Saturday, June 29, 2002

Wow! Check my comments a few posts down. I believe I got a hit from England for crying out loud. Bejus! This poor bastard must have less of a life than I do.
After ENRON and WORLDCOM and ARTHUR ANDERSON all proved to be using corrupt accounting practices, along comes XEROX doing the same thing. How do we fix it? We let CONGRESS take over!

Yes, those same wonderful people who gave us Amtrak, the US Post Office and HUD are going to straighten those evil corporations out, once and for all, stop all the waste and punish the greedy. Of course they must do THIS, THIS and THIS first.

Who will ever stop THEM?
Hurrah! The PRESIDENTIAL COLON received a clean bill of health today after Bush survived his colonoscopy. Now he should be revived, reinvigorated and well-lubricated for what the Democrat Senate has been doing to him all along.
I lied about eating fresh vegetables tonight. I had a craving for oysters, so I drove the short trip to The Sea Grill, which is just down the road across the Effingham County line. The Sea Grill is in Chatham County, where a liquor license comes at a reasonable price. Where I live, the county commission agreed to allow demon rum into this highly religious community, but made serving it so expensive that nobody does. It's legal, but unaffordable.

So I, and all the Effingham County sinners like me, drive just down the road and spend our money in Chatham County. The Bible-thumping Baptists and the humorless Lutherans of Effingham are delighted with this arrangement, because they're setting a high moral standard for everyone to follow. Chatham County is delighted, too, because people who aren't Bible-thumping Baptists and humorless Lutherans leave Effingham and follow their personal moral standard right to the bars over the county line, where they spend money my county will never see again. I did that very thing this evening.

I had a dozen raw oysters and two Margaritas. The patio bar where I usually sit was almost empty, so I had plenty of time to flirt with Carla The Bartender and Kim The Waitress while I was there. Carla is pretty, and she makes a good drink, but she's one of those wispy blondes who have translucent skin, long, skinny fingers and a demeanor that suggests that she may drop dead on you from a hangnail.

Kim, on the other hand, is a zesty woman, as tall as I am and full-breasted beneath her tee-shirt. (I tried to buy two today, but they were sold out.) (No, not breasts! Tee-shirts!) I like the logo, "Eat With Us, Then Sleep With Our Neighbors." The Sea Grill is located right between a Comfort Inn and a Holiday Inn at the intersection of Highway 21 and I-95. I thought both Diana and PW might like one of those shirts. I have two on order.

I also like Kim. Unfortunately, she is not an item I can order from the menu. Take-out would have been delicious.

Some of my corn crop is getting a brown beard on the tassels. I picked a few ears, and GUESS WHAT? That's looking like some damn fine corn! Even rows of cernals, all filled out well, and no worms devouring the end of the ear. My okra is going like gangbusters after all the rain, and my cucumbers are overcoming the wild blackberry vines that infest this sandhill I live on. I ran my lawn tractor over the squash today, because it's done for, but my tomatoes and peppers are still producing.

Okay, all you yay-hoos who left me snidely "comments" about my garden: "EAT SHIT AND DIE!"

I'm having fresh vegetables tonight.
I fixed everything that was wrong with BLOGGER and my "Comments." I hopped aboard my lawn tractor, cut my grass, rode three times around my mailbox in a counter-clockwise direction, and sent exactly the proper vibrations through the ground to correct everything. I parked the lawn tractor in the garage when I was finished, checked my site, and everything was as it should be. I do damn good work.

Now, I'm going to talk more about weddings. I've been married twice and I'm single now, so just go figure how those worked out. I married my first wife in Ridgeland, South Carolina, which rivals Las Vegas as the shit-and-git wedding capitol of the US. A Justice of the Peace performed the dirty deed, and the entire affair cost $20. In retrospect, I realize that I was totally ripped off. That woman wasn't worth $20.

I was married in a formal church ceremony the second time by a Methodist minister named Bill Ford, who ran the Bethesda Boy's Home outside Savannah for more than twenty years. Bill was an orphan raised at Bethesda, and he remains one of the finest men I ever met.

My now-ex and I already had purchased a home together, and we decided to hold the reception there. We spent $300 on deli meats and bread, bought a case of champaigne and a keg of beer, and had my old band Call The Cops provide the live entertainment. It was one hell of a party, and we didn't have any complaints from the neighbors because they ALL CAME.

We honeymooned that night at the Magnolia Inn, a bed-and-breakfast place downtown that brags about George Washington sleeping there when he visited Savannah. We slept in the very same four-poster bed Washington slept in, and I found his wooden teeth still laying on the porcelan sink where he left them. (Okay, I made the wooden teeth thing up. But the rest is true.)

That was October 24, 1992. We had dinner at 1790, a GREAT restaurant, went back to the room, listened to the Atlanta Braves win in the bottom of the ninth inning in a playoff game on the radio, drank some champaigne, then connsumated our marriage with wild abandonment. The next morning, we ate the strawberries and crossants they served at the bed and breakfast, checked out before 10:00 and went straight to the Shoney's breakfast buffet for some real food. I have never been happier in my life.

I loved that woman then, and I have to admit that I still love her now, even after all the pain she's caused me. I don't believe I'll ever forget what she meant to me, because I don't believe I'll ever meet anyone else who will affect me the way she did. I realize now that the person I loved didn't really exist, as I learned the hard way, but she was real to me at the time.

We wrote our own wedding vows, and I kept mine simple. "(Her name), I love you with all of my heart. I want you to be my wife, because you already are my partner, my lover and my best friend. Will you marry me?"

Bejus. She said "yes."

And I'll spend the rest of my life digging her knife out of my back.

Okay... the posts I wrote this morning finally are published, but my "Comments" are all screwed up now. What is BLOGGER doing? How do I get my "Comments" back? Why don't I put my fist through the computer monitor and go to the Super Wal-Mart?

I'm going to cut my grass.
Vigilant researcher Lynn found the answer! All questions about THE PLEDGE are answered here.

Tremble while you kneel.
I suspect that this anonymous e-mail came from my friend Catfish, who earned that nickname because he has a big mouth and is full of shit.

Four Catholic ladies are having coffee together discussing how important their children are.

The first one tells her friends, "My son is a priest. When he walks into a room, everyone calls him 'Father'."

The second Catholic woman chirps, "Well, my son is a bishop. Whenever he walks into a room, people say, 'Your Grace'."

The third Catholic woman says smugly, "Well, not to put you down, but my son is a cardinal. Whenever he walks into a room, people say 'Your Eminence'."

The fourth Catholic woman sips her coffee in silence. The first three women give her this subtle "Well...?" She replies, "My son is a
gorgeous, 6'2", hardbodied, well-hung, male stripper. Whenever he walks into a room, women say, "My God..."

I see public opinion running narrowly in my favor about that cold-blooded, heartless and cruel rant I posted below. I thought I would be eviscerated for skewering true love and beautiful weddings. I suppose a few others have been skewered themselves by true love and beautiful weddings.

