March 31, 2007

Southern Units of Measure

Originally published June 1, 2002

1) A shitpot full. That's a whole bunch of something. Anybody with a shitpot full of money is rich.

2) Out the wazoo. That's a lot of something, but it ain't as much as a shitpot full. As in "Billy-Bob's selling used cars now, and he's making money out the wazoo. But his daddy owns the bank. DADDY'S got a shitpot full of money."

3) A gnat's ass. That's a short distance, usually describing a near miss. As in "Did you see that putt? I just missed it by a gnat's ass." Or, "That log truck changed lanes in front of me and missed my bumper by a gnat's ass. Man, that was CLOSE."

4) A cunt-hair. That's a short distance, usually describing an adjustment in alignment. "Billy-Bob, just move it a cunt-hair to the left and it'll be right on the money." You're talking less than 1/4 inch when you speak of a cunt hair. A gnat's ass can range from 1/4 inch to a few feet.

5) From here to yonder. That's a great distance. Anything that stretches from here to yonder goes a long way. As in "I came home drunk last night and saw that the old lady had throwed all my clothes out in the yard. The dog got a-hold of 'em and had 'em scattered from here to yonder."

6) A blivet. A blivet is ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. I don't believe I need further elaboration.

I lost my marbles but, it's okay... I got 'em back

Originally published June 1, 2002

Although I was thoroughly raped in divorce court, I did walk away from the wreck of my marriage with one thing intact: my marble collection. My bloodless cunt of an ex-wife stopped by my truck at work one day and left the five-gallon bucket full of marbles in the passenger seat. When I started home that day, I put the bucket down on the floorboard, where it promptly turned over and spilled the first time I made a turn. I drove all the way to Rincon, Georgia, with 20,000 marbles rolling all over the floor.

When I got home, I had to scoop them all up and put them back in the bucket. That job took a long time, not only because there were so many marbles scattered all over the place, but also because I found many of my favorites in there and tripped back down memory lane to how I came to own them.

Kids don't play marbles anymore. They have a lot of high-tech toys that play all by themselves for the most part, so they simply turn them on and watch. Or they have brain-sucking Nintendo or Play Station games that can be played inside, sitting down, on the couch, or anyplace else they can vegitate, growing plump and pale like little cyber-slugs, while watching computer animations dance across a screen accompanied by annoying "bleep" and "boink" sound effects.

They don't get down on their elbows and knees in the dirt and feel the warm summer sun on their backs while shouting "knuckle down!" and "no fudging!" to their opponents while games of rings, pig's eye, rolley-hole, bombers, follows and lag-the-line rage all day. They don't go home in the evenings and dump all their marbles from a ditty bag with a drawstring top to total up their winnings and separate the "keepers" from the "pawns."

No, kids don't do that anymore. That's why I could clean out the whole neighborhood with a Drop Can if anybody still played marbles.
My Uncle Virgil, mama's youngest brother, taught me how to play Drop Can when I was six years old, right before he went off to join the army. He took an empty coffee can and cut a hole, just slightly larger than a marble, in the bottom. Then he set the can upside down on the ground and made a wonderful offer to me and my cousin Ernie. He would give us five marbles for every one we could hold "belly button high" and drop through the hole. He got to keep every marble that missed. I couldn't wait to try it.
After about ten straight misses, I didn't want to try any more. So, Uncle Virgil offered to reverse the roles, since he felt sorry for me losing ten marbles and wanted to give me a chance to win them back. He would drop at the can and I could keep every marble that missed. Of course, I would have to give him five marbles for every one that went in. After seeing first-hand how difficult it was to put one through the hole, I eagerly agreed.

Uncle Virgil missed the first two, then put about seven in a row through the hole. The game broke up when I got mad, began crying and started throwing rocks at him. I didn't know how, but I knew I had been played for a sucker.

And I was. Before Uncle Virgil hopped the bus to boot camp, after I stopped throwing rocks at him every time I saw him, he showed me the secret of the Drop Can. In the end, I suppose I owe Uncle Virgil a debt of gratitude, because a lot of those marbles rolling around the floor of my truck were won using my own Drop Can, although I had to learn to dodge both rocks and fists as a result.
The trick is simple. You see, you position your dropping hand on your belly and you never move it while... wait a minute! I'm not going to let that secret out.

Want to see how it's done? Come by my house and I'll show you.

Bring plenty of marbles.

About one year ago

Originally published June 1, 2002

I was required to attend a business dinner on a Wednesday night while my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife was out of town. That was just a few months before she became an ex, so she remained my darling at the time. Those were the salad days. But that's all another story, which I have spoken of a few times on this blog, and will continue to do until I get all the betrayal, heartbreak and perfidy straight in my head. I don't do things like that, and I don't understand people who do.

Here I go, digressing again...

Anyway, I was in charge of the care and feeding of my then-seven year-old son, so I dropped him off at Granny's house for tending while I went to hobnob with the bosses and spread my sparkling personality liberally around the room. The dinner was over at about 10:00, far past my son's bedtime, so I was not surprised when I found him sound asleep at Granny's when I came to retrieve him. I carried his limp, comatose body out to my truck and laid him out in the back seat. I carefully fastened a seat belt around him while he slept the deep, complete, unrelenting sleep that only seven year-olds seem to be able to muster. Then I started for home.

On Highway 30, far back in the woods of rural Georgia, I was stopped by a roadblock manned by the testosterone-crazed, gun-toting, IQ-impaired cowboys of the Port Wentworth Police Department. Ever vigilant and eager to apprehend desperados, they were engaged in one of those "scratch and sniff" exercises, hoping to find somebody guilty of something by stopping every motorist coming down the road that night.

The Supreme Court has ruled that such a blantant invasion of privacy is legal. I rule that it is downright un-American, but I don't wear a black robe, so my opinion doesn't count. I stopped and started digging for my wallet while rolling down my window.
I never actually saw the cop who approached my truck. I heard his footsteps on the pavement and the creak of the leather on his Sam Browne belt, but I never saw him because he shot me square in the eyes with phasers set on "kill" from a flashlight bright enough to light a high school football game on a moonless night.

"Driver's license and proof of insurance, please," he said, all the while beaming that flashlight right in my face. Totally blinded, I fumbled around in my wallet, finally managing to produce the necessary documents while wild spots of color danced in my vision every time I blinked. He examined my papers, seeming displeased that I was able to produce them, then handed them back. All the while, I was thinking, thank God I drank only one beer during the social hour and one glass of wine with dinner. If this guy smelled alcohol on me, I was a goner.

His flashlight beam darted into the back seat to illuminate my sleeping son. "Is that your kid?" he asked.

I don't want to discuss what a stupid question that was. I want to tell you what shot through my mind as all those colored lights danced before my still-blinking eyes. I started to say:

"HOLY SHIT! If I'da knowed there was a fucking KID in here, I never woulda stole THIS truck!"

"No, officer, he's not mine, but he's for sale. You want to buy him?"

"Yes, officer, he's mine now. I bought him fair and square from his Mama the crack addict, right behind the Port Wentworth Police Station, where you could have caught us both red-handed, committing an actual crime, if you were there instead of out here in the woods being a total prick."

"Hee, hee, hee. Wait until you read about the ransom I'm asking for."

"Kid? What kid? Officer, have you been drinking? Taking illegal drugs? Let me get MY flashlight and shine it in YOUR face. I want to check the pupils of your eyes."

But I didn't say any of that. I said, "That's my son and I need to get him home. He has school tomorrow."

The cop let me proceed, and turned his flashlight on the poor bastard behind me.

March 30, 2007

Eating bird

Originally published April 1, 2005

Everybody eats chicken. cooked all kinds if ways. Telling me that you had chichen for Lunch, EVEN IF IT WAS REALLY GOOD, does not impress me. I can show show an industrial park in Charleston, South Carolina, that slaughters 1.5 MILLION chickens every day. And they use everything but the last squawk from those birds.

Let's talk about eating interesting poultry.

* Some people like duck. I don't. It is greasy, dark meat that tastes rancid to me.

* I like quail. They are fun to shoot, but you need a lot of them to make a meal. Only the breast is any good to eat, and they are small birds. But a mess of fried quail is good eating, especially with okra, cornbread and pinto beans.

* Ever tasted a Guinea Hen? They resemble a miniature turkey but don't taste nearly as good. They eat too much wild food.

* I know a lot of people who like dove hunting. Other than killing the birds, I don't know why. A dove tastes worse than a duck does to me.

* Turkey. I'll put up a $100 bet that says I can cook a turkey better than you can, and I accept all comers on this wager. I once hurt my mama's feelings badly on Thanksgiving when we had a mini-family reunion. We both cooked turkeys and people ate every scrap of mine and left half of hers untouched. The only thing that saved her pride that day was she tasted my turkey and admitted, "Rob... I hate to say it, but this is a lot better than mine."

I have a secret.

What kind of bird do YOU like to eat?

(Yeah. I know what a "bird" means in England and Austraila. Perverts.)

The paperboy

Originally published April 1, 2005

When I delivered newspapers, I killed one dog and beat the living shit out of two others. You didn't see many fences in my neighborhood back in those days, and people let their dogs run wild. Most of the dogs recognized me, because I called them by name when I threw papers in the yard every day. Some of the dogs were trained to fetch the paper and bring it back to the front door.

I always loved watching a dog grab that paper and run it up to the front door. He'd bark and scratch on the door with a paw until the door opened and somebody accepted that paper. The person who took the paper usually gave the dog a treat and said, "Good job!"

I swear that some of those dogs grinned at me and seemed to say, "We've got a good hustle going here! Let's keep it up!"

But some people had bad dogs. After I almost had my leg chewed off the first time I tried to outrun a mean dog on my bicycle, I went high-tech on those fuckers. I cut off 3' of an old shovel handle and I drilled six or seven holes in the thick end. I pounded lead shot unto every one of the holes and then I carved a handle in the botton, drilled a hole through it and ran a leather strap through it. I painted it read and black, Jawja Bulldog colors.

That was a bad-ass weapon. I could sling it over the handlebars of my bicycle, or I could stick it down the back of my pants when I went to collect from a house with a really bad dog in the bushes. I cracked several doggie heads and earned a lot of respect that way. If you crack a dog's head once, he doesn't want a repeat performance. That's a principle difference between wimmen and dogs.

My daddy also gave me a switchblade knife about that time, It was a piece of shit that he bought in the Phillipines when he was a young sailor. It had a cheap blade with the point broken off the end (Dad said that the Navy did that when they found his knife). It had a bamboo handle and a rubber-band-style action on it, but it was a by-god switchblade, about 6" long

I filed a point back on it and improved the action some and put a razor-sharp edge on it. I always carried the knife with me on my paper route. It made me feel manly. My billy-club was much more effective on mean dogs, but I still liked carrying the knife.

I made a big mistake one Saturday morning. I had one house where a BIG, MEAN boxer roamed free and he didn't like my ass one bit. The house was back in the woods off Old Mongomery Road, and the first time I had to bludgeon that dog to keep him from eating me alive, the lady of the house and I had a long conversation. I asked her to keep the dog locked up on collection day and for a while, that's exactly what she did.

I became complacient, left my billy-club dangling from the handlebars of my bicycle and went marching up to the porch to collect the newspaper delivery fee.
I never saw the dog until he came charging out of the bushes at me. I head nothing but a low growl.

I knew that I couldn't outrun him and I was too frightened to yell for help, so I reached into my back pocket and pulled out that switchblade knife. I clicked it open just as the dog lunged at me (I swear I think he was going for my throat) and the dog impaled himself right in the chest, all the way to the hilt of the knife.

He let out a surprised yelp, and fell to the ground. The blade came out of the knife handle and I was left standing there with nothing but the bamboo handle in my fist, and the blade sticking out of a 150-pound dog's chest. I ran like hell back to my bicycle and got away as fast as I could.

The dog died. I must have hit something vital when I stuck him.

I went back to collect the money that woman owed me she she asked if I had killed her dog. I denied it and felt honest in doing so for two reasons. First, that mean dog wasn't supposed to be loose in the yard on collection day. Second, I didn't stab him. He RAN INTO THE KNIFE while attacking me.

I got my newspaper fee but lost the blade from my knife. I tried to make a new one and fix it, but I never could get it to work right, so I finally gave up. I eventually lost my red-and-black billy club, too, and I really wish I still had that today.

I've never told anyone that story until today.

(UPDATE--- on a good collection day, I might end up with $50 in a cigar box in the front basket of my bicycle, and that was a lot of money in those days. I was 12 years old. I didn't ride around unarmed. Some two-legged dogs could hide in the bushes, too.)

I want a piece of the action

Originally published April 1, 2005

Las Vegas puts odds on everything. I want to dump about $100,000 on this bet. Even if the odds are less than 1-to-one, I still stand to make a lot of money.

A thorough analysis of the Koran reveals that the US will cease to exist in the year 2007, according to research published by Palestinian scholar Ziad Silwadi.

The study, which has caught the attention of millions of Muslims worldwide, is based on in-depth interpretations of various verses in the Koran. It predicts that the US will be hit by a tsunami larger than that which recently struck southeast Asia.

I'm willing to bet a lot of money that this doesn't happen. Any takers?

March 29, 2007

How do I Iove thee?

Originally published September 28, 2003

Let me count the ways:

In your own way you're a racist bastard, posing as an enlightened liberal. my reading of your site leads me to assume you are an infantile mind, pretending to be a literary intellectual. but your track record as a husband, father, et al. is miserable. You haven't a clue what it means to be an adult.

Maybe not, but I know an asshole when I see one. And YOU, Boyd, are an asshole.

i 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. I like his blog, but I read it mainly for the perspective it gives me on the mentality of certain marginal character-types in America. The thing that interests me most is the extend to which his readers are supportive of his anti-social and deviant attitudes. People in America are very, very angry.

And some people don't have the brains of a dog-turd, either. That would be YOU, Riley.

agree with Boyd, not with psychologizing, but the suggestion that Acidman's comments in this post are racist. Why pick Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton to represent blacks in America? Why not Denzel Washington, Halle Berry, or Bill Cosby? Colin Powell, Condoleza Rice or Julian Bond? He chose Sharpton and Jackson on purpose plain and simple. His motives are clear. He's racist, a demagogue, and apologist for historical racial intolerance.

I didn't pick Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton to represent blacks in America. THEY PICKED THEMSELVES!!! And those race-baiting bastards never get called "racist" even though they wouldn't have a fucking job without stirring "historical racial intolerance" with a stick every day of their lives. I may be a demagogue, but I'm not a sniveling little suckfaced, dumbassed prick like YOU Daniel.

I love petting the trolls on a Sunday evening. I just hate that nasty smell they leave on my hands.

Some thoughts on blogging

Originally published September 29, 2003

I got this in an email from JB, with whom I have had some spittle-stained cuss-fights in the past, but we go back a long way on the internet (he was one of the first people to start reading me on a regular basis) and even though I once threatened to ban him from my site, I can never stay pissed off at him for long.

Rob-- Blogs will never replace traditional journalism, for several reasons.

First and foremost, blogs are not traditional journalism. That is the charm of blogging.

Two--except for the 1 or 2% of bloggers that actually make anything but beer money from blogging, blogging is a labor of love pleasantly divorced from the profit motive--something traditional journalism and editing of the same are for the most part, held captive.

Three--I much prefer the freedom to determine the truth on my own, which blogs permit, and traditional journalism restricts through stringent editorial decisions, ultimately based upon the concern for sales.

Four--Blogdom performs its editorial tasks--i.e.--corrections of error--out in the open for all to see and, if a part of blogdom, to experience.

For those reasons alone, blogdom has the advantage over traditional journalism, and its greatest strength is "self-expression" . . . which traditional journalism can never fully permit. It might be years until blogdom challenges traditional journalism head-to-head, but it already has the advantage of freedom of expression. That will always win in the end.

I agree with all four points. Blogs aren't INTENDED to replace traditional journalism. Bloggers don't have the budgets to send people all over the world to cover breaking news. We'll always need Big Journalism for that. But bloggers CAN fact-check the asses of those people doing the Big Journalism reporting.

We'll never take over their baliwick, but we can keep them honest.

Blogging is a "labor of love" for most people that I read. I know that's MY motivation. That's also why you'll never see any ads or a tip jar on my page. I don't resent anyone who can reap some coin from his/her blog-- in fact, I've SENT MONEY to several of them. But I don't do what I do here for money and I don't want any money for doing it. That way I never feel any strings on me and I want to keep it that way. Gut Rumbles is free, folks. That fact leaves me free to write what I want the way I want to here. I don't ever want to change that.

I was fired from the Effingham County Herald after 19 weeks as a columnist because something I wrote pissed off the powerful Salzburger community here. They told the publisher of the weekly rag to get rid of me or they would start pulling ads from the paper. I was, of course, dropped like a hot rock. That can't happen to me on my blog.

Most bloggers don't claim to be Fair and Balanced. I know damned well that I don't. I am a proud Son of the South, very conservative in my view of the role of government, but very liberal in my view of personal freedom. My motto is "Leave Me Alone." I don't need or want any goddam do-gooding nannies protecting me from myself. I am a grown man. I can take care of ME. That's not the government's job.

I consider myself to be an outdoorsman with a greater appreciation of nature than most self-proclaimed environmentalists. The differerence between the tree-huggers and me is that I don't see a festering, methane filled, mosquito-breeding swamp as a "fragile wetland," beautiful just because it's "natural." I see a potential golf course there, and I think we should drain the swamp, kill the mosquitos and make that Bejus-forsaken piece of real estate better than what Mother Nature created there. I don't worship Gaia.

You don't get "truth" here. You get MY OPINION. I make no bones about it, either.

Most blogs are like that. Blogs have a lot more personality than Big Journalism does. If you read a site for a while, you begin to think that you KNOW a lot about the person who writes it. You don't get that from newspapers and TV reporters. And yeah, if you go off on a rant and get caught making a fool of yourself, you can update with an "oops!" or a "mea culpa" right away. (I never do that because I'm never wrong, but some bloggers do.)

I don't expect blogging to take the place of the NYT or CNN. But I don't expect blogs to go away, either. In fact, I expect to see a lot more of them starting every day. It's too easy to do. The good ones shine very quickly anymore because the audience that reads blogs is growing every day.

I see that evolution of the web as a very good thing.

Indeed.

Why read a blog?

Originally published September 28, 2003

I kinda like this explanation:

Another aspect of the 'will weblogs replace traditional journalism' debate that concerns me is this: why do we read blogs? I personally read them for a quick view of someone else's life, a quick news/politics/sports fix, a link to a webpage I might otherwise have never read/discovered, and as a doorway to the web. (Visit one of your favourite blogs, read an entry or two, follow a link, read that, follow another link - you get the picture. You could easily spend a day journeying through the web using a blog as the starting point.)

Yeah, that works for me, too.

March 28, 2007

Pussified America

Originally published October 4, 2004

I came to Savannah in 1958 after the coal mine at Louellen shut down and my daddy lost his job. We lived with my grandmother for a few months until my daddy found steady work and could afford a place of our own. We ended up in a small, two-bedroom house in Pine Gardens, which was a working-class neighborhood, okay, but no fricking palace. My daddy worked incredible amounts of overtime just to make ends meet.

I started school that fall and I was laughed at, picked on and bullied because I was small and I talked "funny" with my hillbilly accent. That's how I learned to fight, because if I DIDN'T FIGHT, I wouldn't have survived. Kids are naturally cruel to those different from themselves. A good punch in the jaw helps cure some of those problems.

We ate a lot of pinto beans and cornbread. Money was tight. But we got by. Mama always took a job around Christmas, and I know NOW that she paid for Santa Claus that way. My parents were tough, in both the way they handled life and the way they raised me and my brother.

Do you own a good knife? I do. What makes tempered steel that'll hold an edge and not break easily?

I'll tell you, if you don't know. That blade is stuck in a fire, then beat with a hammer, over and over again, until it is tougher than the hammer hitting it. I believe that process is called "annealing," and it works just the same on people as it does on knife blades.

We don't anneal children anymore. We pamper the shit out of them and be their "friends" instead of their parents, and we're raising people who vote for John Kerry. Read my comments about the "FOOTBALL" post below. Yeah. I'm an "abusive" coach.

I don't think so, because I PLAYED for coaches that stood over me and screamed when I hit the ground and didn't get up. If I didn't have a broken bone protruding from my flesh and I wasn't losing copious amounts of blood, I WASN'T HURT! GET UP! RUB SOME DIRT ON IT!! DON'T BE A PUSSY!!!

Guess what? I got up every time.

They annealed my ass and I am a better man for that experience today. Wimmen and pussified men may not understand the concept of getting up when you hurt, taking one more step when you think you're exhausted, or refusing to quit when everybody else gives up. I DO.

It's tempering steel, and we don't do enough of that today.

Stick a fork in me

Originally published March 26, 2002

Okay, I am done for the night. This is the second time I have typed this, by the way, because BLOGGER ate the first try. I thought it ate the post below, but I got lucky for a change.

I just returned home from a wonderful week in Key West, where I learned that naked Europeans call themselves "naturalists," naked yankees call themselves "nudists," and people from my part of the country call lying around a swimming pool with no clothes on "gettin' nekkid." I believe I assumed all three identities while I was there. My only regret about the whole vacation, other than the remnants of the henna tattoo that still makes my left bicep appear to be the victim of a branding iron, is the fact that I fell asleep early the night a couple performed an erotic show in the hot tub. All my neighbors said that if they did it again, we should line the balcony and hold up score cards, just like Olympic judges. I agreed, and decided to go French and offer the woman the opportunity to bribe me, but the couple checked out the next morning. I was disappointed.

I went back to work today and walked into THE JOB FROM HELL. I arrived at 0615 this morning and left at 1915 this evening. You do the math. I am tired and dirty and I wish I was back in Key West. I have a TV dinner in the microwave. No more conch and prime rib for me. Just a quick meal, a quick shower and straight to bed, nekkid of course. And back to work in the morning.

