A Story I Picked Up From The Surfing The Web About A Man Helping His Wife Through Labor…

March 18, 2026May 6, 2026Benjamin6 Comments

March 18, 2026

The Most Supportive Husband Ever… Or So He Thought

A man rushed his very pregnant wife to the hospital as her labor pains began.

After examining her, the doctor looked up with a serious expression.
“This is going to be a difficult delivery,” he said. “But… there is an experimental choice.”

The couple leaned in.

“There’s a machine,” the doctor explained, “that can transfer a part of the mother’s pain to the father. It would significantly reduce what she feels during labor.”

Without hesitation, the husband said, “Hook me up.”

The doctor raised a cautious finger.

“There’s one small issue… a flaw in the mechanism. The pain transferred to you is amplified—up to ten times stronger than what she experiences. If it becomes too much, you must tell me at once.”

The husband nodded confidently. “I can handle it.”

The machine was connected.

The doctor started at 10%.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Honestly?” the husband said. “I don’t feel a thing.”

Curious, the doctor increased it to 30%… then 50%… then 80%.

Still nothing.

The doctor was amazed. He pushed it all the way to 100%. Due to the flaw, this meant the husband was now receiving ten times the full intensity of labor pain.

He stood there calmly.

No grimace.
No flinch.
Not even a bead of sweat.

Meanwhile, his wife delivered the baby with remarkable ease.

The doctor, stunned, turned to the husband.
““I have never seen anything like this in my entire career.”

Proud, the couple gathered their newborn and headed home, marveling at what had just happened.

But when they arrived…

There, on the front doorstep…

Lay the mailman.

Dead.

I am only retelling this story. I am not responsible for the contents. Just for the ending. Which I had nothing to do with.

The End.

The Last Seven Days

December 27, 2025December 6, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

This Story Is A Reposted Story From The Classics Files For The Best Of The Best As Counted Down in 2024

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–4 minutes

John’s eyes fluttered open, the sterile white ceiling of the hospital room coming into focus. His head throbbed, and he felt disoriented. He overheard two doctors talking outside his room as he tried to piece together what had happened.

“Only seven days left,” one of them said. “We need to make sure everything is in order.”

John’s heart sank. Seven days left? He must be dying. Panic surged through him as he realized he had only a week to live. But instead of succumbing to fear, a fierce determination took hold. He couldn’t stay in the hospital; he had to escape and make the most of his remaining time.

Ignoring the pain in his head, John began to formulate a plan. He waited until the nurses changed shifts, then quietly slipped out of bed. John found a set of scrubs in a nearby closet and put them on, hoping to blend in. With his heart pounding, he made his way down the hallway, avoiding eye contact with anyone who would recognize him.

As he reached the exit, a nurse called out to him.

“Excuse me, sir, where are you going?”

John’s mind raced.

“I… I need some fresh air,”

he stammered.

The nurse frowned but didn’t pursue him. John pushed open the door and stepped into the cold winter air. He had made it out, but now what? He had no money, phone, or idea where to go.

John was determined to make the most of his final days. He wandered the city and visited places he had always wanted to see. He watched the sunrise from the top of a hill, the sky ablaze with colors. He fed the ducks at the park, their quacks a symphony of nature. And he even ate a fancy dinner by sneaking into a high-end restaurant, savoring every bite.

As the days passed, John felt a strange sense of peace. He had lived more in those few days than he had in years. On the seventh day, he found himself back at the hospital, drawn by a need for closure.

He walked through the doors and was instantly recognized by a nurse. “John! We’ve been looking for you everywhere. You need to be in bed; your head wound is serious.”

John sighed and allowed himself to get led back to his room. As he lay in bed, he overheard the doctors talking again.

“Only one day left,”

one of them said.

“I can’t believe the year is almost over.”

John’s eyes widened in realization. They talked about the end of the year, not his life. Relief, pure and unadulterated, washed over him, followed by a wave of exhaustion. He had been running from a misunderstanding, and now he was free.

As the clock struck midnight, John smiled to himself. He had a new lease on life and a newfound appreciation for every moment. He vowed to live each day with the same passion and urgency he had felt during those seven days. He understood that life was too precious to waste. His experience had transformed him, filling him with hope and a deep appreciation for the gift of life.

“Buying Warner Bros: The GoFundMe Heard ’Round the World”

November 14, 2025November 10, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

2–3 minutes

by Benjamin Groff II – this is a fictional story. It was created by the space in my head. In this space, various ideas loom when I read news articles. This makes them more enjoyable.

**_{^{A GOFUNDME to buy Warner Brothers?}}**

It started as a joke. It was one of those offhand remarks tossed out online. You’ve had just enough coffee and cable-news frustration to believe you do better than a billion-dollar studio.

“Why don’t we just buy Warner Bros.?” I said. “We’ll start a GoFundMe.”

Within minutes, the idea took on a life of its own. A few shares, a few memes, and by nightfall, the campaign had raised $437.17 — most of it from people who thought they were donating to rescue Bugs Bunny.

Of course, the real Warner Bros. — now a corporate hydra known as Warner Bros. Discovery — is valued somewhere north of $20 billion, give or take a Batman sequel. That means we’d need approximately 500 million people donating $40 each to make an offer. A few folks online said that it was doable “if we all skipped Starbucks for a month.”

I’m not saying I was confident, but I did start designing logos: “People’s Pictures Presents…” and “A Groff–Swint Production.” I figured we’d restore Saturday morning cartoons. We would bring back The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Show. We should stop rebooting the same superhero franchise every six months.

Within days, the comments on the GoFundMe page turned into a movement. Someone pledged $10 and demanded we greenlight Smokey and the Bandit 2: The Electric Pontiac. Another offered $25 “if y’all promise to fire whoever keeps canceling good shows after one season.”

The campaign hit $3,000. Then I got my first call from a lawyer. Apparently, corporate takeovers by crowdfunding are “not standard procedure.” I told him, “Neither is releasing Space Jam 2, but that didn’t stop you.”

Before long, our story went viral. CNN called it “the most optimistic hostile takeover in entertainment history.” One late-night host joked that Americans had finally united. They did not unite to choose a president. Instead, they united to save Looney Tunes.

We never got close to $20 billion. We didn’t even reach the amount needed for one Warner Bros. parking pass. But something magical happened. Fans from around the world flooded the comments. They shared memories of Saturday morning cereal and cartoons that made them laugh before school. For a moment, it wasn’t about money. It was about taking back a piece of joy that corporations can’t own.

So no, we didn’t buy Warner Bros. But in a way, we did something better. We reminded the world who really owns the stories. They are owned by the people who remember them.

As for me, I left the GoFundMe page up. In case Elon or Oprah feels nostalgic.

Still I have a question. If Fans Owned Hollywood — What Would Change First?

The Secret to Mr. Dink’s Disguise Adventures

October 1, 2025September 3, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

2–3 minutes

Mr. Dink and the Secret Agent’s Beard

Mr. Dink had always dreamed of growing a grand, bushy beard. He wanted more than a scruffy patch or stubble. He desired the beard that inspired respect. It was like the beard of a ship’s captain or a wise old philosopher. For years he tried: tonics, oils, even rubbing garlic on his chin (his grandmother’s advice). Nothing worked. At best, he muster a shadow of stubble that made him look perpetually halfway through shaving.

One lazy afternoon, flipping through a magazine, something caught his eye: an ad for “Undercover Agent Supplies.” The list included fake passports, invisible ink, and, most importantly, false facial hair kits. Mr. Dink’s heart skipped. At last, a way to see himself with a beard! He sent in his order, expecting a modest beginner’s kit.

But somewhere in the warehouse, a mistake was made. Instead of the novice set, Mr. Dink received a professional-grade disguise kit—the very same used by secret service agents. When he opened it, the contents dazzled him. There were full beards in every style imaginable. Mustaches curled or drooped. Eyebrows that changed a man’s entire face. There were wigs, glasses, voice changers, even adhesive skin molds.

Mr. Dink began experimenting right away. In one disguise, he was a grizzled lumberjack. In another, a mysterious professor. And when he wore the gray beard and cap, not even his closest neighbors recognized him. To his shock, the disguises worked so well that people began speaking freely around him. He heard what they really thought about Mr. Dink—sometimes kind, sometimes critical, sometimes hilariously wrong.

At first it stung. But as he listened, he realized how little people truly saw of him, how much they judged by appearances. And oddly, this knowledge freed him. He began wearing the disguises not to hide, but to understand. And the beard—the one he never grew—became a symbol of all the lives he slip into.

In the end, Mr. Dink discovered he hadn’t needed a beard to be respected. He needed confidence, curiosity, and a little humor. Still, he kept the kit. There were times when being a secret agent was just too much fun. The allure of having a glorious beard was hard to resist.

The Day the Johnson’s Mimic Bird Flew the Coop And Flew Throughout Johnson City, Kansas

September 26, 2025August 30, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

3–4 minutes

The Day the Mimic Bird Flew the Coop

Earl and Mabel Thompson were a quiet couple in their seventies. They lived on Maple Street in a small white house with blue shutters. Most evenings were spent watching the news or sipping tea on the porch. Their pride and joy, though, wasn’t a grandchild or a garden, but a bird—a rare mime bird. Unlike parrots, which repeated words, this bird can mimic voices perfectly. You’d swear the real person was in the room.

They named him Charlie.

One summer morning, Mabel was dusting the birdcage. Earl was fumbling with the Sunday crossword. Charlie spotted the cage door ajar. With a gleeful flap, he darted out the window and into the open sky. Earl dropped his pencil. “Mabel, the bird’s loose!”

But by then, Charlie was already over Johnson City, Kansas Main Street, testing his repertoire of voices.

Trouble Takes Flight

Charlie’s first stop was the Jenkins’ house. Hovering outside the kitchen window, he called out in Mr. Jenkins’ voice:

“Darlin’, I burned the roast again!”

Mrs. Jenkins stormed into the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon, ready for a fight. Poor Mr. Jenkins had been quietly napping in his recliner. He nearly fell over when she accused him of ruining dinner. He hadn’t even touched it.

From there, Charlie zipped down to O’Malley’s Bar. Perched on the ceiling fan, he crooned in half a dozen voices: “Put that on my tab!” “You call that a drink?” and, worst of all, in the barkeep’s own gruff tone: “Next round’s free, boys!” Chaos erupted as patrons demanded their “free round,” and fists began flying before anyone realized the voice was coming from above.

Civic Mischief

Not content with bars and kitchens, Charlie wheeled into the Johnson City police station. He perched outside the dispatcher’s window. He barked in Officer Daniels’ exact voice:
“Unit 12, urgent back-up on Fifth and Main!”

Three patrol cars roared away with sirens blaring. The station was left in confusion. The real Officer Daniels walked out of the bathroom holding a sandwich. One County Unit, A State Patrol Car and the city’s only other active patrol unit.

Later that same afternoon, Charlie wandered into Johnson City’s Hospital. There, using a spot-on imitation of the head doctor, he announced over the intercom:

“Paging Dr. Howard, please report to Room 207. Emergency tonsil transplant, stat!”

Patients and nurses alike scrambled in a tizzy, while Dr. Howard was still in the cafeteria with a mouthful of Jell-O. He nearly joked. Squirming to get up his belly got wedged beneath the table and chair. A colleague that was with Doctor Howard, began laughing so hard he nearly passed out from the added action.

Charlie flew down to Johnson City John Deere. He landed in their parts department. There, he began calling out engine parts numbers from bin numbers. This drove the parts clerks absolutely crazy.

The Chase and the Capture

Word spread of a mysterious troublemaker around town. By that time, Earl and Mabel were chasing after Charlie with a birdcage. They called sweetly, “Here, Charlie! Come home, dear!”

The town’s patience was running thin, though most couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity. Charlie was exhausted from a day of impersonations. Finally, he landed right back on Earl’s shoulder with a satisfied squawk:

“Well, that was fun!”

—in Earl’s exact voice.

Earl sighed, Mabel shook her head, and the crowd around them burst into laughter.

Aftermath

From that day on, Charlie’s cage was fitted with a brand-new lock. Earl swore it would never happen again.

Still, every now and then, when the wind blew just right across Maple Street, folks swore they heard Charlie. He was practicing a new trick. The voices varied—sometimes the mayor, sometimes the school principal—but the laughter it brought the town was always the same.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025

The Haunting Experience of a Small Town Funeral Home

August 22, 2025August 11, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

2–4 minutes

The Dead Has Gone – A Night Call to the Funeral Home

Jake Roff was a man of routine. Up before the sun, station lights on by 4:30, coffee brewed by 4:35. He liked the quiet hours before the town woke up. There was no traffic and no gossip. Just the hum of the soda cooler and the smell of gasoline.

That’s when the hearse pulled in.

The local funeral director appeared. He was a man who had perfected the art of wearing a solemn face. He maintained this expression even when discussing baseball scores. He leaned out the window and said,

“Jake… I can use an extra set of hands unloading a client.”

Jake wasn’t sure “client” was the right word, but he was too polite to argue. He locked the station door and climbed into the passenger seat. The ride was short. It was a ride where the air feels colder than it should. You can’t shake the notion that someone in back is listening.

At the funeral home, the place was dark. A single light illuminated the hallway. It was the light that leaves more shadows than it removes. The two men wheeled their passenger toward the prep room, the floor squeaking under the gurney wheels.

That’s when Jake’s hip clipped something.

The “something” was another gurney, parked just out of sight. The bump sent the sheet sliding to the floor in slow, terrible motion. It was like a curtain rising before a play no one wants to see.

