Baker’s Bad Boys 11.. by Dean J. Baker

Lullabye, baby…

Terry had once again obviously misbehaved and been sent to his room to ponder the ramifications of belching at the table while trying to blame others for his misdeeds.
After such a fine meal, with his portion now filling my belly, I too felt in need of a soporific rest.
I could see the poor baby as I entered the room, asleep on his back, his socks, changed weekly is my best guess, standing up by themselves against the bed. No wonder he was asleep. There was just no consideration for others in that regard. He would have to be taught a lesson.

I sneak over to his bed and peered into the snot-caked face of innocence.
I thought I heard the dog whisper. But ah no, it was the nimrod loosing clouds of glory and enacting a fine smile at the result.
Which gave me an idea.
I gingerly picked up his sock, without gloves or a tong. I placed one across his forehead, and the other across his beak, or nose. And stood back to admire my handiwork.

Immediately dreams of ice cream cones, chocolate, comic books, and world wide domination and admiration were succeeded by the devil’s scent as the odor traipsed its way into his nostrils and marched up toward the hypothalamus.
And, what was that! – why a dream that had me pilloried in the school auditorium, getting pies thrown at me, while my little brother accepted coins and prepared for The Lighting Of The Dean. Unacceptable.

I must suggest changes to his attitude. I had a hint that I would receive help doing so as my tummy rumbled from all the extra food poor autistic Terry had been unable to eat after his display of bad manners at the table.

I bent towards him and gently began to blow on the offending socks so as to increase their powers of paralysis; but aside from a twitch and frown and a mumbled ‘mommy,’ there was no conclusive result that he was adapting to his new position and had benefited from the lesson being applied.
Drastic measures and a delicate balance were now necessary.
As Terry slept away, amidst frowns and ever-increasing twitches, I decided I had best apply my discretion and chance waking the unfortunate one.

I removed my shoes, and socks. I reapplied my socks over his forehead and one across his mouth. This merely seemed to deepen the coma.
Being shoeless now inspired one more chance application of justice. I very gently climbed onto the bed, sure not to waken the sleeping midget. Positioning myself backwards, facing his feet, ever wary as the twitches continued to increase, I gently called his name. ‘Terry, oh Terry, wake up….’

Why, still nothing. No result. How disheartening when I was making my best effort. Once more into the breech, or the breeches into the face.

I stressed and I strained and I encouraged, and finally I could feel the very satisfactory result approaching as The Toothless One prepared to speak.
‘Terry,.. Terry…’ and rewarded by a fluttering of eyes, and then a sudden realization of his position, I cut loose with a definitely non-muted mumbler as he cried out, alas as all victims of their own misfortune must, “no, no…!”

PRRRT.
Oh the wailing and thrashing, the gnashing of teeth, the cries of wonder and apprehension mixed and milling in the same vocal shout. I was simply trying to help and he felt punished for some unknown reason. As I hopped off the bed and stood a safe distance away, curses were thrown and promises made of imminent dissection and death.

To no avail, because at that moment we heard my mother coming into the room. I jumped into my bed, and looked groggy – the winds of change were shifting my way and I was not immune to my own sense of justice – as my mother marched in and asked what was going on here.

“Terry must have had a bad dream, Mom. Look, he’s almost in tears, the poor guy.”

“Terry, are you okay?”

“No! Dean put his socks on my face and I almost threw up, and then he climbed onto my bed, and farted in my face! I’m going to kill him!”

“Dean! Did you do that!”

“No, Mom, Terry is having a sad dream, feeling sorry for himself because he got punished. He’s trying to blame me again.”
I smiled that angelic smile known world over by children that says, ‘would I lie to you .. well, I would.. but it’s in the best interests of my brother, so look deep.. deeper.. into my angelic smile…’

My mother just muttered something about ‘Lord, what did I do to deserve this…’ and told us to go to sleep or else. ‘Count sheep’, she said. I already did I thought to myself.

I smiled a big bother grin, not unlike Alice’s Chesire cat, at my afflicted brother, and promptly fell down the rabbit hole.

