April 30, 2005
carnival of the crappers
I believe that this post started the dung-ball rolling. I was kinda proud of that one for a while.
But I was quickly countered by this disgusting post as sort of a uh.... re-buttal to me.
Shortly thereafter came this timely post, which linked a bowel movements to tidal waves, which elevated shit-bloging to an entirely new level. I genuflected in awe and respect when I read that one. I know a shit-master when I see one.
Some people don't blog but still have stories to tell. Here is one:
I was working on a drilling rig in colombia, and I apparently ate something that didn't agree with me because I started with full on diarrea. It got so bad that when I tried to drink some cold water to replace all the fluids I was losing, I crapped it out 2 minutes later, still cold. This was really bad because I was supposed to fly back to Bogota the next day, then fly to Dubai, and I was afraid to move more than 5 feet from a toilet. I finally ate enough immodium that I corked up and I flew back to town. The next day I had a 10 hour flight on lufthansa to germany, then 7 hours to dubai. Stupid me, I forgot my precious immodium pills. I was in the middle of 5 seats, so at the precise moment the seat belt sign went off I had to dash to the bathroom, and I could hear the little german kid next to me say something like "der fatguy has der shitenkopfs", and then start laughing. After 10 hours of this (I hold the lufthansa record for time spent in bathroom), I'm trying to get my stuff and get off the plane, and when I open the overhead my computer bag slides out and lands right in the seat where the little german kid was sitting. Luckily he was standing up, so I didn't crush him with my 10 pound IBM, the little kid says something like "der fattenshittenguy crushenmeheaden" and there were all these angry aryan looks all around me. Luckily, I got away and found out that the german word for pharmacy is kemist, and the german word for immodium is immodium. ...
Then, you have this story about "designer turds." I can understand store-bought titties, fake noses and even some of the shit that Michael Jackson has done to himself. But submitting to a butt-cut so that you can crap designer turds? I don't understand that.
Other people study the metaphysics of crap.
THE SHIT LIST GHOST SHIT- The kind where you feel the shit come out, but there is no shit in the toilet. CLEAN SHIT- The kind where you shit it out, see it in the toilet, but there is nothing on the toilet paper. WET SHIT- The kind where you wipe your butt 50 times and it still feels unwiped, so you have to put some toilet paper between your butt and your underwear so you won't ruin them with a stain. SECOND WAVE SHIT- It happens when you're done shitting and you have pulled your pants up to your knees, and you realize that you have to shit some more. POP-A-VEIN-IN-YOUR-FOREHEAD-SHIT- The kind where you strain so much to get it out you practically have a stroke. ICEBERG SHIT- The kind where the shit is so long that the end of it sticks above the water. RICHARD SIMMONS SHIT- You shit so much, you lose 30 pounds. LINCOLN LOG SHIT- The kind of shit that is so huge, you're afraid to flush without breaking it into little pieces with the toilet brush. GASEY SHIT- It is so noisy, everyone within earshot is giggling. DRINKER SHIT- The kind of shit you have the morning after a long night of drinking. It's most noticeable traits are the treadmarks on the bottom of the toilet. CORN SHIT- Self-explanatory GEE, I WISH I COULD SHIT, SHIT- It's the kind where you want to shit but all you do is sit on the toilet, cramped, and fart a few times. SPINAL TAP SHIT- That's where it hurts so bad coming out, you'd swear it was leaving you sideways. WET CHEEKS SHIT (THE POWER DUMP)- The kind that comes out of your butt so fast, your butt cheeks get splashed with water. LIQUID SHIT- The kind where yellowish-brown liquid shoots out your butt and splatters all over the toilet bowl. MEXICAN FOOD SHIT- It smells so bad, the room must be condemned. UPPER CLASS SHIT- The kind that thinks their shit doesn't smell. FISHERMAN'S BOBBER SHIT- That's the kind where you are in a public restroom, there are two people waiting on your stall, you shit and flush two times, but several golfball size pieces are still floating above the water line.
I'll bet that guy knows what a "courtesy flush" is, too.
I actually saw this happen in the Savannah Marathon one year. The leading woman in the race shit all over herself and never slowed down a step. She went on to victory. I'm just glad that I didn't have to present her trophy.
Of course, no crap-blog would be complete without a tasty recipe. Dig in. Enjoy.
One of the all-time classics can be found here if you dare to venture there.
But there you have it. The very first Carnival of the Crappers.
Randall's Liquor Store now stocks Shiner beer, just for me. Randall told me Monday that he could get it, but the plebian palates of Effingham County didn't appreciate it, so he stopped selling it. I changed his mind.
I bought two cases today. One, I intend to keep for myself, but the other I'm going to give, a six-pack at a time, to four friends of mine. If my plan works, they'll become Shiner fans, too, and bug Randall to stock some more.
That really IS good beer.
It's like the old joke. Ltttle Johnny talks Little Sally into a "You show me yours and I'll show you mine" contest. Johnny drops his pants and waves his Roscoe proudly. "What do you think of THAT?" he asks.
Sally says, "Not much," as she drops her own pants. "Mama told he that with one of THESE, I can get all of THOSE that I want."
It's the truth, too. Wimmen know it and they play the pussy-card all the time to get their way. I've heard numerous wimmen say it before, including Jennifer one night at the Chart House Restaurant. "I can have any man in this place if I want him."
Is that pussy-power or what? A semi-good looking woman knows that she has it, too. I saw MANY a woman cruise the bars on River Street without a dime in her pocket back in my guitar-playing days. (I gave a lot of them a ride downtown.) She expected MEN to buy her drinks and it usually worked out that way.
"The fair sex," my ass.
Conniving, hormone-riddled, greedy, heartless, cruel and insane, I'll believe. But "FAIR?" That word never enters into a woman's mind. She's got a pussy and that makes the world her bearded clam. If the damn thing had teeth a lot more men would be walking around with Bobbit-wounds instead of paying divorce lawyers and watching another man live in his house.
Do I sound bitter? Good! I AM bitter.
Wimmen ain't right in the head. I'm sorry, but that's a fact. Wimmen hallucinate regularly, which is what makes them such good detectives. Don't tell me you've never heard this: "I heard what you said, but that's not what you MEANT!" See? SHE knows what you meant, even if you simply said, "Good morning."
What you REALLY meant was my ass is fat, you don't love me anymore, you think I'm a shitty person and I'm going out to get some reassurance from my female friends, who will take my side and understand my telepathic prowess, and then encourage me to go to a bar and exercise my pussy power.
If my insurance will cover it, I'm going to have my bionics removed. It ain't half the dick I once had anyway, and all it's ever done in my life is get me in trouble. I am ready to become monkish.
Pussy ain't that big a deal to me anymore. It damn sure ain't worth the price you pay for it. Especially the "free" stuff.
I'll write about marriage vows next.
I like to fish. I am NOT a Bill Dance kind of fisherman and I doubt that I'll ever win a tournament among really good competetors. In fact, my idea of a good day fishing is to sit in a boat and drink beer with my shirt off while I enjoy the sunshine. If I catch some fish, that's fine. If I DON'T catch any fish, that's fine, too.
I've caught a lot of bream around here where I live. Worms or crickets make good bait, but I've seen bream bite on bread-balls, too, if you get into a hungry swarm of them. If you catch them "bedding," you can tear their asses up.
"Bedding" is when the female lays her eggs on the river bottom and the male comes around to squirt his manly juices all over them. They don't have face-to-face sex. The female just lays a few thousand unfertilized eggs and the male swims by to fertilize them. And he won't swim away, either, as long as he still has a stirring in his fishy loins. (Do fish have loins?)
Catch a male bream during the bedding and he feels like he's been greased with vasoline. He'll also jet a stream of cum all over the place while you're trying to get the hook out of his mouth. Those fish are totally hormone-driven at that time of year. Some of the redbreast and bluegills are damn near as big as a dinner plate, too.
Bream are bony fish, but I believe that they are delicious pan-fried. I've learned to pick out the bones and enjoy the fish. Just gut 'em, scale 'em and cut off the heads. They are ready to cook.
But my FAVORITE fresh-water catch is catfish. I usually use chicken livers or some other really funky bait for them, but I don't think the bait really matters. A catfish will eat anything. Just bait your hook and put enough weight on it to make it sink to the bottom. A catfish will find it there.
Once you catch one, the fun really begins. You can't just grab a catfish in your bare hands the way you would would a bream. That cat has barbs behind his gills and he'll throw those razor-blade-like contraptions out as soon as you haul him out of the water. Getting a catfish off your hook without being cut or stabbed is a delicate art. I've seen a lot of blood in a boat from someone mishandling a catfish.
After you catch them, you've got some work to do. Catfish have SKIN, not scales on them. I used to nail their heads to a tree, cut all around the head and then use a set of needle-nosed pliers to pull the skin offa them. After that, gut them, cut the head off and cook them.
You end up with delicious, tender, white fish-meat, with very few bones in it. Breaded and fried, they are incredibly good. For a turd-wrestler, a catfish makes good eating. When I pooted around running a trot-line, I caught as many as fifty in a single day.
You wanna fuck with a rookie over some catfish? Just tell him to stick his hand in the cooler and haul out a fish. He'll get cut by one of those slashing barbs and damn near pull back a nub where his hand once was. I once saw a guy get his foot stuck to the bottom of the boat when he dropped a catfish when the barbs were out.
The fish landed on his foot and one of the fins went clean through his flesh and penetrated the bottom of the boat. He was stuck there as if he had been nailed. What really made it funny was the fact that he was demonstrating a home-made catfish de-hooker at the time. It was a device he made out of a coathanger.
"You just run this loop down the line, find the hook, then twist like this... and... BEJUS! GODDAM! OY, OY OY!"
Actually, his invention was a good one. I have one of my own and I have used it many a time. I like to catch catfish. I just try never to drop one on my bare foot. And I keep a pair of work gloves in my tackle box, just in case.
You ever done much fishing for catfish?
I don't know why I ever watch his show. I always end up throwing my TV brick at the smarmy sumbitch. I learned last night that all Southern conservatives are snake-handling jesus freaks. Martin Short was right there on Bill's side to throw in his wisdom about snake-handling conservatives.
One of these guys is an effite jew who lives in California and the other is a prick from Canada. I wanted to thrust myself onto the screen and ask, "How many snake-handlers have YOU ever seen, you self-righteous assholes?"
I already know the answer: NONE!
Some crazy religious people do handle snakes in the South. I've seen such a ceremony twice in my 53 years of life, and both times I went to see it the way someone would pay a quarter at the county fair to watch a geek bite the head off a live chicken. It was a bizarre show--- not what most Southern people do every day.
I resent a fucked-up California asshole and a Canadian asswipe just stating, as if it were pure fact, that handling snakes is a common practice in the South. It isn't. Only a few real loonies do that kind of crap, and they don't have a large following. But the audience applauded like thunder when Bill and Martin made fun of the South that way.
That show is an abortion. The audience is a bunch of kool-ade drinking idiots. Bill Mahr needs to be dragged off and shot. Pompous ass. I saw him retreat twice last night when confronted with actual facts. His response was "Well, everybody knows..." Oh. They DO? He is Ted Rall without a comic strip.
Why is the N-word forbidden while it's perfectly okay for some pasty-faced prick from California to defame the entire South? Why does the audience laugh when these undocumented slurs are cast out like truth?
I suppose that's it's a combination of Bill Mahr and California. Shit plus shit equals shit.
the mother instinct
Men get the bad reputations, but wimmen do the killing. Let them get into a hormonal uproar and they are capable of anything.
How anyone could stab her own children to death is beyond my comprehension, but it probably made perfectly good sense to her at the time. A lot of wimmen think that way. Their minds are strange places.
I'll be called a sexist bastard for saying this, but sometimes the truth hurts. ALL wimmen are crazy. The difference between wimmen is only a matter of degree. Just HOW CRAZY is this one? It's never a question of IF--- only How Much. They see things that aren't there, start reading between the lines and figure out things that are totally off-base.
To them, these flights of fantasy are FACTS, etched in stone. And they end up killing their children as a result. I've never met a woman in my life who actually had all her shit in one sock. They may look good on the surface, but there is a pile of writhing snakes underneath the veneer.
Don't ever forget that fact.
April 29, 2005
an army of one
I agree with this post. How can we maintain an army if we aren't "sensitive?"
I want to suggest a few more good ideas.
*If a seargent ever screams "TAKE THAT HILL!!!" a mandatory time-out is required so that recruits can debate the worth of actually taking that hill. If they decide by majority vote that they don't want to take that hill, the mission is cancelled. After all, we live in a democracy.
* Assault weapons are dangerous. We have no business giving those things to soldiers. Somebody could get hurt. Recruits will practice with broomsticks and learn to shout "BOOM! BOOM! really loud when they pretend to fire.
* All soldiers will be trained mercilessly in how to separate recyclables from regular garbage. After all, they have a responsibility to save the planet, too.
* If the temperature is more than 80 degrees outside, everybody stays in the barracks. Do you know how many people die from skin cancer every year?
* All troops must undergo "sensitivity training." We require our troops to be sensitive, embrace diversity and worry a lot about offending anyone else.
* The names Chesty Puller, George Patton, Audie Murphy and Alvin York will NEVER be mentioned again. To do so is a court-martial offense. When we refer to military heroes, we will speak of Ted Kennedy, Barbra Striesand, Jane Fonda and Alec Baldwin.
* Our new military will be built on the French Model. They proved a long time ago that you can get your ass whipped in a war and still be snotty.
* NOBODY ever gets called a "pussy." If one person can't do it, then the training must be too dificult and we need to tone it down. Do you realize the self-esteem issues here? We don't want anyone to fail. We want happy soldiers.
* Read my edicts and obey. I'll show all those people who said a woman couldn't be Secretary of Defense.
It must be a guy thing.
My only problem is that he didn't mention torturing toads.
I had a friend who owned some goats and one really slutty dog. I enjoyed going by his house to drink beer and bullshit with him on the porch. He farmed about 30 acres, and I usually ended up with a sack of Silver Queen corn, a bunch of squash or a bundle of green peanuts to go with my beer-buzz whenever I visited.
But that's not why I went over there. I enjoyed his company and the beer was good, but the best thing of all was watching one of the goats fuck that dog. The dog was a slut and goats are goats. The combination makes for wonderful entertainment.
The dog was fairly good-sized, with a lot of pit bull somewhere in its heritage. But it had the morals of $2 cow-town whore. She'd fuck a goat anytime. In fact, I think she LIKED being fucked by goats, and a goat will fuck anything that holds still long enough.
I remember Frank saying, "Watch this. Dolly is about to get drilled." And sure enough, that's just what happened. A goat would mount her, start doing his thing, and Dolly would never move--- just make some "oof" and "oomph" noises while the goat enjoyed his pleasure.
Dolly used to gang-bang the entire herd while I sat on the porch and watched.
Drink beer with a friend and enjoy the show. It's quite impressive if you're in the right frame of mind. I KNOW that it's unnatural and against all the preachings of Jesus, but watching a goat fuck a dog is amusing, as long as it's done with mutual consent from both partners and nobody gets hurt.
Dolly didn't seem to mind. The goats certainly didn't mind. I called it no harm, no foul. Besides, it was one hell of a show.
I staggered away from Frank's place many a day thinking, "I know wimmen just like that dog."
Aren't they just so precious?
Doing that kind of thing NEVER would have occurred to me in my life. I would fight you at the drop of a hat, and I didn't take shit from anybody, but I NEVER even THOUGHT about running around and sticking people with a dirty needle. What kind of sick fuck does that?
A third-grader does today.
That's what happens when government becomes nanny to everybody. Government has never been worth a damn at policing its OWN business. Why would you expect those incompetent bastards to run YOUR life any better than they run the Department of Motor Vehicles? Or the Post Office?
It takes a village, right? Sure it does. If you want to raise an idiot.
a talk with my brother
Dave called me today to talk about Mama's will. We are named as co-executers, but he's a lawyer and I'm not, so I told him to do whatever he thought was right. He knows a lot more about this crap than I do.
Mama had almost 300 "Beany Babies," some of them real collectors items, and we donated them all to a children's hospital. We allowed the family to take whatever souviners they wanted from the house. We donated most everything else to the church, and what they can't sell or use will go to the Salvation Army.
Damn. The house is there for my uncles and aunts to use when they come to take care of my grandmother, and they've worked out rotating shifts to do that. I come from good stock.
I have seen so many families turn into vultures when this kind of thing happens, but I KNEW that it wouldn't happen in mine. We are not built that way.
A week ago, Uncle Virgil told me, "Rob, you and Dave need to split that money in the cookie jar." I didn't know what he was talking about, but I found out soon enough. Mama kept a cookie jar on top of the refrigerator, where she stored cash. I remember her reaching into that thing and handing me or somebody else some money if she needed something from the store. "Take this and go get what I want."
She had more than $1,000 in there.
I told Virgil that YOU GUYS should plunder the cookie jar. You are the ones taking care of Mommie today and mama wouldn't mind a bit if you used her cookie jar money to do it. Dave and I don't need it. Help yourselves.
I'll be surprised if they do, but the offer is there. I wish they would. It would please my mama. But hillbillies are so damn stubborn sometimes that you couldn't change their minds if you beat them with a tire-iron. I'm a lot like that.
And I'm proud of it, too.
The truth is, I have known a few people in the past that deserved this fate. I just didn't have any lions handy at the time.
You've probably dealt with such an employee before. Simply firing his ass isn't satisfying enough. You want to KILL the bastard, and feed him to the lions because he DESERVES it, the worthless piece of shit.
Investigators found little more than a skull, a few bones and a finger last year in the enclosure for rare white lions in the northern Limpopo province, where the murder took place.
It may be a criminal act, but I can understand the motivation. I've wanted to do the same thing myself.
April 28, 2005
rubber band guns
A commenter brought this subject back to mind. I had rubber band fights all my life, and yes I DID carve up an inner tube once to make ammo for my "cannon."
We all made our own guns then, using a clothes-pin and a piece of wood. I can show a kid how to do THAT today, but nobody is interested anymore. Kids prefer their video games. Kids. Most of 'em don't know what a chinaberry is, let alone how to make a "popper."
Do YOU know what a chinaberry is? Have YOU ever shot or been shot by a "popper?"
Pardon... I digress. What I started out to say was that I once built a rubber band gun that resembled a crossbow and had 12 clothes-pins on it. That was my scattergun. I could load 12 rubber bands on that thing and be ready for bear, as long as I remembered in which order I loaded the bands.
You had to fire them last one first, first one last, or they'd get all tangled up. I managed to keep that part straight and I killed many a bad guy with that weapon. It was awesome.
And the strangest thing is... I thought up the idea and I built it myself. It didn't come off the shelf at Wal-Mart. Mama didn't buy it for me. She let me steal 12 clothes-pins, but the rest was all my doing. I was a pretty clever young man.
A LOT of us made our own toys back then. I know that I'm waxing nostalgic and sounding like an old fart now, but I believe that sorta stuff made us better, stronger and tougher than kids I see growing up today. These modern pansies drink bottled water. I drank from a garden hose. Kids today wear Tommy Hilfinger and Nike. I was happy to have clothes at all. Kids today have gourmet frozen dinners. I ate pinto beans and cornbread.
Face it. I envy the spoiled brats.
yes, I made bombs!!!
I probably should be on the Homeland Security Checklist because I know how to make a bomb. I already comfessed to firing a potato gun with black powder. Do you think I quit THERE?
Shit no. I didn't.
I went around where the construction people were building houses, and I collected short pieces of conduit, and if they weren't already threaded on both ends, I threaded them myself. Then, I stole a pocket full of caps to fit that conduit.
Yes, as a 12 year-old boy, I was the CRACKABOMBER.
I built about two dozen tubes, carefully drilled a hole in the bottom of each one, then filled them with gunpowder. I had 24 pipe-bombs in my room. I didn't have a clue what I was doing, but I was certain that the results would be spectacular. I was a dumbass.
Behind my parent's house was a big field where we once dug a big hole in the ground. I used my silver tongue to convince my friend Finn to come with me and set off a couple of bombs. He foolishly agreed and we went to that field. We found that big hole in the ground.
I took six bombs and a book of matches with me.
I stuck a fuse in one, lit the fuse with a match, tossed the bomb into the hole---- and ran like hell. That thing went off about five seconds later and it sounded like the Second Coming of Christ. BEJUS!!! This was something from special-effects in a Hollywood movie. Dirt was raining down all around us and our ears were ringing.
"Cool!" said Finn. "Gotta 'nother one?"
We set off the other five bombs the same way. How we didn't kill ourselves or end up in jail that day, I'll never know. But we made that big hole a little deeper and had a good time doing it. But the last one I lit almost went off in my hand, and that frightened me.
I lit the fuse, tossed it, and the damn thing went off before it cleared the lip of the hole. I HEARD pieces of conduit whizzing by my head, despite the deafening concussion when it exploded. I was unhurt, but I almost shit my pants.
I went home, disarmed my other tubes and never built another bomb again. But I just want to announce to the US government: That may have been a long time ago, but don't think I haven't remembered how to do it! I can make a bomb!
Make me 12 years old again and I'll tell you how to do it.
When Jennifer and I moved into our first house, I saw something that made me aware of how much the world has changed since I was young. A neighbor across the street threw out some trash and left it on the curb for almost a week before the trash collectors finally picked it up.
Part of that trash was an old baby carriage with four perfectly good wheels on it. Do you have any idea how long THAT TREASURE would have lasted on the curb when I was a boy? About five minutes is the answer. My friends and I would have taken those wheels and put them on SOMETHING that we could kill ourselves with.
Kids don't do that stuff anymore and I think it's a crying shame. Wood and nails were easy to find back then, because houses were being built everywhere. You give me four free wheels, and I'm gonna build something that rolls. Give me something that rolls, and I'll figure out a way to wreck it. The more spectacular the wreck, the better it is.
That's what I did as a kid.
i shoulda known
I built my own skateboards when I was young. Now, they come all high-tech and custom engineered for about $250 a pop. Why am I not surprised that we have high-tech potato guns today?
Society is conspiring to take away ALL imagination in kids. Don't MAKE ONE!!! Mama will go buy you one. Just sit there and play your Gamestation until mama gets back and hands you a very expensive piece of shit that you won't appreciate, because EVERYTHING is handed to you anymore.
That's the way life is today. If it's not handed to you, it ain't worth having.
tag! You're IT!!!
What is going on here? Some obscure blogger just jumps up and demands that "YOU FOLLOW MY MEME!!" And people do.
Good tactic. It works. I don't understand why some people feel obligated to kiss whatever ass is waved in front of their faces, but they do. Do it and have fun, but count me out. I don't like being manupilated.
