February 28, 2005
I once thought I knew The Truth. I once thought that I could see it and understand it. But I was mistaken.
The older I get, the more fungible and diaphanous Truth seems to be. It's not etched in stone. It's more like a bead of mercury sliding around on a plate of glass. You can see the perfection of the bead, but you can't pick it up. If you try, it breaks into smaller pieces and they all form their own perfect little beads on the glass and you can't pick up any of those, either. If you play with those beads long enough, they will poison you.
That's the Truth.
I found this via here and I feel soiled for doing it. Tim will do that to you sometimes.
"He was my best friend,” she said, adding that she met him through her cousin, who had been going out with him. "I saw him in every jail he went to."
When I go to jail, will you be there for ME?
the litany of an ass-whuppin'
"You better straighten up and fly right!!!"
Sweet Bejus. How many times did I get my ass whupped by both my mother and my father while they said those words? They had me by the hand and were swinging my young ass in a circle at the time, too, so that only the tips of my toes hit the ground about once per lap.
"I TOLD you to straighten up and fly right!!! You don't wanna listen? FINE!!! Take THIS! and THIS! and THIS! and THIS!" and they wouldn't stop until their arms got tired. They did the same thing to my brother, too. We were expected to behave. If you didn't, mama and daddy would bust your ass.
What's wrong with that?
I deserved (almost) every butt-whuppin' I got in my life. I can't complain and shout about "shile apuse" because I was spanked as a young hooligan when I was one. (I was a little pissant who needed to be put in his proper place every once in a while. My folks did that job.)
But I still use those words myself: "You better straighten up and fly right!"
Straighten up and fly right. Isn't that what you WANT your children to do?
best western actor ever
I'm supposed to write a chapter in a western novel in a few weeks. Sam Elliot is the face of the character I have in mind when I write. He's got the looks, he's got the moustache and he's got the drawl. I can see him in my mind, throwing the slicker off his gunbelt and gripping his pistol. "Be careful, pilgrim. If you push this, somethin' ugly is gonna happen."
Sam Elliot is my western hero and I LOVE westerns as much as I hate horses. Hammer-headed fucks. Not Sam--- just horses.
I once thought this guy was a complete leftist asshole, but I just listened to him talk on Fox news. I was impressed. He still embraces leftist ideals, but at least the bastard has enough sense to see reality for what it is.
He said "The Democrats are on the wrong side of history now." He mentioned the events happening in Lebanon, Syria and Iran, all spawned by the United States' intervention in Iraq, and he said that these events are difficult to explain while being a Ted Kennedy "get out now!" politician. He knows that if his party stays on that track, it is doomed.
He supports Hillary Clinton for President in 2008. I wouldn't vote for that bitch if the office of Effingham County Dog-Catcher were open, but Ron made a good point in his interview. He said that SHE understands what is at stake here and she is smart enough to play the right cards. He may be correct.
People such as Ron and Hillary scare me on the left. The Ted Kennedys, the Ted Ralls, the Howard Deans and the Robert Byrds are predictable and asinine. Only the Kool-Aid drinkers take them seriously anymore. But if the left ever gets its head screwed on straight and ditches that anti-American rant that seems to dominate the thinking there, we could be in for big trouble.
Hillary could win in 2008 by supporting what we've done in the Middle East and our success in the War Against Terror. If people vote on that issue alone, she'll drag all of her socialist, leftist, health-care, tax-and-spend and "It Takes a Village" bullshit in through the back door and we'll be stuck with THAT.
I don't want people listening to Ron Silver. He's too much on target about what the Democrats should do. The bastard is RIGHT and I can't do anything but admit that fact. And the VERY LAST THING I would advocate is to shut him up. I believe in free speech.
But he still tells "Sweet Little Lies" the way all leftists do.
a moving post
I read this and I thought about all the kids I grew up with who are dead now. I could name 40 easily right now--- thanks to car wrecks, motorcycle accidents, drownings, hypothermia and oddball diseases. I went to a bunch of those funerals and I saw a bunch of grieving parents.
That's a terrible scene.
I've blogged before about a big, loud-mouthed shift mechanic that I worked with for years named Red Miller who happened upon a car wreck on his way home from work and found his 17 year-old son dead behind the wheel of the car. I can't imagine what he must have felt at the time.
Even worse, I once turned down a car ride with some friends after a high school football game in 1967. Five of 'em went off in a brand new GTO in search of adventure. They found it by slamming into a big oak tree on "Dead Man's Curve" on Laroache Avenue. One died and the other four were all fucked-up from the wreck.
Donnie Griffin was in the car, and the police identified him as the dead person in the rear passenger seat. They picked up his father at about 2:00 AM to go to the morgue and identify the body. His dad stood there while they pulled the corpse out of its mailbox-like storage and they pulled back the sheet covering his destroyed body. The head was almost gone, but one thing was obvious: That wasn't Donnie. Donnie wasn't that big.
Donnie was in the emergency room being treated for several broken bones and internal injuries at the time. The boy on the slab was Tommy Spellman.
Can you imagine what went through Donnie's father's mind that night? Holy Bejus!!! Have the cops rouse you at 2:00 AM to go identify your son's dead body, steel yourself for that task and then discover that it's NOT your son? If that's not the stuff of nightmares for years to come, I don't know what is.
But it was worse for the Spellman's once the cops roused them from their beds.
No parent expects to bury a child, at least not anymore. Early death may have been common when my grandmother was young, but we don't have that crap happening anymore, except by accident. Kim had a close call and another set of parents were not so lucky. Yeah, God works in mysterious ways, or else he just doesn't care.
If you haven't hugged your child today, DO IT!!!
I confess: my real name is NOT "Acidman." I made that up. I invented it, just to fool all of you people. I thought it sounded better than "Rob Smith" on a blog such as this one. So, I concocted a fake identity.
That mistake can create scandal today, if leftist moonbats don't like you. Unfortunately for me, I'm not gay or the lefties would have me in the double-whammy. The Party of Compassion doesn't like gays or fake names unless the gays want to get married in Blue states and the fake names belong to Democrat politicians.
The left would be amusing in their selective outrage over nothing if they weren't so goddam dangerous.
the rule of two
Do you believe in "The Rule of Two? I believe that I do, because it sounds reasonable to me.
Of couse, some people suggest that I am not a reasonable man.
February 27, 2005
my blog love
Yes, I have one. I've never admitted this before, but I am quite smitten with her. We "debate" through emails ("Rob, you are SO full of shit!") and we sometimes exchange phone calls. If I try to talk dirty to her, she hangs up, so a lot of our conversations are brief. But I love her deeply.
Plus, she told me today that I don't give her enough link-love, so I promised this instead of a dozen roses.
I asked her: "Where were you 25 years ago?"
She said "I was 5 YEARS OLD! You do the math!"
I'm an English major. I don't do math, but go bomb that smartass anyway. She deserves it. She's sad because her hit-count is down.
Pick it up some.
Some people are live-blogging the Oscars. Here we have an example of exactly how inane we have become. I'm gonna watch TV, blog about what I saw on TV, which is the same show that you're watching, and you should REALLY want to read what I have to say instead of just watching the goddam TV for yourself.
Besides, does anybody really GIVE A SHIT??? I don't.
men and wimmen
If everybody KNOWS so much, why are we still fucked up?
Young King Arthur was ambushed and imprisoned by the monarch of a neighboring kingdom. The monarch could have killed him but was moved by Arthur's youth and ideals. So, the monarch offered him his freedom, as long as he could answer a very difficult question. Arthur would have a year to figure out the answer and, if after a year, he still had no answer, he would be put to death.
Heh. I'm not giving you the answer. I'll post it tomorrow.
It's been shitty, rainy and windy all day. It ain't fit for man nor beast outside. This is what I read right before the lights went out:
"I'd play in a band with John Lennon any day, but I wouldn't join a band with Paul McCartney."
Do you know who said that?
The lights are back on now, and I'll buy any blogger at Jekyll a beer if he or she can answer that question. (No fair peeking, but I found that quote in The Book of Poisonious Quotes, which makes for some really good short-attention span reading.)
I'll give you a hint: It wasn't Jimi Hendrix!.
the perfidy of wimmen
Don't tell me that wimmen aren't scheming, sick, deviant cunts of the very worst order. I MARRIED one of those and I see more and more evidence of their presence every day. Just read this post.
I rest my case. Nobody but a scheming, sick, deviant cunt would even THINK of doing such a thing. But she did.
There is one thing that has always bothered me greatly about a "woman's right to choose." That would be the rights of the father, or more exactly, the lack thereof. Under current law, a man's "right to choose" basically extends to not getting naked with a woman. After that son, you're fucked.
All you young men, gather 'round and listen to those last words. "You are fucked". Yea, verily, it is true. You can't even trust a goddam blow-job anymore.
Here we have a case where a woman performs ORAL SEX on a man, saves the consummation of the act and then inserts the semen into herself for the purpose of getting pregnant. Once this mission is accomplished, she sues for child support. And WINS!!!
Don't we live in a wonderful world?
well, you hired him
The University of Colorado is in a quandry now. Ward Churchill has been exposed as a fraud, a poseur, a plagarist and a liar. But they can't just FIRE his sorry ass. They gave him tenure, so they have to buy him off now.
$10 million and a black eye is cheap at the price.
February 26, 2005
I am very good at working crossword puzzles. I'll kick your ass in a game of Scrabble, too. Words are something I like to play with.
Yesterday, mama and I got into an argument about who was the best worker of crosswords. "Phffttt!: she said. "I'm the best that's ever been." She's good, but she can't beat me. I once told her that she paid for my COLLEGE EDUCATION so that I could work crosswords better than she could. She never bought that lame excuse.
When I was laid up at her house after my prostate surgery, I couldn't do very much physically, so I wrote a lot and worked crossword puzzles every day. I bought the Dell "EXPERT" books, too, filled with very complex puzzles, that you have to know your shit to solve. I used to play a trick on my mama.
I'd find a really hard puzzle, fill in a few boxes and go off to take a nap. I'd leave the magazine open on the Florida Room table, because I KNEW that mama couldn't resist. She'd see that partially-worked puzzle and have a genunine hormone attack. That thing HAD to be finished, and she'd go after it. You show my mama a half-worked crossword puzzle and it's like throwing a bone to a hungry dog. She's gonna gnaw on it.
Mama is good, but she's not as good as I am no matter how long she denies that fact. I would rise from my nap, find that puzzle 85% worked, then finish it off while mama watched.
"Phffftt!" she always said. ""You never would have finished it without my help. You were stuck when you quit."
That's my mama. She'll beat your ass at Scrabble or working crossword puzzles if you give her the chance. She ain't slack at either contest. Modesty is not her top quality, either. She'll talk shit at you.
But she's not as good as I am am, whether she admits it or not.
pay me now, or pay me later...
If you come to the Georgia Writer's Conferenceat Jekyll Island in April, you'll be expected to buy a few of these. Keep one in your pocket for a souviner. Lose the rest to ME at the poker table. I intend to own them all by midnight on Saturday night. I also expect to own a pair of her panties, too, once she runs out of chips.
I LOVE to play poker, boys and girls!!!
And God created man unto His own image. Male and Female created He them, and God looked upon them, and saw that His work was good.
In truth is... truth, folks. Some people simply do not deserve to live free.
wisdom keeps coming
I stole this one from Patty-Jo just because I felt like doing it. I was being a litle boy.
Girls And Boys I took my fourteen year old son and a couple of his friends to Starbucks last night as a special treat. We all sat at a tiny table with our drinks, and I listened and learned. Did you know that boys think differently than girls? Since I used to be a girl, before I was a mom, I kind of remember how girls think. They think about how they look, and if boys think they're cute. Yep, that about covers it.
Those boys grow up to be men, and the only real difference is that we have more body hair and more expensive toys than we once did. We're all still little boys inside.
I've known three wimmen in my life named "Renata." They all three were crazy. VERY crazy.
Can I call this "scientific research" and get some headlines from this study? I want some bold type in major news outlets announcing "DANGER!!! Research Concludes That Naming Your Child "Renata" Will Increase Her Chances of Being CRAZY!!!!
"I've met three wimmen named Renata in my life. All three were crazy. Therefore, I conclude that all wimmen named Renata are crazy." Sounds logical to me.
I don't see why this story wouldn't fly. It's better than most of the scare-you-to-death bullshit puiblished as "science" today, and it gives a lot of men the chance to do their own research. If you see an attractive woman, you ask her name and she replies, "Renata," you have two choices.
#1-- Run like HELL. She's CRAZY!!!! Go sign the Koyto Treaty or save a whale. Hug a tree and pray to Gaia for protection. Renatas are CRAZY!!!
#2-- Charm her, buy her a drink and try to get into her pants. Figure that you'll do more study of the "CRAZY" aspect of this particular Renata once you've done some exhaustive preliminary research. Don't believe those "scientific" studies.
Which would you do? I've shown you the goddam FACTS!!!
i was lucky
I knew after my first couple of days at the Henry W. Grady School of Journalism at the University of Georgia, that I didn't fit in with what was "mainstream" political thought back in 1975. I was considered to be an amusing troglodyte because I wasn't socialist, gay, anti-gun or a raving proponent of the "Fairness Doctrine." I just wanted to write.
But I will admit one thing: I NEVER had a professor there who punished me for having a totally politically-incorrect viewpoint in ANY class I took. If I did the work, I got the grade, and I always did the work. I was a contrarian, but I was never treated as a failed brainwashing experiment.
A lot of the professors enjoyed talking with me over a couple of beers or even an occasional dinner at their own homes because I spoke my mind. They disagreed with what I had to say, but they still were interested in HEARING IT, especially when I attempted to explain why I thought the way I did.
To me, that is the purpose of a university. Throw those opposing idea out there and debate the worth of each. That sort of exercise makes you THINK and it teaches you to back up what you have to say with footnotes and references. If you can do that, your beliefs are totally justified.
I don't believe that we have that same atmosphere in college anymore. I'm seeing too many examples of bullshit-spouting moonbats who will fail you, ask you to drop the class or otherwise punish you if you don't learn to swallow the cant and repeat it mindlessly.
These people aren't educators. They are cult leaders, some self-appointed high priests of THE RIGHT THINKING religion, and they become really pissed off if you disagree with them. I blame a lot of this crap on schools that created departments to teach "Feminist Studies," "Black Culture," "Native-American Studies" or any other kind of propaganda mill where the object is NOT to teach, but to indoctrinate.
I remember once in an English course, where I had a heated debate with my fully-liberated professor, Ms. Virginia Ramsey. (I had a great deal of lust for that long-legged, blonde-from-a-bottle woman. Looking back today, she reminds me a lot of what a liberal Ann Coulter would be. She's the one who told me that I should go to graduate school and study "Communications," and I still don't know what a degree in "Communications" means.) We were discussing The Brothers Karamozov in class and I stated that I despised the character of Dimitri, the youngest brother who "loved" everybody.
My point was: If he loves EVERYBODY, what is his "love" worth? It's alms for the poor, that's all. And if you give your "love" away like that, you've made it totally worthless. Anybody who claims to love everybody loves NOBODY, because they don't put any value on their love.
She asked me, "So? What is YOUR idea of a man capable of giving love worth something?"
"Howard Roarke," I replied, and there was a moment of complete silence that fell like a dark cloak over the classroom. Ginnie Ramsey finally put two and two together and realized what I was talking about. (And if you don't, I pity you.)
"Sweet Jesus," she said. "YOU WOULD!"
I still got an "A" in the class.
they wimped on me
The girls quit cleaning my kitchen about 6:30 yesterday evening. Hillary marched into the computer room, interrupted my deep thought processes and announced, "Mr. Rob, WE QUIT!"
I asked why and she replied, "That's just too much work. The more I cleaned the more things I found to clean, and I don't think I want this job anymore."
I went to look at their progress and they had done a good job on the sink and the stove, except for a couple of nasty pots that probably need to be hit by an industrial sand-blaster to make them clean again. I said, "Y'all did about half of what I asked you to do, so I'll pay you half the money I promised." That idea seemed fair to me.
"No, Mr. Rob," Hillary replied. "You hired me to do a job and I didn't do it. I can't take any of your money." (Kylie, who hadn't done shit except provide "EEEwwww!" sound effects while Hillary worked piped up and yelled, "TAKE THE MONEY, Hillary!!! Are you CRAZY???")
But Hillary wouldn't do it. I told her that if she changed her mind and wanted to come back today and finish what she started (she really HAS done most of the difficult work) our deal was still good. I don't know if she'll reconsider or not once the initial shock and fatigue wears off.
I found it admirable that she wouldn't take what I offered to pay her. She didn't finish the job. In her mind, she didn't earn the money. Simple as that. We need more young kids like that in the world.
I hope she comes back today--- not only because I like her and I DO believe that I owe her some money for the work she performed--- but because I want my kitchen clean, too. Hell, I warned her that the job was dangerous when she took it. She just bit off more than she could chew at one time.
I'm curious to see what she does.
Here is moogie's take on the Mars & Venus idea.
What amazes me in these responses is the fact that the people who replied agree that men and wimmen are different. We're both assholes in our own unique ways, but it takes two cheeks to make a total ass, and men and wimmen can meld together to do that.
The difference is what makes life interesting.
mars and venus
At first, I was just going to link this post, but it's too good not to steal the whole thing.
I'm going to be a bit more honest than most of the people mailing their responses to the caustic one: I don't have a fucking clue. If I had any idea what the hell made women tick I'd damn well write my own book instead of writing here for free, and get rich as hell.
Yeah, and tampons for men would come with an applicator that resembled a handgun.
maybe I've got one
I have ten rolls of quarters--- accumulated by throwing my pocket change into a big jar every day until it got full. I rolled up all the coins and meant to deposit them in the bank months ago. I just never got around to doing it.
Now, I have to unroll all those quarters and see if i have one of these. I probably don't, but rolling paper is cheap and a $600 quarter is worth the search.
Besides--- I like playing with money anyway.
February 25, 2005
a time for everything
I paid a long visit to my mama today. (Isn't that a strange term? You "pay" someone a visit but you "give" them a call?) We sat in her kitchen and talked. She is still pretty wookie from the medication she's on, so I helped her work her morning crossword puzzle. We finished the entire thing.
The fluid in her lungs is already coming back and the Hospice people gave her a bottle of oxygen today. She's not having to use it yet, but she will have to shortly. She has congestive heart failure to go along with the rest of her medical problems. The Reaper is coming and we both know it, but we didn't speak directly about that.
We talked about my father.
Mama wants to meet with me and my brother to discuss her financial affairs so that we can handle what we need to do whenever we have to. She said that she liked my father's funeral--- short, simple and private--- and she wanted the same thing. She also told me that she has lived a wonderful life.
She received about six phone calls while I was there, all from people just checking up on her to make sure she was okay---friends, neighbors and people from the church. A lot of people care about my mama. I am one of those people.
She's NOT okay, and she's not gonna BE okay. But her spirits are high and she has no regrets. I simply wish that death would be as kind to her as she has been to EVERYBODY all of her life. A lot of the strut I always carried in my step came from that woman. She was a natural-born show-off, too. I don't want to see her waste away into something I don't recognize as my mama anymore.
A week ago, she asked me if I wanted anything from the house. I told her that I didn't want anything FROM the house. I just wanted HER in it. But you don't always get what you want.
There is a time for everything, and she's approaching that ultimate stop sign that we'll all see someday. She isn't afraid. She doesn't feel sorry for herself. In fact, she's still more worried about the people around her than she is about her own problems. I cried on my drive back home today, and I don't know whether I was crying for her or for myself. Maybe both. It doesn't matter.
If you read this blog, you can either like me or hate me and your opinion won't change a damn thing about something I know with all my heart. I come from good stock.
I am my mama's son.
What is it about some people that makes them terribly unhappy unless they are behaving as complete assholes? Just read this, for a good example.
A consumer group sued the federal government Thursday, saying that salt is killing tens of thousands of Americans and that regulators have done too little to control salt in food.
Assholes. Let's get the federal government involved in regulating SALT, for crying out loud. Why don't you just sue to outlaw boiled peanuts, too, you flaming rectums?
Got-dam! What in the hell makes ANYBODY puffed-up and self-important enough to believe that the amount of salt I consume is ANY of their fucking business? What went wrong in these people's childhoods? What turned them into pucker-butted, goose-stepping nannies, more concerned with running MY life than tending to their own? I think the "Reprobates in 2008" have a much better idea.
"Get outta my yard."
i am a monster
Well, I'm either a child-slave driver or a clever and generous neighbor. Two of Jack's sisters agreed to clean my house, starting with the kitchen. I hired them on the spot yesterday when they said they wanted to make some money. They showed up after school today and are working their butts off as I type.
They offered to do the kitchen for $25, a bargain at the price. Hillary took one look at my sink and said, "I'll be right back." I thought she would run away and never return. But she was back in five minutes, with a pair of green, elbow-length Haz-Mat washing gloves and a bottle of her personal dishwashing detergent. That girl has potential.
If they do my kitchen right, I'm giving them a shot at the rest of the house. They're making some horrible noises in there ("EEwwwwww!!!") but they're doing the job. I may put them on a permanent contract. This could be a win-win-win situation.
I get my house cleaned, I make a couple of young girls wealthy (by young girl standards) and I keep them off the streets and out of trouble. Good, honest work for a good, honest wage. And NO SEX is involved. (Although I'll tell you one thing. Hillary is going to be a complete knockout in another couple of years. She's going to be a dude-magnet.)
She also doesn't mind working, either. Her sister, Kylie, is pretty much useless, except for making those "EEEwwww" noises, but I think they'll get it done together. They're going at it like true warriors right now.
I've never even CONTEMPLATED child abuse in my life. But I look at the job I gave those girls and I have to wonder now... I just may be a monster.
But I'll bet that I end up with a clean house by this time tomorrow.
mars & venus
This is the best explanation I've seen so far.
don't do it
DO NOT check this link. I wasn't warned ahead of time, so I looked.
AIEEEEE!!!! MY EYES!!!!!
I'm not sure what to think about this post. It's just way too spiritual for me. I've committed numerous animal sacrifices in my life, and I never gave a damn about getting to "know the animal in person." (Can you get to know an animal in person? I am confused.)
I kill squirrels because they raid my bird feeders and eat my okra plants. They also will totally fuck up a pear tree. (Pick a pear, take one or two bites, drop that pear to the ground and repeat until all the pears are gone.) The only ritual I perform when I sacrifice those bastards is to center their greedy little heads in the crosshairs of my rifle scope and hold still when I squeeze the trigger.
I kill pigeons because they are nasty, disgusting, shit-making pests. I once took my pellet rifle over to my mama's house and shot 34 of them one Sunday afternoon when she was being overrun by the varmits. Their shit was peeling the paint off her house. I didn't care to get to know a single one of them beforehand. I just shot 'em.
I might like to perform a ritual sacrifice on a cat... I've popped a few of them with the pellet rifle, but only to sting them and run them off, not to kill. I just wanted them to stop pooping in my garden and yowling all night during their nocturnal fuck-fests. But the idea of an altar, a ritual, a sharp knife and a bound cat DOES appeal to me.
One good thing came from reading that post. I now know what a numenist is. I also learned something else, too.
I ain't one.
more mars & venus
Here's one from joni with the red toenails:
I think one of the big differences between men and women, and why relationships fail so often is because of the differences between men and women. Some difference adds variety and all, but too much and before long the couple is headed off in opposite directions.
I gotta put her back on my blogroll.
February 24, 2005
do me a favor
Drop by and send some good vibrations to this woman. She could use them right now and she damn sure deserves them.
Just trust me on this one. She's a little bit afraid and a load moral support couldn't hurt. Say hello and wish her well.
more blog wisdom
I don't want to hear any whines about "context" here. You wrote the words and I quoted them. That's all. Deny THAT FACT!!!! I chose judiciously to make you look as ridiculous as possible, but I did it for a perfectly noble reason. I wanted to humiliate you.
So, without further fanfare, I present some actual quotes from blogs that I read when I hear those voices in my head late at night:
This is it folks. By this time next week, I will be 30 years oldsingle southern guy
Fuck you, you whelp of a pup of a young'un of a sprout.
You know your career has hit rock bottom when you're publishing quotes from "Dogsnot Diaries".dog snot diaries
I knew I was a goner when I started READING Dog Snot Diaries.
it's hard to feel confident and sexy when your lunch consisted of Twinkies.zonker
Yeah, I know that YOU didn't eat the Twinkie, because you're all robust, well-dressed, confident and sexy. Well... Fuck YOU, too.
FUCK the pope. The old bastard forgets sometimes that he isn't God.my daughter.
I just wish I could get that girl to open up sometimes...
I could use a drink.queenie.
How about a couple of lines of coke, two joints, three downers, FOUR uppers, a handfull of these of these yellow pills (I don't know what those are. I think they came from a veternarian's office.) and a morphene patch? Wash THAT down with a drink. You'll like the in-laws a lot better.
As I've said before, this ain't rocket surgerydash riprock.
Was that supposed to be funny? I hope so, because I laughed.
I’m lucky I can remember my name at the end of the day.the red neck.
What IS your name, Alfred? And what are you doing with MY money in YOUR wallet? Hand it over, right now. (That trick can be worth more than $100 sometimes!)
See why I am such a pathetic creature--- ...a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage...? I READ that crap, that's why!!!
Bejus help me.
This one from baldilocks:
Men want women they can love. Women want men they can respect. Any other good feelings that an individual may have for his/her mate are nice, but they're just gravy.
That one reminds me of something my grandmother said after my grandfather died. They had been married for 75 years. "Of course I loved him. I put up with his bullshit for a long time."
This one comes from the straight white guy
Mars, Venus, and the Truth of the Matter...
For a damned Jarhead, Eric has a poetic bone or two in his body.
mama's back home
Mama got out of the hospital today. That's the good news. She can breathe again, too, which is also good news. But she's on morphene and every other kind of drug the doctor can prescribe now. That AIN'T good news.
The last time I saw her, I mildly jumped mama's ass for not taking the pain-killers the doctors gave her. "Dammit, mama! You've got 'em for a reason. Take 'em. You don't have to sit there and hurt!"
"I've never needed a crutch in my life," she replied, all hard-headed and stubborn. "I'll take 'em when I need them, not before. I'm doing just fine."
Well, she's doped to the gills now and I expect her to stay that way for a while. She didn't give up, but she gave in. Sometimes, enough is enough. I'll go see her tomorrow and I hope she's awake when I arrive. I want to hug her.
I love my mama.
When nannies go on the warpath, facts don't matter. Righteous indignation, puritan pucker-buttedness and blind zealotry are more important than mere facts.
These people are doing GOOD!
I once tried to do some geneology research on my family and discovered that it was a hopeless quest. My family tree resembles a kudzu vine. My genes are more tangled than a plate of angel hair pasta fresh from the collander.
I kinda like this idea. I know I have Scots-Irish blood, some Cherokee or skulking Shawnee in me, a piece of Dutch and possibly even some French heritage lurking in my DNA. I am a goddam mutt. Since the Harlan County Courthouse burned down in 1920, the birth records of my family went up in smoke and I reached a dead-end in my research.
Therefore, I declare myself to be black. Yes, I am a genuine African-American, even though I don't resemble one. I'll bet that I'm more black than Ward Churchill is Native American, so my claim should count. I want all the benefits of Affirmative Action, I want a reparations check for slavery and I want to count as a black jelly bean when government goes through another of its "diversity" spasms.
Da man been keepin' me down too long. I'm going to change my name to Tyrone Al-Islam and wear my pants halfway below my asscrack with my boxer shorts pulled up under my armpits. I'm going to listen to rap music and get down wid my homeys by drinking malt liquor and cheap wine. I'm gonna start calling wimmen "hoes" and learn how to say "Whasssup?" to my brothers.
Today, I found my true self. I am a black man.
You maybe do when you think you don't. This story set off a really horrible image in my mind.
