Gut Rumbles
 

March 31, 2004

A letter to my son

Dear Quinton,

I probably am breaking the law for sending this letter, but I donít care. I love you with all of my heart and I think about you every day. I wish you would call me, but I really donít expect that to happen. Mama keeps you pretty busy, doesnít she?

You are my pride and joy, son. I may not be a perfect man, but Iíve always tried to be a good father to you. I taught you to throw a football and how to shoot a free-throw from the edge of the driveway. I was proud of the way you responded to the lessons. Jack comes over almost every day to ask me when youíre coming back to visit. He likes doing that kind of stuff, too.

I donít know when Iíll see you again, Quinton, Iím in a court battle right now, and if worse comes to worst, Iíll be leaving the country for a while. If I leave, understand one thing. Iím not doing it because I donít love you. I will ALWAYS love you. I wish that you were here with me today.

But thatís not my choice to make with the plate laid out in front of me. Iím being asked to eat gruel or get up from the table. Buddy, you know me well enough to know what Iíll do when given that kind of choice. You can shove that gruel where the sun donít shine and IĎll eat the table first.

I hope to see you sometime soon.

Love-- and I mean that with all my heart--Daddy


engineers

When I was in charge of the Energy and Services Department at the plant where I once worked, we upgraded the Acid Plant from an 800 TPD design to a 1000+ TPD operation. The boilers could handle the change and I saw no problem with the temperature control or the adsorption system.

But I saw a big problem with the water softeners. At the rates we intended to run, two softeners wouldn't be enough. At 800 TPD, we could run off one softener while the other regenerated, as long as we pushed every gallon of water we could through that one remaining softener. Even then, keeping the plant on line was a nip-and-tuck affair, and you had to stagger softener operation to ensure that you didn't deplete both at the same time.

I recommended the installation of a third water softener.

My brilliant idea was greeted with cheers from all around, the capital money was approved right away, and I had an engineer assigned to the job. He was some oriental character named Shit-In-Soup, or some such crap, and I thought I gave him a simple job.

I took him down to the Steam Plant, where I had a set of FIVE water softeners, plus a demineralizing system. I told him, "See THIS? Imagine just picking up one of these softeners and carting it down to the Acid Plant. Set the vessel in place, have all the piping prefabricated, and then hook it up on the run. I'll get the resin added, and it'll be ready to go as soon as the piping is complete. Can you do that in eight hours?"

He assured me that he could. I didn't want to take a shutdown for that job.

Two weeks later, I saw the drawings for his project. I almost shit my pants and I pitched one hell of a hissy-fit about what I saw. It was NOTHING like what I had asked the bastard to do. It was an abortion.

What is it about engineers? You take them by the hand, show them something that works, and tell them, "Build me another one just like this one." They can't do it. They want to make it "better," complete with all the bells and whistles sold by the last vendor who bought them a free lunch. Forget the fact that the bells and whistles cost a lot of money, accomplish nothing and cause production people headaches. Engineers like that shit. Buncha egotistical whores.

"So what if you've been operating this stuff for 20 years? I'm an engineer and you're not! I know better than you do!"

I ended up doing the work through a contractor. I had a defunct softener in the field, and the contractor said that he could rehabilitate it and get it pressure certified. I drew what I wanted done on a paper towel for him. Those were the plans for that job.

Two weeks later, I had a third softener at the Acid Plant, I didn't have to shut down to install it and we upped the rates to 1000+ tons per day. The contractor billed me for $40,000 to do the job. I thought that the sum was fair. Shit-In-Soup's estimate for the work was $150,000, PLUS a shutdown to get it done.

That's an engineer for you.

gasoline

I filled up my truck with gas today. I paid $1.61 cents per gallon for regular unleaded. That's a high price for rural Georgia, but it's about 20 cents per gallon below what gas was selling for in Florida when I was there a week ago.

What are YOU paying for gas where you live?

what causes that?

I've never been a hateful, vindictive person. I can be violent and I can be very dangerous in a fight, but I don't carry grudges forever. They become a heavy burden after a while and you're better off if you just lay them down and go on your way. Hate may be a great motivating emotion, but it usually leads you down the wrong path.

