Saturday, June 15, 2002

Whether she wants to admit it or not, my daughter has a lot of ME in HER. She found this story and posted it on HER BLOG. I am proud of the girl!

HONG KONG (June 6) - A Hong Kong woman lost her case for compensation against a hair salon which she claimed made her look like Osama bin Laden when she wanted a hairstyle like Hollywood actress Julia Roberts.

After the judgment was handed down, she refused to leave the Small Claims Tribunal and had to be taken away by ambulance following a standoff of more than an hour with court staff, the South China Morning Post reported on Thursday.

Chu Ieu complained her hair was seriously damaged by two perms she had done at the New Idol Hair Salon last July and August.

''Do you mean you did not get the Julia Roberts look after the perm?'' adjudicator Yuen Chun-kau asked her during the Wednesday hearing.

''Not just that. It was like a broom. Every hair struck out and it looked like an open umbrella which could not be shut. It was horrible. I looked like Osama bin Laden,'' Chu replied.

Yuen dismissed her claim for HK$50,000 (US$6,410) in compensation as she had offered no evidence to prove her hair had been damaged. ''You've only shown the court that the hairstyle did not look good,'' he said.

But Chu said that Yuen was not sympathetic to her claim.

''He's bald. Of course he would not know the pain of having damaged hair,'' Chu fretted, sitting on the floor of the courtroom in protest against the judgement.


I am the lucky one (except for that doggone prostate thing) in the DNA lottery for my family. I come from a long line of men who went bald early in life, but I still have most of my hair. It turned gray early, but it didn't all fall out. It's not as thick as it once was, and I'm showing some scalp around the crown of my head, but I don't have to do a Sam Nunn comb-over, where I part my hair somewhere below the bottom of my ear and grow what amounts to semi-back-hair that I can sculpt over a bald pate. I wouldn't do anything like that in the first place. If I go bald, I go bald.

I haven't cut my hair for almost a year now (except for an occasional front-row trim), and my ponytail is growing like my garden-- long, but in serious need of tending. People who have known me for more than 20 years at work called me "hippie" at first, when I started letting my hair grow long, especially when I added the gunslinger, bottom-lip, pseudo-Zappa growth to go with my moustache, but they've quit doing that now. I don't care what they think or what they say. My bosses at work don't seem to care either, as long as I do my job.

The odd part is that I supervise the area where all new hires are introduced to the plant. I see so many ponytails, body-piercings, tattoos and other strange personal decorations on my new employees that I understand why they don't find a 50 year-old man with a ponytail and a Frank Zappa moustache weird. They're all a lot weirder than I am.

I'm going back outside to pull weeds in my garden. I'll wear a hat, so I don't sunburn that semi-bald spot on the crown of my head.



Okay, Mom. You think I use too much profanity on MY BLOG? Here's a small sample of a rant by my hero, JAMES LILEKS:

"Although maybe not. Last night I watched the second episode of “The Fucking Wire,” on HBFuckingO, and it was just like the first episode: more fucking profuckingfanity than any fucking show I’ve ever seen. (Fuck.) I hate this. I really fucking do. It’s as if the producers and writers are so fucking worried I’ll think I’m watching broadfuckingcast TV, so they have to make everyone swear as fucking much as fucking possible. At one point I considered taking note of the fucking number of fucking fucks, which I could divide into my HBO bill, just to see how fucking much each fucking fuck fucking costs me. But it was too much fucking work."

See, Mom? I'm not THAT bad!
Just now, I lit a cigarette.

I like the way it feels between my fingers and I savor the taste of the smoke as I draw it into my lungs. It tastes good, like a cigarette should. I prefer menthol because I enjoy the slightly eucalyptus tingle it leaves on the tongue. Take a puff, it’s springtime. I also prefer cigarettes with white filters, although I will smoke the brown ones if that’s all I can find. I suppose I would rather switch than fight. Regardless of the brand I’m smoking at the time, I find them all outstanding… and they are mild. I enjoy cigarettes so much that I wish they were all just one silly millimeter longer.

As I watch the delicate curls of smoke swirl like caressing fingers around this computer monitor, I wonder how anybody can hate my ever-loving guts for enjoying this personal pleasure of mine. If I were a heroin addict, a serial rapist, a pederast, someone who desired to marry a goat, or a liberal democrat, all of whom are people that I believe need serious reprogramming, I could find a support group of some kind to be on my side and protect my civil rights.

But I smoke, and everybody on the anti-smoking bandwagon not only hates me, but is regarded as a righteous citizen for doing so. I don’t understand it. The same people who preach tolerence for a lot downright bizarre behavior in society are the first to go absolutely hydrophobic in their persecution of smokers. Isn't that just a tad hypocritical? Oh, it's not? Because they're SAVING THE CHILDREN?

No, they're not. That excuse is the cloaking device they use to disguise their true mission. They just want to bully people, and they know that our tolerant nation tolerates intolerance when it is directed at a demonized minority. Smokers are a good target today. Anti-smokers and Islamist nutballs have more in common than most people realize. Both are motivated by hatred. Both think they know the ONE TRUE WAY everyone should live. Both despise the concept of personal freedom.

Both are flaming assholes.

And most people won't recognize all the advertising blurbs in the first paragraph, from cigarette commercials I saw on television as a child. Yes, youngsters! Many, many years ago, cigarettes were advertised on TV. One of these days, you can tell YOUR children about seeing BILLBOARDS containing cigarette advertisements. Then they can tell THEIR children about LEGAL cigarettes, after they are banned and the government WAR ON DRUGS has a brand new target of opportunity.




Friday, June 14, 2002

Bwhahahaha! I took THIS TEST and discovered that MENTALLY I am:

Your result
19


Yes! I am young (and perverted) at heart! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!

Bwhahahaha!

Since I posted the golf joke below, I may as well wax philosophical about what I believe to be the purest game ever invented. I always wanted to be a professional football player, but three years of high school ball as an undersized monsterman (roving linebacker) convinced me that I was not cut out for that career. The arthritis in my knees, neck, elbows and shoulders today confirm that fact. I had the living shit beat out of me, and I bear the permanent scars to prove it. But I loved every minute I spent playing football. Sometimes, thirty years later, I still dream about being on the football field and seeing life through the facemask bolted to my Rydell helmet. I learned a lot about myself back then. I don't regret any of it.

