Letter From Milo: Wife Beaters

Recently, I’ve been giving serious thought to killing someone. I’ve never met the person I’d like to murder, don’t know his name or what he looks like. The only thing I know about him is that every few months he gives his wife a savage beating. Sometimes he hurts her so badly she needs to be hospitalized.

The victim of the abuse is a woman who I’ll call Carla and we work together in a North Side office. I met Carla on my first day at work. She welcomed me to the job by asking if she could bring me a cup of coffee. After that, whenever I came into the office Carla offered to get coffee or perform some other small service for me. She was friendly to the point of meekness and extremely eager to please.

I also noticed that Carla was abnormally attuned to the moods of the other people in the office, frequently making comments like “Len’s kind of testy today” or “Jack’s having a bad day.”

I later came to understand that Carla’s personality traits – docility, eagerness to please, sensitivity to moods – were actually survival mechanisms.

Despite what I considered to be her quirky behavior, I developed a liking for Carla. So, naturally, I was shocked when she walked into the office one day with a badly bruised and battered face and a gash under one eye that had required stitches.

“Jesus, Carla! What the hell happened?”

Louisville sluggers….

She wouldn’t even look at me when I asked the question. She just said “Car accident,” then walked into her office and quietly closed the door.

A little later, I was talking to a co-worker, named Chuck, and mentioned Carla’s car accident. Chuck shook his head sadly and said, “Yeah, Carla’s accident prone. When she’s not getting banged up in car crashes, she’s walking into doors or falling down in the shower.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that Carla is married to a drunken loser who beats the shit out of her every couple of months. I expect he’ll eventually kill her.”

When I was 12 or 13 years old, my family lived next door to a wife beater. He was a big brute of a steelworker and he was in the habit of getting crazy drunk every few weeks and terrorizing his family.

It always began the same way, with angry shouting, terrified screams, and the sound of breaking glass. “Ah shit,” my father would mutter in disgust. “The crazy bastard is at it again.”

In a little while, the wife and two very young daughters, usually clad in nightgowns and pajamas, would appear at our door, in tears, nearly hysterical, in desperate need of a safe place. While the terrified little family huddled in fear in our kitchen, and my mom tended to their imjuries, the husband stood in our front yard, raging, screaming insane threats at his wife. “I’ll kill you, bitch. I’ll put you in a fucking grave. I’ll…”

As bad as I felt for the wife, my heart truly ached for the little girls. What memories would they have of their father? What horrors did they relive in their dreams? How would their lives be affected? Would their scars ever fade?

There was also something else I had to worry about. My father had gone out to the front yard to try and calm the madman down and I felt I had to cover his ass. I went to my room and got my baseball bat, a fine piece of Kentucky hardwood known as a Louisville Slugger. I stood by the front door, baseball bat in hand, waiting on developments. If the drunken wife beater tried to attack my father, the Louisville Slugger would come in real handy.

Of course, the maniac never laid a hand on the old man. People who batter women and children rarely try their luck with grown men. In all honesty, I was disappointed that the bastard didn’t try to assault my father. I was hoping to take a few whacks at him with my bat. I was young and naive at the time, and knew nothing about human nature. I foolishly believed that if I hit him hard enough and often enough, he might change his monstrous behavior. Regretfully, I didn’t get a chance to test my theory.

Back at the office, I could see that Carla had begun to heal. After a week or so the bruises began to fade and the swelling went down, although the gash under her eye would leave a lasting scar. Still, a flash of anger came over me every time I saw her. The thought of some drunken bully brutalizing the poor woman kept me tense and edgy. I lost sleep wondering if there was something, anything, I could do about the situation. I hated feeling helpless.

When I ran into my co-worker, Chuck, again, I asked him if Carla’s husband ever showed up at the office.

“He comes around once in a while,” Chuck said. “He’s insanely jealous. He parks his car out front and waits for Carla to come out, just to see if she talks to any men.”

“Do me a favor. Point him out to me next time you see him.”

“Sure, no problem.”