PASS THIS GIRL SOME CHEESE!

Originally published March 25, 2002

SHE ALREADY HAS THE WHINE! Thanks to Alice In TV Land I found this heartbreaking tale of a young woman who worked hard, gained a degree in English Literature from Yale and went forth into the world to suffer angst and self-pity when a dream job did not fall immediately into her lap. The poor darling!

As an English major myself, I realize that analytical reading skills and the ability to write well are wonderful assets to apply to almost any job. But few businesses beat the bushes in a frantic effort to find English majors when they have a vacancy on the payroll. Most prefer someone with a marketable degree-- such as an engineer, a CPA or a lawyer-- or someone with experience at work similar to what they offer. No one gains such experience by stomping her little foot and pouting. She has my best wishes, but not my sympathy.

I also offer this piece of advice: no job is beneath your dignity while you work your way up the ladder. But it's easier to climb if you take your butt off your shoulders first.

March 27, 2007

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 [Ed. All links to Netscape seem to be borked right now.] 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.

It's a trend

Originally published March 31, 2006

I've noticed this phenomenon myself. In fact, I'm a prime example of the process in action. I started blogging in December of 2001 and I haven't had a "productive" job since October of 2003.

That means I've pretty much sat on my Cracker ass and done just as I pleased for almost two and a half years now. No alarm clocks. No shithead bosses. No projects to complete or deadlines to meet. No midnight phone calls asking how to handle the Crisis of the Moment because WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!! No more pointless meetings to attend, corporate jargon to speak and BOHICA (Bend Over--- Here It Comes Again) "reorganizations" to survive.

I wouldn't go back to doing what I once did if my life depended on it. I'd rather die.

Of course, that's easy for me to say, because I'm 54 years old and I've PAID my fucking dues in the working world. My employer got the goody out of me for 23 years. I did the shiftwork, slaved the overtime hours on a salary paycheck and ate the shit sandwich of responsibility in big bites for a long time. Then, I got fired for blogging.

Big deal. I was ready to quit anyway. If Kerr-McGee called me today and begged me to come back to my old job with a whopping raise to spice up the deal, I would laugh in their faces. I don't WANT to go back to work, and if I play my cards right, I never will HAVE to again. I've GOT my piece of the American Dream, and I earned it, fair and square.

Of course, Eric should feel guilty as hell for sitting on HIS dead ass, unemployed and bitching because the grass in his yard won't grow by itself. He's in the PRIME OF HIS WORKING LIFE, a mere baby-faced young'un, with LOTS of work left in him before he morphs into a broken-down old fart like me. He needs to put down that coffee cup and start paying taxes again. Who's going to finance MY Social Security if people such as Eric quit working now?

Lazy bastid! Get a job!

Or at least go out like this.

I'll be sorry

Originally published March 31, 2006

I just couldn't stand it anymore. I worked on my garden today.

I took it nice and easy, going slowly and being careful not to hurt myself. I managed to spread another layer of fertilizer and plant four rows of Silver Queen corn, a row of potatoes, and two rows of green beans. I also have 24 okra plants, 12 tomato plants, a bunch of bell peppers, some crookneck squash, zuccinni, cucumber and banana peppers to stick in the ground tomorrow. I think I have room to work some melons in there, too.

Just the little bit of doing that I accomplished today hurt my belly and sent me hobbling off to wash down a couple of Pepcid tablets with some milk to put the fire out. (I save my painkillers for night time, or when I'm hurting particularly badly.) When I walked back into the Crackerbox this afternoon, I kept looking back over my shoulder to see if I was dragging any intestines on the ground behind me. It felt like I was...

I don't care if I WILL be sore and sorry tomorrow. Looking out my kitchen window every day at that tilled piece of land laying bare was driving me crazy. I never did get a load of compost from Mama's house, nor did I ever set all my landscape timbers, but I simply couldn't wait any longer. I declared my garden officially started today.

Once I get the other stuff in the ground tomorrow, I'll set up my sprinklers in strategic locations and just watch it grow. A land of milk and honey! Bounty from generous Mother Nature! Food I grew all by myself!

And best of all, it's all FREE--- except for the $200 or so I spent on seed, plants, fertilizer, cow shit, sprinklers, a new shovel, landscape timbers, a short-handled weeding rake, a "Y" fitting so that I can run two sets of sprinklers at once and the gallon of Roundup I purchased to start the entire process. Other than THAT investment, combined with hours of my own sweat, the garden is free.

I don't want to hear any shit about how I could do a lot better with $200 in the produce section of Kroger's Supermarket. Fuck you for even THINKING such thoughts. My homegrown vegetables taste better than anything you'll ever find in a store and growing them is good therapy for my warped mind. Wanna think clean thoughts? Get your hands dirty in the soil.

Pictures will be forthcoming, if I live long enough to take them.

March 26, 2007

Don the beer goggles

Originally published March 1, 2005

Either get really drunk or be prepared for eye damage if you go here. Got-dam! That put me right off my peanut butter sandwich.

I think I need a bath now. Somehow... I feel dirty!

Cruel and unusual

Originally published March 2, 2005

I read a lot of history and I know for a fact that "human beans" are some of the most sadistic creatures who ever walked this planet. We have a lot of people throughout history who spent their time inventing horrible ways to kill people.

Just look at the facts. Crucifixion was bad enough (you'd suffer miserably for about 72 hours before you died) but some people had even BETTER ideas. Break somebody at the wheel. Take somebody, strip them nekkid, tie them to a wagon wheel and use a metal rod to slowly break every bone in their bodies. That could last about 12 hours if done properly.

Put somebody on a rack and slowly dislocate every joint in the body. Draw and quarter someone. Practice hanging, until just before the person strangles, then cut him down and slowly eviscerate him once he regains consciousness.

Do like the American Indians did: tie somebody to a tree with a piece of loose rope, then cut a hole in his belly and drag out a piece of intestine. Nail THAT to the tree with a sharp knife and make the poor bastard march around and around the tree while squaws poked him with hot sticks from the fire they started at his feet while he pulls his own guts out.

Scalp a man, then pack his bare skull with glowing embers from a fire. Then tie his scalp back on and watch his brain bake from the heat as he jabbers like a madman as his brain cooks while he's still alive.

I'm not making this stuff up. It's history. And people used to like to WATCH this kind of shit happening. They still do today, except we call it "reality TV" instead of a public execution.

Anybody who asks me "How COULD they?" when they talk about Hitlers minions murdering millions of Jews during WWII are idiots in my humble opinion. They don't read history and they don't understand human nature.

We have NEVER lacked sadists in this world, and we never will. All they really need is permission from government to do what they already LIKE to do. They'll poke a child's eyes out with a screwdriver and laugh while they do it.

Don't tell me that these people don't exist. They do, and there's more of them than you think.

I can believe it

Originally published March 4, 2005

Here's a story about a celebrity asshole. I woulda lost my job that day, but I would have laid a shovel upside that fucker's head and then kicked him in the nuts for good measure.

I have a cousin in Dayton, Ohio who was a tremendous Cincinatti Reds fan. (Johnny Mays was also "Mr. Basketball" for the WHOLE FUCKING STATE when he was 15 years old.) He was playing golf one day when he saw Pete Rose and Johnny Bench on a hole next to the one he was playing. He hopped out of the cart and ran over to them with his scorecard.

"Mr. Rose? Could I please have your autograph?"

Pete Rose snatched the scorecard out of my cousin's hand, threw it on the ground and spit on it. "Get the fuck outta here, kid," he said. "If you want MY autograph, you'll pay for it." My cousin was heartbroken because he thought Pete Rose was the best baseball player who ever lived.

Johnny Bench picked up the scorecard, wiped the spit off of it with a golf towel and told my cousin, "I'm not Pete Rose, but I'll sign your scorecard if you want me to." And he did.

To this day, my cousin despises Pete Rose and loves Johnny Bench. He still has that scorecard, too.

What makes some celebrities act like colossal assholes to a 15 year-old fan? Did celebrity do that to them, or were they just pure assholes to begin with? I vote for the pure assholes to begin with theory, because I've met Arnold Palmer and I have HIS autograph. He signed my hat, and I was one of many people who aggravated him that day at the practice round of The Masters.

But he signed autographs until the sun went down. And he was a gentleman the entire time. What's so difficult about doing that?

I dunno. Ask Pete Rose, that shitass.

Yorkshire terriers

Originally published March 4, 2005

For years, my mom and dad had two dogs: Macho and Muppet. They were both Yorkies and they were damn good dogs. Macho wasn't afraid of anything except Muppet. Muppet wasn't afraid of ANYTHING.

Those little fuckers weighed less than a few steaks I've eaten, but they were bred to go down holes and catch live rats. They are smart, courageous little dogs. They may not be big in stature, but they have hearts like a lion. I loved those dogs.

I put both of them down, about two months apart, at the vet's office (Oh, MY! Beth should have a REALLY clever comment on this post). My dad was dying at the time, both dogs got cancer and my mama didn't have the heart to do it, so I did.

One at a time, I held them both when the vet slipped the needle into the leg-vein they use for the job. One quiet sigh and the lights went out. Nothing left after that but a dead dog and a lot of memories. I did that twice.

My father died and my brother and I bought "Fancy," another Yorkie, as a Christmas present for my mama. ($400 for a pup that would fit in my jacket pocket at the time.) Fancy has been my mama's companion for 11 years now, and she's dying of grief from what she sees happening to my mama. Yorkies are smart, emotional dogs, and I just hope that I don't have to do to her what I did with Macho and Muppet.

I like Fancy a lot.

March 25, 2007

Just thinking

Originally published November 24, 2004

I´m supposed to go see Fernanda in two hours. I´m not sure I want to go. When I met her last night, I thought she was about 30 years old. She is very beautiful, with skin the color of a fresh-picked pecan and one of the brightest smiles I´ve ever seen. Her eyes are wide, limpid and very attractive. Yes, she is a goddess.

But she´s ALSO 20 years old. My goddam DAUGHTER is older, and once I learned how young Fernanda was, I really felt like a cradle-robber. That fact didn´t stop me or her from doing the dirty dance last night, but I felt bad about it today. I´m not kidding. I did.

I told her that I was an old goat. She said (as nearly as I could translate--- Fernanda speaks no English---), "You are not old. You are ALIVE!¨" I think she also said that I have a light in my eyes that shines like moonbeams on a rusty hubcap on a wrecked car in the summer night, and my smile should be dragged off and shot for crimes against humanity. My Spanish isn´t that good, but I think that´s what she said. Something about me attracted her. Hell, she liked the way I sang ¨"Hotel California."

I´ll probably be there. I´ll do that even if it´s just to say goodbye. I owe her that respect.

I walked the streets of La Fortuna today and found myself down some scruffy alley around lunchtime. I could smell something good cooking, so I followed my nose and wound up at a little cafe/bar that the locals really seem to like. All the construction workers and bus drivers showed up there to eat.

I had something called "Sailor´s Rice," as near as I could translate from the menu. I believe that they make that stuff in an industrial-sized cement mixer out back and put it on plates with a snow-shovel. They almost needed a fork lift to bring me my meal. That plate was LOADED with rice, shrimp, fish, chicken, beef, sausage and assorted vegetables. I ate until I thought I would bust and the plate STILL looked loaded when I was finished. Muy Grande.

Why aren´t Costa Ricans fat from eating such food?

Costa Rica has more pretty wimmen per square inch than anyplace else I´ve ever been. Maybe they aren´t all 10s, but the 9 and 1/2s are EVERYWHERE. My face gets tired from gawking at them.

I also see no reason to ever get in a hurry or become pissed off here. According to Rick and Georgia, I´m that way because I am a "yuppie" and I like my life scheduled. I don´t understand the REAL Costa Rican experience of clusterfuckdom, fightdom and fitdom in a rental car that resembles a kid´s purple high-topped basketball shoe, but with worse suspension. Bwhahaha!!! Whatever. They´d rather scream at each other while lost in a rental car going bat-out-of-hell to nowhere, speaking not a word of Spanish nor making any attempt to learn, stressing, yelling and making those obnoxious tooth-sucking sounds that they like so much than be a "yuppie" like me. Fine.

I don´t think I´m going back home on time. I´m supposed to be at the San Jose airport on Sunday, but I don´t believe that I will make that flight. I´m gonna hang around for another week or so, maybe longer. I enjoy "La Pura Vida" and my yuppie ass likes using the bus or a taxi to get where I want to go. As long as it´s all "scheduled," don´t you know.

I believe that I´ll see Fernanda tonight-- I just don´t know for how long or what for. I believe that I´ll be in Jaco tomorrow. I also believe that I will have a good time no matter what I decide to do.

I really like it here.

Life goes on

Originally published November 25, 2004

I am in Jaco now.

I caught my ride right on time this morning, but the van broke down on the road and left me stranded at a small cafe on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean 35 km from Jaco. You know how my yuppie ass hates it when a schedule goes awry, so I ranted, raved, bitched, pissed and moaned ate some really good soup with fresh bread and I flirted with a young woman from Sweden until another bus came to pick us up. Her name is Inga, and I'm having dinner with her tonight.

I also started taking pictures today. I'm gonna make a real statement on this blog: Costa Rican wimmen are BEAUTIFUL, and I am gathering the proof. So far, I have asked 30 wimmen to pose for me and all 30 agreed. I haven't been slapped yet, either. These aren't porno shots---just smiling Costa Rican wimmen--- but if you see the pictures and have pornographic thoughts, I won't blame you. Costa Rican wimmen do that to a zesty man.

I have a nice room right on the beach. I rented it for seven days, at $20 per night, which means that I won't be making my scheduled flight home on schedule, which is very frightening for a schedule-freak yuppie such as myself, who wants everything scheduled, according to Recondo. Of course, he's off bitching and lost somewhere, while I'm staying at the beach in a town I know well. Who is the asshole here?

I don't know how to get in touch with Rick and Georgia, but I imagine that when I don't show up at the airport on Sunday, they'll figure out that I'm either dead or being a well-scheduled yuppie. I really don't care what they think.

Fuck 'em. I'm going home when I feel like it and not one minute before. Yup THAT, and stick that schedule stuff up your ass!!! Enjoy fighting in the rental car, cussing each other and seeing Costa Rica at 60 kilometers per hour, you sophisticates.

I'm going out to dinner tonight with Inga and I intend to see an old friend named Ailea tomorrow. If things go according to my "schedule" I may get laid by three different wimmen in four days. Not bad for an old goat.

I LOVE Costa Rica!!!

Old timer

Originally published November 26, 2004

My assault on the Fortress Inga was unsuccessful last night. We had a nice meal together and I planned to seduce her. I turned up the old Acidman cham to warp factor 10, and I launched everything from photon torpedoes to maximum phasers at her. I think I threw in a couple of disrupter beams, too.

But Inga had her shields up and she repulsed every attack I made. She actually wanted to SLEEP instead of "go to bed" last night. Oh well. You win some and you lose some, but the game is always fun to play. I walked her back to her room at 9:00 last night and left after a very polite and demure kiss.
Inga left for Manuel Antonio this morning.

I didn't feel like going to sleep after we parted, so I went down to the beach to gamble. Unfortunately, the casino where I won all that money playing blackjack last time here is no longer a casino. It's a "Beach Entertainment Center" now, with an armed guard out front and late 70s disco music blasting out the door. I didn't go there.

I went to a little bar on the beach to have a beer. I walked in, sat down on a stool, and the bartender said, "Oye, Old Timer! What'll you have?"

"Old Timer." Fuck! Do I REALLY look that old? Is THAT what went wrong with Inga? She didn't want to sport with an "old timer?"

I didn't get laid but I DID get insulted last night. That bartender blew the hell out of his goddam tip with that "Old Timer" remark. I shoulda dragged his ass over the bar and laid a good whuppin' on him for his audacity. I shoulda beat the shit out of him. I shoulda...

I shoulda done just what I did, which is drink a beer and leave. I am too old for bar-fights anymore and I might hurt my back. I have to face reality every now and then, no matter how young I think.

I'm a goddam old-timer.

March 24, 2007

I am alive

Originally published November 23, 2004

I have just a few words to place here before I go off to... be Costa Rican again.

1. Anybody who says the Caribbean coast is a shit hole either has never been there or is one hell of a lot more snobby than I am.

2. My guest blogger promised cats, and he delivered. I cannot heap profanity on his head, because he warned me ahead of time. I got what I asked for.

3. Rick and Georgia are two of my dearest friends in this world. They are like family to me. But I will NEVER go on another trip such as this with them, because right now, I want to KILL THEM BOTH!!! With a machete. In their sleep. Bejus on a fucking bicycle. If I hear Georgia bitch one more time (I counted seventeen seperate bitches during a ten minute drive last night) or if I see Rick pitch another four year old boy hissy fit over nothing, I´m gonna go ballistic. I don´t come to Costa Rica to be with the Battling Cramdens.

4. Spammers had fun while I was away. I had to pay for the privilege, and it took some time, but I deleted every bit of that shit they tracked all over my site. I told you assholes before: I´m not gonna let you win.

5. Internet has been available where I´ve been, but I just haven´t bothered to use it. I am on vacation.

I´m alright, and having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.

Cast adrift

Orignally published November 24, 2004

I parted company with my dear friends this morning. They hopped in the rental car and went off for another eight hour day of driving, cussing and bitching-- which seems to be their idea of how to enjoy Costa Rica--- and they abandoned me alone in La Fortuna. I was so distraught by the experience that I fucked around taking pictures of the volcano and eating a Tico breakfast this morning, worrying about how I was going to survive, and I missed the last bus to Jaco today by the time I finally got around to checking on one.

I was so upset by THAT experience that I made reservations on the bus for tomorrow and rented my room here for one more night. Alone. Adrift. All by myself. In Costa Rica. Auntie Em! Auntie Em! I think I´m gonna die!

I made a new friend last night. Her name is Fernanda and I completely charmed her britches off by singing Karaoke in a local bar. The old Silver Throat still attracts the ladies. She´s another reason I don´t mind spending another night here. I won´t exactly be by myself.

I do have one problem. After all the rain along the Caribbean beaches, my clothes are beginning to smell like sweaty feet. I intend to wash them once I get to Jaco, but for now, I´m going to buy some after-shave and mask my musk that way. Then, I´ll smell like sweaty feet drenched in Old Spice. That works for me.

Anyway, I´m just checking in. Y´all keep playing.

Just thinking

Originally published November 24, 2004

I´m supposed to go see Fernanda in two hours. I´m not sure I want to go. When I met her last night, I thought she was about 30 years old. She is very beautiful, with skin the color of a fresh-picked pecan and one of the brightest smiles I´ve ever seen. Her eyes are wide, limpid and very attractive. Yes, she is a goddess.

But she´s ALSO 20 years old. My goddam DAUGHTER is older, and once I learned how young Fernanda was, I really felt like a cradle-robber. That fact didn´t stop me or her from doing the dirty dance last night, but I felt bad about it today. I´m not kidding. I did.

I told her that I was an old goat. She said (as nearly as I could translate--- Fernanda speaks no English---), "You are not old. You are ALIVE!¨" I think she also said that I have a light in my eyes that shines like moonbeams on a rusty hubcap on a wrecked car in the summer night, and my smile should be dragged off and shot for crimes against humanity. My Spanish isn´t that good, but I think that´s what she said. Something about me attracted her. Hell, she liked the way I sang ¨"Hotel California."

I´ll probably be there. I´ll do that even if it´s just to say goodbye. I owe her that respect.

I walked the streets of La Fortuna today and found myself down some scruffy alley around lunchtime. I could smell something good cooking, so I followed my nose and wound up at a little cafe/bar that the locals really seem to like. All the construction workers and bus drivers showed up there to eat.

I had something called "Sailor´s Rice," as near as I could translate from the menu. I believe that they make that stuff in an industrial-sized cement mixer out back and put it on plates with a snow-shovel. They almost needed a fork lift to bring me my meal. That plate was LOADED with rice, shrimp, fish, chicken, beef, sausage and assorted vegetables. I ate until I thought I would bust and the plate STILL looked loaded when I was finished. Muy Grande.

Why aren´t Costa Ricans fat from eating such food?

Costa Rica has more pretty wimmen per square inch than anyplace else I´ve ever been. Maybe they aren´t all 10s, but the 9 and 1/2s are EVERYWHERE. My face gets tired from gawking at them.

I also see no reason to ever get in a hurry or become pissed off here. According to Rick and Georgia, I´m that way because I am a "yuppie" and I like my life scheduled. I don´t understand the REAL Costa Rican experience of clusterfuckdom, fightdom and fitdom in a rental car that resembles a kid´s purple high-topped basketball shoe, but with worse suspension. Bwhahaha!!! Whatever. They´d rather scream at each other while lost in a rental car going bat-out-of-hell to nowhere, speaking not a word of Spanish nor making any attempt to learn, stressing, yelling and making those obnoxious tooth-sucking sounds that they like so much than be a "yuppie" like me. Fine.

I don´t think I´m going back home on time. I´m supposed to be at the San Jose airport on Sunday, but I don´t believe that I will make that flight. I´m gonna hang around for another week or so, maybe longer. I enjoy "La Pura Vida" and my yuppie ass likes using the bus or a taxi to get where I want to go. As long as it´s all "scheduled," don´t you know.

I believe that I´ll see Fernanda tonight-- I just don´t know for how long or what for. I believe that I´ll be in Jaco tomorrow. I also believe that I will have a good time no matter what I decide to do.

I really like it here.

March 23, 2007

It all fit

Originally published November 18, 2004

I have everything I'm taking to Costa Rica packed into one bag. This is good. I ain't taking a whole lot with me, but I think I've still got more than I need. I am ready to go tomorrow.

