August 31, 2008

i hate snakes

Originally PUBLISHED February 13, 2005

It's interesting that I ran across THIS POST right after I wrote about chickens. Webb's Seed & Feed (just outside of Springfield, Georgia) sold sweet feed, dried corn, chicken feed, fertilizer, insecticide, herbicide, cross-ties, landscape timbers, cinder block, fence-posts, fence wire, and just about every other supply I needed on the mini-farm, so I shopped there regularly, at their big warehouse.

Webb's also sold WOODEN EGGS.

I am not making THIS up, either. These were eggs made out of wood (or wood machined to LOOK like an egg) that you could put in a hen's nest to encourage her to lay. Hens don't like an empty nest. The eggs served a secondary purpose, too.

I don't know of ANYONE who ever kept a lot of chickens who didn't eventually have a problem with snakes. The slithering bastards will crawl into the coop, eat biddies and swallow an egg in a heartbeat, the thieving shits. Some of those egg-eating snakes get BIG, too. I hated them and killed as many as I could catch, which was quite a few.

But the dumb bastards will ALSO swallow a wooden egg in their blind gluttony. Guess what happens then? The snake can't digest it, it plugs up his digestive tract and kills him graveyard dead. You may lose a 10-cent wooden egg out of the deal, but you get rid of a snake, too.

Yeah. This Cracker boy has bought wooden eggs before and used them to kill snakes.

grow your own

Originally PUBLISHED September 12, 2005

I totally agree with THIS POST. Food you grow yourself always tastes better than anything you can buy in a store.

Plus, GROWING IT is a real challenge. You have to till the soil, plant the seeds, fight the bugs, keep everything watered and fertilized, then hoe away the weeds while your crop grows. Hope like hell that the deer don't raid one night and eat everything.

There's a fine reward in the end, if you do it correctly. It's a lot of work, but it's worth it. I miss farming. I think it's in my blood, but I've got nobody but myself to feed anymore, so I haven't planted a garden for two years now.

I ended up giving away almost everything I grew two years ago. The corn and the beans and the squash and okra, the potatoes, the tomatoes and the cucumbers all grew nicely, but I couldn't eat all of that stuff. After I gave it all away to my neighbors, I decided not to do it again.

I haven't since, and I am spiritually poorer because of that decision. Getting your hands in the dirt is a GOOD thing.

August 30, 2008

supply run

Originally PUBLISHED October 17, 2003

I laid in provisions for the weekend today. I went to Wal-Mart and bought a case of Mountain Dew and a fresh box of wine. I also bought a 2" thick ribeye steak, which I grilled and scarfed a couple of hours ago. I selected a big baking pan for the ribs I'll cook tomorrow and a set of knives that just looked really cool. I stopped by Randall's Liquor store on the way home and bought three cartons of cigarettes and a bottle of vodka.

I am set for a while now; therefore, it's time for another recipe: Acidman's Baby-Back Ribs

* Defrost the ribs the day before you intend to cook them, or cook them as soon as you get home from the grocery store. Either way, pour all that bloody, nasty juice that comes out of them all over the meat.

* Preheat your oven to 220 degrees.

* Put a "rub" on the ribs. I use a 50-50 combination of soy and worchestershire sauce to wet them down, then I apply by hand a generous dosage of salt, black pepper, red pepper, garlic powder and Cajun's Choice blackened seasoning.

* When the oven is up to temperature, put the ribs on a baking pan, cover them loosely with aluminium foil and let them bake.

* Let them bake on that low heat all day long. Your kitchen will smell wonderful.

* About an hour before you are ready to eat, light a fire on the barbecue grill and take the ribs out of the stove. Gently lay them on the hot grill and apply barbecue sauce generously. (I make my own, but I highly recommend Johnny Harris or B.S. Muthah's for the true taste of Southern barbecue.)

* Make a big salad, some pork and beans and home-fried potatoes while the ribs cook just long enough to brown the barbecue sauce and pick up some charcol flavor.

* If you follow this recipe, the ribs will try to fall apart as you remove them from the grill. Handle your tongs carefully. GENTLY remove that beautiful meat and cut it into two-rib sections. Pile them high on a big plate, lay the tongs on top and tell your guests to dig in.

* Serve extra barbecue sauce on the side and put TWO ROLLS of paper towels on the table. This meal can be messy, as it should be. It is goddam good, too.

I am going to do that tomorrow. Too bad you're not invited.

the ribs

Originally PUBLISHED October 19, 2003

I like doing things that I am really good at doing. After 51 years of life I HAVE learned to become REALLY good at a few things. Some involve work. Some are sexual. Some involve gardening and planting grass. And SOME involve cooking.

I am a damned good cook. I started flipping hamburgers when I was 14 years old and I worked a grill for a long time after that. Yesterday, I fed two of my friends a delicious meal and I had no doubt at all about how it was going to taste before it was done. I knew what I was doing.

The ribs fell off the bone. I sauteed some Portabella mushrooms and served them with with a garlic and ranch-dressing dip. I made a fresh salad and a succotash of corn and lima beans. I cooked home-fried potatoes that were better than anything McDonald's ever served. I had a nice bottle of wine and a some gourmet beer for dessert.

A good time was had by all.

August 29, 2008

lightning

Originally PUBLISHED August 21, 2005

I was playing golf one day with my friend Leo. It was about 4:00 in the afternoon. The sky was overcast, but there was no rain and we didn't even hear distant thunder.

We were on the 17th hole. I hit a good drive off the tee and had a little sand wedge left to the green. But we'd both been drinking beer all day and I needed to piss.

So--- I stepped out of the cart, grabbed my trusty sand wedge, unzipped my pants, flopped Roscoe out and started to piss, right there in the the fairway. I was in the middle of telling Leo how I was gonna birdie the hole and win all of his money when....

KA-BOOM!

A bolt of lightning shot over our heads and hit a pine tree on the other side of the fairway. That's ONE TIME when I saw lightning and heard thunder at the same time. I almost snatched my Roscoe off.

I cut myself off in mid-piss to get back in the cart, but Leo already had the pedal to the metal heading for the clubhouse, that rotten bastard. I had to chase him down to jump on board.

Behind us, the pine tree was in flames and limbs were falling out of it. I could smell ozone and I noticed that Leo and I BOTH had hair standing on end all over out bodies. That wasn't from fright, either (although that incident scared the shit out of both of us)--- it was from electricity in the air.

Mother Nature ended that round of golf right then and there. I didn't even go back to retrieve my brand-new Titleist golf ball. So much for making a birdie on THAT hole.

Never trust lightning. It can come from anywhere at any time.

I realized later that we were lucky that one or both of us weren't killed. Especially ME. I was standing on the ground, wearing a pair of metal-spike golf shoes, with a Wilson Staff sand wedge leaning on my knee and PISSING ON THE GROUND at the time.

I know why I survived. My expiration date wasn't up yet.

I once saw lightning hit a pine tree across from my mini-farm and it blew my neighbor's concrete driveway to pieces when it made the roots of the tree explode. That was an impressive sight, and the lightning killed the hell out of that big tree. My power was out for five hours after that, but my neighbors had to pay to have the tree cut down and then repair their driveway.

Mother Nature is a real bitch.

More on blowjobs

Originally PUBLISHED December 31, 2003

My friend, Steve Hamby, was diagnosed with prostate cancer two years before I was. When he came to visit the mini-farm after he recovered from the surgery, he told me some amazing things. I didn't really know that much about the disease at the time.

"The surgery left me impotent," he told me, matter-of-factly. "The nerves that make your dick hard are wrapped all around your prostate, and they are so tiny that not many surgeons can get in and out of there and leave you intact."

I now know from past experience of my own that the "nerve sparing" surgery is largely bullshit. Putting the prostate where it is and giving it the job it does is a design flaw in the human body. Let engineers for GM or Ford Motor Company pull such a stunt when they build a car and lawyers will be all over them like white on rice. BEJUS! HOW CRAZY CAN YOU BE?

Okay. Let's sue God now.

Steve also told me that the surgery involves not only the removal of the prostate gland, but the removal of all seminal vesicles attached to it. I was stunned. "You can't cum anymore?" I asked.

"I can have an orgasm, and it feels pretty much like it did before, except I think my dick has shrunk. Luckily for me, I had some room to spare on the dick horizon. It ain't what it once was, but I've still got enough. But, no. I don't have any of the plumbing to make cum with anymore. I use injections to get it up and I dry-fire when I have an orgasm."

I was totally amazed by what he told me that day. I thought, "Just Damn! I don't want to live like that."

Guess what? I changed my mind.

I went through the same thing. The cancer killed Steve and I lived. I would have traded places with him in a minute if I could have. He was married with two children. I was divorced, with an ex-wife who was running off every weekend to fuck another man. Steve had a lot to live for. At the time, I didn't believe that I did.

Steve was right about a couple of things. You can have an orgasm after prostate surgery, but you DO dry-fire. No more swallowing cum if you give ME a blow-job. You don't have to worry about the taste because there's no there, there. All the pipes were removed.

My dick shrunk, too, even with the bionic Roscoe I have installed now. I once was hung like a stallion. I had wimmen see it when it was angry and gasp. Those days are long gone.

But after being totally impotent for 19 months, having the Energizer Bunny that I have now sure beats what I had during that time. Just push the button, and I'm ready to go. Roscoe may not be what he once was, but he works, every time.

My only real problem is getting the damn thing DOWN now. The implants are still a little bit stiff.

August 28, 2008

Encore

Originally published June 30, 2004

I'm recycling an oldie because I like it.

After my son was born, the then-darling wife and I thought about having another child but decided against it. We figured that we had hit the jackpot with Quinton and we should quit while we were ahead. She had been taking some kind of shot for a couple of months (depoprevara, or something like that. I called them "Parvo Shots") to prevent ovulation and she liked the fact that she stopped having periods, too. But she became convinced that she shots were causing her to gain weight. She wanted off them but was reluctant to start taking the pill again. So, being the Southern Gentleman that I am, I said, "Why don't I just go get clipped?"

I stopped by at work the next day and saw Deniese, the company's Nurse Practicioner, and told her that I wanted to get a vasectomy. She picked up the phone and made me an appointment with Dr. Shook, her choice of urologists and I man I was later to become far too well-acquainted with, but that's another blog altogether. I went by Shook's office after work that day and filled out all the necessary paperwork for my operation three weeks later.

I had to take one form home with me for the wife to sign. In the state of Georgia, spousal consent is required before a married man can have a vasectomy. I didn't think twice about it at the time, but I find the idea incredibly ironic now. I could not go out and get clipped without my wife's permission. But SHE could go out eighteen months later and de-nut me with a divorce lawyer and I didn't have a FUCKING VOICE AT ALL in that matter. Something is terribly wrong with that picture. Okay, that's another blog, too.

On the appointed day, the wife and I showed up at Dr. Shook's office. She was there to drive me home afterward. The doctor had offered anesthesia and I accepted eagerly. As a person who has HIS OWN GAS MASK at the dentist's office, I am a certified anesthesia-hound anytime ANY doctor wants to do something I find unpleasant, and since I find GOING TO THE DOCTOR unpleasant, I just say "yes!" if drugs are offered.

I was called and told to remove my clothes and don a hospital gown. I did. I was led to an examination room and told to lie on a table. I did. The nurse lifted my gown, examined my equipment and said, "You didn't shave."

I had to admit that, no, I didn't shave. Nowhere in all that literature I read about the operation did I see any instructions about doing that, so I didn't. "Well, we'll take care of that right now," she said in a businesslike tone while snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

"I want my shot!" I whined.

I didn't get my shot. I got wet and lathered and shaved by a professional who used a Bic disposable razor. In other circumstances, I might have found the experience to be erotic. Had the wife and I known ahead of time that this procedure was required, we could have played some fun games with it. But having that nurse do it shrunk me like a spider on a hot stove. I was embarrassed, not because of being shaved, but because of what happened to me. My manhood resembled a stack of dimes 30-cents tall. My proud portabella became a button mushroom. I expected to look like a man with two navels any minute now. I was humiliated, and worried that my wanger might NEVER recover.

When the nurse finished, the doctor arrived. I got my shot then, but it wasn't much of a shot. I would rather have had my gas mask from the dentist's office and a nice bottle of nitrous. I watched as the nurse laid out a series of torture devices on the Mayo table next to me, and couldn't help thinking of the movie Braveheart, where the torturers displayed all their knives, hooks and tongs right before they eviscerated Mel Gibson. The doctor picked up a hypodermic needle that resembled a bicycle pump and gave me two shots in a place where no man EVER wants to see a hypodermic needle pointed.

But it wasn't that bad. A slight sting.... then MY NUTSACK WENT NUMB!

That is one hell of an unusual sensation. I believe that most men LIKE feeling their balls, except for those occasions where the cods absorb a sharp blow and you crawl around on all fours (actually, you crawl on ALL THREES, if you're not curled in a fetal position, because one hand will be tenderly cupping your nuts) making pig noises for a while until the pain subsides. Having them just GO AWAY like that is very disconcerting.

The doctor picked up a scalpel and said, "Do you know any good jokes?" (I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP!)

I informed the good doctor that I knew a gazillion good jokes, but he wasn't going to hear one now, because the LAST THING I wanted him doing was laughing like a maniac while he sliced into my testicles. I really didn't think that was a good idea. I wanted him to concentrate carefully on the task at hand.