I don't want my son to do what I did. I want my son to play golf.

I want him to pursue a sport that he can play until the day he dies, like the Jack Lemmon character in The Legend of Bagger Vance. I don't want him to be 50 years old and wake up every day knowing that it takes thirty minutes to get all of his joints working properly again because of a violent game he played when he was 17. I want him to have many reserved tee times on many sunny days on beautiful courses.

I started playing golf when I was twelve years old. My father taught me to play, and my father didn't know shit about golf. He gave me all the knowledge he had, and I spent many years unlearning the bad habits he taught me. In 1988, I won the medalist trophy for the 144-man company golf tournament. I won many other trophies before and after that, and I am amazed that I have so many today. The bloodless cunt kept my Norton's Anthology, all the pictures of my son as a baby and $6,000 worth of jewlery I bought her, but she gave me all my golf trophies.

She doesn't play the game. The rest of the stuff, she wanted.

There I go, waxing bitter again, when I need to "get over it," as a bloodless cunt once told me, when she took enough time away from her unemployed, dope-smoking lover to speak to me on the phone. You may think my rants about my ex-wife have nothing to do with golf, but you are wrong. There's a great similarity.

Golf is one heartless bitch of a sport. Golf is the most disgusting, demeaning, degrading, deviant game in the world, worse than even Strip Poker, and I love it.

No, not Strip Poker, for you disgusting, deviant types who took that sentence the wrong way, because for me Strip Poker always has been a game of solitaire. I meant I love golf, despite all its evil attributes, and despite the fact that I probably am better at solitaire Strip Poker than I ever will be at golf.

I don’t know why I called golf a game to begin with, because it’s not. Golf is an existential journey deep into The Self, where you can unearth your inner core and discover all sorts of vile, hideous, revolting things you wish you had kept buried. Golf is a voyage of gestalt therapy, available at a much lower cost than you would pay any licensed psychologist for the same treatment, as long as you don’t factor in the expense of greens fees, cart fees, beer fees, lost bets and lost balls.

Speaking of balls, golf is played with a ball, and right there is where any similarity with any other sane, normal game ends. Golf balls should be sold in grocery store racks right next to Bic lighters and disposable razors, because golf balls are every bit as expendable, even if they cost more money. I still have the football I played with as a kid. I have never managed to hang on to the same golf ball for more than a few holes, and I frequently have removed a brand new one from the plastic-wrapped sleeve and lost it with one shot.

Also, no honest golfer throws, hits, rolls, kicks, head-butts, scrums or grabs and runs with a golf ball, although dishonest golfers have been known to engage in all of the above. Those nefarious types are easily recognized, because they tee the ball in sand traps, molest their mothers and sell their children into slavery. They all voted for Bill Clinton twice.

You attempt to hit a golf ball with a stick, but nobody throws it at you at 100 miles per hour, nor is anybody waiting to catch it after you hit it. The golf ball just lays there, unmoving, implacable and full of malice, while you stand over it with a stick in your hands and try not to become too fond of it, because you know it won’t be yours for very long. And unlike baseball, golf requires you to play your foul balls, if you can find them.

If you’re serious enough about golf, and take full advantage of the therapy it provides, you will eventually shed the thin veneer of civilization that cloaks the troglodyte inside you. That’s when the Primal Scream of The Golf Course erupts, usually when lots of heavy bets are riding, there are numerous witnesses and you thought you had your opponent pinned to the ground with your golf-spiked shoe pressed firmly on his throat. That’s when your opponent hits a dead slice that bounces off a rake in the sand trap and trickles up twelve inches from the hole, while you are still watching the ripples spread amidst the scum and the lilies in the lovely pond that just swallowed your ball. There, a group of ducks swim contentedly and make loud quacking noises that sound remarkably similar to the guffawing laughter erupting from your opponent.

That’s when you scream and curse and throw your club, breaking one of the most sacred rules of golf, because you threw it behind you, and therefore have to backtrack to retrieve it, and then go hit another ball, which this time might interrupt the placid feeding of the ducks, because after you hit your reload into the water, too, you might throw club, bag, golf cart and yourself in after it. And you would be bound and determined to drown anyone who tried to save you.

That’s why golf is such a mystical experience. I have come home from the golf course feeling reborn, refreshed, at one with nature and totally in touch with both the yin and yang of life, with pond scum on my shoes, lilies in my underwear and a quacking duck in my golf bag. In these moments, I have often considered playing a hand or two of solitaire Strip Poker, getting naked, smearing my body with honey and crawling atop the nearest fire ant mound in the back yard.

But I don’t, because I can look at the duck and know I had at least one birdie that day.







Here's an oldie but a goodie. My coon-ass friend from Lousiana sent this joke today, and since the pros are playing the US Open as I write, I think it's time to talk a little golf.

TEE TIME
Four guys who worked together always golfed as a group at 7a.m. on Sunday. Unfortunately, one of them got transferred out of town and they were talking about trying to fill out the foursome. A woman standing near the tee said,"Hey, I like to golf, can I join the group?" They were hesitant, but said she could come once to try it and they would see what they thought.

She said, "Good, I'll be there at 6:30 or 6:45."

She showed up right at 6:30, and wound up setting a course record with a 7-under par round.The guys went nuts and everyone in the clubhouse congratulated her. Meanwhile, she was fun and pleasant the entire round. The guys happily invited her back the next week and she said, "Sure, I'll be here at 6:30 or 6:45."

Again, she showed up at 6:30 Sunday morning.

Only this time, she played left-handed, and matched her 7-under par score of the previous week. By now the guys were totally amazed, and they asked her to join the group for keeps. They had a beer after their round, and one of the guys asked her, "How do you decide if you're going to golf right-handed or left-handed?"

She said, "That's easy. Before I leave for the golf course, I pull the covers off my husband,who sleeps in the nude. If his member is pointing to the right, I golf right-handed; if it's pointed to the left, I golf left-handed."

One of the guys asked, "What if it's pointed straight up?"

