This is the blog of Rob 'Acidman' Smith, who passed away June 26, 2006. Acidman was a unique voice in the blogosphere; an extraordinary raconteur with a fascinating life from which to draw his stories, from his roots in a Kentucky coal-mining town through a career as a musician and as a journalist to his years managing the production of a sulphuric acid plant.

Whether writing about the best way to make boiled peanuts, his intense love and respect for his family and friends, commentary on the politics of the day, or blazingly honest revelations about his life's challenges, he had an extraordinary way of drawing the reader in and making them think. He singlehandedly created a massive community of readers, commenters, and friends from literally all over the world and was responsible for encouraging hundreds of people to take up blogging. For an idea of just how far-reaching an effect he had on the world, read the outpouring of comments on the posts from the week he passed away.

Writing about why he blogged, Rob described it as:

an exercise where I stuffed notes in bottles and threw them into a vast ocean where I hoped someone would find the bottle and read the note. But that's not really what I was doing. This blog was my lifeline that towed me to shore when I was totally shipwrecked. It kept me alive for more than two of the worst years I've lived in my life. I wasn't stuffing notes in bottles. I was standing on the shore and shouting frantically for rescue. People came. I WAS rescued. And I will always appreciate that fact.

It was Rob's express wish that Gut Rumbles remain online, especially for his son to read as he got older, and so it shall. As much as possible, the site remains in the state in which he used it. Current posts are drawn from his extensive archives and presented on the front page. To further experience this extraordinary man and his writing, wander through the links to his archives shown at the bottom of the sidebar on the left.

You are missed, Rob.

February 22, 2010

I call bullshit!

Originally published June 1, 2004

Here are (allegedly) the top ten country music songs of all time:

10) "Mama's Don't Let Your Boys Grow Up To Be Cowboys" (Waylon and Willie)

9) "Behind Closed Doors" (Charlie Rich)

8) "Galveston" (Glenn Campbell)

7) "I Fall To Pieces" (Patsy Cline)

6) ""Friends in Low Places" (Garth Brooks)

5) "Your Cheating Heart" (Hank Williams)

4) "Ring of Fire" (Johnny Cash)

3) "Crazy" (Patsy Cline)

2) "He Stopped Loving Her Today" (George Jones)

1) "Stand By Your Man" (Tammy Wynette)

Bull-fucking-shit is all I have to say. "Help Me Make Through The Night" didn't make the top 100. Neither did "Gentle On My Mind." I still believe that "I Walk The Line" is the best song Johnny Cash ever recorded. Go through the grist-mill of divorce court the way I have and listen to "Stand By Your Man." You'll want to upchuck.

I don't know who picked that Top Ten, but I think they need to dig some serious wax out of their ears.

February 21, 2010

In a pissy mood

Originally published September 5, 2004

I get this way sometimes. Things that I should ignore just PISS ME OFF on days such as this one. I started yesterday when a group of evangelicals knocked on the door wanting to bring the Word Of God into my life. I sent them scuttling with a blast of profanity that would have impressed a drunken sailor. I didn't wave a gun at them, but I was about to.

I shouldn't have done that, because it was rude behavior on my part, but it was MY goddamn door and I was watching football at the time. Unless God could score a touchdown for my beloved Georgia Bulldogs, I didn't need any back-pack-wearing, apple-eyed pie-hole coming to preach at me.

I'll tell you what else I don't need. I don't need anybody doing anything for "my own good." I'll either run my own life or fuck it up all by myself. I am a grown man. I don't need or WANT your "help." Just go away and leave me alone. If I end up in the gutter, that is the result of MY choices.

I can live with that.

February 20, 2010

Non-musicians won't understand

Originally published June 1, 2004

Tonight, when I was watching that dumbass Greatest Country Songs countdown, they hit #3 and brought out some finalist from American Idol to sing "Crazy," which is my all-time favorite Patsy Cline song and the best thing Willie Nelson ever wrote in his life.

I sat on the floor totally unmoved by the performance. That woman hit all the notes and the band was good, but the song just didn't feel right. She sang "Crazy" as if she were happy to be on that stage. Patsy didn't do that. She broke your fucking heart when she sang that song. There wasn't a damned thing happy about it, and she let you know.

