Gut Rumbles

March 31, 2009

What did I just do?

Originally published November 17, 2003

I agreed to play at an Open Mic night tomorrow evening in a local bar. The musicians get to do three songs each at the Open Mic. I'm going to do three songs by myself at around 10:00, then jam with everyone else until closing time. Willy made the offer and I accepted.

I haven't played in public for years now. I've been playing a lot lately, but I'm not sure how well I will do on a stage again. My personal opinion? I'LL BLOW THEIR FUCKING DOORS OFF!!!

There goes that mile-wide ego again. Hell, I wouldn't get up there if I didn't believe that I could do it.

March 30, 2009

Going crazy for a while

Originally published February 23, 2004

I fell off the deep end of the dock a few weeks ago and I had a tough swim against the tide to get back to shore. I really believed that I was losing my mind and I believe that I convinced numerous readers of the same thing.

But I'm on dry land now. I'm covered with mud and the gnats are biting me, but I'm not in the water anymore. Bejus! The next few weeks are going to be difficult, but it's like my daddy told me: "If it was easy, any asshole could do it."

Well, I ain't just any asshole. I am a very special asshole.

I can do it.

March 29, 2009

Toxic stuff

Originally published November 17, 2003

I had some good advice in the comments about my post on flies and ants that I wrote below, but I owned a mini-farm for five years, and I am skilled at insect control. I know what kind of killer stuff to spead for what kind of bugs I want to kill, and I know how to mix it.

Years ago, I wasn't nearly as wise as I am now and I had a flea outbreak on my property. Fleas were EVERYWHERE! Both dogs I had at the time were covered up, I couldn't walk outside without being covered up and the little bastards were biting my daughter all over. They were bad outside, then they became bad inside, too. The situation was intolerable.

I tried Seven Dust, all kinds of sprays, sulfur powder, cedar chips and everything else I could think of, to no avail. The fleas just kept coming. I was at the end of my rope when I bitched about my problem one night at work. An old farmer who worked with me said, "I believe that I have what you need."

The next day, he brought me a quart jar of pure Chlordane. He told me "Wear rubber gloves and long sleeves when you handle this stuff. Add one-half cup to 20 gallons of water and spray your yard. Take a shower as soon as you are finished and don't let dogs or children play in the yard until the next heavy rain. Dip a rag in the mixture, wring it dry and toss it under your couch. That'll get rid of those fleas." I did as I was told.

The fleas were gone from the yard and the house by morning. So were any ants, grubs, roaches, beetles, birds or squirrels. My dingbat first wife let the dogs out in the back yard the next day, even though I told her NOT to do that, and they both became deathly ill just from walking on the grass. My wife never took instructions well ("It can't be THAT BAD," as spoken by someone who once put a 20-to-1 flea bath straight on her poodle and damn near cooked the critter as a result), but she became a believer after she saw what Chlordane could do. That shit killed everything except my family and it nearly disposed of the dogs, too. But it damned sure got rid of the fleas.

Chlordane is banned today. That's a crying shame, because that's the most lethal insecticide I ever saw. Nothing else bothered those fleas, but Chlordane killed them all and kept my yard bug-free for more than a year. I don't know what happened to the rest of that quart jar Jesse gave me, but I wish that I had it today.

I would like to show the ants in my yard something they've never seen before.

March 28, 2009


Originally published February 23, 2004

My man, the rivrdog asked for a link to this article, and he'll gladly get one from me. I have a real problem with political correctness and assholes running around trying to erase history are worse than fucking lawyers.

I've written many posts on my opinion about the Confederate flag. I do not see it as a symbol of hatred and racism. The fact that some pointy-headed, sheet-wearing pricks have USED the flag for that purpose does not change my opinion. The fact that the NAACP and race-pimps such as Jesse Jackson have used the flag for the same purpose STILL does not change my opinion.

It is a symbol of the Old South, and it should not be banned because a few loud-mouthed assholes don't understand that fact. It should be studied and put into historical context so that the generations we're raising today DO NOT make the same mistakes their elders did.

I feel the same way about a swastica. NOBODY should EVER forget what that symbol stood for and the millions of people who died because of the philosophy behind it. No, dammit. You teach your children about the Nazis so that they recognize such murderers if they ever try to take power again. As the Jews say, "NEVER FORGET."

Don't attempt to re-write history to spare delicate feelings about controversial matters. Dig into that crap with both hands and show your children just how corrupt, stinking and at the same time worthless, such symbols were.

Look at what those symbols have become today. The KKK is a joke in the South anymore and the NAACP looked like perfect fools with their posturing and whining about the flag. If that's the most important issue those two sides have to argue about today, we've come a long way in this country, boys and girls.

Look at the swastica. The only people who use that symbol anymore are those weird clones who are part KKK and part NAACP, the skinheads, mindless racists and pure anti-Semites. They don't have a fucking clue and they use the symbols to piss off the easily-offended. That tactic works, because we don't have teachers with balls in school anymore. We have wimps refusing to teach history, and they all should be dragged off and shot, just the way the KKK or the Nazis would have done years ago.

Don't FEAR such people. Let them have their pathetic symbols. Then, ridicule them. Insult them. Whip their fucked-up asses. Or just goddam ignore them, which is the best way to shut their yapping mouths.

Quinton knows about Hitler and he knows about Robert E. Lee. He understands the difference, too. You may see Quinton driving a pickup truck with a Confederate flag bumper sticker some day. But you'll never see him wearing a swastica armband. I've taught my boy better than that.

