Friday, January 04, 2002

OOOOOOOH! SHE CAME BACK TONIGHT!!!

I don't know if I can stand another experience like last night..... but....

Thursday, January 03, 2002

If you don't believe that you can have too much of a good thing, let me tell you a story.

After being completely impotent for 11 weeks following prostate surgery, I was delighted that the miracles of modern medicine included a "Fix a Flat" kit that would solve all my problems, as long as I was willing to stick myself in the dick with a hypodermic needle to get there. That may sound awfully desperate to some people, but when you want something badly enough, you'll be surprised at what you are willing to do. I was a desperate man.

I had a chance to try it in action for the first time a few nights ago, and I used the reduced dosage the doctor recommended after my first experience in his office resulted in an excruciatingly painful erection that made me think of the first "Alien" movie, when that creature tore out of the guy's chest and then ran around the ship terrorizing the crew. I thought that was going to happen to me, right there in the doctor's office, with the creature tearing out from somewhere else. And it seemed fully capable of running around a spaceship and terrorizing a crew.

So, I didn't use nearly as much of the magic potion and I didn't achieve nearly the same results when I did it myself the first time. Everything went okay, but I was somewhat disappointed. That's why I decided to increase the dosage just slightly last night, then throw in a Viaga pill to see if that would enhance the effects. And it worked! And worked! And continued to work, long after she had rolled off me and gone to sleep, making contented little kitten noises.

I found myself sitting on my sofa with an ice pack on the damned thing at 12:00 midnight, praying for it to go away. At around 1:00, it became fairly horizontal instead of damned near vertical, as it had been for about four hours. I finally was able to stagger off to bed and go to sleep, thankful that I wouldn't have to call in sick to work today with a terminal hard-on. When I woke up this morning, it was gone, thank God.

Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

Wednesday, January 02, 2002

The crystal-blue skies that hurt my eyes yesterday were kidnapped last night by a bunch of glowering, gray clouds that hung low, like bull testicles, spitting rain and sleet throughout the night and making my night-vision-impaired self drive to work at 5:30 this morning relying on the white lines at the side of the road to guide my way. My thermometer on the back porch read 36 degrees this morning. After a day of working through rain and sleet, freezing my cracker ass off and becoming entirely disgusted by the weather, it read 34 degrees when I arrived home this evening. The forecasters predict an 80% chance of sleet and snow tonight.

THIS IS SOUTH GEORGIA FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!!! If I wanted this kind of weather, I would move to Chicago or Buffalo or Green Bay, one of those frozen tundra places where they play OK football but no Southern boy ever needs to be. Every bone and connective-tissue injury I ever inflicted upon myself in my life has come back to haunt me today, and it's supposed to be COLDER TOMORROW! That in itself is enough to piss me off so that I wax philisophical. I've turned up the thermostat and it's Bloggin' time.....
If you want to risk a serious bitch-slap from me, walk up and tell me you are an "environmentalist." I am a non-violent person and I believe in different strokes for different folks. If you're a homosexual, that's fine with me. If you're attending church at a mosque and studying Islam, that's fine too, as long as I don't see detonator cords hanging out of your Rebok's when you're over at my house preaching about the virtues of your newfound faith. But the tree-hugging, whale-saving, organic-food munching, hard-core greenies started to chap my ass a long time ago and now I rate them higher than the anti-smoking Nazis as a genuine menace to my freedom, the American Way of Life and Civilization as We Know It. The really scary part is the way they've managed to infiltrate what passes for a public education system in this country so they can begin to brainwash children at an impressionable age. I've seen what passes for a "social studies" textbook in schools today, and it sends shivers down my spine.

My son is learning that "chemicals" are evil. He is not learning that the reason he can read his social studies book in the first place is a series of chemical reactions taking place constantly in his body and his brain. Hell, his bloodless cunt of a mother IS A CHEMIST, for crying out loud, and his poor, old daddy has worked more than 20 years in A CHEMICAL MANUFACTURING PLANT. He is aware of these facts, but he is beginning to eye us both with suspicion because of what he is learning in school.

