Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Favorite Son

My mom had her biopsy today. It could be tomorrow or three days or even longer before we know anything. This has hit me a lot harder than I ever expected. In fact I'm amazed at how rough the last several days have been. I ain't much for whining or crying, but I can definitely be one angry mother fucker. I have to make a conscious effort to take it easy on Jen and the kids. On top of everything else, my new secret agent type job has decided to tone it down for a while. I was too good. I think I scared them with my abilities, they want to reassess the situation. So I have picked up some work with a old friend from high school. I'm now in the remodeling business. We start the house tomorrow or Wednesday, that and the fact that I don't want to stray too far from mom, means I wont get to meet Inanna and Zelda tomorrow. That really sucks. Anyway I'm not sure how good my company would have been, because I'm still not right in the head.

There's a subject in the news a lot lately that hits close to home for me. I have read a lot of blogs about it, but I've avoided leaving any comments until I read this one. It's one of the better blogs I have read about Terri Schiavo. You might want to check it out.


Eleven years ago, my mom was laying in a hospital bed, suffering from chronic smokers disease. Her hands had turned black and she had lost the ability to move them. She was unaware of her surroundings due to the morphine, she had no idea of anything for that matter. My two older brothers were there, I was in New Jersey without much hope of getting to Texas. The doctor had told my brothers the only chance she had was a double amputation. The two dumb asses agreed to it. That was their first mistake, the second mistake was calling me and telling me about it.

I called Dr. M, he had been my mom's doctor for years, he had even treated me several times over the years. So he new me and he new I meant business.

Trashman: "Dr. M?"
Dr.M: "Hello Trashman. Is there anything I can help you with?"
Trashman: "Did you tell my brothers that you have to amputate my mom's hands?"
Dr.M: "Yes I did. It's the only way I can save her life."
Trashman: "Are you sure?"
Dr.M: "Pretty sure."
Trashman: "Well regardless of what those two idiots tell you, I'm telling you don't amputate."
Dr.M: "They're the ones here and they both said amputate. It seems you are out voted and I can't really go by what you say since they're here and you're not."
Trashman: "Then go by this. If you amputate her hands, it will be the last surgery you do. I will come back to Texas and amputate your hands, I can do the time but my mom can't lose her hands."
Dr.M: "Now Trashman, I know you're upset but threats aren't going to help the situation."
Trashman: "Dr.M., this is not a threat. I will and I mean WILL come to Texas and cut off your fucking hands."
Dr.M: "You don't seem to understand, if I don't amputate, she's going to die."
Trashman: "Yeah well if you do amputate, she's going to die anyway. She can't live without her hands. She can't be a burden on anybody. So let her die in one piece. Let her die with her hands. Let her die."

Those were the hardest words I ever said in my life. I turned to Jen and broke down. I've never shed a tear over anyone or any thing in my life (well not after I turned eight,anyway).

My brothers both called screaming and yelling. They wanted to know why the doctor refused to do the surgery. They wanted to know what I said to him. I told them both to kiss my ass. A few days later the doctor called me back and said he found a new experimental drug. He said in theory it would go through her blood stream and dissolve any clots. If they injected it into her hands it should dissolve the clots and the blood returning to her hands should save her hands and her life. The only thing he needed was my permission to try an experimental drug on her. I had successfully pushed stupid and stupider out of the loop. I faxed him the permission slip and he began treatment.

The only thing I remember about the drug was it cost $3000.00 per vial. They injected three vials per hand three times a day for a month. That's $1,620,000.00 not including regular hospital charges. Thank God, she was a state employee with great insurance, that and the fact that the drug company ate the fees since the drug was experimental.

One month after I doomed her to death, my mom walked out of the hospital. The doctor told her if she ever smoked another cigarette it would kill her. She managed to stay smoke free for a year and a half. Then one day she found an old pack in her desk. The first thing she thought was "I wonder if one more would kill me?" Then she lit it up.

After she found out what my two brothers had done she was really pissed. She now has a DNR sitting on her kitchen table at all times. My mom has four son's. I'm the only one without a high paying career, I'm the only one that doesn't own a house or new car. I'm the only one that didn't finish high school. If you ask her, she'll tell you I'm the only one with a lick of sense.