You have no real life when you eat yourself up from the inside out, which is what hate will do to you.

I don't believe in loving all my brothers and sisters all over the world either. If I love EVERYBODY, my love is worthless, no better than alms for the poor. Love and respect are qualities that you bestow on people who EARN THEM, not some shit you throw away to beggars like pennies on the street. That's an important concept to understand.

I lived with hate for a while and finally realized, after a lot of thinking, that I was doing no good to myself and I needed to let it go. I also had to deal with misplaced love at the same time. I loved and hated the same person. THAT concept will fuck you up emotionally.

I'm still not where I need to be, but I'm getting there. I didn't ask for this latest dive-bomb attack on my ass in court, but I've got to deal with it, and I will. I don't love that woman anymore. I don't hate her, either. I despise her for being the money-grubbing cunt that she is, but I don't hate her. I look at her today and I feel nothing. She isn't worth my hatred, or my love.

I save those emotions for people who deserve them.

I'll be damned!

Another blogger is back from the dead.

Good to see you alive again, Rich. You still owe me a bottle of home-brew, you bastard. And you've met one of my fantasy dates for lunch, too. I hate you.

But it's good to see you blogging again.

good ole Zell

I never voted for the man when he was governor of Georgia, and when he went to Washing to fill Paul Coverdale's vacancy, I was appalled. But Zell Miller grew a set of balls somewhere along the way and he has made me proud of his conduct in the Senate. Here, he tells it straight, again.

Zell doesn't intend to run for re-election and I believe that we'll lose a good man when he leaves the Senate. Bejus knows that we have a severe scarcity of balls in the Senate. Zell's speech makes a lot of sense to me because he knows what he's talking about.

He is a warrior amid a bunch of wimps.

March 30, 2004

curatives

I went out and had me a big steak dinner for lunch today. I cleaned my plate and it actually tasted like real food for a change. I also saw the Dixie Shrimper van in a local grocery store parking lot. I bought celery, lettuce, onions, mayonase, new-baked bread bread and five pounds of fresh shrimp. I'll boil and peel the shrimp shortly, then I am going to make a tub of shrimp salad. I figure that I can eat that stuff for about three days.

I love shrimp salad sandwiches.

I still have about two days worth of antibiotics to take, and I'm going to take every got-dam one of them. I DO NOT want this flu making a comeback on me. That muther damn near kicked my Cracker ass. Truly, I have not been as sick as I was for the time that I was in a long, long time.

Being laid up feverish, aching and hallucinating for a week gave me some time to think about things from a different angle than I usually pursue. I looked at the legal shit that I'm mired in and I felt the custom-groomed talons of the bloodless cunt digging into my back, so I did a few things to protect myself.

I had my will certified and witnessed, put it in a safe deposit box and scattered all of my money across the seven seas. Fuck. In the shape I was in at the time, I don't believe that I can recall where I put it, but I know this much: No asshole judge in Effingham County and no bloodless cunt of an ex-wife will ever lay their claws on it.

That money was meant for my retirement and as a legacy for my daughter and my son. When Jennifer tried to take it all, I had to do something. I REFUSED to pay that cunt for the fucking she gave me. I still refuse to this day.

I kept a $5,000 stash in a different safe deposit box for my getaway money, just in case another judge rules in my appeal that I should go broke because I have a dick and my ex-wife has a cunt, which she doesn't mind giving away out of both pants legs. I won't pay that whore when she's giving her pussy away to someone else.

I'll miss my son, but the cunt doesn't want me around him anyway. She's doing everything in her power, which is considerable in Georgia divorce courts, to keep that boy away from me. I'll be damned if I'll pay her for such perfididy. And I don't give a lovely fuck what the law says.

I either win this appeal, or I cut and run. That's the only two choices I see.

I don't believe that my lawyer is worth a shit. He gets paid whether I go down the tubes or not. The Domestic Law judge in Effingham County is a dickwit. I am caught up in a system that doesn't give a rat's ass about me, and it damn sure doesn't care about the shit my ex-wife pulled on me.

