Gut Rumbles

December 31, 2006

What a surprise

Originally published December 31, 2003

I called Jennifer today and asked if Quinton could come shoot fireworks and spend the night with me tonight. I got her answering machine and left a message. I was as stunned as if I had been pole-axed when she showed up at 6:00 this evening. I get to keep Quinton tonight.

The kids ran through 144 sparklers in about 30 minutes. They barely waited for the sun to go down before they burned every one I bought. I set off a few voo-doo balls, which always bring gasps of appreciation, then I decided to try some of those TNT cannisters.

GOT-DAM! That is one fucking good piece of fireworks there. That sucker is like a voo-doo ball times three, with a LOT more noise. It lights up the night sky and makes your eyes glaze. THREE explosions, complete with FLAMING BALLS! That's the best shit I ever saw, and the kids love it.

If I left all the decisions up to them, I would have my supply exhausted by now. They wanted me to set them off all back-to-back, but I didn't do that. I sat outside with them, and when a neighbor fired a bottle rocket or set off a string of firecrackers, I said, "Take THIS," and fired a TNT blast. I heard applause echoing down the road a few times tonight.

I have the best fireworks in the neighborhood and I'm going to burn every one of those things tonight. So far, no cops.

I hope it stays that way and I hope that my boy has a good time tonight.

End of the year

Originally published December 31, 2004

This evening, Sam, Stacey and I steamed oysters over an open fire in my back yard and ate them using the tailgate of my pickup truck for a picnic table. Is that a red-neck feast, or what? I bought 100 pounds of oysters, and we ate until we could eat no more. I still have at least 50 pounds remaining.

I bagged those up and put them in my freezer for the girls to take home with them. Sam says they have to pay seven dollars a dozen for fresh oysters in Fort Worth, Texas. I don't think they've researched a good wholesale seafood distributor, because I can get Louisiana singles at $40 for 100 pounds here, and they are a lot closer to Louisiana than I am. What the hell. They've got 50 pounds to take home.

When we went shooting today, I took an old phone book to use for targets. I like to shoot pictures of lawyers. Stacey discovered that she is a good shot and she was very enthusiastic about plugging anything I set up for her to hit. By the time Sam became interested in trying her hand, we had ripped that phone book to shreds and perforated every decent picture we could find. I killed ALL the lawyers.

So, I found some trash beer cans, threw them in the creek and Sam sank every one, usually with her first shot. I found a flattened Budweiser can and used the remains of the phone book to hold it up so that only the round bottom was showing. We were probably 50' away, looking at a 3" circle for a target. Sam said, "Daddy, I can barely SEE that."

She fired and put the shot right in the center of the circle. I mean DEAD CENTER. She shot again and said, "I think I missed that one." I didn't think so. I thought she put the second round damn near through the first hole. (Would you believe that at a distance, I have better eyesight than two young wimmen?)

We walked up to check. The second shot went through only half of the first hole. She had taken out another chunk about 1/4" to the right. I looked at her and beamed. "Sam, that is damn good shooting," I said. "Not many men can do that." Stacey was good, but she never shot THAT well; Sam did it over and over again.

As we were walking back home, I saw a glass jug laying in the leaves off the side of the trail. Samantha was carrying the rifle. I said, "Sam! Whoa! Look over there. Are you gonna walk out of here and leave that thing unshot?" I pointed at the jug. It was about the size of a half-gallon vinegar bottle and about 20' away.

"That thing? Daddy, that's too easy." I told her to shoot it anyway. She loaded the rifle, shouldered it and fired. The jug broke into pieces. She said, "See? I told you it was easy." She took about three more steps down the trail and stopped with a shocked look on her face.

"Daddy, I didn't have my ear-plugs in when I shot that bottle. I forgot that I wasn't wearing them anymore." And she didn't flinch from the "loud" noise, either.

A lot of shit has happened in my life during the past year, but I'm going out of 2004 on a high note. I've enjoyed visiting with my daughter and Stacey and I might even end up with a semi-clean house in the bargain. Can't beat that.

And I taught Sam to shoot, too.

December 30, 2006

Have you seen my car keys?

Originally published August 1, 2005

I lose things all the time. I misplace my car keys about once every week, I'm missing TWO sets of reading glasses that the Crackerbox appears to have stolen and pawned, and I've been known to run my wallet through the washing machine because I forgot which pair of pants I left it in.

In fact, I've even lost my teeth before, although I believe that I would have noticed had I inhaled them.

No kidding--- I was fitted with a four-front-upper-teeth bridge for a while that was a "flipper," meaning that it slipped in and out and wasn't attached to any other teeth. (I lost those teeth playing football in 1968.) The thing got uncomfortable to wear after a while, so I often took it out and laid it down somewhere just to let my mouth rest.

Jennifer never liked it when I took my teeth out, especially after the second or third time she helped me hunt for them. "Rob, keep your teeth IN, dammit! You look like a red-neck geezer without them. If that wasn't bad enough, you LOSE them all the time, too"

That was the truth, although I didn't think I looked like a geezer without them. Most people never even noticed. But I DID lose those elusive fuckers several times.

I'll admit... it is kind of embarrassing to walk through the house and ask, "Anybody seen my teeth?"

I have them locked in my mouth until the rest of my teeth fall out now. VERY EXPENSIVE permanent bridge. If you can even SEE my teeth when I smile, which most people can't because of my moustache and the way I smile, you're looking at the price of a new pickup truck, plus several expensive firearms. Modern dental technology does not come cheap.

But I never have to worry about asking, "Where are my teeth?" anymore. Still... I think I would REMEMBER inhaling my "flipper." I damn sure would remember inhaling an entire set of dentures.

The missed opportunity

Originally published May 28, 2004

On my last night in Costa Rica, I was back in San Jose, so I went out for a nice dinner and strolled the streets for a while. I heard Led Zeppelin playing from a jukebox in a place called "The Nashville Bar," so I stopped in for a cervesa.

I didn't take a good sip of my beer before I had TWO Costa Rican wimmen draped all over me. They were more than friendly, and their wandering hands discovered my ever semi-erect bionic Roscoe right away. I had a few colones in my pocket that I needed to get rid of before I left the country, so I bought both chicas bonitas a drink. I received a glimpse of their titas in return.

I don't know what's wrong with me anymore.

In the old days, every brain cell I had would have run straight to my dick and I would have wandered off into the night with those wimmen. Hell, the thought of being robbed or having my throat cut in some dark alley never would have occurred to me. If they were hookers, I had plenty of money to pay them. If they were just looking for sport, I could accomodate both.

But I really wasn't interested.

I bought them a drink, gave them both a cigarette, thanked them for their company and walked out of that bar. I went to a nearby park and sat on a bench next to a big fountain. I wondered what the hell has become of me.

I never thought I would EVER say this, but sex just isn't that important to me anymore. I've cut a large swath in my life. I've had lots of wimmen in my bed. I've had cheap sex, one-night stands, expensive sex, group-gropes and just about everything else you can imagine. I cannot recall the names or the faces of half the wimmen I've had sex with.

Once, I considered myself to be quite a swordsman. Now, looking at where that kind of behavior landed me, I'm not very proud of myself. I don't want to do that shit anymore. I should have either gotten laid or robbed that night, but I ended up sitting on a park bench and thinking about life. After I was finished with my deep thoughts, I walked back to my hotel and went to bed.

I had a plane to catch the next day.


Originally published October 1, 2004

I love westerns. I loved John Wayne in every movie I ever saw him in when he wore a cowboy hat. I STILL think Matt Dillon was the best got-dam marshal I ever saw on television. He didn't take any shit on the streets of Dodge City. (James Arness was ALSO the only person I ever saw tower over John Wayne when they were together on stage.) Richard Boone as Paladin was one spooky mo-fo. Even Steve McQueen did his bit as a bad-ass in Wanted: Dead or Alive. Yeah, Josh Randall was a dangerous man.

But some of my favorite actors in western movies and TV shows are the guys who played the villians and creeps. It takes TALENT to play a real scuzz-bucket and make people WANT to hate you. Here are my Top Ten:

#1-- Eli Wallach as "Tuco" in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

#2-- Bruce Dern-- in just about every western ever made. Did he have a natural shit-ass grin, or what?

#3-- Albert Salmi-- he's dead now, but I still remember his great line from the movie Something Big when he was asked, "Aren't we gonna bury him?" He spat a stream of tobacco juice and replied, "Naw. Somethin' will come out of the hills tonight and drag him off."

#4-- Jeremy Slate-- I'll bet I've seen him die a hundred times. He's good at it.

#5-- L.Q. Jones-- He plays an EXCELLENT rat-bastard.

#6-- Dennis Hopper--- yeah, he chewed the scenery in a few westerns.

#7-- Robert Duvall-- okay, he's a star and an Academy Award winner now, but he should have gotten that recognition when he played Lucky Ned Pepper in True Grit. "Rooster, you got ten minutes. If I don't see you heading over that ridge, I'll kill the girl. You KNOW I'll do it!"

#8-- Strother Martin-- he's dead now, too, but he played some really good characters.

(UPDATE: Yeah. "What we've got here is a FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE!")

#9-- Dub Taylor-- another dead one, but he was damned good.

#10-- Slim Pickens-- he's dead now, but he once was a rodeo star before he got into acting. He could be a colorful character or a real shitass. His lasting claim to fame probably is Dr. Strangelove, but I liked him in westerns.

I left Jack Elam off the list because I ran out of room.

December 29, 2006

Lured me with drugs

Originally published July 10, 2003

My doctor admitted today that the morphine shot to go yesterday was an attempt to make me stay in the hospital last light. "You are one of the VERY FEW who have that operation and want to go home as quickly as you did," he said.

I didn't admit that the plan almost worked. That shot knocked me ass over teakettle. If Mom hadn't pulled up right to the front door so I had to take only three steps out of the wheelchair to hit the passenger seat, I would have fallen on my Cracker ass right there in the parking lot. They gave me the good shit. I was ALL fuh-eh-duh.

I replied, "My Mom has a computer and she doesn't mind if I smoke on the back porch. You people won't let me get on the internet OR smoke."

"Oh, yeah... you're that "blogger" guy, aren't you?"

Yeah, I am that blogger guy. And THAT'S why I got the fuck out of there at 2:30 yesterday afternoon. I could blog and smoke after I escaped their evil clutches. They might have demerol and morphine, but I had drugs to go, in pill form. And Mom had a computer.

That was a no-brainer in my book. I like blogging more than I like really good drugs, especially when you have to stay in a hospital to get them. Some things are more important than getting high, especially when you can do them and get high anyway.

It makes perfect sense to me.

December 28, 2006

Tomorrow is the day

Originally published December 27, 2005

This blog will be FOUR YEARS OLD tomorrow!

That's fairly old in blogger-years. One of my projects for tomorrow is to go through the blog roll and delete a bunch of people who aren't posting anymore. (I wish I had a dollar for every blog that I've seen come and go since I started. The mortality rate for bloggers is impressive.)

I'm not burnt out yet, so I intend to keep writing. I don't want to miss posting my "Top 10 Assholes of 2005" on New Year's Eve. It's a good list, so don't miss it.

I want to thank everybody who visits this site for keeping my batteries charged and making this blog fun to write. If not for you, I would have quit a long time ago.

Quinton's birthday

Originally published December 28, 2001

Today is my son's eighth birthday. This also was my weekend for visitation, according to that very expensive divorce decree I have in my possession. But my son is not here. I have presents and all sorts of nifty things for him, but he won't see any of it because my disgusting slut of an ex-wife is in the north Georgia mountains shacking up in a cabin with her unemployed, dope-smoking, piece of shit lover, along with my son, who she kidnapped as far as I am concerned. I became aware of this fact when I arrived home from work at 5:30 this evening and checked the messages on my answering machine.

I should be accustomed to this sort of treatment by now, because it has been the rule for the past five months, which is exactly how long it took her to commit adultry, beg forgiveness, change her mind, ditch the marriage and divorce me. Actually it took her only five days to ditch the marriage and move the unemployed, dope-smoking piece of shit into my ex-home while she swore out a peace warrant on me, forbidding me from setting foot on my own property or having any contact with my family while she merrily gave pussy away out of both pants legs to the aforementioned piece of shit. It took a full 30 days, start to finish, before she officially divorced me, in front of a judge who was a dead ringer for Howard Sprague from the "Andy Griffith Show." He didn't care about the adultry or the unemployed piece of shit sleeping in my bed in my house with my son living there, nor the fact that my ex-wife earns about $20,000 more per year than I do. He cared about me paying Child Support. The divorce was finalized, she took everything I once owned, except three pieces of furniture, a Holland gas grill, a set of dishes and the computer I am writing this on. And I pay Child Support

So, I am helping to finance this outing to north Georgia, with large monthly checks, supposedly spent supporting my son. I still feel the urge to go OJ about it every now and then, but I don't have a dream team to get me off the hook, so that's probably not a good idea.

The fact that my son is not here this weekend will be crushing news to Jack, the five year-old boy who lives across the street from me. He's a good young'un, missing both of his top front teeth, and eager for any male companionship he can find. He lives with his grandmother, his mother and three sisters, which keeps him bobbing like a small cork in a sea of estrogen. He calls me "Uncle," because I will toss a football with him and let him play with my son's toys when I'm here by myself, which is most of the time. Jack was hoping that Quinton, my boy, would be here all weekend, as he was supposed to be. Jack had visions of an actual male friend to play with and a spend-the-night at my house adventure, where he could have his brain sucked out by Play Station 2 games and the "Kid's Cuisine" TV dinners I fix for them to eat. Plus, when they finish a bath, I let them run around in their underwear instead of wearing those wimpy pajamas women insist they cover themselves with.

Yeah, Jack will be very disappointed. So am I. But when that cunt of an ex-wife of mine pokes around with a sharp stick, she doesn't care how many eyes she hits.

December 27, 2006

19th century man

Originally published May 3, 2005

I shoulda been a cowboy.

I've watched enough of the "Western Channel" lately to become convinced that I was born after my time. I don't like horses, but if I had been born back then, I would have learned to ride really well. Give me a sidearm, a good rifle, a canteen and a blanket, and I would be ready to go anywhere on my horse.

Life was less complicated in the 19th century. If you didn't like where you were, you just saddled up and rode someplace else. I could do that.

Money went a long way. If you had $30 in your pocket, you were a well-to-do man. You could buy a room, a bath, a whore and a bottle of whiskey and STILL be a well-to-do man the next day, if the whore didn't steal all your money You might be known as "the stranger in town," but if you didn't start any trouble, people left you alone.

Try that today. The government knows everything you do. You must have "ze papers," including a driver's license and a Social Security number. Government keeps track of your bank transactions and they want their cut of that pie. You can't just saddle up and ride to the next town anymore. They'll be watching you.

Oh, I like air conditioning and microwave ovens. Civilization is a good thing. But look at what we sacrificed to get those froo-fraws: Our freedom. Was it worth the trade? I don't think so.

I shoulda been a cowboy.

Southern Comfort

Originally published May 2, 2005

I know very few people who DON'T have an entertaining story to tell about getting drunk on Southern Comfort. That stuff is sweet enough to go down like children's cough syrup but strong enough to bring a tall dog to his knees. I can't stand to even SMELL it anymore.

