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Sci-Fried Eggs Episode 105 #150506


sci-fried-eggs-logoThe Sci-Fried Eggs are back and they are broadcasting this week from Studio B at Bathurst Manor!  Doc starts with a review of the Hulu original series Deadbeat.  Then Doc and Chuck discuss their new show sponsor, Rocket Helo Energy Drink along with discussing 3-D printers.  Chuck reviews Patton Oswalt’s new book Zombie Spaceship Wasteland.  The Eggs review The Avengers: Age of Ultron.  And then Doc and Chuck do some catching up on stuff they missed while they were on leave.

Sci-Fried Eggs Episode 105 – Click to Listen or Download

Sci-Fried Eggs: Episode 105, Segment 1
The Sci-Fried Eggs Return and Deadbeat Review

Sci-Fried Eggs: Episode 105, Segment 2
Rocket Helo Show and 3-D Printers

Sci-Fried Eggs: Episode 105, Segment 3
Zombie Spaceship Wasteland Review

Sci-Fried Eggs: Episode 105, Segment 4
Avengers: Age of Ultron Review

Sci-Fried Eggs: Episode 105, Segment 5
Catching Up on Things

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My Workshop is Going to Be Awesome


I’m opening up my own workshop.  I do a lot of cool stuff that warrants having a proper workshop.  I sew stuff.  I screw things together (not a euphemism).  I bolt things.  Sometimes I cut things in a dangerous manner with metal snips.  I use hobby knives and other sharp objects without wearing gloves.  Sometimes I paint things in areas without proper ventilation.  I often use power tools without wearing safety glasses (I’m actually probably lucky to have both eyes).  In fact, I don’t even own a pair of safety glasses (so really lucky), but I would at least own safety glasses if I had my own workshop.

And quite frankly, I’m getting tired of working in places that aren’t suited for a workshop.  And, trust me, there are a lot of them.  I used to have a work area in my mom’s basement, but she kicked me out and turned the entire thing into a Zen garden (thanks a lot, Dr. Oz).  Seriously, it looks like Ace Hardware is having a rake sale in the Sahara Desert down there.  Then I worked in the spare bedroom of an apartment I was living in.  And my roommate was none too happy about that situation when she found out what I was using her room for while she was at work.  For a short time, my workshop was in the supply closet at the office where I worked.  But after I was terminated decided to move on for using a blow torch in the supply closet and setting a bunch of chemicals on fire causing several thousands of dollars worth of damage over creative differences, I had to move my shop elsewhere.  I worked out of the trunk of my car for a while (my car has a really big trunk), but that made me feel kind of vagranty, not to mention there was never quite enough room for activities or to sit upright when the trunk was closed.

My current workshop setting is a small unused area in a strip mall behind a Rue21.  It’s not ideal.  And I can’t run power tools during business hours.  And the manager prefers that I spray paint after business hours as well.  Not to mention, they don’t want me to store any kind of harmful or flammable chemicals (which is like 99% of chemicals) there.  It’s just not a productive or encouraging work environment.  And the Rue21 bathroom is back there, and, even though it is supposed to be for “employees only,” all those girls who work up front let their friends and any other nice-enough-looking customer who asks come back there to use the facilities.  And looking through racks of somewhat reasonably prices clothes must make women have to go pee, because that bathroom gets more foot traffic than the Big Butter Jesus (if you don’t know, Google it).  Some days it’s so busy you’d think they were giving out free shit in that bathroom.  And with all those ladies wandering back through there, that leads to a lot of questions like, “What are you doing back here?” and “What are you working on?” and “Are you supposed to be back here?”  I don’t come all up in Rue21 while you’re shopping and interrogate you!

So that’s why I’m really need my own workshop.  And that workshop is going to be awesome.  There’s going to be all kinds of cool stuff in it.  There will be a ton of tools.  Like a literal ton of them.  Maybe even two tons if I get the nice tools.  I’m going to have a welder and an air hose to pump up tires and blow air up unsuspecting women’s skirts.  I’ll have a drill press and a band saw.  And a lathe!  And a planer!  I’ll have lots of work areas with plenty of easily accessible power outlets.  I’ll have a grease pit and a vehicle lift and a big rolly toolbox.  And there will be a paint booth so everything I own doesn’t have overspray on it.  And I’ll have lots of coffee cans full of nuts and bolts and washers.

