Gut Rumbles

July 28, 2010


Originally published October 6, 2002

I live out in the country in Effingham County, Georgia. I am surrounded by crop land, cow pastures, dumpster-farms, roadkill and dogshit. It is a veritable housefly heaven. But if I leave my front foor open for five seconds, every housefly in the state abandons the outdoor paradise to invade MY ABODE! Then, the silly bastards knock their brains out by banging against the windows in a futile attempt to get BACK OUTSIDE! Fucking idiots.

I have a Martha Stewart flyswatter. It is green, and it matches my curtains and the lampshades in the living room. It is a very efficient smasher of flies, and I killed eight today, after Quinton and young Jack left the front door open when they ran outside. I kid you not: the door was open for no longer than FIVE SECONDS. A squadron of flies entered before I could close the door. I killed eight of them, so far. I have at least two more fat, bloated, disease-carrying, multiple-eyed, shit-dippers still buzzing around the house.

I am on the hunt. I got the dumb ones first. I have only the smartest flies remaining. But if they were REALLY smart, they never would have flown into my home in the first place. Dumbasses.

They will die.

July 21, 2010

Blind date

Originally published October 13, 2002

I went down to Weisenbaker's Bar yesterday to watch the Dawgs on a big-screen TV and eat dead, burnt beef while young waitresses with red toenails provided me with frozen mugs full of beer. I don't drink beer often anymore, but the Killian's Red was delicious, especially when the bar was not crowded and the Dawgs kicked Tennessee's ass while I cheered and barked as if I were on the 50 yard-line at Sanford Stadium. One of the waitresses, named "Nichole," was very attentive and mentioned that her mama has been divorced for a year and NEVER goes out, and I am "perfect" for her, being the handsome and charming "older" man that I am. She gave me her MAMA'S PHONE NUMBER, too. Mama is named "Lisa."

I called Lisa last night and got an answering machine, so I left a message saying that I would call back. I didn't have to. She called ME back. I may have dinner with her AND Nichole tonight, just to prove that I'm not a crazed rapist and a sexual deviant. (I am NOT a crazed rapist... just crazed.) Lisa lives about two miles away, and I hope to meet her this evening.

We'll see...

I've never had a daughter set me up with her mama before. Is that strange?

July 14, 2010


Originally published October 14, 2002

It's still dark outside, and I have most of my travelling stuff piled in the living room floor. A cold front is moving in today, and the temperature is supposed to be in the low 30s in North Georgia tonight. Good fireplace and campfire weather, but maybe not so good for sitting on the deck of the cabin and playing my guitar to the trees. Or playing that mountain golf course in Blairsville, either, but I'm taking my beloved Martin AND my sometimes-beloved King Cobras with me. I can always play guitar INSIDE the cabin, and if I don't touch the golf clubs, it won't be anything different from the last year and a half.

I've also decided to come back home next Friday. That way, I don't have to work out a change in my son's visitation with the despised ex-wife, and I'll have some time before I go back to work to complete at least some of the 500 things I should have done already but didn't. Besides, I'll probably be suffering the DTs of serious blog-withdrawal by then.

I'm kinda looking forward to the drive up there. I know all the back-roads and shortcuts between here and Athens (thanks to my days as a student at The University of Georgia) and I want to see if I can get from here to Blood Mountain in five hours. Unencumbered by a wife and a child, I won't have to stop for food (twice) and bathrooms (every 50 miles), so I believe that I can make the trip in a blue streak, as long as I avoid detection and detention by any local constabulary I encounter along the way.

I believe that speed limits are fungible rules, to be obeyed only if you have a good chance of being caught violating them. So, I drive fast. I intend to do that again today.

And I'll be back Friday evening, if all goes well.

July 07, 2010


Originally published October 19, 2002

I really don't understand why I do a lot of the things I do. I picked up my son yesterday and was notified by the BC that Quinton had 1) a soccer game at 8:00 in the morning all the way over in southside Savannah, then 2) a car wash at the Sonic drive-in in Rincon from 11:00 until 1:00.

I had a few objections to this schedule.

First of all, I cut my vacation short and paid for a cabin that I left two days early to be with my son this weekend. Had I known he was so heavily booked on his social calender, I may have reconsidered that choice. It would have been nice to know before 6:00 on Friday, when I picked him up.

Second, who in the hell except an overbearing Soccer Mom, who does this shit a lot more for HER personal gratification than my son's, has him scheduled to play soccer at sunrise forty miles away from home, then wash cars in 50-degree weather TWO miles away from home when the game is over? That's batshit planning to me. And it's also batshit thinking. Eight year-olds don't need to be washing cars in this kind of weather. I started to ask, "How much money do they expect to raise at this all-important car wash? If I write 'em a fucking check for that amount, plus fifty dollars, can I keep Quinton today?" It's MY SATURDAY with him.

Third, I see my son every other weekend, from 6:00 on Friday evening until 6:00 on Sunday evening. The BC has him THE REST OF HIS LIFE and I don't appreciate her booking MY weekend with shit SHE wants him to do. I took him to the soccer game this morning, at 8:00 so that he could warm up before the face-off, kick-off or whatever the hell they call the start of a soccer game at 8:30. She arrived 30 seconds before the beginning of the game and was one hell of a show all by herself. I didn't know she was there until I heard her holding court from a lawn chair ten yards away. The men gathered around like flies on shit (and YES, that is a PERFECT analogy) as the other Soccer Moms stared in abject adoration at the Queen of Them All. The game was a sideshow that really deflected the spotlight from her.

I didn't receive so much as a how-de-do, and I wanted to puke. While I'm standing there tasting food I ate three days ago on Blood Mountain, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw the only person in the world I despise more than the Bloodless Cunt. "How are you doing, Rob," said Joe Thompson, the most worthless, scheming, ass-kissing, loogie-stain of a person I've EVER met in my life. He stuck out his hand to me. I kept my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

"I wasn't doing worth a shit, then I saw you. The day just got worse."

So, I left. I elbowed my way through her throngs of fans to reach the Soccer Goddess and told her, "I'm outta here. When Quinton is finished with the grand multiple-county tour you have planned for him today, you can bring him back to my house or not. But if his "schedule" on MY WEEKENDS has any more shit like today on it, notify the coach, the car-washers and EVERYBODY ELSE involved that he won't be there."

I am certain that she can explain to her adoring fans what a total asshole I am, without mentioning the unemployed dope-smoker and the other downright sleazy things she has done to me. That's fine. But she needs to get her greasy fingers out of my son's head and stop manipulating that boy for her own aggrandizement. My son didn't want to play soccer this morning. He warmed the bench for all but about two minutes while I was there, and he DAMNED SURELY didn't want to wash cars after the game. SHE wanted that.

Now, I don't know if he'll be back here today or not. That depends on her mood, I suppose. But I know one thing.

I'll never have to ask that question again.