Saturday, December 29, 2001

Okay, I made and consumed the coffee and the lumberjack breakfast, washed all the dishes, finished the laundry, made my bed, vacuumed the carpet, paid all my bills and THEN made myself a large Bloody Mary. It's almost one o'clock now. A friend of mine from South Carolina called last night and said he would come visit this morning as soon as he "woke up and took a shower." I guess he's burning some serious daylight or else he died of a massive heart attack in his sleep because I have not seen or heard from him yet.

I told him about my injection erector-set I got from the doctor and he said that he might like to try it himself. Not ON himself, mind you, but he would be willing to poke ME with the needle. I told him I appreciated his sense of charity but that I would pass on his offer and he could go piss up a rope. I think I'm gonna pass on buying a hot tub and purchase a stun-gun instead. If he shows up today, I'll try THAT out on him.
The real reason the bed-wetting, butthole, couldn't-get-laid with a $100 bill wrapped around his wanger hacker really screwed me up on Christmas day is the fact that I can't get my e-mail system to work properly and I am too stubborn to call the help-line and ask for advice. Therefore, I can't find the new, altered, adulterated or deleted password to open my original Blogger site. Perhaps that's just as well. I wrote some stuff in there that I'm not sure I want a lot of people to read, although I had 179 hits on it as of this morning and it's only a week old. Only a few people know how to get there, and even though they are good friends, I don't believe they visited the site that many times.

I may mention my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife a lot, but I'll leave all the stuff about my bank robberies, dope-smugglings, child-molestations, bribings of judges and congressmen, phony land deals and serial killings out of what I write here. That stuff could get me in serious trouble.

I made up my mind about what to do this morning. I opted for coffee and a lumberjack breakfast instead of the large Bloody Mary to start my day. I think I may go buy a hot tub.
At least I put last night to good use. I watched my beloved Georgia Bulldogs receive a disgusting ass-whipping from Boston College in the Music City Bowl, did my laundry, opened this blog site, stayed up late drinking wine and slept on the sofa. I woke up looking and feeling like Fido's ass. Now I don't know whether to make a pot of coffee and a lumberjack breakfast or just fix a very large Bloody Mary and waste this entire day.

Maybe I'll do both and finish cleaning my brand-new crackerbox house, except for my son's room, where it appears a daisycutter bomb went off, scattering GI Joes, plastic army men, assorted military equipment and one dirty sock all over the place. No, I'll just keep the door closed to that room and save the mess for the next time he visits so he can clean it up.

Maybe I'll break out my new collection of hypodermic needles and the magic elixer and give myself a crank injection. No, not the drug "crank," but an injection IN my crank. It's a long story, partially told below.

Before my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife started screwing her unemployed, dope-smoking lover and divorced me, I had a 3,200 square foot home on five acres of land, with four goats, 28 chickens, 3 dogs, 2 cats, and a half-acre garden. It was a genuine country estate, located more than a mile down a dirt road off Highway 30. I loved it there, not only because I could tend my animals, collect fresh eggs every day and pretend to be a farmer, but also because I could piss off my back porch any time I wanted to without worrying about being seen. Of course, I sometimes do that now, and even though I don't WORRY about being seen, I probably am.

I really liked my goats. I started out with two, Billy and Opie. I kept them in my fenced, two-acre North Forty out back, where they made great lawn mowers, keeping the prolific bermuda grass in the pasture neatly trimmed and providing entertainment in the evening when they would butt heads and attempt to hump each other in spite of the fact that they were both males.

The people who owned the house before me had kept horses back there and they (the horses) had torn a lot of holes in the fence. In the first spring I lived there, this presented a problem when a female goat down the street went into heat and I discovered that Opie should have been named "Houdini" for his ability to find escape routes in his quest to run down the street and service the available and willing "Elvira," a complete slut of a goat that now reminds me of my ex-wife. Every time I discovered him missing, I would drive my truck down to Bob and Sue's, find Opie in their goat pen, catch the horny bastard and have Sue drive me back home while I pinned Opie down in the bed of my truck until I could put him back in the pasture. I kept patching the fence and Opie kept escaping.

Finally, when Sue called one more day to announce, "He's Baaaaaak!" I had had enough. I went to Choo Choo's building supply store and bought enough fence to redo the entire area that the horses had damaged. When I started hanging the new fence, Billy stood by watching, munching bermuda grass and seeming only vaguely interested in what I was doing. I was mumbling to myself about how this would fix that rotten Cool Hand Luke once and for all and I would never have to go rope and wrestle his smelly ass back home again. When my big dog, Bud, walked up beside me, I didn't think twice about it. In fact, I believe I started telling him about how I was going to make it impossible for Opie to break out, run down the street and get laid again.

