Saturday, May 11, 2002

Give the Palestinians a church, and they'll make it a sewer. That's what those mad troglodytes do. Here's a SANITIZED VERSION of the story, with no mention of excrement or urine. But a teenager DOES allude to the horrific smell, which simply confirms my suspicions that a cosmic stink bomb will never work against Palestinians.

They seem to be on a campaign to prove that they are a mutant, sub-human species of man. Their plan is working, too.
Oh, no. I believe I may have pissed SCOTT GANZ off. We have a flaming war raging in his "comments" box. Read the screed, then check the comments.

Scott lives in California, the most delusional state in America, so what more do I say? I am only 41% worshipable.

I was aiming for a permalink on his page, but I believe I went about it all wrong....
Read THIS if you have a strong gag reflex. It couldn't happen to a nicer guy, but I am sick and tired of minorities playing the race card every time they are caught for total incompetence on a job. Ethnic may be one thing, but work ETHICS are another.
If you weren't already convinced by asbestos litigation, silicone breast-implant pillage, toxic mold rapery and hot-coffee bullshit suits against McDonalds that lawyers are the true scum of the earth, THIS STORY proves again that they are totally without shame, conscience or morality. The US Department of the Interior is being sued for not providiing WATER STATIONS for ILLEGAL ALIENS who were smuggled across the border and died of thirst in the desert attempting to SNEAK UNNOTICED into the US.

Lemme get this straight. Those people were not supposed to be there, because it is ILLEGAL to enter our country without the proper visas and paperwork. But our southern border is as porous as a mullet net and everybody knows that illegals swarm across it every day. Therefore, we should prosecute the few we catch, but provide WATER for those we DON'T CATCH, and the failure to do so is a crime against humanity. I suppose we should have signs posted to direct the illegals to the water, which they certainly will follow. "FOR YOUR HEALTH AND SAFETY, THE US GOVERNMENT HAS PROVIDED WATER FOR ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS OVER HERE." I know that if I were sneaking into a country and didn't want to be detected, that's EXACTLY where I would go. Oh, yeah. Me, Road Runner, you Coyote.

If I were a judge, I would draw a pistol from my robe and shoot the silly bastard who brought that suit into my court. I would be doing the country, and the legal profession, a huge favor.

This tort is allegedly worth $3.75 million for every illegal immigrant who died in the desert. I don't want to sound racist or red-necked, but how did the lawyers light upon that figure? Those people walked willingly, if ignorantly into "an 860,000-acre expanse with the closest major highway — Interstate 8 — 300 miles north of the border. Cabeza Prieta abuts a military range and offers little shade. Signs warn visitors that ground temperatures in summer can exceed 130 degrees. If they had survived the trek, and lived 100 years afterward, could these people EVER have earned 3.75 MILLION DOLLARS in their lives? Hell, I have a college education, a good job I've held for 22 years, I speak English, I've lived in this country since I was born and STILL I won't earn 3.75 million dollars IN MY LIFE.

Where do these scarab-beetle lawyers come from? Do law schools grow them in pod-centers under ultra-violet lights with all sorts of Borg implants inserted into their brains? Or, were they simply natural-born maggots long before they ever got to law school?

I pick door #2.


Those of you who read this blog regularly know that I was an English Major in college, and I don't do math. But if I had been armed with a CALCULATOR LIKE THIS ONE, I might have taken advanced physics and passed with flying colors.

Uhh... just be forewarned that you don't need the young'uns in the room when check that link. Make sure the sound is turned up LOUD, then balance your checkbook.
I am a mere 41% WORSHIPABLE, according to the test. I would rate myself much higher, which probably is why I scored so poorly. I am certain the test is bogus; otherwise, my sterling attributes would have shone like the sun. I have two ex-wives that may wish to argue that point, but one is crazy and the other is a bloodless cunt. Don't listen to them. Trust ME!
My cyber-friend JB is a sick little puppy. He surfs the net and finds the kind of flotsam and jetsam that makes you go HMMM.... Keep this boy away from Viagra or the rhino in the thong is not safe!
Last night, the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, but not a drop of rain fell around here. I could smell rain in the air, probably the result of one rogue cloud scurrying over Effingham County somewhere in the distance. It probably carved a wet path about the size of the eastbound lane of highway 21 across the county and then disappeared. This morning, everything remains dry as a popcorn fart and my sinuses are killing me.