I don't believe in Political Correctness. I believe in the truth. That incompetent woman kicker at the University of Colorado never should have been on the team. When the coach said that she couldn't run, she couldn't tackle, she couldn't play and she couldn't kick, he lost his job. Having that blonde wearing #2 on the field was more important than her competence at playing football. And yes, the word "Nazi" has already been used against him.

That woman never should have been in a uniform on a college football field and anybody with a lick of sense knows that fact. Was she raped? Who knows? But you've got to know that she had no business being where she was. She never had the credentials. She was a symbol.

That symbolism shit can get a lot of people in trouble. That's why no one EVER should forget about the symbols and what they stood for. That's why NO ONE should ever accept different symbols to replace the old ones, just because we have a different idea about Political Correctness today. There is right and there is wrong. Then, there are symbols.

And if you can't tell the difference, you're as bad as any Nazi who ever lived.

March 27, 2009

Another milestone

Originally published November 17, 2003

I crashed the 500,000 visitor mark today and I didn't even notice. I seldom pay attention to such crap anymore. I appreciate the attention and I REALLY enjoy the fact that I seem to have built a readership of people who come here just to see what flies out of my neck next.

I intend to keep it flying. Y'all stick around.

March 26, 2009

My act of contrition

Originally published February 23, 2004

I have an appointment with a divorce lawyer at 11:30 today. I fucked up to get myself in the position I'm in, and I'm going to admit it and take the consequences. I can't leave the country and forget about Quinton.

I'll probably lose my hat, shirt and ass and maybe even end up with a day or two in jail if I don't watch my smart mouth, but that's the way I'm going. I cannot put a price on my son's head. He means too much to me.

If the bloodless cunt gets all my money, then so be it. Nobody ever told me that life was fair. If the bitch wants the cash that badly, she can have it. I couldn't look at my face in the mirror if I did what she's doing, but I'm not her. She has no problem with her actions at all, because she is a bloodless cunt. Sometimes I think it must be nice to be born without a conscience.

But I cannot run away and abandon my son, my friends and my family. Money just isn't that important to me. Fuck the bucks. I want to see my boy and my mama. I'll do whatever the law requires to maintain that privilege.

It's my goddam fault anyway. I gave the BC all the ammunition she needed to get this ball rolling. I'm going to stand up and take whatever happens in court like a man. I got myself into this shit, so it's up to me to get myself out. It ain't gonna be fun, I'm going to get royally fucked and a lot of people are going to make a lot of money off of me. But I'm going to do it anyway.

It's my goddam job.

March 25, 2009

Red toenails

Originally published November 17, 2003

I am a hopeless fetishist about a few womanly attributes. I freely admit that fact.

Pretty feminine feet with red toenails turn me on. In fact, they drive me CRAZY! I find myself watching commercials and HBO movies that feature half-nekkid wimmen and I'm looking at their FEET, for crying out loud. I am one sick puppy.

I like dangly earrings on pert, feminine ears. I like to kiss a woman's ears and feel the jewelry on my tongue when I nibble around her lobes. I like it when she gets goosebumps from being kissed that way.

I find a woman's navel very sexy. I've been known to drink wine out of that loving cup before. I enjoy doing that.

I like to kiss a woman on the neck. I must have some vampire blood in me, because that really makes me excited, especially when I feel her hair on my face and she arches her head back to give me better access. Something about kissing a woman on the neck while she encourages me to do so just makes me feel... evil, and I LIKE that feeling.

I like feeling a woman's hands on me. I don't mind if they scratch and claw a little bit, either. Yeah. Rake my back as long as I can kiss your neck. It's a fair deal in my book; just let me feel your hands on me.

I like a woman who sleeps with her ass pressed up against my front and enjoys having my arm across her breasts. I also like it when I want some more in the middle of the night and she purrs like a kitten as I ease myself inside her from behind, and she snuggles her ass even closer to me. That's VERY good.

Okay, that's enough pornography for one night. I'm getting myself all worked up.

March 24, 2009


Originally published February 21, 2004

I've been playing a lot lately. Hell, I may have to go for tips on River Street this summer if I intend to generate any income. I can probably make $50 per night if I do about three hours.

I've always loved making music. I believe that I really got serious after seeing The Beatles on Ed Sullivan in 1963. I've been playing music ever since. I've played as a solo, in duos, as part of a threesome and in a six-piece rock-and-roll band. I walked away from several bands because I didn't like the music we played. I almost starved to death playing with bands that I liked.

I still love making music. I'm just not as hungry as I once was. I like to play with my friends now and then, but we do it for fun and the love of what we do, and sometimes we sound damned good. I can get several old geezers together and we can tear up a barrooom after a week's pracrice.. I could still make money from music if I wanted to. But I don't want to.

I may change my mind shortly. I'm getting some very attractive offers.

March 23, 2009


Originally published November 18, 2003

Now let me get this straight............. .

Bill Clinton is getting $12 million for his memoirs.
His wife Hillary got $8 million for hers.
That's $20 million for memories from two people who for eight years repeatedly testified, under oath, that they couldn't remember anything.

God Bless America.

From GABNER, in an email I read this morning.

March 22, 2009


Originally published November 18, 2003

I once slept with a woman who did not shave her legs or her armpits. I was attending the University of Georgia at the time and we got semi-drunk together after an intra-mural softball game. She was a liberated feminist and about as full of shit as anyone I've ever met in my life, but I was attracted to her. We ended up in my bed-- the feminist and the chauvinist, tangling the sheets.

