Gut Rumbles

December 31, 2001

It's the last day of

It's the last day of a miserable year and it can't be over soon enough for me. In 2001, my entire life was turned upside down, shaken vigorously, folded, spindled, and mutilated, then thrown on the ground in pieces that I still am trying to reassemble into something that I can recognize. In a streak of less than 70 days, my wife divorced me, costing me the son I adored, the home I had always dreamed of, all my animals, my mini-farm, the neighbors I had grown to like and most of my sanity; then, I had my cancer operation, where they ripped out my prostate and left me weakened, scarred, impotent and incontinent to go along with all the rest. The Perfect Storm.

Lest I sound too full self-pity, fear and loathing, I want to assure you that things are looking up. I have a date tonight. We're going over to my old neighborhood for a New Year's Eve oyster roast and turkey-fry. We're staying the night there, too, because the scratch-and-sniff DUI checkpoints will be out in force tonight, and the last thing I want to do is begin the new year sitting in the county hoosegow for the high crime of having a couple of beers with my oysters. My friend throwing the party says that he has plenty of beds and both my date and I are welcome to crash there. I hope it requires only one bed for the both of us, but that part remains to be seen. I'm taking no chances, however, and intend to pack my wonder-drug and injection kit with me, in case I get lucky. The stuff will wake the dead, and that's what it takes for me since the operation.

I have a real problem with those scratch-and-sniff roadblocks anyway, even when I have not been drinking. I believe there is something inherently wrong, downright un-American, about stopping every car going down a road just to see if the cops can find something illegal going on, with no probable cause, no indication of impaired driving, nor any reason at all except for the fact that they can do it. MADD, SADD and similiar single-issue crusaders are as bad as the anti-smoking Nazis about wrapping themselves in a cloak of self-righteousness while trampling all over civil liberties in this country. Craven, gas-bag politicians and money-hungry law enforcment minions are quick to jump aboard their bandwagons, because doing so produces votes for the politicians and cash for law enforcement. Meanwhile, personal freedom erodes, slowly but surely. I would pontificate about the obviously abused property forfeiture laws that the wonderful "War on Drugs" brought us, but that idiotic, corrupt concept doesn't seem to upset anyone except those who have had their property seized and never returned, sometimes when they never are charged with a crime, let alone convicted. People who value liberty should rant, rave and scream about such things.

But very few people do. That's why we have scratch-and-sniff checkpoints, property seizure laws, no-smoking ordinances and the same gasbag politicians that pass these laws winning reelection over and over. What ever happened to the words "Live Free or Die" when people actually meant it? What ever happened to the people who carved this country out of a hostile wilderness, gained their independence by warring against the most powerful nation on the planet at the time, settled the plains, built the railroads, dug the canals, constructed the skyscrapers and kicked Hitler's ass in World War II? Have we become so weak, passive and frightened of everything that we actually WANT government to cover us with a warm blanket, hand us a teddy bear and tell us to sleep tight because Big Brother, er.. Daddy, is making sure the bedbugs don't bite?

My God, I hope not. But sometimes I'm not sure.

December 30, 2001

Whatta mess! Now that it's

Whatta mess! Now that it's daylight, I can see why my feet were sticking to the floor when I made coffee in the dark this morning. My friend from South Carolina heaped tons of scorn and abuse upon my head when he opened the refrigerator last night and saw my BOX of wine in there. "Oh, twist-off caps are too sophisticated for you, aren't they? I know you don't own a corkscrew. So, you buy wine in a fucking BOX?"

Yes, I do. And I own a corkscrew, too.

Somehow last night, the bag inside the box developed a hole, and about three liters of White Zinfandel wine leaked out of the box, escaped from the refrigerator, and ran all over the place. It is now semi-dried to the consistency of flypaper, leaving a pinkish stain marked by about a dozen bare footprints, left by me, on my kitchen floor. This nasty accident happened AFTER I spent yesterday morning mopping, scouring and vacuuming my humble home.

Luckily, I have a Dollar-Store mop and bucket in my broom closet. Maybe I can persuade my friend from South Carolina to use them when he finally awakens from his deep slumber and goes for the coffee pot only to find himself glued to the floor in a pink quagmire of semi-dried White Zinfandel. If he doesn't want the mop, I'll throw him a corkscrew. He can take it from there.

