Saturday, January 12, 2002

Ugh!
Pumped coffee down my throat and I still feel like a beat-up hockey dad dying on the ice. I need to go to Wal-Mart today. I need to go to the tire store and pick up my freebie replacement for the tire that grew a toxic goiter on the sidewall after I hit a manhole on Bay Street. I need a nap.

I believe the nap may take top priority.

Jack just went outside with the football. If he can occupy himself for about 30 minutes, I'll stretch out on the couch and zzzzzzz....

Ugh!
I feel like the hockey dad who got beat up on the ice, except for the fact that I'm not dead. I'm not sure if it was the fried mushrooms I ate, the bottle of pouille fouisse I consumed with the mushrooms or the fact that I slept only about three hours in two separate shifts last night that makes me feel so badly, but I'm going to blame it all on the French wine. I hate the French anyway.

My son has a basketball game tipping off about now, but I am not going to see it. His bloodless cunt mother can handle those duties and I do not want to set eyes on her. Besides, I have my adpoted nephew, Jack, over at my house playing a monster-killing game on my son's Play Station II. His coif resembles something that was done in a blender. When he rang my doorbell this morning, my first reaction was to open the door and ask him who in the hell combed his hair. "My sisters," he replied, which explains everything.

Elvis would be green with envy. Of course, after this much time underground, Elvis is probably green anyway.

Friday, January 11, 2002

The hockey-dad murder trial took up a lot of space in the news today and I really don't understand why. The situation may be terrible when two fathers, one weighting 156 pounds and the other weighing 270 pounds, decide to duke it out on the ice after their twelve year-old sons finish practice one day, and the 156 pound dad ends up dead as a result. It's a stupid, sordid, senseless example of two symmetrical assholes behaving like symmetrical assholes with tragic results. If you watch CSPAN, you see congressmen doing the same thing every day. Unfortunately, they battle with blustering rhetoric instead of flailing fists and don't end up with a dead body at the end, which does untold harm to our great Republic through the tragic results of future legislation they will live to sponsor.

I don't understand the media's fascination with this trial, because somebody being beaten to death after a little league sporting event doesn't surprise me at all. When I was in college, I earned two Physical Education credits by taking a course in "Football Officiating." I passed the course and then took a test, which I also passed, to qualify me to referee pee-wee games in the City Recreation League. I was paid $5.00 per game and could do as many as four games on a good Saturday, plus one or two more during the week. I thought it was a gold mine at the time. I changed my mind quickly when I barely escaped from some of those games without being lynched from the goal posts. Some parents take their kid's sports WAY too seriously.

I was cursed many times in loud, spittle-decorated words that would have done a 30-year veteran merchant sailor proud. I was threatened with numerous ass-whippings, sometimes from the MOTHERS, for crying out loud, when I made a call that didn't suit the right team. I had things thrown at me from the sidelines, sometimes by a coach and sometimes by an irate parent. I saw children being called to the sidelines for a fully-adult, X-rated butt-chewing, complete with vicious head-slaps and shoulder-shakings by both coaches and parents when the kid made a bad play on the field. I saw fights in the bleachers between men, and fights in the bleachers between WOMEN who became totally beserk during these games. It was sometimes frightening, sometimes sickening and usually at its very worst when the eight year-olds were playing.

The news reports are treating this hockey-dad incident as if it were a total abberation instead something that was bound to happen sooner or later, and will probably happen again, as long as parents take little league sports as seriously as NFL coaches do the Super Bowl. Forget "Road Rage." "Game Rage" is a lot worse, a lot more common and totally out of control.

Organized sports can be a wonderful experience for a young person. But demonic parents need to understand that IT'S JUST A GAME!



Thursday, January 10, 2002

While Blogger was sick last night, I visited a site where the blogger wrote of being worried about going home to see his mama. He was afraid that he would say the word "fuck" in front of her and cause her to drop dead of a heart attack at the shock, or else slit her wrists with a kitchen knife because of her failure to raise a decent son. He had a "comments" button at the end of his blog (HEY, SCOTT? HOW ABOUT A COMMENTS BUTTON FOR ME?), so I sent him an e-mail about how to explain any slippage of the lippage he might experience. I learned this in college, and I am not making this up.