I went by and had a nice visit with my mama today. She and my grandmother think I am very handsome now that I have a short haircut and no beard anymore. Awww... they love me even when I'm ugly.

I arrived back home this afternoon and had a typical polite, articulate message from Recondo 32 on my machine: "Hey, asshole! Turn off the porno movie, get your cock out of your paw and stop jacking off. Pick up the goddam phone, shit-bird!" See how MY FRIENDS talk to me? No wonder I'm so depressed all the time.

I watched a movie that had a hysterical woman in it. If I were a feminist, that kind of shit would piss me off. EVERY movie that has action and violence in it features at least one hysterical woman, you know, the one who goes to screaming pieces at the sight of blood, who can't see through the torrents of tears streaming from her eyes, who walks backward, trembling with fright and whimpering like a whipped dog, until she bumps into something she didn't see and screams some more.

What kind of message does that send? I AM WOMAN! Hear me whine and watch me act with the maturity and intelligence of a three year-old boy in a crisis situation. Got Dam! I can't call 'em "broads" anymore, because that's a sexist term. But Hollywood keeps showing hysterical wimmen by the truckload. Go figure.

I got a holiday greeting card from the US Post Office today. Why? What am I going to do if I DON'T receive that greeting card? Take my business elsewhere for home mail? What a useless gesture. How much did that shit cost?

I almost signed up for an internet dating service today. I chickened out at the last minute, mainly because I'm leaving the country tomorrow, and I want to be around to see what kind of fucked-up woman might be interested in ME when I post the bio I composed especially for the ad. Yeah, I like candle-lit dinners, long walks on the beach and taxidermy. You oughta see my stuffed armadillo collection.

I may have a guest blogger posting while I'm gone. I dared him, and he SAYS he has cast-iron balls. We'll see. He has the keys to the joint.

You gonna miss me while I'm gone???

The best revenge

Originally published November 19, 2004

I am off to live well for a week. Maybe two. Hell... maybe THREE!!! If I decide to stay in Costa Rica longer than my reservations reach now, it won't be the first time I've done that. I can handle la pura vida. Life played on the first bounce ain't bad.

I've been through a lot of shit in the past three years. I've lost a lot of things that were important to me, and the experience has cost me a WHOLE LOT of money. Lawyers are gnawing prime rib and drinking expensive wine in fancy restaurants on my tab, and they've been doing it for a while now. That's okay.

I'm gonna eat huevos fritas, con arroz y pintos for deseuno every day, con frutas frescas and I will flirt with las chicas every time I get the chance. I've been on the wagon for a while now, but I'm going to have a few cervesas Imperials, con no hielo y no vaso on this trip. I also intend to gamble. If I win, that's great. If I lose, what the fuck? I'd rather piss that money away on cards than pay it to a lawyer.

Yeah, Jennifer. You beat me up bad, but you didn't kill me. I'm still living well in spite of you. Or maybe just TO spite you.

Maybe I'll send you a post card from Costa Rica. Cunt.

A money belt

Originally published November 19, 2004

You ever had one of those? I bought one about a month ago and I think it's cool. It looks just like a regular belt with a plastic zipper on the inside (should cruise right through an airport metal detector) that exposes a narrow slot just perfect for the storage of folded-up American greenbacks.

I loaded some cash in mine this morning and I feel like James Bond now. Acidman with a money-belt. Ain't life a hoot?

Okay, that's it. I'll blog from Costa Rica or I'll see y'all when I get back.

March 22, 2007

I don't mind

Originally published November 17, 2004

I'm always surprised when I write about my experience with prostate cancer and receive a lot of emails (well... four or five PRIVATE emails on one post are a lot to me) from guys going through the same thing I did or just getting ready to face it. That's some pretty spooky stuff for a guy, and I damn sure don't mind talking about it if I can help anyone else through a rough time. I wish I had known someone to talk to when I was going through it.

Breast cancer gets a lot more publicity, but prostate cancer kills more people than breast cancer does every year. That's a fact, and the treatments for prostate cancer are myriad. I suggest that every man past the age of 40 have a PSA test done every year, and if you come up positive on a subsequent biopsy, do a lot of reading before you make a decision about what to do. Once you make that decision, there's no turning back.

Talk to more than one doctor. If you're an old fart with a slow-moving cancer, tell everybody to kiss your ass and wait for something else to kill you first. That's a good bet. If you're 48 years old, the way I was when I was diagnosed, you have to weigh your options and select the best one. There IS no good one, but you can choose the lesser of several evils.

I made my choice and it appears to be the right one, because I'm still at a zero PSA more than three years after a radical prostatectomy. The doc killed my dick, but he saved my life. I consider myself to be a lucky man.

Yeah, I wish none of that shit ever happened to me. But it did, and I was stuck with it. Knowing what I know now... if I had it all to do over again... would I make the same choice? I've spent more than three years thinking about that question and only recently have I made up my mind about the answer.

Yes. I would. I did the right thing.

Guys... don't hesitate to write me about this problem. I don't claim to be an expert, but I'll tell you what I know from my personal experience. I won't lie to you, either.

I may not be much more than a candle in the dark, but that's more light that I had when I walked into that tunnel.

Speaking Spanish

Originally published November 17, 2004

I took two years of high school Spanish, where I learned very little, then 20 hours of Spanish in college, where I learned a lot. But I let every bit of that knowledge rot on the vine until my first trip to Costa Rica. I was surprised at how fast some of my old lessons came back to me.

Vocabulary in a foreign language goes to shit in a hurry if you don't use it. Mine ossified. But I still remembered the basics, and once I started hanging around people who spoke nothing but Spanish, I got better fast. Gerio, my driver, was VERY impressed by the great strides I made from the time he dropped me off in San Jose and the time he picked me up to return to the airport two weeks later, since I spoke nothing but Spanish with him that time. When he first met me, I remembered about five words in Spanish. The second time, I was putting together sentences.

"Roberto! Es muy impresiontante. Hablas espanol ahora! Bueno!"

I'm not fluent in the language, because I still have to think in English and translate what I want to say, and if somebody gets too rapid-fire in Spanish with me, I can't understand a word they're saying, but I am one hell of a lot better than I once was. I would like to go spend about six months there, take a couple of Spanish courses (They teach conversational Spanish EVERYWHERE down there) and immerse myself in the language.

I believe that I could become fluent. Spanish is a very melodic language and I enjoy trying to speak it. Right now, I speak it like a retard, in the present tense all the time and with a limited vocabulary, but I get better every time I go to Costa Rica. Practice makes perfect.

I would like to speak a second language. Just because.

I started packing

Originally published November 17, 2004

I'm leaving for Costa Rica again on Friday. I'm going to spend Thanksgiving there and see some parts of the country I've never been before. The weather looks kind of funky, a little chilly and rainy, but I'll survive somehow. If I become desperate, I'll rent a woman to keep me warm at night.

I'm staying out of San Jose this time and heading over to the Caribbean side. I've heard that the east coast of Costa Rica is the armpit of the country, but I don't know that for a fact and I want to get my own perspective on the situation. If I don't like it there, I'll go somewhere else. Transportation is no problem.

I really like Costa Rica. I cannot recommend it highly enough as a great, beautiful, inexpensive vacation spot. The last time I was there, I spent 14 days, lived like a king, got laid, ate well, drank well and saw a LOT of interesting sights and the entire trip, including round-trip air fare, cost me $1,400 total.

That ain't bad for two weeks in a tropical paradise. It's less money than I pay in child support every month for a son I can't visit. Hell, I pay the bloodless cunt more money than I spend on MYSELF every month. I could buy Quinton a got-damn HOUSE and a CAR with the money I'm paying my ex-wife. That just ain't right, but it's the law. More than $40,000 and counting, so far. That's the most expensive pussy I ever had in my life, and it looks as if I'll keep paying for it for a long, long time.

The truth is, it wasn't THAT good. NO pussy has EVER been THAT good. Do you realize how much young, good-looking ass I could rent for $40,000 in Costa Rica? Holy Bejus! I could fuck myself to DEATH with that kind of money. The ex GAVE that pussy away to somebody else when she was still married to me and she never charged that bastard a dime. Now, I'm paying her and her lawyer, too.

Life is just ridiculous sometimes.

I'm taking one bag with me and it's 90% packed. I travel light, and I'm getting good at it. Clothes, cigarettes, camera, passport and cash. That's all I need. Besides, it's about time I got out of here for an adventure again.

I'm going to see my mama tomorrow, then finish packing and head out of here on Friday. I'll blog from the Costa Rican internet cafes, among the monkeys, mangos and muchachas bonitas. I hope to have excellent stories to tell when I return.

Hell.. I'll tell excellent stories even if I have to make them up.

March 21, 2007

Culture... and out-growing it

Originally published May 30, 2005

I stole this link from here and I blogged about the subject earlier here. I want to read that book.

If you think there isn't a mountain dialect spoken in the hollows of Harlan County, Kentucky, you've never been there. That sound is still music to my ears, but the rest of my family and I stopped speaking it years ago. It works fine in the mountains of eastern Kentucky, but it doesn't make you sound very intelligent or capable when you speak it to someone who's never heard it before.

One of the first things I learned when I came to Savannah: practice ditching that hillbilly accent. It doesn't fit in around here. Learn to talk the way everybody else does. So, I did.

That's one of the reasons I laughed my ass off at the idea of "Ebonics" when some idiots were actually SERIOUS about promoting ghetto-dialect as a legitimate second language.

My thought was.... "Here kid--- you trying to get out of this sump and make something of yourself in life? Let me help. I'm going to tie this BIG ROCK around your foot and send you out there to hobble around. When you don't find a job, come hobbling back here and I'll tell you it was all Whitey's fault. It had nothing to do with the rock tied to your foot."

I like a lot of things about people I call "red-necks." They're good old boys, unsophisticated but friendly as hell, good beer-drinkers, hard-workers and honest. They take care of their kids and they don't beat up the wife. They like country music and NASCAR racing. They own guns and enjoy hunting. If they make a good kill, they'll drive by your house and offer you a fresh deer-haunch.

I DON'T like Poor White Trash. There is a HUGE difference between PWT and a red-neck. Poor White Trash won't work. They blame every problem they have on somebody else. They allow their kids to grow like wild grass. They live in a single-wide mobile home with a broken front door, a blue tarp over the roof and a $16,000 bass boat in the drive-way. The only reason they ever get dressed is to walk to the mailbox and see if the Welfare Check arrived yet.

Am I being racist when I say that I see the same difference in Black Culture today? Them that wants it goes and gets it--- and it's OUT THERE TO BE HAD!!! If doing that is considered to be "acting white," I must respectfully disagree. I call it ACTING CIVILIZED!!! And it works, too.

On the other hand, you have the black equalivant of PWT, and they display the same characteristics of sorriness, excuse-making and self-destructive behavior. My point is that it's not a racial thing, in MY humble opinion. Some people are just plain sorry.

Preaching to the sorry people that what they are doing is legitimate guarantees that sorry people will remain sorry. I don't see how doing that improves a sorry person's life. That crap just makes people who are NOT dead-ass sorry pay more in taxes.

If I sound harsh, I mean to be.

Fisking a comment

Originally published May 29, 2005

I'm in a foul mood and this comment just chapped my Cracker ass. It's a perfect example of what's wrong with this country today.

Just to put in a contrary opinion.

Banning an activity makes it less commonly done. I don't think there is any argument about that. On the downside, driving it underground makes life harder for those who engage in that activity, either as buyer of seller, because it becomes a criminal activity, without regulations.

Your sweeping statement applies to speed limits, too, right? NOBODY violates those laws. How about murder? Make it illegal and people stop killing each other, right? Outlaw guns and you have no more gun crime, right? I beg to differ with you.

Driving any human vice underground accomplishes two things. First, it brings criminals into the trade because what they are doing is against the law anyway, and that pissant fact doesn't bother them. They're perfectly willing to sell whatever the government says they can't sell. Second, it poses a huge risk for consumers because you never know what that shit is you buy from Vito in the alley behind the bar. But the central point is: the laws don't stop it from happening.

Most people don't appreciate, because they are never told, that during Prohibition, deaths from liver (alcoholic) cirrhosis dropped. This is a lethal scarring of the liver due to chronic or recurrent hepatitis (liver inflammation), in this case due to alcohol.

The original name for this type of cirrhosis (Laennec's cirrhosis). He was a French physician in the 19th century. The French, famous wine drinkers, had a lot of this disease.

Give me a fucking break. Joel, you're going to tell me with a straight face that during Prohibition, when people made "bathtub gin," ran moonshine through car radiators and sold rubbing alcohol as genuine hootch, FEWER PEOPLE got sick from drinking? I'd like to see a link to your source. I seem to recall reading about the number of people who never had the chance to develop cirrhosis because they were POISONED RIGHT AWAY by what they drank in those days. And the end result was people drank anyway, and organized crime got its start.

It is common for many rational people to think nothing should be banned. Let adults decide what do with their own bodies.

A contrary view is held by many peopler, who think they are supposed to control the activities of other people. You know who you are. YOU ARE PARENTS.

Okay, Ward Cleaver. You missed one small detail in that holier-then-thou observation. Parents control the behavior of CHILDREN. Once those kids become adults, they have the right to make their own decisions. As a parent, the best you can hope to do is instill a good set of values in your children so that they do okay in the world. But once they fly the nest, it's not your job to control their behavior anymore. That's THEIR JOB.

THESE PARENTS CARE ABOUT WHAT HAPPENS TO THEIR CHILDREN, unlike those rational adults who don't give a hoot about what happens to other people.

That's right, these parents don't want their children to be drug addicts or alcoholics, and don't want them smoking, and want laws passed to make such behavior by their children difficult.

No, they want GOVERNMENT to raise their children for them and I find that idea absolutely repugnant. If these fucking laws you're so proud of worked, we wouldn't have teenagers smoking dope and getting drunk today, but we do. And the fact that too many parents rely on GOVERNMENT to raise their children is why we end up with so many drunk, stoned kids. Hang it out there as "forbidden fruit" and see if a teenager won't go for it. The reason I smoked my first joint was because all the anti-drug propaganda I received in school and on TV made me curious about it. If it was THAT bad, it had to be good, so I tried it. And I don't believe that I was that unusual as a teenager.

So, as long as we have PARENTS we will have laws to control the use of drugs and alcohol. Live with it. I like parents.

I loved BOTH of my parents. I AM a parent myself. What's that fact got to do with whether the laws are effective and necessary or not? I can answer that question easily: diddly-squat. The fact that you "like parents" doesn't mean that you need Daddy Ted Kennedy or Uncle Henry Waxman or Mama Barbara Boxer raising your kids. That's YOUR goddam job, not the government's.

The wise thing to do is to respect their laws as much as you are able, and don't endanger your freedom or wealth by circumventing these laws stupidly.

Posted by joel at May 29, 2005 08:44 PM

And don't bitch about the laws even when they are stupid and don't work, either. Right? Just be a good little sheeple. That's "wise."

My aching ass, it is. Joel, your line of reasoning is why the Founding Fathers are spinning in their graves today over what this country has become. You are the last person in the world who needs to be preaching about how to "endanger your freedom."

Shit. You're willing to give yours away.

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.

March 20, 2007

I love my family

Originally published May 29, 2004

I went to see my mama and my grandmother today. My Uncle Virgil was there, too, and we had a nice, long conversation about a lot things other people wouldn't understand. We laughed a lot, but my family is famous for witty repartee and a good sense of humor.

My grandmother just turned 93 years old. She's tiny and frail now, but she was a pisscutter in her younger days. Virgil told about how, when my grandfather administered haircuts to him and his two brothers, Mommie (that's my grandmother) always made sure that all three had enough hair left on their heads so that she could grab a handful and snatch them around when they fucked up. She would check the length of the cut, nod approvingly and say, "That's a good haircut. I can grab that."

Mommie was fixing supper one afternoon and wanted to make some cornbread, but she was out of buttermilk. She gave my Uncle George some money and told him to go to the store and buy a quart. George became distracted by some game he was playing and didn't scoot off quickly enough to suit Mommie. "I thought I told you to go to the store and buy a quart of buttermilk," she said to George, who was still playing in the yard and oblivious to his responsibility.

"I'm going in just a minute," he replied, which was the wrong thing to say to Mommie. She grabbed a switch and laid a nice lick on one of his bare shoulders. "You'll go RIGHT NOW!" she said, drawing back for another swipe. George went, kicking up a cloud of Kentucky dust behind him.

When George came home with the buttermilk, he had a nice, red welt on his arm from the switch-mark. "Look, Mommie," he said, pointing to the V-shaped stripe on his arm. "You made me a private."

"Yes, I did," Mommie replied. "And if you ever ignore me like that again, I'll promote you to sergeant."

She meant it, too.

I have hundreds of such stories to tell. I've heard a lot of them more than once, but I never get tired of hearing them again. I come from a long line of good storytellers. A meeting of my relatives is a lot like a blog-meet. If you want to get a word in edgewise, you'd better talk first and talk loud.

My family is quiet and shy, just like me.

A golden oldie

Originally published May 28, 2004

The earliest memory I have is catching a butterfly with my bare fingers in the front-yard flowerbed by the fence in my Old Kentucky home. I may have been four year-old at the time. I remember a lot about living in the coal mining camp and I remember being very happy there, except for the trips to Dr. Begley's office for typhoid shots and polio shots and smallpox vaccinations, things my son will never know (unless terorists have their way).

I remember listing to my grandmother tell stories about her childhood (she was about 45 at the time, but she was OLD to me) and I recall vividly thinking about a path through the wildflowers on the other side of the railroad trestle where we lived, and how she had travelled a long way down that path where I was not allowed to go. I envied the memories she had.

I am five years older than she was then. I have travelled FAR down that path in my lifetime, not only through the wildflowers, but into the weeds, the briars, the poison ivy and the quicksand, too. I look back now and I really don't understand how I went from being Beaver Cleaver (although a lot of those traits still survive), to a high-school jockstrap, to a dope-smoking bohemian English Major in college, to an advertising copywriter, to a six-year professional musician, to a 23-year employee in a chemical plant. I had about one hundred "girlfriends" along the way and never contracted a single STD during my swashbuckling days. I never cheated on a wife. I am loyal, if nothing else.

I have two ex-wives and two ex-children to show for it. I really don't know whether I have been blessed or extremely unlucky. (BAH! As my late Daddy would say, "You make your OWN luck, son!") I have more stories to tell than the average man, whatever THAT is, but all the stories aren't pleasant ones. I don't like what the prostate surgery has done to me. I once swore that I could never become a heroin addict because I HATE NEEDLES! Now, I have a prescription for them, and I get all I want. And I use them, too.

Who would'a ever thunk THAT? Not ME!

I like living by myself now. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. The Crackerbox is a nice home (Joan? What would it cost to buy this place on 1/2 acre of wooded land where YOU live?). I own all the toys a man my age should own (except a trophy younger woman). I'm not rich, but I have more money than I know what to do with. I spend it freely; that's what it's for.

But I keep looking back and wondering how I fucked up everything in the rear-view mirror. It's too late to go back now.

I hate that.

(originally written almost two years ago.)

Boredom

Originally published May 29, 2004

I've been in a really existential mood lately. I spent a lot of time in Costa Rica just examining my life, thinking about how I got where I am today and where I'll go from here. I didn't come up with a whole lot of answers, but I did come to realize one thing.

Most of my life, from the age of six, has been run by schedules, time-tables, deadlines, and the relentless ticking of a clock. I always had to be somewhere on time, do something on time or finish my work on time. I had assignments to complete, classes to attend, "deliverables" to deliver and places I had to be. Bejus! No wonder I have gray silver hair.

When Kerr-McGee fired me retired me, they gave me a nice watch as a going away present. Isn't that ironic? Why the hell would I want a fucking WATCH when I don't have to work anymore? I lived 24 years of my life on a Work Schedule, and I was on call for 24-7 most of that time. I looked at that watch and laughed out loud.

I've never taken it out of the box it came in and I doubt that I ever will.

I like being bored now. I'm not talking about sitting around a twiddling my thumbs. I mean the freedom a person feels when he or she doesn't HAVE to do much of anything. On my trip to Costa Rica, I really didn't plan a goddam thing. I bought my plane tickets, arranged for lodging and transportation, but other than that, I played everything on the first bounce.

If I felt like touring, I toured. If I felt like reading, I read. If I didn't feel like doing a damn thing, I didn't do anything. In Martin Antonio one morning, I was nodding in a lawn chair by the hotel swimming pool and I thought about getting up, walking about 50 feet to the bar and buying myself some fruity rum drink with an umbrella in it. But that seemed like too much work for such a beautiful day, so I just went to sleep in the chair.

I don't fear boredom. In fact, I wrap it around me like a warm, fuzzy blanket today, and I find it very comfortable. I like not needing a watch anymore. My body clock is all the time-keeper I require.

I met two retired school teachers from Colorado when I was in Arenal. ("Recovering educators," as they described themselves.) They were very friendly ladies and I had dinner with them a couple of evenings.

But they did one thing that drove me nuts. They had every waking moment of every day planned right down to the minute. They had a SCHEDULE to follow. That's not a vacation; that's just work by a different name. I got tired just watching them dash after tour buses and worry about where they were supposed to be next.

I'll never live like that again. Anybody want to buy a really nice watch? I have one that I'll sell cheap.

I don't need it anymore.

March 19, 2007

Ow

Originally published March 25, 2002

I arrived back home last night before 11:00 and in pretty good shape, except for two self-inflicted wounds. I worked just a little too hard on my overall tan and earned the nickname "Lobster Tail" the next day. It was better than "Baboon Butt," which was the image evoked in MY mind when I checked my rear-view in the mirror. But I recovered quickly and was able to sit in the hot tub by that evening.