She said, "Then I'll be here at 6:45."

Drumroll, please....
I stole this from THE VODKA GUY, but I must admit it's been a fantasy of mine for a long time. Anybody soooo perfect at doing soooo many perfect things as Martha Stewart deserves to GO TO JAIL.

Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200, either.
This kid could use a good editor, but he is young and will become a better writer with more practice. The POINT OF HIS ESSAY is obvious to anyone who pays attention to the education establishment today. We're not educating children any more. We have a system designed to brainwash them, fill their tender heads with political correctness, fit them all into identical boxes and ship them off to adulthood with high self-esteem, a warped view of the world and none of the tools they need to succeed in life.

If a teacher ever has the unmitigated gall actually to do her job and fail an incompetent, slackwad student, THIS IS THE TYPICAL RESPONSE, both from the student's parents and school administrators. The parents should be proud, the student should be proud, the school administration should be proud and the lawyer should be proud, as long as they all live in Bizarro-World, where everything is the opposite of normal.

I am proud of that teacher. Read her reply to the lawyer. She wasted all her admirable courage, however, because she works for a bunch of gelded nincompoops who lack the guts to stand up to an idiotic challenge. She never folded. She was ready to fight the idiots. But she works in a system run by bigger idiots, and THEY SURRENDERED.

Our education system is a complete abortion, and throwing more taxpayer dollars at the problem will not solve it. Teachers are educated "to a degree" and often know little about the subjects they teach. Administrators are hide-bound, rule-making, paper-shuffling bureaucrats with balsa wood spines and yellow streaks running down their backs. Congress, especially on the Democrat side of the aisle, is beholden to the teacher's unions and cares more about maintaining the status quo, and the considerable campaign contributions the unions funnel into the coffers of sympathetic political whores, than it does about teaching our children to read and to write.

The situation is sickening, and it's getting worse. I suggest that anyone with a child in public school today read JOANNE JACOBS every day. Her blog specializes in exposing the worst elements of public education, and caring parents need to know such things; otherwise, we condemn our children to living in the belly of the beast when they attend school every day.

After complete digestion, what does that belly eventually produce?

Thursday, June 13, 2002

I know THIS TEST is ABSOLUTE BULLSHIT, because I scored a THREE!

That is NOT me, because threes don't know who they are. I KNOW WHO I AM!

I am "Acidman."
BLOGGER giveth and BLOGGER taketh away. Last night it ate a good one, tonight it double-published one. I would rather have the old one back.
Since I am now a single man and actively seeking female companionship (well, I haven't been THAT active about it. But I THINK about it a lot), I started to wonder what I want in a woman. Stunning beauty, outstanding intelligence and a shitpot full of money would be nice, but chances are I won't find someone with all three of those assets who would be the slightest bit interested in ME. I should ground my expectations somewhere in the vicinity of reality.

I read this RUMINATION on a similar subject by The Captain, and I agree with a lot of what he says. I like to watch women. I'm not certain that I have a standard of beauty that I measure them by, because almost every woman I've ever seen, with the exception of Janet Reno and that wide-load idiot in the bright-orange stretch pants at the Super Wal-Mart last weekend, has some measure of beauty about her. When the Captain says, "There is something worth watching on almost any woman (no matter what color she is); true ogres are few and far between. Start at 9.8 and for each woman add a tenth for each good characteristic, and whaddyeknow? Suddenly you're surrounded by "tens". I know exactly what he means.

I like slender, athletic women, but I also like Rubenesque female physiques, too. I like blondes, but brunettes and redheads also attract my attention. Since I'm only 5' 8" tall, I prefer women shorter than I am (they're easier to slow-dance with), but I like tall girls with long legs, too. I may as well face facts: I like women. Period.

To this day, I'll yank a crick in my neck turning my head to glimpse a fine, young thing in shorts and halter-top, but I really don't feel a strong sexual attraction to girls in their late teens and early twenties. They may be sweet to look at and they may make me recall my younger days, but I prefer grown women. I would prefer my grown women to be stunningly beautiful, outstandingly intelligent and blessed with a shitpot full of money, but I'll settle for them just being adults. Sex is fun with any hot tamale, but no matter how hot the relationship, you'll always spend more time NOT having sex with a person than you will HAVING sex with them. That's where good conversation, common interests and shared experience comes into a true relationship. I could never find those attributes in a twenty year-old piece of arm candy, no matter how beautiful she may be.

I can see it now: I show the potential Playboy Playmate my blog. She reads a couple of posts. I show her the comments. And she says, "Why do you do that? Why do those people care? That just looks BORING to me." And OUT she goes, thong underwear and all.

Okay, I want an adult woman I can talk to and enjoy being around outside the bed, but what physical characteristics to I really consider beautiful in a woman?

1) I believe the first things I notice about a woman are her hair and her eyes. Women express a lot of their personality by the way they wear their hair, and their eyes speak volumes about them. I have no preference about hair from Big to Cropped, just as long as it's neatly kept, but the eyes should be expressive, willing to meet mine, and sparkling with just a hint of daredevil.

2) I am an ass man. I think that's the greatest OBVIOUS physical difference between males and females, since I work with some fat male mechanics who have tits bigger than most women, and I like the round countours of a woman's hips. If they have a little shashay in their walk that helps call attention to this wonderful attribute, that's all the better.

3) I like boobs, too, but I never met a pair I didn't like, from large to nearly non-existent. I think women worry more about their chestiness than they should. A nice set of .45 caliber, erogenous nipples is better than a set of big boobs any day.

4) I like pretty female feet. I'll admit it. I have a foot fetish. That's why I paint toenails and blow them dry one toe at a time. That's why I like to give foot massages. Yes, I've been known to suck on a pretty toe or two in my life. I can't help it. I like pretty feet on a woman and I find them very sexy.

5) She MUST shave her legs and her armpits at least SOME of the time. Back in my college days, I had an adventure with a liberated feminist who ditched the Gillette and went natural. When a woman wraps legs around me that are more hairy than mine, a lot of passion ebbs away quickly.