Sunday, March 20, 2005

There's Only Two Stages

In my last post I said we were pretty sure my mom had cancer. This has not been confirmed by a specialist, but I'm a realist. The reality is my mom has smoked for 63 years. She has chronic bronchitis, emphysema, and she gets strep throat every year. Eleven years ago she managed to make a miraculous comeback from chronic smokers disease, which almost caused the amputation of both of her hands. So it's a pretty safe bet that she has cancer.

They say there are seven stages a person goes through when dealing with the loss of a loved one, or the catastrophic illness of ones self or a loved one. The seven stages are;
1. Shock
2. Denial
3. Anger
4. Guilt
5. Bargaining
6. Depression
7. Acceptance

I skipped SHOCK because I'm not the least surprised by the fact they found a growth in her lungs. There was no DENIAL, only an idiot would deny anything being wrong with her due to her history with tobacco products. A big no on the GUILT also. I never told her to continue to smoke. She was aware of what could happen, just like I am every time I light one up. Next is BARGAINING. Who the fuck am I gonna make a deal with? So we move on to DEPRESSION. Sorry but I refuse to be depressed, I spend too much time making fun of depressed people, to join their ranks. Life is way too short to be moping around, so make it fun while you got it. That leaves ANGER and ACCEPTANCE.

I believe ANGER should have it's own paragraph, 'cause let me tell you I was fucking pissed when I found out she was sick. I was pissed at the doctor for finding it. I was pissed at her for smoking all those years. I was pissed at the tobacco companies for putting additives in cigarettes to ensure people would get hooked. I was pissed at me for being too far away for too many years, so that I didn't get to spend as much time with her as I wanted. She's 78 years old and I missed the last 16 years. Hell, I'm still pissed at me for living too far away to stop by everyday and see if she needs anything. So I have managed to jump the other five stages. I'm going straight from ANGER to ACCEPTANCE.

I have accepted the fact that she's got cancer. I have accepted the fact that she's old. Really fucking old. I have accepted the fact that at her age things don't look too good. More importantly so has she.

Don't get me wrong, she's not going to lay down and die, she's not even going to think about being sick, except on the days she has doctor's appointments. She planted her tomatoes yesterday, and the rest of the garden today. She plans on being around a while. She's tough and mean. She wont give up. Come to think of it, the cancer might as well accept the fact that it doesn't stand a chance.

A HUGE thank you to all of y'all (that's just for you Grace) out there, for the best wishes and prayers. Due to your support, I was able to go from ANGER to ACCEPTANCE in record time.

Friday, March 18, 2005

The Results Are In

1. Burger or Filet - 17 votes
2. I Think She's Dead - 16 votes
3. They Love Me - 9 votes

So the good news is you get to read a story called Burger or Filet. The bad news is you won't get to read it tonight. My mom got some test results back and it looks like she may have lung cancer. It's just about positive. She'll be seeing a specialist sometime within the next 3 weeks or so. I'm not dealing with this very well, so I'm asking that y'all give me a couple of days to calm down and do the story justice. I'm a real big believer in doing what you say, but this time I just can't. I hope y'all forgive me.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Dereliction of Duties

Once again I let the comments get away from me. I had no idea there were so many Starshit haters out there. Seems no one likes it except for Jay, but then again there does seem to be a new "I Hate Jay Club". So, Jay you can take the $4.00 I spent at Starbucks and use it to hire a bodyguard. That'll learn you to disagree with me.

I've been quite busy these last few days. The boys are on spring break. I'm attempting to get some work done, but it's going mighty slow. I also joined up with Mace and Ford over at TerriblyWrong.com. I wrote my first article for them and it should be published tomorrow. It's not much, just an introduction of myself and my asshole ways. If y'all feel up to it, click the link on the right and go read it. I will be submitting to them from time to time, probably about once a month.

I know these are not good excuses for ignoring y'all, but they're all I've got so they'll have to do.

I've been trying to get back on a daytime schedule, but after working nights for the last 10 years it's been really rough switching over. I'm sure y'all have noticed the strange selection of hours on my comments times. If y'all didn't notice they're all over the clock. The most unfortunate part about the whole thing is now I have trouble sleeping at all, which in turn gives me too much time to think. I don't know if y'all are aware of it or not, but I'm not a thinker. I'm more of an action type of guy. I don't want to think, I want to do. Thinking makes Trashman's head hurt.

