April 30, 2007
Originally published September 24, 2003
On October 9th of this year I will hit the 24-year milestone at work. I've been a supervisor for all but a year and a half of that time. I've worked at various levels of supervision, depending on where the latest reorganization placed me, but I've always been bossing people for most of my career.
I am pretty crusty and cranky, but those aren't bad attributes to have as a supervisor. You have to be the bad guy sometimes. I've proved over and over that I'm willing to be the bad guy, so I seldom have to do it anymore. I trained a lot of new supervisors by mentioning Matt Dillon of "Gunsmoke" as an example of a good supervisor. He was THE LAW in Dodge City and he carried a badge and a big hog-leg on his hip.
He never wanted to pull it. He preferred to use persuasion, fatherly advice or a stern warning to stop trouble in town. But when diplomacy didn't work, he'd whip out his sidearm and shoot somebody dead in the street if they called him out to draw. Supervisors in a chemical plant have to be willing to do the same thing, or they will never be able to supervise ANYBODY.
I wear the big hog-leg on my hip, and the last thing I ever want to do at work is BE FORCED to pull it, because I don't like doing that. But I WILL, and I have no regrets about doing it when faced with no other choice. Once I was called the "scalpmaster" because I had fired more people than any other supervisor in the plant.
I never fired anyone in my life. THEY got THEMSELVES fired. I just provided the paperwork, kept my ducks in a row and let those suicidal idiots sail their own boat off the waterfall. I talked to them, I attempted to persuade them, then I threatened them. Still, they wanted to shoot it out on the streets of Dodge City.
They lost the gunfight.
I enjoy a lot of the mentoring and the "let's try THIS" that I do with operators when things go wrong at the plant. I have a pretty good rapport with my operators and supervisors. They do what I ask them to do and I don't get much bullshit in response.
My boss calls it "mutual respect," and he is absolutely right.
That's all I ask in return. I'll never ask an operator to do anything that I'm not willing to do myself. But I will not tolerate an operator who tells me "No. I ain't gonna do that. It ain't my job."
I go into Matt Dillon mode when that happens. The miscreant gets three choices and if he has a brain in his head, he'll take #1.
#1: Shut up and go do it.
#2: Shut up, go do it, and file a grievance because I made you get up off your lazy ass and actually WORK for your paycheck.
#3: Tell me AGAIN that ain't gonna do it, and I'll suspend your ass so fast you won't know what hit you, and I'll do my level best to FIRE you, because you called me out on the street in Dodge City. I'm going to have to reach for the hog-leg then, and I WILL fire.
These are simple rules for supervisors and operators. I am puzzled by the fact that so many people can't follow them.
Originally published September 25, 2003
Here is the tail-end of an email I received today about Quinton and football.
Give him time to be a kid, Rob. Adulthood comes all too soon and most often, all too painfully. Let him be to figure things out for himself, too.
JB wrote some nice things about life in general and kids in particular in the rest of that email. But he was writing from a different perspective than what I have witnessed myself. Here was my reply:
I just want to see Quinton be serious, JB. Football was MY game and I love it with a passion. Yeah, I got hurt playing it and some of those injuries still nag me today. You know what? IT WAS WORTH IT!
My entire point is that he DOES NOT have time to be a kid. He's had a goddam part-time job on top of school since he was six years old. You know when he gets to be a kid? When he is with ME!
I let him. I really believe that he likes visiting with me for that reason. One thing the BC has not been able to program out of his head is his love for me.
When I got out of my... uh, "difficulties" two years ago, I still had a restraining order hanging over my head, so I had my brother call the house to see if I could visit with Quinton. I had not seen my son in 45 days, and he never returned a reply to the letters I wrote him every day. The BC said that she would speak with me and not call the sheriff.
"Can I pick up Quinton and take him over to Mom's house today? I'll bring him back at 6:00."
"What makes you think he WANTS to see you, Rob? He knows what you did and he knows where you've been. He is scared to death of you right now."
"Let me talk to him," I asked. (aside:"Quinton, it's your daddy. Do you want to talk to him?" I hear the phone rattle.)
"DADDEEEE! Are you gonna come see me? I've missed you a lot!" So much for the BC's opinion of my relationship with my son.
He was six years old at the time. I picked him up shortly thereafter and went over to mama's house. Quinton and I took a walk in the woods and I told him stories about tree-forts and adventures I had back there when I was just a little bit older than he was. We got rained on coming back to mama's and we ducked under an awning at Hesse Elementary to wait out the rain.
When it was over, we walked down the sidewalk on Old Montgomery road, and Quinton passed under a tree with low-hanging branches. "Hey, Quinton!" I said. "Want to see a dirty trick?"
"Sure," he replied. I grabbed a limb and shook the tree. He got soaked with raindrops. From there, all the way back to mama's house, he kept trying to play the same dirty trick on me. He'd find a tree where HE could reach a bottom limb and look down at the sidewalk. "Daddy, you really need to come look at THIS," he said, trying to lure me into the trap.
I would walk up, grab a limb he couldn't reach and shake the tree with him under it. Yeah, I wet his young ass AGAIN. "AW MAN!" he always said.
"You're dealing with a Tall Dog, son. A Tall Dog ain't easy to fool. You play with a Tall Dog, you get bit!"
That was a very good day. When we got back to mama's house, Quinton was soaking wet and I was dry. "If y'all got caught in the rain, why is Quinton wet and daddy dry?" mama asked.
I got bit by the Tall Dog," Quinton replied.
And the BC really thought that he would be afraid of me. That woman doesn't know anything about my relationship with my boy, even though a lot of it happened right under her nose. But I was never a soccer dad.
Therefore, I HAD to be a bad parent.
Originally published September 19, 2003
The hills are in my blood, so I enjoy going back to them every fall. I especially like Blood Mountain Cabins because it is plopped down right there on the side of the hill with a beautiful view of the mountains. I can walk about 100 yards down a path through the woods and be on the Applatchian Trail. I can walk less than a mile in the opposite direction and see three waterfalls. Or, I can sit on the porch and drink wine while I read a book and watch the chipmunks play among the rocks in the stream below me.
I am about 20 miles from civilization in all directions, but I can be in Cleveland, Helen, Blairsville or Dahlonega in thirty minutes, depending on which way I want to go. Hell, other than the Super Wal-Mart, I am MORE than twenty minutes from civilization where I live now.
The only thing I don't like about the cabins is the fact that Highway 128 makes a 180-degree semi-circle around the place on a VERY STEEP uphill grade for 18-wheel trucks in the right lane going up and a VERY STEEP downhill grade for 18-wheel trucks in the right lane going down. You can hear a lot of gear-jamming at night and early in the morning.
In some ways, that is music to my ears. I would rather hear silence, but if I've got to put up with noise, then the sound of big trucks grinding gears and cars screaming their tires on horseshoe curves on mountain roads are what I prefer to hear. I remember listening to the coal trains in the switchyard at night when I was a six year-old boy. That sound reminded me of thunder as it echoed through the mountains. I listened and nestled tighter under my quilts. It was a comforting sound. So are the sounds I hear at Blood Mountain Cabins.
I can't wait to go. I may catch the leaves just right this year.
April 29, 2007
Originally published January 26, 2005
I've got a few old shirts that I cannot bear to part with until they finally just disintegrate and fall off of me some day. They are ugly, they are frayed, they are faded, they have holes in them and I probably look like Fido's ass when I wear them--- but they are some of my FAVORITE shirts.
Confess. Unless you're one of those yuppiefied metrosexual types who spends more time and money on grooming yourself to the max of your luscious beauty every day than most people spend on sending a kid to college, YOU have a couple of those shirts, too. Don't they just FEEL GOOD when you put them on? Mine do.
I always liked the song "This Shirt" by Mary Chapin Carpenter. She got it right--- that ain't just a shirt. It a whole bunch of memories, too. I've never felt the same kind of attachment to holey underwear, worn-out socks, ragged blue jeans or even logo caps, but I feel it for a few old shirts.
Originally published February 1, 2005
* I never met a cat that gave a shit for anything but its own ass.
* Low-carb diets are hurting bread companies and Kryspy Kreme. That shit is also making steak very expensive. I hate you fat fucks.
* How many people actually read the health-labels on food? I didn't, once upon a time, but I do now. I can't understand a damn bit of it. But I look smart as shit doing it.
* If you think there's no difference between Pacific shrimp and the mud-daubers we catch around here, you don't know much about shrimp.
*You crack the shell and immediately smell the tidewater and the marsh. Pry it free, cut that muscle on the bottom, drag it out and drop it in your mouth. Explosion! You taste the salt and you taste the river and you taste the sea. You swallow the meat and taste the beginning of mankind in your nose. The taste goes back and forth for a moment, until you're ready for another one. That's eating a raw oyster.
* I'd rather starve to death than eat shit for a living.
A lot of people don't like what I write and I receive a lot of criticism that borders on insult, if I took any of that shit seriously. I am accustomed to being called a "redneck" a "racist" a "hillbilly" and an inbred deviate. I have plenty of "stupid," "ignorant," "dumb," and "brain-dead" to last me a lifetime.
But occassionally an insult really hurts. I don't like to be called "shallow." That really bothers me. I also don't like to be called "common" because I don't believe that I am. "Loathsome" is another one that gets me. I often weep when I read such things.
I there is one thing I can say for myself in this life, it's that I am not shallow and I am not common. Loathsome may be open to debate, but I'm willing to take that one on. I write what I write, and if you don't like it, don't read it. Seems pretty simple to me, loathsome though I am.
I personally believe that I'm a damned good guy.
I don't know, but I certainly understand one fact. NOBODY is cool. NOBODY is any better than I am. I spent years learning that fact. Fancy clothes and expensive cars don't make the person. That's all on the inside.
The most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life was a red-headed woman scrubbing meal-pans with sand after we ate. She had a slight smile on her face and the firelight lit her perfectly. She was exqusite. We were 100 miles from civilization and we had those entire woods to ourselves. I told her to put down the pans. The temperature was perfect for snuggling.
So, that's what we did. And that was some of the best sex I ever had.
I LIVED that night and I'll never forget it. I've experienced enough beauty in my life to be immune from insults. The older I get, the more difficult it becomes to embarass me about anything. I've grabbed this sumbitch called "life" with both hands and I've damned near choked him to his knees once or twice. He's kicked me in the balls a few times, but I never asked for a fair fight. You don't get that out of life.
I developed a hide, and it's tough. Insult me all you want to.
I don't care.
April 28, 2007
Originally published January 11, 2005
* Anna Nichole Smith is NOT a sexy woman.
* Julia Roberts is NOT a "Pretty Woman,"
* Drew Barrymore looks butch to me.
* Melanie Griffith is aging fast.
* I'd still do Vanna White in a heartbeat.
* Terry Bradshaw marries bimbos.
* So do I.
* The most beautiful woman of all time is Sophia Loren.
A true story
Originally published january 10, 2005
I don't know what made me remember this incident from my past, but it came back as clear as a bell today. I was 15 years old and working at Chip's Drive-In on Waters Avenue around 1966. Yeah, I was the kid in the paper hat with the apron around his waist standing behind the stainless-steel counter at a burger joint.
I saw a car pull up outside. Out poured (and I do mean POURED) four Jenkins High School cheerleaders. At that point in my life, I believed that these were the most beautiful, sexy wimmen in the world and my palms became sweaty when I saw them.
They came giggling and wiggling and throwing tits and ass at me when they approached my window. "Hey, Robbie!" one yelled. I was flattered that they knew my name. "We're HUNGRY!" I took their order.
They wanted hamburgers, hot dogs, a couple of fish-burgers, some fried chicken, six orders of french fries and four large cokes. I put the order together, bagged it and said, "That'll be $8.29."
Dee-Dee, the head cheerleader, leaned over the counter and gave me one hell of a dose of teenaged cleavage. "Uh, Robbie, sweetheart... can't you just charge us for the cokes and let us walk away with the rest?" She licked her lips sensuously. "I sure would appreciate it."
When I refused to do that, they all walked away and left the entire order on the counter, and they laughed all the way back to their car. They were just seeing what their pussies could get them that day. Wimmen learn that shit from an early age.
I stood there at the counter and looked at all the food they stuck me with. Me in my silly paper hat and my goddam apron. Feeling like a fool. But I knew that I had done the right thing. I wasn't going to cheat my boss, and even if I DID, I damn sure wasn't going to get any pussy from those girls. They were just being young cunts.
I turned around and ran face-to-face into my manager. He saw the whole episode. "You done good, Rob," he said. "Don't ever let the split-tails get the upper hand on you."
I wish I had followed his advice all of my life.
Doctors and lawyers
Originally published January 21, 2005
Let me clarify something I wrote in a post below. I am convinced that both doctors and lawyers fall into that same bell-curve that I've seen in every other line of work I ever watched.
You have 20% who are outstanding. You have 60% who are competent, but not brilliant. Then, you have 20% who need to be dragged off and shot because they're not worth a damn and they never will be. Just look around. You can see the same thing in EVERY PROFESSION, from brick-laying to zygote research. That just the way people are.
What I don't like is the fact the the bottom 20% of doctors aren't the ones facing malpractice suits every day. Even the really good ones get hammered whenever anything goes wrong, whether it's their fault or not. Lawyers and juries seem to expect "zero defects" from doctors, and if a patient dies or suffers complications from a complicated procedure, the automatic assumption is that the doctor did something wrong. And there might be some money to be made.
I've served twice on a jury for malpractice cases. Both cases were bullshit. We didn't give the plaintiff a dime in either case. But somebody spent a lot of money to defend both of them. That's what chaps my ass. What did the lawyer have to lose by suing? Nothing.
I want to see some kind of "loser pays" system in this country.
April 27, 2007
Crusty old bastard
Originally published December 5, 2004
I have lived more than half a century. I believe that my senority gives me certain privileges that I enjoy exercising. Here are a few.
* I don't drink bottled water. The best water I ever tasted came from an artesian well, through a rusty pipe in a ditch by the Bartlett Junior High School football field. I drank gallons of that stuff, and it was GREAT!
* I've never had a cup of Starbuck's coffee. Don't want one, either.
* Diet Coke tastes like chalk-filled shit to me. I won't drink it and I don't like those pretentious pansies who do. I don't want ANYTHING "diet," "sodium-free" or "low-carb."
* I've never watched an episode of "CSI" or "The West Wing." I probably never will. I don't watch much TV.
* I'd have to get some serious booze in me before I found Julia Roberts attractive. Pretty Woman? Give me a break. I've seen rag dolls that were better looking.
* If Brad Pitt is a heart-throb, then most wimmen are closet lesbians. He's more feminine than Julia Roberts is.
* I don't brake for animals, especially not squirrels, cats or armadillos. I've left my share of road-kill along the highway as a result, but I don't care. The stupid bastards should have stayed out of the road. Besides... buzzards need to eat, too.
* I won't buy ANYTHING with an "organic" label on it. What a brain-fart idea "organic" farming is. Check out a rice patty in China that's floating knee-deep in shit. THAT'S organic farming.
* I believe that "You Are My Sunshine" is a beautiful song. I love to play it on my autoharp, and the harmonies can be great. So simple, yet so RIGHT! A commenter on this blog also told me that "The Yellow Rose of Texas" was written about a mixed-blood prostitute in some cowtown whorehouse. Yeah... a high yellow woman. That information gave me a whole new appreciation of the song.
* I think the "designated hitter" should be banned from baseball. Having the pitcher hit is a vital part of the game.
* When I played football, I would have taken steriods if I knew what they were and how to get them back then. I wanted to gain weight and become stronger. Anybody surprised by athletes who DO take performance-enhancing drugs never played ball.
* I don't believe that there IS a "woman of my dreams" out there, and I've stopped looking for her. Previous searches have been very disheartening and very expensive. I could rent one hell of a string of whores for the money my two ex-wives squeezed from me. And I'm STILL paying that bill.
* Cigarettes are filthy, smelly, unhealthy and deadly. I love 'em. I'll smoke until the day I die, if I get that chance. I just wish the anti-smoking Gestapo would be honest about what they're doing. Stop "blowing smoke" about the deadly effects of second-hand smoke and just ADMIT that you don't like cigarettes because... YOU DON'T LIKE SMOKE, PERIOD!!! Then pass your stupid laws.
* I dreamed that I played basketball with Michael Jordan last night. I was proud, and I remember thinking in the locker room after the game, when Mike shook my hand, "I have played with THE VERY BEST, and I didn't embarrass myself." I regretted waking up from that one.
* When I start dreaming about Michael Jackson, someone drag me off and shoot me.
Sex is good
Originally published December 22, 2004
I knew that something was "wrong" with me a long time ago.
I know that this idea will make some people hyperventilate and get a serious case of the vapors, but I don't care. I believe that our Puritan heritage has fucked up more people than it ever saved from sin, because we're all supposed to feel GUILTY for having fun, especially if sex is involved. When I DON'T feel a bolt of guilt after I do something I like doing, I am supposed to stop and think about what's wrong with ME?
THAT'S fucked up. Not me.
If GAWD didn't want sex to feel good, then why did he give me a pecker in the first place? Why did he create Woman and give her a pussy? Why did he make wimmen like pecker just as much as I like pussy? He did THAT, and then told us all NOT TO USE WHAT HE GAVE US??? Bullshit!! I ain't buying that crap.
He gave us both a blessing and a curse, which is what a clever, tricky God does. This is the WORD OF GAWD, so I'll put it in italics: "Man, you have a pecker. Woman, you have a pussy. Together, you will find all kinds of ways to mess up my creation, but I'm gonna turn you loose on the world anyway. I think I fucked up when I made you."
And he turned us loose. And he was correct when he said that we would mess up his wonderful creation. We did. Most of the time.
But he stuck one other small detail in there that he neglected to mention at the time. Yeah, sweaty, romping sex is wonderful. EVERYBODY should do it every day.
But making love is totally different. I've known that feeling and I've shared my soul with someone in passion so sweet that I would have been happy to die right then, because life could not possibly be any better. Yeah, peckers and pussies were involved, but that's not what I felt at the time. I felt.... ONE with someone else.
If you've never known that experience, GAWD cheated you out of something special. Know it once and you'll never forget it.
I like the romp, and I'll rent me a hooker to get one. Sex is good.
But it's nothing like making love to someone... you really love.
I can't just leave that post below without saying something else. I don't like cats, but I love dogs. I've had three really good ones in my life, and I killed all three of them. I did that because I couldn't stand to see them suffer anymore. The youngest one was nine years old.
A good dog WORSHIPS you. You are Tall Dog, God Of All Things and the HMFIC in doggy world. You provide food, you bring water, and you make fire in the house when it's cold outside. Dogs are impressed by that kind of shit.
YOU can tell your dog to sit down and shut up, and he will, because you are keeper of the Big Foot In The Ass and the Wrathful Slap On The Nose, accompanied by much cursing. Dogs are impressed by THAT shit, too.
But if you have somebody fuck with you, he's got the dog to fight, too. Dogs are territorial and protective. They take care of what they believe to be their own. Dogs that adopt you are on your side, no matter what the odds. Yeah. They'll fight for YOU, and death be damned. They'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.
