August 31, 2004
This one makes perfect sense to me. Wimmen hyperventilate and get the vapors when a storm comes. Men want to get drunk, stand in the front yard waving a bottle of tequila, and dare God to hit them with a bolt of lightning.
But sometimes, you can dare God a little too much. Piss him off and he becomes vengeful. If that happens, you're toast. Sometimes, it's better to run to fight another day.
But I'm not going anywhere.
If hurricane Frances DOES come, I'm not going anywhere. I have a solid house on high ground and I live 50 miles from the coast. I think I can handle high winds and heavy rain where I live. I don't have any big trees to fall on me and all of my shit is in the Crackerbox, so I'll stay here no matter what happens.
I can handle anything a hurricane throws at me right where I am. Unless a tornado or two come roaring down the road. If that happens, I'll experience an "oh, shit!" moment right before I go flying off to the land of Oz.
But I AM NOT evacuating.
Yeah, yeah... I KNOW that the latest forecasts put hurricane Frances right up my ass this weekend. I still say that's good news. Forecasters keep adjusting the track farther north. I like that.
Hugo was supposed to hit Savannah, but it turned north at the last minute and waylaid Charleston. Floyd was supposed to hit Savannah, but it was drawn to the National Hurricane Magnet of North Carolina. Wait and see. Frances will miss, too. I stick with my original prediction for landfall: Wilmington, NC.
I'd rather be lucky than good and I'm trusting my luck again this time.
(UPDATE: if this track holds, we're going to take a whippin' even if we don't see the eye of the storm. Savannah will be on the northeast side of the hurricane and that's the worst place to be. I need to buy some more beer and cigarettes.)
College football kicks off in earnest this weekend. So, for you football-heads out there, riddle me this:
Can you name SEVEN division 1-A college teams that have nicknames that DO NOT end with the letter "S"?
my younger days
I was watching a Monday Night Football game when I heard a knock at my door. I thought maybe somebody I knew was coming over with a six-pack to watch the game with me, so I opened the door and was surprised to see Dora standing there under my porch light.
"I need a place to stay," she said. "I've had my last fight with Cecil. I'm not going back there again."
Cecil was a burly, hairy fucking troll that I never liked. I never understood what Dora saw in him in the first place and he beat her up a couple of times. I have NO RESPECT for a man who beats his woman. I knew that Dora was better off without him.
I also knew that Cecil would come looking for her. He might not come to my place first, but he'd get there eventually.
I told her to come on in. She had all her possessions that she had managed to flee with in two grocery bags. I carried them inside for her. She spent that first night on the couch but ended up in my bed for the next two.
Dora was a true redhead and one of the most gentle and sexy souls I've known in my life. I knew that she couldn't stay with me much longer without either Cecil or me ending up dead on my front porch, so I called Vonnie. Vonnie had her own apartment by then and was constantly bitching about making the rent and paying the bills all by herself. I asked Vonnie if she would like a roommate.
I took Dora over to Vonnie's place the next morning. They knew each other because they both were bartenders on River Street at the time and it was a match made in heaven. They got along well and set up efficient housekeeping. I believed that I had done a good deed. Dora took a week off from work to hide from Cecil.
I came home from the bar one night at 4:00 in the morning about a week later. I made a sandwich, opened a beer and sat down on my couch to eat. I heard a knock at my door... not so much a knock as a POUNDING on my front door. "Open up, you sumbitch!" I recognized Cecil's voice.
I put down my sandwich, grabbed a pistol, checked the load and opened the door and stepped back, with the pistol held in one hand, but behind me. "Go away, Cecil," I said.
"Where the hell is Dora? She's HERE, isn't she?" Cecil was drunk and fired up on something else, too, in MY humble opinion.
"I don't know where Dora is," I lied. "But she ain't here and you need to go home."
"I'm coming in to look for her!" Cecil shouted and he took a step forward. That's when I whipped up the gun and pointed it at his chest. Cecil stopped in his tracks.
"Cecil, Dora isn't here and you AIN'T coming in to look for her. You go home now if you want to see sunshine tomorrow. You take one more step and I'll put your guts all over my front porch." I meant it, too. Cecil was a BIG guy.
Cecil went away and I don't remember ever seeing him again. He and Dora never got back together, which was a good thing. Ten years later, I ended up living with Dora for almost two years, until I left her to marry Jennifer. That's the biggest mistake I ever made in my life.
I was 26 years old when this incident occurred.
John Kerry has some serious credibility problems and I don't believe that his "duck, cover and complain" strategy is working well to deal with them. I also believe that the swift boat veterans for truth raise some legitimate points. Instead of DEALING with those issues, Kerry and his operatives prefer to whine, try to censor the ads and call the Swifties operatives for the Bush campaign.
What are you trying to hide, John?
Nobody questions the fact that you were in Vietnam. (Bejus knows YOU have built a career out of
Okay, you WEREN'T in Cambodia for Christmas, even though that day is seared in your memory, and you DIDN'T toss your medals over the White House fence even though you said you did, and you WON'T release all of your military records.
What are you trying to hide, John?
Bill Clinton got away with lying like a sack of shit for eight years. Maybe all Democrats expect such a free pass now. Kerry appears shocked that he's not getting one. I suspect that he'll be equally shocked in November when he loses the election. But it's his own damed fault.
He should quit whining.
Read this story and weep. That's what you get when you allow government to become your nanny.
Aug. 31 (Bloomberg) -- Ford Motor Co., the world's second biggest carmaker, has had a television commercial for its Land Rover brand banned by the U.K. communications regulator after it was judged to ``normalize'' the use of guns.
I don't know how you "normalize" ANYTHING, but I believe that the point here is that guns are frightening, dangerous things and people shouldn't even THINK about them, let alone actually handle one. So, the government steps in to protect you from images that might shatter your fragile psyche.
The advertisement, which featured a woman brandishing a gun later revealed to be a starting pistol, breached the Advertising Standards Code and must not be shown again, Ofcom said in an e- mailed statement. The regulator received 348 complaints against the ad, many concerned that the commercial glamorized guns and made it ``appear that guns are fun and cool.''
Guess what, asshole? Guns ARE fun and cool. Ask anybody who owns one, not 348 whining shitheels who probably don't know which end the round comes out of. Those trembling, delicate flowers probably are afraid of EVERYTHING. They might be less afraid if they owned a goddam gun.
Ofcom said glamorization is ``part and parcel'' of the advertising process but this commercial ``normalized'' gun ownership in a domestic setting. The pistol, fired by the woman into the air as a man got into his car, was used in ``an apparent casual manner and just for fun,'' Ofcom said.
I have another nasty personal confession to make. I have OFTEN used firearms in a "casual manner and just for fun." In fact, I've had A LOT of fun with guns. I enjoy shooting and I like the smell of gunpowder. I've handled guns for long enough that I may appear "casual" with one, but I always practice gun safety and I've never had an accident with one. I don't fear guns, and I understand what they are.
In all my years of owning guns, I've NEVER had one jump up all by itself and start shooting. A firearm is a goddam TOOL, nothing more, and the tool itself is not inherently evil or murderous. It can be used in a deadly fashion, but so can a knife, a chainsaw, a phone cord or a lead pipe. Firearms are NOT the devil incarnate.
But a lot of people seem to think so today.
knock me down with a feather
I wouldn't believe this if I hadn't seen it. I always thought Ron Silver was a complete leftist assclown.
Damn. Maybe he's growing up.
too soon to tell
Only one person in my poll predicted landfall for hurricane frances south of Savannah. That storm is beginning to make me uneasy.
I still say it'll hit North Carolina. But I'm going to stockpile some extra beer and cigarettes anyway. I've got candles, flashlights, propane and canned food already.
Velociman, you'd better jock up, too.
August 30, 2004
might be interesting
The ranks of yankees coming to the Jawja Blogfest is growing. If this keeps up, we Rebs may be outnumbered again, just like we were in the War of Northern Aggression.
That's okay. We can out-drink 'em.
Here's a piece of a short story I finished today.
Charlie crouched in the alley and sweated under his black ski mask. “Waldo,” he said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this job.”
Waldo appeared cool, but Waldo was always difficult to read. The difference between cool and crazy was a thin line with Waldo.
Charlie was a petty criminal and he knew it. Waldo had been to the Big House and back. Charlie stole stereos and pawned them for a fraction of what they were worth, and he stole cars on occasion. But Waldo robbed banks and went for the big scores. Charlie felt awe being in Waldo’s presence.
“You shut the fuck up and do what I tell you to do,” Waldo hissed. “You’ll be a rich man tomorrow.”
They waited for the lights to go out in the house. The mark was a rich old man with a young, trophy-wife. Charlie envied the old fart. All that money, all that pussy…what did THAT old coot do to deserve it? Charlie never had money and he never had a trophy-wife. He thought that he had a couple of children, but he wasn’t certain.
“Give ’em thirty minutes to go to sleep, then we go in,” Waldo whispered. “You take downstairs and I’ll take upstairs. Just stick with the plan. Got it?”
Yeah,” Charlie gasped, feeling suddenly short of breath. “I got it.”
“Whatta you do first?”
“I take the silver and the glass eggs. Then, I take the guns over the mantle. Then I wait for you to say GET OUT!”
“Right. That’s what you do.” Waldo stared at the house for a while, then looked at his watch. “They’re asleep by now. The guy’s too old to fuck anymore and his wife don’t want his dick anyway. She’s in it for the money. Let‘s go.”
They crept down the alley and the pistol in Charlie’s hand suddenly felt very heavy. He still had a bad feeling about this job. But Waldo moved on out of the alley and into the back yard of the house. Charlie followed, like an obedient dog.
Guess what happens next?
I really LIKE being able to read my email again. I am not kidding when I tell you that for almost six months now, I would open my mail in the morning and see around 1,000 to 2,000 new messages. EVERY FUCKING DAY!!! And 99% of them were from the professional spammers out there.
They are gone now, and I feel as if someone just lanced a festering boil on my ass. Oh! The relief!!!
If you are still banned from my comments after my top-notch computer team unfucked some of my early zealousness, let me know and I'll see if
If you wrote me before and I never replied, try again.
booing the Kerry girls
I still don't believe that it was right. I'm sorry people, but I cannot justify that kind of behavior. I'll boo referees at a football game, and I've booed myself hoarse when I saw Steve Spurrier, but I don't boo people on stage.
Boos don't bother people who are accustomed to being on stage. I've been booed. I've been heckled. But I knew from the get-go that every time I climbed on stage, I was hanging my ass out. I could handle any heckler I ever met. The boos just pissed me off and made we want to play louder. You deal with loud-mouths everywhere you go.
You know what REALLY KILLS somebody on stage? Total silence, that's what.
A stand-up comic doesn't die if he's booed. At least he's getting a reaction from the crowd. Let him tell his best jokes and hear NOTHING in response. Bejus! THAT'S when you feel a cold brick of utter terror sliding into your belly. I've FELT that sensation, and it ain't real pleasant.
That's why I wouldn't boo those girls. I would have kept my mouth shut and my palms in my lap. When you look for a rah-rah and receive utter silence--- that hurts a lot worse than boos.
I'm going to start a poll. Where will frances hit land? I'll record all the predictions and announce the winner once Frances is finished kicking serious ass. I got the idea here:
MY prediction? North Carolina. Short of the Outer Banks this time. Somewhere around Wilmington.
Got a better guess? Put it in the comments or email me. I'll offer a prize of an old can of biscuits for whoever wins.
the real me
I don't feel much like writing, so I started searching through my pictures and found the one above. I've posted it before, but it deserves a repeat.
I remember that evening, believe it or not. That was my birthday, last year. Celebratory activities were intense, involving steak, seafood and large quantities of frozen margaritas. I became philosophical.
Somebody mentioned something about home-made biscuits. That set me off on a rant. I believe that I told the entire history of my family and then staggered off to the refrigerator for a visual aid. I grabbed a can of biscuits.
"These ain't real biscuits. REAL biscuits are made by your mama or your grandma. These things ain't nothing but dry-wall glue."
When somebody asked me why I had them in MY refrigerator, I claimed a "birthday pass" and refused to answer the question.
Don't let that pensive pose on my main page fool you. This picture is more like the real me.
Get ready North Carolina. Frances will turn more to the north and miss Georgia. That hurricane magnet y'all have is about to save Savannah again.
I hope you keep up the good work.
this ain't right
I've made no bones about the fact that I don't like John Kerry. But I would NOT boo his daughters under ANY circumstances.
That's just rude.
August 29, 2004
what did I do right?
I've had more than 2,000 visits on a Sunday, without being linked to anybody in the Tall Dog category. That happenstance is most unusual. Bejus! Do you realize what a problem this causes me????
Now, I can't blame all my visits on people fucking off at work.
dead truck, new neighbors
I wanted to go see my mama today. I loaded up a bunch of pictures I intended to show her, and I even remembered to stick a pocketful of Costa Rican coins in my cut-offs to leave for my Uncle Virgil's collection of international coins.
I went outside, hopped in my truck and heard nothing but a "click-click-click" noise when I turned the key in the ignition. WTF? I thought. Did my starter just die on me so quickly?
I did the elementary trouble-checks. The lights work. I tried starting the truck in neutral instead of drive. I rolled the truck a few feet forward, put it in "Park" and tried again. Nothing but "click, click, click."
I thought THEN that I could see a tow-truck or a lot of begging in my immediate future. I took a wild chance and hooked my battery charger up to the battery. The damn thing went straight to zero amps, which told me that it wasn't charging SHIT, because the battery already held a full charge.
I was pissed by then, so I went inside to call mama and tell her that I wouldn't be coming over. I tried to look on the bright side. At least my truck was dead in the driveway instead of dead in the middle of nowhere. I fixed something to eat and started making plans for tomorrow. I figured that I had a lot to do, but the first step was to get that useless battery charger offa my truck.
I did that. On another wild hair, I decided to see if the truck would start. Lo and Behold, it did! It fired up like a tiger. I took it for a 20-mile ride and watched the ammeter on my instrument panel. The alternator was working. The battery was semi-dead.
I took the truck back home and scratched my head. How could the lights, radio and everything else in the truck work if the battery was dead? I am no auto mechanic, but I have a theory: it just takes more juice than the battery had left to turn that engine over. Lights and radio are easy. Kicking that Bendix out on the starter and turning the flywheel on a V-8 engine is difficult.
That's how I met my new neighbors. They moved in yesterday and I saw them sitting on their patio drinking tea this evening. I was sick and tired of fucking with that truck, so I decided that now was as good a time as anytime to go introduce myself to them. So, I did.
They are extremely nice folks and as I bitched about my truck to them, Nathan (the husband) said, "I was meaning to talk to you about that. Did you know that the dome light in your truck just comes on by itself at night and burns for hours at a time?" I told him that I didn't know that. He said, "It does, trust me. I wondered last night if you kept running to the truck and back."
We walked over to my truck to check it out. The dome light was off. I opened the door and the dome light came on. I closed the door and the dome light didn't go off. I said, "It's got a 10-second delay." We waited about 20 seconds and the dome light kept burning. I started opening and closing doors and finally the dome light went off. As we were standing there, the dome light came back on again, all by itself.
I threw a cussing hissy-fit right in front of my new neighbors. "I've got a got-dam short somewhere and I ain't worth a damn at electricity. This has been a goodam good truck and Old Paint never let me down before! I'm gonna get rid of this sumbitch and buy me something else! You better BEHAVE, darlin' because I'm about to pull your fuse." I started to crawl under the dashboard.
Nathan stopped me. "What are you doing, Rob?" he asked. "I'm going to pull the overhead light fuse if I can find it," I replied. Nathan said, "You're looking in the wrong place. The fuses are right here," and he snapped off a compartment on my dashboard that I never noticed before. He pulled the guts out of it and said, "Do you reckon 'Illumination' is it?" I said try it and see.
He pulled the fuse and the light went out. I coulda kissed him. "Thanks a lot," I told him. "You just saved me a lot of money."
"That's what neighbors are for, right?" He just grinned at me.
I introduced Nathan and his lovely wife Victoria to a couple of the neighbors. I don't usually do that kind of thing but I saw the people out in their yards and I wanted my new neighbors to get to know the people around them. Yes, I was Social Director this evening. I kinda enjoyed doing it, especially now that I know what's wrong with my truck. Everybody was polite and friendly, just the way they've always been to me.
Did I mention that Nathan and Victoria are black? No, I didn't think so.
That's the racist in me.
A lot of people group my blog in with the "conservative" wing of blogdom. I am not a feces-flinging leftist, but I do not consider myself to be a conservative. I once preferred the Reagan form of Republicanism over what the left had to offer, and I saw a clear line in the sand back then. But the winds of change have obscured that line and I can't see it anymore.
How can anyone call me a conservative when I like to go to Florida and walk around nekkid for a week? Get a baboon suntan on my ass and let people take pictures of me wearing nothing but a sarong? I don't believe that Jerry Falwell would approve of my behavior. Hell, my mama doesn't either, but she gave up on trying to change me a long time ago.
I believe that the war on drugs should be called off as a lost cause. I believe that ANYBODY who wants to amend the Constitution for ANYTHING should be dragged off and shot. I believe that prostitution and gambling should be legal. I disapprove of abortion from a personal standpoint, but I KNOW that no government will ever stop it from happening, so let's be reasonable about it. Abortion is not an all or nothing issue, no matter what shrieking feminists say.
I believe in holding people responsible for their own actions. I DO NOT believe that government is the answer to every problem on the face of the planet, because I read history and government is RESPONSIBLE for most of the problems it desperately wants to "solve" today. Just give them more of your money and they'll fix the problem this time.
Unlike a lot of other people, I know that government can't "give" anything to anybody that it hasn't taken from someone else first. I disobey laws that I believe are stupid all the time, but I am willing to pay the price if I am caught. I make my OWN goddam decisions. I am a free man.
I will not be a slave to government, even though that's what government expects and that's what a lot of idiots DEMAND today. I am one of the few people who dare to suggest that the Unholy Trinity of American History were Abe Lincoln, Franklin Roosevelt and Lyndon Johnson. All three wiped their asses on the US Constitution and people PRAISED them for doing so.
As I've said before--- some people are just too stupid to live free. And if THAT'S a "conservative" attitude, then I need to listen to your definition of a conservative.
boiled peanuts, part II
She is trying to help, but she doesn't know what she's doing. Just check this (and CATFISH, I wouldn't mind your boiled peanut-eating input on this topic.)
Got-dam!!! That is F-ing blasphemy!!! NOBODY who likes boiled peanuts cooks "one pound." One pound of boiled peanuts wouldn't feed an Effingham County SQUIRREL, for crying out loud. That is the most yankee-sounding recipe for boiled peanuts that I've ever read. Dammit, Girl, I believe in manners, but sometimes a man just has to show the way to a lost woman.
The REAL way to make boiled peanuts
1) Buy AT LEAST half a bushel (about 25 pounds). Buy a full bushel (which costs about $35 for 50 pounds if you have some real peanut-eaters coming to your party).
2) Take a water hose and wash all the sand off of them in your driveway. The sand is good for the sandy soil around here and it wets the peanuts down really well. You can do that without taking the peanuts out of the "croaker sack" they come in.
3) Fire up the propane cooker. Invite a couple of neighbors over and offer them a beer.
4) Fill a HUGE pot (I have one that will cook an entire bushel at one time) full of water right from the same garden hose that you washed the peanuts with and place it on the cooker. Dump the peanuts into the water right when you see bubbles coming up the side of the pot.
5) Offer everybody another beer.
6) Pull up a couple of lawn chairs and invite everybody to sit down. Add a FULL pound of salt to the water. Look at the pot and say, "Naw, that ain't enough," and add ANOTHER full pound of salt.
7) When the water starts to boil, turn the burner down to where the water is on a low simmer. Cover the pot with a lid and offer everybody another beer.
8) Let the peanuts cook for about an hour while you and your company exchange stories about horrible ex-wives, how dumb you were as a boy and how that new neighbor has a hottie for a wife.
9) Stick a ladle in the pot and fish out a bunch of peanuts. Throw 'em on a paper plate and pass the plate around. That's a Southern Sampler. Don't be ashamed to ask, "What'cha think?" People who know boiled peanuts will let you know EXACTLY what they think. I usually don't get many complaints. If somebody says, "Not too bad," I know I'm on the right track.
10) When the peanuts are tender but not quite salty enough, turn the propane flame off and allow the peanuts to soak for about an hour. When they start to sink to the bottom of the pot, they are ready to eat and as salty as they're going to get.
Then, pass out the paper plates and give everybody a turn at the ladle. Let 'em dish up what they want. The peanuts will be hot, but not so hot that they burn your tongue. If everybody starts eating and making those good, Southern grunting noises and the ladle never stays in the pot for long, you know that you done good.
THAT'S how you cook boiled peanuts.
i wanna win
Here's another blog contest. I don't know if I fit the categories or not, but nominate me anyway.
John Kerry and Vietnam
Anybody who reads this blog knows that Recondo 32 and his lovely wife Georgia are two of the best friends I have in this world. I've known them both for about 30 years now, and we've had many a grand adventure together, from Key West, Florida to Tacoma, Washington.
Recondo is not a violent man. In fact, he's so goddam decrepit now that I believe Georgia could whip his ass. The three of us ARGUE--- but we don't FIGHT.
A long time ago, Recondo was a 17 year-old boy from the mill-town of Clinton, South Carolina. When he got out of high school, he had three choices: either go to work in the mill, go to JAIL (it seems he had a few problems with the local constabulary) or enlist in the service. He chose door #3.
He enlisted, went to Vietnam and decided that he wanted to jump out of pefectly good airplanes. He ended up in Recondo school and was the 32nd graduate, shortly after the army started the training program (hence his internet name). He became a LRRP.
He didn't ride swift-boats up and down a river. He went on six-man teams via helicopter to be dropped in the middle of nowhere behind enemy lines. Their mission was Long Range Recon and Patrol. They weren't supposed to be seen or heard. They were supposed to scout, report, get out and call in the big boys once they were extracted.
The plan didn't always work that way.
If you read The Phantom Warriors, you'll find Recondo's story somewhere around page 54. His team fucked up that day and got caught by a several hundred NVA regulars that resembled fire ants swarming out of a freshly kicked mound. The extraction point was too hot to call for a helicopter, so they ran for their lives.
I won't go into any more details here, except to say that it wasn't a pretty sight. Go read that book.
Recondo hates John Kerry. He'll tell you right now that LRRPs were responsible for killing more enemy soldiers that ANY rifleman or regular army unit was during that war. If they found the enemy, they called in an air strike and blew everybody to hell. Then, they got out of there.
Recondo also says (and I believe that this fact is VERY IMPORTANT) that anybody who shot civilians or took ears for trophies would have been court marshalled in an instant and his commanding office would have faced charges, too.
"We didn't do that shit and I didn't know anybody who did," Recondo said. "Maybe some of the regular units went crazy and pulled a Calley, but WE never did, and I resent that boat-floating sumbitch for accusing us of WAR CRIMES when I believe that he committed the worst one of all: TREASON!!!"
And you wonder why some Vietnam vets don't like Kerry?
I shamelessly stole this link from one of my favorite bloggers, who I hope to meet at Blogtoberfest. I fear that he will not come because he is actually a 600-pound woman grafted by overhanging ass-cheeks to a computer chair and she doesn't want that dirty little secret known. In fact...
Never mind. I digress (again).
But I DO ask you to look at those pictures and see the kind of barking moonbats who support John Kerry. Is that a tinfoil-hat brigade, or what? THAT is a glimpse of Kerry's TRUE "Brothers in Arms."
And if you don't believe that Kerry will owe some of those people a lot of favors if he is elected, you don't understand how big-time politics works. Is that what YOU want????
I see this Presidential election as a watershed event in our nation's history. I believe that the destiny of the USA for the next 20 years (and maybe forever) will be decided this November. We are at war against an enemy that will not stop unless we kill him before he kills us. We cannot appease this enemy and the "allies" that Kerry promises to recruit hate us just as much as the enemy does. Kerry already betrayed his country and his fellow servicemen once. Are YOU gonna let him do it again?
I don't trust the fortune-hunting, flip-flopping, Botox-injected bastard. I don't trust ANY politician, but I certainly prefer George Bush over John Kerry. As a property-owning, tax-paying American citizen, my skin crawls when I look at Kerry.
And my skin crawls even worse when I look at his supporters.
it's a john deere
Here's a picture of a Cracker Riding Lawn Mower. Now you know why I often hire the neighborhood kids to cut my grass.
sing it, frank!
I like parody songs, and this is good. You'll need speakers to appreciate it, but the lyrics are printed on the sidebar for deaf people out there.
Yeah, Catfish sent me that one.
heads or tails?
If we can't kill all the lawyers, can we at least start stabbing them in the butt? I'm not saying do it during a robbery, because stealing other people's money is a LAWYER'S job and that kind of work should be left to the experts.
I simply am suggesting that it should be okay to stab a lawyer in the ass just on general principle. I look behind me at my, bleeding, shredded, withered shanks and I know for sure that lawyers not only stabbed ME in the ass, they carved off great hunks of flesh and ATE THEM.
If a cop sees a street scene where some guy in an expensive suit is writhing on the sidewalk with his briefcase in the gutter and both hands on his butt-cheeks, the cop should ask one question of the man standing there with a knife. "Is that a lawyer?" "Yeah. I just stabbed him in the ass." "Okay. No problem."
I am asking for simple justice. That's all.
That was a cackle of vengeful satisfaction. I now have MT Blacklist up and running, thanks to help from this wonderful woman and I've actually figured out how to use it, I think. I'll know for sure by the end of the day, but so far, what I've done with it appears to work.
Goodbye, Bob. Goodbye, Top. Goodbye to the rest of you asswipes who have been using my comments as YOUR personal ad-space. You wanna change IPs and try again? I'll just sic my dog on you again, and he appears to bite when I turn him loose.
If I nailed any innocent bystanders in my spammer-blocks, let me know and I'll see if I can't fix it.
And thanks again, Kelley.
August 28, 2004
beggars and choosers
I've been watching the Olympics a lot lately since I learned that all the babes aren't just on the wimmen's beach volleyball team. What can I say? I'm a dirty old man and I enjoy watching lithe, nubile wimmen in skimpy costumes when they show off their skills.
One of the announcers said last night that more than 10,000 athletes are in Greece to compete in these games. That sounds like a LOT, until you consider how many people exist in this world; only then can you realize what a select few outstanding performers you're watching.
I've been GOOD at a lot of things in my life, but I've never been GREAT at anything. It's not that I didn't TRY to be great, but I simply didn't have what it took to get there.
How do you become the BEST IN THE WORLD? I believe in three qualities that I've seen EVERY champion athlete display.
First, you must have the physical ability. That's a blessing of birth and a LOT of people have those blessings and end up in jail. That alone is not enough, but you've got to have that quality first.
Second, a strong work ethic. Physical ability will carry you a long way when you're a big fish in a little pond, but if you're not HUNGRY, the other big fish will eat you alive as you try to move up the ranks. That pond gets bigger every step of the way.
Third, a fierce competetive instinct. Have you noticed how many athletes who didn't win medals posted their personal best scores in the farking OLYMPICS? They went out and DID THEIR BEST, even when they probably KNEW that they couldn't win. To me, that shows the heart of a champion, but it also shows the fact that one slightly missing ingredient in my formula is enough to keep you good, but not great.
Nobody in the Games got where they are today without physical ability, hard work and a desire to achieve. They were CHOOSERS. They busted their asses for YEARS to get to those Games. And I don't care if some guy from some country I never heard of finishes dead last in some event. I'll still cheer him.
He's no beggar.
I've raved on numerous occasions about how much I love boiled peanuts and I bought a bunch of fresh green peanuts today. I intend to boil them, freeze them, and take several bags to the Jawja Blogfest.
I'm putting a lot of pressure on myself here. I've gotta cook these babies JUST RIGHT so that the naifs who have never tasted them before get the right impact. Southern people I know will eat boiled peanuts by the bushel and complain about how shittily they were boiled.
"Not enough salt." "Too crunchy." "Didn't soak long enough." "I'm gettin' a lot of pops, too." (A "pop," by the way, is a peanut shell with no nut inside.) But they'll sit right there and eat them, because even a poorly-cooked boiled peanut is better than no boiled peanuts at all. I'll sit right with them and bitch while I eat, too. ("These suck. Taste like got-damn black-eyed peas. Gimme some more.") It's a Southern thang.
But I really feel an obligation to my Southern heritage, my boiled-peanut expertise and my desire to see the South Rise Again to really do this right. I ain't bringing NO shitty boiled peanuts to Helen. I've got converts to recruit, so I'm bringing the very best ammuntion possible. If I fuck these up, I'll just eat them myself and go buy some more and try again until I get it right.
Want some GOOD boiled peanuts? Come to the blogfest.
Hamburger bun technology has come a long way since I once flipped burgers. This must be part of the new "Low-Carb" menu.
that time of year
It's hurricane season. Right now we have a tropical storm named Gaston right off the coast and hurricane Frances lurking to the southeast. Gaston isn't shit--- I mowed my lawn today in bright sunshine, and he's expected to wobble off away from civilization the way I expect this guy to do if he comes to the Jawja Blogfest and has a leetle, bitty sip of the.... um.... HOME-MADE WINE that this guy brought last year. (in a Mason jar, the way... um... HOME-MADE WINE is supposed to be served.)
But I digress. I'm looking forward to the blogfest a lot more than I am to hurricane Frances. Savannah's been lucky for a long time, and we DO have that notorious hurricane magnet of North Carolina just up the coast. The odds are VERY good that Frances will find better grazing ground than around here.
But I'm keeping an eye on that sucker.
I occasionally air dirty little secrets about me on this site. I am about to do it again now: I love synchronized swimming today!
I didn't feel that way when I was writing for the Red and Black at the University of Georgia. I was sent to review a synchronized swimming meet in the UGA pool back in 1975. Bejus! The wimmen resembled manatees with Borg implants.
Oh, they swam most impressively, but they all looked like Fido's ass. Those goggles, those nose-plugs, those ear-plugs and those double-wide, unsinkable asses just didn't impress me at all. For years afterward, I couldn't MAKE myself watch synchronized swimming--- kinda like the way you can't face Southern Comfort again after you puked your guts out from drinking too much of the stuff.
But I fell off the wagon last night while watching the Olympics. I didn't switch channels when synchronized swimming started. I am delighted that I didn't, too.
HOLY SHIT!!! Those chicitas are BABES!!! No more goggles, ear-plugs, nose-plugs or other Borg implants. They swim bare-faced and they SMILE all the way through a grueling routine. Gone are those double-wide, unsinkable asses; instead, they all have the nice legs of a gymnast and asses that probably taste like vanilla if you took a bite (and believe me, I WANTED TO!). They still don't grow a lot of titties in the pool, but the rest more than makes up for that very minor defect.