I could use the words "bossy," "overbearing" and "cuntly" but I won't. If you people are happy, then I am too. Maybe I'm mistaking rudeness and egotism for being "fiesty," but I don't think so. I know the difference.
Y'all have fun jumping through hoops.
I actually met some yankees at the blog-meet in Jekyll who had never tasted hush puppies before. I couldn't believe it. Hush-puppies are a STAPLE down South.
Hush-puppies are really nothing more than deep-fried cornbread, but you can make them so many different ways that it could put a Starbucks menu to shame. Straight up, they are good. Chop up some onion and bell pepper into the mix and it's even better. Add some hot peppers. Dice some sausage and try that, too. Make 'em anyway you want to.
It's almost impossible to fuck up a hush-puppy.
But you can make some REALLY good ones, that stand out in the crowd. The best hush-puppies I ever tasted came from "Pearls's Elegant Pelican" on La Roache Avenue in Savannah. Pearl served her hush-puppies the way a Mexican restaurant gives you a bowl of corn chips to munch before you order your meal.
Bejus! I could dig into Pearl's hush-puppies and make a meal out of THOSE. By the time the waitress came to get my order, I wasn't hungry anymore. That's no shit. I often ordered a meal and told them to put it in a go-box, because I had filled up on hush-puppies.
Pearl made them with a lot of honey and butter, then fried them very lightly. Those puppies were delicious and SWEET, without being nauseating. It was like eating cake.
If you've never tasted good hush-puppies, you have not lived a complete life.
a potato gun
If you never built a potato gun, you didn't grow up in the South. Constructed correctly, it's not really a gun--- it's more like a cannon or a mortar. I made my first one out of aluminum conduit, then graduated to PVC once I discovered that plastic pipe was easier to work with.
I built my mount out of wood, but you can prop your rocket on anything that will point it in the right direction. Just make sure that it holds still when you fire.
Cut off a 2" piece of pipe about two and a half feet long. Cap the bottom and drill a small hole near the end of this "barrel" you just built. When I was a kid, I could walk into ANY hardware store, seed & feed, or gun shop and buy a cannister of black powder. It was cheap, too.
When you get ready to fire, just pour the powder down the tube, pack it down with a piece of rag, then load you missle on top of that. I used baby-food jars, raw potatoes and live toads for ammunition. Soak a piece of twine in fuel oil to make a fuse. Stick THAT in the hole at the bottom, light it, and run like hell.
When that fucker goes off, one of two things will happen. You will have a magnificent explosion that will propell a missle an incredible distance, or your gun will blow itself to pieces and throw shrapnel everywhere. That's why you run like hell when you light it off.
I got pretty good at building the right kind of gun and calculating the right powder charge before I gave up potato guns. I blew up several before I learned to do it the right way. But nobody died and nobody got hurt during my experiments. A few toads had a really bad day, and few potatoes learned that they could FLY, but all my friends and I survived.
Mama would have shit her panties if she had known what we were doing at the time.
I read this story and had myself a quite chuckle. Exploding toads are nothing new in southeast Georgia. My friends and I once strapped firecrackers onto the poor bastards and watched them make a few hops before the blow-up occurred.
I believe that toads were put on this earth for little boys to torture. My brother, the future lawyer, at around the age of 10, built himself a toad-execution device and held trials, where he found the defendant GUILTY and sentenced him to death.
After the judge (my brother) pronounced his verdict, the toad was placed into a box with a hinged lid. The lid had about 100 nails poking out of the bottom. My brother would slam the lid closed and end up with a holey toad.
He would then dispose of the toad-corpse by kicking the top off a red-ant mound and feeding the remains to the ants. We ALL did bad things to toads in those days. I even shot one out of a potato gun one day. Boy, did HE fly!!!
I am certain that the German problem with exploding toads is something environmental--- maybe even second-hand smoke--- but it could be another sign of global warming, too. I can understand little boys blowing up toads, because I did that when I was young. But when they start blowing up by themselves, it's time to worry about something. I don't know WHAT, but we should be worried.
April 27, 2005
this 'n that
You know what keeps me reading a blog? It's not the subject matter. It's the way the writer approaches it.
A lot of blogs are personal journals and about 99% of them are pure bullshit. But some can remain personal and still be entertaining. Take "We Got a New Puppy," for example.
We got a new puppy today. We named him "Jake" and he is sooooo cute!!! Little Katie and Jason love him to death and it's soooo cute when they play together. Jake poops on the floor, but puppies do that. We laugh and laugh when that happens. Katie has Girl Scout meetings this week and Jason is playing soccer, so I will be a busy mom for the next few days. Katie looks soooo cute in her uniform and Jason is just soooo cute when he falls down on the soccer field. I think I look pretty cute myself when I ferry those kids around. *sigh* But that's what a mama does.
This is MY TAKE on the same subject.
I got a dog today. He's a good pup and I think he has the potential to be a good dog. But I'm going to housebreak that sumbitch if it kills me. I beat his ass every time he shits on my carpet and I throw him outside to do penance, after I rub his nose in his own shit. He'll learn, or I'll kill him.
I could blog for a month and make it entertaining about raising my dog. I'd probably piss PETA off with the way I did it, but my technique has always worked in the past.
I am not a soccer-mom. I am a hard-ass.
I would like to drag off and shoot everybody who has one. They are GREAT communication devices, but that's not how most people use them. To most people, cell phones are a neat toy to use to call up and irritate somebody for no good reason whatsoever.
I don't like talking on the phone. I never have and I never will. I have TOLD numerous people that I don't like talking on the phone and what do I get? Hey, I'm on their speed-dial--- so call Rob and ask, "Whatcha doing?"
Is that a great way to start an important conversation or what? "Whatcha doing?" Well, I was minding my own fucking business until YOU called. Now, I'm on the phone with a dip-stick who called me just because he or she had happy fingers.
Georgia called me this weekend. It was the typical cell phone call. "Rob! It's Georgia! Does your carpet cleaner have attachments that allow you to clean a car?" I told her that I didn't know, but she was welcome to come over and look at it herself.
"I can't right now, because we're on the way to Melborne. Huh, huh huh. But when we get back, I may want to come look at it." Good, I said. When you get back from Melborne, you are more than welcome to look at my carpet cleaner.
Maybe I'm all fucked-up here, but I have a question. Why in the hell would you call somebody to ask about a carpet cleaner when you are going as fast as you can in the opposite direction from the carpet cleaner? Somewhere on Interstate 95, you realized just HOW IMPORTANT IT WAS to call Rob, RIGHT NOW about his carpet cleaner?
Bullshit. People with cell phones feel a NEED to call somebody. And they do. What REALLY chaps my ass is when the cell-phone addicts call somebody and hand ME the phone, saying "Talk to them."
If I wanted to talk to them, I would have called myself. I don't LIKE to talk on the phone. I don't make calls to ask "whatcha doing?" I don't find the urge to call somebody and ask about a carpet cleaner in Rincon, Georgia, when I'm headed for Melborne, Florida, either.
I think cell phones should be implanted in people's asses and it should hurt like a rock-hard shit to get it out. Maybe that would stop some of the silly crap I see every day.
How many of you people know how to eat with chopsticks? I've done it for years now, and I'm pretty good at it. I can eat anything but soup with set of chopsticks.
I can't eat Chinese or Japanses food the way I once did. I think I've developed an allergy to MSG and it bothers my belly now, even though I still like the food. Bejus! Shrimp and rice and beef and chicken and pork and all kinds of sauces to dip that stuff into. Using chopsticks, of course.
I pity anyone who has never taken the time to learn how to eat with chopsticks. If you ever learned to hold a pencil in your hand, I can teach you to eat with chopsticks. My daughter can do it. My son can, too. It's NOT very difficult.
The next time you go to a Chinese restaurant, try eating with chopsticks. The food tastes better that way.
If nobody else dares to say it, I will. this blog has gone to shit. He links the same people every day over the same stories he's been hammering on for a couple of months now, and it's all stuff nobody gives a shit about. BIG RED LETTERS: "More from Togo!!!!"
Who gives a shit? I don't.
He may be my blogfather, but I got in my REAL father's face a few times when he was acting senile. Maybe GLENN needs to take a few days off. Okay, if you doubt me, just go back and look at how he links to the same people every day.
Kaus? Fuck him, that liberal asswipe. He needs a link from Instapundit like I need an asshole in the middle of my forehead. Ann Althouse? I am not impressed. Jeff Jarvis? I read some of his crap before, and I do not believe that he is highly profound.
I could go on, but I won't because my jealousy is showing. But Glenn's site is turning into that same high-school, "who is cool" society that almost made me quit blogging. If I never hear the name "Hugh Hewett" again, I will die a happy man.
That's MY humble opinion.
My palms have been itching for the past couple of days. I don't have any bumps or any kind of rash--- just an occasional itch on the palms of my hand. My grandmother always told me that the itchy palms were a sign that you were soon to receive some money.
My grandmother may be a voodoo woman.
Yesterday, I checked my mail and found an interesting piece of literature in there. Kerr-McGee has launched a stock buy-back plan and they want to pay me RIGHT NOW for the 300 shares I own, at about $10 over market price per share. I'm going to sell it all.
What is interesting to me is the fact that I never bought this stock. They GAVE it to me for outstanding job performance, then fired me a couple of months later. I've just been sitting on it, like a hen on an egg, and enjoying the quarterly dividend checks, but now is the time to sell. They can have the stock. Just give me the money.
Even though I'm an English Major, I did the math. We're talking a considerable sum of cash here. No wonder my palms were itching.
My grandmother is a wise old woman.
back by popular demand
Okay, I am over my temper tantrum now and I'm going to blog again. If I quit now, that makes me a quitter and I've NEVER been one of those in my life. A LOT of people sent me emails encouraging me to continue ("if you quit, the terrorists win") and I appreciate that.
But I believe the best one came from juliette, who said--- "Don't quit. You NEED this." For someone I've never met, she knows me pretty well.
I just have one last thing to say about this crap: I have no respect at all for people who want to dance in the the rain and then bitch when their hair gets wet.
April 25, 2005
I'm going to post the Carnival of the Crappers sometime tonight. That will be the last post on Gut Rumbles.
Blogging has changed a great deal since I first started almost 3 and 1/2 years ago. It has become clubbish, cliqueish and downright high school. I don't need that shit in my life.
I no longer enjoy it, because I must walk on delicate tippy-toes, lest I OFFEND anybody, so I'm going to quit. I have a couple of people to thank for my newfound attitude, but I won't mention any names, because they get their feelings hurt and start calling me at night and sending nasty emails to tell me what an asshole I am.
BESIDES---I think you shits just wanted to hog my traffic anyway. Just like a woman. You're welcome to it, if you can hold it. But y'all did a damn fine job on your high school bullshit and you probably know who you are.
Fuck it. I quit.
We're not supposed to have them anymore. One of the facts I learned early in life about the settlement of Savannah was that James Oglethorpe filled his ships with
If you think we don't have debtor's prison today, just read this article. It's not usurious creditors or Mafia thugs doing the dirty work to drive people into bankruptcy. IT'S THE GOVERNMENT doing it.
An interesting thing briefly suggested here is the extent to which tax problems force people into bankruptcy (usually, however, not because they just "forgot" to pay their taxes). There aren't many good studies on this, but some have concluded that as much as 10% of bankruptcy filings are caused by tax liabilities (and that doesn't count those who would have alot more money available to pay their debts but for having to pay their taxes or pay their taxes because they are generally nondischargeable in bankruptcy). For those keeping score at home, this exceeds the number of bankruptcies traditionally thought to be caused by health problems, death in the family, college expenses, and gambling.
Yeah, you can pursue happiness all you want to, as long as you PAY THE GOVERNMENT for that "right." And the government can take an incredible bite out of your money, too.
I took a lump-sum retirement settlement and ended up with 50% of the money. The government stole the rest. See... what I didn't understand was that all those graveyard shifts I worked, all the shit I went through and all the hard work I did for 24 years wasn't for ME or my family. I did it for the government. They TOOK their "share" of my earnings.
And if you don't pay the bastards, they'll bankrupt you, take everything you own and throw you in jail. Isn't that exactly the kind of government the early settlers of Savannah ran from?
They didn't run far enough.
god bless robert e. lee
In case you didn't know, today is Confederate Memorial Day. I am celebrating. I took down the American flag on my front porch and raised the Stars and Bars of the Confederate battle flag in its place.
If I piss anybody off by doing that, fuck 'em.
I hated to read about this. Dan Fogleberg is a wonderful musician and songwriter and he's probably younger than I am.
He has "advanced prostate cancer." Those of you not familiar with the disease may not know what that means, but I do. The cancer spread beyond the prostate capsule, which is what made it "advanced," and it's probably gonna kill him now. That's a crying shame.
"DanFogelberg.com regrets to announce the cancellation of the Fall 2004 Solo Acoustic Tour. Dan has been recently diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer and has entered treatment. He apologizes for any inconvenience the cancellation of the concerts may cause his fans. Dan is confident he will be able to fight this illness. Your prayers, good wishes and positive thoughts will be very much appreciated."
WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!! 36 states have perchlorate in the drinking water. Now is the time to panic, run in circles and wave your arms frantically over your head.
The EPA itself says:
In general, the oral RfD is an estimate (with uncertainty spanning perhaps an order of magnitude) of a daily oral exposure to the human population (including sensitive subgroups) that is likely to be without an appreciable risk of deleterious effects during a lifetime.
These facts aren't about to stop the panic-mongers. This is just another example of environmentalis using the old "scare 'em, then save'em" tactic practiced by salemen all over the world. What's the bottom line?
The conclusion of city leaders: Piping any amount of perchlorate into homes posed an unacceptable gamble.
Ah, yes.... RISK. Forget the fact that you inhale, ingest and absorb all kinds of "toxins" every day and don't show any ill effects. Forget the fact that it's never the poison that kills you--- it's the DOSE. Forget the fact that your body REQUIRES some of these "toxins" every day to be healthy. (Zinc is a perfect example.)
So, let's spend a gadzillion dollars protecting people from a menace that doesn't exist. Anything else is an "unacceptable gamble." My aching ass. It's all a waste of time and money but people are too damn stupid to recognize a con-game when they see it anymore. But this story is from California, so what else do you expect except stupidity?
When did we get so dumb? I blame Rachel Carson.
April 24, 2005
speaking of music
I got only five of these questions correct. I remembered the music, once I saw the answers, but I damn sure couldn't pick it out when I first saw the test. And I KNOW my trivia.
peter and gordon
I didn't know this bit of trivia. I liked "A World Without Love," but I always thought Peter and Gordon were a couple of dorkles. That's what they should have called themselves---- "The Dorkles."
It's just interesting to see how they got started and where they ended up.
I am good
I've managed to make laurence simon jealous with my incredible lack of taste on my blog. I call that high praise.
Those cats of his are numbing his brain.
no damn way!
Las Vegas I can understand, but SEATTLE? PORTLAND? AUSTIN? ATLANTA???? I would rather die and go to hell than live in ANY of those places. I would fit in at Seattle of Portland like a turd in a punchbowl. Austin is the the San Francisco of Texas, and I would get pissed off at the locals there, too. Atlanta just plain sucks and I don't like the traffic or the racial politics there.
My personal picks? Blairsville, Georgia. Charlotte, North Carolina. Key West, Florida.
i wondered about this story
Here are some gory details right here. Why would police handcuff a five year-old girl?
Maybe they had their reasons.
Some kids are just plain feral today and the teachers in school aren't allowed to deal properly with them (and Bejus knows, the parents obviously don't, either). Some five year-olds aren't the way I was when I was five. Read the post. Watch the video.
Then... tell me what the future may hold for that feral little girl.
The subject of "snappin' pussy" arose somehow at the Georgia Writer's Workshop. My eloquent friend Catfish promised to "blodge" on the subject and now he has done so. Read that post and learn.
The term "snapper" came from the snapping turtles we have in the marshes and swamps around Savannah. When a snapping turtle clamps his jaws on something, he doesn't turn loose. He'll hang on even after he's dead and you cut his head off. "Snapper" means powerful muscles and a genuine death-grip.
Some wimmen have snapping pussies. I've known four in my life and it is truly a unique experience to meet one. They have vaginal muscle control that most wimmen never bother to master. Make love to one of those and IS like sticking your Roscoe in a milking machine, only a LOT better.
You don't even have to move. Hell... SHE doesn't have to move. She does everything internally and seemingly with little effort. Making love to a snapping pussy is a religious experience.
A true snapper can crack a raw pecan in her cooter, then spit out the shell, leaving the nut intact. A true snapper can take the lid off an imported beer bottle and never use her hands. A true snapper can handle a raw egg without breaking it, and then turn right around and crush a 16-ounce glass RC Cola bottle back into sand.
All four told me that ANYBODY could learn those techniques--- it was just a matter of practice. I enjoyed letting them practice on ME.
That's just MY humble opinion. I could be making this shit up.
I believe that I have enough unsolicited posts to publish a Carnival of the Crappers tomorrow. Some of them are pretty damned funny.
I've blogged before about how even little kids instinctively think farts are hilarious. Crap-stories can be hilarious, too, only NOT for the faint of heart. I think I'm gonna do it. (Not CRAP--- publish the Carnival!)
If you have any feces-related post you would like to share, email it to me.
worth the thrill?
Here's just one more reason NEVER to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. The guy must have done something wrong to kill himself that way, but that's the problem with jumping out of perfectly good airplanes.
You get only one bad mistake.
April 23, 2005
You might want to run your blog through this test. I thought my results were interesting. I score high on readability and low on the "fog" index. You know what I thought was my BEST score? You need only 3.3 years of education to understand my blog.
Yeah, if you want something deep and profound, go elsewhere. Here are my scores:
Readability Results for http://www.gutrumbles.com
Visit the site to get an explanation of the results.
they make good balloons, too
I've never liked wearing them, but condoms have many uses other than what they were designed for. Humans are inventive creatures.
I think it's a natural instinct. We look at something and think, "What ELSE can I do with this?"
April 22, 2005
If you grew up in southside Savannah during the 1960s you knew about Wyndam's Market and Maycrest Hardware. Wyndam's Market was on the corner of Whitefield Avenue and Montgomery Crossroad before they cut they new road through on Water's Avenue years later.
Old Man Wyndam was a crotchety old bastard who didn't like kids in his store. He always was convinced in HIS mind that you were in there to steal something from him, and he watched you like a hawk. I had a newspaper route and I had money at the time. I talked Mr. Wyndam into stocking two extra cases of football cards every month so that I could buy both cases.
They cost $1.00 a case. I bought two every month for a couple of years. He finally came to like me and didn't treat me like shit anymore. But he died and his family sold the store and the land it rested on to the Catholic Church next door. It all belongs to St. James Cathedral now. I missed the old man, but I was finished collecting football cards by then.
Maycrest Hardware was one hell of a store. It was run by a crabby old jew (I didn't know what a jew was back then, but my father often gave me some obscure piece of hardware and said, "Ride your bike down to Maycrest Hardware. See if the old jew has one of these.") and I don't think I EVER struck out. I would hand him the part I wanted, he would walk right to some dusty shelf and match it up.
I don't know how he ever found ANYTHING in that place, because it resembled a junk-pile, with stuff stacked everywhere, but he never missed. He didn't like kids, either, but he damn sure had a fine hardware store. He's dead now, too.
You just don't see stores like those anymore.
A totally magnificent thunderstorm rolled over the Crackerbox between 6:30 and 7:00 this afternoon. It was a hum-dinger. Wind whipped the trees like a giant hand shaking the limbs and for about five minutes, hail the size of marbles fell. Lightning lit the sky and the thunder rolled. Rain poured in torrents.
I LOVED it. I didn't want it to stop.
Is that weird, or what? I really LIKE violent weather as long as I'm not hunkered down in a ditch when it happens. I went outside in the middle of that crap and stood in my yard after the hail quit. Whip me, wind! Wet me, rain! C'mon, God--- show me what you've got! Now's your chance to hit me with a lightning bolt! I'm giving you a good target!
God passed up that opportunity, the storm went away and I walked back inside, wet and wind-blown, but still alive. Rain continues to drizzle now, but it's nothing like it was earlier today. I wish that the wind, hail and thunder had kept coming for hours. I like that stuff.
I ain't right in the head, am I?
This study does not surprise me. I never had a true "imaginary friend" when I was a child, but I had a rich imagination, so I played with Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett, Tarzan of the Apes and a host of others that I invented for my games.
I knew that it was all fantasy, but that fact didn't make it any less fun to do. I died at the Alamo many times. I learned to sleep in a tree the way my friend Tarzan did. I turned an empty refrigerator box into a space ship and flew it to Mars, where I did battle with hostile aliens.
I also played a lot of football by myself. I'd form a huddle, call the play for my imaginary teammates, then run it against my imaginary opponents. I sometimes did that for hours. Strangely enough, my imaginary team always won.
I never read a good book that I didn't act out in some way. I wanted to LIVE those stories, and I did in my imagination. I was seldom bored as a child.
I am happy to know that kids still do that kind of thing today.
the drinks are on me
I wanna buy this guy a beer. Hell, I'll even help raise his bail money. I believe that what Jane Fonda did during the Vietnam War was downright traitorous and I will NEVER forgive her for it.
She has blood on her hands. Why should she worry about some tobacco juice in the face?
I live in the great state of Georgia and I love our state song. But here is a question I never pondered before. Is the song about the state or about a woman?
What do YOU think?
I call bullshit!
How can people be so fooish as to believe things that are utterly untrue and easy to check?
You got it wrong. The average life span in the USA has gone down. Europeans on average live longer now. Dunno about hot dogs, but you really should read up on public health statistics before you start pontificating to the masses.
Whatever you say, Lu. Of course you are sadly mistaken, but that's okay. You obviously aren't very bright anyway.
DUI while not driving
We have this same idiotic law in Georgia. If you have too much to drink and decide to sleep it off in your car before driving home, you can STILL be arrested for DUI, even though you never started the engine.
What message does that send? No matter how shit-faced you may be, you may as well try to drive--- you MIGHT make it home. If you stay where you are, you're gonna go to jail anyway, so why not take the chance?
Brilliant law. I like the "logic" behind it, too.
"What if they woke up at 2 a.m. and decided to look around. They didn't see anybody and decided to drive then they still may be under the influence and still hurt somebody," Bartlett explains....
Uh-huh. So... what about the guy drinking beer in his living room while watching a football game? Shouldn't the cops arrest HIM, too, because he just MIGHT decide to drive later?
This crap is ridiculous.
April 21, 2005
my aching ass
How has the human race managed to survive? WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!! Again. This time from hot dogs.
Bejus on a bike. I think I'll just crawl under my bed and never come out again. These bullshit "studies" keep making the headlines in spite of the fact that people live longer, healthier lives than EVER BEFORE in history. WTF?
