November 30, 2008
This environmental shit
Originally published July 29, 2005
I dealt with hyperventilating environmentalists for a long time at work. I made a logical conclusion after meeting such people. THESE ARE CULTISTS!!!! They don't usually know what they're talking about, and if I hear another one of them use the word "toxic" around me, I'm going to choke them like a chicken.
I was involved in handling a big PCB cleanup at work. That waste of manpower and money cost my company several million dollars. Somebody at the EPA had a massive brain-fart and decided that PCBs had to GO, although they didn't have then and STILL have no evidence that PCBs are TERRIBLE carcinogens. Like Ceaser, they just said, "make it so," and it was.
The environmentalists didn't like freon, either. We have several dead astonauts to show for that, but that's just a small price to pay for saving planet Earth.
See? PCB was the best electric coolant insulator ever invented. Getting rid of it cost billions of dollars and hundreds of HUMAN lives, but that's okay.
Freon replaced SO2 and Hydrogen gas as a coolant and it made refrigeration SAFE. But some dingbat discovered a "hole
Don't even get me started on the number of people who die of malaria today (and the number is in the MILLIONS) because environmentalists don't like DDT.
My biggest complaint about environmentalist is the fact that they claim to "love" the planet, but they don't care how many people they kill.
November 29, 2008
Better than WD-40
Originally published December 21, 2005
I've always thought that WD-40 is the best stuff ever to come in an aerosol can. It's good for 2,000 uses and I always keep a can or two around the house. That little cocktail-straw applicator is a good idea, too. Gets right into those hard-to-reach places.
I have a theory about home repairs and you might be suprised how often it works: "If you can't fix it with anything else you've tried, spray it with WD-40." Even when that DOESN'T work, it makes the room smell like you've been doing SOMETHING constructive.
But I'll call WD-40 second best if anybody ever invents this miracle spray. I want not only a case of the stuff, I want lots of stock in the company that makes it, too. They'll NEVER go out of business because their... er... target market is huge and getting bigger every day.
I can think of more than 2,000 uses for it right now.
November 28, 2008
I'd like to sample
Originally published July 29, 2005
I haven't traveled all that far in my life, but I've been far enough to know a good hamburger when I taste one. I ate a regular McDonald's hamburger the other day, and I would have enjoyed sawdust more. That burger SUCKED!
Here are supposedly the best 20 hamburgers in America. I've never tasted one of them. Piss on that list--- I'll give you the top five of my own.
1) "The Congress," from the Exchange Tavern on River Street in Savannah. That is a two-fisted burger-eater's burger that has all the essential elements--- grease, meat, fixin's, and juice that runs off your elbows. Get extra napkins when you eat one of those. Absolutely delicious, and they'll still cook it bloody in the middle, unlike some other wussie places.
2) "The Monsterburger" from Chips Drive-in in Savannah. That place is closed now, but they made a burger with THREE side-by-side meat patties on a hoagie bun, dressed with everything and soaked in a "secret sauce" that made you sweat and say "YUM!" at the same time. You had to sit down to eat a Monsterburger, and then rest afterward.
3) "The Rodeo" from Billy Bob's Restaurant in Savannah. That thing weighed a POUND and it had chili, cheese and even refried beans on the side. I used to order one cut in half to feed me and Jennifer both. We usually still couldn't eat it all.
4) "The Bison Burger" that I ate at some diner in Montana. HOLY BEJUS! That waitress need a fork-lift to deliver it to my table, and I needed four hands to eat it right. It was bison meat, about 2" thick, covered with lettuce, tomato, onions and with some genuine Idaho home-fries on the side. I almost killed myself gnawing on that thing.
5) "A Krystal." Call me Southern. Call me provincial. Call me anything you want to call me and I don't care. A sack full of hot Krystal burgers is STILL a taste-treat for me today. I've eaten those little burgers all my life and I still like 'em today. They are the best "gut-nuggets" I ever shoved down my throat at 3:00 in the morning when I was really hungry. And drunk.
Besides--- anybody who thinks he can judge the best hamburger in America has his nerve. It all depends on what you like.
November 27, 2008
Originally published November 26, 2003
I suppose that I'll go over to mama's house tomorrow. She going to cook a turkey and some shuck beans. I LOVE shuck beans.
A couple of years ago, I broke my mama's heart by cooking a turkey better than the one she prepared. We had a lot of the family arrive from all over the country for a big feast that year and no one had ever tasted a deep-fried turkey before. That's how I cooked mine and it was sucked up to the bare bones in nothing flat. Mama had leftover turkey. I didn't.
If you've ever deep-fried a turkey, you'll never bake one in the oven again. I have a turkey cooker and I do the frying outside on a propane grill, but you can do it in any large pot on the kitchen stove if you're careful.
I once fried four turkeys, back-to-back on Thanksgiving morning and was finished with all four before noon that day. I use peanut oil, keep the grease between 325 and 350 degrees and allow three minutes per pound to cook the bird. A 20-pound turkey takes one hour. Frying results in the juciest, sweetest, most tender turkey you'll ever put in your mouth. I had the practice refined to an art form.
I'll probably never fry another turkey again. I got a free turkey from work last year and gave it away to Jack's mom. I seldom cook anymore and I have no use for a 20-pound bird on Thanksgiving.
Hell. I have no use for Thanksgiving anymore.
November 26, 2008
Originally published December 21,2005
Did anybody besides me watch Snack Food Tech on the History Channel? If you haven't seen it, make it a point to catch that show if you can. It's FULL of amazing stuff about candy, ice cream, pastries and other munchie foods.
Did you know that chewing gum was invented by a guy trying to make a soft tire for buggy wheels? And that he got his first ton of chicle, the "gum" in chewing gum, from Mexican General Santa Anna?
Krispy Kreme makes enough doughnuts every seven minutes to create a stack as tall as the Empire State Building.
120 MILLION pounds of pigskin go into making pork rinds every year. Pigskin also goes into gelatin and Gummy Bears.
If something is rotten in Denmark, it's probably teeth. Danes consume more candy per capita than any other country in the world.
"Moxie" soda is the oldest continuously produced soft drink in the United States. (Not to be confused with the bitter shrew of the same name.)
The program is chock full of trivial information like that. I think I gained weight just watching the show.
November 25, 2008
It happens to us all
Originally published December 23, 2005
I feel his pain. Or maybe I feel his Shock and Awe, which may be a better way to describe the realization that you are no longer a young whippersnapper--- you have become an OLD FART.