<——- the Award Winning BAKER’S BAD BOYS

©Dean J. Baker

My BOOKS FOR SALE

Feel free to reblog on WordPress, share the link, all with my accreditation. Thanks.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. All material is covered by international intellectual property laws. All characters are the sole property of ©Dean J. Baker and have been so since 2005-2006. They may not be used in any form. Failure to comply with this will be taken as copyright infringement and plagiarism and acted upon with all and full legal means. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker with appropriate and specific direction to the original content, and the author is informed.

 

You can contact me here dean@deanjbaker.com

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Baker’s Bad Boys 3 – The Pooh Car .. by Dean J. Baker

Da Boys

I was precocious as a child, but it wasn’t my fault.

The Pooh Car

Having gorged ourselves on my Mother’s great cooking, my brother and I were not inclined towards taking a nap but felt the fuel rising towards a revisit to the scene of The Dirt Bombs. It was still early in the day and we knew we could find something to surprise us. It was just going to be one of those days where the sun rose and shone, on us anyway.

We traipsed through Dentonia Park, slightly apprehensive that the Fat Man whose cigar we’d knocked right out of his piehole may have decided to take a break there, in order to scan for us. Fortunately, only squirrels and some brown lumps left by neighborhood dogs marked our path towards the apartment buildings.
Once down the hill and climbing out of the huge ditch there we spotted some Gumby having the time of his life, washing and shining what appeared to be a brand new Volkswagen. We saw that he waved to his wife who was calling him up for dinner, from a third floor balcony.

“Lookit that! Nice and sparkly!”

“Yes dear, come on up for lunch now.”

Lunch? We’d just finished, and this slacker was only beginning. Woo woo – time for us to go to work. My brother wanted to pelt the big clear windshield with a few rocks, hidden in the ditch as we were. How crude.
I spied another neighborhood dog taking its late morning constitutional, stopping for the pause that refreshes by unleashing a coil of what looked like flexible telephone poles out of its ass.
It had such a pathetic look on its face you might have thought its intestines were spilling out to lie there all shiny and steaming on the surface of God’s planet. After it had turned around and checked, making sure I’d guess on both size and stinkability, noting too the contents of last night’s entree, the agonized frown off its face, it raced away smiling; more than likely scouting out the next dumping ground, like leaving markers on a trail. ‘Veni, vidi, plopi.’ I came, I saw, I plopped.

We edged out of the lip of the ditch, more the size of a child crater, with eyes out for any nosy neighbors on balconies and maybe thinking of running to claim the pooch now cured of its constipation. Zip. No one. The coast is clear.
While my brother Terry then stood there distracted by the fact that it was daylight and he was standing, I spotted a stick with a flat end and one smaller than that nearby. Chuckling with evil intent, I ran to the turd deposit and shoved the stick under and teetered towards the car.

“Dean, what’re you doing?!”

“Shut up! Be quiet.. I’m going to clean that car in reverse. There’s your stick, now keep an eye out for me while I go to work.”

“Okay, but I’m going to slide down by the front and crouch so no one sees me.”

“Alright you chicken, I have to get to work.”

I proceeded to smush the dog pooh onto the windshield. A long reach for a short kid. I hoped anyone watching would appreciate the strenuousness of my efforts. ‘Round and round she goes, and where she stops nobody knows I said to myself reaching and dipping and smushing.

Almost finished, I turned to my munchkin brother and asked him if he wanted to stop cackling with glee at my efforts and contribute.

“Come on, you know Dad says we should always help each other.”

“Okay!”

While I was finishing the headlights, and my brother was smearing and smearing again globs of pooh all over the windshield, I ducked down quickly because I spotted Neighbor Numbnuts standing on the balcony.
I was concerned that I not interrupt my brother at his first ever solitary effort to complete a project so I did not bother his fierce concentration by saying that the neighbor was standing there, obviously attempting to understand exactly what it was he was seeing.
I of course took no pleasure in this, simply smiling at the fact that I was now teaching my brother a few things about the world.