6) This is more mental than physical, but I cannot be with a woman who does not have a good sense of humor and the ability to laugh at herself sometimes. Laughter is the best medicine for anything that bothers you, and it's always better if you have someone to laugh with.

If you meet criteria #1 through #6, e-mail me at pigmenteer@yahoo.com.

I never liked him when he was governor, but ZELL MILLER just keeps winning my admiration as a US Senator.
Since I blogged about things being poked up people's butts in the post below, I think ready to write the blog I promised SISOFLEXX in a comment I left like a muddy footprint on her page last night. The time is right anyway. Next month, July 16, to be exact, will make one year since I had the prostate biopsy that directed my life down that ROAD LESS TRAVELED BY that sometimes makes a huge difference, even if you didn't choose that road voluntarily.

I had no idea what was actually involved in a prostate biopsy, but I knew it couldn't be good. First of all, I was told to take an enema two hours before I arrived at the doctor's office. A week before I was supposed to go, I bought a two-pack of Fleet, getting an emergency backup dose just in case I screwed up up the first one. I thought that was a distinct possibility, considering the fact that I had not experienced an enema since I was a little boy and my mama was in charge of that one. I didn't want to buy just one, mess it up, and go back to the store to buy ANOTHER one and have the clerk suggest that if I take enemas as frequently as I OBVIOUSLY DO, perhaps I should consider buying a bulk container with a built-in drum pump.

I read the instructions a dozen times and even did a couple of "dry runs," assuming the suggested position and making sure my arms were long enough to bring all the necessary equipment into range with the necessary orifice. After a few of those, I thought my technique was as good as the cartoon figure they showed on the instructions. Practice makes perfect.

On the appointed day, I assumed the position on the bathroom rug, manuvered the Fleet bottle into position and achieved a complete docking on the first try. I squeezed the bottle. Then I extracted the bottle and examined the contents. Barely a third was gone. I repeated the docking procedure and squeezed again. Then squeezed a second time before extraction to make sure I wouldn't have to do it again. Success!

The instructions said to maintain the position until I felt an overpowering urge to "evacuate." That took about 30 seconds, and I was finished with the enema portion of my ordeal. I drove to my appointment feeling as fresh as all outdoors, and beginning to understand why women use certain feminine hygene products.

About two hours later, I found myself on a table in the doctor's office. I had undressed, as instructed, and donned one of those flimsy, wide-ass-open in the back hospital gowns. I was told to enter a small room and sit on an examination table covered by a toilet-paper-like sheet. The paper quicky became wedged firmly between my bare asscheeks, because I was in full clench mode by then. I looked around the room and noticed flowered wallpaper, a big poster of a cartoon guy sawed in half to reveal his prostate gland, and a 13" TV-VCR combination on a stand next to the table. I sat there, becoming increasingly nervous, until I was about two seconds away from running from the room, through the doctor's office and out into the streets, buns in the wind and all.

That's when the doctor, accompanied by a nurse, finally entered the room. He was holding a device that I can describe only as THE MEDICAL INSTRUMENT FROM HELL! It was a thin rod, about 24" long, with a bulbous head slightly larger than a golf ball. It had a bunch of buttons and a trigger-like device on the handle, and lots of wires running out of the back end.

The doctor plugged the wires into the front of the TV-VCR combo. "I'm going to show you what this sounds like, so you'll not be surprised," the doctor said. He pulled the trigger on the device and it went: KAPOW! It sounded exactly like the pump-and-shoot air gun I bought my son at the Super Wal-Mart less than a month earlier. It was LOUD. He intended to shoot me with THAT.

He instructed me to lie on my side, facing the wall, and pull my knees up to my chest. I knew then that I wasn't going to get to watch TV during the proceedure. No, the doctor watched the TV, because his wonder-wand had an ultrasound camera in its bulbous head, the better to make every shot count. I became very well-acquainted with the flowered wallpaper instead.

He warned that I might feel a sting or minor pain, but most people didn't find the experience terribly unpleasant. With that, he shoved that thing up my ass and commenced firing. Eight times, in all.

I don't know who "most people" are, but I found the experience worse than terribly unpleasant. I did good for the first four shots, but by number five, I was knawing the knuckle of my thumb like a wild animal caught in a trap. "You are intrepid, Mr. Smith," the doctor cooed encouragingly, moving the wand around inside my deepest guts and firing at whatever he saw on his TV screen. I didn't feel so intrepid. I thought I might pass out at any moment. But I didn't. Finally, he was through.

I was allowed to dress myself and stumble on unsteady legs away from the doctor's office. They said the biopsy results would take a week to run. I remember thinking to myself as I drove out of the parking lot, "Damn! I'm sure glad THAT's over with." But it wasn't.
A week later I learned that three of the eight shots tested positive.

I had prostate cancer.




Did you ever wonder about what kind of people poke strange objects up their butts and then can't get them out? Did you ever wonder about what kind of strange objects they used? Did you know that MALES are more likely than females to stick strange objects up their butts and lose them by a ratio of 28:1? Did you know that some people end up with TWO strange objects lodged in their butts at the same time because they lost the SECOND one attempting to retrieve the FIRST one?

Neither did I, until I went HERE. Be sure to scroll all the way down to the "pictures" section.

Thanks to PLANET ZACK for that disgusting... uh, I mean INSPIRING link.

Where's my gerbil when I need one?

Wednesday, June 12, 2002


That Long-Haired Country Boy who just got BLOGROLLED BY LIBERTARIAN SAMIZDATA had a lot to say in the biggest controversy I ever started since I ran for 6th grade class president against Debbie Lynch and lost by one vote in the third runoff. I was robbed!

He got one thing wrong on his blog, however. He says the 10th Amendment ensures that rights eminate from the people and the states, in that order, not from the federal government.

He's right about one thing. That's what the WORDS SAY:

Amendment X: The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.

