March 31, 2006
i'll be sorry
I just couldn't stand it anymore. I worked on my garden today.
I took it nice and easy, going slowly and being careful not to hurt myself. I managed to spread another layer of fertilizer and plant four rows of Silver Queen corn, a row of potatoes, and two rows of green beans. I also have 24 okra plants, 12 tomato plants, a bunch of bell peppers, some crookneck squash, zuccinni, cucumber and banana peppers to stick in the ground tomorrow. I think I have room to work some melons in there, too.
Just the little bit of doing that I accomplished today hurt my belly and sent me hobbling off to wash down a couple of Pepcid tablets with some milk to put the fire out. (I save my painkillers for night time, or when I'm hurting particularly badly.) When I walked back into the Crackerbox this afternoon, I kept looking back over my shoulder to see if I was dragging any intestines on the ground behind me. It felt like I was...
I don't care if I WILL be sore and sorry tomorrow. Looking out my kitchen window every day at that tilled piece of land laying bare was driving me crazy. I never did get a load of compost from Mama's house, nor did I ever set all my landscape timbers, but I simply couldn't wait any longer. I declared my garden officially started today.
Once I get the other stuff in the ground tomorrow, I'll set up my sprinklers in strategic locations and just watch it grow. A land of milk and honey! Bounty from generous Mother Nature! Food I grew all by myself!
And best of all, it's all FREE--- except for the $200 or so I spent on seed, plants, fertilizer, cow shit, sprinklers, a new shovel, landscape timbers, a short-handled weeding rake, a "Y" fitting so that I can run two sets of sprinklers at once and the gallon of Roundup I purchased to start the entire process. Other than THAT investment, combined with hours of my own sweat, the garden is free.
I don't want to hear any shit about how I could do a lot better with $200 in the produce section of Kroger's Supermarket. Fuck you for even THINKING such thoughts. My homegrown vegetables taste better than anything you'll ever find in a store and growing them is good therapy for my warped mind. Wanna think clean thoughts? Get your hands dirty in the soil.
Pictures will be forthcoming, if I live long enough to take them.
Aha! At last we have solid, scientific evidence that excessive use of cell phones causes brain tumors. That explains why a lot of cell phone users act as if they don't have a brain at all, especially when driving a car. They're not stupid. They're tumorized.
Okay, now we know that people who can't go anywhere or do anything without talking on a cell phone are sick, diseased, cancerous and disgusting. That fact still doesn't excuse their selfish, discourteous behavior and they all still need to be dragged off and shot for being royal assholes. If they're all gonna die anyway, let's speed up the natural process and put a bounty on 'em. Call it mercy killing. Make the world a better place.
Of course, serial cell phone yakkers don't see anything wrong with what they do. THAT'S how fucked-up they are. They are exactly like this guy, who didn't see a damn thing wrong or dangerous in driving down the road with a snake wrapped around his neck.
When authorities caught up with Johnson at his home, he told them he crashed into another car that had stopped short in front of him. After questioning, Johnson admitted he panicked when his snake bit him.
Check that guy for a brain tumor. He makes cell phone abusers look sane.
She's in the news again, for yet another statesmanlike performance in public office. How in the hell ANYBODY would elect Cynthia McKinney to ANYTHING is a mystery to me. The woman obviously is seriously deranged.
But she's Black, she's leftist and she's female. Those qualities negate being crazy as a shithouse rat in politics today. Bejus! Carnival geeks display more dignity and a LOT more sanity when they sit in shit-filled cages at the County Fair and bite the heads off live chickens than Cynthia does going to work in Congress. But criticize Cynthia and you risk being branded a racist--- never mind how looney she is.
I hope her ass goes to jail.
Are you familiar with the concept of "Occam's Razor?" It's really just the KISS Theory (Keep It Simple, Stupid) stated in different terms, and I believe that there is a lot of truth to it. Even very complex problems sometimes have very simple solutions.
Take this idea about immigration, for example:
Mexico has to give us a barrel of oil a week for every illegal Mexican in this country or we round 'em all up and ship 'em all back.
Hell, the illegal immigrants are here already, we don't have the balls to throw them out and government obviously has no intention of securing our borders against this kind of invasion. Let's at least get something out of the deal.
Wetbacks for Oil is a better idea than Wetbacks for NOTHING.
It's a trend
I've noticed this phenomenon myself. In fact, I'm a prime example of the process in action. I started blogging in December of 2001 and I haven't had a "productive" job since October of 2003.
That means I've pretty much sat on my Cracker ass and done just as I pleased for almost two and a half years now. No alarm clocks. No shithead bosses. No projects to complete or deadlines to meet. No midnight phone calls asking how to handle the Crisis of the Moment because WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!! No more pointless meetings to attend, corporate jargon to speak and BOHICA (Bend Over--- Here It Comes Again) "reorganizations" to survive.
I wouldn't go back to doing what I once did if my life depended on it. I'd rather die.
Of course, that's easy for me to say, because I'm 54 years old and I've PAID my fucking dues in the working world. My employer got the goody out of me for 23 years. I did the shiftwork, slaved the overtime hours on a salary paycheck and ate the shit sandwich of responsibility in big bites for a long time. Then, I got fired for blogging.
Big deal. I was ready to quit anyway. If Kerr-McGee called me today and begged me to come back to my old job with a whopping raise to spice up the deal, I would laugh in their faces. I don't WANT to go back to work, and if I play my cards right, I never will HAVE to again. I've GOT my piece of the American Dream, and I earned it, fair and square.
Of course, Eric should feel guilty as hell for sitting on HIS dead ass, unemployed and bitching because the grass in his yard won't grow by itself. He's in the PRIME OF HIS WORKING LIFE, a mere baby-faced young'un, with LOTS of work left in him before he morphs into a broken-down old fart like me. He needs to put down that coffee cup and start paying taxes again. Who's going to finance MY Social Security if people such as Eric quit working now?