Ya just can't win. We're surrounded by toxins and deadly shit, but the average live span continues to increase. I could publish my own study showing that all this "toxic" stuff must be GOOD for us, because people grow taller, live longer and have the spare money to fund this kind of research. But that "study" wouldn't scare the shit out of anybody, so it wouldn't receive much publicity.
Got-dam. We actually pass laws based on this bullshit.
we can compete
I'll still put a Jawja blog-meet up against anything Texans or Californicators can throw. We have prettier wimmen, more guitars, more booze and we play half-rubber, too. TOP THAT!!!
All you Texas and California wanna-bees can kiss my Cracker ass. WE KNOW how to throw a "workshop." Hell, we even had a marriage while we were there---complete with a string of lovely ladies reading love-notes and vows on the beach. That made my friends Ken and (yes) Barbara feel good. Ken and Barbie.
Ken called me last night to tell me how special he thought that moment was. I am glad that he enjoyed it. It was all part of the hoot.
We do it like Outback. No rules... just right.
I love trivia. My head is packed full of totally useless knowledge and I like to share it every now and then. Try these questions.
#1-- On "Gunsmoke," what was Doc Adams' first name?
#2-- What did the "T" stand for in the name Captain James T. Kirk?
#3-- Who was Prisoner Number 655321?
#4-- What was the name of the spaceship in "Lost in Space?"
#5-- Who were the Gorch Brothers?
#6-- What was John Wayne's real name?
#7-- Who was Napoleon Solo?
#8-- If you have a bottle of alcohol that says "50% by volume," what proof is it?
#9-- Who said, "TOGA! TOGA! TOGA!!!?"
#10-- What was "The Spruce Goose?"
Now. Digest this trivia and answer me. I might even have a prize for anyone who gets all ten correct.
That was my first REAL dog--- one that belonged to ME and my brother. He was jet black except for four white paws. My dad suggested that we name him "Spats" but I didn't know what spats were back then. I was 10 years old. I didn't know shit. We named him "Pudgy" because he was a fat little pup.
I loved that dog. He went EVERYWHERE in the woods with me and he was my companion when I couldn't find anybody else to play with. He was smart and he was a natural retriever. Throw anything, and Pudge would go fetch it and bring it back.
He almost got me arrested for trespassing at the Forest City Gun Club Lake one day in the winter when it was COLD for Savannah. The dog had a good dose of Labrador in him, and he went totally apeshit when he saw that lake. He jumped in and went for a swim. I tried calling him out, but he was having too nice a time in the water.
That's when I saw the White Pickup of Death coming for me. That was driven by the security guard at the place and I believed the rumors about that man killing young boys who trespassed on that lake. I heard that he would shoot you, cut your head off, and then bury your corpse in the woods. He was a frightening man.
I went into a panic. Pudgy wouldn't get out of the water and the truck was circling the lake coming for ME. I made a decision. I laid down my BB gun, shucked my clothes in the January cold and jumped into the lake to get my dog.
I hauled his butt out of the water, grabbed my clothes and my gun and went hauling ass though the woods before I got shot and had my head cut off. I had more blackberry stickers in my feet than I could count later and I almost froze to death before I thought it was safe to stop and dress myself again.
But a boy and his dog do things like that.
Pudgy got hit by a car and died when he was five years old. He's buried in the back yard of my mama's house. My dad and I dug the hole and planted him. I cried for weeks afterward.
That was a long time ago, but I still dream about that dog.
Long ago, when I was first starting out at the chemical plant, I worked with a guy named Frankie Kane. He was a short, wiry guy, smaller than I am and I have never been a big man. He was friendly and a hard worker. I liked him.
We had another guy on the shift (I can't remember his name now), who was your typical bully. The guy was about six feet tall and probably weighed 240 pounds, most of it pure asshole. He was loud-mouthed, belligerent and a complete prick.
He started picking on Frankie. I don't know why, but bullies do that kind of thing. Frankie was little and this guy was BIG, and I suppose that that's all it took. Frankie never gave anybody any shit, but this big guy wouldn't leave him alone.
Finally, Frankie had enough. He told the sumbitch to meet him in the parking lot after work. We were on 4-to-12 shift at the time and I was very concerned about this fight for two reasons. First, I thought Frankie was gonna get killed. Second, I thought both of them would lose their jobs over this bullshit.
I talked to some other people (I was NOT a supervisor at the time) and we agreed to kinda referee this massacre. If it got ugly, we would break it up, get everybody out of there and never say a word about it.
They met under the streetlights in the parking lot and the big guy took one swing at Frankie. That's all he got. Frankie was on him like stink on shit and beat that big sumbitch as if he were operating a jackhammer. He pounded bad-ass to a pulp and left him draped over the hood of a car, barely conscious.
I learned the next day that little Frankie was a Golden Gloves boxer for several years before he turned professional and boxed under the name "KILLER KANE." He had about 30 professional fights under his belt. He tore that big guy up like a chainsaw.
I learned a vaulable lesson that night: be careful who you fuck with.
i feel his pain
I heard this story on the news yesterday, and I empathized sincerely with the man. I've never shot a car, although I have wanted to, but I DID execute a barbecue grill once upon a time.
The bastard deserved to die.
Sometimes, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
i must not be faithful
When I look at this picture, I don't see the image of the Virgin Mary. It looks a LOT like something else to me.
What do YOU think it looks like?
Instead of inventing the scare of the week, these scientists are doing serious work. I LOVE popcorn.
We need more of this kind of research.
i dare you
NOT for the faint of heart. But if you don't go look at these pictures, you need to be dragged off and shot.
April 20, 2005
I didn't really need to read this survey. It just depressed the hell out of me.
The study showed women who were directly exposed to semen were less depressed. Researchers think this is because mood-altering hormones in semen are absorbed through the vagina. They say they've ruled out other explanations.
When a man has a radical prostatectomy, the doctor removes not only the prostate gland, but all semenal vessicles, too. That means you don't EVER produce cum anymore. You can have an orgasm, but it's a dry-fire. You'll never make a wet spot on the bed again, unless you piss all over yourself, which I have been known to do since I had that surgery.
Sometimes I wish that I had died rather than survive that procedure. It certainly changed my life, and the change was NOT for the better. Before I had the operation, I did a lot of reading about what all was involved, and I didn't like any of it. But one thing EVERY piece of literature said was, "Communicate with your partner. Let her know what is about to happen."
I did that. The cunt dropped me like a hot rock and ran off with an unemployed dope-smoker. Whatta woman. I could have used a friend back then, instead of having my face pushed into a pile of shit.
But I survived. I've been raised that way, and I believe in hanging on by your fingernails when the going gets tough. If it was easy, any asshole could do it. Maybe that's one reason I like this guy so much. Life dealt him a bad hand, too--- but he hasn't let it slow him down.
I admire courage when I see it.
I've tried. I really have. I've done everything I know to do to put the past behind me and get on with what could be a really good life. I have money, I have friends and I don't have to work anymore. I have achieved the American Dream.
But I would trade every bit of that to have my plumbing back the way it used to be.
I believe that I was corrupted as a youth by my grandmother's tales of living in the mountains. There was a Code of the Hills that everybody abided by.
If a stranger came to your cabin at nightfall seeking shelter for the night, you fed him and let him sleep in the barn (The house was already packed with young'uns). In the morning, you fed him breakfast and sent him on his way, maybe with a sack of biscuits to eat on the trail.
You performed that act of kindness because next time, it might be YOU or one of your sons seeking shelter for the night. And you expected somebody else to do the same thing.
We've lost that sense of hospitality that once was a common part of life. People are distrustful and paranoid today, and I really can't blame them. I once hitch-hiked my way all over Georgia. Now, I don't pick up hitch-hikers anymore. Too many crazies out there.
I miss the Good Old Days.
dogs are like that
This post made me laugh. I've seen dogs do that kind of stuff and I NEVER understood what was going through their doggie minds. I know that they like to camouflage their scent, but I've seen dogs roll in COWSHIT and come running up expecting you to be proud of them.
If I am ever reincarnated after I die, I want to be a dog so that I can figure out what they are thinking when they roll in the smelliest thing they can find. I've SEEN dogs do this.
Once, I went out walking when my family unit was still intact and I had paved streets in my neighborhood. I took Bud with me. I didn't put him on a leash, because he was pretty good at heeling when I scolded him. But he suddenly dropped out of formation.
I turned around and saw him rolling in the street. Somebody had smashed a toad on the road and Bud was getting a hair-full of THAT scent. I yelled at him and he gave me that "What did I do?" look. Dogs do that, too.
I couldn't explain to that 90-pound, hairy dog that rolling on a dead toad in the road was NOT a good thing to do. I took him back home and gave his hairy ass a bath in the back yard before I let him back in the house.
After that, he decided that walking with ME after dark was a bad thing, and he never went with me again. He never connected the dead toad to the bath in his doggy mind. He just believed that I became evil after dark.
He was correct.
offering versus demanding
My friend catfish and I had a discussion on this topic the other day. He's like me. We'll BOTH give you the shirts right off our backs if we think you need them worse than we do. Hell, we believe in being generous.
But being generous walks a fine line---- very close to Being Taken Advantage Of. Some people don't know the difference. (Or they KNOW and choose door #2 out of pure-assed selfishness) It's happened to both me and Cat before. We live and learn.
I give generously to charity and I have helped several people get to Jawja blog-meets when they didn't have the money to make it without my aid. But I OFFERED that aid of my own free will.
Here where I live, we have a term for people who always show up at YOUR house, eat YOUR food, drink all of YOUR beer and NEVER bring anything of their own. They are called "googers." (That's pronounced GOO-Jers) The world is full of those people and I don't like them.
Being the nice guy has cost both me and Cat a lot of money over the years, and it will probably cost us more in years to come, because we are nice guys. There IS some truth in the old adage that "nice guys finish last."
I'll give you my shirt if you want it. But walking up to me and DEMANDING it, because you have a cute ass, takes a lot of fucking nerve in my book. But some people have a lot of nerve.
No conscience... but a lot of nerve.
just like a woman
They start from an early age.
April 19, 2005
i wanna marry a lesbian
I've made up my mind. Give me a good-hearted woman, who keeps a nice house and doesn't care for sex with a man. I can live with that. I don't want sex that much anymore myself. Pussy is a lot stronger now than it was when I was young.
She can have her own bedroom and do whatever she wants to in there, as long as I approve of overnight guests. I don't want her dragging home any woman who reminds me of ME. Other than that, I believe that we could get along fine.
She should rub my back occasionally and let me cook for her, then talk to me after the meal. I'll give her a pedicure and paint her toenails. We'll watch movies and memorize the best part of the dialogue, then quote it back in apt situations.
Yeah. I could live with that.
I wanna marry a lesbian. Straight wimmen have too many head-problems.
I'm on a roll about poker. One of my favorite games is five-card draw, open on your gut. Suppose you draw a pair of aces off the deal. What do you do next?
My answer is that it all depends on where you're sitting at the table. If I'm the first person to bet, I'm going to go large for two reasons. First, I have a pretty good hand. Second, I want to eliminate as much competition as I can.
If I don't bet first, I'll probably see the opener and raise double for the same two reasons I listed above. Then I pay really close attention to what people take on the draw.
If the opener takes three cards, I figure that he's got a nice pair, but I've got him beat. That shitass who stays in and takes ONE card scares me, because he's either holding two pair or sucking for a straight or a flush.
In that situation, I ALWAYS draw three cards. I don't believe in holding a "kicker" to go with my aces. I'm not looking for two pair. I want that third ace.
If I'm the opener and I don't help my aces, I'm going to bet big. I want to see if I can run the mullets out of the game. If the guy who took the one-card draw raises me, I just may fold and get out of Dodge. Or.... I may decide that he WAS trying to fill a straight or a flush and he didn't get it... and now he's trying to run MY mullet-ass out of the game.
If I'm somewhere in the middle, I don't believe in calling a one-card draw. I'll either fold or raise the shit out of him. That's the way I play poker and I win a lot more than I lose.
But I don't believe in "kickers."
There was some cockroach, named Veronica, who went running across my kitchen floor today. I stomped her.
I've got a serious question: if you don't like what I write here, why do you visit? Just go the fuck away if I offend you. I don't remember ever holding a gun to your head and FORCING you to read my page. (Dax and I talked about this strange phenomenon, too.)
Some people must just enjoy being offended. Or being offensive. Whatever, it doesn't matter to me. I operate this site with my own money and I don't give a lovely fuck what you think about me. You can read it or not.
But DO NOT come here, using MY bandwidth to call me nasty names. I become offended by that shit and I delete your suck-ass comments. Besides, a look through the URLs shows that "Veronica" just may be one of my usual trolls.
Veronica, may you live long and prosper. And may you get laid some day before your pussy grows shut. But don't come back here.
Now... have a GREAT DAY!!! as my ex-wife always says, when she doesn't give a damn.
I don't like wild card games. I like straight-up poker, whatever the game. Most people don't understand that you're playing your OPPONENT, not the cards and I like to have a sense of the odds when I gamble. That's why I "cogitate" over my hand before I bet, or fold.
I not only consider my cards, but I consider my opponent, too.
I'll bet you that I know the kind of poker she plays. I can hear it now. "Okay, my deal. One-eyed Jacks, sixes and deuces are wild." I wouldn't bother to ante for that game.
To me, poker is a lot like chess, only with money involved. It is a game of strategy, intuition and skill (yes, luck is involved, but not as much as most people think). A good poker player will beat a poor one 99 times out of 100.
I know the game and I play it straight. When some dipstick starts calling half the deck wild cards, I drop out, because I've lost my ability to calculate the odds. I KNOW how most wimmen play poker. The more wild cards, the better.
Only idiots do that.
If I offended anybody with this post, you can kiss my Cracker ass. I paid my poker dues in the back room at Johnny Gannem's Restaurant for many a year, and I wasn't playing my cousins there. I played with guys who brought a wad of money and toted pistols when they arrived for the game.
Talk shit to ME about playing poker. I didn't win that game at Jekyll by accident.
tell me about it
I enjoyed reading this post, but it made my blood boil. People, whether you believe it or not, there IS a line between right and wrong out there and it has nothing to do with sex.
Wimmen are more likely to screw a man in divorce court than a man is to rape a woman. That's the way wimmen are built. Wimmen are vicious creatures and they "read between the lines" WAAAAY too much. You want to see how crazy the human race can be? Just watch a woman when she gets pissed off.
No mercy. No quarter. DEATH TO ALL MEN!!! I would rather handle a live rattlesnake than a PMSing woman. They don't THINK. They react and they feel, and they always Read Between the Lines. Most of them are out of their fucking minds, but they don't know it.
I'll give you a perfect example right here: this woman said that she could beat my ass at poker. Of course, she didn't play in the game at the blog-meet and I'll bet she doesn't even know the ranking of poker hands. She wouldn't know a flop from a check, but she can beat me. Why? She's a WOMAN, that's why.
I've been playing poker for fairly high stakes since I was a young man. I knew when we started that game that I had one person to worry about if the cards didn't go crazy, and that was Catfish, because he's played a lot of poker, too. We ran everyone else out of the game and it boiled down to me and him. That was NO fucking accident.
But some twerp who didn't even PLAY and never has in her life is convinced that she can beat ME.
That's a woman for you.
If they didn't have a pussy, there'd be a bounty on them.
the red hat
That thing was presented to velociman as a sarcastic birthday present. He wore it proudly.
It was bright red, with a nice hatband and a purple feather sticking out the back. You looked like the original Pimp Daddy if you wore that thing. It was a really suck-ass hat.
I believe that everybody at the blog-meet wore it at least once, and pictures abound to prove that fact. I know that it adorned MY head more than once.
I kinda like suck-ass hats.
eat your hearts out
Here is another description of the
I dare any person from Texas or that fruitcake state of California to compare notes with US. When we have a "Writer's Workshop," we work our asses off. I believe that the rest of you are a bunch of pussies. I see nothing but porch-puppies out there.
Big Dawgs come to a Jawja blog-meet.
maybe it's just me
I do not like this kind of display. Any organized, public mourning ritual disturbs me. It reeks of masochism and I don't like that crap.
I'm a Kentucky hillbilly at heart. In Harlan County, we are no strangers to death, but I was taught from an early age that you grieve by yourself and keep your pride about you in public.
I've buried both of my parents and I will never visit their graves. They aren't THERE, in that cold ground. They are in my heart, and they will live there forever. Nothing else matters.
If this ceremony made some people feel better... well, I'm fine with that, but I don't understand why we do such things. You're not going to bring your loved ones back and we've already executed the guy who did it. Just file this one under "shit happens" and get on with your life.
Fuggeddabodit? No, never. But don't keep re-living this shit with "moments of silence."
It does no good. The dead can't hear.
April 18, 2005
You can find some great pictures here.
I've gotta work on the blogroll--- add a few people and promote a few others to the "Blogger's I've Met" category. I'll do that when my brain starts functioning again. I'm also going to delete a few people who simply don't post enough.
I have two complaints about the Georgia Writer's Workshop. #1 is that I didn't get laid. We had LOTS of wimmen there, but when I tried to breach the walls of their castles, using siege devices and all of my Southern charm (and a modicum of sobriety), I was defeated every time. See why I don't like wimmen in general? They are too stingy with pussy.
#2 was that we did all of that shit in MY room. When I woke up Saturday morning, I thought a bomb had exploded in there. Empty containers of various adult beverages were everywhere and the place resembled a buffalo grazing ground. The commode was broken. A chair was broken. The casing was off the air conditioner in the main bedroom. Every ashtray in the "non-smoking" room was filled to overflowing.
Georgia and Catfish helped me clean it up before the maid arrived. We didn't want her walking in there and having a heart attack when she saw the carnage. She was a woman with an English accent and she said, "Megawd! You people must have had a good time last night!" We assured her that we did and slipped her 10 dollars to keep her mouth shut about it.
I paid her another 10 dollars the next day, too. Day two was pretty much the same as day one, only worse. We corrupted some college students down there for Spring Break. Young shits. They just THINK they know how to party. We old farts gave them a lesson they will not soon forget.
I lasted one inning in the half-rubber game. I can still catch (one pitch and I had Kim out), but I can't hit or throw anymore, and I joined the other players in rolling on the ground when I tripped and fell. We didn't resemble an Olympic Team out there. We resembled a bunch of assholes, which we were. I still blame it all on the wind.
I finally drank a red-headed slut late Saturday night (or early Sunday morning). Dax was tending bar and everybody bragged on them, so I HAD to try one. I decided: those things could be lethal in large quantities.
Honorary mention goes to sam and moogie, although we thought for a while that Moogie wasn't going to make it. That Chatham Artillery Punch gave her a broadside that we thought might sink her, but she stayed afloat. Georgia (Ms. Recondo) NEVER runs out of gas and she NEVER stops talking, even at 5:00 in the morning.
Yeah, we had a couple of long nights. Next time, we're going to do this in a more civilized atmosphere. You know, somewhere like a titty-bar.
between the lines
I was challenged to write this post by this guy, after a long, philosophic discussion that lasted until about 5:00 AM. We talked about "Reading Between The Lines," and we both decided that when you do that really seriously, you're likely to see something that isn't there.
Don't get me wrong. I BELIEVE in reading between the lines, because I've been trained to recognize tone of voice, body language and the way written communication is phrased to signal the meaning of the message TRULY being sent. But you can get carried away with that shit.
I saw it happen recently, and the entire thing involved wimmen Reading Between The Lines. It starts like this. One woman (woman A) says to another woman (woman B), "That's a nice outfit. You look good in it."
Woman A immediately reads between the lines, and here's how that feminine mind works. "She told me I look good. I MUST LOOK LIKE SHIT!!! I don't trust that bitch and I KNOW that she said that only to make me angry. I CAN READ BETWEEN THE LINES!!! Well, I'm gonna show HER!!!"
Woman A approaches woman B and suggests, in a most off-handed fashion, that woman B should see this really good doctor she's heard about who can cure saggy tits. Woman B smiles and recommends a liposuction doctor who can reduce a pot-belly and a bloated ass.
They smile at each other the entire time.
Meanwhile, the guys are sitting on the sofa, drinking beer and lighting farts, totally oblivious to what is happening around them. Guys Read Between The Lines when they MUST. Wimmen do it because they watch too many soap operas.
I agree with my blog-buddy. Read Between The Lines enough, and you start to see a lot of things that aren't there.
no, i ain't done yet
Here's a good link to another Georgia Writer's Workshop survivor. He provides the names and the links to almost everybody who was there (I think).
He also has a picture that contains incriminating evidence about what REALLY happens at these meets.
Yeah, the Democrats are correct. Here is what tax cuts for the rich give you while those evil Republicans are trying to balance the budget on the backs of the poor.
President Bush reported taxable income of $672,788 for last year, on which he paid $207,307 in federal income taxes, according to presidential returns released Friday by the White House.
Remember Jimmy Carter? He's the President who earned more than $600,000 back in 1976 and didn't owe ANY federal income tax thanks to taking advantage of tax loopholes available at the time. Good old Generous Jimmy paid $6,000 that he didn't owe, just to show what a loyal American he was.
That's a 1% tax on HIS money. I don't do math, but I think Bush paid about 30% on HIS money. That's one of the big differences between Democrats and Republicans right there. Democrats like to spend other people's money and call that compassion. They are not fond of parting with their own cash.
They want to "tax the rich!" when the rich usually pay more in taxes in one year than some Democrats earn in a lifetime. Bejus! I was taxed as if I were a rich Republican this year. I receive NO handouts from government, either. I'm too "rich" to qualify for any of those goodies. I just pay for them.
So, we suck the bag to about 30% of everything we earn being siezed by the FEDERAL government. That doesn't count all the other taxes we pay.
This is a fucked-up system and it needs to be changed. God himself asked for only 10%.
it could be worse
I slept twelve hours last night and suffered tumultuous dreams. I hate to admit it, but it's true: I just don't have the hang-time I once did. Two days of madness at Jekyll, even though I stayed fairly straight (for me) took its toll. We used MY room as Party Central, so I missed my usual bedtime by about four to six hours both nights, and got a grand total of about six hours sleep while I was there.
I was worn out when I got back home. I thought I might fall asleep behind the wheel driving back from the Catfish Mansion.
I'm getting too old for this shit. I remember when I could do that crap for a week straight and never miss a beat. Now, two days lays me low. Old Father Time is a merciless sumbitch. I've still got the will; I just don't have the power anymore. And I didn't even get laid.
I'll probably take a nap today. I'm STILL tired. But it could be worse.
I am not dead or in jail.
April 17, 2005
I usually sleep nekked. I've done that for a long time now. But when I room with this guy, I always wear pajama bottoms.