Then I heard "baaaaa." I looked over the new fence I was hanging and saw Billy on the other side, giving me the closest thing to a goat-grin I had ever seen. I dropped my hammer and said, "Whoa. You stay right there. I've got something nice for you." I ran to the barn, poured some goat feed into a bucket and ran back, hoping to lure the wandering goat back home. By then, however, he was nowhere to be seen. That's when I realized that Bud, being smart and powerful enough to unlatch the gate with his nose, had done exactly that when he came to see what I was doing. He also left the gate wide open behind him. Although Billy never crawled through holes in the fence that were barely larger than his head the way Opie did, he couldn't resist the sight of the open gate, where he could stroll to freedom with no effort whatsoever. Now I had two escapees to capture.

I finished hanging the fence before I went goat hunting. Opie, of course, was looking spent and satisfied, smoking a cigarette, barely able to keep his eyes open in Sue's goat pen. The slut-goat Elvira was asleep in the hay. But Billy was nowhere to be found. I captured Opie and took him home, which didn't take long because I was having so much practice at it. Then I drove around on a Billy-hunt and couldn't find him anywhere. I finally gave up.

About an hour later, I heard a knock on the front door and answered it to discover a teenaged boy that I didn't recognize. "Mister, are you missing a big, white goat?" he asked.

"Umm... that depends," I answered. "What did he do?"

"He's down at my house eating grass with our horses. Miss Sue said she thinks he belongs to you."

I confessed that the big, white goat was probably my missing Billy and that I would go retrieve him directly. I saw my neighbor, Cathy, an experienced goat-roper herself out in her yard, so I stopped and persuaded her to drive my truck back home after I captured the wandering Billy. We went together on the goat-quest.

Sure, enough, Billy was munching grass with the horses at the teenager's house. I still had my bucket of goat feed, so I first attempted to lure the hammer-headed creature to the truck by waving food under his nose. He preferred to eat grass with the horses. Then I decided to get physical. I would simply catch him unaware, snatch all four legs off the ground and carry him, bleating and grunting, back to my truck. It always worked on Opie, so I knew I could do it.

One factor I left out of my carefully calculated equation was the fact that Billy was at least half-again larger, heavier and meaner than Opie. When I attempted to wrap one arm around his neck and the other arm around his smelly ass and lift him off the ground, he didn't lift. He took off running. I found myself hanging on to a running goat by one arm around his neck while I was being dragged like a ragdoll along the ground, through a muddy ditch, and back onto some grass. I thunk a brilliant thought then: I'll grab one of his back legs and trip him up! So, I did, which threw him down on his side with all four cloven-hooved legs pointed right at me as I lay beside him. He proceeded to kick me with an action much like the bobbin on a sewing machine. As I am getting the upper hand by crawling on top of him to stop those painful leg-kicks, he commences to piss like a racehorse all over us both. Then he jerks his head up suddenly and gives me a head-butt right between the eyes with that Klingon forehead of his.

I am seeing stars, I believe I have some broken ribs and I know I have goat-piss soaking my clothes. But by then, I have an audience of about a dozen people, including several children who know me and who shout "Get him, Mr. Rob! Get him!" while the adults piss all over themselves laughing at me. I finally get a rope around his neck and wear him out just before I expire from exhaustion, pain, shame and humiliation. I wrestle the nasty bastard into the bed of my truck with the help (better late than never) of the teenaged boy who alerted me of my goat's location. I return Billy to the fenced North Forty, where he resumes his duty of eating grass as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred that day.

I went to the kitchen table and fixed myself a strong drink. Cathy had one, too, laughing and pinching her nose shut while she described the manly scent, at least for a goat, that surrounded me like a cloud. I had mud and goat-piss all over me and my left eye was swelling closed and turning black from the vicious head-butt I had received from that Klingon skull. When my slut of an ex-wife came home (of course, that was before the adultery, the unemployed dope-smoker lover and the divorce, so she was still my darling then) she took one look at me and said, "My God! What happened to you?"

"You oughta see the other guy," I replied.

Friday, December 28, 2001

I live in the teeming metropolis of Rincon, Ga., which you can find on a Rand-McNally Road Atlas if you have a powerful microscope and follow Highway 21 north of Savannah. I feel very safe here. We are protected from Osama bin Bombed by Parris Island to the north, Hunter Army Air Field to the east and Fort Stuart to the south, with the Mighty Eighth Air Force Museum in Pooler, Ga. guarding our southeastern flank. We're accustomed to seeing people in military uniforms around here and we like them.