Friday, May 10, 2002

Oh, no! My son is wandering astray and I should go outside and resolve this situation immediately. He has discovered Jack's SISTER, Haley. Haley is a tomboy, and she's more fun to play with than little Jack is. She is eight years-old, runs like a deer, and she can play baseball, too. They are having a blast outside.

She's also a future heartbreaker. Blonde hair, blue eyes, beautiful smile and a very bubbly personality. She calls me "Uncle Rob," too, and enjoys listening to me play guitar when I sit on my truck tailgate and serenade the neighborhood. I sometimes feel like the Pied Piper when I do that, because I once entertained at elementary school gatherings, and I know a lot of good kiddie songs.

I suppose the last seven months of my life have made me so cynical that I watch those two playing in the yard, dirt all over their faces (there goes my hope for grass!), dirt all over their bare feet and I listen to all the giggles, laughter and arguments that come from kid-games, and my heart breaks to see it. Innocence is a beautiful thing. But it is so temporary in this world. I don't want to go where my thoughts are taking me now, so I won't.

I have to cook supper. May everyone who reads this have a good day.
Okay, COP3 and BROTHER OF MINE, LONG HAIRED RED SOX BOY has a lawyer joke for you two. I know you both collect them, and I've listened to your entire arsenal so far. This one was new to me. Heh, heh. I liked it.

I like you guys, too. I simply believe you both work in a profession dominated by scum-sucking assholes. Mama always said that if you hang around with bad boys, you get tarred by the same brush, whether you're a bad boy or not. I would say that I don't know how you guys handle the guilt, but that would be a lie. I know perfectly well how you do it.

You buy your mamas REALLY NICE THINGS with all the money you make taking advantage of the sheep in society that you both devour like starving wolves every chance you get. You both made an "A" in Moral Turpitude 101 in Law School, but it's not too late to change. You can shed you bad habits and BE LIKE ME!

Well... never mind. There are some things even a LAWYER won't do.

The state of California provides a worthy public service to the nation. We need a certified nut-bowl in this country, and California fills the bill perfectly. In a fit of feel-good self-righteousness, the state legistature passed their own version of the Kyoto Treaty, amid much back-slapping and phony posturing.

Here's an opinion from the LA TIMES: "The current legislative effort, by many of the same people who brought us the electricity mess, would require the use of expensive technologies for automobiles, raising prices by thousands of dollars and/or forcing sharp downsizing of cars, yielding hundreds of additional crash deaths and injuries each year, according to the National Research Council of the National Academy of Sciences.

And for what? California gasoline consumption is about 5% of world consumption. Suppose that the legislation reduces California gasoline consumption by an impossible 20%. World consumption would be reduced by 1%, and any reduction in greenhouse gas emissions--let alone actual atmospheric concentrations--would be unmeasurable, particularly because automotive emissions are a relatively minor source of greenhouse gases. Moreover, the increased prices of automobiles and reduced safety for motorists would provide incentives to keep older vehicles longer, reducing or reversing the already infinitesimal benefits to the environment.

In any event, proponents have not asserted any such concrete benefits. Instead, vague claims about reduced global warming have been combined with the argument that "California must be a leader."


Yeah, California must be a "leader" the way lemmings need a leader to show them the way to the cliffs. The real kicker in this exercise in organized stupidity is the fact that these saviors of the environment have a dirty little secret. "Did you know that legislators in Sacramento are allowed to choose autos that the state purchases for them for their official activities? The Associated Press reports that almost half have chosen low-gas-mileage sport utility vehicles and pickup trucks, and most of the rest picked sedans with lower than average fuel efficiency.

Can they spell hypocrisy?"


Isn't that the way in went in the old Soviet Union? The commissars and the apparatchniks rode in limos, enjoyed their dachas in the countryside, ate caviar and drank fine wine while telling the pitiful proles to get with the program. The elites decided sacrifices were necessary for the good of the unwashed masses, as long as the unwashed masses made all the sacrifices. The elites didn't sacrifice anything, other than the intellectual energy they expended to develop the plan, shove it down unwilling throats, congratulate themselves for a job well done when it was over and stuff themselves with the fat of the land as a reward.

Yeah, that's leadership, all right.


More on the WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE! front. Read THIS, THIS, and especially THIS (Mom, YOU might agree with this one). Yep, deadly health menaces are closing in for the kill left and right today. If you peruse the news, you'll find two or three new studies EVERY DAY that identify another dire threat to us all.

