Gut Rumbles

May 31, 2007


Originally published April 5, 2006

I feel sorry for this guy. He's cursed with the dreaded Red-Headed Gene, which makes him fair of skin and devoid of melanin, so that he never tans--- he simply turns red like a boiled shrimp and then sheds his skin like a molting snake when exposed to sunlight. That's gotta be rough, living in the South and all.

When I lived with Dora, the red-headed woman in my life before the BC came along, I could never take her to the beach for the weekend or spend a lot of time outdoors with her in the summer. She burned to a crisp just looking out the window on sunny days. Except for the scattering of freckles on her body, she had skin so pale that she was almost translucent. 30-weight sunscreen was a necessity when she went outside--- otherwise, she developed a glow-in-the-dark sunburn so severe that I often wondered if I could light a cigarette just by touching it to her heat-radiating body.

I've never had that problem. Thanks to my mutt-mixture heritage, I am blessed with a body that tans easily and seldom burns in the sun. I can recall only three times in my life when I've been sunburned badly enough to blister and peel; usually, I glow red for a day, then turn the color of a well-circulated copper penny after that. (I don't tan brown--- too much Native American blood in me. Sunlight transforms me into a Bronze God--- or at least it did before I became a Matchstick Man. Now I just look like a Bronze Anorexic.)

I enjoy being outdoors and usually by mid-summer, the only part of ME that glows in the dark is my Cracker ass, which resembles a bright white spotlight shining from a red clay riverbank when I'm nekkid. Hell, I have the beginnings of a good tan now, just from working shirtless in my garden for the past week.

Maybe that's why red-headed wimmen are so sexy to me. (Don't get any ideas, Eric--- I said red-headed WIMMEN!) The pale skin, the freckles and the way they seem somehow so delicate just appeals to my primitive instincts. I want to protect them, to ward off evil threats and WORSHIP them, just before I conk them over the head with my hunting club and haul them back to my cave for some serious ravishing.

(Personal experience has shown me that red-heads can ravish pretty seriously right back at you, too. That's another thing I like about them--- but that's a subject for another post.)

My attraction to red-heads is kinda strange, because I think tan lines are sexy on a nekkid woman and red-heads seldom have tan lines, because they are allergic to sunlight. But I still think red-heads are sexy. Go figure.

So, all you untanables out there have my deepest sympathy because you can't enjoy the outdoors the way I can without resembling a throughly boiled lobster fresh from the cook-pot. But you actually are better off staying out of the sun, because it'll age your skin, give you wrinkles and cause deadly, cancerous growths on your body. See? Your recessive genes serve a legitimate purpose other than putting freckles in places where other people don't get them.

As for me, I'll be back out in the yard today--- without a shirt.

My smart brother

Originally published April 14, 2006

My brother is a high-octane attorney. As a formidable litigator, he tools around town in a BMW convertable and he strikes fear into the heart of the opposition when he walks into court.

But he's still MY little brother, and I'm about to tell you a true story about him. Picture THIS if you ever meet him in court:

I think I was about 12 years old, which would make my brother about 10. I had been out playing ball with some friends one day after school. I came home an hour or so before sunset and discovered my brother stretched out on the kitchen floor and holding a string in his hands as he peered intently through the sliding glass doors into the back yard.

"What in the world are YOU doing?" I asked.

"Shhh... I'm gonna trap a squirrel," my brother replied.

Sure enough, he had set up a trap--- a wooden box with a stick propping it off the ground and a string tied to the stick. He had baited his trap with a handful of peanuts and he was watching a couple of squirrels in the yard as they worked up the nerve to sample the peanuts. I sat down at the kitchen table to watch.

The squirrels kept inching closer to the trap. They were eyeballing the peanuts and wondering why something just seemed wrong with this picture. But one of the squirrels finally said to hell with his fears and stuck his head under the box. The peanuts were too great a temptation, and he crawled under the box to feast.

My brother yanked the stick away and the box fell, trapping the squirrel underneath. "I GOT him," my brother shouted triumphantly, and he ran out the door to retrieve his prize.

Like a complete dumbass, he stuck his bare hand under the box to grab the squirrel. The squirrel, panic-stricken and filled with fight-or-flight instincts, went into full attack mode and latched onto my brother's hand with fury of fang and claw. My brother yanked his hand out from under the box with the frantic squirrel still attached, and for a moment I didn't know who had who.

My brother screamed like a girl. He fell back on the ground and started rolling around, trying to detach the biting, clawing squirrel. The squirrel finally turned loose and hit the ground running, scampering like a rat with its ass on fire across the yard and up an oak tree. My brother staggered back inside the house with blood running from his hand and arm.

"It worked," he said proudly. "I had him for a minute there."

I thought, "Yeah, you had him, all right. That's the reason he's munching acorns in the oak tree right now and you're the one bleeding in the kitchen sink." But I didn't say that. I said, "You might want to think about wearing a glove next time."

I don't believe that my brother ever tried to trap another squirrel. Once he proved that his trap functioned as designed, he had no desire to try it again. Besides, he was better at figuring out exotic ways to kill frogs and THEY didn't bite.

Want to throw some serious disconcertion at my brother in court? Just sit there and make squirrel noises at him.


Originally published April 13, 2006

I made my first trip to Key West in 1978 aboard the Blue Fin, the Skidaway Island Oceanographic Institute's research vessel. The Blue Fin once was a shrimp boat, but it was intercepted by the US Coast Guard while carrying a load of marijuana instead of shrimp, and the boat later was sold at auction in Miami. The state of Georgia bought it and converted it into a research boat.

The Blue Fin was 80' long (if I remember correctly--- it might have been 60'--- I thought it was a pretty BIG boat), powered by two humongous diesel engines and equipped with large stabilizing anchors to deploy over the sides in rough seas. The boat had a regular crew of five people, and when we loaded up with me and a few scientists from the Institute, a total of twelve souls were on board for the Key West trip.

Believe it or not, we were headed to the warm waters of the keys to collect a special kind of seaweed, which would be used as worm food in an experiment involving (I am NOT making this up!) harvesting the methane from sea-worm farts as an alternative energy source. (Remember--- this was 1978, Carter was President and we were suffering an energy "crisis." Energy research dollars were plentiful, no matter how ridiculous the research.)

We left Skidaway Island at sunrise on a chilly, overcast morning in October. Cold rain misted from the slate-gray sky and a brisk wind blew robustly from the east. The local weather report carried a small craft warning and predictions of strong winds offshore, with seas 15 to 20 feet. Hell--- when we weighed anchor and left the dock, I was all a-twitter with excitement. I had no idea what I had gotten my ass into.

For those of you who have never been in 20-foot seas, I'll just say this: it's a goddam impressive sight and those waves make for one VERY impressive ride. Even with the stabilizers down and dragging, that boat tossed like a cork on the water. If you hung onto the rail and looked overboard, you'd find yourself staring down into a deep, watery chasm one minute, then staring UP at a mountain of ocean that blotted out the sky the next. Back and forth it went, all day long.

That was a VERY rough ride.

I was one of four people on board who did NOT get seasick. I spent all day up on deck, breathing fresh salt air and getting an occasional glimpse of the horizon between huge ocean swells. Almost everybody else ended up down below, suffering the tortures of the damned.

I tried to make it to my rack sometime that evening, but I took one step down the hatch and had to retreat quickly back out on deck. The smell of vomit in the crew quarters was so strong that you didn't smell it--- it reached out like a gnarly hand and choked you by the neck. I knew that I never would survive a night down in THAT hell-hole.

I ended up spending the night on the bridge, talking to the First Mate, a guy named Zack who pulled the graveyard shifts while the Captain slept. Zack was the son of a shrimper and he had been on the water since he was a little boy. He told me something interesting about seasickness.

Zack said that he had been seasick once in his life. Never as a boy and never as a young man. Never in rough seas or in storms. Never when hung-over and burping tequila fumes. He got sick as a sober grown man in the Gulf of Mexico on a beautiful day when the sea was as smooth as the surface of a mirror. He said that it hit him out of the blue, he barfed and heaved for 24 hours, he prayed for death, he thought he was GONNA die and then... he recovered, never to be seasick again.

"At least not yet," Zach added, at the end of his story.

That's why, although I've never been seasick in my life, I still feel a little trepidation when I head offshore in a boat. Since that night on the Blue Fin, I've met several other bleached-out sea-dogs who told stories similar to Zack's. Evidently, you can be on the water for YEARS and never have a problem, then have seasickness hit you like a ton of bricks for no good reason. (Except maybe to teach you some humility so that you feel sympathy and not scorn the next time you see someone get seasick.)

So, I don't laugh at you lubbers who can't make it out of the sound into deep water before you start talking to Ralph and Huey over the side and chumming the water before we're ready to fish. I'll be nice to you. Maybe my time is yet to come.

You know, I AM planning on a sailboat ride to Beliz this summer... all the way across the Gulf of Mexico...

May 30, 2007

Memorial Day

Originally published May 28, 2006

I was intending to write a Memorial Day post, but I changed my mind after I read this one. I don't need to write now.

He says it all.


Originally published February 21, 2006

I love interesting comments on my posts. I got some good ones about circumcision. Did I read them wrong, or were ALL of the pro-circumcision comments from wimmen, who don't HAVE dicks--- at least not the last time I looked?

I liked their reasoning, too. A clipped dick is "prettier." (HUH?) I've had sex with MANY wimmen who didn't realize that I AM NOT circumsized until the act was over and they saw Roscoe on break. The foreskin stays the same size when a penis becomes erect. Think of what happens as being kinda like one of those push-up ice cream bars. Sprout wood and the "ice cream" rises right out of the holder. Anyone who can "look 'em in the eye" and tell the difference between a clipped and non-clipped dick at that point has either really good eyes or one hell of a lot of experience.

The disease crap is just that--- crap. But there IS that "risk" thing doctors mention that makes wimmen hyperventilate and develop the vapors even if the "risk" is a got-dam lie. Soap and water eliminates that alleged disease problem, and I've never known any boy (or man, for that matter) who didn't ENJOY washing his pecker... Strictly for hygene purposes, of course.

I'll tell you the REAL difference, from my PERSONAL EXPERIENCE. (Listen closely, wimmen--- you might learn something here.) When I had my bionics installed, they caused a permanent semi-erection until they softened up a bit. For about six months, I walked around with the head of my Roscoe pushed out past the foreskin and I found the situation VERY irritating.

At first, having the head of my dick rub around inside my pants was uncomfortable to the point of actually being painful at times. Then, after a while, I LOST SENSATION in that area. Not completely--- I didn't go altogether dick-dead--- but I damn sure wasn't as sensitive as I had been all my life. Even today, now that the bionics are all broken in, I notice the difference. It ain't as good as it once was.

You clipped guys may call BULLSHIT and say that if it got any better you couldn't stand it, but YOU don't have a comparison to make. I DO. You just don't know what you missed because you never had it.

When my son was born, I was adamant that he would NOT be circumsized. I'm not, my daddy wasn't, HIS daddy wasn't, none of my uncles were and--- amazingly enough--- not a single one of us EVER had any kind of disease or infection problem. I think we all liked washing our dicks... a LOT.

Of course, I would not be surprised if that BC ex-wife of mine decided to have Quinton circumsized. She might use "disease" to justify doing it, but that wouldn't be her true motivation. She's just sadistic. And I think circumcision is a barbaric act.

I apologize to all my Jewish friends, but I still think the Big Clip is one religious ritual you folks could do without.

Sad, but true

Originally published December 7, 2005

I might think that this was satire if I didn't hear the same kind of shit all the time. I sometimes wonder how so many people can remain so woefully ignorant in the midst of so much news reporting today.

Maybe it's just sheer overkill. We get so much news that we become confused instead of informed. It's just too much information for people to keep it all straight in their heads.

But being confused or woefully ignorant damn sure doesn't stop people from answering opinion polls. Then, the POLLS become news, which causes the uninformed to turn to the clueless for guidance.

If 60% of the people answering a poll said that the moon is made of green cheese, that's gonna tell a lot of people what to think, especially if they can see a nice, simple bar graph of the poll results. People may not have the slightest idea what the moon is made of, but they don't want to sound confused, ignorant or out of touch with the intellectual mainstream. They want to be part of that BIG bar on the graph.

Trumpet the poll results, then take another poll. All of a sudden, 85% of the people believe that the moon is made of green cheese. That's how we get "conventional wisdom."

No wonder we're... well... fucked up as a can of worms today.

I think too much

Originally published February 28, 2006

I had a very nice dinner tonight. I don't have a clue what it was, but it had a big chunk of fish, lots of strange vegetables, some kinda micro-shrimp and a lot of rice on the plate. I can't believe that I ate the WHOLE THING, because it should have been hauled on a fork-lift to my table. Bejus! That was a LOT of food and I felt.... I dunno... DECADENT for pigging out the way I did.

The meal cost less than 5,000 colones, and that included two cups of VERY rich coffee after I sat paralyzed at the table, unable to function as a human being because my belly was so full. I did some quick math (I was an English Major--- I don't DO math) and calculated that, after I factored the F of X into the equation, inverted and multplied, did all the gozentas and took a wild-assed guess, that meal cost me $10.00 US, once I included a generous tip for my most attentive waiter.

That's Costa Rica, folks, if you'll just get off the beaten track .

Okay that's enought of me JEERING at you folks because I'm here and YOU'RE NOT! I'm gonna open a travel agency and show people how to have a good time, eat sumptiously and endure insane cab rides for a modest price. I'm gonna get rich and retire to Costa Rica.

But I'm totally off-topic here. Living high on the hog with piglet money does that to me...

Last night when I couldn't sleep, I did a lot of thinking. In the past two days, I've probably walked close to 20 miles. I don't take taxis here in San Jose. I walk. I LIKE walking, and I'm not that far away from remembering when I couldn't make it to my mailbox and back in one trip. I'll be sore tomorrow, but I walked ALL DAY today. It felt GOOD, too.

When I did sleep last night, I dreamed that I had a puppy dog in bed with me and he wouldn't be still. He kept pawing and licking at me until he pissed me off. I dreamed that I grabbed the dog by the nose, stuck his face in my armpit and said, "If you start that shit again, I'm throwing your ass outside for the night! You BEHAVE!" and I dreamed that the dog behaved and slept with his nose in my armpit, just like a fuzzy cuddle-muffin. Is that weird, or what? I MISSED that dog when I woke up.

You'll NEVER dream about a CAT doing that.

I also had plenty of time to get all existential. I thought about the hookers trying to solicit me off the porch last night. And I thought about my BC ex-wife. Guess which one I decided was most honest? Guess which one cost the most money? There's an inverse mathemetical Parallel of Pussy that needs to be taught in school. If a woman sells it outright, you know what it costs, right upfront. Hell, if it's GOOD, you might even throw in a generous tip.

Have her "give" it to you, and that's one expensive damn hole you end up paying for. There's whores and then there's... uh... ex-wives. In MY humble opinion, whores are.... never mind. I don't want every ex-wife in the world wanting to cut my nuts off because I suggested that they are nut-cutters. Gawd! Wimmen are the only creatures on the planet who will nut-cut to PROVE that they ARE NOT nut-cutters. Go figure that one out. I can't.

I'll just tell you guys.... If you don't think a pussy has teeth, you've never been to divorce court.

I'll probably piss off a lot of wimmen by writing this, but I speak with the voice of experience. And if I weren't speaking at least a modicum of truth, there would be no divorce lawyers driving Porches and no such thing as a pre-nup agreement. Guys are totally dumb, and you chicks figured that fact out a LOOONG time ago. Don't give me that "weaker sex" shit. I KNOW better.

Still, I wish I had a woman with me right now. Yes, I do. I would LOVE to show her around San Jose, buy her some killer food and treat her like a queen. I would take her with me tomorrow to Jaco, then down the coast to wherever we end up. If she followed me, I'd give her a time to remember.

And I'm not talking about sex. I'll GET sex while I'm here. It''s for sale, on the open market, just like any other commodity. If I see something I want, I'll rent it. Great fun, no guilt and everybody ends up happy, What's wrong with that? It's really no different than enjoying that fine meal I had tonight.

I just wish I had a companion. I'm funny that way.

But I believe that I'd be better off with a good dog nuzzling my armpit at night. I've never had a dog I treated well turn around and bite me.

May 29, 2007

A crap tale

Originally published February 15, 2006

I think it was the spring of 1977. I was playing guitar for a living and Recondo 32 was attending some kind of basket-weaving classes at the University of Georgia so that he could milk the GI Bill for all it was worth. He and his lovely wife Georgia came home to Savannah at the end of the Winter Quarter to visit with friends and family.

Recondo needed to return to Athens for his last final exam on a Tuesday, and he asked me to give him a ride. I had Monday off, I was still familiar with all the good watering-holes in Athens and I had nothing better to do, so I agreed. I planned to go on Monday, get drunk and spend the night in Athens. I could make it back home in time to play Tuesday night.

We piled into my 1974 Vega and headed off for adventure. The weather was warm, so I was dressed in a tee-shirt, running shoes and a pair of Bill Rodgers satin jogging shorts that resembled a loin cloth, the better to display my sexy, muscular legs.

The shorts had no pockets, so I stuck my wallet in the elastic waistband, in the back where my wallet rode safe and secure, just above my asscrack. I wore no underwear (this fact is important). We stopped for beer and gas somewhere along the way, at a convenience store that sold Polish sausages the size of donkey dicks.

Those sausages turned slowly on a rotating grill behind a glass window and smelled wonderful as they sizzled and sweated globs of grease. I was hungry, so I bought one. I ate that sucker in about three bites and washed it down with cold beer.

I must not have chewed that thing sufficiently to fully subdue it in my belly. A few miles down the road, that sausage began to percolate and mortify as it combined with beer and my digestive juices to produce some fascinating noises and a few farts of world-class quality. Recondo cursed mightily with his head out the window a few times. I was proud of myself.

Before we arrived in Athens, I stopped farting because I felt something other than gas attempting to escape my anus. I knew what it was. Past experience had taught me the signs of a Sneaking Turd, that wiley dungwad that poses as a fart and fools you into shitting your pants.

I wasn't falling for THAT trick again, so I clenched my asscheeks and held on grimly all the way to Athens. By the time we arrived at Recondo's place, I was growing desperate and my clench-muscles were beginning to fail. As soon as he unlocked the front door, I duck-waddled as quickly as I could to the bathroom to relieve my anxiety.

I heard a plop! as I half-masted my jogging shorts and besat the throne, but I didn't think anything about that noise. I was simply delighted that I had reached the pooper in the nick of time. A foul eruption of beer, Polish sausage and other semi-digested detritus spewed from my bowels. The stench was horrible, but the relief was exquisite. Oh man, that felt GOOD.

When I was finished, I turned to look in the toilet before I flushed. (Do YOU do that? Y'know... admire your stool, check for worms or just make sure that you didn't blow your asshole off after a most excellent crap expulsion?) I'm glad I did, too, because I suddenly realized what made that plop! when I first sat astride the stone pony.

It was my wallet.

Yep, in my desperation I had forgotten all about my wallet being in the back waistband of my pants. It had fallen into the toilet and I had buried that sucker in sausage-shit.

