Saturday, August 03, 2002

Another On-Line Ad?:

Wanted: person of the female persuasion to come live with ME, rent-free (strictly Platonic, too) if she does housekeeping, laundry and doesn't invite rowdy friends over when I have to go to bed early, which is Monday through Friday.

Wait a minute... that sounds more like I'm asking for a live-in maid (or a rent-a-semi-wife) rather than a roommate, doesn't it?

Okay, SO BE IT! The rent and utilities are free, since I'm paying those already. You have to talk to me when I want to talk, then leave me alone when I want to blog. You can watch anything you want on TV, because I don't watch it at all, except during football season, at which time I become COMMANDER OF THE REMOTE CONTROL. Otherwise, it's all yours. I keep the thermostat set at 72 degrees, winter and summer, and I insist that you DON'T TOUCH THAT FUCKER! Regulate your own body temperature, not my house. Play anything you want to hear on the stereo, except rap music, and put the CDs back in the box when you're done. Then, pick up all the ones I've left out of the box and put them back, too.

Red toenails are a plus, and if you'll scratch my back on Thursday evenings, I'll fix snow crab legs for supper on Friday night.

It ain't a bad deal. Private room, personal (clean) bathroom and the Master of the House gone most of the daylight hours. I buy the groceries, too, unless you're one of those fruit-loop, organic vegans. In that case, you buy your own rabbit-food to eat.


I'll bet I get some takers.
I would like to wander around IN HERE but I might get flayed, drawn, quartered and burned at the stake.

Hell, I think I'll do it anyway!
I just created a form letter that I'm going to mass-mail to every on-line dating ad I find:

Hi! I am a bipolar, dyslexic, hare-lipped, alcoholic dwarf. I really liked the pitcher on your ad, so I decided to rite you. I liked that pitcher so much that I drool, and when I do that it looks like snails have been crawling all over my receeding chin.

If I had a date with you, I would like to bring you over to my house. Well, it's not really MY house. I live in the tool shed out back, kinda like that guy Carl did in Sling Blade. Did you ever see that movie? I LOVED that movie! Some people say that I remind them of Carl, but their joking, of course, ha, ha!

I like living where I do because the place is easy to find, on account of the "Registered Sex Offender" sign in the front yard. Oh, the sign is not for ME! It belonged to the guy who lived here before I came, and he forgot to take it with him when he moved. I decided to keep it. When I drink too much Thunderbird and smoke crack till my eye glazes over (the glass one never feels a thing), I see that sign and I know which driveway to crawl up. Crawling up the WRONG one has gotten me in trouble before, ha, ha.

I like animals, and I like to laugh. Have you ever tied two cats together by their tails and thrown them over a clothesline? Boy, do they ever FIGHT! I can watch that and laugh for HOURS! I like quiet walks on a lonely beach where nobody can see what I do, and I'm really into nature, especially that place in the woods behind the landfill where you could bury ANYTHING and nobody would ever find it.

I'm better at interacting in person than I am over the phone, so why don't you just send me your HOME ADDRESS? I like surprises, do you? I might show up when you least expect it, ha, ha.


Your Dream Lover

Friday, August 02, 2002

BWHAHAHA! (snicker, snort!) BWHAHAHA! (White Zin explodes from nose all over keyboard and monitor)

Meek, mild-mannered LYNN just HURT ME with this post. I believe THE SUPREME BITCH has performed some sort of Vulcan mind-meld on Lynn.

Goddam! Y'all cut that shit out. I'll get a freaking hernia, and I don't like the way white pigment-boogers get washed out of my nose when I send perfectly good Franzia wine OUT when it should be going DOWN.

STOP NOW! Ya'll hear?
When I came home from work today and opened the front door, I realized something profound. Here is the thought that struck me:

If a thief broke in and ransacked my home, I wouldn't even notice, until I realized that the stereo was missing.

I am a pig. I throw my clothes down whever I take them off, I leave empty Mountain Dew cans on the coffee table, I have an ironing board covered with wrinkled shirts on the floor in front of the television, I have a kitchen sink that could be declared a Superfund site any day, I NEVER make up my bed (That's not true. When my sheets smell worse than I do, I change them. And I make up the bed with the fresh, clean sheets. I'm good for a couple of months after that), and my bathroom makes a picture of the Virgin Mary smeared with elephant dung seem like something from Southern Living magazine by comparison.