Germs, especially fecal bacteria, can be shot into the air when a toilet flushes. One study showed that bacteria released into the air in this way can settle on surfaces throughout the bathroom and in great enough concentrations to spread disease.
It's a...a... CRAP BOMB!!! And WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!
Good grief, with all the health-care nannies running amok today, why haven't they banned public restrooms? The nannys are out there with torches and pitchforks going after second-hand smoke, trans-fats, Twinkies, hog farms, guns, red meat, salt, UV radiation, miniscule particles of soot in the air and pressure-treated wood, but they are ignoring THIS TERRIBLE MENACE? WTF is wrong with them?
They need to get off the pot and ACT on this threat. I don't want to walk into a bathroom at McDonald's and pick up a coating of somebody else's shit-microbes. That's unhealthy and disgusting. Cleaning up that shit-storm is a cause worth fighting for.
Think of how many lives we could save if public places simply handed you a trenching tool and pointed you to the field out back when you had to go. Dig your own hole, do your business and no flushing afterward. #1 or #2 would both work in the same hole. Just remember to cover it up when you're finished.
What an idea! Dig your own outhouse, one hole at a time! No more 'splodey flush toilets to deal with! No more bacteria clouds! SAVE THE CHILDREN!!!
Of course, you won't be allowed to use toilet paper. It might pollute the environment. Just wipe your ass with grass and dirt when you're finished. And remember to wash your hands sometime later that day. Or the next day. Whatever. The REAL health concern is that public bathroom.
We've got to STOP THAT SHIT!!!
mars & venus
Here's one from Guy S.:
Men are from Mars and Women from Venus?? (Does that explain why kids oft-times are such a pain in Uranus?)
buying sexy things
I used to enjoy buying teddies and sexy night-clothes for Jennifer. She liked them and I liked the way she looked in them, so I made an occasional stop at Victoria's Secret for a surprise present. I usually don't like to shop, but I enjoyed doing it there.
Here's a tip, guys. Go in there and look really confused, as if you don't have a clue what you're doing (which isn't difficult for most guys). You'll have a good-looking salesperson at your side right away. Explain that you want to buy your lady something sexy, something like that thing on the rack right there, but you can't remember her size.
If you play your cards right, you'll end up with half the wimmen in the store strutting in front of you to give you an idea of what size to buy. "Well, she's about YOUR height.... and her bust is about the size of YOURS.... and YOU'VE got exactly the same hips... and her legs look a lot like YOURS. They'll huddle together and come up with a size 7, 36-B cup, which is what Jennifer wore.
You get to buy the right present and flirt with a lot of wimmen at the same time. TRY IT! You'll LIKE IT!
mars & Venus
This one is from kim:
I'm not a blogger, but I just had to respond to your gender blog and I don't care if you don't read it, I am woman, hear me roar.
My only question is.... why can't I fuck with you about shoes?
confident and sexy
I'll be the first to admit that I don't understand the way wimmen think, so I believe that the question on this post is unfair. What do I do to make myself feel confident and sexy? I don't have a clue.
I like to be clean and well-groomed, but that's not something I do to attract wimmen. I just don't like feeling grungy. It makes me itch. Plus, I cannot stand having dirty fingernails or untrimmed toenails. That's my big obsessive-compulsive disorder. I brush my teeth because I dislike going to the dentist.
I'm a regular clothes-horse. I LOVE dressing to the nines, as long as that involves nothing fancier than blue jeans, tee-shirts and sandals. I own one suit and a tie, but I have no idea where either one is and I ain't in any hurry to go find them, either. The last time I really dressed up nice, I ended up walking down Duval Street in Key West wearing a bright red sarong. I was beautiful.
Confidence is something I've never had a problem with, except for maybe having too much. "He's a cocky little bastard, isn't he?" a lot of people say. They are correct, too. I've just never been afraid to make some noise and speak my mind.
Do wimmen find a
I believe the qualities that make me totally irresistable to most wimmen are my Southern charm, my clever wit and my ability to answer totally obscure trivia questions. Those and a wallet full of $100 bills, of course.
Confidence I have in abundance. Sexy? I don't even know how to define that quality from a woman's perspective. Some really ugly bastards end up with some really beautuful babes, so I don't believe that "sexy" can BE defined when wimmen look at men. Ain't no telling what will attract them.
I am who I am and I'm fairly comfortable with that person. That's good enough for me.
rubber band man
Our public schools may not teach diddly-squat anymore, but they are firm disciplinarians. They preach the virtues of condoms, but throw you out of school for having a rubber band.
A 13-year-old student in Orange County, Fla., was suspended for 10 days and could be banned from school over an alleged assault with a rubber band, according to a WKMG Local 6 News report.
You know how it goes with kids--- they start with rubber bands, graduate to knives, and then head straight to assault rifles. Wise educators attempt to nip this deadly progression in the bud.
After the incident, Gomez received a 10-day suspension for threatening his teacher with what administrators say was a weapon, Local 6 News reported.
They'd better hurry up and ban assault spitballs before somebody REALLY gets hurt.
February 23, 2005
mars & Venus
Women are the poetry of the world.
Men know we are not complete without them.
We search our hearts for words like we are playing Scrabble. Furious. Intent. Goal-oriented. Determined not to be the only one left without a good word worth rhyming.
A woman's naked body may come close. As we learn how two souls can begin to rhyme. But then we see. That only hearts can rhyme. Only hearts can rhyme.
(That's from Bern & Chris, and I know they have a blog, but they didn't include the URL in the email, and I can't recall it right now. Please include your URL if you want a link.)
words of wisdom
These are actual quotes from bloggers I read regularly. I go to them whenever I'm feeling mentally ill.
I went blank. Hell, I’m still blank. I’ve been like that for a few days now. I think I’m going back to bed now. Just Damn!dax montana
For those of you wondering how someone as savvy as myself could be so irresponsible as to have maxed out my credit cards... Well, I'll have you know that I have absolutely nothing to show for it.key monroe
"I am hammered."Eric the Red.
"Why are you on the internet? Where did you go to lunch? I don't like your friends."velociman.
My wife wants a crossbow. A real "bad" one, with a scope. How cool is that?
I knew absolutely nothing about what I was getting into, but I jumped in anyway.dogs don't purr.
You see the kind of people I hang out with? No wonder guys in white coats chase me around and want to throw me in a rubber room. They think I'm crazy.
And I may very well be.
Mars and Venus again, this time from a feminine angle. Submitted by "Lori Rodnick".
Men are financially, emotionally and laundry retarded they are lazy, sloppy, indifferent and thick-headed,
I can't wait for a few more of these. I believe that perspective will show.
entries are coming
About Mars and Venus:
Let's try THIS ONE from here!!!
When men and women use tools, it comes down to this: if a tool doesn't work, a man will get a more powerful tool while a woman will attempt to use a random object. A man hammering a nail in his home and finding the tool to be too small for the task will get a bigger hammer. However, when he comes back, he will usually find a woman trying to hammer the nail in with a high-heeled shoe, saying "I tried using my purse and then a frozen pork-chop from the freezer, but I think I'm getting it now."
I sincerely hope these brought at least one chuckle to you, Acidman.
I'm not afraid of dying. In fact, as sickly as I've been lately I might have considered a sudden heart attack in my sleep a fucking blessing. Life is difficult to live sometimes.
I don't claim to know what it all means. People have been dying for centuries and they'll keep on doing it. It's "Earth's diurnal course." It's the way things go.
Very few of us (if ANY) will be remembered in history books or have a statue of our likeness carved in the Town Square. We'll live, we'll die and the world will pretty much forget about us--- in The Big Picture, anyway.
I've been doing a lot of thinking about this subject lately.
Even when you're gone, family keeps you alive. LOVE keeps you alive. In my living room, I have a picture of my father's father. I never knew the man, because he died when my daddy was 12 years-old. But I often ponder that picture and wonder what he must have been like. I haven't forgotten him, even though I never met him.
When you die surrounded by family, you don't really die. Your immortality is standing all around you. No, you won't make the history books and nobody is going to carve your statue in the town square. But that doesn't matter.
A long time from now, a little boy or a little girl will ponder a picture of an ancestor, pretty much unknown and forgotten. But that child WILL KNOW who it was, and I hope that they do like I did. Ponder that picture. Wonder what that person must have been like. Never forget them.
If you do that, they never die.
stupid people do stupid things
I'm going to call that Acidman's First Rule For Smelling the Coffee. Face it--- we have a lot of downright, purely STUPID people in this world. You can love your fellow man and call him your brother all you want to, but don't deny the fact that a lot of them are STUPID. Because they ARE.
Just ride with me down highway 21 from Garden City to Rincon, Georgia. I GUARANTEE YOU that we'll see at least a dozen stupid people doing stupid things on that 10-mile trip. Asshole with cell phone pressed to his ear as he zig-zags all over the road. Too busy to STOP and make that call, but too stupid to get off the road before he kills somebody.
Little old lady driving a 10,000 pound road-boat in the left lane at 35 MPH while traffic is whizzing by at 70 MPH. She also has her right-turn signal blinking the entire time.
The scraggly-bearded young skank who thinks he's in a NASCAR race as he whips in and out of both lanes, damn near scraping paint with every move, tailgating from 2" behind and either accellerating madly or riding his brakes as he risks his life and everybody else's on the road to get to Rincon 30 seconds ahead of us, if he isn't killed first.
The dipstick moonbat who pulls out in front of you going 10 MPH when you had NO TRAFFIC behind you, and the bastard takes a mile to work his way up to that terrifying speed of 40 MPH, at which time he moves over to the left lane just because he likes it there.
The "Professional Drivers" piloting 18-wheel trucks who pull up side by side at a traffic light and clog traffic for miles behind them as they grind gears EVER SO SLOWLY to get moving when the light changes. At least one of those bastards is talking on a cell phone, too.
The fat black woman who manages to bring six lanes of traffic to a screeching halt because she wanted to make a left turn from the Enmart station right from the parking lot instead of exiting on the access road that has a traffic light. She would have a cell phone, too, except she's too stupid to figure out how to use it.
That's just what I see on the road.
Today, I went to the grocery store to buy some much-needed supplies. The woman in line ahead of me didn't have enough money to pay for her groceries. "Okay, if I put this back, what do I owe?" she asked the cashier. Still too much. "Okay, if I put THIS back, what do I owe?" Nope, still too much. "Okay, how about this?" and she threw her hamhocks, chitlins or whatever the fuck it was she wanted but couldn't afford. That brought her 50 cents to the good.
She was delighted. I was frustrated. I don't know why the cashier wasn't authorized to shoot her. The woman paid with food stamps and left half a cart of groceries behind for somebody else to replace on the counters because she was TOO STUPID to do elementary school math.
Got-Dam! I don't claim to be a genius (just a pretty sharp guy) but I don't do stupid shit like that. I know the rules of the road, I KNOW how much my groceries are going to cost me before I ever hit the checkout line in a grocery store and I DO NOT drive the wrong way down a one-way street and then honk my horn at the obnoxious bastard coming the other way.
I've learned to survive among such people, because I've had a lot of experience at it. Stupidity is incurable once it sets in to stay. But some of those people really frighten me.
Yeah, go right ahead. And this is what you get. The nannies never seem to understand one simple fact about human nature, in spite of the glorious, flaming failures of Prohibition, the War on Drugs and other such do-gooder laws. Making it ILLEGAL doesn't stop it. And you're doing a world of good by teaching children to buy contraband. They'll be experts in dealing with the black market by the time they're grown.
If people want it, they'll get it. All these laws do is make criminals rich.
a note of levity
From Tony Ellis:
It is hard to find a joke today without a dirty word or two in it, but, here is one:
Two tall trees, a birch and a beech, are growing in the woods. A small tree begins to grow between them and the beech says to the birch, "Is that a son of a beech or a son of a birch?"
The birch says he cannot tell. Just then a woodpecker lands on the sapling. The birch says,"Woodpecker, you are a tree expert. Can you tell if that is a son of a beech or a son of a birch?"
The woodpecker takes a taste of the small tree. He replies, "It is neither a son of a beech nor a son of a birch. It is, however, the best piece of ash I have
Now, y'all have a nice day
don't get me started
If you give a fricking DIME to the United Way, you are pissing your money away. this story is typical of how that agency performs, and I won't even go into the fund-theft for which they are famous.
Read my comment on Jay's post, too. If you think I made that up, just ask catfish about it.
i'm in a foul mood
I'm just generally pissed off today. Then, I read this post, which certainly did a lot to improve my mood. Why doesn't an outfit as big as CNN hire at least ONE reporter who knows a damn thing about guns?
Never mind. Facts would get in the way of their political agenda.
I once believed that one of my greatest rights as a citizen of the United States was to own private property. MY SHIT, bought and paid for, belonging to ME. But that entire idea is a myth.
I allegedly own my own home and the property upon which it sets. That's not true. The county owns a 20' easement on my front yard, which can be plowed, planted, dug-up or otherwise destroyed at the county's discretion. This home I "own" can disappear from my possession in a heartbeat if I don't pay my property taxes. Let me fail to pay my INCOME taxes and see what happens to "my" property.
Go to divorce court and get a hanging judge. He'll show you very quickly who "your" property belongs to. The fact is, you don't own a got-dam thing. You possess it thanks to a beneficent government that just hasn't decided to take it away yet. You actually RENT everything you believe that you own from the government.
And you don't even have to fail to pay your taxes or get caught in divorce court, either. The government can just take it by declaring "eminent domain" and throwing you off your own land. That crap happens all the time.
You only THINK you have private property. The reality is, you don't. You may USE it, and with any luck, you'll get to KEEP it, but you don't OWN it.
It all belongs to the government.
do the effects last?
I smoked a lot of pot in my younger days. I wonder if it was enough? Who would have imagined at the time that staring through a haze of marijuana smoke at a lava lamp at 3:00 in the morning while listening to Canned Heat playing "Going Up Country" was GOOD for my brain?
I didn't worry about it at the time, but I do now. I should start smoking again. Being stoned wears off in a few hours, once you've eaten all the potato chips and Doritos in the house.
But Alzheimers doesn't go away.
let's do a "gender" thing
After reading this article, I was inspired, or at least roused from a drunken stupor, to realize that it's true--- Men are from Mars and Wimmen are from Venus.
I am soliciting posts (600 words or less) on this topic from any blogger who wants to participate. DO NOT put them in my comments. Email them to me and I will post my favorites and I hope to come as close to a 50-50 ratio of Martians and Venusians as I can. The address is email@example.com.
Here is my take on the matter:
If you gaze into the night sky, two planets are usually easy to see. One is Mars, which is small and somewhat dim, with a slightly reddish hue. The other is Venus, which shines brightly, like a glittering star, especially just before dawn. The difference is fitting.
Mars was the Roman God of War. That's about as macho as it gets--- being the God of War--- and his companions were the wolf and the woodpecker (go figure). He was a typical male: "With Mars, there is no contemplation before action. The drive associated with Mars differs from that of the Sun in that it is self-assertion rather than assertion of the will; it is raw energy rather than creative energy."
Mars probably liked to lie on the sofa, drink beer and play with the remote control on the temple TV when he wasn't off doing bloodthirsty battle or siring illegitimate children. He was a typical male specimen.
Venus, on the other hand, was struck by Cupid's arrow and fell in love with Adonis. She thought with her heart (or her loins) and never recovered from that arrow-wound. She was a typical female.
These differences are apparent today. Little boys like to play war games, fight and fall out of trees. They grow up to play golf, fight and fall off bar stools. They are tempermental and aggressive all their lives. Their companions are dogs and their own peckers.
Little girls like to play with dolls and hold fake tea-parties. They grow up to wear sexy clothes, spend 30 minutes "putting on their face" before going out somewhere and bitch a lot when they don't get their way. They are pouty and hormonal, prone to hyperventilate and get the vapors at any moment. Their companions are cats and divorce attorneys.
Men are dumb, just like that dim bulb of a planet you see in the night sky. Wimmen are devious, capable of blinding men with that bright, glittering light they emit. Mars is a cold, barren planet, much like a rock-strewn desert. Venus is a hot, moist place, shrouded in dense clouds so that no one can see what is actually underneath that camoflage.
I can't think of a better way to describe the difference between men and wimmen. Mars may be the God of War, but he'll get his bloody ass handed to him in a heartbeat if he gets into a cat-fight with a Venusian. The reason that there are no men on Venus is because the wimmen ran 'em all off and kept all the property. Martians are not allowed to visit, but they are expected to send child support and alimony checks every month.
I blame it all on Cupid. If that silly bastard had been more careful with that arrow, we wouldn't have this situation today.
curly & larry... meet moe
Give environmentalists an inch and they'll take away your jogging shoes. Or your tennis balls.
Hexafluoride is used to give bounce to some sports shoes, tennis balls or car tires.
A cost of "hundreds of millions of dollars" is a lowest common denominator, according to Greenpeace. And none of this shit will do a damn thing except cripple the economies of the dupes who buy into it. (Assuming, of course, that these countries will be HONEST about what they do, instead of running the program the way the United Nations did the Iraq Oil For Food program.)
The Three Stooges couldn't put on a better slapstick show.
February 22, 2005
Excuse me.... I had a slight accident here involving a drink and some nasal cleansing. I believe that my keyboard suffered an involuntary douche, but if it can't hang with me, it deserves to die anyway.
ways to make me not like you
* Diss boiled peanuts.
* Tell me that guns are evil.
* Worry about "Global Warming."
* Tell me that I'm a racist but Jesse Jackson is not.
* Listen to rap music.
* Quote Maureen Dowd at me.
* Wear a stud or an earrring in your nose.
* Wear sandals with black socks.
* Refuse to eat collard greens.
* Drink "Lite" beer.
* Go into a nice steak restaurant and order chicken.
* Insist on making love with the lights off.
* Get all your news from CNN.
* Wax nostalgic for the wonderful days of the Clinton presidency.
* Use the term "assault rifle" when you don't know what you're talking about.
* Refuse to eat grits.
* Call Southerners "Red-Necks" while praising the virtues of living in New Jersey.
* Brake for animals unless the animal is larger than your vehicle.
* Praise the Endangered Species Act.
* Say that I'm not a true Southerner because I like Manhatten-style conch chowder when the alternative is New England style.
* Tell me that Jimmy Carter is a great man.
* Put up with a sassy-mouth from your child.
* Tell me that Southern iced tea is too sweet.
* Call SUVs tools of the devil.
I'm really not that difficult to get along with, but certain things just piss me off.
If I wrote something like this, wimmen would want my testicles hanging from the nearest tree. That's chauvinistic propaganda, hate-speech and gender-biased bullshit!!!
It's also TRUE, but that fact doesn't matter anymore.
Nope. Teacher had nothing to do with this He simply was teaching.
I'll confess: I LIKE pornography and the dirtier it is, the more I like it. Having
How many of YOU people ever played around with a home video camera? DON'T LIE TO ME!!! You and the lover got latered up with lust and decided to record the moment for posterity, didn't you? You screwed like wild dogs, taped the whole thing, then watched it together. Watching it made you want to go at it like wild dogs again, too, didn't it?
You probably also did some kinky stuff that you wouldn't normally do, but that camera brought out the beast in you. You both slutted your asses off on film. It was FUN, too, wasn't it?
Pornography is in the eyes of the beholder. And I like to watch.
mama's in the hospital
She had to have the fluid drained from her lungs and she feels a lot better now. She should be able to come home tomorrow, although she's signed up for Hospice Care now. Things don't look good.
My mama deserves better than this.
yeah, yeah... I know
Having actual human beings handle your customer service function at your business is expensive. Cost-efficiency is achieved by eliminating as many people as possible and installing a menu-based phone service.
I hate those fuckers.
"If you have a billing question, press "one." If you have a question about service, press "two." If you wish to upgrade or change your acount, press "three." If you just like talking to a mechanical voice that doesn't give a shit about you, press "four." If you wish to speak to a real, live customer service representative, forgetabout it, because we don't operate that way.
Press any number you wish. All you get is another menu with the same stupid questions being asked. Eventually, some mechanical voice will ask you to enter your name, address and password using the letters on your touch-tone phone. I can't SEE those fucking letters. My eyes are bad and the letters are small. I punch in the wrong information and get another mechanical voice explaining that they were unable to understand the information I entered.
If I really gird my loins and hang in there long enough, I eventually end up speaking to a real, live person who doesn't have a clue about how to help me. I must hold while I am transferred to a "supervisor," who is only slightly less clueless than the goddam machine I've been dealing with.
I went through 30 minutes of that crap with Earthlink today. I cancelled my account with them three months ago, but they keep billing me. The nimrod on the phone said, "Mr. Smith, our records show that you cancelled that acount in December."
"Yes," I agreed. "But MY records show that you never stopped billing my credit card for the cancelled service. You did it again this month, too."
I received some typical hemming and hawing from the nimrod. I finally broke into his monologue. "Listen, my friend. I no longer have an account with you. The way I see it, you owe ME three months worth of refunds. I calculate that to be $67.50 and I want my money back. Now what menu button do I have to push to get my refund, which you OWE me?"
He promised to make it right, and I told him that a credit on my credit card would be fine with me. I just want what's rightfully MINE and I'm not asking them to cut me a special check or anything so exotic that it throws the entire company into a spinning crash-dive from which they can never recover. The whole thing sounds pretty simple to me, but I may as well have complained about an anthrax attack. I sent that poor bastard into a tizzy.
I am a betting man. What do you want to wager that they charge me again next month, too?
for his own good
Government exists to protect us from ourselves. It will stop you from smoking, forbid "hate speech," forbid you to eat a hamburger cooked rare and take away your guns. Now, in certain really enlightened and compassionate places, it will lock you up for being too fat.
After all, nanny knows best.
I always enjoy listening to people who walked away with a wad of money in a bullshit lawsuit. Their motivation for the suit NEVER involved money. They just wanted tp send a message. I do, however, notice that these people never give the money away to further the message.
"It would have been too painful for us to go through a court trial and all the appeals," Drypen said. "What we hope to do now is make people more aware of the poor treatment we received by the sheriff's department and that they are not trained to deal with mental illness. If we can do that, then Christopher's life would be made worthwhile."
The facts are that a 5'-11", 210-pound crazed teenager attacked a group of sheriff's deputies with a steak knife after the parents called 911 for help. The police shot the boy dead when he attacked them. I suppose we should arm our law enforcement people with tranquilizer darts for such situations. After all, there was no possible reason for shooting the poor boy with real bullets.
"They've taken evidence and twisted it to their advantage," McCabe said of the Drypens and their attorney. "It's all garbage. It's all at the foot of the Drypens really. Why did they allow him to go without taking his medication? Why didn't they do something before this? Why did police have to be the mental health advocates here?"
Good question. It was answered by a $4 million settlement from the city.
Don't get me wrong. I am truly sorry that the boy was killed. But he brought that fate upon himself and I don't know what else the cops were supposed to do, except maybe allow the boy to kill THEM. The parents, of course, bear no responsibility whatsoever in this case.
On Friday, Christopher's older sister, Katie Drypen, took a few minutes to write an e-mail to the Free Press about her sorrow.
I disagree. If anything was "stolen," it was 4 million dollars.
February 21, 2005
it's a shame
I always thought Hunter S. Thompson was as crazy as a shit-house rat, but I always liked his writing. If he actually did half the stuff that he claimed to have done in his books and articles, the would have been dead years ago.
He finally took matters into his own hands . He committed suicide at the age of 67.
I'm going to miss the crazy old bastard.
I like this guy, and as a blog-friend, I reserve the right to call him, full of shit on this post. He doesn't like seafood. Well, I don't like yankees, either.
I really can't think of anything that comes out of the ocean that I won't eat. I love oysters--- both raw or cooked anyway you like them. Sure, an oyster is snot in a shell, but them damned things are GOOD. Raw, steamed, roasted, fried, cooked in stew or stuffed. Sheer delicoisity.
Shrimp? Yeah, they may be the cockroaches of the sea, but I LOVE those critters, any way you can cook them. Bolied, fried, sauteed, grilled on a sish-ka-bob or filling a low-country boil. Put 'em in a salad. ANYWAY you cook a shrimp is good to me.
Squid. Go ahead and say "Ewwww!" Squid is delicious when cooked properly and I make calimari that'll make you want to dance nekkid. I also pickle it occasionly for an additive in a three-bean pasta salad.
Crabs? Yes, they are the garbage collectors of the salt water and learning to pick one takes some practice. But I love them boiled or steamed and a good deviled crab is tasty enough to die for. I make what I call a "seafood pie," which is mostly crab meat, shrimp, peppers, onion, cerery, cheese, busted-up garlic croutons and a couple of eggs to hold it together while it bakes. Graham crackers on the top. If you don't like THAT, you need to be dragged off and shot.
Fish. Sweet Bejus! Fresh Trigger is my favorite, but I'll settle for all the Black Sea Bass that I can catch. Stuff one of those with crab meat and shrimp and sharp cheddar cheese, grill it and serve it over a bed of rice. If you don't like THAT, there's something wrong with you. Red snapper and dolphin ain't bad, either.
Conch is good in chowder (Manhatten style) and I am very fond of shark when it's cooked right. Swordfish is excellent grilled, too.
Jim, if you don't like seafood, you have something terribly wrong with you.
i have a black eye
Last night, I needed to take a piss. I have no idea what time it was, because I keep only one functioning clock in my house anymore, and it is nowhere around my bedroom. I knew that I could make it from the bed to the bathroom without turning on a light. I've done it successfully hundreds of times.
This time, however, I was unsuccessful. I got my feet tangled in a pile of dirty clothes that I had forgotten about leaving on the floor. I SWEAR that those clothes reached up and grabbed me like a set of octopus tentacles. I was tied up, tripped and falling. I knew that I was close to a bedpost on the bed, so I flailed for it as I was on my way down.
I missed grabbing the bedpost, but it didn't miss me. I head-butted that sumbitch and it caught me right above my left eye, right where the brow attaches to the skull-bone. The sound reminded me of someone cracking a ripe coconut, I saw stars inside my head and I hit the floor in a tangled heap. It hurt like hell and I felt something wet running down my face.
I crawled to the bathroom and turned on the light. Sweet Bejus! I had one hell of a cut on my left eyebrow. I ran some cold water on a rag and applied a compress until I could get the bleeding to stop, then I examined my injury. Hmmm. That cut could probably use a few stitches. It wasn't pretty.
But I have butterfly bandages in my first aid kit, so I pressed the skin back together I applied one of those. It looked okay to me at the time and I wasn't bleeding anymore. I took a piss and went back to bed.
That eye doesn't look so good today. I don't have a lot of swelling, but I am a rainbow of red, purple, black and yellow colors. I look as if I lost a one-punch bar fight. Well, I DID, because some bastard hit me with a bed post when I wasn't looking. When I was visiting Catfish today, Nancy noticed and said, "My God, Rob! What happened to your eye?"
I told her the truth. I was mugged by my own furniture.
my first love
I got this idea from here. Her name was Martha Galloway and I was stricken with her as only a boy in 5th grade can be. She set my young hormones into a tumultuous uproar. She was my first love.
Unfortunately, the feeling was not mutual. Martha thought I was loud-mouthed, cocky little show-off, and she was correct. I was still confused enough in those days to believe that wimmen were ATTRACTED to loud-mouthed, cocky little show-offs, so every time she rejected my advances, I just got cockier and showed off a little more.
She never wanted me for a boyfriend. But I was persistant. I sent her love-notes and bought her cheap presents. She kissed me ONCE at a dance, my FIRST KISS, which had me walking on air for a few days until I realized that it was a pure mercy-kiss, just to get rid of me. I wanted to marry her; she wanted to wipe me off like something unpleasant on the bottom of her shoe.
That love affair never panned out out the way I anticipated. But I remember it well, because it was my First Love. I heard that she went on to become a stockbroker and was making millions working in Holland many years later, where she married a man who was NOT a cocky little show-off.
