Gut Rumbles

April 30, 2009

Great hymns

Originally published November 13, 2003

If I ran a church, this is what we would sing every Sunday:

"We Shall Gather at the River."

"Little Brown Church in the Vale"

"Old Rugged Cross"

"Will the Circle be Unbroken"

"Amazing Grace"

Now, tell me that I couldn't be a damn good preacher.

April 29, 2009


Originally published November 13, 2003

Recondo 32 and I went to Oliver, Georgia, today to straighten out the tickets we received on the way to Blood Mountain. With my paperwork in hand and and a legal sticker on my license plate, they dropped the "expired tag" charges. But they hit Recondo with a $200 fine for going 57 MPH through the 35 MPH zone in their shit-assed litttle crossroad. I paid half, but he was still pissed.

"That's part of Bill Clinton's 100,000 new cops on the street," I told Recondo. "How do you think a podunk town such as Oliver affords that shiny police car and a brand-new radar gun?"

"Goddam speed-trap!" Recondo said. "I'm writing a letter to the fucking governor. Who IS the governor of this fucking bass-ackward, fucked-up state anyway?"

"Sonny Perdue," I replied. "But you can write Roy Barnes for all the good it's going to do you. Let's just go back home and call it a day. And remember never to speed again in Oliver, Georgia."

"Goddam speed-trap. Goddam fucked-up state. How can you stand to live here? I'm writing a letter to the goddam governor about this shit. $200? That's fucking outrageous! LOOK AROUND! What am I gonna hit on the road around here if I AM speeding? A fucking COW? My aching ass."

Recondo simmered down once we were away on the road a few miles. He saw a sign at a local ball field. "Jenkins is playing here this weekend," he said.

That's my old school. "They haven't had a decent football team since the year I graduated," I replied. "They once ran one of the top five programs in the state. They suck anymore."

"What made it a good program when you played there?" Recondo asked.

"Good coaches, good players and a rich booster club."

"AHA! Do you know what changed? You can't boost your own school anymore. All of the money goes into one pot and the system divides it and hands it out equally to make it fair."

"I wouldn't contribute to that kind of bullshit," I said.

"Nobody else does, either," Recondo replied. "That's why Savannah football sucks anymore."

We talked about three-a-day football practices at summer camp in Georgia and OCS School for a young man from South Carolina back in the late 60's. "You BOND with people you go through that kind of shit with," Recondo observed.

I looked at him and smiled. Yes... you BOND with those kind of people.

April 28, 2009

it's nothing but a game

Originally published February 28, 2004

Never forget that fact about life.

April 27, 2009

Yeah, I did that

Originally published February 28, 2004

When I had new employees hired at the plant, I called each individual into my office to talk with them. I told them that they took a shitty job. That's where I started at the plant, so I know. At the end of a shift, nobody could tell white people from black people because we ALL were coverred with white dust. That's what we made.

I also told them that I expected three things out of them and they had 90 days to show me their wherewithall. I said that my office door was always open and if they had a problem, they should let me know right away. But I also told them them this:

1) I expect to see the best I'm EVER going to see out of you during the 90-day probationary period. If you want to be an asshole during that time, I'll fire you.

2) Show up, on time, every day. If you can't manage that task for 90 days, I'll fire you.

3) Don't ever come whining to me that you're having to work too hard. I did that fucking job when it was a lot more physical and a lot more demanding than it is today. Just shut the fuck up and come to work, or whine to me and I'll fire you.

I fired a bunch of them, too.

How difficult are those rules to follow? They weren't impossible for ME when I first started. I could toe that line. Hell, I never missed a day of work for five years and sucked up all the overtime I could get. My first ex-wife was spending me dry and I needed the goddam money. I worked my ass off. I could walk the walk.

I always told each new employee before he left my ofice that he was welcome to visit me at any time. But I ALSO told him that he really didn't ever want to be CALLED to my office. "If I ever CALL your ass in here, I'm probably going to fire you," I told them. "I am not a man to be feared, but I am DEFINITELY NOT a man to be fucked with. Now, you go out there on the floor and make up your mind where you want to stand in this equation."

I was grieved against more than once for "cursing" employees. I was guilty every time, but I lost only one of those grievances.

"You lying son of a bitch! I was standing right there and SAW you run the tank over." I won that one against the lying son of a bitch. I don't know what else I was supposed to call him, the lying son of a bitch.

I had a mechanic threaten to whip my ass. In fact, he was waving a big wrench and promising to bash my brains out with it. I picked up a piece of pipe and said. "Come get some, you brainless asshole. I'll beat you to a bloody pulp right here on this deck. You just take a swing. There ain't no fence around MY ASS, bad-guy, and if you want some, now's the time to get it. Bring it on." My pipe was better than a wrench as a weapon, and he knew it.

He put down the wrench and filed a grievance because I called him a brainlesss asshole. I won that one, too. He had a four-man crew with him who saw the entiire episode. "Did he threaten to bash supervisor Smith's brains out?" Well, yes, he did. "Did supervisor Smith pick up a piece of pipe and threaten to kill the man right there?"

"No, sir. Rob picked up a piece of pipe and threatened to beat the man to a bloody pulp. He never said anything about killing."

"Do you believe that the possibility of violence was obvious in that situation?