What makes a good dirty word a good dirty word is its linguistic structure. The ones that express your feelings the strongest, that feel the best tripping off the tongue and give you the most satisfaction to say are built exactly alike. They begin with a strong plosive sound, such as the letter "F," and end with a hard consonant abruptly cut off, such as a "K." Try it. Say "FUCK!" You have the plosive beginning, followed by the abrupt hard consonant at the end, and the word is perfect. Admit it; when you're angry, frustrated or at a loss for any other word, it feels good to say it. "SHIT" and "CUNT" fall into the same category. Just parse them, using the rules outlined above, and you will see what I mean.

"BITCH," on the other hand, is close, but it does not measure up to the ideal because it has a plosive at each end. It's a good dirty word, but it will never reach the realm of "FUCK" because it lacks the last hard consonant to throw the knockout punch. If you intend to use strong, effective dirty language, close enough is not good enough. The same problem occurs with "PISS," which starts out with a great plosive, but then peters out, for lack of a better expression, into slow, sibilant sounds at the end.

Forget "SONOFABITCH" or "MOTHERFUCKER." A good dirty word has only one syllable.

"DICK" and "COCK" would qualify as excellent dirty words, because they satisfy the criteria, but they can't really be considered good dirty words because we once had a president named Dick and a rooster is a cock. The double meanings take away from the effeciveness of the words. You would never vote for a guy named "FUCK," and you would never eat anything called "FUCK." But a lot of people voted for Dick and don't think twice about eating cock, even if they are not into oral sex. In certain situations, where the context is clear, both are excellent dirty words. But an ideal dirty word needs no context to be dirty. That's why "FUCK" stands alone as the best dirty word of all time.

If you don't believe what I am saying, just think about the substitute words people use when they don't want to offend anyone or be considered a potty-mouth: "DRAT!" "SHOOT" "DANG!" "HECK!" They all fit the formula.

I told the blogger that he should just walk into his mama's house and scream "FUCK!" at the top of his lungs. That would relieve all of his anxiety, get the problem out in the open and make for a much better visit.

Especially when she reacted by saying "SHIT!"

Blogger was sick yesterday. Even though I was full of inspiration to the point where the Muse was not only whispering in my ear, but LICKING, and chewing on my left lobe and asking me to break out the "Fix-a-Flat," kit, I didn't write. For a while, I couldn't log on; then, when I could log on, I couldn't publish anything. The whole frustrating experience gave me a case of the Blogger's Blue-Balls and I didn't sleep well last night. To top it all off, the goddamned "SERVICE ENGINE SOON" light came back on in my truck on the way to work this morning.

But Blogger appears to be well now. This is good. This is very good.

While I was fooling around with a sick Blogger last night, I visited a few sites that came highly recommended. Except for the fact that I have a plain template page, all monochrome, naked, deviod of bells and whistles, and I haven't learned to LINK to all kinds of neat stuff, I think my GUT RUMBLES doesn't fare too badly in comparison. The writing is certainly better on my site, in my humble opinion. I still can't find GUT RUMBLES listed in Blogger's prestigious Directory, but I still get a lot more hits than the ones I make to check the number of hits I've had. I know for sure that SOMEBODY is reading this shit besides me.

I have taken a step toward bringing myself into the big league of Blogdom by hiring an expert consultant to assist me. He is Scott, the 14 year-old son of my friend Steve in Augusta. I paid the mercenary little shit $100 (Uncle Acidman? He don't know no Uncle Acidman!) to do a little behind-the-scenes work for me and teach me a little bit about how this stuff works. So far, I have not heard from Scott, nor have I seen any change in my page, which makes me wonder whether he's actually working on this project or if he's been at an unending Rave party since he received his money. For all I know, he's taking X-pills, sniffing toner fluid and chasing young twat with the money I gave him. If so, I hope he eventually runs through the money the way Sherman went through Georgia, catches the young twat and sobers up to go to work on my Blog-spot.