He did something with the scalpel, did something with with another tool (I felt a slight tug there), then he picked up what appeared to be a soldering iron. I saw a tendril of smoke rise from between my legs, and the aroma hit my nostrils: PIG ROAST! Bejus! I knew it for a fact then. All men ARE PIGS, because I smelled just like a Boston Butt on a spit when the doctor cauterized whatever he had cut down there.

The entire operation lasted about fifteen minutes. I was told to get dressed and apply an icepack to my balls as soon as I got home. They gave me one pain pill and one sleeping pill and told me not to lift anything heavy for the next few days. I went home, took the pain pill, applied an icepack to my wound, sprawled on the couch and watched Willie Nelson in Barbarossa on HBO. I lifted nothing heavier than a 12-ounce beer can the entire time. I took the sleeping pill that night, slept like a baby and awoke the next morning with no swelling, no pain and not even a bruise. Just two sets of two stitches on my scrotum to show for it all. There's nothing to this, I thought.

My wife went out to feed the goats and chickens that morning. She came back and said, "We've got a goat problem." I figured that one or two of the escape artists had gotten through the fence again and run down the road to seduce that slut-goat Elvira at Bob and Sue's house. "I can't go rope them this time," I said. "I'm wounded."

"I think Billy is dead," she said.

Billy was my Alpha goat. He was a big, nasty, ill-tempered, head-butting, beard-pissing, sodomizing stink-bomb, but I was fond of him. He would eat out of my hand and no one else's. I suppose he recognized a kindred spirit in me. I went outside to check and, sure enough, Billy was gone to that great grasspatch in the sky.

The weather sucked. A misting rain was falling, the glowering clouds were battleship gray and the temperature was about 45 degrees with a chill northeast wind. Billy was still limber, so I knew that he hadn't been dead long. "I need to bury him," I told the wife.

"Don't you do that, Rob. You know what the doctor said. Call Ed or Willy and see if they'll do it. They owe you a favor." I said I would, later.

I went back inside and sprawled on the couch. She took Quinton and went to the grocery store. I went back outside and buried Billy in the rain. That was MY job. The other three goats stood in a line and baaaa-ed like a Greek chorus while I dug the hole, dragged Billy into it and covered him up. I was so careful about not hurting my nuts while I did all that that I damned near threw my back out using poor shovel technique. But I suffered no lasting damage from it.

I was at Keller's Flea Market a few months after my operation, and I almost bought a neat belt buckle I saw. It said "VASECTOMY--- ALL JUICE AND NO SEED."

Friday, October 25, 2002
Posted 10/25/2002 09:43:07 PM by ACIDMAN

Troubles

Originally published March 5, 2005

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 27, 2008

Must be blood on the moon

Originally published March 4, 2005

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* Richard Simmons, just because he deserves it.

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Jack!

Originally published June 30, 2004

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I feel good about it.

August 26, 2008

I can believe it

Originally published March 4, 2005

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I dunno. Ask Pete Rose, that shitass.

The tuxedo

Originally published June 30, 2004

I read this post and had a real memory flashback. Somewhere in the pile of crap in my 'pooter room is a picture of me, taken back in 1976. I have long hair, a Fu-Manchu moustache and a snarky look in my eyes. I'm holding my 1964 Martin D-28 guitar and grinning for the camera.

That was my PR pic when I played semi-professional guitar for several years of my life. That picture appeared in advertisments (right next to the ones for massage parlors and escort services) in papers all over the Southeast US during my musical career. I was proud of it.

You know what I'm wearing in that picture? A baby-blue tuxedo shirt with a black cotton vest. The shirt has ruffles all down the front and French cuffs. (I NEVER wore cufflinks when playing the guitar, but I wore them for that picture.) I look downright sophisticated. The name is Bond. James Bond.

I miss that shirt. If I had any Scotch around the house, I would drink some tonight.

August 25, 2008

Yorkshire terriers

Originally published March 4, 2005

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

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

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

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

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

I like Fancy a lot.

Training

Originally published June 30, 2004

I bought an Arby's roast beef sandwich today and I watched the kitchen staff prepare it. Got-dam! The whole process is like an automation and the employees are robots. What the hell has happened to fast food restaurants?

I was a very good grill cook during my younger days, back when waitresses (excuse me... WAITPERSONS) just shouted out the orders, stuck a ticket on a rotating carosel and expected YOU to get it right. I did, or I faced one hell of a cussing from an outraged waitress, who was only passing the words along from an outraged customer. You become good at your job very quickly that way.

I never had a timer to tell me when the french fries were done or when the meat on the grill was ready to flip. I DID THAT! I COOKED THE FOOD!!!! Machines and clocks didn't do it for me. I was proud of my expertise. I was one of the best grill cooks who ever waved a spatula over a stove and I KNEW IT. I could work the prep table like Edward Sissorhands and I could do it in my sleep. You LIKED a hamburger I cooked for you.

I see no such pride in fast-food work today. In fact, if you really want to confuse someone at a fast food restaurant, do what I did today. Have an order that adds up to some kind of dollars and four cents. Hand the employee a $20 bill. Once she's punched in the numbers on the "think FOR you register," say "Wait a minute. I've got four cents," and then hand her a dime. Watch every neural circuit in her brain lock up.

Do you think those people know how to MAKE CHANGE? Hell NO they don't. They've been TRAINED to be robots and they like it that way. Thinking for yourself is difficult. It's much easier to be a witless drone.

I confused that poor waitress badly enough today that I probably could have walked out of Arby's with a free sandwich, but I didn't. I said, "Darlin,' I gave you $20 and a dime. You owe me $16.06 in change." She heaved a sigh of relief and handed me the money.

I did her thinking for her and she was grateful. She's been well-trained.

August 24, 2008

Yeah, I'm on of those

Originally published June 30, 2004

About a month ago, I lost the medical insurance I was supposed to be able to keep when I retired. I was surprised by the way the problem was presented to me, because my benefit provider RETURNED the check I sent them and said that my insurance was cancelled for non-payment. I was confused.

I called them and spent almost an hour on the phone, most of it doing the fucking Russian Roulette of "Press 1 to get the hell out of my busy life" to entering date of birth, address, phone number and Social Security number via touch-tone before I EVER got to talk to an actual human being. Then I received a brief and rude response: "We don't handle those kinds of problems here. You need to call Blah-blah-blah.

I called, got the same Russian Roulette routine and finally spoke to an actual human being who said (and I quote) "We don't handle those kinds of problems here. You need to call Blah-blah-blah," which was the same number that sent me to HIM. I blew up and demanded to speak with a supervisor. I was on hold for five solid minutes.

If the person I spoke to was a supervisor, they need to clean house in that place. The weasely bastard wouldn't answer a question, he couldn't give me ANY accurate information and he didn't appear to know diddly-squat about what he was doing. The best he could do was tell me to send a written appeal to Benefit Providers and wait for a response. I told him to go fuck himself.

I got on the computer and applied for a policy from Blue Cross. I was totally honest in filling out the application. I admitted to being a smoker and a victim of prostate cancer. They approved me, with the one codicil in the policy that any problems I have as a result of prostate cancer are NOT covered for 48 months. I signed the paperwork and sent it off.

Until it's approved and etched in stone, I am one of the 43 million Americans with no health insurance. I suppose that I should be crawling down the street with my open palm extended and weeping like a baby, crying for government to save me, but I'm not doing that. I'm dealing with Blue Cross instead.

The policy I'm buying isn't as good as what I had, but it costs 1/3 the money. All I really want is insurance against something catastrophic, something that might put me in the hospital and eat up all my money. I can handle nickle and dime doctor bills. I'm not worried about prostate cancer, because I believe that I am cured, and I also know that after almost three years with a zero PSA, I have a 90% chance of living another ten years. I'll take my chances with those odds.

The insurance doesn't cost that much. Why is health care insurance such an artificial "crisis" in this country?

My carpet cleaner

Originally published March 4, 2005

When the guy came by yesterday, he was a little bit freaked by all the guns musical instruments he saw around the house. I told him that I would move them out of his way, but he was curious about which ones were loaded which one were in tune and which ones weren't.

I told him that I keep ALL of my guitars in tune, all the time. What good is a guitar if you can't pick it up and play it anytime you want to? I kinda liked that guy.

But I believe that I frightened him.

August 23, 2008

A peeve

Originally published June 30, 2004

I WILL NOT read any article from any publication that requires me to register to do so. I simply will not. To register is an inconvenience, an invasion of my privacy and an insult to me. If I click a link and a registration page appears, I shout "FUCK YOU!" at the computer, spray spittle all over my keyboard and usually knock my cigarette from my ashtray as I wave "The Bird" at the screen. Yeah, I've got your registration dangling.

Then, I go somewhere else that DOES NOT require me to register and I can find the same story by a different writer, or sometimes the SAME ONE. I would much rather deal with pop-up ads than registration pages. As I said, if I have to register to read you, then fuck you.

I don't know how many other people feel the same way I do about registration pages, but I'll wager that enough of us are out here to make it a losing proposition for newspapers who do it. How much money do they make selling names and addresses to spammers versus the readers they lose through required registration? Has anybody researched that subject?

I don't care. My mind is made up on this topic.

Jobs I don't want

Originally published March 4, 2005

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 22, 2008

mr. smith goes to washington

Originally PUBLISHED January 27, 2005

I could never be elected to public office because my track record is too easy to follow. I have not ALWAYS walked the straight and narrow path, and I believe that a couple of files exist somewhere in a formal government office, in a cabinet waaay in the back, with a set of fingerprints and a very nice black-and-white photo included in the file.

Man, as soon as I announced my candidacy, that shit would be on "The Smoking Gun" and I'd have Morely "The Living Dead" Sheafer sticking a microphone in my face for an interview on 60 Minutes. Can you just imagine how I would handle THAT???

"Ladies and gentlemen... see this file??? Well, every bit of it is true and I was guilty as shit when I went to jail. I FUCKED UP!!! The cops did their job, and I'm not gonna say that they were NICE to me, but nobody brutalized my ass. I've got no complaints in that department. I got what was coming to me.

I didn't like sitting in jail, but being the perceptive person I am, I received the distinct impression that I wasn't SUPPOSED TO LIKE IT there, and I didn't. I haven't been back since, either. I think the law taught me a vaulable lesson.

But... of course,.... as for these accusations ... I did EVERY BIT OF IT!!! Now, FUCK YOU, kiss my Cracker ass and get outta my yard!""

You can see how far my campaign would go. Nowhere. Or MAYBE... just MAYBE... I could start a grass-roots movement, REPROBATES FOR ROB!!! and storm the country. Our battle cry would be, "Kiss My Ass and Get Outta My Yard!"

We would campaign at gun shows and exploit loopholes. We would launch "Libertarian Research Commissions" to Costa Rica to explore... you just come along and I'LL show you what to explore. We would... make a mockery of the entire election process, but at least we would be honest about it. That's more than the other two parties can say.

I'm gonna plan my strategy at Jekyll Island. The ground for recruits may be rich there.

boiled peanuts

Originally PUBLISHED May 27, 2002

I was a six year-old hillbilly boy uprooted from the mountains of Harlan County, Kentucky and transplanted in Savannah, Georgia in 1959. I had been in this strange new place less than a month when my Georgia grandmother (91 year-old Mommie is my Kentucky grandmother) took my brother and me to the beach one day. We had a grand time playing in the surf and building castles in the sand, and there's just something about being around salt water that makes you REALLY HUNGRY. When a vendor in a big straw hat came walking down the beach selling small bags of peanuts for five cents, I wanted some. My grandmother bought two bags.

I eagerly ripped open the bag and plunged my hand inside, expecting to find the nice, dry, rough-shelled roasted peanuts I ate in Kentucky. Instead, I felt these wet, soft YUCKY THINGS in the bag. I didn't know what they were, but I knew damned well that they WERE NOT PEANUTS! I refused to eat them. They gave me the creeps.

That was my very first exposure to boiled peanuts. I eventually overcame the creeps, and since that day I probably have eaten several tons of boiled peanuts. Once you acquire the taste, you'll never want peanuts cooked any other way.

The best ones are made from fresh, newly-harvested green peanuts. (Some people dry the peanuts and boil them later, but those taste like blackeyed peas. For the best taste, cook them right away and then freeze them.) I buy them by the bushel (usually about $30, depending on the size of the crop that year), wash all the sand off them and throw them into a huge pot I have that will hold an entire bushel. I fill the pot with water, add a box of salt (one pound, ten ounces) and bring the pot to a slow boil on my propane cooker. I cook them for about an hour and a half, then turn the heat off and let them soak in the salty water until the peanuts sink. Then, I put them in quart zip-lock bags and throw them in the freezer. They're good for over a year that way. I always save some to eat on Super Bowl Sunday. Just let them thaw on the kitchen counter overnight or put them in the microwave. Yum, yum!

Boiled peanuts are soft, salty and delicious. Nothing is better with a cold beer, and they are the perfect snack for a day at the beach or a boat trip on the river. Or for watching the Super Bowl. Or FOR BREAKFAST. Boiled peanuts are a true Southern delight and I live in the #1 peanut-growing state in the nation.

Try 'em. You'll like 'em.

I've been robbed!

