This is the blog of Rob 'Acidman' Smith, who passed away June 26, 2006. Acidman was a unique voice in the blogosphere; an extraordinary raconteur with a fascinating life from which to draw his stories, from his roots in a Kentucky coal-mining town through a career as a musician and as a journalist to his years managing the production of a sulphuric acid plant.

Whether writing about the best way to make boiled peanuts, his intense love and respect for his family and friends, commentary on the politics of the day, or blazingly honest revelations about his life's challenges, he had an extraordinary way of drawing the reader in and making them think. He singlehandedly created a massive community of readers, commenters, and friends from literally all over the world and was responsible for encouraging hundreds of people to take up blogging. For an idea of just how far-reaching an effect he had on the world, read the outpouring of comments on the posts from the week he passed away.

Writing about why he blogged, Rob described it as:

an exercise where I stuffed notes in bottles and threw them into a vast ocean where I hoped someone would find the bottle and read the note. But that's not really what I was doing. This blog was my lifeline that towed me to shore when I was totally shipwrecked. It kept me alive for more than two of the worst years I've lived in my life. I wasn't stuffing notes in bottles. I was standing on the shore and shouting frantically for rescue. People came. I WAS rescued. And I will always appreciate that fact.

It was Rob's express wish that Gut Rumbles remain online, especially for his son to read as he got older, and so it shall. As much as possible, the site remains in the state in which he used it. Current posts are drawn from his extensive archives and presented on the front page. To further experience this extraordinary man and his writing, wander through the links to his archives shown at the bottom of the sidebar on the left.

You are missed, Rob.

May 10, 2008

THE GARDEN OF EDEN

Originally PUBLISHED December 11,2004

I've studied the story of Adam and Eve for a long time, and I have reached two profound conclusions. First, God was an idiot parent. You don't EVER plant one special tree in your garden and make a big deal about the kids keeping their hands offa it. When you do THAT, you draw attention to the tree and kids want to know why it's so special. They forget about every other tree in the garden and think about that one all the time.

Second, the story demonstrates the essential difference between men and wimmen in this world. If I planted that tree in MY garden, I could convince my boy to leave it alone by threatening to grind his ass to hamburger and feed it to the dogs if he touched it. He might LOOK at the tree and wonder, but he would leave it alone.

My daughter, on the other hand, would ignore my threats, wait until she thought no one was watching and go fuck with the tree. That's what wimmen do. You want a woman to do something you don't want her to do? Just tell her NOT to do it.

Like a cat, she simply HAS to do it after you asked her not to, just to spite you. (Besides, you're probably up to no good with that tree and she wants to find out what evil you are plotting by being even more evil herself.) She won't DEFY you and go check out the tree right under your nose. No... that's too direct.

She'll be SNEAKY about it. Wimmen are naturally sneaky people. If you don't believe me, just leave something in a suit pocket and see if she doesn't find it, even if you haven't worn the suit in five years.

So, God tells Adam and Eve to leave that special tree alone, and Adam is okay with that dictate. He's off drinking beer, watching football and farting blissfully. He could give a shit about that tree. As long as he has something to eat, something to drink and a piece of ass every now and then, he's happy.

But not Eve. Once God declared that one tree off-limits, Eve never saw anything else in the garden. Just THINKING about that tree put her in a hormonal uproar, and she suspected all sorts of evil, mean, nasty things about it. She beagn to hyperventilate and develop the vapors. The more she thought about it, the more certain she became. After some serious hyperventilation and vapors, combined with soap-opera plot-knitting, the TRUE FACTS became clear to her, as they would to any sane, logical mind.

God is up to no good, Adam is part of the plan and I'm going to CATCH HIM in the act. She could "feel" it.

Therefore, it makes perfect sense to me that Eve would listen to the snake and break God's command. She had a head full of snakes herself.

Some people might say, after the shit hit the fan, "I was WRONG!" But NOT Eve. If Adam had been around more and understood her problems and cuddled her warmly at night and not farted in his sleep and watched more episodes of "All My Children," none of this shit would have happened.

IT'S HIS goddam fault!!!

There is the story of Genesis, as translated by Acidman.

