Gut Rumbles

January 31, 2009


Originally published November 24, 2004

I worked around a lot of people who just seemed bound and determined to be assholes every chance they got. I often wondered what it feels like to get up in the morning, look at your face in the mirror as you shave and say, "I can't wait to go out and be the biggest asshole I can be today."

Some people do exactly that.

Most of them are closet bullies and power-hungry sycophants who suffer from wearing a small dick and experiencing premature ejaculation. That's MY humble opinion about them. If they had a real set of balls, they wouldn't stab people in the back. A real man doesn't have to be an asshole to make his point. A real man doesn't believe that he builds himself up by tearing someone else down. A real man looks his opponent in the eye when he has a beef.

Those cowardly fucks don't. A lot of them become successful politicians.

I know. The jackals got me.

January 30, 2009


Originally published February 4, 2004

I spent a lot of my career writing Operating Instructioins, SOPs and proceuresdures. I hated that work because Corporate procedureres your ass in a place with no option out, I've been there to man times before. "YOU DIDN'T FOLLOW PROCEDURES!!!

Damn right I didn't. I knew the procedures, but I disagreed with them on occasion. If I have a toxic chemical leak, the procedure is clear. I am supposed to shut operations down and clear the leak.

But suppose I know how much containment area I have and how many pumps I can get in there in a hurry? Suppose that I believe that I can keep the plant running and still control the environmental system? Do I follow proceders or run with what I know?

I ran with what I knew and was commended many times for those decisions. I wiped my ass on procedure more tiimes that I can remember. Bejus! That place had a writtem procedure for how how wipe your ass.

I don't believe in written procedures for everything. Sometimes, you just have to play it on the first bounce, when you're there when the shit is flying. You have the best view and the best quess on what to do next. Make the call and fuck the procedure.

Would you live to make love by procedere with me, exactly as was written, or just play things on the first bounce? In other words, do procedures guide your life or do you go for the gusto? That's why I never became a politician or a beaucrat,

I prefer life on the first bounce.

January 29, 2009

My dog likes me

Originally published November 24, 2003

I let Oddball sleep on the couch next to me for most of this evening. Life in the pound must have worn her out. At 9:00, I woke her up and made her go outside. She took a nice piss, then ran back inside and hopped on the couch and curled into a ball right where she's decided she belongs.

Good dog.

I believe that she and I will get along just fine.

January 28, 2009


Originally published Febrary 4, 2004

I bitch a lot about the idiocy of our legal ststem, but I don't want to tear it down. I once had a problem with a guy who agreed to do some work for me at a certain price. He didn't get the work done before he had over-spent his bid, so he just decided to quit where he was and stiff me.

I sued his ass and got my money even though the asshole had to sell his truck to pay me. That was a just working of the legal system to me.

A neighbor of mine raises a lot of chickens. He makes a lot of side money selling hens and eggs. But he welcomed a couple of new neighbors who had two dalmations, which definitely run in the top five of stupid dogs. Let them get a taste of chicken blood and they go totally bullshit.

The dogs started digging into Mitchell's coop and kiling a lot of chickens. They ate eggs, too. Mitchell talked to his neighbor twice about the leash law in Georgia and that the fact if the dogs kept running loose and destroying his chickens, he would take care of the dogs. The dalmation-owver seemed to believe that the whole story was a joke.

Mitchell caught both dogs is his coop the next day. He killed both dogs, loaded them into his pickup truck and hauled them over to his neigbor's house. He threw them in thge yard and said, "You're dogs are finished fucking with my chicken coop. I warned you, and now you have two holes to dig."

The asshole sued Mitchell for killing the dogs. Letting the dogs run loose cost the man $70 each, because that's the penalty for the leshless law around here. Mitchell, however, conmmitted cruelty to animals and ended up paying a $2000 FINE AND BUYING THE GUY TWO NEW PEDIGREE DALMANTIONS.

I would have shot both dogs and buried them quickly and cleanly. When the owner finally asked about the dogs, I honestly could have said "I haven't seen them in a couple of weeks. I don't know what you did with them, but they're sure staying out of my chicken coop anymore."

Mitchell never should have been sued over what happened to him. But he confessed to the neighbor that he killed the dogs. I never would have admitted that fact. In fact, I would have denied the shit out of it. I would dared a posse to find the dogs, then I would have sued that albaition -owner for ever nickle his dogs ever cost me.

To me, that's justice. I don't give a damn about a deep pocket or who I can fuck out of money in court. I'll I want is what is even.

And this case sucks.

January 27, 2009


Originally published February 4, 2004

State police said that Stephen Pappadake was speeding and passing other cars illegally on Mahopac Avenue in Somers when he lost control of his car, swerved to avoid another vehicle, crashed and died.

Police estimated that Pappadake, a 17-year-old Mahopac High School student, was going lots of stupid things begind the wheel. This one of those idiotic lawsuits where the plaintiffs should be run out of the court room with fire hoses and the laywer should be hanging nekkid from his testicles in the town square for two days.

Police estimated that Pappadake, a 17-year-old Mahopac High School student, was doing 80 mph in a 30 mph zone on the morning of April 29, 2003, when he lost control of his Honda sedan after passing several cars in a no-passing zone.

