Kernut the Blond » Criminal Acts

Tombstones in Tombstone, Arizona

Kernut — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 01:33:23 +0000

He-heh. I need a sign like this for my rig.

On my way to Texas, I stopped in Tombstone, Arizona, home of the infamous OK Corral. No longer the dangerous, wild western town for which it’s so well known, it has become an off-the-beaten-path tourist trap stop.

Downtown Tombstone, Arizona... seems a little quiet.

One vendor seemed hell-bent on getting me to join the ghost tour. Even the vendors in Mexico were less aggressive – and that’s saying something.

Boothill Graveyard souvenir shop, fulfilling your tourist needs.

Vendors in most of the other stores (not pictured here) seemed burnt-out. Compared to my very pleasant experiences with the sales people in every other town I visited in Arizona, this was a bit of a surprise.

Tombstones in Tombstone.

This is Boothill Graveyard, where the dead guys are buried. (Because I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want to bury live guys. Unless they’re zombies. But zombies are another story. You can’t just bury them.)

I heard that most of these graves were “for show”, but a couple were fenced-off like they might actually be the grave of someone famous. The one below, of Frank Bowles, may be real. This Boothill Graves website lists the graves and information on some of them.

Not sure if this guy was famous or for show, but he was fenced in.

I assume his grave is fenced in only because it’s real. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. The rocks are good for holding down zombies, but not . . . → Read More: Tombstones in Tombstone, Arizona

Don’t make me get my gun out. Again.

Kernut — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 22:03:59 +0000
Two things that need shootin’: Varmints in your RV and Stalkers
It’s been a week of things that need shootin’. (Note the dropped “g” – I’m already starting to sound like a Texan. Just know it happens very fast, people, very fast.)

(A note for my new readers: Last summer I bought my first RV and immediately became a full-timer. I’m single, and drive a mid-size Class A. I travel with my cat, Checkers – the copilot who can’t read maps, and a rare house guest/visitor. I’ve learned I’m a bit of a Glamper – I don’t like to sacrifice the little niceties to live the nomadic lifestyle. If this paragraph hasn’t bored you to tears and you want to know more, you can learn about my travels here, me here, and get zombie t-shirts and stuff here. What? Everyone needs zombie stuff.)

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming…
The varmint inside my RV…
Thump – thump – thump. (silence) Thump – thump – thump. (silence)

All night long it went, coming from somewhere under my rig, but within the chassis or walls.

The loudness of the thumps indicated it was probably a squirrel. It seemed to pull on something (such as my wiring!) and as its body jerked back with the motion, it would hit the wall behind it.

I didn’t find where it was getting in, but I did manage to get rid of the little monster and finally get a full night’s sleep.

As soon as it was late . . . → Read More: Don’t make me get my gun out. Again.

Border Patrol = Reno 911

Kernut — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 18:55:53 +0000

The scene: An empty two-lane highway at 8:30 pm on a Wednesday night.

My car: The nice tow car previously pictured, carrying two blond-haired white people (me and the aforementioned house guest) slowly driving back to their campsite in Slab City after a day at the nearby RV park pool, hanging with sober people. (The sober part will be of significance further in the story.)

Behind us: A car is tailgating. For almost 15 minutes.

They could easily go around us on the empty highway.

A couple extra white lights come on over their roof. Then the side spotlight as seen on cop cars comes out. Within seconds a red light comes on, so I pull over.

Two dimwitted Border Patrol agents creep up on the right side, stop about ten feet away, and peer towards the interior of the car, fear and suspicion on their face.

??? I think it’s been over ten years since I was stopped by police. Never once by Border Patrol.

After a few minutes, they find their gonads and approach the passenger’s window. They ask who owns the car, and if I’m running drugs.

WTF?

Uh, no. I’m not a drug runner.

They ask if they can search the trunk. Me, not being as up on the laws as I should be was ready to comply when my house guest spoke up for our rights. Then I asked the Border Patrol rookies if the stop was legal.

They said yes, but got out the sniffing dog. The dog allegedly “alerted” on my trunk . . . → Read More: Border Patrol = Reno 911

The Time I Worked For Fred Krueger and Donna Mills

Kernut — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 15:55:42 +0000

Do you think he means a 'blow job' at the salon for that hair??
Recently learning Herman Munster is alive and well and selling real estate, reminded me of one of the many jobs I had.
I said job I had, not gave. sheesh No, not had as in got, either. Remember, I’m a woman – I give them I don’t …oh, never mind.

Where was I? Oh, yeah.. jobs.

The kind you get paid for.