Friday, June 28, 2002

I really like the graphics on the GOING BRIDAL page, but if I were engaged to a woman putting as much obsessive planning into a wedding 309 days away as this blogger does, I would change my name, have plastic surgery and apply for a spot in the Witness Protection Program. (Damn! The Going Bridal link doesn't work. Go HERE and get it from the permalinks) I may be a cynical bastard, but I don't believe THE WEDDING is the acme of life. When this meticulously-planned, absolutely perfect party is over, she's gonna be stuck with THE MARRIAGE. Ewwww!

If she plans everything the way she's doing the wedding, her poor husband may as well sell ME his DICK right now, while it still has some market value. Mine doesn't work and he surely won't need his after this grand affair. If the bride has 1,000 perfect photos to immortalize this perfect wedding, she'll be fully consummated, and it's all downhill from there.

I think the vision for the wedding is shaping up. The ceremony will be at 2:00, and last an hour or a little more (full Eucharist), then everyone goes over to the hall for tea. I'm thinking a billion fussy little sandwiches and pastry bits and tea and punch and wine and lemonade (considering how happy a cup of lemonade could make us in the fields at Bonnaroo, I think we need to have lemonade at our wedding) and asparagus with dip and some meat-based tidbits ( that'll be the last the groom sees of his balls-- ed) and of course Leigh's contribution to the world of Cakes That Do Stuff.

This is the most frightening blog I've ever read.
I really didn't need to know THIS. The Presidential anus will be the point of entry for a colonoscope and the president has to announce it in front of the world.

Bejus, man, get A BLOG and write about under a pseudonym the way I did about my prostate biopsy. (which is buried somewhere in my archives. I can't find it)

I would rather you only showed your ass in the Blogosphere, George, where that sort of thing is acceptable.
I knew THIS DUMB SUMBITCH was not from the South when I read the headline. No, he's from Wisconsin, where I suppose his Daddy never told him that it takes a dumb sumbitch to bring a knife to a gunfight.

A man who tried to rob a Greenfield gun shop at knifepoint Thursday afternoon was shot in the chest by the shop owner, police said.

See? I wasn't making THIS CRAP UP!.

Now, the Endangered Species Act may cost customers of Salt River Project $10 million to $20 million, officials say.
Blame it on the tiny Southwestern willow flycatcher, an obscure migratory bird distinguished mainly among bird-watchers by its sneezy-sounding "Fitz-bew!" call.

Uh... that's "Fuck You!" isn't it......really?
Okay, I got the vacation stuff squared away today. I booked the deep-sea fishing trip for my daughter next Saturday, although I'm not doing the 12-hour ride to the Snapper Banks and back, because I'm taking my son along, too. I picked the four-hour trip to the artificial reef, about five miles off shore, where we can catch mackerel and dolphin and maybe a cobia if we get lucky. That should be plenty of fishing for everybody in this heat. Besides, if anybody gets seasick, it's less torture for them.

I've never been seasick, but I've been around people who were, and that must be sheer, unadulterated misery. I always was very sympathetic to their plight, trying to make them feel better by waving a handfull of raw squid in their faces and asking them if they wanted a nice, cold beer. They chummed the water pretty well at first, then ran out of chum and just hung their heads over the gunnels and talked to invisible friends named "Ralph," "Huey," and "Eric" while occasional tendrils of green liquid, matching the color of their faces, dripped from their lips.

I suspect that my son and daughter both will handle the trip with no problem. They inherited my cast-iron gut, and a true Acidman kid does not suffer from motion sickness, ever. Vertigo, paranoia, delusions of grandeur, egomania, insomnia and a love of boiled peanuts we have in abundance. But no motion sickness. I hope we catch a lot of fish. I told my daughter I would clean them and cook them for her and her roommate, Stacey, if they wished.

I also booked a week at the Jekyll Island Inn for me and my son the week of July 22. The place is a luxury hotel right on a private beach where all the stunted oak trees grow at 45-degree angles from the constant wind off the sea. All the Spanish Moss grows on the downwind side of the oaks for the same reason. It's one mile away from "Summer Waves," one of the biggest water parks in the southeast, and less than five miles away from three of the best golf courses anyone would ever want to play. Needless to say, excellent seafood restaurants are everywhere around.

I may throw my golf clubs in the truck when we leave. July 3rd will mark one year since I last played golf, and I once loved that game with a passion. I want to teach my son to play, but he probably would be happy just to drive the cart while Daddy hacked around the course. I may do that, and work on his chipping and putting while we're on the links together. I once was a pretty good golfer. I wonder if the muscle memory remains so that I can at least go out and break 90 (from the SENIOR TEES-- I QUALIFY NOW!) on a tough course without touching a club for more than a year. I may find out.

I don't know if it was the divorce and the prostate cancer happening at the same time or what, but a lot of what I once liked to do, I DON'T like to do anymore. I haven't even thought about golf in a long time, and the only reason I'm thinking about playing now is because of the "amenities" e-mail confirming my reservation that I received from the resort. I've played all three courses before, and when they brag about how good they are, they're not kidding. I feel a slight itch to try it again.

I was a beer-drinker one year ago. I might have had an occasional bottle of wine with a nice dinner, or a Bloody Mary every now and then, but I mostly drank beer. Now, I like a sip of beer and I'm done. It doesn't taste the way it once did, and if I drink an entire can or bottle, I feel bloated and I don't want any more. I like wine now. I've also learned that I have an affinity for Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum. I drink it on the rocks with a splash of tap water. I have beer that's been in my refrigerator for over a month now, and I offer it to friends when they visit, but I don't drink it any more. That makes no sense to me at all.

Do you suppose these are symptoms of a serious mid-life crisis? I mean, I'm growing a pony tail and I'm starting to look at Harley motorcycles the way I once looked at pretty women. I'm thinking of trading my Chevy pickup for a fancy-ass sports car. I'm going to buy a dick-pump. I may even have a professional dye the gray out of my hair. Hell, I'm 50 years old, single and I don't spend anywhere near the money I make. It's piling up like cordwood in a money-market account in the bank because my once-impressive 401-K is now a 107-F thanks to the stock market. I'm afraid to invest my cash holdings, so I might as well SPEND THEM.

Now is the time of my life when I should have expensive toys, isn't it?

Pat Leahy and Tom Daschle are stonewalling and obstructing President Bush's nominations to the federal bench because they WANT judges as incompetent and capricious as THESE. The real plot is to staff the courts with enough liberal, activist judges that liberal, cowardly politicians can achieve their agendas without having to do something as ugly and career-threatening as proposing unpopular legislation and actually voting for it. Let the judges invent something in the Constitution that accomplishes the same thing, and the politicians are off the hook.

The federal appeals court that declared the Pledge of Allegiance unconstitutional has a reputation for liberal and provocative rulings, including support for medical marijuana and the right of inmates to mail their sperm from prison.