But I still think about her today.
goin' up country
I went to visit catfish today to check out his new house. It's still a clusterfuck right now, with things still stacked in boxes and a few slackard contractors finishing up work they should have completed a month ago. Cat was in a barking mood, but he gave me the nickel tour and walked me over his land, too.
That's going to be one hell of a place when he gets finished. The house is over 3,000 square feet, complete with a beautiful sun room and a screen porch with a hot tub. He has more than 5 acres of land with a nice spring-fed creek in the back that is filled with bass, bream and catfish. He's already killed two deer shooting from his back porch.
He has two HUGE alligators living in the creek and I suggested that he get rid of those before they ate all his fish. He agreed, but today he was more interested in killing a couple of electricians and a painting crew if they didn't finish their work today. He mentioned something about : "I'll kill THOSE BASTARDS and use 'em to feed the gators."
He got his computer set up, so he may be blogging again soon. If a couple of electricians and a painting crew suddenly disappear from Harris Neck, I know where they might have gone, but I ain't saying a word about it.
That place is going to be impressive when he gets finished. He wants a couple of bloggers to come up and spend the weekend when he gets the place right. I am going to go. We will cook a hog, drink around a campfire and discharge a lot of firearms.
If you get an invitation, you should come, too.
February 20, 2005
I miss the equipment I was born with, because I was hung like a horse. I hope I passed that gene along to my son. He can enjoy it now that I can't. But I AM NOT LYING when I say that many wimmen saw me for the first time and said, "Oh. My. God."
That prostate cancer shit ruined a good thing for me. I was totally limp for 19 months before I got my implant, and I really hoped that the bionic Roscoe would restore what I once possessed naturally. It didn't.
Oh, it works okay, and I've never had a woman complain, but it's just not what it once was. I DREAM about having my old dick back. Most wimmen I've been with since the implant are really fascinated by the plumbing I carry now. Yes, I have THREE BALLS --- four if you want to find the on-off device buried among all those tubes and hydrolics stuck in my nutsack.
I wear this stuff every day and it's uncomfortable. I'd rather have it than not, since I remember vividly those 19 months with a totally dead dick, but I would rather have the old equipment back. But you make choices in life and you live with them.
I'd sell my soul to the devil tonight to have the dick I once had again.
the need for speed
I'm not much of a NASCAR fan, even though I should be, because it's the greatest red-neck Southern sport in the world. Good ole boys drivin' fast and a few really nice wrecks along the way. That's Southern entertainment.
I watch the Daytona 500 every year. (Congratulations, Jeff Gordon--- great race!) I was in an Appleby's restaurant eating a hamburger with Quinton when Dale Earnheardt won his first, and I was with Quinton eating pizza when Dale got killed in that same race. I missed having my boy with me today.
But I have a simple question to ask: What is it about human beings that NO MATTER WHAT IT IS, if it will roll, jump, run, bounce, float, skuttle, fly, slither, sail, crawl or move in any other way, we race it. And we bet on who will win the race. Why? Don't tell me that I'm lying, because evidence is all around us.
I'll guarantee you that when the first cave man built the first wheel, his neighbor looked at that thing, was impressed by its utility, and immediately thought, "I can build a wheel that will out-run HIS." He did, and they had a race.
I'm not saying it's a bad thing, but we seem to have a need for speed.
I'm stealing this idea because I like it, and I ain't scared of Eric. He ain't gonna fuck with me because he LOVES me... and he knows that I am armed.
How many of you people who read me have blogs of your own?
How many of you WANT to start a blog of your own?
How many of you wimmen want to screw my brains out?
How many of you just lurk and seldom comment?
How many of you got here by accident, but felt compelled to return?
How many of you just flat don't give a shit?
How many of you hit the "back" button when you've visited my site and feel dirty afterward?
How many of you want to come clean my house?
(If I'm gonna steal, I'm gonna steal a good idea.)
Bullshit!!! Ca-Ca!! Horse Dung!!! May your dick fall off for even saying such a thing!!!
2. Try to find an instrument you will enjoy playing. I learned the banjo, the mandolin, and the guitar, and now I never touch them. Banjo music is limited and boring, the mandolin has no versatility, and the guitar, while less limited, is very hard on your fingers.
I demand that this man be executed immediately. He has no worth whatsoever as a human being, and he tortures pigs, too. OFF WITH HIS HEAD!!! KILL HIM!!!
Bastid. Tell me a mandolin has "no versitility." Double bastid. Make his death slow and painful.
So let it be written, so let it be done.
February 19, 2005
maybe you have to be there
Okay here's an idea:
My feeling is just.... ew
First of all Lark, most nudists or nauralists DON"T have stray hairs wandering around. It is considered to be polite to shave your wherewithall, right down to the skinny and most people do. I still keep my nether regions de-haired neatly so that my next trim won't be so severe. Don't lecture about something you don't know anything about.
Second, I've listened to the shit about fat people and ugly people in my comments, all from people who have NEVER been to a nudist resort. Do you really think those places are filled with Hollywood models? They are NOT. They are populated with pot-bellied men, fat wimmen and ordinary people who just don't mind taking their clothes off. It's the real world, just nekkid.
That's what's wrong with yankees. They wear too many clothes.
you shouldn't give a damn
Want to keep your mind intact, just as dim as it is now? don't worry. be happy. We need more "scientific" research such as this the way I need a boil on my ass.
My grandmother is 93 years old and still sharp as a tack upstairs. She worries about everybody in the family and always has. But she USES her mind. She works crossword puzzles. She likes to watch Jeopardy and she still hand-writes letters to family members even though she can barely see anymore.
Don't hand me that crap. People lose their minds when they have no reason to use them anymore.
When I went to Winterhaven, Florida once, I stayed at Burma's house for a few days. She was out of town one of her oldser's trips at the time, so I accepted her offer to make myself at home, which was a mistake. I was probably 30 years younger than anyone else in the place and the old men became suspicious of me. I was treated as if I were an alien invader. Boy, did I get the hairy-eyeball from those old farts.
Nobody liked me (except for a few of the wimmen) and I was happy to get the fuck out out there. Old people can be hostile.
As long as I'm on this roll, I want to say this, too. I have the best brother in the world. We're not close, and we don't hang out together a lot, but I KNOW HIM. I grew up with the shitass and I know what he's made of. He's a high-octane attorney now, an untrustworthy breed if I ever saw one.
But he's my brother. And I know damn good and well that he would never fuck me on purpose. He's a good guy. Period. In fact, he's been a lot better to me than I have to him over the years. And there is nobody on the face of this planet that I would rather sing with. We've done that together many, many times.
My mama may not have long to live. Well, everybody dies. That's the nature of things. But I believe with all my heart that I WILL NOT see the vulture-fest that I saw from Jennifer's family when my mama dies. I can't see my brother even THINKING about pulling up a moving van and stealing whatever he can grab before somebody else gets it. We're the Smith Brothers. We don't behave that way.
We'll handle what happens, when it it happens. And we'll handle it together, as brothers, not enemies. I KNOW THAT!
Not many people do.
with the post below
Let me tell you something about Jennifer's family. When Burma died, she had it in her will that her personal belonging be split among her grandchildren. She had on old oak chest of drawers that Jennifer always wanted and Burma told her, "That's yours when I'm gone." We never got it.
As soon as Burma was in the ground, her God-fearing Baptist side of the family pulled up in front of her house with a rental moving van and looted the place like a bunch of vandals. THEY TOOK IT ALL!! I kid you not, they even unscrewed the light bulbs out of every fixture in the house and stole them, too.
I loved Burma, but I didn't want a goddam thing she had. That was HER property, not mine. I know she promised Jennifer that chest of drawers, because I heard her do it many times, but I wasn't going to get into a piss-fight with greedy relatives over something that meant nothing to me. I told Jennifer the same thing. "They must want it or need it a lot more than we do. Let it go."
We did. But if you want to see ugly, watch a family act like a flock of vultures over a nice piece of road kill when a relative dies. Especially when they have a goddam Baptist minister leading the way.
Jennifer's grandmother was named "Burma." She stood about 4' 11" tall and was built like a basketball. But she was a fiesty old bitch and I really loved her. When she came to visit, I always asked, "Burma, would you like a drink?" and her response always was the same.
"Well... honey, I guess I could stand one right now. Just give me a little bit of bourbon on some ice, please," and she'd hold up two fingers about 1/4" apart. I'd throw some bourbon in a glass, add some ice and hand it to her.
Once she had a couple of sips and allowed the ice to melt, she'd say, "Rob, this drink's getting kinda weak now. Could you freshen it up for me?" And she'd rattle the ice in her oh-so-empty glass. She'd end up drinking half a bottle of Jim Beam, one sip at a time. She never got drunk, but she damn sure could drink.
Burma was a garage-sale vampire. Every weekend she climbed into that goddam road-boat car she had and ran all over the county attending garage sales. And if she EVER saw a Craftsman tool, she bought it. A pair of channel-lock pliers with one half-missing. SOLD!!! to Burma for 25 cents. A drill that doesn't work anymore? SOLD!!! to Burma for a dollar. The ratchet set with the hung-up ratchet handle? SOLD!!! to Burma for another dollar.
Then, that little old woman (just imagine the "Where's the beef?" lady from the Wendy's commercials) would haul all of that junk down to Sears, dump it on a counter and demand her replacement for the lifetime guarantee on those tools. She always got it, too. Who in a store like that wants to create a scene with an old woman half-full of bourbon at the time?
After that, Burma threw her own garage sale and sold those BRAND NEW Craftsman tools and other bargains she found at garage sales for 100 times the money she paid for them. She was a slick old woman who liked to shop, dance, drink and play cards. She always told me that she didn't like old men. "They all have prostate problems, and that's all they want to talk about. I want somebody who likes to dance and play cards."
Burma was one hell of a woman. She fell ill in 1996 and went into the hospital. Her breast cancer was back. This time it got her. She was dead three days later.
It was a Baptist funeral, which is supposed to be all solemn and full of fear of God. One of her sons was a minister and he preached her eulogy. I never liked him very much, but he said something that I couldn't deny as he stood in the pulpit preaching over his mama's dead body.
"Did my mama ever ask you for anything that wasn't just this much?" as he held his fingers about 1/4" apart. Everybody in the church burst out laughing. That was Burma's style. If you kept giving her just that much, you would have nothing left before long.
I miss that old woman.
In response to this comment:
OK, I just broke the "thinnest" string on my new axe. I would like to buy string sets in bulk. Any suggestions as to brand?
RIR-- that would be the high "E" string on a guitar. That one and the "G" tend to break most often (at least that's been MY experience.).
I buy strings in "bulk" if you call getting a dozen sets at a time a bulk order. Of course, I own a lot of different instrument, too. To me, guitar strings are like toilet paper--- I just don't EVER run out.
Right now, Elixers are my favorite. They are expensive, but they sound great and last a long time. I use the medium lights (.12 gauge on the high "E" string) for my guitars and lights (.10 gauge) for my mandolin and my papoose. I also play Dean Markley, John Pearce, and Martin "Extended Life SP+" now, all in phosphor-bronze. (I have never liked brass or stainless steel strings) For electric, I still like the old Gibson E340L when I can find them; otherwise, I play the Fender "slinky" super-lights (.08 on the high "E."). But I don't play electric that much anymore.
The Elixers cost about twice what the other strings do. ($13.00 for a set of them, versus $5.88 for a set of Dean Markleys. But sometimes, you get what you pay for.) I play medium-lights because I like the sound--- the heavier the gauge the better an old guitar rings--- and my fingers are impervious to pain anymore.
For a beginning guitar player, I recommend the lightest gauge string that sounds good on the guitar (try the lights--- if they "buzz" when you play them, your guitar isn't set up right--- but that is easily fixed. Plus, those strings are less hostile to the fingers, especially when you're first learning to play.).
If you buy them from my friend willy, he will give you a better discount than you'll find at any music store. Buy at least a dozen sets, so that shipping doesn't eat up your discount. Or email me. I'll buy them and send them to you. Ask for a few SINGLE STRINGS--- buy about six extra high "E" strings and three extra "G" strings. Then, when you break one of those, you don't have to waste a whole new set to replace one string.
Trust me. I know what I'm talking about.
My recommendation to a beginner: stick to the good but not expensive strings. Buy John Pearce, Dean Markley and maybe a couple of sets of Martin Marquis. Try different gauges, too. Once you learn to play, shop up to Elixers.
That's MY humble opinion on guitar strings.
I could go to this kind of dinner. Hell, I prefer not wearing clothes to wearing them. I have dined nekkid before (Be careful with the soup. It's HOT, and you don't want to spill any, because it lands in unpleasant places.) and I enjoyed doing it.
Of course, I was in Key West at the time and the outside temperature was a balmy 85 degrees. Where I was staying, lots of people got nekkid for any reason they could invent. That's Ket West.
I don't know about doing it in New York in February. Oh, I WOULD do it--- I just know know if it would be as pleasant as eating nekkid in Key West.
I think Congress should have to meet nekkid. Take away all those $2,000 power suits and see what these assholes REALLY look like. If there is one thing I have leaned in my nudist experiences, it's this: it's hard to be a lying asshole when you aren't wearing any clothes.
Try it sometime. You'll see that I'm right.
February 18, 2005
I wish I could re-live a lot of my life again, knowing what I know now. Boy, could I have some fun.
I really wish I could.
a story worth telling
I can't do any better than this.
Buy a gun. Learn to shoot it. Keep it handy.
The war on drugs
Back when I was in college, I could buy a pound of marijuana for $90. I sold enough to friends to pay off my investment and kept the rest to smoke myself. I liked smoking pot back then.
Now, a pound of marijuana costs between $800 and $1200 and it's a LOT more potent than it once was. Guess what? I can still go buy it today if I want to.
I don't know who the hell I would sell it to, because all my friends kinda did like I did--- we just stopped smoking the stuff. But it's still out there. That's what the WAR ON DRUGS acomplished in that realm, which is not a fucking thing, except to drive up the price and make dealing drugs more lucrative than ever.
We've clogged a lot of jails with people who don't belong there and gone from cocaine to crack in the ghettos, because crack is easier to sell and can be doctored by a lot of nasty shit to make that pretty rock. When people were selling pure cocaine, we were better off.
We've corrupted people from the highest levels of law enforcement because of the money just LAYING THERE to be had in the illegal drug trade.
And we've produced doctors who won't prescribe pain killers to terminal cancer patients who NEED THEM, because the feds may be all over their asses for being "pill doctors."
Good job, drug warriors. You took a simple problem and made it worse than it ever was before you decided to "fix" it.
In response to a couple of comment below: There is no cure for "hamburger fingers" when you start to play guitar. It's gonna hurt until you become accustomed to it. If your fingers are that sensitive, try a classical with gut strings. The guitar probably isn't much good for what you want to play, but it won't hurt your fingers so badly. Use THAT, you Pussy.
Take a good look at a guitar player's left hand if you ever meet one. He (or she) will have the kind of callouses that you can strike a kitchen match on at the end of every finger. I mean THICK, nasty callouses, the kind that even deform your hand after a while, and the kind that you wouldn't even want to see on your FEET.
That's what happens when you play with steel strings. I once did it up to nine hours every day (counting matinees) six times every week. I had a magnificent left hand back then. No nurse could puncture a finger on my left hand to get a blood sample. The skin was too thick.
That's what you have to be willing to do to learn to play guitar.
(I've heard that soaking your fingers in vinegar will toughen them up, but I never tried that. I just kept playing, even when it hurt. I got blisters and I bled, too. I just figured that part went with the turf I wanted to walk. And I wanted it badly enough to accept a little pain.)
being a manly man
I was raised from an early age to NOT show my emotions. It was the hillbilly way. We were tough people and we were supposed to behave that way. You kept what was inside you INSIDE YOU, where it belonged.
Wimmen could cry. That was their job. Grown men pulled their own teeth, with nothing but a shot of moonshine to dampen the pain. They DIDN'T cry. That's how I was raised.
That attitude helped me a lot when I was young, getting in fights or playing football. You could hurt me, but I'd never let you know it. I've been hit so hard on the football field that I KNEW that if I got up, my guts would still be laying in the dirt because I had been evicerated by that hit, but I got up anyway. I wasn't going to lay there and whine. I'd keep playing without intestines if I had to.
I also had a family that didn't believe in a lot of touchy-feely expressions of emotions. We were stoic. Nobody expected to be told "I am LOVED!" You just KNEW it by the way you were treated. I had wonderful parents and a very happy childhood. I wish I could give that same gift to my children.
I tell them both that I love them, but words are cheap. I look back now and see what my parents DID for me and my brother, and I know the shit they waded through to raise us right. That's an impressive feat to me now. I realize how much serious commitment and love it took to get that job done.
My father never told me that he loved me. That wasn't the hillbilly way. I know that he DID, but I wish now, 13 years after his death, that he would have broken down all the barriers just once and said it out loud. But he didn't, and I never saw him cry, either.
My father was a manly-man, and he did his best to raise ME to be one, too. I tried my best for a long time to meet his expectations. But somewhere down the line, I realized that I was different. I couldn't do it his way. I wasn't like my father. I was too emotional.
I still think I'm a manly-man. But I'll cry on occasion, and I'll damn sure tell you that I love you if I do.
My buddy catfish is alive and well, just mired in the ooze of moving into his new
I'm going to go visit in a couple of days, if I'm able. (When all the work is over!) It sounds like a really nice place.
Mama feels better today. She's able to get out of bed and work her morning crossword puzzle now. That's good news.
I really believe that some of you people helped.
my dad's '57 chevy
I suppose the reason I love the 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air so much is because my father had one when I was a boy. That was the first new car he ever owned and when he drove it off the dealer's lot, unmodified from the factory, it was the fastest car in Harlan County, Kentucky, and that's saying something--- a lot of moonshiners and bootleggers were very proud of how their road-rockets would run. My dad was still young back then (27 years old) and he handed a few people their bloody asses when they wanted to race him.
That car would nuke anything else around.
Even the cops were interested in that car. My dad got pulled over a couple of times just because the trooper wanted to look under the hood and drool over the vehicle.
Once, he had a cop stop him coming back with a load of beer from Cumberland. My dad wasn't doing anything wrong, but the cop liked the car. He wanted to see how fast it would go. So, he gave my father a blue-light escort back into Harlan at speeds in excess of 100 MPH on those twisting mountain roads. At the end of the ride, the cop said, in admiration, "Not many people can keep up with my cruiser."
My father told the cop, "I coulda passed you any time I wanted to."
I don't care what anybody else has to say about other muscle cars. The '57 Chevy was the first of its kind and it would HAUL ASS!!! My father was young enough to enjoy such a car back then.
When my brother was diagnosed with diabetes and placed in the hospital for a month or so, mama pretty much stayed with my brother and dad and I went to visit every weekend when he didn't have to work. Once we went in a bad snowstorm. The roads got really bad while we were there and on the way back home we saw something ugly.
The road took a big climb up a hill just past Ova Lawson's Texico gas station and cars were in the ditch and halfway down the hill all over the place from sliding off the road. My father asked what was going on and somebody told him, "Robert, nobody can make it up the hill. The road is iced over and everybody who tries ends up in the ditch or down the mountain."
Here is where I became a victim of child abuse. My dad said, "I can make it. Get everybody out of the way."
He told me to get in the back and lay down in the floor. Then, he backed that car up about 100 yards, floored the pedal and went roaring up that hill. I don't know how fast we were going when we hit the ice, but we had enough momentum that dad just kept his foot solid on the accelerator, negotiated the fish-tails we performed and made it to the top of the hill.
When we were on top with a clear road home, he stopped, honked his horn and waved to the amazed people down below. He told me that I could sit in the front seat again. He had the only car in the county that made it over that hill that day.
Yeah, he coulda killed us both. But I enjoyed the ride, I was proud of my father and I felt like a Tall Dog riding in the front seat of that car.
I think that's one of the reasons I LOVE '57 Chevys so much.
That's a genuine Tall Dog.
I loved this story about Tom Matzzie and MoveOn.org. They are out to help the Democrats, all right.
"Now it's our Party: we bought it, we own it, and we're going to take it back."
Go for, it, buddy.
February 17, 2005
why am i not surprised?
I don't believe that Bill Cosby is a criminal. Evidentally, the court doesn't either. I am not surprised. Being a high-profile celebrity is not always a good thing. Cosby also engaged in some speech that a lot of people didn't like. He became a target.
I'm glad that the charges didn't stick, but I'm not surprised. I just don't believe that Bill Cosby is a criminal.
Chris Rock believes that he can host the entire Oscar ceremony without fucking cussing a goddam, muthafucking time. I am delighted to hear that news.
Chris Rock is not funny. Chris Rock is not talented. Chris Rock is an asshole. But Chris Rock is BLACK, and it's a very great tribute to "diversity" (ALL HAIL DIVERSITY!!!") to make him the host of this leftist dog and pony show. Maybe they'll hire Mike Tyson next.
If Chris can make it through the Oscars without using foul language, I'll be impressed. If he can actually HOST the ceremonies, I'll be even more impressed. But it doesn't really matter to me, because I ain't gonna watch that crap anyway.
I kinda say.... well, fuck it.
the car of my dreams
I saw one today: a genuine, fully-restored, mint-condition 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air. It had the big "V" in the front and fenderskirts, too. It was a beauty.
I found myself stopped at a traffic light next to the thing, and I couldn't resist. I rolled down my window and shouted at the driver, a middle-aged man with silver hair who reminded me a lot of ME. He rolled down his window to see what I wanted.
"Mister, you have a BEAUTIFUL car," I said.
"You like it? I do, too," he replied, with a big grin on his face.
"How much did it set you back?" I asked.
"If you have to ask, you don't want to know," he responded. Then the light changed and we went our separate ways.
If he managed to restore that original 283 engine with the power-pak, he's got the first of the true muscle cars, one that will damn near peel your ears off when you accelerate. I always thought a '57 Chevy resembled a shark, sleek and hungry. And I love the tail-fins, too.
I WANT ONE!!!
(What is YOUR dream car?)
one fine woman
I finally felt well enough today to go visit my mama. She's not doing very well. The cancer is causing fluid buildup in her lungs and she can barely get out of bed now. She has to sleep sitting up because she can't breathe otherwise. If the diuretics she's taking now don't take away the fluid, she'll be back in the hospital next week for more intense treatment.
My mama ran a MARATHON when she was 50 years old. She's always been an avid gardener and we swapped produce for years when I was farming, too. Once running started to hurt her knees, she walked anywhere from three to five miles a day. I've never seen a person more in love with life in all my days.
If I had a dollar for every time she whipped my well-deserving ass when I was a boy, I would be a rich man today. If I had a dollar for every tear I've caused her to shed, I'd be even richer. I wasn't an easy boy to raise.
My dad hit the jackpot when he married my mama. After the Bo Derek movie 10 came out, my dad said, "I've already got a 10," and he meant it, too. On my mama's car today is the vanity license plate my father bought her for Valentine's Day one year. It says "Elva 10."
It's no accident that her email address is firstname.lastname@example.org. My mama IS a 10, and she always will be, even now.
She was a very beautiful and sexy woman in her younger days and she matured gracefully. When her hair turned
I am proud of my mama. I've never known a finer woman in my life, and I don't believe that she's EVER done anything mean deliberately. She simply has too much love in her for that.
I hate to see what's happening to her now.
do I give lessons?
People frequently ask me if I give guitar lessons. I always say the same thing: "Sure, I do." I'll hand you a Mel Bay Chord book and tell you to practice until you can hit G, C, D, F, A, Am, E, Em, and Bm without having to look at your fingers or stop to make sure they're planted where they should be. When you can do that, you're ready to learn more about playing guitar.
No magic pill exists to accomplish this beginning feat. You have to PRACTICE, over and over again, for hours at a time until you reach that point. The task is difficult and you're gonna sound like shit at first. You just have to stick with it and keep trying. If you're not willing to do that, you don't really want to play guitar anyway and I can't help you.
ANYBODY can learn to play guitar fairly well. It just takes a good dose of "want-to" and a lot of practice. Talent helps, but determination is more important. Some people don't want to learn if it takes work. Learning to play guitar is just like what my daddy told me about everything else in life.
"If it was easy, any asshole could do it."
i believe it, too
Making music has affected my life in many ways--- not just from the experience of playing in front of crowds, meeting lots of very weird musicians and living the bar scene for a while--- but also by changing ME into what I believe is a better person. There's a Zen-like quality about learning to play an instrument. You start out having to THINK about everything you do; then, one fine day you become one with the instrument and you don't have to think anymore. You just PLAY.
I read this at steve's place and I couldn't agree more:
I’ve probably said this before, but I believe practicing an instrument is like physical therapy. I believe it modifies your body and your nervous system and builds mechanisms that didn’t exist before. If you get mashed in an accident and have to relearn how to walk, your brain and nerves have to come up with new circuits and so on, supposedly, and that happens because you go to therapy a million times and repeat the same motions until your body gets it. I think piano practice is no different. If you bust your ass trying to improve your technique and control, you will change physically and become an improved person.
That may sound like utter bullshit to a non-musician, but it sounds like truth to me. Music is a strange combination of the mental, the physical and the spiritual. You have to learn the technique, hit the right notes and then learn to FEEL it all, so that you end up playing with passion. That takes a lot of practice, which is pure-assed WORK until it all starts to come together.
Then, it is absolute joy.
I couldn't help it. I laughed when I saw this.
I'm sick that way.
it's better to surrender!!!
I once had a fight with the Internal Revenue Service. They wanted money that didn't belong to them, so I protested and jumped through every stupid hoop they put in my way. Jennifer told me to shut up and let them have the money. It was only $420 and that was a cheap price to pay to keep from pissing the IRS off. Besides, they owed US--- we didn't owe THEM.
With me, it wasn't the money--- it was the principle of the thing. Once a citizen becomes too frightened to stand up to a government bureauracy when the bureaucracy is WRONG, we've all become sheeple. It's time to piss on the fire and call the dogs.
So, I did all the letter-writing, receipt-mailing and phone-calling that they demanded that I do to solve this problem. This project took about three months to complete. I don't believe that I ever talked to ANYONE who knew what the fuck was going on there. THAT'S your government.
In the end, I received a check for $428, because the IRS added interest onto the money they owed me. Just a check--- no letter, no explanation, no written apology and not even a good ol' "fuck you!" from those people. Just a check. I guess that was proof enough that I was right and they were wrong. That was fine with me.
I didn't roll over and let those people railroad me.
he shoulda used listerine
It's late. I just thought that this is a strange story. When a rapist can be identified by his bad breath, he must be one stinking bastard. No wonder he can't get laid without a knife.
I hope they throw the book at him, then teach him to brush his teeth in jail.
February 16, 2005
I haven't worked in about 15 months now. I enjoy all the free time, but as much as I hate to admit it, I miss my job. I miss the people I worked with. During the 24 years I worked, other than hours of sleep, I spent more time with THOSE PEOPLE than I did with my family.
I understand this feeling.
After my sudden and surprising dismissal, I heard from exactly THREE "work friends" afterward. I was disappointed. As when I write a great post on this blog, I thought me being fired might draw a few more comments than it did. But it didn't, and that's the way it goes.
Job-friends can forget you fast.
If one more person tells me that I need a girlfriend in my life, that I need to find "love" again and share all of my wonderful, gentle, caring attributes with a Significant Other, I'm gonna go on a got-dam rampage with a baseball bat while I howl at the moon and smash car windshields and U.S. mailboxes. I don't WANT a girlfriend.
And I damned sure don't want one who would have ME.
