June 30, 2007
Sunday Stumpers a day early
Originally published June 30, 2002
1) Describe your ideal breakfast.
3) If you were witness to a celebrity's bad behavior and had it on film, would you sell it to a tabloid for quick cash?
4) When confronted by total rudeness how do you respond?
5) Sugar daddies/mommas......acceptable or not?
Originally published June 30, 2002
I don't know if this stuff is true, but it makes for interesting reading:
Here are some facts about the 1500s:
* Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in May and still smelled pretty good by June. However, they were starting to smell, so brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odor.
*Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children-last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it-hence the saying, "Don't>throw the baby out with the bath water."
*Houses had thatched roofs - thick straw - piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so all the dogs, cats and other small animals (mice, bugs) lived in the roof. When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof-hence the saying "It's raining cats and dogs."
*There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house. This posed a real problem in the bedroom where bugs and other droppings could really mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection. That's how canopy beds came into existence.
*The floor was dirt. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt, hence the saying "dirt poor." The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on the floor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on, they kept adding more thresh until when you opened the door it would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entranceway, hence, a "thresh hold."
*In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire. Every day they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight and>then start over the next day. Sometimes the stew had food in it that had been there for quite awhile - hence the rhyme, "peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old."
*Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special. When visitors came over, they would hang up their bacon to show off. It was a sign of wealth that a man "could bring home the bacon." They would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around and "chew the fat."
*Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with a high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning and death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous. (I know that people around that time believed that tomaotes were poisonous--ed)
*Most people did not have pewter plates, but had trenchers, a piece of wood with the middle scooped out like a bowl. Often trenchers were made from stale bread which was so old and hard that they could be used for quite some time. Trenchers were never washed and a lot of times worms and mold got into the wood and old bread. After eating off wormy, moldy trenchers, one would get "trench mouth."
*Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or "upper>crust."
*Lead cups were used to drink ale or whiskey. The combination would sometimes knock them out for a couple of days. Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a "wake."
*England is old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people. So they would dig up coffins and would take the bones to a "bone-house" and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside, and they realized they had been burying people alive. So they thought they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the "graveyard shift") to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be "saved by the bell" or was considered a "dead ringer."
There is just enough truth in this to make it believable, which convinces me the whole thing is bullshit. But I don't know. Anybody got a clue?
The Pony Express was cheaper, faster, and more reliable
Originally published July 1, 2002
Today was a hot, miserable one at work, with temperatures in the mid-90s, humidity about 199% and no breeze at all. I believe the heat index was somewhere around the surface temperature of the planet Mercury, and I'm NOT talking about the side that always faces away from the sun. It was farking HOT.
I left work and went to my mama's house to visit with her, my 91 year-old grandmother and my daughter, who came in from Texas yesterday with her roommate, Stacey. My 19 year-old daughter showed me her two tattoos, so I showed her the scar on my left bicep from my henna episode in Key West. Now I know where her cyber-name "Blue Dolphin" comes from. She and Stacey are going to North Carolina to visit Stacey's brother tomorrow, so I told them to be back by Friday night, because I'm picking them up at 6:15 Saturday morning for the deep-sea fishing trip. I hope we catch some nice ones.
I left Mom's and went to the Post Office to buy some 3-cent stamps. The place resembled a fire-ant hill with the top kicked off. I only thought I held the US Post Office in contempt until today. Now I feel absolute revulsion. Of course, I'm as stupid as everybody else in the place for waiting until today to deal with the rate increase, because I COULD have gone there yesterday and bought stamps from one of the vending machines when I had the whole place to myself. The WTOC mobile TV-van was there, with Channel 11 reporters interviewing people for the evening news standing in those Disney-World type lines at the main counter . I was hoping they would stick a microphone in my face, but they probably knew better.
"Sir, what do you think of the increase in postal rates?"
"$%#$@%&%$#@!!*&%$*#@!!" I never would see myself on the tube at 11:00 if I voiced an honest opinion.
So, I elbowed a sweet little blue-haired woman on a walker out of my way, stepped on her neck as she lay fumbling for her "I've fallen and I can't get up transmitter" and got my stamps from the farking machine. I'm pretty sure the sweet little blue-haired woman will be okay. I saw the EMS ambulance with lights and siren going full blast pulling into the parking lot as I was leaving, and running over that cute little dog and the homeless man.
Boy, was I ever glad to get out of there.
June 29, 2007
Insects are one thing, a plague is another
Originally published July 3, 2002
The lovely and talented Jenny, of "No shirt, No shoes, No teeth, No problem" is on the opposite side of the fence from me on this topic:
Teaching kids to appreciate insects and spiders is a wonderful idea. (I myself try to teach that to kids, and adults, at every opportunity.) But doesn't having the kids kill the bugs sort of defeat the purpose? Yes, scientists have so far found it necessary to kill some creatures in order to conduct important research. But I really don't think we should be encouraging kids to do this. It just feeds the unhealthy human instinct to dominate the natural world rather than view ourselves as part of it.
I appreciate insects and spiders more than most people I know because I once collected, murdered and mounted them in display boxes when I was a young man determined to dominate the natural world around me. From the time I was ten years-old until I was thirteen or so (whever it was that girls became more fascinating than bugs to me), I spent a lot of time roaming the flowerbeds, fields and forests around my home in search of insect prey. Armed with net and kill-jar, I was a formidable hunter. I soon had a large and growing collection of some of the most rare and beautiful beetles, butterflies and moths in the southeast US.
I also was noticed throughout the neighborhood and my fame spread from house to house until I started receiving phone calls whenever someone discovered a mysterious six-legged creature on their property. I would respond, much like an entomologist X-File agent, by hopping on my Sting-Ray bicycle and peddling to the scene. I sometimes found terrified housewives pointing at some huge beetle crawling down their driveway. "What IS that thing?" they would ask.
I would bend over, pick it up in my bare hand and examine it closely. "This is a Rhinocerous Beetle," I would explain calmly. "You can see from the large horn above the vicious-looking, clicking mandibles how it got its name. I'm surprised you found it in daylight, because Rhinocerous Beetles prefer a nocturnal habitat. They are very large beetles and their appearance is frightening, but they are absolutely harmless. You wanna hold him?" And I would kinda wave the bug at her.
"No! No! Just get it... er... HIM out of here!" And I would take it home, pop it in the kill jar and wait until the vicious-looking mandibles stopped clicking. Then, I would mount it in a box with the rest of my collection.
I almost met my match with an Ox Beetle. A neighbor called about that one, too, and I was astounded when I saw it. A Rhinocerous Beetle is large, but an Ox Beetle is HUGE. Imagine moving your garbage can one day and discovering a jet-black bug about the size of a small cell phone crawling around in the compost underneath. The poor woman who found it nearly had a heart attack, but I quickly rode to her rescue. I wasn't so calm when I saw what THAT one was.
"Holey Moley! That's an OX BEETLE!" I exclaimed, eagerly snatching it up in my hand. "This is the first one I've ever seen for real!" The damned thing was so strong that I couldn't keep it from forcing its way out of my clenched fist, which barely fit around the monsterous bug. I took it home and threw it in the kill jar and referenced my illustrated book of insects to make sure the Ox was really what I had. It was.
Sometime that evening, I checked the jar and old Ox had ceased movement, so I removed him and mounted him on a piece of styrofoam I kept on my desk. I would need to rearrange my beetle display to give the Ox a place of honor, and I figured that I would do that the next day. But when I awoke in the morning, the Ox was gone. "Hey, Mom!" I called, "Did you do something with my Ox Beetle?"
She stuck her head in my bedroom. "Did I do WHAT?" she asked.
"My Ox Beetle," I explained. "I put him on the mounting board last night and now he's gone. You didn't throw him away, did you?"
"Oh. My. God." Mom pulled back out of my room and didn't enter it again, until after I heard an odd noise in my closet three nights later and found Ox wedged in the corner, still impaled on the mounting pin and scratching his powerful claws against the baseboard in a futile attempt to dig his way back to the land of compost. The stubborn critter had played possum on me, revived and broke for freedom. I put him in the kill jar for 48 hours after that, and he didn't get away again. Mom had to verify (from an appropriate distance) that the creature was officially deceased before she went back in my room.
I still remember much of what I learned about insects during my collecting days. I can identify almost every butterfly or moth that I see and I'm still fairly good with the exotic beetles. I would like to interest my son in insect collecting, because that form of wildlife is plentiful in Georgia and it's a great hobby for a kid who really likes the outdoors. You can outfit yourself with everything you need for very little cost and it's a great way to fill up a summer day.
And it really helps a young human being figure out his place in the natural world, which at the top of the food chain, dominating all other creatures great and small.
Hazmat conditions and a plague
Originally published July 2, 2002
I am off work for the next four days. June was the MONTH FROM HELL at work and I could stand a break. Plus my crackerbox house is approaching critical mass as far as the need for serious scrubbing, vacuuming and scouring goes. I have been extremely slack about my domestic chores except for doing just as much laundry as I required to have clean clothes to wear every day. Last night, when my friends came over for supper (an extra-large pizza with everything, delivered) one of them went into that shipwreck I call a kitchen and said, "You don't know how to parch peanuts worth a damn." I had to explain that those weren't parched peanuts in that tupperware bowl he was eating from. They were boiled peanuts, all dried out because they had been on the counter since last Saturday. He said, "Oh. In that case, they're not that bad." He ate a few more before the pizza arrived.
It's nice to have friends that remind you of you.
I haven't let housekeeping go to the point where I have roaches and rats challenging my dominance over the natural world right inside my home, or see maggots crawling like living rice-kernels around the kitchen garbage can, but I do have an outbreak of crickets to deal with. I've never had a plague of crickets in my house before.
I suppose the six days of rain we had last week that laid about a foot of water on my yard may be a factor. The chirping Jimenys might simply be seeking high ground and relief from the flood. I just don't know how in the hell they're getting IN HERE to being with. I've killed over 30 in my house during the past two days. That's 30 FRICKEN CRICKETS! KILLED IN MY HOUSE!
They are everywhere, and the survivors are starting to sing for a mate at night, which is an irritating noise when you're trying to sleep. I bragged in the post below that I know a lot about insects. But crickets never were a specialty of mine, and I don't know exactly how to combat this invasion except to keep a can of Raid handy and gas every hopping, jumping, chirping invader I see. I've looked all over for their Underground Railroad that they use to break and enter my home, but I can't find it. Of course, I haven't looked in my attic in a long time. You don't suppose...
Up there attached to the rafters is the Mother Of All Crickets, about the size of an urban-assault-vehicle SUV, with an abdomen pulsating with life. She came built-in with the house and awaked from her cocoon in the pink attic insulation last week. Now she hangs there pendulously and shoots out offspring like a demented, insectile Pez dispenser, causing crickets to rain down at night from the air conditioner vents like oak leaves in the fall. I'm going to go check.
If I don't post any more blogs after this one, you'll know she was there, and she ate me.
In other news
Originally published July 5, 2002
I suppose it was a welcome break from SCREWING CHICKENS.
ISLAMABAD, Pakistan (AP) -- One of four men suspected of gang-raping a teenage girl as part of a tribal punishment in a remote eastern Pakistan village was arrested Friday.
Police raided a poultry farm in southwestern Baluchistan province and arrested one of the alleged rapists, Abdul Khaliq, said Col. Farman Ali, a senior police officer. The farm was owned by Khaliq's friend, he said.
"We could tell he was a likely rapist, because he had his dick stuck in a chicken at the time," said General-General-Sergent-General Akbar-Fubar-Fuggedaboutit. "Screwing chickens is one thing. In fact, screwing goats and camels is one thing, too. Okay, screwing any kind of hairy, smelly animal we can catch is one thing to a Muslim. We are, after all, hairy, smelly people ourselves, Allah be praised. But we do not tolerate gang rape. No sir. No way. Except when Allah decrees it. And CNN doesn't find out about it."
Gen-Gen-Sgt-Gen kept Abdul Khailq's chicken as "evidence" and promised to keep it closely guarded until Abdul's trial. "Yes, the chiken will never leave my sight. I will go everywhere with this chicken and even sleep with it at night."
The chicken had no comment on the matter, but I saw fear in its beady eyes.
I made some of this shit up!--ed.
June 26, 2007
Hard to believe it's been a year
A million times we've missed you
Things we feel most deeply
We often sit and think of you
No one can know our loneliness
If we had one lifetime wish
Robert Marion Smith
June 25, 2007
Originally published June 5, 2006
Somebody gave me a Christmas present a couple of years ago that came in an Indian River Fruit Company cardboard box. I don't remember what the present was, but I kept the box because it's a heavy-duty, double-thick, built-to-last container, perfect for storing potatoes, onions, grapefruit, oranges and other such edibles that don't require refrigeration.
Just don't leave 'em in the box too long.
Two days ago, I started noticing fruit flies buzzing around in various rooms of my house. The little bastards don't bite, but they are annoying as hell. I killed a bunch of them, but I kept finding more of 'em every day.
I checked my kitchen garbage can. Nope. No fruit flies there. The kitchen sink had a few dirty dishes in it, but no fruit flies. I wondered where the pestiferous bastids were coming from, and I thought about the box of fruit in the corner.
I grabbed a can of Raid, walked over to the storage box and gave it a swift kick. Fruit flies came boiling out of there. I gassed them with Raid, then searched for their home base.
It wasn't the potatoes or the Vidalea onions. It wasn't the grapefruit or the oranges. It was a got-dam PINEAPPLE I bought at Kroger's a couple of weeks ago when they had a Two-For-One sale in the produce department. I ate one of the pineapples and totally forgot about the other one.
Bejus! That pineapple became slightly... uh... over-ripe and gave birth to a bumper crop of fruit flies. I stuffed the squishy pineapple into a plastic bag, which stirred up ANOTHER swarm of fruit flies, so I gassed them, then I took the rotten over-ripe pineapple outside and threw it in my garbage can.
I still have a few stray bugs flying around the Crackerbox, but I got rid of most of 'em. I'll pick off the rest one by one.
Think about THIS the next time you eat "fresh" fruit from a grocery store:
The reproductive potential of fruit flies is enormous; given the opportunity, they will lay about 500 eggs. The entire lifecycle from egg to adult can be completed in about a week.
You've probably eaten the larvae without noticing them. And if you store fruits and vegetables in a cardboard box in your kitchen, you're asking for trouble.
Trust me on that one.
It makes me go... hmm...
Originally published June 6, 2006
He takes better pictures than I do, but I swear... this guy ain't right in the head. He seems to think that the term "lightning bug" is quaint and charming, as if he never heard it before. WHATTHEHELL DO YOU CALL THEM, Mr. Smarty-pants? Huh?
Some romantic, beatnick, unbathed and venerial-diseased buttwipes call them "fireflys." Some stoned, long-haired, unbathed and venerial-diseased ex-hippies call them "Holyshit bugs" as in... "HOLY SHIT!!! Did you just see a bug go flying by with it's ASS on fire?"
Are those critters rare in Africa? I ain't believin' that shit. Africa has more creatures-per-square-inch that look like they came out of a 1930s science fiction pulp magazine than any other place on earth... except for maybe Austraila. You have red-assed baboons, blood-encrusted lions, dead zebras and...and... all kinds of scary African things around you all the time, but you decided to write a post about LIGHTNING BUGS???
Oh, man. Your priorities are...never mind. You probably play some kind of National Pastime Game involving a big deadwood stick, a zebra's amputated head and a bunch of hyena entrails wrapped in a lion skin and decorated with snake-blood.
Y'all all whoop and holler when somebody scores a "goal," by swinging that stick and knocking the amputated zebra's head up a dead water buffalo's ass. Then the losing team has to EAT the hyena's entrails, RAW---right out of the lion's skin.
Whoo-hoo! THAT'S what I call a contest.
Bejus. I think y'all could use a few lightning bugs in your life. Along with fewer poisonous snakes, not so many red-assed baboons and maybe John Kerry. Take him. For free
Got-dayum! Something made me think of the word "tweegatjakkals right now, but I don't know why. You started writing about fireflies lightning bugs and just LOOK at where you took me! Ya bastid! See if I ever let YOU come clean my kitchen!
Get your monkeys to do that job... as long as they have a picture ID and don't cross the US border from the south. I need to be... I mean YOU need to be dragged off and shot. But I want your camera first.
Mine ain't worth a good diddly-squat, and I like to take pitchers.
Originally published June 6, 2006
I slept good again last night. In fact, I dreamed sweet dreams and might have laid in the sack like a lightly-snoring corpse until sometime this afternoon, except for one small problem.
I awoke at 9:30 AM feeling the torture of the damned. I developed a CRAMP in my right FOOT and the thing hurt like hell. I started cussing and saying, "OY! OY! OY!" as I kicked off the covers and checked to see if I had a rusty knife stuck in my foot. Nope. No knife, but it WAS a bizarre sight to behold.
My delicate (but masculine) bare right foot was contorted with all seven five toes sticking out in odd directions, kinda like the way iron filings do when you pass a magnet over them. Still cussing and whimpering, "OY! OY!" I managed to grab my foot and start massaging and stretching it.
That was NOT a pretty sight, being that I'm an old, skinny Cracker who sleeps nekkid, and the term "monkey fucking a football" popped into my mind the way it does so often anymore when I observe my own behavior. But I got rid of the cramp, finally.
I think I know what caused it. That's what I get for eating a half-dozen home-grown tomatoes that I chilled in the refrigerator first, in spite of all the good-for-me advice that people gave me about NOT putting those tomatoes in the refrigerator. That'll learn ME to ignore good advice.
I ain't never gonna do THAT again!
June 24, 2007
Originally published June 4, 2006
I've always liked to write, but I also always suffered from a curse that I believe is common for English-language users. I can't spell worth a damn.
Usually, I can explain away a mangled, misspelled word by calling it a typo, but I ain't foolin' myself when I do that. I'm just trying to fool YOU.
I learned all the "rules" of grammar and spelling back when I was still in elementary school. But as I grew older and I tried to PRACTICE those rules, I realized just how ridiculous they are. "'I' before 'E,' except after 'C.'" Right.
Betcha a dollar that I can show you a couple of "exceptions" to that rule, which is another got-dam thing I never understood about English or English teachers: "The exception proves the rule." What kind of happy horseshit is THAT??? In MY humble opinion, any rule with that many exceptions ain't a farooking RULE. It's a "suggestion," and one that may frequently be WRONG.
I've said before that writing, for someone who likes to write, isn't so much a creative exercise as it is a display of craftsmanship, much like a skilled carpenter building a house. The carpenter has the right tools and he knows how to use them. Give him a stack of lumber, a few boxes of nails and a building permit, and he'll MAKE a house out of it.
Writing isn't much different, except for the fact that it's one hell of a lot easier to cut a 2" X 4" piece of wood into proper lengths with a circular saw than it is to string a lot of words together and have them all match up when you're finished. Plus, I can build something out of wood and tell by looking at it when it's finished whether I did a good job or not.
I can't do the same when I write. I may think that I got all the angles precise, ran all the pipes plumb and wired it flawlessly, but I never know for sure until somebody else opens the front door, flips a light switch and flushes the commode a few times. For all I know, the door isn't on its hinges, the lights aren't on and there's an elephant trying to give birth in a screaming toilet.
Strange, but true. I can LOOK at a piece of wood and tell whether it's any good or not. One that's nice and smooth, with a straight grain and no ugly knots in it OBVIOUSLY is better for a building project than that warped, knotty, gap-cut, splinter-encrusted piece of shit right next to it on the shelf at Home Depot. When an 8' length costs the same price for either one, which are YOU gonna buy?
I may fuck up that board when I get back home and begin sawing and driving nails into it, but at least I started with the right raw material. Set out with that warped, knotty sucker and how well you can use a tape measure, how well you can operate a saw, or how straight you can drive a nail doesn't matter. You were doomed from the beginning.
Words are like those lengths of wood in Home Depot. When you want to build something pretty, use the good stuff. Buy smart. Cut straight. But if you have no higher ambition than to slap up an outhouse in the back yard and let rampaging kudzu vines cover it up so that you never have to paint it, who cares what kind of wood you use? That ain't important.
Good wordsmiths can tell the difference and they chose wood from the shelf depending on what it's going to be used for when the building begins. If they want pretty, they build pretty, using pretty wood. But ugly also has its place in this world. A rose is a rose and it oughta look like one... but an outhouse is an outhouse and it should LOOK like one, too.
The English language ain't the straightest nail a carpenter ever tried to hammer into a good piece of wood. Don't get me wrong--- I believe that the language is beautiful, and it lends itself wonderfully to melodious poetry, descriptive writing and poignant song lyrics. But damn if it isn't an unweildy tool sometimes, especially with the odd spelling.
(My daddy always told me that I would never find a better dog than an ugly mutt. "Mutts KNOW they're ugly. They'll eat anything, and they're just grateful to have a home. Be good to one and it'll be the best friend you ever had."
He said that once at the kitchen table when he was feeling all philosophical after he came home from work and quaffed a big glass of Jim Beam and water. Mama was cooking supper and I couldn't resist my feral impulses. I knew that she heard what he said, so I asked, "Hey, Mama! Is that why Daddy married YOU? You were a mutt, needin' a good home?"
She flicked a piece of biscuit dough at me. "Yeah, that's right. Your daddy was a bastard who married a mutt. Whaddya you think that makes YOU?"
No wonder I turned out so warped, growing up in a home like that.)