Then, you find THIS.

Okay, let me get this straight. All sorts of toxic pollutants are killing lots of people every day. But life spans are lengthening so that 100 year-olds will not be unique in the immediate future. My son, being eight years-old now, may expect to live MORE THAN 100 YEARS, and not be unusual by the time he grows up.

Right. WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE, except for the multitudes of people who live for 100 or more years. Our planet is poisoned, deadly pollutants are EVERYWHERE, global warming is ready to spring plague and pestilence upon the land, and we're GONNA LIVE A LONG, LONG TIME!

I don't believe I can stand it. I DON'T WANT TO LIVE 100 YEARS COWERING IN MY SHIT STAINED DRAWERS UNDER MY BED WAITING FOR THE HORRIBLE DEATH THAT'S BOUND TO BEFALL ME! That's a fate worse than toxic death. That's... well, that's messing with my head. Good grief! I believe I would rather have a robo-rat crawl into my bed at night and gnaw my face off than wrestle with this dilemma any longer. Am I gonna die or not?

Expert scientists say, "just give us more research money and we'll let you know, eventually, and we'll junk it up any way you like it, as long as the bucks keep flowing. You want studies that SUGGEST you're going to live forever? We can provide those. You want studies that SUGGEST that you're going to die tomorrow, we'll provide those, too. Unfortunately, without further research, we can't GUARANTEE anything. (If we do that, the money tree might dry up and we can't pick that luscious fruit anymore) Tell us what you want us to prove, and WE WILL. We are scientists. That is our job.

Just don't try to pin us down on anything specific. Science doesn't work that way.

If you want truth, talk to a politician.

Thursday, May 09, 2002

I believe I have tried most of these OBJECTIVIST PICKUP LINES at some time or another in my randy Randian past, but I'll bet that COP3 hasn't. Use them quickly my friend, because... you guessed it. WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!
Happy birthday to ANICEE'S MOM, who turned 45 about the time my mama celebrated her 72nd birthday. I no longer love Anicee because I realize now that I AM OLDER THAN HER MOTHER and I really don't believe our relationship could ever flower like a bright, red rose, given my abhorrence for child pornography. I still appreciate the nice review she wrote about my blog, even if she DID NOT like the graphic presentation of my page. She COULD e-mail me with some hints on how to spruce this place up, but it really doesn't matter.

WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!
Heather had her "earthy" mind in the gutter again today, but it was a direct result of the insidious TOXIC MOLD that has invaded like THE BLOB to devour us all. Read her story and admit it. WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!
I am going to stop reading his site if RED SOX BOY doesn't stop slobbering like a teenager in heat over THAT baseball team while the Atlanta Braves float around the major leagues like a turd that won't flush in the great toilet bowl of sports. Who cares? WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!
I wrote the post below (actually I wrote a much better post that BLOGGER ate) about the unreasonable fear of EVERYTHING some people seem to have today. We live longer, healthier and more comfortable lives than ever before; therefore, we are afraid of all sorts of conjured, imaginary and downright invented "risks" we face in our wonderful lives. We have become victims of our own affluence. In the "good old days" that crazed environmentalists want us to re-experience, people were so busy growing meager crops, building primitive shelter, hunting wild animals, surviving terrible winters and burying their dead offspring that they didn't have time to worry about "risk." Staying alive was risky in those days.

Now, however, we can sit in our air-conditioned houses and worry about global warming, while examining every nook and cranny of the abode for traces of that TOXIC MOLD which has become the latest scourge in our healthy, but mentally unstable lives. My great-grandfather, who lived on a farm in eastern Kentucky a day's horse ride from the nearest doctor, PULLED HIS OWN TEETH with a pair of pliers because no dentist was available. I don't believe he had a lot of time to listen to UNMITIGATED CRAP such as this, nor would he have believed it. He was a simple man. But HE was not an idiot, like so many people today.

Today, we are educated, complicated and sophisticated, so we believe constantly that cosmic disaster is immenent. "All organic material on the surface of Earth will start to burn. Survivors will cower in caves and buildings. But the worst is yet to come.

The initial gamma-ray burst will last a fraction of a second. Almost immediately afterwards will come the cosmic rays, which will drench our planet for days. There will be no hiding place."