On my way to work, the next morning, I stopped at a sporting goods store and bought a baseball bat. It was a Louisville Slugger.

NOTE: Carla is a real person. She needs help. Leave a comment if you have any suggestions.

Letter From Milo: Otis and the Wild Things

I’m used to seeing wild things roaming around my neighborhood. I live about a half block from the Chicago River and the river is a magnet for wildlife. Raccoons, opossums, muskrats, skunks, turtles, rabbits, ducks and geese are common sights along the riverbanks and nearby streets and alleys. There’s even a beaver living under the Montrose Avenue bridge.

None of these creatures poses a threat to life or limb. At worst, they can be nuisances. However, not all the wildlife in the neighborhood is harmless. A few years ago a mountain lion was spotted in Roscoe Village, in frightening proximity to children. The police had no choice but to shoot the animal.

And, recently, several of my neighbors saw a coyote loping down the middle of Eastwood Avenue, at about six in the morning. For a few days, the coyote sighting was the talk of the neighborhood.

“Coyotes are everywhere now,” one of my neighbors told me. “They’re as common as squirrels. Lincoln Park is overrun with them and the suburbs are being terrorized by packs of coyotes.”

“Jesus! That’s frightening. I didn’t realize coyotes were such a threat to people.”

“Well, they’re not much of a threat to humans. But they’re a real danger to pets. They prey on small dogs and cats.”

“Wait a minute. Are you telling me that coyotes kill and eat cats?”

“Coyotes love to eat cats. They’ll snatch a cat right off someone’s porch.”

No self-respecting coyote would even consider eating a plate of lutefisk.

A little later, I was in my back yard, enjoying a cigarette with my morning whiskey and thinking about what my neighbor had said about coyotes. I felt bad for the dogs that were taken by coyotes, but I had no sympathy, at all, for the cats.

I know cats and dislike them. I have a cat, a big greasy fucker named Otis, and I hate the bastard. He’s made my life a living hell ever since he showed up at my back door and weaseled his way into my household. He’s an ugly, mangy and odoriferous beast whose greatest joy in life is torturing and killing helpless little animals. My back yard is littered with the pathetic, partially eaten carcasses of songbirds, ducklings and bunny rabbits. I rue the day my misguided wife and children ganged up on me and bullied me into keeping the cat.

Milo’s niece, Mara, took this picture of him trying to kill that cat….

From the moment the cat muscled his way into my home, I was determined to get rid of him. But I had to be careful. My wife and daughters had, for some inexplicable reason, grown very fond of the cat. They knew I despised the son of a bitch and would immediately blame me if something happened to him. It had to look like an accident. I had to appear blameless.

I had almost gotten rid of the cat a few times in the past, but my plans never worked out. My best opportunity came when I nearly sold Otis to my dear friend Mr. Choi, who owns a very popular home-style Korean restaurant on the North Side, but the deal fell through at the last minute. Needless to say, I was hugely disappointed.

But I’m a patient man. All good things come to those who wait. When I heard about coyotes running wild in the streets of Chicago, I knew that my time had come. After all, how could I possibly be blamed if a coyote happened to run off with the cat?

First, I had to do a little research. I learned that coyotes are nocturnal hunters, most active for five or six hours after the sun goes down. They are also scavengers, attracted by the odor of rotting, rancid meat. They thrive on the most disgusting, maggot-ridden slop imaginable. They can smell the foul stench of putrid, decaying meat from a mile away.

A couple of days later, my wife came home from work a bit later than usual. “I just saw the oddest thing,” she said.

“What’s that, dumpling?”

“There’s a couple of Big Macs, a Polish sausage and a burrito on the sidewalk in front of our house.”

“That is unusual.”

“By the way, where’s Otis?”

“I let him out.”

“It’s kind of late for the cat to be out, isn’t it?”

“He’s a fat ass. He needs the exercise.”

I quickly discovered that luring coyotes is not that easy. Apparently Big Macs, Polish sausage and burritos are not disgusting enough for them. But I’m not a quitter. I can’t even spell the word advircitie.