The other wound came from a henna tattoo I actually PAID someone to paint on my left bicep during a lengthy tour of Duval Street. The tattoo looked good the next day, but by that evening, it started to itch. Then it started to blister and my entire left arm began to swell. The cute little barbed wire design soon resembled an evil space parasite growing and throbbing on my arm in a merciless attempt to absorb my life-force. I tried washing it off, but the creature had its tentacles embedded too deeply for soap and water to touch it. I relied on Benadryl and alcohol for temporary relief-- the Benadryl applied directly to the wound and the alcohol taken internally. I survived, but the damned thing still looks as if I were attacked by a demented sadist with a branding iron. Obviously, I am terribly allergic to henna. I never thought about something as simple as a paint-on tattoo having this kind of aftereffect, because I saw lots of little kids getting the tattoos and it never seemed to bother them.

I guess the oozing sore on my bicep is simply further proof that I'm not a little kid anymore.

The great equalizer

Originally published March 25, 2002

As intended, I ate and drank well while I was in Key West. Conch and calamari and lobster, with an occasional prime rib thrown in for variety. I abandoned my rented bicycle after the first day and walked everywhere I wanted to go. Duffy's Steakhouse and Crabby Dick's were my favorite dining establishments, and Irish Kevin's Pub my favorite bar. Yeah, I visited Sloppy Joe's, Captain Tony's, The Bull and Whistle, and a few other places I don't recall, but the music was better at Kevin's. It's probably just as well that I came home when I did, because a few weeks of that kind of living would require membership in Weight Watchers and a liver transplant to restore me.

I stayed at a place called DEJA VU. I've never been particularly modest about people seeing me naked, because I skinny-dipped with friends in my youth and showered in locker rooms full of bare-assed guys during my athletic days. I adapted quickly to this "clothing optional" (read: nobody wears clothes) atmosphere and forged vacation friendships with a lot of interesting people from all over the world while I was there. I am more convinced than ever that Congress should meet nude. I lot of social masks fall away when everybody is naked. It's difficult to act regal and pompous with your buns in the wind and nothing but a towel to hide behind.

Congress could use a dose of that sort of medicine.

Football cards

Originally published March 18, 2002

I started collecting football cards when I was six years old. I lost a lot of my worldly possessions through tumultuous life upheavals in subsequent years, but somehow I managed to hang onto those cards. I have a 1959 Johnny Unitas, crew-cut and on top of the world at age 26, after the famous sudden-death championship victory over the Giants. I have Frank Gifford, Bobby Layne, Pat Summerall, Y.A. Tittle, Bart Starr, "Big Daddy" Lipscomb, "Night Train" Lane, Raymond Berry, Alex Karras, Jim Brown and Gale Sayers. I also have Brian Piccolo, which is the most valuable card I own, according to a catalogue I checked recently.

Old football cards aren't worth the kind of money old baseball cards are, but that's okay with me. I'll never sell any of them. Those players were my heroes when I was a boy. I enjoy looking at my cards and remembering when I still believed in magic, and those men were gods. Incredible waves of nostalgia wash over me.

Some of the cards still smell of bubble gum, too.

March 18, 2007

Carnival of the Crappers

Originally published April 30, 2005

I believe that this post started the dung-ball rolling. I was kinda proud of that one for a while.

But I was quickly countered by this disgusting post [Ed. Link "404"-ed. Was Dogsnot.] as sort of a uh.... re-buttal to me.

Shortly thereafter came this timely post, which linked a bowel movements to tidal waves, which elevated shit-bloging to an entirely new level. I genuflected in awe and respect when I read that one. I know a shit-master when I see one.

Some people don't blog but still have stories to tell. Here is one:

I was working on a drilling rig in colombia, and I apparently ate something that didn't agree with me because I started with full on diarrea. It got so bad that when I tried to drink some cold water to replace all the fluids I was losing, I crapped it out 2 minutes later, still cold. This was really bad because I was supposed to fly back to Bogota the next day, then fly to Dubai, and I was afraid to move more than 5 feet from a toilet. I finally ate enough immodium that I corked up and I flew back to town. The next day I had a 10 hour flight on lufthansa to germany, then 7 hours to dubai. Stupid me, I forgot my precious immodium pills. I was in the middle of 5 seats, so at the precise moment the seat belt sign went off I had to dash to the bathroom, and I could hear the little german kid next to me say something like "der fatguy has der shitenkopfs", and then start laughing. After 10 hours of this (I hold the lufthansa record for time spent in bathroom), I'm trying to get my stuff and get off the plane, and when I open the overhead my computer bag slides out and lands right in the seat where the little german kid was sitting. Luckily he was standing up, so I didn't crush him with my 10 pound IBM, the little kid says something like "der fattenshittenguy crushenmeheaden" and there were all these angry aryan looks all around me. Luckily, I got away and found out that the german word for pharmacy is kemist, and the german word for immodium is immodium...

Then, you have this story about "designer turds." I can understand store-bought titties, fake noses and even some of the shit that Michael Jackson has done to himself. But submitting to a butt-cut so that you can crap designer turds? I don't understand that.

Other people study the metaphysics of crap.

THE SHIT LIST GHOST SHIT- The kind where you feel the shit come out, but there is no shit in the toilet. CLEAN SHIT- The kind where you shit it out, see it in the toilet, but there is nothing on the toilet paper. WET SHIT- The kind where you wipe your butt 50 times and it still feels unwiped, so you have to put some toilet paper between your butt and your underwear so you won't ruin them with a stain. SECOND WAVE SHIT- It happens when you're done shitting and you have pulled your pants up to your knees, and you realize that you have to shit some more. POP-A-VEIN-IN-YOUR-FOREHEAD-SHIT- The kind where you strain so much to get it out you practically have a stroke. ICEBERG SHIT- The kind where the shit is so long that the end of it sticks above the water. RICHARD SIMMONS SHIT- You shit so much, you lose 30 pounds. LINCOLN LOG SHIT- The kind of shit that is so huge, you're afraid to flush without breaking it into little pieces with the toilet brush. GASEY SHIT- It is so noisy, everyone within earshot is giggling. DRINKER SHIT- The kind of shit you have the morning after a long night of drinking. It's most noticeable traits are the treadmarks on the bottom of the toilet. CORN SHIT- Self-explanatory GEE, I WISH I COULD SHIT, SHIT- It's the kind where you want to shit but all you do is sit on the toilet, cramped, and fart a few times. SPINAL TAP SHIT- That's where it hurts so bad coming out, you'd swear it was leaving you sideways. WET CHEEKS SHIT (THE POWER DUMP)- The kind that comes out of your butt so fast, your butt cheeks get splashed with water. LIQUID SHIT- The kind where yellowish-brown liquid shoots out your butt and splatters all over the toilet bowl. MEXICAN FOOD SHIT- It smells so bad, the room must be condemned. UPPER CLASS SHIT- The kind that thinks their shit doesn't smell. FISHERMAN'S BOBBER SHIT- That's the kind where you are in a public restroom, there are two people waiting on your stall, you shit and flush two times, but several golfball size pieces are still floating above the water line.

I'll bet that guy knows what a "courtesy flush" is, too.

I actually saw this happen in the Savannah Marathon one year. The leading woman in the race shit all over herself and never slowed down a step. She went on to victory. I'm just glad that I didn't have to present her trophy.

Of course, no crap-blog would be complete without a tasty recipe. Dig in. Enjoy.

One of the all-time classics can be found here if you dare to venture there.

And last, but not least, we have this crappy post. [Ed. Link "404"-ed. Was Neanderpundit.] I wouldn't read that one if I were you. Of course, I don't think anybody in his right mind will read this post about crap-blogging.

But there you have it. The very first Carnival of the Crappers.

An Army of one

Originally published April 29, 2005

I agree with this post. How can we maintain an army if we aren't "sensitive?"

I want to suggest a few more good ideas.

*If a seargent ever screams "TAKE THAT HILL!!!" a mandatory time-out is required so that recruits can debate the worth of actually taking that hill. If they decide by majority vote that they don't want to take that hill, the mission is cancelled. After all, we live in a democracy.

* Assault weapons are dangerous. We have no business giving those things to soldiers. Somebody could get hurt. Recruits will practice with broomsticks and learn to shout "BOOM! BOOM! really loud when they pretend to fire.

* All soldiers will be trained mercilessly in how to separate recyclables from regular garbage. After all, they have a responsibility to save the planet, too.

* If the temperature is more than 80 degrees outside, everybody stays in the barracks. Do you know how many people die from skin cancer every year?

* All troops must undergo "sensitivity training." We require our troops to be sensitive, embrace diversity and worry a lot about offending anyone else.

* The names Chesty Puller, George Patton, Audie Murphy and Alvin York will NEVER be mentioned again. To do so is a court-martial offense. When we refer to military heroes, we will speak of Ted Kennedy, Barbra Striesand, Jane Fonda and Alec Baldwin.

* Our new military will be built on the French Model. They proved a long time ago that you can get your ass whipped in a war and still be snotty.

* NOBODY ever gets called a "pussy." If one person can't do it, then the training must be too dificult and we need to tone it down. Do you realize the self-esteem issues here? We don't want anyone to fail. We want happy soldiers.

* Read my edicts and obey. I'll show all those people who said a woman couldn't be Secretary of Defense.

Rubber band guns

Originally published April 28, 2005

A commenter brought this subject back to mind. I had rubber band fights all my life, and yes I DID carve up an inner tube once to make ammo for my "cannon."

We all made our own guns then, using a clothes-pin and a piece of wood. I can show a kid how to do THAT today, but nobody is interested anymore. Kids prefer their video games. Kids. Most of 'em don't know what a chinaberry is, let alone how to make a "popper."

Do YOU know what a chinaberry is? Have YOU ever shot or been shot by a "popper?"

Pardon... I digress. What I started out to say was that I once built a rubber band gun that resembled a crossbow and had 12 clothes-pins on it. That was my scattergun. I could load 12 rubber bands on that thing and be ready for bear, as long as I remembered in which order I loaded the bands.

You had to fire them last one first, first one last, or they'd get all tangled up. I managed to keep that part straight and I killed many a bad guy with that weapon. It was awesome.

And the strangest thing is... I thought up the idea and I built it myself. It didn't come off the shelf at Wal-Mart. Mama didn't buy it for me. She let me steal 12 clothes-pins, but the rest was all my doing. I was a pretty clever young man.

A LOT of us made our own toys back then. I know that I'm waxing nostalgic and sounding like an old fart now, but I believe that sorta stuff made us better, stronger and tougher than kids I see growing up today. These modern pansies drink bottled water. I drank from a garden hose. Kids today wear Tommy Hilfinger and Nike. I was happy to have clothes at all. Kids today have gourmet frozen dinners. I ate pinto beans and cornbread.

Face it. I envy the spoiled brats.

March 17, 2007

Small Southern towns

Originally published March 23, 2005

I've done a lot of driving all over this beautiful state and I tend to keep to the back roads. I like the scenery out there. It beats the hell out of driving the interstate highways.

Drive through some small Southern towns in backwater, Georgia, and you'll almost always see the same thing. They have a very nice, old courthouse. And they'll have a monument to fallen Confederate soldiers somewhere nearby.

Some of the houses (the ones Sherman didn't burn) still have all the Greco-Roman architecture, with the big pillars and the wrap-around porches. You can see wooden outbuildings out beyond the manor that probably were slave quarters once upon a time. Those places are barns now, or just rotting to pieces. I would really like to take some pictures of some of those ante-bellum relics.

Stop and eat in one of those little towns. Pick a local diner and stop where you see the most pickup trucks in the parking lot. The waitress will call you "honey," and the food will be good, served with genuine Southern iced tea, which is sweet enough to make a bee drunk. Eat country-fried steak with mashed potatoes and gravy with fried okra, green beans, collards and biscuits also piling the plate.

You can enjoy that meal and still smoke a cigarette afterward, when you're full to bustin' from all that good food. Have another glass of iced tea and shoot the shit with the locals while you smoke. They don't mind. They smoke, too, and they enjoy talking. I like those places.

That's one of the reaons I like travelling wih Recondo or Catfish on these adventures. We like Cracker food, and we like meeting new people. Those diners are perfect, because they have good food and have the atmosphere that is perfect for the food. Ain't nothing fancy. Just a typical Southern diner, with good food and friendly company.

You should try it. You just might like it.

Driving fast

Originally published March 19, 2005

I believe that the speedometer on my 1968 Javelin went to 140 MPH. I pegged it out twice.

My first NEW car, a 1982 Camaro, went only to 80 MPH on the speedometer. I could peg that with the gas pedal halfway to the floor. I floored it for miles a few times.

When I first met Jennifer, she had a 1990 Eagle Talon. The speedometer went to 140 on that one, too, and I pegged it more than once. (Record road trips--- from the Atlanta Airport to Savannah in 2.5 hours. From Augusta to Savannah in one hour and 15 minutes. I really liked that car.)

I don't usually drive like that, but I have in the past. I've pegged that 350 V-8 in my truck several times, with the pedal mashed to the floor. The speedometer runs out at 110 MPH, but I was going a lot faster than that, on I-16 all by myself. I was only 3/4 of the way to the floor when I pegged out the speedometer.

YOU don't drive that way, do you?

You've done it!

Originally published March 21, 2005

Show me people who swear that they never shit their pants and I'll show you a bunch of liars. I have shit my pants, and I probably will again. I ADMIT IT!!! I've pissed all over myself, too. The experience is not pleasant, but it's no reason to generate a lie.

If you've never shit your pants, you have not lived a complete life.

March 16, 2007

Sam's New Blog...Again

Okay, I've had this one going a few weeks now just to see if I would stick with it. You all are welcome now to stop by and see what I'm up too.

Hope all of you are doing well!

MY BLOG

A compost bin

Originally published March 15, 2005

I wonder how many tree-hugging, lunatic environmentalists know how to make compost? Mama did it for years and always had the prettiest, richest BLACK dirt in her garden. For a while after I moved to Effingham County, I saved my lawn clippings and vegetable table scraps in plastic bags and I would bring them over to toss into the compost on weekends.

Once I started a garden of my own, she didn't get that good shit anymore. I saved it for myself. She taught me how to make compost.

You can build a compost bin out of wood or chicken wire. If you use wood (I did), just make sure you leave enough space between the boards for plenty of air to get in there. Dump lawn clippings, sawdust, peanut hulls, fireplace ashes, dead leaves, vegetable scraps from the table and just about anything else you can think of that isn't meat and allow it to decay. Wet it down with a water hose and keep it moist.

Turn the compost with a pitchfork every couple of days. Roll it around so that it can breathe and you'll get aerobic decomposition--- it won't stink. In fact, it smells rich and fecund and you'll sprout a big crop of red wiggler worms in there before long. The worms are good for the compost, too, because they help to aeriate it. (Mine was going so good that I once considered starting a worm farm.)

If you pile up compost and DO NOT stir it, you'll have anaerobic decomposition occur and the bin will smell just like rotting garbage. You don't want that, so go agitate it every couple of days. Keep it wet.

I built my bin in two sections. The first part was for new stuff and the back part was for stuff almost ready to spread in the garden. All that vegetation will break down, decay and start to look just like potting soil if you do it right. I would take that almost-ready stuff and pitch it into the back bin with a shovel, and continue tending both sides the same way.

I became a very good composter and that stuff is GREAT in a garden. Not only did you spare the landfills from disposing of your waste, you created wonderful home-made dirt. Plants love it. When the back bin was ready to use, I spread it all over my garden. I grew some good stuff that way.

Plus you get an added bonus in using compost in your garden. Never did it fail that I had a crop of cherry tomatoes, watermelons, cucumbers and cantelopes spring up as "volunteers" from my home-made dirt. Those seeds are hardy and they survived the compost operation.

If you garden, start a compost bin. It's good for the garden, good for "the planet" and good for growing things you never planted.

Try it. You'll LIKE it.

It starts tomorrow

Originally published March 15, 2005

Savannah's annual St. Patrick's Day orgy starts tomorrow. Yeah, I know that the actual St. Patrick's Day isn't until the 17th, but that miniscule detail won't stop the party, and it will continue until the bars close next Sunday night. If you've never seen St. Patrick's Day, in Savannah, you have not lived a complete life. "Orgy" is the right word to use.

If you wish to LIVE a complete, life, however, I suggest that you stay the hell away. It can become very, very crazy.

The parade is really nice, but the serious stuff starts after the parade. Just imagine almost ONE MILLION PEOPLE crammed into Savannah, with most of them drunker than a barn owl, with azealias and dogwoods in full bloom everywhere, people drinking green beer and pretty wimmen crammed into the streets like sardines in a can.

I intend to keep my Cracker ass in Effingham County for the next five days or so. I know very few people who grew up in Savannah who DON'T have a few St. Patrick's Day adventure stories to tell. I have some good ones, which I might share over the next few days.

I have been maced. I have been thrown into a paddy wagon and then immediately released because I was taking up valuable room the police needed for somebody else. I have gotten laid with a complete stranger. I have seen a dead body bleeding on the Abercorn ramp to River Street. (He fell from one of those walk-over bridges above the ramp.) I once pissed in an alley while standing next to Hizzoner the Mayor, John Rosakis, who ALSO was pissing in the alley at the time.

I've probably seen 1,000 titties from back in the days when wimmen would flash their boobs for a handful of beads or a tee shirt. I've gotten so drunk that I don't remember how I found my way home. I once made almost $300 in tips for playing a two-hour matinee gig in a River Street bar after the parade. I also TENDED bar down there once and I know FOR SURE that the owner sold 35 kegs of beer that day, because I helped haul the full ones and replace the empties.

Savannah is a fairly conservative town. But once every year, this "beautiful lady with a dirty face" kicks up her heels, throws away her panties and runs wild. That crap starts tomorrow.

I once loved being a part of it. Now, I want to stay far, far away. I'm too old for that shit anymore and I damn sure ain't driving from Effingham County and back hoping to dodge the cops when I have a belly full of green beer.

Have YOU ever been to Savannah on St. Patrick's Day?

I've got bail money

Originally published March 16, 2005

Sam and Stacey want to go go to River Street tomorrow and then attend the parade on Thursday. They've never seen a real, live Savannah St. Patrick's Day show. Hell, they need to do it at least once, so I told them to go ahead, but they'll be doing it without me.

I also told them that if they get arrested, don't call me to bail them out before 9:00 in the morning. As long as they want to extend their learning curves, a night in jail might do them both a world of good. That'll learn 'em, for sure.

I got maced during the parade once. I was standing on the south side of Bay Street, minding my own business, just watching the parade. I had one firm arm around a lamp post to keep from falling down and a green beer in my other hand. I was standing next to a grandmotherly-looking woman with two small children in tow. We were having a good time.

Some kind of ruckus erupted across the street. I couldn't see what was going on because of the parade, but I DID see the paddy wagon pull up and I saw people being tossed inside. Suddenly, beer bottles were flying and breaking everywhere around the cops. People were THROWING SHIT and hooting at the police. Some of that crap was coming from my side of the street.

I wasn't involved, so I wasn't upset at first. People go crazy on St. Paddy's Day in Savannah. Then, I heard somebody yell, "LOOK OUT!!!" I turned to see what I was supposed to look out for and I put my face right into a can of mace.

Some idiot cop ran for about a block spraying mace on everybody on MY side of the street. He got me. He got grandma. He got the two little kids. He got EVERYBODY he could spray. Looking back now, I'm just glad that the bastard didn't have a taser. That Barney Fife fuckhead might have killed somebody.

He hit ME square in my wide-open eyes. I've had some unpleasant experiences in my life, but that one still ranks near the top, well above having my four front teeth knocked out on the football field. In fact, it was worse than breaking my arm.

Have YOU ever been maced? If not, you want to keep it that way.

It blinded me, it stung like a swarm of wasps and it burned like a lit cigarette shoved into both of my eyes. It choked off my breath and made think I WAS GONNA DIE at the age of 22 just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Grandma hit the pavement gasping for breath. The kids were running in circles and screaming while clawing at their eyes. I held onto the lamp post because I didn't know what else to do.

Barney The Gasser kept right on going until his can was empty, that prick. If I've ever seen ANYBODY in this life who really needed to be dragged off and shot, it was him. Fucking Nazi asshole.

Luckily for me, I had a couple of friends nearby and they saw what happened. They dragged me right through the parade to the other side of the street to the fountain with the big, brass lion spitting water from his mouth. I stuck my head in the pond at the lion's feet.

I was okay as long as I kept my head under water and blinked my eyes rapidly. But as soon as I took my face out of the water, the mace kicked in and started burning just like that first blast. I musta spent 30 minutes baptizing myself until I could see again. My eyes weren't right for three days after that episode.

I don't know what happened to grandma and the kids. I don't know what happened to Barney The Gasser. But I know what happened to ME, and I didn't like it.

I have a healthy respect for mace or pepper spray to this day.

March 15, 2007

All done

Originally published June 27, 2003

I just went though all 287 comments in my email. I answered those who needed one and I just let some stand the way they were. If I didn't reply to you, don't take it personally. I was in a hurry.

I found two really disgusting trolls in there. What motivates those people to be such fucktards? I'll never understand why those people get their jollies by being such total pricks. What REALLY amazes me is the fact that SO MANY of them exist. I guess that they are like cockroaches. Set off a nuclear bomb and they'll still be alive and running on six legs under your refrigerator when you turn on the kitchen light. They are people who sit on a mound of shit and chuckle about being "King of the Hill."

My son brought a gaggle of gigglers over to the Crackerbox this evening, and I fed them all after they got permission from their parents to eat Acidman cuisine (cheeseburgers and freedom fries, with milk). Now my son has run off with friends to terrorize THEIR parents.

I haven't seen Young Jack this evening, which may be a good thing. Quinton made new friends because he didn't have Jack to play with. I bought this house I live in because of the kids I saw in the neighborhood when the realtor showed it to me. I thought, "Quinton will make friends here and have boys and girls to play with."