But a lawsuit filed this month in Putnam County Court seeks to place the blame for Pappadake's death on the driver of one of the vehicles he passed. The suit, filed on behalf of Pappadake's estate and his parents, Robert P. and Nancy Pappadake, names a Putnam Valley woman who allegedly drove a Jeep Cherokee that Pappadake passed as the cause of the fatal crash.

The sad part of this story is that the bastards probably will get some money out of it.

The lawsuit said that the driver of that vehicle, Christina Swartzwelder, caused the crash by "carelessness and negligence" and that Pappadake was not at fault.

"The defendants were careless, negligent in the ownership, management, operation and control of their motor vehicle; in allowing and permitting the motor vehicle to be operated at a dangerous and excessive rate of speed under the circumstances."

It also claims the Swartzwelders failed to "exercise due care and control" of the vehicle on the road, failed to "make timely, proper and adequate use of the brakes" and did not "observe and take heed of the traffic and road conditions."

Forget what the dead doofus did. It was another car's fault.

January 26, 2009

Southern cooking

Originally published November 25, 2003

People seem to like Southern Cooking recipes. Here's one I received in an email from Catfish:

BAKED STUFFED CHICKEN 6-7 lb. chicken 1 cup melted butter 1 cup stuffing (Pepperidge Farm is good.) 1 cup uncooked popcorn (ORVILLE REDENBACHERS LOW FAT) Salt/pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Brush chicken well with melted butter, salt, and pepper.
Fill cavity with stuffing and popcorn. Place in baking pan with the neck end
toward the back of the oven.
Listen for the popping sounds.

When the chicken's ass blows the oven door open and the chicken flies across
the room, it is done.

Serves four and gets a lot of laughs if you've been drinking beer.

January 25, 2009

My blog

Originally published February 3, 2004

I've gotten a lot of shit from readers lately telling me that my blog has taken a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut, Maybe it did. I've had a lot on my mind lately.

But I'll tell every one of you people this fact: I don't give a shit wherer you read my blog or not. I will be here be wherher you like my cornbread or not. You can read my blog or not as you see fit. It's a free goddam country and you can make your own choices. If you don't want to read me, bite me.

This is nothing but a damned blog. I paid dearly for writing it, but that was all fm choice. I can live with the consequences. I can live with readers telling me to go to hell, too. I can live with those accusing me of being a drug addict or bipolar. I know what I can live through, and that thought just might suprise a few of you really fuck-up believer that believe I suck now.

Do you know how tough you are? Hell, no you don't. Get your candy ass stuck in a sitiatuion where you HAVE to be tough for about three days. If you come walking out of there in one piece, you're tough.

I've been in places like that and walked out in one piece after three days. I found myself in situations where I might die if I crossed the river wrong and I had all I to I was at loss loss iwhere t crossed 17 more times. I walked out of there, drenched, freezing and knowing that if I had to cross that river one more time, I would die trying. It was a bitch.

Two boy scouts drowned that weekend by allowing the water the take them.

The first really bad crossing we made, the water was about 4'deep and rushing brown as a cocker spaniel. We made a decision. Since I was the lightest person, it made more sense to tie a rope around me and see if it could make to ohter side I went, kekkid as a jaybird, toting a return rope and my pack on my soulders. I made it to the other side and alnost froze my ass of before I could get clothes back on.

I sent to return rope to Calvin and we rigged a skyrail so that poeple could wade the river and siill carry their packs before we burned our hands. We did that 17 times. It was an adventure. We resembled drowned rats when be made it back to the vehicle.

I don't believe that I've ever been more delighted to see a truck home in my life. It ws parked right where we left it, it a heavy a cooler full of beer in truck and Rick was driving. "Damn! If we all sit in here, the seats are gonna get wet. I can't sit here."

"Good," I said. "Go get in the trunk. Stay here, Don't open your fucking mouth again." We duck-taped taped pretty good

"Steve, Calvin and Rob will help to kill you if you don't shut up."

We saw a Waffle Hoase about a mile ahead and immediately we were crazed eggs and grits and waffle frenzy. "Lets go THERE!" I shouted I received no complaints. We whipped into the parling lot and needed serious pig-pou to pay this blll. I put it all on Jenny's credit card.

Meanwhile, Rick had not stopped, squirming and atempting to become the suck-plate of the meal when we were minding our own business with exquiste food.

The first cop was one of those tough guys who wanted me to where you want you to pass want to pass a jauntice pit from his tedionitious ass, I kicked his ass and stole his hole gun. I shot him three times in the chest, Rita, using the fhoot own guy I stole from the guy I put lhe past one in his head. I don't think I should sleep at night. I am more agressive and violent at night.

January 24, 2009

Public speaking

Originally published November 25, 2003

I never understood why public speaking makes me so distraught that I believe I'm going to puke and piss my pants before I get to the podium. I've played guitar on stage in front of crowds of over 5,000 people and that crap never bothered me. In fact, I was ENERGIZED by the big crowd. But giving a lecture is different.