That's what's so painful about putting a good dog down. He TRUSTS you. You've always fixed what was wrong and taken care of him. He LOVES you. Look into those big, loyal eyes right before the needle goes into the leg. Watch the light go out in those eyes.
Man. That's the most difficult thing I've ever done in my life.
MAKE ME CRY
If you've never done this, you won't understand. But if you HAVE done it, keep some Kleenex nearby when you read that post.
April 26, 2007
Rocky horror picture show
Originally published October 26, 2004
I was in an Irish pub in Atlanta a week ago and the place had music videos playing on a big-screen TV. Lo and behold, "Let's Do the Time Warp Again" came on and I was rocking out in my chair while singing along. People stared at me strangely. Nobody else sang along.
Maybe two dozen customers were in the bar. When the song was over, being the mild-mannered, shy guy that I am, I asked, "Didn't any of ya'll see that movie? That's from "Rocky Horror Picture Show," a genuine cult classic. Don't tell me that I'm in a room full of people so culturally challenged that nobody recognized that song."
I couldn't believe it. I thought EVERYBODY saw "Rocky Horror Picture Show" at least once in life, and then probably went back for one of those midnight screenings where everybody dresses in costumes and carries water pistols to make it rain in the theater.
Bejus! That was IDIOT NIGHT, and I had a blast. Once, I dressed as a transsexual in black leather and fish-net hose, with heavy eye make-up and bright red lipstick. I almost broke my ankles trying to walk in those 4" spiked-heel shoes I donned for the occasion. You know what? Nobody gave me a second glance in the theater. (I DID NOT wear that outfit to the Waffle House after the show.)
Oh, I was BEAUTIFUL, but I wasn't dressed nearly well enough to compete with the others there. I saw some... well, never mind.
If you've never seen "Rocky Horror Picture Show," you won't know what I'm talking about.
A glimmer of sanity
Originally published October 31, 2004
I believe that any person who abuses a child--- either sexually, physically or emotionally--- is one sick sumbitch who should be staked out on a fire ant mound, right after a red-hot poker wrapped in barbed wire is shoved up the abuser's ass. Such people fill me with revulsion.
But the matter has gotten 'WAY out of hand once government decided to "fix" the problem. I submit that today, Child Protection Agencies commit more abuse on children than child abusers do. That's another government agency that looked good on paper, but quickly started to abuse POWER, which always happens when government gets involved in ANYTHING.
If you don't know at least one parent who has had a run-in with a Child Protection Agency, you don't get around much. Some people I know have real horror stories to tell.
It's also another example of the Constitution being turned upside-down, because THEY don't have to prove that you did anything wrong before they sieze your children. You have to prove your innocense to get your children back.
Maybe we can see a faint light, a glimmer of sanity in this case. The fact that it went to court in the first place proves my accusation that Child Protection agencies behave like Islamist goon-squads.
A battered woman's failure to prevent her children from witnessing her own abuse does not automatically give protective agencies license to remove the child, the New York Court of Appeals ruled Tuesday in a groundbreaking opinion.
Lemme get the logic straight... a battered woman should have found a way to prevent her children from witnessing her battering. Since she didn't, and was battered in front of her children, protective agencies should "automatically" have license to sieze the children.
What a crock, so typical of the way protective agencies think.
Tuesday's ruling in Nicholson v. Scoppetta, 113, appears to impose new burdens on both child welfare administrators and Family Court judges. It requires the assessment of individual cases and rejects a one-size-fits-all approach to the problem of domestic violence vis-à-vis its impact on children.
WHAT??? "One-size-fits-all" is the only thing government knows. Having actually to THINK and make decisions "imposes new burdens" on the agencies? Bejus! The HUMANITY!!!
I would much rather the agencies face those burdens than innocent parents, who have carried that load long enough.
Originally published Decmeber 14, 2004
"You sumbitch! I oughta KILL YOU for that!"
I heard that line once after I dropped a cigarette butt into a buddy's still half-full beer can at a party. Hell, I thought the can was empty at the time, but I ruined the rest of his beer and pissed him off. Did I believe that he really meant to kill me? No, I didn't and he simply was protesting a waste of perfectly good beer. I knew what he meant.
I felt guilty about what I had done, so I gave him a fresh beer to assuage his wounded feelings, I apologized for being a careless bastard and the party rocked on with the two of us remaining good buddies. In MY humble opinion, that was not a violent incident.
But under the law, he made a terroristic threat and I could have called the authorities on him, had him locked up and pressed charges. I could have trembled in front of a judge, let a frightened pee-stain darken the front of my pants and said that the man put me in fear of my life.
I could have sent him to jail for nothing. Wimmen do that kind of thing a lot.
To me, violence is a simple concept. If I tell you that you are full of shit and that you need to be dragged off and shot, that's not violence. That's a big mouth gnashing the wind. If I punch you in the nose, however, then actually drag you off and shoot you, THAT'S violence.
A lot of people don't understand the difference today, and I blame it all on the Pussification of America, led, sponsored and supported by wimmen. Just look at how they have managed to redefine the word "rape."
Before wimmen's Bizarro World took over, rape meant a physical, sexual assault. Now, some poor bastard can be standing at a bus stop and minding his own business when he decides to scratch his balls. If some hyperventilating woman sees him do it, she can cry "RAPE!!!" and the courts take her seriously instead of putting her in a rubber room, where she belongs.
That guy scratching his balls is VIOLENCE to some wimmen. And if she "feels" threatened, by Bejus, then she IS THREATENED, no matter if the threat is all in her tangled, feminine mind. She was RAPED, even though the guy never even saw her. That's the LAW!!!
That's the central flaw in the Fem-Lib movement. Wimmen want to play on a level field with men, but they also want to ability to be whining, helpless, overly-sensitive pussies when the situation benefits them. I say you can't have it both ways, but they do. Wimmen are independent and strong when they're winning, but they become shaking blobs of formless jello when things don't go their way.
I am Woman. I am sorta strong, but I tend to fall apart easily, I can't handle pressure and I see sexual harassment everywhere, even though I couldn't pay a guy to fuck me with somebody else's dick. I want to run with the Tall Dogs, but that field is just so HOSTILE and ICKY. Clean it up to MY standards so that I can get a fair game. And you've GOT to let me play.
Guys engage in fistfights when they get violent. Wimmen drag you into court when they want to show their cat-claws.
Guess which one I believe is more bloodthirsty?
April 25, 2007
What a language
Originally published October 22, 2004
English contains a lot of words that SOUND dirty, even though they aren't. Just roll these words around on your tongue and see if you don't feel dirty and want to brush your teeth afterward.
Ointment. I see that word and I think of pig sex.
Lucrative. I don't know if that's a secretion of bodily fluid or a brand of K-Y Jelly.
Unguent. That sounds like a really bad piece of ass.
Flit. That's a part of the female anatomy, somewhere around that mysterious G-Spot.
Annual. Go visit a urologist. He'll stick a finger up your annual.
Pedantry. If that doesn't sound like a sexual perversion, I don't know what does.
Caliper. That's something nasty that men do to wimmen, but I don't know exactly what it is. I think it involves spurs and a bullwhip.
Hormone. That's a fake orgasm.
Cicada. That's a deadly venereal disease.
Kudzu. That's what leaves a wet spot on the bed after you've performed a caliper.
Ooze. That word is too gross to talk about.
See what happens to me when I get bored?
Originally published September 13, 2004
I am about to bare my soul to whoever reads this blog. For as far back as I can remember in my life, I have experienced sexual fantasies about wimmen I saw on TV. Some of them weren't even SUPPOSED to be sexy, but they were to me. Here are my top 10:
#1. Elizabeth Montgomery as "Samantha" on Bewitched.
#2. Amanda Blake as "Kitty" on Gunsmoke.
#3. BOTH of those chicks on "Three's Company." AT ONCE.
#4. Barbara Eden as "Genie."
#5. Patty Duke, back in her "identical cousins" days.
#6. MORTICIA ADDAMS!!! YES!!!! I ADMIT IT!!!! SHE MADE ME HOT!!!!
#7. Donna Douglas as "Ellie May" on The Beverly Hillbillies. I kissed her once.
#8. Lucille Ball. I'd be a liar if I didn't say Lucy looked like a hot-blooded redhead in her younger days. Yeah... I'll just BET that she and Ricky slept in separate beds.
#9. Miss Nancy on "Romper Room" when I was a LITTLE boy. See how rotten I am? I wanted to jump through that Magic Mirror and grab a handfull of titty when I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD!!!
#10. Emma Peel from "The Avengers." (That was Diana Riggs, right?) Any man MY age who says he never fantasized about peeling Emma is either a got-dam liar or a faggot. Ow, man---that skin-tight black leather! That ass! Those legs!!!!
Excuse me. I need to go take a shower.
Originally published September 28, 2004
When I had the mini-farm and planted my half-acre garden, I enjoyed pulling weeds. I would go out there on a Saturday morning, sit in the dirt and weed my garden. It was wonderfully mindless work after a week in the chemical plant. I could hum a few songs, get dirt under my fingernails and enjoy the sunshine on my bare back. The goats always came over to the fence hoping that I would throw them something good to eat. Sometimes, I did.
I liked playing in the dirt and I was very good at growing vegetables. I was proud of my garden. And I enjoyed pulling weeds. I could pull weeds for hours and not get bored.
I haven't planted a garden for two years now, and I may never do it again. I just don't have the want-to anymore. I ended up giving away almost everything I grew from my last garden, and that's a lot of work to give away. Fuck it. If I want vegetables, I'll buy them at the grocery store.
But I still pull weeds. I do it every day using MT Blacklist to rid my site of spammers. They keep coming back, but I keep getting rid of them, deleting their comments and snatching them out by the roots. It's relaxing, mindless work that I enjoy doing, and I don't even need a hoe to do it. Just point and click. Goodbye to YOU and your comments.
These are some sick fucking people. I found some shit today on the post I wrote about the death of my best friend, Steve Hamby. I put a lot of emotion into that one, because I loved Steve like a brother.
The spammers hit that post with "cum-filled panties," "oral sex.com," "little girls and big dicks," and "on-line casino betting." Bejus on a bike. Do these people respect ANYTHING???
Fucking weeds. I'll pull you every time.
April 24, 2007
Facts of life
Originally published December 2, 2004
* I walk into the Crackerbox and I feel a Circle of Negativity forming around me. I'm really beginning to hate this place.
* I feel no shame about renting prostitutes in Costa Rica, and I would LOVE to see my bloodless cunt, ex-wife bring up the subject in court. Yeah... I rented a few hookers. Jennifer, you did... what? While married? In front of a six year-old boy? Explain THAT to the judge if you want to bring up MY sex life.
* Rosemary explained how mordida, or "the bite," works in her line of business. Got-dam! I pay HER and half the people in town get a cut of the money. THAT'S what greasy-guy was doing on the street that evening.
* Homeland security is a joke. I was manhandled by those people today because I was profiled--- NOT as a potential terrorist or drug-smuggler--- but as a silver-haired white male that they could fuck with impudently. No, I take that back: nobody was impudent with me. The people were all polite and professional. But they fucked with me anyway, because they knew that they could. I didn't enjoy the experience.
* Some people call themselves "aggressive" or "self-confident" when all they really are is feral. They don't see any difference between a tiger and a hyena.
* I came to hate a dog in Costa Rica. I never saw the fucking mutt, but he was the damnedest barkaholic that I ever heard. He was one of those Ingersol-Rand dogs, the kind that don't have to breathe a single time to bark for thirty minutes straight. He liked to crank up at 3:00 in the morning, too, barking at nothing just because he could. That dog is why I left my first hotel in Jaco. He gave me thoughts of anti-freeze and mole pellets, and I don't like to go there.
* I asked Rosemary the other night: "You are young and attractive now. How much longer do you think you can keep doing what you're doing?" She said 10 more years. I asked her what she planned to do in 10 more years. "Be dead, mon," she replied, and she meant it. That's a sad philosophy. I know the feeling.
* Comment spammers really are the scum of the earth. I have serious cleaning up to do tomorrow.
* Rosemary said that she was 30 years old. I would put her closer to 40, but I didn't pursue that topic. I fucked up when I told her how old I am. "No Waaaay!" she said. "You no 52. You 58, maybe 60." That hurt. She said that I had old eyes. That statement may be true, because these old eyes have seen a lot, but I don't believe that I look 58 years old. C'mon. Even on a bad day, I don't look any older than 57.
* I really missed not having a guitar to play a few times in Costa Rica. That place makes me want to sing.
* This blog will be three years old this month. In all modesty, I do not believe that another blog like mine exists anywhere on the net. I have no idea how to "classify" my blog in any specific category. I just write. Some people like what I write and some people don't. I ain't stretching for an audience and I don't care which way you lean. But I'll be here next year, too.
* What's the difference between a "crust" and a "patina?"
* I am tired. I have one ear still stopped up from riding airplanes today. And I still have to figure out what I'm going to do with the dead hooker's bloody head in my duffle bag.
Originally published December 3, 2004
Okay, he has a cold. Big fucking deal. I think I caught one on my various airplane rides yesterday and I am a walking bag of cloggy snot today. It's just a good thing that I managed to smuggle all of that dope out of Costa Rica to ease my misery.
I decided to make a medicinal soup out of the dead hooker's head.
Jim lists 20 things that he WANTS to do before he dies. A bad cold will make you go existential and start thinking about death, but I prefer to go the OTHER WAY when I'm feeling badly. Here are 20 things that I HAVE DONE, and I hope to do again some day:
1) I kissed Donna Douglas (Ellie Mae Clampett).
2) I finished writing a novel. The book sucked, but at least I finished it.
3) I've pegged the speedometer on three different vehicles I owned.
4) I survived a terrible car wreck with only a concussion and a cut on my nose to show for it. We totalled a brand-new Chrystler LeBaron in a high-speed T-bone crash. Wow! How the driver and I both walked away from that wreck with only minor injuries is still amazing to me. I've believed in the value of seat belts ever since.
5) I've seen a lot of my writing published.
6) I once fought the baddest ass in school when I was in 10th grade. I got in one good lick and knocked out his two front teeth before he beat the shit out of me in that fight. I did the right thing that day. I never had to fight him again. In fact, I never had to fight ANYBODY for a couple of years after that incident.
7) I've made love slept with more than 100 wimmen in my life.
8) My friends don't know, but the three of us were invited to a fraternity party when we started college. The brothers had beer, a stripper and lots of good party atmosphere at their place. During the evening, I was dragged aside and told, "We want YOU in the fraternity. But your friends... well, they just aren't Pike material." I told that bastard that I pick my own friends. If THEY weren't good enough for the stupid club, then neither was I. I left that night telling both of my friends that WE didn't make the cut.
9) I've been to several nudist resorts. I like walking around with no clothes on.
10) I kissed Barbra Eden, too. (I dream of Jeanie)
11) I've played guitar with John Prine, Davis Causey, Mike Cross and The Zombies. I also jammed with Gove Scrivenor and Gamble Rogers. I am proud of that.
12) I've had sex with two wimmen at one time. Several times.
13) I once left Atlanta headed for Athens and I ended up in Chatanooga with $5 in my pocket and almost no gas in my car. I ended up staying three days in Chatanooga. I make friends easily.
14) I shook Jimmy Carter's hand when he was President of the United States. I never voted for the grinning bastard, but I think shaking a President's hand is a memorable experience.
15) I survived the same cancer that killed my best friend and my father.
16) I started blogging. I've made both enemies and friends from my blog, and I like the friends enough to tolerate the enemies. I don't really give a shit whether you like me or not.
17) I was voted "Most Talented Boy" in my high-school graduation class. 400 people, but they knew talent when they saw it.
18) I have NEVER done something for money that I didn't believe in doing anyway.
19) I have a large and powerful ego. That's not a character flaw---that's an asset. You've gotta have a cast-iron ass to do some of the things I've done in my life. I wouldn't have it otherwise. If I piss people off along the way, so be it. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.
20) My autobiography would be a fascinating read.
That's MY 20 things to think about today.
Things I like about the South
Originally published August 19, 2004
* Pretty wimmen with red toenails wearing sandals and skimpy shorts.
* Old people who are good story-tellers. They tell the same stories over and over, but the stories are good enough that you never get tired of listening to them.
* Iced tea made a gallon at a time and kept in the refrigerator so that when you come inside all sweaty, it's there for the taking.
* Pickup trucks with dog-boxes in the back and good ole boys who own guns. Yankees call those people "Rednecks," but I call some of them my good friends.
* Hot days and summer thunderstorms that put on a light show that's impressive as hell to watch.
* No snow.
* Even hurricanes are better than snow. I'd rather have the roof blow off my house than live in Buffalo, New York. A hurricane is a bad accident. Buffalo gets snow EVERY WINTER.
* Friendly people who don't speak with an accent any different from mine. People in the South believe in hospitality. Wimmen call you "honey" and they don't mind when you call them "darlin.'"
* The best food you'll ever eat. Cornbread baked in a cast-iron skillet, fried okra, grits and sawmill gravy, southern-fried chicken and some things that even the person who cooked it can't duplicate. It's a wonder that I'm not fat. I love that food.
* No such thing as ice-fishing. I've always thought that was crazy as hell and we don't do that bullshit down South. We don't have things freeze outside.
* People with manners. Old farts like ME who say "yes, ma'am" to somebody half my age and kids who always call you "Mister." Parents who ain't afraid to tear up a child's ass when he forgets his manners. They'll learn him right.
I wouldn't choose to live anywhere else in the world. It's hot, we have mosquitoes and some places are more beautiful, but I like it right where I am. I love the South, pure and simple, much like the way Southerners look at life. Pure and simple.
I was blessed to grow up here.
April 23, 2007
Originally published September 6, 2004
Recondo 32 and his lovely wife Georgia came over yesterday to spend the night at the Crackerbox, eat chili dogs and drink up all of my beer. I don't remember how we got on the topic, but I mentioned something about fake orgasms.
I said that I could fake an orgasm now as well as any woman. Georgia was outraged. "I never faked one in my life," she announced indignantly. "I don't know why anybody would want to fake one. But I could tell if a man did... even YOU, Smith."
"She probably can, Rob. She knows when I fake sex with her," Recondo said. "That when I tell her that I'm going to jump her bones and I don't. I by-pass that whole fake orgasm thing."
I bet her that she couldn't tell, but I didn't get the chance to really...DEMONSTRATE my acting ability. You see... I don't ejaculate anymore, thanks to having a lot of my natural plumbing removed, so I leave no evidence of an actual male orgasm. So, I did all the vocals and the facial expressions of a really good, porno-movie cum-shot while sitting on my couch. Then I asked Georgia, "What did you think of THAT?"
"It was fake. Obviously fake."
"OF COURSE it was fake. I told you ahead of time that I was going to fake one. But if you and I were tangling the sheets and I did that, I'll guarantee you that you'd believe me."
"I could tell. I just KNOW that I could tell."
Men can't. Why should wimmen be any more perceptive?
Originally published September 13, 2004
I read this blogger profile and evil thoughts entered my head. I ALWAYS thought Mary Ann was sexier than Ginger and probably a LOT better in bed once you got her riled up. Ginger just made me think of fake orgasms, while Mary Ann made me imagine screaming, back-clawing, sweaty sex in the jungle.