"Well, when you have a 6' tall mechanic waving a wrench at a 5' 7" supervisor who has a a 3' piece of stainless steel pipe in this hands, yeah. I saw the posibility of violence there."

"Did supervisor Smith curse the mechanic?"

"I dunno. They were both cursing each other. I believe that Danny called Rob a motherfucker and Rob called him a brainless asshole. They squared off and I thought that a bad fight was about to occur. I just got away from that scene as quickly as I could."

I beat that one, too.

I got in trouble at work after I attended a "workplace violence" training class taught by a woman wearing sandals. Yeah. THAT WOMAN was sure enough going to teach me how to handle the rough cobs in the field. I called the entire training class "bullshit" and mentioned on my blog that I keep a piece of pipe behind my desk to deal with serious trouble. Man, did I ever fuck up by writing that line.

You see, when Danny threatened to bash my brains out with a pipe wrench, I should have run from him. I SHOULD NOT have confronted him, called him an asshole and waved a piece of pipe at him. I should NOT have invited a solution to the situation right there and now. I should have cut and run.

That's how they train supervisors today.

God help us all. I never had any more trouble from Danny after that day. He knew that I meant what I said that night, and he also knew that I wasn't lying about beating his ass to a bloody pulp. One of us was going down on that deck and I didn't really care who it was. I was fired up and ready to go.

Take all the goddam "sensitivity" training that you want to take, but that shit will never make you capable of supervising other people. You've just got to learn how to be the boss. And sometimes, that means being a bad-ass.

But if you're good at it, just say "Follow ME" and take off. Look behind you. The troops will be there.

You don't learn that shit in training classes taught by wimmen wearing sandals.

April 26, 2009

Blog topics

Originally published November 14, 2003

I've noticed that readers really become passionate when I write about any one of three subjects. They are:

1) Religion
2) Abortion
3) Music

Well, sex seems to provoke a pretty good response, too, but it's not as visceral as what I get when I write about religion or abortion. Music is a good topic because everybody has an opinion about what he/she likes and what he/she doesn't like in that arena.

People ask me, "How can you be an athiest and look around at the miracle of life on this planet? Something powerful had to create this world." I disagree. I believe that everything I see in the entire universe is an accident, caused by a combination of chemistry, physics and time. Roll the dice for four billion years. "Miracles" happen. What other people see as the Hand of God is nothing more than random chance to me.

I believe that abortion is wrong. I don't want to outlaw the procedure, because that won't stop wimmen from getting one. If we ever outlaw abortion, we'll accomplish nothing more than to create another set of "criminals" who aren't really criminals. But I DON'T beleve that abortion should be accepted blithely by society as a legitimate form of last-minute birth control. That's what it is today, and that's wrong. Abortion should be discouraged, not encouraged. Abortion should be rare, and it should be done very early in a pregnancy.

Goddam. What's so outrageous about expecting people to show some personal responsibility in life?

I am for legalizing drugs, too. I don't have to worry about a random piss-test now, but I'm still not doing drugs. I could get some if I wanted to, but I have no desire to do that. I am content with gin and white zin wine. I really believe that if we legalized drugs, the same dopers doing them now would continue to do so, but most people wouldn't. The only real difference would be the fact that the dopers wouldn't be "criminals" anymore and they could get better drugs a lot cheaper than they do now. They wouldn't be financing gangs and drug cartels anymore, either. The War On Drugs is as big a failure as the War On Poverty. You may as well declare War On Human Nature and hope to win THAT one.

But, I digress...

I know what kind of music I like. I listen to a lot of female vocalists because I really like the sound of a sultry woman singing a song. I like to sing harmony with them. I like John Prine because of the words to his songs. I like to turn the stereo up loud sometimes and listen to old rock and roll music. I enjoy acoustic guitar more than I do electric anymore, but I've got room in my life for both. I don't like rap or hip-hop. That's not music to me and a lot of the "new wave" bands leave me cold. I suppose that I am old and stodgy that way.

I know what I believe and I know what I like. I don't think that anyone ever is going to change my mind. These things aren't whims to me.

I know who I am. I spent all of my life getting to this point.

April 25, 2009

The family cemetary

Originally published November 14, 2003

My mama's side of the family all came from prolific breeders. My grandmother was one of 13 children and she had 5 herself. Her sister Chassie had at least 10, I think. I would have to check the family Bible to be sure. I've got a bunch of cousins running around this country, many of whom I will never see.

I know that my dad had a sister who died at the age of 12 and both she and his father are buried on the side of a hill in Kentucky where the mountain has overgrown everything now. I visited those graves once, but I'll never try to go there again. Hell, I have only a vague idea of where my father is buried. I've never been back to the grave since the day he was planted and I probably never will. My father isn't there. That's nothing but a hole in the ground with a box underneath.

I'm not big on visiting grave-sites.

But my Uncle George visited a well-kept cemetary in Clay County, Kentucky, a couple of years ago and he took a video of his visit. He filmed the tombstones of about a dozen children who either died in childbirth or never made it past the age of two. Those were all my relatives.

I never knew them and they all died long before I was born. Still, that video got me all fucked-up. I cried, seeing all of those graves. Bejus, but it must be hard to lose a child and see one die before he or she ever gets a chance at life. I want my son and daughter to scatter my ashes some day. I don't want to bury them first. That's not the way the world should work.

