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.

November 28, 2010

Better now

Originally published September 23, 2002

I believe that I am over that horrible funk that possessed me last week. I had a wonderful weekend with my son, and I didn't go into the usual Sunday Evening Spiral that I usually experience when he leaves. After he was gone, I smiled a lot, remembering the fun we had. I slept well last night and felt sharp and energetic at work today, except for a sore right arm from throwing too many unaccustomed long passes with a regulation football.

I wrote a humorous blog for the recuperating SULI and she was nice enough to post it today and send me a very flattering email. Thank you, darlin'!

I also worked up the nerve to write a sycophantic email to MOMMABEAR to alert that most interesting person to my presence in blogdom. I didn't get shot, either, although I DID learn about a certain love for "banging" with large caliber weapons in the nice email I received in reply. A bullet-shootin,' gun-totin' person may scare fainter hearts than mine, but I believe that an appreciation for firearms is a GOOD THING in anybody. Thank you, too, MommaB.

When I shoot beer cans with my 9mm or .45 pistols, I don't just shoot the can, I attempt to hit the top bubble on the "B" in Budweiser. I also drive 10-penny nails with a .22 rifle. My aging eyes require a scope for the latter (can't focus the goddam front and rear sights anymore without help), but I still do fairly well.

All in all, I had one of the best weekends I've had in a long time. I feel good again. I may even go to my son's soccer game tomorrow evening.

But, contrary to DJ's opinion, it won't be to reconcile with my ex-wife. I'm going to watch my son play ball. There's way too much crap between me and the ex for me to forgive or forget what she did to me. The truth is... I wish I could.

But I can't.

November 21, 2010

Discipline Vs abuse

Originally published September 23, 2002

I have a real problem with any parent who BEATS UP A CHILD. If I recall correctly, I have spanked my son three times in his eight years of life. Every time, I warned him beforehand that if he didn't stop what he was doing, I was going to whup his butt. He didn't stop, so I whupped his butt, just like I promised that I would do.

I didn't beat the shit out of him. I didn't pull his hair or hit him in the face. I didn't abuse the boy.

I walked up to him and said, "What did I say I was gonna do if you didn't cut that out?"

The bottom lip started trembling ahead of time. "Spank me," he replied.

"Did you cut it out the way I asked you to?"

"Sniff...sniff...no," with tears beginning to well in his eyes.

"What happens now?"

I...I...I GET A SPANKING!" And yes, he did, knowing full well what it was for. I laid a couple of slaps on his ass, sent him to his room to contemplate the error of his ways, and forgave him immediately thereafter. He got what was coming to him, but once he paid toll to the troll, the unpleasantness was over. He's a good, smart boy, and I don't have to spank him anymore, because he knows that I WILL, and a word to the wise usually is sufficient to correct unacceptable behavior anymore.

I spanked my boy to teach him right from wrong. I spanked my boy because I want him to grow up straight and strong and SOMEBODY has to set the rules and enforce them in his young life; otherwise, he'll grow up like wild grass and have no grounding to work from when things get tough and life deals him the bad cards that come to everybody. I spanked him because I love him.

I didn't spank him because I am bigger than he is. I didn't spank him to take out my frustrations because I had a bad day. I didn't spank him just because I COULD.

The woman in the video did what I consider to be an unforgivable sin. She beat up HER OWN child, for no good reason, just because she could. She's a sick puppy.

And I feel sorry for the child.

November 14, 2010

My boy

Originally published September 29, 2002

My son came to visit yesterday, much to my surprise. He never hooked up with young Jack, who was off somewhere with his sisters, so the pup and I ate boiled peanuts, played football and did manly things together. I may be wrong, but I believe that for an eight year-old, he has a lot more strength per square inch than most boys his age. He's like a goddam coiled spring.

After one tumultous play, I called time-out. "Daddy, will I ever be able to beat you at football?" he asked. Gasping, spent, wasted and sore, I said, "No, you'll never beat the Tall Dog." I needed a nap and a handful of Alieve.

Not today, he won't. But I see a serious ass-whuppin' coming in the near future. I hope I can see the exact moment, because the day before that happens is the day I retire from football, hang up my jockstrap and become a non-participatory COACH.

November 07, 2010

Porcupines

Originally published September 29, 2002

Have you ever seen a real, live porcupine in the woods? I have. I was hiking in the Cahutta Wilderness in North Georgia on a crisp fall day. The trail was fairly steep, overhung with rhodadendrum, and I was in bulldog-low-gear, holding the straps on my pack and trudging along with my mind engaged in astral projection. I learned to do that a long time ago on steep trails. I keep putting one foot in front of the other, start a song playing in my head, and leave my body to do the grunt-work while my mind soars somewhere far away. The plan was working well that day until I heard a tremedous rustling in the brush on the downhill side of the trail.