Underneath was a woman. Her hair was a halo of white, frizzed and jutting out like she’d been caught mid-scream in a lightning storm. Her eyes were wide and glassy, locked on Jake as if she’d been waiting for him specifically. Her jaw hung slack. Her teeth were just visible. It was an open-mouthed stare that made him wonder if she was about to say something.

Jake didn’t stick around to find out. He backpedaled so fast he nearly tipped the “client” he’d come to help with. His heart was pounding. He mumbled something about

“forgetting to check the oil at the station.”

Then, he made a break for the door.

The funeral director called after him. By then, Jake was halfway down the block. He vowed never to set foot in that place again. For the rest of his days, he’d open his station early. Yet, if a hearse rolled in before sunrise, Bill always ensured he had a sudden, urgent appointment anywhere else.

This is a true story as told to the author. JD Groff experienced it first-hand. He passed it down through generations. Other family members kept it alive over the years. JD had a flair for telling this tale at family gatherings—something this written piece can only hope to capture. One thing’s certain. After that night, he never again helped unload another “client.” That was the case for as long as he lived in Cordell, Oklahoma.

About the Author:

Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 10: Cooler Heads (and Sandwiches) Prevail

August 6, 2025July 11, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

Reclaiming Ajo, Arizona!

Dawn broke over a transformed Ajo. The Mexican beagle crickets, now thoroughly stuffed with peanut butter goodness, retreated to the desert brush. The crickets appeared content. It was as if the agreement had fulfilled their mission. A sense of calm, albeit a wry and weary one, settled over the town.

Buck found himself standing amid the remnants of last night’s epic showdown. Discarded taco wrappers were all around. A few broken garden hoses added to the debris. An old margarita blender lay as if a token of an absurd battle. The Mayor, still in full “wartime” regalia, shook hands with retirees. He even gave a slight nod of respect to Carl for his unorthodox diplomacy.

At the gas station, the local newspaper was already printing the headline:

“PEANUT BUTTER PACIFIST: HOW BUCK MILFORD CALMED THE CRICKET STORM”

— Ajo Today, alongside a coupon for “Buy One, Get One Free – Peace of Mind.”

Buck, ever the humble hero, tipped his hat.

“Sometimes, all it takes is cooler heads…and a couple of sandwiches,”

he remarked dryly.

The final act of the evening unfolded with a local radio show, hosted by Marty the janitor. Marty, now reformed, played a slow, soulful tune. The music blended cowboy ballads with cricket chirps in the background. Buck’s patrol car, dusty and battered, stood as a symbol of resilience against absurdity.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky the next morning, Ajo prepared for another day in the desert. Danger and humor mingled that day. There was also the possibility of another bizarre escapade in the shimmering heat. And Buck, always ready, knew that in a town like this, adventure was never too far away.

~THE END~

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 9: Showdown at Sunset

August 5, 2025July 10, 2025Benjamin3 Comments

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

Catching Heat In Ajo, Arizona

The sun dipped low. It cast long shadows over the scorched earth of Ajo. The stage was set for the ultimate confrontation. Every faction had gathered. Mayor Gonzalez stood with her fleet of feisty seniors armed with flyswatters. Carl Sandlin rode his tinfoil-covered dune buggy, banjo in hand. A defiant Barney Fife-lookalike still clutched his oversized ticket book. Buck was caught in the middle, displaying a mixture of resignation and amusement.

Across the dusty open space, the beagle crickets aligned themselves in rows that shimmered in the golden glow. Their usual hum was replaced by a rising, almost militant chorus of chirps. It was a rallying cry that sent a shiver down everyone’s spine (or was it just the cool desert breeze?).

Mayor Gonzalez stepped up, megaphone in hand, and declared,

“Today, we settle this once and for all! You bugs have terrorized our town long enough, and you’re coming to justice!“

At the same time, Carl revved his banjo as if it were a trigger. He let out a wild, improvised yodel. This merged into a banjo riff—a challenge thrown down in musical form. The tension was palpable.

Then came the unexpected moment. Buck acted on pure instinct. His genius shone brightly from a half-forgotten lunch order. He pulled out a thermos of peanut butter sandwiches.

“Folks, and… critters,”

he announced, his voice steady.

“Sometimes all you need is a little tad of nourishment. It’s a reminder of simpler days.”

He scattered the sandwiches across the open space. The crickets, baffled by the offering (and even enticed by the rich aroma), paused their chorus. Slowly, as if savoring each bite, they began to nibble at the offerings. One by one, the insects lowered their guard. In that surreal instant, music and mayhem faded into an almost peaceful tableau.

Barney Fife-like hollered,

“This is it—the bug truce is on!”

While Mayor Gonzalez’s frown slowly morphed into a reluctant smile as her deputies put down their flyswatters.

For a heartbeat, the desert held its breath.

How long can everyone hold their breath? Too long, and we’ll have folks fainting in the streets—because that’s what happens when you forget to breathe! We hope the Mayor will remind the crowd to inhale. Barney Fife or Buck himself might do that too. We need this reminder before we move on to Chapter 10—the final installment of this wild ride.

If you’ve been reading since Chapter 1, you already know how it started. It began with unidentified flying toilets. Additionally, there was a full-blown invasion of Mexican Beagle Crickets across Southern Arizona’s Sonoran Desert. But if you just tuned in now… do yourself a favor—go back to the beginning. Otherwise, you’ll be as lost as the lady in the blue ’74 Buick LeSabre. She’s still sitting at the stop sign outside Ajo. She’s waiting for directions that may never come.

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 8: Misting Stations and Mistrust

August 4, 2025July 10, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

The Mexican Beagle Crickets Hum “Play Misty For Me?

As news of the impromptu peace talks spread, another mystery began simmering like the endless desert heat. The highway crew’s newly installed solar-powered misting stations were intended to cool workers. They were also meant for eager beagle crickets. Nonetheless, they were causing far more problems than anticipated.

While Buck was patrolling near a row of these glistening stations, he noticed something amiss. Where the mist should have provided relief, it instead made the crickets multiply. A bizarre swarm of shiny, water-dappled insects was now marching in almost perfect formation.

Investigating further, Buck discovered that the misting stations weren’t a product of innovative engineering at all. They were part of a shady government contract mixed with local corruption. Additionally, there was a janitor who seemed to know every secret corridor in the county. The janitor was a quiet, stooped fellow known as Marty. He confessed that he had been “tinkering” with the control systems. He did this in exchange for a steady supply of his favorite snack: spicy cactus crisps.

“This here mist is subsidizing a bug bonanza!”

Buck grumbled as he took notes in a dog-eared notebook, the pages fluttering in the arid wind.

Suspicions mounted. Someone is using the misting stations to create a perfect breeding ground for the cricket phenomenon. This move would be designed to turn Ajo into a quirky tourist trap. It also would be a covert experiment in behavioral acoustics. Trust, it seemed, was as scarce as shade in the desert.

Before Buck confronts Marty with a ticket, the misting systems churned out another puff of fog. It sent confused retirees and cricket mediators scattering in every direction. Buck still intended to give Marty a stern talking-to.

Those misting machines didn’t cool things down—they cranked the chaos up a notch! Now, Mexican Beagle Crickets are swarming Ajo and its neighboring towns faster than you can shake a jalapeno-laced stick. Somewhere in the background, the ghostly voice of Karl Malden echoes. It is from a dusty 1978 American Express commercial. “What will you do? What will you do?” That, dear reader, is the burning question for Chapter Nine… and trust us, the heat is just getting started.

Happening Now: Monitor Lizard Not Actually T-Rex in Disguise

August 4, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

Jurassic Farce: When Lizards Go Rogue

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

1–2 minutes

A while back, WordPress Community Members discussed a curious topic. They wondered whether it was possible to bring back a dinosaur. If so, they questioned which dinosaur it would be.

An attempt to do so may have been underway recently. This became obvious when a monitor lizard screamed and ran for its life. It crashed out of a second-floor window. It then proceeded to lead authorities through a multi-state chase. People were urged to protect their gardens, poodles, and pus— ugh, cats.

Anyways, it is making National News. And I fear that other lizards, regardless of their variety, will start trying the same thing. Suddenly Boom! There will be someone who succeeds, and their progress will be shared with like-minded individuals. Soon we will have a full-throated invasion of body-snatching giant lizards running around telling everyone they are dinosaurs.

Here is breaking news for when they do! HEADLINE: No, Monitor Lizards Are Not in The Dinosaur Family. They are a type of lizard belonging to the family Varanidae. While both dinosaurs and monitor lizards are reptiles, they diverged from a common ancestor long ago. Dinosaurs are part of the archosaur lineage, which also includes birds and crocodiles. Monitor lizards are part of the squamata lineage, which includes other lizards and snakes.

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 7: Buck Joins the Bug Peace Talks

August 3, 2025July 10, 2025Benjamin2 Comments

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

Salsa Dancing To A Deal With The Mexican Beagle Crickets

The escalating cricket crisis soon took a bizarre turn. After the Mayor declared martial law, Buck inexplicably found himself roped into a ceasefire negotiation. It was by invitation and circumstance, not entirely by choice.

Under the twilight sky, Buck set up a pair of folding chairs near the old taco stand. It was now decked out as a makeshift negotiation table. He sat alongside Carl Sandlin, who was still sporting his sequined –––

“diplomatic vest.”

An unexpected guest joined them: Gladys “The Negotiator” Ramirez. She is a spry 82-year-old with a background in community organizing and a penchant for peanut butter.

A gentle breeze stirred the desert sand as dozens of beagle crickets gathered in a semicircle. Their chirps and hums intermingled with the soft strumming of Carl’s banjo. It was not a formal diplomatic session at all. Instead, it was a surreal backyard barbecue meeting. Buck found himself as the unintended mediator.

Carl, with a dramatic flourish, announced,

“I propose we work together! You bugs, you stop the invasions, and we guarantee a steady supply of fresh, organic salsa.”

The crickets, of course, did not respond with words, but their synchronized humming seemed to offer a tentative –––

“aye.”

Then, Gladys cleared her throat.

“Now listen here, critters. We are not capable to talk your language, but I do know a thing or two about compromise. How ’bout a trade?”

There was a pause that lasted nearly two seconds in cricket time. A single cricket marched ahead. It tapped an abandoned sombrero with its leg, as if in silent agreement.

Buck, rubbing the bridge of his nose, grinned. He thought,

“I have to admit, this is just the most peculiar peace talk.”

It was indeed the most peculiar peace talk this side of a cactus convention.

The ceasefire was as fragile as the morning dew on the desert floor. For one mystical, humid moment, man and cricket reached an understanding.

Will this agreement hold? The Mexican Beagle Crickets and man—finally in harmony? Or will the crickets grow weary of salsa and develop a taste for avocado dip instead? Will a sudden craving for classic TV jingles like Sanford and Son or The Beverly Hillbillies derail the peace? And what happens when today’s senior citizens pass on—will the next generation need to renegotiate the whole deal? With only a few chapters left, Buck better hustle—answers aren’t going to find themselves!

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 6: The Mayor Declares War

August 2, 2025July 10, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

1–2 minutes

ONE STEP TOO FAR – TAKING OVER OF A TACO STAND

Mayor DeeDee Gonzalez wasn’t one to take a half-measure. Her town’s only claim to fame was a bug outbreak with a penchant for humming and line-dancing. Mexican beagle crickets had commandeered a taco stand once more. They also interrupted a high-stakes karaoke contest at the community center. She had had enough.

The emergency meeting took place in the town hall. Chairs were hastily arranged in a circle. The table was littered with half-eaten enchiladas. The Mayor banged her gavel with a determined clatter.

“Enough is enough!”

She declared.

“These pests have overstepped their bounds. As of now, martial law is declared on all cricket activity in Ajo!”

In a matter of minutes, local retirees received “bug defense kits.” These kits featured oversized flyswatters and garden hoses. They also included homemade “cricket deterrent” spray (an odd blend of cactus juice and a hint of mint). The newly minted “deputies” marched down Main Street. The Beagle Cricket Brigade paused their evening serenade. It was as if to say, “They brought reinforcements!”

Buck, watching from the window of the Impala, smirked.

“Now that’s what you call bugging out,”

He muttered. He anticipated the chaos. It would ensue when a troop of seniors met a swarm of rhythmic insects.

How dare they! A Taco Stand? Those evil Beagle Crickets! It is only a matter of time before someone is called to main street for a shootout at high noon. But, will Buck’s aim hit something as small as a cricket in a shootout? Would the crime fighter be outmatched by crickets? Or will they challenge him to Karaoke sing off?

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 5: Heatstroke and Hallucinations

August 1, 2025July 10, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–4 minutes

Other Strange Sightings In The Desert

Buck Milford wasn’t the type to complain. He’d driven through sandstorms. He had broken up fistfights at quilt raffles. Once, he gave a field sobriety test to a goat wearing sunglasses. That day was different. The Arizona sun scorched the earth like a microwave set on vengeful. Even Buck was close to breaking.

The heat index had hit 127. A road sign melted. Melted. The “SLOW CHILDREN AT PLAY” sign now reads “OW.”

Buck had parked his cruiser under the only tree between Ajo and Yuma. It was a desperate little mesquite. It looked like it had made some poor life choices. He sipped water from his melted ice chest and tilted his hat over his forehead.

That’s when he saw Elvis.

Plain as day.

Standing next to the patrol car, wearing a powder-blue jumpsuit and holding a chili dog.

“Elvis?”

Buck mumbled.

“That you?”

Elvis gave him a nod.

“It’s hot out here, hoss.”

Buck blinked.

“I must’ve been out in the sun too long…”

Suddenly, another figure emerged from behind the tree.

