Gut Rumbles

July 31, 2009

i read the news today, oh boy...

Originally PUBLISHED June 5, 2006

Let's see what we have here in the Savannah Morning News. Ummm... we have a law requiring a picture ID before you can vote and a lot of people don't have one. IT'S A CRISIS!!! The government was supposed to provide picture IDs to welfare queens and dead Democrats, but government hasn't done that yet.

The excuse is, according to Sandra Williams, Chatham County's voter registration director, "We're still waiting for complete information from the state... they haven't said when it will be forthcoming."

Government in action.

Another front-page article says, "Have No Fear as 6-6-06 Draws Near." That's comforting to read, but I am disturbed by "the nexus of theology, mathematics and commercialism" that makes a big deal out of what really is a perfectly ordinary day.

I can't express stupidity any better than this: "Many people avoid the number; they're afraid of it almost and there's absolutely no reason to be afraid of it... It is not supposed to be taken as a timetable for when the world is going to end."

Heh. Tell that to Al Gore. The anti-Christ isn't going to get us. Global Warming WILL, and we've already reached a "tipping point," where WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!

Page Two: I believe Al Gore. The seven day weather forecast for Chatham County predicts temperatures with highs in the 90s and lows around 65 degrees, with a 10% chance of rain every day. Without a doubt... WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!

Also... some kids in Rice Mills Subdivision, about six miles away from where I live, ignited "Molotov Cocktails" in the woods nearby and actually set fire to one of those orange traffic cones that non-working "construction" assholes place along the road so that they can sleep peacefully in a DOT truck when they're supposed to be performing road repairs. Police are on Red Alert about that.

Bejus! Those kids have no imagination at all. If they had any vision, they'd be launching home-made rockets with toads strapped to them they way I did when I was young. But a Coke bottle filled with gasoline that has a rag stuffed in the top is a "poor man's hand grenade," and I think Homeland Security may become involved before THIS kind of terrorism is thwarted.

The cops are calling it an investigation of "explosives." They are urging residents of that subdivision to be "extra vigilant" and "report any suspicious activity." Fuck me dead. I oughta call them and report a suspicious-looking COP prowling my neighborhood and see what they do about THAT.

Somebody's "civil rights" were allegedly violated by the Tybee Island Police. BWHAHAHAHAAAA!!! A disgruntled citizen of Tybee put up a bunch of signs in his yard that said the Tybee cops were "gestapo." To prove him wrong, Tybee cops came with a search warrant and raided his home. The story gets confusing after that, because the cops cuffed a 14 year-old "child" and put that menace to society in a squad car while they searched the home.

Hey Catfish!!! Ever been fucked with by Tybee cops? Me, neither. BWHAHAHAAA!!

In the local news, yesterday was a slow day. No black yoots shot and killed any other black yoots. That's rare. But the police DID arrest two white shitasses for committing church burglaries. At first, I thought, "WTF did they want to steal from a CHURCH???" They took televisions and a CD player, plus a wireless microphone. Mster criminals, both locked up in the Chatham County jail now.

On the sports page, some guy I never heard of before collected over $1 million for winning a golf tournament in Dublin, Ohio. I looked at the final scores and realized that I never heard of ANYBODY in the top ten, except for Phil Mickelson, who won $237,000 for finishing in a tie for sixth place. David Duvall made the cut, but he shot 82 in the final round and finished dead last. He still collected $11,040 dollars.

I don't pay much attention to professional golf anymore. I think it's becoming obscene.

The Atlanta Braves lost again. Nadia Comaneci (remember her?) had a baby, fathered by Bart Conner (remember HIM?). I wonder what two Olympic gymnasts look like when they sport-fuck. Reckon they indulge in some very intriguing positions?

Somebody in a decal-covered car won a NASCAR race in Dover, Delaware. That's another "sport" that I don't pay attention to anymore, especially when they race in Delaware. If they ain't down South, it ain't really a NASCAR race, in MY humble opinion. And if I don't have $10 invested in a race pool, I don't give a shit who wins.

The magazine section had a decent crossword puzzle that took me almost 20 minutes to finish. The Dilbert comic strip was pretty good, and Hagar wasn't bad, either. I don't do math, so I don't understand the fascination with Sudoku puzzles. I've NEVER been able to solve one of those, not even when I try the ones designed for six year-olds. Fuck a Sudoko.

Home Depot has Poulan chain saws and Ryobi weed-whackers on sale. If I could drive that far, I might go buy one of each. I LIKE power tools, even when all they do is sit unused in my garage.

Oh, something else, too. The Morning News has a couple of BLOGS on it now. I've never read them, because the SMN requires registration to read their on-line stuff, and I don't register for ANYBODY. Who the hell do they think they are anyway? And if they want a GOOD local blogger, they should hire ME.

The newspaper. I just don't know what I would do without it.

July 30, 2009

southern livin'

Originally PUBLISHED May 16, 2006

Jeff Foxworthy has made a career out of red-neck jokes, but I don't believe that HE can hang with ME. He may make more money than I do, but I've got better credentials than he does.

*I HAVE lived in a mobile home, when I was in college.

*I DID drink Busch Bavarian Beer when it came in 14-ounce cans.

*I DROVE a Volkswagon Beetle.

*I WAS semi-arrested for pissing alongside Highway 80 at Savannah Beach one fateful night. I was cuffed and put in the back seat of a squad car, but I gave the officer $20 and he let me go.

*I HAVE been shot at, by a farmer. The bastid HIT ME with rocksalt, too. (I was "courting" his daughter at the time.)

*I LIKE vienna sausages right out of the can, with saltine crackers to disguise the taste.

*I've BEEN hungry enough to eat cold pork & beans, WITHOUT using a fork or a spoon. I drank the juice out of the can, too.

*I HAVE shit my pants. More than ONCE.

*I SWALLOWED illicit drugs without knowing what they were. I just figured that I would find out after about 30 minutes. I DID, too.

*I once received a CERTIFIED LETTER in the mail that named ME as the father of an illegitimate child, and I had NO recollection of EVER meeting the "mother." I threw the letter away and never heard a peep about it again.

*I KNOW what a "zilch" is. Do YOU? (It AIN'T a zero.)

*I ONCE played guitar in three different states on three different stages on three different days, all back-to-back. I took my dog with me on that road trip and I did it in a 1974 Chevy Vega.

*I got LAID on that trip by a woman in Ohio who thought my dog was "cute." I guess I musta been okay, too.

*More than ONCE, I've awakened not knowing where I was or how I got there.

*I EAT raw oysters, but I don't like sushi.

*I SNORE when I sleep on my back and the noise wakes me up sometimes. That's disconcerting when I don't know where I am or how I got there, especially when my mouth tastes like I've been eating sushi.

*I DO NOT have to make ANY of this shit up.

I've lived an interesting life.

July 29, 2009


Originally PUBLISHED June 11, 2003

Young Jack dropped by this evening to borrow some salt and to make sure that Quinton was coming over tomorrow. My boy is, and Jack is invited to spend the weekend with him. Jack is excited.