Of course, childbirth was an iffy thing back in those days. I was the first child on either side of my family to be born anyplace other than a bed at home. I actually had a doctor deliver me in a six-room clinic in Kenvir, Kentucky. He had never delivered a baby before I came along. He was almost as proud as my daddy was when the ordeal was over. I believe that I am uncircumsized because the doctor wanted to quit while he was ahead.

Life once was a lot more difficult than it is today. That's why pissant lawsuits over finding a worm in a baked potato or some shitass whining about hot coffee spilled in her lap piss me off so badly.

I think about all of those tiny tombstones I saw on that video.

We don't appreciate how good we have it today.

April 24, 2009

What's wrong?

Originally published February 27, 2004

We are a country founded by rebels who risked everything they had in this world to achieve a dream. They were willing to die for the cause and a lot of them did. What do we have today? We have THIS SHIT:

What do you think the odds are for Quinton ever seeing the card? Don't you think Jennifer sees the mail first? So, it would seem that this is another salvo that Jennifer can add to her arsenal and that it does nothing positive vis a vis your relationship with Quinton.

Why, in Bejus' name, do you keep sabotaging yourself? Just when I begin to think you've pulled your head out of your ass, you manage to jam it up even higher. I'm really sorry you're your own worst enemy.

Posted by Patty at February 27, 2004 02:21 PM

Okay, let me see if I understand this missive correctly.











The day that I kiss government's ass just to keep myself out of trouble is the day I choose to die. And the day the REST of you people decide to become sheep, it's all over for everyone. I am my own worst enemy? Got-Dam, child? What books are you reading today?

Try Atlas Shrugged, you witless drone.

April 23, 2009


Originally published November 15, 2003

St. Luke's Methodist Church once had a preacher named Bob Moon, who was the best preacher I ever listened to laying a sermon on the flock. He was a young man and a very good public speaker. He also had a wonderful knack of making his sermon apply to problems people deal with every day.

I admired the man, even though he was about a decade younger than I was at the time. He was a good pastor for his church. I admire ANYONE who is good at what he does.

I told him flat-out when we first met that I was an athiest and I was attending services only because my wife thought that it was a good idea, but Bob didn't mind. "You're welcome here no matter what you believe," he said. "Besides, I've converted more than one heathen in my career. You might be a tough nut, but I'm going to crack you if I can."

He came close.

He wasn't going to make me religious, but I really enjoyed listening to him speak about the Bible. He was a musician and an all-around nice guy. We played music together several times and he tried to convince me to join the choir. I refused that offer and he wasn't bothered by me saying no. "I'll get you yet," he said, with a big smile.

He put humor and pathos into his sermons. He obviously was passionate about his belief in God and the afterlife, but he managed somehow to make his words sound good to someone as unbeliving as I am. I never became sleepy and dozed off when Bob Moon was preaching. His energy filled that church. I actually felt a few stand-up-and-say-AMEN-brother moments when I heard him speak. He was damned good at what he did.

I've never known another preacher like him, and I probably never will. Imagine David Letterman's personality in a body that reminds you of Forrest Beuller, in a black robe, standing before his congregation while he cracks one-liners in the middle of a sermon. Bob Moon was a lively, entertaining preacher. His message was clear, but his presentation was the best I've ever seen.

If I ever preach, I want to preach that way.

April 22, 2009

Yada, yada, yada

Originally published February 27, 2004

I was told once by a doctor that I have an incredible tolerance for pain. I got busted up pretty good at football practice one day and the doctor went nuts when he looked at the X-rays. "You have four broken ribs and a broken bone in your left hand," he said. "You need to take about a month off to heal."

I told him that I expected to be at practice the next day. "You can't do that," he said.

"You just fix what you can and let me go. I'll decide whether or not I can practice tomorrow."

I learned to sleep sitting up because of the ribs. That shit hurt. Everything you DO hurts with a set of broken ribs, but you can make it if you try. I cussed that broken left hand because it didn't get me out of any schoolwork. I was right-handed.

I never missed a day of football practice. I just had the trainer wrap me like a mummy every day and send me out on the field. I played and I tolerated the pain. Gawd! I hit the ground a few times and wondered if I would be able to get up, but I always did.

Yeah, I played hurt. I kept my position, too. I couldn't afford a month on the fucking bench. I kept thinking about what daddy told me-- "If it was easy, then any asshole could do it." Sometimes you just have to jock up tight and ride that pain. It ain't fun, but it goes away after a while.

The doctor later told me that what I did was unbelievable. "You played four games, never missed a practice, blocked two extra points and intercepted three passes during the last month?"

"Yes, sir. I did."

"You had no business being on that field, boy. Your body is all beat-up."

"Not as beat-up as YOU thought it was. I did okay. My ribs are almost healed now and my hand is fine. I'm a football player. If you can't suck up a little pain, you've got no business being out on that field in the first place. Football is supposed to hurt."

"Well, boy. You made a believer out of me. Just don't bust yourself up anymore. I'm clearing you for full contact now, as if you ever stopped. Here's your release. By the way, how is the team going to do?"

"We're going to win the State Championship." I told him.

We didn't. We lost 35-8 in the championship game and I walked off a football field as a loser the last time I jocked up. We got the shit beat out of us. I sat on the back of the bus and cried all the way back to the gym.

Hell, I just thought that the game was bad. I hadn't tried marriage yet.

