Saturday, July 06, 2002

My air conditioner is working now. I fixed it.

Actually, I'm the one who fucked it up to begin with. I changed the filter Wednesday night. I was gone all day and night Thursday, then noticed that the AC wasn't working when my hangover started to wear off on Friday. Today, I analyzed the problem and decided that the only thing different about the AC was the new filter. So, I removed it. That's when I saw that it was installed upside-down. That's also when I noticed this tiny switch that must be satisfied by proper installation of the filter before the AC will operate.

I installed the filter correctly and my AC started working. I solved the problem. I am a brilliant handyman.

No, I am a slobbering, slack-jawed, retarded dumbass for screwing up something as simple as replacing an AC filter, and then not realizing that my incompetence HAD to be the reason the AC stopped working. I am a genuine, squirrel-headed idiot sometimes.

It's the English Major in me.
This is MY KIND OF WOMAN.

The stranger "went rushing by and then he slammed on his brakes, and then he came into the yard, and he said 'Somebody call 911 quick, there's a bomb in my car,'" Cassidy said. "He was scared and excited, and just kind of wired."

Then he demanded that Neely-White give him her pickup.

She refused.

"Have you ever had anything you really love? Well, I love that truck," said Neely-White, 55.

She said the man threatened to set off the bomb if she didn't give him her truck. "I said, `No sir, you go ahead and set the bomb off. My house needs work anyway."


Then, she shot the fucktard, too. Bellicose women. Gotta love 'em.
I wish Bill Clinton would stick to Hoovering dollars and chasing pussy all over the world and leave US FOREIGN POLICY to those who think with the big head instead of the little one. Said the big creep:

If you're in a business, a friendship or a marriage and you don't control it all, you will never believe it's perfect. You enter all kinds of compacts because you believe your life will be richer and better and fuller on balance if you commit yourself to institutional cooperation of all kinds," he said.

Can ANYBODY tell me WHAT THE FUCK THAT MEANS?

That bastard needs to be committed to an institution, all right. One with padded walls and saltpeter in the scrambled eggs.
Two weeks ago, the New York Times lied through its Gray Lady teeth and screeched that Alaska is baking because of global warming. Now, Fairbanks has a RECORD LOW TEMPERATURE for the Fourth of July.

The cool weather is well in keeping with the trend set last month, where a surprisingly nice May was rudely ushered out by the coolest June since 1985. The monthly average at the airport was 58.2 degrees, with average temperatures wavering between 48 and 69. The high for the month was 78 degrees on the 16th--the first time June hasn't produced an 80-degree day since 1980--and the low was 36 on the 22nd. Temperatures in colder outlying areas like Chatanika and Two Rivers dipped below 30 that day, damaging some frost-sensitive vegetables like zucchini and spinach. Rainfall for the month was at or below normal, though rain fell on more days than it usually does.

Yep, looks like a clear case of global warming to me.

All together now.... "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!"

I'm all for nekkid people running in the streets, but why do they have to be STUPID NEKKID PEOPLE?

"While I certainly feel uncomfortable doing this, it is nothing compared with the suffering felt by the bulls, when they run through the slippery streets before being slaughtered in a ring," said Phelps, a tall blonde who has also shed her clothes to campaign for vegetarianism and circus animals' rights.

What color is the sun on her planet? She makes ME uncomfortable, even if she is a tall, nekkid blonde.
I took a PSA test at work last Wednesday and the results should be in tomorrow. Tomorrow is my appointment with the urologist to see about my pump installation, too. If the PSA looks good, I'm going for the pump. If the PSA looks bad, well... I'm going for the pump anyway.

The GODDESS related this advice in an e-mail:

Jim, being a fireman/paramedic, told me about a call he went on once upon a time. Woman called saying that her man had a heart attack. When the paramedics arrive at the scene the woman was standing out on the landing of the apartment building in her robe and nothing else. She pointed the crew to the bedroom and when they walked in the guy was lying on the bed, eyes open, not moving and with a huge woody. They tried reviving him but with no luck. He'd died in the saddle. The pump was still doing its job, though! Yep, he had a pump. None of the guys in the crew were going to release the thing so they loaded the man into the rig under his tent. The docs at the hospital pronounced him. By this time he had been intubated so as he was once again covered up it was a regular circus tent with two poles. One at the head.....the other at the other head. Everyone decided the morgue or the mortician could take care of the pump.

Maybe you should ask your doc for a unit that will deflate if you go out with a bang.


Hell, no! If I go that way, (I can't think of a BETTER way to go) I want to be wheeled out under a tent supported by my personal center pole. I want Roscoe to live on after me.

He deserves it.

I have been doing MANLY THINGS. Stripped to the waist, armed with a sharp blade and dripping manly sweat under a hot Georgia sun, I scraped the scales from numerous slick fish bodies, cut off their round-eyed heads and ripped their guts out with my bare hands. That is savage, bloody work, fit for a savage, bloody MANLY man.