I remember two distinct things about that night. First, she was multi-orgasmic and LOVED sex, no matter what she said about all men being swine. Second, having those hairy legs wrapped around me was a complete turn-off. I thought that it was kinda kinky at first, but I quickly realized that a woman's legs AREN'T SUPPOSED TO FEEL THAT WAY.

They just aren't. Wimmen, listen to Acidman. Smooth, hairless legs with pretty red toenails on the end are a GOOD thing. Go for that look no matter what you think about men. Trust me. Even other wimmen think you look like Bigfoot if you don't shave your legs.

DO NOT, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, wear panty-hose with unshaven legs. That leg-hair resembles tiny little worms plastered to your skin under the nylon. That is a hideous look. Don't do that.

I'll give myself an out here by saying that I didn't know that the woman involved that night did not shave her legs until I peeled off her blue jeans and panties. I was surprised by what I found, but it was too late to stop by then. Nature took its course. I was a young man and full of piss and vinegar back then.

Faced with the same situation today, I might say, "Goddam! What the fuck is that shit all over your legs? Get out of here and don't come back until you take some pride in your personal hygene! Bejus, woman! Do you realize how disgusting that is?"

Of course, I might ignore the leg-hair and just screw her anyway. I believe that my reaction all depends on the mood I'm in at the time. I got past leg-hair on a woman once.

I probably could do it again.

March 21, 2009

Love and passion

Originally published February 21, 2004

I had a lot of phone calls from friends of mine today and the discussions started me thinking about the difference between love and passion. Don't ask me how my head gets where it does when I start thinking, but it'll get there all by itself.

My mama told me something today that may as well as been carved into my heart with a rusty knife, but she was correct. "Rob, you are NOT like your father and you haven't been since you turned 14 years-old." I couldn't argue.

The truth hurts sometimes.

Legally, I'm in deep divorce law shit. I don't know what I'm going to do, but it's probably NOT what my father would do in the same situation. Mama was right. I AM NOT like my father. Dad never would have married Jennifer.

I started thinking about the difference between love and passion. Passion is hot and it burns like fatlighter. The heat alone is enough to turn a young man's head.

Love is a slow, smoldering fire. It burns with a bed of coals that never go out. Passion burns fast. Love burns slowly, and it lasts long after passion is gone. Passion? Let's fuck, right now. Love? Let me feel a thrill every time I see you coming up the hill for the rest of my life. Passion? Let's fuck. Love? Sleep with me for the rest of my life and allow me to trust you more than anyone else in the world.

Want my advice? Stick with passion. Grab and get, boys. That love shit will really fuck you up in the long run.

March 20, 2009

The shoe has dropped

Originally published November 18, 2003

I suppose that it's okay to announce it now (Bejus knows I've had enough questions lately).

I am officially "terminated" from my job now.

I received a phone call from the Personnel Dircetor today (head of "Human Resources") and I was told that my role in that plant is finished. My job was eliminated. I am gone. They are giving me a nice package and I am grateful for that, because they could have dropped me like a hot rock and caused us both a whole lot of grief while lawyers sorted things out.

My blog started the problem. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it, and I was not surprised when the hammer came down on me. I was bearding the lion again, and that's gotten me in trouble before.

But... that's the way I am.

I spent 24 years of my life in that plant and I am happy that I can walk away knowing that I did a good job for them. They are being fair with me and that's all I can ask. I have no hard feelings. I WANTED OUT, whether I knew it or not at the time.

Before the phone conversation was over, I was asked "Do you have any questions?" I said, yes, I did. I wanted to talk to my ex-boss. He came on the line.

"How is the plant running?" I asked.

"It's doing well, Rob. We set a record for production last month," he replied.

"HOT DOG!" I said. "Just keep it between the ditches, boss."

Okay, that's it. I left a lot of blood, sweat and tears all over that place, but that part of my life is over. I still care, because I always did. But I am ready for something else now.

Bejus! Little did I know that when Jennifer handed me her phone number on the river-dock that day that it all would lead to this.

But... it did. Life is like that sometimes.

March 19, 2009

I took a walk today

Originally published February 21, 2004

I walked that stupid fuck Oddball all around the neighborhood today. Actually, I did it because my left foot is feeling functional again, and I want to get that mutha back into working shape. I had a month of real problems with broken bones, but I believe that they are healing now.

I can walk without a limp if I concentrate. I have destroyed the two little toes on my left foot, but who needs them anyway? I have lost a lot of purple color and the swelling over the past couple of weeks and I can walk like a normal human being now, most of the time.

Nobody in the neighborhood likes my dog. That makes us even. I don't like my fucking dog, either. I believe that I know now why that pissant was in the pound when I got her. She may be headed back there, too. A lot of people say that I am not right in the head, but I can beat the shit out of that dog on a good fake, if she wants a contest. I know a natural-born shitass when I see one, and she is it.

I want to make love with someone tonight. But I believe that she hates me now.

Maybe I could use the dog for ransom. "BED ME, OR THE BITCH GETS IT RIGHT HERE ON THE PORCH!" I dunno. That's not a real sensitive approach
is it? That's kind of like flinging her a front leg and cackling that there will be a back leg tomorrow if she doesn't hang nekkid from the ceiling fan and call me Conan.

Fuck. If I persue that avenue, she may be the head football coach of Colorado tomorrow. But hell, I may be Defensive Coordinator.