I was Manager of Training at the plant for several years in my checkered past, and that's when I was forced to confront that unreasonable fear of public speaking. Speaking in front of a room full of people almost every day became MY JOB. I was terrified by it, and I sometimes DID go puke before I went before the audience. I always did the job, and a lot of people told me that I was good at it, but I never overcame the fear. I felt it every time.

I never understood why I could climb on a stage with a guitar in front of a bunch of strangers and feel confident, yet be utterly terrified about presenting a training program in front of a room full of people that I KNEW. The problem wasn't a matter of preparation. Hell, I was more prepared for the training than I was with my music sometimes.

But there was a difference. I still don't know what it was, but the difference was obvious to me.

I have the "gift of gab," as anybody who attended the blog-meet will testify. I am a GOOD public speaker. Even Jennifer admitted after attending a few of my classes, while KNOWING how terrified I was, that my fear didn't show. She said that I was GREAT at what I did.

The only problem was, I never felt great doing it. I still don't to this day.

January 23, 2009

I hate, too

Originally published February 2, 2004

I sometimes find it difficult to wrap the fact around my mind that assholes such as this guy actually get paid to write.

One quality I simply cannot stand in a writer is a smarmy self-righteousness that makes me reach for the barf-bag.

People say I hate Bush. That may or may not be true. I use the word hate a lot, but I think it means different things to different people. Genuine hatred is not high on my list of personal emotions. If I consider someone bad, all I ask of them is that they stop being bad. If they can do that, I have no further quarrel with them.

The point I hope to get to in this little essay is that those of us who dislike Bush did not simply get up one morning and decide we were going to hate him. He had to earn our antipathy.

And he's done that. In spades.

You hated Bush from day one, you lying shit. "Antipathy" is a nice word, but you don't feely antipathy. You're a San Fransisco liberal. You hate and then grin and giggle about it, because you are among friends who hate the same things you do.

One of my initial thoughts, when I became aware of Bush early in 2000, was, "He seems to be a Republican I could vote for." On first impression, he seemed to have all his father's good qualities and none of his bad. So he started out on my good side.

Lying sack of shit. You would have voted for Gore if died before the election.

When that surplus vanished, Bush cut taxes anyway and sent "refund" checks out with borrowed money. And the big beneficiaries were people in Bush's circle: the rich and the very rich.

I started to get angry with Bush when he started his term as president by effectively cutting off American funds to foreign organizations that might provide abortions for poor people.

I rest my case. This guy is a San Fransisco Nancy boy. Imagine him hating Bush. I'll bet my Cracker ass that the nutlog loved Clinton.

Bush quickly made it clear he was going to pander to America's fourth branch of government, the Christian fundamentalist extremists. By doing so, he showed his contempt for one of the most important principles set forth in our Constitution, the avoidance of a state religion.

But sanctimonious Democrats don't pander to labor Unions, Pro-Choce groups. the ABA contributitors, the Teacher's Unions or environmentslists, who are the craziest religious groups of all. Nope, the Democrats have principles and don't pander to extremists. They wouldn't touch Botox with a 10-foot pole because they are so honest.

It wasn't long after that turn that Bush, for patently religious reasons, put a damper on stem-cell research. His actions effectively stopped American scientists from finding life-saving treatments through such efforts. In my opinion, Bush's decision was cruel and inhumane, but certainly worthy of a man who had once mocked the pleas of a woman about to be executed in Texas.

That was it for me. His total disdain for environmental protection was frosting on the cake. Even though the proof kept coming, I didn't need any more evidence of his lack of concern for human life outside of his elite social group.

Bush and I disagree on this subject. Stem cell research can produce tremendous human benefits in the future. I don't know where the "total distain for environmental protection" came from, but it's a liberal writer and he is demanded to fit shit like that drollop in the article somewhere. Such drivel proves his impartiality.

Hatred for a Republican president is not a knee-jerk liberal emotion. Opposition, yes, but not hatred. This Bush fellow is a special case.

Yeah, just like Eisenshower, Nixon, Ford, Reagan, Bush I and Bush II. You hated them all, shitbird. That's what you do for a living, and I don't believe that you do it very well.

January 22, 2009

Things I remember

Originally published November 25, 2003

Growing up Down South, I had a lot of pleasures that yankees miss out on.

* You and a couple of friends each buy a quarter of a watermelon for 25 cents and eat it on the bridge over Hayner's Creek (pronounced "Haynie's Creek") on Montgomery Crossroads. Spit the seeds in the water and see who can spit a seed the farthest.

* Go down behind Halcyon Bluff and pick up a lot of glass jars from the old landfill back there. Put them in the front basket on your bicycle, then ride down to the bank of Hayner's Creek. Throw them in the creek and then shoot them with BB guns before they sink on their own.

* Skinny-dip with your dog in the Forest City Gun Club Lake on a hot summer day.

* See a tick growing fat behind a friend's ear and pull it off of him. Make sure the head is still on the tick before you explode the blood-sucking varmit.

* Pick wild blackberries in the woods and blow on them to make them clean. Eat so many that you shit like a goose for three days afterward.