Many of those wholesome-looking wimmen will surprise you in private.
I once watched that show and pondered such things. Why wasn't anybody getting laid on that island? Gilligan was an asexual character, so I could understand his behavior, but the Skipper was an old sailor. He HAD to want some pussy every once in a while. If nothing else, Skipper should have sneaked off a few nights and nailed Thurston Howell's wife. Lovey wasn't over the hill yet.
And the Professor? He should have been doing threesomes with Ginger AND Mary Ann at the same time. Sex is a wonderful way to alleviate both boredom and stress--- besides WHAT ELSE are you going to do when stranded on a tropical island with a couple of babes like that? You just GOTTA start noticing some coconuts that don't grow on trees.
I'm sorry. That's the way I think.
Originally published September 6, 2004
Now THAT was one hell of a squall that just blew over my house. The fucking rain was falling SIDEWAYS and the trees were whipping in the wind as if a giant's hand was shaking them. That was an impressive show. No thunder or lightning, though. (Oops! Too quickly spoken. NOW that the rain is quieting down, the thunder and lightning have started.)
Fuck it. I've got nothing better to do, so I'm going to post a recipe:
A Genuine Southern Chili Dog
Dice a Vidalia onion fine.
Dice two Claussen's dill pickles, fine.
Put some Gwaltney Bun-Sized Smoked Sausages on the grill.
Cook the sausage until they plump up nicely and the skins begin to break.
I usually make my own chili sauce, but yesterday I was roughing it, so I used a microwave cup of Hormel Chili without beans.
Put your buns in the microwave on a paper plate with a damp paper towel underneath the plate. Nuke for 20 seconds for nice, hot, moist buns (a quality I always look for in a woman.).
Drag the sausage dogs off the grill. Place one in each hot, moist bun.
Run ketchup down both sides of the sausage, then a streak of spicy brown mustard right down the top. Garnish with onion and hand-diced pickle relish. Then, add a nice, messy dose of chili all over the top.
Serve with beer, chips and salsa and a whole roll of paper towels.
The more beer you drink, the better the 'dogs taste.
April 22, 2007
My friend Steve
Originally published August 16, 2004
I've written about Steve Hamby before, but this post made me think about him again tonight. I loved that man like a brother. I've never had a better friend in my life.
Steve and I met a long time ago, when we were both young and foolish. We went on many a rampage together before we both sobered up and started living sane lives. He got married for a second time, moved to Augusta and raised two fine children . I always stayed in touch with him no matter how far apart we were. Steve was... STEVE and we could talk about anything.
Did you ever have a friend like that? One who knew every wart you had and still liked you anyway? I did, and that person was Steve.
I watched him die of prostate cancer shortly after I was diagnosed with the same disease. We compared notes about the humiliating treatment we went through and laughed a lot about it. (heh. We argued about who had the biggest tool stuck up his ass by some quack doctor.) It surely ain't no fun, but it IS humorous if you look at it the right way.
But Steve's cancer spread and mine didn't.
Once he had it all through his bones and knew that he was going to die, he came to see me one last time. He brought his children with him and young Scott taught me how to post a link on my blog. That boy is sharp. Steve's daughter is a beautiful young woman.
I knew that when Steve pulled out of my driveway on Sunday morning, I would never see him again. He was wearing a back-brace and a morphene patch at the time and he was in constant pain. He gave me a big hug before he left the Crackerbox. "You're the best friend I ever had, Rob," he told me. I started to tear-up and get all mushy.
"Steve," I started to say, but he just bear-hugged me and said, "You don't need to say anything. We had a lot of good times. I've had a good life. Don't worry about me."
I don't worry because Steve was reconciled to his fate. But I think about him all the time. And Steve, if that pisses you off. kiss my Cracker ass.
YOU know how I am. You know better than anybody else.
My friend Steve
Originally published August 17, 2004
That's a picture of Steve, me and Recondo's lovely wife, Georgia at the Crackerbox shortly before Steve died. His doctor had him on some kind of hormone treatments for the cancer that made Steve blow up like a blimp. He was pretty lean most of his life.
Steve also had a 1958 Martin D-28 guitar that someone customized with a lot of pearl inlay years ago. Steve bought it in Nashville and brought it down here for Randy Wood to set the neck and refret it after years of playing. That guitar is a gem. It is one of the finest instruments I've ever played, with a sound that rings like a bell. Randy offered Steve $7,000 for it, but like mine, that Martin wasn't for sale.
After Steve died, his wife Cindy called me and asked what Steve's guitars were worth. He owned several. I told her that she could sell the Guild and the Ovation and the old Epiphone if she wanted to, and a couple of those electrics were worth some pretty good bucks. (Especially that old Ibanez) Just take 'em to a music store and sell 'em on consignment. A good salesman will get what they're worth and put a little money in his own pocket, too.
But I told her NOT to sell that Martin. "Give it to Scott," I said. "Nobody makes guitars like that anymore, Cindy. Scott plays and he will appreciate it for the rest of his life. Besides, his daddy would want him to have it to pass along to his son. Guitars like that one last forever and they just get better with age."
As far as I know, Cindy followed my advice.
Originally published August 14, 2004
I just watched the movie Cold Mountain on pay per view. I enjoyed the movie, but I thought that it missed the entire point of the book. I read that novel at Blood Mountain Cabins about one year before my divorce. All of my English Major instincts kicked in and I saw the novel as an allegorical tale about one thing: is it better to have known joy for a few moments and lose it than to never know joy at all? Is it worth a long, arduous trek to get something that you cannot hold on to?
I wrestled with that question for a while, until I had the boom lowered on me, and I KNOW the answer now. It's better to NEVER know joy than to have it taken away from you. You don't miss what you never had, but heartbreak is one motherfucker that lasts forever. Yeah, I've BEEN to Cold Mountain, and I'll never recover from that experience.
I wish that I could simply turn my back, walk away and forget about it, but I can't. Too much shit got crammed into that sock. I invested MYSELF in that relationship and brought a son into it, too. I bought the wrong stock, but that realization NOW doesn't make me feel any better. It still hurts.
If I could pick ONE SINGLE MOMENT in my life to live over again, it would be the moment when Jennifer gave me her phone number. I would throw that sumbitch away knowing what I know now. But I didn't at the time, and I ended up on Cold Mountain.
I fucked myself.
April 21, 2007
Originally published September 20, 2005
How many times in your life have you made a decision that didn't seem important at the time, only to look back years later and realize that the choice you made THEN affected everything you are NOW? That's a scary thing about life. You make those decisions every day and don't even know you're doing it.
In 1968, I went to a high school football game to watch the team we were going to play the next weekend. After the game, I was invited to go for a ride in a brand new Pontiac GTO with some friends from the football team. I turned the offer down because I had made a date with a girl I talked to in the stands that night. She and I went to Shoney's, ate some hot fudge cake, and then went necking.
Those boys wrecked that GTO on "Dead Man's Curve" on LaRoache Avenue and ended up with one dead and three severely injured, and the car appearing to be passed through a trash compactor.
I would have been in that car if I had said "yes" instead of "no" that night.
You never know when those choices matter, and sometimes you don't even realize that you make them. Every day, you come to crossroads in your life and you have to pick which road to take. You have no idea where that road leads, but you've got to go somewhere.
Shortly before Jennifer dropped the divorce bomb on my head, we were sitting on the back deck at the mini-farm and I expounded on this subject.
I told her that, looking back on my life, I needed to be dragged off and shot for making some poor choices at MY crossroads. I missed some really good opportunities and I took some fucked up roads.
But in the end, it all worked out, because I wouldn't be with her now if I had done anything differently. I meant what I said at the time. I loved my beautiful wife, I owned a big house, I had lots of land, I fathered a fine son and I was happy.
As things turned out, marrying Jennifer was probably the WORST mistake I ever made, but I sure didn't see it at the time. You never do, or you wouldn't make that decision.
Crossroads are tricky that way.
Originally published September 11, 2005
I've never understood the thinking of some petty criminals. Would YOU risk going to jail for 20 years and being butt-buddies with some big, muscular black guy named "DaShawn" for $350? I wouldn't, but some people do.
When I dated Dora, she was the assistant manager of a convienence store. That place was robbed several times and the most any thief ever got away with was about $40 and a carton of Newport cigarettes. Those crack-heads came in waving GUNS for that loot, too.
That's just fucking crazy to me.
Is $40 and a carton of Newports worth going to jail for? You can EARN $40 with one day of work at minimum wage and buy your own goddam cigarettes, then have $20 left over. But that's not the way criminals think. WORK!!?? Fuck that!!!
I'll guarantee you that prisons are FULL of assholes who did something similar, got caught and fucked up the rest of their lives. That kind of behavior is sheer stupidity.
If I ever intend to be a criminal, I'm going for a big score. It won't be a bank, because you usually don't get a lot of money from a bank robbery and, if you can aviod the dye-packets, you still end up with the FBI on your ass. That's too risky.
Case a Wal-Mart or a big grocery store. Find out where the accounting office is. Wait until they empty the registers on a pickup, then rob the office. You can steal up to $40,000 that way, if you can pull it off and get out of there.
I'd make a good criminal. I would plan a lot before I acted. That's the writer in me. I always look at things like that as something I might want to put in a book some fine day. Ya gotta make it read REAL.
But even $40,000 isn't worth the risk. I've spent a night in jail. I don't think I would like prison.
What can you say?
Originally published September 5, 2005
I don't believe in the "brotherhood" of man. I've read too much history NOT to believe that some people are capable of absolutely disgusting acts. And they feel NO GUILT after doing it, either. Just look at my bloodless cunt ex-wife for one fine example.
In the middle of war or disaster, you always see TWO kinds of people: the noble and the ignoble. That same scenario played out in politics over Iraq and after Hurricance Katrina.
I don't think tribes is the right word to use in this story. When people band together to HELP each other instead of engaging in rape and pillage during a time of crisis, I believe that you are seeing the best we are capable of being.
``Some people became animals,'' Vasilioas Tryphonas said Sunday morning as he sipped a hot beer in Johnny White's Sports Bar on Bourbon Street. ``We became more civilized.''
I'm no socialist and I damn sure ain't no communist, but I have very deep country roots. You help your neighbor when he's in need. You welcome a stranger into the house, feed him a meal and let him sleep in the barn.
You do that because it may be YOU the next time, needing help. It's really a "pay it down" way of thinking that may not apply to modern society, but it's a belief I'll never outgrow.
According to some of the great philosophers I've read in my comments, I was a goddam fool to tow that lady out of the mud-bog on the dirt road to Randall's Liquor Store. I should have charged her a pile of money for doing that. After all, nobody else was around to do it.
The sky was getting dark. She was frightened. I should have charged what the "free market" was worth in that situation. I'll bet that she would have paid me almost anything I asked for, maybe even a blow-job, and I could have walked away cackling, with a lot of money in my hand.
I didn't do that. I got fucked-up and dirty getting her out of that mud-bog, but I pulled her out for NO CHARGE. She tried to OFFER me money, and I turned it down.
I didn't do it for money. I did it because somebody needed help and I was able to provide it. I did it thinking that maybe, some fine day, another good ole boy may rescure MY MAMA the way I did that woman.
And you greedy bastards who don't understand that kind of reasoning ALL need to be dragged off and shot.
April 20, 2007
Originally published July 7, 2004
I never knew until today that my 93 year-old grandmother had never seen a crab in her life. When she told me that, I was stunned, but then I thought about it. She lived most of her life in the hills of eastern Kentucky, where crabs aren't found very often. When she moved to Savannah, she was old and frail and didn't stomp up and down salt-water creeks fishing with a chicken-neck on a string.
I had already cooked the crabs by then, but I brought her two, one male and one female, to examine. She was fascinated. "Are they red in the water?" she asked.
"No, Mommie, they turn red when you boil or steam them. In the water, they have white bottoms, green tops and a band of blue along the shell and pinchers."
"How do you know one is a male and one is a female?" I showed her the bottoms of the crabs. A male blue crab has something that resembles the outline of an erect penis embedded in the under-shell. A female has a wide, semi-circular outline with a small point at the top.
"That's how you can tell," I said.
"Well, I''l be," replied Mommie. "Did you know that you can tell the same thing from a turtle's belly?" I had to admit that I didn't know that, but I do now.
The next time I find a turtle, I'm going to flip it upside-down and check its sex.
Originally published July 17,2004
Last night I dreamed that my mama asked me to hold services at her church. She told me that the preacher was sick and they didn't have anybody to fill in for him. She had all her hair in my dream and she appeared to be ten years younger. "You're a good public speaker," she said. "Why don't you do it for me?"
I told her that I couldn't. I couldn't get up behind a pulpit and say things that I don't believe. I couldn't lie to those people. She started crying and I woke up. Mama worries that I'm going to hell for being an athiest.
I don't believe in God. I don't believe in life everlasting, nor do I believe that sinning unbelivers spend eternity burning in hell. I believe that when you die, that's it. It's just like being anesthesized for surgery except you never wake up. You don't dream and your "soul" goes nowhere.
I don't see The Hand Of God working in this world. I believe that life is chaos, then you die. You control a lot of your own destiny by the choices YOU make, but you don't control it all. Sometimes, Shit Just Happens through no fault of your own. That's the chaos part of life.
When a Shit Just Happens moment occurs in life, a lot of people try to explain it by saying, "It's God's will," or "God is testing you." I want to upchuck when I hear that shit. Why the hell would God "test" anybody? If he's omnipotent, he already knows how you'll do on the test. And why would it be "God's will" to give a 13 year-old boy a fatal case of cancer when he let Adolph Hitler live to do what Hitler did?
In MY humble opinion, all religions are the result of superstitious people trying desperaetly to explain the unexplainable in life. If religion makes you feel better, fine. I've got no problem with that. But I look at the sex scandals in the Catholic church and the mad mullahs of Islam, and I ain't real impressed.
There IS no God. Frightened people and people craving power INVENTED him.
Originally published July 28, 2004
Last night, I was woken from my sleep by the sound of a banshee screaming. I sat up in bed because I thought somebody was dying and maybe I should rush to the rescue. I listened a little longer and decided rescue was not neccessary. I WAS HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN ENTHUIASTIC WOMAN HAVING A GOOD TIME!!!!
"Oh God, oh God, oh GOD!!! Yes...yes...yes...oh NO, ohmygod No! Yes! Oh God! AIEEEEEE!!!!! Oh, God! Oh, God! Yes...oh, no...yesssss AIEEEEE!!!!
That sound was accompanied by the thumping of the bed against the wall in the room next to mine. That went on for almost an hour before I heard the guy finally groan "Oh, my GOD!" himself. Then things became quiet.
I opened my door and started clapping my hands in the hallway to applaud a job well done. The next thing I know, people are clapping all over the hotel. We pretty much gave the couple a standing ovation for some incredible sound effects during sex.
I wonder if they heard me and Maria the other night. She was very enthuiastic and quite the screamer herself. But we did not get a standing ovation from the hotel residents.
I am disappointed.
April 19, 2007
A down day
Originally published June 17, 2004
My grass needs mowing. I didn't mow it. I sat on my boney Cracker ass and wasted this entire day. I finished reading the book I started in Key West and took a couple of very refreshing naps on my sofa. I ate some clam chowder, some fresh corn that I bought from a roadside market and then buried my sunburned face in a seedless watermelon.
I'll probably shit like Moody's Goose tomorrow.
I've begun to appreciate the simple pleasures of life. Have you ever just gnawed a watermelon where the juice ran down your chin and dripped off your bare chest? Did you ever just sit cross-legged on the floor and savor every bite of that sweet, juicy melon? I did that today.
I also think about having a woman with me when I do such things. "Sit here next to me. Close your eyes, open your mouth and trust me." Imagine cutting off a seedless piece of melon and feeding it to her with your bare hands. Imagine the sigh of pleasure she exhales when she tastes the melon. Imagine giving her a big, wet kiss afterward.
I can't help it. I think watermelon is sexy.
Things I don't understand
Originally published June 24, 2004
#1) De-Caf Coffee. What the fuck is the point? If you can't cop a righteous energy buzz after a couple of cups, why drink coffee at all? Give ME the thick, turgid, muddy stuff that makes my hair stand on end.
#2) Non-Alcoholic Beer. Again, what the fuck is the point? I've tried NA beers and I'm yet to find a one that doesn't taste like watered-down possum piss. I would rather drink ice water.
#3) Vegetarian Diets. Something is seriously wrong with someone who doesn't eat meat. Human beings would not have canine teeth if Mother Nature herself hadn't designed us to gnaw rib bones and tear great chunks off a pizza with extra pepperoni and sausage. Who are the vegans trying to fool? Shitting high-fiber turds IS NOT what we were put on this planet to do.
#4) Organic Food. The very term is a lie in itself, and anybody who believes that "organic" food is uniquely healthy is a blithering idiot. Hell, they have to be idiots to pay twice the price for products dipped in shit instead of 10-10-10 fertilizer. That's California Dreaming.
#5) "Healthy Choice" TV Dinners. Got-Dam! Does anyone really believe that a frozen brick you buy in the supermarket, after you pass up all the fresh fruits, vegetables and meats, is a HEALTHY CHOICE? Don't get me wrong. The meals aren't bad, but I prefer truth in advertising. Try "Better than that Swanson shit, BUT NOT a healthy choice."
#6) Low-Sodium ANYTHING. Yeah, yeah, yeah... salt is BAD for you. Just try living without it. YOU'LL DIE!!! Again, I prefer truth in advertising, so instead of "low-sodium," the food should be labeled "HAS NO TASTE." That low-sodium crap is more California Dreaming.
#7) "Renewable Energy". That's the new war-cry of asshole environmentalists who don't know jack-shit about energy production. The only really reliable source of renewable energy that we've ever found in sufficient quantity and reliability to make it practical is hydroelectric power, but environmentalists hate dams as much as they hate coal-fired turbine-generators or nuke plants. People who do the la-la dance about windmills and solar panels should be FORCED to live with that kind of power only. After they freeze their asses off in the dark for a year or so, they may stop their California Dreaming.
#8) Saying "Gender" when you mean "Sex". This one is a pet peeve of mine, because it reflects the complete pussification of America that I've watched occur during the second half of my life. "Sex" sounds dirty. EEEEWOOOO! Can't have THAT! "Gender," on the other hand, sounds really neutral, scientific and unoffensive, even to militant feminists, who are the ones I really believe STARTED this corruption of our language. Delicate ears require a lot of insulation lest they hear something they don't like.
#9) Gun Control. If ANY proponent of gun control could show me ONE EXAMPLE of where the idea has worked to make society better and safer, I might listen to them. But they can't, and I won't.
#10) Survivor. I watched one episode of that show long ago and I never felt the urge to watch it again. I've seen enough back-stabbing and politicking in my REAL life that I have no desire whatsoever to come home and watch more of that shit on my television.
There. How's THAT for a Thursday Ten?
Originally published June 10, 2004
Here is a study in light and shadow taken somewhere on Folly Beach. I fell in love with the bartender at that place. On a scale of one-to-ten, she was a solid eleven--- and I was NOT drunk and staring through beer goggles when I made that assessment. She was that goddam pretty.