That realization hit me several years ago, when I was stopped at a traffic light. A car filled with teeny-bop-looking boys pulled up in the lane next to me. The car was rocking, thumping out some kind of rap-type abomination music and every one of the little turds inside was wearing a baseball cap turned around backward.
I thought to myself, "If ever catch one of MY children listening to that shit and wearing a cap backward like that, I'll slap the living shit out of 'em for acting the dumbass." Right then, it hit me: I had become my father.
I was a teenager in the late '60s. My father had no use at all for the music I liked in those days, which just convinced me that he was hopelessly square, uncool and outdated. When I started college and grew hair down to my shoulders and sported a Fu Manchu moustache, he threatened to disown me. He thought a "joint" was a low-class bar. He just didn't dig my scene at all.
He was an Old Fart. I swore that I would NEVER be that way when I grew older. He was judgmental and out-of-touch. I would forever be a cool dude.
Now I know how he felt back then. I like very little of today's music. I abhor facial piercings. I think baggy pants worn with 6" of boxer shorts showing above the waist are disgusting. A cap has a brim to shade the sun out of your eyes, not to keep the rain from hitting the back of your neck. I believe that most of the younger generation is ALL fucked-up.
Dad, wherever you are, I now feel the pain you once experienced. I am no longer a cool dude. I am judgmental and out-of-touch. My hair turned gray silver and it's a lot thinner than it once was. I even wear Old Spice after-shave, the way you always did.
I am an Old Fart.
November 24, 2008
A bet I lost
Originally published July 29, 2005
When I was about 18 years old, I had a friend named Keith. He was tall and skinny, but he could eat like a horse. Looking back now, I'm pretty sure he must have had a serious tapeworm or a stomach that should be donated to medical science.
We went to a Burger King one day and he bet that he could eat five Whoppers (with cheese), a large order of fries and drink the biggest milkshake they had in the place. And he could do it in 30 minutes.
The bet was $5.00 and the loser picked up the tab for his meal. My buddies and I pooled our resources and scrounged up enough money to call Keith on that dare.
The sumbitch did it. He ate FIVE Whoppers, scarfed the french fries, drank the milk shake and then took his winnings to buy TWO fried apple pies, which he ALSO ate, ALL within 30 minutes. I've never seen another episode of such gluttony in my life.
Bejus! I don't know how he did it, but he did. And this is a TRUE story
November 23, 2008
Are you lonesome tonight
Originally published December 24, 2005
Misery loves company.
I realized that fact while curled in a fetal position on my bathroom floor (see the post below for further details about THAT), where I wallowed in pain and self-pity a couple of nights ago. I wished that I had someone to comfort me and tell me that I was gonna get better. Of course, I didn't really want ANYONE to see me in the shape I was in, but I felt pretty damned lonely anyway.
Man is not meant to be a solitary creature. Not when Man feels desperately ill. And definitely not during Christmas.
A big family Christmas was always important to my father. Knowing how he was raised, I realize that he was making up for something he never had as a boy. He succeeded, too. Some of my fondest memories are those of the wonderful Christmas celebrations I enjoyed with Mama and Daddy over the years. Those truly were magical times.
I intended to continue that tradition when I had a family of my own. I always wanted Christmas to be special, filled with joy and good cheer, with the laughter of my loved ones filling the room when we tore into the loot under the tree. I wanted to make my own magic, the way my father did.
Alas, things just didn't work out the way I planned.
I remember the first time I played and sang in a bar on Christmas Eve. When I went to work that night (at the old "Port Royal" on River Street), I didn't expect much of a crowd. I figured everybody would be celebrating Christmas with family and loved ones instead of hanging out in a saloon. In fact, I thought that the place might close early due to a lack of customers.
I was mistaken. The place wasn't packed, but I had a good-sized audience all night long. The only thing different from a typical evening in the bar was the unusually subdued atmosphere. People were quiet, almost introspective, while they sipped their drinks and listened to my music. I picked up on the feeling in the air and played mostly soft ballads--- none of the rowdy stuff.
As I stepped up on stage for my last set of the evening (at 1:00 in the morning, officially Christmas Day by then), a waitress told me that several people at the bar wanted to hear Christmas carols. I started to say that I didnít DO Christmas carols, but for some reason it suddenly seemed like a good idea to me. Hell, what I didnít know, I could fake.
So, I played Christmas carols for that last set.
People didnít boo, either. THEY SANG ALONG! It was the damnedest thing I ever had seen. From ďSilent NightĒ to ďJingle Bells,Ē the crowd was with me all the way. I even saw some people with tears on their faces. For years afterward, I wondered just what the hell happened that night.
Tonight, however, I know.
The people in that bar had nowhere else to go--- no family waiting for them, no presents to open and nobody to kiss under the mistletoe. (AhÖ look at all the lonely people.) Being in that bar was better than sitting at home alone, with no one to talk to and no one to love. They were there to combat a sad fact: Christmas Eve is the longest night of the year when you spend it by yourself.
Mama and Daddy both are dead now. My daughter is 1000 miles away. I have no idea where my son is--- the BC disappeared with him a week ago and even though Iíve called every night, Iíve not gotten a response to any of the messages I left on her answering machine. I am not surprised. If she had HER way, she's erase me completely from Quinton's life.
Tomorrow, Iíll see my brother and my 94 year-old grandmother. Thatís something to look forward to.
Tonight, however, itís just me.
November 22, 2008
"err on the side of caution"
Originally published July 29, 2005
Somebody barfed that line in my comments. I thought about it for a while. The more I thought about it, the more disgusted I became.
"Err on the side of caution."
Damn! Doesn't that sound like profound philosophy until you think about what it really means? It's LUDDITE thinking.
Little Org runs into the cave to see his father. He is proud of himself. "Look, Daddy!" he says. "I have found a rock that makes FIRE if you strike it with another rock!"
Org's daddy takes the stone away and throws it as far as he can. "No, little Org. Fire can be dangerous. Now, shut up and eat your food raw in the dark. We must err on the side of caution."
Yeah. The same thinking would have demanded that we destroy ANYTHING new. After Little Org was told not to build a fire, he invented a wheel.
"Look, Mama! If we use this, we can ROLL things around instead of dragging them! Do you like it?" And mama said, "Throw that away!!! You'll hurt yourself or put your eye out. We don't need such dangerous things as wheels. We must err on the side of caution!"
