Gut Rumbles

April 30, 2008

Hello in there

Originally published June 2, 2004

I've never had to go through anything like this. I've had relatives die, but they never were any more demented than they were all of their lives when they finally kicked the bucket. I come from a crazy family, but we all have pretty good sense. Even my father, hooked up to a morphene pump and riding the clouds, still had his wits about him when he wasn't asleep, right up to the moment when all the monitors went flat-lined.

I don't know what I would do if something like Alzheimer's hit somebody that I truly loved. I've talked with many people who have weathered that storm and it isn't good. Your mama doesn't recognize you anymore. If someone isn't watching, she'll go shit in the closet because she thought it was a bathroom. Your father becomes angry and violent, but he doesn't know why. You look into their eyes, the eyes of the parents that raised you and gave you presents on Christmas morning, loved you with all their hearts and sent you out as best they could into the world, and nothing is there.

The lights are on, but nobody's home.

Bejus. I don't know how I would handle that situation. I don't know that I could. I can't help remembering a John Prine song:

You know that old trees just grow stronger
And old rivers grow wilder every day
But old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say
Hello in there.... Hello.

Say "Hello" every chance you get.

The lime

Originally published August 23, 2003

I took a big bite of lime off a Margarita when I was at Jekyll Island. The boys were drinking cherry Sprites at the tiki bar while taking a break from the water. They both made faces at me.

"Daddy, isn't that SOUR? Quinton asked.

"Yeah, it's sour," I replied. "But when I was your age, I used to peel a lemon and eat the whole thing at once. I would just pop the whole lemon in my mouth and chew. I could do it, but people puked watching me."

"I could do that with a lime," Quinton said. "So could I," promised Jack. They bugged me the rest of the stay to go to the grocery store and buy them a lime, but I never did.

Heh. They got their chances today. We went to the super Wal-Mart for necessary supplies, such as microwave popcorn and a new Playstation II game. I bought two limes while we were there. One for Quinton and one for Jack. When we got back home I peeled one.

"Okay, kiddo. Show me what you've got," I said, as I handed Quinton a peeled, juice-dripping fresh lime. He popped the entire fruit into his mouth and started to chew. He lasted two seconds.

He hit his knees, spit out the lime and made "ACK! ACK!" noises while tears ran down his tanned and freckled cheeks. The semi-masticated lime lay on the carpet between his legs while he seemed ready to die. Jack's eyes grew large. I almost choked myself to keep from laughing.

"Okay, Jack. You ready for yours?" I asked.

"No thank you, Mr. Rob. I'm not hungry right now," he said, while watching Quinton still making barf-noises and writhing on the floor at the time.

"Okay. Your loss is my gain." I peeled the second lime and popped it in my mouth whole. I chewed and grinned while the boys watched in amazement. The explosion on my tongue was wonderful enough to give me goosebumps. That was one juicy, toe-curling sour lime, and I enjoyed every bit of it with a straight face because the boys were watching. They were amazed.

"Ya'll are a couple of wussies." I told them. "I shoulda bought some more limes. I LIKE 'em."

They went off to try the new Playstation II game after that.

I'll bet that neither one EVER asks for a lime again.

Roger Miller

Originally published June 2, 2004

I picked up a guitar this afternoon and surprised myself by the number of really good Roger Miller songs I remember. Yeah, everybody knows "King of the Road" and "Can't Roller-Skate in a Buffalo Herd," but how about "Chug-a-Lug," "Kansas City Star" and "Dang Me?" Those are damned good songs. I sang 'em all today and I enjoyed the hell out of myself.

I even did "England Swings."

Roger Miller was an excellent songwriter and one of the best white-boy scat-singers of all time. (for those who don't know, singing "scat" is subsituting SOUNDS for words in the middle of a song. Just listen to Roger and you'll know what I mean. "Bweep-bweep-bweep-bweep-da-da-diddly-da dooo...")

He was one of a kind and he died far too young.


Originally published August 23, 2003

John Hawkins is a lot more restrained as a blogger than I am, but he got pissed off the other day. His target deserved the treatment he received, but I regret seeing it happen, because I happen to like michael fumento. He's done a lot of good myth-busting work and I enjoy his writing.

But he was way out of line in the pissing match he engaged in. HE'S A TALL DOG?

I won't go through the stats but I GET MORE TRAFFIC THAN FUMENTO DOES FOR AN ENTIRE DAY BY 6:00 IN THE MORNING. Shit. My Site Meter is open. Go check if you want verification. And NO newspapers publish what I write.

I don't like pompous asses. Fumento proved himself to be one and the choke-slam delivered by John was well-deserved.

Just damn. I hate it when my heroes have clay feet.

April 29, 2008


Originally published June 1, 2004

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I'm sleeping with the light on tonight.

This story does not give me gas

Originally published August 22, 2003

I cruised home on Wednesday evening and needed to buy gas, but I decided to wait and do it on the way to work the next morning. The station with the fast pumps was on the wrong side of the road. Gas was $1.49 per gallon at the time.

The next morning, when I stopped at the fast gas-pump store, I paid $1.56 for gas. The price of gas went up seven cents per gallon overnight.

It might get worse.

Dwindling supplies in the face of increased demand threaten to push pump prices over the national record set last mid-March, when markets were shaken by the prospects of a war with Iraq.

On Thursday, the markets "went ballistic," says Tom Kloza, chief oil analyst for the Oil Price Information Service in Lakewood, N.J. That means the highest pump prices ever seen are just a few days away.

When you pay the highest prices ever known for gas, just think about the caribou you are saving in the ANWR. YOU may be getting drilled in the wallet, but we're NOT drilling oil there. That's a wonderful thing, isn't it? Saving Gaia and all that horseshit? Aren't you a happy little environmentalist?

If you are, you can bite ME.

Be warned

Originally published August 23, 2003

I consider all emails I receive to be blog-fodder unless you specify that I DO NOT use them. I honor such requests, as a few people already know.

But if you send me a good 'un, and DON'T tell me not to, I'm going to throw it on the blog. I'm about to do so right now. The email I'm quoting is long and explicit, written by someone who knows what he's talking about. As someone who works for a company engaged in the oil and gas business, I can vouch for his veracity. I'm stealing only one part of a great letter.

I got into it shortly after 911 with some of my dearest dumbfuck environmentalist friends over drilling in ANWR.

Guess fuckin what, Gomer. I know all about drillin for oil, too.

Long ago (100 years or so), our ancestors would set up a primitive cable-tool rig somewhere in East Texas or Oklahoma, and by successively dropping a piece of iron attached to wire rope from above(like a piledriver), would eventually manage to drill a more-or-less vertically straight hole into some oil bearing formation near the surface of the land. Rotary drilling, or core drilling, involving rotating a piece of pipe with abrasive edges, was used for shallow holes and water wells. It's still used. Then some guy named Hughes cames up with dual cone and tricone rotary drill bits which would withstand tremendous pressures while pumping viscous fluids through them to remove the cuttings, and the modern oil industry was born (this, incidentally, is where the meganutcase Howard Hughes got his money).

In the early days, rotary drilling was used to drill vertical holes quickly in soft formations. If you could take an aerial reconnaissance of old oil wells in the Denver Julesburg Basin (or virtually any other basin drilled from 1900 through 1950), you would see a series of vertical wells drilled "on grid". The pumpjacks are all in straight lines, side by side, over hill and dale, for miles on end. This is the picture of oil production that the simple minded dumbfuck environmentalists cling to today.

Except that the technology has changed dramatically. Only an oil exploration and production executive is fucking stupid enough not to publisize the changes (with all due respect to my dear friends in the industry). Not that any dickfaced moron environmentalist is at all willing to listen (let alone understand).
Here's what happens, now, all you azzoles, so listen up.

A drilling company gets hired by a big oil company to put holes in the ground in some sort of godawfull location somewhere in bumfuck nowhere (where there are no dumbfuck enviros, and where the bureaucracies are designed to collect illicit cash, not elitist eastern U.S. politicians, but that's another story entirely). Holes are big and expensive, particularly in deep water, but also on land.

Now, they drill wells out in every direction from the same initial well. In the old days, they'd deviate a well with a contraption called a whipstock. Now they do it with downhole gyroscopes and advanced instrumentation. No more wells "on grid", mile after mile, side by each.

They set up in one location, the drill out everything in a six, or eight, or ten mile radius, at multiple depths.

It's damn near perfect. They comply with every environmental law. (No matter how silly or foolish).

And guess fuckin what, there are three or four hundred large surface mammals standing outside of every widely spaced production rig waiting for bored roughnecks to feed them.

That's more than all of the Massachusetts Liberals have ever done for all of the Artic mammals, ever, so they (the Libs) can go off somewhere and fuck themselves(literally).

-- Charles Gill

People, don't listen to environmentalists. They are Druid priests and witch doctors. They will LIE to you. The same technology Charles talks about was used to run a new Industrial Water Main down President Street in Savannah. The drilling company set up a rig at the west end of the road and "snaked" a 24" pipe for six miles, underground along the highway, without disrupting traffic or killing a single animal.

That's how we drill oil today. Too many ignorant dumbfucks don't know that. Out of 19 million acres, we need a space about the size of a Wal-Mart parking lot to drill the entire ANWR. The reason we don't laugh out loud at the idea of NOT drilling the ANWR is because a lot of ignorant dumbfucks are senators and congressmen deeply beholden to nutball environmentalists. And other ignorant dumbfucks listen to THEM.

Dragonfly Jenny listens to too much of that horseshit without knowing the facts.

I suggest that everyone go here and learn something.

Nice to know

Originally published June 1, 2004

I've read a lot about ME lately on certain other blogs. Some of it was quite flattering, but others seem to think that I make them feel dirty if they visit my blog. I checked out a few of those sanctimonious assholes and I came to this conclusion: Ya can't write, ya can't spell and your blog sucks.

There. Now you have a damn good reason not to read me. Wanna feel REALLY dirty?

Go fuck yourself.

April 28, 2008

My top ten

Originally published June 1, 2004

My ass is still chapped from watching that Top 100 Country Music Songs countdown last night. I totally disagree with the judges. If "Stand By Your Man" is the greatest country song of all time, I'm a got-dam brain surgeon. Here is MY Top 10:

10) "Blue Moon of Kentucky" by Bill Monroe, the Father of Bluegrass.

9) "I Walk The Line" by Johnny Cash.

8) "Help Me Make It Through The Night" by Kris Kristofferson.

7) "Orange Blossom Special" by any of dozens of people.

6) "Gentle On My Mind" by John Hartford.

5) "Mama Tried" by Merle Haggard.

4) "Faster Horses" by Tom T. Hall.

3) "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" by Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs.

2) "Crazy" by Patsy Cline.

1) "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" by Hank Williams.

I had to leave off a lot of really good songs, but that's my Top 10. I like my list a lot better than the one the judges chose last night.

Some things never change

Originally published June 1, 2004

I watched the movie Blackhawk Down! for about the fourth time today. I also read the book twice. Let's stop and think for a minute about what happened in Somalia.

We went in there with a multi-lateral bunch of United Nations "allies" who didn't do shit to help when we needed them. We also sent our troops into harm's way without the armor they needed for street fighting, because Bill Clinton didn't want to offend our "allies." Too much force displayed on the streets might piss somebody off.

As a result, 19 Americans died; then, we cut and ran like whipped dogs, even though our troops inflicted tremendous casualties on the Somali "insurgents."

Doesn't that remind you of some of the philosophy coming from the left-leaning, anti-war crowd today? Don't fight a war if we might piss off a country that doesn't make a pimple on a rat's ass. If we DO fight a war, let's not fight too hard, because we might piss off the country we're fighting against, or we might anger the French. Also, let's cut and run at the first opportunity, because war is a bad thing.

Thank Bejus these people weren't in charge during World War II. We'd all be goose-stepping and speaking either German or Japanese now.

Misogyeny? Who? Me?

Origianlly published August 22, 2003

I can't help it. This story reminds me of my bloodless cunt ex-wife. Wimmen do things like this. Regularly.

Kenneth Parker says he and his wife, Connie, always dreamed of winning the lottery — but when the couple finally hit a $25 million jackpot, the 77-year-old Long Island man found out his wife's dreams didn't include him.

Just months after their February lottery win, the 74-year-old woman booted him from their new condo in Melville, refused to give him any money, and cut off contact with him, he charged yesterday.

Hell, the guy is fortunate. His wife didn't move an unemployed, dope-smoking lover into his house after she kicked him out. Mine did. AFTER she took control of all the money without letting me know, of course.

"I feel betrayed," he said yesterday. "I couldn't believe she was doing this to me. I'm still bitter. I loved her."

"Betrayed... I couldn't believe... still bitter"...yeah, been there, done that. It hurts like hell, doesn't it? I'll never fully recover from the way my ex-wife treated me. Some scars never heal.

Connie Parker's lawyer later released a statement that called the husband's allegations a "mischaracterization" of the facts and said that her client was "anguished" by his allegations. But the lawyer would not address any specific claims.

"ANGUISHED?" Bloodless cunts have no feelings. I know that fact from first-hand experience. That's a goddam lawyer talking for a guilty client.

Soon, the neighbor — who didn't want his name in the newspaper — saw a woman moving alone into the home, leading him to wonder if Ken had died.

Told of the divorce, the neighbor said, "Women always have the upper hand."

Yeah, that's right. And the more bloodless they are the stronger hand they have.

Do a lot of people get these?

In my email:

Originally published August 23, 2003

Dear Webmaster,

I am writing you one-on-one to let you know that Exitfuel is now paying up to a $5.00 CPM when you allow us to show our pop-under advertisement to your visitors when they leave your site. I saw your site and noticed that it doesn't have our code on it. I'm wondering if your interested in monetizing your traffic.

Hell, I'm interested in "monetizing" almost anything. But I replied:

I don't blog for money and I HATE pop-up (or "pop under" ads). Thanks, but NO THANKS.

I'll stick with my day job

April 27, 2008

How low can you go?

Originally published June 1, 2004

Here is one reason that I hold the American legal system in contempt. "Post-traumatic Slave syndrome" caused that man to beat his two-year old son to death?

A Los Angeles native, DeGruy-Leary has been working on the theory for two decades and said she is still a year from publishing a book on it. She coined the name in her 2001 dissertation on African American male youth violence.

She said she thinks post traumatic slave syndrome can be proven scientifically once the politics of race are set aside and the white research establishment takes time to study it.

"It's not a conversation that America wants to have," DeGruy-Leary said. "It's so ugly; it's so blatant."

It's also complete bullshit.

I gotta comment on a comment

Originally published August 20, 2003

The lovely and talented, guest-blogging, pussy-shaving, headache of DOOM-ridden Shell left this comment about me buying popcorn from a couple of Boy Scouts yesterday.

They still let little kids go door to door? Good lord, we know YOU wouldn't hurt them, but what about all the other strangers they are running into?


Shell, one of the reasons I moved into the woods of Effingham County, Georgia, was to GET AWAY from the shit in the city. Yeah, that crap made me *shudder*, too. I wanted to raise Quinton in a place where he didn't have to be afraid of everybody around him. I wanted Quinton to have a childhood similar to mine. That goal is difficult to accomplish today.

But it can be done where I live. Those boy scouts were perfectly safe (as long as the storm didn't catch them outside, but even then some caring family probably invited them inside their home to drink cokes until the storm blew over. People do that where I live.) A pervert wouldn't last five minutes here in rural Georgia. If outraged neighbors didn't hang his ass from the nearest oak tree using somebody's anchor rope borrowed from the bass boat in the driveway, an outraged father would shoot him with the Mossberg shotgun he bought on sale at the Super Wal-Mart last Saturday. We Jawjans get real decisive in such situations.

And you'll never find 12 people in Effingham County to sit on a jury and convict someone who killed a pervert for molesting a child. Perverts know that fact, and they generally go be perverted somewhere else. I like life that way.

Shell, I love you darling, but you're comparing apples and oranges here. Kids still CAN sell door-to-door where I live. I ALWAYS buy from them, too.

And I love it.

People who don't live in a place like Effingham County, or my neighborhood for that matter, don't understand what I'm talking about. It is SAFE for children around here. It's a small-town place with a small-town mentality. We look out for the kids, get to know our neighbors and don't believe that Ward and June were idiots.

I wanna stand for nothing

Originally published August 20, 2003

I was raised in a coal mining camp and my daddy was a miner. I learned early in life that hard work was important and pride meant something. I was taught VALUES, and they weren't bad ones to grow up with. In fact, they've served me well my entire life.

Now, this bullshit is being spoon-fed to our children.

Last Friday, a federal judge issued a temporary injunction against a Colorado law that required public school students and their teachers to recite the 31-word Pledge, first adopted in 1892, in school.

U.S. District Judge Lewis Babcock said the law discriminates against teachers by allowing students to opt out with a note from their parents. Teachers cannot opt out.

If I have a teacher who wants to "opt out," I don't want that dumbfuck liberal twit teaching my son ANYTHING. Kiss my Cracker ass!!! If you want to "opt out" of allegiance to your country, you need to hop the next flight out of here. Otherwise, shut the fuck up. Don't you DARE try to brainwash my child with your idiotic ideas.

And any federal judge who makes such a brain-fart decision needs to be dragged off and shot. The man's mind is obviously mush.

Babcock also said the law pits students who choose to say the Pledge against those who do not, and students against teachers.

"What is instructional about that?" Babcock asked. "You can't compel a citizen of the United States to recite the Pledge of Allegiance."

Babcock, you are a royal asshole.

I agree that no one can FORCE anyone to recite the Pledge. Hell, if you are forced to say it, it's not a pledge to begin with. But we're dealing with TEACHERS and CHILDREN here. If I were a teacher, I would NOT inflict my political viewpoints on impressionable young minds when my primary job was to teach them to read and write. Kids can figure out their political viewpoints later. Just teach them to read and write first so that they can make INTELLIGENT decisions about what they believe when they grow up.

Ann Rosenblatt of Cherry Creek High School is one of nine students and teachers in Colorado who are challenging the law, with the help of the ACLU.

"I don't believe in pledging my allegiance to an inanimate object," Rosenblatt said.

Ann, you are as dumb as a red brick, you pompous little shit. I am certain that you have a bright future in the Peace Corps or as some kind of grievance councellor. But you'll never have a clue about the real world in your goddam life. I blame your teachers and your parents for your sublime gnorance.

I'll bet my next paycheck that you couldn't find Vietnam OR Iraq on a globe. You probably don't know when the Civil War was fought. But you've got grown-up political opinions that you barf up like vomit because you heard someone from the ACLU say something you really thought was coooool. Whoh, I am impressed by you! Fucking twit.

When you say the pledge, you ARE NOT swearing allegiance to an inanimate object. You are speaking to the ghosts of George Washington, Ben Franklin, Tom Paine, John Adams and a host of others who gave you the right to sit on your pity-pot and show your ass they way you're doing now. You don't pledge to a fucking FLAG, you dimwit!

You pledge to a country that is the greatest place in the world to live. You pledge NOT to a perfect country, but to one that is as close to it as you can find. You pledge in remberance of Abraham Lincoln and 600,000 dead Americans in the Civil War and all the slaves that were freed because of that sacrifice. You pledge for Sergeant York and Audie Murphy and all the American dead buried in foreign soil for the cause of freedom. You pledge for how fucking good you've got it, you ungrateful brat.

This display of egoism combined with sheer ignorance simply sickens me. I don't know who is more fucked-up, Judge Babcock or that confused girl.

Who cares? They are BOTH fucked-up.

Killer toads

Originally published June 1, 2004

Maybe I shouldn't have picked up that big, fat toad I saw on the street in Tamarindo, Costa Rica. It might have been one of these.

Can you imagine dropping dead on the street and having your grieving family ask, "How could this happen?"

"A killer toad got him. There was nothing we could do."


"A killer toad got him. I'm sorry, but it happens all the time."

"Rob was killed by a TOAD?"

"Yes. He never should have picked it up. But he died quickly and painlessly, except for getting pissed on by the toad as he was expiring. We have the toad in custody and it will face prosecution to the fullest extent of the law."

I think that Death By Killer Toad might be a good way to exit this world. That way, death could be just as ridiculous as life.

April 26, 2008

I call bullshit

Originally published June 1, 2004

Here are (allegedly) the top ten country music songs of all time:

10) "Mama's Don't Let Your Boys Grow Up To Be Cowboys" (Waylon and Willie)

9) "Behind Closed Doors" (Charlie Rich)

8) "Galveston" (Glenn Campbell)

7) "I Fall To Pieces" (Patsy Cline)

6) ""Friends in Low Places" (Garth Brooks)

5) "Your Cheating Heart" (Hank Williams)

4) "Ring of Fire" (Johnny Cash)

3) "Crazy" (Patsy Cline)

2) "He Stopped Loving Her Today" (George Jones)

1) "Stand By Your Man" (Tammy Wynette)

Bull-fucking-shit is all I have to say. "Help Me Make Through The Night" didn't make the top 100. Neither did "Gentle On My Mind." I still believe that "I Walk The Line" is the best song Johnny Cash ever recorded. Go through the grist-mill of divorce court the way I have and listen to "Stand By Your Man." You'll want to upchuck.

I don't know who picked that Top Ten, but I think they need to dig some serious wax out of their ears.

Non-musicians won't understand

Originally published June 1, 2004

Tonight, when I was watching that dumbass Greatest Country Songs countdown, they hit #3 and brought out some finalist from American Idol to sing "Crazy," which is my all-time favorite Patsy Cline song and the best thing Willie Nelson ever wrote in his life.