Every day, as the sun was going down, I’d let the cat out and plant my coyote bait. I tried everything – lutefisk, corn dogs, turducken, haggis, Vegemite, gefilte fish, Chicken McNuggets, s’mores, slabs of Velveeta, cans of Franco-American spaghetti, bags of barbeque flavored pork rinds, and a lot of food-like products made by Hormel – but nothing seemed to work.

Still, I didn’t get discouraged. I was determined to get rid of the cat. I knew that as long as I kept trying, as long as I kept setting out bait, one day a coyote would come along and settle Otis’ hash, once and for all.

A couple of days later, my wife approached me with a puzzled expression on her face. “There’s something weird going on around here,” she said.

“What’s that, precious?”

“Otis, two skunks and a raccoon are eating this big pile of food that somebody left on the sidewalk.”

“Ah, shit. This is fucking unbelievable.”

“Yeah, why would somebody dump 20 pounds of tuna noodle casserole on our sidewalk?”

Letter From Milo: Mean Women

There are a lot of mean women in Chicago and I’ve run into quite a few of them over the years. One of the meanest and toughest was 11th Ward Alice, a wild-eyed psychopath of Serbian, Irish and Mescalero Apache descent.

Back in the late 70s, I caught Alice cheating at cards and we ended up in a brutal street fight in front of Sterch’s Tavern on Lincoln Avenue. The brawl lasted two or three hours. I was winning until she sprayed me with mace and hit me with the blackjack she kept in her 38 double d-cup bra.

My sister is another hardcase. She is a heavily-armed, violent drunkard who has already buried five husbands. All five husbands were suicides and, oddly enough, all shot themselves with the same pistol. Her current husband, Bill, sleeps with one eye open and a can of pepper spray on the nightstand.

I don’t want to give the impression that I’m afraid of my sister. Anyone that knows me will tell you I’m fearless. Nothing scares me. I am a blooded veteran of life’s battlefields. I’ve stared death in the face more times than I care to remember.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to take precautions in my sister’s presence. That’s why I generally wear a Kevlar vest at family gatherings, just in case.

Like I said, there are a lot of thuggish women in this town, but the meanest, most sadistic woman I ever met was someone I’ll call Jackie, who ran an advertising agency where I once worked.

Jackie didn’t own the agency, but she had a death grip on the agency’s largest account, a leading Chicago banking institution. The account was a gift to Jackie from her father, a senile old bastard, who just happened to be a member of the bank’s board of directors.

Annie Oakley — speaking of mean women….

The bank’s advertising business was worth about 25 million dollars a year, which amounted to about 90% of the agency’s yearly gross revenue. The owner of the agency, a preening peacock of a man with a horrid comb-over, was so grateful to Jackie for bringing in the bank’s business and making him wealthy that he turned over the entire operation to her. He spent his Golden Years cashing handsome checks and sipping umbrella drinks at Riccardo’s.

Jackie was an autocrat, the absolute ruler of the agency, and she ran it with an iron hand. She functioned as creative director, account supervisor and human resources manager. Unfortunately, she was unfit for all three positions. She didn’t have a creative bone in her body, had an abrasive, unpleasant personality and was a poor judge of talent. The only thing she had going for her was access, through her father, to a large amount of advertising dollars.

Nobody at the agency had any respect for her, and she knew it. The creative department and account executives resented Jackie because she hadn’t come up through the agency system. She wasn’t one of them. She just appeared one day, like a squall at a picnic, and began wielding power like a cudgel.

Annie’s not related to Charles Oakley, who can be pretty mean himself….

Jackie was aware that she was disliked, even despised, by her underlings, but it didn’t matter to her. She seemed to draw strength from the enmity of others. Like an ogre from Greek myth, the battles of the previous day renewed her for the battles to come. When she walked into the office in the morning, fire in her eyes and a scowl on her lips, you knew someone was going to have a very bad day.

In my first couple of months at the agency, I saw an art director punch a hole in a wall and break his hand.

I saw two people go to lunch and never come back.

I saw Jackie tear up a designer’s layouts and throw them in his face.