If I can get permission from Jack's mom, I think I might spend the weekend at the beach. We'll go there Saturday morning, spend Saturday night in a room somewhere and just go beachy for a day or so. We'll eat seafood and get salt water and sand in our hair. Build sand castles. Ride the boogie-boards in the surf.

I believe that the boys would like it, and I'm ready to go OFF for a weekend. I just don't know how Jack's dad (never around) feels about Father's Day. I know how I FEEL about it, and I am damn glad that Quinton is staying with ME this weekend. I want it to be something special and he's welcome to share it with his friend. I want to spend the weekend at Tybee Island and go native. No shirt, no shoes... NO PROBLEM!

If I don't blog this weekend, that's why.

July 28, 2009

shoulda expected it

Originally PUBLISHED March 07, 2006

I made it back home to the Crackerbox just before midnight last night. That plane trip was a fitting end to this adventure--- the cherry on top of a sundae--- which has been a series of disappointments except for getting to where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there.

Which is more than Delta Airlines can say for my luggage.

I never did start feeling really well again after I got sick in Jaco. I was a lot better--- but I coulda said that if I died. No, my case was more like going from absolutely miserable to NOT miserable anymore, but I never did start feeling right. My belly still hurt and I became weak (probably from dehydration) in the legs. But at least I wasn't hurling and pooping non-stop anymore.

When I travel, I try to pack as lightly as I can. For this trip, I took one small duffle bag and a camera in a case. I checked the bag so that I could bring a couple of cigarette lighters, a pair of moustache sissors and a set of nail-clippers with me. That plan worked perfectly on my trip TO Costa Rica. Everything arrived intact.

I did the same thing coming home. This time, however, my bag never arrived. I almost missed my connecting flight in Atlanta, too, by the time I realized that my bag was NOT on the plane I rode. I didn't have time to hunt for it or to fill out a missing luggage report. I had to run through the terminal to catch my plane home, which was the last flight to Savannah until this morning, and not leaving from the gate marked on my ticket. Bejus! Another long run with a subway ride in the middle.

I think Delta held that plane for me, because I was the last person to board--- 30 minutes AFTER the scheduled departure time.

That's one reason why I NEVER store my car keys in my luggage. I carry stuff like that either in my pocket or in my camera case, so I always KNOW where they are. That's why I was able to drive home from the airport last night.

I contacted Delta this morning and issued an APB for my missing bag. I have no doubt that they'll find it eventually, because an airline never actually "loses" anybody's luggage. Luggage simply is "routed in error" on rare occasions. Mine may have gone on a jaunt to Chicago for all I know. It may be flying somewhere else right now. Delta will jaunt it back to me when they discover where it got re-routed. I got my own ASS home just fine.

My point is that you should NEVER put anything you absolutely NEED to have in your check-on baggage, especially if not having that item can put a screeching hault to YOUR jaunt. Taking my own advice paid off for me last night.

If I never see that bag again, I've lost nothing really important-- just a few items of clothing, my vitamins and the souvenirs I bought. I want 'em back, but it's not a matter of life or death. Hell, I'm kinda fond of that BAG, too.

So, I went to a beautiful place, wasted a lot of beautiful time being sick, and had a shitty trip back home. I went straight to bed and slept for 11 hours last night. My belly still ain't right, my legs still wobble but the trip wasn't a complete disaster, either. I won $100 back from the casino and I got laid before I came home. I just wish I had felt well enough to really enjoy myself.

Now, if I can just locate my bag, I'll be ready to go back again soon.

July 27, 2009

mala suerta

Originally PUBLISHED March 05, 2006

I had so much fun losing $100 in the casino last night that I reloaded and dropped $100 MORE before I finally gave up. Bejus! I got on a run of shit-ass cards against a dealer (actually three different dealers) who never busted, and I got fucked. I take little comfort from the fact that I was playing with four other Americans at the table and they all got fucked, too.

That expensive bath brings me down to loser territory on my overall gambling here. I got 'em good once, for about $600 on a trip two years ago, but itīs been downhill ever since. I donīt know why I throw my money away on such foolish pursuits.

Iīm going back to redeem myself tonight.

My "date" was a most pleasant experience. She a was beautiful woman, much younger than I am, and built like... well, letīs just say that she was BUILT. Tica wimmen have two qualities that I find really attractive. First are breasts to die for. Someone once told me the the abundance of stacked Costa Rican muchachas was because they ate a lot of chicken.

The chickens here are injected with hormones to make their breasts grow large. If a woman eats the chicken, the same thing happens to her. Ticas grow big titties. I donīt know if the story is fact or not, but the titty-evidence to back it up is impressive.

Second, wimmen here have pretty feet. They donīt paint their toenails red though, which is a crying shame. Most of 'em go for that French-white-tipped pedicure look, which is okay, just not as sensual as red is to me. But their feet are pretty just the same. VERY pretty.

They've got the tits and the toes, all right. World-class asses, too. I DID take some pictures, but I canīt post any until I get back home. Just use your imagination in the mean time.

Speaking of going home, Iīm leaving tomorrow. I still havenīt fully recovered from the Montezuma's Revenge I suffered, and I've spent enough money already. I need to go home and heal up for a while before I come back again. And I WILL be back.

This is a beautiful place.

July 26, 2009

i think i'm gonna live

Originally PUBLISHED March 04, 2006

I'm MUCH better now than what I was. Of course, I could say that as fact if I had DIED last night, but I believe that I'm through hugging the toilet for a while. I feel pretty good now.

I'm convinced that not drinking alcohol poisoned me. Before, I've always put enough high-octane hootch in my belly to kill any nasty bacteria lurking in the food or water here. This time, I relied on my built-in immune system to protect me, and that pussy-assed, "natural" anti-shit failed me in the pinch. I was bad-off for a while there. I don't want to experience that gut-rumble again, but I'm still not gonna drink. I gotta be tough, even if it kills me.

I'm going out to gamble tonight, and I have a "date" arranged for later in the evening. A little taste of the sweet tica might cure everything that's wrong with me, even if I lose money in the casino. It damn sure won't hurt. Besides... I can't be around this many beautiful wimmen without lusting in my heart. Here, when I lust in my heart, I get laid out of my pants.

Maybe I'll take some pictures...

July 25, 2009

revenge ain't sweet

Originally PUBLISHED March 04, 2006

I had breakfast at my hotel (the "Jaco Festival") and walked into town afterward. That was two days ago, I think. I bought some cigarettes and shopped for a few souvenirs I want to bring home and send to a few special people. I started to go by the scuba diving place and see what the lessons cost, but suddenly, I wasn't feeling well.

I broke out in a sweat. My belly started to puff up as if I were about six months pregnant. I felt achy all over. I decided to go back to my room and rest for a spell.

That "spell" lasted about 36 hours. Holy Bejus!!! After all the trips I've made here and all the different food I've eaten with no problem at all, Montezuma finally got his revenge on me this time. I was one sick puppy. You don't want the gory details, because that's a story I prefer not to tell, although I could make a couple of REALLY GOOD shit-blogs about it. Maybe even start a trend in vomit-blogging, too...