Bejus. That's the thinking of sheep, cowards and idiots.
November 21, 2008
Originally published December 22, 2005
I have been in a bad way.
I finally went to sleep last night some time after midnight. I had been awake for more than 40 straight hours. Around 4:00 this morning, I sprang from my bed to begin an intimate courtship with my bathroom commode. I hugged it, squeezed it and shared a great deal of my bodily fluids with it. This romance continued on and off for about 12 hours.
I was one sick puppy.
I probably had a case of food poisoning from eating my own cooking from my own filthy kitchen. That's my best guess, because I was launching projectile discharge from both ends and hurting from head to toe. A couple of times, I didn't even bother to leave the bathroom between attacks. I just curled up in a fetal position on the floor and waited for the next wave of diarrhea and nausea.
I managed a few hours of fitful sleep this afternoon. I finally woke up feeling as if I had a goddam hangover after more than 60 days without drinking any alcohol. (I missed my AA meeting in Statesboro tonight--- my fellow inmates probably believe that I went off somewhere on a drunk.) I still don't feel right, but I'm better than I was.
As the post in the link above suggests, bloggers sometimes write when they're too sick to do anything else. I'm drinking chicken broth from a coffee cup held in trembling hands right now, but I can manage to type. It takes my mind off my misery.
I DO have one horrible thought crawling around in my mind. I took my first soaking in my hot tub last night. The water was 104 degrees and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I drank apple juice on ice and read a Stephen King book (The Regulators) for about an hour. When I got out of the tub, I was so relaxed that my legs wobbled when I walked. I got sick just a few hours later.
You don't suppose I'm allergic to my hot tub, do you?
November 20, 2008
Originally published July 30, 2005
I found this question on her blog and thought of several ways to answer it, all of which are true.
"So tell me - how do you react when you screw up?"
#1) Feel like an ass and become very contrite. Apologize to everyone affected by my screw up. Try to remember NEVER to screw up like that again.
#2) Take it like a man. I did the dance, so now I pay the band. Accept the consequences. Try to remember NEVER to screw up like that again.
#3) Become angry. Even though I KNOW it was my fault, get pissed at the world in general and pitch a hissy-fit. Stew and fret for a while, then try to remember NEVER to screw up like that again.
#4) Pout. Attempt to justify my screw-up by thinking that it wasn't ALL my fault, and people do worse things every day. Whine on my blog. Then, try to remember NEVER to screw up like that again.
How I react to a screw-up all depends on what kind of screw-up it was and my mood at the time. I don't handle such things the same way every time.
But I DO try to remember never to screw up like that again.
November 19, 2008
Should be interesting
Originally published December 26, 2005
On Christmas day, I went to my grandmother's house and had a nice dinner with some of my relatives. My brother and his wife were there, along with two of my uncles and their wives. It was a sumptious feast, and afterward we passed out a few presents for dessert. It was a nice get-together.
I met an aunt's nephew who just returned from a tour in Iraq. He is stationed at Fort Stewart, just about 50 miles south of Savannah, and my aunt and uncle picked him up when he flew into Atlanta on his way home. He was wounded over there. (Not in Atlanta--- in Iraq.)
What happened to him isn't funny, but it reminds me of the punch line from an old joke. He was on patrol when wounded by a roadside bomb. He had been sitting down. He stood up and seconds later the bomb went off, peppering his ass with shrapnel. Yes, his ASS. If the bomb had exploded a few seconds sooner, the shrapnel would have hit him in the head.
Anybody besides me ever heard the joke about the chandelier?
I've been pretty depressed for the past couple of days. I talked to my daughter on the phone, but I still don't know where my son is. He's not home and he hasn't called me. He has a birthday on the 28th and it's starting to look like I won't see him then, either. Whatta bummer.
My grandmother is going blind. She's 94 years old and still sharp upstairs; I think it's a crying shame that macular degeneration is taking her eyesight. She still likes crossword puzzles and scratch-off lottery tickets. She can't see to do either anymore. I don't know how much longer she'll be able to live in her house by herself the way she does now. The lights are still on, but she can't see out of the windows anymore.
If I were God, I'd have built the human body to last longer.
I thought about having myself a good strong drink. I didn't, for two reasons. First, I didn't want to break my string--- I haven't had a drink in 64 days now-- and second, I knew that drinking would make matters worse, because I wouldn't stop with just one. I would get drunk and wallow in self-pity, feeling more miserable than I did sober. Been there, done that, and I don't want to go back.
Instead of getting drunk, I made a date to play golf tomorrow.
That should be really interesting. I haven't touched a golf club since July 3, 2001, a date I remember well because of Elijah Clark State Park, fireworks, lots of liquor and some VERY surly and unpatriotic park rangers in a jeep that had flashing blue lights on it. Those bastards threatened to take me to jail. But that's a long story and I don't feel like telling it tonight.
I once was a pretty good golfer. I want to see how a three-and-a-half-year layoff affects my game. I've got a sneaky feeling that playing golf IS NOT like riding a bicycle and I'm not gonna step up on that first tee and hit the ball the way I once did. But I'm bound to have SOME muscle memory left, so I may not suck too badly. In fact, I'll go out on a limb.
Betcha I break 100 tomorrow.
November 18, 2008
Originally published July 31, 2005
She sent me an email, and I'm going to give her a link, which she bet that I wouldn't do, and I'm also going to answer the questions--- although I think she could have probed deeper into the Acidman psyche if she had tried.
I think she just recycles the same questions, but here are MINE:
5 questions for Acidman
1) If a movie was made of your life, what would it be called and who would play you?
"The Cracker Chronicles." You'd need at least THREE actors to play me. Jerry Mathers as a boy, Geraldo Rivera as a young man and Ken Curtis as an old fart.
Pussy, and a Shiner Bock beer. If I'm about to die, I want to go out with a smile on my face.
3) Which 3 fictional people would you most like to talk to over a beer?
Dorian Gray. Jack Crabb. Yossarian.
4) List 10 words that describe how you would like others to define you.
That's not a good question, because I know a lot of people who I want to think well of me, and a lot of others that I could give a shit about. I'll give you ten words that I think describe me.
5) If you could travel back through time, where would you go and why?
