With rising energy costs, I have had to do something I never thought I would ever do in my lifetime, and that is..buy cheap storebrand cereal.

This stuff is just nasty. It's like when you try making hamburgers and fries at home, and it's just not McDonalds, no matter how hard you try. What's even funnier is some of the names that some of these stores try to come up with, and I won't even go into that. Instead, I've decided to make my own. Without further ado, I present Tilli's Brands of cheapass breakfast Cereal:

lucky charms = lucky crap

frosted flakes = frosted yucks

captain crunch = captain gross

special K = special F

fruit loops = poop loops

raisan bran = splat bran

corn pops = shit pops

trix = yux

wheaties = dungies

apple jacks = nasty jacks

honeycomb = buttcomb

rice krispies = rice feces

cheerios = toecheesios

life = blah

mini wheats = mini shit wheats

smacks = sucks

~

Yahoo news is my provider of choice and one article was quite funny and I'm sure the Santoonies can relate: Dreams and sleepwalking. LOL. Here is the article: Sleep Study. Terror dreams, I've had those. LOL. So the story goes, ...It was a hot summer night and Tilli was drunk..No, we were all at Beach Week, the week in June when everyone goes to Nags Head for a full week of debauchery and stupor. Beach week, origin of Te Te Ta. One night after a full day of drinking it was time to retire for the evening. There were, I believe..12 or so dudes in one house, me included. I was to share a room with the Baron and Lipe. There was only one bed, so Lipe slept on the floor, and Baron and I slept in the bed. It was a big enough bed! I don't recall going to sleep, but I must've passed out. Well, I started to dream, and I don't remember the exact dream, only what woke me up. That night, I would have a terror dream. Usually my dreams aren't terrorfying unless the dream crosses over with reality in some form. For instance, when a dream takes place in the exact location of my real world body. As in this case, I was dreaming that I was at beach week, asleep in a bed. I distinctly remember the window and it had blinds. The blinds were slightly opened and was letting dim moon light in, enough to slightly illuminate the room. Well, all of a sudden, and this is the dream of course, all of a sudden the bedroom door bursts open and a black siloutte of a man rushes toward me and with one hand slaps the blinds shut to turn the entire room pitch dark, as he lunged at my throat! I just want to take a second here to determine why this is consider terror than a typical nightmare, and I believe it was becuase of the 'lack of time' to justify real or unreal. It's quite eerie to have something come at you quickly than meditated. Kinda like in the movie "The Sentinal" when that ghoul walks quickly past and in much determination...I found a youtube clip of it: sentinel. Um, anyway, I remember jumping into defensive action throwing my arms up at the same time yelling. I don't think I was screaming, I believe I was yelling, kinda like if you were suddenly attacked by a shark. More of a mad scream, like "Get off me!" But I could be wrong, Baron might suggest a woman like shreek. Well, I would suggest that under normal cicumstances, that this would be the time that an individual would wake up. But apparently during the fictitious melee, and happened to shake the bed with enough force that Baron's limbs, be it legs, or arms, came in contact with my flailing, enough so that now it seemed REAL. It was at this time that 'another..' loud screaming ballad began. At this moment, and kicked as hard as I could and in reality sent Baron careening over the edge of the bed unto or near Lipe who was asleep on the floor. I jumped out of the bed, tripping over my assailant( Baron ) struggling to free myself the grasps of satan (Lipe) and made it out of the bedroom. Now this is where I am officially and scientifically sleepwalking and highly alert. I remember thinking very methodically about how to defend myself from my attacker. I quickly approached the kitchen and opened the knife drawer and found an ice pick. I grabbed the ice pick and held it like a dagger and started to head back to the room. Thank goodness it was at that time the lights came on and guys started to slowly appear at each of the four bedroom doorways. I think I recall Baron now saying, "WTF!" or something like that. And, I suddenly woke up. I looked down and saw I had an ice pick. I said quite calmly, "Oh. Nevermind I had a nightmare." The look on everyone's faces was quite comical. The next hour, everyone shared their experience, some thought the house was on fire, others thought of a drunk joke, Baron of course had much to tell, explaining that he recalled the bed jumping up and down and suddenly he felt a kick and found himself on the floor. Needless to say, Baron would never let Tilli sleep anywhere near his vicinity even in Amissville where, even there, a hint of madness should have concerned him. Apparently to this day, there is a guy roaming the woods of Amissville shining flashlights into peoples tents. Years later, Etchoman would learn this in a much elaborate terror dream to be explained in lenght. Good night. Here is a snapshot the next morning. You can see the Baron mimicking his "Why Me?" posture. Lipe suggesting a "Don't kill me with your Ice Pick" peace sign. The blinds and lamp were in my dream, you can see in the background.