Skinny. Nervous. Clutching a clipboard and a sheriff’s badge held on by Scotch tape.

“Buck! Buck, there’s been a violation!”

The man squeaked.

“A code triple-seven! Unlicensed harmonica discharge in a non-musical zone!”

Buck sat up straight.

“Barney Fife?”

It was indeed Barney Fife. Or instead, it was someone who looked, sounded, and panicked exactly like Don Knotts. This person was holding a ticket book the size of a Bible.

Barney fumbled with his pen.

“Now, now, Buck, I don’t want any trouble, but this whole desert’s outta code. These crickets! The yodeling! There’s dancing! Dancing, Buck! It’s indecent!”

Buck stood up, swaying slightly.

“Barney, are you… real?”

Barney narrowed his eyes.

“As real as a jelly doughnut on a Wednesday morning, Trooper. Now I’m gonna need you to confiscate Carl Sandlin’s banjo and suspend his taco license—right away!”

Behind them, Elvis leaned against the cruiser and took a bite of his chili dog.

“Let the boy yodel, Barney.”

“I will not!”

Barney barked.

“This is law and order, not Hee Haw Live!”

At that moment, Carl himself drove by in a dune buggy. It was covered in tinfoil and wind chimes. He waved like a parade marshal.

“I’m playin’ at dawn!”

Carl shouted.

“Bring earplugs or bring maracas!”

Barney turned purple.

“I’ll have his badge!”

Buck stared in stunned silence.

A cricket landed on his shoulder and began humming ––

“Love Me Tender.”

The next thing Buck remembered was being propped up in a folding chair outside the Ajo gas station. A bag of frozen peas was on his forehead. He had a bottle of Gatorade in each hand.

“You passed out cold.”

Said Melba, the station clerk, who also claimed to be a licensed Reiki therapist.

“Said something about Elvis, Barney Fife, and indecent line dancing.”

Buck blinked.

“I didn’t… wrestle Carl off a unicycle, did I?”

“Not today.”

Buck took a long drink, sighed, and muttered,

“I’m starting to think this desert has a sense of humor.”

A Desert with a sense of humor? Barney Fife? Elvis? Our Crime Fighter has been out in the nether regions of the Sonoran Desert too long. That, or he sees dead people. Whatever it’s going to lead to, it’s another exciting story of Arizona’s most famous crime fighter, Buck Milford! That Mexican Beagle Cricket is sorta cute, isn’t it?

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 3: The Great Desert Bacon Fire

July 30, 2025July 9, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

The Ring of Fire

If there was one thing Arizona didn’t need more of, it was heat.

But if there was one thing Arizonans couldn’t resist, it was a challenge.

Influencer Lacey Blu—a 24-year-old “solar chef” with 1.2 million followers and zero life experience—announced she’d be filming a bacon-cooking demonstration. Doing so on the hood of her Tesla at high noon. Trooper Buck Milford knew it was going to be a long day. Especially since Teslas were along way off from being invented.

“Cooking with the sun is so sustainable,”

she chirped into her phone.

“And so am I! #SizzleWithLace #SolarSnackQueen”

She parked off Highway 85 near a dead saguaro. She laid out her cookware—an iron skillet, three strips of thick-cut hickory bacon, and a side of emotional entitlement.

Buck arrived just as the bacon began to curl. He was curious about the cell phone since those too were new to this century. They were at least twenty five years from being even a brick phone.

“I’m gonna need you to step away from the car, ma’am,”

he said, tipping his hat.

“It’s 119 degrees, and your bacon grease just started a brush fire the size of a toddler’s birthday party.”

Lacey didn’t look up.

“Sir, this is my content.”

Behind her, a small flame began creeping across the sand toward a long-abandoned outhouse that somehow also caught fire. A confused jackrabbit ran out holding what looked like a burning flyer for a 1997 monster truck rally.

“Content’s one thing,”

Buck said, reaching for his fire extinguisher,

“but that yucca plant’s fixin’ to blow like a Roman candle.”

Just then, Carl Sandlin appeared on an electric scooter with a garden hose coiled like a lasso.

“I saw the smoke!”

he cried.

“Is it aliens again? Or someone makin’ fajitas?”

Buck didn’t answer. He was too busy putting out the bacon blaze while Lacey livestreamed the whole thing.

“Look, everyone!”

she squealed to her followers.

“This is Officer Cowboy. He’s putting out the fire I started! So heroic!”

Carl joined in, spraying more bystanders than actual flames.

“We got trouble, Buck! The beagle crickets are back. They were hummin’ ‘Jailhouse Rock’ this time!”

Buck finished dousing the car. He shook the foam off his arms. He wiped a trail of sweat from his forehead. It had been working its way toward his belt buckle since 10 a.m.

“Well, Carl, if the crickets are Elvis fans now, we’re all in trouble.”

The bacon was ruined. The hood of the Tesla had buckled like a soda can. And the only thing Lacey cared about was that the foam had splattered her ring light.

“You just cost me a brand deal!”

she snapped at Buck.

“I was working with MapleFix! It’s the official bacon of heatwave influencers!”

Buck gave her a long, flat stare.

“You can mail your complaints to the Arizona Department of Common Sense.”

That night, the local paper ran the headline:

INFLUENCER IGNITES BACON BLAZE; TROOPER BUCK SAVES CACTUS AND PRIDE
— Saguaro Sentinel, pg. 3 next to coupon for 2-for-1 tarpaulin boots.

The Mexican beagle crickets showed up that night, as always. This time, they hummed Ring of Fire.

The Sonoran Desert’s Buck Milford – Chapter 2: Carl and the UFO Porta-Potty

July 29, 2025July 9, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

Buck’s Response To Mile Marker 88

Buck had just finished adjusting the old police scanner. It had been playing reruns of Hee Haw for the last hour. Suddenly, his radio crackled to life.

“Unit 12, please respond. Caller at mile marker 88 reports a suspicious hovering object. Caller believes it is extraterrestrial. Or a reflective commode. Please advise.”

Buck sighed and reached for his hat, which had molded to the dashboard like a forgotten tortilla.

“Lord help us,”

he muttered.

“If this is Carl again, I’m asking for hazard pay.”

Carl Sandlin, local yodeler and self-certified UFOlogist, had a unique reputation. It’s one you earn from a lifetime of heatstroke. Add to that expired beef jerky. Lastly, he had a mother who named him after her favorite brand of tooth powder.

Buck shifted the Impala into drive and pulled away from the shade of a sagging mesquite tree. The tires made a sound like frying bacon as they peeled off the scorched asphalt.

When he reached mile marker 88, Carl stood there. He was shirtless, shoeless, and sunburned. Carl was waving a fishing net wrapped in tin foil like a broken butterfly catcher.

“There it is, Buck!”

Carl bellowed.

“Hoverin’ just above my taco stand for forty-five minutes. Scared off my lunchtime crowd. Even the iguanas cleared out!”

Buck squinted toward the horizon. Sure enough, something metallic shimmered in the distance. It wobbled slightly in the heatwaves, casting a strange, shiny glow.

“You mean that thing?”

Buck asked, pointing.

Carl nodded so hard his hat flew off.

“Absolutely. That’s either an alien escape pod or a deluxe Porta-John.”

Buck pulled binoculars from his glove compartment, which were so fogged up with heat condensation they doubled as kaleidoscopes. After rubbing them on his sleeve, he focused in.

“…That’s a new solar-powered PortaCooler,”

he said finally.

“The highway crew’s been installing them for the road workers. It’s got misting fans, Bluetooth, and a cactus-scented air freshener.”

Carl squinted, unimpressed.

“You sure it ain’t Martian technology? Smells like sassafras and bad decisions over there.”

Buck stepped out of his patrol car, the soles of his boots sticking to the pavement with every step.

“Carl, unless the Martians are unionized and drive state-issued work trucks, I’m pretty sure they’re not putting in restrooms. Those restrooms aren’t off Route 85.”

Just then, as if to punctuate the point, a group of Mexican beagle crickets marched across the road. All in unison. All humming the Andy Griffith Show theme at exactly 2:15 p.m.

Carl froze.

Buck froze.

Even the misting PortaCooler froze up and made a high-pitched wheeze like it, too, was creeped out.

Carl whispered,

“You reckon they’re trying to send a message?”

Buck tipped his hat back and said,

“Only message I’m gettin’ is that we need stronger bug spray… and fewer heat hallucinations.”

The crickets finished their tune, executed a perfect pivot, and disappeared into the desert brush.

Carl crossed his arms.

“I still say that cooler’s alien.”

Buck opened the door to his cruiser and called over his shoulder.

“Well, if they are aliens, they’re better at plumbing than our city council.”

He chuckled as he pulled away, leaving Carl saluting the shimmering cooler like it was the mother ship.

The Grand Tour of Heartbreak and Hope: A Country Ballad in the Courtroom

June 15, 2025June 15, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

How Vern, George, and Randy Saved a Marriage (Almost)

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

3–4 minutes

“The Country-Fried Defense”

***_{^{That just about does it, don’t it?}}*** _{^{Step Right up Come On In!}}

The Honorable Judge Bledsoe peered over his glasses, clearly unimpressed. “Mr. Rawlins, you understand this is a legal proceeding, not the Grand Ole Opry?”

“Yes, Your Honor,”

Said Henry Rawlins. He stood tall in his dusty boots and bolo tie. One hand rested on a weathered Bible. The other clutched a crumpled lyric sheet.

Across the courtroom, his soon-to-be ex-wife, Sherry Lynn, sat rigid in her seat, her lawyer whispering furiously in her ear. Henry’s lawyer had already given up and was sitting down, his face red, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

Henry cleared his throat.

“But if the court will allow, I’d like to offer my final statement in my own words. I would also like to include the words of a few gentlemen. They helped me understand what went wrong.”

A murmur passed through the courtroom.

Judge Bledsoe sighed.

“Mr. Rawlins, continue—briefly.”

Henry nodded, unfolding the page.

“Your Honor, I ain’t a lawyer. But I know pain, regret, and how a man can lose his way. And those feelings are best told not in legal briefs but in country songs. So I offer my case—in three verses and a broken heart.”

He stepped ahead.

“First, Vern Gosdin said it best: ‘That just about does it. That’ll just about kill it, won’t it?’ That’s what I said the day Sherry left. I came home to an empty house and a note by the coffee pot. Ten years of marriage, and it ended in one quiet goodbye.”

He turned to Sherry Lynn.

“I didn’t fight. I figured I’d already lost. And I didn’t blame her—not entirely. I hadn’t been easy to love.”

The courtroom was silent. Even the bailiff looked up from his crossword.

“Then,” Henry continued,

“I walked through what George Jones called ‘The Grand Tour.’ I opened the closet and saw her dresses hangin’ like ghosts. Our baby’s room still had the mobile spinnin’ slow. The smell of her perfume lingered like a memory that didn’t know how to leave.”

Judge Bledsoe adjusted in his seat, then motioned for him to finish.

“But, Your Honor, here’s the thing. I almost didn’t show up here today. I nearly signed the papers and walked away. But then I heard Randy Travis singing. He was singing ‘On the Other Hand… there’s a golden band.’ It reminded me of someone who would not understand.”

Henry looked again at Sherry Lynn, softer now.

“On one hand, I messed up. I got too comfortable. I stopped listening. I stopped holding her when she needed to be held. But on the other hand, I still believe in us. That golden band still means something to me. Maybe I’m a fool for sayin’ this here in court. I’d rather fight to fix it. I won’t stand here and let it all go to hell while quoting country songs.”

He folded the paper, tucked it into his jacket, and looked down.

“I rest my case.”

A pause. Then Judge Bledsoe leaned back in his chair.

“Well,”

he said slowly,

“I’ve been on this bench for twenty-three years. I’ve heard lawyers argue using everything from scripture to Shakespeare. But, I’ve never heard anyone use Vern Gosdin.”

The judge turned to Sherry Lynn.

“Mrs. Rawlins, do you still wish to continue with the divorce?”

She was silent for a moment. Her expression softened as she looked at Henry—looked at him—for the first time in months.

“I… I don’t know,”

She said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“But maybe we should talk. Not here. Somewhere real.”

Judge Bledsoe smiled faintly.

_{^{But, on the other hand…The George, Vern and Randy Plea.}}

“Court is adjourned.”

As the gavel fell, Henry turned to Sherry Lynn.

“There’s a little diner down the road,”

He said.

“We used to get cherry pie there after church.”

She nodded.

“Maybe one slice… on the other hand.”

The Story Behind Operation Lawn Flamingo

June 10, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

“Operation Lawn Flamingo”

_{^{Photo by Jeffry S.S. on Pexels.com}}

In the summer of 1963, the hottest thing in the small town of Hickory Bluff wasn’t the weather—it was Mrs. Bonnie Ledbetter’s yard.

She’d just returned from a week in Florida. She unveiled her latest acquisition with grand ceremony. In one hand, she held a glass of instant iced tea. Her latest acquisition was a pair of bright pink plastic flamingos. They were staked proudly beside her birdbath like sentinels of suburbia.

“They’re classy,”

she declared.

“Very Palm Beach.”

This declaration ignited a cold war of lawn decor on Dogwood Lane.

Mr. Gilmore, her neighbor, responded with a gnome holding a fishing pole. Mrs. Thornton countered with a ceramic frog playing a banjo. By August, the entire block looked like a cross between a garden center clearance bin and a fever dream.

But it was eleven-year-old Joey Timmons who took things to the next level.