March 18, 2009

I don't hunt

Originally published November 18, 2003

I now own a beautiful Winchester 30.06 rifle and 500 rounds of ammo. I have no idea what I am going to do with that rifle. I just wanted it, so I bought it. I'll probably never shoot anything more dangerous than an Osama Bin Laden paper target with it, but I'll bet you that I don't miss when I do.

I don't hunt. Here is why. Every year in Georgia, hunters shoot other hunters in the woods. They obviously were not raised the way I was. I had three Golden Rules pounded into my head from an early age:

1) If you can't see it, know exactly what you're shooting at and have a good shot, then DON'T SHOOT. (My father once confiscated my pellet rifle for two weeks because I was trying to kill a squirrel and I saw the tree-rat run into a bed of Spanish Moss. I shot into the moss and hoped to hit the squirrel. My dad saw me do that and asked, "Did you see what you were shooting at?" When I replied "No," he said, "Give me the gun." I did and he kept it for two weeks.)

2) Know where the bullet may go if you miss. Look BEHIND your target to see what happens back there if you send a round flying wild.

3) Don't ever point a gun unless you intend to shoot, don't ever put your finger on the trigger until you're READY to shoot and NEVER fire until you see the target.

Dumbfucks in the woods kill each other or wound each other every year during hunting season by firing into the bushes at a noise or doing other such stupid shit with guns. That crap gives every gun owner a bad reputation and I hate to see it happen. Guns are not toys, but they are not dangerous in the hands of a responsible owner.

I've held my beliefs for a long time and I don't believe that I'll ever change my mind. I just wish that more people learned to shoot the way I was taught to do. You THINK FIRST, then shoot. You can't take that bullet back once you pull the trigger. So, know what the fuck you're doing BEFORE you pull the trigger.

What is difficult to comprehend about that concept?

March 17, 2009

I did it

Originally published November 18, 2003

I played at "The Music Box" tonight. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

I met a wonderful musician named Wanda who plays there as the featured entertainer. She performs on keyboard, guitar, saxophone and mandolin and she's LEFT HANDED! When I walked in, I saw her making a nice Fender Strat cry like a baby on stage. I immediately noticed the she had the guitar hanging the wrong way over her shoulder, so I figured that she flipped the bridges and strung it upside-down the way most left-handers do.

But I was wrong.

When the Open Mic started, Wanda asked if anyone could play lead and the people at my table all pointed at me and said, "HE CAN!" I told Wanda that I couldn't play a left-handed guitar, but she dragged me to the stage and said, "Pick it up." I was astonished. The guitar was strung right-handed.

She PLAYED the sumbitch upside-down. And she played the shit out of it, too.

I ended up playing that Strat for most of the night as I backed up people who had no sense of rhythm and who wanted to play songs I never heard before. I did okay and got a very nice compliment from Wanda at the end of the evening. I suggested that she get a monitor speaker so that the asshole playing alleged leads could HEAR better next time.

She said that she would and she invited me to come back next Tuesday night. She's got a great voice and I showed off some harmony. I want to vocalize with her. The fact that she can cut my ass on a guitar while playing upside-down doesn't bother me at all. I like her.

Here's another highly erotic image for me: Watch a woman on stage, making a Fender Strat weep, with her eyes closed and a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. Goddam! I almost fell in love tonight.

I'll be back next Tuesday.

March 16, 2009

That train whistle

Originally published February 20, 2004

The CSX railroad runs right through downtown Rincon, and I like to listen to the engine whistle blow. It starts hooting about a half-mile out of town but it doesn't stop until the train has passed five crossings along Highway 21. I like to sit on my back porch and listen.

I hate that fucking train. It services the docks and creates ridiculious traffic jams when it works the switchyard at 4:00 in the afternoon. I've watched that bastard go back and forth in front of me at least a dozen times, and I've wanted to shoot that stupid ass who rides the caboose.

But I like to hear that whistle blow in the dark. I like to sit on my back porch, sip wine, smoke a nice cigar and drink the sound of that whistle like fine brandy. Go, railtrain, go.

When I was a boy in Kentucky, I listened to the coal trains in the switchyard at night, EVERY NIGHT. What they mostly did was "hump" the cars. They'd haul a string up the hill, line them up on the right track, set the switches and cut 'em all loose at once. Those cars would roll down the mountain, impact the ones sitting still at the botom of the hill, and make a noise that sounded like thunder echoing through the mountains.

I remember that sound, too.

But there's still something about a train whistle in the night that makes my skin crawl. And I don't mean it in a bad way here. That sound makes me feel ALIVE and it makes me believe that I can fly. I LOVE the sound of that goddam whistle in the night.

And I probably always will.

March 15, 2009

Music rules

Originally published November 19, 2003

Here are a few things I learned from playing in a bar for the first time in many years:

1) Drunks don't sing or play very well.

2) A lot of sober people believe that they can sing and play when they really can't.

3) Don't EVER allow a woman to sing "Me and Bobbie McGee" or a man to sing "Rocky Top." That's just bad news.

4) NEVER trust a guy wearing a cowboy hat in southeast Georgia. WTF is that all about? This ain't Texas.

5) Playing LOUD doesn't make you sound better if you can't play in the first place.

6) Some wimmen look really good on stage, even if they're not all that pretty when they step off.

7) Some people can't dance and they SHOULDN'T, even when the music is good.

8) The drunker YOU get, the better the band sounds. That fact gives you no right to walk up and grab a guitar that doesn't belong to you and try to play it when you can't play when you're sober.

9) I could live with a woman who plays guitar better than I do. I believe that we could make beautiful music together.

10) I want to go back and do what I did tonight again.