I looked at this mess I live in and I was absolutely disgusted. I decided to do something about it.

I went straight to the kitchen, made myself a drink and went to blog on the computer.

That always takes my mind off EVERYTHING ELSE.

If I were a suspicious, semi-paranoid person, I would believe that Joni posted her SANDAL BLOG just so she could wave some more red toenail polish before my adoring eyes. She knows I'm a sucker for red toenails.

My alltel e-mail account no longer knows me, so if you've written there in the last 48 hours and I didn't reply, it's because I never received the message. The fricking account is screwed up again, and THIS TIME I DIDN'T DO IT! I checked the settings and all is as it should be.

So, stick to that free Yahoo address if you wish to write.

Update! Well, I'll be dipped in shit! The allel account is working again and just dumped several unreceived mails in my Inbox, including the one I wrote myself from work this morning just to make sure the damned thing wasn't working. I also received a very nice missive from MAJIK MARC offering to teach me some much-needed geek wisdom if I ask. Thanks, Marc. Just remember to explain things to me the way you would to a four year-old. No... that'll be FAR TOO COMPLICATED for my Cracker brain to absorb. Pretend you're writing to a very simple, one-celled creature at the absolute bottom of the food chain and you'll be on the right track.

Don't ask me what cured the alltel problem. It cured itself.

Sometimes, the same thing happens at work. I am summoned to troubleshoot a piece of equipment that won't work, after everybody in the plant has tried everything they know to diagnose the problem. I walk up, hit the "start" button, and the damned thing runs like a sewing machine. People stand around gaping in awe.

"Goddam, Rob! What did you do?"

"I fixed it," I say. "I put some PFM on it. Do you know what PFM is?"


Thursday, August 01, 2002

Okay, I lied. ONE MORE!


When you're sad,
... I'll get you drunk and help you plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you sad.
When you're blue,
... I'll try to dislodge whatever is choking you.
When you smile,
... I'll know you finally got laid.
When you're scared,
... I'll rag you about it every chance I get.
When you're worried,
... I'll tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be and to quit whining.
When you're confused,
... I'll use little words to explain.
When you're sick,
... stay away from me until you're well again. I don't want whatever you have.
When you fall,
... I'll point and laugh at your clumsy ass.


Thanks, DONNA!.
I just had to bail from the net and answer a beeper-call from work. My night-shift supervisor has some dissention in the ranks. He gave a work assignment to some people who said, "That ain't MY job." He said, "Your job is whatever I TELL you to do." They disagreed and want a meeting with a Union steward to straighten things out.

I told my supervisor: Don't argue. In the presence of the steward, give the same people the same assignments and say: "You have three choices. 1) You can just go do it. 2) You can go do it and file a grievance, and our Union process will decide whether I have wronged you or not. 3) You can say "I refuse to do that," whereupon I will suspend you immediately and do my level best to terminate your employment at this facility.

The supervisor I have working tonight has the balls to handle that situation. He knew what to do. He just wanted to know HOW to do it, and how to cover his ass by making certain that I would back him if things went badly. He'll follow through from here.

I actually hope things go badly. I hope he suspends the whole fricking, mutinous crew, even if we have to shut the plant down for 12 hours. I am sick and tired of the monkeys running the circus, and I hoped all along that this sort of "crisis" would rear its ugly head while I was there. I've played this game for a long time, and NOBODY at work gives ME an ultimatum except my boss. Fuck with Acidman, and you'll get burned.

I'm through blogging for tonight. I expect a call from work shortly.
I constantly receive surprises from what happens on this blog. Last night, in a heat-induced bout with youth-hallucinations, I gave a very mild reprimand to LYNN for what I thought was a whining, "I'll never be a good writer" post on her blog. She obviously never has experienced a full-frontal Acidman assault, because I believe she took what I wrote as an insult. Lynn, if I ever INSULT anyone deliberately, that person KNOWS it right away, beyond a shadow of a doubt. I did not mean to insult you. I meant for you to KEEP WRITING!