Lazy bastid! Get a job!
Or at least go out like this.
March 30, 2006
quote of the day
"The Missus and I got out of that place as fast as we could. A house without books is a house without a soul, and we could not stand to be inside it."--- elisson
My father gave me something for which I always will be grateful: He taught me to love reading and to love books. (See? It's HIS FAULT that I was an English Major.) From the time I first grasped the idea that I could READ (seven years old, first grade, looking at a Bugs Bunny comic book one evening and suddenly realizing that I could read the words in the bubbles over Bugs' head), books became my Door Into Summer, the magic portal through which I could travel to anywhere and do anything.
I read everything I could get my hands on. I not only learned a lot that way, but I also thoroughly enjoyed myself. With a little imagination, I had the best playground in the world right there inside my head. And the more I played in it, the bigger it got.
Stories such as this one depress me. I'm not surprised that so few high school seniors read well. Public schools really DO suck today. But what's really sad is the fact that if public schools set out DELIBERATELY to short-change students, they couldn't do a better job than they do right now by neglecting to teach reading.
I want to barf every time I hear some clabber-brained idiot extolling the virtues of bilingual education or some preposterous notion that "Ebonics" is a legitimate language. Teach a kid that learning to read and write English isn't important, and you might as well strap an anchor to his leg for life. Guaranteed failure. That's a handicap he'll NEVER overcome.
A house without books isn't a home. It's a prison cell, stagnant and deviod of dreams. And a person who can't read is doomed to stay there.
It's worse than a place with no soul. It's a place with no hope.
I don't know how he got his hands on the picture, but this guy posted it and I shamelessly stole it. I think it's a real collector's item.
It's a baby picture of catfish.
March 29, 2006
bad hair day
I am in a quandry. Whatever will I do with my hair?
I gave myself a physical inspection after I took a shower today. My belly doesn't appear to be as distended as it was. The mark from the surgery is just a pink line down my belly, which is one benefit of being too skinny for my own good. I don't have any gut-fat to make a hideous, puckered scar. In fact, once my belly-hair grows back, you might have to look really hard to even FIND the scar...
But whoever shaved me for the surgery didn't shave just the belly-hair. No, that person took a trip into the lush, tropical rain forest of my crotchital region with the razor and shaved about half of THAT off, too. It don't look good.
I'm slick as a newborn babe from just under my nipples to a Line of Demarcation at the base of my Roscoe. Everything below that line is just as furry as it ever was; everything above it is bare. Now I'm wondering whether or not I should do some trimming of my own to try and make the two halves match up a little better. Hell--- if I shave EVERYTHING, it won't be the first time I've done that.
I dunno, though. If I just leave well enough alone, it'll all grow back by itself eventually. If I shave everything off, I'll either have to keep it that way or go through the itching, uncomfortable process allowing it form a soft beard again. Maybe I'll just keep my pants on and forget about it.
Or MAYBE... if one of you lovely ladies remain interested in "nursing" me back to health, YOU can drop by and handle a little barber-work for me. I promise to be VERY nice to you when you have a sharp razor in one hand and my Roscoe in the other. In fact, that's probably as nice as I'll ever be to anyone in my life.
I learned to drive on a stick-shift. About half the cars I've owned in my life were manual transmission models. I'm damn sure no stranger to a clutch and I still enjoy stirring the gearbox by hand when I drive. That's another skill like swimming or riding a bicycle--- if you ever learn to drive a manual transmission vehicle, you never forget how.
Unfortunately for the human race, I can name at least a dozen people I know who have NEVER driven a vehicle with a manual transmission. NEVER! Give them a REAL gear shift and a clutch pedal on the floor and these poor souls are fucked. They can't drive the car. And that's a cryin' shame.
Some cars just aren't BUILT for an automatic transmission. Take Recondo 32's Shelby Ford Mustang, for example. That car has a souped-up, short-block V-Eight with enough horsepower to fling your ass from the front seat into the back seat if you're not buckled up securely upon take-off. Putting an automatic transmission in THAT rocket would be akin to cutting the nuts off a very horny goat. The goat may not LOOK much different after the operation, but he damn sure ain't what he used to be.
Besides--- everybody ought to know how to drive a stick-shift just.... because. I've NEVER driven a vehicle with an automatic transmission that was as much FUN to drive as a stick, and I've never felt as "one" with a car as when I've downshifted on a curve and sped on squealing tires around it, feeling the g-forces press me against the seat. That's really DRIVING a car instead of just being on board steering.
I have a sneaky feeling that a lot of people don't know the difference anymore. Besides, if everybody had to operate a clutch to drive a car today, how the hell would they manage to keep a cell phone pressed to their heads all the time? Bejus! They need that clutch-hand free to press their speed-dial numbers. What good is driving if you can't talk on the phone while you do it?
Which brings me to my Poll Question for the week: Can YOU drive a car with a standard transmission? If so, DO you drive one today?
he'd make a good pimp
If one picture is worth 1,000 words, this post is worth at least a spasm of the gag reflex.
It's got TWO pictures, and I think both are of the same guy.
(Hmmm... he's got two pictures here, too.)
yes, I'm breaking the rules
For those of you who asked (and those who didn't ask, but wondered anyway): YES! I AM TAKING PAIN MEDICATION!
That's a no-no for me, at least according to the Willingway Hospital theory of alcoholism and cross-addiction. See, if I take pain medication, I may trigger a relapse in my alcoholism and resort to my drug of choice again. In other words, taking a pill for a pain in my belly may lead me to Randall's Liquor Store and a quart of vodka.
I thought that this philosophy was bullshit when I first heard it and I think it's bullshit now. When I was in Willingway, a recovering cocaine addict developed a bad toothache in a rear molar that quickly turned into an abscess. His face swelled up so badly that he resembled the Elephant Man and he was in a LOT of pain.