But, I digress. The problem with English is that... it IS a MUTT!!! It's got Germanic roots, all tangled in Romantic sub-roots, mixed up with slang and idioms that vary from coast to coast in the same country, confusing regional accents and Gawd only knows what else thrown in, with acronyms and hip-talk seasoning the gumbo. And it keeps evolving (or mutating) every year.
I'm doing the best I can just to SPEAK English anymore. Don't expect me to spell it, too.
The war on drugs
Originally published June 2, 2006
Thank Bejus that we have the federal government watching over us. Otherwise, you might be able to buy over-the-counter cold medicines without having to show a picture ID first.
We NEED that kind of watchdog prowling the drugstores of America, because we have a REAL problem with "The Children" mainlining Contac and snorting Sudafed. I think I read somewhere (I can't recall where, but I'm sure that I read it... somewhere...) that if you break up Hall's Mentholated Cough Drops into little, tiny pieces and smoke them in a crack-pipe, you get a real, eucalyptus buzz offa those insidious things.
In fact, I think Peptol-Bismol is addictive. Yeah, I know that it tastes like pink chalk, but that's just a clever disguise for drug-pushers to use when they "hook" The Children. If you mix it with Alka-Seltzer Plus and strain it through a piece of cheesecloth, you end up with the new "Hillbilly Heroin," perfect for sucking up in a hypodermic needle and sticking into a vein.
Some of you people probably thought that laxatives were an unpleasant, but necessary part of life, if you suffer from clogged bowels. NOT SO!!! I think that The National Enquirer recently reported that Ex-Lax, when mixed with aspirin and club soda, makes a cheap version of crystal meth if you do it right in an "underground drug-lab" (THOSE are scary places!!!). That information came straight from space aliens who were pregnant with Hillary Clinton's love-child, so you KNOW that it's gotta be true.
In fact, some lawmakers today want to ban oregano, because it looks like marijuana, and that's reason enough to make it illegal. For The Children.
The War on (some) Drugs is a ceaseless battle, requiring eternal vigilance, because the drug pushers are SO damn clever. If the DEA and local crazed zealots law enforcement shut down one suppy-chain, another pops up to take its place.
Recently, I think I might remember maybe reading an article somewhere that suggested perhaps, possibly, in the right environment, given an undergroud lab, run by outlaw motorcycle gangs, with child pornography pasted all over the walls, and racist literature found within 50 miles of the place, with NO wheelchair access in clear violation of the ADA, plus a Sears catalogue with the wimmen's underwear section all stuck together with I-don't-know-WHAT kind of glue, some people with lots of tattoos and piercings all over their bodies--- including NIPPLE-RINGS!!!---were mixing Tang powder and Bisquick together and selling it in plastic bags as a "self-rising, Vitamin C Rush!!!"
The Children were buying that stuff and... and... fucking when they got a dose of it up their young noses!!! THAT CRAP HAS TO BE NIPPED!!! Nip it! Nip it! Nip it in the bud.
Our drug cops TRY, but they have a very frustrating job. People just keep on being people, no matter how much the government doesn't like it. That's why drug cops act like storm troopers so often. The more you harass, intimidate and arrest people for being people... the more the assholes insist on acting like PEOPLE, the same way they've done for 10,000 years of recorded history. The nerve of those shits!!!
Busting horrible, illegal drugs is a lot like trying to turn the tide away from the sand castle you just spent hours building on the beach. You can't stop it, but you'll feel much better if you turn around as your castle washes into the sea and beat the livin' shit out of an innocent bystander with your sand-shovel. At least you did SOMETHING to protect The Children.
Oh... let's not forget that we need to ban charcol-lighter fluid, Certs breath-mints and... oh, hell... just pick something. M&Ms. Klondike Bars. Gatorade. Whatever... just call it a "drug" and nobody is gonna question your motives, especially when you declare that you're doing it For The Children.
I'm a very unfortunate man today. I suffer from chronic pain and it's NOT going to go away unless I have something fairly drastic done to me. I'm willing to do whatever that takes, because I cannot continue to live hurting as bad as I do every day. But doctors are frightened to death to prescribe any pain medication to me.
I can't blame 'em for thinking that way, either. Those docs spent a long time and they invested a lot of hard work into getting that medical degree that allows them to open a practice. If I were in their shoes and I saw a patient with severe, chronic pain, I would make the same calculation that they do.
"Hmmm... I can give this guy medicine that takes away the pain, or I can tell him to suck it up. If I give him the medicine, I'll have the Feds crawling all over me and I may flush all of my study and all of my hard work right down the commode. I could lose my license to practice medicine if I give him what he really needs. So, fuck him. I'm gonna tell him to suck it up."
And that's what doctors DO today. I'm not blaming them. Hell--- they almost HAVE to work that way, thanks to the federal government being so worried about The Children while it fights a useless and totally ill-defined War on (some)Drugs. FORGET about The Patient. The Children and The Government are a lot more important than that piddling question of whether I can get out of bed in the morning or not.
Besides--- I learned a long time ago, from my government AND from Divorce Court. I don't matter. The Children do.
Whoever the hell THEY are.
Originally published June 5, 2006
I was watching TV last night when the movie I chose to see was interrupted by a severe weather warning. A dangerous thunderstorm, complete with high winds and marble-sized hail, was headed east toward MacIntosh County. All residents of that area were alerted and told to stay indoors, hunker down, and DON'T go outside waving a golf club in the air.
I saw lightning flashing in the distance and heard the rolling thunder off to the west of where I live. I thought, "Just damn! I could USE some of that!" But the weather service said that all the excitement would occur to the south of the Crackerbox.
The weather service lied. At 11:30 last night, the sky opened up and rain poured down. Lightning flashed as if photographers were taking a lot of pictures right outside my windows. The house shook with the force of thunder. Hail started bouncing off my roof and it sounded like someone beating the shingles with drumsticks.
The show tapered off at about 1:00 in the morning. I fell asleep on my couch with the comforting sound of water running through the rain gutters and pounding the sidewalk as if someone were taking a good shower outside my front door.
I slept like a baby in a cradle until almost noon today.
I wobbled outside to pick up the morning paper and I decided to check my rain gauge, which has been so dry for so long that spiders were living there the last time I looked at it. I had slightly more than 1" of rain in slightly less than two hours last night. The spiders were washed out of their home. The grass is already turning green again. The morning air smelled sweet, as if it has been run through a scrubber and perfumed, just for me.
I talked on the phone to my friend, catfish, who lives in MacIntosh County, and he said that he didn't get a DROP of rain last night. His land still is as dry as a popcorn fart. So much for the accuracy of weather forecasters.
All I have to say is... "Gimme MORE of what I got last night!" I enjoy seeing a good thunderstorm, and Bejus knows that we need some rain around here.
I'll take all you've got to offer, even if you DO interrupt the movie I was watching to tell me that it's headed somewhere else.
June 23, 2007
The incredible, screaming toilet
Originally published June 2, 2006
I can't figure out what's going on here.
I was in Willingway Hospital for 38 days, and when I got back home, I needed to drain the old lizard, so I went to the "master bathroom," my own special sanctuary attached the the Master Bedroom, and I took a leak. Then, I flushed the commode.
HOLY BEJUS!!! The pipes inside the wall voiced this horrible, moaning sound that made me think of a she-elephant giving birth to a 500-pound baby elephant with full-grown tusks. "WHOA-OA-OA-OOOOO...BUMBUMBUM...SQUEEEECHSQUEECH!!! BUMBUMHEEEEE...THUMPATHUMPA!!!"
Damn! I thought the wall was about to explode. Once the noise simmered down, I flushed the commode again, and it did the SAME THING! "WHOA-OA-OA-OOOOH...BUMBUMBUM... SQUEECHSQUEECH...BUM! BUM! THUMPTHUMP...HISSSSSSS!!!"
When that problem first started, my daughter called me one night, and just for the hell of it, I said, "Hey, Sam. Listen to THIS and tell me what it is." I took the phone in the bathroom, I flushed the commode and I held the phone up while all the elephant-noises came bellowing from the wall.
When I put the phone back to my ear, I heard Sam laughing. "Daddy... what kind of animal are you KILLING in your house?" When I told her that I wasn't killing anything--- that my got-dam commode was making that noise, she said, "Daddy... did you ever think about moving out of there?"
I figured at first that I just had a bunch of air trapped in my pipes from lack of use and I would get rid of the problem if I just flushed the commode a few times... say maybe about 100 times, back-to-back, just as fast as the tank filled back up after each flush. I tried that and sure enough, the noise stopped.
But it didn't go away. Now, it's intermittent. Sometimes, the toilet flushes just the way it should, with no weird sound-effects afterward. But other times, it not only sounds like a she-elephant giving birth, but it's got a bull elephant in there screwing her, too.
WTF causes THAT???
I'll tell you one thing. When you wake up in the middle of the night needing to urinate and you've forgotten all about the horny elephants in your commode, you get a mighty rude awakening when you stumble to the bathroom, take a leak, flush and try to stumble back to bed only to hear that gawd-awful noise coming after you. At night. In the dark. When you're ALONE!!!
Just dayum! I'm surprised that one of my neighbors hasn't called the cops to report some kind of satanic ritual involving the sacrifice of live animals in my house. At night. In the dark. When I'm alone...
The commode works fine, and it doesn't make that screaming noise all the time with every flush. That's what lulls me into forgetting about it, so that it's always a hair-raising, surprise experience when it DOES happen anymore. The damn thing did it again just a few minutes ago. I almost jumped right out of my skin.
Do I have any plumbers who read me? Can YOU tell me how to fix that problem? It's not exactly life-threatening, but it surely is spooky.
And if I ever walk into that bathroom and discover a baby elephant on the floor, I don't know WHAT I'm gonna do. At night. In the dark. All by myself...
The dreaded "wet fart"
Originally published April 5, 2005
I've warned you before that this man is a pervert, but he discusses an interesting topic on this post. I think it's all a sign of old age.
When I was young, I could rip some good farts that were as loud as summer thunder and sometimes carried a stench with magnificent hang-time. I could clear out a tent in the woods and make five other boys run for fresh air. Those were the good old days.
Now, I try to sneak a fart--- you know, just kinda ease it out--- because I don't know what might be in there. My asshole is not nearly as reliable today as it once was. What FEELS like a fart today may be something else, and that can be embarrassing in mixed company. The wet stuff is bad enough, but when you encounter the dreaded "lumpy-fart," you know that you have fucked up and you're probably going to have to ditch another pair of underwear.
That's just one more example of why life is not fair. As you grow older, you expect your mind to go South on you. But you oughta be able to trust your asshole forever. But that ain't so.
I trust my mind more than I do my asshole anymore. My mind has never shit my pants.
I'll fall short
Originally published June 2, 2006
The menfolk in the Smith family tend to die young. My father set the all-time record for longevity for as far back as we can look up the family tree, and he lived to be 62 years old. It's a curse, I tell you!
I don't believe that I'll ever see the age of 62. I've gotta make eight more years to get there, and I'm logical enough to know that my track record of health over the past five years doesn't bode well for me. I'm not exactly robust and enjoying life anymore.
I find myself just trying my best to survive, and that hurts like hell every fucking day. I mean... c'mon, people... when you can't reach cans of soup in your kitchen cabinet anymore without knocking them to the floor with a broomstick, THAT ain't exactly like living the High Life.
When you have to go through all sorts of contortions and gyrations to put on a fucking tee-shirt in the morning, and you end up hurting so bad that you're seeing spots before your eyes and breathing heavily when you're done, that ain't LIVING, in my book. That's just being too stubborn to die.
I cannot enjoy life anymore. Hell, I always feared that arthritus (it runs in my family) would take my hands and I wouldn't be able to play musical instruments in my dotage. My fingers are fine now, but I don't play anymore because my SHOULDERS hurt when I try.
Living like this all by myself is amusing sometimes, in a perverse sort of way. When I wake up in the morning (if I sleep at all), I start a process of GETTING UP, which involves turning carefully and slowly onto my side, which hurts, and then trying to throw my legs over the side of the bed to kinda JACK myself into a sitting position without using my arms. I usually make a lot of "Oh! Oh, SHIT! FUCK! Goddam! Ow!" noises when I do that, but it works to get me outta bed. At least it has so far.
Once I get my feet on the floor, it's just a matter of lifting my bony ass off the bed with my legs (Pat Roberson--- eat your heart out), and then I sally forth the greet the new day.
I don't know how much longer I can keep doing that crap every morning. It's beginning to wear me down. When constant pain becomes the elevator music playing in your life, you begin to ignore it, until something turns the volume up REALLY LOUD all of a sudden. I never know when that's going to happen, but it does, every got-dam day.
When I talked to my buddy catfish the other day, I told him to let me know when the fish start biting in his pond. I think I can still wet a line and catch some fish if I cast while keeping both elbows tucked in close to my sides so that I don't use my shoulders at all. My days of trout-fishing in salt water are over, because I can't toss a line into a good drop using the pussy-assed technique I have to work with today.
But I still like to fish.
Hell... I still like pussy, too... but I've had all of THAT gash I ever wanted. At least when I catch a fish, I can either throw it into a bucket, take it home and eat it, or let it go back into the water. Wimmen are a lot like fish, except for the fact that you can't EVER throw one of them back. If they can't crawl into your vessel and stay there, saying that you OWE them something, they'll try to sink your fucking boat, as ANY sane, logical creature would do, given the same situation.
But... I digress...
I can't fish worth a shit anymore. I hurt all the time, every got-dam day. I have trouble showering or dressing myself.
Bejus. If I caught ME as a fish today, I would throw one of those back in the water.
June 22, 2007
Tomfoolery of our time
Originally published June 13, 2006
* I shop for groceries at a local Kroger's store. They have an ENTIRE AISLE dedicated to "organic food," and that doesn't count the shit in the produce department veggie bins labeled "organic," which look like crap but cost twice what regular food does. I don't buy much "organic" food, except for the blue corn tortilla chips. I LIKE those, but I don't purchase organic salsa to eat with them. Organic, my ass.
* "Tolerance" is supposed to be a high virtue today. I don't get the idea, I don't buy it and I damn sure ain't gonna change my ways to be politicallly correct. Some things are INTOLERABLE and if you're arfaid to call 'em that, you need to be dragged off and shot.
* "The Poor." Bejus! Don't even get me started. When some overweight, big-titted woman with six illegitimate children, all living in a house with cable TV and air conditioning, prance around in designer tennis shoes and start whining about being "poor," I ain't listening to that crap. I've stood behind those people in a line at a Kroger's checkout counter and watched them buy ground chuck to feed a DOG because food stamps can't be used to buy Purina chow, and I've seen them be very careful when pulling out their Welfare Insta-banker cards, to keep from breaking the expensive French-look, manicured fingernails they sported.
* Politicians are NOT "leaders" anymore. They are the scum of the earth. The only full set of testicles you'll find in Washington DC today are dangling from Hillary Clinton, who sports them because she is shameless, not macho. THAT'S a sad state of affairs.
* Ask someone... hell... ask ANYONE you know to name the Bill of Rights. Half the people you ask won't know what in the hell you're talking about. The other half MAY know one or two, especially that one about "separation of church and state," which doesn't exist. Totally ignorant people cannot live free.
* How many people do YOU know who can name BOTH of their senators and their congressman?
* How many people do YOU know who dance a merry jig when they receive an income tax REFUND but never realize that it was THEIR MONEY to begin with?
* If you see an "environmentalist" riding in a limosine, does that make you wanna cry BULLSHIT!!!??
* I was born in 1952. Dwight Eisenhower was President at the time. Since then, I've seen JFK, LBJ, Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, Jimmah Carter, Ronald Reagan, George Bush I, Bill Clinton and George The Second hold that office. Ask someone else my age to name the Presidents they've seen in THEIR lives. Fewer than one in ten can do it, but they ALL vote.
* True "Democracy" is mob rule. We DO NOT live in a democracy, even though a lot of people think we do, and the mob appears to be taking over today.
* My daddy once told me that those who CAN DO, do. Those who CAN'T DO, teach. And those who can't DO or TEACH go into politics. My daddy was a wise man.
The ice cream truck
Originally published June 1, 2006
One of the most consistently exciting, heart-pounding experiences of my youth came when my friends and I heard the sound of the ice cream truck tooling through my neighborhood. It had big loudspeakers mounted on top, from which issued a tinkly, static-plagued version of "London Bridge (is falling down!)" to alert "The Children" of its presence.
When we heard that sound, we dropped whatever we were doing, shot home to shake a dime out of the trusty piggy bank, then ran barefoot down the street in hot pursuit of the truck. It was piloted by a cranky old man named "Shorty" and I don't believe that he liked kids at ALL, the bastid.
He would SEE us coming, yelling and waving frantically, and he just kept going, purely to make us suffer. Sometimes, we chased him for BLOCKS before he finally pulled over and stopped. Then, he acted as if he were doing us all a BIG favor by selling us ice cream.
Looking back now, I think that "Shorty" maybe had *this problem. The old bastid was as surly as a mongrel dog and just downright mean to kids. The Ice Cream Man ain't supposed to be that way, but Shorty WAS.
But we still wanted the goods he carried, and we all were fascinated by the coin-dispenser that he wore on his belt. You remember those, don't you? That thing-a-ma-jig that had cylinders for pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters, with a button on top of each cylinder, much like the keys on a trumpet. Shorty made change by pushing those buttons and having coins shoot out the bottom of the device. It was really cool.
Ice cream trucks don't come where I live now. In fact, I haven't even SEEN one in years. Do they still operate? Are they still piloted by malevolent assholes like Shorty? Do they still play that horrible, static-plagued music over big loudspeakers on the truck? Do excited kids still chase them down the street SOMEWHERE in this country?
Did ice cream trucks go the way of the drive-in movie and just fade away to extinction? Or do they still operate in the inner city--- selling crack cocaine as their "snow" cones and dealing joints instead of popcicles? Maybe instead of becoming extinct, ice cream trucks EVOLVED to fit a new market.
I don't know, because I haven't seen an ice cream truck for a long, long time now. If kids today never have the chance to chase one, they're missing a memorable experience in life. I WISH that I could chase one today.
What a sight that would be: a decrepit old Cracker, hobbling down the street and yelling at the ice cream truck to STOP!!! Heh. Chances are that a good, drunk-driving ice cream man would turn around and run OVER me, for the good of humanity.
Maybe it's a nostalgia thing, imbedded deep in my psyche, but the Mexican popcicles I buy in the grocery store today don't taste NEARLY as good as the popcicles I remember buying off the ice cream truck when I was a kid.
Maybe part of that goodness was the thrill of the chase when I was young. Now, if I'm expected to chase ANYTHING, I don't, because I don't want it THAT much. Growing old sucks.
And if we don't have ice cream trucks anymore, well... that sucks, too.
Originally published June 1, 2006
When I was in high school, I thought that having a LOT of "friends" was IMPORTANT. In fact, I had the bizarre notion that popularity equalled worth back in those days. And I tried very hard to be worthy.
As I grew older, I changed my mind. I realized that TRUE friends are few and far between, and "friendships" had nothing whatsoever to do with popularity or whether you dated a certain cheerleader or not. Friendship came from trust, and a certainty that you could count on THAT person when you were down and out.
True friends accept you as you are, warts and all. THEY know your flaws better than you do yourself, and they still believe that you're worth having as a friend. I'm very lucky to have a few of those people in my life today. I've known them for YEARS, and they've seen me at my very best and at my very worst, too.
THEY would never turn on me, kick me when I was down or slander my name all over the internet, even if they thought that I deserved it. Friends just DON'T DO THAT.
My ex-wife got all pissed off at me when I received a phone call at 2:00 in the morning from two of my REAL FRIENDS who were stranded on the road with car trouble on Highway 25, somewhere between Savannah and Augusta. I crawled out of bed and went to rescue them, while my darling wife harped at me, saying "YOU have to go to work in the morning! Let 'em find their OWN way home!!!"
I drove through the darkness up Highway 25 until I found them. Then, I gave them both a ride to their homes. THEN, I went to work, two hours late, but I called my boss and TOLD HIM ahead of time that I would be "a little late" getting to work, because I had "personal business" to conduct at 2:00 in the morning.
He asked no questions. Hell--- I NEVER missed work and I NEVER showed up late, so I had a lot of markers in reserve for me to use in a situation such as that one. I cashed a few of 'em that day for my FRIENDS. That's what I was saving them for.
When I got off work that day, I picked up one of MY FRIENDS, drove back up Highway 25 until we found his dead vehicle, hooked his car to my truck with a strap, and I TOWED his defunct vehicle all the way back to Savannah. I didn't get home again until well after dark.
The wife continued to bitch at me. "Are you outta your MIND, Rob? You spent half of last night and most of today doing something STUPID!!! Do you think that those guys would have done that for YOU???"
I didn't answer that question, but I knew the answer. The ex-wife simply could not understand the concept of friendship the way that I did. (She never had many friends--- I wonder why?) I thought, YES!!! Those guys WOULD have done the same thing for me, with no questions asked. That's what friends DO.
Those guys also know some of my deepest, darkest secrets, and they've never "shared" those with ANYBODY else that I'm aware of. Friends don't do that kinda catty, cuntly stuff. It's that pesky TRUST thing that makes friendships difficult to maintain for untrustworthy people.
Trust is the one thing in this world that can't be repaired once you break it.
If I received the same call tonight, I would do the same thing again. I also have no doubt in my mind that if I were stranded on the road and I called THEM, they would come and get me. Those guys are MY FRIENDS, and they would be there if I needed them. I haven't played that card many times in my life, but when I DID, my friends were there when I asked for help.
I suffer a lot of physical pain now, but I can cope with that. Hell, a human being can become comfortable with HANGING if he dangles from the rope long enough. But there's one thing that hurts worse than any physical pain you'll EVER experience in life.