March 14, 2009

Trials and tribulations

Originally published February 16, 2004

I'm going to be in court tomorrow at 8:00 AM. I'm filing evey charge I can invent against my ex-wife and I might have a few extras by tomorrrow morning. My personal legal council all disagreee with me, but I never listened to their pucker-butted asses anyway. Fuck 'em. Let's just see how this one plays out.

I can't have Jennifer overseeing visitation the way she does the rest of Quinton's life. All I ask is 72 hours per month, where I CAN DO what I want to do with my son. I don't believe that I'm making a horrible demand here. See what happens to me if I miss a child suppport payment if you like reading really shitty marriage law.

Let her miss a visitatiion and it doesn't mean diddly-squat. I'll still pay for that one, you just wait and see. But I'll go to court and make an issue of it, just the same. I may be a name on her Goddam wall, but that same name belongs to my son and HER shitty ass is hanging onto it just to spite me, the bloodless cunt.

I ain't ashamed. I'm going to court tomorrow. And I really don't give a shit who goes to jail over this one. My Cracker ass will be there.

And I'm getting my hair cut short and dying it "Apple Blonde" tomorrow.

I'm getting that legal shit fixed in the morning. One way or the other. And if I get a chance, I'm going to get a haircut and dye my hair on the way home. (This new beautician I met at the shop showed a whole bunch of organic dyes that shouldn't scald my scalp off right off my head the way other stuff does. I'm allergic to everything anymore, but she says that this stuff will work. She has pretty, red toenails, so I trust her. I'm becoming a blonde tomorow.)

I will be sure to post pictures.

March 13, 2009

I confess

Originally published November 19. 2003

I drank only three beers in the Music Box last night. I stayed sober and played guitar for hours. I came home, blogged about the experience and went to bed.

I had a very vivid dream. I dreamed that I was in an airport bathroom desperately needing to piss and I couldn't do it. I finally concentrated as hard as I could and turned loose a golden stream. Man, that felt good.

I woke up pissing all over myself this morning. Have YOU ever done that?

No... I didn't think so. It's just me.

March 12, 2009

Why I want to shoot my phone

Originally published February 16, 2004

The mail ran Saturday and I found a collection noitice in my mailbox. A fucking CREDIT AGENCY is after my ass over $1,000 I supposedly still owe the hospital after my bionic dick implant. I became very pissed and called the hospital first, then Oklahoma City thereafter. I know that I don't owe a swinging dick a dime.

I went way, way of pocket this year on insurance. I have over $36,000 worth of medical bills that either I or my company insurance paid. $5,000 of that money was mine. After I ran through that money, the insurance company owed the rest. They should have paid. the shit-birds. If they fuck with me anymore, I'll break my foot again and cost them $10,000.

Goddam Try to be a nice guy and see what you get?

They did well, paying all but this one stupid bill. According to a lovely young woman named "Heather" that I talked to today, my claim was denied because THE COMPANY I HAVE NEVER NAMED on this blog didn't show me registered as a heathcare member anymore. I called OKC and THEY don't know how my membership vanished. It's about to become unvanished, however, because you can bet your sweet ass on that part. I still worked for the plant on 9/7/03 and I was fully insured.

They will pay that $1,000 and I've already gotten the credit report removed. I gave Heather all the necessary phone numbers, account numbers and Social Security numbers that she should need to do her job. I also gave every bit of that shit to some bureaucrat in OKC. All I want is another "WE AIN'T GONNA PAY" from OKC.

Yes, you will, you bastards. No fucking bureaucrat ever scared me.

March 11, 2009

Pissin' all over myself

Originally published November 19, 2003

Yeah, I posted about pissing my bed last night. I did it. I confess. I was in one of those dream-things that was very powerful at the time.

I stripped the sheets and threw them into the washing machine. I'll let the mattress dry and put clean sheets on the bed this evening. It'll be okay.

I have no shame about writing a post such as that one. I had to wear diapers for six months after my prostate surgery, so the concept of pissing all over myself is not new to me. Bejus knows, I've done it plenty of times when I couldn't control my bladder anymore. I believe that a lot of my "honesty" on this blog comes from the fact that I saw my male dignity totally stripped from me two years ago. NOTHING shames me anymore.

Go through that kind of shit and you have two choices. You can either laugh or cry. I did some of both, but I learned one fact: Laughing feels better.

So, yeah. I pissed my bed last night. That funny, don't you think? Hell, LAUGH ABOUT IT! What's the problem? What's the big deal?

You weren't sleeping with me.

March 10, 2009

No surprise

Originally published February 13, 2004

I knew that the hammer was coming down-- I jut didn't know when or how. I found out tonight in typical Jennifer fashion. I was supposed to pick Quinton up at 6:00 this evening. Nobody was home when I got there. I waited for a few minutes and drove back home. I thought that maybe we had our signals crossed and Jennifer took Quinton to my house.

That's not what happened. She skipped out on the visitation, never came back home and turned her cellphone off for the night. I have no idea where she and my child are spending the night, but I know she's getting some dick out of it, the bloodless cunt. And this kind of MOAB is exactly what I expected from her.

I suppose I'll be dealing with the law on Monday. I don't have high hopes for my chances, because Jennifer never would have pulled this stunt if she didn't already know how it would end. She NEVER jumps unless she knows where she's going to land. She left one fucking out of the equation and went back to fix it this weekend.

She did. And she gave me a simple choice to make.

That choice is already made.