Hey, Scott! I wanted to change my template today. Blogger gave me fucking CODE to write. I don't write code. You do. Change my template to something better than what I have. Let your own, mature, 14 year-old aesthetic tastes be your guide. If I don't like it, I'll let you know. There's more money where that first check came from, but I need to see some EFFORT ON YOUR PART. Otherwise, I will be forced to kill your father and steal his exquisite guitar, as I was sorely tempted to do last weekend. Just remember one thing: if your daddy comes back to visit me and he never returns because you haven't held up your end of our bargain, it will be ALL YOUR FAULT!



Tuesday, January 08, 2002

Oh-oh. I saw some really scary stuff on the news tonight. President Bush, the man I have come to really like and respect for the way he has handled the War on Terrorism, is now turning his attention back to domestic concerns. I wish he would leave that alone for now. When he becomes fired-up and declares that taxes will be raised "Not over my dead body," I cringe, because I don't know whether that's a Bushism, a simple slip of the tongue, or a Clintonism, which could mean "I'm not dead, so we raise taxes!" somewhere down the road. I don't believe Bush operates the way Clinton did, but I am a skeptic by nature. Bush should have learned enough from his daddy's "read my lips (as they LIE!)" speech to know that the cud-chewing, mouth breathing, great unwashed of this country don't understand a lot of that fancy talk coming out of Washington unless it is a bunch of bald-faced, two-timing, unacceptable lies. Then, they become very upset, unless it is an adroit, professional liar such as Bill Clinton spewing the bilge, whereupon they stagger to the polls, pulled by some uncontrollable cosmic impulse, like characters from "Night of the Living Dead" to vote for the bastard again.

Bush is not Clinton, thank God. But he needs to stick with what he's good at.

That's why he needs to expand the War On Terrorism to rid this country of the most dangerous terrorist of all, the one who makes Osama pale by comparison, if our bombs hadn't made Oaama pale already. Bush needs to go after the terrorist in our midst, who blends in with everyday people and talks with the same seductive voice that Eve heard from the serpent in the Garden. He needs to get rid of Tom Dashle.

We are a nation at war. Tom Daschle is a political cockroach, scurrying around the kitchen floor, laying his eggs wherever he believes they will hatch, hoping to infest the body politic with enough of his offspring to drag the country in his direction through the sheer weight of vermin bodies tugging all together. He could give a lovely shit about this country. Tom Daschle cares about Tom Daschle, first, foremost and always. In that respect, he is no different from most Washington politicians. He is simply the most powerful and repugnant right now.

I know we can't just launch a nuclear strike against South Dakota. We would need UN permission first, which the esteemed Noble Prize winner Kofi Anon would probably grant, because that clueless, living hand-puppet probably couldn't find the United States on a map, let alone that pissant state of South Dakota. Three electoral votes. Economy based entirely on shoveling snow and importing sunshine. Value to the rest of the country: produced Tom Daschle. I say nuke the bastards.

Whew... I feel better after saying that, too.
Monday was a pretty shitty day except for two things: the "Service Engine Soon" light went out on my truck about halfway to work that morning, and it has not come on again, and when I arrived home, someone had come and removed the Port-A-Potty that had been in my front yard since I bought my house more than two months ago. Since I have NOT serviced my truck engine, I can only assume that the light is no longer nagging me because either the problem healed itself or the bulb burned out. Whatever happened, I'm delighted that it did. But I'm having ambivalent feelings about the missing Port-A-Potty. Hell, I had the only THREE BATHROOM HOME in the neighborhood as long as it was there. Besides, I had an easy time giving directions to my friends when they couldn't find my house-- "Turn right, go about 100 yards down the street, and look for the shitter in the front yard. THAT'S WHERE I LIVE!." I believe I am going to miss that thing.