I've been wondering what got me. I don't think it was the water, because I've drunk the agua all over the country before and it's never bothered me. Maybe it was the fruit I bought off a street vendor when I first arrived in Jaco. Pears and plums with a nearly lethal after-effect? Maybe the hotel poisoned me so that I won't pig out on all the free stuff I get to eat and drink here. Who knows?

Whatever it was, I don't want any more of it. I finally know what it's like to be fricking MISERABLE in Costa Rica. I didn't even make it to the beach yesterday. Instead, I became intimate friends with the commode in my room. It was UGLY, folks... mighty UGLY.

I was able to eat some soup last night and I slept for about 12 hours after that "meal," which was the only food I've been able to tolerate since my affliction struck. I feel okay today. In fact, I'm hungry. But damn if I didn't shoot the last two days square in the ass.

I still wonder what it was that got me...

July 24, 2009

I apologize

Originally PUBLISHED March 01, 2006

I shouldn't have written the post below this one, but I checked my email last night and went into a blue funk over something I found there. You'll never guess who it was from. I don't know why I still allow that shit to eat at me the way it does, but it does, dammit.

Anyway, I was worried that I wouldn't be able to sleep, but I conked out like an etherized patient when my head hit the pillow. I slept like a rock and don't remember any dreams I might have had. I felt pretty good this morning, so I went for another walk and dined on a sumptious desayuno typical of eggs, rice & beans, bacon, toast, coffee and fresh fruitas for the outrageously high price of 2,500 colones--- less than $5.00 US.

I caught my ride to Playa de Jaco at 1:00 this afternoon and really enjoyed the trip. This is an amazingly beautiful country. It's also nice to get away from San Jose--- that place has a seamy underbelly that ain't pleasant to behold. It's MUCH nicer where I am now.

The hotel is no ritzy joint, but it's perfect for me. The only thing that chaps my ass is the fact that it's an ALL-INCLUSIVE RESORT, so I could sit at the bar and drink myself silly for FREE here. Oh, well. I was lucky to get a room at all for this time of year and I'm right on the beach and a two-block walk from all the shops and restaurants downtown. Plus, the internet service is free, too. I think I'm gonna like it here.

I'm already pondering an extention to my visit. I've got five days more here, but I don't think that's gonna be enough of Costa Rica for me. I'm feeling a strong urge to go native for a while. If that urge doesn't go away soon, I might stay for another couple of weeks. See some places I've never been before. Forget about Jawja for a while.

Why not?

July 23, 2009

i think too much

Originally PUBLISHED February 28, 2006

I had a very nice dinner tonight. I don't have a clue what it was, but it had a big chunk of fish, lots of strange vegetables, some kinda micro-shrimp and a lot of rice on the plate. I can't believe that I ate the WHOLE THING, because it should have been hauled on a fork-lift to my table. Bejus! That was a LOT of food and I felt.... I dunno... DECADENT for pigging out the way I did.

The meal cost less than 5,000 colones, and that included two cups of VERY rich coffee after I sat paralyzed at the table, unable to function as a human being because my belly was so full. I did some quick math (I was an English Major--- I don't DO math) and calculated that, after I factored the F of X into the equation, inverted and multplied, did all the gozentas and took a wild-assed guess, that meal cost me $10.00 US, once I included a generous tip for my most attentive waiter.

That's Costa Rica, folks, if you'll just get off the beaten track .

Okay that's enought of me JEERING at you folks because I'm here and YOU'RE NOT! I'm gonna open a travel agency and show people how to have a good time, eat sumptiously and endure insane cab rides for a modest price. I'm gonna get rich and retire to Costa Rica.

But I'm totally off-topic here. Living high on the hog with piglet money does that to me...

Last night when I couldn't sleep, I did a lot of thinking. In the past two days, I've probably walked close to 20 miles. I don't take taxis here in San Jose. I walk. I LIKE walking, and I'm not that far away from remembering when I couldn't make it to my mailbox and back in one trip. I'll be sore tomorrow, but I walked ALL DAY today. It felt GOOD, too.

When I did sleep last night, I dreamed that I had a puppy dog in bed with me and he wouldn't be still. He kept pawing and licking at me until he pissed me off. I dreamed that I grabbed the dog by the nose, stuck his face in my armpit and said, "If you start that shit again, I'm throwing your ass outside for the night! You BEHAVE!" and I dreamed that the dog behaved and slept with his nose in my armpit, just like a fuzzy cuddle-muffin. Is that weird, or what? I MISSED that dog when I woke up.

You'll NEVER dream about a CAT doing that.

I also had plenty of time to get all existential. I thought about the hookers trying to solicit me off the porch last night. And I thought about my BC ex-wife. Guess which one I decided was most honest? Guess which one cost the most money? There's an inverse mathemetical Parallel of Pussy that needs to be taught in school. If a woman sells it outright, you know what it costs, right upfront. Hell, if it's GOOD, you might even throw in a generous tip.

Have her "give" it to you, and that's one expensive damn hole you end up paying for. There's whores and then there's... uh... ex-wives. In MY humble opinion, whores are.... never mind. I don't want every ex-wife in the world wanting to cut my nuts off because I suggested that they are nut-cutters. Gawd! Wimmen are the only creatures on the planet who will nut-cut to PROVE that they ARE NOT nut-cutters. Go figure that one out. I can't.

I'll just tell you guys.... If you don't think a pussy has teeth, you've never been to divorce court.

I'll probably piss off a lot of wimmen by writing this, but I speak with the voice of experience. And if I weren't speaking at least a modicum of truth, there would be no divorce lawyers driving Porches and no such thing as a pre-nup agreement. Guys are totally dumb, and you chicks figured that fact out a LOOONG time ago. Don't give me that "weaker sex" shit. I KNOW better.

Still, I wish I had a woman with me right now. Yes, I do. I would LOVE to show her around San Jose, buy her some killer food and treat her like a queen. I would take her with me tomorrow to Jaco, then down the coast to wherever we end up. If she followed me, I'd give her a time to remember.

And I'm not talking about sex. I'll GET sex while I'm here. It''s for sale, on the open market, just like any other commodity. If I see something I want, I'll rent it. Great fun, no guilt and everybody ends up happy, What's wrong with that? It's really no different than enjoying that fine meal I had tonight.

I just wish I had a companion. I'm funny that way.

But I believe that I'd be better off with a good dog nuzzling my armpit at night. I've never had a dog I treated well turn around and bite me.

July 22, 2009

bits and pieces

Originally PUBLISHED February 28, 2006

I'm gonna be sore tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

La pura vida.

July 21, 2009


Originally PUBLISHED February 28, 2006

I am blogging from an undisclosed location.

I left beautiful Rincon, Georgia at 0700 yesterday morning. The temperature was 27 degrees and I had to scrape ice off the windshield of my car before I could drive. My trip was uneventful after that, except for a truly exciting ride from the airport to where I am now. I thought Jamacian cab drivers were suicidal, but I rode with one yesterday who could put a stoned Rashta-mon to shame.