I'd go back to the day Jennifer gave me her phone number and I'd throw that piece of paper into the Savannah River. Calling HER was the biggest mistake I ever made in my life. But I don't think I WANT to go back in time.
Have you ever seen the movie The Butterfly Effect? If not, I'll tell you this--- a guy learns that he CAN travel through time, so he goes back over and over again to "correct" mistakes he made in the past. Every time he tries that, he comes back to the present with a more fucked-up situation than the one he went to correct. He didn't "fix" anything. He just made it worse by meddling.
Now, if I could just go back and live as a frontiersman in the 19th century, I'd go for that. But I'm not interested in changing the past.
See? I'll answer interview questions.
November 17, 2008
It was fun anyway
Originally published December 27, 2005
I played golf today. Ugggghhh!! I shot 103, which is kinda ugly, but it really wasn't as bad as the score suggests. I had an ELEVEN, a TEN, two NINES and an EIGHT on my scorecard. Knock those disasters down to mere double-bogies, and I would have been 15 shots better.
When I was good, I was fairly good. But when I was bad, I REALLY sucked. (Believe it or not, I lost only one ball all day. That happened on the hole where I made the eleven.) I didn't make any birdies, but I made a lot of pars. All in all, I'm not too disappointed.
I wanted to play from the Geezer tees, but my group insisted on playing from the Blues, which added 15 to 25 yards or more to every hole. That hurt, because my distance game is gone--- I used a well-hit DRIVER off the tee on a 185 yard par three today and came up short of the green. I still parred the hole, but that should have been a four-iron shot. I am mighty weak.
When we finished the round, one of the guys said, "Let's retire to the 19th hole and drown our sorrow with some adult beverages. I'm buying the first round."
I respectfully declined the invitation. A cold beer would have been exquisite, BUT... I ain't going there.
Now the challenge will be to see if I can get out of bed in the morning. I'll bet I'm gonna be sore as a boil.
November 16, 2008
Originally PUBLISHED November 15,2004
I've been watching war movies on Fox News. These aren't Hollywood productions, with expensive special-effects and dead extras. These shots are showing REAL troops in a REAL war. I'm pulling hard for those boys. They are goddam good at what they do and I am proud of every one of them.
Watching that stuff made me think about war movies, and here are MY Top Ten:
10) The Great Escape. If nothing else, for Steve McQueen jumping the barbed wire on the motorcycle at the end.
9) A Bridge Too Far. Incredible fuck-up by the military, mitigated into a live-with military defeat by the incredible bravery of the troops.
8) The Longest Day. Glamorized too much for my tastes, but still a good movie. I don't believe that the true nature of that battle can EVER be captured on film, but that one had John Wayne, so it couldn't be bad.
7) The Dirty Dozen. GOT-DAM!!! Was Lee Marvin a bad-ass, or what? Telly Savalas did a good job as a total prick in that movie. Jim Brown got killed. too. Oh, man. That was a great movie.
6) Midway. That's another one that didn't do justice to what actually happened, but it remains a damn fine movie. We won World War II in the Pacific Ocean that day, and a lot of people died achieving that goal.
5) Battleground. That's an old black-and-white movie about the Battle of the Bulge. You can spot a young James Arness in there, before he became Matt Dillon, if you watch closely.
4) Platoon. I don't want to get into a fight here, but I'll go ahead and tell you that I don't give a shit what you think. I liked the movie. If it didn't accurately portray the war in Vietnam, it accurately portrayed young men under severe stress. So, shut up. I liked the movie.
3) Das Boot. I saw that movie the first time with sub-titles. I've seen it a dozen times since with the dialogue dubbed. It doesn't matter. That's a teriffic movie, with a terrible ending, which fit the German U-Boat command.
2) The Sand Pebbles. Maybe that's a "conflict" movie rather than a "war movie," but it's still about fightin' and dyin' on a Navy ship under the US flag. Steve McQueen gave his life's-work performance in that film. Famous Last Words, as McQueen's character, Jake Holman, was dying, wide-eyed and wondering just how the fuck he ended up where he was: "I had it MADE!!!"
1) Saving Private Ryan. The first time I saw that movie, it bowled me over. Parts of it still do today, and I've watched it at least 20 times. I could do without the cemetary scene at the end, but that one stain of syrup doesn't change my mind. This one is, without a doubt, the best War Movie ever made.
That's just MY humble opinion. of course. Feel free to disagree.
November 15, 2008
stealing from work
Originally PUBLISHED August 27, 2004
I always found it interesting to see the number of flashlights and batteries that disappeared from the company store room when a hurricane was headed our way. I also found it interesting to notice how many pens and pencils and notebooks disappeared at the beginning of every school year. I knew what was happening.
People were stealing them to take home because they were too cheap to buy them with their own dimes. Nobody in charge seemed to give a shit.
After 24 years in that plant, I ended up with two yellow flashlights and a hard hat that I'll never wear again. The first flashlight I took from my belt one evening after I got home and forgot to take back to work the next day, so I ordered another one. (I needed a flashlight on my job.) I was wearing that one when I was fired retired. The hard hat I never gave back because I was barred from entering the plant again without a security escort and I refused to submit to that kind of humiliation.
I left everything in my office and told the person who CALLED ME about picking up my stuff to kiss my ass. I never stole a fucking THING from that plant in 24 years, at least not on purpose, and they wanted to treat me like a goddam felon. Why, I don't know, but I am certain that Kerr McGee has a written procedure about how to handle employees they just fucked over.
I received an email from my replacement about 10 days after I left the plant. He's a true Kerr-McGee kind of guy: "Rob. I have your job now. You had a nice larder in your office. I ate all your food and gave away the cigarettes you kept in the top desk drawer. Can I keep the jacket?"
I wrote him back and told him that he could not only keep the jacket, but he could jack off over that picture of Jennifer I had in the BOTTOM drawer of my desk. I kept food there because I often worked long hours and didn't know WHEN I might get home. I didn't want to run out of cigarettes, either. Hell, just ask her. She saw what I did at work and how many hours I spent there, only briefly, but she saw it just the same.
Do I sound bitter? GOOD!!! I mean to.
November 14, 2008
Originally PUBLISHED October 21, 2004
*Rattlesnake. Didn't like it. Too bony and it tasted like rotten fish.
*Armadillo. That wasn't bad. Tasted a lot like pork.
*Possum. I was drunk when I did that. I don't remember what it tasted like, but I ate it.