A NIGHT IN THE WOODS

Originally PUBLISHED May 15,2005

I like sleeping in the woods. Last night was partially overcast, so I couldn't see a lot of stars, but I didn't get rained on and the temperature was perfect. I always planned on taking Quinton and Jack down there some weekend, to that place I first noticed on my early exploration of the woods around here, but we just never got around to doing it and now it's too late.

I found lots of deadfall wood and had a nice campfire in a clearing about 50 yards from the creek. I didn't bring my fishing rod, but I did take a rack of ribs that I cooked and ate by the fire. I also discharged about 100 rounds from my non-existent guns that I took with me. I murdered every face-card in a deck of Bicycles before the sun went down.

After that, I sat in my hammock and just listened. The first thing you notice back in the woods like that is how quiet it is, until you stop to pay attention. I could hear the wind in the trees. Frogs and crickets were courting down by the creek. Every now and then, I heard something rustling in the nearby leaves. An owl piped up, asking me "WHOO?" I was for about an hour. It was very relaxing. I have no idea what time I went to sleep.

The morning birds woke me just before sunrise. They like to sing to greet the day, and they were in fine fettle today. I lay in my hammock and listened for a while as the woods came alive around me. I smoked a cigarette and enjoyed the concert. I had a Snickers bar for breakfast.

My fire was burned to smoldering ashes, but I went down to the creek with my coffee pot and fetched water to put it completely out. I listened to Smokey Bear when I was young. I didn't want to walk off and set the woods on fire.

I packed up all of my crap, made sure the fire was extinguished and trudged back home. I took a good, hot shower to wash all the dirt, gunpowder and wood-smoke off of me, and I didn't notice any obvious ticks or chiggers in the usual places you find them. I felt a lot better than I have for the past few days.

All in all, it was a very pleasant experience that intend to repeat very soon. I believe that I really AM a 19th century man.

May 09, 2008

MORE ON NAMES

Originally PUBLISHED May 16,2005

I once went camping with Jennifer, her niece, my daughter and my daughter's best friend. The girls were about eight or nine years old at the time. After I fed them a good campfire meal that night and told them a couple of ghost stories, I finally got them packed into the tent to go to sleep.

I sat around the fire and started chuckling. Jennifer asked me what was so funny. I said, "We have three young ladies with us tonight. But you wouldn't know it by what we call them. Sounds like three boys if you think about it."

That was true. We had Jessica, Nichole and Samantha. We called them "Jessie," "Nick" and "Sam." I'll guarantee you that if anyone heard me calling for them by those names, that person would expect three boys to pop out of the woods somewhere.

They all grew up to be beautiful young ladies, but I still call them by those same nicknames. Jessie, Nick and Sam.

DON'T SELL US SHORT

Originally PUBLISHED August 12,2005

Old men are smarter than some people think they are.

An elderly man in Florida had owned a large farm for several years. He had a large pond in the back, fixed up nice; picnic tables, horseshoe courts, and some apple and peach trees. The pond was properly shaped and fixed up for swimming when it was built.

One evening, the old farmer decided to go down to the pond, as he
hadn't been there for a while, and look it over. He grabbed a five gallon bucket to bring back some fruit. As he neared the pond, he heard voices shouting and laughing with glee.

As he came closer he saw it was a bunch of young women skinny-dipping
in his pond. He made the women aware of his presence and they all went to the deep end. One of the women shouted to him, "We're not coming out until you leave!"

The old man frowned, "I didn't come down here to watch you ladies swim naked or make you get out of the pond naked." Holding the bucket up he said, "I'm here to feed the alligator."

Moral: Old men can still think fast.

(Thank you, Bob! I liked that one!)

May 08, 2008

EROTIC FRUIT

Originally PUBLISHED August 5,2005

When I was taking a class in Romantic Poetry in college, the professor (a woman) asked the question: "If you read carefully, you'll find a lot of allegorical connotations in these poems. Erotic fruit is one of them. Can someone name an erotic fruit?"

I blurted out, "A BIG banana!"

That was not the correct answer, but I thought it was funny as hell. I was never known for keeping my mouth shut.

So... I'm taking a poll.

What do YOU think is an erotic fruit? (and any reply containing the name of Michael Jackson WILL be deleted.)