Armed with a flashlight, a wagon, and a deep appreciation for chaos, Joey launched what he called “Operation Lawn Flamingo.” On a moonless night, he crept from house to house, relocating Mrs. Ledbetter’s flamingos in increasingly absurd places. One was discovered straddling the mailbox. The other was found lounging in the birdbath, wearing doll sunglasses.

^{_{Photo by Guillaume Meurice on Pexels.com}}

Mrs. Ledbetter was baffled but undeterred. She blamed squirrels.

Joey’s nightly missions escalated. The flamingos were soon photographed perched on the church steeple, tied to Mr. Gilmore’s TV antenna, and once—legend says—riding tandem on a neighbor’s Schwinn. Each time, they were quietly returned to the yard by sunrise.

But one morning, they were gone.

Panic swept Dogwood Lane. Mrs. Ledbetter posted hand-drawn fliers. Mr. Gilmore offered a $5 reward. The town paper ran a headline: “Fowl Play Suspected in Flamingo Heist.”

Days later, on Labor Day, the mystery was solved. A float in the town parade rolled by, sponsored by the hardware store. There they were—Bonnie’s flamingos—crowned with tinsel, waving from a kiddie pool atop a hay wagon.

Joey Timmons was soaked in sweat and joy. He rode behind them in a cowboy hat. He was grinning like a kid who had just outwitted the world.

Mrs. Ledbetter crossed her arms and muttered,

“Well, I suppose they are getting some sun.”

After the parade, she let Joey keep one of the flamingos. The other still stood guard in her yard until the day she died.

Joey’s been mayor of Hickory Bluff for twelve years now.

Some say he still keeps the flamingo in his office.

Twila Elouise: The ‘Standard Oil Baby’ and Her Amazing Birth Story

May 22, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures

3–4 minutes

A Frightening, Comical, and Hostile Ride: The Birth of Twila Elouise

By early June of 1960, Oklahoma’s summer heat had already settled in, pressing down across the vast plains. In Oklahoma City, JD Groff attended a convention of oil producers. He was representing Standard Oil Company alongside his superior. His superior was a man named Harold. Harold had a reputation for being both respected and heavy-handed with a whiskey glass.

Meanwhile, back in Clinton, JD’s wife Marjorie—known to family and friends as Margie—had decided to stay home during JD’s trip. Margie had four children already—Sheldon, Terry, Dennis, and Juli. She wanted to stay close to JD’s sister and brother-in-law. They could quickly step in and help with the kids if she needed to go to the hospital. It was a decision made with foresight and care, and as it turned out, it was the right one.

On June 2, Margie went into labor.

Her calm steadiness defined her actions. She went to the hospital, and the children were safely in good hands. Virgil Downing, her son-in-law, knew that JD needed to be reached quickly. He called the hotel in Oklahoma City. The oil convention was being held there. He had the front desk page, JD Groff.

“They called my name right in the middle of the banquet,”

JD later recalled.

“Everything stopped. I knew right then — it was time.”

JD bolted from the room, his heart pounding and his hands reaching for his keys when Harold intercepted him.

“You’re not driving,”

Harold slurred, wagging a finger.

“You’ll crash the damn car. You’re too excited, Groff. I’ll take you.”

JD tried to argue and pry the keys back, insisting that Harold should not drive. He even asked him multiple times to pull over. They should then switch places. Harold refused every time. He repeated with drunken certainty that he was the safer choice.

“You’ll wrap us around a tree,”

Harold barked, gripping the wheel with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other.

“You’re gonna be a daddy tonight, shaking too much to steer.”

A two-hour rollercoaster ride across the Oklahoma highways followed. It was a journey that JD would remember for the rest of his life.

“He passed cars on the left, passed them on the right,”

JD said later.

“He cussed at every truck, hollered at every red light, and nearly rear-ended a tractor. At one point, he tried lighting a cigar while doing 80 down a back road.”

As JD would describe,

“frightening, comical, and hostile all at once.”

By some miracle, they made it to Clinton in one piece. JD leaped from the car, bolted into the hospital, and made it to Margie’s side just in time.

That evening, on June 2, 1960, their daughter was born: Twila Elouise Groff.

JD had already picked the name. Twila for its soft, lyrical sound. Elouise served as a tribute to the Groff family lineage. This name stretched back to the family’s Swiss heritage. It was carried by strong women long before the Groffs ever set foot in America.

Twila’s birth quickly became more than a family milestone — it became a local legend.

In the next weeks and months, oil producers stopped by JD’s Standard Oil station in Clinton. Sales associates also visited. Colleagues from the convention came by as well. They checked in.

“How’s the baby?”

They’d ask.

“Did Harold drive you the whole way like a bat out of hell?”

Before long, the story had taken on a life of its own. Twila became affectionately known among oil company executives as

“The Standard Oil Baby.”

Her name would be mentioned at future conventions and meetings across Oklahoma. JD’s wild ride—and Twila’s prompt arrival—became an industry folklore, retold with laughter, awe, and camaraderie.

Years later, when new sales associates came through Clinton, they’d stop in and say,

“Is this where the Standard Oil Baby lives?”

And JD, with that familiar half-smile, would nod proudly and say,

“Yes, sir. That’s her.”

Cyclops in the Freezer: A Police Investigation Unfolds

February 25, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

4–6 minutes

Officer Christopher Cain and Officer William Fife had only been with the department briefly. Max Hinkle and Loyd Mavis’s senior officers often supported them on calls. They ensured the rookies didn’t get in over their heads.

That night, the fog was thicker than the young officers had ever seen. It clung to the streets like a dense blanket, reducing visibility to barely a few feet before their patrol unit. The radio crackled to life, and their dispatcher’s voice cut through the eerie stillness.

“Unit 17 and Unit 23 respond to 809 South Beaver Street. Caller reports strange occurrences and possible screaming.”

The call came in, and without hesitation, the officers prepared to face the unknown.

The mention of strange occurrences and possible screaming on Beaver Street sent a shiver down their spines. The street was lined with old, looming houses, most of which had seen better days. This location stood out as a towering two-story relic. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the Addams Family home from television.

The officers pulled up, the house’s silhouette barely visible through the fog. A black cat let out a piercing yowl as they exited the patrol car and bolted past them. Both officers jumped, reaching instinctively for their sidearms. Their senior partners, standing beside them, chuckled.

“Calm down, boys,”

Sgt. Mavis said, shaking his head.

“You watch too many TV shows.”

Still feeling their hearts pound, Cain and Fife took a deep breath. Mavis folded his arms.

“Did either of you catch what the call was about?”

“Uh, something about strange occurrences,”

Fife answered, regaining his composure.

“And screaming.”

Mavis raised an eyebrow.

“Screaming, huh? Alright, let’s do this by the book. You two take the front. Hinkle and I will check around back. Keep your radios on.”

Cain and Fife stepped onto the warped wooden porch and rapped the door. A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing a frail-looking older woman with white curls piled atop her head. She smiled sweetly, her blue eyes twinkling.

“Oh my, what a surprise! I didn’t expect officers at this hour,” she said in a thin, airy voice. “Please, do come in.”

The officers hesitated but, after protocol, stepped inside. The house smelled of mothballs and something faintly metallic. Antique lamps dimly lit the interior, their glow barely pushing back the shadows.

Cain glanced around, feeling a chill prickle his skin.

“Ma’am, we received a call about disturbing noises from this house. Have you heard anything unusual?”

The older woman chuckled softly.

“Oh, I suppose you mean the screaming?”

Fife shifted uneasily.

“Yes, ma’am. Can you tell us about that?”

Fife asked, his voice betraying his unease. The older woman chuckled softly, her response sending a chill down their spines.

The woman clasped her hands together, her expression turning solemn.

“Oh dear, I’m afraid it’s quite the story. You see, it’s my late husband. He doesn’t always know when to keep quiet.”

Cain frowned.

“Your late husband?”

“Yes, yes,”

She said, waving a frail hand.

“Come with me. I’ll show you.”

She turned and shuffled toward the kitchen. Cain and Fife exchanged a glance before trailing. As they entered the room, the smell of something foul hit them—a sickly, sweet, decaying odor. The woman pointed toward an old, industrial-sized freezer in the corner.
Fife hesitated.

“Ma’am, what exactly are we about to see?”

The older woman gave a thin smile.

“Oh, just an old guest who overstayed his welcome.”

Cain swallowed and slowly stepped ahead. He gripped the handle, feeling the frostbite at his fingertips, and lifted the lid.

A massive humanoid form lay frozen inside the ice and frost-covered meat. Its single, lidless eye remained open in an eternal stare.

Cain recoiled.

Cain recoiled in shock, his mind struggling to process what he saw.

“Jesus H. Christ!”

He exclaimed, his voice trembling with disbelief.

Fife staggered back, radioing for backup.

The older woman let out a sigh.

“Oh dear. I’ll have to explain.”

Mavis and Hinkle burst through the back door, weapons drawn.

“What the hell’s going on?”

Mavis demanded.

Fife pointed at the freezer, his face pale.

“There’s a goddamn cyclops in there.”

Hinkle blinked.

“A what?”

Cain barely found his voice.

“A real, honest-to-God cyclops. Dead. Frozen solid.”

Mavis exhaled sharply and turned to the older woman.

“Ma’am, you’d better start talking. Now.”

She folded her hands.

“Oh, it’s time someone knew. Freezer Boy wasn’t from around here, you see. He came looking for refuge long ago. Poor thing couldn’t adapt. He started getting ––– hungry. My husband and I did what we had to.”

Cain felt his blood run cold.

“And what exactly did you have to do?”

She looked at him with a knowing smile.

“We fed him. Until we couldn’t anymore.”

The room fell into silence. The fog outside thickened, swirling like ghosts against the windows.

And somewhere, deep within the house, another scream echoed.

And it wasn’t human.

“What was that?

Sgt. Davis yelled.

“Who? Who was that, Sergeant? Barry, That was Barry.”

She said,

Sargent Davis asked

“What is up with Barry?”

“He keeps falling out of his crib.”

As the five people went up to the room to look at Barry, the little old lady warned them –

“you were startled at what you saw in the freezer. I don’t know how you will react when you see Barry!”

The Officers asked the old lady whatever became of her late husband. She explained that he died of natural causes. Barry and Freezer Boy fought over who got to eat him. That is how Freezer Boy ended up frozen.

“Poor Freezer Boy never saw it coming, but those two saved me thousands in funeral expenses!”

The Great Bison Incident: A True Survival Story

February 20, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

3–4 minutes

The Great Bison Incident (A True Story)

Carney had no idea what his neighbor, Ted Ortiz, had done. Ted had recently purchased what everyone around here called a buffalo—though, technically, they were bison. His grand idea? Cross-breeding the massive bull with his cattle. What is there to go wrong?

That morning, Carney had spent hours plowing one of his fields. When he finally finished, he hopped down from his tractor. He stretched his back and pulled out his packed lunch—a simple sandwich and a thermos of water. After a few quick gulps, he was ready to tackle the next field.

He set off across the pasture, taking his usual shortcut. Halfway across, he heard a deep, rumbling snort behind him. At first, he figured it was just one of Ted’s cows and kept walking. But then he noticed something—the snorting sound was moving with him.

Carney turned around and froze.

A massive, very annoyed bull bison stood just a few yards away. And Carney had unknowingly interrupted the beast’s afternoon of affection.

The bison pawed the ground, snorted louder, and locked eyes with Carney. He had seconds to decide—fall, play dead, or run like hell. He chose the latter.

Now, Carney was in his fifties. He was not exactly a sprinter, but he moved like an Olympic athlete when faced with a furious bison. His only hope was a nearby tree. He scrambled up, arms and legs flailing, barely reaching a branch as the bull slammed into the trunk below.

Unfortunately, Carney had picked the wrong tree.

It was dead.

The bison rammed it again. The whole thing groaned and wobbled. Carney had two choices—jump and run or ride the tree down like a doomed cowboy in a slow-motion disaster.

So he jumped. And ran.

And here’s where things took an unexpected turn.

Carney swears he made it to the fence, jumped over, and escaped without a scratch. But according to the newspaper, the story went a little differently.

The article claimed that the bison knocked the tree over after Carney hit the ground. Then it turned its fury back on him. Carney had no other options. He did the only thing he thought possible. He dropped to the ground. His face was down in the dirt, and he played dead.

The bison approached, snorting, its heavy breath huffing across Carney’s back. It sniffed his head. His shoulders. His boots. Then, it reached his backside—and suddenly, something changed.

The bull gagged.

Its eyes watered, and its massive body trembled. The mighty beast gave a final snort of disgust. It turned its tail and bolted. The beast ran away as fast as its hooves carried it.

Carney, shaking but victorious, got to his feet and went to the other field. Before plowing, he had to detour into the nearest creek. He needed to scrub off whatever offended that bison so severely.

The newspaper never revealed its source for this version of events, but everyone had their suspicions. Most believed the town barber had something to do with it. After all, most of the town’s best stories started in his shop.

To this day, the Great Bison Incident resurfaces whenever the local men need a good laugh. It is a legendary reminder that sometimes survival comes down to sheer luck, including an unfortunate choice in lunch. It’s a tale that never fails to entertain.

This is a true story. The names have been changed to protect the privacy of those in real life.

The Evolution of Fun: From Classic TV to Modern Joys

February 5, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–4 minutes

GOOD TIMES REMEMBERED

For many, the good times meant youth spent without barriers. Kids rode bicycles freely around town or through the countryside. They explored wherever curiosity led. They just had to be home before dark or by 10 p.m. It was when running to a friend’s house, unannounced was safe. It felt just as natural for them to show up at yours. We all cherish that time of freedom and spontaneity.

