Saturday, June 01, 2002

About one year ago, I was required to attend a business dinner on a Wednesday night while my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife was out of town. That was just a few months before she became an ex, so she remained my darling at the time. Those were the salad days. But that's all another story, which I have spoken of a few times on this blog, and will continue to do until I get all the betrayal, heartbreak and perfidy straight in my head. I don't do things like that, and I don't understand people who do.

Here I go, digressing again...

Anyway, I was in charge of the care and feeding of my then-seven year-old son, so I dropped him off at Granny's house for tending while I went to hobnob with the bosses and spread my sparkling personality liberally around the room. The dinner was over at about 10:00, far past my son's bedtime, so I was not surprised when I found him sound asleep at Granny's when I came to retrieve him. I carried his limp, comatose body out to my truck and laid him out in the back seat. I carefully fastened a seat belt around him while he slept the deep, complete, unrelenting sleep that only seven year-olds seem to be able to muster. Then I started for home.

On Highway 30, far back in the woods of rural Georgia, I was stopped by a roadblock manned by the testosterone-crazed, gun-toting, IQ-impaired cowboys of the Port Wentworth Police Department. Ever vigilant and eager to apprehend desperados, they were engaged in one of those "scratch and sniff" exercises, hoping to find somebody guilty of something by stopping every motorist coming down the road that night.

The Supreme Court has ruled that such a blantant invasion of privacy is legal. I rule that it is downright un-American, but I don't wear a black robe, so my opinion doesn't count. I stopped and started digging for my wallet while rolling down my window.
I never actually saw the cop who approached my truck. I heard his footsteps on the pavement and the creak of the leather on his Sam Browne belt, but I never saw him because he shot me square in the eyes with phasers set on "kill" from a flashlight bright enough to light a high school football game on a moonless night.

"Driver's license and proof of insurance, please," he said, all the while beaming that flashlight right in my face. Totally blinded, I fumbled around in my wallet, finally managing to produce the necessary documents while wild spots of color danced in my vision every time I blinked. He examined my papers, seeming displeased that I was able to produce them, then handed them back. All the while, I was thinking, thank God I drank only one beer during the social hour and one glass of wine with dinner. If this guy smelled alcohol on me, I was a goner.

His flashlight beam darted into the back seat to illuminate my sleeping son. "Is that your kid?" he asked.

I don't want to discuss what a stupid question that was. I want to tell you what shot through my mind as all those colored lights danced before my still-blinking eyes. I started to say:

"HOLY SHIT! If I'da knowed there was a fucking KID in here, I never woulda stole THIS truck!"

"No, officer, he's not mine, but he's for sale. You want to buy him?"

"Yes, officer, he's mine now. I bought him fair and square from his Mama the crack addict, right behind the Port Wentworth Police Station, where you could have caught us both red-handed, committing an actual crime, if you were there instead of out here in the woods being a total prick."

"Hee, hee, hee. Wait until you read about the ransom I'm asking for."

"Kid? What kid? Officer, have you been drinking? Taking illegal drugs? Let me get MY flashlight and shine it in YOUR face. I want to check the pupils of your eyes."

But I didn't say any of that. I said, "That's my son and I need to get him home. He has school tomorrow."

The cop let me proceed, and turned his flashlight on the poor bastard behind me.
Although I was thoroughly raped in divorce court, I did walk away from the wreck of my marriage with one thing intact: my marble collection. My bloodless cunt of an ex-wife stopped by my truck at work one day and left the five-gallon bucket full of marbles in the passenger seat. When I started home that day, I put the bucket down on the floorboard, where it promptly turned over and spilled the first time I made a turn. I drove all the way to Rincon, Georgia, with 20,000 marbles rolling all over the floor.

When I got home, I had to scoop them all up and put them back in the bucket. That job took a long time, not only because there were so many marbles scattered all over the place, but also because I found many of my favorites in there and tripped back down memory lane to how I came to own them.

Kids don't play marbles anymore. They have a lot of high-tech toys that play all by themselves for the most part, so they simply turn them on and watch. Or they have brain-sucking Nintendo or Play Station games that can be played inside, sitting down, on the couch, or anyplace else they can vegitate, growing plump and pale like little cyber-slugs, while watching computer animations dance across a screen accompanied by annoying "bleep" and "boink" sound effects.

They don't get down on their elbows and knees in the dirt and feel the warm summer sun on their backs while shouting "knuckle down!" and "no fudging!" to their opponents while games of rings, pig's eye, rolley-hole, bombers, follows and lag-the-line rage all day. They don't go home in the evenings and dump all their marbles from a ditty bag with a drawstring top to total up their winnings and separate the "keepers" from the "pawns."

No, kids don't do that anymore. That's why I could clean out the whole neighborhood with a Drop Can if anybody still played marbles.
My Uncle Virgil, mama's youngest brother, taught me how to play Drop Can when I was six years old, right before he went off to join the army. He took an empty coffee can and cut a hole, just slightly larger than a marble, in the bottom. Then he set the can upside down on the ground and made a wonderful offer to me and my cousin Ernie. He would give us five marbles for every one we could hold "belly button high" and drop through the hole. He got to keep every marble that missed. I couldn't wait to try it.
After about ten straight misses, I didn't want to try any more. So, Uncle Virgil offered to reverse the roles, since he felt sorry for me losing ten marbles and wanted to give me a chance to win them back. He would drop at the can and I could keep every marble that missed. Of course, I would have to give him five marbles for every one that went in. After seeing first-hand how difficult it was to put one through the hole, I eagerly agreed.

Uncle Virgil missed the first two, then put about seven in a row through the hole. The game broke up when I got mad, began crying and started throwing rocks at him. I didn't know how, but I knew I had been played for a sucker.

And I was. Before Uncle Virgil hopped the bus to boot camp, after I stopped throwing rocks at him every time I saw him, he showed me the secret of the Drop Can. In the end, I suppose I owe Uncle Virgil a debt of gratitude, because a lot of those marbles rolling around the floor of my truck were won using my own Drop Can, although I had to learn to dodge both rocks and fists as a result.
The trick is simple. You see, you position your dropping hand on your belly and you never move it while... wait a minute! I'm not going to let that secret out.

Want to see how it's done? Come by my house and I'll show you.

Bring plenty of marbles.

Once upon a time, I was a columnist for the Effingham County Herald, the weekly paper that carries all the news fit to print in my neck of the Georgia woods. I didn't get paid for my writing, but I did get my picture, a horrible photo where I seemed to be on my second six-pack before noon (hell, maybe I WAS. Some of those days are foggy in my memory), printed at the top of what I wrote. I enjoyed the celebrity, especially when I was recognized and either cursed or lauded at the Swamp Fox, the general store where the elite meet to buy gas, cigarettes and beer, and swap all the gossip that's not fit to print in The Herald.

I was somebody. I coulda been a contender, but I was fired from this job that paid no money for outraging the Salzberger community by suggesting in one of my columns that I was underappreciated because most residents of Effingham County couldn't read. I meant it as a joke, but the local churches (especially the Lutherans, those humorless bastards) didn't get it and a ton of hate mail poured in, not to the editor, but to the publisher, including some threats by prominent business folk to withdraw their advertising dollars if I were not booted from the pages forthwith.

I was booted.

The publisher at the time was a very vicious, mean-spirited bitch, with some kind of murky Cajun background. I believed she really liked firing people, because she ran through three editors in the next two years. I have never written anything for or read anything in The Herald since that day.

It's interesting how things work out. I'm MY OWN PUBLISHER now, and the only person who can fire me is ME! I'm not about to fire myself. Who could I hire to replace ME? In fact, I think I'll double the salary I pay myself for writing this blog.

If I may engage in a little nosism, we are happy with the current arrangement. (THAT'S ONE!)
I became a fan of JAMES LILEKS when his column started appearing on the editorial page of the Savannah Morning News several years ago, when I still subscribed to the paper and occasionally had my rants published there, sometimes on the same page with Lileks. The SMN ditched him, for some mysterious reason, and began running columns scrawled in crayon by Molly Ivans instead. I quit reading or writing for "Georgia's best newspaper" shortly thereafter.

I found Lilek's web site by accident before he became well-known (hell, FAMOUS) as a blogger and I was a frequent visitor before he hit the really big time. I still love the way he writes and I'm delighted he is getting the appreciative audience he deserves. Everybody who enjoys seeing the work of a true artist should read James regularly. He leaves a distinct thumbprint on his work, which reminds me of a combination of Mark Twain and Joseph Heller, but there's always that special sauce added that makes his writing unique.