Everything about her was PERFECT--- perfect teeth, perfect smile, perfect hair, perfect ass, perfect legs, just enough boobery to make everything symmetrical and pretty feet in dainty sandals, too. If she only painted her toenails red, she'd be a legitimate twelve in my book.
Unfortunately, she's 24 years old. She's a magnet for the beach-hunks, the surfers with the six-pack abs and all the faggot-looking, pretty boys who resemble stars in soap operas. They all swarm around her like moths on a porch light. An old fart philosopher such as myself, with a scraggly gray silver beard and a racoon-mask suntan on my face from wearing sunglasses every time I'm outside just doesn't stand a chance in her league.
That's just as well. She's too young to appreciate my expertise in bed and the money in my wallet my worldly wisdom. That kind of stuff is wasted on
I'm going to let the beard grow for a while. I never enjoyed shaving every day to begin with, and now I don't have to, so I don't. I kinda like the beatnick, burnt-out hippie look. It fits me like a warm glove. I tried to be bohemian once before in my life, but I was in MY TWENTIES then and I didn't understand how to do it right.
I know better now.
I'll hand out some more philosophy while I'm in my bohemian mood. Here's something for all you beautiful young ladies to think about: GO TO BED WITH AN OLDER MAN. PREFERABLY ME!!! You need to do that one thing as a true life-expanding experience.
April 18, 2007
Ask and ye shall receive
Originally published August 14, 2004
I'm not very modest. I like to walk aound my house nekkid. Somebody wanted to see nekkid man-pictures here, so I posted one. Of ME.
That ain't a bad-looking ass for a 52 year-old man.
(That picture is almost one year old. I had a pony tail back then. I don't remember who took the picture, but I think we had a good time. I believe that I even played a few of those instruments for her.)
Originally published July 11, 2004
That's me on the crabbing trip. I am supervising the operation.
I am NOT wearing any underwear.
Originally published June 12, 2004
Thanks to Tim for this enhanced picture of me at Folly Beach. I couldn't gain much traction with that bartender, but I might be able to pick up a lonely little old lady.
Don't I just EXUDE charm?
(UPDATE: Now you can see why I don't fear walking the streets in strange places such as Costa Rica. I resemble a combination of a piss-stained wino and an axe-murderer on the run. When I walk down the street, thugs cross to get away from me.)
The real me (the later years)
Originally published August 30, 2004
I don't feel much like writing, so I started searching through my pictures and found the one above. I've posted it before, but it deserves a repeat.
I remember that evening, believe it or not. That was my birthday, last year. Celebratory activities were intense, involving steak, seafood and large quantities of frozen margaritas. I became philosophical.
Somebody mentioned something about home-made biscuits. That set me off on a rant. I believe that I told the entire history of my family and then staggered off to the refrigerator for a visual aid. I grabbed a can of biscuits.
"These ain't real biscuits. REAL biscuits are made by your mama or your grandma. These things ain't nothing but dry-wall glue."
When somebody asked me why I had them in MY refrigerator, I claimed a "birthday pass" and refused to answer the question.
Don't let that pensive pose on my main page fool you. This picture is more like the real me.
April 17, 2007
That really is me
Originally published April 28, 2003
I posted this one just in case you didn't see the pictures on my daughter's page (since the traffic that came her way made her INCAPABLE of just enjoying the attention, she got busy improving things and screwed her entire page up.)
Women. She'll revive the page with lots of flowers on it.
Anyway, there is a picture of me with my first wife. Circa 1984, according to Sam, although I really cannot testify to the accuracy of the date. It looks like around 1979 to me, when I was still playing guitar for a living. Do I LOOK like someone who's been working in a chemical plant for almost five years in that picture?
No... I look like someone who has been INGESTING chemicals for about five years.
Who knows? But that's ME, a long, long time ago.
Originally published April 28, 2003
I'VE BEEN bojangled!!!
I might put it this way:
I knew a man, an Acidman who'd blog for you
Then he'd shake his head, he'd shake his head
Mister Acidman (BOOM BOOM BOOM! That's the bass guitar)
Won't you rant...
(now all the instruments come together softly... lets hear the harmoica in the background.... a little more on the bass here.... that is beautiful... good job, everybody... just keep it up...)
Okay, who's in charge of the barking dog?... GET THAT FUCKER TO BARK RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR I'LL SELL THE MUTT TO A KOREAN BUTCHER!!! KICK HIM IF YOU HAVE TO!!! GET THAT GODDAM DOG TO BARK!!! THE TAPE IS ROLLING!!! YOU'VE GOT ONE LAST CHANCE!!!
"Sing, Teddy!" Teddy didn't sing.
Okay, take two. Get me another dog. And get this whiney-ass Teddy-baby out of my studio.
Another dog lover
Originally published April 28, 2003
I wonder if tim blair ever had a dog that could stuff an entire Krystal hamburger into his mouth, chew and swallow the whole thing, then spit out the hidden pickle every time?
He must have, or at least he WANTS a dog like that, because he linked my post about my dog being able to do exactly that trick. Eat your heart out, Tim. There was only one "Wiggles," and there will never be another one like him. That Krystal trick actually got me laid a few times because women would come to my place to watch it happen.
Of course, when you leave the Krystal with a "sackfull" at 3:00 AM drunker than Cooter Jones and persuade a woman to come back to your place, the GETLAID Meter was in the Red Zone to begin with. Likelihood of high tide on the water bed that night was good. I lived only two blocks away from the Krystal Drive-In on Victory Drive in Savannah, Georgia.
They also were amazed that my dog knew colors and AT LEAST 50 English vocabulary words. He helped me seduce them, as long as they stayed off his Goodwill couch in the living room when he got tired of performing. (If they wanted to sit next to him and pet him on HIS couch, he would give them a quiet growl and show some fangs. That was my cue to say, "You need to come over HERE, and sit next to ME. The dog doesn't like ANYBODY on HIS couch.)
He travelled all over the Southeast United States with me and NEVER got tired of riding in a car. He was the right dog for me at the right time in my life.
The best dog I ever had died in 1982, and I still dream about him.
April 16, 2007
Originally published August 28, 2004
I've raved on numerous occasions about how much I love boiled peanuts and I bought a bunch of fresh green peanuts today. I intend to boil them, freeze them, and take several bags to the Jawja Blogfest.
I'm putting a lot of pressure on myself here. I've gotta cook these babies JUST RIGHT so that the naifs who have never tasted them before get the right impact. Southern people I know will eat boiled peanuts by the bushel and complain about how shittily they were boiled.
"Not enough salt." "Too crunchy." "Didn't soak long enough." "I'm gettin' a lot of pops, too." (A "pop," by the way, is a peanut shell with no nut inside.) But they'll sit right there and eat them, because even a poorly-cooked boiled peanut is better than no boiled peanuts at all. I'll sit right with them and bitch while I eat, too. ("These suck. Taste like got-damn black-eyed peas. Gimme some more.") It's a Southern thang.
But I really feel an obligation to my Southern heritage, my boiled-peanut expertise and my desire to see the South Rise Again to really do this right. I ain't bringing NO shitty boiled peanuts to Helen. I've got converts to recruit, so I'm bringing the very best ammuntion possible. If I fuck these up, I'll just eat them myself and go buy some more and try again until I get it right.
Want some GOOD boiled peanuts? Come to the blogfest.
John Kerry and Vietnam
Originally published August 29, 2004
Anybody who reads this blog knows that Recondo 32 and his lovely wife Georgia are two of the best friends I have in this world. I've known them both for about 30 years now, and we've had many a grand adventure together, from Key West, Florida to Tacoma, Washington.
Recondo is not a violent man. In fact, he's so goddam decrepit now that I believe Georgia could whip his ass. The three of us ARGUE--- but we don't FIGHT.
A long time ago, Recondo was a 17 year-old boy from the mill-town of Clinton, South Carolina. When he got out of high school, he had three choices: either go to work in the mill, go to JAIL (it seems he had a few problems with the local constabulary) or enlist in the service. He chose door #3.
He enlisted, went to Vietnam and decided that he wanted to jump out of pefectly good airplanes. He ended up in Recondo school and was the 32nd graduate, shortly after the army started the training program (hence his internet name). He became a LRRP.
He didn't ride swift-boats up and down a river. He went on six-man teams via helicopter to be dropped in the middle of nowhere behind enemy lines. Their mission was Long Range Recon and Patrol. They weren't supposed to be seen or heard. They were supposed to scout, report, get out and call in the big boys once they were extracted.
The plan didn't always work that way.
If you read The Phantom Warriors, you'll find Recondo's story somewhere around page 54. His team fucked up that day and got caught by a several hundred NVA regulars that resembled fire ants swarming out of a freshly kicked mound. The extraction point was too hot to call for a helicopter, so they ran for their lives.
I won't go into any more details here, except to say that it wasn't a pretty sight. Go read that book.
Recondo hates John Kerry. He'll tell you right now that LRRPs were responsible for killing more enemy soldiers that ANY rifleman or regular army unit was during that war. If they found the enemy, they called in an air strike and blew everybody to hell. Then, they got out of there.
Recondo also says (and I believe that this fact is VERY IMPORTANT) that anybody who shot civilians or took ears for trophies would have been court marshalled in an instant and his commanding office would have faced charges, too.
"We didn't do that shit and I didn't know anybody who did," Recondo said. "Maybe some of the regular units went crazy and pulled a Calley, but WE never did, and I resent that boat-floating sumbitch for accusing us of WAR CRIMES when I believe that he committed the worst one of all: TREASON!!!"
And you wonder why some Vietnam vets don't like Kerry?
Boiled peanuts, part II
Originally published August 28, 2004
She is trying to help, but she doesn't know what she's doing.
Got-dam!!! That is F-ing blasphemy!!! NOBODY who likes boiled peanuts cooks "one pound." One pound of boiled peanuts wouldn't feed an Effingham County SQUIRREL, for crying out loud. That is the most yankee-sounding recipe for boiled peanuts that I've ever read. Dammit, Girl, I believe in manners, but sometimes a man just has to show the way to a lost woman.
The REAL way to make boiled peanuts
1) Buy AT LEAST half a bushel (about 25 pounds). Buy a full bushel (which costs about $35 for 50 pounds if you have some real peanut-eaters coming to your party).
2) Take a water hose and wash all the sand off of them in your driveway. The sand is good for the sandy soil around here and it wets the peanuts down really well. You can do that without taking the peanuts out of the "croaker sack" they come in.
3) Fire up the propane cooker. Invite a couple of neighbors over and offer them a beer.
4) Fill a HUGE pot (I have one that will cook an entire bushel at one time) full of water right from the same garden hose that you washed the peanuts with and place it on the cooker. Dump the peanuts into the water right when you see bubbles coming up the side of the pot.
5) Offer everybody another beer.
6) Pull up a couple of lawn chairs and invite everybody to sit down. Add a FULL pound of salt to the water. Look at the pot and say, "Naw, that ain't enough," and add ANOTHER full pound of salt.
7) When the water starts to boil, turn the burner down to where the water is on a low simmer. Cover the pot with a lid and offer everybody another beer.
8) Let the peanuts cook for about an hour while you and your company exchange stories about horrible ex-wives, how dumb you were as a boy and how that new neighbor has a hottie for a wife.
9) Stick a ladle in the pot and fish out a bunch of peanuts. Throw 'em on a paper plate and pass the plate around. That's a Southern Sampler. Don't be ashamed to ask, "What'cha think?" People who know boiled peanuts will let you know EXACTLY what they think. I usually don't get many complaints. If somebody says, "Not too bad," I know I'm on the right track.
10) When the peanuts are tender but not quite salty enough, turn the propane flame off and allow the peanuts to soak for about an hour. When they start to sink to the bottom of the pot, they are ready to eat and as salty as they're going to get.
Then, pass out the paper plates and give everybody a turn at the ladle. Let 'em dish up what they want. The peanuts will be hot, but not so hot that they burn your tongue. If everybody starts eating and making those good, Southern grunting noises and the ladle never stays in the pot for long, you know that you done good.
THAT'S how you cook boiled peanuts.
April 15, 2007
I always wanted a sister
Originally published July 1, 2004
I grew up in a male-dominated household and I played with boys when I was young. I thought girls had cooties and I wanted nothing to do with them until my hormones kicked in and made me a lust-crazed teenager. But by then, I had missed the boat on a whole lot of things a sister could have helped me with.
I didn't understand wimmen and they scared the shit out of me. I WANTED ONE, but I didn't know how to go about accomplishing that goal. I was tongue-tied and foolish in their presence. Asking a girl out for a date once took me three days to work up enough nerve to actually pick up the phone and call. Then, if she went out with me, I acted like a frightened asshole the entire time.
A sister could have helped me. An OLDER sister. If I had a sister when I was growing up, SHE could have familiarized me with feminine undergarments, told me that girls like sex, too, and that wimmen are just as afraid of men as men are of wimmen. Alas, I was cast adrift in those days and I had to learn all those hard lessons on my own.
Damn! I miss the sister I never had.
Originally published July 1, 2004
Yesterday, my Site Meter just disappeared from my page. It was there one minute and gone the next. I saw it missing and thought, "WTF?" I tried to figure out what I might have done to cause it, but I hadn't messed with any of the guts on my blog. I just posted a few things and went off to surf other sites.
I like my Site Meter. I use it to read a lot of blogs that I wouldn't know about if I didn't find them on my referral list. I wondered where the hell my meter went and what caused it to go away. I never did discover what happened. I just turned off the computer and went to bed last night. Hell, I knew that I could install another Site Meter if I had to.
But this morning, everything was back to normal. Except for one thing. I had about a 12-hour gap where no hits or visitors were recorded. Site Meter came back by itself, but I still don't know where it went and what it did while it was gone. If Site Meter were my teenage daughter, I'd ground the living shit out of her until I got a very contrite explanation of that AWOL episode.
But what do I know about computers?
Originally published July 1, 2004
One of the reasons I always carry chewing tobacco with me when I hike or camp is for medicinal purposes. Yeah, I enjoy a good chew and I like the sizzle it makes when I spit in the campfire, but that's not the real reason I bring it along as an essential supply.
I've scared up a nest of yellow jackets more than once in my life, and a wet tobacco poultice is the only thing I've ever found that will take away the sting and reduce the swelling when you get hit by a dozen or so of those bastards. Yellow jackets live in the ground and you won't know they're there until you step in the wrong place. If you make that mistake, the sumbitches come boiling out like orcs in Lord of the Rings and they are seriously on the warpath.
A single yellow jacket can sting you more than once, too. One flew right down my shirt one day and hit me five times before I could kill him. If you find yourself in a cloud of them, you'll be doing the damnedest boogaloo you ever imagined as you run for your life. The stings feel like small-caliber gunshot wounds.
A commenter suggested on a previous post about hornets that you should just stand still and don't move in that situation. Try that trick on yellow jackets. They'll sting the ever-lovin' piss out of you, whether you're moving or not. Yellow jackets are about the meanest insect I've ever encountered.
Maybe that's why I hate Georgia Tech so much.
From the ex-wife
Originally published July 1, 2004
Hey! A big, fat letter from Jennifer in the mail! I can't wait to open this one.
It's copies of some medical bills for Quinton and a post-it note saying "You owe me $300 for the time share, plus half these medical bills." That's the kind of correspondence I get from her today.
I talked to Quinton last night on the phone. He won't be around to see his sister when she comes to town this weekend, because he's headed for Virginia today, to visit some people Jennifer knows. One of those people is a doctor that Jennifer once screwed before she met me. The guy gave her a case of venereal disease, but had the chivalry to call her and tell her to get checked once he found out what HE had. She got that problem fixed and told me that the sex was a complete bust. "That was all a big mistake," she said.
Yeah. I believe anything YOU say.
April 14, 2007
Originally published June 1, 2004
Maybe I shouldn't have picked up that big, fat toad I saw on the street in Tamarindo, Costa Rica. It might have been one of these.
Can you imagine dropping dead on the street and having your grieving family ask, "How could this happen?"
"A killer toad got him. There was nothing we could do."
"A killer toad got him. I'm sorry, but it happens all the time."
"Rob was killed by a TOAD?"
"Yes. He never should have picked it up. But he died quickly and painlessly, except for getting pissed on by the toad as he was expiring. We have the toad in custody and it will face prosecution to the fullest extent of the law."
I think that Death By Killer Toad might be a good way to exit this world. That way, death could be just as ridiculous as life.
Originally published June 1, 2004
I didn't blog about this incident in my life when it happened, because I worried (BWHAHAHA!) that my readers might lose all respect for me. I woke up at 3:00 in the morning last night with a severe burning, itching sensation in my crotchital area. I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep, but the sumbitch just wouldn't stop. I was trying to think about what I had done in Costa Rica that could affect my crotchital area when I felt something CRAWLING ACROSS MY FACE!
I sat bolt upright in bed and slapped at the lamp on the nightstand until I could turn it on and see. HOLY BEJUS! My bed was working alive with ANTS! They were EVERYWHERE and biting me in my most sensitive areas. There were THOUSANDS of them.
I hopped out of bed and ran to the kitchen, where I retrieved my trusty can of Raid. I returned and gassed the shit out of the invaders, then I followed their trail to the Mother Hill, which I coated with Diazinon to teach those fuckers a lesson. I murdered a lot of ants last night, even if I DID have to go outside in my underwear, in the dark, with a flashlight and a demonic look on my face to get the job done.
Effingham County, Georgia, has more ants per square inch than any other place I've ever seen. Something about the sandy soil around here just attracts ants the way a ripe dog turd attracts flies. It wasn't as if I'd been eating crackers in bed and left a lot of crumbs to lure the ants my way. Hell NO! If the bloodthirsty bastards wanted something to eat, they should have been crawling all over my kitchen.
But they attacked me in my bed, in the dark of night, for no good reason. Goddam communists.
After I killed all the ants I could, I was faced with a dilemma. I had to wash my sheets and remake my bed. I am not good at making a bed. I forget which movie it was (I believe that Clint Eastwood starred in it), but the lead character said, "A man's got to know his limitations." Well, I know mine. Making a bed is one of them.
I washed the sheets and put them in the dryer, but I thought seriously about sleeping on a bare mattress tonight. Have you ever seen a monkey fucking a football? If you haven't, just watch me make a bed. It's the same thing.
It was ugly to see, but I finally got the job done. I have fresh, clean, ant-free sheets to sleep on tonight and no children or animals (other than ants) were harmed in the process. I feel lucky to be alive.
But I'm sleeping with the light on tonight.
Some things never change
Originally published June 1, 2004
I watched the movie Blackhawk Down! for about the fourth time today. I also read the book twice. Let's stop and think for a minute about what happened in Somalia.
We went in there with a multi-lateral bunch of United Nations "allies" who didn't do shit to help when we needed them. We also sent our troops into harm's way without the armor they needed for street fighting, because Bill Clinton didn't want to offend our "allies." Too much force displayed on the streets might piss somebody off.
As a result, 19 Americans died; then, we cut and ran like whipped dogs, even though our troops inflicted tremendous casualties on the Somali "insurgents."
Doesn't that remind you of some of the philosophy coming from the left-leaning, anti-war crowd today? Don't fight a war if we might piss off a country that doesn't make a pimple on a rat's ass. If we DO fight a war, let's not fight too hard, because we might piss off the country we're fighting against, or we might anger the French. Also, let's cut and run at the first opportunity, because war is a bad thing.