March 09, 2009


Originally published November 19, 2003

Reading this post stirred some old memories about the time I took a tour of a Russian Oceanographic Research ship that was docked down on River Street for about a week. I was friends with several people who worked at the Skidaway Island Institute at the time and they got me the tour.

We were supposed to stay together and be guided through the ship by some kind of Soviet Political Officer, but I deliberately dropped behind to explore on my own. I figured that the worst thing they could do to me if I were caught was to toss me into the Savannah River and I am a good swimmer.

I had traveled to Key West on the "Blue Fin," the Skidaway Institute's research boat. The Russian ship was nothing like the Blue Fin. All sorts of "Workers Unite!" and "Bless the Motherland" propaganda posters adorned the walls everywhere I looked. (The Blue Fin had Rigid Tool calenders for decoration.) The crew on board had been in Savannah for almost a week and had never set foot off the boat.

I was walking down a passageway when a Russian sailor stepped out of a small room and grabbed my arm. He didn't speak English, but he began gesticlating frantically in sign language. At first, I thought that he wanted to have sex with me. Then, I realized that he was trying to buy the Levi blue jeans I was wearing at the time. He offered me a really ugly pair of pants and a handful of Russian monopoly money for the swap.

I refused that deal, so he pointed at my shirt pocket. I had a pack of cigarettes there, so I offered him one. He took it and stuck it behind his ear. He then whipped out a pack of Russian cigarettes and made a very easily understood "I'll give you THIS for THAT" sign. I made that trade. I gave him a nearly-full pack of Marlboros for a pack of Russian cigarettes.

I got skunked on that deal. A Russian cigarette tastes like shit, as I discovered later. There's only about half a cigarette in one to begin with, and the rest is a cardboard filter/mouthpeice. The tobacco reminded me of an open pack of American smokes left on the dashboard of a pickup truck for three months of Southern summertime. It was ghastly.

I was retrieved shortly thereafter by someone who noticed me missing from the group. I was led to the bridge, where we drank vodka with the captain of the ship. Russians pour their vodka into something that resembles the small water glasses they serve you at a Waffle House and they damn near fill that thing to the top with straight, chilled vodka. You're supposed to make a toast and drink the whole glass down at once.

I did that twice and almost didn't make it off the boat. Got-Damn! Two of those will knock your dick in the dirt.

I'll drink vodka. But I'm not getting into a quaffing-contest with a Russian when I do.

Those people WILL drink themselves to death.

March 08, 2009

The biggest fish I ever caught

Originally published February 13, 2004

We were trolling on a pretty rough day when something big hit my line. I hooked him and realized that I had a handful. The drag was spinniing like crazy and making a noise like locusts at night. I kept trying to anchor the bastard and he kept running. That was a big fish and the captain let him drag the boat for a while just to make him tired. I had all I could handle just hanging on to the bastard.

I finally got the pole stuck in the Captain's Chair, and I commenced to play that rascal. All other poles came out of the water and it was then a battle between me and that fish. I saw him break the water once, and he was huge. I thought I had Moby Dick on the end of the line.

He kept up that fight for 45 minutes until I finally wore him out and hauled him, inch by inch, back to the boat. He was a 55-pound Amberjack and one pissed of fish. He was big enough that we wouldn't fit into the cooler on the boat. We gigged him, whipped his angry ass with a baseball bat, then hung him on the bow of the boat to show him off.

I have a picture of me with that fish and the damn thing is almost as big as I am. He was at least 4' long. I won $50 for catching the biggest fish that day, then gave the amberjack to a black guy on the dock when we got back home. He knows how to cook them and I don't. Cooking an amberjack is a lot like cooking a barracuda. Not all of that meat is good to eat.

But I put $50 in my pocket, sent an old man home with a big-ass fish in his hands and drank a few beers to celebrate. I still had to go home and clean about 40 black sea bass, two trigger fish and a Red Snapper the size of a front-porch doormat. That snapper was an awesome thing. He had a head the size of a football. I cut fillets the size of pants legs off of him. The snapper weighed 33 pounds, one of the top ten ever caught in the state.

I had a fish fry the next weekend. Eveyrbody enjoyed the story about the Amerbjack catch, but more people liked the black sea bass and the snapper. A 55-pound amberjack is a fun fish to catch, but give me black sea bass a or red snapper to feed my friends.

We didn't have many leftovers.

March 07, 2009

Get some sand in my shoes

Originally published November 19, 2003

I'm going down to Florida tomorrow. The stormy conditions have moved out of the area and Thursday should be a pretty day. I'm looking forward to a nice visit, but I'll tell you the truth. I don't like Florida for three important reasons.

1) The place has the worst fucking drivers in the universe.

2) Florida is FULL of transplanted yankees.

3) Cigarettes are outrageously expensive and those transplanted yankee assholes who can't drive worth a shit don't want you smoking ANYWHERE.

Other than those three things... Florida still sucks, except for Key West.

March 06, 2009

Good things happen in pairs

Originally published February 12, 2004

My foot was almost well until last night, when I was cooking instant spagetti for supper. I knocked a whole quart of Prego sauce off the counter and it landed on my left foot. I had a religious experience.

Pain is an interesting experience. I hit the floor, applied an ice pack and did the elevation and compression First Aid. Took two aspirin and laid there in misery for a while. When I conjured the nerve, I peeled back the wrapping to see two broken toes, both turning blue and purple. Just when I thought that I was getting over this shit, I dropped a bottle of spagetti sauce on my foot and started the whole thing over again. I'm going to lose a couple of toenails off of this one. I fucked up that foot. Again.