I've always looked at sex as a magnificent sport that should be fun for both partners. Jennifer has always known that she could trade pussy for the next step up the ladder, and she's done it all of her life. She's a good-looking woman, and when you first meet her, she'll charm your ass off. But watch your six anytime you're around her.

What you see ain't what you get.

i'm alive!

I suppose that the fact is obvious to frequent readers of this blog that I am feeling much better today than I have for the past week. I believe that the antibiotics the doctor gave me are working their magic. I have no fever and no aches this morning. In fact, I feel pretty good, except for being tired and wrung-out.

That was one bitch of a flu.

I hope I don't suffer another relapse. One good sign is that I'm hungry. I managed to eat a little while I was sick, but everything tasted like cardboard. I could choke it down, but I really didn't want to. I drank a lot of chicken soup.
I may go out and get myself a steak dinner today.

It's a miserable experience to be sick all by yourself. That's one of the things I miss about being married. If I wanted another cup of soup, I had to stagger into the kitchen and make it myself. If I were married, I could lay on the couch, act really pathetic (which would NOT have been a stretch) and ask, "Honey, would you please bring me a cup of soup?"

A good wife would bring the soup and wipe my feverish brow with a cool towel, while whispering words of encouragement in my ear. I didn't have that; instead, I had an ex-wife trying to wish me to death and steal all of my money at the same time.

I've not seen Quinton in more than a month now. I miss him a lot. I can't call him, but he could call me-- except that I know he won't. When I was locked up for 45 days back in 2001, I wrote Quinton a letter every day and I never received a single reply. All I ever got in the mail was screw-me-over divorce proposals from the bloodless cunt while she was running all over the place with her new lover.

Quinton knows my phone number. I wish he would call.

I am back to where I started

good luck--you're gonna need it

Lo and behold! Liberal talk radio begins broadcasting tomorrow. I can't wait to make certain that the show never crosses my radio dial.

Al Franken and a host of garrulous progressives ease onto the airwaves tomorrow morning on America Left, broadcasting live from 6 a.m. to midnight on weekdays via XM Satellite Radio and three AM radio stations ó in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles.
Mr. Franken will debut at noon with "The O'Franken Factor," a three-hour daily show airing opposite conservative host Rush Limbaugh, who has 20 million listeners. Mr. Franken once wrote a book titled "Rush Limbaugh is a Big Fat Idiot" and has named his show as a parody of "The O'Reilly Factor," hosted by Bill O'Reilly of Fox News.
Mr. Franken, who has scuffled with conservatives for years, is primed for a fight.
"My first priority is to get sued by a right-wing jerk in order to generate interest in my new show," Mr. Franken said in a statement earlier this year.

You had better hope someone famous sues your obnoxious, slimy ass, Franken, because you'll never generate ratings on your own ability to entertain. You suck as a comedian, and your books are nothing more than navel-gazing, leftist rants that sound as if they were written by some spoiled kid in a sandbox who let some bully steal his toys. You're about as talented and amusing as a pile of dogshit in my yard.

Talk about a "jerk."

I am interested to watch this endeavor crash and burn, because I don't believe that an audience exists for this type of drivel. I may be wrong, but I don't think so. Mario Cuomo was considered to be the most eloquent spokesman in the left-wing ranks when he tried a radio talk show. He bombed.

So will Franken.


the booger-man lives

You really need to read this article and follow the links. I believe that it describes to environmental movement in a nutshell.

i suppose that it's "profiling"

Once upon a time, I received phone calls from people who were considering hiring and ex-employee of mine. I was at liberty to say, "He's a good worker. I would hire him back myself," or "The sumbitch ain't worth the powder it would take to blow him away. He's lazy, he won't come to work on time and he's also dumb as a red brick."

That procedure doesn't happen anymore. I attended a training class where I was instructed that whenever I received such a phone call, I was to say, "I can confirm that he was employed here, but any other questions need to be directed to our Human Resources Department," and then hang up. HR took it from there and they did the legal tap-dance all around the issue of whether the applicant was worth a shit or not as an employee without answering any questions.