Your version of the good times began when you got first place as a young adult. You also got hooked up to cable television. Gone were the days of only three channels. Now, there were forty or more. Channels like MTV, HBO, and SHOWTIME offered endless entertainment. Some kept their televisions locked on MTV 24/7, not wanting to miss the latest music video premiere. The phrase “I want my MTV” wasn’t just a slogan; it was a way of life.

Icons like Downtown Julie Brown, Max Headroom, Randy of the Redwoods, and JJ Jackson became daily companions. They guided audiences through interviews and music video countdowns. These shows entertained us and shaped our memories, creating connection and nostalgia.

Yet, while MTV rocked for many, others fondly recall Saturday mornings. They spent time with classic cartoon characters. They watched Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, Daffy Duck, and Yosemite Sam. Or they enjoyed Speedy Gonzales, the Flintstones, or the Jetsons. These beloved characters live on today, often appearing in rebranded forms and often in commercials that spark nostalgia.

For earlier and later generations, laughter came from entertainers like Pinky Lee or Pee-wee Herman. In the 1950s, Pinky Lee brought his lively antics to television. He appeared first in a primetime variety show. Later, he starred in a children’s program sponsored by Tootsie Roll. His Emmy-nominated show paved the way for future quirky entertainers. Pee-wee Herman was one of them. His distinctive gray Glen plaid suit, red bow tie, and eccentric persona owed much to Lee’s energetic style.

Beyond television, the good times existed in life’s simple pleasures. One was the crackle of a baseball game on the radio during a warm summer evening. Another was the scent of fresh popcorn at a drive-in theater. The excitement of getting that first car was thrilling. Sheer will and a little duct tape held it together.

For some, the best times were spent playing Pac-Man and Donkey Kong in arcade halls. They also glided across the roller rink beneath spinning disco lights. Others made mixtapes from the radio. They hoped the DJ wouldn’t talk over the intro of a favorite song. Others remember cruising on a Saturday night, windows down, music blasting, with no destination—just the pure joy of freedom.
The good times were about more than the entertainment we consumed. They were about the people we shared them with. Families gathered around holiday meals. Friends packed into a car for a spur-of-the-moment road trip. Conversations under a star-filled sky became treasured late-night memories.

Each generation has its version of the good times. These moments shape us and leave lasting impressions. They bring smiles long after they’ve passed. No matter what era you look back on, one thing is sure. The good times do not last forever. But they always roll on in our hearts. They create a sense of continuity and belonging.

What is your favorite best-of-times recollection?

Why Walter Higby Makes You Smile

January 29, 2025Benjamin3 Comments

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

1–2 minutes

There once was a man named Walter Higby. He traveled from town to town. He wore a tweed coat and a bowler hat. He also carried a cane he didn’t need. Walter was a whimsical figure. He had a peculiar habit. He greeted everyone the same way. This added a touch of whimsy to their lives.

“You do,”

he would say with a sly smile.

Usually caught off guard, the person would blink in confusion.

“What?”

“You remind me of a man,”

Walter would continue.

“Who do?”

The person would ask, leaning in, curious now.

“You do,”

Walter would insist, tapping his cane on the ground for emphasis.

The other person would reply,

“I do?”

Which Walter would say,

“No, you do.”

And the reply would be,

“What?”

Which Walter would, in return, say,

“Remind me of a man.”

By this point, the conversation had become a swirling, nonsensical loop, leaving the other person chuckling or scratching their head. Walter never explained why he did it, nor did he ever stay long enough for anyone to figure him out.

One day, a young boy named Tommy stops Walter before he can walk away. “Mister, why do you say that to people?”

Walter looked down at Tommy and grinned. “Because it makes them think, and it makes them smile. That’s enough, don’t you think?”

Tommy thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Walter tipped his hat, tapped his cane, and continued down the road. He was ready to meet the next unsuspecting stranger with his playful riddle. The man spoke in circles and kept wandering, leaving a trail of puzzled and amused people in his wake.

Time-Travel Adventures in a Cozy Home

January 27, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

Jane and Mark lived in a cozy little house on a quiet street in nowhere. The house had a white picket fence. A porch swing creaked with every breeze was also part of the house. Life was simple and predictable—until the night the sky split open.

It happened just after dinner. A brilliant ray of golden light shot down from the heavens. It struck the roof of their home with a silent flash. Jane screamed, dropping her fork, while Mark rushed to the window, heart pounding, their minds filled with fear and confusion.

“What was that?” Jane whispered, staring at the glowing beam. It pulsed briefly, then faded away, leaving no trace but a faint shimmer.

They inspected the house, finding no damage, burns, or explanation. But they soon discovered the truth in the strangest way possible.

The next day, Mark walked out to grab the newspaper, and when he stepped back inside, Jane gasped. Jane saw a man in medieval armor standing in the doorway. His eyes were wide with confusion. It wasn’t her husband in his sweatpants and T-shirt.

“Mark?” she stammered.

“Jane! What –– what happened?” Mark looked down at the polished steel covering his chest and arms. “I was outside, and when I came back ––– this happened!”

Jane grabbed his hand and pulled him in. “We need to call someone.”

But before they could dial, their neighbor, Mrs. Clarkson, walked in uninvited, as she often did. When she crossed the threshold, her modern blouse and skirt changed into a flapper dress. Her gray hair was pinned into 1920s finger waves. “My word!” she exclaimed, waving a cigarette holder she didn’t own.

Mark and Jane exchanged terrified glances. Their house was cursed or enchanted or something far beyond their understanding.

Over the next few days, they experimented with the strange phenomenon. Stepping outside and re-entering would send them hurtling through time. Sometimes, they found themselves in ancient Rome. Other times, they landed in the Wild West. Occasionally, they encountered an unsettlingly dystopian future. Even Otis, their golden retriever, came trotting back inside with a Victorian-era bonnet tied to his head.

Jane kept a notebook. “Day three: Entered as myself, exited as a 1970s disco queen. Mark walked in as a cowboy. Not great.”

Eventually, they learned some rules. The effect only lasted while they were inside. Stepping back outside would revert them to their usual selves. But the moment anyone crossed the threshold again, the house chose another era at random.

It wasn’t long before the military took notice. When government agents approached their door, Jane panicked and tried to warn them. “Please, don’t come in!”

Too late. Five suited men instantly transformed into Renaissance courtiers with feathered hats and ruffled collars. “What sorcery is this?” one muttered, spinning in circles.

Mark sighed. “You’re gonna want to take this one up with NASA.”

Despite the chaos, they refused to leave. Strange as it was, the house was still their home. They learned to adapt. They stored era-appropriate clothing in a chest by the door. They prepared themselves for anything from caveman furs to futuristic bodysuits. This showed their resilience and courage in the face of the unknown.

In time, they found unexpected joys in their predicament. They hosted Gatsby-style parties, had tea with Victorian neighbors, and experienced life in eras they never imagined. Their sense of wonder and adventure grew with each new experience.

The little house with the picket fence became legendary. It served as a portal through time. In this house, history was just a step away. Mark and Jane embraced the adventure. After all, who wouldn’t want to live in a place where every day was a different century?

Harold Fenton: The Salesman Who Won Hearts

January 26, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

Harold Fenton was not the world’s most excellent salesman. If there were an award for persistence without progress, Harold would have won it year after year. His thick glasses always slid down his nose. He carried a briefcase that had seen better days. An ever-lasting mustard stain marked his tie. He wandered the same neighborhoods week after week. He sold an assortment of household knickknacks that nobody needed, but they bought them anyway.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jenkins!”

Harold greeted cheerfully as he stepped onto the well-trodden path to her front door.

“I have a brand-new shipment of vegetable peelers today! They’re sharper, sleeker, and—”

Mrs. Jenkins, a kindly woman in her sixties, smiled warmly.

“Why, Harold, I still have the five you sold me last month. But you know, one can never have too many peelers. Come on in.”

Harold beamed and entered, opening his battered case to show an array of matching peelers. Mrs. Jenkins sighed as she handed him a few bills. She tucked the latest addition into her kitchen drawer. The drawer now resembled a peeler museum.

Down the street, Mr. Thompson, a retired mechanic, nodded at Harold as he approached.

“Harold, my boy, back again? What do you have today?”

–––

“A fantastic deal on rubber jar openers!”

Harold declared with gusto.

“These bad boys can grip the tightest lids with ease.”

Mr. Thompson scratched his head.

“Well, I reckon I have about twenty of those in my drawer already, but why not?”

He chuckled, handing Harold a crumpled bill.

“You’re a persistent fella, I’ll give you that.”

Each household in the neighborhood had its own Harold collection. The Henderson’s had a mountain of Harold’s lint rollers stacked neatly in their laundry room. The Patel family had so many of his never-fail can openers that their entire garage shelf was dedicated to them. And the Cranstons? They jokingly called their basement “Harold’s Home Shopping Network.” It was filled with enough potato mashers to start a catering business.

But no one ever turned Harold away.

“He’s got such heart,”

Mrs. Jenkins often said over tea with the neighbors.

“Bless him. He tries so hard.”

One day, Harold arrived with a new product—a miracle mop he couldn’t figure out how to show.

“This mop… uh… well, you see, it swivels… I think. Or it wrings itself. Hold on, I had a pamphlet here somewhere…”

He fumbled with his case, papers spilling onto the sidewalk.

Mrs. Jenkins and Mr. Thompson exchanged a glance and quickly stepped in.

“We’ll take a few!”

They chimed in unison.

Harold left the neighborhood beaming, waving to everyone as he wheeled his suitcase down the block. He whistled a tune with the satisfaction of a man who believed in his mission.

And so the cycle continued. Week after week, Harold brought the same products with the same pitches. The residents kept buying. They did this not out of necessity but of fondness for the bumbling salesman. He brought a little charm and harmless chaos to their otherwise predictable days.

One day, as Harold left Mrs. Jenkins’ house, she whispered to Mr. Thompson,

“I sure hope he never realizes we’ve got enough peelers to last a lifetime.”

“He won’t,”

Mr. Thompson grinned.

“And even if he did, I’d still buy another one next week.”

With that, Harold walked down the road. He was ready to bring his boundless enthusiasm. He also carried a suitcase full of peelers to the next unsuspecting yet ever-welcoming home.

Everyone needs to meet a Harold in life.

The Opinionated Gentleman: “I used to like him before I heard what he had to say.”

January 11, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

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Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

Richard Pearce considered himself a fair man, a gentleman of discernment. His friendships were plentiful, his network expansive, and his reputation as a conversationalist well-earned.

He had a knack for summing people up with a single statement, a phrase he used so often it had become a trademark:

“I used to like him before I heard what he had to say.”

It wasn’t meant to be cruel—at least, Richard didn’t think so. It was his way of assessing character, of sorting wheat from chaff. But those who knew him best saw it differently.

One sunny afternoon, Richard found himself at a small café in the park. A friend of a friend, Henry Townsend, joined him unexpectedly. Henry, a boisterous man with a ready laugh, was a newcomer to their social circle.

“I hear you’re a man of strong opinions, Richard,”

Henry said as he stirred his coffee.

Richard tilted his head, amused.

“I suppose you can say that. I have a good read on people.”

“Well, let’s see then. What do you think of me?”

Richard smiled politely, his eyes narrowing.

“You’re affable, sharp-witted… but prone to over-explanation.”

Henry laughed heartily.

“Fair enough! And what do you think about James Potter?”

Richard leaned back, swirling his tea.

“Ah, James. I used to like him before I heard what he had to say.”

Henry’s smile faltered.

“What did he say?”

“Oh, something about how he sees charity as a personal failing in those who accept it. Can you imagine? A man with such shallow views.”

Henry’s brows furrowed.

“Did you ask him why he thought that? Maybe he has a deeper story.”

Richard waved the thought away.

“One’s words show their heart, Henry. Why dig further?”

Months passed, and Richard’s circle seemed to shrink. The people he dismissed began avoiding him, and conversations grew shorter. Henry, nevertheless, remained a steadfast presence. One day, Richard couldn’t help but ask.

“Why do you stay, Henry? Surely, I’ve said something to offend you by now.”

Henry grinned.

“Oh, plenty of times! But if I left, you would not get the chance to hear what you haven’t heard yet.”

Richard frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“You write people off after hearing one thing. But people aren’t books you can skim, Richard. They’re libraries. If you only read one page, you miss the whole story.”

That evening, as Richard walked home alone, Henry’s words lingered. The café, once bustling with friendly faces, seemed quieter now. For the first time, Richard wondered if he’d been too quick with his judgment, too harsh with his words. He couldn’t help but think, —-

And he couldn’t help but think, ––––

And he couldn’t help but think, that he had been too quick to judge, too eager to dismiss. He couldn’t help but think ––––

I used to like myself before I heard what I had to say.

And, before I realized the impact of my words and the depth of my own biases.

There Once Was A Clown Named Ho Ho!

October 4, 2024October 4, 2024BenjaminLeave a comment

Ho-Ho the Clown, known to Oklahoma City children from the 1960s to the 1980s, was more than a TV character. Born Edward Birchall on July 16, 1923, in Colchester, Connecticut, he carried a heart of gold beneath his red nose and clown makeup. After serving in the Army Air Forces during WWII, Ed pursued his love of entertainment, eventually becoming the beloved Ho-Ho on KOCO-TV.

Behind the character, Ed Birchall was a regular dad raising six kids in Bethany, Oklahoma, with his wife, Beebe. Regina, one of his daughters, recalls him coming home with clown makeup smeared after a long day, trying to balance the unusual demands of being a full-time clown and father. His work often kept him away from family, but they later realized the personal sacrifices he made and how many lives he touched, instilling a deep sense of gratitude and respect.