(UPDATE: What made me think of this topic is the fact that I BOUGHT some "erotic fruit" at the grocery store today. I am enjoying eating it. It might be nice to have someone to share it with, but right now, it's MINE!!! ALL MINE!!!)

VERILY I SAY...

Originally PUBLISHED November 9, 2004

Wisdom from Jesusland:

*Don't name a pig you plan to eat.

*Country fences need to be horse high, pig tight, and bull strong.

*Life is not about how fast you run, or how high you climb, but how well you bounce.

*Keep skunks, lawyers and bankers at a distance.

*Life is simpler when you plow around the stumps.

*A bumble bee is faster than a John Deere tractor.

*Trouble with a milk cow is she won't stay milked.

*Don't skinny dip with snapping turtles.

*Words that soak into your ears are whispered, not yelled.

*Meanness don't happen overnight.

*To know how country folks are doing, look at their barns, not their houses.

*Never lay an angry hand on a kid or an animal, it just ain't helpful.

*Forgive your enemies. It messes with their heads.

*Don't sell your mule to buy a plow.

*Two can live as cheap as one if one don't eat.

*Don't corner something meaner than you are.

*It don't take a very big person to carry a grudge.

*Don't go huntin' with a fellow named Chug-A-Lug.

*You can't unsay a cruel thing.

*Every path has some puddles.

When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.

*The best sermons are lived, not preached.

*Most of the stuff people worry about never happens.

Yeah. We sure are ignorant in Jesusland.

May 07, 2008

Train sings revisited

Originally published August 25, 2003

Yeah, I sang this one as a kid in school, even before I learned to play guitar:

I'm sure you sang this version of "The Wreck of Old 97" in the schoolyard too:

She was going down the road doing 90 miles an hour when the chain on her bicycle broke.

Well, they found her in the grass with a pedal up her ass and her titties playing Dixie on the spokes.

Phil

Thanks, Phil. I had forgotten all about that one.

Notice the reaction

Originally published June 4, 2004

I've admired Bill Cosby since I was a kid. The man is a brillant comedian, a great actor and a fine father. He also got a college education and took the road to success at a time when it was much more difficult than it is today for a black man to do it.

Have you ever noticed that he can do a one-hour comedy routine, have the audience rolling in the aisles and NEVER use the word "motherfucker?" In fact, Cosby doesn't cuss on stage at all, except for that hilarious story about believing his name was "Dammit" when he was a boy, because his father always yelled, "Dammit! Come here to me!" when young Coz was in trouble. (Wasn't Coz also convinced that his brother was named "Jesus Christ" because that's how dad called his brother to task? "Jesus Christ! Yeah, you. Not YOU, dammit. The other one. Jesus Christ, come here to me!")

Cosby said some things that a lot of black people and guilty liberals don't want to hear. I am not surprised that the speech he gave didn't get a lot of coverage. It was politically incorrect.

The guy who really nailed the Cosby story was Knight-Ridder/Tribune News Service editor Gregory Clay. He witnessed Cosby's speech, and penned an op-ed. Clay wrote, "Cosby openly chastised some black people for our dirty, little secrets. We are exposed.... Cosby broke the black code.... Give Cosby credit for having the guts to voice his displeasure at such a regal event.... Some have said Cosby is pitting lower-income blacks against middle- and upper-class blacks. That's silly. Cosby's central theme simply was this: Better parenting and educational achievement are in black people's best interest, and some have failed miserably. Don't let the Brown case die on the vine. We have to admit this; it's about survival."

I've beat this drum before and received a lot of flack about it. But I don't care. I WANT to see black people succeed in the USA. I WANT this place to be a true melting pot, a gumbo of every cultural ingredient anybody can bring to the party and throw in the stew. I WANT to see rich, prosperous people all around me, and I don't care what color they are.

But blacks will never get to the party if they stay on the track they've been following for the past 40 years. Illegitimate births. Gangs. Ghettos. Prison. Murder in the street because somebody "dissed" you. Wearing pants around your goddam knees with only boxer shorts covering your ass. Illiteracy. Dropping out of school. Becoming "street-wise" instead of educated. Crack cocaine.

That IS NOT the path to success, people, and when society either turns a blind eye or condemns you as a racist for saying so, we're in a world of trouble. I don't give a damn what the Democrats say--- I know one thing for a fact. NOBODY can help someone who isn't willing to help himself.