Read his post and you'll know why.
Nothing bad happened to me at the
But when I arrived back home today, I checked my mail. Sure enough, the Effingham County Tax Assessor sent me a cold-hearted note, printed by a cold-blooded computer. My property and home are now worth $15,000 more than they were last year. My taxes went up accordingly.
Those blood-sucking assholes! I would be more than happy to sell this fucking toxic waste-dump to THEM for what THEY say it is worth. Cut me a check and it's yours tomorrow! TAKE IT!!! And I'll even throw in most of the furnishings, including all the dirty dishes in my sink.
I'm going to appeal this bullshit. Either I'm one of the most clever real estate investors who ever lived, able to buy a got-dam CRACKERBOX and have it almost double in value over three years, or I'm getting fucked.
Which do YOU think it is?
You can read more about the Georgia Writer's Workshop from the woman who gave me her panties when I won the poker tournament. And I DID wear those panties on my head.
They smelled nice.
Tell me that my daughter can't paint. Samantha has always had skills and abilities that she never used. That fact always chapped my ass.
Maybe I pushed her too hard.
(If that link doesn't work, just hit "refresh." Blogger is a funny host anymore.)
I came. I saw. I conquered. Now I need a long, long nap.
I met a lot of fun people and had a good time. The weather wasn't the best we could have asked for, but who cared, after a while? Some Chatham Artillery Punch (about 10 gallons) will do wonders for your attitude.
You can see some pictures at this site, featuring two people that I cleaned out at the poker table. I am a BAAAAD man when it comes to cards.
I TOLD you people weeks ago that I was gonna run the table. I did, too.
April 15, 2005
off to the real rodeo
I'm fixing to head out of here and drive to the Catfish mansion. From there, we will go to Brunswick and deplete the inventory of a liquor store that happens to be along the way. I'm taking my laptop, but I don't expect to blog again until Sunday night, when I will be back home if none of my premonitions come true.
These Jawja blog-meets are dangerous things.
Heh. I'm ready for whatever happens.
You can't buy that stuff anymore. The EPA banned it. That's a crying shame, too.
I had a bad flea outbreak in my yard around 1980. Not only were those bugs eating my dogs, but they were eating ME, Samantha and my first ex-wife at the same time. It was a fucked-up situation, and nothing I tried slowed those hungry bastards down. They invaded the house and made everybody miserable.
I worked with an old guy who farmed about 35 acres when he wasn't at the plant. He gave me a quart jar of chlordane and told me to be REALLY CAREFUL about how I handled that stuff.
That was some good shit. Mixed 20-to-1 with water, it killed everything in the yard. It killed all the fleas, knocked out a few squirrels and birds and made BOTH of my dogs sick as hell, because my dumbass ex-wife didn't listen to what I told her.
"Debbie, DO NOT turn the dogs out into the back yard until we've had a good rain."
What does SHE DO? She turns the dogs out the next day and damn near kills them both. "I didn't know!" she said, while crying.
I told you not to do it. You SAW what I did in the back yard. I killed everything in the back-yard UNIVERSE and YOU DIDN'T KNOW??? That's a woman for you.
She damn sure knew how to operate a credit card. Didn't have to be told how to spend me in debt up to my ass.
But, I digress here. I just wish I could still buy chlordane.
April 14, 2005
I'm almost packed
I'm off to the Georgia Writer's Workshop tomorrow. Some people are already there and they are anxiously awaiting my arrival. Maybe I'll get laid.
Or MAYBE this is the premonition I've had for the past few days. I'm gonna drown in the fucking ocean. A jealous husband is gonna shoot me. Catfish and I will both be killed in a terrible car wreck either coming or going. Somebody will feed me poison moonshine and I'll drink it.
I'm going anyway. We'll see what happens. I should meet a lot of interesting people.
But I still have a bad premonition.
I do not believe in God. I do not pray and I never say grace over a meal (unless I am a guest at someone's house and they ask me to. I can be quite eloquent then. I am a Southern boy.).
I see the world as chaotic, not controlled by any divine hand. I see Man as a creature capable of incredible nobility or absolute ignominy, depending on the person. I trust myself more than I do anybody else.
But I also remain superstitious as hell.
Maybe I grew up around too many hillbillies who believed in signs and omens, and they practiced what they preached. I was told from an early age that someone skilled in witchery could put "the evil eye" on you, and cause bad things to happen. I've seen water-wanders, snake-handlers, faith-healers and people who spoke in tongues when the spirit hit them. I thought it was all crap.
But I believe in premonitions. I am superstitious and I really DO think that what you "feel" often comes from your subconscious mind, picking up signals that you don't really detect at the time. That's what puts the rumble in your gut and goosebumps on your skin. That's what makes the hair curl on the back of your neck.
You FEEL it, but you don't know why.
I've had a premonition. Something bad is about to happen to me.
April 13, 2005
It ain't no big deal
Keep telling yourself that, over and over again, when things become difficult. It ain't no big deal. Hell, I've mounted steeper hills than THIS one. Ain't but a few steps for a climber.
See how long you can keep doing it. After a while, that shit wears you down. I believe that everybody eventually reaches the point where he or she looks at that next mountain and says, "It just ain't worth it. I'm gonna stop right here."
I have reached that point.
That's ANOTHER thing we are accustomed to seeing and feeling Down South. It's a plant that grows less than 6" tall usually, and produces "seed" that is a barbed ball that has hooks on it. The barbs are about the size of a ripe green pea. You step on one of those and you're gonna know about it. They aren't big, but they can do serious damage.
Those plants like sandy soil and they are quite common almost everywhere around the place I live, especially around the beaches. I know what they look like and I've actually learned to walk on my heels around them. You know... lessen the target area. It doesn't matter. They'll get you anyway.
Fort Pulaski is located on "Cockspur Island." Guess where that name came from?
I left these little bastards off my list of pesteriferous things we deal with every day Down South. I shouldn't have done that, because they are worse than sand gnats, mosquitoes and chiggers combined.
They are small, red ants but they have the temper of a PMSing woman and the sting of a wasp. You never get bitten by ONE fire ant. The sumbitches come boiling out of the mound by the thousands and cover you up. They raise a white-head blister everywhere they bite and several people die every year in Georgia after being attacked by those things.
I remember when Quinton was about two years old, and he was playing with a ball in the back yard while I sat on the porch and read a book. All of a sudden, he started screaming. I ran to check on him and found him standing RIGHT ON TOP of a fire ant mound. Those vicious killers were tearing his little ass up and he didn't know what was happening.
I grabbed him and ran to the water hose, dusting ants off all the way, where I was able to wash him down and get those fucking things offa him. But they had done their damage.
He must have had 100 bites on his legs and he ran a fever for two days. He looked as if someone had burned him with a lit cigarette all over his legs for two weeks after that. Fire ants are nasty bastards.
I've been waging war on them ever since that day. I've probably killed a billion of them, but they just keep coming back. You can run them from one place to another, but you'll never get rid of them. They are hardy as well as vicious.
I've tried everything anybody at Webb's Seed and Feed ever told me to use, and all I've ever managed to do is run the bastards out of my yard into my neighbor's yard. He took the same advice and ran them right back into MY yard. It's an unending cycle.
Fire ants are the most disgusting creatures I know of on this planet.
in the mail
I didn't use my extension on my income taxes. I paid what I owed and it hurt like hell to do it. But I was faced with three options, none of which was pleasant.
#1--- Don't file at all and hope the government is too incompetent to notice. Now, that was a viable option. I KNOW how incompentent government is, and I may have gotten away with that stunt if I tried. But the picture of Al Capone being hauled off to jail kept flashing through my mind. I don't want to go to jail.
#2--- Lie like a dog. Just file the short form and rely on government incompetence to miss things I didn't hand them on a silver platter. That ALSO was a viable option. But that picture of Al Capone going to jail kept flashing through my mind. I don't want to go to jail.
#3--- Pay the sumbitches. Let the Federal Government take more than half of everything I worked for my entire life to achieve. Don't ask questions. Just pay the man. It's no different from paying child support to a shit-ass woman who won't let me see my son. I know when I'm fucked, and it's just money after all.
I chose door #3.
I love living in the South. Don't EVER get me wrong about that fact. The weather is usually great, I seldom see snow or ice where I live, and I have played golf on Christmas Eve in a short-sleeved shirt a couple of times. I like the sun and the hot weather, even in the summer when everything bakes.
But southeast Georgia has three things that can be a real pain in the ass.
#1-- Sand Gnats. I don't have them where I live now, but those flying teeth are EVERYWHERE around the coast this time of year. They will eat you alive, from early morning until around noon (when they take a break to digest) and then again from around 4:00 in the evening until nightfall. They come in swarms so thick that you can inhale a mouthfull by accident. Their bites feel like a needle prick and they make you itch like hell. The only thing that I've ever found that will keep them offa you is Avon "Skin So Soft," and you'd better make sure you don't miss a spot when you apply the lotion. I hate those bastards.
#2-- Mosquitoes. We grow 'em here the size of B-52 bombers and they can draw a pint of blood out of you with one good bite. They don't care what time of day it is, either. They attack 24-7. They can bite right through a flannel shirt or a pair of Levi jeans. When somebody tells you that burning a cintranel (I ain't sure about the spelling here, but stores everywhere sell them) candle keeps them away, just laugh right in that person's face. That crap doesn't work. NOTHING DOES, unless you coat yourself with enough Deet to kill a moose. Even then, you're probably going to be eaten by a clever Georgia mosquito. I hate those bastards, too.
#3-- Chiggers. Some people call them "red bugs" and they are tiny parasites that live in the woods and LOVE to burrow under your skin to feast. I've been covered with those little shits before, and they'll raise an itching welt the size of a quarter when they hit. And they like warm, moist places, so they go for your armpits, your crotch and other such embarrassing areas that you don't want to scratch in public. I once went camping with a couple of friends and we forgot to bring any toilet paper. Gary took a dump and wiped his ass with Spanish Moss. Big mistake. Chiggers LOVE Spanish Moss almost as much as they like infesting your asshole if you are dumb enough to give them a chance to get there. Gary was not a well boy for a week or so after that episode.
Fingernail polish is the only way to get rid of them. That's only AFTER you've been hit. The blood-sucking bastard burrows under your skin, but if you paint the welt he creates with nail polish, you cut off his oxygen supply and smother him to death. That takes a couple of days to work and you suffer in the meantime.
Those are three of the joys about living Down South.
But I have another question. I don't know what the plant is called for real (I always called them "tick bushes"). It's a bushy plant that grows about waist-high to me and it is CRAWLING with ticks. If you brush up against one in the woods, you'll end up with 50 or 60 ticks on you. I learned to avoid them a long time ago, but dogs never learn.
I've spent damn near an hour burning ticks off my dog after a romp in the woods when he ran across one or more of those bushes. The damned things look almost like a huckleberry bush, but they aren't huckleberrys. Ticks aren't unique to the South, but those bushes may be.
Anybody know what I'm talking about?
cat, who did you piss off?
BWHAHAHAHAAAA!!! I had to laugh when I saw this bathroom art.
I think the picture is wrong. I don't know personally, since I'm not inclined to explore such things, but catfish always told me that he was hung like Festus Hagan's mule. Did he lie to me?
Maybe somebody knows something about him that I don't.
April 12, 2005
the southern swing
Evidently, from what I have gathered from my comments, some people don't understand what a "Southern Swing" is when you work shifts. Let me explain it to you.
You start on Wednesday, working 3:00 to 11:00 PM. You do that for seven straight days. You get off at 11:00 Tuesday night, and you come back to work on the midnight shift, 11:00 to 7:00 on Thursday night and you do THAT for seven straight days. You get off at 7:00 AM on Thursday, then you show up on Saturday for seven days of 7:00 to 3:00 day shifts. (That's not counting any overtime you have to work during this grind.)
Once you've finished that rotation, which takes a fucking MONTH to do, you're off from 3:00 Friday evening until 3:00 the next Wednesday. LONG WEEKEND!!! Then, you start it all over again.
You do that shit for a while. Try 15 years. See if it doesn't take a toll on you. It damn sure did me.
famous local band
If you grew up in Savannah, Georgia, back in the 60s, I guarentee that you knew who "Buddy Livingston and the Versitones" were. Buddy played bass guitar and was the lead man for the band. They played almost every night at a club called "The Bamboo Ranch" and even had their own 30-minute television show on WTOC for a while.
They hired a young singer named Billy Joe Royal, and before long, the band was called "Buddy Livingston and the Versitones--- featuring Billy Joe Royal." I used to sneak into the Bamboo Ranch using a fake ID to hear the band. They were good and that place rocked. Billy Joe was about my age at the time.
The Bamboo Ranch burned down in a suspicious fire back around 1970. I don't know what happened to Buddy Livingston after that. But Billy Joe Royal went on to a fairly sucessful music career. "Down in the Boondocks" was his biggest hit, but he had a few other successful recordings, too.
Billy Joe is still alive and kicking. I woulda liked to have seen that concert.
the corporate world
I laughed out loud when I read this. Bejus! How many times have I seen the same thing?
ALL corporations are staffed by three kinds of people. First, you have the "management" types, who learned everything they THINK they know in MBA school, and they usually have no fucking clue what they're doing.
Second, you have the ass-kissers who latch onto the management types the the way a pilot fish latches onto a shark. These people have no fucking clue, either, but they intend to hitch their wagon to the right rising star, and flattery, fawning and toadery are their tools.
Third, you have the competent people who actually operate the place. When corporate headquarters screams about "cost-cutting," who are the first people they axe? Take a wild guess.
I have a question to ask. How many of YOU people know what "Six Sigma" is?
I want to wish a happy birthday to my official blog brother. He is the only other person I know whose mind warps off in strange directions the way MINE does. He is the master of a very impressive, very esoteric vocabulary, too.
He started commenting on my blog a couple of years ago, and I fell in love with him right away. Of course, at the time, I thought he was a WOMAN, because of his name. I was damned disappointed to discover that he was male, but I still liked his writing. (I pictured someone named "Kim Crawford" as a leggy blonde with perky nipples and bright red toenails. I wasn't far off-base with that assessment, but I really expected Kim to be female.)
I met him in person for the first time at the Exchange Tavern on River Street in Savannah a while back. We quaffed a few adult beverages, ate a nice meal and staggered out of the place a few hours later. I think I took a taxi home that day. (The Exchange is my favorite place to meet bloggers I've never seen before. It's a quiet place, easy to find, with good food and the best Bloody Marys on the planet.)
He is not much different in person than he is on his blog. He is as crazy as a shithouse rat. I grew up just a couple of doors down from his darling bride, and I met her in her current grown-up version at the meet in Helen. Just DAMN! She surely blossomed when she matured. She's VERY pretty and has a rack that... never mind. I'm digressing again.
Anyway, Kim and I have stayed in touch for quite a while now and I am proud to call him my friend. He's turning into an old fart now, and this latest birthday is just one more brick in the wall. I think he sits up and watches closely when commercials for Viagra or Cialis play on television. He rides his bike just for the sensation he feels in his ass, although he calls it exercise.
Go wish Kim a happy birthday.
to kill an american
Thanks to Maggie for this link.
Americans are difficult to kill.
more expert "science"
We're all gonna die some more. This time from dandruff. Now THAT'S some frightening news.
I think I'll save the planet by shaving my head.
April 11, 2005
Bite my Cracker ass
I had a commenter that I kinda liked for a while. He's gone now.
Fuck YOU, dipshit.
Just a few random thoughts after watching The Western Channel today:
* Matt Dillon carries a bone-handled pistol. He always gets off the SECOND SHOT in that famous showdown to start the show. He ain't the fastest draw, but Matt doesn't miss.
*Notice something about the streets in a western movie. Everybody is riding a horse, but you don't see horse-shit anywhere.
* Two guys camp in the desert. There is not a tree or water for miles around. Somehow, they manage to make a campfire and boil a pot of coffee. I call bullshit.
* All frontier whores are beautiful wimmen. Shit.
* Nobody EVER got laid upstairs at the Long Branch Saloon. Shit.
* If you have a horse-trough in a scene, a bullet MUST go in there, and create piss-streams and ripples while the hero is never hit. I learned that if you want to save yourself in a gunfight, either get behind a horse-trough or a wagon wheel. No bullets can hit you then.
* Bad guys aim for your shoulder. That MUST be true, because that's the only place you ever see heroes being shot.
* A six-shooter in the old west reloaded itself. You could get 20 rounds out of that revolver without ever reloading. I saw it happen today.
* Everybody was CLEAN! And WELL-GROOMED!!! ALL THE TIME!!!
* Every town doctor was a grumpy old man, capable of saving lives when nobody else could.
* Gene Autry was bullet-proof.
If you don't believe me, just watch the Western Channel.
I found the Mother Lode one day. I was exploring the woods and I discovered a tremendous series of dirt-mounds, back where nobody ever walked, and it was working alive with blackberries.
I immediately ran to collect my friends. We grabbed cans and buckets and I led them back to that place. Barefoot and barebacked. we must have picked more than 20 pounds of blackberries, and that doesn't count what we ate while we were picking. Mamas made jelly and jam, we ate blackberries with sugar and cream, had fresh blackberries on our breakfast cereal every morning and we shat like gooses for a month after that.
Have you ever picked a lot of wild blackberries in the woods?
If so, you probably already know what I'm going to warn you about. First of all, those vines have some very tricky thorns on then, and they'll get stuck under your skin in a way that you don't even feel, until you develop a humongous pustle where that sticker is residing. It'll look like a giant pimple until you take a needle and dig that barb out of there. That's ugly work.
Second, snakes like blackberry thickets. Be careful where you step or where you stick your hand. We must have killed a dozen copperheads and run damn near that many black snakes (including one that I SWEAR was long enough to wrap around a good-sized house. Okay--- maybe just a good-sized car--- but he was still a big 'un.) out of there while we pursued those berries.
We were picking berries when I heard a sound I learned to recognize a long time ago. I told everybody to hold still, because I couldn't tell where it was coming from. As soon as we stopped moving, the sound quit, too. But I knew what it was. A fucking rattlesnake.
Have you ever heard that sound in the tall weeds or palmetto scrubs? It sounds just like a plastic Easter egg filled with sand that somebody is shaking vigorously. If I could spell that sound, I'd do it with "chicka-chicka-chicka," but really fast.
I knew damn well WHAT that thing was, but I couldn't tell WHERE it was. That put an end to blackberry-picking that day. I told my brother to back out just the way he came in. (If ANYBODY was going to get bitten by a rattlesnake, it would be my accident-prone brother.) We had plenty of berries, and that RATTLER was letting us know that it was time to go home. We took our berries and backed out of there.
I never went back to pick any more, either. We made one hell of a haul that day and I became tired of eating blackberries after a while. But I never forgot hearing that rattlesnake, either.
If you know what it is, it's a sound that will freeze your blood.
a mexican standoff
I watched a couple of movies today, and TWICE I saw a scene where both guys whip out guns and point them at each other. Nobody fires. It's one of those ridiculous "Mexican stand-offs" where they do a lot of talking and no shooting.
Whoever thought up that idea needs to have a "Mexican standoff" with ME. One of us won't be standing very long.
I will never point a gun at anyone unless I have every intention of shooting the sumbitch. And if he shows me a gun of his own, I intend to shoot first. That's all plain and simple logic to a Kentucky hillbilly. As Tuco once said, "If you're going to shoot... SHOOT, don't talk.
Movies. You can learn some idiotic shit watching those things.
How many of you people have ever done shiftwork? I did, for a total of about 15 years. It's rough on the body, it's rough on the mind and I am quite certain that it does not contribute to longevity.
Why do people bitch about smoking and obesity when they DON'T bitch about shiftwork? In my first ten years at the plant where I worked, I missed a total of four days of work. Two were when Samantha was born and the other two was when I came down with a severe case of strep throat.
Four days in ten years.
Show me some tree-hugging, organic-food-eating, non-smoking, "cost-conscious" asshole who can lay his record right next to mine. YOU work shifts and pull 750 hours overtime in one year that you don't get paid for. Show me a better attendance record. Once you can show me THAT EVIDENCE, come preach in my face about how much money MY bad habits have cost you over the years.
Otherwise, go fuck yourself.
(UPDATE: In 2001, I missed 65 days of work. I was in the nut-house for a while, and then I had prostate cancer surgery. Even with all of that crap, I missed about two months of work. If you think that was easy, you can kiss my Cracker ass again. And come back and lecture me about economic costs when I probably paid more in taxes this year than you EARNED. Otherwise, go fuck yourself. AGAIN.)
I am sick and tired of these preachers who want to justify controlling your life because of health care costs or whatever other reason the goddam fascists can invent. In 24 years at that plant, I missed a grand total of 88 days at work. EVERY YEAR, I was the high man on overtime worked. You show me some tofu-eating whiner who lays out of work when he has a snotty nose, then wants government to lecture ME about lifestyle issues, and I'll be happy to unclog his nose with my fist.
don't do it!
The Book of Genesis in the Bible has always troubled me (so does the story of Job, but I don't want to digress here). When I was about 12 years old, we went to visit Aunt Chassie's farm, which was WAAAAY back in the mountains. You had to ford creeks with no bridges and drive down a pot-holed dirt for miles to get there.
It was a big place and very intriguing for a 12 year-old. That's where I first got spurred by a pissed-off rooster and where an angry bull ran me up an apple tree. I also got royally cussed for feeding one of the many dogs that slept under the front porch. (Those were WORKING DOGS. They were supposed to catch their own food.)
My cousin Ernie and I were partners in crime at that stage of our lives. Chassie had an apple orchard, but she also had a lot of apple trees in the cow pasture, where she also had one mean-ass bull. That sumbitch had a set of cojones on him that resembled two cantelopes in a leather sack, and when he became aroused, his dick was bigger than a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. He serviced all the cows and he was very protective of his harem.
Ernie and I were told that we could pick and eat all the apples we wanted from the orchard, but we should STAY OUT of the cow pasture.
Here's where the connection with Genesis applies. As soon as we were told NOT to eat the apples in the cow pasture, those apples suddenly looked better, sweeter and jucier than anything we saw in the orchard. We wanted a couple of THOSE apples--- you know, the ones we weren't supposed to touch. Forbidden fruit is always sweeter.
Ernie and I did pretty much the same thing Adam and Eve did in the Garden of Eden. God (Aunt Chassie and our parents) told us to leave the forbidden fruit alone. We immediately developed a craving for it.
So, we hopped the fence and went running through the pasture to pick some apples off the forbidden trees. We were doing good until that bull spotted us, and he became righteously indignant. He charged, and we took to a tree to get away from him.
That bull was blowing snot out of his nose that resembled Silly String fired from an aerosol can. He pawed the turf and butted the tree. He wanted to KILL US, while his incredible testicles almost dragged the ground.
