Saturday, July 20, 2002

I'm TOO OLD for this shit!.

If I keep reading THIS BITCH I'm going to fall out of my chair, hit the floor head-first at the wrong angle and die laughing. Or maybe end up worse off than Christopher Reeve. All I know for sure is that NOTHING GOOD can come from visiting her site. Evil lurks there, and it is dark and ugly. I'm never going back.

At least not tonight.

A frightening thought just occurred to me. If I actually generate a large audience for this page, I may have to clean up my act a bit, listen to my Mama and stop using all that fucking obscene language I sometimes apply in situations where I deem cuss-words necessary to get my true GUT RUMBLE across. I'll need to go straight and write for MY AUDIENCE instead of for me.

Naw... ain't gonna happen. What you read here are the unvarnished, freshly-hatched thoughts that fly from my imagination like a frightened covey of quail going airborne into a clear sky from the brush. I don't know where the rumbles come from and I seldom know where they're going to go, but what you see here is the way I do it. I don't believe that I could change if I tried. (That's a goddam lie! This asshole was an advertising copywriter once upon a time. He can whore any way you demand---ed)

Don't listen to the editor. He drinks a bottle of Scotch for lunch every day, the reeling bastard, and he doesn't understand what a highly-sensitive life-form I have evolved into since starting this blog. He remembers the OLD ME, if he can remember what he did with his car keys five minutes ago. The NEW ME is different.

I used to be raw moonshine. I am fine, aged wine today.
Wanna see a real hoot? Try this:

The first one sucked me in instantly and I want to give this guy a great big fat hug. Although, he's kind of touchy about girls, so I best just give him the proper distance he deserves. Acidman Mars at Monsterman is da Man. That was a lot of male redundancy.

Next up, give some love to zz bidches. Actually she is the Goddezzbidches, but she sometimes goes by Joan. Welcome Joan. Take your shoes off and stay awhile.

That's from DAWN OLSEN who makes me think SHE'S the kind of woman I WOULD BE if I were female.

Thanks, darling (as I preen). I'm really not down on women as an alien race. I believe that they ARE, but some of the shit that's happened to me is my fault, too. It always takes two to tango.

But I'll take a big, fat hug any time you offer it. And the Goddess is great, isn't she?

Oh, My Aching Ass part 104.

In fact the parties, constituted partly by regular customers and partly by new or occasional or once only customers, amounted to gatherings numbering in the order of 20 to 40 persons. Some would participate in the party whilst being naked whilst others wore scanty and revealing clothes. There was no obligation to remove clothing and some might wear ordinary clothing. Furthermore, there were no promises or pressure to participate in sexual intercourse. However, sexual intercourse and other sexual activities were the order of the entertainment for the evening. Condoms were supplied for the purpose. They were offered on a ´help yourself' basis from plates in the bedrooms referred to below. There was a room for changing and hanging up clothes, an outdoor spa where people frequently bathed in the nude and at least two rooms each containing a double bed with a single mattress on the floor. These rooms had their doors removed. This facilitated the desires of both exhibitionists and voyeurs. In fact the uncontradicted evidence of the inquiry agents include accounts of couples and larger groups participating in various forms of sexual intercourse in these rooms, in view of observers inside or outside the rooms concerned. Mr Edwards attended twice in his capacity as inquiry agent. On his account occasions of viewable conventional sexual intercourse was so common as to eventually become boring by repetition as the evening wore on. However, joint sexual activities of larger groups contributed a degree of variety. He gave an account of one episode where a man announced that his wife enjoyed a ´gang bang' and invited others to join them. In this episode the woman had oral sex with one man whilst a series of others had vaginal intercourse with her and whilst her husband sat in the room masturbating."

A woman in a wheelchair is suing because she was discriminated against at the party. Read the gory details HERE. Thanks (I think) to OVERLAWYERED for this one.