I sat on the floor totally unmoved by the performance. That woman hit all the notes and the band was good, but the song just didn't feel right. She sang "Crazy" as if she were happy to be on that stage. Patsy didn't do that. She broke your fucking heart when she sang that song. There wasn't a damned thing happy about it, and she let you know.

Why is it that some people FEEL music and other people don't? I'm talking about both listeners and players. How can a woman with a voice as beautiful as the one I heard sing tonight just totally butcher Patsy Cline? How could people not feel the difference between going through the motions and really FEELING the music?

I'll have to think about that question while I play my guitar.

I'm a sucker

Originally published August 19, 2003

If kids come by the Crackerbox selling something for their school, the Boy Scouts, the Girl Scouts or some class project, I always buy it whether I want it or not. Hell, with the way my yard looks, it takes courage to knock on my door and I admire the kids who wait until I put some pants on and go answer the bell.

That can take a while because I often don't recall where I left my pants.

These young panhandlers entreprenuers always get my business because I remember selling "The World's Finest Chocolate" door-to-door when I was a kid. I sold over 500 bars and finished THIRD at Bartlett Junior High School in the 1965 sellathon. A guy named Mike Ponder sold over 1,500 bars and won a throphy plus $25. I got a check for $5.00 and my picture in the school newspaper for my effort. I worked my ass off for that.

That experience showed me once and for all that I never wanted to be a salesman. I'm just not cut out for that kind of work.

But I buy whatever shit the kids are selling because I remember how many people told me "NO!" back when I was peddling door-to-door. My candy cost 25 cents per bar back then. I just bought TWO boxes of exotic popcorn that cost me $20 from a couple of Boy Scouts who managed to walk through the weeds, ring my doorbell and wait until I appeared with pants on. And I had to PAY THEM without seeing any popcorn.

They appeared to be honest young men, but I had to ask. "I'm supposed to give you $20 and you'll deliver my popcorn LATER?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Why should I trust you? How do I know that you won't take my $20 and run off and forget about me?"

They appeared confused for a moment, then the taller one spoke up. "It's Scout's Honor, sir," he said.

"All right," I replied. "I'm going to pay you boys cash money. I'm taking you at your word. You, the little one. Turn around and let me use your back." He did and he was my desk while I filled out the order form. When I was finished, I asked, "When do I get my popcorn?"

"As soon as WE get it, sir!"

"Okay. I'm trusting you guys. Don't let me down."

"WE WON'T!" they exclaimed, and walked off toward the next house. Five minutes later the sky dropped its bottom and a really nice squall blew over the neighborhood. It's raining cats and dogs as I write (keeping the August streak intact).

I hope those two Boy Scouts didn't get trapped outside in this crap.

Raining again

Originally published August 18, 2003

I believe that I've seen rain fall on the Crackerbox every day since sometime in the middle of July. I KNOW that it has rained every single day in August. It's raining again now.

My rain gauge has been full to overflowing for a while now. I stopped looking at it a long time ago. We're something like ten inches over normal for this time of year. Now the thunder is kicking up its heels and dancing with the lightning across the sky. I expect another violent storm this evening.

That southwest wind that's been coming in from the Gulf for two months now makes the days hot and humid. I mean REALLY hot and humid. Heat index 100 degrees plus. Then, when the sun starts down, Mother Nature throws a tantrum coupled with a hissy fit. I really wish I had planted a garden this year. I would NOT have needed to water it.

I'm going to pour a glass of wine and go sit in my garage. Things are looking very interesting outside.

April 25, 2008

Five questions

Originally published August 18, 2003

A lot of bloggers are going around interviewing each other with five silly questions. If you agree to be interviewed, you get a link from the interviewee and you're supposed to link back to them, then interview someone else. It's kinda like a blog chain letter.

I don't want to play, so I just stole five questions from another site and decided to interview myself.

1) Paper or plastic?

I personally believe that this is a dumbass question. You have to ASK for a paper bag everywhere except a liquor store nowdays. We once had a paper bag plant in Savannah that employed over 400 people. Plastic bags put them out of business. The plant was closed and all 400 people laid off. But I manufacture pigment that goes into making plastic bags. Okay, SCREW a paper bag now that I think about it. Yeah, I'll take plastic.

2) At what point in your life did you feel like an adult?

I'm not certain that I feel like an adult all the time even now. I have a adult job. I acted as an adult when I buried my father. I sired two children, one of whom is grown. I have gray silver hair. In spite of it all, I still sometimes think of myself just as I did when I was a kid. I don't believe that I ever wanted to grow up.

3) Who was the best teacher you ever had and why?

Mrs. Virginia Woolsey in the fifth grade. The woman was a saint, she encouraged me to write and she made learning fun. She was what all teachers SHOULD be, challenging, inspiring and dedicated, but there aren't many around like her anymore. She died when I was in college, but I'll never forget her, and I'll bet she has a lot of other ex-students who feel the same way.

4) If you could go back in time and say or do something different, which childhood wrong against another would you correct?

The meanest thing I ever did in my life happened when I was in the ninth grade. We had a Class Geek named "Steve" that everybody picked on. He was built like a bowling pin, was completely unathletic and wore coke-bottle-bottom glasses that made his eyes look twice their normal size. He sported a receeding hairline to match his chin in the ninth grade. He was blessed with bright red hair and more freckles per square inch than you could count. Plus, he had a speech impediment that made him sound like a cartoon character when he talked. "My name ish Sctheve." Everybody called him "Mr. Magoo." He was the Ultimate Dork and was treated as such. Every class has one.

One day, he didn't dress out for PE. He was sitting on the bleachers in the gym when my friend, Roy and I (we were both on the football team) walked up to him. "Hey, Magoo! You're nor dressing out today? What's the matter?"

"I have a casesh of diarrhea." I looked at Roy and Roy looked at me. We grabbed Magoo by the arms and bounced him up and down until he shit all over himself. Yep, he had a case of diarrhea all right.

I thought it was funny as heck until Magoo started crying. Then, I couldn't believe what I had done. If some laughing, evil bully had done the same thing to me, I would have waited in the bushes with a baseball bat to get even the first chance I got. I would have busted the bully's head like a watermelon and beat the shit out of HIM, figuring that he deserved it. I was totally ashamed of myself. I tried to apologize, but it was too late for that. I was a thug that day.

That happened in 1965 and I still think about that incident about once a week. Yeah, I have a conscience and it bothers me when I remember Mr. Magoo. I never should have done that. That's one act that I wish desperately that I could take back.

5) Have you ever met one of your heroes? Who was it? Did they live up to your expectations or impression of them?

I always admired Joseph Heller because I believe that Catch-22 is perhaps the best American novel ever written. The book made me laugh, think and weep all eleventy-seven times I read it. I met him at the University of Georgia in 1975. He was the most boring, droning asshole I've ever heard read his own work, and I attended a cocktail party with him after the reading. He got shitfaced and acted like a total jerk.

Yeah, I was very disappointed in Joseph Heller. But he's dead now.

I met John Prine. too, and he's really a nice guy. He bought me a Guiness and talked music with me for over an hour in an Irish bar on River Street after he played a concert in Savannah. John Prine behaves in person exactly as you would expect from someone who writes songs the way he does. He is just a nice, friendly guy.

So, I'm batting .500 on meeting my heroes and liking them.

Hmmm... I wonder what I would think about glenn reynolds if I shared a nice, cold Blended Puppy at a bar with him some evening?

Breaking the law

Originally published May 31, 2004

I believe that Martin Luther King wrote an essay when he was locked in the Birmingham jail during the civil rights movement that pretty much sums up my philosophy about being a law-abiding citizen. I may go Google the speech to see if I am correct, but I don't really care. No matter where I read it, it is the way I live my life.

I am a free man. Government puts certain constraints on me through the threat of overwhelming force, which means that the faceless assholes can seize my assets, throw me in jail and TRY to humble me, but nothing they do to me will change what I believe.

I remain a free man.

I don't obey laws that I think are senseless. I also don't consider myself to be a criminal for doing so. I consider myself to be a free man. I carry a handgun in places with strict gun-control laws. I exceed the posted speed limit on the highway. I gamble on illegal games of chance. I have rented a prostitute.

If I were your neighbor, you would like me. I would never break into your home, steal your belongings or molest your children. If you needed help with a home-improvement project, I would be the first to volunteer assisstance. If you went on a two-week vacation, I would collect your mail and pick up the newspaper from the driveway every day, and keep an eye on your house while you were gone.

I don't behave that way because of any laws. That's just the way I was raised. I don't NEED laws to make me act like a decent human being. And I won't obey laws that I think are stupid.

We have way too many laws in this country now. Government has taken a nation of free men and women and transformed them into sheep through excessive regulation, excessive taxation and excessive intrusion into things that are none of government's business. I sometimes believe that if our Founding Fathers could see what their ideal of freedom and a true republic has become, they would be twisting like windmills in their graves.

You can heed the shepherd if you want to. But I won't.

(ADDENDUM: I didn't write this post lightly, nor am I drunk. I am a free man staring right into the maw of the monster, and it is poised to take everything I own. I expect to go to jail for "Contempt of Court." I will be guilty, because I hold divorce court in total contempt. But I WILL NOT DO what that Court Order says that I'm supposed to do. That is a law that I refuse to obey. And I'm willing to back up my words with my actions, no matter what price I have to pay. That's a true American attitude, if you ask me.)

The fine art of cursing

Originally published May 31, 2004

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

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

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

I pride myself on have a very educated foul mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Rogers, I wasn't.

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

I have a problem with this

Origially published August 18, 2003

Just read this crap and then tell me that we don't have a screwed up judicial system. A pedophile clown gets paid $2,500 because people didn't want him entertaining children in a public park.

Got-damn! The guy already has two convictions because of the way he likes to "entertain" children. But his First Amendment rights are violated because we don't allow him to put on a clown show and attract children? I have a real problem with this story. But that figures, because I have LOTS of problems with our legal system today.

I'm a kinky guy and I like sex. Among consenting adults, I'm open to almost anything anybody can suggest. But I draw the line at children. The little ones TRUST YOU and they DEPEND ON YOU to take care of them. You're supposed to keep the booger-man away, not BE the booger-man.

That bastard is lucky that he never "fondled" my son. He wouldn't be worrying about his First Amendment rights if he did that. I would kill the sumbitch in cold blood and let him worry about worms from then on. I would do it and take whatever punishment came my way as a result. NO PEDERAST had better EVER lay a hand on my boy. I'll kill that pervert as sure as the sun comes up in the morning. And I'll kneecap him, elbow-shoot him and put a couple in his gut before I lay one right between his eyes. If I'm lying, I'm dying.

Some things I simply cannot stand. Child abuse is one of them.

My boy trusts me. He listens to what I say and he obeys my commands. I've spanked him only a few times in his life, but he knows that I'll do it. Young Jack is the same way. I understand that they are little boys and I cut them some slack for their natural-born, coltish dumbassery. But I am in charge when they are around. They know it and they behave accordingly.

They also know that I am not the booger-man and I won't ever allow the booger-man to get them. Quinton has bad dreams sometimes and and wakes up crying in the middle of the night. I just hug him and tell him that he is safe with me. He believes it. He should, because it's true.

Sometimes, I am his clown. I juggle and tell kiddie jokes. But I do it to make him laugh, not to fondle him or Jack. The rest of the time, I am his protector.

Hobbs pleaded guilty in 1978 to second-degree sexual abuse after New Rochelle police charged him with luring an 11-year-old boy into his office and fondling him. Four years later, a Pennsylvania judge sentenced Hobbs to nine months in jail for molesting a 14-year-old boy while driving him to church, where Hobbs performed his clown show for children.

Hobbs' convictions came to light in 2001, when he ran for the Westchester County legislature on the Right to Life Party line. At the time, he told a Journal News reporter, "Regardless of the fact of whether I'm guilty or unguilty, there are no children at the county legislature." The party disavowed his candidacy, and he lost the election.

In December, Martin handed down a decision that the county had a right to ban Hobbs from performing in the park's money-making venues, like the amusement rides, but not from the public areas, like the boardwalk.

I don't understand this legalistic logic. I would shoot the sumbitch.

April 24, 2008

Silver hair

Originally published August 17, 2003

I had my hair cut yesterday morning.

I let it grow long for a while so that it was curly and wild. It really looked like Fido's ass after I wore a hard hat at work and sweated my ass off all day. I thought about putting it back into a pony tail the way I did about a year ago. But I remembered that I resembled an old hippie when I did that, so I just had my hair cut short instead.

I watched all those long, silver locks falling onto the barber's apron and I suddenly felt very old. I asked my tonsorial goddess if she could dye my hair (I also told her that I was violently allergic to henna) and she said that she could, but asked me why I wanted to do such a thing.

"I LOVE that salt-and-pepper look on a man," she said. I looked at the apron and saw a lot more salt than pepper. I suppose I should be delighted that I still have hair at all. Most men in my family were bald before they were 30. I have hair, but it's all gray silver now.

I think I may color my hair the next time I go to the barber shop.

I have an artificial dick already. Putting a little color in my hair is nothing compared to that.

Training day

Originally published April 15, 2003

I dropped off my tax returns at the post office at 0630 this morning. The only reason that I didn't crawl up there and shit down the slot where I put the envelopes is that I couldn't figure out how to assume the proper position. Otherwise, I would have. Take THAT from me TOO, Uncle Sam.

I arrived at the Desoto Hilton at 0645, fifteen minutes ahead of when I was instructed to be there. I wasn't warned about the hour-long breakfast that followed. I don't eat breakfast at 0700 in the morning unless I've been up drinking all night long. I ate a chunk of pineapple and a piece of stringy bacon that stayed stuck between my molars all day, then smoked cigarettes outside while everybody else enjoyed their leasurely repast.

We finally started class at 0800. That's when I saw the untimate insult to my sanity show up at exactly 0801, when everybody else was already one minute into the classroom session.

My ex-wife entered the room and sat down.

Yes, my company thoughtfully scheduled BOTH OF US to attend "teamwork, trust and leadership" training together. Seeing her there put me right off that "teamwork and trust" part of the day.

That episode in Chinese Water Torture lasted until 1800 this evening, whereupon I skipped out on the "happy hour" in the Hospitality Suite and the Group Dinner at 1900. Fuck that.

Needless to say, caught in the Savannah traffic, I was unable to make it to Mack's Gun Shop before closing time, so I can't get my derringer until tomorrow, when all the bullshit is supposed to be over by 1430, so that people the company flew in from out of town to be here can catch their planes home.

Things I did today:

I volunteered to become a Human Gyroscope and be spun 360 degrees, head over heels by my group and set back on the floor in one piece. The only person in our group who weighed less than I do was female, and she didn't want all those hands on her body. I said that I would be the gyroscope. After they successfully twirled me, to demonstrate my trust in my team members, I did it again holding a glass of water. Not only did I not spill a drop, but the guy from HR who was videotaping our games missed it, so I did it AGAIN without spilling a drop. Actually it was kinda fun, even though all the change fell out of my pockets the first time I went upside down.

I would NOT have volunteered for that hazardous duty had my ex-wife been part of my support group.

I learned to carry a set and ready to spring mousetrap all the way across a large ballroom and set it down on a table while using nothing but a table spoon to handle the job. There is a trick to that task, which I finally figured out after dropping a few mousetraps and having them snap at me from the floor. I think I toted about 30 in a row after I learned the secret through trial and error.

My ex-wife WAS part of that exercise, and once I figured out how to carry a loaded mouse trap, I thought seriously about having a tripping incident and seeing if I couldn't "accidentally" hit her in the face with a trap. But I didn't.

I also learned that these all-day classroom and game-playing exercises make me more tired than a regular 10-hour shift at work. My butt hurts, my head hurts and I am exhausted. Plus, I missed getting my gun today because of that crap.

I have to be back at 0700 tomorrow to have breakfast with the CEO of the company. Thirty people attended the seminar today, and I couldn't aviod dealing with my ex-wife in that situation. The breakfast is going to be "interactive," so I probably won't manage to hide from the CEO, either. He likes to have his employees ask him questions. I'm trying to think of a couple of good ones now.

"Why do you spend perfectly good company money sending me to assinine exercises such as this, that I HATE attending, then schedule my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife, who I ALSO HATE, to the same session? Do YOU hate ME?"

That's the question I'm thinking about asking now.

Memories that hurt

Originally published April 15, 2003

One of the exercises that I participated in today (I volunteered for every goddam thing that came along.) Need a volunteer? YA GOT ONE! I usually don't do that, but I did today. By 1400, when Instructor Kate asked for a volunteer she looked directly at me, and I said "I'll do it!" yet again, the same as I had done all day. Kate thought I was a really gung-ho employee, totally with the program. She's probably going to miss me at the dinner tonight.

Actually, I was hoping to aviod being assigned to a team with my ex-wife.

They did a hostage rescue type operation that I volunteered for, before I knew that I would be the hostage. I was taken outside the ballroom, blindfolded and told to wait a few minutes. I did, and almost fell asleep while waiting, because this happened right after lunch. Darkness, quiet and comfort felt pretty good to me about then.

My reverie was interrupted when strange hands grabbed me and a voice said, "We've come to rescue you. Trust us. Follow me." I followed.

The scenario outside was that I was a VALUED CUSTOMER and everybody had to lead me across a sea of sharks and killer blowfish that were waiting to KILL ME. If I so much as got my feet wet in that imaginary ocean, I was dead and the company lost a customer. There were stepping stones set out and I was supposed to be guided to them in the dark, or else assisted by anyone who could touch me.

I had fun doing that. "Rob! Lift your left foot!" I was told.

"If I lift my left foot blindfolded, I'm going to fall on my sightless Cracker ass," I responded.

"Okay! Just take my hand!" I reached out and somebody grabbed my hand. "Now lift your left foot." I did and somebody grabbed it, steered it, plunked it down and said, "Step all your weight on your left foot and raise your right foot." I did, and somebody guided my right foot to the next stone. They worked me all the way across about 40' of stepping stones like that, with somebody holding my hand and other people moving my feet until I escaped whatever danger I supposedly was in.

I learned after I removed the blindfold that they had to lay out the stones from Point A to Point B, then pick 2' square positions from which they could not move to do this job. If they failed to plan and put me in a position where I did not have CUSTOMER SUPPORT, I was lost. They planned well, and I was saved.

But while everyone in the class had a hand on me in that exercise, I recognized one. She didn't guide my feet. About halfway down the walk, one person turned loose of my hand and another one took it.

Even blindfolded, I knew it was her. Immediately.

She didn't speak, but she didn't have to. I remember the touch of her hand and I know her scent. I almost fell into the "ocean" on purpose. But I didn't, because I was doing work-related activities, and I take my job seriously. It hurt like hell just the same.

I took the next step, went on to the next hand until the drill was done, and cheers were heard all around. Mission accomplished.

I wonder ... did she feel anything at all?

My readers are great

Originally published August 18, 2003

I received this email today:

Rob/Acidman, I was tagged by that nasty Blaster worm too. My 16 y/o Son took the inititive to try and fix things, but didn't. Made things worse as a matter of fact. So I took over and ...... kinda fixed it. But screwed up some other stuff.

I was reading the comment sections on your posts re: the Blaster thing and noticed that "Light and Dark" (Paul) sounded like he knew what he was talking about and was willing to help so I emailed him. He went over and above the call of duty. He talked me thru the whole fix 'em up process and taught me a bunch of things that will come in handy again I'm sure.

He is a "Genuine OK Guy" and he really made my day. I'm sure my phone bill will take a beating, (He's in Canada) but I'm happy to get it fixed and learn something, instead of just taking it to some Geek and paying him.

I Just thought you should know what kind of readers you have. Your blog has become a daily stop for me. BTW, I'm glad Roscoe got in a good therapy session. As a medical professional, I know how important post-operative therapy can be. My Rx for that is - Try to do it as often as can be arranged.

Sincerely, John from Indiana

I have some of the brightest, most good-hearted and humorous readers in all of blogdom. I may cuss and piss and moan a lot on my blog , but I operate a Public Service, too. If you've got a problem with a computer, post a comment and someone will help you.

That happens a lot.

April 23, 2008

More acid stuff

Originally published April 14, 2003

I received a lot more comments and emails than I expected when I wrote my post about how I became known as "Acidman." The subject of acid seems to fascinate a bunch of people. It really shouldn't, because everybody reading this blog deals with acid every day.

I believe that acid is scary because of old black-and-white horror movies, where the hero or heroine in a mad scientist's lab always grabbed a bottle of Hydrochloric Acid and threw it in the monster's face at the end of the movie. The monster screamed, steamed and melted after that. I grew up believing that Hydrochloric acid was the most dangerous stuff in the world.

I'll bet that a BUNCH of people reading this post drank Phosphoric Acid today. If you drank a Coke or a Pepsi, you damned sure did. Read the ingredients on a Coke can. Good old Phosphoric Acid, P2O5, is a vital ingredient of ANY cola drink. (Okay-- quick chemistry lesson here: pH is a measure of alkalinity and acidity and the scale runs from 1 to 14. The lower the pH, the more acidic the substance is. The higher the pH, the more alkaline it is. Neutral (distilled water) has a pH of 7.0, right in the middle. Coke has a pH of about 3.5. When you wash your ham sandwich down with a coke at lunch, you're DRINKING ACID!!!

Sulfuric acid is one of the most commonly used chemicals in the world. It is used in EVERYTHING, from paper processing, to battery manufacturing, to digesting other chemicals to make them work in a process, to cleaning the beer vats at Anheiser-Bush to making nutrasweet and many pharmaceuticals. The first written recipe for how to make sulfuric acid was etched on papyris about 5,000 years ago from the ancient region of Mesopotamia, right where we're fighting a war now. If done correctly, this formula would produce about a 15% solution of sulfuric acid, and it's primary use back then was in a formula for a LAXITIVE.

