Wednesday, December 21, 1977

I am appalled at the stupidity of the police. We were at the River minding our own business and it was night. It is a very secluded spot and only one car came by. Then here comes a Huron County Police car and they turn the lights on and act like Starsky and Hutch. They make Mike assume the position and search him, and they make the rest of us empty our pockets and they search us. Then they open his car and look all over and in the glove compartment. Then they even rip out the back seat! And then they even look in the trunk! And one cop sees a sand bag and goes crazy until he finds it is a sand bag. Then they make Mike sit in the car for half an hour, and to say the least, they pissed me off.

Tuesday, December 20, 1977

When Uncle Oompah was in high school, he was a craaazy guy. He was in Chemistry II class, and was kind of pissed because they didn't do any experiments. So one day UO mildly poisoned the teacher's coffee, so he was sick the next day and there was a substitute. UO went crazy with his knowledge of chemistry and through a series of experiments, created about 5 gallons of sulfuric acid, and 15 bricks of sodium. He also bottled quite a bit of hydrogen gas, all of which he was going to take home and blow up. But the substitute came back into the room at the wrong moment, and in his haste to escape, he dropped everything at once and knocked over the 5 gallon tank of H2O which reacted with the the Na bricks rather strongly. UO, having fast reflexes, jumped through the window. The whole room exploded and everyone was killed, but UO got away and went into hiding, and since there were no remains of the bodies, UO was thought to be dead, too.

Monday, December 19, 1977

Me: Why did you decide to give me your location and grant me an interview? UO: I didn't. Me: How about the telegram you sent me? UO: What telegram. Me: Well, let me ask you a few questions. Why did you decide to go underground? UO: I don't know. The sun hurts my eyes lately. Me: What do you eat down here, does someone bring you food? UO: What? Me: What do you eat? UO: I don't eat. Me: You don't eat? Why not? UO: Because I don't have any food down here. Anyway, I really don't much get into eating. It's like when... Me: Yes? UO: What? Me: You were saying? UO: Who are you? — The rest of the interview was fruitless (I had to explain again who I was) but I managed to get one story out of him, if (under the conditions) that I wouldn't print it. But I am a liar and the story is as follows:

Sunday, December 18, 1977

I recently had an interview with the old, indescribable Uncle Oompah. He was found living in the basement of a dark gas station, where he had not ventured from in quite some time. The neighbors were asked about him and they all sweared they never knew of anything living below the gas station except for a few old rats. No one has ever even seen a light from the station basement. The gas station attendant didn't even know he was down there and the only reason I found out was because I got a mysterious telegram signed “Oompah” which said he was ready for an interview and gave me the location. U.O. has not been heard from for years, and this is a very rare interview.

Saturday, December 17, 1977

Uncle Oompah is not into bullshit at all either. At one time in his life he was going with a Catholic priest's daughter, and she insisted that he go to church with her. He unwillingly consented, and as his girlfriend was in the choir, he sat alone in the front row. When time came for communion, he was first in line. He willingly took a glass of wine and as he sipped it, a sour look came across his face. “That's nothing but Welch's grape juice,” he whispered to an attendant, “how the hell do you expect to catch a fucking buzz off of that?” The attendant asked him rather loudly to sit back down and keep his mouth shut. After the service, U.O. got in line for confession booth to “confess his sins.” When he recognized the voice of the priest in the booth he started out by saying, “Well, I screwed your daughter.” The priest ripped his way through the booth and tried to kill dear old U.O. Uncle Oompah didn't, however, press charges. Though he didn't date the priest's daughter any more.

Friday, December 16, 1977

For NHS we were given a paper to write down all of our extracurricular activities and hand it in so they could vote to see who would be selected to be eligible for a $1000 scholarship (2 people). As it turns out, one will not even be considered unless he has been a class officer or such. This was just given to everyone so “everyone will have a fair chance.” This is, in the truest meaning of the word, is, is pure BULLSHIT. And I am not into bullshit of this extent, so I am not even going to talk about it.

Thursday, December 15, 1977

Intramural basketball is underway this year and it is fun. In our second game we scored 45 whole points and got to mangle some fuckers a little. It is great fun to watch the intramural jocks get all uptight like it is varsity basketball. We have a good strategy this year, we have a pre-game team meeting every game. We hit the basketball quart before getting to the school, even. Then we play basketball, using techniques from other sports; the check from ice hockey, the tackle from football, not to mention an occasional soccer kick.

Wednesday, December 14, 1977

We are going to have another one of those asinine Christmas programs this year where, to get in, everyone must wear a jacket and tie (that's boys, girls must wear dresses, which is also stupid). I don't see the reason for this, unless it is to make the poor people feel poor. Not everyone can afford a fucking jacket and tie. Myself, I have priorities with my and my parents' money, and a jacket and tie is not up very far on the list, since I never get a chance to wear it anyway. And I'm sure not going to go out and buy a fucking jacket and tie for a fucking 15 minute X-mas assembly.

Tuesday, December 13, 1977

Once Uncle Oompah was at a cocktail party thrown by his rich aunt for all his relatives. Everyone was dressed up, but U.O. just had on overalls and his Budweiser T-shirt (not because U.O. always dresses like a slob, but it was just what he happened to be wearing when his aunt sent him a rather inconsiderate, last minute invitation). While everyone else at the party was served exotic cocktails, U.O. was handed a can of beer with no glass (it was low Blatz at that). After putting down 12 or so of these, U.O. had to urinate, and so he looked around for the bathroom. He asked the butler who replied, “The powder room is over there.” The impatient U.O. replied, “I don't give a fuck about no goddamn powder room, show me where the shitter is.” And at that he got up and took a piss in the fountain in the middle of the living room.