I think I was 18 years old at the time when I and my friends Steve and Ben bribed a black guy in Sandfly, Georgia, to buy us some booze. They got beer. I got a pint of Southern Comfort.

I have only a very dim recollection of what all transpired that night, but I DO remember drinking that entire pint of sweet whiskey. I became as drunk as a barnyard owl. I puked a couple of times. Gravity became my sworn enemy.

Steve had a neat little rec-room in his attic, and we could get there via a ladder in the garage, so we never had to disturb his parents. We decided to spend the night up there, but I had to piss first.

I walked into the back yard, wrapped my arm around one of those old T-Bar clothesline posts and commenced to pee. But I lost my balance, started twirling around that post backward in a counter-clockwise rotation and almost augered myself into the ground before I ended up lying flat on my back and pissing straight up in the air.

I pissed all over myself.

Steve thought it was funny. Ben thought it was funny. Hell, even I thought it was funny at the time. What I DIDN'T think was funny was the fact that I was too drunk to climb the ladder to the attic room by myself and nobody wanted to help me because I was soaking wet with piss.

I finally made it up there somehow and managed a few hours of dream-tossed sleep. I awoke the next morning with The Hangover of the Gods and I smelled like a homeless man marinated in asparagus piss. I managed to crawl back down the ladder and puke a few times in Steve's back yard. That Southern Comfort sure tasted better going down than it did coming back up again.

I didn't do much more than sleep and drink fruit juice for the next two days. I was a sick puppy. I tasted Southern Comfort every time I burped, and that was a lot. I felt as if someone had turned me inside-out and implanted broken glass under my skin. I felt as if I had been wrapped in barbed wire and then rolled down a hill. I was NOT a well man.

I have never experienced the desire to taste that stuff again since that night. Once burnt, twice learnt for me. That was a lesson that hung with me for a long, long time.

Have YOU ever gotten drunk on Southern Comfort?

December 26, 2006


Originally published October 1, 2004

I worked for a long time with a guy named Joe, who stuttered badly. (Catfish--guess who I'm talking about. YOU played poker with him, too.) He was a lab supervisor and when you first met him, you'd wonder how in the hell this dumbass ever rose to a supervisory position. That's what I thought until the first time I played poker with him.

Joe was the first "Rope a Dope" I ever encountered in my life. Yeah, he stuttered, but he wasn't a dumbass. In fact, he was sharp as a tack. He studied every angle and he knew what he was doing all the time. You never SAW that fact until it was too late. He already had you fucked by the time you realized what was happening. I think he used that stuttering, dumbass facade to his advantage. People tended to underestimate Joe, until he lowered the boom on them.

In some ways, I believe that George Bush does the same thing. I've gotten a lot of emails telling me that Kerry was "brilliant" in the debate last night and George came across as an "idiot" without his handlers around him. I call BULLSHIT on that.

George Bush reminds me a lot of Joe. Call him an idiot all you want to. Then, see who comes out on top every time. That ain't no goddam accident, and if you believe that it is, you're just setting yourself up for another fall. Slick talkers don't always make tall walkers.

And the "idiots" aren't always as stupid as you think they are.

Little yapping dogs

Originally published September 28, 2004

I'm a dog person. I don't like cats. But I ALSO don't like little, yapping dogs. Those stupid ankle-biting, noise-making little shits make me want to punt them like a football to see if I can make them spiral.

Recondo 32 put me in my place last Saturday when he said, "Smith, you know why you don't like little, yapping dogs? They remind you of YOU, you little yapping dog."

Maybe he has a point there.

I am not a big man. But I've always had a big mouth and a big ego. My daddy told me a long time ago that as long as my legs reached all the way to the ground, I was as tall as I needed to be. I believed what he told me and I've lived my life that way. I don't take a back-seat to some blustering gas-bag. I'm as good as anybody in this world and better than most.

Call that ego, or a little, yapping dog mentality if you want to, but that attitude has served me well through the years. I call it self-confidence, and I earned that shit the hard way, by doing what I had to do when I had to do it.

From football player, to editor of my high school newspaper, to barroom musician, to advertising copywriter, to a boss in a chemical plant, I always thought of myself as a Tall Dog, even if other people towered over me in size. "It ain't the size of the dog in the fight that counts. It's the size of the fight in the dog."

I always had a lot of fight in me. I'm not certain that I do anymore. I'm feeling kinda old and worn-out now.

Too many fights will do that to ya.

December 25, 2006

A Christmas poem

Originally published December 23, 2004

Jackie lay in his bed late Christmas night
Full of excitement, tinged with some fright--
He'd been just as good as a good boy could be;
At least he had tried-- surely Santa could see.

He regretted torturing the neighborhood cat
But Santa liked reindeer-- he could ignore that
Jackie thought of the rock that he threw in a fit
It wasn't that window that he meant to hit.

Jackie worried, he fretted, like all little boys
He recalled all his sins while he wished for new toys
But deep down inside, he knew in his soul
The morning would bring him a big lump of coal.

He remembered it all, both the bad and the good
And he weighed it all closely, the way Santa would
The scale seemed well-balanced; it tipped neither way
Would Jackie have anything on Santa's sleigh?

Jackie wasn't THAT bad--not as bad as his brothers
Not as bad as young Mickey, not as bad as some others
In fact he'd been GREAT, for an entire year
Santa would come with his tiny reindeer.

But what if he didn't? Imagine the shame
If checking that list Santa struck through his name?
"There's Jackie and I know everything that he's done
If I need to scratch somebody, he'll be the one."

Some time in that longest of longest of nights
Young Jack fell asleep with his fists balled up tight
If he woke in the morning, after Santa passed by
And he had no presents, he wouldn't cry--

He'd play with his brothers and not shed a tear
While promising himself to do better next year
Santa, I'm sorry for some things I've done
If you leave me a present, I'll settle for ONE.

Jackie slept through the night while the wind in the willow
Made sleigh-bell sounds in his head on the pillow
And dreaming, he heard clatter of hooves on the roof--
And when he woke in the morning, there it was---THE PROOF!!!

Do you believe in magic? I once did.

December 24, 2006

This is sad

Originally published January 29, 2005

Yeah, you can go here and get your shits and giggles by laughing at people less fortunate than you are. You can chortle your ass off the way some people do when they kick the crutches out from under a cripple and watch him fall down on the sidewalk. If you do that, you should be ashamed of yourself. (and you should be, too.)

I've said many times before than an omnipotent God should have a done a better job with men's hair. About the only things he fucked up worse are teeth. But neither one is an impressive engineering feat.

I'll confess: For years, I wore my hair brushed straight back, like a Golden God. My coiff resembled a lion's mane, and I was proud of it. I was Bubba Fabio.

But I started noticing that I developed a part down the middle that I never had before, and that part kept getting wider every day. Sometimes, when I removed my hard hat after some sweaty work, I resembled someone who had been hit down the middle of the head with a hatchet.

I didn't like the way that looked. I got a different haircut and started parting my hair on the side. YES!!! I started a comb-over. But at least I have enough hair remaining to make it appear convincing.

I could NEVER be desperate enough to comb-over three worm-looking hairs from the back of my neck to string them over my bare scalp in an effort to look handsome. I don't go for the coonskin cap look, either.

I'd give up and shave my head first.

Necessary definitions

Originally published January 31, 2005

I don't like "suck-ups." I don't mean people who bestow well-intentioned flattery on you--- I mean the toadys of the word who believe that the key to success is to attach your lips firmly to a fast-rising ass and hope that you can hang on for the ride. Many people compliment you because they simply like what you do; others do it hoping for pure self-aggrandizement, to gain something from the effort. Those same suck-ups will turn on you like a pack of rabid ferrets once your star is on the wane.

I've got no use for a fucking cat. They don't like me and I don't like them. Damn furball-hacking, arrogant bastards. They have evil minds, too. A bird will shit on your windshield just after you washed your car. A cat will crawl inside and shit on the front seat. ON PURPOSE!!! I hate 'em.

I've never had a dog that I cared for growl, bark or snap at me. Well, maybe ONCE in their lives, but I played the Alpha Card on their ass and put an end to that shit right away. You can't do that with a cat, no matter how many times you throw it against the wall.

That's why wimmen are cats and men are dogs. You cannot EVER trust a cat.

I blame Watergate and the Vietnam War for what has turned news reporting into anti-American advocacy. The news media learned that reporting the news wasn't the way to a Pulitizer. A good "gotcha" was. And that's what they've been doing ever since, even if they had to make the "gotcha" up. The news developed political syphilis, and the chancer-ridden whores don't want to change.

Most people I know can tell right from wrong. They are not stupid people. But they DON'T speak what's on their minds for fear of being called "intolerant" or "racist." No, we don't have censorship in this country.

Government is not "benevolent." It is raw power. If you do not fear it, you do not recognize it for what it is. We've got to have a government, and I like the one we have now a lot better than I would like having a pissant such as John Kerry in charge, but it's still government. And it rules you with an iron fist.

If I sound cynical, that's because I AM.

December 23, 2006

I knew that

Originally published June 2, 2004

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Wacko-environmentalists are religious freaks, every bit as obsessed and misguided as Islamic extremists. Those people give me the creeps.

Environmental alarmism/hysteria is a fascinating psychological phenomenon. It bears many traces of ancient myth and similarities to religious mania. It also has close ties with that most powerful, and delusive, of all political religions: socialism.

Close ties to socialism? I would call it more than that. Environmentalism is anti-individual, anti-private property, anti-capitalist and anti-progress. Environmentalists don't care how many people die because of their idiotic cause. In fact, they would be the first ones to throw virgins into a volcano to please the appetite of Gaia. They are that goddam superstitious and that goddam crazy.

They won't be happy until we all freeze to death in the dark.

Thanks, Jack!

Originally published June 30, 2004

I had a dilemma on my hands. My doorbell rang this afternoon and it was Young Jack, all excited and bouncing up and down as if he needed to pee really bad. "Mr. Rob! Mr. Rob! Come look at THIS!" He grabbed my hand and tugged me around to the side of my house. "SEE! LOOK!" I looked. Jack gave me an "I TOLD you so" grin.

Bejus. I had a hornet's nest the size of a pineapple hanging from the eaves of my roof right beneath the satellite disc. I know a hornet's nest when I see one. My friends and I used to throw rocks and dirt clods at them when we were kids. We'd knock one down and run like hell. Then, we'd meet back in the woods and compare stings. (Note to ALL little boys and young men: I don't care how fast you think you are--- you ain't gonna outrun a pissed-off hornet.)

I looked up at the nest. One scout was circling lazily around the hole at the bottom as I calculated what to do. "Let's get a stick and HIT IT, Mr. Rob!" suggested Jack. I grabbed Jack by the neck and choked him to death.

Okay, I didn't choke Jack, but I thought seriously about doing it. Get a stick and HIT IT? Got-dam! That boy obviously never disturbed a hornet's nest the size of this one before. I told Jack to get in the house. "But I wanna watch," he whined. "Yeah, and I want you to LIVE to watch," I replied.

I put Jack in the house, donned a pair of blue jeans, a flannel shirt (it's only 95 degrees outside) work gloves and hiking boots. I grabbed my shepard's crook and a can of Raid. I started to get my damn safety goggles, too, but I wanted to act while the weather was right. A rainstorm was coming and most of the hornets would be back in the nest now. I pulled a camoflage hat low over my brow, and out the door I went. "I'll be back," I told Jack.

I snuck up to that nest and nuked the scout with a Raid-blast. He fell from the sky. I nuked the nest next, and saw some gasping refugees attempting to escape. I nuked them some more. Then, I took my crook and smashed the nest to the ground. Whoa! That's a LOT of hornets! They resembled boiling water! I ran like hell, leaving a trail of Raid-fumes in my wake as cover fire.

I didn't receive a single sting, although a couple of those angry bastards buzzed pretty close to my head before I made the front door. Jack asked, "Did you get them, Mr. Rob?" I told Jack that I thought so, but the most important thing was that they didn't get me. I went out later and set the nest on fire. I am a killer of baby hornets.

And I feel good about it.

December 22, 2006


Originally published September 11, 2003

It ain't just those little hamburgers that are good there. If you grew up down South, you never lived unless you staggered in there at 3:00 in the morning, drunker'n a pissant and held onto the stainless-steel counter with both hands to keep from falling on your ass and slurred your way into getting breakfast on a paper plate.

You could go sit down then, and have a waitress bring you your food before you passed out, face-down on the table. They served eggs, bacon, sausage and grits and the food was delicious, especially when you were drunker'n a pissant at 3:00 in the morning.

WARNING!!! NEVER pass out face-first into a plate of grits.

I saw that happen once, and I believe that the person who did it would have drowned if someone hadn't grabbed him by the hair of the head, turned his neck at a 45-degree angle and laid his cheek right back down in the grits. "He's okay now," the fellow said. "He can breathe." We all continued eating breakfast, assured that no one was going to die in a plate of grits that night.

That sort of behavior was accepted as perfectly normal in a Krystal at 3:00 in the morning.

Go to the beach and stay out in the sun all day. Drink a lot of beer. Pass a Krystal on the way home. You'll do a U-turn to get to the place, then order 50 cheeseburgers and two small fries because you are HUNGRY. You and a buddy can eat 45 of those burgers between you and immediately pass out on the couch afterward for a well-deserved nap. Your belly is happy. You put the rest of the burgers in the refrigerator for lunch on Monday (Krystals rehabilitate just like new with 30 seconds in a microwave). After that, you fart a lot for the next two days.

Krystals are great. I haven't eaten one of their breakfasts in 20 years, but those used to be great, too. Goddam. Now I've made MYSELF hungry.

Point A to point B

Originally published September 7, 2003

That can be a tangled path sometimes.

I started to cut my grass this morning. Jack's sister, Hillary, offered to do the work for me if I paid her $10.00. She wanted to use my mower but had never operated a riding lawn mower before. I wasn't sure that she had enough ass to satisfy the kill-switch under the seat, so I checked her out. Sure enough, she could crank the mower, but every time she hit a bump, her ass bounced and the mower shut off. I told her that she couldn't do the job.

She came back 10 minutes later with a friend. "We'll ride piggy-back," she said. "I'll drive the mower and she'll keep her butt in the seat." I gave them an audition and it seemed to work well. I asked Hillary how much of the $10 she was going to share with her friend. She motioned for me to come close, so she could whisper in my ear.

"I'M NOT PAYING HER, Mr. Rob," Hillary said. "She just wants to ride on the lawn mower."

"That's all YOU really want to do, too," I replied. "Why should I pay YOU for the opportunity to do what you would pay ME for, if I really negotiated strictly?"

"I'm going to cut your grass, Mr. Rob, so you don't have to. That's why." And she batted her beautiful Scots-Irish hazel eyes at me. She is thirteen years old and bound to break hearts one of these days.

I couldn't argue with that point, so I let her do it. I watched the two of them for about 30 minutes, corrected a few mistakes, did some training and gave some advice until Hillary learned to ride the mower like a pro. Now I don't know if I'll ever get her off of it.

While I was making sure that the girls didn't kill themselves, I heard, "Mr. Rob! Mr. Rob! Can you give me a hand over here?"