Thank Bejus these people weren't in charge during World War II. We'd all be goose-stepping and speaking either German or Japanese now.
Nice to know
Originally published June 1, 2004
I've read a lot about ME lately on certain other blogs. Some of it was quite flattering, but others seem to think that I make them feel dirty if they visit my blog. I checked out a few of those sanctimonious assholes and I came to this conclusion: Ya can't write, ya can't spell and your blog sucks.
There. Now you have a damn good reason not to read me. Wanna feel REALLY dirty?
Go fuck yourself.
April 13, 2007
Three days in a row
Originally published March 31, 2005
I've called Quinton every night this week, and all I ever got was the answering machine. (why is there no one home at 8:30 on a school night?) I asked him to call me back, but he hasn't done so yet. I don't expect him to, either.
The last time I was at Wal-Mart, I bought 24 "I Love You" and "I Miss You" greeting cards, and I've been sending one a day to Quinton, with a hand-written note inside. I haven't received a response and I don't expect one.
He'll NEVER look at me that way I looked at MY father. A DIVA took care of that. I'm going to keep calling and I'll keep sending the cards. But it won't matter.
Nothing does anymore.
Originally published March 31, 2005
I despise people who call themselves "animal lovers" and I believe that PETA is full of complete moonbat idiots. Hell, we've even got some lawyers today who want to give animals the right to sue in tort court. (they don't really give a shit about animals--- they just see another way to milk the system for lots of dollars.)
I like dogs. I've become fond of goats and chickens. I'll even tolerate an occasional cat, even though I don't like cats. But I damn sure don't "love" all animals. I kill every snake I see and I don't care what kind it is. If I catch a raccoon raiding my garbage can, I'm going to shoot it. I caught a possum eating from the dog food bowl on my back porch one night, and when I yelled "Get outta here!" it bowed up and hissed at me. I shot it dead.
I cannot remember the number of squirrels I have killed with nothing more than a pellet rifle. (Did a few more with a .22, but that was squirrel HUNTING, not varmit control.) I've killed rats, mice, moles, roaches, grackles and waged a constant war against fire ants ever since I owned my own property. If I include the ants, I have taken more life than Hitler ever did and I don't regret one bit of it.
That's why I read this shit and laugh. [Ed. News article no longer available.] Somebody from Canada mentioned in a recent comment that the damn harp seals are overpopulated and eating all the cod that fishermen depend on for their livelihood. So, people are going to thin them out a bit, and "animal lovers" immediately went into cardiac arrest at the very idea.
Thousands of seal hunters armed with clubs, rifles and spears are taking part in one of Canada's biggest ever culls.
Of course "animal rights activists" feel that way. It is much better for people to starve to death than it is to kill a baby seal. That's the way these twisted fuckers THINK.
But the Canadian government said the hunt brought badly needed income to its coastal communities, which earned about £7.2 million last year, primarily from pelt sales to Norway, Denmark and China.
"LEAVE THEM ALONE!!! FORGET ABOUT THE MONEY!!! THE BABY SEALS ARE CUTE!!!"
Call me callous all you want to, but when you have five million seals eating up your food fish supply and the seals are worth serious MONEY for their pelts, I say go kill off a few hundred thousand. Maybe a million. Club them, shoot them, stab them or whatever. Skin their asses right there in the snow.
Is seal meat any good to eat? I've never tried it, but I would if the menu mentioned that it was a genuine piece of hand-clubbed, baseball-bat tenderized Canadian seal, killed brutally and shipped fresh to the restaurant I was sitting in. Yeah, gimme a prime cut.
I've seen hogs and cows killed and butchered. I ate the meat, too, and I never had a single nightmare about it. What I DON'T understand is people who seem to think dumb animals are more important than human children. I see a really fucked-up priority system there. Allow the seal to live, but let little Johnny starve.
Yeah. That's being a real "animal lover."
Wimmen are crazy
Originally published March 30, 2005
Go read this post and follow ALL the links on both sides of the argument. Not a single woman admitted that sex is a WEAPON that she uses to get her way. NOT ONE was honest enough to admit that simple fact.
I don't care whether you fuck on the first date or never fuck at all, but DO NOT tell me that you don't understand the power of pussy and you don't use it to your advantage. That's a goddam lie and you know it. All this "coy" shit is enough to make me want to puke.
It's like Paul Rodrigez said in a joke a long time ago--- "All wimmen are psychic. When you go out on a date with them. THEY KNOW whether you're going to get laid or not."
Men often are accused of lettling the little head do the thinking for the big head and we are ALL guilty of that crime. Men like sex. It's a primordeal drive that we have to hunt and conquer and scatter our seed. We're hard-wired that way.
But wimmen like to fuck just as much as men do, only THEY won't admit it. No, with them, it not as simple as "lets get nekkid and tear up the bed." THEY want emotional camouflage and they wrestle with concepts of "love" and "respect" as long as they're just talking about the concept. That's the stuff of soap operas and romance novels, both of which wimmen love.
But if you cut to the chase, a woman will fuck at the drop of a hat just because she found you attractive and wanted sex. Hell... she might not have found you really attractive... you were available and she was horny as a hoot-owl at the time. She fucks at the drop of a hat.
All you sanctimonious divas can kiss my Cracker ass. You all believe that you have the only pussy in the world and your mission in life is to convince some poor fool that you are correct. HE must also believe that you have the only pussy in the world, and it 's not important if any others exist--- you have the only one that matters.
I fell for that shit once in my life and I found out what that pussy was worth. I had a price tag laid on my ass by a fucking JUDGE, while that "special" pussy was spreading her legs for anybody who would hold still long enough for her to climb. That delicate pussy has cost me my son and about $50,000 so far, and I'll still be paying for years to come.
Don't spout that emotional shit at me. Every one of you "Divas" sit on a god-dam gold mine and you know that fact quite well. That's why a lot of you make a damn fine living selling it, or at least renting it out by the hour. Don't tell me wimmen don't do it, because they do. It's not called the "World's Oldest Profession" for nothing.
If every woman was as emotionally attached to their pussies as you claim to be, we wouldn't have prostitution or adultery in this world. But we damn sure do.
I call bullshit on every one of you.
I'm in deep shit
Originally published March 31, 2005
I had the nerve to suggest that many wimmen use sex as a weapon in life, and I am being richly excoriated for saying it. (Some of those cunts wimmen even criticized the language I used in my post and my comments.)
I ask you to do one simple thing. Go visit the pages of these DIVAS who didn't like what I had to say. EVERY GODDAM ONE OF THEM has a sexy cartoon woman as a "skin" on their home page. Oh, yeah, big eyes, wasp-waist, boiling-over tits, long legs and a "come-hither" look. But they don't trade in sex at all.
I'm at least honest enough to post a picture of my own ugly self on my blog.
April 12, 2007
Originally published May 30, 2006
Commenter Ruth Moran gave me this idea. Do YOU have a horror story about getting poison ivy? If you ever climbed mountains or ran the woods in your life, I'll bet that you do. I'll tell you what happened to ME:
I once went to visit my Cousin Ernie in Loyal, Kentucky. We loaded my car with a six-pack of beer, a .22 rifle and 200 rounds of ammo. Then, we drove to Lewellen, the place where the coal mining camp we were raised in once thrived. It's nothing but jungle now, but we could see the crossties still there, where the railroad man-trip used to haul miners to work.
We decided to climb it, fighting through the underbrush, all the way to the mine entrance. We DID, too--- stopping here and there along the way to drink beer, plunk away with the .22 and take an occasional piss. We fooled around up there until we ran out of beer and ammo, then we hiked back down the mountain.
We had a good time. But the next morning, we BOTH were covered ALL OVER with a horrible poison ivy rash. (And when I say ALL OVER, I'm not kidding. Remember how I said we stopped to take an "occasional piss" on the way up the mountain? Well, if you've got poison ivy juice on your hands and you grab your Roscoe to piss... guess where you ALSO get poison ivy?)
We both looked so bad and itched so bad that my Aunt 'Netta took us to the doctor. I got a cortizone shot and some pink lotion to smear all over myself. The rash dried up fairly quickly, but I was absolutely miserable for a couple of days.
The only sad part of the story is--- when I first was infected, my dick swelled up to three times its normal flaccid size, and if you could ignore the nasty, oozing, pus-filled RASH all over it, it looked like one got-dam impressive tool. But when the rash dried up and went away, so did my awesome appendage. It returned to normal dimensions.
I would have liked to get rid of the rash and KEEP my enhanced dick, but all in all, it was a fair trade. I damn sure didn't like having poison ivy all over my body, and my dick wasn't THAT small to begin with. (BWHAHAHAHAHAAAA!)
I also knew a guy at work who was crawling one of those climber tree-stands up a big pine tree when he crossed some poison ivy. One piece of the ivy flew up and hit him right IN THE EYE!!!
Bejus! You talk about UGLY? He resembled the Elephant Man. He ended up almost losing that eye before the doctors got the outbreak under control. (I am certain that he would rather have had poison ivy on his dick than in his eye. Looking at what happened to him, so would I.)
Try to top THOSE stories!
Originally published May 31, 2006
I rode with Recondo 32 from Tacoma, Washington all the way to Bluffton, South Carolina and I was in charge of the map the entire way. Recondo 32 drove the Shelby Mustang "Snake," and I navigated.
The rule when we started the trip was... "NO FUCKING INTERSTATES!!! We stay on the BACK ROADS!!! But...uh... try to find some decent back roads. Look for the...uh.. BIG RED lines on the map."
That "big red line" thing was no eye-crosser once we rumbled through Washington state on Highway 2. (The Cascades are beautiful.) After we crossed the Idaho panhandle and entered Montana, those big red lines were NO PROBLEM to follow, because there ain't that many of them in Montana.
Even at an average speed of 65 MPH, including the slowdowns for small towns (Pop. 28), where Recondo 32 obeyed the ridiculous speeed limits, we still took TWO DAYS to drive all the way across that state. It's BIG, people. And it's awesome to behold, too.
Once we hit America's breadbasket (Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri, Illinios, and Indiana) the big red lines on the map were EASY to read, because those states are laid out in straight lines and boxes, so that you KNOW when you're headed east. You can't SEE a got-dam thing except corn-fields, but at least you know that you're headed in the right direction.
I was an EXCELLENT navigator until we spent the night in Lexington, Kentucky. I somehow managed to lose the MAP, but I, by-Gawd, KNEW where we were by then, so we didn't NEED no stinkin' map to get back home.
That's how we ended up in West Virginia, but I don't want to talk about that...
I'm pretty good with a map, and I navigated us through West Virginia and right into Lewellen, Kentucky, the site of the coal mining camp where I was raised. Wasn't much there to see, so we rumbled off to North Carolina, where we spent the night in a motel that was hosting a "Classic Car Show."
Bejus! Recondo and I spoiled some of those fully restored old Bentleys and Reos by slobbering all over them as if they were nekkid wimmen. I saw an absolutely GORGEOUS 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air and I think I soiled my pants. I tried to talk Recondo into stealing it, but he wouldn't help me, the pussy.
THAT was a damn good-looking car... and so were the rest of them (almost 100 CLASSICS), but I digress...I'm just tryin' to give you a picture of what kind of adventures you probably WILL have on a trip like that one.
If YOU want to do it, let me know. I'm a damn good navigator.
Hold on tight
Originally published May 24, 2006
I was so sick a couple of times lately that I thought, "I'M GONNA DIE!!!" Then, I thought..."So WHAT?" That thought didn't bother me AT ALL. I kinda wanna see what's on "the other side," if there's anything there to see.
When that feeling of impending doom grabbed me by the throat the FIRST TIME (I fell out of a tree from about 20' up, hit the ground flat on my back and saw all of my "friends" running away), death TRIED to shake me, and I WAS afraid. I was eight years old when I first felt that cold hand trying to wrap around my throat. I've become accustomed to it since then. And it doesn't frighten me anymore.
I remember going to Aunt Chassies's farm, WAY back in the Kentucky mountains when I was young. We youngun's all piled into the beds of a couple of pickup trucks and we were told to HOLD ON TIGHT, because if you fell out, NOBODY was coming back to pick your sorry ass up.
This was a NO PUSSY BRIDGES kinda trip. The trucks either made it across the creeks in a rooster-tail of spray, or they DIDN'T. And GAWD HELP YOU if you got stuck, because you either made it out by yourself, or you had to unload your young'uns, make 'em walk barefoot through the creek, while somebody ELSE with a come-a-long made a BACKTRACK to pull your ass out. And you were the butt of every joke around the supper table that evening.
That kinda discipline would be called CHILD ABUSE today, if some asshole shrink from Naw Yawk who never pissed in the bushes had HER way. That was ADVENTURE to me. Lemme tell you what that experience taught me!
Hold on tight.
That was NOT a bad lesson. It has served me well through a LOT MORE than crossing creeks on a prayer, being treed by a bull, being attacked by a mad rooster in the henhouse, or being scratched by a cat that didn't want any petting. I learned to HOLD ON TIGHT!!!
I've done stupid things on a farm. I've done stupid things in my life. Still... I believe that LIFE is like living on a farm. You reap what you sow, but sometimes.... you've just gotta challenge that mean-ass bull. And you've just GOTTA cross that creek.
But WHEN YOU DO... be ready to hold on tight. And don't bitch when the bull throws you and gores you. And if your truck gets stuck in the creek, don't blame Bejus because YOU don't know how to drive.
THINK about it. YOU asked for it.
April 11, 2007
I think she likes me
Originally published May 31, 2003
Whoo-hoo! I found a lefty, delusional asswipe (she posts on Blogshit, so just scroll down if you want to waste some valuable time you could spend sleeping) in my referrals this morning! She had THIS to say about me:
The physically and mentally unattractive blogger at Gut Rumbles, Rob, has quite a few things to say about women bloggers, and women in general.
Yes, I do. But I prefer to be called "Acidman" on my blog. That asshole "Rob" is the guy who goes to work every day and pays child support to a fornicating, adulterous ex-wife. (Hell, as long as we're talking about my opinion of women, I thought I would throw in that little factoid.) Rob keeps his mouth shut and does what the judge told him to do. Acidman rants about it.
Ladies, this one doesn't qualify to take out our garbage.
And you don't qualify to kiss my Cracker ass, because YOU are the garbage that I would NEVER take out. Listen to yourself here, asswipe:
After playing well the first day, Annika Sorenstam failed to make the cut for the PGA. Afterward, chastened, she said something I hope she will recant.
Farthead, the PGA tour is way over MOST MEN'S HEADS! You believe she should try again? Why? Are you stuck in that "I am woman, I am strong" horseshit from the 70s? It don't work that way on the PGA Tour, sweetie, and Annika knows it.
You want the best woman golfer in the world to suffer MORE humiliation? She'll get her ass beat like a drum every week if she goes out with the men on a course a LOT more difficult than the one she picked to play.
Oh... I know the solution to that problem. We need to "gender-norm" that prejudical game, let her play from the women's tees, institute a "no three-putt" rule for her and spot her two strokes per side. Then, maybe, she can be a "champion" on the men's tour.
People like you make me want to puke. People like you give us crap like this.
Politically-correct numbskull. Holier-than-thou fucktard. Ignorant dumbfuck. Walking piece of shit-for-brains. Ugly bag of mostly crap. Go take a douche and put the tube in you ear. Maybe you'll disinfect what passes for a brain in your empty head.
Now, you may insult me at your leasure, since you weren't MAN ENOUGH to do it to my face, you whimpering, sniveling pussy. Go suck Atrious. And fuck yourself while you're at it.
It's personal now, asswipe.
Read the origin of her page name.
There is a rural legend that poor, semi-literate African-Americans misunderstood what was being said when civil rights workers came to register them to vote in the Deep South during the 1950s and '60s. They said they wanted their 'silver rights.' I don't know if the legend is true, but I like the phrase.
Yeah... weren't the ignorant darkies so CUTE? Bejus, you condescending lefties chap my ass.
5 good rules
Originally published May 29, 2003
I need no preamble.
1) Work hard at whatever you do. Learn all you can every chance you get.
2) Don't whine and make excuses when you fuck up. EVERYBODY DOES! Accept the blame and learn from your mistakes. Don't ever make the same one again.
3) Treat people fairly, but don't EVER believe that you can treat everyone the same way. People are different.
4) Understand that some people you'll have to bark at, and some people you don't have to bark at to get the same job done. Bark at the ones who need it. Don't bark at everybody.
5) Always remember that you are in charge, but you are not God. Listen to the people who work for you. Encourage your people to say, "Are you SURE you want to do that?" when you say something stupid. If you are in charge, you WILL say stupid things from time to time, because you're looking at too much input at one time. Learn to listen to the guy who does ONE JOB every day when you're wrong. Heed good advice.
That's the kind of boss I try to be.
A horrible confession
Originally published May 30, 2003
I have Quinton and Young Jack again this weekend. After we cleaned out a pizza for supper, I rented the movie Jackass on Dish network. It is a horrible, low-rent, disgustingly idiotic movie.
The three of us laughed our asses off at it.
There is a place in this world for horrible, low-rent, disgustingly idiotic things. Just look at my blog.
April 10, 2007
Words of wisdom
Originally published May 29, 2004
My daddy was a wise man. He also looked kinda like Clint Eastwood. He taught me three lessons that have stuck with me for most of my life, and I see more truth in them every day.
1) "If it looks too good to be true, it IS too good to be true."
2) "Nobody else in this world is going to give you something for nothing except for me and your mama, and even when WE do it, you'd better step back and examine our motives."
3) "If you're lucky, you don't have to be good. But I've noticed that the harder I work, the luckier I get."
If people want to tear down the Ten Commandments in public places, let them post my daddy's advice instead. If more people took those words to heart, we'd have a much healthier country.
Oh yeah. Daddy was also fond of saying, "If it was easy, any asshole could do it."
Originally published May 29, 2004
I've been in a really existential mood lately. I spent a lot of time in Costa Rica just examining my life, thinking about how I got where I am today and where I'll go from here. I didn't come up with a whole lot of answers, but I did come to realize one thing.
Most of my life, from the age of six, has been run by schedules, time-tables, deadlines, and the relentless ticking of a clock. I always had to be somewhere on time, do something on time or finish my work on time. I had assignments to complete, classes to attend, "deliverables" to deliver and places I had to be. Bejus! No wonder I have gray silver hair.
When Kerr-McGee fired me retired me, they gave me a nice watch as a going away present. Isn't that ironic? Why the hell would I want a fucking WATCH when I don't have to work anymore? I lived 24 years of my life on a Work Schedule, and I was on call for 24-7 most of that time. I looked at that watch and laughed out loud.
I've never taken it out of the box it came in and I doubt that I ever will.
I like being bored now. I'm not talking about sitting around a twiddling my thumbs. I mean the freedom a person feels when he or she doesn't HAVE to do much of anything. On my trip to Costa Rica, I really didn't plan a goddam thing. I bought my plane tickets, arranged for lodging and transportation, but other than that, I played everything on the first bounce.