*Racoon. If you see one of those critters barbecued, it resembles a giant rat. I had to close my eyes before I could eat that shit, but I did. It really wasn't bad, especially with all the seasoning on it. I went back for a second helping.
*Alligator. A gator-tail steak is delicious when cooked properly. It's beautiful white meat that tastes like a strange combination of fish and chicken. I highly recommend that you try it if you ever get the chance.
*Duck. I agree with Catfish. Too dark and too greasy for my taste. I like shooting them better than eating them.
*Quail. That's a damn good-tasting bird, but there ain't much to 'em. I've never eaten anything other than the breast-meat, and even that is about the size of your two thumbs pressed together, even for a good-sized quail. Cleaning those fuckers is more work than it's worth.
*Squirrel. In a pot of dumplings, that tree-rat tastes pretty good. My grandfather liked the brains with his scrambled eggs. I never got a chance to try that delicacy because he always hogged them all. But I REALLY like shooting those things.
*Turtle. Fried, it sucks. But in a stew or soup, it is delicious.
*Goat. Tastes like beef. Those may be nasty-assed, horny critters, but they taste good. I just don't know if I could kill and butcher one today. I became too attached to my goats on the mini-farm. They had personalities.
*Rabbit. Tastes a lot like squirrel. Rabbit is better with dumplings or in a stew than it is straight-up, although I'll eat it either way.
*Frog. Frog legs are delicious. I LOVE 'em. Tastes like chicken, only the meat is more tender.
*Snails. Yeah, I know it's a French thing, but those rascals taste just like a beef steak. I can eat 'em 'till I pop when they are served with butter and garlic.
*Shark. If you cut out a good steak away from the asshole, a shark's tail makes excellent fodder for the grill. That's a nice chunk of fish meat, but I recommend marinating it overnight before you cook it. Fresh shark sometimes tastes gamey.
*Conch. Put it in a chowder or soup, and cut it up into small pieces. Trying to eat a chunk of conch meat is like chewing on a rubber ball. The more you chew, the bigger it gets. It's good, but you've got to tenderize it before you can eat it.
It's almost time for lunch. I wish you a hearty appetite.
November 13, 2008
A car wreck
Originally PUBLISHED December 6, 2004
On the way to a backpacking trip, I was passed out taking a snooze in the back seat. We didn't leave Savannah until almost 3:00 in the morning, after I got off work playing guitar all night long. We were drinking beer and absorbing illegal smiles until we were well into South Carolina. I decided to take a power nap while Steve drove. We had a long way to go to reach the Cantrell Creek Trail in Pisgah National Forest.
I awoke from my slumber when I was bounced off the ceiling of the car and tossed head-over-heels onto the floorboard, where I rattled around amongst empty beer cans while I waited to die an ignominious death as the car went thumping and bumping down the shoulder of the road. I didn't know what the fuck was happening.
"Got-DAM!!!" shouted Cop III. "That crazy bastard HIT US!"
Sure enough. Right there in the middle of nowhere, in absolute darkness, on a long, straight South Carolina road, some idiot coming at us, the only other car we had seen for about an hour, swerved into our lane and tried to get us head-on. If Steve hadn't been alert and dodged most of the impact, we all would have been a small story in the newspaper about four people dead on the highway. It was still one hell of a lick.
"Rob! Rob!! Are you all right!??" shouted Steve, as he leaned over the driver's seat and grabbed my arm.
"I'll be okay if you'll get your fucking hands off me," I replied, crawling up from the floor. I stunk of stale beer and I felt as if I had just been bitch-slapped by Mike Tyson, but I didn't think I was hurt badly. "What the hell happened, anyway?" I asked. Steve and Cop III told me.
The other car was still in the road with the motor running. My immediate thought was, "Don't let that person get away." I got out of our car and went to check on the other driver and get the license number if nothing else.
Oh, Bejus! The "bastard" that hit us was an attractive young woman, obviously as drunk as a worm. She was sprawled in the driver's seat and mumbling, "Ohhh..no....Oh....Nooooo.... I have fucked-up again." The reek of sour mash whiskey wafted from her like a visible vapor.
I didn't see anything obviously wrong with her, except for extreme inebriation, so I asked her, "Are you all right?" About that time, an 18-wheel truck came screaming down the road at about 90 miles an hour and gave me a blast of his air-horn as he dodged that car in his path. Bejus, again!
I reached inside the car and switched the engine off. It was an automatic transmission, so I put the shift in neutral. "C'mon, guys! Help me push this car out of the road before somebody, maybe ME, gets killed!" Steve ran to help, but Cop III went into full lawyer mode.
"I don't think we should move anything. Right now, it's her word against ours about what happened. She could be the governor's daughter for all we know. If that's the case, we're in deep shit here. I say get rid of the empty beer cans and call the police before she sobers up."
This happened in the days before cell phones. We had no way to call the police.
I saw another 18-wheeler coming down the road. I thunk a brilliant thought. I'll get HIM to stop and he can use his CB radio to call the police. I stood in the road and attempted to flag him down. The sumbitch never even slowed down, almost ran over me and left a screaming air-horn blast in his wake. Steve and I pushed the offending car out of the road after that incident.
"Rob, think about it," Steve suggested. "If you were a trucker, would YOU stop out here in this god-forsaken place after seeing US?" I had to admit that he had a point there.
Cop III got rid of all the empty beer cans, Steve made sure that the dingbat saying, "Ohhh...Nooo..." in the other car didn't die, and I went to look for a telephone. I figured that I could find a farmhouse somewhere around there, because I saw lights in the distance. I took off walking.
The first place I saw had about 100 yards of curving driveway leading to the front door. I started down the driveway, but quickly changed my mind when a dozen or so slavering dogs appeared out of nowhere to menace me physically. They barked their asses off and scared the shit out of me. I put that house on my "Do NOT visit" list and walked farther down the road.
The second one I saw still had a porchlight burning, and I wasn't attacked by packs of protective dogs when I approached. I had a game plan. I would knock on the door, stand well back under the porchlight, and tell the gentleman of the house that we needed HIM to call the police. I wasn't going to ask to go inside, use his phone or any of that shit I had been taught NEVER to allow a stranger to do. I was gonna be polite.
I knocked on the door and took two steps back. I heard heavy footfalls inside the house; then, the door opened and I was looking down the barrel of a shotgun in a sturdy farmer's unflinching hand. I realized right then that he wasn't one bit afraid of my arrival--- but he surely put the fear of Winchester into ME.