That was my neighbor across the street, one door down. He is about 40 years old. His kid plays with mine. Why he called me "Mr. Rob" is a mystery to me. His truck just died at the end of his driveway and he wanted me to help him push it back from whence it came.

"I think the battery croaked," he said. "It quit and it won't start now."

"I've got jumper cables," I replied. "Why don't I just pull my truck over here and see if we can get it going?"

That's what we did, and the neighbor's truck started on the first try. He was delighted, but I told him that I didn't think my jump solved his problem. I've jumped too many dead batteries before. Usually, I have to rev the engine in my truck to generate some serious amps to by-pass a dead battery to get another engine to turn over. His started like Moody's Goose.

I took the cables off and he drove the truck back into his driveway. I said, "Try to start it again." He did and the truck fired up right away. "Your battery is not the problem," I told him. He has an S-10 pickup, which is a model that I once owned and put 120,000 miles on before I sold it five years ago to someone who is still driving it today. "You've got a computer chip going apeshit on you."

I've been there and done that with an S-10. I recommended that he take it to 21 Auto tomorrow and have them put it on their diagnostic machine. They charge $40 if they hook you up, but they always find what's wrong. At least they always have for me.

So, I taught a young lady to handle a riding lawn mower, helped a neighbor with a car problem and fed two kids really well today.

I've done all the good deeds I need to do. I can be a shitass the rest of the day.

December 21, 2006


Originally published September 2, 2003

I met a couple from Minnesota when I was on Jekyll Island. They asked me a lot of questions about the local scenery. I told them where to find Mars in the evening and recommended that they get a cup of coffee and walk down the the jetty to watch the sun come up in the morning.

I saw them one night and I showed them Mars, but I never saw them in the morning before the sun came up. If you ever go there, you should watch at least one sunrise.

They asked me about fall-colored leaves. I laughed. "Around here?" I asked. "Fuggetaboudit." I showed them pines, live oaks, water oaks, white oaks, magnolias and cedars, which are pretty much all the trees that inhabit that island. "They are almost all evergreens," I explained. "Go to North Georgia if you want to see leaves change."

I don't know whether they believed me or not, but I wasn't lying.

I don't know why cedar trees love sandy, salty ground, but they must because they grow all over the place down there. The wind blows constantly off the ocean, so the trees form into bizarre shapes from leaning with the wind all their lives. They almost resemble desperate, long-haired people pointing me to go "THAT WAY!!!" with both arms outstretched.

I have a secret fetish that I'll confess right now. I LOVE to break off a small cedar branch and just smell that aroma. It reminds me of Mama's attic and the time she took me up there to go through her cedar chest, where she had every baby tooth I ever lost, all of my report cards, every letter I wrote her when I was in college and stuff made from crayons and construction paper that I had long forgotten.

Cedar is evergreen because it is forever. Or at least for as long as you live. It smells that way to me.


Originally published June 19, 2006

When Quinton was a little boy, I comforted him by ALWAYS saying, when HE was afraid of something, "Ain't nothin' to worry about, Sproot. I'm meaner, tougher and stronger than any ghost or monster that's after YOU. And, guess what? No monster can get to YOU until it goes through ME, and that ain't gonna happen."

When he grew a little older, I frequently asked him, "Quinton, what is Daddy afraid of?" And I always received the same answer: "NOTHING!"

A little while after that, when he saw me do a war-dance and sprout goosebumps all over when I spooked up a 4' rattlesnake in my garden, he started saying, "MY daddy ain't scared of NOTHIN'... except rattlesnakes... but he KILLS THEM!!!"

Yeah, I had that boy brainwashed. Daddy wasn't afraid of ANYTHING--- except rattlesnakes--- and even then, Daddy killed them.

I had a lot of bravado back then. But I don't anymore. A LOT of things frighten me now.

*I worry about maintaining what freedom I have left. Given the chance, government will steal that from me.

* I worry about my physical condition. I ain't doin' so good there, on a LOT of different fronts.

* I worry about having the family name die off with me. My brother will never have children. My daughter won't, either. If I croak, Jennifer will take Quinton's last name away from him and call him by whatever name her latest victim uses. That ain't right, but that's what she'll do, and I would bet my Cracker ass on it. I KNOW how that bloodless cunt thinks, and that would be the final step in erasing my existence from this earth, which is her ultimate goal.

* I am scared shitless of what my government may do to me over income taxes. They're getting ready to take everything I have, over what really amounts to LESS than $14,000 and government WILL DO IT, unless I can figure out a way to stop them. Bejus! If someone had told me THAT when I was twelve years old, I would not have believed it. I was an AMERICAN!!! That crap doesn't happen to AMERICANS!!! Man! I was a naive, trusting little boy.

* I am worried that I may live a lot longer than I ever meant to. In the shape I'm in now? Gawd! That ain't living. That's existing, and I never wanted THAT, especially not when I have my beloved government trying to kill me or break me before I can give up the ghost on my own.

* I'm not afraid of the dark, but nights get pretty loooong sometimes. I wouldn't mind taking an endless sleep tonight.

Forget about this post. I'm depressed, I hurt, and I don't feel well. But I'll hang in there and make it all work out for the best somehow. I always have. I always will.

But Daddy ain't the fearless man he once was...

Evil me

Originally published June 19, 2006

I gave my next-door neighbors a bunch of tomatoes today. I have more than I can use myself. I've already frozen a big bag of 'em to use in spagetti sauce or beef stew later and I still have more to pick from the garden before they're all gone.

My neighbors have been watching me and yelling "gimme some when they're ripe!" since I started that garden, so I rewarded them today. They were impressed and most grateful.

I DID NOT give them any of the sexually-explicit mutant tomatoes that I picked for a while during the last full moon, but I did take a few over to their house to show THEM 'maters off.

Ronald said, "MY GAWD, Rob! Those are... obscene!"

His wife asked, "Hmmm... Rob, what have you been feeding them? I might want to put some of THAT in Ronald's coffee in the morning." She laughed.

Ronald said that if things ever got really bad on the romance front, he might ask for it himself. They thanked me for the tomatoes and said that they would LOVE some okra if I wanted to give that away, too. I told them that my okra looked like Fido's ass and I didn't know if it was gonna make or not. I confessed that I haven't tended that garden the way I should have.

Ronald offered me a beer (an ICEHOUSE---UGGH!!!) which I politely refused, and they allowed forced me to hold that cryin' baby of theirs again, which I did--- even though I don't think it likes me very much.

I ain't NEVER been good with babies.

Anyway, I visited for a while and told them that I might be bringing them some corn soon, and maybe some okra, too, if a miracle occurred. I also asked Ronald when that son of his was going to buy my basketball goal that he covets so much.

Ron said, "I think he's hoping that you'll GIVE IT to him, but I'm not allowing him to do that. That boy is tight with a dollar. You've just gotta stop letting him come over to your house and use it whenever he wants to."

Mama spoke up. "That's right. Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?"

I went back home thinking, "Them's good people."

They are, too.

They happen to be black folks, and I will NEVER understand why they tolerate a racist bastard like me.

December 20, 2006

Late Christmas (early)

Originally published December 27, 2004

I made it to Mama's house today to bring the presents I didn't bring Saturday. I know I hurt some feelings when I didn't show up, but I wasn't lying when I told mama that I would have crawled there if I could have. But I couldn't. I was really sick.

I was doing well to crawl from the bed to the bathroom and I didn't always make that trip on time.

Quinton came to visit my family on Christmas, but I didn't make it. Yep, Jennifer dropped him off just in time for breakfast that morning and he stayed for almost three hours. He had a good time and collected a lot of loot. I babbled something totally incoherent to him over the phone and wished him a Merry Christmas. I told him that I couldn't be there, but I would see him later. I hung up the phone.

I felt worse than ever when I did that.

Quinton had been hopping like spit on a griddle for three weeks, anxious for me to see the present he bought me with his own money. I told him a while back that my book was finished and I had other writing projects I intended to market after the first of the year. "I'm gonna be FAMOUS!" I said. He didn't forget that conversation.

"You'll LOVE what I got you, Daddy," he said, beaming. "It's PERFECT, especially for when you become a famous writer."

I opened that present today. It's a pen-holder in the shape of the Heisman Trophy. In a way, I'm glad that he wasn't there to see me open that box. I broke down and cried like a baby. I KNOW why he picked that one out. I KNOW what he was thinking. Football and writing, all in one package: PERFECT for Daddy, MY champion.

And it is. It's PERFECT! It's an example of everything I love about my son, and a symbol of what he thinks of me, all in one inexpensive what-not. I believe that the pen holder is the best Christmas present I ever received. That one stays in a special place for as long as I'm alive.

He was exactly right. I LOVE it.

Can't you smell that smell?

Originally published January 25, 2002

A few weeks ago, I blogged about my son leaving with his bloodless cunt mama after "visitation." I wrote that if I closed my eyes, I could still smell him as if he were here. A few of my friends read that blog and asked me, "what did he do, CRAP ON YOUR CARPET? How does your boy smell, anyway?

My son bears the scent of bubble gum toothpaste and Johnson's Baby Shampoo. He smells of dirt, enjoyed enthusiastically, and sweat completely pure of caffene, nicotine, alcohol and cholesterol. He smells of youth and growth and innocence. To me, he smells like the purest love I've ever known. And I declare to all the doubters: ALL OF THAT STAYS IN HIS ROOM WHEN HE'S GONE! I know because I CAN SMELL IT!

I once read that of the five senses, the olfactories are the ones most closely connected to the memory inputs of the brain. I would never have guessed that myself, because hearing certain music can zap me right back to a time and place in my life where the memories are vivid. But I'm beginning to reconsider this nose thing.

When I go to the bloodless cunt's house to pick up my son, she treats me as if I were a stranger. She is polite, the way she would be to any stranger, but it's as if I never played a part in her life, never shared a bed with her for ten years and never fathered HER son. The dogs, however, go nuts. They see me and come running, then take one sniff around my ass to confirm their suspicions and go into tail wagging, tongue flopping frenzies. I am mobbed. I am licked and nuzzled and expected to pet them all, and I do. THEY never divorced me. SHE DID. They remember me and love me and they know by their noses who I am. They have olfactories plugged directly into their memory banks, and they never forget a person who was good to them. I cannot say the same thing about certain people.

The woman who bought our mini-farm had all four of my goats hauled away last Saturday. Yeah, I was divorced from them, too, and I have no idea what will become of them. The fate of the 28 chickens we owned is a mystery to me, but I wasn't nearly as attached to the chickens as I was to the goats, especially after the chickens stopped laying eggs. I am certain that the bloodless cunt doesn't think about it. But I do. Goats and chickens have a distinctive aroma. I can't say that it was pleasant, but it is firmly lodged in my memory. Once upon a time, it smelled of home.

I have no animals around my house now except me. The woman I occasionally sleep with tells me that I smell good. I'll take her word for it and go straight for her memory banks when I have seduction on my mind. But she's not here now. Neither is my son. But I can smell them both, and the memories are good.

December 19, 2006

A set of balls

Originally published September 27, 2004

Down South, we respect people with a set of balls. I'm not talking about the crazy fucks who are capable of doing anything at any time--- they're just nut-cases---I mean the solid citizens who get along with their neighbors, work hard, keep their grass cut but don't take shit from anybody. I mean the guy with the shotgun who says softly, "Get off my land," and you know damn well that he means it.

Having a set of balls is a lot different from being a bully and trying to intimidate other people every day. Bill Clinton is a perfect example of the difference between sheer gall and a set of balls. Clinton had lots of gall, but no balls. That pussy wouldn't last ten seconds in a roadhouse bar-fight. Wimman loved him (another reason why wimmen shouldn't be allowed to vote) but I always knew that I had tracked better shit into my house on the bottom of my shoe than that man ever would be.

He had a stiff dick, but no balls.

Have you ever been in a situation where you KNEW you were about to get your ass whipped, but you threw the first punch anyway? I have. I always tried to use the "gimme three steps" way out, because I didn't want a fight, but sometimes you're not getting those three steps. Bad-ass wants to strut and you've got to deal with him.

I once wore glasses. I remember several times taking my glasses off, handing them to someone nearby and saying, "hold onto these for me," right before I turned around and cold-cocked some sumbitch twice my size. Hey! I worked in the bars back then. If you couldn't stand up for yourself, you were fucked.

I got my ass whipped a couple of times, but bad-ass didn't get no cherry there. I know what an ass-whipping is like from experience. I ain't afraid of it. Bad-ass also didn't want any more after the fight was over, even if he won. I always gave a good account of myself.

I'm too old to be doing that crap anymore, but I still recognize a set of balls when I see them. George Bush has balls. John Kerry doesn't. I know several WIMMEN with balls. They don't take shit and they walk tall. No compromise. Get off my land.

I appreciate a set of balls on ANYBODY, male or female.

Things I thought about today

Originally published September 29, 2003

* I thought about Palestinian fathers who strap bomb-belts on their sons and daughters and send them off to die. Then, I thought about the pie-fight I had with Quinton and Jack this weekend. How can ANY father love his son and still strap an explosive belt on him, and tell him to go detonate himself in the middle of a cafe? What kind of savages are those people? I would throw myself on a hand grenade to save Quinton's life. I would NEVER take pride in seeing him become a "martyr" in a totally useless, totally stupid cause.

* I thought about my job. I thought long and hard about the fact that I don't qualify for the package that's being offered to people that are a mere three and one-half years older than I am. I wish I could take it. Hell, I would throw my clock number in the hat RIGHT NOW if they would let me. I can retire with reduced benefits on February 16th of next year. If they would sever me NOW and throw in about two years worth of pay, I could do what I really want to do.

I could write, full time, and see how much I could sell.

* I thought about football. I did a lot of coaching with Quinton this weekend about how to line up a tackle in the open field and how to "lead" a runner when he's trying to cut the corner. I also told him to use his helmet first and shoulders second when making a tackle. I don't give a shit what some have-no-clue-about-football pussy such as this one has to say:

admit I have misgivings about Rob's attitudes and values. To teach his son to 'hit to kill" in a game of football does not strike me as wholesome. Macho yes. But wise? I don't think so. It's okay to encourage competitiveness, but that's not the same thing as what Rob said he wanted to encourage.

Dumbfuck. DID YOU EVER PLAY FOOTBALL??? It AIN'T a NICE-GUY GAME. If you are not willing to "hit to kill," your pussy ass has no business on a football field. That ain't fucking soccer you're playing out there. The helmet and shoulder pads protect you, but they are WEAPONS, too. If you can't use them as such, you don't need to jock up and go out there.

I LOVE listening to wimmen talk about football. They have nary a fucking clue, but that fact never stopped a woman from pretending to be an expert on ANY subject. I forget who said it in my comments, but somebody who ACTUALLY PLAYED FOOTBALL mentioned that the boys who try to avoid contact are the ones who get hurt playing football. He was absolutely correct.

If you EXPECT to hit or GET hit on every play, you're ready for it. You learn how to take a lick, how to fall, how to give a lick and keep on your feet. You learn to stay ALERT all the time. People who go to sleep on the football field get hurt. If I stay on my toes all the time, I'LL be the one who hurts YOU. I don't see anything wrong with teaching my son to play football the way I played it. He gives away a lot of size out there, the same way I did. I am showing him how to WIN in spite of physical shortcomings.