Originally PUBLISHED June 08, 2005

Okay... I'm through bragging about what a crime-free neighborhood I live in. Sometime over the past two days, some shit-ass stole my propane cooker, my turkey-frying pot and my low-country boil pot. Right out of my driveway, next to the garage.

That stuff has been there for three years, used only when I wanted to fry a turkey or boil a bunch of peanuts. All together, it's probably about $100 worth of stuff, and the propane cooker needed a new regulator, but the principle of the thing really rips my ass. I've got no goddam use whatsoever for a thief.

Plus, that was one dumb sumbitch who did it. He (or she) must have hit while I wasn't at home--- because if I had heard them or seen them, they'd get a taste of a few imaginary gunshots. Would YOU risk your life for a propane cooker that didn't work right, an empty propane tank and two cheap-ass stainless steel pots? Some dumbfuck did.

I discovered this theft today when I was starting to assemble my moonshine still. I needed the low-country boil pot and I was going to buy a new regulator and a fresh tank of propane for my cooker. Every bit of that stuff was GONE, with only stains in the driveway to show where it had been.

I KNOW I saw that stuff a couple of days ago, because it was on my list of distilling equipment. At first, I figured that my neighbor, Henry, "borrowed" it without telling me. He's been known to do that before. I saw him come home today and walked across the street to ask him about it. He didn't have a clue. He's been in North Carolina for the past six days.

Big deal. I'll go into Rincon tomorrow and buy a brand-new outfit. But when I'm through using it this time, I'll store it in the garage instead of in my driveway. My "brandy" should be ready to cook on Friday.

Maybe somebody took it while I was visiting Catfish last week. I'll wager that it was some fucked-up kid, now that school is out. I hope the little bastard enjoys the fruits of his crime, because he damn sure didn't get much, at least not money-wise.

But he damn sure got my goat. I don't like it when people steal from me.

August 21, 2008

vidalias

Originally PUBLISHED June 22, 2002

I sent my boy off to the movies to see Scooby-Doo with Jack and his sisters. He and Jack were getting a serious case of cabin fever around my crackerbox house with all the rain, so this movie thing is a good idea. I cooked a pot of boiled peanuts ($1.88 a pound at the Super Wal-Mart. OUTRAGEOUS price, but I bought them anyway) and a corned beef brisket while they were gone. I now have some carrots, potatoes and two genuine Vidalia onions steeping in the brisket-juice. My house smells wonderful!

People who aren't from the great state of Georgia may not be familiar with Vidalia onions. A Vidaila is the most perfect, sublime, sweetest onion known to man. I can eat one raw the way yankees eat apples. I like to cut a hole in one, stuff it with butter and minced garlic, then put it in the microwave for about three minutes and eat it that way. I like to grill a hamburger and garnish the bun with a slice of Vidalia onion as thick as the hamburger patty. I like to buy Vidalias in 50-pound sacks and freeze a lot of them for spaggetti and other sauces, then eat the rest before they begin to ferment. I live a mere 40 miles from Vidalia, so usually I have no problem obtaining all the onions I want at an excellent price.

But the Vidalia onion crop was wiped out this year. Global Warming brought an unusually cold spring down South and froze the first crop of tender onion seedlings in the field. About the time the farmers replanted, Global Warming brought another unheard-of frost in late spring and killed those onions, too. By then, it was too late to replant a third time. As a result, sweet Vidalias are in short supply. If you can find them at all, you'll pay about $1.00 per onion for them. I bought three today.

Ask Vidalia onion farmers about Global Warming and they'll ask for some next year

shitty gray rain

Originally PUBLISHED February 03, 2005

This has been a shitty, gray rainy day and the temperature is 46 degrees outside now. That's called "bitter weather" in southeast Georgia, and fuck all you yankees who call us wimps. I don't like it.

I've been in a pissy mood, but I was really trying to recall something humorous to write about in spite of the weather. Hell, when I was a kid I didn't like to play outside on days like this. So, memory recollection is difficult today.

But I remember Art Salter's yard. His daddy was a welder and he built one hell of a monkey-bar-swingset in his back yard. It was awesome. We played on it all the time and invented dangerous stunts to perform. That's what little boys do. Yeah, that's stupid, but you're not gonna DIE, or anything like that. Try it.

One of out biggest hits was to climb to the top of the swingset bar, stand up and walk it all the way to the end, turn around on the bar, and then do a back-flip off of it into the grass. That was a 3" piece of pipe, about 8' off the ground, so balance was important.

We were doing that stunt one day when Michael Moffet slipped about halfway across the bar. He did the waving arms thing first, then let both legs fly out in a perfect "Y". He landed on the bar nut-sack first, and grabbed it for a moment, before he slowly rolled over and fell head-first to the ground. We thought he was dead.

He wasn't. Michael was ALWAYS the one who got hurt doing shit like that, so I believe that he got tough through practice. His balls were badly injured, so we turned a water hose on him and told him to quit whining. He couldn't walk for a while, but he eventually found his way home.

Now. That's a funny story, isn't it?

yankees

Originally PUBLISHED August 27, 2004

I rant frequently about yankees. I truly DO believe that they live a different life than we do Down South, because the manners are different, the weather is different and the food is different. But they remain Americans, just like me.(Unless they put sugar on grits. Then, they MUST be dragged off and shot.)

I learned something interesting in Costa Rica when I was taking Spanish lessons from the bartender in the hotel. She had a book filled with American idioms that she couldn't understand. I can remember a few: "Go fly a kite." "That's a rough row to hoe." "Shoot the moon." "Go jump in the lake."

There were plenty of others and I tried to explain them to her, but eyes started glazing after a while. "It doesn't make SENSE!" she protested. I suppose not. I learned that Spanish has its own idioms that don't translate well.

I also told the bartender that she was talking to an American from the deep South and if she went to New York City (where every Costa Rican I talked to seems to be dying to visit) she would hear a totally different language. She gave me a pen and a bar napkin and I drew a rough map of the USA. I divided it into four distinct regions.

#1) The deep South. People there talk the way I do and they tend to have an accent that nobody studying English as a second language will understand.

#2) The midwest. That's where Standard American English comes from. Just look at how many newscasters and radio personalities come from the midwest.

#3) The northeast. Sweet Bejus!!! Pawk the Caw in the Gawage. Cuber (not "Cuba"). I don't consider New York City to be part of the northeast, because a totally different language is spoken there, but I didn't want to make my bartender any more confused than she already was.

#4) Pure yankee. Those are people from Ohio, Pennsylvania and Illinois and all parts around there. You want to tell the difference between a Southerner and a yankee? Just ask them to say, "nice, white rice." You can tell right away where THAT person came from.

I left the far west out of my sermon because I hadn't been there yet. I DID tell the bartender that people from California are easy to spot because they use "you know" and "it was like" all the time because they are inarticulate nut-heads.

Then she told me that Costa Rica has four different accents depending on what part of THAT country you happen to be in. Hell--- Costa Rica is about the size of Georgia--- how can THEY have four distinct accents? It was all Spanish to me.

But then I thought... I know the difference in my home state between the people who live below the fall line and those who live above it. WE DO NOT TALK THE SAME WAY.

If you have an ear for accents, the USA is an incredible place to be. If you like diversity in speech, we've got it. It's like music to me sometimes.

But we Southerners are gonna teach those yankees to talk right someday. The blogfest might be a start.

August 20, 2008

old stuff

Originally PUBLISHED January 05, 2005

Here is a column I wrote for The Effingham County Herald on August 28, 1996. It's one of the last pieces they published before they dropped me for offending too many people. Calling my wife "the Underwear Fairy" really DID chap a lot of asses.

Believe it or not (I still don't), I caught a lot of flack from a lot of people after I referred to my darling wife as "The Underwear Fairy" in a recent column. I studiously analyzed all the flack and concluded that anyone who griped about that column was totally deranged, probably from wearing dirty underwear.

Just because I have an Underwear Fairy to wash my drawers doesn't mean that I sprawl on the counch all day like some kind of chauvinist potato while my darling wife waits on me hand and foot. I suggested that arrangement when we first married, but she countered by suggesting that I perform an anatomically impossible act upon myself, so I dropped that idea like a hot rock in the spirit of compromise.

We share most of the household chores on an equal basis. For example, I do all the cooking and she cleans up the mess I make. I am charge of trash disposal, yard maintenance and vermin control, and she doesn't run me off even when I behave like a species of vermin. I give her my paycheck and she spends it.

We also have very distinct roles when it comes to assembling something that we bought unassembled. This sort of stuff always comes in a box, filled with a gazillion oddly-shaped pieces and a set of indecipherable instructions written by a demented foreign sadist in what appears to be his native tongue.

I always dump the contents of the box on the floor, study the instructions, examine all the oddly-shaped parts and immediately decide that there is no way under the sun that anyone could EVER make that pile of parts resemble anything even remotely like the picture on the box. Then, I gather the proper tools and spend about an hour proving my theory correct.

That's when I stomp off to fetch chainsaw and shotgun to perform an exorcism on that misbegotten spawn of Satan. My darling wife comes to my rescue then, talking me back down to earth and pacifying me with a Klondike Bar. Once I am in harmless mode, she sits down and puts the whole thing together, just like the picture on the box, in about the same amount of time it takes me to eat the Klondike Bar.

I hate it when she does that, because it offends every primitive, prehistoric, hunter-gatherer instinct I have about who should sit on the floor of the cave and play successfully with tools.

But it's a good thing she does it. Otherwise, the house and yard would be littered with the chain-sawed, shotgunned remains from the totally justified exorcisms of diabolical demons that attempted to enter my home disguised as swing sets, barbecue grills, wheelbarrows, home entertainment centers, snap-together shelf units and even my son's kiddie bed.

Yes, I can set aside my male ego and remain totally secure while my darling wife plays with tools in the cave. Especially when one of those tools is the washing machine.

That's where she performs exorcisms on my underwear.

Pretty damned offensive, isn't it?

a potato gun

Originally PUBLISHED April 28, 2005

If you never built a potato gun, you didn't grow up in the South. Constructed correctly, it's not really a gun--- it's more like a cannon or a mortar. I made my first one out of aluminum conduit, then graduated to PVC once I discovered that plastic pipe was easier to work with.

I built my mount out of wood, but you can prop your rocket on anything that will point it in the right direction. Just make sure that it holds still when you fire.

Cut off a 2" piece of pipe about two and a half feet long. Cap the bottom and drill a small hole near the end of this "barrel" you just built. When I was a kid, I could walk into ANY hardware store, seed & feed, or gun shop and buy a cannister of black powder. It was cheap, too.

When you get ready to fire, just pour the powder down the tube, pack it down with a piece of rag, then load you missle on top of that. I used baby-food jars, raw potatoes and live toads for ammunition. Soak a piece of twine in fuel oil to make a fuse. Stick THAT in the hole at the bottom, light it, and run like hell.

When that fucker goes off, one of two things will happen. You will have a magnificent explosion that will propell a missle an incredible distance, or your gun will blow itself to pieces and throw shrapnel everywhere. That's why you run like hell when you light it off.

I got pretty good at building the right kind of gun and calculating the right powder charge before I gave up potato guns. I blew up several before I learned to do it the right way. But nobody died and nobody got hurt during my experiments. A few toads had a really bad day, and few potatoes learned that they could FLY, but all my friends and I survived.

Mama would have shit her panties if she had known what we were doing at the time.

Hush Puppies

Originally PUBLISHED April 28, 2005

I actually met some yankees at the blog-meet in Jekyll who had never tasted HUSH PUPPIES before. I couldn't believe it. Hush-puppies are a STAPLE down South.

Hush-puppies are really nothing more than deep-fried cornbread, but you can make them so many different ways that it could put a Starbucks menu to shame. Straight up, they are good. Chop up some onion and bell pepper into the mix and it's even better. Add some hot peppers. Dice some sausage and try that, too. Make 'em anyway you want to.

It's almost impossible to fuck up a hush-puppy.

But you can make some REALLY good ones, that stand out in the crowd. The best hush-puppies I ever tasted came from "Pearls's Elegant Pelican" on La Roache Avenue in Savannah. Pearl served her hush-puppies the way a Mexican restaurant gives you a bowl of corn chips to munch before you order your meal.

Bejus! I could dig into Pearl's hush-puppies and make a meal out of THOSE. By the time the waitress came to get my order, I wasn't hungry anymore. That's no shit. I often ordered a meal and told them to put it in a go-box, because I had filled up on hush-puppies.

Pearl made them with a lot of honey and butter, then fried them very lightly. Those puppies were delicious and SWEET, without being nauseating. It was like eating cake.

If you've never tasted good hush-puppies, you have not lived a complete life

August 19, 2008

safety

Originally PUBLISHED July 05, 2004

I broke one of my own Golden Rules last night when that stick of dynamite blew up in my launcher. This morning, I found pieces of the launcher and charred bits of rice paper in the bed of my truck, a good 40' away from The Scene of the Crime. I stopped and thought about that.

How many times have I lectured operators and supervisors in a chemical plant about how nobody EVER gets hurt or killed doing something that he KNOWS is dangerous? Bejus! That was my mantra. If you understand the danger, you prepare for it, you wear the right PPE and you're CAREFUL, every step of the way. Nobody gets hurt.

The one that'll bite you in the ass and fuck you up is the one that you take for granted. It's the job you've done 100 times and believe that you could do in your sleep 100 more times. It's the one where you know the dangers, but you're SURE that nothing is going to happen to YOU. Approach a job with that kind of attitude and people get hurt, or killed.

