April 30, 2004
My comments appear to be fried again and I really don't understand why. They were working this morning and the comments are coming to my email. They just don't show up on my blog, even though they were there a couple of hours ago.
Keep leaving comments. Maybe they'll unfuck themselves again.
He's got the swagger
Quinton moves like a snake in the infield. He's a hell of a shortstop and his body language shows that he knows it. He's comfortable out there. I see a lot of boys on that field who are all oversized feet and clumsy hands. Quinton looks smooth and coordinated. He's got a fucking cannon for an arm, too. Where the hell did THAT come from? He damn sure didn't inherit that arm from me.
Quinton's Mighty Marlins played the Madd Dogs last night. The Madd Dogs are the best team in the league and Quinton told me before the game that his team stunk and they expected to be beaten royally. "That's no attitude to take into a game," I told him. "Your team can beat these guys. Look at 'em. They belch and fart and wear skidmarks in their drawers the same as you do. They're not super-heroes. If you guys hit and catch and play smart on the bases, you can win. Don't EVER give up before the game even starts."
Quinton played well. He went 2-for-3 at the plate and was robbed of a nice hit by some lucky little shit who happened to be as coordinated as Quinton is, with a similar cannon arm. The enemy shortstop knocked down a hard grounder and threw Quinton out FROM HIS KNEES and beat my boy by a step to first base with the throw. If that shortstop wasn't as good as Quinton is, that drive could have gone for extra bases.
Quinton made an unassisted double play by catching a line drive and tagging a greedy runner trying to make it from second base to third. He was proud of that one, and so was I.
But the moment of the night, for me anyway, was when somebody on the Madd Dogs hit a line drive into the outfield. They had a runner on first at the time and that boy was booking for home plate with the third base coach waving him on. The hitter took second while the relay throw from the outfield came to Quinton. He was right next to second base.
Quinton stretched back and appeared to be trying to gun the runner rounding third out at the plate. I knew that the throw would be too late, even with Quinton's arm, and I was thinking, "Just hold the ball and walk it back to the pitcher. You can't get that guy."
Quinton did one of the greatest fakes I've ever seen in my life. He put every piece of muscle, bone and sinew he had into a FAKE throw at the plate. The hitter stepped off second base and Quinton, who still held the ball, turned around and tagged him out. I almost fell out of the bleachers. Got-Dam! WE PRACTICED THAT MOVE!!!!
Quinton looked up into the stands at me and grinned like a dog eating cat-shit out of a litter box. I could see what he was thinking. "Just like you said, Dad. You gotta FOOL 'EM sometimes."
They lost the game. But I am proud of my boy.
sights at the ball game
I am convinced that Effingham County, Georgia, has one of the most unique combinations of beautiful wimmen with well-behaved children combined with pure trailer trash and their feral hellions that you'll find anywhere in the world. I wanted to kill one young'un last night.
His name was "Scott." He appeared to be about three years old and he was as wild as sourgrass. Scott first caught my attention when Quinton's team was warming up on the field and heard a screeching voice screaming, "Teresa, you bitch! Get me some popcorn! Teresa, you're a BITCH!" I turned around in the bleachers and saw where the noise was coming from. My jaw dropped.
I know nothing about Scott's background or home life. But I know this much: if my son ever used such language in public, I would fry his young butt in front of God and everybody. Mr. Belt and Quinton would make a really fast ass-bond just as soon as the words left his lips. Yeah, I would spank my child over something like that. I'd give him one to remember, too.
Teresa didn't. She returned from the concession stand with a coke and a bag of popcorn for the little brat. He immediately spilled the coke, dumped his popcorn on the ground and started wailing like a banshee while pounding away at Teresa with his fists. "Teresa, you BITCH! Go get me some more!"
I turned around in my seat and shot Teresa a dirty look. The boy was in full attack-mode and she was simply fending off the blows. "He's not mine," she explained feebly. "Scott is my sister's boy and I'm just babysitting tonight while his brother plays ball. He sure is a handfull."
"Somebody needs to give him a handfull of his own ass, if you ask me," I replied. "If you can't shut him up and let me watch this game in peace, I'm going to see if Mr. Sheriff's Deputy over there can't do the job. Tie Scott to a tree. Duct-tape the mouthy turd from head to toe. I don't care what you have to do. Just shut him up."