I had this all figured out in my 12 year-old mind. I told Ernie, "He'll get bored in a little while and wander away. Then, we can climb down and hop back over the fence." Yeah, right. About four hours later, we started yelling for help while the bull still patrolled the bottom of the tree.
The bull had a ring in its nose and I saw my Papaw open the gate and start walking across the pasture. He had a chain with a hook on it draped over his arm.
He walked up to that snorting bull, put the hook through the ring in its nose in one expert motion, and then led a suddenly docile bull away. "You boys get down outta that tree and get back to the house," he yelled, as he escorted the bull away. We climbed down and ran, hopped the fence again and went back to the house.
Boy, did we get our asses tore up for that bit of mischief. I think we got spankings from everybody in the house at the time. ("You finished? Okay give ME a shot at his ass now!")
I learned a lesson about Forbidden Fruit that day. If you go for it and get caught, you're in one heap of trouble. DON'T DO IT!!!
But to this day, I still look over that fence and see sweeter apples than the ones I can pick with no risk. I still ignore the bull and hop that fence. I'll take my chances with being treed or suffering an ass-whuppin.' But I gotta have that sweetest apple, the one I'm not supposed to get.
That's pure human nature in MY humble opinion.
Every time this guy opens his mouth, I am ever more delighted that he WAS NOT elected President of the United States.
Isn't it strange that leftist politicians never do this? I'm not about to call Chris Shays a "moderate Republican" because he's actually a RINO, but still---
I look at the DeLay controversy and I think back on the Clinton impeachment. The leftists all rallied 'round their banal, corrupt leader. When push came to shove, even Joe Lieberman caved and joined the Union of We Who Don't Care What He Did. He's our guy and we're sticking with him.
April 10, 2005
I didn't live in a house that had an indoor crapper until my parents moved to Savannah. In the coal mining camp in Lewellen, Kentucky, we had an outhouse (a two-holer--- a sure sign of prosperity) and a ceramic chamber pot stuck under my bed for night-time emergencies in the winter. You were supposed to pee in the pot if you had to go during the night.
My brother once shit in it and got his ass whipped for doing that. He was four years old and afraid of the dark. He stunk up the whole house really bad.
If you've never used an outhouse, you have not lived a complete life.
I got in big trouble once when I conspired with my friend, "Pee-Wee," to drag a big rock from the front yard all the way to the outhouse and drop it down one of the holes. That task took a lot of effort from a couple of six year-old boys. It was a BIG rock. But we got the job done.
That rock hit the shit-pit with a loud SPLOOP! noise, then slowly sank beneath the surface while we watched it go under. Rats ran around in a panic. Flies buzzed off to another outhouse. It was quite a show.
Pee-Wee and I would have gotten away with that stunt if we hadn't decided that we wanted to do it again, with a BIGGER ROCK. We found one, pried it out of the ground and were all the way to the steps of the outhouse when my father spied us. "WHATTHEHELLYOUTHINKYOU'REDOIN'?"
Pee-Wee and I, standing on the bottom step to the outhouse with a big rock in our hands, gave the typical little boy answer to that question: "Nothing. We're not doing nothing."
My father didn't buy that lie. He ran Pee-Wee home and busted my ass. I never really understood why, but I learned that day that I was NEVER to get caught throwing rocks down the outhouse hole again.
Hell, I had contemplated throwing my BROTHER down there before, but I abandoned those notions after that day. Dad put a good whuppin' on my butt. Now that my father is dead, I can't ask him a question that has plagued me for a long time. I could see getting a butt-whuppin' for throwing my brother down the outhouse hole.
But what was wrong with tossing a rock in there?
i thought i was weird
Sometimes I wonder about my mind. It tends to run amok at times. But every now and then, I see something that makes me feel better about myself.
this thoughtful blog is one of those things.
Tiger Woods won the Masters again today. I am now totally convinced of two things. First, he is a great golfer.
Second, he is the luckiest sumbitch I ever saw.
just when you thought it couldn't get any worse
Shit-blogging is bad, but common enough that I might start a weekly "Carnival of the Crappers." I don't believe that I would have a shortage of entries.
But vomit blogging? That's just plain disgusting.
The commenters ALL need to be dragged off and shot.
finish my novel
Here's the start. Got any ideas about where to go from here?
*The morning sun stole in through the window like a sneak-thief and stabbed Larry right in the eyes. He sat up suddenly in bed and his head almost exploded. Holy Bejus! What did he do last night?
He had no idea where he was, what he was doing there, or how he arrived. But he looked to his left and saw a nekked woman asleep next him...
* The sound of mosquitos and other blood-sucking insects buzzing outside made the tent feel cozy. Larry grabbed Martha by her ass. "Wanna fuck?" he asked, as romantically as he could...
* The stealthy fingers of sunrise crept over the horizon, slowly bringing light to a new day. That's when Larry sat up in the sand dunes on the beach and stuck the pistol in his mouth...
* The first blow sent Larry staggering backward. The second one took him to his knees and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. The third lick put him face-down on the floor in a puddle of blood, "Damn, honey," he moaned. "That's my Calloway Big Bertha driver. Don't fuck that thing up."
* Sometimes you find trouble and sometimes trouble finds you. Larry was good at doing it either way. When he heard the front door open, he grabbed his pants and left through the bedroom window. He was halfway down the fire escape before he realized that he forgot to get his shoes...
* She was hot. She was HOTTER than hot. The bottle of wine was almost empty and Larry felt like a lucky man. They kissed... long, tongue-wagging kisses.. and Larry slipped his hand down into her panties.
He found a dick bigger than HIS down there. He tried to run, but the "woman" put him in some kind of wrestling choke-lock, and said, "Tonight. your ass is MINE!" That's the last thing Larry heard before he blacked out...
Take it from there.
I think that this is good news.
I post, you decide.
what would we do without "experts?"
When Samantha was a child in elementary school, she brought home the Disease of the Week and sickened everybody she came in contact with. My father started calling her "Typhoid Sam" for a while. Sam had all the vaccinations and all the proper health care she could ask for, but she could drag a cold or some kind of flu home from school every week.
I went through the same thing with Quinton. You send the little ones out in the world, and they drag infections back home. That's how they build their immune systems, but they'll damn near kill YOU in the process.
Read this scientific study and tell me how much money was spent on research that reveals nothing more than pure common sense. Experts, my ass.
Kids get sick. If you have children, you're gonna get sick, too. And if you sleep with your wife, you're probably going to catch whatever malady she has. I don't need "research" to tell me that fact.
I've lived it.
April 09, 2005
Can somebody please tell me what a triple nipple is? I have porographic thoughts when I try to picture that in my mind, but I'm probably just being perverted and mistaken.
"Triple Nipple." Sounds like a wonderful name for ice cream.
quote of the day
"Politics, it seems to me, for years, or all too long, has been concerned with right or left rather than right or wrong."
Just read the news.
glenn needs to pay attention
The Godfather of Blogging is missing out on a new trend. He hasn't mentioned shit-blogging a single time on his site, but there's a lot of it going on out there.
Maybe I could start a new "Carnival," just for shit-bloggers.
whose side are you on?
I believe that serious scrutiny should be given to what CBS was doing employing a "camerman" who appears to be something a little more than a free-lance reporter.
Mainstream Media keeps destroying its credibility every day with crap like this.
i don't give a damn
Celebrities don't impress me. Well, a couple of real good musicians do, just by the way they play, but I could not possibly care less about the love lives, political opinions or deep, philosophical thoughts of movie actors, Hollywood producers, musicians or writers. Most of those people are as dumb as a box of rocks. I don't give a damn what they think or what they do.
I suppose that I really just resent the idea of "royalty" in general. I was raised to believe that I'm just as good as anybody in this world, even if I never see myself on the front page of The National Enquirer. That's why I am unable to muster any giddy excitement about this. May they both live long, happy lives, but I wouldn't feel deprived if I never heard of Prince Charles again.
I would rather watch The Masters.
getting the finger
Surprise, surprise! The woman going after Wendy's because she allegedly found a severed human finger in her chili has a history of filing lawsuits. Can you say the word "gold-digger?" Good. I knew you could.
Anna Ayala, 39, who hired a San Jose, Calif., attorney to represent her in the Wendy's case, has been involved in at least half a dozen legal battles in the San Francisco Bay area, according to court records.
Yeah. We need to get to the bottom of these "lies, lies, lies." And give the right person the finger.
bitch, bitch, bitch
Wimmen are never happy. That's just part of their nature. While plastic surgeons rake in billions of dollars installing fake boobs on some wimmen, other wimmen write posts such as this one.
I've always believed that too many men are too boob-obsessed. Yeah--- check the hooters on THAT babe--- and wimmen become boob-obsessed in response. But this isn't the first time I've heard a woman complain about having too much of a good thing.
It's got to be a struggle to tote a pair of real, high-caliber titties around all the time. They are heavy and they get in the way. Watch a big-boobed woman try to run. Those melons get to bouncing and she's liable to knock herself out if one flops hard into her chin. It's got to be hard on the lower back.
I've just never been much of a big-boob-guy anyway. For me, it's all in the nipples. Big boobs often resemble water balloons, and if they roll out to cover your armpits when you lie on your back, they are TOO BIG.
Nipples cannot be too perky.
he got off light
Personally, I would like to see this guy and everyone like him dragged off and shot. I hope the sentence holds up after appeal, but I still say 9 years in jail is not enough.
About the only form of life I can think of that is lower than a spammer is an Islamo-nut-'splodey-dope. Spammers are the cockroaches of the internet, but they don't set off bombs and kill children. They still suck.
I say throw the book at the guy.
You can learn a lot about things that really don't matter on blogs.
But I like reading absolutely trivial crap like that.
let's compare notes
This blog is a really good read. I couldn't sleep tonight and I found the link in my referrals. I clicked on one post and ended up reading the whole damned thing.
Personal opinion? She elaborates somewhat, which is just fine for a writer. But I'be BEEN in a similar situation (it took me 45 days to get out of it--- although you NEVER really get AWAY from the memories) and I can identify with a lot of what she says. Abject helplessness is too kind a term to describe the way you feel sometimes when your life is no longer your own and you are under constant guard (by some people who are a lot weirder than YOU are) for 24 hours every day.
Yeah, I've been to the nut-house. That's where I learned that I really wasn't crazy. I SAW actual crazy in there, and I knew that I didn't qualify. But if that ain't a lot like being in prison, I don't know what else is.
Stay there long enough and you will GO crazy, because it is a completely Kafkaesque world. Everything you do is regimented and you have no contact with the outside world. Some fat, faggot-looking bastard comes and shines a flashlight in you face once every hour all night, every night. Try to sleep with that shit happening to you.
I was on a "suicide watch" at the time, which meant that I couldn't take a shower, shave, brush my teeth or even have a pair of reading glasses without a burly orderly standing watch over me the entire time. (Yeah... an attempted suicide is what landed me in there to begin with) I had a head-shrinker interview me every day and he always asked the same dumb question: "Rob, are you still thinking about killing yourself?"
That's about as stupid as it gets. What kind of answer did he expect? If I say "yes," I'll never get out of there. If I say "no," he doesn't believe me. Pure assininity.
I blew up one day and cussed that bastard to hell and back. My room was supposedly "suicide-proof." I didn't have a bathtub, because I might drown myself. I had a mirror made of polished stainless steel so that I couldn't break it and slash my wrists. I wasn't allowed to write with anything except a soft-point felt pen, because I might stab myself with anything sharper.
But they put plastic can-liners in my garbage can, they a glass window in the room and they put me in with some fuckers that were more likely to kill ME than I was to kill myself by then. They have some spooky fuckers in there.
Plus, they gave me all the vicodin, soma, ambiane and nicotine patches I whined for. I could have saved up a few days worth of that and pulled a REAL Kamikaze exit.
I told that idiot: "You wanna see how somebody with a lick of sense kills himself in this "safe" room? How about I just take that trash-can liner and tie it around my head? How about I take the trash can to the sink, fill it with water and stick my head in there until I drown? How about I forget about that stainless-steel mirror and just BREAK THE FUCKING WINDOW if I want some glass?"
I was wearing one of those backless hospital gowns at the time. I stood up and stripped it off. I twisted it up tightly and tied a noose in one end. "I could hang myself with THIS, too!" I told the idiot.
I shouldn't have done that, because I needed his pronouncement that I was "cured" before I could get out of that hell-hole. He scurried off like a cockroach when the kitchen light comes on at night, and he obviously did not believe that I was "cured." If I had that many ideas about how to kill myself, I had to still be crazy. Fucking quack.
That was an interesting time in my life. I don't care to repeat it, but it damn sure was interesting. You meet some REALLY crazy people in the nut-house.
And half of them are running the place.
April 08, 2005
the criminal mind
Some people are just pure shit-asses. Really, THEY ARE and I've seen a bunch of them. They have no respect at all for manners, civility or private property. They also have no respect for YOUR LIFE.
Go see the movie 'A Clockwork Orange," then walk through "The Projects" in Savannah on a Saturday night and tell me again why I shouldn't own any guns.
"insurgents" my ass
Why don't we start calling these people what they really are? They aren't "insurgents."
They are murdering, uncivilized thugs and killers. Let's call them what they are.
"... in breaking news today, some more SCUM OF THE EARTH murdered wimmen and children in another pathetic attempt to deny that they don't have dicks. The scum escaped, leaving four dead children behind, while they ran like rats down a hole. Allah Akbhar."
What brave men these assholes are.
too good not to steal
I gotta thank George Schneider for this email:
Listed below are the 10 winners of this year's Bulwer-Lytton Contest,
10. "As a scientist, Throckmorton knew that if he were ever to break wind in the echo chamber, he would never hear the end of it."
9. "Just beyond the Narrows, the river widens."
8. "With a curvaceous figure that Venus would have envied, a tanned, unblemished oval face framed with lustrous thick brown hair, deep azure-blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, perfect teeth that vied for competition, and a small straight nose, Marilee had a beauty that defied description."
7. "Andre, a simple peasant, had only one thing on his mind as he crept
6. "Stanislaus Smedley, a man always on the cutting edge of narcissism,
5. "Although Sarah had an abnormal fear of mice, it did not keep her from eeking out a living at a local pet store."
4. "Stanley looked quite bored and somewhat detached, but then, penguins
3. "Like an over-ripe beefsteak tomato rimmed with cottage cheese, the
2. "Mike Hardware was the kind of private eye who didn't know the meaning of the word 'fear'; a man who could laugh in the face of danger and spit in the eye of death -- in short, a moron with suicidal tendencies."
AND THE WINNER IS.....
1. "The sun oozed over the horizon, shoved aside darkness, crept along the greensward, and, with sickly fingers, pushed through the castle window,
a dollar's worth
I put gas in my truck today. HOLY BEJUS!!! I watched those numbers rolling on the pump and I had a severe flashback.
I remembered the days when I pulled up to a gas pump, told THE ATTENDANT (remember those?) to "Gimme a dollar's worth," and I got four gallons of gas while the guy cleaned my windshield and checked my oil.
Those were the days. I paid.... well, never mind. Let's just say that a dollar's worth ain't much at the pump anymore and you have to clean your OWN goddam windshield and check your own oil.
Some places don't even offer free air for your tires anymore. You have to plug in a couple of quarters to start the compressor and I KNOW what a rip-off that is. I used to run a LOT of air compressors. (Ain't that right, Catfish?) The goddam things keep a sump at a certain pressure and only run to replenish the pressure in the sump. Putting air in your tires doesn't cost 50 cents worth of energy or wear and tear on a fucking air compressor.
Yeah. "Gimme a dollar's worth." That's a hoot to even think about today.
What time is it? I don't pay much attention to time anymore. It's daylight. That's all I need to know.
Name as it appears on birth certificate: Robert Marion Smith
Piercing: None. But I have been carved up by a few surgeons.
Eye color: Scots-Irish hazel. Sometimes downright green, depending on the clothes I wear.
Favorite food: Steak and shrimp.
Ever been to Africa? No, don't wanna go and never will go. Screw that place. I've got no roots there. I'd like to go to Australia.
Favorite clothing? Bare-assed nekkid.
Ever been toilet papering? I live down South. This is a stupid question.
Have you ever had a speeding ticket? I live down South, the home of NASCAR. This is a stupid question.
Been in a car accident? Never one that was my fault, but two that should have killed me.
Favorite flower: Lantanas
Favorite sport to watch: College football.
Favorite drink: What'cha got?
Favorite fast food restaurant: Taco Bell
What color is your bedroom carpet? BWHAHAHAHAAAA!!!!!
How many times did you fail your driver’s test? Never. But I did fail a breathalyzer test once.
What do you do most often when you are bored? Read a book or surf the net. Maybe clean some of my non-existent guns or play one of my musical instruments.
Bedtime? Whenever I decide to fall out. I don't pay much attention to time anymore.
What is your favorite color? Jawja Bulldawg Red. And I especially like it on pretty feminine toenails.
How many tattoos do you have? None
Have you ever run out of gas? Once in a car. I'm out of gas in my body all the time anymore.
What is the last book you read? "Texas Noon," by Leonard Sanders.
Now. Aren't you glad I posted that?
I had a CPA look at my taxes today. I just filed for an extension and I have been on the phone to Kerr-McGee Benefits people for the past hour or so.
Oh, shit! is all I have to say. My 1099 form for the lump-sum retirement I took doesn't say what Kerr-McGee told me when I took it. Either the form is wrong or they lied their asses off to me.
I also somehow made $58,000 in salary last year. THAT I don't understand, because they ran my ass off in October of 2003. According to MY records, I received my last salary paycheck from Kerr-McGee the first week of December, 2003, when we officially parted company. I received my 100% fully-vested retirement check in January, 2004.
Now, it appears I earned $58,000 that I never saw and my retirement was NOT fully vested, so I may owe a 10% penalty on that lump-sum settlement, which pretty well means that the government gets half of it.
This is a fucking mess.
never grow up
I enjoyed this post. I agree that the article he cites is a crock. I wrote about it the other day, just because I thought it was idiotic. I like these standards better:
These are the true measures of being an adult:
I'll put the same ideas in Acidman terms.
#1-- Actions have consequences. YOU are responsible for what YOU do. Accept that fact and think before you act.
#2-- Hard work pays off. Go out and GET what you want. Don't expect it to be handed to you.
#3-- Life ain't fair and it never will be. Learn to roll with the punches and get back on your feet. If it was easy, any asshole could do it.
#4-- Carry your own weight. Get a job. Pay your bills. If you can't pay your credit cards off at the end of every month, don't use them. Do without instead of going ass-deep in debt. Show some self-discipline. You can't have it all if you can't pay for it.
#5-- NEVER stop learning. Read everything you can get your hands on. Be curious. Talk to old people and listen carefully to what they have to say. A mind is a terrible thing to waste. Don't waste yours.
By the same token, don't ever lose track of the kid inside you. Dream, imagine and play. Become an adult, but don't ever grow up. My 93 year-old grandmother is a perfect example of this axiom. In six years, she will have lived for a full century.
But you can still see the little girl inside her when she talks.
fall down go boom
I busted my ass in my living room last night. I was on the phone with my friend Kenny and yes, I had been drinking. I got up off the couch to go to the bathroom and I was viciously attacked by a bag of canned goods I left on the floor after my last trip to Kroger's.
I believe it was the baby lima beans that got me, but it could have been the fruit cocktail. One of those sumbitches grabbed me by my bad foot, tangled me up in the plastic grocery bag and down I went. KA-BOOM!
I don't have a whole lot of ass anymore. Not much padding back there and when I fall on it, I hurt. I dropped the phone and almost hit my head on the coffee table (I damn near pulled a William Holden. Coulda killed my fool self). Kenny was still there when I picked up the phone. "What happened?" he asked.
"I was headed to the bathroom and fell on my ass," I replied.
"Are you okay?"
"Hell, yeah. I'm fine. I don't have to go to the bathroom anymore, either. I just pissed all over myself." He laughed and I laughed and we went on talking until he said something about LOVE that angered me and I hung up on him in a fit of spite. He's one of those people who keeps telling me that I need a woman in my life.
I call bullshit on that. The woman I HAD will never be content until she sees me broke and dead, and she's working tirelessly on that project. I don't think I can stand another dose of that shit.
Besides, what woman would HAVE a man with an artificial dick, no job, a filthy kitchen, canned goods on the living room floor and a propensity to fall on his ass and piss all over himself? I'm not desperate enough to WANT a woman who would put up with me now.
That's the truth.
I found this link on Instapundit, and I am very disturbed by it. The Terri Shavio case stirred up a lot of debate in blogdom and many people disagreed with what I had to say about it. I thought that Terri's death was a blessing and it should have happened years earlier.
But the case of Mae Margourik is totally different. This woman may be 85 years old, but she is NOT a vegetable and she DOES NOT want to die. To starve and dehydrate her is beyond criminal in my book. Who the hell is that goddam judge to make such a decision? Just look at this. That woman will be 94 years old next month and she's not worn out yet. Would the judge recommend that SHE be killed if she became ill tomorrow?
Well, screw him.
I'm not just spouting off emotionally here (at least I don't think so) because my mama died three weeks ago after a long battle with cancer. Nobody ever loved life more than my mama did, but everybody in the family agreed that WE WOULD NOT take extraordinary means to keep her alive. It was time for her to go, and we just wanted to make the end as easy as possible. I believe that we accomplish that mission.
Mama died in her sleep and, as heartless as it may sound, I was RELIEVED when the end finally came. That last week was rough. I left Hospice crying every time I went to visit. I never did it in front of mama, but damn if I didn't water the hell out of that parking lot before I was able to drive home.
Terri Shavio didn't know what planet she was on. Machines kept her alive, and the law was clear in her situation. Cancer had my mama, and no machine could stop that. But Mae Margourik is NOT terminally ill, nor is she comatose. Why starve her to death?
Ms. Gaddy is also the sole beneficiary of Mae's will.
Maybe I'm smelling a rat that isn't there, but this is a very slippery slope. This case should be getting the attention it deserves, which is A LOT.
boys in the bushes
I remember doing this many a time. We'd have a pick-up baseball game going in the back yard and someone would hit a red-hot one and it would bounce into the bushes. He'd round the bases while one of the outfielders searched frantically for the ball.
When HE couldn't find it, we ALL started looking frantically for the ball. Without a ball, we had no game and we weren't rich kids with a whole sack of those things to play with. If you saw 12 boys with their butts in the air while running their hands though dead leaves and legustrum roots, you knew good and well that they were looking for a lost baseball.
"I SAW it go in RIGHT HERE!!!" Famous last words. That lost ball broke up many a baseball game when I was young.