For 29 years, Ho-Ho brought joy to children with shows like Lunch with Ho-Ho and Ho-Ho’s Showplace. His bright personality and whimsical sidekick, Pokey the Puppet, lit up local TV screens, helping him become a household name. Yet his role as an entertainer extended beyond the studio—Ed frequently visited children’s hospital wards, delighting patients with his warmth and humor. It wasn’t just his clowning that touched people; his kindness, dedication, and how he made every child feel seen.

When Ed passed in 1988, his funeral was a testament to his impact. It took three services to accommodate the thousands of well-wishers, including an honor guard of clowns. Ed Birchall’s legacy, carried on by his children and remembered by the community, continues to bring smiles to those who grew up with Ho-Ho’s charm, fostering a sense of belonging and shared memory among us all.

The Puppeteer Bill Howard Passed away On January 9th, 2013. Bill Howard, who entertained children as “Pokey the Puppet” on the Ho Ho the Clown show on KOCO in Oklahoma City, has died.

Echoes of Laughter: Nights at the Red Barn Café. ~ Cordell, Oklahoma 1968

August 13, 2024BenjaminLeave a comment

The sun dipped low over the plains, painting the sky with hues of yellow and burnt orange. As dusk embraced the town, a familiar buzz began to build around the old auction barn. Trucks and trailers, caked in red dirt, lined the gravel lot. The air was thick with the mingling scents of hay, leather, and anticipation. But as the final gavel fell and the last winning bidder of the last horse to sell walked up to the young gelding and led him away, the real excitement shifted just east of the heart of Cordell: The Red Barn Café.

Perched on the corner of Main and Elm, the café’s crimson façade glowed warmly under the neon sign that blinked “Open.” Its rustic wooden doors beckoned the weary and the jubilant alike. A symphony of clinking glasses, spirited chatter, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the room.

_{^{Photo is simulated image, it does not represent the actual design of the actual Red Barn in Cordell.}}

Tonight was no different.

Big Jake JD Groff, a seasoned auction hand with a penchant for tall tales and horse trader, sauntered in, his boots echoing on the worn wooden floor, followed by his son, Benjamin, age 6. Jake tipped his hat to Mary Lou, the ever-smiling waitress who’d been serving slices of pie and pots of coffee since anyone could remember.

“Evenin’, Mary Lou. Got any of that pecan pie left?” Jake drawled.

“For you, Two-Bit? Always,” she winked, scribbling his order.

At the corner booth, a group of cowboys huddled close, their hats resting on the table, revealing sweat-stained brows and sunburned necks. Among them was young Delmer Scott, with a bearded-faced and eager, attending his 100th auction. His eyes sparkled as he recounted his purchase. He was known to everyone as “Scott!”

“Got me a real beauty tonight,” Scott boasted, his voice brimming with pride. “A chestnut mare, strong legs, and a spirit that’d make the wind jealous.”

Jake, his best friend, said to him,

“‘You SOB, you bought a goddamn jackass, and you know it!”

Scott shot back, Groff,

“you lying bitch, you’re just jealous because you bought a goddamn nearly dead 30-year-old plow horse that is about to keel.”

Old Man Harris, a legend in these parts, chuckled softly, his grey mustache twitching.

“Son, every horse looks like a winner under those auction lights. Wait till you’re trying to saddle her on a cold morning.”

The table erupted in laughter, the kind that warms the soul. This type of banter draws crowds to the Red Barn after auctions every Saturday Night. The food and service are the icing on the cake.

Near the jukebox, which softly crooned Patsy Cline tunes, a group from out of state compared notes. They’d driven from Texas, lured by tales of the Cordell auctions. Amid shared stories and friendly ribbing, they marveled at the community’s camaraderie.

“It’s like we’ve known y’all our whole lives, if we may; it’s the damnest thing we ever saw!”

One of them mused, raising a mug of steaming coffee.

As the night wore on, tales grew taller. Jake recounted the time he supposedly outbid a millionaire from Tulsa with just “a wink and a handshake,” while Mary Lou swore she saw Elvis pass through town once, stopping by for a slice of her famous pie.

But beneath the banter and jest, there was an unspoken understanding. These nights at the Red Barn Café were more than just post-auction gatherings; they were the threads that wove the community together. In a rapidly changing world, where traditions faded, and new ways emerged, this little café stood as a testament to simpler times.

By 2:00 AM, as the crowd began to thin and the neon sign’s glow dimmed, the stories had been told, deals celebrated, and friendships fortified. Clutching a worn napkin filled with advice scribbled by his newfound mentors, Scott loved the warmth that had little to do with the strong coffee, but be damned if he’d ever say anything about it around Jake!

Benjamin stepped out into the fantastic night with his dad, Jake. He glanced back at the Red Barn Café, its silhouette etched against the starlit sky. Like so many before him, he knew those smoking, cussing, and storytelling friends who gathered had memories forged within their souls that would be cherished for a lifetime.

Decades later, the tales of Saturday nights at the Red Barn Café in Cordell, Oklahoma, would become legends as the world moved on. Stories of laughter, camaraderie, and the indelible spirit of a community bound by shared passions and dreams were only folktales of a time gone by; the Red Barn had been torn down, and its memory erased for generations. The true legends of those days are left to a few who remember Saturday Nights at the Red Barn Cafe in Cordell, Oklahoma!

Winning Big, By Realizing How Not To Spend It – A Jackpot In Vegas

July 30, 2024July 30, 2024BenjaminLeave a comment

Vernon and Bernice had traveled from Pumpkin Center, Oklahoma, to Las Vegas to attend a conference paid for by Bernice’s employer, the Magic Pipe Copper Company. The company was not involved in magic, pipes, or cups despite its name. Its primary function was to handle hotel bookings, changes, and cancellations. Any calls unrelated to these services got transferred to another company, Heads Turning Company, which was not affiliated with the Magic Pipe Copper Company.

Bernice’s conference was to begin tomorrow, and Vernon had saved for his part of the trip for nearly a year, knowing he would get to go about Las Vegas alone while Bernice attended the conference during the daytime. Bernice had told Vernon that she didn’t mind if he gambled but didn’t want him to go overboard and go broke. He promised her that he would tell her immediately if their finances changed. She told him that if you win something big, it better be enough for us to live forever because the company would probably fire me for it. She was kidding, but Vernon thought she was serious. He had read about a company in Russia that had all but killed an employee who won big in Las Vegas and tried to stay in the USA with their winnings. Vernon was from a small town and never caught on to the more significant influences of life.

As Bernice left for her conference, she kissed Vernon and said,

“You behave today, and we will go to the all-you-can-eat buffet tonight!”

He agreed and returned her kiss. After she left, Vernon hurried around, finished dressing, and checked his cash. He was sure he kept his big bills hidden. Some were in his zipper-hidden belt; some were in his socks under his feet and inside his shoes, and some were in a pocket hidden inside his waistband. Then he had a hundred and fifty folded into a money clip. In his wallet, he kept fifty-ones. To make it look like that was all his money should a robber hold him up. He checked the news for a quick update, and the headlines reported that a horse was blocking Fremont Street near downtown Las Vegas. Suitable for Vernon, he had planned to stay inside the casino most of the morning.

As Vernon left the couple’s hotel room, he double-checked to ensure he locked the room door and had the key card to get back in. Check. Everything was in order. Vernon walked to the elevator and proceeded to the ground floor.

The doors opened onto the Gaming Floor, and one-armed bandits were ringing and rolling, lights were flashing, and loud sounds were banging. All of the attractions caught Vernon’s attention and drew him in closer.

A lady sitting behind one of the machines screamed,

“I just won $1000!” and began jumping up and down.

A man a few rows over hollered,

“I won $100!”

Vernon thought, here I am with my money clip and $150. I have to see what I can win. Vernon sat down, put $20.00 in a slot machine, hit ‘bet everything,’ and rolled suddenly. The screen lit up with “JACKPOT,” and the machine went wild. Nothing came out of the machine, but the sounds were incredible. And people began crowding in around Vernon. People were making all kinds of gestures and comments; Vernon, not knowing what he had just done, said, I don’t know what happened; did I break it? A lady in the crowd said,

“Did you break it? Ha! HE WANTS TO KNOW IF HE BROKE IT”

The crowd erupted into laughter and cheers, their excitement palpable.

The lady replied to Vernon,

HONEY, you didn’t break it. You might have broken the house but didn’t break the machine. You just won a bunch of money—from the looks of things, you just won about Fifty Million Dollars!

Vernon was left in a state of shock. How did a mere $20 bill transform into this? And how was he going to break the news to his wife? He still needed to collect the money, but should he? These thoughts raced through Vernon’s mind when a man in a suit suddenly approached him.

Are you the one who played this machine?

Vernon replied,

Yes, I put in $20 and played, and it started doing this.

The man put a key into the machine, printed a paper, and told Vernon to come. The crowd cheered him as he left. The man took Vernon to the Hotel’s office and asked him to be seated. He then told Vernon that he had just won $92 million and asked if he would like that paid out in cash, check, or wired to his bank. The man told him the law requires him to pay taxes on the winnings, which the bank had already performed. That is why he was only getting $52 million. Vernon was speechless. He said his wife was attending a conference and asked if she had to pay her share too, and the man said no, this takes care of everything. Vernon said how about the business that she works for? Will they get any of it like the guy from Russia had to? The man laughed and said no, this is the United States; for now, with our form of government, those things do not happen here. However, if we allow the wrong people into leadership, that could easily change. So be careful of who you support when you go to vote.

Vern told the man he wanted all but twenty thousand deposited in their home banking account and would take the twenty thousand in cash. Vernon liked it in a bag that wouldn’t draw attention. So the man went to the casino and obtained shopping bags for children’s toys. He returned to the office and showed it to Vernon, letting him pick which bags he wanted to put money in. Then, Vernon left carrying twenty thousand dollars out of the office in children’s toy bags. Vernon returned to the hotel room and waited for Bernice to return from her conference.

At 4:00 PM, Bernice returned from her conference. Vernon asked if she was attending the sessions the next day. She said she was. He told her he had seen all he wanted of Las Vegas and was about ready to go home. She suggested he could surely play poker or slots tomorrow, or wondered if he might have lost all his money. Vernon explained he had not lost all his money, but they would be going home with more than they came with, and that is where he wanted to leave it.

Bernice said,

Let me go to the morning session, at least. There will be a bonus for us doing that. Lord knows we can use the money.

Vernon replied

You know we have all the money we need. More than we will ever need.

Bernice suggested he must have fallen and hit his head. Or he had been drinking the tall drinks the bartender was trying to sell because they always needed more cash come payday.

Vernon explained to her that has changed.

Today, Bernice, that all changed. I won a jackpot, and they put $52 million in our checking account and looked in these toy bags. That is the cash I kept for us to go home on.

Bernice nearly fainted as she looked at the cash and suggested he must have robbed a bank. He explained to her he had won on the first spin of the one-armed bandit and showed her a photo of him accepting the winnings at the hotel lobby. She pointed out they offered an increase in comfort for the two to experience, like a suite, free meals, and bar service. They were giving you a complete complimentary setup.

Vernon dryly said –––

They did, but I told them we already had this one paid for.

Bernice, shockingly looking amazed, –––

You know they would give you a suite and a nice upgrade for free.

Vernon, in his state of innocence, pleaded –––

You are the only sweet I want, and I don’t need to upgrade.

Bernice, looking defeated, thinking out loud –––

What do we need all that money for? You will always need help understanding how to use it.

Vernon agreed with her.

The moral of this story is that the people who win jackpots are rarely the ones who truly have any business access to one.

About that dinner on The River Banks At THe Olympics…A rednecks explanation of what was going on…

July 29, 2024BenjaminLeave a comment

Up and dated by the weekend guy B.S. Daily.

**Roman sarcophagus depicting the Triumph of Dionysus and the Seasons**

_{^{Jug used for cooling water into wine}}.

Well, let me tell you about Dionysus (y’all can just say “D”) in a way that’s as plain as a hog on ice. Dionysus (D) isn’t just some fancy-pants Greek fella; he’s the god of wine, parties, and having a good ol’ time. U know ‘getting shitfaced.’ Picture him like that one buddy who’s always ready to crack open a cold one and throw a rager out by the bonfire. Take it easy; you might think you be at your last supper, especially is shootin’ starts!

Now, Dionysus (D) ain’t just about drinkin’; he’s got a wild side too. He’s all ’bout lettin’ loose, dancin’ like nobody’s watchin’, and just forgettin’ all your troubles. He’s the life of the party, makin’ sure everyone’s havin’ a blast and feelin’ free as a bird. He’s got that divine touch, turnin’ water into wine and makin’ sure there’s always a good time to be had, showin’ his transformative power in every revelry, getting laid. He will have a long table so all his buds can be bellied up.

Many paintings in Renaissance art depict similar scenes of dudes and chicks gathered around a table for a feast. Many polaroids (photos) do the same in America, we call ’em bar-b-ques. ’em guys on the river bank didn’t have many ticks to get their point across, time was spiraling, especially if you’s a Badtist in Texas watchin’ da’t on TV or if you ain’t in jail – you phone.

So, if you ever wonder why folks love to gather around and get drunk, think of Dionysus (D). The French and Greek’s amit do it more than us’n’s. But if you don’t runn offt before the story is ended you’ll hear he’s the spirit of all those good times, reminding us that every now and then, it’s okay to cut loose, have a nip, fetch u a snort-full and enjoy the ride. Cheers to Dionysus (D), the god of gettin’ down and having a heck of a time. Just remember the gathering is not the last supper, no matter how many bubba’s you have. Some say it was just not clear it was a ho-down, and that was Aunt France’s greatest sin!