I saw her fire someone, for no good reason, then call a security guard to have the person escorted from the building.

I saw a couple of young account executives go into the ladies room together, stay for half an hour, and come out with red eyes, swollen faces and freshly applied makeup.

I saw her fire a guy whose wife was seven months pregnant, leaving him without health insurance.

And then it was my turn.

I was staring at a blank page I had just inserted in my IBM Selectric, when Jackie barged into my office. She had a few sheets of paper in her hand and waved them at me.

“Do you expect me to show this shit to my client?” she said, in her shrill, grating voice.

“What shit are you talking about, Jackie?”

I knew this confrontation was coming. It was inevitable. In Jackie’s world, everybody got their turn on the rack. What I didn’t know was how I would react. I don’t take direction or criticism well. When pushed, my instinct is to push back. But I needed the paycheck. I needed it badly. Although I had begun sending out my resume within a week of starting at the agency, I had not gotten any nibbles yet. I was stuck until something else came along.

“The brochure copy you wrote for the bank’s mortgage department is worthless, a hack job. Any asshole on the street could have done a better job than this. I’m beginning to think I made a huge mistake by hiring you.”

“I assume you want a rewrite.”

“That’s exactly what I want, although I doubt you’ll do any better the second time around,” she said, disdainfully throwing the original sheets of copy on my desk. “I want it by end of day, and I leave a 4:00 o’clock, sharp.”

I had seen Jackie in action. That was just the opening salvo in her campaign of abuse and intimidation. I knew that things would get worse.

Fortunately, a few weeks later I got another job offer and accepted it. When I went into Jackie’s office to give my notice, she didn’t even bother looking at me. She just said, “Good riddance.”

I wish I could say I had given her a well-deserved comeuppance before leaving the agency. I wish I had done something, made some sort of gesture, to let her know exactly what I thought of her. I felt like I should have made some effort to salvage my pride. But wisely I didn’t.

Even though I was a young man at the time, inexperienced in many ways, I still knew better than to provoke a mean woman.

Editor’s Note: To leave a comment or read comments, click on the title of this post and scroll down to the bottom of the story.

Letter From Milo: The Low End of the Scale

I enjoy the company of low-lifes, eccentrics, misfits and disreputable people. Some of my best friends are folks that wouldn’t be welcomed in polite company.

I don’t know why I developed a fondness for the shady side of life. I suppose it’s in my DNA (check out one of my earlier blog posts titled “The Bum Gene”). I come from a long line of people who have a gift for excess and a healthy contempt for custom.

I’d rather spend time with a failed musician than a successful banker. I’d rather chat with an old whore than a North Shore matron, although there’s probably not much difference. I’d prefer Reverend Ike’s companionship to Pope Benedict’s. I believe Joey “the Clown” Lombardo might be a more interesting drinking buddy than Bozo the Clown. And I’m pretty sure a night on the town with Keith Richards might be a bit more fun than a pub crawl with Donny Osmond.

A while ago I made friends with a man who spent 22 years in a Mississippi prison. He had been out for just a few months when I met him. He was one of the gentlest, best natured men I had ever met, not at all what I would have expected from a hardened convict.

When I asked him what he had done, he replied, “Robbed four damn banks. I should’ve stopped at three.”

Now that’s a line you’ll never hear from a Sunday School Superintendent (apologies to Mr. Clemens).

The point I’m trying to make is that convention and conventional people bore me. As I grow older and note that the pages are flying off the calendar a little faster than I’d like, I’m finding that I have less tolerance for boredom – and no tolerance at all for boring people.

This anti-social attitude of mine, as the lovely Mrs. Milo refers to it, has caused no end of problems in our otherwise happy home.

A few months ago my wife told me that we were invited to a dinner party.

“When?”

“Tonight, a couple of hours from now at Jack and Jill’s house.”

“Sounds good. I like Jack and Jill. Who else is going to be there?”

“Walter and Wanda.”

“They’re okay. Is anyone else coming?”

(Silence)

“Honey. Is anyone else coming?