But I made and ate the spagetti. That foot will just have to fucking wait. Ice today, heat tomorrow. Doctor only if I become really desperate. And I know what a doctor will tell me about two brokens toes. "Here's some codiene. Take it and be happy."

Maybe that's great advice, but it's not what I want. The last drugs they gave me for my foot had me too fucked up to tell shit from shinola. I don't want any more of that crap. I want my foot back in perfect working order.

I sat on my kitchen floor last night and thought that irony is a powerful force in this world. I was almost well, then I turned around and dropped a quart jar of spahetti sauce on my sore foot. That sumbitch hurt bad enough to make me say bad words, if I spoke that way. But I left off a "cockcucker" and "you rotten piece of shit." I kinda ran out of gas after that.

I ain't really full of vitriol today. I can look at the foot and tell that it doesn't like me. Oh yeah, it wants to show me colors and pain equal slamming to your hand in the car door but it's not really serious about going to to the doctor. It wants to go back to Jamaica.

"Fuck you. I put up with two weeks of your shit BEFORE your shit now, and I don't care what she does. Screw that foot. I want some ganga and an eight-ball. I'm going to get fucked-up tonight."

I listened to my foot, which wasn't really a good idea, because that night was Terrible Thursday, where I did it all.

I'm not good at doing that kind of thing anymore (too many years of NOT DOING it for so long.) But when I said that I was going to get fucked up, I did. I also learned that I can't handle that shit anymore. The only thing that really made me feel good on the trip was taking my foot-medicine and washing it down with a couple of Red Stripes. Go figure.

Jenny, I loved the trip, I loved being with you every day and the only detail I would change is you throwing my camera in the water. You still seem very upset with me and really I don't know why. I must be an easy man to dislike.

Perhaps so. but you are not easy for me to dislike. Just give me a break on one thing: I never blogged that we had a flaming romance. We didn't. We enjoyed each other's company. I saw you nekkid. Big fucking deal. You know how I feel about nudity as a taboo.

My posts have gotten all confused lately, and I believe that I may take some time off. I want to work on my book and I'm beginning to realize that I can't do both at the same time.

Hell. I can't hold on to three old friends on line at once.

March 05, 2009


Originally published November 19, 2003

I had a conversation with a fellow blogger today about trolls. She believes that all trolls are typical passive-aggressive personalities. I disagree. I believe that trolls are simply assholes.

I took a lot of supervisory skills training over the years and I recognize a passive-aggressive response when I see one. That's the catty remark, the barbed compliment and the insult dripping with honey. I use that technique myself sometimes. It's very effective when your goal is to piss someone off while smiling like an angel in his or her face when you do it. It works.

Trolls are not that subtle. They are simply assholes.

I prefer the aggressive-aggressive approach myself, because it suits my nature, but there is a lot to be said for the left-handed insult, the passive-aggressive slant. Wimmen are BORN knowing how to do it with consumate skill. Listen to them sometimes.

"Oh, Lola, that black dress looks really GOOD on you! If I didn't know better, I'd think you lost 20 pounds!" (Translation: Lola, you're still FAT! You're just trying to hide it.)

That's passive-aggressive, and that's what wimmen do. Guys are much more likely to say, "Jim, you look like Fido's ass in that suit. What homeless guy did you steal that piece of shit from? It looks like you slept in it and it smells like you pissed in it. Goddam, man! Where's your pride?" (Translation: well... that suit looks like shit and I never liked you anyway, Jim.)

Of course, scenes such as those are why guys have fistfights at parties and wimmen seldom do. Wimmen just go home all bitched-up and take their wrath out on their innocent husbands. That's passive-aggressive behavior.

Cats are passive-aggressive most of the time. That's why I hate them.

March 04, 2009

Big fucking deal

Originally published February 10, 2004

I seem to have alienated the woman I took to Jamaica with me. So, I took my Colt .38 and ran through 50 speed-loads on the back porch. I ain't half-bad. From 20 to 40 feet, I'll make you wish you never missed me when you shot first. From 50 yards, I'll shoot the caps off beer bottles with a .22 riflle. I can hit a catetope at 100 yards with my 30.06. I like to shoot.

And when I get pissed off, I like to shoot a lot.

My cop neighbor came down to see what I was doing today. "How good are you with a speedloader?" I asked. "I''m pretty good."he said.

"Okay, try this. I've got five loaders and a full .38. right here. See that toy box in the yard? I already wiped out the "A" so you go for the "X" next." He picked up the revolver, shot five times, put a speedloader in there faster than I could and wiped out that "X" with his next five shots.

I was impressed. "Okay, try this, badass."

I my got .22 and set set up six beer bottles in a row on a rail. I shot all six without taking anything but the caps off them. The cop was impressed. "Can I fire that thing?" he asked. "Go ahead," I said. "But the sights shoot high at about 4:00 Aim a little low and right and you get better. Put something at 6:00 and you've got it's ass. That's Kentucky windage,

He shot some beer cans, killed a couple of squirrels and then he asked me to show him a trick shot. I drove four nails into the goat fence, then drove all four nails with the .22. Then I said "see that strand of barbed wire just above that last nail? He saw it. "Watch the barb right above my last shot." I shot it off the wire, clean as a whistle.

I made a friend today. He used to come down and shoot with me all the time a while back, but our paths disconnected. I really blew his mind when I lit a kitchen match in the fencepole from about 50 yards. I was a good shot. He was a cop, but he wasn't that good.

That's one of the things I'm trying to teach Quinton. now. He's moved up from BB guns to pellet rifles, now .22s and .410 shotguns. I give him the same lessons on every one.