So in order to cut down on the pain, I'm going to let y'all pick my next post. When I write, I don't think, so this is going to make my life a lot easier. I'm going to give y'all three subjects, and y'all are going to vote on the one that you want me to write about. Then I will add up all the vote's Friday sometime and post a blog on said subject Friday night. Just write your vote into the comments section. If you vote for more than one I will count only the first vote. One reader equals one vote.

The subjects:
1. Burger or Filet Mignon
2. I think she's dead
3. They love me

I realize that the titles are not very descriptive, I can only assure y'all that numbers one and three are as good as number two. That's what makes this such a fun game.

I see that Beckie used my name in the title of her latest post. I just want to say thanks for the mention.

All 11 times I used the word y'all was for Grace. I know how much she loves the word y'all.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Cup Of Mud

OK. Here's the weekend update. Last night Jack and I went to the tent revival again. Healing is a good thing. I talked to Inanna today, we're trying to hash out the plans for meeting when she makes it to Texas. I'm bound and determined to make this happen, I just hope that the new job is flexible enough.

Now, I want to talk about coffee. I have seen a lot of people in blogland talking about Starbucks. In fact some of you rave about it. I have to ask, what is wrong with you people?

Tonight the boys were at a friends birthday party, and Jen and I were sitting around doing nothing, when she came up with the idea of going to Starcraps and getting a cup of coffee. She had never been there and neither had I, so I thought what the hell, I'll try anything once, except for homosexuality.

Well we went to Starshits to get some "coffee".They had an outside seating area so we could smoke (so far so good). We went inside and the first thing I see is a CD rack with a Joni Mitchell CD right in front ( I should have run for the door, I was in Hippy Hell). Instead I looked up at the menu. This is where I almost went into cardiac arrest. $4.79 for a cup of coffee! These people are obviously smoking the coffee beans in the back room. I took a deep breath and slowed my heart rate back down to it's semi-steady beat. I looked back at the menu and saw there were three different sizes. Small, Grande, and Venti. Small I understand, Venti is a foreign word, but so is Grande. This is the confusing part. I know Grande means big, as in really fucking BIG. So how come at Stardumps, Grande is the medium? I looked up Venti, at Dictionary.com and guess what? According to the experts it ain't even a fucking word.

After staring at the menu for a while, we stepped up to place our order.

Counter Dork: "Welcome to Starturds. Can I help you?"
Jen: "I'll have the Carmel Mocha Coffee."
CD: "Small, Grande Or Venti?"
Jen: "Venti, please."
CD: "And you sir?"
Trashman: "I don't know nothing about this half caff, half decaff, low fat cream, dark roast business. I've only seen people order this stuff on TV. So I want coffee. A nice mild coffee like a breakfast blend. The biggest you've got. Oh and put some chocolate in it and make it sweet."
CD: "How about some mocha?"
Trashman: "Is that chocolate?"
CD: "Yes."
Trashman: "OK and give me a piece of that peanut butter bar and she'll have a piece of that seven layer bar(more like seven layer brick, talk about hard)."

The counter dork filled our order and we walked over to get some napkins so we could go outside and drink our alleged coffee. I took one sip, looked at Jen and said "This tastes like shit."
She told me to"be a little louder next time someone probably didn't hear me". I peeled the lid off and added about a pound of sugar, stirred it up and tasted it. Now it was sort of drinkable. Once outside and seated, I went about my normal routine of goofing on the hippies and yuppies that frequent these kinds of places.

"Is my sweater tied around my neck straight?"
"Don't you just love my new Docker shorts."
"I got these clogs on sale."
"I love incense. Did you know that it comes in hippie girl pit hair scent now?"
"Over charge and they will come."
"Can I get a half caff cup of diarrhea and dip your nuts in it?"
"Recycled toilet water, Venti please."
"Can I get a Grande mop sludge with low fat cream?"
"A small liquid shit to go please."

Now Jen was perfectly happy with the place, but then again she is a pseudo-hippy. I however will never go back, after all I do have a reputation to keep up. That and the "coffee" was the worst thing I've ever tasted. I don't know if you people know it or not but Folgers is $3.99 for a big bucket that will last for months. Plus Folgers replaced the coffee in some of Americas finest restaurants and nobody noticed. That's good enough for me.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005


Telemarketers and wrong numbers. I love both. They bring me minutes upon minutes of entertainment.

I love getting a new phone number, this allows me to receive phone calls for the person that used to have the number. That's where the fun starts. It usually goes something like this.

