I met Kramer Wetzel in early 1996. He told me that my life would soon change dramatically, but in very good ways.

The next day my mother died.

Six weeks later he was back on the radio show I produced. When I told him what happened he looked at my chart again and said, “Dude, looking at it in other ways, at least you’re in the right place to really launch your radio career…they love you here.”

The next day I got fired.

And started to look into spending the last few dollars I had on a hit man to bump off an astrologer I knew.

Turns out that he had put the wrong year on my chart so all his readings were off. The moral to the story? When you’re telling Kramer your birthday info don’t try and do it over the enchanting hiss of a jumbo sized can of fix o’ flat. He was doing some home improvements…the single–wide had a flat, was therefore leaning, and was therefore making his CD changer skip. An eclectic blend of The Grateful Dead, Fatboy Slim, Hank III, and Mozart is all the more chaotic with rampant skipping.

I should’ve picked a better time to give him my information. These things happen, as with all aspects of life, timing is everything.

But the man does know romance. He’s given me advice on every female who has crossed my path since our friendship’s conception. Actually, most of the advice has all come down to one word…


Run hard, run fast, run silent, run deep. But run. Run like Mexican H20 through a Nebraskan Spring Breaker. But the key word was “Run.”

And he was always right. But I turned him onto cigars, so he owes me to help me find “the one.” Oh wait…he set me up with my own web page, So I guess he doesn’t owe me squat. Good think I kidnapped his cat on the way out of the trailer for some leverage. Who’s your daddy now, bitch? Read on. The boy’s good. And I use that word in the loosest of definitions.

The word, “boy,” that is. The “good” part I meant. And no, he’s not paying me to say any of this. Hell, the guy still owes me $17.

— Bubba Sean

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