I always ride in the front seat in a cab here, because I can see better that way. Yesterday, I wanted to crawl into the back seat and cover up my head. Bejus! My driver was either VERY GOOD or VERY CRAZY. He cannon-balled down the streets as if he were playing a damn video game where he got bonus points for colliding with other cars or killing pedestrians. Or scaring the shit out of his passenger.
I don't know how we made it to the hotel in one piece, but we did.

I gave him a decent tip to make up for the hole my anus gnawed in his front seat during the ride.

I'm glad I wore a long-sleeved shirt on the trip. I needed it last night. It's kinda chilly here, with a nasty wind blowing. Still, I think I can survive. If I lived through that cab ride, I can handle almost anything. I'll be here in the city today, then off to the beach tomorrow, where the weather is supposed to be a lot warmer.

I was intending to post yesterday, but I couldn't get into this got-dam iMac computer I'm using at the hotel. Of course, it might have worked better if I remembered the address of my site, which I didn't. It came to me in my sleep last night. Funny how you have to put those slashes and dots in EXACTLY the right place to make a computer do what you want it to do. Finnicky bastard.

For those of you who thought I was dead because I didn't post yesterday, I'm still alive. For those of you who are curious about where I am, take a wild guess.

July 20, 2009

amazing change

Originally PUBLISHED November 02, 2006

I could not possibly have ordered weather any better from a catalogue than what I had for six days in North Georgia. The days were warm enough to wear a tee-shirt outside and the nights were cool enough for a fire in the fireplace. The sky was crystal blue every day and the dark was filled with stars every night. Everything was perfect.

On the way up there, I was convinced that the leaves were past their peak as we went through Gainesville and Cleveland. But as soon as we hit the climb up to Blood Mountain, everything changed. The colors were spectacular. The higher we went up highway 129, the better the color. By the time we made the cabin, I felt as if I were in the Land of Oz.

Recondo and I sat in the cabin that first night and discussed the situation. We've been rained on, snowed on, almost blown off the mountain by a tropical storm, seen the leaves green and seen the trees bare. We were about due for a Lucky Seven on the dice. We finally rolled one.

I took Georgia hiking and we saw waterfalls. I ate lunch in Dawsonville at a diner with an ugly artificial pig on the roof and the food was damn good. I got drunk in Dahlonega AND in Helen, where I bought Georgia a bracelet and a silver ring for myself. A little Indian guy at the Tip-Top-Tee store made the Jawja Blogger tee-shirts for me while we ate lunch on the bank of the Chattahoochie River at a place called "Trolls." (It's UNDER THE BRIDGE! Get it?) Then, I met a lot of really nice people at the blog-meet on Saturday.

That was one wonderful week and I regret that it's over.

I awoke to an overcast sky today, and now a pissy little rain is falling. Man, what a change. I'm back in the flatlands, with the sand hills and the pine barrens now. No color in the trees and no breathtaking views to see. This is one boring-assed place. It's where I choose to live, but it sure seems shitty right now.

I miss the mountains.

July 19, 2009

beach towns

Originally PUBLISHED June 11,2004

I've been on a roll today. I've felt like writing and I've had (what I think anyway) were a lot of good ideas for posts. Sometimes I just grind things out on the blog because I call myself a writer and I NEVER believed that a writer needs inspiration to write. It's a craft. Does a bricklayer need inspiration to lay bricks?

I'll admit that sometimes the words come more easily than they do at other times. I don't know what circumstances make the difference between a good day and a bad day, but something does. If I could figure it out, I'd bottle and sell a cure for Writer's Block.

I want to believe that staying at Folly Beach stirred my creative juices. I LOVE beach towns, especially the ones that are small, populated by natives who don't give a big shit about much of anything, and where you can walk from one end of town to the other in an hour or so, even with a couple of beer stops along the way. Folly Beach is like that.

People walk around in wet bathing suits. You don't HAVE to wear a shirt to go into most bars there, and a lot of people don't wear shirts (you KNOW that I like that!). Wimmen are barefoot, or wearing sandals, so I get to indulge in my foot-fetish at will, as long as I don't drop to my knees and start licking a set of pretty, bare, red toenails on the sidewalk. A bearded old fart such as myself fits right in at Folly Beach.

I've decided to take another field trip tomorrow. I'm going back to Key West. I'll travel tomorrow about as far as Hollywood Beach, where I intend to stay at the hotel with the rooftop pool that allows nekkid sunbathing. I'll try to keep from becoming a "baboon butt" this time, but I WILL take all of my clothes off and lie in the sun. I enjoy doing that kind of thing. Modesty is NOT one of my strong points.

I'll be in Key West about mid-day on Sunday and stay there until next Wednesday. Bejus, that's a long trip, but it's worth it. Key West is the ULTIMATE beach town. It should be fairly quiet this time of year (compared to Spring Break-- or at least as quiet as Key West EVER gets) and I know a couple of very nice internet cafes where I can blog. I'm taking my camera with me and I hope to post some interesting Key West pictures when I return home.

I won't be blogging tomorrow, but you'll hear from me when I reach Key West.

July 18, 2009


Originally PUBLISHED May 13, 2006

I don't enjoy having MY nipples played with. It's an unpleasant feeling for me.

A lot of wimmen seem to think that that's a highly-erotic thing to do, and I appreciate their sense of adventure, but I would just as soon have 'em stick a finger up my ass. And I don't like THAT, either (thanks to my urologist for making me entirely probed-out).

Still, if you wanna do either thing, go right ahead. If it's good for YOU, it's good for ME, too. I'm all for doing whatever YOU like in bed. (Just don't bitch to me about giving an enthusiastic blow-job after you've rammed a finger up my ass. If I allow you to have YOUR way with me, you should allow me to have MINE. It's only fair.)

But, I digress. I was gonna write about nipples here...

My first wife, the mother of my darlin' daughter, had BIG titties, with a set of nipples that resembled bitten-in-half Vienna sausages. But they had more style than substance, kinda like water balloons that just rolled around on her chest with large warts stuck on them. She was a good-lookin' woman, but a lousy lay.

Looking back now, I wonder why in the hell I ever married her in the first place. I think the fact that she threw away her birth control pills without telling me and then got pregnant had something to do with my decision. Bejus knows that I wouldn't have done it in my right mind.

My darlin' second ex-wife had GREAT nipples. (By the way... someone at the Austin blog-meet asked me NEVER to use the words "Bloodless Cunt" on my blog again, because she found it "offensive." Instead of telling her to go fuck herself, I agreed, so I stored that term on the shelf right next to the forbidden N-word, where they will NEVER be used again.)

My action doesn't take niggers persons of colour out of this world, nor does it keep my darlin' ex-wife from being a Bloodless Cunt, but if it makes even ONE PERSON feel better, I'm willing to do MY part... as soon as I get back on-topic about nipples.

Jennifer didn't have BIG titties, but she had exquisite nipples. Her boobs were a perfect fit for the palm of my hand--- any more would have been a waste--- and she was blessed with dark brown areoles about the size of a quarter, with nipples like .45 longs. They were very much an erogenous zone, too--- she demonstrated MANY times her ability to achieve orgasm JUST from having her nipples stimulated.