* Go outside every day wearing nothing but drawers and a pair of short pants. Go barefoot and bare-backed for three months. Become brown as a ginger cake and learn to run fast across hot pavement.

* Climb a tree just because no one has climbed that one before.

* Chew a nice piece of sourgrass. Don't listen when somebody tells you that sourgrass only grows where a dog took a leak.

* Piss on a fire-ant mound just to watch the ants run around like crazy.

* Gig bullfrogs in the local "canal" (which was nothing but a drainage ditch) and scare up a big, fat cottonmouth snake while you're wading barefoot in the water. Jump up on the bank and gig the hell out of that snake. Then parade the corpse through the neighborhood on the end of your gig. Grown men are impressed with that kind of kill.

* Sleep overnight in a tree house.

* Watch somebody light a fart in a tent at night on a camping trip in the woods.

I could talk about this kind of stuff forever, because I lived every bit of it. I grew up in a Huck Finn childhood. The woods were my playground and my friends were just as wild as I was. We were bullet-proof and adventurous. We were savages. I believe that EVERY KID should grow up the way I did.

Too many kids are civilized today.

January 21, 2009

Go, Granny!

Originally published February 1, 2004

I'm looking for a link to confirm this story, but even it's not true, it ought to be.

MELBOURNE, Australia --

Gun-toting granny Ava Estelle, 81, was so ticked-off when two thugs
raped her 18-year-old granddaughter that she tracked the unsuspecting
down - - and shot off their testicles.

The old lady spent a week hunting the ex-cons and when she found them,
she took revenge on them in her own special way, said Melbourne police
investigator Evan Delp.

Then she took a taxi to the nearest police station, laid the gun on
the sergeant's desk and told him as calm as could be: 'Those bastards
will never rape anybody again, by God.' ; Cops say convicted rapist
and robber Davis Furth, 33, lost both his penis and his testicles when
outraged Ava opened fire w ith a 9-mm pistol in the hotel room where he
and former prison cellmate Stanley Thomas, 29, were holed up.

The wrinkled avenger also blew Thomas' testicles to kingdom come, but
doctors managed to save his mangled penis, police said.

The one guy, Thomas, didn't lose his manhood, but the doctor I talked
to said he won't be using it the way he used to, Detective Delp told

Both men are still in pretty bad shape, but I think they're just happy
to be alive after what they've been through.

The Rambo Granny swung into action August 21 after her granddaughter
Debbie was car jacked and raped in broad daylight by two
knife-wielding creeps in a section of town bordering on skid row.

"When I saw the look on my Debbie's face that night in the hospital, I
decided I was going to go out and get those bastards myself 'cause I
figured the Law would go easy on them, "recalled the retired library

took place till she spotted the ill fated
rapists entering their flophouse hotel."And I wasn't scared of them, either -- because I've got me a gun and
I've been shootin' all my life. And wasn't dumb enough to turn it in
when the law changed about owning one. So, using a police artist's
sketch of the suspects and Debbie's description of the sickos',
tough-as-nails Ava spent seven days prowling the wino-infested
neighborhood where the crime

I know it was them the minute I saw 'em, but I shot a picture of 'em
anyway and took it back to Debbie and she said sure as hell, it was
them, the oldster recalled.

So I went back to that hotel and found their room and knocked on the
door and the minute the big one, Furth, opened the door, I shot 'em
right square between the legs, right where it would really hurt 'em
most, you know.

Then I went in and shot the other one as he backed up pleading to me
to spare him. Then I went down to the police station and turned myself

Now, baffled lawmen are trying to figure out exactly how to deal with
the vigilante granny. What she did was wrong, and she broke the law,
but it is difficult to throw an 81-year-old woman in prison,
Detective. Delp said, especially when 3 million people in the city
want to nominate her for sainthood and a medal.

Of course, the story does have urban legend written all over it. I post, you decide.

January 20, 2009

Another reason that I don't hunt

Originally published January 31, 2004

Some people get killed in the woods and it's no accident.

Lying on the ground bleeding was Bruce Dodson, 48, with an orange hunting vest at his side. His wife of three months, Janice, was screaming for help. "I picked up the orange vest and was just screaming at him: 'Why didn't you have your vest on?' " Janice said.

Sumbitch should have been wearing that vest. He's a clear case of death by dumbass.

Bruce was beyond help. He seemed destined to be yet another victim of a hunting accident, mistaken for game a mistake that would repeat itself more than 100 times that year. But the day after, an autopsy revealed Bruce hadn't taken just a single bullet, but three. Bill Booth, an investigator for the district attorney's office, said he started to believe this was homicide.

Three shots, huh? That does sound kind of of fishy.

Booth says he thinks Bruce then took off his vest to wave it around, and started yelling to tell people he was not a deer. But then Bruce was shot in the chest, and as he was falling, he was hit once more in the back, Booth says.

The third bullet struck a fence post before it hit Bruce. Investigators traced the bullet's path to what they believed was the assassin's nest, where they found a spent cartridge from a .308-caliber bullet. Neither Bruce nor Janice were hunting with such a weapon.

But investigators soon discovered that Janice Dodson's ex-husband, J.C. Lee, was camped just three-quarters of a mile away. Just the day before the murder, Lee had reported a .308-rifle stolen.