Just look at Bill Cosby. He is rich, successful and he also has the intelligence to recognize a problem when he sees it. But when he speaks his mind, he is ignored or chastised for doing so. There are some things you just don't say in this free country, because the truth pisses people off.

I don't buy that philosophy.

I agree, sort of

Originally published October 15, 2003

I believe that this post is overly pedantic, but she does raise a valid point. I know several people who have college degrees but write as if they were barely literate.
[Blog no longer exists. -Ed.]

I don't claim to be great at spelling (as people who read this blog regularly already know) but I'm writing a blog here, for crying out loud. It ain't like I'm getting paid for it or I get a letter grade on every post. I am simply too damned lazy to look up words that I don't spell regularly, so I just take a wild guess at them. If the result looks TOO obviously fucked-up, I'll try to substitute a word that I CAN spell.

I don't do that "wild guess" thing if I am writing business correspondence. I'll check my spelling every time. Business correspondence is important literature. This blog is not.

I also commit several Crimes Against Grammar regularly on this blog that I would not put in formal communication. I frequently address the reader as "you." For example, you might read a sentence like this on my page.

"One might read a sentence such as this one on my page is proper diction, but it feels STILTED to me. I don't like feeling stilted. I prefer the vernacular.

I sometimes begin a sentence with the words "There are..." or "It is...", which are both no-nos. I use the word "ain't" on occasion. I also use potty-mouthed language and write a few run-on sentences here and there. I don't call those lapses of mine examples of poor grammar. I call them STYLE. I know better than to write diction-impared sentences, but I write them anyway. It's my blog. I can do whatever I want to here.

I DO have a few pet peeves, however; some mistakes are unforgivable.

1) KNOW the difference between "affect" and "effect."

2) DON"T write "it's" when you mean "its."

3) STOP before you write "your" when you mean "you're."

4) BE DRAGGED OFF AND SHOT for confusing "there" and "their."

Okay, there's my rant on grammer. I DO find it odd that the person who authored the post that I linked to once wrote everything on her page as if the "CAPS" key was missing from her keyboard. Yeah, I remember, darlin.'

That's another one of my pet peeves. PUNCTUATE AND CAPITALIZE, dammit

May 06, 2008

My mama

Originally published August 24, 2003

I took the boys over to see mama today. We stopped and bought a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken with all the fixings on the way. I spilled the goddam gravy on Mama's kitchen table as I was lathering up my mashed potatoes. I made a mess, but my Aunt Peggy cleaned it up.

Aunt Peg and Uncle Virgil are visiting to keep an eye on my 92 year-old grandmother while my mama undergoes chemo and radiation therapy. She's got a pesky case of cancer that won't rub off. She had me sign a lot of papers today giving me access to her bank accounts and personal financials. My brother signed them all last weekend.

I don't want my mama's money. I want my mama.

She ran a marathon when she was 50 years old. She taught me how to farm. She took me in and cared for me when I had nowhere else to go after the Bloodless Cunt threw me out of MY HOUSE and the doctors cut up my guts.

She's put up with a lot of shit from me over the years and she still loves me as much as I love her. The chemo has made most of her hair fall out, but my mama is a GOOD-LOOKING bald-headed lady. That fact is not surprising. She was a baby-doll when she was young.

My dad was a lucky man.

I am lucky, too. I had a father who taught me to be a real man and a mother that I woudn't trade for the all riches of the world. A lot of kids never have that experience. I did. Bejus smiled upon me when I was born.

My mama feels good and remains optomistic. 15% of people with the cancer she has survive for five years or more. She says long odds are excuses for losers. And she is a WINNER. She looks good bald-headed in a baseball cap, too.

I wasn't going to blog about my mama, but I become really emotional on Sunday evenings. Quinton is gone. I'm alone in the Crackerbox. I feel like shit.

So, I wrote this post.

Train songs

Originally published August 24, 2003

I always figured that you couldn't be a musician unless you knew AT LEAST five train songs. I learned these right away, and I still believe that they are EXCELLENT train songs.

#1: Folsom Prison Blues

#2: The Wreck of Old 97

#3: City Of New Orleans

#4: Orange Blossom Special

#5: Canadian Railroad Trilogy

If you know any better train songs, let me know.