But I don't smell manly. I have fish scent all over me and that's not the aroma of testosterone. In fact, I smell like... well, never mind.
You hear a lot about Deadbeat Dads but you seldom hear about the purely BEAT DOWN DADS. A man faces a stacked deck in divorce court, and it's an obscene experience to go there.
I am ready for a nice nap now, but I have a cooler full of fish that aren't going to clean themselves, so the nap will have to wait. An oddball storm front rolled in this morning in an impressive display of thunder and lightning, then the "mostly sunny" skies predicted by the weather forecasters turned iron-gray and overcast. With the weather showing its ass, we didn't go offshore in the 24-foot boat we chartered. We hung close to land and hit a few honey-holes where we could book for port if Mother Nature had another PMS fit.

We caught some keeper trout, some Spanish Macks and a bunch of whiting. The trout haul would have been better if the size limit was 12" instead of 13". It's a crying shame to release some of those that we brought to the boat because they were 1/2" short. We also caught about 30 baby sharks and four sting rays, which we threw back, too. Hook a sting ray and you'll think you've got Moby Dick on your line.

My son didn't go. He had a dream about a shark last night and absolutely refused to have anything to do with the ocean today. I dropped him off at my mom's house this morning so he could swim in her pool and get a full dose of Mamaw's spoiling while the rest of us went fishing.

About the time we got home, the clouds lifted and the sun emerged from hiding. Now it's a beautiful day and hot as hell.

And my air conditioner still isn't working.

Friday, July 05, 2002

I have a crisis of epic proportions in my house. My goddam air conditioner has quit working.

This is a brand-new home, finished in October of 2001, and the French doors to my back patio leak when it rains, the paint is already peeling off the roof molding and a plague of crickets has descended upon me. I have more blackberry vines than grass in my yard and every faucet in the house works backward. You want hot water? Turn the faucet to "cold." You want cold water? Turn the faucet to "hot." Now, the goddam air conditioner has quit.

It didn't quit, as in upped and died, the way my computer modem did. The goddam thing is running its ass off. It's a veritable dervish of sound and fury in the back yard. But it signifies no cold air. The temperature in my house is 85 degrees right now and the humidity is 1000%. I have to get up at 5:00 in the morning to make the fishing trip, and I know I'll be wallowing in a puddle of sweat in my bed, even with all the ceiling fans going full blast. This sucks.

I have a homebuilder's guarantee on the house with a toll-free number to call if I find anything wrong in the next five years. A broken air conditioner is something wrong in my book, so I called today. The repair service is closed for the holidays and won't be open again until Monday. In the meantime, I sweat.

Oh, well. I never slept in an air conditioned house for the first twenty years of my life, so I suppose I can persevere through this dilemma. I'll be brave.

And come Monday, I want my goddam air conditioner fixed!

This is the BEST GODDAM BLOG I've seen in a long time.

I think I'm in love with that cranky bitch!
Don't worry. The federal government is ON TOP OF THIS. Or maybe they're not. The FBI is playing very coy.

The problem is that those pesky Middle Eastern men keep doing all this terrorist stuff and we don't dare keep a close eye on THEM, because that would be RACIAL PROFILING and we can't have that in this country. No, we conduct intensive searches on Oriential women, paraplegics, black businessmen and ex-Vice-President Al Gore when they board a plane just to show how fair and stupid we are. Abdul The Mad Bomber has his rights, and we're going to protect them. He looks just like an Oriental woman to airport security, because they protect our airline passengers by exercising no judgment whatsoever. They may not be competemt, but they are politically correct, even if they allow 50% of a sting operation with fake guns, knives and bombs to pass their watch undetected. That's better than hassling Abdul, who may sue if he didn't have a bomb that day. Hell, he may sue if he DID have a bomb. And he might WIN in Mississippi.

I have to fly to Mississippi next week. I can see it now:

"Acidman... take your shoes off. And stand over there next to the 83 year-old woman in the flowered dress.

We're always on the alert for potential terrorists around here."
I suppose it was a welcome break from SCREWING CHICKENS.

ISLAMABAD, Pakistan (AP) -- One of four men suspected of gang-raping a teenage girl as part of a tribal punishment in a remote eastern Pakistan village was arrested Friday.

Police raided a poultry farm in southwestern Baluchistan province and arrested one of the alleged rapists, Abdul Khaliq, said Col. Farman Ali, a senior police officer. The farm was owned by Khaliq's friend, he said.


"We could tell he was a likely rapist, because he had his dick stuck in a chicken at the time," said General-General-Sergent-General Akbar-Fubar-Fuggedaboutit. "Screwing chickens is one thing. In fact, screwing goats and camels is one thing, too. Okay, screwing any kind of hairy, smelly animal we can catch is one thing to a Muslim. We are, after all, hairy, smelly people ourselves, Allah be praised. But we do not tolerate gang rape. No sir. No way. Except when Allah decrees it. And CNN doesn't find out about it."

Gen-Gen-Sgt-Gen kept Abdul Khailq's chicken as "evidence" and promised to keep it closely guarded until Abdul's trial. "Yes, the chiken will never leave my sight. I will go everywhere with this chicken and even sleep with it at night."

The chicken had no comment on the matter, but I saw fear in its beady eyes.

I made some of this shit up!--ed.

I have a simple piece of advice for THESE MORONS:

MOVE OUT! GO SOMEWHERE ELSE!