The San Francisco-based court also has more reversals by the U.S. Supreme Court -- 12 out of 17 cases this term -- than any other circuit. That is partly because it is the biggest circuit, covering California and eight other states. But it is also because it tends to make liberal, activist rulings.

"It's a liberal court. The 9th Circuit may not be out of step. Maybe the Supreme Court is out of step with the 9th Circuit," said Vickram Amar, a Hastings College of the Law professor.

No, the 9th Circuit is out of step with Planet Earth. The 9th Circuit wouldn't know the Constitution from the Sears Catalogue. The 9th Circuit is a perfect example of why the senate was granted Constitutional power of IMPEACHMENT over judges in a perpetual state of brainlessness. But using that power would require courage and political risk. Fuggedaboudit! The Democrats WANT MORE judges such as these piss-poor examples.

That's why they are piss-poor examples themselves.

Thanks to political correctness, Quasimodo is no longer A HUNCHBACK. He merely is "The Bellringer of Notre Dame."

Oddsocks Productions has renamed its touring production "The Bellringer of Notre Dame" after discussions with a disability adviser raised the possibility of offending people with spina bifida or the disfiguring scoliosis of the spine.

"We have not changed the novel in any way, we simply felt changing the title would cause less offence of people," producer Elli Mackenzie was quoted as saying by the Daily Mirror.

So.... does Quasimodo have a hump or not? If so, might THAT be offensive? C'mon, go all the way. Get Brad Pitt to play "The HEART-THROB of Notre Dame." That's a lot better than that musty old book.

Thursday, June 27, 2002

OHMYGOD! (Strike that "God" part by order of the dingleberries on the 9th Circuit).

Tonight is JAGER NIGHT for poor, overworked DAX MONTANNA. He'll be trapped in his bar tonight while young, nubile women pour hallucinogenic liquor all over their semi-nekkid bodies and flirt with every man in the place. Bejus, I am SO LUCKY to work in a chemical plant, where the air is always hot as the mouth of hell and I suck pigment dust with every breath for 10 to 12 hours each day. Dax, be sure to wear all your Personal Protective Equipment tonight, including hard hat, safety glasses and self-contained breathing apparatus. It could get ugly after midnight.

Don't forget the full body harness and 100% tie-off protection, either. That can come in handy sometimes when you play your cards just right...
I have been informed that DONNA is wearing "Blush" toenail polish now, instead of the purple I liked so well. The purple was a winter color, you see, and the "Blush" is a lot better for summer and sandals.

I don't have winter and summer colors. Hell, I just wear what's clean, and buy the cheapest grooming products I can find at the Family Dollar store.

But I am strangely fastidious about my nails. Some of that came from years of playing guitar, where the length of the nails on the left hand is important, but most of it is a built-in fetish of mine. I cannot stand long, grubby, unkempt fingernails or toenails on a male or female. Most women spend a lot of time grooming their nails, just as they spend a lot of time grooming their hair. But I know LOTS of men who spend more time than any woman would blow-drying, styling and prissing with their hair and then, feeling beautiful, walk around with the crud of ages encrusted under their talon-like, untrimmed toenails. I don't like that.

I don't own a blow dryer. I comb my hair when I leave the shower, then brush it when it's dry. It's on its own after that. I wear a hat most of the time anyway. But my fingernails and toenails are ALWAYS trimmed and neat.

I usually remember to brush my teeth twice a day. I floss and use a proxy-brush on my gums.

Yeah, and I sometimes wipe my ass regularly, too.
I am going to bed early tonight. I've stayed up 'way too late the past two nights reading and responding to some really interesting e-mail from certain wonderful women who are playing cyber-Jezabel with me. I booked the deep-sea fishing trip for my daughter next Saturday, I have an appointment to start the ball rolling for my pump, so I'm organizing things quite well now. Maybe I can get ALL the cyber-babes together in a hot tub sometime....and....

Hey! A man can dream, can't he?
Okay. I fell MUCH BETTER after getting that last post off my chest.

Speaking of CHEST.... thanks, Goddess.
I want to nominate THIS SHITBIRD for the prestigious "100% symmetrical, totally retarded BUTT-WIPE OF THE YEAR" award. Michael Newdow is the walking waste of flesh who sued to have "under God" removed from the Pledge of Allegance. He says he did it to protect his second-grade daughter from some sort of imagined religious oppression. I say he did it because he is a whiney, self-obsessed asshole with a small penis.

""Many people who are upset about this are people who just don't understand," Newdow said Wednesday during an interview at his suburban Sacramento home. "People have to consider what if they were in the minority religion and the majority religion was overpowering them."

Hey, BUTT-WIPE!! Why didn't YOU consider that most people never even thought twice about this matter until a lone, malicious twit such as yourself rose up and "overpowered" EVERYBODY. That overpowering stuff you imagined is exactly what YOU"RE DOING, you pathetic, self-absorbed bully.

I could care less about "under God" being in or out of the Pledge of Allegiance. It's not a big deal in my life. I'll gladly recite the Pledge the way courts determine that it should be said, or I won't. That's MY decision and one of the reasons I love my country and consider myself to be a patriot. I am free to decide for myself here in the USA. But I may not have that right forever.

With government and the courts taking more and more of our freedom every day, why did Newdow The Highbrow pick this particular fight? If he's really worried about his daughter, he should protest that riduculous Supreme Court decision made today to allow mandatory drug tests for students engaged in extra-curricular activities in public schools. A mandatory piss-test for his daughter is less traumatic than reciting the Pledge? He should rant loudly and sue tirelessly to repeal property forfeiture laws that sanction highway robbery by corrupt law enforcement agencies in the misguided War on Drugs. Having her house, car and cash seized on mere SUSPICION of illegal activity is less "overpowering" than reciting the Pledge? He should attack some of the ridiculous, invasive and downright frightening powers granted the government in the "Patriot Act." Yeah, the government can tap her phone without a warrant to ensure that she never hears the Pledge, and that's a lot better than hearing "under God."

I don't know why some judges don't have fully-equipped fire brigades in their courtrooms. When a blithering idiot such as Newdow appears before the bench with a suit this obscenely frivilious, the judge could ring a bell, have the firemen spring into action and turn high-pressure water hoses on the idiot, wash him out of the courthouse and down the street into the gutter, where he belongs. The baliff could shout out the window, "Don't come back here with any more of THAT SHIT!" That would be true justice.

Just think about the kind of person who files such a suit and pushes it that far. That guy needs emergency surgery to remove his head from his ass, for crying out loud. If the 9th Circuit judges weren't just as badly in need of the same operation, they would have told Mr. Butt-Wipe to GROW UP AND GET A LIFE. Instead, they brain-farted and decided that he really had a point....

I don't know who is the sickest participant in this charade.

At the risk of being a swine again, I have to ask: WHICH SIDE would you rather be on? (I would pick the picture on the left myself.)
At the risk of inspiring LYNN to pound on me again, I'm going to post some more swinely, manly, humorous stuff:

A bum, who obviously has seen more than his share of hard times approaches a well dressed gentleman on the street. "Hey, buddy, can you spare two dollars?"

