RADIO ACTIVE with GREASEMUNKEY
SATURDAY
10 p.m. - 1 a.m.

Email GreaseMunkey at greasemunkey@975theticket.com
OR call GreaseMunkey in the studio at 713-780-ESPN (3776)

Follow GreaseMunkey on Twitter at twitter.com/radioactive975

Click here to become a Fan of GreaseMunkey on Facebook.

And visit the MySpace page at myspace.com/radioactive975

BIO-LOGY CLASS SUCKS

Name: GreaseMunkey

Turn-Ons: Turn-Ons: Naked Chicks…

Turn-Offs: Turn-Offs: Politicians, Corporate Consolidation, Stank Breath

Favorite Bar: _(Insert name here)_ - first one to give me a comp tab wins.

Background: It is rumored that I was born in Miami, to a young affluent, couple from Coral Gables, with ties to Italian mafia in New York…Of course, the true depths of these ties were never explained to me due to my parents’ untimely demise…when our small private plane was mysteriously lost over the humid, unforgiving marshes of the Florida Everglades. It is believed that I was left to perish in my mother’s cold, blood encrusted fingertips. Had it not been for the hungry pack of wolves that pulled my breathing corpse from the wreckage that fateful day in May…I surely would have been left to perish…

Raised by the very litter that fully intended to nourish themselves with my growing carcass, I was left no choice but to flourish and fulfill my mother’s last request…To frickin’ Rock.

Midground: Over time, the marsh grew smaller. Man slowly began to intrude on the packs natural habitat, and soon after, I was forced to seek refuge in a small Indian Reservation hidden in the cavernous Pan-Handle of the Sunshine State.

Following a fall-out with the tribe’s chief, I left the teepee and headed west in search of gold. Sadly, on my way to the hippy hills of California, reality set in and money became scarce. I quickly found myself stranded in the northwest suburbs of the Bayou City; where eventually, I was forced by representatives of the state to enroll into the Cypress Fairbanks school system…It was there, at Langham Creek High School, that I realized there would be no turning back.

FAQ’s or FICTION

1.) Hey fool, what are you jammin' to? - Shaun in Kingwood
Response: Marley, Hendrix, Zep II-IV, Black Tide and a burned copy of Metallica’s "Death Magnetic"…shut-up, Lars…I’m broke, and it's pretty good...

2.) If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be? - Melissa, from the Heights
Response: Stupid question. Hard Wood...By the way, you should always prune your bush (it makes your presentation more appealing).

3.) Before stumbling into radio what was the worst job you ever had? - Alex, Clearlake
Response: Male Prostitution, it never pays as well as you’d think…Oh yeah…That and standing behind an elephant with a snow shovel all summer…No Bull chit…

4.) What is your shoe size? - Krystal, Conroe
Response: 15 ½, Why?...Does that mean anything?

RADIO ACTIVE with GREASEMUNKEY
SATURDAY
10 p.m. - 1 a.m.

Email GreaseMunkey at greasemunkey@975theticket.com
OR call GreaseMunkey in the studio at 713-780-ESPN (3776)

Follow GreaseMunkey on Twitter at twitter.com/radioactive975

Click here to become a Fan of GreaseMunkey on Facebook.

And visit the MySpace page at myspace.com/radioactive975

BIO-LOGY CLASS SUCKS

Name: GreaseMunkey

Turn-Ons: Turn-Ons: Naked Chicks…

Turn-Offs: Turn-Offs: Politicians, Corporate Consolidation, Stank Breath

Favorite Bar: _(Insert name here)_ - first one to give me a comp tab wins.

Background: It is rumored that I was born in Miami, to a young affluent, couple from Coral Gables, with ties to Italian mafia in New York…Of course, the true depths of these ties were never explained to me due to my parents’ untimely demise…when our small private plane was mysteriously lost over the humid, unforgiving marshes of the Florida Everglades. It is believed that I was left to perish in my mother’s cold, blood encrusted fingertips. Had it not been for the hungry pack of wolves that pulled my breathing corpse from the wreckage that fateful day in May…I surely would have been left to perish…

Raised by the very litter that fully intended to nourish themselves with my growing carcass, I was left no choice but to flourish and fulfill my mother’s last request…To frickin’ Rock.

Midground: Over time, the marsh grew smaller. Man slowly began to intrude on the packs natural habitat, and soon after, I was forced to seek refuge in a small Indian Reservation hidden in the cavernous Pan-Handle of the Sunshine State.

Following a fall-out with the tribe’s chief, I left the teepee and headed west in search of gold. Sadly, on my way to the hippy hills of California, reality set in and money became scarce. I quickly found myself stranded in the northwest suburbs of the Bayou City; where eventually, I was forced by representatives of the state to enroll into the Cypress Fairbanks school system…It was there, at Langham Creek High School, that I realized there would be no turning back.