Sometimes, in football, it boils down to who wants it badly enough. If you won't hit, hang up your jock and go home. Football just ain't your game. It's a collision sport. If you ain't willing to collide, you'd better just quit, RIGHT NOW.

And mamas who can't handle that fact should NEVER let their darling, precious boys play football. Buy them some goddam Barbie Dolls to play with. You always wanted a fucking girl anyway.

* I thought about Blood Mountain. For some reason, I dreamed last night about being back in the cabin. I dreamed that I had slept all day (Bejus! I wish I could!) and I was late for the blog-meet. I was alone and I couldn't find my car keys. I went into a panic. (I have this real anal part of me that demands total punctuality in everything I do. I live and die by deadlines at work and I'm still alive.) I went running out of the cabin with no pants on and realized that I couldn't ride to Dahlonega UNDRESSED the way I was. I started back to the cabin to find my pants and woke up at 4:20 this morning.

Yes, I dream vividly that way.

* I thought about my mama. We didn't go visit her this weekend. Me and the boys had pie-fights and football games, and I am a shitty son for doing that instead of visiting my mama.

That's what I thought about today.

December 18, 2006

Going crabbing

Originally published July 3, 2004

My daughter sent me an email today and said that she and Stacey would like to go crabbing while they're in Savannah. Samantha's been crabbing since she was a tiny tot, but Stacey has never done it before. I told Sam that I would take them.

I know of a wonderful honey-hole over near Bluffton, South Carolina, but the dumbass, revenue-enhancers in that state passed a law a couple of years ago requiring a FISHING LICENSE to crab in their creeks. I don't have one and I'll be damned if I'll pay South Carolina $25 to catch crabs.

I told Sam that we'll go anyway. If we get caught, we'll all plead complete ignorance of the law, apologize profusely and I'll pay the fine. But we're talking about four hours on the incoming tide in a place near the middle of nowhere. What are the chances of getting caught? Slim to none, I calculate, and I'm willing to risk it. It ain't like I never fished without a license before.

Crabbing is a lot of fun. The right bait is essential. Anything stinking, rotten and disgusting will work. I buy chicken necks (CHEAP!) and I leave them out in the sun for a couple of days before I use them as bait. They get ripe and funky, just the way a crab likes them. Tie a chicken neck on a piece of twine and drop it in the water. Wait a few minutes and slooowly, very slooowly pull the bait out of the water. Have a hand-net handy to catch the crab that will be hanging on to that piece of rotten meat.

I also like to bait dip-net traps, sink them in the water and go check them every 15 minutes or so. You can catch four or five BIG BLUES at a time like that. Usually at my honey hole, I can catch a bushel of crabs before the tide gets too high to make the effort worthwhile anymore. Crabs are the garbage collectors of the salt water, but they make mighty fine eating.

Do you know how to pick a crab? A lot of people don't. The Southeastern Blue Crab is NOT like those crab claws you buy at Red Lobster. No, it's a sneaky critter that hides its delicious meat in all sorts of nooks and crannies. Here's how I do it:

1) Boil the crabs for at least 10 minutes, with lots of seasoning in the water.

2) Take a cooked crab. Tear off the shell on top. Break the crab in half. Peel away all the gills (dead-man's fingers) and that other, yellow shit inside there.

3) Carefully disengage the legs with a delicate, twisting motion. Big chunks of white meat will come out still attached.

4) Break the crab into quarters, then open it like riffling a deck of cards. Pick the meat from all the nooks and crannies.

5) Save the claws for last because they're easy.

It's a lot more work picking crabs than it is catching them, but when you're done, try this:

*Two cans of cream of celery soup. Add one can of milk and one can of water.

*Throw in a whole stick of REAL butter. Add three tablespoons of Worchestershire sauce.

*Heat on the stove while dicing, very fine, one onion, one bell pepper and two stalks of celery. Saute' the Holy Trinity in a separate pan until the onions become translucent and limp.

*Add red pepper, black pepper and salt to taste. (I like mine COVERED in pepper right before it starts to simmer.)

*As the mix begins to simmer, add the Holy Trinity. Stir.

*Add all the crab meat you've picked. Stir.

*Cook on low heat so that you don't scorch the milk, and allow the mixture to simmer while you stir frequently and smell the amazing aromas coming out of that pot.

*Serve with oyster crackers and cold beer.

That's ACIDMAN'S FAMOUS CRAB STEW and if you ever try it, you'll like it.

Daughter vs. crab

Originally published July 7, 2004


This is a picture of Samantha checking one of the dip nets we placed strategically in the creek. I didn't get a picture of what happened when she retreived the net, discovered a claw-clicking Blue Monster in it and damn nearly freaked out when the big sumbitch came crawling out. Samantha let out a feminine shriek, dropped the net and started doing some kind of ritual war dance in the mud.

"Get the crab, Sam!" Stacey yelled. "Don't let him back in the water!" The crab was scuttling back from whence he came.

Sam kicked the crab, stomped it, grabbed the net and beat the crab some more, then pinned it to the mud with her foot. "Daddy! Come get it!"

I did. One claw was broken off and the crab appeared to have all the fight whipped out of him. I picked him up by the back legs and tossed him in with his brothers in the tub. He just floated there, dazed and confused. I'm pretty sure that he was dead by the time I put him in a pot. I think he died of post-traumatic stress syndrome.

The end result of the crabbing trip is posted below.


This batch wrestled with chicken necks and lost.

December 17, 2006

Being a manly man

Originally published February 18, 2005

I was raised from an early age to NOT show my emotions. It was the hillbilly way. We were tough people and we were supposed to behave that way. You kept what was inside you INSIDE YOU, where it belonged.

Wimmen could cry. That was their job. Grown men pulled their own teeth, with nothing but a shot of moonshine to dampen the pain. They DIDN'T cry. That's how I was raised.

That attitude helped me a lot when I was young, getting in fights or playing football. You could hurt me, but I'd never let you know it. I've been hit so hard on the football field that I KNEW that if I got up, my guts would still be laying in the dirt because I had been evicerated by that hit, but I got up anyway. I wasn't going to lay there and whine. I'd keep playing without intestines if I had to.

I also had a family that didn't believe in a lot of touchy-feely expressions of emotions. We were stoic. Nobody expected to be told "I am LOVED!" You just KNEW it by the way you were treated. I had wonderful parents and a very happy childhood. I wish I could give that same gift to my children.

I tell them both that I love them, but words are cheap. I look back now and see what my parents DID for me and my brother, and I know the shit they waded through to raise us right. That's an impressive feat to me now. I realize how much serious commitment and love it took to get that job done.

My father never told me that he loved me. That wasn't the hillbilly way. I know that he DID, but I wish now, 13 years after his death, that he would have broken down all the barriers just once and said it out loud. But he didn't, and I never saw him cry, either.

My father was a manly-man, and he did his best to raise ME to be one, too. I tried my best for a long time to meet his expectations. But somewhere down the line, I realized that I was different. I couldn't do it his way. I wasn't like my father. I was too emotional.

I still think I'm a manly-man. But I'll cry on occasion, and I'll damn sure tell you that I love you if I do.

quote of the day

Originally published March 30, 2006

"The Missus and I got out of that place as fast as we could. A house without books is a house without a soul, and we could not stand to be inside it."--- elisson

My father gave me something for which I always will be grateful: He taught me to love reading and to love books. (See? It's HIS FAULT that I was an English Major.) From the time I first grasped the idea that I could READ (seven years old, first grade, looking at a Bugs Bunny comic book one evening and suddenly realizing that I could read the words in the bubbles over Bugs' head), books became my Door Into Summer, the magic portal through which I could travel to anywhere and do anything.

I read everything I could get my hands on. I not only learned a lot that way, but I also thoroughly enjoyed myself. With a little imagination, I had the best playground in the world right there inside my head. And the more I played in it, the bigger it got.

Stories such as this one [link goes to front page, not specific article] depress me. I'm not surprised that so few high school seniors read well. Public schools really DO suck today. But what's really sad is the fact that if public schools set out DELIBERATELY to short-change students, they couldn't do a better job than they do right now by neglecting to teach reading.

I want to barf every time I hear some clabber-brained idiot extolling the virtues of bilingual education or some preposterous notion that "Ebonics" is a legitimate language. Teach a kid that learning to read and write English isn't important, and you might as well strap an anchor to his leg for life. Guaranteed failure. That's a handicap he'll NEVER overcome.

A house without books isn't a home. It's a prison cell, stagnant and deviod of dreams. And a person who can't read is doomed to stay there.

It's worse than a place with no soul. It's a place with no hope.

December 16, 2006

Rusty nuts

Originally published October 3, 2002

We bid a fond (well, no-so-fond) adios to a new employee at work today. He was 19 years-old, able to escape from a minimum-wage job throwing sacks of fertilizer at "Webb's Seed and Feed" just down the road from me, and welcomed with open arms to a place that was willing to offer him three times what he was making before, medical benefits, a retirement plan, 401-K, and the opportunity for advancement.

Before he managed to actually show up and work 60 days on the job (his probabionary period) he was late three times, missed four days of work (three of those were medically excused for a KIDNEY STONE! How the hell does a 19 year-old KID get kidney stones?) went home early three times (Sick to his stomach twice and... I am not making this up, CHAPPED NUTS from sweating in his crotch-area, and he got our medical department to assign him to two days of "light duty" for that. I don't have "light duty" where he worked, so he sat on his lazy ass for two days while other people did his work, and that didn't bother him at all.) He was late again yesterday, so we fired him today.

I must be WAY out of touch with the younger generation. The job that young man was offered was the one I started with at the plant. During MY probationary period, I caught a terrible case of the flu and came to work anyway, with a 102 degree fever. I made my shift and did four hours overtime, too, at the very worst of my fever, chills and trembles, because my name was on the schedule. I figued that any sane employer was going to look at me HARD during that probationary period, and know that with my job really on the line, when I could be fired at the snap of a finger, he was seeing the very best he was EVER gonna see from me. I wasn't going to fuck up a good thing. I wanted that job.

I'm starting to see a few of the new hires that remind me of me, but I still have a lot of "Rusty-Nuts" (the nickname this asshole earned among his coworkers) coming down the pike. We have 60 working days to cull 'em, and we're starting to do a good job of that. After "Rusty's" third incident, I called him into my office and told him that he was on thin ice. "If you don't want this job, say so now," I told him. "There are a hundred others on the street that DO want it, so you can save me, you, and somebody we don't know a lot of grief if you just quit. Keep on the way you're going, and I'll fire you. SOON!"

He was repentent, contrite and slobbering in his promises to do better. That lasted three days, and now he's gone.

I suppose he'll go back to slinging fertilizer at Webb's Seed and Feed. If they want him.

I know that I DON'T!

Dear Mr. Abby

Originally published October 15, 2002

This post is for all the women who believe that I am an insensitive beast of a pig of a swine.

Ever wondered what it would be like if Dear Abby was a man?

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband wants a threesome with my best friend and me.

A: Obviously your husband cannot get enough of you! Knowing that there is only one of you, he can only settle for the next best thing - your best friend. Far from being an issue, this can bring you closer together. Why not get some of your old college oommates involved too? If you are still apprehensive, maybe you should let him be with your friends without you. If you're still not sure then just perform oral sex on him and cook him a nice meal, while you think about it.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband continually asks me to perform oral sex on him.

A.: Do it. Sperm can help you loose weight and gives a great glow to your skin. Interestingly, men know this. His offer to allow you to perform oral sex on him is totally selfless. This shows he loves you. The best thing to do is to thank him by performing it twice a day. Then cook him a nice meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband has too many nights out with the boys.

A: This is perfectly natural behavior and it should be encouraged. The man is a hunter and he needs to prove his prowess with other men. A night out chasing young single girls is a great stress relief and can foster a more peaceful and relaxing home. Remember, nothing can rekindle your relationship better than the man being away for a day or two (it's a great time to clean the house too)! Just look at how emotional and happy he is when he returns to his stable home. The best thing to do when he gets home is for you and your best friend to perform oral sex on him. Then cook him a nice meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband doesn't know where my clitoris is.

A: Your clitoris is of no concern to your husband. If you must mess with it, do it in your own time or ask your best friend to help. You may wish to videotape yourself while doing this, and present it to your husband as a birthday gift. To ease your selfish guilt, perform oral sex on him and cook him a delicious meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband is uninterested in foreplay.

A: You are a bad person for bringing it up and should seek sensitivity training. Foreplay to a man is very stressful and time consuming. Sex should be available to your husband on demand with no pesky requests for foreplay. What this means is that you do not love your man as much as you should - he should never have to work to get you in the mood. Stop being so selfish! Perhaps you can make it up to him by performing oral sex on him and cook him a nice meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband always has an orgasm then rolls over and goes to sleep never giving me one.

A: I'm not sure I understand the problem. Perhaps you've forgotten to cook him a nice meal?

I did not write that stuff, but I COULD have. Hell, sometimes I think I SHOULD have. If you believe that I'm wrong, feel free to change my mind by bringing your best friend over to the Crackerbox. After you BOTH perform oral sex on me, I'll tell you what I think of the nice meal you cook afterward.

If I don't roll over and go to sleep first.

December 15, 2006

Sex is Good

Originally published December 22, 2004

I knew that something was "wrong" with me a long time ago.

I know that this idea will make some people hyperventilate and get a serious case of the vapors, but I don't care. I believe that our Puritan heritage has fucked up more people than it ever saved from sin, because we're all supposed to feel GUILTY for having fun, especially if sex is involved. When I DON'T feel a bolt of guilt after I do something I like doing, I am supposed to stop and think about what's wrong with ME?

THAT'S fucked up. Not me.

If GAWD didn't want sex to feel good, then why did he give me a pecker in the first place? Why did he create Woman and give her a pussy? Why did he make wimmen like pecker just as much as I like pussy? He did THAT, and then told us all NOT TO USE WHAT HE GAVE US??? Bullshit!! I ain't buying that crap.

He gave us both a blessing and a curse, which is what a clever, tricky God does. This is the WORD OF GAWD, so I'll put it in italics: "Man, you have a pecker. Woman, you have a pussy. Together, you will find all kinds of ways to mess up my creation, but I'm gonna turn you loose on the world anyway. I think I fucked up when I made you."

And he turned us loose. And he was correct when he said that we would mess up his wonderful creation. We did. Most of the time.

But he stuck one other small detail in there that he neglected to mention at the time. Yeah, sweaty, romping sex is wonderful. EVERYBODY should do it every day.

But making love is totally different. I've known that feeling and I've shared my soul with someone in passion so sweet that I would have been happy to die right then, because life could not possibly be any better. Yeah, peckers and pussies were involved, but that's not what I felt at the time. I felt.... ONE with someone else.

If you've never known that experience, GAWD cheated you out of something special. Know it once and you'll never forget it.

I like the romp, and I'll rent me a hooker to get one. Sex is good.

But it's nothing like making love to someone... you really love.

Waxing Nostalgic

Originally published December 22, 2004

I want to generate some happy thoughts and one popped immediately to mind. This is a true story.

I was 27 years old and just back in Savannah after a trip to North Carolina to play guitar for a while. I made a lot of money on that gig, and I was set up for plenty of work in town, after two weeks of well-deserved time off. I was chasing a very good-looking woman at that juncture in my life, but she wouldn't give me any, so I thought that NOW was the time to step up my courtship a notch or two.

