November 30, 2003
I saw my son tonight. He and Jack came back from Blood Mountain this evening and couldn't wait to tell me about their adventures. They SAW SNOW while they were there! They picked ICICLES off the rocks! It was COLD! Jack fell in the creek! They built a dam with logs and rocks and then they BOTH fell in the creek!
I believe that they both had a good time. They petted on my shit-ass dog and asked me why she was in trouble. I told them and showed them what she did yesterday. They were really impressed with the peanut butter jar theft.
"How did THAT DOG drag the jar of peanut butter THAT FAR and almost chew the lid off?" Quinton wondered. Hell, I wonder, too, but the dog damn sure did it. Oddball remains in shit-city until she understands the error of her ways. We're going to Wal-Mart tomorrow to buy her a cage. I won't have her doing that kind of crap in my house. I WILL teach that dog to behave.
Quinton ran off, then came back 30 seconds later. "Mama wants to know if she can see your dog."
I said, "Sure. Tell her to come on in."
She did. I felt badly because the house is a mess and I haven't taken a shower or shaved today. I didn't expect visitors. Both myself and the house look like Fido's ass. But there I was, with my ex-wife petting my new dog and two boys who love me enjoying the scene. I wasn't going to fuck up that kind of moment.
"She's screwed up right now, but I believe that she has possibilities." I said. "That's Oddball."
"Awww... she's such a sweet dog," Jennifer replied.
"You not the one cleaning up behind her," I said.
I gazed at Jennifer with the strangest feeling falling over me, like a dark cloak hitting my shoulders. I realized all of a sudden that I have no idea who she really is. I DON'T. I am not certain that she does, either.
The plant installed a "fitness center" in the old R&D lab, after they fired everybody who once worked there, and Jennifer has been excercising. Her efforts show. She's looking more and more like a fucking linebacker every time I see her. She's always been big-boned, with the body of a majorette, cursed with big thighs, thick ankles and broad shoulders.
Let her hit some weights for a while. GOT-DAMN! That woman is looking more masculine every time we meet. Her face remains beautiful, but what in the fuck is she trying to do to the rest of her body? Grow a set of nuts and a goddam beard? Hell... maybe so.
I am finished with trying to figure her out.
1) Did you ever find yourself totally in love with someone? What was it that really attracted you to them?
2) Have you ever driven a car at a speed in excess of 100 MPH? If so, did you enjoy the experience?
3) What was the first alcoholic beverage you ever drank? (If you answer "sloe gin," you are disqualified.)
4) How old were you when you lost your virginity?
5) How often do you have really crazy dreams that make perfect sense while you are dreaming them?
6) What is the CRAZIEST thing you ever dreamed that made perfect sense as you dreamed it?
7If you could change one thing about your physical appearence, what would it be? Explain why you want to change, please.
That's my rendition of a Friday Five, two days late.
my blog darlings
I'll admit it. My male ego is flattered by the attention that I receive from a lot of wimmen in blogdom. I like it when wimmen say nice things about me. Hell, I LIKE WIMMEN. What's wrong with that?
I hereby present some of the ladies in the blogosphere that I fantasize about:
Here is number one, because I believe that our paths may cross some fine day and I may get to see her nekkid.
Here is one that will forever be my friend. Thank you, Joanie.
I want to hit this one with a frisbee and kick her ugly-assed dog, too. She needs to buy some guns. I would enjoy teaching her to shoot. I'll bet that she would be good at it, too. She has the right disposition.
I showed mine and shell showed hers. I love that woman. She reminds me of ME.
I got drunk and tried to get some of this one at the blog-meet. My plans didn't work. Beware of wrestling with a tall woman. She'll kick your ass. I am now her unlaid blog-pimp daddy. Boy, I wear that title with pride.
If I ever get the chance, I'm going to commit incest with this one. Daddy loves his blog-daughter, yes he does.
I would sure enough grab this one in a minute, as long as she promised never to sing "Me and Bobby Mcgee" again.
Something about this one really intrigues me. I'll bet that she's been skinnydipping before.
I'll bet you that this one would take me out get, me drunk, show me her red toenails, fight me off when I pawed at her and still let me sleep on her couch. She probably would feed me breakfast in the morning before she kicked me out, too.
I love my blog-wimmen.
you can't trust me!
He asked me not to, but I'm going to do it anyway.
We have a new member in the blogosphere and I believe that he will be a good one.
Sorry, Jim, but I just couldn't resist.
This is, without a doubt, the best email I ever read:
It was a dark and stormy night. No shit. We took off in a flight
of two F-4c's from Cam Rahn Bay Air Base one night in '69. It was
storming all around Cam Rahn. We were loaded to the gills with slicks,
including a 2,000-pounder on the center station. Road reconnaisance in
route pack one (southern portion of North Vietnam) was the mission. By
the time this flight was over, Murphy was proven alive and well.
Everything that could go wrong seemed to go wrong. First, my flight lead
disappeared into the clouds before we could join on him. Then, after
multiple radar-assisted attempts to join up, I got vertigo from the
reflection of his rotating beacon on the murk surrounding both craft. Each
time I thought we'd be able to assume wing-tip formation, I SEEMED to be
overtaking at a suddenly excessive speed and I'd back off or overshoot.
