  Happy Birthday Chuck!! Charles Rybicki-poet, drinker, and hunter Most of the time I can tell really boring stories.
Enough so that I can put my wife to sleep. On one occasion we were lying in bed and she was complaining that she couldn't sleep. So I started to talk to her about science and weird shit I was making up that she sometimes believes because I make up such wonderfully good fake supporting facts.
Anyhow, I got onto the subject of how in grade school some pretentious art-fag came into our school to collect the stories of childhood or some equally insane reason. Having the kindergarten children draw pictures and the special-ed kids drool on themselves while some unnamed 4th grader marches deeper into geekdom writing about finding the potion to save the princess from the dragons was supposed to culminate an artistic expression of kids.
This took place in the 80's and the only thing that it proved was that we were just a bunch of fucked up rural kids who had to live in our imagination to survive. I at times complained about how high shool was cliquey and I realize that grade school was far more brutal than high school. At least in high school you can sneak a gun and shoot someone but in grade school it was all about fucking with their heads and making the select few feel unaccepted.
I am sure it wasn't their fault, someone saw so and so eat a booger, or the kid with the over-powering body odor that will kill you, and the random puker who throws up alot and in the weirdest places. We know who those kids are, you as well as I taunted them at one time, spilled their desk on the floor, throw their jacket into the girls bathroom, called them lesbians way before boys realized that lesbians are cool, some of them anyway. We didn't know where we were going or how we were going to get there but we were making fun of the un-cool kids and having a good time. Wow, what a tangent but back to the pretentious art-fag(or is pretensious a part of art-fag,WTF?
) one of the stories/poems/artwork that was forever imortalized in the book was written by none other than my brother. My brother is famous for many reasons, most of them related to alcohol and the amount that you would think could normaly kill a person, but for me the fame comes from having one of the best pieces of prose published in a small "indie" pubilcation. Fuck, we're all art-fags. Dog Named Jack by: Charles Rybicki I had a dog named Jack He puked on the rail road tracks Train came by, flew so high It hit the engineer right in the eye!
How cool would it be to have a poem in a book that was kept in the library at school that contained the work puke. Granted the wording of the poem isn't the best and you assume it was the puke, not the dog, that hit the engineer. My brother was light years ahead of his fellow second graders as he was exercising his artistic license, at true renaissance man, trapped in a boys body. 