Hell... I had money in my pocket, time on my hands and I was horny as a hoot owl. I called her up and invited her out for a very nice dinner. She accepted.

I knew a good seafood restaurant on River Street and every time I ate there I wondered about their "Seafood Lover's Plate." On the menu it said that the food was for two people who enjoyed seafood, but it was ALSO for "lovers." In italics, the menu stated, "Relax. Enjoy. Sample three hours of candle-lit elegance, with food for lovers, in a river-front atmosphere that you'll never forget."

The price for a dinner for two was $50, which was a LOT OF MONEY back then, but I had it, plus plenty more, so that's where I took her.

Damn! She looked good enough to eat all by herself when I picked her up. The weather was warm and she wore a low-cut, light sun-dress that displayed her ample clevage and hugged her hips just SO, the way that'll make a bulldog break a cow-chain. She wore sandals and her toenails were painted fire-engine (or maybe "candy-apple?") RED.

I wanted to paw the ground and snort like a bull when I saw her.

That meal was exquisite. I made reservations ahead of time, so when we arrived at the restaurant, we were whisked off to the Lover's Grotto, or whatever they called the private dining area where they served their "special" customers. I ordered a bottle of wine and the food started coming. HOLY BEJUS!!!

We started with soup, then progressed to an oyster stew that was delicious. Oysters on the half-shell followed. We had some kind of special shrimp appetizer that would make you slap your mama; then, here came escargots. We ate those, too, and ordered another bottle of wine. The food just kept coming.

In between every dish we had enough time to talk and digest and get ready for the next surprise. I discovered that I really LIKED her. Forget the fact that she was the best-looking woman in the place. She was smart, she was funny, she read the same books I did and she ate with gusto. The wine, the food and the candle-light helped, but the truth is... she and I really hit it off.

I forget what all we ate that night, but the entire meal took FOUR HOURS to consume and every bite was delicious. I believe we had another bottle of wine every hour, too. By the time we were done, I wanted to crawl off and take a nap somewhere. I was stuffed.

The waitress came by and asked if we wanted dessert. I didn't, but being the gentleman that I am, I asked my date if she wanted any. "Yes," she replied. "I most assuredly want dessert." The waitress went off to fetch a dessert menu.

I asked, "You've got room for dessert after THAT meal?"

She leaned across the table and stroked my hand. She had that smokey, half-smiling, shining-eyed look that I've seen only a few times in my life. "I don't want anything they have here." she said. "I...!"

Forget that dessert menu. CHECK PLEASE!!!!!

I have no idea what I spent on that meal, but it was worth every cent.

We stayed together for several months, until she took a better job offer in California, which was where her mama lived. We stayed in touch for a couple of years, then just drifted apart. I wonder where she is now?

That was one of the best meals I ever had in my life, and dessert was excellent. THAT'S a pleasant memory.

December 14, 2006

Just thinking

Originally published May 29, 2005

*Did you ever notice that Matt Dillon has no beard? No matter how many days he's out on the trail, he never shows even a five-o'clock shadow. Amazing! How can a guy that bad and that ballsy have a face that never even grows peach fuzz?

*Three of the most absolutely gag-me chunks of cheese you can find in television reruns are "The Time Tunnel," "Alias Smith and Jones" and "Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea." BEJUS, but those shows suck! All three were hits in their time.

*I would add "Lost in Space" to that list, but that show managed to become so cheesy that it was it was good, if you like really rancid cheese. "DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!" That series is kinda like The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It sucks so bad that it pulls you in.

*I saw George Lindsay as a villain on "Gunsmoke" today, long before he ever played "Goober Pyle" on the "Andy Griffith Show." He acted just like Goober except he wore a cowboy hat.

*I cannot take Larry King seriously. I'm sorry, but the guy just makes me think of a lizard when I see him. If he's a serious "journalist," I'm a goddam jet pilot. The man is a clown, complete with red suspenders.

*My five favorite character actors of all time are Bruce Dern, Jack Elam, Strother Martin, Denver Pyle and Slim Pickins. Close runners-up are Ben Johnson, LQ Jones, Dub Taylor, Jeremy Slate and Dennis Hopper. Did you know that Slim and Ben were rodeo cowboys before they got into acting?

*And YES!!! I am bow-legged. I shoulda been a cowboy myself.

(UPDATE: I don't know how I forgot Warren Oates on my list of favorite character actors. That guy was almost as toothy and nasty as Bruce Dern.)

Dry Counties

Originally published May 29, 2005

We still have a lot of "dry" counties in Georgia. If you drive Highway 129 north of Athens, you'd better stop in Arcade to buy any hootch you want, beause it's dry all the way to the North Carolina border from there. Oh, you can take a detour over to Helen and find liquor and beer THERE, but you won't find any on 129.

Of course, as soon as you cross the border into North Carolina, you're in liquor store heaven. If you stop there and check the tags in the parking lot, almost every one is a Georgia tag. This "dry" crap doesn't stop people from drinking--- it just makes them go somewhere else to buy what they want.

That's one reason Randall's Liquor Store is such a gold mine. It's right on the line between Effingham and Chatham counties. You can't buy liquor or mixed drinks in Effingham County. You can in Chatham. Check the plates in Randall's parking lot. EVERY GOT-DAM ONE is from Effingham county.

The Baptists and the holy-rollers think they're keeping people away from sin with these stupid laws, but what they're actually doing is costing Effingham county a lot of money. It's just like the War On Drugs. You're not gonna STOP people from getting fucked-up with any law you pass. YOU may feel all righteous and pleased about the law, but people are going to find a way to get fucked-up anyway.

If they have to drive a little farther, they will. If they have to deal with a shady character or two, they will. But, in the end, they'll GET WHAT THEY WANT! And no law is going to stop them.

Harlan County, Kentucky was dry for as long as I can remember. If you wanted to buy booze or beer LEGALLY, you had to drive 35 miles to Cumberland to get it. Thanks to my cousin's connections, I learned that you could get anything you wanted less than two miles from his house, smack-dab in the middle of Harlan County. Bootleg places were EVERYWHERE around there, and they didn't card, they didn't ask for IDs and they'd sell you anything you wanted if you rode up on a tricycle wearing a set of diapers, as long as you had the money.

My Aunt Netta always said that Harlan stayed dry because the Baptists and the bootleggers BOTH wanted it that way. The Baptists could feel holy and the bootleggers made money. People still got drunk.

I'll never understand idiots who try to deny human nature when they see examples of it every day. The idiots may not want what they see to BE TRUE, but it is. If you know the right people, it's easier to get a drink in a "dry" county than it is in a "wet" one. Bootleggers are already violating the law, and they have no liquor license to lose. They'll sell to anybody, regardless of age.

Buying dope is the same thing. You can get it if you want it. No law will EVER stop that, either. There's just too much money in the business and people like to get fucked-up.

What the laws do is make it easier for kids to get it, when you never know what you're REALLY getting and you have to deal with shady characters to score it. I really don't see the wisdom in that shit. A 13 year-old kid can buy a bag of reefer easier than he can purchase a pack of Marlboros today, and if you think I'm lying about THAT, you've got your head up your ass.

That's what all these "dry counties" and "War on Drugs" laws accomplish. The laws don't stop people from drinking or doping, but they make criminals rich and turn otherwise law-abiding citizens into criminals. You will ALWAYS have vendors and customers in that kind of trade, because the demand has been there since the dawn of mankind.

The same thing applies to prostitution. Wimmen always have been willing to sell pussy and men always have been willing to buy it. No law in the world is EVER going to stop it. In fact, these laws usually make the problem WORSE.

And wasting law-enforcement resources on trying to stop human nature lets a lot of murderers, rapists, thieves and thugs sneak right under the radar screen while the cops are busy busting some poor bastard who solicited an undercover police woman for a blow-job on Friday night.

That crap sure makes ME feel safer in my bed at night.

December 13, 2006

I'm alive, Part II

Originally published May 24, 2006

I have been VERY sick for the past... shit, I was so sick that I don't remember how long it was. I still don't feel well at all, but I'm ALIVE, if you can call this living. So stop bugging ME, my family, my friends or ANYBODY ELSE about, "How is Rob doing?" If I wanted YOU to fucking know, I'd tell you myself.

I want to make a couple of announcements here:

#1-- I DO NOT HAVE CALLER ID!!!! No, unlike every other "civilized" person on the face of the planet anymore, I don't know in advance whothefuck is calling me until I pick up the phone. That's why I OFTEN DO NOT PICK UP THE PHONE!!! It ain't no personal insult delivered at YOU.

#2--- I DON'T LIKE TO TALK ON THE PHONE!!! That's why I OFTEN DO NOT ANSWER WHEN IT RINGS!!! If you listen to the message on my answering machine, it is simple, honest and to the point. "I'm not answering the phone right now. You know the drill: Hear the beep, leave a message." If that pisses you off, I'm sorry. Get over it, or don't call back.

#3--- I WILL call you back if you left an important message. You know how often THAT happens? About once in a blue moon. 99.9% of the phone calls I receive are from telemarketers, "friends" just wanting to bullshit because they are bored, or fucking WRONG NUMBERS!!! THAT'S WHY I don't jump through my Cracker ass to answer every time the phone rings.

#4--- I spent about 20 years of my life feeling my blood run cold every time the phone rang at home, especially at night or on weekends. That's because I received A WHOLE LOT of calls from work, and those were NEVER good news. In fact, a LOT of them involved a crisis bad enough that I had to crawl out of my warm bed, get dressed and drive to the plant at 2:00 AM. Like Pavlov's dog, I developed a conditioned response to phone calls. But unlike the dog, I learned to expect SOMETHING OTHER than a treat when I heard one. That's why I still DO NOT like phone calls today.

#5--- Unlike most other "civilized" people today, I don't have a phone in every got-dam room of my house. I have ONE PHONE, in my living room. (When I retired from work, I swore that I NEVER would have a fucking phone in my bedroom again, and I kept that oath-- see the reason above.) I also keep that ringy-dingy-thingy turned down as low as it will go so that I CANNOT HEAR IT when I am asleep in my bedroom. I do that for MY BENEFIT, not to INSULT YOU!!!

#6--- I've had some really bad health problems over the past few years. I just went through another one. I personally think that a lot of you people have incredible nerve to call someone VERY sick just to ask, "How are you doin'?" Would you REALLY feel better if I crawled to my ONE FUCKING PHONE, while I vomited and shitted all the way, to tell YOU that "I ain't doin' so good?" So that YOU could reply, "AW... I'm soooooo sorry, you poor baby."

#7--- If I need YOUR help when I'm sick, I'll call YOU!!!! Is that a concept so foreign to people with phone addiction that they can't understand it? If YOU feel a tremendous nursing impulse, an instinct you simply cannot deny, then try something TOTALLY DIFFERENT!!! Come to the patient's house, ring the doorbell and see if he WANTS your help, before you bug the living shit out of a sick man at all hours of day and night with PESTIFEROUS PHONE CALLS!!!

#8--- I am certain that all you people who bugged the shit out of me with pestiferous phone calls when I was deathly ill, MEANT WELL--- but you did me a lot more harm than good. Please---- don't EVER do that again.

#9--- Now, I am going to try to drink a Carnation Instant Breakfast and see if I can get some decent sleep if I can keep that concoction down. I am tired, I am sore all over, I wobble when I try to walk, I haven't eaten, showered or shaved in three or four days, and I probably ought to be in the hospital right now. But I'm NEVER going back to one of those places again. Unless it's the only way I can stop people from CALLING ME ON THE PHONE!!!

#10--- I ain't dead. That's all YOU need to know.

I'm sick of everybody

Originally posted May 31, 2006

I have not been well for almost two weeks now. I'm talking about SERIOUS, FEEL-LIKE-I'M-GONNA-DIE sickness, and what I've managed to do during that time, other than cling grimly to survival, is make a few "friends" HATE ME because I didn't properly appreciate how much they "cared." At the risk of pissing those folks off even more, I have one thing to say:

With "friends" like YOU, I don't need enemies.

I KNOW that I have at least three wimmen pouting right now because I wasn't properly appreciative when they called me at fucking MIDNIGHT to ask me how I was doing when I quit blogging for a couple of days. Two of them are DOUBLY-PISSED because I didn't even bother to answer my phone when they called. In THEIR minds, I should have jumped right through my Cracker asshole and TALKED to them, no matter how inconvenient or painful it was for me to do at the time.

Somehow... I OWED them something.

What? WHAT do I OWE you? I am NOT unaccustomed to having a woman demand a check from me every month, and I've been paying THAT toll to the troll for five fucking years, despite the fact that I haven't seen or talked to my son since January. Talk to ME again about got-dam debt.

I became badly ill. I did not have a single ONE of the people who "cared" so much show up at my door and offer to nurse me back to health. Oh, no. I got fucking PHONE CALLS and I PISSED OFF some "caring" people when I said that I wasn't in the mood to talk, IF I answered the phone at all. They became very angry.

WTF was THEIR problem? THEY weren't puking their guts out and running a high fever. THEY weren't sweating, shivering and hallucinating at the same time. I WAS. But...

I should have leaped from my bed of affliction and shouted, "I'M CURED!!!" because somebody woke me from blessed sleep with a phone call. I should have said, "Thank Bejus you called!!! I feel MUCH better now!" ???? Gimme a break.

I've gotten along quite well by my own got-dam self for a while now, and I am convined that I can do it a little while longer the same way. If I need YOUR help, I'll ASK for it, and it will be a cold day in hell when THAT happens.

Some of you people MEAN well, but you're fucked in the head if you try to apply your version of "love" to someone like ME. I don't need it and I don't want it, especially when it's something that looks and smells a lot like fish food. I ain't a got-dam guppy in a fresh-water tank. I don't become hysterical over seeing crumbs in the water.

Plus, I have to wonder how much you really "care," when you become as angry as a wet wasp when I don't reciprocate with undying love for YOU over your "caring." What FOR??? Making a phone call ain't exactly like BEING THERE when I needed SOMEBODY.

When I had a hole in my gut and I KNEW that something was BAD wrong, I had to call 911 MYSELF and summon an ambulance to get my ass to the hospital and be rushed to emergency surgery. Who "cared" about that? Nobody but ME.

Just what the hell do you wimmen WANT, anyway?

I've got a sneaky feeling that it ain't ME, so let's fuggedaboudid. I could use a nurse, or a maid, but I don't WANT, CRAVE or NEED another wife. I would rather have a filthy kitchen than put up with another hormonally-crazed bitch in my life. I've TRIED that route. It was a bumpy road.

What I want most now is simple--- LEAVE ME ALONE!!! I'm okay taking care of myself without hauling any excess baggage around with me. And I ain't all that interested in sex anymore, which is bound to confuse some wimmen, because they still believe that THEIR pussy is the most precious commodity in the world. I should be willing to sell my SOUL for a piece of it.

Fuck that idea. I've SOLD MY SOUL already, in TWO marriages. I'm STILL paying CASH to a pure-ass CUNT for one of those failed attempts at normalcy, too. Pussy has been the cause of the greatest downfalls in my life, and I was taught to learn from my mistakes. I'm trying to now.