Sometimes I think of Quinton as that lost baseball. I can crawl around in the bushes all I want to, but I'll never find him again. The ball is lost. Game over.
That bat sure is heavy to carry back to the house when you've lost the only ball you had.
April 07, 2005
wouldn't it be nice?
I'd really like to curl up with a woman in my bed tonight. Rain has fallen all day and it's PERFECT sleeping weather. I sometimes miss having a nice female ass to grab onto at night. I like nice female asses.
Plus, most wimmen just smell better than men do. I don't think I STINK (my kitchen may, although I don't), but there's just something about a feminine scent that pleases my olfactory nerves. I like to draw it into my nostrils in deep breaths and savor every one of them. Wimmen smell good to me.
The texture of their skin is different. They usually are smooth and soft. Even HAIRY wimmen aren't as hairy as a man, and I like that, too. Plus, a lot of them have really pretty feet with red toenails. They taste good, top to bottom.
I may go have to take a shower now and wash my dick. Using LOTS of soap.
* I really would like to go to Australia some day. I'd like to rent a car and drive all the way across that country. I have only two problems with that idea. First, a plane trip from Savannah, Georgia to Australia takes about 16 hours and I probably would die from terminal ass-cramps before I ever landed. Second, I would forget which side of the road I was supposed to be driving on and probably kill myself THAT way if I survived the plane trip.
* I went four years in a row conducting annual Acid Plant turnarounds without ever having an injury. Year #5 got me when an experienced, professional pipefitter got hurt. He was tightening the flanges on BRAND NEW recirculation piping, with no acid anywhere and the dumb sumbitch let a 24" wrench slip off a nut and crack him square in the mouth. He required four stitches to his lip and caps on two of his front teeth. OSHA recordable. I spent a fucking MONTH after that filling out accident reports, doing incident investigations and dealing with Federal paperwork. I have one simple question to ask: do I have any professional pipefitters who read this blog? (Millwrights will tell you that pipefitters can't read, but I don't believe that lie.) If you bust yourself in the mouth with a wrench, whose fault is it?
* I saw a man die at work one day. He was a roofer, working about 100' off the ground when he jumped onto some old transite roof material, broke right through it and landed head-first on the concrete below. He resembed a broken rag doll covered in red paint. I was part of the Medical First Responder team, so I was called right away. I took one look at the guy and figured he was either dead or dying. He was bent at very bad angles and had bones sticking out of odd places. I told everybody not to move him and we tried to give him oxygen, and I think he might still have been breathing at the time.
The company nurse showed up in the company ambulance shortly thereafter and the first thing she did was ROLL THE GUY OVER ON HIS BACK!!! If he wasn't dead before that, she damn sure killed him. I was always taught NEVER to move a fall victim until you could secure the neck and spine. Those bloodstains were still there on the concrete the day I walked out of that plant for the last time.
* I once saw a friend of mine piss on an electric fence because he didn't know what it was. You wanna talk about something FUNNY??? THAT was funny.
* I knew an....uh.... "exotic dancer" who could cram FIVE ping-pong balls up her coochie and then fire them out one at a time with incredible velocity and accuracy. If you wanted to observe too closely, you could end up with a black eye.
* I have seen a LOT of interesting things in my life and I don't believe that I'm finished yet.
i am flattered by this
It was a phone call from out of the blue and one that I never expected. But I have NEVER failed in enjoying a conversation with a fellow blogger. To me, that's one of the greatest pleasures I get from blogging. I get to meet a lot of really good people because I rant on the internet.
I'm not sure that I am a "Tall Dog" or a "Heavy Hitter" in blogdom. Those titles belong to Glenn Reynolds and Andrew Sullivan. They get more traffic in an hour than I do in a day. But I DO like it when I speak to strangers and have them say, "We had a very mellow "southern dude" conversation. He also spoke to Uzi. He was extremely cordial during what I thought was an invasion of his time."
That wasn't an invasion of my time. It made my day.
I'll try to explain this as carefully and coherently as I can: ACIDMAN is my blog persona, one I picked out a long time ago. Rob Smith is just a guy you'd probably like to have for a neighbor. The two people are NOT the same. Acidman will rip your head off and shit down your neck. Rob Smith will let you borrow his lawn mower and provide the gas to operate it.
Ask bloggers who have met me in person. I've been known to get shit-faced drunk, rant like an old-time stump-preacher and flirt with all the wimmen. But I don't believe that ANY of those people believe that I am evil and mean. They think I'm very entertaining, and I am.
I believe in the Golden Rule and I try to live my life that way. I've got enough Rebel in me that I won't run from a fight, but I don't go around picking them, either. I'll give you a good example of what I mean: go read this.
As for the party itself, I think that a question posed by my friend Bill captured the essence of the gathering. Watching the bloggers interact, he asked, “Have most of these people met one another before? It looks a bit like a high school reunion.” I responded that most of the people in the room had not met before, but that we already “knew” one another. That’s the way it is with bloggers and blogging.
Jim hit the nail on the head with that post. But watch him--- he likes to hang out in lady's bathrooms when he's been drinking and I have photographic proof of that fact.
But he's a blogger. What else do you expect? I also nominate him for "Best Farooking Hair" of any male blogger I ever saw. It's got a little silver in it, but it's as thick as a box of Brillo pads. I wish I had hair like that.
I don't know why I wrote this post. If you don't blog, you won't understand.
throwing in the towel
Time is running out, so I sat down and tried to do my income taxes today. Bejus on a bicycle and fuck me dead. I developed a terrible headache and became so confused that I almost took a big slug of that Green Apple Advantage cleaner I bought the other day when I was reaching for a Mountain Dew.
Between the lump-sum retirement bullshit, the 401-K rollover bullshit, the IRA bullshit, the stock and dividend bullshit and the bullshit instructions on how to figure out this bullshit on those bullshit "worksheets," I finally just gave up.
I'm going to go see H & R Block tomorrow.
(UPDATE: I am an English Major. I don't do math. But if what I calculate so far is true, I'm going to need a Kotex the size of a bale of hay to strap to my bleeding ass once Uncle Sam is finished raping me. I can hear the H & R Block guy now... "Can you squeal like a PIG, boy?")
i never heard of them
Are you familiar with a bunch of would-be gun-grabbers called the joyce foundation? I wasn't, until I started reading about them over the past couple of days.
The NRA gets a lot of negative press for its pro Second Amendment activities, and the organization frequently is portrayed (just watch "Bowling For Columbine") as a bunch of red-necked, gun-crazed fanatics. I am a member of the NRA and my biggest complaint with them is that the leaders aren't fanatical enough. In MY humble opinion, they play too nice.
But the larger question here is why the NRA is regularly demonized and a loco group such as The Joyce Foundation slips quietly under the radar screen of the press. What causes that?
It couldn't be bias, could it?
want an alias?
How about going from Michael Vick to michael dick?
Seems appropriate if that story is true.
April 06, 2005
they stole my name!!!
I haven't listened to any of their music, but they're called acidman, so they probably suck big-time. They damn sure ain't the prettiest boys I ever saw. I think they're working on that "bad-ass rocker" look and just haven't figured it out yet.
But if they were going to steal, why didn't they name the band "GUT RUMBLES?" That's where the title of this blog came from. I was playing bass guitar in a garage rock band at the time and "Gut Rumbles" was MY suggestion as a name for the band. I was out-voted and I've been pouting ever since.
Those guys don't look like Acidmen to me.
53 years of study
After consuming the precious resourses of our delicate and pristine, ever so fragile planet for 53 years, I feel qualified to make a list of ten people that I absolutely hate. No... that's the wrong word. I REVILE these people. Not in any particular order, although #1 IS #1.
#1: Jimmy Carter. That man was the worst President of the 20th Century and I believe that the grinning bastard may hit the top five of ALL TIME WORST!!! before all is said and done. The man was a complete incompetent. And anybody who believes that the trouble we have in the Middle East TODAY didn't start under Carter's watch is full of shit. Nobel Peace Prize, my ass.
#2: Jane Fonda. Personally, with all the compassion in my heart and all the mercy in my soul, I think that bitch should have been hanged for treason a long time ago. What she did during the Vietnam War is unforgivable to me.
#3: Franklin Roosevelt. Yeah, I know a lot of people worship his ass and he got us through WWII (and allowed Stalin to eat his lunch at Yalta), but that man did more to destroy the meaning of the United States Constitution than anyone else who ever lived. That's the only reason Abraham Lincoln won't be on this list. Lincoln shit on the Constitution, but Roosevelt wiped his ass on it.
#4: Michael Moore. Jabba The Butt. Do you know what I hate most about him? He believes that HE is brillisnt and everybody else in this country is a complete schmuck. The fact that his propaganda-mentories have been so successful is testimony that he just might be right.
#5: Lyndon Johnson. He picked up where Roosevelt left off and introduced "The Great Society." Boy, that was one of the all-time "great" brain-farts. And I'm not even going to mention Vietnam.
#6: Ted Kennedy. What a sack of shit. He should be a convicted felon for vehicular homicide instead of a United States Senator. But the People's Republic of Massachusettes keeps reelecting the fat, drunken bastard. What I REALLY HATE is the fact that this pissant of a man, who couldn't be elected DOG CATCHER in Effingham County, Georgia, has so much influence over my life.
#7: Rachel Carson. Probably the greatest mass-murderer in history and the Mother of hysterical environmentalism.
#8: Bill Clinton. What can I say about a United States President who leaves cum-stains on a 19 year-old intern's dress? He belongs on the list.
#9: Kofi Anan. If you read history, you'll remember the League of Nations. That didn't work out very well. But we were bound and determined to set up SOME kind of World Government, so we brain-farted the United Nations. Kofi Anan has taken this corrupt, inept, incomptent, anti-American, laughable pile of rabble to depths that even I didn't think it could reach.
#10: Jaques Chirac. I wonder how many times George Bush has just wanted to kick old Jaques square in the balls and then beat him with the heel of a cowboy boot? Or maybe just walk up and bitch-slap the arrogant bastard? Personally, I vote for bitch-slap. followed by ball-kick, followed by a good whuppin' with the heel of a cowboy boot. Jaques Chirac is in love with his own ass and he doesn't give a tinker's dam about his own country and he HATES us. Well, I hate him right back.
I spent a lot of time thinking about this post. I fell down and couldn't get back up, so I thought. I left a lot of really good names off the list and I avoided using any group names such as "Islamo-idiots," "Democrats," "lawyers" or "ill-tempered Sky-Caps."
I think I done good.
just a couple of questions
* When the ban on "assault weapons" expired, did we see an outbreak of violence from assault weapons? No? You don't suppose that the law was nothing but a useless bag of shit, do you?
* If I go into a liquor store and buy a half-gallon of bourbon, is the liquor store owner responsible if I drink half the bottle and then go shoot somebody? If not, then why is the gun manufacturer responsible?
* Why is it that so many drivers don't understand the use of turn signals? I almost ran into somebody's dumb ass today because they stopped dead in the road at an intersection, THEN turned on their left turn signal, and made that turn as if their tires were butterflies with sore feet. I wanted to kill that silly motherfucker.
* Why do some people drive like total idiots? I took Highway 17 back home from the Catfish Mansion today (and Nancy is pissed at me because I didn't jump nekkid onto the hot tub) and I watched some dipstick pretending to be in a goddam NASCAR race. He weaved in and out of traffic, passed on blind curves, sped like a maniac and risked a lot of lives on the road. I wanted to kill THAT silly motherfucker, too--- especially after watching 20 miles worth of this shit and ending up stopped right next to him at a traffic light in Midway. Dumb bastard. The only thing he accomplished with all his idiocy was to get to that traffic light 90 seconds before I did.
* I don't think it should be illegal to piss on the side of the road. When you gotta go, you gotta go.
* What the hell is the REAL purpose of a 4-way stop sign?
* I don't believe in LOVE at first sight, but I sure felt lust at first sight today. If that sweet thang ever gets tired of clerking in that mini-mart, she can come live with me.
* Nancy was planting flowers when I was at the Catfish Mansion today. She was covered in dirt and reminded me of my mama when mama played in her garden. I told her that I knew a flower that she would really like and my mind went totally blank when I tried to remember the name. That almost drove me crazy. I told her that I would look it up when I got home and tell her the flower I was thinking about. I wasn't three miles from the house when I remembered---LANTANAS! I almost turned around and drove back. Instead, I kept driving and emailed her a link to a site all about those flowers.
* Do you ever have that happen? You KNOW the name and you can PICTURE the flower in your mind, but you can't remember the name? Sucks, don't it?
* Do you ever give money to a pan-handler just because you're in a good mood?
* Do you sleep nekkid?
Just a couple of innocent questions.
a fine reaction
I certainly can't bitch about this post. When I said that I was a "man" at the age of 28, I was married, I had a child and I owned my own home. I earned a steady paycheck, but I was far from being "financially independent." Hell, like most people, I lived from paycheck to paycheck, and I was in debt up to my ass.
I didn't read the article as carefully as Jay did. Yeah, that last paragraph is a real kicker. You can't be a REAL man until you give your life to government. Sweet Bejus.
Is that what we've really become as a nation? I can understand joining the military. The finiancial incentives are good, the benefits are fine and young people with no direction in life may learn the kind of discipline and self-reliance that it takes to succeed in the real world by doing a hitch in service. Plus, the military can teach you some really marketable skills if you're willing to take advantage of the opportunity.
The VERY BEST electricians and instrument techs I ever worked with all learned their skills from the Navy. Want a good millwright? Hire some guy who learned the trade repairing aircraft engines in the Air Force. Want somebody who will come to work every day and bust his ass on the job? Hire an ex-Marine.
But this idea of doing "government service" as a way to mature just chaps my Cracker ass. Performing "government service" is the quickest way to go completely to shit that I can think of. Just LOOK at government. What sort of lessons about hard work and responsibility do you think those clowns can teach you? Nada.
Join the service. Learn a skill. Get all of you shit in one sock and then go out into the workplace ready to compete.
But DO NOT ever buy into that "Americorps" crap, which will teach you nothing except how to lean on a shovel without ever digging a hole. You will not go far in life that way, and I could argue that the government even EXPECTING people to "serve" that way are asking for slaves, not workers.
You may have to pay taxes, but never forget one fact--- you don't owe the government a goddam thing. It is supposed to serve YOU, not the other way around.
She'll be 94 years old next month. There she is, posing for a picture in a ridiculous Saint Patrick's Day hat. That's Mommie.
I've called her by that name all of my life, and her umpteen grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren all still call her "Mommie" today. She is one hell of a woman.
She still likes working crossword puzzles and she still watches her favorite soap operas every day. I believe that I inherited a lot of my storytelling ability from her. She can spin a wonderful yarn. And she has a terriffic sense of humor, including some that runs on the blue side. She was the first person I ever heard say the word "SHIT!" when I was about four years old. (I believe that the quote was something like... "Robbie, if you do that again, I'm going to beat the shit out of you!")
I'll go see HER for Mother's Day.
In some areas, bigger is not always better. I liked this comment:
What's the deal with everybody wanting these "hand cannons" for home defence? You guys got lead lined walls or something? Murray said on "Shooting Bears" he defends his family with his new S&W .500....wtf?? That's just foolish, Unless you live in a Stone Castle. Nothing wrong with a .380, guarantee I'll fuck up a bad guy with one. 12 guage is boss for home defence though....PERIOD. A-man, long as you hit what you aim at, good to go. While everyone else is blind from the muzzle flash of their hand artillery and deaf from the ridiculous report indoors, you'll be pluggin a few more accuratly aimed hunks o' lead in the offending bastard.
IF I OWNED ANY GUNS (which I don't) I don't want a fucking hand-cannon. I keep my non-existent .357 magnum in a drawer in my bedroom. It stays loaded with non-existent bullets, and I do my non-existent firing with that thing outside, in the woods. I might like it in a war, but that's not my choice for home defense.
I also have non-existent pistols in the .38 (Colt revolver). the .380 (six-shot semi-auto) and the .22 (Reuger 6" barrel target pistol and a 5-shot North American Arms derringer) varieties. That .22 target pistol is accurate as hell from 30 yards (or so I've heard).
I also have a non-existent .12 gauge pump shotgun and a single-shot .410, plus three non-existent .22 rifles and a .30-06. I prefer to sleep with the non-existent .38 and the .380 by my bed. I do that for two reasons.
First, you can't handle a long gun well in a narrow hallway and I don't live in a big house. Second, if I can't get the job done with a .380 or the .38, I deserve to get my ass killed. The .22s are for target shooting and a real up-close confrontation for the derringer. The pistols I keep near my bed are simple to handle, easy to figure out in the dark and they carry enough ass to make somebody sit down and think about the fact that they've just been shot.
This is all theory, of course, and not one bit of it is true, but the shotguns are too unweildy for home defense, the .30-06 may end up going into a neighbor's house and the .22s don't have enough knock-down power. The .357 is too fucking heavy to carry in one hand when you think your home has been invaded and it's a double-action, too. Lots of firepower, but too slow in an emergency.
Brag about your hand-cannons all you want to, but I think I have everything I need in the .380 and the .38.
IF I actually had them, that is.
all pope, all the time
I regret the passing of Pope John Paul II. I believe that he was indeed a holy man, although a lousy administrator for the church. He didn't do enough about the child-molestation scandal among his priests and he was not outspoken enough about terrorism. But I still believe that he was a great man.
But I'm tired of seeing him on the news all the time anymore. So, in an act of utter tastelessness, I'm going to post this:
Two Priests decided to go to Hawaii on vacation. They were determined to make this a real vacation by not wearing anything that would identify them as clergy. As soon as the plane landed they headed for a store and bought some really outrageous shorts, shirts, sandals, sunglasses, etc. The next morning they went to the beach dressed in their "tourist" garb. They were sitting on beach chairs, enjoying a drink, the sunshine and the scenery when a "drop dead gorgeous" topless blonde in a thong bikini came walking straight towards them. They couldn't help but stare. As the blonde passed them she smiled and said "Good Morning, Father. Good Morning, Father." nodding and addressing each of them individually, then she passed on by. They were both stunned. How in the world did she know they were priests? So the next day, they went back to the store and bought even more outrageous outfits. These were so loud you could hear them before you even saw them.! They were sitting in their chairs to enjoy the sunshine. After a while, the same gorgeous topless blonde, wearing a string, taking her sweet time, came walking toward them. Again she nodded at each of them, said "Good morning, Father. Good morning, Father." and started to walk away. One of the Priests couldn't stand it any longer and said. "Just a Minute young lady." "Yes, Father?" "We are Priests and proud of it, but I have to know, how in the world did you know we are Priests, dressed as we are?" "Father, it's me, Sister Catherine." she replied.
Do you think the pope might have chuckled at that one?
As I was riding home from my visit with catfish today, I heard an ad on the radio about Mother's Day. My first thought was, "I've got to think of something nice to give mama."
Then, I realized that I don't have a mama anymore. Damn. That thought hit me like a brick right in the head. Tears welled in my eyes. Mama has been dead for three weeks now.
I've still got some adjustment to do.
According to this study, I was an adult at the age of 28. I met all the qualifications at that age.
The only problem is... I never grew up. And I don't intend to, either.
piece of cake
I got every one right.
I have a trivial mind.
Yeah, I can't sleep again tonight. I don't think I'm typing very well either, but I could really give a shit right now. Fuck every one of you.
I DO have this to say about dingleberries. Try washing your ass. In my daily ablutions I pay special attenton to three things. I wash my hair. I wash my dick and I wash it as long as I want to. And then I wash my ass very well. I like washed hair, a well-polished dick and a clean ass with no dingleberries.
That's why I have a fucking shower. Okay, maybe I like washing my dick more than I should, but it's MY DICK and MY SOAP and I'll do what I want to with both of them. I don't have dingleberries hanging off my ass, by gawd. Of course I don't have much ass anymore, either, but at least it's clean. I brush my teeth a lot, too.
I am a fanatic about keeping my fingernails and toenails clean and trimmed. I HATE guys who grow nails like talons and have the crust of ages packed under them. I have a foot fetish and I see no reason why men shouldn't trim their toenails and keep a little foot-care going if you like pretty feet on wimmen. But I've seen a lot of guys who had feet that looked like they belonged on a lizard. That's just pure, slack-ass don't care to me.
And any woman who would fuck a man with feet like that needs to be dragged off and shot. She's too desperate to live.
There's my hygene post for the day. Or the night. Whatever.
Just read this and ponder the wisdom behind it.
I don't agree with you about Bush(it's easy to say don't tread on me when you know someone else is going to be doing the fighting. When it's someone else's blood who will flow regardless of whether they win or lose.
Wanda, I'm going to speak as slowly and carefully as I can now in (probably futile) hope that you may understand something very simple about the way the world works. You have never been a supervisor, have you? Well, I was one for 24 years and I'll let you in on a little secret. SUPERVISORS DON'T DO THE WORK. They make sure that other people do.
George Bush happens to be COMMANDER IN CHIEF of our armed forces. That's our MILITARY, darlin,' people who are trained to wage war and win. If you fart out your ass that silly, leftist notion that Bush doesn't care about the troops because he's not out there fighting with them, you are so full of shit that the world has not invented an enema bag big enough to clean you out.
This is the type of leftist thinking that drives me right up the wall. I've sent people into dangerous situations after I set the job up right and made it as safe as I could. I didn't do the work myself because THAT WASN'T MY JOB. I had people trained for that work and I sent THEM to do it.
But I felt responsible for everybody involved and it often gave me sleepless nights. Do you think---I mean really--- do you actually think at all that Bush doesn't carry that weight on his back every day? If you don't, you are a howling moonbat.
Being a leader isn't an easy job. Being a leader in a time of war is a lot rougher than anything I ever did. Bush KNEW troops would die, but he sent them into battle anyway. That's what leaders do when the cause is just.
Ten years from now, revisit my site and spout your same moonbeam rhetoric. I'll bet there's one thing I wont hear from you: "I WAS WRONG!"
Leftists never do that.
April 05, 2005
acidman's advice to trolls
I've studied you people for a while. Interesting. Kinda like looking at worms crawl out of puppy-turds. Watching that nature in action riff is about as intresting as reading your comments.
Lemme give you some advice if you want to be a good troll:
* Try so stay somewhat on topic, even though you don't understand the topic.
* DO NOT resort to mindless insults as a way to make your salient intellectual points.
* Look up the word "Salient" in the dictionary, if you own one. That act might increase your vocabulary by at least 50%.
* Use a real email address, you cowardly bastard.
* Ask yourself a serious question--- why do I get my jollies being a complete prick on other people's blogs? Did you start out by writing grafitti on bathroom walls?
* Get a fucking life, you pathetic loser. Try some Clearsel. Bathe once in a while. Try sex with a REAL woman once in your life.