That's BETRAYAL. When you trust someone and they betray that trust, it creates a wound that takes a long time to heal, if it ever does heal at all.
Jennifer did that to me, and I'm still reeling from it. Somebody else just did it, too, but I really didn't expect anything different from her. If you put your trust in a despicable person, you're just asking for trouble. I shoulda known better.
But I LOVE the soap opera brewing now. It's VERY interesting to see the people who defend what she did. I damn sure don't want THOSE assholes as "friends," because they are about as trustworthy and reliable as a screaming Global Warming freaktoid.
If I catch THEIR drift, it pretty much says, "You SHOULD fuck your friends!!! Especially if it's ROB!!! We never liked him anyway! There ARE no secrets in this world and YOU are the victim here because Acidman is pissed off!!! GOOD FOR YOU!!! Any sane, logical person woulda done the same thing that YOU did, given the chance!!! Don't be ashamed of being a big-mouthed, lunatic shitass!!! Be PROUD of it!!! He had it coming to him!!!"
As I said before, "with friends like that, I don't need enemies."
And anybody who applauds a vicious, vindictive bitch for being a vicious, vindictive bitch is NOT someone I want for a friend anyway. Y'all have fun together. Birds of a feather, and all of that.
Just be careful about "sharing" any secrets with people who have a trust-quotient below that of a rabid racoon. They'll BITE you, and it'll make you feel VERY STUPID when that happens. You'll kick yourself, because you shoulda recognized a Charles Manson personality when you saw it.
Oh, I SAW it... but I didn't heed my own good sense. I told her things I never should have said to a person so unstable and so fucked-up in the head. She is absolutely correct when she says that it's ALL MY FAULT!!! It is. I trusted someone who didn't deserve it. I ignored all of my good instincts and tried to be nice to a very un-nice person. But I'm gonna try my best NEVER to make that same mistake again.
Ask me again why I just want to be left ALONE. When I'm by myself, I KNOW who I can trust.
Bejus knows that I can't say the same thing when other people get involved in my life. I don't know about YOU, but I don't like it when people stick knives in my back. And I ESPECIALLY don't like it when other people cheer the stabber.
Y'all have some really screwed up values. Don't have many FRIENDS, either, do ya?
June 21, 2007
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.
Originally published October 3, 2004
The Atlanta Falcons remain undefeated and my beloved Georgia Bulldogs made Lee Courso and a few other prognosicaters eat shit on Saturday. I won a case of Shiner Bock beer. Heh. Lee said that Georgia didn't deserve to be ranked #3 in the country and he predicted an LSU victory. He was off only by the wrong team and damn near 30 points.
Can I have his job? I know a LOT about football.
I know how to deliver a long snap, and I did it back in the days before they outlawed having some crazy, rabid fucker lined up head-on in front of you, whose assignment was to BUST YOUR ASS as soon as you snapped the ball. Look at the picture of John Kerry below. He ain't ready for that kind of hit, and he doesn't know how to snap a football. He looks more like he meant to scratch his balls but missed. Dickweed.
There IS a right way and a wrong way to throw a football. I worked with both Quinton and Jack on technique-- kids tend to want to throw sidearm-- to teach them to throw overhand and use their shoulders, square their hips and throw by STEPPING INTO IT. They both can throw the hell out of a football now. Yeah. I taught them that.
I taught them to tackle by using more than their arms. I ALSO did horriffic things, such as telling both boys, as they lay writhing in the grass with tear-producing injuries, to get up, shut up and rub some dirt on it. They didn't have anything wrong with them. I told 'em. "If you can't take a lick, get off the field and buy yourself a Barbie doll. Go play with the girls. Football is SUPPOSED to hurt."
Those boys not only became remarkably healthy all of a sudden--- they got ANGRY, too. Oh, YES! Football is meant to be played angry. It ain't a game for pussies.
I taught them to catch. I taught them to kick and punt. I enjoyed doing that stuff with the boys and once we started a show in the yard, their friends always showed up to play along.
I went out to check my mail yesterday and I saw Steven and Justin throwing a football in the yard a few houses down. Justin dropped one that was right in his hands and I heard Steven yell "BUTTERFINGERS!!! IF YOU CAN TOUCH IT, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO CATCH IT!!!"
I wonder where he learned that from? Sounds like something I said, many a time in the front yard.
In another life, I was a football coach.
Originally published October 3, 2004
I seem to have a solid, etched-in-stone court date at long last. I received a letter from my lawyer yesterday informing me that my divorce appeal will be held on October 19th at the Effingham County courthouse, in front of the same judge who screwed me TWICE before. My lawyer wants to meet with me before then to discuss the case. I'll call him tomorrow and set up a date.
He'll charge me for sending the letter, he'll charge me for calling him, and he'll charge me for the meeting. Then, he'll charge me some MORE for showing up in court for my ritual fucking, after which I will be charged for the bloodless cunt's lawyer's fees, too. I KNOW how this is gonna go. I understand Georgia divorce law.
I get very philosophical about this shit sometimes.
I married a woman. I made twice the money she did at the time. We bought homes. We drove new cars. She wanted a baby and I gave her one. I worked my ass off, and I didn't even KNOW WHAT I WAS BEING PAID for almost six years because I had direct deposit in the bank. I never looked at the check receipts. I knew that I was making good money, but Jennifer kept the books. I told her many a time, "Buy whatever you want. Just let me know if we're broke."
We had a 3,000 square-foot house on more than 5 acres of land in the most wonderful neighborhood I've ever lived in. I sat on the back deck more than once and wanted to thank my lucky stars. I had more than I ever expected to have in life.
Jennifer got promoted and started making more money than I did. At first, I thought that her rise in income was great, because I thought it went into the Community Chest, the same way MY paycheck always did. I was mistaken, and I should have seen the truth the day Jennifer came home driving a brand-new sports car and bragged about how she put it in her OWN NAME, not OURS, because she wanted to test her PERSONAL credit.
Fuck. I didn't see the signals because I loved and trusted her.
Three months later, she stole all the money, she had me thrown out of my home, moved a lover in as soon as the door closed behind my ass, and gave MY key to HIM. She lied to EVERYBODY in my family and dropped them like a hot rock when she dropped me.
That was ALL in front of a six year-old boy.
None of that matters in divorce court. The bloodless cunt is worse than John Dillinger in my eyes, that bank-robber. She's been hounding my ass and breaking my heart for THREE YEARS NOW!!! And she's not finished yet. I couldn't look at my face in the mirror if I had done HALF THE SHIT that she's pulled. But wait and see. She'll get whatever she wants in court.
Somehow, I'm the villain in the script.
June 20, 2007
That was dumb
Originally published October 27, 2004
I don't believe I did what I just did. I was hungry, so I went to my refrigerator to find something to eat. I looked in the freezer first, I didn't like what I saw there, so I looked in the bottom of the refrigerator, too. I also did not close the freezer door.
I found a big chuck of pineapple that looked pretty good, so I grabbed it and straightened up--- only to damn near knock myself out when my head hit the open freezer door. Bejus! That lick set me down right on my ass. I think I bent the freezer door.
I had a hand on my head and I was saying, "OW! That HURT!" as I watched the pineapple roll across my filthy kitchen floor. I struggled to my feet to close the freezer door. That's when I noticed all the blood on my hand. Oh, great moobley-goobley. I'm bleeding like a suck hog, all over one of my favorite tee-shirts.
Sure enough, I sustained one hell of a scalp wound from that encounter. I grabbed a wad of paper towels, put a compress on my laceration, then added an icepack once I got the bleeding stopped. I thought I might have to go to the hospital and get some stitches, but it doesn't look that bad to me in the mirror.
It's a nice cut, about 4" long, but it's not deep. Now that the bleeding has stopped, you really have to look for it to see it. I believe that I'll be fine with an icepack, a couple of Tylenols and a nap.
That was a stupid thing to do.
Originally published October 28, 2004
Human beings are gluttons for punishment. Due to some insane, primordial instinct, we INSIST on having children.
A woman spends nine months being pregnant and experiencing hormonal upheavals and the man spends nine months living with that crap. It's a bitch of an experience.
Then, when the precious little bundle of joy is born, it can't do a damn thing for itself. It shits its diaper, pisses all over itself, cries long and loud in the middle of the night and can't tell you what's the matter. YOU have to feed it, YOU have to clean it and YOU have to figure out what's wrong and FIX IT when the banshee howls start at 2:30 in the morning.
You teach the little fuckers to walk and then spend the next ten years yelling, "Sit DOWN! Hold STILL. Come BACK here!" You teach the little fuckers to talk, and you can't shut them up--- EVER again.
Little girls like to scream in a high-pitched voice that will shatter glass. Little boys like to do stupid things and get hurt. If you have a woman-child, buy a set of earplugs to soften those screams. If you have a boy-child, get a good first-aid kit and the phone number for the emergency room of the nearest hospital.
Later, they turn into teenagers and hate your guts for a few years. That's REALLY fun, especially after all the work you've put into raising them. Ungrateful shits.
Still... I wouldn't trade either one of my children for the world. That's flesh of MY flesh and blood of MY blood. That's my one tenuous hold on immortality. My children. I'd go back and do it again tomorrow, even KNOWING what I was getting into.
You'll never feel such overpowering love as when you smell the first breath that your child takes in this world.
Originally published October 27, 2005
Little children, and all ye others of dimwit understanding, gather around and let me tell you why large companies "outsource" jobs today. Two reasons: Unions and government.
Unions have mutated into a drag on EVERY company that has one, because the Union mentality is "Pay us MORE for doing LESS." The typical Bull Steward doesn't have the nickname "Coffee Break" for nothing. That "I get paid by the hour" bullshit won't fly anymore, either. You can't compete in the modern business world that way. Unions are tearing down their own temples and they don't see that fact.
The government makes it almost impossible to expand an industrial operation today. We have the EPA, the EPD, OSHA and hoarde of environmentalists with their lawyers in tow to scream "NO!" every time a company wants to build something new. I know what I'm talking about.
I once supervised an existing steam plant. We had old, inefficient, highly-polluting boilers there. We wanted to install a new unit, with the low-NOx burner and all the clean-air controls available at the time and the PERMITTING PROCESS cost more than the goddam boiler did, and it took five years to accomplish.
I could have gone to Mexico and built a brand-new steam plant for less money than that one boiler cost. I could have done it in less time, too. The company I once worked for spent $100 million every year for Superfund costs, for cleanups that never end, on land that they never polluted. What utter bullshit.
When a company has to spend $100 million a year jumping through hoops of government regulations, where do you think that money comes from? It damn sure didn't fall from the sky. It comes out of wages, medical benefits and head-counts. That's NOT free ice cream.
John Kerry is gonna fix THAT problem? Yeah, right.
We're cutting our own throats every day and Unions and government share the knife.
June 19, 2007
I am a savant
Originally published October 10, 2004
I receive a LOT of emails from people asking me about vascetomies, prostate surgery and penile implants. I suppose that my blog shows up on a lot of search engines if somebody goes looking for that kind of information.
I do my best to answer every one of those emails as honestly as I can. I understand the curiosity and the fear involved that made those people write me in the first place. I have been there and done all three operations, so I guess I'm as qualified as anybody to discuss the procedures and the after-effects.
If it's any help to those who haven't written me yet, a vascetomy is nothing. Make the doctor give you a mild tranquilizer before he hits you with the novicane-- hell, if you're married, the old lady has to sign a consent form before you can de-seed yourself anyway, so make her come to the office to drive you home. Get mellow on the op-table.
Shave your crotchital area beforehand. Otherwise, a nurse is gonna do it in the doctor's office, and you'll be ashamed at the way your dick shrinks up like a stack of dimes 30 cents tall when she lays that razor on you. You and the old lady need to take a bath together the night before and shave EACH OTHER. That's a lot more fun.
Keep an ice pack on your balls for 24 hours after the operation. That may sound difficult to do, but it's really not. Just buy some tight underwear, put it on, shove a bag of ice in there, and every time the ice melts, swap that bag for new ice. I never even had a bruise after MY vascetomy, and I dug a hole in my yard and buried a very large goat the day after my operation.
Prostate surgery is a different game. If you can find ANY way to avoid that, take it. That operation may have saved my life, but it knocked me on my ass worse than anything else I've ever experienced, and I thought that I was a tough guy. That "nerve sparing" surgery is largely bullshit. Chances are more likely that you'll be both impotent and incontinent after that operation.
You can regain your continence with practice, but a dead dick stays dead. That ain't no fun. I felt sorry for a few wimmen who tried to rehabilitate my limp Roscoe duing the 19 months I spent with a dead dick. They tried every trick they knew--- but nothing worked.
Once those nerves are gone, so is your erection. Period. Unless you're willing to inject your penis with "fix a flat" juice via a hypodermic needle. I did that a few times and I never knew what I was going to get. Nothing... or a painful six-hour erection. I hated that stuff.
A penile implant is better than nothing, but it won't restore you to your old self. If your penis is normally fairly thick and long when flaccid, implants work well. But I had one of the "oh, SHIT!" dicks that didn't look like much until it became angry. (I call it an "oh, SHIT" dick because I heard many wimmen say that after they made Roscoe angry, as in "Oh, SHIT! Where did THAT come from?")
Implants will allow you to have an erection, but you can feel the implant and it's just not natural. You have to become accustomed to having a lot of hardware in your nutsack, and that's no fun, either. Sit down the wrong way and you'll jump back up quickly.
I will say this: as much as I criticize wimmen, every one I've known since I became bionic has been perfectly happy with what I had to give them. It ain't what I ONCE could offer, but I've never had a woman laugh at me and refuse to sleep with me because of my artificial wanger. In fact, most of them are quite curious to learn how it works.
I am delighted to show them, just as I am delighted to answer email from people facing the same problems I've been through.
Wearing nothing but a smile
Originally published October 10, 2004
I was a young rounder at the time, and I took a date to the beach at Tybee to watch a meteor shower. The meteor shower wasn't what the forecasters predicted, and we became bored, sitting in the sand dunes and swatting mosquitos. I decided to go swimming.
I shucked my clothes and ran nekkid into the sea. The water felt good. The night was moonless and nobody else was on the beach. My date was appalled at first, and I still remember her standing on the beach asking me what in the hell I thought I was doing. "I'm swimming," I replied. "Why don't you join me?"
A street light way back on Butler Avenue cast her in perfect silouette. "I don't have a bathing suit," she said.
I replied, "Sure you do. You can wear the same thing I'm wearing."
"You're not wearing ANYTHING!"
"Yeah. So what? That can be YOUR bathing suit, too."
I didn't believe that she would do it. I was amazed when I saw her look around for casual observers, find none, and strip off all her clothes. She stood there nekkid for a moment and asked me if the water was cold. I told her that the water was PERFECT.
She came in wearing nothing but a smile. That was better than ANY meteor shower I ever saw.
A beer test
Both originally published October 8, 2004
Answer these questions:
#1: What is the difference between a lager and an ale?
#2: What are "hops?" On what scale are hops measured?
#3: What is "Irish Moss?"
#4: What is "wort?"
#5: What makes beer carbonated? Why does it foam?
#6: What is the difference between a "bock" beer and a "stout ale?"
#7: Why do you need yeast to make beer?
#8: What is the usual alcohol content of American beers?
#9: Is "pilsner" different from lager or ale?
#10: What are the main ingredients that go into ANY beer?
Answer those questions, and I'll tell you my favorite beers and why I like them so much.
(People answered him, so...)
HOW I WON
The beers involved in that taste contest years ago were Budweiser, Pabst, Old Milwaulkee, Heniken, Miller, Loenbrou, Bush "Alpine" and Coors. The Coors had to be bootleg beer, because it wasn't sold east of the Mississippi River in my college days. That was the trick question in the mix, but I drank it before then and I knew the taste.
Budweiser-- Easy to spot. I can taste the rice and the beechwood.
Heniken-- No problem. That's always had a tinny aftertaste to me.
Pabst-- Piece of cake. Tastes like skank-water.
Miller-- I'm not sure what it is, but there's something about Miller beer that I don't like. My brother LOVED it, I and drank many of HIS beers when I came to visit. (I'll drink ANYTHING when it's free) I recognized that taste right away.
Lowenbrau-- Easy. The only one that tasted like a real beer.
Coors-- Pure-ass water. Doesn't even TASTE like a beer. Easy to identify.
Bush "Alpine"--- Hell, I knew that one right away. That's what I drank most of the time, in the old 14-ounce cans. College students concentrate on getting the most bang out of their beer-bucks.
Old Milwaulkee-- I picked that one by process of elimination and I was amazed by how good it was. Old Mil was CHEAP beer, but it tasted pretty good.
Anyway... that's how I won.
June 18, 2007
Originally published July 1, 2004
One of the reasons I always carry chewing tobacco with me when I hike or camp is for medicinal purposes. Yeah, I enjoy a good chew and I like the sizzle it makes when I spit in the campfire, but that's not the real reason I bring it along as an essential supply.
I've scared up a nest of yellow jackets more than once in my life, and a wet tobacco poultice is the only thing I've ever found that will take away the sting and reduce the swelling when you get hit by a dozen or so of those bastards. Yellow jackets live in the ground and you won't know they're there until you step in the wrong place. If you make that mistake, the sumbitches come boiling out like orcs in Lord of the Rings and they are seriously on the warpath.
A single yellow jacket can sting you more than once, too. One flew right down my shirt one day and hit me five times before I could kill him. If you find yourself in a cloud of them, you'll be doing the damnedest boogaloo you ever imagined as you run for your life. The stings feel like small-caliber gunshot wounds.
A commenter suggested on a previous post about hornets that you should just stand still and don't move in that situation. Try that trick on yellow jackets. They'll sting the ever-lovin' piss out of you, whether you're moving or not. Yellow jackets are about the meanest insect I've ever encountered.
Maybe that's why I hate Georgia Tech so much.
I've wanted to do that
Originally published July 1, 2004
Yes, I'll admit it. I have wanted to murder Chuck E. Cheese, the fucking rat, with my bare hands more than once. Kids may like the place, but I don't. To me, it is a loud, rambunctious, out-of-control Thunderdome for the young that makes really shitty pizza.
The only redeeming quality about the one in Savannah is that they serve beer, too, so I can get quietly tanked while watching otherwise civilized children run amok all over the place. I can take such an experience only in small, occasional doses.
You can drop a lot of money in that place and end up with nothing more than a car full of hyper-activated children, screaming and fighting while clutching cheap, plastic toys in their hands, thanks to all the coupons they "won" playing arcade games. Most of those toys last about two days and then end up in pieces clogging the intake of your vacuum cleaner.
Yeah, I am convinced. Chuck E. Cheese should DIE!!!
But I like this line from the story:
Chuck E. Cheese's is a nationwide chain of pizza restaurants that caters to small children and the parents they bring along. Its namesake, mascot and main attraction is a friendly man-sized rat wearing a baseball cap.
Sounds a lot like Michael Moore to me.
Originally published July 2, 2004
I must respectfully disagree with one of my *favorite bloggers here. Soccer is a boring, pussy sport.
Get pissed at me all you want to, but I simply do not see the fascination in watching a bunch of pansies running around a field and kicking a ball that goes out of bounds a lot more often than it finds the goal. I don't like ANY sport that frequently ends games with scores of 0-0, after an hour of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
I was in Costa Rica for the Championship de Nationale, which is the Costa Rican equilivant of Super Bowl Sunday. The National Championship soccer game, and EVERYBODY in Costa Rica loves soccer. Every esquela in the country has a soccer field and every kid old enough to shed his diapers is kicking a ball on any flat piece of ground he can find. They love their futbol there.
I watched the game on a big-screen TV, but I wasn't thrilled by it. The game was played in a pouring rain (at least the pussies played in the rain, unlike even MORE PUSSIFIED baseball players) and a lot of guys went sliding on the muddy turf in a 3-0 victory for whoever was wearing the red jerseys. I applauded and yelled when everybody else did, although I usually had no clue about what I was applauding for. It damn sure wasn't for a lot of scoring.
Give me gridiron football anytime. I understand that game and I believe that it is a truly American sport. The design of the offense is to score points and the design of the defense is to PREVENT the other team from scoring points, but the whole game boils down to a bunch of individual battles on the field. You hit and you get hit. You stop the other guy from doing what he wants to do.
The average football play lasts seven seconds or less. During that brief seven seconds, all kinds of violence whirls around you and the sounds people make are remarkable. Yeah, you growl like a wild animal. You hear the "oofs!" and "ugghs" of bodies slamming against one another and you go beserk because that's what a football player does. You use hands, elbows, knees, forearms and whatever else it takes to stay on your feet while very large, very angry people attempt to knock you down.
At the end of that seven seconds, you get up and prepare to do it all over again. It's a goddam war out there and only the strong survive. If you play the position I did, strong-side linebacker (or "monsterman") you can bet your sweet ass that somebody is assigned to hit YOU on every play. But if you don't want to hit, you shouldn't be playing football.
I enjoyed the violence when I played and I enjoy watching it now. Wearing the pads and the helmet made me feel like a knight in armor and I feared no one on the field. I got my ass racked, knocked right-over-tea-kettle and damn near handed to me on a tray a few times, but I gave back better than I got. Pain was a given on the football field. I didn't think I really played a game if I didn't have some blood on my uniform at the end.
That's American. That's suck it up, grab your jock and go. That's real football.