That's why I never joined the chorus of hand-wringers and doom-sayers who condemned our most excellent adventure in Afghanistan. They spoke of "quagmires" and warned of the prowess of Afghan "warriors" who have been fighting the invader of the day or each other for centuries. I thought to myself that if these "warriors" were that good, then somebody would have been victorious by now and the silly bastards wouldn't be involved in a neverending war.

Besides, these hand-wringers and doom-sayers don't go to the St. Patrick's Day parade in Savannah.

We don't have warriors in this country. We produce soldiers. I've seen them march in the parade, and you hear them coming long before you see them. Their marching pounds out the sound of one giant boot rattling the pavement beneath your feet. Then, the Rangers or the Marines turn the corner of some historic Savannah square and you see them, appearing young, strong, well-fed and dangerous. A bunch of well-trained, steely-eyed and finely-honed fighting machines is the impression I get when I see them. No barefoot, starving, turban-clad semi-troglodyte stands a chance against these guys, no matter what kind of "warrior" culture he comes from. THESE ARE BAD DUDES!

Forget the fact that we possess the kind of weaponry that was suggested only in science fiction novels twenty years ago. We have soldiers, too.

If I were a crazed Arab determined to be a martyr for Allah, these are exactly the guys I would want to meet on a battlefield. Those 72 virgins won't be far away. If I had a lick of sense in my head, I would do what much of the Taliban "leadership" has done, which is throw down my gun and attempt to sneak, bribe or ass-kiss my way into Pakistan or any other "stan" in the immediate area that would take me. I wouldn't want to fight with US soldiers.

Osama bin running. Osama bin hiding. Osama bin fucked.
I really want to congratulate the human septic tank who hacked Blogger on Christmas day and destroyed my ability to access my previous blog-site. I sincerely hope the pimple-faced geek with the shit-stained drawers is proud of himself as he sleeps on the rubber sheets his bedwetting requires him to use. I hope his dick falls off.
I really want to congratulate the human septic tank who hacked Blogger on Christmas day and destroyed my ability to access my previous blog-site. I sincerely hope the pimply-faced geek with the shit-stained underwear is proud of himself. I hope he pisses his bed tonight. I hope his dick falls off.
Speaking of somebody's dick falling off, mine may as well have after I had my prostate removed in October, the very day my divorce from my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife became final. Last Tuesday made 11 weeks since the surgery was performed and I am yet to feel anything even remotely resembling a stirring of that once proud warrior that now dangles uselessly between my legs. I am 49 years old. I really don't want to be finished with sampling the delights of the feminine anatomy forever.

A week ago, I went back to visit my urologist and received an injection that gave me a mighty, throbbing erection that lasted almost two hours. Unfortunately, the mighty, throbbling erection was the most painful experience I have encountered in recent memory and I was more than glad to see it go away. But they all, the nurse that administered the shot, the doctor who operated on me and a few curious bystanders, including a guy with a mop who resembled a janitor who just stopped by to watch the festivities, told me that this therapy was essential to me making a full recovery from prostate cancer and rehabilitating my equipment, so I went back for a second treatment yesterday.

I was poked in my wanger with a hypodermic needle for the second time in my life. This time, I did the poking.

Yes, I sat there on a table with my pants around my ankles. I listened to the nurse as she grabbed my wanger in a gloved hand and said, "Here, I have a penis. I grab it just so. Not like this (twist), and not like this (turn), but like this (yank). Now, you try it." I grabbed and yanked.

"That's right," she affirmed.

Then she showed me how to load the needle with just the right amount of magic elixer, how to push the bubbles out of the syringe and where to inject the potion. Every fiber of my being screamed that I should throw the needle on the floor, snatch my pants back up around my waist and run screaming from the room. But I didn't. I had the needle in one hand and my wanger in the other and I yanked just the way I had been taught. Then I looked at the needle. I looked at my yanked wanger. I went: one, two, I took a deep breath. I went: I'm gonna do it now! But my stabbing hand didn't move. Then, I pretended I was giving a shot to someone else. That wasn't MY wanger, it belonged to a dear friend who would surely die if I didn't administer this essential antitoxin to counteract the poison now coursing through his veins. But that didn't work, either. I still couldn't make myself plunge the needle into myself, at least not where it was supposed to go.