I LIKED playing with those things. She liked it when I did it, too.
I still miss those titties today.

But Dora possessed the All-Time Best Boobs I ever had the good fortune to enjoy. She was a genuine red-head, and her breasts were as white as new-fallen snow, with PINK nipples the size of Grand Cameroon cigar butts. She was a woman who didn't LOOK stacked until you saw them critters unleashed--- and then your jaw dropped in pure wonder.

Even today, YEARS after I last saw Dora, I think of HER when I think about excellent, beautiful titties. And I remember the time we made love on a sleeping bag in the wide open outdoors during a hailstorm on top of a mountain in North Carolina. THAT was uninhibited sex in the wild, and the next day I had bruises on my ass from hailstone licks to prove it.

In my journey through life, I have discovered something wonderful. No two titties are alike, even on the same woman.

And I love them all.

July 17, 2009

i wish

Originally PUBLISHED August 15, 2004

I wish I had somebody to sing to tonight. I broke out a guitar and I went searching through the memory banks for old songs that I played all alone here in the Crackerbox. "The First Time." "In the Morning When She Rise." "Long, Black Veil." "The Last Thing On My Mind."

I could have loved you better
didn't mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind

I like those old songs. I can still sing "Barbra Allen" and a lot of those mountain durges I learned as a child. I put on the finger-picks and did some nice guitar playing to four walls. I played "Ribbon of Darkness" and "Please Come To Boston." I played "Gentle on My Mind" and "Louise." I played "Sleepy-Eyed Boy." I have a pretty good baritone voice and I like to sing.

Where, oh where
Is my sleepy-eyed boy?

I just wish I had someone to sing to tonight. Just sit there on the couch and let me serenade you. You can cover your legs with a blanket and I won't mind. Go to sleep if you want to. Just listen for a while.

I want to sing.

July 16, 2009

mrs. robinson

Originally PUBLISHED August 15, 2004

I'm gonna say something that probably will piss some people off. But it won't be the first time I've done that and I don't expect it to be the last:

Men age better than wimmen do.

I'm sorry, but that's a fact. Men can get away with gray hair and wrinkles around their eyes. As long as they are half-way fit, with no huge beer bellies or sagging tits, men look RUGGED as they grow older. They exude character, wisdom and maturity. (They usually have MONEY, too.) Younger wimmen sometimes find those traits attractive.

Wimmen just grow old. Their titties droop, their hands resemble crab-claws and they get varicose veins. They don't look good in a bathing suit anymore. They grow wattles under their chins. Their asses either expand to tremendous porportions or shrink to withered shanks. They can't GIVE AWAY the pussy that young men once fought over.

I always wanted to bed an older woman when I was young. I had my chance when I was 27 years old and playing guitar at the Red Lion Lounge at the DeSoto Hilton in downtown Savannah. A teacher's convention was in town that weekend, and I met a woman from Nashville, Tennessee who really liked my music (or liked ME---I'm still not sure which.) She bought me a couple of drinks and I played every request she asked for. She was 45 years old.

I ended up in her room that night and she flat wore me out. BEJUS! That woman knew her way around a bed and she almost killed me. My Mrs. Robinson fantasy was everything I ever dreamed it would be and more. I caught her right at the peak of her sexual prowess and she caught me at the peak of mine. We damn near set that room on fire with the sparks we threw.

I remember taking a brief break that night and just studying her body. She had firm breasts and a tight belly. Her ass was to die for. She had a slight tracing of stretch marks, but they weren't obvious unless you looked closely. She was a very attractive older woman. She had almost no hair on her lower body except for a thick nether bush (that was before wimmen started doing bathing-suit cuts) that I found quite attractive. I grazed there for a long period of time and she had no objections whatsoever. I made her toes curl.

I left the next morning and never saw her again.

I'll bet she's an old woman now.

July 15, 2009

things you just do

Originally PUBLISHED September 01,2004

Some people, especially Democrats, don't look at life the same way I do. I've lived 52 years and I believe that I've gathered a modicum of wisdom in that time. I've seen fire and rain. I've seen life as it really is. Here are the lessons I've learned, the hard way.

* Nothing in this world is free.

* People you trust, and even LOVE, are capable of stabbing you in the back.

* The only thing in life that never goes away is a sense of family, if you have one.

* Hard work pays off.

* You're a victim ONLY if you allow yourself to be one.

* Government is NOT my friend.

* Money isn't everything.

* But being broke sucks.

* Everybody makes mistakes. A wise man learns from his mistakes and a fool repeats them.

* It's wonderful to be loved.

* It hurts like hell to be betrayed by someone you love.

* I get along with kids so well because I still remember what it was like to be one. That's a magical time in life.

* Santa Claus doesn't exist, but he should.

* Never stop dreaming. That's where great ideas come from.

Okay, that's it. My brain is full.

July 14, 2009

democrats can't govern

Originally PUBLISHED October 24,2004

After living more than half of 100 years, I believe that I have learned a few things about human nature. We have a lot of really shitty people in this world. These folks aren't shitty because of poverty, a lack of international coalitions or because WE are evil. They are just plain shitty people.

Democrats believe that we should "reach out" to shitty people. I don't. You're NEVER going to change a shitty person into a saint by groveling at his feet. If you do THAT, you just showed him that being shitty WORKS for him, and he'll be even MORE shitty after that.

Democrats seem to believe that if we all get together in a group-hug, sing "Kum-Ba-Yah" around a campfire and raise taxes, the world will be a better place. Their mindset is that there ARE no shitty people on the world... only people that we don't understand.

Oh, they'll vandalize Republican campaign headquarters and throw cream pies at Ann Coulter, but that's not shitty behavior, at least not to them. See... there ARE no shitty people in the world. And if you do really shitty things for THE CAUSE, it's not shitty anymore. It's just a natural reaction that any sane, logical person would take given the same circumstances (Yeah. I've been a vandal and pie-thrower all of my life). The shitty people take refuge in the excuse that the act was too deeply rooted in morality for most people to understand.

Democrats believe that we are stupid because we don't understand shitty people. We're not. THEY ARE. But they believe that behaving like a religious cult, forgiving shitty people for being shitty, and gazing at your own navel to understand why some people are shitty is a GOOD thing, for everybody. I don't.

July 13, 2009

if you haven't, you should

Originally PUBLISHED August 8th 2005

*1) Go crabbing. Catch a bunch of 'em, take them home, cook 'em and eat 'em.

*2) Make a Low Country Boil and eat it outside on a picnic table with your friends.

*3) Learn to throw a cast net.

*4) Do some target shooting with your buddies. Argue about who is the best shot. Sit around, bitch and cuss and clean the guns when you're finished shooting.

*5) Start a blog. It just might change your life.

*6) Take a kid fishing.

*7) Plant a garden. I'm not talking about a couple of tomato plants in pots. Till some ground. Work your fingers into it. Plant some stuff and watch it grow. Fight the bugs, the pests and the weather. Then pick your bounty when it's ripe and eat it all. That's the best food you'll ever taste.

*8) Hug your mama the next chance you have.