I confess. I LIKE synchronized swimming now.
I think this is a damn good question.
bare buns for... what?
I don't understand protesters who believe that getting nekkid is an effective tool in getting their point across. They'll attract some attention from the media and gawking onlookers, but whatever message the protesters attempt to send is lost as soon as they take their clothes off.
Don't get me wrong. I like to get nekkid. But I wouldn't do it in court to get the divorce judge on my side, and I wouldn't do it in the streets to get Congress to let the ban on "assault" weapons expire. It's just not smart politics.
Literally showing your ass DOES NOT reinforce whatever argument you have. Pulling a stunt such as that one makes you appear to be a crazed, leftist flake---a typical, left-dingbat, screeching, feces-flinging monkey. By the time you are arrested for lewd conduct, nobody remembers what you were protesting.
Let 'em keep it up. They're practically guaranteeing four more years of Bush.
History does not always repeat itself. Sometimes it just yells "Can't
(Thanks to John Cunningham for sending that to me.)
August 27, 2004
When I was young, somebody told me that the term "Georgia Cracker" came from back in the days when Atlanta was still called Terminus, and all the railroads intersected there. Farmers would drive their wagons loaded with cotton and tobacco into town to sell to the factors there.
Supposedly, the people driving the wagons used whips with special tips on the end that make a loud CRACK! when they snapped that whip over their horses or mules. People in the factor houses could hear them coming a mile away. "Here comes another cracker," they said, long before they saw the wagon.
If that story isn't true, it should be. The term "Cracker" today is a racial slur that means an ignnorant Southern red-neck. Or ANY racist bastard with a simian brow, a Confederate flag, four teeth and a chaw of Red Man in his cheek. The same people who are shocked... SHOCKED, mind you, by the notorious N-word don't have a problem calling Southerners "Crackers," and they mean it as an insult.
But that's not what the word means to me. It means good ole boys and pretty wimmen, hot days and languid evenings, sand gnats and mosquitoes, grits and eggs, friendly people and good dogs, pickup trucks and firearms. I LIKE that stuff.
So, I call myself a Cracker. I AM ONE!!!
stealing from work
I always found it interesting to see the number of flashlights and batteries that disappeared from the company store room when a hurricane was headed our way. I also found it interesting to notice how many pens and pencils and notebooks disappeared at the beginning of every school year. I knew what was happening.
People were stealing them to take home because they were too cheap to buy them with their own dimes. Nobody in charge seemed to give a shit.
After 24 years in that plant, I ended up with two yellow flashlights and a hard hat that I'll never wear again. The first flashlight I took from my belt one evening after I got home and forgot to take back to work the next day, so I ordered another one. (I needed a flashlight on my job.) I was wearing that one when I was
I left everything in my office and told the person who CALLED ME about picking up my stuff to kiss my ass. I never stole a fucking THING from that plant in 24 years, at least not on purpose, and they wanted to treat me like a goddam felon. Why, I don't know, but I am certain that Kerr McGee has a written procedure about how to handle employees they just fucked over.
I received an email from my replacement about 10 days after I left the plant. He's a true Kerr-McGee kind of guy: "Rob. I have your job now. You had a nice larder in your office. I ate all your food and gave away the cigarettes you kept in the top desk drawer. Can I keep the jacket?"
I wrote him back and told him that he could not only keep the jacket, but he could jack off over that picture of Jennifer I had in the BOTTOM drawer of my desk. I kept food there because I often worked long hours and didn't know WHEN I might get home. I didn't want to run out of cigarettes, either. Hell, just ask her. She saw what I did at work and how many hours I spent there, only briefly, but she saw it just the same.
Do I sound bitter? GOOD!!! I mean to.
I don't consume 100 bottles of beer in a farking month. But if I drank 100 bottles per day on my employer's tab in Germany, I might get PAID for doing it.
The unnamed former employee agreed that he drank up to 100 bottles of free beer a day with friends while working at the pub.
Well, I'm going out on a limb here... but why would ANYONE drink (or give away) 100 bottles of beer every day on a "dream job" and then be devastated when he lost it? Do the terms THEFT and DRUNKENNESS ring a bell?
Evidently not in a German court.
I rant frequently about yankees. I truly DO believe that they live a different life than we do Down South, because the manners are different, the weather is different and the food is different. But they remain Americans, just like me.(Unless they put sugar on grits. Then, they MUST be dragged off and shot.)
I learned something interesting in Costa Rica when I was taking Spanish lessons from the bartender in the hotel. She had a book filled with American idioms that she couldn't understand. I can remember a few: "Go fly a kite." "That's a rough row to hoe." "Shoot the moon." "Go jump in the lake."
There were plenty of others and I tried to explain them to her, but eyes started glazing after a while. "It doesn't make SENSE!" she protested. I suppose not. I learned that Spanish has its own idioms that don't translate well.
I also told the bartender that she was talking to an American from the deep South and if she went to New York City (where every Costa Rican I talked to seems to be dying to visit) she would hear a totally different language. She gave me a pen and a bar napkin and I drew a rough map of the USA. I divided it into four distinct regions.
#1) The deep South. People there talk the way I do and they tend to have an accent that nobody studying English as a second language will understand.
#2) The midwest. That's where Standard American English comes from. Just look at how many newscasters and radio personalities come from the midwest.
#3) The northeast. Sweet Bejus!!! Pawk the Caw in the Gawage. Cuber (not "Cuba"). I don't consider New York City to be part of the northeast, because a totally different language is spoken there, but I didn't want to make my bartender any more confused than she already was.
#4) Pure yankee. Those are people from Ohio, Pennsylvania and Illinois and all parts around there. You want to tell the difference between a Southerner and a yankee? Just ask them to say, "nice, white rice." You can tell right away where THAT person came from.
I left the far west out of my sermon because I hadn't been there yet. I DID tell the bartender that people from California are easy to spot because they use "you know" and "it was like" all the time because they are inarticulate nut-heads.
Then she told me that Costa Rica has four different accents depending on what part of THAT country you happen to be in. Hell--- Costa Rica is about the size of Georgia--- how can THEY have four distinct accents? It was all Spanish to me.
But then I thought... I know the difference in my home state between the people who live below the fall line and those who live above it. WE DO NOT TALK THE SAME WAY.
If you have an ear for accents, the USA is an incredible place to be. If you like diversity in speech, we've got it. It's like music to me sometimes.
But we Southerners are gonna teach those yankees to talk right someday. The blogfest might be a start.
awe and wonder
I can use the fingers of one hand to name all the writers that I will go out of my way to read because I KNOW that they will leave me filled with awe and wonder. Don't get me wrong... a LOT of good writers are pouring out words every day and they are easy to find through the internet. I read a lot of them.
But only a select few make me want to fall to my knees and cry, "I AM NOT WORTHY!!!"
this guy is one of them. Go read that post and see what I mean.
(In case you were wondering: my other idols are Dave Barry, Mark Steyn, P. J. O'Rourke and Jean Sheppard. Do you see a pattern there?)
I don't know why I haven't linked this guy and added him to my blogroll before now. He writes well and is a frequent commenter on my site.
Consider that oversight rectified.
But for you yankees, we have three rules:
1) You can come, but you can't stay. When the party's over, go back where you came from. We've already been invaded and occupied once down South. We don't want a repeat performance.
2) Don't set anything on fire. We Southerners (especially in Georgia) still are sensitive about yankees burning our shit.
3) At least TRY a bowl of good grits for breakfast. If you don't like 'em, that's okay. But you at least have to TRY some.
Them's the rules.
August 26, 2004
If I could sit here on my Cracker ass, blog and get paid for it, I might seriously consider that possibility. Yeah, I KNOW I said long ago that I never would become mercenary on this blog.
But that was long ago. Things change. People must adapt to those changes. Stop getting a paycheck and you CHANGE, got-dammit! And if you don't, you probably didn't deserve that paycheck in the first place. So... yeah. I'm thinking about putting a PayPal button, a tip jar, a "will blog for
A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
she asked for it
Can you imagine the public outcry if this idea were even SUGGESTED as a serious proposal? Not that I think it's a bad idea, but I know my country. I have more WISDOM than that young whippersnapper.
Basic requirements for transfer into co-ed prison:
DISCRIMINATION!!! VIOLATION OF THE ADA!!! Oh, shit!!! Here come the lawyers like a thundering army of Visigoths!!!
2. All transferees must work for a minimum of forty hours per week in order to offset prison expenses. (Accommodations are a little nicer here.)
SLAVERY!!! PRISONER ABUSE!!! Oh, shit! Here come the lawyers like a thundering herd of... lawyers.
3. Although measures will be taken in an attempt to prevent such occurrences, all transferees must sign a disclosure statement acknowledging risks of rape or brutality. This provides immunity only for the prison, not the violator, who will be banned from co-ed Eden.
Oh, shit!!! Here come the lawyers like a thundering herd of dung-beetles!!! That contract don't mean crap and my client is gonna sue the pants off you for making her sign it!!!
4. All transferees must become permanently, surgically sterilized. No exceptions. There will be no babies conceived in this prison, nor will prisoners be procreating once released.
BWHAHAHAHAAAA! Darlin,' if you ever seriously talk "sterilization" in PRISONS, get ready for Jesse Jackson to descend on you like a squawking, shitting seagull. THAT will certainly become a racial issue because 12% of our population makes up 49% of the prison population. STERELIZING BLACK MEN!!! That's a problem. The fact that so many of them are in jail is just something we don't talk about.
I'm not saying you have a bad idea. But it's far too politically incorrect to EVER be realized.
Go buy this guy's book. He's says he's got the best recipe for biscuits and gravy known to mankind.
I think he's lying, so we need to fact-check his ass.
I am going to wax (or wane) philosophical for a moment. I want to talk about writing.
Did you ever see those ads in the back of comic books for vanity press publishers who asked, "Do YOU have the restless urge to write?" I remember them well because I always HAD that urge. I don't know where it comes from, but I've been writing stories since I was in elementary school. If I had a penny for every word I've ever put on a piece of paper or on the internet, I would be a wealthy man.
I sometimes wonder how the words come. I can be half-asleep, sipping pineapple juice in the morning when I find a link that I want to write about. I start, and the words and ideas just flow, as if someone else is whispering in my ear. Other mornings, I sit at the computer and GRIND, because the muse is out with her friends that day and I have to do this shit the hard way.
And I'm not talking about just the blog. I write a lot of stuff that you DON'T see.
If you've paid attention, you'll notice a pattern in my posts: I start with a topic, empty my belly in the middle, and finish with a tag-line. I believe that it's good structure and a part of my style. I had someone cuss me out via email a few days ago because of that pattern I deliberately constructed. He said it was nice at first, but "too cute" after a while.
I told him to go fuck himself. I write the way I write because THAT'S THE WAY I WRITE!!!!
And I freely admit that I don't know where it comes from.
Read this post and then ask me why I like the guy. I'll tell you the truth.
I DON'T LIKE HIM!!!! I just lust after his wife.
Uhhh... just, kidding, Eric. Put the pistol down and the knife back in your pocket. I would much rather see you with a guitar in your hand.
Even though I liked George Burns, I have to agree with skippy here. It's blasphemy.
biscuits and gravy
I read this post and my mouth started to water. Biscuits and gravy were a staple for breakfast where I ate during my youth, be it Grandma's house or mama's, until I flew the coop and went off to college. Got-dam if I don't miss that sometimes.
These biscuits didn't come out of a can. They were home-made and hand-patted and you can't BUY anything like that in a store or a restaurant. They smelled wonderful in the oven. The gravy was brown, almost the color of a pecan out of the shell, and it was made in a cast-iron skillet using the grease from the sausage and bacon cooked in there right ahead of the gravy.
Tiny bits of bacon and sausage swam in that gravy and it was delicious. I used to get two or three over-easy eggs, a couple of biscuits, some bacon and sausage and make a giant chopped-up pile of goop on my plate; then, I'd slather gravy all over the top and eat like a hog. I always saved one biscuit for sopping my plate.
Dessert was biscuits with honey and real butter. If you've never tasted that exqusite dish, you need to be dragged off and shot.
My grandma doesn't make biscuits anymore. She's 93 years old and that's just too much effort for her today. But my mama still does on special occasions, and I never miss a chance to eat them. She got her recipe from my grandmother and it's a good one.
Biscuits and gravy. I took that food for granted back then, but I don't anymore. It's special.
I wonder if I could find a way to crash the Republican Convention and blog about it? I'll guarantee that I could bring a different perspective to the event that most bloggers INVITED THERE will.
That would be a hoot. I'd get to see New York City and write about a pure dog and pony show. Imagine a Hunter S. Thompson edge softened by a... never mind. I wouldn't soften a damn thing I wrote.
But I'd tell you a good story.
I don't know, but if George Bush caves to the greens on this subject, I am done with him. The bullshit "science" out there has not proved global warming is occurring and it damn sure hasn't proved that "greenhoue gases" are going to cook the planet.
If Bush hops on this scare-mongering bandwagon and embraces that crap the way he did the Farm Bill, Steel Tariffs, the McCain-Feingold Bill and free prescription drugs, he's lost my vote. I've said before that I thought the man had balls. I'm beginning to wonder now.
I won't vote for Kerry. I just won't vote at all. And George, I ain't one of those "undecided" voters that you're courting now. I am the backbone of your political base.
And if you start losing people such as I, you may damn well lose the election, too.
tell it like it is
I'll tell you what I know about musicians: very few of them are deep political thinkers. They may be amazingly talented at playing an instrument or writing songs, but VERY FEW could explain what a bicameral government is, name any five of the first ten Amendments to the Constitution (the fucking BILL OF RIGHTS) or speak articulately on the difference between a "republic" and a "democracy."
These are MUSICIANS, for crying out loud. Most of 'em don't know SHIT about anything but music. I like alice cooper's take on all the pro-Kerry slackwads:
"If you're listening to a rock star in order to get your information on who to vote for, you're a bigger moron than they are. Why are we rock stars? Because we're morons. We sleep all day, we play music at night and very rarely do we sit around reading the Washington Journal."
And that's the truth, folks.
throw her off a bridge
One reason I visit overlawyered every day is to read stories such as this one. A woman tosses her 17 month-old baby off a 150-foot high bridge and then sues the bridge owner for causing HER "stress." My aching ass.
VANCOUVER - Nadia Hama, who dropped her infant daughter from the Capilano Suspension Bridge nearly five years ago, is pressing ahead with a suit against the operators of the privately owned tourist attraction.
She received "negative publicity" for throwing her daughter off a bridge? I certainly HOPE so. She deserves it.
Hama blames the operators for causing the 1999 bridge incident that garnered international media attention when North Vancouver police suggested Hama be charged in the case.
I don't buy that story. No caring mother (or father for that matter) is going to allow a 17 month-old child to slip from their grasp on a 150-foot tall bridge and fall without going right over the side after the child.
Hama launched a lawsuit against Capilano Suspension Bridge Holdings Ltd. in September 2001.
Sweet Bejus! What else did the bridge owners forget to do? Post a sign saying "IT'S A LONG WAY DOWN!!!" to warn people that they were crossing a 150' tall bridge? I may be old fashioned, but I believe that people should figure that stuff out by looking at the bridge, and anybody who CAN'T probably wouldn't read the goddam signs anyway.
Yeah. I chunked my baby off a bridge, but it's all YOUR FAULT.
August 25, 2004
hammer it again
I developed my pineapple fixation on my last trip to Costa Rica. Pineapple is served for breakfast EVERYWHERE I've been there, and most places have a cook that will make you anything you want for breakfast. I seldom ordered huevas y papas fritas con arroz y pintos. which is a typical Tico breakfast. I grazed at the fruit bar and ate everything except mangoes. I believe that I hurt the cook's feelings at first, until she became accustomed to me doing the same thing every day.
I don't like mangoes. They don't taste good to me and they'll attack you like vampire bats in the dark.
But I missed my pineapple when I was going cross-country with Recondo. My belly missed it, too.
I know I sound like a tie-dyed, tofu-eating hippy here, but I AM NOT trying to live forever. I don't have a religious experience when I eat pineapple. I AM NOT trying to make you see the light of some new miracle food.
But that stuff works for me.
I had to go to the store today to replenish my pineapple-pineapple juice supply. I'm not kidding, folks--- since I started consuming fresh pineapple for breakfeast every day and drinking pineapple juice, my ulcer doesn't hurt I and am regular as a clock. I should write a book called "Acidman's Pineapple Diet For People Who Shit Their Pants."
Hell--- it could be a best-seller, just noticing some blogs I've read.
But I didn't go to my regular grocery store. I went to a Mom & Pop place not far from my house that had what I wanted. I like those places because they have old shit on their shelves that even THEY can't recognize. I saw one of those things today.
I picked it up from its lonely place on the shelf. It had no companions and appeared to be very old, judging from the dust on the plastic wrapper. I examined it and couldn't figure out what it was. It was a round rubber disk with some metal prongs coming out of it on the side. That thing either fit a strange commode for plumbing repairs or should be used as a Ninja throwing weapon. That was the best guess I could make.
I asked the lady behind the counter. "Ma'am, do you know what this is?"
"No, honey, I don't. That thing's been here from day #1 and I don't think ANYBODY knows what it is. You wanna buy it?"
I started to. It was $8.00 and I probably could have $8.00 worth of fun just leaving it on the coffee table and asking my friends what THEY thought it was. But I didn't. I put it back on the shelf and bought my pineapples.
But I'll tell you what's strange. I'm STILL thinking about that thing.
field sobreity test
My personal lawyer for when I get in SMALL trouble told me once, "NEVER take a field sobriety test if a cop asks you to. They'll film it and make you do something to appear impared. Then, if you pull a .075 on a breathylizer, they're gonna bust your ass. Blow the tube, ask for a blood test, but NEVER take a field sobriety test."
I think that's good advice, because I took one today in my living room, based upon what I saw on a TV show. It was 8:30 in the morning. I had been out of bed for an hour and I wasn't popping like a string of firecrackers every time I moved anymore. I had nothing to drink but a glass of pineapple juice.
I took the test and flunked the hell out of it. GODDAM!!! What kind of test IS that??? I might have passed it DRUNK when I was a 17 year-old athlete, but I'm a decrepit old fart now. I can't do some of that shit when I'm stone sober.
"Spread your arms, throw your head back, close your eyes and touch the tip of your nose with your left hand." Okay, I tried that and almost fell down while putting my eye out. I'm an OLD MAN! I have vertigo. I CAN'T DO THAT! I staggered. GUILTY on video tape.
"Walk a straight line, placing you feet heel-to-toe." BWHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!! With MY knees, my bow-legs and my fucked-up left foot, how far do you think I got before I almost fell on my Cracker ass? About three steps. GUILTY on videotape.
"Recite the alphabet." Okay, no problem there. I still remember the song.
"Now recite the alphabet starting with first letter first and last letter next until you finish in the middle." WTF??? All right.... A, Z, B, X, No! No! That last one should be Y. Now... where did I leave off at the beginning? I flunked the shit out of that one, too, even though I use the alphabet every day. GUILTY on videotape.
"Pick up this dime from the hood of the car." Oh, no... I KNOW BETTER than to fall for that one. I couldn't pick up a silver dollar from my CARPET, let alone pick up a dime from the hood of a car. I'm only good at picking up wimmen. I don't do coins very well. GUILTY on videotape.
Think about it. You don't HAVE to take a field sobreity test, so don't... especially if you believe that you can beat the breathyzer. If you're drunk, just give up and get in the squad car. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it, so now face the medicine.
But if you're NOT DRUNK, refuse a field sobriety test.
Written as a Public Service announcement sponsored by unnamed sources.
inquiring minds want to know
That's a picture of my buddy, Catfish. I told you before that I've been known to hang around shady characters.
(Update: Catfish was into the biker scene for a while until he got old like me and had to suffer the pangs of a bad back and a bad neck. He also has a gun collection that I suspect would make this guy drool with envy.)
make me angry
I received this missive in my email today as I was busy deleting spam:
--- Daniel Hopkins firstname.lastname@example.org wrote:
I have a few words to describe someone who writes that kind of email and pride, dignity and class don't enter into that equation. I don't give a shit what ANYBODY says about me. But when you come to MY SITE and try to trash my daughter, you just crossed a line that I believe you had to CRAWL UNDER LIKE A FUCKING WORM. You damn sure don't walk upright.
I believe that my response could be considered a terroristic threat. I gave the guy my name and address and offered to discuss this matter in detail with him, anytime he wanted to. ANYTIME he wants to crawl up and try me, we'll find out who exits the gene pool. Got-dam buttfuck.
I've never seen a troll in my life that carried a full set of balls. They are slimy little asswipes who get their jollies writing misspelled, unpunctuated shit and believing that they are clever, but they run like cockroaches if you shine a light on them. Pure dickheads.
But Daniel, the offer I made to you is open, 24-7. Come say what you said about my daughter to my face. I've got something I want to show you. I suggest you go back and read my Code of the Hills post first, and if you still feel froggy, then jump, you worthless bastard.
The gene pool needs a little cleaning every now and then.
(And if you don't have the balls or the money to come see ME, give me YOUR address. I'll make that trip just for the pleasure of meeting you.)
what a job
I want to do what this guy does for a living. I wanna study female pubic hair.
Jumon, 70, says that years of experience with a variety of women alerted him to the finding that sexual prowess differed according to their pubic hairdo.
I just have one question: what sexual proclivities does a woman have who keeps "The Zone" shaved bare as a baby's ass?
(Thanks to Chris for the link.)
i've got an idea
Everybody who intends to come to the Second Annual Jawja Blog-Fest (Blogtoberfest) in Helen, Georgia on October 15th and 16th--- let's all chip in and buy this guy a plane ticket. We need a token yankee there so we can make fun of his accent and speak Southern to him.
Plus, I believe that the man has a streak of Rebel in him whether he admits it or not. We need to bring that facet of his
We can all shit our pants together.
I don't like Atlanta
There is no place in the state of Georgia that I would rather NOT GO than Atlanta. It's too big, too busy and it lacks the character of a true Southern city. Traffic there sucks, too. The only way I like to go to Atlanta is to ride a plane into Hartsfield Airport and then catch the next one out of there.
The politics have been corrupt for years, but that's a dirty little secret that nobody DARES to question, for fear of being branded a racist.
Naw... you can keep Atlanta. I don't want it.
I think about the same kind of things and I KNOW that I'm a sick puppy.
Chuck... are you all right?
DO NOT be eating or drinking anything when you read this post. You may ruin your keyboard, do terrible things to your monitor or have an accident in your pants similar to the one described there.
In fact, you shouldn't even read that post at all. It's disgusting.
If you like looking at the poll numbers so far and the trends going into this year's Presidential election, this is a pretty good place to go. I believe that Bush will win, but the race is too close to call right now.
My personal opinion? Kerry is self-destructing right now and I don't think a liberal from Massachussetts can win a Presidential election today.
But that's just MY humble opinion.
i like the idea
Got a crowd of crazed Palestinians rioting in the street, throwing rocks and shouting "DEATH TO THE JEWS?" Want to disperse them quickly and make them think twice before they try that shit again?
Just hit 'em with a skunk Bomb.
The new device, which is not yet operational, releases a cloud so pungent that according to initial tests it permeates clothes for five years, the officials said.
I like that idea. If you ever owned a dog that received a blast from the business end of a skunk, you know how long that disgusting aroma lasts, even after several industrial-strength baths. You can't wash that skink off. It has to WEAR off, and that doesn't happen quickly.
Try the first one on Yassir Arafat's headquarters. See if his baby wipes can handle THAT.
tell me how
Somebody please tell me how to install MT Blacklist. I had more than 300 spam comments from the time I quit writing last night to this morning.
Remember that I am a computer moron--- a complete nitwit and if there's any way I can fuck up the installation, I probably will. I require SIMPLE instructions or I'll just hand you the keys to my house and let YOU do it for me.
But I need some help.
August 24, 2004
a knock on the door
It was late and I was ready for bed. I heard a knock on my front door.
I thought that was strange, because I have a fully functional doorbell. Whoever was out there was knocking instead of ringing the bell. I grabbed a pistol, checked the load and turned on my porch light. I opened the door with one hand and a cocked pistol in the other.
I won't mention any names here, but I saw a hang-dog-looking fellow about my age standing there in the light. "Rob, can I crash here tonight? The old lady and I had a fight and she threw me out of my house. My keys are in there and she won't open the door." He WALKED all the way from his house to mine, and that wasn't a short distance.
I am not in the habit of taking in refugees at my house, but I made an exception this time. I knew the guy well (I ALSO knew his crazy wife) so I threw him a pillow and a blanket and told him that he could sleep on my couch. He did and I gave him a bacon and eggs breakfast plus a ride home the next day, when he and the crazy wife made peace and everything was fine.
What is it about wimmen that make them enjoy locking a man out of his own house? I had that happen to ME once, and my soon-to-be ex-wife already had all my clothes thrown into my truck.
I should have kicked the front door down and claimed what was rightfully mine.
i don't want to do it
I may have to eliminate comments from my blog. I don't want to because I like what a lot of commenters have to say. Some of them write better than I do and I've met a lot of new bloggers through my comments.
But the spamming is getting ridiculous. I'm getting 500 or so a day now. Sometimes more, which really tangles up my mailbox and causes me to miss messages I want to read because I just delete pages at a time when I see those assholes on there.
They keep coming. I've got to stop it.
Costa Rican Bands
If I end up fleeing to Costa Rica, I believe that I can make some money as a musician, probably enough to keep my boat afloat. I would have to adjust my repetoire and learn a few songs in Spanish, but I can do that.
Two things I liked about Costa Rican bands I watched play: #1) They don't use karaokie machines and other bullshit to make them sound like a ten-piece band with five-part harmony when two guys are on stage. They play straight-up, with just a couple of mics and a PA system. #2) They always seem to be enjoying themselves on stage. They flirt with the ticas and the ticas flirt back. That's MY kind of music.
That's also one of the big differences I noticed between Coata Rica and the USA. We are far too mechanical in everything we do today. Feminists and other cretins have made men afraid to speak to a woman. Wimmen are taught that any man who speaks to them is a rapist. We are FUCKED UP anymore, and I blame it all on Political Correctness.
See a good-looking tica on the street in San Jose or Jaco Beach. You don't insult her by telling her that she's pretty and you'd like to buy her a beer. You insult her if you DON'T DO THAT. Costa Rican wimmen like to look good and flirt. They expect that effort to be recognized.
Why are so many American wimmen afraid to do that anymore?
a big, fat joint
I smoked some ganja when I was in Jamaica back in February. I hadn't tried any in a long time, but I was emotionally disturbed and in a real give-a-shit mode a few months ago. I took a few slashes off the old bong-pipe. Naw, that's not true. I sucked the GUTS out of that pipe and drank the water, too. Yeah, I inhaled.
I didn't enjoy it that much. The smoke made me stupid, sleepy and hungry. I believe that I disgusted my travel-partner with my behavior, but I didn't care at the time. I was in full self-destruct procedure. And I am GOOD at that.
I haven't done such a thing since, not even in Costa Rica where EVERYTHING is available for a price.
I wonder what ever happened to my college room-mate's old 1962 Dodge Dart? We tried to kill that car numerous times, but it had the Suffering Slant Six engine and the heart of a lion. It once spent two days under water with nothing but the roof showing. We dragged it out, changed the oil and put fresh gas in it and the sumbitch cranked right up and went chugging down the road.
It dried out and smelled like an old sweatsock, but we didn't mind. It still ran. We smoked enough reefer in that car to marinate the damned thing. That's why I wonder where it is today. You could cut out a roof panel and roll a big, fat joint out of it.
You smoke it. I don't care to.
I've known some pretty shady characters in my life. About half of them are dead now and the other half are in jail for murder, drug-dealing, extortion, pimping, illegal bookmaking and possession of a firearm by a convicted felon. These were NOT nice people. I knew it at the time and I tried my best just to stay out of their way. The Mafia was big in Savannah in the late 1970s. And they ran a LOT of the bars where I played.
They all richly deserved what they got from the law. But the ones who are in jail will get out, even the ones who are supposedly serving "life" sentences. When they hit the streets, they'll go back to doing just what they did before. They don't KNOW anything else.
I miss the old Code of the Hills. When I was talking to this woman on the phone the other night, I told her some stories about Bloody Harlan County. Somebody killed Lee Fleener's daddy. Lee found out who it was and shot the man dead right on the steps of the courthouse. You couldn't find 12 people in Harlan County to convict Lee of ANY crime.
That's the way it was. He killed my daddy, so I killed him. Sounded about right to everybody on the jury. If you came home from a shift in the mines and found your wife in bed with another man, you could shoot 'em both and never find a jury that would convict you of murder. They'd hear the evidence, look at each other and say, "I'da done the same thing."
That's the Code of the Hills and I believe that we should practice it more today. Law is just too got-dam forgiving.
Costa Rica is nice
Here's a picture of a couple of girls from Holland I met while listening to a local band in San Jose. No, I didn't have sex with either one of them, but we drank a lot of beer together. I think Dutch girls have hollow legs, because they damn sure could drink beer.
I don't like wimmen, because they ALL are crazy, but I enjoy female company. Somebody 'splain that shit to me.
Go read this post. That's not a request--- it's a demand.
wimmen's beach volleyball
Heh. Looks like I'm not the only old fart who likes watching that sport. It makes me feel funny in my pants, even though I KNOW that the wimmen are too tall for me and I'd have a heart attack if I tried to romp with THOSE sweet Thangs.
But it's a beautiful sport just the same.
the post below
I once worked with a shift mechanic named Red Miller. He was a big, tobacco-chewing, grumpy old bastard who had a mouth damn near as big as the one Catfish has. He bitched all the time, but he could fix anything that was broken if you could get him off his ass and start him on a job.
He had three GORGEOUS daughters and a lot of us speculated about that fact at work. We looked at Red, looked at his daughters.... and said "NO FUCKING WAY!!!" We decided that the mailman was delivering more than bills to Red's wife while Red was at work.
A lot of people didn't like Red, but I did. He was an asshole a lot of the time, but he was genuine, 24-7. If he didn't like YOU, he said so. If he thought you were full of shit, he said so. He didn't worry much about hurting anybody's "feelings."
Red worked at the Hercules plant before he came to work for me. He got off a 3-to-11 shift one night and saw a car wreck on his way home. It was a bad one, too. Red stopped his truck and ran up to see if he could find any survivors in that tangled wreckage. He didn't.
What he found was his 17 year-old son. Dead.
I don't know what that must be like and I hope I never know. Kids are supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around. But Red lost his only son that night and he's the one who found the boy. That had to be rough.