The Powers That Be finally trucked this guy off to a local dentist after about three days of terrible agony. The dentist promptly pulled the wrong tooth and had to try again to get the right one. The guy received novicaine for the tooth-pulling and a few Motrin tablets for the after-effects.
I watched the guy "recover" from that ordeal and I swore that I would NEVER put myself through something so utterly senseless. The guy was IN REHAB, for crying out loud. Give him the good stuff to stop the pain in his mouth. Put him back through de-tox afterward if you have to, but DON'T leave the poor bastard suffering needlessly in the meantime. That's just cruel and unusual punishment.
In the past three weeks, I've been pumped full of a veritable HOST of narcotics, ranging from morphine to demerol to hydrocodone, and I was damn glad to get every bit of it. In fact, I begged, pleaded, wheedled and whined for it. Hell, I would have taken the IV rig with the morphine attachment home with me if the hospital would have allowed it. I don't like pain.
I haven't felt any overpowering urge to take a drink, at least not yet. But if I had been forced to simply endure the pain, go without sleep and suffer for the past 17 days, I would long ago have reached for whatever I could lay my hands on to make it stop. And if booze was all I could get, I would have gotten some and figured out how to drink it in spite of my wrecked belly. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
So, yeah--- I'm breaking the rules here. I'm taking drugs, and Willingway can just kiss my Cracker ass this time. It's a simple case of Better Living Through Chemistry. I'm not going to hurt when I don't have to.
And I'm not going to take a drink, either.
I once thought that the Chevy Impala that I inherited from Mama was a smooth-riding car. I was mistaken. After going to the doctor for my post-surgical follow-up visit, I am thoroughly convinced that the goddam car rides like a pulpwood truck and it can find every bump in the road from Rincon to Savannah, no matter how hard the driver tries to avoid them.
That trip to town and back beat the shit out of me.
But I DID get my staples removed and the doctor said that I was healing nicely. A nurse took a sample of my blood to check for deadly, flesh-eating bacteria. I am NOT making that up. The doc told me that the kind of ulcer I had, which ate clean through my duodenum, usually is caused by a hostile bacteria in the stomach. If I've got it, they want to de-worm me to get rid of it. I'm all for that idea if it'll keep me from another trip to the hospital. I'll drink cod liver oil AND castor oil if it keeps me from being cut again.
I bitched and moaned about being in a lot of pain, but the doctor was unimpressed. He asked me what the hell I EXPECTED, considering the fact that I dumped raw stomach acid into my abdominal cavity for quite a while before he plugged the leak. I was not only half-assed when I arrived at the hospital--- I was half-digested internally, too. That shit is supposed to hurt.
Evidentally, based on how I feel, it's doing what it is supposed to do, because it hurts like hell. The doc gave me a refill on my pain medication and ran me off. I went home, took two pills and ate a couple of cherry popcicles; then, I fell asleep on the couch and slept for 14 hours. I enjoyed that sleep so much that I kept it up almost all day and all night yesterday, too. I think I've been awake for about 12 of the last 48 hours and asleep the rest of the time.
I feel better today. I ain't ready for any tree-climbing or sport-fucking just yet, but I'm getting there. The doc said that I'll need four to six weeks to get halfway back to normal and I'm at two weeks and three days right now. That's halfway to halfway, isn't it? More or less? I mean, this is the point where things start getting BETTER every day and I don't have any more relapses, right?
Besides--- I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. I have a garden to plant before I miss the weather. Hell, I haven't even been in my hot tub this month. That's enough fucking around. I gotta get well.
Before I forget--- thanks to everyone who offered to come by and "take care" of me during my recouperation. I'll repeat what I said when you offered the favor: Thanks, but NO THANKS. You don't WANT to be near me when I'm ailing. I am a pitiful, whining, obnoxious patient who could make YOU feel miserable after an hour of being around me, and make you want to KILL me after three hours.
No, I prefer to recover on my own. I've got enough enemies already without creating new ones right now. Besides, I don't want to survive this surgery just to end up planted on a testicle farm by a disgruntled nurse. All things considered, I'm better off alone.
At least I posted something today.
that's low--- even for a cat
The six toes on each foot is a dead giveaway that something is badly wrong with Lewis, my personal choice for Fucked-Up Cat of the Week. This one is so got-dam evil that it even attacked the Avon Lady. That's low--- even for a cat.
But Lewis is in real trouble now. He's got a restraining order issued against his ass.
Animal Control Officer Rachel Solveira placed a restraining order on him. It was the first time such an action was taken against a cat in Fairfield.
The fucker'll get red-flagged trying to go through Customs at the airport now, which serves the bastid right for having six toes and attacking the Avon Lady. I could understand lighting claw-first into a bunch of Jehovah's Witnesses, because they are annoying people, but the AVON LADY? That's just un-American. Even cats should know better than that.
The Restraining Order isn't going to work. Cats don't think rules apply to them, so Lewis ain't gonna pay any attention to legal paperwork except to hack up a hairball on it and go out to terrorize again whenever he feels like it. No, this situation calls for more extreme measures.
Lewis needs to be dragged off and shot.
March 26, 2006
Sorry about the light-to-nonexistant posting.
No, I'm NOT tired of blogging. I ain't about to quit, either. I just have a difficult time these days sitting in a chair to type. Sitting makes me bend funny and it hurts my sore innards. I'll start blogging regularly again when it doesn't hurt to do it anymore.
Just Damn! The past three weeks have sucked. I get my staples removed tomorrow, so maybe that'll help some. They're starting to itch. I'm not in pain as badly as I was for a while, but I'm still suffering what I would call Major Discomfort a lot of the time. My usual sunny disposition has deteriorated as a result. I don't even like myself anymore.
But I'm not dead and I don't intend to quit blogging. Just gimme another week or so of healing. I'll be back.
Right now, I'm just endeavoring to persevere.