Just read this about the aftermath of 9/11: "One thing still amazes me: at the end of the day the site was floodlit, and the crews were on the job. Rescue and removal started immediately. In today’s paper I read of a train accident in Mauritania - the train had developed problems going down a hill, so the engineer stopped the train, braced the passenger cars with rocks, decoupled the engine and limped on ahead. Eventually the rocks failed, the passenger cars came roaring down the hill, hit a truck, derailed, hundreds dead. It took 90 minutes for an ambulance to show up; most of the wounded were taken by private truck to the hospital two hours away. That’s the norm for much of the world. We took for granted that the WTC site would be lit up by nightfall, with bulldozers and firetrucks and excavation vehicles, firemen and sniffer dogs pitching in to start what seemed like an impossible job."

Yes, we take for granted a great many things in this country. The people attending to the WTC cleanup finished their work in half the time experts thought it would take and for several billion dollars less than the experts predicted it would cost. The Federal Government never had a chance to become involved, which really speeded up the process. Now, it's all over but the memories.

Lileks has something to say about that, too: "It says something about America that you can’t blow up an average skyscraper without killing people of every race and creed on the planet.

It says something about America’s critics that fighting Arab Islamists is automatically racist - and the murder of diverse peoples by an ethnically homogenous group is explained as a response to . . . racist American policies.

James is GOOD. Read him every chance you get.

As long as I'm busily raping Dave Tepper's work, I'll shoplift one more item before I head for the door. Take a bunch of tests and learn WHATEVER YOU WANT TO KNOW about yourself.

I took the "What Kind of Soul Are You?" and at the end was asked, Hasn't anyone ever told you that you're artistic? Yeah, but they usually threw the word "bullshit" in when they talked about my artistry. Does THIS sound like ME?

Virtues: You look for immense creativity and individuality in people, including yourself. You're not happy with anything less than brilliant, and you focus on being expressive. You value energy, liveliness, and upbeat personalities, but you're not supportive of moodiness when you yourself can be unreliably moody. Seeking activity, you like the bustle of business but need the secluded atmosphere of a studio or private corner.

Aspirations: You feel the need to express your talents, whether it be through writing, drawing, singing, dancing, composing, performing, or photographing. While you strive to ever improve your work, you want to display it as soon as possible when your impatience kicks in. You want to be a prodigy but you might not have the means right at your fingertips. Trust me, do NOT move to New York to do it. Yeesh!

Quirks: Conformists bother you because of their lack of individuality. You're often late or unreliable. You're showy and refuse to share the spotlight. You only tell little white lies. You worm your way into the hearts of others, but be careful; some people despise the show-offs.

Factors: Surround yourself with activity and you'll always have material to work with. Involve friends and family in your projects so they don't feel like envious outsiders.

Future: Show business or not, you'll settle down happily if you're among those who appreciate your natural talents and desire to perform. Don't stay in one place too long, and don't be too hasty in defining your relationships. Who are you to judge what only time will tell?

All in all, I would say THAT'S ME!
We went to visit DAVE TEPPER'S SITE and learned a new word that we are going to find an excuse to use at least THREE TIMES before Monday morning. The word is "Nosism" and it means using "we" when speaking of oneself, sort of the way Hillary Clinton likes to do..

We were amused to learn that word. We will find a way to use it three times before Monday morning. We will incorporate it into our already vast vocabulary. We will cleverly insert it into a blog other than this one, and we will do it soon.

We also discovered THIS WORDSHOP where such jewels line every shelf. We could browze there for hours.
Man! You go wandering around the net without a map and there's no telling where you may END UP. That's a ghastly place I just left. DON'T GO THERE!
I am frightened to admit that if I live a few more lonely years, I'll probably be exactly like THIS GUY, only worse. He may be weird, but at least he's consistent. He hates EVERYBODY!
If I can just figure out how to put this into an "ABOUT ME" file, I'll post in over on the left. Meanwhile, About Me goes right here.

Name: Rob
Nickname: Acidman
Astrological sign: Aquarius
Age: 50
Height: 5' 8""
Level of Education: B.A. English Literature
Occupation: Production Coordinator, Pigments Finishing
Birthplace: Kenvir, Kentucky
Marital status: Divorced
How many children: Two
Do you drink (alcohol): Yes, often to excess. It stirs the Muse.
Do you smoke: Only tobacco
Favorite outdoor activities: Golf, gardening and camping
Favorite indoor activities: Blogging, cooking, making music
Favorite type of music: Folk and Country
Favorite musical groups/performers: John Prine, Allison Krause, Gordon Lightfoot, Dire Straits, Fleetwood Mac
Favorite soundtracks: Brother, Where Art Thou?
Favorite song at the moment: "Souvenirs," by Steve Goodman as performed by John Prine
What's in your home CD/Casette player right now: John Prine's "Great Days"
What's in you car CD/Casette player right now: It's empty. I listen to talk radio when I drive.
Do you play an instrument: Yes. Guitar, mandolin, autoharp and half-assed banjo
One pillow or two: Three. I have a big bed.
Croutons or bacon bits: Croutons
Favorite salad dressing: Peppercorn Ranch
Have you ever had your appendix or tonsils removed: Neither. But I would swap both tonsils, my appendix and throw in my spleen, too, if I could retrieve the prostate gland I lost last October.
Have you ever gone skinny-dipping: A lot, as a boy and as a man. I'm a nudist at heart.
Do you make fun of people: Yes. But they've got to piss me off first..
As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up: Professional football player, astronaut.
What would be your dream job now: Writer
Have you ever been convicted of a crime: Yes, but it wasn't a felony. I would say I was framed, but I was guilty as hell.
Places you'd most like to visit: Australia, outer space
Your first car: 1968 fire-engine red AMC Javelin
Dream car: Fully restored 1957 Chevrolet Belaire
Toothpaste: Whatever is handy
Shampoo/Conditioner: Whatever is on sale at the Super Wal-Mart
Favorite season: Summer
Favorite holiday: Fourth of July
Favorite board/card game: Poker
Favorite hobbies: Golf, camping, swimming
Favorite sport to play: Golf
Favorite sport to watch: Football
Least favorite sport to watch: Dressage
Most humiliating moment: Attempting to pin a corsage on the dress of one of my first dates. I finally handed the orchid to her mom because I KNEW I was gonna stick that pin in my date's boob.
Do you have any siblings: One younger brother
Do you get along with your parents: My father died of prostate cancer in 1992. I get along fine with my mom, although she worries about me.
Favorite place to chill: My crackerbox house in Rincon, Georgia.
Favorite place to visit: My friend Willie's house.
What is your bad time of day: Bedtime. I don't sleep much.
What is your good time of day: Sunset
Favorite perfume or cologne: I don't wear cologne
Favorite scent of candle: Jasmine
Favorite flower/plant: Lantanas and homegrown tomatoes
Favorite subject in school: English
Least favorite subject in school: Math
Favorite authors: Mark Twain, Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Rudyard Kipling
Favorite book genre: I'll read anything
Favorite book: "Catch 22" by Joseph Heller and "Earth Abides" by George R. Stewart
Current book I'm reading: "Just Killing Time" by Derek Van Armen
Favorite magazine: National Review
Favorite movie you have seen recently: Oh Brother Where Art Thou
Favorite movie of all time: Forrest Gump
Other favorite movies: Oh Brother Where Art Thou, The Wild Bunch, True Grit, 2001 a Space Oddessy, Saving Private Ryan, The Big Chill, The Outlaw Josey Wales, Silence of the Lambs
Favorite actors/actresses: Clint Eastwood, Keven Spacey, Jodie Foster, Meg Ryan
Favorite TV programs: I really don't watch much TV
Favorite cartoon character: Wile E. Coyote
Favorite food: Blood-rare steak and shrimp
Chocolate or Vanilla: Chocolate
Favorite ice cream: Breyer's Hershey's Chocolate with almonds
Favorite Snapple: Probably anything if you put vodka in it first. Otherwise, I never touch the stuff.
Favorite alcoholic Drink: White Zinfandel wine
What is your bedtime: 9:30 PM
Best on-line friends: JB, Heather, Dax and Donna
Best friends: Willie, Rick and Ed
Worst enemies: The unemployed, dope-smoking ex-friend shacking with my ex-wife now. The ex-wife.
Interesting fact about your childhood: When I was five, I really believed that if I tied a towel around my neck like a Superman cape, I could fly off my front porch. I almost killed myself trying.
How many rings before you answer the phone: That depends on where I am, what I'm doing and if I feel like answering the phone.
The first thing you think of in the morning: Work.
Favorite thing to do when you're home alone: Blog, play one of my instruments, walk around the house naked.
Things that make you feel good: Finishing what I started, reading witty comments on my blog, kissing, having my back scratched, snuggling with a woman while she sleeps, watching people enoy a meal I cooked.
Things you don't like: Idiots, liberals, Ted Kennedy, environmentalists and anti-smokers, or any other totalitarian hockwads like them.
Worst feeling in the world: Losing everything you ever cared about in life and knowing that you'll never get it back.
Best feeling in the world: Being in love.
Do you get motion sickness: No. I have a cast-iron gut and damn fine inner ears.
Roller Coasters - Deadly or Exciting: Deadly
Thunderstorms - Cool or Scary: Very Cool
Pen or Pencil: Pen
Do you like to drive: Not really. It's more of a chore than a joy.
Do you sleep with stuffed animals: No. But I knew a few women who could qualify.
Did you have imaginary friends or a blanket as a child: No.
What is on the walls of your room: Pictures of my son and a poster I drew when I was in 8th grade.
What words or phrases do you overuse: Obscenities, mostly.
Coolest things anyone ever gave you: The pocketknife my son bought me with his own money on Father's Day two years ago, after I broke mine at work. A postcard from the Panama Canal, stamped at 11:58, two minutes before the US turned the canal over to Panama. I believe my ex-wife has that now, and she never met the Ranger who sent it to me.
How would you characterize your political leanings: I am a Randian Libertarian in most things. I believe government should exist to provide a standing army, to protect the rights of the unpopular and to prevent anarchy. Otherwise, it should butt the hell OUT OF MY LIFE! I believe we are horribly overtaxed, over-regulated and over-nannied by a government that is bloated, incompetent and staffed largely by people who can't find their asses with both hands. Our politicians are whores and our bureaucrats are brain-dead. I suppose I might be called a Radical Individualist. Yeah, that's ME.
If you could pick one super-human power, what would you choose: I wish I could fly.