I suppose that you can find a way to chalk up a car wreck as random fate, shit happens or a bad ticket in life's lottery. Maybe the grief is easier to bear when you don't have anyone to blame for the loss of a child. It still can't be easy, but at least you don't have to look at some grinning sumbitch in prison garb who KILLED your child.
I'm afraid that if anybody ever raped and killed my daughter, I'd go hillbilly on 'em. I would kill that bastard as sure as the sun rises in the east. I probably would be the one in jail after that, but I'd go with the satisfaction of knowing that I put an end to his antics. HE wouldn't ever get $1,200 for "hurt feelings." He wouldn't rape and kill again, either.
I see it as a very simple equation: He took something from me that can never be replaced. So, I took something from HIM that can never be replaced. His life.
I may be a red-neck, but I call that justice.
curdle my grits
Sometimes, this world is just too ridiculous to believe. I'm sorry, folks, but I don't believe this guy should still be breathing, let alone receiving $1,200 for "hurt feelings" in prison.
His life sentence came after Jayne McLellan's battered body was found face down in a stream and MacMillan was found hiding in bushes nearby.
This guy had his feelings hurt in prison? Fuck him AND his feelings.
August 23, 2004
I've known Joe for a long time, and I know his wife and his children, too. I've gotten drunk at his house and I've showed my ass there. Ain't no big deal to Catfish. He's gotten drunk and showed his ass at my house, too.
I came to be his supervisor because of MY big mouth. I was asked at a "rap session" by a new production superintendent what shift I thought was the worst in the plant. "B Shift," I answered right away. "The supervisor doesn't run that crew. Catfish does." Two days later, I was taken off of "D" Shift and transferred to the B-crew. I wasn't one bit happy about it.
I decided right away that I was going to fire Catfish the first chance I got. I didn't like him at the time and I knew that we would have a... conflict of wills, so to speak. But that never happened. Catfish has a big mouth and he likes to bark, but I discovered that he was pretty damn good at his job. I'd give him an assignment, he'd give me a blast of shit about it, then he would go do the assignment. I can live with that.
I also discovered that B-Shift wasn't as bad as I first thought. I had some good operators working for me. In fact, I actually had a better crew than I did on D-Shift. They simply lacked leadership, and if you think that doesn't matter in how a crew operates, you never supervised people.
When I left Area 3 and went to the Acid Plant/Steam Plant, I recruited Catfish down there as quickly as I could. I was happy to have him on board. He was as loud-mouthed and as full of shit as ever, but he could operate those jobs. Hey, Joe? How many grievances did you file against me? I can remember four right now.
I can remember Joe walking into my office grinning like a mule eating briars. He'd throw grievance papers on my desk and say, "Here ya go, bow-legs. I'll see you at Step Three." Nothing personal and no animosity involved. If Joe thought he was being fucked, he didn't take it lying down. I didn't see anything wrong with that.
I think that's why we still get along today. Neither one of us took a fucking lying down.
for the children
I don't know how I ever made it through childhood. My parents spanked me, my football coach spanked me HARDER and I never had a grief councillor in my life. If shit rained on my head, I was supposed to get my own umbrella or not perform that rain-dance anymore. That's the way life was.
Now we have this shit. What kind of delicate flowers do some people think children are today?
"If you see a whole paper of red, it looks pretty frightening," said Sharon Carlson, a health and physical education teacher at John F. Kennedy Middle School in Northampton. "Purple stands out, but it doesn't look as scary as red."
Excuse me while I use my barf-bag. People, parents aren't supposed to be "friends" with their kids. They are supposed to be IN CHARGE and make the rules. Teachers aren't supposed to be your friends, either, until you get into college. Nobody with a functioning brain believes that kids WON'T fuck up every now and then and parents and teachers are supposed to make them pay when they do it. How else is a kid supposed to learn to be an adult?
Red marks on a poorly-done paper may hurt a child's feelings? Purple will make him feel better, even though he still handed in a fucked-up paper? Oh yeah. Gotta protect self-esteem. No wonder schools can't educate anymore.
Life is rough, people. Shit happens and YOU have to deal with it. Kids need to learn those lessons early in life. "Sparing" the precious darlings those lessons is doing no one any favors.
And when educators look for a "friendlier" pen to grade papers, they need to get into another line of work.
No links to the stories (I'm just too lazy today). Some of them are fairly old and the links might not work anymore, but I saved them for some reason.
* I could not escape from a burning apartment and leave my children behind while I got away. I couldn't do that. Either they get out with me, or we all die together. I wouldn't run off and leave them even if my hair was on fire.
* If I were a cop and I ever got a call telling me to go hunt for a severed penis on the side of the road, I'd say...."yeah....right. Bet your ass I'm on that one." And I would go straight to Kryspy Creme to eat doughnuts and drink coffee until somebody ELSE found that dick.
* I hope that my son is never killed in the middle of an armed robbery while HE is committing the robbery. But if that ever happens, I don't intend to sue anybody. I'll bury my boy and wonder where I went wrong.
* I want to see ONE, just ONE DEATH CERTIFICATE that says the corpse died from second-hand smoke, global warming, toxic waste or radiation from nuke plants in this country. I don't ever expect to SEE ONE, but I expect fear-mongers to prosper for years scaring people over nothing.
* Erin Brockovitch is a whore.
* Salt is good for you. No, it's bad for you. Eat fiber. Binge on carbs. No, eat the Atkins diet. The Atkins diet will kill you. Not eating the Atkins diet will kill you, too. Got-dam!!! We're ALL gonna die from something and I intend to eat what the hell I WANT until I start pushing up daisies.
This is where my mind goes when I watch The Price is Right and make a better bid on the showcase than the winner did.
I am honored to be linked here. I'm in some damn good company.
I just saw a commercial on television that I totally disagree with. It was from somebody humping a Ritalin-like drug for "Attention-Deficit, Hyperactive Disorder."
I call bullshit. When I went to school NOBODY had that disease, and I attended school with some really diseased fuckers. We were called LITTLE BOYS. We ran and jumped and played and fought and fell out of trees and set things on fire. We didn't LIKE being cooped up in school all day. We had wiggles in our legs.
I once worked with a guy named Mac (I won't use his last name, although I don't believe he would mind--- but I'm in enough trouble from this blog already.) and he had a son named Mac, too. Big Mac and Little Mac. One day, the school councillor called Big Mac and said that Little Mac had a behavioral problem and she believed that he should be put on Ritalin.
Big Mac exploded. He had quite a temper and he stomped off to the school to tell the authorities in change that there wasn't a got-dam thing wrong with his son. "You people want to punish him for doing exactly what I did at his age," Mac thundered. "You ain't gonna dope my boy to keep him from being a boy. Let him grow up, go to college and THEN do drugs, the same way I did."
Little Mac never got put on Ritalin.
I believe that a lot of what is called ADHD today is nothing more than a lack of discipline at home and boredom in school. My parents KNEW how to get MY attention. I had a hard-wire running right from my ass to my brain, and my parents weren't shy about ringing me up on that thing. If mama said, "Sit DOWN!" you sat down. If daddy said "BE QUIET AND STOP THAT!!" you shut up and stopped. If you didn't, they most certainly would make a direct wire-call from your ass to your brain.
I don't believe enough parents do that anymore.
wall's drug store
While Recondo and I were making our way out of South Dakota, we saw all the signs. They popped up about every 100 yards, the way the ads for Chico's Monkey Farm once did on old Highway 17. As nearly as I could figure, Wall's has it ALL.
You want fresh, home-made ice cream? They've got it. You want genuine western wear? They've got it. You need biker leather? They've got it. You want to pet a goat or mount a giraffe? They've got it. You want antiques? They've got 'em.
The place is just outside of the Badlands and we didn't stop because we were trying to put Sturgis as far behind us as we could at the time. this woman emailed me and said that we shouldn't miss the place, but we did. I may go back and see it next summer.
It must really be something.
wimmen and sex
Paul Rodrigas once told a joke that I really liked. "Wimmen are telepathic. When you pick them up for a date they KNOW if you're going to get laid that night."
For a lot of my life, wimmen scared the hell out of me. I didn't understand them. They were mysterious creatures who acted in mysterious ways. They had mysterious things under their clothes, too. I wanted to SEE those things and PLAY with them, but I was afraid to even try. Wimmen scared me in a superstitious, religious kind of way.
I eventually overcame my youthful fears and became quite the flirtatious rake in my later years. During that period of exploration and discovery, I learned a few things about wimmen.
1) One who is comfortable with herself likes sex as much as YOU do.
2) Multiple orgasms. Did God cheat men, or what??? SHE can explode like a string of firecrackers and do it over and over again. I explode ONCE and I'm ready for a nap. That just ain't fair.
3) Very few wimmen, even beautiful ones, are content with the way they look. Wimmen are more insecure than most men I know.
4) Wimmen are vicious if you ever piss them off. Men may get into a fist-fight or a gun-fight if they are pissed off. Wimmen hire lawyers and steal all of your shit. That just ain't fair, either.
5) In outer space, astronomers have found black holes, quasars, nebulas and numerous other galaxies. The universe is a huge place. But some wimmen believe that they are sitting on the only pussy in the world and they get pissed if YOU don't believe it, too.
6) Wimmen spend hours getting dressed in sexy clothes, applying makeup to make themselves look as good as possible, then cry "SEXUAL HARASSMENT!!!" when men notice.
7) Men BEG to be sexually harrassed.
8) If a twenty-something-year old MALE schoolteacher bedded a 14 year-old girl, I'd call the guy a letcher and demand that he be dragged off and shot. But when a twenty-something FEMALE teacher beds a 14 year-old boy, I wonder where she was when I was in school. I WANTED a teacher like that one.
9) Some wimmen really LIKE to perform oral sex, but they don't like the same thing done to them. I've never figured that one out, but I know it's true. They'll polish your knob with utter abandon, then become all modest and ashamed if you want to go down on them. Got-Dam, woman!!! Do you think I've never seen a pussy before? I HAVE and I believe that every one I ever saw was beautiful. I know what I'm doing. Lemme have a crack at yours... or a crack OF yours. But sometimes they just don't want you to do it.
10) Wimmen remember every fuck-up you ever made. They'll bring that shit up FIVE YEARS LATER, long after you've forgotten about it. But to them, it's like it happened yesterday and the fact that YOU forgot about it makes you an even bigger sumbitch than she first thought. You'll have hell to pay, buddy, and you'll slink off like a dog kicked for no reason. Like the dog, you'll wonder, "What the fuck was THAT all about?"
I don't trust wimmen, I don't like wimmen and I don't want a woman in my life right now. They are too crazy for me.
But I wouldn't mind one in my bed right now.
I envy this guy. He seems to have the woman of my dreams. Of course, being a Southern gentleman, he left out the part about how she's a wildcat in bed and leaves him wobbly after a good romp.
Yeah, he didn't write about that... but I suspect he was THINKING about it.
another old fart
I think I'm this guy's blog-grand-daddy or his second cousin, twice removed. I'm not sure which. All that incest gets confusing to me.
He does three things on his new blog that I like. #1-- he writes well. #2-- he has the nerve to put his picture on his main page. #3-- I believe that he owns guns, too.
Go check this newbie out. He'll enjoy the traffic and you'll get a good read.
another trivia question
One of the best lines I ever heard in a movie:
"It ain't your WORD that counts! It's who you GIVE IT TO!"
Who said that and what movie was it? (No fair looking in the "About Me" section of my blog. The answer is there.)
If you don't know the answer on your own, you need to be dragged off and shot. It's from the best western ever filmed.
do they still exist?
By the time I finished sixth grade, I probably read more than 100 Little Blue Book biographies about people from George Washington to Booker T. Washington. I really enjoyed those things. They were easy to read, they taught me a lot about people I admired and I liked seeing my name on the library card in the back of the book when I picked up one I already read.
Those books sanitized the lives of some rounders (such as Sam Houston, Jim Thorpe and Babe Ruth) but they were excellent fodder for a young boy's mind. You can learn about the warts famous people have when you grow older and develop warts of your own. A young man needs heroes. Pure, unvarnished heroes.
Those books gave me my heroes. I wonder if kids still read those books today? If not, they're really missing a treat.
free exchange of ideas
I am not surprised by this. Democrats want a free exchange of ideas as long as you share THEIR IDEAS. If you don't they try to shut you up by any means they can find.
And they're the first ones to squeal about Bush being Hitler.
I don't care what anybody else says--- John Wayne was the best western actor of all time. If you don't like John Wayne. you must be a terrorist. You need to be dragged off and shot.
Here's a trivia question. Wayne made more than 100 films and got killed on camera four times.
What movies did John Wayne die in?
August 22, 2004
i admit it
My belly is full of good food. I am a happy man. That's because men are a lot like dogs. Feed us and pet us; we're happy. If you decide to GET NEKKID with us too, that's even better. We men LIKE being petted and romped upon.
Wimmen are like cats. They expect a man to be grateful for their presence even after they just scratched his eyes out. Maybe I AM a little bit set in my ways, but I like dogs better than I like cats.
I'm cooking ribs
My home smells like a soul-food kitchen. I have ribs I just brought in from the grill, some stewed new potatoes and fresh Silver Queen corn on the cob that I bought from a farmer's field yesterday. I'm going to rent a PPV movie and pig out while sitting on my couch.
You yankees will NEVER understand what this is like.
Yeah, I DID IT. I was young and dumb, full of cum, and I liked the way those things made me feel. They grow in cow pastures during the Southern summer and they spring up right out of cow turds after a good rain. You can recognize them by the purple band around the stem and the fact that they BRUISE purple if you squeeze the mushroom crest.
I've picked a 30-gallon garbage bag full of those things before.
We'd take 'em home (we were all crazy college students at the time. We didn't know which end was up.) and make a big pot of tea. Just wash the shit off the mushrooms, tie 'em up in a piece of panty hose (If you are in college now and DON'T have any panty hose around your room, you ain't enjoying college the way you should.) and boil it like you would a tea-bag.
Now comes the hard part. Remove mushrooms. Guess how potent the tea is. Cut it with sugar and Kool-Ade. Make several pitchers. Then... get a person that you KNOW is a complete dumbass stoner to try it first. You can watch him for 30 minutes and calculate how much of that crap YOU want to drink.
I haven't searched for mushrooms in more than 30 years now. I've helped farmers hang fence and I've toured many a cow pasture. I wasn't LOOKING for them at the time, but I believe that I could still spot one if I saw it. I simply have not seen a legitimate hallucengeic mushroom growing in a cow pasture for a long, long time.
Did the EPA get rid of them? Did the War On Drugs eliminate them? Where did they go?
Wherever it was, a part of my youth went with them.
playing in a band
I once played in a band called "Snake and the Reptiles." I was 17 years old at the time. I realize now that we weren't very good, but I thought we rocked at the time. Hell, we had a steady job and actually GOT PAID for playing music.
I went on to play in a lot of other bands and spent five years or so as a solo "artist." I grew my hair long, saw some places I never would have seen otherwise and I bedded a lot of wimmen. But I still don't like the term "artist" applied to a musician. A real artist writes poetry, sculpts from rock or paints beautiful pictures. I just played guitar. I wasn't no got-dam artist.
If you are a musician, you know what it's like to start a new band. Everybody can play, but it takes a while to get tight. You can HEAR IT when the music comes around just right, and that's a feeling I wouldn't trade for a winning lottery ticket. Money can't buy me that kind of feeling.
I'm soliciting comments here from musicians: Have you every played in a band with someone you just COULD NOT get along with? You know, the good guitar player or the drummer that simply believed that they were "special" instead of wanting a solid sound. I have, and I've never been able to stand that kind of shit for very long.
A band is a lot like a family. Either everybody pulls together and agrees on what they want to do, or the damn thing is going to fall apart. I ask you musicians--- am I WRONG about that observation?
I don't think so. I've seen it too many times.
screw anybody you want
I have no problem with people who have sexual preferences different from mine. Sex is a great thing and I believe that everybody should enjoy it. my daughter is gay and nobody in my family, including ME, has a problem with that fact. I'm a live and let live kinda guy.
But I have a real problem with liars and bloodless cunts. When I was married to Jennifer, she said numerous times that the one thing she could NEVER forgive me for was having an affair. "That would destroy me, Rob, and I could never forgive you for it. We took wedding vows."
I never had an affair. SHE FUCKING DID!!! What happened to all that "wedding vow" shit when she found a dick she liked better than mine? It went right out the window and SHE didn't feel guilty at all. Yeah, she said one thing but did another. That bitch.
I have a problem with that kind of behavior. I also have a problem with this guy. He betrayed his wife and family and is going down in flames for his lack of self-control. He lied to people who loved him and then fucked them over. I've had that happen to me and I know what it feels like. It sucks.
But he's not a lying shit who screwed a lot of people who trusted him. Oh, no! He's a martyr.
While there are many different and sometimes competing influences, it is my humble hope that my "coming out" could, in some small way, help those gay Americans who have yet to become open with their sexuality. To be gay, for me, was not a choice, but simply stating a reality. Now at peace with arguably one of the most important truths of my life, it is my prayer that I will now be free to live openly and integrate my sexuality with my daily life. This integration will hopefully help my actions, my thoughts and my heart to be in alignment going forward, keeping me from the pitfalls of a divided self or secret truths.
Yeah, you did what you did for the cause of gay people everywhere, didn't you? Lyin' bastard.
more on cooking
I don't cook much anymore, but I once was very good at it. I have a few dishes that I make that I believe are as good as anything you'll ever taste on this planet.
#1-- God's Own Omelet. I use a couple of eggs, diced onion and bell pepper, ham, bacon and cream cheese for the filling. I melt Monteray Jack cheese all over the top just before I take it out of the skillet. You'll take one bite of THAT and slap your mama.
#2-- Pork Ribs a la Rob. The secret to cooking good ribs is to start early. I put the ribs in the oven at 225 degrees for at least six hours before I throw them on the grill. I put a good, spicy rub on them and I make my own sauce. The meat falls off the bone and they are delicious.
#3-- Crab Stew Worth Dying For. I've NEVER bought crab meat in a store. I go catch my own. Then I cook 'em, pick 'em and make a stew that'll blow your doors off. You need the Holy Trinity of celery, onion and bell pepper, plus a whole stick of real butter and two cans of Cream of Celery soup. Throw that into a pot, along with Worchestershire sause, red pepper and black pepper. Cook on low heat until all the flavors meld together. Serve in big bowls with oyster crackers and lots of beer.
#4-- Seafood Pie. You put shrimp, crab and oysters into this, along with the Holy Trinity of celery, onion and bell pepper. I can make a pie crust, but I prefer to buy the frozen ones in the store. Less mess and less work. Throw the vegetables into a skillet and cook with butter and olive oil until the onions are translucent. Toss in the seafood and mix it all together, being careful NOT to over-cook the seafood. Bust up some cracker crumbs and use two eggs to hold everything together. Add grated American cheese, plus any white cheese you can find. Pour the mixture into a pie crust and bake for 15 minutes at 350 degrees in the oven. Trust me. It's good.
#5-- Fried Southern Vegetibles. Pick some okra, squash, zucchini and a couple of green tomatoes from your garden. Cut the okra and zuchinni long-ways, but the squash and green tomatoes sideways. Dredge them in milk with an egg whipped into it, then batter them with a half and half mixture of flour and corn meal, with plenty of salt, pepper and terrigon. Fry that stuff in a pot of grease (peanut oil is the best), then serve on a bed of lettuce. Wine is better than beer with THAT meal.
I really miss cooking. I once did it every day, but I have trouble cooking for just one person. My talents may wither on the vine.
Somebody asked how to make it, so here's the recipe:
Buy a couple of Boston butts. Rub them down with lots of seasoning (I use soy sauce, black pepper, red pepper and lemon salt) and cook them on a charcol grill, turning the butts frequently for a few hours.
When the meat starts to fall off the bone and bear a nice, semi-burnt look on the outside, it's done.
Remove the butts from the grill and rip the meat into small pieces by hand. That's not difficult to do, because if you cooked it right, the meat almost falls apart by itself. Feed the bones to your dog.
Dose it with a good sauce. I can buy Johnny Harris or B.S. Muther's where I live and both are very good, but I prefer to make my own.
The Sauce: you can make it in any volume that you want, depending on how many people you intend to feed. It's simple--- half vinegar, half ketchup mixed together. Add hot mustard until the mixture turns orange instead of red. Throw in black pepper, red pepper, a squeeze of lemon juice and enough Tabasco to bring a sweat to your brow when you taste it.
Pour that over the meat and serve on hamburger buns or by itself on a plate, with plenty of beer. Good side condiments are cole slaw and potato salad, with whole Vidalia onions cut into slices and served raw. A Claussen's Kosher Dill pickle or two also go well with the meal. If you know what Brunswick Stew is, make some of that, too.
Try it. You'll like it.
Where did the term, "CUT ME SOME SLACK" come from?
I'm just curious to see who knows.
I like his bike
I don't ride motorcycles. If I did, I have no doubt that I would have killed myself long ago. I'd own a Harley and I'd fall off of it on a railroad track or that damn grating the DOT puts on drawbridges. I would be road kill, complete with body-bag, toe-tag and a 2" paragraph in the obits the next day.
But I still like this guy. He can stick that motorcycle up his ass for all I care about it, but I like the way he writes. He knows what shuck beans are and owns a Fender electric guitar. What's NOT to like about the guy?
He doesn't live quite far South enough to suit me, but I cut him some slack there. I like Kentucky, too.
August 21, 2004
bloggers I've never met
I am hoping that this year at the blog-fest I get to meet a few people that I've never met before. I hope to see this one (and what is she doing NOT on my blogroll???) I'll have to correct that oversight.) and I would really like to meet this guy. I would be most pleased to share a beer with this guy, but I'm not playing basketball with him.
I'm too old for that shit.
Helen ain't far from where you folks live. If you don't come, I'll put a Geechee curse on you that will make your genitals bleed and glow in the dark. NOBODY'S gonna fuck you after that happens, not ever, ever again. Think about THAT fate for a minute.
Then, make up your mind to come to the blog-fest.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do this year. I don't know whether to rent a cabin at Blood Mountain, the way I usually do, of just go to Helen for two days. I could do BOTH, but I'm living on
I WILL be in Helen, so maybe I'll call George at the cabins and see if he can cut me a five-day deal from Sunday night to Friday morning. Then, I could have the best of both worlds. It's a good time to be in North Georgia to see the leaves turn spectacular colors. I like to go up there and meditate in the fall.
I do want to ask a favor from anybody who plans to attend. Let me, eric or, most importantly, kim know if you plan to attend. I handled the logistics last year so I know what a guessing-game such an event can be. Kim is doing it this year.
Give him a break.
(I was pleasantly surprised by the turnout we got last year. Let's do it again and ALL make up incredible stories about it. You have to take one blood oath that won't preclude you from telling lies on your blog: "What happens in Helen STAYS in Helen, all the way to the grave."
If you can do that and mean it, you're welcome aboard.)
Damn, Eric! Don't do that to an old geezer like me anymore. I could have a fucking heart attack and Elvis right offa my own commode some morning. Do you want THAT KIND OF DEATH on your conscience? I sure as hell don't, so I advise you NOT to post anymore shit like that.
Blogging is an awesome responsibility. Live up to it.
more on music
I submit this idea to any musician who reads this blog: You never really know what you sound like on stage until you listen to a tape of a performance later. Yeah, you can hear the speakers and there's a monitor on stage that blasts your eardrums all night long, but you filter a lot of what you hear because you're accustomed to hearing that sound. You THINK it's right, even when it's not.
The first time I heard a tape of a live performance I did on River Street, I was appalled. While I was playing that night, I thought I sounded good. But I listened to the tape later and I wanted to puke. I had a flat G-string on my guitar. I could hear it as plain as daylight on the tape. I was 'way too nasal on a couple of songs and I sounded like a hillbilly hick when I was conversing with the audience.
Listening to that tape was like a kick in the nuts to me. I started taping MYSELF after that to find the flaws that I couldn't hear on stage. I found a lot of them. I worked to correct them all.
In a studio, you can do a song over and over again until you get it right. On stage, you get only one shot. People are PAYING to hear you play, and you OWE them a good performance. I put as much effort into that job as I did working for Kerr McGee.
I can't play the way I once did. My hands are going to shit on me and I don't practice enough anymore. I'm still good enough to hold my own with most pickers I meet, but I'm not sure how much longer that's gonna last.
When the day comes that I pick up a guitar and realize that I should put it right back down, because I can't play that sumbitch anymore, I'm ready to hang it up. I've lost almost everything I ever cared about already.
If I lose that, too, I'm done for.
beach boys II
I've always liked hamony singing. I've done it all my life and I always believed that a good band should have tight harmony, not just a lead singer. That's the main reason I like the very first Crosby, Stills and Nash album so much. "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes" is exquisite.
But I've listened to the Beach Boys sing "Good Vibrations" about a dozen times since yesterday and I don't believe I've ever heard better harmony. They were one of the first groups to learn about multi-tracking vocals in a studio and they did a damn fine job of it. Just sit and LISTEN to that song some time. They have seven different things going on at once in that song and it all blends perfectly.
They've got doo-whas and bop-bops and a strong bottom ("I'm picking up good vibrations, I'm feeling those exitations...") with falsetto high parts ("Doo-whee-OOO-OOO") planted all over it. GOT-DAM!!! That's good stuff. I'm sure that it was a lot of hard work to get it just right, but it paid off.
I'll bet they had a blast recording that song.
The post below this one IS NOT WORK SAFE, unless you own your own business and decide not to fire yourself for looking at nekkid wimmen on the internet at work. But one of my
That's Aila on her way to take a shower. She worked up a pretty good sweat that morning. I washed her back after I was able to make my legs function again.
costa rica is nice
That really is a beautiful country with some VERY friendly people.
a talk with my boy
I called Quinton last night but got only the answering machine, as usual. I called again this morning and got the machine again. I left messages both times but never heard back from him and I didn't expect to.
But he called me about 30 minutes ago. I have not seen him since a brief visit on Father's Day. He told me that he STILL hasn't had a haircut and his locks are flowing past his shoulders now. "It's the STYLE, Daddy," he explained. I can't say much about his hair--- he's seen pictures of me from back in my guitar-playing days---and I had really long hair back then.
He also told me that he mows the lawn now. He's finally tall enough to reach the pedals and he weighs enough to keep his ass on the seat and satisfy the dead-man switch on the riding mower that Jennifer
He's going go-cart racing this afternoon. Bejus, but I wish I could watch that. I didn't even know that he could drive one, but he says now, "I have a need for speed, Daddy. And I haven't had a wreck yet. At least not a BAD one."
Jennifer can attempt to brainwash that boy to the best of her considerable abilities. But he's got a streak of ME in him that she can't erase.
I want one of these mounted on my truck. I'd get those road-block-making fuckers out of the left lane THEN!!!
Oh, man... just consider the possibilities on the highway. You don't use turn signals? You won't use that car anymore, either. You like to tailgate at 70 MPH? NOT ANYMORE, you won't. You want to sit there stopped at a green light that you didn't notice changing because you were too busy yakking on your cell phone? You are DISCONNECTED, baby.
I believe a gun like that could teach a lot of people manners in a hurry.
the truth is out
I've never noticed this before, but the resemblance is striking.
make the laws---just don't obey them
I believe that this guy is in deep shit. I know it's venal behavior on my part, but I AM DELIGHTED that the sumbitch is in deep shit. Dorks such as this one are the reason we have so many laws on the books that affect MY life, but aren't supposed to touch theirs.
A state lawmaker allegedly drunk behind the wheel and barely avoiding multiple accidents on the Massachusetts Turnpike got even deeper in trouble after urinating in front of the troopers who stopped him. A barefoot Rep. Paul L. Kujawski came to the door of his Webster home in his Patriots T-shirt yesterday, but refused comment on his wild night and alleged unruly encounter with the state police during his booking at the Sturbridge barracks. ``When you have charges against you and they're serious, obviously I can't comment,'' said Kujawski, a 10-year Democratic representative who represents the 8th Worcester District.
Hell... you probably don't REMEMBER what happened, Mr. Politician. Drunk driving and pissing on the road in front of your arresting officer? THAT kind of behavior inspires my confidence in you.
Troopers claimed that questioning Kujawski was difficult because of his alleged intoxication, but the lawmaker allegedly told Hennigan, ``You know, I am a state rep and I want to know why you were going through my personal things,'' according to the report. At the state police barracks, where it took 31 minutes instead of a typical 10 minutes to complete the booking, Kujawski became increasingly agitated, refused to take a Breathalyzer test and allegedly was rude and combative.
And he's a Democrat, too, a member of the party of compassion. Imagine that.
I have NEVER liked John Kerry and I like him even less after reading this. I believe that Kerry's ACTUAL war record is important after the way he has portrayed himself as a hero in Vietnam. If he's a lying bastard, he should be exposed for what he is. If he's NOT a lying bastard, why doesn't he release his service records?
Besides, I remember the 2000 campaign when Democrat front-groups blitzed the media with ads about how black churches would burn and people would be dragged behind pickup trucks on a routine basis if anybody voted Republican. That was pure-assed mud-slinging and scare tactics based on not one iota of truth. The same people who did THAT bullshit now have the nerve to complain that ads by veterans against Kerry should be censored?
My aching ass.
I have a few Southern sayings that apply here: "If you can't run with the big dogs, stay on the porch." "What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander." "You knew the job was dangerous when you took it." "Cry me a river." "Either grow up or shut up." Democrats can't heed ANY of that advice. They behave like spoiled brats.
It's just another reason why I will NEVER vote Democrat in a Presidential election.
(read this, too.)
Bloggers will talk about ANYTHING.
August 20, 2004
You can take the jarhead out of the Marines, but you can't take marine out of the jarhead. GOT-DAM! A post about watching squirrels fuck.
I've seen that before and I'll admit that it's fascinating to watch. A good stud squirrel will chase a female all around a tree, finally catch her and mount her from behind while clamping his teeth firmly on one ear. (I've seen people do things quite similar in a bar, except for the actual mounting part. They hurry off to a motel for that.)
The act itself doesn't last long, but the chase and the animal lust displayed is impressive. Plus, they do in TREES without falling out. Hell, I've fallen out of a good-sized BED in the middle of a lusty romp. (Nothing wrong with that--- there's more room on the floor if you don't mind a rug-burn.)
I don't like tree-rats, but they're worth watching sometimes.
if you miss it... it's your own damn fault
Yes, the second annual jawja blog-meet is scheduled for October in Helen, Georgia this year. Ladies, be advised that I expect you to paint your toenails red for me. Men, be advised that I will drink profusely and flirt with your wives. All firearms will be checked at the door for my personal safety.
