Gut Rumbles

January 31, 2006

it's a go

My tiller cranked on the second pull today. Bejus bless a Toro. I allowed it to run for a while just to make sure that it would, but I didn't tear up any ground. I thunk more thoughts about my garden instead.

Now that I FINALLY have my truck back from Recondo 32 and Georgia, I went to the seed & feed store and bought 36 landscaping timbers, 12 50-pound bags of dried cow manure, a big bottle of Roundup, 50 pounds of 10-10-10 fertilizer and 25 pounds of a high-nitrogen fertilizer. By the time I got back home and unloaded all of that stuff, I didn't feel like doing any tilling. So, I sat in my hot tub and read Florence King's Reflections in a Jaundiced Eye for an hour or so.

Tomorrow, I'm going to spray Roundup on the area I intend to plant. Once I've killed all the growth there (it's mostly bare anyway, except for some weeds and a few stray centipede grass runners), I'll do my tilling. I'm going to steal a truckload of GOOD garden soil from Mama's old compost bin, dump the compost, the cowshit and a lot of 10-10-10 in the area I chose, then I'll till again to mix it all together.

Once I have the ground prepped to my satisfaction, I'll lay the landscape timbers around it as a border to keep my good soil from washing away. I'm thinking something about 30' X 20' in size. That's big enough to grow what I want to plant without being too much of a pain in the ass to maintain. At least that's my plan.

Now all I have to do is DO IT.

another dax poll

Okay, do you fire the kid or do you give him some more time on the job? Is the kid a shitty employee, or is Dax just a shitty boss? Does Dax want to pork the kid the way he wanted to pork the Paris Hilton look-alike, or does Dax simply want to pork EVERYBODY?

I report. You decide.

(I told how I voted in the comments.)

which would you choose?

If you wanted a painting done by a nekkid woman using her body as a brush, would you rather have it done by this artist or this one?

I don't know about the quality of the paintings, but I damn sure know which one I would rather WATCH doing the work.

(Thanks to Ruth Moran for the link to the one I do NOT care to watch.)


Two men in West Virginia stole a refrigerator from a new home. First, they banged up the walls and the ceiling moving the refrigerator out of the house. Then, when they got the refrigerator in their truck, they got stuck in the mud and decided that the refrigerator was too heavy. So, they put it back in the house, only to return to a running truck with locked doors.

More dumbassery here.


At least I'm not #1 on this search.

I'm #7. Bejus! I really need to clean up my act.


Just start at the top and keep reading. You can feel the nausea radiating from the page.

You've gotta admit, unless you're a a malignant dwarf member of the Democrat core constituency, that this posturing over Alito is a pathetic display of pure, bratty petulance. I've seen more mature behavior on day-care playgrounds. "Wah! Wah! Wah! Let's hold our breath until we turn bluuuuuuue!!!" (to match my state) What else should you expect from a movement led by Ted Kennedy and John Kerry, the Massachussets Mainstream Team?

True statesmanship. Ya gotta love it.

my kind of fun

I don't remember how or when I found Kim du Toit's blog, but I've been a regular reader for years. I hope to meet the grouchy old bastard and his darlin' wife some day. If I can time it just right, maybe he'll allow me to join in on something like this. (I need to be... well... dragged off and shot for not thinking of that golf ball idea myself. I've perforated many a deck of old playing cards, but never a sleeve of golf balls.)

My hands itched and my nostrils flared when I looked at those pictures. I would LOVE to test-fire a few of those weapons that I've never tried before. And I can SAVOR the scent of gunsmoke in the air. It smells like freedom.

Got-dam tease.

my kind of carnival

As I've mentioned before, I was born and raised for a number of my formative years in Harlan County, Kentucky, smack-dab in the armpit of the Appalatchan Mountains. I grew up with one leg longer than the other from walking sidehill all the time. People attended football games just so they could see 100 yards of flat ground. If a farmer didn't "stake" his watermelons, they would pick themselves by rolling off the hill when they were ripe.

Keep your cats and your recipes. Here is my kind of carnival.

let's try the nipple clamps next!

I'm going to make a confession here: I have played erotic tie-me-up-and-spank-me games before. I thought that they were kinda fun, too, whether I was the spanker or the spankee. In fact, since I'm in such a confessing mood, I'll also admit that I've discovered some interesting activities involving candles, Hall's Cough Drops and strawberry-flavored body oil, which you can use to... never mind. You probably get the picture if you have a filthy mind like mine.

But I've never had a partner up and die on me during a kinky adventure. I'm all for orgasms being a near death experience, but this was an instance of taking a fun thing a little too far.

Prosecutors said that 53-year-old Michael Lord suffered a heart attack in 2000 during a bondage session in a "dungeon" in Asher's condominium and that Asher did nothing to help him for five minutes for fear authorities would find out about her business.

Asher had her boyfriend chop up the body of the 275-pound retired telephone company worker, and they dumped it behind a restaurant in Maine, prosecutors said. His remains have never been found.

Sounds like a pretty, uh... cut and dried case, right? Having the guy croak on the rack is one thing, but butchering the 275-pound body and tossing the parts behind a restaurant where they might end up in somebody's cheeseburger is just plain WRONG. That's gotta be against some kind of law.

Of course, when you have "no body, no blood, no DNA," and the police have no record whatsoever of her confession, the crime is difficult to prove. I think prosecutors were beating a dead horse here.

Even though she's gonna whip the charges and walk away with an acquittal, the bad publicity is bound to put a kink in her business traffic.

the pain! the pain!

My aching ass. Somebody pass me the Preparation H.

You know what's REALLY hemorrhoidal, other than the candidate herself? She's running in California. The flying dingbat might actually have a chance to WIN in that fucking nut-bowl of a state.

After all, she's a selfless, grieving mother and everything she does is in memory of her beloved son...

January 30, 2006

something missing

I left the Crackerbox at 7:00 tonight and drove to Springfield to watch another basketball game. Quinton's team lost, 30-24. I didn't enjoy the game much, because I had some sawed-off, shitass, brat-boy kid using the bleacher seats as a playground and ME as his personal punching bag. The feral little bastard kicked me in the kidneys TWICE as he climbed and jumped the seats like a fucking monkey on meth. Before halftime, I wanted to drag him off and shoot him.

Of course, his mama was a master of discipline. "Honey, stop that," she whined. "You're bothering that man." The kid paid no attention and continued his antics. After I received my second kick in the kidneys, I wanted to drag the mama off and shoot HER, too, for raising a white trash child. I finally moved to a different seat.

Quinton didn't show up for the game tonight. He was complaining of a sore throat on Saturday, so I suppose he was too sick to play. I guess. Maybe. Probably. I don't know. By the time I got home, it was too late to call him on a school night. Past his bedtime.

It would have been nice to have someone call ME and let me know that he wasn't coming to the game before I drove all the way to Springfield to watch him play, but I don't get "nice" from his mama. I get sharp sticks in the eye from her.

Speaking of sharp sticks in the eye, my night vision is REALLY terrible. I can barely see to drive after dark anymore. I once thought the problem was having my retinas marinated in vodka all the time and a severe vitamin deficiency from seldom eating anything more nutritious than Bloody Marys, but the problem seems worse now than before I went into rehab. If the road didn't have white lines down the side, I would have driven into a ditch more than once by now. These backwoods roads where I live are DARK at night.

When I mentioned the problem during my visit with my family this past weekend, my brother's wife suggested, "Rob, you might be developing cataracts. Loss of night vision is one of the first symptoms. Have you had your eyes checked lately?"

Great. I don't have enough shit physically wrong with me already. Let's throw some cataracts in there like nuts on a sundae. I can't WAIT to see what's gonna be the cherry on top of THAT dish.

Shit. I suppose I should make an appointment with an eye doctor...

piss on that!!!

Today, rain fell this morning. It wasn't a typical South Georgia frog-strangling turd-floater rain--- just a nice drizzle, perfect for watering the grass and knocking the dust out of the air. After the rain stopped, the afternoon turned sunny and warm. When I went outside to pick a spot to put my garden, I wore nothing but a pair of cut-off blue jeans.

No shoes, no shirt, no problem. (No underwear, either, just in case you were curious.) I LOVE the weather here!

I love it even more after seeing this. Bejus! That ain't no way to live. My manly jewels shrunk up tight to my belly when I looked at those pictures. An involuntary shiver went down my spine. Snow and ice may be pretty, but it ain't what I want to see in MY yard.

I would rather have fire ants.

get my hands dirty

I planted a garden my first year at the Crackerbox and I ended up giving away almost everything I grew. I wasn't accustomed to living by myself at the time. The garden did okay, but my heart wasn't in it and I haven't done any planting since. I saw this blog and it stirred something inside me.

I want to get my hands dirty again this year.

Here in southeast Georgia, we've had a mild January with some spring-like days thrown in. The weather has fooled my grass, which already is beginning to turn green. I have buds on my azaleas. The japanese plum tree that I planted from a twig at the same time I planted my grass now is taller than I am and has buds all over it. I think it may produce fruit this year.

I've got a project for tomorrow. I'm going to see if my tiller still works. If it does, I'm gonna plow another garden. Now is the time to turn the soil and get it ready for spring planting. I'm going to ask my grandmother to teach me how to can my tomatoes, okra and beans. I'm going to pickle some cucumbers and some banana peppers. I'm going to grow some corn and freeze what I don't eat.

I'm gonna get my hands dirty again.

playing guitar

Since I am soon to become a teacher, I've been thinking a lot about how I learned to play guitar. I've never had a formal lesson in my life. I started with a Mel Bay chord book and a $19 Silvertone guitar (with a neck like a pine log, heavy-gauge Black Diamond strings and action that was pure torture). That's how I know about the "WANT TO" factor. If I learned to play on the monstrosity I started with, I had to want it bad. I DID, too.

I've played a lot of guitars lately that sell for less than $200 and play like a dream. Ask jimbo about the one I picked out for him as an emergency back-up to his Gibson. I haven't heard him complain yet. I wish that I had started on one of those decent guitars. Learning to play would have been so much easier that way. Some people say that suffering builds strong character. If that's true, I ought to have character out the wazoo from playing that Silvertone.

After I taught myself to play some chords and strum with a flat pick, I decided that I wanted to learn how to finger-pick, too. I was heavily influenced by Paul Simon and Gordon Lightfoot in those days, so I listened to what they did and tried to copy it.

I had a cheap stereo in my room and my turntable had a 16 2/3 RPM setting on it. I played 33 1/3 RPM records on the 16 2/3 setting so that I could hear the individual notes better than at actual speed. No shit--- that's how I learned to finger-pick.

I also played drums at the time in a famous Rock & Roll band called "Snake and the Reptiles." Richard English was our lead guitar player (his nickname was "Snake," hence the name of the band) and I used to watch carefully everything he played on his Fender Mustang. After band practice or after a gig, I went home and tried to copy what he did.

Later, I was lucky enough to meet some pretty good guitar players and I learned a lot from them, too. The key ingredient to the entire process was simple: I really WANTED to learn to play guitar and I worked my ass off at it.

Here is my advice for beginners:

1) Start with a decent guitar. Learning to play is difficult enough without handicapping yourself with a Chinese Torture Contraption for an instrument. You don't have to spend a ton of money to buy a good guitar today, so get one to start with.

2) Be patient. If you can't handle frustration, don't even THINK about learning to play ANY musical instrument. Remember what my daddy always told me: "If it was easy, any asshole could do it." As a baby, you crawled before you walked and you walked before you ran. It's the same process when you pick up a guitar for the first time. You didn't learn to run overnight and you won't learn to play guitar overnight, either. (Even if you DO sleep with your guitar under your bed.

3) PRACTICE!!! Taking a lesson once a week isn't enough. Play until your fingers hurt, then play some more. Repeat. Then repeat again.

4) Never be shy about sitting down to play with people who are a lot better than you are. You can learn a lot that way. Also, I've seldom met guitar players who weren't willing to help a beginner, because they remember what those days were like themselves.

5) Study music theory. I played clarinet in my school band for a couple of years and I was fortunate to have a good teacher who believed in pounding music theory into my young head. Music is downright mathematical once you understand how it's put together.

Okay, that's enough. I think I'm working on my lesson plans by blogging when I should have a guitar in my hands. I've got a "Guitar For Beginners" DVD I need to watch a few more times before I start my first class. (I'm hoping to be a GOOD teacher.) Besides, I shouldn't be giving this stuff away for free when I can get paid for doing it.

If you want to learn to play guitar, sign up for one of my classes.

too ugly to mention

Read this. I think it's racist.

So, does this prove anything? No. But it suggests, and pretty strongly. It suggests that the homicide by firearm problem is concentrated in a small, identifiable group. It suggests that homicide is heavily concentrated in the overall black demographic, and especially in young black men. And it suggests that instead of pursuing wholesale gun control laws that affect everybody, we ought to be pursuing policies that directly address that problem, because "gun control" doesn't. And it isn't a case of whites killing blacks, either. The fact is, it's blacks killing other blacks in disproportionate numbers, and it's largely restricted to urban (read "gang-related") violence.

Gasp! Better back off from saying such things. You may be accused of "profiling," and end up with Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton all over your ass. PAY NO ATTENTION TO THOSE NUMBERS!!! Just repeat after me: "Guns are the problem, guns are the problem, guns are the problem..."

What I've never understood is that we know that the majority of homicide is concentrated in a very small, easily identifiable population, {so} why are we trying to attack it by regulating guns?

Ah, grasshopper. Do not ask such foolish questions. Political correctness is the art of ignoring the obvious lest we offend delicate sensibilities. Truth can be ugly; we prefer to hear lies that make us feel good. Repeat after me: "Guns are the problem, guns are the problem, guns are the problem..."

See how easy that is? Makes you feel good all over, too, doesn't it? You have come far, grasshopper. Soon, you will be ready to go forth into the world and begin a successful career in government, where you will be venerated as a wise and compassionate lawmaker.

Now, practice THIS one, your final lesson in political correctness: "A turd is a rose, a turd is a rose, a turd is a rose..."

January 29, 2006

work, work, work

I'm about to start a new job. I seriously considered NEVER going back to work, but the idea of spending the rest of my life simply doing what I want to do when I want to do it seemed somehow unamerican to me. I should have my nose pressed firmly to some kind of grindstone to justify my existence. Idle hands are the Devil's playthings.

Besides, I need a job so that I can have my paycheck taxed heavily to provide slimeball politicians with pork money. It's my DUTY to pay for at least one girder and a few rivets on the Bridge to Nowhere.

So, I'm going to start giving beginner guitar lessons at Willy's new storefront music shop. He's got several students already lined up and I just have to teach 'em to play. Piece of cake, right?

I'll let you in on a little secret: it IS a piece of cake if someone really WANTS to learn to play guitar. Having some musical talent helps, but even THAT isn't essential; WANT TO is. You may never be the next Eric Clapton or Leo Kottke, but you CAN learn to play the guitar if you're simply willing to work at it.

A couple of years ago, Recondo 32 told me that his lovely wife, Georgia wanted a decent guitar so that she could learn to play. He asked me to find one for her. I went to see Willy and I chose a beautiful baby-blue Oscar Schmidt that played great and sounded wonderful. It LOOKED feminine, too, with that color.

I had Willy throw in a case and a guitar chord book. I split the total cost with Recondo and he gave Georgia the guitar for her birthday. Georgia immediately christened it "Gwenivere," put it in its case along with the chord book and stuck it under her bed. She evidently believed that if she slept long enough with the guitar under the bed, she would eventually absorb musical fumes right through the mattress and wake up one morning knowing how to play. Actual guitar practice was unnecessary with the Georgia Method.

Of course, actual guitar playing never resulted, either. She says it's all MY fault because I didn't give her enough instruction. I showed her how to make G, C and D chords and told her to practice. She didn't practice. My fault.

If you are not willing to practice at least 30 minutes every day, at least in the beginning, don't whine to me about wanting to learn to play guitar. You don't WANT TO. You expect it to be easy when it ain't and you're not willing to expend the MINIMUM amount of energy it takes to learn. I can't help you.

Making guitar chords is an unnatural act for your hand. You have to TRAIN your fingers to go where they are supposed to go. You have to build up some unused muscles and develop some callouses on your fingers. You have to learn to finger the strings WITHOUT looking at your fingers.

Every bit of that shit takes Time, Patience and Practice. I believe that ANYBODY can do it, because I've known several tin-eared spastics who did. They were so fricking tone-deaf that they couldn't TUNE their guitars, but they still learned to play 'em. They were willing to dedicate the TP&P necessary.

I intend to explain that simple truth to my students on the first day I start. If they've got the WANT TO, I can teach them to play. But if they don't.... I ain't giving any guarantees.

I'll just take their money and run.

Makes me sad

I went to visit my 94 year-old grandmother today. A few weeks ago, she had an operation on her eyes to try to stop the process of macular degeration that is stealing her vision. The operation didn't do any good.

Got-dammit, that just ain't right.

Mommie will be 95 on May 23rd (she and my brother share the same birthday) and even though she is old and frail, she still motors around pretty good on her own and she's still sharp as a tack upstairs. But she's no longer able to work crossword puzzles, read her large-print magazines or watch her "stories" (soap operas) on television anymore. She told me that she has only two blurred pinpoints of vision now and everything outside of those pinpoints is black.

Even the pinpoints will go black eventually. That really sucks.

I keep telling myself that Mommie is a lucky woman. She has lived a long life already, raised fine sons and daughters and is loved deeply by many people, including ME. She's still able to live on her own, in her own home and sleep in her own bed. She's not alone--- she has family to do whatever she can't. Everybody should be so fortunate.

But dammit, she's going blind. That's a cruel twist of fate for a woman so filled with light.

It makes me sad.

it's official: I am a whore

See the "Sponsored Ads" over on the sidebar? Go click those links and buy something, because I'm gonna get PAID for those ads. Make my sponsor filthy rich and maybe some of the loot will trickle down to ME. Have your credit card ready in your left hand while you click with your right--- or vice-versa if you're left-handed.

Do it For The Children.

Thanks to the lovely and talented chablis for turning me out on the street in my high heels and hot pants.

a milestone

I just thought I would mention it. Today makes 100 days without a drink of alcohol. I'm in triple digits now.

My goal is to make it 101 tomorrow.


I don't like these numbers. I hope something else is going on to elevate those test scores. (A LOT of things other than cancer can do that. Trust me. Between the reading I've done and having the cancer myself, I know a lot more about the subject than I ever wanted to.) At least he took the necessary and VERY unpleasant step to know something certain when the biopsy is analyzed.

Donnie, please forgive me for this, but I simply cannot resist: I'll bet you ain't feeling so "Cadallic Tight" in a certain part of your anatomy after THAT experience. I'm looking forward to reading the gory details. If it makes you feel any better, big guy, I've been there and done that. Still don't shit right, either.

Okay, enough levity. I wish you the best of luck, my friend. But even if the biopsy results are NOT good, it ain't the end of the world if you caught the problem in time. It's just one more hill for a climber and you can handle it.

But I hope you don't have to. I'm sending positive waves in your direction.

fooled me

When I was in rehab, one of my fellow inmates was a woman who spoke with the most nasal, irritating, Brooklynesque accent I ever heard. When she told me that she was from New Orleans, I almost called her a liar to her face. NOBODY down South talks the way she did. She may have LIVED in New Orleans for a while, but that accent was pure New York yankee. She wasn't about to fool THIS Cracker with that shit about New Orleans.