Favorite Quotes/Lyrics/Poems:
"It's not your WORD that counts! It's who you GIVE IT TO!" Ernest Borgnine to William Holden in THE WILD BUNCH

"You get crossways with me and you'll feel like a thousand 'o brick had fell on ya." John Wayne to Glenn Campbell in TRUE GRIT

"You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers." Universal statement by NRA members, of which I am one.

"I did not have sex with THAT WOMAN, Ms. Lewenski." The biggest, boldest, bald-faced lie ever told by an American President.

"Let's roll." The last words of a courageous group of people who went down fighting. True Americans.

Memories, they can't be bought and
They can't be won in carnivals for free
It took me years, to get these souvenirs
And I don't know how they slipped away from me

"Souvenirs," by Steve Goodman

I forgot all about Southern Units of Measure last night.

1) A shitpot full. That's a whole bunch of something. Anybody with a shitpot full of money is rich.

2) Out the wazoo. That's a lot of something, but it ain't as much as a shitpot full. As in "Billy-Bob's selling used cars now, and he's making money out the wazoo. But his daddy owns the bank. DADDY'S got a shitpot full of money."

3) A gnat's ass. That's a short distance, usually describing a near miss. As in "Did you see that putt? I just missed it by a gnat's ass." Or, "That log truck changed lanes in front of me and missed my bumper by a gnat's ass. Man, that was CLOSE."

4) A cunt-hair. That's a short distance, usually describing an adjustment in alignment. "Billy-Bob, just move it a cunt-hair to the left and it'll be right on the money." You're talking less than 1/4 inch when you speak of a cunt hair. A gnat's ass can range from 1/4 inch to a few feet.

5) From here to yonder. That's a great distance. Anything that stretches from here to yonder goes a long way. As in "I came home drunk last night and saw that the old lady had throwed all my clothes out in the yard. The dog got a-hold of 'em and had 'em scattered from here to yonder."

6) A blivet. A blivet is ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. I don't believe I need further elaboration.

Friday, May 31, 2002

It's fifteen minutes away from my usual bedtime, but it's Friday night and I don't have to drag myself out of bed at 4:00 AM in the morning. I believe I'll stay up late and celebrate tonight. I have lots of White Zin and nothing else to do, except for laundry, dishes, vacuuming and other assorted domestic duties that I can ignore. I may blog late tonight. If the posts become incoherent, the White Zin is doing its job. (Note to the Masked One: alcohol units so far--4)

For anyone who wants to go back two weeks in my archives to Sunday before last, you'll learn that I went into a ninja-like state of hightened awareness because we were starting a run of experimental pigment at work. We've "experimented" with this stuff before, and everybody calls it "The Widowmaker," because it's the most difficult, contrary, uncompromising material I've dealt with in 22 years of manufacturing pigment. This crap was developed in a lab in Oklahoma City by a bunch of self-aggrandizing R&D people (fucked-up as football bats when it comes to the REAL WORLD) and thrust upon me like a root canal or a boil implant.

The only difference with this run was THEY weren't going to be there calling all the shots, running around like roaches on the kitchen floor and blaming every failure on my area of operations. They stayed home (THANK GOD!), kinda mailed in their request, and stood back, ready to rip me and all my people to shreds when everything went to shit.

It's been the best run of the best quality they ever saw. Now, those same assholes who covered their butts by blaming every previous problem on me and my incompetent crew are scrambling like drowning rats to find something they can crawl atop to take credit for what WE DID without THEM.

We have a meeting to review the situation next week. I wish I could absorb four units of alcohol before I walked in there, because then I would have the Dutch Courage to state the truth. When the chattering started from the people who breathe all that rarefied air in R&D labs, I would stand up and say, "SHUT UP! If you fuckheads would stay the hell out of our way, we can make ANYTHING YOU WANT! We're PIGMENTEERS, goddammit. Now, fly your self-important asses back to Oklahoma City and bask in the glory of this product you developed. And leave us alone to make it."

That's not gonna happen. I won't be drunk when I go to the meeting, and those assholes won't fly home until they have their thumbprints firmly pressed into my pie. My only qualification for being at the meeting is the fact that I MADE this pigment, and I've been doing the same thing thing for 22 years. Those are gnat's-ass credentials when dealing with highly-educated, highly-ego-cated, lab-dorcuses. They are coming to tell me that I don't know shit.

And I'll have to sit there and take it.

If you ain't from around here, you can learn to pass for a native (once you learn to eat grits, boiled peanuts and okra) just by using a few simple phrases in everyday conversation When you read my suggestions, you may wonder, "how will I ever WORK THAT into a conversation?" You'll be surprised how often opportunities present themselves Down South.

Somebody is stupid
He had one foot on the dock when the boat left.
He ain't the sharpest tool in the shed.
He's a few bricks short of a load.
He couldn't find his ass with both hands.

Somebody is lazy
He's as happy as a dead pig in sunshine.
He's as sorry as a cut dog.
He'd have to learn to give a shit before he ever gave a shit.
He's too sorry to wipe his own ass. Just waits for it to crust up and fall off by itself.

Something is difficult
It was hard as Chinese arithmetic.
It was hard as a minister's dick.
God couldn't do it on his best day.
Fuck this!

Something just quits
It won't do not nary nothing.
It's dead as Dillinger's dick.
It's deader than a duck nailed to a doorknob.
It's deader than Grandpa.

It Runs Gooood
Ho, man! That thang runs like a raped ape!
Lookit that! It runs like Moody's goose!
It ran like shit through a goose.
It ran like a rat with its ass on fire.

Screwed-up Situations
That's fucked-up.
That's about as fucked-up as a football bat.
That's as fucked-up as a worm.
Jesus! It would have to un-fuck itself for two solid days just to GET BACK to being fucked-up!

Personal Opinions
I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire.
Fat? If she had to haul ass, it would take two trips.
I'd like to buy him for what he's worth and sell him for what he THINKS he's worth. I could retire tomorrow.
If she had as many dicks sticking OUT of her as she's had stuck IN her, she'd look like a porcupine.

If I had written THIS SCREED, I would have been a lot meaner and used obscene language.

I may lust after Ann Coulter, but I despise Hillary Clinton.
Okay, SISO, you asked for it. You post guy-porn on your site, I post GIRL PORN on mine.

Try to keep your clothes on when you check that link!

Here we go, SAVING THE PLANET again. Yes, companies that operate diesel trucks are sliding under the wire to buy tried and true engines before the new government-dictated pollution standards kick in and force them to try untested technology in a multi-billion-dollar competitive industry. Who can blame them?