I blame a lot of the success of the environmental movement on the news media. I once wanted to be a journalist, until I spent two years at the Henry W. Grady School of Journalism at the University of Georgia. I met some of the dumbest, most uninformed, unquestioning cretins I've ever met in my life there. Many of them are successful reporters now. Lots of them, no doubt, became "environmental" reporters.

Most of the "environmental" reporters I read seem to be those who could not write a decent feature story, fell asleep at town hall meetings, didn't understand sports and misspelled names in obituaries. But they could find a way to use the word "toxic" at least once in every paragraph they wrote about environmental issues. Therefore, they rose to a top position, through sheer natural ability, the way a turd floats.

"Toxic" is probably the most abused word in the language today. That's because most people, especially environmental reporters, don't understand that it's not the poison that kills you-- it's the dose. Pure nitrogen is toxic, yet 78% of the atmosphere we breathe is pure nitrogen. Distilled water is toxic if you try to breathe it, but people pay $1.00 a bottle to drink water not nearly as pure. Simple table salt is toxic when taken in sufficient quantities to overload your kidneys, but without a sufficient amount in your diet, the LACK OF IT is toxic. Phosphoric acid is toxic, but when combined in the right "toxic brew," another requisite phrase for hard-hitting environmental reporting, you have a can of Coca-Cola.

I've also wondered why most self-proclaimed "environmentalists" seem to be cut from the same bolt of cloth. I can pick them out of a crowd almost without fail. The men are skinny and bald on top, with pony tails behind. They almost always wear those round, wire-framed John Lennon glasses and have jobs that keep them in air-conditioned offices all day, which gives them a pasty and pale complexion. They have carefully clipped fingernails but dirty, untrimmed toenails that they frequently display in leather sandals. They drive BMWs or Volkswagon beetles.

The women are no better, because they wear no makeup, don't brush their hair, appear shrill and somewhat deranged, and care more about the fate of a southern oak tree-slug than our soldiers in Afghanistan. They drive mini-vans and curse SUVs. They are attracted to skinny, bald guys with pony tails and dirty toenails, which is a good thing, because without that sort of CHEMISTRY, neither type would ever get laid.
They both make me want to puke.

I don't know a single serious farmer out here where I live who is an environmentalist. In fact, most of the conversation I hear around the seed and feed store is about how to keep the environment from taking away your crop and leaving you bankrupt. Mother Nature is not the farmer's friend. Farming is a constant, everyday battle AGAINST Mother Nature, to keep her from sending plagues of vermin that devour your crop, too much rain that drowns it, or not enough so that it cooks in the field. But these guys and their wives aren't pale and skinny. They are sunburnt and rugged. They have dirty fingernails from tending the soil and I have no idea what their toenails look like, because they wear stout boots meant for working. They drive pickup trucks and fly American flags from their front porch. They are the salt of the earth.

Oops! Salt is toxic, isn't it? No wonder environmentalists don't like these people.




I read a news item today about some dingbat representative in Maine or New Hampshire or one of those other sanity-deficient New England states who wants to make adultery a crime punishable by fines and jail terms. I believe that is an absolutely ridiculous idea, although I do believe the commission of adultery should count for something in divorce court, which it doesn't if it's your bloodless cunt of a wife doing the adultering instead of you. I don't know why divorce laws are based on the premise that All Men Are Swine when there are a lot of really shitty women out there, too. For every OJ Simpson and Joey Buttafuco in the news, there have to be at least two equally twisted, bizarre and selfish women doing things just as vicious and nasty, but we rarely hear about them unless they murder their children.