(Besides... if I want a companion, I can get one from a warehouse, kinda like shopping at Home Depot instead of engaging in exotic courtship rituals.)
a science lesson
From my brother:
A major research institution has recently announced the discovery of
These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which
However, it can be detected as it impedes every reaction with which it
Governmentium has a normal half-life of three years; it does not decay, but
In fact, Governmentium's mass will actually increase over time, since each
You will know it when you see it. When catalyzed with money, Governmentium
(Ain't it the truth!)
i must go cry now
Real men, do, you know. Cry, I mean. When people insult me and my mama and talk about what a big old fart woman-hating, red-necked asshole I am, I really get my feelings hurt. I curl into a fetal ball and weep.
Of course YOU don't have commenters like that, do you? You have nice, flower-tossing people who LOVE YOU. That crap comes only from MY fetid site. Let's see....
It's just the A-Man monthly shitstorm. He does this crap for attention and is a selfish little boy who likes to lash out at people. The scary part is, he actually thinks he's a decent man.
Gah, that guy seems to be WAY over sensitive if you ask me, he cant even look at what you have writen and get that is not a stab at Jason.
What an asshole, I'm going to go over and say a few words.
See why I'm hiding in the closet while sucking my thumb and curling in a fetal position? COMMENETERS ARE MEAN!!! And I can't TAKE IT!!!
Here's how I cry about that: "BWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!" Fuck every one of you if you can't take criticism. Grow a cast-iron butt or quit blogging. I wrote you an apology (which I seldom do) and if that's not good enough, you can kiss my Cracker ass along with your commenters.
I'm in the kitchen. I don't mind the heat.
I read this post and it takes me right back to what I've always believed. Freedom of Speech is the most precious right we have in this country. And the PURPOSE of free speech is to allow unpleasant voices to be heard. Yes--- you have the RIGHT to say things that piss people off.
But you are just as accountable for your use of free speech as you are for your Second Amendment right to bear arms. Fuck up with either one, and you may pay a price. Armed robbery will land you in jail. So will murder. The Second Amendment does't affect that kind of behavior, nor does it protect it.
Free speech is the same thing. If you voice unpopular opinions, be ready for a backlash. You have the right to VOICE those opinions, but you don't have the right to make people accept them. If you piss people off with what you say, shut up about the First Amendment and deal with the consequences. You were allowed to speak.
I'm not really angry at Kerr-McGee for firing me over this blog. I wrote some posts that could have caused them grand and expensive legal headaches in court, now that political correctness rules. HOLY SHIT!!! I used the forbidden "N-Word" in a post and Corporate Legal pissed all over the room. Just imagine THAT post brought out as evidence in a racial discrimination suit against the company?
I also called the Union a bunch of lazy slackards and I called my ex-wife, a top-level executive, a "bloodless cunt." No wonder the company was upset with me. I have the RIGHT to say such things, but I SHOULDN'T say them in my situation.
I knew the risk I was taking. I bearded the lion anyway.
They paid me off, I'm happy and I still write about the same way I always did before. I thought I had a pretty good case to sue them, but I just took what they offered and ran. I don't buy the claim that "free speech" is a right that carries no consequences with it.
Say what you want to. You have that right. But if you are exposed as a fraud, hated by the people you expect to buy your records and despised by people who hear you rant, don't whine about it. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.
Or you should have.
beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy
I wonder if I'll hear from Quinton today. That would be nice, considering it's my birthday and all, but I don't really expect it. I don't expect anything from him anymore.
I realpsed some and feel bad again today, but I'm running low on cigarettes and I'm gonna have to get dressed and go the the store whether I want to or not. I believe that I can make it to Randall's and back down the dirt road. I don't want to go much farther than that. But I gotta have cigarettes.
If I could receive one gift today, I wish for my son back. Even just for the weekends. I believe that a lot of my belly problems come from the shit over him instigated by my ex-wife. That just ain't right.
I miss my boy. I miss washing his hair, watching him sleep and cooking bacon and eggs for breakfast in the morning. I miss tossing a football with him. I miss watching him grow to be a man.
Oh, well. That ain't my job anymore. I got fired.
must be an acquired taste
I don't like the taste of Listerine. Evidentally, some people do.
ADRIAN, Mich. -- A woman who pleaded guilty to driving while drunk on three glasses of Listerine was sentenced Tuesday to two years of probation.
She was stewed. But on LISTERINE??? WHY???
Nyquil works a lot better.
I've got Jim beat on this one. I'm blogrolled on an artistic erotic photography site. Some people might even call some of the pictures pornographic. Not me. I think they are BEAUTIFUL, although I can't figure out what some of them are.
But I appreciate the link!
I once made home-crafted beer five gallons at a time. I was proud of the results, so I used the same technique (except for building a still) to make about a gallon of very strong "homemade wine" once I cooked it off. I was a happy little brewer, but I realize now that I was a piker.
i always wondered
I've never met a genuine, flying, Chinese, kung-fu, master ninja in my life, and I've looked all over for them. I see HUNDREDS in the movies, but I never meet any Chinese person, no matter how inscrutable, who can fly. NEVER have I seen one bounce from behind the register at the 7-11 store and land on the roof.
Now i know why.
I didn't mean to piss her off. Obviously, I did.
Yes, darlin' I have criticized "skins" many times before because I don't like them or understand the need for them. I NEVER have called you fat. I made a blanket observation about those cartoon characters on skins and you took it personally. For that, and anything I said in my post about crying that upset you, I apologize.
I cannot control what commenters write on my blog. THEY attacked you, not me, but if that sends you into a pout, you'd better work on growing a tougher ass. Blog commenters are like that... I know a lot of them have been pretty nasty to me, but I don't care. You shouldn't, either.
It sounds to me like you've got a good man, especially considering the emotionally-draining line of work he's in. The fact that a movie makes him cry should make you PROUD of him. He hasn't let life stomp the feelings out of him yet.
That's a good thing. And if he cries in front of YOU, that's even better. That's love and trust in action. You should appreciate that, not hint that it is "ridiculous." You just set me off wrong by taking such a light-hearted approach to the subject. It's not light-hearted to me.
Real men DO cry.
February 15, 2005
I hope I save this post just right. As of midnight, I'm officially 53 years old (although I wasn't born until about 6:30 in the morning on Feburary 16, 1952).
Harry Birthday to me!!!!
I hate these damn birthdays anymore.
who would you pick?
I realize that I'm speaking to a whole lot of people who won't know what the hell I'm talking about, but I grew up (somewhere around the Dawn of Man as it appears nowdays) reading doc savage. I also read Tarzan, John Carter of Mars and James Bond back then. And (I am not making this up) one of my favorite places to read was sitting in a big oak tree in my parent's back yard. I loved sitting in that tree as much as I loved reading the books.
I read this post and it made me think (always a dangerous thing). If I were going to make a Doc Savage movie today, who would I cast in the lead role?
I know a lot of people are going to hate me for saying this, but I believe that Vin Diesel could do it, if he wore a nice hairpiece and bronzed himself up just right. Doc Savage was a brilliant scientist, but he wasn't no pussy, either. He could duke it out when he had to.
You got any BETTER suggestions?
the campaign continues
I intend to make a few more cabinet appointments over the next few days (folks... I really HAVE been feeling poorly, but I think I'm better today) and I should have the entire
I'm working with the idea for a nice campaign sticker. What do you think of this one?
real men do cry
I read this post and started to fire off a really vitriolic A-Man comment. But I refrained. I DO NOT believe that Gennie should find it "hilarious" that her big, tough, macho-man cop husband cried over a movie. The fact that she DID disturbed me.
Just what the hell do you wimmen want? I'll admit: I can be a sumbitch, I've had a lot of physical fights, I've fired people, and I've been stone-faced and stoic when my feelings were running amok because that's what I knew I had to do at the time. I've always tried to act like a man.
But I am an emotional person. I don't believe that my tendency to mist-up or even bawl like a baby in certain situations makes me any less manly than someone who NEVER does that. I suffer from the curse of empathy, and I often find myself REALLY feeling other people's pain because I know how I would feel in their shoes.
I cried when both of my children were born. I didn't do it in front of anybody--- I waited until I could get off by myself--- but the combination of stress-relief, joy, thankfulness that both kids were born okay and the realization of the responsibility I had accepted required an outlet.
So, I CRIED, long and hard, complete with a red-face and snot running from my nose. I did that again when I helped bury my father, but I waited until I was alone to do it. Any woman who laughs about that doesn't understand a man. It ain't funny to the guy at the time. And we are taught NOT to do it.
Yeah, I cried when Ole Yeller died, too. I cried at the end of The Yearling. I cried when John Lennon was killed because I knew the Beatles could never play together again.
I stood before that bastard judge in divorce court at 9:30 one morning with my face screwed on tight when he lowered the boom on me and let my ex-wife walk away with everything I ever cared about, with a new lover in tow. I made it out of the parking lot of the courthouse to the first place I could find to get off the road and THAT'S where I sat and cried, for a good 15 minutes of weeping, gut-wrenching, terrible sobs.
Then, I cleaned myself up and went back to work before 1:00 that afternoon, and I didn't cry anymore that day. But I did again, many times later, and I still do it today when I look at pictures of Quinton.
So, what is it you wimmen want? A man who never cries? A man who HIDES his emotions from YOU for fear of ridicule? A man who is so "strong" that he doesn't feel pain and anguish, or if he does, he keeps that shit to himself?
Just WTF do you want?
This is my kind of gift for Valentine's Day. I am sad now because nobody gave any to me. If I had some, I wouldn't be blogging right now. I'd be lying on the floor, listening to loud music and watching the fibers in the carpet crawl around like tiny worms.
Just damn! Back in the 70s, I picked grocery bags full of those mushrooms every time it rained in the summer. I even found some once on New Year's Eve. I have not seen any growing wild for more than 25 years. Somebody told me that farmers use cow feed that kills the spores now. That's a crying shame.
Those mushrooms make GREAT tea, and probably good candy, too.
a garter holster
I can't help it. I think armed wimmen are sexy, as long as they aren't shooting at ME. I see a picture such as this one and I feel funny in my pants.
That is a sweet little pistol and it'll get the job done up-close and personal. It would look VERY NICE in a garter holster, too.
what a relief
I've often spent a sleepless night worrying about the pain I might have caused that last batch of live crabs I cooked and ate. I mean, it's possibly an incredibly cruel thing to do--- drop a live animal into a pot of boiling water and then EAT IT when you've heartlessly killed the poor thing.
"Lobsters and crabs have some capacity of learning, but it is unlikely that they can feel pain," concluded the 39-page report, aimed at determining if creatures without backbones should be subject to animal welfare legislation as Norway revises its animal welfare law.
Bejus! "Animal Welfare" law for lobsters and crabs. What's next? Laws protecting fire ants and cockroaches? I'll be happy to share my own opinion on this matter:
Human beings have some capacity for learning, but it is unlikely that some of them EVER will drag their heads out of their asses. Sheer stupidity is a uniquely human trait. Crabs and lobsters aren't stupid. The just don't think at all. They don't worry about Changing the World or Saving the Children. They just behave as crustaceans and taste good when cooked properly. Humans, on the other hand, worry a lot about stupid things, and the more stupid the person, the more stupid things he can invent to worry about.
People who worry about the "suffering" of crabs and lobsters don't have enough to do with their time.
Certain cruel and pitiless bloggers like to post "cute" cat pictures and even email them to me to piss me off. They giggle in their sadism and call it "cat-bombing."
Well, here is the real thing.
(Just check the link he provides. I suggest that if you get one of those, you play with it outside.)
I always like to read a story where an armed citizen foils would-be robbers and ventilates a couple in the process. Here's good one.
My only problem is with THIS BULLSHIT:
With not one but two assault rifles pointed at his head, Fixler says he was able to lunge away grabbing hold of his personal handgun firing off several rounds. Once the smoke cleared, one suspect was hit and the second man got away.
The emphasis on "assault rifles" is mine. A description of the actual "rifles" is missing from the article--- but I'll bet you a large sum of money that the perps weren't carrying actual assault rifles. They had scary-looking guns, that's all, and the one I saw in the video appears to be a semi-automatic handgun.
But most reporters believe that ANY spooky-looking gun is an assault rifle and they consistently misuse that term. Sometimes I have to wonder if they do it from sheer ignorance or because of an anti-gun political agenda.
February 14, 2005
Well... I DO know how to tie the proper knot...
I believe a lot of the reaction I've seen in both MSM and blogs miss the real importance of the Eason Jordan affair. Bloggers burnt Trent Lott, Harold Raines, Dan Rather and now Eason Jordan. That's no lynch mob out there doing that. It's people watching the watchdogs--- the MSM--- and with very little effort they find a lot of crap and now have a way to let other people know about it. The watchdogs aren't looking really good in this fight so far. Too much crap is there to be discovered, and they don't handle crap-discovery very well, probably because they are so acustomed to NEVER having anyone question them.
I believe that those days are fading fast. Blogging isn't going to go away--- it's going to get BIGGER, and that fact bodes ill for people who don't like to be fact-checked. Blogging won't change the world, but I'll bet it makes MSM nervous. Bloggers can damn sure change some BOSSES in MSM.
I believe that the more eyes we have watching, the safer the store. Journalism is no different. That's not a lynch mob out there exposing egregious mistakes in reporting. It's a bunch of individual citizens who want to keep the watchdog honest.
And I think it's a damn good thing.
People are quoting the lyrics of precious love songs for Valentine's Day. I see that crap and I move on to a different site. The song at my wedding was Randy Travis'--- "Forever and Ever, Amen," as performed by my brother and a girl named Sally who once was a singing partner of mine. They did a great job on the song.
I believed all the words at the time, too. It was PERFECT!!!
Subsequent experience demonstrated that MY version of "forever" and MY WIFE'S version of the same time span were quite a bit different.
I hate the words to that fucking song now.
I don't like to talk on the phone. That was one of my duties at work that I always hated, because I would much rather SEE the person I'm conversing with than hear a disembodied voice on the other end of a phone line. I read body language fairly well, and I believe that I COMMUNICATE with a lot of body language--- but nobody can do that over the phone and I have to GUESS about things I would know if I could see the person, face-to-face.
I happen to know this long-winded philosopher and HE called me the other night. We talked until my phone battery died.
I don't understand it. That one didn't seem like a long conversation. But IT WAS!!! Of course, it wasn't business, either, so we waxed Southern and existential for a while, then babbled our asses off. We have a lot of similar stories to tell.
I've been thinking about how my Circle of Friends changed over the years. All the way through life, you walk out of one circle into another, and sometimes don't even know how you got there when you survey your new friends in that new circle. But don't worry--- it won't stay the same for long, and you'll walk into another circle and start the process all over again.
If you are very lucky, you pick up a few GOOD friends that stick with you through it all. Long-time amigos. If you're SUPER LUCKY, you'll find a person to spend the rest of your life with--- to raise children with , keep a home with and sleep with every night. To grow old with. Together. With YOU!
But life doesn't work that way a lot anymore, and people keep walking into different circles and they never stop. Friends? Here today and gone tomorrow. Some people just keep walking and never think twice about it.
We change partners too often today.
I can be both a gun-nut and a swine with this list.
Why pistols are better than wimmen:
10 - YOU CAN TRADE IN AN OLD 44 FOR A NEW 22, NO QUESTIONS ASKED. 9 - YOU CAN KEEP ONE HANDGUN AT HOME, AND HAVE ANOTHER FOR WHEN YOU'RE ON THE ROAD. 8 - IF YOU ADMIRE A FRIEND'S HANDGUN AND TELL HIM SO, HE WILL PROBABLY LET YOU TRY IT OUT A FEW TIMES. 7 - YOUR PRIMARY HANDGUN DOESN'T MIND IF YOU KEEP ANOTHER HANDGUN FOR A BACK UP. 6 - YOUR HANDGUN WILL STAY WITH YOU EVEN IF YOU RUN OUT OF AMMO. 5 - A HANDGUN DOESN'T TAKE UP A LOT OF CLOSET SPACE. 4 - HANDGUNS FUNCTION NORMALLY EVERY DAY OF THE MONTH. 3 - A HANDGUN DOESN'T ASK, "DO THESE NEW GRIPS MAKE ME LOOK FAT?" 2 - A HANDGUN DOESN'T MIND IF YOU GO TO SLEEP AFTER YOU USE IT.
(Link shamelessly stolen from here.)
Fuck it. I couldn't give less of a damn about it. I didn't buy anybody anything and I don't intend to race out and do it now. But I will say this:
Happy Valentine's Day, Mama! I love you.
I'm sorry that I didn't make it over to visit this weekend and I won't be coming today, either. I can't make the drive. Little Robbie ain't feeling so well.
But don't worry. I'll get better.
If I could figure out how to make one of these flags, I would have. I have some excellent and clever ideas. But I'm too ignorant to make one and actually post it.
So, just go look at those. Some are pretty damned good.
make your own luck
Read this story and understand exactly why I like SUVs and full-sized pickup trucks. And also why you will NEVER ride with me without wearing a seat-belt.
I don't know about sex, because I've heard different opinions from wimmen, but size DOES MATTER in a bad car wreck. You're a lot better off in an SUV than you are in one of those rolling beer-cans the environmentalists love so much. Give me STEEL and WEIGHT on my vehicle and I tend to have a lot better joss than someone in a Yugo if we suffer a wreck.
It ain't a difficult concept to understand. It's a simple physics equation. Mass is GOOD in YOUR car wreck. Mass saves lives.
And if more yowling assholes cared about the lives of drivers as much as they do about government CAFE standards to protect "the environment," they'd see it, too. But they don't. THEY are willing to sacrifice lives needlessly to save a gallon of gas.
I call that a set of fucked-up priorities.
more sick fucks
Some members of the human race behave in a sub-human fashion. That's all there is to it and you can see examples of these butt-heads every day, usually in the headlines for suing somebody over complete bullshit.
Most people would chalk it up to bad luck. What are you gonna do, sue a seven-year-old?
Mary Ellen Michaels is a sick fuck in MY book. And so is the lawyer who agreed to take this case.
February 13, 2005
I don't understand the thinking behind this kind of crap. this blogger is correct. I wouldn't wear the damned tag, either, but I could play some clever tricks with it. They'd be tracking their goddam bathroom plumbing if they pinned on of those on me.
This kind of stuff scares me. I don't want a bar-code tattooed on my forehead, but that's where we might be headed if we don't stop it NOW.
steal my gun
I read about this story on several different sites, but this is the best account in MY humble opinion. I can't imagine MY father ever doing something that asinine.
If he saw me mishandling the weapon, he might take it away until I remembered the gun safety rules he taught me with my first BB gun, or he might demand that I sell it because I was too stupid to own that kind of rifle. He might have said, "You don't need this thing. I DO!!! Here's the money you paid for it and it's MINE now."
But he wouldn't have called his doctor and then his girlfriend for advice before stealing the gun and giving it to the cops. I read that part and wondered... This guy has a GIRLFRIEND? What must SHE be like?
I think the guy's a blithering idiot myself.
i hate snakes
It's interesting that I ran across this post right after I wrote about chickens. Webb's Seed & Feed (just outside of Springfield, Georgia) sold sweet feed, dried corn, chicken feed, fertilizer, insecticide, herbicide, cross-ties, landscape timbers, cinder block, fence-posts, fence wire, and just about every other supply I needed on the mini-farm, so I shopped there regularly, at their big warehouse.
Webb's also sold WOODEN EGGS.
I am not making THIS up, either. These were eggs made out of wood (or wood machined to LOOK like an egg) that you could put in a hen's nest to encourage her to lay. Hens don't like an empty nest. The eggs served a secondary purpose, too.
I don't know of ANYONE who ever kept a lot of chickens who didn't eventually have a problem with snakes. The slithering bastards will crawl into the coop, eat biddies and swallow an egg in a heartbeat, the thieving shits. Some of those egg-eating snakes get BIG, too. I hated them and killed as many as I could catch, which was quite a few.
But the dumb bastards will ALSO swallow a wooden egg in their blind gluttony. Guess what happens then? The snake can't digest it, it plugs up his digestive tract and kills him graveyard dead. You may lose a 10-cent wooden egg out of the deal, but you get rid of a snake, too.
Yeah. This Cracker boy has bought wooden eggs before and used them to kill snakes.
now i know i'm sick
I read this post and knew what he was talking about. I raised a lot of chickens for a while.
I recommend some brown (I forget the name--- people in Effingham County, Georgia, call them "Easter-Egg Hens") that lay colored eggs. I bought mine from a mail-order catalogue on the advice of one of my neighbors. I had six of those hens and they were very productive layers. Those eggs always made nice presents to give away. People cannot believe that they come right out of the chicken pre-colored the way they are.
Yeah... I AM NOT making that up. These hens lay eggs that are pale blue or light green, just like dyed Easter eggs. They are gentle, well-behaved hens and their eggs are BEAUTIFUL. They taste good, too. The EGGS--- not the chickens. I never ate one of those hens.
(If you don't believe me about the colored eggs, read this).
Sometimes, I really miss my mini-farm.
i'm still alive
I think I'm still alive, anyway. I don't feel so good, but I appear to be breathing and I have a pulse. Unfortunately, if the entire Dallas Cowboy's Cheerleading squad showed up at my door right now and offered me unlimited group sex, I'd run 'em off and go back to bed by myself. That's how good I feel.
But have to admit. If I was thinking (or CAPABLE) of romance right now, I'd write a post like this one.
Fuck it. I can't get the permalink to work. Just scroll down to "Valentine's Day." I don't have the energy or the ambition to try to get the link right.
February 12, 2005
I read this post and I started thinking about tying knots. I never was a Boy Scout, but I've been around boats a lot and I took a BUNCH of Confined Space Rescue training, where learning to tie interesting knots was REQUIRED to pass the course. Plus, at my age, playing with a limp piece of rope is something I've become accustomed to.
This is a picture of me teaching Stacey to tie a genuine Hangman's Noose, complete with the 13 twists above the loop. She was a quick study and got it right on her second try.
Heh. I think I ought to open a bondage school.
Ward Churchill is the pure distillation of where professional victimhood, political correctness and leftist academic thought leads.
He's also a a complete fraud.
i don't know if I'm up for it
I had a bad night. Bad dreams about my ex-wife. A bad bellyache this morning. I don't know whether I need to go puke or take a pain pill and go back to bed. I just know that I damn sure don't feel 100% of my normally charming self.
Then, I read this post. About how you display your feelings to the person you love.
Now that I've given a female perspective, are there any of you guys out there who would like to speak out and give me another frame of reference?
I don't like public, suck-face displays of affection. If you wanna fuck, go get a room. Take that shit indoors. That's one of the reasons so many "Gay Pride" displays disgust me. I don't CARE about your sexual preference--- do whatever you want to do---just don't feel compelled to throw it in MY face. How about a little decorum here?
But I've always liked touching the woman I was with, usually with my hand, just lightly on the bottom of her back when we walked together. I like a good hug every now and then. Wake her with a kiss--- not some tonsil-swabbing, tongue-probing face-suck, but just a gentle kiss on the lips. "Good morning, darlin."
I also always liked to leave post-it notes where
I also sent her flowers and had them delivered to work for no other reason than to impress her co-workers. THEY didn't get flowers with a card saying "From Someone Who Loves You" when it wasn't a holiday or a special occasion of any kind. Yeah, I have a romantic bone or two in my body.
I would save for a year just to buy some really expensive, exotic jewlery to give her for Christmas or on her birthday. Diamonds. Big, juicy, shiny diamonds. A set of onyx earrings with a matching pendant on a gold chain that I had hand-made by a local jeweler. Pearls. I liked to decorate my woman.
I also liked sitting in a lawn chair at the beach or just on the back porch in the evening while reading a book and gently stroking her legs and feet. Regular readers KNOW about my foot fetish, but that wasn't SEXUAL to me. It was INTIMATE, a display of affection, a physical contact that I enjoyed. I loved spooning with her at night, even when she snored.
I thought SHE enjoyed that stuff, too. I must have been mistaken. She ripped my heart out and stomped that sucker flat.
Okay, I'm done now. Did I answer the question?
quote of the day
Shamelessly stolen from this post about why men are happier than wimmen:
The world is your urinal.
Yes. It is. But if you don't watch out, it'll piss back at you.
February 11, 2005
the most trusted name in news
I tried to ignore this bullshit, because CNN has lied to America for years. But after Rathergate, this case of journalistic clap just would NOT go away, even after clandestine penecillin doses. So, eason jordan resigned. I LOVE the way he did it, too:
Jordan said he was quitting to avoid CNN being "unfairly tarnished" by the controversy
What the fuck does that allegedly mean? Can you imagine CNN allowing a Republican politician to get away with that kind of mealy-mouthed excuse for being caught in an outright LIE that was damaging to the country's foreign policy during a time of WAR? They'd be all over his ass like flies on cowshit.
Stop. Listen carefully. Hear that? That's the sound of silence from the most trusted name in news over this flapdoodle. If any "tarnishing" occurred here, CNN did it to itself.
This tempest could have been quelled very quickly in ANY of three ways, if CNN really gave a shit about the truth. First, they could have stuck with Jordan's story and provided proof that he was CORRECT in his allegations. Okay, that idea is ridiculous because Jordan was talking out of his ass.
Second, Jordan could have released transcripts of the interview and ADMITTED that he was talking out of his ass, but that people didn't understand what he really MEANT and tried to talk his way out of it. That plan might have worked, because we have enough stupid Americans in this country to believe ANYTHING, no matter HOW insane it is, as long as they hear it often enough. (Don't believe me? Just try "Social Security Trust Fund.")
Third, they could have fired his ass right away and said "we don't put up with this kind of shit at CNN!!!"
CNN did none of the above. Instead, they stonewalled the problem, hoped that it would go away, and finally allowed Jordan to exit gracefully with that "I'm going down selflessly, to protect the most trusted name in news" bullshit. Yeah. He doesn't want the network "unfairly" tarnished.
No, if we call a senior executive of a major news network a got-dam liar and he is unable or UNWILLING to dispute those charges, that's about as unfair as it gets, isn't it? The next thing you know, we'll be expecting Peter Jennings to be an unbiased reporter.
What a crock of shit and bless the blogosphere for exposing it.
set high goals
I'm not gonna mention the site, but there is a troll there who once called himself "Stinker" but is now is very proud of himself for being able to call himself "Prick" now. What a feat of evolution! All the way from Stinker to Prick and the bastard is PROUD of it.
Once this wonderful guy rescued me from my spam problems, I started thinking about trolls. That made my head hurt, but I did it anyway. WHY would anybody want to be a troll in the first place? I mean, that's a pretty low bar to set to begin with, but when you start bragging about changing your name from "Stinker" to "Prick," I really have to wonder about the person laughing.
Did you tell your mama about that accomplishment? Is SHE proud of you? Does your mama swim out to troop ships? Were YOU the result of a drunken father who had sex with a dog? I have to ponder such serious questions, since YOU raised the issue.
I know why trolls do what they do. It's THE INTERNET and they can sling feces and then HIDE behind fake names, phoney email addresses and avoid ANY accountability for what they do. It's pure masturbation, that's all, and that's what those people LIKE. They are the sick fucks who buy inflatable sex-dolls and can't even get the DOLL to have sex with them.
I know the loneliest feeling in the world, because I've experienced it several times. Be on stage, under the lights, in front of a crowd and play your best song. Then hear nothing when you're finished. No applause---not even a boo. Just fucking NOTHING!!!
So, try to warm the crowd up, break the ice and get SOMETHING going by juggling and telling your best joke. Have that fall flat on its ass, too, and you STILL see nothing but a sea of stone-faced corpses beyond the stage lights, and you still have 45 minutes to go in the set.
THAT is a lonely feeling.
Post a blog for more than three years. You can catch a lot of shit from that, too, and you don't always make a lot of friends. But at least you have the balls to get up on the stage and do it. Under the lights, and playing to whatevewr kind of audience you have to deal with.
Trolls don't operate that way. Trolls are cockroaches. They like to run across your kitchen floor, shit where they can, but they don't want anybody to see anything but the pecker-tracks they leave behind. Turn on the kitchen light and they run under the refrigerator. They HIDE, then brag that they changed from Stinker to Prick or... I dunno "Bag of Shit" may be next.