While I was pumping my first cup of coffee down my throat this morning, CNN was engaged in one of those navel-examination grief-fests about the pitiful nerd who flew the plane into the high-rise bank in Tampa. They were busy interviewing teachers, classmates, the guys who picked up the family's garbage and anybody else they could find to repeat the same mantra, that the boy they all knew and loved would NEVER do a thing like that. He was so sweet. We never saw it coming. We can't believe it happened. BWAA-BWAA-BWAA!

I never knew the misguided little twit, so I'm not going to cry into a CNN microphone about him. But I know exactly what I thought when I saw the first pictures of that airplane hanging off the side of that building like a bug stuck in a roach motel. I thought of Wile E. Coyote and another one of his mail-order, Acme, Inc. devices guaranteed to finally catch the Road Runner. The only thing missing was the sound effect of "ziiiiiiiiing......BOOM!" as the coyote falls to the pavement, breaks into small pieces, then reassembles himself and goes back to his Acme catalogue for a better idea.

I fully understand what a lonely and spooky place your very own head can be when you are incredibly upset and see no light at the end of the tunnel of pain you're travelling down. I can understand the desire to end it all. But if you decide to take that ultimate step and are determined to do it gloriously in a 9-11 copycat scheme, AT LEAST HAVE A BRAIN IN YOUR HEAD WHEN YOU PLAN IT!! That pathetic dolt probably intended to make a spectacular crash into a tall building, take as many innocent souls as he could along with him on his demented journey to glory, and end up pushing the Columbine Killers off the front cover of Time Magazine as the MANIAC OF THEM ALL!! Instead, he stuck his plane through a window so that it hung there like a bug in a roach motel. He didn't even manage to start a fire. The poor bastard couldn't have fucked the whole thing up any worse if he had tried, except by maybe living through it.

Can you imagine that? What would he say to CNN? "BWAA, BWAA, BWAA?!!"

I also saw another reference to President Caligula, Bill Clinton, regretting that he never had a "defining moment" in his presidency the way George Bush does with his war on terrorism. I have news for you, Bill: IF YOU HAD BEEN PRESENTED WITH A "DEFINING MOMENT," YOU WOULD HAVE FUCKED IT UP, just the way you did the rest of your presidency. You would have agonized over details while never making a decision. You would have tried to micromanage while dodging responsibility. You would have waited on opinion polls to tell you what to do, because you always wanted to be loved a lot more than you wanted to be respected, and even after reviewing the poll results you would have waffled, delayed and parleyed rather than actually DO SOMETHING. The only thing you were ever good at was getting elected to offices you didn't deserve and screwing a lot of women, which is the real reason you wanted to be elected in the first place. It was a good way to pick up chicks.

Jimmy Carter was once governor of my state before he went on to become a really rotten president. I never voted for him as governor nor president, but I never disliked the man as a person. I believe he meant well, but he was a perfect example of the Peter Principle, and he actually achieved his level of incompetence when he was still governor. But he had a wide smile, lots of teeth, and he was anything but Richard Nixon. The much-ballyhooed "American People" fell for him, only to regret it later.

On the other hand, President Testosterone, you filled me with disgust the first time I saw you on the campaign trail. Not dislike, mind you, but DISGUST! And you went on for eight years to prove my gut instincts entirely correct. Thank God for blessing America with the good grace that you are not in charge when we need a true leader instead of a slick, professional politician. Take my advice: GO FUCK YOURSELF FOR A CHANGE. You've done it to everyone else. And who could possibly love you more than you do?

Whew, I feel better after that....





Monday, January 07, 2002

Long, slow, sour day today. Mondays often are that way, especially after I've had my son for the weekend and I wake up wishing he still was here, knowing that it will be two weeks before I see him again. So, I started out in a funk. The weather was shitty and cold, work was uneventful and boring and I think I'm going to bed early tonight and hope that tomorrow is a better day.