Oh ferfuckssake.

I was fairly young at the time I went to work for this insurance company. My boss was named Fred Krueger. I could not making this up if I tried, people. To separate himself from Freddy Krueger The Slasher, he insisted we called him Fred. Just Fred Krueger.

Yeah, that worked well. Calling him Fred totally made me forget his name WAS IDENTICAL TO THE INFAMOUS SLASHER FLICK DUDE.

It’s only 20 years later, I have a memory like Swiss cheese (the whole family does, actually), I couldn’t tell you what I had for breakfast any day last week, but this I remember.

Isn’t Fred short for Frederick? Why the fuck not just go with Rick? I can tell you I sure as shit wouldn’t be writing this post now if he had.

His secretary was named Donna Mills. I kid you not. If you know who that actress is, you’ve just dated yourself. Like I just did. But if anyone asks, I’m 27. She wasn’t Donna Mills the actress, but she . . . → Read More: The Time I Worked For Fred Krueger and Donna Mills

Drinking and Smoking: My Childhood Memories

Kernut — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 16:08:39 +0000
I learned to mix drinks, quite well actually, and we all had a grand time drinking up the liquor cabinet after school. When the booze would run low, Dad would just replace it. Awesome. *hiccup* . . . → Read More: Drinking and Smoking: My Childhood Memories

Sex in Carson City: My Trip to The Brothels – UPDATE

Kernut — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 08:20:16 +0000
Have you ever been to a brothel? Of course you have! Well I have, too. Three, actually. All on the same day. I'm a studdette like that. . . . → Read More: Sex in Carson City: My Trip to The Brothels – UPDATE

Penny and The Attack of The Killer Bees

Kernut — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 19:42:51 +0000

The Rispin Mansion, Capitola, CA. Front entry way.
The Time Penny Was Attacked by The Killer Bees
When I was a delinquent young teenager in Capitola, I had some friends with whom I regularly got into trouble had adventures. (See: My First Brush With The Law). One of the places we would regularly go to find trouble was the colloquially named ‘monastery’, formally know as The Rispin Mansion.

(Side note: If you view the more recent photos, note we did NOT spray paint the place, or destroy the statues, and were quick to lecture those who did. We loved that place. I would like to see it restored but it’s going to be torn down and turned into a Bed & Breakfast or something.)

The monestary/Rispin Mansion was once a beautiful mansion built in 1922 by a wealthy man, reported to have transported liquor during the Prohibition.

It seemed only fitting we should go there to drink illegally.

The place once had beautiful parquet floors and statues. It still had secret hidden rooms, and a sliding bookcase. People, I couldn’t make this shit up – I’m not that imaginative. IT WAS AWESOME!

The place was abandoned around 1958, and it’s considered trespassing to be on the grounds.

Yet another good reason for us to go there. Regularly.

One day Sonja, Penny and I were there for our usual smoking festival. (We smoked clove cigarettes, but weren’t old enough so we had to find less conspicuous places to do this.) Three considerably younger boys . . . → Read More: Penny and The Attack of The Killer Bees

The Time I Learned Golf Carts Don’t Float

Kernut — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 21:53:47 +0000

The Four Seasons Golf Resort - probably not the one we were at.
Golf Carts Don’t Float, But Golf Tees Do – Who Knew?!
For a little while after my parents got divorced my father stayed in the general Santa Barbara, CA area. My sister, Chickenbone, and I would spend weekends and long summers with him where we would learn all kinds of grown-up things (much against my mother’s wishes) like playing poker, driving before we were even in our teens, and eating junk food all day long.

My father raised us very differently than my mother: My mother was a fairly strict and conservative parent who raised us on health food, while my father pretty much let us do absolutely anything we wanted. (See My First Brush With The Law for an example.)

And he would often help us cover up the crime.

We were too young to be legally left alone (not because we couldn’t take care of ourselves, but more likely we’d have burnt down the house). But my father liked playing golf, so he had to bring us along.

Just imagine two independent, but restrained-9-months-out-of-the year-then-suddenly-unleashed kids running amok on the golf course.

To keep us out of trouble my dad let us drive the golf cart around the general vicinity of the hole he was playing.

He was either very brave, or very desperate.

This was a rather pretty golf course with a little creek running through it. Like all golf courses, it had great little . . . → Read More: The Time I Learned Golf Carts Don’t Float

My First Brush With The Law

Kernut — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 17:42:57 +0000
It was a match made in heaven: Three gals, three guys, a wee party, and an illegal bonfire. . . . → Read More: My First Brush With The Law