I retreived my astral self and stood still, ready to duck and cover, waiting for a wild hog or a rutting deer to come charging out of the woods and run me over. That's when the damned porcupine came waddling out onto the trail right in front of me.

It paid me no attention whatsoever as it waddled and snuffled its way up the trail. I followed for a few yards, then walked right up next to the critter. It still paid me no attention, but I was paying CLOSE attention to it. A porcupine is an amazing construction. It sports several different lengths and shapes of quills all over its body and the bristling array is VERY impressive. No wonder it pays no attention to anything around it.

COP 3 was about 20 yards behind me on the trail, and I yelled for him to come look. He did. "Goddam! That's a porcupine," he said. (Cop 3 is very astute about such things.) We walked alongside the porcupine for about a hundred yards. It stopped occasionally to sniff a particularly interesting scent on the trail, and we stopped, too. It started waddling again, and we followed along. Finally, it made an abrupt left turn off the trail and went crashing through the underbrush down the mountain.

"Reckon you could eat one of those things?" I asked.

"I don't see why not," Cop 3 said. "It comes with built-in toothpicks."

September 28, 2010

Sunday stumpers

Originally published September 29, 2002

1) Is there a big goal left unattained in your life? What is it?

I want to write a novel and see it become a best-seller.

2) Are you doing (career-wise) what you imagined you'd be doing 10, 15, 20 years ago?

I am doing the very last thing in the universe that I thought I would be doing 25 years ago. As of next month, I've been doing it for 23 years. Life is strange. Go figure.

3) When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

I wanted to be a professional football player or an astronaut. Those careers never worked out, so I just never grew up.

4) Do you frequently adjust your dreams and goals as you go along?

No. I still want to be a professional football player or an astronaut. Whatta dumb question. OF COURSE I frequently adjust my dreams and goals, sometimes hourly anymore. I would tell you what my dreams and goals are, but they're liable to change before I could write them down.

5) What was your favorite TV show as a kid? Did that have any bearing on what you wanted to be when you grew up?

Howdy-Doody and Captain Kangaroo. Both shows influenced me greatly. I never wanted strings tied to me, but I wanted to grow up to carry a lot of keys. I have achieved both goals.

September 21, 2010

Troll

Originally published October 2, 2002

Ouch! Speaking of malignant troll-bitches, there is one in Louisana that jumped up and bit me square in the ass, and other places below my belt last night. I would link to her immature, infantile efforts at humor, but it would be a waste of valuable bandwidth. I sent a storm to blow her away, and I predict that her blog will not be available for a long, long time. That's what she gets for messing with Acidman.

I just hope she's not sitting in her Louisiana one-holer outhouse with a handful of pages from the 1998 Sears catalogue when the big wind hits. The Munchkins in Kansas won't appreciate the splashdown she makes when she finally lands. (I can see the dancing Munchkins now: "We represent the... PORT-O-LET Guild...") Of course, from what I've seen written on the bathroom wall at the Greyhound bus station, just below where she put her phone number, several people attest that her ASS is big enough to anchor ANYTHING through a storm. In fact, the Louisiana Department of Transportation requires her to wear a "WIDE LOAD" warning label on her rear end when she walks to the Welfare Office to pick up her check.

I'm really suprised that she found the time to put down the crack pipe, stop having illegitimate children sired by bikers named "Stinker" and write about me. And she hurt my feelings so badly.

BWHAHAHAHAHA!

September 14, 2010

Captain Kangaroo

Originally published October 2, 2002

Captain Kangaroo was one of my favorite people when I was a child. I spent many a morning listening to his jingling keys as he strolled around the Treasure House in his uniform, with Grandfather Clock, Mr. Moose, Mr. Greenjeans and his other companions, including Tom Terriffic and Mighty Manfred The Wonderdog. Crabby Appleton was always "rotten to the core" in the cartoons. I miss those days of innocence, and I was delighted when my mama sent me an interesting email. I knew that Lee Marvin was a decorated Marine in WWII. But I didn't know the REST OF THE STORY.

Captain Kangaroo turned 75 recently, which is odd, because he's never looked a day under 75 (Birthday 6/27/27). It reminded me of the following story.

Hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Some people have been a bit offended that Lee Marvin is buried in a grave alongside 3 and 4 star generals at Arlington National Cemetery. His marker gives his name, rank (PVT) and service(USMC). Nothing else. Here's a guy who was only a famous movie star who served his time; why the heck does he rate burial with these guys?

