You might remember my Uncle Bart. If you don’t, you can read about him here and here, and you do know that he is solely responsible for Spot Sue Saturday. You might also remember me calling him to action a few posts back…
Many readers already know UB, as I like to all him (a’la Macaulay in Uncle Buck), and if not, here’s a quick “fast facts” about Uncle Bart:
*Uncle Bart drinks tequila. This may seem normal enough until I tell you that he drinks it with Diet Coke. I know.
*Uncle Bart hails from the frozen tundra of the Midwest, and he still wears shorts at least 325 days a year. Usually, with high-tops. But sometimes with Croc flip-flops. Which is incredible.
*Once, after a wedding, UB made his son, Timmy put his socks on. Like, Timmy had to put UB’s socks on UB. If you know Timmy, ask him about this.
*At another wedding, our whole family had to leave early because UB passed out, and we had all driven together so we could drink. And drink, we did. Obviously. He also once went missing for three quarters of a football game because he “fell asleep” in the bathroom. Aunt Sue was ready to all the National Guard when he stumbled back to the tailgate thirty minutes after the rest of the crew. (In his defense, he very well could have been asleep. I suspect alcohol played a large factor in this nap, but Uncle Bart can literally fall asleep anytime, anywhere. It’s admirable, really.)
*He golfs with one club. Which is a two-way chipper.
*UB has a pool and he likes to sit next to it, shooting birds that fly over and shit in it. He has yet to give ol’ Bevvy Oakley a chance. *hint, hint, Bart*
*When UB doesn’t really wanna do something, he always says he would rather set his hair on fire. I have totally stolen this, and if you know me, you’ve definitely heard me say it.
*Probably my favorite UB story is when Sue was once trying to get him out of the house so they wouldn’t be late to some type of event (this is an at-least daily occurrence). The conversation went like this:
“Chop, chop, Bret.”
“Eat shit, Sue.”
*As evidenced by Spot Sue Saturday, Uncle Bart loves Snapchat. Exhibit A:
I mean, lots of people send Snapchats to alert you that they sent emails, right? I was really hoping he would text me to tell me Snapchatted me to tell me he emailed me, but I think he’s busy.
Without further ado, I present to you, the first guest post here on beverlygoldenstein.com… I present to you, Uncle Bart.
Notes: Liv in cousin Gertrude’s daughter, Bart’s granddaughter.
Two Fools Meet
We try to keep a couple of tame cats around the farm. We take them to the vet to have them neutered and give them shots to try to keep them healthy. The last pair of cats that we had were approximately 15 years old when they succumbed this winter. I thought it would be a fun time to take Liv along when we went looking for a new cat, (ostensibly to present to Sue for her birthday). A quick check for unwanted kittens located in the area was fruitless, so I decided I would take Liv to check out the local Humane Society and let her pick out a cat.
Having never visited the place, I was surprised to find a relatively new, large facility on the edge of Masonville. A half-dozen young ladies were manning the office. We asked if they had any cats available for “adoption”. The selection was extensive. There were nearly a hundred cats in the place; five or six rooms with ten to twenty cats in individual cages in each room. After perusing nearly every cat in the place, we made a decision to take one home with us. I related our intentions to one of the gals at the desk. She informed me that the “adoption fee” for said cat was $115, and handed me six pages of “adoption papers” full of questions that I needed to answer, I guess to ensure that I was worthy of entrusting with a $115 cat. Mind you – I am a farmer that has raised numerous dogs and cats and tens of thousands of farm animals in my career. I was less-than-amused to be vetted for the right to take a cat home with me.
Now I’m starting to get a little annoyed, but my inner monologue informs me that the cat is already neutered and inoculated, which will save me some hassle, and that the exorbitant adoption fee is going to a good cause. I decided to fill out the papers, pay the money, and make my now-fidgeting granddaughter happy. When I handed the papers in to the gal, I made the comment that I thought I could buy an AK-47 with less paperwork and possibly for less money. She was not amused. She then proceeded to go over my “application” with great intensity. She paused before she made it through the second page to ask me why I had responded “not applicable” to the section on litter box training. I explained that we lived on a farm, and that this animal would have several hundred acres on which to find a place to defecate. I could immediately tell that this was disturbing information. She informed me that they couldn’t possibly let a cat go to someone that wasn’t going to keep it in their house.
My annoyance evolved into outright indignation. I asked if she thought the dozens of cats in this building would be happier in their cages, or on a farm acreage. She refused to poll the animals to get their opinions.
I took Liv’s hand and headed calmly back to my pickup, my head ready to explode with indignation at being rejected for cat adoption. Oh, the shame of it all!
Anyway, the whole process made me think of one of Smoke’s wise sayings – “Two fools met that day.” I was willing to pay $115 for a god-damned cat, and she wouldn’t sell it to me.
I have to tell you, this story makes me laugh my ass off, and if you hear Bart tell it in person, I’m certain it’s littered with more profanity. He knows that we’re a family show here bg.com, so he kept it pretty PG. He also left out the part where he made the Humane Society “gals” give him his six pages of paperwork back so they couldn’t send him any promotional mail/emails.
I wonder if he’s now using an AK-47 to shoot the pool birds? Stay tuned.
-Beverly