A-dam-d-en-dum: NEWS MAKES HEADLINES! MEDIATE NEWS WEBSITE CONFIRMED JUST THIS INFORMATION. BUT USING MORE LIVE BODIES TO CONFIRM DETAILS.

Addendum: NEWS MAKING HEADLINES REPORTED BY MEDIATE NEWS WEBSITE CONFIRMED THE ABOVE INFORMATION. BUT USING MORE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

Friday night’s Paris Olympics opening ceremony angered people across the world as many interpreted it as a mockery of Leonardo da Vinci’s “The Last Supper ” but the man who organized it said it was actually a nod to Greek mythology.

A portion of the ceremony featured semi-nude drag queen performers around a table, which was immediately interpreted by many — particularly on the right — as an attack on Christianity. The man who choreographed the tableau claimed it was anything but on Sunday morning.

Thomas Jolly, the ceremony’s artistic director, claimed to the French media on Sunday that he was not mocking anyone but merely putting on a “celebration of Greek mythology.”

“There is Dionysus who arrives on this table. He is there because he is the God of celebration in Greek mythology,” Jolly told BFMTV, according to an interpretation from NBC News. “The idea was to have a pagan celebration connected to the gods of Olympus. You will never find in me a desire to mock and denigrate anyone.”

The Paris Olympics X account shared the Dionysus portion of the show Friday, describing it as “interpretation of the Greek God Dionysus” which the organizers said “makes us aware of the absurdity of violence between human beings.However, the scene identified as a parody of “The Last Supper” and the appearance of the blue-painted Dionysus were 44 minutes apart in the ceremony.

While Jolly distanced himself from the controversy, TheWrap and many other outlets reported on an official statement from the Olympics which clearly stated Jolly took his inspiration in that scene directly from Da Vinci.

“For the ‘Festivities’ segment, Thomas Jolly took inspiration from Leonardo Da Vinci’s famous painting to create the setting,” the statement read. “Clearly, there was never an intention to show disrespect towards any religious group or belief.”

Two days and one American company’s boycott of the Olympics later and the controversy has yet to die down. As of Sunday, there were still calls to boycott the Olympics.

UPDATE: This story has been updated with a comment from officials with the Paris Olympics, who said Jolly was inspired by da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” mural. Read the report at Mediate here

Being Blindsided By Two Of The Craziest Drivers In Town ––– Leaves Everyone Jumping Out Of The Way.

July 17, 2024July 18, 2024BenjaminLeave a comment

In the quaint town of Willow Springs, the residents were known for their simple and predictable way of life. It was a place where everyone knew everyone, and the townspeople tended to accept change skeptically. That is, until the day Leonard and Frank, two elderly blind men, decided to shake things up with an adventure that would change the town forever.

Leonard and Frank, with their mischievous humor and lighthearted attitudes, had been best friends for decades, bonded by their shared experiences and a mutual love for adventure. Despite their blindness, they were known for their spirited attitudes and naughty humor. So, when they heard about the new self-driving car, they were immediately intrigued.

“Frank, can you believe it?”

Leonard exclaimed one morning over tea.

“A car that drives itself! Imagine the freedom it would give us!”

Frank, equally excited, nodded vigorously.

“Let’s do it, Leonard. Let’s buy one!”

The townsfolk of Willow Springs were accustomed to the sight of Leonard and Frank navigating the streets with their canes, always laughing and chatting animatedly. So, the entire town was curious when a shiny, futuristic self-driving car appeared in front of their modest home.

“Have you heard? Leonard and Frank got one of those new self-driving cars!”

Mrs. Thompson whispered to her neighbor.

“Those two? In a car? The two driving, I’ve got to see,”

her neighbor replied.

On a sunny Saturday morning, Leonard and Frank decided to take their new car, which they affectionately named “Freedom,” for its maiden voyage through town. As they settled into the plush seats, the car’s AI voice greeted them.

“Good morning, Leonard and Frank. Where would you like to go today?”

“To the park, please,”

Leonard said confidently.

As “Freedom” smoothly pulled away from the curb, the neighbors watched in a mix of astonishment and amusement. Some cheered, others gasped, and a few crossed themselves, praying for the safety of everyone involved. A dog barked, a child pointed, and a few people even dropped their groceries in shock.

The car moved gracefully through the streets, impeccably adhering to all traffic laws. Leonard and Frank laughed heartily, relishing the novelty of their adventure. They waved to passersby, who stared in disbelief at the sight of two blind men being chauffeured by a car without a driver.

However, things turned unexpectedly when “Freedom” encountered a detour due to road construction. The car, programmed to follow alternative routes, led Leonard and Frank on a scenic drive through the unfamiliar backstreets of Willow Springs. The residents, already on edge, began to panic.

“Where are they going? They don’t know those roads!”

Mr. Jenkins shouted, hopping on his bicycle to follow them.

As word spread, more townspeople joined the impromptu parade, trailing behind Leonard and Frank’s self-driving car. Some were on foot, others on bikes, and a few even in their cars, all trying to keep up with the unexpected journey.

Oblivious to the commotion behind them, Leonard and Frank were having the time of their lives. “Freedom” took them past the old mill, the blooming orchards, and even down the riverbank. It was a tour of Willow Springs like they had never experienced before.

Meanwhile, the crowd grew more extensive and more frantic. Children pointed and laughed, dogs barked, and a few people even attempted to flag the car down, worried about the safety of their beloved town characters. The mayor, Mr. Roberts, received dozens of calls and texts demanding he do something about the situation.

Finally, “Freedom” brought Leonard and Frank to the town square, where the weekly farmer’s market began. As the car came to a gentle stop, the two friends stepped out, greeted by a mixture of cheers, applause, and sighs of relief.

“What a ride!” Frank exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear.

Leonard nodded, equally ecstatic.

“I haven’t had this much fun in years!”

The mayor approached them, catching his breath from running to the square.

“Gentlemen, you certainly know how to cause a stir,”

he said, trying to suppress a smile.

Leonard and Frank looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“We didn’t mean to cause any trouble,”

Leonard said.

“We just wanted to explore a bit.”

“And explore you did,”

The mayor replied.

“But perhaps giving us a little warning would be appreciated next time.”

From that day on, Leonard and Frank became local legends. The story of the two blind men and their self-driving car spread far and wide, bringing a newfound sense of pride and unity to Willow Springs. Initially thrown into chaos, the community embraced the spirit of adventure and innovation, inspired by their two beloved residents.

And Leonard and Frank? They continued to explore, always ready for their next adventure, with “Freedom” leading the way and a town full of friends cheering them on.

Jamie: The New Face of Laughter in the Land of Sorrow

June 30, 2024Benjamin2 Comments

In a land where laughter was the currency of happiness, the funniest person on earth was Charlie, “Buckles” McGuffin –– who reigned supreme. His wit was sharper than the finest blade, and his laughter was contagious enough to cure the deepest sorrows. As everyone fondly called him, Buckles had the uncanny ability to turn the gloomiest days into festivals of joy with just a word or a gesture.

Then, one fateful day, Buckles was found lifeless in his cozy little cottage. The news spread like wildfire, and an unimaginable hush fell across the country. Once bustling with joy and merriment, the towns and cities became silent, their streets echoing with the void left by his absence. Even the skies seemed to mourn, covered with a blanket of gray clouds that mirrored the people’s collective sorrow.

The days turned weeks and weeks into years, but the silence persisted. The theaters, once filled with roaring laughter, were now empty. The cafes, where friends gathered to share jokes and stories, were now quiet. The country’s heart had stopped beating, its lifeblood of laughter drained with the passing of Buckles. No one could fill the void he left behind, and the silence was a constant reminder of the irreplaceable loss.

Years later, a child named Jamie was born in a small, forgotten village on the outskirts of the country. From the moment he could speak, it was clear that Jamie had a gift. His first word wasn’t “Mama” or “Dada,” but a hilarious mispronunciation of “banana” that had his parents in stitches. As he grew, his knack for humor became more evident. He had an innate ability to see the world in a light that others couldn’t, turning mundane situations into comedic gold.

By the time Jamie was a teenager, his reputation had spread. People would travel from far and wide to hear him speak. His humor was fresh, and his perspective was unique. He didn’t mimic Buckles; he brought something new to the table. His jokes blended innocence and cleverness, and his laughter was a beacon of hope in a land shrouded in sorrow.

Jamie’s rise to fame was meteoric. His performances began to draw crowds that were more significant than any seen since Buckles’ time. Theaters filled with fans once more, and the streets echoed with laughter. It wasn’t long before Jamie’s influence spread beyond his village, reaching the farthest corners of the country. The silence that had gripped the land for years dissipated, replaced by the joyous sound of laughter and celebration.

The people, initially hesitant, found themselves embracing this new wave of humor. Jamie’s presence was a breath of fresh air, a reminder that while no one could ever replace Buckles’, the spirit of laughter and joy could live on. The country began to heal. The wounds became soothed by the gift that Jamie brought. He wasn’t a replacement for Buckles but a new chapter in the book of laughter.

Jamie’s name became synonymous with joy in time, just as Buckles’ had been. Once plunged into darkness, the light of his humor now illuminated the nation. The silence became broken, and in its place, a new era of laughter and happiness began. Buckles’ legacy lived on, not in the form of a shadow but as a foundation upon which Jamie built his own unique brand of comedy, forever changing the land and restoring the laughter that was its lifeblood.

Gigglewood Midnight Squad: Adventures of an Unconventional Police Team

May 27, 2024May 27, 2024BenjaminLeave a comment

In the bustling city of Gigglewood, a place known for its vibrant nightlife and quirky inhabitants, the streets came alive at night, lit up not just by neon signs but also by the laughter and antics of its most beloved, albeit unconventional, police team: the Midnight Squad, comprised of six dazzlingly attractive officers, their presence was always a spectacle. They donned the sexiest, tight-fitting uniforms that accentuated their gym-sculpted bodies, causing heads to turn and hearts to flutter.

Officer Mia Valentine, the squad’s fearless leader, was known for her killer curves and unrelenting determination. A bisexual dynamo with a wicked sense of humor, Mia could easily switch from laying down the law to cracking up her team. Her second-in-command, Officer Alex Steel, was a trans man with the charm of a movie star and the strength of a superhero. Alex’s journey inspired the whole team, and his quick wit often saved them from the trickiest of situations. “Hey, Alex, ready to save the day again?” Mia would often tease, to which Alex would reply with a smirk, “Always, boss.”

Officers Jen and Lily were inseparable, both on and off duty. The two women, partners in every sense, had a knack for getting themselves into and out of ridiculous predicaments. Jen’s tech skills and Lily’s strategic mind made them a formidable duo, though their constant banter often left their colleagues in stitches.

Then there were Officers Mark and Kyle, whose bromance blossomed into a full-fledged romance. Their goofy camaraderie and over-the-top displays of affection often lightened the mood during tense moments. With his boyish charm and impressive physique, Mark was the team’s undercover expert, able to blend in with any crowd. Meanwhile, Kyle, a former gymnast, was their go-to for anything requiring agility and acrobatics, often using his skills to distract the bad guys during high-stakes operations.

One balmy night, the Midnight Squad faced their most absurd challenge yet. A call came in about a mysterious disturbance at the Gigglewood Zoo. “Looks like we’ve got a situation with the animals,” Mia said, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s roll, team!” The absurdity of the situation was not lost on the squad, and it only served to heighten their determination and sense of humor.

The squad arrived at the zoo to find it eerily quiet. As the officers cautiously approached the entrance, a peacock suddenly strutted by wearing a tiny police hat. “This is definitely not part of the zoo’s usual dress code,” Mia whispered, her hand on her holster.

“I have a bad feeling about this,”

Alex muttered, his eyes scanning the shadows.

Jen and Lily, always up for a challenge, split off to check the reptile house. They soon discovered that all the snakes had somehow gotten loose and were now tangled together in a giant, writhing ball. The sight was both terrifying and strangely mesmerizing, like a scene from a horror movie directed by a clown.

“Why does it always have to be snakes?”

Jen groaned.

Lily just shook her head, pulling out a bag of marshmallows.

“Let’s lure them back with something they can’t resist,”

She said, handing Jen a stick.

They proceeded to toast marshmallows and lure the snakes back into their enclosure with the sugary treats.

“You know, Jen, this is probably the weirdest thing we’ve ever done,”

Lily said, trying to stifle a laugh.

“And that’s saying something,”

Jen replied, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Meanwhile, Mark and Kyle headed to the primate exhibit, only to find that the monkeys had broken into the zookeeper’s bananas and energy drinks stash.

“Looks like they’re planning a wild night,”

Mark joked, as they watched the monkeys swing wildly from tree to tree, their fur standing on end from the caffeine rush.

“Monkey rave,”

Kyle exclaimed as they watched the primates swing wildly from tree to tree.

“We need to tire them out,”

Mark suggested, grabbing a nearby boom box. Moments later, the air filled with the sounds of the latest dance hits, and Mark and Kyle led the monkeys in an impromptu dance-off until the exhausted primates fell asleep in a heap.

Back at the central plaza, Mia and Alex stumbled upon the mastermind behind the chaos: a rogue parrot with a flair for mischief.

“Polly wants a key to the city,”

It screeched, perched atop the mayor’s statue.

Mia rolled her eyes.

“Not tonight, featherbrain,”

She said, brandishing a net.

The parrot led them on a merry chase through the zoo, but Alex, with his agility and speed, cornered it in the butterfly house.

“Nice try,”

He said, gently capturing the bird.

“But you’re coming with us.”