I have seen many terrible things in my life, but that sight still ranks among the worst. Worst EVER. One lonely corner of my wallet, like the tired hand of a swimmer going down for the third time and praying for rescue, stuck just above the cess and the mess. I had no choice but to fish it out.

You can talk about "filthy lucre" all you want to, but I have SEEN it with mine own eyes. I will not regale you with the details of what I did next, but let's just say that the bathroom sink and a lot of soap and water were involved. So was a mighty test of my gag reflex.

In the end, I saved my wallet and the money in it. I also spared my dignity by never telling Recondo what I had done. In fact, the only reason I'm telling the story NOW is because I want to win this contest foul and square.

I AM the Crap-Daddy!

Smart dogs

Originally published February 12, 2006

I went to visit my grandmother today. And her little dog, too.

Mommie inherited Fancy, my mama's Yorkshire Terrier. Fancy was a Christmas present my brother and I gave to mama nine years ago. After mama died, the little dog almost grieved itself to death before she finally accepted Mommie as her new Place Where the Sun Rises and Sets. They make a good couple now.

Fancy is an extremely intelligent dog, with a large vocabulary. She understands a lot of what people say, and Mommie sometimes SPELLS OUT words she doesn't want the dog to hear. F-O-O-D, for example. C-A-T is another one.

My brother and I started remembering smart dogs we knew in the past and trying to outdo each other with stories about those dogs. I once had a dog who knew every toy he owned by name. He also knew the word "bath" and would disappear every time he heard it. My brother had a dog who could climb trees (I SAW that one in action.) He also had a dog who knew the word "medicine" and would disappear every time he heard it.

Smart dogs. Did YOU ever have one?

Friends and lovers

Originally published January 28, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What should I do?

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

May 28, 2007

Great brain-farts of our time

Originally published June 16, 2006

* The Alternative Minimum Tax. Remember how that fart popped out when Jimmah Carter convinced people that oil companies were making "windfall profits" and "the rich" weren't paying enough taxes because of "loopholes?" (That was right around the time Jimmah himself owed NO federal income taxes on $600,000 worth of peanut-farming profits, but he graciously agreed to pay $6,000 that year, just because everybody needed to contribute their "fair share" to government. ONE PERCENT!!!??? I would stop bitching about income taxes if I could get away with that kinda generosity today. Looking at the note I got from the IRS today, I donated 40% of MY income to them in 2003, and that wasn't enough, so I NOW owe another $60,000--- more than 150% of what I earned over the past three years.)

Anyway, government brain-farted the "Alternative Minimum Tax", to KEEP tax-dodging scroundrels from doing exactly what Jimmah did, and it has become a got-dam pod-creature, sucking the souls from a LOT of people today. Congress keeps promising to "look into it," which Congress may actually do someday--- when pigs fly.

* Richard Nixon. Okay, electing him was a brain-fart--- but it didn't smell so bad when you looked at George McGovern as an alternative. Most people remember him because of Watergate and his confidence-inspiring declaration, "I am NOT a crook!" Unfortunately, people forget about wage & price controls, "Peace with Honor" in Vietnam, the creation of the EPA, the Endangered Species Act, his focus on government-controlled education and several other absolute, wallpaper-curling brain-farts THAT MAN unleashed from the Oval Office. I was going to name them all as individual brain-farts, but since he hatched them, I simply credited the source.

* Silent Spring. Ask me to name the top 10 bloodiest mass-murderers of my lifetime, and Rachael Carson will make my top five. She is the perverted Mommie Dearest of the modern environmentalist movement and is PERSONALLY responsible for the ban on DDT, which has cost MILLIONS (if not BILLIONS) of lives over the years. When you consider the number of people, mostly poor, black children, who have died from malaria since she wrote her infamous book, she makes Joe Stalin, Pol Pot and Saddam Hussein look like pikers.

* School busing. In the late 1950s and all through the 1960s I received a decent education in public, though segregated schools. The situation was racist, deplorable and downright un-American, according to compassionate "experts." Politicians brain-farted mandatory integration of ALL public schools, which resulted in three wonderful results. First, horrible race riots in schools all over the country. Second, a tremendous dumbing-down of expectations because blacks couldn't compete. Third, the extinction of neighborhood schools, which went from being a part of a community to becoming forbidden zones by a faceless, disinterested bureaucracy. There's also a #4 result which is politically-incorrect to mention--- and that's the Balkanization that occurred in "intergrated" schools when kids divided themselves along racial lines on their own, which isn't surprising if you understand human nature. You can't make people less race-conscious when they know the only reason they are forced to go to the schools they are forced to attend is because of race.

* Affirmative Action. One of the most disgusting, boiled egg and cooked cabbage brain-farts ever ripped out of an unwashed anus. Animal Farm come to life. I'll NEVER understand how anyone can preach equality when their basic philosophy is that some people are more "equal" than others.

* Prohibition. Okay, that was long before my time, but I include it here to prove that people NEVER LEARN from stupid mistakes. Prohibition DID NOT stop people from drinking alcohol, but it DID give rise to the "Roaring Twenties" and financed a seriously organized crime syndacate that still exists today. In a brief moment of sanity, we repealed the Eighteenth Amendment, but we didn't learn diddy-squat from the Prohibition mistake. We turned right around a generation or so later and declared a WAR ON (some) DRUGS, which has had EXACTLY the same results. Like death and taxes, brain-farts ALWAYS will be with us.

* Roe v Wade. In MY humble opinion, abortion never should have been illegal in the first place. But when we "legalized" it with a Roe v Wade Supreme Brainfart, we created a lot more problems, ones that went FAR beyond abortion, that I'm not convinced we can EVER cure now. That case is the most obvious example of the black-robed witch doctors of our justice system suddenly discovering "penumbras" and "divinations" in the US Constitution that aren't obvious to sane folks. It's also amazing to me how once justices decided that the Constitution was a "living" document, it was okay to KILL babies. Bejus! 'Splain THAT one to me, Lucy!

* Marriage Amendment. I'll offer TWO suggestions on this subject. First, I don't believe that we have a got-dam politician alive today who is intelligent enough to amend the Constitution. Good parents don't allow their kids to play with matches, and we shouldn't let ANY of those sanctimonious gasbags in DC today "play" with the Constitution. We'll ALL end up getting burned.

Second, here is where we finally can stand up and yell, "CUT THE SHIT!" to posturing politicians. We've got enough serious problems in this country today that if our elected clowns were actually doing their jobs, they wouldn't have time to worry about something so insignificant. This issue falls right into the Flag Burning category to me. Nobody changes MY mind about who I am and whether or not I love my country by burning a flag. I don't LIKE IT, and I think only a retarded sumbitch does it, but would much rather see some unwashed, ex-hippy burning a flag that hear John McCain propose another law. One can't hurt ME. The other can.

And I could give a rat's ass about who screws who or what they like to do together in bed. That crap ain't none of my business. And it ain't the government's business, either. But that's the problem today--- EVERYTHING is government's business anymore.

And that's the biggest brain-fart of all.


Originally published June 16, 2006

I tend to try and help bloggers in trouble. When I first read about Acidman's tax problems, I was tempted to run a piece suggesting that people donate to help him out, and then the above piece reminded me of what a hateful racist he is and I decided what the hell do I care. It's no wonder even conservatives de-linked him, and that his traffic is in the shitter after being one of the top conservative blogs. Some conservative friends of mine excuse Rob as just a hopeless old codger, but he isn't. Rob is the worst kind of racist. The kind who is actually defiant about his racism.

Let's just say I wont cry if the man ends up in a homeless shelter, sandwitched in between a black man and a latino in the soup line...

Good grief! I've done it again. I'm not going to link to the guy's site, but I'll mention that he has ME pegged perfectly, just as Oliver Willis does. I am, indeed, a virulent racist.

I mentioned in a recent post about great brain-farts of the past that school busing and mandatory integration resulted in the dumbing-down of public schools because "blacks couldn't compete." HOW DARE ME suggest such a thing!!!

I would offer public schools today as proof of what happened, but nobody is supposed to notice test scores, or wingnuts suggesting that "Ebonics" be taught as a second language, or that black parents, especially a mama AND a daddy together, are suspiciously absent from PTA meetings. Only "racists" notice stuff like that.

It's also "racist" to mention that 12% of our population makes up over 50% of our prison inmates, or that a certain minority group in this country sports a 70% illegitimate birth-rate. We simply DO NOT SPEAK of such things. It is RACIST to do so.

I have a couple of questions, however: Did the policies government followed over the past 40 years have anything to do with creating and maintaining a permanent underclass in this country? Are low expectations any less racist than using the forbidden N-word? If racism is why American blacks lag behind everybody else in test scores, income and employment in this country, then why do blacks from actual AFRICAN nations come here and prosper?

I wuz just wonderin.'

Three things will REALLY get you in deep shit today. The first is getting crossways with the IRS. That's like having the Gestapo after you. The second is daring to criticize political correctness. That's like refusing to take your Soma in our Brave New World.

The third is having the unmitigated gall to suggest that the very policies that government and "compassionate" people have foisted upon American blacks over the past 40 years have been the same as giving them an incurable dose of a fatal disease. I look at the ghettos, the gang-bangers and the Savannah Crimewatch numbers and I am sickened by them--- NOT because I am racist, but because I believe that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and the TRUE racists of today are the assholes who claim to be advocates for "Black People."

Look at what their "help" has done so far. Herd people into public housing like animals in a zoo. Teach them that they "deserve" something for nothing. NEVER expect any individual accountability and cry "RACISM!!!" whenever the group doesn't automatically rise to the top. Change the rules to favor a certain segment of the population, and when that doesn't work to put them on top of the world, change the rules AGAIN.

Treat THEM differently than the way you treat everyone else, then call it a "hate crime" if anyone dares to notice. Make that crap THE LAW!!!

Now... tell me how racist I am again???

Gross story

Originally published June 16, 2006

The Time: late spring, 1970.

The Place: Hilton Head, South Carolina.

Suspects Involved: Acidman, Cop 3 and Junior Walker.

The Reason: Friday night. No female dates.

Contributing Factors: 2 cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer (in bottles), four boxes of exotic fireworks, plus 3 young male adults with subhuman brains.

The Instigation: Hunger. DESPERATE HUNGER, because those two cases of beer weren't ALL we brought with us for the purpose of mind-enhancement.

The Situation: Shot up a bunch of fireworks on the beach. Drank a lot of beer. Took medicinal herb by smoke inhalation to calm us down after all that excitement. Became VERY hungry.

Solution: Go get something to eat.

Options: One VERY EXPENSIVE restaurant at the entrance to Sea Pines Plantation --- or a local 7-11 store.

Choice: 7-11 store. We figured that we would not be arrested just for showing up in there smelling like burnt gunpowder, with sand in our hair, and eyes that glowed red in the dark.

Purchases: Six Twinkies. Eight Slim Jim sausages. Two bags of M&Ms. One pack of Zig Zag rollin' papers BIG, honking bag of Lay's Waves potato chips. A bag o' Frito's corn chips. One tin of jalapeno bean dip and one tin of sour cream and chives potato chip dip.

Last-Minute Good Ideas: Three ice cream sandwiches, six grape popcicles and a quart of no-name coconut-vanilla ice cream.

SUPER Last-Minute Ideas: Three pickled eggs and a bag full of pickled pig's feet. Plus a jar of regular whole pickles.

(****RED ALERT!!!***--- I am NOT making this shit up!)

We returned to our primitive cottage on the beach and ate EVERY BIT of that shit, including drinking the brine out of the pickle jar, which went well with semi-warm PBR beer we were drinking at the time. We sat back on the a moldy old couch (that smelled exactly like sweaty feet) while we belched and farted in appreciation of such a fine feast.

Cop 3 was the first to start turning green around the gills. He clapped a hand over his mouth and muttered, "MMMGATTABURFROOM!" and off he went. His intended destination may have been the bathroom, but he didn't make it.

He didn't clear the corner of the couch before barely-digested Twinkies, Slim Jims, pickles and ice cream, all bubbling in PBR foam, came shooting outta his neck in a steaming, stinking blast. Not only was the sight totally disgusting, but the smell would have knocked a buzzard right on its ass.

I was okay until I saw and smelled THAT display. I didn't get much farther than Cop 3 did before I was hurling my guts, too, doing even better than HE did, because I hacked up a pickled pig's foot that was still kicking when it came out as if it were trying to run away, all by itself.

Desperate cries for "RALPH!" and "HUEY!" and "URK!" rang throughout the room.

Meanwhile, Junior Walker sat on the moldy, stinking sofa and laughed at us, while eating handfuls of M&Ms. "Damn, boys!" he said, "Want summa THESE to settle your stomachs?" That bastid even took a Twinkie, stuffed it FULL of M&Ms and ate it like a hot dog while he laughed. "Buncha pussies!" he announced.

But he grew silent after a moment. A SWEAR that I saw his complexion change from healthy pink to sickly green in a matter of seconds. He muttered, "Oh, Shit!" and started to go somewhere, but his words came true before he could reach his destination. He took about two steps and stopped cold, because running served no purpose anymore.

He was wearing a semi-wet bathing suit, and suddenly his legs turned from slightly sunburned to mustard yellow. Then to a darker brown with what appeared to be tiny, strange, lumpy insects skiing down his thighs and falling off his knees to splash wetly on the floor.

The stench was BEYOND horrible. Junior got his full payback for being a smartass then--- he started to puke just like me and Cop 3, but every time HE upchucked, he shit himself some more, so that HE was making "URRG! POOOOT! SKURSH! FLLLLLPPPT! URRG!" noises, while forming a puddle of liquid shit between his legs as he puked on the floor in front of himself.

I finally gained enough control over myself to stagger out of there, all the way down to the beach, where I threw myself in the water and hoped that a hungry shark might bite my head off and put me out of my misery. But after smelling some salt air, accidentally drinking some salt water, and bobbing in the surf for a while, I started to feel okay again.

I went back to the beach house.

But I never made it back inside. The unmitigated STENCH comin' outta that place was more than I could stand. I ended up sleeping in a lawn chair on the porch that night--- a SCREEN porch with enough fist-sized holes in it that I lost a pint of blood to mosquitoes that night, all of which probably flew off and died of alcohol poisoning after biting ME. But that was still better than being inside. Greyhound bus station bathrooms smell better than that place did.

I think Cop 3 slept on the back porch that night. I'm pretty sure that Junior Walker passed out on the floor and wallowed in his own vomit and alien-like shit all night long. I'm not certain about that, but I DO know that we didn't clean that mess up until the next day, and even then we didn't have the nerve to deal with it in hand-to-hand combat.

After sunrise, as hung-over and disgusted with ourselves as we could be, we washed the place out with a water hose, then went and napped on the beach until the floors dried off. It was a horrible experience.

But when we got back to the house and discovered that we could stand the smell again, Junior Walker went to the refrigerator, opened a beer, and got himself a pickled pig's foot, which he commenced to eat with lip-smacking gusto. "I'm from TEXAS, boys," he announced proudly. "And where I come from, you gotta climb back on the hoss that threw ya."

To this day he doesn't know how close I came to killing him. Right THEN. With my bare hands. But I was too weak to fight at the time.

Now... was THAT story gross enough?

May 27, 2007

If nature abhors a vacuum, then why does the world suck?

Originally published May 12, 2006

I hurt. I'm in a foul mood. I can't read the news without thinking that I am surrounded by idiots. I ain't serene worth a shit. I feel old and I don't remember how I got that way. I pray:

THE SENILITY PRAYER: Grant me the senility to forget the people I never liked anyway, the good fortune to run into the ones I do, and the eyesight to tell the difference.


Old man

Originally published May 12, 2006

When I was a boy, with a head full of sparkling dreams, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I figured that I could DO IT, too, because all it took was hard work and dedication. And I was raised to believe that without hard work and dedication, you didn't DESERVE any success in life.

I wanted to be, (in order) a 1) Professional football player for the Baltimore Colts... 2) an Astronaut, preferably the first to walk on Mars, or 3) a Fireman, with a really cool hat.

THAT'S the sort of thinking a young man OUGHT to be doing when he has a head full of dreams and hasn't yet been kicked in the nuts by the ninja-foot of Life. I wanna PUKE when I hear young people today say, "I want to save the planet" or "I want to live on a government welfare check, have six chil'ren before I'm 24 and die in a drug-related, drive-by shooting in the ghetto, IF a drug overdose doesn't get me first."

Okay, maybe young people don't say that last part, but they're damn sure living it today. And the ones who want to save the planet are just as hopelessly delusional, with no hope of EVER having a clear thought. Combine the two and you have the apathetic leading the clueless, which is a grand formula for success today.

Maybe I'm just a bitter old man, but I miss my old dreams. When I was young, I relished possibilities and my dreams were full of them. Very few ever ended up being realized, but they gave me a target in life, something to WORK FOR, and when they WERE realized, the reward was great.

I'll tell you what's REALLY wrong with this country today: we discourage dreamers. We preach entitlement instead of hard work. We call success "life's lottery" instead of Survival of the Fittest. We promise a check in the mail instead of getting OUT of life exactly what you put INTO it. We glorify losers and punish achievers.

Awwww... fuggedaboudid. Ignore this post. I'm in a got-damn pissy mood. That happens to me sometimes when I don't sleep well.

I really miss my dreams.

Reality check

Originally published may 14, 2006

You wanna know what's REAL today? Nothing. We're so got-dam politically-correct and "sensitive" that we swallow bullshit by the mouthful and don't even blink anymore. That's what sticking to a trendy diet will do to you.

Bejus on a no-wheeled bicycle. Remember when Bill Clinton was caught with his presidental dick in a young intern the wringer and people claimed that "character" didn't matter? WTF???

I was fired from the job I performed for 23 years because of my blog, and I NEVER got a blow-job at work. I just wrote the "wrong" things and I was run off on a rail by politically-correct cowards. The company questioned my character, which to ME was a lot like a child-molester criticizing my method of fondling youngsters.

It ain't what you DO anymore. It's all about feeeeelings.

We're being told that illegal immigrants are hard-working, valuable citizens of this country, and we should scoff at our laws and grant amnesty to them all. We have PLENTY of nutless politicians spouting such nonsense, because it feeeeeels right. I beg to disagree.

Read this. No, I take that back. DO NOT read it, because it just MIGHT make you think that you're getting a very unsatisfying blow-job from political whores who don't have the integrity to swallow at the end.

In our population study of 55,322 illegal aliens, we found that they were arrested at least a total of 459,614 times, averaging about 8 arrests per illegal alien. Nearly all had more than 1 arrest. Thirty-eight percent (about 21,000) had between 2 and 5 arrests, 32 percent (about 18,000) had between 6 and 10 arrests, and 26 percent (about 15,000) had 11 or more arrests. Most of the arrests occurred after 1990. They were arrested for a total of about 700,000 criminal offenses, averaging about 13 offenses per illegal alien.

Give us your poor, your tired... and your got-dam criminals. Is this a great country, or what?

If we see an illegal immigrant standing in the street waving a bloody, severed head in his unwashed hands, we cannot judge him. Give the bastard a driver's license and a welfare check. It's all about being "fair," don'cha know?

My aching ass. Let ME miss a month's worth of child support payments and see how fucking compassionate the divorce court judge is with MY case. He'll lock me up and throw away the key. I won't have leftist fuckwits coming to my defense either, because I am WHITE, a taxpayer and a LEGAL citizen of this country.