FAQ’s or FICTION

1.) Hey fool, what are you jammin' to? - Shaun in Kingwood
Response: Marley, Hendrix, Zep II-IV, Black Tide and a burned copy of Metallica’s "Death Magnetic"…shut-up, Lars…I’m broke, and it's pretty good...

2.) If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be? - Melissa, from the Heights
Response: Stupid question. Hard Wood...By the way, you should always prune your bush (it makes your presentation more appealing).

3.) Before stumbling into radio what was the worst job you ever had? - Alex, Clearlake
Response: Male Prostitution, it never pays as well as you’d think…Oh yeah…That and standing behind an elephant with a snow shovel all summer…No Bull chit…

4.) What is your shoe size? - Krystal, Conroe
Response: 15 ½, Why?...Does that mean anything?

Two months ago, SSGT Herron with the United States Marine Corps, came to me with an opportunity to experience the infancy of a Marine. Before me sat an on-hands experience to witness a real life transformation.
Of course, this got my wheels turning, "How could I destroy Keegan's life?" -- as if I hadn't already attempted to do so on a number of previous accounts...

The plan was simple...SSGT Herron would have both, Keegan and I, fill out paperwork as if we were both afforded the opportunity to endure the self-inflicted pains of trying to keep up with new recruits through a week of Marine bootcamp... Only, SSGT Herron was supposed to discard my paperwork and only put Keegan's creds through to his superiors. Instead, Keegan and SSGT worked in tandum to assure that this GreaseMunkey finally got a dose of his own ill-advised medicine.

What could have been my greatest ploy EVER, had very quickly presented itself as a huge bite in the ass...

08.09.10 - 0630hours

After cramming whatever clean articles of clothing I had into medium sized duffle, Sunday evening, I loaded my crap and was off to Ellington Air Force Base - Houston,TX.

As I entered the parameter of Ellington Air Field, the tingling realities of the journey I was about to embark on began to haunt me, spiritually. By no means am I about to falsely embrace the sacrafice of the men and women of our countries Armed Forces as my own; but as I silently parouse the historical displays scattered in the halls of the Armed Forces Building, I realize I'm being watched...guarded by the eyes of the very people who continue to put their lives on the line so I, an American citizen, can work an overly-gratifying job in support of a beautiful family with the slightest sense of security and comfort...So we can focus, selfishly on reaching for stars and chasing foolish dreams...

It's an understatement to say I'm humbled by these simple reminders...photos, plaques, statues...the most unsettling artifact down the hall is a tribute to the ultimate sacrifice... And with child-like wonderment, my eyes couldn't depart...

It is at this very moment, my shift in mood and approach to this trip begins it's metamorphisis...

Two months ago, SSGT Herron with the United States Marine Corps, came to me with an opportunity to experience the infancy of a Marine. Before me sat an on-hands experience to witness a real life transformation.
Of course, this got my wheels turning, "How could I destroy Keegan's life?" -- as if I hadn't already attempted to do so on a number of previous accounts...

The plan was simple...SSGT Herron would have both, Keegan and I, fill out paperwork as if we were both afforded the opportunity to endure the self-inflicted pains of trying to keep up with new recruits through a week of Marine bootcamp... Only, SSGT Herron was supposed to discard my paperwork and only put Keegan's creds through to his superiors. Instead, Keegan and SSGT worked in tandum to assure that this GreaseMunkey finally got a dose of his own ill-advised medicine.

What could have been my greatest ploy EVER, had very quickly presented itself as a huge bite in the ass...

08.09.10 - 0630hours

After cramming whatever clean articles of clothing I had into medium sized duffle, Sunday evening, I loaded my crap and was off to Ellington Air Force Base - Houston,TX.

As I entered the parameter of Ellington Air Field, the tingling realities of the journey I was about to embark on began to haunt me, spiritually. By no means am I about to falsely embrace the sacrafice of the men and women of our countries Armed Forces as my own; but as I silently parouse the historical displays scattered in the halls of the Armed Forces Building, I realize I'm being watched...guarded by the eyes of the very people who continue to put their lives on the line so I, an American citizen, can work an overly-gratifying job in support of a beautiful family with the slightest sense of security and comfort...So we can focus, selfishly on reaching for stars and chasing foolish dreams...

It's an understatement to say I'm humbled by these simple reminders...photos, plaques, statues...the most unsettling artifact down the hall is a tribute to the ultimate sacrifice... And with child-like wonderment, my eyes couldn't depart...

It is at this very moment, my shift in mood and approach to this trip begins it's metamorphisis...

Day 1 couldn't have felt less productive.