Teresa took Scott for a "walk." The flying monkey from hell ran around like a whirling dervish and drove everybody at the ballpark crazy. I found myself wishing that I had brought my pellet rifle to the game. A couple of well-placed stingers right in little Scott's butt-cheeks might have simmered him down a little bit. Think about it.
"Teresa, you BITCH!" Phoot. "OW!"
"Buy me some MORE!" Phoot. "OW!"
One swing of a little fist. Phoot. "OW!"
Yeah, Scott. You furnished me with a rich fantasy life last night. I believe that I could have convinced you to sit in those stands and behave like a little gentleman. No, I take that back after watching you for almost two hours. I would make you behave like a little gentleman.
But you wouldn't want to SIT anywhere.
a true prick
Let's get one thing straight: Even a prick has the right to say what he thinks (or "feels," in this case) because we live in a free country. But that doesn't mean that I have to agree with the prick, and freedom of speech doesn't give him the right to be a complete dickwit and escape any repercussions for his foolishness.
A University of Massachusetts student has openly criticized Pat Tillman, calling the former NFL player a Rambo-like idiot in the school paper.
If Tillman was a pendejo, what does that make YOU, Rene, other than a nutless little prick? You aren't fit to carry that man's jockstrap.
Gonzalez also says that Tillman's service was not "necessary."
The reputation of UMass as a place of higher learning just went down the crapper in my opinion. If this pathetic, immature rant is the sort of thinking the college produces, let's invade THAT place. I believe that we have some professors who should be added to the terrorist-support network that we're attempting to destroy.
Here's a guy from Puerto Rico, for crying out loud, receiving a college education in the United States, and he has the unmitigated gall to write that Pat Tillman wasn't defending HIM. How the fuck do you think you got the opportunities you have now, Rene? Go to Arlington Cemetary, you ungrateful, pussified shit. THERE is where you'll find what gave you the right to be a whining little prick.
Go piss on a dead soldier's grave if that makes you "feel" good. If I see you do it, however, I'll whip your ass or die trying. You can go back to the freedom-loving, prosperous island of Puerto Rico in several garbage bags. In a free country, I can have MY opinions, too. And IN MY HUMBLE OPINION, you suck!
Who's the real idiot here?
April 29, 2004
Quinton has a baseball game at 7:10 tonight and I'm going, even though I have to drive all the way across the county to get there. I had my camera fixed today and I may post a couple of pictures of my boy. I hope he plays a good game.
I don't like games after dark. These old fart eyes don't see well after sunset anymore and I have a long drive in front of me, especially on the way home. I'll just have to endeavor to persevere. I can make it.
I told Quinton that I would be there, and I will.
You need to read this.
It's okay to cry. I did.
Here is a perfect example of why some good ideas should be ignored. A "Crackerbox Cam?"
I would be busted for peddling filth over the internet.
Maybe I should kick one of the guys I selected for desert island duty off my list and replace him with this guy. He might be able to teach me a few things I don't already know about the outdoor life.
I'll bet that he has a sharp pocketknife.
April 28, 2004
I did something in high school that no male student ever did before. We all had to take some bullshit Social Studies class for half the year, then we had an elective to fill out the rest of the term. Boys always signed up for Shop Class and girls always signed up for Home Economics (this was 1969).
I signed up for Home Economics. I found paradise there.
I was the only male specimen in a room filled with wimmen. I was treated like a king there and I NEVER had to eat another cafeteria meal again. The wimmen COOKED every day in class. I ate like a Roman emperor. I flirted. I asked wimmen out for dates. I was firing on eight cylinders at the time.
Some of the guys made fun of me at first, but when they saw what I was into, they turned green with envy. They shoulda thought of that. They were playing with wood in shop class. I had wimmen playing with my wood. The next year, the class was about 50-50 male and female. Some guys got the message. The teacher was astonished.
Don't tell me that I'm not a fucking trailblazer.
If you've read this blog for any length of time, you know that I am totally fascinated by words and the impact they have on people who read them. I just watched some shit-ass black comic on HBO whose entire act consisted of "niggah," "whoes" and "mutherfucker." The crowd went wild.
I wrote a post about the notorious N-word and a lot of people ceremoniously de-linked me, and called me a racist bastard to boot. I wonder why? It can't be just the word, because that fucking dead-beat comic makes a living calling people "niggahs." Why don't people ceremoniouly boycott his concerts?