If I ever see her again, I'm going to apologize for my unkind thoughts. I believe I was mistaken about her.

I was fortunate enough to have phone sex talk to this woman on the phone and she demonstrated a TRUE New Orleans accent for me. My jaw dropped when I heard it. She sounded EXACTLY like the woman in rehab!!!

Thank Bejus she doesn't speak that way all the time, because the accent still grates like broken glass on my Southern ears. Still, I learned something new that night. People from a certain area of New Orleans sound exactly like got-dam yankees from New York City when they talk. How the hell did THAT ever happen?

Heh. I see that she now blames that phone call on an attack of nitrogen narcosis ("Rapture of the Deep"). I call bullshit on that idea. She just wanted to hear the dulcet tone of my voice and fantasize about seeing me nekkid.

Heh, again. I have a picture of me in Key West that I might send her...

quote of the day

"We grew up with two things pounded into our brains from the day we were born. One is, God loves ya and he's gonna send ya to hell. The other is that sex is dirty and evil and nasty and filthy and sinful and bad and awful and you should save it for the one you love. So it's no wonder we were all schizoid maniacs." --Butch Hancock

I shamelessly lifted that quote from here, because it explains my attitude about a lot of things. I believe that I think too much, because I have trouble swallowing "conventional wisdom" when it doesn't make any sense to me. I know that I'm supposed to mindlessly accept certain concepts just because "smart" people do, but some of that stuff sticks in my craw and refuses to go down.

A few years ago, I watched some kind of environmental demonstration on the local news. The Gaia-worshipping, save-the-planet crowd staged a walk down a nature trail on Skidaway Island, supposedly to bathe themselves in the holy glow found in pristine, fragile, delicate ecosystems that swinely Man was bound to destroy if he weren't stopped NOW.

The dedicated tree-huggers arrived on Skidaway Island in gas-guzzling, air conditioned SUVs and smeared themselves with mosquito repellant before they began their walk down an asphalt-paved path in their sweatshop-manufactured Nike shoes. Watching this affair, I was confused. If those people were so got-damn concerned about the environment, why didn't they walk or ride bicycles instead of DRIVING to the demonstration?

Aren't mosquitos part of nature? If you really appreciate the glories of a pristine planet, ditch the Deet and give some blood. If you pick up a case of West Nile Virus or encephalitus, it's only natural. And what's up with the designer shoes and the petroleum-based, asphalt walking path? What a waste of our precious natural resources! Go BAREFOOT and get off the pavement if you really want to commune with Gaia. Digging sand spurs and briars out of your feet is a FINE way to become one with the natural environment. While you're appreciating the planet, get rid of that bottled water in the plastic, never-decay containers and go suck out of that natural mud puddle in yonder delicate wetlands.

Walk the walk if you're gonna talk the talk. Don't act like a schizoid maniac. Otherwise, I might conclude that only one thing really is natural about you.

You are naturally full of shit.

play fair

I don't see why the police arrested this guy. He's ALLERGIC to cats! Cat dander is TOXIC! That cat was KILLING him! He was totally justified in doing something incredibly stupid to PROTECT HIS HEALTH!!!

The guy's logic is as good as anything anti-smokers offer for their flights of assininity. All that's missing in this case is some lame, sanctimonious drivel about how he did it "for the children."

Dumbass. He would get more sympathy if he shot a smoker.

January 28, 2006

quote of the day

"It's okay to fling poo at people from below, but it's bad form to pour it on them from above."--- steve H.

I think that's the real reason I despise nanny government so much. I don't like having poo poured on my head from above, especially when those doing the pouring are full of shit themselves.

friends and lovers

My track record doesn't suggest that I am the ideal person to ask for advice concerning affairs of the heart. If I were an expert on that shit, I'd still be married instead of divorced. Twice.

Some people say that the quickest way to ruin a good friendship with a member of the opposite sex is to go to bed together. When you have sex, the friendship gets all tangled up in ideas of love, jealousy, possession, guilt and obligation. When that happens, the friendship disintergrates, battered to pieces by the waves of misguided emotion.

Maybe so. But NOT always. I know "friendly" sex is possible, because I've had it before, and I remain friends with most of those wimmen today. In the past, we managed to sport ourselves senseless without starting to love or hate each other. The sex was GREAT, too.

So... what would YOU advise in this situation:

A year ago I met a girl (she's 26 and I'm 24) who I really like. We started out as friends, of course, and then we started having sex. I thought for a while that I loved her but I soon realized that I never could because some of our values are different. She has told me she has always known that we could never be married. Nevertheless, we still get along well and we e-mail and call each other frequently. (By the way - we've always had a long distance relationship.)

Now I've got plane tickets to visit her. The last two times we've seen each other before we've just been lovers, each knowing that we can't make something more of it. She told me last week that she is now dating someone and "I should know that before I visit."

She did not elaborate. The guy she's dating lives over an hour from
her, and if you were familiar with her job, you'd realize this precludes her from visiting him often. Also, she could not have known this guy for more than a month. So the question I'm left with is how 'together' she and he are. I still want to be her friend (really, I do), but she's also my only source of sex at the moment. I can't help being a man. It is entirely possible that I can be her lover for the weekend, but I don't want to lose a friendship by only seeming interested in sex.

What should I do?

I wrote the guy back and told him what I would do, given his circumstances. What do you think I told him? What would YOU have advised?

cuts right to the chase

Here is the best self-help book I ever read. So true, so true...

I know a LOT of people who need to follow that sound advice. Myself included.

got an opinion?

I saw this post and wondered why I felt the way I did when I looked at the pictures there. ONE of those pictures turned me on. The OTHER ONE gave me a case of the galloping fantods. I'm still wondering why.

I think I'm a sexually uninhibited person and I certainly don't hold any special animosity for homosexuals. (Except for when they display that outrageous in-your-face shit I often see in Gay Pride parades--- and that's more my reaction to insulting, undignified, rude public behavior than it is a reaction to homosexuality.) I believe in "live and let live," "different strokes for different folks" and "whatever blows your dress up." I believe in freedom.

I don't see anything inherently wrong or immoral about homosexuality. Hell, my own daughter is a lesbian. She's not ashamed of that fact and neither am I. I would MUCH RATHER see her with Stacey, the female partner she loves, than with some shitass guy who mistreated her. (I'd KILL that sumbitch!) In MY humble opinion, Samantha and Stacey make a damn good team and Sam has benefitted a great deal from that relationship. I'm happy about it.

But seeing two GUYS play tongue-tag and sexual grab-ass just makes me feel.... ICKY. It's like sticking my hand in a paper bag expecting to find candy and touching something wet and slimy instead. I experience a powerful "EWWWWWWW" reaction.

Why do I react that way? Watching two WIMMEN go at each other certainly doesn't produce the same effect. In fact, THAT scene gets me all hot and horny. I want to jump right in and join the mix, maybe even choreograph some really perverted randy-dancing for the group.

But two GUYS? Sorry... I don't want to dance. I want to run.

Do YOU have that same visceral reaction?

the goat

I watched Quinton play another basketball game last night and in the end, I walked away hurting for my boy. Bejus. I really wanted to talk to him after that game, but he hauled ass with the BC and her next victim just as soon as the ritual line-up-and-shake-hands-with-the-other-team act of good sportsmanship was completed.

The game was a thriller between two evenly matched teams, which kept the score close all the way. With 30 seconds remaining on the clock, Quinton's team had the ball out of bounds at mid-court with the score tied 32-32.

Quinton handles all of the inbounds passing for his team. He's usually pretty good at finding the open man and delivering a good pass, too. Last night, as the referee handed Quinton the ball, the gym was packed, the crowd was screaming, the other team was swarming on defense and I was so excited that I almost pissed my pants right there in the stands. It was a tense, noisy, pressure-packed moment, with the game on the line and the ball in my boy's hands.

Quinton looked off a defender with a good ball fake, then threw a perfect pass to an open man. I saw it before I heard the whistle. I cringed.

Quinton had his foot on the sideline when he threw the ball.
He turned possession over to the other team.

They inbounded the ball and Quinton, probably trying desperately to make up for his mistake, FOULED his man while attempting a clumsy steal. The kid went to the free-throw line and swished two in a row. End of story. Quinton's team lost, 34-32.

I've never before seen my boy look so dejected as he did after that game. I know it's a pissy cliche, but I felt his pain. He screwed up in a clutch situation and he knew it. He let his team down. I believe that he thought he let ME down, too. He wouldn't look up in the stands at me and he got the hell out of that gym as quickly as he could. I went outside to look for him, but he was long gone.

Just damn!

I wanted my Ward Cleaver moment with him. I wanted to put my arm around his shoulder and tell him that it was okay. Everybody makes mistakes. Chalk this one up as a hard lesson learned. I'll bet you won't ever do THAT again, will you? You'll watch where your feet are next time, right?

See? Good players get BETTER from making mistakes. Those kinds of lessons stick with you. Now shake it off. That's all blood under the bridge. You still played a good game.

That once was my job. I want it back.

(UPDATE: I wrote the above last night but didn't post it. Quinton played another game this morning. His team won big, 36-24, so I believe that all is well...)

January 27, 2006

my brother

I don't write much about my brother here, because he is a lawyer and I'm afraid that he might sue me. I am even MORE afraid that he might WIN, because he's a GOOD lawyer. He's two years younger than I am, smarter than I am (He's been married to the same woman for more than 25 years) and he's in one hell of a lot better physical shape.

He also has been diabetic all his life.

I read this post, and I had to agree with the writer. From what I've seen myself, many diabetics DO NOT take care of themselves and the disease causes a LOT of problems. Whose fault is that?

My brother does not smoke, drinks very little alcohol, lifts weights, jogs regularly and sticks to a healthy diet. He's a very DISCIPLINED guy, unlike his self-indulgent, blogging brother. He's been doing the same things for years and he's hale as a horse, the shitass. I'm just happy that he doesn't want revenge for all the times I whupped his ass when we were young'uns. I think he could beat me like a drum now.

But he won't 'cause he LOVES me, thank Bejus.

As little brothers go, he's a good 'un, even if he IS a lawyer.


If you Google "computer fucktard," guess who is the #1 hit?

Yep... it's ME, and I deserve that rank. I am a got-dam blithering ignoramus, dumb as a red brick and fucked up as a football bat when it comes to ANYTHING on a computer that's more complicated than turning the bastard on. I am a techno-ass. I am a poet, not a programmer.

If you go back and read my very early archives, you'll learn that I paid a 15 year-old kid named Scott, the son of my friend Steve Hamby, $100 to teach me how to make a link, how to put up a blogroll and how to install a hit counter on my site. I had been blogging for about a month at the time, without knowing how to link to ANYTHING. Later, this woman showed me how to do italics, strikes and block quotes. That all happened about four years ago.

I haven't progressed much since.

Somebody told me that the files are ready for the ads I want to run on my page. The files are INSTALLED on my page setup, too. I don't understand how he KNOWS that, because I can't find the shittin' files ANYWHERE and HE shouldn't be able to get into where they ought to be stored.

Even if I COULD find the damn things, I have no clue how to make the ad show on my page. I'm about to blow a wonderful opportunity to MAKE SOME MONEY from blogging, because I am one more temper tantrum away from saying "FUCK THIS!!!!" and ditching the whole idea.

I need some help. I need somebody wise and computer literate, with sympathy for an idiot, who can tell me what to do. Hell, if you WANT TO, I'll even give you the keys to my house and let you do it yourself. Leave it up to me and I'll NEVER get the pissfuckshitgoddambitchass ads up and I'll probably end up deleting my entire blog trying.

I need some help!


My daughter is blogging again.

Well.... sorta.

Sam will be 23 years old next Monday. She was born on a Superbowl Sunday (the Washington Redskins beat the Miami Dolphins that day) under a full moon, which made her a SUPER "moon-baby."

Go wish her a happy birthday.

more fan mail

This hurts. This really hurts.

obviously u have a hectic busy life if u have time to post stupid shit like this look at u ur a nigger who writes derrogatory things like this on the internet where are u from u dumb fuck ur ancestors didnt originate in america did they? no one is from america that is y this country is unique. whte people are just as fuckin bad as anyone fucking else who are the serial muderers and the serial rapist, and who bomb fucking buildings.....white people so u need to just shut the fuck up oh....please email me back

Sorry, darlin.' I ain't writing you back. My scribing skills are too weak to compete with your sheer brilliance. Besides, I have no idea which post "ur" talking about.

I'll bet you that the missive came from a member of the Democrat base. They are such a loving, compassionate bunch.


Does this pistol target make my ass look fat me look like a racist? Bejus.

Here's my Quote of the Day:

"It never was a big issue or a big debate," said Tampa police spokeswoman Laura McElroy, whose agency switched to blue silhouette targets from black ones two years ago. "Nowadays, you can never be too sensitive, and we felt that it was the right direction to go."

Nope, you can NEVER be too sensitive anymore. I think we should get rid of red stop signs, too, because they send a subliminal racist message that is degrading to Native Americans. What about those yellow lines on the highway? Or having the President live in a building called "The White House?"

Racism is EVERYWHERE!!!!

(thanks to Maggie for the link!)

my readers

Some people must really hate me. They send me crap like this. How cute. How very fucking CUTE.

I think that link demonstrates just how screwed-up cat lovers are.

Note to Ken Kemper, who emailed me that vile film footage: No, I WAS NOT operating the camera (even though that kitchen table looks a LOT like mine).


I've always maintained that honesty isn't always the best policy, especially in dealing with the opposite sex. I'm not talking about BIG lies, such as having an affair or posting nekkid pictures of your mate on the internet and denying that you did it. I'm talking about little white lies, the oils that lubricate a happy relationship.

Guys, NEVER tell HER that the new dress she likes makes her ass look fat, even if it does. She doesn't want to hear that ego-crushing shit, so LIE about it. Tell her that seeing her in that dress makes you horny. DO NOT tell her that EVERYTHING makes you horny.

Gals, NEVER tell a guy that he has a little dick, even if he does. He doesn't want to hear that ego-crushing shit, so LIE about it. Tell him that he's a regular Conan in the sack and that if he were any bigger, you're not sure that you could take it. Tell him that he makes you horny. DO NOT tell him that you've seen bigger peckers on bluebirds.

That's what I call "situation ethics" and you should look at The Big Picture before you open your mouth and blurt out a hurtful truth. Besides, if you love somebody, you're supposed to make 'em feel good whenever you can. If little white lies work, use them.

But I don't believe in keeping a lot of secrets, either. I read this crap and decided that I wouldn't WANT a partner that I had to fool ALL the time, especially about the stuff on that list.

In MY humble opinion, most of the "Never Tell Her" list is petty and childish, things that only a hormonally-driven, jealous-minded, overly-sensitive, hissy-pitching dingbat would care about in the first place. It's soap-opera crap.

Hmmm.... now that I think about it, maybe you SHOULDN'T tell HER...

January 26, 2006

bad move.

Oh. My. Gawd.

I may not sleep well tonight. I read this post and clicked on the link he provided. The bastard!

My eyes feel full of broken glass.

beautiful day

My friend with the .22 Ruger Mark II target pistol (that he took apart and couldn't put back together) finally got off his dead ass and took it to Mack's Gun Shop. I know that several people who read this blog saw that very pistol in its damaged condition at the catfish blog meet and low-country boil extravaganza earlier this month. In fact, this guy even handled the gun and speculated that a bent recoil spring might be the problem.

Guess what? The problem was a bent recoil spring that wouldn't allow the bolt to slide back into the receiver without hanging up. A new spring cost $5. The gunsmith charged $30 for labor. My friend was DELIGHTED to have his pistol back in working condition for that price. (He also had the gunsmith take the pistol apart and put it back together TWICE while my friend watched, to ensure that he didn't fuck it up again the next time he cleaned it. According to my friend, that pistol is a bitch to reassemble even in the hands of an expert.)

My friend also bought ten life-sized silouette targets and took them down to Catfish Manor today to test-fire the pistol a few times. I didn't go because I am afraid of guns and I'm not supposed to touch them under threat of being sent to jail, so I don't go anywhere around guns. Ever. Honest.

My friend also took along a lever-action Marlin 30-30 rifle, his old Marlin semi-auto .22 rifle (that hadn't been fired in years) and a single-shot .410 shotgun. Catfish brought out a few weapons of his own and the two good ole boys put a nice haze of gunsmoke in the air at Cat's backyard shooting range.

They were interrupted once when a sheriff's deputy pulled up in the back yard. He climbed out of his cruiser and explained that he was investigating a complaint from one of Cat's neighbors. His heart didn't seem to be in what he was doing, especially after he saw the range setup and observed that nobody was drinking alcohol. Hell, we they could hear SOMEBODY ELSE shooting off in the distance.

"Nice place you've got here," the deputy finally said. "Y'all have fun." He climbed back in his car and drove away.

Cat's darlin' wife, Nancy, came out to check on us them after she saw the deputy leave with no prisoners on board. The deputy had knocked on the front door and asked her if she knew the people shooting in her back yard before he came to investigate Cat and my friend. Nancy told him, "Hell, no! Never saw 'em before in my life! Go arrest BOTH of 'em!"

Okay, I made up that last part. Nancy didn't actually say that. She confessed to knowing both shooters and even admitted to being married to one of them, which must have shamed her deeply. She ended up blasting away at one of the silouette targets herself.

According to my friend, you DO NOT want to make Nancy angry when she has a gun in her hand. She put a couple of .22 rounds right through the crotchital area of a silouette and had a gleeful look on her face when she did it. (Catfish had better be nice to her if he doesn't want to end up singing soprano in a castrati choir some day.)

The weather was warm and sunny with a refreshing breeze blowing off the marsh. The gunsmoke smelled good. The repaired Ruger shot as fine as it ever did. (My friend stood at 30 feet and rapid-fired nine out of nine in the head area of a silouette target.)

It was a beautiful day.

twenty more years

I don't know if I want to last this long. That test says I'm going to live to be 74 years old, even with all the bad habits I have. I may have quit drinking alcohol (today is Day 97), but I STILL have plenty of bad habits left.

Bejus! I FEEL like a septuagenarian already. I don't think I can stand another 16 years of going further downhill.

a two-holer

When I lived in the coal mining camp, I knew that my family was high-class in the community. First, we lived on Front Row, right next to the highway, which was about as elite as you could get without having a House on the Hill over across the railroad tracks. That's where true Tall Dogs of coal-mining society lived.

Second, we had a family two-holer outhouse. It had one big hole for adults, and another big hole with a board nailed across it "for the children." That board blocked just enough of the hole to ensure that no little ass could fall through while doing a #2 out there. (It was an early form of child-proofing a hazard. Simple, but effective.)

I suppose that everything old is indeed new again. I just can't figure out where they're gonna put that board on this one.


I really had trouble blogging yesterday. My biorhythms must have been at the bottom of some kind of sine wave because I felt dull and fucktardly all day. Trying to write was like passing a kidney stone. It hurt.

For a terrible moment, I thought I was suffering from BLOGGER BURNOUT. I see a lot of that malaise spreading like a flu around blogdom now, and I don't want to become infected. I still LIKE blogging.

And I don't like seeing people quit.

the year of the cat

I hate cats, but I do not condone cruelty to animals. Even cats. I may pop a cat in the ass with a shot from a pellet rifle to keep it from raiding a bird's nest, but I draw the line at setting a cat on fire.