("Rainy Night In Georgia" would qualify, but it's not reallly a train song.)

Names

Originally published June 4, 2004

I don't know what kind of statement some parents try to make when they name their children after fruit. That question puzzles me.

I grew up with the name Robert Smith. I had two strikes against me right off the bat because I have the most common name in the USA. You can't shake a got-dam bush ANYWHERE in this country without a dozen or so Robert Smiths falling out of it. Try using that name if you want to perform music on stage or write for a living. You won't exactly stand out in a crowd.

When my daughter was born, I named her Samantha because I liked the alliteration in Samantha Smith. The first name was unusual without being ridiculous and I always had a secret lust for Darren's wife on "Bewitched." I remain proud of the name I chose for her today.

When my son was born, I named him Quinton Robert Smith. That way, he could share the Robert that my grandfather, my father and I bear, but he could have a unique identity of his own. Quinton also is a fine Southern name. I'm proud of that one, too.

But I don't believe that in my wildest, drunken, dope-fueled delusions I could EVER name a child "Apple." Or "Moon Unit." Or "De Wonton." What the hell are parents thinking when they curse their children with horrible names that they'll have to lug through life like a millstone around their necks? Names count for a lot, and what you think is "cute" now may backfire later.

Face it. If someone in a Human Resources Department is sifting through a stack of job applications and sees "Rainbow," "Dewberry," "Toyota La' Trelle" and "Gary" in the mix, who do you think gets first shot at the job? It'll be Gary every time. The other names just sound too flaky. Even a Robert Smith stands a good chance when faced with competition from "Placenta," "D'Andre Lawanna Shithead" and "Blossom."

Graham Nash said "Teach Your Children Well." I say name them well first.

Good question

Originally published October 14, 2003

Jay Solo posted a Question of the Week that I want to answer. Maybe my answer will explain something about who I am. Here is the question:

Even if you are religious normally, pretend that we have learned there is no deity or anything along those lines. The prophets and such were all just men, whether deluded, imaginitive, or what. What we see is what we get, plus what we can't see that is more extensive and strange than we have yet imagined, however natural in origin.

Okay then... From that perspective, what would you make of the historic - and prehistoric - rise of religions and related practices? Would you say it was a case of God not existing, but we had to invent him? Was it imperative to fill a need most humans have? On the balance, has the existence of religion been a positive thing, a negative thing, or just a thing; neutral? Conversely, would religion being provably null and void be, on the balance, good, bad, or neutral for the human population overall?

Once upon a time, a village of the MOOG tribe learned to move out of their caves and live in huts that they built from wood and thatch. They hunted and gathered for a while, until Moffer, a smart little boy, learned to save seeds and plant his own crop. He grew a lot of the sacred weed that the village elders made beer from and he became rich selling his crop to the drunkards. After that resounding success, EVERYBODY started growing his/her own crops. Life was good for the MOOG.

Then, one night, a terrible thunderstorm decended upon the village. Lightning flashed from the dark sky and the ground trembled from the thunder. Everyone was frightened and the children screamed. "What can we do? What can we do?" asked the bravest hunters in the tribe.

About that time, Alfonso woke up. Alfonso was a skinny, pock-marked skuzzbucket who never hit a lick at anything in his life but somehow managed to bum enough beer to get drunk unto unconsciousness every day. Men hated him and wimmen wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole. But Alfonso was smart, the way a rat is smart. He saw a golden opportunity in that thunderstorm.

"I'LL SAVE US ALL!" he yelled, and ran outside to do a crazy dance amid the rain and the lightning. He figured that he had nothing to lose. If he got struck by lightning and killed on the spot, it was no big deal. His life sucked. So, he yoo-hooed and boo-hooed and howled at the sky. People watching were most impressed.

The storm went away and nobody in the MOOG tribe was dead. Alfonso said, "You have ME to thank for that, because GOD listens to ME," and he became the very first priest in the world.

The next time a thunderstorm came, Alfonso was so drunk that he slept through the whole thing. Orrg woke him up the next morning. "I need a favor, Mr. Priest, sir. My hut was hit by a lightning bolt last night and I never want that to happen again. Can you make my bad luck go away?"

