The CB radio and the Magic 8 Ball...and farts

In the world of the spirit, farts may be as reliable an afterlife communication tool as anything. I'll explain later. To provide context, I'll go back to the beginning.

We met in the year 1997. It wasn't in person, but over the CB radio, that we first got acquainted with one another. No faces, just two voices and much imagining. In real life I was a self-employed screenprinter who had more time on his hands than brains to know what to do with it. She was a much more energetic cowgirl with a cb radio in her ex-boyfriend's pickup truck. I was Dogbone(r) and she was Cowgirl.

She was a popular person on the radio, due to being one of the rare females in that already shrinking sub-culture. I was popular in a different way. I annoyed the locals by pretending to be a DJ and giving long soliloquies aimed at the voices in my head and elsewhere in the ether. It was a whirlwind courtship of "breaker breakers" and "10-4s" which migrated to AOL instant messenger chats in short order.

The long story of my family CB history I will save for another time, but it has been a tool for lonely, bored or otherwise depressed people in my family for generations.

But back to the Magic 8 Ball. It was a gift from Sharon a few years back. At the same time she bought a ouija board, some crystal balls and Tarot cards, to kind of cover the gamut of spirit communications. I've used the 8 Ball for general and specific questions on a variety of topics, even attempting to directly ask Sharon questions since her passing.

Mostly I get "outlook is not good" or "my sources say no."

So, my CB radio has an intermittent problem where I will key the mic up and no audio will go through it. I will wind up spending about an hour cussing and fiddling with various things from the cord to the mic battery and such and, for no reason that I can discern, it will start working again. So, I asked the Magic 8 Ball if it was Sharon who was fucking with my CB.

The reply was, "As I see it, Yes."

Well, now to go even further down the road of cuckoo, the farts. Sharon was a big proponent. "Farts are funny" was her adamant defense. She would always laugh or make some smart-ass remark if and when the subject was ever broached.

So, now, it comes about at certain times that I will have a sudden, deliberate amount of gas that needs to be passed. It will occur just at the moment when I should be making up my mind to do something different than whatever it is that I am doing at the moment. Like a confirmation that I should hurry up and get a move on. A real conversation ender, the final "Thus saith the Lord," to which no argument can be made.

If I'm being irreverent, at least I know Sharon would approve.