*9) Be loyal to your friends, but understand who they really are. I once thought I had a lot of friends. But as I grew older, I realized that I had a lot of aquaintences and very few friends. There's a big difference. Learn to tell them apart.

*10) Have at least ONE DAMN GOOD DOG in your life. A good dog is one critter who loves you unconditionally, who will obey your commands and give up his life for you out of pure loyalty. Any boy who never has one is missing something important. No fucking cat will ever do what a dog will. Cats are aristocrats. Dogs are good ole boys.

That's MY humble opinion.

July 12, 2009

The incredible, screaming toilet

Originally PUBLISHED June 2, 2006

I can't figure out what's going on here.

I was in Willingway Hospital for 38 days, and when I got back home, I needed to drain the old lizard, so I went to the "master bathroom," my own special sanctuary attached the the Master Bedroom, and I took a leak. Then, I flushed the commode.

HOLY BEJUS!!! The pipes inside the wall voiced this horrible, moaning sound that made me think of a she-elephant giving birth to a 500-pound baby elephant with full-grown tusks. "WHOA-OA-OA-OOOOO...BUMBUMBUM...SQUEEEECHSQUEECH!!! BUMBUMHEEEEE...THUMPATHUMPA!!!"

Damn! I thought the wall was about to explode. Once the noise simmered down, I flushed the commode again, and it did the SAME THING! "WHOA-OA-OA-OOOOH...BUMBUMBUM... SQUEECHSQUEECH...BUM! BUM! THUMPTHUMP...HISSSSSSS!!!"

When that problem first started, my daughter called me one night, and just for the hell of it, I said, "Hey, Sam. Listen to THIS and tell me what it is." I took the phone in the bathroom, I flushed the commode and I held the phone up while all the elephant-noises came bellowing from the wall.

When I put the phone back to my ear, I heard Sam laughing. "Daddy... what kind of animal are you KILLING in your house?" When I told her that I wasn't killing anything--- that my got-dam commode was making that noise, she said, "Daddy... did you ever think about moving out of there?"

I figured at first that I just had a bunch of air trapped in my pipes from lack of use and I would get rid of the problem if I just flushed the commode a few times... say maybe about 100 times, back-to-back, just as fast as the tank filled back up after each flush. I tried that and sure enough, the noise stopped.

But it didn't go away. Now, it's intermittent. Sometimes, the toilet flushes just the way it should, with no weird sound-effects afterward. But other times, it not only sounds like a she-elephant giving birth, but it's got a bull elephant in there screwing her, too.

WTF causes THAT???

I'll tell you one thing. When you wake up in the middle of the night needing to urinate and you've forgotten all about the horny elephants in your commode, you get a mighty rude awakening when you stumble to the bathroom, take a leak, flush and try to stumble back to bed only to hear that gawd-awful noise coming after you. At night. In the dark. When you're ALONE!!!

Just dayum! I'm surprised that one of my neighbors hasn't called the cops to report some kind of satanic ritual involving the sacrifice of live animals in my house. At night. In the dark. When I'm alone...

The commode works fine, and it doesn't make that screaming noise all the time with every flush. That's what lulls me into forgetting about it, so that it's always a hair-raising, surprise experience when it DOES happen anymore. The damn thing did it again just a few minutes ago. I almost jumped right out of my skin.

Do I have any plumbers who read me? Can YOU tell me how to fix that problem? It's not exactly life-threatening, but it surely is spooky.

And if I ever walk into that bathroom and discover a baby elephant on the floor, I don't know WHAT I'm gonna do. At night. In the dark. All by myself...

July 11, 2009

another recipe

Originally PUBLISHED September 21, 2003

It's still too hot in Southeast Georgia to be cooking chili, but I couldn't help myself. Here's My Recipe:

One 2-pound chuck roast
Some olive oil
Two softball-sized Vidalia onions
One green bell pepper
One red bell pepper
One gallon bag of the blanched and frozen tomatoes from my garden (a 28-oz. can of diced tomatoes will do, if you don't grow your own)
One 28-oz. can of purreed tomatoes
One 12-oz can of Guiness Stout
Two heaping tablespoons of ready-made minced garlic in olive oil, available at any Super Wal-Mart
One 3-oz container of Mexene Chili Powder
Five home-grown, diced jalapena peppers
One 5-oz toxic bottle of "Dat'l Do It" Habanero Gold hot sauce
One tablespoon of cumin
1/4 stick of real butter

Daub the roast with olive oil and roll it in the cumin and about 1/2 the tube of chili powder. Throw in some salt, pepper and worchestershire sauce just for the hell of it. Pack the mixture all over the roast. Slow-cook the roast in a crock pot until tender, where you can shred the meat into tiny strips with your fingers. Discard the fat and any gristle you find. Pour all the juice from the crock pot into a large standard kitchen pot. Set the burner on medium high.

Dice the Vidalia onions and the bell peppers. Melt the 1/4 stick of butter in the pot with all the meat-juice, then toss in the onions and peppers, plus two heaping tablespoons of minced garlic. Throw your head back and enjoy the aroma.

When the onions begin to brown slightly, add all the tomato stuff, bring to a boil, then turn the heat down and allow the mixture to simmer for about 30 minutes. Pour the 12-oz can of Guiness Stout into the mix as you add the jalapenas and carefully count FIVE DASHES of Habanero Gold hot sauce into the pot. DO NOT get carried away with this stuff. Five dashes are plenty, even in a BIG pot. Trust me.

Add the shredded meat and the rest of the Mexene chili powder (yeah, the whole tube). Keep the pot on a slow simmer until all your friends show up to enjoy the outcome. The longer it takes them to get there, the better the chili will be. Have plenty of beer and corn chips on hand. Keep the number of the local EMS handy in case the faint of heart can't handle this dish.

Put any leftovers in the refrigerator overnight, then freeze them in those individual plastic bowls with locking lids that you can buy at any grocery store. The chili actually GETS BETTER when it sits in the fridge overnight. You can eat for a week off this stuff.

I may not be a Texan, but I cook GOOD chili.

July 10, 2009

panther creek falls

Originally PUBLISHED September 8, 2005

I went back packing in the Cahutta Wilderness once, and I think we hiked the "Jack's River Trail." It was beautiful. All the leaves were in full fall color and blossoms from the mountain laurel tumbled like snowflakes around us as we walked.

We came to "Panther Creek Falls," where the trail headed steeply down the mountain. The falls were probably about 90' high and they kicked up a rainbow over the stream below. It was a pretty spectacular sight, but I didn't walk out on the cliff to look down because the rocks were all covered in wet moss that is as slick as snot.

I had busted my ass on that stuff before. I knew better.

When we got to the bottom of the falls, we stopped for a lunch break. I didn't eat anything. I dropped my pack, grabbed a bar of soap and started taking my clothes off.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Rob?" one of my companions asked.

"I'm gonna take a shower," I replied, and I waded butt-ass nekked out into the stream until I was UNDER that waterfall. HOLY BEJUS!!! The water was COLD. It beat on my head like a carpenter with a hammer. My codsack shrunk up to the size of a marble and my dick just totally disappeared.