Yes, you blighted citizens of Washington, DC. Your local government has been totally corrupt for years, your police department is utterly incompetent, your public schools suck, crime is rampant despite (maybe because of) some of the strongest gun-control laws in the country, and you dimwits put up with it! Not only do you put up with it and reelect political clowns such as Marion Barry, you have the unmitigated gall to demand the right to inflict your stupidity on the rest of the nation. Go screw yourselves! We've already got Massachusetts and California. We don't need another festering boil of political insanity on the buttocks of this nation.

Good grief! Cynthia McKinney is probably considered to be intelligent by these blithering cretins.

Let Great Britain have them.
I'm BACK, tanned, robust and freshly-shorn. I believe I lost about ten pounds in the barber chair and now that the clipping is done, I feel pretty. I had my hair cut short. I have a manly, virile look about me now.

Well, at least I look like a semi-manly, potentially-virile, gray-headed old fart with a nice haircut.

I really believe that I look better than the pony-tailed, wild-haired, bohemian old fart who walked into the barber shop. (Excuse me. That was a"Hair Salon." Barber shops don't exist anymore.) I look demented with long hair. I AM demented, but it doesn't show at first glance when my hair is cut short. In my new disguise, I can fool people who don't know me.

My son will be with me in about three hours. I have the fishing trip money and I bought some drinks and munchies to take with us tomorrow. I hope he catches a fish as big as he is.

I'll take a picture if he does, and I'll enjoy the sea breeze blowing through my no-longer flowing locks.

I have been a busy guy today. The Superfund site that was my kitchen is now clean and sparkling. I have tile-burns on my knees from the scrubbing I did and a severe case of the wrinkly-fingers from the toxic-waste cleanser I used. (I also killed SIX MORE CRICKETS today, and I've checked the attic, so I still don't know where the interloping Jimenys are coming from) I vacuumed the house, cleaned the guest bathroom at the end of the hall (ewwww!) and even mowed my lawn, all before 12:00.

Now, I'm going to the bank to withdraw money to pay the fishing-boat captain tomorrow, and I'm going to get a haircut, too. Last night, I found myself on Ed the ex-linebacker's back porch (the smoking room) with three women who told me:
1) I was handsome and charismatic
2) I was a wonderful musician
3) Dick doesn't really matter

They were honest on two out of three, which is a batting average that'll get you on the Major League All-Star team every time. But I still believe they're telling that "dick doesn't matter" story just to make me feel better. Of course, they all told horrible stories about their husbands' inability to ...um... rise to the occasion, which I suppose was meant to um... pump up my self-esteem. I don't think that strategy worked, but I loved the handsome, charasmatic, wonderful musician part. I also enjoyed charming the ladies, even if they were all married to good friends of mine. I had a good time last night, and slept blissfully on Ed's couch.

The women all liked my pony tail, too, and the modified Frank Zappa moustache I have now. I hope they enjoyed the look, because I'm about to go get rid of it. It's just too damned hot for all this hair I'm wearing now.

BLOGGER PRO says it will allow you to post pictures on your blog. If I can decipher how to do it, I'll show berfore and after views of Acidman. In the meantime, I'm off to the bank and the barber shop.

I am a dumbass. I didn't get a new server. I signed up for BLOGGER PRO and paid the extra $10 to take away the ad on my page. PRO then ate the very first post I wrote, and that goddam ad still appears.

But I can publish now, and you simple, freeloading blogspots can't. Neener, neener, neener!

I believe that I may get off BLOGGER and go with a paid-for server. If I can afford to go to the Super Wal-Mart at 6:30 in the morning and buy an entirely new computer because I have a dead modem on my old one, I can afford to pay for a decent server. BLOGGER has been good to me, but it has chapped my ass with its ups and downs and frogginess to the point that I'm sick of it. If I could get back the number of posts BLOGGER swallowed during one of its frequent brain-farts, my archives would be at least 1/4 larger than they are.

Besides, I scribed away on my 1996 Compac Presario with its 13" monitor since I started this site. Now I have a battleship gray HP with a 17" monitor and I feel as if I'm typing posts on a movie theater screen. Like Tim the Toolman, I'm going "Wah! Wha! Wha!" MORE POWER!!!!

Hell, BLOGGER probably will eat this post, too.
BLOGGER ate my original description of my Fourth of July activities, and I've decided that it's probably for the best. Steamed clams, snow crab legs, smoked ribs, fireworks, a keg of beer, good friends, lots of home-made music and a crash pad on Ed the ex-Linebacker's couch last night is all you need to know.

Happy Birthday, USA!

Thursday, July 04, 2002

My modem died on me last night. Just upped and died, as we say down South. I turned the computer off and hoped that it would do like that Ox beetle and revive itself during the night, but it was still dead as Dillinger this morning.

Well, I was ready for a new computer anyway. I got one, too.

Wednesday, July 03, 2002

I live 30 miles from Vidalia, Georgia, and JB brags about buying Vidalia Onions in Florida for less drachma than I pay here where they're grown. Well, guess what, podnah? You can NEVER be overcharged for a genuine Vidalia onion. They're worth every cent no matter what they cost.

I can't say the same thing about a pack of cigarettes, especially when the government sets the price through brutal taxation. Do you think smugglers might just LOVE this act of stupidity?