~

I'm ready to be an old ladies man whore in return for a '68 Dodge Charger and gifts. Any old women out there with lots of money?

"Go on now Jesse, do your peeps and poops, that's goin' feel good for Jesse."

Dog: "Eeerrrrrr."

LOL! That's my recent favorite quote. People at work wonder why I say it.

It's funny how things change as one grows old. Of all the noticeable changes, one in particular I found odd. The fact that my favorite character in Star Wars is now that old Red Leader One guy, the old X-Wing pilot that says, "Hold it steady."...... "Hold it steady."..... "All most there." Now, I find my old favorites Luke Skywalker and Han Solo just a bit too plastic. But that old guy was real, a working man. He says, in a seemingly familiar way,(Did you hit(The Deathstar)).."No..missed! Just ppppeckin' on the surface." <---LOL. Sounds like a good title to my autobiography.

I can't explain to you and even describe the look on my wife's face when she asked me why the tennis racket was out last night and I responded, um..that's a guitar. Yes, I'll be 37 in a few months.

~~~

Can anyone explain to me, why I associate numbers to genders? My thoughts: 1-male, 2-female, 3-male, 4-female, 5-female, 6-male, 7-male, 8-male, 9-female.

When I was younger and the only child growing up, I would play basketball with, um...how do I say this without sounding mental..9 imaginative friends. LOL. I'm going to try now to remember the names, here goes: Bony, Toddy Doddy, Snake, Zero & Me on one team versus Cougar, Bobcat, Bill, Tony D., & Antonio. These players were located at certain points on the court, so when the ball came off the backboard and bounced in a players area, I would announce out loud the name of that imaginative friend and shoot the shot. The rule was two shots per team, a distant shot, followed by a layup. If both miss, it was other team's ball, or if you double dribble, or lose control of ball, it was other teams balls, etc. I can only imagine the look from other players on the other side of the court playing a real 2 v 2, who would see this kid yelling, "Bony!" before each shot. "Hey, Jerome, what's with that kid over there?" Jerome, "Which one?"

"Bobcat!"

"Oh that one. Man, what the fuck! I don't know man, maybe we should move to the other court." "yeah, I'm with you man."

"Cougar!"

