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The Rusty Goat

Online home of author Rodney Strange, alias 'The Rusty Goat'

Rodney Strange, author, entrepreneur, over-the-hill wanna-be cowboy, and west Texas' most eligIble bachelor.

Rodney Strange wrote under the pen name 'The Rusty Goat' for years!

I am an author. I have to remind myself of that sometimes. I've kept that part of me a secret to many people for a very long time. In fact, up until two years ago I never attached my name to any of my writings, disguised behind the mask of 'The Rusty Goat.' It was out of necessity at first. Those stories in the very beginning were about real live people, mostly crazy women, who had haphazardly crossed my path, most times only hours before the tales went live on the internet for all to see. So, you can see the need for secrecy. For years I have spun humorous stories based on my own adventures in life and share them with a vast online audience with my weekly blogs on the Rusty Goat website. I welcome you into my online home!

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Today's Blog Post and Other Passing Thoughts by Rodney Strange, author, entrepreneur, over-the-hill wanna-be cowboy, and west Texas' most eligIble bachelor.

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With author Rodney Strange, alias 'The Rusty Goat'
Strange Thinking
09/17/2017 09:39 PM
'Psycho Sherry'


Continued from last week's story 'The Vampire Princess'   

"I never dreamed I would feel this way! I still have butterflies from that kiss you gave me last night. I have fallen hard, Rusty. I have fallen madly in love with you!"
I sat silently on the other end of the phone digesting her confession. Isn't this what I've been yearning for? A smoking hot, young thirty-something chick with beautiful green eyes, brunette hair that swept her butt with every turn on the dance floor. The previous night replayed in my mind. Her head laid against my shoulder, her warm body pressed against mine, and yes, that kiss was one of the best I ever recalled. And here we sat on a Sunday morning, our cell phones pressed against our ears, plotting our next move. Well, I wasn't really plotting anything. I was mainly wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into with this chicklet. Was this the same bitter, man-hating, potty-mouthed female I had met at the bar the night before?
We literally stayed on our phones until the batteries went dead, with me promising a call before I went to bed that night. And we ran our batteries down again.
"I'm going to die!" wailed an unrecognizable voice through multiple sobs.
It was Monday, 3 p.m. when my phone rang.
"Whoa, whoa...Sherry? What do you mean you're going to die?"
"I went to the doctor today," she moaned between sniffles, "and he found a mole on my tummy. He said I should get it burned off or it could turn into CANCER! I'm going to die!"
"So why didn't you let him burn it off? It's a simple procedure and really doesn't hurt. My Uncle Tom practically had his whole face burned off and he's still alive."
Perhaps that wasn't the best thing to say at the moment but after talking for six hours I managed to calm her down and convince her that she would not die from a tiny mole on her tummy. I felt mentally drained as I hung up the phone, much like a hostage negotiator likely feels after a six-hour standoff with a bank robber.
Sherry's health issues were the furthest thing from her mind when she called Tuesday night. The best I could decipher after deleting voluminous curse words from her conversation, her kid had been kicked off the school bus for...yes, cursing. Sherry had hunted down the school bus driver and threatened to do serious damage to his anus with her foot and if he'd man up and step out of that F-ing bus...and well, the cops showed up just in time. Sherry was none too happy about that.
In our phone conversation Wednesday night, I discovered Sherry had been fired from her job after telling her boss to go fornicate with himself, not her exact words. Thursday she told her ex-husband basically the same thing when he opted to buy drugs with her child support money. I sat and listened to her rants for two hours, my mind wandering back to that previous Saturday night that I held her in my arms on the dance floor. Those long legs and that tight-fitting black dress got the best of me and when she finally paused to catch her breath I asked,
"What are your plans for Saturday night, Sherry?"
And there she was like I had flipped a light switch, right back to normal...if there was a normal for Sherry.
We dated for three weeks, a wild roller coaster ride the whole time. Yes, wilder than Six Flags. I had come to accept that Sherry might be bi-polar or just plain phycho. Not that I am a qualified psychiatrist, but I had reached the point where I realized I would have to cut ties with this beautiful little filly. Someone was apt to get hurt, likely me, I reasoned and I was aware that if I didn't break it off soon, the inevitable would happen. Yes, sex. If it ever went that far I would never ever get rid of this dramatic, needy, clingy,, woman.
What would have been our one month anniversary, as Sherry reminded me numerous times that week, I took the plunge and instead of setting up our typical Saturday night date, I casually mentioned that I had other plans that I could not break. After thirty minutes of F-bombs and sorry SOB's, I weaseled my way off the phone by telling her my dog had just dropped dead. I intended it to be our last conversation...ever.
I pondered my situation most of the day Saturday and came to the conclusion that it'd probably be safe for me to wander up to the bar all alone. Likely, Sherry would stay home pining her heart out for me. So, I starched my Wranglers and donned my black hat and headed out to the city.
It wasn't far into the evening that I met a cute school teacher with pretty blue eyes and the most pleasant smile, something I realized I had never seen on Sherry. This woman captured my attention as she divulged her love for The Eagles and the fact that she had driven a Rambler to high school because her older sister talked their daddy into buying her a Mustang. We eventually wound up at a table just off the dance floor, holding hands and giggling like young lovers as we swapped stories about our high school years. I found myself overwhelmed at the revelation that this woman could actually carry on a normal, civilized conversation. She laughed and smiled constantly. She radiated her genuine zest for life like the morning sun. I was past giddy as she excused herself to the ladies room, reaching for my beer sitting on the table in front of me.
Suddenly a hand lashed out from behind, grabbing the beer. I felt my hat knocked off of my head and watched it fall to the floor. The beer poured from the bottle onto my head, streaming down my pressed pearl-snapped shirt and into my lap. Before I could look up, I felt the bottle pressed against my throat as someone grabbed my hair and pulled my head back.
"One word from you and I'll break this bottle over your head, slash your throat with it, and stand here and watch you bleed to death on this dance floor!"
Well yes, it was Sherry...or as I affectionately like to call her...Phycho Sherry. And I knew she meant every word of it.

See Previous Posts From author Rodney Strange alias 'The Rusty Goat!'
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