Harlan County, Kentucky, where I was born, stayed a dry county through the concerted efforts of two dissimmilar forces: the Bible-Thumping Baptists and the Whiskey-Running Bootleggers. The Baptists kept the county dry because they were dour folk who truly believed that God wants you to have NO FUN AT ALL on earth. You earn that fun shit in heaven after you die by living as wretchedly as possible until then. The bootleggers were a lot more pragmatic, motivated by a free-market love of profit. They knew that people always want their firewater, even some of the Bible-Thumpers when they're out of sight of the Reverend, and they provided a needed service. So, Harlan County was dry, but you could find a drink there any day of the week, any time you wanted one, and nobody ever asked for an ID.

You have the same situation developing in New York. People will go out of state to buy their cigarettes, or they'll buy them from bootleggers, who will be there to fill the niche in the market. And the politicians can cut the moral horseshit about discouraging smoking. They're discouraging smokers from buying overpriced, legal cigarettes, that's all. They're LEGISLATING their own crime wave.

Buncha maroons.



This sounds like something that should have happened to ME last month. It was RAINING SNAKES in my world, too.

Thanks for this one, JB.
I am off work for the next four days. June was the MONTH FROM HELL at work and I could stand a break. Plus my crackerbox house is approaching critical mass as far as the need for serious scrubbing, vacuuming and scouring goes. I have been extremely slack about my domestic chores except for doing just as much laundry as I required to have clean clothes to wear every day. Last night, when my friends came over for supper (an extra-large pizza with everything, delivered) one of them went into that shipwreck I call a kitchen and said, "You don't know how to parch peanuts worth a damn." I had to explain that those weren't parched peanuts in that tupperware bowl he was eating from. They were boiled peanuts, all dried out because they had been on the counter since last Saturday. He said, "Oh. In that case, they're not that bad." He ate a few more before the pizza arrived.

It's nice to have friends that remind you of you.

I haven't let housekeeping go to the point where I have roaches and rats challenging my dominance over the natural world right inside my home, or see maggots crawling like living rice-kernels around the kitchen garbage can, but I do have an outbreak of crickets to deal with. I've never had a plague of crickets in my house before.

I suppose the six days of rain we had last week that laid about a foot of water on my yard may be a factor. The chirping Jimenys might simply be seeking high ground and relief from the flood. I just don't know how in the hell they're getting IN HERE to being with. I've killed over 30 in my house during the past two days. That's 30 FRICKEN CRICKETS! KILLED IN MY HOUSE!

They are everywhere, and the survivors are starting to sing for a mate at night, which is an irritating noise when you're trying to sleep. I bragged in the post below that I know a lot about insects. But crickets never were a specialty of mine, and I don't know exactly how to combat this invasion except to keep a can of Raid handy and gas every hopping, jumping, chirping invader I see. I've looked all over for their Underground Railroad that they use to break and enter my home, but I can't find it. Of course, I haven't looked in my attic in a long time. You don't suppose...

Up there attached to the rafters is the Mother Of All Crickets, about the size of an urban-assault-vehicle SUV, with an abdomen pulsating with life. She came built-in with the house and awaked from her cocoon in the pink attic insulation last week. Now she hangs there pendulously and shoots out offspring like a demented, insectile Pez dispenser, causing crickets to rain down at night from the air conditioner vents like oak leaves in the fall. I'm going to go check.

If I don't post any more blogs after this one, you'll know she was there, and she ate me.

The lovely and talented Jenny, of No shirt, no shoes, no teeth, no problem is on the opposite side of the fence from me on this topic:

Teaching kids to appreciate insects and spiders is a wonderful idea. (I myself try to teach that to kids, and adults, at every opportunity.) But doesn't having the kids kill the bugs sort of defeat the purpose? Yes, scientists have so far found it necessary to kill some creatures in order to conduct important research. But I really don't think we should be encouraging kids to do this. It just feeds the unhealthy human instinct to dominate the natural world rather than view ourselves as part of it.

I appreciate insects and spiders more than most people I know because I once collected, murdered and mounted them in display boxes when I was a young man determined to dominate the natural world around me. From the time I was ten years-old until I was thirteen or so (whever it was that girls became more fascinating than bugs to me), I spent a lot of time roaming the flowerbeds, fields and forests around my home in search of insect prey. Armed with net and kill-jar, I was a formidable hunter. I soon had a large and growing collection of some of the most rare and beautiful beetles, butterflies and moths in the southeast US.

I also was noticed throughout the neighborhood and my fame spread from house to house until I started receiving phone calls whenever someone discovered a mysterious six-legged creature on their property. I would respond, much like an entomologist X-File agent, by hopping on my Sting-Ray bicycle and peddling to the scene. I sometimes found terrified housewives pointing at some huge beetle crawling down their driveway. "What IS that thing?" they would ask.

I would bend over, pick it up in my bare hand and examine it closely. "This is a Rhinocerous Beetle," I would explain calmly. "You can see from the large horn above the vicious-looking, clicking mandibles how it got its name. I'm surprised you found it in daylight, because Rhinocerous Beetles prefer a nocturnal habitat. They are very large beetles and their appearance is frightening, but they are absolutely harmless. You wanna hold him?" And I would kinda wave the bug at her.

"No! No! Just get it... er... HIM out of here!" And I would take it home, pop it in the kill jar and wait until the vicious-looking mandibles stopped clicking. Then, I would mount it in a box with the rest of my collection.