~~~

Seta or housetag had evolved from the childhood game spotlight. I recall the teenage transition from playing kids games to goin out drinkin'. There was a grey area where those two time periods in one's life mixed. So you had young teens playing old child games on another level, often more dangerous level. I remember playing spotlight over at the Baron's and though it was fun, we just needed a little more. An idea had formed in my head from the days when I would adventure into houses being built in search of dispensed coke bottles that I could retrieve for bottle deposits. I remember all the neat stuff that could be found, left my construction workers and how unfinished frames of houses left neat chasms and hideaways. I decided to introduce a new game for the group. House tag. Only without flashlights. The idea: Enter a house currently under construction, preferrebly one almost finished...enter at night and dub someone 'it'. The rest would hide in the house. Rules: No leaving the house. The person who is 'it' can't use any light source. They have to use their other senses, hearing the most important. And completely closed houses made for some dramatically dark situations. Only the moon would offer brief glimpses of shadows or movement. This was extremely tough on the 'it' person. But for the persons hiding it was a great advantage. I remember hiding in the bathroom once and standing on top of a sink shelf that had a mirror. I positioned myself so my body and arms which I had to outstretch would form the corner of a room. I remember the person who was it feeling around and looking in the mirror and under the sink, behind the door.. while the moons dim light hid me in the corner as I stood practically on one leg trying not to laugh. Then they would leave after hearing scuffles in the next room. This was house tag at it's finest. The art of camoflauge. I remember Chris, Jeff Reybok's brother would sometimes crawl into a heat/ac duct and crawl through the house that way. I never could fit. The most famous episode of house tag I can recall was when Pat was 'it' and I chose to wander the house instead of hiding. I heard Pat coming down the upstairs hall, so I pulled down an attic rope which had a reclineable stair. Well all this racket, it was obvious to Pat someone had gone into the attic. So, Pat with extreme confidence started to laugh his maniac laugh. I know you know the laugh.. Mmwhwhhhahahhahahahah. He was confident that his target was soon to be captured. I frantically leaped from beam to beam slipping occassionaly onto the sheetrock as Pat got closer. He didn't know who it was he was chasing, as I came to a deadend. I had no choice, I stomped once then twice on the sheetrock between the beams. Suddenly, and with a thunderous crash, I fell down into the hallway having broke my way through the ceiling! I hung by the rafters, let go, and fled being captured! I remember hearing Baron or someone yell, "What the Hell was THAT!?" Everyone 'booked' out of the house, but for the record, I was never caught. I wonder how much damage we did overall, in dollar amounts to unfinished houses in Colonial Heights, Virginia during the mid eighties? Not Guilty your honor.
~

Motoaca women are the bomb man. They are slanky, and right on time with mad love. Motoaca women come from the fields, so they know how to work for the man. Us city boys in the Heights, you'd have to be a brave man to go wander off into the woods. Tilli entered the woods of Motoaca for three days and three nights and was tempted by many a Motoacan Abyssal Beasts. I took Patty Judy out to the woods once, and he almost got killed by the now late Bubba. I'll never forget that. Here was the story: Me and Steph were datin' and she had a friend called Red Sonja. We got Pat and Sonja hooked up, but Red Sonja had just come off a relationship with this big blonde headed redneck named Bubba. This guy was huge, and he wasn't yet ready to give up on his girl. So enters Pat. So we are over at Red Sonja's one evenin' drinkin', liven' et al, and the phone rings. It's Bubba. Well Pat had one too many, so he starts rabbling, and you could hear on the other line Bubba sayin, "Whose that? Who you got over there?" Well 'bout that time, he started sayin' he was on his way. I think Bubba didn't have a car nor liscence, DWI or something, so we didn't think anything of it. Even Red Sonja said, "He ain't coming, don't worry about, and she began give our own Patty Judy some lovin'. Well, about an hour later, a car screeched into the driveway, it was night now and we looked out and saw an intense mad rush of villians to the door, Bubba was one of em and they had metal pipes in their hands. There wasn't a slight of time to decide, I said, "Pat, in here." We both coraled into a bedroom and I shoved the door shut and turned out the lights. Now Bubba wasn't after me, I was legit. My girl was my girl. But I couldn't just sit and watch this Kong eat my friend for lunch. You could hear him barge in, "Where is he?" yelled Bubba. "He ain't here." replied Sonja. You could hear em goin room to room, and I positioned myself on the floor, propped by back against a bed, and put my feet up on the door. I had a damn good lock on it, I recall. I felt a tug, then downright hard push on the door. But it didn't budge a damn bit. My skateboard strong legs were doin' the trick. But I looked, I said, "Pat, jump out the fucking window." In all my years past, trying to tell Pat something or debating ideas, Pat would always ask "What?" as in "repeat please, or are you sure, or what about...WHAT IF?" But this was one time, I didn't have to repeat myself, Pat was already out of the window, the white curtain blowing in the wind. He was gone.