So... all you empaths, phone-sexers and pussy-peddlers can just kiss MY Cracker ass. I don't WANT what you're pushing, and I don't NEED it in my life at this moment. Hell, my sex drive is so low now that I don't even masturbate anymore. Besides, I've already had enough pussy to last most men five lifetimes. I don't REQUIRE any more.

And I damn sure don't require the head-problems that go hand-in-crotch with pussy. And I ain't talking about MY head problems, either, although I'll admit that I have plenty of 'em. It's just a simple fact that I have discovered through YEARS of research (and TENS OF THOUSANDS OF MY OWN DOLLARS spent on the discovery).

My conclusion is: ALL WIMMEN ARE CRAZY!!!

When you meet a woman for the first time, the only questions you need to ask yourself are--- "HOW crazy IS she?" (It's not a question of "IF") and "HOW MUCH will this one COST me for the pussy?"

Do I sound jaded and mysogonistic? Good. I MEANT to sound that way, because I AM jaded and sick and tired of pussy-toters. {Pussy always comes with a woman's head attached, and unless she's performing fellatio, that head is one spooky place.) Most wimmen make fire ants seem tame by comparison.

A lot of guys I know aren't much better, but at least they can pee outdoors while standing up. I'm sick of THEM, too.

Just leave ME the fuck alone.

December 12, 2006

Did I have a plan?

Originally published April 18, 2006

Last night I was thinking about my television interview and I worried a little bit. The reporter and his cameraman spent about an hour here at the Crackerbox and they taped a lot of talking for what is supposed to be a fairly lengthy news segment, maybe as much as five minutes long. (I'm not the only blogger they interviewed.)

I know enough about how television news is produced to realize that what I said and what they do with my words may be two entirely different things when the story hits the air. I was open and honest when I answered their questions, and that shit can backfire on you in the hands of someone with malicious intent.

I don't believe that the reporters were plotting any evil, but I could be wrong. Oh, well. If I was REALLY worried about how I look in the story, I could have refused the interview. I didn't, so let the chips fall where they may now. (Hell--- I might not even be included in the story at all. But I believe that I'm so handsome, articulate, charasmatic and humble that they can't possibly leave ME out!)

I revisited this question last night: "Did you have a plan when you started your blog?"

Shit. A PLAN??? I never had a real good plan for my fucking LIFE, let alone a plan for this blog. I just wanted to write and have somebody read me. I had no idea when I started that my blog would be anything other than a vent for my emotions and a reason to write every day. I never dreamed that the damned thing would cause so much trouble and still give me so much joy.

I just threw stuff at the wall to see if anything stuck there. It did. If that's a plan, then I had one...

eat your heart out

Originally published April 21, 2006

I went grocery shopping today when I was hungry. Got-dam! I KNOW better than to do that, because I always end up with a buggy full of shit that makes me look like I'm catering a stoner's convention with a bad case of the munchies instead of stocking my pantry. Today was no exception.

I'll never eat ALL of a double-filled cherry pie, or that bunch of strawberry creme cheese strudel bites, or the two big jars of olives, or the ten cans (10 for $10!!!) of baby lima beans, or the two-for-one Kielbasa sausages, or the six boxes of flavored instant mashed potatoes, or the big jar of Peter Pan peanut butter, or the box of townhouse crackers, or the five pounds of snow crab legs I bought. But I was in a quiet food frenzy. I couldn't restrain myself.

Bejus! They had some very pretty New York Strip steaks for $4.99 a pound. I bought a dozen. BEAUTIFUL collard greens at $.129 a bunch--- a bought one bunch--- and got royally pissed off when I saw the price of ham hocks. The damn hocks cost almost as much as the fucking New York Strip steaks. That just ain't right. I didn't buy any. I had plenty of bacon at home and that'll work for seasoning in a pinch.

But I did buy some Mexican popcicles. I am NOT making this shit up. You can get a BIG plastic bag of 24 popcicles, made in Mexico and distributed out of Cincinnati, Ohio, for less than the Kroger brand box of 12, made in the USA. I read the package and learned that a popcicle is called a "paleta" in Spanish, and these were "con sabores artificiales" and "el inigualable sabor helado." I wondered how in the hell any company could make money by importing popcicles, then I bought two bags.

Total damage was $149, after I threw in a carton of cigarettes and a book of stamps. Not too bad, considering the fact that I didn't even venture down the beer aisle. That place scares me anymore.

I decided what I'm having for supper tonight. I'm going to eat snow crab legs and strip steak, with Kielbasa sausage, mashed potatoes and baby lima beans on the side. I'll have cherry pie for dessert and cheese strudel bites for breakfast tomorrow. I'm going to cook the collard greens this evening and eat them tomorrow. In between, I'll suck on a lot of Mexican popcicles.

Yeah, I live a rough life. Eat your heart out.

December 11, 2006


Originally published June 1, 2004

I didn't blog about this incident in my life when it happened, because I worried (BWHAHAHA!) that my readers might lose all respect for me. I woke up at 3:00 in the morning last night with a severe burning, itching sensation in my crotchital area. I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep, but the sumbitch just wouldn't stop. I was trying to think about what I had done in Costa Rica that could affect my crotchital area when I felt something CRAWLING ACROSS MY FACE!

I sat bolt upright in bed and slapped at the lamp on the nightstand until I could turn it on and see. HOLY BEJUS! My bed was working alive with ANTS! They were EVERYWHERE and biting me in my most sensitive areas. There were THOUSANDS of them.

I hopped out of bed and ran to the kitchen, where I retrieved my trusty can of Raid. I returned and gassed the shit out of the invaders, then I followed their trail to the Mother Hill, which I coated with Diazinon to teach those fuckers a lesson. I murdered a lot of ants last night, even if I DID have to go outside in my underwear, in the dark, with a flashlight and a demonic look on my face to get the job done.

Effingham County, Georgia, has more ants per square inch than any other place I've ever seen. Something about the sandy soil around here just attracts ants the way a ripe dog turd attracts flies. It wasn't as if I'd been eating crackers in bed and left a lot of crumbs to lure the ants my way. Hell NO! If the bloodthirsty bastards wanted something to eat, they should have been crawling all over my kitchen.

But they attacked me in my bed, in the dark of night, for no good reason. Goddam communists.

After I killed all the ants I could, I was faced with a dilemma. I had to wash my sheets and remake my bed. I am not good at making a bed. I forget which movie it was (I believe that Clint Eastwood starred in it), but the lead character said, "A man's got to know his limitations." Well, I know mine. Making a bed is one of them.

I washed the sheets and put them in the dryer, but I thought seriously about sleeping on a bare mattress tonight. Have you ever seen a monkey fucking a football? If you haven't, just watch me make a bed. It's the same thing.

It was ugly to see, but I finally got the job done. I have fresh, clean, ant-free sheets to sleep on tonight and no children or animals (other than ants) were harmed in the process. I feel lucky to be alive.

But I'm sleeping with the light on tonight.

Key Wasted

Originally published June 16, 2004

My last day in Key West was a memorable one; unfortunately, I don't remember all of it.

The day started on a sour note when the quaint little restaurant where I had breakfast caught fire and burned damn near to the ground about an hour after I left. I finished my eggs and grits, walked down to the internet cafe (hoping for someone to put some more fruit punch on my tab) and went back to the hotel when no good-looking wimmen tried to pick me up.

I turned the corner and saw thick, billowing coils of noxious smoke boiling out of the restaurant. My first thought was... "I DIDN"T DO THAT... DID I?" No, I couldn't possibly be responsible. Florida has their new-fangled anti-smoking nanny-law (one which most bars and restaurants aviod by having open-air seats and rear "gardens" for the nicotine-addicted wretches who frequent such places), so I never even lit a smoke in the place. Hell, I didn't even go to the bathroom there.

Okay, I didn't do it, but the place was on fire. I arrived on the scene just in time to watch the fire trucks and cops cars come rolling to the rescue. Firemen in full turnout gear poured from the trucks and began stringing hoses all over the place. The cops started tying yellow barricade tape on anything that wasn't moving. I almost became taped in yellow myself.

What the fire didn't destroy, the firemen did, with axes, sledgehammers and water hoses. They tore that place apart. I was pissed, because I needed to find a new place to eat breakfast after this disaster. I wondered if my waitress got out of there alive with the generous tip I left her that morning.

Thinking made my head hurt, so I went down the street, away from the smoke and toward beer and Bloody Marys.

I'll try to sum up the rest of the day as quickly as possible. I lost my hat and my sunglasses sometime around sundown. I believe that I bought another hat and gave it to someone I met in a bar. A homeless guy came up to me, rolled up his shirt sleeve and showed me a USMC tattoo on his arm. He asked for $2 to buy a drink. I gave him two dollars and then saw the lying sumbitch in the Key West Cookie Store not five minutes later. I started to confront him. I was willing to buy him a drink, but if I had known he was going to piss that money away on FOOD, I never would have given it to him.

I ended up in an obviously gay bar for a while. I got up on stage and sang "Piano Man" on a dare, with accompaniment from the piano "man" employed there. I received a standing ovulation from the crowd, and I also got a free beer from Paul, the bartender.

I'm not sure what all happened next, but I believe that tequila was involved. I made it back to the hotel late last night. I asked a couple in the lobby as I was checking out this morning about whether I showed my ass or not during my revelry. They told me that I staggered into the lobby the night before, took one look at the stairs, pointed an accusing finger at the steps and said, "FUCK THAT!" and rode the elevator up to the second floor.

I must have gotten my key in the door, because I woke up in the right bed this morning. Actually, I woke up ON the right bed this morning. I never bothered to turn the sheets down. I was a fucked-up Cracker boy.

Now... I remember going out wearing underwear. I woke up in commando mode this morning. I don't believe that I WANT to know everything I did last night.

December 10, 2006

My answers (to his own Friday Five)

Originally published November 21, 2003

1) Have you ever done anything in your life that you REALLY wished you could take back? If so, what was it?

I have several of those crossroads in my life where I turned the wrong way. I look back now and I realize that maybe everything worked out well in spite of my poor choices. My gut instinct is to answer this question by saying that I would have thrown Jennifer's phone number away the day she gave it to me and NEVER called her if I knew then where that relationship would lead. But if I had done that, I wouldn't have Quinton today. I wouldn't be retired at the age of 51. She fucked me over like a pro, but I came out of it okay. I have no regrets other than not spending more time with my father before he died.

2) Have you ever been in a situation where you had to choose between your principles and your income? How did you handle that decision?

I stuck with my beliefs every time. That hard-headed attitude has cost me a lot over the years, but that's just the way I am. I will not whore myself for anyone, and lost money is a small price to pay for being able to look at myself in the mirror every day and feel no shame.

3) Did you ever do something knowing full well at the time that it was wrong? If so, why did you do it?

I put an M-80 firecracker in a mailbox one night when I was drinking beer with friends. I KNEW that I was committing an act of vandalism at the time, but I did it anyway. I wanted to impress my friends with my derring-do. I have regretted that act ever since.

4) Name a movie that made you cry (and if you say "I never cried over a movie, you should be dragged off and shot, you heartless shit!)

Good grief. Acidman hates to confess this fact, but I am notorious for weeping over sappy movies. October Sky got me. So did Saving Private Ryan. I still cry when I see Shane or Old Yeller. I don't want to talk about this shit any more. I need to go blow my nose.

5) Name three things in your life that you feel OBLIGATED to do that you WOULD NOT DO if you didn't feel that sense of obligation.

I pay child support to a woman who does not use the money to support my child. I HATE paying her for being a bloodless cunt.

I pay taxes that the government pisses away. I HATE paying a government that seems to be intent on taking away my freedom while using MY MONEY to accomplish the task.

I once awoke at 4:00 in the morning every day and went to work. I did that NOT because I wanted to, but because I felt OBLIGATED to do it. I see now where that sense of obligation got me. Fuck it. I'm not doing that any more.

Okay, you have my answers.

High-heeled shoes

Originally published April 3, 2004

My baby say she loves me
But she don't treat me right
She goes to church on Sunday,
But she stays out Friday night
She don't come home at all...
And it's tearing me apart
She's a long-legged woman
Wearing high-heeled shoes across my heart

That's the first verse of a teriffic blues song written by one of the great undiscovered songwriting talents in America today. Modesty forbids that I mention his name, but I WILL say that I'm probably the only person on the planet who knows all the words. I like the chorus, too:

Baby, if you'd let me
I'd treat you like a queen
Why do you do your lovin' daddy so mean?
All I get are promises
That you never keep
And you're strapping on them high-heeled shoes
With my heart lying at your feet

I haven't played that song in a long time, but I howled it out tonight in the key of "E." My ex-wife wore high-heeled shoes to court for our divorce hearing. I know that Jennifer cannot wear high-heeled shoes. She wears a size 7 shoe, but most of her foot is made up of long toes, and she has incredibly narrow heels. High-heeled shoes give her blisters after 30 minutes.

But she wore 3" heels to court that day.

She's a long-legged woman wearing high-heeled shoes across my heart.

December 09, 2006

The School Bus

Originally published January 18, 2005

I rode a Bluebird bus to school every day from 5th grade all the way through high school. I enjoyed doing it because it was a rolling social club. I sat with my friends in the morning and we chattered like chipmunks. It was a great way to start the day.

I didn't ride the bus home a lot, because I was usually playing some kind of ball after school, but when I did, I liked that, too. I got kicked off the bus twice for fighting (that bastard had it coming to him the first time--- nobody else would stand up to him--- and the second time, the other guy hit me first--- but I kinda asked for that one.) It didn't matter. I was a football player at Jenkins High School. I could stand on the side of the road, hang my thumb in the air and beat the bus to school every day.

The school bus was a great flirt-parlor, too. If I saw a girl I liked, I managed to sit beside her and strike up a conversation. If things went well after that, I ended up with a date. That wasn't always a good idea, because sometimes we just didn't hit it off on that date and I couldn't sit beside her anymore. (Damn! Try to grope her titty ONE TIME and she thinks you're a masher!)

I was riding home from the grocery store the other day and I got behind a school bus. These were probably middle-school students, but nothing has changed. The reprobates still sit in the back seat and I had three of them shooting me The Bird every time the bus stopped. I gave 'em the finger back once and they fell out laughing. Little shits. I knew exactly what they were thinking.

If you never rode a bus to school, you missed something special.

Teach your children well

Originally published November 17, 2004

This idea may seem somewhat drastic to some parents, but it doesn't to me. I don't think smart-ass kids get enough humiliation in their lives for acting like smart-assed kids. If they did, they wouldn't be so smart-assed.

Compared to what I see today, my parents were goddam TYRANTS! Corporal Punishment? FUCK! My folks didn't stop at "corporal" when they launched an attack on my ass--- they went all the way to Five-Star General Punishment. My "self-esteem" never entered into the equation. Self-preservation did, because if I showed my ass, my parents busted it, and I learned quickly not to do that kind of shit.

I don't believe that my parents ever lay in bed and night and wondered whether they were too tough on me or my brother, either. I think they lay there and wondered what we got away with that we needed our asses busted for if they only knew about it. They had us there. We were ALWAYS guilty of something.

My folks didn't make their sons little angels, but they damn sure taught us how to behave in public. I don't think enough parents do that dirty work today. I cannot abide an undisciplined child, nor can I abide parents who allow a child to behave that way.