But I soaped up and washed myself. After the initial shock, it felt pretty good, even though the air temperature was only about 55 degrees at the time. I just wish I had a shower head in my bathtub that is as good as spring-fed water falling 90' off a mountain. That'll damn nearly put knots on your head.

Nobody else in the group wanted to give it a try, but when I crawled out of there, toweled off and got dressed again, I was as warm as toast and I felt clean and refreshed.

That's the best shower I ever took in my life.

July 09, 2009

wearing nothing but a smile

Originally PUBLISHED October 10, 2004

I was a young rounder at the time, and I took a date to the beach at Tybee to watch a meteor shower. The meteor shower wasn't what the forecasters predicted, and we became bored, sitting in the sand dunes and swatting mosquitos. I decided to go swimming.

I shucked my clothes and ran nekkid into the sea. The water felt good. The night was moonless and nobody else was on the beach. My date was appalled at first, and I still remember her standing on the beach asking me what in the hell I thought I was doing. "I'm swimming," I replied. "Why don't you join me?"

A street light way back on Butler Avenue cast her in perfect silouette. "I don't have a bathing suit," she said.

I replied, "Sure you do. You can wear the same thing I'm wearing."

"You're not wearing ANYTHING!"

"Yeah. So what? That can be YOUR bathing suit, too."

I didn't believe that she would do it. I was amazed when I saw her look around for casual observers, find none, and strip off all her clothes. She stood there nekkid for a moment and asked me if the water was cold. I told her that the water was PERFECT.

She came in wearing nothing but a smile. That was better than ANY meteor shower I ever saw.

July 08, 2009

red-headed irish wimmen

Originally PUBLISHED July 21, 2005

In my younger days, I found blondes very attractive. But after I bedded a few, I learned a few facts about most "blondes."
#1) Most of them are dingy.

#2) They aren't that special in bed.

#3) Most of them have something in common with a 747 jetliner--- they have a black box.

As I grew older, I fell into the clutches of a few red-headed Irish wimmen. They changed my mind about blondes. Lemme tell you about THOSE lovely ladies:

#1) They have very fair skin, almost translucent in the right light. Usually, they have a lot of freckles, too, which THEY find embarassing but I always found sexy.

#2) They are slow to warm, but if you ever get the heater just right, they are complete wildcats in bed.

#2-A) They burn easily in the sun, so why in the hell would you want to take a red-headed Irish woman to the BEACH? Take her to the mountains and rent a place with a good, sturdy bed.

#3) They all have hollow legs. They can drink like fishes and still walk when you're lying under the table in a puddle of your own puke. Be forewarned about that trait. But they are so kind that they will drag you out to your car, pour you in, drive you home and put you to bed. And she's not angry at you in the morning, either.
About the only thing bad I can say about ANY of those wimmen is that they all had big feet.
I had my chance to keep a good 'un, but I fucked that up. That's one of the biggest regrets of my life. If I had that part of my life to live over again...
Well, I don't, so that's that. But sometimes it pains me to think about it.
I left that red-headed Irish woman for Jennifer.

July 07, 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.

July 06, 2009

organic farmers

Originally PUBLISHED July 23, 2005

For several years, I tilled and planted 1/2 acre of land, where I grew all kinds of crops. If you don't know how much land 1/2 an acre is, go pace it off some fine day. It's bigger than a fucking football field.

I collected chicken-shit, goat-shit and cow-shit--- PLUS some horse-shit to till into my land and I STILL had to buy fertilizer to make the crops grow right. I worked my ass off doing it, while I still held a full-time job at the chemical plant, but I enjoyed seeing that sandy piece of shit land produce beans, corn, squash, peppers, tomatoes, potatoes, zuchinni, and almost anything else I stuck into the ground.

I hoed, I pulled weeds and I fought every kind of crop-eating pest you can name. I want to know how many "organic" food-eaters ever did that?

NONE is my guess. Most of those fuckers think produce grows in a grocery store. I'm here to tell you that it DOESN'T! Why do you think I'm on a first-name basis with the owners of the Seed & Feed store? I FARMED, that's why.

If YOU haven't (and I don't call growing a few tomato plants in pots "farming") then just shut the fuck up about something you know nothing about.

And I was small time compared to the REAL farmers. They plowed HUNDREDS of acres, and I went to them for advice. They had little use for environmentalists or "organic" farmers, either. They FOUGHT the land and mother nature. That's how they made their living.

I call bullshit on anyone who hasn't done it and doesn't live around people who have been doing it for generations. Drink your bottled water, eat your organic carrots and kiss my Cracker ass.

Farming is some of the most difficult work a person can do.

July 05, 2009


Originally PUBLISHED July 5, 2004

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, Got-dammit, be careful.

July 04, 2009

early halt

Originally PUBLISHED July 5, 2004

My fireworks display last night was NOT up to its usual standards. I couldn't find my stainless-steel cannon with the 4" flange on the bottom, so I used a reinforced paper tube that came with the fireworks. The first two TNT rockets went off just fine and lit up the sky most impressively. I thought I was on a roll.

The third one, however, did something that I've never seen before. I don't know if the launching charge was a dud or if the thing got hung up sideways in the cannon, but instead of hearing that satisfying "WHUMP!" and watching the rocket fly into the sky, I heard a thud, a sizzle and that goddam bomb stuck its head just above the end of the tube and stayed there, throwing sparks.

I thought, "OH, SHIT!" and did a duck and cover move. That sumbitch exploded six feet away from me and sent shrapnel and burning gunpowder everywhere. It blew my launcher in half. The flash gave me a two-minute case of complete night blindness. The explosion made my ears ring for an hour. This weren't no lightweight charge I was firing.

I wasn't hurt, but I was very excited by the experience. So excited, in fact, that I had to go inside and check my pants for accidental stains. Luckily, no children were around. I did hear one neighbor yell, "Hey, Rob! Are you all right?" I told him that I was, but I didn't shoot any more fireworks after that.

That thing could have put my eye out.

July 03, 2009

things i learned on jeckyll island with my son

Originally PUBLISHED July 26, 2002

1) It's a beautiful place. You really don't want to leave when your time is up. You also can spend a lot of money really fast there.

2) Every restaurant has a chef in a big, white hat and his job is to drench everything you eat with exquistie, garlic-laden sauces. The food is delicious, and my son and I ate it all, then raced for the bathroom afterward to see who could make the loudest "barking fish" noises on the commode. Damn! That's good stuff, but four days of seafood will make you believe that a covey of quail is flying out of your ass every time you have to fart. I wouldn't recommend that experience to everybody I know. Only the really staunch can survive it.