This amendment is the most trampled-upon, child-abused, butt-wiped, jap-slapped, finger-poked and winked-at in the entire Bill of Rights. Activist judges in black robes have discovered all sorts of penumbras and eminations from the constitution the way witch doctors in loin cloths see the will of the volcano god in steaming goat entrails. As a result, the 10th amendment has become a parody of what it was meant to be. Powers belonging to the states or to the people have all but vanished. Where in the Constitution is the federal government granted the power to set national speed limits on our highways, mandate air bags in motor vehicles, demand that automobiles get X-amount of miles per gallon of gasoline, ban certain firearms, control our schools, dictate affirmative action quotas, pass an Endangered Species Act, and basically control every aspect of American life at the microscopic level? That power didn't come from the 10th Amendment. That power came from consistent VIOLATION of the 10th Amendment because the Interstate Commerce Clause trumps the 10th every time.

Come on, JB. You have your turf only because the government hasn't found snail darters in your drainage ditch or wetlands in your back yard. Once that happens, your turf won't be yours anymore. Auntie Sam will dictate what you can and can't do with it.

That's what the 10th Amendment means today.

I haven't had this unpleasant experience in a while, but BLOGGER just ate about 500 words that I wrote about the flame-war generated in my "comments" about the e-mail I posted from Ed, the ex-Linebacker. Since so many people became so riled about that post, I intended to throw my head back and howl with the pack, and I was really on a roll. That's all gone now, and it's a crying shame.

I'll try again. I believe Florida is run by politically-correct morons. Pictures go on driver's licenses so that people know it's YOUR license when they see it. If the Muslim woman can have her picture taken with her face covered, can I wear a paper bag over MY head next time I need to renew MY license? In my mind, she had a simple choice: 1) take off the veil and have the picture taken, or 2) drive without a license or don't drive at all.

I believe immigrants, not Americans must adapt. The politically-correct morons don't content themselves with accommodating only immigrants. Today, the most high-strung, anal-retentive, overly-sensitive, bipolar, obsessive-compulsive douche bag in the country sets the standards for everyone else. Nobody has the nerve to bitch-slap the douche bag and say, "Stop whining, shut up and get a life, you idiot!" No, every hard-working, tax-paying, family-raising, lawn-mowing, upstanding member of society is supposed to bend and twist to accomodate the douche bag. I find something terribly wrong with that picture. Once upon a time, every village had its idiot, and that person was known as "The Village Idiot." Today, that idiot is The Person Who Must Not Be Offended. Welcome to the land of the free and the home of the brave, where idiots rule.

We speak ENGLISH, not Spanish, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, or any other language. Any parents who raise their children to speak a foreign language without learning English in this country should be arrested for child abuse. The company I work for once was owned by the government of Finland. All Finnish children are expected to learn to speak English in school, because English is the language of international commerce, and becoming fluent is a key to success. Nordic people in a frozen country halfway around the globe understand this fact. Our public schools don't, and a lot of nimrods raising children in this country don't either. It's a crying shame when even the Japanese put more emphasis on learning English than people in our own country. Reading, writing and speaking English is the single most important skill ANYONE can possess to climb the ladder of success. If you allow your children to grow up speaking another language in this country, you may as well amputate their right arms. They'll be less handicapped that way.

If God offends you, then I suggest you consider another part of the world as your new home, because God is part of our culture. Damn if THAT line didn't stir up a shit storm. I disagree with the writer here. I am an athiest. I see no mircales in the world, nor do I see God's handiwork all around me. I believe everything in the universe is the product of chemistry, physics and time. No divine intervention is necessary when you have those factors in abundance, and the universe has all three. I am not anti-religious, however. I believe in different strokes for different folks, and if you have faith in whatever Almighty you wish to worship, that's fine with me. I don't automatically consider religion to be a disease. But I recognize that it CAN BE, as demonstrated by Islamist nutlogs, who want to kill the infidels in the name of God, certain right-wing Christians, who want to punish the unbelievers in the name of God, and those pathetic Seventh Day Adventists who allow their children to die rather than submit to medical treatment in the name of God. Zealots of any sort are scary people, and some religions are full of them, along with other bizarre people. Catholics have their pedophile priests. Baptists have their Jimmy Swaggarts. Muslims have their Osama bin Ladens. But religion is a comfort to many people in this country and their churches do many good works. Religion is not a disease. Certain diseased people use religion to excuse their diseased behavior.

We are happy with our culture and have no desire to change, and we really don't care how you did things where you came from. This is OUR COUNTRY, our land, and our lifestyle. American culture has been evolving since the day the first settlers set foot on this land, and it will continue to do so. That's not a bad thing. I live 30 miles from downtown Savannah, Georgia. If I want to go to town for a nice dinner, I have my choice of food from Southern, Chinese, Thai, Moroccan, Italian, Jamacian, Japanese, Mexican, Korean and French, to a few other menus I can't remember right now. That's the American melting pot at work. I've been to a traditional Greek wedding and a Bar Mitzvah. I've been to a hog-killing in Harlan County, Kentucky. I've been to the St. Patrick's Day parade in Savannah. I've attended the Scottish Games at Old Fort Jackson. Those things are all part of "our" culture. And it's changing every day, growing more complex and more seasoned with extra spice. I like that.

But I do agree that anyone who doesn't like living in this country should exercise THE RIGHT TO LEAVE. Unlike Cuba or North Korea or many other countries in they world, our government doesn't imprison you here against your will. You can go to a better place any time you want to, if you can find one. I have no problem with people criticizing the government and advocating change. Lord knows, I do enough of that myself, and I've NEVER been arrested for it, which attests to the fact that this is one great country. But some people piss and moan about the US to the point where I'm willing to buy them a ticket on any mode of transportation they choose just to get their whining asses away from me.

I suppose my philosophy can be summed up very simply. I am not religious, but I believe in the Golden Rule. I love my country, but I fear my government.

Still, nobody could pay me to live anywhere else.


Tuesday, June 11, 2002

From my friend Ed, the ex-linebacker:

THIS DOES SAY IT ALL!!!

After hearing that the state of Florida changed its opinion and let a Muslim woman have her picture on her drivers license with her face covered, I believe this is even more appropriate. Read on, please!

This is an Editorial written by an American citizen, published in a Tampa Newspaper. He did quite a job; didn't he?

IMMIGRANTS, NOT AMERICANS, MUST ADAPT. I am tired of this nation worrying about whether we are offending some individual or their culture. Since the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11,we have experienced a surge in patriotism by the majority of Americans. However, the dust from the attacks had barely settled when the"politically correct" crowd began complaining about the possibility that our patriotism was offending others.