"Come out of there you punk" came a scream. But now I was there, and I was alone. I heard Steph plead my case, "Tilli the Grey's in there." I said to myself, it's time I get this over with. I stood up, opened the door to be greeted by two young guys, younger than me, and Bubba. The two guys were holding sewer piping, and Bubba stood there with ape fists. In a brief moment, I had determined I could take the two pipe boys out, they really were kiddy faces with toys. But Bubba was the real deal, there was no way I was taking him. Enter political Tilli.

Sometimes, I can say the right things and the right times, and sometimes I can nail it wrong. But that night, I had the mojo I reckon. After Bubba barged into the room and saw the window, I said in a chivalry kinda way, "You'd do the same thing if it was your bud." He gave me a good look up, as if determine what percentage of true grit my body contained. Back then, I was of course 100% redneck. A Kin.

He angled away from me and headed out to look for Pat. "Whatyda want to do with him?" asked one of the pipeboys. "I only want this Pat guy, let's go." I never saw Pat or Bubba again that night. But about an hour later, the doorbell rings, and sure enough it was Pat's father and brothers all toten shotguns. I came to find out later, that Pat got to a phone and called for backup. Luckily for all of us, it never escalated to that. Damn them Motocoans bitches.

~

Taking you back to Atlanta now, the days of Etchoman, Lipe, Dutchboy and Dr. Peter Lansford. Tilli and Co. came home highly intoxicated from a typical Friday evening, more toxic than normal. According to next day reports, it is said that Tilli entered the house and immediately crumbled onto the couch. Etchoman, Dutchboy and Dr. Lansford slouched in various lounge chairs surrounding the room. Etchoman got up for some reason and returned to laugh at Tilliman on the couch. For whatever reason, he picked up a pillow and placed it ontop of Tilli proclaiming outloud, "Number 1". Dr. Lansford smiled, picked up a pencil and walked over to Tilli saying, "Number 2". Now it was on. Dutchboy placed a lamp on the passed out Tilli, "Number 3." Etcho placed a magazine next labeled "Number 4". This went on for much of the early morning hours until they reached the number 101. Tilli was covered in 101 items ranging from small paperclips to kitchen chairs. Items such as magazine, pencils, plants, furniture, combs, empy beer cans, headphones, papers, phones, dead bugs, rugs, wall paintings and much more. You may ask me, how did I survive. I have no idea, a small air pocket I guess. I just remember not being able to move upon awakening with thirst. What's funny or the punchline is that I didn't notice the great mound I was buried in, I pushed things aside, got up and got something to drink, then crawled back into the messy couch to continue my hangover which was due. The next morning, we all laughed as I was once again made the brunt of a ruthless joke. Bastards.

As I get older, I'm starting to see the difference between my childhood and the childs of today. I remember playing in the back of stationwagon, seatbelts? Ha! It is to laugh. Hell, I would pee in coffee cans on long trips to South Carolina. I remember riding my motorcycle without a helmet. Helmet for ten-speed bikes? Ha! You can't be serious! I remember eating at restuarants while inhaling my aunt's Marlboro second hand smoke while the waitress emptied an ashtray, "Can I get you something else?". Dangerous critters were aplenty. I'd wake up and put a nice clean shirt on, that had been hanging to dry on the backyard clothesline only to get stung by a wasp that was hiding in it. Then, I'd walk outside and have a water moccasin wrap its body around my leg, JUMP! Wooo that was close. OW! I landed on a rusted piece of barb-wired fence barefoot. That's going to hurt, better get a tetnus shot. Dangers abound. Today, kids have it so easy. But why the hell couldn't WE have Bouncehouses? Man, bouncehouse, big , huge, fun, and safe for the most part. What did we have? Highly dangerous trampolines with sharp metal coils and hard metal railings. Sure kid, let's connect metal coils to rubber around a metal frame some three feet off the ground and you can jump real high. Oooo!!! Look out! Ow, that had to hurt. Sorry kid. It's like we had to learn the hardway to make things safe. Now kids have safe stuff. What would be the equivalent of unsafe for kids of today that future kids would mock at? Let me think. I know, a rope swing that doesn't swing across of murky pond, oh no. I'm talking about a rope swing that swings you across two city blocks. Better hang on. Dammit I wanted a bouncehouse."