And that’s just the basics.  The best part of my workshop is going to be the things that really make a workshop awesome.  There will be some neon beer signs.  And I’ll have to have some metal beer signs too.  I’ll probably have a NASCAR hood from Hut Stricklin or Phil Parsons or Ricky Rudd, or, depending on how big my workshop is, all three!  There will be some comfortable couches to lounge on when you aren’t working on something or if you just want to take a nap.  I’ll have a bathroom with a urinal that goes all the way to the floor.  I’m going to have a drink machine that has Yoohoo and Vanilla Coke and Red Stripe.  I’ll have the best snack machine ever.  It will have Twinkies and Crunch Bars and condoms (just in case) and Fruit Stripes Gum and Newport cigarettes for the guys and Misty 120s for the ladies!

I’ll be able to build all kinds of cool stuff in my workshop!  I can finally make a full-sized ED-209 (from the original Robocop, not the new one).  I’ll be able to finish the half-scale Harrier jet that I started out of popsicle sticks in the 9th grade.  I can fully realize my dream of building a car out of cotton swabs that runs off of bubble gum!  I can play shuffleboard indoors!  Working by moonlight will be a planned luxury, not a temporal inconvenience.

I’m so excited about my workshop I can hardly stand it.  I just need to round up the land, the building, the permits, and all the other stuff that building a shop entails.  So if you know how to build a workshop and wouldn’t mind giving me some pointers, ask to use the bathroom at the Rue21 in Franklin Square Phase III and let’s chat.

Why I’m Not Allowed Back in the Austinburg, Ohio Waffle House


It was a cool and calm night.  I had been driving for what seemed like days.  It had really only been 38 minutes, but when you leave the Crazy Horse Club in Bedford, Ohio, with the only natural blonde in the club on your arm, time takes on a new kind of meaning.

She was beautiful, not like the other girls at the club who bleached their hair.  She was cut from a different kind of cloth, not the sparkly, day-glow, stretchy, barely-there kind of cloth of most of the women in her particular place of employment.  She was cut from a luxurious, rich, high-thread-count kind of cloth that Egyptians use for their bed sheets.  Her legs were long and slender, and she moved with a conceited grace and a careless confidence.  I was so enamored by her creamy white skin and flowing golden hair that I had hardly noticed that she had approached me and was standing right in front of me.

I was shocked back into reality when she had asked, “You vant drink?”  Her thick Russian accent was like soft music to my ears.  I blinked at her for a moment, my vision slightly blurred by the poor lighting in the club.  She repeated herself, her Russian accent mixed with annoyance, “Do you vant drink?”  My mind raced.  I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind.  “I like your eyes!”  A look of confusion crossed her face, which then quickly became anger.  “Wodka vith ice?!  Vhat is vrong vit you?”  I quickly realized she had misheard me over the loud music of the club.  As I leaned closer to her, I could smell the faint scent of what I assumed to be designer tobacco.  I repeated myself, “I said I like your eyes.”  Her anger slowly turned back to mild annoyance, “I bring you wodka, no ice.  Is Russian way.  Drink like real man.”  Her words were like the alluring tones of a siren (the sexy women who lure sailors to their deaths, not the loud things on fire trucks).  She turned and floated away to the bar.  I tried to gather myself together enough to make some haphazard attempt at small talk when she returned.

After 17 minutes, she returned with my drink.  As she placed the room-temperature shot of vodka on the small cocktail table, I tried to stoke the fire of conversation, “So, do you come here often?”  She shot me an angry glance which could have pierced through a bank vault door.  She had clearly heard this line before, as she quickly responded, “Yes, is vhere I vork.”  I decided to change my approach, “So what are you doing later?  Wanna grab some dinner?”  Her expression softened for a split second before turning back to stone, “My shift ends at two in morning.  You take me to Vaffle House in Austinburg.”  I wondered why she wanted to go to that particular Waffle House.  Aside from it being the northernmost Waffle House and way out of the way, there wasn’t any thing special about it that I knew of.  But who knew.  Maybe she had a friend who worked there and would give us a discount.  Besides, I never argue with hot, blonde, Russian women or discounts at restaurants.

At a quarter ’til 2, the bouncer told me the club was closing and that I needed to leave.  I told him I was giving my waitress a ride.  He grabbed me by the arm and said they didn’t allow that kind of language in the club and that I had had too much to drink.  Having only had the one warm vodka shot, the bouncer seemed amazed at my sober awareness and ability to walk.  He escorted me out the front door which he slammed behind me.  I waited by my car until the neon lights of the club had been turned off and there were no cars left in the parking lot .  It was almost 2:30 in the morning now.  I was almost ready to chalk the evening up as a loss when I caught the faint scent of what I assumed to be designer tobacco.  I turned to see her, the street lights creating the most beautiful silhouette I had ever seen.  “I thought you weren’t coming,” I said.  “Vent to gas station for cigarettes,” was her response as she opened the passenger door and got into my car.