What a jolly way to live your life. Make mama and daddy proud. Go far in this world. Raise children and teach them well. "Son, I wanna show you something you need to know. Watch what I'M about to do on somebody's web site. See, son? This is how a real MAN behaves."
Bejus. These assholes could deflate a blow-up sex-doll just by LOOKING at one.
well, i took the test
Actually, except for the wheelchair (which I won't need for at least another year or so) the results are pretty accurate.
it's on AGAIN!!!
On the BLACK STARZ network. The same documentary I saw this morning. "The Howlin' Wolf Story." If you've got cable, go watch it NOW.
You won't regret it.
(I remember being about 20 years old and having a gig at The Cloister at Sea Island, Georgia. I played the breaks for a very good band of mostly black guys who did dance music for the rich crowd there. They all wore identical white tuxedos, and I sported Tom Jones attire, open-necked shirt and bell-bottom pants. At the end of showtime, I ended up in the parking lot smoking a joint with a bunch of those fellows who CLAIMED to have played with all the greats. Muddy Waters. Charlie Parker. Blind Lemmon. Robert Johnson. The Wolfman.
I didn't know whether to believe them or not, but they sure could play, and they looked like they had been soaked in bar-smoke and alcohol for many, many years. The youngest one was probably 60 years old. They had good pot, too, so I took their word for what they said it was. Some of them probably DID play with those legends.
That's another reason I become amused when some asshole such as Oliver Willis calls me a "virulent racist." Music KNOWS no race, baby. And when those old fossils told me "You don't play bad for a white boy. Wanna go smoke?" I went. I took that invitation as a COMPLIMENT and the "white boy" thing meant nothing at all. What else were they going to call me? They didn't learn my name until we lit up in the parking lot.
Music is a universal language and more people need to learn to speak it. )
I don't admire many people in this world. In fact, you gotta show me some serious wherewithall to even earn my RESPECT, let alone my admiration. But I'll tell you how to do that.
*Display courage. I'm not talking about crazy-assed, attack that hill, show veins in your teeth, John Wayne bullshit. Being fearless is different from being courageous. A courageous person feels fear, tingles with it and overcomes that feeling because he is determined to do the right thing. THAT'S the person who will stand when everybody else kneels or who will NOT sacrifice a belief for political correctness or personal safety. That's a Tall Dog.
*Be honest. Even when the truth hurts, tell it, straight-up. Lies are easy. That's the refuge of a coward. I still believe that a man's word is his bond and I don't need no goddam lawyer to tell me who I can trust. If you make a deal with an honest person, you don't need a signed contract. A handshake is good enough.
*Be willin.' Say what you mean and mean what you say. Back it up with spine. Face trouble head-on and and don't try to weasel yourself out of it if things start going badly. Win the fight, or go down fighting.
*Walk Tall. I am a small man, but size doesn't matter when you walk tall. It's an attitude that comes from everything I posted above. I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees and I've never asked for a hand-out in my life. I never will, either. If I can't get it on my own, I don't deserve it.
*Don't Quit. There's a big difference between losing and being whipped. You may lose a lot in life, but never let ANYTHING whip you.
*Take no shit. Look around this country today. Is it just ME seeing flashbacks from the the drugs I ingested in the 60s, or are we becoming a nation of sheeple, who don't know how to stand up and say, "I'm not gonna take this crap!" Got-Dam!!! If enough people grew a set of balls and yelled "WE ain't gonna take this crap!" the crap would go away. The only way that crap gets served to you is because you don't bitch about it. If you eat it, you deserve the meal you get.
That's MY humble opinion, which is why I admire Teddy Roosevelt.
cod liver oil
I swear to Bejus that I would rather drink an entire bottle of cod liver oil than read shit like this:
Someone whose thoughts matter a great deal to me asked me recently if I was reliving or only remembering the events of last year. I understand the difference, but am not sure I know the answer, neither perhaps, knowing that I am more than remembering, not sure if I have the opportunity yet to re-live. In so many ways, it is as if I am living last year for the first time. I lived it then in the moment, these last few weeks before she left us, almost completely in the moment, unencumbered by any sense of balance, any regard for the ordinary world around me. Impassioned and unobjective, I was the least of what I could be for her, even as I struggled to make sense of the path upon which she had been set. And so, my memory is poor, rejuvenated only now in the vise of life’s details, succumbed to the drug that is grief, a numbing narcotic, it highlights, focuses, and paints with graphic lurid color upon some of the smallest things, creating connections where there might actually be none, missing the obvious, the everyday, weaving a world where there should be none. So, I do not re-live, I live instead for the first time, watching as a witness, in some ways for a chaste time, the path untrammeled through the course of what I have lived before. I have lived so long anesthetized, the peeling away of numbness is new, the feelings felt anachronistic, the familiar reacquaintance with reality overcome with disappointment.
Some people simply should not be allowed to play with words. They make a mess with them or grow up to be Ward Churchills. And I am not giving that dripping piece of pap a link, either.
Guess what? It comes from California.
I watched an interesting documentary today about one of my all-time favorite blues-men--- the legendary howlin' wolf. He was damned good. I learned a few amazing things from that show, because it had interviews with a lot of people who knew him, recorded with him, hired him and just plain loved his music.
I didn't know until today what a big influence he was on The Rolling Stones. They worshipped the man. I also didn't know that Wolf actually got rich off his music, which was unusual back in those days. Most of those old blues pickers pissed the money away or shot it up their arms. He didn't. He had a core group of musicians that he liked to play with and he actually paid them UNEMPLOYMENT INSURANCE to tide them over between gigs.
He was functionally illiterate until the age of 50, when he went to NIGHT SCHOOL to learn how to read and write. He married a good, Christian woman (Is that a match you'd expect? A guy who played honkie-tonks till the wee hours, in rooms full of booze and loose wimmen? And he hooks up with a fine, religious woman?) and SHE ran his financial affairs and did a damn good job of it.
Nobody they interviewed had a bad word to say about him. Oh, they said he was a tough bandleader--- he expected your ass to show up on time and play it HIS way, or he'd fire the shit out of you--- but I don't see anything wrong with that attitude and neither did the people who knew him well. And he could ENTERTAIN.
One of the clips they showed had him on a show called "Shindig" sometime back in the mid-sixties, when the Wolf was an old man. He still had more booty-moves than Elvis ever dreamed of. He still could rock the house. I ordered two of his CDs today. I had forgotten just how good he was.
If you get a chance to see that show, watch it. Howlin' Wolf was one of a kind.
make my day
I want one of each of these. Maybe several of the T-shirts.
I shoulda thought of that before Aaron did.
i got it
She probably thought this clever use of words would just fly right over my pointy little head. Well, it didn't, darlin.' I'm smarter than I look.
I hate to intrude while my guest-bloggers are working it—ladies, gentleman, and Acidman, you are doing an EXCELLENT job—but I just had to post a comment on this.
See? You have ladies, gentlemen... and then ME, as if I belong to a different species from normal human beings. I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted. I pondered this deep, philosophical question for all of five seconds before I made up my mind. I'm going to choose "flattered."
I always think of myself as unique.
When wimmen lie, it's always for a good reason. You can take that to the bank.
At the same time you pay your alimony and child-support.
spray me, baby!
We live in interesting times.
I grew up with urban legends such as "Spanish Fly" and wimmen stuck on gearshift knobs as a result, and I always wanted to buy some of that--- just for purely scientific research purposes, of course.
Now, they've got something similiar in an aerosol can.
What a brave new world this is.
This is a horrible story and I cannot fathom the mind of someone capable of doing such a thing. If they are caught, they need to be dragged off and shot.
But it reminds me of something I once saw happen on Eisenhower Drive in Savannah. It COULD have been tragic, but it wasn't, and it often flashed back through my mind when I became a father. I was behind a car on Sallie Mood Drive (still Meridian Road back in those days) that was making a left turn on Eisenhower. A nice gap appeared in traffic, so he went and I went right behind him.
The passenger side door of his car flew open and what resembled a bundle of laundry came rolling out and hit the side of the road. It was a big blanket that unraveled as it bounced along the highway. Out of the blanket popped a little boy, probably no more than three years old. The little fart jumped up and went running after the car, apparently unhurt but in a total mode of pure panic, not because he fell out of the car but because DADDY WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE HIM!!! He was running and waving both little arms over his head.
The car ahead of me screeched to a stop and a young man (and you talk about PANIC--- you should have seen HIS face) jumped out and ran back to grab the boy. He snatched him up in a bear hug and just stood there for a minute, holding that little boy tight.
I eased around them and went on my merry way. Everybody appeared to be okay, and I didn't watch to see if the guy went back to retrieve the blanket, too.
Now I know. The little boy was scared, but just fine once he was safe in daddy's arms. Nobody ran off and left him.
Daddy probably had nightmares for YEARS over that.
(UPDATE: The story isn't true. The boy's own mama made it up. Whatta shit of a woman. But that fact doesn't change my blanket story or me seeing that kid fall out of the car that day. OR the panic on the man's face when he ran back to get his son. OR the fact that I still remember seeing that happen.)
February 10, 2005
I ran this blog for three years without EVER deleting any comments, other than spammers, because I just let the trolls roll. They didn't hurt MY feelings and I didn't get all snotty, pouty, go PMS and de-link people the way some other bloggers do. I'm in the kitchen. I can stand the heat.
But my tolerance for complete assholery has reached its end. I now feel about certain trolls the same way I do about spammers. I'd just as soon shoot them as put gas in my truck. And Mikelx, you have achieved that pinnacle of assholery on my scale. You are a dumb-fuck idiot. You probably don't know how to wipe your own ass. If you EVER had an original thought, it would die of loneliness in your empty brain.
So let's get one thing straight RIGHT NOW, asshole. I will delete every comment you EVER make on this blog from now on and I will keep doing it until you realize that it takes you longer to write your crap than it does for me to delete it. You pitiful little shit.
If you hate me and my blog so much, why do you keep coming back? Never mind... I know.
It's penis envy.
(Update: Daniel Hopkins (with no return email address--- you're gone, too. Fuckface.)
This one is for heterosexuals only. Nah... wait a minute. I don't care which side of the plate you bat from... you can answer the questions, too. I'm just curious here.
I am a straight male and I like female boobs. I've seen some downright BEAUTIFUL boobs and some that were okay and a few that barely qualified as boobs, but I cannot recall EVER seeing a set that I thought was ugly. I like boobs. I like some better than others, but that fact doesn't change the basic premise that I LIKE BOOBS.
Now... I gotta ask you wimmen. Do you look at cocks the same way I look at boobs? You know, some are BEAUTIFUL, some are okay and THAT ONE will do because it's the only one around? I'm trying to explore the female mind here and I always get confused when I go there.
The only cock that EVER fascinated ME was my own, and I've never had an interest in another guy's cock. But you wimmen DO, and I want you to 'splain that to me. I will bare my assets first:
* I like titties with nice nipples.
* I like titties that AROUSE a woman when you play with her nipples.
* I like small titties. Anything over a handful is wasted.
* My experience has taught me that wimmen with big racks don't have sensitive nipples.
* Wimmen with big racks don't seem to care about their asses, which I happen to think is the most sexy thing on a woman.
Now, I've had my male chauvanist rant. So, YOU tell ME? (By the way... I got this idea from playing a game of poker with some wimmen and all the cards had well-hung nekkid male studs on them, and THEY started the cock-talk, not me. I just listened.)
*Are some cocks prettier than others?
* Did you ever see one that you thought was downright UGLY?
* What is the difference?
*How many of you ever saw an uncircumsized male?
* What is better--- length, width or the person it's attached to?
* Is a blow-job FUN, or do you see it as a female duty?
* You have multiple orgasms (I mean "abbadabbas") How do you do that?
Okay, you bold, liberated wimmen. Answer THOSE questions and I'll write about what I think about "choochie" later.
I swore I wouldn't do it, but I started the ball rolling today. I'm gonna need some money before long. So, I am about to put a PayPal button on my site and try to sell some shit to gullible people. I'm not stooping to Blogads yet, but I may go there soon.
How would YOU like a genuine GUT RUMBLES t-shirt or a bumper sticker that says "Gut Rumbles--hate me, adore me, or bite me?" How about an Acidman beer mug? How about one of the CDs I'm about to manufacture, featuring ME playing everything and singing everything? How about some genuine cork drink coasters that have a nekkid picture of ME on them? How about a one-of-a-kind, collector's item Acidman Thong set of panties for the adventuresome woman (or MAN, if he's interested) that features that DOT "Corrosive" label right in the front?
Huh? Can you resist THAT offer?
I hope to hell not. I'm about to start trying to sell them.
i agree... I think
I read this post twice and I'm still not certain what I think about it. I don't like the idea of government telling people who can procreate and who cannot, but when people can't take care of their own asses, WTF are they doing having children?
My friend catfish and I have talked about this issue before and we agree on one thing. ANY male can make a baby. But it takes a MAN to raise a child.
Dogs have puppies. It ain't that difficult to procreate. And if you don't know people who SHOULD NOT have children but still do, you live a very sheltered life. But where do you draw the line?
I don't know. But I don't think I want government doing it. (Odd... considering the post below.)
I'm gonna have to think about this one for a while.
I rant frequently about the fact that we have too many laws in this country and nanny-government is sucking the freedom right out of every one of us. But EVEN I sometimes say, "there oughta be a law!"
Check this. That once was a web site that I liked to visit. It ain't anymore. Spammers shut it down.
The same thing has happened to other bloggers and it almost got me and velociman, too. Spammers have crashed servers, fucked up emails, overwhelmed blogs, hogged bandwidth that they don't pay for and otherwise behaved like vandalistic swine all over blogdom. That shit should be a criminal offense.
I don't see any difference between a fucking low-life spammer and some homeless prick who just decides to move into your house and live there rent-free, eat all your groceries, drink all your beer and then burn your goddam house down when you run out of food. If a bum invades your house and decides to live there without your permission, you can call the cops and have his ass hauled away to a nice cell.
We should be able to do the same thing to spammers. They are PARASITES and VANDALS. They aren't just annoying, like a rash around your nutsack. They are DESTRUCTIVE and utterly without conscience. They are thieves and pimps. They are the fucking scum of the internet. They are worse than any dope-dealer I ever knew. We need to rid the world of them.
Bejus forgive me for saying this, but we need a FEDERAL LAW that makes serial spamming a criminal offense punishable by steep fines and lengthy prison sentences. Anybody who knows dick about the internet can find where these people are coming from. Do it. Arrest them, confiscate all their property, lock them up and use the confiscated wealth to PAY the people they spammed as reparations for damage done.
I'd prefer to drag them off and shoot them like diseased animals, but that would be an insult to diseased animals. (Although... if I ever get a shot at "Bob" or "Top," you can bet your sweet ass that I'm gonna take it.) Buncha pukes.
I'm serious about this idea. If we're going to lock Martha Stewart up, menace to society that SHE is, then we ought to be able to find some jail space for spammers. Martha didn't STEAL from anybody. Spammers do.
Make an example out of one or two of these shit-bags and that may discourage others. If that doesn't work, make examples out of the others, too. This shit has GOT to stop. And as much as I hate to say it, government is the entity that can get the job done.
This is a more serious problem than second-hand smoke, and government just pisses its pants wanting to attack THAT. Let government do some fucking GOOD for a change. Plus, there's REVENUE in it, because the big-time spammers make a lot of money. THAT should interest the government. See? It's a win-win deal. The spammers go away and the government makes money. That's better than firing tasers at 10 year-old boys, the way a lot of cops like to do now.
Go after the spammers.
what color is your finger?
I hope this loathesome bastard DOES run for the US Senate. Remember all those blue fingers Iraqis were displaying when THEY voted?
Franken's voters can show their BROWN fingers. They're gonna pick up a few shit-stains digging their heads out of their asses if they decide to vote for THAT obnoxious dickhead.
Senator Al Franken. BWHAHAHAHAAAA!!!
I dunno. Maybe I shouldn't laugh so soon. He's a humorless, lying, self-aggrandizing, dumb-fuck, loud-mouthed sack of pure cowshit... in other words, he ain't much different from most of the others already there.
Hell. He probably has a good chance to win in Minnesota.
When I had Bud, the 95-pound hairy killer-dog, he often amused me by farting. That big sumbitch would be walking through the house, cut a loud fart and almost bite himself in the ass when he turned around to see where that noise came from. He thought he was being attacked from behind. He didn't know that he did it himself.
Then, the incredible stench would settle in like a cloud of poison gas. "GOT-DAM, BUD! Get your stinking ass outta here!" The poor dog would look at me with eyes full of hurt, as if to ask, "What did I do?" Then, he'd fart again and I'd throw a shoe or something at him to run him out of the room.
He never understood what he did to piss me off.
For a big dog who could take the center bone out of a whole ham and crunch it to splinters in 30 minutes, Bud had a delicate stomach. We had to feed him lamb and rice chow and keep him away from table scraps; otherwise, he'd get a bad case of the barfs and shits--- and TRUST ME--- you don't want a 95-pound dog with the barfs and shits in the house.
But even when we watched his diet carefully, he'd fart. SWEET BEJUS, he could fart, bringing tears to your eyes and peeling paint off the walls. Occasionally, he'd rip a good one while he was lying down, and he'd just flap his tail on the floor a few times. I don't know if he was scattering the stench or just happy with himself because his belly felt better. But I don't believe that the dog EVER realized that he farted when he did.
As long as Bud was around, I never had to worry about firing off a stinker. I could always blame it on him.
The hairy bastard lived 17 years. He was a damn good dog, even if he did fart a lot.
i thought i was something
I am entertained by a lot of strange links I get to my blog. I'm not talking about weird google-searches, either. I mean actual STRANGE BLOGS that link to me for no reason that I can discern.
I guess I just don't pretend I'm drunk and wander into enough lady's public bathrooms.
This is how I blog, although I'm usually nekkid when I do it.
i like this guy
Why shouldn't I? He thinks a lot like I do.
Farm subsidies are an obscene joke on the taxpayers of this country.
happy birthday, pop
Today would be my father's 75th birthday if he were still alive. I could make a really nice gesture by going to the cemetary today and placing some fresh flowers on his grave. But I won't do it.
I've never gone back to visit his grave since the day we planted him, and I never intend to, either. That's not my father there. That's a hole in the ground with a box buried in it. My father lives in my MEMORY, and that's good enough for me, and probably good enough for him, too. Besides, I probably couldn't find his grave now if I went to look for it. I don't remember where it is in that big cemetary. But I remember HIM.
He was one hell of a man. Handsome as hell, smart as a whip and as ballsy as anyone I've ever known. Even 12 years after his death, I still dream often about my dad. Usually in those dreams, I'm either getting cussed for being an idjit or I'm asking him for advice. I miss him a lot.
Today is his birthday, and I didn't forget THAT.
A clever commenter used the term "hoisted by his own petard." I LOVE that phrase. Do you know what it means?
Trust me... it's NOT a nautical term that has anything to do with sailboats.
February 09, 2005
blunt and cruel
I am a nasty, mean-assed old man. I've SEEN truth in this world and I believe that the experience shows on my face, because I am not the handsome young man I once was. I resemble Fido's ass now. Seeing truth did that to me.
Here are a few of MY Golden Rules, learned "the hard way"
* There are a lot of crooked fucks in this world. Don't trust a got-dam one of them.
* Anybody who claims to care about YOU only wants power for himself.
* Politicians are used-car dealers and cemetary-plot salesmen who found a more lucrative line of work. They can wear the same suits and pretty much do the same sales.
* I've never seen a "Black Leader" who wasn't in the game to enrich himself, and fuck everbody else.
* Most people can't name five of the first Ten Amendments to the US Constitution. Those who CAN oppose all five. These are idiots who do NOT deserve to live free.
* I never saw a gun-grabber who knew a damn thing about guns.
* Why do some people sue over finding themselves in a "hostile environment?" Just what the fuck do they think LIFE IS??? Buncha pussies.
* Some people are really upset and blogging their asses off about Ward Churchill. Give me a break. I saw people just like that posturing asswipe when I was in college in 1976. These pompous assholes have been spewing the same illiterate, anti-American, communist bullshit for almost 40 years now and FINALLY a few people are starting to notice that they are moon-barking lunatics. Where the hell was that outrage 40 years ago? Don't get self-righteous on me NOW. YOU people tolerated Ward Churchill and his ilk because you were afraid to offend anybody, you pussies. Now, look at what you got.
We have a top executive at CNN claiming that US troops deliberately killed American journalists in Iraq. I don't give a shit about that story, either. The bastard was lying his ass off, he got caught lying, and now he's attempting to stonewall his way out of the pants he shit in. That's the "news" today.
What happened? Somebody woke up and smelled the shit we've been sold as coffee for the past 40 years? That's good, but it happened far too late. We'll still drink it, and just complain that it tastes bad today.
But we'll still drink it. We have been trained well.
This is a quote from a complete asshole that I NEVER want to play with in a band:
Try it like this, Mike: turn your rig up loud. Don't fool around with gain or pedals or anything. Just mainline straight into the thing and dime it.
Yeah. "Mainline straight into the thing and dime it." I don't know what the fuck that actually MEANS, but I've played in enough bands to know that I don't want ANYBODY on board who thinks that way, or PLAYS that way. If you play in a BAND, you play in a BAND, asswipe. You ain't playing to hear YOURSELF being louder than anyone else on stage. Dime it? What the fuck does that mean? Take your ten cents and hit the road, all-star. Go back to playing by yourself in your garage, where you belong.
Billy, if you're a bad-ass on guitar, let's you and me sit down with a pair of acoustics. Let's pick a song we both agree to play. No amps. No distortion pedals. Just the notes. And loudness doesn't count; just the music.
Dime THAT with me, shitass.
i recommend a name-change
If the name weren't jennifer's history, I might like this site a lot better. I've encountered a really BAD "Jennifer" in my life. But I can't argue with this:
Robert Heinlein is not only a superb storyteller, but he’s a truly free thinker. He has a libertarian bent, which makes for a good political read, and he’s usually ready to address the hard questions through some unusual approaches, to illustrate a point. He’s fun to read. Starship Troopers, The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, and Stranger in a Strange Land should be on anyone’s must-read list for the questions they ask and address about relationships, government, and service.
Try Door Into Summer, The Green Hills of Earth and The Puppet Masters, too. I read everything he ever wrote. Boy, did HE put an eggbeater in my head. Heinlein believed in freedom, but understood clearly that freedom isn't free. It is EARNED and DESERVED. The crotchety old bastard was anything BUT a liberal, I started reading him when I was 12 years old and I still agree with him today.
And if your blogger-bash crashed, you didn't plan it very well. Come to Jawja next time.
This is a disgusting post. I liked it a lot.
But I totally disagree with any standard "pick-up" lines. The only airheads that shit works on is wimmen you're better off not fucking anyway, so create your OWN way into a woman's
If she energizes that transporter beam, you're home free. A little music, a glass of wine and clean sheets on the bed. Come to Papa.
Sweet Bejus! Do people REALLY say stupid things like "I wanna FUCK!" when they want to get laid? That crap only works on a WIFE who'll give it up just because wants to make you pass out and go to sleep so you don't bother her anymore. Don't do that shit in a singles bar.
Try "Hello. My name is Rob. Could I buy you a drink?"
And if she says, "yes," just go on from there.
you ask, I answer
The interview is short. Four questions. Answers posted on my blog.
I started to keep from killing myself. I kept it up because I enjoyed it. After more than three years, I can't imagine stopping now.
What do you think was your best post ever?
They're ALL damn good. I've written more than 10,000 posts now. I don't remember half of them.
velociman, who reminds me of ME except for the fact that he's younger, taller, better-looking, more articulate and married to a very sexy woman. Other than those minor differences, we are a lot alike.
I blog in a ceaseless quest for adoration from people who don't know me. It's pure, unadulterated ego. I have no lofty goals. I just hope I get laid every once in a while.
Yeah, everybody knows about my blog, including the local Sheriff's Department. I got fired from my job for blogging. Some people hate my GUTS because of my blog. I could give a lovely fuck.
I don't understand the question. A greater social value than WHAT? I don't blog to create any "social value." I blog to make people laugh, to piss them off and to make myself feel simply wonderful about MYSELF. It's all EGO, baby!
Lastly, what do you think of my blog? :-)
YOU have a blog? Sorry... I haven't noticed, but I am certain that it is excellent, well-written and full of "social value." Do you do "skins?"
There. Be careful about asking ME questions. I just might answer them honestly.
(I want to give ATTRIBUTION to the person who asked the questions, but her site appears to be twisted in a knot like her panties now because I didn't play "fair.")
It's supposed to be href=http://confessionalpoe.blogspot.com. SHE'S supposed to be the star of the show. SHE'S supposed to post the interview results. SHE'S supposed to be wonderful, witty and oh so clever. Shower her with love. She needs it right now.
The questions sucked and your approach was even worse. And if you send ME a poison email because I responded the way I did, you haven't been reading me very long, have you? If you want your ass kissed, go vote Democrat. Don't come here.
stop me--- before I buy again!!!
I KNOW what I'm gonna do, and I should be dragged off and shot for it. My friend willy called me today and thanked me for the plug I gave his music-sales web site yesterday. He sold two guitars as a result and he has some nibbles on a couple of more. Good.
He ALSO informed me that he just received a couple of Washburn mandolins that he got at a fantastic price and he's willing to cut me a sweet deal on one if I want it. That bastard. Retail value: $700. MY price: $200, and that includes a tuner, a tote-bag case and a (BWHAHAHA!!!) how to play book.
Bejus help me. I KNOW I'm going to buy one unless they really suck. But Washburn instruments don't suck, so I can see what's coming. I'm gonna have ONE MORE thing to stack in the music room.
I've been playing an Epiphone mandolin for several years because I didn't want to spend a lot of money on an instrument I wasn't certain that I could learn to play. But I'm a fairly good mandolin player now, and I want something better.
I've always lusted after a genuine Washburn because Dolly Parton used to advertise them and pose holding one between her humongous titties. I never paid a lot of attention to the instrument because I couldn't get past staring at her humongous titties, but I HAVE picked a Washburn or two before. They are damn fine mandolins, just always too pricey for me before.
That last part has changed now. I'll guarantee you that I'm gonna buy one.
By the way, if you live in the Savannah area, it's cheaper to buy straight from Willy's house than it is to order over the internet because he doesn't have to pay shipping and insurance costs if he sells from home, and he'll knock that cost right off the bottom line. I'm gonna take catfish over there and let him check out the guitar he wants to buy. He'll save $50 just for showing up in person.
I'm gonna go broke buying shit like this.
Have you ever done this before? Get yourself into a school of dolphin (the FISH, not the mammals) and have yourself a field day? Hook ONE of those fish, drag him up to the boat, but don't reel him all the way in. The rest of his buddies will hang around and strike at almost anything you cast into the water after that. I put a squid on a hook and then just slap the bait on the water. You can catch dozens at a time that way.
That's a GREAT fish to eat any way you want to cook it, and a good-sized one will weigh about 20 pounds. They look yellow in the water and then turn a bright green color when you toss them in a cooler. Blunt-headed and ugly, they are delicious fish. That's what yankees call "Mahi-Mahi," which means "fish-fish" in Hawaiian.
I haven't seen a school of dolphin in a couple of years now. That picture brought back fond memories.
Stolen from here and he's got lots of other neat pictures, too.
I have this GREAT recipe idea, but I don't know what to call it. Any suggestions?
(By the way... I didn't take that picture. I NEVER wear socks in bed. In fact, I never wear ANYTHING but a smile in bed.)
I've always had bird feeders in my yard. I like my birds. Maybe that's one reason I hate cats so much, because a got-dam cat thinks a bird-feeder is a buffet table and it will serve itself with whatever it can catch. Fuck a cat.