The news and the blog-spots were all a-buzz today about the 15-year old kid who flew the single engine Cessna into a skyscraper in Tampa in some sort of twisted copycat 9-11 stunt. What a pathetic, doofus loser this kid was. He probably imagined that he would die a spectacular death, take a few innocent souls with him and get his picture on the cover of Time Magazine. Instead, he killed only himself, left most of the plane hanging outside the skyscraper and didn't even manage to start a fire. The poor bastard couldn't have fucked that up any worse if he had tried. Well, I guess he could have by living through it, too, which would have made him the object of incredible ridicule the rest of his life. Now at least, people have only his deed to ridicule.

But he certainly ranks up there as a terrorist laughing stock with the "shoenabomber," who probably wet his detonator cords by pissing on his own feet in the men's room before he boarded the plane. Some people can't even hate right.

Sunday, January 06, 2002

Shortly after 6:00 this evening, the cunt arrived in her flashy silver sports car to take my son back to her house, where the unemployed, dope-smoking piece of shit she's shacked up with can now spend more time with my son than I do. It's been a good weekend, with lots of football, the belated birthday presents to open, Jack spending both nights over here and Uncle Steve coming to visit, too. I believe my boy had a good time, and he spent only $30 of his birthday loot on a GameBoy II disc and left the other $40 here in his room, where I said it would be safe if he did not want to take it home. He wanted to leave it here.

I believe there is something terribly wrong with a system of law that allows a woman to do what my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife did and not only get away with it, but be REWARDED for it, too. Unilaterally, she decided she was not "happy" in her marriage, so she commenced to fuck around. Once she was caught in the act, she acted contrite until she found the chance to throw all my clothes in my truck, cancel all the credit cards, put a stop on the home equity loan, clean out the checking account and leave me high and dry. Then she took out a peace warrant on me, just to make sure I couldn't interrupt her newfound happiness by showing up at what once was my home while she was screwing the butt off her unemployed, dope-smoking lover, who was living there with my son by then. Being very project-oriented, she immediately served me divorce papers and ran it all through the fucked-up legal system in 30 days flat, start to finish.

I was flayed, raped, screwed and tattooed, all to make HER "happy." Forget our son, forget our property (all sold by now, for a fraction of what it would have been worth in five years), forget our friends (okay, they were MY friends and remain so today. The cunt never had a "friend" in her life that she didn't screw, one way or another) forget everything about anything and just BE HAPPY! Well, I'm not happy. I don't believe my son is happy. I hope to hell the bloodless cunt is, because if not, a lot of people went through a lot of shit for nothing. Erica Jong may have invented the term "zipless fuck," but my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife lives it. No conscience, no guilt. Just "happiness."

I am always in a sour mood after my son leaves, because I miss him and I know he needs me. And my innate sense of justice is horribly offended by what has been done to me to take him away. But he cleaned his room and made his bed before he left. It all looks good, and if I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I can smell him as if he's still there.
My friend Steve is dying. Yeah, yeah, we're ALL dying one of these days, but Steve's case is somewhat different, because nobody caught his prostate cancer quickly enough and by the time they ripped his guts open and tore his innards out, the cancer already had broken loose and spread. I'm the lucky one between the two of us, if you want to call having your guts ripped open and your innards torn out a good thing, because all the lab tests and examinations indicate that they DID catch my cancer in time, and I MAY be 100% cured. I may never be the man I once was, but I don't go for radiation treatments and take hormone therapy and wear a morphine patch to alleviate the constant pain of bone cancer. Steve does.

The two of us have hiked all over the mountains of north Georgia, the west Carolinas and east Tennessee. We've spent many a night around a campfire in the middle of nowhere, sometimes under star-lit skies, sometimes in the rain and even once in the snow, passing a goatskin of wine back and forth while holding court on any subject that came to mind. In our personal lives, we've both seen fire and rain, and we talk about every detail when we're together. I don't really understand how we became the kind of close friends that we are, because we are totally opposite people in many ways, but I've lived long enough to know that some things are just meant to be. Steve and I are meant to be friends.