"Sir," I said, trying to act as cool and unoffensive as possible, "we've had a car wreck about two miles down the highway. I think a girl may be hurt. Could you call the police for me?"
"Don't got no phone," he replied, but he took his finger off the trigger of the shotgun. "Got a CB radio. I can probably get the Sheriff that way."
"Sir, I'd appreciate it if you would. I think that girl might need some help. Will you make that call?" I started backing off his front porch.
"Okay. I'll do her."
I walked back to the scene of the crime and told Steve and Cop III that I thought I had help on the way. Boy, did I. Within 30 minutes, half the pickup trucks in that county showed up to view the calamity. That farmer I woke from honest slumber showed up, too, after calling all his neighbors on the CB. In a procession line, they all went to the car that hit us, examined the drunken twat inside, and then moseyed over to look at OUR car, as Steve and I were busy with a lug wrench, trying to pry the left-rear quarter-panel off the tire on that side. Steve's car was kinda fucked-up from the collision.
Finally, a State Patrolman arrived on the scene about two hours later. He pulled up with lights flashing, climbed out of his unit with the quiet creak of leather and authority, and approached the offending vehicle. He took one look inside and said, "Angela, are you all right?"
Cop III said, "Jesus Christ! He KNOWS HER! We're fucked. I just KNOW we're fucked! Look around. We're in Deliverance country here! That's probably HIS goddam daughter. We're fucked."
It turned out that we weren't fucked. Angela was well-known in those parts for pulling similar stunts before. The State Patrolman actually apologized for our inconvenience after he issued several tickets to Angela, loaded her into his cruiser and called for a tow-truck on his radio to impound her car. With all the excitement over, all the pickup trucks headed back home.
By then, Steve and I had our vehicle operable again, so we headed off to finish the backpacking trip we started. We did that, too. Angela's insurance paid to get Steve's car repaired, so that story had a happy ending.
I'd have a heart attack if something like that happened to me today. Plus, I don't believe that I can walk there and back anymore as far as I did that night.
Young, dumb and full of cum. You can't beat it.
November 12, 2008
Busy, Busy, Busy
Originally PUBLISHED December 13, 2005
I watched the Atlanta Falcons lay a good, old-fashioned ass-whuppin' on the New Orleans Saints last night. I just hope Michael Vick isn't seriously injured. The Birds need to run the table with the rest of their schedule to make the playoffs.
After the game, I went to bed. I couldn't sleep, so I got up after 30 minutes of trying. I washed two loads of laundry and put fresh sheets on the bed. Nope. Clean sheets weren't the answer.
I went for a walk at 3:30 AM. The stars were beautiful, very bright in the winter sky. The Christmas lights on the houses were pretty, too. Christmas always was a big deal in my family, with everybody getting together at Daddy and Mama's house, where Santa always came, even after I was grown with children of my own. It was our Big Holiday.
Hell--- I don't bother to put up a tree anymore.
Where I live, a lot of dogs stay outside. They don't like it when someone comes walking down the street at 3:30 AM. I think I was threatened and cussed-out by at least 20 different dogs last night, but none of them tried to bite a chunk out of my ass and nobody turned on a porch light and opened the front door to brandish a shotgun at me. I had a pleasant walk.
When I got back home, I vacuumed my carpet and cleaned the grime off all the inside doors. The giant beer mug I use as a spare change collector was almost full, so I rolled up most of the coins and put them in the grocery bag that I keep meaning to take to the bank some day. I now have $143.50 worth of change in there.
I finally slept from around 6:00 until 7:30. I got up (again), washed myself and load of dirty dishes, then checked a few of my favorite blogs. I still didn't feel like writing, so I ate a lumberjack breakfast, filled up a bucket with bleach-water, armed myself with a long-handled brush and started scrubbing all the mold and mildew off the outside of the Crackerbox.
Man. That's going to be more than a one-day job. Besides, it's almost time to drive to Statesboro (again) for another Stay Sober meeting. I should get back home about 8:30 tonight. I wonder if I can trim hedges by the glow of my porch light?
Oh, well. Idle hands are the Devil's playthings.
November 11, 2008
November 10, 2008
Originally published August 27, 2005
I once claimed that if I had to give up one of my senses, I would choose the sense of smell, because I believe that stinking things are worse than delightful aromas are good. I read this post and decided to turn it around.
Everybody knows what smells good. I'm going to give you ten things that smell BAD!!!
1) Dog shit on your shoe. Especially when you're wearing a pair of those waffle-soled Nikes where you have to scrape the shit off with a toothpick.
2) Rotting garbage. At one point in my colorful career, I burned trash to fire two 60 KPPH boilers and generate 3 megawatts of electricity. The "pit" held 5,000 tons of trash and it stunk to high heaven. It was like working on a maggot farm. I was always worried about finding a dead body in there.
3) A dead skunk. I've tried to clean up a dog that fucked with the wrong creature, and I couldn't find any way to do it. That stench just has to wear off. But if a skunk gets hit by a car, you can smell it for miles.
4) A dog fart. Holey-Moley!!! Old Bud used to let one rip and wag his tail to fan the fumes around. He could clear out the entire house with just one. If he got into rapid-fire mode, HIS ass spent the night outside. You could not survive any other way.
5) Dead fish. That's a rotten smell. I met a woman once who appeared to be carrying one around in her panties. At least it smelled that way. She wanted to give me some, but I passed on that opportunity.
6) A paper mill. I live around three of those plants and despite the pollution-control technology introduced lately, they still smell like egg-farts. Drive by one and you'll gag.
7) Burning sulfur. During my years at the Acid Plant, I became accustomed to that aroma, but I never learned to like it. Get a whiff and your nose burns before you actually realize how bad the smell is. Get a good whiff and you smell NOTHING for hours after that.
8) Body odor. That's one thing that chaps my ass about airplane travel. You can't SMOKE on board the plane, but nobody restricts some asshole who hasn't taken a bath in a month from sitting in the seat next to you, making you wish you were back working at the trash-burner. What's even worse is when the asshole douses himself with a half-bottle of English Leather in a futile attempt to make himself smell good. GAG!
9) Bus station bathrooms. I think I'd rather smell piss and shit than the "disinfectant" custodians use in those places. That crap will peel the hair right outta your nose and damn near take it off your head, too.