I am not against immigration, nor do I hold a grudge against anyone who is seeking a better life by coming to America. Our population is almost entirely comprised of descendants of immigrants. However, there are a few things that those who have recently come to our country, and apparently some born here, need to understand.

This idea of America being a multicultural community has served only to dilute our sovereignty and our national identity. As Americans, we have our own culture, our own society, our own language and our own lifestyle. This culture has been developed over centuries of struggles, trials, and victories by millions of men and women who have sought freedom.

We speak ENGLISH, not Spanish, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, or any other language.

Therefore, if you wish to become part of our society, learn the language!

"In God We Trust" is our national motto. This is not some Christian, right wing, political slogan. We adopted this motto because Christian men and women, on Christian principles, founded this nation, and this is clearly documented. It is certainly appropriate to display it on the walls of our schools. If God offends you, then I suggest you consider another part of the world as your new home, because God is part of our culture.

If Stars and Stripes offend you, or you don't like Uncle Sam, then you should seriously consider a move to another part of this planet.
We are happy with our culture and have no desire to change, and we really don't care how you did things where you came from. This is OUR COUNTRY, our land, and our lifestyle.

Our First Amendment gives every citizen the right to express his opinion and we will allow you every opportunity to do so. But, once you are done complaining, whining, and griping about our flag, our pledge, our national motto, or our way of life, I highly encourage you to take advantage of one other great American freedom,
THE RIGHT TO LEAVE.
It was Halloween, a little boy was dressed as a pirate.
He goes up to a house and rings the doorbell. A man answers the door and
says, "Oh, a pirate, were are your buccaneers"?
The little boy looks up at him and says,"Under my bucking hat"!
Heather sent me THIS PICTURE. Awww.... ain't she sweet?

I meant HEATHER IS SWEET! Not the nekkid girl in the picture.
Hmmm... After reading some of the comments I've received from my lady readers out there in cyber-land, I have to wonder if they think, "Hell, if he's as WONDERFUL as he says he is, why is he divorced now?" Trust me. I'm altogether as wonderful as I say I am, but I do have a few small faults. You would never know it from reading this blog, but I sometimes can be very opinionated, and my ego does not fit into a small box. I have been an over-achiever all my life, and that sort of impulse is difficult to turn on and off like a light switch. I like who I am, for the most part, and I can be incredibly charming when I set out to be. But I can be a difficult individual to live with.

I married a person who was remarkably like me. The bloodless cunt was good-looking, intelligent, hard-working and passionate. For almost ten years, that arrangement worked very well, and we produced a son of superb quality. That was a well-planned team effort. But TWO over-achieving, egotistical, opinionated people take up a lot of room, even in a big house. When you have two leaders, nobody wants to follow. Friction occurs. I finally got on her nerves a lot worse than she got on mine, so she ended it. I never saw it coming. I sometimes enjoyed the friction.

But her choice of the dope-smoking, unemployed lover made peverted sense to me. She picked the exact OPPOSITE of me to roost with. That pathetic guy has hepetitus C, hasn't worked in years, is angling for a con-man Social Security disability, smokes dope because "that's the only way I can get an appetite" and worships the purse she opens to pay for everything they do together. Is he a catch, or what? I'm certain she takes him to all the business dinners she attends so that she can show him off to the bosses.

My ex-wife is much more of a control freak than I am, and she has PERFECT control over that relationship. Now, she has all the pussy and all the money, plus the fancy sports car, while dickhead drives a beat-up van that won't crank half the time. She has the transportation, too!

With me, she just had all the pussy. That wasn't enough. Now, she has it all.

I tend to be very nostalgic about some things, because memories are important to me. I still have my football card collection I started when I was six years-old and the marbles I won when I was young. The two things I miss most from the property split during the divorce are the pictures I had of my son when he was a baby and my Norton's Anthology of Poetry. The cunt says she'll give me some of the pictures one day, and I'm holding my breath for that, and she says she gave me the poetry anthology. She didn't, nor did she give me the "Cleverest Quotes of All Time in Twenty Words or Less" book I really could use on this blog. Oscar Wilde was a true wit.

Well, when you do a lightning-strike divorce from a clear blue sky, some things are bound to be lost in the shuffle.

I remain bitter about all of that, but I really do perform excellent foot-massages (and I've been know to work my way up from there), I do pedicures, and I paint toenails and blow them dry with my own hot breath one toe at a time. I have never had a complaint about my technique. Of course, I haven't used it in a while, so critics are welcome to put me to the test.

I like to cook whatever someone likes to eat, and I enjoy dining by candlelight. I like soft music in the background, and I love to drink wine when I don't have to go to work in the morning. Hell, I like to drink wine when I DO have to go to work in the morning. I like company when I sleep.

And I like my blog, where I just might be lying my ass off about everything I write.







Both my brother and one of my best friends are lawyers, and they both are really nice guys. But they work in a profession populated by lying, back-stabbing, belly-crawling scumbags, who do THIS and THIS in Philadelphia, THIS elsewhere in the state of Pennsylvania, and THIS in Texas. They've already run almost all the doctors out of Mississippi, doctors are becoming nervous in Californicated and the beat goes on.

Lawyers are going to sue doctors to the point where we're back to the days of using home-remedies to cure brain tumors, because no doctor dares practice actual medicine any more. Lawyers say they're doing it to protect public health, while they line their pockets with millions by winning bullshit lawsuits. Juries award ridiculous verdicts because tort lawyers manage to staff them with the twelve dumbest asses they can find in the local community, and if they find a local community awash in ignorant dumbasses, they try their best to get EVERY TRIAL held there. That's why Mississippi is the Mecca of class-action suits. I am sorry to say this about a Southern state, but Mississippi is FULL of ignorant dumbasses, most of whom are black and seem to think giving away a quadzillion dollars in an ignorant jury verdict is the same as drawing the lucky numbers from the lottery fishbowl. "Looky here what I got! You win!"