And move out of your mama's house. Do something really unthinkable, such as get a job.
That's MY Humble opinion.
i made the decision
Beth the troll is not banned from my site. I don't mind a contrary voice every now and again, but I'm just going to delete everything that flaming asshole posts on my blog.
No more Beth. Not EVER again.
a great song
I don't know if you've ever heard it, but you should if you haven't. Gordon Lightfoot wrote it and it still makes my grandmother smile and tap her foot when she hears it. After Daddy died, mama always cried when my brother and I played that song.
It's called "Mother of a Miner's Child," and I don't know that I can get through it today without breaking down. It hits really close to home. I tried it tonight and ended up weeping all over my guitar. I just ain't right in the head anymore.
"Sometimes I smile
Did I? I don't know. My brother certainly did.
But we both came a long way from that coal mining camp in Lewellen, Kenticky. We grew up having the mother of a miner's child raise us. And we had a damn good one.
I need to link to this guy more often.
Just stop and think about it. He's a gay yankee and I'm a Southern redneck. What could we POSSIBLY have in common? Nothing, right?
I disagree. I believe that we have a lot in common.
i've never understood it either
The woman is pissed and I don't blame her one bit. I've seen these contraptions in men's room's, too and they always make me angry.
First of all, they load the things with toilet paper that is reject stuff from a sand-paper factory. Second, they rig the machine so that you can get a maximum of four sheets at a time, and even if you roll it all into a tight bunch, your finger can still pierce it and you end up wiping you ass like an Arab. Some fucked-up bureaucrat sold management on that brilliant cost-saving idea.
I agree with Key. If I pay $50 to get into your place, I expect a nice bathroom in there. I don't think that's too much to ask. You give me that industrial-bureaucrat treatment and I just might shit in your sink and piss on the floor. Bastards.
I stayed in a really nice hotel in Miami once, and I didn't know what to make of the bathroom attendent. I had never seen one before. This guy was dressed in a coat and tie and when you finshed your business, he offered you a hot towel to wash your hands with, and some cologne to splash on your face. Now THAT'S the way to go to the bathroom. I liked that treatment and I tipped him $2.00.
I agree with Key. Fuck 'em if they treat you like dirt.
This is it. That innocent looking plant can ruin your entire day.
Spurge nettle, (Cnidolscolus stimulosus), also known as "Tread-softly" is a perennial herb covered with stinging hairs, of southeastern North America. It is not a true nettle, as it is in the Euphorbiaceae (spurge family). It prefers sandy, well drained soil and mostly exists in pine/blackjack oak forests on sandhills, rims of Carolina bays, dunes, or ridges.
THAT'S the bastard I was talking about!
the hot tub
I had a long talk with catfish and Nancy today. I think I'm going to visit tomorrow. Nancy says that I can get nekkid in the hot tub and she won't laugh at my dick. I call that real Southern hospitality. But she also said that I can't blog about her tits if I see them. We made a deal, and my word is my bond.
I still want to bring a rifle and shoot at those gators in the creek. The only problem is, Cat and I are both so decrepit anymore that we could probably kill Big Daddy, but we couldn't drag his ass out of the water. I'll bet that gator weighs over 1,000 pounds. I can just picture me and Cat trying to get that big bastard ashore.
We'd both drop dead of heart attacks and mama gator would eat both of us. I think getting nekkid in the hot tub is a better idea.
a good body
Five years ago, Jennifer and I went to a pool party with a bunch of friends. Sometime around evening, I sat down with her and asked. "Look around. Most of these guys are my age or younger. I don't look too bad for a guy pushing 50 years old." I was still pretty buff back then. She agreed and we went home to make love like wild dogs that night.
I look in the mirror now and wonder who is that old fart staring back at me. The prostate cancer fucked me up badly and other things came along to increase my Give A Shit concept. I lost a lot of weight and I don't appear to be very healthy anymore. People who have known me for a long time look at me today and ask, "Rob, are you feeling all right?"
NO, GODDAMIT! I AIN'T feeling all right. I KNOW that I look like Fido's ass now compared to the way I once was a short time ago. Don't remind me of that shit and don't try to give me good advice, beause I don't want it.
I am yet to talk to a single person filled with advice who has been through what I have in the past four years. MAYBE if I meet one of those who can tell me that prostate cancer is no big deal, and being impotent for 19 months while the love of your life was fucking around like a bitch in heat doesn't matter, and MAYBE if you can tell me how divorce court is no big deal, no matter how much money it costs you, and MAYBE if you can convince me to "get over it" because I can't see my son anymore, thanks to a fucked up Georgia law and an even MORE fucked up lawyer I hired, I may think you make a lick of sense.
But in the meantime... do me a favor and shut the fuck up.
i saw my grandfather do it
We were squirrel hunting one day and walked up on a BIG rattlesnake. That sucker must have been about six feet long and he was pissed, coiled up and ready to strike, singing like a sack full of crickets. I wanted to shoot it with my .22, but Papaw said no. "That ain't enough gun for that snake," he said.
He took his knife and cut a limb off a tree--- a small limb that had a nice fork in it, and he walked up to the snake, prodded it to strike one time and pinned its head to the ground with the fork in that stick. Then, he grabbed the snake by the tail and whipped it like someone snapping a lash. He popped that thing like a whip several times, then smashed its head on a tree.
"Okay, pick it up and put it in the sack now, It's dead and I think I can make a belt out of that one."
The snake didn't look dead to me. It was still writhing on the ground, even though its head was smashed to smithereens. I didn't want to do it because snakes give me the creepy-crawlies and this was a BIG one. But I managed to use the stick to work the snake into the sack and I carried him back home, even though I could feel that bastard moving the entire time.
He had nine rattles and a button on his tail. When Papaw skinned him and laid that pelt out on a board, it must have measured 12" across in the middle. It was an awesome rattlesnake. and they stink like hell when skinned.
That's why I want a .410 pistol. If I ever walk up on something like that again, I'll give him a blast of pellets and leave him for the ants to eat. I'm a pretty good woodsman.
But I ain't nothing like my Papaw was.
i get bunches of them
I love the leftist emails I receive from people who basically say the same thing: "Yeah, Clinton may have gotten a blow job in the Oval Office, but he never killed 1,500 soldiers in a foolish war."
I can't argue with that kind of logic. To suggest that Clinton should have kept his dick in his pants and dealt with the terrorist threat that HE KNEW was aimed at this nation would be reactionary on my part. To suggest that The FUCKING PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES should have been able to keep his dick in his pants at all is very judgmental on my part.
I mean... you have Osama Bin Laden threatening to blow you up on one side... and you have Monica Lewinsky offering to blow you on the other. Which would YOU pick as leader of the free world? Clinton made his choice.
And if you are stupid enough to believe that 9/11 wasn't a direct result of Bill Clinton's paralysis, execept when he was getting good head, you are out of your fucking mind. But that's what I expect from a kool-ade drinking leftist.
You are ALL out of your minds.
i despise the bastard
I think Peter Jennings is a twisted fuck, and he has done a lot of damage the credibility of network news with his constant anti-American spin in his "reporting". But I wouldn't wish this on anybody.
Don't get me wrong--- I'd love to drag him outside a bar and beat the living shit out of his smarmy ass. I DO NOT like the weasel. But I hope he beats this, not because I give a rat's ass about him, but because I know that cancer is a terrible way to die.
I've looked it square in the eye myself, and it ain't a pretty sight. I've watched my mama and daddy go that way. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. No matter how much I consider Peter Jennings to be a lying, shit-assed bastard, I don't wish it on him, either.
I never thought I would say this, but I hope he recovers.
the dreaded "wet fart"
I've warned you before that this man is a pervert, but he discusses an interesting topic on this post. I think it's all a sign of old age.
When I was young, I could rip some good farts that were as loud as summer thunder and sometimes carried a stench with magnificent hang-time. I could clear out a tent in the woods and make five other boys run for fresh air. Those were the good old days.
Now, I try to sneak a fart--- you know, just kinda ease it out--- because I don't know what might be in there. My asshole is not nearly as reliable today as it once was. What FEELS like a fart today may be something else, and that can be embarrassing in mixed company. The wet stuff is bad enough, but when you encounter the dreaded "lumpy-fart," you know that you have fucked up and you're probably going to have to ditch another pair of underwear.
That's just one more example of why life is not fair. As you grow older, you expect your mind to go South on you. But you oughta be able to trust your asshole forever. But that ain't so.
I trust my mind more than I do my asshole anymore. My mind has never shit my pants.
If my goddam camera was working, I'd take a few pictures of those fuckers in my yard. I searched Google, but all I could find was this shit, which is a west coast mutant nothing like what I see in southeast Georgia.
What we have here resembles a dandilion, with spikes all over it. They grow all over the place in sandy soil and they have a root that goes damn near a foot into the ground. And you better wear good, thick gloves if you every try to pull them up.
Step on or brush against one of those plants and you immediately experience the worst itch you ever had in your life. If you scratch it, it only gets worse and produces a red rash with little white blisters in it. I know that this is gonna sound nasty, but the only way I've ever found to counteract that sting is to piss on it, then dig up some wet dirt and pack it on the wound like a poultice. You'll be okay in about 15 minutes.
Some people down South call it "The Seven Year Itch," but I always called it a stinging nettle, and I've seen it drive a dog crazy before. I've got those fuckers all over my yard, expecially in my flower beds.
I don't like them and I intend to kill them all.
This is a genuine southern post if I ever saw one. Boys and dogs are a Southern thing, and sometimes little boys aren't always exactly kind to the dog.
But the dog loves the boy anyway, even if the dog does have weird red strings hanging out of his ass.
I'm an old-fashioned guy. I believe that it is better to fight and lose than to never fight at all. I also do not believe in the concept of a "fair" fight. If I'm facing some guy who is twice my size and seriously intends to kick my ass, I see nothing wrong with smashing a beer bottle over his head, kicking him in the nuts when he goes down and then beating him with a cue stick until the stick breaks.
If I miss with the beer bottle and he he ends up kicking my ass, well... that's just the way it goes sometimes. But you MUST show him that you are willing to fight. That attitude will work to keep most bullies off of your ass.
International diplomacy is no different. Rattling a saber is one thing, but whipping that thing out of the scabbard and whacking off a head is much more effective. That kind of action shows that you are serious. People see and learn.
"Don't Tread On Me."
That's the most magnificent motto I ever heard. It also MEANS SOMETHING to people who have secret desires to fuck with you. If they KNOW you're going to give them a fight, they are much more reluctant to pick one. And if they know you have the beer bottle and the cue stick and are WILLING TO USE THEM, they have even less enthuisam about picking that fight.
I believe that George Bush understands this simple concept. If you want a fight, you'll get one, but it won't be "fair" because we have superior firepower. We'll kick your ass all over the barroom floor. Is that what you want? If so, come get some.
If not, don't tread on me.
April 04, 2005
check it out
My daughter has a new blog and I like it better than the old one. I didn't like her calling herself "Poor White Trash" because it's an insult worse than the forbidden "N-Word" where I come from.
Black people can't help the color of their skin. Some of them decide to DESERVE the forbidden "N-Word," but a lot of 'em don't. Poor white trash are what they are because they chose to be. And they damn sure can't blame their fuck-ups on racism or skin color.
They are just natural-born fuck-ups.
Yeah. I'm one of the people who bitched to Samantha about changing the name of her blog. She thought the title was humorous. I thought the title was an insult to my family.
I am delighted that she saw the light and listened to me for once in her life.
The old man sat on the rocks of the seawall, just high enough so the breaking waves wouldn't wet him. He wore white boots and had a five-gallon plastic bucket by his side. He had a gray beard and his skin was the color of burnt toast.
I had just finished my 5-mile beach run and was doing a little rock-hopping, just to exercise my legs. The old man never looked up at me, so I decided to be sociable. "Catching anything?" I asked.
"Do you really give a shit?" he replied in a voice like a bullfrog.
Bastard. He wasn't going to intimidate me. I sat down on a rock next to him. He had a 15' cane pole out in the water. I watched the float bob up and down on the waves. "Don't look like much is happening today," I observed.
"Look in the bucket," he replied. I did and he had THREE nice sheephead in there.
"Whoa! That ain't bad!" I exclaimed.
"Yeah, that sheephead, he's a slick fish. They hide down in them rocks and they don't BITE. They like to suck and nibble at the bait and they can clean that hook without ever moving that float. Unless you've got the right bait."
About that time his float took a plunge and he snatched another big sheephead out of the water. On a fucking cane pole. I was amazed.
I knew that most people used fiddler crabs for bait when fishing for sheephead, but I also knew that this guy had to be using something else. Sheephead aren't that easy to catch.
He finally showed me what he was using and I have passed this tip on to other fishermen and they all agree that it's the best bait for sheephead that they ever saw. Any idea what it is?
I'll give you a hint--- it involves a raw oyster.
of mice and men, part 2
Read the book. See the play. Think about what the story really means. Think about where the title came from. Watch the character "Cookie" and listen to what he has to say.
And think about dying. Think about Lenny there on the riverbank with the lynch-mob closing in on him. Think about what was running though George's mind at the time.... time that was growing ever shorter. There was no way out, at least not for Lenny.
George told Lenny to look away and picture the story in his mind, and George started talking again about the little farm with the windmill and the rabbits that Lenny could tend, by feeding them alfalfa he could pick from the field. Lenny had the look of a delighted child on his face.
That's when George shot him, right in the back of the head.
Lenny died before the posse arrived. He also died with his own picture of heaven in his mind. Not many people get to do that--- to die in a moment of pure bliss. We should all go that way.
George probably regretted what he did for the rest of his life. He killed a friend. But he did it at the right time, in the right place, the right way. Lenny was better off.
Call it morbid, but I would like to die that way.
(Yes, I have issues...)
I stole this from instapundit and I like the thinking behind it.
MORE: Reader Jeff Cook emails:
I believe that Jeff Cook is a very astute individual. If I were President, I would have armed Taiwan, South Korea and Japan with tactical nukes long ago. Not ICBMS (let them figure those out on their own), but very spooky nukes capable of being launched against North Korea and China.
I would have done it strictly on the quiet, too, except for that "accidental" leak, complete with pictures, that those clever Chinese managed to get their hands on. If the Chinese started waving those pictures around the UN and screaming about the evil United States arming China's enemies, I would have a well-rehearsed spokeman say that he didn't have a fucking clue what the Chinese were bitching about.
I would do it, let them KNOW I did it, then deny doing it to the rest of the world. Let the Chinese deal with THAT. Now, big-dicks, you're surrounded on three sides with countries that can lob nukes into your largest cities. Still wanna play footsie in Taiwan?
I believe in Macchiavellian politics.
the eyes of winter
I don't like cold weather and the area around Savannah is busting out in the colors of spring right now. Beautiful dogwoods, multi-colored azealias, Bartlet pear trees, legustrums, and one of my favorites, that nasty weed know as wisteria.
Bejus, but I love wisteria. Those purple flowers smell wonderful and they'll attract every bee within 50 miles. I believe that wisteria juice intoxicates the bees and you can walk right up and catch one in your hand. He won't sting you. He just wants to go back to the wisteria bar.
My first ex-wife used to jump all over me for doing that. "ROB!! You are allergic to honey bee stings! Stop messing with those things!"
I never listened and I never got stung.
I've found some wisteria growing in the woods not far from my house and I'm thinking about diggng up some and planting it in my back yard, just for the color and the aroma. That stuff is a parasitic plant that will kill everything else around it if given a chance, but I want some.
It blinds the eyes of winter.
i heard footsteps
Someone was walking around in my house at about 3:30 this morning. I heard this person very clearly and I SWEAR that I heard the refrigerator door open and close, too.
I was sleeping nekkid, as usual, but I picked up my .380 from the nightstand and I racked a round into the chamber. I climbed quitely out of bed and, still, nekkid, went to discover what was in my house. I could see a light on in the direction of the kitchen. I figured that I knew the layout of the house better than any intruder would, and I didn't need any more light.
I really thought that I was about to shoot somebody.
I felt calm and grim about the idea. I had no sense of fear. I believed that if a thief had entered my house, he was about to find out that he should have picked somewhere else to invade.
But I didn't end up shooting anybody. I left the garage door open yesterday when I retrieved the battery charger and my gas can for my neighbor to cut his grass. That door leads to my kitchen. The wind was swaying the door back and forth and it made a noise just like stealthy footsteps. The light I saw was from the garage, which went out as soon as I closed the door.
I still checked the entire house, then sat on my sofa to smoke a cigarette. The .380 was heavy in my hand. I was relieved, but somehow disappointed. I was ready to shoot some sumbitch who had no business in my house. I was primed.
I unloaded the pistol, plugged the bullet from the chamber back into the magazine and went back to bed. Nothing to see here.
It damn sure excited me, though.
I let my neighbor use my lawn mower to cut his grass yesterday. Yeah, that's my big "N-word" neighbor with the sweet, good-looking wife and the polite son that I allow to use my basketball goal anytime he wants to, racist that I am.
The mower wouldn't crank at first, so I put the battery charger on it for a couple of hours and got it going. He cut his grass and brought me back a full five-gallon can of gas in appreciation (yeah, we had to use my gas to get the mower started). He thanked me and asked me never to hesitate to ask if I needed a favor from him.
Those people are good neighbors who just happen to have darker complexions than I do. They are good people and I am delighted to have them living next door to me.
That boy wants to be a golfer and I gave him a dozen good balls to bang around the yard. I told him the only restriction I put on his practice was to aim at the back at the ditch and not bounce any off my truck. So, far, he has obeyed my rules. And he's starting to hit the ball pretty good. The kid has potential if I could convince him to change his grip a little and not stand with his feet so wide apart.
That's how racists behave down South anymore.
I don't believe that old vince got the credit he deserved during his acting career. Yeah, he did a lot of those grade-B Hammer films, but he was outstanding in every one of them. When I was a kid going to the Avon Theater to see a double-feature, I just KNEW that the movies would be scary if they starred Vincent Price.
He had the voice to do Shakespeare, but the face to play a vampire, Dr. Frankenstein or a complete voodoo madman. He was good.
I think he made a lot of money doing that kind of work and I hope he did. He scared the shit out of my young ass many a time.
I wax nostalgic. I just watched him in an old movie on Showtime, where he ressurected a mummy that then went on a killing rampage. He finally had to destroy his own creation and burn himself up in the process. Vintage Vincent Price.
I miss the old guy.
he got me
I don't like door-to-door salesmen. They interrupt my placid day, piss me off and generally try the sell me something I don't want. I have been know to wave a gun at them to run them off.
But today, a fast-talking guy showed up selling an all-purpose cleaner that smells just like green apples and mixes 50-to-one in water. He sprayed some on my moss-stained front porch and all the moss went away. He sprayed some on my carpet and removed a stain that's been there for two years. He shined the bumper of my truck, cleaned the whitewalls on my tires and even demonstrated how this stuff removed stains from my sidewalk.
I was mightily impressed. I bought two bottles of that stuff, for the low, low discount price of $38.72, because I got the two-bottle special deal. I don't know if what he was using is what I bought, but for $38.72 I'm willing to take the risk. It really looks like good shit.
Yeah, I was the victim of a drive-by salesman today.
(UPDATE: The stuff I bought is called "Green Apple Advantage---the Wonder Cleaner!" Retail price for one bottle is $33 and I got two for $38.72. Plus the label says, "Green Apple Advantage liquid concentrate is non-toxic, phosphate-free, biodegradable, organically derived and environmentally friendly."
Now I'm pissed. I wanted something that said "WARNING!!! Wear rubber gloves and respirator when handling this stuff! It's bad shit and will kill you dead, plus anything else it comes in contact with!!"
Now I feel as if I bought some kind of pussy cleaner.)
I want to thank everyone who has told me to "get over it" with Jennifer and the loss of my son. That's what a man has to do, and its just all so simple. Faggetaboudet. The boy will come around someday, and you just can't keep letting this shit keep eating at you. Move on.
Move on to where? If I end up with a willing bedmate who likes to tangle the sheets with me, then all my problems are over? I'll forget all about Quinton because I'm getting laid regularly? Hell, that's all a man really cares about, right?
You people are full of shit.
April 03, 2005
the way George shot Lenny
If you've never seen the play, you need to watch it. I saw George Segal perform with Nikol Williamson and and I thought they delivered a powerful performance. Joey Heatherton played "curley's wife" and made ME want to pet her pretty, soft hair.
"Of Mice and Men." Aren't we all?
I thought the version done by Gary Sinese and John Malkovetch was excellent also. That's one of my favorite plays of all time because NOBODY can win in it. It's all a question of how badly are you willing to lose.
I want to thank my ex-wife for teaching me those lessons. I never could have learned to really apprereciate that play without her. Jennifer, you are a creature to behold. I now know exactly what George was thinking when he told Lenny about the rabbits and shot him in the back of the head.
I wish I had never met your lying, corrupt ass. You've tried to kill me for almost four years now, but you did every bit of that shit the sneaky way. You wanted the law to roast me and you've gotten your way as far as money goes.
But you never felt enough hate or enough love to do what George did. You don't have a whole lot of wherewithall in your bag to begin with, unless you see the chance to fuck with A LOT of people. That opportunity puts you right back on your A-Game, and you can go crucify a few more People. You LOVE doing it, too.
I slept with you for ten years, and I gave you a son. I OFTEN recommended that there was a better way to win a fight than the scorched earth philosophy, but you knew better than that. You nuked everything. I once believed that you were like me, but you never were. You showed me that fact in spades.
That's the way you're made. That's why you have no friends unless you're attempting to googe something out of them and that's why you trade your pussy for favors. Yeah. "Have a GREAT day" as long as you don't have anything I want at the time. But if you have what I want, how about a piece of ass while we negotiate? Yeah, I'll fuck at the drop if a hat if I'm looking to get my way.
But she would never do what George did to Lenny to spare him from what was coming with the dogs barking off in the distance. To kill him was an act of love. Jennifer would have jumped up and started yelling "HERE HE IS! HERE HE IS! I FOUND HIM! HOW MUCH IS THE REWARD!!!"
I just love divas. They are so trustworthy.
(By the way, I've been banned on commenting on another Blogsuck site. I really wanted to bark, but I will not do it for these assholes. What are you people afraid of?)
it's the truth
This is pretty much how a blogmeet usually goes. You have a good time meeting people you've only imagined meeting before, you drink a lot of adult beverages and you have excellent stories to tell later. Some people who witnessed the same stories unfold in reality may call you a goddam liar afterward, but that's just their word against yours.
Deny everything they say and stick with your story simply because it is a better story. QUALITY counts more than truth in such a situation.