Yeah, I'm bringing a guitar and I'll probably haul Recondo and Georgia with me, too. I hope I see the Usual Suspects there, along with a few others I've not met before. Y'all come.
We KNOW how to party down South.
i don't like this guy
And I believe that this says a lot about the REAL John Kerry. In his own fucking words.
Only a lunatic leftist could want that slimeball to be President of this country.
(UPDATE: I just found this link via my blogfather. It's pretty got-dam devastating.)
the beach boys
I had forgotten just how good those guys were as a band until I dusted off an old CD today and plugged it into my stereo with the volume turned up loud. That music blew my doors off.
"Good Vibrations" may be the best song ever recorded.
I first heard about this story when I was somewhere on the road. I forget where I was at the time, but I remember my reaction. I didn't know whether to upchuck on my bed or fall on the floor laughing.
UN inspectors to monitor an election in the USA? When did we become a third-world country? Oh, right. We did in 2000 when Gore lost.
Recalling the long, drawn out process in the southern state, nine lawmakers, including four blacks and one Hispanic, sent a letter Thursday to UN Secretary General Kofi Annan asking that the international body "ensure free and fair elections in America," according to a statement issued by Florida representative Eddie Bernice Johnson, who spearheaded the effort.
Eddie Bernice Johnson is a blithering idiot. The UN is corrupt and incapable of finding its OWN ass with both hands. Kofi Annan is a clown. We need THESE PEOPLE monitoring our elections? Yeah, and I need a boil implant on my ass, too.
I do have one question to ask. Those infallible UN inspectors WILL be looking at Chicago and St. Louis, won't they? You know, those Democrat enclaves who produce 110% voter turnout, including people who have been dead for 10 years. The UN WILL look at that, won't it?
Naw. That's not the point of these "inspections." It's simply more raving lunacy from the left.
Wimmen have something built into them that men don't. It's that urge to feed their kids. I don't care whether they're sick or not, skinny or fat, or already stuffed to the gills with chicken and dumplings, shuck beans and cornbread. MAMAS WANT YOU TO EAT!!!
My grandmother is 93 years old and I STILL cannot go to her house without eating something. It might be a cookie, a cracker or a piece of belly-button lint picked up off the floor, but if I don't eat SOMETHING, I hurt her feelings. You don't want to do that to your grandmother. I eat when I go there.
My mama is the same way. Whether I'm hungry or not, she wants to FEED ME! No, I take that back. She wants me TO EAT!!! She'll drag everything she has in the refrigerator out and put it on the kitchen table at one time. I guess she figures that I'll find something in that mix that I like and I'll EAT IT.
Don't EVER tell your mama that you're not hungry. She'll worry about you and think that you're gonna die of malnutrition. Then, she'll double her efforts to get you to EAT.
Wimmen do that. Men don't. My father would throw down a bowl of chicken a la king and tell me to eat it or go to bed. "Daddy, I don't like that stuff," I often whined. "Then you ain't really hungry," he replied.
Men don't have breasts. I think that's the difference.
relatives you never knew
I received a couple of emails lately from someone named Clyde Benge, who appears to be the son of my mama's cousin. (if so, his grandfather was Newton Benge) He's living in Washington state now and asked me what I knew about the Benge-Philpot feud in Clay County, Kentucky. I met his daddy several times and I heard a lot of stories about that feud. Newton Benge was the first person killed in it, shot through the head with a .45 during a card game at a sporting house frequented by drinking men and staffed with loose wimmen.
Other people heard about it, too. (Just scroll down that page.) It was a lot bloodier and it lasted a lot longer than that pissant fight between the Hatfields and the McCoys. All in all, more than 50 people got killed.
The first woodworking job my grandfather ever had was building a coffin for one of the people killed in the feud. Papaw told me that the man was shot outside a school house in the summer and nobody could retrieve the body for several days because of snipers looking for somebody else to shoot.
"By the time we could get to him, he was swollen up so bad that I had to knock the sides off that coffin and make it bigger. He wouldn't fit in what I first built."
Yeah. I have a fascinating family history. And somewhere in my pedigree, I think I'm kin to both sides now.
I despise that man.
this guy is good
I believe that I throw some pretty rants every now and then, but this guy does it every day. I like his attitude, too. It doesn't take much to piss him off, and he ain't afraid to bark. About Iran:
Ali, don’t you dare push us, because you would be nothing more than a Freebie to us. We would eat you so hard, you wouldn’t even know which direction Mecca was in. Lots of people want to take you out… itching to take you out. Saddam got his power from us, just so he would piss you guys off… and look what we did to him! And we liked Saddam! We don’t even like you guys… so just think about what we would do to you. Just be glad I’m not the president you little dirt bags, because your nuke programs would already be a stamp on the sides of my F-117’s.
Spoken like a guy I want to drink a beer with.
Technically, Iranians are aryan people, not arabs. But the mind-set is no different from the rest of the blustering fools in that part of the world. "WE WILL KILL YOU!!! WE DRAW THE LINE OF DEATH IN THE SAND!!! INFIDELS, YOU DIE IF YOU CROSS IT!!! FEAR US!!!
Send in the Marines and the Rangers and watch who learns about fear. If George Bush has the balls that I believe he does, no Iranian nuke program will EVER develop under his watch. We'll bomb it into rubble the way israel did in 1981 in Baghdad.
What are the Iranians gonna do about it? THREATEN us some more?
BFD. They scare me to death with that shit.
look down the barrel
It's what i'm doing now. And that gun is loaded.
I've been paying "child support" to my ex-wife for almost three years now. She makes a lot of money, drives a brand-new SUV, put a swimming pool in her yard and lives high on the hog, giving pussy away out of both pant legs. Her claim against me is that I didn't pay ENOUGH to her, based on my income, especially when I took that lump-sum retirement. She wants to gouge my eyes out.
I could understand it if she and Quinton were living in poverty and my boy was running around in rags. But that's not the case. THEY live a lot better than I do. Quinton wears Nike and Tommy Hillfiger clothes. He has more crap than I EVER did as a child. And my ex-wife has shit all over the visitation agreement since day #1.
But I'm the villian in this mess. And I WILL be punished.
(UPDATE: I don't go to court on Monday. The hearing has been postponed due to conflicting cases for my lawyer. So... I'm still on hold.)
This is a pretty good takedown of a typical troll. But you know what I really like about it? There's a gem in there that REALLY defines troll mentality.
And why is it so important to put my real name? Are you going to find out who i am and egg my house? Whatever
Dumbfuck, it's not important to put your real name to ANYTHING as idiotic as what you write. In fact, if I were you I'd be ashamed to claim that drivel as my thoughts. Like most trolls, you aren't very smart, you can't write or spell, you have the balls of a sand gnat and you are nothing but a vandal at heart. HIDE, you piece of shit.
Egg your house? Aw, c'mon. That's the kind of stuff YOU do. Coward. You'd probably be laughed off the planet if you showed your face in the light of day. And you would richly deserve that treatment. Asshole.
My name is Robert M. Smith. My daddy was named Robert Smith and his daddy was, too. I am proud of that name and I ain't afraid of anybody who knows who I am. I just can't abide a nutless coward. Even my ex-wife can't make me run and hide under a fake name.
If you don't have the cojones to stand behind your words, you shouldn't be writing them in the first place.
Vonnie was, without a doubt, the sexiest woman I've ever known. I met her back during my guitar-playing days and she lived with me for about three months, then remained a frequent visitor to my house after she got her own apartment. She was from Texas.
She liked sex and she liked me. She wrote poetry that I enjoyed reading and she could give a blow... well, never mind about that. We got along well together. She was as uninhibited as I was and we could make a water bed boil.
But Vonnie got homesick and went back to Texas on a Greyhound bus. I took her to the station at 9:00 at night and kissed her one last time. She left a shoe in my car. One shoe that fit a pretty, dainty foot with red toenails. I never saw her again.
I did talk to her on the phone about 10 years later. She got married, had children and was working as a regional manager for a chain of convenience stores. She didn't like it when I called her "Vonnie." She was Yvonne now and the past we had was in the rear-view mirror.
"I did a lot of stupid things when I was young, Rob," she told me. "You weren't one of them, but I'm not Vonnie anymore. I would appreciate it if you didn't call me by that name." I didn't after that. I called her Yvonne and when I hung up the phone that day, I believe that it was the first time I ever felt old.
I don't know what happened to that shoe she left in my car. I wish I still had it.
And I don't know why I thought about her today.
moments of doubt
I saw something on my living room floor this morning and I wasn't certain what it was. Do YOU ever do that? See something strange on the floor and wonder how it got there?
This resembled a dessicated french fry, but I knew that I didn't spill any that I bought at the Krystal yesterday, so THAT couldn't explain it. It couldn't be an old dog turd from Oddball, because I would have found one out in the open like that a long time ago. I put on my reading glasses and I STILL couldn't identify what that thing was.
I got a Bic pen and probed that fucker. It didn't move, wiggle or bite, but I still wasn't going to touch it. Ain't no telling WHAT could be on MY floor. I went to the kitchen and fetched a set of BBQ tongs. I picked up the strange object and held it under the light in the kitchen. After careful inspection, I realized what it was.
It was a piece of my Jethro Belt that I made from string when I was riding cross-country with Recondo. I forgot to bring a real belt, so when my jeans started sagging badly around my withered shanks and skinny waist, I cut some twine from a souvenir bag and tied my pants tight through a couple of front belt-loops. I called that a Jethro Belt, because I looked like I came from the Beverly Hillbillies wearing that thing. But it worked.
When I got home, I had to go to the bathroom. Some of that diner food I ate on the road needed to make a hasty exit. I fumbled with the knot in that string for a minute, realized that I had urgent matters to attend to and didn't have TIME to fuck with that Gordian knot. I grabbed a pair of sissors and just cut it, kinda like Alexander did.
That piece must have fallen on the floor as I rushed to the bathroom. How did I miss seeing it for a week? Of course, I also noticed a lot of mud under my fingernails and wondered where THAT came from until I remembered swimming through a mudhole yesterday afternoon.
My brain has a terminal case of rot.
August 19, 2004
If you've never eaten Kryspy Creme doughnuts, you are a complete failure as a human being. I once spilled a cup of their coffee on MY lap and almost scalded my pecker off... and the idea of suing them never occurred to me. I bought the coffee, I wanted it hot and I SPILLED IT!!! What was I going to sue Kryspy Creme for? Giving me exactly what I wanted? Bullshit!
But I DO think I have a legitimate tort case against them. I was about 20 years old and I went to the beach and drank beer all day while I surfed. That combination of beer and salt air will make you hungry as hell when you're young enough to eat a house anyway. I was with a friend and we stopped at the traffic light on the corner of Victory Drive and Skidaway Road.
We could smell the doughnuts from where we sat. A strange mind-meld occurred in the car. Without a word being spoken, we both knew that we wanted DOUGHNUTS!!! A LOT OF THEM!!! RIGHT NOW!!!
We bought two dozen right off the conveyor belt, fresh from the hot grease. Those doughnuts DISSOLVE when you put one in your mouth. You don't even realize that you ATE a doughnut except for that sugary aftertaste in your mouth.
You can also puke your guts out later, but that's a story I don't care to tell tonight. I still think I have a legitimate lawsuit. Kryspy Creme is responsible for making me sick that day.
THEY MADE ME EAT THOSE DOUGHNUTS!!!!
another good deed
I took the dirt road behind my house to Randall's Liquor Store today because I was running low on beer and cigarettes. I needed to reload.
Old Augusta Road is one of the best-kept dirt roads I've ever seen. Even after all the rain we've had lately, the road was in great shape, until I turned the corner and passed the sign from Effingham to Chatham County. (Randall has a great place for a liquor store--- right on the county line between Baptists and drunks.) The road goes only about 100 yards farther, but that sumbitch looked like the army had been using it for heavy artillery practice. It didn't have potholes. It had CAVES in it.
What did I see? A red Chevy Cavilear buried up to its radiator in one of those holes and a woman standing on the side of the road with her hands clasped under her chin as if she were praying to God. I stopped and asked if I could help her.
"Do you have a cell phone?" she pleaded. "I belong to AAA they'll send a tow-truck out here if I can call them." I told her that I didn't have my cell phone with me, but I thought that I could pull her out. I keep a tow-strap behind the back seat of my truck and I fished it out. I pulled my truck up as close to her car as I could.
Only THEN did I realize that to hook her front axle to mine, I was going to have to swim through a mud-hole to do it. Her car was sunk DEEP in that slime. I took off my shirt and handed it to her along with my wallet. "Hold these for me, darlin.' I think I'm gonna have to get dirty."
This WAS NOT a pretty woman. She was older than I am and she didn't arouse me at all in a sexual nature. But she was a damsel in distress and I am a Southern gentleman who believes in chivalry. I crawled through that mudhole, hooked our axles together with my tow-strap and got covered up with shit doing it. I looked like Fido's ass by the time I was finished. I had mud running out of my ears.
"I need to ask you to do one thing for me, darlin," I said. "I can't do this all by myself. You're going to have to get in that car, put the gear in neutral and steer while I pull you to high ground. Just give me a thumbs up when you're ready."
She already had mud on her damn near up to her knees, so she didn't hesitate. "I can do that," she replied, and she waded through the mud and climbed into her car. I got in my truck and she gave me a big thumbs up. I pulled her out of that mudhole.
When her car was high and dry, I crawled through the dirt again and disconnected my tow-strap. I retrieved my shirt and my wallet. The woman offered to pay me, but I didn't want her money. I told her that it was my good deed for the day and maybe somebody will do that sort of thing for my mama if she's ever stuck on a dirt road in the future. She thanked me again and went on her merry way in that little red car.
I drove my truck through that mudhole and made it to Randall's. I walked through the door and people said, "My Gawd, Rob! What happened to you?" I looked as if I had been wallowing in a pig-sty.
"Nothing happened," I replied. "I look this way all the time anymore. Gimme some beer and cigarettes."
I bought beer and cigarettes and drove back home. I DID not take the dirt road this time.
just links for the hell of it
I've met a lot of bloggers over the past couple of years, and I've enjoyed the experience every time. this one is a hottie that I would like to see either nekkid or in a skimpy bathing suit. She also has an ego as big as Montana and believes that she can actually hold her own in an argument with me. HAH!!!
this one I would marry in a heartbeat if she wasn't already married. I like her a lot. She's got pretty feet, too. And EXCELLENT cleavage.
On my disgusting scale this guy scored a 9.5. I reserve a perfect 10 only for myself.
I like ex-marines. I like this guy, too, but he better never leave me alone with his wife. She makes me feel funny in my pants. "Fiona." Got-Dam!!! Just her NAME makes me feel funny in my pants.
This is one scary fucker when you meet him for the first time. But after you get to know him, you just think he's crazy. And you're right.
You know how some people create a really nasty persona on a blog, and then you meet them and you find out that it's not true? Well this guy isn't as bad as he pretends to be. He's a LOT WORSE, that cat-bombing sumbitch.
What can I say? Some acorns don't fall far from the tree and I will love her forever.
I liked raging dave, too. He showed up wearing a kilt at the bar where we met. He said, "Do you know why it's called a kilt? 'Cause you'll get kilt if you make fun of it." I DID NOT make fun of his
This guy needs a woman to fuck him like a slut and leave him in need of CPR and a set of those heart-attack paddles to get his pump working again. He needs to wake up stuck to his sheets with dried lady-juice one morning. That's MY humble opinion.
That's about all I can handle right now. If I left you off the list, just wait until tomorrow.
fit for a king
Six Krystal cheeseburgers, one order of french fries and a bowl of chili. I'll probably shit like a goose tomorrow, but that Southern gourmet food tasted good today.
Don't go look at this. Trust me. You really DON'T want to.
Okay, go ahead and look, you fucking idiot. Just don't forget that I warned you.
martial arts movies
I am sick and tired of watching well-rehearsed "fighers" such as Chuck Norris, Stevie Segal and Jean-Claude Goddam fill young people's heads full of shit about kung-fu and kick-boxing. It looks pretty on the screen, but real people don't fight that way. A heavyweight boxer or a good westler will take those fancy-Dan jumpers apart every day.
I'm not saying that Chuck, Stevie and Jean-Goddam couldn't take MY ass apart, because they probably COULD, unless I had my .38 in my pocket. If I'm toting, I ain't one bit afraid to dance with them. What? You're gonna throw one of those spinning back-kicks at me? Go ahead, buster. I'll pop you four times before your foot ever gets close to me.
I see kids doing that shit every day. They dance and kick at each other like a couple of pussies instead of having an actual FIGHT. Quinton wrestles and he's good at it. He went to the Georgia State Finals in his weight class last year. He's also taken Tai-Kwan-Doo-Doo lessons. I've asked him, "In a real fight, which works better?" He answers wrestling every time. You stick your spinning back-kick up in the air and let a wrestler grab your foot, you are dead meat, my friend. He'll shove it up your ass and choke you like a chicken.
Fuck that choreography. It may look good in the movies, but it doesn't win real fights.
(I have no doubt that I'll hear from some umteenth-level Black Belt whatever fuckers who can't WAIT to tell me how full of shit I am and how they could take my gun and shoot ME with it because of their cat-like speed and prowess as they jump and dance like faggots. I'd like to see it happen. I believe that I can pull the trigger faster on that pistol than you can kick me.
You've got a foot and a "TEE-YAH" yell. I've got a Colt .38. I'll take my chances in that fight.)
naw, people don't fuck off at work
I rest my case. Traffic always goes down on the weekends, then pops back up from Monday through Thursday. I know where those visits come from.
PEOPLE FUCKING OFF AT WORK!!!!
You people should be ashamed of yourselves, but if you're gonna fuck off anyway, do it at my site. I've got no problem with that.
i ain't looking forward to it
I'm really depressed today. I've postponed the inevitable about as long as I could, but the hammer's coming down next Monday. It'll be put-up or shut-up time for me, and I know what I'm going to do. I've had a long time to think about it. My mind is made up.
I don't think of myself as a criminal or as a bad person. If you met me, you'd probably like me. I ain't gonna break into you house, steal your stuff or molest your daughter. I make a good neighbor.
But I'm caught in a vise here and there's no way out. I keep asking myself WHY???, but that doesn't matter. A woman capable of doing what Jennifer already did to me is perfectly capable of watching me go to jail and cackling about it. That bitch.
Oh, well. I'll do what I have to do. I don't believe that it's going to be pleasant and I think I'll pay a heavy price before all is said and done. But I'll DO IT, just the same.
I just ain't looking forward to it.
(In some ways, this really doesn't look much different to me than being a 145 pound linebacker seeing a 230 pound running back bearing down on me in the open field on a third-and-two play. I knew that I had to tackle him and I knew that it was going to hurt. I did it and paid the price.
The only real difference is that this play is going to last longer than seven seconds and I won't get to go back to the huddle blinking the sparks and stars out of my eyes while team-mates clap me on the back for a good tackle. This one is going to last longer and hurt more.
Hell... it already has.)
things I like about the south
* Pretty wimmen with red toenails wearing sandals and skimpy shorts.
* Old people who are good story-tellers. They tell the same stories over and over, but the stories are good enough that you never get tired of listening to them.
* Iced tea made a gallon at a time and kept in the refrigerator so that when you come inside all sweaty, it's there for the taking.
* Pickup trucks with dog-boxes in the back and good ole boys who own guns. Yankees call those people "Rednecks," but I call some of them my good friends.
* Hot days and summer thunderstorms that put on a light show that's impressive as hell to watch.
* No snow.
* Even hurricanes are better than snow. I'd rather have the roof blow off my house than live in Buffalo, New York. A hurricane is a bad accident. Buffalo gets snow EVERY WINTER.
* Friendly people who don't speak with an accent any different from mine. People in the South believe in hospitality. Wimmen call you "honey" and they don't mind when you call them "darlin.'"
* The best food you'll ever eat. Cornbread baked in a cast-iron skillet, fried okra, grits and sawmill gravy, southern-fried chicken and some things that even the person who cooked it can't duplicate. It's a wonder that I'm not fat. I love that food.
* No such thing as ice-fishing. I've always thought that was crazy as hell and we don't do that bullshit down South. We don't have things freeze outside.
* People with manners. Old farts like ME who say "yes, ma'am" to somebody half my age and kids who always call you "Mister." Parents who ain't afraid to tear up a child's ass when he forgets his manners. They'll learn him right.
I wouldn't choose to live anywhere else in the world. It's hot, we have mosquitoes and some places are more beautiful, but I like it right where I am. I love the South, pure and simple, much like the way Southerners look at life. Pure and simple.
I was blessed to grow up here.
I don't like to admit it, but I am frightened right now. I fear no man and I don't fear dying. I've done a lot of rough and tough shit in my life and I've NEVER backed down from a fight. I've had my ass whipped and I survived. I've stood up to rough cobs who threatened me with a pipe wrench, and I survived that, too.
But my ex-wife is going to gut me like a fresh bream in court. That's GONNA happen, and I know it. And I can't do a damned thing about it. Well, I can refuse to abide by the ruling and have all the power of government trained against me, which is what I intend to do. I've got my money pretty well-hidden, so they can take ME, but they can't take that.
They'll take my Crackerbox and lock me up like a criminal. If that's the way it goes, it goes that way. My freedom is important to me, but if push comes to shove, I'll sacrifice everything to stand on my principles. I am built that way. I'm a Cracker, but I still have a lot of hillbilly in me. Fuck 'em. I just won't do what they say.
When Quinton was a little boy, he sometimes had nightmares and woke up crying. I held him and told him that he had nothing to worry about. Daddy would protect him. "There ain't no booger-man here, Quinton, and if there WAS, I'd snatch him up by the neck and throw him outta this house. What am I afraid of?"
"That's right. What else am I afraid of?"
"That's right, too. And you remember that any monster who comes after YOU will have to go through ME first, and that ain't gonna happen. I never saw a monster in my life that I couldn't whip. You go on back to sleep now and don't worry any more. I'll make sure that nothing bad happens to you."
I meant every word that I said to him. At that time, I never saw a monster that I couldn't whip.
I'm looking at one now.
I spent 24 years of the best part of my life working in a chemical plant and about half of that was done on shiftwork. I spent many a night out there while my friends were having parties and going to football games. I worked every weekend, except for one each month, and I turned down opportunities for free tickets to concerts, free tickets to the Georgia-Florida football game and a lot of free pussy because I had to go to work. AND I WENT TO WORK!!!
Somewhere in my vanished archives, I wrote about running out of supervisors one week and how I WENT OUT THERE and pulled midnight shifts again. I did it because the place runs 24-7, I could do the job and nobody else was available. Duty called and I answered.
I don't have "pigmenteer" as my email address for nothing. My heart pumps TiO2 instead of blood. I earned that monniker and I am proud of it. I busted my ass out there and I finally realized one day that I spent a lot more time at work than I did around my family. But I was content with that realization. If I didn't have that job, I wouldn't have the mini-farm and all the stuff that came with it. It was a fair trade.
Then, they dropped me like a hot rock. That still hurts because I CARED about that place. I KNEW that I was good at my job. I KNEW that they didn't fire me (uh... excuse me, RETIRE me) for poor performance. They did it because of words I wrote on the internet. They did it because of political correctness, which I don't abide by, but that scares the shit out of Human Resourses managers.
My ex-wife is prospering among those people. I wonder why? Bloodless cunts do well in this world. Honest people don't.
That's the way it IS, baby.
I know what the judge is going to ask me when I go to court next week. "Mr. Smith, have you looked for a new job since you 'retired' last October?" HIS attitude is that I should pay a ridiculous amount of money to my ex-wife and I should go out and EARN that money for her to steal.
I'm gonna tell him the truth: "No, sir, your Honor, I have not. And I don't intend to, either. I know that you're a guy in a long, black robe with a gavel in his hand, and you probably don't do math any better than I do. I was an English major. I don't do math.
"But I know the basics. When I took that lump-sum retirement, it threw me into the 36% income-tax bracket, plus another 6% for my beloved state of Georgia. Add 7.5% in payroll taxes, and if your original ruling stands, another 17% right off the top to my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife. That's about 60% of anything else I earn this year going to jackals who didn't work for it. If I take a job making $20 an hour, I LOSE MONEY. I WORK FOR LESS THAN MINIMUM WAGE!!! SOMEBODY ELSE GETS THAT MONEY!!!"
If that dumbfuck can't understand that, he's got no business sitting behind that bench in his long, flowing robe. I thought we outlawed slavery in this country a long time ago. Now the law WANTS ME to be a slave.
The law can want in one hand and shit in the other. See which one fills up first.
I hate waking up in the morning.
I sit up in bed and the first thing I do is flex my damaged neck and listen to the sound of popcorn popping as I work the kinks out. Inside, it feels like sand grinding on broken glass. I have three pillows on my bed, but I never use any of them unless I'm sitting up watching a porno movie. If I sleep on a pillow, my neck may be stuck sideways for three days.
I put both feet on the floor to see if my knees still support me. I know that I need to piss, but I'm afraid that if I stand up too quickly, I'll fall down and piss all over myself while I lie on the floor in a broken heap. I rub those aching knees and stand up. I wobble a little bit at first, but it looks like I'm gonna walk another day.
Then, I work the kinks out of my back. The back is another got-dam design flaw in the human body. It should run down the CENTER instead of hanging out there in the rear supporting weight it ain't engineered to handle. I hear more popcorn and feel more sand grinding on broken glass.
Now, after five minutes of torture, I'm ready to go pee. I sleep nekkid, so it's not like I have to unzip my fly and go through any elaborate ritual to find my pecker and take a leak. But I'm still a sleepy-eyed boy at the time and if I'm not careful, thanks to all the bionics implanted in me, I may misfire, piss all over my leg or hit the wall when I was aiming at the commode. (Don't you think "commode" is a ridiculous word?)
After that, I'm ready for a Mountain Dew and some bacon for breakfast. I drink the Mountain Dew and decide not to cook bacon for myself. I can walk okay now and I've stopped sounding like popcorn in a microwave oven. I go to the Waffle House for some grits and eggs to go with that bacon. My usual waitress, Shirley, is happy to see me and she treats me like a king. I always leave her a big tip. I like Shirley.
Then, I run any errands I have to do and go back home to write. At night, I go back to bed and KNOW what I'll go through the next morning. I think that's where some of my tumultuous dreams come from.
It ain't easy being an old bastard.
where were you 20 years ago?
I think I could get to like this woman. She appears to be the combination of a smart lady and a pure slut that I really appreciate. (no offense about that slut part, darlin.' I meant it as a compliment, from one slut to another.)
We just might have to talk about those cats, though...
August 18, 2004
things I don't understand
Why would you ever fake combat medals for yourself and turn around after doing that sort of lickspittle shit and call your brothers in arms war criminals?
Why does a woman destroy your life and keep pursuing you in court to destroy you some more? My appeal is scheduled for August 23.
I never committed adultery. She did. I didn't clean out the bank accounts and cancel all the credit cards. She did. I didn't run off with an unemployed dope-smoker while my spouse underwent cancer surgery. She did. I didn't flaunt that sordid affair in front of my spouse's friends while my spouse was laid-up and in fear of dying. She did. That bitch.
The court is going to tell me that I owe her money.
How can a woman do that sort of thing to a man and get REWARDED FOR IT in a court of law? I haven't seen my son in six months. He is a pawn in a vicious game played by a vicious woman. That bitch.
I am NOT gonna pay her. I don't care what the judge says. I've already told my lawyer that I'll go to jail and STARVE TO DEATH before I give her any more money after what she's done to me. That bitch.
Do you think it's ironic that a judge may hold you in "Contempt of Court" when that's exactly what you feel? Yeah, judge--- hold me in contempt. Then, you and I will have the same feelings for each other.
Are there some things in life that you simply WILL NOT DO, no matter what price you have to pay? I can name two.
I'm a stubborn old man. I know right from wrong and I don't give a shit what some judge says about it. I WILL NOT cave on this one.
Heh. I may make my last blog entry a suicide note, because I will blow my fuckings brains out before I pay that ex-wife, bloodless cunt half of my retirement. That bitch.
I don't understand what's happening, but I KNOW that I'm not going to cooperate with it. That's the way I've been all my life and I ain't gonna change now.
Bejus. Marry the wrong woman and you NEVER get over that mistake.
I think that this may actually come together again.
Trust me. It WON'T be a pretty sight.
no, he doesn't
BTW: Does this oft-mentioned Recondo actually have a Website of his own? If not, why not?
Recondo PLANS a lot of things, but he seldom follows through on them. I've tried to get that bastard to start a blog before and he won't do it. He's got all the material for a good book about Vietnam, but he won't write it. I've offered to GHOST WRITE the thing, give him all the credit, keep my shining face out of any deal he makes and he STILL won't do it .
Recondo likes to sit on his ass a lot when he's not driving.
being shot at
I've never been in combat, but I've been shot at a couple of times in my life. The first time was when I snuck off in the dark to court a farmer's daughter and disturbed two got-dam dogs who tried to out-bark each other while I ran when the porch light came on.
That man fired a few shots at me as I got tangled up in his electric fence around the cow pasture. I had bird-shot raining down through the trees around me and sparks flying from my nutsack as I tried to escape that fence. I didn't go back there again. That man put the fear of God into me, and I didn't like that fence, either.
The second time was on River Street. I had been out with Recondo and Georgia and we drank beer all afternoon. We decided to go down to the river to close out our evening. I needed to pee when we got there, so I stopped behind a parked SUV and drained my lizard while Georgia went on to a bar and Recondo stood by waiting for me.
I finished peeing, zipped my fly and saw sparks flying off the cobblestone walls next to me. "GODDAM! Somebody's shooting at us!" Recondo exclaimed as he ducked for cover. I stood there like a fool, with my dick barely out of my hand, until I felt a round go whistling right past my ear. I ducked, too, after that.
That's when I saw the crazy sumbitch charging up the ramp at me and clicking the trigger on a now-empty, piece of shit pistol. It looked like something I might buy at a Woolworth's store when I was a kid. No wonder he couldn't hit me. He was out of ammo and I was pissed by then. "What's your fucking problem, man?" I yelled. "You fucking SHOT at me." If I had been carrying that night, I would have killed him, that dickhead. (Georgia doen't like it when I tote a pistol, so I usually don't when I'm around her.)
"I...I...I thought you were breaking into my car," he said.
"I was TAKING A LEAK, asshole!" I replied. "I wasn't breaking into your fucking car." He tried to apologize and give me $20. I threw the bill down on the street. "You keep waving that piece of shit in your hand around here, and somebody's gonna stick a REAL pistol up your crazy ass and pull the trigger." I said. "You're well on your way to being a dead man because you can't shoot for shit. Put that thing away before you get yourself hurt."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm from Atlanta and we have a lot of crime there..."