I almost met my match with an Ox Beetle. A neighbor called about that one, too, and I was astounded when I saw it. A Rhinocerous Beetle is large, but an Ox Beetle is HUGE. Imagine moving your garbage can one day and discovering a jet-black bug about the size of a small cell phone crawling around in the compost underneath. The poor woman who found it nearly had a heart attack, but I quickly rode to her rescue. I wasn't so calm when I saw what THAT one was.

"Holey Moley! That's an OX BEETLE!" I exclaimed, eagerly snatching it up in my hand. "This is the first one I've ever seen for real!" The damned thing was so strong that I couldn't keep it from forcing its way out of my clenched fist, which barely fit around the monsterous bug. I took it home and threw it in the kill jar and referenced my illustrated book of insects to make sure the Ox was really what I had. It was.

Sometime that evening, I checked the jar and old Ox had ceased movement, so I removed him and mounted him on a piece of styrofoam I kept on my desk. I would need to rearrange my beetle display to give the Ox a place of honor, and I figured that I would do that the next day. But when I awoke in the morning, the Ox was gone. "Hey, Mom!" I called, "Did you do something with my Ox Beetle?"

She stuck her head in my bedroom. "Did I do WHAT?" she asked.

"My Ox Beetle," I explained. "I put him on the mounting board last night and now he's gone. You didn't throw him away, did you?"

"Oh. My. God." Mom pulled back out of my room and didn't enter it again, until after I heard an odd noise in my closet three nights later and found Ox wedged in the corner, still impaled on the mounting pin and scratching his powerful claws against the baseboard in a futile attempt to dig his way back to the land of compost. The stubborn critter had played possum on me, revived and broke for freedom. I put him in the kill jar for 48 hours after that, and he didn't get away again. Mom had to verify (from an appropriate distance) that the creature was officially deceased before she went back in my room.

I still remember much of what I learned about insects during my collecting days. I can identify almost every butterfly or moth that I see and I'm still fairly good with the exotic beetles. I would like to interest my son in insect collecting, because that form of wildlife is plentiful in Georgia and it's a great hobby for a kid who really likes the outdoors. You can outfit yourself with everything you need for very little cost and it's a great way to fill up a summer day.

And it really helps a young human being figure out his place in the natural world, which at the top of the food chain, dominating all other creatures great and small.




They must have been educated in PUBLIC SCHOOLS. Inability to read a calender or know the days of the week cost the National Education Association a cool $800,000 in a Washington state court yesterday.

"We are astounded that the NEA missed or ignored this deadline," said EFF President Bob Williams. "Apparently NEA officials think complying with state laws isn't a high enough priority to merit close attention, but we expect this judgment to remind them that we value teachers' rights here in Washington."

The real problem is that NEA officials think educating our children isn't a high enough priority to merit close attention. They would rather concentrate their efforts on buying Democrat politicians and the protecting the pathetic status-quo, where public education benefits only the union, not the students.

Vouchers may allow parents to opt their children out of the cesspool of inertia and incompetence that much of public education is today. And the NEA will have no one but itself to blame.


Who are the real BOOK-COOKERS?

... let's compare what happens when deceptive accounting practices are discovered in private industry versus when they're discovered in government.

Without the SEC, the supposed guarantor against corporate hanky-panky, lifting one finger, the market has exacted high penalties. Enron and WorldCom shares of stock and their reputations are virtually worthless. Heads have rolled.

By contrast, what happens when Congress cooks the books and deceives Americans into believing that government debt is $3.5 trillion or $6 trillion, when it's really $35 trillion? Absolutely nothing.


Oh, no! Something happens! The crooked spendthrifts get reelected.

Sometimes it just doesn't PAY TO ADVERTISE.

Chris Antus' T-shirt read, "fugitive." He was. And the rotten bastard robbed HIS MAMA!


Thanks to BOB AND CATHY for this one:

The Georgia Three Kick Rule

A big-city California lawyer went duck hunting in rural Georgia. He shot and dropped a bird, but it fell into a farmer's field on the other side of a fence. As the lawyer climbed over the fence, an elderly farmer drove up on his tractor and asked him what he was doing.
The attorney responded, "I shot a duck and it fell in this field, and now I'm going into retrieve it." The old farmer replied, "This is my property, and you are not coming over here."

The indignant lawyer said, "I am one of the best trial attorneys in the US and, if you don't let me get that duck, I'll sue you and take everything you own." The old farmer smiled and said, "Apparently, you don't know how we do things in Georgia. We settle small disagreements like this with the Georgia Three-Kick Rule."

The lawyer asked, "What is this three-kick Rule?" The farmer replied, "Well, first I kick you three times and then you kick me three times, and so on, back and forth, until someone gives up." The attorney quickly thought about the proposed contest and decided That he could easily take the old codger. He agreed to abide by the local custom.

The old farmer slowly climbed down from the tractor and walked up to the city feller. His first kick planted the toe of his heavy work boot into the lawyer's groin and dropped him to his knees. His second kick nearly wiped the man's nose off his face. The barrister was flat on his belly when the farmer's third kick to a kidney nearly caused him to give up. But the lawyer summoned every bit of his will and managed to get to his feet and said, "Okay, you old coot, now it's my turn."