Phone rings.
Trashman: "Hello?"
Caller: "Is Gloria there?"
Trashman: "Can I tell her who's calling?"
Caller: "Stan."
Moment of silence.
Trashman: "She says she'll have to call you back. She's busy."
Caller: "What's she doing. This is important."
Trashman: "Hold on."
Moment of silence (Isn't it golden?)
Trashman: "She says she'll have to call you back, she wants to finish blowing me first."

Or this classic.

Phone rings.
Trashman: "Hello?"
Caller: "Could I speak to Joe please?"
Trashman: "Joe's not here."
Caller: "When do expect him back?"
Trashman: "In 10 to 20."
Caller: "10 to 20 minutes?"
Trashman: "No. Years."
Caller: "Huh?"
Trashman: "He's in prison."
Caller: "Holy shit. What for?"
Trashman: "Child porn. You're not the guy I'm holding the package for, are you?"

The telemarketers are just as much fun.

Phone rings.
Trashman: "Hello?"
Caller: "Hey, how are you doing?"
Trashman: "Fine, and you?"
Caller: "Great. I'm calling because I work for ABC home repairs and will be in your neighborhood this week doing some work. I was wondering if you would be interested in a free carpet cleaning?"
Trashman: "I ain't got no carpets."
Caller: "Well it just so happens that we do hardwood floors also."
Trashman: "I ain't got no hardwood floors."
Caller: "Well that is unusual. What do you have, tile or concrete?"
Trashman: "Dirt."
Caller: "Dirt?"
Trashman: "Cept when it rains. Then I got a mud floor."
Caller: "How's that."
Trashman: "No winders."
Caller: "You don't have any windows?"
Trashman: "Nope. Just four walls and this here phone."
Caller: "We do all kinds of home repairs, we could put windows in for you."
Trashman: "No sense in that, the rain will just come in through where the roof used to be."
Caller: "OK sir. Have a good day."
Trashman: "I'll be fine as long as the sun keeps shining."

Wait there's more.

Phone rings.
Trashman: "Hello?"
Caller: "Hello, Mr. Trashman. I'm Suzy and I work for the phone company. I would like to make you a special offer for caller ID."
Trashman: "Not interested."
Caller: "Well for $29.95 I can set you up with a caller ID unit and 3 months of caller ID service."
Trashman: "I don't need it."
Caller: "If you don't have caller ID, how do you know when to answer the phone?"
Trashman: "The same way I knew this time. It was ringing."

The pain continues.

Phone rings.
Trashman: "Hello?"
Caller: "Hello sir. I'm with XYZ charity and we'll be in your neighborhood tomorrow picking up old clothes for the poor."
Trashman: "Sorry. I can't help you."
Caller: "Oh, did you already make a donation?"
Trashman: "Nope. I just don't have any clothes."
Caller: "You don't have any old clothes?"
Trashman: "I don't have ANY clothes. I'm a nudist."
Caller: "Oh, I see. Well we pick up old furniture and appliances also."
Trashman: "I don't have any furniture either. I'm also a minimalist."
Caller: "What do you have?"
Trashman: "My phone and my big screen TV and you can't have either one."

OH the agony. Last one I promise. This one took place tonight. I consider it my masterpiece.

Phone rings.
Trashman: "Hello?"
Caller: " Hello sir. My name is Sally. I'm with Verizon Travel. Can I ask you a few questions?"
Trashman: "Sure. I didn't have anything else to do, except bang my head on the wall. I guess that can wait."
Caller: "Thank you. Sir have you ever taken a vacation?"
Trashman: "I vacation all the time."
Caller: "Good. Where was you last vacation?"
Trashman: "San Quentin."
Caller: "Great. Have you ever taken a cruise?"
Trashman: "Yeah. I took a cruise to Devil's Island once. Stayed for 5 years."
Caller: "That's nice. Have you and your lovely bride ever flown anywhere?"
Trashman: "I have a lovely husband."
Caller: "Oh. OH. Well That's nice that you found someone. So have you two ever flown together?"
Trashman: "Not together. I flew to Folsom, that's where I met him."
Caller: "What's Folsom?"
Trashman: "A prison."
Caller: "Are you a member of the prison ministries?"
Trashman: "No. I'm an ex-convict. We used to be cell mates. Seven years together and we just fell in love."
Caller: "One more question sir. How do you think we should advertise? Radio, TV, newspaper, magazines?"
Trashman: "Gay magazines."
Caller: "OK. Thank you sir and you have a blessed evening."
Trashman: "You too. Now if I could just find that man of mine, I would give him a big kiss."