If I were a highly-sensitive person (I AM, but not when it comes to my music, my writing or my blog-- I had that shit beat out of me a LONG TIME ago), I might consider THIS to be a backhanded insult:

"Aren't most people their own worst critics? Knowing this, it seems strange to me that when somebody catches you worrying over how you measure up they always assume that you're primarily concerned about what other people think. Being the best you can be, just for yourself, even when nobody else is looking, just doesn't compute for some people."

I believe "some people" just might be li'l ole ME. There I go again, pissing people off.

On the bright side, SISOFLEXX returned from the land of the dead and expressed her indignant outrage that I have not insulted HER writing. Don't worry, Siso, I'll get around to you eventually, as soon as you unpack all the boxes you forgot to label and find that damned vibrator you've been looking EVERYWHERE for. I don't know why I have the sneaking suspicion that if I ever insult YOU, you'll tell me to go screw myself and the high horse I ride.

THE GODDEZZ was politely offended because I did not worship all the ABSOLUTELY PERFECT posts she has written, and I believe her evil side wanted the heat of my passion directed at HER. Your turn is coming soon, Goddezz. I can focus my laser-beam of offensiveness only on one target at a time.

The LONG HAIRED COUNTRY BOY couldn't resist, and rode to Lynn's rescue (I think) with a tirade about libertarian, existential, logic-driven, whateveritwas he ranted about. I didn't read the whole thing, because my eyes glazed over. In the end, I believe he told Lynn the same thing I DID, but in a totally off-the-JB-wall fashion. LYNN: WRITE!

My biggest surprise came from THE SUPREME BITCH. She... ack!...cough!... RALPH!... "ALMOST SMILED." She also admitted that she has a semi-heart, which destroyed all my glorious illusions and rich sexual fantasies about her. YOU BITCH! How DARE you let me down like that?

Man. This blog-stuff can be nasty sometimes.

Wednesday, July 31, 2002

I told you that I'm in a heat-stressed, foul mood, but I'm going to maintain some Southern decorum and administer only a light slap of the silk glove to LYNN for the cry-in-her-whine post about good writing. She says:

"Practice is good but I don't have much faith in it. I think there are some things you simply must learn while you're young. Throughout my years in public schools I was required to actually write something once or twice a year. Oh how the other kids moaned and groaned and whined every time a teacher gave a writing assignment! I thought we should have one at least once a week. I always got an A so I thought I was good at writing. Now I know I was cheated. I didn't learn anything from all those A's. Getting an A doesn't give you any incentive to work at getting better; it just makes you feel smug. It made me think I was better than I really am.

I love beautiful writing but I can't write beautifully. That is more frustating to me than not being able to sing or play an instrument or paint a picture because sometimes I feel like I'm so close. People who don't care much about their writing are actually lucky because caring always hurts."

Lynn, I don't buy that post. It sounds simpering and full of self-pity to me, and I am the expert, because I do BOTH all the time. You write well and you know it. I WRITE WELL, and I KNOW IT, too. Do you ever look at a post YOU WROTE and say, "That's GOOD?" right before you hit the "publish" button and send it out for others to read? Don't lie to me about THAT, darlin', because EVERYBODY does it, especially if they recognize good writing when they see it.

You didn't write "once or twice a year," just for school and just for that "A" grade, did you? I'll bet you were a lot like me. You wrote a lot of things school never saw because you wanted to write. You did it because it was IN you and it had to come OUT. You practiced, whether you want to admit it or not.

Writing is a lonely occupation, and people with thin skins should never enter that jungle, where all sorts of evil creatures bite, rip and tear at your ego everywhere you turn. I once papered one entire wall of my bedroom with rejection slips from some of the finest publications in the world before I ever saw anything I wrote published. That's pretty devastating for a young man who believed his talented ass was truly on fire and ready to light up the world.

But I didn't quit. I practiced. And practice does matter. It is everything, from how a carpenter learns to drive a nail straight into the wood every time, to how your beloved musicians never miss a note when the auditorium is filled for a concert. Talent is 10% ability and 90% want-to for most people. I sincerely believe that. If it was easy, any asshole could do it.