It's bad enough that the Pussification of America is turning many men into whimpering bags of confused hormones (just like wimmen, only without the tits), but I never fully despaired over this process. It works only on the Barry Manilow or Alan Alda "sensitive" types of men--- guys who know the difference between mauve and puce--- and NOT on REAL men--- guys who think with their dicks and believe that "shit-stain" is a color.
No, I was willing to bet on the stubborn survival of Mandom, simply because man is so thoroughly disgusting to begin with. I AM a man and I know what I'm talking about here. You wimmen can smoothe off a few rough edges and force us to act civilized in public, but not even YOU, with all the pussy in the world under your control, can change a man from the pig he is into the prince you want him to be. It just ain't natural.
Besides, if feminist pressure really could change men, guys wouldn't think farts are so funny.
But I don't sell wimmen short. They are masters of plot and manipulation and I worry about their ideas for man's role in this world. Someone wise once said that the only reason wimmen need men today is because no one has yet invented a vibrator that can cut the grass. That's why this story made me feel uncomfortable in my pants. I can see a possible Brave New World here.
Men raised in captivity, on testicle farms, where wimmen harvest their jewels for stem cells.
Don't laugh--- it could happen. If wimmen claim that they're doing it "for the children," NOBODY is gonna have the nerve to complain.
March 24, 2006
the age of enlightenment
Don't you just HATE hate-speech? I know that I surely do, because hate is evil and I hate people who hate. I want to do mean, hateful things to hateful people, just to demonstrate how morally pure I am and how much I hate hate.
We've become so enlightened today that we can spot hate even where it doesn't exist and jump right up to hate it when it's not there. Now THAT is real proof of a sensitive society.
"There can be no excuse for what was said," Dorsey said. "Dave Lenihan has been let go. ... There is enough hate. We certainly are not going to fan those flames."
Uh... Dorsey... bite my Cracker ass, you gutless, nutless, politically-correct nimrod. If YOU aren't fanning the flames of hatred with your purile, Puritan reaction to this non-incident, just what the hell ARE you doing? I would call YOUR strutting "unacceptable, reprehensible and unforgivable," but that's just MY humble opinion. Asshole.
The radio host sung a song of praise for Condi Rice, then dropped an accidental word-bomb at the end. What did people hear? What did people react to? NOT the song of praise or what the guy actually said about Condi--- just the word-bomb. Oh, yes, we are a sensitive bunch today. We don't have any SENSE, but we damned sure are SENSITIVE.
I'm sorry, but I just don't see how you teach "tolerance" through mindless intimidation.
You know what REALLY frosts my balls about this half-assed morality play? Let somebody say that white Southerners need to stop lynching blacks and stop burning black churches. Forget the fact that such charges are racist lies. Do you think THAT person is going to be excoriated for speech that is "unacceptable, reprehensible and unforgivable?" Hell, no. They'll be cheered and quoted by all the newspapers for taking a bold stand on the issues.
We're living on a got-dam Animal Farm today.
shit! Just shit!
I had another bad day yesterday. Bejus! After more than a week of "recovery," I have reached one inescapable conclusion: your abdominal cavitity is NOT your friend. And it does NOT like to be fucked with. It can be a downright vengeful bastard.
I made a mistake this morning. I took a shower and then looked at my nekkid self in the bathroom mirror. Shit. The sight was enough to make me want to curl up on the floor in a fetal position and weep for my mama. My arms resemble matchsticks with loose skin hanging in wrinkled folds where muscles used to be. My belly is still swollen and distended. I look like a Biafran famine victim.
Just to be certain, I stepped on the bathroom scale. Shit. I weigh 130 pounds. In three week's time, I've lost almost every bit of the weight I gained back during and after rehab. I'm right back to where I started from five months ago, except I hurt a lot worse now. Yeah, that trip to the mailbox and back is a real journey again on weak, wobbly legs.
I got sober for this? Shit.
I am depressed. I've always thought that I was a pretty tough guy, but I'm starting to have my doubts now. Everybody has their limits and I believe that I'm rapidly reaching mine. Right now, it hurts to breathe.
I keep telling myself that I HAVE to get better, that it's just a matter of healing, so hang in there, but every time I think I'm past the worst, this crap jumps up and bites me again. Shit. That's a got-dam torturer's trick--- give the victim a little relief, then turn up the voltage on the cattle prod for the next session. (It's a good trick, too. Very demoralizing.) Shit.
If I sound like I'm pissing and moaning, that's because I AM. My give-a-damn is busted.
March 22, 2006
I think they did this to me in the hospital. It was supposed to improve my breathing and keep me from getting pneumonia... or something like that. All I know is that it made my mouth feel really dry.
yeah--- I'm better
BWHAHAHAHAAA!!! It hurt to laugh, but I couldn't help myself when i saw this. The Flying Bat-Kitty. I think it landed on its feet, too.
Some things are worth a little pain.
(Thanks to Pam for the link!)
I didn't write anything yesterday. I felt like Fido's ass. I suppose that I'm going through a healing process, but a pain like a throbbing toothache settled in my belly and just wouldn't quit all day. I tried walking. (That's a laugh--- just imagine the stove-up scuttling of an arthritic crab, only not so graceful.) I tried sitting. I tried various positions in the bed and on my sofa. I couldn't get comfortable or stop hurting no matter what I did.
Did you ever develop a "stitch" in your side while running? Well, just imagine that stitch running from your sternum to your crotchital area and covering BOTH sides at once. That's what I had, only worse. I believe the doc bruised my innards when he cut on me.
I feel better today. Once I finally managed to go to sleep last night, I fell into a 12-hour coma filled with tumultuous dreams of booger-men chasing me with baseball bats and chainsaws. I think I had a long conversation with my dead father, too. The weirdness quotient was very high.