Worker's rights, don't you know. That remarkable "don't ask, don't tell" philosophy results in a lot of crap such as this:

As a result, Cullen wasn't arrested until December, after authorities found that at least two patients at a Somerville, N.J., hospital received overdoses of drugs that hadn't been prescribed. Cullen was charged with murder and attempted murder. Detectives say he admitted killing 30 to 40 patients during 16 years to "alleviate their suffering."

Cullen's case is an extreme example. But reticence by businesses and governments that give job references is standard. Fearing defamation suits by former workers, most firms provide only dates of employment and job titles during reference checks. In fact, lawyers routinely advise employers to say as little as possible ó even when a worker had been fired and staying tight-lipped could expose others to avoidable risks.

Nut-cases get a free pass and good workers are punished by such legal thinking. But it covers corporate asses and makes the leftists happy. What a country.

And what a legal system.


People send me jokes

Sometimes, I read one that I never heard before. This is one of those:

Three Roses

A woman goes to her doctor and says she wants an operation because her vagina lips are much too large. She asks the doctor to keep the operation a secret, as she is embarrassed and does not want anyone to find out, The doctor agrees.

She wakes up from the operation and finds three roses carefully placed on her nightstand. Outraged, she immediately calls the doctor and says "I told you not to tell anyone!"

The doctor replies, "Don't worry, I didn't tell a soul!"

When the woman inquires about the roses the doctor says, "Oh, those! The first rose is from me. I felt bad because you went through this all by yourself.
The second rose is from my nurse. She assisted me with your operation and has been through this procedure herself, so she understands what you're going through.

And the third rose is from the guy upstairs in the burn unit. He wanted to thank you for his new ears."

he's back!

Jim, at smoke on the water is blogging again, and he's throwing his usual good posts up after a brief absence. You should go read.

tin cup

Here's something that makes a tin cup look tame. I don't know if I would ever wear one of those, but I'm certain that they sell.

this guy is correct. You can buy anything on the internet.

March 29, 2004

I had a dream

I've been sick and feverish lately, and even with the pills the doctor gave me, nights are a tumultuous experience. I have horrible dreams.

I dreamed last night that I was back at work, but when I walked out of the control room, I was in an IGA grocery store. In the vegetable rack I saw a bunch of brown paper bags labeled by shift, A,B,C and D. I opened one and found it full of pure-bud ganja, the kind I saw in Jamaica. I went apeshit. I pitched a hissy-fit.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? GET THIS CRAP OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW!!" I bellowed.

"What do you want us to do with it?" one of the operators asked.

"I don't care. Burn it. Throw it in a tank. Feed it to the calciner. Just get rid of it. I can't afford to lose you guys over a failed piss-test, so just get it gone and don't bring it back here again."

"Well, what's that on your belt, boss?" I looked down and found a big bag of pot hanging from my belt where I always wore my escape respirator at work. I was stunned. What the hell was THAT doing there? I learned my lesson in Jamacia. I'm too old to be a hippie again. I don't want any more dope. I can't handle it.

I tore the pot off my belt and told the operators to burn it all. They went outside and I followed them.

All of a sudden, I was in the woods around Blood Mountain Cabins and my operators were burning dead leaves on a nice fire and making bird nests out of the ganja. They placed all the buds in the trees in nice arrangements and told me, "We'll come back and get it later. We'll share with you."

I woke up in a feverish sweat and didn't go back to sleep for a couple of hours. My mind is a terrible place to be when I run a fever. That dream frightened me.

But if I ever go back to Blood Mountain and see a pot-nest in a tree, I'll wonder about a lot of things.

i believe it

UCLA's Department of Psychiatry

A study conducted by UCLA's Department of Psychiatry has revealed
that the kind of male face a woman finds attractive can differ depending on
what phase she is in with regard to her menstrual cycle.

For instance, if she is ovulating, she is attracted to men with rugged and masculine features.

However, if she is menstruating, or menopausal, she is more prone to be
attracted to a man with scissors lodged in his temple and a bat jammed
up his ass while he is on fire.

Further studies are expected.

Heh. My ex-wife should be an excellent subject to study.

why not?

A 90-year-old man said to his doctor, "I've never felt better. I have an
18-year-old bride who is pregnant with my child. What do you think about
that?"