That's a mean, stupid thing to do. The flames may spread and burn up something else...

Still, I think that a year in jail is a pretty stiff sentence for combusting a cat. Send that guy to jail and he'll just hang around hard-core cat-burners and learn all their professional tricks of the trade. He'll be even WORSE when he gets out.

Naw, give him community service--- say a year emptying stinking litter boxes at the animal shelter. That way, he can gain respect for how sweet and adorable cats are just before they are euthanized by the hundreds because their owners allowed them to run wild, fighting and fucking at night and raiding bird's nests during the day.

That'll teach him.


I keep my comments open because I enjoy reading them and I think that other people do, too. Some of my readers post real gems in there. I'll delete or "edit" (read--- totally change) the occasional piece of troll shit that lands in my yard, but for the most part I let assholes play, too. I'm just a big-hearted guy.

I can understand why other people don't have comments, especially the really Tall Dog bloggers, but I don't believe that I face the kind of risk they seek to aviod. Hell, I would LOVE to have some big-ass link attributing a lame comment to ME. Traffic is traffic and I don't care how I get it.

Scribing a post about how "I DIDN'T WRITE THAT!" makes good blog fodder, especially when replying to a link from The Washington Post. I could stand that kind of grief.

Besides, the worst troll I have is less vile, vituperous and vitriolic than the typical commenter on lefty sites. That's one reason I seldom visit those places. I don't like getting spittle flecks on my reading glasses.

So, my comments are open. Have at 'em.

January 25, 2006

out of ideas

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Acidman!

  1. Acidman will become gaseous if his temperature rises above -42°C.
  2. The book of Esther in the Bible is the only book which does not mention Acidman.
  3. In the kingdom of Bhutan, all citizens officially become Acidman on New Year's Day.
  4. Acidman is the only king without a moustache on the standard pack of cards.
  5. While sleeping, fifteen percent of men snore, and ten percent grind their Acidman.
  6. When provoked, Acidman will swivel the tip of his abdomen and shoot a jet of boiling chemicals at his attacker.
  7. Acidman is the world's tallest woman.
  8. The word 'samba' means 'to rub Acidman'.
  9. In 1982 Time Magazine named Acidman its 'Man of the Year'.
  10. Pound for pound, hamburgers cost more than Acidman.
I am interested in - do tell me about

I wanted to write a brilliant post here, but I'm posting another quiz instead. I'm out of good ideas.

(Bad idea for the quiz shamelessly stolen from here.)

the democrat base

hnc33 (Small).jpg

I just had to. I saw Al Franken on television today.

And I read this.

And this.

more wal-mart

Hey! I think I said this yesterday.

On the home front, Fishman argues that critics are wrong when they say that Wal-Mart puts little people out of business. We (consumers) put little people out of business, he says. We vote with our wallets, and we're the ones who choose Wal-Mart over local stores. Wal-Mart, in that sense, is the ultimate model of democracy.

That's why leftists and big-government types hate Wal-Mart so much. Wal-Mart is just another example of why the unwashed masses should NOT be allowed to make their own choices. The unwashed have an annoying tendency to make the "wrong" choice (which is anything the left doesn't agree with) without proper guidance, and therefore government should tell the ignorant masses what to do. That's the textbook definition of "compassion" in the Leftist Handbook today.

Salmon in Chile are raised in packed underwater pens - as many as 1 million per farm - and fed prophylactic antibiotics to prevent disease. Here's a fact you'd rather not know: A million salmon produce the same amount of waste as 65,000 people. Combine that waste with unconsumed food and antibiotic residue, and you've got a toxic seabed.

See? Wal-Mart is DESTROYING THE OCEAN!!! THEY MUST BE STOPPED OR WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!! I doubt that closing every Wal-Mart store in the world would end salmon farming in Chile, but that fact is beside the point. Wal-Mart is a monster. Grab your pitchfork, light a torch and storm the castle before it's too late.

Just don't whine about the cost of salmon after you burn down the castle.


This pithy observation came from JB in my comments when I wrote about Cindy Sheehan: "Few folks have the courage the demonstrate their total ignorance forcefully and with full dedication . . ."

Of course, JB was defending Cindy and attacking someone else, but his little barb describes Cindy perfectly. Except for the "courage" part. A crazed, self-aggrandizing moonbat doesn't need courage to shout "HEY! Look at ME!" All she needs are a few cameras focused on HER and an adoring press stroking her monsterous ego. In MY humble opinion, Cindy Sheehan is a complete waste of skin and an insult to her son's memory.

What the hell does the war in Iraq have to do with this?

another internet quiz

I'm a Honda S2000!

You live on the edge, and you live for the adrenaline rush. You don't need luxuries, snob appeal, or superfluous gadgets. You put your top down, get your motor revving, and take all the curves that life throws at you at full speed. So what if you spin out occasionally?

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

I'm a fucking Japanese car.

I'm probably one of the few people left in the USA who can truthfully say that I've never owned a foreign car, at least not one with an obvious foreign label on it. I knew that something was wrong years ago, when I had to break out the metric wrenches to work on my 1982 Camaro, but it was a got-dam Chevy just the same, no matter where the parts came from.

I wonder when Wal-Mart is gonna start selling cars?


Get ready, 'cause here it comes.

In the next couple of days, I'll be putting paid advertisments on my blog. Yes, I'm going to whore for the almighty dollar. At least I'm going to TRY to whore for it. Hell, I'll probably screw up attempting to install the ads and find some way to LOSE money on the deal. I'm a computer fucktard and a lousy businessman.

When I quit working at the chemical plant, I walked away with some stock and some stock options. The stock was given to me as a bonus for outstanding job performance. (Don't let this blog fool you. I really WAS good at my job.) I became fully vested in all of that loot this past December.

I exercised my options when Kerr-McGee stock hit $84 a share and the options were $42 per share. That price was DOUBLE the cost of the options. Can't do much better than THAT, right? Wrong. The stock continued to rise, so I sold the shares I owned outright when the price hit $95 per share after the first of the year. I made a KILLING, right? And cleverly spread the income over two tax years, too. Was I smart, or what?

No, I wasn't smart. I made a stupid move. The stock closed at $106 per share yesterday. That's more than $20 higher than when I exercised my options and $11 higher than when I sold the shares I owned outright. I figure that my shrewd business decision cost me one hell of a lot of money. (I'm talking more than 300 shares total here. You do the math.)

Oh, well. I never paid anything for the stock to begin with and "a bird in the hand" is better than blah, blah, blah... bullshit. I need to be dragged off and shot. Dumbass.

So, I'm putting ads on my site. I'm not sure how I can screw this idea up, but money is involved, so I probably can find a way.

January 24, 2006

the mini farm

photos 019 (WinCE).jpg

Here's a picture of an alpaca standing in what once was my yard. You can see the chicken coop and the barn off to the right, and the beach-house-in-the-woods manor directly behind the alpaca. That fence is made of vinyl and it never needs painting--- but it's an all-day job to pressure-wash it.

I believe that I liked that place better than anywhere else I've ever lived. I had 5.5 acres of land, goats and chickens, a 1/2 acre garden and good neighbors. What more could you ask for?

I miss it.

they got beat

Quinton played another basketball game tonight. This time, the boys faced an undefeated opponent, the #1 team in the league, and a 22-point victor the last time the two teams played. Quinton told me that he expected his team to get slaughtered again.

I did, too, when I saw the other team warming up. Bejus! Some of those boys were taller than I am. Maybe that's not saying much, because nobody ever called ME "stretch" in my life, but these kids were 12 years old, for crying out loud. A couple of the boys appeared to be pushing six feet in height and EVERYBODY was AT LEAST as tall as the only "big man" on Quinton's team.

Quinton's team lost, 23-18, but I've never been more proud of a bunch of kids in my life. Quinton's team LED by two points at the half and kept it close all the way until the final minute, when they started fouling deliberately and the other team didn't miss a free throw.

Talk about a SWARMING defense? Quinton's team reminded me of a bunch of sand gnats pestering a big horse. Full-court pressing the entire game and hustling their asses off, they totally confused the tall team's offense and kept them constantly off-balance. For once, Quinton's coach actually looked like he knew what he was doing.

Quinton scored two points, but also had three shots rejected right back in his face by the tall guys under the basket. Bejus! That had to be like trying to shoot through the limbs of a live oak tree.

If I sound a little excited, that's because I am. There's no such thing as a "good" loss, but those boys gave a fine account of themselves tonight. I think it's an American trait to root for the underdog in a game like that one, and it's thrilling when the underdogs show some bite. They almost pulled off an unbelievable upset.

I'm proud of 'em all.

i am a heartless bastard

I confess: I shop a LOT at Wal-Mart.

Wal-Mart has a nice Superstore just a few miles from my house and I frequently go there for all kinds of stuff. My computer came from Wal-Mart. So did my lawn mower, most of my clothes, my small appliances, my towels, my kitchen utensils and even my toilet paper. If Wal-Mart sold guitars, I probably would buy my next one there if my friend Willy couldn't beat the price.

It's all about how much money it costs ME. I don't care how many Mom & Pop businesses I drive into bankruptcy by shopping at Wal-Mart. I don't give a shit how many jobs disappear here and end up in China, either, as long I as get a good deal on crew socks. I'm just a selfish bastard.

So are MOST people. That's why Wal-Mart is so successful. They're a big, greedy company catering to little, greedy people. That's why I don't like all the pissing and moaning about how evil and heartless Wal-Mart is. What it all amounts to is a big leftist whine that "It ain't fair!" because Wal-Mart is the best at what it does. It sells what YOU want for the lowest price around.

If a few, or even MANY other businesses are trampled in the stampede of customers to Wal-Mart, that's just tough shit. It's called "corporate evolution." It ain't supposed to be fair."

Hell, we'd still be making buggy whips and manual typewriters if some of these anti-Wal-Mart Luddites had their way. Reality frightens them, especially when Reality starts separating winners from losers. The business world is a harsh environment, and when you run with the Tall Dogs, you'd better stay a step ahead or you'll be a step behind. Them's the sad facts.

I don't care how you "feel" about it. I don't care whether you think it's "fair" or not. It's reality; embrace it.

If you fear and loathe Wal-Mart, stop bitching about it and DO something. Stop shopping there. Go pay higher prices somewhere else for the good of society. Strike a blow for Mom & Pop. If enough people boycott the place, Wal-Mart will be FORCED to change, and we don't need government involved. The Will of the People can speak for itself.

Some might say it already has.

ethnic food

I grew up eating pinto beans, cornbread, chicken and dumplings, collard greens, fried fatback and shuck beans, with damn near everything on the stove seasoned with bacon grease. I never knew that such fare was "soul food" until blacks claimed it as ethnic cooking. (I suppose that blacks also coined the term "miner's strawberries" to describe pinto beans, but I digress...) It was just good, inexpensive, nourishing food to me. I still like it today.

I like a lot of truly ethnic food, too. Mexican is my favorite, with Chinese a close second. I am fortunate to live near Savannah, because around here you can find just about every kind of ethnic food you can imagine. I enjoy most of it, although I draw the line at sushi. I'm not gonna eat raw fish when I have delicious fresh seafood available.

According to a recent survey, italian is the most popular ethnic food in the USA. I suppose that's true if you consider pizza to be an Italian food, even though some people claim that pizza came from outer space. I don't know about counting that Chef Boyarde shit in a can or Ragu spagetti sauce, either.

Time for another reader poll: What's YOUR favorite ethnic food?

is this legit?

PayPal keeps bugging me about my account, even AFTER I changed my password. I received ANOTHER missive from them today, asking me to "confirm" my account. They (or somebody) provide a link to what LOOKS like Paypal, but I have one question.

What the hell do they need with my ATM pin number? (If I fill in my name and password, I go to a page that requires it.) I've NEVER been asked to give THAT number to anybody over the internet. Call me suspicious, but this smells bad to me, even if the page has all the official Paypal logos and shit on it. It LOOKS legit, but...

I'm going to fix this problem once and for all. I seldom use PayPal anyway. I'm going to cancel the account and be done with it.

Have any of you people ever been asked for your ATM pin number by Paypal?

January 23, 2006

I may do it

I am really tempted to write a letter, although the rules will make expressing myself the way I WANT TO difficult. I have to exercise a lot of self-discipline just to say "Cindy Sheehan" without injecting some "obscenities, vulgarity or insults" in there somewhere. I utterly despise that woman, the fucking ghoul.

See? I typed Cindy Sheehan and the F-word just popped right out before I could stop it. The pus-brained bitch woman has that effect on me.

I still think writing that letter is a good idea. You should do it, too.

itchy ass

If I sit for very long in wet clothes, the cheeks of my ass start to itch. It's a very uncomfortable feeling because it's one of those itches that gets WORSE if you scratch it. And I TRY to, even though there is no polite way to scratch your ass in public without attracting some embarassing attention, such as a bratty kid pointing and yelling, "Look, mama! That man is scratching his BUTT!"

I could never do this. How can somebody deliberately gird up in WET UNDERWEAR under a BUSINESS SUIT? The mere thought of it makes the cheeks of my ass itch. I would go commando before I would do that. (Hell--- I go commando a lot of the time anyway.)

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I just have overly-sensitive ass cheeks. Maybe I'm a victim of Wet Ass Syndrome and deserve special consideration from the government and a "handicapped" parking sticker. Maybe I need to take a survey.

Does YOUR ass itch when you sit around in wet underwear?

(UPDATE: Judging by some of my comments, some of you people have never been caught in the rain, went swimming in cut-off jeans, or experienced the kind of sweat a Jawja summer will wring out of you. You must piss your pants while you lead a very sheltered life indoors if you think THAT'S the only way you can end up sitting in wet britches. And YES--- sitting in a wet bathing suit makes my ass itch, too.)

my first job

I read this post and took a trip down Memory Lane, all the way back to My First Job. I'm not counting cutting grass, washing cars or running a paper route. I made money that way, but I never considered those real "jobs." They were more like chores for which I was paid, which was different from an actual job in my mind.

The first REAL job I worked where I drew a REAL paycheck, with taxes and FICA payments withheld, was in a fast-food restaurant called "Chip's Drive-In." I was 14 years old and I was paid 80 cents an hour. (That was pretty good money for a 14 year-old back in 1966.) I started out working a serving window and soon was promoted to Grill Cook, which boosted my pay to a whopping $1.05 an hour.

I thought I was a Tall Dog.

I learned a lot of valuable lessons on that job, things that served me well on every other job I ever had. I learned to follow a schedule, show up on time, do an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, handle a cash register and deal with customers who sometimes were complete assholes. I learned to hustle and work hard. I cooked a pretty mean hamburger, too. I still remember those days very well.

I think everybody remembers that first job. What was YOURS?

wow, indeed

I see a lot of bloggers writing "WOW!" posts about this new weapon. I'll admit that a fully-automatic 12-gauge shotgun that holds 8 to 20 rounds sounds pretty damned impressive. I just wonder how many people have enough ass to hold on to that thing when firing 20 rounds on full auto.

But that's just a minor quibble. I am certain that someone can fire 20 rounds on full auto without the recoil laying him flat on his back and sending the last few shots straight up into the sky. I'm not certain that I could do it, but somebody surely can.

I'll tell you what REALLY impresses me about this weapon. Forget the fact that it supposedly will fire a "FRAG-12 HE projectile...designed to punch a one-inch diameter hole through 1/4-inch cold rolled steel plate, have a maximum effective range of 200 meters (200m)." That's pretty damned good for a shotgun.

But THIS is even better:

This updated/product-improved AA-12 shotgun is reportedly combat-reliable under adverse conditions, built like a tank (so it's highly rugged, or "ruggedized"), and, according to MPS, Inc. company officials, requires zero cleaning or lubrication (that's right, none) (emphasis mine). DefenseReview would think that eventually the guns would have to be cleaned at some point, but none of the AA-12 prototypes have required it, yet (and we're talking about many thousands of rounds fired through all of the prototypes, so far)---

Show me ANY gun that never needs cleaning and I will hug and kiss the inventor. Some people may enjoy the ritual of disassembling a firearm, cleaning it and then putting it back together, but I don't. In fact, right now, I have a friend of mine has a .22 semi-auto target pistol in pieces on his kitchen table because he can't get the bolt to fit back into the receiver properly. (I think he fucked something up while cleaning it and is going to have to take it to Mack's Gun Shop to un-fuck whatever it was that he did.)

I'm not going to pass any judgment on the Auto Assault 12 (AA12) Combat Shotgun because I've never even SEEN one, let alone fired it. But if it's a gun I never have to clean...


blog contest

I've been nominated. Although I am flattered and honored, I voted for this guy because he wants to win and he has a Gut Rumbles bumper sticker on his truck. Besides... how can I be considered for a "Gunnie" when I don't own any guns?

Go vote for Og.

(Hmmm... I tried to leave a comment on his blog and I was rejected for "questionable content." WTF? I didn't even cuss.)

January 22, 2006

Foreign Language

When I travel to Costa Rica, I try to speak Spanish as much as I can. I am by no means fluent in the language, but I get better every time I go there. I enjoy learning new things and I believe that knowing how to speak a foreign tongue, especially Spanish, is a handy tool to have. A LOT of people speak Spanish in the USA today.

I'll probably never drive a car in New York City, but this information also might benefit me some day. (I think the part about New Jersey drivers applies all over the country, because I've damn sure seen it in Florida.) Southern drivers don't generally use their car horns a lot, so it's really a foreign language to me.

I wanna learn Hornspeak.

this is ugly

Can't we all just get along?

SO WHAT if I've had more than my fair share of blog-wars, pissing contests and flame battles. That was the OLD me. I'm a different person now. Today, if I think you're a blithering fucktard, I want to hold hands and sing Kumbahya instead of telling you to go pound sand up your silly ass. Honest. I want to feel the LOVE out there.

That's why I hate to see this. And this.

Fellows, nothing good can come from a senseless jihad against each other. You may be correct when you say that nobody is gonna give a shit, but I'm going to pretend that I DO and attempt to broker a peace agreement. Y'all please stop. Do it For The Children.

Still wanna fight? Oh, well. I tried.

My money is on McGeehee. I think he can kick Brian J's wife's ass.

got shoes?

I have seen the footwear mentioned in this post. They are a fine pair of shoes indeed, the kind I would be proud to wear just to piss between. (Or ON, which I was known to do during my drinking days.)

I think the guy who owns them has a pair of hand-made, iguana-skin thong underwear, too. I've never actually SEEN those, but he strikes me as the type to wear 'em.

my fame spreads

Heh. If you do a Bell South search for "Georgia Dry Counties," guess who is the #1 search hit?


Don't get me wrong--- I wouldn't kick any of these wimmen out of bed (unless it was to roll around on the floor, where there's more room)--- but I'm not stepping all over my tongue looking at them, either. They're too damned perfect for my tastes.

Maybe I have odd concepts about feminine beauty, but I've always found certain flaws in a woman's appearance to be attractive and downright sexy. Years ago, I had a severe case of the hots for actress karen black, after I saw her play one of the hookers in Easy Rider. Her one slightly-crossed eye made me want to jump her bones. Don't ask me why.

Hell, I think freckles are sexy, too. That's one reason I like redheads.