Hmmm... I don't know if it worked, but it HAD to burn either going down or coming out.

Sulfuric acid is a lot more dangerous than hydrochloric acid is, because sulfuric can be made at much higher concentrations. HCL runs out of room to grow stronger at about a 35% concentration. That killer of horror-movie monsters also is known as Muiratic Acid, and if you look at a bottle of Visine (or its competitor, Murine) you'll see that the prime ingredient that you drop in your eyes to "get the red out" is Muriatic Acid.

I've worked around several lime scrubbers, and we always used Acetic Acid to clean encrusted lime off the equipment. You probably have a bottle of acetic acid in your home right now, and if you like Italian Dressing on your salad, you EAT IT. It's called "vinegar."

We just introduced a new slurry product at work, and it gets a heavy dose of Citric Acid in the beginning of the process. Do you like lemonade? If you do, you drink citric acid.

Want to know why environmentalists piss me off so bad and send me off on rants all the time? It's because ordinary people who DON'T make a career working around all types of chemicals are easily frightened by the bullshit the scaremongers throw at them. I really believe that "toxic" is the most misused and misunderstood word in the English language any more.

EVERYTHING is "toxic" if you get too much of it. NOTHING IS TOXIC if you don't allow yourself to become poisoned. I'm not going to rewrite things I've written before here, but I'll tell you this. If you listen without question to the scaremongers, you're allowing yourself to be played for a dupe, a chump, and somebody's bitch. And the people doing it are making billions of dollars, buying politicians and changing the face of this country with their lies.

Joni Electric emailed to ask what was the most danergous acid I had ever worked around. On paper, that's easy. hydrofluoric acid is by far the most dangerous chemical I've ever worked around if you just go by the POSSIBILITIES of what this chemical can do. But I handle it in concentrations no higher than 5%. It doesn't worry me, because it's not strong enough to unleash all its wrath.

The stuff looks like green water and has about as much effect on skin as the water in the borrow pits of Effingham County. Maybe less. Those borrow pits grow some nasty shit in them. That's why they turn green.

Full-blown, undiluted hydrofluoric acid is one bad mofo. It packs the kind of wallop that doesn't wash off. But when it's diluted, you can wash Never-Seize stains off your hands with it. It ain't the poison, people. It's the dose.

Okay, that's acid lesson #2. Have a Coke, eat an Italian salad and squeeze lemon juice over the fish you cook to go with it.


All ready

Originally published April 14, 2003

I have to attend a two-day training seminar starting tomorrow, so I finished my state taxes, figured out how to utilize the new printer/copier/scanner I bought two weeks ago and made copies of everything. I made more copies than I needed just because I think my printer is really neat. THAT'S a cool piece of office equipment for $100.

I have all my tax shit in one sock so that I can drop it off at the post office tomorrow morning on the way to class. I really don't like to wait to the last minute in most things I do, but paying my taxes is different. I would just as soon not do it at all. I owe the Feds $40, but I'm getting $360 back from the state (I always underwithold from those thieves. They can't be trusted.) That's more than enough to pay for the derringer I'm buying tomorrow. In fact, I think I'm going to see if Mack has a nice target pistol to go along with it, or I might ask for something very few people will understand.

I want a single-shot, bolt-action .22 rifle, just for nostalgia's sake. That's the first kind of gun my daddy ever let me shoot, and when I became proficient with it, and could handle it safely, he let me go off into the woods with it all by myself.

If you've never gone down to the riverbank with a single-shot .22 and pocketsfull of bullets, then searched through the trash people threw down there to select light bulbs, Miller pony bottles and Barbie-Doll heads, then set those targets up on a fallen oak-trunk and picked 'em off one at a time, you haven't lived. Especially after you had to operate the bolt and stick another bullet in the breech after every shot.

And if you never turned around and plugged fiddler crabs in the marsh mud after that, you damn sure weren't a Southern boy. At least not from South Georgia. Fiddler crabs were small targets and they MOVED! You had to be a good shot to hit them, one shot at a time. That one shot at a time thing wouldn't be a bad idea for Quinton right now.

That stuff teaches you the discipline to make every shot count. It slows life down enough that father and son can communicate better. I want a single-shot, bolt-action .22. I want it because it was a part of my youth, and I want it because my son doesn't need sixteen rounds in a rifle. If I leave him alone with that Marlin, he'll be shooting from the hip as fast as he can pull the trigger like some character on a video game and hiting nothing because he won't know how to aim.

I want a young BOY'S GUN. I want it for for me, but for MY BOY, too. If Mack doesn't have one, he can order it for me. But I remember seeing TWO old ones when I picked out the derringer. I'll bet that he hasn't sold them both.

I'll bring one home tomorrow.

Down south

Originally published August 17, 2003

If you are from the northern states and planning on visiting or moving to the South, there are a few things you should know that will help you adapt to the difference in lifestyles:

If you run your car into a ditch, don't panic. Four men in a four-wheel drive pickup truck with a tow chain will be along shortly. Don't try to help them; just stay out of their way. This is what they live for.

Don't be surprised to find movie rentals and bait in the same store. Don't buy food at this store. (Unless it is hermetically sealed in a bag. I shop at the Swamp Fox, where you can buy beer, bait and rent movies at the same time)

Remember, "y'all" is singular, "all y'all" is plural, and "all y'all's" is plural possessive. (Whoever wrote this missive is incorrect. "Y'all" is plural. We don't say "all y'all" down South, except at the end of a big, drunken party, when the host says, "All y'all pick up yore shit and GO HOME!")

The first Southern statement to creep into a transplanted Northerner's vocabulary is the adjective 'big ol' truck or 'big ol' boy. Most Northerners begin their Southern-influenced dialect this way. All of them are in denial about it. (If they don't learn "good ole" quickly, we lynch them.)

Be advised that 'He needed killin' is a valid defense here. (Amen.)

If you hear a Southerner exclaim, "Hey, y'all, watch this," you should stay out of the way. These are likely to be the last words he'll ever say. (Yeah, Bubba shot the juke box.)

If there is the prediction of the slightest chance of even the smallest accumulation of snow, your presence is required at the local grocery store. It doesn't matter whether you need anything or not. You just have to go there. (We go there to buy frozen food.)

Do not be surprised to find that 10-year-olds own their own shotguns, they are proficient marksmen, and their Mammas taught them how to aim. (How do you think Bubba learned to shoot the juke box?)

The North has sun-dried toe-mah-toes .. The South has 'mater samiches. (And we fry them green, too.)

The North has coffee houses .. The South has Waffle Houses.

The North has dating services .. The South has family reunions.

The North has switchblade knives .. The South has Lee Press-on Nails.

The North has double last names .. The South has double first names.

The North has Ted Kennedy .. The South has Edwin Edwards. (I'll take Edwin over Ted any day.)

The North has an ambulance .. The South has an am-ba-lance.

The North has Cream of Wheat .. The South has grits.

The North has green salads .. The South has collard greens.

The North has lobsters .. The South has crawfish. (And shrimp and blue crabs.)

AND REMEMBER: If you do settle in the South and bear children, don't think we will accept them as Southerners. After all, if the cat had kittens in the oven, we wouldn't call them biscuits.

We'll accept you when you eat grits and use "y'all" correctly in civilized conversation.

Cat Sunday

Originally published August 17, 2003

Did you ever watch a lazy cat just sit, sleep and stretch all day long? I have, and that's one reason I hate cats. They can look so comfortable and self-satisfied while doing absolutely nothing all day long. That's a cat thing. Dogs don't do that.

I've had myself a cat Sunday.

I've sat, slept and stretched all day long, and that's all I intend to do. I feel like a cat, and I'm going to act like one. Fuck what I should be doing today.

What duties does a cat pay attention to? None. Guess what duties I'm paying attention to today? None.

I like being a cat.

April 22, 2008

Early in the morning

Originally published August 17, 2003

I wish I slept better than I do. It would be nice to just slobber all over the sheets in complete unconsciousness for about 16 hours one weekend. I could do that when I was in college. But I can't anymore.

I stay up late and still wake up at an ungodly early hour. That's good on work days, but it sucks on weekends. Sometimes I like to go outside in the dark and smoke a cigarette while looking at the stars. Mars is very bright in the sky now. You can see it as a red planet on a clear morning. I would love to go there.

I fantasized about being an astronaut since I was a child. One of the biggest disappointments in my life was John Glenn, a man I once admired who later proved to be a complete political whore, selling his soul for another trip into space. I hate him now. I've never wanted anything badly enough in my life to do what he did.

I'll never go into space except through my Robert Heinlein books and my imagination. But Quinton may get the chance. I hope he takes advantage of it.

I look at the night sky and I see possibilities. Just as the early navigators crossed the ocean to find a New World, we are destined to go THERE, into the stars some day.

Man is an inquisitive creature. Exploring comes natural to him. And there is one hell of a frontier waiting for us among the stars.

Acid thoughts

Originally published April 12, 2003

I got the nickname "Acidman" when was General Foreman over the 900-ton per day sulfuric acid plant where I worked from 1987 until 1992. That place never frightened me, although I learned to have a healthy respect for molten sulfur, SO2 and SO3 gas, and all forms of sulfuric acid.

I once walked up on a small rattlesnake at the acid plant one day, and the little shit coiled up and struck at me. He was acting like a real badass, so I walked inside the control room, grabbed a 500-ml bottle of 98% acid, went back outside and doused him with it. Nothing happened. The acid didn't bother the snake at all. Its skin was dry enough that the acid had no moisture to react with.

So, I picked up a water hose and doused the snake with some good old H2O. A cloud of steam erupted and the snake straightened out like a walking stick, cooked to a crisp. We were hell on animals back there.

We also had the largest army of bald-headed, blind rats in the southeast around the old scale house, where we weighed the acid trucks that we loaded. That building was constructed in 1954, and it had seen better days. There was a baseball-sized hole in one corner of the floor, and marsh rats would enter and exit as they pleased through it to raid operators' lunch boxes. I once went in the scale house and discovered a rat bigger than most house cats and with nuts the size of golf balls sitting on the desk and grinning at me as if he worked there.

One of the guys got pissed one day and hung a chicken bone from a string over the hole and armed himself with several bottles of acid. The rats would come out of the hole, grab the chicken bone and wrestle with it until he poured 98% sulfuric acid on their heads. They became bald-headed and blind after that, and when they emerged from underneath the scale house to run in blind circles out in the open, we killed them with pipe-clubs.

Yeah, PETA. I clubbed several myself.

Here's some acid trivia for you:

* It takes acid to make acid. If you burn molten sulfur, it reacts with the combustion air to form SO2 gas. Run that through a catalyst bed and the SO2 reacts with the remaining oxygen to form SO3 gas. Run that gas stream through a cascade of 98% acid and the SO3 grabs the 2% moisture in the acid stream and forms H2SO4, which is sulfuric acid. If you scrub well, nitrogen is the waste gas leaving the stack. (our atmosphere is 78% nitrogen, 20.9% oxygen and 1.1% trace gases, of which that global-warming monster CO2 is .03%.)

* We sell acid to paper mills, battery manufacturers and all the other likely suspects. But we also sell to Nutrasweet and Anheiser-Busch.

* You can make sulfuric acid that is MORE THAN 100% concentration. It's called "oleum," it fumes on contact with air, and it can be MORE than 100% acid. Go figure.

* 98% sulfuric acid is less corrosive to metal than 20% sulfuric acid is. Remember my snake story.

* 98% sulfuric acid freezes at +46 degrees F. Lower the concentration to 93% and the freezing temperature drops to -30 degrees F. Lower the concentration further, to 77% and the acid freezes at +10 degrees F. I've read that this phenomenon is caused by hydroxyl ions, but I call it "Pure Fucking Magic."

* If you have dry hands, you can pour 98% acid into your palm and not get burned. DO NOT pour it on the back of your hand, ever. That's a totally different skin surface. Refer again to my snake story.

* Let a black person get hit with 98% acid and he turns pink everywhere he is hit. We ARE all alike under the skin. I've seen proof.

* The worst injury I ever saw in 23 years of work in a chemical plant (other than the time a contractor fell through the roof and landed on concete 100' below-- yeah, that fall killed him. But he was a contractor. He doesn't count.) was sulfuric acid burns to two mechanics who violated every line-breaking rule we have and got covered up with 98% acid. One of those guys still works at the plant and still has horrible scars from that accident. He can't stand direct sunshine anymore, either. See him with his shirt off and you'll cringe.

* That accident DID NOT happen at the acid plant under my watch. It happened inside the plant where I pumped the acid to end-users. I never got anybody burned (other than the gnat bites you feel that tell you there's a leak somewhere) the entire time I ran the place.

* I loved that job. I had a chance to return two years ago, but I turned it down. I'm a white-end guy now, and too accustomed to farting dust to go back to making acid. You don't make pigment at the acid plant. I make pigment where I am now. If I don't eat and breathe about 2.2 pounds of TiO2 dust every day at work anymore, I might go into withdrawal. To me, it's like SPICE on Dune. I gotta have it.

If you have any questions about sulfuric acid, feel free to ask. Acidman probably knows the answer.

Some rules are for fools

Originally published August 16, 2003

Here is a list of rules that I violate all the time.

1. Observe the speed limit. Yeah, right. Nobody else does, so why should I? The only place I drive slowly is in a school zone, because I know that kids are idiots and I don't want to run over one. Outside of there, I go as fast as I can.

2. No Smoking. Fuck you. I'll smoke 'em if I've got 'em, and I always have 'em. The worst you can do is glare at me and tell me to put it out. I will, too, just as soon as I am finished. I sometimes light a cigarette just to piss anti-smokers off.

3. do not pass. If the slowpoke ahead of me would speed up, I wouldn't need to pass. But if he doesn't, I will. I don't pay a lot of attention to yellow lines when I know the roads.

4. Don't drink and drive. How the hell am I supposed to get home from the Sea Grill or Wisenbacker's after a big meal and several drinks? Walk? I don't think so.

5. Jaywalking. I cross the street when I see an opening in traffic. Screw an intersection. At least I run across the street. Some people like to stroll and cause accidents, or sometimes get hit by a car. Most of those slow walkers in traffic are big-assed black wimmen. I'm sorry, but it's true. Sometimes, when I see one of those asswits, I want to roll down my window and shout, "Didn't your mama teach you how to cross the street, you fucking idiot?" until I realize that she's leading at least one child across the "skreet" with her. Just like mama taught her.

Bejus. If you're going to break rules, at least KNOW THE RULES FIRST. Then, breaking them is a conscious decision, not an act of pure dumbassery.

I could continue, because I break a LOT of rules. But I am finished now, with my top five.

It's a training thing

Originally published April 12, 2003

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I may have to shoot a hostage.

Dumbass are me

Originally published April 12, 2003

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

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

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

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

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

Go away. Leave me alone. I am pissed.

April 21, 2008

Cultural things

Originally published October 31, 2002

The Right Wing Texan waxed philosophical the other day and said, "I have always been interested in the cultural, political, and attitudinal differences in Texas compared to other parts of the country - particularly either coast. Believe me, the differences in general are huge."

I agree. I have visited Texas several times (my first ex-wife was from Fort Worth) and I've appreciated the unique Texas culture. Texas grows more pretty women than Pennsylvania grows mushrooms. I won't say the women all are 10s, but I damned sure saw a LOT of 9.5s sashaying around everywhere I looked.

Everyone I dealt with was friendly and polite, even the hairy, tattooed guy, laid back on his Harley and drinking an 8-pack of Miller ponies in a 7-11 parking lot when I got lost trying to find a golf course where I had a tee time. The Iranian dude behind the counter inside didn't speakee English very well, so I asked the biker if he knew where the course was. He said yes, and started to give me directions, then said, "Fuck it, man. It's easier to TAKE you there. Just follow me." I did, and he led me right to the place. He pointed to the entrance, gave me a thumbs up and thundered on down the road.

That's the kind of thing I am accustomed to, living down South. But Texas is NOT a Southern state. Texas is just too... TEXAS to be really Southern. We true Southerners have a LOT in common with our Texan cousins, but there are significant differences.

The obvious one is barbecue. Southerners barbecue pig. If you mention barbecue in Jawja, EVERYBODY knows you're talking about the other white meat. In Texas, they barbecue BEEF. I got my first lesson in that difference one day when I had a craving for some ribs. My first ex-wife was going to the grocery store, so I said, "Honey, why don't you buy some ribs and I'll barbecue them for supper tonight." She returned with beef ribs, and was SHOCKED when I asked, "Why did you buy beef ribs? I wanted to barbecue!"

The other difference is hats. Southern men like their hats, but they usually wear caps with a logo on the FRONT, because no true Southerner turns the goddam thing around and wears it with the bill pointing assward unless he's in a bassboat burning a 200 Mercury full-blast across a lake. Southerners turn the hat around then to keep it from blowing off, but as soon as the boat slows down, we turn the bill to the front again to keep the sun out of our eyes while we fish. My favorite hat right now is a camoflage number with "United Rentals" on the FRONT. Texans, on the other hand, like their cowboy hats, even if they've never been closer to an actual cow than the milk cooler at Krogers. I really have no problem with that, but it IS a cultural difference.

I won't even mention the boot thing. I'll just repeat an old joke: What do you get if you kick the shit out of a Texan? An empty pair of cowboy boots.

I don't mean to be anti-Texas, because I am NOT. I love the state, and I have more blog-buddies from Texas than I do from Georgia (Okay, RWT, I'll beat you to it--- that's probably because more people can READ AND WRITE in Texas).

Besides, we share an appreciation for pickup trucks, guns, football, the Great Outdoors, fishing, campfires, fiddle music, food cooked on an open fire and prolific alcohol consumption. Texas may not be Southern, but it's the next best thing.

And that's high praise from Acidman. If you've read this blog for long, you know what I think about yankees and left-coast lunatics.

At the risk of sounding racist

Originally published August 16, 2003

I borrowed this idea from something I read this morning, but it started me thinking. Contrast the American response to the blackout in the northeast to how Iraqi citizens are handling their liberation.

I realize that Iraqis have a tough time now, but they had it tough under Saddam. Goddam. Which do they prefer-- a dictator who may feed them feet-first into a limb-grinder or an army bound and determined to drag them, kicking and screaming, into 21st century prosperity and freedom? They don't seem to be able to make up their minds.

I don't want to call them a bunch of stupid people, but if they continue to act stupidly, I'll draw my own conclusions. I grieve for every American death that happens in that benighted country because it is such a waste. It's a waste of a good American soldier and it's a waste of opportunity for Iraq. Those people never bitched about Saddam, because he killed all the bitchers. We don't.

We allow them to bitch and try to calm them down. We give them food and spend billions of dollars attempting to put their country back in order. They seem to hate us for that.

I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy. I have a lot of Andrew Jackson philosophy about me. If the Iraqi people don't have the patience or the will to accept freedom and prosperity, then let's wash our hands of this sump on the face of the planet and be done with them. Forget being humane or kind to those ungrateful people. Show them what an occupying army actually acts like. Burn 'em. Shoot 'em. Kill 'em. Hang 'em. Put a combat boot on their necks.

I know that American soldiers would never do such a thing. That's what makes me proud of our soldiers. Other invading armies have done every bit of that and more, but we won't. We don't. We are civilized.

I'm just sick and tired of the demonstrations, the killing and the pure dumbassery being displayed by the Iraqi population. I am not certain that THEY are civilized. I'm beginning to wonder if these people deserve freedom.

They obviously don't know how to handle it.

People's court

Originally published October 31, 2002

I found a post on SAMIZDATA that almost cured all my sinus problems by causing a full swallow of white zinfandel to come out of my nose. The following is actual courtroom testimony in the trial of a man accused of stealing 40,000 coathangers from hotel closets.

Counsel: What is your name?

Chrysler: Chrysler. Arnold Chrysler.

Counsel: Is that your own name?

Chrysler: Whose name do you think it is?

Counsel: I am just asking if it is your name.

Chrysler: And I have just told you it is. Why do you doubt it?

Counsel: It is not unknown for people to give a false name in court.

Chrysler: Which court?

Counsel: This court.

Chrysler: What is the name of this court?

Counsel: This is No 5 Court.

Chrysler: No, that is the number of this court. What is the name of this court?

Counsel: It is quite immaterial what the name of this court is!

Chrysler: Then perhaps it is immaterial if Chrysler is really my name.

Counsel: No, not really, you see because...

Judge: Mr Lovelace?

Counsel: Yes, m'lud?

Judge: I think Mr Chrysler is running rings round you already. I would try a new line of attack if I were you.

Counsel: Thank you, m'lud.

Chrysler: And thank you from ME, m'lud. It's nice to be appreciated.

Judge: Shut up, witness.

Chrysler: Willingly, m'lud. It is a pleasure to be told to shut up by you. For you, I would...

Judge: Shut up, witness. Carry on, Mr Lovelace.

Counsel: Now, Mr Chrysler, for let us assume that that is your name, you are accused of purloining in excess of 40,000 hotel coat hangers.

Chrysler: I am.

Counsel: Can you explain how this came about?

Chrysler: Yes. I had 40,000 coats which I needed to hang up.

Counsel: Is that true?

Chrysler: No.

Counsel: Then why did you say it?

Chrysler: To attempt to throw you off balance.

Counsel: Off balance?

Chrysler: Certainly. As you know, all barristers seek to undermine the confidence of any hostile witness, or defendant. Therefore it must be equally open to the witness, or defendant, to try to shake the confidence of a hostile barrister.

Counsel: On the contrary, you are not here to indulge in cut and thrust with me. You are only here to answer my questions.

Chrysler: Was that a question?

Counsel: No.