Why do they keep hanging up on me?

Saturday, March 05, 2005

Burnin' For You

Well, Easter is almost here so I guess it's time for a little Easter story. Not that this story has anything to do with Easter, or Jesus, or rabbits, or egg hunts, or new Sunday-Go-To-Meetin' clothes or anything remotely involving Easter. Nope, this story just happened on Easter weekend. So that makes it an Easter story.

I used to go to a motorcycle run every Easter weekend in London, Texas. It was called the Bluebonnet Run. The same people sponsored it every year, I don't know who they were, but they put on one hell of a party. When large groups of people would show up they would be given a pre-cooked pig. The pig would come straight out of the pit wrapped in burlap and chicken wire. After cooking underground for a couple of days, the pig would be done to perfection. Tender, moist, and oh so delicious, they could be found on tailgates of pick-ups all over the park.

This particular year we went in a group of about 20, and we had set up camp at the back of the park. There were several other large groups as well. One of the groups was a well known motorcycle "club". The "club" had brought a pit bull with them, which was not unusual since lots of people brought their dogs along on these runs all the time. What made this time different is they were going around turning this four-legged killer lose on other peoples dogs. It made for a really tense situation, since there wasn't a lot anybody could really do. If you tried to stop this "club", the very least you would get is a gang style stomping. There was also the possibility the "club" might call on a hundred or more of it's members to visit the town. Either way it wouldn't be pleasant. So the smart thing to do, would be to pack up and leave if you brought your dog or you could always sit there and wait for your dog to be torn to shreds.

One of the guys in our group, by the name of Steve brought his dog with him. To put it mildly, Steve was a fucking idiot. After four or five dogs had been mauled by the pit bull it didn't seem that the "club" was getting bored with their little game. So, Steve decided that he was going to put a stop to the shit, he grabbed his pistol and started heading towards the front of the park. A very good friend of mine (Pancho) knowing the ramifications of Steve's stupidity, jumped up and nailed Steve right in the back of the head with his pistol. Steve was out cold. A bunch of us dragged him over to a tree and tied him up. I would have left at this point, but I was way to drunk to drive and it was several hours home. Even as drunk as I was I knew nothing good could come of this.

We all continued to party for the rest of the evening, with Steve steadily bitching from his spot under the tree. Once and a while someone would give him a drink of beer or a toke on a left handed cigarette, just hopping that he would calm down at some point. He never did, so he stayed tied to the tree all night. As the party wound down people started crawling into their tents or the backs of their trucks, but the one thing I noticed is not too many went to bed without their guns. You could hear clips being checked, slides slamming forward, and shotguns being racked all over the park. The "club" was still there and nobody felt too safe. I went to sleep in the back of my truck, with a .45 under my pillow.

During the night some clown thought it would be funny to throw fire crackers into the fire in our camp site. Nobody ever confessed who it was, but I have my suspicions. I should have shot him.

I was asleep when the fire crackers started popping. They were pretty powerful, so I know they weren't your average black cats or lady fingers. This was back in the days of M-80's, so I'm going to venture a guess that, that's what they were. So, I wake up to the explosions not 20 feet from my truck, I was down inside the bed so I couldn't see a thing. I grabbed my pistol and lunged over the tailgate. Once again my left foot betrayed me. It got caught on the tailgate and I fell out of the truck, landing with my .45 under me. As soon as I hit the ground the .45 went off. I jumped up and looked down, somehow by the grace of God I managed to not shoot myself, but my shirt was torn from the bullet and is was on fire from the flash of the shot. I started slapping at the flames and I heard laughter all around me. I looked up and saw people coming out of their tents and trucks, guns in hand (I've seen less fire power in an Army platoon) but the minute they saw me they were stopping and laughing. I was Johnny Torch. "Flame On!"

Pancho came crawling out of his tent, he was on his knees with a pistol in each hand. He looked up at me and froze. He looked at the gun at my feet and then back up at me. I was looking at him while steadily beating at the flames on my shirt.

Pancho: "Who the fuck were you shooting at?"
Trashman: "Me, mother fucker. Help me put this fire out."