June 17, 2007
Originally published June 19, 2004
I received a very nice email from my daughter this morning. She's coming to Savannah to visit next month and I look forward to seeing her (tote that pistol I gave you along on your trip--- it's always better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it). Samantha has done a lot of growing up in the past few years. She is a beautiful young woman and I am proud of her.
I don't believe that I'll see or hear from Quinton tomorrow. Jennifer has had him pretty much hermetically-sealed away from me since February. Got-dam a court system that allows a woman to pick up the phone and place a warrant on my ass without producing ANY evidence of MY malfeasance. She doesn't have to prove any guilt on my part; I have to prove my innocence. That's just fucked-up, but she's done it three times to me now.
I miss my boy. Jack came over to visit yesterday and pestered me for about an hour. I like being pestered by Jack. He's a good kid and he wanted to know when Quinton was coming back to my house. I told him that I didn't know, but I was working on it.
"Mr. Rob, me and Quinton need to get back to our point of origin," Jack said.
I was amused. "Exactly WHAT is your 'point of origin,' Jack?"
"Quinton's room, where we played all the time. I want to do that again. Besides, you haven't cooked bacon and eggs for us in a long time."
No, I haven't, and I miss doing it. Those two little farts ate like bush-hogs when they visited the Crackerbox and I enjoyed filling their bellies. I didn't know about the "point of origin" thing, but I suspect that Jack picked up that term from Quinton. It sounds like something my boy would say.
I never spoke baby-talk to Quinton when he was waddling around in diapers and he has an impressive vocabulary for a ten year-old. I love that boy. I don't recall my father ever hugging me or telling me that he loved me. Kentucky coal miners just didn't do that kind of thing. I KNEW that he loved me, but he wasn't really demonstrative about it.
Tomorrow, I want to hug my boy and tell him that I love him.
The death of a child
Originally published June 21, 2004
I don't know why I'm in such a morbid mood today. Quinton came to see me yesterday and Jack came to visit today, so I've gotten to visit with my two favorite boys in back-to-back days. Jack watched a movie with me and helped me finish off the last of the boiled peanuts I cooked yesterday. We had a good time.
After he left, I remembered a day from my past that I really didn't want to revisit.
When I was a junior in high school, I went out with a bunch of my teammates from the Jenkins football squad on a Friday night to watch the Benedictine Cadets play Savannah High School at Memorial Stadium. We had a bye weekend, but we were scheduled to play BC the next Saturday and SHS the week after that. We wanted to check out our opponents.
I don't remember who won that game, but I remember what happened later that night. Several friends of mine wrapped a hot-rod GTO around that big oak tree on Dead Man's Curve on LaRoache Avenue. Anybody from Savannah can name numerous people killed on that spot, by that same tree, but that one really hit home to me.
I was asked to go riding with them that night, but I slipped off to neck with a new girlfriend instead. Five people got into that car. One died and the other four were in the hospital for months with severe injuries.
My father was reading the newspaper when I walked into the kitchen on Saturday morning. "You play ball with these guys, don't you?" he asked as he slid the paper my way. I read the story and my jaw dropped. I had seen every one of them about eight hours earlier. I was invited to go riding with them. Now, one was dead and the other four were fighting for life. Holy Bejus!
The phone rang shortly thereafter and it was Coach Atwood calling everybody on the team that he could reach to set up an "honor guard" for our fallen teammate. We met in the Jenkins gym and drew numbers to decide who would spend one hour, starting at 8:00 the next morning, down at Goethe's Funeral Home, and watching people grieve over a closed coffin. I drew #2, which put me on the first shift, along with a guy named Billy Holland.
I spent the longest hour of my life standing by that coffin in my red Jenkins blazer that day. He's been dead for over 30 years now, so I'll go ahead and use the name of the fallen comrade. He was Tommy Spellman, and his father was Athletic Director of the Chatham County Public Schools. Tommy played offensive tackle and kicked field goals and extra points. He was a large, husky fellow.
His father was a big, rough-looking man who appeared to be carved hapazardly from an irregular piece of granite rock. Everybody knew MR. SPELLMAN, and he impressed every schoolboy ballplayer I ever knew. If you were around him for five minutes, you decided that you wanted to grow up to be as tough as he was.
I watched tears roll down that man's face that day. Mr. Spellman, the toughest of the tough, cried like a baby at his son's funeral. At the time, I was disappointed in him. I expected more stoic behavior from "The Rock." But I didn't have children of my own at the time.
Today, I cannot imagine a worse experience than seeing one of your children die young, when their life is still an open highway, filled with opportunity and good times never to be realized. That's got to be totally heartbreaking. I realize now why Mr. Spellman cried that day.
I would, too. I hope only that I never have to.
Originally published May 4, 2005
I think I blogged about it before, but it's a good, TRUE story worth telling again. this post reminded me of it.
My father pretty much raised himself and became the youngest section foreman Kentucky had ever seen in a coal mine when he was 23 years old. He did hard work and bossed rough cobs all of his life. He was a hillbilly and he didn't believe in taking shit from anybody.
I was over at the house one day and Dad and I were drinking beer at the kitchen table and talking about all manner of things, when all of a sudden, I saw my father's jaw clench and veins stand out in his neck "Look at THAT," he said.
A big dog was hunkered down taking a righteous shit in my father's front yard. My dad said, "I warned that bastard about that dog. He just don't wanna listen."
With that statement, my father got up from the table, walked to his garage and fetched a shovel. He scooped up the still-steaming dogshit in the yard and went walking down the street. He went to the house where the dog lived and rang the doorbell.
When the door opened, my father said, "I think this belongs to YOU," and he tossed that shovel-full of shit right into their foyer. Then, he turned around and walked back home.
The dog never shit in his yard again.
My daddy had balls.
June 16, 2007
Feed it to the dog
Originally published December 24, 2004
Did you ever find something really questionable in your refrigerator, open the lid and SMELL IT, searching for a clue about whether it was fit to eat or not? Of course not. NOBODY does that.
When it didn't smell bad, even if you couldn't remember exactly what it was, did you remain uncertain about actually EATING it, even though you were desperately hungry and you had no other food in the house? Of course not. NOBODY does that.
Did you ever try it out on your dog? You know, to see if HE'LL eat it. You've gotta figure that if HE eats it and doesn't die, it probably won't kill YOU either. Of course not. NOBODY does that.
Did you ever watch your dog scarf that stuff with his tail wagging and then decide to have a bowl for yourself? Did you eat it and think, "That wasn't bad," and then watch your dog start making "ACK! ACK! ACK!" noises right before he puked all over the carpet? Of course not. NOBODY does that.
Did you ever reach for the phone to call 911 to report self-poisoning, only to watch your dog eat his own puke right off the carpet, then waddle happily off to his bed for a nap? Did you decide then NOT to call 911 and just wait to see what happened next? Of course not. NOBODY does that.
I certainly never have.
Originally published December 27, 2004
Looking back over my ancient archives, I noticed that I wrote frequently about having prostate cancer. I started this blog less than three months after I had my surgery, when I didn't know for certain whether I was cured or not, but I damn well was familiar with the after-effects of the operation. I wasn't a happy camper.
I bitched a lot. But I bitched about EVERYTHING back then.
Three years later, my test results still look good, I don't have to wear diapers anymore (although occasional incontence can still be a problem--- when I've got to go, I've got to GO---) and I cured the impotence problem with an implant. My life will never be what it was before the cancer, but it sure beats the alternative.
I did a google-search and found this article. Cancer of the prostate is a lot more common than most people think. Take a look at this list: (dPC means the disease killed the man)
Don Ameche -- Actor, dPC 1993 (85)
Harry Belafonte -- Singer and actor, RRP
Dirk Benedict -- Actor ("The A Team," "Battlestar Galactica"), b. 1945, a 20+ year PCa survivor
Michael Bentine -- member of "The Goon Show" on the BBC, dPC 1996 (74)
Jim Berry -- Nationally syndicated cartoonist
Bill Bixby -- Actor ("The Incredible Hulk"), director of "Blossom", dPC 1993 (59)
Luis Bonfa -- Brazilian guitarist and composer, dPC 2001 (78)
Pat Boone -- Pop singer
Barry Bostwick -- Actor ("Brad" in "The Rocky Horror Picture Show")
Sean Connery -- Actor
Hume Cronyn -- Actor, dPC 2003 (91)
Billy Davis, Jr. -- Singer (with Fifth Dimension)
Robert De Niro -- Actor and Academy Award winner -- dX 2003 (60), treatment not revealed
Theodore Marcus "Teddy" Edwards -- Jazz musician (tenor saxophone), dPC 2003 (78)
Eddie Fisher -- Pop singer
Kinji Fukasaku -- Film director (co-director of "Tora! Tora! Tora!"), dPC 2003 (72)
John Gary -- Singer -- 65 *
Charles J. Givens -- "Get rich quick" pitchman, dPC 1998 (57)
Robert Goulet -- Singer -- 62
Paulo Gracindo -- Dean of Brazilian actors -- 84 *
Merv Griffin -- TV producer -- 71
Jeremy Geidt -- Theater actor -- 70
Sir Alec Guinness -- Actor, d. 2000 (86)
Damon Harris -- Member of The Temptations
Charlton Heston -- Actor -- 74 *
Bob Homme -- Canadian kiddie show host, dPC 2000 (81)
Quincy Jones -- Writer/producer
Henry "Hank" Ketcham -- Cartoonist (creator of "Dennis the Menace"), dPC 2001 (81)
Lester "Big Daddy" Kinsey -- Blues singer and guitarist -- 74 *
Gene Levitt -- TV writer/producer/director (created "Fantasy Island" series), dPC 1999 (79)
Jerry Lewis -- Actor/comedian, dX 1992 (66)
John Lewis -- Jazz pianist and composer -- 80 *
Curtis Lowe -- Jazz saxophonist -- 73 *
Herbie Mann -- Jazz flutist, dX 1997, dPC 2003 (67)
Victor Mature -- Actor -- 81
Tom McDermott -- TV and movie actor -- 83 *
George Cadogan Gardner McKay -- Actor and playwright, dPC 2001 (69)
Bob McNett -- Drifting Cowboys band -- 69 *
Roger Moore -- Actor
Father of John Michael Montgomery, country singer
Edward Leon Palmer -- Co-creator of Sesame Street children's TV show, dPC 1999 (66)
Joseph Papp -- Theatrical producer -- *
Fess Parker -- Actor and developer
Frank Perry -- Motion picture producer -- 65 *
Sidney Poitier -- Actor, Academy Award winner -- 69
Michael Ritchie -- Director of movies ("The Candidate", "The Bad News Bears") and TV, dPC 2001 (62)
Vincent Frank Salerno -- Jazz pianist, dPC 2003 (78)
Dick Sargent -- Actor ("Bewitched" television series), dPC 1994 (64)
Telly Savalas -- Actor ("Kojak" television series), dPC 1994 (70)
Harry Secombe -- Member of "The Goon Show" on BBC, dPC 2001 (79)
Sterling Dale Silliphant -- Wrote screenplays (Academy Award for "In The Heat Of The Night"), dPC 1996 (78)
Michael Small -- Movie and TV composer, dPC 2003 (64)
Bobs Watson -- Child actor, dPC 1999 (68)
Bruce Welch -- British pop guitarist
Derek York -- British film editor -- 66 *
Frank Zappa -- Rock music star, dPC 1993 (52)
Eddie Arcaro -- Jockey -- 80
Bill Arnsparger -- Defensive coordinator, San Diego Chargers pro football team -- 68
Phil Barkdoll -- U.S. stock car driver -- 57
Fred Biletnikoff -- Hall of Fame professional football player (Los Angeles Raiders), coach
Joseph S. "Joe" Black, Sr. -- Pitcher in major league baseball, dPC 2002 (79)
Frank Broyles -- U. Arkansas Athletic Director and former football coach -- dX 2003 (77),
RP (Mayo Clinic)
Jim Colbert -- PGA Senior Tour golfer
Ray Dandridge -- Hall of Fame third baseman -- 79 *
Len Dawson -- Hall of Fame quarterback, Kansas City Chiefs
Lee Elia -- Hitting coach for the Seattle Mariners -- 59
Jim Ferree -- PGA Senior Tour golfer -- 62
Walter A. Haas, Jr. -- Oakland Athletics owner -- 79 *
Chick Harris -- Carolina Panthers professional football coach
Harold "Happy" Hairston -- Los Angeles Lakers basketball player, dPC 2001 (58)
Leon Joseph Hart, Sr. -- End, Notre Dame football team, won 1949 Heisman trophy, dPC 2002 (73)
Robert Lee "Bob" Hayes -- 1964 100 m Olympic gold medalist, Dallas Cowboy football player, dPC 2002 (59)
Lamar Hunt -- Owner of the Kansas City Chiefs football team
Vic Janowicz -- Heisman Trophy winner, 1955 -- 66 -- *
Marv Levy -- NFL coach, Buffalo Bills -- 67
Brendan Malone -- NBA assistant coach (Knicks/Pacers)
Jim Marshall -- NFL Hall of Fame Minnesota Vikings football player -- 62
Marion Motley -- NFL Hall of Fame football player, dPC 1999 (79)
Stan Musial -- Professional baseball Hall of Fame player
Don Nelson -- NBA basketball player/coach -- 60
Joe Nuxhall -- Cincinnatti Reds baseball radio announcer -- 63
Gary Ormsby -- Race car driver -- 47 *
Arnold Palmer -- Professional golfer, b. 1929, RP+XRT
Harvey Penick -- Golf instructor and author -- 90 *
Richard Petty -- Retired NASCAR stock car driver -- 57
Tommy Prothro -- Hall of Fame U.S. football coach -- 74 *
Tubby Raymond -- Football coach, University of Delaware -- 67
Bobby Riggs -- Tennis player, dPCa 1995 (77)
Frank Robinson -- Baseball Hall of Fame -- 63
Dan Rooney -- President, Pittsburgh Steelers professional football team -- 67
Norm Stewart -- Basketball coach, U. Missouri
Bill Sullivan -- Owner, New England Patriots professional football team
Chuck Tanner -- Manager, Pittsburgh Pirates professional baseball team -- 71
Joe Torre -- Manager, New York Yankees baseball team, RRP
Johnny Unitas -- NFL Hall of Fame professional football quarterback, d. 2003
Ken Venturi -- Golf commentator and former professional golfer -- 69
Bob Watson -- General Manager, N.Y. Yankees professional baseball club
I am in some pretty distinguished company there, and I left off the politicians and military leaders in the article. Not all of those on the list survived, either. Prostate cancer killed my father and my best friend, and that's a sorry, wasting way to die.
A PSA test caught mine early. Guys, do yourselves and your loved ones a favor--- get tested, once every year after the age of 40. It's a simple blood test and it can save your life.
That's my Public Service Announcement for the year.
No, Goddamn it! I don't!!
Originally published December 27, 2004
I love my witty commenters. When I mentioned that I bitched a lot when I started blogging, Amy fired off this reply:
Um...don't you STILL bitch about everything? Particularly about women bitching about everything?
NO, goddamit!!! I don't bitch about EVERYTHING, just MOST things. Besides, I believe that my bitching has mellowed a great deal over the past three years. I don't tell nearly as many people to go fuck themselves anymore. And I haven't picked a piss-fight flame-war with another blogger in a long time. The post in question was actually a Public Service Announcement, wherein I was attempting to atone for some of my past sins.
But do I get credit for my newfound sensitivity? Hell, no! I get a smart-assed comment that reminded me of something the old ME would have written. I just hate it when I .... evolve... and nobody notices. See? I TOLD you that wimmen bitch about EVERYTHING!!! But not ME. Oh, no, goddamit. Not me.
June 15, 2007
Originally published December 20, 2004
I think I wrote my first short story when I was six years old. That story needed serious editing, and something other than crayon to really get my point across, but looking back now, I realize that it wasn't bad for a six year-old boy.
I've been writing ever since, and I DON'T KNOW WHY.
Words just bubble up in me. They always have. If I try to explain the way I think to other people, even those who KNOW me well, they just shake their heads and say, "You've ALWAYS been weird." Am I? Really?
When Catfish and I were riding around lost in north Georgia, I started looking at all the farmhouses and abandoned outbuildings on those rolling fields, and I thought of DOZENS of stories that I could tell about them. When I mentioned that fact to him, Cat replied, "I'd rather you found a road back to Savannah. You can write later."
No, I CAN'T "write later."
That shit goes on in my mind all the time whether I put it on paper or not. One of the biggest disappointments in my life was when I wrote a humor column for the Effingham County Herald, which was so popular that it then was published in three sister newspapers all over southeast Georgia. I was proud of accomplishing that feat, but my BC ex-wife never read ANYTHING I wrote. She didn't care whether I was any good or not. The entire activity seemed ridiculous to her. I wasn't becoming rich and powerful from doing it, so what good was it? That's the way she STILL looks at life. I don't.
I was fired from that job for being politically incorrect (can you imagine THAT?) and the publisher fired the EDITOR, too. Jennifer told me that I got what I deserved. "Rob, you should write what people want to read, not what you want to write."
I pondered that statement for a long time. WTF kind of advice is THAT? I never know WHAT I want to write until it comes out on the page. If I had a dollar for everything I've written that NEVER saw another set of eyes, I would be a rich man today. If you don't write, you'll never understand what I mean.
I write for one reason and one reason only: I WANT to.
Originally published December 17, 2004
My 93 year-old grandmother, waxing nostalgic today:
"I never thought much about the Great Depression, the soup lines and nobody having a job. We lived through it and didn't know anything about it. Where we were, we didn't have a radio and we didn't get a newspaper. Great Depression? We didn't know or care about what was going on 'out there.' We knew we didn't have any money, but neither did anybody else. We grew almost everything we had to have. If I needed flour, we'd shuck a bushel of corn and trade it for flour. I had about 25 good laying hens, so I collected eggs and traded them for salt, pepper and what-not, the stuff we couldn't grow ourselves. And your Papaw could build almost anything. We didn't have much, but we never went hungry."
I love that woman. They don't make 'em like that anymore.
Originally published December 16, 2004
I'll apologize beforehand. I've met the woman and I like her. We sang "Please Come To Boston" together and harmonized, before she got drunk on moonshine and started runnin' nekkid up and down the creek in Helen, Georgia. That started a stampede and I was embarrassed by all those ugly blogger asses shining in the moonlight....
...but I digress, again...
If this is a chili recipe I'LL run nekkid down that creek in Helen on the coldest day you can find in January. WHITE BEANS???!!!??? Ohmygod!! CHICKEN???!!!???
I gotta go fire a gun off my back porch and just HOPE that I hit something. The world ain't right tonight.
Darlin,' that's the most yankeefied chili recipe that I ever read. In MY humble opinion, you should be dragged off and shot, NOT for making a shitty meal, because I believe that it probably tastes pretty good, but for CALLING it "chili."
*Real chili has no beans in it.
*Real chili is so spicy that it will melt your spoon.
*You can eat real chili with a fork. The fork will melt, too.
* Real chili has BEEF, not chicken in it.
* A bowl of cold chili should still make you sweat. A bowl of cold chili should TASTE GOOD, too.
* You experience real chili twice--- and if you don't know what I mean, you never ate any real chili.
Sorry, Mamma, but you need to try some REAL chili. You think that moonshine was something? I'll have you dancing nekkid on my ROOF if after a couple of bowls of my MY all-day, big-pot concotion.
I make some bad-ass chili.
June 14, 2007
Originally published December 18, 2004
This story is absolutely true. I'm not making ANY of it up and I still have the mental scars to prove it.
I once was dick-bit in a high school football game.
That was the first year the athletic association integrated the playing schedules for local HS football teams--- the schools themselves weren't integrated yet, but we started playing a mixed schedule that year. I learned right away that some of the black players learned to play football differently from the way I learned.
They trash-talked a lot, which I paid no attention to, but they also BIT and PINCHED in the middle of a pile-up. More than once I was tangled in a pile of fallen bodies when I felt somebody pinching the shit out of my belly while somebody else bit me on the leg. White boy screams of outrage were common in pile-ups back then, as you tried to fight your way out of that shit.
A LOT of black players did it. Ask anybody who played back then.
One night, I was involved in the tackle on an end sweep and everybody ended up in a big pile. The next thing I know, I feel some bastard biting me on the inside of my thigh, and he's biting HARD. I scrambled to get away, but all I really accomplished was to change his angle of attack. He didn't have my thigh any more.
He dick-bit me.
Yep, right through my silver Jenkins game britches and right through my top-of-the-line Thompson's Sporting Goods jockstrap, that maniac got a mouthful of Roscoe and he was gnawing like a hungry dog on a bone. By the time I got out of there, I had slobber marks on the front of my game pants, for crying out loud. I never knew who did it, either.
(I suspected that creepy-assed #52. He looked like the kind of person to gnaw on a foreskin when he was bored. Ugly bastard.)
At half-time, I dismasted in the locker room and examined my wound. "Hey, COACH!!" I shouted. "Come look at THIS!!!" I showed him my member with fucking TOOTHMARKS on it. "Somebody dick-bit me," I complained.
Coach Boyd was his usual concerned self. "If you're lucky, it won't hurt when the right person does it in the front seat of a car. You need some tape on it?" Adhesive tape cured everything from a scratch to broken bones to complete evisceration in Coach's mind. There wasn't ANY injury adhesive tape couldn't fix. But I didn't want any on my tender pecker.
"No, I'm okay. I just think that was weird." I replied. I still do, too.
Does that kind of shit happen in the NFL?
Originally published December 18, 2004
*I started to light into a couple of commenters on the post below, because they obviously are complete morons and missed the point of the entire post, but I just don't have that kind of fire in my belly today. Besides, I'd just be wasting my time. Assholes will always be assholes.
