October 31, 2005
Slick Willie touches another girl in the WH...
...and he wasn't even there at the time.
Notice where his hand is in this official WH photo of the family of new SCOTUS nominee Samuel Alito.
Who in hell set this up? Why was the picture even taken in front of Willie to begin with?
(h/t Kevin of Wizbang!)
Maturity is a state of mind.....
I was reading this blog earlier, and the question came up about whether teens today seem to mature faster and are more mature than teens were even a decade ago, and why that may be.
Personally, I think kids today are a lot more adult than we were a decade ago. But that's not to say they are at all mature. Their whole lives are scheduled from preschool playdates to scouts to music lessons to soccer to varsity cheer squad. Either so Mom and Dad don't have to pay a babysitter (like my former boss) or to pad that all-important college resume (and the more important but less well known Parenting resume...."Oh your kid sings?? Well mine plays piano, violin, and cello, speaks 4 languages and is applying for his eagle scout..." You know, THAT parenting resume). Kids are also exposed to more adult themes and adult material. Swear words are common on primetime TV, sex and drug use is rampant in movies. Kids don't seem to get a chance to be kids anymore.
Ironically, though, when these kids act like kids, when they get in trouble, when they screw up royally, they don't even get a chance to do some real growing up, because Mom and Dad turn around and fix it for them. There aren't any consequences because Mom and Dad fix everything.
So basically what we get are a bunch of little adults. Little adults without the maturity to deal with their lives and without the tools to understand the consequences of their actions. But every study that's ever been done, sociologically, medically, psychologically shows that kids are kids, not little adults. Their brains and bodies don't work the same way as adults. So when they try to be adults, it goes bad.
So are they mature, no. Maturity to me is the ability to relate approriately to a situation and respond accordingly. Maturity means accepting responsibility and understanding that the right thing to do frequently isn't the easy thing to do. Keeping kids from being kids actually strips them of the maturity most of us acquired simply by having fun with our friends, getting into trouble, and discovering the adult world at our own pace
What do y'all think? I know what Rob would say, since his childhood is one of his favorite topics around here....
Trick or Treat?
Today is a ironic anniversary. Aside from it being All Hallow's Eve--better know as Halloween--it's also the anniversary of the day that Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses to the door of the Schlosskirche ('Castle Church') in Wittenberg, Germany , creating the Protestant Church, starting a centuries-long argument and, thus taking his place as one of the many proto-bloggers.
On a lighter note, are you dressing up for Halloween?
My First Week (A Post From Acidman)
~ A LETTER FROM: ACIDMAN ~TO: THE BLOG
I arrived here on Friday afternoon. Recondo 32 gave me a ride and he carried my luggage inside for me. I barely made it up the ramp into the place. As soon as the people inside saw me, they summoned a wheelchair and sat me down in it, to take me to my room.
It is a nice room (or at least it was), private, with a good bed and my own bathroom. No television or phone of course, and no internet access. I didn't have to go to any meetings that day or that evening because I was busy being strip-searched and checked for contraband. I passed on all of that stuff (although they did take my belt) and I was told to lie down on the bed.
A nurse gave me some pills to take and then they asked me to pull my pants down again. This time she whipped out a stainless steel hypodermic needle the size of a bicycle pump and popped me in my bony ass with it. Bejus! That shot felt like a got-dam golf ball going into my cheek. They call it "The Silver Bullet" around here because it feels like a got-dam .45 slug. I slept for 12 hours.
I had breakfast in bed the next morning and got dressed to go to the first meeting of the day.
I wobbled a lot, but I got to the meeting okay. After the meeting, however, I had a brownout on the sidewalk and fell, literally face-first on the pavement. I scraped my nose, cut my chin and barked up a few nuckles pretty bad. They knocked me out for two days after that.
Since then, I've had to ride a wheelchair everywhere I go and I have a "shadow" assigned to go with me everywhere I go. Even to the bathroom. He even sits in my room while I sleep at night.
I'm hoping they call off the dogs tomorrow, because my blood pressure is better and I'm eating fairly well.
Thanks for all the cards and letters you people are sending. The help here is starting to believe that I'm some kind of celebrity. I appreciate it.
October 29, 2005
I know that Rob loves to watch football, but I almost hope that he's not been allowed into the dayroom today in time to see the first quarter of the Georgia-Florida game. Bejus! It may be the World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party, but my Dawgs took a beating early - and if I know anything about their psych-out issues, it'll be a long, hard row for them to hoe if they're to get back on top of this game. I, for one, am skeptical. I love my Dawgs, but they've got a predisposition to lose this particular game every year, even this year, during an undefeated season. Maybe especially this year, with starting quarterback DJ Shockley out and injured.
I wrote about the genesis of my hatred for Florida Gators a few weeks ago, on my own site. If you don't mind, I'll share that tale with you now. It seems appropriate...
Up until my sad, dull, gray adulthood, I had always been something of a performing arts nerd. I began to play piano when I was about six years old, and various and sundry other marching-band type instruments - like clarinet and flute and drums and tenor sax - soon followed. All throughout elementary school, middle school, and high school I sang in the choir, the chorus, wherever they would let me rear back and belt it out. Later, as a young-but-still-too-fucking-stupid-to-really-count adult, I played cello in a chamber group, sang and played rhythm guitar in a rock band, sang and played bass in a country band, and filled a too-brief year as a lounge singer, warbling sentimental old standards in a prom dress to a yuppie bar-crowd every Wednesday night.
Before all that, in high school, I had abandoned many of my pretensions to musicality and threw myself, whole hog, into being a Theater Geek. Lord, I loved the boards! Here was a chance for me to actually leave myself, be someone else on a lighted stage - and people clapped! Musicals, old Broadway chestnuts, Shakespeare...it mattered not. I threw myself into each and every character, sobbing prettily at the end of Hopelessly Devoted to You (Sandra Dee in Grease), snarling through the bathtub gin (Miss Hannigan, Annie), and I will say that I made an unnaturally excellent madwoman (Lady Macbeth). Go figure.
As a seventeen year-old, I was also feeling the first flush of womanly sexuality. I had, through my Drama Class, obtained my very first boyfriend and, by extension, my first experience of confusing righteous lust for love, a flaw in my sense of impulse-control that I struggle with to this day. God, how I adored him; tall, prematurely gray - hair like a fucking carpet, it was so thick - beautiful, supple body, slender like a piece of Greek sculpture. My father hated him, of course, but if he hadn't, I think he'd have been either blind, stupid or a Bad Daddy; Daddies are supposed to hate young, throbbing poet-boys who woo their little girls, especially Drama Fag ones who probably smoke dope. I had it bad, too: I hung on that boyfriend's every word, thought the moon rose and set in his deep green eyes. I didn't do anything by halves, back then. Still don't, really.
I was hot for him, hot like a rabid ferret, a blend of emotional and physical intensity I'd never felt before. During rehearsals at school we'd make out behind the backdrops, sneak off into stairwells, constantly on the look-out for the rare and coveted empty classroom. Our dates pushed the limits of my bodily endurance, as I struggled and struggled to keep that invisible dime between my knees. After all, before this relationship, I'd never so much as kissed a boy before, let alone allowed a boy to get all the way to - gasp - second base. I was young, this was new, this was novel. I couldn't get enough.
Toward the middle of my junior year, and about five months into this puppy relationship, my drama teacher began pimping out a one-act play group that I belonged to. We'd perfected An Actor's Nightmare, four or five of us switching up and playing every part in the thing. I was one of the leads, as was my yummy squeeze. We traveled from high school to high school, competing against other Drama Fags and their one-act gigs, kicking ass and taking names. We won everything we attempted; it was a golden time, a delicious moment of triumph for doing something I loved. Finally, the pinnacle: we were invited to perform at a state-level competition, to be held in distant Auburn, Alabama.
It was so exciting; our group, plus our drama teacher and a few theater-tech guys, signed out the school's van for the weekend and we wended our way into middle Alabama for the competition. We stayed at a Holiday Inn near Cusseta because, for some reason unbeknownst to us, every hotel in Auburn was booked. Hmm. Every hotel in Auburn booked? This podunk-holler? What the hell? What's in Auburn, anyway?
When we got there, we found out; Auburn University was playing The University of Florida in some Very Important Football Game or other. I was not a football fan at the time, so the whole thing was nebulous to my young mind - I could not understand what the frickin' big deal was. Well, honey, as you might imagine, I found out when I got there.
A veritable sea of orange and green, and our whole Holiday Inn filled with rabid, drunken Gator fans. They roamed the halls, heavily medicated, shouting "GATORS!" at everyone they passed. I had to ask my boyfriend what the fuck they were saying - to me it sounded like all these grown men were yelling "GAAAAYDURRRS!" at me, as they leered drunkenly at my meager cleavage. Our first night in the hotel, all night long. "GAAAAYDURRRRRS!". I'd try to sleep. "GAAAAAYDURRRRS!". At breakfast, "GAAAYDURRRRS!". On the way to the performance, "GAAAAAYDURRRRS!". Through my happy tears, as we placed and went on to the final round the next day, "GAAAAYDURRRS!".
That night, we had a little celebration of our own. My boyfriend and I snuck out to the parking lot and the school van, and said boyfriend, having purloined the keys from the drama teacher's oversized purse, moved the vehicle to the dark and shady recesses behind the building. We locked ourselves in and fired up a pin-joint that my thoughtful swain had brought along for just such an occasion, laughing and talking about the business of the day. Afterwards, we lay on the back seat entwined in each other's arms, kissing with tongues and petting to a degree that we'd never before enjoyed. For a while we had peace, and lucky boyfriend rounded third for the first time. I guess he felt that luck, because he finally gathered the courage - after stuttering about it for half an hour - to ask me if I could, um, I mean, well, what I'd really like is, well, would you put it in your mouth?
I was terrified when he brought out the actual member. I'd never seen a penis before, save on the little teensy babies that I'd cared for as a babysitter, whose diapers I had changed and whose bottoms I had powdered. In retrospect, I understand that lucky boyfriend was lucky indeed; a monster erect, roughly the size of my forearm, head the size of my clenched fist. I looked into his eyes, seeking some reassurance, some understanding that I had no idea what the fuck I was doing but I'd try it because I loooved him so much and please don't be upset if I do a bad job. (Ha!)
I knelt on the floorboards, and bent to the task. Just as my tongue touched the very tip of his uncircumcised cock, and excitement zinged through my whole body - "GAAAAAYDURRRRRS!". And again, "GAYYYYYDURRRRRRS!", as a stream of fucked-up gamegoers began to flood back in to the hotel. Florida had kicked Auburn's ass, and so my first sexual experience of any kind was punctuated. "GAAAAAYYYYDURRRRRS! WHOOO! MOTHERFUCKING GAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYDURRRRS RULE! YOW! SONOFABITCH! GAAAAYDURRRRRS!!!!"
As I clumsily fellated, feeling somewhat sick, I came to hate the University of Florida and everything it stood for. My boyfriend came too, all over my chin, sighing with relief as the chorus rang out, "GAAAAYDURRRRS!!"