The old farmer smiled and said, "Naw, I give up. You can have the duck."

Tuesday, July 02, 2002

Okay, just this. GUT RUMBLES is ahead of the curve again, because THIS ARTICLE reaches the same conclusions I reached LAST NIGHT about Global Warming. But I have one serious problem with the post I wrote last night. I was WRONG!

According to CNN's Michelle Mitchell, leading climate scientists have reached "a unanimous decision that global warming is real, is getting worse, and is due to man. There is no wiggle room."

From this, it follows that what men have wrought, men must undo. The Kyoto Protocol calls on industrialized nations to hold their CO2 emissions to 1990 levels, principally by placing draconian limits on all energy releasing activities and by investing massively in such alternative fuel sources as wind power and solar cells. Anything short of this, says the conventional wisdom, all but guarantees an uncomfortably hot future for posterity. Asks Bob Herbert of The New York Times: "Do you think, maybe, we should be paying more attention to this?"

THE SHORT answer is no.

If there is one thing more remarkable than the level of alarm inspired by global warming, it is the thin empirical foundations upon which the forecast rests. According to Richard Lindzen, a professor of meteorology at MIT, the best available evidence shows that global mean temperatures have risen by a mere 0.5 degrees Celsius over the past century, and that global concentrations of CO2 over a century have also increased by a statistically insignificant percentage, to 0.036% from 0.028%.


Acidman said that CO2 concentration in the atmosphere was 0.3%. I was off by a factor of 100. The actual concentration of that deadly greenhouse gas in our atmosphere is 0.03%. I fucked up the numbers.

What do you expect? I'm an ENGLISH MAJOR, for crying out loud!

But it doesn't change the fact that 0.03% of our atmosphere is making people go crazy, proposing really stupid solutions to a problem that doesn't exist. Let's call CO2 laughing gas instead of greenhouse gas.



I'm not going to blog tonight. I am tired, I have friends coming over for supper, and my site won't call me "Acidman" anymore.

Don't you just hate it when that happens?

Monday, July 01, 2002

The always thoughtful LYNN offers this opinion on GLOBAL WARMING:

Weather forecasters are only partially successful at predicting the weather three or four days ahead, so I find it hard to believe that anyone knows with any certainty what the global climate will be like years in the future. That doesn't mean that environmental causes should be abandoned. I just think that we should stop panicking every time someone publishes another new bit of out of context data.

Global Warming is the most fantastic scare that I've ever seen come down the pike and I am totally amazed how this piece of bumfoolery has been swallowed by the world. The Greens hit the jackpot with this scare, in spite of the fact that they have NO SCIENTIFIC EVIDENCE WHATSOEVER to back up their frightening claims. Every prediction they make is based on computer "climate models" that cannot input KNOWN data from 50 years ago and produce an accurate picture of the climate today. But we're supposed to believe that the models that can't model what already HAS happened can predict what WILL happen 100 years from now. Never has a more unmitigated piece of absolute flim-flammery been pulled on a gullible public. PT Barnam is rolling in his grave because he didn't think of THIS con-job.

Since sulfur dioxide, nitrous oxide, lead vapor, mercury, dioxin and carbon monoxide pollution is dropping radically every year, the Greens needed to invent another frightening bugaboo to keep the "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE" movement rolling. They picked the perfect menace: CARBON DIOXIDE!

It's perfect. Nature produces CO2 in vast quantities, it is essential to life on this planet, people exhale it every time they breathe, plants use it for photosynthesis and most people don't know what the hell it is. Ask people who want to regulate CO2 emissions to answer this question:

The CO2 contents of the earth's atmosphere has tripled in the last 100 years. CO2 now makes up what part of the atmosphere?
1) 30%

2) 10%

3) 3%

4 0.3%


If you didn't know, that killer greenhouse gas makes up Three-tenths of one percent of our atmosphere. (That would be #4 for those environmentalists who do math worse than this English Major does.) In other words, it is a trace gas, almost insignifcant in our atmosphere. Today, in Savannah, Georgia, WATER VAPOR reached more than 80% of saturation in the atmosphere. Water vapor is a true greenhouse gas, and the most influential one on the planet. But climate computer models don't consider water vapor in their calculations. First, because they don't know enough about it to understand how it works, and second because it provides no justification for shutting down power plants, wrecking economies and stopping the advancement of civilization as we know it, which is the true agenda of the environmental movement. Giant Cray computers humming through the night, running countless calculations at nearly the speed of light produce lots of data. But it's all garbage in, garbage out in the global warming scare-machine.

If those riding the bandwagon of climate change had a truly legitimate, scientific case, would they need to resort to THIS SORT OF FAKERY to prove their point? I don't think so.

It was hot as hell in Savannah, Georgia, today, but guess what? It was hot as hell in Savannah 100 years ago, too. It's ALWAYS hot as hell in Savannah in July. Savannah is in the DEEP SOUTH.

If anyone mops sweat from his/her brow and tells you "I don't remember July ever being THIS hot before," tell them to check the climate records. Nobody may remember it, because memories are short. But we came nowhere near a record high temperature for this day. Were you hot on July 1st last year? Don't remember, do you?

I'll give you a hint. If you live near Savannah, you were. And if your grandmother lived here 60 years ago, she was hot, too. We've had hot weather in the summer for a long time.

