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From the full version of Sunnyside's Lousy Book

Best Friend; My Ass

Having to go through the experiences of being a victim of a conspiracy can take its toll on a person. I for one realized it was getting to me. The frustrations would bottle up inside of me and when I found myself around friends or family I'd usually vent some of it out. I'm sure the intention of the silly games that were played on me we're not only an effort to drive me crazy, but to ruin my creditability because people would find it hard to believe. It was difficult convey my experiences to anyone because they would perceived the strange occurrences as unimaginable conflict even though I perceived them with astonishment and amazement.
      The experiences were a little bit hard for most people to believe because the conflict I had to endure was impossible to prove. I sure the games they played on me were carefully planned out and designed to make people think I was crazy if I told them.
    Though Dean was my best friend, he was one who didn't want to hear about the things that were going on around me. To him, the most important thing in life became spending quality time with his daughters. I gave him a copy of my book after I'd written over thirty pages of it, but after reading it he said, "Dennis, I think it's all in your head, where are the facts?"
      I'd just given him the facts and had told him of many things that had truly happened, but he just maintained being agnostic and skeptical. Then one night he repeated the same things and held up two fingers and asked, "How many fingers am I was holding up?"
        I didn't even want to answer the silly question and even regret having said anything else after that. He came back with, "You're a manic depressant and I feel sorry for you."
        Dean of all the people I've known should have known the facts as much as I did or more since his dad is a retired investigator for the Pierce County Sheriff Department. Though retired, I heard from Dean he still worked as an investigator for the county on special assignments.
It got to the point where I would very seldom visit Dean because if I'd show any emotion -- as to the problems I was facing with the conspiracy -- he would threaten to kick me out of his house. He said that he didn't want to hear about it and didn't want his kids around it.
      Well if you're like me it's hard to visit someone and not talk about what you've been doing. (Isn't that what visiting friends is all about?) And I'm sure that his daughters were way too young to make heads or tails of it and even if I got emotional, I don’t see how it would have an effect on them in any way. The way I had to look at it was that I had to assume that he was afraid of getting himself involved just by knowing about the things that were going on.
        The problem with me is that I'm not big on small talk and in my everyday life I had to endure the conflict initiated by the conspirators. It was something couldn’t do anything to avoid and though it was annoying at times, I found it quite fascinating. Unfortunately Dean as well as others did not.
        It was my impression he had fallen for the mentally ill bit because several times he said I was mentally ill. But the thing that might puzzle you as it puzzled me; is why such a friend would say such a thing after knowing his best friend for almost two decades? I would think the one or another would have known this much earlier in the relationship. Then you might say, well he just never mentioned it. Well, in my case I don’t think so because Ram Jet knew me about thirty years and all of a sudden decided to tell me the same shit. I realized that both of them must have had some motivation to say such things. I don't even know why I even associated with Dean from that it time on, but I guess it’s because of the good times we had with each other and the friendship that we had; doesn't like to die.
         We grew distant and my visits or phone calls became just a thing from the past. Dean was living the American Dream while I was wondering if it still existed. His American Dream came in the form of a new wife, house and child.
        His house is a story in itself and I'm destined to turn it into to a lesson for all who reads this book. Over time I noticed Dean never found the time to fix some rot under the back porch of his house. It was the second place he had found rot in his house and he was disappointed that the inspectors who were paid to check out the house before he bought it didn't find it. Like I told him that inspector works for the realtor who sold him the house and it was in his best interest not to look any harder than the buyer would because if the rot was pointed out, the house wouldn’t have sold, the realtor would have been out of the sales commission and the inspector’s card would no longer be in the realtor's roll-a-deck. They should have asked me to check out the house before they had their hearts set on it and by the time I saw the house it was too late.