The doctor considered his question for a minute and then said, "I have an
elderly friend who is a hunter and never misses a season. One day when he
was going out in a bit of a hurry, he accidentally picked up his umbrella
instead of his gun. When he got to the creek, he saw a beaver sitting
beside the stream. He raised his umbrella and went, 'bang, bang' and the
beaver fell dead. What do you think of that?"

The 90-year-old said, "I'd say somebody else shot that beaver."
The doctor replied, "My point exactly."

changing every day

I really need to sit down and update my blogroll. But I'll confess that I haven't been cruising the blogs lately the way I normally do. I've been too sick and too preoccupied with other problems.

I'll straighten everything out when I feel better. Plus, I have been writing a lot lately (not for the blog) and that kind of activity doesn't give me a lot of free time to visit with my blog-friends. I lose track of time when I write. Hell, I lose track of EVERYTHING when I write.

Did you ever enjoy a hobby that totally absorbed you when you practiced it? I mean something that wrapped you in your own little world, where no one else could enter, and you felt totally comfortable there? I have that experience when I write.

I'm just putting words on a page. I never really know what's going to come flying out of my imagination, but it's in there, and it's got to emerge. Some people enjoy the results and some people hate my guts for what I write. I appreciate the flattery and I try my best to ignore the trolls. But no matter what happens next, writing is something I'll do until I take my last breath.

That restless urge is in me, and I cannot keep it caged.

March 28, 2004

doc in the box

I finally realized that I was sick enough to require medical care. I went to the Insta-Clinic this morning and the doc (who appeared to be about 19 years old) took my temperature, looked down my throat and pitched a hissy-fit.

He gave me several prescriptions, including antibiotics, sleeping pills and pain-killers. I may be laid up on my ass for the next couple of days.

Y'all just hang around. Being fucked-up never stopped me from blogging before.

money

Money means a lot more to other people than it does to me. All I ever wanted was enough to keep the bill collectors from the door and keep the IRS off my ass. I never intended to be rich. I just wanted to be comfortable.

I hit that stage in my life, and I was on the borderline of becoming rich. I had more money than I knew what to do with, and more was pouring in every day. I owned a five acre mini-farm, a 3,000 square-foot home and a half-acre garden. I had four goats, 28 chickens, two dogs and two cats.

I loved that place.

I was out in my garden one Saturday morning, working at picking corn, okra, beans, squash, banana peppers, cucmbers and tomatoes. The goats followed me down the fence, because after I picked the corn, I threw the shucks and the stalks over the fence to them. They considered that bounty to be a beautiful treat.

Quinton came riding up on his bicycle and asked if he could go to Michael's house. I told him that he could, but to let me know if he went anywhere else. I watched him ride down the road and I felt as happy as I have ever been in my life. I saw those little legs pumping the pedals down a dirt road in search of adventure and I thought to myself, "He has a chance to grow up just the way I did." He's Huck Finn, but he doesn't know it yet.

I sat down in my garden and smoked a cigarette. I loved the smell of the dirt and the plants. I had a five-gallon bucket filled with my harvest for the day, but just growing all that stuff was pure pleasure to me. I sat there amid the cornrows and beanstalks and thought, "This is what I have wanted all of my life."

I lost it all two months later.

I planted a garden my first year at the Crackerbox, but I ended up giving away everything I grew. Hell, I kept a few cucumbers and a couple of tomatoes, but what was I going to do with the rest of that shit? I wasn't feeding a family anymore. I gave away most of what I grew and I've not planted another garden since then. In fact, I gave away my tiller Friday. I won't use it anymore.

Now, a bloodless cunt, who ALREADY took away my mini-farm and the life I always dreamed of, while going on a fuck-rampage with a new lover, is after me like a combine tractor for more money. I don't understand people who are so greedy. I really can't comprehend how they think. I also don't understand a system where she will WIN, in spite of her cuntly behavior.

I never did a damned thing in my life for money. If the roles were reversed, I damned sure wouldn't be doing to Jennifer what she is doing to me. I don't think or behave that way.