If you poll most idiots on the street, they'll tell you the new pollution standards are a great idea. Yeah, everybody loves clean air. Ask them if they're willing to add $20 to every trip to the grocery store for that minimal improvement in air quality, and their jaws will drop. "What? The trucking companies are paying for that. Not ME!" they will sputter.

Our public schools spend a lot of time teaching "self-esteem" to otherwise ignorant students. These students learn to feel good about themselves, even if they have no reason to. One way to feel REALLY GOOD about yourself is to say you're totally into saving the planet. I mean, man, like, I'm TOTALLY into THAT.

Try to explain to these dorkles that heads of California lettuce and bags of Idaho potatoes don't grow in a big garden behind the neighborhood Kroger's in Rincon, Georgia. That stuff is hauled in from far away on diesel trucks. Trucking companies run a BUSINESS, which exists to make a PROFIT on the service it provides. When the government dictates that the trucking companies will pay more money for an engine, the trucking companies do some simple math. Before, we could make the trip from California to Rincon, haul the lettuce, pay the driver, maintain the trucks, buy our government-mandated licenses, pay our taxes to the government and make a profit selling the lettuce at $1 a head. Now, however, an additional expense has been added to our costs. We can't make a profit without charging $1.10 a head for the same lettuce.

Who pays that extra ten-cents a head? It ain't the trucking companies, bozo. It's YOU!

I will oppose ANY additional environmental regulation until I see legitimate cost-benefit analysis results. I am tired of paying through the nose for insignificant or non-existent "improvements" in the environment just so the Sierra Club and Greenpeace can claim another public relations victory. This is bullshit.

I am required to make business decisions frequently on my job. The bottom line every time is, "What will it cost, and what is the payback?" If the cost is high and the payback is low, I'm not about to parade that foolish idea before my boss. He's a smart guy and he knows the same rules I do. We work for a BUSINESS and our goal is to make a PROFIT.

Environmental regulation should be approached the same way. The fact that it isn't is one of the reasons why SUPERFUND ended up being such a miserable failure. In every cleanup of a Superfund site, about 20% of the money took care of 90% of the cleanup. The remaining 80% of the money was spent on the last 10% of the cleanup (you couldn't settle for habitable land and drinkable water-- it had to be PRISTINE!) and assorted lawsuits against anybody handy in an attempt to recover a piece of the loot frittered away making habitable land pristine. Your tax dollars at work again.

If I'm going to pay $20 extra every time I go to the grocery store, do I receive $20 worth of cleaner air? No? I get ten-cents worth of cleaner air for my $20? Okay, let me think about that...

So? I'm supposed to be shocked by THIS STORY? It's THE GOVERNMENT, for crying out loud!
The November elections may bring a RAY OF SUNSHINE to my beloved state of Georgia. The Wicked Witch of Boogerheadedness, Cynthia McKinney, is trailing her virtually unknown opponent in the race for the 4th Dictrict House seat. Professor William Boone, a political scientist at Clark Atlanta University, said, "Congresswoman McKinney may have some problems on her hands."

I would rejoice at that news, if Professor Boone stopped there. But he didn't. Analysts such as Boone point out that a new poll may well reflect a change in public opinion towards McKinney as her criticism of the Bush administration has turned out to be prescient.

Prescient? That lunatic woman DID NOT suggest that President Bush failed to see the attack coming despite the information he had. She said that Bush knew exactly what was coming and ALLOWED IT TO HAPPEN, just so his daddy and some other rich guys could make more money. Prescient? Try FOOKING INSANE!

Cynthia McKinney is just as certifiably delusional as the Muslims who believe either Israel or the United States was behind the 9/11 attacks. As we say Down South, "that woman is crazy as a shithouse rat." She really needs to go.

But I don't want to get my hopes up too high just yet. McKinney receives a LOT of money from her rich Arab friends, and she represents a district filled with people just as stupid as she is. It's a long time, in politics, from now until November.

But I can dream...
I posted below about wanting a woman in my life. I'll take ANN COULTER any day, because she can slash with words better than any thug can with a straight-razor. Anybody who writes the way SHE does has the passion of a wildcat inside.

But I wonder... if I cooked her a nice dinner, would I have to feed her with a long-handled spoon just to retain my arm below the elbow? She does get snappish sometimes.

Thursday, May 30, 2002

I had a mechanic at work today ask me a question that I'm still turning over in my mind. "Rob, how's the single life treatin' ya'?"

I said it was treating me just fine, but I thought about his question the rest of the work day. On one hand, I really don't like living alone. I love women. I love the way they smell, I love the way they feel and I love the way they look. I even love they way their heads are screwed on so differently than mine. I like to talk to women, I like to touch them, and I enjoy having them touch me.

But I don't want one around all the time. After what I lived through last year, I need some space to get MY head screwed on straight again. I would like to meet THE PERSON BEHIND THE MASK, but I'm not certain I could provide what she is seeking in a man. (If it's hot, slobbering sex every night, I'm DAMNED SURE out of the running, if penetration is involved. I believe I'm done with the needles. The hot, slobbering stuff I can still handle.)

But I digress... Once I quit my bar-hopping, guitar-playing days, I became convinced that monogamy was a virtuous concept. I fell in love, and I was finished with playing the field. I still feel that way, despite the damage done by the bloodless cunt I put groundless faith in.

I have not done much courting and sparking since my divorce. I don't believe I'm sufficiently armed for that sort of warfare anymore. I ran across the 76% worshable woman by accident, and I really don't believe she likes me all that much, but I'm an easy guy to get along with. She comes here when she pleases, I feed her and wine her, and I'm always delighted if she chooses to spend the night. But that part is always her choice.

What I really crave is a female friend. If I piss and moan around my guy buddies, they throw empty beer cans at me and tell me to "rub some dirt on it." Women really ACT like they care about your deepest feelings whether they do or not. A woman will give you a hug when you've bared your soul to her. She'll pat you on the back and make soothing noises to placate you.

A guy will lift his leg and fart, and say, "THAT'S what I think of your problems. Switch the channel to ESPN."

I don't know what I want. I want a woman (like SO MANY MARRIED ONES) I've met since my operation that says "sex isn't really important to me" and means it. Unfortunately, most of the ones who say that are a lot like my ex-wife. She said that exact statement, after she divorced me. Sex wasn't important to her because she was too busy giving pussy away through both pants legs, screwing like a wild mink and fucking her ass off to think about it. Sure... that's not important. It damned sure wasn't to HER, because she started long before the divorce.

But, I digress AGAIN... I want a woman to cook nice suppers for. I want a woman to sit on the back porch with me and drink wine while I show off my show-off self by identifying the constellations in the night sky. I want to know if those stars appear to be a crab, or a bull or a hunter to her. I want to hear her laugh at my jokes and I want her to be quiet and listen when I play sweet songs on my guitar. I want her to sing, and know the words to songs that I know, so I can lay on a harmony. I want her to enjoy spooning in the bed on cold nights when we keep each other warm under all the covers I own. I want her to enjoy spooning in the bed on hot nights when we throw off the covers and sleep under a single sheet. I want to hear her snore. I want her to put up with my snoring.

I want to give her a key to my house and tell her that my door is always open for her. I want her to come visit me a lot.

But, right now, I want her to go home sometimes, too.

It would be REALLY COOL if she had her own blog!

I've spent a lot of time in Florida, and I don't consider it to be a Southern state, no matter what lattitiude it may occupy. The place is too full of old people and retired yankees. You can find more statues dedicated to Spanish explorers than you can dedicated to fallen Confederate soldiers, so Florida went off my Southern list after my first trip down there many years ago.

But LONG HAIRED COUNTRY BOY doesn't sound like a yankee on his blog and he doesn't write like a yankee in the emails I receive from him, even if he is from Florida. He roots for the Boston Red Sox, but everybody has certain personal abberations that should be allowed in polite society. I will not hold that against him.

But he needs a "COMMENTS" tag on his blog. I would have left a total rant about the post linked above if I only had the chance. JB and I are about a year apart in age. We went to similar public schools and somehow, despite our best efforts to avoid it, we both walked out with an actual education. We knew how to read and write. (I'm gonna leave the math part out, because I DON'T DO MATH!) We both went to college and achieved degrees in four years. I don't know about JB, but I needed NO GODDAMNED GOVERNMENT HELP TO DO IT, because I cooked hamburgers and played guitar to support myself while I went to school.

I like this observation: "Mr. Coppola, my high school history teacher, would have toasted, in front of the whole class, anyone who got a 23% on a history exam. You can be sure said student was at least 50 points higher on every test the rest of the year."