The well-dressed gentleman responds: "You are not going to spend it on liquor are you?"

"No, sir, I don't drink," retorts the bum.

"You are not going to throw it away in some card game, are you?" asks the gentleman.

"No way, I don't gamble," answers the bum.

"You wouldn't waste the money at a golf course for greens fees, would you?" asks the man.

"Never," says the bum, "I don't play golf."

"You wouldn't waste the money for fishing gear, flies, boots or rods, would you?" asks the man.

"Never," says the bum, "I don't fish."

The man asks the bum if he would like to come home with him for a home cooked meal. The bum accepts eagerly. While they are heading for the man's house, the bum's curiosity gets the better of him."Isn't your wife going to be angry when she sees a guy like me at your table?"

"Probably," says the man, "but it will be worth it. I want her to see what happens to a guy who doesn't drink, fish, gamble or play

Wednesday, June 26, 2002

Before I break my keyboard and leave flecks of spittle all over my monitor screen about this INCREDIBLE BRAIN-FART by the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals declaring the Pledge of Allegiance "Unconstitutional," I must step back, calm down, and remember that the 9th Circuit is staffed with dumblebums that have brain-farted many times before. That's why they are the most overturned federal court in the nation. They are assholes, who believe the US Constitution means whatever blows up their flowing robes on a given day.

I learned to recite the Pledge when I was in the first grade. Hand over my heart, I recited every morning the words I had memorized without really understanding the meaning (ask a first-grader to define "indivisible"), but I knew that gibberish meant something about loving my country. My Mama and my Daddy loved my country, so I did, too. WWII was still fresh in the minds of many people who fought in it, sacrificed greatly for the cause, and won it. When I was young, Russia was our enemy, people built fallout shelters in their back yards, and I went through "crawl under your desk and cover up" drills in school to prepare me for nuclear attack, which seemed altogether likely in those days. Patriotism was a virtue. And if the Russians rained missles on our heads, we would die under our desks as patriotic Americans, after saying the pledge to the flag that morning.

Today, we live in a selfish world, where nobody is satisfied unless the biggest whiner of all is calling the shots for everybody else. That bullshit satisfies the whiner, and everybody else is supposed to shut up about it and accept it as... what? Lowest Common Denominator? Squeaky Wheel? Assholes Rule? With the help of a scumbag lawyer, I WIN, YOU LOSE?

I don't know where these decisions come from, but I DO know they don't come from the US Constitution. The most amazing thing to me about the Constitution is what a short piece of writing it is. I have a copy that I can carry in my shirt pocket. Try that with the IRS code. Hell, you can't pick that piece of shit up without a forklift. The founders were brief in saying how they meant to restrain overbearing government in this country, and if we had stuck to their intentions, we all would be better off today.

I suppose this decision is another one of those "separation of church and state" issues. Show me that phrase in the Constitution and I will not only kiss your ass, I will give you every paycheck I earn for the rest of my life. I am confident in offering that challenge because I KNOW that phrase is not in the Constitution. Once upon a time, a federal court read the First Amendment and decided that freedom of religion meant freedom FROM religion and invented that "church and state" bullshit from whole cloth. The Founders simply did NOT want a state-sponsored religion. such as The Church of England, from which they fled. They did not mean that any reference to "God" was a high crime.

I am an athiest. I do not believe in a "God" of any kind, but I fail to see how reciting a pledge that calls this country "one nation, under God" violates my civil rights or insults my delicate psyche so badly that a federal court must stop the practice. If I don't agree with the words, I don't have to say them. I should not be punished for my dissent, but that's as far as the court needed to go.

These same federal courts have decided that CERCLA, which gives the EPA power to violate the Fourth Amendment at will, is Constitutional, The Endangered Species Act, which also violates the Fourth Amendment, is Constitutional, The Brady Bill, which violates the Second Amendment, is Constitutional, and capital punishment for dumbasses is not.

Damn if I'm not starting to agree with JB more and more. The farking AQUA CONSPIRACY is about to drown us all.

We have DUMB and DUMBER wearing black robes now.
I think this is a GOOD IDEA:

Support Our Women!

Since the Taliban cannot stand nudity and consider it a sin to see a naked woman that is not a wife, this Saturday afternoon at 2:00 PM.Eastern time, all North American women are asked to walk out of their house completely naked to help weed out any neighborhood terrorists. Circling your block for one hour is recommended for this anti terrorist effort. All men are to position themselves in lawn chairs in front of their house to prove they think it's okay to see other women Nude. And since the Taliban also does not approve of alcohol, a cold six-pack at your side is further proof of your anti-Taliban sentiment. The United States of America appreciates your efforts to root out terrorists and applauds your participation.

God Bless America! Come on guys, get out there and support the gals as they root out the terrorists hiding inYOUR neighborhood!!
I just received an e-mail that has changed my mind about living forever in the great state of Georgia.

Virginia looks like a LOVELY PLACE to be, populated by at least one beautiful woman. Since my son can't go with me, I'll have that luxury condo at Daytona Beach in August all to myself... hmmm... maybe somebody would like to work on her suntan that week. Or her pedicure.

I feel a pornographic e-mail inspiration growing in me.
That FEISTY WOMAN makes an interesting point about "style" in music:

"Having a recognizable style does not mean that it all literally sounds the same. To someone who is unfamiliar with it, it may all sound the same. That's true of any kind of music. If you don't listen to jazz all jazz sounds alike; if you don't listen to country all country sounds alike; if you don't listen to pop all pop sounds alike...(oh wait...all pop does sound alike) (I agree--ed) Anyway, seriously...the magic is in the details and in most music there are plenty of details there for anyone who's willing to listen attentively."

Some of my friends who don't listen to music the way I do once were amazed when I said, "That's Sam Bush on the mandolin," or "Mark Knopfler is playing that lead guitar," and they checked the CD liner notes to discover that I was correct. I always could recognize certain musicians by their style of play just as surely as I recognize the sound of a singer's voice. As a musician, I know how many notes a person can play on a guitar, a mandolin, a piano or any other instrument. The notes are built-in and they don't change. The way certain people PLAY them or WRITE them makes all the difference.

I have the same ability to recognize certain songwriters. I blew my ex-wife's mind once when we were on our way to the mountains and listening to a Sawyer Brown CD and the song "All These Years" played. I said, "I'll bet you anything you want to bet that a guy named Mac MacAnally wrote that song." The CD had just come out of the wrapper and I had never heard it before. She looked at the liner notes and said, "Good grief! You're right! How did you know that? I never HEARD of Mac MacAnally."

Most people haven't, but I HAVE, and he has a style of songwriting that is as distinctive as my idol John Prine (motto: VOICE? MUSICAL TALENT? I don't need nunna that shit. I write GREAT SONGS!") I can do that same trick with a lot of musicians and songwriters, and that fact doesn't surprise my friends anymore. I have an ear for it.

