December 31, 2003
my rocket launcher
I have my very own rocket launcher for shooting the kind of fireworks I'm launching tonight. It's an 18" spool of 2", schedule 40 stainless steel pipe, socket-welded to a 4" flange on the bottom. It weighs about ten pounds and it doesn't fall over. If that fucker ever blows up on me, I deserve to die.
I don't need to wrap that one in duct tape.
I had that thing made in a machine shop by somebody I knew from work. He charged me $20 for it, and I've probably fired 500 rockets, bombs and voo-doo balls out of that sumbitch by now. It's all charred and seasoned from use, but it damn sure beats any bamboo or PVC piece of shit the fireworks stands sell. I like my heavy-duty rocket launcher.
I like my heavy-duty rockets, too. I am one hour away from lighting up the sky.
what a surprise
I called Jennifer today and asked if Quinton could come shoot fireworks and spend the night with me tonight. I got her answering machine and left a message. I was as stunned as if I had been pole-axed when she showed up at 6:00 this evening. I get to keep Quinton tonight.
The kids ran through 144 sparklers in about 30 minutes. They barely waited for the sun to go down before they burned every one I bought. I set off a few voo-doo balls, which always bring gasps of appreciation, then I decided to try some of those TNT cannisters.
GOT-DAM! That is one fucking good piece of fireworks there. That sucker is like a voo-doo ball times three, with a LOT more noise. It lights up the night sky and makes your eyes glaze. THREE explosions, complete with FLAMING BALLS! That's the best shit I ever saw, and the kids love it.
If I left all the decisions up to them, I would have my supply exhausted by now. They wanted me to set them off all back-to-back, but I didn't do that. I sat outside with them, and when a neighbor fired a bottle rocket or set off a string of firecrackers, I said, "Take THIS," and fired a TNT blast. I heard applause echoing down the road a few times tonight.
I have the best fireworks in the neighborhood and I'm going to burn every one of those things tonight. So far, no cops.
I hope it stays that way and I hope that my boy has a good time tonight.
a genuine Jamaica story
When I went to Negril in 1977, I met a guy from Canada named Barry. He knew a lot more about the island than I did and he showed me some cool places to go. He liked my girlfriend (Cheryl) at the time and he was one interesting partner that you just meet out of the blue on a trip like that.
I learned after about three days that Barry was a dope-smuggler. That's how he financed all his trips to the island. We were sitting outside the cabins one morning, eating banana and coconut for breakfast, after a nice swim in the water, when Barry asked, "You want to go up into the mountains today?"
I said, "Sure. Why not?"
I need to learn to bite my tongue when the urge to say, "Sure. Why not?" even crosses either sphere of my brain. That shit has always gotten me in trouble.
We rode bikes up the road and onto a mountain trail that was so steep that we had to get off and push the bikes to the top. I was busy sweating and pushing my bike when I looked around and realized that I was in the middle of a field of ganja bigger than any corn-crop I ever grew. "Holy shit, Barry!" I said. "We're in the middle of a marijuana farm! Look at that stuff!"
"Yeah, I know. Just don't touch any of it," Barry replied. "We're going to go talk to the owner of the farm." We did.
This guy lived in a house with no walls. It had a roof, but the walls were like Venitian blinds that could be raised or lowered, depending on weather conditions. He was a genuine Rashta, with dreadlocks halfway down his back. He had two white girls living with him, both of whom were passed out in hammocks when we went inside. They never woke up the entire time we were there.
Barry started talking business with the guy, and all of a sudden, I see more marijuana in one place at one time than I've ever seen before in my life. That Rashta dumped a FULL GARBAGE BAG of weed on a table, and then he started cutting it up with a machete. He and Barry were yelling at each other the entire time.
I gave Cheryl a "What the fuck did we get into" look and was thinking seriously about running out the door when a rainstorm hit. The Rashta lowered his walls. He then pulled out a white paper bag, grabbed a handful of ganja and crammed it inside. I thought that Barry had made a purchase. But, no. The guy just twisted the bag into a spliff and set it on fire. I guess that there was probably over an ounce of marijuana in that joint. We smoked the whole thing.
I lost all feeling in my fingers and my eyes were seeing everything twice. I wanted to crawl into one of those hammocks the guy had hanging in his house and I was willing to kick one of the wimmen out to get there, too. I wanted to go to sleep in his pot-field. But he and Barry kept talking business.
We left after Barry made a suitable deal and walked out of that place with about five pounds of ganja. He looked like a bare-chested Santa Claus with that heap of reefer in a black plastic bag over his shoulder when we headed back down the hill.
I was fucked-up as a worm, and I had hand brakes on my bicycle. The wet red clay coated my tires and the brakes didn't work anymore. I found myself flying down that mountain on a bumpy path with a barbed wire fence on one side and a rock cliff on the other. I couldn't stop. I looked for the first place I could find to bail off that bike before I broke my fucking neck.
I found a place where the fence curved away from the path and I thought that I could land there without tangling with the barbed wire. I ditched the bike and skidded into the fence, but it didn't get me. I came out okay, glad to be alive.