We were surprised to win the competition the next day, me with rings around my eyes and Samsonite bags below them. What was not surprising - not to me, anyway - was that my boyfriend left at the end of that year, matriculating at...wait for it...Florida. I, of course, went on to graduate from an archrival school, and am still pissed at those assholes for fucking up my first blowjob ever. Is it any wonder that I hate those pricks? Gaydurs, that is. Not actual pricks.
Since so many of Acidman's blown-eyed blodgers and other miscellaneous friends have taken aholt of this Frappr! map thing, I thought I'd make one for His Cranky Crackerness. I'm sure that he's languishing in the rehab hospital, convinced we've all forgotten about him and that, by now, his blog is covered with doilies and pink ribbons and cats. Well, we haven't, and it ain't...so go stick a pin on your location, and show Uncle Robert some cartographical love.
Perhaps someone will print it out and forward it along, to show him that he has people to come back to.
October 28, 2005
Well, if this is gonna be a real meme.....
Strikes indicate the ones that don't apply. Clearly I'm nowhere near average, but we knew that already....
And I don't want to hear shit about not having fired a gun. It's a matter of time and availability. And Rheumatoid Arthritis makes it hard to handle handguns.
How average are you?
October 27, 2005
I was sitting at my desk today, whiling away the hours daydreaming about hot blogger-on-blogger action, when The Washington Post dropped in to tell me that I was going to forget the name Harriet Miers very, very soon. I can't say I was displeased, since I was uncomfortable with her nomination from the get-go. The Post droned on and on about White House documents and attorney-client privilege between the President and Miss Harriet, but the blunt truth of the withdrawal is that Skeletor did not, in fact, have the votes for confirmation.
(She's withdrawn now, so I'll feel free call her my private pet-name in public. Not that any of the Supremes are what I'd call trolling material anyway - it doesn't matter what you look like when you're that smart - but still, there it is. Yes, I am a shallow, vicious cunt. Don't even bother.)
What's got me worried now is the Wrath of Dubya. His first pick having been shot down like a clay pigeon, what in the world could he have up his sleeve on the next go-round? The Bush administration has proved remarkably adept in the use of the classic rope-a-dope scheme to thwart their detractors in other areas, the "rope" part of the program usually being something that totally trumps the dopes, every time. While I have supported the President in many, many of his endeavors, I'm starting to feel a little case of the "what have you done for me latelys" coming on. Can he dig another Roberts out of his ass? Or will it be some gung-ho Jerry Falwellesque motherfucker with a Harvard Law sheepskin and a spic-n-span resume, God forbid? This whole double-vacancy shit has got me just as nervous as a whore in church; I don't like it, not one little bit.
I wish we didn't have to do this now; I wish somebody could have talked Sandra into a few more years, just to put some space in there, mellow the climate in D.C. a little before racing out to buy another Supreme Court justice. Things are too volatile, and I fear what we may end up with. We've got some huge issues on the table in the coming years, and I want to see a serious, deliberative constitutional scholar on the bench, neither an evangelist nor an agendized crony of the administration. Remember, Presidents may come and go, but Supremes are just fucking nigh to forever.
And, besides, I'm an American, and I'm ready to think about something else now. Aren't there some towelheads need bombing somewhere or something?
And people ask me why I don't write about politics at my own site. Sheesh!
« hide more
Is this Scott Adams or Dogbert?
Scott Adams posts these thoughts on his new blog today:
"I spend way too much time thinking of excellent crimes I could commit if I were a crime committing sort of person. Every time I read about hurricane-related looting, I wonder about the best way to do it."
As HWNNL would say, Heh. Read the rest.
Crossposted from my blog
Many of you knew Heather Bare, better know as Momma Bear. She passed away today after a long illness. Many, many people cared about her, including Rob.
When I first started blogging, she was very sweet to me; like a Mom.
This is life and, of course, death is a part of life and I believe in eternal life...but I wish, I wish, I wish...that I had been able to say, "see you later," or something.
Rest in peace, Momma Bear and, hopefully, I will see you later.
(Thanks to Laughing Wolf who has a beautiful eulogy for a tough lady.)
October 25, 2005
It's A War
The 2000th military fatality in Operation Iraqi Freedom occurred today.
The right: God rest all of you and may your sacrifice not be in vain.
UPDATE: Cox and Forkum make things a little plainer.
UPDATE: Hey! This dude called me a chickenhawk! Well, there's no accounting for research skills.
The latest in designer drugs....
And they're lickable, too.
click for larger....
stolen from a couple of snotty dogs.
Healed By the Word
Queenie has been a Very Busy Fuckup today, almost too busy to sit down, much less blog. I cannot, however, neglect my duties to my Uncle Robert, and so I'll post another oldie from my own site, one that he was fond of, another one that I think he might enjoy reading at the hospital. This piece has been edited slightly since its first appearance. I hope you enjoy it, too.
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far, away, I briefly made my living as a cocktail waitress in a titty bar. I reveal this fact, believe it or not, with some measure of shame; you would not believe what a prejudicial revelation this can be for some people. "She must be a slut," thinks the man, salaciously, hopefully, when I drop this one in conversation. As for women, you can see a sort of switch go off in their heads. Like, "Oh. Shit, well, I liked her, too bad now I'll have to relegate her to the category of C-list women." Like you're soiled, somehow, your proximity with naked muff not your own a contaminant that you can't have escaped. Unless, of course, the woman one is having the conversation with was, at some point in her past, a titty-bar employee, too. You'd be surprised how many chicks have a stripper-job somewhere in their dim histories.
I digress. I wanted to tell you a story today, a story about how, this one time, in a trashy roadhouse by the side of the highway in Bumfuck, Alabama, I was literally Healed By The Word.
I was working there, at the Parachute Lounge. Two nights a week, I'd drive the forty-five miles to the small town of Bumfuck, to don a skimpy simulacrum of a flight suit, one that had had its legs carved into "Daisy Dukes" style buttercutters, arms cut down to little cap-sleeves, and a zipper open to reveal a full payload of cleavage. Oh, and a hat...let me not forget the little hat. While the girls danced on the makeshift stage, and swayed carefully atop rickety tables, I ran drinks from the bar to the customers in thigh-high leather boots with four-inch heels and Air Force shades. I'm gregarious, got a big mouth, and back in the day I didn't look so bad, either. Them good ole boys, them bikers, them blue-collar men, they tipped well when they saw a girl was workin' hard - and the harder I worked, the drunker they got, the more they tipped the dancers, the more they tipped me. The dancers, too, tipped me out at the end of the night. I made a shitload of money at that job, much more than was available to me as an undergraduate anywhere in my nearby college town. More than enough, in fact, pay the bills and support my nascent cocaine habit.
Ahh...my nascent cocaine habit, you ask? Sadly, yes - this was, what? 1987? 1989? Somewhere around in there. Working at the roadhouse on the weekends, playing music for next-to-nothing in the bar circuit on weeknights, one does tend to overmedicate. Perhaps it's the overall lack of daylight, perhaps it's the intimacy that one comes to share with those faces that one sees in the bar night after night....whatever the case, I liked to get down and party, wax the ol' skis, as often as possible. Usually nightly, beginning just before the second set and lasting until way after last call.
Regular cocaine use, though, did not agree with my robust Anglo-Saxon constitution. I developed a head-cold at first - scratchy throat, snotty nose - a head-cold that just never went away. After about six months of the snot in residence, it moved over into my ears and began to infect them, too. The problem was, I was snorting so much coke that I could feel no pain in my ears. You know, the old numby. I had no idea I had an ear infection until one day when I woke up deaf.
No shit, I woke up deaf. I couldn't hear a damn thing - not the TV on max volume, not the telephone, not the doorbell, not my Fender amp. I hied my ass to the University clinic, where I was chided by the doctor. He could see the lesions in my nose, knew exactly what they were...and proceeded to relate to me a story about his own coke problem back when he was a drummer in a rock band in the seventies. I took the antibiotics and the steroids he offered, and decided to lay off the blow for a week or so, until the deafness and ear infection subsided. I had to take the week off work, anyway - real work, I mean, music-work, because, well, I was deaf.
I did go back to work at the roadhouse, though. I could read lips well enough to understand "Jack and Coke" and "Bud", the most exotic things my clientèle usually ordered. It was business as usual, mostly, except for the fact that a group of Baptists had decided to come down to the Parachute and picket the titty bar. Bear in mind, at this point in the South, every little town didn't have a titty bar - in fact, the Parachute had only been open for about six months. It was a pain in the ass, crossing the picket line to get in the place of a Saturday. Red-faced peasant women waved Bibles in my face as I walked into the bar, sturdy ankle-less matrons screamed at me of my certain dooming to Hell. This actually went on for a couple of weekends, as did my ear infection. It was nerve-wracking.
The second Saturday after my visit to the doctor, I went to work as usual. As I was crossing the Baptist picket, an old fishwife glommed on to my arm, hollering something - I don't know what, I was deaf - into my ear and shaking her Bible at me. The bouncer at the door jumped in to extricate me from the fray and escort me inside the rope-line. A few seconds after he broke me away from this zealot, I felt something cold and hard smash into the side of my head, just above my right ear. It hit me so hard I went down, stunned.
I sat up and tried to shake it off...but something was overwhelmingly different. On the ground, in a puddle, some five feet away, lay the fishwife's Bible - she'd beaned me with it as hard as she could. Something about the impact on my head, combined, I'm sure, with the antibiotics and the steroids, had made both of my ears go POP! I could hear again. Woozily, echo-ey...but I could hear. The sound, after weeks of silence, was extremely disorienting.
So that is the story of how I was Healed by the Word. I moved to the west coast for a day job four months later. I dropped the "music career" and the rampant cocaine abuse and the waitressing jobs forever, becoming, fifteen years later, a pillar of the fucking community.
The moral of the story? Life is strange. People are stranger. Don't judge a book by its cover.
October 24, 2005
for your subconscious entertainment
I like to play this game on my own blog every week and it ought to be kinda interesting with this crowd....
Respond in the comments with the first word or phrase that comes to mind for each of these words.
From Unconscious Mutterings:
My answers in the extended...
« hide more
More Piggy Hullaballoo in the UK
I saw this story over at LGF this morning, and I can't take it anymore.
WTF? Kids can't have piggy banks now?
Ok, I'm all for not offending people, but there has to be a happy medium, a limit.
I understand that muslims consider pigs and pork to be unclean. I get it. I even understand the historical significance of the halal dietary laws. Like kosher laws, the entire point of halal cooking is to protect the body from sickness. In a desert in not-so modern times, and with not so modern food storage and cooking methods, it makes perfect sense. Even in today's world, it's a good way to avoid certain rare illnesses.
However, isn't there something in the Koran about how God (or Allah, I suppose, in my mind they are the same) made all of the creatures of the Earth and Seas? Aren't we supposed to respect their existence and NOT be offended by them simply because they are the works of the Almighty? I know the Bible and the Torah both exhort the people of the Lord to respect even the LEAST of His creatures. I suspect that this is why most Jews are not offended by the MERE PRESENCE of pigs, real or literary in our modern world.
So then why the hoo-hah? Or are these the same group of muslims who believe in slaughtering their daughters for being raped and that blowing up buildings and trains is a rational way to make a point.