That's because it's not the word that matters. It's the PERCEPTION that counts. I am a Southern white male. I can't say "niggah." If I say that word, I am branded a racist. Let some jive-ass fool on HBO with black skin say the same thing over 100 times in a 30-minute stand-up act and he's fucking hilarious.
I don't like double-standards.
I also don't like a lot of words in the English language. Take "penis," for example. That's about the most obscene-sounding word I ever heard. It's even worse than "ointment." I LIKE Roscoe, but I don't claim to have a "penis." Penis sounds like some kind of intestinal parasite you pick up in a Third World country because you didn't boil the water before you drank it.
How about "vagina" or "clitoris?" Those words sound like medical conditions where the doctor calls the family in to inform them that the patient has less than 24 hours to live. "The vagina has spread and we can't stop it. Plus, a case of clitoris has set in, also. I'm afraid that our most powerful antibiotics won't do any good."
Try "cock." Yes, if you want to see my cock, I'll show it to you. It hangs right between my legs where a "penis" is supposed to be. But I don't have a penis. I have a cock.
I don't want to see your "vagina" or your "clitoris." Let me see your pussy and let me play with The Man in the Boat. We can make beautiful music together as long as we get our language straight.
Words. If you want to detect a true liar and a con-artist right away, just check the language. That's how "gender" came to mean sex, a "woman's right to choose" came to mean abortion and "moderate Rebublican" came to mean a fucking RINO. Dishonesty made stone.
And all you people who de-linked me can kiss my Cracker ass. As Jack Nicholson said in A Few Good Men: "You don't want the truth! You can't handle the truth!"
A lot of people can't.
I gotta ask a simple question: is this shit any business of the government? I don't think so.
But evidently, a lot of other people do.
my first true grief
When I was a boy, I had a dog named "Pudgy." He was a black-lab mutt-mix and a damn fine dog. He went everywhere I went with my friends as we roamed the woods, swam in the lake and killed birds with BB guns. He was a sport.
I believe that I loved that dog more than I did my brother at the time. Pudgy was my constant companion. I remember him following me into a field full of goldenrod while I was chasing butterflys with my net and kill-jar. I saw Pudgy step on a big stinging nettle (some people call that obnoxious weed "the seven year itch" because it will sting and itch the living shit out of you). Pudgy sat down and started licking his injured, itching foot.
I did what I knew worked against the venom from the plant. I pissed on the dog's foot and packed it in cool sand that I dug from deep in the ground. That action made him feel better and he wagged his tail in appreciation. Yeah. My boy takes care of me. I knew what he was thinking. I could see it in his eyes.
One day, Pudgy followed my brother off somewhere and Dave made the mistake of dashing across Whitfield Avenue right ahead of a car coming down the road. Pudgy followed and got hit by the car. My brother was a complete asshole for not thinking about that dog before he ran across the road. I would have. Dave didn't.
He came screaming home shouting that Pudgy had been run over by a car. I looked outside and saw Pudgy standing on the front porch and shaking like a leaf. I checked him out from head to toe and I could find no wounds on him. "You're not hurt, Pudge," I told him. "You're just scared. You are one lucky dog."
He gimped off into the bushes off the front porch and lay down. I kept checking on him and I didn't like what I saw. He was breathing way too fast and his tongue was beginning to hang out of his mouth in the dirt. I tried to give him some water, but he wouldn't drink.
About that time, the ice-cream truck came down the road with that merry, tinkling music playing from the loudspeakers. I had a brilliant idea. Pudgy LOVED ice cream, and if I bought him a cone, he would eat it and be fine. I chased that truck all the way down the street to buy a cone.
Pudgy wouldn't eat it. He just kept panting and his tongue kept hanging farther into the dirt. I was getting worried by then.
About that time, my father came home from work. I told him about Pudgy and he examined the dog. "He's all busted up inside," my father said. "I don't think he's gonna make it." As if to illustrate my father's point, Pudgy pissed all over himself and the urine was full of blood.
Taking the dog to the vet was out of the question. My parents could barely afford to feed and clothe me and my brother. They had no money to spend on saving a mutt's life. "He'll live, or he won't," my father said. "There's nothing I can do to help him."