       When I saw it from the road for the first time, I knew it was at least an eighty percent chance of it rotting away. The problem with the house was with the design itself. It was an older house with no overhangs which in turn are the type that have gutters. Gutters of which no one ever goes up on the roof to clean them out until there are trees growing out of them. By then they have clogged up and the water has run down the back of the gutter which in turn ends up inside the walls. The first to go is the bottom 2 by 4 wall plate and then the floor joists go next. By the time the wall studs show anything wrong with them, everything underneath them is gone.
           The pine wood paneling inside the house is what sold the house to his wife and when she was contemplating how she should arrange new cabinets in the kitchen, you can bet I was thinking that she had better figure out why the floor was slop-ping so much toward the sink before laying out the doe on the fancy cabinets. One day when I was in the neighborhood and dropped by for a moment to say hi, he asked me if I could do the carpenter work for him. Time was something I had plenty of since my phone was rigged; fall was approaching and work was far and few between.
        I rented a jack hammer and knocked out an old concrete stair-way to make the rotten foundation accessible. I got the chance to see how well my new operating system worked with access weight when hauling the rubble to the recycle yard. I even used my system to hoist large chunks up into the bed with a chain wrapped amount them and with the use of the hydraulic motors. One load was about 5,000 pounds and the second load was over 3,600.
       While loading the bed up onto the truck, I was amazed at how soft the landing was with the extra heavy loads. I actual had to crank the pressure up to dump it. When I arrived at the recycle yard on the second trip, I discovered two things: One, the scales were closed so it was too late to dump my load and two, it was sure nice to have a system like mine were you can just unload the bed full of concrete in the yard and drive home. I went back the next day with a bare truck, then picked up the load and went through the scales.
     To no surprise, just as anything I'd do, there would be people inspecting my work. Every paint job I did was being scrutinized. Being graded on everything I did every day, got old real fast. As the years went by I would often think, "Don't they think I know how to paint a house yet?" I'm sure it was because they were looking for something they could make me look bad with. Well to be quite frank, they know I'm good at anything I set my mind on.
     While picking up the cedar siding for Dean’s house, I mentioned to Dean that his daughter’s house already cost about 10% more than they should because the housing is being built by obsolete trucks. Dean said that I was full of bullshit because if my truck was on the market, the price of her wouldn’t go down. It was a wasted argument.
      One of the days I was working in Dean's family room located between the main house and the garage; his mother in-law was over babysitting the kids. She was sitting on the front porch with the kids and talking to somebody on the cordless phone. She wasn't aware that I had perfect hearing and I’d walk outside to the wood pile from time to time. Though she was just out of sight around the corner of the house from me, I could clearly hear everything she was saying.
      She said, "He's over here working on the house. He's writing a book about it and everything in it is true." Then I had no doubt, there was some reason Dean wasn't facing the facts. One day while building the wooden steps to replace the concrete ones I tore out, I put a brand new blade on my Skilsaw®. I cut only two or three boards with it and then decided to make a phone call about scoring some pot from Stan. By that time my relationship with Dean was about as much as any other customer of mine or even less. If Dean wasn't home, I there was no reason to go inside his house. Therefore when I wanted to use the phone to call, I drove up to a phone booth. When I came back in less than a half hour later, I tried to use my Skilsaw®. The brand new carbide blade I'd just put on it, was so dull, it made cuts so crooked, it needed a lake to jump into. Get this: Dean’s wife was home inside the main part of the house the whole time I was up at the phone booth. And did I mention the new four wheel drive, Dodge Derango sitting in the driveway?
       Needless to say, I never went back for the last fifteen bucks Dean owes me, but I did keep his cheep $10 level.
      The things the conspiracy would do were things you wouldn't normally think of. For one, over time every carpenter square of mine would go out of alignment. My carpenter levels became out of wake too. The only thing I could use was my torpedo level and my adjustable carpenter square because they were tools that couldn't be tampered with very easy.
One time I splurged and bought a long overdue band-saw blade. It cost me about thirty hard to find dollars.      Boy was it nice. It cut strait and fast for a day or two. Someone had gone into my shop and put some hardened steel into the blade and it was worthless after that.

The next chapter of Sunnyside's Lousy Book is:

The Health Inspector

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Best Friend; My Ass is:

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