Chrysler: Then I can't answer it.

Judge: Come on, Mr Lovelace! I think you are still being given the run-around here. You can do better than that. At least, for the sake of the English bar, I hope you can.

Counsel: Yes, m'lud. Now, Mr Chrysler, perhaps you will describe what reason you had to steal 40,000 coat hangers?

Chrysler: Is that a question?

Counsel: Yes.

Chrysler: It doesn't sound like one. It sounds like a proposition which doesn't believe in itself. You know, "Perhaps I will describe the reason I had to steal 40,000 coat hangers... Perhaps I won't... Perhaps I'll sing a little song instead..."

Judge: In fairness to Mr Lovelace, Mr Chrysler, I should remind you that barristers have an innate reluctance to frame a question as a question. Where you and I would say,"Where were you on Tuesday?", they are more likely to say, "Perhaps you could now inform the court of your precise whereabouts on the day after that Monday?". It isn't, strictly, a question, and it is not graceful English but you must pretend that it is a question and then answer it, otherwise we will be here for ever. Do you understand?

Chrysler: Yes, m'lud.

Judge: Carry on, Mr Lovelace.

Counsel: Mr Chrysler, why did you steal 40,000 hotel coat hangers, knowing as you must have that hotel coat hangers are designed to be useless outside hotel wardrobes?

Chrysler: Because I build and sell wardrobes which are specially designed to take nothing but hotel coat hangers.

I thought that was a parody lifted from The Onion but it's TRUE.
I hope Mr. Chrysler beats the rap.

A fisking

Originally published August 16, 2003

I haven't done a good fisking in a while, but I found this editorial richly deserving, so I decided to shed the "kindler, gentler" image of Acidman that I have been trying to cultivate lately. The gloves come off here.

Hollywood loves to satirize the fifties. Michael J. Fox couldn't wait to ditch the monochromatic decade and get "Back to the Future."Julianne Moore was almost driven to suicide by her suburban Zenith. And Joan Allen and Reese Witherspoon felt so bound up in corsets of femininity that "Pleasantville" might as well have been called "Repressionville."

Washington, on the other hand, loves to love the fifties. Politicians promise us old-fashioned values and old-fashioned communities. They laud old-fashioned families and trot out lots of old-fashioned wives. They want to get back to a safer America, an America filled with scrubbed-up, God-fearing, nuclear families.

I have no idea what point this asshole is attempting to make. I was born in 1952. I remember living in a place where nobody locked their doors. I grew up with a mama and a daddy, in a god-respecting nuclear family. This prick writes about that kind of life as if it is soooo uncool. Fuck you, Kara. I suppose you believe that drive-by shootings, latchkey children and a society of whiners is a vast improvement over the bad old days.

Enter Karl Rove's master plan. If Republicans can successfully wrangle the nostalgia vote, they'll be able to stretch their current majority into a long-term reign over all three branches of government. Scrawny, chicken-neck Democrats better get ready to roll over. And over. And over. Because fear has done for the Republicans what spinach does for Popeye; the party is bigger and buffer and ready to rumble.

Republicans are using FEAR as a political weapon? Which party does political cartoons of the President shoving old people in a wheelchair down a stairwell? Which party says a vote for Bush equals another black church burned? Which party says that the water will be undrinkable, the air will be unbreathable and the elderly will die in the streets if you don't vote for THEM? Somebody is using FEAR as a political weapon?

Hint: It ain't the Republicans.

In the post-September 11th era, the GOP has carefully cultivated a Cold War mentality, marketing itself as the keeper of the flame, the steward of Grand Old Values. Though "duck and cover" may seem dated, Republicans are nevertheless encouraging American families to elect leaders who will protect them from scary, unknowable threats. The amorphous, ubiquitous al Qaeda has the potential to justify all sorts of military muscle flexing. And, of course, it already has.

After 9/11, we're not talking about "scary, unknowable" threats anymore. A lot of maniac Islamists really want to kill us. They DID kill a lot of us already. I call that a legitimate threat. It scares me a lot more than "Bush is going to take away your Social Security," which is the fear-club the Democrats wave. And I don't hear a single Democrat out there saying how we should do a better job than Bush is doing to protect our country. They all would just rather piss and moan, which is what Democrats do best.

At a recent appearance at St. Anselm College in New Hampshire, Rove scoffed at the notion that deposing Saddam Hussein amounted to much more than an anti-terrorism measure. "First of all," Rove corrected a questioner who had asked about the Iraq war, "it's the battle of Iraq, not the war. This is part of the war on terrorism."

Clearly, Republicans are focused on marketing the "war on terrorism" as a "war without end." When Sen. Bob Graham accused the administration of focusing on Iraq rather than on "Osama bin Forgotten," Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchison (taking a page from the Rove playbook) conflated Osama with Saddam and explained the invasion of Iraq by telling Graham that Bush "had just been through 9/11... The President is saying: 'Am I going to have another 9/11?"'

What absolute bullshit. If we have a President who IS NOT wondering about the next 9/11, we need to get rid of him and reload. Just listen to the crap the Donks spout about the War on Terror and thank your lucky stars that Bush "stole" the election. And anybody who believes that the entire Middle East isn't a feastering boil that needs to be lanced is a complete dumbass. Osama, Saddam, Yasser and the House of Saud are all connected. You want a dose of fear? Do nothing about that.

Act first, ask questions later. It's a good motto for a no-nonsense president who, after wandering around the Ivory Tower for a while in the mid-60s, ended up eschewing colorful, modern ideas and embracing a black-and-white, them-and-us, bad-and-good world view.

What the hell kind of "colorful, modern ideas" do YOU suggest? Make friends with our enemies? Asswit. NOT having a bad-and-good world view is delusional. And IT IS us versus them today. You are the one wandering around the Ivory Tower.

And, no surprise, Bush's success in 2004 will depend on how thoroughly he can scare Americans with talk of evildoers, evil plots, evil weapons, and evil ways. Already, the President has made substantial inroads. While young, single people tend to look askance at Bush's brash, uncompromising stances, suburbanites living in Levittown-style ranches and McMansion colonials crave some of that old-time religion. This election year, personal safety and national security seem inextricably linked. How about a Hummer in every garage and a base in every rogue state?
Mark Penn, President Clinton's former pollster, has sounded alarm bells about the Republican migration of so-called security moms and dads. At a meeting of the centrist Democratic Leadership Council, Penn laid out a distressing trend: when men and women get married and move to the suburbs, they basically turn Republican. Married people are 50 percent more likely to vote Republican than their single peers. "No Democrat will win the White House in 2004 without an agenda that speaks directly to middle-class parents with children," Penn said, emphasizing that the problem for Democrats only compounds when you ditch the condo fee and throw in a half-acre lawn.

Liberal twits are so accustomed to artificial, manufactured threats and the invented "crisis" of the week that they can't recognize the real thing when it knocks down the two tallest buildings in New York City. When they don't and people stop listening to their usual blather, it's all because of a ditched condo fee and a half-acre lawn. Who is out of touch here?

In the second wave of American suburbanization, the Republican party has found new life. Somehow, Tom DeLay's religious fervor and Bill Bennett's Ozzie-and-Harriet values translate better in a world turning in on itself than in a world at peace. Maureen Dowd pointed out in The New York Times this week that some conservatives refer to the post-Sept. 11th era as World War IV - World War III, they say, was the Cold War.

If you quote Maureen Dowd to bolster your argument, you already lost.

During the coming year, you can expect to hear a lot of shouting from Democrats about Republican efforts to stretch the Cold War metaphor as far as possible. If the mixing of politics and serious national issues seemed untoward during Bush's flight-suit photo op, expect the 2004 GOP convention in New York to be gag-inducing. Rove has insisted that the party of the big tent and the big guns did not purposely schedule its national convention 10 days before the third anniversary of the World Trade Center disaster, but somehow that claim rings hollow. While in Manhattan, Rove and his posse will undoubtedly be stirring together equal parts fear and patriotism, adding a splash of Beaver-Cleaver nostalgia, and garnishing with a wedge of values.

What would the Democrats do? Stir up racial division, throw in some environmental fright-monsters, promise free, but shitty, health care and attack the winners of "life's lottery." Then raise taxes. Terrorism? Well, we should be afraid of it, but we shouldn't do anything to make the terrorists hate us any more than they already do. I think doing nothing is a good idea.

Since September 11, the Republican party has sought to tap into the ethos of Sinclair Lewis' quintessential suburbanite, George F. Babbitt, who proudly told an audience: "Here's our kind of folks! Here's the specifications of the Standard American Citizen! Here's the new generation of Americans: fellows with hair on their chests and smiles in their eyes and adding-machines in their offices. We're not doing any boasting, but we like ourselves first-rate, and if you don't like us, look out -- better get under cover before the cyclone hits town!"

I couldn't have said that last part better myself. It's about time America behaved that way. The world's only superpower has been pussified long enough. The writer, just like the Democrats, thinks it's a bad thing for America to assert its power. I don't. That is the difference between George Bush and every Democrat rival. He doesn't think it's a bad thing, either.

I don't like a lot of things Bush has done in office. But I'll take him over a whining hand-wringer any day.

April 20, 2008

God is goooood

Originally published May 29, 2003

Did you ever get a letter from Jesus? I know someone who did. And Jesus wanted to give him a deal on a mortgage.

Just go think about that for a while.

I agree

Originally published May 30, 2003

In MY humble opinion, The Wild Bunch is the best western ever made. I've watched it at least 40 times and I'm still not tired of it. Bishop Pike, Lyle and Tector Gorch, Angel and Dutch. Whatta bunch. Here are my favorite quotes from that movie:

#1) "It ain't your WORD that COUNTS! It's WHO you give it to!"

#2) "Why NOT?"

#3) "Start the ball, Tector."

#4) "Kiss my mama's black cat's ass."

#5) "Mexico lindo." "I don't see nothin' so 'lindo' about it. Just looks like more of Texas to me."

If you've never seen the movie, the quotes won't make any sense to you, and you deserve to be dragged off and shot. That's why I liked the fact that a man from the land of Oz posted this idea on his blog:

Movie crossover I'd like to see:

Young Guns vs. The Wild Bunch

Pike, Dutch and the Gorch brothers would have turned those whiny, pansy-assed brat-packers into fertilizer.

Heh! He's right.

UPDATE: Just to give you an idea of what I'm talking about, just look at the Wild Bunch cast:

Bishop Pike-- played by William Holden
Tector Gorch-- played by Warren Oates
Lyle Gorch-- played by Ben Johnson
Dutch-- played by Ernest Borgnine

Bit parts were played by Strother Martin, L.Q. Jones, Robert Reed and they all were directed by Sam Peckinpah. You not only see and hear that movie... you SMELL it, too.

That's a goddam western.

They don't teach this in school

Originally published August 15, 2003

Of course, they don't teach much at all in school anymore.

Let's talk about the blackout. How many of my readers have ever run turbine generators? What happens when they start to "motor" instead of generate?

I believe a backfeed occurred on the grid and a lot of generators shut down as a built-in, self-protection feature. Be glad that they did. Otherwise, the power wouldn't be back on as quickly as it is.

I wonder how many politicians ever put the "sync" on a generator and threw it on the grid? I wonder how many politicians know what an electrical backfeed is? I wonder how many politicans ever saw a generator about to "motor?" I wonder how many politicians have a fucking clue about the difference between AC and DC current? What will the ignorant shits babble about tomorrow?

They'll have a field day about talking about ENERGY, while wallowing in ignorance, preaching to an ignorant audience and puffing smoke out their asses. Modern day witch doctors in expensive clothes is what they are. They make me want to puke.

I know how to sync a generator and I know how to throw the knife-switches on a high-power line. I've done it many a time and I am NOT an electrician. I just ran a power plant for a while.

I've never been a politician. They know a lot more about power grids than I do.


Originally published August 16, 2003

When I worked in the power plant, I enjoyed training new operators. I could blow their minds by demonstrating how a turbine generator worked.

The turbine is turning 10,800 RPM. Thanks to a reduction gearbox, the generator is turning 3,600 RPM. We are producing one megawatt of electricity and consuming 20,000 pounds of steam per hour.

Now, let open a couple of hand valves on the turbine and get some more steam in here. Whoh! We're consuming 35,000 pounds of steam per hour now, and producing 1.5 megawatts of electricity.

But the turbine still spins at 10,800 RPM and the generator still turns at 3,600 RPM. None of that has changed. Where did the extra power come from?

When they shook their heads in amazement, I explained it as "PFM."

Pure. Fucking. Magic.

I went into resistance later, but it surely was fun to play with their heads at the beginning.

April 19, 2008

A first

Originally published May 30, 2003

I've never put a Pay-Pal button or an advertisement on this site. I don't post pictures of monkeys, either. But a guy named "Potter" emailed to say that I need new material and a new direction in life.

So, I give you this, an ad with a monkey in it.

That's the first monkey I've ever seen that I liked.

[They must've changed the ad, 'cause I don't see any monkies. -Ed.]

5 rules

Originally published May 29, 2003

I need no preamble.

1) Work hard at whatever you do. Learn all you can every chance you get.

2) Don't whine and make excuses when you fuck up. EVERYBODY DOES! Accept the blame and learn from your mistakes. Don't ever make the same one again.

3) Treat people fairly, but don't EVER believe that you can treat everyone the same way. People are different.

4) Understand that some people you'll have to bark at, and some people you don't have to bark at to get the same job done. Bark at the ones who need it. Don't bark at everybody.

5) Always remember that you are in charge, but you are not God. Listen to the people who work for you. Encourage your people to say, "Are you SURE you want to do that?" when you say something stupid. If you are in charge, you WILL say stupid things from time to time, because you're looking at too much input at one time. Learn to listen to the guy who does ONE JOB every day when you're wrong. Heed good advice.

That's the kind of boss I try to be.

I don't blame the guy

Originally published August 15, 2003

Sugarmama and I disagree on this one. I believe that Judge Roy Moore is totally correct in his refusal to take down the Ten Commandments monument from the Alabama state judicial building.
[Neither the blog nor the article exist anymore. -Ed.]

Just read the Constitution. NOWHERE IN THERE do the words of "separation of church and state" appear. The Constitution guarantees freedom of religion and forbids the establishment of a state religion (such as The Church of England). That separation of church and state idea is pure bullshit, dreamed up by an opium-smoking judge. That's where a LOT of "penumbras" and "emanations" are discovered in the Constitution.

The Ten Commandments are 10 really good rules. I'm an athiest and I have no problem with any of them. Even that "put no other God before me" rule can be reconciled if I don't believe in ANY gods. No problem. I put you FIRST among the gods I don't believe in. I can do that.

If Martha Stewart put out a phamphlet called "10 good ways to live your life," and invented the 10 Commandments as part of a self-improvement program, no judge in the country would have rectal itch or hissy-fits over that. At least not until Martha appeared before the bench wearing handcuffs and one of those orange jumpsuits for sentencing.

But, I digress....

I see nothing wrong with the Ten Commandments being displayed in a courthouse. All 10 are good rules to live by. If you're in that court facing a jail sentence, chances are that you broke one or more of those very good rules. If you did, you're in that court to receive what you deserve.

Removing the Commandments won't change any of that. But it will be sheer hypocracy on the part of government. As long as we swear a President to the Oath of Office with his hand on the Bible and have "In God We Trust" printed on our money, spare me this anal-gazing bullshit about what separation of church and state really means.

Nobody makes me go to church. Storm troopers don't descend on the Crackerbox to FORCE me to pray. I don't have to say the Pledge of Allegiance, with or without "under God," if I don't want to. I can use red-letter pages ripped from a Bible as kindling to set the American flag on fire and I won't go to jail for it. That's called "freedom."

But we have to remove the 10 Commandments from this judge's courthouse? I have one simple question: WHY? Just what the hell does this dictate from some opium-smoking ass-sniffer of his own personal gods accomplish? What he is doing is called "government intervention," and that's the exact opposite of freedom.

I'll tell you why he's doing it. He shows just how goddam stupid and politically correct supposedly intelligent people have become after a 20-year brainwashing campaign. We are catering to the Lowest Common Denominator in ALL THINGS today, with the neurotic, the crazy, the malignant and the dumbfucks making all the rules for people who are perfectly capable of leading normal lives without the advice of asswits who wear tinfoil hats. HOW THE FUCK DID THIS HAPPEN?

Easy. We let it happen. The idiots went on a very successful PR campaign. We learned to fear being called "judgmental" and we worked hard on listenening to asswits spout nonsense to prove how "tolerant" we were. In doing so, we lost our goddam minds and allowed the idiots to take over the asylum.

We're going to pay for that mistake in the long run. Sugarmama's post about the judge shows how deeply the "Be an Idiot, or else we'll CALL you an Idiot and Everybody will Laugh at You" campaign has cut.

Man. It is difficult to maintain a bullshit detector today with so much bullshit in the air.


Originally published August 15, 2003

When a failure of the power grid throws a large portion of the country into darkness, it's big news. That news was everywhere today. But the REALLY big news is that people seemed to cope with the outage calmly and rationally. They didn't riot. They didn't go on looting sprees. They didn't burn down any neighborhoods.

Some of the reporting I saw from New York was absolutely amazing. A 60 year-old school teacher was out in the street directing traffic at a busy intersection. She just saw a problem and decided to fix it. She had never directed traffic before, but she was doing such a good job that somebody came up and gave her a coach's whistle to use. That's when she ran the reporters off, saying, "I'm sorry, but you're really in the way here."

I saw ordinary people doing things like that all over the place. I saw businessmen in coats and ties sleeping on the sidewalk. I saw strangers picking up people holding up destination signs to give them a ride home. I saw people actually laughing about what a big pain in the ass the whole blackout was. The sights made me proud to be an American.

What I saw today is a far cry from the 1977 power outage. I believe that the difference is the effect of 9/11 on Americans in general and the effect of Rudy Giuliani on New York City. We are more willing to pull together during adversity than we were before 9/11 and New York City is a lot more civilized after Giuliani's term in office. Could you see New York handling the crisis as well under David Dinkins?

Of course, some pus-bag political opportunists took advantage of the situation to fire away at George Bush. What else do you expect out of a dung beetle such as Hillary Clinton?

"I happen to think that making sure we have a reliable, affordable system of energy is a national priority - and I don't think that this administration sees it that way," Clinton told CNN's "Larry King Live."

You didn't think that way when you your husband was President. You and Bubba had eight years to fix the problem and you did nothing. Don't point fingers now.

And ESPECIALLY DON'T DO THAT SHIT when people seem to be handling the crisis okay on their own. What were you trying to do last night, Hillary? Stir up a riot or two? Bejus! I have nothing but contempt for a politician who uses a volitile situation for personal aggrandizement. If Hillary gave a damn about her constituents, she would have been telling them to stay calm, help where you can and wait until everything is repaired.

But Hillary doesn't give a damn about her constituents. They are proles she needs to be elected. She gives a damn about HILLARY!

When the lights are back on, everybody can point all the fingers they want to point. But let's get the lights back on first.

What will be amusing in the aftermath is hearing the Democrat lynch-mob calling for an upgrade of the power grid and a guarantee that a similar outage will never happen again. How they'll pull that stunt without admitting that they are so beholden to radical environmentalists that THEY THEMSELVES are the reason our power system is not what it ought to be should be interesting.

They oppose building new power plants, they oppose drilling in the ANWR, they oppose nuclear power and they oppose everything nutball outfits such as Greenpeace tell them to oppose. They oppose EVERYTHING that could give us uninterruptable energy supplies, but they want uninterruptable energy, too.

We might actually have some fascinating debate about this blackout, and it might be fun to watch.

But let's get the lights back on first.

April 18, 2008

Impressive storms

Originally published August 14, 2003

I've been plagued lately by a manly, studly little asswipe who calls himself "Buster," (which is appropriate because he makes me bust out laughing), who seems obsessed with playing Ah-Nuld in my comments. That guy is the toughest, baddest-assed sumbitch who ever shit between two shoes, and he did it it all BAREFOOT, because he is just that tough.

Buster, I'm reading my crystal ball about you right now. Lemme see... you are no older than 25 and you don't know shit from shinola. You don't do well with the wimmen because YOU SAY they don't understand you, but in reality you crap your pants every time you think about talking to one of them. You've never done doodly-squat in your life. If you have a JOB, asking "would you like fries with that?" is probably an important part or your duties.

You probably still live at home with Mom and Dad. You have a nice computer in your room that your parents bought for you, and mama makes your bed and does the laundry for her little boy, just the way she's always done. Meanwhile, you are Conan the Butthead on the internet when mama isn't watching.

You want some advice from an old fart who's been on his own for a long time? NEVER LEAVE HOME!!! Stay right where you are and let mama wipe your ass every day while you play tough-guy on the internet. That's one hell of a lot easier than getting a job and taking care of yourself. You might actually have to BE tough instead of TALKING tough in the real world. You ain't ready for that.

Buster, I'm just giving you good advice. Now shut the fuck up and listen to me.

"Hits" vs "visitors"

Originally published August 14, 2003

I've noticed something that seems to be unique to my blog. My "page views," or "hits" run damn near double what my "unique visitors" are. I've searched a lot of bloggers with open counters and I really don't see such a discrepancy anywhere else. Go hit my Site Meter and check it for yourself.

I wonder why most bloggers with open site meters run damn near one-to-one on hits vs visits. I have a theory.

I am a very predictable blogger. I don't blog at work, but I blog like hell from around 5:00 to 9:00 in the evenings. I am good for a new post about every fifteen minutes when I'm on a roll. I believe that my regular readers refresh my page a lot during those hours to see if anything new is there. Usually, they are rewarded with something new. It might not be any GOOD, but at least it's new.