My point, if I have one, is that the ideals of classic womanly beauty don't always stir me to lust, or even admiration. Of course, I'm a guy who believes that feminine feet with pretty red toenails are EXTREMELY sexy, so I may just be a very bent individual. But I know what I like, and perfection isn't it.

Show me a bow-legged, cross-eyed, freckle-faced, auburn-haired woman with pretty red toenails on her one good foot and I...

Well, maybe that's going too far. I would prefer TWO good feet.

a healthy blog

People frequently ask me, "Acidman, what is the secret of a long, happy, healthy life?" I always answer the same way: "How the hell would I know? I'm fucking miserable and I only feel old. Go ask my grandmother."

I attribute my current state of robust health to the fact that for most of my adult life, I stuck with the four basic food groups: Caffiene, Nicotine, Alcohol and Cholesterol. Plus, I scoffed at the idea of "moderation" in anything I did. Moderation was for pussies; TOO MUCH was always better than NOT ENOUGH. If I couldn't OVERDO IT, I didn't see the purpose of DOING IT at all.

I once was quite athletic, but I soon realized that exercise cut into my drinking and pussy-chasing time, so I put my priorities in order and quit exercising to concentrate on more important things. That damned exercise still cost me. I was in good enough shape to catch a lot of the pussy that I chased and I married TWO of 'em.

That shit will make a man old before his time. After a couple of trips through divorce court, I realized why many homosexuals are wealthy: no blood-sucking vampires ex-wives to pay. Let 'em start getting married the way the fools want to do and you'll soon see fewer wealthy homosexuals and more wealthy divorce lawyers.

But I digress...

Don't ask ME about the secret to a long, happy, healthy life. I'm more qualified to speak of the nasty, brutish aspects and the key to burning out your mortal coil in a brilliant, smoking flash. Ask someone who knows more than I do.

Ask him.

Can't be!

I thought suggesting that men and wimmen aren't "equal" today was some sort of blasphemy, the very height of political-INcorrectness and male chauvinism. Evidently it's NOT when the issue is taking a leak.

The new push, which is quietly making its way into construction standards around the world, says restrooms should provide two to three times as many "outlets" for women as for men. In that sense, "potty parity" bills offer women more than parity: It may finally trim the long lines for women's rooms at theaters, stadiums, and highway rest stops.

"It's a good thing," says Kari Roberts of Reading, Mass., a shopper at the Prudential Center Mall in Boston. She says the wait time for restrooms "needs to be the same" for both men and women.

Bejus! "Parity" now means having two to three times as many pissers as the guys do, because the wait time "needs to be the same." That's the modern definition of "equality" if I ever saw it: just alike, except MORE for ME.

Of course, if I were a woman, I would be all for this idea. I'm a MAN and I'm STILL all for this idea. If I had to wait in line the way wimmen do to hit the can, I would have pissed all over myself in public numerous times. Hell, I HAVE pissed all over myself in public numerous times and it's embarrassing.

But don't mention "parity" to describe this idea. Have the fucking honesty to admit that men and wimmen have different plumbing, they wear different garb, and it flat-out takes a woman longer to empty her clam than it does for a man to drain his lizard.

Plus, we men don't have to daub the dew off the lily with half a roll of toilet paper, apply a fresh coat of war paint and then gossip with friends before getting out of the shitter, either. But that's all beside the point. It's a CRISIS, for crying out loud, and of COURSE lawyers and the government should respond to it.

"I'm pushing the idea of filing federal complaints, in other words, making a federal case out of potty parity," Professor Banzhaf says. He argues that to ignore potty parity "constitutes a form of sex discrimination ... and violates the constitutional tenet of equal protection."

Sure it does. It's the perfect opportunity for government to get involved in regulating the amount of time it takes everyone to pee. Why not? Government already dictates how much water we can use to flush. This is simply the next logical step.

And we can always use another law.

January 21, 2006

it's a good'un

I discovered another good blog tonight. I started reading and was impressed by the writer's jaded cynicism and bitter bile, qualities that I admire. And anybody who lists The Butterfly Effect as one of his favorite movies simply MUST be someone I would like.

Go check him out.

it's true!!

I KNOW that I am a wonderful, compassionate, caring person. this test confirms it.

Gut Rumbles is 1% EVIL and 99% GOOD! Heh. At least one paragraph from one post is. I kinda had to play around with the test for a while to get the results I wanted, but by gawd, I got 'em.

(Test stolen from here because he writes nice things about me, except for the "dragged off and shot" part.)

places I've been


I found a link to this site and decided to make the above map. I've been in 26 of the 50 United States. I hope to see 'em all before I die.

Except for Massachusetts. I don't wanna go there.

(Link to the link found here)

name that fish

I've latched on to a couple of these before. They're very tasty--- nice, tender meat. You don't usually find them in no Bikini Atoll, but if you work your rod right, it's possible. Money makes good bait.

I wish she'd get those got-dam fish out of the way.

quote of the day

"If you did your job or held up your end, and treated them with the passing respect they accorded you, you were all right." Neither dumb lugs nor proletarian saints, Ned's bowling buddies are wont to make homophobic cracks and pay an occasional visit to a strip club, but they surprise Vincent with their lack of rage and racism, their unflagging efforts to improve Ned's atrocious bowling technique and "the absolute reverence with which they spoke about their wives," one of whom is wasting away from cancer.

I found that one here and it's from a New York Times book review of Norah Vincent's Self-Made Man. (Norah "passes" as a man for a while and writes about what she learns as an insider in the masculine world.) I think the quote is very revealing.

Why should anyone be "surprised" by a "lack of rage and racism" in a group of men? Why should anyone find that men expressing "absolute reverence" for their wives a remarkable idea? It certainly couldn't be because these qualities are totally opposite the leftist, feminist, intellectual, New York Times stereotype of men today.

Nah. Couldn't be. That would smell of a sexist, bigoted mindset and everybody knows that only MEN, especially Southern men, the hairy swine, can be guilty of that sin. Bejus! The next thing you know, somebody is gonna suggest the outlandish notion that a lot of black people are racist. Be still, my heart!

Men as decent human beings. How AMAZING!

day 91

Today makes 91 days since I last took a drink of alcohol. I don't intend to drink today, either. I THINK my abstinence is getting easier--- I don't experience as many cravings as before and when they come they aren't as intense as they were in the beginning--- but I know damned well that I ain't "cured."

I once quit smoking for 11 months. I relapsed one night in a bar and was right back to my old habit in just a few weeks. One person I made friends with at Willingway Hospital backslid after ELEVEN YEARS of sobriety, so I know it can happen. If I start drinking again, I will have put myself through a whole bunch of shit and spent a LOT of money for nothing.

Plus, I'll probably be as dead as Dillinger's dick within a year. I don't want that to happen.

I see that two fellow bloggers are trying to quit the insidious cigarette habit and I wish them both the best of luck, with a few words of warning. Don't do what I did when I quit smoking.

I went from my usual fighting weight of 165 pounds to a whopping 205 pounds in 11 months.

Talk about Fido's ass! I resembled the Michelin Tire Man. Or maybe the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Any of you readers who have met me know that I don't have the frame to tote 205 pounds without looking... well... FAT! I did, too. And I damned sure didn't feel "healthy" lugging all of that lard around with me. I never did grow the ass I've never had, but my waist expanded from size 30 pants to a size 36 and THOSE were tight. I developed a severe case of "Dunlap's Disease."

When I sat, I could look down and see that my belly Dunlapped over my package. That's a problem because things don't grow well in the shade.

So, I wish you ladies the best of luck, but be careful that you don't just trade one problem for another.

January 20, 2006

"street value"

"Street Value" is another example of the pure bullshit that has crept into our language today. The term ranks right up there with "assault rifle" and "hate crime" as word abuse. (Don't even get me started on the misuse of the word "gender.") Go read this post.

A federal search warrant affidavit alleges the operation took in an estimated $5 million in three years, until federal and state authorities, tipped by a confidential informant, raided the farm on Nov. 9. They confiscated nearly 800 marijuana plants, with an estimated street value of $3 million, according to the affidavit.

Gag me. Even if you take the story as absolute gospel about the "street value" of "nearly" 800 pot plants (which I DON'T), you still have the government spending $5,000,000, plus three years worth of state and federal law enforcement time to make this bust. I don't think I would brag about it.

If you do the math (I don't do math--- I was an English Major), you'll discover an average "street value" of $3,750 for each plant at "at all levels of maturation," grown in a 1000 square-foot (32' X 32' is 1024 square feet) area, with each plant having 1.25 square feet of space in which to grow and yielding 0.84 pounds of reefer picked and dried. That's one hell of an efficient farming operation.

It's also unbelievable.

I want to invent a new word. I want a word that means "Bullshit description used to make something sound like something it ain't, usually for the purpose of justifying something stupid." I was thinking of a word such as "balderwhomp" or "fuggdacity."

Got any suggestions?

Another One

I really hate to read this. I've "known" Steve in a blogging sense for at least three years now and I always enjoyed his writing. In fact, I once dubbed Ravenwood's Universe "The Best Unheard-Of Blog Out There." (Soon after I wrote that, he became semi-popular and I had to strip him of his title.)

Gonna miss you, big guy. I hope you change your mind.

i am ashamed

I am the #1 Google search hit for this. Bejus. I'm glad my mama never lived to see that.

Until now, if you asked me if I EVER blogged about "500 pound black pussy," I would have denied it. I can't anymore. Google doesn't lie.

I am soooooo ashamed!

now i've heard it all

Now the threat is REALLY serious. Global warming is racist.

Sheesh. What ISN'T anymore?

another victory

I watched Quinton play basketball again last night. His team won, 32-24. The game was a lot closer than the score indicates--- it was a see-saw battle right up until the last few minutes. Quinton played very well. He scored three points, had a couple of steals on defense and made six excellent assists on offense.

I also saw something that made me chuckle, but still sent chills down my spine. The other team missed a shot, one of Quinton's teammates got the rebound and dished it out to an open player near the baseline. Everybody else started breaking downcourt except the kid with the ball.


Yep. The confused little turd went from elation to dejection in the blink of an eye. He scored a basket for the OTHER TEAM. For a minute, I thought he might slink off the court to find a private place to cry, but he pulled himself together and continued to play.

I felt bad for the kid because I always had a horror of doing the same thing myself in a basketball game. I was sitting behind the scorer's table at the time, where an ex-neighbor of mine was keeping the books. I said, "Man, I feel sorry for that boy."

Chris, the scorekeeper, replied. "Yeah. Me, too. What's REALLY bad is that this is the first time he's scored all year."

Bejus! The humanity.

i'll take one of each

I like these tee shirts.

January 19, 2006


I never thought I would say such an outlandish thing, but it's true. Sometimes, I miss working at the chemical plant. It's been more than two years now since I last passed through the hallowed portal of the Front Gate the way I did for 23 years, and I often wax nostalgic about the place. I spent a large chunk of my life there and I'll always remember it.

One thing I certainly DO NOT miss about working at the chemical plant is REORGANIZATION: The Cutting Edge Trend of the Moment striking rapture among corporate potentates and hanging the Sword of Damoclese over my head. During my last 10 years at the plant, I survived five different reoriganizations.

"Reorganzation," for those NOT on the Cutting Edge of corporate shitspeak, is a value-added process of human resources reallocation designed to capture competitive opportunities for positive outcomes based on the synergy of change agents, risk-takers and effective teams. Something a lot like this, only less scientific where I worked.

When the company announced another "Re-org," everybody walked around with asscheeks clenched and wondered how long they could live on whatever severance package offered THIS time. This period usually lasted about 90 days, plenty long enough to give employees time to think about Getting Fired. A strange combination of angst, paranoia and pure-ass FEAR spread like a flu through the place. Those were Bad Times.

They never got me in one of those head-count reductions, but I saw a lot of good people get the axe, simply to cut the workforce. Those cuts almost ALWAYS came in management positions, too, because to get rid of a union employee, they had to eliminate an entire JOB, not just one or two people. I was management, so I always got the galloping fantods just like everybody else whenever the Reaper came to make his rounds every two years. Hell--- I had a wife and children to support.

What I experienced is nothing unique. I think all corporations do the same thing today. If you work for them, that "good" job you have is subject to change and/or cancellation at any time. Nobody is secure.

I understand costs and competitiveness, but reinventing yourself every two years sounds kinda schizophrenic to me. I also realize that no employer ever guaranteed me a got-dam thing except a paycheck for work performed. They never promised to keep me until I retired. They never said that they wouldn't get rid of my ass some day. It's a business; it ain't your family, no matter what bullshit some Sunshine Pumper hits you with in teamwork meetings.

It's a jungle, where you may be killed and eaten at any time. It's a hostile environment. I'm glad I'm outta there.

But... y'know... sometimes I STILL miss working at the plant.

lies! all lies!!!

Don't believe everything you read on the internet. A lot of it is pure bullshit.

But I AM a pretty good cook.

exceptions to the rule

I found this post the other day and totally agreed with the writer. I consider myself to be an honest person and a good citizen, the kind of guy you'd like to have for a neighbor. But I am by no means "law abiding."

Here's why:

The ceaseless proliferation of laws and regulations dissipates the power to enforce any law, while simultaneously encouraging the common man to elevate his personal ethic above all of them.

I don't know precisely when the purpose of government morphed from protecting "Life, Liberty and Pursuit of Happiness" into "Micro-Managing Your Life Down to the Molecular Level," but it has. That's why almost EVERYBODY is a lawbreaker today, even if he doesn't mean to be. We simply have too many goddam laws to keep track of 'em all anymore and government continues to spit new ones out like seeds at a watermelon-eating contest.

Hell, some of the laws are downright criminal themselves. I won't even touch on the excesses and abuses rampant in the War on (Some) Drugs. I don't have that much bandwidth. But environmental regulations that forbid me to cut weeds on my own property because an endangered needle-dicked bugfucker lives there, "immenent domain" law that says government can confiscate my property on a whim and anti-smoking ordinances are just a few examples of government run amok.

Why is it legal for a woman to have an abortion but illegal for the same woman to rent the box the baby came in? Does that make sense? If it's her body and she has the "right to choose" to dispose of an inconvienent pregnancy, why can't she market a little pussy, too? It's the same body and it seems to me that it's the same right to choose.

Don't look for logic in the law; you won't find much. That's the problem with passing so many laws--- really stupid ones are bound to be in the mix, and those stupid laws foster disrespect for law in general. Once a person decides, "I ain't gonna follow THAT stupid rule," making exceptions to the rule becomes easy. The only REAL rule becomes, "Do it--- just don't get caught."

That's what happens when you play a game with too many rules. Everybody cheats.

where were they?

When I was 12 years old and running my paper route, I always had a fantasy of going up to a door to collect the monthly paper payment and having a mature, bored housewife invite me inside. Dressed in only a bathrobe, she would size me up, like what she saw, allow the bathrobe to fall open and screw my young brains out seduce me right then and there.

I'm sorry that my fantasy never came true. Just think about what excellent blog-fodder THAT story would make.

I keep reading about female teachers having torrid affairs with their young, male students and I wonder where in the hell were they when I was going to school? I recall having one or two pretty good-looking teachers. I would have welcomed some "extra tutoring" from them.

Looking back, one thought really chaps my Cracker ass. Maybe those teachers WERE giving it away and I just didn't get any.

surprise, surprise!

The old saw says, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." I say, "If you want it broke, let the government run it."

Remember when Hillary Clinton decided that the government should take charge of handling vaccinations? That worked like a well-oiled machine, didn't it? Of course, we didn't learn a damn thing from that debacle. Mention that something is gonna be "free" once the government starts running it and people jump for joy. Then they start bitching when government fucks it up. It's happened over and over.

Welcome to short attention span theater.

this ain't right

I put it on my list of American icons. I picked it as one of the top 10 guns in American history. I've shot one.

Winchester is going to stop making them. I think it's a crying shame.

January 18, 2006

results are in

The heartless bastid fired her, which is just what I voted he would do. I know the guy. He revels in wielding merciless power over others and relishes his ability to crush young girls like empty beer cans while he cackles maniacally. (Other than those minor character defects, he's actually a pretty nice fellow.)

As cold-blooded as he may be, he and I DO share a common weakness:

I’m a sucker for female tears. I can’t stand to see a woman cry. It goes against my internal wiring or something. There’s just something so wrong about a pretty, young, girl sobbing. I felt as if I was breaking this girl’s heart. I wanted to comfort her and tell her everything would be alright.

I have the same reaction, even though I should know better. Some wimmen can turn those water-works on and off like a kitchen faucet and they use that ability to keep a man off-balance. Bejus knows, it works on me.

I agree with the "internal wiring" idea. Something about a crying woman triggers a primordial protective instinct in most guys, and we want to comfort the woman, then slay whatever it was that made her cry. Or we want her to quit crying because she's making us feel uncomfortable and guilty. Or we know that we'll NEVER get in her panties if she's so upset. It's a very complicated testosterone thing.

That's why female tears are such an effective weapon. And THEY know it.

strange land

I don't know whether this guy blogs anymore or not, but I found a visit from his site in my referrals, so I checked him out. (I find a LOT of good blogs that way.) The pictures he posted reminded me of the cross-country car trip I took with Recondo 32 a little over a year ago.

I saw some jaw-dropping scenery on that trip, especially out west. It pains me to admit it, but the Appalachians are foothills compared to the Cascades and the Rockies. I was especially fascinated by what the natives called "high desert" in Washington, Montana and Wyoming. In places, you can go from lush, green, mountain forest to a landscape that resembles the surface of the moon just by turning one big curve on the highway.

The difference is caused by the way prevailing winds and thermal currents steer rainclouds in the area. Some places get rain and others simply don't. Rain may fall on one side of a mountain and not the other. Often, it seems as if someone drew a line through the high country and said, "Okay... big trees and green stuff over HERE... and nothing but brown stuff and rocks over THERE." Robert's pictures look like the high desert.

It's still awesome country, possibly just BECAUSE it's so vast and barren.

If you ever have a chance to ride in a car on the back roads all the way across the country from Tacoma, Washington to Savannah, Georgia, TAKE IT. Recondo recommends staying the hell out of Iowa, because he got a speeding ticket there in the middle of Nothing But Corn, but I say that a speeding ticket was a small price to pay for what we saw, especially since I didn't have to pay the ticket. Take the trip. Just don't speed through Iowa.

You will never forget the experience.

shrimp salad

I grew tired of eating boston butt and decided I was ready for a change. I was craving a couple of shrimp salad sandwiches. Yeah. That's what I wanted. Shrimp salad sandwiches with potato chips.

I checked and discovered that I had all the ingredients except shrimp on hand, so I went to the market and purchased a pound of fresh medium shrimp. The rest was easy, although slightly time-consuming.

1) Boil the shrimp. A lot of people don't know how to do this step correctly, so I will enlighten you. Put a pot of water on the stove and season it well. (I use old savannah seafood seasoning, but Old Bay or a shot of almost everything in your spice rack will do.) Bring the water to a boil. Add the shrimp. Watch carefully. When the water starts to boil again, the shrimp are done. Remove from heat and drain.

2) Peel the shrimp.. If you cooked the shrimp correctly this step isn't difficult. Grab the shrimp at both ends and straighten it out. Pull on the tail. Half the shell should come off right there. Peel the rest by going from the underbelly up.