That's three strikes against me today.

May 26, 2007

Roger Miller

Originally published June 2, 2004

I picked up a guitar this afternoon and surprised myself by the number of really good Roger Miller songs I remember. Yeah, everybody knows "King of the Road" and "Can't Roller-Skate in a Buffalo Herd," but how about "Chug-a-Lug," "Kansas City Star" and "Dang Me?" Those are damned good songs. I sang 'em all today and I enjoyed the hell out of myself.

I even did "England Swings."

Roger Miller was an excellent songwriter and one of the best white-boy scat-singers of all time. (for those who don't know, singing "scat" is subsituting SOUNDS for words in the middle of a song. Just listen to Roger and you'll know what I mean. "Bweep-bweep-bweep-bweep-da-da-diddly-da dooo...")

He was one of a kind and he died far too young.


Originally published June 2, 2004

When I was young, I had very few scars on my body but I was proud of every one I did have. I called them "war wounds" and I showed them off to my friends.

I took a shower this morning and surveyed the scars I wear today. Bejus. I look as if someone cut me with a chainsaw, and those are just the OUTSIDE scars. I have a lot of others that you can't see, because they are on the inside. I'm not sporting "war wounds" anymore. I'm just wearing a worn-out body.

I remember every scar that I have and I know exactly where each one came from, but they are almost too numerous to count anymore, and I don't want to think about them in the first place. I've beat myself half to death in this life and the marks show that fact today. My scars are ugly and they testify to 52 years of hard living.

That's one reason I like giving Quinton a bath. His body is scar-free, except for one little character mark on his face from where he fell into the trampoline springs at a neighbor's house one day. Everything else about him is unblemished, unworn and pristine. I wish I still had a body like that today.

But I don't. I resemble Frankenstein's monster.

My fame lives on

Originally published June 3, 2004

I'm not exactly proud of this, but I still believe in my central point. I just shouldn't have been so "vicious" when I posted it.

I believe in freedom. I have a real problem with people who can't handle being free, then make lame excuses for the way they behave. With freedom comes personal responsibility. That's why a lot of people can't handle it.

People who can't run their own lives either turn to government to run it for them, or else they behave so outrageously that government FEELS OBLIGATED to step in and run it for them. Either way, these people are doing NO ONE, including themselves, any favors.

And if you're black, female or a coal-dusted hillbilly from Harlan County, Kentucky, you need to know that the bar is set just a little bit higher for you than it is for the rich white boy down the street whose daddy owns a bank and two car dealerships. It may not be "fair," but that's the way it is. You have to try harder and be BETTER than that rich kid. (In the long run, you WILL BE, if you try.)

You don't accomplish anything but self-destruction when you show your ass in a riot at a got-dam basketball game. That's not how ALL of my family, who grew up poor in the armpit of the Appalatchan Mountains, got out of those hills and made something of themselves. They all carried wherewithall on that trip to better things. They worked hard, learned anything that they could and NEVER stopped trying.

I'm sorry, and you can call me a racist if you want, but blacks, by and large, do not have that kind of attitude. They listen to assholes such as Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton, who have nothing more on their agenda than to KEEP the downtrodden right where they are, and they vote 95% Democrat, which has never done a fucking thing except keep them right where they are. If you think of yourself as a victim, guess what? You will ALWAYS be a victim.

You can be a victim or you can be free. That's a personal choice, and it's up to YOU to make it.

Who ever told you life was "fair," anyway?

(UPDATE: Okay, let's just put it this way: "Freedom isn't always supposed to be pretty; it can be messy and at times ugly if it does not conform to what you would rather see...but it is supposed to be real....a true expression of what we are in all of it's forms. It requires discipline above all else, tho, which sounds contrary to those who do not understand it.


(Another Update: be sure to read the comments on that post. While you're at it, vote for me. Chap a delicate ass.)

May 25, 2007

Hello in there

Originally published June 2, 2004

I've never had to go through anything like *this. I've had relatives die, but they never were any more demented than they were all of their lives when they finally kicked the bucket. I come from a crazy family, but we all have pretty good sense. Even my father, hooked up to a morphene pump and riding the clouds, still had his wits about him when he wasn't asleep, right up to the moment when all the monitors went flat-lined.

I don't know what I would do if something like Alzheimer's hit somebody that I truly loved. I've talked with many people who have weathered that storm and it isn't good. Your mama doesn't recognize you anymore. If someone isn't watching, she'll go shit in the closet because she thought it was a bathroom. Your father becomes angry and violent, but he doesn't know why. You look into their eyes, the eyes of the parents that raised you and gave you presents on Christmas morning, loved you with all their hearts and sent you out as best they could into the world, and nothing is there.

The lights are on, but nobody's home.

Bejus. I don't know how I would handle that situation. I don't know that I could. I can't help remembering a John Prine song:

You know that old trees just grow stronger
And old rivers grow wilder every day
But old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say
Hello in there.... Hello.

Say "Hello" every chance you get.

*[Ed. The blog, Beyond Depth of Field, no longer seems to exist.]

May 24, 2007

I love my family

Originally published May 29, 2004

I went to see my mama and my grandmother today. My Uncle Virgil was there, too, and we had a nice, long conversation about a lot things other people wouldn't understand. We laughed a lot, but my family is famous for witty repartee and a good sense of humor.

My grandmother just turned 93 years old. She's tiny and frail now, but she was a pisscutter in her younger days. Virgil told about how, when my grandfather administered haircuts to him and his two brothers, Mommie (that's my grandmother) always made sure that all three had enough hair left on their heads so that she could grab a handful and snatch them around when they fucked up. She would check the length of the cut, nod approvingly and say, "That's a good haircut. I can grab that."

Mommie was fixing supper one afternoon and wanted to make some cornbread, but she was out of buttermilk. She gave my Uncle George some money and told him to go to the store and buy a quart. George became distracted by some game he was playing and didn't scoot off quickly enough to suit Mommie. "I thought I told you to go to the store and buy a quart of buttermilk," she said to George, who was still playing in the yard and oblivious to his responsibility.

"I'm going in just a minute," he replied, which was the wrong thing to say to Mommie. She grabbed a switch and laid a nice lick on one of his bare shoulders. "You'll go RIGHT NOW!" she said, drawing back for another swipe. George went, kicking up a cloud of Kentucky dust behind him.

When George came home with the buttermilk, he had a nice, red welt on his arm from the switch-mark. "Look, Mommie," he said, pointing to the V-shaped stripe on his arm. "You made me a private."

"Yes, I did," Mommie replied. "And if you ever ignore me like that again, I'll promote you to sergeant."

She meant it, too.

I have hundreds of such stories to tell. I've heard a lot of them more than once, but I never get tired of hearing them again. I come from a long line of good storytellers. A meeting of my relatives is a lot like a blog-meet. If you want to get a word in edgewise, you'd better talk first and talk loud.

My family is quiet and shy, just like me.

May 23, 2007

May 23

Originally published May 19, 2005

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Next Monday will be my grandmother's 94th birthday. It's also my brother's 51st birthday. I have a couple of cousins that I don't really know well who were born on that day, too. I think it's strange how that runs in my family.

Subtract nine months from May 23 and you can see where people in my family either became very horny or very prolific. That can't be total coincidence.

I have no idea what to get my grandmother for her birthday. I'll probably just buy a card and get her some scratch-off lottery tickets. Even though her vision is fading fast now, she still likes those scratch-off tickets. That's amusing to me. In her younger days, Mommie would scald your ass for gambling on ANYTHING. She didn't even believe in playing marbles for "keeps." Those lottery tickets somehow are different.

I am very fortunate to have a grandmother who has lived so long and still kept her wherewithall about her. She remains one of the wisest wimmen I know. She quit school in the eighth grade, she's never had a driver's license in her life, and she once cheated me at cards and laughed when I didn't catch her. (We weren't playing for money--- that made cheating okay, because we weren't GAMBLING.) She is one hell of a woman.

She still lives in her own home, by herself, but the aunts and uncles hang around to make sure she doesn't need any help. She does just fine. She still works the morning crossword puzzle in the paper every day, even though she needs a magnifying glass to do it now. She never forgets a birthday, even though she has children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great grandchildren and great-GREAT-GREAT grandchildren.

She still calls me #1, because I was her first grandchild. And she'll always be #1 to me.

[Folks, today is Mommie and Dave's birthday(s). Feel free to leave either, or both, of them a comment. They will be passed on.]

Speaking of old wimmen

Originally published April 11, 2006

I went to visit my 94 year-old grandmother on Sunday. That's the first time in four weeks that I've been mobile enough to make the trip over there. Mommie had an interesting story to tell me.

Somebody moved as a guest into her neighbor's house and brought two full-grown Rottweilers with her. The guest turned the dogs loose in the back yard. The yard is fenced, but it's just a four-foot cyclone barrier, which ain't much to a Rottie.

Mommie turned Fancy, her 5-pound Yorkshire Terrier, out for a bathroom call one morning. Shortly thereafter, she heard a tremendous ruckus in her yard. Fancy yelped frantically.

Mommie is frail and almost blind, but she still motors pretty good for 94. She grabbed a broom and ran outside. What she found made her blood run cold.

Both of the Rotties had jumped the fence and attacked Fancy. One of them had the little dog in its mouth, just one snap of its powerful jaws away from turning Fancy into hamburger meat, and one swallow away from making her a meal. Mommie started swinging her broom and lit into the big dog like a demon from hell.

She cracked the big dog twice with the broom, then the broomstick broke off just above the bristles. She continued her assault with nothing but half a broomstick until the big dog dropped little Fancy and ran for its life. Its companion followed in retreat.

When Mommie picked Fancy up off the ground, she thought the little dog was ripped to shreds, because Fancy was wet all over. Being mostly blind, Mommie couldn't see any injuries, but she could feel what she assumed was blood all over the dog. She took Fancy inside to doctor her.

Luckily, Fancy was wet with dog slobber and not blood. Once she was washed off and towelled dry, she was fine. But Mommie was pissed. She had my Uncle Virgil go cuss out the neighbors and then make a report to the Animal Control authorities about the loose dogs. Nothing more ever came of the incident, because the "guest" moved out of the neighbor's house a day or so later and took the dogs with her.

I chuckled at the story, because I could SEE my frail but fierce hillbilly grandmother taking on two giant dogs (that probably outweighed her) with a broom and winning the fight. Hell--- I wouldn't want her mad at ME, even if she IS almost blind now. But the story upset me, too.

I am a dog lover. But I've got no use for people who own big dogs and allow them to get loose and cause trouble. That incident could have been REALLY BAD if the dogs had been in a killing mood. And it's a damn good thing that I wasn't there when it happened. I don't own any guns, so I NEVER travel with a loaded one in my car...

But if anybody called Animal Control after that, it would be to pick up two dead dogs before I got them buried in the yard.


Originally published March 21, 2005

My brother and I are going to get together, probably next Sunday, over at mama's house and entertain the relatives. We haven't played together in a long time, and even though the cobwebs usually fall away quickly when we play, we just want to make sure. He's coming to the Georgia Writer's Workshop at Jekyll Island next month, and we want the Fabulous Smith Brothers to sound good.

Dave and I started singing harmony together when we were little boys. We've been doing it for almost 40 years now. He has the better voice, with a much larger range than I have, so I give him the hard vocal parts and I take the easy ones. I'm a better guitar player than he is, so I give him the easy parts and I take the hard ones. That partnership works out well. We're really pretty good together. We intend to blow your doors off on Jekyll.

We're even going to practice first.

My Grandmother

Originally published April 6, 2005


She'll be 94 years old next month. There she is, posing for a picture in a ridiculous Saint Patrick's Day hat. That's Mommie.

I've called her by that name all of my life, and her umpteen grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren all still call her "Mommie" today. She is one hell of a woman.

She still likes working crossword puzzles and she still watches her favorite soap operas every day. I believe that I inherited a lot of my storytelling ability from her. She can spin a wonderful yarn. And she has a terriffic sense of humor, including some that runs on the blue side. She was the first person I ever heard say the word "SHIT!" when I was about four years old. (I believe that the quote was something like... "Robbie, if you do that again, I'm going to beat the shit out of you!")

I'll go see HER for Mother's Day.


Originally published March 20, 2005

I had supper this evening with my brother, his wife, my Uncle Virgil and my Aunt Peggy. Them was good fixins, too--- roast beef, green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy, cole slaw, biscuits and more gravy. Peggy also had some kind of pastry for dessert, but my brother and I don't eat desserts, so we passed on that and retired to the back porch... mama's back porch.

My brother and I talked, not seriously, just kinda flirting around the edge of the subject.

We buried mama a week ago. We're gonna have to settle the estate. He asked my permission to give a bunch of stuff to my mama's best friend, Lois, who stayed with mama during her last days. "C'mon, Dave," I said. "Lois can have anything in this house she wants. In fact, I'll haul it to Tennessee for her. That woman is a saint. I damn sure ain't gonna bitch about it, not after everything she did for mama."

My brother knew that before he asked, but he's a lawyer, so he went through the necessary motions. "I just wanted to make sure," he replied. By damn, but I love him.

My brother and I don't spend a lot of time together and we don't run in the same circle of friends. But I KNOW him, and he KNOWS me. I couldn't possibly find a better brother if I tried to order one from a catalogue. It's just the two of us now--- mama and dad are gone--- and we are bound by hillbilly blood and a trust forged over many a year.

I've seen what some families do in this situation, and I found it ugly to behold. We WILL NOT do that. Not me and not Dave. We were raised better than that. And I would take a bullet for him to this day.

Hell, I stand to inherit some money. I should be celebrating. But I'm not, because I never wanted the money. I'd spend it all RIGHT NOW to have mama back.

Sorry, but I sometimes get maudlin when my belly is full and I've got a lot on my mind.

Good visit

Originally published July 3, 2005

I had a good time at Mommie's house. My Uncle Virgil was there and we sat around and told a lot of good stories. I've said before that I come from a long line of good storytellers, and I'm not making that up. I laughed until my sides hurt today.

Poor Uncle Virgil. To hear HIM tell it, he was just a shit-magnet all of his life. He could be ANYWHERE, just minding his own business, and trouble simply erupted around him. It wasn't HIS fault! He was innocent, pure as the driven snow. OTHER PEOPLE stirred up that shit and he just got caught up in it.

Listen to Mommie tell the same story and you get a slightly different perspective.

For instance, today I heard the "eat your dirty socks" story for the umpteenth time. According to Virgil, he had been out playing in the snow with his two brothers and two of their friends. He was the first one back to the house. He took off his wet shoes and dirty socks and started warming himself by the fireplace. The next thing he knew, without doing ANYTHING to provoke the attack, his brothers and their friends wrestled him to the floor and stuck those dirty socks in his mouth.

Mommie tells the story slightly different. Both sides match right up to the point where the brothers and their friends arrived. But Mommie says that when Virgil's brothers told him to get those nasty, stinking socks out of the room, Virgil said, "MAKE ME! I'll stuff those socks in your mouth."

They decided to accept the challenge, and Virgil carried those socks out of that room in HIS mouth.

I wasn't there, so I don't know who is telling the truth. But I know my Uncle Virgil and I know my grandmother. Which one would YOU believe?

Shit-magnet, my ass. Virgil reminds me too much of ME.


Originally published March 7, 2005

I read this post and thought back upon my own childhood. I have a younger brother. When I got bored, I would beat him up, just for the hell of it.

Take a rainy day, with both of you cooped up inside the house and it doesn't require much time before you decide, "I'm bored. I think I'll whip my little brother's ass." You DO IT, too, just because he's there and he's your little brother and that's what little brothers are for.

I usually got my own ass tore up by mama or daddy for picking on my brother, but the spanking was worth it. I wasn't bored anymore.

I remember two things about Dave as we grew up together. First, it was okay for ME to whip his ass, but if YOU picked on my brother, you'd better be ready to fight me, too. I'd whip his ass one minute, then fight anybody else who tried the same thing the next. That's still a complicated situation to think about today. In my mind, it was okay for ME to kick my brother's ass, but you'd better not try it unless you could kick MY ass, too.

Second, my brother wouldn't fight anybody when he was young except ME. I never understood that. He would allow people to bully him, pick on him and throw rocks at him and he never fought back. But he would tear into ME at the drop of a hat, KNOWING that I was gonna whip his ass. If he had fought those bullies the way he fought me, he wouldn't have had any bullies picking on him.

Of course, he grew up to be a high-octane attorney. Pick on him today and he'll fuck you up in court. Maybe he was planning this shit all along.

My brother is a smart guy.

May 22, 2007

My Grandmother

Originally published June 30, 2005

She's 94 years old, half-blind, old and frail. But she can still take care of herself.

Two days ago, she went out in her back yard to check out her patch of beans that she's growing this year. She scared up about a foot-long snake from the bushes. It hissed at her, and she smashed its head flat with a brick. Then, she wobbled next door to fetch my Uncle Virgil. She wanted HIM to bury the snake.

Virgil took one look at the snake-corpse and exclaimed, "Mommie, that's a COPPERHEAD! That thing could have KILLED you!"

"Well, it ain't gonna kill anybody now. You go bury it." That's my grandmother. 94 years old and still meaner than a snake.

Bejus, but I love that woman.

My Grandmother, part II

Originally published July 1, 2005

I believe that I blogged about this story long ago, but my archives are so screwed up that I can't find the original post now. That doesn't matter. The story is worth telling again. It's all true.

My Aunt Jenetta was 12 years old at the time, so that would make Mommie somewhere in her early 30s. (she started breeding young, as most mountain wimmen did back then.) The two of them were riding a mule back home after visiting some relatives.

They were following the railroad track when some rapist-varmit-dipstick jumped out of the bushes and TACKLED my grandmother right off that mule. They went rolling through the cinders at the side of the railroad track, tusslin' like there was no tomorrow.

Mommie still likes to tell that story. "He was tryin' to put his hand up my skirt and I KNEW what he wanted, but I wasn't gonna have none of that. I managed to hook a finger into one of his eyeballs, and I almost felt it pop out of his head. He started screaming, and that's when 'Netta landed on his back, clawing at him with her long fingernails." The two of them beat the shit out of that bastard.

The would-be rapist finally ran away, lucky to be alive.

When Mommie got home and told the story, my grandfather loaded his rifle and intended to take care of what needed to be done himself. He was gonna find the sumbitch and KILL HIM! But Mommie persuaded him to talk to the sheriff first, so that's what he did.

They caught the guy shortly thereafter. He was easy to spot, because he had a go-to-hell black eye and claw-marks over his face. The sheriff dragged his battered ass to Mommie's cabin, and she said, "Yep. That's HIM!"

He went to "The Pen." Mommie kept riding that mule just the way she'd always done before. That bastard didn't scare her. She was a strong farm-woman back then, and there wasn't much that scared her.

Hell. She scared ME when I was a child.

My beard

Originally published July 10, 2004

When Samantha and Stacy were here at the Crackerbox, I retreived a lot of old pictures that neither girl had seen before and we sat on the couch looking at them. One was a picture of me and my grandmother on her 91st birthday, May 23, 1991. Samantha really liked that one.