*My grandparents had the first flush toilet I ever saw when we lived in the coal mining camp at Louellen. I really wanted one of those in MY home. But my Papaw never stopped using the outhouse. He would leave that warm hearth, that flush toilet and slog through a foot of snow to perch his ass on a splintery, wooden bench and enjoy his morning constitutional the same way he'd been doing all his life. At the time, I thought he was crazy. I don't anymore, because I now know why he did it. I'm a lot that way myself today.
*I visited my son this morning. Damn, but he's growing fast. He told me that he could beat me in both football AND basketball now, because he was "meaner, smarter, tougher and YOUNGER" than I was. (I don't know if I've blogged about it before, but all of Quinton's life, I've told him that he couldn't beat ME because I was "meaner, smarter, tougher and OLDER" than he was.) I hammered his ass in a game of horse. Heh. Guile and experience beat youth and enthusiasm again. I did NOT agree to a rematch.
*I received a phone call today from someone I didn't know. She said that she found my phone number and called because I live next door to someone she was concerned about. "I've called for two days, and all I get is a rapid busy signal. Could you check to make sure she's okay and then call me back?" I said I would, and took down her number, which I was surprised to discover was toll-free, with an extension.
Nobody was home next door, but everything looked okay. The mailbox was empty, I didn't see bloodstains anywhere, nor did I smell anything to suggest a pile of rotting dead bodies inside. I went back home and called the number I had. IT WAS A COLLECTION AGENCY!!! I told them, "I think she moved," and hung up the phone. How the hell did they get MY phone number?
*One thing I like about the back-roads of north Georgia (even riding around lost) is the number of old barns, outbuildings and abandoned houses on those rolling farms there. I look at the weather-bleached, seasoned wood, the peeling planks, the holes in the roof and the stunted chinabeery trees and tall weeds that surround them now and I wonder about the stories those places could tell. Those building would make some great black-and-white photographs.
*Why am I deathly afraid of snakes when I like spiders and fascinating insects?
*Today I found a picture of me shaking hands with Arnold Palmer at the practice round of the 1992 Masters Golf Tournament. I forgot that I had it. Damn! I STILL love Arnie!
As you can see, I can't think of much to blog about today...
Originally published December 20, 2004
At the risk of offending fat people, I'm about to post a politically incorrect blog entry. I did some research today and I have decided that some people are fat because THEY EAT TOO FUCKING MUCH!!!
Bejus! I ate lunch at the Western Sizzlin' Steak House in Pooler, Georgia today. I KNOW that they cut their steaks off old, ragged, diabetic cows and it ain't the finest food in the world, but I LIKE it. For $10, I can get a fine meal, all the genuinely GOOD sweet tea I want to drink and the waitresses flirt with me, too. How can you beat that in a fancy place that costs three times the money?
They serve a buffet that is loaded to the gills with all kinds of good food---fried chicken, fried catfish, roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, rice and every kind of vegetable known to man. You pay a flat fee and eat ALL YOU WANT from the buffet.
I usually get a small steak and a salad. I don't eat a lot. But I enjoy watching the buffet buffaloes.
Mother of Gawd! One woman, who probably wore a size=Circus Tent stretch pants loaded TWO PLATES full of food from the buffet, carted that crap, enough to feed a family of five, to her table just for HERSELF, then went back and loaded a goddam soup bowl with butter and sour cream to ladle over her food. She devoured the whole fucking thing, too.
"Honey? Does this dress make my ass look fat?" No, darlin.' It ain't the dress.
I watched a guy with a pot-belly, the size of which made it IMPOSSIBLE for him to see his own dick when he looks down, load up two plates the size of a CARE food shipment to starving children in Bangladesh and waddle off to eat everything except the plates, and HE went back for more.
These people NEVER pass on the dessert, either. The place was LOADED (and I do mean a LOAD) with them.
I cannot imagine what it must be like to take a shit after eating that much food. I'll bet the neighbors know, because the earthquake rumbles they feel when somebody voids THAT kind of turd-blast must make the windows shake. If they smoked on the toilet, they'd blow themselves into the next century if the methane gas ever ignited.
If fat people want sympathy from ME, they ain't going to get it, because I know what makes them fat. THEY EAT LIKE FUCKING PIGS!!! There is no goddam excuse for eating the way I saw those people do today. The fact that YOU don't know how much is "enough" doesn't mean that you aren't responsible for the way you look.
The sad part is, their kids are fat, too. Wonder where they learned that from?
WE NEED A LAWYER TO SUE SOMEBODY HERE!!!!
June 13, 2007
Originally published December 15, 2004
If you had the chance to talk to my grandmother, my mama, or my aunts and uncles, they'd all tell you the same thing. Looking back NOW, they realize that they grew up poor. But they didn't know that fact at the time, and they never FELT poor. They might have slept three to a bed and ate a lot of pinto beans and cornbread, but they had a roof over their heads, clean clothes to wear and they knew that they were loved.
How much richer do you really need to be?
Besides... even though we can afford steak today, we still like to eat pinto beans and cornbread. That's good home-cooking.
I give up
Originally published December 16, 2004
I am about one more frustrating moment away from taking my fiddle out in my back yard and jumping up and down on the sumbitch until I break it to splinters. Then, I'm gonna set it on fire and be done with the cursed thing. I'm NEVER going to learn to play it worth a shit.
The got-dam thing needs frets on it, and I should be able to play it with a pick instead of a bow. I am a MUSICIAN, for crying out loud, and the best I can do with that bastard is make noises like a cat hung on an electric fence--- and that AIN'T a pretty sound.
I never learned what I wanted to do on a harmonica, but at least I can play songs folks recognize on one of those. My harmonica playing isn't bad around a campfire in the woods. Sounds pretty good when there's nothing else to listen to except bean-farts and snores.
But people want to SHOOT ME when I drag out my fiddle, and I don't blame them one bit. I want to SHOOT MYSELF every time I fuck with that thing. The more I try, the worse I get.
I give up. I suck as a fiddle player, and that is that. I could practice for another ten years and I'm STILL gonna suck. Just DAMN!!!
Vassar Clements made it look so easy...
Originally published December 15, 2004
I'm a troglodyte.
I always though that if I was locked up in a jail cell with Rod Stewart, I'd make him my bitch inside a week. Skinny, raspy little fuck. Wimmen loved him, though, but they loved EVERY singer who sounded as if he had his nutsack in a vice with somebody slowly turning the handle back then. (why do you think wimmen LIKED that sound?)
I miss ballsy bands with ballsy front-men.
Elton John? BEJUS!!! I'd have to pay the guards to keep HIM offa ME in jail!!! The same goes for that bald-headed Genesis guy... what's his name?... oh, yeah... "Take a Look at Me Now" and yada, yada... Phil Collins? Was that his name? Who gives a shit?
You know who I think was a gutsy, tear your balls off singer? I know a few:
1) Jim Morrison. ("The Doors.")
2) John Kay. ("Steppenwolf.")
3) John Cougar Mellincamp. (if you don't already know, then fuggataboudit.)
4) Warren Zevon (Just try "Werewolves of London")
5) Bob Seeger ("Down On Main Street" is one of the meanest songs ever written. I LOVE that lead guitar part.)
I'm tired, so I quit right here. But YOU tell ME any girly-boy singer who can compete with those five. I'll tell you to kiss my Cracker ass.
I know what's good.
Qualities I appreciate in a friend
Originally published December 16, 2004
Yeah, I'm gonna make another list.
But I find myself THINKING in lists anymore, and that fact really disturbs me. My mind has always been just as disorganized as my house, so I wonder WHY I'm starting to fit things into priorities, shuffle the blocks into the proper order and weigh things on a goddam scale every day.
I never did that before. Sure, I did AT WORK, because that's what I was PAID to do--- but I didn't do it in my personal life. At home, I just rocked along and figured that I could handle any problem that reared its ugly head. I was pretty fast on my feet. I'd fix it after it happened.
Whoa!! I fucked up with that calculation.
Do you know what was really wrong with me in those blissful days? I became COMFORTABLE!!! That's what!!! I see it all now, just as plain as daylight. WE ARE NOT MEANT TO BE COMFORTABLE in life. If you struggle every day, you stay sharp; as soon as you become complacient, you're dead. And the jackals of the world will rend your "comfortable" corpse with their sharp, ravenous teeth while nobody but the buzzards pay any attention at all. THAT'S THE TRUTH!!!
But... I digress.
Catfish and I talked about this subject on our (short) ride TO Athens, not the LONG ride back home. I have many, many dear acquaintences, but very few friends. The friends I DO claim as mine have stuck by me through thick and thin for a very long time. Fire and ice went into that mix. Let me tell you what it was:
1) Loyalty. This may sound stupid today, but once upon a time, I did things that I KNEW were going to cost me personally for the benefit of a friend. Why? Because I knew that if the roles were reversed, he'd do the same thing for me. At least I thought so.
2) Trust. I've always said that if my friends got together and wrote my biography based on what THEY saw, I'd be a fucking outlaw legend. I never hid a damn thing from them, and all have seen me at both my best and my basest. They all know stories that they've promised not to tell, not even to each other, and they HAVEN'T either. Yeah. I trust every one of them.
3) The Gimlet Eye. If you believe that your FRIENDS don't know everything fucked-up about you, you don't have a head on your shoulders. Friends don't ignore your faults. They accept you warts and all. They know your goddam faults better than YOU do. Try lying to one of them.
4) Nostalgia. Okay, he's not the same guy you went to college with. He looks a lot older, he's running his own business now, and he's got the wife and three kids. (Nod over the pictures extracted from the wallet.) We both feel lots of pressure in our jobs, because nobody is a little boy anymore. But for one golden moment, over a burger and a beer, you both remember a time when you were young and invincible, and you both laugh your asses off, thinking about the same moment at the same time. History matters.
5) Track Record. A good friend doesn't ask for many favors. But YOUR good friend won't abandon you when you need somebody. And the best thing about a good friend is that you don't even have to ask. He KNOWS. And he'll be there.
If you don't have friends like that, I pity you.
June 12, 2007
The Garden of Eden
Originally published December 11, 2004
I've studied the story of Adam and Eve for a long time, and I have reached two profound conclusions. First, God was an idiot parent. You don't EVER plant one special tree in your garden and make a big deal about the kids keeping their hands offa it. When you do THAT, you draw attention to the tree and kids want to know why it's so special. They forget about every other tree in the garden and think about that one all the time.
Second, the story demonstrates the essential difference between men and wimmen in this world. If I planted that tree in MY garden, I could convince my boy to leave it alone by threatening to grind his ass to hamburger and feed it to the dogs if he touched it. He might LOOK at the tree and wonder, but he would leave it alone.
My daughter, on the other hand, would ignore my threats, wait until she thought no one was watching and go fuck with the tree. That's what wimmen do. You want a woman to do something you don't want her to do? Just tell her NOT to do it.
Like a cat, she simply HAS to do it after you asked her not to, just to spite you. (Besides, you're probably up to no good with that tree and she wants to find out what evil you are plotting by being even more evil herself.) She won't DEFY you and go check out the tree right under your nose. No... that's too direct.
She'll be SNEAKY about it. Wimmen are naturally sneaky people. If you don't believe me, just leave something in a suit pocket and see if she doesn't find it, even if you haven't worn the suit in five years.
So, God tells Adam and Eve to leave that special tree alone, and Adam is okay with that dictate. He's off drinking beer, watching football and farting blissfully. He could give a shit about that tree. As long as he has something to eat, something to drink and a piece of ass every now and then, he's happy.
But not Eve. Once God declared that one tree off-limits, Eve never saw anything else in the garden. Just THINKING about that tree put her in a hormonal uproar, and she suspected all sorts of evil, mean, nasty things about it. She beagn to hyperventilate and develop the vapors. The more she thought about it, the more certain she became. After some serious hyperventilation and vapors, combined with soap-opera plot-knitting, the TRUE FACTS became clear to her, as they would to any sane, logical mind.
God is up to no good, Adam is part of the plan and I'm going to CATCH HIM in the act. She could "feel" it.
Therefore, it makes perfect sense to me that Eve would listen to the snake and break God's command. She had a head full of snakes herself.
Some people might say, after the shit hit the fan, "I was WRONG!" But NOT Eve. If Adam had been around more and understood her problems and cuddled her warmly at night and not farted in his sleep and watched more episodes of "All My Children," none of this shit would have happened.
IT'S HIS goddam fault!!!
There is the story of Genesis, as translated by Acidman.
Originally published December 13, 2004
I don't like the word "cute." In fact, I believe that is one of the most foul, useless words in the English language. It's just such a SHITTY description of anything.
"Awww... that's so CUTE!"
What image pops into your mind when you read those words? An infant, stinking to high heaven, in a crap-filled diaper with dried baby-food and puke on it's face? A puppy chewing up one of your favorite shoes? A cat clawing your sofa to shreds? Brad Pitt? A pink, self-lubricating, solar-powered vibrating butt-plug?
Yeah, they're ALL "cute," when described by a woman. "Cute" is a feminine word, and I want to bitch-slap any man I hear use it, unless he says, "Oh, THAT was cute," right before he punches you in the nose for being an asshole. Guys don't like "cute."
Wimmen don't like specifics, because that gets in the way of all their feelings, so "cute" is the perfect way to avoid actually describing anything. It's a one-size-fits-all word that can be used on any occasion and all wimmen hearing it will nod in agreement.
Yes, cute is good. It's non-confrontational and warm, fuzzy and comfortable. Cute. Comfortable. Sweet.
My ass. I would rather be dead than "cute."
Originally published December 14, 2004
"You sumbitch! I oughta KILL YOU for that!"
I heard that line once after I dropped a cigarette butt into a buddy's still half-full beer can at a party. Hell, I thought the can was empty at the time, but I ruined the rest of his beer and pissed him off. Did I believe that he really meant to kill me? No, I didn't and he simply was protesting a waste of perfectly good beer. I knew what he meant.
I felt guilty about what I had done, so I gave him a fresh beer to assuage his wounded feelings, I apologized for being a careless bastard and the party rocked on with the two of us remaining good buddies. In MY humble opinion, that was not a violent incident.
But under the law, he made a terroristic threat and I could have called the authorities on him, had him locked up and pressed charges. I could have trembled in front of a judge, let a frightened pee-stain darken the front of my pants and said that the man put me in fear of my life.
I could have sent him to jail for nothing. Wimmen do that kind of thing a lot.
To me, violence is a simple concept. If I tell you that you are full of shit and that you need to be dragged off and shot, that's not violence. That's a big mouth gnashing the wind. If I punch you in the nose, however, then actually drag you off and shoot you, THAT'S violence.
A lot of people don't understand the difference today, and I blame it all on the Pussification of America, led, sponsored and supported by wimmen. Just look at how they have managed to redefine the word "rape."
Before wimmen's Bizarro World took over, rape meant a physical, sexual assault. Now, some poor bastard can be standing at a bus stop and minding his own business when he decides to scratch his balls. If some hyperventilating woman sees him do it, she can cry "RAPE!!!" and the courts take her seriously instead of putting her in a rubber room, where she belongs.
That guy scratching his balls is VIOLENCE to some wimmen. And if she "feels" threatened, by Bejus, then she IS THREATENED, no matter if the threat is all in her tangled, feminine mind. She was RAPED, even though the guy never even saw her. That's the LAW!!!
That's the central flaw in the Fem-Lib movement. Wimmen want to play on a level field with men, but they also want to ability to be whining, helpless, overly-sensitive pussies when the situation benefits them. I say you can't have it both ways, but they do. Wimmen are independent and strong when they're winning, but they become shaking blobs of formless jello when things don't go their way.
I am Woman. I am sorta strong, but I tend to fall apart easily, I can't handle pressure and I see sexual harassment everywhere, even though I couldn't pay a guy to fuck me with somebody else's dick. I want to run with the Tall Dogs, but that field is just so HOSTILE and ICKY. Clean it up to MY standards so that I can get a fair game. And you've GOT to let me play.
Guys engage in fistfights when they get violent. Wimmen drag you into court when they want to show their cat-claws.
Guess which one I believe is more bloodthirsty?
June 11, 2007
The scenic route
Originally published December 12, 2004
My friend Catfish and I rode up to Athens together. He drove and I navigated. I took us via the backroads, where we didn't have to deal with traffic or those pesky policemen with radar guns who infest the main highways. It's a pretty ride the way I like to go and we made the trip in about four hours.
Catfish bitched all weekend about my choice of routes. "We drove all the way around our assholes to get to our elbows," was his favorite saying. "When we go back, we're taking MY way," he promised. Today, we did.
I have to admit one thing about Cat's choice of roads: he set the all-time speed record for a trip from Athens to Savannah. NEVER BEFORE has that trip taken SEVEN FUCKING HOURS!!!
I knew something was wrong when Cat took a left off highway 78 just outside Washington, Georgia. "Where're you goin,' man?" I asked. "This is 77 NORTH. We don't want to be going north. Savannah is SOUTH."
"We take a right in Elberton, the Granite Capitol of the World" he replied. "I know these roads like the back of my hand. I once sold insurance up here. I've been all over this place. I know exactly where we are."
I shut up and let him drive. And drive. And drive.
The only right turn out of Elberton was another road going north. We took it and before long, we were in South Carolina, 52 miles NORTH of got-dam Augusta, Georgia. If this was a short-cut, it was the damnedest one I ever saw. "Bejus! We're on the other side of Clark Hill Lake!" I exclaimed.
"Hmmm..." Catfish replied. "I think I fucked up. But I SWEAR that I remember coming home from Athens by going through Elberton." That kind of memory may be the reason he got out of the insurance business.
We finally arrived at my house seven hours after we left Athens. What the hell. I had nothing better to do today than ride around lost for hours in northeast Georgia and bumfuck South Carolina. As usual, Catfish was unrepentent over his fuckwittery.
"Ya gotta admit one thing," he said. "We saw some great scenery. And those were damn good roads." Yes, I agreed, those were great roads. All 160 extra miles of them.
I'm never letting him navigate again.
Originally published December 15, 2004
When I was about 10 years old, I needed to earn some money, so I contracted with a neighbor to cut her grass and edge her curb. My daddy told me that I could use his lawnmower (as long as I paid him back for the gas--- which was about 26 cents a gallon at the time) and I negotiated what I thought was a fair price-- $2.50, I believe, for the job. I told her that I would be there bright and early on Saturday to do the work.
I showed up on time and I cut the grass. But... DAMN!!! It was a Saturday in July in southeast Georgia and the temperature was as hot as the gates of hell. I was hacking away at the weeds on her curb when some of my friends came by on bicycles and invited me to go skinny-dipping in the Gun Club Lake with them. Ohhhh... the thought of that water washing over my sweaty self almost made me swoon. I wanted to go.
I thunk a thought. I could finish this job TOMORROW and go skinny-dipping RIGHT NOW!!! I wouldn't ask Mrs. Johnson to pay me until I was done, and I was pretty sure that I could talk her into giving me a break. I tried, and I was correct.
I ran back to my house to get my bicycle, but I was intercepted by my daddy. "Where are YOU going?" he asked. He had been watching me from the living room window.
"Ummm... I'm going to play with my friends," I replied. Skinny-dipping in the lake was strictly forbidden, so I kept those plans to myself.
"You finished with your work?"
"No... but Mrs. Johnson says that I can finish tomorrow. I just have a little more of the curb to do."
"Then go do the rest of the curb. You gave her your word. If you didn't want the job, you shouldn't have asked for it."
He made me go back and finish that job before I went off to have a good time with my friends. I resented what he did at the time, but I don't anymore.
My daddy was that kind of man, and he taught me a valuable lesson that day. He was not much of a multiculturalist. He believed that if somebody paid you to do a job, you DID IT. Just as simple as that.
Too few people teach their children that lesson anymore.
Pissing sitting down
Originally published December 14, 2004
I've always bragged that one of the benefits of being a man is the ability to stand up and pee. Hell, we can water a tree, stop ANYWHERE on the side of the road and even write our names in the snow if we want to. Instant relief is no problem.
A pecker is a nice thing to have.
I've always laughed at the female squatting thing and the half-a-roll of toilet paper it takes them to daub their delicate pussies dry when they finally generate the nerve to squat outside a pristine-clean cubicle with a perfumed stall and a locked door in the first place. Plus, wimmen are always afraid that someone will SEE them pissing.
WTF is that all about?
Guys don't give a shit about someone seeing them piss. If you maybe look longingly at a guy's wang when you're in one of those watery conga-lines, the gawkee may just turn and piss all over your Reeboks, but that's not a shameful thing, at least not to the gawkee. He'll wave that thing at you and say "Take a GOOD look, buddy! Is THIS what you wanted???"
Not that I would know, but I'm just sayin'...
Wimmen don't do that. They piss sitting down and they like padded toilet seats to rest their fat pretty asses on, too. I was about to get wound up and pontificate about how disgusting that practice is until I thought...
Bejus! I piss sitting down sometimes. I know a lot of other guys who do, too. That's just fucking sad.
Catfish caught me doing it in Athens. He saw me sitting on the john and asked, "Whatta ya doing, Bow-legs? Pissin' or shittin'?" (Can you imagine a woman asking that question? Guys do.) I confessed that I wasn't certain. My body would make its mind up whenever it was ready.
I caught Cat on the john the next day, his ass on the commode and his face buried in a USA Today. "Okay, Big Cat. Whatta ya doin'? Pissin' or shittin'?" I loved his reply.
"I THINK I'm pissin,' but I ain't taking any chances."