Unfortunately, JB, a Mr. Coppola who used those tactics today would be sued by irate partents and suspended by the school board for damaging the delicate self-esteem of said dumbass. Public school today has become a self-esteem factory. The teachers are supposed to feel good about themselves when they don't teach. And they do, too. The students are supposed to feel good about themselves when they don't learn. The school boards are supposed to feel good about themselves when they run shitty schools. You talk about an AQUA CONSPIRACY? Man, THIS is the BIG ONE.

We are teaching an entire generation (actually, we're on the second or third one now) that if you can't read or write, or speak English, or add 1 + 1 and you're unemployed, passed out in a puddle of your own urine from smoking crack and drinking cheap wine, IT'S OKAY! Just FEEL GOOD ABOUT YOURSELF!

That's not an education. That is opium for the masses.

Self-esteem comes from personal accomplishment, from being proud of what you've done. You don't teach self esteem. You give kids the tools to achieve that ON THEIR OWN. Schools aren't doing that today, and it's a crying shame. JB is correct when he says that they once DID, using a hell of a lot less money per student than they do now.

What went wrong? Simple. When they started failing to teach, they lowered the bar of expectation to make themselves look better. They also asked for more money, which always appeals to politicians who want to fix a problem, so they got more money. When they continued to fail, they lowered the bar even further, and asked for even more money. Now, that bar is laying on the ground and it can't go any lower. So, they're busy redefining education to build another bar, just to make you forget about the one laying on the ground. Guess what? They're GETTING MORE MONEY, too!

That's what happens when you establish a Federal Department of Education. Our schools end up being run as efficiently and as productively as the US Post Office.

And a lot of kids end up in the "dead letter" file.

After reading THIS STORY, I'm not certain Bush was "jet lagged" in Europe. I believe he was pissed off. Just this line in the story: " Bush’s lack of theatrics was intentional. But he was upstaged by Chirac—a man who relishes public speaking as only the French can." is a real clue to Bush's testy behavior. He probably had to resist the overwhelming urge to choke the living shit out of Chirac every time the Clinton of France opened his mouth. Bush probably wanted to say, "Listen, asshole. You have done nothing to prevent the persecution of Jews in your own country, and you've never even DREAMED of having the balls to fight terrorism on a global scale. So, sit down, shut up and kiss my ass in the meantime, you pompous frog."

Bush didn't do that. He behaved himself, but just barely.

I wish he had taken the exquisite French dinner he was served, with the pate and the sauces, raked it all off in the floor and yelled, "Bring me some REAL FOOD! I'm from TEXAS! I want a STEAK and I want it NOW! How do I want it cooked? Jesus! Just wipe the bull's ass, knock off his horns and put him on a plate. That's how you cook a STEAK in TEXAS! And bring some TABASCO SAUCE, too, you snail-eating, boot-licking, Jew-hating bunch of pate suckers."

I wish he had done that. I really do.
ANOTHER UPDATE FROM News of the Weird. Republicans represent the party of smaller, less intrusive government. Well, the SAY they do, until politics and vote-buying opportunities rear their ugly heads; then, they are as corrupt, spineless and just as self-serving as any drunken Democrat when it comes to throwing tax dollars to the wind.

Still more information on beneficiaries came out on the federal farm subsidy program mentioned in News of the Weird four months ago (and which Congress voted to expand substantially in April). It has already been widely reported that generous subsidies go to non-needy "family farmers" such as Enron's Kenneth Lay, newsman Sam Donaldson, basketball's Scottie Pippin, and the nonstruggling Ted Turner and David Rockefeller. In March, the Associated Press reported that major league baseball player Kevin Appier has received several thousand dollars in subsidies for his farm in Kansas, which he bought because as a kid, he always dreamed of playing baseball and being a farmer. "I have no idea why I wanted to have a farm," he said. "I wasn't raised on a farm or anything. I just always thought it would be neat." .

Your tax dollars at work.
I repeat: California is the certified nut-bowl of America. From News of the Weird I gleaned this factoid: Voters in laid-back Sausalito (Marin County), Calif., turned down construction of a $7.8 million police station in March, in part on the advice of a consultant on the ancient Chinese art of feng shui who said the proposed building was not harmoniously designed in that it would block the positive flow of energy to other places in town. Said the consultant, Ms. Sidney Nancy Bennett, the building would "cut off the mouth of chi" and compromise "the arrows of sha."

Yes. This demented person definitely is full of chi, and someone should stuff her blithering mouth full of sha.
My friend WILLIE sent me a joke today, probably because it reminded him of me, even though I've never been a nun. Not in this life, nor any previous ones. I've never been a child-molesting priest, either.

A nun was going to Chicago. She went to the airport and sat down waiting for her flight. She looked over in the corner and saw one of those weight machines that tells your fortune. So, she thought to herself, "I'll give it a try just to see what it tells me."
She went over to the machine and put her nickel in, and out came a card that said, 'You're a nun you weigh 128 lbs and you are going to Chicago,Illinois."
She sat back down and thought about it. She told herself it probably tells everyone the same thing, but decided to try it again. She went back to the machine and put her nickel in. Out came a card that read, "You're a nun, you weigh 128lbs., you're going to Chicago, Illinois and you are going to play a fiddle."The nun said to herself, "I know that's wrong, I have never played a
musical instrument a day in my life." She sat back down.
From nowhere a Cowboy came over and set his fiddle case down next to her. The nun picked up the fiddle and just started playing
beautiful music. Startled, she looked back at the machine and said, "This is incredible. I've got to try it again."
Back to the machine. She put her nickel in and another card came out. It said, "You're a nun, you weigh 128lbs., you're going to Chicago, Illinois and you're going to break wind." Now, the nun knows the machine is wrong;
"I've never broke wind in public a day in my life!" Well, she tripped, fell off the scales and broke wind. Stunned, she sat back down and looked at the machine.
She said to herself, "This is truly unbelievable! I've got to try it again."
She went back to the machine, put her nickel in and collected the card. It said, "You're a nun, you weigh 128lbs. You have fiddled and farted around and missed your flight to Chicago!!!!!"

I have fiddled and farted around a lot in my life, and I've missed many flights I should have caught. But all in all, I've had more fun and greater adventures than most people ever dream about. Last year SUCKED THE BIG ONE, but I was probably due a serious shit-storm for being so lucky for so long. Now the score is even, and it's time for me to be lucky again.

If I were the nun in the joke, I probably would have attempted to seduce the cowboy, vows or no vows. After all, I am a Perverse Spoiled Functional Child. What else could you expect from me?

Wednesday, May 29, 2002

I wish I had not done this, but I just took the INNER CHILD test. I must go to bed now, knowing that I am a Perverse Spoiled Functional Child. Does THIS sound like ME?

"It's a bird, it's a plane, it's a gigantic flying perv! Yes, it's the inner child Kid Ass Avenger (PSFC). Your inner child runs amuck in the inner streets of your inner Mardis Gras. He, in fact, is the queen of the parade, and by the end of the night, or any night of your life, is always smothered in the finest beads.

He is also a child genius, but uses his powers to bizarre and ambiguous ends. He may give you the power to save the universe from total destruction one day and the next day save you from dipping a french fry in ketchup. Who knows what adventures lie in your unconscious future?

Be wary, though. It's all part of his master plan to make *you* the super-villian."

Now I'll have horrible nightmares all night long, thanks to YOU.

SOUTH GEORGIA JOKE: "Why did the chicken cross the road? To show THE ARMADILLO that it could be done!"

Another drumroll, please....
Good grief! Here's a FAT CAT!

My only real question about this picture is why some women built along the same architectural lines feel compelled to wear bright orange stretch-pants when they shop at the Super Wal-Mart? I may be old-fashioned, but I believe that when your butt is twice as wide as the buggy you're pushing around the store, you really should wear something a little less...clinging, skin-tight and pasted like a second skin on your derrier. (Like maybe one of the "WIDE LOAD" signs the big trucks display when they move a double-wide mobile home down Highway 21 at 5:00 in the afternoon) Of course, that's just my opinion. I'm 50 years old and still have a 30" waist.

Cigarettes and White Zin don't pack a lot of calories.
Hey, Stormcloud! Go read DAX MONTANA and listen to what he has to say. You've heard the same lecture from a certain blogger in Rincon, Georgia, but maybe if you hear it often enough you'll decide that if a lot of people say the same thing, we can't ALL be full of crap.