April 21, 2009

I'm gonna drink beer today

Originally published November 15, 2003

I went to the store to get some eggs and bacon this morning, and I bought a case of beer. I bought Old Milwaukee, too. Laugh all you want.

That beer consistently wins taste contests when people don't know what they're drinking. I prefer Sam Adams or microbrews when I drink beer, but if I want a case of possum-piss, I'm going to buy Old Milwaukee. Fuck a Budweiser.

I am going to watch football and drink beer today. I am locked and loaded.

April 20, 2009

I broke the law today

Originally published February 27, 2004

My lawyers won't like it, and the action may cost me dearly in the long run, but I don't care. I sent a greeting card to my son today. I haven't seen him in a month. I wanted him to know that daddy hasn't forgotten about him.

It's a simple card, just saying "I think about you every day," which I do. I enclosed a picture that I really like. It's Mama, Quinton and her dog, Fancy, having a group hug with grins all around. I've never seen a happier group in my life. I wanted to blow that picture up into a poster and hang it on a wall in the Crackerbox, but I sent it to Quinton instead.

If I get arrested for doing it, that's okay. If the cops show up and haul me off to jail in the next couple of days, I'll go peacefully. I've been to jail before. I didn't like it, but I survived. I can do it again.

And sending that card to Quinton is worth whatever price I have to pay.

April 19, 2009

Damn good beer

Originally published November 15, 2003

I have been a total red-necked, lazy-boned, beer-swilling slug today. My beloved Georgia Bulldogs laid an old-fashioned ass-whuppin' on Auburn while I ate five pounds of spicy snow crab legs at my coffee table. I made the mistake of rubbing my right eyeball while I had some cajun seasoning on my finger and I managed to cry out of just one eye even though the Dawgs were winning. I don't believe that I've ever done that before.

I am sure glad that I didn't decide to scratch my nuts at the same time. That kind of burn might have put me in a war-dance mode.

The more of this Old Milwaukee beer I drink, the more I like it.

April 18, 2009


Originally published February 26, 2004

I would hate to teach my son the same lessons I learned in life. My father taught them to me, and I always wished the he was wrong. But he wasn't

1) Never trust anybody.

2) There is no such thing as something for nothing.

3) If you hang your ass out on a limb, be ready for the fall.

I believe that my father instructed me well. He instrcted me to try things that a lot of ass-puffs don't have the nerve to do, and he taught me to cover my ass whenever possible. He also taught me to accept the consequences of my actions. He never said, don't fuck up. but he ALWAYS said "Don't fuck up the same way twice." LEARN FROM YOUR MISTAKES.

I don't even know where my father is buried now. I know the cemetary, but I never go there to visit. Mama has a site right next to his, and guess what? When she dies, I won't go there to visit, either. It's just two fucking holes in the ground. That ain't my mama and daddy.

I want to be cremated, and I want my ashes put in a Mason jar. I want Recondo 32, Georgia, Cop3 and my brother to toss my remains in a creek somewhere in the mountains, or just pitch them out the window of the car as they are driving down the road. I won't give a shit by then.

Dying does not frighten me. Living, with lawyers, ex-wives and every other kind of maggot on earth gnawing at my ass DOES frighten me. Got-dam! Dying is easy. Being eaten alive by maggots is not.

There's a choice coming soon.

April 17, 2009

Sick shit

Originally published November 15, 2003

Have a barf-bag handy if you want to read this. The blithering asshole who wrote it calls himself a "Christian," too.

I make no bones about my dislike, and yes... EVEN HATRED for some of the leftist fuckwits I see ruining this country today. I despise Bill Clinton. I abhor his wife. I believe that Al Gore is a loon. I wouldn't piss on Chuck Schumer if he were on fire. But I never would suggest killing those people (Yeah, I say "drag 'em off and shoot 'em" a lot, but that's just rhetoric. I don't really mean it. I believe that this guy really thinks about offing a bunch of people to make the country "better.")

We'll make the country better at the ballot box or we'll watch it go down the tubes and turn into a fucking France because that's what voters want. Either way, that's not MY decision to make all by myself. Assassination is NOT how to get your way in this country and anyone who even contemplates such an idea needs a lesson in American History.

That person also needs therapy and a few mood-altering drugs, perhaps administered in a rubber room.

April 16, 2009

A test

Originally published February 26, 2004

My son is ten years old. I gave him this test and he got eight out of ten correct, and you can bet your ass that he never learned this stuff in school.

1) Who was the first President of the United States?

2) Who made the "Louisiana Purchace" and who explored it?

3) What year did that happen?

3) When did the War of 1812 end?

4) What does "crossing the Rubicon" and "The die is cast" have in common?

5) Why are railroad tracks the distance apart that they are?

6) What is a "Mule Skinner?"

7) What was a "Conestoga Wagon" and what was so special about it?

8) Who killed President Lincoln? Where did it happen?

9) Who was Robert E. Lee?

10) Who wrote "The Star-Spangled Banner" and where was he when he did it?

My son missed two of those questions. He didn't know what a "Mule Skinner" was and he didn't know when the War of 1812 ended. Otherwise, he did really well.

Give that test to your children. Hell, take it yourself. If you don't know that shit, you should, and so should your children.

April 15, 2009


Originally published November 15, 2003

Let's get one fucking thing straight right now.

