Jungle Love

One of the Monkeys I had as a kid was in love with Skeeter Davis. For those who have no idea who that is, she was a country singer in the 60s and 70s with a hit called The End of the World and a few others that escape me at the moment.

Not sure what it was about this particular woman this monkey—yeah, it’s Teekee again, the monkey of ill repute from ear-pulling fame in my blog—but not only did she mesmerize him whenever she came on but he was riveted to the show Hee Haw, which commonly featured her.

If you were ever wondering what Hee Haw’s demographics were, well, wonder no more…

Maybe it was her blonde hair or something in the tone of her voice, but when she sang, he chirped. And did other nasty things that I won’t bring up here. A glazed look washed into his eyes and he did that funny forehead scrunching thing monkeys do. I used to get a glazed look in my eyes with Hee Haw too, but it was for a different reason (well, ok, when the hot country girls pooped up in the cornfield it was the SAME reason, but I won’t go there, either.)

He never wrote Skeeter monkey fan letters or sent her gold plated Monkey Chow, but he never flung poop at the TV when she was on and somewhere he had a banana with her name on it. Probably a good thing he didn’t profess his jungle love, because I’m pretty sure the relationship was doomed form the start. Species obstacles and all that, no matter how much DNA scientists tell us we have in common with our simian relatives.

It was kinda funny, kinda creepy in a way to watch him moon over Skeeter. And a few years later I would be able to identify with him in a weird way, thank you very much Olivia Newton-John.

I’ll spare you what he thought of the Lawrence Welk Show gals…

High School Daze

Some well-meaning friends once told me I’d miss High School once I was pardoned.

I’m still waiting for that to happen.

After all, there were lots of those once-in-a-lifetime moments you can never—with any luck at all—relive. Like staring at the INSIDE of a locker, or learning to sing Jingle Bells in falsetto while standing atop the radiator in the boy’s bathroom. Or being tossed into the girl’s bathroom. Who knew High School girls could shriek that loud? And if you need a number as to how many it takes to jam one freshman’s head into a toilet, it’s three. Er, so I’ve heard.

It’s the little things like that that made High School special. Especially for those of us who were dorks. Ok, I’m still a dork but I’ve learned to embrace me inner dorkiness. Which usually is also my outer dorkiness. Don’t laugh. Someday we’ll have the word “dorkilicious” in the dictionary. Really.

And then there were the other things of a slightly more malicious nature that just makes me want to go running back to my HS reunion. Like the girl who said yes to a date but accidentally forgot to tell you that psychotic two-hundred pound guy with the Firebird and firearm collection was her boyfriend. Oh, yeah, memories. Bet they’re married now. Or at least were. Or will be as soon as his twenty years are served.

And do you know just how hard it is to pull a quarter out of your…um, nevermind…

Anybody sensing a bit of sarcasm here? It’s funny looking back. Sorta. Well, in a maladjusted, gonna-take-a-lifetime-to-get-over-it kinda way.

But at the time? Not so much.
Anybody else wish they were back? ;)

Only a few days left till Halloween. Get your copy of GRIMM by Howard Howard now! Available at Amazon.com

Don't Put that in Your Mouth!

There’s really no end to what we’ll stick in our mouths when we’re kids. And by no end, I mean no end. I think I was nine when I learned little Jimmy down the street wasn’t called “poop mouth” for no reason. The undiscriminating tike put our family dachshund to shame when it came to rummaging around in the cat litter box.

But onto things that weren’t quite so bad.

Playdoe. Yum. Kinda salty, kinda coarse. Margaritas with an earthy, seaside bouquet and seasoning. Yep, tried it. Think I might have liked it. It’s still got that “interesting” aroma. And yeah the can says “not for ingestion”. Or something to that effect. When you’re seven that’s a dare.

Silly Putty. Ok, no so much. Silly Putty has a peculiar smell and an even more peculiar flavor. And consistency. And it leaves cartoon imprints on your tongue.