I've been playing guitar since I was 12. I still get my doors blown off by musicians that I know I will never touch in skill and musicianship, but I learn all I can from them and get better in the process. I'll never be as good as I once dreamed of being, but I'm one hell of a lot better than I once was.

So don't tell me you missed the boat when you were young. You write better today than you EVER did in your life. And you'll write better tomorrow than you did today. Just keep practicing.

One of these days, you'll get it ALMOST RIGHT.

In the meantime, have some cheese with that whine.

Here's another example of GREENS GONE GOONEY, which is why I hold fucktard environmentalists in such utter contempt.

"Thousands of tons of U.S. emergency food aid destined for crisis-stricken Zimbabwe has been diverted to other countries, and a new shipload may be diverted within days, because the donations include genetically modified corn that the Zimbabwean government does not want to accept.

Read the article and notice how unfounded fears by ecological idiots may result in the starvation of millions of people, and the idiots remain convinced that MASS MURDER is the right thing to do in the name of protecting our fragile ecosystem. HEY, YOU WITLESS ASSHOLES!! LITTLE, STARVING KIDS ARE PART OF THE FRAGILE ECOSYSTEM!! Maybe the most important part, but your personal politics won't allow you to admit that simple fact.

Whatta bunch of maroons. Whatta bunch of environmental neuticles.

And anyone who argues with me on this point will receive a mindless blast of venom in return. I am heat-exhausted and in a foul mood.

The SUPREME BITCH has done an olfactory check of the blogs, and Yours Truly is included. The spite-mistress herself says that my sweet, unassuming, angel-self "to me stinks of highball whiskeys and the water after the peanuts are boiled and coconut oil (must be the recent vacation). Go visit him, he is one sexy bitch."

I beg to differ. I stink of raw moonshine and 112-degree man-sweat, with a lingering aroma of barking fish, which DOES smell somewhat like coconut oil when it comes from me. I will not dispute the "one sexy bitch" comment.

THE GODDESS "can only be Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds perfume, and something fruity and saccharine sweet and grossly overpriced from the Body Shop. (Apologies if you hate White Diamonds Goddezzbidch, Christ knows I can't stand the cheap shit.)"

I don't have a problem with that assessment, except for the failure to mention the tangy blossom of sex-stained motel sheets unwashed for several days.

SUGARMAMA makes the list and "looks like she's as big around as my thigh probably smells like chocolate Godiva. No wait, sorry .. its chocolate SlimFast shakes. And a sensible dinner, probably red meat. Raw. Dripping. Bloody. Or is that Jason's broken body?"

I'll buy that, as long as I don't have to sub for Jason. She may beat him to death with a softball glove that smells of well-aged leather before their romance officially ends.

DRAGONFLY JENNY "exudes the smell of corn chips, Franzia (that wine in a box) and the cardboard waft of old movie ticket stubs, faintly rendolent of butter and sugar-pop."


Excuse me... I got carried away for a moment. To me, Jenny smells of mesquite smoke, sliced lime and tequila. And all that other stuff, too.

Now, let me attune my sniffer to THE SUPREME BITCH. Hmmm... this is most interesting... yes, burning sulfur is there, along with an interesting mix of creosote and formaldahyde. Just a slight, wafting tinge of red toenail polish... combined with red peppers and Tabasco. Yes, she's definitely rosy-red, with thorns. All in all, a WONDERFUL STENCH!
I just lost back-to-back posts, and this time I can't blame it on BLOGGER.

The heat index reached 112 degrees today. It's been 105 degrees every day for the past week and a half, so you might think another measly six degrees added to the fires of hell wouldn't be worth mentioning. You would be wrong.

The difference between a heat index of 112 degrees and a heat index of a mere 105 degrees is very noticable. I noticed it all day, especially at work this afternoon, when I actually began having fevered visions of coming home, filling my nasty bathtub full of cold water, adding the entire contents of my ice-maker dish to the mix and sitting my naked Cracker ass down in there.

The power grid noticed the difference, too. I've had two blackouts that ate this post since I got home. The first one lasted about 30 seconds. The second one lasted 10 minutes. I'm going to publish this NOW, before the next one strikes.

Then, I'm going to fill my nasty bathtub full of cold water...