I dropped that bomb down the tube last night and I didn't back up very far. Hell, I'd done the same thing 100 times before and I knew that I could do it in my sleep 100 times more. Sure, it was a stick of fucking TNT with a triple-blast phospho-charge in it, but it wasn't THAT dangerous to ME. Not right then, anyway.

I got careless and I'm lucky that I'm not sporting some wounds this morning. I am fortunate that I didn't hurt someone else. It's the one you take for granted that'll get you every time.

I'm not saying OUTLAW FIREWORKS! Hell, no; they're too much fun.

But, Got-dammit, be careful.

bits and pieces

Originally PUBLISHED February 28, 2006

I'm gonna be sore tomorrow.

I didn't sleep well last night. I had another attack of the crawlies and the restless leg cramps that woke me up at 3:30 AM and I couldn't go back to sleep. I'm in a non-smoking room, and even though I don't believe that the management will throw me out for lighting up in there, I didn't do it. I abide by most rules of courtesy because... hell, I'm COURTEOUS. I wish more people were.

So, I got out of bed, dressed my nekkid self and went out to the front of the hotel, on a walled-in area surrounded by concertina wire and a locked cast-iron gate to have a smoke. On the way, I passed the night clerk, who I took totally by surprise as he was surfing internet porn on the hotel computer. You shoulda SEEN that guy switch windows when he saw me. Too late, bub. I saw what YOU were doing. What the hell-- he was working a midnight shift. Ya gotta do SOMETHING to stay awake. At least he wasn't masturbating at the time.

I ended up smoking THREE cigarettes before I went back inside, and during that time I was propositioned by THREE different prostitues. All three were knock-out beautiful, too, but I wasn't in the mood. Plus, I don't trust the street-walkers here. I'm all for a good whore, but I'm kinda choosey about the ones I pick. Maybe that's why I've never been robbed or picked up any nasty diseases in my frolics.

I went out early this morning and covered a bunch of the town. I didn't get lost a single time, either. I think I've been here enough that I know the right landmarks to look for so that I always know pretty much where I am. If you ever come here, DO NOT rely on the Banco de National building for guidance. That sumbitch may be the tallest on the skyline, but it looks the same from all four sides and it will fuck you up if you let it. I learned that lesson the hard way.

I saw a lot of the captol city that I never saw on other trips, probably because I WAS TOO DRUNK TO NOTICE BEFORE. I've done pretty good so far. Not even one cervesa, although I was sorely tempted today. I met some sympatico Americanos in a restaurant and they were mightily impressed that could speak Spanish. Fuck me dead. They were from MISSISSIPPI, for cryin' out loud, and it don't take much to impress them folks. Their command of the local language consisted of "Mashes grassy-ass" and "Gimme one of them servey-thangs ya got back yonder."

I ended up being their translator for a couple of hours, because I SPOKE THEIR LANGUAGE as well as Spanish. I told them that I didn't drink alcohol, but that didn't matter to them. "We'll buy the servys if you order 'em, and we'll pay for your pussy-assed COKE, too. " Dayum. I didn't have anything else to do, so I took the job for a while.

Y'know what? I HAVE NEVER sat in a bar and NOT consumed alcohol in copious quantities before. I did that today and it was kinda fun, even if people do give you strange looks when you just say "NO" when they insist on buying you a drink. I told everybody that I was the "designated driver," which elicited hoots from those Mississippi Crackers. "Yep. He got us here, and he's gonna get us home."

They were still drinking when I left, but they all assured me that I am their friend forever. "Hasta yo' mama, Rob," was the last I heard from them.

I'm getting out of here tomorrow and going to the beach. I arranged transportation and lodging at a pretty good price, and I'm looking forward to the trip. I can stand this city for no more than a couple of days. The food is good and the sights are nice, but this place ain't the Costa Rica I like. Too many bums and beggars and criminals to suit me. I dropped $100 in a casino today, so I've done my part to support the local economy. Onward and upward tomorrow.

La pura vida.

Bluegrass and the Grammys

Originally PUBLISHED February 28, 2002

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

I was stunned when I saw the winners today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 18, 2008

Notes from the neighborhood

Originally published June 25, 2004

*We had one hell of a thunderstorm yesterday evening. It didn't have the gale-force winds of the one that came the day before, but it more than compensated for that shortcoming with torrential rain and one of the most spectacular lightning shows I've ever seen. I saw three strikes on trees less than 200 yards from my house as I sat in my garage and watched. The storm finally blew away, and only THEN did the electricity go off. I went to bed in the dark last night.

*My neighbor, Henry, fell down at the bank and broke the radial head on his right elbow. He walked in from the rain on flat-bottom shoes, hit the tile floor with the wet soles and did a Buster Keaton pratfall right in front of the tellers. The bank agreed to pay his medical bills, but he's thinking of asking for some gravy on top. I think he'll get it if he tries, too. I loaned him my lawn mower so that he could cut his grass while sitting down.

*Katie the Fertile Rotweiller is down to one remaining pup, and I think that one is going to stay with mama. It's a good-looking, healthy little dog that's going to go up to be bigger than a house.

*My new neighbors are not black. The boys ARE (the young golfer I met the other day has an eight year-old brother), but the parents aren't. I met "Dad" yesterday when we both stepped outside to marvel at the angry storm clouds coming our way. Dad is as caucasian as I am. I don't know whether this is a foster-home arrangement or an adoption, and I didn't ask, but those two boys are NOT the fruit of his loins. Dad seems like a friendly guy and he's doing a good job with the kids. They have manners.

*Henry saw my brand-new, Starship Enterprise, warp-factor-ten carpet cleaner today. "That's nice, Rob," he said. "Who the fuck is gonna USE it?" Okay, he's known me for a while.

I'm still eyeballing that carpet cleaner and wondering...

Get a reaction

Originally published March 3, 2005

I've noticed over the years that if I really want to stir shit, generate a lot of comment and actually start blog-piss wars between people who just showed up to comment, I can write about either one of two subjects.

#1: ABORTION!!!

#2: RELIGION!!!

Some people get fired up on those topics when they don't really seem to give a shit about anything else. I've never understood that kind of visceral reaction. These people couldn't find the Middle East on a globe, but they know what they're talking about when it comes to abortion and religion. Some of them will have an abortion and then join PETA. Some of them will become Wicca or Bhuddist. Others will be athiests or else establish a NEW RELIGION!!!

I know what I think about it, but I don't care to discuss either one of those topics tonight.

Truth hurts

Originally published March 3, 2005

During my second freshman year of college I discovered the solution to global warming, but nobody would listen to me. Most people think that most of our oxygen comes from trees. But with two-thirds of the Earth's surface covered with water, it actually comes from oceans full of plant plankton, who dutifully convert CO2 to oxygen through photosynthesis. The biggest harm to plant plankton is not global warming, since a spike in CO2 would just mean that plant life thrives. Instead, plant plankton's biggest predator is whales. Whales scoop up plankton by the truckload. It would seem obvious then, that the solution is to protect plant plankton by slaughtering whales. With an absence of predators, plant plankton will overpopulate and drastically cut CO2 levels.

I read that and laughed out loud. You can't argue with the logic if you REALLY want to be enviromentally sensitive. Of course, the writer is just a sick fuck in my book.

EVERYBODY KNOWS that oxygen comes from whales. Dumbshit.

August 17, 2008

If I say this to you

Originally published March 2, 2005

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shopping

Originally published June 25, 2004

I went to Wal-Mart today and bought three things. The first was a new electric beard-trimmer, because my old Sunbeam died on me and I'm looking pretty scruffy nowadays. The second was a very good Spanish-English/English-Spanish dictionary that I intend to study before I go back to Costa Rica. The third was (and I STILL don't know what possessed me to BUY it) a HIGH-POWERED, CARPET STEAM-CLEANER!!!!

Maybe some long-repressed domestic instinct raised its ugly head in the depths of my psyche. Maybe my undiscovered Feminine Side finally emerged from where its been buried for 52 years. Maybe I just got tired of looking at what once was beige carpet but now appears to be buffalo hide, laid out after a good rut in the mud by a very nasty animal.

Whatever my reasons, I bought the damned thing. I've taken nothing but the instruction book out of the box so far, and that'll probably be enough for today. I got tired of doing housework just from reading the book. I may NEVER take the actual machine out of the box.

Hell--- now that I think about it, I kinda LIKE the dirty buffalo hide on the floor.

Just a question

Originally published March 3, 2005

Do you ever eat with chopsticks? If you DON'T, somethng is seriously wrong with you. I LOVE using chopsticks because I'm good at it and I can eat ANYTHING using a pair of wooden sticks to shovel the food into my mouth. I'm having shrimp fried rice, roast pork and shallots, with sauteed vegatables and bean sprouts, all soaked in a very mysterious Chinese sauce, and all very good right now. I am eating with chopsticks.

Plus, somebody showed up at my door and offered to CLEAN MY CARPET FOR FREE if I would listen to his pitch for a Kirby vacuum cleaner. That sounded like a good deal to me, even though I told him right up-front that I wasn't gonna buy a vacuum cleaner, but that didn't matter to him. It was a certified service call, he's doing his job and he gets paid. I told him to go for it. I got a phone call from his boss about 15 minutes after he started, just to make sure that he was at my house and working.

I told the boss that I had never seen the guy in my life.

Heh. Life is fun sometimes.

August 16, 2008

Money maker

Originally published June 24, 2004

I went to the store today and passed a sign advertising Red Wiggler worms for sale. Those worms make excellent fish bait, especially for bream or crappie. I don't know how much money that guy makes growing worms, but I DO KNOW that it's not difficult to do.

When I first started seriously gardening, I built a compost bin in my back yard. I threw all my grass clippings, leaf-rakings and non-meat table scraps in there and wet it down and tossed the mixture around with a pitchfork every few days. Thanks to aerobic decomposition, that compost produced some of the finest, richest soil you could ever wish for.

It also spawned incredible numbers of Red Wiggler worms.

Red Wigglers are good for a garden. The worms help aerate the soil and they devour nematodes and other baddies that kill your plants from the bottom up. When my compost was just about ready to spread in the garden, I could dig my hands in there and come up with dozens of worms every time. Big, juicy, long, FAT worms, too.

I've got plenty of room to build a large compost bin in my back yard. I could fill it up pretty quickly with grass clippings and semi-rotten vegetables, and I probably could persuade a couple of my neighbors to contribute to the cause, too. It wouldn't take more than a couple of months to have a thriving worm-farm going back there. I'm seriously considering that idea. I'm tired of telling people that I'm retired.

I want to be able to say, "What do I do for a living? I'm a WORM FARMER."

That time of year

Originally published June 24, 2004

The wind has been blowing from the southwest for the past few days, which always causes the same kind of weather in Southeast Georgia. The days are hot and humid. But along about sundown, huge thunderheads start to build from all that moisture from the Gulf of Mexico and we often get bodacious storms.

Yesterday was a fine one, with winds that gusted up to 50 miles per hour and rain that fell sideways. It cleaned out all the dead limbs in the woods out back by appearing to throttle the trees like a strangler and also picked up my trash can and tossed it into a neighbor's yard two doors down. (Thank Bejus that the garbage men came and emptied the can yesterday morning.)

Another one is building now. I can see the black clouds easing toward my house and I can hear Mother Nature beating her Drums of Thunder. I didn't lose power yesterday, but I still believe that it might be a good idea to shut down the computer for a while.

This storm looks like it might be another bad-ass.

Word challenge

Originally published March 2, 2005

Use "fungible," diaphanous," "crucible", ""tendentious" and "misanthrope" in a coherent paragraph. I dare you.

I'll post mine later.

WORD PLAY

The ancient misanthrope labored over his crucible as he melted the proper ingredients into the cast-iron form. Smoke formed a diaphanous cloud, almost like a halo around his head as he worked. He didn't believe the masses when they said truth was "fungible." To this tendentious alchemist, truth was etched in stone and no king, no sheriff and no priest would ever convince him othewise. When he was finished with this spell, they would see. They would ALL see.

August 15, 2008

Things I don't understand

Originally published June 24, 2004

#1) De-Caf Coffee. What the fuck is the point? If you can't cop a righteous energy buzz after a couple of cups, why drink coffee at all? Give ME the thick, turgid, muddy stuff that makes my hair stand on end.

#2) Non-Alcoholic Beer. Again, what the fuck is the point? I've tried NA beers and I'm yet to find a one that doesn't taste like watered-down possum piss. I would rather drink ice water.

#3) Vegetarian Diets. Something is seriously wrong with someone who doesn't eat meat. Human beings would not have canine teeth if Mother Nature herself hadn't designed us to gnaw rib bones and tear great chunks off a pizza with extra pepperoni and sausage. Who are the vegans trying to fool? Shitting high-fiber turds IS NOT what we were put on this planet to do.

#4) Organic Food. The very term is a lie in itself, and anybody who believes that "organic" food is uniquely healthy is a blithering idiot. Hell, they have to be idiots to pay twice the price for products dipped in shit instead of 10-10-10 fertilizer. That's California Dreaming.

#5) "Healthy Choice" TV Dinners. Got-Dam! Does anyone really believe that a frozen brick you buy in the supermarket, after you pass up all the fresh fruits, vegetables and meats, is a HEALTHY CHOICE? Don't get me wrong. The meals aren't bad, but I prefer truth in advertising. Try "Better than that Swanson shit, BUT NOT a healthy choice."