Mommie has both hands on my bicep as we lean our heads together for the camera. She appears as happy as a lark. I look suntanned, fit and vigorous. I was 49 years old at the time, still married, unaware of prostate cancer and downright delighted with my life. All of that fantasy ended two months later.

In that picture, I also had my hair buzz-cut like a Marine boot-camp denizen and I had a clean-shaven face. Samantha liked the way I looked.

"Daddy, you should cut your hair and shave that beard. You look much younger in this picture," she said.

"I WAS younger in that picture, Sam," I replied.

"Sam is right," said Stacey. "You need to shave that beard and put some peroxide in your hair. The sun will turn all that gray silver into pure white. You'll look like Bob Barker, only shorter. And a LOT younger."

Those girls set me to thinking. I'm leaving for Costa Rica Wednesday morning. Nobody (well...ALMOST nobody) knows me down there and I can be anyone I want to be. Maybe I will shave my face and get a buzz-cut before I go. My beard is long enough now that my chin-whiskers are soft and I find myself stroking them when I'm pondering deep subjects, such as what to put in the microwave for supper.

What the hell? WHY NOT!??? as they said at the end of The Wild Bunch. The great thing about hair is that it grows back if you don't like what you did to it. I'll be in Costa Rica for two weeks. I can grow my goddam beard back in two weeks. Rehab from a buzz-cut may take a little longer, but it's not like I'm in the running for "American Idol" or any such shit.

I believe that Monday is a good day for my hair to dye. I'm going to the local tonsorial parlor, get a professional shave and a buzz-cut. Done by a woman. While I relax in a reclining chair. Then, I'm going to buy some of that Sun-Lite or whatever that peroxide spray that the redheaded girl used on me in Key West. I will annoint my head with that oil while I'm in Costa Rica.

I will be a new man and I will post pictures.

May 21, 2007


Originally published January 1, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They ARE pretty good.

Interesting story

Originally published July 18, 2005

Mommie told me a good story that I never heard before yesterday. My grandfather, when he was a young rounder, decided that he was going to kill a man. (He had a good reason for that plan.) He owned shotguns and rifles, but he wanted a pistol--- something that he could stick in his pocket and carry without the bad guy seeing it.

He bought a .32 revolver from a fellow moonshiner, who demanded a CHECK for the sale of the gun. Not many people in the hollows of eastern Kentucky HAD checking accounts back then, but my grandfather did, although his balance was usually about $2.00 after his charges at the company store were deducted from his paycheck.

He wrote a check for that pistol, then went looking for the bad guy. (That was sometime around 1935--- no telling how old the gun is.)

The reason the seller wanted a check was because he KNEW what my grandfather intended to do, and he didn't want to be connected with a murder. He wanted proof that he SOLD the pistol if it were used to kill somebody.

Luckily for all concerned, the law caught the guy before my grandfather did. The bad guy was sent back to the "pen" (he was out on parole at the time) and my grandfather kept that pistol until the day he died. I don't think he ever shot at anybody with it, but I remember seeing it around Mommie and Papaw's house when I was a young boy.

Mommie gave that pistol to my cousin Alan, who is a cop in Florida. (He just made Captain, by the way!) I told Mommie yesterday that I wish she had given it to me, because I might have framed that sucker and hung it on my wall as a family heirloom. After all, I AM her first grandchild.

She said that she gave it to Alan because she knew that he collected guns and he might need it in his line of work. I doubt that Alan would EVER use an ancient .32 in a gunfight (he's got a SERIOUS arsenal), but the pistol is in good hands. He'll take care of it.

But I've already put out the word. If Alan ever wants to sell it, I get first dibs on it.

A "grampus"

Originally published September 14, 2005

All three of Mommie's sons swear thet they're NOT lying to me about this creature, but I still find their stories difficult to believe. Have YOU ever heard of a "grampus?"

According to my uncles, these things grow as a worm in the creeks all over southeast Kentucky. They make excellent fish bait, so if you go out and catch a few, you can sell them for a good price. At the end of the summer, they develop a hard shell and they're no good for fishing unless you peel them first. In the fall, they turn into butterflys (or moths) and fly away.

I think my uncles are just blowing smoke up my ass, but Mommie says it's true, too, and she doesn't lie. I Googled the name and got a lot of pages talking about dolphins. I know we don't have THOSE in eastern Kentucky.

Have YOU ever heard of (or SEEN) a "grampus?"

May 20, 2007


Originally published January 27, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A healthy blog

Originally published January 22, 2006

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

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

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

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

But I digress...

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

Ask him.

How to piss off wimmen

Originally published February 1, 2006

As soon as I saw the title of this article, I knew that it was written by a woman. I didn't need to read the by-line. "4 Things He Doesn't Want to Talk About - Ever" just REEKS of estrogen and bullshit. (Excuse me for being redundant.)
[Ed. Link goes to Netscape front page...]

#1) What He's Doing Wrong in the Sack Just sample this giggly bit of feminine insight: "You think it's just good natured kidding, but he finds your little jokes about his size or staying power neither funny nor cute." Oh, really? Let's just turn that one around.

"You think it's just good-natured kidding, but SHE finds your little jokes about HER fat ass, droopy tits and the fact that HER pussy is the size of a mayonnaise jar but not nearly as much fun to fuck neither funny nor cute."

C'mon, wimmen. Admit it. You'd laugh so hard you'd roll right off the bed if a man said that to YOU, right? Guys just have no sense of humor when you make witty jokes about their bodies or their sexual shortcomings. Thank Bejus that wimmen don't have that problem.

#2) Celebrity Gossip WTF? Only some celebrity-obsessed loser with no life of her own would even THINK to include this subject on a top-four list of ANYTHING. Besides, guys LOVE celebrity gossip. Mention Lorena Bobbitt and see if you don't get his undivided attention.

#3) Your Food and Body Image Issues True. That's called "WHINING" or "ACTING FUCKED UP IN THE HEAD" and men don't like it. It makes them think of Lorena Bobbitt.

#4) Other People's Relationships "Many women have a natural need to know what's going on around them." Horse shit. Most wimmen simply are prying, rumor-spreading busybodies who see life through a distorted lens, thanks to digesting too many soap operas and too many romance novels when they aren't busy gossiping. They can read between the lines of a blank page, but usually have no clue what's ACTUALLY going on around them. If they did, they'd be better drivers.

Now... if this post doesn't piss off a few wimmen, I'm losing my manly touch.

May 19, 2007

Eleven days

Originally published December 17, 2005

In eleven days, I will celebrate TWO birthdays. (Well... one will be celebrated. I don't know about the other one.) I started Gut Rumbles on December 28, 2001. This site will be FOUR YEARS OLD in eleven more days.

It's easy for me to remember when I made my first post here. December 28 is my son's birthday. I started this blog in a fit of very hot anger and very deep depression after I tossed Quinton's birthday cake in the trash can that fateful Friday evening four years ago. Here is part of what I wrote:

Today is my son's eighth birthday. This also was my weekend for visitation, according to that very expensive divorce decree I have in my possession. But my son is not here. I have presents and all sorts of nifty things for him, but he won't see any of it today because my disgusting slut of an ex-wife is in the north Georgia mountains shacking up in a cabin with her unemployed, dope-smoking, piece of shit lover, along with my son, who she kidnapped as far as I am concerned. I became aware of this fact when I arrived home from work at 5:30 this evening and checked the messages on my answering machine.

When I heard that message, I threw Quinton's birthday cake in the trash can and I cried for a while. (I cried a LOT back in those days.) Then, I fixed myself a strong drink and started this blog.

I'm 53 years old and no one else I've encountered in life has come even close to being as relentlessly cruel to me as the Bloodless Cunt has been. She DID send me a letter when I was in Willingway. She asked me to sign over my half of our time-share to her, for free of course (I am NOT making this up!), and she even included the form required to get that done. All I had to do was fill it out, sign it and have it notarized. She was kind enough to mention that Willingway probably had a notary public to do the job.

I threw the letter and the form away.

Then, when I got home from Willingway, I discovered the letter she penned (two days before my release, so that it would be waiting in my mailbox) to inform me that she was taking another hostage getting remarried in March. "Quinton really likes him," she said.

Now... I wouldn't accuse her of trying to do something to upset me, wreck my serenity and send me reaching for a bottle on the day I got out of rehab... but I did think that the timing was unusual. Well, it would be unusual for anyone else; that's just par for the course for her.

So, I don't know for certain that I'll see my son on his birthday. The Bloodless Cunt may haul ass with Quinton and shack up with her latest victim husband-to-be in our time-share. That kind of thing wouldn't surprise me. I'll celebrate four years of Gut Rumbles no matter what happens.

I was thinking about the evolution (or mutation) in blogdom that I've seen since I started when I read this post. I agree with a lot of what he says, especially the part about him being embarrassed to visit his own site.

I don't want to piss on anyone's parade, but I've been having the sinking feeling, for some time now, that the vaunted Blogosphere is a sickly puppy, the runt of the litter with rickets, and scabies.

Hear me out: when the World was relatively small, there was much interaction. Give, take, everyone knew everyone. Maybe didn't like everyone, but knew them. Now there are Pajama parties with huge fucking budgets, one is In or Out, it is a fucking abortion of a thing.

Yes, blogdom IS different now, compared to what it once was. The pimps moved in and slutted up the place. I've always contended that if you wrote a good blog, people would find it. (If you build it, they will come.) Now, I'm not so sure. Success is based more who you know and who you blow anymore.

I really hate to see that happen. I always hate to see innocence lost. But what the hell? Life is constant change, so you might as well accept it.

I'm just going to keep doing what I've been doing. I'm not in this for the money and I'm probably as tall a dog as I'm ever going to be anyway, so fuck it. I blog because I like doing it. Let the "elite" beat their meat and call it New Media. I'm gonna remember the Good Old Days.

Besides--- I think I've learned to write sober and I'm still enjoying that new experience.

Just promise me some

Originally published December 9, 2005

My friend Catfish and I have discussed this subject many times and we agree--- a piece of ass is stronger now than it used to be. I started to notice this phenomenon about the time I turned 50 years of age.

Before then, I felt like I ALWAYS wanted some. I turned 50 and suddenly ALWAYS felt like I just HAD some. That stuff is stronger now than it was 30 years ago.

Once upon a time, a good piece of ass didn't last long before I was ready for some more. Today, even a semi-good piece (I've never had ANY that was BAD) will tide me over for quite a spell. That's how I know the stuff is stronger.

It damn sure wasn't ME that changed.

(Or maybe I'm just suffering the effects of a small brain.)

Sleepwalking plus

Originally published December 5, 2005

Can you say, "bat-shit crazy judge"? Good. I KNEW you could.

Luedecke claimed he fell asleep on the same couch and woke up when he was thrown to the floor.

He only suspected he had had sex after using the bathroom and discovering he was still wearing a condom, court heard. He confessed to police.

He had sex with the woman while he was asleep, but he still remembered to install a condom on his Roscoe? C'mon, judge! Where the hell is your bullshit detector?

I don't think I've ever had sex in my sleep. I've never heard of "sexsomnia" until now. I HAVE had sex with a few wimmen who might as well have been asleep during the festivities, for all the enthusiasm they displayed (is that "sexnofeelya?), but I was wide awake the entire time.

Right now, I believe that I have a bad case of "lackanookie," but that's a subject for another post...

Okay. I want to conduct a scientific survey here--- how many of YOU people, male or female:

1) Suffer from "sexsomnia"

2) Pretend to be asleep when your partner wants some

3) Believe the judge is fucked in the head

I report; you decide.

May 18, 2007

I'll bet you a nickle

Originally published October 6, 2005

I took the bet. I was to hop up on the handrail of the bridge over the Cumberland River and walk that handrail all the way over to the other side. It was about 100 feet, with a long, deathly fall if you went off into the shallow, rocky river.

I made it, and earned my nickel. While I was bragging about how acrobatic I was, I looked behind me and saw my brother trying the same thing. I went into panic mode and dragged his ass off of that handrail. My brother was never the athlete I was and I didn't want to have to explain to my parents how I got my brother killed trying to do a stupid stunt that I pulled off.

I gave him my nickel and made him promise NEVER to do something that stupid again. He took the nickel and ran off to buy an ice cream cone.

Just damn. I never even THOUGHT about falling when I did it. But seeing my brother try the same thing scared the shit out of me.

What causes that?

Some comments on comments

Originally published September 27, 2005

I enjoy reading my comments. Some of you folks are better writers than I am. Of course, some of you suck the hairy bag, too, but that's okay. We live in an allegedly free country and I want to keep it that way.

* SONGWRITERS: I judge a good songwriter on longevity and body of work. Bruce Springstein doesn't qualify by MY standards. Gordon Lightfoot was once one of my favorites, but his work has gone downhill in the last decade or so. Still, he's been writing good songs for a long time.

That's why I say James Taylor, Paul Simon and Stephen Stills are in the Top Ten on ANY list. They've been cranking out good work for 30 fucking years. Don't give me no flash in the pans.

I think Don McLean wrote two of the best songs I ever heard. "American Pie" and "Starry, Starry Night" were BRILLIANT pieces of music. But he went the way of John Hartford. (John wrote "Gentle on My Mind," which was the most recorded song in the world for a few years.) One or two bursts, then out of ammo.

And I will hate Neil Young until the day I die for the song "Southern Man." Fuckfaced Canadian asshole.

* CIRCUMCISION: Somebody got something right. If I'm given a choice between washing my dick and brushing my teeth, I'm gonna wash my dick. I LIKE washing my dick. Maybe that's why I've never had a sexually transmitted disease. I believe in keeping my tool clean.

* HURRICANES: It's not the federal government's job to protect you from bad weather. You should take care of your own ass. When you DON'T, that's your own damn fault.

* STERIODS: WTF is CONGRESS doing holding hearings on steriod use in major league baseball? What the hell is John McCain doing hogging all kinds of camera-time with this pissant issue? Let baseball police itself. Or not. Get the feds out of this shit. They really ought to have better things to do.

* CINDY SHEEHAN. If anyone ever deserved to be dragged off and shot, it's her. The woman is about as bright as a fifteen-watt bulb and if you see a gleam in her eye, it's the "low battery" light flashing. She is a disgrace to her son, a disgrace to this country and a disgrace to all of our troops. She's also a self-aggrandizing cunt.

* ENVIRONMENTALISM: I might have more sympathy for those nut-balls if they really cared about the environment. But they don't. They are mostly anti-civilization and anti-capitalism. Plus, most of the shriekers are totally ignorant and pumped full of junk science. They INVENT the "Scare of the Week" to terrify soccer moms into hyperventilation and the vapors. That bullshit works, too.

Congress listens to them, which tells you how intelligent congress is. Al Gore believed it so much that he turned orange in his first Presidential debate. (I think he was looking for green, but his advisors told him that THAT color would make him look too much like a space alien. They didn't tell him not to ACT like a space alien--- because he did--- they just vetoed the green color.)

* DIVERSITY: I'm tired of hyphenated-Americans and divisions based on race, creed, ethnicity or religion. I say we divide people (because if we don't, they'll do it by themselves) along different lines. Forget about skin color or religion. Let's class people as "STUPID," "NOT STUPID," "FAIRLY INTELLIGENT," "SMART," and "DOWNRIGHT BRILLIANT." I believe that we'd end up with a reasonable bell-shaped curve that way, and nobody could cry "racism" or "sexism" about it.

Naw. Wouldn't work. The stupid people would cry RACISM and SEXISM anyway. That's because they're stupid.

See where my mind goes late at night when I can't sleep?

Gator tale

Originally published September 27, 2005

Thanks to BOB:

A filthy rich North Carolina man decided that he wanted to throw a party and invited all of his buddies and neighbors. He also invited Leroy, the only redneck in the neighborhood.

He held the party around the pool in the backyard of his mansion.
Leroy was having a good time drinking, dancing, eating shrimp, oysters and BBQ and flirting with all the women.

At the height of the party, the host said, "I have a 10ft man-eating gator in my pool and I'll give a million dollars to anyone who has the nerve to jump in."

The words were barely out of his mouth when there was a loud splash and everyone turned around and saw Leroy in the pool!

Leroy was fighting the gator and kicking its ass! Leroy was jabbing the gator in the eyes with his thumbs, throwing punches, head butts and choke holds, biting the gator on the tail and flipping the gator through the air like some kind of Judo Instructor.

The water was churning and splashing everywhere. Both Leroy and the gator were screaming and raising hell. Finally Leroy strangled the gator and let it float to the top like a dime store goldfish. Leroy then slowly climbed out of the pool. Everybody was just staring at him in disbelief.

Finally the host says, "Well, Leroy, I reckon I owe you a million dollars."

"No, that's okay. I don't want it," said Leroy.

The rich man said, "Man, I have to give you something. You won the bet. How about half a million bucks then?"

"No thanks. I don't want it," answered Leroy.

The host said, "Come on, I insist on giving you something. That was amazing. How about a new Porsche and a Rolex and some stock options?"

Again Leroy said no.

Confused, the rich man asked, "Well, Leroy, then what do you want?"

Leroy said, "I want the name of the sumbitch who pushed me in the pool."

May 17, 2007

Ear worm

Originally published August 29, 2005

ARRRGGGHHH!!! I've got a song playing in my head this morning that I can't get rid of. The problem is, I don't remember the name of the song and I can't recall where I heard it. Besides, I have just one fragment of it playing over and over.

I think it was called "The Pump" or something like that. It was about a guy crossing the desert and about to die of thirst when he comes upon a well-pump with a quart of water next to it and a note that says to pour the water in to prime the pump.

"There's just enough to prime it with
So, don't you go drinking first
Just pour it ALL in and pump like mad
Buddy, you'll quench your thirst."

As I recall, the guy takes a leap of faith, ignores his thirst, pours the priming water into the pump and sure enough--- he is rewarded will all the cool water he wants to drink.

Anybody ever heard that song? Did I dream that sumbitch? I've been thinking a lot about trust and faith lately and I think that's what the song was about.

If I DID dream it, I need to write it down. I damn sure can't get it out of my head this morning.

Pet names

Originally published August 19, 2005

This is an interesting article. I've had several good dogs in my life and only one had a human name.
[Ed. Link goes to Netscape, not relevant article.]

The first dog was a mutt named "Pudgy," because he was a fat little puppy. He had a lot of black lab in him and he loved the water. He ran the woods with me all the time when I was a boy. Pudge was a damn good dog. He got hit by a car crossing Whitefield Avenue as he followed my brother one day. I still blame my brother for that. He should have NOT run across the road in traffic knowing that the dog would follow him. Pudge made it back home, but he died shortly thereafter. He's buried in my mama's back yard.

The second one was "Wiggles." He lived up to his name, too. I picked him up at the dog pound in Athens, Georgia when I was attending UGA. That was the ugliest damn dog I ever saw. He was some kind of mixed-breed, with some kind of terrier in him, and when he got excited, he bent himself into a semi-circle and beat his face with his own tail. I kept old Wigs for 15 years. That dog would rather ride in a car than eat when he was hungry. If I wanted him to come running, all I had to do was rattle my car keys. He'd hang his head out the window and slobber all down the side of my car, wherever we went, and he traveled all over the southeast United States with me.

He went deaf and blind finally. I think he got the doggy version of Alzheimer's. He's the one I shot, to put him out of his misery. I couldn't stand to see him in the shape he was at the end, and I didn't want a vet putting him to sleep. That was MY job. I cried like a baby afterward, but I laid him down quick and easy. He never knew what hit him.