"Barbecue" is NOT a verb. It is a noun. It is NOT an appliance. It is not a goddam grill. You may grill steaks, you may grill shrimp or you may grill pork chops. But that ain't barbecue, and I don't care what kind of sauce you put on the meat.

You make "barbecue" out of Boston butts or pork spareribs. I will brook no argument about this simple truth. You don't barbecue beef. You grill it, and there's a damned big difference between grilling beef and making barbecue. I don't want to hear any more shit about it.

I am correct and YOU ARE WRONG if you disagree.

You can grill something fast. Just turn up the gas or make a big pile of charchol on the grill and you'll be finished quickly. Genuine barbecue is something you start early in the morning (or even the night before) to make it right for a 6:00 evening supper. You cook it slowly, with lots of hickory chips and smoke to season the meat. Put the rub on at the beginning, then drink beer as you check on the meat from time to time all day long and smell that goodness while you keep adding more wood chips to the fire. Invite some friends over and pitch horse shoes to kill some time.

Put the sauce on 30 minutes before you are ready to serve.

Then, when the meat is ready, shred the Boston butts by hand. Cut the ribs with a knife (even though they'll fall apart by then) and pile them high on a big plate. Have corn on the cob, hamburger buns, a salad and some Brunswick Stew to go with it. Tell everybody, "Let's EAT!"

THAT is barbecue. It's a goddam NOUN, not a verb.

April 14, 2009


Originally published February 26, 2004

I've never seen an episode of "Sex in the City." I've never watched a single episode of "Seinfeild." I've never watched a single show of "Survivor" or any other piece of "Reality TV" trash floating like a turd that won't flush in my commode. I don't watch TV very often.

I don't understand people who suck this kind of shit up like they're licking syrup from a waffle. THIS IS PURE CRAP, PEOPLE! But millions of you watch that crap every day. No wonder we have the government we do.

Can I have some more gruel, please?

April 13, 2009

What's next?

Originally published November 15, 2003

I ask myself that question a lot anymore. What IS next?

I've lost hold on everything I ever cared about. Over the past two years, the woman I loved betrayed me, I lost my home, my son, my goats, my chickens, my farm and even my goddam dick for eighteen months. It's been a rough ride.

I don't know where I'll end up from here. But I feel a tremendous sense of freedom from knowing that there isn't much that anybody else can take away from me today.

I'm doing a lot of writing now, but I don't know whether it's any good or not. I should probably back off the novel and see if I can market a couple of short stories or magazine articles. I don't need the money; I just want to know whether or not I can sell what I write.

I believe that I can. I am seldom at a loss for words and I do have that "ego a mile wide" that this person accused me of having.

I need to know. Looking at the wreckage I've made of my life, I shouldn't have any ego at all. But I do.

I have never tried anything in my life that I wasn't good at. I've fucked up in my personal affairs, but I've never failed to succeed when I applied myself to achieving a goal. I have a goal now. I've always wanted to be a writer and every teacher I ever had, all the way from fourth grade through graduate school, told me that I had the ability.

What happens if they all were wrong?

Well, I'm going to find out.

April 12, 2009

Growing a beard

Originally published February 25, 2004

I am about the get my hair cut short and get rid of the beard I've grown for the past couple of months. I know a beautician who also says that she can dye my hair without me having allergic reactions from the process. I am becoming a blonde on Thursday.

Why the fuck not? I've never been blonde since I ws seven years old. This woman says that she can do it without burning my scalp off and I am going to give her a shot. What's the worst that can happen? If I don't like it, I'll shave my head again.

Boy, Jennifer HATED IT when I did that once before. I don't believe that she ever forgave me for getting that haircut. But I simply cut my hair. It grew back.

She took a new lover. Unlike hair, that pure betrayal shit never grows back.

You've got hair and you've got divorce law. You're a lot better off fucking with your hair. Hair grows back.

But divorce is forever.

April 11, 2009

An empty house

Originally published February 24, 2004

I hate living by myself. I don't like to sleep alone and I don't like having the Crackerbox to maintain when I am the only person who lives here. Oddball is no goddam help, because all she wants to do is eat here and stay over at Jack's house.

My motivation quotient has gone to hell. For a long time, I held a job that required me to be responsible for a lot of people, handle difficult assignments and meet solid deadlines. Now, I get up in the morning and look for some late-night Cinemax porno to start my day. I don't even jack off while watching the pseudo-sex, because that takes too much effort. I don't display a lot of effort anymore.

I have a stack of bills on my coffee table. I've already written a check for every one, put a stamp on the envelope and all I have to do now is haul the envelopes out to my mailbox, raise the red flag and send them on their merry way. I may or may not get around to doing that difficult task today. I don't feel really motivated.

Hell, I lived my life the way I chose. I offer NO goddam excuses for the mess I've made of things. I did that shit all by myself. I married the wrong woman and sired a son with her, but that was all a big mistake, too. I wouldn't do it again, but I can't take back what has already happened. I did it. I fucking live with the outcome.

I really ought to pay those bills today. Maybe I will, or maybe I'll just take a nap. Yeah... a nap sounds like a better idea. It's a long walk out to the mailbox.

April 10, 2009

Big, tough guy

Originally published November 16, 2003

Just go read this. He fucking made me cry.
(Me too, Rob...)