Today I feel no worse than if I were kicked in the gut by a large and ornery mule, and that's a vast improvement from yesterday. I don't want to jinx myself, but I'm hoping that the worst is over now. I don't go back to the doctor for my follow-up visit until Monday, and I think I've suffered enough already to tide me over until then.
The good news is that I'm not running any fever, my wound appears to be healing with no infection and I'm almost able to talk again. Besides, if I can sit in this computer chair without feeling as if someone just ran a red-hot spear through my innards, I'm better off than I was.
One thing that really chaps my Cracker ass is the fact that I can't plant my garden this week. A nice rain fell yesterday morning, perfect for wetting in the fertilizer I spread, and today appears to be a real beauty, with blue skies and sunshine. I already missed St. Patrick's Day for planting my Silver Queen corn, and every day that passes now is one more day past prime conditions. I just ain't up to doing it right now.
But I AM up to thanking this lovely lady for calling to check up on me and to ask if there was anything she could do to help me out. I've met some effervescent, incandescent, cheerful, outgoing, enthusiastic people in my life, but Kelly puts most of those folks to shame. She's a spotlight among 20-watt bulbs. Bejus! If she could syphon off some of her good-vibe energy and bottle it, I would buy a case.
Heh. I'm going to fix her happy wagon the next time she does that. I'm going to moan piteously, whimper in pain and ask her to come clean my house.
March 20, 2006
like a protest--- only smaller
As I lay on my bed of affliction on March 17, I did something I haven't done for many years: I watched the Savannah St. Patrick's Day Parade on television. It looked like a really good one.
My favorite part was the wanton terrorist attacks launched by sweet young wimmen against our Third Division troops, who recently returned from Iraq. All along the parade route, these wimmen stalked, plotting and planting roadside bombs at every opportunity. The Third Divison never stood a chance.
It's long been a tradition at the St. Patrick's Day Parade to have wimmen decorate their kissers with bright red lipstick, then run out into the middle of the parade and plant a juicy smack on the cheek of a marcher. I think that's a fine tradition, too. The wimmen are happy acting horny and the marchers are happy wearing dozens of red lip-prints on their cheeks.
By the end of this parade, however, most of the guys in the Third didn't have any free space left on their faces. They'd been kissed so many times that you couldn't indentify individual lip-marks anymore. Their faces were just one big blob of red, split by the white line of a huge smile.
I thought about that sight when I read this story today. Anti-war fever grips the nation. People Take to the Streets!
Some people sure do miss Vietnam.
Maybe it's just because I live in a VERY Red State, but I believe that those wimmen kissing on our troops in the parade while every other spectator joined in a standing ovation is a more accurate portrayal of American attitude about the war than what the gloomy bastids in the MSM (or Congress, for that matter) decide to report or lie about. Admit it: when you can attract no more than 6,000 people to a protest in San Francisco, your cause ain't exactly burning bright.
I'll be interested to see the spin put on the protest story reporting.
flatulence and old farts
Yesterday, I farted enough gas to inflate the Goodyear Blimp. Twice. I think that's a good sign, but it doesn't seem to be doing much to make my belly feel better. I couldn't blog before now because sitting in the computer chair hurt too bad. If I didn't KNOW what happened to me, I would suspect that someone opened me up and assaulted my innards with hammer and tongs. Sore ain't the word for it.
At least my voice is coming back. Bejus. You shut Acidman up for a few days and all kinds of internal pressures start to build, like a volcano with a cork in it. I really ain't the silent type. Now I can't even talk to MYSELF, for cryin' out loud. I may explode any minute.
Recondo 32 and his lovely wife Georgia came to visit me yesterday and that was one pathetic affair. Recondo can't hear, I can't talk and Georgia... well, you can bet your sweet ass that no lapse in conversation occurred. She finally had her chance to be the sole Star of the Show and she took full advantage of it. Now I know why Recondo never wears his hearing aids. No brook in the world can babble longer or louder than Georgia can. She made me miss the morphene injections I was getting in the hospital.
I've been sleeping a lot since I got home. A hospital may be a good place to go to keep from dying, but it damn sure ain't no place to get well. Every time I managed to nod out in a dope-induced stupor, somebody woke me up to poke me, prod me or inflict various humiliations upon me. I don't think I slept more than three hours straight the entire time I was in there. My body is playing catch-up now.
I discovered this morning that my phone has been off the hook since sometime Saturday. Acid Daughter called to check on me and to give me her new cell phone number and I had to switch phones during the conversation. I never went back and hung up the first phone. Oh, well. If you called and got a busy signal, I probably didn't want to talk to you anyway. And YOU didn't need to hear the rasping, gasping noises I made when I attempted to speak.
No, I was better off by myself, cutting farts of incredible duration and volume. (Although it would have been nice to show off a few of those in front of witnesses. They were true prize-winners. But you'll just have to take my word for that.) Give an old fart a bad case of flatulence and you've plumbed some pretty disgusting depths. Trust me.
I managed to eat a scrambled egg and a piece of dry toast this morning, which was an incredibly rich feast after the diet I've been on, which is: "if you have to chew it, you can't have it." What I really crave is a large pizza with extra cheese and every topping except anchovies. I think I dreamed about eating pizza last night.
But I'm wary about going THAT far, because my belly is still sore and distended. Tap it with a finger and it feels as tight as the head on a snare drum. That's the main reason why I find it so difficult to get comfortable no matter how I try to sit up or lay down. It's as if someone emptied out their Shop-Vac in my gut and left me absolutely PACKED full of rusty nails, broken glass, barbed wire and fish hooks.
Other than that, I'm a lot better than I was.
March 18, 2006
My problem was a perforated stomach ulcer, with the subsequent abdominal infection that occurs when you leak toxic waste into places it ain't supposed to go. You can take my word on this--- it's a VERY painful thing to endure.
I still have a lovely set of stainless-steel rings decorating a cut running from the top of my navel to just under my sternum. Damn if this new scar isn't going to line up perfectly with the one from my prostate surgery. I'm running out of places to put new scars now.