"Bud" was Jennifer's dog when I met her. He was a BIG sumbitch and mean as hell when he wanted to be, even though Jennifer had him de-nutted as a pup. (Jennifer is GOOD at de-nutting males of any species.) Bud turned out to be a great dog. He'd kill a cat when he saw one, but he was always gentle around children. He had a bark that rattled the walls. NOBODY wanted to walk into my house after they heard Bud bark.

The fucker weighed more than 90 pounds and DID NOT take shit from any other dog. He lived for 17 years and was a damn fine animal, and the only dog I ever had with a human name. I didn't name him.

Quinton told me several months ago that Bud "went crazy" and Jennifer had him put to sleep. I hated to hear that news. Bud was a good dog.

I don't want another dog now. If I get a pup, he'll probably outlive ME for a change.

But if I got one, I'd give it a doggy name, not a human one.

I call bullshit!

Originally published September 20, 2005

WTF is the federal government thinking with crap like this? Why don't these blue-nosed, Puritan, meddling, overly-sensitive morality police just BAN FUCKING????

That'll work. Just pass a federal law banning ALL sexual intercourse. People will stop fucking right away and nannies can sleep well at night.

My ass. We are allegedly engaged in a War on Terror. The damn thing must already be won if we can waste money and manpower chasing pornography and "obscenity," whatever that is.

Bejus. Bullshit such as this is why I do not trust my government and why I resent like hell paying as much in taxes as I do. I cannot recall reading ANY news story where terrorists held a gun to someone's head and FORCED them to watch a fuck flick or look at a "Hustler" magazine.

If you don't want your kids seeing that stuff, then YOU mind your children. Don't ask (or EXPECT) the federal government to do that job for you.

What's wrong with watching consenting adults perform sexual acrobatics on video? You don't have to watch it if you don't want to. I kinda like to watch it from time to time. Does that fact make me a menace to society? I don't think so.

Besides--- this is an attack on the First Amendment to the United States Constitution, and it's being led by... guess who? The government.


May 16, 2007

I am an amazing man

Originally published August 9, 2005

You've gotta admit it. I attract some of the best trolls of any blog anywhere. These people fly down from the Constellation Feces and can't bear to miss a day without telling me how full of shit I am or how much they hate me.

I kinda like that. ANY attention is GOOD attention.

I especially like the ones who question my masculinity and brag about how much pussy they get. BWHAHAHAHAHAAA! Nobody who trolls a blog gets a lot of pussy. If you were getting a lot of pussy, you wouldn't be trolling my blog! I've HAD a lot of pussy! I know how this works.

Wimmen like men who WRITE a blog, play guitar, feed them nice dinners and court and spark. They DO NOT like some pathetic cockroach who crawls around with a fake email address and thinks he's being "clever" when he trolls. Well, maybe he can get laid, too, but I wouldn't stick MY dick in the kind of woman HE attracts.

I'll admit that my sex drive isn't what it once was. I don't feel the urge to put any more notches on my gunbelt. What for? I left that "trophy" thing in my rear-view a long time ago. I'd rather have a woman I could talk to than someone who wanted to fuck all the time.

Of course, if you're a horny woman, you can have me while I'm sound asleep. Just pump up the bionic Roscoe and climb aboard. It'll last longer than YOU will--- just don't ask me to power it with my ass. Not anymore.

I'm a tired old man.


Originally published August 14, 2005

I once owned a lot of chickens. I kept them in a coop and fed them every day. The hens gave me fresh eggs and I liked watching the roosters engage in their sexual antics. All chickens are sluts.

But those are about the nastiest animals I've ever seen. A chicken will eat ANYTHING, no matter how rotten or disgusting it may appear to YOU. That's what chickens do.

A neighbor of mine showed me how to skin a rooster. I sent Quinton out to feed the chickens one day and a one-eyed rooster attacked him and spurred the hell out of my boy. Quinton was only six years old at the time, and the rooster was getting the best of him.

Quinton was screaming, so I ran to the coop outside and shot that rooster with a .22 pistol. He had NO EYES after that, the bastard.

I cut his head and feet off. I cut him down the middle, pulled his guts out, rolled the skin off from the inside-out, which takes all the feathers with it, and I cooked the sumbitch for supper that night. He never spurred Quinton again.

I left his feathers, guts, head, feet and hide in the coop. It was all gone the next day, except for a few stray feathers. His brothers and sisters devoured the rest of him.

That's life on a farm.

Something else I've learned

Originally published August 10, 2005

Wimmen who talk about being horny all the time aren't really good in bed. That's a fact. Oh, they'll spread their legs and fuck, but it's not good pussy. They just do it because... who the hell knows why.

Have you ever been to an oyster roast and found ONE oyster among the bushel on the table that wasn't wide-open and ready to eat? ONE oyster that took some prying with a good knife to get into? Wasn't THAT ONE the sweetest you tasted that night?

Wimmen are the same way.

The ones you have to pry open are the sweetest. Those that lay there gapped are just like any other oyster. Can't tell one from another.

THAT'S why I don't remember how many wimmen I've had sex with.

May 15, 2007

Things that chap my cracker ass

Originally published July 23, 2005

#1) Ted Kennedy. Especially when he starts spouting off about "morality." That alcoholic gas-bag should be in jail instead of in the United States Senate. I've never killed anybody in my life. He has.

#2) Gun-Fearing Assholes. A gun is NOT an inherently evil device. It is a simple tool that performs very efficiently--- much like a chainsaw or a lawn mower. I've never seen a gun jump up and shoot somebody all by itself. In fact, I'm willing to wager that more people bash themselves with a fucking HAMMER than shoot themselves with a gun.

#3) Democrats. What's it like to be a party, once powerful but now relegated to the back-burner, that is now eating itself? I personally believe that Democrats can thank Bill Clinton for the state they're in today, because they rallied around that bastard and proved just how purile and spineless they are. They have NO philosophy today, other than if Bush is FOR it, we're AGAINST it.

#4) Rap Music. That's the most disgusting shit I've ever heard. It AIN'T MUSIC.

#5) Organic Food. My aching ass. That stuff is fertilized with SHIT instead of chemicals you buy at the seed & feed store, it ain't nearly as good as regular crops and it costs twice the money. Yuppies buy it because the LOVE the "environment" and they don't even know that they're eating SHIT.

#6) Bottled Water. I don't give a damn if my daughter COULD tell the difference between my tap and her bottled water. I can't, and I won't pay $2.00 a bottle for that crap to wash down my organic food.

#7) Decaffinated Coffee. WTF? That's a pure abortion if I ever saw one. Whoever dreamed up THAT idea never worked midnight shifts.

#8) Anti-Smoking Laws. Show me ONE got-dam person who ever died from "second-hand smoke" and I just MIGHT think these laws are reasonable. But you can't do it, people have spent millions of dollars TRYING to do it, and nobody can. Still, we get the laws, most of which are based on the EPA's fraud.

#9) "Environmentalists." Did you ever notice that most of these people resemble John Lennon or burned-out hippie-chicks? I have. And most of them work in air-conditioned offices and drive air-conditioned cars and wouldn't know a spotted owl from a beaver. But they "know" that Gaia is "fragile" and they want to protect her. Fuck every one of them. Build a fire in the woods in the rain and I MAY think you have a clue what you're talking about.

#10) Lawyers. If I ever go back to divorce court, I'm not hiring a lawyer to represent me again. What for? That hanging judge is going to throw the book at me anyway, and that's a fact. I paid those fucks more than $10,000 over the past few years and I got screwed TWICE for my trouble. Then, I ended up paying BOTH lawyers, mine and my ex-wife's Fuck 'em. I won't do that again.

I shoulda been a cowboy. I was born 150 years too late.

Victimless crimes

Originally published August 6, 2005

This country may be approaching its 300th birthday, but we've never really strayed far from our Puritan roots. How many laws do we have on the books now that punish "lifestyle" choices instead of criminals?

I read this article [Ed. I can't find the article...] and it really set me off. That's just one more example of government killing someone in the name of God, or whatever it is that motivates the nanny-folks to LEGISLATE your life to match theirs.

THEY know the ONE TRUE WAY. If you don't subscribe to their beliefs, well.... they'll ARREST YOU and throw you in jail. That'll teach YOU a lesson.

In my younger days, I was a hellion. I smoked dope, I danced with prostitutes and I gambled. I tried every kind of dope known to man and I had sex with every woman who would hold still for me. I did some shit that would curdle most people's grits, but I enjoyed every bit of it.

I didn't hurt anybody. I didn't steal or rob from anyone. I just cut a wide, wild swath.

What the hell is wrong with that? Because YOU don't like it, it should be forbidden for EVERYONE? Who died and made YOU the Pope, you pompous ass? When did YOU become God? I'll give you MY humble opinion on that idea: Fuck YOU and the great white horse you rode in on.

Some people really have a hard time handling the idea of freedom. I don't. I've done fairly well in my life with no help from government or any kind of nanny watching over me.

Some people fuck up. Just look at the welfare rolls. But "life" didn't do that to them--- they did it to themselves. I've said many times before--- get an education, work hard and the world is your oyster. Decide NOT to do that, and reap what you sow.

I don't need a got-dam nanny government to take "care" of me. I've been on my own for a long time, and nobody except ME ever bailed me out of the holes I dug for myself. And I dug them ALL myself.

If I were in charge of this country, I would stop the insane "War on Drugs," I wouldn't worry about when some blue-nosed asshole developed belly-cramps over "smut," I would legalize prostitution, gambling and drugs, and I would put a bounty on the head of ANY self-righteous lawmaker who had the unmitigated gall to force HIS beliefs on me.

Just look up the word "freedom" in the dictionary. Do you think we live that way today? I don't.

(By the way--- I agree with Locke's Social Contract, but we've gone waaaaay beyond that now.)

I feel his pain

Originally published July 26, 2005

I'm a lot like this today, except for having a wife. I don't want one of those, but I sure do seem to have the symptoms of everything the drug companies advertise on television.

I don't think I have toenail fungus yet, but if I keep watching TV, I'm certain that I will. I'm pretty sure that I need medication for irritable bowels (hell--- I'm irritible ALL OVER anymore) and I want to be like that guy "Bob" who takes a pill and sprouts so much wood that it improves his golf game and makes HIS wife think he's a Greek God.

I might even try some of that "feminine hygene" stuff that's supposed to bring a breath of springtime into the user's life. It's hot as hell in Georgia now.

If a patent medicine wagon rolled by the Crackerbox right now, with songs playing through loudspeakers, I'd probably go chase it down like the ice cream trucks of my youth and buy one of everything he had on board. I would eat it, drink it, rub it on my belly or stick it up my ass. Whatever was supposed to work.

I'm just sick and tired of being sick and tired.

May 14, 2007

Words that chap my cracker ass

Originally published July 17, 2005

I've ranted before about the Orwellian state of our language today. We've come to believe, like a bunch of sheeple, that it's not WHAT you say that matters--- it's HOW you say it. Try these:

1) "Insurgent." That's a got-dam terrorist who is at war with nothing else than civilization. Call his nasty ass what he (or she) really is.

2) "Pro-Choice." That's someone who wants abortion used as birth control. I think "Anti-Pregnancy" would be a better description.

3) "Pre-Owned Cars." Those are USED CARS, people.

4) "Diversity." That means losing your fucking mind, accepting reverse discrimination and believing (somehow) that Balkanizing the United States is a good thing.

5) "Moderate." That's a politician who lacks the balls or the spine to stand for ANYTHING except reelection. It's also any politician who isn't left of Ted Kennedy. Reporters love such people.

6) "Sexual Harassment." THAT was a brilliant idea to put into law. "The Right of Total Neurotics to Sue the Shit out of Somebody" is a more accurate description.

7) "Racism." That's probably the most abused word in the English language today. What it means now is, "I'm Black and you disagree with me."

8) "Profiling." What the hell is WRONG with that? The Savannah Morning News went through a spasm of Political Correctness a few years ago, when they wouldn't mention a crime perp's RACE for fear of offending the Black community. "The murderer, rapist and thief was a young man, about 6' tall and weighing approximately 200 pounds." You couldn't say that he was BLACK, even though everybody knew that he was. Sad but true: Black people commit most of the crimes in Savannah.

9) "Abuse." My aching ass. We have leftist shit-kabobs pissing all over themselves about Koran desecration and how we're mistreating prisoners at Gitmo. I'll guarantee that not a one of those whinebags ever played football for a tough coach. Plus, what a lot of government officials call "child abuse" today was called a good, old-fashioned ass-whuppin' when I was a boy. NOT being nice is NOT the same thing as "abuse."

10) "Compassion." Gag me. Then, feel MY pain. Compassion is the new code word government uses to take away more of your rights and turn you into a sheeple. They're doing it FOR YOUR OWN GOOD! Because they CARE! Taking MY money, which I worked for, and giving it away to someone else, who DIDN'T work for it is "compassion." Fuck me dead. I can do without that kind of help.

Okay, that's my morning rant. I'm going to visit my grandmother, who is 94 years old and still knows right from wrong.

A different language

Originally published July 18, 2005

Wimmen often say one thing and mean another. It's some kind of hormonal thing and men really need to learn to translate what wimmen SAY into what they MEAN, or the dog-house of divorce court may be a future destination. Here's a good example:

1. Yes = No 2. No = Yes 3. Maybe = No 4. We need = I want... 5. I am sorry = You'll be sorry 6. We need to talk = You're in trouble. 7. Sure, go ahead = You'd better not. 8. Do what you want = You will pay for this later. 9. I am not upset = Of course I am upset, you moron! 10. You're certainly attentive tonight = Is sex all you ever think about?

I've learned to speak passable Spanish. But I'll NEVER become fluent in wimmentalk. It's a language men are not MEANT to understand.

(List shamlessly stolen from here.)

Fragile egos

Originally published July 10, 2005

Men, for all their macho posturing, really are delicate creatures. I blame that fact on western civilization. Men never actually KNOW when they step over that line from boyhood to manhood. It's a confusing experience.

I was in the Atlanta airport when I saw four of our troops eating hamburgers as they awaited their flight to the Middle East. I flagged a waitress and told her to put their meal on my tab and send a round of beers over to them, on me.

One of the guys, dressed in camo, walked over to thank me for buying their meal, but said that he was only 18, and he couldn't have a beer. He'd just stick with good old Southern iced tea. I told him that iced tea was fine with me. Whatever he wanted.

Then, I thought, WTF? We're going to train, arm and send this fine young man off to fight in a WAR, where he may be killed or have important body parts blown off by some idiot Islamist, and the poor bastard can't drink a BEER before he climbs aboard that plane? We'll give him an M-16 but NOT a Budweiser? Where's the logic in that?

THAT's how men have ALWAYS been treated in western society. I prefer the ways primitive people handle things. When a boy turns a certain age, you drag his ass into a tent, chant over him, burn some sacred smoke, send a concubine in to lay the hell out of him, and when he emerges from that tent in the morning, he is treated like a MAN instead of a boy, from then on.

We don't have similar rituals in the western world. I don't believe that I ever thought of myself as a man until I buried my father. I was 40 years old, I had a good job, I owned a home and I had a child. But... I never KNEW that I was a man, at least until I took care of getting my father planted in the ground.

I believe that a LOT of men feel that way.

That's one reason this article chapped my Cracker ass. [Ed. Link goes to an odd Netscape page. Possibly NSFW.] And I'll also be totally politically incorrect by saying the Rise of Feminism has not helped things, either.

Yeah. Wimmen want it ALL today--- independence, abortion on demand, shrill screaming when they don't get their way, EQUAL treatment and "rights" that were invented by a hallucinating judge. Fine. Give 'em all that stuff.

But let's ALSO change the rules about alimony, child support, child custody and all the OTHER baggage still hanging over from the old days, when wimmen were delicate flowers instead of sniping, ball-cutting, STRONG bitches.

I don't believe that wimmen should have it both ways. You can't faint, develop the vapors and hyperventilate because you saw a Rigid Tool calender on an office wall and then sue for sexual harassment when you ALSO want to show how fucking "strong" you are.

Men ALWAYS had it rough in the western world, negotiating that twilight zone between boy and man. It's worse now. With all the pussification going on, men don't know WHERE they stand anymore.

I shoulda been born a woman. I could show Hillary Clinton a thing or two about getting what I wanted.

May 13, 2007

More on names

Originally published May 16, 2005

At the risk of being branded a "racist" (again), I am going to relate a true story about I guy I worked with years ago. He was a big strapping black fellow who became highly irate when people at the plant started calling him "Goodhead."

I am not black, so I can't speak from personal experience, but I have heard black men proclaim loud and long about how they NEVER perform oral sex on a woman. "I DON'T EAT PUSSY!!!" That seems to be some kind of Black Pride thing that I never understood. I've never minded pleasing a woman any way she wanted it.

But "Goodhead" evidently strayed from the proper path and some woman announced in a club one night, "There's (whatever his name was)! I LOVE him! He sure does give good head!"

A lot of people in the club worked in the plant and the word spread like wildfire. "Goodhead" became his new nickname and it pissed him off to a fare-thee-well. The more people called him by that name the more pissed off he became and he finally ended up shooting somebody in a bar on a Saturday night. (He didn't kill the guy. He shot him in the balls.) While he was out on bail over that incident, someone walked up to him and shot him five times in the groin.

I don't know what happened to him after that, but he never worked for me again.

I never understood his anger. As for myself, I would LOVE to have the nickname "Goodhead" among the ladies, especially if I walked into a bar and a satisfied customer announced it to every other female in the place. I'd strut like a bantam rooster. I'd ask them to stand in line and sample my wares.

But that's just me. I don't understand Black Culture.

Natural camouflage

Originally published June 1, 2005

I've always been fascinated by the way nature equips some creatures with natural camouflage, so that they become almost invisible in their surroundings. [Ed. Link borked.] Just find a Walking Stick in a bush some day. Usually, if it doesn't move, you won't see it, because it looks exactly like a part of the bush.

Why do you think more people get bitten by copperhead snakes than any other poisonous variety in the South? That's because a copperhead blends in perfectly with a pile of dead leaves and you won't even notice that bastard until you step on him and he bites you. At least a rattler will try to warn you away.

If you study butterflies and moths, you'll discover many who have peculiar colorings on their wings. If they land somewhere and fold their wings just right, they resemble a big-eyed predator to anything that checks them out. That's how they stay safe.

People do the same thing. Wimmen wear make-up and dress sexy to disguise their predatory nature, while men strut and preen, pretending to BE predators when they actually are prey.

Mother Nature is a clever old bitch.


Originally published July 10, 2005

I read this post and I was inspired. [Ed. Link borked.] I don't recall ever writing about it before, but I once owned two Crested Cockatoos (a male and a female) and they were really good companions. They were messy as hell in their cage, but they could talk and I SWEAR that one of them liked to read.

I've got several pictures of me lying on my couch with "Bingo" perched on my head while I was reading. He seemed to be studying the book, too. His only bad habit was the fact that he sometimes enjoyed the story so much that he shit in my hair. That's just one of the drawbacks you must accept if you like tropical birds.