Up at the buttcrack of dawn to drive in from the boonies, only to enjoy the bliss of Houston traffic in all of it's sexy glory...The thrill of the drive, highlighted by the fumes of a 55 year old car, without a/c OR a radio... Had it not been for the anticipation of sub-80 degree temperatures burning themselves into my brain, I'd probably turned back and called the SSGT to break the news to him that I wasn't going to make it...likely blaming some family emergency as my escape route...

With the hang-over flight in Albuquerque, NM; I felt I had spent most of my time crammed into the warm sardine-can seats of our beloved Southwest flights...In fact, I vaguely remember exiting one of the planes, only to smirk at the numbness in my own arms... Eventually, we did make it to San Diego airport, where we were then hearded onto a decked out charter bus, covered in USMC insignia-printed vynil... Not too bad, considering the transport bus back in Houston was an ancient school bus with little or no ventilation and crustily faded white paint... And hey...we even made it to the bus without sweat-drenched clothing...

To my suprise, the hotel we arrived at isn't the Comfort Inn I suspected it was going to be. It was actually very nice. A clean pool, with adjacent drinking facilities, putting green, and even a view of the Bay... wow. After checking in, we (a group of educators from the Houston and San Antonio areas - and myself), were invited to an introductory dinner. Here we were addressed with a brief history lesson on the USMC and for the first time that day, awarded warm meal.

Day 1 couldn't have felt less productive.

Up at the buttcrack of dawn to drive in from the boonies, only to enjoy the bliss of Houston traffic in all of it's sexy glory...The thrill of the drive, highlighted by the fumes of a 55 year old car, without a/c OR a radio... Had it not been for the anticipation of sub-80 degree temperatures burning themselves into my brain, I'd probably turned back and called the SSGT to break the news to him that I wasn't going to make it...likely blaming some family emergency as my escape route...

With the hang-over flight in Albuquerque, NM; I felt I had spent most of my time crammed into the warm sardine-can seats of our beloved Southwest flights...In fact, I vaguely remember exiting one of the planes, only to smirk at the numbness in my own arms... Eventually, we did make it to San Diego airport, where we were then hearded onto a decked out charter bus, covered in USMC insignia-printed vynil... Not too bad, considering the transport bus back in Houston was an ancient school bus with little or no ventilation and crustily faded white paint... And hey...we even made it to the bus without sweat-drenched clothing...

To my suprise, the hotel we arrived at isn't the Comfort Inn I suspected it was going to be. It was actually very nice. A clean pool, with adjacent drinking facilities, putting green, and even a view of the Bay... wow. After checking in, we (a group of educators from the Houston and San Antonio areas - and myself), were invited to an introductory dinner. Here we were addressed with a brief history lesson on the USMC and for the first time that day, awarded warm meal.

With a mild "crowning" from the night before, I woke parched. Casually draped in my faded denim, I made my way to the parking lot which we were instructed the night before. Standing half-alert, the group is quickly approached by a top heavy figure in what appears to be a Canadian Mounty hat...oh, wait a minute...that's a...

"Give me 3 columns, people! NOW! Move it!"

"Columns? Nobody uses the term columns..." I must be dehydrated and confused...

"MOVE IT!!!"

Admittingly, I wasn't too sure who this macho character was, but just knew we were going to get along beautifully... Especially once I saw how much respect he had for me, after I corrected his mispronouciation of my last name, ..."Uh...That's Munkey, with a "U", sir..."

It became evident, very quickly that this bulky figure was indeed our appointed drill instructor. At a mere 5'8" (though he seemed alot taller), and a chest thick enough to stop a moving bus; this no non-sense, chisled Marine was in no mood to tollerate the hint of bourbon still radiating from my pores. Once he had appointed his squad leader, we were immediately instructed to board the bus and await further instruction...

Within 10 minutes we had finally arrived at MCRD - San Diego

With a mild "crowning" from the night before, I woke parched. Casually draped in my faded denim, I made my way to the parking lot which we were instructed the night before. Standing half-alert, the group is quickly approached by a top heavy figure in what appears to be a Canadian Mounty hat...oh, wait a minute...that's a...

"Give me 3 columns, people! NOW! Move it!"

"Columns? Nobody uses the term columns..." I must be dehydrated and confused...

"MOVE IT!!!"

Admittingly, I wasn't too sure who this macho character was, but just knew we were going to get along beautifully... Especially once I saw how much respect he had for me, after I corrected his mispronouciation of my last name, ..."Uh...That's Munkey, with a "U", sir..."

It became evident, very quickly that this bulky figure was indeed our appointed drill instructor. At a mere 5'8" (though he seemed alot taller), and a chest thick enough to stop a moving bus; this no non-sense, chisled Marine was in no mood to tollerate the hint of bourbon still radiating from my pores. Once he had appointed his squad leader, we were immediately instructed to board the bus and await further instruction...

Within 10 minutes we had finally arrived at MCRD - San Diego