10) A wet dog. Smells like an old carpet wiped by many sweaty bare feet.
Have a good day. I hope all your smells are good ones.
November 09, 2008
More random ramblings
Originally published April 10, 2002
(I have a TV dinner in the microwave and I just took the last vicodin remaining from my prostate surgery. I feel THAT POORLY, and the wine isn't helping very much. If the blog gets a little wobbly about thirty minutes from now, it's the codeine kicking in. Bedtime will be shortly thereafter.)
1) The best day and the worst day of my life both involved dealing with the same person. Go figure.
2) I have sat on top of a mountain and watched a spectacular meteor shower. If that doesn't make you feel small, you are.
3) Grits are good with breakfast if you know how to cook them and how to serve them. If you don't, they suck.
4) My idea of a fine fishing trip is to sit in a boat and drink beer. I really don't care if I catch anything or not.
5) Some people live to work. I work to live. I give it my all, but if I hit the lottery tomorrow, I won't work any more.
6) I STILL have no use for fire ants, sand gnats or kamakazi hamburger patties. But I love going barefoot.
7) You can have sex with a woman and still be her friend, without the sex, years later. I KNOW that's true.
8) Happiness is no tan lines. That was the motto of the nude resort I visited in Key West. UNHAPPINESS is a burnt butt and a henna tattoo that makes your arm swell and leaves a permanent scar. A true adventure, nonetheless.
9) The older you grow, the more you become JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER, no matter how ridiculous that concept may have seemed years ago.
10) Young men who die in war always cry out for "Mama" as their lives fade away. Mama gave you life and took care of you every time you were sick. Mama loves you when nobody else does. You always will be her baby, and she will always be your Mama. That's a good thing, and you can't screw it up if you try. I tried, and it didn't work. Trust me on this one.
Okay, I'm buzzing now. Time for a quick supper and bed. God, I hope I feel better in the morning.
November 08, 2008
The "Gunsmoke" marathon
Originally published August 28, 2005
I've been watching it, off and on, for two days now. Get ready for a trivia test. Matt Dillon has killed 68 people so far, but I had to sleep some, so I probably missed a few others.
Miss Kitty killed one herself, with that little lady's gun that she kept in her purse.
I also saw an episode today where some mountain man tried to molest her, was turned down, and he threw her in a horse trough outside the General Store on Front Street. Kitty came out of the water pissed off as she could be, grabbed an iron rod from a basket in front of the store and beat the shit out of the mountain man with it, until Matt pulled her off.
It's NOT a good idea to piss off Miss Kitty. She meant to kill that man.
One sad thing, though. James Arness is still alive and he was interviewed about all the time he spent making "Gunsmoke." He said those were shining times.
But he looks like an old man now, weathered, wrinkled and feeble. Hell--- he's in his 80s today. Got-dam Father Time. He catches up to everybody eventually.
I'm just about out of boiled peanuts now, but I'm going to watch until this show stops. It reminds me of my childhood, when I still believed that good guys win and bad guys lose. Justice always prevails.
I don't believe that anymore, but I still like "Gunsmoke."
November 07, 2008
Originally published August 29, 2005
I need to go to Circuit City tomorrow. I require a couple of devices to finish off my recording studio. I don't need much, but it's the kind of stuff that Willy doesn't sell. I'll have to go commercial to get it.
You know the weird thing about this situation? I can get pretty much anything I want today NOT by going to a store, but simply by calling several people I know. If I want a gun, I can get one. If I want musical equipment, I can get it. If I want a piece of ass, I can order it.
Hell--- I probably could buy all sorts of illegal drugs if I were so inclined. Just push the right buttons on the phone. If I don't know somebody who sells them, I'll bet that I know somebody who DOES know somebody who sells them. It ain't that difficult to do.
That's one thing government doesn't seem to understand, or refuses to admit. There has ALWAYS been an underground economy and it'll ALWAYS be there, because people are people and they enjoy their vices. You can outlaw it all you want to, but it won't stop people from doing it.
I learned that lesson when I played guitar in the bars. You CANNOT legislate human nature. You can try, but you'll fail every time.
That's why I hate "dry" counties. You think such stupid laws keep people from drinking? Hell, no they don't, and that's why Randall's Liquor Store is a got-dam gold mine. He's perched right on the edge of the Chatham-Effingham county line. Ya can't buy liquor in Effingham County.
Guess who 99% of Randall's customers are? They don't drive all the way across Chatham County to visit his store.
In 1974, I went to visit my cousin Ernie in Kentucky. His mama (my Aunt 'Netta) had a wildflower garden in her back yard on the bank of the Cumberland River. Ernie and I went off to shoot guns, and Netta asked us to bring back some good, round creek-rocks for her garden border.
Ern and I fired off all the ammunition we had, then threw all the guns in the back seat of my 1968 Javelin. After that, we selected some really choice creek-rocks that we thought would look good in the flower garden and put those in the trunk of my car.
I was riding low when we left and we didn't make it ten miles before the State Patrol pulled me over. I was on the road back from Cumberland, and most cars riding that low were carrying bootleg alcohol into a dry county. That's what the cop thought I was doing.
He never paid a minute's attention to all the guns in the back seat. He asked me what I had in the trunk. (Strange law in Kentucky back then---you could have one case of beer and one bottle of liquor PER PASSENGER in the car. If you had more than that, you were assumed to be a bootlegger.) I told him I had rocks in there and he laughed.
"You mind showing me?" he asked.
I popped the trunk for him and, sure enough, I was hauling a load of rocks for my aunt's flower garden. He fucked with us for a few minutes, then let us go. I am certain that he was frustrated that he couldn't charge us with SOMETHING, but hauling rocks is no crime in any state that I know of.
The weird thing is, he never asked us about all the guns in the back seat of my car. I suppose that sight is pretty normal in that part of Kentucky. No big deal. (Can you imagine what would have happened to me in New York?)
If I ran this country, that would be my motto, except for serious crime: "No Big Deal." Oh, I'd fry murderers, rapists, child-molesters and thieves, because I consider those to be "serious" crimes, but otherwise, I'd let people be people.
They're gonna do that anyway.
November 06, 2008
Originally published April 12, 2002
If I were a Viking in the mead hall right now, I would wobble to my feet, pound the table for attention and wave my cup in the air. Once I had the attention of my raucous fellows, even if it meant drawing my sword and threatening violence, I would propose a toast to a mighty warrior and a man of legend who will fight no more on the field where he won his glory. This is a somber day and it should be remembered.