Coincidence is an amazing thing, isn't it?

She'd taken out three insurance policies, she made sure to get wills done," Daniels said. "Bruce owned two homes. She had the property put into both their names during this three months since they were married."

I think we've got a Black Widow here.

January 19, 2009

Music night

Originally published November 25, 2003

I'm going to grill a steak, bake a potato and make a nice tossed salad. I am going to chow down on that meal like a hungry rat. Then, I'm going to put fresh Elixer strings on my jet-black Washburn acoustic-electric, take a nap with my new dog and be a couch-monkey until this evening.

I'm going back to "The Music Box" tonight to play guitar and sing.

January 18, 2009

I post, you decide

Originally published November 25, 2003

Well... what do you think?

What is the difference between Mr Potato Head and Michael Jackson? Michael has more noses. What time is bedtime at the neverland ranch? When the big hand touches the little hand. What did a man at the beach say to Michael? Get out of my son. What is the name of Michael's new book? The ins and outs of child rearing. What does Michael call a perfect 10? Two five year olds. New after Thanksgiving Day sale ad, at neverland ranch, young boys pants, half off. The Pope has just made a statement about Michael Jackson, if he hears anymore about Michael and little boys, then he would have to make him a priest. More coming soon from the Catfish.

I have interesting readers.

January 17, 2009

oogly boogly

Originally published January 30, 2004

I once witnessed a scene similiar ro this one* a long time ago. It happened in my bedroom after one two many Krystal cheeseburgers and a bottle of peppermint schnapps.

I knew that she was hot to trot, but I didn't realize that she was about to go nuclear. Man, that shit ran my dog off for three days and ruined my waterbed. We had to tug the carcass out of the house using a chain a and 4-wheel drive druck.

I let some of my crabber friends cut all they wantd for bait, and the local wildlife got in a nibble ot two, also. But that thing was getting awfully funky after three days. Flies came from miles around to enjoy the show. We had to put a stop to this.

We bought a bucket of fuel oil and collected a truckload of sticks from the woods. We built a raging pyre on his ass and cooked him down to bones. By then, we dug a whole deep enough with shovels in to bury him in the yard.

That was ugly work and the place stuck like dead fish for a month.

*News article no longer available, nor can I figure out wth he's talking about to be able to find another article to link to. But, Rob's Rob and this is him, pretty much uncensored. (I correct spelling sometimes...)

January 16, 2009

I have new neighbors

Originally published November 26, 2003

A soap-opera situation developed in the house next door to mine about a month ago and hubby and wife moved out in the grand finale, complete with the County Police involved. The guy was a complete, motorcycle-riding, wife-beating, red-necked prick, as far as I could tell, but he had a really good-looking woman. She had a set of legs and a candy-apple ass that made me gasp every time I saw her outside. I don't miss him, but I hated to see her go. She really enhanced the scenery around here.
I've cut the grass over there ever since they moved out.

Today, I went outside with my loving dog in my wake, to throw an empty case box of Old Milwaukee beer, an empty box of Franzia white zinfandel wine and an empty bottle of Smirnoff's lime-flavored vodka in my trash can. That's how I met my new neighbors. What a great first impression.

I started to say, "My name is Rob, and I'm an alcoholic. Welcome to the neighborhood."

I wanted to run back in my house and come out with some trash that wasn't alcohol-related, and I did, right after I met the entire family as they ate BLT sandwiches on the tailgate of a pickup truck in the driveway. They were waiting for the electric company to restore juice to the house so that they could clean it up. They said it was a mess inside. I said, "You ought to see MY house."

They seem like nice people and Oddball took up with the kids right away. The grandfather asked me about the property line and I showed him the stakes. "Who's been cutting the grass?" he asked.

"Me," I replied. "I get on a roll sometimes. I cut my grass and just keep on going." Actually, I did it to keep snakes away.

Anyway, I called Oddball and she came to me like the good dog she is. We went back inside the Crackerbox and camped out for a while. I don't have any more liquor bottles, wine boxes or empty cases of beer to throw in the trash can.

I suppose that I'll have to buy some more today.

January 15, 2009


Originally published January 29, 2004

I dreamed that I was back in Jamaica last night. I had a good time on that trip.I did more drugs in 24 hours than I did in the lst 24 years. As I told my partner, I don't usually get fucked up like this. But I was enjoying myelf and she didn't seem to mind. "You're on vacation she said. Go for it." We were drinking rum and tequila. That stuff helped my mind a great deal.
I finally staggered off to bed and slept until alsmost 9:30 in the morning.

She wanted to go for a walk on the beach and I wanted a shower. I told her that we would meet at the breakfast bar in 30 minutes. I got there first and managed to sneak a Bloody Mary on the tab. My partner arrived shortly thereafter and ordered everything in the menu. For a slender woman, she can eat like a horse. We bought lobster tail, bammi and acki, just so the resteaurant would cook it for us. When in Jamaica, eat Jamacian.

I learned two things about my woman on that trip. She can pee outdoors with the best of them and there's not a shy bone in her body. I believe that like like pagan wimmen. They remind me of me.