I just had a hideous thought. Old men become... WIMMEN!!!!
June 10, 2007
Originally published December 20, 2004
I TOLD you that you can blog about anything.
I've been to only ONE whorehouse in my colorful life, and that was "Effies" in Athens, Georgia, a long time ago. The wimmen there serviced many a young college male, a LOT of whom lost their virginity in that place for a very reasonable price. (A 50-50 was $20 back then.) That place was an institution at the University of Georgia.
Effie's was a true whorehouse experience. You picked your partner, she took you to a room and washed your equipment with warm water and soap in a porcelan sink (a lot of inexperienced guys never got past that point without... well, you know what I mean), and then you did the deed in a perfumed bed. I thought the place was better than Disney World.
Somebody wrote me a tear-stained letter when the vice squad finally closed the place down sometime in the early 70s. That was like learning that a good friend died.
Every college town needs a good, honest whorehouse.
Close to the truth
Originally published December 20, 2004
What this guy doesn't know is that I once applied for a job as a department store Santa during the Christmas holidays when I was in college. I thought at the time that the experience might make a good magazine article. Plus, I wanted to see how many hot chicks I could persuade to sit on my lap and have their picture taken with "Santa," as I copped a feel.
I didn't get the job. I was a victim of age discrimination and the store hired an old, fat fart with a real white beard instead of me. What kind of bullshit was that? I think I was profiled. I believe that my civil rights were violated. I had ALL the qualifications for the job, except for the beard, the fat belly and the jolly "HO! HO! HO!" laugh.
Hell, I could smoke a PIPE, although what I put in it back then probably wasn't what Santa preferred when he got ready to guide a reindeer-pulled, flying sleigh loaded with toys in the dark of night. I probably would have crashed the sleigh somewhere in the Alps while I was trying to relight my pipe in the wind.
But I still resent the way I was treated by THE MAN when all I wanted was a job. It's THE SYSTEM, brother! It's OUT TO GET YOU! Never forget that fact and make sure you carry that chip on your shoulder HIGH, so that everyone can see it. Got-dam! They hire a fat, bearded guy who looks like Santa and even has his own red suit and tell ME to go to hell? Tell ME that the other guy is more qualified???
That's racism... or something like that.
The pink letter
Originally published December 20, 2004
I do not believe that a skilled carpenter could take a belt sander to my ass and make me any more chapped than I am right now. I've been in a piss-fight with MCI ever since I cancelled my long-distance account with them months ago. MCI now has turned my "delinquent" account over to a collection agency and I received my first Pink Notice of Impending Death today.
What started this feud was MCI attempting to charge me more than $50 for less than $15 worth of long-distance calls. When I called to protest, they said that I didn't say "NO!" to the offer, so they signed me up for a money-saving plan where I paid $50 per month as a flat fee instead of hassling with those petty 32-cent phone calls I usually make.
Somehow, a bill with less than $15 worth of calls on it now amounts to $400 dollars in the gimlet eyes of MCI. I KNEW that company was fucked-up when they hired Danny Glover as their spokesman. I TOLD them that I would pay for the phone calls I made, but they could stick that $50 fee right up their ass.
Now, some faceless entity is threatening to "ruin my credit" unless I cough up the bucks. BWHAHAHAHAAAA!!! I've got money in the bank, but I have NO INCOME, so my credit already sucks, on paper at least. These people scare the shit out of me.
I changed my long distance service to Alltel months ago, and for curiousity's sake, I dug out my bills for the last FOUR MONTHS. During that time, I made a grand total of $4.32 worth of long-distance calls. That's typical for me, because I seldom make long-distance calls and when I do, it's usually to Recondo and Georgia. Those calls cost next to nothing because I don't stay on the phone long.
MCI wants me to pay them more than $400 in "fees" I don't owe them? I don't think so. And if they keep up their shit, I'm gonna stiff them on what I DO owe them and chalk it up as the cost of MY pain and suffering from this dickheaded harassment they're giving me. They've caused me to lie awake at night worrying about my credit rating.
If you have an MCI account, cancel it. The bastards are lying, devious crooks and their customer service SUCKS.
June 09, 2007
Originally published December 6, 2004
I finally got around to making some changes on my blogroll today. I dropped a few who seem to have died mysteriously and I added a few that I really like. I de-linked Wizbang just for the hell of it. He did it to me first.
For all pedants of the blogosphere, I'll give you a few strict and unbending rules for being on my blogroll:
1) I have no fucking rules. I'll link you if I like you, but just because I don't put you on the roll doesn't mean that I don't like you. Check your referrals. I lurk a lot.
2) If you don't post, I'll dump you. Period. I don't consider once-a-month posts blogging.
3) Come to a Jawja Blog-Meet. That act GUARANTEES you a spot on the roll, even if you suck as a writer, as long as you continue to blog.
4) Send me red toenail pictures if you're a woman. Damn right! I can be bought.
5) WRITE instead of posting a series of links. I wanna know who you ARE, not what you read.
6) Cuss every now and then. I agree with Redd Foxx on this issue. Anybody who slams a car door on the hand and doesn't cuss is someone NEVER to be trusted. If you can't find something to cuss about in the world today, you ain't paying much attention.
7) DO NOT post pictures of your adorable, widdle, fuzzy CATS!!! I fucking HATE cats. I've made a few exceptions to this rule because I really like the writers and I have no rules anyway, but don't push me on this issue unless you're really GOOD.
8) Don't email me asking for a link. I've never begged for a thing in my life and I don't like people who do. That may sound harsh, but that's the way I see life. If your blog is any good, people will find it. Just keep throwing it out there, like a good fisherman. If your bait is any good, you'll catch a few.
9) Be yourself. I've never met the person behind a blog I liked when I didn't like THE PERSON after I met them. Honesty counts, and it shows in a good blog.
10) Forget where you rate on some ecosystem or somebody's bullshit popularity contest. If you're out for a sales career, try insurance or used cars. I like the blogs I like because I am NOT dealing with salesmen there. I think I'm dealing with real people.
Anyway... adios to the old ones and in with the new.
I have a dream!
Originally published December 6, 2004
I'll post before and after pictures when the meal is done. I'm gonna throw a recipe out here:
It goes like this:
* Buy a big, fat, marbled rib-eye about 2" thick.
* Throw that sucker in a plastic baggie, add soy sauce, black pepper, lemon pepper, fresh garlic and a dash of MSG. (I don't measure that crap. Just make it LOOK right.) Then rub the baggie around in your hands until you have all that juicy stuff smeared all over the steak. When you're finished playing with your meat, throw it into the refrigerator overnight, in the plastic bag. Let it brood.
* Get really hungry about 1:00 the next day. Light your charchol grill.
* If you knew what you were doing, you already had a Vidalea onion, a small bell pepper and some portabella mushrooms on hand. If you DIDN'T KNOW, run to the store and get some NOW, while the charchol is getting ready.
(Warning ALERT!!! Wash all ingredients before going any farther!!! I don't want a bullshit lawsuit on my hands.)
* Whack a softball-sized Vidalea onion in half. Cut 1/2 the onion into thin rings.
* Cut the bell pepper into thin strips.
* Slice the portabellas into nice chunks, about the size of the end of your thumb.
* Put the steak on a big piece of aluminium foil. Throw the onion, the pepper and the mushrooms on top of the steak, add a dash of salt and 1/4 a stick of butter.
* Fold the aluminium foil carefully around the steak, poke a couple of holes in the foil, then throw that rascal on the grill and put a lid on it. Go bake a potato. Take a piss. Relax for about 25 minutes.
* Then, go pull that package off the grill and pour it onto a plate. Hot Damn! THAT'S good eating.
Baked potatoes and salad are optional. But if you can't cook THIS delicious meal, you need to be dragged off and shot.
Originally published December 8, 2004
*I wanna know why Eric, Key and several others can't fix their goddam comments to remember my personal information. WTF is that? If I didn't really LOVE you guys, I wouldn't bother with typing the same shit in those little boxes every time I want to share my wit with you.
*Why do most wimmen bloggers become obsessed with "skins" and all the got-dam decoration they can cram onto a page? That shit reminds me of a toilet seat with a fuzzy cover on top, ANOTHER THING wimmen love. A guy can't piss in there without grabbing his dick in one hand and holding the lid up with the other. If you don't hold the lid up, it'll slam down and guillotine your precious member. I sometimes piss on the frilly lid-cover just for spite.
*Why does ANY woman find John Kerry attractive? That guy repluses me.
*I am SHORT. I stand 5' 8" tall. I am NOT "vertically challenged," nor am I claiming to be a member of a victim group. I'm just SHORT. I know it, you'll know it if you meet me, so why say anything different? Calling my height something else isn't going to make me any taller. Cut that shit out. I don't see anything wrong with the words "crippled," "retarded," or "old," either.
*WHY do people think posting pictures of cats is a "cute" thing to do? The only good cat picture I ever saw on a blog showed one dead on the side of the road with a "FREE CAT" sign stuck in the ground next to the corpse. I stole that one. Otherise, I HATE cat-blogging.
*What's with the "F**k" and "A$$" things some people do on blogs? If you're gonna cuss, then CUSS, by-damn. If you ain't gonna cuss, then don't. Just stop acting like your mama is watching every fucking thing you do and you're trying to avoid her disapproval.
*Stop making fun of the picture on my page because I'm not wearing a shirt. That's the way I look most of the time. I don't wear any clothes AT ALL unless I absolutely have to.
*I think I own a tie, but I don't know where it is. I hope I never find it, either. I damn sure never intend to wear one again. A necktie is an abomination almost as bad as a woman's girdle. Okay, a girdle is worse, but you get my drift.
*Screaming, crying, wailing kids should be tranferred to the cargo hold of an airplane immediately after take-off and not released from there until the plane lands. Parents who RAISE screaming, crying, wailing kids and don't know how to shut them up should be jettisoned from the aircraft at an altitude of no lower than 20,000 feet.
*I don't want to be President of the United States, but I should be.
June 08, 2007
Originally published December 3, 2004
Okay, he has a cold. Big fucking deal. I think I caught one on my various airplane rides yesterday and I am a walking bag of cloggy snot today. It's just a good thing that I managed to smuggle all of that dope out of Costa Rica to ease my misery.
I decided to make a medicinal soup out of the dead hooker's head.
Jim lists 20 things that he WANTS to do before he dies. A bad cold will make you go existential and start thinking about death, but I prefer to go the OTHER WAY when I'm feeling badly. Here are 20 things that I HAVE DONE, and I hope to do again some day:
1) I kissed Donna Douglas (Ellie Mae Clampett).
2) I finished writing a novel. The book sucked, but at least I finished it.
3) I've pegged the speedometer on three different vehicles I owned.
4) I survived a terrible car wreck with only a concussion and a cut on my nose to show for it. We totalled a brand-new Chrystler LeBaron in a high-speed T-bone crash. Wow! How the driver and I both walked away from that wreck with only minor injuries is still amazing to me. I've believed in the value of seat belts ever since.
5) I've seen a lot of my writing published.
6) I once fought the baddest ass in school when I was in 10th grade. I got in one good lick and knocked out his two front teeth before he beat the shit out of me in that fight. I did the right thing that day. I never had to fight him again. In fact, I never had to fight ANYBODY for a couple of years after that incident.
7) I've made love slept with more than 100 wimmen in my life.
8) My friends don't know, but the three of us were invited to a fraternity party when we started college. The brothers had beer, a stripper and lots of good party atmosphere at their place. During the evening, I was dragged aside and told, "We want YOU in the fraternity. But your friends... well, they just aren't Pike material." I told that bastard that I pick my own friends. If THEY weren't good enough for the stupid club, then neither was I. I left that night telling both of my friends that WE didn't make the cut.
9) I've been to several nudist resorts. I like walking around with no clothes on.
10) I kissed Barbra Eden, too. (I dream of Jeanie)
11) I've played guitar with John Prine, Davis Causey, Mike Cross and The Zombies. I also jammed with Gove Scrivenor and Gamble Rogers. I am proud of that.
12) I've had sex with two wimmen at one time. Several times.
13) I once left Atlanta headed for Athens and I ended up in Chatanooga with $5 in my pocket and almost no gas in my car. I ended up staying three days in Chatanooga. I make friends easily.
14) I shook Jimmy Carter's hand when he was President of the United States. I never voted for the grinning bastard, but I think shaking a President's hand is a memorable experience.
15) I survived the same cancer that killed my best friend and my father.
16) I started blogging. I've made both enemies and friends from my blog, and I like the friends enough to tolerate the enemies. I don't really give a shit whether you like me or not.
17) I was voted "Most Talented Boy" in my high-school graduation class. 400 people, but they knew talent when they saw it.
18) I have NEVER done something for money that I didn't believe in doing anyway.
19) I have a large and powerful ego. That's not a character flaw---that's an asset. You've gotta have a cast-iron ass to do some of the things I've done in my life. I wouldn't have it otherwise. If I piss people off along the way, so be it. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.
20) My autobiography would be a fascinating read.
That's MY 20 things to think about today.
Showing my age
Originally published December 6, 2004
I don't watch much television anymore, but I watched a lot when I was younger. Here is a list of my all-time favorite television shows:
1) Best Western-- "Gunsmoke," without a doubt. Good writing, good acting and unforgetable characters. Matt Dillon will ALWAYS be a Tall Dog in my mind.
2) Best Comedy-- "All in the Family." This choice was tough, but that show was a trailblazer and it changed the face of television while being absolutely hilarious at the same time. But even back then I knew that I would rather live next door to Archie and Edith than The Meathead and screechy Gloria.
3) Best Drama-- "The Fugitive." I LOVED that show. I can still quote the opening: "The man... Richard Kimble. Destination... Death Row, State Prison... the irony... Richard Kimble is innocent." Just damn!
4) Best Science Fiction-- "Star Trek." That was the first science fiction show that didn't feature bug-eyed monsters and ridiculous scenarios as a staple for every plot. It was legitimate SCIENCE fiction. Remember communicators, tricorders and that neat medical table that ran a full body-scan? We have every one of those things now.
5) Best Mystery-- "Perry Mason." Perry never lost a case and the trial ALWAYS ended up with the TRUE guilty person spilling their guts in court, but I enjoyed the show and I had the hots for Della Reese.
6) Best Police Show-- "Dragnet." Say what you will, but that rapid-fire dialogue, the EXCELLENT stone-faced acting and the documentary style made that show great. Just the facts, ma'am.
7) Best Kid's Show-- "Captain Kangaroo." Fuck Mr. Rogers, Barney, the Telletubbies or any of that other pap kids get fed via the tube today. The only other show that ever came close to The Captain was "Pee-Wee's Playhouse," and Paul Rubens screwed that up by getting caught with his personal "pee-wee" in his hand in a porno theater. I thought that was a shame.
8) Best Cartoon-- "The Road Runner." Wile E. Coyote still remains my favorite cartoon character of all time. I never understood why he could afford all his expensive bird-catching hardware from the Acme Company, yet never placed an order with some freeze-dried, ready-to-eat, boneless Road Runner outlet. He could have saved a lot of money and gained weight if he only shopped better. (Honorable mention goes to Bugs Bunny, who remains the quintessential American--- smart-mouthed, cocky and always a winner.)
9) Best Variety Show-- "The Smothers Brothers." If you don't know why I picked that one, I would be wasting my time trying to explain. Maybe you had to be a teenager in the late 60s to understand.
10) Best Show Ever-- "The Twilight Zone." I still watch the reruns every chance I get, although I think I've seen every episode ever made at least a dozen times. Many other shows later tried to copy the format, but they never managed to pull off the trick. Best damn writing of any show EVER.
Hmmm... I don't think I picked a single show that's not a golden oldie. I'm not surprised, because that's how I think of myself today.
I am a golden oldie.
A car wreck
Originally published December 6, 2004
On the way to a backpacking trip, I was passed out taking a snooze in the back seat. We didn't leave Savannah until almost 3:00 in the morning, after I got off work playing guitar all night long. We were drinking beer and absorbing illegal smiles until we were well into South Carolina. I decided to take a power nap while Steve drove. We had a long way to go to reach the Cantrell Creek Trail in Pisgah National Forest.
I awoke from my slumber when I was bounced off the ceiling of the car and tossed head-over-heels onto the floorboard, where I rattled around amongst empty beer cans while I waited to die an ignominious death as the car went thumping and bumping down the shoulder of the road. I didn't know what the fuck was happening.
"Got-DAM!!!" shouted Cop III. "That crazy bastard HIT US!"
Sure enough. Right there in the middle of nowhere, in absolute darkness, on a long, straight South Carolina road, some idiot coming at us, the only other car we had seen for about an hour, swerved into our lane and tried to get us head-on. If Steve hadn't been alert and dodged most of the impact, we all would have been a small story in the newspaper about four people dead on the highway. It was still one hell of a lick.
"Rob! Rob!! Are you all right!??" shouted Steve, as he leaned over the driver's seat and grabbed my arm.
"I'll be okay if you'll get your fucking hands off me," I replied, crawling up from the floor. I stunk of stale beer and I felt as if I had just been bitch-slapped by Mike Tyson, but I didn't think I was hurt badly. "What the hell happened, anyway?" I asked. Steve and Cop III told me.
The other car was still in the road with the motor running. My immediate thought was, "Don't let that person get away." I got out of our car and went to check on the other driver and get the license number if nothing else.
Oh, Bejus! The "bastard" that hit us was an attractive young woman, obviously as drunk as a worm. She was sprawled in the driver's seat and mumbling, "Ohhh..no....Oh....Nooooo.... I have fucked-up again." The reek of sour mash whiskey wafted from her like a visible vapor.
I didn't see anything obviously wrong with her, except for extreme inebriation, so I asked her, "Are you all right?" About that time, an 18-wheel truck came screaming down the road at about 90 miles an hour and gave me a blast of his air-horn as he dodged that car in his path. Bejus, again!
I reached inside the car and switched the engine off. It was an automatic transmission, so I put the shift in neutral. "C'mon, guys! Help me push this car out of the road before somebody, maybe ME, gets killed!" Steve ran to help, but Cop III went into full lawyer mode.
"I don't think we should move anything. Right now, it's her word against ours about what happened. She could be the governor's daughter for all we know. If that's the case, we're in deep shit here. I say get rid of the empty beer cans and call the police before she sobers up."
This happened in the days before cell phones. We had no way to call the police.
I saw another 18-wheeler coming down the road. I thunk a brilliant thought. I'll get HIM to stop and he can use his CB radio to call the police. I stood in the road and attempted to flag him down. The sumbitch never even slowed down, almost ran over me and left a screaming air-horn blast in his wake. Steve and I pushed the offending car out of the road after that incident.
"Rob, think about it," Steve suggested. "If you were a trucker, would YOU stop out here in this god-forsaken place after seeing US?" I had to admit that he had a point there.
Cop III got rid of all the empty beer cans, Steve made sure that the dingbat saying, "Ohhh...Nooo..." in the other car didn't die, and I went to look for a telephone. I figured that I could find a farmhouse somewhere around there, because I saw lights in the distance. I took off walking.
The first place I saw had about 100 yards of curving driveway leading to the front door. I started down the driveway, but quickly changed my mind when a dozen or so slavering dogs appeared out of nowhere to menace me physically. They barked their asses off and scared the shit out of me. I put that house on my "Do NOT visit" list and walked farther down the road.
The second one I saw still had a porchlight burning, and I wasn't attacked by packs of protective dogs when I approached. I had a game plan. I would knock on the door, stand well back under the porchlight, and tell the gentleman of the house that we needed HIM to call the police. I wasn't going to ask to go inside, use his phone or any of that shit I had been taught NEVER to allow a stranger to do. I was gonna be polite.
I knocked on the door and took two steps back. I heard heavy footfalls inside the house; then, the door opened and I was looking down the barrel of a shotgun in a sturdy farmer's unflinching hand. I realized right then that he wasn't one bit afraid of my arrival--- but he surely put the fear of Winchester into ME.
"Sir," I said, trying to act as cool and unoffensive as possible, "we've had a car wreck about two miles down the highway. I think a girl may be hurt. Could you call the police for me?"
"Don't got no phone," he replied, but he took his finger off the trigger of the shotgun. "Got a CB radio. I can probably get the Sheriff that way."
"Sir, I'd appreciate it if you would. I think that girl might need some help. Will you make that call?" I started backing off his front porch.
"Okay. I'll do her."
I walked back to the scene of the crime and told Steve and Cop III that I thought I had help on the way. Boy, did I. Within 30 minutes, half the pickup trucks in that county showed up to view the calamity. That farmer I woke from honest slumber showed up, too, after calling all his neighbors on the CB. In a procession line, they all went to the car that hit us, examined the drunken twat inside, and then moseyed over to look at OUR car, as Steve and I were busy with a lug wrench, trying to pry the left-rear quarter-panel off the tire on that side. Steve's car was kinda fucked-up from the collision.
Finally, a State Patrolman arrived on the scene about two hours later. He pulled up with lights flashing, climbed out of his unit with the quiet creak of leather and authority, and approached the offending vehicle. He took one look inside and said, "Angela, are you all right?"
Cop III said, "Jesus Christ! He KNOWS HER! We're fucked. I just KNOW we're fucked! Look around. We're in Deliverance country here! That's probably HIS goddam daughter. We're fucked."
It turned out that we weren't fucked. Angela was well-known in those parts for pulling similar stunts before. The State Patrolman actually apologized for our inconvenience after he issued several tickets to Angela, loaded her into his cruiser and called for a tow-truck on his radio to impound her car. With all the excitement over, all the pickup trucks headed back home.