If so, why are the Brits even giving them the time of day???
I love my job, I hate my office. It's overrun with ants!
I keep squashing the little fuckers all over my desk. There's not even any food in here for them. Ok, there is, but I brought it with me just this morning, and I walked into the ant problem, so it's not the source. I can't find where they're coming in from, either.
Any ideas on what I can do besides spray? The ventilation ain't real great, and it doesn't seem to stop them anyway.....
Based on the news reports on television I'm watching at the moment, Hurricane Wilma is a Category 3. The amount of research and technology that went into the creation of that system is rather amazing. And handy, too. It's not all that dissimilar from the system I've used to rate Acidman posts over the years.
Yes, in the 3+ years that I've known our irascible Gut Dude, I've been able to gauge his mood just by the first three words of one of his posts. The same could be said about our phone conversations. Once you truly get to know the man, you can read him that easily.
I remember the first time I ever spoke to Rob. He called to talk about blogging, life, his son, my son, and everything else under the...well, sun. I think the phone call lasted two hours. Two hours on the phone with a man who claimed to hate talking on that dreaded instrument of torture. Heh. Right. A rapt audience is a rapt audience and he had my attention.
It didn't take long for us to decide we should meet. Within two months, we were on vacation in Daytona (then on to his home in Georgia), having a damn good time and enjoying the hell out of the companionship. Every single time I come to this site and see that photo in the top left corner, I think about that trip. That photo was taken on the balcony of the timeshare as we waited out a nasty bit of storm.
Even then, it was helpful to have my Acidman Mood Detector on hand. We spent hour after hour talking. Our conversations strayed into some crazy territory. It was great. There are very few people with whom I've ever felt so comfortable venturing into those depths. We both spilled our guts and it, as Martha would say, was a good thing.
We've had our ups and downs since we first met, but Rob and I have remained friends. There are times when we've been ready to kill each other, and times when our friendship has proven to be lifesaving.
When I spoke to Rob a few days ago, I heard in his voice that I'd never heard before: resolve. He was determined to get through rehab and begin living life on his terms. I know most of us thought that's what he was doing all along, but this was different. I can't explain it, but it was very apparent to me that he means business this time around. I'm proud of him for finally reaching this point. It's not going to be easy or particularly pretty, but it's what he wants.
In the meantime, I'm going to miss him. I'm going think good thoughts for him. And, I'm seriously considering sending his doctors and nurses my copy of the Acidman Mood Detector, complete with colorful Category staging graphics.
I miss you, man.
October 23, 2005
...I do not know what the fuck to make of Harriet Miers. There, I've said it, think what you will of me.
Do I like her as a Supreme? I don't know. Do I think she'll be confirmed? I don't know. Didn't I like John Roberts? Yes. Do I trust the President's judgment? Usually. Sometimes. It depends. So what's my effing problem with Miers? Not sure. So what's your point? Don't know that, either.
This one makes me nervous, and I can't put my finger on why. Please, discuss. Enlighten me with your thoughts on the issue. I'm not ashamed to admit that I am completely unqualified to render an opinion on her fitness to serve...but I'd sure like to hear yours.
You Gotta Be Kidding Me...
Fox News is telling me that there's a new brand of man in town. Now leaving the effete metrosexual in the dust is the hunka-hunka burnin' ubersexual, positioned somewhere on the spectrum between metro-man*^ and caveman. How to spot the ubersexual? A few telling signs: while the metrosexual might highlight his hair, indulge in chemical peels, and vie for mirror-time with his significant other, the ubersexual is, I am told, somewhat closer to the traditional "man's man" than previously labeled varieties. An ubersexual, while careful of his personal grooming, would never go so far as to, say, shave his chest. An ubersexual makes his woman feel protected, feminine. An ubersexual won't bitch about picking up the tab at dinner, or mowing the lawn, or performing any of the other time-honored tasks generally assigned to the male sex role.
In short, an ubersexual seems to be a pretty regular dude.
Men, naturally, are confused by all this. So are wimmin, evidently, since polls indicate that wimmin don't know what the fuck they want. Look, you! If you're a man, and you're looking to media outlets to tell you what wimmin want, there's your first problem. Second, remember that wimmin are, like men, individuals who all desire something different from their prospective mates. Some chicks seek the metrosex. Some dig the caveman. Some want their boys sensitive, new age - and some want their men completely neutered. For further explication of that last category, see my husband's ex-wife.
Men, do not think that I am unsympathetic to your plight in this day and age of constantly shifting expectations. I'm not. My mother calls me regularly, to tell me things like, "flat chests are in this year," and "curly hair is out this season." What the fuck? I'm supposed to rip my tits off because some cunt in a New York design house thinks they're tacky? Supposed to shave my head because some gay fashionista has declaimed my hair outré? My mother, lord help her, lives in a constant state of upset because she listens to all this bullshit, and can never hit the moving goalpost. I learned a long time ago to ignore ninety percent of that "in" and "out" labeling crap, and am a happier woman (wymin? wommin?) for it.
No, boys, I understand all too well. Moreover, I think most wimmen out there do, too. Ignore the magazines, and relax. Be yourselves. Bathe. Go to the dentist from time to time. Work hard. Buy new clothes every few years or so. Treat your dates like you'd want someone dating your mama to treat her...until it's time for the fucking to commence, at which point it's perfectly okay ask her what she wants. If she doesn't know, experiment. If she still ain't happy, fuck it. You've got a bloodless cunt on your hands; my advice is to run...and find you another woman. Wimman. Wommin. Whatever.
Finally, remember this: whether ye be metro, uber, cave, or homo, there's someone out there who'll like you just fine. As for me? I like 'em uber, with latent caveman tendencies and a side of fries.
*Just kidding, Velocipater. You know I think you're a raging hottie and that I'd eat you with a spoon but for the respect I bear your Bride...that, and I know you can take a joke.
Political Correctness is Losing
For a little Sunday Sermon, go here.
For a little red-meat for the un-PC crowd, here's a great story.
Gun-control groups and other organizations are putting pressure on the Washington Redskins (website - news) to cancel an upcoming benefit event at a shooting range in Prince George's County.Jesus, the NRA and a team that wouldn't be bull-dozed into changing its name to something more palatable to the Perpetually PO'd: you can't get more rightwing than that.
Antigun groups plan to go to Redskins headquarters on Monday to protest the event and to deliver a letter to Redskins owner Dan Snyder. If that doesn't work, they plan to protest at Tuesday's event.I can think of a good way to discourage the protesters, but that might not go over well in the area that was terrorizied by the DC Snipers a few years back.
That Mr. Snyder has the stones to even think of holding this event says a lot about him. Most public figures have been cowed (literally) into submission by now.
There is always hope.
Idiocy starts early
A little background, my DH is a 7th and 8th grade science teacher somewhere in SoCal. He teaches honors classes. Yeah. Right.
I posted this on my blog earlier tonight, but I thought I would share how farookin' stupid these kids are when it comes to cheating.....
DH just assigned his first research assignment, a 1-2 page essay on an element, and it was due last week. We've been grading them this weekend, and it's unbelievable how brazen some of these kids are about plagiarism.
Clearly these kids are too stupid to know how NOT to get caught. I'd like to point out a few things they can do to keep from getting caught:
1. You're 12 or 13. You don't know what the word "albeit" means. Or the word "allotropic". Or the word "criticality". Is that even a real word????
2. You're AMERICAN, so you don't spell using "oxidises", "grey", or "colourless". Not to mention "Aluminium".
3. Changing the color of the text doesn't make it any harder for me to google the OBVIOUS copied phrases in your paper, like "Plutonium has assumed the position of dominant importance among the transuranium elements because of its successful use as an explosive ingredient in nuclear weapons and the place which it holds as a key material in the development of industrial use of nuclear power."
You need a PhD to write a run-on sentence like that. Hell, I have a PhD and I can barely make sense of it.
4. When you cut and paste text that includes links, try to remove the underlines and change the text color to match the stuff you actually wrote, mm'kay?.
5. Utterly ruining the grammar of the sentence doesn't stop me from googling and catching you cheating. (ex: "He was impressed by the vivid colors of the chromium compounds, and such a joy after the endless colorlessness of sodium and potassium compounds." ain't a good way to hide the sentence "He was impressed by the vivid colors of the chromium compounds, such a joy after the endless colorlessness of sodium and potassium compounds." An eighth-grader DOES NOT use words like "endless colorlessness" anyway, duh.)
6. When cutting and pasting from two different sources, be sure you don't include the same information twice. This is a dead giveaway that you have no idea what's on your paper.
7. When cutting and pasting, try not to include the "Back to the Top" link at the bottom of the page.
8. Mr. DH is smarter than you. He knows when you are talking straight out your ass. Mrs. DH is also smarter than you, and she is VERY GOOD with Google. Keep these things in mind.
At least 4 of the little turds are going to get referred to the counselor. After I found the pages they copied from, I bookmarked them, and when we take the computer upstairs, DH is going to print them out. I wrote the URLs of the "suspected" sources on the papers marking the plagiarized text, as well.
Moral: Don't cheat, but if you do, only use sources you COMPLETLY understand and proofread, dammit!!!
I can't believe how easy it was to catch the little fuckers. I can't wait to hear what happens to them....
October 22, 2005
This woman is truly a bloodless cunt. I don't care if she's crazy or not - anyone who could do such a thing to her own children deserves an eternity of torture, demons plucking at her eyeballs, the Lake of Fire.
Just like that Andrea Yates woman. I don't understand why in the hell these wimmin who go off the deep end even defend themselves in court. Why do they want to live? How can they go through every day with the memory of their precious babies, the looks on their little faces as they realized that their mother - their protector, their greatest defender - hated them so much that she was willing to murder them with her own hands? How in the world could someone keep going after that...much less plead not guilty?
I have zero sympathy. She knew she had a mental problem, had known for years. She had all the care the system could offer, and probably free to boot. She had meds for stabilization, meds she willfully dropped, meds that possibly could have averted the tragedy. Suicide watch? Why bother? Let her go to the hell she created for herself.
And then she has the gall to stand up and plead herself innocent to the judge. "Not guilty", my fat white ass. Give me five minutes with the bitch, five minutes alone. I'll show the selfish twat not guilty...
Git a Boat, Bubba!
Despite constant mewlings by certain segments of the scientific community on the present dangers of Global Warming - "We're All Gonna Die!!!" - it seems that Greenland's ice-cap is actually getting thicker.
Of course, said scientists have a Very Logical Explanation for how, even though the ice cap is thicker, it's actually proving their theories that conditions are getting deadlier by the minute. Oh, yeah. Because the air is warmer, see. It makes, erm, snow fall. And the snow makes the ice thicker. Even though it's melting, and the ocean levels are going to swamp us all any fucking minute. Trust us. We're scientists, and we're smarter than you.
Bejus! They all need to be dragged off and shot.
I wrote the following story last November, based on my own experiences from twenty years ago, and posted it to my own site. I've edited it slightly since its first appearance. I place it here now because it was one of Uncle Robert's favorites, one he said he came back to read over and over. If he's getting printouts of his site at the hospital, he might enjoy seeing it again - Lord knows he could probably use a laugh right about now.