One thing I forgot to

One thing I forgot to mention about my buddy from South Carolina is the fact that he finally made a legitimate woman out of his partner for the past 25 years by marrying her, naked in Key West. They have two sets of wedding pictures that record the blessed occasion. One set is for the family and not-so-close friends. In these pictures, they have their clothes on. The other set, however, which I have seen and begged for copies so that I could start my very own internet porno site, feature them both, along with the ushers and bridesmaids, butt-ass naked under a bright Florida sun. I wish I had been there.

His finally-legitimate wife is at Lake Tahoe now, visiting her daughter, which is why my friend is spending the night with me. He ate up all the food in his house and had to find another place to graze until his wife returned. She called last night to inform us that she lost $30 playing the slots at Harrah's Casino in Stateline, Nevada. She also said it was one hell of a good deal, because she consumed enough free liquor while gambling to more than cover a $30 bar tab. We told her not to fall asleep in a Nevada snowbank, have a good trip home, and check everyone's shoes before she boarded an airplane.

My buddy from South Carolina

My buddy from South Carolina finally did come by. We went out to eat, then stayed up late talking about old times. He's asleep on the sofa as I write this, with some semi-porno movie on Cinemax playing loudly over his snores. I have a pot of coffee brewed and ready for when he awakens, if he ever does, and I never got the chance to use a stun-gun on him, because we talked about the infinite possibilities of a hot tub and decided that the tub was a better idea than the gun. If he dies on my sofa of a massive heart attack, I hope the ground is soft in my back yard. He is a large fellow, and I will have to dig a deep hole to bury him.

My son called me about 8:00 last night. He, his slut mama and her unemployed, dope-smoking lover returned from the north Georgia mountains and evidently listened to the obscene, spittle-punctuated message I left on her answering machine about how shitty it was to kidnap my son on his birthday weekend, when I was supposed to have visitation, and go shack up in a cabin in the woods. I'm sure she was wracked by guilt, which is why she insisted that my son call me, to make everything right, before she administered a blow-job to her boyfriend. Whatta cunt.

I'm sure she's going to want the child support check on time this month. Those mountain cabins are expensive.

December 29, 2001

Okay, I made and consumed

Okay, I made and consumed the coffee and the lumberjack breakfast, washed all the dishes, finished the laundry, made my bed, vacuumed the carpet, paid all my bills and THEN made myself a large Bloody Mary. It's almost one o'clock now. A friend of mine from South Carolina called last night and said he would come visit this morning as soon as he "woke up and took a shower." I guess he's burning some serious daylight or else he died of a massive heart attack in his sleep because I have not seen or heard from him yet.

I told him about my injection erector-set I got from the doctor and he said that he might like to try it himself. Not ON himself, mind you, but he would be willing to poke ME with the needle. I told him I appreciated his sense of charity but that I would pass on his offer and he could go piss up a rope. I think I'm gonna pass on buying a hot tub and purchase a stun-gun instead. If he shows up today, I'll try THAT out on him.

The real reason the bed-wetting,

The real reason the bed-wetting, butthole, couldn't-get-laid with a $100 bill wrapped around his wanger hacker really screwed me up on Christmas day is the fact that I can't get my e-mail system to work properly and I am too stubborn to call the help-line and ask for advice. Therefore, I can't find the new, altered, adulterated or deleted password to open my original Blogger site. Perhaps that's just as well. I wrote some stuff in there that I'm not sure I want a lot of people to read, although I had 179 hits on it as of this morning and it's only a week old. Only a few people know how to get there, and even though they are good friends, I don't believe they visited the site that many times.

I may mention my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife a lot, but I'll leave all the stuff about my bank robberies, dope-smugglings, child-molestations, bribings of judges and congressmen, phony land deals and serial killings out of what I write here. That stuff could get me in serious trouble.

I made up my mind about what to do this morning. I opted for coffee and a lumberjack breakfast instead of the large Bloody Mary to start my day. I think I may go buy a hot tub.

I live in the teeming

I live in the teeming metropolis of Rincon, Ga., which you can find on a Rand-McNally Road Atlas if you have a powerful microscope and follow Highway 21 north of Savannah. I feel very safe here. We are protected from Osama bin Bombed by Parris Island to the north, Hunter Army Air Field to the east and Fort Stuart to the south, with the Mighty Eighth Air Force Museum in Pooler, Ga. guarding our southeastern flank. We're accustomed to seeing people in military uniforms around here and we like them.