Therefore, I have almost twice the "hits" than "visitors" on my blog. I believe that it's all a part of my schedule. The show is open from 5:00 until 9:00, except on weekends, when I may be blogging any time. But most readers stick with the schedule. They refresh a lot.

I get a lot of page views from the same people.

Shock and awe

Originally published May 29, 2003

I didn't write this, but I wish I had:

Hey, I hate Hillary just as much as the next guy. People say she is a "strong woman". She IS a "strong woman" but in the same fashion a bully is a "strong man". Hillary Clinton is a ten thousand pound gorilla who wields power the same way the leaders in ancient Greece used to beat the condemned with a whip before sending them off to the gallows and their eventual fate. I see nothing in Hillary Clinton that isnt rife with egotistical paranoia which, when combined with her fanatical pursuit of fame, fortune and power, creates something of a "Bride Of Frankenstein" type situation; especially when you consider there are actually a number of people in this country who think she is the female equivalent of Jesus Christ here on earth.

He left out the Bloodless Cunt part that I would have included, but other than that, I believe that mr. helpful has his eye on the ball. (He uses only one eye at a time. If he opens BOTH at ONCE, he sees double. I've been there and done that. I admire his discipline, AND his taste in whiskey.)

That post looked pretty good as I read it with one eye.


originally published August 13, 2003

I seem to have rid myself of the worm, but I really don't know how I did it. I would call it a miracle, but I think that it was more like a massive download of everything I could find to counteract the bastard. My readers sent me a lot of advice with simple instructions.

I LIKE simple instructions.

Anyway, I seem to be okay now, at least as far as the blog goes. I ain't okay worth a shit in my personal life.

Anybody got a patch for that?

April 17, 2008


Originally published August 13, 2003

I have a simple philosophy about meetings. They should be brief, focused on a subject and controlled by a chairman who keeps people on track. I went to one that was not like that today.

It sucked.

My boy

Originally published May 28, 2003

A fellow at work who was my maintenance planner for more than five years stopped me in the plant today. I really like John and respect his work ethic a lot. He said, "I met your most excellent son yesterday." John is 60 years old and he lives in Rincon, not far down the road from me.

"My son?" I asked.

"Yeah, I was in Wal-Mart and ran onto Jennifer. She had Quinton with her and I was really impressed with your boy. He's about as polite as any young man his age that I've ever seen. Hell, Rob, he's a good-looking boy, too."

I laughed and said, "Yeah, he is, John. And he's already smarter than you and I put together."

"I don't doubt it," John replied. "Next time you see him, tell him Mr. John said hello."

I'll do that, and Quinton will remember who "Mr. John" is. My boy is that way. He's always been pretty easy to handle, but I believe that he learned the lesson of minding mom and dad from an early age. We never moved any breakables, or put up with any shit out of him when he was in the curious, crawling stage of life. We taught him the meaning of the word "NO!"

He had to learn the hard way, like most kids do when they learn that word, because he got his hand smacked a lot. But he finally understood that Jennifer and I BOTH were serious and that pain would follow an episode of deafness when the "NO!" word was spoken. The truth is, he picked up on the concept pretty rapidly.

In his really formative years, we lived on the mini-farm, where he was free to run the dirt roads and the woods with his friends. He learned quickly then that no matter where he went, one of the neighbors was watching, and the neighbor would tell on the whole bunch of that roundhouse gang if they fucked up. He learned not to do it, because unpleasant consequences always followed.

I believe that I spanked my boy twice in his life. He deserved both, and I delivered on a promise both times. "If you do that again, I'm going to spank your butt." He did it again, and I spanked him. Twice. After that, never no more.

Yeah, I have a fine son. I am very proud of my boy and I miss him a lot. I see him four days every month now, and that's just not right.

Where's your sense of humor?

Originally published May 28, 2003

My brother is a very successful litigator. He's probably a near-millionaire. The two friends from my high school days that I went camping with are a lawyer/judge and an architect. I get drunk with these people. I go camping with them. I play guitar and sing with them.

I do well at making a living, even though I'm the toilet-plunger of the bunch, but I am not ashamed of the path I took in life. I worked my way to where I am and I am happy there. I know a lotta shit about that plant . I am valuable for what I know. That's why I am on more goddam "Continuous Improvement Teams" than I can shake a stick at anymore. I know so much that I can't do my job because of team activity.

My ex-wife is Manager of Continuous Improvement. She "facilitates" every meeting I attend. I hate that shit.

Let me give you one piece of good advice. NEVER date or court anybody you work with. That shit will come back to haunt you. It damned sure did me.


Originally published August 13, 2003

I haven't been kicked off-line for a good while now. Is the worm gone? Did some of that crap that I downloaded get rid of it? I don't know.

I DO have every kind of shit that anybody can suggest running on this computer now to keep it from happening again.

But I remain a complete fucktard about computers. If I get out of this quandry, it will be from sheer luck, good friends and excellent advice. I claim no credit at all. I am a fucktard.

But I thank every one of you who helped me.

April 16, 2008

Did you ever?

Originally published August 12, 2003

Did you ever really feel you skin tingle? You know, that really GOOD feeling of total excitement that you get sometimes when you're doing something totally new?

I did the first time I French-kissed a girl.

I felt it many a time on the football field. I felt it often on stage when the music was just right and the crowd was rocking. I felt it when I married my ex-wife. I definitely felt it when my son was born.

I wonder if I'll ever feel like that again. Not much is new to me anymore. That's a shame, but that's the way it is.

I'll always miss that tingle.

Once again

Originally published August 12, 2003

I present to you the most under-rated blogger in all of Blogdom.

I had a "pee-pee" when I was little. That's what Mom told me to wash. I tell Quinton to wash his "peep eye." I wasn't raised around wimmen, so I can't comment about their early hygene from any real experience. I always told my daughter to wash her "privates." I didn't know what else to say.

Do wimmen have cute names for their privates? How do you you tell your kids to wash them?

Lesson learned

Originally published May 27, 2003

When you are in pain, do not expect sympathy from a dear friend. Cop 3 proved that theory in my comments today. He does not feel my pain. In fact, he LAUGHS at my pain.

If you're really drunk around a campfire and decide to take the razor-sharp Buck knife off your belt before you climb into your sleeping bag, make sure that the damned thing stays in the sheath. Otherwise, it may pop out and cut the shit out of the index finger on your left hand.

A bloody finger on a camping trip will heal itself if you just say, "Goddam! I just cut the shit out of myself with my own fucking knife!" three times within five minutes. It worked for me.

No fish is too small to throw back into the Chatooga River, ever again. I'll keep even the minnows I catch from now own. Of course, that will happen when I am helicoptered back into the place or I walk with a llama bearing all my tack. I am NOT toting that crap on my back anymore.

As drunk as I was, I realized that our three-part harmony around the campfire sucked. Obviously, we didn't bring enough brown liquor. Of course, I ended up UNDER my hammock the second night totally convinced that I was IN IT, so maybe we brought too much brown liquor.

I truly did not realize that I was lying on the ground until Don said, "Smith, raise your fucking feet up!" I did. He said, "Now, cross your ankles. Feel something there? That's your goddam hammock, you drunken fuck-faucet! You're about to pass out on the ground."

He was right. I thought that the hammock should not have rocks in the bottom of it and I wondered why I felt them pressing on my spine. He solved that mystery right away. I managed to climb my way in and pass out go to sleep.

When you have to go back to work after three days of such debauchery, do not expect to feel like the best and brightest person you've ever been. Anticipate discovering new muscles that you didn't know you had, all sore as hell. Anticipate an overpowering urge to take a nap at your desk around lunchtime. Anticipate an early bedtime tonight and a fresh start tomorrow.

Yeah. I'm going to do THAT SHIT again, the first chance I get.

Holey mackrel!

Originally published May 27, 2003

I've had Sugarplum Kate on my blogroll for a long time, and I really don't know why. She is so sickeningly sweet and motherly and wifely that she really pisses me off sometimes.
[SK's blog no longer exists, so I turned her link into a link to an article about the case.- Ed.]

But she's got a mean streak in her, and I've stirred it up a few times. Ususally she just cusses me to show that she can and then leaves a little smiley face at the end of her email. I must have never pissed her off really bad, no matter how hard I've tried.

But she was genuinely pissed when she wrote this:

Patti - I cannot even believe you expect to find any sympathy for Matthew (or his moronic friends) here. What he participated in is unexcusable. What a pathetic and cowardly thing to do - picking on and killing defenseless animals. Animals that were removed from abusive situations and brought to the Popcorn Park Zoo so they could be safe. I am sorry that you know him on a personal level. How embarrassing for you. Ask yourself this: Did he stop and think, at any time, what he was doing was wrong? Did he stop his friends? Did you even read the charges against them? They brutally attacked those birds, beating them with a rake, shovel and a PVC pipe. Most of the birds were BEATEN to death. Two birds had to be euthanized for God's sake. I learned not to hit people and animals when I was 3 or 4 years old. He is a grown man and he must pay for his crimes. Not only is he accused of killing these birds at the zoo, he also has charges against him for: setting fire to a wood shed and golf cart spray painting swastikas on a paint ball business shattering windows at a Roman Catholic church AND the killing of a domestic goose at Wells Mills Park in Waretown. This is more than 2 wrongs, don't you think? I don't see when, at any time. he was being polite, kind or amazing. Maybe you could explain it to me. I wouldn't want to know him. As far as you calling me a hippocrite (which, by the way, is spelled HYPOCRITE**), I never suggested he or his friends should be killed. If you knew Christine, you would understand what she meant.

I am not going to explain myself any further. This is my blog. My space. MY opinions. Period. Don't like what I am saying? Well, move the fuck along and don't look back.

I like to shoot, and I'll kill a rabbit or a fuzzy-tailed tree-rat in a minute, especially if they are grazing in my garden the way they did last year. I like to shoot quail and dove on a bird-hunt. I don't care for deer hunting.

I see nothing wrong with killing whatever animal you have a reason to kill when it is a pest on your property or game for your table. (Goblins of the two-legged variety should take that advice seriously. I won't eat them, but I'll damned sure feed some worms.) I've simply never experienced any pleasure in killing animals just to be killing them.

I certainly wouldn't do it inside a cage using a stick on a helpless animal. People who do that crap are the next sicko Dahmers of the world. I think the law should throw the book at the pervert AND anyone who aided and abetted him on his sadistic adventures.

I am not a PETA member. I am not a real animal-lover. I hate cats.

But I hate deliberate cruelty to an animal even more. People who do what this guy did have a screw loose somewhere. They don't always stop with helpless birds, either. They often graduate to children when murdering feathered friends doesn't give them the thrill they're looking for anymore.

Lock that sadistic bastard up and throw away the key.

April 15, 2008

I can believe it

Originally published May 27, 2003

Subject: HILLARY

Hillary Clinton goes to a primary school to talk about the world. After her talk she offers question time. One little boy puts up his hand, and the Senator asks him what his name is. "Billy"

"And what is your question, Billy?"

"I have three questions. First - whatever happened to your medical health care plan; second - why would you run for President after your husband shamed the office; and third - whatever happened to all those things you took when you left the White House?"

Just then the bell rings for recess. Hillary Clinton informs the kiddies that they will continue after recess. When they resume Hillary says, "Okay where were we? Oh, that's right, question time. Who has a question?"

A different little boy puts his hand up; Hillary points him out and asks him what his name is.


"And what is your question, Steve?"

"I have five questions. First - whatever happened to your medical health care plan; second - why would you run for President after your husband shamed the office; third - whatever happened to all those things you took when you left the White House; fourth - why did the bell ring 20 minutes early; and fifth - what happened to Billy?"


Originally published May 27, 2003

I don't know for sure whether that is a real word or not. If it isn't, it ought to be. I happened to mention on my trip to the mountains that my outlook on most rules was "fungible." I believe we were talking about my lack of a valid Georgia fishing license at the time.

Don asked me what I meant by that, because he was unfamiliar with the word, so I launched into a grand, beer-soaked epistle about Situation Ethics. I have one set of rules that I faithfully follow when I am dealing with people who faithfully follow the same set of rules.

I have an ENTIRELY DIFFERENT set of rules that I play by when dealing with a complete shitass. The only way I can hold my ground with a shitass is to be one myself, and the only way I can BEAT a shitass is to be willing to be a bigger shitass than he is. Hey! I didn't make those rules. The shitass did. If he didn't come out of the blocks being a shitass, I wouldn't have to be one, either.

I see absolute fungibility in most laws passed by our asshat, do-good government.

Take speed limits, for example. I don't care what is posted on a sign. I am going to drive as fast as I think I can get away with. Speed doesn't kill. That blue-haired lady doing 45 MPH in the left lane of the Interstate while everybody else is doing 85 MPH KILLS PEOPLE. I don't, doing 90 when everybody else is doing 85.

Now let's look at the infamous Assault Weapons Ban. I have seldom seen a more dumbass law passed by more dumbassed people. Do you think I'm going to abide by that piece of crap? I see that one as extremely fungible, especially when the people who support it lie about its usefulness and in the same breath admit that it accomplished nothing.

That law is a stepping stone to gun confiscation, and if George Bush renews that Thalidamyde baby, I will sit out the next election. And I will keep my guns, too.

I don't dabble in illegal drugs anymore and haven't for years, but I did in the 1970s and I saw those laws against it as extremely fungible. If I wanted to suck on a doobie in the privacy of my own home and play my guitar in a state of complete stonedness, who the hell was I hurting? MYSELF? I never saw the government as having the duty to protect me from myself.

Too many people BELIEVE THAT SHIT today. Those who blindly accept that piece of absurdity NEVER run out of good ideas for other ways that the government can protect you even more, and your personal freedom dwindles every time they succeed.

Sweet Bejus. I am 51 years old. I had a mama and daddy who raised me. I have two children of my own now. I don't need the fucking government to take care of me. I can do that all by myself.

And any law that says I can't will ALWAYS be "fungible" in my eyes.


Originally published August 11, 2003

I just watched the damnedest thunderstorm that I think I’ve ever seen. It was spectacular, with tons of rain, lightning shooting across the sky and thunder right behind every strike. The GROUND shook. It knocked out the electricity for a while and it killed the phone lines, too. It lasted about an hour and then blew over. I watched it all from a lawn chair in my garage. Bejus! That was some kinda storm.

The electricity is back on, the cable is still out and the phone still doesn’t work. No phone, no dial-up internet connection, and no blogging. I wrote this entry on Microsoft Word. I'll cut and paste it later, if my phone ever starts working again.

What the hell. I could use a night off anyway.

That was one impressive storm.

Something is fubar

Originally published August 12, 2003

I don't know if Earthlink is a victim of that stupid new virus, but it kicks me off and shuts down my computer every time I try to log on. I am reduced to using the emergency back-up AOL connection to post.

I don't like this crap.

At first, I thought the trouble came from that spectacular electrical storm yesterday (and by the way, Buster-- kiss my Cracker ass, you unappreciative buttwipe. If you can't enjoy a good storm, there's something wrong with you.), but when the damn computer started doing the same thing when I got home from work today, I thought that maybe I had the virus.

I tried the AOL connection and everything seems to work fine. I've been on-line for 30 minutes now and haven't been kicked off and shut down yet. I HATE AOL, but it's better than that "THIS PROGRAM IS SHUTTING DOWN BECAUSE OF NT AUTHORITY\SYSTEM VIOLATION. REMOTE PROCEDURE CALL HAS BEEN UNEXPECTEDLY TERMINATED" I keep getting on Earthlink.

But I am temporarily (I hope it's only temporary) cut off from my email. That fact chaps my ass too, because I actually caught up with it on Sunday.

Oh, well. If it doesn't heal itself, I'll call Earthlink tomorrow.

April 14, 2008

I'm gonna die

Originally published May 26, 2003

The soreness is setting in seriously now.

I am too old for this shit.

I may need help to get out of bed in the morning. The knife cut on my finger probably could use a couple of stitches, but my back is going to require a massage and massive amounts of Vicodin before I recover. I feel as if I have been stretched on a rack.

I went camping with two friends I've known since high school. One was my college roommate and the other was a long-time guitar-playing partner. We're in our early 50s now, after being friends for more than 30 years, and we still behave like teenagers when we get together and start drinking brown liquor in the woods. Doing that crazy shit hurts a lot worse now than it once did.

I really enjoyed the trip, but it may be the last one I ever take. That pack is heavier than I remember it being, and the trail is a lot steeper, too. I get tired sooner than I used to. And when I get sore, I stay sore for days anymore.

If I ever do that again, I'll hire a helicopter pilot to ferry me in and out. Fuck that hiking.

I am not a teenager anymore.

The $3 million turd

Originally published May 26, 2003

How much life insurance do you have? I got rid of mine once I quit having a life, but I once carried $500,000 worth. My family could collect half a million dollars IF I FUCKING DIED!!!

But here is a story about a guy who made THREE MILLION DOLLARS for hurting himself in a goddam shitter.

A city worker has hit the jack-potty. Cedrick Makara, 55, scored a $3 million jury verdict last week because he hurt his thumb trying to get out of the john of a Manhattan building where he works.

People, do you see anything absurdly wrong with this picture? If you don't, you need to be dragged off and shot.

Makara, of Brooklyn, said he was hurt in 1999 because the bathroom door at 40 Worth St. in lower Manhattan had a missing doorknob.

Menkes said Makara reached his hand through a hole where the knob should have been and pulled the door toward him just as someone entering the bathroom pushed the door in.

The injuries were so bad, Makara had to undergo surgery, she said.

The jury awarded Makara $2 million for past and future pain and suffering, and $200,000 for future medical needs. It also awarded $750,000 to Makara's wife, Sheron.

Three million dollars for getting a hurt thumb in a goddam bathroom? What's with the $750,000 for the wife? Did Makara thumb-fuck her on a regular basis with his wounded thumb? She suffered loss of consortium when the husband couldn't get that thumb up anymore?

Give me a break!

I BUY an insurance policy that I PAY FOR and I have to DIE to collect 1/6th of what this asshat got for a hurt thumb. Slap my ass and call me Fanny.

We live in a crazy world.

40 years ago

Originally published August 10, 2003

Quinton starts fourth grade on Monday. My boy is growing up fast.

Last night, I told him the story of THE BIG HOLE IN THE GROUND that my buddies and I found in the woods one day when I wasn't much older than he is now. We weren't supposed to be on the wrong side of Whitfield Avenue, but we found a firebreak that bicycles could travel and off we went. We stopped when we saw THE HOLE.

It was about 20 feet deep and was old enough that a few 30' pine trees were growing up from the bottom. It was awesome.

Stop and think. You have six boys on bicycles, in the woods, with a 20-foot deep hole in the ground. What do you think happened next? OF COURSE WE RODE INTO THE HOLE! What would YOU do?

We busted our butts and went ass over teakettle. Man, that was fun. We dragged the bikes up the hill and did it again. I got the bright idea to jump off my bike and grab one of the pine trees and ride it to the ground. IT WORKED! Everybody wanted to try after that. Finn did it. Art did it.

Then Michael tried. Mike went flying up to the hole on his bike, took a giant leap and MISSED THE LIMB he was supposed to grab. He went SPLAT right into the tree and slid down the trunk to the ground as the bark worked on him like a side-on grinder. The boy was damn near eviscerated by the time he hit bottom. Blood was everywhere. We thought he was dead.

His brother took off screaming, running through the woods without remembering that he had a bicycle. Art sat on the ground and started crying. I ran to the bottom of the hole to check on Michael. "STOP BLEEDING!" YOU'RE GOING TO GET US ALL IN TROUBLE!" I said.

Mike looked okay to me. The tree whipped his ass, but other than that he was all right. "I missed," is all he said.

I gathered everyone in a huddle after we found Finn and decided that Mike was going to survive. I told them, ""Here is the story. Mike fell off his bike. It happened near Hesse school. That's all anybody needs to say. It's not a lie."

"That's not really the TRUTH," said Art.

"But it's not a lie, either," I countered. "What do you think we should do? Tell Mike's mom that we were where we aren't supposed to be, doing things we aren't supposed to do? I like my story better."

After a moment's thought, we agreed on the "Mike fell off his bike near Hesse School" story. We stuck with it, and nobody got in trouble.

I think I might have taught my son to tell creative "truths" last night.

Sunday evening

Originally published August 10, 2003

Little tiny cars and trucks
all turned upside down.
What are those things doing here
with no kids hanging 'round?

I'm a grown man now-a-days
I don't play with toys
All the stuff that's scattered there
Belongs to those two boys.

One's my son and I don't know
What he does when he's away.
That's why the sun sets hard on me
Every other Sunday.

I watched him eating watermelon
Spitting out the seeds
Then I threw him in the swimming pool
Yeah, that's all that he needs

A dose of dad like water
That runs right off his back
Let's get home by 6:00
And slowly fade to black.

The Crackerbox is hollow now,
My boy has gone away.
That's why the sun sets hard on me
Every other Sunday.

Poetry isn't my speciality, but you ought to hear the melody that goes with this one. A-minor. Sounds very mournful, which is the way it was meant to be.

April 13, 2008


Originally published August 10, 2003

When I got my bionic implant, my mama asked me why in the hell I wanted to do such a thing. She said, "Robbie (she still calls me 'Robbie'), after the troubles you've been through, I'm suprised that you ever want to even TALK to another woman again."

Yeah, I've been shat upon and spat upon and dragged through the courts like a criminal. Wimmen have cost me a lot of money, a lot of property and broken my heart more than once. But I love them just the same. I couldn't explain it to my mama. Hell, I can't explain it to ME.

I don't believe that I display obsessive misogyny. I believe that wimmen are an alien race that I will never understand, but I fear them more than I hate them. I hate specific ones, but I don't hate the entire breed. I like pussy too much to do that.