I don't write much about classical music because I listen to it only occasionally any more. But when I was writing my unsold (shitty) novel, I learned that I could not write with music playing if vocals were involved. I always began listening to the song and the Muse refused to whisper in my ear anymore. My Muse is a jealous bitch and she requires 100% attention. (She's a high-maintenance kind of chick) She never minded the symphonic stuff, however, so I acquired a collection of Vivaldi (the string quartet pieces are GREAT, and he even wrote some guitar pieces for cello and violin trios), Mozart (sometimes a little too intricate for my tastes...sometimes sounds like what I write when I drink too much.) and all nine Beethoven symphonys (I like the pastorals, #6 and #7, better than I like the more famous #5 and #9). I also fell in love with that T-guy's Russian Easter Overture. (I would spell Tychoffski, or whatever, if I wasn't too lazy to look it up right now. That's why I don't write about classical music.)

Every one of those composers has a distinct style. Working with the same box of notes, they all invent something different that has their fingerprints implanted on it. I find that amazing, until I think about writing the same way.

Using the same box of words, every good writer invents something different that has his/her fingerprints all over it. That's what amazes me about music and writing. Style shows. Style keeps everything from sounding alike. But that's something nobody buys in a store or learns in school. Some people have it, and some people don't.

And I have no idea where it comes from

If group sex is an orgy, what is a GROUP BLOG? I don't know, but I was happy to be invited to the party.
I've mentioned before that Texans aren't truly Southern because they are so... Texan. I've been to Texas several times and I found: a) Beautiful Women; b) Friendly People; c) Cheap Beer; d) Great Food; e) Boring Landscape. It's also incredibly hot and humid around Dallas in the summer, even for a cracker-boy accustomed to the heat in Georgia.

I liked this joke:

A Texan went into the big city up North for the first time. After strolling around the downtown area for a while, he happened to look up and see a man at the top of a tall building. The man looked like he was ready to jump off.

Concerned about the man's fate, the Texan immediately started thinking of things he could tell the man so that he would want to live and would not jump.

"Remember your wife," yelled the Texan. "She divorced me," said the man.

"Remember your children," yelled the Texan. "They ran away," said the man.

"Remember your parents," yelled the Texan. "They are dead," said the man.

"Remember the Alamo," yelled the Texan. "What is the Alamo?" inquired the man. ..........

"Jump, you Yankee Sumbitch!" replied the Texan.

Tuesday, June 25, 2002

I just noticed something when I checked my archives, and I want to write it down tonight so that I don't forget. I started this blog on December 26, 2001. Tomorrow will make six months that I've been venting my GUT RUMBLES on this page.

I am tempted to try to publish everything I've written so far on white pieces of dead trees just too see what kind of stack it makes. I have no idea how many words are in here, but I know that it's a lot. The only times I failed to post every day was when I spent a week naked in Key West and when I spent four days listening to glorious music at Merefest. Otherwise, I've been a lot more reliable than Amtrack at sticking to a schedule.

Nobody read what I wrote when I started. Now, people I will never meet do read it, and they visit almost every day. The first serious blog-buddy was LONG HAIRED COUNTRY BOY and I even gave him a little help setting up his own page. Now, the over-achieving bastard has been blog-rolled by LIBERTARIAN SAMIZDATA and probably will forget all about his blogging roots as he climbs the food chain to greater and greater heights. Oh well... I still knew him when...

Then, the lovely and charming HEATHER wandered my way and brightened my life by showing me how to set up the Yakks comments and leaving some very amusing footprints there. She is the only woman to call me a "Bastid" there and I am honored. I returned the favor by calling her a "bitch" on hers. I wish I had grown up with a sister like Siso.

I believe DAX MONTANA wrote a comment in my old guestbook and I visited his site to discover a guy who has a much more attractive page than mine, a slightly-skewed viewpoint on the word remarkably similar to mine and a residence in the great state of Georgia, which makes him a homeboy, and okay in my book, even if his blog sucked. But it didn't. He just makes me want to upchuck when he complains about having to deal with scantily-clad, nubile women all the time. Dax, I'll TRADE PLACES WITH YOU TOMORROW! You go work in the chemical plant, and I'll try my best to handle to hip-huggers and the Yager-women. Let's do it for just one week, okay?

I'm not certain how DONNA found her way here, but I'm glad she did. She uses her page a lot like I use mine. If you can get some of the personal, eat-you-alive stuff out of yourself and onto a blog, it's excellent therapy for the soul. I enjoy reading what she writes, and she touches many a nerve in me. Plus, she has pretty toes when they're painted purple.

I believe JB connected me with LYNN, who is a feisty wench with fire in her eyes. She already has jumped with both feet squarely upon my totally innocent head while wearing high-heeled spikes. I appreciate that sort of savage emotion in a woman. I'm just grateful that she didn't poke me in the eye with the sharp end of a conductor's baton, because she does like classical music. So do I, and I would write about it on this blog if all the composer's names weren't so difficult to spell.

I met THE GODDESS just a few days ago, but she's a member of the club now. I believe she is obsessed with JB (who is FAR TOO ATTACHED to that dog), but I'm sending her semi-pornographic emails from time to time, hoping she'll return the favor. Was it as good for you as it was for me, Goddess?

And there's always PLANET ZACK to visit anytime I believe MY world is weird.

It's been a hoot, friends. A world outside of my world to visit anytime I want, where I always seem to be welcome.

How can you top that?

Donna, of DMC in DC complains, "For the past week I've been hearing a rooster crowing every morning, which has me wondering which one of my neighbors has the dang rooster and why the hell do they have it in a suburban area?"

One of the things I really miss about living on the mini-farm is hearing the roosters crow in the morning. I loved that sound, and my son can do a PERFECT imitation, not a stupid, city-boy "cock-a-doodle-doo," but a real, screaching Rhode Island Red mating call. The sound is more like "URRK-a-URRK-a-OOOOOOOH!" I had my mama and my grandmother stay with us when Hurricane Floyd blew by and my grandmother said she loved that sound, too. It reminded her of her days on the farm.

When we first bought the place, about a dozen free-range chickens nested in trees and pecked and scratched for food all over the place during the day. Every morning, around 4:00 AM, the roosters would start their caterwauling and wake me up just as if a cattle prod had been stuck to my ass. I HATED those noisy bastards. But soon enough, their crowing became normal background noise and I never heard them until I woke up on my own. We got my son his very own dog, which turned out to be a wild, dingo-like, chicken-eating, un-housebreakable varmit who murdered all the free-rangers when she grew big and fast enough to catch them (Black Lab, my ass!), but we had a coop full of feather-foots, Vietnamese mop-tops and Easter-egg hens by then. (The Easter egg hens lay pastel blue eggs. I AM NOT making that up.)