I have served on three juries in my life. Every time, at least six of the twelve members had no clue whatsoever about what was actually happening in the courtroom. Two of the cases were civil suits, and as soon as the plaintiff's attorney made his opening statements and we took a break, despite the judge's admonition not to discuss the case, about half the jury already started deciding on how much money we should award that poor thing who was suing. "Well, she's been through A LOT. We HAVE to give her something." I damn near got lynched a few times during deliberations, when I continually reminded the idiots I was cooped up with that we weren't there to play Robin Hood, robbing the rich to give to the poor. We were there to decide whether or not the plaintiff had a case under the rule of law. That's a very radical viewpoint in jury boxes today.

If I ever sue, if I ever am sued, or if I ever have the misfortune to go on trial for a felony, I want an actual jury of MY PEERS to hear the case. I want educated people who can and DO read and write on the jury. I want people who can name both of their Senators and their Representative in the House. I want people who own property and pay taxes. I want people who know that O.J. was guilty as sin, Bill Clinton was a prick and and Larry King is the most over-rated man who ever donned red suspenders.

Lawyers don't want such people on a jury. They might dispense justice instead of largesse.

I am going to call Epic Resorts people tonight and try to book a vacation somewhere. This is my year (I get the even ones, she gets the odd ones) to use the time share points we bought from them. I have 7,500 points, which is enough to buy me a week in a one-bedroom condo just about anywhere I want to go. If I don't use them, they are "banked," and the bloodless cunt will have 15,000 to use next year. I'll book a condo somewhere and spend the points even if I DON"T GO THERE, just to burn them up.

But I intend to use them. I haven't decided whether I want a place on the beach in Florida around the end of August, so I can take my son with me, or a place at Lake Tahoe around Thanksgiving, so I can go play in the snow and gamble. I probably won't make up my mind until I talk to the booking agent tonight. I could think really exotic and go back to St. Martin's, where I went in April, 2001, but I don't believe that beautiful island would appear nearly as wonderful to me as it did then. That was my last "family vacation" before the shit hit the fan two months later. I don't think I want to go back there.

If I can find an available place around St. Augustine, Daytona or even Tampa, I'll opt for that choice first. My son loves the beach and we can work on becoming bronze gods together on the sand and in the surf. He would like that, especially if I take him out to eat where they serve fried alligator tail, which is almost ANYWHERE in those parts. I can drive to Tampa in about six hours, and St. Augustine is a mere three-hour trip. Hell, if I end up in Tampa, I might have to call A CHARLIE DANIELS FAN to have dinner with us one evening.

If everything I want on the beach is booked up, I'll go back to Lake Tahoe in November or December. That's the most beautiful place I've ever seen, and they sell LIQUOR in GROCERY STORES there, which makes one-stop shopping easy. And they have casinos that never close and lots of opportunities to throw my hard-earned money away, or parley it into a mini-fortune on the blackjack tables. And they have snow, too.

I made an appointment with a urologist today, and I'm going to go for THE PUMP. I don't know if I'll have it installed and fully functional by August (although I intend to try), but I should be the proud owner of a bionic member by November. (Check out Dr. Eid's areas of expertise and click on "Penile Implants." I just hope they make them in my size, which once was impressive.)

I don't give a damn what it costs or whether my insurance pays for it or not. I want my dick back.

Note to Diana: I can still do #7 WITHOUT the pump. I can make it SO MUCH BETTER with one.

Monday, June 10, 2002

Why Not?

PromoGuy.net presents Monday Mission 2.23

1. Do you have a side of the bed on which you prefer to sleep? Do you sleep on that side even when traveling or does it matter?
I sleep on the left side of the bed, as viewed from lying on my back. I did it for years while married to the bloodless cunt, and to this day it remains "my side" of the bed.

2. What is your favorite "Theme Park?" How come and when was the last time you were there?
I don't like theme parks. I left half my intestines and both of my gonads hanging in the air at SIX FLAGS when I took the "Free-Fall" plunge a few years ago, and I've been to DISNEY WORLD and BUSCH GARDENS. I hated them all. Too many people and I don't stand in line for ANYTHING anymore. Piss on theme parks.

3. What is your most and least favorite thing about staying in hotels?
Not having to clean the room is my favorite thing. Least favorite is the water-saving, pissant showers they always have.

4. Did you ever take family vacations that required looooooong car rides? Were siblings involved ("Stop touching me! Don't cross this line!)? Were the trips just unbearable or did you make up some "car ride games" to pass the time?
Oh, HELL YES! We used to go back "home" to Harlan County, Kentucky, when it was still a 12-hour car ride on terrible roads. (You can make it in 6 1/2 hours now) My father believed in stopping for gas and nothing else. If you couldn't piss in a 16-ounce RC Cola bottle that my mom emptied out the window at 70 miles an hour, then by God, you better just HOLD IT until we needed gas. The only "car ride games" we played involved my father threatening to kill me and my brother if we asked "how much farther is it?" one more time.

5. With all the drilled peep-holes and spy-cams we hear about on the news, have you ever felt self-conscious about taking off your clothes in a hotel bathroom? Has wondering if someone was on the other side of that mirror on the wall above the dresser made you think twice about "gettin' busy?"
Never. I strut around butt-ass naked HOPING someone is watching. I am a nudist exhibitionist at heart.

6. Describe the most romantic vacation you have ever taken or if that does not apply, tell me about the worst vacation you have ever taken.
I hope I've never enjoyed the most romantic vacation of my life yet.

7. (continued) After a full tummy and four days of sleep, I'd say I've never felt better. Since it is nearly noon, how about you come over and we'll hang out on the deck. I have a pool, hot tub and lotsa eats and drink. But feel free to bring whatever else you think we need! How should we spend this fine afternoon at the pool?
Bring your sweet self, your favorite toenail polish, and plan on staying the night. I have chilled wine, fresh strawberries, whipped cream and clean sheets on the bed. I will administer an expert foot-rub and pedicure, paint your toenails, then feed you fresh strawberries while I "accidentally" spill whipped cream on your breasts. Since I made the mess, I should clean it up... you may sip wine from a long-stemmed crystal glass while I do. Then, I'll ask: "how many orgasms have you ever experienced in one day? Wanna go for a RECORD?"