"Yeah. I can imagine. You get your guns out of Crackerjack boxes and wonder why criminals run wild. YOU are a fucking idiot."
I walked away and went on a bar-tour after that. I didn't even think about how close I came to being killed by a fucking idiot until the next day. That guy WAS shooting at me, and he meant to HIT me. I don't think he could drill a #3 washtub from five feet away with that piece of shit gun he seemed so proud of, but it takes only one lucky shot to ruin somebody's day.
That farmer fired birdshot over my head. He wasn't trying to hit me. (He COULD have if he wanted to) He probably laughed his ass off when he saw me tangle with that electric fence in the dark.
But that guy on River Street is the kind of idiot that gives all gun owners a bad reputation.
Go read this. And keep a box of Kleenex handy. If you're like me, you'll need 'em.
ask a veteran
I didn't meet ALL the people who attended the Ranger reunion in Tacoma, but I met enough of them to know that they hold this opinion of John Kerry. They don't like the lying, fortune-hunting bastard.
And I'm talking about GENUINE combat veterans. Guys who REALLY got shot at and occasionally HIT. Most of 'em are deaf as doorknobs (like Recondo) from having explosions ring their ears for days after a patrol. If you were a LRRP in Vietnam, it wasn't a question of WHETHER you would be wounded or not--- it was a question of how bad it might be. As Recondo says, "If you got caught, there's a thousand of them and six of you. The odds ain't real good."
I don't like John Kerry. Something about that guy just makes my skin crawl.
recondo 32 and I
Rick was raised in the small mill-town of Clinton, South Carolina, just south of Spartanburg. He and I have a lot of things in common, because a mill-town isn't much different from a coal mining camp. You either worked in the mill or you SOLD THINGS to millworkers, the same way you either worked in the coal mine or sold things to coal miners. That's where all the money came from.
Rick and I are adventurous eaters. We like to be in the middle of nowhere and see a small diner on the side of the road. If there are three cars in the parking lot, we figure that they aren't poisoning people left and right, so we stop to get a meal.
Sometimes that's good, and sometimes it's not so good. Sometimes we've stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall that served food just like Grandma used to cook. We made good ole, Southern grunting noises while eating that food, sopping up gravy with fresh cornbread and cleaning our plates. We left big tips for the waitress, too, who kept our glasses of iced tea full while we ate. That was good stuff.
Other times, we knew that the cook was opening boxes of Swanson frozen dinners and making no effort whatsoever to season them. That was a lot like eating cardboard, but we still tipped the waitress if she kept our tea glasses full. When you stop to eat at those kind of places, you may hit bingo or you may go bust, but you KNEW the job was dangerous when you took it.
Somebody posted some absolute blasphemy in my comments about iced tea. FUCK YOU!!! Ya can't GET decent iced tea out west or up north. Those fucking yankees don't know how to make it. When we hit Lexington, Kentucky, on our way back home, Recondo started his usual droning about how backward Kentucky was until we went out to eat. Then, he took one sip of his iced tea (which was served in a semi-BUCKET, the way tea is meant to be served) and he said, "Sweet Jesus. I'm back down South again."
If you're a Southerner, you know what I'm saying. If you DON'T KNOW, go piss up a rope, you yankee fuckwit.
When your world crashes down around you, sometimes it ain't all that bad if you put it in the proper perspective. It ain't fun, but it ain't the end of the universe, either.
I agree with Sam. Fuck it. I'm alive, so it ain't ALL bad. A year later, I'll find something to laugh about when I look back on this day. And you will, too. (Sam, getting your nuts toasted in an apartment fire HAS to have some humorous possibilities since you got away with your nuts intact. You've given me the idea for another short story.)
Just hang in there and appreciate your friends.
I get up. I turn on my computer and discover that I have 577 new emails. 565 of them are spam from Bob (that's one tireless motherfucker) and Madelyn (who needs a nice, stiff dick shoved up her ass), who want to sell viagra, valium and penis-enhancement pills on my site. I develop carpal tunnel syndrome from deleting those spam messages.
I've got a question to ask and I want an honest answer. Have ANY of you readers EVER bought anything from a spammer you found in my comments?
I just THOUGHT that Georgia divorce law was a fucked-up thing. Canada is even more crazy.
EDMONTON - For the first time in Canada, a court has ordered a man to give his ex-wife monthly support payments for their dog.
I like dogs, but I'd SHOOT that sumbitch before I paid $200 a month in support for a fucking DOG. He'd have his last bowl of Kibbles as soon as I left the courthouse. Sorry, sport, but you ain't worth $2,400 a year.
And neither is that bitch you live with, either.
I am amazed by the number of people who wrote me emails asking what in the hell are "shuck beans." If you've never eaten them, you have not lived a proper life.
Shuck beans are nothing more than your typical Kentucky Wonder green beans, the kind that grow like ivy and climb anything you put around them. I used an old piece of fence nailed between two poles to train MY beans and they ran over and through that fence like kudzu. They had beans hanging off those vines like Jamacian dreadlocks. I could go out and fill a five-gallon bucket with them when they really started producing.
To make shuck beans, you just pop the ends off and peel the strings from those regular green beans and then run a needle through them and hang 'em on long pieces of thread until they dry and rattle in their shucks. Then, you soak them in water overnight, throw 'em in a pot with some salt, fatback and a few new potatoes and cook them all day on the stove.
That's the best mess of beans you'll ever taste.
(By the way, that "mess of beans" is a Kentuckyism that means a whole bunch, enough for a good meal. "I picked a mess of beans today," means it's enough to fill a good-sized pot.)
The Appalachians look small to me after seeing the Cascades and the Rockies. The old hills of Kentucky appear worn, weathered and weary compared to those robust mountains that seem to reach up and puncture the sky out west. Yeah, those mountains are taller and more impressive than where I grew up. I loved seeing them.
But those hills, those old, old hills where I come from still hold a majesty to ME that no other place on this earth can duplicate. I look at them and feel as if I'm still sitting on Grandma's knee, listening to her sing a sad coal miner song while she sews shuck beans and hangs them in long bunches on thread.
I like the way those mountains smell, and I like the taste of cold water from a spring that flows straight from rocks older than time. I've hiked all over those mountains and I've spent many a night around a campfire with a swift-running creek singing me a serenade at night. Water rushing over rocks sounds like rainfall when you pull your sleeping bag tight around you and drift off to sleep in the woods, in the mountains.
The Cascades and the Rockies are like me when I was young--- They are vigorous and bold, rough and ready, tall and strong. The Appalachians are like me NOW--- tired and worn-down, ready for rest and not in a big hurry anymore. Those mountains are peaceful.
I like that quality in mountains.
August 17, 2004
I like to know who's talking about me.
Here's what my inquiring mind would like to know:
1. What's the most expensive thing you've ever stolen?
I once stole a $20 alligator belt from a men's clothing store when I was 16 years old. I've been ashamed of doing that for the rest of my life. I don't steal.
2. Have you ever run from the police?
NOT MEEEE!!!! I never got caught and I DIDN'T RUN. I slipped away a few times, but that's not the question you asked.
3. Have you ever gone to church hung over?
Got-dam! What HAVEN'T I done in life with a hangover?
4. What is the most embarrassing thing you can admit to having done?
I've got a gadzillion of those stories. I've shit my pants, I've wet the bed, I've ripped the seat out of my pants while I was on stage one night and I've been thrown out of a low-class bar for being too low-class. NOTHING embarasses me anymore.
5. And the one you can't admit to?
It's not that I CAN'T admit it. It's just that I WON'T, except to very special people who will keep their mouths shut about it. I don't regret what I did, but the truth would hurt some feelings that don't need that kind of punishment. Key, you probably know what I mean because you and I talked about this very subject. I see no reason to be unkind to people who bear me no grudges and have never given me any grudge against them. I try my best not to hurt other people. But I've done some things in my life that I would rather not advertise.
Just leave that stuff alone. Given the same situation, I'd do the same thing again. But I don't go courting that same situation. I run a pretty wide-open blog. I talk a lot about myself, my life and my feelings.
But some secrets I have will go to the grave with me.
my good deed-rewarded
I had some shopping to do today and I ended up at the Winn-Dixie Customer Service Desk to buy a book of stamps. I was in line behind a very attractive young woman with a pair of the prettiest red-toenailed feet I've seen in a long time. She was a beauty and she was talking on a cell phone to someone while she performed whatever transaction she was there to do.
She had a daughter, about six years old, named Megan. I know this because Megan was restless waiting on her mama and mama had to bark at her a couple of times. "Megan, you settle down and behave! I'll be finished in a minute." I didn't mind the wait. I liked looking at her. That woman even had pretty ears.
She finished her business and walked away, leaving her cell phone and her keys on the Customer Service counter while she hurried off to catch her wayward child. I spoke very loudly: "Darlin,' I think you forgot something." She turned and looked back at me appearing somewhat stunned. Bejus, but she was beautiful. There I was, a scruffy, old unshaven fart who probably made her think of felony sex criminals when she saw me. I pointed at the cell phone and the keys. "These are yours, aren't they?" I asked. "I don't think you want to leave them here."
She said, "Oh, my GOD! Thank you!" and she came back to retrieve her belongings. "You are so sweet." Then, she stood tip-toe on those pretty red toenails and kissed me right on my unshaven cheek. I almost fell down. "I don't know where my brain goes sometimes," she said as she walked away. "Thank you again."
No, darlin.' Thank YOU! You made my day.
not older, but better
Some wines, good bourbon and hand-made guitars get better with age. People don't.
What am I BETTER at now than I was when I was young? Let's think about that one... okay, I am a better writer than I was when I was young and I'm a lot better at crossword puzzles today. I've done enough traveling that I can find my way around ANY airport better than I once could. Wimmen don't intimidate me anymore. I am aware of my own mortality and that fact doesn't frighten me.
But... I can't run and jump and burn the candle at both ends the way I did when I was young. I don't kick as high anymore. I stay tired a lot. I was a weight-lifting 40-miles a week jogger in my younger days. I once was a stud-muffin and now I'm an old geezer.
Am I better in bed than I once was? No, I don't think so. I know how to please a woman better than ever, but youthful enthusiasm, all-night stamina and a ceaseless quest for adventure outweigh what I feel now about sex.
To tell you the truth... I would rather have a woman rub my aching back than give me a piece of ass. I've HAD a lot of ass. But a good back-rub is difficult to find. I'm getting kinda like that old farmer down the road from me. He says, "I tell my wife to promise me some every night. I don't GET it, but she promises me and that's good enough. Once I couldn't wait to have some. Now I always feel like I just had it."
Growing old is a bitch.
it's in my will
When I die, I expect somebody to sell all my stuff and divide the money between my two children. Samantha gets her share right away, but Quinton won't see a dime until he's 18 years old. Whatever legacy I leave will be held in trust for him until he heads off to college. I don't want Jennifer to have a chance to fuck with my life's work any more than she's doing now.
I made my will a 50-50 split between Sam and Quinton and I hope that they never fight about it. There'll be plenty to go around. The sickest thing I've ever seen in my life is a bunch of relatives fighting over a dead person's assets. (The worst case of that I ever saw was led by a Baptist minister. Man of God, my ass.) I'll never do that and I hope that my children don't, either.
But I singled out one thing in my will--- my Martin guitar. THAT goes to Quinton, whether he ever plays it or not. I just hope that he takes care of it. It ain't that hard a job and even if he's NOT musical like his daddy, his son or his daughter might be, and I'm leaving them a fine instrument.
I hope that guitar is still ringing when nobody named "Smith" even remembers who I was.
I found this link in my comments today. I thought the bastard was dead. I should have known better. I suspect that Dax is one guy who would take a lot of killin' to finish him off.
My Site is up and running Bitch! Maybe you do need to update that Blogroll! Don't make me Bring that Jar of Spirits to Helen. Just Damn!
Mind if I take that "My site is up and running, bitch," and put it on my sidebar?
See you in Helen, bitch.
I went to visit a friend yesterday who has a golden retriever named Robert E. Lee. Ole Bobby is a damned fine dog. He's BIG, but smart, affectionate and well-behaved. "He got better after I had his nuts cut off," my friend said. I really didn't want to hear that shit.
I like dogs and I don't like cats. I'm a DOG person. I've been to several people's houses who were amazed when I rang the doorbell and they didn't hear a dog barking first. The dog usually was at my side, trying to sniff my balls and my asscrack. Dogs do that kind of thing, but I let 'em and they appreciate my courtesy. I get along even with mean dogs.
But dogs do some things that just piss me off.
They dig holes. BEJUS! When I was working my ass off on the mini-farm trying to grow grass on all that barren ground, Bud LOVED IT when I spent a couple of hours laying sod and watering it into the ground. As soon as I turned the sprinkler off, he went out there and dug like a fucking BACKHOE. He could fuck up a good day's work in five minutes.
Did you ever have a dog that liked to eat cat-shit? GOT-DAM! Even before we GOT a cat with a litter-box that Bud thought was a buffet table, Bud went outside and DUG UP catshit to eat, that mangy hound. I've seen him many a time looking like a big, hairy bastard with a cigar hanging out of his mouth as he munched a cat-turd. THEN, he wanted to come lick on you after eating shit. Dogs do that kind of thing.
Dogs read body language better than most people do. Bud had a vocabulary of about 50 words and he knew EXACTLY what you were saying if you used any of those words. ("Bacon," "Cat" and "SICCEM" were his favorites. All three made him hungry.) But he got the message loud and clear without a sound being spoken sometimes. All I had to do was GLARE at him. He knew when he fucked up and he knew when he pissed me off.
Dogs feel guilt. Cat's don't.
Did you ever have a guilt-ridden dog try to suck-up into your good graces again after a fuckup? Is that an award-winning performance, or what? The dog will grovel, thump it's tail on the floor and BEG for forgiveness with big, trusting eyes focused on you as if you were GOD. You know good and well that you love the dog and you're gonna cave in the end, but SOMETIMES you just have to make the dog ratchet up that acting to a higher plane.
"NOPE. That's not good enough. I'm still pissed at you." Then... turn your back and refuse to look at the dog. That sumbitch will turn into a Slinky on you and worm all over the place until he gets your attention. Dogs do that kind of thing.
Dogs remind me of little boys. Cats remind me of ex-wives.
finding new blogs
I search my referrals often and find some really good reading out there. My blogroll is already too long, so I don't add many people to it (I DO need to clean up some links to sites that don't operate anymore--- GOT THAT, DAX?) but I am amazed at what I've seen since I started blogging.
Some people are really GOOD and they don't get many readers. I like to link to those people when I find them, just to throw whatever traffic I can their way. I see it a lot like playing for tips during my musical days. Pass that jar. Get people to throw a dollar or two in there. If they like what they see, they'll come back for more.
I don't claim to be a heavyweight in the blogosphere and I doubt that I ever will be. I'm too eccentric and too opinionated to become really popular. I tend to piss a lot of people off. Oh well--- I've done that all my life and I ain't gonna stop now. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.
But a LOT of people write well and post things that I enjoy reading. I find them frequently and I am stunned by the fact that I once believed that I was living in a completely illiterate society. It ain't so. Some people with no qualifications other than owning a home computer put some really good stuff out there. den beste was correct when he said that 90% of blogs are pure shit, but that other 10% IS PRETTY GOOD.
If you're out there, I want to find you.
my friend steve
That's a picture of Steve, me and Recondo's lovely wife, Georgia at the Crackerbox shortly before Steve died. His doctor had him on some kind of hormone treatments for the cancer that made Steve blow up like a blimp. He was pretty lean most of his life.
Steve also had a 1958 Martin D-28 guitar that someone customized with a lot of pearl inlay years ago. Steve bought it in Nashville and brought it down here for Randy Wood to set the neck and refret it after years of playing. That guitar is a gem. It is one of the finest instruments I've ever played, with a sound that rings like a bell. Randy offered Steve $7,000 for it, but like mine, that Martin wasn't for sale.
After Steve died, his wife Cindy called me and asked what Steve's guitars were worth. He owned several. I told her that she could sell the Guild and the Ovation and the old Epiphone if she wanted to, and a couple of those electrics were worth some pretty good bucks. (Especially that old Ibanez) Just take 'em to a music store and sell 'em on consignment. A good salesman will get what they're worth and put a little money in his own pocket, too.
But I told her NOT to sell that Martin. "Give it to Scott," I said. "Nobody makes guitars like that anymore, Cindy. Scott plays and he will appreciate it for the rest of his life. Besides, his daddy would want him to have it to pass along to his son. Guitars like that one last forever and they just get better with age."
As far as I know, Cindy followed my advice.
a sad legacy
I grew up watching this man on television every night. I saw him narrating the You Are There films when I was in elementary school. I stayed up all night with him to watch a man walk on the moon. I formed a lot of my opinions about the war in Vietnam based on his reporting.
I once worshiped the man. I don't now.
Walter Cronkite lied to me and he lied to millions of other Americans, too. He was one of the main news twisters of the late 60s and the damage that bastard did to broadcasting may never be repaired. He was easy to trust, with that soothing voice, that dapper moustache and his grandfatherly demeanor. But he lied like a dog as the front man for a corrupt news organization. He hurt this country.
I am delighted to see him "put down his pen." I'd like to stick it right in his eye.
it's what I would do
I refuse to evacuate during a hurricane alert because I have a good house on high ground and all of MY PRIVATE PROPERTY is in there. I'm not going off and leaving it to vandals and thieves to steal while I'm gone. If the roof blows off my house I'll do this.
And trust me. Nobody's gonna steal my shit.
on a roll
When you get on a roll, you should keep rolling.
Heh. She brought a bright light to my morning. Coming to the Blogtoberfest, darlin?
August 16, 2004
my friend steve
I've written about Steve Hamby before, but this post made me think about him again tonight. I loved that man like a brother. I've never had a better friend in my life.
Steve and I met a long time ago, when we were both young and foolish. We went on many a rampage together before we both sobered up and started living sane lives. He got married for a second time, moved to Augusta and raised two fine children . I always stayed in touch with him no matter how far apart we were. Steve was... STEVE and we could talk about anything.
Did you ever have a friend like that? One who knew every wart you had and still liked you anyway? I did, and that person was Steve.
I watched him die of prostate cancer shortly after I was diagnosed with the same disease. We compared notes about the humiliating treatment we went through and laughed a lot about it. (heh. We argued about who had the biggest tool stuck up his ass by some quack doctor.) It surely ain't no fun, but it IS humorous if you look at it the right way.
But Steve's cancer spread and mine didn't.
Once he had it all through his bones and knew that he was going to die, he came to see me one last time. He brought his children with him and young Scott taught me how to post a link on my blog. That boy is sharp. Steve's daughter is a beautiful young woman.
I knew that when Steve pulled out of my driveway on Sunday morning, I would never see him again. He was wearing a back-brace and a morphene patch at the time and he was in constant pain. He gave me a big hug before he left the Crackerbox. "You're the best friend I ever had, Rob," he told me. I started to tear-up and get all mushy.
"Steve," I started to say, but he just bear-hugged me and said, "You don't need to say anything. We had a lot of good times. I've had a good life. Don't worry about me."
I don't worry because Steve was reconciled to his fate. But I think about him all the time. And Steve, if that pisses you off. kiss my Cracker ass.
YOU know how I am. You know better than anybody else.
i think it's good
I wrote another short story today. (short, hell... it's 28 pages long) It's about a young man in high school who is scared shitless to ask a girl out for the Junior Prom. Yeah, it's semi-autobiographical, because wimmen once scared the shit out of ME, but I had a good time writing that story. I remembered a lot of my youth in the process.
I was proud of the story when I finished it. It's funny, but it's altogether TRUE, too. I believe that it may sell. Maybe I'll publish an excerpt or two here on my page. Or maybe not. That story really needs to be read from start to finish to appreciate it correctly.
I've been doing a lot of writing off the blog lately. I can't afford to make any more money this year, but I've got plenty of stuff to send off next year. Five short stories, seven magazine articles and an almost-finished novel. I've ALWAYS wanted to write for a living and now I have the chance to do it. So, I write every day.
Not everything I write shows up here.
big drug deal
I bought $50,000 worth of cocaine today. I've got that shit laying all over my house. I look like I've been eating sugared doughnuts from all the snorting I've done. I am high as a kite and I have a bunch of black gang members coming over to the Crackerbox tonight to buy some of my stash. I'm gonna get rich.
I hope my ex-wife's attorney reads this post and copies it to use in court against me the way he did the last time. I ALSO hope that he gets the cops to take out a search warrant and raid the Crackerbox tonight.
WHAT??? No drugs??? No black gang members??? How can this BE? You WROTE IT, so it must be true.
Most of what I write IS true. But I'll throw you a curve ball every now and then.
I shamelessly stole this idea from here. I like word association games.
Server - Fuck if I know. I'm a computer nitwit. Explorer, maybe?
Charlotte Steve Hamby's ex-wife. Somebody I had the chance to ball once and I didn't because she was married to my best friend. I don't do that kind of thing, but if I met Charlotte again today, all previous bets are off. Steve is dead now. Also one of my favorite cities to visit in North Carolina.
Jackson Michael, and I hate myself for saying that. You can bet your sweet ass he'll never get his gloved hand on MY son if I have anything to say about it. Not that I own a sawed-off shotgun or anything like that. I'm just sayin'...
Resentment A festering boil that never goes away. I try to treat people right. I don't like it when they don't return the same favor to me.
Controlling A good boss on one hand and a lying manipulator on the other. "Control" is a tricky word. As a boss, I wanted to GUIDE people, not control them. But I know people who crave CONTROL over others and I don't like them. Those people are used car salesmen, lawyers and Democrats.
Intense My emotions. I don't do ANYTHING half-way even though I wish that I wasn't the way I am.
November A dreary month, too cold for a Southern boy. Even the nekkid trees appear to shiver in the wind in November. I hate that month.
Donkey A beast of burden that I would like to ride someday. A briar-chewing, ASS which is a fitting symbol for the Democrat party.
Weave What my mama and grandmother used to do on the front porch while they gossiped about the neighbors. Don't tell me that busy hands will keep your mouth closed. I know better.
Satisfies A warm woman in my bed on a cold night. There's nothing better than snuggling under the sheets with a woman who doesn't snore or hog all the covers. I feel really good with one arm across her chest as I feel her breathe. If I have that, I don't care how cold it gets outside.
How's that for word association?
working for tips
I played for tips only a few times in my life. In fact, that's one of the ways I earned a lot of jobs. I would walk into a bar, offer my services as a musician and agree to audition for tips only. If I played well, brought in customers and sold some drinks, I wanted a salary after that. Most bar managers LOVED that offer. Free entertainment.
I had an old brass spitoon that served as my tip-bucket. I was not one bit shy about telling people that THEY were paying me that night, and most people responded well. I also told the waitresses and the bartender: "Hump that bucket for me. I need the money tonight, but if I get this job, you'll get half of everything in there from now on." And I upheld my end of the deal.
I usually made between $50 and $100 dollars every night in tips, and sometimes it was a LOT more. Every night after closing, I emptied the tip-bucket on the bar and took half the money. I gave the rest to the people who helped me MAKE that money. I learned to appreciate people who work for tips.
Ladies and gentlemen, the next time you're in a bar or a restaurant, REALIZE how hard your waitress or waiter works every day. REALIZE how many assholes she or he has to deal with EVERY DAY. They get paid slave wages and depend on tips to survive. If you get good service, then TIP THEM. Show some got-dam gratitude.
That could be your daughter or your son doing that job some day. Get off your wallet and PAY them.
i need a date
Who wants to go with me to the Jawja Blog meet? If I don't have someone on my arm to keep me company, I may get my ass whipped for molesting somebody else's wife. I know how I get sometimes around pretty wimmen with red toenails. And some of the guys there carry firearms. I could get killed.
Do you want to see me dead? If you DO, just call my ex-wife and talk to her sympathetic ear. If NOT, send me an email. I'll pay for all transportation, food and lodging. You don't even have to sleep with me. (but you MUST tell everyone that I was GREAT in bed--- especially the other wimmen when you gals get together to compare notes.)
That's not much to ask.
Insidious planning is already in the works. The Second Annual Jawja Blog-Meet is going to happen in October. I think it's going to be in Helen, Georgia this year, in the heart of the mountains at a good time to go leaf-watching, beer-drinking and woman-chasing.
Details will be forthcoming...
August 15, 2004
I wish I had somebody to sing to tonight. I broke out a guitar and I went searching through the memory banks for old songs that I played all alone here in the Crackerbox. "The First Time." "In the Morning When She Rise." "Long, Black Veil." "The Last Thing On My Mind."
I could have loved you better
I like those old songs. I can still sing "Barbra Allen" and a lot of those mountain durges I learned as a child. I put on the finger-picks and did some nice guitar playing to four walls. I played "Ribbon of Darkness" and "Please Come To Boston." I played "Gentle on My Mind" and "Louise." I played "Sleepy-Eyed Boy." I have a pretty good baritone voice and I like to sing.
Where, oh where
I just wish I had someone to sing to tonight. Just sit there on the couch and let me serenade you. You can cover your legs with a blanket and I won't mind. Go to sleep if you want to. Just listen for a while.
I want to sing.
Ethel and Julius Rosenberg remain my #1 pick for the most evil Americans who ever lived. Strangely enough, people still defend them as innocent today when anybody with a brain knows that they were communist spies who gave the secret of the nuclear bomb to the Russians. They got the sparking chair and they richly deserved it.
I agree with FDR. That man ruined this country.
The same with LBJ. Whatta asswipe he was.
I put Abraham Lincoln on my list. Yeah, yeah, yeah... he preserved the Union and freed the slaves (down South--- not up North). He did so at the cost of civil liberties for free men everywhere and trampled all over the Constitution when he did it. We never would have had FDR and LBJ if not for Lincoln. Fuck him.
Alger Hiss was a traitor. Leftists still defend him even though the Soviets THEMSELVES admit now that he was a spy. That's the thing that scares me about leftists. Truth never gets in the way of what they want to believe.
I put Sirhan Sirhan on my list because he was the first Muslim terrorist to attack this country, long before the rest of his rabble became vocal about it. I was no great fan of Robert Kennedy, but we don't SHOOT people we disagree with in this country. Islamofascists do. Those are sick people who cannot abide a civilized world.
I still believe that Chief Justice Earl Warren was one of the most evil men who ever shit between two shoes and wiped his ass on the Constitution when he was finished. Legislation from the bench started with him. I hope he went straight to hell, where he belongs, that rotten bastard.
I put Bill Clinton on my list just because he's such a total slimeball.
His wife ain't much better. In fact, she's WORSE because she put up with a slimeball just to satisfy her personal ambition. Bejus! Those two make a skunk smell good.
Aw, fuck it. Nobody cares who I hate and people will flock to the polls to vote for John Kerry in November no matter what I write. The same people elected that pair of skunks named Clinton, too. Some people are simply too fucked-up to live free.
I'm gonna move to Costa Rica and live La Pura Vida and forget about how stupid we are in this once-great country.
I'm gonna say something that probably will piss some people off. But it won't be the first time I've done that and I don't expect it to be the last:
Men age better than wimmen do.
I'm sorry, but that's a fact. Men can get away with gray hair and wrinkles around their eyes. As long as they are half-way fit, with no huge beer bellies or sagging tits, men look RUGGED as they grow older. They exude character, wisdom and maturity. (They usually have MONEY, too.) Younger wimmen sometimes find those traits attractive.
Wimmen just grow old. Their titties droop, their hands resemble crab-claws and they get varicose veins. They don't look good in a bathing suit anymore. They grow wattles under their chins. Their asses either expand to tremendous porportions or shrink to withered shanks. They can't GIVE AWAY the pussy that young men once fought over.
I always wanted to bed an older woman when I was young. I had my chance when I was 27 years old and playing guitar at the Red Lion Lounge at the DeSoto Hilton in downtown Savannah. A teacher's convention was in town that weekend, and I met a woman from Nashville, Tennessee who really liked my music (or liked ME---I'm still not sure which.) She bought me a couple of drinks and I played every request she asked for. She was 45 years old.
I ended up in her room that night and she flat wore me out. BEJUS! That woman knew her way around a bed and she almost killed me. My Mrs. Robinson fantasy was everything I ever dreamed it would be and more. I caught her right at the peak of her sexual prowess and she caught me at the peak of mine. We damn near set that room on fire with the sparks we threw.
I remember taking a brief break that night and just studying her body. She had firm breasts and a tight belly. Her ass was to die for. She had a slight tracing of stretch marks, but they weren't obvious unless you looked closely. She was a very attractive older woman. She had almost no hair on her lower body except for a thick nether bush (that was before wimmen started doing bathing-suit cuts) that I found quite attractive. I grazed there for a long period of time and she had no objections whatsoever. I made her toes curl.
I left the next morning and never saw her again.
I'll bet she's an old woman now.
some people don't like her
If you're one of those people, please kiss my Cracker ass. I LIKE ann coulter. Why wouldn't I? She's blonde, she looks hot as a firecracker and she writes outrageous stuff. Bejus! She remind me of ME, except for the blonde and hot as a firecracker part.
On John Kerry:
But our young Eddie Haskell managed to annoy other servicemen even before he came home and called them war criminals. About 60 eyewitnesses to Kerry's service are cited in the book, describing Kerry fleeing comrades who were under attack, disregarding orders, putting others in danger, sucking up to his commanders, creating phony film footage of his exploits with a home-movie camera, and recommending himself for medals and Purple Hearts in vainglorious reports he wrote himself. (This was apparently before the concept of "fragging" put limits on such behavior.)
Ouch! That's kinda harsh, isn't it? But this professional sychophant is running for President of the United States. If these allegations are true, I believe that they carry a lot of weight about the man's qualifications to be Commander in Chief during a time of war.
After three months of combat, Kerry had collected enough film footage for his political campaigns, so he went home. He even shot three different endings to the episode where he chases down a VC guy after test audiences thought Kerry shooting a wounded teenager in the back was too much of a "downer." After filming his last staged exploit, Kerry reportedly told a buddy, "That's a wrap. See you at the convention in about 35 years."
I've seen only two politicians in my life that made my skin crawl and filled me with revulsion. The first was Bill Clinton. I KNEW that guy was a shallow, self-centered prick from the first time I saw him on television. The other is John Kerry. Something is just not RIGHT about that guy. He gives me the galloping fan-tods. I don't like him. I am seldom wrong when my bullshit detector rings the way he makes it alarm.
Kerry is demanding to be made president on the basis of spending four months in Vietnam 35 years ago. And yet the men who know what he did during those four months don't think he's fit to be dogcatcher. That seems newsworthy to me, but I must be wrong since the media have engineered a total blackout of the Swift Boat Veterans.