"Bango" was the female, and she wasn't nearly as entertaining as Bingo (and not nearly as tame, either). Being a typical female, she'd bite the shit out of you when she went all hormonal. Plus, I turned her loose in my house one day and the dingbat flew into my chimney. I spent nearly an hour coaxing her out of there.

But she kept Bingo happy because she was a complete slut.

Have YOU ever watched a pair of cockatoos having sex? Bingo drilled Bango (where do you think she got her name?) all the time. If he wasn't hungry, sleepy or talking, Bingo wanted to get laid.

Lemme tell you how this works. Bingo takes a look at Bango's tail feathers and gets the urge. He LEAPS upon her, digs his beak into the back of her neck in a death-grip, and then commits brutal rape. It's all over in about 10 seconds.

After that, once the feathers stop flying, they sit on their perches, coo pleasantly at each other and smoke cigarettes in their afterglow.

That's a LOT more entertaining that owning a got-dam CAT!

May 12, 2007

Odd names

Originally published May 16, 2005

I've posted before about odd names, but I've never written about some Southern names that nobody seems to think twice about down here. Of course, these are Southern nicknames, but they seem perfectly normal to the Southern ear.

I have known people called "Scooter," "Gator" and "Hawg." I also ran around with friends named "Bubba" (of course), "Skeeter," and "Stinker." That's not to mention "Wormy," "Hoss," "Snake" and "Kidneybean." And I don't want to forget "Pinetree" (he was very tall), "Possum," "Catfish" (big mouth and full of shit), "Spanky" or "Little'un" (he wasn't very big).

I knew "Sweetie," (quite the ladies man) "Big Joe," "Little Joe" and "Squirt." That's in addition to "Roundman," "Cowboy," "Peanut," "Bama" and "Junior."

That doesn't count "Red," "Irish," "Mex" "Chop-Chop" or "Baldy." I myself was called "Snuffy." Or "Bowlegs."

Do YOU know a lot of people who answer to odd nicknames, or is this just a Southern thing?

New vehicle

Originally published May 2, 2005

My pickup truck-driving days may be numbered. I assumed ownership of a 2001 Chevrolet Impala yesterday. The car has only 10,000 miles on it and still smells new on the inside. It's never been driven outside the state of Georgia. Hell, it's never been driven outside of Chatham and Effingham counties.

That was my mama's car. It's mine now.

I really don't need a truck anymore, now that I'm no longer hauling supplies for the mini-farm, and that car is a real cherry. My brother suggested that I have it, even though I offered to sell it and split the money with him. But this ain't about money.

When I drove the car home yesterday, I found one of mama's hats in the back seat. She acquired a good collection of ridiculous hats when she was made bald-headed by the chemo treatments before she died. I hung that hat on my living room wall, just as a reminder of the kind of woman my mama was.

Bejus, but I miss her.

I should be delighted with my new car, but somehow I feel dirty for taking it. I didn't want anything mama had. I wanted Mama. But there is a lot of other stuff in the house that she went through before she died and stuck post-it notes on, informing people about who she wanted to have the things. My name is on a lot of that stuff, but I don't have the heart to pick through it now.

Mama saw the end coming and did everything she could to get all of her shit in one sock. I wonder what she was thinking when she put those notes on all those things? Facing death herself, she still tried to keep from inconviencing anybody else.

That was my mama.

The borg collective

Originally published May 2, 2005

I don't like cell phones. I don't own one and I don't intend to get one, either. But I am thoroughly convinced that some people don't need to eat anymore. They absorb all their vital nutrients via a cell phone pressed to their heads.

For some mysterious reason, people with cell phones suffer uncontrollable urges to CALL people all the time, even when they have nothing to say. It's as if they believe that the thing might go bad if they don't use it constantly.

How did we ever manage to DRIVE before the invention of cell phones? I'll wager that 1/4 of the cars I see on the road today is piloted by someone with a cell phone stuck to his or her ear. Either these people are extremely important, with MUCH important communication to impart, or else they're just in need of nutrients and they have learned to absorb it through their ears.

Plus, I HATE the stupid ringy-dingy things people program into their phones. A simple ring like a real phone or maybe a vibration on my belt would be plenty for me. But that ain't true for others.

How many times have you seen some idiot scrambling frantically to find the cell phone while "Jingle Bells," "London Bridge Is Falling Down" or some cheesy Barry Manilow song blared happily away in some solemn place such as... well, a funeral, for instance.

That sound makes my skin crawl.

I find some encouragement in this story. My only problem is, I want to see a cell phone explode while some babbling, yak-a-holic has it pressed to his ear. I want to see hair, skull fragments, blood and brain matter scattered all over the place when the phone drops from a dead hand on a headless body.

If that scene hit the news a few times, maybe some people wouldn't feel the urgent need to talk on the phone all the time. Maybe the Borg Collective would stop multiplying. Maybe people would start making phone calls ONLY when they had something important to say. Maybe people could learn to hang up and drive.

Fat chance. I believe that cell phones DO cause brain tumors. They damn sure make people crazy to talk on the phone.

May 11, 2007


Originally published April 30, 2005

It's like the old joke. Ltttle Johnny talks Little Sally into a "You show me yours and I'll show you mine" contest. Johnny drops his pants and waves his Roscoe proudly. "What do you think of THAT?" he asks.

Sally says, "Not much," as she drops her own pants. "Mama told he that with one of THESE, I can get all of THOSE that I want."

It's the truth, too. Wimmen know it and they play the pussy-card all the time to get their way. I've heard numerous wimmen say it before, including Jennifer one night at the Chart House Restaurant. "I can have any man in this place if I want him."

Is that pussy-power or what? A semi-good looking woman knows that she has it, too. I saw MANY a woman cruise the bars on River Street without a dime in her pocket back in my guitar-playing days. (I gave a lot of them a ride downtown.) She expected MEN to buy her drinks and it usually worked out that way.

"The fair sex," my ass.

Conniving, hormone-riddled, greedy, heartless, cruel and insane, I'll believe. But "FAIR?" That word never enters into a woman's mind. She's got a pussy and that makes the world her bearded clam. If the damn thing had teeth a lot more men would be walking around with Bobbit-wounds instead of paying divorce lawyers and watching another man live in his house.

Do I sound bitter? Good! I AM bitter.

Wimmen ain't right in the head. I'm sorry, but that's a fact. Wimmen hallucinate regularly, which is what makes them such good detectives. Don't tell me you've never heard this: "I heard what you said, but that's not what you MEANT!" See? SHE knows what you meant, even if you simply said, "Good morning."

What you REALLY meant was my ass is fat, you don't love me anymore, you think I'm a shitty person and I'm going out to get some reassurance from my female friends, who will take my side and understand my telepathic prowess, and then encourage me to go to a bar and exercise my pussy power.

If my insurance will cover it, I'm going to have my bionics removed. It ain't half the dick I once had anyway, and all it's ever done in my life is get me in trouble. I am ready to become monkish.

Pussy ain't that big a deal to me anymore. It damn sure ain't worth the price you pay for it. Especially the "free" stuff.

I'll write about marriage vows next.


Originally published May 6, 2005

I've been having a debate with my friend catfish on how to perform wonderful oral sex on a woman. We disagree on certain techniques, but we're both in the same... well... BOAT in our general philosophy.

But what happens next? this guy intrudes into the intellectual discussion and mentions the "t'aint."

As a Southerner, I know good and well what the "t'aint" is. Every woman has one and all guys should appreciate it. I've learned that it is a seldom explored erogenous zone.

Do YOU know what a "t'aint" is?


Originally published May 15, 2005

I had an association with two genuine redheads in my life and they both had fair skin and lots of freckles. Both of those wimmen thought their freckles were unsightly and did their best to disguise them up with make-up whenever they could. I never understood that.

I LIKED their freckles. That fair skin was a handicap, because they toasted quickly in the summer sun of Southeast Georgia, and then they peeled like a molting snake if they didn't wear a lot of sun-screen. That part of dating a redhead could be a pain if you like the outdoors as much as I do, but both of 'em endeavored to peresevere. Besides, I liked rubbing the lotion all over them.

I have one piece of advice for fair-skinned wimmen, especially redheads. Freckles are nothing to be ashamed of. A lot of guys think they are sexy.

I do.

May 10, 2007

Famous local band

Originally published April 12, 2005

If you grew up in Savannah, Georgia, back in the 60s, I guarentee that you knew who "Buddy Livingston and the Versitones" were. Buddy played bass guitar and was the lead man for the band. They played almost every night at a club called "The Bamboo Ranch" and even had their own 30-minute television show on WTOC for a while.

They hired a young singer named Billy Joe Royal, and before long, the band was called "Buddy Livingston and the Versitones--- featuring Billy Joe Royal." I used to sneak into the Bamboo Ranch using a fake ID to hear the band. They were good and that place rocked. Billy Joe was about my age at the time.

The Bamboo Ranch burned down in a suspicious fire back around 1970. I don't know what happened to Buddy Livingston after that. But Billy Joe Royal went on to a fairly sucessful music career. "Down in the Boondocks" was his biggest hit, but he had a few other successful recordings, too.

Billy Joe is still alive and kicking. I woulda liked to have seen that concert.

Dogs are like that

Originally published April 20, 2005

This post made me laugh. [Ed. Blog no longer exists... Sam. *grin*] I've seen dogs do that kind of stuff and I NEVER understood what was going through their doggie minds. I know that they like to camouflage their scent, but I've seen dogs roll in COWSHIT and come running up expecting you to be proud of them.

If I am ever reincarnated after I die, I want to be a dog so that I can figure out what they are thinking when they roll in the smelliest thing they can find. I've SEEN dogs do this.

Once, I went out walking when my family unit was still intact and I had paved streets in my neighborhood. I took Bud with me. I didn't put him on a leash, because he was pretty good at heeling when I scolded him. But he suddenly dropped out of formation.

I turned around and saw him rolling in the street. Somebody had smashed a toad on the road and Bud was getting a hair-full of THAT scent. I yelled at him and he gave me that "What did I do?" look. Dogs do that, too.

I couldn't explain to that 90-pound, hairy dog that rolling on a dead toad in the road was NOT a good thing to do. I took him back home and gave his hairy ass a bath in the back yard before I let him back in the house.

After that, he decided that walking with ME after dark was a bad thing, and he never went with me again. He never connected the dead toad to the bath in his doggy mind. He just believed that I became evil after dark.

He was correct.

Too good not to steal

Originally published April 8, 2005

I gotta thank George Schneider for this email:

Listed below are the 10 winners of this year's Bulwer-Lytton Contest,
aka the "Dark and Stormy Night Contest" run by the English Department
of San Jose State University,wherein one writes only the first line of a bad

10. "As a scientist, Throckmorton knew that if he were ever to break wind in the echo chamber, he would never hear the end of it."

9. "Just beyond the Narrows, the river widens."

8. "With a curvaceous figure that Venus would have envied, a tanned, unblemished oval face framed with lustrous thick brown hair, deep azure-blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, perfect teeth that vied for competition, and a small straight nose, Marilee had a beauty that defied description."

7. "Andre, a simple peasant, had only one thing on his mind as he crept
along the East wall: 'Andre creep... Andre creep... Andre creep.'"

6. "Stanislaus Smedley, a man always on the cutting edge of narcissism,
was about to give his body and soul to a back alley sex-change surgeon
to become the woman he loved."

5. "Although Sarah had an abnormal fear of mice, it did not keep her from eeking out a living at a local pet store."

4. "Stanley looked quite bored and somewhat detached, but then, penguins
often do."

3. "Like an over-ripe beefsteak tomato rimmed with cottage cheese, the
corpulent remains of Santa Claus lay dead on the hotel floor."

2. "Mike Hardware was the kind of private eye who didn't know the meaning of the word 'fear'; a man who could laugh in the face of danger and spit in the eye of death -- in short, a moron with suicidal tendencies."


1. "The sun oozed over the horizon, shoved aside darkness, crept along the greensward, and, with sickly fingers, pushed through the castle window, revealing the pillaged princess, hand at throat, crown asunder, gaping in frenzied horror at the sated, sodden amphibian lying beside her, disbelieving the magnitude of the frog's deception, screaming madly, 'You lied!"

May 09, 2007

I think I knew her

Originally published March 25, 2005

When I read this post a dim recollection raised its ugly head in my memory banks and cackled obscenely. I think I dated the same woman for a while.

She was beautiful, sexy, fun in bed and a damn fine piece of arm candy to escort around until she got some liquor in her; then, she turned into the she-demon from hell. Bejus! She'd pick a fight with anybody and break anything she could lay her hands on.

If I weren't so charming and on good terms with the local police back in those days, she would have had me thrown in jail TWICE with her crazy antics. I tried to break off that insane relationship and she STALKED ME for a couple of months afterward. It was downright frightening.

I don't know what ever happened to her, and I don't want to know either. I heard that she attempted suicide and ended up at Clarke's Pavillion nut-house for a while. I hope she finally got some help, because she damn sure needed it.

It's just a crying shame when a woman that pretty has a head full of snakes.

What's your answer?

Originally published March 30, 2005

I have a pretty casual attitude about sex--- hell, I grew up during some tumultuous times--- but I have a serious attitude about commitment. I am a serial flirt and I believe that I can be a charming man when I'm not shit-faced drunk. But I would NEVER "cheat" on someone I was committed to. I just don't do that. I am a man of my word. (most of the time)

I don't give my commitment lightly. I enjoyed a lot of casual sex, one-night-stands and "if it feels good, do it" days in my youth, and I don't regret a bit of it. In fact, I wish I could go back and do it all over again. Those were fun times.

I've never told a woman, "I love you," just to get in her pants. In fact, there are exactly FOUR wimmen in the history of this planet who heard me say those words to them. Those are my grandmother, my mama, my daughter and Jennifer. Nobody else.

I'll always flirt and I'll always have lust in my heart no matter who I'm coupled with at the time. But I would never cheat on someone I loved, and I know what that means in MY mind. I've seen just the opposite happen to me, and it hurts really bad.

What do you think about this matter?

Acidman's advice to trolls

Originally published April 5, 2005

I've studied you people for a while. Interesting. Kinda like looking at worms crawl out of puppy-turds. Watching that nature in action riff is about as intresting as reading your comments.

Lemme give you some advice if you want to be a good troll:

* Try so stay somewhat on topic, even though you don't understand the topic.

* DO NOT resort to mindless insults as a way to make your salient intellectual points.

* Look up the word "Salient" in the dictionary, if you own one. That act might increase your vocabulary by at least 50%.

* Use a real email address, you cowardly bastard.

* Ask yourself a serious question--- why do I get my jollies being a complete prick on other people's blogs? Did you start out by writing grafitti on bathroom walls?

* Get a fucking life, you pathetic loser. Try some Clearsel. Bathe once in a while. Try sex with a REAL woman once in your life.

And move out of your mama's house. Do something really unthinkable, such as get a job.

That's MY Humble opinion.

May 08, 2007


Originally published March 10, 2005

Don't laugh--- it all could come true.

Headlines from the year 2029

Ozone created by electric cars now killing millions in the seventh largest country in the world, Mexifornia formally known as California. White minorities still trying to have English recognized as Mexifornia's third language.

Spotted Owl plague threatens northwestern United States crops and livestock.

Baby conceived naturally . scientists stumped.

Couple petitions court to reinstate heterosexual marriage.

Last remaining Fundamentalist Muslim dies in the American Territory of the Middle East (formerly known as Iran, Afghanistan, Syria and Lebanon).

Iraq still closed off; physicists estimate it will take at least 10 more years before radioactivity decreases to safe levels.

France pleads for global help after being taken over by Jamaica.

Castro finally dies at age 112; Cuban cigars can now be imported legally, but President Chelsea Clinton has banned all smoking.

George Z. Bush says he will run for President in 2036.

Postal Service raises price of first class stamp to $17.89 and reduces mail delivery to Wednesdays only.

85-year, $75.8 billion study: Diet and Exercise is the key to weight loss.

Average weight of Americans drops to 250 lbs.

Japanese scientists have created a camera with such a fast shutter speed, they now can photograph a woman with her mouth shut. (hey! I just sent it. I didn't write it!)

Massachusetts executes last remaining conservative.

Supreme Court rules punishment of criminals violates their civil rights.

Average height of NBA players now nine feet, seven inches.

New federal law requires that all nail clippers, screwdrivers, fly swatters and rolled-up newspapers must be registered by January 2036.

Congress authorizes direct deposit of formerly illegal political contributions to campaign accounts.

Capitol Hill intern indicted for refusing to have sex with congressman.

IRS sets lowest tax rate at 75 percent.

Florida voters still having trouble with voting machines

(Sent to me by Maggie)

I could add several others, but I'm still feeling kinda poorly today.

My first car

Originally published March 11, 2005

In 1971, my father co-signed a bank loan for me to buy a fire-engine red 1968 Javelin, which was a sweet deal at $1,000. It belonged to a friend of mine who was shipping off with the Navy. I was responsible for insurance, gas and upkeep, plus paying back that loan in one year.

Do you remember the sense of FREEDOM you felt when you had your first car, one that belonged to YOU? Especially one that was fast, good-looking and a real pussy-magnet. No more begging the parents for the car keys. You had your own wheels and you could go when and where you pleased.

I loved that car. I paid off the loan on time and kept my insurance current because I had a job flipping burgers while I went to college. I also played guitar in bars on the weekends. But DAMN! Owning your own car was an expensive proposition, even back when gas was 26 cents per gallon.

That was my first dose of adult responsibility, especially after I got my first speeding ticket. But I thought I was hot shit at the time, so I moved out of my parent's house and started living on my own. That was another shock, as I discovered that meals didn't just appear by magic on the supper table and laundry didn't wash itself.

That was my SECOND dose of adult responsibility, and I still don't have a handle on that one today. But I loved my car.

I drove it for five years, put over 120,000 miles on it and sold it for $500 to a guy who drove it for at least another three years. I'm pretty sure that I saw the car broken down with the hood up on Lynes Parkway sometime in 1979. I might be mistaken, but it sure looked a lot like my first car.

It's strange... but I still dream about driving that thing.

Get pissed off

Originally published March 11, 2005

I've never known a woman in my life who could read a map worth a shit, and if I had a dollar for every time my female "navigator" said, "Oh! I think we should have turned left back there," I'd be a rich man. Most wimmen simply CANNOT read a map.

Even if you tell them ahead of time, "We should be getting close to the turnoff on highway 35. Let me know when you see it," you usually get--- "Oh! I think that was Highway 35 we just passed!" And usually, you just passed Highway 35. If you are watching the road and expecting her to watch road signs, you're fucked.

I do much better all by myself.

Of course, science shows us why.

Rahman and his colleagues designed the study to test a theory that gay men and lesbian women might show "cross-sex shifts" in some cognitive abilities as well as in their sexual preferences.

The hypothesis is that homosexual people shift in the direction of the opposite sex in other aspects of their psychology other than sexual preference. That is, gay men may take on aspects of female psychology, and lesbians acquire aspects of male psychology.

What the hell does that mean? I need a lesbian navigator the next time I take a long road trip because SHE can read a map and a gay guy can't? Or I need to let a gay guy drive while I navigate? I know good and well that most wimmen CANNOT read a map or watch road signs. But I also don't think a study of 80 people proves anything.

I've just never seen a woman who wasn't damned good at getting me lost.