Twenty-six minutes into our trip, I saw the Waffle House sign and started to exit the highway.  She stared straight ahead and said, “Vat are you doing?”  I blurted out a confusion-laced response, “Taking you to the Waffle House?”  As her right hand held a lit cigarette, she threw her left hand up in disgust, “Is not Austinburg Vaffle House!  Is nowhere!  Keep driving!”  I merged back onto the highway and leaned hard on the accelerator.

My ’76 Chevette screamed down I-90.  I looked over at her as she lit another cigarette and took a long, slow drag.  She held the smoke in for a miniature eternity before slowing exhaling.  She had commented when she got in the car about her window not rolling up all the way.  I had explained that I had bought the car like that and the window guide track was bent and that’s why the window wouldn’t roll up the last inch.  As the smoke gently poured from her lips, it swirled for just a second before it was quickly whisked away through the one-inch window opening and exiled to the desolate world outside.  Interstate 90 was like a forgotten stretch of highway, the lone Chevette lighting up the otherwise pitch-dark thoroughfare.  The faint glow of Austinburg lit up the night sky in the distance like a nocturnal mirage.

Another eight miles and we left I-90 via exit 223, then a right onto Center Road.  She lit another cigarette.  A couple gas stations, a Burger King, a McDonalds, and just off of Gh Drive the familiar yellow and black moniker of the Waffle House.  I parked the car and we both got out.  The glow of the lights in the Waffle House in contrast with her black Partners in Kryme t-shirt made her creamy white skin radiate as we crossed the parking lot.  As I swung the door open for her and the noise and aroma of the Waffle House escaped into the night, a surly waitress with a name tag that said “Bernice” in bold black letters shouted, “No smoking in here!”

My Russian beauty stopped cold in her tracks.  She lifted the half finished cigarette to her bright red lips and took a long, slow, rebellious inhale before she flicked the still lit cigarette out the open door.  She held the smoke in until we reached the table and Bernice had her back to us before she exhaled.  I sat down and she slid gracefully beside me in the booth, putting one slender arm behind my back, her hand finding its way to rest on my shoulder.  She pushed the menu in front of me, “Order vhat you vant.”

Her arm draped across my back was distracting, but I tried to put it out of my mind as I looked over the menu.  Bernice waddled over to our booth and asked, “Whaddya want ta eat?”

Her fingers lightly brushed my shoulder and she nodded gently at me and then to the menu, “Order vhat you vant.”  I looked at Bernice and said, “I’ll have a waffle with some sausage, please.  And coffee to drink.”  Bernice scratched the order down on her notepad and looked to the thin Russian goddess sitting beside me.  Bernice glared at her, the smoking incident at the door still fresh in both their minds, and said, “And what’ll you have, little missy?”

She met Bernice’s glare with a glare of her own.  Her lips curled into the slightest sneer, “Two eggs, ower light, bacon, large plate smothered, cowered, topped, and diced, vith coffee.”  Bernice jotted the order down, furious that this little minx had spoken to her in her own language.  Bernice marched off to get our coffee.

With her arm still around me, she pulled her lighter and pack of Newports out of her jean shorts pocket and sat them on the table.  She shook the pack to loosen one cigarette that she held up and delicately removed from the rest of the pack with her nimble lips.  She rolled the cigarette around to the edge of her demure mouth as she set the pack back on the table.  I asked her, “Isn’t this a no smoking establishment?”  But before I could further inquire, she took her index finger and pressed it gently against my lips as a, “Shhhh,” escaped from her perfect face.  She lifted her lighter and struck it.  The fire gleamed bright between us.  She lit the dangling cigarette and inhaled.

It was about this time that Bernice saw what was going on at booth number 4 and started stomping in our direction.  Before Bernice reached the booth, she yelled, “I thought I told you there was no smoking in here!”  Bernice’s voice cut through the noise of the Waffle House like a fog horn through a cold, winter morning.  Bernice marched from behind the counter around to the outside of our booth and snatched the cigarette from her slender hands.  Bernice threw the cigarette on the ground and stomped it out with her Brahma boot.