I guess that's why I'm bound to lose. Nice guys finish last.

brilliant thinkers

Here's an example of the kind of email I receive more and more frequently every day. Notice the deep thought and clever use of language that went into this one.

Asshole get a life? That is one weak assed comeback. Your small maggot mind must be too stymied by the truth to spew any more garbage. I have a life and a good one. Maggot, you're the first one to publish your embarrassing ignorance on the net. Now you tell me to get a life? Fuck you.

Please Maggot do tell, why do you Maggots smell like dogs when you get wet? My friend and I are at odds about this issue. He thinks it is because you fuck your house pets and I think it is because you have the hair of dogs and they are your original forefathers. Please help us solve this puzzle. Wait a minute, maybe we are both right. You come from dogs and that may be why you fuck them. Am I right, huh, huh?

Oh no, this is getting even more complex. Yet another friend says that your skin is not like a maggot because it is not really white. He argues that you have the color of a pink pig. Only you can help us solve this ever growing debate. Are you from the maggot, dog or pig?

No, Mr. TheUglyTruthToo@aol.com, I am from the rat and the wolf. I also have the ability to write, which you lack. You couldn't "debate" your ass out of a plastic grocery bag. You must have a lot of personal problems (Little dick? Can't get laid? Pimples on your face? No money and no future?) to motivate you to write emails such as this one. I'll bet that Mom and Dad are proud of you when they see your "work."

You can kiss my Cracker ass, you fucking nitwit. If you don't like what I write, come knock on my door and tell me about it in person. Bring your "friends," too, if you actually have any. I'll show you what animal I resemble and leave no doubt in your mind about it.

Suck my bionic dick, you sick bastard.

March 27, 2004

BWHAHAHAHA!!!

Can you imagine having richard simmons bitch-slap you in the middle of an airport? In front of WITNESSES? I can't.

I'd take that faggot apart like a set of tinker-toys.

neat gizmos

I have a thermometer that I stick in my ear and click, and it tells me my temperature right away. I also have an old-fashioned mercury thermometer that you have to hold under your tongue for two minutes to take your temperature.

I was feverish and hallucinating yesterday, but I still had enough wherewithall about me to try an experiment. I put the mercury thermometer in my mouth for two mintues, then shot myself in the ear with my high-tech gizmo right before I removed the standard thermometer.

The readings were the same. 102.5 degrees.

I was amazed. How the hell does that thing work? Just poke it in your ear and click a button and you get an accurate reading of your temperature? Who the hell invented that thing? He deserves a got-dam Nobel Prize. That's one superb medical tool.

Of course, it won't make you well-- it'll just let you know how sick you are very quickly.

good question

Do you not sometimes wish you had never started your blog?
It seems to have cost you your job, your chances of seeing your son, your peace of mind (Death threats?) and probably more...
Although it does make for interesting reading because of all of that.

Posted by steve at March 27, 2004 10:39 AM

Steve, I don't regret starting this blog at all. I was hammered pretty hard by my ex-wife when she divorced me, that bloodless cunt, and if I didn't have this outlet, I probably would have killed myself. I still dangle that possibility in my imagination every day.

Just go to sleep forever. Forget about the lawyers and the betrayals and the money-grubbing maggots trying to crawl up my ass like a pack of hungry possums. Just go to sleep and never wake up.

If I sound incoherent, it's because I'm still running a high fever. But I don't believe that I'm that far off the mark about how I really feel. I WILL NOT let that adulterating bitch take all of my money, no matter what ANY judge says. I'll cash everything and burn it in my back yard first.

If you don't believe me, Jennifer, try me. YOU know me well enough to understand that I'll do it.


relapse

I don't know what the hell I have, but it's one piss-cutter of a flu. The fever and chills reappeared about 10:30 yesterday morning, and I spent the remainder of the day flat on my back in bed. I haven't been this sick in a long time.

I don't feel very well today, either.

March 26, 2004

my trolls

I have a couple of real assholes commenting regularly on my page. It's always been my policy NOT to delete asshole comments, but I have banned a couple of ISPs when the trolls became too obnoxious. I have two that are pushing the envelope now. I may get rid of their asses today, but I hate to do that because an ISP ban takes down a lot of innocent bystanders along with the troll.