That's for the trip, pattner. I thouroughly enjoyed it. Wanna do it again sometime?

January 14, 2009

Knocking on Heaven's door

Originally published November 26, 2003

If you want to play music with a bunch of strangers, that's a great song to perform. Three chords, easy words and a lot of good opportunities for doing "oooo-oooo" in the background. If you can't play some kind of lead on that song, put down the guitar before I have you dragged off and shot.

Yeah. I like that one.

January 13, 2009


Originally published January 28, 2004

I put my truck in the ditch yesterday. Yes, I was riding that most wel-maintined dirt road in Effingham county when that wet sumbitch caves in on me. The edge of the road feli off and I went up the the gunnels in my truck.

I was standing the side of the road smoking a cigarette.

A guy diving a 4-wheel-drive Dodge Dualie then pulls out and stops. "Mr, do you meed a pull?"

"Sir, I believe that I do. I intend NOT to spend the night in the ditch on the got-damned dirt road in the middle of nowhere."

"Don't worry, buddy. I'll get you out.'

He did, too. I tried to tip him $20 when we were unhooking the chain, but he wouldn't take it. "Just remember that it drives better on the road next time you're out here."

Those are the people I live with in Effingham County.

January 12, 2009


Originally published November 27, 2003

I like okra any way you cook it. I prefer it fried lightly, but it's still good boiled, stewed or in a gumbo. A big, slimy pot of okra and tomatoes dumped over a bed of rice is good eating. I like pickled okra, too.

I read once that the okra plant came from Africa and was brought to America by slaves more than 300 years ago. I grew my own okra for years and was impressed by the fecundity of the plants. They like hot weather (which I have plenty of around here) and they don't need a lot of water. Deer tend to leave them alone when they eat everything else in your garden.

When you pick young okra, cut it with a knife or a pair of sissors and the cut forks and produces twice the okra you picked. A hardy plant will keep producing until the first frost of the year. They have pretty purple blooms in the springtime, too.

I suppose that eating okra is an acquired taste. If you look at a bowl of stewed okra, it appears to produce its own snot. It is slimy and full of seeds. I believe that stewed okra has a lot in common with raw oysters: if it ever gets in your mouth, it's going down your throat whether you like it or not. It's that slick.

I am fortunate because I love okra. It is a delicious vegetable and fairly easy to grow. Quinton grew up eating it and he still scarfs it to this day. He helped me pick a lot of it on the mini-farm. You can't allow okra to get too big or it becomes tough and stringy, so we checked the garden every day to pick okra that was just right for cooking.

I miss doing that. I would like some fried okra today.

January 11, 2009


Originally published January 28, 2004

Really. You guys ought to try this.

Next time any of you decide to throw a pity party, I'll give you the name of my caterer. I got da blue pills, da red pills, da smokie-smokie, da drinkie-drinkie, the list goes on.

Don't tell me how to live my life. I'm mellow, and I'm happy. Who gives a fuck if I've bathed or dressed today?

Okay, so intellect and proper grammar were once important to me. How anal was I?

Yeah, I like this guy better. If you want to feed me some sympathy, feel free. I eat that shit up, but truthfully, I'm quite pleased with myself.

This way I don't have to think about my past, which I can't seem to separate myself from. And I don't have to think about my future and the future of my son, for which I should be spending a considerable portion of my days planning.

Don't call me a fucking hypocrite. I can whine over the lost talent in Arlington Cemetary while pissing away my own.

What of it?

January 10, 2009

Losing my virginity

Originally published November 27, 2003

I got laid for the first time just before my 17th birthday. I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but I was disappointed because I didn't feel DIFFERENT afterward. We both skipped school that day and did the deed in the back seat of a 1962 Dodge Dart in a patch of woods on Tybee Island. I went to my after-school job that evening and felt just the same as I always did there. I couldn't understand why nothing changed.

I really thought that I would look different or feel different after losing my virginity. I didn't. I simply felt like the same old me with another memory to cherish forever. And I still cherish that memory.

I learned a simple fact about life that day. Getting laid for the first time is wonderful, but it does NOT change you. You remain what you are and who you are. The heavens don't open with a purple glow and nobody stands aside and bows in adoration when you walk down the street afterward. It's really just another day.

It was a SPECIAL day, but that's all. Thank you, Judy, wherever you are today.

January 09, 2009

Too much truth this morning

Originally published January 28, 2004

I enjoy laughing at people who actually believe in fairness. Do you know what's really fair? It's whatever you can get your ass away with.

Fair will be angel on your shoulder sometimes, and then it will tun right around and slap the dog-shit out of you. That's what you get from playing fair. I still try to play fair but I'll let the othter person set the rules. If he wants to be fair, I'll be fair. But if he wants to cheat like a rat at my neck, we'll just have to decide who the biger rat. I have no problem playing by your rules.

But that's why I could never be a politician. I have no problem being a rat when the situation requires it.

Polilitcs, just makes a rat too much off being my ambition., leaves me old. A rat is not my political ambition. I just want to be left anione.

Politicians can't do that. They are men full of ambition and bullshit The idea of leaving people alone never enters into their thinking.