I watched Bush and Kerry speak before the ACTION group of "diverse" journalists when I was somewhere in Illinois. I saw "journalists" clasping their hands in prayer and cheering every word Kerry uttered. They laughed at Bush. I had a problem with that spectacle. Journalists should be cynical and jaundiced ANY TIME they listen to a politician speak. That's their got-dam job. Journalists are supposed to be the shit-filters that prevent an evangelist from becoming President when he isn't qualified for the job.
That place resembled a fucking PEP RALLY for Kerry. So much for journalism in America today. The "diverse" group of journalists favored Kerry 12-to-1. If there had been an honest journalist in the bunch, he would have said, "I don't trust either one of them. I'm just trying to decide who I mistrust the least."
But that ain't what happened. The news reporters are the news-twisters today. They don't report anymore; they try to MAKE the news. Some sheeple listen.
Apparently, before being permitted to engage in free speech against Democrats in this country you have to: (1) prove that you are not a Republican, (2) take a vow of poverty, and (3) purchase the right to speak in a TV ad. On the basis of Clown Wilson, Michael Moore, George Soros, Moveon.org, etc., etc., etc., I gather the requirements for engaging in free speech against a Republican are somewhat less rigorous. Hey! Maybe John Edwards is right: There really are two Americas!
Yes, there ARE two Americas and I've seen them both. Just look at the troll beshitting my site. THAT'S a Democrat. Undisciplined, inarticulate, spiteful, malevolent, vandalistic and cowardly. He wants something for nothing. GO DEMS!!!!
Give me Ann Coulter over the New York Times and Maureen Dowd any time.
it's happened to me, too
I have a troll running around beshitting my comments and he's using the name of a blogger that I happen to like. I KNOW that the spittle flying from this asshole troll is NOT what Drumwaster would write. The same bastard has called himself raging dave for a while, which I knew was a lie from the first comment because I MET DAVE in Tacoma and I know he has more dignity than that.
What motivates such a person? Does he think he's being clever? I don't. The guy is a fucking vandal, spray-painting graffitti on other people's walls and running off cackling into the night like a complete moron. I'll bet he gets a LOT of pussy. (That's a sarcasm alert, by the way)
I could name several bloggers out there that I don't like. Their views are too liberal, they piss me off with what they write and I disagree with everything they have to say. But I'll give them credit for one thing. They don't HIDE behind someone else's identity when they write. They hang their asses out there the same way I do and I can respect that attitude even if I DO disagree with their opinions.
People such as this troll have called themselves "Acidman" in the past and left some really shitty comments on blogs, using MY NAME to do it. Very few bloggers ever got pissed off at me because of that crap, because they KNEW that I didn't write those comments, the same way that I know Drumwaster and Raging Dave didn't write the shit posted on my site.
If I write a shitty comment to you, you'll damned well KNOW that I did it. I'll probably follow it up with an email so that you ARE CERTAIN that it's me. I'm not afraid of pissing people off, but I WILL NOT do it using someone else's name. I am loud-mouthed, opinionated and egotistical, but I AM NOT A COWARD, nor a vandal.
I despise people who are.
August 14, 2004
I must confess. I LIKE sweaty wimmen. I'm not attracted by perfume or most make-up (other than red toenail polish)--- I like a woman who SMELLS like a woman--- dank, musky and female. Baby, you don't need to shower--- I'll LICK the sweat offa you.
I like to watch female athletes perform. I find wimmen's basketball arousing. When I watch ten sweaty wimmen playing full-tilt on the court, I get to feeling funny in my pants. I want to go out there and just DIVE into the middle of them.
Female gymnasts don't have tits, but they perform barefoot, which also makes me feel funny in my pants. If they painted their toenails red, I'd have a fucking heart attack watching them in those skimpy bathing-suit uniforms. I want to lay a gymnast some day just to see how limber she really is. Let's make a pretzel, baby! WHO'S YOUR DADDY????
Whew. I'm going a little over the top here and I blame it all on this guy. HE started me thinking about wimmen athletes. I'd like to stick my six-iron into Annika Sorenstam, too, right on the grass of a well-kept green in front of an appreciative gallery. I'd show 'em a damn good up-and-down. I'd give 'em a few bunker shots, too, along with accurate drives and some good iron play in the rough.
I just don't think I could get along with a woman pole vaulter. She's accustomed to grabbing a stick a lot bigger than mine.
i am not perverse
Every time I think I am, I read something like this and I feel a lot better.
That turkey wing thing was the real zinger in that post.
banning can be good
I'm not banned at Velociman's site anymore, but after reading this post, I wish I was.
That boy needs therapy.
The area where I live is remarkably lucky about dodging hurricanes. Hugo missed, Opal missed, Floyd missed and now Charlie missed, too. I woke up this morning to clear skies and no wind. Charlie was off to the east, getting ready to chew up the National Hurricane Magnet of North Carolina.
Don't get me wrong--- I'm not complaining. I like storms, but I DON'T like the hours without electricty, the downed trees and the other crap that goes with a hurricane. When David hit in the late 70s, Savannah was on its knees for a week. I was without power for three days, but my parents lived in the dark for NINE DAYS, while they watched a couple of hundred dollars worth of meat defrost in their freezer. That ain't no fun.
I ate like a king because my folks had a gas grill and they decided to COOK all those steaks and briskets and chops before they spoiled. We pigged out by candle-light every night and drank luke-warm beer until power was restored. Once I had power, I froze three one-gallon milk jugs of water every day and brought them to my parent's house. That way, they could keep some milk cold and have some kind of refrigeration for other perishables in an Igloo cooler. As my dad said, they were "roughing it."
I don't care to do that kind of thing anymore. I hope the hurricanes keep missing.
I just watched the movie Cold Mountain on pay per view. I enjoyed the movie, but I thought that it missed the entire point of the book. I read that novel at Blood Mountain Cabins about one year before my divorce. All of my English Major instincts kicked in and I saw the novel as an allegorical tale about one thing: is it better to have known joy for a few moments and lose it than to never know joy at all? Is it worth a long, arduous trek to get something that you cannot hold on to?
I wrestled with that question for a while, until I had the boom lowered on me, and I KNOW the answer now. It's better to NEVER know joy than to have it taken away from you. You don't miss what you never had, but heartbreak is one motherfucker that lasts forever. Yeah, I've BEEN to Cold Mountain, and I'll never recover from that experience.
I wish that I could simply turn my back, walk away and forget about it, but I can't. Too much shit got crammed into that sock. I invested MYSELF in that relationship and brought a son into it, too. I bought the wrong stock, but that realization NOW doesn't make me feel any better. It still hurts.
If I could pick ONE SINGLE MOMENT in my life to live over again, it would be the moment when Jennifer gave me her phone number. I would throw that sumbitch away knowing what I know now. But I didn't at the time, and I ended up on Cold Mountain.
I fucked myself.
yeah, I was there
This sight wasn't as impressive as I imagined that it might be. It's still IMPRESSIVE and one hell of an engineering feat, but it wasn't as good as some stuff I saw Mother Nature do all by herself.
(and the "gift shop" sign pointing to that female ass was no accident. I like to take intriguing photos with subliminal messages in them.)
wimmen compare notes
I had an erotic dream last night.
After all the bad dreams I had on the road, this one was refreshing. It involved THREE of my ex-lovers all wanting to hop my bones at one time. I rolled in it, and I regretted waking up. That was one fine dream.
I remember one night in a bar on River Street in Savannah. I was playing on stage and I looked through the smoke and the stage lights and realized that I had slept with every female employee there. The bartender, the waitresses, the night manager and several other hangers-on from the Savannah Morning News and other establishments.
Do you know how that happened? I do. I showed ONE of them a good time in bed and she told her friends about it. The friends wanted a sample, too. THEY came on to ME, not the other way around. Any guy who thinks that wimmen don't talk about how you perform in the sack is deluding himself. They DO talk about it. They compare notes. And if one finds good sex, the others want it, too.
I got laid again that night and I saw it coming when I walked up behind two wimmen at the bar during one of my breaks. One, who I had slept with, was talking to another. I saw her hold her fingers about 9" apart and saying something about "he can do it all night long." I KNEW what they were talking about.
I was 26 years old at the time. I had a big dick and I COULD do it all night long. I walked up and started talking with the ladies. It didn't take long to charm the new find, and I took her home with me at closing time. She didn't regret the experience and she told HER friends about it, and I got laid some more.
Guys, never forget one simple fact: Wimmen love sex as much as YOU do. Watch Sex In The City. Those confused wimmen ALWAYS talk among themselves about sex and men. Wimmen compare notes all the time.
I've NEVER heard a man admit that he's a flop in bed. Naw, if you listen to a guy talk, he's ALWAYS the ultimate stud and wimmen cling to his legs as he walks away from them after a night of multiple orgasms. I know what bullshit that story is. I've bedded too many wimmen who never had an orgasm before to believe that shit from guys. I've had wimmen FALL IN LOVE with me because I made them cum for the first time in their lives. They never knew that sex could BE like that. That fact tells me that a lot of shitty lovers exist in this world.
That's why wimmen compare notes the way they do.
This is sick shit.
I am got-dam sorry I missed it.
ME: carry-around: Colt .38 revolver, 2" barrel and loud as hell, loaded with red-tip hollow points. Nice pistol. I can't hit shit with it beyond about 10 feet, but it's meant for reaching out and touching someone up close. It's a damned good weapon. Very reliable, powerful and LOUD.
Knife: a 2" Buck folding pocketknife that Quinton bought me for Father's Day when he was five. I love that knife, but it ain't for fighting. That's why I carry a gun.
Sword: don't have one. But I DO own a genuine, razor-sharp Bowie knife. In close quarters, it'll beat a sword any day.
Bejus! I LOVE the smell of testosterone in the morning!
growing it long again
I had by beard and my crotchical area shaved when I was In Costa Rica. But I've not had a haircut in a long time, and I believe that I'm going to let it grow for about a year before I contemplate going to the barber. Why the hell not?
I don't have to impress anybody with my rugged good-looks and I still have hair on my head. I'm going to let it grow long and shaggy, just to see what it looks like. I've got it, so I'm going to flaunt it.
I think it's pony-tail time again.
ask and ye shall receive
I'm not very modest. I like to walk aound my house nekkid. Somebody wanted to see nekkid man-pictures here, so I posted one. Of ME.
That ain't a bad-looking ass for a 52 year-old man.
(That picture is almost one year old. I had a pony tail back then. I don't remember who took the picture, but I think we had a good time. I believe that I even played a few of those instruments for her.)
I am not a tremendous fan of George Bush. He's done some things as President that I don't like---he's never vetoed a spending bill--- and I believe that heads should have rolled over the intelligence lapses before 9/11. But I like him a lot more than I do John Kerry.
I am a Georgia Cracker. I see in Bush a lot of the traits that I see in people I respect right here where I live. I believe that Bush is an honest man who wants what's best for this country. He doesn't have a problem distinguishing good from evil or right from wrong. He is a man of strong convictions and he is comfortable being himself. You may disagree with his policies, but I cannot see HATING that man the way the left does. Bush is the kind of guy I would like to go fishing with. I believe that he would make good company.
Kerry, on the other hand, is the kind of guy I wouldn't get into a boat with on a dare. I already KNOW that he's dishonest, and the the few leftover Rangers at the reunion in Tacoma that I talked to hate the man's guts. He did something totally inexcusable to me, and to them. He defiled the reputation of his fellow soldiers in Vietnam for personal aggrandizment. I wouldn't trust that French-looking bastard any farther than I could throw him AND his goddam swift boat.
Kerry operates with a finger in the wind. He HAS no convictions. Like Bill Clinton, he could stick a dog turd in his mouth and grin while he ate it as long as the cameras were rolling, catching that smile. George Bush would say, "That's a dog turd. I ain't gonna eat THAT!" and he wouldn't. That's the difference I see between those two men.
I wish that Bush were a better public speaker. He's not the most eloquent President we're ever had. But grand speechifying isn't the sole quality I look for in a strong, effective leader. Bush has a set of balls and he has some really good people to advise him. I TRUST him. I'll NEVER trust John Kerry.
I believe that one of the reasons the left hates George Bush so much is the fact that he represents blunt Americanism, a Tall Dog attitude instead of self-flaggellating guilt over being the best country in the world. The left can't STAND that kind of behavior. How can he have the NERVE to act that way? It might piss off the French and the Germans, as if we need those corrupt bastards on our side.
Plus, I like his wife and I wish that I could have met his two hottie daughters in my younger days.
August 13, 2004
i did a survey
I checked myself from head to toe today. Here's what I found:
*Left foot altogether fucked up. Should have gone to the doctor when I broke it, but I didn't, so now it's healed poorly.
*Both knees fucked up. I don't have any cartilidge left in either one, thanks to football injuries. I can walk okay, but cold weather really makes me ache.
*The back from hell. I'm not sure where I developed this problem, but I have a disc in my back that just likes to move over and press on my spine about once a year. I can't get out of bed when that happens. It hurts like hell, too.
*Left elbow. Bejus! If you ever break a joint, you're never going to forget it.
*My neck. No doubt that's from football, because I started developing arthritus in my neck when I was 21 years old. Too many head-on tackles. Today, I sound like a string of ladyfinger firecrackers exploding when I get out of bed.
*My dick. Even though I have a bionic Roscoe, it ain't like the equipment I once carried. I miss the old warrior. I didn't get the nickname "Anaconda" for nothing. Now wimmen call me "stubby."
Oh, well. Life goes on and you deal with it.
I posted a comment on this blog and I decided to copy it onto a post. Some people seem to have a really difficult time deciding what makes a good leader. I don't.
I was an upper-level manager in a chemical plant for much of my life. Anybody who believes that Bush should have jumped up from that classroom and run to the rescue of his country knows NOTHING about leadership. A good leader has people in charge of things that THEY are supposed to handle when the shit hits the fan. That's why they are there. That's what they get paid to do.
If you ever worked for me and wanted to piss me off, call me at 2:00 in the morning because you were too afraid to make a decision. Call me because you didn't have the BALLS to do what you were paid to do. I'd make the decision, then I would rake your ass over the coals the next day for being a gelding when I wanted a stud. THAT'S leadership.
Anybody who thinks a President handles EVERYTHING that comes down the pike has never been a boss.
I've been banned from posting comments on this site. What the fuck did I ever do to you? I'm your FRIEND, man!
This hurts. It really, really hurts.
I am not alone
Some other people see the light, too:
Remember this: Nine times out of ten when the government steps in "for the good of all", no matter how noble the cause, you're about to get bent over and screwed like a cheap plastic sex doll so that someone else can feel good about themselves and more money can be ripped out of your pocket.
Those are words of wisdom from this guy and I could not possibly agree more whole-heartedly. All I ask today is to be LEFT ALONE. That's not much to ask. I don't go around fucking with other people's lives and I am good to my neighbors. I pay my taxes and I mow my lawn. (I don't clean my kitchen very often, but that's wimmen's work--- I just happen to be without a woman now.)
I will DIE believing that if everybody else in the world thought the same way I do, this planet would be a better place to live. I don't want to run your life. I don't want to dictate how you raise your children or what you eat for supper every night. I have my opinions and I will voice them, but you are free to tell me that I'm full of shit if you disagree. I SUGGEST ideas, but I don't IMPOSE them.
Government does. And that scares the crap out of me, because the best and the brightest in this country DON'T go into government service. Little Hitlers do. And they are everywhere today. These are twisted, demented little poots who want EVERYBODY to live by their twisted, demented rules. I fear such people. The pure concept of freedom scares the shit out of them, but they believe that THEY have all the answers and they cannot abide the idea that somebody else doesn't think the way they do.
Therefore, they REGULATE you into submission. Just take a look at this guy. Do you really want such a nerd setting the rules for how you live your life? I don't.
I should have been born in the 18th century. I'd pack some clothes and food and head out over the mountains to a place where I didn't have to put up with such shit. But I can't do that anymore. Government is too big.
And it WON'T leave you alone.
Rain has fallen steadily all day, thanks to tropical storm Bonnie. Hurricane Charlie is supposed to come in through the back door tonight and tomorrow. Did the NWS miss a golden opportunity with these back-to-back storms, or what? Charlie should have been named CLYDE! Then, Bonnie and Clyde could be on the warpath again.
The Crackerbox is under a hurricane watch and a tropical storm warning now, but I'm not worried about it. Charlie isn't that much of a badass and by the time it gets here, it won't be much more than a good windstorm. The local weather is predicting 60 MPH wind gusts and up to 6" of rain, with possible tornadoes. I see that crap all the time with our ubiquitous "early afternoon and evening thunderstorms" in the summer.
I've got beer, cigarettes and a Coleman lantern, plus a pot of green peanuts boiling on the kitchen stove. Charlie can kiss my ass.
I got a DUI a little over three years ago. That happened on the night after I was thrown out of my house by my darling ex-wife, and I had $60 to my name, thanks to all her efforts at clearing up all the financial loose ends (stealing ALL the money) before she lowered the boom on me. I drank some vodka in a cheap motel room, took six Ambien sleeping pills, still couldn't sleep and got a wild hair up my ass to drive to the beach to watch the sun come up.
The cops got me in Thunderbolt, Georgia, and I richly deserved to be arrested. I pulled a .12 on a breathalyzer, but I was a lot more fucked up than that. I was arrested by a woman, and she did the world a favor by getting me off the road.
I spent the night in jail around some serious hooligans, but I didn't give a shit at the time. I was ready to die, and I think that some of those crazy people recognized that fact. They left me alone, even though I was dressed only in sandals, a Confederate Flag tee-shirt and a bathing suit. I was the only white person in that coal bin. I actually WANTED somebody to start some shit with me, but nobody did. I WANTED a fight.
Cop Three, my personal lawyer for these kinds of things bailed me out about 1:00 the next day. I ended up paying a hefty fine, attending Drunk School, going to a MADD Awareness session, performing 40 hours of Community Service and visiting a probation officer for three months, until I just paid her off and made the state happy. All in all, that ordeal cost me about $5,000. I've stayed out of trouble ever since.
I was guilty as shit the night I was arrested. I'll make no bones about that fact. My ass SHOULD have been hauled off the road and taken to jail without passing GO. I was a menace to society. I was as fucked-up as a worm.
But I disagree with this. I was arrested after I pulled off on the side of the road and quit driving after I realized that I couldn't see the road anymore. The cops caught a sitting duck. Even the woman who arrested me said, "I didn't arrest you. You arrested yourself."
She was correct. But I know too many people who have had their lives turned upside-down thanks to a DUI after having a couple of drinks at a business dinner and being caught by a random road-block later. I deserved what I got, but these people DIDN'T. That puritanical mentality that suffuses so much of our nation is alive and well in DUI laws.
The Federal Government mandated a .08 legal drinking limit with the threat of taking away Federal highway funds if the states didn't comply. I love that idea. The federal government says, "We're gonna take your money and NOT GIVE IT BACK if you don't do what we say." States complied. There's nothing like a robber with a foot on your throat and a sword in his hand to make you want to hand over your wallet and your freedom.
At the MADD class, I heard horror stories of drunken drivers with five previous convictions driving 100 MPH the wrong way down an Interstate highway and killing people in the process. I never heard ANY story where a BAC of less than .225 was used as an example of a "drunk" driver. But those AREN'T the people being arrested today.
Pull a .09 and you're going to jail whether you're drunk or not. That kind of bullshit has nothing to do with highway safety or putting an end to drunken driving. It's all about another way for government to take money from its citizens.
And if you believe any differently, you are a sheeple.
August 12, 2004
'splain this one
If there is a God, he has a weird sense of humor. I can't help it. When I read stories such as this one, I believe that the world is too got-dam ridiculous to... BELIEVE.
The Home Office has played down a suggestion that the government could stop a convicted rapist receiving his £7m lottery win. Iorworth Hoare, nearing the end of a life term for attempted rape, bought his winning ticket on day release.
Does anyone other than ME find that paragraph absolutely insane? How the hell do you near the end of a "life sentence" without being on your death bed, gasping for your last breath? WTF is this "day release" shit? The guy is a RAPIST, for crying out loud. Good job, government.
Plus, I see the irony in those dickheads letting this piece of shit out of jail in the first place and then wanting to take away his lottery winnings. He couldn't have bought the ticket if YOU DIDN'T LET HIM OUT. Don't bitch now. He won his prize fair and square, which is more than I can say for the justice system that allowed this travesty to happen.
And people ask me why I don't believe in God.
I was an English major. I could correct the meter a little bit, but I like this poem anyway.
I simply don't like squishy liars, especially when they want to be President of the United States.
how I ended in up in tacoma
Recondo 32 went to Tacoma for a Ranger reunion, which those old farts do every two years to get drunk together and tell war stories. I'm really sorry that I missed the festivities (although I have no qualifications for admission) because I'll bet the whole thing was a hoot. People from Merill's Mauraders and other WWII rangers attend, along with guys from BAT teams and LRRP teams from Vietnam, and Gulf War Rangers who saw combat in Somalia, plus all the newbies who worship those older guys.
Recondo eats that shit up like grits with gravy.
Well, he earned that privilege. The WWII Rangers weren't Airborne and one of the old Mauraders made his first parachute jump at the age of 81 this year. Some of the younger Rangers (they were only 50-something years old) took him up in a plane and did a "buddy-jump" with him. The old bastard enjoyed the hell out of it. Recondo said it took two days and a case of beer to get the grin off the guy's face.
Anyhow, that's what led Recondo to Tacoma and that's why I flew out there to ride back to the RIGHT COAST with him. Georgia had to go back to work, so she flew home on Wednesday and Recondo would have been driving home alone if not for me. I volunteered for hazardous duty. (Trust me... he NEEDS a navagator. He ain't real good at reading road signs on his own.)
Plus, I always wanted to take a cross-country road trip. This was a golden opportunity, so I grabbed it.
And I'll never regret that decision.
it's really better
I knew that my camera wouldn't do justice to glacier national park and I was right. The place is more beautiful than any of the pictures I took.
If you ever have the chance, go there.
(by the way... that picture was taken at 8,400 feet above sea level. The mountains still towered over me.)
On the post below, you can see the distinct divide in this country today. On one hand, you have the South and most of the heartland of America. On the other hand, you have California, the certified nut-bowl of the country, along with New England (home of Jumping Jim Jeffords and Ben & Jerry's Karl Marx Ice Cream Company), along with New Yawk (home of the two most vile Senators in the country), Washington state (latte-sipping, yoga-sitting assholes) and fucking Minnesota, which should be ceeded to Canada once we extricate James Lileks from that god-forsaken land of la-la.
That's pretty much what the next Presidential election is about. Do you want THOSE BARKING MOONBATS running the country? They have a lot of electoral votes in those leftist enclaves. You'd better get your ass to the polls unless you want a country run by alien creatures with brain-suckers on the ends of their pod-like tentacles.
I'm just sayin'....
You you see the same pattern I do in this picture? Red is Bush and blue is Kerry. All idiotic states, where people breathe some kind of rarefied air that interferes with normal brain functions, are for Kerry. Sane America, where people actually WORK for a living and don't insist that government run their lives, is for Bush.
I know which side I'm on.
How did THAT picture get in here? That's a Costa Rica flashback.
government action is needed
If only chicago had its way, this terrible tragedy never would have happened. NOBODY would weigh 480 pounds on a 4' 10" frame and graft herself to a couch by lying there for years if not for soft drinks in public schools. What utter horseshit.
I'll admit that obesity is a problem in America today. A LOT of people in this country are FAT, because they eat too much and don't exercise. They are raising fat little kids who cram their faces full of junk and play video games all day instead of running and jumping and climbing and fighting the way normal kids do.
That IS NOT the fault of the fast-food industry or soft drink manufacturers. It is the fault of PARENTS. Banning junk-food in public schools isn't going to solve the problem. It's just going to give the government another excuse to pass more regulation and take away more of MY freedom, and I AM SKINNY. I need to GAIN about 20 pounds to fill my body out the way it should be.
But in these days of professional victimhood, nobody is responsible for what they shove down their necks. Somebody ELSE made them fat, and government should step in to protect them from that terrible menace. If fat people and lawyers can make a little money from the deal, money that fat people will spend on more shit to cram down their necks, then justice is done.
Quinton and Jack are nothing but muscle and bone, and they are "hoooongry" all the time. They eat like bush-hogs, but they NEVER stay still unless they are asleep. Those two boys NEED all of that fuel to fire the engines they run on, and I do mean RUN. Those two turds make me tired just watching them. They can wear this old fart down in about an hour when we play football or shoot hoops.
My advice to parents: if you have a fat kid, GET HIS ASS OFF THE COUCH. If you are fat, get YOUR ass off the couch. Goddam. This "problem" is not that complicated. We don't need government intervention to solve it. And government intervention WON'T solve it, either, but government is ALWAYS looking for something else to regulate. It sees a golden opportunity with obesity and the regulatory wheels are already beginning to turn.
Smokers are not the villians they are perceived to be in this country. Fat people are the real threat.
cry me a river
What is a mother to do when her son is an armed robber killed by police? Well...she sues the city, of course.
I believe that the city should counter-sue HER, for raising a piece of shit for a son. Surely SHE bears as much responsibility as anyone else for her son's scumbag behavior. If she had raised him right, he wouldn't be on the streets of Harlem committing three armed robberies in one week and attempting another when he was killed.
My aching ass.
Illinois Senate race
I was in Illinois when Alan Keyes announced his candidacy for the Senate, and I KNEW that he would step on his own dick right off the bat. Apparently, somebody else agrees.
And he VOTES in Illinois.
Wonder how this place got its name?
Never be rude to a waitress. It's not only bad manners, but it can... ummm... BACKFIRE on you.
Heh. If she lived in America, she'd be a Kerry supporter. She pretty well sums up the leftist philosophy.
August 11, 2004
I talked to Quinton on the phone tonight. He is very excited to hear about the trip I took and he's looking forward to seeing the loot I hauled back for him. I'll run that stuff by his house tomorrow when nobody's home and hang it on the doorknob. He can search through it at his leasure when he gets home from school.
That's what a good daddy does nowadays, isn't it?
It is if you're in MY shoes. For those of you who think I'm laying down on this case, I'm, $6,000 in lawyer's fees into it so far and into my second lawyer. I still believe that I will lose in the long run (hell... I've lost already. The deck is stacked) but it's not in my nature to quit without a fight. I would rather go down in flames than crawl off with a whimper.
But before my son hung up the phone today, he said, "I love you daddy. I miss you a lot." (his mama must have been out of earshot)
"I love you, too, Quinton. And I always will, no matter what. Never forget that."
I hope that he never does.
Some people find it amazing that Recondo and I get along as well as we do, because two bigger egos you would be hard-pressed to find. He knows EVERYTHING. Well, so do I. That sort of bloated self-esteem makes for some good conversation on a 3,400 mile road trip. We may argue and debate in the car, but you will never see two finer Southern Gentlemen in a bar or a restaurant.
We both were raised to have manners.
That's something too many parents neglect today. They don't teach their children MANNERS. I blame a lot of the FemiNazi movement on the loss of manners in this country, but that's not the whole story. I ask you liberated wimmen out there: are you OFFENDED because a man holds a door open for you? If so, stuff that idea up your twat, because I'll hold a door open for a man, too. That's just common courtesy.
I don't want to get off on a rant, so I'll just say what I meant from the beginning. Tell me what is the sin in being nice to your fellow man, woman or child? Being nice doesn't take a lot of effort, it doesn't cost anything and it actually makes you FEEL GOOD for doing it. It's nothing more than a gesture, an admission that we're all in this shit together, and it goes a long way toward making friends in strange places.
Did you ever think that some people DON'T DO IT because they simply are too shy? They won't make that first move because they are afraid of being laughed at or scorned because they DARED to be nice to a stranger. Those are the people you see in airports with their faces pressed into USA Today or with cell phones stuck to their ears. They are AFRAID of you and they are looking for a place to hide. They seek safety in anoniminity.
I am not one of those people.
But I am not a con-man, nor a manipulator, nor a get-mine-before-you-get -yours kind of person. I simply have manners.
And I am not shy. More people should be that way.
I pride myself on being able to identify what part of the country you come from when I hear you speak. I'm really good at identifying regional accents and I've actually won money on bets doing it. I believe that my ear for music has a lot to do with it, but it could be just a specialized hobby of mine.
The Northwest fooled me. If you're from Seattle, I can pick you out of a crowd, but Montana and Idaho... and a lot of South Dakota would have made me lose some bets. The accent there is an amalgom, with nuances of Yankee, California, Canadian and Wisconsin all thrown into the mix. I became very confused listening to those people talk. I couldn't INDENTFY that accent.
Recondo said one night in Montana, "I can't wait to get back Down South, where people speak English the way God meant it to be spoken."
We ate at a Cracker Barrel restaurant in Lexington, Kentucky and the waitress asked us if we wanted sweet tea or unsweetened tea with the meal. I thought Recondo was going to fall out of his chair. "Darlin, would you ask me that question again?" he said. "I've been listening to people ask me if I wanted HOT TEA or COLD TEA when I ordered tea for so long that your voice is a pleasure to my ears."
Goddam. EVERYBODY KNOWS that the only way to drink tea is sweet and on ice. Only scum and pretenders (or some British podunkers) drink it any other way.
When she took our order and headed to the kitchen, Recondo said, "Did you hear her accent?" I said sure I did, and it sounded just like what I'm accustomed to hearing. "That's what I MEAN!" Recondo exclaimed. "I've been listening to English language that I CAN'T UNDERSTAND for a month now. That girl is getting a big tip for just talking right."
Recondo is like me in several ways. We both know that some people say that Southerners talk slowly, like dripping syrup fresh from the refrigerator. But I agree with his philosophy: if you ain't got time to listen, you shouldn't be involved in this conversation anyway. If you're in a hurry, just go the fuck on. We'll manage without you.
The farther South we went the better the voices sounded to my ears. Call us hicks all you want. I don't care. I love a Southern accent and nothing makes me feel more at home than having a pretty woman serve me iced tea, fried okra, collard greens and meatloaf with mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy.
Ohhh... it's good to be back home again.
If you change domains or restructure your blog, please have the courtesy to do what this guy did and let me know. I can't cruise all of my blogroll every day. I'm just
Lemme know when you change and I'll fix it.
In case you haven't noticed, I'm back in the Crackerbox now, after a trip that I will remember for the rest of my life. I would have liked to have left South Dakota and headed due south to the desert and Texas, but Recondo was becoming homesick by then, missing his own toilet with all the required reading material handy, so I went where he drove. I have a few observations:
1) The Pacific Northwest is a den filled with liberal booger-heads, until you get out of Washington state.
2) I've never seen so may espresso cafes in my life as I did in the northwest. Down South, we call "espresso" that pot of coffee in the Waffle House that's been sitting on the burner for four hours so that it has boiled down to be thick as coal tar.