But the tree rats are even worse. A squirrel will invade a bird feeder, run off all the birds, kick all the small seeds to the ground and sit there munching sunflower seeds as if the bastard owned the place. I've probably killed a hundred of those shitasses with my pellet rifle. Damned rats.
I once put up a nice T-bar, stainless-steel frame in my back yard and hung a bird feeder on each end. The birds enjoyed it for about a day until the squirrels found it and invaded like a bunch of fuzzy-tailed Michael Moores, fucking up anything they couldn't eat. They pissed me off, but I couldn't shoot them without risking hitting a neighbor's window.
So... I thunk a thought. I went to the hardware store and bought a can of water-insoluable axle grease and I lathered that center pole with about half the can. THAT was amusing.
The squirrels came running up, jumped on the pole to climb up to the goodies they were accustomed to stealing, and ended up sliding right off with grease caked all over their greedy little paws. The pissants started falling out of trees after that, because they couldn't get a grip on anything. I enjoyed the show and I thought my squirrel problem was solved.
One Saturday morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. I heard a thump, a crash and a rattle from the back yard. After about the third repetition of that sound, I wondered WTF is THAT? I looked outside and saw what was happening.
One fat, scheming squirrel figured out that he could climb a pine tree near the feeders, take a wild run-and-go down a low-hanging limb and then launch himself like Rocky the Flying Tree Rat at the feeders. Even if he couldn't catch one and hold on, he managed to knock them around enough that a lot of seed hit the ground, so he'd sit there and eat until he got ready to launch another aerial assault.
I watched him do it a dozen times and I was impressed by his ingenuity. He found a way around the greased pole. But I eventually grew bored watching him, so I waited for him to sit on the ground munching, and I shot him in the head with the pellet rifle. See... once he was on the ground, I didn't have to worry about hitting my neighbor's window anymore. I sent that rat to the great Bird Feeder in the Sky.
I mention that story because I KNOW that squirrels are devious little shits who will find a way to overcome your defenses if you give them enough time to think about it. They are slick and evil.
Spammers are a lot like squirrels. Thanks to the efforts of this golden god, I have been almost totally spam-free in my comments for more than a month now. Paul put up a greased pole on my site and he kept the squirrels at bay for a while. But, alas, squirrels don't quit scheming.
I was hit by more than 200 Trackback spams last night. Those fuckers found a way around the greased pole. I deleted them all (and I banned a couple of IP addresses, so if I got you by accident, let me know and I'll see if I can fix the problem), but they'll be back. They ALWAYS come back, just like the rats they are.
I just wish I could catch one sitting fat and happy in my yard while munching the fruit of his rattiness. I LONG to shoot one right in the head and watch him drop like a rock with a sunflower seed still hanging out of his buck-toothed, greedy little mouth. Where I live now, I don't have to worry about hitting a neighbor's house, so I might use something a little bigger than that Crossman pellet rifle.
Spammers are rats and they SHOULD be shot.
i have one thing to say
I took the test. Now bite me, right on my cranky old bastard butt-cheeks. Ya had to use CATS, too, didn't you?
That's just plain mean.
Remember Festus Hagan on Gunsmoke? He rode a mule named Ruth and much preferred his mule over ANY horse. As well he should have.
(Link stolen from here)
February 08, 2005
you can't change nature
I promised that I wouldn't besoil her site while I guest-blogged, but I'm starting to feel the ice crackle under my feet. It's getting thin out here.
But I'm trying to be nice. As nice as I can be, anyway.
Read this excellent post.
the cabinet grows
I am proud to announce two new members to my "REPROBATES IN 2008"
Second, I need to make my cabinet look "more like America." I don't have enough minorities on board, but I'm working on that. I'm gonna make this guy Chairman of my Council of Economic Advisors. He walks on crutches, so that'll look good when anybody talks about "diversity" (ALL HAIL DIVERSITY) and he doesn't like seeing government piss money away. Plus, I think he can be trusted to handle the White House Slush Fund as long he gets a fair slice of the pie.
What? You thought I'd quit blogging just because I became LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD???? Fuck that idea. I can do both with a little help from my friends.
There is ONE DETAIL that I'll run by the selection committee before they rubber-stamp my choices for me. If my CC of EA gets a wild hair up his ass and starts cat-bombing the Presidential blog, he will be immediately dragged off and shot as a terrorist spy.
It'll be part of his contract.
flip my wig
I'm really surprised that more raving maniacs don't do this. Shooting somebody or stabbing somebody or hitting them in the head with a brick may get the job done, but that crap doesn't make a STATEMENT.
But if you SCALP somebody, you've... gone above and beyond. Plus, you could hang the scalp on a stick, wave it around while dancing and making Injun chants and scare the living piss out of ANY WITNESSES!!! That's GLORY!
That kind of stuff will get you on CNN during prime time. And you might get away with it, too.
a sweet deal
If you're looking for a nice guitar at a VERY reasonable price, check with my friend Willy at music and things. He's got four brand new Washburn prototype guitars that play and sound beautifully. Suggested music store price is $799, but Willy is selling 'em, along with a tote-bag case, for less than $250. One of 'em (I think) is only $189.
I woulda bought one myself today if I had a place to put it. (I need another guitar like I need a wart on the end of my nose, so I passed and just bought some picks and strings. He has become my music store of choice over the past few years.) These are genuine Washburns, hand-made and complete with a lifetime guarantee. They are all sweet darlins.
Check out his web site. I think he posted pictures of those guitars today and he has a lot of other neat shit, too.
(They're here, but I don't remember which two I played.)
BY THE WAY: This is NOT an ad and I ain't making a dime from it. I'm just telling you that Willy is a straight-shooter, honest to the bone, and he sells some good music and things at good prices. He is my friend, but if he was a con-artist, I wouldn't mention his site. But he ain't no con-artist. He just really likes musical instruments.
Hell... I buy from him and I would like to see him do well.
Take a look at the chart and remember that when you hear the politicians talking about government "austerity."
i think i got him
I believe that I caught my hero, James lileks in a horrible misuse of the English language. He wrote this:
Gnat has become quite the card shark.
I fart in his general direction. What he MEANS is that his child is becoming a card SHARP, not "shark." It's a common mistake, but unforgivable in my humble opinion. A shark is a brainless fish with a big mouth and a voracious appetite. I like playing poker with people who display those attributes.
A "card sharp," on the other hand, is a dangerous player in the game. This person knows the odds, pays attention to the cards, reads his opponents, NEVER gives away any hint of what he's holding and will make you wish were with a shark instead of him in a game when he demonstrates just how sharp he really is. He doesn't bite, but he'll cut your ass to shreds.
It's CARD SHARP, not "card shark."
"cranky old bastard"
I get called that a lot. I really don't understand why. Am I "cranky" just because I voice loud, obnoxious opinions and I stay pissed off a lot? It's not like I hate EVERYTHING and EVERYBODY. I like grits and boiled peanuts and I don't hate the Pope. See? I have my good side.
I'm not THAT goddam old, either. And you young whippersnappers can just bite my ancient, withered shanks for calling me old. Whelps. That's why I ain't gonna regret spending YOUR Social Security money on myself.
I don't exactly have a family line that goes back the the Mayflower, but I am NOT a bastard. I am the eldest son of Robert and Elva Smith, proud parents of a little boy born on February 16th, 1952. I have family. Don't insult my heritage that way.
If you wanna call me an ASSHOLE, that's different. Hey... what can I say? I've been known to display my sphincter a few times and I'll keep on doing it, too. Bite me where it's brown if you don't like it.
See what I mean? I am NOT cranky, I am NOT old and I am NOT a bastard. So, stop calling me that. Try "ill-tempered, decrepit, blithering asshole."
I can live with that.
things rednecks don't say
40. Oh I just couldn't. Hell, she's only sixteen.
(Thanks to Michelle for the email!)
I could add a few others (such as, "No grits for me. I prefer cream o' wheat" or "You know, a glass of nice chablis would taste good with these ribs" or "Boiled peanuts? YUK!"), but I won't.
It's politically incorrect to call people stupid when they do stupid things, which is one of the many reason people continue to do stupid things. We don't say, "You dumbfuck! You deserve what you get, because you're STUPID!"
No, we SUBSIDIZE stupidity in this country and call it "compassion."
I agree with this politically-incorrect philosopher. If we privatize Social Security, stupid people will fuck it up, just like they do everything else in their lives. Why challenge the inevitable?
I'll get mine with the way the system is now. Screw the young people. Let them subsidize stupidity the same way I have all my life. Let THEM be compassionate.
I'm just gonna be selfish.
this is true
I should have mentioned this fact in one of my posts about blogging. A lot of people put their blogrolls in alphabetical order, so if you call yourself "Zoo King," you're going to be on the shit end of the alphabetical stick and miss a lot of hits because people are too lazy to scroll all the way to your link.
As a rule, I receive a LOT more referrals from blogs that have me listed as "Acidman" than I do from those who list me as Gut Rumbles. A blog called "Abner, Li'l" will get more hits than one called "Li'l Abner." It's simply a reflection of human laziness.
So... name your blog something that starts with the letter "A." It'll pay off in the long run.
win one for the snipper
Now this is what I call a real sports fan.
I don't know what he was drinking, but I don't EVER want any.
February 07, 2005
really pet peeves
Why do so many of you people password-protect your goddam Site Meter? That ain't smart if you're looking for traffic. But it IS some kind of anal-retentive thing that makes me not want to visit you anyway.
Why do so many people who blog like cats? I don't understand that shit. Cats are the absolute antichrist of animals, but you think they're "cute." Of course, you also password protect your Site Meter, too, you fucked-up deviants.
Fat wimmen put sexy "skins" on their blogs. Fat guys post pictures of themselves and write about beer and food. Who is most honest?
I don't give a shit that you took the girls to a cub scout meeting today and you all enjoyed chocolate cookies. Nobody else gives a shit, either. Don't blog about that boring June Cleaver crap. Now... if one of the girls CHOKED on a cookie and you had to Heimlich them back to life, that's blog-fodder. Can't you tell the difference?
Don't write erotic fantasy blogs. Just go out and get laid, for Christssake. Hell, if you're desperate enough to blog about the wonders of giving a blow job, CALL ME. We can work something out.
I HATE the *grin* and the *snicker* and the *wink* shit wimmen do on blogs. (You know... *shrugs shoulders and rolls eyeballs*) Xerox a copy of your ass and post it. Wink THAT at me.
I don't like people who constantly misspell words. I blame all of mine on typos. But I keep a fucking dictionary next to my computer. If I WANT to spell a word correctly, I will.
Their, they're and there are three different words and they mean three different things. Try to use them correctly. Your and you're are the same way. So is affect and effect. AND WORST OF ALL!!! Understand the difference between I and Me in a sentence. "My husband and I went to the store" is correct. "You need to talk to my husband and I about that" IS NOT correct. I appreciate good grammar except when I INTEND to mangle it, but at least I know the difference.
Is the word "none" singular or plural?
Is this correct? "Ask a person for an opinion. They'll give you one."
I took a really nice pain pill tonight. I feel intellectual.
the chance of a lifetime
I think my brother is coming to this years's Georgia Writer's Workshop. He doesn't blog, but he likes to play guitar and sing. Y'all might get to hear The Fabulous Smith Brothers harmonizing this year.
You don't want to miss that.
(UPDATE: I require a decent female singer who is willing to be a Fabulous Smith Brother for the weekend. I'll give you the words to songs you should already know, and all you have to sing is the melody. My brother and I will lay on the harmony, play all the instruments and make people ohh and ahh at the sound. Do I have a volunteer?)
piss me off
What is it with all the blogs that won't remember personal information when I want to leave a comment? I'm getting sick of this shit. It's as bad as having to REGISTER to leave some of my sparkling wit behind.
I've gotta type my name, my email and my web address in EVERY FUCKING TIME, even though you teasers have that "remember my personal information" button on your page. Either get that problem fixed or get rid of the button.
showing my age
Bejus. I've seen some bloggers posting the "Top Ten Rock Bands of All Time" and I've never heard of half of them. Once you get past "Hootie and the Blowfish," you've lost me. I am an old-timer. These wonder-bands of today all sound alike, they are over-produced in the studio and they have too many fucking tattoos. I don't like a goddam one of them.
Nobody is going to remember those cheap fucks in five years.
Here's a REAL Top Ten from an old fart:
#1) Elvis Presly. He WAS the King and he always will be, even if he became a parody of himself later in his career. He changed music forever.
#2) The Beatles. From bubble-gum to psychedelic, they did it all. Their show on Ed Sullivan in 1964 is what made me want to play guitar. GOT-DAM! What a band.
#3) The Rolling Stones. A garage band that went big-time but still sounded like a garage band. I have to give them credit for longevtity. But I NEVER liked big-lipped Mick Jagger.
#4) Led Zeppelin. If I have to explain that choice, you wouldn't understand anyway. Nobody else ever sang like Robert Plant.
#5) Steppenwolf. John Kay just might be the grittiest rock & roll singer of all time. How often do you still hear "Born to be Wild" or "Magic Carpet Ride" today, 30 years after those songs were recorded? I rest my case.
#6) Fleetwood Mac. I know I'll piss some people off with this choice, but when they were in their early days, they were damn good. They had it all-- musicianship, harmony, great songs and good-lookin' wimmen.
#7) The Marshall Tucker Band. ABSOLUTELY the best band I ever saw play in concert. Those guys cooked until the stage boiled. My ears rang until the next morning.
#8) The Allman Brothers Band. Georgia peaches with some of the best guitar licks you'll ever hear. They were ahead of their time, although I never liked Dwane that much.
#9) The Beach Boys. Sweet Bejus. I still like hearing that harmony today. That was some amazing work on what were mostly shitty songs.
#10) The Eagles. Probably one of the most over-inflated EGO bands of all time, but damn good at what they did. "Desperado." "Hotel California." "Take it Easy." You don't get much better than that.
Heh. I think I dropped off the radar screen around 1978. So, you young shits tell me how good U-2 is and how I don't know shit because I don't appreciate the Seattle Sound. Go get another tattoo and kiss my Cracker ass.
Those are MY Top Ten Bands.
another kid's poem
There is nothing under the bed
There is no monster on the stairs
Mama loves you, daddy, too
So listen to me now, you pooh
One of the most intelligent people I ever met in my life was my grandfather. He was a Kentucky hillbilly with an eighth-grade education. But he ended up being a successful coal mining superintendent, he ran a couple of his own businesses and was smart as hell with money.
He taught himself most of what he knew.
He was a short, bow-legged man, much like I am, only I didn't go bald at 30 the way he did. He could farm and he knew how to make moonshine. He could build anything and did magnificent woodwork after he retired, until he started cutting his fingers off playing with his saws. He was smart enough to stop after he lost the second finger.
He lived to be 89 years old. After a while, he started telling the same stories over and over again and he wasn't nearly as sharp as he once was upstairs. He was tight as a tick with a dollar and you wouldn't want to horse-trade with him if you intended to win the deal. He also was the most honest man I've ever known, and if you couldn't handle the truth, that was YOUR fault, not his. He said what was on his mind and he never pulled a punch in his life.
He was a hellion in his youth, a hard worker all his life, and a stubborn old fart when he got old. I call that a trifecta.
I miss him.
"The trouble with our liberal friends is not that they're ignorant: It's just that they know so much that isn't so."
"Of the four wars in my lifetime, none came about because the U.S. was
"I have wondered at times about what the Ten Commandment's would have
"The taxpayer: That's someone who works for the federal government but
Damn! All of them from that same dumbass President we had who was brain dead and foolish. Imagine that.
gay or not gay?
I don't know what to think about this...interesting site. If I'd have been gay in this life, I damn sure woulda saved myself a whole lot of heartbreak, money and trouble.
Gay guys have plenty of money because they never marry thieving wimmen. Gay wimmen get along because they never argue about leaving the toilet seat down.
Just my luck to be born straight.
i'll remind him
Adam remembers me telling the story but he doesn't recall the details. I am not surprised. We were drinking
It's all true. I was at the University of Georgia in 1975 and 1976, when you couldn't buy Coors beer east of the Mississippi River. I knew a couple of enterprising young men who would rent a U-Haul truck on Thursday evening, drive non-stop to Texas, load that bastard with all the Coors beer they could cram in there, then bring it back to Athens on a football Saturday and sell it for $5.00 a six-pack. They bought about 100 cases at a time and paid less than $1.25 for a six-pack.
It was a lucrative venture, even after gas and inventory cost deductions. Coors was a "status" beer at the time, because you couldn't buy it legally in Athens, and even though I always thought it tasted like possum-piss, my friends made a killing on their little bootleg enterprise. In fact, they became so successful that if you didn't RESERVE your beer ahead of time, you wouldn't get any when they got back to town. They were sold out before they hit the road to go get it.
That's all-American enterprise. God bless this country, where you can make a buck catering to vice.
the best commercial
The best commercial I saw on the Super Bowl last night was the one showing troops coming back from overseas and everybody in the airport standing to applaud them. I was struck by the difference between now and Vietnam, which was MY generation's war. That commercial made me proud to be an American and I've seen that kind of thing actually happen in airports today. I've done it myself.
Thanks to Anheiser Bush for that one and thanks to our troops, too.
I do sit around and wonder why I'm still alive today. I did some really dumbfuck stuff in my younger days.
When I was in high school, a couple of friends and I used to go spend the weekend at an old, ramshackle beach-house on Hilton Head, back before Hilton Head became ritzy. The drinking age was 18 for beer and wine in South Carolina back then and nobody carded very much. Plus, you could buy LOTS of cheap fireworks.
We'd get a couple of cases of beer and assorted explosives, drive to Hilton Head and try to kill each other every day. HOT DAMN!!! That was adventuresome.
I was minding my own business, nursing a hangover on the couch one morning, when I heard giggles coming from the kitchen. Nothing separated the kitchen from the living room except a wooden partition that didn't reach all the way to the ceiling, and it was open on both ends. My friends were supposed to be cooking breakfast.
They were cooking, all right. I heard a match light, then the sizzle of fuses burning. Those bastards threw six cherry bombs and M-80s at me! The bombs came flying over the partition, around it from both sides, and one big, fat piece of dynamite even landed right in my lap. I sat there stunned for a moment, and then I dove for cover.
The resulting explosions left me half-deaf for a day. That M-80 that landed in my lap set the sofa on fire. My friends thought it was all just funny as shit.
Actually, I did, too. That's why I threw a handfull of lit triple-blast sky-rockets into their room that night, minus the tube you're supposed to fire them from. Now THAT created a ruckus! They were good and stoned at the time, too. THAT was funny.
We oughta all be dead now.
Yeah, I can drive one of those, too. I mean a BIG BOY--- a Cat diesel with tires that are taller than I am and a bucket big enough to pick up a couple of cars. Those critters are hinged in the middle, so you don't really drive it with the steering wheel--- you use levers like the joy-sticks on a video game to maneuver that rascal on the job. The steering wheel is pretty much for street traffic only.
I had an operator bury one in an ore pile one day. The angle of repose for TiO2 ore is pretty steep, and you don't just drive up to that 28,000-ton mountain and grab a bucketload off the bottom if you have a brain in your head. That shit may fall and cover you up. That's exactly what she did.
She climbed out of the cab and walked to my office to report what she had done. Bejus! I couldn't see anything but the tail-end of that loader when I went to see it. The rest was buried.
I thought about calling maintenance and getting some cable and a couple of cherry-pickers to drag the loader out, but I decided to try it myself first. That probably wasn't the brightest decision I ever made in my life, but I did it. I crawled through the ore, made it to the cab and got the engine cranked. Then, I tried to back out of there.
No go. I was buried too deep. I tried the crab-crawl, using that hinged drive-shaft to walk my ass out. No go. I tried using the bucket to push my way out. All I managed to do was rock the damned thing up on two wheels and damn near turn it over on its side. Scared the shit out of me, because you sit up HIGH in one of those things and the center of balance ain't all that stable.
I don't remember what all I finally did, but I got that loader out. By the time I finished, I had attracted a crowd of about 25 people who gathered to watch me kill my dumb ass, but they all applauded when I broke free. I parked the vehicle on a flat piece of the ore slab and told my operator that I would fire her and then KILL HER if she ever did anything like that again.
She was righteously contrite. And she buried the loader again two days later.
speaking of trains...
One of the many esoteric skills I developed from working 24 years in a chemical plant is the ability to drive a Trackmobile. Do you know what one of those are? It's a big machine that runs around on four tires for road travel, but it'll hop on a pair of railroad tracks, drop a set of track wheels and operate like a small switch-engine.
Man, that is a neat vehicle. It's got air brakes, sanders, an air horn and set of couplers on each end. The one we had would move a dozen loaded acid cars easily if the tracks weren't wet, but the best way to do heavy lifting was to get the trackmobile in the middle with cars hooked up on both ends. Then, you had LEVERAGE, and you could move 20 or more cars at a time. I used to LOVE driving that fucker, even after the time I slid clean through the gate and tore down the guard-fence while trying to move a record thirty loaded 90-ton cars at once.
I did that at night and it was pretty. I locked all the brakes and sparks were flying off the tracks like sparklers on the Fourth of July, but the cars kept going. I was on a dew-covered downhill piece of track at the time, and even pouring all the sand on the tracks that I could from the sanders didn't slow my ass down. I thought I was going to end up in downtown Savannah before I stopped.
I didn't derail anything, so I was able to explain it all away with a very logical analysis the next day--- at least everything except the shit-stain I left on the driver's seat when I went crunching through that gate, unable to stop. I got away with that fuck-up, but I never tried moving 30 cars at once again.
I still love trains.
I've always loved trains. The power, the noise and the sheer FORCE of those things fascinated me for as far back as I can remember. I still love the music of a lonesome train whistle in the night. And yes, I played on a trestle many a time, too.
I know that memory magnifies everything, but I SWEAR that trestle below the tipple at Louellen must have been 500 feet high and a mile long where it stretched over that rocky fork of the Cumberland River below the coal mining camp. I walked across it many times, and I recall looking down through the gaps in the ties to the river below. I often wondered what I would do if I got caught out there when the train came. I knew damn well that I couldn't out-run it.
I heard a story once about a couple of boys who did exactly that. They got caught out there and opted to drop over the side and hang on to the ends of the ties while the train passed. One of them made it, covered with coal dust and diesel fuel after having six engines and more than 100 gondola cars roar past, but the other boy lost his grip and fell to his death on the rocks below.
I think people told me that story to keep my silly ass from playing on the trestle, but I did it anyway. My cousin Ernie and I used to walk up to the switch yard frequently and place coins, nails and small pieces of chain on the tracks and watch while the switch-engines ran over them, creating works of flat metallic art. We both liked trains.
Later, in my semi-adult life, I was camping with a girlfriend near the trestle over Little Ebineezer Creek, close to where I live now. We heard the train coming at sunset and I dared her to climb the trestle from the bottom with me and make love amid the creosote timbers while the train crossed over our heads. We did exactly that, standing up, while the whole bridge rocked as if we were in the middle of an earthquake.
I don't know which was louder--- the train whistle or her screams of delight. THAT kind of experience will make you feel studly.
Yeah. My trestle-climbing days may be over, but I still like trains.
Some people just like to live dangerously. If you give me the keys to YOUR house, ain't no telling what I might do.
I won't steal anything, but I might mess the place up a little.
We've ALWAYS had self-righteous nannies among us who know how YOU should life YOUR life (in a way that suits THEM) in spite of the fact that the nannies always create more problems than they solve with their moralistic posing. We had Prohibition, but people didn't stop drinking. Organized crime became rich giving people the vice they wanted and government lost a lot of money.
The War on (SOME) Drugs is the same thing--- we've poured billions of dollars down a rat-hole and made drugs more potent, less expensive and more available than they ever were before. Good fucking job.
Now the anti-tobacco Nazis are trying the same thing, and they are doomed to the same failure as EVERY self-righteous Nazi who came before them. Put outrageous taxes on cigarettes and people buy them elsewhere. Ban smoking and you make criminals out of people who aren't criminals. Government loses revenue, it pisses a lot of people off and people continue to smoke.
Where the hell is the logic in that line of thought?
It's everywhere today, because nannies don't think. They do GOOD, don'tcha know?
it came back
I felt really good for the past couple of days. I was eating well, sleeping well and relatively pain-free. But I made a mistake yesterday. I ate a fried ham and egg sandwich for breakfast.
I got about halfway through the sandwich, broke out in a cold sweat and found myself hugging the commode moments later. I puked the rest of the day and suffered incredible abdominal pain. I think I watched the Super Bowl, but that may simply have been a fevered dream. I know I had a puke-bucket next to my sofa because I was tired of running to the bathroom to gag my guts out every 15 minutes. That's where I spent the night, because I was afraid to move.
I've got something bad wrong with me.
i liked it
I don't give a shit what this pompous ass has to say. I thought Paul McCartney's halftime performance at the Super Bowl was excellent. Good, clean, kick-ass music without a flopping bare nipple in sight.
Maybe he played a bunch of golden oldies. But he played them well and I'm the kind of old fart who still likes to listen to that kind of music. He was a welcome touch of class after last year's fiasco.
Younger viewers probably took one look at this halftime oldies fest and turned down the sound until the second half was ready to start.
If they did, they missed a legend at the top of his game. But some people probably prefer crass over class today. That's why rap "music" is popular.
I enjoyed the show. Nobody's buried Paul yet.
February 06, 2005
I chewed tons of that stuff when I was a boy. I'm not talking about the clover kind or the stuff that looks like this. I mean REAL sourgrass.
You know, the kind that grows in long stalks with a red tassel on the top. The kind that will fill an entire field sometimes. The kind that's good to chew.
Ever tried it?
new york silly
Just read it.
That is all.
Why does this seem so logical to me when it doesn't to "experts." If I think I can buy my way out of a robbery, I will. It's only money.
But if some cracked-out punk sticks a pistol in my face and he has murder in his eyes, he's gonna be shooting at a moving target. One that shoots back, too.
I was raised in a coal mining camp in Harlan County, Kentucky. That place was so far back in the mountains that they had to PUMP sunshine in there. Everything was black with coal dust. I recall a happy childhood, but I'll bet Michael Moore could make a film up there showing what an absolute hell-hole it was.
Everybody lived in the camp. The mining company built the houses and they charged low rent to stay in them. Plus, you could buy coal for $2 a ton and have it delivered right into the bin in the basement. A coal bin was a great place to play. Get dirty and then get spanked for playing in the coal bin. I did it many times.
But the camp had its own pecking order. My daddy was a supervisor, so we lived on "Front Row," right next to the highway. That was a status symbol. The farther back you lived from the highway, the lower your status on the mining camp totem pole. Bejus help you if you lived on "Back Alley," down by the river at the rear of the camp. That was the fucking ghetto of a COAL MINING CAMP.
Just use your imagination and think about that for a while. I was not allowed to play with kids from "Back Alley" because they all had lice and they would steal. It wasn't pretty back yonder.
Guess who lived there? The lazy, the drunk, the unreliable, the promiscuous, the unemployed and the slackards, that's who. They didn't WANT anything better, or they could have had it--- because nobody HAD to live on "Back Alley." Those people CHOSE to. And they lived like pigs.
I think I learned back then that we'll ALWAYS have an underclass because some people choose to live that way. No government program is going to change the lazy bastards. We're talking silk purse and sow's ear. Ain't gonna happen.
But you don't have to be stupid and you don't have to blame all your problems on some kind of conspiracy. YOU CHOOSE!!!
I'm not saying that life is fair and that all men and wimmen are treated equally in the workplace. Life is about as unfair as things get, and if you expect level ground, you're gonna trip and fall. But you just have to accept that fact. Opportunity surrounds you if you want it.
If you want to live on "Back Alley," go right ahead. Just don't say that it's MY fault that you're there, 'cause it aint. We're ALWAYS going to have an underslass in society simply because some people opt to live that way. No education, no work ethic and no sense of responsibility aren't great tools for success in life. Follow that path and you end up on "Back Alley."