Cheryl and Barry rode up about a minute later and said, "We didn't know what got into you, hauling ass like that. We thought that you were trying to race us down the hill."
"I damn sure beat you to here by about a minute," I replied. "I believe that I'll walk my bike the rest of the way down the mountain."
That's what I did. We hit the paved road, pedaled right past the Negril police station with Barry carrying a sack full of ganja, and two days later we helped to tape that stuff to his body so that he could smuggle it home. After we cleaned out all the seeds and stems and smoked a generous amount, he was carrying at least three pounds when he left.
I don't believe that you can get away with that kind of smuggling anymore. A dope-sniffing dog will get you today.
But it surely was an adventure when I played my part in 1977.
I am going to take a nap.
I bought 144 sparklers (the BIG KIND) at the fireworks stand today, and I just gave them to Jack and his sisters. I also told them that I have voo-doo balls and rockets that I intended to set off after the sun goes down. They are very excited now.
If I don't get some sleep, I'll never make it to midnight.
more on blow jobs
My friend, Steve Hamby, was diagnosed with prostate cancer two years before I was. When he came to visit the mini-farm after he recovered from the surgery, he told me some amazing things. I didn't really know that much about the disease at the time.
"The surgery left me impotent," he told me, matter-of-factly. "The nerves that make your dick hard are wrapped all around your prostate, and they are so tiny that not many surgeons can get in and out of there and leave you intact."
I now know from past experience of my own that the "nerve sparing" surgery is largely bullshit. Putting the prostate where it is and giving it the job it does is a design flaw in the human body. Let engineers for GM or Ford Motor Company pull such a stunt when they build a car and lawyers will be all over them like white on rice. BEJUS! HOW CRAZY CAN YOU BE?
Okay. Let's sue God now.
Steve also told me that the surgery involves not only the removal of the prostate gland, but the removal of all seminal vesicles attached to it. I was stunned. "You can't cum anymore?" I asked.
"I can have an orgasm, and it feels pretty much like it did before, except I think my dick has shrunk. Luckily for me, I had some room to spare on the dick horizon. It ain't what it once was, but I've still got enough. But, no. I don't have any of the plumbing to make cum with anymore. I use injections to get it up and I dry-fire when I have an orgasm."
I was totally amazed by what he told me that day. I thought, "Just Damn! I don't want to live like that."
Guess what? I changed my mind.
I went through the same thing. The cancer killed Steve and I lived. I would have traded places with him in a minute if I could have. He was married with two children. I was divorced, with an ex-wife who was running off every weekend to fuck another man. Steve had a lot to live for. At the time, I didn't believe that I did.
Steve was right about a couple of things. You can have an orgasm after prostate surgery, but you DO dry-fire. No more swallowing cum if you give ME a blow-job. You don't have to worry about the taste because there's no there, there. All the pipes were removed.
My dick shrunk, too, even with the bionic Roscoe I have installed now. I once was hung like a stallion. I had wimmen see it when it was angry and gasp. Those days are long gone.
But after being totally impotent for 19 months, having the Energizer Bunny that I have now sure beats what I had during that time. Just push the button, and I'm ready to go. Roscoe may not be what he once was, but he works, every time.
My only real problem is getting the damn thing DOWN now. The implants are still a little bit stiff.
I'll probably spend tonight in jail.
I got the tickets and the reservations for the trip to Jamaica, then drove over to South Carolina and bought $100 worth of fireworks. I purchased voo-doo balls, sparklers and firecrackers, but the guy behind the counter tempted me with something I had never seen before. I bought a box of "TNT, 24-Shot, 1" Special Cannister Shells" that look pretty damn good.
As near as I can tell, you light the fuse on one of these little babies, drop it down the firing tube and get out of the way. Then, it flies up in the air like a rocket and produces THREE EXPLOSIONS, complete with SHOOTING, FLAMING BALLS! BWHAHAHAHAHA!!! I can't wait to set one of those off tonight.
The police officer down the road told me to keep everything under control and not to show my ass tonight. I may not be able to comply with his request.
I like triple-explosions with shooting, flaming balls. I just look at those words and think about good sex.
It's another New Year's Eve. I'm ready to get this year over with, just as I was in 2001. I seem to have a lot of bad joss falling on my head in odd-numbered years. I do a lot better in a year that I can divide by two.
So, I predict that I will have a better year in 2004 than I did in 2003. I'm going to start it out with a trip to Jamaica and see what happens from there. I already have good vibes about that trip.
I also predict that the US economy is poised for a tremendous boom, which will make a lot of people wealthy and usher George Bush back into the White House for a second term. That boom will chap a lot of Democrat ass, because they WANT this nation to fail.
I predict that no matter how well George Bush leads the country, some hard-core asshats out there will always consider Bush to be an idiot and Clinton to be a great man. Stupid is as stupid does.