*don't fire if you can't see the target. Know where the bullet might go if you miss. I don't want to EVER have to tell Mrs Goodman that you shot her cat because you were violating ever rule I ever taught you. You'll never have another gun if you do that crap."

*Trust your gunsights. Pick your target, aim well and SQUEEZE the trigger. The most suprised person on the planet should be YOU when that gun fires. If you don't fire that way, you'll miss.

* wear earplugs. I never did when I was a kid, but loud noises never bothered me back then. Those noises bother you now and you worry about whether a gun will "kick" or not. I won't give to a gun to shoot that will kick you on your ass. Trust me on that question. You can handle a .410 and that's about as large as you need to get now.

I don't see anything wrong with what I'm doing.

March 03, 2009


Originally published November 20, 2003

I once was a lot smarter than I am now. I KNOW MORE now than I ever did before, but I'm just not as bright as I once was. I was sharp when I was a kid.

I once could read a book and remember almost every page in it. I was a quick study in school and I never forgot ANYTHING. I could memorize an entire sonnet in five minutes and quote it back to you a week later. I ran through Jeopardy questions like water through a collander. I was bright.

I've dimmed down a lot over the past few years. When Willy and I were riding home from The Music Box on Tuesday night, somebody in the van said that Marty Stewart was married to Roseanne Cash a few years ago. I KNEW that they were wrong and I KNEW who her ex-husband was, but I couldn't dredge the name from my memory banks. I wasn't drunk, either. I just COULDN'T RECALL HIS NAME.

"Leaving Louisana in the Broad Daylight." "Ain't Living Long Like This," I said. "That guy wrote those songs and we've played them a gazillion times. What IS his name?" We never could decide, but I KNEW that it wasn't Marty Stewart.

When I got home about 1:00 in the morning that night, I wheeled my trash can out to the curb because Wednesday is trash pick-up day around here. Willy pulled out of the driveway and headed home. I was almost to my front door when all the cylinders clicked and I remembered. RODNEY CROWELL!!!

I wanted to run down the road in the middle of the night in hot pursuit of Willy's van while shouting, "RODNEY CROWELL! RODNEY CROWELL! THAT'S THE NAME I COULDN'T REMEMBER!!" But I didn't do that.

I went inside the Crackerbox and contemplated the fact that my brain doesn't work the way it once did. I am not nearly as bright as I once was. Learning new things is more difficult now than it used to be. I once could remember damn near every word of the latest book I read and now I can't remember where I left my reading glasses OR where I put down the fucking book.

I still believe that I am wiser now than I've ever been, but my brain is lazy. Maybe I filled it up with too much trivial shit over the years and it just upped and retired on me. I have to think a lot harder now to remember things that once came easy to me. I am better now than I ever was at most things I've ever done in my life, but I don't pick up new tricks easily anymore.

Is that old age closing in on me?

March 02, 2009

Sorry housekeeper

Originally published November 20, 2003

I look around my house sometimes and I want to puke. This place looks worse than Fido's ass and I have no excuse for allowing it to be that way. It's not as if I don't have the time to clean house anymore. I have the time. I just half-ass the work. I am no good at that shit.

I believe that my house has been nice and well-kept twice during the past year. One time happened when Recondo 32 and his lovely wife, Georgia, came to visit and she couldn't stand the mess. She cussed me for every kind of pig under the sun and cleaned my house in a frenzy. She had it looking good in less than an hour.

The other time was when Jack's oldest sister, Hillary, wanted to make some spending money. I paid her $10 to cut my grass one Saturday and let her use my riding lawn mower, so she recognized me for the lazy sucker that I am. She showed up on Sunday wanting another job to do. I told her that would pay her another $10 if she cleaned my kitchen and Quinton's room. She did.

She was finished in 30 minutes and everything looked GREAT. How do wimmen do stuff like that? Hillary is only 10 years old, but she already has the knack. I really believe that the housekeeping gene is born in ALL wimmen, but it does not exist in heterosexual men. Wimmen know "neat" and they know how to make it so, quickly.

I fucking don't. I can clean my house for two hours and it STILL looks like Fido's ass.

I'm happy if I don't have any empty beer cans on the coffee table. I'll leave the half-full one there for two days, because I'm not finished with that one yet, but I'm afraid to drink it for fear that I threw a cigarette butt in it. But I don't throw it away. I usually have at least two pairs of shoes on the floor and at least three pairs of socks scattered around them. I have a bad habit of getting out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel and walking to the living room to watch Fox News in the morning.

I take off the towel, toss it on a chair and leave it there. I forget all about it until I am out of clean towels.

If a burglar broke into my home and ransacked the place while I was away, I might not notice for a week. The place appears recently ransacked all the time and I seldom can find any of my shit in this mess except my guns and my guitars when I go looking for them. Bejus! We won't even talk about some of the vile things I drag by tongs from the rear of the refrigerator about once every month. That Food Becoming Alive stuff is really disgusting.

I am a man. I am a slob. I am a pig.

I believe that I come by those traits naturally.

March 01, 2009

As long as I'm on a roll

Originally published February 10, 2004

We hear more shit about breast cancer than we can recall every day and the money just keeps rolling in every year. Twice as many men die of prostate cancer every year than wimmen do of breast cancer. But tit cancer is a crisis, requiring milliions of dollars of federal funds every year. Save one tit and let 50 men die.

That's fair, isn't it? Political bullshit. How is a tit more important than my testicles?