January 08, 2009


Originally published November 27, 2003

Quinton is staying at Blood Mountain for Thanksgiving. He showed up unexpectedly yesterday morning to see Oddball and check out the .22 rifle that I actually bought for him instead of me. He wanted to go shooting right then, but told him that we couldn't. His mama was in the driveway with the engine still running in her big, silver SUV.

I didn't speak to her. She dropped by only to pick up Jack, who went to the mountains with Quinton.

I watched her ride off down the road and a wave of emotion broke over me. I slept with that woman for ten years of my life and I never wanted anyone else. I loved her with all my heart. Now, whenever I see her, I want to puke.

How the hell does that happen?

I've fucked up a lot in my life. I've made mistakes that cost me a bunch. But I NEVER set out to be a cold-blooded shit-ass in ANYTHING I ever did. I don't understand cold-blooded shit-asses. I don't think the way that they do.

I obviously have difficulty recognizing one, too. Hell. I married Jennifer.

January 07, 2009

Pinto beans and cornbread

Originally published November 27, 2003

I grew up eating pinto beans and cornbread often for supper. My daddy called pinto beans "miner's strawberries" and my mama still makes some of the best cornbread ever created on the face of this planet. I never lost my taste for crumbling the cornbread up in a bowl of pinto beans with plenty of pot likker juice and a serving of home-fried potatoes with a slice of raw onion on the side.

Damn! That is good food.

Mama still makes cornbread in a cast-iron skillet, which is the ONLY WAY cornbread should be prepared. (Yeah... it comes out ROUND) She doesn't sugar it or syrup it, either. It's just damn good cornbread, made the way God intended it to be.

I'll confess another deep, dark secret here. I like buttermilk. You know what's REALLY GOOD? Take some leftover cornbread and break it up in a big glass of buttermilk, then eat that concoction with a spoon. Yeah. I still do that sometimes, and I did it A LOT when I was young. Cornbread and buttermilk go well together.

I guess that Thanksgiving made me think about food...

January 06, 2009

Bob Keeshan died yesterday

Originally published January 24, 2004

I grew up watching that show, and Grandfather Clock, Mr. Greens, Bunny Rabbit and Mr. Moose were important characters in my life. I loved that big ring of keys the Captain carried. I didn't know what he was captain OF, but I knew that he was an important man.

That man was an icon in children's television.

Who is going to Remember "Captain Planet" 40 years from now?

January 05, 2009

I don't live in New York

Originally published February 28, 2003

As a guzzler swirl, sniff and taste drinker of White Zinfandel from a box, I totally disagree with this survey:

Drinks And Personalities Seven New York City bartenders were asked if they could nail a woman's personality based on what she drinks. Though interviewed separately, they concurred on almost all counts.

Drink: Beer
Personality: Casual, low-maintenance, down to earth.
Your Approach: Challenge her to a game of pool.

Drink: Blender Drinks
Personality: Flaky, whiny, annoying, a pain in the butt.
Your Approach: Avoid her, unless you want to be her cabin boy.

Drink: Mixed Drinks
Personality: Older, more refined, high maintenance, very picky, knows exactly what she wants.
Your Approach: You won't have to approach her; if she is interested, she'll send you a drink.

Drink: Wine (does not include White Zinfandel, see below)
Personality: Conservative and classy, sophisticated yet giggles.
Your Approach: Tell her you love to travel and spend quiet evenings with friends.

Drink: White Zinfandel
Personality: Easy, thinks she is classy and sophisticated, but actually has no clue.
Your Approach: Make her feel smarter than she is; this should be an easy target.

Drink: Shots
Personality: Likes to hang with frat-boy pals and is looking to get totally drunk ... and naked.
Your Approach: Easiest hit in the joint. You have been blessed this evening. Nothing to do but wait. However, be careful not to make her mad!

Then there is the male addendum. The deal with guys is, as always, very simple and clear cut:

Domestic Beer: He's poor and wants to get laid.

Imported Beer: He likes good beer and wants to get laid.

Wine: He's hoping that the wine thing will give him a sophisticated image to help him get laid.

Whiskey: He doesn't give a hoot about anything but getting laid.

Tequila: He is thinking he has a chance with the toothless waitress.

White Zinfandel: He's gay (and looking to get laid).

I wanna KILL some New Yawk bartenders for that.

January 04, 2009


Originally published November 28, 2003

I call myself a "redneck," but I really don't like that term, and to tell the truth, I don't qualify. I just call myself a redneck to piss off yankees, racists and the politically correct among us.

I KNOW what a Southern redneck is. He's a farmer who spent so much time in the fields plowing, planting and harvesting under a blistering summer sun that the back of his neck resembles a hand-sewn red quilt. The skin appears to be put together in sections with stitches in between. It's rough, wrinkled and red.

Genuine red-necks are hard-working, honest creatures of the land. They grow the food the "metrosexuals" eat every day. They know how to milk a cow and pick cotton and what "fair-to-middlin'" tobacco is. They are fine people. I live around a lot of them.