Friday, July 19, 2002

I haven't seen the 76% worshipable woman for two months now. I mentioned on this blog that she slept with me after I predetermined a seductive evening and succeeded magnificently in all my goals, including a perfect fix-a-flat injection.. She dropped me like a hot rock after that, even after leaving slobber-trails all over my body the next morning before she went home. I called her "angel" in the morning, too. Go figure.

I don't understand women. I don't know what makes them tick, I can't fathom how their feminine brains function and they remain totally inscrutable to me. It's frightening. I can attract them, I can woo them, I can bed them and I can love them, but I'll be GODDAMNED if I'll EVER understand them.

Maybe I'm just not meant to...
A strange thing happened this evening. My BC ex-wife showed up with my son at 6:00 and he had his suitcase with wheels loaded with the clothes he needs to spend the week with me. He tore into the house, gave me a hug and went straight to his room to crank up the Gameboy II. He left the suitcase in the middle of the living room.

The BC walked up to the door and asked for an "emergency phone number" so she could reach Quinton if she needed to speak to him while we were gone. I told her that I didn't have a number yet, but we would be at the Jekyll Inn from Monday night until Friday morning and that I would have Quinton call her EVERY NIGHT if that made her feel better. I was standing there with the door open and the 105 degree heat outside competing seriously with my air conditioning. I finally said, "Why don't you just come inside and sit down?"

She did, and we talked. She said, "I'm sure going to miss that sweet boy every day he's gone."

I said, "I miss him every day of my life. He's been gone a year now for me."

"Yeah, I know how hard that must be."

"I've noticed that it bothers you a lot."

"It does bother me. I'm sorry that things worked out they way they did."

I kept my mouth shut. I didn't say the obvious, which is "THINGS WORKED OUT THE WAY THEY DID BECAUSE YOU FUCKED AROUND WITH A DISEASED, UNEMPLOYED, DOPE-SMOKING ASSHOLE AND FLUSHED EVERYTHING WE ONCE HAD RIGHT DOWN THE TOILET, YOU BLOODLESS CUNT!" No, I didn't say that. She asked me for a cigarette and I gave her one. We talked about work, and we locked into an old, familiar pattern of both of us thinking scarily alike about how to deal with the latest problem on the horizon. The scene reminded me of what we once did every evening around the kitchen table after supper. It was eerie.

She's still an attractive woman, but she doesn't appear nearly as beautiful to me as she once did. I've seen the monster inside, and that changes a lot of my perceptions about her. She once was my partner, my lover and the best friend I had in the world. Not anymore.

But I can close my eyes right now and feel every nook and cranny of her body, smell every scent of her and recall the way she warmed her cold feet against my warm belly at night while making purring snores as she slept. I don't know if I'll EVER forget that. Hell, I still sleep on "my" side of the bed today.

When she left today, she paused at the door and said, "Thanks for inviting me in. It was nice to talk to you again." Then she hopped in her fancy sports car and went home to suck the unempolyed dope-smoker's cock.

Yeah, it was good for me, too

Yeah, it's THAT TIME AGAIN where I work. Here's what DONNA had to say about it:

I just received my annual review today, which went so-so... it wasn't bad, but after all of the work I've done for this place, it wasn't exactly raving either. I guess that's the way it always it though. No matter how good you are, no employer is ever going to tell you that at any review without a "BUT" included. What makes me a bit angry, is that I'm already taxed with the work load and wonder how they think I could possibly handle any more. I told my boss flat out that if she wants me to do more of this or that in particular, then she has to lighten my load on this or that other stuff. I've had additional responsibilities piled up on me as well, due to cost cutting measures like not re-hiring a biller we just lost. My bosses response? She said I should work even more hours! :( Hmmm, what was I saying yesterday? Oh yeah, "I HATE THIS JOB!" I ended up with a 3% salary increase, which was about what everyone else received. And while I certainly know that any increase is nothing to complain about in the current state of the economy, and will certainly help pay for my recent dental expenses, it's just sooooo not about the money!

No performance review ever should come as a surprise to the person who receives it. I have been guilty of this sin, and I hope to never do it again. But the company I work for ties my hands in many ways about rating my people. It's a corporate brain-fart mentality taken to the nth degree.