I started working in the fast food industry when I was 15 years old, at a place where hamburgers were 15 cents and a coke was a dime. I started out taking orders at a window for 90 cents an hour, worked my way up to the grill ($1.10 an hour), and finally ended up running the prep table, which took a lot of talent and dedication in those days. Waitpersons yelled out all the special orders and you stored that information in your head, prepped every bun the way the customer wanted it, steered the grill guy to the proper bun, wrapped it quickly and neatly, kept every order together and yelled, "order up!" and repeated what it was when you placed it in the pickup window. I was good, I was fast, and if I wasn't prepping food, I was wiping down the counters and keeping the table clean. I took a lot of pride in what I did.

That was long before computers. I never had a TV screen in the kitchen showing me the orders. We had the little rotating ticket-rack where the waitpeople put their checks, but I didn't have time to look at that when the rush was on. I learned to do it in my head.

I did that at least part-time until I was graduated from college. And I never served anybody anything I would not have been happy to eat myself. Although that was a long time ago, I watch workers in fast food restaurants today, and I know I could still cut their butts at their jobs.

I was good at it when I did it because I WANTED to be good. And I'm good at what I do today for the same reason.

UPDATE! I just checked Stormcloud's blog and she appears to have read Dax already. Well, sweetheart, go read it AGAIN! It's still good advice.
Yeah, I know it's THE GUARDIAN and it pegs out the full-of-shit meter regularly, but that snotrag has outdone itself this time.

"The United States often appears peculiarly gripped by its history, perhaps because it is such a young country. Nowhere is this truer than in its celebrated constitution, which was written recently enough to embody the spirit of the modern age, but sufficiently long ago to emit the aura of a sacred text."

Yeah, we're a bunch of crazy kids here in this country, "gripped by our history" and foolish enough consider following a silly document that only "emit(s) the aura of a sacred text." After all, the US Constitution is nothing more than a glorified Pokeman card in the eyes of Europeans. It was really cool when it was in vogue, but it's so passe now that we should abandon it for more enlightened guidance, such as advice from Guardian reporters.

"In Britain and much of Europe, this would be a "no-brainer". Many countries have laws on the books outlawing racial incitement. If a reasonable majority or the ruling party decides a particular form of behaviour is sufficiently antisocial, it is simply banned."

See? That's how civilized nations handle their problems. The bullying mob, er.. I mean "reasonable majority," or the royalty, er... I mean "ruling party," tells everybody what to do, and they ban whatever displeases them. That way, the bullying mob, er... I mean "reasonable majority," is happy and their czars, er... I mean "ruling party" makes the country a better place for everyone, as long as you totally agree with their viewpoint. If you don't, then tough shit. Shut up and take it.

What this writer doesn't understand if the fact that the Founding Fathers wrote to Constitution because they were SICK AND TIRED of living in countries that operated under mob rule and royal fiat. They wanted to protect the rights of the individual. That's why we have a REPUBLIC instead of a DEMOCRACY. That's also why were are totally unlike any European government.

"In Britain, of course, there is no written constitution, nor is there - for a country supposedly steeped in history - much reverence for what past leaders, kings and otherwise, had to say about how the British people should lead their lives today. Nor do the French have much time for the contemporary significance of the thoughts of Robespierre, Danton or Napoleon. "

That's why you are subject to the rule of the mob and royal fiat. The EU is proving that fact every day.

"The US constitution is a uniquely powerful document, but whether it has really done anything for the cause of freedom is open to debate. It accommodated slavery for longer than European states, turned a blind eye to the Jim Crow segregation laws for decades, and did nothing to stop McCarthyism. Nowadays it is being used as a vehicle for the proliferation of guns and a shelter for racists. It clearly takes more than a document to negotiate the treacherous currents and eddies of human liberty."

Yeah, it takes a village, right, like the EU? Anybody who doubts that the US Constitution "has really done anything for the cause of freedom" is the village idiot, too. Our history is not perfect, and neither is this country, but we are a damned sight better than anything else on the globe. Your mobs and royals banned guns in England and what happened? Your country is in the midst of a terrible crime wave, much of it committed by criminals with guns. And I believe you have enough RACIAL PROBLEMS of your own to occupy your attention if you really cared about such things.

Clean up your own back yard before you piss over my fence. Maybe you should think about writing a CONSTITUTION.

Whatta maroon.

I recommend that at least one of my friends check out this stuff about the KLEZ virus, because his computer HAS IT!

He probably picked it up trolling porno sites at work...

Tuesday, May 28, 2002

I have nothing whatsoever to say about this: Lice-free hookers gain respect (Reuters):

BOGOTA, Colombia - In a sanitary crackdown on Colombia's sex trade, Bogota authorities have ordered prostitutes to use plastic-covered mattresses, change bedsheets and spray rooms for cockroaches, lice and rodents.

"Sex workers will have a higher status. They will be more respected," said Bogota's flamboyant Mayor Antanas Mockus, commenting on the new edict for the Colombian capital on Friday. The regulations were imposed after a frustrated Bogota man sued the city over its unruly brothels.

The sex trade long has been legal for adults in Colombia, with prostitutes and police often sharing the same Bogota street corners at night.

Among the rules, brothels in Colombia's capital will be restricted to specially authorised zones, and they must have ventilation systems, as well as adjoining showers and toilets.

Mockus, an eccentric mathematician known for imposing a strict drinking curfew and declaring a one-day annual "ladies night" banning men from the streets, said he thinks the rules will discourage prostitution.

"There is less prostitution in societies which are more free, in terms of sexuality," said Mockus, who married his wife at a circus, perched on top of an elephant.

I am very sorry, but I HAD TO DO THIS. What can you say about this guy? "The plaintiff failed to properly maintain his artificial anus, making it difficult to place him with other prisoners," Presiding Judge Masanori Kamiyoshi said as he threw out the case.

I have a few questions... exactly WHAT IS AN ARTIFICIAL ANUS? How do you MAINTAIN ONE?

"I never had a chance to take part in any activities held within the prison, such as sports meets, nor was I permitted the chance to talk to other prisoners. This caused me enormous mental anguish," the man said in his lawsuit. The artificial anus didn't? How did you FAIL TO MAINTAIN your ARTIFICIAL ANUS? WHAT, PRAY TELL, DOES AN ARTIFICIAL ANUS LOOK LIKE? (not that I want to see one)

SISO you may be forvever known in Google-searches for "enemas," but this guy's got you beat seven ways from Sunday.

Hmmm... THIS STORY reminds me of MY grandmother, but it doesn't say a lot about airport security guards. "Charges were dropped yesterday against Ruth "Grammy" Gordon, an 83-year-old wheelchair-bound grandmother, who was originally charged with assault and battery, and assault with a deadly weapon, because an altercation she had last week with six airport security guards, that left all six hospitalized." You read that story, and let me tell you mine.

When my grandmother was somewhere in her early 30's she and my aunt Jenetta, my Mama's older sister, were riding a mule back home after visiting some neighbors. A crazed man came charging out of the bushes, pulled my grandmother off the mule and attacked her with what were probably lusty intentions. That was a very bad idea.

My grandmother and the man grappled on the ground like a pair of cats fighting, and my Aunt Jenetta (about 12 years-old) joined the fray. With fang and claw and bared teeth, the two women proceeded to give the man a very unpleasant experience. They slid in one squiming body-wad down through the cinders along the railroad tracks and hit bottom, where my grandmother says, "I managed to hook one finger in the corner of his eye, and I could feel his eyeball about to pop out. Jeanetta was clawing his face with her long fingernails, and I was almost starting to feel sorry for him." The would-be rapist managed to get away and run off through the woods, leaving hanks of hair, strips of face tissue and some of that wet, gooey stuff that grows in back of your eyeballs behind.

Mommie alerted the sheriff and told him that she could identify the attacker. "I didn't really get a good look at him, but he's gonna look REALLY BAD. I think he'll be all clawed up." He was, too, when they caught him.

As Mommie says today, "We almost killed that man." Then, she giggles proudly and spits a little snuff-juice into the cup she always carries when she is chewing tobacco.

That's my grandmother.

Here's one JUST FOR STORMCLOUD. When I say such things, you become really pissed at me. But DAX is right, whether you want to admit it or not.
At the risk of being branded a hate-mongering, racist bigot, I am going to state that I believe the Ku Klux Klan has the right to burn a cross anytime it wants to, as long as it's not on private property where the owner has not given his permission. The Supreme Court confirmed the right of any demented asshole to burn the American flag as a "free speech" issue, so I don't see why the demented assholes in the KKK should not enjoy the same legal protection to burn whatever they want to.