But I'll do what I have to do.

Here's a comment where the writer disagrees with me, and I have no problem with it at all:

Rob,

Are you implying that ALL black people fall into the generalizations you outlined?

Isnít that be the essence of racism? Isn't it possible, that like white people, blacks also have a percentage that succeed, work hard and achieve by today's standards.

I mean it's one thing to use a specific example of someone living up to a stereotype, but all you ever say is "blacks this and blacks that." I don't know any racial or ethnic group that be categorized with ALWAYS.

Try tempering your words and use your intelligence, you might even get people to agree with you sometimes, as opposed to getting people to kiss your ass in your comments because you are spewing the kind of retarded racist shit they LONG so much to hear.

No, darlin,' I AM NOT implying that all blacks live in Hitch Village and behave as savages at night. I spent too many years working with black people who I respect as hard workers, good fathers and middle-class strivers to EVER paint with that kind of broad brush. That's my entire point.

What I don't accept is the concept that blacks will be "victims" forever. That's what their so-called leaders preach to them, and I saw too many new hires come into the plant as AN ANGRY BLACK YOUTH, taught well by his new slavemasters, who taught him (or her) hate, suspicision and a pure reluctance to play by the rules, because they are WHITE MAN'S RULES.

That's not how you get out of Hitch Village and make something of yourself. That's how you KEEP yourself in a place such as Hitch Village. You can call that idea racist thought all you want to, but it doesn't change the facts. I refuse to deny the obvious.

I always thought it weird at work when I attempted to discipline a black person for a fuck-up on the job. The first statement I received out of his or her mouth, usually, was "You're doing this only because I'm black and you're white." Got-dam! Who ran the fucking tank over and put $10,000 worth of product in the ditch? Who didn't show up for work yesterday? Did you fuck-up or not? What does white or black have to do with this incident?

Those questions don't matter to a professional victim.

That's what chaps my ass about so many blacks today. Nothing is EVER their fault, and if you criticize their behavior, you're a racist. Man, that's the ticket to success, isn't it? That's why we still have Hitch Village in Savannah.

Call me whatever names you want. I don't care. I'm old enough now to know what I believe and I can spot bullshit from a mile away. And I see a lot of blacks deluding themselves and blaming all their failures on "the system" instead of looking in the mirror and taking personal responsibility for their actions. If that's a racist philosophy, then so be it.

I don't care where the chips fall.


so would I

Senator Hillary Clinton, at a party, walked up to Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger and told him, "If you were my husband I would poison your drink."

Schwarzenegger replied, "If you were my wife I would drink it".



Feeling almost human

The past three days have been rough. I've spent a lot of time in my bed, on my couch or in the bathroom while suffering from delerious fevers and assorted aches and pains. I have endured tumultious dreams and a complete lack of appetite. Whatever cold of flu I caught was a bad one.

I feel better today. I may live after all.

March 25, 2004

are you a beer lover?

If you are, and you consider yourself to be an expert, take this test.

I got five right. I don't drink a lot of beer anymore.

March 24, 2004

"hopeless" romantics

Yeah. I can identify with this post.

I feel the same way and I doubt that I'll ever change.

change in plans

I put off my legal obligations until tomorrow. I tend to become hallucinatory when I run a fever and mine is 102 degrees right now. I went to the drug store and bought some more cold medicine, and then I dropped in on a local Mexican restaurant for the hottest, most teeth-melting dish they had, complete with extra hot sauce.

I am going to take my medicine, wrap myself in a blanket and sweat this shit out. I just wish I had a shot of moonshine to go along with my medication. That stuff worked wonders for a cold when I was a kid.

Anyway, I'll do very little blogging until I feel better.

duh!

Here's a really big surprise.

WASHINGTON (AP) - Medicare will have to begin dipping into its trust fund this year to keep up with expenditures and will go broke by 2019 without changes in a program that is swelling because of rising health costs, trustees reported Tuesday.

What does Congress and the President do about this problem? They pass a free prescription drug benefit to send another torpedo into a sinking ship. Buncha vote-buying, corrupt assholes.

Here's another