He found Jack and Steven and pretty well told the rest of the kids to get lost. He had all the playmates he needed.

His attitude changed this evening. I believe that he will be a lot better off as a result.

Supreme stupidity

Originally published June 26, 2003.

I've always tried to keep a sense of adventure. My sense may not be like yours, because I thought raising chickens and goats made more sense than jumping out of an airplane, but that's all a matter of perspective.

If you want to jump out of an airplane, that's fine with me. If I choose to keep both feet on the ground and raise animals, you should appreciate MY outlook on life the same as I do yours.

Fuck a cat and fuck jumping out of an airplane. Fuck bungi-jumping. Fuck diversity AND affirmative action. Fuck the Supreme Court.

We live in a crazy world now. We appreciate "diversity" to the point where it is illegal to demand QUOTAS, unless you use stealth quotas. Those are okay. A BLANTANT example of counting jelly beans by color is unconstitutional, but if you do the same thing WITHOUT saying what you're doing, it's okay. What the fuck is the Supreme Court smoking?

I want some of it.

I just wish more people just listened to that little voice that always talks in my ear about right and wrong. I don't always listen, but I always know it's there. It talks to me in my sleep and THAT's the one I answer to.

That's why I could NEVER be a politician. They never hear that voice.

How I met my neighbor

Originally published June 26, 2003

When I went back to my urologist six months after my surgery and complained about a dead dick, he suggested the fix-a-flat option. My late friend Steve Hamby told me all about THAT after his surgery, so I said, "Hell yeah! Why not?" I was really missing a genuine hard-on by then.

A very businesslike nurse came into the room, grabbed my limp dick, stretched it out nearly as long as its former length and said, "Pay attention. You need to learn to do this." Then she picked up a needle and loaded it from a vial.

I paid close attention, as least as much as I could with my eyes closed and every muscle in my body tensed tightly enough to strike a kitchen match on. She gave me the shot and it didn't hurt much.

Then she said, "Watch this video and we'll check back on you in ten minutes." She plugged the video into a 12" VCR and I expected PORNO! What I got was a guy using a suction pump and a rubber band to simulate an erection.

That didn't matter. The juice was taking effect. The nurse told me that I might need to "play with myself" to get things going right, and I've never had a problem with THAT, so I did. Roscoe got hard. Roscoe started to resemble his old self. Roscoe also started to hurt like hell.

I stopped playing with him. I pulled two chairs together and assumed a fetal position while I broke out in a cold sweat. It was like having a terrible phallus-cramp that hurt badly enough to make me want to puke. I thought I was going to pass out. THAT'S how bad it was.

I was curled up that way when the doctor and nurse came back to check on me. The nurse said, "Let me see what you've got there," which would be a GREAT LINE in a bar, but not so good in the doctor's office. She grabbed that blue-steel boner of mine and shook it, saying, "Oh! You'll have no problem achieving penetration with THAT."

I screamed and told her to turn it loose. It HURT to have a woman touch my dick. I knew that something was terribly wrong.

The doctor said that I would need to adjust the dosage to fit me through trial and error and he gave me a bagfull of Celebrix to take before a shot and set of muscle relaxers to take if things went wrong. I could tell right then that this fix-a-flat science was really precice.

I waddled out, paid my bill and drove home, praying that I wouldn't have a wreck and be required to explain the throbbing, painful hard-on I had at the time. I could see some asshole EMT looking at my burned, dead body on the highwayand saying, "He must have died happy! Look at his boner!"

That thing had a mind of its own.

I got home, put on a pair of gym shorts and sat on the couch. That's when my doorbell rang. I answered it. Sherry, my across the street neighbor, came by to visit. She wanted a glass of wine a place to get away from her grandchildren. I told her that she was welcome but I might not be good company. I was in pain.

She asked, "Why?" and I half-masted my shorts and said "THIS IS WHY!" The damned thing was about to crawl out on its own anyway, so I showed it to her. She was fascinated with my problem. She saw no problem at all. She said "If you don't mind me saying, every man should have a problem like that."

That's when I had to explain that this was a medically-induced, artificial and not granted on a guarantee basis thing that I really didn't like. She said, "I can handle that. Can YOU?"

No, I couldn't.

That's why I'm about to never have to do it again.

I tried every bit of that shit. I didn't want to be impotent. I wanted to fuck when I felt like it, just like the good old days.

I may be able to do that again, finally.

March 14, 2007

Things I learned backpacking

Originally published April 25, 2003

* I read about this fact in some Jack London short story when I was a kid, but I never was desperate enough to try it until I thought my feet were going to freeze off one really cold day on the trail. I took off my boots and socks, then stuck my feet into a mountain stream with icicles hanging hanging off the rocks. I almost lost my breath, but when I dried my feet, donned fresh socks and put my boots back on, my feet were toasty warm for hours after that. It really works.

* If you need to build a fire in the rain when all the deadfall wood is soaked, find a hemlock tree. They always have dead branches at the bottom that have enough sap in them to burn like fatlighter if you stick them to a decent flame. Hemlock branches have served to build many a fire for me when no one else could make one.

* A racoon can pull down every zipper on your backpack and steal you blind if given the chance. I've seen the crafty bastards do it. From having exactly that kind of coon-theft happen to ME one night, I can testify that they don't like cigarettes but they WILL eat a Three Musketeers candy bar, wrapping paper and all.

* A bear will not attempt to unzip anything on your pack. If a bear gets your pack, the bear will rip the whole thing to shreds and take whatever he wants. You will cower in the tent and let him do it, too. That's never happened to me, but it DID to COP 3. He needed a new pack after that experience.

* A porcupine pays no attention to you if you walk up on one in the woods. You will not intimidate him. Wake up hearing a noise at night, turn on your flashlight and look dead into the business end of a skunk, and YOU WILL be intimidated. Trust me on that.

* If you build a campfire near a stream in the mountains, the heat or the light attracts some kind of salamander that will come tearing through the leaves, making a noise that scares the shit out of you, then run right into the fire. They'll never slow down until they cook themselves to a crisp. I don't know why they do that, but I've watched a dozen or more do it in a single night everywhere I've been in the mountains.

* No matter how far off the beaten path you think you are, somebody has been there before you and left litter behind. I HATE walking a trail that seems as if no once has hiked it in years, only to find a couple of empty beer cans laying in the dead leaves next to the trail. That's why I pack OUT or bury whatever I pack IN. Leave the place the way you found it.

And I AM NOT an environmentalist.

Good times

Originally published April 24, 2003

I remember the first time I climbed to the top of Hangover Mountain and took a pretty good 360-degree series of pictures from up there. I also took a picture of my hiking boot on the 5,608 foot benchmark on a big granite rock at the top of the mountain. I went back three times after that, but never took any more pictures. That was one hell of a climb.

I once went tubing in the Applachee River outside of Athens, Georgia, hit something shortly after I entered the rapids and deflated my tube. I rode my ass down that river for about seven miles. That was one hell of a ride.

I took some really good illegal drugs in the mountains one night and danced nekkid around a campfire while waving a 12" Bowie knife in one hand. My friends were worried about me but afraid to come take the knife. They thought I was crazy, and they were right. I was in close touch with Indian ghosts. That was one hell of an adventure.

I once spent a weekend with a female music student from Jacksonville University. We stayed in the Ebb Tide Motel at Jacksonville beach and we didn't wear clothes for three days. We ate pizza and Chinese food, delivered right to the door. I think that I was seen nekkid by people bringing us something to eat. I never saw the beach. That was one hell of a weekend.

In Key West, I met a woman with no pants on who asked me where she could take a leak. I was pissing off a dock at the time. I said, "Right here, I believe," as I finished what she had interrupted. She asked, "Can I get in the water to do it?" I said "Sure! You've got MY permission." I wasn't really certain where I was at the time. She took off her flannel shirt and handed it to me. "Would you hold this while I pee?" she asked, butt-assed nekkid.

"You go right ahead, darlin,'" I said, holding her shirt.

She did, then climbed out of the water, and thanked me as she walked away donning the shirt with no pants on. Key West is one hell of a place.

I once won an incredibly large bet by drinking a six-pack of beer in less than five minutes. I don't know if I could still do that today, but if you've got $100 I'm willing to try it again. That was one hell of a night.

Scary stuff

Originally published April 24, 2003

I started reading one of those Stephen King wanna-be novels today. It's called The House, by Bentley Little. The book isn't bad, so far, but I'll be damned if I would go through life with a name like "Bentley Little." People send me hate mail and call my DICK by that name.

I've collected a few names to use if I ever get off my lazy Cracker ass and try to sell what I write. Trust, me... Bentley Little isn't one of my pseudonyms.

I like "Jack Packett." If I were going to write a Mickey Spillane-type novel, with a tough-guy private eye as a main character, that's the name I would use. "Rob Smith" just plain sucks as a writer's name.

I also favor "John Graystone" if I ever decide to write a spook-book like the one I'm reading now.

I thought about writing a romance novel, too. I want it to be written by "Janice J. Wheeler." I like the sound of Js. I use J-words a lot when I write songs.

I also like "Ben Hardon" and "Lance Sheffield." Those names are good for ANY kind of book. So is "Max Staffman."

Yeah, I know that I'm putting a lot of phallic undercurrents into my pseudonyms. But, HEY!!! Sex sells!!!

Besides, I can show you 28 Robert Smiths in the local phone book. They are a dime a dozen, not just around here, but EVERYWHERE. You'll never sell ANYTHING writing under that name. Hell, I don't even post under it on this blog.

I prefer to be "Acidman."

Update: At least I didn't suggest Haywood Jablome as a pesudonym.

March 13, 2007

Here's how old I am

Originally published April 25, 2003

The post about nickels started me thinking, and that's always a bad thing anymore. Here's what I recall about money during my teenage years:

* Gas was 26 cents per gallon.

* A 1969, brand-new Plymouth Road-Runner cost $1,999.99.

* An all-night, dusk-till-dawn horror-rama at the Montgomery Drive-In cost $1.00 per car. Cheapest and best date site in the world.

* A double-feature at the Avon Theater cost 50 cents.

* A Shoney's Big Boy cost 49 cents. Krystal hamburgers were 10-cents each, or twelve for a dollar.

* The minimum wage was was 80 cents per hour. When I got my first raise to $1.00 per hour, I thought I was in high cotton. Man, after taxes, I was earning SIX BUCKS A DAY!

* Kelly's and Chip's hamburgers (just like McDonald's today) cost 15 cents. French fries were another 15 cents. A 12-ounce Coke was a dime. For 40 cents, you had a meal. For less than a dollar, you fed your date, too.

* Pabst Blue Ribbon beer was $4.99 a case just over the bridge into South Carolina, where the drinking age was 18. Georgia still had the drinking age at 21, but I had a damned good fake ID, so I could buy whatever I wanted in my home state. I went to South Carlina for beer because it was a short trip and a LOT cheaper than what I paid in Georgia.

* $100 was a LOT OF MONEY!!!

* Hell, $20 was a LOT OF MONEY!!!

* My college tuition cost $90 per quarter. That was A LOT OF MONEY!!!

*When I collected football cards, they were $1.00 for a hundred if you bought an entire box. I negotiated with the owner of Wyndam's Market to sell me a box for 95 cents. I saved a nickel. I was proud of making that deal.

* No wonder I don't give a shit about money anymore. I've got enough, and that's all I need. What it's worth makes no sense to me at all.

A blast from the past

Originally published April 25, 2003

I don't know how I ended up in my archives, but I did. Here is something I wrote over a year ago.

I am beginning to reevaulate myself. What I once believed were virtues have cost me dearly and what I once considered vices have cost me, too. The difference is, I had A LOT MORE FUN following my vices instead of my virtues.

Once, I didn't care if the sun came up in the morning. I frittered my days away chasing wine, women and song and had nothing to show for those efforts except an occasional hangover and a lot of unforgettable adventures. But I slept well every night.

Then, I became serious, put my nose to the grindstone, tried to do right and eventually found myself on my knees, with my nose poking into empty air, while a person I loved smashed the back of my head with the grindstone. Then, she ran me off for an unemployed, dope-smoking lover who probably is wearing the jewlery I once owned that I never recovered after the divorce. Why not? The prick moved right in and settled his unemployed ass dead in the middle of the life I once had. The bloodless cunt gave him everything I held precious: herself, my son, my home and my bed. The experience sure enough opened my eyes about those silly notions of love, loyalty and friendship that I once believed were important.

No, that's NOT true. I still believe in every bit of that, and I have friends that rallied around me when I needed them the most to prove it. Friends I've had for twenty or more years. Friends that cared, and still do. Friends that loved me the way I love them. Friends that I will never give up.

I simply must be more careful in the future and steer my trust where it belongs, to friends instead of bloodless cunts.

But I don't sleep much these days.

I am not the same man who posted that entry back then. I still believe everything I wrote, but life is better now. I've dealt with the demons that haunted me during that tumultuous time and I've vanquished most of them. I still don't sleep much, and I have dreams that'll make your flesh curdle. But it's not the end of my world anymore, the way I once saw it.

I dreamed about my father last night. He showed up as a contractor where I work and that seemed perfectly natural, even though I knew that he was 10 years dead. "Pop, what are you doing here?" I asked. "I just came back to check on my retirement," he said. It all made sense at the time. He was wearing a green hardhat, the way contractors do at the plant. I know for sure now that I dream in color.

I dreamed about my ex-wife, too. I dreamed that she moved in across the street where Jack's mother lives and came over riding a skakeboard on her belly. When I asked what she was doing, she said "Oh!, this is a great inner-thigh workout." That made perfect sense at the time, too.

But she wanted to come inside and visit and I told her that I didn't want that. She said, "Okay! Have a GREAT DAY!" and went down the street on her belly, riding a skateboard, still working her inner thighs I suppose.

Those are the kinds of dreams I have when I do manage to sleep. Try it for a couple of years. You become accustomed to it after a while.

I woke up remembering the dream about my father.

Good things

Originally published April 25, 2003

I've ranted, frothed and pissed a few people off today. I'm not going to do that any more (I believe that I've bagged my limit for a Friday). I am going to talk only of good things now. Do you know what's good?

*The rain has been falling outside my house now for about three hours. I am inside and dry. If I didn't have a lick of sense in my head, I would be on the side of a mountain now in Wilkeboro, North Carolina, getting drenched 50 miles away from my nearest dry clothes. Where I am now is GOOD.

*Prego spagetti sauce with Garden Delight spices is good. Whenever I get tired of Hot Pockets, boiled peanuts and the rest of the bachelor shit I eat just to make a turd, I like to cook a big pot of spaghetti noodles with some bell peppers, sweet onions and mushrooms, then slather the noodles with sauce out of a jar. I eat what I want and throw the rest away. That's GOOD.

*I like taking a shower with a woman. If you get a nekikid woman really soapy in the shower, her titties feel especially nice. Kinda slick and clean, even when you dirty things to her. That's GOOD.

*My son is a joy to be around. He is nine years-old and as fun as a little boy ever gets. He has the potential to become anything he wants to be in this world, but he doesn't even need to think about that fact yet. He just needs to be a happy kid. He doesn't have a single significant scar that I can see on his body yet. His head appears to be okay, too. That's a GOOD thing.

*I sometimes look at myself in the mirror and say "Whoa! What the hell happened to YOU!" Then, this little voice in my head says, "football injuries, lots of fights, several car wrecks, a musician's life, a few years of shiftwork, major cancer surgery, two divorces and 51 years of gravity dragging your ass down." When I think about that, and then look at other 51 year-olds, I have to admit. Seeing myself in the mirror is a GOOD thing.

*I knew two people, upclose and personal, who had the same cancer I did. They are both dead now. Seeing the morning PERIOD is a GOOD thing.

*I don't like having a worm-song in my head, but I like being able to pick up a guitar and PLAY THE FRICKING SONG. Hell, as long as it's rattling around in my brain, I should be able to play it. That's a GOOD thing.

*Did I mention that I was bored? That's a GOOD thing, too.

March 12, 2007

Engineers

Originally published March 31, 2004

When I was in charge of the Energy and Services Department at the plant where I once worked, we upgraded the Acid Plant from an 800 TPD design to a 1000+ TPD operation. The boilers could handle the change and I saw no problem with the temperature control or the absorption system.

But I saw a big problem with the water softeners. At the rates we intended to run, two softeners wouldn't be enough. At 800 TPD, we could run off one softener while the other regenerated, as long as we pushed every gallon of water we could through that one remaining softener. Even then, keeping the plant on line was a nip-and-tuck affair, and you had to stagger softener operation to ensure that you didn't deplete both at the same time.

I recommended the installation of a third water softener.

My brilliant idea was greeted with cheers from all around, the capital money was approved right away, and I had an engineer assigned to the job. He was some oriental character named Shit-In-Soup, or some such crap, and I thought I gave him a simple job.

I took him down to the Steam Plant, where I had a set of FIVE water softeners, plus a demineralizing system. I told him, "See THIS? Imagine just picking up one of these softeners and carting it down to the Acid Plant. Set the vessel in place, have all the piping prefabricated, and then hook it up on the run. I'll get the resin added, and it'll be ready to go as soon as the piping is complete. Can you do that in eight hours?"

He assured me that he could. I didn't want to take a shutdown for that job.

Two weeks later, I saw the drawings for his project. I almost shit my pants and I pitched one hell of a hissy-fit about what I saw. It was NOTHING like what I had asked the bastard to do. It was an abortion.

What is it about engineers? You take them by the hand, show them something that works, and tell them, "Build me another one just like this one." They can't do it. They want to make it "better," complete with all the bells and whistles sold by the last vendor who bought them a free lunch. Forget the fact that the bells and whistles cost a lot of money, accomplish nothing and cause production people headaches. Engineers like that shit. Buncha egotistical whores.

"So what if you've been operating this stuff for 20 years? I'm an engineer and you're not! I know better than you do!"

I ended up doing the work through a contractor. I had a defunct softener in the field, and the contractor said that he could rehabilitate it and get it pressure certified. I drew what I wanted done on a paper towel for him. Those were the plans for that job.

Two weeks later, I had a third softener at the Acid Plant, I didn't have to shut down to install it and we upped the rates to 1000+ tons per day. The contractor billed me for $40,000 to do the job. I thought that the sum was fair. Shit-In-Soup's estimate for the work was $150,000, PLUS a shutdown to get it done.

That's an engineer for you.

Money

Originally published March 28, 2004

Money means a lot more to other people than it does to me. All I ever wanted was enough to keep the bill collectors from the door and keep the IRS off my ass. I never intended to be rich. I just wanted to be comfortable.

I hit that stage in my life, and I was on the borderline of becoming rich. I had more money than I knew what to do with, and more was pouring in every day. I owned a five acre mini-farm, a 3,000 square-foot home and a half-acre garden. I had four goats, 28 chickens, two dogs and two cats.

I loved that place.

I was out in my garden one Saturday morning, working at picking corn, okra, beans, squash, banana peppers, cucmbers and tomatoes. The goats followed me down the fence, because after I picked the corn, I threw the shucks and the stalks over the fence to them. They considered that bounty to be a beautiful treat.

Quinton came riding up on his bicycle and asked if he could go to Michael's house. I told him that he could, but to let me know if he went anywhere else. I watched him ride down the road and I felt as happy as I have ever been in my life. I saw those little legs pumping the pedals down a dirt road in search of adventure and I thought to myself, "He has a chance to grow up just the way I did." He's Huck Finn, but he doesn't know it yet.

I sat down in my garden and smoked a cigarette. I loved the smell of the dirt and the plants. I had a five-gallon bucket filled with my harvest for the day, but just growing all that stuff was pure pleasure to me. I sat there amid the cornrows and beanstalks and thought, "This is what I have wanted all of my life."

I lost it all two months later.

I planted a garden my first year at the Crackerbox, but I ended up giving away everything I grew. Hell, I kept a few cucumbers and a couple of tomatoes, but what was I going to do with the rest of that shit? I wasn't feeding a family anymore. I gave away most of what I grew and I've not planted another garden since then. In fact, I gave away my tiller Friday. I won't use it anymore.

Now, a bloodless cunt, who ALREADY took away my mini-farm and the life I always dreamed of, while going on a fuck-rampage with a new lover, is after me like a combine tractor for more money. I don't understand people who are so greedy. I really can't comprehend how they think. I also don't understand a system where she will WIN, in spite of her cuntly behavior.

I never did a damned thing in my life for money. If the roles were reversed, I damned sure wouldn't be doing to Jennifer what she is doing to me. I don't think or behave that way.

I guess that's why I'm bound to lose. Nice guys finish last.

I believe it

Originally published March 29, 2004

UCLA's Department of Psychiatry

A study conducted by UCLA's Department of Psychiatry has revealed
that the kind of male face a woman finds attractive can differ depending on what phase she is in with regard to her menstrual cycle.

For instance, if she is ovulating, she is attracted to men with rugged and masculine features.

However, if she is menstruating, or menopausal, she is more prone to be attracted to a man with scissors lodged in his temple and a bat jammed up his ass while he is on fire.

Further studies are expected.

Heh. My ex-wife should be an excellent subject to study.

March 11, 2007

My head hurts, my feet stink and I don't love Jesus

Originally published April 21, 2002

White Zinfandel is not a fruit drink and I believe I overindulged yesterday after my son left and I checked my garden to discover that squirrels have eaten the leaves off half my okra plants. I blame that on the drought, but if I put a pan of water out for the squirrels, they would eat the okra anyway, because they are destructive, nasty, fuzzy-tailed tree-rats, and that's what they do. My corn is sprouting, however, and I have a loaded pellet gun by my back door now in case the tree rats make another incursion in broad daylight. The gnawed okra may survive, but the rats won't if I get a shot at them.