April 09, 2009

I miss him

Originally published November 16, 2003


That my jocked-up football boy. I wonder how he spent the weekend.

I wonder a lot about what goes on in his life that I don't know about. I wonder if the thinks of me at night before he goes to sleep. I wonder how his mama's newest or nextest lover boyfriend will treat him. I wonder what I'm missing in his life.

My divorce was incredibly painful in a lot of ways. But losing Quinton was the very worst part.

I love my boy.

April 08, 2009

Being broke

Originally published February 23, 2004

I read a lot of bloggers who bemoan their finiancial status, but still manage to blog. They don't get a lot of sympathy from me. I've been fucking broke and I may well be headed that way again.

Blogging? Man, please. I've had to make the choice among cigarettes, gasoline and food too many times in my life. Food always finished last. Not long thereafter, I found myself with more money than I knew what to do with. I was on the verge of becoming a rich man.

Then-- all of a sudden I was broke again. I'm talking seriously broke and looking up from the bottom of a black hole. I had to borrow $10,000 from my 401-K just to get back on my feet again. I owed lawyers. I owed medical bills. I didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. I owed fucking everybody and the BC was asking for more. I didn't have a place to live and that surgery screwed me up a lot more than I believed that it would. I was in a bad way for a while. But I bought the Crackerbox because I knew that I could just barely handle the debt.

But the BC and I sold some property and I made enough money off that deal for me to buy beds and a kitchen table for the house. I also bought a refrigerator and and washer and dryer. Oh, yeah! A microwave oven, too. I was outfitted. Quinton could come stay with me now.

And he did, because I dug myself out of that hole one piece at a time. It wasn't easy and I still owe a lot of money on that 401-K loan. But I'm not broke anymore. I may be again shortly, but it won't be the first time. I can find a good job if I want one. But I don't want one right now. As Recondo 32 said at the blog-meet, "At your burn rate, you'd better leave the country or look for a job soon. Your money ain't gonna hold out the way you spend it."

The burn rate accellerated quite a bit today. Lawyers are expensive.

But what the fuck. I've been broke before. The thought of being broke again does not frighten me. I don't relish the thouht and I don't believe that I should BE in this position, but I am, and I have a simple choice to make. Do I love Quinton more than I fear going broke again?

Shit. If I have to back to choosing among gasoline, cigarettes and food, I can do that again. I'll just make sure that the boy stays fed. I don't need much to get by on my own.

April 07, 2009

Yeah, still awake

Originally published November 17, 2003

That etched-in-stone 9:30 PM bedtime I lived with for so long has gone by the wayside lately. I am learning to stay up late at night and sleep late in the morning again. I kinda like it.

When I got back home from Blood Mountain, all my digital clocks in the house were blinking 12:00. Obviously, a power outage occurred while I was away. Know what? Every one of those clocks is STILL blinking 12:00. I have not reset a one. I don't intend to, either. I don't need to know what time it is anymore. In fact, I might dig a hole in the back yard and bury every one of those fuckers.

I ate Chinese food today after I watched the Atlanta Falcons piss away another football game. I stayed away from the egg-drop soup this time and ate something called "The Happy Family." It's enough food to feed a happy family, so I have a go-box full in the refrigerator now to finish tomorrow. I ordered it just because I saw the irony in the name of the meal.

I saw an incredibly beautiful woman while I was in the restaurant. She wasn't one of the Asian waitresses that I always find so attractive. She was obviously Hispanic, with long, dark hair and olive skin. I stopped with a shrimp halfway to my mouth to watch her walk by. Damn! That was one good-looking woman.

Yeah, I know that I'm a pervert, but I couldn't help wondering what she would look like nekkid, with that black hair and dark skin pressed on clean, white sheets in my bed. ZING! I went off into fantasy land for a moment.

I came back to earth shortly thereafter and continued eating my meal. But I hope that I dream about her tonight.

April 06, 2009

Good question

Originally published February 23, 2004

Quinton once asked me, "Daddy, where does the wind go when it stops blowing?" I told him that the wind never stopped-- it just blew in a different place when it went away from here. He didn't buy that bullshit answer.

"Why are the wind chimes ringing over there when they aren't ringing RIGHT HERE?"

"Just wait a minute and the wind will move," I replied. The wind did, and the other set of chimes started singing while the first set went quiet. Quinton listened for a minute, then asked, "Why has that man's flag been blowing the same way all along if the wind keeps changing?"

I saw a great metaphysical discussion about to begin, so I headed it off at the pass. "You want something to eat?"

"Yeah, daddy! I'm HUNGRY!"

So I fed him, and he forgot all about the wind. He watched a movie on the Disney Channel and fell out on the couch later under the ratty white blanket he likes so well. I tucked him in and made sure he was fast asleep.

Then I went out on the back porch and thought for a while. Exactly where DOES the wind go when it dies?

April 05, 2009


Originally published November 17, 2003

I like living in Effingham County, Georgia, but I have to admit to one drawback about this place. We have more goddam ants and flies per square inch than any other place I've ever seen. I killed 26 flies in my house this weekend.

What is it with those dumbfuck flies? They've got an entire county full of dog turds, cow-flop, dead amadillos, other assorted road kill, garbage cans, Dempsey Dumpsters and everything else a fly could possible crave. It's all OUTSIDE. Why do they insist on flying INTO my house every time I open the door?