I have four supervisors who work for me. I don't have a clunker in the bunch. Yeah, I can rate them #1 through #4, but I wouldn't swap a single one of them for most of the others I see in the plant. My #4 guy is BETTER than some #1s in other areas. But the system doesn't allow that fact to intrude into the neat little matrix constructed for performance reviews. I rate a good guy as "Meets Expectations" because me meets MINE, which are high, while another half-assed boss rates a pissant "Exceeds Expectations" just because the pissant comes to work every day and kisses the boss's ass. It's not fair, but it's the world I work in. One of my guys MUST "need improvement," whether he does or not.

Well, everybody "Needs Improvement." Some people just need more than others.
From the looks of the old hit-counter, I'm about to roll the thing over to five digits shortly. I find that amazing, even though I have shamelessly whored all over blogdom trying to make it happen. In the beginning, the only time the hit counter moved was when my Mama came to read, and I always knew it was her because she invariably wrote me a tearful e-mail about cutting out the foul fucking language I sometimes use.

Today, I regularly receive comments and e-mails containing fouler fucking language than I EVER use. In less than seven months, this blog has gone a lot farther than I ever dreamed it would when I started. It feels good.

I want to thank some people for the company I've enjoyed on this trip. That "madness is bliss" maniac from Florida, JB gave me my first permalink, which I richly deserved because I TAUGHT HIM HOW TO DO IT! The ungrateful wretch never sent me a boquet of roses for that favor, but he has promised to buy me blood-rare steak and shrimp if I ever make my way to St. Pete. If he ever comes to Savannah, I'll do the same, and maybe even pay for a lap-dance at one of the cultural emporiums of artistic self-expression we have around here. But he buys his own beer.

The darling HEATHER was next. When I found her blog, I was my usual kind self by linking to a post that she wrote about personal flatulence. The gassy woman has adored me ever since. She also introduced me to the saucy Diana who proceeded to tickle my fancy many times on my comment page. I love both women, but we are ships passing in the night. Heather already is taken and Diana lives too far away. Besides, Diana has met a mass-murdering, child-molesting, dope-dealing, tax-evading Hannibal Lecter who has fooled her with his charming ways. DON'T FALL FOR IT, DIANA! Run while you can! Run to Rincon, Georgia. I'll SAVE you!

Then came THE GODDESS, who certainly perked up more than my comments page with some of her outlandish, shameful behavior. By god, the woman reminds me of me.

Everybody on the blogroll over on the left has been a cyber-friend and a person who thought enough about my site to link to it. There's sweet and dentist-tormented DONNA, who writes with the sort of brutal personal honesty most people aren't willing to hang out there for others to read. How about DRAGONFLY JENNY who claims to be some sort of pagan witch with no T-Ts? She never gets mad when I call her an environmental neuticle, and she understands the proper use of tequila. Hell, she doesn't NEED T-Ts to fascinate me.

The ultimate firestorm I've encountered so far is THE SUPREME BITCH, who is like a dose of rubbing alcohol on raw flesh. I LOVE her attitude and she calls me "one sexy bitch, I might add." SAME TO YOU, DARLIN'! See WHAT SHE DOES?

I've been trying all afternoon to get LIONEL MANDRAKE incorporated onto my blogroll, but the BLOGGER spiders and snakes keep interfering with my best efforts. I'll post him in the hall of fame (shame?) the first chance I get. I graduated from "auditioning" to "regular" on his site without having to endure buggery on the casting couch, so I figure JOAN made a grand sacrifice for me.

LYNN is always there to prove that I have civilized, cultured blog-pals, and DAX MONTANNA is around to be my bodyguard in some of the dark alleys I wander. SUGARMAMA and MAMA JOIE keep me loving Southern women, and ANDY AND COMPANY are still out there to be had, because World-Wide Rant has linked to me but never put me on their fucking blogroll.

Andy, resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.

Thanks for the ride, folks. It's been a lifesaver.