3) I would live in Montana if I could adjust to the cold winters. That's beautiful country.
4) Let's do our next nuclear bomb test in Iowa. Nobody will miss what gets blown away. There's plenty more corn in Nebraska.
5) Girls are prettier Down South.
6) You'll never appreciate just how big this country is until you drive across it.
7) Lewis and Clark were either the bravest men who ever lived or a pair of crazy, shithouse rats. Either way, I am awed by what they did.
8) Montana and South Dakota have a lot of rivers and creeks with no water in them. There's a BRIDGE, but no water.
9) The Mississippi River is impressive if you cross it anywhere.
10) Europe and John Kerry can kiss my Cracker ass. How can ANYONE look around this country and NOT know that we aren't high-school girls that need someone to hold our hands while we go to the bathroom? By Bejus, brave men and wimmen BUILT this country and they didn't need any help doing it. We are Tall Dog and we've got the landscape to prove it. Allies? Make "friends" with those who would like nothing better than to see us fail? Fuck 'em. If I'm in a fight, I'd take a Montana rancher or an Idaho logger watching my back over ANYTHING Europe can produce.
That's MY humble opinion.
If anyone can tell me how to fuck this guy up, please tell me:
IP Address: 220.127.116.11
I've been travelling a lot lately and the only way that I can stay in contact with my family is through my email. Sometimes even I don't know where I'm going to be. My mama is not in the best of health and I've told her that if she emails me, I will get her message. But I might NOT, when it's buried in spam from an asshole such as this one. C'mon, dickweed. Go pester somebody else.
I NEED my email a lot more than you need my blog for your fucking billboard.
Recondo had almost 7,000 miles on the 'stang when I met him in Tacoma. Georgia had packed the car to where there was barely enough room to stick MY crap in there. She took one backpack home with her and left Recondo and me to haul the five beach towels, the exercise weights, the jogging shoes, the CASE of bottled water and all the other shit that crazy woman put in the car and never used. I didn't bitch, because I know Georgia. She thinks on a different plane from most
The Snake is a very low-slug car with an impressively powerful Shelby engine in it. It has a racing suspension (that will rattle your kidneys on a rough road) and one-of-a-kind racing tires on it. I surveyed the car before we left Tacoma. Other than having enough shit piled in it to fill a Conestoga Wagon, I approved of the vehicle. I was hoping that Recondo would let me drive part of the way, but he would rather have me kidnap and molest one of his sons than let ANYBODY else drive that car.
"Where is the spare tire?" I asked.
"Don't have one," Recondo replied. "Where ya gonna put a spare tire on this car? Besides, those are special order tires. You can't get 'em at Wal-Mart."
"Lemme get this straight... we're about to travel more than 3,000 miles over God's own wilderness with no spare tire?"
"Okay. Let's go." And I climbed into the car.
We ended up doing almost 3,400 miles through 15 states. Georgia had my truck while I was gone and she's been driving it to school every day. When Recondo and I made it to the school at about 1:00 this afternoon, we dragged all of my crap out of the 'stang, put it on the front seat of my truck and prepared to part company. We both agreed that it was one hell of a road trip and we were delighted that we never had a single fist-fight along the way. Arguments, yes... but fist-fights, no.
We did the adios amigo high-five and Recondo roared off in the Snake. I arranged my things and left the school parking lot. Less than 100 yards down the road in Bluffton, South Carolina, I saw the Snake pulled over on the side. I stopped to see what was the matter. Recondo was cursing God.
He walked up to my truck. "I can't BELIEVE THIS SHIT!" he said. "More than 10,000 miles, through 28 states and Moosejaw, Canada, and I pull into an elementary school parking lot and get a fucking FLAT TIRE!" Sure enough... the Snake was sitting on the rim on the right front tire.
"Better here than some of the places we've been," I told him. And that's the honest truth. We went to some places where bleached bones would have been the only evidence of our passage.
I took him to a garage where he was busy scolding his Personal Mechanic when I drove away. He told me to get the fuck out of there before I learned to behave the way he does when he's pissed off. Hell, I could give HIM lessons.
But that's the truth, folks. 10,000 miles on the Snake with no spare tire and a flat two miles from his house.
We took a very roundabout way (through West Virginia) to get to Harlan County, Kentucky. What SHOULD have been a 100-mile drive turned into 230 miles because of MY fuck-up as naviagtor. I accept full responsibility for the mistake. It was MY doing.
I'll be listening to stories about that shit for the rest of my life.
But we got there anyway, and now I wish that we had not gone. I was in Louellen in 1982. That's the last time I saw the place where I spent the first six years of my life. The coal mining camp was gone, but there was a sort of lonely splendor about the area, almost a religious shrine-like atmosphere. The bath house and my grandfather's house were the only buildings still standing, but I could recognize a lot of what once was.
The railroad tracks were still there and I could see up the mountain to where the mine used to operate, 24-7. I could see some timbers left from the tipple and I knew EXACTLY where I was. I walked down the road and recognized where my home once stood. I remember standing there with tears in my eyes and thinking about how much blood, sweat and tears were shed in that tiny part of Kentucky. And how much joy sank into that dark and bloody ground, too.
It ain't like that today. We missed it going through the first time. We drove all the way to Virginia before I told Recondo to turn around. "We missed it, " I said. "We just crossed Keoke Mountain, and Louellen is back THAT way." I pointed back behind us.
Recondo turned around and backtracked for the first time on this entire trip. We hit Closplint and I knew that we were close. The Post Office is a 12 X 12 cinder block building on the side of the road and we stopped there. I walked in and asked the lady behind the counter where Louellen was. I told her that I once lived there and I wanted to go back to see it.
"Honey, you're on the right road. It's just about four or five miles back the way you came. Did you go to Evarts High School?" I told her that I didn't, but my mama and daddy did. She asked their names and I told her, but she didn't recognize them. "Remember when houses were on both sides of the road? Well, they're all gone now, but that brick building is still standing."
"That was the bath house and the company store," I said. "That's all that was there the last time I was here."
"That brick building is still there. You just go about four or five miles down the road, and you'll see it."
We did, and I saw it. I wish that I hadn't.
The place is a fucking TRAILER PARK now. And I'm not talking pretty trailers, either. No wonder I drove right by it the first time. It's a goddam trailer ghetto. It's a slum. It looks like Fido's ass.
Mama, I'm sorry, but you really DON'T want to go back there.
After five days of superb navigation down 3,000 miles of back roads from Tacoma, Washington to Lexington, Kentucky, I suffered a severe brain fart. I got us on the wrong road out of Lexington and I didn't realize my mistake until we were almost 70 miles into our wrong-way journey. Recondo NEVER wants to turn back, so we decided to keep going and add West Virginia to our list of states travelled in the 'stang. We did.
But I'll never live that mistake down.
For the rest of my life, I will NEVER be known as the navigator who got us through Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakaota, Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri, Illinois, and Indiana. No... I will be known as the guy who fucked up in Kentucky.
One "Oh, Shit!" takes away 20 "Attaboys."
speaking of farts
When we left the motel in Illinois, we headed over toward Indiana, just to add another state to our list. We didn't eat breakfast that morning. Recondo stopped at a WE GOT IT ALL store for some gas and I smelled chicken frying. Sure enough, the place had a chicken-kitchen in the back and they were just bringing a hot batch of battered chicken livers out of the fryer.
I like fried chicken livers. I bought six and ate 'em all in the car around 11:00 in the morning. Recondo was getting extremely homesick for his own toilet, so we hopped the Interstate for the first time on this trip. We drove to Indianapolis, then took I-64 toward Lousiville, Kentucky.
By the time we crossed the border into Kentucky, those chicken livers were beginning to percolate. I needed to unload some gas, so I eased one cheek off the leather seat and let loose a whomper. Recondo is half-deaf and the fart didn't smell, so he didn't notice.
But I felt another one coming just a few miles farther down the road. I performed the same cheek-lift off the seat and produced something loud and growling, with a tail on it like an alien creature. Whoa! THAT was a nice 'un!
"What?" Recondo asked.
"I didn't say anything," I replied. Still, no lingering aroma from TWO gaseous butt-explosions.
But I wasn't finished yet. As were were riding through Louisville, I turned loose a third blast that sounded like someone ripping up linoleum from an old kitchen floor. That third one had some fallout and hang-time, too.
"Damn!" Recondo said. "There must be a paper mill around here somewhere. Smells just like rotten eggs."
"Yeah," I agreed, "must be a paper mill."
I couldn't help myself. A fourth one came rolling down the pike and I let it go. It was loud enough that even half-deaf Recondo heard THAT one and the aroma was so bad that I disgusted even myself.
"Got-dam, Smith!" Recondo bellowed, while rolling down his window. "You are a rotten bastard." I had to agree. When YOUR OWN farts start to smell bad TO YOU, you ARE a rotten bastard.
"I think I have weapons of mass destruction up my ass," I told Recondo. "I believe that we should stop in Lexington for some disarmament. Once we find a motel room, you can call UN inspectors if you want to, but trust me. I WANT to disarm."
We spent the night in Lexington.
August 09, 2004
I think about my son a lot. All through this this trip, I’ve caught myself thinking, “Quinton would LOVE to see THIS.” I bought post cards and tee-shirts for him everywhere I’ve gone. I also bought a map of the USA and I’m tracing my route with a red marker and I intend to send that to him along with the post cards and tee-shirts. Maybe he can use that stuff for "Show and Tell" at school some day while he wears one of the shirts.
Notice that I said “send it to him,” not give it to him. I am subject to arrest for that stupid-assed “Domestic Violence” order Jennifer took out against me if I come within 500 feet of her house. Forget the fact that I have NEVER committed any violence against her, while SHE has devastated my life and continues to do so. Talk about "Domestic Violence?" I KNOW what that means. But it doesn't apply to MY situation. She is woman and she can fuck me to a fare-thee-well in divorce court.
I have not seen my son alone since February. I’ve not washed his hair, read him a book or tucked him in at night for six long months. I’ve not thrown him a football, told him a story or wrestled on the floor with him for six long months. He has not seen my mama, my grandmother or my brother for six long months. If Jennifer has her way, Quinton will never do ANY of that stuff again, and she’ll bleed me dry in divorce court, with a black-robed judge approving my rape.
As Recondo says, "That ain't right."
No, it's not, but it's LEGAL. Jennifer IS a bloodless cunt. She doesn't give a shit about me, or anybody else, even though we were married for nine years. She wants my money, and she wants me dead. She's damned effective at achieving goals which is why Kerr-McGee loves an adulterating, lying bitch such as HER and FIRES ME for writing a blog.
For the past three nights, I've dreamed about her and my former job. I woke up depressed every morning and I couldn't wait to hit the road. I don't want to go to sleep tonight.
I am afraid of my dreams anymore.
going back home
I'm in a Hampton Inn tonight, just southeast of Peoria, Illinois. I thought about giving this guy a call to see if we could get together for a beer, but I'm really too tired to socialize tonight. All we did today was drive, through Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri and Illinois, and if I never see another got-dam cornfield in my LIFE, I will die a happy man.
After seeing Washington, Montana and South Dakota, I found middle America boring as hell. The only difference I can see between Nebraska and Iowa is that Nebraska has higher speed limits and lower gas prices. Otherwise, they both look like middle Georgia, only farther from home. Missouri is distinct because it sells fireworks. BFD-- so does South Carolina. Illinois? More of the same, except higher gas prices, no fireworks and a hotel with no fucking BAR.
Thank Bejus I bought a pint of whiskey at the liquor store last night.
But at least I crossed the Mississippi River today.
Tomorrow, we're headed back to where I was born. Recondo is suffering Battle Fatigue from 30 straight days on the road now, and as he told me today, "I LOVE to drive, but I'm about burnt out. I'm ready to shit in my own toilet for a change," so we're going to Kentucky tomorrow, to Harlan County. Mama, if you're reading this, we're going to Louellen, where I intend to show Recondo that I did NOT invent those stories about my childhood. I'll have pictures to prove it, too.
We'll spend the night somewhere around there and be back home on Tuesday. I will have passed through 13 states on this trip, all the way from the northeast coast to the southeast coast. Recondo will have visited 26, but he got a head start on me. The only reason he INSISTED that we go through Nebraska and Iowa was the fact that he was missing those two on his quest to visit the entire Lower 48. Now, he needs only Vermont to achieve his goal.
I really believe that EVERYBODY ought to drive--- not fly and not ride a bus--- but DRIVE all the way across this magnificent country and least ONCE in life. Take the back roads. Get off the beaten track. See what's out there.
I've always dreamed of doing it, and by Tuesday, I will have.
August 08, 2004
If some of you perverts accustomed to reading semi-pornographic stories about my travels are waiting with your wangers in your sweaty hands for something to uh... CLAP about, forget it. We've been averaging close to 600 miles per day on the road, with stops only for food, sightseeing and sleep. I've SEEN a lot of intriguing wimmen, but I haven't had time to chase any of them.
I'll go back to being horny when I get home.
forget the posting date
I wrote the posts below sometime last night (August 7) in a 5-room motel in Stuart, Nebraska, where an internet connection was not available, but a bed was.
I really didn't ask for anything else.
the joys of biking
We tried to outrun a vicious thunderstorm on our way to Nebraska today. We lost the race. The sumbitch caught us and pummeled the Snake with a torrent of rain that quickly turned to marble-sized hail. That crap was falling so fast and so hard that it sounded like gunshots when it hit the windshield. I became worried about the rag-top being punctured. Recondo kept driving. “We gotta get out of this shit,” he said.
Remember all the bikers I mentioned below? OF COURSE YOU DON’T!! You haven’t read that post yet. But we saw some of them (in fact, A LOT of them, since the place was CRAWLING with bikers) caught in the same maelstrom.
Montana and South Dakota don’t have helmet laws the way Georgia does. Every biker I saw was riding with nothing but a doo-rag on his or her head; however, they weren’t riding through that storm. They were hunkered down on the side of the road, covering up while rubbing the knots on their heads.
Man, that HAD to hurt.
Between Montana and South Dakota, I saw more goddam HAY than I ever expected to behold in my life. I saw bales, rolls, small blocks and fields still not harvested that stretched as far as the eye could see. We passed truck after truck hauling tandem trailers loaded with hay. I saw farmers planting MORE hay. What do they DO with all of that hay? I saw a lot of cattle and horses, and even a few buffalo grazing on the big, rolling range there, but I couldn’t imagine them eating THAT much hay, even during a long, cold winter.
Recondo suggested that just because we didn’t SEE vast herds of hay-eating animals, that didn’t mean they weren’t there. “Those are mighty big ranches,” he said. “The rest of the herd might be behind one of those hills.”
I had to agree. That vast herd hiding behind those rolling hills is what gave Custer his fame.
sights I didn't want to see
I have no idea where I am tonight. It’s somewhere in the middle of Nebraska, but I don’t remember the name of the town. I was too tired to look at the sign when we drove in after thirteen hours on the road. This time, it was not Recondo’s fault.
I noticed a lot of motorcycles on the road as soon as we hit Montana. Motels, restaurants and bars all had signs displayed saying “Welcome Bikers!” I asked Recondo what all that was about.
“Oh, they’re having some kind of Biker Week in Sturgis. I saw the signs on the way up here a week ago, but I thought it would be over by now.” It wasn’t, and that’s why we had so much trouble finding a motel room that first night.
This morning, we left Billings at around 8:30 and headed for Mount Rushmore. We went by the Little Bighorn Battlefield, where Custer bit the Big One, on the way. The place resembled just another Montana cow pasture to me, but I WILL admit one thing: if Custer had NOT gotten his fool ass killed there, a lot of places would have different names today. I saw Custer Park, Custer Gulch, Custer Creek, Custer Avenue, Custer Fork and half a dozen other such places that I can’t remember.
Recondo asked if I wanted to see Deadwood. Why not? It was on the way to Mount Rushmore and I’ve always liked the story of Wild Bill Hickcock. We went, and it was the biggest mistake we’ve made on this trip. The place was CRAWLING WITH BIKERS. We spent a good 45 minutes just trying to get through two blocks of the town. I am not kidding when I say that I believe at least 100,000 bikers turned out for the Sturgis meet.
They were crawling all over Mount Rushmore, too. (I enjoyed seeing the sculpture, but it really wasn’t as impressive as I expected it to be.) They were crawling all over The Badlands when we went there. (That is a really interesting place to see, even when it IS crawling with bikers. In her own way, Mother Nature is a better sculptor than the men who created Mount Rushmore. ) But by then, I knew the bike-fest boded ill for our chances to get a motel room tonight. I was correct.
We drove 200 miles on the back roads before we even started stopping and asking for a place to stay. Everything was booked. We drove ANOTHER 100 miles and everything was STILL booked. I didn’t relish the thought of sleeping in the car, so we pressed on.
Finally, here in the middle of wherever I am in Nebraska, we found a place that had a cancellation a few hours earlier. We took the room without even asking if it was a single, a double or the Honeymoon Suite. By then, if the desk clerk had said that all she had was some hay in the manger, we would have jumped all over it.
Turns out that the room is pretty nice and there’s a liquor store right next door. And right now, I could use a drink.
August 07, 2004
Have you ever noticed that when life turns against you, it's NEVER satisfied with fucking you just once? Oh, no. Life likes to pile it on in BIG STEAMING HEAPS.
I feel his pain.
the political landscape
I haven't stayed in one place on this trip long enough to do serious research on this topic, but my initial impression is that the Seattle-Tacoma area of Washington is a seething cesspool of liberal fuckheadedness. I saw a lot of "KERRY!" bumper stickers on cars. The farther east you go in the state, however, the Kerry stickers disappear and "VOTE FOR BUSH!" takes their place.
Once you cross into Idaho and Montana, you can forget about John Kerry. Signs and bumper stickers for Bush are everywhere. You ALSO see a lot of RAGE (Rebel Against Green Extremists) stickers and "This Land is MY Land--- Keep Your Green Fingers off of It." A lot of unemployed loggers live around there.
You can smoke in bars and restaurants in Idaho and Montana. You can't in Washington. I believe that that tells a lot about the leftist idea of freedom. You are free to do things THEIR WAY or they'll pass a regulation to FORCE you to.
Today, we were stopped for road construction by a flagman when we toured Glacier National Park. The flagman, who appeared to be in his early 30s saw the RANGER plate on the front of the 'stang. He walked up to the car and stuck his head in the passenger window. "Were you guys Rangers?" he asked. I told him hat I wasn't, but Recondo was.
He thrust his hand in the window right past me and shook Recondo's hand. "Thank you for your service, sir," he said. "Freedom isn't free and I appreciate what you did."
Later today, we ate lunch at a diner in a small Montana town whose name I can't remember. Clouteu, or something like that (the map is in the car). The chairs were covered with American flag back-covers, obviously hand-sewn, and an arch between the dining room and the ubiquitious "Casino" area was decorated with dozens of typing-paper-sized posters featuring an American flag and a name on it. These appeared to be made by children.
Recondo asked our waitress, "What are those for?"
She answered, "Those are the names of our brave boys from Montana who are fighting in the war against terror. We'll take them down when they come home." She pointed to one. "That's my nephew," she said proudly. "He's in Iraq and I pray for him and his fellows every night." Recondo left her a $5 tip for a $10 meal. (I paid for the meal.)
It seems to me, so far, that the people who expect or DEMAND that government run people's lives support Kerry. People who can make it own their own and love this country don't.
I may be wrong, but I don't think so.
stopped by the cops
Recondo and I have been good boys on this trip. Well... we violated the speed limit a few times (the Snake demands to EAT), but we've had no alcohol in the car and sped like crazy ONLY when we had a straight road and nobody else around us. You get a lot of that in Montana.
For a long time, Montana had no speed limits. Montana has them now, but they are not necessary. We concluded after driving these VERY INTERESTING ROADS that the guy who makes the speed limit signs also runs a funeral parlor. He's generating business by telling you it's okay to go 75 when 65 is PLENTY fast enough.
We got behind an eighteen-wheel truck today and Recondo eased out to pass him. It was a straight stretch of road and 80 MPH seemed quite reasonable there. But Rick changed his mind and eased back behind the truck, which was doing 70 MPH. "That looks like a town up ahead," Rick said. "We'll pass him on the other side."
30 seconds later, we cruised by a State Patrol officer on the side of the road with his radar gun hanging out the window. We were still behind the truck, doing the speed limit. "Bejus!" Recondo said. "Sometimes the lord works in mysterious ways. I never saw that sumbitch. If I'd have passed that truck, he would have nailed me dead."
I agreed that it was an act of divine intervention until I looked in the side view mirror and saw the patrolman burning rubber in a U-turn to pursue us. "Rick, he's got a bug up his ass about something," I said. "I think he's coming after us."
About that time the blue lights came on and Recondo pulled over on the side of the road. He rolled down the window and removed his driver's license from his wallet as the patrolman approached the 'stang.' "How ya doing, officer?" Recondo asked. "What did I do wrong?"
The officer took Rick's license, glanced at it with a chagrined expression on his face and said, "Nothing, really. I saw that you didn't have a front license plate on the car and in Montana you have to have a plate on both ends. Then I saw your rear plate and I thought it was college booster thing. (Rick has a RANGER tag on the front of the Snake and a South Carolina Purple Heart "Wounded in Combat" plate on the back.) I didn't realize that you guys were foreigners."
"I ain't a foreigner!" Recondo exclaimed. "I'm from South Carolina!"
"I see that now, but those plates are foreign to Montana." The officer then proceeded to bullshit with us about how both his son and daughter went through Basic Training in South Carolina when they were in the army.
"Fort Jackson," Recondo said.
"Yeah, I think that was it," replied the patrolman. He handed Rick's license back. "Sorry to trouble you. Have a nice trip and enjoy Montana."
We pulled back out on the road, but Recondo drove a lot slower than he had been doing before. "I KNEW I didn't do anything wrong," he said. "But it ALWAYS scares the shit out of me when I get pulled over by the cops."
I think a lot of people have the same reaction.
Montana is big!
I'm just outside of Billings now, after a very nice eight-hour car tour of Montana. This is without a doubt the most beautiful state I've ever seen. Iwent to Galcier National Park today--- and you've never been there, I suggest that you go. I've seen Lake Tahoe, I've seen the Cascades, I've seen the Rockies, and I've seen Costa Rica, but I've NEVER seen anything as spectacular as that.
The mountains are HUGE, and in profile they resemble the serrated teeth of a saw. They are tall and old, carved into bizzare shapes by eons of ice, snow and running water. If you go up high enough, you get dizzy looking down and STILL the jagged crests tower over you. I have never been so impressed by a work of nature in my life.
We left there and drove through the Rockies, crossed the Continental Divide and headed into the Butte country. More magnificent scenery. I felt a real sense of just how old Mother Earth is by seeing what I saw today.
I took a lot of pictures. None of them will rightfully display the magesty of the place,but I am going to post some of them when I get home.
August 06, 2004
I hate my laptop
Tonight is the first time I've used it on a wireless internet connection. I forgot my mouse and I'm having to use that stupid touch-pad thing. I'm also too tired to think straight.
This is another pain in the ass.
All has not been frustrating
Last night in Taoma, I called a fellow blogger and he and his lovely fiancee came over for a
Unfortunately, he suggests in a post today that I corrupted his fiancee. I DID NOT corrupt that woman. I talked very nicely to her.
I think what set her off was when I said that I felt like I had been shot and and missed, but shit at and hit after my flight to Sea-Tac.
Long Day II
We didn't stop in the panhandle of Idaho. Recondo wanted to put some more miles behind us, so we kept going through some more beautiful country. We were in the Rockies by then. Rick wanted to make Montana before we stopped for the day, so I checked the map and decided on the town of Libbie, about 50 miles across the Montana border.
I was ready to quit for the day. I was getting a serious crick in my ass by then and I KNOW how Recondo gets on a road trip. He'll "We'll stop at the next town" every time we come to a town until you end up driving all fucking night long. Also, motels aren't that common in Idaho or Montana. In fact, NOTHING but MOUNTAINS, RIVERS AND STREAMS are common there.
Gas stations aren't that common, either. The Snake has a tank that holds only 15 gallons and it drinks it pretty fast. Places to eat aren't common, unless you plan to butcher and eat the got-dam mule deer you hit in the highway because you insisted on driving those twisting roads through the wilderness at night. He was beginning to piss me off.
We arrived in Libbie as the sun was sinking below the mountains. When we crossed the Montana border, we added another hour to the clock because we went from Pacific time to Mountain time. It was growing late. I saw a motel with a vacancy sign aglow and "Internet in Every Room" advertised on their sign.
"There. That' a good one," I said.
"I think I know a better one up ahead," Recondo replied. "If I can't find it, we'll go back there." We drove to the end of town and couldn't find this mystery motel. "Okay, we'll go back," Recondo said. "I must be thinking of a different town."
We went back and I tried to get a room. A guy was checking in at the desk at the time. The clerk told me that he had no vacancies. "This gentleman just rented the last one I had." If we hadn't pissed away the time driving through town, we could have had that room.
We went to another motel and--- you can believe this or not, but a guy was checking in when I asked the clerk if he had a vacancy. "I'm sorry, but I just rented our last one to this gentleman."
There were NO VACANCIES anywhere in town, so we ended up driving another 89 fucking miles and trying THREE MORE MOTELS in Kalispell before we found the last room available for another 100 miles. It was 10:00 at night by then. We had been on the road for 12 hours.
I intend to see Glacier National Park tomorrow, because it's a short damned ride to get there now. We ain't doing this shit again tomorrow.
And I intend to drive all the way across Montana and visit South Dakota to see Mount Rushmore on Satuday.
Long Day I
I am Kalispell, Montana now. Recondo and I left Tacoma this morning and took US Highway 2 all the way across the state. I wanted to drive through the Cascade Mountains and they certainly were as spectacular as I imagined them to be. Beautiful, towering mountains, covered in tall trees except on the rugged rock outcrops and a few jagged peaks, some still frosted with snow. Crystal clear streams ran along the rocky bottoms, creating waterfalls and rapids as they twisted their way downhill. Some of the views were downright breathtaking.
We drove down a final long grade and found ourself in the town of Levenworth. I told Rick, "Buddy, we took a wrong turn somewhere. We're in goddam Helen, Georgia." Sure enough, Levenworth is a "Bavarian" town, just like Helen, with all the fake-German names for the shops and the Heidi architecture everywhere. I never suspected that TWO places like that existed in the US, more than 2,000 miles apart.
Something else changed drastically, too. We still were surrounded by tall mountains, but gone were the trees and the lush, green vegetation. When I first saw those mountains, I thought they had been clear-cut to nakedness by loggers, but that wasn't the case. We we into a part of the High Desert, where nothing grows except a brown, mangy grass and a few hardy species of scrub-brush due to lack of water. I was amazed as how quickly the scenery changed, as if an artist painting a green landscape suddenly ran out of paint right in the middle of his work.
Down in the bottomland outside Levenworth, orchards of apples, pears and other fruits grow in abundance, where irrigation is provided. I thought the sight was incredible. Right at the base of a mountain that appeared as barren as the surface of the moon, fruit trees thrived.
The land began to flatten out into rolling hills that reminded me of some parts of Middle Georgia. We passed a place called Waterton and that same almost-gray soil on the mountains was transformed in to fields of wheat, grain and hay that ran for miles and stretched out on both sides of the highway as far as the eye could see. The land was empty except for rows upon rows of grain, with only an occasional lonely farmhouse or a combine harvesting a crop to punctuate the monotony.
After that, we passed a series of very impressive coulees, huge canyons of eroded, decaying rock walls. I never knew that Washington state had such a varied landscape.
We passed through Spokane right at rush hour and decided to spend the night somewhere in the panhandle of Idaho.
August 04, 2004
I'm not driving, either
Traffic is crazy around here. Recondo has to take Georgia to the airport in about an hour, so I believe that I will retire to the hotel bar while he does that dirty work.
I'm at the LaQuinta Inn on Portland Avenue, if anyone wants to drop by.
I'm not in Seattle
I'm in Tacoma, Washington. Recondo lied to me about where he was but I found the place with no problem. I had a lovely flight out here, with a three year-old brat screaming and crying two seats in front of me all the way. The little shit didn't shut up from Atlanta until when we landed at Sea-Tac Airport. Then he promptly fell asleep as the plane was pulling up to the unloading gate.
I wanted to kill him and strangle both of his parents.
I also managed to get to the shuttle desk just in time to see the one I wanted pulling away as I bought my ticket. I had to wait 40 minutes for the next one and I froze my ass off outside the airport terminal. I was dressed in nothing but cut-off jeans, sandals and a short-sleeved shirt because Georgia told me the weather was wonderful out here.
She swears that it WAS until today, when it turned cold, cloudy and windy. I got to the hotel room still shivering, put on my cold weather gear and we went out to eat.
The sun came out and I sweated my ass off after that. I don't believe the State of Washington likes me being here. I am certain that the three-hour time change is going to screw my body clock to a fare-thee-well, too. An auspicious beginning to a grand adventure.
August 03, 2004
If I found a magic lamp and a genie popped out to give me three wishes, I wouldn't ask for money. I have never really cared that much about money. I didn't like being broke (which I have been), but money never was my motivation for what I did in life. Yeah, it's better to HAVE money than not, but it's not a cure for all of your ills.
My Three Wishes:
1) Make my mama well.
2) Let me talk to my father one more time.
3) Give me a woman who loves me as much as I love her, and let me help raise my son.
Fuck money. I would give up every dime I've got to have those three things.
don't do what I do
I was actually cleaning up my kitchen this evening before I go to Seattle tomorrow. Dishes went in the washer, trash went into the can and... what did I find under the sink? A BOTTLE OF TEQUILA with about three fingers worth left in it. I don't remember when I bought that thing or how long it's been there, but I'm NOT going to toss it out until it's empty. I have a lime in the fridge too, which will go bad if I don't do something with it right away.
If I become inarticulate (or at least more so than usual) blame it on my cleanup efforts.
i wanted to comment...
But I didn't know what to say.
A lot of televison just make me want to puke today.
a coal mining camp
The Lewellen mine opened sometime in the 1920s or '30s. It had been there on the side of that mountain for a long time before I was born. I still remember watching the man-trip run up and down the tracks on that hill and waiting by the fence to watch my daddy walk home with his entire body covered in coal dust. He was often the blackest man I ever saw.
I showered with him once at the Bathhouse next door to the Company Store. I was six years old and intimidated by all the hairy, nekkid men around me. These were all rough-cob coal miners with large muscles, calloused hands and dicks a lot bigger than mine, enveloped in the steam from the showers. My daddy told me not to worry. "These men are my friends," he said. "Nobody is going to mess with you."