Maybe environmentalists and anti-smoking Nazis can do something about the KKK burning crosses in the name of "saving the planet" and curing childhood asthma, because they've done a pretty good job of restricting where I can light up a cigarette, but the Court should be consistent in this matter. We either have free speech or we don't. The more repugnant and disgusting that speech is, the more we must protect it, because failure to do so is the first step down the road to complete government censorship of politically-incorrect ideas.

I despise anyone who burns the American flag, and I despise the racist pinheads in the KKK. But I defend both sets of assholes in their right to be the biggest blithering idiots they want to be. That's the cost of freedom. People have the right to do things that piss you off, and you must accept that fact. As long as no one is being physically harmed (and I don't buy this "intimidation" bullshit. Hell, that line of thinking INTIMIDATES ME!), nobody's property rights are being violated and the only real problem is a bunch of people being deeply offended by the show, I say the KKK can do what they want. That pathetic organization of robed coneheads has become a living parody anyway. Let them do their thing.

These words may be improper, but give the KKK enough rope and it will hang ITSELF. The world has changed a great deal during the past forty years, and the KKK has become a dinosaur on the verge of extinction. No sane person accepts their racist creed anymore, and the only members they have today are mouth-breathing misfits who don't realize that the world has left them behind. They should be allowed to play out what's left of their idiot's agenda, then never missed when they fade away.

Let the Court rule that "intimidating" speech may be regulated, and the KKK wins.
Oh, oh. The war-mongering, merciless forces of the United States military committed another ATROCITY AGAINST IRAQ by sending bombs and rockets against innocent civilian targets in the no-fly zone again. Of course, our story, couched in the lies America is known for, was : Air Force Brig. Gen. John Rosa told reporters that the jets dropped precision-guided weapons on air defenses after anti-aircraft guns were fired at warplanes in the vicinity of Saddam Dam. He said all aircraft departed the area safely and damage assessment to targets was under way.

Let's send them back tomorrow. If we're going to be international war criminals condemned in world opinion, let's RICHLY DESERVE IT!
In Georgia, we have the nutball Cynthia McKinney to embarrass us. In Texas, they have SHELIA JACKSON LEIGH. I am not certain which one is worse. Cynthia's mouth is bigger, but I believe Shelia has a bigger unbridled ego: Car Talk. . No matter how hard she tries, Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee. (D-Texas) just can't seem to shake her car troubles.

Jackson Lee took a beating in the media a few months back for having a staffer wait outside her front door each morning in a government-financed car to shuttle her the whole two blocks from her apartment to the Rayburn Building. HOH. later reported that she had started slipping out the back door to have her chief of staff drive her to work, though her office insisted that the boss wasn't trying to evade scrutiny.

Then, during a House vote Wednesday night, an interesting scene played out on the east side of the Capitol. The Capitol Police cleared Rep. John Dingell's (D-Mich.) car. to go through the security barriers, which only let through one vehicle at a time.

But suddenly a Mercedes with dark windows sped up. and tried to sneak through the barriers on Dingell's tail. According to HOH's spy, police officers rushed over and ordered the car to stop, as the tinted windows slowly started rolling down. "Who should be in the passenger seat but Sheila Jackson Lee.," said the source.

The police did a close check of the vehicle, and then the Congresswoman was waved in.
Yeah, just like the royal princess she is.
I am well aware that LONG LOST COUNTRY BOY is a die-hard Red Sox fan, and I suppose I root for the Atlanta Braves. I just don't root very hard. I don't really care much for baseball.

Baseball is the only sport I know of where spitting provides most of the physical activity in the game. On artificial turf, the field probably resembles the floor of an oyster-shucking factory after the third inning with all the loogies and hockwads the players launch every chance they get, especially when the television camera zooms in for a close-up. A multi-talented baseball player is one who can spit a hockwad and scratch his nuts on television at the same time. The players receive multi-million-dollar salaries to behave worse than a housebroken dog.

I don't like the way the managers dress, either. I believe baseball managers should wear circus clown suits. It would give them more dignity than they display now, wearing baseball uniforms that accentuate their bulging bellies and sagging buttocks. Don't they realize how ridiculous they appear? A coach should dress like a boss, like the man in charge. Just look at Rick Pitino. Now, THERE'S A COACH!

Baseball players should also be forced to attend NHL hockey games to learn what a real fight looks like. A baseball "rhubarb" always resembles a combination of heavy petting and dirty dancing, with players titty-hugging on spit-covered ground. Most of the time, they don't throw punches-- they just dance around and SCRATCH EACH OTHER'S NUTS. Of course, if they ever DID fight, the entire roster of both teams would end up on the six-week disabled list, because when baseball players fall down, they don't get up. They lay on the ground and flop like a fish out of water feigning excruciating agony whether they're injured or not. Football players, on the other hand, sometimes suffer double-team crack-back blocks that would kill a normal person, get up trailing five feet of intestines from their ripped gut, and make a tackle. Then, they rub some dirt on the wound and keep playing. Baseball players scream for the EMS team and miss seven games if they get a blister on one finger. Faggot-looking, wing-nut SOCCER PLAYERS are tougher than THEY are, for crying out loud.

Hell, they're too delicate to play an OUTDOOR SPORT in the RAIN. Bunch of overpaid, spittle-slinging wusses.

Yes, dear Gen, I like grits, too. I like 'em with salt, pepper and butter and two or three fried eggs over easy. I like to mash the runny eggs into a pulp and kinda get a scoop of that and a scoop of grits on my fork at the same time. Shove that concoction into your mouth and follow it up with a bite of home-made biscuit, preferably with a large helping of sawmill gravy on the side. Trust me, fair one, that is Southern breakfast cooking at its finest.

GRIT RULES FOR YANKEES: DO NOT put sugar and milk on your grits, you dumb snowbirds. Grits AIN'T oatmeal nor cream o' wheat. If you can't eat grits like a good ole boy or a native Jawja peach, stick with hash brown potatoes. You pasty-faced folks can eat those without being a social embarrassment. Please do so. We are too polite to laugh right in your face when we see you doing obscene, ignorant things to our beloved grits, but we DO talk and snicker about you behind your back. We would rather not be forced to do that, so eat grits the right way, or don't eat them at all. And ditch the shorts with the sandals and the black knee socks. Do you know how fooking ridiculous you look in that absolute dorkle get-up?

And a lot of you yankees come here, defile our grits, refuse to eat boiled peanuts, wear shorts, sandals and black socks, the go BACK UP NORTH and talk badly about the South.

People who bash the South are totally convinced that we are ignorant, backward, racist, misogynistic clods who need to be constantly reminded of our shortcomings, and they have chosen most righteously to fulfill that duty. They are also full of shit, because they don't know anything about the true South.

The South is a place of manners and tradition, courage and chivalry, hot weather and warm hospitality. It is a place where the pace of life is exactly what it should be and the language is spoken with an accent that is soft and delightful on the tongue, like a sip of really fine wine.

The women are tanned and lovely, and the men will stop in a pouring rainstorm to change a flat tire for a perfect stranger just because the stranger needs help. Most of the women like being Southern belles. Most of the men like being good ole boys. We're funny that way. Of course, we eat grits for breakfast and go barefoot a lot, too.

The North, on the other hand, is a cold and nasty place filled with cold and nasty people. Manners and tradition count for nothing and what passes for courage is laughing among your yankee friends while slandering people that are far better and more civilized than any Yankee.

Up north, the pace of life is frenetic and cruel, and the language is spoken with an accent that sounds like fingernails on a blackboard. It combines the "whaaank!" of a New Year's Eve party favor with the sound of a jackhammer breaking concrete. The end result is a sort of whappa-whappa-whappa-whaaank! language that generates a lot of seething hatred in those who have to listen to it, even though they speak it themselves.

The women are pale from spending so much time buried in snowdrifts, where they go to hide from the sound of the language. Whenever the snowdrifts melt, they crawl out to see their men wearing sandals with black knee socks, which is the typical garb a sanctimonious Yankee wears when he looks down his nose at backward, ignorant Southerners.

Of course, the ancestors of these people whipped our ancestors in the War For Southern Independence. Since then, we Southerners have gotten good at handling the constant reminder of our defeat and the humiliation the victors still try to heap on our heads.
But those loudmouthed, shitheaded Yankees don't understand that such abuse simply makes us more determined than ever to be Southern and hold on to our values and our traditions. We believe we are special, and as long as we think that way, we are.

Now tell me who lost the war.

That's why we can welcome the Yankees to our way of life when they come south to retire and thaw out after a long and miserable life up north. They may be assholes and dorks, but it's not really their fault. Just look at where they come from.

And that is my Southern Rant for the day.