As Bernice stood there lumbering over her, she looked to me and whispered in my ear, “Vun moment, darling.”  I felt her arm around me slither behind my back and she turned and raised up out of the seat as though she were weightless.  Once standing, the size difference became blindly apparent.  She was about a half foot shorter than Bernice and about a third, possibly a quarter, of Bernice’s size.  Bernice was too busy being proud of herself for stomping out the cigarette to notice my Russian accomplice pivot hard on one foot and brace her hand on the edge of our booth.  Before Bernice realized what was happening, the soft laces of a well-placed white Ked connected solidly with the right side of Bernice’s sullen face.  Bernice landed hard on the brown tile floor.  The dainty foot and leg continued around in a follow through that resembled a pirouette.  As Bernice lay there motionless, I looked at this Russian beauty before me.  She looked back at me, rolled her eyes, and reached for her pack of Newports.  She lit another cigarette and slid back into the booth beside me, her arm draping back into its previous position.

Bernice was propped up in a chair with an ice pack on a quickly-swelling black eye when the blue and red lights of the Ashtabula County Sheriff’s Department flooded the parking lot of the Waffle House.  I do have to say that Mary-Alice, our replacement waitress let us in on the fact that everyone who worked at Waffle House #1830 had been wanting to do that very same thing to Bernice for years.  And Mary-Alice made sure we got our food and that our coffee stayed filled up until the Sheriff’s Department arrived.  Mary-Alice even offered us to-go cups of coffee but the Sheriff’s Department wasn’t real keen on me and my Russian love having coffee in the back of the patrol car.

While the Russian Bonnie to my American Clyde sat with me handcuffed in the back of a patrol car, waiting until the Sheriff’s deputies decided what they were going to do with us, she looked at me and leaned over close.  Her lips parted ever so slightly and she exhaled, her breath cool against my lips.  She continued to lean closer toward me, our lips just inches apart when suddenly the door of the patrol car opened and a hand grabbed my shoulder and gently ripped me out of the back of the patrol car and away from my destiny.  “You’re free to go, bossman,” was what the deputy said to me as he slammed the patrol car door shut, “and the manager has asked that you never come back to this Waffle House again.”  I just nodded, my mind still on her lips moving toward mine.  The deputy took the handcuffs off of me, and when I turned around, the patrol car was leaving, my beautiful Russian soul mate securely in the back seat.

I reached out a hand in the direction of the fleeing patrol car.  The deputy looked at me and said, “So what’s your name, bossman?”  I learned a long time ago from a very wise man that you’re only supposed to lie to two people in life: your wife and police.  So I told him my name was Walter Kronkite, with a K, not a C.  The deputy said that was cool.  I went and got into my car and left.  I was on parole and nowhere near the state I was supposed to geographically be in.  And I didn’t need any more trouble.

♠ The title for this essay is courtesy of Artie Beaty.  If you have an essay title you’d like to suggest, email it to BatDocBlog@gmail.com.  You might see your essay title in one of my books, and I’ll be sure to thank you in the book for it!

The Duster and Tex Show Episode 123 #140610


Duster and Tex LogoThis week on the show, Tex returns with stories from Uncle Barney’s Funeral, including a letter that Uncle Barney left for Duster and Tex in his will that answers some very important questions about all the stuff Duster and Tex found when they dragged the bottom of the pond at their house.

Follow Duster and Tex on Twitter @DusterandTex!

The Duster and Tex Show Episode 123 – Click to Listen or Download

The Duster and Tex Show: Episode 123, Segment 1
Uncle Barney Rubble McCoy’s Funeral

The Duster and Tex Show: Episode 123, Segment 2
Tuber Reads the Letter and Whopper

The Duster and Tex Show: Episode 123, Segment 3
Uncle Barney’s Letter Part 1

The Duster and Tex Show: Episode 123, Segment 4
Uncle Barney’s Letter Part 2

Best of BatDoc Blog: The Honeypot #1203182


A classic St. Patty’s Day Pin-up!

Best of BatDoc Blog: The Honeypot #1203175


This is by far the sexiest St. Patrick’s Day babe I have found.

Best of BatDoc Blog: Awesome Sauce #120318


Okay, I may have to dye my hair and beard green for St. Patrick’s Day next year because that’s pretty sweet!

And if not for the shamrock necktie, I would have thought this was the Joker’s cool uncle.

Best of BatDoc Blog: Motivational Madness #1203183


Oh, you didn’t have to wrap it!

Best of BatDoc Blog: The Honeypot #1203174


How come the St. Patrick’s Day Parades I go to are never like this?

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