My pride and joy was FOGHORN, a huge Rhode Island Red rooster who stood about 30" tall and had spurs on his feet longer than any finger on my hand. He truly ruled the roost, and he was a tireless lovemaker to every hen in the coop, although his technique resembled barnyard rape more than courting and sparking. My friend Ed the ex-Linebacker and I used to pull up a pair of lawn chairs and a cooler full of beer in the afternoons and just watch that feathered dynamo in action. He was impressive. And he could crow as well as he could screw. All the other roosters hid in the rafters while FOGHORN was own the prowl, because he liked to fight, too. But they ALL cranked up in the morning.

When guests spent the night, the breakfast conversation always went something like this: "HOW IN THE HELL DO YOU SLEEP AROUND HERE? THOSE GODDAM ROOSTERS COULD WAKE THE GODDAM DEAD!" I told them that we were accustomed to the sound and slept right through it.

They seldom came back to spend the night again.

Poor BRAYLEN is about to join the growing ranks of the recently unemployed. The Two Weeks severance pay he was offered is a goddam cheapskate insult, and I really believe he should punch the PREZ in the nose and quit on his own if the maggot he works for is THAT stingy. Money-grubbing bastid!

I have survived four re-organizations, downsizings, reductions in head-count, human resource adjustments, new business paradigms or whatever the hell they called them at the time. Like a sticky booger, I remain unflicked from the nose-picking finger of the company, at least so far. Every one of these brilliant management decisions has been a disaster, and just about the time we almost recovered from the last one, a fresh corporate brain-fart boomed like a thunderclap and put us right back in a mess again.

But I have to admit one thing about the way they did it, even when my company was owned by the government of Finland. They lavished generous amounts of money on the ones they screwed out of a job. In fact, getting the axe was the best thing that ever happened to some of the people I worked with. One guy was three months away from retirement, smelled change in the wind and didn't turn in his retirement paperwork just too see what he might be offered. If he didn't like it, he could retire on the spot and lose nothing. He left, skipping and giggling, with TWO YEARS full salary and TWO MORE years added to his length of service to increase his retirement benefits. Others were two years away from retirement and prayed that the fickle finger would pick them. Imagine that? You get paid for NOT working your last two years and retire THEN. Oh, throw me in that briar patch some day.

Other people didn't come away with THAT kind of sweet deal, but everyone was given a minimum of 30 days severance plus whatever vacation time they had earned for the year, plus two additional weeks pay for every year of service. A ten-year employee walked away with 20 weeks pay, four weeks vacation pay and thirty days severance. Not too shabby if you're going to be screwed.

Anybody who tries to give ME the axe and offers me two weeks pay can keep the damned money. I'm going to punch him in the nose and QUIT!

Monday, June 24, 2002

Too few people know what JB wrote today: Touchy-feely is fine, but it has no place in determining rights which already exist, and the Constitution merely recognizes. The Constitution does not grant rights--it acknowledges those that exist. Being free means just that.

A cattle-mentality citizenry, coupled with self-aggrandizing politicians and penumbra-discovering judges have totally warped the US Constitution. The men who wrote it feared a powerful central government, because they knew that unbridled power always leads to tyrrany. Give ANY government too much power, and the people running the government will abuse that power. Our Bill of Rights was supposed to prevent that unhappy circumstance.

READ THE CONSTITUTION. Nowhere in that document does the federal government grant a single citizen one single right. Our rights are God-given, natural human rights, not subject to the whim of government. That's not the way it works anymore. Now government grants rights and removes rights depending on the political wind blowing at the time. "Honest Abe" Lincoln may have "saved the Union" during the War Between the States, but he started this Federal Gorilla down the path it has taken ever since. He made the Federal Government, the "Union," more important than the free citizens living there. That idea has mutated into worse forms ever since.

I have a right to my private property, unless an endangered species lives there, or I have wetlands on it. Then, the government tells me what I can or cannot do with it. I have a right of "free speech," unless I insult a favored minority with what I say; then, I've committed a federal hate crime. I have a right of privacy, unless "Homeland Security" is involved, or the "War on Drugs" is involved, or the IRS is involved, or a "religious cult" is part of the picture. Then, my rights don't exist. Government decided that I don't deserve them. Show me THAT in the Constitution.

I'll tell you the only religious cult we need to fear in this country. That's the cult of GOVERNMENT and it's gaining more robotic, soul-less true-believers every day. Government doesn't give anybody anything it didn't take from somebody else first. Government doesn't produce anything except waste, fraud and corruption. Government lives to serve itself, not the governed, and it will become ever more abusive as it gains power. Government should not be trusted. Government should not be loved.

Government should be feared.

Of course, I may be extremely paranoid, but I really don't think so.
Bejus! I spent my time share points for a condo on Daytona Beach (sorry, JB) the week of August 12. My son and I talked about how much fun the trip would be and he was trying to finangle a way to bring Jack along, which would be fine with me. I find out today that SCHOOL STARTS on August 12. What has happened to public education? August 12 is the middle of FARKING SUMMER, for crying out loud. That's no time to be going back to school! That's at least two weeks earlier than school EVER has started in Effingham County.

Now I'm farked my own self. I could cancel the reservation I have now, but there's no way I'll find a week in July to take in its place. Damn! I have four weeks vacation remaining for the year (yes, becoming a graybeard with 22 years worth of hashmarks down my arm does have its advantages) but I'm running out of summer. The BC is taking my boy to Clarke Hill Lake the week of July 15 (that was the family vacation we did with HER family every year. I wonder who she'll take with her besides my son? Shit, I don't need to go there!) I am due two weeks with my boy this summer and that was supposed to be the first two weeks of August. Now that plan is shot in the butt.

Okay... my daughter said she was coming to visit for the Fourth of July. I can cancel the week in Daytona and burn those points myself at Lake Tahoe in the winter. I can take two weeks vacation around the Fourth. I can take my son, my daughter and her friends deep-sea fishing, then find a nice Holiday Inn or something on the beach for me and my son. Yeah, I can still make this work.

Sometimes, LIFE AIN'T SQUARE and you've just got to do the best with what you find. I'll work on that tomorrow.
Time for the Monday Mission!

1. Do you wear glasses/contact lenses? If so would you consider going through Lasik surgery? (Or if you already have, please tell us about it)
I wore glasses from the age of 17 until I had the old-fashioned, done-with-a-scalpel radial caratotomy surgery in 1996. I've had 20-20 vision ever since, and it was the best $1,400 I ever spent.

2. Did you ever have to wear braces? How are your teeth? (any cavities, any pulled teeth, root canals, etc.)
I never wore braces. I have excellent teeth, probably from drinking huge quantities of milk when I was young. Unfortunately, I have TERRIBLE gums. When you see me smile now, you're looking at dental work that cost as much as a brand-new pickup truck. The dentist pulled six perfectly good teeth in advance of gum surgery, then capped eight upper teeth to fit the permanent bridge I wear now. The end result looks perfectly natural, but I had to learn to talk with a different mouth three times during the process. They do unspeakable things to you at the dentist's office.