Your sex or your skin color doesn't matter in this simple equation. If you learn, you work and you behave responsibly, you may not become a millionaire. Hell, you may not even be happy.
But you won't be living on "Back Alley."
This happened in australia. If I were involved in this ruckus, I would have died my MIDDLE finger blue and shown it proudly to anyone who waved a black flag of death at me.
We've got some really sick fucks in this world.
February 05, 2005
which would i pick?
If I had to give up one of my senses, which would it be? Certainly not sight or hearing. I like pretty wimmen and good music too much.
But how about smell? Think about it. A lot of stuff smells really BAD, and you could do without that, couldn't you? But smell is connected to memory, which is connected to taste, which is like three senses in one. You can't give THAT up.
I dunno. I'll have to think about this one for a while.
rest in peace
Ossie Davis died.
I always admired the man because he was a great actor and someone who set a fine example for others to follow. Plus, he was married to ruby dee and enjoyed a long, happy marriage. Way to go, Ossie.
But I am a racist motherfucker. I've been known to use the forbidden "N-Word." I am a Cracker bastard who lives in southeast Georgia. What the hell do I know about black people?
No more than I know about people in general, or right from wrong.
another cabinet meeting
ME: Eric, what the hell is going on?"
Eric: "Boss, I have no idea what you're talking about."
ME: My White House Advisor and my Attorney General are trying to take over and run the whole shebang without me. My Secretary of State wants to resign because he says the job has become a pain in the ass. What have you been putting in my Bloody Marys?
ERIC "The usual, boss."
ME: "And that's why I slept through the invasion of Canada and woke up in bed with Sec of State? You're on THEIR side, aren't you?"
ERIC: "Not ME, boss!!
I smell dissention in the ranks. It's those goddam wimmen. I'm going to have to take firm action here.
I used to be really good at water skiing. I could slalom and I even tried bare-footing a couple of times. Busted my ass a lot. But I could cut quite a ruckus on the water.
I remember the time I was riding one ski and I was going hell-bent for leather when the boat pilot made a big circle in the sound. I hung out on the rope as far as I could and the ski was making a zipping noise as I skimmed over the water. That's about when I hit the wake and sunk the toe of the ski. It stopped and I didn't.
For some reason, I held onto the rope as I sailed through the air, ski-less and on my way to an ass-busting. I let go of the rope when I hit the water and it almost tore my arm off. I was going about 50 miles an hour at the time.
Let me explain some basic physics to people who don't understand busting your ass on water. Going the speed I was, I DID NOT sink quitely into the brine. I bounced like a goddam rubber ball on a concrete driveway and I PINWHEELED a few times before I finally sank. I thought I broke every bone in my fucking body. It hurt like hell.
I floated in my ski vest and had delerious dreams for a while. I saw God. I saw Moby Dick. I saw Buffalo Bob and Howdy Doody. I saw myself flying through the air like a winged angel. I don't remember getting back in the boat.
But I did, and I went skiing again. That's how stupid I am.
hey! I'm nominated!
Yeah. I wrote this post.
And I still believe that I'm right.
I hope I win the contest. I like being highly objectionable.
It's strange when I think about it now. Other than my visceral revulsion for snakes, I don't think I've experienced much fear in my life. I've found myself in A LOT of situations where I knew what happened next was gonna hurt, and I've been in fights that I knew I was gonna lose, but I don't ever recall being afraid.
I am serious about this. I believe that I go into an out-of-body mode when I see sure shit about to hit the fan. I KNOW it's coming and I KNOW that I can't avoid it, so it's almost like it's not even happening to me. I distance myself mentally and do whatever it takes physically to survive. Maybe that IS fear, but I've never seen it that way.
That night I spent in jail as the only snowball in a coal bin, while I was wearing sandals and a Confederate flag tee shirt taught me a lot about fear. I was in there with killers and armed robbers and they didn't like white boys. Some of them threatened me.
I felt it happen just the way it always did on the football field when it became time to hit. I didn't care about pain anymore. I was willing to do whatever it took and the devil could have the hindquarters. One bad-breathed black bastard got in my face and I said, "If you want a fight, I'll give you one. But I won't quit until one of us is dead. You make the call."
They left me alone after that, but I wasn't kidding that bastard. I was gonna tear his nuts off if I could, because he was WAY too big for me to fist-fight. But I figured that if I was quick I could hook my thumbs in his eyes and give him a a really shitty day and leave him nutless, too.
But I wasn't afraid. I was EXCITED, but I wasn't afraid.
I think that's weird.
a kid's poem
A big, fat toad---you see him?
Pick him up, he'll pee on you
A big, fat toad--- you see him?
You KNOW you're gonna pick him up.
But you HAD to do it
I kinda enjoy a few of the really fucked-up ones. Take Rodrigo. for example. He's talking about screwing my ex-wife here. He called it "sloppy pussy" and I accused him of having a little dick that couldn't fit what I already had bored out.
Sorry dickweed, that's not what she told me.
Isn't that a clever piece of writing? Isn't that something YOU'D be proud to sign your name to?
No, I didn't think so, either.
I've been fairly skinny most of my life, even when I lifted weights and worked hard to be buff. I've had six-pack abs and delts that really stood out when I did the frog-pose. I could leg-press 600 pounds when I was 20 years old. I could bench-press 270 pounds when I weighed 140.
I've wasted away into a piece of shit now, but I NEVER developed back tits. You know, those flab-layers that circle your armpits and resemble TITS on your back? You've seen 'em on fat guys, and a lot of wimmen have them, too. That's WRAP-AROUND fat, and I think it's disgusting. When you get so fat that you have titties on your BACK, you need to look in the mirror and do something about that.
this guy has back-tits. I'll bet he never saw a large pizza that he couldn't eat all by himself. Guys with back-tits can't look down and see their own dicks. Too much belly in the way. And WIMMEN with back-tits have that mysterious "lost pussy," which is just one more wrinkle buried in a bunch. Climb aboard and probe. Good luck.
Yeah. I'm trashing fat people today, because I ain't one, and I'm tired of hearing fat people bitch about second-hand smoke killing their fat asses. Light a cigarette and you'll piss 'em off. Wave a piece of corn on the cob and you'll have them fighting for it like the hogs they are. And they wonder why they have back-tits.
The government had no business enaging in this kind of thuggery to begin with.
February 04, 2005
a really fucked-up song
As I've been trying to write children's poems, I've been thinking about some that are already out there. Think about "Rock-a-Bye Baby." Is that a TERRIBLE poem, or what? That scares the shit out of ME to read it now. Hang an infant in a tree and wait for it to fall to it's death. What kind of fucking lullabye is THAT??? It's TWISTED is what it is.
I can do better. Goddam. I ain't that evil.
does it take big hammer?
Do the Democrats realize how badly they lost the last election? Not just in votes but in ideology? That's a party in trouble right now.
I agree with this. Like trust, credibility is almost impossible to regain once you've lost it.
The Dems don't seem to have much of a plan except to harp the same losing themes and boo Bush when he mentions Social Security Reform. I don't know why the term "turnip truck" springs to mind right now, but it does.
Those people are desperate and they don't know it. Somebody needs to hit them in the head. Wiht a BIG hammer.
Do you know what is serenity to ME now? It's answering a knock at the door and not finding a couple of sheriff's deputies serving me more papers for shit I didn't do that I STILL have to go to court and pay for.
It's not having ANYBODY knock on the door.
It's not having my phone ring at all.
It's taking a shower in the morning, putting on a tee-shirt and a pair of sweats and lying around dressed like that all day watching horror movies that suck.
It's asking the question, "Where Does the Wind Go?", thinking about it the way a kid would, and then writing a poem about it.
I know serenity now. It's where the wind goes.
I grow thick and heavy black whiskers around my mouth and chin. I can grow a full moustache and goatee in two weeks from a baby's ass beginning. I've worn a moustache for years and I sometimes add a beard to go with it. But the beard never looks right.
I don't have enough sideburn whiskers to grow a full beard. If I stop shaving altogether, I start to look skanky really fast. I get chin whiskers out the wazoo, but just scraggy hairs on the rest of my face. I look like Fido's Ass.
So, I shave. I use a Gillette razor with those expensive-assed blades in it. If I wait three days to shave, I can clog one of those fuckers like a plugged roof drain when oak leaves are falling. I spend more time cleaning my razor than I do shaving my face.
My grandfather always shaved with a straight razor, a true work of art that he sharpened on a leather strop (which he also used to sharpen my ASS on more than one occasion). He had one of those old shaving bowls where you mixed your soap lather with a big whisk-brush and then applied it to your face. I watched him do it 100 times or more. It was the manliest thing I ever saw in my life at the time.
After Papaw got older, he switched to a safety razor, but he still had that old straight-blade in its case with the strop. I HAD to try it. So, I did one fine day. I mixed up the soap in the lathering dish, I used the whisk to apply it to my face, I stropped that razor to an edge of death and I commenced to shave.
I almost cut my own fucking throat.
GOT DAM!!! A straight-razor don't PLAY, boys and girls. You can peel half your fucking face off with one swipe and not even KNOW it until you see all the blood. Then try to get that shit to stop bleeding. I wouldn't recommend straight razors for hemophiliacs.
I don't care what safety razor blades cost. They are worth every penny.
Try a straight-razor and tell me I'm wrong.
Hey! I'm a "link of the day" here. "Short and sappy!"
Yes, I been described that way before.
I notice now that I seldom post an entry more than 150 words long. That's odd. I once wrote long, venting essays here and I could rant forever. I don't know why I changed, but I seldom do that anymore.
Maybe I just don't have the energy... or THE ANGER... that I once had.
I would tell you what it's about, but I expect you to buy the book. You ain't getting no freebie from me.
I've also started writing poems for children's books. I don't talk about it much anymore, but I really miss my son. I'm missing something that I can never recover. That fact bothers me. So, I started thinking about what I WOULD say to entertain him if he were around, and these silly poems started flying out of my head. I've probably got 35 or so now, and I write a few more every day.
They are FUNNY and I think kids will like them.
I may post a few over the next few days.
me and human nature
I wasn't criticizing anybody's blog when I wrote this post. I simply was making a point that I believe in deeply.
I visited my friend catfish last week and we compared notes about being really broke in life. (We're both unemployed now.) One thing I like about Cat is the fact that he grew up like I DID--- you didn't have any goddam money if you didn't earn it. We both started working when we were 12 years old and we never stopped.
Now, after all that blood, sweat and tears, we're both broke-dicked old fuckers who are too pitiful to even blow away. We debated about who became more broke the most times. Yeah, we both knew about the choice between food, cigarettes and gas when you had $10 to last you for a week, and we both slept on bare matressess in a boarding house until we got back on our feet.
I think Joe went broke one more time than I did. But that doesn't matter. We both dug ourselves out of those holes every time. It's funny how so similar our stories are. We both drew the same conclusions: "Right now, I'm fucked. But I can work my way outta this." And we did.
That's why I have no sympathy for a whinebag. You can work your way out of anything.
This is a sick blog. Don't go there. It's run by a fat bastard and a know-it-all-bitch. Stay away.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
All I have to say to this is BULLSHIT!!!
"And if that makes me a bitch, so be it. I embrace the title and am proud to bear it."
B = Babe
B = Beautiful
B = Beautiful
I have other ideas. Try this one:
I could go on, but it wouldn't prove anything. I just know what I know from past experience. Any woman who brags about being a bitch is one you don't want to touch with a ten-foot pole. I touched two with a much shorter pole and lost two houses, one child, over $100,000, four goats, 28 chickens, my job and half of my 401-K TWICE.
Be a bitch. That's something to be proud of, the way guys like to be known as worthless bastards.
I remember two things Jennifer told me before we married. First, she could never forgive me if I cheated on her. That was a crime beyond any redemption. Second, she could never forgive me if I hit her. I saw no problem with that deal. I was faithful and I never hit her.
SHE, on the other hand went into whore-mode on me and fucked her brains out WITH one of my friends IN FRONT of my other friends. Then, she hit me with every kind of divorce lawsuit on the books. THAT'S my definition of a bitch.
Bitch means "I make the rules, but they don't apply to ME."
my decision is made
I will no longer use the word "orgasm." It is a shitty word for describing a good thing and I'm going to ban it from my vocabulary. From now on, it will be called an "abbazabba!"
Now THAT'S a happy word.
clean my house
I had this bunch arrive and volunteer for the job. They offer sexual favors if I give them a place to stay. I told them they could have the Crackerbox until it was clean.
I'm moving to a cheap motel. I could get crushed hanging around those ladies.
There is no justice in this world!
I'd rather be cat-bombed than see such shit.
you ask, i answer
Shamelessly stolen from here
SPEAKING OF WHICH--
1) Do you have any phobias, and if so, what are they?
I have a visceral fear of snakes. I've had it all my life and I'll never get over it. Snakes literally make my skin crawl and my blood run cold. Every time I see one, I jump and almost piss my pants. In fact, I HAVE pissed my pants after walking up unexpectedly on a snake. I don't know what experience I had early in life to scar my psyche so badly, but scarred I am. I HATE snakes with a revulsion so powerful that I cannot describe it.
I don't like heights, either, but I suffer from vertigo. I get dizzy in high places and falling is not a good idea. THAT I can understand. But my thing with snakes is downright primordeal.
2) If you do have one (or several) has it (or have they) ever been so intrusive in your life that it (or they) caused you embarrassment?
Those assholes at work used to kill snakes at the plant and put them in my office just to watch me do the idiot-dance and piss my pants when I turned on the light and saw the dead snake. Bastards. Sometimes they'd put one in my desk drawer and just wait for me to find it. "Kill a snake and fuck with Rob" was a popular sport.
3) Eagles or Patriots?
Patriots by 13 points. It won't even be close.
Yeah, and I forgot that Daunte Culpepper plays for the loser-assed Vikings. I still don't like him.
I like kinky sex as much as anybody, but this is over the top. Or up the bottom. I dunno. I just think it's weird.
Speaking of which... would you like a glass of sherry?
no good deed goes unpunished
I'll bet these girls learned a lesson. I don't think it was a good one, but that's the way things go today.
You can be sued for anything.
February 03, 2005
Everybody likes a blog contest, right??? Okay, here's mine. I don't like the word ORGASM. I know what it means--- I just think it's a shitty word. It doesn't sound happy.
I want the world to be happy.
I wanna ban the word "orgasm" and replace it with something else. I want a WORD that SOUNDS like it FEELS. I have a couple of ideas.
But I'm open to suggestions.
I'll bet you
I'll bet you money that there's a kid SOMEWHERE in this country who is named "Anus."
i met a bunch of them
I've seen a lot of troops on their way overseas, some of them going for their second tour. I bought 'em drinks and meals and I shook their hands. I am proud of those men and wimmen.
Two things struck me about them. First, was their YOUTH! Sweet Bejus, but they look like kids to an old bastard like me. (They were kids. Some of them were too young to buy a beer in the airport.) Second was their ENTHUSIASM! They WANTED to go. That's what they trained for, that's what they signed up for and that's what they wanted to do. I didn't find a "pitiful me" in the bunch and I was impressed.
I ran across this blog and that's what made me remember those times in Atlanta and Tacoma when I actually had time to sit and talk to those people. Damn, but they are stalwart folks.
When we call them "America's Finest," we ain't kidding.
My mama sent me this one:
John wakes up at home with a huge hangover after the night of his office Christmas party. He forces himself to open his eyes, and the first thing he sees is a couple of aspirins next to a glass of water on the side table. And, next to them, a single red rose!
no shit, sherlock
Here's some real stunning news: divorce often favors women. I wonder where some deviate bastard ever got that idea?
Never mind. The judge's name is Robert Smith.
(Link shamelessly stolen from here.)
i may try it
Somebody told me the other day that with all my belly-problems, insomnia, loss of appetite and projectile vomiting, I should try medicinal marijuana. "Just twist a doobie, dude! You'll feel better!:"
I've been thinking about it.
Of course, If I DID smoke marijuana to make my belly feel better, I might end up eating cans of fruit cocktail and sliced pineapple. I might also eat ham on bread with mayonaysse sandwiches. I might also eat peanut butter, the crunchy kind, right out of the jar while I watch a televison show that I'm paying NO attention to. I might eat and stop puking six times a day.
See? That's what's wrong with the idea of medicinal marijuana. It will fuck you up.
shitty gray rain
This has been a shitty, gray rainy day and the temperature is 46 degrees outside now. That's called "bitter weather" in southeast Georgia, and fuck all you yankees who call us wimps. I don't like it.
I've been in a pissy mood, but I was really trying to recall something humorous to write about in spite of the weather. Hell, when I was a kid I didn't like to play outside on days like this. So, memory recollection is difficult today.
But I remember Art Salter's yard. His daddy was a welder and he built one hell of a monkey-bar-swingset in his back yard. It was awesome. We played on it all the time and invented dangerous stunts to perform. That's what little boys do. Yeah, that's stupid, but you're not gonna DIE, or anything like that. Try it.
One of out biggest hits was to climb to the top of the swingset bar, stand up and walk it all the way to the end, turn around on the bar, and then do a back-flip off of it into the grass. That was a 3" piece of pipe, about 8' off the ground, so balance was important.
We were doing that stunt one day when Michael Moffet slipped about halfway across the bar. He did the waving arms thing first, then let both legs fly out in a perfect "Y". He landed on the bar nut-sack first, and grabbed it for a moment, before he slowly rolled over and fell head-first to the ground. We thought he was dead.
He wasn't. Michael was ALWAYS the one who got hurt doing shit like that, so I believe that he got tough through practice. His balls were badly injured, so we turned a water hose on him and told him to quit whining. He couldn't walk for a while, but he eventually found his way home.
Now. That's a funny story, isn't it?
he don't wanna work
I supervised a hire-in position for many years at work. Looking at new employees, I learned something very quickly. Some people just don't wanna work.
The job sucked. It was nasty, physical, repetetive, brain-numbing assembly line shit. I know EXACTLY how horrible that job is because I DID it for eighteen months when I hired in. But I hung in there like grim death, never missed a day of work and sucked up all the overtime I could get. I got out of there the first chance I saw and eventually went on to make something of myself.
But I wasn't afraid of work. I was willing to pay my dues.
Some people are just flat-out lazy. THEY ARE!!! They don't want to work and the most important part of their bodies are their delicate asses, where they intend to sit forever. Give one of those fucks a physical job and you've got a back-injury disability claim right away. That fucker found his scam. All he EVER wanted was a chance to get paid for not working.
I got paid for not working once. I took an overtime job that involved moving 1,000 bags of floor-sweeps, which weighed about 80 pounds each, up a conveyor belt and adding the pigment back into a big tank for reslurry. We were supposed to collect the empty bags and dispose of them before the job was finished. It was eight hours overtime for three people.
We were done at 9:30 that night. We ALL worked our asses off. You sling bags and add-back pigment the way we did that night, you work. That's heavy lifting and dirty duty. You'll remember that shit the next morning.
The supervisor surveyed the job site, was happy with what he saw, and he signed us all out on out time cards at 11:00 that night. I got paid for an hour and a half that I didn't work. That'll happen to you sometimes, if you want to work.
Just don't fucking expect it if you DON'T want to work.
i am confused
I stumbled across this blog by accident. I've been trying to learn Spanish for about a year now, and I usually do pretty good reading it. Either this guy speaks a slang I never heard before, or that ain't Spanish as I know it. Some of the words are familiar, pero no comprendo mas.
Is that Portugese?
so clear, so simple, so fucked up
I became a student of human nature many years ago when I ran head-first, blindly into the real world. Trust me--- that was a rude awakening for an idealistic young man. But I paid attention and I learned quickly, and that's how I became the cynical old bastard that I am today.
I read stuff like this and I wonder why some people never grow up. Actually, I wonder how they manage to feed themselves and to remember to wipe their asses, too, but it's that complete naivete that really gets me.
The world is not fair and it should be... just because.
Like our ape-like ancestors, we’re social animals. That means we will construct a sort of society amongst ourselves, even if there’s only two of us, anywhere, anytime, under any circumstances. Even if we’re thousands of miles apart, joined only by computers and communications equipment. It’s hard-wired into us. More than that, it’s in our hearts.
That's why we have no murders and no wars. We are all one people.
I know this because I’ve become rather isolated myself, over the last few years. I spend way too much time on the computer. Like most time spent anywhere, much of it is wasted. But I have discovered that I do have a few actual friends, in this unreal world. That’s kind of important to me right now. I’ve recently suffered some setbacks that are proving difficult to overcome. But when I asked for help here on the ‘Net, I actually did get a response. More than any mere financial assistance, that meant a lot to me, the fact that people cared. The worst thing about having your world collapse is how it makes you feel. Pretty much devoid of hope. Paralysed and unable to act. Isolated and powerless.
Break my bleeding heart. The worst thing about "having your world collapse" ( and what exactly happened to YOU, wimp?) is knowing that it's YOUR world and when you're sitting there dazed in the rubble, YOU have to drag your own ass out of it. Sitting there "paralyzed and unable to act" doesn't do much to contribute to society. You become a parasite.
It’s an unfortunate truism that good people never have any money, and people with lots of money tend not to be very good people. Something wrong with the whole system, I think.
You're broke. It's "the system's" fault. Ever tried getting a fucking JOB?
But this is a basic function of human society: To take care of its’ own. Why else put up with all the bullshit? If we can’t share the good things about people in the functioning of our government, what good is it? Our government, our society, our technology either represent the best of us, or we have to fix them. Otherwise, they represent the worst of us.
Lemme get this straight... people work hard, pay taxes, abide by the law and try to prosper just so they can spend money on derelects like you. It's that "sharing" thing, where I give the fruits of MY labor to somebody who never hit a lick and doesn't intend to. That may be "the best of us" for you, but it ain't for me. Get a fucking job. Carry your own goddam weight.
You can see some of that, on my blog, right now: The worst of us. Certain anonymous cowards are taking advantage of my situation, and misusing this wonderful technology, to be just as small and as petty and as evil as any sociopath in the real world. I’ve left some of their many ill-intended comments up, so you can see the other side of the Internet. There are some really sick people out there, like Geoffrey, and Gordon. We can only hope that all their worst actions are taking place here in cyberspace, and not out there in the real world.
What? They called you a lazy, worthless, parasitic intestinal worm? GODDAM! The truth hurts, doesn't it?
I'll issue a society challege here, numbnuts. I'll pay you $1,000 in cash to come clean my house. I'll buy you a bus ticket to get you here and back home again. I'll give you a bed to sleep in and I'll feed you, but you're gonna work your ass off, and I expect it all to be done to my specifications in five days. If you pull that trick off, I'll hand you 10 crisp $100 bills and send you on your way. I'll have a clean house and a lot of your troubles will be over.
If you touch my computer, I'll shoot you. You can't be fucking around on the internet when you're supposed to be working. If you get lazy on me, I'll pistol-whip the shit out of you and beat you with my genuine Scottish shepherd's crook. And I don't care what the weather is like outside. You're gonna pressure wash the house, or else I'll shoot you.
Good people always outnumber bad people. And one good person is more powerful than all the bad ones put together, because he is connected to all the other good people, by having a good heart. Even on the Internet.
One person willing to clean my house is worth $1,000 CASH to me right now. Where do you stand, whine-boy?
(UPDATE: YES! This job-offer is open to anyone who wants to take it. I don't expect to hear from whine-boy, because he don't wanna work, but if you do, the job is yours. I won't shit in the sink before you get here, either. It's still gonna be one hell of a job. $1,000 is a fair price. I'd prefer a woman, but I'll take anyone willing to do the job.)
want some bullshit with your cereal?
Well, here it is. Enjoy it for breakfast.
Pardon me while I hyperventilate and develop the vapors. WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!
i missed it
Was there a speech last night? Lemme guess... the State of the Union is sound, yada, yada, yada. What else did I miss?
Speeches don't mean shit. The guy either can run the country or he can't. THAT'S all I care about. For a bunch of illiterate fuckheads, we sure do care a lot more about words than we do actions today.
Don't bother to wake me for the next speech, either.
I'm signing up for lessons today. I don't want to do any fighting or really pursue any skills. I just want to learn to strike some kind of ballet-looking pose, yell my ass off and scare people. You know, kinda like Mariguchi, or whatever his name was in The Karate Kid.
I'm as crippled as a broke-dicked dog, and I hope to hell I've had my last bar fight, because I know damn well that I won't win the next one, so I am resorting to outright bluff. I wanna stand on one foot, holler "TEE-YAH!," wave my hands in exotic circles and go all gimlet-eyed, as if I am on the brink of launching all sorts of destruction around me. If these people watch movies, I may get away with that act.
I hope that's enough to make the bad guys say, "Holy shit! Don't fuck with that old man. He's some kinda ninja."
If that doesn't work, I'll have to whip out a pistol, and I really don't want to do that.
February 02, 2005
"Mr. President! Mr. President! Wake UP!"
Somebody was shaking me, but I knew that this was no time to react quickly. I needed to make a damage assessment and then see what still worked before I moved. "Go 'Way," I mumbled. I burped something horrible. Oh, Bejus! What did I do last night? "Tell Eric I need a Bloody Mary immediately and I want someone killed within the hour."
The Bloody Mary arrived quickly and Eric asked, "who you want me to kill, boss?"
"Me," I replied. "Do me a favor. Shoot me now."
"I can't shoot YOU, boss! You're the BOSS!"
"Take a good look at me. What do you see?"
"Fido's ass, boss!"
"Oh, yeah? Well, you ought to be on the inside looking out. THERE'S where you'll find Fido's ass. Go ahead and shoot me now. I hurt when I breathe. Put me out of my misery."
My President in Charge of Vice came waltzing through the room and stuck something up my nose. I gasped in surprise and felt a LOT better 30 seconds later. "Dahhh-ling," she said. "Get your Cracker ass out of bed and become presentable. We have a celebration today. It's a STATE occasion."
I started to get out of bed and discovered an immovable lump next to me. HOLY BATSHIT!!! My Secretary of State was asleep in bed with me!!! And we didn't have a single hooker to show for it! WHAT DID WE DO LAST NIGHT????
I felt my asshole. It seemed to be okay. I wasn't violated. So, I figured I'd check the Secretary's asshole to make double sure.... and then I realized how perverted that might look. ME, POTUS himself, caught with his finger up SEC of STATE'S ass. That would be a difficult picture to explain.
I took a shower and asked my First Lady for some more of that coffee she gave me this morning. After that. I was ready to go meet the public. I think we're gonna invade Peru tomorrow.
I don't know how I missed it, but our invasion of Canada took 12 hours. We now own that frozen wasteland and I don't know what we want it for. Did I REALLY give that order? I must have, because I made the Prime Minister kiss ass and apologize for shooting ME the bird.
That's okay. My White House Advisor has everything under control. I can trust HER!!!
This cabinet is working out very nicely, so far,
curdle my grits
First of all, I think circumcision is a barbaric act that mankind should have outgrown years ago. The fact that it is a religious ritual for some people makes me more certain than ever that religion is fucked-up.
read this. Is that creepy, or what?
I am an unclipped male. I also INSISTED that my son not be circumcised. He'll thank me for that decision some day. A circumcision is nothing more than a lazy man's excuse for not washing his dick. I, personally, LIKE to wash my dick. I hope my son uses bars and bars of soap in his quest for
I'm all FOR foreskin.
She got an instalanche without even trying. Good for her. It was a fine post.
I've TOLD you people before: if you build it, they will come.
I forgot this one when I blogged about the lessons learned from the War on Terror. And it may be the most important one of all:
* Mainstream Media exposed themselves for the pack of lying, braying anti-American jackals that they are. And they don't even understand what they've done to themselves yet. They're still living in Vietnam.