Alfonso assured Orrg that he could, but insisted on sleeping with Orrg's wife and taking the fattest pig from his herd as payment. Orrg reluctantly agreed. So, Alfonso screwed Orrg's wife, ate his fattest pig and went back to drinking beer.

Another thunderstorm came, Orrg's hut was hit by lightning again and Orrg was pissed. He came to kill Alfonso for dicking out on a fair trade. "YOU GODDAM LIAR!" he said, while poking a spear into Alphonso's throat.

But Alphonso was smart, the way a rat is smart.

"I spoke to God and he told me that you were not sincere in your sacrifice. You hid your fattest pig and gave me the second best one. Then, your wife was a dud in bed. I did not receive what I was promised and God hurled down his wrath upon you. I didn't screw this up. YOU DID!"

Orrg had to admit that everything the priest said was true. He DID hide the fattest pig. His wife WAS a dud in bed. "How do I make this up to you, Oh, Man of God?" Orrg asked.

"I want your fattest pig and I want to screw your wife again," replied Alphonso. "And this time, she'd better give me a blow-job!"

Orrg went back to his burned-out hut, beat the shit out of his wife and sent both her and his fattest pig over to Alphonso's place. The wife put out like a Las Vegas hooker and the pig was delicious. Orrg never had lightning strike his hut again.

Some people might call that sheer coincidence, but Orrg believed in God after that. Alphonso got a lot of pussy and a lot of pork because other people starting believing, too. Pretty soon thereafter, we had the Catholic Church. Unlike Alphonso, a lot of Catholic priests prefer to screw your children rather than your wife.

That's the only real difference I see between then and now. Man didn't invent God. Con-men did.

That's what I think about religion.

May 05, 2008

My Dad

Originally published August 24, 2003

I was over at my parent's house one day and my dad said, "Watch this. That dog is about to shit in my yard."

Sure enough, the 90-pound rascal made a special stop and pinched a large loaf right in the front yard. He scampered off happy after that. My dad said, "I don't have to put up with this. I've talked to those people a BUNCH OF TIMES and they just don't listen."

He went to the garage and got a shovel. He scooped up the dog-loaves from the front yard. Then, he strolled down to the neighbor's house and rang the doorbell. When they opened the door, he said, "I believe that this belongs to YOU", and pitched the shovel full of dogshit into their foyer. He turned around and walked home after that.

The dog never shit in his yard again.

My dad was one hell of a man. He didn't take shit from man nor beast.

He helped raise me. Does it show?

Notes from the homefront

Originally published June 3, 2004

Katie, the Fertile Rottweiler, is down to two puppies now. Somebody took "Brownie," an alpha male, and the two leftovers are brown females. All the ones who looked like genuine Rotties went pretty quickly.

Henry got kicked out of his house by the darling wife, came over to the Crackerbox in search of beer, told me his sob story, but charmed his way back in one day later. That guy makes ME feel sane.

I haven't seen THE JOGGER for a while now. Maybe the running bastard dropped dead of a heart attack the way Jim Fixx did on his way to perfect health.

The FAT LADY might not be singing, but she's walking several times up and down the road every day. She does that ridiculous power-walking thing that makes me want to run over her with my truck. Maybe she ate THE JOGGER. (Side note: never trust a woman with a belly bigger than her tits.)

A grackle attacked me in my back yard today, then had the nerve to hang around and squawk at me. I shot his ass dead with my pellet rifle.

I don't trust one of my neighbors. He has three things going against him. His ass is wider than his shoulders, he smokes brown cigarettes and he has an electric lawn mower.

I have an Effingham County sheriff's deputy living on my street. He knows me by name. I'm not certain whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.

I ate lunch at Weisenbacker's Restaurant today after my visit to the dentist. I must be going there too often. As soon as I sat down, the waitress came to me and said "The Killian's Red is on tap again, Rob." That tap has been broken for a couple of weeks, and that's what I always ask for. I had a Killian's, with a meal of BBQ ribs, mashed potatoes, fried okra and corn and tomatoes. It was good and I tipped my waitress generously.

I cut my grass. And I didn't use an electric lawn mower.

As you can tell, it doesn't take much to excite me anymore. That's one of the reasons I love living in Effingham County, Georgia.