Some wimmen hate me back. That's okay. I don't get along with everybody.

But some wimmen also believe that I am charming, humorous, outgoing and fun to be around. They like my cooking and the way I sing when I play guitar. They read this blog, too.

Wimmen piss me off with some of the shit they pull, but they smell good, feel soft and are just so DIFFERENT that I am hopelessly intrigued by them. I'll never get over the sense of wonder that they give me. They scare me to death, but I think that's part of the fascination. Me=moth, Wimmen=flame. Those hormone-riddled bags of mostly water sure can make you feel good sometimes.

They can be the most underhanded, heartless, two-timing, blood-sucking, cat-nasty bitches in the world. They also can make you thrill to get home from work as quickly as you can to be with them.

I've spent almost two years of my life trying to recover from the crotch-kick I got from the last woman I loved. In most things, I believe in the "once burnt, twice learnt" school of philosophy. Don't do that again. But I violate that rule when it comes to wimmen. I am not built to be a lonely bachelor. I need a woman in my life the way I need air to breathe.

As a result, I probably have the most famous Roscoe in the Blogosphere. I may not find a woman, but my dick damn sure got some publicity.


Originally published August 10, 2003

I've had a lot of dogs as pets in my life. Every one of them was a mutt adopted from the pound or from a neighbor whose purebred slut-muffin got nailed by Tramp when no one was watching.

I consider myself to be a mutt. All links to the family tree vanished when the Harlan County Courthouse burned down sometime in the 1920s, so I have nothing but the Family Bible and my 92 year-old grandmother to tell me about my roots.

I know this much. I have Scots-Irish, Dutch, French and skulking Shawnee blood in me, plus who knows what else. I am an amalgam. I am a mutt. My name is SMITH, for crying out loud. That's what makes me such a good American.

I couldn't honestly hypenate myself if I wanted to. I don't have a "motherland" or a "fatherland" to claim. I was born in Kentucky and I'm proud to call myself a genuine Appalatchan hillbilly. But I've lived most of my life in southeast Georgia, and I am equally as proud to call myself a genuine Jawja Cracker.

But I am an American first and foremost.

In Effingham County, all of the Salzburgers can trace their roots right back to the ship that brought them here and landed at Ebenezer in the early 1700s. They are all German Lutherans and many of them have the family Coat of Arms displayed in their houses. I always was fascinated by roots that went that deep. I never knew where I came from.

Hell, if my family had a Coat of Arms, it probably would have a moonshine still, a hound dog and a shotgun on it.

In some ways I regret not having "The Olde Country" to think about, but I really don't believe that I missed a whole lot. If I DID have a homeland to visit, I wouldn't fit in there. I am too American.

I can tell by the color of my eyes that the Scots-Irish blood in me is the strongest, but I have no burning desire to visit Scotland or Ireland. I would rather see the Grand Canyon. My grandmother on my father's side was a Napier, but I have no urge to visit France. I would rather spend a week in Canada.

I suppose that my lack of roots, other than the ones I put in American soil, is why I despise people who hypenate themselves. African-American. Italian-American. Irish-American. Bullshit. Kiss my Cracker ass.

If you feel the need to be a hypenated-American, be here on a visa and take your disloyal ass back to your "home country" when you are finished enjoying the fruits of freedom and prosperity we take for granted here. Show me any place in the world that is better than the USA and maybe I'll listen to your hypenated bullshit. Until then, either drop the hyphen or get the fuck out of here.

Nobody's making you stay.

I like being a mutt. It keeps things simple for me. THIS is my country, and that's all I need to know.

I am back

Originally published May 26, 2003

I look and feel like Fido's ass.

I have cuts and bruises all over me. I am covered in filth and I need a shave. I smell like a wild animal. I didn't catch any fish worth keeping, but I DID almost fall off the mountain. I'll be lucky to make it out of bed in the morning. I'll need at least week to recover from the abuse I heaped upon my body.

Boy, that was fun.

Things I took, things I forgot

Originally published May 26, 2003

I put all of my fishing tackle in a baggie and stuffed it into my pack along with a pair of needle-nosed pliers, some fishing line and some split-shot sinkers. I hooked several fish, but they were too small to brag about, so I threw them back in the river. I wasn't looking for sardines up there.

I brought only one treble hook, and I lost it on the first day when I got hung on a rock or a log and had to cut the line to get free. I believe that I would have done better if I had used treble hooks instead of the single-barbed variety I was stuck with after that. Oh, well. At least I didn't fall in the river.

In response to a couple of emails, I confess that I took my .38 revolver with me. It's a five-shot, and I load four rounds and carry it on an empty chamber. I also carry a fully-stocked, five-shot speedloader. The pistol never came out of the pack. We met nothing hostile on this trip except each other, when we got drunk and argumentative around the campfire.

I have a 10" Buck knife that is sharp as a razor and handy for all sorts of things on a camping trip. I used that tool a LOT this weekend, and accidentally gave myself a bloody wound on the index finger of my left hand when I drank too much brown liquor and forgot just how sharp that fucker is. I survived, I think.

Lots of heavy rain has fallen in those woods lately, and all deadfall was wet and soggy. It takes skill to build a fire out of that crap, but I am the Fire Guy, and I got it done. I just wish I had taken a few chunks of Flame-Log to use as fat lighter. My job would have been easier.

I forgot my toothbrush. Bejus! Go three days without brushing your teeth and your mouth starts to feel like an Afghan cave serving as a terrorist haven, where unclean men shit in the corners of the room. That's the first thing I did when I got home. I brushed my teeth. THEN, I took a shower.

The Chatooga River is beautiful. I should have some pictures to post in a few days. I forgot MY camera, but Don brought one, a disposable 35mm piece of drek, so we took a roll of film on that thing. I believe we have fishing pictures, a shot of Cop 3 baking biscuits on the campfire and a picture or two of ME with no shirt on. Can you imagine that?

We played guitars and sang really shitty three-part harmony while being altogether fucked-up around the fire at night. Brown liquor will make you do stupid things.

But I made it back home in one piece, with all the crap I toted up there. That's all that matters.

April 12, 2008

Southern food

Originally published August 9, 2003

I love Southern food. I'm a skinny little shit, but I still like to eat the good stuff I find around me all the time. Here are MY TOP TEN SOUTHERN FOODS

1) Southern Fried Chicken. I have a recipe that'll blow your drawers off.

2) Fried Okra. Good? Just damn!

3) Blackeyed peas and rice. Good with all of the above.

4) Fried green tomatoes. If you've never tried them, you've never lived.

5) Pinto beans and cornbread. Food of the Gods.

6) Fresh watermelon, bought at a roadside stand from a farmer that you can dicker with. He's selling them for $2.00 each, but you can get three for $5.00 if you flash some green. A Southern watermelon in the summer is as sweet as you mama's kiss.

7) Grits. ALL HAIL GRITS!!! I don't give a shit what the Group Captain thinks about this matter. Grits are GOOD, with over-easy eggs in the morning, or with fish and shrimp at night. Anybody who doesn't eat grits should be dragged off and shot.

8) Low Country Boil. If you don't know what that is, you are pathetic.

9) Barbecued pork ribs. I'm taking about falling off the bone tender, with lots of hot sauce. Come South and taste mine. You'll never go north again.

10) Fresh fried, skillet-made creamed corn. That'll make you kiss the cook.

I could go on, but I am finished now.


Originally published August 9, 2003

In response to some of the comments I received on my post about Southern Food, I need to make a few comments myself.

#1 Chicken Fried Steak is good, but it's more Texican than Southern.

#2 I should be dragged off and shot for leaving butter beans off my list.

#3 Fried fatback with biscuits and gravy isn't bad, either.

#4 Boiled peanuts are a Jawja staple. I thought everybody knew that.

#5 How could I forget Kryspy Kreme doughnuts?

#6 Anybody who calls "instant grits" GRITS should be dragged off and shot TWICE. I am a purist when it comes to grits.

#7 A Low Country Boil WITHOUT SHRIMP ain't a Low Country Boil. Goddam. That's blasphemy.

#8 There's not a whole lot of difference between "soul food" and genuine Southern Cooking.

#9 Corn bread is baked in the oven in a cast iron skillet. Period.

#10 People down South actually argue about which way fried okra cooks best. Do you slice it longways or sideways? I slice it longways. And I can eat it until my pants slide off.

I could go on, but I am finished now.

Update: I should have thought of this.


Originally published May 23, 2003

I haven't done this in a while. I dragged my dusty backpack out of the garage and started to think about what I need to take with me. Four packs of boil-in-bag rice, a pound of salt-cured country ham, six bagels, four Cup O' Soup envelopes, some mixed nuts and five Snickers bars. I'm also packing a frozen bar of butter for the fish I intend to catch.

I added a quart of bourbon in a canteen, some salt and pepper in a film case and twenty aspirin plus five Band-Aids in a plastic baggie. I believe that I am ready.

I'm going into the woods tomorrow.

I am packed

Originally published May 23, 2003

Cop 3 and my friend Don should be here around 7:00 in the morning, and I'll be ready to go when they show up. I am strapped and packed.

They mentioned something about taking guitars on the trip, so I want to see what they have in mind. The three of us have played together for damn near 30 years and we don't intend to walk far on this trip. Music around a campfire in the mountains in the dark would be really fun. I have a case that straps on my back...

I'll carry my axe in my TEETH if I have to. If they are bringing theirs, I'm bringing one of mine.

April 11, 2008


Originally published August 9, 2003

Judging from what I read in the comments a few posts below, I conclude that some people don't know what "chitlins" are. Please allow me to enlighten you ignorant, citified yankees.

I've seen them packaged in a grocery store and the label always says "chitterlings." I never heard a person in my life who ever ate them pronounce the word that way. "Chitterlings," my ass. They are CHITLINS.

My family didn't eat chitlins when grandpa butchered a hog. We ate the "cracklins," which some people know as pork rinds today. That's deep-fat (lard back in those days) fried pig skin. Cracklin gravy is damn good when poured over biscuits for breakfast. Cracklins by themselves are good.

But chitlins are hog intestines, and I never ate them until later in life. The hog-guts were scooped up and taken to "nigger camp," (remember where I grew up) and they were sold for a nickel a pound, shit and all. They sold quickly, too.

Chitlins can be boiled, stewed or fried. I prefer them fried, but I've eaten them every way they can be prepared. I've heard about the different ways to "clean" chitlins. They can be hand-slung, stump-whomped or finger-squeezed. No matter how you do it, you've got to whip the shit out of them. Nobody want to eat chitlins with a stray hog-turd still lurking in there.

They taste pretty good. You oughta try some.

Politically incorrect

Originally published August 9, 2003

I once was drinking beer with a DARK-SKINNED friend of mine (call him an African-American and you'd better to be ready to fight) after a round of golf and he was bitching about the grass in the rough. It was badass grass.

"It comes from Africa," I told him.

"Got-Damn! I KNEW IT!" he declared.

His children are named Susan and Anthony. He doesn't believe that he and his wife have any deep roots in Africa. They don't celebrate Kwaanza. They put up a Christmas tree the same way I do. He believes that he is an American. Period.

"The only good thing ever to come out of Africa was my forefather," my friend said. "Look at what we get now. Hurricanes. AIDS. That fucking grass in the rough. Nelson Mandela. Piss on Africa."

We went nine more holes and he ALMOST won back the money he owed me after the first eighteen. But he still had to slap leather at the end and pay for his perfidy.

"I'll get you NEXT TIME, ya goddam Cracker!" he promised, still nursing his wounded wallet.

I really liked playing golf with him. He's asked me several times lately to drag my clubs out of the garage and tee it up again, but I always say no. Shit, with my lack of practice, he'll beat me like a drum if I play him now. He's a good golfer.

My friend and I agree that a lot of bad things come out of Africa. But I submit that MORE bad things come out of California today. That is a fucked-up state. The citizens elected a governor that they KNEW wasn't worth a shit, then they want their own Magic Slate to erase that brain fart by recall.

Fuck 'em. You elected the asshole, now live with him for four years. I don't want this "Mulligan" mentality to spread. Most of the cancer that has eaten away the bedrock of this country came right out of granola-crunching, tree-hugging asswitted California, the certified nut-bowl of America.

I agree with the grouchy old cripple:

What really scares me is so much of what happens in this country starts in California. If this trend holds, in twenty years our country is doomed. And what is wrong with California is so obvious. The combination of liberalism and political correctness has so totally fucked up California, we would be better off just giving the state to Mexico. Fuck you California! You're just too fucked up for us to fuck with you.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

I shit my pants

Originally published May 22, 2003

The four of us agreed to meet at the Shoney's in Hardeeville, South Carolina, for breakfast before we all loaded into one van to drive to Charleston for a golf tournament. We played that benefit tournament every year and we always did it the same way.

I ate scrambled eggs smothered in mushrooms. I always ate scrambled eggs smothered in mushrooms at that restaurant. The breakfast was good. I even went back for seconds from the breakfast bar.

We teed of and I felt fine. I was playing well. We played 11 holes and I was beginning to feel a slight Gut Rumble. On the 12th hole, I sunk a crucial birdie putt and leaned over to pick the ball out of the hole. That's when it hit me. I had to GO! I had to go RIGHT THEN!

I started toward some azaleia bushes off the green, broke into a run when I became really desperate, but I never made it. I puckered my butt-cheeks as tightly as I could, but it was no use. My pucker-valve failed on me and I shit all over myself.

It wasn't like laying a keilbasa sausage in the old hip pocket. It was more like having a couple of cans of Hormel Chili spraying down your pants legs so hard that it ricocheted off the ground and sprayed back UP your pants legs. It was disgusting.

Luckily for me, I was wearing black pants and the country club had a shower in the locker room. My partner, holding his nose the entire way and laughing his ass off, drove me back to the clubhouse. I climbed into the shower with all my clothes on except my shirt (See? I really don't like to wear shirts!). I had shit in my golf shoes. I threw my socks and underwear away.

I cleaned up and went back out on the course, wet as a drowned duck, to finish the round. I birdied the next hole, then won the Long Drive contest with a fluke shot on the hole after that. The ball bounced off the back lip of a sand trap, shot like a bullet from a rifle, hit the cart path three times, and rolled out into the fairway 50 yards ahead of anyone else.

My partner suggested that I should shit my pants more often. It seemed to bring out the best in me. He may have been right. I also won the Closest to the Pin prize on the last par three I played. I birdied that hole, too.

Now, I ask you. How many women would tell THAT story on themselves?

I am opening up

Originally published May 22, 2003

Since I already admitted to the day I shit my pants on the golf course, I'm going to really open up now. You know, I feel a real sense of release, since I keep so many of my real feelings bottled up on this blog. I think that I'm going to let it all hang out now, which I normally never do.

1) I DON'T LIKE BLACK PEOPLE!!! I am a Southern White Man, so I must be a racist. I'll just go ahead and admit it, right here and now.

2) I DON'T LIKE CATS!!! They remind me of why I don't like Black people. It's just something about the way cats walk around with their tails in the air so that they show you their assholes all the time. Al Sharpton does the same thing.

3) I DON'T LIKE WOMEN!!! They remind me of cats, and cats remind me of Black people, and Black people remind me about what a racist I am. I hate them all.

4) I DON'T LIKE SHITTING MY PANTS!!! I did that once as an adult and I didn't like it. Quinton did it all the time when he was a baby, but he had someone else to clean his nasty ass for him. When he comes to my home now, I tell him: "Shit your pants, you live with it. I ain't cleaning it up." He doesn't shit his pants anymore. He trashes his bedroom instead.

5) I DON'T LIKE MONKEYS!!! They fling feces, which reminds me of shitting my pants, which makes me think of cats and makes me hate women and think about Black people, especially Al Sharpton. I feel a lot of hate when that happens.

6) I HATE PEOPLE WITH MONKEYS ON THEIR BLOGS!!! You just shouldn't do that. It makes me think of cats, and you know where I go from there.

Okay, I believe I have opened up enough for one night.

April 10, 2008

Bolt of nostalgia

Originally published May 22, 2003

I just remembered watching Captain Kangaroo when I was a kid still living in Kentucky. He featured a Tom Teriffic cartoon every day.

Nostalgia questions:

1) What did Tom Teriffic wear for a "Thinking Cap?"

2) What was the name of Tom's dog?

3) Who was the villian in the cartoons?

I KNOW the answers. That's how freaking old I am.

Now, I'm pissed off

Originally published May 21, 2003

No wonder England is in such dire straits that they teach visitors to become "proper" victims for criminals today. Listen to this absolute shit:

Rob, what would you do if your state was invaded by another country, if hundreds of people were terrorised and massacred by the invading army and if those who didn't flee were forced to live as second-class citizens. What would you do if the rest of the United States decided to ignore the problem, if UN resolutions condemning the occupation were ignored and the invaders began building settlements on land left behind by your friends as the fled in fear of their lives? What would you do if others, unknown to you, carried out suicide bomb attacks on the invaders, who retaliated with missile strikes and helicopter gunship attacks, and bulldozed peoples' homes?

What would you do if your son was shot in the head by a soldier, for throwing stones at a tank?

After you buried your son, would you just go home and so nothing?

Listen, asswipe! THAT HAPPENED IN THE STATE OF GEORGIA IN 1864! Sherman burned Atlanta and marched all the way to Savannah, destroying everything in his path. Yes, we Southerners are the only part of the United States EVER occupied by an invading army and it happened during the Civil War. We had a "peace" rammed down our throats by Carpetbaggers and asshole yankees. We suffered for 100 years from that crap.

But we NEVER resorted to suicide bombers and kids throwing rocks at tanks. In the end, we beat the yankees at their own game. It took a while, and a lot of people suffered in the passing, but the South is IMPORTANT today. We are becoming more and more the Gold Belt of America.

I don't know what you are talking about. MY son will never throw rocks at a tank. He's a smart boy.

He'll use a RPG or a bazooka.

Here was the problem

Originally published August 7, 2003

Last night, I played with all my new hardware while blogging nekkid in an air conditioned room. I was comfortable, but my testicles were not.

Testicles don't pay any attention to vascetomies or radical prostatectomies. They just want to maintain their ideal temperature for their reproductive function whether you can reproduce anymore or not. They were doing their job.

They got cold, and as a result, they decided to draw in closer to the warmth of my body so that they could maintain their ideal reproductive temperature. God taught them to do that. They don't listen to me when I tell them that they don't have to do that sort of thing anymore. They listen to God, who belongs on my Top 10 Comedians list.

Anyway, when my testicles want to get warm, they convince Mr. Scrotum to draw up to take them where they want to be, which is really tight against my body heat. Mr. Scrotum obliges by shrinking himself to amazingly tight porportions.

When I started tampering with the hardware yesterday, I just came in from work. I sweated my ass off all day and the rain did little to cool me down. My testicles were too HOT then, so they wanted to dangle low. Mr. Scrotum provided a big, loose pouch for the two nuts to ride in. I found access to the hardware very easy then.

But as I blogged and pumped, my testcles got cold and connived to hide themselves in a very snug package. When I was ready for bed, I couldn't root around in there and find what I was looking for anymore. There wasn't enough room. I was in a quandry.

I laid in bed and thought about just sleeping with a woody all night long. If I did, I would wake up with a woody in the morning, and MAN, it's been a long time since I did that. But this was a true woody and unless I was willing to sleep on my back all night long, that plan was NOT going to work.

I got up and took a hot shower. That worked like a charm. Pancho and Lefty got hot, asked for some room to dangle, and I was able to seize the moment. I found the "off" buttons and deflated myself. I felt better after that. I knew that if I wanted Morning Wood, I could make some when I woke up. I went to bed and slept blissfully for a change.

I'm still learning the rules of the road with this new gizmo I have, and I believe it's going to take some time before I become a Master Swordsman again. But you've gotta eat that elephant one bite at a time. I took a big bite last night.

I took tonight off. I kinda scared myself yesterday.

More adoration

Originally published August 8, 2003

Here is another critique of my site:

Acidman runs a blog called So what? Everyone has a site. People are bitchers on the internet. If I want to read someone ranting about something, I'll read Maddox or someone like him.

Well, kids, this guy is different. This guy is REAL. You and I are full of bullshit. This guy is not. This guy is laying it down every day he puts up something new. This guy has lived it, learned from it, and knows what life is all about.

To sum it up, he is a punkass male sexist pig old man who does nothing but bitch all day about the people who have fucked him over and who/what is fucking him over today. And we salute him for that. In our world, he would be president... or at least given a large firearm and martial law authority.

I am flattered by the effusive praise, but I beg to differ on one point. I no longer do "nothing but bitch all day." Now, I bitch all day while playing with the buttons on my bionic dick. I multi-task.

Give me credit for THAT, Catholic Samurai.
[Blog no longer exists.- Ed.]

April 09, 2008

Houston Control, we have a problem

Originally published August 6, 2003

I let Roscoe run around and eat ants for about three hours while I pumped a little more about every 30 minutes. I was pleased with the results. But now, I am ready to go to bed.


Bejus. This could be embarrassing tomorrow.

Food for thought

Originally published May 18, 2003

If you are banned by a lying, duplicituous non-entity, is that really a ban? How can a delusional hockwad who doesn't exist "ban" me?

whatever you want to believe, go ahead and believe. i do not care because i know the truth and you don't. and the only piece of shit i see is the mail i just got on my screen. and if by the wrong people, you mean the joan, joni and kate trio or even i supposed to really care? now, to block you so i do not have to read your shit on my screen anymore.

Tony, you wasted a lot of unnecessary effort there. You didn't need to ban me. If you thought I ever intended to vist YOU or the imaginary Zander ever again, you were hallucinating.