Monday, December 12, 1977

Once Uncle Oompah was driving his BMW outside of the mall in the snow. He was going around a corner real fast and he saw a guy he knew on the curb so he tried to hit him. But he fishtailed and slid into a drift. But while sliding he wiped out a little kid. It took him 5 minutes to get the car out of the drift and by that time a crowd had gathered around the decapitated little boy. Since all these people had seen him, Uncle Oompah decided to play it safe and drove around in circles until he had run over everyone in the area, and he ran over each of their heads again to make sure.

Sunday, December 11, 1977

Uncle Oompah, in his younger craaazy-er days was a philosophy prof at Harvard. He made fake credentials to get the job because he didn't know a damn thing about philosophy. Every day in his classes, they would just talk about TV shows and X-rated movies, and he gave everyone A's so they didn't complain. All the girls went crazy over Uncle Oompah, the handsome devil he was at the time, and he kept some of them after class for a little extra extracurricular activity. But once the dean caught Uncle Oompah with a girl in the nurse's room (with the nurse tied up and gagged in the corner). Uncle Oompah was playing gynecologist and he got fired the next day.

Saturday, December 10, 1977

The first month the mall was open, Uncle Oompah drove his big car, an old Lincoln, through the front doors of Penny's to protest the banana strike in Venezuela. Once inside he kept on going—right down the big hall, through fountains and into Monkey Wards, right through there into the auto shop. The car still sits in there up on blocks but Uncle Oompah ran and won't come back to claim it for fear of getting in trouble for running over that old lady in the wheelchair that got killed by him.

Friday, December 9, 1977

Uncle Oompah is a craaazy guy—he does what he wants to and don't give a nohow about anyone else. He has a good car, that is really fast—it is from Europe or somewhere—and he gets craaazy with it. Once he wanted to bumper ride so he put a Stroh's case on the gas pedal and grabbed on to the bumper and went through the paths in Soldier's Home. It came to a curve, and the car went straight into the pond, which was covered with thin ice that did not hold the car's weight. This was last winter and he didn't get it fished out until April.

Thursday, December 8, 1977

Friday night, December 2, we vidied the Kansas and Pablo Cruise concert. It was very good, and I had fun. Pablo Cruise had a piano player that was good, and sounded sort of like Supertramp. Kansas—played very good music, and the keyboard player Steve Walsh was very good. He jumped all around while he was playing and he also sang. The lights were good and they had some neon ones.

Wednesday, December 7, 1977

When I get older and famous and rich, I think I will buy an island in the West Indies. It does not have to be a big island, but I would like to have it isolated and have plenty of palm trees and large white sand beaches and be surrounded by miles of clear blue water. I will have a simple house with little more than living quarters and a large, acoustically perfect listening room for my stereo. I will have a small dock for my sailboat, which I sail to neighboring islands in. I also will build a small house for my parents since they were good enough not to flush me down the toilet.

Tuesday, December 6, 1977

Rats aren't rats, but are actually people, what are rats I don't know, but I do know that rats are people—and I know what people are—pigs—although everyone knows that—but most people don't know that rats are people. Rats are a majority—and they are intelligent, though they just sit in the background and watch (that Willard shit was a bunch of little kids', Saturday morning, fictional garbage)—but we hate rats—because of the propaganda produced by the intelligent cowards that fear the rats.

Monday, December 5, 1977

If it wasn't for our brains we would be no better than a wooden doll—but we all have brains—but some people do not use their brains—they use them—but just to survive, to do ordinary activities, for remembering the way to the refrigerator—but they don't use them to think, to reason, to understand, to interpret—and this is a crime—for there is nothing more dangerous than a person who uses his/her brain only to gain his/her own needs—and a person such as this should have his/her heart removed.

Sunday, December 4, 1977

Uncle Oompah is very hard to describe, though many have tried—he is not a symbol, with a fixed image, like Uncle Sam—but even I don't know Uncle Oompah any more than God—but what I think he is—is only important. He is not tall, but then he is surely not short—he might be very fat, but then he could look like he is starving. Though he has been around a long, long time he does not show his age, unless you want to see it—the color of his hair cannot be described—and whether he has a beard or glasses, no one ever noticed—his clothes are like we all wear—but very different—his personality is like that of Keith Moon, but he is not like Keith Moon any more than the person writing this.

Saturday, December 3, 1977

As it turned out, however, I was saved—as I said, by the sticker—but it was not by the sticker, but by what the sticker said—its life saving message—which cannot be described in mere words—a quote—because it was not what the sicker said—or, however, how I read it—because that was not important, not even relevant, except in my situation—and it is what the sticker meant to me, my interpretation—not just the writing—the symbols on the sticker—but the whole meaning altogether—the shape of it, the colors—oh, those symbolic colors were as much of a factor as the writing on the sticker itself.

Friday, December 2, 1977

If it wasn't for the sticker on the dashboard, I probably would never have ever slowed down—I would, in fact, have increased—gone faster and faster—like a bird, with intent of catching its poor prey or ending itself in senseless destruction on the cold, hard earth—or a Kamikaze pilot, knowing that he will die anyway, but it is something he must do—or even a heroin addict—who knows that he is destroying himself, but keeps on shooting up anyway—it was like an addiction.