And who amongst you DIDN’T get the bright idea of sampling the mysterious delicacies of the ALPO can? Not the dry one, the wet one that they used for the meatloaf in Jr. High. Meat by Products. Unidentifiable chunks of…something. This was in the days before those cool little cans of Doggy beef stew. Those smell kinda good.

And then there’s the usual suspects: mud, various bugs flying and ground-bound, a moth ball or two (oh, yeah, I got x-rayed for that one!) and of course little Jimmy’s trusty old standby.

Of course we grow out of eating such things. Our taste buds become more demanding and our minds rebel at the thought of Playdoe burgers, Silly Putty fries and ALPO meatloaf. We switch them for infinitely more palatable things like…Taco Bell…

Just what is that taco meat made outta, anyway?

Well, some secrets are best left alone…

Instead of Candy...Headless Paperboys!

Paperboys can be a pain in the neck sometimes...they throw your paper in the bushes, hassle your poor dog who just wants one measly little ankle to bite and try to take pics with their cell phones of your best girl sunbathing.

And that's just the good stuff!

But what about a paperboy who's a pain in the neck literally? And what if he's a pain because he hasn't got a head of his own?

Seems every year in New Salem a certain headless ghost goes trolling for the noggins of other kids because somebody without a lot of brains swiped his. He likes to do this nasty little search right around Halloween and guess what? Halloween is almost here.

That's what October Williams discovers upon moving to New Salem and getting his butt chased by the headless ghost his very first day in town.

So what will he do to avoid having his own head added to the ghost's collection?
Find out in THE NIGHTMARE CLUB #1: THE HEADLESS PAPERBOY on sale now at:

http://www.amazon.com/Nightmare-Club-Headless-Paperboy/dp/1430306904/ref=pd_bbs_sr_3/002-8109904-3843238?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1191870229&sr=1-3

First in the series, the book is appropriate for children 8 to adult. And hey it's waaay cheaper than the money you'd spend filling all those cavities they're sure to get from candy!


THE NIGHTMARE CLUB #1: The Headless Paperboy
Where Everyday is Halloween...
In paperback form http://www.amazon.com & http://www.bn.com
Author homepage: http://www.howardhopkins.com

Puffin' What?

Ever wonder just what kind of drugs your mom was slipping into your Apple Jacks when you were a kid to make you actually enjoy some of the Saturday morning shows you did?

Some of you out there will probably have no idea what I am talking about, unless you were somehow subjected to repeats on some obscure cable channel or ticked off your parents enough to buy the DVD collection. But one word:

Pufnstuf.

Or is that three words? Meh.

H. R. Pufnstuf. Mr. Can’t-Do-A-Little-If-He-Can’t-Do-Enough. Whatever the hell that means.

Now, here is the acid nightmare of those lovable Saturday morning stalwarts Sid & Marty Krofft and the only thing it had going for it, from an adult perspective, was it was a step above Sigmund and the Sea Monsters (and we all KNOW you stole the kid from Family Affair for that little car wreck, don’t we, Mssrs. Kroffts!?) and The Bugaloos.

But back to Pufnpants. Er, Pufnstuf. Now just what does that mean anyway? Is that some secret code for what Sid & Marty were doing when they created the show? We they Puffin’ some stuff? Something illegal, no doubt? Or is it worse than that and we don’t want to know just what of their stuff was puffin’?

Shiver.

Now let’s put aside the fact that Mr. Stuff lords over his own island and a bunch of creepy little “stuffs”. And the fact he’s got this one adolescent boy…nope, not even going to go there.

But what’s up with that sinister little neutered flute, anyway? I mean, come on, has anyone taken a real close look at that flexible little…um, nevermind. Just take a look at Freddy the Flute’s lips and tell me there’s not something unmentionable about that “instrument”. There’s a reason the island main crag hag, Witchy Poo, wants that flute so bad. Ah-hem.

So just who or what is H. R. Pufnstuf? Some mysterious visitor from another world? A distant relative of Tinkie Winkie? Some perverted Build-a-Bear reject? Does he even OWN a pair of pants?

Alas, I fear we’ll never know. I’m having a hard enough time just figuring out why he held me spellbound as a kiddie all those many moons ago…