Instead of going to work tomorrow, I'm going to cower, quivering with fear, dressed in nothing but my shit-stained drawers, under my bed. What's the use in trying? WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!


Good God! For the first time in weeks, BLOGGER showed its butt and ate a lengthy post I wrote about Yucca Mountain. I had SEVEN DIFFERENT LINKS made to reinforce my position, and they are gone... all gone.

I don't have the time nor the patience to write that whole thing over again, so I will attempt to provide a condensed version:
1) Many people believe that THREE MILE ISLAND was a terrible disaster, causing cancer and death. They are wrong.
2) Those same people are convinced that CHERNOBYL killed thousands, maybe even millions, and continues killing people to this day. They are wrong, too.
3) People frightened to death by anything "radioactive" don't understand the amount of NATURAL RADIATION they absorb every day from Mother Earth herself.

The arguments from the politicians opposed to Yucca Mountain will prey upon the ignorance of their audience. Don't be one of the brainwashed. But if you are, just admit it. Then say, really, really loud: WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!

Wednesday, May 08, 2002

I have to reel the boys back in for hamburgers and home fries. Supper is ready, whether they are or not. This house gets pretty lonely sometimes, but it's not tonight.
I just cleaned up my page a bit. I deleted all the permalinks to those upper-crust blog sites everybody has on their page and replaced them with others, because I am tired of the incestuous relationship top-tier bloggers have with each other. You link me and I'll link you and we'll all be in this neat little cool clique together. It's reminds me of high school, where the cheerleaders and the football players ruled the world and everybody else was a nerd. I have on my page people who have linked to ME, and I plan to be just as incestuous as the masters.

We may not get 77,000 hit per day, folks, but everybody's got to start SOMEWHERE. We'll build OUR OWN blogosphere!
At Merlefest, I told my friend Willie (who runs THIS WEB SITE that offers VERY REASONABLE prices on all sorts of musical equipment) that I never liked hearing musical performers described as "artists." To me, Norman Rockwell was an artist. Hell, Gary Larson was an artist, even if his drawing in the FAR SIDE cartoons was somewhat bizarre. By my definition, artists paint, sculpt and draw. People who play music are musicians. People who act are actors. People who write great music are composers. People who write poetry are poets. If they don't paint, sculpt or draw, they are not artists, unless you consider woodworkers, pipefitters, millwrights and plumbers "artists," too.

The National Endowment for the Arts receives a lot of criticism over its definition of art, but all the people in politics who bitch about the NEA continue to vote to fund that degenerate organization more lavishly every year. I believe my basic smell-test for "art" is fairly accurate. If someone wants funding, ask this simple question: "Does he or she paint, sculpt or draw?" If the answer is "NO!" then they don't get a dime of taxpayer money to pursue their frivilious "art." (If I were in charge, taxpayers wouldn't fund art of any kind. Unless the artists could make a living at it, as I did when I played guitar professionally, I would suggest that they get a real job and pursue their "hobby" in their spare time, just the way I do with my blog.)

If my opinion needed any reinforcement, THIS STORY provides it. From what I've seen of "performance artists," I believe the old Phi Zappa Crappa poster from my college days set the standard. If Frank Zappa were still alive to sit on a toilet today, he might be praised as a truly existential figure, posing deep questions about the human spirit, man's inhumanity to man, the injustice of the haves versus the have-nots and all kinds of other bilge spewed by "art" sponsors. As it was, Frank did something deliberately outrageous for those times, and made his own money selling that poster, with no help from swooning art-maggots.

That's the way it should be. An artist starves ONLY if he's not a very good artist. I don't know why those people deserve public funding.





Adios, grass! I no sooner brought my son home today than he recruited little Jack and some others for a baseball game in my front yard. Their bare feet are churning the sand-spit like the tines on a tiller. Once they've killed all the grass, I suspect they will track dirt all over my carpet when they come inside for something to drink.

So what? I would rather have them in my yard than the grass anyway.
Yep, without a doubt, THIS is what we need to prevent hijackers from storming the cockpit and crashing another plane. Just put all sorts of hidden cameras everywhere on the plane and a really dedicated, federalized security expert will watch like a hawk and alert the armed sky marshall if anyone makes a suspicious move.

More likely, we'll have underpaid, undertrained incompetents using the cameras to "check the legs on THAT one" and peer right up her skirt if he can manipulate the lens properly. A hijacker could slip up and slit his throat with a boxcutter while the idiot slobbers over the view-finder hoping to find a beaver shot.