3. What (if any) recent movies have moved you emotionally? Which one and how so?
I cry at sad movies all the time, especially if broken hearts and children are involved. I am an emotional man. That's why I prefer to watch movies on Dish Network, alone at home.

4. I visited my dear Mema in the managed care facility Sunday and while she is doing well, I was sad for her. Living out your final days/years someplace like that seems so lonely to me. Would you rather live the remainder of your golden years in a rest home, or pass away before it came to that?
I want to die like a man, knowing who I am and accepting my fate with courage. I never will go to a nursing home. I never will take chemo, or hormone treatments or radiation if my prostate cancer is not cured. I never will cling to a life that is not worth living. No, I'll make death take me on MY terms.

5. Sometimes, but not nearly often enough, I will just stop and marvel at the amazing planet on which we live. The eco-system, life and death, nature, the perfect balance that keeps us alive, the universe, it can all be mind-boggling if you let your mind get carried away. What natural creation or phenomenon just flat-out leaves you with a sense of wonder?
The millions of stars in a clear night sky, where I sometimes feel as if I am FALLING UP into that vast distance. The sea, when it's angry, moody and powerful, you're offshore beyond the sight of land, and you feel that eternal strength of the water pulsing beneath the boat. The mountains when you hike all day to reach the summit and find yourself amid the clouds, looking down on everything around you, especially in the fall when the leaves are a natural canvass of spectacular day-glow colors. A garden, where seeds and seedlings you planted grow to produce food for your table. Everything tastes better if YOU GREW IT! Mother Nature fills me with wonder all the time, and I love her to the point of worship. But I also know what a heartless, implacable, cruel bitch she is. That's why I am not an environmentalist.

6. Have you ever been in a fist fight or a situation where you had to get physically violent with someone else? How did that come about? Any consequences?
I was a short, skinny kid who spoke with a hillbilly accent. When I was picked on or insulted, I fought. I had more fights than I can remember growing up. I didn't win them all, but the same asshole never wanted to fight me twice. I learned to stand up for myself. I want to teach my son the same thing, but "zero tolerance" in schools today doesn't condone fighting of any kind. We're raising a generation of wusses and tattle-tails as a result.

7. Many times I look back in hindsight and think of how I should have handled a situation. Are there any recent happenings that you wish you would have handled differently? What happened and what do you wish you'd done?
A few years ago, I read the book Cold Mountain. It's a complicated story, but the central theme boils down to a simple question: Is it better to have known joy and lost it, or never to have known joy at all? At the time, I wasn't sure of the answer. I am now. I wish I had never met my ex-wife. I wish I had never sired my son. I wish I had stuck to my original decision and never gone for the prostate biopsy. The fact is, you'll never miss something you never had. But if you had it and then lose it, you'll miss it forever. And the loss is like a hole in your gut you'll never fill. Yeah, with 20-20 hindsight, I would love to relive a lot of what I've done in my life. I wish I could.
I went back and edited my last post from yesterday. The damned thing sounded like a suicide note when I read it today, and I'm not THAT far gone yet. I do get entirely too consumed by funk sometimes.

I really try to be upbeat about life. But I'm a very emotional person and that Jabberwock inside my head breaks his chains and runs wild sometimes. The past year has not been a good one for me, and some pretty tumultuous events ran over me like a steamroller. I'm still trying to put my life back together after all the things that flattened me. (Hmmm... was that a Freudian slip there?) Things are better than they were when it all first happened, but not as good as they'll be tomorrow, or next week, or six months from now. Time heals all wounds, but I wish there was a "fast-forward" button I could push to speed things along.

Anyone who has followed this blog for a while knows that my moods bounce around like a crazed pinball, and I go from off-beat to analytical, from serious to satirical, from humorous to vitriolic, from "whaa-whaa!" self-pity to "SCREW THEM ALL" defiance. Sometimes even I don't know what manner of creature will fly from my mind when I sit down to write. But I write every day just to see.

I spent fifty years getting to where I am in life right now. I feel as if I am starting over from square one, and it's a little late to be doing that. But I'm still a fairly attractive man (my hair is gray, but at least I HAVE MY HAIR), I am physically fit (except for having nagging arthritis in most of my joints from football injuries-- and being totally impotent from prostate surgery) and I cook delicious meals, play several musical instruments well, write a lot of my own music, grow vegetables in my garden, give exquisite foot-massages and pedicures, and have a natural, built-in thermostat that makes me an excellent partner to spoon with on cold nights. I also cried like a baby at the end of All Dogs Go To Heaven, and that was a goddam CARTOON, for god's sake. "Insensitive jerk?" NOT ME!

I'll find someone who appreciates my finer qualities and is willing to tolerate my crap one of these days.
I never know how people will react to things I post on this blog. My "Rules For Men" inspired LYNN to unleash a mini-screed. Among other things, she offers this opinion, "But I do have to say this: Being an insensitive jerk is not an essential characteristic of manliness; in fact, it's not manly at all."

I couldn't agree more. Lynn, I didn't WRITE those rules, I only posted them. MY MAMA sent them to me in an e-mail because she thought they were amusing, and she was married to my father for more than 40 years. He was NOT an insensitive jerk, although he did like to sleep on the couch sometimes. Mom was outnumbered 3 to 1 by the men in the house, so the toilet seat issue was resolved logically. It was easier for her to put it down when she went than all three of us to lift it, then put it back down every time we went. But my father believed the sun rose and set in my mama, and for him, it did.

"Men and women are different. Deal with that too. Not understanding us is no big crime. Using "I'll never understand women" as an excuse to dimiss anything a woman says or does as unimportant is not acceptable. You don't have to understand why something is important to us; just understand that it is important to us." I say "vive la differance and I hope I live long enough to understand women, eventually. It's research I enjoy pursuing. I do try to behave with minimum swineishness, too. REALLY!

I'm not lying when I say that I am a chivalrous Southern gentleman.

Honest, Lynn.

Sunday, June 23, 2002

My son goes "home" in less than two hours and the usual after-visitation depression already hit me. He's outside now, playing with Jack and his sisters in between rainstorms. I love watching them. They don't walk, all creaky and stove-up like I am. They RUN, EVERYWHERE, ALL THE TIME. God! I remember feeling that way, long ago, in a universe far, far away.

The rain and the dampness has aggravated my neck, back, shoulder and knee pain to the point that I'm popping Ibuprophen and Motrin like Pez candy and I still hurt. If my dick fell off right now, I couldn't bend over to pick it up. I wouldn't waste the effort on that useless thing anyway.

I had a very erotic dream last night and I was a star performer in it. I had a blue-steel erection, just like the good ole days before prostate surgery. When I awoke, the first thing I did was check my equipment, hoping that not everything in the dream was a dream. Sorry. Same old same old in that category. I am sick and tired of that.

Some people tell me that I'm lucky to be alive, that I should be thankful that my cancer was caught quickly enough that I may live a long time and not die miserably the way my father did. Well, folks, I don't want to LIVE MISERABLY! I can handle of the dying part of life any time it comes, and the prospect doesn't frighten me at all. Living miserably, however, is something I don't intend to do.