If you're not willing to bust your kid's ass when he or she needs it, don't bring that ass into the world. It's YOUR job to teach 'em to be civilized; if you can't handle it, don't volunteer.

It's not an easy job and sometimes... you have to get your hands dirty.

December 08, 2006

Old Lovers

Originally published September 1, 2004

Do you ever think about people that you once had relationships with? I've never had an etch-o-sketch mind, so I am unable to erase memories just by turning the box over and shaking it. I remember those wimmen, and it bothers me a lot sometimes.

I can smell the scent of a certain perfume and I remember Holly Beth. That's what SHE wore, and I'll never forget those blue panties she liked to strut under nothing but a T-shirt at night.

I hear certain music and I remember Cheryl, in Jamaica, when we were both young and dumb. We stayed for a week in a place with no electricity and one cold-water shower outside. We had a blast.

Vonnie was a waif in need of rescue, so I helped her out. I have NEVER regretted being her lover. If I saw her tomorrow, I would call her "Yvonne," and never mention the past, but I would still like to give her a big hug.

The most cruel thing I ever did in my life was leaving Dora the way I did. She deserved better, and if anybody wants to call me a sumbitch, just point to that incident. I can't argue.

Then, there's Jennifer. You know a really sad fact I must admit? I still dream about her. I sometimes believe that she's still in my bed. I don't know if I'll ever get over her. That woman was my One True Love and she shafted me. I remain stunned.

I don't know... sometimes I just think too much.

Young Jack

Originally published September 1, 2004

I meant to write about Jack earlier. He came to visit me on Sunday and spent about an hour at the Crackerbox. I can't see my son, but Jack still loves me and he never misses a chance to drop by. Go figure what kind of terrible person I am.

Jack is playing football this year and he's very excited about it. "Mr. Rob, the coach says I'm the best player on the team," he announced proudly. I KNOW Jack and he tends to exaggerate sometimes (something I would NEVER do), so I wasn't certain about this "best on the team" thing.

"What makes you the best?" I asked. Jack went off on a rant about being fast, tough and tricky, and then he said, "I did just what you told me to do. I hit people so hard that they pee their pants."

Oh. My. God. I could imagine how his mother would respond to that statement. But, that's what I told him once and that lesson must have stuck in his boyish brain. Little pitchers have big ears.

I gave Jack the nickname "Hurricane Head" a few years ago. I've washed his hair before and he has the thickest blonde locks of wire-like hair, all curled around the crown of his head, that you'll ever see. That boy's got hair like a Brillo pad. It resembles a whirlpool if you look down from the top.

He got ready to go back to "nanny's" house and I told him that I would walk with him. I like Jack a lot. He really IS like a second son to me. He put an arm around my waist and babbled the entire time we walked. I put my hand on his shoulder and enjoyed listening to a little boy BE a little boy.

I cannot believe that Jack trusts me the way he does and I am an unfit father for my own son. But that's what happens when you marry a bloodless cunt.

When Jack arrived at "nanny's" house, he went inside to play a video game. I talked with nanny for a while. She told me Jack REALLY IS the best player on his team. He's the QUARTERBACK!!! She also said that the coach was convinced that Jack had played organized football before because of how well he performed in the tryouts.

"Jack didn't know what a football was three years ago," I said.

"No, he didn't. But I watched you play with Quinton and Jack in your yard. You taught him what he knows and that's something his father never took the time to do. Jack thinks you should be in the football hall of fame."

I am proud of myself now.

December 07, 2006

Things I like about the South

Originally published August 19, 2004

* Pretty wimmen with red toenails wearing sandals and skimpy shorts.

* Old people who are good story-tellers. They tell the same stories over and over, but the stories are good enough that you never get tired of listening to them.

* Iced tea made a gallon at a time and kept in the refrigerator so that when you come inside all sweaty, it's there for the taking.

* Pickup trucks with dog-boxes in the back and good ole boys who own guns. Yankees call those people "Rednecks," but I call some of them my good friends.
I like 'em better than I do yankees.

* Hot days and summer thunderstorms that put on a light show that's impressive as hell to watch.

* No snow.

* Even hurricanes are better than snow. I'd rather have the roof blow off my house than live in Buffalo, New York. A hurricane is a bad accident. Buffalo gets snow EVERY WINTER.

* Friendly people who don't speak with an accent any different from mine. People in the South believe in hospitality. Wimmen call you "honey" and they don't mind when you call them "darlin.'"

* The best food you'll ever eat. Cornbread baked in a cast-iron skillet, fried okra, grits and sawmill gravy, southern-fried chicken and some things that even the person who cooked it can't duplicate. It's a wonder that I'm not fat. I love that food.

* No such thing as ice-fishing. I've always thought that was crazy as hell and we don't do that bullshit down South. We don't have things freeze outside.

* People with manners. Old farts like ME who say "yes, ma'am" to somebody half my age and kids who always call you "Mister." Parents who ain't afraid to tear up a child's ass when he forgets his manners. They'll learn him right.

I wouldn't choose to live anywhere else in the world. It's hot, we have mosquitoes and some places are more beautiful, but I like it right where I am. I love the South, pure and simple, much like the way Southerners look at life. Pure and simple.

I was blessed to grow up here.

Relatives you never knew

Originally published August 20, 2004

I received a couple of emails lately from someone named Clyde Benge, who appears to be the son of my mama's cousin. (if so, his grandfather was Newton Benge) He's living in Washington state now and asked me what I knew about the Benge-Philpot feud in Clay County, Kentucky. I met his daddy several times and I heard a lot of stories about that feud. Newton Benge was the first person killed in it, shot through the head with a .45 during a card game at a sporting house frequented by drinking men and staffed with loose wimmen.

Other people heard about it, too. (Just scroll down that page.) It was a lot bloodier and it lasted a lot longer than that pissant fight between the Hatfields and the McCoys. All in all, more than 50 people got killed.

The first woodworking job my grandfather ever had was building a coffin for one of the people killed in the feud. Papaw told me that the man was shot outside a school house in the summer and nobody could retrieve the body for several days because of snipers looking for somebody else to shoot.

"By the time we could get to him, he was swollen up so bad that I had to knock the sides off that coffin and make it bigger. He wouldn't fit in what I first built."

Yeah. I have a fascinating family history. And somewhere in my pedigree, I think I'm kin to both sides now.

December 06, 2006

A time for everything

Originally published February 25, 2005

I paid a long visit to my mama today. (Isn't that a strange term? You "pay" someone a visit but you "give" them a call?) We sat in her kitchen and talked. She is still pretty wookie from the medication she's on, so I helped her work her morning crossword puzzle. We finished the entire thing.

The fluid in her lungs is already coming back and the Hospice people gave her a bottle of oxygen today. She's not having to use it yet, but she will have to shortly. She has congestive heart failure to go along with the rest of her medical problems. The Reaper is coming and we both know it, but we didn't speak directly about that.

We talked about my father.

Mama wants to meet with me and my brother to discuss her financial affairs so that we can handle what we need to do whenever we have to. She said that she liked my father's funeral--- short, simple and private--- and she wanted the same thing. She also told me that she has lived a wonderful life.
She found the right man, stayed with him for 40 years, raised two successful sons who make her proud and knew love all of her life.

She received about six phone calls while I was there, all from people just checking up on her to make sure she was okay---friends, neighbors and people from the church. A lot of people care about my mama. I am one of those people.

She's NOT okay, and she's not gonna BE okay. But her spirits are high and she has no regrets. I simply wish that death would be as kind to her as she has been to EVERYBODY all of her life. A lot of the strut I always carried in my step came from that woman. She was a natural-born show-off, too. I don't want to see her waste away into something I don't recognize as my mama anymore.

A week ago, she asked me if I wanted anything from the house. I told her that I didn't want anything FROM the house. I just wanted HER in it. But you don't always get what you want.

There is a time for everything, and she's approaching that ultimate stop sign that we'll all see someday. She isn't afraid. She doesn't feel sorry for herself. In fact, she's still more worried about the people around her than she is about her own problems. I cried on my drive back home today, and I don't know whether I was crying for her or for myself. Maybe both. It doesn't matter.

If you read this blog, you can either like me or hate me and your opinion won't change a damn thing about something I know with all my heart. I come from good stock.

I am my mama's son.

I was lucky

Originally published February 26, 2005

I knew after my first couple of days at the Henry W. Grady School of Journalism at the University of Georgia, that I didn't fit in with what was "mainstream" political thought back in 1975. I was considered to be an amusing troglodyte because I wasn't socialist, gay, anti-gun or a raving proponent of the "Fairness Doctrine." I just wanted to write.

But I will admit one thing: I NEVER had a professor there who punished me for having a totally politically-incorrect viewpoint in ANY class I took. If I did the work, I got the grade, and I always did the work. I was a contrarian, but I was never treated as a failed brainwashing experiment.

A lot of the professors enjoyed talking with me over a couple of beers or even an occasional dinner at their own homes because I spoke my mind. They disagreed with what I had to say, but they still were interested in HEARING IT, especially when I attempted to explain why I thought the way I did.

To me, that is the purpose of a university. Throw those opposing idea out there and debate the worth of each. That sort of exercise makes you THINK and it teaches you to back up what you have to say with footnotes and references. If you can do that, your beliefs are totally justified.

I don't believe that we have that same atmosphere in college anymore. I'm seeing too many examples of bullshit-spouting moonbats who will fail you, ask you to drop the class or otherwise punish you if you don't learn to swallow the cant and repeat it mindlessly.

These people aren't educators. They are cult leaders, some self-appointed high priests of THE RIGHT THINKING religion, and they become really pissed off if you disagree with them. I blame a lot of this crap on schools that created departments to teach "Feminist Studies," "Black Culture," "Native-American Studies" or any other kind of propaganda mill where the object is NOT to teach, but to indoctrinate.

I remember once in an English course, where I had a heated debate with my fully-liberated professor, Ms. Virginia Ramsey. (I had a great deal of lust for that long-legged, blonde-from-a-bottle woman. Looking back today, she reminds me a lot of what a liberal Ann Coulter would be. She's the one who told me that I should go to graduate school and study "Communications," and I still don't know what a degree in "Communications" means.) We were discussing The Brothers Karamozov in class and I stated that I despised the character of Dimitri, the youngest brother who "loved" everybody.

My point was: If he loves EVERYBODY, what is his "love" worth? It's alms for the poor, that's all. And if you give your "love" away like that, you've made it totally worthless. Anybody who claims to love everybody loves NOBODY, because they don't put any value on their love.

She asked me, "So? What is YOUR idea of a man capable of giving love worth something?"

"Howard Roarke," I replied, and there was a moment of complete silence that fell like a dark cloak over the classroom. Ginnie Ramsey finally put two and two together and realized what I was talking about. (And if you don't, I pity you.)

"Sweet Jesus," she said. "YOU WOULD!"

I still got an "A" in the class.

December 05, 2006


Originally published February 2, 2005

I have no tattoos and no piercings on my body. I wear a turquoise necklace that I really like, but I sport no other jewelry. My bodily decorations are mostly scars, assembled over a long period of time. Every one tells a story, but I never ASKED for any of that to be done to me.

From catfish:

Remember Crazy Dave and his tatooed Dick?

Posted by Catfish at February 1, 2005 09:40 PM

I certainly do. "Crazy Dave" was a local biker who lived up to his name. The sumbitch had been shot and stabbed a dozen times and refused to die. He wasn't a BIG guy, but he had about as much meanness per square inch packed into him as you can get. He had tattoos everywhere, including some places where tattoos shouldn't be.

He had one that said "eat me!" on the inside of his bottom lip. He had a dick the size of a baby's arm and it was decorated with an ice cream cone, with "your name" etched at the bottom. He used to bet wimmen that, "I've got your name tattooed on my dick" and if they wanted proof, he'd whip it out and show them. He got laid a lot that way.

Dave was nutty as a Claxton fruitcake, but he ALWAYS had good-looking wimmen around him. I never understood that. He had one hell of a dick strapped on him, but he wasn't the most stable person I ever met. Maybe some wimmen really do like bad boys.

I was in a bar one night when Dave ran out of money. He asked me, "Would you buy a beer to see these tits?" He had a real knockout with him. I said, sure. I would. "Honey, show Rob your tits," and she peeled her shirt off right there in the bar. That was a nice pair of pretty titties. I bought Dave a Budweiser and it was worth every penny.

After that, he told her, "Honey, I'm broke. Go make me $50. Come back when you've got it." She left and showed up again in less than an hour to hand Dave his $50. I don't know how he did it.

I heard that Crazy Dave died up at Blue Springs, Georgia a few years ago, when he bet someone that he could ride his Harley all the way through a 4' diameter piece of concrete culvert pipe that was laying on the ground next to a construction site. The pipe was about 100' long.

Dave hit that thing going about 60 MPH and still accellerating. He did okay until he ran into a piece of rebar about halfway down the pipe that split his skull in two. I heard that his friends threw one hell of a party at his funeral and buried his Harley motorcycle with him.

I don't know that the story of his death is true, but Crazy Dave DID exist, he IS dead now, I KNEW him and he DID have a tattoo on his dick. I have known some real characters in my life.

Maybe Catfish can tell the rest of the story.

Something about a dog

Originally published February 1, 2005

A dog loves you in a way no cat ever will. When a dog decides that YOU belong to him, he'll do everything in his power never to disappoint you. He will disappoint you, of course, because he's a dog. But he feels GUILTY about it. He knows that he fucked up and he's SORRY. A guilty dog will grovel to get back into your good graces. A cat expects YOU to get over it.

When a dog is hurt, he comes to you to get his injury fixed. He'll hold still when to tell him to, and if you've got to pull a thorn out of his foot or take a twist of barbed wire from his ass, he'll sit there and take it because he trusts you, and he is ever so grateful when you're finished. If a cat is hurt, it's convinced that YOU DID IT!

I once had a 150 pound Collie that didn't like it when I started to spank Samantha one day. The dog put itself between me and her and growled at me. I ended up whipping TWO asses that day. I tore the dog up (Don't you EVER growl at me again, or I'll snatch your tongue out and choke you with it!")and then I whipped Samantha. But the dog meant well. It was trying to protect my child.

A dog can walk up to you, place his chin on your knee and give you a look of love, adoration and trust that no other animal can duplicate. And all he wants is to be petted. Cats don't give a shit about you, unless you stop feeding them. Then, they'll claw up your sofa.

A dog will fight to the death to protect you and yours. They don't care how big the foe is and they don't care about their chances of survival. They'll do it because that's their job. They'd rather die bleeding and broken than let you down. Cats think that shit ain't their problem.

Cats suck. They are a lazy dime a dozen. Ohhh... but they're so CUTE!!!, which is another reason I hate their asses.

No cat in the world ever measured up to a damn good dog.

December 04, 2006


Originally published July 30, 2004

I read that book by John Grisham while I was in Costa Rica. It was pretty much a throwaway beach-book that I left at the hotel when I checked out. But certain parts of it sent me spinning 'way back in time.

I played for Bubba Atwood during the glory days of Jenkins High School football in Savannah. I played in three losing games in three years. We were winners and we KNEW IT. But, by Bejus, we earned everything we got.