I cooked the last of the corn I grew last year for supper last night, and it didn't last long, alas. My neighbor, Sherry The Vegetarian, came over, and she and I grazed heartily on the corn, along with blackeyed peas, rice and turnip greens. It was a meatless but filling meal. She likes White Zinfandel, too. During supper and the wine drinking, I turned my charm-emitter to maximum setting, but it must need new batteries, because she ate, drank and went back home at 9:30 last night. After that, I watched a semi-dirty movie on Cinemax and fell asleep on the couch.

I pissed yesterday away, and I believe I will do the same thing today. I have a lot of things I OUGHT to do, but I don't HAVE to do any of them, so I won't. Living by yourself does offer certain advantages sometimes.

Not again

Originally published April 2, 2002

I hate going to meetings at work, because usually they take too much time, they don't accomplish a damned thing and if ever a decision is made, you have to call ANOTHER MEETING to make sure the decision is carried out. I went to one of those today that lasted an hour and a half.

We assembled to discuss an engineering project that is nearing completion, and it is an obvious thalidimide baby. It won't do what we require it to do if engineering stays on the current path, and engineering is nearly out of money for the project. Engineering wants desperately to ditch that deformed baby in a production dumpster to see if WE can dig it out, resusitate it and give it a good life.

No one involved has passed the point of no return on this project, and if we actually utilized all the teamwork, problem-solving and root cause analysis training we all received in the past, success remains a possibility. It STILL CAN BE DONE, even after that meeting. But here's what went wrong:

Character #1: Already engaged in a pissing contest with the project engineer, he wishes to pillory his enemy rather than solve the problem. Lot's of hidden agendas here that had nothing to do with the problem.

Character #2: A combination of three people from project engineering, there to protect their baliwick and outnumber Character #1 in a sustained pissing contest. More hidden agendas and an empire to protect, too.

Character #3: There to present every grievance he has against "the system" instead of dealing with the subject at hand. Constantly beating his personal drum whether it has anything to do with this project or not, and since it's not HIS project, he doesn't want to talk about it in the first place. He would rather beat HIS drum.

Character #4: My boss. He must make a decision that WE have to live with, and it damned sure ain't the one engineering wants to lay in our lap, and he does not want to referee the obvious pissing contest occurring before his eyes. He probably is the only one at the meeting who has a clue about what we can accept and how to go about getting it. He spoke less than charcters #1 through #3. But he laid out the correct, firm but polite demands, and got his way, God bless him.

Character #5: The Training Department (two poor unfortunates). They kept their mouths shut and took copious notes during the proceedings. As an ex-trainer, I know the helpless feeling that creeps over you in a meeting such as this. WHATEVER THEY DECIDE, I'm going to have to teach this shit. I belong to a service organization. They command, I serve. I'll do the best job I can, but IF THESE ASSHOLES CAN'T MAKE UP THEIR MINDS WHAT THEY WANT, then how can I provide it for them? You start to notice an itching, burning sensation in your seat when the meeting goes really off-track. They were rooting hard for Character #4.

Character #5: Me. Silent most of the time. I discussed the issue with Character #4 this morning, long before the meeting. He knows what we need and I totally agree. I was extraneous to the proceedings and mainly there to watch the show, which resembled a three-ring circus, complete with juggling clowns and dancing bears. My presence was not required, except for professional courtesy, which I could do without most of the time.

We formed an action plan, after focusing all our energy for about five minutes straight on the problem we came to solve, while wasting the other hour and a half. If we do what we decided to do, we can keep this deformed baby out of the dumpster. I just hope SOMEBODY remembers the decision we made amid all that noise.

If we end up with a deformed baby from this project, I'VE GOT TO RAISE IT, and I don't want that. Enough of my life is deformed already.

PC-ness strikes again

Originally published April 2, 2002

When my son is with me every other weekend, we often watch the Cartoon Network together. He likes it and so do I, because fifty years of hard living still haven't quelled my love of Warner Brothers' Looney Tunes. Wile E. Coyote is my favorite character of all time, but I love Bugs and Daffy and Porky and Yosemite Sam and The Tazmanian Devil, too.

I didn't realize until I read this unbelievably politically-correct crap that I will not see Speedy Gonzales, the Mexican Mouse, racing hither and yon and wearing his big sombrero while screaming, "Arriba! Arriba! Andele! Andele!" again. No, Speedy has been banned as a terrible anti-Latino stereotype by whatever anal-retentive dorks the PC cartoon network world puts in charge of such decisions.

I always thought Speedy was one cool dude. He outfoxed and outran the bad guys every time, and always came out on top in any situation. How is that a terrible, anti-Latino stereotype? Speedy never got arrested, he didn't bounce a low-rider up and down the road and he had no illegitimate children or tattoos. But he did have an accent and he wore a sombrero. We damned surely can't have that kind of racist crap in such a sensitive country as ours. Speedy, you're OUT! (Except in Latin America, where Speedy is still VERY POPULAR)

Thank God we don't have an organized Coyote Anti-Defamation League or they would take away my dear, beloved Wile E., too.

March 10, 2007

Southern livin'

Originally published May 16, 2006

Jeff Foxworthy has made a career out of red-neck jokes, but I don't believe that HE can hang with ME. He may make more money than I do, but I've got better credentials than he does.

*I HAVE lived in a mobile home, when I was in college.

*I DID drink Busch Bavarian Beer when it came in 14-ounce cans.

*I DROVE a Volkswagon Beetle.

*I WAS semi-arrested for pissing alongside Highway 80 at Savannah Beach one fateful night. I was cuffed and put in the back seat of a squad car, but I gave the officer $20 and he let me go.

*I HAVE been shot at, by a farmer. The bastid HIT ME with rocksalt, too. (I was "courting" his daughter at the time.)

*I LIKE vienna sausages right out of the can, with saltine crackers to disguise the taste.

*I've BEEN hungry enough to eat cold pork & beans, WITHOUT using a fork or a spoon. I drank the juice out of the can, too.

*I HAVE shit my pants. More than ONCE.

*I SWALLOWED illicit drugs without knowing what they were. I just figured that I would find out after about 30 minutes. I DID, too.

*I once received a CERTIFIED LETTER in the mail that named ME as the father of an illegitimate child, and I had NO recollection of EVER meeting the "mother." I threw the letter away and never heard a peep about it again.

*I KNOW what a "zilch" is. Do YOU? (It AIN'T a zero.)

*I ONCE played guitar in three different states on three different stages on three different days, all back-to-back. I took my dog with me on that road trip and I did it in a 1974 Chevy Vega.

*I got LAID on that trip by a woman in Ohio who thought my dog was "cute." I guess I musta been okay, too.

*More than ONCE, I've awakened not knowing where I was or how I got there.

*I EAT raw oysters, but I don't like sushi.

*I SNORE when I sleep on my back and the noise wakes me up sometimes. That's disconcerting when I don't know where I am or how I got there, especially when my mouth tastes like I've been eating sushi.

*I DO NOT have to make ANY of this shit up.

I've lived an interesting life.

My green thumb

Originally published May 15, 2006

A nice rain fell last night, so I decided to take a tour of my garden when I returned home from my visit with the sports-medicine doctor today. I LIKED what I saw.

I have tomatoes out the wazoo. Big, softball-sized rascals that are tugging the plants down to the ground in spite of the poles I have them mounted on. Some of them should be ready to eat in a few more days. Hell, I MAY harvest a few and fry 'em green. I'm gonna have a BUNCH of tomatoes.

I PICKED three ripe squash today. I have a lot more where those came from. ALL of the pepper plants are producing--- the little bell peppers aren't much bigger than marbles now, but they'll be ready to pick in another week or so. My banana peppers look like little green icicles hanging off the plants and they are ABUNDANT.

My corn is about two feet high now and getting ready for some high-nitrogen fertilizer. My Silver Queens are whoring for me quite nicely. If I don't have some kind of disaster soon, I may get a bushel or more offa those plants.

I must have a green thumb, because I threw some watermelon seeds out around the back of the garden a couple of weeks ago, and the vines are running like crazy now. Just damn! If I had believed that the melons would prosper so well, I woulda planted some cantelopes, too.

My okra plants aren't very tall, but they're blooming beautifully. If I trim those when they start producing, I may get a LOT of okra this year. And I LOVE fresh okra.

And beans? I gotcha some beans growing. I planted the bush-type this year, so I don't have to fuck with giving them something to climb on. Those suckers are getting as thick as hedge bushes now and THEY have blooms all over them, too.

That row of potatoes I planted is standing tall. I can start "scrabbling" a few of the new potatoes in another week or so.

The ONLY things I planted that do NOT look really good are the cucumbers. They seem kinda puny and anemic, but they aren't dead and THEY are covered in blossoms, too.

All of this is happening amid a profusion of weeds. I've been too puny to really tend my garden the way I should, but it appears to be flourishing despite my slackardly ways. By Gawd, I SHOULD have planted some marijuana, for medicinal purposes only. I think I coulda put a Columbian to shame...

My mama always said that I grew a good garden because I come from a long line of Kentucky farmers, and growing crops is in my blood. Maybe she was right.

It's lookin' gooood out there.

More on bass guitar

Originally published May 15, 2006

I mentioned in a post below that I really enjoyed playing bass guitar in a rock & roll band. And "Gimme Three Steps" was one of my favorite songs to play, because it had a really busy bass part that thumped me right in the guts.

My other favorites were "Addicted to Love," "Night Moves" and "Fire," (as in "Let Me Stand Next To Your..." the way the Jimi Hendrix Experience did it.) "Back in the USSR" wasn't bad, either. Hell, I even liked playing "Searchin'"--- and if you're old enough to remember The Coasters, you KNOW what a great song that one is.

My band did a lot of Golden Oldies, such as "Born to be Wild" (another GREAT bass song!) and "Heard It Through the Grapevine," which I was able to sing harmony vocals on while still performing the bass licks.

At the time, I also owned the without-a-doubt UGLIEST bass guitar ever made by sub-human hands. It was some kind of Jap creation that I bought cheap, and it resembled something from a KISS nightmare, all zig-zaggy and weird-lookin.' But I played it through a big Peavey bass amp, and it sounded pretty good. (Heh. The amp cost THREE TIMES what the guitar did. I gave away my bass guitar when I quit the band, but my brother kept that amp for himself. That's a lawyer for ya!)

I'm gonna try again to take a picture of the rig I have now. The Washburn bass is a beauty--- natural wood-grain finish--- and I like the way it plays. (My friend, Willy, gave me a great deal on it, too.) I bought another Peavey amp, almost like the first one I used, except this one has a built-in equalizer that's interesting to mess around with.

When the Atlanta Channel 5 news crew came to the Crackerbox to interview me, the cameraman saw all of the musical instruments in my computer room and asked, "Damn! Do you play ALL of those?"

I told him, "NO! At least not all at the same time." But the truth is... I can play every one of them. Maybe not WELL--- but I can play 'em ALL. And I DO, too.

It's just a good thing that I don't own any guns. I just might have THOSE things stored all over my house the way I do with guitars, mandolins, banjos, fiddles, amplifiers, recording equipment, microphones and even a laptop steel slide-guitar. I could go just as crazy collecting guns as I have with musical instruments.

But I don't own ANY guns. No, sir.

I don't.

March 09, 2007

The TV brick

Originally published February 29, 2004

I have a TV brick. It's a foam-rubber piece of shit that looks just like a red brick, except you can throw it at the TV and watch it bounce off the screen without doing any serious damage. I throw that thing a lot. It beats taking out one of my guns and blowing the TV to hell.

*Larry King has been hit in the head more times than he knows, that pussy-chasing pussy.

*What was "Bob" like before he started taking the penis-enlargement drugs? What a pathetic fucker he is. If growing a big dick makes me look like him, I'll pass. Take one look at his idiot grin and tell me what made his dick bigger? You think his brains may have drained away to a different part of his body?

*If I were ever married to that snout-faced bitch who stars in the "Free Miles" credit card commercials, I would drag her off and shoot her. "How about Mexico?" (throw in a little cha-cha motion). "NOOOOO! Hawaii!" (big hugs and kisses all around.) There goes the TV brick.

*I despise politicians. John Kerry could stick a dog turd in his mouth, chew it like a cigar and smile the entire time. Yeah. I want THAT MAN to be President.

*There is a thin line between love and hate. That sumbitch is running right up my ass now and I don't understand why. I would never do to my ex-wife what she is doing to me. Jennifer, I once considered you to be the best friend I had in this world. I guess that I was mistaken.

*How many news reporters do you know? I know a bunch of them, and almost without exception they are ignorant, leftist swine. They are as lazy as a cut dog, too. They are more concerned about their hair than they are about the news. I went to J-School. I know who these people are.

*I am in trouble with the law. Big fucking deal. If you DON'T have people like me in the world, people willing to go broke fighting a bad government, this country is doomed.

*I hit Peter-head Jennings with my TV brick every day. Then, I switch channels.

*I'm thinking about taking my dog back to the pound. She doesn't like me and I don't like her. Dingbat.

*I really don't believe in living the "right" way, whatever the hell that means. I don't go to church. I don't pray. If I can't handle what life throws at me, I deserve to lose.

*And I'll throw a TV brick at you as fast as I can pick it up if you piss me off.

Job history

Originally published March 1, 2004

When I first hired in at the plant, I took a job as a packer. I stood in front of a machine that spit out pigment whenever I pressed the "GO" button. I took an empty bag and put it on the packer machine spout. It filled the bag up and shut off. I then moved that bag to a weigh scale while I put another empty bag on the fill spout and hit the "GO" button.

I weighed the bag and used a metal scoop to adjust the weight to within .2 of 50 pounds. I threw that bag on a conveyor belt than ran it through a bag flattener and a metal detector. I started the conveyor with a knee-button so that I wore a hole in the right knee of every pair of pants I owned.

By that time, another full bag was hanging from the packer spout, so I moved that one the the weigh scale, put another empty bag on the spout, hit the "GO" button, adjusted the weight on the new bag and threw it on the conveyor. By then, the last bag was back on the end of the conveyor and I stacked it on a pallet.

That was the most mind-numbing job I've ever done in my life. Just the same thing, over and over again, like a trained monkey. Learn to walk that bag-flinging circle and it wasn't that bad a job, if you didn't like to think. I hated packing.

A packer lifted a 50-pound bag of pigment three times before it hit the pallet. Once from the machine, once again from the weigh scale and then again when it returned from the conveyor. The average machine ran between 120 and 200 bags per hour, depending on how the mills were operating.

I was a young man then and the physical part of the job didn't bother me. I could lift and throw 50-pound bags of pigment for as long as the machine was running. I bulked up and became lean and muscular from performing that job. I lost the fingerprints off both hands from handling those bags. The friction wore my fingerprints away. I was paid $8.00 an hour.

Often, at the end of a shift, the supervisor would come by to take his final bag-count and he would hold up two fingers. The packing area was too goddam loud to talk clearly, but everybody knew what that hand-sign meant. It meant that some lazy bastard was laying out of work and the boss needed someone to pull a double to cover the vacancy. I always volunteered.

Hell, I was making $12.00 per hour for that extra eight. It seemed like a good deal to me. I took it every chance I got.

I once pulled five doubles in a row, working from 3:00 in the afternoon to 7:00 in the morning. That's the only time in my life I've ever had a cop wake me up for falling asleep at a traffic light. I was on my way home after that last double and I knew that I was off for the next four days. I just wanted to find my bed and crash. I was 28 years-old and wore slap-out.

I stopped at the light at Skidaway and DeRenne and fell asleep behind the wheel of the car. I must have kept my foot on the brake, but I don't really remember. I fell asleep. All I recall is a policeman waking me up while horns were honking all around me.

"Son. are you drunk?" he asked me.

"No, sir. I just got off work this morning and I've pulled a lot of overtime this week. I'm really tired and I just want to go to bed. I guess I must have gone to sleep at the traffic light. But I'm awake now and it won't happen again."

Those were the days when a cop said, "You look like Fido's ass. Somebody ran you through the washing machine and put you through the wringer, too. Where do you live?" I told him. "Okay, head that way and I'll follow you to make sure you get there safe and sound."

He followed me all the way home. I pulled into the driveway and he gave one toot from his siren as he drove away. I wanted to lay down in the yard and sleep in the grass. I was bone-tired and half out of my mind from fatigue. But I managed to stagger inside and find my bed. I slept for 24 straight hours and still felt like shit when I woke up. I dreamed about packing the entire time I was asleep.

That's one of the reasons that I never put up with whining from operators about being worked "too hard" in the packing area. I did that shit when IT WAS hard work and I did it all, including 80-hour weeks. I don't want to listen to crybabies tell me their troubles. I could have worked them all into the ground back then.

But I still thank that policeman who woke me up and decided to watch me make it home instead of hauling me off to jail that morning. Bless him.

Howard Stern

Originally published March 1, 2004

I've never listened to the man's radio show. I read his book and saw his movie, and I recognized a kindred soul. He beards the lion. And he does it ON PURPOSE.

What is happening to howard now is complete bullshit. Every radio station that airs his show knows that he is an outrageous performer. He has been that way for years. That's what Howard does; that's also why he draws such a large audience.

I've never understood why some people have so much trouble with their radio controls. If you run across something you don't like, just SWITCH THE GODDAM CHANNEL and listen to something else. Don't go bitching to government nannys for new laws and bans and witch-burnings because your delicate sensibilities were offended. Fuck that idea.

I offend a lot of people with this blog. Writing the way I do cost me a job I excelled at for 24 years. But I offended delicate sensibitities, and today corporate law offices will pitch a hissy over such a horrible crime. I use the forbidden "N-word" and I call females "wimmen." I call my ex-wife a "bloodless cunt." My writing pisses a lot of people off.

Guess what, people? I have the right to do that in this country as long as I don't violate libel laws or actually slander anybody. And everything I've said about my ex-wife is true. I would LOVE to see her, that slut, suing me for slander. Instead, she uses my son as a weapon against me. SHE KNOWS that she behaved as a complete whore during our divorce. But judges don't want to hear that kind of shit anymore. They just demand that the ex-husband pay child support.

I have never approved of this law in Georgia. The Supreme Court must have been smoking opium when they dreamed up the "community standards" yardstick to decide what is obscene and what is not.

Do you want to know what really decides "community standards?" It ain't the Baptist ministers and the Bible-thumpers who turn out in droves to support such nannyism. It is the goddam cash register in the store. If "community standards" don't approve of the food you serve in a restaurant, see how fast you go broke. Serve weak drinks in a bar, cheat the customers and see how long you stay open.

But open "Missy's Adult Boutique" and make a good living running the store. MY GAWD! People actually go in there and buy pornography, purchase vibrating dildoes and keep that cash register ringing. There are your fucking "community standards," but we can't have that store operating in a God-fearing place such as Savannah, Georgia.

The owner finally got tired of the police raids, the lawsuits and the noise of the Baptists. He closed the store and moved to Atlanta, where I understand that he has prospered ever since.

We don't teach our children very well anymore. Do you you know why the First Amendment to the Constitution is the FIRST AMENDMENT? It was written to protect people from religious persecution and to guarantee them the right to be offensive in free speech. What the Founders feared most was a nanny-government, run by political-correctness instead of individual freedom. That's what they rebelled against.

Look at how far we've come.

March 08, 2007

Troubles

Originally published March 5, 2005

My flag blew down off my porch again. March is coming in like a lion and the wind has been fierce.

My goddam speakers quit working on my computer today and I don't know why (I'll research that problem later-- maybe tomorrow). Meanwhile, I'll just enjoy the Sound of Silence from my PC.

My digital camera is sick. It says it can't format a disk anymore, so I can't take any pictures until I either have the disk drive repaired or buy a memory stick for the damned thing, which costs almost as much as the camera did. I may just say to hell with it and buy another fucking camera. Maybe tomorrow.

I came home from Hospice today and smelled rotting garbage in my house. This was no olfactory illusion, either; it was the real thing. I tracked it down to a piece of uncooked catfish I threw in the kitchen trash can about two days ago. It was getting ripe. I took out the garbage and burned a couple of insense sticks to camouflage the smell.

Two basketballs and most of my lawn furniture are in my neighbor's yard now. I TOLD you that the wind was fierce. I'll go pick them up later. Maybe tomorrow. Hell, he knows who that shit belongs to.

I thought about doing my income taxes today, but I couldn't locate my calculator. I figured that was the perfect excuse not to do that onerous task. I think the feds are going to screw me blind this year. Maybe I'll look at that crap tomorrow.

I bought a six pack of Bass Ale and I almost never found the church key to pry the lid off the first bottle. I finally located it in the dishwasher, just about the time I was getting desperate and thinking about using the edge of the kitchen counter to pop the lid off, the way I did when I was in college. Jack's sisters must have put it there a week ago.

My truck needs an oil change, but I don't feel like crawling under the sumbitch and doing that today. Maybe tomorrow.

"Maybe tomorrow." That's my motto today.

Must be blood on the moon

Originally published March 4, 2005

I just thought of ten people that I would like to strangle with my bare hands. Don't ask me WHY I thought such a thing. I don't know. But I did. I'm too old and decrepit to actually strangle anybody anymore, but here's my list anyway. (not in any particular order)

* Barry Manilow, and if you have to ask why, I want to strangle you, too.

* Jimmy Carter, and if you have to ask why, you must have voted for John Kerry.

* Al Sharpton. Just because, that's why.

* Dan Rather. Never mind. Somebody beat me to that one. He choked on some paper, didn't he?

* Hillary Clinton. I believe that she's the Antichrist, but I'd be afraid to try to choke her. She might nut-kick me, head-butt me and them rip my still-beating heart out of my chest and EAT IT in front of me.

* Bill Clinton. I could probably handle him if he didn't sic his wife on me.

* Richard Simmons. just because he deserves it.

* Carrot Top. I can't help it. I HATE that guy.

* The Jogger Dude. I've mentioned him in earlier posts, that running bastard from somewhere down the street. He does about 20 laps around the neighborhood every day. He resembles John Clease without a moustache and I am certain that he expects to live forever. That's why I want to strangle him.