I cancelled my appointment for the prostate biopsy the morning after I found my ex-wife sleeping with another man. She became all apologetic after that, and when the doctor himself called to dissuade me from my decision, she was the first one to say, "Rob, you really need to do this for the sake of your FAMILY." I had the biopsy. She kept fucking around and took care of the "family" thing with divorce papers. Pretty woman, bloodless cunt.

You women who read this blog may not understand, but I don''t like being a broke-dick guy. It's very depressing. My dick was a part of my personality and an integral part of my manhood. "Roscoe" was his name when he was alive, and Roscoe and I had many great adventures together. I loved Roscoe and so did every woman who ever met him. (To know him was to love him.) I don't know what I have dangling (dangling? Hell, I can't even manage THAT anymore) between my legs, but it ain't Roscoe. And without Roscoe, I ain't me. I believe I know how women who undergo mastectomies feel. I may not have permanent disfigurement, other than the still-pink scar running from my navel to my crotch, but psychologically, the effects are powerful.

I am lonely and I want a female companion. But I don't feel confident about courting and sparking anyone when I know that Roscoe is dead. I see my urologist on July 9. I'm going to buy a pump. I'll resurrect Roscoe, whatever it takes. Otherwise, I have no reason to get up in the morning, other than my son, and four days every month don't compensate for the other 26 or 27 days that pretty well suck.

Aw, shit. I spiral off like this every time our weekends are over. I'll be in a better mood tomorrow.

Our HERO is strapped in a stainless steel chair bolted the the floor in a dank basement, where only the sound of dripping water can be heard. A 100-watt light bulb dangles from the ceiling on a bare wire directly over his head. He is groggy and confused. How did he get here? What is happening?

A door swings open noisily on rusty hinges and a tall, balding, earth-toned individual remarkably like Al Gore enters the room. He has a three-foot rod in his hand. Blue sparks fly from the tip as he waves the rod at our HERO.

"So, you don't believe in Global Warming?" the Goreish one asks. "I am a dedicated environmentalist. I believe in Global Warming. I believe in a Social Security Lockbox. I believe in the Tooth Fairy. You must become one with the hive."

"Global Warming is a crock of AIEEEE!!!" our hero says, as the Goreish one applies the magic wand to a sensitive part of our hero's anatomy.

"Global Warming is what?" the Goreish one asks, brandishing the magic wand.

"Global Warming is a crock of AIEEEEE!!" Blue sparks fly everywhere.

The basement door creaks open again and man resembling Jumping Jim Jeffords enters the room. "Having trouble here?" he asks.

"Yes, we have a hard case on our hands. I've cooked his testicles to the consistency of hard-boiled eggs and he still refuses to admit that WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE if we don't ratify the Koyoto Treaty." The Gorish one snorts in disgust. "How can people be SO STUPID?"

Jumping Jim grins like a dog eating turds. "Where I live, we have plenty of STUPID PEOPLE. They reelect me every time I run for office. I am a shallow, self-aggradizing political whore who is as bright as a 15-watt light bulb. I also am an environmentalist, although I have no clue what I'm talking about. My constituents like that brainless, whoreish aspect I bring to government."

"Hey! I was just as brainless and whoreish as you when I ran for President, and my Democrat idiots in Florida let me lose the election! Your idiocy may work in the pox-ridden state of Vermont (Motto: we love Ben & Jerry) but it doesn't play nationwide. You have too many people like HIM." The Goreish one applies the magic wand to our hero's genitals again.


"Good grief, man! What do you think you're doing?" Jumping Jim asks. "Give me that!" He snatches the magic wand from the Goreish one's hand. "You can't keep applying electricity to his balls to make him see the environmentalist light. You've cooked his balls already. Stick something in his eye socket now." Jeffords demonstrates.


"See? Now ask him a question. And remember, he still has one eyeball remaining."

"Do you believe in Global Warming?"


"Are you convinced that man-made carbon dioxide causes Global Warming?"


"Do you think Bush stole the election?"

"No. AIEEEE! I mean, YES! YES! YES!"

"Will you vote for me in 2004?"

"Go ahead and take the other eyeball. And kiss my ass while you're at it."
The goddess JOAN waxed philosophical about "ugly" and I liked what she wrote:

"So, back to the whole thing about how people behave. I'm of the belief that you can't tell if someone is ugly by looking at their physical appearance. It's behavior that's ugly. It's a heart that's ugly. It's actions that are ugly. Words can be ugly too. Ugliness is something within. You may know plenty of people who are unattractive, in your opinion, but you can't truly call someone ugly just by looking at them. So, to call someone ugly after just walking up and saying hello.....well, that's not only rude, it's ugly behavior."

The opposite is true, too. I know someone who is very attractive, exudes extreme charm and usually gets her way because of her skillful use of those tools. If you could turn her inside out, you would discover a roiling batch of corruption, selfishness and evil behind that pretty facade. I know.

I was married to the bloodless cunt for nine years.
Hoo-Hoo! LYNN blogrolled me in her "Geeks, Aliens and Other Superior Life Forms" category. There's no place I would rather be!
My mama sent me this:


1) Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.

2) Birthdays, Valentines, and Anniversaries are not quests to see if we can find the perfect present yet again! Sometimes we are not thinking about you. Live with it.

3) Sunday sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.

4) Don't cut your hair. Ever. Long hair is always more attractive than short hair. One of the big reasons guys fear getting married is that married women always cut their hair, and by then you're stuck with her. (I find short hair attractive on some women--ed.)

5) Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.

6) Crying is blackmail.

7) Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!

8) We don't remember dates. Mark birthdays and anniversaries on a calendar. Remind us frequently . . . beforehand.

9) Most guys own three pairs of shoes - tops. What makes you think we'd be any good at choosing which pair, out of thirty, would look good with your dress?

10) Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

11) Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

12) A headache that last for 17 months is a problem. See a doctor.

13) Check your oil ! Please - just once.

14) Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 days.

15) If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't expect us to look like soap opera guys.

16) If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us. We refuse to answer.

17) If something we said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.

18) Let us ogle. We are going to look anyway; it's genetic.

19) You can either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.

20) Christopher Columbus did not need directions, and neither do we.

21) The relationship is never going to be like it was the first two months we were going out. Get over it. And quit whining to your girlfriends that we don't do romantic things for you.

22) ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.

23) If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.

24) We are not mind readers and we never will be. Our lack of mind-reading ability is not proof of how little we care about you.

25) If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," we will act like nothing's wrong.

I26) f you ask a question you don't want an answer to, expect an answer you don't want to hear.

27) When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine. Really

28) Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss ;such topics as navel lint or cars/bikes.

29) You have enough clothes. You have too many shoes.

30) It is neither in your best interest or ours to take a quiz together. No, doesn't matter what quiz.

Thank you for reading this; Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch but did you know sometimes we really don't mind that, it's like camping !