#6) Low-Sodium ANYTHING. Yeah, yeah, yeah... salt is BAD for you. Just try living without it. YOU'LL DIE!!! Again, I prefer truth in advertising, so instead of "low-sodium," the food should be labeled "HAS NO TASTE." That low-sodium crap is more California Dreaming.

#7) "Renewable Energy". That's the new war-cry of asshole environmentalists who don't know jack-shit about energy production. The only really reliable source of renewable energy that we've ever found in sufficient quantity and reliability to make it practical is hydroelectric power, but environmentalists hate dams as much as they hate coal-fired turbine-generators or nuke plants. People who do the la-la dance about windmills and solar panels should be FORCED to live with that kind of power only. After they freeze their asses off in the dark for a year or so, they may stop their California Dreaming.

#8) Saying "Gender" when you mean "Sex". This one is a pet peeve of mine, because it reflects the complete pussification of America that I've watched occur during the second half of my life. "Sex" sounds dirty. EEEEWOOOO! Can't have THAT! "Gender," on the other hand, sounds really neutral, scientific and unoffensive, even to militant feminists, who are the ones I really believe STARTED this corruption of our language. Delicate ears require a lot of insulation lest they hear something they don't like.

#9) Gun Control. If ANY proponent of gun control could show me ONE EXAMPLE of where the idea has worked to make society better and safer, I might listen to them. But they can't, and I won't.

#10) Survivor. I watched one episode of that show long ago and I never felt the urge to watch it again. I've seen enough back-stabbing and politicking in my REAL life that I have no desire whatsoever to come home and watch more of that shit on my television.

There. How's THAT for a Thursday Ten?

Cruel and unusual

Originally published March 2, 2005

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behind the curve

Originally published June 24, 2004

I know that I am WAAAY behind times with this post, but I've got to say something. I finally watched Bowling For Columbine today. I don't believe that I've seen a more manipulative piece of sheer propaganda in my life.

Michael Moore does three things really well with that move (besides pissing me off). First, he mixes just enough fact with his fiction to give it the ring of truth if you're not listening carefully. Second, he manages to hit every leftist, break-my-heart talking point he can cram into the film, even when the points don't have a damn thing to do with his subject. Last, his syrupy, unctious voice-over makes him sound like a truly caring, unbiased individual, when he obviously is NOT.

As nearly as I can tell after watching the film, gun violence in America is caused by our health care system, welfare reform, K-Mart and Charleton Heston. Too many blacks are shown being arrested on television, so whites in the USA are filled with fear and racism, which causes them to buy guns they don't really need. Canada is a wonderful country with free health care.

Just a couple of observations. Moore didn't buy a gun in Canada; he bought ammo, although you had to be watching closely to catch the sleight-of-hand. Everything else in that segment was structured to suggest that anybody can buy a gun in Canada just as easily as they can in the USA, but deaths by gunshot are lower in Canada than they are in the USA because Canadians aren't racist and they have free health care. ("I see black people everywhere here!" He interviewed two black people and both were visitors from Detriot.)

Moore says ethnic diversity has nothing to do with that difference because the population of Canada is "13% non-white," which makes them "just about the same as us." I believe that our "non-white" population, once we counts blacks, hispanics, Native Americans, eskimos and Asians is a lot higher than 13%.

He also never mentions the War On Drugs as a factor in gun deaths. Crack-heads, drug dealers and gang-bangers shoot each other all the time in the inner city. The War on Drugs is a BIG factor in creating that situation. There's lots of money in them thar drugs, and people are going to go after it, whether it's illegal or not. When you're operating outside the law anyway, what a few shootings among friends?

He made a real, leftist, puke-inducing point by bringing two Columbine survivors to K-Mart corporate headquarters, where they whined that K-Mart somehow was responsible for the school shootings because the store sold 9mm ammo. Yeah, right. If K-Mart didn't sell ammo, Columbine never would have happened. You can't buy it anywhere else.

I never realized this fact before: There is no real difference between taking a gun to school and blowing away your classmates than working at Lockheed-Martin making bombs.

And I LOVED the compassion and understanding Moore displayed when he set upon a victim of Alzheimer's like a greasy blob. Moore should be proud of that interview. He showed his true colors.

The guy is an asshole in every sense of the word and his piece of shit movie proves it.

August 14, 2008

If she read me, she'd already know

Originally published March 2, 2005

From christina:

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

Why do we do this blogging thing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cell phones

Originally published June 23, 2004

How did people EVER manage to drive cars before the invention of the cell phone? On my trip to Key West, I noticed that about one in four cars I saw on the Interstate had a driver with one of those Borg-like devices stuck to his or her ear. I'll be willing to bet you that all but one or two of those people were just bullshitting with someone they really didn't need to talk to.

"Hello? James? Yeah, I'm driving down the road now. I'll have to stop for a pee break before long, and I just wanted to let you know."

"Hi, Mary! Whatcha doin'? Aw, I'm not doin' much either. Nothin' plus nothin' means nothin,' don't it? Whoa! I almost sideswiped an eighteen wheeler!"

"May I speak to Bob, please? Wrong number? Who cares? I'll just bullshit with YOU. What's your name, anyway?"

I can understand having a cell phone in the car. It can come in handy if you break down on the road and need to call Triple-A for a tow. Other than that, the sumbitch needs to stay in the glove box. People who feel the overpowering desire to exercise their jaws every time they get behind the wheel of a car should learn to chew gum. Fuck them AND their cell phones.

I believe that we should have a bounty on assholes who don't know how to HANG UP AND DRIVE.

War paint

Originally published March 2, 2005

I don't know what made me think of it just now, but I heard my father say it dozens of times when I was young and we were getting ready to go out somewhere.

"Dad, where's Mama?"

"She's in the bathroom, puttin' on her war paint."

That meant mama was applying makeup. It was always "war paint" to my father, and as I grow older, I believe he had it pegged.

"War Paint," indeed.

August 13, 2008

Me, too

Originally published June 22, 2004

I've written about the importance of naming your children well before. Evidently, I'm not the only one who wonders about how some parents name their children.

WARPED

Overheard at Lake Siskyou yesterday. Parent to kids in water: "Oswald, Ruby, come here." OK, Ruby is a nice name, if retro. Oswald even stands alone, tho stuffily. Together, ya gotta wonder. One kid named after President Kennedy's killer, the other after the killer's killer. What's up with that?

Do as I say, not as I do

Originally published March 1, 2005

Why am I not surprised by this? I've warned you before about wimmen who get the vapors and start to hyperventilate. They're all crazy and they do it all the time. Being absoulutely crazy seems NORMAL to them, and if you don't understand it, YOU'RE CRAZY, not them. you insensitive bastard.

A Springfield woman who began lobbying against gun violence after her son was shot to death in 2002 was arrested last week when police allegedly found an illegal gun and drugs in her home.

Annette "Flirty" Stevens, however, said Monday she's innocent, and the arrest is an attempt by police to get her to give up information about unsolved crime in the city.

The handgun, which had a scratched-off serial number, and drugs allegedly were discovered Friday morning inside Stevens' home in the 2500 block of South 15th Street. Authorities said they obtained a search warrant for the residence as part of an ongoing investigation of a recent series of drive-by shootings. No one has been hurt in the gunplay.

I report, you decide. We have "Flirty" here, being the stawlart mom that she is, joining the Million Mom Maniacs and then obtaining an illegal handgun and having drugs in her house. Take a wild guess. How do you think her son got killed?

Way to go, mama. March on!

Bullshit!!!

Originally published March 1, 2005

I've been over this ground* many times before with friends of mine who never finished college. Or those who DID finish, but never took advantage of what was offered them. Yes, I have a degree in ENGLISH LITERATURE. And yes, I ended up working for 24 years as a supervisor in a chemical plant. What else are you going to do with a degree in English Lit except become a teacher?

I'll tell you what my degree did for me. It taught me to read and write as an articulate human being. I did a LOT of communication via email and letters during my career. When you "speak" to people with whom you'll probably never meet in person, what you inscribe on paper is the only impression they'll ever have of you. You can come across as a complete idiot or someone worthy of trust, and it's all based on your words. I could come across as something other than a complete idiot.

My degree impressed my bosses. I probably gained a few promotions at work because I proved that I could finish what I started, even if it was a mere liberal arts degree.

I also learned that I could teach myself ANYTHING by reading. I have degrees and certificates all stored in a box somewhere to prove that I am certified as a firefighter, a chemical Haz-Mat Incident Commander, a Confined Space Rescue expert, a Licensed ASME Boiler Technician, a Certified Medical First Responder, a Six Sigma Green Belt, a QRO for burning waste-heat furnaces, DOT Haz-Chem shipping certifications, a genuine, gold-embossed sheepskin from the Philip Crosby College of Quality and I forget what all else. But I've got a stack of that shit.

And I wouldn't have ANY of that without my pissy little liberal arts degree in English Literature from Armstrong State College.

Steve (*[at Hog on Ice] whose archives I can't find... Love, Stevie), you can bite my Cracker ass on this one. My education paid for itself many times over again.

August 12, 2008

Buying groceries

Originally published March 1, 2005

Do you shop for name brands, or just buy the cheapest shit you can find? I think that's a good question because I do a little of both. But my tastes are peculiar.

I smoke cigarettes and I buy Marlboro Menthol Light 100s. I'll settle for Dorals on occasion, but very rarely. I don't know why I prefer one cigarette over another because half the ones I light just burn up in the ashtray while I type. But I'll drive out of my way to buy a carton of Marlboros.

I like Bass Ale and Burnett's citrus-flavored vodka. Not TOGETHER, but separately. I can't think of a single "commercial" American beer that isn't anything but possum piss and when they make it "lite" on top of that, it's a waste of perfectly good kidneys to drink it. Now people are drinking "ultra-lite" beer because they're watching their carbs. My aching ass.

I buy Charmin Ultra toilet paper. I don't give a damn about a lot of things in life, but I like to wipe my ass with nice toilet paper. That stuff is good. I buy it by the bale and it lasts me a long time as long as I don't have a woman around. A damn woman will use half a roll of triple-thick, super-soft Charmin just to daub her pussy after an ultra-light beer piss. I don't understand that.

I like genuine Blue Plate mayonnaise. I won't buy anything else. And I LIKE mayonnaise.

Other than that, I pretty much go for whatever is on sale. I don't see a lot of difference between generic brands and top-o-the-line stuff when it comes to canned food, except for the price. Orida makes the best frozen french fries, but they aren't worth a dollar more than the Kroger brand for a bag. And I can't tell any difference between genuine Listerine and the "antiseptic mouth wash" that looks just like Listerine, TASTES just like Listerine and sells for $2.00 less for the same goddam bottle without the Listerine name on it.

My first wife SWORE that she could tell the difference between LeSeur canned green peas and anything else on the shelf. Maybe she could, but I couldn't. Canned green peas aren't exactly gourmet food. I ain't paying 25 cents more per can just so I can say we have LeSeur peas in the house.

Canned tuna? I like to eat it, but I can't tell Chicken o' the Sea from the generic store-brand. I buy whatever costs less. I like Hormel canned chili better than any other, but I'll buy Castlebury's, Dinty Moore or whatever store brand costs the least when I load my larder. After all--- it's only canned chili.

How do YOU shop? Do you have favorite name-brands, or do you just buy the cheap shit that'll pack your gut just as well for less money?

(UPDATE: I forgot one thing. I will not buy any other dill pickles than Claussins. That's the best fricking dill pickle in the world, hands down. Whether you like them whole, sliced, Kosher or any other way, they are the best! That's one piece of grocery shopping where I will not sacrifice quality for cost.)

There goes the neighborhood

Originally published June 22, 2004

I have a new family living in the house next door to me. They moved in on Sunday. That house has changed hands four times since I moved into the Crackerbox. It should have a revolving door on the front.

And... you know what? It's a BLACK FAMILY!!! That's right, folks. Rabid, racist, redneck Rob has black people living right next door to him now. Oh! The HUMANITY!!!

A drizzling rain started falling this afternoon, so I went outside to scatter some fertilizer on my lawn. I saw the New Kid Next Door, who appears to be about 12 years old, swinging a golf club in his front yard. He was hitting whiffle balls at red flags he had planted all over the yard. He had a pretty good swing, too.

I watched him for a while and then walked over to introduce myself. His name is Kevin and his daddy won't let him hit real golf balls in the yard. I told him that I thought his daddy had a fine idea, because I didn't want an errant shot knocking out a window on my truck. But I also asked, "Would you like some real golf balls? I have some in my garage that I'll give you for free. I won them in tournaments and they're not the brand I like to play. You can have them if you promise not to hit them in the yard."

He agreed and I gave him three sleeves of brand-new Pinnacle balls. He was impressed. "They've never been hit before, so save them for the course," I told him. "You don't need to be playing with shags when you go out for the real deal." He thanked me and went to show his newfound loot to his daddy.

I hope that boy hits every one of those balls long and straight. I also hope that his daddy doesn't think I'm some kind of deviant, attempting to lure young children over to my house with free golf balls.

Idjits

Originally published March 1, 2005

Not many people really understand these terms:

*Joss

*Ju-Ju

* Ka (That's sometimes spelled "Kah," but I like to keep things simple.)