3) Cut up the shrimp. I dice them into small chunks, but you can do whatever you like. Put 'em in a blender if you want to. Hell, you don't really have to cut up medium shrimp at all, but I do, just for the texture.

4) Dice some vegetables. I use three stalks of celery, half of a sweet onion and sometimes a small kosher pickle. I didn't have a pickle, so I went with half a bell pepper this time instead.

5) Throw all the ingredients in a bowl. Add mayonnaise. I don't measure the mayonnaise. I just keep spooning it in and stirring until the mixture "looks" right. Add some paprika and red pepper to make a nice, slightly-pink color. Cool the salad in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes.

6) Serve on toasted bread. I put lettuce and tomato on the sandwiches I made today, but you can ride bareback and it's still good. Potato chips are nice on the side.

There's more cuttin' than cookin' to this recipe, but it's easy to do and damn nearly impossible to fuck up, unless you forget to peel the shrimp.

am I famous?

Bejus! Check your referrals and you never know what you may find. I received a visit from that place and I don't know whether to be flattered or appalled.

Actually, I'm going to bookmark the site and read some more. I haven't found a link to me yet, but I DID learn that Superman carries a super package in the next film. Enquiring minds want to know.

(UPDATE: Whadda ya know? I AM linked there. I guess I've posted more about Roscoe than I remembered.)

who do I trust?

Yeah, I KNOW that should be "Whom do I trust" to be gramatically correct, but "whom" is one word I wish we would get rid of. Just like the stupid rule that says "never end a sentence with a preposition." Isn't THAT just about the dumbest rule of which you ever heard? By whom up was that one thought?) But I digress...

The point of this post is a disturbing string of emails I have received from Paypal. Someone in Europe appears to be trying to use my PayPal account for nefarious purposes--- namely buying something and charging it to me. I HAVE an account, but I haven't used it in quite a while, and most assuredly NOT in Europe.

I checked my account and Paypal has blocked all the bogus transactions. Good for them. But I also received an email ALLEGEDLY from Paypal asking me to send them my password to confirm my account. Call me paranoid, but I balked at doing that.

How do I know that I'm REALLY dealing with Paypal? How do I know that it isn't the THIEF trying to fool ME so that he can turn around and fool PAYPAL? How do I know that the insidious, greedy hands of GOVERNMENT aren't behind the whole scam? How do I install a Paypal button on my sidebar so that I can start blegging for tips and make sure that the money actually comes to ME instead of to some thief or to the government??? See? I was ALL kinds of confused.

I took the coward's way out. I snuck into Paypal through Google, found my account and changed my password. I'm pretty sure that I ended up in the right place that way.

Hey! Thief! The new password is "gofuckyourself."

I gotta admit one thing. If all the emails were legitimate, Paypal must have pretty good security. The would-be thief didn't score anything.

my motto

"If someone sends you email asking for a bumper sticker, write down the address, then promptly lose the paper you wrote it on." I seem to live by that motto, judging from the comments on that post.

If you asked and didn't receive, ask again. I sent out more than 100 of those stickers (If you got one, wear it proudly! They'll be valuable collector's items some day when I'm rich and famous. Guys--- one of those stickers will help you pick up chicks. Gals--- one of those stickers will make your boobs bigger.) and I still have a few more somewhere around the Crackerbox.

Because I'm such a big-hearted, generous person, I'll send you one even though postage costs TWO CENTS MORE than it did when I first made this offer. Stick one on your car, your truck, your guitar case or your forehead. Show it off to your kids! (Just don't let them visit my site--- I'm a bad influence.)

Send me your address and I'll send you a bumper sticker. If I don't lose your address again. If I can remember where I stashed the bumper stickers. If I get around to it.

Trust me.


Ask me why I love living in the south.

January 17, 2006

cool shot

I've always wanted to try my hand at serious photography. I think I have the eye for it, but a good camera is just too damned complicated for me to operate. Go beyond "point and click," and you've lost me.

Years ago, I owned a good 35mm Olympus but it was a bitch to use because by the time I set the f-stop, focused the lens and did all the other technical shit I had to do to take a picture, I had either missed the shot or fucked it up. When a thief broke into my house and stole that camera (among other things), I secretly was delighted to exchange the camera for the insurance money I received.

But if I HAD a good camera and I COULD operate it, I probably would take pictures like this one. Pretty cool, huh?

a thriller

I watched Quinton play basketball again tonight and his team won a squeaker, 31-28. They were ahead 29-12 in the second half when they went brain-dead and almost let the other team win. My butt-cheeks gnawed the varnish off the bleacher seat before that game was over.

Quinton scored four points, including one basket that brought me to my feet cheering. He was heading a fast break, tearing down the floor one step ahead of TWO defenders when he caught a perfect pass, went in straight-on to the hoop without slowing down and made a PERFECT layup. Sports fans, if you don't already know, that's the toughest layup in basketball, especially when you're less than five feet tall.

I practiced that shot with Quinton hundreds of times. I kept telling him, "You've got to lay the ball gently just over the front of the rim and allow your momentum to carry the ball off the backboard and into the hoop." He executed it perfectly tonight. As he was heading back down the court on defense, he looked up in the stands at me and grinned ear-to-ear, as if saying, "See? I remembered what you taught me."

Yeah, that boy is afraid of me, all right.

more fan mail

This dweeb emailed me some time last night to call me a dork. I responded by calling him an asshole. He wrote BACK with this missive.

well u can call me an a-hole all u want, but ur still not only the biggest dork, but ur the biggest loser too...i mean, NORMAL ppl do not spew trash like you do and make themselves look like a complete moron...ur a jerk, ok? and i get the feeling ur a lonely-boy who is overwieght, pimply, with huge coke bottle glasses, and stays inside 24/7 playing with e-pets...dude, ur a loser...lolololol

Normal people write emails like yours? If that's the case, I'd rather be a dork. I'll let my readers decide who is the complete moron, PynkL0LLiPoPz. (Yes. That IS the name on the email.)

good decision

I am stunned by the audacity of it, but I believe that this is a good decision by the Supreme Court. We finally have SOMETHING out there that the Federal Government can't micro-manage, at least for now.

I've always found puzzling the logic that says government can sanction abortion, and even dictate that other people have to pay for it, while making suicide a crime. What do feminists say about abortion? "It's MY body, to do with as I please!" I agree, even though I think abortion used as common post-coital birth-control is wrong. It's a right of "privacy," according to abortion proponents.

Why not apply the same rules to suicide? It's MY body, to do with as I please, and if abortion is a privacy issue, the decision to kill myself surely ought to be.

Scalia said the court's ruling ``is perhaps driven by a feeling that the subject of assisted suicide is none of the federal government's business. It is easy to sympathize with that position.''

If "none of the federal government's business" is the driving force behind the decision, I'm damn sure in agreement with that kind of thinking. Of course, his keen observation didn't stop Scalia from dissenting. He didn't sympathize.

I do.

i never understood it, either

As part of my duties in the chemical plant, back in my long-ago working days, I was responsible for interviewing potential new employees. Yes, as terrible as the idea may seem, Acidman had the power to decide whether you got a job or not. I often walked away from those interviews shaking my head and wondering WTF were those people thinking?

I read this post and had a terrible flashback to those times. Man, do I have some stories that'll curl your teeth! I also have some advice for job-seekers who want to get off on the right foot in an employment interview.

1) I cannot emphasize this strongly enough: FILL OUT YOUR APPLICATION PROPERLY. If you can't fill out a simple form that my twelve year-old son could handle easily without misspelling words, putting information in the wrong place and writing illegibly, how can I expect you to do a decent job for me? I didn't choose who to interview--- the gurus in Human Resources performed that task--- but when I saw a fucked up application, the interview was a waste of time. I already had decided NOT to hire that person.

2) DRESS APPROPIATELY. A coat and tie is NOT necessary when applying for a production job in a chemical plant, especially a job that entails getting VERY dirty. The spiffed-up dandy look may be appropriate if you're wanting to sell insurance, but it just ain't right when the job you seek involves a lot of manual labor. By the same token, don't appear to be on your way home from the beach, either. Flip flops, cutoff jeans and a dirty tee shirt with "I brake for TITS" on the front isn't a good outfit for a job interview. Try to hit somewhere in the middle of those two extremes.

3) DO NOT BE LATE FOR YOUR INTERVIEW! Bejus! If you can't be on time for a scheduled job interview, how can I expect you to show up at work on time? I can't and I won't hire you.

4) ACT LIKE YOU WANT THE FUCKING JOB. Sit straight in your chair, make eye contact with me and don't put your feet up on the table. Speak clearly, in more than monosyllabic mumble. If you don't appear to care whether you get the job or not, I don't care to hire you.

5) ASK QUESTIONS ABOUT THE JOB. Surely, you must want to know SOMETHING about what you're getting into if you're hired. What kind of work is it? How much does it pay? Is there opportunity for advancement? Stuff like that. I always figured that anyone who wasn't curious about the job might be in for a very unpleasant surprise if he got it, especially the dude or dudette dressed for Easter services in church. Just DO NOT start out by asking, "How many sick days do I get?" I might conclude that you're planning to lay out on me before you even get the job.

If this stuff sounds simple, that's because it is. But you'd be surprised at the number of people who just don't get it.

They never got a job from me, either.


I love the English language. If you enjoy writing, English provides you with a giant toybox, stuffed to the brim with neat stuff to play with. Words are wonderful things, both nuanced and precise, both sparkling and dull, depending on how you use them.

That's why I absolutely despise the bastardization that I see happening to my beloved language today. Take a few horrible examples:

Multiculturalism-- What a bullshit word. It's used today to mean that the more ethnic division we have in society, the more united we are. It also suggests that a society of unwashed, illiterate, semi-savages is just as good, and in many ways BETTER, than crass, evil Western Civilization. When I see ANYONE claiming to be a hyphenated-American, I want to puke. If life was that great where you came from, why don't you go the hell back THERE? But who am I to judge?

Judgmental--- When did having an opinion based on observation and fact become a mortal sin? The word is used as an insult today. I suppose that if you think you can tell right from wrong, you're full of shit and an evil person for being judgmental. That definition sounds pretty UN-judgmental to me.

Diversity--- The word once meant "difference," but those were the days. Now, "diversity" means mindlessly embracing multi-culturalism and being mindlessly non-"judgmental" about it. ALL HAIL DIVERSITY!!! It worked in the Balkans and it'll work here, too.

Discrimination--- Don't you DARE do that! The dictionary definition says "to use good judgment." GOT-DAM!!! I thought it meant "to act like a bigoted racist," because that's how the word is appled today. Of course, any word with "judgment" in the definition HAS to be bad.

Rich--- Anybody who has a nickel to his name after government is through pilfering his pockets with taxation is "rich." Rich people are evil, conniving, uncaring bastards with more money than they need. I don't care how hard they work. They don't deserve what they have when I don't have it, too, so (in the immortal words of Dean Esmay) "Fuck 'em." The fact that they're rich and I'm not isn't fair.

Fair--- Unfair, with the force of government behind it.

Racist--- Here's a word that HAS no definition anymore, unless it's "anything that Jesse Jackson doesn't like." It's just an all-purpose slander that has been so cheapened by misuse and overuse that it means absolutely nothing today. Personally, I believe that this kind of pandering is racist, but what do I know? I'm judgmental.

I could go on, but I won't. I'm too "politically-correct" and I have too much "compassion" and "tolerance" to do that. Besides, I would rather go clean some of my "assault rifles."

fringe benefits

I don't make any money off this site (although that situation may change shortly--- I have an offer that I like, for actual money, IF I can figure out how to add the links to my sidebar.). No, GUTRUMBLES is free ice cream. It's something I do because I like doing it.

But don't think that I receive NO fringe benefits from blogging. I've made some good friends, corresponded with a lot of interesting people, had my ego stroked by strangers, received nice gifts in the mail and even gotten laid a few times because of my blog. And occasionally...

... i get something like this.

See why I blog for free? Heh. That woman knows the way to my heart.

major meltdown

Yesterday, I was thrown back into the Dark Ages and forced to live as a primitive human being. Comcast bit the dust all over Effingham County and I lost both my cable television AND my internet connection for hours... and hours... and HOURS! It was HORRIBLE! I was lonely and afraid. I was jonesing bad. The Crackerbox was quiet... too quiet. Even a long soak in my hot tub didn't help.

Speaking of which, I left the got-dam cover off the tub when I crawled out yesterday and now the temperature is down to 75 degrees. Just Damn! It'll take all day to heat it back up again.

I was forced to read a book and listen to music, for cryin' out loud! That ain't no way to live. How did people survive before cable TV and high-speed internet? They had to be pretty damn tough, if you ask me.

Some time after I went to bed last night, all my critical stuff started working. Thank Bejus! I'm back in the real world again. It feels good.

Now I wonder if I have grounds for a lawsuit over the pain and suffering I experienced yesterday...

January 16, 2006

so... that's what's wrong...

I woke up this morning feeling drugged and disoriented. I got out of bed, bounced off my chest-of-drawers once and staggered into the bathroom. I turned on the light while trying to remember why I was in my bathroom.

Oh, yeah... I needed to pee. I pointed Roscoe at the toilet (I sleep nekkid) and managed to hit the target with MOST of my output. I know that SOME went on the floor, because it wet my bare foot, and some splashed off the raised commode lid, because it didn't sound right, until I adjusted my aim. I couldn't see what I was doing because my eyes wouldn't focus.

I finished draining my lizard, reeled toward my kitchen, ricocheted off the wall a couple of times in route and loaded my coffee maker. I pushed the "on" button and nothing happened. I pushed the button several more times and became convinced that my coffee maker was broken--- until I realized that I was pushing the "off" button. Heh. Silly me.

That's typical behavior for me EVERY morning when I wake up. I once blamed my foggy brain on excessive alcohol consumption the night before, but I've been sober for 86 days now and I STILL act drunk in the morning. I require about 30 minutes, at least one cup of coffee and two cigarettes before I begin to function as a sentient being.

Thank Bejus for science, because now I know what is wrong with me, and it's perfectly normal. I suffer from sleep inertia.

For most of us, that bewildered, groggy, what-day-is-it? feeling lasts just a few minutes, but for some it can last as long as two hours. Wright found that the worst period of sleep inertia is the first three minutes after awakening, and it usually diminishes within 10 minutes. Using 16 volunteer test subjects who were asked to add randomly generated, two-digit numbers immediately upon waking after eight hours of sleep, he showed that sleep inertia diminishes short-term memory, counting skills and cognitive abilities.

It'll cause you to piss on your foot, too.

January 15, 2006

i might try this

I forgot to mention that I slow-cooked a 6.5 pound Boston Butt on my charcol grill two days ago. Since I'll be gnawing on delicious pig-meat for a while, I ought to make something like this to go with it. I like every one of the ingredients, but I'll add cucumber to mine. A salad just isn't a complete without cucumber.

I haven't posted a recipe in a while, so I'll tell you how I cooked the butt. SLOWLY is how. Now you know.

Okay, okay... simmer DOWN! I'll provide a few details. First, I coated the butt with olive oil and then applied a "rub" of onion salt, paprika, red pepper, black pepper, minced garlic and terragon. I built a charcol fire in the grill and added some wet mesquite chips for smoke when the coals were ready. I put the butt on the grill and closed the lid.

I added a few more charcol briquets and some more wet mesquite chips every 60 minutes, just to maintain the heat and generate more smoke, but otherwise left the butt alone for four hours. When I poked the butt with a long-handled fork and the meat started falling off the bone, I figured it was done.

I took it off the grill, brought it inside and shredded the meat with my bare fingers, which generated an abundant stream of succulent juice. I put the meat in a Tupperware bowl and gave the bone to my neighbor's dog.

I've been eating butt-meat for three days now and I'm still not tired of it. On a plate with long-grain wild rice and corn on the cob or in a sandwich with B.S. Mutha's Barbecue Sauce and french fries, it is delicious--- tender, juicy and well-seasoned by smoke and spices. Yum! Rob can cook!

Now I ought to try my hand at making one of those salads...

already been done

I think this research is slightly behind the curve. We already know what happens when you create a human/rabbit embryo.

It grows up to be Bill Clinton.

the rest of the story

Yep. There's a big difference between a story as reported in the news and the real story.

quote of the day

"And that's why Corn and the Democrats don't stand a chance of keeping Alito off the court. The only way to defeat a principled big-government guy is to wage a principled campaign of limited government against him. The Democrats are in no position to even consider such a fight.

The Republicans once were - but haven't been since about 1998."
---stephen Green

Remember Bill Clinton's 1996 State of the Union speech? You know--- the one where he bit his lower lip, summoned tears of sincerity to his eyes and lied his ass off, saying "The era of big government is OVER?" Well, I have decided that he wasn't lying at all, even though he thought he was.

The era of BIG government IS over. In its place we now have HUMONGOUS, STEROID-ENHANCED government that continues to grow, making the days of "big" government look like a Golden Age of Freedom. And NOBODY in politics today seems willing (or able) to slow down this blob-like expansion, let alone stop it.

Hell, who am I kidding? Voters must WANT government to be the Jolly Green Giant towering over the Valley of Peons; otherwise, they wouldn't keep electing the same big-government assholes to office time after time. (Of course, SOME voters may be like me: naive enough to believe that electing George Bush and a Republican congress might change things. That idea proved to be absolutely ludicrous.)

I've reached the point now where I may never vote again. I don't believe that who we elect to office matters much anymore. Government is a runaway train highballing down a steep grade, and the brakes burned up years ago. If you cherish your freedom and want government to butt out of your life, you're gonna get screwed, no matter which engineer you choose. Just join the rest of the passengers: stick your hand out, demand something for nothing, and ignore the consequences.

When a wreck is inevitable, relax and enjoy the ride while it lasts.

(UPDATE: Good post here.)

(ANOTHER UPDATE: I wish Wal-mart had the balls to do this, but I doubt that they will, even though "Thirty other state legislatures are said to be lining up to impose similar controls..." What else do you expect now that the era of Big Government is over?)

where does the time go?

Thirty-one days from today, I'll be 54 years old. Just damn! Where does the time go?

I still remember being a kid in a coal mining camp in Harlan County, Kentucky, where I often sat on the floor and listened to my kinfolk tell stories about things they had done and places they had been during their lives. Those stories always fascinated me, for two reasons.

First, they were good stories, told by good storytellers. (If I have any storytelling talent, I come by it naturally. I was trained by experts.) My relatives taught me at an early age that the best stories are TRUE stories, enhanced just a little bit to make them more entertaining. I still abide by that philosophy today.

Second, as I listened raptly, I pictured a path through the wildflowers on the bottomland by the Cumberland River. Life was a walk down that path, where you picked wildflowers along the way. The farther you walked, the more flowers you picked--- and that bouquet was your collection of memories, the stuff that makes good stories.

I was six years old at the time and I hadn't walked very far down that path. I didn't have many flowers in MY bouquet and I envied the older folks for theirs.

Those were the days. Now, I'm older than most of my relatives were back then. I need a got-dam pickup truck to haul my bouquet today because I've gone AT LEAST halfway to the end of that path and I picked a LOT of flowers along the way--- when I wasn't falling in a mudhole or getting tangled in briars. I've also learned that the path is a lot steeper and more slippery than I ever thought it would be.

But I take heart from the fact that I'm still younger than these people. Bejus! Jimmy Buffett turns 60 this year. Old fart. But he's still walking that path and collecting memories wildflowers that never die and smell sweeter with each passing year.