Monday, May 27, 2002

The Professor has kicked the top off an anthill with his opinions about TEEN SEX. I agree with most of what Reynolds has to say on the topic, but I feel the need to add my two cents. As someone who practiced teen sex every chance I got when I was a teenager, continued my ardent practice as I grew older, and then had retirement forced upon me by prostate cancer, I feel qualified to speak. Teen sex is no more a scourge on the nation than is adult sex. All the brouhaha really springs from the fact that Americans just can't seem to shake their Puritan roots when it comes to earthy things.

In order to believe that teen sex is a bad thing, one must first believe that:
a) Sex is dirty. (well, it is if you DO IT RIGHT)
b) Teenagers can't handle anything that dirty. (well, most of them don't know how to DO IT RIGHT)
c) Young people in the prime of their lives should deny themselves one of the purest pleasures in the world because.... IT'S DIRTY AND THEY CAN'T HANDLE IT!
d) The people who preach this drivel never had teen sex, which is why they are experts on the subject.

My grandmother married when she was sixteen years old and had five children by the time she was 23. She was not odd back then, because that's the way most people did things. Obviously, she engaged in teen sex, and stayed married to my grandfather for more than seventy years, right up until the day he died. They seemed to handle the aftereffects of teen sex just fine.

I believe the biggest reason nobody had apoplexy about my grandmother getting married when she did was because we didn't have a dedicated cadre of worry-warts constantly fretting about their ideas of right and wrong back then. People married young, and it was okay. Then, they raised their children, gave them more creature comforts than they themselves ever enjoyed, and were rewarded by those children becoming anal-retentive nit-pickers, obsessed by fear of everything. The environment? Wring your hands and weep! Guns? Wring your hands and weep! Cigarettes? SUE THE BASTARDS!

Teen sex? Wring your hands and weep LOUDLY!

Give me a break. You want to do the best thing you can to discourage teenagers from having sex? STOP OBSESSING ABOUT IT. One of the reasons I have no religion at all is the book of Genesis. Adam and Eve were naive and childlike, kind of like teenagers, in the garden of Eden. God pointed out one single tree and told them not to eat the fruit growing there. What was the first thing they did after that? THEY ATE THE FRUIT! And God was surprised, disappointed and angry.

Good grief. What did God expect anyway? That's what teenagers do.

So, don't make a big deal about forbidden fruit and expect them not to eat it. They will. The best thing we could do is to tell them that they MUST eat it. Then, they won't just to spite us.

Our good friends, the French, prove once again why their national motto is, "If the boot fits, lick it." "Even the protesters were muted: a mere 1,000 turned out in Normandy yesterday, in advance of Mr Bush's visit today, and only 4,500 took to the streets in Paris for a march organised by 30 leftwing, environmentalist, anti-globalisation and pro-Palestinian groups which had been expected to draw up to 30,000 demonstrators."

If 30 leftwing, environmentalist, anti-globalization and pro-Palestinian groups can do no better than 4,500 protesters, the level of outrage is running pretty low. What a bunch of maroons.

President Bush can be believable when he talks of D-DAY and the sacrifices WWII soldiers made in the cause of freedom. I don't believe he will sully the occasion with a phony photo-op arranging pre-planted stones into a cross on the beach, either.

Thank God the Big Creep is gone.
Megan McArdle has some INTERESTING THOUGHTS about the obesity lawsuits that are sure to be playing soon in a courthouse near you. I like the title of the article: "Can We Sue Our Own Fat Asses Off?" You betcha, sister.
Acidman had one hell of a weekend. Saturday morning, I took my son over to see his great-grandmother and give her his latest school picture as a belated birthday present. Then, he conned me into taking him to the Super Wal-Mart and forking over $49 for an NHL hockey game for his Play Station II. I also bough a bunch of yellow lantanas, which I planted while my son and Jack checked out the new hockey game.

I had company that night. A fellow I've known since high school was in town, and he came by to visit, along with my partners in crime from the nekkid trip to Key West. I cooked steaks, the White Zin flowed and much music was played. I met my friend's new squeeze, who told me I was "handsome and charismatic." I LIKE THAT WOMAN!
(What'cha think of that, SISO?)

Yesterday, I went to a rib-cook and picking party at WILLIE'S HOUSE in my old neighborhood, and my boy got to swim and visit with his friends while I ate ribs and made music. We had THREE MANDOLIN PLAYERS (myself included), which is unusual. We always end up with too many guitars and not enough exotic instruments at those parties, but the reverse was true yesterday. "Mr. Bojangles" got thoroughly worn out.

I had to take my son back to his bloodless cunt mother at 6:00 and the unemployed dope-smoker was not there. I figure the cowardly bastard drove off in his van and hid until I was gone, for fear that I would liver-punch his worthless self and drown him in his own vomit. That thought still crosses my mind from time to time. But I believe I'll be better off remaining "handsome and charismatic" instead of rotting in a jail cell with a roommate named "Bubba."

I went back to the party and played some more, then made it home at 9:30 last night without encountering a single scratch-and-sniff police roadblock. I fell asleep on the couch while watching a movie, then woke up this morning with sore fingers from two day's worth of serious picking. I'm going to saddle up and head to the Super Wal-Mart before long, because I'm on my last pack of cigarettes and the White Zin supply is running low. I probably ought to mow the weeds in my yard today, but I feel a serious case of procrastination decending upon me. We'll see how motivated I am when I return from the store.
Since I was a child, I've had a recurring nightmare about something LIKE THIS. Scarey stuff.
Gen, the fairest of the fair, obviously is not from around here. Gen does not know the wonder of one of the finest delicacies ever discovered by civilization. Gen does not know about boiled peanuts.

I was a six year-old hillbilly boy uprooted from the mountains of Harlan County, Kentucky and transplanted in Savannah, Georgia in 1959. I had been in this strange new place less than a month when my Georgia grandmother (91 year-old Mommie is my Kentucky grandmother) took my brother and me to the beach one day. We had a grand time playing in the surf and building castles in the sand, and there's just something about being around salt water that makes you REALLY HUNGRY. When a vendor in a big straw hat came walking down the beach selling small bags of peanuts for five cents, I wanted some. My grandmother bought two bags.

I eagerly ripped open the bag and plunged my hand inside, expecting to find the nice, dry, rough-shelled roasted peanuts I ate in Kentucky. Instead, I felt these wet, soft YUCKY THINGS in the bag. I didn't know what they were, but I knew damned well that they WERE NOT PEANUTS! I refused to eat them. They gave me the creeps.

That was my very first exposure to boiled peanuts. I eventually overcame the creeps, and since that day I probably have eaten several tons of boiled peanuts. Once you acquire the taste, you'll never want peanuts cooked any other way.

The best ones are made from fresh, newly-harvested green peanuts. (Some people dry the peanuts and boil them later, but those taste like blackeyed peas. For the best taste, cook them right away and then freeze them.) I buy them by the bushel (usually about $30, depending on the size of the crop that year), wash all the sand off them and throw them into a huge pot I have that will hold an entire bushel. I fill the pot with water, add a box of salt (one pound, ten ounces) and bring the pot to a slow boil on my propane cooker. I cook them for about an hour and a half, then turn the heat off and let them soak in the salty water until the peanuts sink. Then, I put them in quart zip-lock bags and throw them in the freezer. They're good for over a year that way. I always save some to eat on Super Bowl Sunday. Just let them thaw on the kitchen counter overnight or put them in the microwave. Yum, yum!

Boiled peanuts are soft, salty and delicious. Nothing is better with a cold beer, and they are the perfect snack for a day at the beach or a boat trip on the river. Or for watching the Super Bowl. Or FOR BREAKFAST. Boiled peanuts are a true Southern delight and I live in the #1 peanut-growing state in the nation.

Try 'em. You'll like 'em.
Maybe President Bush sould have stepped off the podium and punched THIS REPORTER in the nose. You know he gets the urge sometimes.

Yes, some Europeans hate America and the Bush administration. Hell, some AMERICANS hate America and the Bush administration. But these malcontents are more retarded than they are prescient about the state of the world today. European leadership is mostly sound and fury, signifying nothing. Any kind of bold action frightens such people, who are more comfortable micro-managing the trivial than dealing with Big Ideas. But I don't believe the majority of European citizens see Bush as a crazy cowboy. Bush is correct when he says "There's a heck of a lot more that unites us than divides us. We share the same values; we trade $2 trillion a year," he added. "I feel very comfortable coming to Europe; I feel very comfortable coming to France. I've got a lot of friends here."
I believe most Europeans wish they had leaders cut from the same bolt of cloth.