Though Rob loves to accuse me of 'making all that shit up!', you can be the judge of its veracity for yourself. If you don't hear a ring of truth in there somewhere...you might be deaf.
So, I found myself at the Parachute Lounge, that mangy roadhouse, one fine Saturday afternoon, performing a total bar restock with Jimmie the manager and Dean the DJ. We'd spent the hours from one to three taking every bottle and glass and mixer out of the bar area, wiping everything down and dusting all the "display" bottles (expensive blue-and-pink shit that our good-ole-boy clientele never drank), and toting boxes of restock liquor and beer for the cooler from Jimmie's truck to the storage room. We'd finished, and the three of us were treating ourselves to a nice, long cigarette break, complete with a few nice, long, lines cut out on one of the dancers' makeup mirrors, and beers all around. We got to shooting the shit - like you do when you're coked up, running your fool mouth - and talking about the various dancers in Jimmie's employ.
"Now, Queenie, you're a good-lookin' gal - why'nt yew ever thank about dancin'? You know that Dixie and Trixie and Rhonda and Shelley make a whole lot more money than yew dew, and yew prob'ly are workin' th' hardest," Jimmie gave me a concerned-fatherly look. "Yew bus' yer AYASS out there. Yew could be a dancer."
"Jim, Jimbo. James. Queenie does not get naked. Ever. Like, my ass is so tight I shower in a camisole, fuck my boyfriend through a hole in the sheet. It's against my religion." I flicked my cigarette butt out the back door and into a muddy pothole.
"No way. Whut cherch dew yew go tew? I din't know yew were a religious wuman," Jimmie says, all serious, looking at me, Queenie, poised to put the best part of a quarter-gram up my nose at once.
I pulled away from the mirror, in fear that I would laugh so hard I'd blow the blow all over the floor. "No, man. I'm kidding. I didn't mean to ruffle your feathers." Play nicely with the children, Queenie. "I could never be a stripper. I mean, I have no problem with it, I don't seek to judge. I just can't dance. And I don't look that good naked."
"OH, YES SHE DOES!" came the cry from the other end of the bar. It was Ashley, and Trixie and Dixie, just coming in to start primping for the five o'clock opening. "Yew are beyewtiful, darlin'," averred Trixie, mussing my hair. "Ah thank yew awt tew at LEAST give it a trah."
I finished my line, and lit another ciggie. "No way. Unh-uh"
Two hours later, and the strippers of the Parachute Lounge had reincarnated me as a Roman temple prostitute. They'd curled my mass of shaggy red hair into little, delicate ringlets, pulling it back away from my face with small mother-of-pearl combs in the shape of corinthian columns. They'd painted my face with all their combined skill, which was not unremarkable - if there's one thing strippers know, it's makeup. Suddenly, I had smooth and beautiful peachy skin. I had eyebrows, and cheekbones and lips. Finally, they shoveled me into a miniscule latex "toga" and a pair of thigh-high white leather boots that had belonged to Sunny, a dancer who'd left them when she up and split in the middle of a shift (to go and marry a trucker who'd given her a thousand-dollar tip) and never come back. The boots were a couple of sizes too large for me - Sunny was a hoss, a big ole woman - but, hey. I wasn't going to do any actual dancing. I was just there for shits and giggles, to amuse the staff and the regulars.
When I emerged from the dressing room, the entire staff and all the sunken, life-beaten old sots who showed up at five for happy hour and titty were assembled, standing around the stage and clapping. Jimmie's breath was taken away, partially by accidentally inhaling most of a line by mouth, and partially by my half-naked goods. The owner - a whole 'nother blog post in himself - one-time Mayor of the Dixie Mafia, waltzed over, bent to kiss my hand, and asked to be the first to christen the garter. He pulled out five crisp hundreds, folded each over once, lengthways, and slid them between the elastic and the bare skin of my thigh.
"Now, darlin...let's see you daynce!" the Mayor roared, gesturing wildly to Dean the DJ to crank up some tunes. I wasn't going to do it...I had no intention of getting up there and shaking my little ass, but something - the roaring crowd, the beers, the cocaine, the latex cutting off my circulation, combined with the strains of Duran Duran's "Her Name is Rio and she dances on the sand..." floating out of the stereo system just made me lose my last inhibition. I strutted up there and did that thang.
I hadn't watched the dancers for three months for nothin'. I simpered and preened, twitching my fanny while slowly undulating my hips. I worked the pole like a pro. I lowered myself slowly to my knees and crawled sensuously down the length of the stage. And finally, to the last bars of the music, I flung my left leg out for a tremendous Rockette high-kick - and my white, thigh-high leather boot came flying off of my leg, suddenly becoming a dangerous projectile. I saw it all in horrified slow-mo - the boot flying across the room, rotating slightly, as if I'd put some English on it, arcing to strike The Mayor squarely in the left lens of his prescription bifocals.
It knocked him over, the blow from Sunny's boot, knocked the old goat plumb out of his chair, making him slop his Jack and Coke all over his white suit. I thought they were going to have to call the paramedics. The bouncers rushed to help the old coot up, and the crowd went nuts, screaming with delight and showering the stage with dollar bills. I hopped around on one six-inch heel, collecting my tips, provoking howls of laughter from the audience, and even more money. As I rounded the bar side of the stage, I heard Jimmie call out "Yew kilt The Mayor!", and I hollered back, "I told you I couldn't dance!"
I slunk quietly off the stage, and back into the dressing room, stripping off the toga and the remaining boot, taking the combs out of my hair. I went to my locker and pulled out the trusty old flightsuit and cap, resigned to being a cocktail waitress once more. The Mayor was physically unhurt, but the cheap bastard docked my waitress pay for a replacement lens. Not that this was such a big deal, as I made almost a thousand dollars with one stage appearance. But, so ended my short career as an exotic dancer. I thought it better to quit while I was ahead.
October 21, 2005
Oh, allright. Allright. Wussies.
What was here before is now below the fold. NSFW. Wussies!
...but I did specifically promise toe porn...
(from Queenie, of course.)
« hide more
An Acidic Haiku
Skin and pointy bones
Alone in a heap
Meanwhile, I went and
So, off to rehab
Tongue firmly in cheek,
Hey, y'all. I'm Queenie MacFarland. I've promised to help mind the store while Rob's gone, and to keep the thirty-aught trained firmly on anyone who brings a cat up in here. I've also promised to post toe pornography, nasty stories, and keep shit stirred up in his absence. I think he's covered his bases pretty well...Juliette for intellectual stimulation, CalTechGirl to keep us scientifically balanced and informed on current events...and me, to do the dragged-off-and-shot portion of the program. Oh, and the misogyny. I've sworn to hate on the wimmins for him, those bitches.
I know you're all worried about the boy. Rob'll be back, though, you'll see...but keep those prayers coming. It irritates the shit out of him and makes him heal faster, too. Two birds, one stone. I have a feeling that, in this recovery process, he's the worst enemy he's got - and he can be a pretty formidable enemy. Trust me on this.
Acidman's tough as my titty, however, and not nearly as pretty...people like him survive. Nuclear war? Nobody left but Rob Smith and the cockroaches. And maybe Catfish.
He'll be all right. In the meantime...
Rising from the Mist (hack... hack...)
I too want to pop my head out from the acidic muck and say hello. I'm Caltechgirl. You might know me from other blogs such as Not Exactly Rocket Science.
Just wanted to post something on the main page that was getting buried in the comments to Juliette's post below. Rivrdog will be collecting messages for Rob at his site and via his email, so if you want to save a stamp, you can send your wishes to Acidman via Rivrdog:
ROB WILL BE IN FOR THE FIGHT OF HIS LIFE IN THERE. HE NEEDS ALL THE HELP WE CAN GIVE HIM. PLEASE WRITE TO HIM SOON AND OFTEN.
The more mail we can send, the better, right?
I'll be at Willingway Hospital
Do I Know You?
Well, I guess I'll be the first to dip my toe in these acidic waters. I'm the bald-headed black chick that owns this blog.
Rob and I have a--shall we say--interesting relationship. First of all, he's my Blogfather, but that's getting ahead of things. "How did she first stumble upon Gut Rumbles" I hear you ask.
A little over two years ago, I was over at LGF and one of the commenters mentioned that 'Acidman' was going to stop blogging. He said it as if it were the end of the world as we know it. So I went to check out this Acidman's blog to see if it was "all that." It was. There he was, some crazy, old Southern white guy who was just raw; the vanilla Richard Pryor. As with many who have come before and after me, I was hooked.
I became a daily reader. Occasionally, I would comment and even send email. We'd go back and forth about the subject that he still periodically touches on: divorce. Having been through a painful one of my own with a man who was as unburdened by a conscience as Rob's ex is, I wanted to let him know that he wasn't alone.
So after a few months of reading this (and other) blogs, I said "I can do this, too," so I did it. I blogged for a few weeks, then sent Rob a note: "submitted for your approval." I was immediately blogrolled and had my first "Acid-lanche" or "Acid-bath" or whatever the lingo is.
Our relationship is, um, er, complicated. It's not like a virtual marriage--though someone suggested helpfully in email that Rob and I run off together--but more like priest and parishioner, with us switching roles every so often.
Rob's latest challenge--rehab--is typical of him. In the face of such Job-like tribulations as he has had, a weaker and, yes, less proud man, would have been dead years ago. And I think that's why most of us were so aghast at the fact that Rob was letting death win such an early, easy victory (aside from the fact that we adore him/love to troll him).
Personally, I think that the God that Rob doesn't believe in has a lot more in store for him. Whatever it is, I can't wait for Rob to blog it.
All our hopes, Rob.
(Posted by Juliette)
October 20, 2005
ready as I'm gonna get
I'm supposed to be at the hospital sometime around noon tomorrow. I'm packed and ready to go. I stored all my expensive guitars in someone else's care and all of my non-existent guns are out of the house, too. The only things left are furniture, and if someone wants to break in and steal that shit, it's all insured.
I've lined up some guest bloggers to keep the home fires burning. Sorry, guys. I picked ALL WIMMEN to do that for me. I figured that a testosterone-driven, sexist, mysogonistic site such as mine should get in touch with its feminine side. I'm going to let the ladies take charge.
Six weeks is a long time, but I'll be back eventually. In a lot better shape than I am now, I hope.
I gathered these supplies yesterday:
* Ten cartons of cigarettes
If you write me, I WILL respond, and I'd like to see the mail-cart stuffed every day. The last post I make before I leave will the address of the place.
Wish me luck.
October 19, 2005
quote of the day
"Life is short. So... make it as wide and deep as you can."
I heard that line in a movie today. I liked it.
October 18, 2005
smarter than congress-critters
Here's an gorilla who uses tools. Amazing, isn't it?
An ape can do that, but Congress can't take a knife to the pork in the federal budget. Who's the REALLY dumb animal here?
this takes nerve
In MY humble opinion, Robert Mugabe is one of the most despicable people alive in the world today. But he has the nerve to do this and some people cheered the speech.