So, as Lynn says, stop panicking about it. You don't need to fear global warming. You need to fear those who have something to gain by making you afraid.


Today was a hot, miserable one at work, with temperatures in the mid-90s, humidity about 199% and no breeze at all. I believe the heat index was somewhere around the surface temperature of the planet Mercury, and I'm NOT talking about the side that always faces away from the sun. It was farking HOT.

I left work and went to my mama's house to visit with her, my 91 year-old grandmother and my daughter, who came in from Texas yesterday with her roommate, Stacey. My 19 year-old daughter showed me her two tattoos, so I showed her the scar on my left bicep from my henna episode in Key West. Now I know where her cyber-name "Blue Dolphin" comes from. She and Stacey are going to North Carolina to visit Stacey's brother tomorrow, so I told them to be back by Friday night, because I'm picking them up at 6:15 Saturday morning for the deep-sea fishing trip. I hope we catch some nice ones.

I left Mom's and went to the Post Office to buy some 3-cent stamps. The place resembled a fire-ant hill with the top kicked off. I only thought I held the US Post Office in contempt until today. Now I feel absolute revulsion. Of course, I'm as stupid as everybody else in the place for waiting until today to deal with the rate increase, because I COULD have gone there yesterday and bought stamps from one of the vending machines when I had the whole place to myself. The WTOC mobile TV-van was there, with Channel 11 reporters interviewing people for the evening news standing in those Disney-World type lines at the main counter . I was hoping they would stick a microphone in my face, but they probably knew better.

"Sir, what do you think of the increase in postal rates?"

"$%#$@%&%$#@!!*&%$*#@!!" I never would see myself on the tube at 11:00 if I voiced an honest opinion.

So, I elbowed a sweet little blue-haired woman on a walker out of my way, stepped on her neck as she lay fumbling for her "I've fallen and I can't get up transmitter" and got my stamps from the farking machine. I'm pretty sure the sweet little blue-haired woman will be okay. I saw the EMS ambulance with lights and siren going full blast pulling into the parking lot as I was leaving, and running over that cute little dog and the homeless man.

Boy, was I ever glad to get out of there.
If you keep throwing your blog out there, interesting people seem to find it. This very amusing TEXAN wrote me today, so I checked HER blog and found this:

Today in the course of my blog-meanderings I ran across Acidman, which I deeply appreciate for both its writing style and its honesty. From what I can tell, he's some kinda aging Southern redneck with hippie leanings and an occupation that exposes him to high concentrations of toxic chemicals. Hey dude, if you ever find yourself in Austin, c'mon by the RV park for a sip-n-chat!

This woman calls ME a "kinda aging Southern redneck" and names her blog NO SHIRT? NO SHOES? NO TEETH? NO PROBLEM!. Well, I just want to get a few things straight with her.

1) I am NOT "kinda aging." I am mature, like fine wine and wise philosophers. Besides, everybody is "aging." I'm kinda OLD!

2) I am NOT a "Southern redneck." I am a Southern good-ole boy and there's a world of difference, as anyone from Texas should know. I drive a pickup truck and I have a Confederate flag license plate on the front bumper, but I DO NOT throw beer cans out my window when I drive down the road. I throw them in the bed of the truck so that they may be recycled to help to save our fragile planet.

3) "Hippie leanings?" Oh, no darlin'! I have not one single hippie bone in my body. I am "Bohemian."

4) "An occupation that exposes him to high concentrations of toxic chemicals?" Oh, no, darlin'! Yeah, I'm around all that deadly shit every day, but it won't hurt you if you know what you're doing. I've been handling, breathing and bathing in all sorts of evil chemicals for 22 years. You ought to know from reading this blog that it hasn't affected my mind one iota. "Exposed" is what I am when I go to Key West. Marinated is what I am from work.

5) "C'mon by the RV park for a sip-n-chat." Now, THAT sounds like a wonderful idea.

If I ever get to Austin-taceous, I'm going to see if she's serious about that offer. In the meantime, I'm going to keep reading her blog. You should, too.

By the way, darlin'... welcome to my blogroll, too.

Sunday, June 30, 2002

SEE? I'm not the only one convinced that OSAMA IS DEAD. Mark Steyn thinks so, too, for a lot of the same reasons I've been posting about for months now.

Yep, that's right. GUT RUMBLES stays ahead of the curve.
My favorite NEOCON GODDESS Ann Coulter has a nice rant about the Supreme Court's decision ruling that dumb people don't deserve the death penalty.

Six years ago, Eric Nesbitt, a U.S. airman assigned to Langley Air Force Base, was brutally murdered by Daryl Renard Atkins, a repeat violent criminal. It was a heinous and pointless murder: Atkins already had Nesbitt's money and car when he unloaded his gun into the defenseless airman. According to a cellmate, Atkins later laughed about the murder.

Atkins was sentenced to death, but that verdict was overturned by the Supreme Court's decision. Is Atkins a complete retard who didn't understand what he was doing when he cold-bloodedly murdered the young airman?

No, He's just dumb – not an uncommon trait among violent criminals. As far back as 1914, criminologist H.H. Goddard concluded that "25 percent to 50 percent of the people in our prisons are mentally defective and incapable of managing their affairs with ordinary prudence." Crimes of violence in particular – murder, rape and assault – are all correlated with low IQs.