May 07, 2007

Word challenge

Originally published March 2, 2005

Use "fungible," diaphanous," "crucible", ""tendentious" and "misanthrope" in a coherent paragraph. I dare you.

I'll post mine later.

Cruel and unusual

Originally published March 2, 2005

I read a lot of history and I know for a fact that "human beans" are some of the most sadistic creatures who ever walked this planet. We have a lot of people throughout history who spent their time inventing horrible ways to kill people.

Just look at the facts. Crucifixion was bad enough (you'd suffer miserably for about 72 hours before you died) but some people had even BETTER ideas. Break somebody at the wheel. Take somebody, strip them nekkid, tie them to a wagon wheel and use a metal rod to slowly break every bone in their bodies. That could last about 12 hours if done properly.

Put somebody on a rack and slowly dislocate every joint in the body. Draw and quarter someone. Practice hanging, until just before the person strangles, then cut him down and slowly eviscerate him once he regains consciousness.

Do like the American Indians did: tie somebody to a tree with a piece of loose rope, then cut a hole in his belly and drag out a piece of intestine. Nail THAT to the tree with a sharp knife and make the poor bastard march around and around the tree while squaws poked him with hot sticks from the fire they started at his feet while he pulls his own guts out.

Scalp a man, then pack his bare skull with glowing embers from a fire. Then tie his scalp back on and watch his brain bake from the heat as he jabbers like a madman as his brain cooks while he's still alive.

I'm not making this stuff up. It's history. And people used to like to WATCH this kind of shit happening. They still do today, except we call it "reality TV" instead of a public execution.

Anybody who asks me "How COULD they?" when they talk about Hitlers minions murdering millions of Jews during WWII are idiots in my humble opinion. They don't read history and they don't understand human nature.

We have NEVER lacked sadists in this world, and we never will. All they really need is permission from government to do what they already LIKE to do. They'll poke a child's eyes out with a screwdriver and laugh while they do it.

Don't tell me that these people don't exist. They do, and there's more of them than you think.

Blind dates

Originally published March 9, 2005

Have you ever had a "blind date?" I don't mean a date who couldn't SEE, but someone YOU had never seen or spoken to before. Somebody set you up, you got roped into it by a friend, or the offer came and you accepted. How many people actually have done that?

I have, three times. One totally sucked (not in a sexual way), one was a very pleasant partner who showed me a good night, and the other was someone I almost fell in love with. She was a respiratory therapist. She was Irish and she could drink like a fish. Had big titties, too.

She gave a tremendous back-rub, but she got a lot of practice on the job with terminal lung cancer, heart disease and emphasema patients to help their breathing. She worked around DYING PEOPLE every day.

I don't know how she did it. I don't believe that I could. But she was one hell of a woman. I came close to falling in love with her.

We split when I went off to Athens to attend graduate school. I haven't seen her or heard about her now for almost 30 years. I find that idea strange, although I have no idea what made me think of her tonight. I hope life treated her well.

Blind dates. Have YOU ever had a good one?

Word play

Originally published March 3, 2005

The ancient misanthrope labored over his crucible as he melted the proper ingredients into the cast-iron form. Smoke formed a diaphanous cloud, almost like a halo around his head as he worked. He didn't believe the masses when they said truth was "fungible." To this tendentious alchemist, truth was etched in stone and no king, no sheriff and no priest would ever convince him othewise. When he was finished with this spell, they would see. They would ALL see.

May 06, 2007

The perfidy of wimmen

Originally published February 27, 2005

Don't tell me that wimmen aren't scheming, sick, deviant cunts of the very worst order. I MARRIED one of those and I see more and more evidence of their presence every day. Just read this post.

I rest my case. Nobody but a scheming, sick, deviant cunt would even THINK of doing such a thing. But she did.

There is one thing that has always bothered me greatly about a "woman's right to choose." That would be the rights of the father, or more exactly, the lack thereof. Under current law, a man's "right to choose" basically extends to not getting naked with a woman. After that son, you're fucked.

All you young men, gather 'round and listen to those last words. "You are fucked". Yea, verily, it is true. You can't even trust a goddam blow-job anymore.

Here we have a case where a woman performs ORAL SEX on a man, saves the consummation of the act and then inserts the semen into herself for the purpose of getting pregnant. Once this mission is accomplished, she sues for child support. And WINS!!!

Don't we live in a wonderful world?

I am a monster

Originally published February 25, 2005

Well, I'm either a child-slave driver or a clever and generous neighbor. Two of Jack's sisters agreed to clean my house, starting with the kitchen. I hired them on the spot yesterday when they said they wanted to make some money. They showed up after school today and are working their butts off as I type.

They offered to do the kitchen for $25, a bargain at the price. Hillary took one look at my sink and said, "I'll be right back." I thought she would run away and never return. But she was back in five minutes, with a pair of green, elbow-length Haz-Mat washing gloves and a bottle of her personal dishwashing detergent. That girl has potential.

If they do my kitchen right, I'm giving them a shot at the rest of the house. They're making some horrible noises in there ("EEwwwwww!!!") but they're doing the job. I may put them on a permanent contract. This could be a win-win-win situation.

I get my house cleaned, I make a couple of young girls wealthy (by young girl standards) and I keep them off the streets and out of trouble. Good, honest work for a good, honest wage. And NO SEX is involved. (Although I'll tell you one thing. Hillary is going to be a complete knockout in another couple of years. She's going to be a dude-magnet.)

She also doesn't mind working, either. Her sister, Kylie, is pretty much useless, except for making those "EEEwwww" noises, but I think they'll get it done together. They're going at it like true warriors right now.

I've never even CONTEMPLATED child abuse in my life. But I look at the job I gave those girls and I have to wonder now... I just may be a monster.

But I'll bet that I end up with a clean house by this time tomorrow.

Animal sacrifice?

Originally published February 25, 2005

I'm not sure what to think about this post. It's just way too spiritual for me. I've committed numerous animal sacrifices in my life, and I never gave a damn about getting to "know the animal in person." (Can you get to know an animal in person? I am confused.)

I kill squirrels because they raid my bird feeders and eat my okra plants. They also will totally fuck up a pear tree. (Pick a pear, take one or two bites, drop that pear to the ground and repeat until all the pears are gone.) The only ritual I perform when I sacrifice those bastards is to center their greedy little heads in the crosshairs of my rifle scope and hold still when I squeeze the trigger.

I kill pigeons because they are nasty, disgusting, shit-making pests. I once took my pellet rifle over to my mama's house and shot 34 of them one Sunday afternoon when she was being overrun by the varmits. Their shit was peeling the paint off her house. I didn't care to get to know a single one of them beforehand. I just shot 'em.

I might like to perform a ritual sacrifice on a cat... I've popped a few of them with the pellet rifle, but only to sting them and run them off, not to kill. I just wanted them to stop pooping in my garden and yowling all night during their nocturnal fuck-fests. But the idea of an altar, a ritual, a sharp knife and a bound cat DOES appeal to me.

One good thing came from reading that post. I now know what a numenist is. I also learned something else, too.

I ain't one.

May 05, 2007


Originally published February 11, 2005

I don't admire many people in this world. In fact, you gotta show me some serious wherewithall to even earn my RESPECT, let alone my admiration. But I'll tell you how to do that.

*Display courage. I'm not talking about crazy-assed, attack that hill, show veins in your teeth, John Wayne bullshit. Being fearless is different from being courageous. A courageous person feels fear, tingles with it and overcomes that feeling because he is determined to do the right thing. THAT'S the person who will stand when everybody else kneels or who will NOT sacrifice a belief for political correctness or personal safety. That's a Tall Dog.

*Be honest. Even when the truth hurts, tell it, straight-up. Lies are easy. That's the refuge of a coward. I still believe that a man's word is his bond and I don't need no goddam lawyer to tell me who I can trust. If you make a deal with an honest person, you don't need a signed contract. A handshake is good enough.

*Be willin'. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Back it up with spine. Face trouble head-on and and don't try to weasel yourself out of it if things start going badly. Win the fight, or go down fighting.

*Walk Tall. I am a small man, but size doesn't matter when you walk tall. It's an attitude that comes from everything I posted above. I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees and I've never asked for a hand-out in my life. I never will, either. If I can't get it on my own, I don't deserve it.

*Don't Quit. There's a big difference between losing and being whipped. You may lose a lot in life, but never let ANYTHING whip you.

*Take no shit. Look around this country today. Is it just ME seeing flashbacks from the the drugs I ingested in the 60s, or are we becoming a nation of sheeple, who don't know how to stand up and say, "I'm not gonna take this crap!" Got-Dam!!! If enough people grew a set of balls and yelled "WE ain't gonna take this crap!" the crap would go away. The only way that crap gets served to you is because you don't bitch about it. If you eat it, you deserve the meal you get.

That's MY humble opinion, which is why I admire Teddy Roosevelt.

Existential question

Originally published February 10, 2005

This one is for heterosexuals only. Nah... wait a minute. I don't care which side of the plate you bat from... you can answer the questions, too. I'm just curious here.

I am a straight male and I like female boobs. I've seen some downright BEAUTIFUL boobs and some that were okay and a few that barely qualified as boobs, but I cannot recall EVER seeing a set that I thought was ugly. I like boobs. I like some better than others, but that fact doesn't change the basic premise that I LIKE BOOBS.

Now... I gotta ask you wimmen. Do you look at cocks the same way I look at boobs? You know, some are BEAUTIFUL, some are okay and THAT ONE will do because it's the only one around? I'm trying to explore the female mind here and I always get confused when I go there.

The only cock that EVER fascinated ME was my own, and I've never had an interest in another guy's cock. But you wimmen DO, and I want you to 'splain that to me. I will bare my assets first:

* I like titties with nice nipples.

* I like titties that AROUSE a woman when you play with her nipples.

* I like small titties. Anything over a handful is wasted.

* My experience has taught me that wimmen with big racks don't have sensitive nipples.

* Wimmen with big racks don't seem to care about their asses, which I happen to think is the most sexy thing on a woman.

Now, I've had my male chauvanist rant. So, YOU tell ME? (By the way... I got this idea from playing a game of poker with some wimmen and all the cards had well-hung nekkid male studs on them, and THEY started the cock-talk, not me. I just listened.)

*Are some cocks prettier than others?

* Did you ever see one that you thought was downright UGLY?

* What is the difference?

*How many of you ever saw an uncircumsized male?

* What is better--- length, width or the person it's attached to?

* Is a blow-job FUN, or do you see it as a female duty?

* You have multiple orgasms (I mean "abbadabbas") How do you do that?

Okay, you bold, liberated wimmen. Answer THOSE questions and I'll write about what I think about "choochie" later.

You ask, I answer

Originally published February 9, 2005

The interview is short. Four questions. Answers posted on my blog.

If you're up for it, here goes.

How did you get into blogging?

I started to keep from killing myself. I kept it up because I enjoyed it. After more than three years, I can't imagine stopping now.

What do you think was your best post ever?

They're ALL damn good. I've written more than 10,000 posts now. I don't remember half of them.

What is your favorite blog, other than your own?

velociman, who reminds me of ME except for the fact that he's younger, taller, better-looking, more articulate and married to a very sexy woman. Other than those minor differences, we are a lot alike.

Does your blog have a main theme or goal? (Please note, for some
blogs, this may be a stupid question. I understand. Just move on.

I blog in a ceaseless quest for adoration from people who don't know me. It's pure, unadulterated ego. I have no lofty goals. I just hope I get laid every once in a while.

Do those in your personal life know about your blog? Why or why not?

Yeah, everybody knows about my blog, including the local Sheriff's Department. I got fired from my job for blogging. Some people hate my GUTS because of my blog. I could give a lovely fuck.

In general, do you think blogging has a greater social value?

I don't understand the question. A greater social value than WHAT? I don't blog to create any "social value." I blog to make people laugh, to piss them off and to make myself feel simply wonderful about MYSELF. It's all EGO, baby!

Lastly, what do you think of my blog? :-)

YOU have a blog? Sorry... I haven't noticed, but I am certain that it is excellent, well-written and full of "social value." Do you do "skins?"

There. Be careful about asking ME questions. I just might answer them honestly.

(I want to give ATTRIBUTION to the person who asked the questions, but her site appears to be twisted in a knot like her panties now because I didn't play "fair.")
[Ed. Blog is now password protected.]

It's supposed to be href= SHE'S supposed to be the star of the show. SHE'S supposed to post the interview results. SHE'S supposed to be wonderful, witty and oh so clever. Shower her with love. She needs it right now.

The questions sucked and your approach was even worse. And if you send ME a poison email because I responded the way I did, you haven't been reading me very long, have you? If you want your ass kissed, go vote Democrat. Don't come here.

Fuckin' wimmen...

May 04, 2007

Tree rats

Originally published February 9, 2005

I've always had bird feeders in my yard. I like my birds. Maybe that's one reason I hate cats so much, because a got-dam cat thinks a bird-feeder is a buffet table and it will serve itself with whatever it can catch. Fuck a cat.

But the tree rats are even worse. A squirrel will invade a bird feeder, run off all the birds, kick all the small seeds to the ground and sit there munching sunflower seeds as if the bastard owned the place. I've probably killed a hundred of those shitasses with my pellet rifle. Damned rats.

I once put up a nice T-bar, stainless-steel frame in my back yard and hung a bird feeder on each end. The birds enjoyed it for about a day until the squirrels found it and invaded like a bunch of fuzzy-tailed Michael Moores, fucking up anything they couldn't eat. They pissed me off, but I couldn't shoot them without risking hitting a neighbor's window.

So... I thunk a thought. I went to the hardware store and bought a can of water-insoluable axle grease and I lathered that center pole with about half the can. THAT was amusing.

The squirrels came running up, jumped on the pole to climb up to the goodies they were accustomed to stealing, and ended up sliding right off with grease caked all over their greedy little paws. The pissants started falling out of trees after that, because they couldn't get a grip on anything. I enjoyed the show and I thought my squirrel problem was solved.

One Saturday morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. I heard a thump, a crash and a rattle from the back yard. After about the third repetition of that sound, I wondered WTF is THAT? I looked outside and saw what was happening.

One fat, scheming squirrel figured out that he could climb a pine tree near the feeders, take a wild run-and-go down a low-hanging limb and then launch himself like Rocky the Flying Tree Rat at the feeders. Even if he couldn't catch one and hold on, he managed to knock them around enough that a lot of seed hit the ground, so he'd sit there and eat until he got ready to launch another aerial assault.

I watched him do it a dozen times and I was impressed by his ingenuity. He found a way around the greased pole. But I eventually grew bored watching him, so I waited for him to sit on the ground munching, and I shot him in the head with the pellet rifle. See... once he was on the ground, I didn't have to worry about hitting my neighbor's window anymore. I sent that rat to the great Bird Feeder in the Sky.

I mention that story because I KNOW that squirrels are devious little shits who will find a way to overcome your defenses if you give them enough time to think about it. They are slick and evil.

Spammers are a lot like squirrels. Thanks to the efforts of this golden god, I have been almost totally spam-free in my comments for more than a month now. Paul put up a greased pole on my site and he kept the squirrels at bay for a while. But, alas, squirrels don't quit scheming.

I was hit by more than 200 Trackback spams last night. Those fuckers found a way around the greased pole. I deleted them all (and I banned a couple of IP addresses, so if I got you by accident, let me know and I'll see if I can fix the problem), but they'll be back. They ALWAYS come back, just like the rats they are.

I just wish I could catch one sitting fat and happy in my yard while munching the fruit of his rattiness. I LONG to shoot one right in the head and watch him drop like a rock with a sunflower seed still hanging out of his buck-toothed, greedy little mouth. Where I live now, I don't have to worry about hitting a neighbor's house, so I might use something a little bigger than that Crossman pellet rifle.

Spammers are rats and they SHOULD be shot.

Showing my age

Originally published February 7, 2005

Bejus. I've seen some bloggers posting the "Top Ten Rock Bands of All Time" and I've never heard of half of them. Once you get past "Hootie and the Blowfish," you've lost me. I am an old-timer. These wonder-bands of today all sound alike, they are over-produced in the studio and they have too many fucking tattoos. I don't like a goddam one of them.

Nobody is going to remember those cheap fucks in five years.

Here's a REAL Top Ten from an old fart:

#1) Elvis Presly. He WAS the King and he always will be, even if he became a parody of himself later in his career. He changed music forever.

#2) The Beatles. From bubble-gum to psychedelic, they did it all. Their show on Ed Sullivan in 1964 is what made me want to play guitar. GOT-DAM! What a band.

#3) The Rolling Stones. A garage band that went big-time but still sounded like a garage band. I have to give them credit for longevtity. But I NEVER liked big-lipped Mick Jagger.

#4) Led Zeppelin. If I have to explain that choice, you wouldn't understand anyway. Nobody else ever sang like Robert Plant.

#5) Steppenwolf. John Kay just might be the grittiest rock & roll singer of all time. How often do you still hear "Born to be Wild" or "Magic Carpet Ride" today, 30 years after those songs were recorded? I rest my case.

#6) Fleetwood Mac. I know I'll piss some people off with this choice, but when they were in their early days, they were damn good. They had it all-- musicianship, harmony, great songs and good-lookin' wimmen.

#7) The Marshall Tucker Band. ABSOLUTELY the best band I ever saw play in concert. Those guys cooked until the stage boiled. My ears rang until the next morning.

#8) The Allman Brothers Band. Georgia peaches with some of the best guitar licks you'll ever hear. They were ahead of their time, although I never liked Dwane that much.

#9) The Beach Boys. Sweet Bejus. I still like hearing that harmony today. That was some amazing work on what were mostly shitty songs.

#10) The Eagles. Probably one of the most over-inflated EGO bands of all time, but damn good at what they did. "Desperado." "Hotel California." "Take it Easy." You don't get much better than that.

Heh. I think I dropped off the radar screen around 1978. So, you young shits tell me how good U-2 is and how I don't know shit because I don't appreciate the Seattle Sound. Go get another tattoo and kiss my Cracker ass.

Those are MY Top Ten Bands.

Things rednecks don't say

Originally published February 8, 2005

40. Oh I just couldn't. Hell, she's only sixteen.
39. I'll take Shakespeare for 1000, Alex.
38. Duct tape won't fix that.
37. Lisa Marie was lucky to catch Michael.
36. Come to think of it, I'll have a Heineken.
35. We don't keep firearms in this house.
34. Has anybody seen the sideburns trimmer?
33. You can't feed that to the dog.
32. I thought Graceland was tacky.
31. No kids in the back of the pickup, it's just not safe.
30. Wrasslin's fake.
29. Honey, did you mail that donation to Greenpeace?
28. We're vegetarians.
27. Do you think my gut is too big?
26. I'll have grapefruit and grapes instead of biscuits and gravy.
25. Honey, we don't need another dog.
24. Who's Richard Petty?
23. Give me the small bag of pork rinds.
22. Too many deer heads detract from the decor.
21. Spittin is such a nasty habit.
20. I just couldn't find a thing at Walmart today.
19. Trim the fat off that steak.
18. Cappuccino tastes better than espresso.
17. The tires on that truck are too big.
16. I'll have the arugula and radicchio salad.
15. I've got it all on the C drive.
14. Unsweetened tea tastes better.
13. Would you like your salmon poached or broiled?
12. My fiance, Bobbie Jo, is registered at Tiffany's.
11. I've got two cases of Zima for the Super Bowl.
10. Little Debbie snack cakes have too many fat grams.
09. Checkmate.
08. She's too young to be wearing a bikini.
07. Does the salad bar have bean sprouts?
06. Hey, here's an episode of "Hee Haw" that we haven't seen.
05. I don't have a favorite college team.
04. Be sure to bring my salad dressing on the side.
03. I believe you cooked those green beans too long.
02. Those shorts ought to be a little longer, Darla.
01. Nope, no more for me. I'm drivin tonight.

