Warning: session_start(): open(/var/php_sessions/sess_5a1f53a00f37f1746d6b1207b4c17802, O_RDWR) failed: No such file or directory (2) in /hermes/bosnaweb19a/b1035/ipw.myroboti/public_html/restore/wordpress/wp-content/plugins/wordpress-automatic-upgrade/wordpress-automatic-upgrade.php on line 121 Warning: session_start(): Cannot send session cache limiter - headers already sent (output started at /hermes/bosnaweb19a/b1035/ipw.myroboti/public_html/restore/wordpress/wp-content/plugins/wordpress-automatic-upgrade/wordpress-automatic-upgrade.php:121) in /hermes/bosnaweb19a/b1035/ipw.myroboti/public_html/restore/wordpress/wp-content/plugins/wordpress-automatic-upgrade/wordpress-automatic-upgrade.php on line 121 Strict Standards: Redefining already defined constructor for class ftp_base in /hermes/bosnaweb19a/b1035/ipw.myroboti/public_html/restore/wordpress/wp-content/plugins/wordpress-automatic-upgrade/lib/ftp_class.php on line 56 Strict Standards: Redefining already defined constructor for class ftp in /hermes/bosnaweb19a/b1035/ipw.myroboti/public_html/restore/wordpress/wp-content/plugins/wordpress-automatic-upgrade/lib/ftp_class_sockets.php on line 8 My Robot Is Pregnant » I’d rather have a whiskey buzz

My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

tough guy poetry and manly stories of loneliness
all contents copyright Jon Rolston 2004, 2005, 2006

October 25, 2008

I’d rather have a whiskey buzz

photo posted from my iPhone

It was a first for me. Moving an occupied beehive, that is. Matty suggested I duct tape closed the entrance and that worked good. I killed five or six on accident and got stung on my wrist and foot. Andrea, my neighbor, is adopting the hive. She came by with her homemade veil – a rice farming hat with tutu fabric taped to it. Unorthodox, but so was the duct tape maneuver.
We got the bees in the truck and drove to her place. She’ll remove the tape first thing in the morning and the bees will be in a whole new world.


  1. But wait… what about the hauling odyssey from the wizards of trickery?

    Comment by jae — October 26, 2008 @ 11:06 am

  2. out with the story chicken tits

    Comment by mr, pooperlooper — October 26, 2008 @ 5:54 pm

  3. Well brother, I don’t know if I can fully explain the situation. Do you ever go into Psychic’s parlors? I can’t say I ever have. The ubiquitous palm outline is like a do not enter sign, like they’re saying “stop”, so I walk on by. If I guessed at the interior, I would guess straight out of Pee Wee Herman’s Big Adventure when he goes to a lady who tells him his bike is in the basement of the Alamo. Red Velvet. Jewels on a turban. Incense. A crystal ball.

    This place looked like a greek dinner place. Faux finish marble walls. Columns made of plaster in the Ionic fashion. Oversized gaudy gold chairs with white puff upholstery. These are the things I was there to haul away, along with the carboard box and styrofoam stuffing from the 64 inch flat screen tv that was now hanging on the wall. The couple had taken over the spot from another mindreader, and they wanted equally baffling but brand new oversized/overstuffed furniture.

    I was suspicious from the start. He showed me a pile of garbage the landlord wanted gone. I told him it went by weight. He said he only had $80 bucks and needed ten to buy his daughter dinner. But he was an Italian Gypsy or something, his accent was killing me and he was funny too. I took the job just so I could stick around and listen to him hustle me.

    The hustle was, we set on a price and then more junk kept appearing. Then when we finally load, he asked me to pay him for helping me load the truck. He guessed three times at my sign and his wife told him to shut up. She was the mindreader – he was bad for business that way. When I told him “I’m a cancer”, he told me I worry too much about money.

    ANyway, I’m out behind the Psychic’s store, which is a common space with the Thai restaurant. I end up taking a water heater off the Thai cook’s hands. There was a little red shed with a lock on it, and here’s where the fortune teller/swindler instincts kicked in.

    “I got a lotta stuff in there for you, good stuff. You do this for me and I’ll let you have it.”

    He knew I was a junk addict. He put a little bait out in the form of hidden treasure, and every time his wife came from upstairs, where they lived, with another bag of garbage and said, “This is light, can I throw it on?”, I’d say “Sure.” I wanted to get into that shed so bad.

    “How about this mop?” “How about this kitty litter box?” It went on the truck. I would walk from the back, outside, through a run down little kitchen, past the stairs to the second floor, through a narrow sitting room where fortunes were told and made, noticing the television every time, and my reflection in the gold veined mirrors on one whole wall, into a foyer and out onto Geary Street.

    I told him he should put the cardboard on the street and save some money and he told me the cops came around and threatened them with tickets if they left anything on the street. I thought about the cardboard movie I’d just made, and how things were escalating on the street. Lyle’s comment about organizing a route started to make sense. My head was spinning by the time I drove out of there, thirty dollars in the hole.

    Comment by Rolston — October 26, 2008 @ 7:48 pm

  4. if nothing changes ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,nothin changes

    Comment by mr, pooperlooper — October 27, 2008 @ 2:56 pm

  5. what was in the little red shed?

    Comment by al — October 29, 2008 @ 1:32 pm

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