When it penetrated the brain of Gumby on the third floor balcony exactly what was happening to the new car he had so painstakingly washed and polished only 10 minutes or so earlier, that there were kids down there rubbing his car, he wanted to know why. But first, to make certain, he inquired politely, “Hey you damn kids, what are you doing?

I stood up and replied, “We’re washing your car.”

“I just washed it. Get away from my car!”

The ingrate.

And of course my little brother pipes up, “Yehhhhhhhh, we’re washing it with pooh! Dog pooh!” (I later asked him if he felt this distinction was necessary. He replied, “Well, not when we were kids, but now that we’re in our twenties, absolutely.”)

Simultaneously, the goober on the balcony yelled out, “I’m going to get you! You wait there! Martha, those kids down there are smearing my car with dog shit!”

“I’m going to get you, you little bastards!”

“No you’re not!” At which point of course, my brother Terry is saying ‘come on let’s go, come on let’s go’ and starting towards the park.

I said, “Not that way, he could catch us, see where we are as far as the park goes.”

Towards the back door of the apartment, we ran. I had my shitty baton still clutched in my hand, thinking it best I keep the evidence with us.

At the slope of a driveway, we saw the door rusted and slightly open, and waited there, peeking around the corner. As soon as the third floor gorilla poked his head out the front door of the building and ran screaming towards his car we deked into the building, onto the basement floor.

“Now what?” Terry said.

“Well first, I have to get rid of this pooh and it might as well not go to waste, so to speak.”

I spotted an elevator and an old geezer down the hall just stumbling out of his door. I thought if I ran fast enough I could keep my back to him, and at the same time apply the treatment to that area. Which I did, and than ran back to stand beside my brother, watching to see what would happen. Terry had witnessed exactly what I had accomplished and was grinning and slobbering gleefully.

The old reprobate looked at us and I think he growled, just before standing in front of the elevator door. He then raised his uncaned hand to push a button, but oh damnit, stopped, and looked again at us, who were smiling and being cheerful. He then looked back at both elevator buttons which just happened to be liberally smeared with pooh.

“You little bastards!”

We innocently laughed at anyone mistaking us for such a thing, and especially for two people in the latter part of the morning for making the same mistake. Boy, grown-ups don’t know much.

He shook his cane at us he was so thrilled to witness our work, and in doing so teetered to such an extent that he had to grab the wall to stay standing. Unfortunately for him the part of the wall he grabbed was the lower elevator button and his hand now reflected a certain depth of squalor not common to the rest of the building.

“You bastards! I’m going to get you!”

“First you have to catch us, you geezer! Thrrrrrrrrrrrp!“

He then shook his head at us and scowling, pushed the other elevator button for ‘Up.’ Turning, and smiling, while grimacing at the same time, he said, “There, you little bastard!..” I guessed his vision was being affected from the stench that was wafting down the corridor.

I yelled, “Yeh there, now your cane has pooh all over it! and you have dog dirt on your hand, pooh head!”

Laughing our asses off we skipped away and waited for Grandpa to finish with the elevator. Once the light showed he’d reached the first floor, I pushed the button with my brother’s back whereupon he almost started crying.

“You got pooh on me!”

“No, I didn’t. That geezer rubbed it all off.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, Terry.”

Meanwhile I was grinning, hoping his friends would see him with a pooh stain on the clothes he was wearing. We edged out of the door on the first floor, dashed around back, and out the service door, directly away from the scene of the car poohing, and the geezer grumbling.

The day was still fresh, the sun shone, and we had energy a-plenty.

©Dean J. Baker

- excerpt from Baker’s Bad Boys

********BOOK SALE ****************

Feel free to reblog on WordPress, share the link, all with my accreditation. Thanks.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. All material is covered by international intellectual property laws. All characters are the sole property of ©Dean J. Baker and have been so since 2005-2006. They may not be used in any form. Failure to comply with this will be taken as copyright infringement and plagiarism and acted upon with all and full legal means. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker with appropriate and specific direction to the original content, and the author is informed.

 

You can contact me here dean@deanjbaker.com