Gut Rumbles

October 22, 2006

The Genesis of Crap Blogging

Originally published on March 27, 2002

Okay. I just hit myself to see what the page looked like and I found everything tangled up in blue (as Bob Dylan would say) after I did the link on my last post. I went back and attempted to edit it, but everything seemed to be fine. I hit myself again and it's still blue. That has happened several times to me (scroll the archives) and I still don't know what causes it. If anyone reading this knows what I'm doing wrong, e-mail me at: pigmenteer at yahoo dot com and tell me how to correct it. I would have my e-mail address over on the left side of the page for everyone to see all the time if mercenary Scott had not taken my money and run before he taught me how to do that.

At first, I blamed all the blue fonts on the fact that Blogger was so asleep and then soooo sloooow when he woke up that I had too much time to sit at my desk and eat fresh barbecued spare ribs and wash them down with several glasses of white zinfandel wine. I bought the ribs and a wonderfully-cooked Boston Butt from a street vendor in the Food Lion parking lot in Garden City after work today. The naturalists and nudists I met in Key West were amazed at my tales of barbecue, grits and eggs, low-country boils and oyster roasts (where you cook 'em on an old car hood over an open fire) and I'm pretty sure they thought I invented a lot of what I said. I may have elaborated somewhat (that's a writer's perogative) but I didn't invent ANY of it. That's what we do down South. I certainly didn't invent the guy in the cowboy hat with the portable smoker who was hawking his wares in the grocery store parking lot. I paid a total of $17 after a few minutes of haggling over posted prices, for which I received supper tonight and fixins for my son's visit tomorrow, because he loves barbecue as much as I do. The ribs will be gone by the time he gets here, but he thinks it's funny when I tell him we're gonna have Butt for supper. "Does it poot?" he asks. "Yeah, but only from the inside out," I reply. He eats well, and poots well afterward, very proud of himself.

I marvel at the fact that ALL KIDS THINK POOTS ARE HILARIOUS. Burps are good, and worth a giggle or two, but a good, loud, stinky cutting of the cheese can make a room full of younguns fall on the floor and roll as if they were being tickled by the hand of God. They come by it naturally, both male and female, although the women outgrow it when they start plucking their eyebrows and wearing makeup. Boys never do.

I still remember the time about five of us boys were spending the night in the "woods" of somebody's back yard and Andre said, "Y'all wanna see something neat?" We all agreed that something neat was exactly what we wanted to see inside that tent right then, so Andre started pounding his fist against his belly.

"What are you doing," I asked. "I'm conjuring a fart," he replied, with a look of complete concentration on his face. We all sat back and marvelled. Suddenly, he said, "All right! I'm ready! Get back!" We scattered to the walls of the tent.

Andre struck a kitchen match, half-masted his pants and farted over the match. A foot-long blue flame lit up the tent and we all thought it was the funniest thing we had ever seen. Talk about fire-breathing dragons? We had a genuine, four-star, fire-breathing ass right there in the tent with us. We laughed for hours and nobody slept much that night because when it finally got quiet, if one person started giggling, everybody else ignited, too. Forty years later, I still chuckle when I think about it. Of course, those were the days of two-channel, black and white TV and it didn't take a lot to entertain us back then.

I'm afraid to tell that story to my son, because he may try it himself and burn my house down. He can be a windy boy sometimes. But I sure do love him.

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