We need to disband the United Nations. It has become an obscene joke.
People, I appreciate some of the advice I'm getting, but y'all don't understand where I'm going. NO laptop computers are allowed. You can smoke there, but you cannot possess a butane lighter. NO after shave or cologne. No NOTHING that you could possibly get high on or become "addicted" to. I can't even bring a book to read.
If you show up with a wallet or car keys, they confiscate them. You aren't supposed to leave until they say so.
I can bring a toothbrush, a razor and some toothpaste, but they are stored in a custodian's custody, and I have to check them out and check them back in every time I want to brush my teeth. They have a hot tub and a heated indoor swimming pool, but you can't use them without asking ahead of time and having a "guardian" watch over you when you soak.
They feed you well there, but they discourage any kind of exercise. That might become an addiction. Brain-washing classes start at 8:30 every morning and that crap lasts until 9:00 at night, with very few breaks in between. It's a very regimented program.
I'm gonna have one big problem with it, because it follows the AA "Twelve-Step" idea. One of those steps is turning myself over to a "higher power," which is God, even though they don't come right out and say it that way, and I can't do that. My advisors aren't gonna like that fact.
But I intend to play nice and do the best that I can. I'm on a spirit quest here, and if I do it right, it'll pay off for me. I want to be healthy again, and I damn sure AIN'T healthy right now.
That's why I hope you people will write me. The nights are very long in a place like that.
You've got to be really stupid or really desperate to do something like this. How much money do you think you'll get from sticking up a Kentucky Fried Chicken joint? After you split the take with a partner, you ain't gonna have jack-shit.
But these two rocket scientists were willing to risk 20 years in jail for chump change. Bejus. They should be locked up for sheer dumbassery, if nothing else.
If I ever decide to become a criminal, I'm gonna aim a lot higher than that.
by the way...
Anybody interested in guest-blogging for me while I'm away?
Apply via email and I just might give you the keys to my house.
it's a schedule
The hospital can't take me until Friday, which really isn't a bad thing. I have time to get my affairs in order before then.
I've arranged transportation, and I have someone to pick up my mail and pay my bills (how many people would YOU trust with a stack of signed blank checks? I'm going to do exactly that.).
I talked to the hospital admissions people on the phone today, and based on the interview information I gave them when I first called, they want me in a six-week program. The cost is astronomical and my insurance won't cover diddly-squat. I almost dropped the phone when I heard that shit. SWEET BEJUS!!! This is gonna cost me more than most people earn in a year!
But I'm going to do it anyway. Money is no good if you're not alive to spend it. And if I don't get off the track I'm on, I'll be dead in less than six months.
I was thinking today.... I haven't done a lot of things I would like to do.
* I've never learned to scuba dive. I've grown up around the water and I once was an excellent swimmer, but I never learned to strap on a tank and take a deep plunge. I want to do that.
* I've never made love to an Oriential woman. I've covered most of the rest of the spectrum, but I've never bedded an Asian woman. Maybe it really does go sideways. I want to find out.
* I've never been skeet shooting. I've been bird hunting numerous times, but I've never stood on a range and shot clay pigeons. I think that would be a lot of fun.
* I've never seen the Grand Canyon. I want to, on another cross-country car ride, this time on a southern route, across the Texas panhandle and through the Painted Desert. Then, maybe up the west coast highway for the entire length of California.
I still have things I want to do. Six weeks in confinement and a shit-pot full of money is a small price to pay for the opportunity.
October 17, 2005
let's get one thing straight
I think I set an all-time record for comments on the post below this one. I thank you all for your good wishes--- that ain't a bad thing. I also hope that you will write me when I'm in the hospital. Be sure to include a return address so that I can respond.
But I want to make one thing perfectly clear. No "tough love" or posts by any other bloggers convinced me to do what I'm about to do. In fact, several of the people in question have called me to ask if I was pissed off, and I told them all the same thing.
No. I'm NOT pissed off. You had every right to say what you did about me, because it's all true. But I'm not going into the hospital to stop your nagging or because I want to please somebody else. It's a totally selfish move.
I'm to the point in my life now that I couldn't give a damn what somebody else thinks of me. And when people PUSH me, I tend to rebel and go in the opposite direction, just to prove that I can't be pushed. That may not be smart, but that's the way I am.
I'm following the philosophy I've always preached on this blog. Actions have consequenes. YOU are responsible for your own life.
When I was on my kitchen floor Saturday night in a puddle of ice water and broken glass, unable to get to my feet, I thought, "What would Samantha think if she saw me now? What would Quinton think? What would MY MAMA think, for crying out loud?"
I made my choice then and there. All three would be ashamed of me and I was ashamed of myself. I don't want to go there again.
Even when you're all fucked-up, you can un-fuck yourself if you try. That's what I intend to do.
October 16, 2005
I'll need a couple of days to get all my shit in one sock, but once I do, I won't be posting for a while. I'll try to keep the blog active, but it will take a little help from my friends.
During the Georgia-Vanderbilt game today, I walked into my kitchen to get a glass of ice water (YES--- ICE WATER). I had a brownout, hit the floor and woke up in a puddle of cold water and broken glass. I couldn't get up without crawling over to a table and using it as a crutch to get back on my feet.
That's it for me. I made a phone call and I'm checking myself into a hospital. I told them that I could probably be there Wednesday, but I need somebody to pay my bills when they come and watch my house while I'm gone. I'll be away for a while.
I also need to go to the bank and swap some funds around, because I don't believe that my insurance will pay a dime of my costs, and these people want a lot of money right up-front. That's okay. I can do it.
I'm gonna get dried out, unfucked, and see what my options are with the bone problem I have. I can't just sit here and fester anymore.
Between tomorrow and Monday, I believe that I can take care of all the logistical problems. If that works out as planned, I'll pack on Tuesday, and check in on Wednesday. I'll be gone at least a month.
If nothing else, they'll pump me full of nutrients and stop me from being so weak in the knees. But they WON'T allow me to blog. I have a couple of people who agreed to post letters I write (I can write all the letters I want to write-- just no phone calls) and they'll stir the coals for me while I'm out of action.
Once I have everything lined out, I'll post the address of where I'll be staying. You can't call me, but you can write, and I would appreciate that.
I've GOT to do this.
I believe I saw more good football games this Saturday than I have ever seen in my life. GOOD teams, playing GOOD games, all of which went down to the final play in the last seconds of the game.
I've been a football fan since I was a boy and I cannot recall EVER seeing so many good games in one day. Of course, it helps that my beloved Jawja Bulldogs won handily, but I was glued to the TV all day.
Is it just me, or is Vanderbilt coach Bobby Johnson a dead ringer for Steve Martin?
October 14, 2005
what's in a name?
People can call the giant, flying cockroaches we grow around here "Palmetto Bugs" all they want to, but they're just giant, flying cockroaches to me.
They usually live outside, but they have a strange fondness for crawling into your house after a big rain or if the weather turns cold. You'll notice them when you see what resembles a large cigar butt with wings scuttling across the floor (or up the wall and across the ceiling.).
I never had any use for those critters except to kill them, but maybe they could serve a useful purpose. Yeah. Feed 'em nitro and strap little bombs to them.
THAT'S real terrorism.
This has GOT to be the cat of the antichrist. I know that ALL cats are evil, but this one is a lot worse than most.
A cat in Dobson, N.C., is believed to be the only cat in the world with two tongues, according to a Local 6 News report.
Got-dam! Twice the hairballs and 20% more scratches on the sofa. KILL THAT CAT!!!!
a phone call
I've said before that I'm not much for talking on the phone, but before I went on my sleep-a-thon, I called this lovely lady to fulfill a promise I made to her. I'm glad that I did.
She has a wonderful voice. I'd love to hear her sing.
She speaks exactly the way she writes--- articulate, coherent and sharp. I hope to talk to her again.
When I finally woke up this morning, I realized that was was running low on cigarettes. I managed to walk to the bathroom and take a shower without falling down, so I figured I could make it to the store to buy some smokes.
I did, but it wasn't fun.
When I enter a story anymore, I know that I walk funny because of the weakness in my legs. But what REALLY frightens me is the possibility that I'll suffer one of my ever more frequent brown-outs in the store and scare the shit out of everybody in there when I land on the floor.
I managed to purchace my cigarettes, but I became very dizzy while standing at the checkout counter. I staggered back out to my car and had to sit there for a few minutes before my head cleared up. By the time I got back home, I was panting like someone who just ran a 100-yard dash at full speed.
Bejus! This ain't no way to live.
Rip van rob
I don't think I've ever done this before. I just finished taking the longest sleep of my life. I don't remember yesterday at all, because except for brief bouts of consciousness when I answered a phone call or a piss call, I slept for more than 30 hours.
That's from around 3:00 Wednesday night (or Thursday morning) until 9:30 AM this morning. And I SLEPT the entire time.
That's one hell of a nap.
October 12, 2005
i don't want 'em
I appreciate the mention from The Professor today, but I don't need your prayers. I ain't dead yet, and I intend to hang on as long as I can. My problem is NOT going away, no matter who prays for me.
When MY expiration date comes, it comes. I ain't afraid of it.
I have been doing a lot of existential thinking lately. I realize now that I did a LOT of things in my life that I really didn't want to do because I felt OBLIGATED to do them. I had a wife. I had children. I had bills to pay and groceries to buy and a roof to keep over their heads. I did what I had to do.
As my friend catfish once said (and he certainly has a way with words in his own language---which is Pure Cracker) "Sometimes, ya just gotta keep your nose to that grinding stone."
Yeah. I did that for a long time. I worked my ass off because I had responsibilities to fulfill. I didn't do that crap for ME. I did it because I had people DEPENDING on me to do it. I look back now and I remind me a lot of my father. That's a good thing. He did whatever it took, too. I think he raised me right.
Now, I don't have ANYBODY depending on me. My parents are dead, my children are gone, and I don't owe anybody anything except a house payment and child support for Quinton. I can afford that.
I have come full circle. The happiest days in my life came when I was playing guitar for a living. I was on my own back then, with nothing to worry about except an ugly mutt dog who liked to ride the road with me. Those were good times. I wish I could go back and live them all over again.
Now, I'm in the same situation, without the ugly-assed mutt.
Don't feel sorry for me. I've had a damn good life.
a dangerous game?
I've always thought soccer was a boring game, with a lot of running around on the field and not much happening. I MUCH prefer American football. I've even called soccer a pussy game.
Evidently, you can still get killed playing soccer. I think something like this is a one in a billion chance, but you know what I've said before about that expiration date stamped on your ass.
When your time is up, it's up.
Bejus. 17 years old and killed by a soccer ball. That just ain't right.
October 11, 2005
i love it
I appreciate anybody who reads history. GOT-DAM!!! You think we have pissant politics in OUR government today? Just read about the Roman Empire.
Julius Ceaser was a wily politican and one hell of a general. His only problem was that he was TOO GOOD, so his political rivals took him out. I like this bit of biography:
75 BCE: While sailing to Greece for further study, Caesar was kidnaped by Cilician pirates and held for ransom. When informed that they intended to ask for 20 talents, he is supposed to have insisted that he was worth at least 50. He maintained a friendly, joking relationship with the pirates while the money was being raised, but warned them that he would track them down and have them crucified after he was released. He did just that, with the help of volunteers, as a warning to other pirates, but he first cut their throats to lessen their suffering because they had treated him well.