Well, following is the amazing answer: I always liked Lee Marvin, but did not know the extent of his Corps experiences. In a time when many Hollywood stars served their country in the armed forces, often in rear-echelon posts where they were carefully protected, only to be trotted out to perform for the cameras in war bond promotions, Lee Marvin was a genuine Hero. He won the Navy Cross at Iwo Jima. There is only one higher Naval award...the Medal Of Honor.

If that is a surprising comment on the true character of the man, he credits his sergeant with an even greater show of bravery. Dialog From The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson: His guest was Lee Marvin.

Johnny said, "Lee, I'll bet a lot of people are unaware that you were a Marine in the initial landing at Iwo Jima... and that during the
course of that action you earned the Navy Cross and were severely wounded." "Yeah, yeah... I got shot square in the ass and they gave me the Cross for securing a hot spot about halfway up Suribachi...bad thing about getting shot up on a mountain is guys gettin' shot hauling you down. But Johnny, at Iwo I served under the bravest man I ever knew... We both got the Cross the same day, but what he did for his Cross made mine look cheap in comparison. The dumb bastard actually stood up on Red beach and directed his troops to move forward and get the hell off the beach. That Sergeant and I have been lifelong friends. When they brought me off Suribachi we passed the Sergeant, and he lit a smoke and passed it to me lying on my belly on the litter and said, 'Where'd they get you, Lee?'

Well, Bob... if you make it home before me, tell Mom to sell the outhouse! Johnny, I'm not lying...Sergeant Keeshan was the bravest man I ever knew..... Bob Keeshan...

You and the world know him as Captain Kangaroo."

And on the show, he couldn't outfox Bunny Rabbit. Go figure...

UPDATE: I was curious, so I Googled and found THIS. The story is a good one, but it ain't true!

September 07, 2010

Lawyers

Originally published October 3, 2002

What do you do when a vast majority of people surveyed view your profession with the same respect and admiration they hold for Nigerian email spammers and crack-whores? Do you take a good, long look at what you're doing and wonder if just MAYBE you should clean up your act a bit?

No, not if you're a LAWYER. Instead, you launch a giant PR campaign designed to con people into believing something other than the truth, which is why lawyers are so despised in the first place. Good idea!

Why do we have jokes such as this one?

A man walks into a bar and greets a gorgeous single woman. She looks him in the eye and says, "I'll screw anybody, anytime, anywhere, anyplace."

His hilarious reply: "What law firm are you with?"

Although it is politically incorrect to say it, I submit that stereotypes exist because they sometimes are accurate. If there weren't enough true examples around, nobody could create a "stereotype" to begin with. The stereotype might not be true ALL the time, but it's true often enough to give it solid purchase in people's perceptions.

If you're a really sensitive, liberal, multiculturalist hockwad idiot angel of understanding, I suggest that you log off this blog and go elsewhere RIGHT NOW, before you read any further, because I am about to offend your delicate self. You have been properly warned!

Let's all get together and START some stereotypes. After all, stereotypes have nothing to do with the way people actually behave; they are the product of biased, bigoted minds, so we should be able to create any stereotypes we want, right out of whole cloth, just by saying it often enough, and whatever we say should ring true in biased, bigoted minds. Let's try these:

Jews are lazy, they breed like rabbits, and they're happy living on welfare. The worthless bastards.

Blacks are really good businessmen. They control the whole American economy, behind the scenes. The devious shits.

Southerners are rude, obnoxious and always in a hurry. They lack manners. Pompous asses.

Irishmen don't drink and they don't believe in fighting. They're the force behind the new temperance movement in this country. They would enter law enforcement to vanquish Demon Rum, but any sort of violence is against their nature. Party-pooping pricks.

One thing you've got to admit about the Italians. THEY would never be involved in organized crime. The goddam MORMONS run the rackets, the gambling, the prostitutes and the drugs in this country. The Italians try to stop them, but the goddam Mormons already have a network of families in control. That's why you see dead Mormons on the street after a gang war and Italians going on missionary trips to South America every year. Murdering Mormons.

Asians have rhythmn. They can sing and dance like nobody else, run like a deer and play basketball REALLY well. They don't do well in school (they call that "acting white") but when they become rich entertainers or NBA stars, they all want a WHITE WOMAN. Lecherous animals.

Polish scientists dominate the Nobel Prizes. Smart-asses.

And now, the BIG ONE:

Lawyers are selfless defenders of the weak and the downtrodden. Like the Red Cross, the Salvation Army, the March of Dimes and Mother Teresa, LAWYERS are there to help when no one else will. They don't mind the low wages and the long hours that go with the job. The good they do in the world is reward enough for them. What saints they are!