But I meander from my central theme, which is: stupid laws created by pissed-off, sanctimonious bullies for the sole purpose of bludgeoning otherwise law-abiding folks into changing their lifestyles to suit the bullies. Nowhere is this phenomenon more apparent than in the ever-escalating war against second-hand smoke, that insidious villian and slayer of children used to justify every anti-smoking ordinance on the books, from that certified nut-bowl state of California to my own beloved state of Georgia, where now it is illegal to smoke inside Sanford Stadium when the mighty Bulldogs play. Not one single anti-smoking law has anything to do with protecting the health of the non-smoking public. That noble cause is used to justify the law, but it all really boils down to a pissed-off, sanctimonious bully saying, "I don't like cigarettes. I don't believe people should smoke. I can't make them stop, but I can make them SUFFER by doing something to make their lives as miserable as possible. And when they are miserable, I will feel sooooo gooood!"

The bullies received a real sledgehammer when the EPA issued its fraudulent report in 1992 showing a positive link between second-hand smoke and lung cancer. That study has since been royally debunked, with a federal judge throwing it out, concluding that it cherry-picked and manipulated data so egregiously that it "bordered on fraud." Hell, it didn't BORDER on fraud. It WAS fraud. But none of the laws passed in its wake has been rescinded or even rethought; instead, more laws are enacted every day, still using that fraud as justification. And when the World Health Organization spent ten years on a study of its own, newspapers announced "WTO Study Shows Link: Second-Hand Smoke Causes Cancer." The results of that study have never been officially released, but it can be found on the internet, where one can read the conclusion, in plain, simple English, that the relationship between second-hand smoke and cancer is "statistically insignificant."

Second-hand smoke may be obnoxious to a non-smoker, but it is not a health hazard. It may irritate people, but it won't kill them. So how to we really justify all of these ever more stringent anti-smoking laws, banning smoking outdoors, within 1000 feet of a school or even in a private residence?

It's all done by a bunch of pissed-off, sanctimonious bullies, the same people who pushed the skinny kid down on the playground at school, called the child wearing glasses "four-eyes" and pulled the wings off flies when they were young. Some people are born shitheads and stay that way all their lives.

Tuesday, January 01, 2002

I just won a bet with Jack's Mom and Grandma. I invited them all over to the house for Hoppin' John and greens, and they came, expressing great wonderment over the vittles, because they are from Texas and never heard of eating Hoppin' John and greens on New Years Day. They bet me that Jack wouldn't touch the stuff and I bet them that he would eat it for me. I fixed him a big bowl of blackeyed peas and rice and he scarfed it down like a hungry dog. Then I told his mom and grandma that they could pay off their bet by cleaning the rest of the white zinfandel residue from my kitchen floor after the wine box disaster from Saturday night. They laughed and went back home. So, I'm still stuck with doing that job myself. You can't see the pink quagmire anymore, but stocking feet make a "thuck, thuck" sound with every step and it feels like walking on matching Velcro strips that try to snatch your socks off when you walk across the floor. I've mopped it twice, but I believe it's going to take lots of cleanser and detergent to make my floor whole again.

I think I'll watch football for a while. The kitchen floor can wait. After all, it is New Years Day and all the bowl games are on television. If the games aren't entertaining, maybe I'll call Willie to make sure he didn't drown face-down in his bucket of Bloody Marys this morning. Maybe I'll invite him over for some Hoppin' John and greens.

I just wrote a genuine, authentic nastygram e-mail to that bloodless cunt, ex-wife of mine to remind her that I have visitation rights THIS weekend with my son, since she went off to the mountains with her lover LAST weekend, on my son's birthday, when I was SUPPOSED to have visitation. Hell, she may stiff me again, in spite of my nastygram, and laugh about how she shits all over the divorce agreement, but I'll bet she still expects the child support check on time. Whatta cunt.

I see my adpoted nephew, young Jack, out in the street on his skateboard. He's riding it on his belly and paying no attention to the rare traffic that travels up and down the road. He's gonna get killed one of these days. I think I'll go toss him a football and see if he likes Hoppin' John before he gets his silly self turned into road pizza.
I woke up in my own bed this morning. That wasn't the game plan, but neither my date nor myself became overly intoxicated last night, despite the delicious oysters (which she doesn't eat), the exquisite fried turkey (which she doesn't eat, either) and the assorted fireworks that exploded in unison from several different directions around midnight. Stuffed baked potatos, taco salads, cheeses and crackers (which she DOES eat) were readily available, but I believe she drank enough diet cola that she had no room for the food. I pigged out.