Wait... that's what you do ALL THE TIME, isn't it?

Speaking of food

Originally published May 18, 2003

One gallon of milk, two boxes of cereal, six Sprites, two packets of microwave popcorn, one large cheese and sausage pizza, one pound of bacon, six eggs, half a jar of peanut butter (with two tubes of Ritz Crackers), two orders of curly fries from Arby's, two cheeseburgers with homefries and cherry tomatoes and Bejus knows what else from the candy jar.

THAT'S what those two little garbage disposals have eaten so far this weekend. They are outside playing some kind of combination baseball-dodgeball game right now. You know what they're doing?

They are working up an appetite.

Department of "give me a break"

Originally published August 7, 2003

If you took a job working for Larry Flynt, the most famous smut-peddler in the world, what would you expect to find in the dishwasher? Dishes? I doubt it.

I might find FUCKING DISHES, a midget couple locked in a sudsy love-embrace or anything that Bullwinkle pulled out of his magician's hat when he was reaching for a rabbit. No matter what it was, I would not be shocked or surprised. After all, I am working for Larry Flynt.

But a delicate flower among the weeds of Larry Flynt's empire is suing now.

Elizabeth Rene Raymond, a former executive assistant to two top officers of Flynt's company, Larry Flynt Publications Inc., sued for sexual harassment and wrongful dismissal from her job Monday, the same day as Flynt announced he was running in California's October gubernatorial recall election under the slogan "a smut peddler who cares".

Raymond, who was fired from her job a year ago, claims that Flynt fostered a hostile work environment. She said in the lawsuit she had found sex toys in the company dishwasher that were "used on the prostitutes who visited his office."

Excuse me if I have no sympathy for the whining bitch. At least the sex toys were in the dishwasher, nicely cleaned and sterlized. Nobody was chasing her around the office while waving an 18" two-pronger at her.

I have a simple philosophy: If you go to work for a pornographer, you need to be able to handle the sight of a dildo, plus a whole lot more.

She's sounds like an idiot who takes a bartender's job in a strip club and then complains because nekkid wimmen have men stuffing dollar bills into their g-strings in there. THAT'S A HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT! MAKE IT STOP!!!!

Raymond was dismissed shortly after complaining to her supervisors.

No shit! The US Government couldn't shut Larry Flynt down, but this "offended" woman thought she could? No wonder she was fired.

What in the hell was the dingbat thinking?

Never mind. She was an offended woman. They don't think.

Lawyers at work

Originally published May 19, 2003

Sue-happy attorneys do so much good in the world. They've managed to shut down a water park in my beloved state of Georgia, right before the summer heat wave, which lasts from June until October.

Families and kids who found summertime fun and enjoyment each year at the Krystal River Water Park in Evans will have to find somewhere else to cool off in the months ahead.

The park is closing up shop because its liability insurance costs jumped from $8,000 a month to a whopping $58,000 a month. Customers couldn't possibly afford to pay the higher admission price park owner Ken Edwards would have to charge to offset the 700-percent premium increase.

Why did the insurance company do that?

The answer is clear. The insurance company knows that if some idiot kid violates every safety rule posted in the park, does something incredibly stupid and breaks his fool neck, a sharp lawyer can find twelve dipwits with which to staff a jury to find the water-park liable for the dumbass's injuries and award several badzillion dollars in their verdict. It happens all the time.

I have served on juries where I heard people say, "Aw, c'mon. Give the poor client a break. It's not like it's YOUR money."

No, I don't have to write the check for your generosity right then and there, but I'll pay my portion of it later. Everybody will, eventually.

But what's happened with regard to the Evans water park, and many other such playground facilities, is that insurance rates are keyed to protect the business from rapacious lawyers.

Lawyers' lobbies will say not so - that "greedy" insurance firms raise their rates through the roof to recover losses they suffered during downturns in the economy and equity markets.

However, that explanation doesn't fly. Insurance companies, like any business, know they can't improve their bottom line by raising rates so high their clients can't afford to pay. Losing customers is no way to win back Wall Street losses.

Insurance companies raise their rates 700 percent when they know that's what they must charge to keep plaintiffs' wolves from their door - even if it forces some clients out of business.

I don't blame lawyers for that. I blame jurors. I blame idiots who enter the courtroom with that "Who Want To Be A Millionaire?" attitude, believing that they're handing out winning lottery tickets using somebody else's money. The dumbasses just don't get it.

It IS your money.

Lawyers are just taking advantage of an opportunity. A crooked used-car salesman will screw an idiot for $200. A lawyer will DAMN SURE screw society for a couple of million dollars. In both cases, they couldn't screw ANYBODY without the assistance of idiots.

Don't blame this summer's dried up water park in Evans on insurers. Blame it on our litigious society.

Many lawyers' idea of fun is to destroy everyone else's fun. And if you want to do something about it, push for tort reform in Congress now and next January in the General Assembly.

Tort reform in a Congress owned and operated by lawyers is about as likely as the second coming of Bejus. A lot of that evil tobacco money is at work stalling any kind of tort reform. Lawyers know a Golden Goose when they see one, and you don't kill that money-laying bastard.

And nothing will EVER change as long as jurors believe that they are playing with other people's money at some cosmic craps table in a lawsuit.

April 08, 2008

How it works

Originally published August 5, 2003

I received an email from the BC today... NO, GODDAMIT! Let me back up. I was walking somewhere that I needed to go and I couldn't see around the corner, but I heard my ex-wife say "Herrow." That's what she does to impress people that she doesn't give a shit about. She does that happy-faced, Charlie Chan "herrow" to people who don't know her.

I turned the corner and ran into her and the Plant Manager. The plant manager said, "Rob, how are things going in Finishing?" I replied, "Not that bad, boss. All the problems are minor and we should have a good production day."

He said, "GOOD!" and bulled on by me. That left me face to face with my ex-wife.

"Herrow," she said, with that same phoney fuck-face that she uses on everyone else in that plant. I said, "Herrow," too, because I didn't know what else to say. I spent a lot of time thinking about that encounter later.

That woman slept in my bed for ten years. We grew a son together. We owned and sold five different houses as we did better in life. I held her when she was sick and I once thought that we shared every secret we ever had with each other.

Now, I rate a "Herrow," and a big phoney grin when our paths cross.

I don't understand people who own a Magic Slate in their minds. Just pull the tab and everything ever written on the page goes away. Nothing was never there to begin with. It was all just lines on a Magic Slate.

I was married to one of those people. I never believed that she could operate that way until she pulled the tab on me. Now, she is rising to new heights in a company that sent me another "Company Code of Ethics" form to sign the other day.

It swears you to honesty, fealty, fair practices, respect for fellow man and good conduct in all aspects of your life. Fuck. I signed it. She did, too, the bloodless cunt.

What a fucking joke. My ex-wife is in charge of a finger-pointing, career-destroying pimp brigade, dedicated to fucking with people every chance they get. She is the PERFECT head of that militia. Her code of ethics is lower than that of an alley rat, but that's the kind of behavior the company rewards. Just sign the fucking paper. We don't really mean that bullshit.

Aw, I'm ranting now and I'm going to shut up. I didn't really mean MY bullshit, either. I just pulled the tab on the Magic Slate and it never happened. That's ethical, isn't it?

My problem is that I DO have a bullshit detector. And I can't turn it off.

Random notes

Originally published August 6, 2003

Blogging will be lighter than usual this evening because I'm going to try to plow through some of my email. That task may take some time, especially since I like to reply to the good ones. But I thunk a couple of thoughts that I want to share:

#1) If you don't believe in magic, live near Interstate 95 in southeast Georgia. That road is magic. It's a cosmic rain-barrier that steers clouds where it wants them to go.

Last week it rained like Niagra Falls all over Effingham County. (I wasn't here to see it, but I heard all about it when I returned from Jekyll Island. I also saw all the flooded ditches and water-marks in my yard. It sprinkled a few times in Savannah. The rain made I-95 its border and stayed WEST of it.

Being the capricious woman she is, Mother Nature is on the opposite side of the super-slab this week. Now, the storms blow in from the east, flood downtown Savannah and stop EAST of I-95. I drove home from work in a frog-strangling downpour today. When I was a half-mile past I-95, the road was as dry as a popcorn fart.

Who knows which side the rain will be on next week? I don't. But you can bet your sweet ass that I-95 will be the border.

That road is magic.

2) I have been playing with my new toy. Not "playing with it" in self-abuse mode, but just learning to operate it and checking everything out. I was disappointed in the doctor's office yesterday when he pumped it up. Roscoe became stiff, but he damn sure wasn't anything to brag about. The process was painful, too. I was very unhappy.

But I've been pumping for a while, letting Roscoe rest, then pumping some more. In fact, I am blogging with a very nice erection right now and it doesn't hurt at all. A also believe, based on the size of the implants, that I'm only about half-pumped. I believe that when I get the old one-eyed rascal accustomed to this process, he may be very close to what he was before.

I just need to break him in slowly.

3) Parents, teachers and politicians should not be making excuses for kids who can't read. [News article no longer exists.] The parents should be working with their children while screaming that the teachers be fired and the politicians should shut the fuck up. But parents don't want to be bothered, the teachers like their feathered bed and the politicians NEVER shut up. That story is a crying shame.

Okay, I'm off to read email for a while.

My dreams

Originally published May 17, 2003

I walked in, sat down on a stool at the bar and ordered a drink. A haze of ciagrette smoke floated lazily amid the neon lights. I thanked God that I wasn't in New York City. I fished a deck of Marlboros out of my shirt pocket and lit one, tossing a couple of smoke rings into the mist. The bartender slid an ashtray my way.

She was a good-looking woman, but I could tell that she had been around. "Buy me a drink, soldier?" she asked, as she sidled up to me and poured herself onto the stool next to mine.

The low-cut dress left little to the imagination about her breasts, and when she crossed her legs to show me thighs all the way to THERE, I knew that I was dealing with a formidable foe.

"I'm not a soldier," I said, keeping my cool. "But I'll buy this whole goddam bar if you'll go home with me and fuck my brains out tonight."

I offered her a cigarette. She took it, placed it between her red-lipsticked lips and drew daintily as I applied some fire. She blew smoke rings that matched mine when she exhaled.

"What do I get out of it, big boy?" she asked.

I threw $175 dollars in cash, three credit cards and a Food-Lion discount coupon on the bar. "All of this and more," I said, giving her the sexiest look I could muster.

"You have a booger hanging out of your nose," she whispered.

I used a bar napkin to handle that problem and was disgusted by what I saw. "I've got a chronic sinius infection," I explained.

She smiled, rubbed her red-nailed fingers on my leg and said, "That's okay. Are you infected anywhere else?"

Then, I woke up.

I'm not that old yet

Originally published May 17, 2003

Smiling Dave8 struck again tonight with this:

Well, it finally happened. I finally crossed the line into old age. I knew that I'd done it when I heard another old guy discussing his stools, and I was – for a moment there – interested in what he was saying.

Dave really needs to start a blog.

April 07, 2008


Originally published May 17, 2003

To jay solo. I started this blog on December 28, 2001. That was my son's eighth birthday and I was supposed to have custody that weekend. I came home with cake and presents to find a message on my answering machine from my ex-wife informing me that she had gone to the mountains with her unemployed, dope-smoking lover AND QUINTON for the weekend and all of the next week.

Her exact words were, "If this upsets you, you'll just have to get over it." I will NEVER forget that message and I will never get over it, either. I will never forget throwing that cake in the trash can and crying like a baby. I will never forget the day I started this blog.

I just wrote and threw it out there. I wanted people to read what I wrote, but I never knew how or wanted to troll people. I still believe that doing that is manipulative and evil. It works, but I don't do it (not very much anyway).

At first, I used a pseudonym, because I wrote about a lot of personal stuff that I thought might affect my job. Now I don't care who knows my real name. And I still write about personal stuff.

I was linked by some of the big boys because they found me. I didn't go looking for them. I appreciate the attention, and it damn sure inflated my readership, but I kiss no ass on this blog. My blog is what it is.

I started it to give me a reason not to blow my fucking brains out. After a while, I met a lot of interesting and friendly people and stopped doing the nightly ritual of choosing between the alarm clock and the pistol. People, you cannot imagine how close I came to choosing the pistol on many a night.

I believe that I had 5,000 visitors by March of 2002. That's about the time I established the Original Crew. We started our own little network just so nobody's comments stayed empty. It became a really friendly group. I received about 35 visitors every day and I was proud of that fact.

I never trolled for hits or followed any kind of Ten Commandments for attracting traffic. I don't leave a lot of comments where I surf, except for the Original Crew. I don't email people asking for links.

Jay, once I hit 25,000 visits, the whole thing took off all by itself. It took me damn near a year to get 50,000, then six months to get 50,000 more, then LESS THAN six months to get 100,000 more added to the roll.

You are where I started, but I think you have a leg up on me. A lot of people know who you are. NOBODY knew who I was when I started, because I didn't know who I was myself. Go forth and prosper.

If you build it, they will come.

Using the oven

Originally published May 17, 2003

I spent about an hour this morning baking baseball gloves in my oven. I am NOT making that shit up.

I took Quinton and Young Jack to Wal-Mart this morning for a shopping spree. They wanted baseball gloves and a bat, so I told them to get what they wanted. Jack picked out a $50 glove and I told him that he really didn't want THAT ONE, because the ones for $18 were just as good. He is gullible and he listened to me.

While the boys were selecting gloves, a woman walked up to me and said, "I've been doing this for years. I have FOUR boys. If you're going to buy them a glove, get some of THIS and follow the instructions. It works GREAT!" She showed me a can of some kind of spray-on softening agent. I bought it.

When we got home, the gloves were stiff the way new gloves always are. I used to work vasoline into mine for about a week to make my glove soft and flexible and waterproof and fit to catch with when I was a kid. Times have changed.

You can break in two gloves quickly today. Just spray one down with this stuff that looks like shaving cream when it comes out of the can, put it on a damp cloth on a cookie dish in the oven for four minutes and let the leather absorb all the foam. Pull that one out, put the second one in, and flex the hot glove every which way as soon as it's cool enough to handle. Then foam it up again, take the second glove out of the oven, put the first one back in, and repeat as necessary.

I broke in two baseball gloves to be as soft and as flexible as sheepskin in less than an hour today. I said, "Check THIS, guys!" and tossed the boys my handiwork. They praised the gloves, played catch for 15 minutes, then threw the gloves down and went out back to chase lizards in the woods.

The short attention-span little shits.

I have a new toy

Originally published August 5, 2003

I learned two things today. I have a new bionic dick that works, and I'm going to pay a lot of money for it. Learned thing #1 trumps learned thing #2 hands-down.

After prostate cancer and the resultant humiliation I went through at the hands of medical science, I have no shame or embarrassment left in me. When I was sitting on the examination table, nekkid from the waist down with the doctor steering my fingers all over my crotchital area to show me where the on-off switches were in my nether scrotal hideaway, I never even flinched when a nurse walked in.

Hell, I wouldn't have flinched if we had been on the fifty yard line as part of a Super Bowl halftime show. That's how little physical modesty I have left in me.

He said, "I'm going to squeeze here," and he did. I heard a muted gurgling sound and Roscoe woke up and looked around with his one good eye to see what was going on. The doctor said, "That's about all you need for now. When you are less sore, you can experiment with the pressure you want to use. To deflate the erection, you press here and squeeze your penis." Roscoe went back to sleep.

He sent me off into a side room with an instruction book. I pushed and squeezed and probed for 15 minutes and I couldn't get the damn thing to work. My immediate thought was, "My $35,000 dick broke on it's first semi-outing!"

About that time, the same nurse walked into the room. "You doing okay, honey?" she asked, as I was still probing my nutsack for the keys to the riddle. She has shaved my balls twice in my life so far, once when I was asleep. I am NOT going to piss her off. She might be around there with a razor again someday.

"No, I ain't doing all right. I can't get the damn thing to work. You want to try it?"

She didn't try it, but she brought me a model implant and demonstrated it outside of my body. She let me do it. Once I figured out how THAT worked, I was successful on my own. I just needed more training.

I'm still too sore to go for a real long-jump, and I'm pretty sure that the bionic Roscoe won't be nearly as good as the one I had before prostate cancer. The pumped-up erection still feels unnatural to me. But I can surely tell that he's gonna be better than the dead Roscoe I've lived with for almost two years now.

Now I know how it works. And practice DOES make perfect, doesn't it? I intend to practice a lot.

Early bedtime tonight

Originally published August 4, 2003

I noticed one thing about my damn near indestructable body after eating lots of fried seafood for a week and dining on egg-drop soup and fried won-ton with Chinese noodles yesterday. Feed me enough of that crap and I can damn near shit clean over the roof of my house when I've got to go. I've been afraid to fart all day for fear of soiling myself.

I blame the unsteady belly on that goddam egg-drop soup. Ain't nobody but an inscrutible Chinese communist could invent that crap. I don't know why I eat it. But when I see it on a Chinese menu, the Commie rats do a mind-meld on me and make me order the BIG BOWL instead of the cup. Then they send it over to my table in the hands of a very lovely Oriental woman who asks me if I want noodles to go with that.

YES! I cry, as I realize that I am helpless in their thrall. I'm going to eat every bit of it and hate myself for about three days. I am heading into day #2 now.

Just a note: I have never made love to an Oriental woman. The one who served me my meal yesterday looked good enough to eat, and my belly probably would feel a lot better today if I had dined on her last night. The guys I know who served in Vietnam laugh at me because I never sampled the "sideways stuff." But I don't want what they got, none of that "You #1 GI for two-dollah" in the back of a jeep.

The Asian wimmen who attract me all have pretty faces, small titties and lovely feet. They are very polite, but unfortunately not for sale. I believe that they are beautiful. I may ask one to go out with me sometime and see what happens.

But you can bet your sweet ass I won't eat egg-drop soup first.

April 06, 2008

Another milestone?

Originally published May 16, 2003

A look at the old hit-counter suggests that I may cross the 200,000 visitor mark sometime tomorrow. If you are the person who makes the 200,000th visit, save a screen shot, send it to me, and you'll get a wonderful prize. I haven't decided what the prize is yet, but since price is no object, I'll make it a cheap one. You pay postage and handling, too.

But I am serious about one thing. I thank each and every one of you for coming here to read the crap that I smear on this page. I would have no reason to keep doing it if not for you.

Hmmm... reading that last smear again, I'm not certain whether I thanked you or insulted you.

Bah! YOU figure it out.

The strike

Originally published May 16, 2003

The final vote occurs at 7:30 tonight, which means it's all over but the counting right now. I have no idea what the Union may do and, frankly, I don't give a lovely shit, either.

All week long, I had operators asking me, "If the Union strikes, do I get locked out, even if I want to come to work?" I couldn't answer their questions because upper management wasn't taking a clear stance yet. They finally did last night. Better late than never.

We're not going to lock anybody out. If a worker is willing to cross the picket line, we'll let him in and put him to work. I think this is exactly the right policy.

Our maintenance department is damned near 100% union. Those guys were raised in the trades and they kept their OLD union memberships in their trade union up-to-date just in case they needed to go down to the Union Hall and sit on a bench waiting for a job. Production workers don't have that same option.

That's why only about 30% of the production workers in my area belong to the Union. And that 30% is mostly stewards and fuckheads. THERE'S a union for you today. The power-hungry and the incompetent, banding together, for the good of the power-hungry and the protection of the incompetent.

My beloved state of Georgia has a Right To Work law. Most of my operators want to come to work no matter what the Union decides. In fact, some have said that they're willing to climb the fucking fence to get in, if that's what it takes. They have families to feed and a good job where they are.

If the Union votes to strike, it commits suicide, pure and simple. We'll lock the strikers out and never invite them back. There will BE NO MORE UNION! We'll hire new people willing to work for the wages and benefits we offer (and they are EXCELLENT) while the unemployed mau-maus walk the red line and wave their picket signs at the end of the company road like the stupid trolls they are.

Why anyone in a union "leadership" position can't see that handwriting clearly on the wall is a mystery to me.

But these "leaders" will jet off somewhere else, to their next confrontation with management, secure in their Union jobs, with no thought at all of the crap they left in their wake. If the rank and file listen to those assholes, they get what they deserve.

Hmmm... maybe we need a nanny law about forbidding ANYONE from listening to bad advice.

Naw. That would put too many government workers and Congressmen out of a job.


Originally published August 4, 2003

I thought that this piece about bob hope was unneccessarily cruel. I usually enjoy Christopher Hitchens, but he seems like a pretty humorless bastard to me now.

No, I cannot remember a single Bob Hope moment that slayed me. But I can remember many a time that he made me laugh. Was he a "great" comedian?" Maybe not. Maybe he was just around for a long time.

I never thought that Henny Youngman was a great comedian, either, but throwing out one-liners is an art that some people simply do not appreciate. Comedy is hard work. Try it on stage, as I have done, THEN you lecture me about it. Just see how fucking funny YOU ARE first.

When I was in Charleston with my friend, Ken, he mentioned that teaching still thrilled him because when he had interested students paying attention and wanting to learn, teaching was "theater." I countered by saying that 95% of everything you do in life is "theater."

I really believe that. Some people are just better actors than others and some people simply never understand the audience they are playing to. I perform at work all the time, especially in situations where I have to discipline someone or I need to get my way.

I was training a green supervisor once upon a time, and I told him to watch me, keep his mouth shut and learn. I was about to create a deliberate, cold-blooded train-wreck. I had planned it for a day and a half and I was ready to go now.