I often hear of old people being considered cranky. Cranky while driving, cranky in long lines, just cranky. What's happens if your cranky at 36? I went to the cleaners to pickup my shirts, but they had relocated. That sucks. So I drive across town and go in. "Ticket Number?" I don't have my ticket. "Name?" Tilli. Tilli the Grey. "$36.42" I pulled out my card. "We only take Cash." Well, at that point, I became crannnky. I said word for word, "What the fuck lady. You don't take bank cards? What the fuck? Get with the times for sake. I'll see you in another month or so when I get time to get cash. Who the hell carries cash anymore? Fucking ridiculous." and I walked out. I was very cranky. So, if it's true, old people are cranky, then I'm setup for an early death or when I'm 80, I'll be the equivalent of an Arch Bishop of Death. If I make it to 80, I should probably stay indoors away from windows.

The Legend of the Canady House
Centered on the island of Manteo in Nags Head, North Carolina sits a boarding house called the Canady's. This halfway house was fairly large compared to other seaside dwellings and was the residence of nomads. "I'm moving to Nags Head," exclaimed Tilli one day to the Baron. "I hear there's this room for rent on Manteo. You feel like riding down there and checking it out with me?" Baron agreed. Three hours later, roughly, the duo arrived in Nags Head and crossed the bridge onto the island of Manteo which lay behind the great dune. You could see the green roof of this white house as your turned onto Manteo drive. A white picket fence and friendly sign indicated, The Canady House. "This is it." Baron stepped out first, followed by Tilli as they stepped up the old boards of the porch. The great door of the house was open beyond a screendoor from which you could hear the voices of dwellers. "Should we knock?", asked Tilli. Baron knocked, even though it was Tilli's doings. A young Spainard approached and Tilli introduced himself, "I am Tilli the Grey and this is Baron the Red. I have come forth from the greater area of Richmond seeking refuge in your humble establishment."
"Cmin." Obliged the Spainard.
The early Summer heat created dark shadows in the halls and the sounds of running fans eminated from a great room off the main hallway. Within, a group of dark figures sat around an old black and white television along an olive drab couch. We stood under an arch at this location and nodded our heads in greetings while we awaited the return of the Spainard. Suddenly a bright glimpse of blonde hair shimmered through a screen window as a young lady approached.
"Hi!"
She starred at the Baron with much gaze, as if Medusa herself were throwing dust of stone.
"Uh. Hi" notioned the Baron with curiosity.
"Are you staying here?"
"Um. No, this guy is."
Tilli became more talkative now introducing himself and informing her of how he had found an ad in the Manteo paper. But this didn't seem to concern the beautiful girl as she kept a gaze upon the Baron. Tilli scanned the room now at the other, not so beautiful tenants, while continueing to talk.
The inner room was hot and stuffy and had a foul odor. A vegetable of a man, perhaps paralyzed, a retarded red-headed child, maybe deaf, and the unshowered unemployed, seemingly graced the room. How could such a glitter of a woman be here? Then Tilli began to second guess the odd girl, as it seemed to take the Spainard forever to return. Was this another Mary?, Reybok's venomous seducer? Pretty on the outside, but sinister within? The more Tilli tried to understand, the less attention he got, as the girl continued her fixation on the Baron. It was so obvious that Baron cracked a smile at Tilli.
The Spainard returned.
"Here is some paperwork for you to fill out, and the deposit is one week's rent in advance, $50.00 per week." "I'll take it." Tilli sat down at small end table and began filling out the form. The girl had asked more questions, but questions concerning the Baron intent. "No. No. I'm just here for the ride, he's the one moving in. I'll be visiting from time to time."
This seemed to bring great joy to the Manteo Canady Whore. Surely, she had to be of ill repute.
Everything was finalized and payments conducted as the duo waved goodbye. Tilli would return in the coming weeks to never see the girl again. He would move his personal belongings up the stairs, next to the deaf boy's room, belonging's consisting of Tilli Toons, Dungeons & Dragons books and clothes. Tilli would stretch his legs on the old worn bed, "Ah home again."

~~~