We were sitting in front of the largest of the five different campfires burning in the yard when the sky lit up with rockets and voodoo balls bright enough to obscure the full moon that had smiled down on the evening from the time we arrived. Young'uns set off firecrackers and sparklers, couples kissed, and I almost needed a cable and chain to retrieve my friend, Willie, when his large self overdosed on Scotch liquor and began reeling around dangerously close to the fire. My son knows the "stop, drop and roll!" drill for when you catch on fire, and Willie had everything but the "stop!" down pat last night. His wife took him home shortly after the fireworks display and I pity his head today. I believe he has a bucket of Bloody Marys prepared as a palliative measure for those who overindulged last night, but he may drink it all if he doesn't upchuck in the bucket first. All in all, we welcomed in the new year in fine fashion.

Now, I'm cooking Hoppin' John and turnip greens, which are supposed to bring good luck if you eat them today. My house smells like dirty sweat pants, nasty armpits and stinky feet, which is the aroma that black-eyed peas produce when you cook them with a large ham hock thrown in for seasoning and a pot of greens simmering beside them on the stove. Maybe that smell brings the good luck by driving all the evil spirits out of your life. I don't know, but I feel good, my house smells like an underfunded homeless shelter, and the sky is crystal blue. I love it when that happens.

It's cold outside for south Georgia, but the sky is so clear and blue that it hurts my eyes to look at it.

Monday, December 31, 2001

It's the last day of a miserable year and it can't be over soon enough for me. In 2001, my entire life was turned upside down, shaken vigorously, folded, spindled, and mutilated, then thrown on the ground in pieces that I still am trying to reassemble into something that I can recognize. In a streak of less than 70 days, my wife divorced me, costing me the son I adored, the home I had always dreamed of, all my animals, my mini-farm, the neighbors I had grown to like and most of my sanity; then, I had my cancer operation, where they ripped out my prostate and left me weakened, scarred, impotent and incontinent to go along with all the rest. The Perfect Storm.

Lest I sound too full self-pity, fear and loathing, I want to assure you that things are looking up. I have a date tonight. We're going over to my old neighborhood for a New Year's Eve oyster roast and turkey-fry. We're staying the night there, too, because the scratch-and-sniff DUI checkpoints will be out in force tonight, and the last thing I want to do is begin the new year sitting in the county hoosegow for the high crime of having a couple of beers with my oysters. My friend throwing the party says that he has plenty of beds and both my date and I are welcome to crash there. I hope it requires only one bed for the both of us, but that part remains to be seen. I'm taking no chances, however, and intend to pack my wonder-drug and injection kit with me, in case I get lucky. The stuff will wake the dead, and that's what it takes for me since the operation.

I have a real problem with those scratch-and-sniff roadblocks anyway, even when I have not been drinking. I believe there is something inherently wrong, downright un-American, about stopping every car going down a road just to see if the cops can find something illegal going on, with no probable cause, no indication of impaired driving, nor any reason at all except for the fact that they can do it. MADD, SADD and similiar single-issue crusaders are as bad as the anti-smoking Nazis about wrapping themselves in a cloak of self-righteousness while trampling all over civil liberties in this country. Craven, gas-bag politicians and money-hungry law enforcment minions are quick to jump aboard their bandwagons, because doing so produces votes for the politicians and cash for law enforcement. Meanwhile, personal freedom erodes, slowly but surely. I would pontificate about the obviously abused property forfeiture laws that the wonderful "War on Drugs" brought us, but that idiotic, corrupt concept doesn't seem to upset anyone except those who have had their property seized and never returned, sometimes when they never are charged with a crime, let alone convicted. People who value liberty should rant, rave and scream about such things.