I did everything but foam at the mouth and bite somebody's leg. I threw a temper-tamtrum that Baptist preachers would have envied. I drew a circle on the floor and pitched a hissy-fit inside it. I should have been elected the official shaman/witch-doctor of the plant after that. I damn near was, too. I got my way, ended the conflict, then sat down in my office with the green supervisor.

"How the hell did you DO THAT?" he asked.

"Years of practice," was my reply, and I was not kidding. 95% of life is theater. Never forget that fact. What do you REALLY think I do on this blog?

I've always liked comedians with an edge to their theater and Bob Hope never had that edge. He was Everyman's comic. He lacked anger and sarcasm. He wasn't as funny as Groucho Marx. Hell, he wasn't as funny as Moe Howard. He damn sure couldn't hold a candle to George Carlin or Sam Kinneson. And he was never off-beat and unique enough to compete with Steven Wright.

But he made a lot of people laugh, just the same. Don't call him an asshole for that.

Some people just like different theater than others do.

More on bottled water

Originally published August 4, 2003

I have managed to chap a bunch of sensitive asses with my rants about bottled water. When I read "Why don't you drink some of this alkalai-filled, arsenic-laced shit we call water around here? Shit your brains out and puke your guts out for a few days. THEN tell me I'm a pussified yuppie for buying bottled water."

I'm not talking about going to the grocery store and buying water in one-gallon jugs to drink and cook with because the water out of the tap is damn near unfit to flush a toilet. I've done that. Go down around Fort Myers, Florida, on the beach. That's the most sulfurous water I ever smelled. You couldn't take a shower in it without making the entire bathroom smell like an egg-fart.

I ain't gonna drink that crap and I ain't gonna ask my family to, either. I made a run to the grocery store and bought a CASE of 12 one-gallon jugs of water for $10.00. That's what we cooked with and drank while we were there. Good, cheap, clean, fresh water. Twelve gallons for $10.00.

While I was at Summer Waves, the big water park on Jekyll Island, I became thirsty from being out in the sun and watching the boys play. I looked around for a water fountain and couldn't find one. I saw HUNDREDS of people walking around with bottles of Evian and Aquapure and the rest of that yuppie shit in their hands.

I went up to a concession stand. "How much for a pint of cold water?" I asked.

"$2.00," was the reply.

"How much for a cold Mountain Dew?"

"$1.70." I bought the Mountain Dew. It came in a bottle just as large as the yuppie water did.

That's when I had my epiphany about bottled water. We have become so health-conscious, risk-averse and brainwashed by bullshit today that some asshole working out of a mobile home in Dalton, Georgia can fill plastic bottles out of the nasty tap in his kitchen sink, slap some kind of "spring-water" label on it, and convince people that it's worth $2.00 a pop because it "tastes better" than regular water. My ass.

If you spend your money on $2.00 water, you need to be dragged off and shot. You can buy DISTILLED WATER at any drugstore for $1.99 a gallon. (I did that when I was mixing my powdered elixer for Roscoe shots.) That's as pure as water gets, and you can fill up EIGHT of your designer plastic bottles from that one gallon. That's water that has been DISTILLED for about 20 cents a pint. But YOU'LL pay $2.00 a lick without even knowing where it came from. Dumbfucks.

Bejus. People who drink bottled water will destroy this country.

(And I want to add that eight years of my career were spent in steam generation. I know a lot more about "quality water" than most people do. That knowledge is essential in operating boilers and turbine generators. I would like to run a few tests on that piss you pay $2.00 a bottle for and show you what's really in it compared to your tap water.)

April 05, 2008

Dumbass are me

Originally published May 16, 2003

I arrived at the urologist's office right on time today. I thought that the parking lot looked kinda empty for his thriving practice. I went inside. Nobody was in the waiting room and the sign-in sheet was all blacked out.

The receptionist asked, "Can I help you"

"Yes, ma'am," I replied. "I have a 10:45 appointment with Dr. XXX today."

"We don't see patients here on Fridays anymore. Dr. XXX is at the Effingham County Clinic."

That's when it hit me right in the face, like a bunch of hog intestines flung by a hazing teenaged girl at a flag-football game.

When I made the appointment, the receptionist pulled up my records and asked me, "Is that Savannah, or Effingham?"

I thought she wanted to know where I live now. (I stayed at my mama's house when I had my surgery, since I was a homeless person at the time, and I thought that they were asking about my current address.) "Effingham," I responded, not knowing that Dr. XXX now operates a practice RIGHT HERE where I live.

They booked me there, and I went to the wrong place at the right time.

Oh well, it's only another week. And I know where to go this time.

Holey moley

Originally published August 4, 2003

I have been a complete slackard about domestic duties of late. I never did cut the grass before I went on vacation and I just didn't feel like doing it when I got back home. My yard is a jungle now.

I've been collecting the mail and throwing it unopened on the coffee table for almost two weeks, and I know that some of those envelopes contain bills that I should pay before guys in uniforms who drive trucks with "GEORGIA POWER," "EFFINGHAM COUNTY WATER CO." and "DISH NETWORK" show up at the Crackerbox to make me live like the Unabomber for a while. I opened them when I arrived home from work today.

Okay, I need to send JB his $20 tomorrow with a letter of apology for not doing it sooner. Not late on any of these others except MCI and I cancelled with those bastards months ago over Danny Glover being their spokes-leftist. I don't owe them a goddam dime. No trouble, so far.

Then I opened the envelope from Memorial Hospital with the two-page blue document inside. It was the itemized bill for my bionic dick installation. The doc said the procedure would cost between $12,000 and $15,000. I looked at the bill and rescheduled my Thursday appointment for tomorrow, at 2:45 in the afternoon. The doc has some 'splainin' to do.

The implant ITSELF, just the bionic dick, was $16,707.55. "Medical-Surgical supplies" were another $7,662.01. The "recovery room," where I spent less than four hours, was $1,718.15. I am hoping like hell that "Operating room services" of $7,151.71 include the doctor's bill, because the total right now is $34,099.55. That's for a LESS THAN two-hour operation and six hours total in the hospital.

My insurance will pay 80% of that up to my total out-of-pocket for ME of $3,500, then they'll pick up the rest. Do the math. As an English Major, I don't do math, but it looks to me like I'm out $3,500 for this little episode.

This goddam bionic dick better work like a Swiss clock. I could have bought a Picasso for what it cost.

April 04, 2008

Nanny laws

Originally published May 16, 2003

I received a lot of comments on this post. I agree with some and disagree with others.

Every one I disagree with says something about "It costs us all when people don't..."

That is the bullshit line that led to the rise of the smoke Nazis, it is the bullshit line being used now by the Oreo-Nazis and it's been lurking in the wings of the anti-gun Nazis for years. Convention wisdom seems to be, "It's costs society money for people to behave in a way that I would not behave myself; therefore, I am fully justified in passing a law forbidding that kind of behavior, because I am helping society, NOT being a petty little sanctimonious Nazi."

(And Godwin's Law be dammned on this topic. Those fuckwits ARE Nazis. They just picked somebody other than Jews to go after this time. I think they call them "stupid people" now.)

If that were TRULY the case, the same people would be wailing at the top of their lungs about third-generation welfare mothers with ten illegitimate children each teaching THEM to be ticks on the belly of society, too. THAT sort of "stupid" behavior damn sure costs society MILLIONS OF DOLLARS every year, but the nannies who wail about smoking and seat belts are the same ones who oppose welfare reform.

That "cost to society" is the cloaking device they use to justify wanting to run every aspect of other people's lives simply because THEY KNOW BEST. If you examine the issue closely, you'll see that there really isn't a dime's worth of difference between them and an Islamic fundamentalist. They are doing the will of Allah society, for the good of a society that isn't smart enough to have a will of its own.

I wear a seat belt every time I get behind the wheel. If you ride in my truck, YOUR ASS will wear a seat belt, too, or else you don't ride. I survived a T-Bone crash in the passenger seat of a Chrystler LeBaron in 1983, and that physics lesson stuck with me all the way to now. Put your head through a windshield at 60 MPH and seat belts start to make a lot of sense.

But I still oppose Georgia's mandatory seat belt law. I KNOW that seatbelts save lives. I believe that anyone who DOES NOT wear a seat belt is an idiot.

But I also believe in the right to take a risk. If you want to be an idiot, go ahead and take your chances. You live (allegedly) in a free country. Besides, when you pass a law banning idiotic behavior, idiots still violate it. What the hell have you really accomplished.

We have the mandatory helmet law for motorcycle riders in Georgia, too. I'm with Mr. Lion. If I rode a motorcycle, I would wear a full-face helmet. My head may be hard, but it damn sure isn't as hard as a paved road or a car bumper. I like my head, as full of spiders and snakes as it may be, and I want to protect it.

But the Harley riders around here wear those little beanies that are a legitimate helmet the way a fig leaf is a legitimate tuxedo. That pissant "helmet" ABIDES by the law while making a joke of it. Yeah, we need more of that shit to keep society safe from itself.

I have airbags in my truck. I keep the passenger side turned off (yes, I have a special key for that purpose) because Quinton rides there and that air-bag is much more of a deadly menace to HIM than a nanny-protecter device. But my "smart" government mandated that it be there to protect "stupid" people like me.

Bejus! You know what's really wrong with this country? People like Dawn Olsen can swallow these kinds of laws by the bucketfull and never realize that they taste like pure shit.

Weekend duty

Originally published August 3, 2003

I may be on the shit-list at work after this weekend. I didn't spend a lot of time at the plant performing the "weekend duty." I got the numbers, plugged them into the computer, sent them off, made sure nobody was dead in the last 24 hours and split back to the Crackerbox both days.

That's not the way weekend duty is supposed to work. I should have burnt about half a day out there, walking around looking worried and important. I needed to furrow my brow and show my dedication to the company just by BEING THERE when I didn't have to be.

My company appreciates people who do that, who live breathe and die for the cause, except when they become "manpower issues" and are let go for the sake of synergy, competitiveness, right-sizing or some other corporate bullshit. I've spent 23 years of my life working there and they may drop me like a hot rock tomorrow. I've seen it happen too many times.

I once was a very ambitious man. I put a lot of my heart and soul into my work. In return, I was given a paycheck and a few promotions. That sounded fair to me at the time.

But everybody and everything I did that for are gone now, and Acidman ain't working himself into the grave so the company can throw a wreath on me and give somebody else my job when I'm gone. I am through with climbing. All I want to do is hang on now. And I'm really not that interested in hanging on.

Don't get me wrong. I'll earn every paycheck I receive, but I'm not going to make that place my life anymore. Doing that cost me two marriages and everything I held dear to me. I've spent more of my life at that plant than I have in my own bed. I spend a LOT MORE time with operators than I do with my son.

This weekend, the truth finally dawned on me. That's not my life anymore. It's just a fucking job

April 03, 2008

Email wisdom

Originally published May 16, 2003

Catfish had this to send today:


*I've learned that no matter how much I care, some people are just assholes.

*I've learned that you can get by on charm with shallow people for about fifteen minutes. After that, you'd better have money or a big weenie or huge boobs.

*I've learned that you shouldn't compare yourself to others - many are more screwed up than you think.

*I've learned that you can keep puking long after you think you're finished. (I can attest to that fact--ed)

I've learned that we are responsible for what we do, unless we are celebrities.

Smiling Dave8 said:

There's a flaw in the Dilithium crystals, and it's causing a warp coil overload. If polarity cannot somehow be reversed, the propulsion systems are all going to blow.

At this point, Captain leads Away Team down to the surface to examine some ancient Kirrillian artifacts, leaving Commander Trombone with the con. Captain names Counsellor Complaisance, Ensign Sweetcheeks, and Whoopsie Golfarb to form the team, along with two expendable Security crewmen. Token android is dispatched to Holodeck One to input a Mickey Spillane program, wherein he (it) will seek solutions to the problem confronting the ship. To be continued�

I keep telling Dave to start a blog!

Douglas Chandler waxed elequent on the looming strike at my plant and the aftermath a a plant shutdown:

The salary people won't make out whole lot better in a lot of instances. They may get offered jobs in other locations, but pulling up roots, leaving family and friends behind? Some will get early retirement offers that they will take just so they can stay in the area even though it will drop their long term income. Others will leave, have to prove themselves all over again. Go crazy in start up plant operations. They'll see a good share of divorce, depression, and boozing.

My fear is that you'll end up in some third world location on a tropical island with nooky all over the place and you'd never blog again.

Why do I need to write when I get such good emails?

It's my opinion

Originally published August 2, 2003

I left a comment over on marc's blog about bottled water. Here is what I said:

I can drink out of the fucking toilet around a three day-old turd. That's why I never get sick. I grew up in a coal mining camp and my auto-immune system is finely-tuned. I drank BROWN WATER as a child.

You bottled-water drinking people need to stick that crap in an enema bag and squirt that $2.00 per pint bullshit up your yuppie asses.

Goddam. I can buy LIQUOR that doesn't cost as much as your WATER. Buncha pussies.

To me, bottled water symbolizes everything that has gone wrong with this country since the goddam Great Society brain-fart was hatched. We've pussified damn near three generations now by promising them a risk-free life. There IS NO SUCH THING, PEOPLE!!! Ya pussies.

I took polio shots as a child because the "swimming hole" was flowing with raw sewage anytime some bastard upstream took a shit in the outhouse he built over the river because he was too lazy to dig a hole in the rocky ground. I took shots for cholera and diptheria, too. Nobody gave a shit about second-hand smoke and we breathed leaded-gas exhaust emissions, coal dust and wood-smoke every day without dying. In fact, we seldom got sick.

Now, we have legions of neurotic fuckwads who are "allergic" to smoke, mold, new carpet, flouridated water, water-based paint, the air, the dirt, the daylight and the night. You know what the bare-assed, nekkid truth about those people is? THEY ARE FUCKING PUSSIES!!!

Goddam. We once grew pioneers in this country. Now we grow whining pussies by the bushel. I blame environmentalists and trial lawyers for this bullshit.

April 02, 2008

Why dogs are better than women

Originally published May 15, 2003

Dogs Don't cry.
Dogs don't care if you use their shampoo or hairbrush.
Dogs think you sing great.
A dog's time in the bathroom is confined to a quick drink.
Dogs don't expect you to call when you're running late.
The later you are, the more excited dogs are to see you.
Dogs will forgive you for playing with other dogs.
Dogs don't notice if you call them by another dog's name.
Dogs are excited by rough play.
Dogs don't mind if you give their offspring away.
Dogs can appreciate excessive body hair.
Anyone can get a good looking dog.
If a dog is gorgeous, other dogs don't hate it.
Dogs don't shop.
Dogs like it when you leave lots of things on the floor.
Dogs never need to examine the relationship.
A dog's parents never visit.
Dogs love long car trips.
Dogs understand that instincts are better than asking for directions.
When a dog gets old and starts to snap at you incessantly, you can shoot it.
Dogs like beer.
Dogs don't hate their bodies.
Dogs don't have to spend holidays and vacations with their parents.
Dogs like to go hunting and fishing.
Dogs agree that you have to raise your voice to get your point across.
Dogs don't need 900 pairs of shoes.
Dogs never expect gifts.
Dogs never worry about germs.
Dogs don't want to know about every other dog you've had.
Dogs don't let magazine articles run their lives.
You never have to wait for a dog, they're ready to go 24 hours a day.
Dogs have no use for flowers, jewelry or cards.
Dogs don't borrow your shirts.
Dogs enjoy heavy petting in public.
Dogs find you amusing when you're drunk.
Dogs seldom outlive you.
Dogs can't talk back.
When you're traveling, dogs don't need restrooms.
Dogs don't criticize.
Dogs listen without interrupting. Dogs don't mind if the house isn't painted, the lawn mowed, or car washed.

(stolen from no watermelons, where he has a lot more like that one.)

My stages of anger

Originally published August 2, 2003

I am a tempermental guy. I often express my emotions quite openly and I sometimes shock the shit out of people when I do that. They don't understand my stages of anger. Let me explain the progression.

Phase #1: You may do or say something that Ticks Me Off. Getting ME ticked off can be triggered by one word, but ticked-offedness generally goes away quickly if the asswipe who ticked me off just shuts the fuck up after ticking me off. But lots of asswipes don't, so I go to...

Phase #2: You are beginning to ANNOY ME. I become unpleasant when I am annoyed. At that point, I usually suggest that the asswipe shut the fuck up because it's obvious that the pinhead won't unless he/she gets some immediate, good advice. I give that advice.

Phase #3: I'm getting PISSED. Your blithering assholery is getting on my nerves and it's obvious that you don't know what an incredible asshole you really are. At this point, I tell you. And I suggest that you shut the fuck up. Some people don't.

Phase #4: Now you've made me GODDAM MAD!!!. That's the point where I pull up the leg of my blue jeans and show you the .38 revolver in the ankle holster and tell you that I DO NOT have a permit to carry that thing. I carry it anyway because I don't believe that I need a goddam PERMIT from the fucking GOVERNMENT to do ANYTHING. I am crazy that way. Now, would you like to shut the fuck up?

Phase #5: I become ENRAGED. Usually a 911 call is involved after that, but sometimes the sight of pulsating veins in my forehead, crazy eyes and a pistol in my hand is enough to finally make an asswipe shut the fuck up. At that point, I don't care which way it goes. I am ready to start the ball.

I've never reached Phase #6.

April 01, 2008

Body language

Originally published May 1, 2003

I was forced by people threatening me with large hammers and red-hot tongs to take "Linguistics" in college. I didn't want to go there. But after I was strapped in my seat with chains and duct-tape holding me there, and made to listen to the professor, I learned a lot.

English is NOT a "Romantic" language. Yeah, I know... we can say "Oh, YEAH! FUCK ME BABY!" with the best of them, but that quality alone DOES NOT make English a Romantic language. English is a GERMANIC LANGUAGE.

That means, once upon a time, we said, "You VILL fuck me baby, or I VILL INVADE FRANCE!" Evidently the women didn't give in, because Germany invaded France a lot after that. That's what a bad case of the blue-balls will do to you.

I also believe that our language evolved into something Germanic, with LATIN&FRENCH&SPANISH&ASIAN parts thrown in because we are NOT the kind of country to get a bad case of the blue-balls. We're too smart and imaginative for that.

How do I know? Our language has mutated to the point that "WHHHAAZZZUUP!" is a word that everyone understands. I am convinced that if you want an accurate and precise evaluation of modern culture, beer sales will tell you everything you need to know.

Just look at beer commercials in this country. What does a man learn? The commercials don't say it OUTRIGHT, but the subliminal message is clear.

If your FIRST pickup line doesn't work, you come up with another. You don't go off and invade France in a snit. You keep buying her beer until she's shitfaced and would take on a herd of goats with a video camera running. You win the bet you made with your giggling buddies by laying her in a puddle of puke after she passes out in your bed.

THEN you go invade France, the next day, when you're in a really good mood from feeling like a conquerer.

You guys have ALL done that, haven't you? HAVEN'T you?

I can do leliks too

Originally published August 1, 2003

I left Castle Fatlighter this morning and headed to the Target store to buy Horsefly another goddam trinket for the charm bracelet my unemployed wife bought on a credit card last week. I'm getting lots of strange shit in the mail since she quit working. I like the cosmic weed-whacker, but that goddam pancake skillet sucks. Jumpfuck The Wonderdog wouldn't eat the shit I burned in there. Even the ants are avoiding that mess.

But Jumpfuck ran like Moody's Goose when I fired up the cosmic weed-whacker and chased him all over the yard. One nip on the tail and he understood the menace in those whirring, ever-lasting blades right away. I didn't have to bang the head of that tool on the driveway to cut his ass. He knew it, too.

Horsefly clapped her hands and sounded soooo cute when she said, "Kill the dog, Daddy! Get that no-good motherfucker!" But Jumpfuck is goddam fast when he's got a cosmic weed-whacker aimed at his ass. He outran me and left a piss-trail in his wake. I slipped and fell in it, too, and damned near cut my pecker off with the weed-whacker. I HATE that fucking dog.

Anyway, I put the cosmic weed-whacker on autopilot and let it run around the Castle Fatlighter grounds to eat squirrels and toads. They make good compost and I hate them, too. As I backed down the driveway and knocked over three trash cans, I saw the damned whacking-thing go after Horsefly. Well, I figure that a kid's gotta be tough. She made a good jump off the porch and was running fast, well ahead of the whacker the last time I looked.

I never made it to Target.

I saw an old billboard. I stopped to take pictures. I used a digital camera that is specially tailored for my ultimately cool, overpriced, goddam Borg-manufactured Mac computer and I saw my reflection in the lens. OHMYGOD! I never knew that I was almost bald-headed! WHATTHEFUCK is that weird, widow's-peak growth on my head???? It's not hair. It's.... REMNANTS OF THE BLOB!!!

Steve McQueen didn't kill it. The freeze-bomb didn't get all of it. What's left is ON MY HEAD!!!! I worried about that fact for about 30 seconds, then went into a Minnesota Trance. That happens to people who live in 40-below-zero weather for more than five minutes per year. Your brain just goes off by itself and it feels fine when that happens. Brain is happy. It also takes that opportunity to fuck with you and it doesn't fight fair.

I figured that as long as I wasn't being stuffed into a tree-shredder the way that guy in FARGO ended up, I was okay. So, when I fell asleep in the ditch, it didn't matter to me. I could feel my brain laughing, but I didn't care. I was more concerned about my unemployed wife and the goddam credit cards in her purse.

Put a woman in a Minnesota Trance with a credit card in her hand, and I'm totally fucked. Fort Knox doesn't have enough money to cover what happens after that.

But, what the hell? I never got where I was going, I have parts of the blob on my head and I have a column to post before deadline tomorrow. Fuck it all.

I'll worry about that when I wake up in the morning. In the ditch.