I held and petted Pudgy there in the bushes until he died about an hour later. He gave one last sigh and his eyes glazed over. His dirt-covered tongue was still hanging out of his mouth. I ran inside the house and told my father that I thought Pudgy was dead. Dad checked and confirmed my worst suspicions. "Get a towel and wrap him up," my father instructed. "Then, bring him to the back yard."
My father dug a deep hole next to the oak tree where my friends and I played all our Tarzan games. Pudgy always liked to sleep in the shade there while we climbed that tree. I carried my dead dog in my arms and wept like a baby. When I got to the hole, my father said, "Lay him in there, but keep the towel. We need it."
I dumped my dog into that hole and I helped my father cover him up. I cried for two weeks after that. I had never felt such total grief in my life. I LOVED that goddam dog.
I've had a lot of grief since then, but none of it has ever cut as sharply and as painfully as that first dose. I remember that day vividly and I believe that I always will.
I never got over it.
At long last, my neck of the woods has high-speed internet service. I signed up for Comcast today and the connection is scheduled for Monday morning, between 8:00 and 12:00 AM (I am an early riser). I've been blogging with a clanky dial-up connection from the beginning because that's all I could get. But NOW, I'm headed for the 21st century.
And the package is cheaper than what I'm paying now.
I am very grateful for the readers who visit my blog. A lot of them have been around for a long time and I feel as if I know them as friends, even though I'll probably never meet more than a handful of them in person. They do two things that I really like.
First, they visit me almost every day. They are my audience and they often inspire me to write when I really don't feel like doing it. It's like when someone sends you a present. You need to send back a thank-you note, just to show good manners and proper appreciation of the gift. And yes, I consider my readers to be a gift.
Second, they follow the links I put on my page. I surf a lot of blogs. When I find a good one, I immediately check to see if their site meter stats are open. If I see a good blog that gets 20 visitors per day, I'll link that blog, just to generate some traffic to the site. I'm no Instapundit, but my readers definitely light up the hit-counter for a blog with few visitors. I've jump-started a few worthy sites that way.
I'm just passing it along. Some of the big guys really helped me when I was starting out, and I want to return that favor. Blogging is a lonely task when no one reads you. I've seen a few people use clever marketing and mass emails to boost their sites, but I prefer the ones who toil in obscurity and hope to build readership through good work instead of salesmanship. Those are the ones I link.
As Glenn Reynolds once said, an Instalanche will give you a lot of visitors in a single day. But if you have no product to offer, that 'lanche is a one-shot deal. The readers won't be back. I still believe that if you build it, they will come.
But somebody needs to let people know that you're out there. That's what I often try to do.
so many blogs, so little time
It took me a while, but I finally discovered this guy. Any
We old farts need to stick together.
the bastard won
On my list of the top-ten pure gasbags in the Senate, Arlen Spector ranks in the top five, ahead of many Democrats I purely despise. I lost all respect for that posturing asswipe when he stood up and screeched "Not Proven" at Bill Clinton's impeachment hearing. Whatta spineless maroon.
He managed to hang onto his seat yesterday, which is still a win, even though he did cling to power by his fingernails. The press continues to call Spector a "moderate Republican." I call him a goddam RINO. I wouldn't trust that phony sack of shit any farther than I can throw my pickup truck.
I hope the people of Pennsylvania are proud of their choice.
I worked for many years in a job where I was besieged by salesmen and equipment vendors every day. Almost every one of them had the same spiel. "You are in trouble. Without (fill in name of product) THIS, you're going to be swallowed by the competition, left in the dust and unable to do business anymore. Buy it NOW, before it's too late."
Yeah, it's the WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE tactic, tailored to a sales pitch. Scare 'em to death, then offer them salvation. Preachers have plied this trade for centuries and salesmen know how effective it can be. So, that's what they do.
Does anyone besides me see something familiar going on here? If you don't buy John Kerry, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE in a cosmic meltdown of the planet.
Scare 'em, then offer them salvation. It's the oldest trick in the book.
idiots in Georgia
I thought this kind of bullshit happened only in those tort sumps that are so notorious in certain parts of the country. After reading this story, I now believe that 12 complete idiots can be found to man a jury almost anywhere.
A Coweta County jury recently awarded a victim of road rage $3 million after finding the companies that employed the driver liable for the injuries she sustained in the incident.
Right. The trucking company punched that woman in the face. Makes perfect sense to me.
Investigators found Barron has a history of speeding tickets that his employers knew about, Ebersbach said, adding that jurors wanted to send a message.