* Molly Ivans. I'm not sure that I have the hand-span to make it around her wattled neck, but I would like to try. Bloviating, bovine, babbling bitch.

If I were 30 years younger, if I hadn't smoked all those cigarettes, if I hadn't gotten drunk so much, if I had watched my diet better and if I could jog 20 laps around the neighborhood every day, some of those people might be in trouble. But they are safe, for now.

I'm worried that Carrot Top might whip my ass, and I'd NEVER live that down.

Jobs I don't want

Originally published March 4, 2005

* Cop. I've never wanted to be a policeman and I don't understand people who do. I have two good friends (well... good acquaintences) and one cousin who are cops and they love their jobs. They can have that line of work. Different strokes for different folks.

* Politician. I'd just as soon put on a tin bill and peck shit with the chickens. Hell, that's what most politicians do anyway.

* Firefighter. I've been trained to do it, but I never LIKED doing it. Real firefighters have smoke in their veins and fire in their eyes. I don't.

* Salesman. I don't have the personality for such an occupation. I can't eat the shit those people do every day. I'd rather be a firefighter.

* Mortician. Yeah, I know that people are just DYING to be your clients, but I'd rather have YOU do that job, not me. I believe in cremation anyway.

* Nurse. I've dated a few nurses and bedded a few along the way. Most of them are wonderful, uninhibited lays. But I couldn't do what they do every day. Too much dealing with bedpans, suppositories and death for me.

* Accountant. I know that's a good line of work, especially when you get a CPA. But I'd go crazy staring at numbers all day. I can feel my hair falling out just from thinking about it.

* President of the United States. Yeah, I intend for the "Reprobates in 2008" to take over the country, but when I'm HMFIC, I will DELEGATE a lot of responsibility. In fact, I will delegate ALL of it if I can. I'm just in the race for some strange pussy, kinda like Bill Clinton.

Just a sample of more things you really need to know about me before you volunteer to have my love-child.

March 07, 2007

Eating machines

Originally published June 2, 2003

I love those boys.

My son is the one with no shirt on (go figure). You're seeing the last of a half-pound of bacon vanish down their gullets along with four large scrambled eggs and a bagel each, which disappeared right off the bat. Those milk glasses were full when they started eating.

When I sat them down, I asked, "If you had three wishes that could come true, what would they be?"

Young Jack right away said, "I wish Quinton was my brother!"

That made me feel good, until Quinton said, "Shut up and eat, Jack. You're my FRIEND, not my brother."

"Okay, then I wish we were TWINS!"

"We can't be twins because I'm older than you are. Twins are born at the same time. I am nine years old and you aren't." Logic sucks, doesn't it?

"I'm EIGHT!"

"No, you're not. You're SEVEN. You'll be eight in two months. I'll be TEN YEARS OLD before you're nine."

I performed an intervention here, because Jack was getting pissed and Quinton was laying the seniority club on him pretty heavily.

I said, "I'm FIFTY-ONE years old, and I am TALL DOG around this house. You boys better shut up and eat or you'll never see another birthday. If there's a fight in THIS HOUSE, I'll be the one who starts it, and I'll be the one who finishes it." I struck a gunfighter's stance in the kitchen. "You poots want some of ME?"

They shut up and ate.

Little boys are like dogs and little girls are like cats. I've raised one of each and I know the difference. I bought a 22" deep inflatable wading pool at Wal-Mart last weekend. I inflated it, put water in it, and the boys immediately decided that it was a wrestling arena where the goal was to toss to your opponent out on the ground.

Jack's sisters came over and actually believed that the pool was meant for swimming. They were quickly dissuaded of that crazy idea by Jack, who is accustomed to fighting with his sisters. Quinton LET the girls throw him out of the pool because he won't fight them. He is WAY too much like me at his age, and the way I was for most of my life. He still believes in chilvary. He made the State Finals in his weight class last year in wrestling and he tosses Jack around like a rag doll. But he LET HIMSELF be manhandled by the girls.

Guess who the girls went after? I'll give you a hint... it wasn't Jack.

I'll never trust another goddam split-tail as long as I live. I am a dog, and I can't think like a cat. I am a man, and I damned sure can't think like a woman. I am 0-2 playing that game and I have learned my lesson. It cost me a LOT both times.

I would NEVER post anything like this about an ex-lover and I believe that the guy who did it is pure scum. [Ed. Link borked. Referred to the Miss Vermont "scandal" from the Tucker Max site.] But I also know that a woman will do worse than that to YOU and never feel a moment's remorse about it.

If you throw a man out of his home, take a man's son, run off with another man and then sue the father for child support, you pure-ass suck. Women do that shit all the time and the father is playing a hand from a stacked deck. I've seen those cards dealt to me. "Fairer Sex," my aching ass.

Bloodless cunts abound in this world. And they have Politically Correct sympathy on their side. I don't know why, because they machinate worse than any man ever could ever CONCEIVE of doing, but that's their soap-opera brains in action. Fuck 'em.

Did you ever notice that women who claim to have been "raped" get raped more than once? Did you ever notice that women who have "abusive relationships" with one guy go through several just like that one? WOMEN ARE FUCKED UP!!!

They are the Borg.

If they didn't have a pussy and red toenails, there'd be a fucking bounty on their asses.

Big confession

Originally published June 2, 2003

When my ex-wife told me that she didn't want to be married anymore, she took my son and ran off to shack up with her unemployed, dope-smoking lover in his single-wide trailer 50 miles down the road. Whatta woman.

She WAS clever enough to cancel all the credit cards and clean out the bank accounts first, so that she threw me into the street with a sheriff's warrant on my head with $60 to my name. I checked into the cheapest motel I could find. Lots of Spanish was spoken there.

I felt as if I had a feral animal trying to claw its way out of my chest. I never hurt so badly in my life. I drank a pint of vodka. That didn't stop the pain. My One True Love broke my heart. I couldn't believe it. I can't believe it to this day. But she planned it, she did it, and she carried it off exactly according to plan. I remain stunned by that fact today, but I was REALLY disemboweled that night.

So, I wrote three suicide notes, laid my identifications out on a table, broke open a Bic razor and cut myself really bad on every major artery I could hit. I still have the scars to show you from that episode. I did it in the bathtub with the warm water running, because I wanted to die. I still don't know why it didn't work.

I passed out from loss of blood, but I clotted and didn't die. I woke up in the ambulance on the way to the hospital after the maid found me the next morning. I was really pissed about the way things turned out. The doctor who sewed me up was pissed, too, and didn't use any novicaine. I didn't care. The stitches didn't hurt that bad. He kept cussing at me, telling me that my hemoglobin was down to 7 and I would suffer all sorts of organ damage from that kind of blood loss.

Ha! I didn't. Of course, I had collapsed my veins so badly that the three pints of whole blood they gave me had to go in my leg, because that was the only vein they could find to hit. I really should have died.

They threw me into the looney bin for ten days under Suicide Watch, which I found amusing. An orderly was tasked to come to my bed once every hour and ask me, even if I were asleep, "Are you going to try to kill yourself again?" I was hooked up to an IV tripod and wearing one of those assless hospital gowns. "Are you going to believe anything I say?" was always my answer.

I finally got pissed at that idiocy and told him (although the night guy was okay... just doing his job) that if he woke me up again to ask me such a stupid question that I might KILL HIM, because I DON'T GIVE A SHIT! He left me alone and allowed me to sleep after that.

I finally talked the shrink into letting me out of there. He signed all the papers to release me and I was going to stay at mama's house and go back to work to put my life back together.

That's when the Bloodless Cunt got involved. She hit my mama with all sorts of logic about how unstable I was and how I didn't need to go back to work in a chemical plant after attempting suicide, and mama ate every crumb of it. She called the doctor and cancelled my release. My mama once trusted Jennifer the way I did. She knows better now.

I was stopped at the door the next day and told that my release was cancelled. I spent another night in the looney bin while Jennifer managed to get me put in Willingway Hospital, a rehab clinic in Statesboro. My mama paid for it, of course. I didn't really need rehab, because I never needed dexox, but once you're grabbed by those people, you stay there until THEY say you go.

My brother drove me there. I was just happy to get out of the looney-bin, because at least I could smoke cigarettes again, but I asked him, "Dave, did you have a fucking thing to do with this? If you DID, pull the car over right now. I'm going to beat the dogshit out of you."

He said, "Rob, I'm just following orders."

For a high-octaine litigator, he ain't much in a pinch.

I spent 35 days there and got out after I told my councellor that I was going to jump the fence if they didn't let me go. I had prostate cancer. Jennifer was sending me nothing but divorce decrees in the mail while she ran off to rock concerts in Jacksonville with her new lover. I wrote Quinton every day and NEVER got a reply. Jennifer saw to that.

Yeah, I whine. I've got a lot to fucking whine about.

Walk a mile in my shoes, THEN tell me how much you know. As soon as I was safely ensconsced at Willingway, the Bloodless Cunt moved the unemployed dopesmoker into my house. That disease-infected (hepatitus "C") cretin slept in MY bed, saw MY son every day and fucked MY WIFE while I was locked up in a goddam rehab clinic.

When I got out, I had to bring my brother with me as protection against her calling the law on me because of the peace warrant when I picked up my stuff (all NEATLY PACKED, by her) to try and rebuild my life. I had my guts and my manhood cut out 28 days later. She put a swimming pool in her back yard last week.

Don't you fucking people tell ME to be tough. I've hung my head into the abyss. I liked what I saw there. It's better than what I've seen and lived before.

Okay, I blogged again

Originally published June 2, 2003

I told a secret that I thought I would never do. Yeah, I survived an attempted suicide. You know what really surprised me? I FAILED!!!

I am good at what I do. I thought I did that one right, too. Hell, the doctors told me I had no business being alive, because I DID do a good job. But I lived.

I had some Social Worker come to visit me for five straight days in the looney bin, when I was weak and thirsty, hooked up to an IV and sick and tired of being sick and tired. Do you know what she said to me?

She said, "You are alive for a REASON, Rob. This is DESTINY! You are MEANT to be ALIVE!"

I've never heard a bigger pile of horseshit in my entire life, but if it makes her feel better, that's fine with me. I enjoy pleasing people.

But I damned sure don't mind pissing them off, either.

Destiny, my ass.

March 06, 2007

Spring break

Originally published March 5, 2002

I put in for some vacation time today and had it approved.

For people who have never been to Savannah on St. Patrick's Day, I'll tell you the honest truth. It's the one time of the year that the "beautiful lady with a dirty face" lets her hair down, takes off her panties and runs around crazed, with her dress hiked up around her neck. About 600,000 people show up to watch the dynamite parade (greater Savannah, including all the suburbs and incorporated localities has a population of less than 300,000), then about 500,000 of them go to River Street to drink beer and party like rabid dogs. The jails fill up, the cobblestone streets run yellow with beer and urine, women expose their breasts frequently, a couple of unfortunates always fall in the river and drown and a LOT of folks get laid that night. I once attended the festivities every year, but now I'm old, decrepit and burnt out. If I went down there and drank the way I used to, I probably would be the one of the unfortunate doofuses who fell in the river and drowned. If you make that mistake on St. Patrick's Day, your best friends usually take at least two days to realize that you are missing, then the authorities take another three or four to find your crab-eaten body up under a dock somewhere. It ain't the way I want to go.

So, I am staying home on St. Patrick's Day and going to Key West immediately thereafter. I am also staying at a "clothing optional" den of iniquity, where I intend to stay naked a lot and tan certain private parts of my body under the warm Carribean sun. I haven't been to the Keys in years, but I'll bet the conch fritters are still delicious and the Bloody Marys with fresh lime, accompanied with two Tylenol, can still wipe away the most merciless of hangovers, and I intend to cultivate a few while I'm there.

Hell, I might even take my "fix a flat" kit with me, just in case I get lucky.

Less than an hour and a half in a day in the life of Acidman

All originally published March 3, 2002

Posted 5:21pm
There is something terribly wrong with the new basketball I bought for my son. We went to mama's house today, visited with her for a while, then walked over to the schoolyard to shoot some hoops with the new ball. We tried three different goals on three different courts, and we sucked on every one. Airballs, bricks and clunkers flew from our talent-box like frightened quail, and we pretty well stunk up everywhere we went. My son blamed it on the rain, which WAS falling in scattered drops at the time, and I agreed. Otherwise, I would have to admit that there is not a single shred of basketball talent between the two of us. But it's a new ball and IT is not accustomed to the job of GOING THROUGH THE HOOP when we fling it in that general direction. Rawlings makes a crappy basketball. Don't buy their defective product.

Posted 5:35pm
A football game is being played in my front yard. The rules seem fungible and the object of the game appears to be GET DIRTY. The boys are doing a fine job of that. My ex-wife will be here in 30 minutes to take my son back to her house, where the unemployed, dope-smoking lover waits to welcome my son "home." God, I hate this shit.

I'm going outside to play quarterback. I need to protect my Japanese plum tree from those rampaging Visigoths in my front yard.

Posted 6:46pm
The football game is over and my son is on his way back to where he lives. I always feel an incredible emptiness when he leaves, but I have a nice souvenir of this visit, which is a set of muddy footprints running down the hallway and back again, where he left his tracks when he picked up his clothes and went to climb into his mama's very cool sports car. She picks him up when the unemployed, dope-smoking lover is staying at her house, which is every weekend, but she's still worried that I might show up with a pistol one day and put a couple of well-deserved slugs into that bastard's diseased liver. The thought has crossed my mind more than once.

I would rather shoot her, but I never will because my son loves his mama and I love my son. And after all the crap she's heaped on my head, I still love her, too. That's sad.

March 05, 2007

The fine art of cursing

Originally published May 31, 2004

The proper use of profanity has been cheapened and defiled by gangsta rappers, professional athletes and people who never were trained in the art of good cussing. I really hate to see poor, ignorant foul-mouths abusing our colorful language that way.

I was trained to curse by some true experts. I never heard my father use a foul word until I started playing golf with him. Then I learned that my dad could cuss a golf ball as well as anyone on the planet. He was imaginative and creative in his cussing, too. He didn't use the same lines over and over.

"Sit DOWN, you wicked bitch! Don't fuck me like that! Awww, you heartless whore. Go on into the water, you rotten piece of shit! You need a goddam bath anyway, cocksucker." My dad could have been an excellent Marine drill sergeant.

I pride myself on have a very educated foul mouth.

But I also agree with this guy that turning off the cuss-instinct is difficult to do sometimes. I try not to cuss around Quinton or Jack, because little pitchers have big ears. If you say "fuck!" one time around a young'un, you can bet your sweet ass that it's coming back at you very quickly. I don't want my son to cuss until he's old enough to know what he's cussing about.

I learned to cuss well from a lot of time playing guitar in bars and working 24 years in a chemical plant. Some people just can't understand the message you're attempting to send unless you reinforce it with some creative cursing.

Handle a heckler in a bar. If you can't out-cuss that troll-like bastard, you're fucked, right there on stage. You've gotta put a big chomp on his nasty ass right off the bat, humiliate him in front of his audience, or he'll heckle all night long. I could chainsaw those assholes.

Working in heavy industry, I found myself bossing a lot of rough cobs. If you tip-toe around such people, say please and thank you, they'll eat you alive. I am not a big man. In fact, I'm kinda short and a lot skinnier than I want to be. But I had a job to do, and I relied on sheer, unmitigated attitude, combined with creative cursing to keep those people in line.

If I ever cursed an employee in front of a witness, I was subject to a grievance from the union, so I usually did it with no one else around. But when the time was right, I let fly.

"Just what the fuck did you think you were doing? I ain't puttin' up with that kind of assholery on my watch. If you can't get your shit in one sock and do your job the right way, I'll have your nutsack flying from the front-office flagpole tomorrow. I'll cook you like a goddam Christmas goose. And if you think I'm lying, you dipshit, just go back out there and fuck up again. I'll have your ass on a stick over the hottest fire YOU ever felt."

Mr. Rogers, I wasn't.

Cursing sometimes is a very effective way to get an important point across to someone who doesn't want to listen. I keep practicing every day.

Feeling depressed

Originally published May 30, 2004

I miss my son. I wanted to talk to him today, but every time I called I got nothing but the answering machine. I left a message for him to call me, but I haven't heard back from him yet.

I wonder where he is?

I have a bag full of goodies, gee-gaws and other things I bought for Quinton in Costa Rica. I want to give it to him, if I can ever track him down. I don't give a damn what the law says--- what Jennifer has done to drive a wedge between me and my son is worse than her slipping off in the dark (and later in broad daylight) to throw her pussy to the wind. I don't give a shit what she does with her pussy anymore.

But I still love my son.

My father made one hell of an impact on my life. We didn't agree on a lot of things, but he was one hell of a man and he helped me a lot through the years. He was my Yoda--- the wise one I consulted with when I wasn't certain what to do next. He drove me hard, and he often barked at me when he thought I needed it, but he never failed to give me good advice. I didn't always follow it, but I'll miss him until the day I die.

I want to have that kind of impact on Quinton's life. I may be a crazy old buzzard, but I've learned a lot through 52 years of fire and rain. A boy needs a father in his life and I still remember what it feels like to be a young boy. I could help him a lot with things NO WOMAN understands, even if she does believe that she's Supermom.

Yeah, I've fucked up. But I don't believe that I'm a bad man and I'll never believe that Quinton is better off without me. I am his father and I always will be. Nobody else can ever change that fact, no matter how many men Jennifer decides to sleep with.

I miss my boy.

Country music

Originally published May 31, 2004

I never realized that I was a fairly poor boy when I was growing up. I was fed, watered and clothed and I knew that my parents loved me. They gave me all they had to give and I thought that was plenty until I hit high school.

That's when I learned that my clothes sucked. I couldn't be "cool" without Gant shirts, Gold Cup socks and a Barracuda jacket. My parents couldn't afford such shit, so I bought my own clothes. (Did I mention before that I've had a job almost all of my life since I was 12 years old?) I wanted THE UNIFORM that cool high school students wore.

It took me years to realize how foolish I was at the time. My parents may not have had much money, but I was a lot richer in other ways than most of the "cool" people I tried to emulate. I was a dickwit at the time.

Tonight, I've been listening to The Top 100 Country Music Songs Of All Time on CMN. My pick for the very best country song (Hank Williams: "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry") came in #32, so I am curious to see what is #1. But this has been a rough evening.

I've sat on the floor and cried a few times tonight. "Coat Of Many Colors" by Dolly Parton made me think of my mama, and tears rolled down my face. "I Can't Stop Loving You" by Ray Charles made me think of Jennifer and my son, so I cried some more. "Will The Circle Be Unbroken" made me think of my whole family and I wept like a baby. "Strawberry Wine" by Dena Carter brought back memories of better days, set around a kitchen table where I played guitar and the woman I loved sang that song. "Forever and Ever, Amen," written by Paul Overstreet and Don Schlitz, and performed by Randy Travis, was the song my brother and my old-time singing partner, Sally Roundtree, sang at my wedding when Jennifer and I were married.

I cried some more.

Say what you will about country music, but it cuts straight to my heart. The words and music are so simple, yet so earthy that I fall head-first into the songs. They are about my life. I am a hillbilly and a Georgia Cracker. That kind of music sings to my soul.

Aw, shit. I don't know what I'm trying to say. If you don't get it when you hear the music, you're never gonna get it. It's either IN YOU, or it's not.

It's IN ME, and I want to watch the rest of the show.

March 04, 2007

Sunday morning

Originally published April 13, 2003

I woke up with a nekkid woman in my bed. She's still there, asleep.

I stayed up VERY late last night. I was working hard. Yes... there's a pun in there. I still woke up at 6:00 this morning.

We have resecued seven POWs and they appear to be fine. This news is GOOD news.

I've had my riding lawn mower on the battery charger all night. I may try to crank it later today.

I can't decide whether to have a Mountain Dew or a Killian's Red for breakfast.

I don't think that I'll be going to church today. I never go to church anyway, so it's no big deal.

I work only four days next week, and two of them I'll spend in an off-site training seminar. Then I go on vacation. I'm going back to Merlefest to listen to bluegrass music and see if I can light upon a loose woman.

Speaking of loose women, I hear somebody moving around the Crackerbox and it ain't me. I had better go investigate...

It's a training thing

Originally published April 12, 2003

Our Training Department just got a wild boost of inspiratation from on high, with a little help from our sister plant in Australia (which I hope to visit some day, when I have a week's vacation to burn along with the business trip). They tested my operators for "Job Competence" and a mere 45% of my operators passed.

The operators are pissed. "THEY SAY I DON'T KNOW HOW TO RUN MY JOB!", they screamed. I disagreed, saying that obviously they could run the jobs, but the tests showed that they didn't have a clue what they were doing when they THOUGHT they were running the job. They didn't like my take on the matter.

But Friday, I had the perfect opportunity to TELL them and SHOW them what this training program is all about. They fought feeding "B" micronizer all night long Thursday. It wouldn't take feed. It kept blowing back. Dust was everywhere and my people worked their asses off that night. I heard every theory about what might be wrong from a slipped venturi to a complete overhaul of the micronizer.

I went to look. The micronizer exhaust blower was pulling 32 amps. It should run 65 with feed on the mills and 75 with feed off. I don't run that job every day of my working life, but I KNOW THAT. I got two guys together who DO RUN THAT JOB EVERY FUCKING DAY OF THEIR WORKING LIVES and asked them, "Look HERE!" Do you see anything wrong?"

They didn't. I wanted to collapse on the floor.

I have people operating jobs where they know what buttons to push and how to turn it off when something goes wrong, but they don't have a glimmer about how ANY of that shit actually works. I ended up giving a speech in the control room after I had mechanics tighten the drive belts on the exhaust blower and put a vacuum back on the mill. The mill ran fine after that.