Now--- THAT'S a real boss.
Hell, if you can plow through The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, you should do it. Not much has changed in 2000 years.
i can still be nice
I'm not gonna link the post criticizing my lifestyle choices, because it wouldn't make any difference to me anyway. I know where I'm headed and I know how I'm going to get there. If I quit drinking tomorrow, it won't change a goddam thing.
You people DON'T KNOW!!! And I don't want you to know, either.
I had a nice phone call from this woman last night, and she swore to me that she's just as hot as the picture on her home page. THAT I would like to see, but only if she painted her toenails red for me.
My only complaint is that she tells shitty jokes.
a good day
Yesterday was a good day. I felt better than usual, which was nice, but the best thing of all was a few friends showing up out of the blue, uninvited and unrequested, to fix my mailbox, cut my grass, haul all the trash out of my house, clean my filthy-assed kitchen and even bring me a box of chicken to eat.
I tried to pay them, but they wouldn't take any money, not even for the chicken. They DID drink the six-pack of Shiner Bock I had in the refrigerator, but I considered that more than a fair trade.
I hope I didn't break a date with this woman, because I was supposed to call her last night. I didn't. Another batch of
I have no idea what time they left or what time I went to sleep. But I must have had fun, because I don't remember who won the game.
Sorry, Baldi. I'll make it up to you this evening.
another one bites the dust
Louis Nye is dead, at the ripe old age of 92. DAMN! I saw him play all kinds of roles in the movies and on television.
I had forgotton all about him until I read about his passing on this blog.
THROW THE BOOK AT HIM
He's one of the assholes who passed the laws, so let him reap what he sowed. But watch and see. He won't.
He won't because Congress-critters don't play by the same rules they expect we commonfolk to abide.
October 10, 2005
What can I say? It probably tasted just like chicken.
the proof is obvious
Some people have a real problem with associating cause and effect. Using some of the idiotic "scientific" logic flying like shit in the wind today, I can make a perfectly logical case that the shrimp population in the salt water creeks of Georgia affect the birth rate of black children in Savannah. And I can prove that storks bring babies, too.
Of course, it's all bullshit, but numbers don't lie. Right?
Here's someone else pissed off at MADD. I really like THIS piece of "proof" about how effective that organization has been.
He rightly congratulates them on a job well done, noting drunk driving deaths are down more than 35% since the 80s. He goes on to tell us by the mid-90s the deaths began to level off, thus validating MADD's success in changing public priorities and perceptions.
Yep. MADD deserves all the credit for that. Better designed cars with more safety features didn't have a damned thing to do with the statistics. Mandatory seat belt laws and air bags didn't have a damn thing to do with it. Anti-lock brakes didn't have a damn thing to do with it. Front seat headrests didn't have a damn thing to do with it.
It was ALL acomplished by MADD.
If you get a DUI in the state of Georgia now, you are REQUIRED to pay $10 and attend a MADD class, where people tell horror stories about drunks with a BAC of .350 going the wrong way down the interstate at night, at 120 MPH and no headlights on, then wiping out a good, loving family. That's sheer tragedy, caused by sheer stupidity on a selfish person's fault.
But that's not the driver MADD attacks today. I had to attend one of those classes in 2001. I didn't hear ONE SINGLE STORY about someone with a .08 BAC doing something like that. In fact, I compared notes with some people sitting around me in the meeting, and I had the highest BAC (.14--- almost "twice the legal limit," don'cha know.)of anybody I talked to. Most of the people in there were caught by
I wasn't fucked up on alcohol. What got me in trouble were the sleeping pills I took along with the alcohol because I couldn't sleep after my wife ran off with another man. I deserved to go to jail that night, because I was a goddam fool. But I wasn't thinking very straight, either. When I got out of jail, I attempted suicide.
Organizations such as MADD frighten me. Once the zealots take over, which they have done already, it's not an anti-drunk-driving movement anymore. It's a bunch of self-appointed Nazis who want to run everybody else's life according to THEIR rules.
I don't like that shit.
I'm all for ANY plan that reduces the mosquito population. I've probably donated (involunarily) a few gallons of blood to those bastards over the years. If I could snap my fingers and make them ALL go away, I'd do it right now.
But I don't know about giving then glowing testicles. I wouldn't mind having a set of those myself (I could be a REAL hit at blog-meets then) but that idea just sounds kind of freaky to me.
Led by Andrea Crisanti, the team added a gene that makes the testicles of the male mosquitoes fluorescent, allowing the scientists to distinguish and easily separate them from females. The plan is to breed, sterilise and release millions of these male insects so they mate with wild females but produce no offspring, eradicating insects in the target region within weeks.
It's probably a reasonable plan. Besides--- a WOMAN is behind the project, and they are damn good at castrating males.
how do you sleep?
Soundly, and nekkid, I hope. But if you want to know about your personality, science has it all figured out.
How do YOU sleep? I'm a #5.
I wanted to comment on this post, but I couldn't get the comment to load. So, I'll just say this in a post.
Anybody with children or property is a damn fool not to have a will. I've seen some feeding-frenzies among greedy relatives when someone died without a will, and you have a way to keep that from happening. MAKE A WILL!!!
A paralegal can write a simple one for about $50, and that's money well spent. Hell--- I think you can do it yourself on the internet today.
Just don't die without one. That's bad ju-ju for everybody you leave behind.
When I was working as a trash-burner, I had one of my Control Room Operators go on long weekend after a Friday shift. He told me that he was going to Atlanta to visit his cousin, who was about to be married. He showed back up for work the following Wednesday with a TREMENDOUS black eye.
I couldn't help but ask what happened.
According to him, he took his cousin out drinking, they got plastered, and when they got back to Cousin's place, Cousin staggered off to bed. The Bride To Be was still awake in the apartment. My operator and the Bride To Be started talking, one thing led to another, and before long they were busy screwing like wild minks on the couch when Cousin woke up and caught them in the act.
He hit my operator in the eye with a lamp and tossed him out of the apartment. The engagement was off after that.
I didn't blame Cousin for what he did, but my operator had an entirely different take on the matter.
"Hell, Rob," he said. "I did him a favor. Marrying that girl would have been a big mistake. If she'd fuck ME, she'd fuck ANYBODY."
Having walked into a similar situation myself after nine years of marriage, I now think that my operator was wiser than I am.
quote of the day
I resent taxpayer funding of this organization. MADD may have started out with the best of intentions, but it has morphed into something hideous.
“MADD is also pushing its agenda onto family laws, including a zero tolerance policy for divorced parents. Under the bills MADD is trying to push through state legislatures, a parent caught consuming one beer or glass of wine before driving could face penalties that, according to MADD, "should include, but are not limited to" — "incarceration," "change of primary custody," or "termination of parental rights." This means that if you take your kid to the game, have a beer in the third inning, then drive home, you could very well lose your rights as a father.”
That shit already happens. I know.
I don't know why I should be surprised. The atlanta braves did their usual belly-flop in the playoffs---- AGAIN. They blew a 6-1 lead in the eighth inning and went on to get their tickets back home in a 7-6 final score.
I wish they's go back to being the shitty team they once were, back when Bob Horner was their superstar. That way, I could abandon my expectations for them.
a new car will kill ya!
Here's some more science designed to scare the shit out of you for no good reason. Personally, I've known anybody who died from the smell of a new car, but it must be true, because I read it in a newspaper article.
ABC News and the BBC News report that an Australian study by the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization has shown that "new car smell" can cause minor ailments such as headaches, sore throat and nausea, and possibly even major illnesses, such as cancer and abnormalities in unborn babies. The emissions can take just a few minutes to take effect, and may even cause accidents.
Maybe so, but I damn surely prefer the smell of a new car over that of a fart.
October 09, 2005
mother nature is cruel
I saw this post and it triggered several memories. The first one, of course, was a lesson my daddy always preached to me: "Don't bite off more than you can chew."
The second one was hearing my mama yell "SNAKE!" when she was burning trash in her incinerator one day. I was over there helping her rake leaves. I dropped my rake, grabbed a shovel and ran to her rescue.
Sure enough, a snake was stretched out behind the incinerator, and even though I couldn't tell right away what kind of snake it was, I DID notice the big lump in its throat. I took the shovel and chopped off its head, just in front of that lump.
As I watched the headless snake coil and twist in its spasms of death, a most amazing thing happened. A LIVE TOAD came crawling out of the snake and started hopping away. The toad had been swallowed, but it seemed to be okay as it made its getaway.
I remember thinking, "YOU, Mr. Toad, are one lucky bastard."
I picked the snake up on the shovel and threw him onto the pile of burning leaves in the incinerator. He was NOT as lucky as Mr. Toad. But that's what he got for frightening my mama.
That's nature for you. Toads lose to snakes and snakes lose to shovels. Sometimes, the toad gets lucky.
speaking of trust...
I wouldn't trust anything this guy said any farther than I could throw my house. I think he's an incompetent crook, but that's just MY humble opinion.
I also don't believe that I would put my money on a table in a New Orleans casino. Too many greedy hands reaching into the till.
is it real?
Is this a real threat, or is it just more of the same "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!" hyperbole we get from the mainstream media all the time? I don't know.
But I remain skeptical because I've heard pure bullshit for too long from people who are supposed to be providing accurate information. I no longer trust them. I no longer believe what they say. Of course, I expected this:
Democrats have criticized the administration for not having a plan. Sen. Tom Harkin, an Iowa Democrat, said in a statement Saturday that time for action was short.
We already have a pandemic that Congress doesn't seem to give a damn about. That's FEDERAL SPENDING. Does Harkin give a shit about THAT problem? Hell, no. He wants to spend MORE money to scare away a boogie-man that doesn't even exist yet.
If the flu hits and DOES take out "as many as 1.9 million" people, let's just hope it gets most of Congress in the process. The flu might end up being a blessing.
We could use some serious reloading there.
October 08, 2005
When I was sick the other day--- I must have been REALLY sick, because I thought today was Friday until I saw the kids playing in the neighborhood while I was trying to fix my mailbox--- I had the strangest dream.
I was riding in a vehicle like a jeep or a Volkwagon "Thing" that was open-air with no roof on it. A grill was sticking out on the front--- not a car grill, but a barbeque kinda grill, and bacon was sizzling on it. The bacon was nowhere nearly done, but the tires of the car were throwing black specks all over the bacon. I knew nobody could eat bacon cooked like that.
We were headed down Bay Street in Savannah, going right by the post office. Jennifer's mama was driving the car. Jennifer was sitting in the seat behind me. She started kissing the back of my neck.
"Your mama is so proud of the award you won," she said. I had no clue what she was talking about. WHAT award? Where was I and what was I doing there?
Jennifer kept kissing on me and said, "I'm starting to like you again. Why don't we get together and talk after you pick up your award? It comes with a lot of money."