Good grief. Arm the pilots with pistols and forget about the spy cameras. Big Brother examines us closely enough already.

Tuesday, May 07, 2002

I received a phone call about 8:00 last night from one of my neighbors informing me that my son's playmate and my adopted nephew, Jack, had tumbled backward from the bleachers at the Effingham County Recreation Center during a baseball game and landed from a height of six feet right on his little head on a concrete sidewalk. Jack was being rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. I worried about the little sucker all night. When I went to work this morning, I saw all the proper cars in his driveway, so I knew the family was not holding a death-watch-vigil at his bedside, which relieved me somewhat. But I wasn't certain until I came home today and Jack came running across the street to show me his war-wound and tell me his story. His face appears to have been attacked by a belt sander armed with a coarse grade of paper, and he was KNOCKED OUT by the fall. He woke up in the "ambalant" and enjoyed the ride to the hospital because the "ambalant" had its lights flashing and the siren wailing. It was all a big hoot to him. He's six years-old and all boy. He remains obvilious to the fact that he scared the living crap out of his entire family.

Jack is a tough kid and I like him a lot. I once threw him a football from about 25 yards away and watched it go right through his hands to hit him square in the forehead. I saw the bottoms of his shoes as he did a semi-backflip into the dirt. I thought I had killed him. I ran up to see him blinking furiously. "Are you all right, Jack?" I asked, wondering how in the world I would explain to his mama how I MURDERED HER SON with a football. "I'm fine, Uncle Rob," he responded. He got up from the dirt. "Throw me another one. I'll CATCH IT this time," and off he ran, looking for another pass.

I am happy that Jack was not hurt badly last night. I am delighted that little Jacks exist in this world, just as I am delighted that he and my son play so well together. Jack's mama remains amazed that he minds me better than he minds her. I guess she's never bonged him into semi-consciousness with a football before. He has felt my wrath from a distance.

My boy will be here tomorrow to spend the next four days with me while his mutha goes off on another business trip. I suppose taking up my offer to allow him to stay with me while she travels makes her feel all warm and fuzzy about the divorce. I get to keep a realtionship with my son, so her conscience is assuaged about treating me like absolute shit for the first weeks when I was laid up after surgery. That would be true if she had a conscience, which she doesn't. She will climb far up the corporate ladder, because she is unencumbered by any emotions besides personal self-worship.

If that's the key to success, I don't want it. Call me old-fashioned. Call me a trusting, naive Beaver Cleaver, the way my ex-wife does. Call me anything you want, but I remain convinced that some things are more important than money and power. I spent fifty years learning the rules I play by, and I am content with them. I am far from perfect, but the world would be a much better place if EVERYBODY thought the way I do. Everybody would want play musical instruments, nobody would have to lock their doors and this world would be Merlefest every day, with lots of three-part harmony.

I'll take that over the way it is, any day.
I always wondered why nobody brought THIS UP about Janet Reno while she was Attorney General, especially after the slaughter she spearheaded in Waco and the disgusting performance she choreographed during the Elian Gonzales episode. Her performance in Florida is on the public record. That demented woman has "protected children" by going absolutely nutty prosecuting innocent people in fabricated child-abuse cases and making a reputation as one of the most hard-headed, law-abusing, power-mad idiots this nation has seen. THAT sterling performance is what made Hillary Clinton select Reno for AG in the first place. (Yeah, I KNOW Bill Clinton appointed her. But Reno is HILLARY's kind of woman. You tell me who made that call.)

If Florida elects her governor, the state REALLY needs to examine its voting procedures. And caring parents need to leave the state immediately, hauling their precious children with them.

Janet Reno is a SICK WOMAN.
I have something else to write about that cretin in Washington state who is suffering a carefully choreographed fit of apoplexy about the "Jefferson Davis Highway" that befouls his land. (See just below) His comments about Confederate emblems representing "the new white supremacists" WAS a really ignorant, bigoted, slack-jawed, mouth-breathing, clueless bunch of noxious gas spewing from his prejudiced throat, but I should not have called him an "asshole" no matter how much he deserved it. He IS one, but I should never have resorted to that sort of base, knee-jerk reaction. I can do better than that.