The doctor was at a loss to explain what caused it. He asked me if I had been taking a lot of Tylenol lately, but that's not the case, so who knows what burned a hole in my gut? SOMETHING did, and it was a pretty serious situation for a while there.
I'm still kinda weak, so blogging probably will be light for a while. But I think I'm gonna live. The GOOD NEWS is that my liver emzymes were prefectly normal throughout the entire ordeal. Shit! My liver enzymes weren't back to normal when I first got out of Willingway last Novemember. If I had still been drinking, I think this shit would have killed me.
Another good thing is that a week in the hospital gave me a LOT of excellent blog-fodder about doctors, nurses and health-care in general. I think I can tell some stories that will curl your teeth, and I'm gonna do it as soon as I get a little more back to normal. IF I have any readers left by then.
Thanks for the kind words and good wishes, people! I NEEDED that, and I damn sure appreciate it.
March 16, 2006
I talked with dad today and he's doing much better. He still can't talk to well but the tube is out and he seems to be in better spirits. He's hoping to come home tomorrow.
Catfish went to see him today and has also posted an update.
ALSO: A lot of people are asking for my e-mail address:
March 15, 2006
Acidman is sick...
First off I want to say thank you to Lil Toni for mentioning dad's illness in his comments.
I called my great grandmother to see if she had heard from him, which she hadn't so my aunt called the Savannah hospitals until she found him. He couldn't talk but she gave me the number to the hospital so I called and spoke with his nurse.
He has a large hole in his stomach, probably caused from his previous alcoholism. I was worried that he might have gotten hold of some bad food in Coasta Rica but the nurse said it probably wasn't caused by that.
The did have to go in and sew up the hole.
Anyways, he'll be fine but they can't seem to get him to pass gas and until he does, he'll be in a lot of pain BUT he WILL SURVIVE!
I sure hope he doesn't get pissed for me posting this. Oh well, you all are so supportive and he loves his readers so I think you deserve to know what's up.
So take a few seconds and leave him a comment so he'll have something to read when he gets home.
March 13, 2006
now I know
Long, long ago, when the world was chaos, life struggled to form itself on this planet. Amid the watery, oozing muck, life fought for survival in a hostile environment. Volcanos erupted. Oceans frothed and boiled. Meteors pounded the surface and acid fell like rain from the sky. Still...
Bullshit. That early form of life had it a lot better than I did for the past few days. I don't know what I had, but I damn sure don't want it back. I didn't just think I was gonna die, I wanted somebody to drag me off and shoot me. Damn. That was BAD.
I use the word "was" with utter confidence that what happened yesterday won't happen again today. I started feeling better, actually managed to eat some soup and started the believe that I was cured, until the beast attacked again last night and laid me low once more. I am sick of being sick.
I think I'm better today. If so, life will return to normal around the Crackerbox and I'll pay some attention to my blog again. I'm not dead (yet), so quit worrying about me. But if I'm NOT better....
Would someone please come over here, drag me off and shoot me?
March 10, 2006
that explains it!
Okay, now I know what is wrong with me. I have all the symptoms.
you're all invited
Come to my funeral. I'm sure that it's gonna be held any day now, just as soon as I finish shitting and barfing myself to death.
Whatever it was that hit me in Costa Rica returned with a vengence Wednesday night, and I believe that the only thing that has kept me alive this long is the fact that I'm SOOOOO full of shit. But I'm dipping deep into my reserves now. I'm not sure how much longer I can last.
When you start upchucking your anti-nausea medicine, you KNOW things are really bad.
I want a Viking funeral. Throw my corpse on a wooden boat, pile a bunch of pine cones, old newspapers and my unpublished novel around me, soak it all in kerosene and set it all on fire. Shove the boat out onto the Forest City Gun Club Lake (I have many fond memories of that place) at sunset and watch me burn to the water and sink. Then, go get drunk.
Run up a huge bar tab--- go someplace nice and drink the good stuff until you become loud and obnoxious and are asked to leave---you can charge it all on my Visa card.
Arrrrgh! I would publish my Last Will and Testiment, too, but I gotta go barf again...
March 08, 2006
Man! that's gotta hurt!
Yeah, the guy has a fence post up his ass. I think I know how he feels--- after all, I've been to divorce court.
This is an actual emergency room photo of a fisherman who lost control of his high-speed bass boat in West Virginia. Wardens believe that he was traveling at a speed of approximately 75 mph at the time of the accident. He was unable to negotiate a curve in the narrow waterway. Unfortunately for him, upon striking the shoreline and being ejected from the boat he landed back end first on an old fence post.
I thought about running a caption contest on this one, but I shuddered to think of the clever suggestions some of MY readers might invent, such as, "Well, that's ONE way to stop a stubborn case of diarrhea." Besides, I think the poor fellow has suffered enough already.
I'm glad that he's okay now, but I'll bet his farts sound funny as hell.
(Thanks to Jim Gladieux for the story and the picture.)
it oughta be a crime!
I think it's a crying shame that more people DON'T get this kind of ticket from the police in the USA. I've seen my ex-wife do it dozens of times: hauling ass down Highway 21 at 65 MPH, steering with her knees and applying makeup with the rear-view as her dressing room mirror.
She was not alone, either. I've seen COUNTLESS wimmen do the same thing and it always chaps my ass--- almost as much as the dickweeds do who can't seem to drive ANYWHERE without having a cell phone stuck to their heads. Gimme a careful drunk on the road ANY time over those cretins.
I have to ask: WTF? Are you such a poor time-manager that you can't possibly apply your war-paint BEFORE leaving the house? Is your life so fucking BUSY that you can't go fifteen minutes without talking to someone on the phone? Do you REALLY believe that you're a safe driver when you are barreling down the road at 65 MPH, looking at YOUR face in a mirror, yakking to someone else on the phone, drinking a cup of hot coffee and eating a glazed doughnut at the same time? If you DO, you're a got-dam nitwit.