Nobody did. In fact, one guy who worked for my dad scrubbed my back for me. I walked out of there feeling like a full-grown man at the age of six. I had been to the Bathhouse. I washed with the coal miners. I thought I was a Tall Dog.
I have a picture of the house we lived in back then and it's pretty much a shack. Hey! But it was a GOOD shack because my daddy was a supervisor and we lived on Front Row, right next to the highway, just across from the railroad tracks, where all the really good shacks were. We didn't have indoor plumbing and I know quite well what a winter wind feels like blowing up through the hole in an outhouse while your tender ass is perched on it, but we didn't live on Back Alley, on the bank of the Cumberland River, where the drunks and promiscuous wimmen lived. We had status, for what it was worth.
The mine ran out of coal and shut down in 1958. It had operated for more than 40 years on a good seam of Golden Ash coal, the finest coal in the world. $15 a ton back then. My daddy was without employment, without insurance and the father of a diabetic son, who required a lot of medical treatment. He had a decision to make. He was offered several other jobs in mines all over Kentucky, but he turned them all down. He KNEW that if he stayed there, my brother and I would grow up to be coal miners. That's all there was to do back then.
He and my mama loaded up all they could pack into a 1957 Chevy Bel-Air and moved to Savannah, with no prospects and no idea of what they would do next. We had a place to stay, at my grandmother's house, but that was it.
Do you realize the kind of courage that took? I didn't back then, but I do now. I admire my father more than any man I've ever known in my life. He was a hard-ass and we didn't always get along, but he had more balls than any other TWO men I've encountered in life. My dad was one hell of a man.
I think in a lot of ways I've always felt that I didn't measure up to his standards. I still wonder about that today, even though my father has been dead for 12 years.
The Lewellen coal mining camp is gone now. The company bulldozed all the houses and and sold the lumber for scrap. Somebody was growing corn there the last time I saw it in 1983. I doubt that I ever will go back.
But I'll never forget it, either.
I just talked to Recondo 32 and his lovely wife, Georgia, on the phone. They are NOT picking me up at the Seattle airport tomorrow. They say the place is a regular zoo and the cops will tow your car if you park in the wrong place. I told them not to worry. I have their address at the hotel where they are staying and I'm pretty sure that I can make my way to the place on my own.
I've never been to an airport in my life where I couldn't hop a taxi. I told them, "Fuggedaboudit. I'll get there." And I will, too.
Recondo had the fucking NERVE to ask me to buy him three cartons of cigarettes on the way to the airport tomorrow, AFTER he told me that he was too lazy to come pick me up. That sorry bastard! Guess what I'm going to do? I'm going to buy his goddam cigarettes on the way to the airport. I have two cartons for myself, but I may add another two just to be on the safe side. Recondo says that cigarettes are VERY expensive on the Left Coast. $33 a carton as opposed to $17 here.
You know what I like about good friends? They don't mind telling you to go fuck yourself one minute and then asking for a favor the next. I wouldn't put up with that kind of shit from a stranger, but I will from Recondo and Georgia. I've done the same thing to them and they've never let me down. That's what good friends are for. They know you, warts and all, and they love you anyway. I love them, too, and I'll get Rick his cigarettes. Even if I DO think he's a sorry bastard.
That sorry bastard.
don't ask me why
Well, I said that I was going to blog a lot today before I hit the road tomorrow, so I stole this quiz from a fellow Georgian.
1) WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR BEDROOM WALLS?
2) WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
3) WHAT’S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
4) FAVORITE BOARD GAME?
5) FAVORITE MAGAZINE?
6) FAVORITE SMELL?
8) LEAST FAVORITE COLOR?
9) HOW MANY RINGS BEFORE YOUR ANSWERING MACHINE PICKS UP?
10) MOST IMPORTANT MATERIAL THING IN MY LIFE?
11) FAVORITE FLAVOR OF ICE CREAM?
12) DO YOU BREAK THE SPEED LIMIT DAILY?
13) DO YOU HAVE A STUFFED ANIMAL IN YOUR ROOM SOMEWHERE?
14) STORMS - COOL OR SCARY?
15) FAVORITE DRINK?
16) WHEN IS YOUR BIRTHDAY?
17) FAVORITE VEGETABLES?
18) IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
19) IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY COLOR HAIR, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
20) HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN LOVE?
21) TOP THREE FAVORITE MOVIES (IN ORDER)?
22) DO YOU TYPE WITH YOUR FINGERS ON THE RIGHT KEYS?
23) WHAT’S UNDER YOUR BED?
24) WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE NUMBER?
25) FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH ON TV & IN PERSON?
26) WHAT IS YOUR SINGLE BIGGEST FEAR?
27) FAVORITE CD OF ALL TIME & RIGHT NOW?
28) FAVORITE TV SHOW OF ALL TIME & RIGHT NOW?
29) HAMBURGERS OR HOT DOGS?
30) THE COOLEST PLACES YOU’VE EVER BEEN?
31) WHAT WALLPAPER AND/OR SCREENSAVER IS ON YOUR COMPUTER RIGHT NOW?
32) DOES MCDONALD’S SKIMP ON YOUR FRIES & DO YOU CARE?
33) FAVORITE CHAIN RESTAURANT?
34) IF YOU HAVE A BOY (OR HAVE ANOTHER BOY) WHAT WOULD YOU NAME HIM?
35) IF YOU COULD LEARN TO PLAY ONE INSTRUMENT OVERNIGHT, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
things I don't understand
I am an old fart. I lived 52 years (pushing 53 really fast) and I've done a little bit of everything in my life. Some of it was very good and some of it not so good, but I tried to learn something from it all. I believe that I have a lot more WISDOM today that I did when I was 23, even if I don't have the same bullet-proof body or the ability to climb mountains the way I once did.
I know more now than I did when I got out of college with a degree. Some things just seem so OBVIOUS to me now that I can't understand people who don't see reality.
*Life is not fair. Accept that fact and deal with it. Government ain't going to make life fair, either. If you believe that GOVERNMENT is the answer to your problems, you need to be dragged off and shot, you fucking parasite.
*Socialism doesn't work. Communism doesn't work. Both have been tried over and over again with miserable results. The only people who still believe in that crap are fucking parasites who want something for nothing, or people who court the parasite vote.
*Guns are NOT dangerous when you know how to handle them. I am not afraid of guns. I am sometimes afraid when I am unarmed.
*There is no free lunch. Everything in life comes with strings attached. Any time somebody offers you something for nothing, you'd better put a hand on your wallet. If you don't, you're gonna lose your wallet.
*Anybody who says that he or she loves EVERYBODY is full of shit. If you dole out your love like alms, it is worthless. Love, like trust and respect, should be EARNED by the recipient.
*You can love the wrong person and be hurt really badly. That's one reason love is a precious commodity.
*Most people don't read history, schools don't teach it anymore and too many people don't have a clue about what the world is really like. Human nature has not changed in 10,000 years. Money, sex and power make the world go 'round. Always has, always will.
*A lot of people who oppose the war in Iraq couldn't find Iraq on a globe. They are too ignorant to know how ignorant they are.
*If I were President of the United States, I would rather see our country feared than loved. You don't kiss ass when you're the biggest, meanest player on the field. Others kiss YOUR ass. If you're Tall Dog, act like one.
*Talk softly, but keep one hand on your gun. Some people will fuck you every chance they get. Know that fact.
*ALWAYS cut the cards.
*Don't fall for a slick-talking salesman. Most of the politicians in Washington today ARE NOT the best and the brightest "leaders" this country has to offer. They are salesmen, selling themselves. Do NOT trust them. They will lie to you if it benefits them. They care more about money, sex and power than they do about you.
*Wimmen ARE NOT the same as men and they never will be. I'm all for equal RIGHTS, but I'll NEVER believe in lowering physical standards to allow wimmen to hold jobs that they are not capable of doing. I refuse to deny the obvious. I know very few wimmen who could pick me up and run 50 yards with me on her shoulders. I know a lot of men who can.
*Blacks in America have more opportunity for success than blacks in Africa. Why do they insist on calling themselves "African-Americans?" Most of them would run screaming for the first plane home if they ever found themselves marooned in Africa. That place is a cesspool. I wouldn't go back to Harlan County, Kentucky if somebody PAID me. That place is a cesspool, too. Why can't Blacks see what I see so clearly: getting me out of there was the best favor my parents ever did for me. The same is true for Blacks living here today, if they just pull their heads out of their asses and look around.
*Teach your children to read and to ENJOY reading. That's the best gift you can ever give them.
How's that one for a rant?
i love her
When moxie is on a roll even I stand back in awe.
And it takes a lot to awe ME.
is it just me?
I had a falling-out with my Cousin Ernie several years ago when he professed his admiration for Al Gore. I had just finished Gore's
Ernie remains a yellow-dog democrat and OF COURSE he never read Gore's book. Democrats don't like to confuse themselves by actually LEARNING anything about the people they support. He just liked Gore because... well, Gore was a Democrat from Tennessee.
Don't you think that Gore is showing today what he truly IS? Look at him. He is the Clown Prince of the Democrat party today and some of the shit that flies out of his mouth is downright insane. (His book was, too.) Do you realize how close we came to having THAT MANIAC elected President of the United States?
Al Gore is not right in the head. Even for a guy who invented the internet and discovered Love Canal, walked imaginary patrol duty in Vietnam and saw the future of the environment in blind sheep-eyes, he's just plain fucked-up. Yet--- more people voted for HIM than did for George Bush.
Thank Bejus that people in Florida are just as fucked-up as Al Gore. Do you really want people who can't figure out a butterfly ballot electing your President? I don't. Especially when the person they meant to vote for is a certifiable lunatic.
Some people are just too stupid to live free. They need handlers.
I believe that I will blog a lot today. I've got all my shit in one sock and I'm ready to fly to Seattle tomorrow morning. I'm going to do something that I've wanted to do all my life. I'm going to see my country, with a friend that I love like a brother. We have no deadlines and no places we have to be. We'll just go where we feel like going when we feel like going. It's Easy Rider in a hot-rod Mustang convertable.
I hope to meet a few bloggers on this trip and I already have several phone numbers that I intend to call if I am in their general vicinity. I've never had a bad experience doing that. If I show up, I won't ask you for room and board (don't let my clothes fool you---I have plenty of money) but I wouldn't mind buying you a lunch or just stopping by your house to say hello and chew the fat for a while.
I'm taking my laptop with me and I intend to BLOG ACROSS AMERICA. I want to describe what I see and tell of my adventures. I don't know how much posting I'll be able to do, but I'll do it when I can, and I'll have everything on the laptop when I get back home if I can't post on the way.
I may be off the radar screen for a while, but when I get back to the Crackerbox, you can depend on a lot of Gut Rumbling. I have no idea which way we'll go from Seattle to Savannah, and I like it that way. We'll just play it on the first bounce and see what happens. Hell--- we might even end up in Key West.
Recondo says that he wants to go through Nebraska on the way back. I have no idea why. I can see all the goddam cornfields I want to see right here in Effingham County, Georgia. But what the hell--- I've never been to Nebraska. If that's where he wants to go, we'll go.
I just wish I had the chance to do this when I was 25 years old.
(UPDATE More phone numbers keep rolling in on my email. Are you people SURE you want to meet me?)
(Another Update: If I take everybody up on the offers for beer, I won't remember anything about my trip. But, what the fuck. You only go around once in life.)
vote for me---I'll kiss ass
This man is pathetic.
I don't WANT my country "reaching out" to people who hate us and always will, unless we're reaching out with a few MOABS or a force of well-trained Marines. You don't make friends with rabid dogs or hateful neighbors. You shoot the dogs and tell the neighbors not to fuck with you or they'll end up just like the dogs.
Sometimes brute force is all some people understand.
Read this story, too. John Edwards... calling JOHN EDWARDS... what are you going to do about THAT?
Nothing, is what. That's how he made his millions.
Its current owner, Bryan Banquells, isn't buying the dealer's arguments. While he knew the truck wasn't in perfect working order, he was led to believe it was safe. He bought the truck for $29. Four weeks later, he got a call from the dealership.
This jerk buys a truck for $29 fucking dollars and believed that it was "safe?" Who the hell IS this guy? What sort of brain damage did he sustain in his youth to make him believe that a $29 truck was supposed to be road-worthy? My aching ass. Listen to this prick:
"I have a 4-year-old and a 14-month old and a baby on the way," Banquells said. "I don't want to take them in a truck that I don't know whether it has a cracked frame. I want to be in something safe. I think they should take care of my family and make sure we're safe on the road and put us in another truck."
Then WHY did you buy a FUCKING $29 DOLLAR TRUCK, asswipe? If you really gave a shit about driving something safe, you'd have coughed up the cash to buy a Volvo, a car that's built like a tank. But you didn't do that. You bought a $29 truck and now you're whining about it.
Of course, he has a lawyer willing to take his case.
Attorney Hal Roser agrees.
I think that they promised a $29 truck and that's what they sold. Does anyone in their right mind believe that ANY vehicle that a dealer sells for $29 is "normal?" Goddam! You'll spend $29 just putting GAS in that thing today.
The guy got what he paid for. He should shut up, or be dragged off and shot for the good of the human gene pool. And his goddam lawyer needs to be dragged off and shot, too. Do you realize how much money this kind of frivilous litigation costs EVERYBODY?
What an asshole.
not paying attention
I haven't been following the lori hacking case. Hell, I made a vow when I went to Costa Rica that I wouldn't pay ANY attention to the news for 15 days. I stuck with it for 14 days, then relapsed by watching highlights from the DNC speeches on CNN my last night in San Jose.
I wish I hadn't done that. I still have the taste of bile in my mouth.
I still don't understand why some murder cases get nationwide news coverage and others don't. Yeah, I figure that the husband probably did it. But husbands kill their wives all the time. Wives kill their husbands, too, and nobody seems to give a rat's ass except the cops. But Scott Peterson and Mark Hacking become constant headlines. Why?
I suppose that we need to feed that old-time National Enquirer appetite that Americans have for dead, burnt bodies and murder mysteries. You know... that "I cut out her heart and ATE IT" shit. It helps boost the story if the dead spouse goes missing for a while before the corpse is discovered, but that can't be the full explanation.
What makes SOME murders more intriguing than others?
I'm gonna do it
I left two comments on my own post below and thinking about it stoked a fire in my belly. Yeah, I need to turn those comments into a post.
I've been villified by a lot of bloggers for being a racist bastard. I was massively de-linked by a lot of people because of one post that I wrote several months ago. The truth is, I don't give a shit about that. I never liked squishy people anyway. If you're easily offended, you don't belong here.
I've been playing music since I was a young boy. I've played with people from all walks of life, every socio-economic level and every religious persuasion you can name. I've played with red-necks, hillbillies, blacks, wimmen, gay people and Jews. All WE ever cared about was the music. I never gave a rat's ass about anything else. The only question was... could we nail the song, or not?
Music is the TRUE equal-opportunity employer out there. If you can play, nobody in the band gives a crap about the color of your skin, what God you worship or your sexual preference. It's all about making a joyful noise and until you've been there and done that, you won't know what I'm talking about.
I am talking about GOOSEBUMPS springing up on your arms when everything is cooking right. I'm talking about a feeling like nothing else in this world. It is better than sex. It is more precious than money. It's something that most people never have the chance to do. It is a feeling of unity, a feeling of ONE-NESS and something that washes over you like a wave when it happens.
That's making music, when you do it right.
I don't believe that you can be both a musician and a racist. (I don't count rap "artists" as musicians. That ain't music.) But what the fuck do I know? I've used the forbidden N-word. That's enough for most people.
Yeah... people who never played a note in their lives.
August 02, 2004
I surf a lot of blogs every day (being unemployed with a lot of free time on my hands) but I don't usually leave comments where I go. Usually somebody else already said what I wanted to say and some blogs have 50 comments on every post and I don't want to bury MY humble opinion in there.
I lurk more than I comment.
But I enjoy reading the comments I get on my blog. A few of the regulars are damn good writers who should start their own blogs if they haven't already. I admire keen wit and a clever turn of phrase and I have several people who are very good at that sort of thing. I've found a lot of good blogs by following my comments back to the source.
That's something a lot of people say about building a readership--- visit a lot of blogs and leave comments. I've never done that and I don't really know why. Leaving a comment is a compliment to the blogger, a way to let the writer know that you visited and read the page, and I want the people on my roll to know when I've been snooping around, but... I just don't comment very often.
If I think of a really clever comment, I'll turn it into a post on MY BLOG. I guess I'm just a selfish sumbitch.
It's sad, but worth seeing. I like ships. I know why most sailors refer to their boats as "she," because they are a lot like a woman--- contrary, difficult to manage, expensive to operate and something you fall in love with.
I stole that link most shamelessly from here.
a knife to a gunfight
I like this. Pretty well sums up my opinion of John Kerry vs. George Bush.
People who call me trying to sell things that I don't want to buy piss me off in the first place, but WHY do so many of those people have a television blaring in the background, two younguns squawling like scalded dogs and somebody yapping behind them in a screechy voice? Got-dam! If you're going to MARKET over the phone, at least have the decency to act like a professional, not some piece of trailer-trash.
TURN OFF THE FUCKING TELEVISION. Either get the kids to shut up or kill them. Throw mother-in-law or whoever that screechy bitch is out in the back yard and toss her a couple of beers. Tell her that if she opens her mouth for anything other than a drink of beer, you're gonna slit her throat. Pretend that you have a REAL job and operate from a quiet office.
Try that, just as common courtesy for the people you are pestering. I'm STILL not gonna buy anything from you, but you won't piss me off so badly.
I listened to several live bands on this last trip to Costa Rica. Take a guess about what American music is the most popular down there. It AIN'T Jimmy Buffett, which surprised me.
No, Cat Stevens and Creedence Clearwater Revival are kings in Costa Rica. Any band appearing on a stage there may do salsa and Spanish tunes for a while, but THEY ALL have Cat and Creedence on the play-list, too. I found that fact very fascinating and I talked to several people about it. They all told me the same thing, even people who spoke no English: Creedence rocks and Cat is a poet.
I got up on stage and sang harmony with one band at Jaco on "Proud Mary" and "Down on the Corner." That was a hoot. I did well enough that the lead guitar player did a version of Cat's "Road to Find Out" on acoustic guitar all by himself with me singing the harmony. It sounded pretty damned good. I made friends with the band.
Imperial beer will make you want to perform.
I wondered where he went
Well, I found him and he goes back on the blogroll, even if he is a got-dam cat lover.
I am leaving for Seattle on Wednesday morning. If I can talk Recondo 32 into it, I would like to drop by and visit this guy while I'm out on the left coast. Oregon isn't that far away and I think I would enjoy the experience.
I may have to beg for an invitation, but I am capable of that. Besides, most people who meet me in person really DO like me. I am not the asshole I appear to be on this blog.
Really. I'm not kidding.
another new find
Where has this blog been all of my life? I just discovered it today.
It's going on my blogroll.
one fine rant
I wish that I had written this one. Go read it.
worth 1,000 words
That picture was taken by a sweet young thang with red toenails that this guy and I persuaded to operate the camera. I believe that it's a very artsy picture with a lot of symbolism that I don't understand.
Look upon it in awe.
let's hope so
Do we really know something or not? It's difficult to say when dealing with a bunch of chest-thumping, braggart monkeys such as al Qaeda. Those savages are dangerous the way a rabid dog is, but I don't believe that they have the intelligence or the wherewithall to pose a real menace to the United States.
If they did, they would have hit us again before now.
I call them monkeys because that's what they are. They aren't human beings as I know them. They bluster and threaten, strike a pose and blow up a car bomb in Iraq or Israel, but they really are a pathetic bunch. Courageous? No. Fucking mind-addled monkeys. Osama bin dead for a long time and the rest of their leadership is running like roaches when the kitchen light comes on. We've got a big can of RAID trained on these insects.
Don't get me wrong. These people are dangerous, the same way a rabid dog is, but they are still no better than rabid dogs. They think they are clever and they think they are fighting a war, but they are no more than rats on the wharf. We are well on the way to exterminating their asses and I think they know it.
Fuck al Qaeda. It's still operating because a cockroach can live for seven days without its head. And those people are nothing but cockroaches. They wasted their best and their brightest on 9/11 and THOSE people weren't that bright. We just weren't ready for what they did. We are now.
I take their threats seriously, but I cannot do the same with them. Ignorant, stupid, violent monkeys, doomed to die. Go ahead, assholes--- bring it on. You want to pick on the Great Satan?
Then watch us roll. It'll be the last thing you ever see.
i have corrupted my daughter
Now even SHE is sending me red-toenail porn. One of those feet belongs to Samantha. Guess which one?
I believe that John Kerry is an ass. He served four months in Vietnam, manufactured wounds to get his ass out of there, turned traitor to his "band of brothers" and married well since then. What a hero.
I don't like the Lurch-looking bastard. (My apologies to Lurch.) I don't like the fence-straddling and the flip-flopping he does. What real substance does the man have? Very little that I can see. War hero, my ass.
I was raised differently. I remember a story that my father told me many times of a union strike in the coal mines in "Bloody Harlan" County, Kentucky many years ago. My grandfather, who died long before I was born, was in management and he crossed the picket line every day to keep the mine running. That pissed off the strikers and they came to give him a "Miner's Baptism" one day.
About thirty of the drunken bastards showed up at the house one afternoon and announced their intention of taking "Pete," as my grandfather was known, down to the Cumberland River where they intended to beat his ass and throw him in the water. My grandfather told the rest of the family to get under the bed and DO NOT come outside, no matter what happened. He went out to sit in his porch swing with a hog-leg .45 pistol in his hand.
"Pete, we're gonna whip your ass and throw you in the river," the leader of the mob announced.
My grandfather cocked that pistol and said, "Six of you won't. Who wants to be the first one through the gate?"
My father was watching through the bedroom window (he was about Quinton's age at the time) while everyone else hid under the bed. Nobody had the nerve to come through that gate because they KNEW that Pete wasn't kidding. He was outnumbered but there WOULD be six dead bodies on the ground before he went in the river. The mob backed off and left him alone.
THAT is how a hero acts. I've told Quinton about Sgt. York, Audie Murphy and Chesty Puller. He doesn't learn about that kind of heroism in school anymore. I've also told him about his great-grandfather standing down a mob with a six-shot revolver. I hope my boy learns that kind of courage.
John Kerry? Give me a fucking break.
August 01, 2004
strange to think about
I got out of the hospital on September 10, 2001. I went out to the plant the next morning and cleared through Medical so that so could return to work the next day. I passed all the piss-tests and I got all of the go-aheads I wanted and I felt pretty good about that part of my life. Everything else was in shambles, but at least I still had my job.
I was staying with my mama at the time, being a homeless person, thanks to my ex-wife. I was drinking a cup of coffee on the back porch when my grandmother called. "Turn on the TV and look at CNN," she said, in a breathless voice. I did, and I saw one of the World Trade Center towers burning. That was somewhere around 9:00 in the morning. I couldn't believe my eyes. Then, the second plane hit and I almost threw up.
My mama was wringing her hands and crying. "Oh, my God! How many people are going to die?" she asked. "Thousands, mama," I said. "Maybe tens of thousands." She started praying and I watched the towers collapse, one after the other. I have never felt such anger in my life. I SAW people jumping out of windows 100 stories off the ground. I SAW people leaning out of windows pleading for rescue as smoke and flame consumed them.
I never finished my cup of coffee.
I watched that scene and I felt totally helpless. I also felt totally worthless. I was so wrapped up in my own life and my own problems that I was riding a pity-pot that I probably would NEVER have gotten off of if not for what I saw that day. But my problems were nothing like THAT. I got a real harsh reality check right then and there.
Think of the firemen who went into those buildings knowing good and well that they might not come out again. Think of the people trapped there who KNEW that they couldn't get out. My problems were nothing in comparison.
I saw that and I thought about how selfish I was being. I just thought I had problems. I was alive and on my mama's back porch. I was going back to work the next day. I had NO PROBLEMS compared to those who really did.
That day made a lasting impact on my life. And I will NEVER forget it.
Maybe this guy should mention his fixation with breasts and vaginas more often. You've got to GO FOR what you want in this world. If you don't ask, you'll NEVER receive.
I get a lot of red toenail pictures. And those are very kissable toes.
A few posts below is a picture of the fine behind of the friend I made at Jaco Beach. After our first night together, I told Alia that I wanted to go to the internet cafe and check my email. Through a combination of hand signals, pantomime and pidgen Spanish, I managed to get my point across. We walked down there together.
I opened my mail, checked for anything unusual, then told Alia, "Mira aqui!" I brought up Gut Rumbles on the computer. She almost pissed her britches. "Ahi! Esta Roberto! Es TU!." I assured her that it was, indeed me on that page and I showed her pictures of Sam and my mama, too. She was very intrigued. After that, I told her that I would post her picture on my page when I got home. She was excited about that idea. She posed for a lot of pictures.
She picked out the picture of her ass and TOLD me to post it. She liked that one. "Me gusta mucha." (Hell...I did, too) Costa Rican wimmen don't labor under the kind of modesty constraints that a lot of American wimmen do. Aila KNOWS she has a fine ass and if you saw the bathing suit I bought for her, you would ALSO know that she likes to show it off. Most Costa Rican wimmen do.
I suspect that she may check this page to see if I posted pictures of her. I said I would and I did.
She won't get her feelings hurt.
I had a fine lunch with a fellow blogger today, after which we retired to Reynold's Square (which we thought was appropriate for a couple of bloggers), right across from the Pink House to smoke cigars and bullshit about politics, life, fast cars and loose wimmen. As is the case with most bloggers I've met, he is a grand fellow and a good conversationalist.
I hope to see him again some day. Happy trails, friend!
falling in love
I've known a lot of wimmen in my life, and for a long time I thought something was wrong with me. I liked 'em all, but I never really LOVED any of them. I came to believe that I had an emotional piece missing from my makeup. I did not believe that I was capable of loving someone the way my father loved my mama.
True love. Unconditional love, with warts and all, through every up and down. No borders and no boundaries--- pure commitment. I didn't think I was able to feel that sort of emotion because I was too self-contained. Many wimmen in my life have loved me, but I could never return that feeling to them. I look back now and realize how many mistakes I have made.
When I finally DID fall in love, I invested something I had saved up for all of my life, ever careful and ever non-committal, running through wimmen the way Sherman went through Georgia. And I invested it ALL in the wrong person.
Why the hell did I do that?
I really don't know to this day. I never used to let a lot of myself hang out there to be destroyed. I kept my guard up. I had a cast-iron ass. I didn't let people GET in a position to hurt me emotionally. But I violated every rule I had lived by for almost 40 years when I met Jennifer. I have paid a dear price for that lapse of judgment.
I've never known anyone else in my life that made me feel the way she did. I lowered my shields and took her on board. I really believed that she was my partner, my lover and my best friend. When Quinton was born, I thought life was just about as perfect as it gets.
I was mistaken. Jennifer morphed into the Bloodless Cunt From Hell and has made my life miserable ever since. What kind of person starts an affair with an unemployed dope-smoker and lays divorce papers and a restraining order on her husband who is awaiting the results from a prostate biopsy? I can tell you. Jennifer.
I let my feelings loose and she stomped all over them at the very worst time of my life. When the biopsy results came back positive, she never even blinked an eye. She handed me divorce papers and tried her best to screw me out of everything I owned. She did a pretty good job of that.
Let's see... I lost my home, my wife, my son, my goats, my chickens, my land, my dick and my farm all at the same time. And what is happening today? The cunt is STILL gnawing on my carcass like the hyena she is. It's never going to stop until I am either broke or dead, and I believe that she wants both.
Gordon Lightfoot wrote a song called "That's What You Get For Lovin' Me." I always liked it because it described the way I lived my life. I was untouchable. I broke hearts, not the other way around. But I had every bit of that and more handed to me in spades with Jennifer.
I'll NEVER do that again.
I don't know HOW that picture got here.
That's a transvestite for ya.
too much money
I really don't know what to think about this story. I am sad that the boy died, but $30 million is an awful lot of cash. Was it a righteous verdict, or did another jury go nuts throwing away other people's money?
I pick door #2.
When I was six (maybe seven--- I hadn't been in Savannah very long.) years old, I was playing barefoot with some friends next door to my grandmother's house on the corner of 63rd and Montgomery Streets in Savannah. The neighbor was building an addition onto his house and we were playing a game of "tag" among the rafters and beams there. I was about to get tagged, so I jumped off the roof onto a sand pile to get away.
I hit the sand, felt a slight pain in both feet and tried to get up and run away. I fell flat on my face. I looked down and saw both of my feet stuck to a two-by-four that was buried in the sand with nails sticking out of it. One nail went clean through my left foot and was sticking out the arch on top and another was buried deeply in my right foot. I sat there in shock for a moment.
I remember pushing the board with my hand and feeling the nails come out of my feet. They slid out easily, as if they were greased, which they WERE from my blood. It didn't really hurt, but it scared the shit out of my friends. They went screaming in every direction.
I walked on my heels to grandma's house and told her that I was hurt. She almost had a heart attack when she saw what was wrong with me. I wasn't bleeding badly, but I was starting to feel some serious pain in my feet. I had been skewered, and the initial shock was wearing off. She bundled me up in a blanket and took me to a doctor.
I didn't need stitches (ten-penny nails don't make a big hole) but I got a tetanus shot that hurt worse than the nails did. Then, I had to soak my feet in peroxide water three times a day for a week and take some pills the doctor prescribed. I couldn't walk the next day. I still have a small scar on the top of my left foot from that incident.
I didn't die, and I don't believe that I was worth $30 million at the time.
I believe that this story signals that the Presidential campaign of John Kerry is in trouble. Yeah, Newsweek spins the numbers as hard as it can to make Kerry look like a sure-fire winner, but I don't think so. If the Democratic Convention produced no more "bounce" than this, it was an utter failure.
Of course, the Democrats would be better off if they hadn't picked a haughty. French-looking flip-flopper as a candidate. Did I mention that John Kerry served in Vietnam? If I didn't, you can be sure that he did.
What else has the guy got?
And this isn't good news, either, when Vietnam is all he's got.
this isn't good, either.
I met a couple from North Carolina while I was at Jaco Beach. We had breakfast together a couple of mornings and I thanked them for living where they do.
North Carolina is a hurricane magnet that seems to suck the storms away from Savannah. I'm all for that, because I live just outside Savannah.
Let the wind blow THERE, not here.
i don't like this
I ESPECIALLY don't like this because Saxby Chambliss is on that list.
I voted for that sumbitch.
come join us
I'm going to meet Wind Rider for burgers and beer at the Exchange Tavern on River Street today at 1:00. Any local bloggers who want to drop by are welcome to join us. He's passing through town and I'd like to see the guy behind the screen.
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