If I felt like touring, I toured. If I felt like reading, I read. If I didn't feel like doing a damn thing, I didn't do anything. In Martin Antonio one morning, I was nodding in a lawn chair by the hotel swimming pool and I thought about getting up, walking about 50 feet to the bar and buying myself some fruity rum drink with an umbrella in it. But that seemed like too much work for such a beautiful day, so I just went to sleep in the chair.
I don't fear boredom. In fact, I wrap it around me like a warm, fuzzy blanket today, and I find it very comfortable. I like not needing a watch anymore. My body clock is all the time-keeper I require.
I met two retired school teachers from Colorado when I was in Arenal. ("Recovering educators," as they described themselves.) They were very friendly ladies and I had dinner with them a couple of evenings.
But they did one thing that drove me nuts. They had every waking moment of every day planned right down to the minute. They had a SCHEDULE to follow. That's not a vacation; that's just work by a different name. I got tired just watching them dash after tour buses and worry about where they were supposed to be next.
I'll never live like that again. Anybody want to buy a really nice watch? I have one that I'll sell cheap.
I don't need it anymore.
Breaking the law
Originally published May 31, 2004
I believe that Martin Luther King wrote an essay when he was locked in the Birmingham jail during the civil rights movement that pretty much sums up my philosophy about being a law-abiding citizen. I may go Google the speech to see if I am correct, but I don't really care. No matter where I read it, it is the way I live my life.
I am a free man. Government puts certain constraints on me through the threat of overwhelming force, which means that the faceless assholes can seize my assets, throw me in jail and TRY to humble me, but nothing they do to me will change what I believe.
I remain a free man.
I don't obey laws that I think are senseless. I also don't consider myself to be a criminal for doing so. I consider myself to be a free man. I carry a handgun in places with strict gun-control laws. I exceed the posted speed limit on the highway. I gamble on illegal games of chance. I have rented a prostitute.
If I were your neighbor, you would like me. I would never break into your home, steal your belongings or molest your children. If you needed help with a home-improvement project, I would be the first to volunteer assisstance. If you went on a two-week vacation, I would collect your mail and pick up the newspaper from the driveway every day, and keep an eye on your house while you were gone.
I don't behave that way because of any laws. That's just the way I was raised. I don't NEED laws to make me act like a decent human being. And I won't obey laws that I think are stupid.
We have way too many laws in this country now. Government has taken a nation of free men and women and transformed them into sheep through excessive regulation, excessive taxation and excessive intrusion into things that are none of government's business. I sometimes believe that if our Founding Fathers could see what their ideal of freedom and a true republic has become, they would be twisting like windmills in their graves.
You can heed the shepherd if you want to. But I won't.
(ADDENDUM: I didn't write this post lightly, nor am I drunk. I am a free man staring right into the maw of the monster, and it is poised to take everything I own. I expect to go to jail for "Contempt of Court." I will be guilty, because I hold divorce court in total contempt. But I WILL NOT DO what that Court Order says that I'm supposed to do. That is a law that I refuse to obey. And I'm willing to back up my words with my actions, no matter what price I have to pay. That's a true American attitude, if you ask me.)
April 09, 2007
Originally published April 30, 2005
I like to fish. I am NOT a Bill Dance kind of fisherman and I doubt that I'll ever win a tournament among really good competetors. In fact, my idea of a good day fishing is to sit in a boat and drink beer with my shirt off while I enjoy the sunshine. If I catch some fish, that's fine. If I DON'T catch any fish, that's fine, too.
I've caught a lot of bream around here where I live. Worms or crickets make good bait, but I've seen bream bite on bread-balls, too, if you get into a hungry swarm of them. If you catch them "bedding," you can tear their asses up.
"Bedding" is when the female lays her eggs on the river bottom and the male comes around to squirt his manly juices all over them. They don't have face-to-face sex. The female just lays a few thousand unfertilized eggs and the male swims by to fertilize them. And he won't swim away, either, as long as he still has a stirring in his fishy loins. (Do fish have loins?)
Catch a male bream during the bedding and he feels like he's been greased with vasoline. He'll also jet a stream of cum all over the place while you're trying to get the hook out of his mouth. Those fish are totally hormone-driven at that time of year. Some of the redbreast and bluegills are damn near as big as a dinner plate, too.
Bream are bony fish, but I believe that they are delicious pan-fried. I've learned to pick out the bones and enjoy the fish. Just gut 'em, scale 'em and cut off the heads. They are ready to cook.
But my FAVORITE fresh-water catch is catfish. I usually use chicken livers or some other really funky bait for them, but I don't think the bait really matters. A catfish will eat anything. Just bait your hook and put enough weight on it to make it sink to the bottom. A catfish will find it there.
Once you catch one, the fun really begins. You can't just grab a catfish in your bare hands the way you would would a bream. That cat has barbs behind his gills and he'll throw those razor-blade-like contraptions out as soon as you haul him out of the water. Getting a catfish off your hook without being cut or stabbed is a delicate art. I've seen a lot of blood in a boat from someone mishandling a catfish.
After you catch them, you've got some work to do. Catfish have SKIN, not scales on them. I used to nail their heads to a tree, cut all around the head and then use a set of needle-nosed pliers to pull the skin offa them. After that, gut them, cut the head off and cook them.
You end up with delicious, tender, white fish-meat, with very few bones in it. Breaded and fried, they are incredibly good. For a turd-wrestler, a catfish makes good eating. When I pooted around running a trot-line, I caught as many as fifty in a single day.
You wanna fuck with a rookie over some catfish? Just tell him to stick his hand in the cooler and haul out a fish. He'll get cut by one of those slashing barbs and damn near pull back a nub where his hand once was. I once saw a guy get his foot stuck to the bottom of the boat when he dropped a catfish when the barbs were out.
The fish landed on his foot and one of the fins went clean through his flesh and penetrated the bottom of the boat. He was stuck there as if he had been nailed. What really made it funny was the fact that he was demonstrating a home-made catfish de-hooker at the time. It was a device he made out of a coathanger.
"You just run this loop down the line, find the hook, then twist like this... and... BEJUS! GODDAM! OY, OY OY!"
Actually, his invention was a good one. I have one of my own and I have used it many a time. I like to catch catfish. I just try never to drop one on my bare foot. And I keep a pair of work gloves in my tackle box, just in case.
You ever done much fishing for catfish?
Originally published April 2, 2005
I think I kinda, sorta, maybe disagree with this post. I believe that too many people read too much into the name of a school mascot.
I played as an "Indian," a "Brave" and a "Warrior" during my football days. I have some injun blood in me, so I can claim some ethnic heritage, but I never gave a shit about that back then. My teams had fierce, fighting nicknames and I liked them. I never even THOUGHT about those mascots as being "Inappropriate." Your team was supposed to sound formidable.
I wouldn't want to play for a team called "The Unflushable Turds," which may be a formidable problem, but it's not exactly what inspires young men to go out and play their best. Warriors are fighters. Vikings are fearless. Spartans are as tough as they come. Wildcats will scratch you, Bulldogs will bite you and YES--- I believe there is a spot for Rebels in there, too, because they don't take no shit lyin' down.
I see a lot of this pissing and moaning about team mascots as more political correctness run wild. More pussifiation of America. More of the feighned "victimhood" that so many people desperately seek today. Why don't people piss their pants and dance in a circle when they see a black guy playing for "The Fighting Irish?" I don't like Notre Dame, but I think the team has a damn fine nickname.
I've never figured out exactly what a "Crimson Tide" is, but it sounds fairly awesome. It damn sure sounds a lot better than "The Fighting Goldfish," or some of this other non-offensive crap sensitive people are suggesting for nicknames now. And if you look at the pencil-necked geeks behind this movement, you can tell immediately that not a damn one of them ever played ball.
I like the name "Mustang," too. That's a wild horse, difficult to capture and tame. I like that name a lot. (I wonder why?) I wouldn't mind coaching a team full of mustangs.
But that name probably pisses PETA off.
It is what it is
Originally published April 2, 2005
I have walked every pothole-riddled step of this road and I can attest that this is true. It isn't JUST, but that's the way the system works and a smart woman knows how to take advantage of it. This article is full of horror stories.
Steve Barreras paid $20,000 to support his daughter, a girl he had never met. In fact, she didn�t even exist. His ex-wife Viola Trevino took another family's daughter to court and claimed the child as hers. New Mexico governor Bill Richardson has now ordered an investigation.
I've ranted before what a stacked deck this is.
The voice of justice and outrage asks, How could this happen in America?
A goat to scape. A stereotype. A whipping boy. I love the way America has outgrown that kind of behavior.
Of course, it�s divorce that triggers the monstrous child support machinery to lurch into motion. The rise of no-fault, unilateral divorce does not trouble the Sisterhood. In fact, they welcome it.
Divas, my ass.
April 08, 2007
Originally published April 15, 2006
He hopped when he should have zagged. His Energizer batteries finally let him down. He's Uggggghs Bunny now.
I'm getting a head start on wishing everybody a Happy Easter. For my Jewish friends, I offer wishes for a Pleasant Passover. For any Muslim readers I have, well... you can just go fuck your lunatic selves. If you sand gnats had an Easter basket, you'd fill it with hand grenades and delare jihad on something. Buncha crazy bastids.
In the interest of Truth In Reporting, I give you this disturbing video of the Easter Bunny in action, BEFORE he became road kill on the side of the highway. It must be the same rabbit that attacked Jimmy Carter.
(Video shamelessly lifted from this woman, who shamelessly lifted it from here a site I don't read.)
Originally published April 3, 2005
1. That farm boy you see at the gas station did more work before breakfast than you do all week at the gym.
2. It's called a "gravel road." No matter how slow you drive, you're going to get dust on your Lexus. Drive it or get it out of the way!
3. The red dirt -- it's called clay. Red clay. If you like the color, don't wash your car for a couple weeks -- it'll be permanent.
4. We all started hunting and fishing when we were seven years old. Yeah, we saw that Bambi movie, too. We got over it.
5. Go ahead and bring your $600 Orvis fly rod. Don't cry to us if a flathead breaks it off at the handle. We have a name for that little 13-inch trout you fish for: bait.
6. Pull your pants up! You look like an idiot.
7. If that cell phone rings while a bunch of mallard ducks is making their final approach, we will shoot it. You might want to ensure it's not up to your ear at the time.
8. No, there's no "Vegetarian Special" on the menu. Order steak. Order it rare. Or, you can order the Chef's Salad and pick off the two pounds of ham and turkey.
9. Tea? -- yeah, we have tea. It comes in a glass over ice and it's sweet. You want it hot? Set it in the sun. You want it unsweetened? Add a lot of water.
10. You bring Coke into my house, it better be brown, wet, and served over ice!
11. You have a sixty-thousand-dollar SUV. We're real impressed. We have a quarter of a million-dollar combine that we only use two weeks a year.
12. Let's get this straight. We have one stoplight in town. We stop when it's red. We may even stop when it's yellow.
13. We eat dinner together with our families. We pray before we eat--yeah, even breakfast. We go to church on Wednesdays and Sundays, and we go to high school football games on Friday nights. We still address our seniors with "yes, sir" and "yes, ma'am," and we sometimes still take Sunday drives around town to see friends and neighbors.
14. We don't do "hurry up" well.
15. Greens -- yeah, we have greens, but you don't putt on them. You boil them with salty fatback, bacon or a smoked hog jowl.
16. Yeah, we eat catfish, bass, bream, and carp. You really want sushi and caviar? It's available down at the bait shop.
17. They are pigs. That's what they smell like. Get over it. Don't like it? Interstate 75 goes two ways. Interstate 40 goes the other two. Pick one.
18. Grits are corn. You put butter, salt, and maybe even some pepper on them. If you want to put m! ilk and sugar on them, then you want cream of wheat -- go to Kansas. That would be I-40 West.
19. The "Opener" refers to the first day of deer season or dove season. Both are holidays. You can get pancakes, cane syrup, and sausage before daylight at the church on either day.
20. So every person in every pickup truck waves? Yeah, it's called being friendly. Understand the concept?
21. Yeah, we have golf courses. Don't hit in the water hazards. It spooks the fish and bothers the gators --and, if you hit it in the rough, we have these things called diamondbacks, and they're not baseball players.
22. That Highway Patrol Officer that just pulled you over for driving like an idiot --his name is "Sir," no matter how young he is.
23. We have lots of pine trees. They have sap. It drips from them. You park your Lexus under them, and they'll leave a souvenir on your hood.
24. You burn an American flag in our state, you get beat up. No questions. The liberal contingent of our state legislature -- all four of them --enacted a measure to stop this. There is now a $2.50 fine for beating up the flag burner.
American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God.
A matter of perspective
Originally published April 19,2004
One reason I really like this guy's blog is that his mind is just as twisted as mine. I thought that I was the only person in the world who realized the impact that cartoons we watched as children affected our adult lives.
I liked Bugs Bunny. He never lost his cool, he took control of every situation, and when confronted with certain disaster, he nibbled a carrot and said, "Uhh, what's up, Doc?" Then, he turned the tables on the villian. Bugs was the ALL AMERICAN RABBIT. He was the think-on-your-feet, make it up as you go, never give up American. Those kinds of people made this country great and Looney Tunes did a good job of capturing that attitude.
I always thought of myself as a combination of Bugs Bunny and Wile E. Coyote. I am very clever sometimes, but I fuck up a lot. In modern society, right and wrong have been so confused as pure concepts that I don't know what to make of the situation. I just try to live a good life. But if I write the word "nigger" on my blog, I lose my job, I am ceremoniously de-linked by people who don't know me and the winds of self-righteousness blow me down.
Uhhh... What's up, Doc?
April 07, 2007
The blind guitarist at K-Mart
Originally published April 25, 2004
After I posted about the soapbox preacher on the corner of Bull and Broughton Streets, I received a couple of emails asking me if I remembered the blind guitarist at K-Mart, who played for tips right outside the front door of the store. Of course I remember him.
The old fart was pretty good. He played an ancient Gibson guitar with a tin cup hooked on the head. Tips went into that cup. He wore dark sunglasses and one of those Bob Dylan harmonica rigs around his neck. He played a lot of old-time traditional music, and he would sing and blow that harp with enthusiasm. I tipped him more than once.
The Savannah Morning News did a feature story on the old man one Sunday and it answered a few questions I had at the time. Yes, the gentleman WAS completely blind. He drew a small Social Security check and supplemented his income by doing his sidewalk show. He had a son who moved him from Savannah, where he played in the summer, to some place in Florida, where he played when the weather grew cold. He did all right.
My guitar playing has gone to shit lately because of the numbness in my fingers, but I can still play all the basic chords. I just don't have control of the twitch-muscles for the hot licks anymore. I've thought frequently that if push comes to shove on the money front, I could pick up enough to get by just by playing on the sidewalk. I'm really not a bad entertainer. I don't want to do the bar scene again, but I could play the sidewalk.
I'm going to answer this question:
On another related topic, you often post about your musical life. If you were going to play a set at a big festival, what would your set list be? What 12 songs would you choose to be represent your musical identity? Maybe you could blog on this sometime if the spirit hits you.
I always liked to kick off a set with a loud, fast, rousing song. Not many people have heard it, but "Better Times," by Mike Cross was one of my favorite opening songs. It's a foot-stomper and an easy song to play and sing to get rid of the butterflies in the belly.
I liked to segue from that song into "Angel From Montgomery," by John Prine. It has the same chord pattern, but it's slower and I always loved the words.
After that, it was time for some finger-picking, so I went from "The Boxer" to "Lincoln Duncan," both written by Paul Simon.
Time to lighten up next, so I played a couple of original songs: "Ain't No Moss Growing On Me" and "Justice Laid Me Low," both crafted by Yours, Truly.
Next came "Samuel Arising," by Mac McAnally. That's another unheard-of song that is a really good foot-stomper. I loved these lines:
I came home from work one day and I heard noises
I then liked to simmer things down a bit and go back to the finger-picks. "If You Could Read My Mind," followed by "Early Mornin' Rain," both by Gordon Lightfoot.
Okay, the audience is somewhat subdued now, so play another foot-stomper to shake them out of their comas. "Fish and Whistle," by John Prine did the trick every time. People start singing along with the chorus even when they've never heard the words before. That's a damn good song.
I usually went from there to another original song, "Blockade Whiskey," which is about moonshining, and I am delighted to announce that someone heard that song in Seattle, Washington a few years ago. I don't collect any royalties, but I'm glad to know that my songs travel well.
And I always liked to finish a one-set performance with "The Scotsman," by Mike Cross. I believe in leaving 'em laughing, and that's just the right song to do it with.
If I was asked for an encore, I did "American Pie," by Don McLean.
There you have it. A musical picture of me.
Originally published April 28, 2004
From my friend, Catfish:
It is time to do a comparison between two things treasured by men, beer and pussy...
A beer is always wet.
A beer tastes horrible served hot.
Having an ice cold beer makes you satisfied.
Beers have commercials making fun of skunky ones.
If you get a hair in your teeth consuming pussy, you are not disgusted.
24 beers come in a box.
Too much head makes you mad at the person giving you a beer.
If a beer is brewed with yeast, it is still edible.
If you come home smelling like beer, your wife may get mad. If you come home smelling like pussy, she will definitely get mad.
6 beers in a night and you better not drive. 6 pussies in a night and you have done all the driving you need.
Buy too much beer and you will get fat.
It is socially acceptable to have a beer in the stands at a football game.
If a cop smells beer on your breath, you are going to get a breathalyzer.
With beer, bigger is better.
Wearing a condom does not make a beer any less enjoyable.
Pussy can make you see God. Beer can make you see the porcelain god.
If you think all day about the next pussy you will have, you are normal.
Peeling labels off of beers is fun.
If you try to snag a beer at work, you get fired. If you try to snag a pussy at work, you get hit with sexual harassment.
If you suddenly drop a beer, it may break. If you suddenly drop a pussy, it may hunt you down like the dog you are.
If you change to another beer, your old brand will gladly have you back.
The best pussy you have ever had is not gone once you have enjoyed it.
The worst pussy you have ever had is not gone once you have enjoyed it.
Bad beer: Schlitz, PBR, Old Swill.
Good beer: Samuel Adams, Moosehead, Pete's Wicked Winter Brew.
The government taxes beer.
Originally published April 25, 2004
I absolutely LOVE the vivid images that Southerners throw into their speech. You can sample a few good ones here, but I know a lot more of them.
*He's as lazy as a cut dog.
*He was as happy as a dead pig in sunshine.
*That woman could suck a golf ball through 30' of garden hose. Take the chrome right off a trailer hitch, too.
*That shit was hard as Chinese arithmetic.
*He was as happy as a dog with two dicks.
*If brains were gunpowder, he couldn't blow his nose.
Too few people in this country understand the meaning of "y'all," "yonder" and "directly," too.
April 06, 2007
Originally published February 2, 2002
As someone who has hiked, backpacked, camped and gardened for many years, I despise "environmentalists." I love the land and nature as much as anyone, but I recognize nature for what it is: a totally uncaring, disinterested force that pays mankind no attention at all. I want to puke every time I listen to someone whine about "fragile wetlands," "pristine wilderness," or "delicate ecosystems." I have been on canoe trips through hundreds of miles of "fragile wetlands," which appeared very much like malarial swamps to me. There, mosquitoes flew in squadrons fit to suck a grown man dry of blood, cottonmouths lurked in the dark water and fell from tree limbs into the canoe and all manner of evil things padded, crawled, scuttled and croaked in that "natural" environment. They all had one thing in common. They didn't give a shit whether I got out of there alive any more than Mother Nature did. I saw some beautiful sights, but nature remained dispassionate all the while.