“Dan and Don and their wives are going to be there.”

“Ah fuck! You can’t be serious! I’d rather gnaw off my own foot than spend 10 minutes with those two ignorant cocksuckers.”

“Why do you say stupid things like that? Dan and Don are highly educated, well-known and accomplished men. Just because they’re not drunks and dopers and losers, like most of your friends, doesn’t make them bad people. Besides, they like you. They think you’re kind of interesting.”

“Well, I just wish you would have told me about this sooner.”

“Why, so you’d have time to figure a way to weasel out of it?”

“Ah, fuck.”

A couple of hours later I found myself at an oh so civilized dinner party. The lamb chops were superb, the wine was plentiful, the laughter was subdued, the conversation was polite and the background music was smooth jazz. Everyone was well-dressed, expensively coiffed and hygienically presentable.

I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of there.

As is usually the case with boring people, Dan and Don dominated the conversation. And, to be honest, I don’t remember a thing either of them said. I do, however, recall that neither of them said anything that contained wit, interest or originality. I kept waiting for someone to fart or pull out a joint or tell a good dick joke, but it never happened.

I was never so glad to leave a party in my life. The next time Mrs. Milo wants…

HOLD IT!

This is Mrs. Milo. I just passed by the computer, saw what my husband was writing and chased him away from the keyboard with a ball peen hammer. What he’s writing is just a pack of lies. Here’s what really happened at the party.

As soon as we walked in the door, Milo got into the booze. In a couple of hours he was roaring drunk. He couldn’t seem to operate a knife and fork so he ate most of the meal with his hands. And, since he neglected to use a napkin, most of the meal ended up in his lap.

When Don started talking about his favorite episode of “Lost,” Milo interrupted with a disgusting story about a donkey show he had seen in Tijuana in the early 70s. When Dan brought up the subject of his new golf clubs, Milo started talking about his new scheme to get access to medical marijuana.

It got worse after that. As we were leaving, Milo pinched the hostess on the ass and whispered something nasty in her ear. She looked shocked and I was mortified. The problem is that now Jill sends Milo emails all the time, which the bastard deletes before I get a chance to see them.

When we finally got outside, Milo refused to give me the car keys. He insisted that he was more than capable of driving. I had to use pepper spray on him to get the keys.

I don’t know what I ever saw in Milo. I should have married that podiatrist from Minneapolis.

Letter From Milo: Too Bad, Ladies, He’s Taken

Apparently, my despicable behavior during the recent holidays was more than the lovely Mrs. Milo could stand, so she ran off to Mexico for a week with some of her slutty girlfriends.

I’ll admit that I’m not the easiest or most pleasant person to live with. Someone once told me they’d rather have a wolverine for a roommate than live with me. I’ve got serious issues, most of them long-standing and unresolved. And I’m adding new issues all the time.

A great philosopher once said, “It’s a wise man who knows his own shortcomings.” An even greater philosopher, I believe his name was P.T. Barnum, said, “It’s a wiser man who knows other people’s shortcomings.”

Well, I’m no great thinker, but I refuse to accept the fact that I’m the vile and disgusting creature my wife says I am. Here’s a bit of a phone conversation I overheard while she was chatting with one of her friends, probably that skanky Cathy Ivcich.

“Milo’s just been horrid lately. He hasn’t showered or shaved in almost five days. He just sits around in his ratty bathrobe muttering about his blog. He reeks of alcohol and cigarettes and I know for a fact that he’s been sneaking out to the garage to smoke pot. When I ask him what he’s doing he stares off into space and says, ‘I’ll explain everything at the proper time.’ Swear to God, if he gets that lecherous gleam in his eye, I’m going to run screaming for the nearest women’s shelter.

I figured my wife was just having a bad day. I mean, she must have been in a horrible mood to say such terrible things about her loving husband. Well, I suppose the holidays put stress on a lot of marriages.

A lot of women think they look like Sophia Loren….

Still, it was difficult to reconcile the image I had of myself with the picture that my wife had drawn of me. I wanted a second opinion.

