Stew Miller Musings and Rants
I Complain (Oh, and Doodle), You Read and/or Comment, Everyone is Happy… IT’S SO SIMPLE!

“I do believe in spooks, I do I do I do…”

By looking at me, you could immediately base a few opinions on my general demeanor and obvious size. You would likely surmise that I do not look good in Speedo’s, pantsless-chaps, or a baby doll top and a huge diaper. In fact the mere thought of seeing me traipsing around in any one of these items has made lesser people weep for their mothers. Also, judging by my appearance from first glances you could easily assume that I have no trouble deflecting bullets with my stomach and punching clear through brick buildings with only one try. Again, these things are true and I have been known to step in front of oncoming gun fire to protect the unfortunate. This happened a long time ago, I didn’t know you then.

The one thing you might not know is that I have some pretty serious phobias knocking around in my skull just poised and ready to strike when the time is right… or wrong, I guess. It’s not that I’m particularly scared, per se, or even left debilitated for any span of time. No, it’s the simple fact that these little fears even exist and have driven me to spiking my nut with screwdrivers in feeble attempts to drive the demons out that truly bothers me. That being said, I will now lie on my back and pour out my heart to you, Doctor. Come with me, won’t you? Share in my issues. Start the timer.

First off I am, for lack of a better term, scared shitless of bees. I have been known to turn into a six-year old girl at the mere sight of them; screaming and flailing as I run away in absolute terror clutching perilously at my dress. I know when this started, too! I was about 12 when I was taken to the doctor’s for an allergy test, you know, to see just what it was that was preventing me from breathing six months out of the year. Back then, 20 years ago (good lord) the allergist would have to inject you with a variety of allergens in order to determine which ones you reacted to. So, with arms at the ready, I was given somewhere around nine billion shots (or 50) in both arms with every histamine inducer from hay fever to, I guess, Legionnaire’s Disease. And, as luck would have it, it turned out I was allergic to everything but plastic and dirt. This included bees… in fact, the reaction to the bee sting venom was so pronounced, my arm looked like Popeye. Not just his arms, it was shaped like him! So, there you go, unless I want to puff up like Marlon Brando at a buffet line, I have to avoid bees. And I do, it’s just silly to witness. So scared.

I’m pretty sure it’s the sick love for horror movies that brings on this next one: I’m pretty pathetic when it comes to dark, spooky, desolate roads leading to even more bleakness in either direction. It doesn’t matter if I’m walking, driving, or pogo sticking, I just have a little trouble not allowing my messed up conscience to picture large, clinically insane hillbillies wielding rusty garden implements coming at me from behind the trees. See, this is where it gets a little silly; I love to watch gory, bloody, viscera-filled splatter-fests any time I can, but somehow my damned brain interprets these horror movie monsters as potential reality and unleashes them when I’m traveling down Michigan’s otherwise normal byways. See, that’s a joke, because I have some good information from some pretty legitimate sources that our state is, in fact, infested with inhuman, backwoods psychopaths. I lived in Paw Paw (there’s another blog waiting to happen), I can prove it! Anyway,I can see this is my own fault. I guess it’s time to make friends with my inner Leatherface and embrace my phobia. Unless I get hacked to bits by some slobbering cannibal, then I’ll be screaming, “I TOLD YOU SO!”

I don’t like not knowing what’s going on behind me. I’m pretty sure somebody is always there, lurking, plotting something foul and awful to release into my life at any given moment. I just know that a guy, probably, I suppose it could be a hulking woman like that Chyna chick that used to wrestle on the WWE (she was a freaking mess), is hanging in the shadows watching my every move, taking notes, concocting some kind of disastrous event for me to fall prey to. But every time I turn around as fast as I can (I have no neck to speak of, so it’s pretty slow. Turtle-like, really) I just miss whomever it is. This scares me because it reminds me of two really horrible songs, the lyrics of which could, realistically, sum up this entire paragraph: Somebody’s Watchin’ Me, by Rockwell (remember Michael Jackson’s pointless contribution to that song?), and Private Eyes from Hall and Oates. Two classic pieces of eighties tripe that you really ought to listen to if you haven’t in a while, then you can slowly rock to my agony.

I suppose that’s all I can think of right now, though I am certain there are numerous others I will save for another time. Thanks, I feel better already. I guess I’ll see you next session unless that axe murderer slinking behind that door envelopes me in bees. What are the chances of that…

Stew

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4 Responses to ““I do believe in spooks, I do I do I do…””

  1. What about zombies? Those things are creepy! And, hey! Where’s my cover for Divine Exploitation ya slacker! :0)

  2. So this explains why you forced me to vomit out of a moving vehicle! You were scared to stop on a dark, deserted road. What a start to lousy horror movie that would be…

  3. I assume you meant to reference Hall and “Oates”, rather than simply Daryll Hall sitting next to a pile of horse feed.

  4. “I know when this started, too! I was about 12 when I was taken to the doctor’s for an allergy test, you know, to see just what it was that was preventing me from breathing six months out of the year. Back then, 20 years ago (good lord) the allergist would have to inject you with a variety of allergens in order to determine which ones you reacted to. So, with arms at the ready, I was given somewhere around nine billion shots (or 50) in both arms with every histamine inducer from hay fever to, I guess, Legionnaire’s Disease.”

    Yeah, those bastard allergists need to drop dead and rot… never have I wanted to reach out and shove nine billion needles (or 50) in someone’s eye… sons of bitches…


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