You wanna know the damndest thing? In that dream I WANTED to stop and talk with her. I remember thinking, "this can't be real," but it seemed real enough to suit me at the time. I just wondered how to ditch her mama and where we were gonna go to talk. I even thought about making love to her again.
I woke up sick as a dog and had to avail myself of my bedside puke-bucket for a while. I was running a pretty high fever at the time, and I always nut-up when I run a fever.
But what really disturbed me was the fact that I WANTED HER BACK. I could never do that in real life, but in my dream, it seemed perfectly acceptable.
Okay, all you psychologists out there. Explain THAT one to me.
woof! woof! woof!
I had my doubts, but I believe now that my beloved Jawja Bulldogs may have a good football team this year. They handed Tennessee their asses on a plate a LOT worse than the score indicated.
It was a great game to watch. Out of the blue, (because I haven't seen him in a while) Young Jack came over to visit and we sat on the floor in front of the television. I made some popcorn and gave him a Mountain Dew. We watched the game together.
I really enjoyed that experience. Jack is playing Little League football again this year, and he LISTENS when I explain what is happening on the field. He's playing end on offense (because he can catch, after I almost killed him with many lessons that ended up with footballs hitting him square in the forehead) and playing linebacker on defense.
My biggest thrill of the day was when a Tennessee receiver caught a pass that would have been good for a first down, but a Georgia defender ripped the ball out of his hands for a fumble, which Georgia recovered. Jack almost pissed his pants. He started jumping up and down.
"Mr. Rob! Mr. Rob! That's just what you taught me and Quinton to do! KNOCK the ball out of his hands!"
"Don't you ever forget it, either," I replied. "If you're gonna play linebacker, MAKE a fumble whenever you can."
Damn. I miss having kids around the Crackerbox.
But the REALLY good news is that Georgia won and I don't have to listen to eric call me up and sing "Rocky Top" over the phone.
forget the sidebar picture
Here's what I look like today.
truth in blogging
Or maybe truth in "BLODGING," as we named it in honor of the missing Catfish. You can see some good pictures here.
You'll notice that I'm not standing up in any of them. The legs just don't work anymore.
But you can tell that we have a wild bunch.
thank you, thank you
I really enjoyed some of the comments I received on the two-sentence post I threw on the blog yesterday, before I spent the next 18 hours in a hallucinigenic fever. Alan S. is a belly-crawling cocksucker in my book, because he knows NOTHING about me, and his idea of "compassion" seems to be that he would be the first person to throw a torch on the pyre if I were tied to a stake to be burned alive.
Libby--- go away and break my fucking heart. Pity party, my ass.
I DO NOT want my son to see me in my current condition. Going to the Helen blog-meet was a mistake, because I got too much advice (I know it was well-intentioned, but it's MY fucking life) from people telling me what I ought to do. Hell, I was too weak to leave my room very often and I never did make it to the river.
People-- I KNOW what is wrong with me. I am dying.
I have a couple of simple choices: pay the quacks all the money I have to keep me alive a little longer, or face the inevitable and save my money for my children. I choose door #2.
BEJUS! How many times did people say, "Think about your children, Rob!" I AM thinking about my children. I haven't seen Quinton since my mama's funeral and I see Samantha about twice a year. I ain't exactly a highly-involved daddy to those two.
Tropical Storm Tammy blew my mailbox down again, and I'm trying to fix it. But I have to do it in shifts, because I can't just go out there and grab it and growl anymore. I got a new post, but just dragging that thing out to the curb exhausted me. I had to sit in the grass and rest for a while.
Now, I've got to dig a hole for the new post. That's gonna get done one piece at a time, because that's the best I can do. I may be finished by tomorrow.
Yesterday, I paid off $10,000 in medical bills that my pissant insurance won't cover. See--- some of my problems come from a "pre-existing condition." That shit ain't covered. And it AIN'T hepatitus, Alan, you fuckface. If I do that shit every month, nothing will be left for my children and it ain't gonna save my life, either.
You people do me a big favor. Stop giving me "good" advice when you don't have a clue what you're talking about. Knowing that you're dying is bad enough without people harping at you all the time.
Thank you very much.
times have changed
When I was a boy, kids handled conflicts through fisticuffs and wrestling around like a couple of fools on the ground. Even in high school, the challenge of "meet me in the parking lot after school" meant a good tussle with lots of witnesses to watch the show, but knives and firearms never were involved.
About the worst thing that ever happened was somebody grabbed you in a headlock and slammed you head-first into a tree or a parked car. Both fighters usually had bruises and abrasions the next day, but nobody got killed.
Those rules don't apply anymore. I am sick and tired of reading stories such as this one. Getting into a fight is one thing. Stabbing somebody to death over a fucking rubber ball is something else.
But that crap happens all the time anymore.
When Quinton was having trouble with a bully at school, I started teaching him how to fight. I told him to stand up to that prick and punch him square in the nose. Jennifer went ballistic. I was asking for SERIOUS trouble if I taught Quinton to fight.
Not only do the schools all have ridiculous "zero-tolerance" policies about fighting, but some of those thugs in ELEMENTARY SCHOOL will kill someone if they feel "dissed." Jennifer is 13 years younger than I am. She saw things I never saw in school.
Of course, when I went to school, most kids had both a mama and a daddy living together at home. Times certainly have changed since then. Now, we're raising far too many savages, usually in one-parent homes.
Of course, that's just MY humble opinion. I am certain that "Shanice" felt perfectly justified in what she did. Killing a friend when you're nine years old isn't that big a deal anymore.
October 07, 2005
I don't feel good. I may not post anything today.
October 06, 2005
i'll bet you a nickel
I took the bet. I was to hop up on the handrail of the bridge over the Cumberland River and walk that handrail all the way over to the other side. It was about 100 feet, with a long, deathly fall if you went off into the shallow, rocky river.
I made it, and earned my nickel. While I was bragging about how acrobatic I was, I looked behind me and saw my brother trying the same thing. I went into panic mode and dragged his ass off of that handrail. My brother was never the athlete I was and I didn't want to have to explain to my parents how I got my brother killed trying to do a stupid stunt that I pulled off.
I gave him my nickel and made him promise NEVER to do something that stupid again. He took the nickel and ran off to buy an ice cream cone.
Just damn. I never even THOUGHT about falling when I did it. But seeing my brother try the same thing scared the shit out of me.
What causes that?
i would argue with this
I agree that civil rights belogs to ALL people, no matter what your race, religion or sexual persuasion may be. As long as you abide by the law and try to be a good citizen, NOBODY has the right to criticize your personal life.
My daughter is a lesbian. Once she "came out of the closet" with her lover, I was amazed at how my family accepted that fact. I'm talking about old, hillbilly types here--- but what we all wanted was for Samantha to be happy. She was, so we were, too. INCLUDING my 94 year-old grandmother.
I don't understand stories such as this one.
If I had my 'druthers, I'd wish that Sam was straight and she would give me a grandson to spoil. I've always wanted to be a grandaddy. But that's just MY selfish outlook, and it's none of my business. It's Sam's life to lead and what I REALLY want is for her to be happy.
She is now. I butt out and leave her and Stacey to do what they want to do. All I wish them now is a good, joyous life.
That's about all you can wish for when you watch your children grow.
Some of the favorite memories I have in my life is reading Harry Potter books to Quinton when he was six years old. It was a ritual. We ate supper, cleaned up the dirty dishes and sat at the dining room table while I read to him. He hung on every word.
What Quinton didn't realize at the time was... I hung on every word, too. I was AMAZED at how good those books were. They entertained children and fascinated adults at the same time. I remember Quinton saying many a time, "Don't stop NOW, Daddy! It's just getting really GOOD."
I didn't want to stop. But there was a bath to take, teeth to brush and a bedtime to make for catching the school bus in the morning. "We'll pick up where we left off tomorrow," I always said. And we did. And I was just as anxious to find out what happened next as Quinton was.
Now some goofy bastard is telling 12 year-olds that Harry Potter is gay. Of course, he's a priest--- don't even get me started on that subject, but I DEFINITELY believe that the prick needs to be dragged off and shot.
"As for Harry Potter, well, he's not the only gay in the village," Taylor told children at Penair School in Truro, southwest England, referring to a catchphrase from the popular British comedy TV show "Little Britain."
I'll agree with the TV being crap comment, but WTF was this idiot thinking? He's decided that Harry Potter is gay and he feels compelled to preach that gospel to 12 year-old children? Man--- that's one hell of a quest in life for a priest.
I believe that the Harry Potter books are well-written on MANY different levels and they have inspired children to read when they wouldn't have done so otherwise. I damn sure call them a blessing rather than a curse.
And any dottering old fool who finds homosexuality in those tales should be defrocked and THEN dragged off and shot. Do ya reckon it might be a case of professional jealousy?
October 05, 2005
quote of the day
This quote applies to everything you see around you every day---from schools, to business and to government.
There are people who talk about doing things. There are people who want things done. There are people who think they’re making things get done. And then there’s the guy with the chainsaw (or line truck or tree snatcher or whatever else) who’s actually doing things…
Our problem today is that we've got more planners, politicians and posers than we have doers. Which one do you want on YOUR side during a crisis?
(Quote stolen shamelessly from here.)
maybe he sobered up
Florida governor Jeb Bush seems to have changed his mind about allowing oil rigs to drill off the Florida coast. It's a good decision and I don't know why the nutless bastard wasn't for it from the beginning.
Environmentalists ALWAYS oppose such projects, because they warn about the effects of "spills" and "pollution." It's the WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!! approach and it works on people who don't understand the technology of modern oil exploration.
We've been drilling in the Gulf of Mexico for a decade or so now, and how many spills have ocurred? What has been destroyed? Nada.
I'd like some of these panic-mongering environmentalists explain to me why we didn't all die in WWII. How many tankers filled with oil were sunk by German U-Boats? MILLIONS OF GALLONS spilled into the sea, and you can't find one bit of evidence of that harming the "delicate, fragile ecosystem" today.
Mother Nature cleaned up that mess herself. Today, we don't need her help. I worked for a chemical plant that did 60% of its business in drilling for oil. I've SEEN what the off-shore rigs are like and how they operate. It ain't like the old days, folks.
We are goddam fools to listen to people who don't know what they're talking about and leave untapped energy reserves in the ground. We can harvest that oil and NOT make a mess. We do it every day, right now, all over the world.
Let's do it off the coast of Florida. And let's do it in ANWR, too.
i like the description
Where I live is about to experience a "significant rain event", due to tropical storm Tammy. The rain is already falling heavily, but the wind isn't much.
Still--- I like the term "significant rain event." It's just another example of how careful we are with words today. If I were forecasting the effects of this storm, I'd say "IT'S GONNA BE A FUCKING FROG-STRANGLER!!!" or "IT'S GONNA RAIN LIKE THE BOTTOM DROPPED OUT OF A BUCKET OF WATER!!!"
But we don't speak like that anymore. In fact, I'm kinda surprised that Denny hasn't gotten himself in trouble with some grievance group by calling himself a grouchy old cripple.
We don't have cripples today. We have "disabled people." We also don't have male and female SEXES--- we have different "genders." We don't have retarded childern, either--- they are "intellectually challenged."