Those days are over and they are doomed to be the last to wake up and realize it.
kiss my ass
Just to be an obnoxious shit:
Here are the 10 first place winners in an International Pun Contest :
2. Two fish swim into a concrete wall. The one turns to the other
3. Two Eskimos sitting in a kayak were chilly, so they lit a fire in
4. Two hydrogen atoms meet. One says "I've lost my electron."
5. Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused Novocain during
6. A group of chess enthusiasts checked into a hotel and were
7. A woman has twins and gives them up for adoption. One of them
8. These friars were behind on their belfry payments, so they opened up
9. Mahatma Gandhi, as you know, walked barefoot most of the time, which
10. And finally,...
gimme a break
I wrote this post almost a year ago and I still get comments on it. EVERY DAMN ONE now comes from some militant black fuckhead who calls me a racist and then blames all of his problems on the MAN keepin' da brother DOWN!
From these emails, I have learned that blacks invented fire, the electric light bulb, the internal combustion engine and rocket science. They just don't get any credit because da MAN be keeping them down. Just Damn! That must be rough to be so smart and still be content to live in a piss-hole.
I don't want to hear that shit anymore. I don't believe it and I don't buy your piss-poor excuse for personal failure. And I don't give a damn WHAT color you may be.
This world is your oyster. You can eat it if you try.
this guy goes in my cabinet somewhere. I'll find a place even if I have to invent one.
"Since when did we give a flying fuck what your butt buddy ChIRAQ thought about us, Bill O'Schmuck..."
I think I've found my Chief of Homeland Security.
I never experienced corporal punishment in school. No. Not me. Ever.
I do seem to recall the "bench of shame in the outer office," and maybe I recall a choice that sometimes was made FOR me by the football coach. And that paddle thing is slightly remenicient of a bad sting on my ass. But THAT never happened to me.
"It’s funny how a young lad will form a bond with his torturer." No, it's not. Play football for a rough coach. You'll bond or he'll kill you.
I don’t know how far back Mr. McKey swung that paddle, but when he connected with your ass, Wow! The sting was sharp, piercing through to your knees. He let that paddle linger on your burning ass cheek for just a moment. Then the process was repeated, and repeated.
I NEVER had that happen to me. Not EVER. But if Dax doesn't mention that piece of adhesive tape on the floor, where you were supposed to put your toes right before you bent over and grabbed the corners of the desk, I'm gonna call him a got-dam liar. Torquemada himself administered corporal punishment at MY school. Don't tell me you didn't have either adhesive tape or a red stripe painted on the floor. You had to assume the position the get a righteous ass-whuppin' at MY school.
If you didn't have THAT, you were never properly ass-whupped.
learn from war
What has the War on Terror taught me so far?
Not much, if you listen to the screeching leftists. According to THEM, we never shoulda done it and we need to get out right NOW, before bad things happen. If we simply stick our heads up our asses and think good thoughts in the dark, the world will be a better place.
In MY humble opinion, the War on Terror has accomplished this much, so far:
* Afghanistan is no longer a terrorist training ground.
* We've not had another attack on our country since 9/11/01.
* A LOT of terrorists are dead now. We killed or captured a lot of their skilled people. Now they're down to using untrained, bomb-vested, dumbass jihadis because that's all they've got left. We're winning the war of attrition.
* We had an ACTUAL free election in Iraq. If this event pans out to be as significant as I think it will be, Iran better get really nervous. I cannot believe that people would OPT for a repressive regime where the trains run on time over a free country. Man yearns to be free. When you can see it right in front of you, you want it.
* Osama bin Dead. I still think we croaked him a long time ago. Even if we didn't, that bastard is living like a rat today. "I DEFY THE GREAT SATAN!" Yeah, he got his one shot and look at where it led him. We defy him sunlight now. Those crazy Arabs understand that shit.
* For the first time in a long time, we're showing the word that we mean business. WE ARE TALL DOG!!! Why we didn't start strutting a long time ago is beyond me, and I think we surprised a lot of people (including a lot of Democrats) when we started now. But once you're leading the pack, you lead to the end of the trail.
* Troops are getting killed, blown up and horribly wounded. Yes, and that is a crying shame. But that's what troops do. That WHY we have a military force. And if we don't have the stomach to accept casualties in a war that are LESS than the number of deaths on US highways every day, we've got no business being in a war. We're pussies and we don't deserve to live free.
* Here's a chance to change the world for the better. You can sieze the opportunity or you can run from it. Notice how all the Democrat Utopians run? If they can't change the world through higher taxes and more government, then fuck it.
We're in a real war. If we lose here, we lose the world.
That's what I think.
fake, but accurate
Well, they would if they could, but they can't so they don't. Let's post the picture ANYWAY and pretend that it's true, because that's what we really WANT to see.
War is bad for flowers, children and plastic action-figures.
Here's a good post with a lot of good links. Just how ridiculous can we be in assigning responsibility for the foolish actions of ONE PERSON?
This crap is exactly why lawyers want the most ignorant, uneducated, brain-dead people they can find to put on a jury. A stupid jury ASSUMES that it assembled to hand out a shitpot full of money to somebody before the trial even starts. I HAVE SEEN THIS KIND OF THINKING!!! These cretins think they're running a social insurance program, not trying a case.
And do you notice how the winning lawyer, after he is rewarded his multi-million-dollar verdict, always says that "we hope we sent a lesson here?" Oh, you sent a lesson, all right. It's not a GOOD lesson and it's not the RIGHT lesson, but you damn sure sent it.
All jury awards are free money. Nobody pays for it. If some drunk bastard kills someone in a car wreck, he didn't do it. The car manufacturer, the beer maker, the beer vendor and anybody else even remotely connected with the beer is guilty. Any fool can see that fact clearly.
That's why lawyers LOVE fools on juries.
I have no tattoos and no piercings on my body. I wear a turquoise necklace that I really like, but I sport no other jewelry. My bodily decorations are mostly scars, assembled over a long period of time. Every one tells a story, but I never ASKED for any of that to be done to me.
Remember Crazy Dave and his tatooed Dick?
I certainly do. "Crazy Dave" was a local biker who lived up to his name. The sumbitch had been shot and stabbed a dozen times and refused to die. He wasn't a BIG guy, but he had about as much meanness per square inch packed into him as you can get. He had tattoos everywhere, including some places where tattoos shouldn't be.
He had one that said "eat me!" on the inside of his bottom lip. He had a dick the size of a baby's arm and it was decorated with an ice cream cone, with "your name" etched at the bottom. He used to bet wimmen that, "I've got your name tattooed on my dick" and if they wanted proof, he'd whip it out and show them. He got laid a lot that way.
Dave was nutty as a Claxton fruitcake, but he ALWAYS had good-looking wimmen around him. I never understood that. He had one hell of a dick strapped on him, but he wasn't the most stable person I ever met. Maybe some wimmen really do like bad boys.
I was in a bar one night when Dave ran out of money. He asked me, "Would you buy a beer to see these tits?" He had a real knockout with him. I said, sure. I would. "Honey, show Rob your tits," and she peeled her shirt off right there in the bar. That was a nice pair of pretty titties. I bought Dave a Budweiser and it was worth every penny.
After that, he told her, "Honey, I'm broke. Go make me $50. Come back when you've got it." She left and showed up again in less than an hour to hand Dave his $50. I don't know how he did it.
I heard that Crazy Dave died up at Blue Springs, Georgia a few years ago, when he bet someone that he could ride his Harley all the way through a 4' diameter piece of concrete culvert pipe that was laying on the ground next to a construction site. The pipe was about 100' long.
Dave hit that thing going about 60 MPH and still accellerating. He did okay until he ran into a piece of rebar about halfway down the pipe that split his skull in two. I heard that his friends threw one hell of a party at his funeral and buried his Harley motorcycle with him.
I don't know that the story of his death is true, but Crazy Dave DID exist, he IS dead now, I KNEW him and he DID have a tattoo on his dick. I have known some real characters in my life.
Maybe Catfish can tell the rest of the story.
another cabinet meeting
ME: "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen."
sec def "What are all of these wimmen doing here?"
ME: That's none of your business, Dax. It was an executive decision, so shut your pie-hole."
White house advisor "I propose a motion!"
attorney general: "I second it!"
ME: "How can you second a motion you haven't even HEARD yet?" (Winks winks and nods nods pass between the two wimmen.)
president in charge of vice: Anybody want a hit off this? I want to invade somewhere. Honey, can we invade somebody? How about Jamaica? Can we listen to some reggae music?"
ME: "ERIC! I need a Bloody Mary and today's newspaper!" Both arrive quickly. "Did you people see this today?" I asked, as I waved the paper at them.
WHA: "I have a motion to make."
AG: "I second that motion!"
ME: FUCK YOUR MOTIONS!!! DID YOU SEE THIS SHIT IN THE PAPER TODAY?!!!
WHA: "Yes, Mr. President, Bejus on a bicycle and sexy God come down among men. The Prime Minister of Canada is shooting you the bird and sticking his tongue out at you. That's why I wanted to propose a motion that we destroy his ass."
AG: "I second that motion!"
ME: "Somebody wake the secretary of state up. He's been face-down on the table drooling on his tie long enough." (SECDEF grabs the back of SECSTATE'S neck and pounds him forehead first into the table a few times. SECSTATE seems fine after that.)
SECSTATE: "I say we don't pay for the hookers and we don't pick up the bar tab. They were kising MY ass, not the other way around. Let THEM pay for it." (That's right. I needed to debrief him on the Brazilian Outreach Program.)
ME: "Forget about that. We've been insulted by Canada."
SECDEF: "Let's bomb the piss out of them."
WHA: "Sir, about my motion?"
AG: "The one I seconded?"
ME: "Okay! What the fuck about it? 'Destroy his ass?' That's just brilliant. How, exactly are we suppposed to DO that?"
WHA, "Well, we start this way..."
When she was finished, I realized that it wasn't a bad plan. It might work. Hell, if it DIDN'T work it'd still scare the shit out of the Canuks. "Make it so," I said.
And that's how we ended up conquering Canada.
February 01, 2005
get over it
Men are funnier than wimmen. That's just a simple fact.
Y'all got tits and we got a better sense of humor. That's funny as hell all by itself, except y'all got Divorce Court, too, which negagtes any humor you THOUGHT you had.
I fart in YOUR general direction.
i did it once
It had to be done. Enough was enough. I couldn't stand to see him suffer any longer. And I didn't want anybody else to do it.
I dug the hole first. I made it nice and deep and straight-sided. It was a good grave.
I lured the dog outside with a steak-bone and he was grateful for the treat, even though he didn't have enough teeth to chew it anymore. I petted him while he gnawed contententedly. I looked at the sky and thought about all the good times we had shared together. Then, I laid the pistol behind his ear and pulled the trigger.
He went down like a sack of rocks and I didn't have to shoot again. He was dead, with that steak-bone still in his mouth. I hauled him over to the hole in the ground and buried him. Once I had him planted, I sat on that fresh mound of dirt and I cried like a baby. I killed my fucking dog. I KILLED MY FUCKING DOG!!! If you've never done that, I don't give a shit what you have to say.
The old bastard was deaf, blind and almost toothless. He couldn't control his bladder anymore. He was going to keel over any day. So, I took him out--- while he was munching a steak-bone and being petted by somebody he loved. He never knew what hit him.
And if I did wrong that day, you'll never make me believe it.
something about a dog
A dog loves you in a way no cat ever will. When a dog decides that YOU belong to him, he'll do everything in his power never to disappoint you. He will disappoint you, of course, because he's a dog. But he feels GUILTY about it. He knows that he fucked up and he's SORRY. A guilty dog will grovel to get back into your good graces. A cat expects YOU to get over it.
When a dog is hurt, he comes to you to get his injury fixed. He'll hold still when to tell him to, and if you've got to pull a thorn out of his foot or take a twist of barbed wire from his ass, he'll sit there and take it because he trusts you, and he is ever so grateful when you're finished. If a cat is hurt, it's convinced that YOU DID IT!
I once had a 150 pound Collie that didn't like it when I started to spank Samantha one day. The dog put itself between me and her and growled at me. I ended up whipping TWO asses that day. I tore the dog up (Don't you EVER growl at me again, or I'll snatch your tongue out and choke you with it!")and then I whipped Samantha. But the dog meant well. It was trying to protect my child.
A dog can walk up to you, place his chin on your knee and give you a look of love, adoration and trust that no other animal can duplicate. And all he wants is to be petted. Cats don't give a shit about you, unless you stop feeding them. Then, they'll claw up your sofa.
A dog will fight to the death to protect you and yours. They don't care how big the foe is and they don't care about their chances of survival. They'll do it because that's their job. They'd rather die bleeding and broken than let you down. Cats think that shit ain't their problem.
Cats suck. They are a lazy dime a dozen. Ohhh... but they're so CUTE!!!, which is another reason I hate their asses.
No cat in the world ever measured up to a damn good dog.
that's what you get
You want a tattoo? Get one. Put a fouled anchor on your arm. Get a dolphin on your ankle. Carve a heart with an arrow through it on your bicep. Just make sure you know what you're doing.
Don't go get a a symbol you don't understand etched upon you. You might regret it.
Pitt junior Brandon Smith wanted a tattoo that proclaimed his manliness, so he decided to get the Chinese characters for “strength” and “honor” on his chest. After 20 minutes under the needle of local tattoo artist Andy Sakai, he emerged with the symbol for “small penis” embedded in his flesh..
See? He should have stuck with "Death Before Dishonor" instead of that oriental shit. Dumb bastard probably watched too many kung-fu movies.
What can I say? Just read this.
I had to work problems on my math tests.
just for you cat people
That's all I've got to say about the difference between dogs and cats. And if you don't KNOW, you'll never understand.
more on insults
Do you remember high school? The most miserable, fucked-up time of your life, where ONE insult from a "cool" person could devestate you for a week? I remember those days, too. They weren't fun to live through. But we all did, and came out the other side. How did we fare?
I don't know, but I certainly understand one fact. NOBODY is cool. NOBODY is any better than I am. I spent years learning that fact. Fancy clothes and expensive cars don't make the person. That's all on the inside.
The most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life was a red-headed woman scrubbing meal-pans with sand after we ate. She had a slight smile on her face and the firelight lit her perfectly. She was exqusite. We were 100 miles from civilization and we had those entire woods to ourselves. I told her to put down the pans. The temperature was perfect for snuggling.
So, that's what we did. And that was some of the best sex I ever had.
I LIVED that night and I'll never forget it. I've experienced enough beauty in my life to be immune from insults. The older I get, the more difficult it becomes to embarass me about anything. I've grabbed this sumbitch called "life" with both hands and I've damned near choked him to his knees once or twice. He's kicked me in the balls a few times, but I never asked for a fair fight. You don't get that out of life.
I developed a hide, and it's tough. Insult me all you want to.
I don't care.
* I never met a cat that gave a shit for anything but its own ass.
* Low-carb diets are hurting bread companies and Kryspy Kreme. That shit is also making steak very expensive. I hate you fat fucks.
* How many people actually read the health-labels on food? I didn't, once upon a time, but I do now. I can't understand a damn bit of it. But I look smart as shit doing it.
* If you think there's no difference between Pacific shrimp and the mud-daubers we catch around here, you don't know much about shrimp.
*You crack the shell and immediately smell the tidewater and the marsh. Pry it free, cut that muscle on the bottom, drag it out and drop it in your mouth. Explosion! You taste the salt and you taste the river and you taste the sea. You swallow the meat and taste the beginning of mankind in your nose. The taste goes back and forth for a moment, until you're ready for another one. That's eating a raw oyster.
* I'd rather starve to death than eat shit for a living.
you did it
I make no bones about my musician days. I smoked a lot of dope. So did everybody else I knew. We'd all get stoned and fall asleep in a wad on beanbag chairs, the floor, the sofa or whatever else was handy. We didn't give a damn, as long as the stereo was playing.
Did you ever run out of dope and go visit a friend who had some? Not a GOOD friend, mind you, just some fuck that you knew who might have some dope. Did you ever watch him go rat-eyed and pull out just a piece of his stash and roll a joint about the size of a kitchen match? Like THAT was all he had to offer?
Me, neither. I never did that. I don't even know what got me thinking about it.
A lot of people don't like what I write and I receive a lot of criticism that borders on insult, if I took any of that shit seriously. I am accustomed to being called a "redneck" a "racist" a "hillbilly" and an inbred deviate. I have plenty of "stupid," "ignorant," "dumb," and "brain-dead" to last me a lifetime.
But occassionally an insult really hurts. I don't like to be called "shallow." That really bothers me. I also don't like to be called "common" because I don't believe that I am. "Loathsome" is another one that gets me. I often weep when I read such things.
I there is one thing I can say for myself in this life, it's that I am not shallow and I am not common. Loathsome may be open to debate, but I'm willing to take that one on. I write what I write, and if you don't like it, don't read it. Seems pretty simple to me, loathsome though I am.
I personally believe that I'm a damned good guy.
ME: "How did it go, guys?"
Sec of State: "It went..."
Sec of Assorted Wherewithall: "I didn't get to kill him. After I ripped up that piece of paper, I showed him my knife only once, and he got real religious all of a sudden."
Sec of Defense: "Can I bomb the piss out of them anyway?"
Me: "Maybe. What did he agree to?"
Sec of State: "He's gonna shut the fuck up and stop being a pain in the ass. He'll also settle for $2.5 billion next year, which means we add some money to the slush fund. He also donated 500 of his favorite whores as a goodwill gesture'"
ME: "How many whores to we have now?"
Sec of State: "I've done an accurate count over the past week. We now have 1,091 whores on the payroll."
Sec of Def: "I did my own count and came up with 1,089. Who are you hiding from me, you Florida yankee?!! Got some good shit you're keeping for yourself?" (SecDEF slides a hand inside his coat pocket.)
ME: (I pull out my own pistol first.) "CUT THAT SHIT OUT!" I got everyone calmed down and focused on the meeting after I shot Pedro, that little prick running around with the water pitcher all the time. I always thought he was a spy.
STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!! Oh, sweet Bejus! It was my white house advisor. She struted right in and sat down at the table.
WHA: "Why aren't I ever invited to these meetings? What is this? A GUY thing?"
ME: "Yes. Now, go away."
(She kicks me in the eye again) "Ow! Goddam! What the fuck was that for?"
WHA: "Because you needed it. You're not leaving ME out of these meetings anymore." And she gave me that stubborn, snarky look that I've seen before. I need to add another chair at the table.
I just wish she'd stop kicking me in the eye. That shit hurts!
a $600 hammer
You've all heard the story about government waste because we pay $600 for the same hammer you can buy for $12 at Home Depot. That's a lie.
You've all heard the story about $60,000 airplane toilets and $400 bolts in military aircraft, too, haven't you? More government waste. Another goddam lie.
How many of you people have ever DEALT with a government contract? I would like to know, because when the government wants a hammer, it doesn't want a standard 16-ounce model you can get off the rack at Home Depot. The government has a list of SPECS for this hammer that's as thick as the local phonebook. To GET ONE that pefectly-made, a factory has to set up a special assembly line and make nothing else but those hammers during the run. That costs money.
We pay THOUSANDS of people every day to do nothing but write specifications for government contracts. I am totally convinced that these people are paid by the pound of paperwork they generate, because they damn sure aren't paid to think.
THAT'S where most of your tax dollars go. Into idiotic shit such as that. Do you remember Al Gore, when he was going to "re-invent government?" He showed Jay Leno a certified government ashtray--- $700 bucks a pop, but those things met federal specifications. God's Own Ashtray.
You and I might use an empty Budweiser can, and under MY administration, we will. "Billions for weapons, but not a dime for ashtrays."
I'm getting into leadership mode.
I am deadly serious about running for President in 2008. This country needs somebody like ME in charge. I know what to do. We're gonna act like a superpower and tell a lot of suckfish to kiss our American asses if I'm in charge. UN-- YOU GONE!!! International Court? I've got your "court" dangling. E.U--- FUCK YOU! Kyoto---up yo' butthole!
It's about goddam time this country started walking like a Tall Dog, and if I am elected, by God, we're gonna do it. I've got an excellent campaign slogan : FUCK YOU! And get outta my yard!, which pretty well reflects my attitude about government today, but I need a platform to go with it.
I started with these:
"No Child Left Behind" The little shits will either learn or be dragged off and shot. If we kill a few, the rest will get the message.
"Friend to the World" And that's exactly what I intend to be until the world pisses me off. Then, I'm going to show them ANOTHER slogan, which will be written on sandpaper shoved up asses just to make an effective point. "Friend to America. Is better for the Ass."
"Best Military in the World!" Naw. It can get better. And I would much rather spend money THERE than piss it down all the other rat-holes in Washington.
I ran out of planks there. Anybody got an idea for a good platform?
on a dare
I could not stand the bulky commonness of the man. He sat, day after day, at the same wobbly desk penning manuscripts in a tiny, twisted hand that no one ever would read. He was content in his netted monkish delicacy but he disgusted me.
I once felt such hatred for him when he would not speak to me that I kicked his table and knocked all of his precious work on the floor. Nonplussed, he simply straightened the table and bent down to pick up his inks and pens as I listened to the crinkle of his unwashed robes as he, like the stoic he was, sorted through his chromic tools of inks and pens and picked up his work right where he left off.
God, how I hated that man!
(Just use these words in order and write something slightly coherent: bulky commonness netted monkish delicacy crinkle chromic)
Any asshole can do it. I did.
I'm beginning to solidify the core group that will sweep me into the White House in 2008. I am a firm believer in political partonage, and I will reward each and every team member with incredible perks and untraceable cash, depending on the job each one does. I pay on the merit system.
I need a good secretary of transportation, and I don't want some wuss who preaches about CAFE standards or the evils of SUVs. I want somebody with a set of balls who knows the difference between a turbo-charger and a supercharger. Mr. Lion is my man.
Secretary of the Treasury: The truth is, I don't trust ANY of you sumbitches to have a hand in the till without someone keeping a close eye on you. I'm dealing with some crafty, unethical individuals here and I gotta pick somebody, so it'll be the possum-daddy, just because he probably is the LEAST untrustworthy of the bunch.
Attorney General: I need a crook who doesn't act like a crook and who is slick enough never to get caught being a crook. I might give her a shot, at least long enough to see if she can run with the Tall Dogs.
Head of the Secret Service: this guy, of course. I want my Secret Service to be a paramilitary force capable of convincing anybody who wants to kill me that it's a bad idea. I want them to bristle with firearms every time I appear in public. And shoot at anything that looks suspicious just to show people that we're serious.
Secretary of Health and Human Services: Who else but this guy? He LOOOVES helping people.
Postmaster General: I'm gonna go pick a yankee for this job. He can't create a lot of chaos there as long as he doesn't get a snoot-full of
Department of Beating the Shit out of Political Rivals: You know, if John Kerry had said some of the things to ME that he said to George Bush, I would want his fucking legs broken. You try that same crap on ME and you'll wish you hadn't. Ever heard of a "colostomy bag?" Well, you'll find out if you fling shit at ME. I'm picking these two guys, if they actually manage to get out of bed in the morning.
I'm still working on the list. More will come later.
Just remember our motto: FUCK YOU, and get out of my yard!
another cabinet meeting
ME: "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Where the hell is eric? I need a god-dam Bloody Mary this morning." (Bloody Mary appears instantly.) "Thank you, Eric.
SEC of DEFENSE: "Boss, what happened to your eye? You look like Fido's ass."
Me: I had a slight disagreement with my white house advisor last night. She kinda kicked me when I wasn't expecting it after I made improper inquiries about the situation in
sec of state: "Boss, have you see THIS?" He tosses a newpaper my way.
ME: "Yeah, I read that bullshit. Who is this asshole, anyway?"
Sec of State: "He's a tin-pot, pissant, corrupt little shitass who receives $2.8 billion in aid from us every year and then uses the money to equip his military, eat high on the hog, and run whores through his bedroom like something at a cattle show. His people are starving."
ME: "And HE is jumping on a stump to tell ME what to do in Africa? That fucking fuck!"
SEC of DEFENSE: "Let's bomb the piss out of him."
ME: "I've got a better idea, but I'll keep that one on the back burner. ERIC!!!"
ERIC: "Another Bloody Mary, or do you want me to kill somebody?"
ME: "Neither one. I want you and Kim to put together a team of the usual suspects and pay this guy a visit. Take one of the BIG airplanes--- not #1, goddamit, cause that one's MINE--- but get a really impressive one. Let him know you're coming about eight hours before you get there. I want to see him jump through his ass."
ERIC: "Do I kill him then?"
KIM: "Can we capture the whores as war booty?"
DAX: "I still say bomb the piss out of the fucker."
ME: "No, dammit! We're going to use diplomacy here. Find out who his main rival is. Write the sum of $2,800,000,000 on a piece of paper. Show it to the pissant and rip the paper to shreds right in front of his face. Tell him no more dough if he can't lose that urge to speachify. Mention that we can buy his rival for a lot less money and that we don't really give a shit about who runs his sump of a country as long as that ruler does not bring pain to the Presidential ass. See if he will listen to reason."
ERIC: "And if he won't?"
ME: "Kill him like a pig, kidnap as many whores as you can, then get out of there. THAT'S when we bomb the piss out of them."
press secretary: "Mr. President, what about world opinion? You really have no legal right under international law to assassinate a world leader and then bomb the piss out of his country."
ME" "I'll worry about world opinion as soon as I remove this pain in my ass. You guys all straight on the plan? Good! Let's go do it. And KIM... be a little more judicious with the slush fund money this time. No stopovers in Bangkok or Thailand, okay? Just out and back, right?"
A strong leader never hesitates to give harsh orders, expecially when he has a team he can count on.
first amendment ii
I expect to see more and more of this as blogging becomes more popular and good blogs become more well-read. I run Gut Rumbles on a shoestring, without even a shoe to go with it. If somebody with a legal staff ever sues me, I'm fucked.
The case won't be about whether what I did was illegal or not. It'll never get that far. I already know how got-dam expensive lawyers are, and I also know that I don't have the wherewithall to duke it out with one of the Big Boys if they ever come after my ass.
Yes. I would shut down this blog rather than go broke fighting a losing battle against people who can throw more money at me than I can at them. I can be right as rain, but I'll be broke as a worm trying to prove it in court after YEARS of litigation. That's the way our legal system works.
I would fight them to my last penny if we had a "loser pays" system, where if I win the other side picks up my tab. But we don't have that.
Obnoxious bloggers are fish in a barrel if the lawyers want to come after them.
I am not one bit surprised by this news, but it troubles me just the same. We are raising a generation of sheeple and public schools bear much of the blame.
Yet, when told of the exact text of the First Amendment, more than one in three high school students said it goes ``too far'' in the rights it guarantees. Only half of the students said newspapers should be allowed to publish freely without government approval of stories.
Why do you suppose students might think that way? They aren't taught about the Constitution and they live in a "Zero-Tolerance" world, where a Confederate flag tee-shirt can have you sent home from school for hate speech. The school of grievance is taught in the name of "diversity" and Huckleberry Finn is a racist book.
Offending anyone's delicate sensibilities can land your ass in a big pot of hot water. The students see this fact and realize that it's better to ignore the First Amendment just to be on the safe side. Free Speech and Zero Tolerance cannot exist in the same environment. It's better to aviod free speech than risk a zero-tolerance attack.
``Schools don't do enough to teach the First Amendment. Students often don't know the rights it protects,'' Linda Puntney, executive director of the Journalism Education Association, said in the report. ``This all comes at a time when there is decreasing passion for much of anything. And, you have to be passionate about the First Amendment.''
Schools don't do enough to teach the Constitution, period. We should be passionate about THE ENTIRE BILL OF RIGHTS, yet we have "gun-free zones" around schools in spite of the Second Amendment. No wonder the students don't feel passionate about their rights. They're watching them disappear every day and seeing people who stand up for them get steamrolled by authority.
Teach your children well. This is what you get when you don't.
All content © Rob Smith