I've been pretty down in the dumps today. I went to bed before 9:30 last night, then woke up around midnight and couldn't go back to sleep. I fried some zuchinni (that was grown in SOMEBODY ELSE'S garden) at 1:30 in the morning and ate it, watched some sports highlights on ESPN news, then went back to bed. I still couldn't sleep. I got up and went to my son's room, where the Palestinian Bomber is still inflated on the floor. I laid down there and covered myself with the sheets he slept under the past two days. I finally fell out around 3:00 and woke up at 4:15. That's close enough to regular wake-up time to get up and stay up, so I did.

I stopped drinking coffee over a month ago (I would drink an ENTIRE POT in the mornings) because I believed that the coffee was contributing to my insomnia. Now, I take a shower, get dressed, and have myself a can of cold Mountain Dew for an eye-opener. I think the Mountain Dew agrees with me more than the pot of coffee did in the mornings, but the change hasn't done much for the insomnia. I still don't sleep much and I frequently feel tired at work.

When I took the boys swimming at my mom's house on Sunday, I dropped by to visit my grandmother. I spent a month living next-door to her when I was recuperating from my surgery, and she knows I don't sleep well. She asked me if sleeping was getting any better, and I said no. She recommended that I go to a doctor and ask for sleeping pills. She's been taking one every night for years.

I would rather be wrapped in barbed wire and rolled down a mountain than go to a doctor. Last year, I saw LOTS of doctors, enough to pay the maximum out-of-pocket expense my insurance allows. Those skilled, Pythagarian-Theorem-practicing guys... wait a minute. It's not the Pythagarian Theorem that doctors practice. It's the Hippocratic Oath! Forgive me. I sometimes get my famous Greeks all confused. Anyway, Diogenes would have walked past them all with his lamp a-shining, because an honest man was not in their midst.

But they do have access to really good drugs. I probably could get a script for something that would put me to sleep at night. But I'm not certain they have ANYTHING I want if it means going into their parlors to get it.

I'll think about it tonight, probably around 2:00 in the morning.
If George Bush does not fire Christie Todd Whitman from her position as head of the Environmental Protection Agency, he (as we say Down South) doesn't have a hair on his ass. According to Robert Novak, Don't tell Dubya was the agency's game plan.

"The Environmental Protection Agency report warning of global warming dangers was issued without President Bush's being informed in advance, even though it seemed to contradict his long-held position.

That's why Bush dismissed what the EPA did as a ''report put out by the bureaucracy.'' The president did not mention EPA Administrator Christine Todd Whitman, the former governor of New Jersey who has frequently clashed with the White House."


Well, he should mention Ms. Whitman now, as in: "Christine, your sorry, backstabbing ass is FIRED!"

Thanks to that report, Bush now has to listen to constant yammering from environmental nut-logs such as Earth Tone Al Gore about the danger of global warming and the president ignoring the recommendations of his own advisors on the matter. Way to go, Christie!

If I were Bush, I would view the release of that report as: a) an incredible act of betrayal, or b) an incredible act of stupidity. Either way, I would sack the dumbass responsible immediately, and I would make no bones about why I did it, so other dumbasses in my administration hear the message loud and clear. "Rock MY boat, and I throw YOU over the side."

In my small piece of the world, I learned long ago that it's okay to disagree with the boss. I tell him (or her) when I disagree, and I explain my reasons, offer alternate solutions and plead my case as well as I can. Sometimes the boss says, "I believe you're right, Rob. I never looked at it that way before," and we go with my idea. Other times, the boss says, "We'll do it MY way," and by God, that's what WE DO. When that happens, it's my job to sell the idea to everybody under me, to bird-dog the implementation and see that it works. I DO NOT go behind my boss's back telling people what a stupid idea I think it is, let alone put it in writing and issue it to the United Nations and every reporter in the world. That's the epitome of assholery in my book.

If my boss ever told me to do something I found totally repugnant and disagreed with so strongly that I would not make myself do it, I would refuse. Then, we can talk about it, or he can fire me. Either way, it will be face to face, not underhanded.

Now that I think about it, Christie Whitman doesn't have a hair on HER ASS, either.

Snakes don't have hair. Or asses.



Sunday, June 09, 2002

I am experiencing the usual after-visitation depression I get when I deliver my son back to his bloodless cunt mother on Sunday evening. He was supposed to be back there at 6:00, but he called and asked for an extension. He really likes being with me, so he cajoled an extra hour for our weekend.

We didn't do anything all that special while we were together. He and young Jack played well and vigorously, we went to the super Wal-Mart and bought a James Bond game for the Playstation II, which absorbed a lot of their attention, then went to my mom's house today. Mom has a swimming pool in her back yard.

I'm teaching Jack to swim, the same as I did my son. My boy swims like a fish now, and doesn't remember that one year ago, he was the one fighting the water the way Jack did today. But Jack trusts me and he listens to what I say. After two hours in the pool, Jack was swimming all the way across the shallow end by himself, and making threats about going off the diving board the next time we go to "Mamaw's House." I believe he will. By the end of summer, I'll turn that boy into a fish, too.

My son fully intended to watch the $54.95 Lewis-Tyson fight I bought on pay-TV last night, but he fell asleep on the couch before either fighter entered the ring. He snuggled up next to me, said he was cold, and then conked out with his head on my hip and both arms wrapped around my legs after I threw a blanket over him. I watched the entire fight in that position.

God, how I love that little man!

He is everything I ever wanted in a son. And I hate the fact that I am missing so much of his life now. Four days each month is not enough, not for me and not for him. But that's just the way it goes. As the bloodless cunt said when she moved the unemployed, dope-smoking lover into my home and into what once was my bed: "Rob, you've just got to get over it."

I am trying my best.

I did it. I paid $54.95 to watch Mike Tyson suffer a superbly-delivered ass-whipping at the hands of the "puglilistic specialist," Lennox Lewis. Iron Mike got pummelled for seven of eight rounds, and ended up with his butt on the canvas and little birdies flying around in his semi-conscious vision as the referee counted to ten. It was a bad night for Mike Tyson, but a grand night for boxing.

Sometimes, there is some justice in the world.