Why is it that some people FEEL music and other people don't? I'm talking about both listeners and players. How can a woman with a voice as beautiful as the one I heard sing tonight just totally butcher Patsy Cline? How could people not feel the difference between going through the motions and really FEELING the music?

I'll have to think about that question while I play my guitar.

February 19, 2010

Good question

Originally published September 5, 2004

This is one sick sumbitch, which is why I like him so much. Admit it. You've had AT LEAST one lover in your life that had a physical deformity that most people would consider to be gross, but you kinda liked.

I once knew a woman who had only four toes on her left foot. The one next to the pinky was missing. She told me that she had two brothers, one sister and a Mama with the same malady. That HAD to be genetic. But she painted all four toenails red, and that was good enough for me.

I once knew a woman with incredibly asymmetric tits. The right one was big and the left one wasn't. She couldn't explain why she was built that way and she was very uncomfortable about it. I liked it. She had a handfull on one side and a mouthful on the other. I was in hog heaven. She eventually went and had the left breast rebuilt so that it matched its partner. I still believe that she destroyed a thing of natural beauty.

I played football with a guy who has SIX TOES on one foot. I thought that was disgusting.

I once knew a woman who had no navel. I am NOT making this up. I am certain that she had an umbilical cord when she was born, but somehow the thing just grew over and she was as smooth as a paved road from breasts to pubes. Now THAT is odd.

I could go on, but I won't. I have SOME scruples.

February 18, 2010

My top 10

Originally published June 1, 2004

My ass is still chapped from watching that Top 100 Country Music Songs countdown last night. I totally disagree with the judges. If "Stand By Your Man" is the greatest country song of all time, I'm a got-dam brain surgeon. Here is MY Top 10:

10) "Blue Moon of Kentucky" by Bill Monroe, the Father of Bluegrass.

9) "I Walk The Line" by Johnny Cash.

8) "Help Me Make It Through The Night" by Kris Kristofferson.

7) "Orange Blossom Special" by any of dozens of people.

6) "Gentle On My Mind" by John Hartford.

5) "Mama Tried" by Merle Haggard.

4) "Faster Horses" by Tom T. Hall.

3) "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" by Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs.

2) "Crazy" by Patsy Cline.

1) "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" by Hank Williams.

I had to leave off a lot of really good songs, but that's my Top 10. I like my list a lot better than the one the judges chose last night.

February 17, 2010

Football day

Originally published September 4, 2004

I like to blog, but I like football even better. I've been watching games all day, including the 48-28 victory of my beloved Georgia Bulldogs over Georgia Southern. Southern played tough, but the score doesn't really reflect the nature of that game. Georgia emptied the bench in the second half and Southern did well against the subs. The UGA first string could have made that game ugly.

But the DAWGS look formidable to me. That freshman tailback, Danny Ware, reminds me of the good old days of Georgia football. That boy runs hard. I look for success this season.

Good ole Bob hit me with 165 spams while I was watching TV. I Blacklisted his ass again, but I have no doubt that he'll be back under a different name. What a fucking cockroach.

Young Jack came to watch football with me today. He is convinced that he's good enough to win a college scholarship. "My daddy says that they PAY YOU to play football in college," Jack announced. I tried to explain that his daddy was slightly wrong with that idea--- Jack could get free tuition, free food, a free room and free books, but college football players DON'T get paid any money, at least not under NCAA rules. He didn't like what I had to say.

But I fed Jack a few slices of fresh pineapple and he liked it as much as I do. He went away a happy boy, with 12 of Quinton's Playstation II games in a bag. I've got no use for them anymore. I haven't heard from my son in almost three weeks now. I haven't seen him in six months. That just ain't right, but that's the way it is. Jack can play those games. No sense in leaving them here to gather dust.

My upset pick of the day? Wake Forest will beat Clemson.

(UPDATE: Okay, I was wrong about my upset pick. But it was damned close.)

February 16, 2010

Some things never change

Originally published June 1, 2004

I watched the movie Blackhawk Down! for about the fourth time today. I also read the book twice. Let's stop and think for a minute about what happened in Somalia.

We went in there with a multi-lateral bunch of United Nations "allies" who didn't do shit to help when we needed them. We also sent our troops into harm's way without the armor they needed for street fighting, because Bill Clinton didn't want to offend our "allies." Too much force displayed on the streets might piss somebody off.