*Kharma

* Mojo

* Fate

* Luck

Flip a coin ten times and get ten tails in a row. What are the odds on the next flip? (The odds are still 50-50, the same as when you started.) What will give you eleven tails in a row is "joss."

I have a collection of "joss sticks" and I'll burn one every now and then to exorcise the demons from my life. I can't see where they've done much good with my joss, but they smell nice once you light them. Kinda like good luck insense.

August 11, 2008

Interesting

Originally published June 22, 2004

I might have to read this blog for a while before I figure out the writer. I read one post and say "right on!" then I read the next one and say "YOU SHITHEAD!"

He's confusing me. But he is a "Creativity Coach" (BWHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!), so what else should I expect?

Coaching creativity

Originally published June 22, 2004

Stop and think about the idea of "coaching creativity." Think about it long and hard. Then, just break out in hysterical laughter, roll on the floor and wipe the snot off your nose and the tears from your eyes. That's the most bullshit job I EVER heard of. Sounds like a fucking consultant to me, and I've got no use for ANY of those bastards.

I have a theory about creativity and it comes from long ago, when I was only an egg. Creative people will be creative whether they are "coached" or not. I also do not believe that you can take an uncreative drone and coach him into being creative. It goes against the hard-wiring in the brain.

I read once that the difference between a genius and a lunatic is very, very small. They both see things that other people don't.

Creative people are ALL part lunatic, and I'm not talking about actors here. Actors are the mushy scum on the bottom of the pond of creativity. They don't "create" anything. They are hand-puppets, playing people that they aren't, speaking lines written by someone else and as close to a shadow-person as I can imagine. I don't like actors, even though I would like to try my hand at that craft some day. I can be as phoney as a lot of them I see on the screen.

I've watched a talented sculptor work. She took a piece of rock and carved it into a statue. I was amazed by the process. She didn't draw lines or diagrams to figure out what to do. She didn't need any coaching. She saw the end result in her mind before she started and she carved it perfectly from stone. THAT'S what I call creativity.

I don't like it when people call actors or musicians "artists." They are SELDOM artists. They practice a craft, and a lot of them aren't really good at THAT. Mozart was an artist. Barry Manilow is not. Robert Frost was an artist. Maya Angelo is not. Period. I will brook no discussion on the matter, because people who can't tell the difference aren't worth talking to.

Nobody "coaches" creativity. A teacher or a mentor can channel creative energies down the right path, refine the skills with constructive critcism and encourage a creative person to pursue the talent, but NOBODY can make a silk purse from a sow's ear.

A creative person will be creative, with or without a coach. A witless drone will remain uncreative, no matter how many coaches are swarming around trying to find something that isn't there. "Creativity Coach," my ass.

There ain't no such thing.

Men and women

Originally published March 1, 2005

More here, from catfish.

Marriage Quotes & what every woman wants --

At a cocktail party, one woman said to another, Aren't you wearing your wedding ring on the wrong finger?" Yes, I am. I married the wrong man."

A lady inserted an 'ad' in the classifieds: "Husband Wanted". Next day she received a hundred letters. They all said the same thing: "You can have mine."

When a woman steals your husband, there is no better revenge than to let her keep him.

A little boy asked his father, "Daddy, how much does it cost to get married?" Father replied, "I don't know son, I'm still paying."

Young son: "Is it true Dad, that in some parts of Africa a man doesn't know his wife until he marries her?" Dad: "That happens in every country, son."

Just think, if it weren't for marriage, men would go through life thinking they had no faults at all.

Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a big gut, and still think they are attractive to the opposite sex.

Face it. After reading all these posts from both men and wimmen, the conclusion is obvious. We are cats and dogs, TRYING to live together.

August 10, 2008

A quiz

Originally published March 1, 2005

THE 'WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?' BLOGGER QUIZ

1. Who the hell do you think you are?
I KNOW who the fuck I am, asshat. I am Acidman, a crazed hillbilly turned Cracker who doesn't need to explain himself to YOU.

2. So, other than blogging, what's your job? Do you work at some fast food joint, dumbass?
I am a man of leasure today. I don't work. But I HAVE worked in a fast-food restaurant before, and I was good at it. Of course, I've been pretty good at everything I ever tried in life--- except staying married.

3. Do you have like any experience in journalism, idiot?
Yes, and most of it was unpleasant. Not nearly as much fun as blogging.

4. Do you even read newspapers?
No. I am functionally illiterate and I don't read at all. "Stop" signs confuse me.

5. Do you watch any other news than FOX News propaganda, you ignorant fool?
Yes. I sometimes watch CNN and CBS when I feel the overpowering desire to hear lies.

6. I bet you're some moron talk radio listener too, huh?
Hey! We've got a GREAT talk radio host right here in Savannah, with his own show from 8:00 till noon every day on WBMQ, 630 on the AM dial. His name is Ben Bennet and I think he's headed for stardom someday. I listen to his show only when I'm driving around in my truck, but I think he's damned good. He needs to start a blog.

7. So, do you get a fax from the GOP each day for what to say, you @#$% Republican parrot?
Acutally, I receive several such missives every day and I delete them without reading them. I have my own opinions about EVERYTHING, including where you can bite me for calling me a "parrot."

8. Why do you and your blogger friends want to silence and fire everyone who disagrees with you, fascist?
I don't want to "silence" them. I want them dragged off and shot. I deplore stupidity.

9. Are you completely ignorant of other countries, or do you actually own a passport?
I own a passport. It doesn't have a very good picture of me on it. I resemble a serial killer in that photo. Maybe that's why Customs always pays me extra attention when I travel.

10. Have you even been to another country, you dumb hick?
No. I've never left my mama's basement. I LIE about going to other countries, but it's all bullshit.

11. If you're so keen on the war, why haven't you signed up, chickenhawk?
I'm 53 fucking years old, asswipe, and I ain't in the best of shape anymore. The military wouldn't have me now if I offered to pay THEM for the privilege to serve. But I still support the war 100% and if my son ends up in it, I'll be proud of him.

12. Do you have any idea of the horrors of war? Have you ever reached into a pile of goo that was your best friend's face?
No. But I've felt my own face turn into a pile of goo after drinking moonshine whiskey.

13. Have you ever reached into any pile of goo?
Yes. That would be my last ex-wife, the Bloodless Cunt. That is True Goo.

14. Once again, who the hell do you think you are?!"
What's YOUR problem, numbnuts? Ya got short-term memory loss from sniffing too much model airplane glue? I already answered this question. I am ACIDMAN!!! Who the hell do you think YOU are?

I stole the quiz from here because I had nothing better to do at the time.

There he goes again

Originally published June 22, 2004

How did I miss this guy when I was growing up? We lived in the same place, did the same stupid teenaged things and he even married a girl who grew up two doors down from my mama's house. Fate works in mysterious ways.

If we had met back then, we'd probably BOTH be dead now.

August 09, 2008

Supervising people

originally published June 22, 2004

I spent almost half of my life bossing people in a chemical plant. I've often wondered about what made me good at it; I didn't learn it college, that's for sure. I always wanted to be a writer, but I ended up going where the money was and I have no regrets about that decision. It paid off in the long run.

At one of the too numerous to remember training seminars I attended, the man running the show asked everybody in the room to define the role of a supervisor. I heard all kinds of cliche, textbook answers about being a coach, a motivator, a mentor, a leader and blah, blah blah. When it was my turn to answer, I tried to say what I REALLY thought my job was.

"I set high standards and compel people to meet them."

That's it in a nutshell. That's what a good supervisor does. I can't tell you HOW to do it, because I don't believe that anyone has a set formula that works for everybody. Maybe the military comes close, but even there, certain individuals stand out as simply being better than others, even though everyone is reading the same rule book.

I've seen several different types of bosses in my life. Some I liked and some I didn't, but I tried to learn something from every one of them.

#1) The Pompous Martinet. I learned what NOT to do by watching these strutting popinjays. They love their title, being bullies at heart, and they get their rocks off by trying to intimidate underlings. They hand out punishment at the drop of a hat, but nobody respects them because they ENJOY that aspect of their job too much. They are the kind of people who like pulling one wing off a horsefly, just to watch it spin in a circle.

#2) I'm Your Best Friend. I never understood those guys, either. A supervisor cannot AFFORD to be "friends" with his crew. Cordial relationships are good, but if you EVER try to be friends with the folks you supervise, they'll eat you alive and laugh about it afterward. If your goal in life is to be liked by everyone around you, don't take a job in supervison.

#3) The Wiz-Bang Glory Boy. I must confess that I have a lot of traits that fit this classification. These supervisors take calculated risks, make decisions, never dodge responsibility and usually boss a crew that would follow them straight through the gates of hell if he said to go there. But sometimes the Glory Boy forgets his obligations to his crew and thinks too much of his own career and the spotlight he seeks. Such people can be dangerous.

#4) The Quietly Competent. You don't hear a lot of noise out of these supervisors. They just show up every day, do a good job and generally have a crew that does a good job, too. They rule with a velvet glove, but they rule just the same. They know their shit, but don't feel the need to brag about it. You almost never see one of the Quietly Competent fuck up. Glory Boys do.

#5) The Professional Ass-Kisser. This is the kind of supervisor I hold in utter comtempt. He's a politician at heart and he doesn't give a shit about his crew OR doing a good job. He just wants to ingratiate himself to HIS boss, and he'll sacrifice anybody he needs to along the way. Never trust one of those bastards, and they are everywhere.

#6) The Blithering Idiot. You often see these people and wonder just how in the hell they got where they are. Maybe it's the Peter Principle. Whatever the reason, such people are in WAAAY over their heads and they don't swim very well. Their crews don't trust them, they shit their pants when they're supposed to be making decisions and their most common response to a crisis is: "It's not MY fault," even when it is. I didn't like to work anywhere around them.

The next time you vote for a politician, figure out which category he fits before you pull that lever.

Great movie lines

Originally published March 1, 2005

Do YOU know who said these lines and what movie they came from?

1) "Custer was a pussy. You ain't."

2) "I call that bold talk for a one-eyed fat man!"

3) "It ain't your WORD that counts. It's who you GIVE IT TO."

4) "You don't leave a man much, do you?" (Reply: "You didn't bring much with you.")

5) "I'm the pater familias!"

6) "Music, yes! Music is very good for the digestion!"

7) "I'd like to... suck...his... cock."

8) "Dirt. Dirt in the fuel line. Just blowed it away."

9) "Open pod bay doors, Hal. Hal? Open pod bay doors."

10) "You go on down there, if you've got the nerve. But them ain't wimmen and children waiting on you. Them's Cheyenne and Souix braves. Go down there and there won't be nothin' left but a greasy spot. So, you go on, if you've got the nerve."

My head is chocked full of useless trivia.

(And if Velociman doesn't know #6, I'm going to be very disappointed in him.)

I thought only I did this

Originally published March 1, 2005

Here is a post from a very sick man. Poor bastard.

He reminds me of ME.

August 08, 2008

Read it

Originally published March 1, 2005

This is one of the best posts I've ever read about what we are doing in Iraq. And the longer we stay there, the more lame the anti-war people sound when they bleat about what a "disaster" or a "quagmire" it is.

Just look around. Tell me our presence in Iraq hasn't sent "fallout" all over the Middle East. Tell me that we didn't lance a festering boil on the ass of the world. Tell me that the relief isn't felt by millions of people and millions of others DON'T want the same kind of relief. Dream on.

We were headed for a war there eventually anyway. The place was a sump, ruled by manicial leaders with brutish regimes who sat upon incredible wealth while treating their people worse than dogs. If we were going to give the world an enema, we'd put the tube in the Middle East. We did that with the Third Armored Division from Fort Stewart, Georgia.

People continue to die in this struggle, but the numbers (in MY mind anyway) are acceptable when you consider the final outcome. Freedom isn't free. And every troop on the ground over there is fighting for US just as much as he is fighting for the freedom of Afghanistan or Iraq. And we are winning.

I see a tremendously impressive part of history unfolding before me. We ARE changing the world, for the better. It's gonna take some time and the price won't be cheap. We still have some really diseased people to eliminate before this is over.

But if we're willing to pay that price, the dividends will be everlasting.

Bud

Originally published June 22, 2004

Bud was Jennifer's dog when I met her, but Bud became MY dog for a long time. He's a chow-black lab mix and he weighed about 95 pounds in his prime. Jennifer had him de-nutted as a puppy (she's trying that with me now), but Bud never lost his alpha male instincts. He was a Tall Dog.

Bud always hated cats, other male dogs and any person wearing a uniform. He killed several cats that were too stupid to run from him when they invaded his property, and I learned to bury the broken-necked corpses on the other side of the fence, because Bud would dig them up and "play" with them if I planted them in the back yard.

Bud was as gentle as a lamb around children. I remember Quinton crawling in diapers up to him and saying, "Nose!" as he poked Bud in the nose. "Eye," as he stuck a finger in Bud's eye. "Tail," as he tugged Bud's tail. Bud just laid there and took the abuse as if it were all part of his job. He never even growled.

Of course, Quinton wasn't wearing a uniform. I came home from work one evening and found my back door knocked clean off its hinges. Huge claw-marks were all over the wood and Bud was in the back yard. I don't know how the guy from the electric company got away after reading the meter, but Bud went after his ass and took the door down doing it. I found a note in my mailbox saying, "I will call the next time I need to read your electric meter. Can you please secure your dog?"