I predict that George Bush will chap my Cracker ass more than once in the next four years. I do not believe that he is an idiot. I believe that he is a strong leader. But I also believe that he's trying to be a fucking "conservative" LBJ. Bejus! The Farm Bill. Steel Tarriffs. Prescription drug benefits in a Medicare program that we already can't afford. Spewing government money like smoke from a coal-burning freight train. Now, he's even talking about buying into that bullshit about gas-mileage standards for SUVs. WTF is he trying to be?
I predict that Bush can NEVER win the support of people who already hate him with a passion, but he CAN manage to alienate people such as myself, and thus set the stage for Hillary Clinton to become President in 2008. Why doesn't he stop trying to kiss leftist ass and give me warm, fuzzy feelings, instead? George, I'm the guy who doesn't intend to vote next year, because I've had enough of your bullshit. I won't vote AGAINST YOU, but I won't vote for you, either. You lose enough people like me, and Republicans lose control of government.
I predict that the tax cuts that reinvigorated the economy will be repealed if Democrats take control of government again. Just listen to Dean, Gephardt and Kerry. They all believe that the government can spend my money more wisely than I can. Fuck that idea. That's pure socialism, and I don't agree. I earned it, and it's mine. Keep your grubby hands off of it.
I predict that no matter how loudly or long that I bitch about what I see happening to this country today, the inevitable will occur. Government will grow larger, take more of our money, control more aspects of our lives and flush personal freedom down the commode every day. Do you know why? WIMMEN WANT IT TO HAPPEN! Just check exit polls in the next election.
Most wimmen fear risk. They want Daddy to take care of them. They see Daddy in government, those crazy bitches. They'll get all hormonally-driven and march on Washington for gun control when they don't know shit about guns. Rather than LEARN about guns, they'll vote for Daddy to get rid of them, as if he COULD. My aching, Cracker ass.
Looking at the political landscape today, I believe that Hillary Clinton just might be a viable candidate for President in 2008. If she is ever elected, I'm going to do something that the pissant Alec Baldwin didn't have the balls to do, the lying shit. I WILL leave the country.
I don't like a lot of what George Bush is doing now. If we ever put a Demo-nut in charge, I'm out of here.
UPDATE I'll go to Mexico. Yo hablo Espanol un poco. Con mucho dinero, vista es muy bonita. Chicas lindas. Cervesa calor. Que es esta?
Where do these people think they live? Can you imagine the country this would be if those asshats ever took charge?
December 30, 2003
big day tomorrow
I actually have to get off my lazy ass and be somewhere tomorrow. I have to drive all the way out to Skidaway Island (That's about 40 miles, one-way) to confirm my travel reservations to Jamaica. From there, I intend to take the scenic route back home, through downtown Savannah, with a slight detour over the bridge into South Carolina. I'm going to buy a bag of fireworks.
I have a cop who lives three houses down from me. Fireworks are illegal in Georgia, but he let me get away with setting off a bunch on the 4th of July, so when I saw him in his yard today, I asked if he was gonna bust me if I set some more off on New Year's Eve.
"Just don't show your ass and keep everything under control," he said. "I'll be hauling drunks to jail tomorrow night."
I took that statement as tacit permission to let fly some voo-doo balls and firecrackers, as long as I didn't get drunk and show my ass while doing it. I'll be careful to keep my ass covered and I'll quit lighting fuses if the law hassles me. But I don't believe that they will.
The neighborhood kids will love it.
5,678 posts, 23,986 comments, two years and two days, two computers, two keyboards, four mouses (mice?) and Bejus only knows how many words later, I'm still here.
I'm kinda proud of that fact.
Hey, guys! What's the difference between your dick and your paycheck? Answer? You never have a problem getting your wife to blow your paycheck.
I just threw that joke in here to set up this post about blow-jobs.
my dog is stupid
Oddball likes to be outside. When I turn her out in the morning, she runs across the street and camps out on Jack's front porch most of the day. That's good. She's shitting in his yard instead of mine. They have a rottweiler, so they won't notice the pansy-assed turds my dog leaves over there.
But every day or so, I hear her barking up a storm. I know EXACTLY what causes that commotion. One of the neighbors has a big-headed, gray tomcat that once liked to shit in my garden, until I popped it in the ass in mid-poop with my pellet rifle one afternoon. Now, the sumbitch won't come into my yard, but it DOES like to sit in the bushes and glower with evil in its eyes at the Crackerbox, as if it is plotting revenge. I should have killed that fucker when I had the chance.
That cat drives Oddball crazy. The cat is at least as big as my dog, and it won't run from her. If Oddball spies that cat, an obnoxious bark-a-thon ensues. YAPYAPYAPYAPYAP! Oddball knows better than to try an attack, because that cat probably would eat her alive. But, she'll bark at it all day long. Got-dam! I can't stand that noise.
I have to go outside and say something like, "Go kill the cat, or shut the fuck up!" The cat sees ME and runs away. It remembers that sting in the ass I gave it with my pellet rifle. I am a man to be feared.
If this crap keeps up, I'm going to be forced to kill one of those two animals. Guess which one I'm going to pick?