I expect the Wreckle in Jekyll to be much the same.
the real mazool
I've read a lot of razorblogging posts lately, and I think most of them are full of shit. I am amazed by the number of men who do not know the difference between a Straight Razor and a Safety Razor.
You can see a picture of a legitimate straight-razor here. It's almost an exact replica of the one that my grandfather owned and the one I almost cut my face off with one day. You need a steady hand and maximum concentration to handle one of those babies. I wouldn't recommend them for hemophiliacs. I wonder if he has a good leather strop to keep it sharp?
Here is an example a a safety razor. Yeah, it has a razor blade in it, but it comes equipped with a handle and a guard that makes carving your face off a little more difficult. That's what I grew up shaving with, but I always KNEW BETTER than to call one of those a "straight razor."
I shave with Bic disposables now. I own one of those Gillette "Track Fives," which are wonderful razors, except for the fact that the blades cost more than the goddam razor does and I need to change them about every five days. Fuck that.
I carved most of the hair off my face the other day. I used hair clippers to get rid of the beard and I allowed only a thin, dapper-looking moustache to remain. Then, I shaved my face as smooth as a baby's butt. My face resembles a VERY OLD baby's butt, but I'm still going clean-shaven for a while.
It's a gigantic pain in the ass to shave every day, but I have to because I have thick chin-whiskers that grow back quickly. I've heard that some wimmen find that stubbly look sexy, but I don't. I feel as if I'm wearing sandpaper on my face and I wouldn't want to nuzzle a nice set of boobs with a face like that.
So, I'm shaving every day now. If I keep this up, I might even get around to bathing once in a while.
this is why
I believe that every home in this country should come equipped with at least one good handgun and a long rifle. And everybody in the home should know how to load, shoot and hit what they aim at.
Depend on the cops to protect you and this is what you get. With a gun in that house and people trained to use it, somebody could have dropped that bag of scum right in his tracks. But that's not what happened. He killed them instead.
That will NEVER happen in my house. I'm willing.
I sat down and looked over all the paperwork today. I make have to break down and seek professional help for the first time in my life.
If I read the Georgia Code correctly, I do not owe any state takes on my lump-sum retirement package that I took from Kerr-McGee. I hope to hell not, because the Feds withheld $45,000 and the state didn't withold a dime. If I end up owing the state of Georgia 6% of that wad of cash, I am in deep shit.
The new State Sales Tax deductions may look good on paper, but they aren't going to do me a damn bit of good. If I could take that AND my regular deductions, I might be a happy camper. But it's strickly either-or, and I'm better off going the old way.
I feel a severe fucking coming on. I'm going to plow through this shit myself and see what I end up with. If I don't like the results (and I suspect that I won't), I'm going to see a tax attorney. At first glance, I believe that I'm going to pay about $50,000 in taxes this year, and that doesn't include the ambush the state may have waiting for me. (And the $20,000 I paid in child support this year doesn't even enter the equation.)
That's not "taxation." That is pure-assed RAPE.
1. That farm boy you see at the gas station did more work before breakfast than you do all week at the gym.
2. It's called a "gravel road." No matter how slow you drive, you're going to get dust on your Lexus. Drive it or get it out of the way!
3. The red dirt -- it's called clay. Red clay. If you like the color, don't wash your car for a couple weeks -- it'll be permanent.
4. We all started hunting and fishing when we were seven years old. Yeah, we saw that Bambi movie, too. We got over it.
5. Go ahead and bring your $600 Orvis fly rod. Don't cry to us if a flathead breaks it off at the handle. We have a name for that little 13-inch trout you fish for: bait.
6. Pull your pants up! You look like an idiot.
7. If that cell phone rings while a bunch of mallard ducks is making their final approach, we will shoot it. You might want to ensure it's not up to your ear at the time.
8. No, there's no "Vegetarian Special" on the menu. Order steak. Order it rare. Or, you can order the Chef's Salad and pick off the two pounds of ham and turkey.
9. Tea? -- yeah, we have tea. It comes in a glass over ice and it's sweet. You want it hot? Set it in the sun. You want it unsweetened? Add a lot of water.
10. You bring Coke into my house, it better be brown, wet, and served over ice!
11. You have a sixty-thousand-dollar SUV. We're real impressed. We have a quarter of a million-dollar combine that we only use two weeks a year.
12. Let's get this straight. We have one stoplight in town. We stop when it's red. We may even stop when it's yellow.
13. We eat dinner together with our families. We pray before we eat--yeah, even breakfast. We go to church on Wednesdays and Sundays, and we go to high school football games on Friday nights. We still address our seniors with "yes, sir" and "yes, ma'am," and we sometimes still take Sunday drives around town to see friends and neighbors.
14. We don't do "hurry up" well.
15. Greens -- yeah, we have greens, but you don't putt on them. You boil them with salty fatback, bacon or a smoked hog jowl.
16. Yeah, we eat catfish, bass, bream, and carp. You really want sushi and caviar? It's available down at the bait shop.
17. They are pigs. That's what they smell like. Get over it. Don't like it? Interstate 75 goes two ways. Interstate 40 goes the other two. Pick one.
18. Grits are corn. You put butter, salt, and maybe even some pepper on them. If you want to put m! ilk and sugar on them, then you want cream of wheat -- go to Kansas. That would be I-40 West.
19. The "Opener" refers to the first day of deer season or dove season. Both are holidays. You can get pancakes, cane syrup, and sausage before daylight at the church on either day.
20. So every person in every pickup truck waves? Yeah, it's called being friendly. Understand the concept?
21. Yeah, we have golf courses. Don't hit in the water hazards. It spooks the fish and bothers the gators --and, if you hit it in the rough, we have these things called diamondbacks, and they're not baseball players.
22. That Highway Patrol Officer that just pulled you over for driving like an idiot --his name is "Sir," no matter how young he is.
23. We have lots of pine trees. They have sap. It drips from them. You park your Lexus under them, and they'll leave a souvenir on your hood.
24. You burn an American flag in our state, you get beat up. No questions. The liberal contingent of our state legislature -- all four of them --enacted a measure to stop this. There is now a $2.50 fine for beating up the flag burner.
American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God
(Thanks to chronwatch for the link.)
Jawja blog meet
Yeah, I stole this picture from here but I ain't afraid to say what it is That's a Jawja blog-meet right afterthe low-country boil is served. You'll see eric picking a fight off to the left and dax montana breaking into that crate. I am practicing my golf swing almost in the middle of the picture.
That's sam running off at the bottom right of the picture. He wants to go to the beach where all the wimmen are, and he's in a hurry.
The big dude sprawled on the ground near the chest is catfish. He either beat Sam to the beach and exhausted himself, or found the moonshine still before anyone else did.
Now tell me that I don't have appreciation for fine art.
it doesn't piss me of
If I had a dollar for every time somebody has sent me nasty comments, ceremoniously de-linked me and then exoriated me mercilessly on their own sanctimonious blog for something I wrote, I would have a sack full of money. Having that happen to me really didn't bother me in the least. In fact, that crap provided a lot of blog-fodder for me to fire back with.
I could go all Acidman, cuss, rant and rave, and then kick back laughing when I saw the comments on what I wrote. I was flattered that so many people hated me so badly. I always said that I wrote for a reaction, and I damn sure got some good ones back in those days.
But I've STILL never met a blogger in person that I didn't like. We may be 180-degrees apart on the political scale, and we may have even written hateful posts to each other before, but that doesn't seem to matter.
I might even bow up tell ole piss-boy here that he envies the shit out of ME because I get more traffic than he does and he speaks with a Yankee accent.
Old wimmen and frightened men back away. Fisticuffs appear inevitable. But after a couple of beers, things change. We're sittin' at the bar, bullshittin' and telling blog-stories.
After a couple of hours, we part GOOD friends. You know, a nice handshake, a firm pat on the shoulder, and the obligatory, "We should do this again." And you really intend to.
But as you walk away, you can't resist saying "I STILL think you're full of shit!"
And you hear the reply, "When you LEARN to think, I'll worry about what YOU think." You both laugh.
I've done that several times and never saw the person again. But I never regretted the expeience.
April 02, 2005
it is what it is
I have walked every pothole-riddled step of this road and I can attest that this is true. It isn't JUST, but that's the way the system works and a smart woman knows how to take advantage of it. This article is full of horror stories.
Steve Barreras paid $20,000 to support his daughter, a girl he had never met. In fact, she didn’t even exist. His ex-wife Viola Trevino took another family’s daughter to court and claimed the child as hers. New Mexico governor Bill Richardson has now ordered an investigation.
I've ranted before what a stacked deck this is.
The voice of justice and outrage asks, How could this happen in America?
A goat to scape. A stereotype. A whipping boy. I love the way America has outgrown that kind of behavior.
Of course, it’s divorce that triggers the monstrous child support machinery to lurch into motion. The rise of no-fault, unilateral divorce does not trouble the Sisterhood. In fact, they welcome it.
Divas, my ass.
the pope croaked
I figured that I ought to mention the story, since blogs are supposed to stay on top of the news and all. I don't want to shirk my journalistic duties, and I am sure that you heard it here first.
I have often ranted about the idiocy of "zero tolerance" rules in public schools today. As nearly as I can tell, zero tolerance accomplishes three things and none of them are good.
First, it teaches kids that adults are witless drones. Tossing kids out of school and treating them like vicious felons for having a nail file is certain to convince young skulls full of mush that teachers are wise. That idea always has worked: act like a complete moron and students respect you.
Second, it does not discriminate between a real problem student with a history of discipline problems and the poor bastard who brought a butter knife to school in his lunch box. In fact, the kid with the butter knife gets in more trouble than the eventual occupant of a cell in the state prison. In many of these cases, the law is an ass, the kids see that fact clearly, and they lose all respect for law in general.
Third, the policy doesn't work to stop incidents such as the Red Lake High School shootings. So, we have an idiotic set of rules, enforced blindly by idiotic people, and the rules don't work to stop what they were meant to stop.
Maybe there is hope on the horizon, but I seriously doubt that this good idea will go anywhere.
One former Katy, Texas, high school student says he understands that administrators are trying to create a safe environment, but that they are going too far. A sophomore in 2001, he was late to biology class one day and his teacher sent him to the office for a tardy slip. While he was gone, he says, she asked the class to turn in their spiral notebooks - but no one told him to turn in his notebook when he returned, and his grade dropped from a B to a C.
That punishment made a lot of sense, didn't it? And schools ARE becoming a lot like prison. Students don't learn much in the way of education, but they know better than to get caught with an unauthorized spork in their lunchbox. They'd better mind their "terroristic threats," too.
Public school should not be a fascist environment. But it is today.
physician, heal thyself
Does this sound like training or a brainwashing exercise in political correctness? I smell the distinct aroma of bullshit in the air.
New Jersey doctors must now receive cultural competency training to obtain or renew their medical licenses as a result of legislation signed Wednesday by acting Gov. Richard J. Codey.
"Cultural Competency Training." Hmmm... I received some of that in my corporate life. In MY experience, it amounts to being told that you are a racist, racism is evil, and therefore you should feel really guilty for being the evil racist you obviously are.
What a bunch of crap.
life is strange
I just had to post this story in case you hadn't read it already. I had so many ridiculous puns run through my mind that I was ashamed of myself. I stole the link from here, and he should be ashamed of himself for posting it.
"Lady, I'll give you a free car wash with a fill-up, but this ain't part of the deal."
"Woman, just promise me that you won't be talking on a cell phone, too."
"Ma'am... ma'am... our one-hour service policy doesn't cover this..."
Goff said Coleman "threw her leg over the steering wheel, groaned once, and the rest of the baby came out.
I wonder if she paid for the gas?
I am sick to death of the Teri Shavio case and I wish that people would stop writing about it, because it's all over now. But I'm going to link to this post and I swear that it's the last I have to say on that issue.
The whole thing was a travesty and the woman's death turned into a reality TV show. We should all be sick of ourselves.
My emails to her keep bouncing, but I'm really going to be disappointed if this woman does not come to Jekyll for the Writers Workshop. Kelley, you drank the moonshine blood of the first baby lamb we slaughtered to sancify the Union Of Jawja Bloggers. You are a High Priestess. You can't just blow this one off.
Another high priestess says that you can stay with her. (Of course you KNOW that you can always stay with ME!) If you get there, I will see that you are wined and dined properly and you don't pay for anything. All you have to do is agree to sing a couple of songs with me and my brother. You don't even have to display any of your magnificent cleavage, unless you really feel an overpowering need to do so, and I won't mind at all.
How can you pass up a deal like that?
I think I kinda, sorta, maybe disagree with this post. I believe that too many people read too much into the name of a school mascot.
I played as an "Indian," a "Brave" and a "Warrior" during my football days. I have some injun blood in me, so I can claim some ethnic heritage, but I never gave a shit about that back then. My teams had fierce, fighting nicknames and I liked them. I never even THOUGHT about those mascots as being "Inappropriate." Your team was supposed to sound formidable.
I wouldn't want to play for a team called "The Unflushable Turds," which may be a formidable problem, but it's not exactly what inspires young men to go out and play their best. Warriors are fighters. Vikings are fearless. Spartans are as tough as they come. Wildcats will scratch you, Bulldogs will bite you and YES--- I believe there is a spot for Rebels in there, too, because they don't take no shit lyin' down.
I see a lot of this pissing and moaning about team mascots as more political correctness run wild. More pussifiation of America. More of the feighned "victimhood" that so many people desperately seek today. Why don't people piss their pants and dance in a circle when they see a black guy playing for "The Fighting Irish?" I don't like Notre Dame, but I think the team has a damn fine nickname.
I've never figured out exactly what a "Crimson Tide" is, but it sounds fairly awesome. It damn sure sounds a lot better than "The Fighting Goldfish," or some of this other non-offensive crap sensitive people are suggesting for nicknames now. And if you look at the pencil-necked geeks behind this movement, you can tell immediately that not a damn one of them ever played ball.
I like the name "Mustang," too. That's a wild horse, difficult to capture and tame. I like that name a lot. (I wonder why?) I wouldn't mind coaching a team full of mustangs.
But that name probably pisses PETA off.
April 01, 2005
i've eaten it
Yeah, I've eaten potted meat before. I've also opened cans of Alpo that both looked and smelled better.
I pretty much agree with this review.
(Thanks to Ron Fowler for the link!)
I was honest
I had a nice talk on the phone with a couple of people who gave me a real nice April Fool's Day Chuckle. I enjoyed the conversation.
And those threats of burning down my house, turning snakes loose in my kitchen and then hauling me off to a place where I will be gang-raped by the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders really made me laugh.
Ummmm... just to be honest here--- I don't care about the house. I don't care about the snakes, either.
But could we discuss that Cheerleader thing again?
Raking on Religion
The news is saying that the pope is fading fast. I'm sorry to hear that because I sort of admire the tough old bird. He's got some steel balls under that white skirt.
But I also believe that he screwed up the church badly.
I believe that a Pope is like the CEO of a large company. (I'm leaving all the religious crap OUT OF THIS RANT. If you are naive enough to believe that all popes are holy men, just read some history. Every kind of rascal, incompetent, power-hungry, deluded, theiving, murderous, ambitious and self-aggrandizing bastard from the base to the best have been Pope before. I don't care how good he is--- he'll never be the "voice of God" to me.
He is an administrator, and I don't think Paul has done a very good job during his term behind the mahogany desk. The horrendous charges of child molestation are bad enough, but the cover-ups and the pay-offs are even worse. Downright disgusting. And the Pope had to know.
When I first started reading about the Catholic church, I learned that the whole vow of chastity thing came from the desire of the church to KEEP all of your property when you died. You left no wives and no progeny. The church became rich that way.
A Catholic ceremony remains the most ornate and impressive spectacle that I've ever seen, and I've been to all kinds of churches. They put on a good show with the swinging censors and the fancy robes, and all that Latin that nobody can understand.
But I still say that for KNOWING so many priests abused children and for not making heads roll before the lawyers did, the Pope did not act as a competent CEO. And if you think the Catholic Church isn't a big-time corporation, you are out of your mind.
I wish the Pope the best of luck. But he didn't do a good job.
Everybody eats chicken. cooked all kinds if ways. Telling me that you had chichen for Lunch, EVEN IF IT WAS REALLY GOOD, does not impress me. I can show show an industrial park in Charleston, South Carolina, that slaughters 1.5 MILLION chickens every day. And they use everything but the last squawk from those birds.
Let's talk about eating interesting poultry.
* Some people like duck. I don't. It is greasy, dark meat that tastes rancid to me.
* I like quail. They are fun to shoot, but you need a lot of them to make a meal. Only the breast is any good to eat, and they are small birds. But a mess of fried quail is good eating, especially with okra, cornbread and pinto beans.
* Ever tasted a Guinea Hen? They resemble a miniature turkey but don't taste nearly as good. They eat too much wild food.
* I know a lot of people who like dove hunting. Other than killing the birds, I don't know why. A dove tastes worse than a duck does to me.
* Turkey. I'll put up a $100 bet that says I can cook a turkey better than you can, and I accept all comers on this wager. I once hurt my mama's feelings badly on Thanksgiving when we had a mini-family reunion. We both cooked turkeys and people ate every scrap of mine and left half of hers untouched. The only thing that saved her pride that day was she tasted my turkey and admitted, "Rob... I hate to say it, but this is a lot better than mine."
I have a secret.
What kind of bird do YOU like to eat?
(Yeah. I know waht a "bird" means in England and Austraila. Perverts.)
he's gonna burn!!
I agree with everything he says, but it's a all pure blasphemy. He's gonna burn.
But it's good to see him blogging again.
the paper boy
When I delivered newspapers, I killed one dog and beat the living shit out of two others. You didn't see many fences in my neighborhood back in those days, and people let their dogs run wild. Most of the dogs recognized me, because I called them by name when I threw papers in the yard every day. Some of the dogs were trained to fetch the paper and bring it back to the front door.
I always loved watching a dog grab that paper and run it up to the front door. He'd bark and scratch on the door with a paw until the door opened and somebody accepted that paper. The person who took the paper usually gave the dog a treat and said, "Good job!"
I swear that some of those dogs grinned at me and seemed to say, "We've got a good hustle going here! Let's keep it up!"
But some people had bad dogs. After I almost had my leg chewed off the first time I tried to outrun a mean dog on my bicycle, I went high-tech on those fuckers. I cut off 3' of an old shovel handle and I drilled six or seven holes in the thick end. I pounded lead shot unto every one of the holes and then I carved a handle in the botton, drilled a hole through it and ran a leather strap through it. I painted it read and black, Jawja Bulldog colors.
That was a bad-ass weapon. I could sling it over the handlebars of my bicycle, or I could stick it down the back of my pants when I went to collect from a house with a really bad dog in the bushes. I cracked several doggie heads and earned a lot of respect that way. If you crack a dog's head once, he doesn't want a repeat performance. That's a principle difference between wimmen and dogs.
My daddy also gave me a switchblade knife about that time, It was a piece of shit that he bought in the Phillipines when he was a young sailor. It had a cheap blade with the point broken off the end (Dad said that the Navy did that when they found his knife). It had a bamboo handle and a rubber-band-style action on it, but it was a by-god switchblade, about 6" long
I filed a point back on it and improved the action some and put a razor-sharp edge on it. I always carried the knife with me on my paper route. It made me feel manly. My billy-club was much more effective on mean dogs, but I still liked carrying the knife.
I made a big mistake one Saturday morning. I had one house where a BIG, MEAN boxer roamed free and he didn't like my ass one bit. The house was back in the woods off Old Mongomery Road, and the first time I had to bludgeon that dog to keep him from eating me alive, the lady of the house and I had a long conversation. I asked her to keep the dog locked up on collection day and for a while, that's exactly what she did.
I became complacient, left my billy-club dangling from the handlebars of my bicycle and went marching up to the porch to collect the newspaper delivery fee.
I knew that I couldn't outrun him and I was too frightened to yell for help, so I reached into my back pocket and pulled out that switchblade knife. I clicked it open just as the dog lunged at me (I swear I think he was going for my throat) and the dog impaled himself right in the chest, all the way to the hilt of the knife.
He let out a surprised yelp, and fell to the ground. The blade came out of the knife handle and I was left standing there with nothing but the bamboo handle in my fist, and the blade sticking out of a 150-pound dog's chest. I ran like hell back to my bicycle and got away as fast as I could.
The dog died. I must have hit something vital when I stuck him.
I went back to collect the money that woman owed me she she asked if I had killed her dog. I denied it and felt honest in doing so for two reasons. First, that mean dog wasn't supposed to be loose in the yard on collection day. Second, I didn't stab him. He RAN INTO THE KNIFE while attacking me.
I got my newspaper fee but lost the blade from my knife. I tried to make a new one and fix it, but I never could get it to work right, so I finally gave up. I eventually lost my red-and-black billy club, too, and I really wish I still had that today.
I've never told anyone that story until today.
(UPDATE--- on a good collection day, I might end up with $50 in a cigar box in the front basket of my bicycle, and that was a lot of money in those days. I was 12 years old. I didn't ride around unarmed. Some two-legged dogs could hide in the bushes, too.)
april fool's day
I should write a really witty, humorous post that bounces off every wall in a room like a superball. It's April 1st and I should get into the mood and write something crazy. But I'm not going to. I'm just not in that frame of mind today. I feel kinda sad.
Life is crazy enough all by itself.
The Grim Reaper is a relentless stalker and he comes for us all one of these days. You can't stop him--- the only debate is how long it takes him to find you and what manner in which you will go.
Modern medicine has discovered ways to keep you hanging on when you are not and never will be again the person you once were. With all of their tubes, respirators and machines, they still don't manage to cheat the reaper. They simply prolong the inevitable.
No matter how much YOU love life or love the person faced with that situation, there is a time to let go. My mama did it with dignity and the same kind of stubborn pride and true grit that she displayed her entire life. It broke my heart to see her go, but in a special, secret way, I was pleased to see it happen that way.
My brother and I grieved, but not nearly so badly as we did when daddy died. The doctors had too much fun keeping dad alive for far too long. When Mama was in the same position, she told all the doctors to go fuck themselves. ( Mama never used that kind of language, but the meaning was the same.) She knew what was coming, put her affairs in order and DID NOT make her death a long, drawn-out travesty.
That's what I don't understand about some of the Terri Shavio ranters. I've been there and done that twice. The "Save Terri" crowd never had a clue in MY humble opinion.
Sometimes, death is the right exit to take.
i want a piece of the action
Las Vegas puts odds on everything. I want to dump about $100,000 on this bet. Even if the odds are less than 1-to-one, I still stand to make a lot of money.
A thorough analysis of the Koran reveals that the US will cease to exist in the year 2007, according to research published by Palestinian scholar Ziad Silwadi.
I'm willing to bet a lot of money that this doesn't happen. Any takers?
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