Usually, people don't get on my nerves too bad, but today, I found myself a bit annoyed at the newest form of mobile communication. This teen was walking along talking to his buddy on a phone/walkie talkie. I don't know the term yet for this devices, but it's the one that beeps after every transmission, and you can hear the voice on the other end. So now I have to hear, what this guy is talking about, AND what his colleague has to say about it, AND with an annoying loud beep after every sentence fragment. Let me present a sample:

Yo. Man, what's up man.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!

I just got my gold crown jo!

Damn Dog, Yo, you headin' to Jo's house yo?

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPP!!!

Ugh. Anyway, I think I figured out what has happened. These people have never had their ass kicked. All of the 'ass kickers' from our early days have a) either died, b) in jail c) mental institution or d) still serving ISS. We need to somehow let the current 'ass kickers' know that we may not value their service now, but in year's to come we surely will. We should be preserving 'ass kickers' to solve problems that can arise from too many geeks, who lay claim to the land, as seeing all ass kickers to be gone from the earth. You see, 'ass kickers' act as a stabalizer in preserving a delicate balance in society. Don't get me wrong, there exists, the occassional rebel of unrest who may stop the forementioned individual with "That is so rude." But you see, the difference that exists is the 'ass kicker' would simply start pummeling and throwing punches without thought. The ass kicker walking toward his car, hearing the "BBEEEEEEP. Yo!", he would stop, look for the obstruction, locate and target, and commence violence, thus ending the obstruction. Yes, bring back the ass kickers, even if they might steal my lunch money, it's a small price I'm willing to pay.

The Elf shot the Food. There is something funny about causing havoc in multiplayer games.

TK. PK. ASSHOLE. These are just some of the terms associated with multiplayer gaming player killing. As of recent, I have determined that I am indeed a player killer. But, I didn't see it happening. It wasn't until now that I decided to take a look back into why I shoot my own teammates over something as petty as a plane or tank. First, I'll discuss the term TK. TK means, team killer and is used commonly in Battlefield 1942. It is the act of killing a teammate on purpose or accidentally in an attempt to better oneself. PK is used more commonly in Diablo, meaning player killer. This sort of term is associated with the person who hunts and kills other live players for the sport. I have been both, or I am both. But how did this happen? What warrants my antics and chaos? Well, in Battlefield 1942, I find no reason to not kill another teammate who competing for a plane. A valuable, rare spawning plane awaits, a teammate and I are running for it, he's in front of me, I have a gun. It seems a no brainer. BANG! I get the plane, and sore off to war, meanwhile leaving behind a barrage of "Asshole! Kick him! Ban him! He TK'd me for a plane! Admin!!!!!!!!!" Soon, my computer screen goes to black and a server message,

"You have been banned from this server" appears.

Odd, I think to myself. It is at that moment that I ponder my differences, do I not represent the norm? Again, you have to go way back, and follow the steps that lead to such atrosities.

Baron!

It's all Barons fault! Yes! Now I see the light. It was during long wee hours of gaming in the Baron's castle that I remember those damn games of Wizard of Wor in which, two teammates engage in battle with creatures of evil. Equipped with laser rifles that unleashed death, we were held to high reponsibility not to accidently shoot the other teammate in the mazes. Now I remember, Baron would institute obscene 'space' requirements, or turf borders. You cross into that space, Boom. Your dead. How often did we turn against each other?! Yes, that's how it started. Not only are you concerned for your well being against hordes of monsters, you also had to watch your back from your buddy! And what about Joust! Oh my. Talk about borders wars. There was also that, "That's my egg!" Baron would scream. That's it. I have found the roots of my current poison! I am cursed to this day, like an abused red-headed stepchild. I teamkill by necessity, and I don't even think twice. Well, that's the best analyzation I can come up with for my disease. Time for my PK/TK annoymous meeting. Good day.