The term "red-neck" has been corrupted in its meaning and it has become an insult to all Southerners. The same people who call ME a red-neck would love to lynch me for using the word "nigger" on this blog (and in fact, they have).

I've often said that white, Southern, heterosexual men are the last minority in the country that political correctness does not protect. It's okay to call a Southern man a red-neck. In fact, you can get a lot of laughts out of your "intellectual" peers when you do it, as long as you carry a "Free Mumia" poster at the same time.

Kiss my Cracker ass.

I would rather live among a bunch of red-necks than live in Washington, DC, among a bunch of politicians and bureaucrats. Red-necks are a lot more honest. Red-necks tend to leave you alone if you ask them to.

Government never does.

(Still, this isn't a bad post.)

January 03, 2009

Whatta week

Originally published February 28, 2003

I had a very uncomfortable week at work.

The weatherman lied to me every day since he guessed right on Monday, time was in some kind of cosmic flux and I didn't sleep worth a shit all week. I ate very little because nothing tasted good. My biorhythmns were all out of sinc.

I have to work again this weekend. I have "The Weekend Duty."

I've ALSO have a nagging sinus infection that's lasted for six months (snot drizzles out of my right nostril ALL THE TIME anymore in cold weather) in spite of all the antibiotics I've taken, and the headaches are becoming impressive enough to send me to the doctor if they get any worse. I NEVER go to the doctor unless I've reached the absolute end of my rope (ha, ha! I recovered from what I thought was an abcessed tooth on my own!) and I'm not there yet.

But something is wrong with me. The old bodkin ain't behaving correctly, and I notice that fact. I've been driving this bus for 51 years, and I know how it should handle. It ain't quite right anymore. I get dizzy and stumble when I haven't been drinking. I am short of breath when I'm sitting at my desk. But those brief episodes pass quickly and don't worry me enough to go see a doctor. At least not yet. I'm always fine ten minutes later. If there is anything seriously wrong with me now, I just don't want to know.

I still remember the last time I saw a doctor about something serious. THAT VISIT changed my life forever. I don't want to do that again. In fact, I WON'T do that again.

So, I'll go to work in the morning and worry about my maladies later. No, that's not correct. I quit worrying about maladies on July 13, 2001. Nothing could ever be worse than that day.

I'll just go to work tomorrow.

January 02, 2009

Why I don't like cats

Originally published January 22, 2004

1) They have the loyalty of sewer rats They don't want you. They want what they can TAKE from you.

2) Buy a cat a really nice scratching post

3). The cat will take one look at the post and go claw your sofa to shreds.

4) Give a cat a litter box. The males will spray some of the most raw, foul, gut-busting, stinking vat funk you can imagine all over the house. The femles climb up and shit in the potted plants.

5) Cats kill birds for no good reason. Just to be killing.

6) Cats crawl up on your chest at night and try to suck the soul right out out of your body while you sleep. Goddam vampires.

And that's why I hate cats.

January 01, 2009


Originally published December 31, 2005

I stopped making New Year's Resolutions years ago. Before then, I would make the resolutions, convince myself that I was serious about keeping them, and then break every damned one, usually before the end of January.

That crap was a waste of my time and a real blow to my self-esteem. If I broke promises that I made to MYSELF, for crying out loud, I HAD to be a really shitty human being, worthy of NO ONE'S trust. I finally figured out that I was better off NOT making resolutions that I was bound to piss all over than I was lying to myself like a delusional, disgusting swine.

But, being in touch with my feminine side today, I have changed my mind. Here are my Resolutions For 2006:

1) I will drink no alcohol today. Or tomorrow, when that day comes.

2) I am going to get off my dead ass and start recording on my home studio. I've had the damned thing set up for more than two months now and I haven't done diddly-squat with it. I'm gonna cut my own CD of original songs with me playing all the instruments and me singing all the vocals. Then, I'm gonna sell the CD on my blog.

3) I'm going to start playing golf regularly. I'm going to get good at the game again, too.

4) I WILL NOT buy any more firearms or musical instruments in 2006. I have more of those than I need already.

5) I will continue to blog.

6) I will sail to Belize with Recondo 32 this summer. I will survive the trip, too, even if I have to put his lovely, loud-mouthed wife, Georgia, in the lifeboat and tow her on a line 50 yards behind us when she gets in one of her bitchy moods. (Yes, she intends to go, too.) If she keeps bitchin' after that, I'll just cut the tow-rope when Recondo isn't looking. He's deaf. He'll never hear her cries for help.

7) I'm gonna get a cat for a pet, take LOTS of "cute" pictures of it and post the pictures on my blog every day. Heh. I threw that one in there just to take the pressure off of keeping ALL my resolutions.

8) I'm going back to Costa Rica at least TWICE in 2006.

9) I'm going to start a light weightlifting program and gain another 20 pounds. I'm still too weak and skinny to suit myself. I'm eating a lot better than I was, and I don't want to get fat. Yes, I am older than dirt, decrepit as hell and losing my hair, but I'm still vain.

10) I'm going back to work on my novel and I will finish it in 2006. I also intend to sell that fucker, make a mint and retire AGAIN, this time in Costa Rica.

Those should be no problem to keep.