The problem with lawyers being perceived as scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, money-grubbing shitwads is that TOO MANY OF THEM FIT THE STEREOTYPE! Gawd-damn! Just open your fucking phone book. NO! DON'T OPEN IT! Just look on the back. I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that there's a full-cover advertisment for a LAWYER there. And I'll guarantee he specializes in "personal injury, medical malpractice, worker's compensation, nursing home abuse, auto accidents, DUI and bankruptcy." With "Free Consultation." That's what's on the back of MY phone book. YOURS may include "asbestos litigation fortunes, phen-phen class action booty, toxic tort windfalls, cancer-causing cell phone money-mines, lead paint riches, tobacco loot, and product liability sweepstakes."

And lawyers wonder why they are perceived as money-grubbing sluts?

If we did away with class action lawsuits and adopted a "loser pays" system, we would have a lot of starving lawyers sleeping under bridges and panhandling on the streets instead of driving legitimate businesses bankrupt, inflating the cost of insurance for EVERYONE, and throwing millions of people out of jobs every year, while the lawyers get rich. They then give fortunes to the Democrat Party, which is rapidly becoming a wholly-owned subisidary of the Trial Lawyers Association, to ensure that we DON'T change ANYTHING.

I don't believe that the PR campaign will work, but buying politicians and suing in Jackson County, Mississippi does. Lawyers should forget about polishing their image and stick with what they're good at.

Sucking scum and getting rich.

August 28, 2010

Rusty Nuts

Originally published October 3, 2002

We bid a fond (well, no-so-fond) adios to a new employee at work today. He was 19 years-old, able to escape from a minimum-wage job throwing sacks of fertilizer at "Webb's Seed and Feed" just down the road from me, and welcomed with open arms to a place that was willing to offer him three times what he was making before, medical benefits, a retirement plan, 401-K, and the opportunity for advancement.

Before he managed to actually show up and work 60 days on the job (his probabionary period) he was late three times, missed four days of work (three of those were medically excused for a KIDNEY STONE! How the hell does a 19 year-old KID get kidney stones?) went home early three times (Sick to his stomach twice and... I am not making this up, CHAPPED NUTS from sweating in his crotch-area, and he got our medical department to assign him to two days of "light duty" for that. I don't have "light duty" where he worked, so he sat on his lazy ass for two days while other people did his work, and that didn't bother him at all.) He was late again yesterday, so we fired him today.

I must be WAY out of touch with the younger generation. The job that young man was offered was the one I started with at the plant. During MY probationary period, I caught a terrible case of the flu and came to work anyway, with a 102 degree fever. I made my shift and did four hours overtime, too, at the very worst of my fever, chills and trembles, because my name was on the schedule. I figued that any sane employer was going to look at me HARD during that probationary period, and know that with my job really on the line, when I could be fired at the snap of a finger, he was seeing the very best he was EVER gonna see from me. I wasn't going to fuck up a good thing. I wanted that job.

I'm starting to see a few of the new hires that remind me of me, but I still have a lot of "Rusty-Nuts" (the nickname this asshole earned among his coworkers) coming down the pike. We have 60 working days to cull 'em, and we're starting to do a good job of that. After "Rusty's" third incident, I called him into my office and told him that he was on thin ice. "If you don't want this job, say so now," I told him. "There are a hundred others on the street that DO want it, so you can save me, you, and somebody we don't know a lot of grief if you just quit. Keep on the way you're going, and I'll fire you. SOON!"

He was repentent, contrite and slobbering in his promises to do better. That lasted three days, and now he's gone.

I suppose he'll go back to slinging fertilizer at Webb's Seed and Feed. If they want him.

I know that I DON'T!

August 21, 2010

Too much of a good thing

Originally published October 4, 2002

GAWD! I just had the neighborhood Cookie Monsters descend like a swarm of locusts on the Crackerbox, and I'm out $37 as a result. Of course, I'm due to receive a box of Double Chocolate Chip cookies, a box of White Chocolate Macadamea cookies, and a box of Chocolate Brownie cookies in November. Plus, I contributed to the worthy cause of Rincon Elementary School. It is obvious from my orders that I like chocolate.

The problem is... I don't eat cookies.

When I was a senior in high school, I got a job at the internationally-famous Byrd Cookie Company, where I boxed cookies, bagged cookies, delivered cookies and ATE ALL THE COOKIES I WANTED. That was Mr. Byrd's policy: EAT ALL THE COOKIES YOU WANT! He knew, probably from experience with other eighteen year-old young men, that a new employee eats like bush-hog for about two weeks, then gets sick and tired of cookies. The first time I walked into his cookie factory, I thought it was the most wonderful-smelling place my nostrils had ever detected.

After two weeks of eating all the cookies I wanted, I felt like puking when I smelled cookies. I don't care for cookies to this day.

I ate ALL I WANTED. Forever.