I decided to call my sister, an elegant, refined and dignified woman, who also happens to be the CEO of a thriving medical company in downtown Chicago. I’ve always trusted her opinions and good judgment. She knows me as well as anyone. I knew I’d get a straight answer from her.

“Hi, Sis,” I said, happy to hear her lovely voice.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“I just wanted to ask you a question.”

“If you’re calling to borrow money again you can forget about it.”

“Ah, never mind.”

I was disappointed by my sister’s reaction to my call. But I supposed the holidays had taken a toll on her, too. Besides, her husband, Bill, a man after my own heart, may have been giving her a bad time again, misbehaving in his own beastly fashion.

Milo thinks he looks like Steve McQueen….

I thought about calling my sweet, gray-haired mother to see if she could provide any insights into my character, but decided against it. She’s been having trouble with her phone lately. I’ve had difficulty reaching her since she had Caller I.D. installed.

I imagine it’s just human nature to wonder about other peoples’ opinions of ourselves. Most people want to be loved, appreciated and admired. We’re all heroes in our own hearts. I imagine when a crack whore looks in a mirror she sees Sophia Loren. When a petty thief looks in a mirror he probably sees Robin Hood. When a three-chord hack in a bar band checks himself out, he sees the spitting image of Jimi Hendrix. When a Chicago alderman sees his reflection, he probably thinks he’s looking at FDR.

Self-evaluation is a tricky business. It’s generally an exercise in ego boosting. The need to know our true selves seems like a basic human desire. At the same time, the instinct to delude ourselves seems like it’s also wired into our DNA. We usually have a more accurate impression of those around us than we do of ourselves.

For example, where the lovely Mrs. Milo sees a loutish, belligerent and hygienically-challenged roisterer, I see a highly-principled man carrying on a long and noble tradition of bad behavior and genteel dissolution. Where my wife sees an aging, creepy, and increasingly ugly old man, I see a young Steve McQueen. Where she sees an obstinate, opinionated and argumentative old dog, I see a gentle, sweet-natured pussycat.

I guess I can’t blame my wife for going to Mexico to get away from me for awhile. I realize I haven’t been on my best behavior during the holiday season and the poor girl needs a break. That said, I’m still pissed that she said all those terrible things about me to her girlfriends.

That’s probably the main reason why none of them have stopped by to borrow a cup of sugar while my wife’s out of town.

The simple truth is that I still felt bad that my wife held such a poor opinion of me. I wanted someone to tell me that I was a wonderful, caring, considerate man. I reconsidered my earlier decision and decided to call my mother.

I called three times before she answered.

“Hi, Mom, it’s your favorite son.”

“What do you want?”

“Mom, I just wanted to ask a question.”

“Make it quick, I’m on my way to the casino.”

“If you’re busy, I can call you back?”

“Good idea, call me in a week or two.”

“Okay.”

“By the way, were you planning to visit me anytime soon?”

“No, not really.”

“Thank God.”

Letter From Milo: Pull My Finger

To the best of my knowledge, the lovely Mrs. Milo has never cut a fart. Although we’ve never discussed the subject, I’m sure she considers passing gas beneath her dignity.

Unlike my ragged and freestyle upbringing, my wife was raised properly, learning the basics of correct behavior at an early age. In her waspishly proper household (both parents were from Boston and of English descent) farting was, no doubt, frowned upon. That’s why if there’s any farting to be done in this family, I’ll be the one doing it.

I don’t recall ever farting in church, but I’ve cut the cheese just about everywhere else. I’ve flatulated in schools, hospitals, taverns, restaurants, pool rooms, government buildings, Marshall Field’s on State Street, elevated trains, board rooms and foxholes. I have released unpleasant fumes in many of these United States and on four different continents. And I’m not done yet. My bucket list includes the Taj Mahal, the Great Pyramid at Giza, Buckingham Palace, the Pentagon and Carnegie Hall.

I don’t mean to come across as sexist, but I honestly believe that women are not very good at farting. They can’t seem to get the hang of it. On the rare occasions when they have to let off a bit of steam, they fire away with wimpy little tootlets that barely qualify as farts. Worst of all, in my opinion, they don’t seem to take joy in the act.