But very few people do. That's why we have scratch-and-sniff checkpoints, property seizure laws, no-smoking ordinances and the same gasbag politicians that pass these laws winning reelection over and over. What ever happened to the words "Live Free or Die" when people actually meant it? What ever happened to the people who carved this country out of a hostile wilderness, gained their independence by warring against the most powerful nation on the planet at the time, settled the plains, built the railroads, dug the canals, constructed the skyscrapers and kicked Hitler's ass in World War II? Have we become so weak, passive and frightened of everything that we actually WANT government to cover us with a warm blanket, hand us a teddy bear and tell us to sleep tight because Big Brother, er.. Daddy, is making sure the bedbugs don't bite?

My God, I hope not. But sometimes I'm not sure.

Sunday, December 30, 2001

Whatta mess! Now that it's daylight, I can see why my feet were sticking to the floor when I made coffee in the dark this morning. My friend from South Carolina heaped tons of scorn and abuse upon my head when he opened the refrigerator last night and saw my BOX of wine in there. "Oh, twist-off caps are too sophisticated for you, aren't they? I know you don't own a corkscrew. So, you buy wine in a fucking BOX?"

Yes, I do. And I own a corkscrew, too.

Somehow last night, the bag inside the box developed a hole, and about three liters of White Zinfandel wine leaked out of the box, escaped from the refrigerator, and ran all over the place. It is now semi-dried to the consistency of flypaper, leaving a pinkish stain marked by about a dozen bare footprints, left by me, on my kitchen floor. This nasty accident happened AFTER I spent yesterday morning mopping, scouring and vacuuming my humble home.

Luckily, I have a Dollar-Store mop and bucket in my broom closet. Maybe I can persuade my friend from South Carolina to use them when he finally awakens from his deep slumber and goes for the coffee pot only to find himself glued to the floor in a pink quagmire of semi-dried White Zinfandel. If he doesn't want the mop, I'll throw him a corkscrew. He can take it from there.
One thing I forgot to mention about my buddy from South Carolina is the fact that he finally made a legitimate woman out of his partner for the past 25 years by marrying her, naked in Key West. They have two sets of wedding pictures that record the blessed occasion. One set is for the family and not-so-close friends. In these pictures, they have their clothes on. The other set, however, which I have seen and begged for copies so that I could start my very own internet porno site, feature them both, along with the ushers and bridesmaids, butt-ass naked under a bright Florida sun. I wish I had been there.

His finally-legitimate wife is at Lake Tahoe now, visiting her daughter, which is why my friend is spending the night with me. He ate up all the food in his house and had to find another place to graze until his wife returned. She called last night to inform us that she lost $30 playing the slots at Harrah's Casino in Stateline, Nevada. She also said it was one hell of a good deal, because she consumed enough free liquor while gambling to more than cover a $30 bar tab. We told her not to fall asleep in a Nevada snowbank, have a good trip home, and check everyone's shoes before she boarded an airplane.

My buddy from South Carolina finally did come by. We went out to eat, then stayed up late talking about old times. He's asleep on the sofa as I write this, with some semi-porno movie on Cinemax playing loudly over his snores. I have a pot of coffee brewed and ready for when he awakens, if he ever does, and I never got the chance to use a stun-gun on him, because we talked about the infinite possibilities of a hot tub and decided that the tub was a better idea than the gun. If he dies on my sofa of a massive heart attack, I hope the ground is soft in my back yard. He is a large fellow, and I will have to dig a deep hole to bury him.

My son called me about 8:00 last night. He, his slut mama and her unemployed, dope-smoking lover returned from the north Georgia mountains and evidently listened to the obscene, spittle-punctuated message I left on her answering machine about how shitty it was to kidnap my son on his birthday weekend, when I was supposed to have visitation, and go shack up in a cabin in the woods. I'm sure she was wracked by guilt, which is why she insisted that my son call me, to make everything right, before she administered a blow-job to her boyfriend. Whatta cunt.

I'm sure she's going to want the child support check on time this month. Those mountain cabins are expensive.