The "pristine wilderness" I have hiked featured monumental rainfall that swelled creeks I crossed getting in to impossible depths to cross getting out, sudden freezes and snowfalls, and numerous visits from those cute little "natural" creatures such as bears, skunks, rabid racoons and even one porcupine, all of which didn't give a shit whether I got out of there alive or not. In fact, I received the distinct impression that Mother Nature tried to kill me on a few of those trips. I discovered that the pristine wilderness was just as dispassionate as a fragile wetland.
I learned about "delicate ecosystems" early in life and this knowledge has been reinforced many times since. When I was sixteen, my cousin and I hiked up Black Mountain to find my grandfather's grave. We went toward where a church and a cemetary once existed, but nobody had lived there in years, and the delicate ecosystem of the Cumberland Mountains had taken over everything, with vines, briars, sticker-bushes and tangles of new-grown trees making the place unrecognizable to anyone who once knew it. We climbed the rocks of a dry creek bed at first, then chopped and hacked our way through the delicate ecosystem until we found what remained of the church, which was a few rotting timbers covered in green vines. We stumbled into the cemetary, too, and found the old tombstones all cockeyed or laying face-down because of the roots growing up beneath them. After we flipped several of them over to read the names and uncovered a couple of angry copperheads in the process, I found the stone belonging to my grandfather. I used my Bowie knife to dig a shallow hole and stand the stone upright where I thought it belonged. My cousin and I then hacked our way back through the delicate ecosystem and came down from the mountain.
By that evening, we were both working alive with poison ivy blisters. We took weeks to recover.
Two years later, my father wanted to see the HIS father's grave. We drove there together, to the same place where my cousin and I had parked, and I could not find a sign of anywhere we had been. "We started up a dry creek," I said. "We walked on the rocks." But I saw no dry creek, nor any sign of fallen rocks to make us a path. "I think it was over here somewhere," I said, and we went to look, but all we found was tangled undergrowth, vines and brambles. It was as if my cousin and I had never been there. It was as if NO ONE had ever been there, let alone built a church and a cemetary sometime in the past. Finally, my dad and I left and we never went back.
Somewhere on the side of that mountain, my grandfather is buried. His tombstone probably fell over once more a long time ago. I will never know for certain, because I'll never find the place again. I tried two years after I DID find it, and I couldn't do it. That was 34 years ago. Those delicate ecosystems beat all I ever saw for being so implacable.
Earth abides. It always has and it always will. It doesn't need "environmentalists." It doesn't need anyone.
On the mend
Originally published February 2, 2002
I believe I am cured of the cursed flu I had for the past three days. I went out this afternoon and ate a DOUBLE-BEEF WHOPPER WITH CHEESE and a large order of french fries. And I loved it. As I feel all that grease, choresterol and fat coursing through my veins, I want to throw back my head and let out a wild Tarzan scream. I AM HEALTHY AGAIN!
I became the first paying customer for my friend Willie's music business when I went to his house today and bought strings for three of my guitars and my mandolin. He has a whole chest of drawers full of strings, capos, picks and stuff and he gave me a good price on what I bought. He probably gave ME a much better price than he would give YOU, unless you are one of the many pickers, singers and friends invited to my surprise 50th birthday party two weeks from today. So show up and buy some strings. Otherwise, check out his web site here and order something.
Willie, that's TWICE I gave you free ad space. You owe me, man.
I wrote a nastygram e-mail to that bloodless barracuda cunt and slut of an ex-wife I have to inform her that this is the last visitation weekend that she will book outside activities for my son to the point that he is too busy to visit. I did learn while I was at Willies that she managed, in spite of all the whirlwind activity involving my son this weekend, to have the unemployed, dope-smoking Rent-A-Dick spend the weekend with her and my son, which is typical. Whatta cunt. But the plans she makes for my boy will be cancelled from now on when he is supposed to be with me. If I can't or won't follow her agenda, then he doesn't go. Period. Otherwise...well, we'll cross that bridge when I'm ready to burn it down, which is any time after today.
Being the hillbilly that I am, I hold family and blood as holy things worth dying for. Just maybe I'm wrong. Florence King could have the right idea about "family." I'm certain my ex-wife feels that way.
Originally published February 1, 2002
I tour a lot of random blog sites just to see what's out there. I am usually disappointed by what I find, because the vast majority of the unhearalded sites are run by teenages or college students who simply send messages back and forth to each other, like e-mail they WANT other people to read and miss the inside jokes. Their earth-shaking messages usually consist of some boy writing "monkey" to some girl, who then responds with "hee-hee," followed by some friend chiming in with "I knew it!" Blogger sacrifices a lot of bandwidth to this crap.
I try to post something every day, even if I must crawl to the keyboard on hands and knees they way I've done the past few days. I also attempt to post something that is well-written, whether anyone is interested in reading it or not. Some of what I write is personal. Some of it is political. Some of it the result of random neurons firing incessantly in my brain. I don't know where a lot of it comes from, but I am delighted that the outlet is there.
I run across some folks who remind me of me, but they are few and far between, and that's why I usually put a link on my page when I discover them. The mega-bloggers have center stage fully occupied and they do good work. But we in the second or third tier of blogdom do good work sometimes, too. I do not wish to sound elitist, but some of the crap that uses up valuable Blogger bandwidth is inane, obscene and not worth the space. And it often wastes my time culling through the dross to find someone who actually wants to WRITE WELL.
How interesting can this be except to the pony-rider and her loyal friends? Who cares about this wonder-woman [Ed. Both links borked.] except herself? Just tour "phuck.beautifulfreak.org." I didn't bother with a link there because the name speaks for itself.
I suppose I'm becoming a stodgy old fart as I near my 50th birthday. But I really believe a person should use capital letters and punctuation when blogging. I'm old-fashioned that way.
Originally published February 2, 2002
I once drove a truck with a bumper sticker that said "I love my COUNTRY. It's THE GOVERNMENT I'm afraid of!" I eventually sold the truck, but I never changed my mind about the government. Just read this and maybe you will understand why.
Don't you just love the command of the language demonstrated by the "Communication Director?" No wonder Charlie was lost on the MTA.
April 05, 2007
Friday Five a day early
Originally published April 20, 2002
The Friday Five I usually copy from Dave Tepper's site is about television this week, and I don't watch commercial TV; therefore, I am totally unqualified to answer any of the questions. I am probably one of the few living, breathing human beings in the country who has never seen an episode of Allie McBeal or even Seinfield when it was in its prime. I stopped watching network television when Cheers went off the air, and I have not missed it at all, except for the popular culture questions I can't answer in trivia contests anymore. I watch TV occasionally, but I usually view sports, the History Channel or the Behind the Music stuff on VH-1. Okay, I confess: I still watch Star Trek reruns in Sci-Fi, too. But that's about it. Needless to say, I do not subscribe to TV Guide.
So, here is a FRIDAY FIVE that I stole from an e-mail about "modern zen."
1) If you lend someone $20 and never see that person again, it was probably worth it.
Orignally published April 24, 2002
I have been a heavy cigarette smoker, a functioning alcoholic and a willing worker in the evil chemical industry for most of my adult life. I eat a lot of rare beef, use pesticides regularly around my home, shun fiber in favor of greasy fried stuff, and generally believe that the four basic food groups are caffiene, nicotine, alcohol and cholesterol. I don't eat tofu or organically-grown bean sprouts, and I consider Mother Nature my enemy, not my friend. (The Battle of the Okra is a perfect example. See earlier posts.) Results of all kinds of "scientific" studies confirm that with my risk-intense lifestyle, I should be dead by now of several different forms of cancer or respiratory disease.
But I'm not. I probably can outwalk, outclimb and outwork most of the beady-eyed worry-warts who create the scare of the day designed to make unthinking people stay in bed for fear of dying if they crawl out from under the covers. "Science" has become a cottage industry in which doomsayers make a lucrative living by running before the press to declare, "Look at the NEW THING I've discovered that's gonna KILL YOU." Meanwhile, the average life-span has increased by five years in the last ten, despite all the new menaces to life-spans "discovered" by those shameless media-whores.
How can I be so adamant about this? It's easy. I developed prostate cancer at the age of 49. Obviously, the toxic chemicals I worked with for years, plus the cigarettes, the booze and the rare steaks had SOMETHING to do with that. I have a basic human need to blame my misfortune on SOMETHING ELSE, rather than a genetic predisposition to the disease. It was pesticides, dioxins, air pollution, nuclear waste, the hole in the ozone, overly-heated McDonald's coffee and invisible rays emitted from coatings on guitar strings that gave me cancer.
Yeah, the same thing may have killed my father, but THAT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT! I am a victim of capitalist industry, and it's deliberate spewing of cancer-causing pollutants, pure and simple.
I work for a company that has, as its corporate creed and vision for success, this simple motto: "We strive to produce evil, deadly chemicals that kill our employees, poison our customers and give asthma to local school childern. We figure that the more we pollute, the more money we make. If we can manage to kill off everybody in the world, then we can run the whole shebang to suit ourselves."
Environmentalists preach such ridiculous sermons all the time, and ignorant people believe them. Of course, ignorant people don't know a glass of water from a deadly container of dihydrogen monoxide [Ed. Link borked.], which hit the blog-sites as new news lately, about five years after a schoolboy proved how effective environmental scare-mongering has become. It's amusing to the bloggers, but not to me. Read about it:
Take the example of a story made famous a couple of years ago, when a junior high school student named Nathan Zohner surveyed a group of classmates for a school science project. Zohner told them about a chemical called dihydrogen monoxide. It is colorless, odorless, tasteless, and causes thousands of deaths every year. Prolonged exposure to its solid form causes severe tissue damage, exposure to its gaseous form causes severe burns, and it has been found in excised tumors of terminal cancer patients. Of 50 people Nathan surveyed, 43 said that dihydrogen monoxide should be banned, 6 weren’t sure what to do, and only one person correctly identified dihydrogen monoxide as plain old water, or H2O.
I have to deal with the regulators, who are driven by political concerns, their checklist reports, their 500-pound gorilla attitudes and their goddamned overblown egos a LOT more than they care about the environment. And they are bureaucrats, skillfully versed in the regulations, but woefully cluless about how the real world works, and there is no debate with these people.
I was cited for... well, never mind. THIS IS WHY I WRITE UNDER A PSEUDONYM. I had a government official point out some standing water in my area. I explained that the standing water was in a CONTAINMENT AREA, which was designed to hold standing water on the off-chance that it might be acidic or alkiline, if any of the storage tanks in the CONTAINMENT AREA leaked. The government goon was a long, tall, sour-faced woman with a government-issued clipboard (MY FUCKING TAX DOLLARS AT WORK!) who proceeded to issue THREE CITATIONS because I had standing water in containment areas (duh...I was aware that containment areas are REQUIRED around tanks that contain evil, toxic chemicals, but I WASN'T AWARE that you CAN'T HAVE ANYTHING IN THOSE CONTAINMENT AREAS, not even goddamned RAINWATER, which is what she saw.
Once she cited me for the first one, like a good little Hitler, she asked if I had any more containment areas nearby. I learned long ago not to lie to those brainless twits, because they may be fools and idiots, but they represent the US government, which has the power to shut THE ENTIRE PLANT DOWN down before we can kill everybody in the world with our gleeful pollution. So, I showed her two more that held rainwater, and she dutifully cited me for both of those.
I went home that evening and sent a donation to the Sierra Club, because that experience made me a true believer in the environmentalist movement. I have seen the light. As long as we have the demented leading the blind, we'll have an ideal society. THAT'S what I want my country to become. Little boxes made of ticky-tackey... and you will fit in one.
Resistance is futile. You WILL be assimilated.
I know this is juvenile, but I have to do it, thanks to my national champion ex-linebacker friend Ed, who sent me the e-mail
Originally published April 23, 2002
Once upon a time, Hercules, Snow White and Quasimoto were talking over a picnic lunch. Hercules says, "You know, everyone says I am the strongest mortal on the earth, but I don't know how to prove it. That bothers me a lot."
I always was frightened by the possibility that Janet Reno would get drunk one night, seduce Warren Christopher and produce the ugliest offspring in the history of the world. Thank goodness that never happened.
April 04, 2007
Hay, I'm an excellent cowpun-cher. Who knew?
Originally published February 27, 2002
Cincinatti finally apprehended the cow that jumped the six-foot slaughterhouse fence and eluded helicopter searches, foot patrols, all-point bulletins and satellite detection for twelve days. I believe the Special Forces training the bovine Rambo received as a young LEATHERNECK paid off. The cow was never fooled by a STEAKOUT, could not be MOOved to surrender, and allegedly vowed, "I VEAL not be taken alive." Authorities feared the large animal would wander onto a nearby interstate highway and cause a T-BONE crash. Nearby farmers recommended simply shooting the animal, but local politicians, when GRILLED by reporters, admitted that they didn't want to deal with animal rights activists screaming, "HOLEY COW!"
I would MILK this story for a few more puns, but I'm UDDERly exhausted. Call me a COWard if you wish, but I am perSUEDEd that enough is enough.
Bluegrass and the Grammys
Originally published February 28, 2002
I didn't watch the Grammy Awards last night. One reason is the fact that I have a Dish Network system and out here in the boonies where I live, they don't offer the Big Four commercial channels. I've never bothered trying to hook up my antenna and seek out the local stations, but even if I had, I would not have watched last night. I was certain that a bunch of manufactured, shuck and jive pseudo-musicians would win the awards.
I was stunned when I saw the winners today.
For my party two weekends ago, my sister-in-law brought a cake that had a picture of me, about twelve-years old, sitting on my back porch playing a Sears & Roebuck Silvertone guitar with heavy-gauge Black Diamond strings. I remember it well, because the damned thing had a neck like a pine log and those heavy strings would kill a cornshucker's fingers after thirty minutes of playing. But that is the instrument I utilized to teach myself to play guitar. When I saw the cake, I said, "Y'all can eat the cake, but I want that picture."
"Rob, uh... I mean Acidman, you can't have the picture because it's not a picture. It's icing."
"Bullshit," I responded. "I want that picture of me when I was fucking young and fucking innocent and playing a fucking Silvertone guitar." Acidman had been celebrating his birthday with several dozen other musicians for about six hours by then. I was going to peel that picture off the cake and save it whether they wanted me to or not. I went to grab it. And my finger slid under the edge and came up with nothing but icing on it.
They weren't lying. Computers can scan a picture right into the icing on a cake now. I'm still amazed by that fact, which shows just how pathetically unsophisticated I am when it comes to computers. Hell, just look at this blog site for further evidence.
But I remember being that twelve-year old boy, armed with that hand-killing Silvertone and a Mel Bay chord book. I was bound and determined to learn the guitar, and I did. I managed it the old fashioned way: practice, practice, practice. By the time I was seventeen, I was a fair finger-picker, thanks to Paul Simon. I put Simon & Garfunkle albums on my turntable and played them at a slower speed so I could listen to the finger licks done slowly. (you could do that a long time ago) The technique worked, and I became a legend in a small circle of friends when Mason Williams released "Classical Gas," because I slowed that rascal down and learned to play it when even the GOOD musicians wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole.
People often ask me, "Can you teach ME to play?" I always say yes, because anybody can learn to play guitar. But I also say, "I'll show you what you need to know to get started, but the rest is up to you. Practice what I show you, then come back and see me in six months." Not many people have the want-to to do what it takes. They want to play guitar the same way they want buns of steel and killer abs-- as long as there is some electronic device you plug in to a wall socket that does the work for you and in one week, you've got it. It just doesn't work that way.
I KNOW that anyone bound and determined to play guitar can do it, because my college roommate did. When he started out, he couldn't even tune the piece of crap Yamaha he had, but he shopped up quickly to a fine Epiphone that he still owns to this day. He couldn't tune that one either, at first, but it sounded a lot better out of tune than the Yamaha did. He knew basic chords and if I showed him a lick or a run, he would retire to his room and do it over and over and over again until he had it. On many occasions, I listened to his diligent practice as long as I could stand it, then kicked open his door, snatched the guitar from his hands, tuned it, and gave it back. "Yeah, that's better now," he said, picking and grinning.
Of course, one night I listened to him playing the same thing over and over and over again out of tune and I snapped. I kicked open his door, snatched the guitar from his hands, and beat the living shit out of him with it until he lay dead in a bloody pulp on the floor. Then, I hauled the corpse off threw it in the woods outside Noble, Georgia, where it has not been found to this day, but may be found tomorrow if they dig deep enough around the creamtorium.
Okay, I didn't ACTUALLY do that, but I thought about it more than once. Today, my old roommate is an accomplished musician who has electronic devices with which to tune an instrument. He does well.
I started playing semi-professionally in 1974 on River Street in Savannah. My brother and I formed a folk duo and sang exquisite harmonies together. We weren't half-bad and took our act to Athens when we attended the University of Georgia together for two years. Making music beat flipping hamburgers, and we actually supported ourselves fairly well playing the motel bars during that time. I left journalism school in 1976 and became an advertising copywriter. My brother stayed, went to law school, and became a maggot.
I was starving to death writing, so I went back to River Street, auditioned for a job as a solo entertainer and launched a five-year career as a one-man barroom band. I didn't intend it initially, but I had more fun, made more money and met a much better variety of people in the bars than I did writing copy, so I quit my REAL job and pursued music full-time. It was one hell of a ride. Looking back now, through the filter of time and my current miserable condition, I believe those were the best days of my life. I know I must have been unhappy a time or two, but I can't recall a single instance now. I remember keeping vampire hours, running through women the way Sherman went through Georgia and generally not giving a damn if the sun came up in the morning. It was a time of irresponsible, glorious bliss and I wish I could go back and live it all over again. Of course, I would require my young body back again to make it worthwhile.
Two things happened to drive me out of the bars and into the chemical industry. First was the "Band in a Can" phenomenon that erupted around 1979. I knew a musician on River Street who played in the same place for years and he filled the room with music all by himself by picking a "guitorgan," which put organ chords on top of whatever he played on his guitar, pressing a set of bass pedals with his bare foot and using a beat box to provide drum beats and various percussion behind his songs. He could sound like a six-piece marachi band all by himself. I was impressed. So were others.
The "Bands in a Can" came next. These were guys who RECORDED all their background music, including harmony vocals, then plugged some giant boom-box into the PA and basically lip-synched their entire show. It was loud, it was fancy, and the crowds loved it, drunken swine that they were. A goddam stage-hogging Karioke Show was all it amounted to, and the bovine public thought it was great.
I remained a purist, playing an unbugged Martin D-28 through a microphone, writing my own songs, telling jokes, juggling tennis balls and generally doing what worked well five years earlier. But my time was running out. The last job I played was at one of the prestige places in Savannah at the time, and I worked there for three months. During the last two weeks, Margie, the bartender, began receiving threatening phone calls from her ex-husband. On one of my breaks, I listened to her tell him to leave her alone before she took out a warrant on his ass, and I asked her what was going on.