I told everybody in the room that I wanted to hear NO MORE SHIT from them about the training department calling them "incompetent." If an entire shift spent 12 hours pissing in the wind and I find the problem in five minutes, I've obviously got a bunch of incompetent assholes working for me. Even when I POINTED to the problem, my fucksticks didn't recognize it.

I said that if I were an operator and I needed somebody like ME to bail me out of that kind of trouble because I didn't know what I was doing, I would admit that I was a dumbass. I would SEEK the help of the training department so that I never embarassed myself like that again. I would PLEAD for them to train me.

But my real problem is raw material. You've got to have a brain to start with before you can stuff it full of knowledge. I realize now that I don't have a lot of active brains working for me. No wonder the training department says that I'm in trouble. I am.

But the operators think the training department is picking on them, and they've copped an attitude. I can't have that situation in my ranks.

I may have to shoot a hostage.

Dumbass are me

Originally published April 12, 2003

I actually paid for two firewall programs that I keep disabled when I blog. If they are live, they put up a firewall between me and anything I want to do. None of my passwords work. None of my user names are recognized. It's like having a Nazi in my computer.

I turn it off when I'm blogging, then turn it back on when I'm finished. Of course, I usually turn the computer off, too, so that pair of $50 firewalls are doing me a whole bunch of good. I have no clue what I'm doing on the net. I just write.

I see LOTS of people "playing" with their sites, developing "skins" and redoing the page once every week. I have one thing to say to every one of them: FUCK YOU!

All I want is a platform from which to launch whatever flies out of my noggin. I have that here. I don't give a lovely shit about making the place look any different than it does right now. I'm not a decorator. Look at the Crackerbox if you don't believe me. My idea of neatness falls somewhere between Dante's seventh level of hell and the local landfill.

So, I just want to announce to all you people who constantly fuck with your "web design" that I don't have a cyber-clue what you're talking about and if you insist on writing about it, I will quit reading you. So, there.

Go away. Leave me alone. I am pissed.

March 03, 2007

Grief and toys

Originally published March 30, 2003

Kentucky is out of the NCAA playoffs after losing to a pissant Marquette team that ain't fit to carry UK's jockstraps. But UK lost, dammit. I am in mourning.

So, I went to the Super Wal-Mart today and bought me a new toy. I have an HP copier/printer/scanner thing that I got on sale for $98 and it's already plugged in to my computer. The printer function works. Now, I need to read the instructions and figure out how that scanning thingamajig operates. I have some old pictures I want to post.

I also bought a bag of potato chips, a case of Mountain Dew a dozen tangelos and six pairs of underwear while I was shopping. I like making cashiers shake their heads and give me weird looks when I lay my stuff on the conveyor. I was going to say that I intended to put on my new drawers, stuff tangelos down them and then eat potato chips and drink Mountain Dew while I took pictures of myself and scanned them onto the internet. But nobody asked.

I was disappointed.

So, I'm going to put on my new drawers and stuff tangelos down them. I've got nothing better to do.

Back to the woods

Originally published March 30, 2003

I just agreed to go on a backpacking trip in May. I thought that I was through with that kind of outdoor activity, but Cop 3 wanted to do it, and he convinced my friend Don to go for his first time ever, so I signed up.

We won't do a LOT of packing. We'll hike in along the Chatooga River, set up a base camp and day-hike to the waterfalls and the scenic overlooks, then get drunk around the campfire at night. I'm bringing a fishing rod to see if I can catch some trout while I'm there. I caught three nice ones the last time I went, and they tasted great grilled on the fire with some rice and onions on the side.

I like campfire cooking, especially when I have something like fresh river trout to work with. In the old days, I made rice with Cup O' Soup mix in it, and it was delicious. I also ate rice with bullion cubes, sardines, salt-cured ham, Vienna sausages (Vieenies) and whatever else was in my pack. It would make a turd and it didn't taste bad when you were hungry. Rice is filling and it packs light.

Another WONDERFUL backpack food is Little Debbie's Star Crunches. Just trust me on that. You get chocolate for energy and Rice Krispies for carbs and the damn things taste GOOD. Pack at least a dozen and you won't regret it. Milky Way candy bars are good, too.

I'll chew tobacco again on that trip. I don't do that often anymore, but backpacking almost DEMANDS a nice wad of Levi Garret between cheek and gum. I like to spit into the campfire. I like to spit at the crazed salamanders that come scampering through the leaves to run right into the fire, too. Have you ever watched those creatures do that? They won't stop until they're cooked. Death wish.

I'm going back to the mountains with what I tote on my back. I intend to catch some fish, but if I don't, I won't starve.

I can eat chewing tobacco if I get desperate.

The results are in

Originally published March 30, 2003

I should have posted this yesterday, but I got busy doing other things that I don't remember now. I feel badly enough now to believe that I must have had a lot of fun. Anyway, the votes have been tallied in my 10 MOST LYING, PHONEY-BALONEY, HYPOCRITAL ASSWIPES OF THE LAST 50 YEARS.

First, here is MY list:

1. Jesse Jackson, the Human Seagull

2. Bill Clinton, the human cesspool

3. Lyndon Johnson, the worst thing ever to come out of Texas

4. Robert McNamara, the butcher of young men

5. Ralph Nader, the sickening bastard

6. Walter Cronkite, your lying grandfather

7. Jimmy Carter, the worst thing ever to come out of Georgia

8. Ted Kennedy, a drunk, bloated asshole who should be in jail for vehicular homicide.

9. Sara Brady, the misguided, gun-grabbing, wounded-husband vulture

10. My ex-wife, the bloodless cunt

I received over 100 responses to my poll and it took a lot of work that I didn't feel like doing today to put all the votes together and rank these assholes. All you people who voted for Joe Stalin are SOL, because he died on march 5, 1953 which puts him out of the 50-year range by a couple of weeks. If he had died later, he would have made the top ten. If he had died sooner, millions of people might still BE alive. So it goes.

Anyway, here are the TOP TEN MOST LYING, PHONEY-BALONEY, HYPOCRITICAL ASSWIPES OF THE LAST 50 YEARS as selected by my highly-intelligent readership.

1. William Jefferson Clinton This wasn't even close. He won in a runaway, with 90% of respondents including him on their list. There's your legacy, Bill.

2. Jimmy Carter He was the only person to come close to Bill, and some of the comments included with the votes were WORSE than what people said about Clinton. Take THAT, you grinning jackass.

3. Tom Dashle I was surprised by the rancor my voters feel for that prick. I thought it was just me.

4. Jaques Chirac I didn't put this posturing pissant on MY list because I don't think he amounts to a fart in an Iraqi sandstorm. I am out of touch with my readers on this issue, because they want to feed him his own testicles, which isn't a bad idea, now that I think about it...

5. Hillary Clinton Why am I not surprised? I left her off my list because I experience physical pain when I think of her. I try not to do that. If I see her, I always think of Dorthy looking out her bedroom window in the middle of the tornado and seeing the woman on a bicycle turn into a green-skinned witch. HILLARY!

6. Jesse Jackson I cannot believe that this lying, hypocritical, phoney-baloney asswipe didn't score higher than #6. Jesse set the goddam STANDARD for hypocritical, lying, phoney-baloney asswipes. That's MY humble opinion, anyway. Look where I put him on MY list.

7. Noam Chomsky I don't think Noam deserves such attention. He is a little man, with little ideas and a little dick. If I weren't an honest man, I would have thrown him off this list. But you people voted for him, so I put him where he scored. That's not where he BELONGS, mind you, because I know of a country outhouse that's perfect for him, but he scored #7 in the voting. So there he is.

8. Richard Nixon Goddam, people. He's dead. Leave the poor bastard alone. Besides, he looks like a fucking angel compared to Bill Clinton.

9. Chairman Mao I disagree with this choice and all the people who voted for the man. He was a murdering, insane communist, but he didn't LIE about it. I believe that Mao was one of the most evil people who ever shit between two Chinese sandals in the history of the world, but he wasn't a PHONEY-BALONEY HYPOCRITE. He was just a piece of conscienceless crap. He never tried to sell himself as anything else the way Bill Clinton did.

10. (Tie) Yasser Arafat and Al Gore Where do I begin? If I were casting the tie-breaking vote here, I would have to go with Arafat, because the Nobel Peace Prize-winner is a scumbag that the world would be better off without. But Al Gore is a pretty self-absorbed asshole, too. The main difference is that Al doesn't encourage people to strap on bomb belts and blow themselves up in public places. At least not yet. But he may declare JIHAD on SUVs any day now. Maybe a tie is the right thing.

Others receiving much attention: Jane Fonda, Ralph Nader, OJ Simpson, Al Sharpton, Robert McNamara, George Bush Senior, Nelson Mandela, Michael Moore and Kofi Annan. Three people voted for ME, too. I hope all three of them drown in shit.

If you didn't vote, don't bitch about the results.

March 02, 2007

Names

Originally published March 1, 2002

I named this blog site "Gut Rumbles" because I always wanted to play bass guitar in a rock-and-roll band by that name. Of course, I always wanted to play in a bluegrass band called "Cooter Gap," too. I never had the chance to stamp those names on any band, so I put "Gut Rumbles" here. It may not be pretty, but it sounds better than the "Cooter Gap Blog."

My son is with me this weekend, and I'm beginning to worry about that boy. I had pizza and bread sticks delivered to the house for supper tonight. He sat, wiggling and squirming and stuffing his face with pizza at the kitchen table while informing me that Michael Jordan may be too old to play basketball anymore, but he's still not FIFTY the way DADDY is, which is REALLY OLD. I am beginning to feel my ego collapse like the WTC towers when I discern a recognizable sound, accompanied by a distinctive aroma.

"Did you just poot?" I asked.

"I poot all the time," he answered, still scarfing pizza. "I think one time I went about ten or fifteen minutes without pooting. But that was when I was little."

He is SERIOUS about it, too. He poots A LOT. I don't know what his mama feeds him at home, but it must be cabbage, sausage, raw potatoes and pickled eggs, because he generates a hurricane of wind coupled with the scent of a South Georgia paper mill. A belly as young as his should not generate such disgusting things. But HE DOES.

Hell, I should have called this blog "Cooter Gap" and named him "Gut Rumbles."

Bluegrass at the Grammys

Originally published February 28, 2002

I didn't watch the Grammy Awards last night. One reason is the fact that I have a Dish Network system and out here in the boonies where I live, they don't offer the Big Four commercial channels. I've never bothered trying to hook up my antenna and seek out the local stations, but even if I had, I would not have watched last night. I was certain that a bunch of manufactured, shuck and jive pseudo-musicians would win the awards.

I was stunned when I saw the winners today.

For my party two weekends ago, my sister-in-law brought a cake that had a picture of me, about twelve-years old, sitting on my back porch playing a Sears & Roebuck Silvertone guitar with heavy-gauge Black Diamond strings. I remember it well, because the damned thing had a neck like a pine log and those heavy strings would kill a cornshucker's fingers after thirty minutes of playing. But that is the instrument I utilized to teach myself to play guitar. When I saw the cake, I said, "Y'all can eat the cake, but I want that picture."

"Rob, uh... I mean Acidman, you can't have the picture because it's not a picture. It's icing."

"Bullshit," I responded. "I want that picture of me when I was fucking young and fucking innocent and playing a fucking Silvertone guitar." Acidman had been celebrating his birthday with several dozen other musicians for about six hours by then. I was going to peel that picture off the cake and save it whether they wanted me to or not. I went to grab it. And my finger slid under the edge and came up with nothing but icing on it.

They weren't lying. Computers can scan a picture right into the icing on a cake now. I'm still amazed by that fact, which shows just how pathetically unsophisticated I am when it comes to computers. Hell, just look at this blog site for further evidence.

But I remember being that twelve-year old boy, armed with that hand-killing Silvertone and a Mel Bay chord book. I was bound and determined to learn the guitar, and I did. I managed it the old fashioned way: practice, practice, practice. By the time I was seventeen, I was a fair finger-picker, thanks to Paul Simon. I put Simon & Garfunkle albums on my turntable and played them at a slower speed so I could listen to the finger licks done slowly. (you could do that a long time ago) The technique worked, and I became a legend in a small circle of friends when Mason Williams released "Classical Gas," because I slowed that rascal down and learned to play it when even the GOOD musicians wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole.

People often ask me, "Can you teach ME to play?" I always say yes, because anybody can learn to play guitar. But I also say, "I'll show you what you need to know to get started, but the rest is up to you. Practice what I show you, then come back and see me in six months." Not many people have the want-to to do what it takes. They want to play guitar the same way they want buns of steel and killer abs-- as long as there is some electronic device you plug in to a wall socket that does the work for you and in one week, you've got it. It just doesn't work that way.

I KNOW that anyone bound and determined to play guitar can do it, because my college roommate did. When he started out, he couldn't even tune the piece of crap Yamaha he had, but he shopped up quickly to a fine Epiphone that he still owns to this day. He couldn't tune that one either, at first, but it sounded a lot better out of tune than the Yamaha did. He knew basic chords and if I showed him a lick or a run, he would retire to his room and do it over and over and over again until he had it. On many occasions, I listened to his diligent practice as long as I could stand it, then kicked open his door, snatched the guitar from his hands, tuned it, and gave it back. "Yeah, that's better now," he said, picking and grinning.

Of course, one night I listened to him playing the same thing over and over and over again out of tune and I snapped. I kicked open his door, snatched the guitar from his hands, and beat the living shit out of him with it until he lay dead in a bloody pulp on the floor. Then, I hauled the corpse off threw it in the woods outside Noble, Georgia, where it has not been found to this day, but may be found tomorrow if they dig deep enough around the creamtorium.

Okay, I didn't ACTUALLY do that, but I thought about it more than once. Today, my old roommate is an accomplished musician who has electronic devices with which to tune an instrument. He does well.

I started playing semi-professionally in 1974 on River Street in Savannah. My brother and I formed a folk duo and sang exquisite harmonies together. We weren't half-bad and took our act to Athens when we attended the University of Georgia together for two years. Making music beat flipping hamburgers, and we actually supported ourselves fairly well playing the motel bars during that time. I left journalism school in 1976 and became an advertising copywriter. My brother stayed, went to law school, and became a maggot.

I was starving to death writing, so I went back to River Street, auditioned for a job as a solo entertainer and launched a five-year career as a one-man barroom band. I didn't intend it initially, but I had more fun, made more money and met a much better variety of people in the bars than I did writing copy, so I quit my REAL job and pursued music full-time. It was one hell of a ride. Looking back now, through the filter of time and my current miserable condition, I believe those were the best days of my life. I know I must have been unhappy a time or two, but I can't recall a single instance now. I remember keeping vampire hours, running through women the way Sherman went through Georgia and generally not giving a damn if the sun came up in the morning. It was a time of irresponsible, glorious bliss and I wish I could go back and live it all over again. Of course, I would require my young body back again to make it worthwhile.

Two things happened to drive me out of the bars and into the chemical industry. First was the "Band in a Can" phenomenon that erupted around 1979. I knew a musician on River Street who played in the same place for years and he filled the room with music all by himself by picking a "guitorgan," which put organ chords on top of whatever he played on his guitar, pressing a set of bass pedals with his bare foot and using a beat box to provide drum beats and various percussion behind his songs. He could sound like a six-piece marachi band all by himself. I was impressed. So were others.

The "Bands in a Can" came next. These were guys who RECORDED all their background music, including harmony vocals, then plugged some giant boom-box into the PA and basically lip-synched their entire show. It was loud, it was fancy, and the crowds loved it, drunken swine that they were. A goddam stage-hogging Karioke Show was all it amounted to, and the bovine public thought it was great.

I remained a purist, playing an unbugged Martin D-28 through a microphone, writing my own songs, telling jokes, juggling tennis balls and generally doing what worked well five years earlier. But my time was running out. The last job I played was at one of the prestige places in Savannah at the time, and I worked there for three months. During the last two weeks, Margie, the bartender, began receiving threatening phone calls from her ex-husband. On one of my breaks, I listened to her tell him to leave her alone before she took out a warrant on his ass, and I asked her what was going on.

"That man is crazy," she explained. "He's already killed two people and got sent to Milledgeville (the biggest mental hospital in Georgia) instead of Reidsville (the Big House) where he belongs. He's out now, and he's scaring me to death. He's crazy!" I didn't think much about it at the time. But I rethought a lot when I read the newspaper the week after I left the place.

A woman who played piano and sang like a bird took over as entertainment when I left. She started on Monday and lasted until Friday, when the ex-Milledgeville nut-ball walked into the bar at 1:00 in the morning (last set!) with a shotgun and a pistol. Using the shotgun, he shot the piano player, shot her husband and shot two people at the bar. He aimed at Margie, but his pump shotgun jammed. She ran out the back door of the bar, which led to the swimming pool area of the motel. He followed and shot her six times on the cool deck. The piano player's husband lived. Everyone else was killed. The nut-ball was arrested and SENT BACK TO MILLEDGEVILLE! He may still be a free man again one of these days.

If you think I'm making up this story, think again. It happened.

I still hate "Bands in a Can," which is why I despise the Backstreet Boys and N-Sync and all the other twitching, spastic, non-musical hockwads who don't play instruments, don't write songs and don't do anything except look good, dance frenetically, spew crap that was spoon-fed to them by some asshole promoter, and make teenyboppers cream their jeans. As a former semi-professional musician, I can say: That Aint Workin'. (with apology to Dire Straits)

That's why I LOVE IT when bluegrass rules at the Grammys. I know I am a former hillbilly who evolved into a genuine Georgia cracker, and I may be prejudiced. But "Bands in a Can" took a backseat boys, un-sync drubbing in this event. And I love it.

Almost as much as I love my Martin D-28.

March 01, 2007

Mama tried

Originally published March 4, 2005

I held her hand today, and I don't know if she really understood me or not. But I think she did.

"Mama, I've screwed up a bunch in my life..."

"I know, I know."

"...but I've always loved you and I always will."

"I know, I know."

"I'm your black sheep, the radioactive son. Dave is the good one and I'm the bad example. You raised me better than the way I turned out. I know that I've broken you heart 100 times, and I regret that deeply. I am sorry for the pain I've caused you."

"I know, I know."

"I've been a shit, a complete jerk, but I always loved you. Maybe I didn't show it the right way, but I loved you just the same."

"I know. I know."

She fell asleep then and the ambulance from Hospice came to pick her up shortly thereafter. Man, do I feel bad right now. I've followed that different drummer all of my life and he didn't always lead me down the right path. But that shit is MY fault.

Mama tried.

If I say this to you

Originally published March 2, 2005

Loyal readers already know these facts, but I'm posting them for newbies who may be easily insulted:

* You sick fuck. If I accuse you of being a sick fuck, that's high praise from me. You've got to EARN that honor.

* You should be dragged off and shot. That's not as good as being a sick fuck, but it's close.

* "Bite my Cracker ass." You're slipping down the food chain here, but you're still a contender to be dragged off and shot.

* "In MY humble opinion" means that I don't give a rat's ass WHAT you think.

* "Bejus!" I made that one up, and even I'm not sure what it means. I think it has religious connotations.

* WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!! My typical response to junk-science bullshit.

* My aching ass. Figure that one out for yourself.

Just more that I thought you needed to know about Acidman.

If she read me, she'd already know

Originally published March 2, 2005

From christina:

Here is a question for some of the seasoned bloggers (Jack, Mr. Helpful, Velociman, Rob, Key, Sam, Eric, Jim, and Dax) out there, as well as for the newbies (Will, Bad Bad Juju, Wit Nit, Phin, Smiling Dynamite and 30 second thoughts) :

Why do we do this blogging thing?

It is time consuming and it costs most bloggers money out of their own pockets to do.

Personally, I have always enjoyed writing and sharing stories and experiences.

I was not sure what to expect when I first launched into this endeavor six months ago, but I am so very pleased I did.

I had no idea how rewarding the "connection" with those who comment and other bloggers would be. Some of those connections have turned into real friendships.

While there are days I think I would like nothing better than to delete Feisty (usually for reasons totally unrelated to blogging), at this point, I cannot imagine not blogging.

I started blogging to get a lot of crap out of my system. I believe I posted almost every day for six months before I reached 5,000 visitors on my site meter. At the time, I was flattered that SO MANY people read me. Now, I see newbies come along who crash 5,000 visitors in their first week.

I think blogging was more difficult when I started (yeah, yeah... typical old fart reaction) because blogging was fairly new at the time. Not many people ever heard of a blog before, and most bloggers I met at the time did it for the same reason I did-- it was fun.

The blog-world has changed a lot during the past three years, and not all of those changes have been for the better in MY humble opinion, but blogging is just now talking its first serious baby-steps. It will continue to grow, evolve, mutate or whatever--- but it ain't going away.

I really believe that blogs will change communications permenently and for the better over the next five years. MSM had better watch out. It's just too easy to start a blog and that "internet community" DOES exist. Once you find yourself a part of it, the experience becomes addictive.

I still blog for the same reason I started: "A ceaseless quest for adoration from people who don't know me."

But somehow, along the way, I've met a lot of people who DO know me now. And I consider them to be part of my extended family. They piss me off, they make me laugh and on more than one occasion, they've gotten me drunk. I exchange emails with people from all over the world. I have "friends" that I'll probably never meet in person.

Yes, I even got laid a couple of times because of my blog.

I've had people threaten to kill me, I've received the most obscene and despicable hate-mail imaginable and I've had people call me all kinds of hurtful names. And I've received marriage proposals, too. That's part of the fun. You never know what in the hell you may find when you open your email.

I blog because I enjoy doing it. It feeds my ever-hungry ego, plain and simple. But I wouldn't trade the people I've met through blogging for anything in this world. Them's some good people. Sometimes, I like the blogosphere better than I like my real life. Spooky thought, isn't it?

That's why I blog. I am a disturbed man.