Hell... I thought the dog WAS secured. That was a solid wood door he tore down. I'm not sure that I could have done that. But the meter-man always called after that incident, and I tied Bud up with a heavy-duty choke chain when the reader came to call. Bud never did learn to like him.

Needless to say, I never worried about being burglarized back then. Anybody who broke into my home would be reduced to dog turds in short order, because Bud didn't like unauthorized visitors. He seldom barked, either. But he had a low-pitched, throaty growl that sounded absolutely vicious when he was angry.

A Peeping Tom started cruising the neighborhood and spying through people's windows at night. A lot of elderly widow-wimmen were worried about the guy and I told them that I would be on the lookout for him. I didn't need to. One crisp, cold winter night, we turned Bud out in the back yard and he decided to sleep outside. He liked cold weather.

The Peeping Tom tried our bedroom window that night. Bud was coal-black and pretty much invisible in the dark. I think he was asleep under our bedroom window when the Peeper must have stepped on him. Bejus! What a commotion! I heard Bud's growl, an "OH SHIT!" and the sound of running feet. A few seconds later, I heard a "CLANG" as something hit the back fence at high velocity.

I grabbed a pistol and went outside. I found Bud panting with blood on his muzzle. It wasn't Bud's blood. The next day, the neighbor behind me said that the noise woke her up and she saw a young man vault over my fence with Bud hot on his ass. "That boy had no seat left in his pants," she told me. Bud damn nearly chewed his ass off.

We never saw or heard from the peeper again.

Bud is almost 17 years old now. He is arthritic, deaf and half-blind. His coat has almost as much gray as my beard. He sleeps a lot.

I ask about him every time I see Quinton. As of Sunday, Bud was still hanging in there. He's not the Tall Dog he once was, but if he's still good for 15 seconds, he's still a bad-ass. I loved that dog.

I still do.

August 07, 2008

The death of a child

Originally published June 21, 2004

I don't know why I'm in such a morbid mood today. Quinton came to see me yesterday and Jack came to visit today, so I've gotten to visit with my two favorite boys in back-to-back days. Jack watched a movie with me and helped me finish off the last of the boiled peanuts I cooked yesterday. We had a good time.

After he left, I remembered a day from my past that I really didn't want to revisit.

When I was a junior in high school, I went out with a bunch of my teammates from the Jenkins football squad on a Friday night to watch the Benedictine Cadets play Savannah High School at Memorial Stadium. We had a bye weekend, but we were scheduled to play BC the next Saturday and SHS the week after that. We wanted to check out our opponents.

I don't remember who won that game, but I remember what happened later that night. Several friends of mine wrapped a hot-rod GTO around that big oak tree on Dead Man's Curve on LaRoache Avenue. Anybody from Savannah can name numerous people killed on that spot, by that same tree, but that one really hit home to me.

I was asked to go riding with them that night, but I slipped off to neck with a new girlfriend instead. Five people got into that car. One died and the other four were in the hospital for months with severe injuries.

My father was reading the newspaper when I walked into the kitchen on Saturday morning. "You play ball with these guys, don't you?" he asked as he slid the paper my way. I read the story and my jaw dropped. I had seen every one of them about eight hours earlier. I was invited to go riding with them. Now, one was dead and the other four were fighting for life. Holy Bejus!

The phone rang shortly thereafter and it was Coach Atwood calling everybody on the team that he could reach to set up an "honor guard" for our fallen teammate. We met in the Jenkins gym and drew numbers to decide who would spend one hour, starting at 8:00 the next morning, down at Goethe's Funeral Home, and watching people grieve over a closed coffin. I drew #2, which put me on the first shift, along with a guy named Billy Holland.

I spent the longest hour of my life standing by that coffin in my red Jenkins blazer that day. He's been dead for over 30 years now, so I'll go ahead and use the name of the fallen comrade. He was Tommy Spellman, and his father was Athletic Director of the Chatham County Public Schools. Tommy played offensive tackle and kicked field goals and extra points. He was a large, husky fellow.

His father was a big, rough-looking man who appeared to be carved hapazardly from an irregular piece of granite rock. Everybody knew MR. SPELLMAN, and he impressed every schoolboy ballplayer I ever knew. If you were around him for five minutes, you decided that you wanted to grow up to be as tough as he was.

I watched tears roll down that man's face that day. Mr. Spellman, the toughest of the tough, cried like a baby at his son's funeral. At the time, I was disappointed in him. I expected more stoic behavior from "The Rock." But I didn't have children of my own at the time.

Today, I cannot imagine a worse experience than seeing one of your children die young, when their life is still an open highway, filled with opportunity and good times never to be realized. That's got to be totally heartbreaking. I realize now why Mr. Spellman cried that day.

I would, too. I hope only that I never have to.

The truth

Originally published February 28, 2005

I once thought I knew The Truth. I once thought that I could see it and understand it. But I was mistaken.

The older I get, the more fungible and diaphanous Truth seems to be. It's not etched in stone. It's more like a bead of mercury sliding around on a plate of glass. You can see the perfection of the bead, but you can't pick it up. If you try, it breaks into smaller pieces and they all form their own perfect little beads on the glass and you can't pick up any of those, either. If you play with those beads long enough, they will poison you.

That's the Truth.

August 06, 2008

Conspiracy theories

Originally published June 21, 2004

I watched The Right Stuff on TV the other day and thought about how we, as a country, really pissed away a golden opportunity to pursue space exploration. Just about the time we got good at it, we fucking QUIT.

I would say that I don't understand, because that sounds like something a dreamer such as myself OUGHT to say, but I understand perfectly. An old farmer down the road from me still swears to this day that we never landed a man on the moon. "The gov'ment staged the whole thing to hide what they were doing with our tax dollars," he avers.

What were they doing with our tax dollars to inspire such an elaborate hoax?

"They were spending it on welfare checks and foreign aid to countries we should have been nuking the shit out of, that's what the bastids was doin.' Never trust those bastids, son. They make a livin' by lying and the bigger the lie, the better they like it." A lot of people believed such things about the space program. They thought we were pissing money away into a black hole and lying about the results.

I like the old man. He's helped me a lot with farming projects and he's a genuine Georgia Redneck--- he's been plowing fields, growing peanuts and corn, since his daddy ran the 150-acre farm years ago. His neck is as wrinkled as the vent hose on a clothes dryer and his hands are as rough as alligator feet. His dentures don't fit right and he makes clacking noises when he talks. He's been married to the same woman for more than 50 years. And he votes in EVERY election.

He's the salt of the earth, but as full of shit as a Christmas goose. He knows planting and fertilizing and pest-control, and he knows just how much water the crops need. He's also an ignorant sumbitch totally convinced that he's RIGHT when he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about.

We have a lot of people like that in the world. The man can grow peanuts, cotton and corn, but he really doesn't know jack-shit about government or politics. The fact that he doesn't know jack-shit doesn't stop him from venting his opinions, however, and if you dare to disagree, he's ready to fight. I wouldn't want to tangle with the old bastid. He might wring my neck like I was a chicken, or shoot me if he thought that he couldn't take me bare-handed. I just let him rant.

He has his perceptions and they are stark reality to him. I think about him often when I read some of the asswits who compare Bush with Hitler and who believe that the war against terror was a big mistake. I have a troll who keeps calling Bush a drunk. He's as full of shit as that farmer, but the troll believes every word he writes, just as the farmer believes we never landed on the moon.

Perception is a dangerous thing. Just because you FEEL something and you BELIEVE something doesn't make it true. If you never think that you just MIGHT be full of shit, you don't think enough.

Try the occasional reality check.

From the ex-wife

Originally published July 1, 2004

Hey! A big, fat letter from Jennifer in the mail! I can't wait to open this one.

It's copies of some medical bills for Quinton and a post-it note saying "You owe me $300 for the time share, plus half these medical bills." That's the kind of correspondence I get from her today.

I talked to Quinton last night on the phone. He won't be around to see his sister when she comes to town this weekend, because he's headed for Virginia today, to visit some people Jennifer knows. One of those people is a doctor that Jennifer once screwed before she met me. The guy gave her a case of venereal disease, but had the chivalry to call her and tell her to get checked once he found out what HE had. She got that problem fixed and told me that the sex was a complete bust. "That was all a big mistake," she said.

Yeah. I believe anything YOU say.

Booked!

Originally published July 1, 2004

I'm going back to Costa Rica. I am staying 20 days this time and I intend to see some of the country that I didn't catch the first time around. I may go over the the Caribbean side this time, just to say I've been there. I want to go back to the volcano at Arenal, but the rest of the trip will be played on the first bounce. The best adventures are unplanned.

That BILL from Jennifer today just put me right off my grits and I decided to stop sitting around the Crackerbox and vegetating. I sent her a check and called my travel agent. I leave a week from Monday.

Heh. I also figured that since I was paying for the time share this year, I SHOULD USE IT, so I booked myself a week at Daytona Beach in August. I like the idea of spending the summer AWAY FROM HERE. The Crackerbox is depressing anymore.

I doubt that I'll be able to duplicate the first experience I had in Costa Rica. That trip was the most theraputic thing I've ever done in my life. The country is sooo beautiful and the people are sooo friendly that you can really get a lot of spiders and snakes out of your head there. I know I did. I didn't want to come home the last time.

I'm going back and I believe that I can make the trip with one carry-on bag and a small suitcase. I have four outfits to wear. If my clothes get stinky, I'll wash them, or buy something new. But I'm traveling light.

And I intend to keep doing that.

August 05, 2008

Quinton came to see me

Originally published June 21, 2004

I almost didn't recognize my son when I opened the door. His hair is long now, and cut in a shag just like Jennifer's. He could wrap those flowing locks in a ponytail with no problem. I liked the spike-doo he wore during wrestling last year a lot better. I believe that my ex-wife wants a girly-boy instead of a young man in her life.

Quinton hugged me and handed me a hand-made Father's Day card. "I love you, Daddy," he said.

"I love you, too, son," I replied. That hug really felt good. I started to mist up, so I rubbed his head and asked, "What's with all the hair? You look like a Beatle."

"What's with all of THIS hair?" he asked, as he ran his fingers through my beard.

"I'm old. I can grow a beard if I want to. But YOU need a haircut."

"I'll get a haircut when you shave that beard," he grinned.

"It's a deal, but you go first," I replied.

I dropped down to one knee so that I could get a better hug and look into my boy's eyes. "Thanks for the card, poot. I sure do love you."

"I know, Daddy. I love you, too. Happy Father's Day."

The visit didn't last long, because Jennifer was in the driveway with the engine still running in her big, silver SUV. I waved at her as Quinton ran back to the car. When they pulled away, I went back inside, looked at my card and cried all over it. I started to take a picture of it and post it here, but that card wouldn't mean anything to anybody but me. But TO ME, it means a lot.

Quinton made that card and he hand-delivered it, along with lots of hugs. I haven't lost my boy yet. He made my day.

But he surely does need a haircut.

Yellow jackets

Originally published July 1, 2004

One of the reasons I always carry chewing tobacco with me when I hike or camp is for medicinal purposes. Yeah, I enjoy a good chew and I like the sizzle it makes when I spit in the campfire, but that's not the real reason I bring it along as an essential supply.

I've scared up a nest of yellow jackets more than once in my life, and a wet tobacco poultice is the only thing I've ever found that will take away the sting and reduce the swelling when you get hit by a dozen or so of those bastards. Yellow jackets live in the ground and you won't know they're there until you step in the wrong place. If you make that mistake, the sumbitches come boiling out like orcs in Lord of the Rings and they are seriously on the warpath.

A single yellow jacket can sting you more than once, too. One flew right down my shirt one day and hit me five times before I could kill him. If you find yourself in a cloud of them, you'll be doing the damnedest boogaloo you ever imagined as you run for your life. The stings feel like small-caliber gunshot wounds.

A commenter suggested on a previous post about hornets that you should just stand still and don't move in that situation. Try that trick on yellow jackets. They'll sting the ever-lovin' piss out of you, whether you're moving or not. Yellow jackets are about the meanest insect I've ever encountered.

Maybe that's why I hate Georgia Tech so much.

August 04, 2008

My kind of attitude

Originally published June 21, 2004

I don't want to live forever. Think of how boring eternal life would get after a while. I believe that I share this philosophy:

"Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming,

"WOW! What a ride!"

I want the last check I write to bounce like a super-ball and I want to look really dead when I'm finally laid out. That's my goal, and working hard on that project.

Interesting story

Originally published July 18, 2005

Mommie told me a good story that I never heard before yesterday. My grandfather, when he was a young rounder, decided that he was going to kill a man. (He had a good reason for that plan.) He owned shotguns and rifles, but he wanted a pistol--- something that he could stick in his pocket and carry without the bad guy seeing it.

He bought a .32 revolver from a fellow moonshiner, who demanded a CHECK for the sale of the gun. Not many people in the hollows of eastern Kentucky HAD checking accounts back then, but my grandfather did, although his balance was usually about $2.00 after his charges at the company store were deducted from his paycheck.

He wrote a check for that pistol, then went looking for the bad guy. (That was sometime around 1935--- no telling how old the gun is.)

The reason the seller wanted a check was because he KNEW what my grandfather intended to do, and he didn't want to be connected with a murder. He wanted proof that he SOLD the pistol if it were used to kill somebody.