I pity anyone who doesn't have a friend like that. All the gold in the world can't buy you one, and we were both flat broke (at least I WAS) when we met. So, go figure. I wish he never drew the hand that Fate dealt him. Hell, I wish I never drew MY cards, but mine are winners compared to his. But I will never regret having Steve as an important part of my life. I don't ever want to lose him, either. That's going to happen, sooner or later, and it will leave a big, hollow spot in my heart when it does. But I will always be a better person for knowing him, and calling him my good friend for all these years.

Hey, Steve! If you read this tonight, yeah, I wrote this sappy, maudlin crap for you!

Hope you made it back to Disgusta in one piece. See you again soon.
Your Friend,
Acidman

My friend Steve spent this weekend with me, which is always a pleasure, because I believe I feel closer to him than any of the other good friends I've been blessed within my life. It's not just because he is one of the unlucky 1% of the male population, like me, who was diagnosed with prostate cancer before his 50th birthday. We have a good time comparing notes about the shared indignities we've been through, which are numerous and humorous, but there is something else about him that makes him... well, STEVE. We've hiked many mountain trails, drank huge quantities of liquor, chased women, played beautiful music and been tighter than brothers for almost 30 years. My house is his house whenever he wants to come and visit, and he treats me the same whenever I make it to Augusta, where he lives.

But I thought about murdering him last night.

He owns a 1952 Martin D-28 guitar that he just had reworked and set up for light-gauge strings by Randy Wood, one of the finest luthiers in the country, who just happens to operate his shop a few miles away from my home. Steve retrieved his guitar yesterday and allowed me to play it. For that, he almost died in his sleep with a pillow pressed firmly against his bearded face while he slept on my sofa last night. Never in my life have I played a guitar that looked, sounded and handled better than that one. It was exquisite. It was a gem. It was to kill for.

I like Steve a lot, but I have other friends. There is only one guitar like that one. If I had not fallen asleep watching "Shrek" last night, Steve might not have been able to slip on his Birkenstocks, throw that guitar in his truck and head back to Augusta this morning. He got away this time.

But if he ever comes back with that guitar, he may be more difficult to locate than Jimmy Hoffa once I'm through with him.
I woke up at 4:00 in the morning because my son was moaning and twitching in his sleep, obviously having a nightmare. He and his friend Jack were spending the night together and we all lay in bed the night before watching "Shrek" until they fell asleep, and I conked out shortly behind them, all of us sideways in the bed. I am yet to see the end of that movie after two tries, because the three of us seem to share the same short attention span after 11:00 at night.

I watched my son. God, how I love that boy, and I almost reached out to wake him up, but I didn't. I watched him twitch and listened to his moans and noticed his heavy breathing. I wondered what sort of monsters he was battling in his sleep. He suddenly sat bolt upright in bed with his eyes open wide. I rubbed his shoulders. "Bad dream?" I asked. "No," he replied, "my ear just hurts REALLY BAD," and he grabbed his ear to show me how badly it hurt.

I went to the kitchen and fetched aspirin and a glass of water. He took his medicine and promptly fell back asleep. But I didn't. I sat on the bed and watched my son sleep.

Sometimes I become so wrapped up in my own grief and confusion over the divorce from that bloodless cunt of an ex-wife of mine that I forget about how he must feel. The same time-compressed, fast-forward events happened to him that happened to me, but I'm an adult. I should be better equipped to handle it, and it still seems unbelieveable. Happy family unit one day. Daddy gone the next. Unemployed, dope-smoking interloper sleeping with Mama directly thereafter. Sell the house, divide the property (Mama gets half, plus half, plus half of that, too) and everything that was is not anymore. What does he really think about all of that?

I don't believe I'll ever know, not fully and truthfully, because he doesn't want to talk about it. I don't press, because he's a good boy and he loves me, and I suppose that's good enough. But I wonder about those monsters in his dreams. I think I know what they are, and they are some scary bastards.