As a result, 19 Americans died; then, we cut and ran like whipped dogs, even though our troops inflicted tremendous casualties on the Somali "insurgents."

Doesn't that remind you of some of the philosophy coming from the left-leaning, anti-war crowd today? Don't fight a war if we might piss off a country that doesn't make a pimple on a rat's ass. If we DO fight a war, let's not fight too hard, because we might piss off the country we're fighting against, or we might anger the French. Also, let's cut and run at the first opportunity, because war is a bad thing.

Thank Bejus these people weren't in charge during World War II. We'd all be goose-stepping and speaking either German or Japanese now.

February 15, 2010

I wish

Originally published September 4, 2004

I wish I were as young and fit as I once was.

I wish that I could watch my son sleep. He is a handsome boy.

I wish that I could play football again. I really liked that game.

I wish that I could go back 30 years in time knowing what I know now.

I wish that my hands weren't going to shit on me and I could play guitar forever.

I wish that I had never started smoking cigarettes.

I wish that Santa Claus was real.

I wish that I had never met Jennifer.

I wish a lot, but none of it matters. Life is real and wishes are dreams.

February 14, 2010

Nice to know

Originally published June 1, 2004

I've read a lot about ME lately on certain other blogs. Some of it was quite flattering, but others seem to think that I make them feel dirty if they visit my blog. I checked out a few of those sanctimonious assholes and I came to this conclusion: Ya can't write, ya can't spell and your blog sucks.

There. Now you have a damn good reason not to read me. Wanna feel REALLY dirty?

Go fuck yourself.

February 13, 2010

Having to piss

Originally published September 3, 2004

I once hated to take a woman on a long car trip. She always had to piss about every 50 miles. I didn't like doing all that stopping, especially when I didn't need gas and I didn't need to pee. I wanted to get where we were going.

But I've changed my mind now. Prostate surgery will do that to you.

Recondo learned that lesson on our cross-country trip. "Rick, pull over. I need to piss."

"We'll be in a town in 15 minutes. You can piss there."

"Rick, either you pull over RIGHT NOW, or I'm gonna piss all over the front seat of the 'stang. Maybe YOU can wait 15 minutes, but I can't. Pull over NOW!!!"

He learned that I wasn't kidding. (I won't go into details about that. Just use your imagination.)

That's one of the things that really bothers me about the prostate surgery. In spite of all the Keagle exercises and all the practice I've done at maintaining my continence, I am subject to a sudden eruption at any time, and I don't always get an early warning. If I have to go, I HAVE TO GO! Right now! No debate about it! PULL OVER AND LET ME PISS!!!

If you don't pull over and let me piss, I'll water your seat. And my pants. And it will be all YOUR FAULT because you didn't listen to me.

Such is life for me anymore.

February 12, 2010

Limitations

Originally published June 1, 2004

I didn't blog about this incident in my life when it happened, because I worried (BWHAHAHA!) that my readers might lose all respect for me. I woke up at 3:00 in the morning last night with a severe burning, itching sensation in my crotchital area. I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep, but the sumbitch just wouldn't stop. I was trying to think about what I had done in Costa Rica that could affect my crotchital area when I felt something CRAWLING ACROSS MY FACE!

I sat bolt upright in bed and slapped at the lamp on the nightstand until I could turn it on and see. HOLY BEJUS! My bed was working alive with ANTS! They were EVERYWHERE and biting me in my most sensitive areas. There were THOUSANDS of them.

I hopped out of bed and ran to the kitchen, where I retrieved my trusty can of Raid. I returned and gassed the shit out of the invaders, then I followed their trail to the Mother Hill, which I coated with Diazinon to teach those fuckers a lesson. I murdered a lot of ants last night, even if I DID have to go outside in my underwear, in the dark, with a flashlight and a demonic look on my face to get the job done.

Effingham County, Georgia, has more ants per square inch than any other place I've ever seen. Something about the sandy soil around here just attracts ants the way a ripe dog turd attracts flies. It wasn't as if I'd been eating crackers in bed and left a lot of crumbs to lure the ants my way. Hell NO! If the bloodthirsty bastards wanted something to eat, they should have been crawling all over my kitchen.