“Millicent, my precious, did you by any chance emit a bit of gas in the last few minutes?”

“Oh, Harvey, this is so embarrassing. I was praying that you wouldn’t notice. This hasn’t happened to me in years. I hope you won’t think badly of me.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, dumpling. Even the most refined and well-bred women are subject to an occasional lapse in dignified behavior. I’ll just fetch the room deodorizer, dear, and we’ll forget this unfortunate incident ever happened.”

Naturally, there are exceptions to male domination of the flatulence scene. A handful of women have equaled and, in some cases, surpassed men in the ability to break wind. Two of the most well-known female gasbags are Sarah Palin and Michele Bachman. Their foul emissions, due, no doubt, to their respective diets of moose meat and lutefisk, would turn a hyena’s stomach.

That said, men still dominate the arena. Passing gas, loudly, frequently and rankly, is a macho activity, associated with virile types like cowboys (see Blazing Saddles), firemen, lumberjacks, Navy Seals and, of course, bloggers. The editorial staff here at The Third City is a shining example of flatulent excellence, especially Benny Jay, who has eaten nothing but fried chicken and cheese grits for the past 20 years.

To prove my point, I’m going to release a partial transcript of the minutes of The Third City’s last editorial board meeting.

“Jesus! What the fuck was that!”

“Oh, lord, will somebody please open a fucking window!”

“Goddamnit, Mike! Have the decency to give a guy a warning. Smells like a rat crawled up your ass and died.”

“It wasn’t me. It was that asshole Benny.”

“It wasn’t me, either. It was that bastard Milo. The fucker’s been drinking beer and eating beef jerky all morning.”

“Don’t look at me. It was probably that shithead Randolph.”

“You idiot, Jon’s not even here.”

“Well, what about that greasy new intern we hired. He looks like a nasty fucker.”

“Will somebody please open a damned window?”

As bad as that experience was, it didn’t rank very high on my list of all-time fart horror stories. The absolute worst happened to me when I was in high school, back in Gary, Indiana.

I was driving around with five of my friends in the 1959 Mercury I had recently purchased for $110. My friends, Dickie Kaiser, Dave Spurlock, Sandy Bordeaux, Kenny Woodside, Jim Krock and I had pooled our meager resources and purchased two cases of the cheapest beer in Gary. I think we paid four dollars a case.

We were having some good clean fun, just surfing the streets, drinking beer and listening to WLS. It was a cold winter’s night, so we had the windows rolled up. At some point in the evening, when we each had four or five beers sloshing around in our bellies, Dave Spurlock cut a monster of a fart, a fart for the ages. It was so loud that I thought one of the guys had set off an M-80 in the back seat.

A second later, the inevitable occurred and the other smelly shoe dropped. The stink that permeated the car was unbearable. It was dense, clinging and as putrid as the grave. The odor was a combination of everything vile – rotten eggs, rotten fish, dog shit, dirty sneakers and a backed up sewer. I doubt anything on earth smelled worse than that particular fart.

I almost lost control of the car. Dickie Kaiser had his head hanging out of the back window, vomiting up all the beer he had been drinking. I could hear Sandy Bordeaux gagging. It was a dangerous moment.

Somehow, through sheer strength of will, I managed to pull the car over to the curb. The guys tumbled out of the car, gagging, coughing, eyes watering and noses running. Jim Krock threw up the beer he had been drinking. I gagged and spat a couple of times, but was able to keep down most of the evening’s refreshments. It was touch and go for a while, but somehow Lady Luck was on our side and we all survived.

After blowing his nose and wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, Kenny Woodside said, “Good one, Dave. That was a hell of a fart.”

Dave had a huge smile on his face. He radiated joy and satisfaction. “I thought you guys would appreciate that one,” he said.