By then, Steve and I had our vehicle operable again, so we headed off to finish the backpacking trip we started. We did that, too. Angela's insurance paid to get Steve's car repaired, so that story had a happy ending.
I'd have a heart attack if something like that happened to me today. Plus, I don't believe that I can walk there and back anymore as far as I did that night.
Young, dumb and full of cum. You can't beat it.
June 07, 2007
Originally published February 11, 2005
I don't admire many people in this world. In fact, you gotta show me some serious wherewithall to even earn my RESPECT, let alone my admiration. But I'll tell you how to do that.
*Display courage. I'm not talking about crazy-assed, attack that hill, show veins in your teeth, John Wayne bullshit. Being fearless is different from being courageous. A courageous person feels fear, tingles with it and overcomes that feeling because he is determined to do the right thing. THAT'S the person who will stand when everybody else kneels or who will NOT sacrifice a belief for political correctness or personal safety. That's a Tall Dog.
*Be honest. Even when the truth hurts, tell it, straight-up. Lies are easy. That's the refuge of a coward. I still believe that a man's word is his bond and I don't need no goddam lawyer to tell me who I can trust. If you make a deal with an honest person, you don't need a signed contract. A handshake is good enough.
*Be willin'. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Back it up with spine. Face trouble head-on and and don't try to weasel yourself out of it if things start going badly. Win the fight, or go down fighting.
*Walk Tall. I am a small man, but size doesn't matter when you walk tall. It's an attitude that comes from everything I posted above. I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees and I've never asked for a hand-out in my life. I never will, either. If I can't get it on my own, I don't deserve it.
*Don't Quit. There's a big difference between losing and being whipped. You may lose a lot in life, but never let ANYTHING whip you.
*Take no shit. Look around this country today. Is it just ME seeing flashbacks from the the drugs I ingested in the 60s, or are we becoming a nation of sheeple, who don't know how to stand up and say, "I'm not gonna take this crap!" Got-Dam!!! If enough people grew a set of balls and yelled "WE ain't gonna take this crap!" the crap would go away. The only way that crap gets served to you is because you don't bitch about it. If you eat it, you deserve the meal you get.
That's MY humble opinion, which is why I admire Teddy Roosevelt.
The war on drugs
Originally published February 18, 2005
Back when I was in college, I could buy a pound of marijuana for $90. I sold enough to friends to pay off my investment and kept the rest to smoke myself. I liked smoking pot back then.
Now, a pound of marijuana costs between $800 and $1200 and it's a LOT more potent than it once was. Guess what? I can still go buy it today if I want to.
I don't know who the hell I would sell it to, because all my friends kinda did like I did--- we just stopped smoking the stuff. But it's still out there. That's what the WAR ON DRUGS acomplished in that realm, which is not a fucking thing, except to drive up the price and make dealing drugs more lucrative than ever.
We've clogged a lot of jails with people who don't belong there and gone from cocaine to crack in the ghettos, because crack is easier to sell and can be doctored by a lot of nasty shit to make that pretty rock. When people were selling pure cocaine, we were better off.
We've corrupted people from the highest levels of law enforcement because of the money just LAYING THERE to be had in the illegal drug trade.
And we've produced doctors who won't prescribe pain killers to terminal cancer patients who NEED THEM, because the feds may be all over their asses for being "pill doctors."
Good job, drug warriors. You took a simple problem and made it worse than it ever was before you decided to "fix" it.
Originally published March 1, 2005
Do you shop for name brands, or just buy the cheapest shit you can find? I think that's a good question because I do a little of both. But my tastes are peculiar.
I smoke cigarettes and I buy Marlboro Menthol Light 100s. I'll settle for Dorals on occasion, but very rarely. I don't know why I prefer one cigarette over another because half the ones I light just burn up in the ashtray while I type. But I'll drive out of my way to buy a carton of Marlboros.
I like Bass Ale and Burnett's citrus-flavored vodka. Not TOGETHER, but separately. I can't think of a single "commercial" American beer that isn't anything but possum piss and when they make it "lite" on top of that, it's a waste of perfectly good kidneys to drink it. Now people are drinking "ultra-lite" beer because they're watching their carbs. My aching ass.
I buy Charmin Ultra toilet paper. I don't give a damn about a lot of things in life, but I like to wipe my ass with nice toilet paper. That stuff is good. I buy it by the bale and it lasts me a long time as long as I don't have a woman around. A damn woman will use half a roll of triple-thick, super-soft Charmin just to daub her pussy after an ultra-light beer piss. I don't understand that.
I like genuine Blue Plate mayonnaise. I won't buy anything else. And I LIKE mayonnaise.
Other than that, I pretty much go for whatever is on sale. I don't see a lot of difference between generic brands and top-o-the-line stuff when it comes to canned food, except for the price. Orida makes the best frozen french fries, but they aren't worth a dollar more than the Kroger brand for a bag. And I can't tell any difference between genuine Listerine and the "antiseptic mouth wash" that looks just like Listerine, TASTES just like Listerine and sells for $2.00 less for the same goddam bottle without the Listerine name on it.
My first wife SWORE that she could tell the difference between LeSeur canned green peas and anything else on the shelf. Maybe she could, but I couldn't. Canned green peas aren't exactly gourmet food. I ain't paying 25 cents more per can just so I can say we have LeSeur peas in the house.
Canned tuna? I like to eat it, but I can't tell Chicken o' the Sea from the generic store-brand. I buy whatever costs less. I like Hormel canned chili better than any other, but I'll buy Castlebury's, Dinty Moore or whatever store brand costs the least when I load my larder. After all--- it's only canned chili.
How do YOU shop? Do you have favorite name-brands, or do you just buy the cheap shit that'll pack your gut just as well for less money?
(UPDATE: I forgot one thing. I will not buy any other dill pickles than Claussins. That's the best fricking dill pickle in the world, hands down. Whether you like them whole, sliced, Kosher or any other way, they are the best! That's one piece of grocery shopping where I will not sacrifice quality for cost.)
June 06, 2007
Crusty old bastard
Originally published December 5, 2004
I have lived more than half a century. I believe that my senority gives me certain privileges that I enjoy exercising. Here are a few.
* I don't drink bottled water. The best water I ever tasted came from an artesian well, through a rusty pipe in a ditch by the Bartlett Junior High School football field. I drank gallons of that stuff, and it was GREAT!
* I've never had a cup of Starbuck's coffee. Don't want one, either.
* Diet Coke tastes like chalk-filled shit to me. I won't drink it and I don't like those pretentious pansies who do. I don't want ANYTHING "diet," "sodium-free" or "low-carb."
* I've never watched an episode of "CSI" or "The West Wing." I probably never will. I don't watch much TV.
* I'd have to get some serious booze in me before I found Julia Roberts attractive. Pretty Woman? Give me a break. I've seen rag dolls that were better looking.
* If Brad Pitt is a heart-throb, then most wimmen are closet lesbians. He's more feminine than Julia Roberts is.
* I don't brake for animals, especially not squirrels, cats or armadillos. I've left my share of road-kill along the highway as a result, but I don't care. The stupid bastards should have stayed out of the road. Besides... buzzards need to eat, too.
* I won't buy ANYTHING with an "organic" label on it. What a brain-fart idea "organic" farming is. Check out a rice patty in China that's floating knee-deep in shit. THAT'S organic farming.
* I believe that "You Are My Sunshine" is a beautiful song. I love to play it on my autoharp, and the harmonies can be great. So simple, yet so RIGHT! A commenter on this blog also told me that "The Yellow Rose of Texas" was written about a mixed-blood prostitute in some cowtown whorehouse. Yeah... a high yellow woman. That information gave me a whole new appreciation of the song.
* I think the "designated hitter" should be banned from baseball. Having the pitcher hit is a vital part of the game.
* When I played football, I would have taken steriods if I knew what they were and how to get them back then. I wanted to gain weight and become stronger. Anybody surprised by athletes who DO take performance-enhancing drugs never played ball.
* I don't believe that there IS a "woman of my dreams" out there, and I've stopped looking for her. Previous searches have been very disheartening and very expensive. I could rent one hell of a string of whores for the money my two ex-wives squeezed from me. And I'm STILL paying that bill.
* Cigarettes are filthy, smelly, unhealthy and deadly. I love 'em. I'll smoke until the day I die, if I get that chance. I just wish the anti-smoking Gestapo would be honest about what they're doing. Stop "blowing smoke" about the deadly effects of second-hand smoke and just ADMIT that you don't like cigarettes because... YOU DON'T LIKE SMOKE, PERIOD!!! Then pass your stupid laws.
* I dreamed that I played basketball with Michael Jordan last night. I was proud, and I remember thinking in the locker room after the game, when Mike shook my hand, "I have played with THE VERY BEST, and I didn't embarrass myself." I regretted waking up from that one.
* When I start dreaming about Michael Jackson, someone drag me off and shoot me.
My son's first haircut
Originally published January 5, 2005
From The Effingham County Herald on July 31, 1996.
My son got his first haircut yesterday.
Okay, it wasn't his FIRST haircut, because I have attacked his flowing locks on several occasions with clippers, snippers, cutters and whackers of various kinds, just to stave off his growing resemblance to Cousin Itt from "The Addams Family." I thought I did a pretty good job, but after my last effort, my darling wife suggested--- nay, INSISTED--- that my son was in desperate need of professional handling in the future.
Heck, I was proud of everything I had done. Quinton still had both ears, both eyes, his nose and all ten fingers after my tonsorial efforts. He might have looked a little ragged, but he was okay. In fact, he LIKED having me cut his hair.
I had three factors operating in my favor. First, my boy trusts me and he will sit perfectly still while I do all kinds of things around his head and face, no matter how frightening a mature adult might find my actions to be. Of course, Quinton is two years old and is easily convinced that Daddy knows what he's doing even when Daddy doesn't.
Second, he is MY SON and I can cut his hair if I want to. If I tell him, "C'mere," he comes. He knows who is the Tall Dog around the house. He grasped that concept of "he's bigger than I am" early in life. He understands because we've done some serious male bonding on this subject while his mother was away.
Third, my boy can sit in his own chair to have his hair cut at home. He likes that. Being a very perceptive, intelligent little man, he realized a long time ago that anytime grownups insist that he sit somewhere he wouldn't choose to sit on his own, bad things happen. He associates being MADE to sit somewhere with getting shots in the doctor's office.
That's why he won't sit on his potty-chair, on Santa's lap at the mall or any other place not of his own choosing. He is a smart boy.
That's why he didn't like the barber shop. My hormone-riddled teenage daughter had her hair cut first, just to show Quinton how easy and pleasant the experience would be. He watched, fascinated, while he munched candy, which is a standard tranquilizer dispensed to two year-olds in barber shops because the employees of the shop cannot prescribe stronger drugs.
My boy was fine watching my daughter. Then, it was his turn in the chair.
If you are of a poetic nature, listen to the wind in the trees tonight. If you hear a faint, keening, death-wail among the rustling leaves, that's simply the last of my son's screams being shaken from where they stuck like shards of broken glass, sent forth in all directions.
If the level in rivers and streams across the country seem higher now, it's not from recent rain. My son's tears flowed in such profusion that no levee on the banks of the mighty Mississippi could have withstood the flood. Heartbroken and pained, I watched the episode and cursed myself for not bringing the roll of immobilization duct tape I bought just for this occasion.
My son ended up with a fine haircut. I believe that the barber is in therapy.
When the ordeal was over, we fed the boy pizza, his favorite food. I asked him if he liked his haircut and he stopped eating.
"No!" he said. "Daddy do it next time." I didn't tell him the unpleasant truth.
I'm afraid that those days are over, son.
(Heh. Read this story, too. Some things never change.)
The wrong kind of people
Originally published September 24, 2004
I'm going to confess another deep, dark secret about myself on this blog: I tend to hang around the wrong kind of people. My friends, in the blogosphere and outside of it, are ALL crazy to a certain extent. Most of them are Woodstock generation people--- we grew up in rebellious times and never excised the "FUCK YOU!" worm that infested us back then.
We smoked a lot of dope. We did drugs. We had body-wads and cluster-fucks when the motto was, "if it feels good, do it." We did. At least I did.
Most of us settled down (the ones who didn't die), got good jobs, bought houses, raised children and joined the mainstream. But that's all fake. Deep inside, we're ALL still crazy; we're just too old to act out the way we did before. We have too many responsibilities to live free the way we once did.
When I play guitar with my friends that I've known since my first days on River Street, it never fails. In between songs somebody will say, "Do you remember when we..." and a wonderful story will unfold from there. We all laugh and elaborate on it, because those are fond memories. But I can see in everybody's eye the same feeling I have in my heart.
We want to go back and do it again.
I do. That's what I get for hanging around the wrong kind of people.
June 05, 2007
The great fly ball
Originally published September 3, 2004
I was about Quinton's age and playing center field for the Rotary Club little league baseball team. We played The Optimists, and they had a hitter that I went to school with. His name was David Ring and he was as big as a house.
David could knock a baseball flat on one side when he was six years old. By the time of that game, he had four years of practice to improve his slugging skills. If he caught a pitch just right, he was gonna sail that ball a long way. We all backed up in the outfield.
We had a good pitcher. I was the #2 catcher on the team, so I knew what kind of stuff our guy had. He could throw one hell of a fastball. He could damn near put a hole in your hand when you caught him. I KNEW that fact from experience.
But he hung one in the wheelhouse for David that day. I saw the ball come off the bat and I knew that it was over my head. I took off running as fast as I could over that ragged ground of old Coke Field, just off President Street, where many a young man earned his spurs playing ball. I can still remember seeing that baseball hurling through a clear blue sky as I ran to catch it.
I reached out my glove and dived for the ball. There was no person more stunned than I was when I went rolling ass-over-tea-kettle and ended up with the ball in my glove. It was a spectacular catch. People applauded. I tried to act cool as I threw the ball back to the infield, but I hoped I didn't have to do that again.
I wasn't really THAT good, but I did it that time.
Originally published August 22, 2004
Yeah, I DID IT. I was young and dumb, full of cum, and I liked the way those things made me feel. They grow in cow pastures during the Southern summer and they spring up right out of cow turds after a good rain. You can recognize them by the purple band around the stem and the fact that they BRUISE purple if you squeeze the mushroom crest.
I've picked a 30-gallon garbage bag full of those things before.
We'd take 'em home (we were all crazy college students at the time. We didn't know which end was up.) and make a big pot of tea. Just wash the shit off the mushrooms, tie 'em up in a piece of panty hose (If you are in college now and DON'T have any panty hose around your room, you ain't enjoying college the way you should.) and boil it like you would a tea-bag.
Now comes the hard part. Remove mushrooms. Guess how potent the tea is. Cut it with sugar and Kool-Ade. Make several pitchers. Then... get a person that you KNOW is a complete dumbass stoner to try it first. You can watch him for 30 minutes and calculate how much of that crap YOU want to drink.
I haven't searched for mushrooms in more than 30 years now. I've helped farmers hang fence and I've toured many a cow pasture. I wasn't LOOKING for them at the time, but I believe that I could still spot one if I saw it. I simply have not seen a legitimate hallucengeic mushroom growing in a cow pasture for a long, long time.
Did the EPA get rid of them? Did the War On Drugs eliminate them? Where did they go?
Wherever it was, a part of my youth went with them.
Behind the curve
Originally published June 24, 2004
I know that I am WAAAY behind times with this post, but I've got to say something. I finally watched Bowling For Columbine today. I don't believe that I've seen a more manipulative piece of sheer propaganda in my life.
Michael Moore does three things really well with that move (besides pissing me off). First, he mixes just enough fact with his fiction to give it the ring of truth if you're not listening carefully. Second, he manages to hit every leftist, break-my-heart talking point he can cram into the film, even when the points don't have a damn thing to do with his subject. Last, his syrupy, unctious voice-over makes him sound like a truly caring, unbiased individual, when he obviously is NOT.
As nearly as I can tell after watching the film, gun violence in America is caused by our health care system, welfare reform, K-Mart and Charleton Heston. Too many blacks are shown being arrested on television, so whites in the USA are filled with fear and racism, which causes them to buy guns they don't really need. Canada is a wonderful country with free health care.
Just a couple of observations. Moore didn't buy a gun in Canada; he bought ammo, although you had to be watching closely to catch the sleight-of-hand. Everything else in that segment was structured to suggest that anybody can buy a gun in Canada just as easily as they can in the USA, but deaths by gunshot are lower in Canada than they are in the USA because Canadians aren't racist and they have free health care. ("I see black people everywhere here!" He interviewed two black people and both were visitors from Detriot.)
Moore says ethnic diversity has nothing to do with that difference because the population of Canada is "13% non-white," which makes them "just about the same as us." I believe that our "non-white" population, once we counts blacks, hispanics, Native Americans, eskimos and Asians is a lot higher than 13%.
He also never mentions the War On Drugs as a factor in gun deaths. Crack-heads, drug dealers and gang-bangers shoot each other all the time in the inner city. The War on Drugs is a BIG factor in creating that situation. There's lots of money in them thar drugs, and people are going to go after it, whether it's illegal or not. When you're operating outside the law anyway, what a few shootings among friends?
He made a real, leftist, puke-inducing point by bringing two Columbine survivors to K-Mart corporate headquarters, where they whined that K-Mart somehow was responsible for the school shootings because the store sold 9mm ammo. Yeah, right. If K-Mart didn't sell ammo, Columbine never would have happened. You can't buy it anywhere else.
I never realized this fact before: There is no real difference between taking a gun to school and blowing away your classmates than working at Lockheed-Martin making bombs.
And I LOVED the compassion and understanding Moore displayed when he set upon a victim of Alzheimer's like a greasy blob. Moore should be proud of that interview. He showed his true colors.
The guy is an asshole in every sense of the word and his piece of shit movie proves it.
June 04, 2007
A good whippin'
Originally published June 10, 2006
Did you ever have to go pick a switch off a willow tree and bring it back to your mama, your grandmother or your aunt, so that she could grab you by one arm and make you dance a circular jig while she laid welts all over you? Did you scream like a girl while that switch was tattooing your ass?
You never did that? Good. Neither did I. But I'll bet it hurt, even though that NEVER happened to ME.
I'll also bet that you never fucked up like THAT again, either, did ya? Once burnt, twice learnt.
I was an abused child.
Originally published June 10, 2006
I wanna update this post because I feel kinda guilty about writing it. Neither my mama, my grandmother nor my aunts EVER abused me when I was a child.
Oh, they TORE MY ASS UP frequently, using willow switches, wooden spoons, a Bo-Lo paddle, a belt or a bare hand, but they did it for my own good. I know that for a fact, because they TOLD ME SO, while they were beating the livin' shit outta me, as I danced a crying jig in a circle while being held by one arm.
Did YOUR folks ever say what I heard? "This hurts ME worse than it does YOU!"
I never yelled "BULLSHIT!" at the time, because I was smart enough to know NOT to pull that kinda smart-mouth if I ever wanted the whippin' to stop, but I damn sure THOUGHT IT a lot. I was the one getting welts like worms laid on ME. How the hell could that possibly hurt Mama worse than it did me?
She wasn't the one being held by one arm and dancing in a circle while getting hunks of hide tore offa HER bottom. But I remember her crying a few times when she spanked me.
Doing that really DID break her heart.
Looking back now, I had it coming. I richly deserved every spanking I ever got, and if the truth be told, I missed out on a lot of others that I SHOULD have gotten, but I wasn't caught doing the spank-worthy things I did.
It's tough being a good parent.
I don't do ceremony
Originally published June 10, 2006
Several blogs remain on my blogroll that I NEVER will visit again, for my own personal reasons. I didn't de-link them. I didn't do a ceremony telling people WHY they pissed me off.
I don't operate that way. But they DID piss me off--- not in a disagreement kinda way, but by being so offensive to MY non-delicate sensibliies that I want nothing to do with them EVER again. They were total assholes to ME.
But they're still on my roll. Read them if YOU want to. I won't. But if YOU do, that's okay. It will be one cold day in hell when I ever have anything to do with them again, but I'm not going to inflict my choice on you.
It oughta be a free world. Make your own choices.
I've made mine.
June 03, 2007
Originally published June 10, 2006
In the late 1970s, I was playing guitar for a living when the Shah was de-throned in Iran. A WHOLE BUNCH of Iranian students were attending college at that lower institution of higher learning called Savannah State College at the time. They hung out in the bars where I played and they did NOT want to go back "home."
In fact, a lot of 'em "married" American wimmen to KEEP from being sent back home. It was a fine deal for the wimmen. Get paid $10,000 for SAYING that you married somebody you never knew until he waved a checkbook under your nose. It wasn't like you actually had to fuck him. Just take the money and run.
I have to admit, being a heterosexual guy and all, that I woulda fucked some of those Iranian men for a lot less than $10,000 if I had a pussy. They weren't bad-lookin,' if you're into the dark-haired, swarthy kinda thing.
I knew MANY girls who did exactly that. In fact, a waitress at "Steak'n Ale" when I was playing there told me that she "married" THREE of them, at $10,000 a pop, just to keep them from being deported. I fucked her, but her "husbands" never did.
I've seen a lot of fire and rain in this world. I've seen what some people will do for money, and I've known some others who can't be bought. I HOPE I fit into the latter category, but I have trouble finding my center anymore.
It's just too damn easy and rewarding to sell out. I HOPE I never do it. But if I do, I hope that one of my very few good friends will have the compassion and mercy to do what needs to be done.
Drag me off and SHOOT me.