And I MEAN that.
Remember the old Jim Stafford song "I Don't Like Spiders and Snakes?" Well, I don't either! And BLOGGER has become a veritable Okeefenokee swamp lately. What IS this shit?

I upgraded to PRO, so I'm paying good money for the lack of service I continue to experience. I would never have started this journal without BLOGGER and I am the loyal sort who always wants to reward a favor done for me. That, and the fact that I wanted to publish when common blogspot swine couldn't, is why I upgraded.

But my loyalty is being tested to the fullest, and I am beginning to crack under the pressure. BLOGGER better straighten and fly right, or Acidman is gonna get out of the swamp.

Thursday, July 18, 2002


1) Airline Security sucks. They confiscated my 2" moustache sissors at the first checkpoint I hit in the Savannah Airport, but let me carry a cigarette lighter, a bottle of Old Spice after-shave and a Gilbey's Traveller of vodka on the plane. They took a $2.00 pair of Wal-Mart sissors and left me with two Molotov Cocktails and the means to ignite them. Great thinking... downright GOVERNMENTAL.

2) After security confiscated my moustache-trimmer sissors to ensure that I would not use them to hijack the plane and crash it into a tall building, Delta Airlines doubly-insured against that possibility by CANCELLING MY FLIGHT! I had to go back through Checkpoint Charlie, stand in line for 45 minutes and book another flight. Then, I had to go BACK through Checkpoint Charile, where the very same woman who confiscated my sissors searched my carry-on bag a SECOND TIME! Great thinking... downright governmental. She probably would have checked my shoes except for the fact that I was wearing sandals.

3) The new flight ran late. As we circled Atlanta, I showed the stew--- excuse me-- the FLIGHT ATTENDANT my 6:05 ticket to bumfuck, Mississippi, and asked her if I possibly could make it, because the time was 5:50 and the plane wasn't anywhere near the ground yet. She assured me that if I missed my flight, I would be booked on the next one, which left Atlanta at 10:15 that night. I was mightily reasurred by that information.

4) I disembarked on a concourse about as far away as I could be from where I needed to be, and that's a goddam BIG airport. I ran down an escalator, caught the Atlanta Airport mini-train, ran UP and escalator, then had to pee really bad. I had a choice to make. I could run like hell for my departure gate, piss all over myself and maybe make the flight, or duck into the nearest bathroom and have clean pants until the 10:15 flight that evening. After prostate surgery, and wearing a diaper for three months until I regained control of my bladder, I knew better than to run. Even though I don't need the diapers anymore, when I have to go I HAVE TO GO! I hit the bathroom, and I'm glad I did.

5) I arrived at the gate for my 6:05 flight at 6:25 and THE PLANE WAS WAITING FOR ME!!!! The other passengers may have been pissed off, but I was delighted.

6) Mississippi looks a lot like South Georgia, only not nearly as interesting.

7) Mississippi is just as hot and humid as South Georgia, just not nearly as interesting.

8) People in Mississippi are just as friendly as people in South Georgia, but that's a Southern thing and is expected Down South. Manners still matter here.

9) I really liked my rent-a-car and the motel I stayed in. I want to hire the maid who cleaned my room to do my house once a week. I'll pay her well, too. And I may just buy a Toyota one of these days.

10) I don't want to hear any more crap at work from ANYBODY about how God himself squatted down and shat pigment technology in Hamilton, Mississippi. I toured the plant. They do some things better than we do. We do some things better than they do. But the White End is just as dirty, just as dusty and just as WHITE as where I work. I fit right in there. I had a big, burly black guy named "Pat," who is my equilivant there (he is called a "Superintendent." I am called a "Coordinator.") and he said, "You're dressed kinda nice to be going out there. It's dirty and dusty." I told him, "Let's go. I FART dust." He laughed and said, "So do I, my man. Follow me." We went, and I learned that brothers in the White End are brothers all over the world. Yeah... we DO fart dust. And we're goddam PROUD of it, too.

Now, to bed and to work in the morning. I have many more stories to tell.