I love living in the South, and I always will use capital letters when I write about it. The South is a unique place, a land of friendly people steeped in a heritage that outsiders simply cannot understand. We believe in manners and chivarly, which are old and moldy concepts, scorned by the rest of the nation, but still important to us. We respect our ancestors and our history the way we love our mothers, and the trendy ideas of political-correctness will never change that. Since Appomattox, Southern soldiers have been heroes in every war the United States has fought, far out of proportion to their percentage of the population. We who live in rural areas grow up using guns, and we make formidable warriors. We have paid our dues in battle saving the witless asses of the Dunshees of this land time and time again, long after the Civil War.

If you drive through the great state of Georgia, you will find a monument to the fallen Confererate soldier in almost every town you enter. The statues have nothing to do with white supremacy. They are simply a part of our history, and we tend to remember our history better than the rest of the country does. You'll also find statues to Southerners who died in WWI, WWII, Korea and Vietnam. We remember those fallen soldiers, too.

That gasbag Hans Dunshee calls Jefferson Davis a "traitor." He is ignorant to do so, because he is using 20th-century, sheep-like acceptance of a big, fat, intrusive federal government as his basis for judging men who still believed in that woefully antiquated concept of "state's rights" 150 years ago. By his yardstick, Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson and every barefoot soldier who wore the proud gray uniform into battle was a traitor. Those were men who possessed more honor than Dunshee ever could imagine, and if he would bother to read Lee's writings about his decision to support Virginia instead of the US government when he was offered the COMMAND OF THE UNION ARMY, Dunshee might develop a hint about how some men really wrestle with the concept of right and wrong instead of running out showing their butts in a false display of righteousness at their first self-aggrandizing opportunity. He could learn a lot about being a MAN from that "traitor." But he won't, because he doesn't have a clue about men of integrity and strong, well-considered beliefs. He's a two-bit, posturing dungball, which is all he ever will be, and which is what we end up with in most politicians today. Honor has no place in his pathetic world. He is a big mouth with a small brain and no character at all.

I stick with my original opinion of this guy as a festering boil on the hindquarters of our nation. But I won't call him an asshole again.
"Heather" stumbled across my blog the other day and left me a nice note in my guestbook. I thought I would return her kindness by linking to her page, where you can read the HEATHER FARTED STORY if you go there quickly while it's still at the top. Otherwise, just scroll down until you find it, then keep going until you find the drummer jokes, which I found cruel and insulting to all musicians, especially her husband, but hilarious just the same. She's a "Jawja" girl, so I ask my loyal readers (that would be YOU, Mom, and LHCB and RECONDO32) to spin her hit counter. It's really worth the trip.

Monday, May 06, 2002

Yeah, the Jefferson Davis Highway probably outrages black people all over the country. But THIS STUFF happens all the time and you never see Jesse or Al or any of the heavy-hitters saying what a crying shame it is. Jesus, talk about misplaced priorities.

.
I got 10 out of 11 right on THIS TEST and the one I missed was a simple case of raging overconfidence and incandescent ego outrunning my brain. But I got the MATH QUESTION RIGHT!
Here comes another outraged, righteously indignant buffoon showing his pompous ass in a full moon all the way from Washington State. Mr. Hans Dunshee, a member of the Washington state House of Representatives, discovered that a "Jefferson Davis Highway" exists in his state, and he is shocked, SHOCKED AND APPALLED that the ex-President of the Confederacy should be so honored. So, Representative Dunshee has appointed himself as the conscience of his state and intends to rid Washington of this ugly stain on its countryside. An expert on the South and all things Southern by virtue of living as far away from the South as he possibly can get without leaving the continental US, "He says it is all a part of what he calls the neo-Confederate movement. 'The great wound of our country is racism - there are people in this country who are trying to revise history to glorify the Confederacy. And it's all part of racism and the white supremacist movement - it really is. It's sort of the gentle, leading edge, but it is part of the white supremacist movement.' "

I know it warms the cockles of my heart (and causes a certain burning sensation in the sub-cockle regions, too) to hear a fine, morally-superior man such as Dunshee denounce racism and bigotry in language dripping with absolute brainless bigotry. I'll cut right to the chase with him. You, sir, are a grandstanding political whore. You don't know what you're talking about and I find your words crass and insulting. Down South, among all those white supremacists you seem to know so much about, we have a joke: "What has eighteen legs and five teeth? A KKK meeting." So don't expect me to dig my white robe and hood from the closet and pay you a visit. We're not all equipped with those costumes anymore.