Once they're in, they want OUT again. They start banging and buzzing against the French door windows in my kitchen and I kill them with a Wal-Mart fly swatter. Every time I scoop up one of those dead bodies, I ask, "Why didn't you stay your stupid ass OUTSIDE? You could be laying 15,000 eggs in a dead deer rotting by side of the road now right if you hadn't flown in through my front door. But NOOOOO! You had to be the uninvited guest at the Crackerbox. Now, you're DEAD! I hope you had a good time while it lasted."

I keep the ant population at a minimum by applying liberal doses of Durstban and Diazanon (I bought a 50-pound bag of each after they were banned) to any mounds I see in the yard and I keep a Circle Of Death around the house. I'll have to find something else to use when those bags goes empty, and I'm running low now. If I don't put SOMETHING out there to keep the ants at bay, they'll overrun me. They are implacable little shits.

Flies and ants. I know that they both have their places in Mother Nature's grand design, but I hate 'em both. I kill all of 'em that I can.

And Effingham County has more than its fair share of both.

April 04, 2009

A confession

Originally published February 23, 2004

I took drugs in Jamaica. I smoked the ganja, I took the pills and I snorted the dust. I believe that the shit fucked me up for more than a week. I spent too many years away from that stuff. But it was JAMAICA!!! What the fuck? The stuff was RIGHT THERE and it was cheap. I went for it.

If I had the whole thing to do over again, I would have stuck with the Red Stripe beer and the Appleton's Premium rum. I didn't need the rest of that shit and it damn sure didn't need me. But I hadn't tried any in 20 years. I wanted to be a hippie again. I just got fucked up.

But that crap didn't wear off right away. It screwed me up pretty good and I stayed that way for a while. I don't want any more. I'm a lot better off drunk that I am all doped to the gills. But I had to find out for myself.

Now I know. Somebody else does, too. That was a mistake, but I made it.

I regret that decision.

April 03, 2009

Poker, dogs and guns

Originally published November 17, 2003

I like to gamble. I couldn't believe that Bill Bennett was idoitic enough to gamble on video poker for large amounts of money. Only a goddam fool does something as stupid as that. You CAN'T WIN against a video poker machine, not in the long run at least. You may as well buy a fistfull of lottery tickets every week.

I prefer card games.

I watched rounds three and two of the World Series of Poker last night on ESPN. They play no-limit, Texas hold 'em, and that's a fascinating game. You basically bet your hole cards against the other guy's hole cards, with five common cards that you both share. It's a good game. I've played it some, but I don't claim to be ready to sit down at a table with people who do this shit for a living. But I would like to learn.

I like blackjack in a casino, because I believe that I am playing against the dealer, not trying to make 21 on every hand. The house has a 2% vigorish in that game because the dealer wins with Blackjack. That's about the best vigorish you're going to get in a casino except for the craps table, but I don't understand that game. So, I play blackjack in a casino and poker with my friends.

I win a lot more money than I lose.

Gambling makes me feel very alive sometimes. I never gamble with money that I can't afford to lose, and I've learned to look at dollars as tokens in a gambling situation. If you think of it as money, you're screwed. Those chips are nothing but tokens, something you need to play the game and a way to keep score. If you can safely say, "If I lose it all, it's no different than if the tokens blew out the window of my truck on the way here today. I'll miss it, but it won't cramp my lifestyle at all," then BET. Otherwise, DON'T.

I've started thinking about getting a dog. I like dogs and I've had some good ones in my life. I ALWAYS had one as a boy and as a young man. I have the time now to housebreak a puppy, teach him to behave and to be my friend. I might enjoy a nice fuzzball who liked riding in the truck and slobbering out the passenger window everywhere I go. I want one who will stay inside and bark when a stranger comes to the house when I'm not home. I want one that will love Quinton as much as the dog loves me.

I may have to fence my yard, but that's a small price to pay for what a dog brings to a house. I want that now. Quinton would like a dog in the Crackerbox as much as I would. I'm planning a trip to the animal shelter to rescue a doomed doggie. I'll pick a mutt, but I intend to pick a good 'un. I like mutts. I am one myself.

Tomorrow, I pick up the new 30.06 I bought at Mack's Gun Shop. I don't know why I wanted that rifle, but I did, so I bought it. I also intend to buy 500 rounds of ammunition for it, and that shit ain't cheap. I'll probably never shoot that many rounds in my LIFE, but Mack is cutting me some slack on the price. I'm a good customer. I'll probably buy a fucking scope, too, because I can't see both ends of iron sights anymore with my elderly eyes. I believe that Quinton, Jack and I will go shooting in the woods this weekend, up on Cop 3's 90 acres just down the road from where I live.

We'll take the BB guns, the .22 rifle and my new 30.06. We'll bring beer cans, coke bottles and a few home-made targets with us. I'm going to allow both boys to shoot the .22, and I might let Quinton shoot the big rifle. I wonder if he can handle it. Maybe I should put some bricks in his back pockets first, just to weigh his little butt down. That sumbitch gun may take his shoulder off and knock him ass over teakettle.

We'll see. Maybe we'll have a puppy to take with us, too.