3) The weather was perfect. We went and ate the breakfast buffet at around 9:00 in the morning, lounged around the pool for an hour or so, then went to the beach, which doesn't exist at high tide. The waves come all the way to the big granite breakwater (which didn't exist the last time I was on Jekyll Island), so you have to wait for the tide to ebb before the beach becomes visible. Once my son saw a foot of sand, we hit the Atlantic Ocean. We collected sand dollars and hermit crabs and sea shells and we built the most exotic sand castles on the strand. My son attempted to make friends with some of the yankee boys in their clown-like costumes (you know-- the water shoes, the fins and goggles with a shark's fin on top, the jiggling, white, jelly-bellies and the SWIMMING GLOVES, for crying out loud) and Quinton finally asked me, "What's WRONG with those guys?" He stood there knee-deep in the surf, barefoot and bare-backed, looking tanned, muscular and altogether comfortable as the waves broke around him. I told him, "They're YANKEES and they can't help being dorkles. They don't know any better. Just try to be nice to them." He did, but he learned the EARLY WARNING SIGNS of a yankee and identified them left and right from them on. "DADDY! LOOKY THERE! THAT'S YANKEE FOR SURE!" Uh, Huh. Water shoes, doofus water toys, snorkel, mask and a bad attitude. "Don't point," I told him. "That's bad manners."

4) We returned past the Tiki-Bar at around 5:00 every afternoon. I bought my son a cherry coke and a frozen marguarita for me. We went back to our room and waited for the evening fireworks, which happened on schedule every day. Around 6:00, thunder, lightning and cosmic rainfall fell from the sky for about two hours, then we went out to eat. We did rent three movies that we watched during the rainstorms. The Scorpion King is one of those entirely witless, highly-entertaining movies you really want to watch during an early-evening thunderstorm. I LOVED IT. Bwhahahaha! I insisted on watching Blackhawk Down because I read the book, and the movie was excellent, except for the fact that Quinton couldn't keep track of all the characters and kept asking me pestering questions all the way through it. I shut him up when I told him that he was acting like a YANKEE! I made a mistake last night by renting Blade II which was a shitty movie filled with more fucking F-words than the fucking law should allow, and I didn't like all the fucking dialogue, which was mainly, "Fuck you!" "Oh, yeah? Fuck YOU, TOO!" My son didn't like it either, and asked me, "Why does everybody have a potty mouth in this movie?" I said, "They're yankees. They can't help it."

5) My son wants to start his own blog. He wants to tell scary stories on it. I think it's a great idea.

July 02, 2009

spanish lessons

Originally PUBLISHED July 17, 2004

It's a three-hour drive from San Jose to Jaco Beach. My driver today was Jose, who is the fellow who picked me up at the airport on my first vist to Costa Rice. Jose speaks pretty good English, but when I saw him in the hotel lobby, I spoke nothing but my pidgin Spanish to him until we were well on the road. He told me that I had gotten much better at espanol than I was the first time he met me.

I told him... Yo hablo espanol porque quiero ser major como su lingua. That was supposed to mean, "I speak Spanish because I want to be better with your language." I don't know if I said what I meant, but he understood me. "Bueno," he replied.

I took a Spanish lesson for the next three hours and it was a good one. I also gave him English lessons, too. I now know that a racoon is a mapache in Spanish. I also know the difference between a calle and an now. A camino is what we call a trail, or a dirt road, in English.

I learned a lot of other words, but my favorite part of the trip came when we passed a couple of typically good-looking Costa Rican wimmen walking down the road. "Dios mio, I said. "Muchas chicas bonitas aqui, todas con grande tetis."

Jose asked me, "Como se dice in English 'tetis'?

I said, and I am quoting to the best of my recollection: "Breasts is the polite word. But usually, hombres call them Boobs, Jugs, Tits, Nay-Nays, Melons, Ta-Tas, Bazongas, Headlights, a Rack..." and Jose stopped me there.

"Iraq?" he asked, appearing very puzzled. I had to explain that I didn't say "Iraq;" I said A RACK, as in a rack of lamb or a deer with big antlers. He nodded his head, then gave me about a dozen Spanish words for the same anatomical appendage. Then, he pointed to his groinal area. "Como se dice in English 'peni'?"

I said, "Penis is the polite word. But Dick, Cock, Pecker, Meat, One-Eyed Monk, Trouser Snake, Tube Steak, Roscoe..." and Jose cut me off again. "Roscoe?" he asked. I told him to forget about that one because that was the name I gave my personal anatomical appendage. He grinned. Then, he gave me about a dozen Spanish words for the same thing.

We discussed a woman's... vagina... with the same results. We both could come up with ABOUT A DOZEN WORDS to say the same thing. Isn't that an interesting thing about language? A bird is a bird, no matter what language you speak. But tits, cocks and pussies have dozens of names, and I'll bet that's true all over the world.

Not much of a post, but the discussion sure made the time fly.

July 01, 2009

three years---tres anos

Originally PUBLISHED July 18, 2004

I did something last night that I haven't done in a long time--- three years, in fact. I slept like a rock for ten straight hours. I left the windows open on my bedroom and fell asleep to the sound of the surf rolling onto the beach. I believe that the sound rocked me like a baby in a cradle.

I awoke this morning to a beautiful sunlit day. I took a shower, walked down to the tiki restaurant at the hotel and had a fine breakfast of eggs, pancakes, rice and black beans and fresh fruit. I actually woke up HUNGRY for a change.

I went back to my room and watched the final round of the British Open, which was a thriller if you like golf the way I do. Watching that tournament made me remember something that I'll get to in a minute.

After Todd Harrison beat Ernie Els in a playoff, I switched off the television, donned a bathing suit and challenged the Pacific Ocean to a fight. I got my Cracker ass whipped. I thought the surf was something at Tamarindo, but it's pussy stuff compared to Jaco. I got a full body massage from waves that knocked me ass over teakettle more than once. It was fun, but about 30 minutes of that beating was all I could stand.

I went back to the beach, stretched out on a towel and read for a while, until the incoming tide threatened to wash me away. I packed up my stuff and went back to the tiki restaurant, where I had Chef Isadora cook me a hamburgosa grande, with papas fritas and a cold cervesa. Man, that was good.

After I ate, I went back to my room for a brief siesta on my luxurious, king-sized bed. I napped a while, took another shower and went to lounge around the pool, just to check the wimmen in bathing suits scenery. The scenery was very nice.

Three years ago, during the last round of the British Open, I was in a seedy motel room with $60 to my name. My wife, who I loved with all my heart, had just told me that she wanted a divorce and I truly believed that my life was shattered. I KNOW what heartbreak feels like. I had a wild animal caged in my chest that was trying to claw its way out. The pain was more than I thought I could stand. I wanted to die.

So, I tried to kill myself, and I did a pretty good job of it, except for one small detail: I didn't die.

After the British Open concluded this morning, I walked outside in my bathing suit, a towel draped over my shoulder and a book in my hand. I gazed at the Pacific Ocean. Bejus, but it was beautiful. I thought, "I'm glad that I didn't die when I wanted to. I would have missed this."

Three years--- tres anos--- a lot can change during that time. It hasn't been an easy road to travel and that bloodless cunt Jennifer keeps fucking with me every chance she gets, but the worst is over. I can handle whatever happens next. All she can do now is go after my money and deprive me of my son. That sucks, but it's not a wild animal in my chest trying to claw its way out. Life has been rough for the past three years, and it's not going to be a picnic for a while longer.

But for right now.... it sure is nice at Jaco Beach.