Finally, FINALLY (seemed no longer than a few hours), we got in
Pretty soon, it was time to hit the tanker. The rendezvous with
the KC-135 was about the only routine occurrence of the flight. We were
in and out of thunderstorm fringes somewhere around 20,000 feet. Lead
went in first and took his fuel without incident. Then, it was my
turn. As we approached the tanker's boom, i was blinded by a bolt of
lightning that struck our plane, coming off the refueling boom. Now, it's
not a real good idea to be in close proximity to another airplane if you
can't see anything. So i eased forward on the stick to make sure i
didn't run into the tanker, easing the throttles just a touch to make sure
i didn't overtake him in my slight dive. After a short time (didn't
seem like more than a few hours), my vision came back to the point that i
could see my flight lead and the tanker. Incidentally, aircraft struck
by lightning have been known to disintegrate on occasion. I got the
F-4 back into position verrry cautiously. The question of taking fuel or
not hadn't entered my mind, YET. If we didn't take fuel, we had to
abort the primary mission because we were just far enough away from the
target area that we needed the fuel to get back home. Besides, the head
shed said no out-of-country missions without a tanker. I, a
TAC-trained, mission-oriented Yankee Air Pirate, naturally wanted to accomplish
the primary. Secondary targets are usually a pain in the ass anyway.
Zoom around for hours hoping someone, somewhere can use your load of
ordnance. No mission at all meant dumping a full load of bombs in the
water. As soon as we got in position, we were struck by lightning again.
Damn that stuff is bright up close!! Blinded, I managed to avoid a
mid-air collision again. This time, I thought about calling off the
refueling. After much cajoling by my flight leader, I was convinced that,
since I hadn't exploded either of the first two times, the odds were
probably in my favor. HAH! We got in and took our fuel without incident.
Then, the fun started. Our inertial navigation system was kind of
haywire, likely from the lightning strikes. John, in the back seat,
tried to get the thing working, to no avail. Poor John, from another
squadron, probably thought the 559th was a dangerous outfit by now. We
tuned TACAN to channel 71, in the northern part of South Vietnam. Little
did we know at the time, that the enemy had set up a channel 71 of
their own at a position north and west of the good guys'. The storms are
still all around us, but in many places the ceiling is high enough for
us to run the road recce. One plane above 10,000 feet and one below, we
started looking for targets of opportunity. Once we separated, we
turned off all exterior lights. No sense giving the bad guys something to
shoot at. Flight lead would call out a target and roll in on it. I'd
look one way and the flash from his bombs would be nearly 180 degrees
from where I expected it. No moon. No stars. Interior lights out in
the front seat to aid outside and night vision. In other words, no way
for me to orient myself visually and hard for John to help with the
navaids, because they were A F U. Our turn came. We dropped single
500-pounders on what we thought were likely targets. We spotted a
searchlight. Aha! A real target! I should explain before i get to the hairy
part that the eastern part of southern North Vietnam is roughly
sea-level. Anywhere from ten to twenty miles inland from the South China Sea,
it rises vertically in limestone cliffs to around 2,000 feet. Remember,
we were essentially lost. I rolled in on the light, planning to
release the 2,000-pounder at 4,500 feet above the ground. Well, we were a
little farther west than i thought. As we approached release altitude, I
could suddenly see trees and boulders. Very quickly, I could see limbs
and rocks, then leaves and pebbles as i jerked the stick so hard, I
almost blacked myself out. F-4's don't like to be horsed around like
that. The airplane was shuddering so hard, I just knew we had hit a tree
and been damaged. As we got the craft pointed back skyward, John yells
from the back, "I can't see!". Now i know for sure we're in deep shit,
to the point where the G(uy) I(n) B(ack) has been injured. (you snap 9
G's on, a guy who weighs 150 pounds suddenly weighs 1350 pounds.
Snapped vertebra immediately came to mind, although that wouldn't explain
why he couldn't see.) I point us toward the water (I think i do),
assuming we'll have to abandon ship. Before long, John discovers his shaded
(day) visor has snapped down because of the rapid onset of G's. I turn
the interior lights up a little, scan all my instruments, and discover
that there's nothing wrong with the motors or any other system. The
G-meter shows 9 G's. The plane is officially stressed for 6.7. We'd had
a lot of cracked wing spars on those old birds, too. Opting for
discretion, I decided we would "sky spot" (imitate the B-52's) the
2,000-pounder still hanging from the center station. I leveled at high altitude,
pointed us back at the light and tried to lob the bomb on the light.
Didn't miss it far either! We joined with the lead for the (thank God)
uneventful flight home.
As we taxied to our parking, the 6' 5" maintenance officer stood
glaring at us with his hands on his hips. As soon as we shut the
engines down, he was at the canopy rail yelling, "what the hell did you do
to my airplane?" I, in typical fighter pilot fashion, replied calmly,
"we brought it home, Duke, that's what we did to it."
These events are factual as i recall them. I know some of my
brothers tasted that hard dirt due to enemy tricks and bad circumstances.
I know today that it was the grace of God that allowed me to bring that
airplane and its precious cargo back to Cam Rahn Bay. John never had
the opportunity to fly with me again, for which, i'm sure he's eternally
grateful. I don't blame him if he feels that way.
Thanks to Shamus for the excellent story.
Oddball remains on my shit-list today. She will face the Tall Dog's wrath until she learns to behave the way I want her to behave. I know dogs.
Dogs are pack animals by nature and every pack has an Alpha Male who is the leader. Dogs understand a pecking order, and you have to establish YOURSELF as the Alpha M