November 20, 2006
Ed, a pig, and fishin'
Originally published June 8, 2002
My friend Ed once played linebacker for Eastern Kentucky University and won a Division II National Championship ring while he was there. He also injured his neck, and subsequent surgery left him with a weakness in his right hand, which is odd, considering what a hoss he is through the chest and shoulders. Ed is a large fellow. When he needed someone to drive nails on a fence-hanging project, or perform other right-hand tasks around his mini-farm, he called me. When I needed someone to help move a refrigerator, or wrestle a 400-pound pot-bellied pig off my back porch, I called him.
I am not making up the 400-pound pot-bellied pig. My ex-wife (the bloodless cunt) and I bought our mini-farm from a couple who built another house, now known as "The Governor's Mansion" around the old neighborhood, less than a quarter of a mile away. They moved all their animals to the new home, but the animals never forgot where they once lived. They came to visit their old abode frequently. The occasional runaway goat or stray rooster never bothered me. But the pot-bellied pig did.
"Bacon" was a female pot-bellied pig that resembled an overloaded, warped fifty-five gallon drum on four short pegs. One summer day, she went in heat, dug her way out of her pen, and showed up at my house, looking for love in all the wrong places.
I learned that if you point your finger down the road and yell "Go Home!" to a 400-pound pot-bellied pig, the pig pays no attention whatsoever. It lays on your back deck, grunts contentedly and goes to sleep. I tried to poke at her and get her to move, but she only grunted, then farted at me really loudly, so I stopped poking. I thought the giant fat-bag would get hungry and go back home in a day or so, but Bacon seemed happy to be back at her old homestead. After four days of pig-occupation, I set out to evict that squatter from my land.
The neighborhood posse got together and even recruited a guy wearing a shirt with "Roy" over the front pocket to help. "Roy" was a contractor installing a sprinkler system at the Governor's Mansion that day. I don't believe he really knew what he was getting into.
Bacon was asleep on the deck, as usual. Our game plan was to approach the pig, have one person assigned to grab each leg, then drag the grunting lard-bucket over to the rescue truck, where EVERYONE would help lift Bacon into the bed. That plan went to shit when Bacon saw four people grabbing her legs. She didn't like that. She arose on her pegs and took off running, scattering her grabbers in her wake.
You wouldn't think so, but a 400-pound pot-bellied pig has some elusive moves that would put the best broken-field runner in the NFL to shame when the pig really doesn't want to be caught. We chased that bloated bitch around the yard for at least ten minutes before we finally cornered her. That's when she showed us her tusks. And she had some TUSKS.
Sue, Bacon's owner, assured us that Bacon wouldn't hurt a fly. "She's just scared," Sue said. Well, SO WERE WE, looking at 400 pounds of tusk-baring, hostile, PMS-ridden, bitchy pig. We finally decided that Bacon couldn't kill us all if we attacked in a human wave, so we did, and once Bacon was "hog-tied," she simmered down and returned home peacefully. I don't know if "Roy" received any bonus payment for his intrepid extra-curricular work, but he deserved one.
I don't know how that story sprang from my memory banks. It just DID. I was mentioning my friend Ed, then one thing led to another. What I STARTED OUT to do was share this email Ed sent me:
Is Fishing Better Than Sex?
* A big, juicy worm always gets a fish excited.
* You don't have to eat a fish while it's still flopping around.
* You can take a leak in the bush anytime you want.
* Stroking your rod won't piss off a trout.
* Sipping a beer and scratching your balls is all the foreplay expected of you.
* Anything you stick in a fish's face, it eats.
* A fish will never gag, choke, or come up for air.
* A red snapper won't cry if you call it a flounder.
* You wear rubbers on your feet, not on your dick.
* If you want a bigger pole, you can have a bigger pole.
* A smart fish knows when to keep it's mouth shut.
* It's okay to cook a fish to make it taste good.
* Fish bite for a guy of 60, same as they do for a guy of 20.
* You're never called a jerk when you throw back an ugly fish.
* Fish are real happy when you pick up your gear and go home.
Why are comments to older posts not available. Part of the joy in reading GutRumbles was the comments that were generated and the responses he would post in reply. Alot of time, the responses in the comments were better than the posts themselves. I've tried accessing some of the comments but they won't load. Is it a glitch in the system or have they been disabled?
I'm loving reading these old posts brought back to life. Thanks. I don't think there will ever come a day when Rob's presence in the blogosphere will not be missed. A funny, straighforward, influential person of the blogosphere is gone forever and I don't believe the blogging world will ever be the same.
You are sorely missed Rob.
I know exactly whatcha mean about the comments...
It bugs me, too, when I click on 'em and get that 404 message.
I think they were made unavailable initially to keep the wear and tear on the server to a minimum right after Rob... left... for the online memorial.
I think they've just kinda been left like that for a coupla reasons, not the least of which is that Paul's been balls-to-the-wall with work and trying to single-handedly transcribe the latest MT installation instructions into plain English and including, but not limited to, keeping a lid on the spam.
Rob is still getting hammered almost daily...
But, I've been meaning to ask Paul about it myself.
It's like pumpkin pie with no Cool Whip.
Do-able, but not the complete experience without it.
And, believe me, I'm loving doing this.
It's almost like getting to find, get to know, and learn to love Rob all over again because now I have a different perspective.
(One still born out of love for the guy, but slightly different than I had before, somehow... more pure, with better clarity, I believe.)
Even the posts I remember from when they were originally published, let alone the older ones, are fresh and all but brand new to me.
(And to think... people told me that smokin' alla that weed and the resultant "self-inflicted Alzheimer's" would come to no good... *grin*)
As long as I know this is doing even one person some good, that at least one person is finding or retaining a connection to Rob from it (even if it is only just me some distant day *smile*), I'll keep doing this every day for as long as I possibly can.
("The rest of my life" seems about right...)
Thank you for continuing to visit here.
Finding comments these days is akin to seeing fresh flowers left by someone else.
It feels good to see others still remember and miss him, too...
He was such a huge presence here, in this world of words.
Especially to those he inspired to start blogging themselves...
He wrote about immortality and lamented that his family name would end with him for various reasons and said that he wanted to leave some kind of indelible mark on this world to show that he was here.
Little did he know that Gut Rumbles would be his immortality. An immortality that will never be changed or adulterated. (He was convinced/scared that Jennifer will change Quint's last name to that of her current spouse if she can.)
Even after I asked him whether he wanted it to stay up or come down, I don't think he had any idea that this is what would happen.
I know I didn't...
All Paul and I wanted to know was if he wanted Gut Rumbles to remain available.
Mostly so Quinton could see it someday, we were thinking.
Rob said "I want it to stay around for as long as possible..."
And, so it shall.
You, and Rob, have my word.