Letter From Milo: The Perils of Fame

As a famous and wealthy blogger, I get invited to a lot of parties. Most of the invitations come during the Christmas season and, sadly, I have to decline the majority of them. My pressing responsibilities as Society, Lifestyle and Religion columnist for The Third City don’t leave me much time to indulge in heavy drinking, excessive reefer smoking and rigorous sexual activities, which is the way I prefer to observe religious holidays.

Another reason I turn down party invitations is that parties generally bore me to death. A while ago the lovely Mrs. Milo dragged me to a holiday party that was so boring and lifeless, so devoid of anything resembling merriment, that I felt like I had walked in on a group of morticians who had just learned that a cure for cancer had been discovered.

One more reason I hate going to parties is that my wife always tries to make me behave myself.

“Milo, try not to drink too much tonight.”

“No problem, sweetie. I promise I won’t drink any more than I normally do.”

“There might be some people at the party who don’t know you, so please don’t tell any of your stupid dick jokes.”

“I’ll wait until after dinner, when they know me better.”

“And please don’t take your shirt off and start showing off your scars. Nobody is going to believe you got those scars from knife fights. So, don’t even go there.”

“Yes, dear. Anything else?”

“I’ll let you know as the evening goes along.”

A lot of parties are filled with people like this….

An exception to the dull party syndrome, and a gathering I enjoy immensely, is the annual holiday bash hosted by my friend and colleague, Benny Jay, and his lovely wife and daughters. They’ve figured out the recipe for a great party – fine food, plenty of alcohol, good music, and a loud, diverse and raucous crowd.

There are young folks, old folks and in-betweeners in attendance. The guests include artists, intellectuals, theater people and musicians, political animals, working people, members of Benny’s bowling team, and a generous sprinkling of dumbasses. It’s the perfect party mix and I feel right at home.

Best of all, a lot of the guests are fans of The Third City. Quite a few of the revelers know who I am from reading my Monday blogs. I am, in fact, a very minor, half-assed celebrity at Benny Jay’s parties.

Being a minor celebrity at a holiday party may not seem like a big deal to most people, but to a poor boy from Gary, Indiana, it’s huge. Having people come up to you and comment on your writing is a major ego boost. A little adulation, a pat on the back from an admirer, goes a long way toward making my pitiful writing efforts seem worthwhile.

Milo rocks out at the party….

At one point in the party, I was out on Benny’s front porch, enjoying a cigarette with my glass of whiskey, when an attractive young woman approached me. “Are you Milo, the guy who writes for The Third City?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Jeez, this is kind of disappointing. I thought you’d be a lot younger and better looking.”

“You’re a snippy little brat! Haven’t you been taught to respect your elders?”

“I don’t believe they offer that course in the Chicago public schools.”

A little later, as I was thinking about the lack of proper schooling young ones are getting these days, a good looking, middle-aged woman came up to me and said, “I can’t believe you’re the same Milo that writes for The Third City?”

“Why is that?”

“All you ever write about is drinking, drug abuse, wild sexual escapades, and other crude behavior.”

“So?”

“Well, you seem kind of old and burned out to be acting like that. Matter of fact, you look downright decrepit.”

“Heh, heh, looks aren’t everything.”

“I doubt you can even cut the mustard anymore.”

“You’re mighty sassy for a homely and rapidly aging matron. For your information, I may not be able to cut the mustard, but I can still lick the mustard jar.”

Fame is not for the faint of heart. There’s no sense to it. Anybody can be famous, for any reason. Mother Teresa was famous, so are Kim Kardashian and Charlie Manson. Even someone like me, a second rate blogger writing for a third rate operation, has fans and critics. Granted, there are probably not more than 30 or 40 of them out there, but they exist.

Readers that don’t know me personally might have certain expectations of me, based on what I write. And although I have no control over how someone will react to me or what I’ve written, I suppose I should be grateful for any reaction at all.

The important thing, I tell myself, is simply to be respectful and appreciative of fans and critics alike. After all, celebrity, no matter how minor, comes with responsibility.

A few drinks later, while I was still brooding on the perils of fame, a young guy came up to me and said, “Are you Milo, the dude that writes for The Third City?”

“What the fuck do you want?”