I both loved and hated Coach Atwood. He drilled the shit out of us and made us the most well-conditioned team on the field. He ran our asses off. We won a lot of games in the fourth quarter when the other team ran out of gas and we were still going strong. If you wore the Red and Silver at Jenkins, you paid for it in blood, sweat and tears. Atwood was a harsh taskmaster. But he got your ass in shape to play.

In a lot of ways, a football coach is like a father to everybody on the team. Atwood cussed and praised, he yelled and screamed, and he MEANT IT when he said that we would run laps and wind sprints until the sun went down. I believe that he was a winner because he demanded perfection. He could rake your ass over the coals one minute and then pat you on the back the next, depending on how you performed on the field.

I learned a lot of lessons from playing football that have served me well in life. I learned to be tough, I learned to ignore pain and I learned what it means to be a winner. I learned what IT TAKES to be a winner. It ain't easy and Coach Atwood taught me that.

Coach Atwood is dead now, but his influence on me remains alive. I'll never forget the man. He made one hell of an impact on my life. I feared HIM more than I ever did anybody on the field. I didn't want to let him down, because I loved him, too. I wanted to make him proud of me and I would have stuck my head into a fire if he told me to.

I can understand the meaning of Bleachers because I played for a coach a lot like Eddie Rake.

Coach Atwood

Originally published July 31, 2004

If you lived in Georgia from anywhere between 1966 and 1976, you probably heard of Bubba Atwood. He built winning football teams wherever he went. He won championships. He had the ability to take a bunch of boys who barely had hair on their balls and turn them into football machines. He was a damn good coach.

Bubba played quarterback at some podunk college, but he graduated with a degree in psychology. I look back now and I realize that I was a rat in his Skinner Box. He KNEW how to motivate his players and to make you give 120% on every play. YOU couldn't cuss on his practice field, but HE could. If you got into a fight on the field, you settled it with boxing gloves in the gym the next day. And you fought until somebody gave up or neither you nor your opponent could raise arms above belt level anymore. Then, you ran penalty laps for losing your cool on the field.

Do you think Bubba Atwood gave a shit about your "self-esteem?" Fuck NO, he didn't. He gave a shit about whether or not you could play football. And you played it HIS WAY or you didn't play.

He preached discipline. We ran plays over and over again until we got them right. If a lineman jumped offsides in a game, he was doomed to a week of running until the sun went down. If a running back fumbled, he spent a long time playing "bull in the ring" and he had better not drop that ball again.

(Bull in the ring, for those who don't know, is an exercise where 30 players form a circle and count off by number. One poor sumbitch is put in the middle of the ring with a football in his hands. Then, the coach starts calling out numbers from 1 through 30 and if your number is called, you fire off from the ring and knock the shit out of the poor bastard in the middle. Sometimes, Atwood would call three numbers at a time if he was really pissed at somebody.) Bubba Atwood didn't tolerate fuck-ups.

Bill Boyd, my defensive coach, was just as mean. That walking cinder-block was frightening. He would be on the practice field, see somebody blow an assignment and yell "GIMME A HEADGEAR!!!" Twenty helmets came flying his way and he grabbed the first one he could reach. He didn't care whether it fit or not. He put it on, buckled his strap, and dressed in only shorts and shoes, proceeded to demonstrate HOW TO DO IT RIGHT. Pity on the poor person who encouraged his wrath. He got an ass-whuppin' in front of the entire team.

But I DO NOT believe that I was abused or mistreated as a football player. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it, and pussy coaches don't produce winning teams. I was proud to be a Jenkins Warrior and I'm still proud of that today. I am proud that I played for Bubba Atwood on teams that seldom lost games. I learned a lot about myself from that experience.

If I could do three-a-day practices in the August heat of a Georgia summer and run THREE FUCKING MILES at the end of last practice in full pads, I knew that I could do anything I set my mind to. Later in life, that toughness never failed me. Maybe that's why I'm kinda short in the modesty department. I KNOW what I am capable of doing.

I don't know whether I want Quinton to play football or not. I have a lot of injuries from that game that haunt me today, a lot worse now than when they first happened. But a young man needs to discover himself, to find out what he is able to do, to overcome fear, fatigue and pain and take one more step when he thinks he's about to drop.

Football, as coached by Bubba Atwood, taught me that.

December 03, 2006

Got again!

Originally published September 30, 2003

I ranted about the difference between cats and dogs the other day and thought I had the upper hand in the argument until I read this comment, courtesy of Robin Roberts

You don't find a cat eating dog turds either.

I think I've been bested here. Old Bud was a damn good dog, but he thought the cat box was a salad bar. He slept a lot, but when I saw him drag is old, arthritic ass to his feet and head for the kitchen, I KNEW what he was about to do. If I didn't hurry to stop him, I would find him with his head in the litter box.

"BUD!!! What the hell do you think you're doing?" The half-deaf old fart would look at me with kitty litter all over his chin and a cat-turd sticking out of his mouth like a cigar. What is it about dogs that make them want to eat cat shit?

I don't know. But they damn sure do it.

I really don't want to

Originally published September 30, 2003

How many times have I said that to people who want me to play guitar on stage again? I don't know, but it's been a lot since I quit for good in 1990. Okay, I didn't quit in 1990. I got lured into the Company Band in 1999 and played with them for a while. But that was work-related and the fucking PLANT MANAGER "suggested" that I participate, because I was a known guitar player, so I had very little choice in the matter. I played.

I didn't like it. I wasn't particularly fond of the people I was playing with, I didn't want to do it in the first place, and the music just didn't thrill me anymore. But I did it, and we actually became a pretty damned good band.

One thing I like about music is the fact that you can take five people who have never played together before and make a GOOD band out of them in two weeks, if they've played in bands before.

That wasn't the case with The Company Band. We had two people who had never played before in a group. They set the rest of the band back a long way. The problem wasn't that they couldn't play... they just didn't know how to play as part of a group. If you've never played in a band before, you may not know what I'm talking about, but TOTAL SOUND is what you're looking for, not individual musicianship. Our drummer and one guitar player just never really wrapped that idea around their heads.

The drummer wanted to be Ginger Baker on every song, without Ginger's ability, and the guitar player always thought he needed to be louder than anyone else. That doesn't make for building a good band. I did not tackle that situation and try to fix it. I just promised myself that if I ever got OUT OF IT, I would never put my Cracker ass back in it again.

And I haven't since then. I'm being recruited again for the same type of thing, but I am flat saying "NO" this time. I don't want to play with those people and I don't want to play at work. If I ever make music on stage again, it'll be bluegrass or acoustic, not rock-and-roll. I don't mind playing electric with my friends, but fuck if it's ever going to be a job for me again. Don't ask me to do that.

I really don't want to.

December 02, 2006

Playing by the rules

Originally published October 11, 2004

I really wish that life was fair, but it's not and you'd better learn that lesson early in life. I grew to be only 5' 7 tall and weigh 150 pounds. There went my dreams of playing professional football. My size dictated my fate and I had no choice in the matter. I REALLY wanted to be a professional football player, too.

That's just not fair, is it? Government should step in and pass a law requiring NFL teams to have AT LEAST one 150 pound white boy on the roster. You know, kinda like Affirmative Action. Tilt that playing field for ME and call it an act of "fairness."

One reason I like poker so much is that the rules are damned simple and everybody plays by them because they don't want to get shot for cheating. The cards don't give a shit how big you are or how much money your daddy makes. They just hit the table the way they're dealt. You take it from there.

Why can't we run governmant by rules as simple as the ones you play poker by? A flush beats a straight. You gotta have Jacks or better to open. You can check and raise, but it's a $2.00 limit on the bet and a $5.00 limit on the raise. Three raises maximum. If we play high-low, an ace can be played either high or low. No wild cards. Simple.

Our real problem today is that we have TOO MANY RULES, and those slimebags in government keep making more rules every day when they can't enforce the ones they already have. Buncha dickwits.

Some of the rules are absolutely ridiculous, too. Anti-smoking, anti-gun, anti-whatever blew some sanctimonious asshole's dress up. Spank your kid and you are guilty of child abuse. Have a bloodless cunt of an ex-wife and you're guilty of domestic violence just because she said so. Really ponder whether a cold-blooded murder is a "hate-crime" or not.

Do you know what happens when you have too many rules? People start violating them, and once you've broken one rule, it's easy to break another. Plus, if you get caught violating a bullshit rule ("What? You're gonna fine me $1,000 for lighting a cigarette in the park?") you lose all respect for the law.

I don't respect the law today.

I WANT to play by the rules, but I want the rules to be simple. They're not. I cringe when I listen to the Presidential debates because both men want to make more rules to govern my behavior. MY behavior, when neither man knows me from Adam's housecat.

Fuck the rules. I'll make my own and live with the consequences.

The religious left

Originally published June 28, 2004

Stories such as this one disturb me. Political discourse always becomes acrimonious in an election year, but what's happening this year goes beyond acrimonious--- it's becoming hideous.

I'm accustomed to having the left brand everybody on the right as church-burning racists who hate the poor, drag blacks behind pickup trucks and rape the environment for the sheer fun of it. I'm accustomed to having the right brand everybody on the left as baby-killing, tax-and-spend communists who can't pour piss out of a boot when it comes to national defense. That's just politics.

But this year is different. The hard-core left is behaving more and more like a religious cult every day. They don't want to argue the issues and they don't really seem to have any coherent philosophy except "WE HATE BUSH!" What passes for debate among that group is nothing more than a chant, a mantra. "Bush lied and people died; it's all about oiiilll.....AHHHH-MEN!"

When a political party annoints Bill Clinton (who would need KY jelly instead of olive oil on HIS head), Al Gore (who flipped the last two wing-nuts holding his brain in place several years ago) and Michael Moore (who resembles the Goodyear Blimp in need of a bath and a shave) as their High Priests, that party is in trouble. When loyal followers drink the communion kool-ade and WORSHIP such warped people, the entire nation is in trouble.

I have a troll on this site who constantly regurgitates the same leftist bullshit every time he reads a post that doesn't fit what he's been taught in the Church of the Almighty Left. He's never posted an original thought and I doubt that he ever will. He's just one of those leftist dolls with a pull-string implanted in his back, so that he has only about a dozen sentences that he can speak and they've all been programmed into him ahead of time.

"Oh YEAH? You don't like Michael Moore, but what about Rush Limbaugh? Huh? Huh? Huh?" (Well, Rush Limbaugh lost a lot of weight. Michael Moore is a fat pig. I believe that my argument is better than yours. At least I have ONE FACT on my side.)

I haven't seen the political landscape so fractured since 1968. I smell venom in the air and I don't like it. The right may still have its share of KKK nutballs, bible-thumping fundamentalists and Confederate flag-waving rednecks, but that's just normal. Those people have always been around and they always will be, sorta like environmentalists and teacher's unions on the left.

What IS NOT normal is the religious fervor I see from people who claim to care about this country when they don't bother to read the news, because nothing they see there is going to change their minds, and they ignore the fact that we are at war, because it interferes with their personal agenda. They are angry, but they don't really know why. They hate Bush, but they can't articulate the resons without resorting to cant and mantra, or outright lies. These are dangerous people.

We don't have Brown Shirts in this country today. We have jihadis.

December 01, 2006

Guilt Instinct

Originally published December 29, 2004

I've had the police or members of the Sheriff's Department show up at my door numerous times over the past three years. Usually, they came to deliver another court order from my bloodless cunt ex-wife, but a couple of times they just wanted to ask me "a few questions."

Why is it, that even when you KNOW that you haven't done anything illegal, the sight of a cop at the door and the thought of answering a "few questions" makes your blood run cold? It'll scare the living shit out of you--- or at least it will ME--- until you learn that they aren't there to haul you off to jail.

Bejus! Once, one of my neighbors reported his lawn mower stolen and the cops dropped by to ask me if I saw anything unusual at his house the day of the theft (the mower later was found in the woods behind my neighbor's house where his son and some friends hauled it off for who-knows-why. The son got his ass fried for that.). I almost pissed my pants while I told them that I didn't notice anything.

Another time, two officers (one male and one female) showed up at my door in a pouring rain to ask questions about another neighborhood crime. I was drinking beer at the time, but I invited them inside (which I usually DON'T do when cops show up at my door). I wasn't going to make ANYBODY stand outside in that rain.

They were investigating a complaint about some kid on a motorcycle racing through the neighborhood. I was happy to help them. "Yeah, I know the little shit," I said. "His name is Dwayne and he lives in that house across the street two doors down from me. He's got a rice-burner bike, a Yamaha I think, and he's gonna kill himself or somebody else with the way he rides it around here. Maybe you can put the fear of God into him, because his daddy sure won't." I had talked to Dwayne's father about that bike and he basically told me to go piss up a rope.

The guy cop was intrigued by my guitars--- I think I had three or four of them in my living room at the time. "Do you play?" he asked.

If anybody else but a cop had asked that question, I would have delivered a really smart-ass answer. ("No, I don't play. I thought the things were golf clubs when I bought them. Heh. Live and learn.") But I said, "Yeah. I play a little."

"Me, too," replied the cop. "That one is a Martin, isn't it? That's one fine guitar."

I offered to let him play it, I offered them both some coffee and I was as polite as I could be. When they refused my hospitality, thanked me for my help and left, I breathed a sigh of relief. I don't know why, but that was my gut reaction.

I think I get Badge Fever when cops come to visit me. I feel guilty even when I'm NOT. I don't think I could pass a lie detector test. They'd ask me my name, I'd answer truthfully and the needles would go spinning off the page as if I were lying my ass off.

I wouldn't make a good criminal. I have too much guilt instinct.

Many thanks

Originally published December 29, 2004

I have been most remiss in thanking paul for the wonderful volunteer work he performed on my blog. I had spammers swarming my comments like army ants in that old Charleton Heston movie. They were clogging my email, ruining my pleasant attitude and driving me to murderous rage. I was one more spam attack away from throwing in the towel and shutting down the blog.

Paul came to my rescue.

I have never met the man. He offered his services without being asked. I did a little research and discovered that he is a highly-recommended guru when it comes to fixing blog-problems. I was at the end of my rope, so I sent him the keys to my house and told him to have at it. Whatever he wanted to do was okay with me. I figured that the WORST he could do was shut down my blog, and I was ready to do that anyway.

I have not seen a spam comment for more than a week now. I don't know what he did (if he tried to explain it, I wouldn't understand) but it damn sure worked. Today, it's nice to open my email and not see anywhere from 100 to 1,000 hunks of feces flung by flying spam-monkeys on the page.

I have a question: How many of you other bloggers ever ran into a problem with your site and had a knight in shining armor ride to your rescue and slay the dragons just because he (or she) knew how to do it? You didn't have to ask for help, either. They offered to do it of their own free will and never asked for any reward in return.

That's one of the perks you get for being in the blog collective. It's a COMMUNITY out there, and a lot of the people in it are generous, good-hearted folks who never hesitate to lend a helping hand where it's needed. If the UN were staffed and operated by the same kind of people, the UN wouldn't be the corrupt sham it is today.

But... I digress.

Thank you, Paul. If our paths ever cross, dinner and drinks are on ME. You did me a big favor without being asked, and I know that you sought no more reward than the satisfaction of doing that favor. To me, that is the definition of a "good person."

Uh... welcome to my blogroll. I didn't know how else to show my appreciation.