April 02, 2009

John Kerry

Originally published February 23, 2004

My good friend and ACTUAL Vietnam veteran, Recondo 32, does not like John Kerry. First of all, he says everything that greyhawk does. I heard almost these exact same words from Recondo (ex-LRRP, where you really DID fight) at the blog-meet Saturday:

(1) Kerry was in-country less than four months and collected a Bronze Star, a Silver Star and three Purple Hearts. I never heard of anybody with any outfit I worked with (including SEAL One, the Sea Wolves, Riverines and the River Patrol Force) collecting that much hardware that fast, and for such pedestrian actions. The Swifts did a commendable job, but that duty wasn't the worst you could draw. They operated only along the coast and in the major rivers (Bassac and Mekong). The rough stuff in the hot areas was mainly handled by the smaller, faster PBRs.

(2) He collected three Purple Hearts but has no limp. All his injuries were so minor that he lost no time from duty. Amazing luck. Or he was putting himself in for medals every time he bumped his head on the wheel house hatch? Combat on, the boats were almost always at close range. You didn't have minor wounds, at least not often. Not three times in a row. Then he used the three Purple Hearts to request a trip home eight months before the end of his tour. Fishy.

(3) The details of the event for which he was given the Silver Star make no sense at all. Supposedly, a B-40 was fired at the boat and missed. Charlie jumps up with the launcher in his hand, the bow gunner knocks him down with the twin .50, Kerry beaches the boat, jumps off, shoots Charlie, and retreives the launcher. If true, he did everything wrong.
(a) Standard procedure when you took rocket fire was to put your stern to the action and go balls to the wall. A B-40 has the ballistic integrity of a frisbie after about 25 yards, so you put 50 yards or so between you and the beach and begin raking it with your .50's.
(b) Did you ever see anybody get knocked down with a .50 caliber round and get up? The guy was dead or dying. The rocket launcher was empty. There was no reason to go after him (except if you knew he was no danger to you just flopping around in the dust during his last few seconds on earth, and you wanted some derring-do in your after-action report). And we didn't shoot wounded people. We had rules against that, too.
(c) Kerry got off the boat. This was a major breach of standing procedures. Nobody on a boat crew ever got off a boat in a hot area. EVER! The reason was simple: If you had somebody on the beach, your boat was defenseless. It coudn't run and it couldn' t return fire. It was stupid and it put his crew in danger. He should have been relieved and reprimanded. I never heard of any boat crewman ever leaving a boat during or after a firefight.

Something is fishy.

Ask Recondo 32 about John Kerry. He uses words other than "fishy" to describe than man's war record. Do Democrats or other Kerry supporters know a word that starts with "bull" and sends with "shit?" If not, they should have been at the blog meet. Recondo 32 climbed his high horse and rode it all over the barn.

This is HIS prediction, not mine: John Kerry's Vietnam War record will sink him like a crab trap with a big rock in it. Kerry won POLITICAL medals, not actual combat medals. He rode those pussy-boats on the big rivers and never saw an actual in-bush combat operation in his life. As Recondo said, "The lying bastard SHOULD have thrown his medals into the Potomic. He didn't deserve a goddam one of them."

That's just the opinion of ONE Vietnam veteran I know. He has a lot of reinforcements.

April 01, 2009

Same sex marriage

Originally published February 23, 2004

I have pondered this subject long and hard for the past few weeks. I believe that I have a unique perspective on the matter because of the shit-storm I'm walking into under REGULAR marriage laws.

I oppose homosexual marriage. Let's start from there.

I oppose marriage in general. It's too goddam easy to do and too goddam easy to get out of, and the man always gets fucked under Georgia state law. I'm in favor of "domestic partner" laws that allow any two people who really believe that they love each other to formalize that relationship. Marry a goddam goat if you want to. I don't care.

But once you make that decision, you should be stuck with it for a long time. No one person in that relationship should be able to say "I want out" and just get the fuck out, as easy as pie. Got-Dam! We're talking a serious commitment here and you should be bound to stick with it until every last option is explored.

Jennifer divorced me and took damn near everything I had with one fucking phone call. She moved another man into the house before the sheets got cold and I couldn't even get the sheriff to throw HIM out. I had a restraining order against me. That unemployed, dope-smoking piece of shit was welcome to sleep in my bed with my wife. I was not allowed within 500 yards of the house. But I was ordered to continue making half the house payments. Boy, that made me feel good.

So, yeah. I am all for homosexual marriage, domestic partnerships or whatever else the brain-dead courts decide. Anything is better than the totally fucked-up system we have now. If we had homosexual marriage laws or domestic partnership laws in Georgia, I probably would not be looking down the barrell of the shotgun that I'm staring at now.

"Your Honor, my bloodless cunt of a soon-to-be ex-wife took all the money, threw me out of a $250,000 home and moved another man into the house right under the nose of my eight year-old son before the sheets on the bed even got cold. She makes twice the money I make and still wants child support. She has ended my visitation with my son twice now, just because she can, with one fucking phone call. If I fart wrong JUST ONCE, she has a sheriff's deputy over to my home to be polite and serve another warrant on me. Meanwhile, she runs off to the mountains to fuck her new boyfriend on my son's birthday. (Just read the first entry on this blog)

"All I ask is fairness and justice. Can I get it here, or should I try San Francisco?"

I will not get fairness nor justice in Efffingham County. I will get fucked because I am a man. So, let the faggots marry. That'll muddy up the water.