Being the witless prick you are, you have no concept of the South. North, east and west are directions. South is a way of life. Our traditions are dear to us, and we are accustomed through years of practice to being the straw man egotistical, misguided bullies such as yourself kick around when they wish to demonstrate their deep concern for the feelings of others. I should not waste my time responding to your narrow-minded bigotry, because frankly, I must step beneath my dignity to deal with the likes of you. But it's a Monday and I'm in a pretty foul mood anyway.

Dig up the marker and rename the road if it makes you happy. Then pat yourself on the back and say, "What a good boy am I" ten times as loud as you can. Then, look up "asshole" in the dictionary and try not to be surprised when you see a picture of your shining face beaming back at you.


Every time I start to think that the US legal system is completely out of control, I run across another example of CANADIAN LUNACY that makes our system look a lot better. I have no doubt that the woman in the story sincerely believes that she was poisoned by inhaling phenol fumes. Of course, she might also believe that she has been abducted by UFOs and that the ghost of Elvis visits her every Friday night. Just because she believes it doesn't make it so, especially not to the tune of $104,000, even if it is in Canadian dollars instead of real money.

"After the exposure, Ms. Sant complained of tingling and burning in her limbs and nausea, as well as several more unusual symptoms, including "painful jaw glands, big toes tingling and bluish, burning in brain" ( THAT ONE I CAN BELIEVE--ed.) and "Can't sleep on back -- makes head feel as if it will explode."

She visited her physician 60 times after the spill and spent several weeks being tested at an institution called the Environmental Health Center in Dallas.

There it was found that while she exhibited symptoms when exposed to phenol, she also exhibited symptoms when exposed to distilled water.

Medical tests found no evidence of liver, kidney or nervous system damage. Her physician ultimately decided her symptoms 'could be explained by menopause and might well be psychosomatic.' "


You don't say? The symptoms might be psychosomatic? Well, let's just cut that confused lady a check right now! And the next logical step is to ban phenol so that no one else ever suffers a fate as terrible as hers because of that toxic chemical.


Sunday, May 05, 2002

I picked THIS LINK from LONG HAIRED COUNTRY BOY because I like the confusion everybody feels. Plus, I actually agree with that bloviating, alcoholic gasbag Ted Kennedy, which doesn't happen very often. Enviro-freaks went to war, won, and now aren't sure about the victory.

"The environmental group Conservation Law Foundation had said that the measures were desperately needed to save overfished groundfish stocks and help fishermen in the long run. But, like the fishermen, Conservation Law is considering whether to ask Kessler to reconsider parts of her decision, because they could put too many fishermen out of work."

Don't you just love THAT?

I would say that I cut my grass today, but that would be a total lie. I ran my lawn mower over the weeds, body-snatcher pods and triffids that spring up left and right on my sand-spit property. I have no grass to cut. I have only "fragile ecosystems" that I cannot kill off no matter how hard I try. Some of the grass seeds I planted are beginning to sprout, but the weeds are eating them, and extending their grasping tentacles up the walls and through the windows of my house in a determined effort to EAT ME next. I feel besieged.

Plus, I have more ants per square inch than God ever intended to be on the face of the planet. I have black ants, red ants, fire ants, sugar ants and nasty swarms of unidentified ants from hell, who seem to gather volunteers from every ant-family in the yard to launch a jihad against me. As I write this missive, I am sitting with my feet off the floor and a can of Raid within arm's reach.

It's a conspiracy. The weeds and the ants distract me while the tree-rats eat my okra. Mother Nature wants to pound me into sawdust with her pestilence, and She thinks she has the upper hand right now. But I don't quit that easily.

I still have an imaginary quart jar of Chlordane in my garage. It's illegal to possess that banned insecticide, so obviously I don't ACTUALLY have a quart Mason jar of the stuff, even if I once knew farmers who bought it in 55-gallon drums and siphoned some off for me from time to time. No, I have none of it, but I wish I did.

I just might put some in a hose-end sprayer, suit up in rubber gloves and a face-mask, and treat my yard with it. The ants would go away, along with the mole crickets, grubworms, termites, wasps, birds, squirrels, rabbits and whatever else comes thieving on my property. That would be a sharp stick in the eye to Mother Nature.