"That man is crazy," she explained. "He's already killed two people and got sent to Milledgeville (the biggest mental hospital in Georgia) instead of Reidsville (the Big House) where he belongs. He's out now, and he's scaring me to death. He's crazy!" I didn't think much about it at the time. But I rethought a lot when I read the newspaper the week after I left the place.
A woman who played piano and sang like a bird took over as entertainment when I left. She started on Monday and lasted until Friday, when the ex-Milledgeville nut-ball walked into the bar at 1:00 in the morning (last set!) with a shotgun and a pistol. Using the shotgun, he shot the piano player, shot her husband and shot two people at the bar. He aimed at Margie, but his pump shotgun jammed. She ran out the back door of the bar, which led to the swimming pool area of the motel. He followed and shot her six times on the cool deck. The piano player's husband lived. Everyone else was killed. The nut-ball was arrested and SENT BACK TO MILLEDGEVILLE! He may still be a free man again one of these days.
If you think I'm making up this story, think again. It happened.
I still hate "Bands in a Can," which is why I despise the Backstreet Boys and N-Sync and all the other twitching, spastic, non-musical hockwads who don't play instruments, don't write songs and don't do anything except look good, dance frenetically, spew crap that was spoon-fed to them by some asshole promoter, and make teenyboppers cream their jeans. As a former semi-professional musician, I can say: That Aint Workin'. (with apology to Dire Straits)
That's why I LOVE IT when bluegrass rules at the Grammys. I know I am a former hillbilly who evolved into a genuine Georgia cracker, and I may be prejudiced. But "Bands in a Can" took a backseat boys, un-sync drubbing in this event. And I love it.
Almost as much as I love my Martin D-28.
I'll take 'em any way I can get 'em
Originally published March 1, 2002
My broken-down, over-the-hill, stone-deaf, shadow of the man he used to be ex-Special Forces friend, "RECONDO3," sent me an e-mail today to let me know how bluegrass music got its name. Being the sort of egotistical snot who thinks he's smart, he felt obliged to send me this.
Hey, RECONDO3. I WAS BORN IN KENTUCKY, you pathetic fool, way up a hollow (pronounced "holler") in the hills where bluegrass music has its deepest roots. I have the mountains in my blood and that music in my soul and the Scots-Irish green eyes to prove it. A flatland, sand-pounding, palmetto-scrub, low-country low-brow such as yourself has a lot of nerve to lecture ME about BLUEGRASS. But I appreciate the e-mail. I figure you must have read my post about the Grammys last night, or at least had someone READ IT TO YOU, you illiterate swamp-thing. A hit is a hit, no matter where it comes from. I appreciate them all.
April 03, 2007
Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it
Originally published October 5, 2002
I own several guns, and the 76% Worshipable Woman carries a .38 revolver in her purse. It's a nice Ladysmith, but I told her last night that unless she practices a LOT with it (she has never fired the thing), she had better be able to touch her target with the 2" barrel, or she'll miss.
Of couse, that's not a bad thing. That little hand-cannon makes enough noise that she could point it straight up at the ceiling and fire away if she heard a burglar in the house. The would-be thieving bastard would take out window glass and screen, leaving a shit-trail on the floor as he ran for his worthless life. A Ladysmith is LOUD outdoors. Fire one inside a house and you'll think hellzapoppin'.
She wants another, more powerful and accurate weapon for home protection. I recommended a 410 shotgun.
I don't know if ARMED LIBERAL [Ed. Blog no longer exists.] would agree, but I believe that a 410 is the ideal firearm for dealing with footpads and critters, inside or outside the house. It is easy to handle, you don't need to stick bricks in your back pockets to deal with the kick, and it makes a nice hole in what you shoot at from 20 feet, which is a LONG shot inside your home. And it makes a loud noise, too.
When I played guitar for a living, I carried a Colt .22 derringer, a nice two-trigger, over and under double-barrel. It was smaller than a pack of cigarettes and held two .22 longs. It fit nicely in a jacket pocket or in the back pocket of a pair of Levis. It made me feel warm and fuzzy when I left bars in downtown Savannah at 3:00 AM and carried two guitars down back lanes or through bushy squares to get to my car.
I left the Red Lion Tavern at the Desoto Hilton one night and walked about a block to where I had parked. As I was opening the trunk of my car, I saw a lanky black guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth approaching. Behind me, I heard another person coming my way. "Hey, man," said the lanky black guy,"You got a light?" I heard the footsteps behind me pick up their pace.
I pulled the derringer out of my pocket and stuck it in the black guy's face. "I've got your light RIGHT HERE!" I yelled.
"JESUS! HE GOTTA GUN!" the bastard screamed. He turned on his heel and ran, and so did his partner behind me.
I stood there in the street for a moment, feeling downright proud of myself. They were going to rob me, and I scared them off. I was a goddam Clint Eastwood. I was John Wayne. Man, I was COOL! I stuck the derringer back in my pocket and attempted to light a cigarette.
My hands were shaking so badly that I almost set my hair on fire.
If I had NOT been armed that night, I would have been robbed or killed. That's what those two shits intended to do, and a .22 derringer changed their minds.
If THAT gun loomed large to them, think about what the wrong end of a 410 shotgun looks like.
Originally published October 4, 2002
This was supposed to be a LOVE TEST, but I didn't like any of the multiple-choice answers. So, as a public service to those who expect this kind of shit out of me, I'm going to post the actual questions with MY answers.
1. The end of the world is coming, if you can save only one kind of animal, which one will you pick?
A good dog. A dog really is "man's best friend," and I've never had a dog bite me as viciously as some women have. I would enjoy the dog as a loyal companion when the world ended. Then, if things got really bad, I could kill it and eat it, in a stew with some wild onions.
2. You go to Africa. When you visit a tribe, they insist you take an animal as a souvenir, which one will you choose?
The chief's most beautiful daughter, of course!
3. You did something wrong. Instead of being a human, God punish you to be an animal, you will choose...
Samonella. That way, I can punish OTHER PEOPLE, too. Just like God, and pretty much in the same way.
4. If you have the power to make one species disappear forever, which one will that be?
5. One day, you met an animal which can speak human language, you wish that'll be...
Hillary Clinton. She doesn't speak "human." She just pretends to in front of microphones.
6. On an isolated island, you can only have an animal as your companion, which one you'll choose...
DA GODDESS!!!! Or Britney Spears. Or Nicole Kidman. Or Nina Hartley. Or...
7. If you have the super power to tame all kinds of animal, you'll choose what kind of animal to be your pet?
See the answers to question #6.
8. If you have a 5-minute time to be an animal, which one you would like to be?
Ron Jeremy. But I want a LOT LONGER than five minutes.
Looking back at the questions, I don't think I took a Love Test. Musta got lost wrestling with the corkscrew...I believe that I took an accidental PETA TEST. Boy, are THEY gonna be pissed at me if they ever read this.
I don't know how I got to where I got, when I set out to get where I was going. That's the story of my life.
Stereotypes... exist for a reason
Originally published October 03, 2002
What do you do when a vast majority of people surveyed view your profession with the same respect and admiration they hold for Nigerian email spammers and crack-whores? Do you take a good, long look at what you're doing and wonder if just MAYBE you should clean up your act a bit?
No, not if you're a LAWYER. Instead, you launch a giant PR campaign designed to con people into believing something other than the truth, which is why lawyers are so despised in the first place. Good idea!
Why do we have jokes such as this one? A man walks into a bar and greets a gorgeous single woman. She looks him in the eye and says, "I'll screw anybody, anytime, anywhere, anyplace."
His hilarious reply: "What law firm are you with?"
Although it is politically incorrect to say it, I submit that stereotypes exist because they sometimes are accurate. If there weren't enough true examples around, nobody could create a "stereotype" to begin with. The stereotype might not be true ALL the time, but it's true often enough to give it solid purchase in people's perceptions.
If you're a really sensitive, liberal, multiculturalist hockwad idiot angel of understanding, I suggest that you log off this blog and go elsewhere RIGHT NOW, before you read any further, because I am about to offend your delicate self. You have been properly warned!
Let's all get together and START some stereotypes. After all, stereotypes have nothing to do with the way people actually behave; they are the product of biased, bigoted minds, so we should be able to create any stereotypes we want, right out of whole cloth, just by saying it often enough, and whatever we say should ring true in biased, bigoted minds. Let's try these:
Jews are lazy, they breed like rabbits, and they're happy living on welfare. The worthless bastards.
Blacks are really good businessmen. They control the whole American economy, behind the scenes. The devious shits.
Southerners are rude, obnoxious and always in a hurry. They lack manners. Pompous asses.
Irishmen don't drink and they don't believe in fighting. They're the force behind the new temperance movement in this country. They would enter law enforcement to vanquish Demon Rum, but any sort of violence is against their nature. Party-pooping pricks.
One thing you've got to admit about the Italians. THEY would never be involved in organized crime. The goddam MORMONS run the rackets, the gambling, the prostitutes and the drugs in this country. The Italians try to stop them, but the goddam Mormons already have a network of families in control. That's why you see dead Mormons on the street after a gang war and Italians going on missionary trips to South America every year. Murdering Mormons.
Asians have rhythmn. They can sing and dance like nobody else, run like a deer and play basketball REALLY well. They don't do well in school (they call that "acting white") but when they become rich entertainers or NBA stars, they all want a WHITE WOMAN. Lecherous animals.
Polish scientists dominate the Nobel Prizes. Smart-asses.
And now, the BIG ONE: Lawyers are selfless defenders of the weak and the downtrodden. Like the Red Cross, the Salvation Army, the March of Dimes and Mother Teresa, LAWYERS are there to help when no one else will. They don't mind the low wages and the long hours that go with the job. The good they do in the world is reward enough for them. What saints they are!
The problem with lawyers being perceived as scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, money-grubbing shitwads is that TOO MANY OF THEM FIT THE STEREOTYPE! Gawd-damn! Just open your fucking phone book. NO! DON'T OPEN IT! Just look on the back. I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that there's a full-cover advertisment for a LAWYER there. And I'll guarantee he specializes in "personal injury, medical malpractice, worker's compensation, nursing home abuse, auto accidents, DUI and bankruptcy." With "Free Consultation." That's what's on the back of MY phone book. YOURS may include "asbestos litigation fortunes, phen-phen class action booty, toxic tort windfalls, cancer-causing cell phone money-mines, lead paint riches, tobacco loot, and product liability sweepstakes."
And lawyers wonder why they are perceived as money-grubbing sluts?
If we did away with class action lawsuits and adopted a "loser pays" system, we would have a lot of starving lawyers sleeping under bridges and panhandling on the streets instead of driving legitimate businesses bankrupt, inflating the cost of insurance for EVERYONE, and throwing millions of people out of jobs every year, while the lawyers get rich. They then give fortunes to the Democrat Party, which is rapidly becoming a wholly-owned subisidary of the Trial Lawyers Association, to ensure that we DON'T change ANYTHING.
I don't believe that the PR campaign will work, but buying politicians and suing in Jackson County, Mississippi does. Lawyers should forget about polishing their image and stick with what they're good at.
Sucking scum and getting rich.
April 02, 2007
Sunday stumpers on a Monday
Originally published August 4, 2002
1) What's the best analogy of the cultural aspect of the U.S.? Melting pot? Tossed Salad? Gumbo? Mosaic?
Gumbo. If you've never eaten genuine Louisiana gumbo, you might not understand (right, Joie?). But lots of different flavors mixing together into a whole is a beautiful thing.
2) What animal(s) creeps you out? Why?
Snakes. I've been creeped-out by those belly-crawling fuckers all my life. I would rather look down the barrel of a .38 pistol in the trembling hands of a desperate crack addict than see a snake. And I don't care what kind of snake it is.
3) What one thing would your friends be surprised to know about you?
I don't believe anything about me would surprise my true friends. They know me, warts and all.
4) What one piece of advice did someone (parent, teacher, friend) give you that you take to heart even to this day?
My high school (defensive) football coach told me, "Don't ever quit. Work hard. If it was easy, any asshole could do it." I value THAT advice, and it's served me well all my life.
5) What do you most want for your next birthday?
I don't want to have it. I want to be young again. I want to be the man I once was.
I can't have that, so I'll settle for not being alone. I don't exactly look forward to birthdays anymore.
Of course, a room full of nekkid wimmin with red toenails licking all over my bronze body MIGHT make me feel better about the whole thing.
I've seen fire and I'm about to see rain
Originally published August 5, 2002
A series of disasters are occurring all at once around my home. "Comments" are "updating," whatever the fuck THAT means, a thunderstorm just blew up outside, so I expect to lose power any minute now, and I just set my kitchen stove on fire while attempting to cook a batch of french fries. The fire is out and the stove is no worse for wear, so I'll probably eat the french fries, too.
The damned fire started because I was attempting to multi-task on the stove and still blog at the same time, while taking time-out to play my new 12-string guitar. I realized at work today that since my lumberjack breakfast at the Huddle House with Recondo32 and his lovely wife, Georgia on Sunday morning, I have consumed only one bag of potato chips, two Mountain Dews, FOUR packs of cigarettes, a small bag of grapes, NO BOILED PEANUTS and an entire 5-liter box of Franzia White Zin wine in two days. Nothing else. I really don't believe that I'm eating a healthy diet. In fact, I believe that I have a tendency not to eat at all sometimes.
I intended to remedy that situation by cooking eggrolls, hamburgers and french fries that not only would feed me tonight, but leave enough leftovers for lunch at work for the next two days. I got a little carried away, since my attention was focused elsewhere, and I almost burnt my house down.
But I've got a decent meal for tonight and some REALLY CRISPY eggrolls for lunch tomorrow. The fans should get rid of the smoke in the kitchen before long.
I love it when a plan comes together.
A (good) day in the life of the Acidman
Originally published August 10, 2002
I love that boy.
Sometimes, (all too infrequently) I watch him sleep and I remember the day he was born. He came out with cauliflower ears and I worried about that for a while. But the ears straightened out just fine and he became everything I ever wanted in a son. Still, I remember being worried about the shape of his ears. I remember EVERYTHING about the day he was born.
I remember teaching him to walk and to talk. I remember the joy he gave me as he learned to say, "Da-da," and point a finger at me. I remember holding his hand as he toddled around the house. I remember being in love with his mama.
I also remember changing a few incredibly nasty diapers that I would just as soon forget about.
I see him four days every month now. I remember everything about him until one year ago.
I've missed a lot since then.
Acidman could use a nap about now.
I've hauled Quinton and young Jack out to Mom's house for a romp on a huge dirt pile on the Hesse Elementary School playground, then a long soaking in the swimming pool to get the dirt off the boys. Terrorist attacks with super-soaker water-guns occurred without warning. I was a victim at first, but I somehow ended up with BOTH GUNS, after a very brief struggle, and took my toll of revenge without mercy. That's what those poots get for messing with the Tall Dog.
We went to Mc-Killya after that and ate artery-clogging fast food. The boys scarfed hamburgers and fries, sucked down strawberry milkshakes, and headed for the playground, where they crawled up some PVC tunnels and found plastic balls with which to attack me from high ground. The little shits had missles flying all around me as I tried to drink my Super-Sized Dr. Pepper at an outside table. I calmly collected the balls until they ran out of ammo. When they emerged from the tunnel to reload, I let them both have it. Vengence was MINE!
They're having a wrestling match on the Playstation II now, and I am nodding over this keyboard. Maybe they'll go over to Jack's house for a while and I can lay on the sofa and close my eyes just for a minute. Just a minute is all I ask.
It ain't gonna happen, but I can dream, can't I?
Okay, supper is fine. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans, with toasted butter-rolls. Damn, I like to cook! I don't get many chances anymore, but I haven't lost my touch.
Some sort of combat is occurring in the bathroom. The boys have GI Joe action-figures in the water with them, and the shit is hitting the fan. Oh yeah, it's a major battle with extreme casualties. Neither boy has a wet head yet. I'm going to go drown them BOTH!
Then feed them supper...
They both ate TWO HELPINGS of supper tonight, too. Acidman can cook.
I guess I'll grab the ratty white blanket and sleep on the couch tonight. My bed is full.
So was my day.
April 01, 2007
ShitFire! (Actually, no, don't. It's hot enough already in here)
Originally published July 6, 2002
I have a crisis of epic proportions in my house. My goddam air conditioner has quit working.
This is a brand-new home, finished in October of 2001, and the French doors to my back patio leak when it rains, the paint is already peeling off the roof molding and a plague of crickets has descended upon me. I have more blackberry vines than grass in my yard and every faucet in the house works backward. You want hot water? Turn the faucet to "cold." You want cold water? Turn the faucet to "hot." Now, the goddam air conditioner has quit.
It didn't quit, as in upped and died, the way my computer modem did. The goddam thing is running its ass off. It's a veritable dervish of sound and fury in the back yard. But it signifies no cold air. The temperature in my house is 85 degrees right now and the humidity is 1000%. I have to get up at 5:00 in the morning to make the fishing trip, and I know I'll be wallowing in a puddle of sweat in my bed, even with all the ceiling fans going full blast. This sucks.
I have a homebuilder's guarantee on the house with a toll-free number to call if I find anything wrong in the next five years. A broken air conditioner is something wrong in my book, so I called today. The repair service is closed for the holidays and won't be open again until Monday. In the meantime, I sweat.
Oh, well. I never slept in an air conditioned house for the first twenty years of my life, so I suppose I can persevere through this dilemma. I'll be brave.
And come Monday, I want my goddam air conditioner fixed!
Originally published July 6, 2002
I am ready for a nice nap now, but I have a cooler full of fish that aren't going to clean themselves, so the nap will have to wait. An oddball storm front rolled in this morning in an impressive display of thunder and lightning, then the "mostly sunny" skies predicted by the weather forecasters turned iron-gray and overcast. With the weather showing its ass, we didn't go offshore in the 24-foot boat we chartered. We hung close to land and hit a few honey-holes where we could book for port if Mother Nature had another PMS fit.
We caught some keeper trout, some Spanish Macks and a bunch of whiting. The trout haul would have been better if the size limit was 12" instead of 13". It's a crying shame to release some of those that we brought to the boat because they were 1/2" short. We also caught about 30 baby sharks and four sting rays, which we threw back, too. Hook a sting ray and you'll think you've got Moby Dick on your line.
My son didn't go. He had a dream about a shark last night and absolutely refused to have anything to do with the ocean today. I dropped him off at my mom's house this morning so he could swim in her pool and get a full dose of Mamaw's spoiling while the rest of us went fishing.
About the time we got home, the clouds lifted and the sun emerged from hiding. Now it's a beautiful day and hot as hell.
And my air conditioner still isn't working.
It ain't Irish Spring, that's for damned sure
Originally published July 6, 2002
I have been doing MANLY THINGS. Stripped to the waist, armed with a sharp blade and dripping manly sweat under a hot Georgia sun, I scraped the scales from numerous slick fish bodies, cut off their round-eyed heads and ripped their guts out with my bare hands. That is savage, bloody work, fit for a savage, bloody MANLY man.
But I don't smell manly. I have fish scent all over me and that's not the aroma of testosterone. In fact, I smell like... well, never mind.
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