I look out my window right now, and you can call it whatever you want to. It just looks like one hell of a rainstorm to me.
a quote from collagen-lips herself
Angelina Jolie may be a beautiful woman and a fine actress, but she's still a dingbat. Why is it that celebrities always sound smarter when they read lines from a script somebody else wrote?
"Africa is beautiful, marvellous, smart people, strong people, strong country and has a potential to be so much," Jolie said. "I'd love to see Africa flourish. ... It's magnificent and it has so much hope, so much possibility."
Yeah, Africa has a lot of potential. But it will continue to be a sump because of tribal rivalries, corrupt government, and a basic lack of civilization. As long as people such as Robert Mugabe hold sway there, there's no hope for the place.
A friend of mine once spent a year in Nigeria, working for one of the Big Three oil companies. Nigeria has a lot of oil. While he was in Lagos, the Supreme Commander of All decided to show off his military might by firing a lot of guns, straight up into the air, and he blew up half of Lagos and killed a lot of people when the shells came down.
I forget the asshole's name, but THAT'S the kind of leaders Africa has.
Africa is blessed with almost every natural resource known to man and those exist in abundance. But it doesn't have a lot of navigable waterways and its infrastructure is almost nil, so they can't take advantage of what they have.
But most of their problems remain political. 20 years ago, South Africa and Rhodesia were prosperous countries. Look at them now. Sumps.
Until Africa learns to govern itself with responsible leaders, it will remain just what it is now--- an AIDS-infested cesspool of corruption and vice.
The "potential" is there. But the leadership isn't.
science, science, science
Is there ANYTHING that some "scientist" isn't studying now? Here's a really impressive piece of
The results: When classical music was played, patrons spent on average $40 per person, compared to $36.75 when pop tunes were featured and $35 when there was silence. The music of Beethoven, Mahler, and Vivaldi encouraged patrons to spend more on dinner, especially on luxuries, such as coffee, dessert, fine wines, and appetizers. Why? The researchers speculate that classical music makes diners feel more affluent, cultured, and sophisticated so they are more willing to spend money on items they equate with such qualities. Study leader Adrian North said classical music makes us "feel a bit posh. In a restaurant, this has the effect of making you spend a bit more money."
That's science if I ever saw it.
October 04, 2005
Gentlepeople, this is true.
I ended up with Kim's Zippo lighter. I think he might have lost his ass in Helen if it wasn't attached to his backbone.
I couldn't have put this any better myself. George Bush has been a tremendous disappoint to me. He reminds me of when I was a boy and I lusted after the "Vac-U-Form" toy that I saw advertised on TV.
I saved my newspaper route money, bought one and discovered it to be a piece of shit. It melted plastic on an electric burner and the different molds you were supposed to use never fit together right to make all the glorious toys the instruction book said you could make.
George Bush has been my Presidential Vac-U-Form. I still think he's better than Al Gore or John Kerry, but the parts just don't fit together like the instruction book said they should.
Fiscal restraint? Bullshit. Bush spends money like a drunken sailor. Smaller government? Bullshit again. Now, Bush wants the MILITARY involved in places where it shouldn't be, like downtown in YOUR city. That's not what I voted for.
Plus, I think Bush is doing a fine job of giving the majority back to the Democrats, if only the Democrats weren't so stupid to be blowing such a great opportunity.
I went into panic mode today. I was almost out of cigarettes and I needed to go to the store. But I couldn't find my wallet.
My Crackerbox has a poltergeist that tends to eat things from time to time, and after I looked EVERYWHERE and couldn't find my wallet, I was almost ready to blame that evil spirit.
I wasn't worried about losing any money. I think I had about nine dollars, all in ones in there. But the gigantic pain in the butt of getting a new driver's license and cancelling my credit card for a new one made my skin crawl. I have a lot of automatic payments on that credit card because I get frequent flyer miles for paying my bills that way.
I KNEW I had my wallet when I left Helen, so I called Recondo 32 and asked him to check the back seat of the Snake to see if it fell out back there. I did some twisting and turning trying to be comfortable on the ride back home. He couldn't find it.
When Georgia came home from work, she looked, too, and called me to say that it wasn't in the car. I told her that it was small and black, just like the back seat of that fucking car, so she went to check again.
Lo and behold, she found it.
So, I don't have a lost wallet anymore. It's in Pritchardville, South Carolina, in good hands.
Go read this.
I think one big problem with the Bush administration is a lack of coherent communication--- not just by Bush himself, but his entire administration. They simply don't beat their own drums loudly enough, and they're being drowned out by Democrat nay-sayers, the Mainstream Media and the anti-war nutballs.
If you think you're doing a good job, brag about it.
I don't think she hates me
I met this woman for the first time in Helen. She's a looker and a lot of fun to be around. Plus, she has RED TOENAILS on her pretty feet, and you regular readers know how I am about that kind of thing.
If you want to see the mullet man, you can find his picture via that link, but it's not for the faint of heart. Just imagine a combination of Cousin Itt from the Addams Family and Ozzie Osborne. Only with more tattoos.
And for anybody who said, "I didn't come to the meet because I wasn't invited," you must have grown up in rich, spoiled society. EVERYBODY is invited to a Jawja blog-meet. You don't need no gold-embossed card to get in the door.
In fact, you don't even need a door to get into. We'll find you some place to crash. It may be on somebody's floor, but at least we'll give you a pillow for your head.
Just show up. You'll have a good time.
October 03, 2005
quote of the day
Today, we have a goose that lays golden eggs. That's the American taxpayer. Congress has somehow convinced itself that it's sole purpose is to SPEND those golden eggs.
Some members of Congress would rather eat their young than eliminate funding for home-district, pork-barrel projects.San Antonio Express.
In MY humble opinion, that's what's wrong with Congress today. It's BEEN wrong for a long time, but it's becoming more obvious every day. Those gasbags don't think about statesmanship. They are interested in power and those golden eggs buy power.
That's not the kind of government I want during a war or a major disaster.
Georgia knew that I wasn't feeling good (although I did manage to sit in bed and watch Florida get the shit beat out of them against Alabama.). She went for a walk downtown and told me that I could get a massage right in my room, applied by a licenced therapist.
I asked her how much it cost. The price varied, depending on how long I wanted it to last. For $100, I could get the Big Kahuna, which lasted 90 minutes. That's the one I ordered.
I was sitting on the balcony and bragging about the massage I was about to get to elisson, who was all decked out in his pimp hat and looking exactly like the picture on his home page. About that time, a guy named "Brian" showed up.
This guy evidently runs the massage service and he's one of the most obvious flits I ever saw in my life. For a minute, I thought HE was going to give me a massage, and I was about to cancel the deal. Elisson was sitting there laughing at me and several other people showed up to admire Brian.
"Light in the loafers" does not do that guy credit. He was a LOT worse than that. But he just collected the money, flitted like Tinkerbell all over the place, wrapped a hot towel around my neck and sent Rebecca up to my room.
She was a pretty good-looking woman. She set up her massage table, I got nekkid, and she went to work on me. DAMN! She had magic fingers.
Unfortunately, the bowl of Chatham Artillery Punch was in my room at the time and people kept coming in and out to get a drink and admire my asscrack. Rebecca asked me once if I wanted to lock the door, but I told her to forget about it. I've been seen nekkid by worse people than that group.
I tried to explain what a blog-meet was, but she didn't seem to grasp the idea until she heard the bullwhip cracking outside. "Y'all just get drunk and party, don't you?" she concluded. I confirmed that she was correct. When my massage was finished, I introduced her to everybody.
I even talked her into trying a glass of punch. She liked it.
I'm just happy that SHE gave me the massage instead of Brian.
the jawja blogmeet
This one is the best description I've read so far. If you live in Georgia or anywhere CLOSE to the state and don't attend one of our frequent
Where the hell where were you, dammit?
so sue me, prick
I love these kinds of emails.
Hey, Who on earth are you?
This genius obviously didn't read much of my blog, nor bother to check the "About Me" link on my sidebar. You don't have to be a detective to learn a LOT about me from what's right in front of your face. But I'm the one lacking "grey matter." Fucking asshole.
Plus, ya gotta love the addendum, too:
This email originates from AXA Services Limited (reg. no. 446043) which is a service company for AXA UK plc (reg. no. 2937724) and the following companies within the AXA UK plc Group: AXA Insurance Plc (reg. no. 932111) AXA Insurance UK Plc (reg. no. 78950) AXA General Insurance Limited (reg. no. 141885)
BEJUS! That missive ranks right up there with Nigerian "Help Me With MY Money" emails. What a pathetic maroon. At first, I thought this piece of shit was spam, but it has no links to whatever esteemed company the blithering asshole is farting about.
By the way... I AM an American, for those of you who haven't figured that fact out yet.
I made it to the Blog-meet in Helen last weekend because Recondo 32 and Georgia gave me a ride in the Snake. (That car ain't built for three people.) I can't say that I was the most enthuiastic participant there, because I spent a lot of time just lying in my bed.
The highlights of the trip for me were meeting a few bloggers I hadn't met before and seeing some old friends. I also performed some acts of contrition that I owed a few people. I'm gonna have to rearrange my blogroll now.
Plus, because I was feling so shitty, I got a 90-minute, full-body massage from a woman named Rebecca for a mere $100, right in my room. I think half the people at the meet saw me nekkid on that massage table, (my room ALWAYS ends up being Party Central) but I didn't give a damn. Modesty is NOT one of my virtues.
Hell--- I don't have that many virtues to begin with.
I also had my picture taken with THE MULLET MAN, whose identity I will not reveal right now... but DAMN, he was impressive. In that costume, he reminded me from something out of Rocky Horror Picture Show. Georgia is supposed to send me that picture, and when she does, I'll post it.
The Chatham Artillery Punch was a big hit, as usual, but the people who tried it at Jekyll Island were more careful with it this time. Nobody ended up in a puddle of puke on the floor. That stuff tastes like kool-ade, but it packs a BIG wallop.
I arrived back home to find my mailbox broken and laying on the ground. I need to fix that today, if I am able. Or maybe not. I can't get any bills if I don't have a mailbox, and I'm not certain that I'm physically able to do what needs to be done to fix it.
I'm in bad shape. I can barely walk anymore.
But I had a good time and I'm glad that I went. I just wish that I felt better. The best I could do was stand on the balcony and watch the half-rubber and bullwhip activities. That looked like a lot of fun, but that bullwhip popped a lot of people who didn't know what they were doing with it. That thing will jump back and BITE you.
I woke up at 3:00 AM this morning with my usual episode of gags and pukes, but it was mostly dry-heaves because I don't remember eating ANYTHING while I was in Helen. I took some anti-nausea medicine and I'm feeling better now. People kept trying to feed me all weekend, but I simply have NO appetite anymore.
I'll post a list of the people who were there later today, if I don't fricking die first. Them's a good bunch.
i've got 'em all
Yes, people, I have a lot of bad habits. I wasn't always that way, but since I lost visitation with my son, I no longer give a shit, I don't care WHAT people think about me and I would just as soon go out in a brilliant fireball as live like a monk.
Who wants to live forever anyway?
All content © Rob Smith