So am I.

January 14, 2006

i knew that already

I scored 91% Dixie on this test. That's high enough to warrant a "Do you still use Confederate money?" in the results, but it's NOT as high as I thought I would score. I shoulda aced the thing.

Looks like the pronounciation of the word "aunt" cost me some points, but I don't know anybody except hillbillies who pronounce it as "ain't," which is SUPPOSED to be the Southern answer. Hell--- a got-damn yankee probably put that question in there.

See what y'all score. (Pronounced "yawl," not "yew-all.")

(Link stolen from here)


"I'm a steamroller, baby, bound to roll all over you..."
---James Taylor

If a bunch of thugs banded together and performed this kind of shakedown on a business, they'd be prosecuted as criminals under RICO statutes. If this extortion scheme isn't an example of organized crime, I don't know what is.

First, the "Tobacco Settlement." Now, this. Who will be next?

Ask me again why I don't trust my government.

not unusual

I'm not going to link the blog I found today, because I don't want to single the writer out for special criticism. What's wrong with that blog is typical of many that I read. Besides, I'm on his blogroll and I don't want to be ceremoniously de-linked.

First, this:

I’m not saying this is the best record in the world but it is defiantly worth a listen and if your > 25 you will recognize every single beat you hear. To some that is bad but for me its made my day.

Is the record "defiantly" worth a listen, or is it DEFINITELY worth a listen? Judging by the title of the record, maybe "defiantly" is the word he wanted, but I don't think so. If YOU'RE "> 25," YOUR beat recognition may be better than that of someone < 25. IT'S a crying shame how some people have trouble putting an apostrophe in ITS proper place--- especially when the person intends to "Finish applications to grad school by monday (write those damn recomendations)."

Grad school? My advice is to try a quick run through sixth grade English first. Ignorance of punctuation, spelling and capitalization obviously doesn't stand in the way of receiving a college degree today, but it should.

Here's the title of the record the writer praises so lavishly: Niggaz and White Girlz. Bejus! Some of you long-time readers may remember the shit-storm I created a few years ago when I used the forbidden N-Word in a post. I was called a virulent racist and ceremoniously de-linked by dozens of people who were HIGHLY OFFENDED by that word.

I guess I screwed up by spelling the forbidden N-Word with an "s" on the end instead of a "z." That mess certainly couldn't have been a case of sanctimoniously selective outrage. It couldn't have been offensive simply because I'm white. That reaction would be racist, which is a ridiculous notion because I AM THE RACIST, not the offended people. They all told me so.

This is definitely a concept album if there ever was one. All the beats are remixed 80 music, and if I must say it really comes off fresh. They really tapped into a realm that hasn’t been beaten to death by the masses of producers. The quality of the beats don’t’ make you think hip hop right off the bat and that is a good thing, because I am so tired of hip hop right now and I think this record sing handedly revived my belief in this music genre.

What's to believe about "this music genre?" I believe that hip hop is pure, unadulterated shit. It's not music at all. If you REALLY want to tap into that "realm," give it an enema. THERE'S a "concept" for you.

I apologize to the writer for ripping his blog this way. I'm just in a foul mood because the weather turned cold and windy today. After several spring-like days with highs in the mid-seventies, winter finally remembered that it's still here. The temperature is supposed to drop below freezing tonight and I hate cold weather almost as much as I despise rap music.

Maybe I'll run out and buy a copy of Niggaz and White Girlz to keep me warm.

they got his good side


Here is a picture of Sen. Edward Kennedy during the Alito hearings. Several other Democrat senators struck the same pose for the cameras.

How could you possibly watch the assinine dog-and-pony-show statesmanship and gravitas displayed by the senators during the hearings and not feel PROUD to be an American? I know that I surely swelled with gas pride when I saw our esteemed "leaders" in action. They were downright inspiring, accomplishing a nearly impossible task.

They made Arlen Specter look good.

i'm not so bad...

Yeah, I have a powerful foot fetish. Let me see some pretty, feminine feet with red polish on the toes and I get all tingly inside. I don't think I'm perverted, either.

No, this is perversion. Panty hose don't do a damn thing for me, except keep MY legs warm when I wear them. And I DO wear them occasionally (I own two pair) when I'm going to be outside in cold weather. I learned about how warm and comfortable panty hose are from wearing them on backpacking trips. If the damn things had a piss-door in the front, I would own more than two pair.

Never mind. I saw pretty feet, became addled and went off on a tangent. I MEANT to link this post. It's for a worthy cause.

see? I Toed you so!

Cats are evil, malevolent, scheming little shits that can't be trusted. I've said it before and I'll say it again: CATS ARE DISGUSTING AND NASTY!!! Given the chance, a cat will even steal your toe and run off with it.

A dog would never steal your toe and run off with it. A GOOD dog would fetch the toe and bring it to you. A BAD dog would eat it on the spot. Either way, a dog ain't gonna take it and run off the way that cat did.

See why I hate cats?

(Thanks to Maggie for the link!)

where's my escalator?

Livey took some pictures when I gave her a tour of River Street and Factor's Walk. See me climbing the stairs? I couldn't have CRAWLED up those stairs four months ago.

She said that I should be proud of myself. In some ways, I am--- but I'm mostly disgusted and ashamed that I let myself go to shit the way I did in the first place. I'm really surprised that one of my good friends didn't drag me off and shoot me toward the end. It would have been a totally justified mercy killing.

Here's something I told Livey and I hope she takes the message to heart. I wish EVERYBODY would. It's something the staff preached every day when I was in rehab:

You have the chance to start your life over again every time you wake up in the morning. You can't change the past, but the future is what YOU make of it.

That's a pretty spooky idea if you really think about it. You are responsible for your own choices, be they good or bad. Bejus! What a novel concept! How can anyone POSSIBLY believe such nonsense in this age of nanny-government, trial lawyers, excuse-makers, chronic whiners and professional "victims?" Listen to those folks and you'll learn that when you fuck up, you simply drew bad numbers in "life's lottery" through random chance, not by mistakes YOU made.

Hell, we need to get rid of E Pluribus Unum as our national motto and replace it with "It's Not MY Fault!" More and more people seem to think that way every day. They are sadly mistaken, too.

Remember this about life: If it was EASY, any asshole could do it. It ain't easy. Sometimes there ain't no escalator to get you up the stairs, and all the pissing and moaning in the world won't bring one, either.

You just have to climb them yourself.

January 13, 2006

A damn good concert

I went to see claire lynch play tonight. I've mentioned before that randy wood, a premier luthier, has a shop in Bloomingdale, about 15 miles from my house. Randy has expanded his business to include a small concert room and that's where I listened to Claire and her band.

The show was excellent. Claire is a good singer and her band (Missy Raines on stand-up bass, Jim Hurst on guitar and banjo, and David Harvey on mandolin and fiddle) is outstanding. They play a sort of bluegrass/folk/country fusion, which is my favorite kind of music.

Randy has a great place for it, too. The room seats about 100 people and the acoustics are very good. Randy built it himself and it's obvious that he knew what he was doing. I sat in the fourth row of seats and was about ten feet from the stage. There's no such thing as a bad seat in the place.

I haven't enjoyed such good music in such an intimate atmosphere since the Night Flight Cafe closed on River Street 25 years ago. The band played two one-hour sets and they didn't have a clunker song in the bunch. In the audience, toes were tapping.

I'm going back again soon. Randy is holding three or four concerts every month now, and I DEFINITELY intend to see Mike Cross on February 11th. I once had the privilege of picking and grinning with Mike back in 1977, when he was playing at the Night Flight. He put on a hell of a show back then and I'll bet that he still does.

Hell--- I might start going to Randy's every time he holds a concert. I thoroughly enjoyed myself tonight.

why i quit drinking

newman (Small).jpg

One picture is worth 1,000 words. And that one was taken a few months BEFORE I checked into rehab, and trust me--- I'm looking GOOD there. I looked (and felt) a lot worse by the time I staggered, barely able to walk, into Willingway Hospital.

Compare this picture to the one in my sidebar where I'm wearing the hat. (Taken last week.) Notice any difference?

Ask me again why I didn't go to Key West...

makes sense to me

Blame it on my twisted sense of humor, but I laughed out loud when I read this.


name my state

This post started me thinking. Yeah. Having a republic named "Georgia" does make the news kinda confusing sometimes. But what else are we gonna call my home state?

North Florida. Bullshit on that! I don't want my state named after a place filled with transplanted yankees, bad drivers and expatriated Cubans (not that I have anything against expatriated Cubans).

East Alabama. Okay, I could live with that name, but I don't want to.

South South Carolina. Naw. Sounds too much like a stutter.

Acidmanland. I really LIKE that one, but it just doesn't work in the Ray Charles song. Too many syllables.

Crackerfornia. HELL NO! Just the sound of it makes my skin crawl. Don't even go there.

Atlanta. If the city doesn't stop spreading like crab grass, the entire state will be one big suburb of Atlanta in a few more years. But that place is filled with transplanted yankees and Cynthia McKinney, so I don't like that name, either.

Maybe we should just stick with the name we have for our state and demand that the other place change the name of their country. We could bribe their government with peanuts, peaches and old Allman Brothers music.

They might go for the idea.

more idiocy

Wanna halt global warming? Wanna stop it dead? Wanna shut up all the doom-mongering environmentalists who scream, "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!?" I've got the answer. Don't laugh, either. It makes as much sense as the Kyoto Treaty.

Just kill all the plants. Yep. Those insidious bastards are COOKING US and RUINING OUR PLANET with deadly methane emmissions.

David Lowe, of the National Institute of Water and Atmospheric Research in New Zealand, said the findings are startling and controversial.

"Keppler and colleagues' finding helps to account for observations from space of incredibly large plumes of methane above tropical forests," he said in a commentary on the research.

But the study also poses questions, such as how such a potentially large source of methane could have been overlooked and how plants produced it.

There you have it: the Rain Forest is our enemy. A tree is a smokestack, belching out greenhouse gas. Flowers may look pretty and smell good, but they make the oceans rise to drown us. Those "amber waves of grain" that keep us fed? Worse than pod-creatures.

Be an environmentalist! Save the planet!

Go kill a plant today, before it's too late.

"a nurse with a gun"

I simply HAD to check a site with those words in the title. It turned out to be pretty damn good, especially if you like guns.

Read "The Four Rules." That's EXACTLY what my daddy pounded into my head when I got my first BB gun. I still abide by those rules today, even though I don't actually own any guns (not a single one, oh, no, not ME) anymore.

Check it out. It's worth the trip.

(That second link made me envious.)

quote of the day

"Times change. Two new verbs may emerge from the Alito hearings. Consider “To teddy.” A working definition might be “to decay like Dorian Gray, except do so during live, televised Senate hearings.”

Biden may yet become a verb. “To biden”: to shoot onself in one’s own foot using one’s own mouth."--- austin bay

I can't add anything to that bit of profundity.

another good list

Got any additions to this one? (It's the list of oxymorons--- you may have to scroll down the page to find it.)

George Carlin (who really should start a blog) already has a good list in one of his routines, with "Jumbo Shrimp" being my personal favorite. I'll add "Congressional Ethics" and "Tobacco-Free" as my contributions.

What's yours?

what for?

If I were a scientist doing genetic research, I don't believe that I would spend a lot of time and resources creating a day-glow green pig. Such a creature might be a real hoot to turn loose in a dark room at a stoner party, but I think a good scientist has better things to do with his time. Such as curing cancer or rehabilitating quadriplegics.

But that's just me.


Recondo 32 called yesterday and invited me on a road trip. He and his lovely wife, Georgia, are heading down to Key West today. He asked if I wanted to go, too. I said, "YES!" right away. I LOVE Key West.

Later, I thought again about the idea. Sure, I love Key West. Sure, Recondo and Georgia are my good friends and I always (well-- MOST of the time, anyway) enjoy their company. But I'm not so sure that Key West is a good place for me to be right now.

In rehab, I was told over and over to avoid situations where alcohol was flowing. I was told to stay away from places and activities that I associated with drinking. To do otherwise might trigger a relapse.

I scoffed at that idea. I didn't expect the entire world to stop drinking just because I did, and temptation is EVERYWHERE. Hell, I can't go to the grocery store without seeing cold beer and bottles of wine. Neon signs saying "Budweiser" and "Miller" flash at me from the windows of convenience stores. I have to pass Randall's Liquor Store almost every time I go anywhere.

No, I couldn't weave a cocoon around myself, so I haven't tried. Besides, I've already BEEN in a lot of situations where alcohol was served (the Catfish Blog-Meet Extravaganza was just ONE example) and I didn't drink. I probably could go to Key West and stay sober, too.

But this is one time where I'm not going to take the chance. Key West is too wild, too crazy and too... tempting. I've gone 84 days now without drinking any alcohol. I don't intend to drink today, either. But if I were in Key West, I might decide that just ONE wouldn't hurt, and I know what happens to me after that decision is made.

I chickened out. I called Recondo last night and told him that I didn't want to go. Actually I WANTED to go--- I just didn't think it was a really good idea. Recondo understood. Maybe in another couple of months I'll be ready for Key West. But I'm not taking any chances right now.

I've got a good thing going and I don't want to blow it.

January 12, 2006

good list

I read this post and immediately decided to make my own list of The Twelve Icons of America. The only problem with that idea is the fact that Kim stole a lot of my thoughts before I had them. My list would look an awful lot like a copy of his, and that's not very entertaining.

So, I'm going to attempt to pick twelve icons he DIDN'T mention, except for the '57 Chevy Bel Air. That one HAS to be on my list.

12 American Icons

1. The 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air
2. John Wayne
3. The Hamburger
4. The National Anthem played by a marching band before a football game.
5. The Winchester Repeating Rifle
6. Country Music
7. Kentucky Bourbon
8. Corn Bread
9. The Banjo
10. The Alamo
11. The Mississippi River
12. Harley Davidson Motorcycles

Anybody got ideas for an icon that isn't on either list?

quote of the day

"According to Dianne Feinstein, Roe vs. Wade is critically important because "women all over America have come to depend on it." At its most majestic, this precious right that women "have come to depend on" is the right to have sex with men they don't want to have children with." ---ann Coulter

As a man who had a vasectomy and then a radical prostatectomy, I have no dog in this fight. My baby-making days are long gone. But I find it difficult to believe that the abortion issue resonates so strongly among wimmen that it is THE SUPREME issue, above all others, when it comes to electing a President or choosing a Supreme Court justice.

My stance on the issue is simple: abortion should be legal, but frowned upon by society. Wimmen had abortions before they were legal and they'll continue to have them if Roe v. Wade ever is overturned (which I don't believe is gonna happen). No law EVER has stopped people from being people. If you could legislate human nature, laws against murder would stop people from killing each other.

But abortion should NOT be a common form of birth control used AFTER pregnancy, which is what it has become today. In MY humble opinion, we encourage irresponsibility and lessen the value of human life with our current policy. Yeah, yeah... I keep hearing the plaintive bleats of "rape, incest and the mother's health" as excuses for abortion, but I call bullshit on that whine.

We have 4,000 abortions per day performed in this country. Do the math and you'll discover that, on average, a mere 160 of these involve rape, incest or the mother's health. 40 occur because of fetal abnormalities. The other 3,800 are for birth control, and there is no goddam excuse for that number when you can buy condoms in a grocery store today.

We've got some really screwed up priorities in this country when we believe that a woman who has an abortion is simply exercising her "right to choose," while the same woman is a menace to society if she smokes cigarettes. Which behavior is REALLY worse for The Children?

I call that crap some pretty selective outrage.

toe porn

I LOVE it when someone feeds my fetish. Red Toenails... Nekkid Woman...Bubble Bath... YUMMMMMMMMMY!

it's the chance you take

This lovely lady is hooked on the horns of a dilemma. Evidently, she followed the Golden Rule of Blogging ("Don't write anything you wouldn't want your mama to read."), but she didn't think about an ex-boyfriend getting a computer. She deleted her old blog, started a new one and now worries that the old stuff may be cached in Google where he can find it.

If I were her, I wouldn't fret about it. Unless he's got some nekkid pictures. THEN I might worry, but only if I were her.

Blogging can be so complicated sometimes...

wasn't his time

Here's another case of someone whose expiration date wasn't up. It's also a good example of why you should NEVER ride on the tailgate of a truck, especially when the truck is going in reverse.

I've written before about how I believe that you have an expiration date stamped on your ass the day you are born--- just like a carton of milk. You don't exit this life until your time is up, and this boy's time wasn't up. I don't know how I reconcile this belief with my atheism, but I do.

I've seen too many examples of people surviving things that should have killed them and others dying from something they should have survived to think any differently. Hell--- I should have been dead already three times myself.

Of course, I may simply have a goofy metaphysical outlook on life. I'm certain that the boy survived for a completely logical reason.

Maybe he just had a hard head.

i think i've got it!

photos 044 (Small).jpg

Here is a picture of (from left to right) me, my 94 year-old grandmother, my sister-in-law and my brother. I took one of those monster 460 KB pictures and made this one come in at 42.1 KB. HA! I'm not as colossal an idiot as I thought I was.

I used the free MS "Image Resizer" and it worked like a charm. At least I think it did. Don't I have a handsome family? Ain't Mommie pretty?

Over my shoulder in the left side of the picture is a Family Tree, showing some of Mommie's progeny, not including a few great-great grandchildren. I believe there's one great-great-GREAT grandchild, too, although I may be mistaken about that. I'll have to ask Mommie the next time I see her.

She'll know.

(I appreciate everyone who sent me information on how to do this . I chose to follow Hugh's advice, because it was simple enough for me to understand. Thanks, Hugh.)


photos 044 (WinCE).jpg

Got-dammit! This ain't what I want. Lemme try something else...

January 11, 2006

like a different team

Quinton's team won their basketball game tonight by a score of 36-32. It was a good game, and I swear that I didn't recognize the same team I saw play last night. This time, the boys acted like they actually knew what they were doing. Quinton shot twice from the field and made one, so he's maintaining his 50% field goal percentage. He stole the ball twice on defense, too.

My boy plays hard. What he lacks in height, he makes up for in hustle. I know what that's like.

After the game, I did just what I promised I was going to do. I introduced myself to the Bloodless Cunt's next victim. I walked up to him, stuck out my hand and said, "Hi. I've been wanting to meet you. I'm Rob, Quinton's daddy."

The guy looked at me without saying a word. He grabbed my hand and applied one of those bone-crusher squeezes that some assholes call a handshake. Bejus. I should have figured on that. He LOOKED like The Type.

I'm all for a firm handshake. I get the goosebump-willies and immediately distrust a man with a wimpy, dead-fish handshake. But this macho, "I'm gonna squeeze you to your knees" bullshit is almost as bad. The prick really impressed me with what a man HE is by pulling that shit on me. I think he was jealous because I've got more hair than he does.

I just smiled and squeezed back, thinking, "Oh! Don't hurt me, you awesome epitome of masculinity! I am SOOOOO impressed!" Fucking horse's ass. He and Jennifer fit together like an anus and a butt-plug. A perfect match: both of 'em shitty.

Well, at least I got THAT out of the way. Now I'll never have to shake his hand again.

what's wrong with this picture?

Go look at it and tell me. I think it's the shoes...