I don't call that behavior "multi-tasking." I call it unsafe, self-centered, irresponsible bullshit. Most people I see on the highway have their hands full just trying to pilot a got-dam automobile down the road without ramming somebody else. They don't need ANY distractions to make them more of a rolling death threat than they already are.
But you see 'em every day. Armies of assholes.
In Jawja, we have laws forbidding "open containers" of alcoholic beverages in automobiles. It's just too bad that the "open container" doesn't apply to the empty brain-pans of some drivers.
I haven't had to do this in a while, but I suffered a spam attack yesterday and unsheathed the MT Blacklist Sword of Extermination to rid my beloved site of prickheaded, shitassed vandalism. THREE different sources of this trash were involved.
I got rid of them all, but usually when I do this, I inflict some collateral damage on innocent bystanders. So--- if you try to comment here and receive a message saying that you SUCK and you are BANNED from commenting, when you really DON'T suck--- let me know and I'll un-ban you.
Hell--- I once became so frenzied by spam that I went nuclear with Blacklist, scorching the earth so totally that I even banned MYSELF from my own got-dam comments. I try not to get so carried away now, but I'm still capable of making mistakes.
So, if I got YOU by accident, just let me know via email. I'll fix it.
I got my travel bag back from Delta today with nothing missing--- not even the pound of marijuana, ounce of cocaine, two assault rifles and THREE hand grenades I smuggled back from Costa Rica. I guess that my clever ploy of disguising those things as a pile of dirty laundry fooled both the Customs Inspectors and Airport Security.
The Delta guy told me that my bag landed in Savannah on the same flight I rode in on, but I didn't even look for it that night. I was dog-assed tired, my belly hurt and I just wanted to go home after being on airplanes all fricking day.
I started to ask why the bag never appeared on Carousel #9 in Atlanta when I searched for it THERE, but I didn't really care. That mixup probably saved me another nit-search at Customs, which I usually get because of that stupid Domestic Violence order the BC took out on me a year and a half ago. Since then, inspectors have thoroughly rifled my belongings, had me empty my pockets, patted me down, run hand-held snooper devices from head to toe and done everything except subject me to an anal probe after my last few trips outside the USA.
Anyway, I got my bag back. See? I TOLD you that your luggage never gets LOST anymore. It simply takes a different route.
End of story.
gives me ideas
All you cat-loving assheads should go immediately to this site. You'll DIE from an overdose of cuteness. (If you actually LIKE the site, you need to be dragged off and shot, you penis-breathed fucktard.)
What is it about cats liking to park their furry butts in the sink? When I see one doing that, I say, "Awwww... what a cutekitty," and then I turn the water on. Bastids will get out of there in a hurry when you do that. Make all kinds of yowling, pissed-off noises, too.
What I would REALLY like to do is throw a mesh porch rug over the cat and half-drown the sumbitch before I let him out of the sink. Heh. See how much he likes curling up in the fucking sink again after THAT.
See? I know how to have fun with a cat.
March 07, 2006
the road of life
Gotta watch the road. And keep both hands on the wheel.
shoulda expected it
I made it back home to the Crackerbox just before midnight last night. That plane trip was a fitting end to this adventure--- the cherry on top of a sundae--- which has been a series of disappointments except for getting to where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there.
Which is more than Delta Airlines can say for my luggage.
I never did start feeling really well again after I got sick in Jaco. I was a lot better--- but I coulda said that if I died. No, my case was more like going from absolutely miserable to NOT miserable anymore, but I never did start feeling right. My belly still hurt and I became weak (probably from dehydration) in the legs. But at least I wasn't hurling and pooping non-stop anymore.
When I travel, I try to pack as lightly as I can. For this trip, I took one small duffle bag and a camera in a case. I checked the bag so that I could bring a couple of cigarette lighters, a pair of moustache sissors and a set of nail-clippers with me. That plan worked perfectly on my trip TO Costa Rica. Everything arrived intact.
I did the same thing coming home. This time, however, my bag never arrived. I almost missed my connecting flight in Atlanta, too, by the time I realized that my bag was NOT on the plane I rode. I didn't have time to hunt for it or to fill out a missing luggage report. I had to run through the terminal to catch my plane home, which was the last flight to Savannah until this morning, and not leaving from the gate marked on my ticket. Bejus! Another long run with a subway ride in the middle.
I think Delta held that plane for me, because I was the last person to board--- 30 minutes AFTER the scheduled departure time.
That's one reason why I NEVER store my car keys in my luggage. I carry stuff like that either in my pocket or in my camera case, so I always KNOW where they are. That's why I was able to drive home from the airport last night.
I contacted Delta this morning and issued an APB for my missing bag. I have no doubt that they'll find it eventually, because an airline never actually "loses" anybody's luggage. Luggage simply is "routed in error" on rare occasions. Mine may have gone on a jaunt to Chicago for all I know. It may be flying somewhere else right now. Delta will jaunt it back to me when they discover where it got re-routed. I got my own ASS home just fine.
My point is that you should NEVER put anything you absolutely NEED to have in your check-on baggage, especially if not having that item can put a screeching hault to YOUR jaunt. Taking my own advice paid off for me last night.
If I never see that bag again, I've lost nothing really important-- just a few items of clothing, my vitamins and the souvenirs I bought. I want 'em back, but it's not a matter of life or death. Hell, I'm kinda fond of that BAG, too.
So, I went to a beautiful place, wasted a lot of beautiful time being sick, and had a shitty trip back home. I went straight to bed and slept for 11 hours last night. My belly still ain't right, my legs still wobble but the trip wasn't a complete disaster, either. I won $100 back from the casino and I got laid before I came home. I just wish I had felt well enough to really enjoy myself.
Now, if I can just locate my bag, I'll be ready to go back again soon.