With the zoo back in order, the Midnight Squad regrouped.

“Another night, another crisis averted,”

Mia said, looking at her team with pride.

“And another story for the ages,”

Mark added, wrapping an arm around Kyle.

As they returned to the station, the team couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. They were a ragtag bunch, each with their quirks and charms, but together, they were unstoppable. The Midnight Squad wasn’t just a team; they were a family, united by their love for each other and their city, ready to face whatever craziness the night would bring next. The audience is invited to share in this sense of belonging and unity, making them feel a part of the Midnight Squad’s unique world.

Fred and Matilda

May 16, 2024May 16, 2024BenjaminLeave a comment

Fred and Matilda had been retired for over ten years. They had passed their silver years and were entering their golden years. Both had begun to experience forgetfulness, which was not severe but inconvenient. Fred would forget his wallet when he left home to go to town, or Matilda would forget to put extra tissues in her purse. She needed them to keep her nose wiped due to spring’s seasonal allergy season.

Today, Fred and Matilda left their modest bungalow midcentury home on East Kiowa Street in Corprol, Oklahoma. They traveled thirty miles to see the couple’s son nearby. Due to Fred’s’ safe’ driving, the drive should take just over fifty minutes. He never exceeded fifty miles an hour and usually kept their ’53 Chevrolet Coup topped at 45 miles per hour. Matilda was known for always talking to Fred when he was driving. She never shut up.

Matilda would say to him –––

“Fred, ease to the left, honey; now go back to the right and watch it. Oh no—a car is coming! Now, someone is behind us. Wait, a car is approaching us; I think the guy behind us will pass us.“

Fred and Matilda’s son, Bill, looked at the clock at 1:00 PM. His parents should have been at his place at 11:00 AM. He thought they stopped by their old farm and got lost in time, recalling days when they had lived in the farming area for more than forty years, and everyone knew them. Even so, the people from those days mainly had moved on just as they had. So, it was unusual to find a two-hour distraction without calling him to let him know they would be delayed.

Matilda, a constant verbal navigational bird, was a familiar presence to Fred. Her chatter, a constant companion during their drives, was a source of comfort to him. He had grown accustomed to her voice, finding solace in the sound. Fred’s driving was noticeably worse when she wasn’t there, a testament to her voice’s role in his life.

At 3:00 PM, Bill was beside himself. Where were Fred and Matilda? He called their home to make sure they had not decided to go back home and make the trip another day; the phone just rang and rang. He called Fred’s and Matilda’s cell phones, but no one answered. Bill decided it was time to notify authorities.

Bill called the Ninekakh Police Department, and Officer Nadine Smith answered. Nadine had a strong ‘Okie” accent and a sweet demeanor.

“Ninekakh Police Department, Officer Smith, Who can I help today?”

Bill was stunned by the sweetness and tone of Nadine’s voice and how comfortable she made him feel just by answering the call he had placed. Bill said –––

“Hi, my name is Bill Roth. My parents, Fred and Matilda Roth, are late getting to my home outside Singer; they were driving here from Corprol.”

Knowing Bill was concerned and having met the Roths several times, Nadine knew they were not the type to disappear carelessly. Nadine asked –––

“Bill, honey, how old are your parents? Do you know what they are driving, and do you have any identification to help find them? And what were they doing today?”

Bill was quick to answer –––

My parents are driving a blue 53 Chevrolet Coupe two-door in their mid-70s. They were moving from Corpral to Singer to visit me today. They might have stopped by the old farm to remember old times, but I don’t know. They have never really been this late. Fred always wears grey pants, a white shirt, and a baseball cap, and Matilda usually wears a dress, blue or gray, that extends below the knee, with flat shoes; they both have gray hair. They quit taking photographs twenty years ago because both said it made them look like they were aging to get new pictures taken. They won’t even stand still for someone to get them in a cell phone, selfie-type picture.”

Nadine, taking a deep breath, said –––

Wow! Thank you. That is a whole lot of information, but it isn’t. I will get out and look at the highway between the two towns for them and any side roads. Also, I’ll put this out on the radio for other departments to be on the lookout for. Meanwhile, I suggest you stay where you are if they arrive at your place or call you.

Bill was a nervous wreck. Thoughts raced through his mind of where they could be, what could have happened, and then who could have taken them or could they have been robbed. They could have been running off the road by another driver in a road rage incident. Bill remembered the time he got lost hiking with friends and how much worry it brought his parents. He thought to himself, ‘Payback is hell!’ Exhausted from thinking, Bill yells out loud –

“At least they knew where to start looking for me. I was out hiking, and they had a starting point. Hell, I don’t have a clue where these two old farts are!”

As Nadine was patrolling from the Ninekah Sheriff’s Department heading south toward Corprol, she saw a roadside melon and vegetable sales stand, the type set up to sell from the back of an old truck. She pulled over and talked to the farmer who was selling his goods and asked if he had seen anyone matching the description of Fred and Matilda.

“Yep, I saw them! They were two feisty people. For their age, I was surprised.

Nadine surprised that her luck had paid off, asked the farmer what he meant, and he replied –––

“Well, this young guy was here too, and he had one of those cell phones out taking pictures of him and his girlfriend; it could have been his boyfriend. I couldn’t tell by looking. Anyway, he got a picture of the two older people and told them he hoped he and his sweety could be just like them when they got to be antique. And that is when all hell broke loose. The older adults didn’t want those pictures going anywhere. The young couple took off, and the others left behind them. I never saw two older adults driving like that. They were laying rubber.

Nadine called Bill and told him what the farmer told her, and Bill, in a chilling voice, responded,

“Christ, it’s Christmas 2015 all over again. They did the same thing when someone took a photo of them in the background at a convenience store on Christmas Eve of 2015. We saw them again in February. The family of the people who took the photos still hasn’t seen their people. The last report anyone ever heard was that they were trying to outrun an old couple driving a Blue 53 Chevy Coupe.”

Officer Nadine Smith ––– Adam 851 Clear from report at 1700 hours, 15 miles south of Singer, on Highway 41, clear.

Dispatch to Smith, Affirmative, 1700 hours, KMH 253.

Officer Smith drove to Bill’s home, where she discovered a blue 53 Chevrolet Coupe appearing to stick out of an outbuilding on the property. She went to Bill’s Door and rang the bell. When he answered, she asked if his parents had been in contact. He said they had not.

Smith asked Bill to walk out and look at the car in the shed, which, to his surprise, was his parents’ vehicle.

How did they get past me? And where are they now?

Fred and Matilda, in their enthusiastic but forgetful state, had indeed managed to return home unnoticed. Bill and Officer Smith, both puzzled and concerned, carefully approached the shed where the car was parked. The vehicle, though covered, was the distinctive blue ’53 Chevrolet Coupe.

“Bill, stay behind me,”

Officer Smith instructed, her hand resting on her holster just in case.

“Let’s check inside,” Bill suggested.

Together, they slowly lifted the cover off the car, revealing it entirely. The sight brought a mix of relief and confusion to Bill’s face. The vehicle looked unscathed as if a chauffeur had driven the couple from a leisurely trip.

As they peered into the car, they noticed the keys were still in the ignition, and Matilda’s purse was on the passenger seat. But there were no signs of Fred and Matilda themselves.

“Where could they have gone?“

Bill murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Officer Smith walked around the shed, looking for any further clues. Just then, they heard a faint, familiar sound coming from the back of the house. Following the noise, they discovered Fred and Matilda sitting on a swing in the backyard, calmly chatting and sipping on lemonade.

“Dad! Mom! What on earth happened?”

Bill exclaimed, running towards them.

Fred looked up, somewhat surprised but pleased to see his son.

“Oh, Bill, there you are! We were wondering when you’d find us.”

With a serene smile, Matilda added,

“We decided to take a little detour to the old farm, but then we thought we’d better come back home when it started getting late. We didn’t want to worry you.”

Torn between relief and frustration, Bill tried to keep his voice steady.

“Why didn’t you call me? We’ve been worried sick!”

Fred scratched his head, looking a bit sheepish.

“Well, son, we did mean to call you, but then Matilda realized she left her phone at home, and mine ran out of battery. By the time we returned, we were so tired we just sat down for a rest.”

Upon witnessing the heartfelt reunion, Officer Smith felt a wave of relief wash over her.

“Mr. and Mrs. Roth, it’s good to see you’re both safe. You gave us quite a scare.”

Ever the apologetic, Matilda said,

“We’re sorry, dear. We didn’t mean to cause any trouble. We’ll be more careful next time.”

Fred nodded in agreement.

“Yes, we’ll charge the phone next time and keep it with us.”

Bill sighed deeply, his worry slowly dissipating.

“Just glad you’re both okay. Next time, please, let’s avoid any more detours.”

Fred chuckled. “Deal. How about we all go inside and have some of Matilda’s famous apple pie? It’s been a long day.”

As they walked back into the house, Bill couldn’t help but feel grateful for the small blessings—his parents were safe, and despite their forgetfulness, they still had their spirited sense of adventure. It was another reminder of how precious these moments were, even when they came with a bit of worry.

George’s Story About Going TO A Horse Sale With His Dad And Friend Maynord

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George was a happy-go-lucky sort of kid. His father raised quarter horses, and together, they were buddies. They go nearly everywhere together. George and his father’s friend Maynord, an older gentleman, probably a few years older than George’s father, spoiled George, treating him especially grandly. George didn’t emphasize the letter ‘s’ in some of his words, and some words he would say might need to be clarified. His father was known as a horseman and stern man, yet respected by most people, eyebrows raised to the bible-toting folks.

Maynord had a grown daughter who had already left home, but he and his wife had never had a son. With George, Maynord had the time of his life. As did George. The two were better buddies than Maynord, and George’s father became. But George would never say that to his father. Maynord treated George to parades, cheeseburgers, and ice cream cones and even got him a dog. George named the pooch, Ryder after Maynord’s last name.

The two looked forward to Friday and Saturday nights. That is when George’s dad would take George and Maynord to auction barns in nearby cities where horses were sold. There, they would watch the many horses come through the sale ring, and the owners talk them up, saying how great of an animal the horse is, and try to sell it for top dollar. Of course, George’s father had always arrived before the auction to watch the horses lead in so he could see how they handled it and whether they were challenging to work with in getting to holding pens. He could also see if any auction workers tried to ride the horses before entering the sale ring and if the horses handled well. There were always little mishaps in the sale ring, a rider losing his grip and falling off, or a horse doing what the owner said it would not do. Or donkeys would be brought in, which always made George and Maynord laugh. They would jokingly suggest George’s father buy several to go with his quarter horses. The biggest thrill of the sales barn adventures was the cafe located within; that is where, halfway through, George and Maynord would slip away and eat cheeseburgers and drink soda pop.

The horse sales, as George and his father referred to them, caused the problem. Maynord didn’t help with the situation because he referred to the auctions as horse sales. And he had never referred to the auctioning of horses as anything else.

It was in the classroom one Monday morning when the third-grade teacher asked the class for each student to stand and say what the most fun activity they took part in over the weekend was. The town had just had a fair, and the teacher expected the students to explain their actions while visiting the celebration. And that is what the students did until coming to George.

George stood and said –––

“My dad and our friend Maynord took me to the city horse sale, and my dad bought two.

While George was speaking about horses, the teacher heard ‘whore sale.’

The teacher said –––

“George, you went where, and your dad what?”

George replied –––

“My dad took me to a horse sale and bought two. His friend Maynord helped with one of them. They made me watch from the pickup.”

The teacher, turning pale, said –

“George, stop talking; that is enough! Class, that is enough of what we enjoyed this weekend. I will have George explain what he did to the principal.”

George was perplexed. Hasn’t anyone ever watched a horse being sold and loaded into a livestock trailer? Why would the principal need to hear about it? Indeed, he knows about people selling horses.

In the office, the principal was being informed by the teacher about what she had heard and how terrible it was that this father and his friend had taken an 8-year-old boy to whore house and had him watch the goings on with two women. The principal then asked George what exactly did you say to your teacher?

Which George explained –––

“I just told her ––– My dad, Maynord, and I went to a horse sale, where my dad bought two horses. They made me get in the pickup and watch them while loading the horses so I wouldn’t get hurt or in the way. There have been days, I have even held on to some guys horse when he had too many to handle. But I didn’t get to explain it in such detail because the teacher told me to stop talking before I could tell more about what I was talking about. We go to horse sales every weekend. I don’t know what the big deal is!”

The principal and now the school’s superintendent were both in the office. Their faces were beet red, and they were trying to keep from laughing. The teacher, now understanding the situation, felt overreactive and apologizing.

Meanwhile, George is confused and asks everyone in the room –––

“Haven’t you all ever heard of horse sales? Horse sales? Horse Sales! A Place where a man can sell his horse? My dad, Maynord and I go to them every Friday and Saturday night, you should come with us and see what it is all about. If you get bored with the horse sale, you can get a cheeseburger, as I sometimes do. I don’t understand what this is all about just because I told my story about going to the horse sale with my dad and Maynord.”

George’s dad, the town barber, was called and told of the situation. He later held court in his barber’s chair with his shop’s regulars. There, they had the bursts of laughter the school officials experienced.

Leaving the office, it was the loudest laughter George can ever remember hearing to this date. It wasn’t until he was older did he understand the rhyming of the words between horse and whores and how it could sound to others when saying to them –––

“You are headed to a horse sale to see what you can find.”

We All Need Heroes

April 15, 2024April 24, 2024BenjaminLeave a comment

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Looking for hope sometimes comes from a variety of hard-to-find places. When you are a member of the LGBTQI Community, a blind superhero, a nudge has always been as good as a wink.