Luckily for all concerned, the law caught the guy before my grandfather did. The bad guy was sent back to the "pen" (he was out on parole at the time) and my grandfather kept that pistol until the day he died. I don't think he ever shot at anybody with it, but I remember seeing it around Mommie and Papaw's house when I was a young boy.

Mommie gave that pistol to my cousin Alan, who is a cop in Florida. (He just made Captain, by the way!) I told Mommie yesterday that I wish she had given it to me, because I might have framed that sucker and hung it on my wall as a family heirloom. After all, I AM her first grandchild.

She said that she gave it to Alan because she knew that he collected guns and he might need it in his line of work. I doubt that Alan would EVER use an ancient .32 in a gunfight (he's got a SERIOUS arsenal), but the pistol is in good hands. He'll take care of it.

But I've already put out the word. If Alan ever wants to sell it, I get first dibs on it.

Cancer survivor

Originally published June 19, 2004

Lookie here. I've been invited to join a Cancer Survivors Group. I wonder how they got my name and address? I also wonder what in the hell a cancer survivors group does. Do people stand around, swap horror stories and compare scars?

I don't believe that I want to join. First of all, I agree with Groucho Marx-- I don't want to join ANY club that would accept ME as a member. Second, I don't think of myself as a cancer survivor. I didn't do anything heroic or brave. I got lucky, that's all.

Having cancer damn sure changed my life in ways that will never be repaired, but the only real struggle I had during that time was keeping my head on straight while my not-yet-ex-wife moved her dope-smoking, unemployed lover into my house. That was a bitter pill to swallow. It also was the most heartless, bloodless thing anyone has ever done to me in my life.

Jennifer knew how frightened I was by the high PSA test and how I watched my father and my best friend die from prostate cancer. She knew how worried I was about the biopsy results. Still, she picked that time to become an adulteress, throw me out of my home and start a torrid affair with a person not fit to kiss my ass. She's a class act all the way.

I remember the night before the surgery. I had to be at the hospital at 5:00 AM and I didn't sleep much that night. I did a lot of thinking. I wasn't afraid of dying--- the thought of dying has NEVER frightened me. It's gonna happen some day and I hope to spit in the Reaper's face when he comes for me. I just didn't want to be ALTERED and live as only a part of what I once was.

I had a radical prostatectomy. It knocked me flat on my Cracker ass for a month. I wore diapers for three months after that while I practiced Keagle exercises to relearn how to control my continence. My dick was dead as a doorknob. I was one miserable sumbitch. I'll NEVER be right again, but I appear to be cancer-free. August 16th will make three years since I received the positive report on the biopsy. My last PSA test was a big, fat zero.

If I had it all to do over again, I'm not certain that I would consent to the surgery. I probably could have lived a good 10 to 15 years with the slow-moving cancer I had, and I believe that I would have been a lot happier, right up until I died, than I have been since the surgery.

Am I supposed to be PROUD and join a club because I didn't die (yet) of cancer? Am I supposed to consider myself as a "cancer survivor?" I don't feel proud and I don't consider myself to be a survivor. In fact, I wish now that I had never gone to the doctor for that biopsy.

I wouldn't fit in with a group of cancer survivors. I would rather have my old body back and die wearing it.

Attitude

Originally published July 18, 2005

This guy has a shitty attitude. I happen to LIKE shitty attitudes. I wish more people had them, especially around election time.

We wouldn't be the mewling sheelple we've become today if more people stayed pissed off all the time.

August 03, 2008

Simmering down

Originally published June 18, 2004

I'm attempting to un-piss-off myself. I'm not doing a real good job of it. Those Islamo-bastards fired up my grill with their cowardly assassination of an American hostage, who was guilty of nothing more than being an American. I am working up a good case of utter disgust toward Allah's minions. A lot of those people are just too fucked-up to be in this world.

I have no problem living with gay people until they start acting like Islamo-gays, with the tu-tus and leather thongs, showing their uncivilized asses. I have no problem with black people, either, until they start that mo-fo ghetto shit and expect me to swallow it. I can get along with almost anybody who acts civilized.

But I cannot and I WILL NOT get along with people who butcher a human being as if they were slaughtering a hog and then take bragging pictures of the act. I wish that I could have barged into that room with my 12-gauge and found out for myself just how brave those assholes were. Kill ME, you fuckers! But if you bring your knife to a gunfight, you're dead as a doornail.

I'm still pissed. I probably will be for a couple of days.

I cannot see a future for such people unless we plant them in the ground. They are mired in 7th-century thinking and they are complete savages. If they weren't sitting on a big puddle of oil, they'd be eating sand for sustinence. They are some really bent, fucked-up people.

I say kill them all.

A different language

Originally published July 18, 2005

Wimmen often say one thing and mean another. It's some kind of hormonal thing and men really need to learn to translate what wimmen SAY into what they MEAN, or the dog-house of divorce court may be a future destination. Here's a good example:

1. Yes = No 2. No = Yes 3. Maybe = No 4. We need = I want... 5. I am sorry = You'll be sorry 6. We need to talk = You're in trouble. 7. Sure, go ahead = You'd better not. 8. Do what you want = You will pay for this later. 9. I am not upset = Of course I am upset, you moron! 10. You're certainly attentive tonight = Is sex all you ever think about?

I've learned to speak passable Spanish. But I'll NEVER become fluent in wimmentalk. It's a language men are not MEANT to understand.

(List shamlessly stolen from here.)

Gay pride

Originally published June 18, 2004

Why is anyone "proud" of being gay?

I don't care what anyone does in consenting circumstances, and Bejus knows I've done enough wild-catting to make me a poor judge of other people's behavior, but I don't get the point of "gay pride." I can understand wimmen who like other wimmen, because I like wimmen, too. But GUYS? Who prefer a hairy ass and a set of balls over someone like Cindy Crawford?

I don't get it.

I have to admit that I would have a lot more money and a lot less grief today if I were gay. A Quest For Pussy has been my downfall in life. Anybody who EVER tells you that "I never paid for it" is a goddam liar. NOTHING in life is free, and pussy is ALWAYS expensive, sooner or later.

Still, I don't march in parades proclaiming my heterosexuality. I'm hard-wired for what I like and I don't take any "pride" in that fact. It's just the way I'm built. Why would anyone built differently take "pride" in consorting with members of the same sex? It's not as if they had to work really hard at being gay. It's just in the wiring.

To me, it's all like eating broccoli. Either you like it, or you don't. But there's no reason to be proud either way.

Frog war

Originally published June 18, 2004

I usually like the sound of crickets and frogs at night. They sing up a storm and I enjoy listening to them. But you can have too much of a good thing.

Last night, some horny damned frog perched himself somewhere around my back porch and just wouldn't shut up. "RACK! RACK! RACK-RACK-RACK-RACK!" The bastard sounded as if he were singing through a microphone into a bank of Bose PA speakers. I couldn't hear my television over his love song.

I grabbed a .22 pistol and a flashlight and went outside to dispatch his noisy ass. As soon as I opened the door, he cut off his set and took a break. I shined the flashlight all through the weeds the beautifully manicured grass in my back yard, but I couldn't find the obnoxious little shit. I decided to sit in a lawn chair and wait him out.

Mosquitoes attacked me, so I gave up on that plan. As soon as I went back inside, The Frog of Love started a new set and cranked up the volume. "RACK! RACK! RACK-RACK-RACK-RACK!" If I opened the door, he shut up. As soon as I closed the door, he started singing again.

I'm gonna find that prick today and kill him.

August 02, 2008

Fishing

Originally published July 18, 2005

I LIKE to go fishing. Whether it be from the creekbank, in a boat or from the surf, it's something I enjoy doing. I don't consider myself to be an expert at it, but I've caught my fair share of fish.

Deep sea fishing is a real hoot. If you haul up a fish around the Snapper Banks off the coast of Georgia, you're gonna have something BIG on your line. I've hooked Red Snapper, Grouper, Trigger, Dolphin (the FISH--- not "Flipper), Tuna, Barracuda, Shark, Amberjack and all sorts of other intriguing critters out there.

Heh. Get a good-sized sting ray to bite and that bastard will wear you out before you drag him up to the boat. Feels like you've got Moby Dick on your line. I usually throw them back, but I kept one once and tried what somebody told me I could do. Skin him, and cut the meat into small cubes. Tastes just like scallops.

My friend was correct. That ray DID taste just like scallops.

I like fishing for bream, too. That's a good excuse to sit on the bank of a river, drink beer and snooze until you start getting a few hits. I've lucked-up and found them "bedding" before and caught fish as fast as I could re-bait my hook and get it back in the water. That's a lot of fun.

Bream are boney fish and some people I know don't like to eat them. I do. They are a pain in the ass to clean, but pan-fried, I think they are delicious. I like to eat fish.

If you have a young boy in your life, do him a big favor. Take him fishing. He'll never forget the lessons you teach him and it's something he can do for the rest of his life.

And it's a lot of fun, too.

(UPDATE: Black sea bass are as good as any fish I've ever tasted and if you ever get into a school of them, you can catch a BUNCH. I never much cared for salt-water trout. Flounder are more fun to catch if you gig them in a creek at night.)

A down day

Originally published June 17, 2004

My grass needs mowing. I didn't mow it. I sat on my boney Cracker ass and wasted this entire day. I finished reading the book I started in Key West and took a couple of very refreshing naps on my sofa. I ate some clam chowder, some fresh corn that I bought from a roadside market and then buried my sunburned face in a seedless watermelon.

I'll probably shit like Moody's Goose tomorrow.

I've begun to appreciate the simple pleasures of life. Have you ever just gnawed a watermelon where the juice ran down your chin and dripped off your bare chest? Did you ever just sit cross-legged on the floor and savor every bite of that sweet, juicy melon? I did that today.

I also think about having a woman with me when I do such things. "Sit here next to me. Close your eyes, open your mouth and trust me." Imagine cutting off a seedless piece of melon and feeding it to her with your bare hands. Imagine the sigh of pleasure she exhales when she tastes the melon. Imagine giving her a big, wet kiss afterward.

I can't help it. I think watermelon is sexy.

It could be worse

Originally published June 18, 2004

I just thought that I was being fucked in divorce court. It could be worse. Of course, I find little comfort in the fact that someone else is getting an unlubricated hose-job more nasty than mine.

I'm still getting fucked.

August 01, 2008

I did not have sex with that man

Originally published June 17, 2004

Okay, let me set the record straight. And I mean STRAIGHT. I didn't have any homosexual relationships in Key West, even if I DID get up on stage and sing at a gay bar. And even if I DID get totally shitfaced that last day. And even if I DID lose my underwear.

I'll admit that Paul, the gay bartender, pinched me on the ass. But I asked for that, because I told him that I had been coming to Key West for YEARS and wandering into gay bars (hell... pick a door and roll the dice... you have about a 50% chance of ending up in a gay place) and NEVER had a gay man hit on me.

"Are you hitting on ME?" he asked.

Paul is about 6' 4" tall and looks as if he pumps a lot of iron in his spare time. "Shit no," I replied. "I'm just curious about why a gay man has never tried to pick me up. Wimmen do it all the time. Do I have some kind of invisible light shining from my forehead that attracts wimmen and repels gay men? Hell, Paul, I've never even had a gay man pinch me on the ass."

Paul walked from behind the bar and pinched me on the ass. "Ya happy now?" he asked. "This is Key West, where all your fantasies come true."

I tipped him five dollars when I LEFT THE BAR.

Things got pretty confusing after that, but I'm fairly certain that I left my underwear somewhere other than a gay bar. Maybe I pissed myself, shit my pants and threw my drawers away in utter disgust. That might have happened, especially after the tequila.

But my "brown-eyed girl" was just fine the next morning, because a guy's hairy ass just doesn't turn me on. Even after several shots of tequila.

Hmmm... I'm not sure about posting this screed. People may go all Shakespearian on me and say "He doth protest too much." If you're a skeptic and doubt my word, I have just one thing to say to you.

Go eat my underwear, if you can find it.

Karma? Ego?

Originally published July 15, 2005

Evidently, I'm not the only one who occasionally feeds a troll. The lure is irresitable.

It's like watching a monkey fuck a football--- senseless, but amusing as hell.

Woe is me

Originally published June 17, 2004

I ought to be checking the news and finding some intellectual subjects to blog about. I ought to be worried about what the BC and that asshole judge in Effingham County will make out of my Key West posts. I ought to be doing a lot of things.

What I AM doing is eating a bowl of clam chowder and pretty much acting like a clam myself. I don't feel like doing a damn thing today. I am tired, sunburned and lazy, burnt-out, burned up and about as solid as a melted candle. That's one of the great things about not having a job anymore. If I don't feel like doing a damn thing, I don't do a damn thing, and nobody can fire me. I kinda like that.

I've been listening to my new Yankee Jack CD and the song "Manatee Woman" is really impressive. Imagine a nice reggae-type melody with keyboards and steel drums, with these words in the chorus:

"In a two-piece suit, she's not that cute, I'm sorry. She got stretchmarks made by propeller blades, I'm wary. She lies on the beach where she shouldn't oughta, People keep pushing her back in the water. She's not a mermaid, she's a manatee woman."

Maybe you need to be in a Key West bar to appreciate that song entirely, but I like it right here in the Crackerbox.