It's just a good thing that I don't ACTUALLY have any of that stuff.
The "peer-to-peer" review project finally produced an evaluation of my blog. I wrote my critique of the site I drew, which was "Blog This!" about a month ago, and you can find my opinion somewhere in my archives. I am not going look it up or to link to it, because frankly, that blog is not worth the effort. I may be a hung-up English major, but I believe capital letters and proper grammar count when someone writes. I also don't understand how someone can do a FULL WEEK of posts about taking a crap, which is what THAT blogger did, as if anyone other than himself would be interested in that...er...shit.

The sweet woman who reviewed me was a lot nicer than I was to the fellow I excoriated as a brown stain on the underwear of blogdom. She wrote:

Anicee L. Cochran
I haven't reviewed a journal before, and was rather apprehensive initially. I mean what does one critique in the world of personal thought? Who am I to 'review' someone's basic thoughts, feelings, and opinions. It didn't occur to me that by attempting to review a journal site I would in part be joining the statistical masses that are starting to view journals as a little more than journals. It's pop-culture, baby! The words put forth by the myriads of blog-frenzied cyber-souls mean so much more in a public forum because they tend to become meaningful to more than the writer alone. I have read numerous journals, and find the daily drama, idiosyncratic ramblings, and various "extras" to be better than television. The variety of writers, styles, and topics make it endlessly intriguing.

The journal I'm focusing on in this review is cleverly titled, Gut Rumblings. The author self-describes the focus of the site as, "HUMOROUS OBSERVATIONS, VITRIOLIC RANTS AND A CEASELESS QUEST FOR ADORATION FROM PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW ME." In my reading of the site I've found this description accurate. It would appear that this man spends a lot of time reading not only current events, and political editorials, but quite a few blogs/journals as well. A typical post comes with a link to something that's recently piqued his interest, but it contrasts the masses of 99% link 1% content sites. He usually posts a link within the first 2 sentences, and follows with his opinion on the story that's linked, or at least takes the time to explain his interest.

He definitely shows a great desire for people to become regular readers (as I have). In numerous posts he references the fact that someone has linked him, or that someone else is getting pronounced attention & complaining about it. I honestly think that the cleverness in many of his posts deserve some attention. While it's obvious to me that our journalistic worlds are incredibly different, and our interests differ, I have followed several of the links in his posts. In my journey on many of these digital paths I've found a certain amount of new interest, as well as a certain amount of regurgitated political propoganda. Either way it's an extension of the WWW that I have yet to experience. One thing I do have in common with the writer is my stern view on the world. While the details may vary, my passion for them meets his. Sarcasm loaded, verbal abuse for various aspects of political, and governmental "issues" are something we seem to share. I haven't posted as much recently on the matter, but he's inspired me to start.

The site design definitely lacks. It's a template from Blogger.com. I chose not to rant a bit about that for two reasons. One being the old saying "don't throw stones at glass houses." While I designed my site, the time to really create it wasn't there. I personally don't care for the Gut Rumblings design, but that's just my opinion. Two, it's supposed to be the content, not the look that we're brought back to, right? I strongly believe that while aesthetically pleasing sites definitely give a positive twist to any given website, the content should really make the deciding vote.

Overall I would definitely recommend taking the time to visit this site. I plan on continuing my visits. As a matter of fact, to add some diverse flavor to mine, and to hopfully help him in his efforts to increase his public acknowledgement I am going to add a link to his journal on mine."


GUT RUMBLES was reviewed by Anicee Cochran.
© 2002 The author (text) and The Peer-to-Peer Review Project (design / code).

That's not bad, is it? At least she didn't call ME a brown stain on the underwear of blogdom. I think I love this woman....

You can visit her site AND see her picture HERE.


This is the first post since Saturday morning, because I've had my son with me this weekend and we've been busy men. We went to visit my swimming pool owning, Merlefest partner Willie yesterday, and my son confirmed that swimming is just like riding a bicycle. Once you've got it, you never forget. He and the rest of the kids splashed in the pool while we adults sat in the Florida room and made music.

I played mandolin the entire time. I played it well, too. I learned so much at Merlefest that I believe I surprised everyone with my picking. I've been working on it since I came back home, and it was good to have a chance to show off. The banjo is next, because I learned a lot about THAT instrument, too, while I was there. I believe I crossed a threshold in my musical experience while I was at Merlefest. I am better than I ever was, and I wasn't all that bad before.