Arnold Palmer will play his last round in the Master's today.
Arnie is old enough to shoot his age in Senior's tournaments, he's bending more to gravity now, and he looks tired and whipped when he walks off the 18th green at Augusta National. Hell, he's had HIS prostate ripped out, too, and I KNOW that changes a lot of things about your physical wherewithall. He has not made the cut in the tournament since 1983, and I WAS THERE to see him shoot 68 in the opening round that year. (No, I didn't have the most coveted ticket in golf. I conned my way into manning the scoreboard on the 14th tee from 0800 until 1200, when I was relieved by a Boy Scout and allowed to roam the course the rest of the day.)
I WAS THERE again, in 1992, this time with a ticket, to watch him put his tee shot in the right greenside bunker on #16, whiff it twice, then blast out and hole the shot for a bogey four. He received a louder, longer and grander standing ovation than whoever won the tournament that year (I believe it was Fred Couples. I don't remember for sure, but I remember ARNIE'S SHOT)
Palmer had that effect on his fans, and he remains beloved by those of us old and gray enough to remember him in his prime. I have only a few sports heroes whom I truly worship, and Arnold Palmer is one. (The others are Johnny Unitas, Willie Mosconi and Hershel Walker, even if Hershel never panned out as a pro. I am a Georgia boy, after all.) I want them all to be as great forever as they were on their greatest day. Life will not grant them that privilege, but my memories will.
So, I propose a toast to one of the greatest golfers who ever stuck a tee in the ground: Arnold Palmer, may you have nothing but fairways and greens the rest of your life. If you stray from that path, may you always have a good lie in the rough. And when you really need the putt, may the ball find the bottom of the cup every time. Amen, and let's find the bottom of OUR CUPS now!
UPDATE: Arnie's last round at Augusta was rained out before he finished. He'll be back today to play six holes. V.J. Singh is leading the tournament at 9-under par. Arnie is 28-over.
November 05, 2008
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
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.
November 04, 2008
Friday Five on a Saturday
Originally published April 12, 2002
Time for a FRIDAY FIVE on an actual Friday (sort of).
1) What is your favorite restaurant and why?
2) What fast food restaurant are you partial to?
3) What are your standard rules for tipping?
4) Do you usually order an appetizer and/or dessert?
5) What do you usually drink at a restaurant?
November 03, 2008
Not much blogging today
Originally published August 29, 2005
The morning got off to a bad start.
I woke up at 7:30 AM because I needed to go take a whizz. I sat up on the edge of my bed, took one step and pitched face-first onto the floor. My left knee and left ankle just gave way. It was as if they weren't even THERE anymore. I almost knocked myself out with that pratfall.
Got-dam! I didn't expect that to happen and that's why I fell so hard. I know that both of my knees are fucked up from playing football and I know that I tore up my left foot and ankle when that dumbass dog Oddball tripped me in my hallway one day.
But I don't usually have that kind of trouble.
I hurt bad after that fall. I didn't make it to Circuit City today. I was lucky to crawl to the bathroom before I pissed all over myself. I spent most of the day on my couch, dazed and confused. I thought I might have a concussion (I plowed my head into the floor really good) or maybe a cracked rib or two.
I think I'm okay now.
Fuck me anyway. I once climbed mountains and now I can't get out of my goddam bed in the morning.
November 02, 2008
How to pass as a "non-yankee"
Originally published April 13, 2002
My coonass friend in Louisiana sent me this e-mail:
Subject: Southern advice to all visiting Northerners Refresher course,
1) Don't order filet mignon or pasta primavera at Waffle House. It's
2) Don't laugh at our Southern names (Merleen, Bodie, Ovine, Luther
3) Don't order a bottle of pop or a can of soda down here. Down here
4) We know our heritage. Most of us are more literate than you
5) We have plenty of business sense (e.g., Fred Smith of Fed Ex, Turner Broadcasting, MCI WorldCom, MTV, Netscape, Dell, EDS). Naturally, we do sometimes have small lapses in judgment (e.g. Bill Clinton). We don't care if you think we are dumb. We are not dumb enough to let someone move to our state in order to run for the Senate. If someone tried to do that, we would kick their ass.
6) Don't laugh at our Civil War monuments. If Lee had listened to
7) We are fully aware of how high the humidity is, so shut the hell up. Just spend your money and get the hell out of here, or we'll, you
8) Don't order wheat toast at Cracker Barrel. Everyone will instantly
9) Don't fake a Southern accent. This will incite a riot, and you will
10) Don't talk about how much better things are at home because we know better. Many of us have visited Northern dives like Detroit and
11) Yes, we know how to speak proper English. We talk this way because
12) Don't complain that the South is dirty and polluted. None of OUR
13) Don't ridicule our Southern manners. We say sir and ma'am. We hold
14) So you think we're quaint or losers because some of us live in the
15) Last, but not least, DO NOT DARE to come down here and tell us how
When I read this, I realized that God DID HAVE A REASON for creating fire ants and sand gnats. Without those pests, we would be up to OUR ASSES in Yankees.
November 01, 2008
Originally published August 31, 2005
At least one person who reads me knows something about science. This is from somebody who must have stayed awake in school.
pH is all about the concentration of Hydrogen ions, you know. I love science.
Gordon is correct. The pH scale measures how acidic or alkaline a substance is, using a scale from 0 to 14, with 7 being neutral. The pH scale isn't linear--- it works in multiples of 10. In other words, a substance with a pH of 5.0 is TEN TIMES more acidic than a substance with a pH of 6.0. It works that way up and down the scale and it's all based on the arrangement of hydrogen ions (hydroxyls) in the substance.
When I ran the Acid Plant, we made three basic "flavors" of sulfuric acid: 98%, 93% and 77%. 98% sulfuric acid freezes at around 45 degrees F. But if you add water to it and knock it down to a 93% concentration, the freezing temperature drops to something like 30 below zero. If you add some MORE water, and lower the strenth to 77%, the freezing temperature rises again, up to around the freezing temperature of water.
At first, I thought that was PURE FUCKING MAGIC! But--- it's not. It's pure fucking chemistry. By changing the strength of the acid, you rearrange the hydrogen ions and change its chemical characteristics.
There's a short and sweet science lesson for you.
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