(Thanks to Michelle for the email!)

I could add a few others (such as, "No grits for me. I prefer cream o' wheat" or "You know, a glass of nice chablis would taste good with these ribs" or "Boiled peanuts? YUK!"), but I won't.

May 03, 2007

The underclass

Originally published February 6, 2005

I was raised in a coal mining camp in Harlan County, Kentucky. That place was so far back in the mountains that they had to PUMP sunshine in there. Everything was black with coal dust. I recall a happy childhood, but I'll bet Michael Moore could make a film up there showing what an absolute hell-hole it was.

Everybody lived in the camp. The mining company built the houses and they charged low rent to stay in them. Plus, you could buy coal for $2 a ton and have it delivered right into the bin in the basement. A coal bin was a great place to play. Get dirty and then get spanked for playing in the coal bin. I did it many times.

But the camp had its own pecking order. My daddy was a supervisor, so we lived on "Front Row," right next to the highway. That was a status symbol. The farther back you lived from the highway, the lower your status on the mining camp totem pole. Bejus help you if you lived on "Back Alley," down by the river at the rear of the camp. That was the fucking ghetto of a COAL MINING CAMP.

Just use your imagination and think about that for a while. I was not allowed to play with kids from "Back Alley" because they all had lice and they would steal. It wasn't pretty back yonder.

Guess who lived there? The lazy, the drunk, the unreliable, the promiscuous, the unemployed and the slackards, that's who. They didn't WANT anything better, or they could have had it--- because nobody HAD to live on "Back Alley." Those people CHOSE to. And they lived like pigs.

I think I learned back then that we'll ALWAYS have an underclass because some people choose to live that way. No government program is going to change the lazy bastards. We're talking silk purse and sow's ear. Ain't gonna happen.

But you don't have to be stupid and you don't have to blame all your problems on some kind of conspiracy. YOU CHOOSE!!!
[Ed. News article no longer available.]

I'm not saying that life is fair and that all men and wimmen are treated equally in the workplace. Life is about as unfair as things get, and if you expect level ground, you're gonna trip and fall. But you just have to accept that fact. Opportunity surrounds you if you want it.

If you want to live on "Back Alley," go right ahead. Just don't say that it's MY fault that you're there, 'cause it aint. We're ALWAYS going to have an underslass in society simply because some people opt to live that way. No education, no work ethic and no sense of responsibility aren't great tools for success in life. Follow that path and you end up on "Back Alley."

Your sex or your skin color doesn't matter in this simple equation. If you learn, you work and you behave responsibly, you may not become a millionaire. Hell, you may not even be happy.

But you won't be living on "Back Alley."

Water skiing

Originally published February 5, 2005

I used to be really good at water skiing. I could slalom and I even tried bare-footing a couple of times. Busted my ass a lot. But I could cut quite a ruckus on the water.

I remember the time I was riding one ski and I was going hell-bent for leather when the boat pilot made a big circle in the sound. I hung out on the rope as far as I could and the ski was making a zipping noise as I skimmed over the water. That's about when I hit the wake and sunk the toe of the ski. It stopped and I didn't.

For some reason, I held onto the rope as I sailed through the air, ski-less and on my way to an ass-busting. I let go of the rope when I hit the water and it almost tore my arm off. I was going about 50 miles an hour at the time.

Let me explain some basic physics to people who don't understand busting your ass on water. Going the speed I was, I DID NOT sink quitely into the brine. I bounced like a goddam rubber ball on a concrete driveway and I PINWHEELED a few times before I finally sank. I thought I broke every bone in my fucking body. It hurt like hell.

I floated in my ski vest and had delerious dreams for a while. I saw God. I saw Moby Dick. I saw Buffalo Bob and Howdy Doody. I saw myself flying through the air like a winged angel. I don't remember getting back in the boat.

But I did, and I went skiing again. That's how stupid I am.

Really pet peeves

Originally published February 7, 2005

Why do so many of you people password-protect your goddam Site Meter? That ain't smart if you're looking for traffic. But it IS some kind of anal-retentive thing that makes me not want to visit you anyway.

Why do so many people who blog like cats? I don't understand that shit. Cats are the absolute antichrist of animals, but you think they're "cute." Of course, you also password protect your Site Meter, too, you fucked-up deviants.

Fat wimmen put sexy "skins" on their blogs. Fat guys post pictures of themselves and write about beer and food. Who is most honest?

I don't give a shit that you took the girls to a cub scout meeting today and you all enjoyed chocolate cookies. Nobody else gives a shit, either. Don't blog about that boring June Cleaver crap. Now... if one of the girls CHOKED on a cookie and you had to Heimlich them back to life, that's blog-fodder. Can't you tell the difference?

Don't write erotic fantasy blogs. Just go out and get laid, for Christssake. Hell, if you're desperate enough to blog about the wonders of giving a blow job, CALL ME. We can work something out.

I HATE the *grin* and the *snicker* and the *wink* shit wimmen do on blogs. (You know... *shrugs shoulders and rolls eyeballs*) Xerox a copy of your ass and post it. Wink THAT at me.

I don't like people who constantly misspell words. I blame all of mine on typos. But I keep a fucking dictionary next to my computer. If I WANT to spell a word correctly, I will.

Their, they're and there are three different words and they mean three different things. Try to use them correctly. Your and you're are the same way. So is affect and effect. AND WORST OF ALL!!! Understand the difference between I and Me in a sentence. "My husband and I went to the store" is correct. "You need to talk to my husband and I about that" IS NOT correct. I appreciate good grammar except when I INTEND to mangle it, but at least I know the difference.

Is the word "none" singular or plural?

Is this correct? "Ask a person for an opinion. They'll give you one."

I took a really nice pain pill tonight. I feel intellectual.

May 02, 2007

You ask, I answer

Originally published February 4, 2005

Shamelessly stolen from here.


1) Do you have any phobias, and if so, what are they?

I have a visceral fear of snakes. I've had it all my life and I'll never get over it. Snakes literally make my skin crawl and my blood run cold. Every time I see one, I jump and almost piss my pants. In fact, I HAVE pissed my pants after walking up unexpectedly on a snake. I don't know what experience I had early in life to scar my psyche so badly, but scarred I am. I HATE snakes with a revulsion so powerful that I cannot describe it.

I don't like heights, either, but I suffer from vertigo. I get dizzy in high places and falling is not a good idea. THAT I can understand. But my thing with snakes is downright primordeal.

2) If you do have one (or several) has it (or have they) ever been so intrusive in your life that it (or they) caused you embarrassment?

Those assholes at work used to kill snakes at the plant and put them in my office just to watch me do the idiot-dance and piss my pants when I turned on the light and saw the dead snake. Bastards. Sometimes they'd put one in my desk drawer and just wait for me to find it. "Kill a snake and fuck with Rob" was a popular sport.

3) Eagles or Patriots?

Patriots by 13 points. It won't even be close.

Yeah, and I forgot that Daunte Culpepper plays for the loser-assed Vikings. I still don't like him.


Originally published February 3, 2005

My mama sent me this one:

John wakes up at home with a huge hangover after the night of his office Christmas party. He forces himself to open his eyes, and the first thing he sees is a couple of aspirins next to a glass of water on the side table. And, next to them, a single red rose!

John sits down and sees his clothing in front of him, all clean and pressed.
John looks around the room and sees that it is in perfect order, spotlessly clean. So is the rest of the house. He takes the aspirins, cringes when he sees a huge black eye staring back at him in the bathroom mirror, and notices a note on the table: "Honey, breakfast is on the stove, I left early to go shopping-- Love you!"

He stumbles to the kitchen and sure enough, there is hot breakfast and the morning newspaper. His son is also at the table, eating. John asks, "Son... what happened last night?"

"Well, you came home after 3 A.M., drunk and out of your mind. You broke some furniture, puked in the hallway, and got that black eye when you ran into the door."

"So, why is everything in such perfect order, so clean, I have a rose, and breakfast is on the table waiting for me?"

His son replies, "Oh, THAT!.. Mom dragged you to the bedroom, and when she tried to take your pants off, you screamed, "Leave me alone, lady, I'm married!"

Broken furniture - $85.26

Hot Breakfast - $4.20

Red Rose bud -$3.00

Two Aspirins -$0.38

Saying the right thing, at the right time........."Priceless".

Me and human nature

Originally published February 4, 2005

I wasn't criticizing anybody's blog when I wrote this post. I simply was making a point that I believe in deeply.

I visited my friend catfish last week and we compared notes about being really broke in life. (We're both unemployed now.) One thing I like about Cat is the fact that he grew up like I DID--- you didn't have any goddam money if you didn't earn it. We both started working when we were 12 years old and we never stopped.

Now, after all that blood, sweat and tears, we're both broke-dicked old fuckers who are too pitiful to even blow away. We debated about who became more broke the most times. Yeah, we both knew about the choice between food, cigarettes and gas when you had $10 to last you for a week, and we both slept on bare matressess in a boarding house until we got back on our feet.

I think Joe went broke one more time than I did. But that doesn't matter. We both dug ourselves out of those holes every time. It's funny how so similar our stories are. We both drew the same conclusions: "Right now, I'm fucked. But I can work my way outta this." And we did.

That's why I have no sympathy for a whinebag. You can work your way out of anything.

May 01, 2007

For those who want to know

Originally published September 21, 2003

Yes, I can have a fully-satisfying orgasm with the bionic Roscoe. That part is exactly the way it used to be.

I do not ejaculate. I feel the same sensations of ejaculation when I climax, but I dry-fire. All of my seminal vessicles were removed when the doctor carved out my prostate. So, if you don't like to swallow, I'm your guy for a blow-job. I'm all hiss and no jizz.

I am not tender. I was for a while and the fact that I always carry a semi-boner bothers me at work sometimes, but once my pants are off, I have no problem with rodeo sex.

And yeah. It still feels just as good as it did before the doctors got their hands on me. Plus, I can do it ALL NIGHT LONG now, even when I'm asleep.

Any more questions?

Johnny Cash

Originally published September 19, 2003

Since he upped and died, his record sales have gone through the roof. (Ed. Link borked.) I think that's cool.

Therefore, I'm going to post my list of my 10 Favorite Johnny Cash Songs because I'm no, er, Johnny come lately to the man's music. I've listened to and played his stuff since I was a 13 year-old boy.

#1: "I Walk The Line." What more can I say? Favorite verse?

I find it very, very easy to be true.
I find myself alone when each day's through
Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you
Because you're mine, I walk the line

#2: "Folsom Prison Blues." That song was built for JC. Favorite verse?

I'll bet there's rich folks eating in a fancy dining car
They're probably drinking coffee and smoking big cigars
Well, I know I had it coming, I know I can't be free
But that train keeps a-moving, and that's what tortures me."

#3: "Long, Black Veil." JC did a lot of traditional mountain songs and he did this one the best. Favorite verse?

Well, the scaffold is high, and eternity's near
She stood in the crowd and shed not a tear
But sometimes at night, when the cold wind moans
In a long, black veil, she cries o'er my bones."

#4: "Orange Blossom Special." That's where Johnny did the (cheating) dual-harmonica thing that impressed people who don't know music and made me laugh at him. My Papaw always was impressed when he saw Johnny perform that song. "That man can play TWO HARMONICAS AT ONCE!" he always declared. Yep. Get a "G" and a "D" and whatever you blow sounds all right. What the hell, I never considered JC to be a serious harmonica player, but he was a crowd pleaser. Favorite verse?

I'm goin' down to Florida and get some sand in my shoes
Or maybe California, and get some sand in my shoes
Gonna ride that Orange Blossom Special
And lose these New York blues

#5: "Ring of Fire." That one was pure JC. Favorite verse? The chorus.

I fell in to a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down, but the flames went higher
And it burns, burns burns
That ring of fire, the ring of fire.

#6: "Boy Named Sue." I believe that only JC could have pulled this one off as successfully as he did. Good song, but better because Johnny sang it. You could BELIEVE my Favorite Verse:

Well, I hit him hard right between the eyes
And he went down, but to my surprise
He come up with a knife and he cut off a piece of my ear
So I busted a chair right across his teeth
We crashed through the wall and into the street
Kickin' and a-gouging in the mud and the blood and the beer.

#7: "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right." JC did several Bob Dylan songs in his career and I always though his version of this classic was one of the best. He changed the words a little bit, but that just made his version better. Favorite verse?

When your rooster starts a-crowing at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I'll be gone
You are the reason I'm travelling on
But don't think twice, it's all right

#8 "Jackson." Yeah, he and June did that song well. Favorite verse?

We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout
We've been talking 'bout Jackson, ever since the fire went out
Yeah, I'm going to Jackson, turn a-loose of my coat
You go on to Jackson, goodbye is all she wrote.

#9: "Dark as a Dungeon." I come from a long line of coal miners, so I've always loved this song and JC did it well. My favorite verse?

Come all you young men, so young and so fine
And seek not your fortune in a dark, dreary mine
It'll seep in you bones and it'll darken your soul
'Till the blood in your veins runs as black as the coal

It's dark as a dungeon, damp as the dew,
Where the danger is doubled and the pleasures are few
Where the rain never falls and the sun never shines
It's DARK AS A DUNGEON way down in the mines

#10: "Bad News" That was a throwaway song on some album I bought long ago, but I always loved it. Favorite verse?

They tried to hang me in Austin, and they did in San Frisco
But I wouldn't choke, I broke the rope, and they had to let me go
Cause I'm Bad News
Everywhere I go, oh, no!
I'm always getting in trouble
And leaving little girls who hate to see me go

Tell me I don't know MY Johnny Cash.

Jingles, the moonbat

Originally published September 16, 2003

It was sometime around Christmas and a cartoon movie played on TV one night. The story was about a little boy who wanted a dog for Christmas and his parents wouldn't get him one. Through some miracle, Santa brought the boy a dog, he loved it, the dog loved him and the parents decided that the boy could keep it.

The little boy named the dog "Jingles" from the noise that Santa's sleigh made in the sky that night, and they lived happily ever after.

After seeing that movie, Quinton wanted a Jingles of his very own. The BC and I discussed it. We already had two dogs, one cat, a turtle, four goats and a bunch of free-range chickens on the mini-farm. What was one more dog thrown into that menagerie?

She went to the animal shelter and brought home a very sickly pup. It was eat up with heartworms, pinworms, roundworms and the galloping trot. It lasted two days before it died. Quinton was heartbroken.

I'll never understand why the BC picked that dog out of all the puppies available at the shelter. I could tell something was badly wrong with it as soon as she set it on the floor and it's legs wouldn't support its weight. Both eyes were badly matted and its belly was as round and tight as a basketball.

"Good grief, Jennifer," I said when I saw the poor thing, "was THIS the pick of the litter? Look at that belly. This dog has more worms than Walt Geiger's Red Wiggler farm. It can't even stand up on its own. There's something badly wrong with that dog."

"Well, it looked like the dog in the movie."

Well, it looked like warmed over death to me, and I was correct. It croaked and required only a very small hole in the back yard for its eternal doghouse.

The BC went back for a second try and came home with a wild-assed black puppy that resembled nothing I had ever seen before. "What kinda dog is THAT?" I asked, as the maniac ran up and started chewing on my foot and growling.

"It's a mutt, but it's supposed to be mostly Black Lab."

When Jingles II grew to young adulthood, even the vet couldn't decide what kind of dog she was. My guess was part hound and part Dingo. If there was any Black Lab in her, the Dingo part ate it. She had sleek, black hair and her ass was jacked up higher than her front legs. She could run like a greyhound. She had a standing jump that went to my eye-level when she did her "boingy, boingy" thing to welcome me home from work.

She was completely brainless, too.

That dog proved to be a chicken-killing, hole-digging, drag-shit-back-to-the-house, car-chasing, cat-murdering, impossible-to-house-train, howl at the moon, animal-control-escaping, feral alien-dog. I have never known another one like her and I pray that I never do.

She killed all of my free-range chickens and scattered their parts everywhere. She dug up my yard like a back-hoe operator. She brought home shoes, socks, gloves, two golf clubs, shirts, blue jeans and one freshly-skinned deer hide, complete with eyeless skull during her neighborhood prowls.

I became famous in the Bureau of Missing Things. If you were missing something, just go to Acidman's house and ask if Jingles stole it. Usually, that's where it was. I collected what the dog brought home and put it in the garage. If nobody claimed it after a week, I went door-to-door asking, "Does this belong to you?" I usually found the owner that way. But it was humiliating work.

That dog just liked dragging somebody else's stuff back to the house. I never could break her of it.

She came home one Saturday morning yelping as if her ass were on fire. The BC and Quinton were gone to the grocery store and I was out in the North Forty weeding my garden. I went to check on her. She was doing the "boingy, boingy" at the front door and raising hell. I calmed her down and examined her. She looked as if she had a baseball-sized chaw of Red Man in one cheek of her jowl and she obviously was in pain.

I saw no blood, but I had my suspicions. "Ya got snakebit, didn't you? You were gonna bring a copperhead or a rattlesnake home, weren't you? You dumbfuck."

I fed her two raw eggs with aspirin in them. If the snake had enough venom, the dog is dead and there's nothing I can do about it except make her belly feel better and reduce the pain as best I can. If the dog is gonna live, well, the snake used up most of his venom earlier and the dog will be fine. The BC came home about then.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I'm pretty sure a snake got Jingles right on the muzzle. Look at that swelling."


"Go ahead, but the only thing the vet will do is tranquilize the dog. It either lives or it doesn't right now. If the snake had been loaded for bear, the dog never would have made it back home. I think she'll probably be okay, but she won't be happy for a couple of days."

Jennifer rushed the dog to the vet. The vet gave the dog a wookie-shot and told Jennifer that the dog either lives or it doesn't right now. But he did confirm a snake-bite.

Jingles was very fortunate. The snake that bit her did not have a full venom load. She didn't quite stir up a dry-fire, but she came close. (By dry-fire, I mean that you can be bitten by a poisonious snake that has exhausted his venom recently, and you feel very few ill effects from it because he has no venom to inject. That's what happens in about three out of ten rattlesnake bites.)

Jingles survived the snake-bite but never became civilized and never grew a brain. After she outgrew puppyhood, Quinton never liked her very much. Jingles was too wild. So much for the Christmas dog.

When we sold the mini-farm and the BC bought her nice new house in the nice new neighborhood, Jingles did not like the small back yard with the privacy fence around it. She kept digging her way out to run the woods the way she was accustomed to doing. Roaming wide open spaces was the only life she had ever known. You can't fence a dog like that one.

The BC gave Jingles away (at least she SAYS she did). Quinton doesn't miss the dog at all, and to tell you the truth, neither do I.

That was one fucked-up dog.