Also--- if there's a Texas blog-meet this spring, I might go. Somebody give me the details. It'll give me a good excuse to go visit my daughter and enjoy some genuine Tex-Mex food.

mo' pitchers

You can see some more pictures of the First Ever Catfish Blog-Meet Music Festival Seafood Feast Bonfire here.

We've gotta do that again sometime.

quote of the day

Found here.

"Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman Arlen Specter, R-Pa., bristled at Supreme Court decisions that he said had undermined congressional authority, and he asked Alito whether it was appropriate for the courts to declare laws unconstitutional because of Congress'"method of reasoning."

"I think that Congress' ability to reason is fully equal to that of the judiciary," Alito said.

I agree wholeheartedly. They're both equally fucked up.

the right tool

I'm getting sick and tired of steve H. writing post after post about his goddam work bench. Who gives a shit? Once he gets his Bench of the Wonder-Gods set up, he'll probably cut a finger off with a table saw and blog for a fricking week about that, then put the bench in a corner where it will quietly rot from neglect.

He ought to stick with cooking, making home brew, fucking with Nigerian scammers and poking sharp sticks into Pajama Media's eye. He's good at that.

He needs to get one of these and be done with it. That way he can just smash a finger instead of cutting one off.

i don't believe it

This story blows my mind. The guilty person is on my blogroll. I've corresponded with him (and his new bride) for almost the entire life of my blog.

12 years in jail for child molestation.


sheer coincidence

Those were HOMELESS people! EVACUEES! Innocent citizens displaced by a natural disaster! They weren't a bunch of criminal thugs.

This is sheer coincidence.

contempt of congress

If you aren't already convinced that our government is run by a bunch of preening, over-inflated gasbags, just watch the Alito hearings for a while. Sweet Bejus! I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

One fact is obvious: if these babbling senators are the best and the brightest this country has to offer, we're in deep shit as a nation.

Says who?

I love it when some nimrod comes up with a "worst" and "best" list of things ethical and makes me think he's got some pretty screwed-up idea of ethics. Just check this one. Can you say "leftist asshole?" Good. I KNEW you could.

In the "worst" category?

1. President Bush-- for manipulating the law to allow spying on American citizens.

That one right there kinda lets you know where this guy is coming from. The SHOCK! The HORROR! The BULLSHIT!

7. Exxon -- for ignoring shareholders' resolutions calling for it to admit carbon emissions lead to global warming (and to effect change that would promote alternative energy).

Good grief. Another environmental whack-job who believes that global warming is real, that it's caused by man-made C02 emmissions and that "alternative energy" is the solution to a problem that doesn't exist. He needs a windmill stuck up his ass.

In the "best" category?

3. The New York Times -- for owning up to its journalistic breaches and launching, albeit not perfectly, a query into its internal controls and editing procedures for all of us to see and read.

BWHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!! Excuse me. I just blew apple juice all over my computer. Yeah, the New York Times certainly has proved itself to be a fine example of journalistic ethics, if half-truths, news-twisting and outright lies count as ethics. I think their NSA story borders on treason. And they owned up to their "journalistic breaches" only after they were caught with their pants down and their buns in the wind. Ethics, my Cracker ass. agenda is more like it.

4. Cindy Sheehan, the mother of a soldier killed in Iraq -- for being stalwart against ugly criticism of her war protests and exemplifying free speech in America.

Okay, now I just PUKED all over my keyboard. Cindy Sheehan is a self-aggrandizing ghoul who richly deserved her place as the #1 asshole of 2005 on my list. The woman is a disgrace to the memory of her son and a true winged dingbat.

I won't bother with his selection of George Loony Clooney as an ethical paragon. That's too much like shooting fish in a barrel.

I'm just surprised that the guy didn't choose Saddam Hussein as one of the "best."

no bitchin' here

My former house guest called me to say that she arrived back home safe and sound. She said that she had a great visit and wanted me to thank everybody for being so nice to her while she was here. Heh. I COULD be really nasty and say that she doesn't get to meet a lot of really nice, polite, hospitable people where she lives, because she is SURROUNDED BY YANKEES. But I won't say that. (I'll just THINK it.)

She also amused me by bitching about how COLD it was back home. (Nineteen degrees with deep snow on the ground.) Heh, again. She spent ten days down here calling us Southerners a buncha wussies because we bundled up when the temperature dropped below fifty degrees while she ran around in a tee shirt. If she's cold now, it serves her right.

I'm going to conduct a non-scientific survey here. Today, in Rincon, Georgia, the temperature was 75 degrees with a light breeze (3mph) out of the southeast. Except for a few fluffy cumulous clouds resembling cotton balls floating lazily above, the sky was blue. It was a sunglasses and shirt-sleeves kind of day. Hell, it's just after midnight now and the temperature is 59 degrees.

That's what I like about the South.

What was YOUR weather like today?

January 10, 2006

i love it, too

I seldom have good things to say about yankee states--- especially not those in New England--- but I've got to give a hearty "Damn Good Job!" to New Hampshire. I guess that the state motto of "Live Free or Die" still means something to citizens there.

The idea of government confiscating guns from law-abiding citizens during a time of crisis (or any OTHER time, for that matter) is repugnant to me. It's also foolish. When a disaster creates chaos, law enforcement breaks down and looters are enjoying a field day, having a gun just might save your life. It's your Constitutional right to have one, and government has NO RIGHT to take it away because some bureaucrat ginned up a piss-poor excuse to do so.

I hope more states follow this fine example.


Bejus on a broken bicycle! I've seen some disgusting pornography on the internet, but this takes the cake. It's the most obscene site I've ever visited. I feel unclean now, as if my skin is coated with something horribly vile and putrid. I'm gonna go take a shower, scrub myself with a Brillo pad and gargle with Lysol.

Damn you, you perverted woman for steering me to such an foul and ugly place. I don't care if you ARE blonde and probably have pretty feet with red toenails. I hate you anyway.


pump me up!

No, not THAT pump! Let Roscoe sleep. Sorry. I was about to digress along the wrong tangent...

I checked out this site and received 3716 ego points. That's a better pump to the old self-esteem than a promotion in the TTLB Ecosystem rankings. I have no idea whether that's a high score or not, but it felt good to me.

Link shamelessly stolen from here.

technical question

The picture of the one-eyed cat below uses 15.2 KB of space, at width 379, height 295. Pictures straight from my camera come out at 460 KB, 1280 X 960.

If I change the height and width of MY pictures (just by changing the height and width to 400 X 300) so that it appears on my page about the same size as the picture of the one-eyed cat, the damn thing STILL uses 460 KB of space. What the hell causes that? How do I change THAT?

When all you wonderful people sent me resized versions of the new picture on my sidebar, every one took up less than 10 KB each. I want to be able to do that myself. my yankee house guest met my 94 year-old grandmother and some of the rest of my family during her visit and she took some wonderful pictures. I want to post a few if I can get them to where they don't suck a ton of bandwidth.

I'm thinking about buying Photoshop as a new toy, just to see what I can do with that. But there must be an easier way, other than making all the pictures thumbnails and having people click to enlarge them. I am open to suggestions.

Just remember that you're dealing with a complete computer fucktard here. Keep it simple, please.

cat mutation



Or, ONE EYE, in this case. That's a picture of the new and improved fucked-up feline, coming soon to your neighborhood, and ideal for true cat-lovers. The single eye in the front matches the one in the back they like to show you when they walk. When these babies grow up, cats will look just as disgusting coming as they do going.

I shamelessly stole the picture from this guy, who says it all in the motto at the top of his blog: "small brush shouldn’t fuck with big timber"

You've gotta like that.

They stink

I went to watch my son play a basketball game tonight. I was very proud of him. He scored one-fourth of his team's points! Of course, he made only one basket in a 29-8 loss, but it sounds better if I say he scored 1/4 of his team's points.

His team is not very good. They've got no height, no speed, no good shooters (except for my boy--- he was 1 for 2 tonight, and that's 50% from the floor) no ball handlers, no rebounders and a coach who doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. I think I could do a better job with those boys, but that's easy for me to say while sitting in the stands.

I also saw my ex-wife's next hostage tonight. Wow. The guy must be rich or hung like a horse, because he looks like Fido's ass to me. The skinny, bald-headed bastard appears to be older than I am, too. I'll bet he's dazzled by that young pussy, if you can call 40 year-old pussy young, and he probably does at his age. (I did when she was 28 and I was 40.) I just hope he's good to Quinton.

I'm going to watch my boy play again tomorrow night and I'm gonna try to take some pictures. I also plan to introduce myself to Jennifer's new victim beau. I'll be polite; I just want him to know who I am.

Poor guy. He doesn't know what he's getting into.

Guns and gals

I didn't write it, but I'm gonna post it.

Top Ten Reasons Why Men Prefer Guns Over Women

#10. You can trade an old 44 for a new 22.

#9. You can keep one gun at home and have another for when you’re on the road.

#8. If you admire a friend’s gun and tell him so, he will probably let you try it out a few times.

#7. Your primary gun doesn’t mind if you keep another gun for a backup.

#6. Your gun will stay with you even if you run out of ammo.

#5. A gun doesn’t take up a lot of closet space.

#4. Guns function normally every day of the month.

#3. A gun doesn’t ask , “Do these new grips make me look fat?”

#2. A gun doesn’t mind if you go to sleep after you use it.

And the number one reason a gun is favored over a woman....



My comments appear to be broken. They were working last night, so I don't know what the problem may be. I'm going to apply my technical expertise to the problem and do what I usually do when something like this happens.

I'll hope that it fixes itself.

happens all the time

What is it about some athletes who are blessed with talent other men would trade a testicle for but who can't seem to keep their shit in one sock? Stories such as this one always disturb me. WTF is WRONG with this guy?

Of course, the pros probably will take him anyway and pay him big bucks to play in the NFL. But I predict that he will fuck up there, too. He's a thug. Pay him a lot of money and all you get is a rich thug. You can't buy self-control, and I don't think he has any.

The guy needs to be dragged off and shot for blowing an opportunity very few people ever have.

January 09, 2006


Go read this, but keep a puke-bucket handy. Unless I'm missing some really important facts about the case, here's an example of a judge who needs to be dragged off and shot removed from the bench.

Of course, this simply cannot be the miscarriage of justice that it appears to be. It happened in the smartest state in the Union.

And just imagine what a "smart" judge could do with this piece of shit legislation. Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can get you sent to prison if you anonymously "annoy" someone on the internet. I'd LOVE to see that punishment applied to a few trolls who visit me, but I still think it's terrible law. Define "annoy."

Besides--- if I had it to do over again, this blog would be written anonymously, for two very good reasons: It cost me my job and then was used against me by my ex-wife as evidence for a restraining order. I wish certain people didn't know who I am.

But I'll be damned if I'll write while trying to keep from annoying anybody. What's the fun in that?


I like these billboards. Especially the one about cell phones.

Prostate problems

I hope he's fretting over nothing. Reading that post brought back some very unpleasant memories for me.

...depending on the results of the bloodwork, I may have to go in for a prostate biopsy. That’s no fun, from what I hear.

I wrote about having a prostate biopsy, but the post is buried somewhere 'waaaaay back in my old archives. Let's just say that the procedure involves having a urologist ram something that resembles a Big Bertha driver 'waaaaay back up into your archives. The pseudo golf club has an ultrasound camera and a needle gun built in.

The doctor pulls a trigger on the grip of his anal probe to launch that needle into your prostate for a tissue sample. The probe makes a "KAPOW! sound with every shot, while he watches the show on TV. You lie on a table with your knees pulled up to your chest and try not to scream. My doctor shot me eight times. It was no fun at all.

(Heh. I Googled "prostate biopsy+enema+kapow" and found my old post. It's here if you care to read it.)

I wish Donnie the best of luck, and I sincerely hope that his problem goes away WITHOUT the need to have a Big Bertha needle-gun shoved up his ass and fired. But it WOULD be fun to watch. BWHAHAHAHAHA!

Just kidding, Donnie. I wouldn't wish that shit on anybody.

gotta have it!

As far back as I can remember, I've loved gazing at the stars. I can identify a lot of the constellations, and I know where to look to find the Big Dipper. I've owned several star maps in my life, and studied them.

Now, I can have one of these. Holy Moley!!! Is that thing cool, or what?

Strange day

I took my house guest to the airport in Jacksonville today and sent her home, back to the frozen, tundra-blotted wasteland of northern Wisconsin. I don't know if this crap is typical of all airlines today (I haven't flown in more than a year), but the check-in service at United was terrible.

I was beginning to wonder if she would miss her flight while standing in line. We had intended to eat at the airport, but by the time she got to the counter and received her boarding pass, it was straight to the gate from there. In a hurry, too.

She may be a total outcast when she returns to her native lands, because a lot of Southerners have worked hard trying to teach her to talk right. If any of our lessons stuck, people back home are gonna think she talks funny. If that happens and she tells 'em, "Y'all kin jes kiss my Cracker ass," I'll be proud of her.

When I got back home myself, I found a package leaning against my front door. I saw the return address and was relieved. Loyal reader Alaska Kim sent me an email a week ago asking, "Did you get the present?" I was taken aback. What present?

I was hesitant to answer no, because I received a LOT of mail at Willingway and during the holidays. Maybe I DID get the present and just didn't remember it. THAT would be a terrible thing to tell somebody, so I stalled about answering. Now, I can truthfully say, "Yes. I got your present and I LOVE it! Thank you, Alaska Kim."

It's a hand-made comforter, very soft and warm. I stretched out on my couch to check it out and promptly fell asleep. That thing has the Acidman seal of approval.

I was awakened by the telephone ringing.

Let's get one thing straight. I am not a religious man. I do not believe in God. But I DO believe in extra-sensory perception. I don't know how it works, but I know it's real. I KNEW who was calling, just as sure as I know my own name. And I knew that it wasn't my house guest telling me that she made it to Chicago safe and sound on the first leg of her journey. I don't have caller ID, either. I simply KNEW!

I was correct, too. Has that sort of thing ever happened to you? Did you ever get a "shining" about something that was about to happen and have it unfold just the way you KNEW it would? (Or am I just crazy as a shithouse rat?) That's what happened today, and it was not the first time for me. It was a fitting part for strange day.

By the way... the phone call was VERY good news.

January 08, 2006

soap opera

I did something today that I haven't done for a while--- I deleted a bunch of comments on my blog. Yes, dear friends, the assholes are out in full force this new year.

If the commenters would content themselves with trying to insult ME, I would have no problem with them. They can call me racist, homosexual, red-necked, ignorant, ugly, impotent or anything else they want to. They obviously mistake ME for someone who gives a shit what they think.

If calling me an alcoholic is supposed to hurt, well... I'm sorry. It doesn't. I AM an alcoholic. I just don't drink alcohol anymore. (Today makes 80 days with no alcohol. I don't intend to drink tomorrow, either. But I'll ALWAYS be an alcoholic, even if I manage to stay sober the rest of my life.)

So, go as low as you want to go in insulting me. I've been called a lot worse than anything a shithead troll can think up and it didn't kill me. I believe that I can survive whatever these pinheads fart in my direction this time, too.

But leave my daughter and my friends out of it. I won't allow those comments to last long here.

what's your sign?

Here's another email I received today on the post about resizing a new picture for my sidebar.

How are we supposed to know what your email is?

I have your image converted. Where should I send it?

I'm not going to mention any names here. I'm just going to attempt to walk the person through the difficult steps involved in sending me an email when I didn't put an address in the post.

1) Look at my page. Pay special attention to the top left-hand corner.

2) Where it says, "EMAIL ME."

3) Click on that link.

4) See what pops up? Good. Email me.

5) Be sure to click "send" when you are finished.

If these instruction are too difficult to follow, just email me and I'll... wait a minute. How are you supposed to know what my email is?

Never mind. This just ain't EVER gonna work!

sincere apology


I received this missive in my email today:

By having to mention that someone you don't like is a Jew is making yourself into as big an asshole as the person who has offended you. You are no better.

I have no clue what Cathy McMullen is talking about, but I damn sure don't want to make ANYBODY angry. So, if you are a Jew that I don't like, I humbly apologize for mentioning that you are a Jew and having no recollection of EVER doing that. I probably still don't like you, but next time, I'll call you a Mick, a Wop, a Spic, a Chink, a Greaser, a Slope, a Cracker, a Polack or something forbidden that starts with the letter "N."

Feel better now, cunt Cathy?

time for a change

I want to change the old picture of the shirtless me on my sidebar and replace it with the picture posted here. The old picture was taken in August of 2002, on the balcony of a hotel at Daytona Beach during an afternoon thundershower. The picture above was taken last night.

As you can see, Father Time has kicked my ass during the past few years and I don't want to pretend to be someone I'm not on this blog. The only problem is, the new picture is 640 X 480 and it eats up a LOT of bandwidth. I don't know how to resize it to 85 X 118, which is what I need for the sidebar.

My patient and all-knowing shepherd of lost sheep sent me an email months ago telling me how to resize pictures, but this lost sheep misplaced the instructions, so I remain lost and bleating. Piteously. Hopelessly. Fucktardedly.

Can anybody tell me how to do what I want to do? If so, email me the instructions or put them in the comments, and I'll give it a shot. I'm going to delete this post after a couple of days, because it's going to be hell to load on dial-up connections. The picture is too damned BIG, even though I DO look like a handsome, though somewhat battered, rascal there. How do I shrink it and get it on the sidebar?

Anybody wanna help a computer idiot?

January 07, 2006

four the hell of it

Everybody else is doing it, so I'm gonna do it, too.

Four jobs you’ve had in your life: Burger-flipper, cookie-maker (Byrd's Famous Cookies, no less), semi-professional musician, manufacturing supervisor

Four movies you could [and do] watch over and over: True Grit, The Wild Bunch, A Clockwork Orange, The Outlaw Josey Wales

Four places you’ve lived: Louellen, Kentucky; Savannah, Georgia; Athens, Georgia; Rincon, Georgia

Four fiction books you can’t live without: Catch-22, Joseph Heller; Earth Abides, George R. Stewart; The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, Robert A. Heinlein; Lonesome Dove, Larry McMurtry

Four non-fiction books you consider essential: Midway, Cornelius Ryan; To Hell and Back, Audie Murphy; Inside the Third Reich, Albert Speer; The Norton Anthology of Poetry.

Four TV shows you love to watch: Gunsmoke reruns; The Sopranos; Modern Marvels (the History Channel); The Bluebird Cafe

Four places you’ve been on vacation: St. Martin, Jamaica, Costa Rica, Lake Tahoe

Four websites you visit daily: Instapundit; Hog on Ice; The Other Side of Kim; Everybody on the "Bloggers I've Met" list

Four of your favorite foods: Blood-rare steak, shrimp any way you cook 'em, barbecued pork spare ribs, corned beef & cabbage

Four places you’d rather be: Jaco Beach, Costa Rica; Key West, Florida; in bed asleep; anywhere in the mountains.

Four albums you can’t live without: Great Days, John Prine; Old Dan's Records, Gordon Lightfoot; Crosby, Stills & Nash; Hold to a Dream, Newgrass Revival

Well... that was fun...


Earlier this week, I slept pretty good for a couple of nights. That was fun while it lasted, but I'm back on the insomnia bandwagon now, even with a woman in my bed. She's gonna start thinking that I'm a goddam vampire if I keep this up.

