually I promise some cocktail waitress with a cute ass [missed you guys!] that I'll mention her in my blog, then I have her up to New Lugburz for a weekend, we go through a pro forma job interview in the Grotto out back of the Big House, and Bob's your uncle, we have us a new Death Commando.

Let's walk on up to the Big House. Watch where you step, we've had the goats through here recently.

RS: What's that little building to the left?

Hulles: We call that the Love Shack. I had built because it's over fifty yards from the Big House to the barracks and sometimes I can't make it the whole way without stopping to have sex. It's one of those things you don't think about in the planning stages and have to add later.

[End of part one of the interview.]

-- Hulles