But they attacked me in my bed, in the dark of night, for no good reason. Goddamn communists.

After I killed all the ants I could, I was faced with a dilemma. I had to wash my sheets and remake my bed. I am not good at making a bed. I forget which movie it was (I believe that Clint Eastwood starred in it), but the lead character said, "A man's got to know his limitations." Well, I know mine. Making a bed is one of them.

I washed the sheets and put them in the dryer, but I thought seriously about sleeping on a bare mattress tonight. Have you ever seen a monkey fucking a football? If you haven't, just watch me make a bed. It's the same thing.

It was ugly to see, but I finally got the job done. I have fresh, clean, ant-free sheets to sleep on tonight and no children or animals (other than ants) were harmed in the process. I feel lucky to be alive.

But I'm sleeping with the light on tonight.

February 11, 2010

The elderly

Originally published September 3, 2004

My mama is 73 years old. My grandmother is 93 years old. Both are widow-wimmen now, but they still live on their own and get by okay. They are tough old birds and their husbands left them well-off when they died.

But just suppose that they WEREN'T okay on their own. I cannot see my mama or my grandmother doing the begging kind of shit I see elderly people doing to politicians today. My family would find a way to make do. We always have. We never took a dime in charity from ANYBODY, even when times were hard.

But old people today, pumped up with Viagra and blood-pressure medicine, living in Florida resort communities and playing golf at Sun City, are willing to sell their children and their grandchildren into poverty because they want FREE PRESCRIPTION DRUGS. Greatest Generation, my ass.

Selfish old fucks is what I call them.

February 10, 2010

I love it

Originally published June 1, 2004

Nothing brings more joy to my heart than the fact that I occasionally inspire someone. That's not a bad list, either.

Eddie Arnold had a voice almost as sweet as Jim Reeves did. Did you know that "The Dance" was written by a guy who lives at Tybee Island, Georgia? I love that song. I play it often because it's a good finger-picking number on the guitar.

I had to leave two of my favorites, Marty Robbins and Roger Miller, off my list because I ran out of room. Just damn!

"El Paso" and "King of the Road" should have been in there somewhere.

February 09, 2010

The great fly ball

Originally published September 3, 2004

I was about Quinton's age and playing center field for the Rotary Club little league baseball team. We played The Optimists, and they had a hitter that I went to school with. His name was David Ring and he was as big as a house.

David could knock a baseball flat on one side when he was six years old. By the time of that game, he had four years of practice to improve his slugging skills. If he caught a pitch just right, he was gonna sail that ball a long way. We all backed up in the outfield.

We had a good pitcher. I was the #2 catcher on the team, so I knew what kind of stuff our guy had. He could throw one hell of a fastball. He could damn near put a hole in your hand when you caught him. I KNEW that fact from experience.

But he hung one in the wheelhouse for David that day. I saw the ball come off the bat and I knew that it was over my head. I took off running as fast as I could over that ragged ground of old Coke Field, just off President Street, where many a young man earned his spurs playing ball. I can still remember seeing that baseball hurling through a clear blue sky as I ran to catch it.

I reached out my glove and dived for the ball. There was no person more stunned than I was when I went rolling ass-over-tea-kettle and ended up with the ball in my glove. It was a spectacular catch. People applauded. I tried to act cool as I threw the ball back to the infield, but I hoped I didn't have to do that again.

I wasn't really THAT good, but I did it that time.

February 08, 2010

Easily pissed off

Originally published September 3, 2004

I don't know HOW I managed to do it, but I seem to have pissed off a couple of wimmen. I've gotten some downright hurtful comments from them. I read those words and began to hyperventilate. I got a case of the vapors. I had to go to my room and cry in the closet for a while. I threw something and broke it for no good reason.

The fact that I WATCHED MY FATHER DIE after a long battle with cancer doesn't seem to matter to these wimmen. I WAS THE ONE who made the call, telling the doctors to back off and leave my dad to die as peacefully as possible. The fact that my mama turned to ME and said, "handle it" after my father died and I had been awake for 36 hours doesn't mean shit, either. I am a heartless sumbitch, a Dancer With Prostitutes, and a pig. That's what happens when wimmen "feel."

If they didn't have a pussy, there'd be a got-dam bounty on them.