(And I don't want any smartass quips about keeping something "up," either. That's no problem with my bionics. My withered ass wears out long before my front does anymore. It's sleeplessness that is no fun.)

So, I think I'm gonna take a stroll down the blogroll and toss out some gratituous linkage while I wait for the sun to rise. I think I'll start by trying out this idea:

If it weren't for these people I might just believe that that I was crazy. I once thought I knew The Truth. This woman explained exactly what I believe. I believe that this post started the dung-ball rolling.

The book I've been working on (until my old computer crashed and ate almost everything I had written) was a compilation of blog-posts, linked by some narrative in between the posts. I can't figure out how to make a permalink to the post, so I'll just provide this link and say that I had no hard feelings towards you whatsoever, darlin.' I agree, just from looking at the fish when I've gaffed one.

I've been invited to a couple of blog-meets this fall. I am tired. ...and he wasn't even there at the time. I always knew that this guy was bent in a strange direction. “Sphincter” would be a better name.

I'll be damned. That collection of the first line from the last post of every month in 2005 makes about as much sense as anything else I write.

maybe I need one

Growing old is a real bitch. Among the many disturbing differences I've noticed in my body, the changes in my hair are the most mystifying. Why is it that---

1) As the hair grows thinner on my head, it grows thicker in my eyebrows and ears.

2) I think it's getting thicker in my nostrils, too.

3) During my football-playing days, I shaved the hair on my legs from mid-calf down to allow for painless ankle-taping. Now that part of my legs appears shaven all the time, as if I'm wearing skin-tone socks.

4) The hair on my body (including my pubic growth) is as dark as it ever was, while the hair on my head (including my beard and moustache) is gray. I'd like to think that I'm still young from the neck down, but that ain't so.

5) Several years ago, I noticed a single black hair sprouting from the bridge of my nose. I never had that before, but it grows right back every time I shave it or pluck it out.

Maybe I should visit a good tonsorial parlor and try this.

quote of the day

I know the feeling:

So the next time you stop by the Dax Files and read about some fucked up shit that happens. Keep your self righteous email and comments to your fucking self, because I’ve read the unadulterated bullshit on your Blog, and from here your shit stinks. You God damned self absorbed crotchfruit excuse for a human being. Go fuck yourself because I have enough shit to deal with just getting through my day without your small minded shit stained tongue rot dripping from the ass crack excuse for a thought in my inbox. Prick!

What can I say? The man is eloquent.


I am tempted to steal his idea and start selecting my own "Asshole of the Week" from my comments. I get plenty to choose from.

I agree with Denny's pick for this week. Some cretin named "Rex," who obviously masturbates excessively, keenly observes that Denny has no life and no real friends. Rex probably knows EXACTLY what that feels like; Denny doesn't.

I believe that any guitar (and kazoo) player who regularly goes snow skiing, scuba diving and wine tasting in between attending blog-meets and tooling around in a BMW convertable sports car has more of a life than Rex does. And friends? Denny has plenty of those, including ME.

Not bad for a grouchy old cripple in Atlanta.

January 06, 2006

holes in the ground

I took my yankee house guest to Savannah Beach today. Gray clouds rolled in and the temperature dropped while we drove out there. By the time we arrived, the wind was gusting and the idea of walking the beach didn't strike my fancy. I believe that the yankee was willing to go swimming--- due to the brain-retardation effects of ice, snow and frozen tundra where she lives--- but I vetoed that idea.

We ate lunch instead.

I ordered a dozen raw oysters on the half-shell for an appetizer. She tried ONE oyster. She popped it into her mouth, made a hideous face, rolled her blue eyes in horror, gagged mightily and spit the oyster back onto its shell. (I don't think she liked it.) I ate the other eleven. I thought they were pretty good, even with sweet tea instead of beer to wash them down.

After lunch, I gave her a scenic tour of Tybee Island and then drove to bonaventure cemetary so she could see the ancient live oak trees streaming with Spanish moss and the impressive monuments marking the grave sites. That really is a beautiful place.

When we left there, she needed to use the bathroom, so I turned down the road that leads to Forest Lawn, another cemetary right next to Bonaventure. I knew that the front office there had a bathroom. I knew because Forest Lawn is where Mama and Daddy and Papaw are buried.

I've never gone back to visit their graves since their funerals. That's just not something I do. But I did it today. With a chill wind blowing off the marsh, I stood under a slate-gray sky and looked down at the markers in the ground. Clarence Abner. Robert Smith. Elva Smith. My family.

Livey took a picture of the markers and asked if I wanted my picture taken with them. I said no. The plastic flowers had blown out of the vase on Mama's grave. Livey found them on the ground nearby and replaced them. That was a nice gesture, but it was only a gesture. All flowers blow away eventually.

The people I knew and loved aren't there in the cemetary. Those are just three holes dug in the ground and then filled with dirt again, nothing more, and no different from the thousands of other holes dug in the ground and filled with dirt again around them.

I said, "Let's head back to the Crackerbox," and we left. We both were quiet on the ride home.

I don't think I'll go back to that cemetary any time soon.

dogs vs. cats

Cat lovers may adore their haughty, French-acting felines, but I prefer dogs. Cats act as if they're doing you a favor by living in your house, eating storebought food, clawing furniture to shreds, pissing on curtains and shitting in potted plants. Take really good care of them and they'll display their gratitude by hacking up a hairball on your carpet.

Let's see a got-dam cat do something like this:

"The dog approached her owner, who was lying on the ground in a pool of blood, and saw the infant... she snatched up the baby's leg with her mouth and rescued him from drowning," she said. [...] "...the boy finally breathed and cried out after the dog licked him on the face..."

Can you see a CAT doing that? I'm trying to visualize it in my mind's eye... Naw... Can't see it. All I can see is a cat walking away with its tail in the air while thinking, "Fuck this crap. None of MY business. I ain't gettin' involved."

The only thing that would bother a cat about this incident is the fact that nobody was around to open the door so that it could go outside and kill baby birds.

(UPDATE: Loyal reader Brian Cost sent me this link to prove, once again, that cats can't be trusted. Especially beware of the ones that scream and attack dogs.)

say it ain't so!


Mark Twain is one of my favorite writers. I truly idolized the man until I read these quotes. Now I can't sleep.

Mark Twain was a cat-lover? Say it ain't so!

makes me feel secure

You just can't be too careful today. Terrorists may assume ANY kind of disguise in their bloodthirsty quest to kill infidels. A really cunning terrorist may even appear to be a four year-old boy.

Thank Bejus we have highly-trained, hyper-alert, hard-nosed and half-witted security personnel on the lookout for such sublime trickery.
I know that I certainly feel safer knowing that absolute dingbats are in charge of protecting me.

``I know the government is trying to protect because of the terrorist attacks, but common sense should play a role in it,'' Allen said. ``I don't think he should go through the trouble of being harassed and hindered.''

What kind of idiotic statement is THAT? Government should use common sense and innocent people shouldn't be harassed and hindered? Give me a break. What the hell does Allen think government DOES, anyway? If government displayed common sense and stopped harrassing and hindering innocent people, we wouldn't have the bloated, humongous government we have.

Even nitwits need a job. What better place for them than in government?

January 05, 2006


Wow! Talk about a good football game? The Rose Bowl was exactly that: A see-saw nail-biter that went right down to the wire. I was rooting for Texas all the way, too, which made the outcome perfect.

My house guest fell out unconscious on my couch sometime during the 3rd quarter. I, on the other hand, experienced another bout of insomnia and stayed awake until almost 5:00 this morning. I let my guest sleep, because she was tired from working her ass off cleaning my pig sty house experiencing the many acts of chivalry and adoration that I showered upon her during the day.

How does she reward my Southern hospitality and my constant consideration? She calls me a faggot!. Just damn!

(UPDATE: Heh. I think she's changed her mind....)

I am not alone

I see that at least one other person shares my opinion of cats. I think he's being charitable when he calls cats "the devil's spawn."

Cats are MUCH worse than that...

the gentle, nurturing sex

All men are swine. Just ask any feminist and she'll tell you what rotten bastards we all are. In some cases, she would be correct, too. But men seldom do anything like this.

That's wimmen's work.

bwhahaha! a sad story

How could this possibly happen? The man is a lunatic FILLED with leftist bullshit compassion. HE'S not supposed to be robbed by street thugs! He CARES about such people.

"I have no animosities," Barry declared. "I don't even want you prosecuted, really. I love you..."

"There is a sort of an unwritten code in Washington, among the underworld and the hustlers and these other guys, that I am their friend..."

"When I go home in the evening or come out in the morning or weekend, the young people are all over me, asking for money, begging for money. 'Give me a dollar. Give me five dollars...' So I try to make a practice of making them work for what they get."

"I just let them in. That's how we do it over there. At least that's how I do it..."

"I was a little hurt that this betrayal did happen."

This story reminds me of something I heard years ago. A couple of young idealists were about to go swimming in a creek in Africa when someone warned them that the creek was full of crocodiles. "That's okay," one of the young idealists replied. "We're with the Peace Corps." They went swimming. Crocodiles killed and ate them.

I'll bet that they, too, were a little hurt that such a "betrayal" occurred.

Being in the Peace Corps doesn't mean jack-shit to a hungry crocodile. The croc will eat you anyway. Being a leftist politician doesn't mean jack-shit to a street thug. He will rob you anyway. That's just the way crocs and street thugs are, and no amount of compassion is EVER gonna change that fact.

Anybody who believes any differently is living in a dream world.


This is a good story. He's right about moonshine burning with an almost invisible flame, too.

My grandfather never used his moonshine to run a tractor. (He plowed with a mule in his farming days.) Papaw made his 'shine strictly for medicinal purposes--- such as treating colds, easing muscle aches, warding off chills or pitching a good, therapudic, hillbilly drunk until you passed out curing insomnia. It worked on just about anything.

The good stuff still does, too.

all my children

Here's an interesting page. Looks like I've sowed a few wild oats in blogdom and done some begettin.' I'm proud of every one of my kids, too, even this one.

Scurillous rumors are flying throughout blogdom. Some people say that I kidnapped her from Catfish Manor and carried her off to the Crackerbox, where I made her my sex slave. These rumors are FALSE!!! Sure... I kidnapped her from Catfish manor--- but I DID NOT make her my sex slave.

I turned her into a scullery maid and got my house cleaned.

January 04, 2006

Calling michael newdow

California isn't the only place that's home to an athiest asshole. Italy has one, too.

An Italian court is tackling Jesus -- and whether the Roman Catholic Church may be breaking the law by teaching that he existed 2,000 years ago.

The case pits against each other two men in their 70s, who are from the same central Italian town and even went to the same seminary school in their teenage years.

The defendant, Enrico Righi, went on to become a priest writing for the parish newspaper. The plaintiff, Luigi Cascioli, became a vocal atheist who, after years of legal wrangling, is set to get his day in court later this month.

Just damn! As an athiest, I wish these self-aggrandizing bastards would just STF up and get a real life. All Newdow and Cascioli prove is that sanctimonious bullshittery is NOT confined to any religion. Nobody is forcing them to worship anything. Quit bitching.

Some people just don't have enough to do.

think you're dumb?

If you think you're dumb, just read this and cheer up. You're not THAT dumb.

You're NOT.... are you?

pure coincidence

I am certain that the woman had NO ulterior motives for running against her soon-to-be ex-husband in a political race. No, it's just pure coincidence. Wimmen don't do vindictive things in a divorce. They are, after all, the gentle, nurturing sex.

Speaking of the gentle, nurturing sex, I discovered where my son has been for Christmas and his birthday. He was right here in Rincon, Georgia! My darling bloodless cunt ex-wife shacked up with her fiancee for the holidays and took Quinton with her. According to HER, she tried to get my son to call me, but he wouldn't do it, because he is "afraid" of me.

That's damn sure news to me, but my ex-wife wouldn't lie, the slut. Somehow, between the last time I saw Quinton, when he seemed genuinely pleased to see me, and now, after he's been MIA for two weeks, he has become deathly frightened of me. It must be true because that's what my ex-wife says, and she wouldn't lie, the slut.

Bejus. This shit is never going to end.

No, I'm not dead

I spent most of yesterday and last night at catfish manor. The party was a quiet affair, with NO firearms discharged, NO guitars played, NO seafood eaten and NO big fire blazed outside after sundown. The atmosphere was somber--- almost funerial--- and nobody got drunk.

Okay, I lied about all that somber crap. At least I didn't get drunk. I stuck with ice water as my beverage of choice for the entire affair. But I was NOT bashful about attacking the food. All in all, I think it was a fine gathering.

Attendees included: this guy, this guy, this woman, and this woman, all of whom I had met before. Recondo 32, his lovely wife Georgia and my friend Willy were there, too.

I also had the pleasure of meeting this guy (whose name just happens to BE "Guy,") and this woman for the first time. It was a fine party, even though nobody got drunk enough to get nekkid and fall in the fire.

Bloggers are a fun bunch to be around. Pictures will follow.

(UPDATE: I'll tell you what: Don't believe everything you read.)

(Another update: Pictures here.)

(ANOTHER update: More pictures here.)

January 02, 2006

i ain't believin' this

I don't like cats. I don't like a damn THING about cats. Cats are haughty, rotten, selfish, cold-blooded killers that ALL need to be dragged off and shot.

I don't think cats really like people, either. They just USE people for free meals and a warm place to sleep. Piss a cat off and it will shit in your bed. On purpose, the no-good bastard.

That's why I have a problem believing this story. A cat might call 911 to save its OWN ass, but it ain't gonna lift a paw to help anyone else. That's just the way cats are, kinda like the French. Ungrateful shits.

A dog probably made that call and the cat just took credit for it.

THIS is more like a cat:

A Cat's Diary (sent to me by Ruth Moran)

DAY 752
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture. Tomorrow I may eat another houseplant.

DAY 761
Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded. I must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repel these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair... must try this on their bed.

DAY 765
Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body, in an attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was. Hmmm... Not working according to plan.

DAY 768
I am finally aware of how sadistic they are. For no good reason I was chosen for the water torture. This time however, it included a burning foamy chemical called "shampoo." What sick minds could invent such a liquid? My only consolation is the piece of thumb still stuck between my teeth.

DAY 770
There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell the foul odor of the glass tubes they call "beer." More importantly, I overheard that my confinement was due to my power of "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.

DAY 773
I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird, on the other hand, has got to be an informant and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room, his safety is assured. But I can wait, it is only a matter of time...

January 01, 2006

not exactly buck fever

That was a damn good shot.


When her state has been trashed by a natural disaster, what else is a governor to do but spend $564,838 renovating her staff's offices? You gotta have some priorities, by gawd, and you gotta have "two flat screen televisions, Swedish granite countertops, walnut paneling and frosted laminated glass," too.

Shortly after the two hurricanes, Gov. Kathleen Blanco decided to renovate some of her staff's offices. At the time of her decision, Blanco also was hinting at deep budget cuts to state programs and the possibility of laying off 20 percent of the state workforce.

Yeah, times are hard and we've got to cut back somewhere. Just not on the plush offices. THOSE are too important.

My aching ass. You know what's REALLY disgusting about this story? It's typical of government EVERYWHERE, not just Louisiana. Hell, it ain't THEIR money they're spending. It's only tax dollars, and for all the hard work they do with such amazing competence, these bureaucrats DESERVE fine offices, where they can decide in luxury how to cut the budget.

Concerned about the perception of fixing up their office space while slashing others' spending, Jimmy Clarke, Blanco's chief of staff, said Friday the governor's top aides considered not fixing the 6th floor.

But the sixth floor project was bid six days before Hurricane Katrina came ashore near Buras on Aug. 29. Clarke said he became concerned that the state could be sued successfully if the restoration project were shut down.

See? His hands were tied!!! They HAD to spend the money!!! My ass, again.

This kind of crap is why I do not pay my taxes gladly, without pissing and moaning about it.


"Mommie" is what I call my 94 year-old grandmother. I picked that name myself, too, when I was a wee toddler of a lad. Everybody wanted me to call her "Mamaw," but I was having none of that shit, even as a wee toddler of a lad. I decided that she was MOMMIE, and I wasn't about to change my mind.

See? I was a budding Acidman when I was still crapping in my diaper. I came out of the box with a bad attitude.

I was her first grandchild, my name for her stuck, and now FOUR GENERATIONS of spawn call her "Mommie." Personally, I think I done GOOD picking that name for her. It fits perfectly.

I paid her a visit today. We talked for a while and then walked next door to my mama's house to visit with my Uncle George and Aunt Doris, who are staying there to kinda keep an eye on Mommie. Hey--- my grandmother is SPRY--- but she IS 94 years old, going blind and never had a driver's license in her life. She needs somebody to run errands for her.

My uncles and their wives are taking turns staying at mama's house to do exactly that. I have a really outstanding family on my mama's side. (I can't say the same about Dad's family, but that's a subject for a different post.)

When I got ready to go home, Mommie said, "Wait just a minute. I've got something I want to give you," and off she went, out the door and back toward her house. My Aunt Doris stood at the window and watched her scurry next door.

"Would you just look at her?" Aunt Doris asked. "I'm 22 years younger than she is and I don't get around like that."

It's true, too. Mommie still motors pretty damn good today. I'll bet she was a real pisscutter in her youth.

I walked over to her house to see what she was up to. She was rummaging around in the cupboard, where she located a plastic jar filled with Frito's Barbecued Corn Chips. She offered them to me. "Do you like corn chips? I think these are pretty good. Take 'em home with you."

I thanked her and accepted her gift. Mommie still has that sense of hillbilly hospitality working in her, and she's gonna either feed you or give you some food to go when you visit her, even if all she has to offer is a stale biscuit. She'd be insulted if you didn't take it.

She is one hell of a woman... and guess what? I'm eating those corn chips as I write. Mommie was right, too.

They ARE pretty good.

it'll work

A Crossman pellet rifle is a handy thing to have. If I owned one, it probably would be a Pumpmaster Model 760 with a cheap Wal-Mart scope on it. I've often thought about buying one of those just to knock squirrels out of my bird feeders and discourage cats from raiding mockingbird nests in my back yard.

I've heard that if you pump one of those rifles 10 times, the .177 pellet will kill a squirrel, and if you pump it five times, it will sting the hell out of a cat's ass and make the cat fall out of a tree. Not that I actually would shoot a cute, fuzzy-tailed pillaging rat squirrel or a sweet, darling asswipe bird-molester cat, even if I DID own a Crossman .177 pellet rifle with a cheap Wal-Mart scope on it.

Those guns can be dangerous, and I don't want no kinda dangerous shit around my Crackerbox.

damn her!

My father died on October 12, 1992. Columbus Day. I remember the date well. That was two weeks before I married Jennifer and 14 months before Quinton was born. My father never saw his grandson, and even worse, his grandson never knew him.

After more than 13 years, I still think about my father a lot, and a week seldom passes when I don't dream about him. He was the most influential person in my life. To this day, when I think about what makes a real "man," I remember my father. Even though I frequently find myself falling short of his mark, he remains the yardstick by which I measure myself as a man.

Damn Lil Toni for writing this post. I got all teary-eyed and snot-nosed when I read it. You should read it yourself.

What the hell--- everybody needs a good cry to start the new year.

(Ummm... lest I lead you astray, not ALL of her posts are heart-rending and sentimental. Some of them are downright...nasty!. She goes on the blogroll. I LIKE spicy Southern wimmen.)