I learned it at school
Originally published June 2, 2006
When I first came to Savannah, I was a little, skinny kid who spoke with a terrible Kentucky-mountain, hillbilly accent. I was "different," and because of that fact, I was picked on a LOT. That's how I learned to fight with my fists.
It was either FIGHT NOW, or be picked on for the rest of my life. I chose door #1, because it was the less painful option in the long run. I decided to take my chances of an ass-whoopin' NOW as a trade-off to keep the rest of my life from being absolutely miserable. And guess what? When the bullies learned that I WOULD fight them, they started leaving me alone.
That's why I don't understand the thinking of the cut-and-run-from-Iraq assholery that leftoids are preaching now. They obviously did not grow up on the same school playgrounds that I did.
Human nature has NEVER changed, not a single time in 10,000 years of recorded history. If you don't believe that money, sex and power STILL motivate ALL of politics and almost all personal interaction today, you've been asleep under a rock for a long time. Or you're just a naive dreamer, who votes Democrat.
I learned when I was eight years old that giving in to a bully will guarantee that the bully terrorizes you every chance he gets for as long as he can. Fight him once, give a good account of yourself even if you lose the fight, and he will leave you alone and go pick on weaker prey after you show that you're willing to stand up to him.
We're now fighting a war against Islamic nut-balls terror waged by an enemy who is really nothing more than a crazed school-yard bully. The enemy expects us to cave and he's depending on his blustering, threatening bullydom to make us to do it, because he gets a lot of support from leftoids who never had a single playground fight in their pampered, titty-sucking lives.
Those cowardly wimps wouldn't stomp a palmetto bug on their own kitchen floor at 5:00 in the morning. They feel the bug's pain and express a lot of empathy for the bug. After all--- nasty-assed insects have just as much "right" to eat in my kitchen as I do, even if the bugs DON'T make my house payment every month. It's all about "fairness," or some similar kind of delusional crap that I don't understand.
But dream-riddled leftoids know how to win a war, which is by killing the enemy with kindness. Instead of bombs, we need to be launching COMPASSSION into Islamic strongholds. Send 'em daisy-cutters filled with REAL DAISYS and that'll bring 'em to their knees fast when we bomb the with flowers. Then, we can finish 'em off with a chorus of "Kum-bah-ya."
Every time the MSM starts whining about Vietnam or "quagmires" when they talk about Iraq, I see the schoolyard bully grin. He's winning without having to lift a hand when that shit happens. That's how bullies become successful bullies in the first place. It's INTIMIDATION that works for them.
They don't really want to fight. And they usually surround themselves with a few toadies who run around behind the scenes saying, "Oooh! You'd better not fuck with my master HIM, because he's reallyreallyreally BAD!!!"
Cowards listen to that crap. I never have and I never will. I KNOW better, from what I learned about bullies on school playgrounds.
Bejus! Can you imagine what the headlines would be TODAY, if we were dealing with WWII all over again? From the NYT: "Japanese Bomb Pearl Harbor!!! Some Say President at Fault!!!" Or... from the LA Times "Hitler--- Evil, or a Consequence of What We Deserve?"
Robert Fisk would have a field day reporting on THAT war. "I, MYSELF, toured Nazi Germany today, and there ARE no concentration camps and there IS no threat to the world here. The trains run on time. The mail is delivered every day. The German people are happy, healthy and not at all warlike. This country is a shining example of what government efficiency can do when handled by a great, compassionate man such as Adolph Hitler.
"Yes, some slogan-shouting patriots wearing swastica armbands and brown shirts beat the living shit out of me the other day, stole my clothes and threatened to shoot me in the street, but that happened because I represent all the evil of Western Civilization, except for the thriving, successful example of Nazi Germany. The very evil that these noble people are struggling to cast off, like the yoke upon a mindless yak's shoulders, put there by America and Europe, with their capitalistic fantasies of oppressive freedom, FORCED these peace-loving people into a war that they didn't really want.
"No, those weren't thugs and hooligans, sadists or monsters who attacked ME. Those were downtrodden, freedom-loving insurgents, displaying a sane, logical reaction to what I represent--- which is an Evil Empire of HAVES---supressing the HAVE-NOTS of this world.
"In fact, looking at the world from THEIR point of view, I really wanted to beat the shit out of MYSELF, because I deserved it."
Once upon a time, long, long ago, this country had balls. I'm talking about WAAAAY back at the beginning. We fought a rebellion against the most powerful nation on the face of the planet, and we won. We refused to pay tribute to lawless pirates when many in this country wanted to try to buy 'em off at the time. We won that battle, too.
The bloodiest war we EVER fought in our entire history was against EACH OTHER, circa 1861-1865. 600,000 dead men, all sacrificed to "preserve the Union," so that we could mutate into having spineless assholes such as Nancy Pelosi, Ted Kennedy and Trent Lott run our country today, as we pay about 60% of our incomes in taxes to feed the rapacious maw of government.... IF anybody still bothers to work at all.
Oh, yeah. That war "freed the slaves," too--- so that blacks could live in ghettos on welfare, hatch illegitimate children like chickens in a coop and slaughter each other by the dozens every weekend night, over dope deals gone bad or some kind of "disrespect" that one illiterate, degenerate thug gave another illiterate, degenerate thug, while rap music played on and on in the background.
Of course, GUNS are to blame for that problem. NOT government. And certainly not the PEOPLE actually wallowing in the illiterate, degenerate life-style of the ghetto, with all the futile fantasy, fucking and failure involved in breeding like rats, buying groceries with food stamps and spending $50 a day on Cash Three lotto tickets. Somehow, when government finishes spinning those FACTS, it's all MY FAULT for being born with white skin and not paying enough of MY money in taxes to help the "poor," who obviously cannot be expected to help themselves.
Oh... don't forget what a good job government is doing today with brainwashing our children public education. We have zero-tolerance for EVERYTHING anymore, including learning, unless it's politically-correct indoctrination.
I had one of the last BIG ARGUMENTS with my darling ex-wife after Quinton came home crying from school in the second grade because he was being "picked on" by a schoolyard bully. I told him to knock the living piss outta the guy, and I gave him a couple of boxing lessons to show him how to do it.
Jennifer almost shit her delicate, feminine panties when she saw what I was doing. Totally aghast, she said, "Rob, school isn't like it was when YOU went. If Quinton gets into a fight today, he'll be SUSPENDED, and probably expelled!"
I looked at her, and I looked at my son, who was afraid to go to school because of that bully. I said, "You speak as if that's a BAD thing..." but that's as far as I got. She did everything but jump up and down on my head and call me a dumbass cave-man for teaching my boy to fight. OhMyGawd!!! The RISK!!!
Whatever. Quinton went to school the next day and kicked the bully's ass. Quinton, despite being half the bully's size, beat that troglodyte like a drum, all over the playground. His teacher was glad to see it happen and she covered everything up.
Quinton never told his mama about doing that. But he told ME. "Daddy, I did what you said, and you were right. That guy didn't really want to fight. I don't think I have to worry about him any more." And he didn't, either.
But somehow... the war on terror is different from what I learned on the playground years ago. Somehow... we can TALK our way out of having to fight a bully today. And somehow... cutting and running is NOT the same thing as kissing the bully's ass and grovelling at his feet, because we're more enlightened than that. Somehow, cowardice is courage, or diplomacy is dignity, or compassion is whatever you wish for it to be... if you spin it the right way.
Bullshit. Sometimes, you've just GOTTA fight. And when you DO, you had better to it full-tilt-boogie with no holding back, especially when you're dealing with an enemy who doesn't understand or appreciate anything other than brute force. "Nuance" doesn't work on a mule, and it won't work on Islamo-fascists, either. Hit 'em hard, hit 'em often and make it hurt as much as you can.
That's how you fight a schoolyard bully. That's ALSO how you fight an alleged war on terror. Either go BIG, or go home.
And if you don't have the guts to do that, roll over and quit now. If that's what you're gonna do anyway, save everybody the trouble of watching you wring your hands and posture about it. Get the ugly over with right now. Give up. Cut and run. Kiss the bully's ass and call it a victory. Roll over on your back and piss straight up in the air. When the piss lands back in your face, call it rainfall and tell everybody that it tastes...sweet.
That's all it takes to "win" this war by leftoid standards. And we've got far too many people who want to "fight" it that way.
Deep thoughts on a shallow subject
Originally published June 15, 2006
Popeye. Think about it. The guy is a DRUGGIE!!! He's got a tattoo, but no teeth. He appears to keep his head shaved. He smokes a pipe. (Uh, huh!) He lusts after a walking toothpick (hmmm... crack addict, perhaps?) named Olive Oyl and he's always getting his ass whupped in fights with a bearded bully--- until he EATS A BUNCH OF GREEN LEAVES!!!. Then, he begins to hallucinate, grows muscles that have muscles, blows steam out of his pipe with a noise like a Mississippi riverboat, and kicks the bearded bully all the way to the moon. Strawberry Fields Forever.
Wile E. Coyote. Running capitalist dog. That clever hunter spent a gadzillion dollars ordering exotic crap from the Acme Got-It-All catalogue, REALLY cool stuff, like rocket skates, giant sling-shots or big boxes of dynamite, which always blew up in his face, threw him off a cliff, or dropped a big rock on his head. All to catch a scrawny bird that weighed maybe 4.5 ounces WITH the feathers still attached.
Gimme a break! The show never tells how the coyote became so wealthy. Do ya suppose he just might be "disabled?" A "victim" of ADD? Geting a government check in the mail every month? Or was his daddy a Kennedy and he's living an expensive lifestyle with inherited money?
Face it. Wile E. could have spent a FRACTION of that money he pissed away on Acme gadgets and bought himself a vibrating Barcolounger, a big-screen HDTV and had his meals catered, delivered still steaming, right to his cave. The message here? Beats me.
Porky Pig. Okay. We have a chubby, hairless, pink-skinned, walk-with-a-mince stutterer, who always gets fucked by a duck. The only thing missing from Porky Pig cartoons is the city of San Fransisco as his home. Porky was the boar-father of every gay pride parade ever held.
Bugs Bunny. Gawd, but I love Bugs. It's too bad that his character became politically-incorrect at least 10 years ago. Bugs was bold, brash, fearless, and he could think fast on his big, thumping feet. When things seemed darkest, Bugs would crunch a carrot, ask, "Nhaaa... what's up. Doc?" kick his enemy in the balls and escape while that yaddayaddayadda noise played along with the sound of his running footsteps. Bugs is the very antithesis of the modern, metro-sexual man of today. Bugs doesn't whine. He's not "sensitive." I don't believe he's very "tolerant" of assholes, either. I'm gonna mis him when he's gone.
Tweety-Bird. That's the only critter I've ever seen in my life that makes me root for the cat to kill it. I ain't very fond of Grandma, either.
Elmer Fudd. Bejus! I think everybody in this world either worked with a doofus like Elmer, or had one for an uncle that nobody in the family wanted to be around. The worst thing about cartoon Elmer is the fact that he carried a GUN a lot. Tell ME that's not a subliminal gun-control message! I like guns, but the thought of some idjit like ELMER having one gives me the galloping fantods. Elmer should sell his gun, move to San Fransisco and develop a domestic partnership with Porky Pig.
Yosemite Sam. Heh. What's NOT to like about HIM? Except for the fact that he can't shoot for shit--- otherwise Bugs Bunny woulda been dead years ago. I like Sam's attitude. I also like his moustache. And the fact that he's bow-legged kinda warms the hardened cockles of my crusty Cracker heart. Sam is the sort I wouldn't be surprised to see in Webb's Seed & Feed Store outside Springfield, Jawja some day.
The Tasmanian Devil. Reminds me of ME when I get pissed off. Reminds me even MORE of a divorce lawyer who tornadoed my Cracker ass. In fact, ole Taz reminds me of at least ONE of my ex-wives. I think I LOVE him, but I HATE him, too. The Tazmanian Devil may seem like a savage whirling dervish, but if you really think about it, Taz is a very complex character.
That's as deep as I go for now.
June 02, 2007
Why I blog
Originally published June 11, 2006
What gives you the opportunity to sit on your dead ass and talk to people from all over the world? Blogging does. I can't think of anything else.
I have some big ambitions that I doubt I'll ever fulfill. I want to make another cross-country driving trip, even though getting to the got-dam grocery store and back is a challenge to me now. I want to go to Australia, even though I think the airplane ride would KILL my bony ass today. Plus, if I ever got there, some deadly critter probably would bite me or sting me and give me an agonizing death.
I want to learn to scuba-dive and I want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane with a parachute strapped to my back, just to brag about doing it, if I survive. I want to bounce a grandchild on my knee, dote all over it like a real papaw and spoil the livin' shit out of that child.
I want to take a ride into outer space.
That crap may not happen to me, but I'll settle for second best. And that's blogging. People play half-rubber in Australia today because I sent 'em the rules. Sexy wimmen in Indonesia read me, and send me pictures of their red toenails. Pale, freckled redheads in Ireland visit my blog regularly. Gals AND guys.
Not bad for a Jawja Cracker.
Originally published June 9, 2006
Years ago, I got a call from a friend to alert me that someone we both knew had died. It was an odd revelation, because I once dated his wife back in high school. She gave me my first French kiss after a Junior High sock-hop, and I played football with her husband for eight years.
I went to the funeral.
After that somber occasion, Nancy asked me to come home with her. I did, thinking that a good friend might be able to console her after a traumatic life-experience. I ended up sleeping with her that night.
That's NOT what I was aiming for. Yeah, we had sex. But I held her all night long while she cried in her sleep and left salty trails all over my bare chest. She twisted and moaned, NOT from the touch of MY hand, but from what was running through her mind. I didn't sleep much that night. I just held her.
In the morning, she cooked me a good breakfast of scrambled eggs, grits and bacon. She wore a flannel housecoat, and as she walked by me once, I grabbed it and opened it up. Yep. She was nekkid underneath. That was a wonderful sight.
We dated for a while after that, but she eventually moved to California and went all crazy-liberal. She married a Chinese-American guy and lived happily ever after, I suppose, because I haven't heard from her in more than 10 years now.
Damn! Would YOU feel guilty for layin' the widow on the night of her husband's funeral?
I don't. MY mistake was lettin' that natural blonde girl get away when I had the chance to catch her.
Originally published June 9, 2006
I learn some really neat things from my comments. When someone threw the word "twatburger" in a comment on a post I wrote about boiled peanuts, I almost fell outta my chair.
"Twatburger." BWHAHAHAAAA!!! I think I heard that word years ago, but I had forgotten all about it. After reading that comment, I realized that I've eaten a LOT of those things over the years--- both the fresh, pink, delicious kind, AND the ones served up stale and moldy in Divorce Court.
To ME, a good twatburger is served raw, marinated in its own natural juices. You may have to crack it open a little with your fingers, but it's worth that modicum of effort for the sweet taste you get as a result.
I don't like the Organic Ones, with weeds growing all over. If I have to hack through that kind of underbrush with my TEETH, I end up with annoying pieces of thatch stuck all inside my mouth the next morning, and it's hell to get rid of that shit with floss and a toothbrush.
But I don't like the newborn-baby look, either. I'm NOT a child molester. Don't show me a bare twatburger with NO dressing on it and expect ME to eat it. Got-dam! If I wanted THAT, I would respond to one of those spam-things I receive regularly, advertising pre-school girls fucking barnyard animals. Sorry... but I'll pass on THAT.
A GOOD-LOOKIN' twatburger should have some decoration on it, kinda like a parsley sprig on a dish of rare steak. I wear a beard, but I keep it nicely trimmed. Wimmen should do the same thing.
It's all in the presentation, people!!! Show me a twatburger with a Van Dyke cut, that doesn't spray stray growth out from under the elastic of a bikini bottom, but still displays a sign of MATURITY underneath the bikini bottom, and I'll jump in there with...uh... lip-smacking gusto. (BOTH sets of lips--- mine AND hers)
But that shaved, totally nekkid thing? I'm sorry. YOU may think it's hygenic or sexy, but I DON'T. I prefer MY wimmen to LOOK like wimmen--- NOT like little girls.
Bejus! Writing this post made me hungry. For a good, old-fashioned TWATBURGER. Bring it to me on a plate in my bed, but hold the shaving cream.
June 01, 2007
Originally published April 2, 2006
The difference between wimmen and monkeys:
*Also, there was that story about the guy in California who communed with a bunch of chimps and tried to make them his pals. They rewarded him by biting off his fingers and tearing off his testicles. Women do the latter almost as a matter of policy, but they rarely bite off your fingers. You need fingers to make money. ---Steve H.
I wish I had written that.
*[Ed. Link borked.]
Originally published April 9, 2006
We must be running out of things to do "scientific" studies about. *here is one that blows the mind so much that the headline calls it "alarming."
Young men who are good-looking and know it are more likely to engage in risky sex than guys who have a less positive body image, according to a new study from researchers at Pennsylvania State University.
Bejus! That's a real eye-opener, isn't it? I haven't cracked a book, interviewed anybody or accepted a dime in federal grant money, but I have a few scientific conclusions of my own that I wish to announce. I'm sorry if my findings stun you, but science can be surprising sometimes.
* Fat, ugly guys get less pussy than good-looking men!!!! Yep. If you're a guy, you're more likely to get laid if you look like Adonis than you are if you resemble the Elephant Man. I can't explain the reason, which is why I need a LOT more federal grant money to conduct further research. And to pay plastic surgeons to make me look more like Adonis than the Elephant Man.
* Guys with lots of money get laid more frequently than unwashed homeless men do!!! Sad, but true. Cash attracts wimmen while rotten teeth, powerful body odor and dirty fingernails don't. It's the truth: money may not buy love, but you CAN use it to surround yourself with sexy, willing wimmen.
* Ugly people tend to have sex with other ugly people!! The fact has nothing to do with shared similarities, other than hideous looks. Ugly people fuck other ugly people because that's all they can get.
*Guys frequently give pet names to their dicks!!! (Ladies... meet Roscoe...) Wimmen don't do that. Or if they do, I never found any in MY scientific research. They may call their bearded clam a "coochie," a "thingy" or something equally as cute, but they don't bestow actual names on their nethers. Of course, I'm not sure how I would react to a woman who said, "Rob... meet BONE CRUSHER."
*Every guy is hung like a horse and can hump like John Henry drivin' steel! If you don't believe me, just ask THEM. You NEVER hear a guy admit, "I have a two-inch dick and I spurt on my second stroke." Nope. They all claim to be built like tripods and they swear that they are so adroit at ravishing that they can make a woman cum so intensely that she passes out and pisses the bed every time. Guys wouldn't lie about such a thing.
I need to publish these findings. Enquiring minds want to know.
Originally published April 4, 2006
I didn't sleep worth a shit last night. I don't know what caused it, but I suffered some of the worst belly pain that I've had since my surgery and the painkillers I took didn't touch it. The night is long when you spend most of it in misery, curled in a fetal position on your sofa.
I did manage to watch Florida crush UCLA in the National Championship basketball game, which was a weird experience for me because I rooted for the University of Florida. As a bleed-red-and-black Jawja Bulldawg, I hate Florida with a white-hot passion, but there's just NO WAY that I could pull for UCLA. Florida Gators may suck, but they don't suck as powerfully as a team from California does.
And I don't care if Joe-Kim Noah is one of the ugliest semi-white boys ever to walk the face of the planet. He played a damn good game last night. UCLA had their asses handed to them.
I've already started receiving medical bills from my hospital visit. The operation cost more than $18,000. That's just the beginning, because I haven't seen the tab for the hospital stay, the anesthesiologist, the ambulance ride or any of the other numerous entities I owe for saving my life. My half-assed Blue Cross medical insurance will pay as little as they can get away with, so I look forward to a lot of hassle with them over the next couple of months.
The bastards DID raise my insurance premiums by ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH, even though they haven't paid a dime of my bills yet. They didn't pay squat to Willingway, either. I ate that entire 38-day stay right out of my wallet, and let's just say that it wasn't cheap. Fuck me dead. If I were an illegal immigrant, I'd get all that shit for free.
I give up on my son. I've called him a dozen times lately, left messages on the answering machine and never received a word in reply. I haven't seen or talked to him since February. He's 12 years old. I've got to accept an unpleasant reality: If he wanted to talk to me, he would. Obviously, he doesn't. I guess he has decided to divorce me, too.
Even though I feel like warmed-over crap this morning, I'm going to do some more work in my yard. I finished with the garden yesterday, but when I bought the last of my plants, I also purchased six hummingbird feeders and I'm going to hang them today. I like watching those aggressive little bastards eat, fuck and fight. They are beautiful birds and very entertaining to boot.
I finally found some lantanas for my flower beds, too. I bought nine large pots of them and I plan on having the flowers in the ground before the week is out. Lantanas require very little maintenance, they stay in bloom for a long time and they are butterfly magnets. Plus, they spread like wildfire, all by themselves. They'll add some nice color to the front of the Crackerbox.
Gawd, but I hate to see myself in the mirror anymore. I could pass for anorexic. I believe that I've answered the Paul Simon question about "How many times you think you can run that body down?" because mine appears ready for the scrap pile after 54 years. Hell--- I've averaged one near-death experience per year since 2001 and I damn sure look like it, too.
That's fucking depressing. I used to be a hunk. Now, I resemble a matchstick man. I don't think the hunk is ever coming back, either. Every time I think I've made one step forward, I take two steps back. I ain't been right since the prostate cancer. I don't think I'll EVER be right again.
Sorry about the pissing and moaning, but I'm in a foul mood. It's just another day of the same old shit, and I'm getting mighty tired of it.
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