Finally, I yelled "FUCK!" and stabbed. I don't know why that word spurred me to perform the nasty deed, but it did. Perhaps, that's the language I would use on the battlefield if I ever had to plunge my bayonet into the chest of an enemy soldier. Perhaps, "FUCK!" was what I was hoping my poor, stretched wanger would be able to do after the shot. I still don't know why I said it, or why it worked, but it did. I stabbed, I injected, I conquered.

The nurse gave me only one criticism on my technique, which was that I pulled back a little bit on the neddle when it was inserted. I should keep it pressed firmly inward until the dose was done. By then, I had the needle out and the dose in, so I just nodded sagely, as if I had absorbed this advice totally.

Then I waited for it to take effect. The nurse handed me a paper blanket to cover myself with, which I thought was absolutely ridiculous because I had been sitting on the table with my wherewithall exposed for fifteen minutes by then, including the gloved-hand twist-turn-and-yank demonstrations that were very personal. Why anyone would believe that after that sort of experience, I would have a suddent burst of modesty is beyond my comprehension. But I covered myself and waited for an erection to occur. I distinctly noticed the slight feeling of dizziness and a sort of hot flash the first shot the week before had given me.

"Do I need to play with myself like before?" I asked.

"Not this time," the nurse answered. "That was distilled water you just injected."

I wanted to choke her to death. I had gone through all that agony, self-doubt and courageous perseverance to inject myself with DISTILLED WATER? And I wasn't even going to get a hard-on out of it? I was pissed.

But at least this time I didn't have to drive home with an extremely painful woody crammed into my pants while wondering the entire time how long the damned thing would last. No, this time I stopped by the drugstore, filled my prescription for Viagra and bought 15 hypodermic needles. 15 shots is what I am supposed to get from the tiny vial of miracle-drug they sold me at the doctor's office for $100.

At that cost per dose, I don't think I'm going to war with Afghanistan to choke the one-eyed cleric. In fact, I may not try it unless the Swedish Bikini Team comes by my house in a total state of nymphomania.

But I've got it, just in case I change my mind.

Today is my son's eighth birthday. This also was my weekend for visitation, according to that very expensive divorce decree I have in my possession. But my son is not here. I have presents and all sorts of nifty things for him, but he won't see any of it because my disgusting slut of an ex-wife is in the north Georgia mountains shacking up in a cabin with her unemployed, dope-smoking, piece of shit lover, along with my son, who she kidnapped as far as I am concerned. I became aware of this fact when I arrived home from work at 5:30 this evening and checked the messages on my answering machine.

I should be accustomed to this sort of treatment by now, because it has been the rule for the past five months, which is exactly how long it took her to commit adultry, beg forgiveness, change her mind, ditch the marriage and divorce me. Actually it took her only five days to ditch the marriage and move the unemployed, dope-smoking piece of shit into my ex-home while she swore out a peace warrant on me, forbidding me from setting foot on my own property or having any contact with my family while she merrily gave pussy away out of both pants legs to the aforementioned piece of shit. It took a full 30 days, start to finish, before she officially divorced me, in front of a judge who was a dead ringer for Howard Sprague from the "Andy Griffith Show." He didn't care about the adultry or the unemployed piece of shit sleeping in my bed in my house with my son living there, nor the fact that my ex-wife earns about $20,000 more per year than I do. He cared about me paying Child Support. The divorce was finalized, she took everything I once owned, except three pieces of furniture, a Holland gas grill, a set of dishes and the computer I am writing this on. And I pay Child Support

So, I am helping to finance this outing to north Georgia, with large monthly checks, supposedly spent supporting my son. I still feel the urge to go OJ about it every now and then, but I don't have a dream team to get me off the hook, so that's probably not a good idea.

The fact that my son is not here this weekend will be crushing news to Jack, the five year-old boy who lives across the street from me. He's a good young'un, missing both of his top front teeth, and eager for any male companionship he can find. He lives with his grandmother, his mother and three sisters, which keeps him bobbing like a small cork in a sea of estrogen. He calls me "Uncle," because I will toss a football with him and let him play with my son's toys when I'm here by myself, which is most of the time. Jack was hoping that Quinton, my boy, would be here all weekend, as he was supposed to be. Jack had visions of an actual male friend to play with and a spend-the-night at my house adventure, where he could have his brain sucked out by Play Station 2 games and the "Kid's Cuisine" TV dinners I fix for them to eat. Plus, when they finish a bath, I let them run around in their underwear instead of wearing those wimpy pajamas women insist they cover themselves with.

Yeah, Jack will be very disappointed. So am I. But when that cunt of an ex-wife of mine pokes around with a sharp stick, she doesn't care how many eyes she hits.