That's why I never joined the chorus of hand-wringers and doom-sayers who condemned our most excellent adventure in Afghanistan. They spoke of "quagmires" and warned of the prowess of Afghan "warriors" who have been fighting the invader of the day or each other for centuries. I thought to myself that if these "warriors" were that good, then somebody would have been victorious by now and the silly bastards wouldn't be involved in a neverending war.

Besides, these hand-wringers and doom-sayers don't go to the St. Patrick's Day parade in Savannah.

We don't have warriors in this country. We produce soldiers. I've seen them march in the parade, and you hear them coming long before you see them. Their marching pounds out the sound of one giant boot rattling the pavement beneath your feet. Then, the Rangers or the Marines turn the corner of some historic Savannah square and you see them, appearing young, strong, well-fed and dangerous. A bunch of well-trained, steely-eyed and finely-honed fighting machines is the impression I get when I see them. No barefoot, starving, turban-clad semi-troglodyte stands a chance against these guys, no matter what kind of "warrior" culture he comes from. THESE ARE BAD DUDES!

Forget the fact that we possess the kind of weaponry that was suggested only in science fiction novels twenty years ago. We have soldiers, too.

If I were a crazed Arab determined to be a martyr for Allah, these are exactly the guys I would want to meet on a battlefield. Those 72 virgins won't be far away. If I had a lick of sense in my head, I would do what much of the Taliban "leadership" has done, which is throw down my gun and attempt to sneak, bribe or ass-kiss my way into Pakistan or any other "stan" in the immediate area that would take me. I wouldn't want to fight with US soldiers.

Osama bin running. Osama bin hiding. Osama bin fucked.

December 28, 2001

I really want to congratulate

I really want to congratulate the human septic tank who hacked Blogger on Christmas day and destroyed my ability to access my previous blog-site. I sincerely hope the pimple-faced geek with the shit-stained drawers is proud of himself as he sleeps on the rubber sheets his bedwetting requires him to use. I hope his dick falls off.

I really want to congratulate

I really want to congratulate the human septic tank who hacked Blogger on Christmas day and destroyed my ability to access my previous blog-site. I sincerely hope the pimply-faced geek with the shit-stained underwear is proud of himself. I hope he pisses his bed tonight. I hope his dick falls off.

Speaking of somebody's dick falling

Speaking of somebody's dick falling off, mine may as well have after I had my prostate removed in October, the very day my divorce from my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife became final. Last Tuesday made 11 weeks since the surgery was performed and I am yet to feel anything even remotely resembling a stirring of that once proud warrior that now dangles uselessly between my legs. I am 49 years old. I really don't want to be finished with sampling the delights of the feminine anatomy forever.

A week ago, I went back to visit my urologist and received an injection that gave me a mighty, throbbing erection that lasted almost two hours. Unfortunately, the mighty, throbbling erection was the most painful experience I have encountered in recent memory and I was more than glad to see it go away. But they all, the nurse that administered the shot, the doctor who operated on me and a few curious bystanders, including a guy with a mop who resembled a janitor who just stopped by to watch the festivities, told me that this therapy was essential to me making a full recovery from prostate cancer and rehabilitating my equipment, so I went back for a second treatment yesterday.

I was poked in my wanger with a hypodermic needle for the second time in my life. This time, I did the poking.

Yes, I sat there on a table with my pants around my ankles. I listened to the nurse as she grabbed my wanger in a gloved hand and said, "Here, I have a penis. I grab it just so. Not like this (twist), and not like this (turn), but like this (yank). Now, you try it." I grabbed and yanked.

"That's right," she affirmed.

Then she showed me how to load the needle with just the right amount of magic elixer, how to push the bubbles out of the syringe and where to inject the potion. Every fiber of my being screamed that I should throw the needle on the floor, snatch my pants back up around my waist and run screaming from the room. But I didn't. I had the needle in one hand and my wanger in the other and I yanked just the way I had been taught. Then I looked at the needle. I looked at my yanked wanger. I went: one, two, I took a deep breath. I went: I'm gonna do it now! But my stabbing hand didn't move. Then, I pretended I was giving a shot to someone else. That wasn't MY wanger, it belonged to a dear friend who would surely die if I didn't administer this essential antitoxin to counteract the poison now coursing through his veins. But that didn't work, either. I still couldn't make myself plunge the needle into myself, at least not where it was supposed to go.

