April 30, 2010
Originally published October 22, 2002
I bought a case of wine from the Habersham Winery Taste Shop when I was in Dahlonega. I found that place about six years ago and I go there every time I'm in North Georgia. I didn't know Georgia MADE wine, other than the home-made scuppernog kind. But the Habersham Winery takes its job seriously and makes some fine stuff. Plus, they offered a 15% discount if I bought 12 bottles.
I like the little old ladies who run the shop. I can taste all the wine I want (the sign over the counter says "four samples maximum," but I work my charm and the sign doesn't matter anymore. If you buy the first two you try (I know what I'm looking for anyway), just say, "I have a friend who likes the darker wines. Could I try a couple of those?" and here come more samples, with a little bowl of crackers to cleanse the pallate in between. Buy those and they'll hit you with the 15% discount for a case. You say, "I don't know....I've had my four samples....but I really would like to taste THAT ONE." The rules go out the window.
When we left the place with my case of wine, Recondo 32 said, "Smith, you are a SLUT!" He had witnessed my performance. I just grinned.
I really believe that SISOFLEXX should go there and sample the wine, since she lives so close by. And I think that DAX MONTANNA should take his wife there and maybe charm his way out of the doghouse.
Tell 'em Rob sent you. They LOVE ME there.
April 21, 2010
Originally published October 24, 2002
Oh well. I managed to save this:
Hilarious Dear Abby Letter
When I got to her place we reviewed the list and trimmed it down to just under a hundred ... then she floored me.
She said that in a month I would be a married man and that before that happened, she wanted to have sex with me. Then she just stood up and walked to her bedroom and on her way said that I knew where the front door was if I wanted to leave.
I stood there for about five minutes and finally decided that I knew exactly how to deal with this situation. I headed straight out the
There, leaning against my car was her husband, my father-in-law to be. He was smiling. He explained that they just wanted to be sure I was a good kid and would be true to their little girl. I shook his hand and he congratulated me on passing their little test.
Abby, should I tell my fiancee' what her parents did, and that I thought their "little test" was asinine and insulting to my character?
Or should I keep the whole thing to myself including the fact that the reason I was walking out to my car was to get a condom?
April 14, 2010
Originally published October 25, 2002
I have the duty this weekend, which means I have to haul my Cracker ass out to the plant for the next two days to do all the production reports and keep all the bigwigs informed about problems, injuries, environmental incidents and such. Along with the company-supplied cell phone they gave me a week ago, I also get to wear the BEEPER OF THE GODS for the weekend. Essentially, I am on call 24-7 until Monday morning.
I've always thought weekend duty was a crock. The bigwigs all have laptops that they take home with them on the weekends, and all production status is entered into the computer at work before 7:00 AM every day. If the bigwigs were THAT curious about what was going on in their absence (the place usually runs better when they aren't around), they could plug into the network and check it out over their morning coffee. But that would require them to access reports from the individual areas and that's a waste of valuable bigwig time. So, peons such as I go to the plant, collate the different reports onto one form and email the form to the bigwigs. That's essentially what weekend duty amounts to.
I work in the Finishing area. If an area other than Finishing has a problem, I'll get a call about it, but they might as well speak Farsi over the phone for all the good I can do them. I am not about to give advice and make decisions when I don't have a clue what they're talking about. "What do you usually do when this happens?" I ask. They tell me. "Okay, try THAT again," I suggest. If that doesn't work, I tell them to call THEIR coordinator at home and ask HIM what to do. When I DON'T have the weekend duty I get calls about Finishing problems, because people from the other areas don't know any more about my area than I know about theirs. It's silly.
But I'll be there in the morning...
April 07, 2010
Originally published October 25, 2002
I also had my physical at work today. Yeah, they lassoed the Cracker and dragged him kicking and screaming to Medical for my yearly once-over.
2) My eyesight at distance is (right) 20-15 and (left) 20-18, with a combined 20-15 score. Yes, I am eagle-eyed. My up-close eyesight was 20-umpteen-gazillion, even with my Wal-Mart reading glasses. The nurse suggested that I go see an eye doctor. I told her I might go to Wal-Mart and upgrade to more intense magnification lenses off the $6.00 eyeglass tree.
3) My lung-capacity test put me in the top 5% of men in my age group. The nurse was amazed. "You smoke, don't you?" she asked. "All I can, whenever I can," I replied. "You really ought to quit," she said. "You have excellent lungs." I didn't tell her that I was not surprised, because I am WIND.
4) My blood pressure was 120 over 70. Resting heart rate: 72. Must be all that wine I drink.
5) My bloodwork was excellent, and the PSA is still zero. Good. Cholesterol is 180.
6) My EKG was fucked up. The nurse was concerned. "You've had a big change in your EKG from last year to this year. There's a lot of noise in this one, but a couple of places on this chart suggest that parts of your heart may not be getting adequate blood flow. That's a big change for just a year. Do you want me to make a copy of this for your doctor?" I told her, "Calibrate your machine." Fuck! The way MY heart got stomped last year, the sumbitch OUGHTA be sucking wind. It oughta make a noise like a car going down the road on a flat tire. Not LUB-dub, but WHOMPTA-WHOMPTA. When I get out of bed in the morning, I keep expecting my ass to fall off and make a noise like a hubcap hitting pavement: CLINGALINGALINGALING! Piss on that EKG.
So, I will live forever, unless something kills me first. OSHA has their hearing and breathing data that they require, and I am free to work the weekend duty.
And I stick to my original fatalistic philosophy: on the day you were born, you exited your mama's womb with an expiration date stamped on your ass, just like a gallon of milk. You can't see it, but it's there. You can't change it.
And I don't want to.
All content © Rob Smith