March 05, 2006
I had so much fun losing $100 in the casino last night that I reloaded and dropped $100 MORE before I finally gave up. Bejus! I got on a run of shit-ass cards against a dealer (actually three different dealers) who never busted, and I got fucked. I take little comfort from the fact that I was playing with four other Americans at the table and they all got fucked, too.
That expensive bath brings me down to loser territory on my overall gambling here. I got 'em good once, for about $600 on a trip two years ago, but itīs been downhill ever since. I donīt know why I throw my money away on such foolish pursuits.
Iīm going back to redeem myself tonight.
My "date" was a most pleasant experience. She a was beautiful woman, much younger than I am, and built like... well, letīs just say that she was BUILT. Tica wimmen have two qualities that I find really attractive. First are breasts to die for. Someone once told me the the abundance of stacked Costa Rican muchachas was because they ate a lot of chicken.
The chickens here are injected with hormones to make their breasts grow large. If a woman eats the chicken, the same thing happens to her. Ticas grow big titties. I donīt know if the story is fact or not, but the titty-evidence to back it up is impressive.
Second, wimmen here have pretty feet. They donīt paint their toenails red though, which is a crying shame. Most of 'em go for that French-white-tipped pedicure look, which is okay, just not as sensual as red is to me. But their feet are pretty just the same. VERY pretty.
They've got the tits and the toes, all right. World-class asses, too. I DID take some pictures, but I canīt post any until I get back home. Just use your imagination in the mean time.
Speaking of going home, Iīm leaving tomorrow. I still havenīt fully recovered from the Montezuma's Revenge I suffered, and I've spent enough money already. I need to go home and heal up for a while before I come back again. And I WILL be back.
This is a beautiful place.
March 04, 2006
i think i'm gonna live
I'm MUCH better now than what I was. Of course, I could say that as fact if I had DIED last night, but I believe that I'm through hugging the toilet for a while. I feel pretty good now.
I'm convinced that not drinking alcohol poisoned me. Before, I've always put enough high-octane hootch in my belly to kill any nasty bacteria lurking in the food or water here. This time, I relied on my built-in immune system to protect me, and that pussy-assed, "natural" anti-shit failed me in the pinch. I was bad-off for a while there. I don't want to experience that gut-rumble again, but I'm still not gonna drink. I gotta be tough, even if it kills me.
I'm going out to gamble tonight, and I have a "date" arranged for later in the evening. A little taste of the sweet tica might cure everything that's wrong with me, even if I lose money in the casino. It damn sure won't hurt. Besides... I can't be around this many beautiful wimmen without lusting in my heart. Here, when I lust in my heart, I get laid out of my pants.
Maybe I'll take some pictures...
revenge ain't sweet
I had breakfast at my hotel (the "Jaco Festival") and walked into town afterward. That was two days ago, I think. I bought some cigarettes and shopped for a few souvenirs I want to bring home and send to a few special people. I started to go by the scuba diving place and see what the lessons cost, but suddenly, I wasn't feeling well.
I broke out in a sweat. My belly started to puff up as if I were about six months pregnant. I felt achy all over. I decided to go back to my room and rest for a spell.
That "spell" lasted about 36 hours. Holy Bejus!!! After all the trips I've made here and all the different food I've eaten with no problem at all, Montezuma finally got his revenge on me this time. I was one sick puppy. You don't want the gory details, because that's a story I prefer not to tell, although I could make a couple of REALLY GOOD shit-blogs about it. Maybe even start a trend in vomit-blogging, too...
I've been wondering what got me. I don't think it was the water, because I've drunk the agua all over the country before and it's never bothered me. Maybe it was the fruit I bought off a street vendor when I first arrived in Jaco. Pears and plums with a nearly lethal after-effect? Maybe the hotel poisoned me so that I won't pig out on all the free stuff I get to eat and drink here. Who knows?
Whatever it was, I don't want any more of it. I finally know what it's like to be fricking MISERABLE in Costa Rica. I didn't even make it to the beach yesterday. Instead, I became intimate friends with the commode in my room. It was UGLY, folks... mighty UGLY.
I was able to eat some soup last night and I slept for about 12 hours after that "meal," which was the only food I've been able to tolerate since my affliction struck. I feel okay today. In fact, I'm hungry. But damn if I didn't shoot the last two days square in the ass.
I still wonder what it was that got me...
March 01, 2006
I shouldn't have written the post below this one, but I checked my email last night and went into a blue funk over something I found there. You'll never guess who it was from. I don't know why I still allow that shit to eat at me the way it does, but it does, dammit.
Anyway, I was worried that I wouldn't be able to sleep, but I conked out like an etherized patient when my head hit the pillow. I slept like a rock and don't remember any dreams I might have had. I felt pretty good this morning, so I went for another walk and dined on a sumptious desayuno typical of eggs, rice & beans, bacon, toast, coffee and fresh fruitas for the outrageously high price of 2,500 colones--- less than $5.00 US.
I caught my ride to Playa de Jaco at 1:00 this afternoon and really enjoyed the trip. This is an amazingly beautiful country. It's also nice to get away from San Jose--- that place has a seamy underbelly that ain't pleasant to behold. It's MUCH nicer where I am now.
The hotel is no ritzy joint, but it's perfect for me. The only thing that chaps my ass is the fact that it's an ALL-INCLUSIVE RESORT, so I could sit at the bar and drink myself silly for FREE here. Oh, well. I was lucky to get a room at all for this time of year and I'm right on the beach and a two-block walk from all the shops and restaurants downtown. Plus, the internet service is free, too. I think I'm gonna like it here.
I'm already pondering an extention to my visit. I've got five days more here, but I don't think that's gonna be enough of Costa Rica for me. I'm feeling a strong urge to go native for a while. If that urge doesn't go away soon, I might stay for another couple of weeks. See some places I've never been before. Forget about Jawja for a while.
All content Đ Rob Smith