The Who is now my most favorite rock band replacing Led Zeppelin. This was a difficult decision to come by, but as I get older, The Who's lyrics and style seem to echo my current sitch. Bye Bye Led, it was a good time.

R.E.M. is from Athens, Ga. or so I was told. One day, we decided to go party there to see what the vibes were all about in Athens. So we loaded up on booze and cigarettes, and headed east from Atlanta, we being myself, Etchoman, Dutchboy Whitten, and Pink. I remember just being drunk as hell when we got there and we purchased a cheap ass room from budget inn so we could get shit faced stupid almost dead drunk and not have to worry about driving back. I can't remember most of what happened during our escapades from bar to bar, but I DO recall the downright vicious pillow fight we had back at the inn. Okay, okay, I know that sounds Gay. I imagine you picture a pillow fight as a bunch of blonde girls in whities, jumping up and down on a bed , screaming at each hit as white fluffy down feathers spray the room, yes, that is quite a sight. No! Rude awaken! I tell you this. There was blood man. You see those cheap inn pillow, not the fluffy kind, no sir. Those damn pillows were like raw hide man, coupled with the fact that maybe my last pillow fight was, say, when I was eight! You put two large canvas pillow with metal zippers in an adult man's hand with a drunken stupor, his only wish to decapitate you and you've got something far different from a beautiful fluff fight of woman. I just remember having a hard time breathing and the pain was unbearable, each hit after hit, and the constant struggle to stand in a free for all, all against all four man battle. There was no safe room, no quite corner, nowhere to hide. I recall the blood, the yells of anguish. Looking back on it, I can admit that a crucifixtion perhaps, maybe had two or three more cuts and bruises to our fight, three tops. Yes my friends, it was not Gay! It was not immature! It was downright immoral. So we trashed the room and skipped town. As litterers often say, "It ain't my town." *toss*.

During the rough years, rent was always hard to come by. I was already riding around without car insurance, those funds allocated to beer and spirits. One particular landlord, who shall be nameless finally gave me a 'must have' date for two months worth of rent, but alas I only had one month in my pocket. So, I looked around and found a new place to live in the paper. A room for rent for $50 per week. My new plan now was to skip rent and allocate to this new place. But how to do it? So in the middle of the night, yours truly bought a package of black garbage bags at 7-11 for $1.12 and began stuffing them with my personal belongings, Tilli Toons, Advanced Dungeons & Dragons stuff, clothes, etc. This house though was very old and the stairs creeked wickedly under your feet. The landlord lived in the area below and would surely wake to multiple trips up and down the stairs. I decided it was necessary to toss my belongings out of the second story window. So I did, one by one, like the Grinch, the dark night was interrupted by occasional thumps as bag after bag landed below. All that was left was to leave a key and a note saying 'Sorry'. Then I successfully made the one trip down the rickety stairs to freedom. The next stage of this plan also required some thought. Hmmm, how to drive away on my only source of transportation at the time, a Kawasaki Gpz 305 without making noise. Looking down at the ground, it appeared I had at least a dozen bags, and at most I could only carry two per ride. So, I began walking the bags to the next block and hid them in the trees. From this new vantage point, I could begin the loading and unloading process. The new place was about five blocks away, but in all this espionage move took most of the night and much hard labor. All to elude $50. But the plan was successful and life as a nomad continued. Until one day, Baron and I, some five years later, decided to go to Hardees for breakfast. I stood at the counter looking up at the board of goodies, debating muffin or hashbrowns with the clerk busy rummaging for biscuits. As she turned, I was startled to see it was...the Landlord! I froze. Baron look on inquisitively. "Hello (Tilli)." She said in the most hideous undermining tone that I can hear to this day. Baron was perplexed. I quickly ordered a combo meal not realizing what it was, "Number One" I said. Number one combos are usually the normal high selling items, surely I could not go wrong. Lucky for me, she did not mention or disuss the past, but I truly believe the only thing saving me from utter destruction was the Hardees counter and it's invisible barrier of customer service that she was abound to by employment contract. I would tell Baron the story as he laughed excessively while eating. This laugh causing suspicious looks from the ....landlord. "Please, this is very disturbing." I would tell the Baron, as I tried to enjoy my disgusting Ham and Cheese biscuit number one combo. I hate Ham in the morning."