Did y'all MISS ME?

Monday, July 15, 2002

Okay, folks, I'm off to Mississippi.

I will be back, blogging tirelessly (that's a blogger in a pickup truck running on a bare rim and throwing sparks in his wake) when I return Thursday evening. You will have updates about those dirty repulper shafts and the paddle-stuff I'm going to investigate. I will thrill you with descriptions of the beautiful place I'm going and the wonderful adventures I am certain to have there. So, stay tuned.

Now, it's OFF TO THE RODEO!!!

Sunday, July 14, 2002

I just took the WHAT VEGETABLE ARE YOU quiz and discovered that I am BROCOLLI

I'm a broccoli! I'm introverted but always try to be more outgoing. I'm sort of dim on the outside but inside I'm really a good person and always trying to fit in. Even though a lot of people don't like me, they really do learn to love me!

This is a bullshit test. I'm about as introverted as a used car salesman and as dim as a fireworks display. Okay, some people don't like me, but FUCK THEM! And what's this "learn to love me" crap? To KNOW me is to LOVE me.

Don't take that pissant test. It's bullshit.

Catfish is at it again:

As the blonde was standing by the first tee waiting for her golf lesson from the club's pro, she watched a foursome in the process of teeing off. The first golfer addressed the ball and swung, hitting it 230 yards straight down the middle of the fairway.

"That was a really good shot," said the blonde.
"Not bad considering my impediment," said the golfer.
"What do you mean?
"I have a glass eye," said the golfer.
"I don't believe you!"
So he popped out his eye out and showed her.

The next golfer addressed the ball and swung, hitting it 240 yards straight down the middle of the fairway. Again, the blonde exclaimed, "That was a really good shot!"
"Not bad considering my impediment," said the golfer.
"What's wrong with you?" said the blonde.
"I have a prosthetic arm," he replied.
"I don't believe you, show me," said the blonde. So he screwed his arm off and showed it to her.

The next golfer addressed the ball and swung, hitting it 250 yards straight down the middle of the fairway. "That was a really good shot," said the blonde.
"Not bad considering my impediment," said the golfer.
"What's wrong with you?"
"I have a prosthetic leg."
"I don't believe you!"
So that golfer screwed his leg off and showed it to her.

The fourth golfer then addressed his ball, swung, and blasted it 280 yards straight down the middle of the fairway .
"That was a wonderful shot," said the blonde.
"Not bad considering my impediment," said the golfer.
"Now what's wrong with you?" she asked.
"I have an artificial heart," said the golfer.
"I don't believe you, show me."
"Well, I can't show you out here," the golfer said. "Come around behind the Pro-Shop."

As he nor the blonde had not returned after a few minutes, his golf buddies decided to go see what was holding things up.
As they turned the corner and went behind the Pro-Shop, sure enough, there was their pal -- screwing his heart out.

In response to my shameless, pathetic, whimpering troll for links last night, THE GROUP CAPTAIN displayed a sense of chivalry, grace and good manners (not necessarily combined with good sense) and linked GUT RUMBLES to his "auditioning" blogroll. I am grateful for the kind gesture.

I only hope that my continued presence there is not contingent on a "casting couch" experience. I believe the good Captain saves the couch for the ladies, but you never know about bloggers, especially British ones. They have a strange fascination with "buggery" in that country.

I'll go to the couch if I must, but I'll hate myself in the morning.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I LOVE BELLICOSE WOMEN, especially when they're ex-Marines and can whip a wild bear's ass.
Did the forensic pathologist say, "He's baaack?" when pieces of THE SAME DEAD GUY washed ashore a year apart?

You don't have to worry about that happening where I live. Our delicious blue crabs make certain of that.

Some people die heroic deaths, some people die tragic deaths and some people die a really embarassing DUMBASS DEATH. If this guy has listened to his mama and chewed his food carefully, he would be alive today. Or, if he had listened at a very early age when she said "DON'T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!" he wouldn't be my latest nomination for the Darwin Award.