Thus, the Supreme Court has now prohibited the death penalty for precisely those people who are most likely to commit death-penalty level crimes.


This decision is foolish enough to make me wonder about the IQ scores of the judges who made it.





I don't know if this stuff is true, but it makes for interesting reading:

Here are some facts about the 1500s:

* Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in May and still smelled pretty good by June. However, they were starting to smell, so brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odor.

*Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children-last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it-hence the saying, "Don't>throw the baby out with the bath water."

*Houses had thatched roofs - thick straw - piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so all the dogs, cats and other small animals (mice, bugs) lived in the roof. When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof-hence the saying "It's raining cats and dogs."

*There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house. This posed a real problem in the bedroom where bugs and other droppings could really mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection. That's how canopy beds came into existence.

*The floor was dirt. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt, hence the saying "dirt poor." The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on the floor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on, they kept adding more thresh until when you opened the door it would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entranceway, hence, a "thresh hold."

*In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire. Every day they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight and>then start over the next day. Sometimes the stew had food in it that had been there for quite awhile - hence the rhyme, "peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old."

*Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special. When visitors came over, they would hang up their bacon to show off. It was a sign of wealth that a man "could bring home the bacon." They would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around and "chew the fat."

*Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with a high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning and death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous. (I know that people around that time believed that tomaotes were poisonous--ed)

*Most people did not have pewter plates, but had trenchers, a piece of wood with the middle scooped out like a bowl. Often trenchers were made from stale bread which was so old and hard that they could be used for quite some time. Trenchers were never washed and a lot of times worms and mold got into the wood and old bread. After eating off wormy, moldy trenchers, one would get "trench mouth."

*Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or "upper>crust."

*Lead cups were used to drink ale or whiskey. The combination would sometimes knock them out for a couple of days. Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a "wake."

*England is old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people. So they would dig up coffins and would take the bones to a "bone-house" and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside, and they realized they had been burying people alive. So they thought they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the "graveyard shift") to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be "saved by the bell" or was considered a "dead ringer."


There is just enough truth in this to make it believable, which convinces me the whole thing is bullshit. But I don't know. Anybody got a clue?


A guy named Fred sent me an e-mail telling me what a pathetic wimp I am. He included his blog address, so I wimped my way there. I found THIS ARTICLE, which I thought LONG-HAIRED COUNTRY BOY might enjoy, so I borrowed it. From that hard-ass, two-fisted tough guy FRED.

Somebody go call HIM a wimp in his "comments."
Look like I'm not the only one who had a... GUT RUMBLE over the GOING BRIDAL site. SUGARMAMA found it frightening, too.

Sugarmama is from Alabama. I'm putting her on my blogroll.
ANDY put a link to me on his WORLD WIDE RANT blog, so he automatically assumes a place of honor and distinction on my blogroll. Thanks, Andy.
Senator Bob Torricelli is as crooked as Quasimodo's spine, and the CORRUPT SLIMEBALL should be run from the Senate straight to a prison cell.

The New Jersey Democrat, having escaped a federal investigation, has gone to court to keep secret the details of his chief accuser's cooperation.

This has little to do with any challenge to his own truthfulness, Torricelli insists.


Yeah, and pigs fly, too.

Al Gore probably adopted HIS LATEST PERSONA after a focus group told him that he could resonate with the American People if he said he didn't listen to focus groups anymore. Part of his new strategy is to declare that he's not concentrating so much on strategy anymore.

"If I had to do it all over again, I'd just let it rip. To hell with the pollsters, the consultants and all the rest," donors said they were told at the beginning of a daylong strategy session at The Peabody.

A strategy session to declare that "We don't need no stinking strategy." Sounds like Al Gore to me.

UPDATE: Gore is IN TRAINING!
SUNDAY STUMPERS

1) Describe your ideal breakfast.
I like the Waffle House, but the best breakfast in the world is cooked by my mama. Eggs over easy, sausage AND bacon, grits, home-made biscuits and gravy. The biscuits and gravy are what makes it really special. I don't know if it's really that good or it's good to me because I grew up eating it. Naw... it's REALLY that good.


2) When was the last time you said "I love you" to a parent, sibling, child, best friend?
Every time I see my son or my mama.

3) If you were witness to a celebrity's bad behavior and had it on film, would you sell it to a tabloid for quick cash?
That would depend on the celebrity. If I had film of Hillary Clinton screwing a goat, I would GIVE it away to every media outlet I could find. If I had naked pictures of that sanctimonious gnome Joe Lieberman, I might try to sell those, although I don't know who would want to buy them. But if the celebrity was someone I liked, I wouldn't let anyone else know. I am loyal to my friends.

4) When confronted by total rudeness how do you respond?
Usually, I ignore it, but occasionally I will respond in kind when my cage is rattled hard enough. I believe good manners are the lubricant that eases the squeak and friction of society's machine. Well-raised Southerners usually have good manners. They were slapped into our behavior by well-raised mamas and daddys as we grew up. Too many people today missed those lessons.

5) Sugar daddies/mommas......acceptable or not?
HELL, YEAH! I either want to BE one, or I want to buy at least TWO for myself.


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