I was a nomad, this is true. There was a period in my life when I took full grooming showers in beach shower stalls. Anyone who has been to the beach knows those are only to wash sand off. I would get naked, lather up and even use shampoo. Those beach showers, you see, do not have plumbing, the water simply goes on the ground. The fact that I would take showers there... was semi-bio-hazard-like. I ponder what anyone near were thinking seeing large pools of soap bubbles? I have also eaten all three meals in one day at Texaco gas station using a credit card, since has then been revoked with scrutiny. Ah, life's pleasures.

Participating in an Advanced Dungeons & Dragons game with friends and colleagues was never boring amongst the early Santoonies. It naturally brewed comedy. Face it, take five to eight adolescents and stuff them in a room filled with Monstrous compendiums, snicker bars, and dice allowing them to game all night into the early morning hours, and comedy is amuck. As a dungeon master, I fondly recalled the one time someone playing a 'thief' character, handed me a note. Notes from players to DM were usually eyed in suspicion by other players. I silently read the note to myself. It said, "I backstab ______ with my dagger." I handed the note back to the player saying, "You forgot to fill in the blank. " At which point, "Oh yeah," and he quickly began to scribble a name. Meanwhile as I asked what each of the other players were doing during this round, each replied subsequently, "I put on my ring of Invisibility."

Here are some comical facts about santoonie.com.

One day, Baron and I met up at The Castle and we decided to go swimming in the Appamattox river. So, we got our towels and trecked off across the soccer field into the woods. Once we reached the cliff, we proceeded down to the river to a rope swing. Now this rope swing was in horrible condition and to reach it, you had to climb a series of half falling off boards and nails that were hammered into the tree. Exposed nails were a plenty. As I climbed, Baron standing near, simply decided to push me sharply. Horrified! I began to fall. Grasping instictevly my arms impaled against the nails and tore into my flesh in numerous areas as I slid down the tree and fell into the mucking waters below. I gasped for air arising from the muck in total shock. Let’s pause for a moment right here, If I may. What do you do if you and a friend are alone in the woods and he decides to bring physical pain to you? I mean, what are your options? Do you ridiculously begin a fist fight? Do you run? These were things going through my head and I could only yell out, “Asshole!” …..”Asshole!” I kept repeating it while witnessing my bloody wounds. I even tried to reason with him, “I hate Lacerations”, I told him. Why on earth would you do that? He stood momentarily in thought and really had no explanation. So he climbed up and began swinging. I was in a utter confused state but shrugged it off and continued play. The whole way home I explained my hatred for lacerations and how we could both work together to strive to keep me safe from them. After all, I needed his full cooperation if we were to be teammates in the treacherous land’s of Amissville.

~

Tell us the story about the Cheetah Pink. Those very words conjured up a rash of comical stories told by our very own Dr. Peter Lunsford. You see, on weekends during Santoonie outings, we would approach Dr. Lansford after he was fully drunk and ask him to do a very simple task, "Tell us the story about the cheetah." He would immediately start rambling about cheetahs. His stories could never be recorded for we were out and about and lacked recording devices. Though we too were drunk, the stories of the cheetahs were always breath taking and evoking. They always seemed to include death, fangs, running and trees and a cheetah. When we attempted to have Dr. Lansford tell us a story during his sober hours, he simply could not. For this is a strange phenomenon. So, I inquire to you to try this one day, approach a drunk colleague and say, "Tell us the story about the cheetah 'name here', and see what story is crafted. Tell us your cheetah stories.