Finally, I yelled "FUCK!" and stabbed. I don't know why that word spurred me to perform the nasty deed, but it did. Perhaps, that's the language I would use on the battlefield if I ever had to plunge my bayonet into the chest of an enemy soldier. Perhaps, "FUCK!" was what I was hoping my poor, stretched wanger would be able to do after the shot. I still don't know why I said it, or why it worked, but it did. I stabbed, I injected, I conquered.

The nurse gave me only one criticism on my technique, which was that I pulled back a little bit on the neddle when it was inserted. I should keep it pressed firmly inward until the dose was done. By then, I had the needle out and the dose in, so I just nodded sagely, as if I had absorbed this advice totally.

Then I waited for it to take effect. The nurse handed me a paper blanket to cover myself with, which I thought was absolutely ridiculous because I had been sitting on the table with my wherewithall exposed for fifteen minutes by then, including the gloved-hand twist-turn-and-yank demonstrations that were very personal. Why anyone would believe that after that sort of experience, I would have a suddent burst of modesty is beyond my comprehension. But I covered myself and waited for an erection to occur. I distinctly noticed the slight feeling of dizziness and a sort of hot flash the first shot the week before had given me.

"Do I need to play with myself like before?" I asked.

"Not this time," the nurse answered. "That was distilled water you just injected."

I wanted to choke her to death. I had gone through all that agony, self-doubt and courageous perseverance to inject myself with DISTILLED WATER? And I wasn't even going to get a hard-on out of it? I was pissed.

But at least this time I didn't have to drive home with an extremely painful woody crammed into my pants while wondering the entire time how long the damned thing would last. No, this time I stopped by the drugstore, filled my prescription for Viagra and bought 15 hypodermic needles. 15 shots is what I am supposed to get from the tiny vial of miracle-drug they sold me at the doctor's office for $100.

At that cost per dose, I don't think I'm going to war with Afghanistan to choke the one-eyed cleric. In fact, I may not try it unless the Swedish Bikini Team comes by my house in a total state of nymphomania.

But I've got it, just in case I change my mind.

Today is my son's eighth

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

I should be accustomed to this sort of treatment by now, because it has been the rule for the past five months, which is exactly how long it took her to commit adultry, beg forgiveness, change her mind, ditch the marriage and divorce me. Actually it took her only five days to ditch the marriage and move the unemployed, dope-smoking piece of shit into my ex-home while she swore out a peace warrant on me, forbidding me from setting foot on my own property or having any contact with my family while she merrily gave pussy away out of both pants legs to the aforementioned piece of shit. It took a full 30 days, start to finish, before she officially divorced me, in front of a judge who was a dead ringer for Howard Sprague from the "Andy Griffith Show." He didn't care about the adultry or the unemployed piece of shit sleeping in my bed in my house with my son living there, nor the fact that my ex-wife earns about $20,000 more per year than I do. He cared about me paying Child Support. The divorce was finalized, she took everything I once owned, except three pieces of furniture, a Holland gas grill, a set of dishes and the computer I am writing this on. And I pay Child Support

So, I am helping to finance this outing to north Georgia, with large monthly checks, supposedly spent supporting my son. I still feel the urge to go OJ about it every now and then, but I don't have a dream team to get me off the hook, so that's probably not a good idea.

The fact that my son is not here this weekend will be crushing news to Jack, the five year-old boy who lives across the street from me. He's a good young'un, missing both of his top front teeth, and eager for any male companionship he can find. He lives with his grandmother, his mother and three sisters, which keeps him bobbing like a small cork in a sea of estrogen. He calls me "Uncle," because I will toss a football with him and let him play with my son's toys when I'm here by myself, which is most of the time. Jack was hoping that Quinton, my boy, would be here all weekend, as he was supposed to be. Jack had visions of an actual male friend to play with and a spend-the-night at my house adventure, where he could have his brain sucked out by Play Station 2 games and the "Kid's Cuisine" TV dinners I fix for them to eat. Plus, when they finish a bath, I let them run around in their underwear instead of wearing those wimpy pajamas women insist they cover themselves with.

Yeah, Jack will be very disappointed. So am I. But when that cunt of an ex-wife of mine pokes around with a sharp stick, she doesn't care how many eyes she hits.