Tuesday, July 30, 2002

Man, go read DAX MONTANA'S blog about his recent camping trip. I really liked the "Daddy in a Lawn Chair and Kid by the Campfire" picture. I've taken my boy camping since he was LESS than a year old and he loves it. Teach 'em YOUNG, Dax.

I was going to leave a lengthy comment on his page, but he has so many pictures there that the "comments" box froze up, so I'll go ahead and POST what I wanted to say for EVERYBODY to read.

I have been an avid backpacker since I was in my 20's. I don't walk as far or as fast anymore, but I still love the challenge of hiking into the forest with everything I need to survive strapped in a sack on my back. Ride "Shank's Mule" up and down those mountains and you'll grow a true appreciation for the Indians who lived there first and the Daniel Boones and other mountain men who came later. I drink from the springs the way they did (find water coming right out of the rocks, squeezed by Mama Nature's contractions, and you'll never go wrong), I pick wild berries and herbs and I chew spearmint-tasting birch-bark and Mountain Tea when I can find it.

I love it. I've never felt so isolated and so together at the same time as when I've hunkered down through a violent thunderstorm in the middle of nowhere, then watched the ensuing fog roll through the trees like the spirits of ancient ghosts, still on the hunt that killed them. I am not a religious man but... damn! That'll make you feel in touch with something.

As DAX did, I named my son "Quinton" because he is the fifth son in my family line. (Plus, it's a goddam GOOD Southern name anyway.) I want him to experience the same feelings I've had in the woods. Son, someday GO THERE and DO THAT! Daddy'll teach you, and he wouldn't lie to you about what you'll discover.

You don't learn it from reading books about it. That helps, but being there is the only real way to know.

I once was part of a "teamwork exercise" where eight of us were supposed to pretend that we were on a rafting trip down a cold, snow-melt white-water river where we crashed upon some rocks, killed our tour-guide and were left stranded on a sand bar. We were given a handout with all the facts about injuries to the party, temperature, wind, weather forecast and distance from rescue. We were asked to fill out a 1-through-20 list of "WHAT TO DO" in order of importance, then meet with the "team" and prove that eight heads are better than one when it comes to solving a problem.

I told my "team" at the beginning, "I've actually DONE this kinda stuff before, and here are my answers." A woman named Lisa, whose closest experience with the great outdoors was a tanning booth, immediately began to bitch about ME taking over leadership of the team as SHE attempted to assume leadership of the team through sheer decibel-level.

You know me, folks, if you read this blog. I am as mild-mannered as Clark Kent and I always hide my light under a bushel. I listened to her idiot raving for a few minutes and I said, "Well, there's an option I would take in this situation that's not on this list."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?" bitched Lisa.

"I would drown your squawking, dumb ass in a minute before you killed us all, you flying dingbat! SHUTTHEFUCKUP!"

The team was confused, which showed me why Hillary Clinton is so popular in some circles. People will listen to a crazy woman just because they believe it's a sensitive, politically-correct thing to do. Decibels count. I finally said, "Listen to her if you want to. In real life, I would leave you all behind and get out of there myself if you want to follow to her. You've seen MY answers. Decide."

They did.

The lower the score, the better you did according to survival experts. My team made a 15 on the test, which still beat every other team in the exercise. They listened to some of what I said, but "compromised" with Lisa for the rest of the answers.

My individual score was a 3. Lisa has hated me ever since. Her individual score was in the "You're DEAD, dumbass!" range.

I learned that stuff in the woods.

As Graham Nash said, "Teach Your Children Well."

Dax, don't ever stop taking the kids camping. Teach them well.
I started moving to a different office today.

For the past five years, I have occupied a small, dingy, dusty sheetrock cell that is a Wisconsin pneumonia hole in the winter and a Finnish steam-bath in the summer. The place is piled high with all the essential things we need to run the area that cannot be left in normal storage places because they will grow legs and walk off at night, never to be seen again. I lock my door when I leave and all the supervisors have a key. They can find that stuff if they need it, but it can't grow legs and walk away.

I liked the office from hell for one simple reason. I was right across the hall from the shift supervisor's office and about seven steps away from the Finishing Control Room. I could keep a pretty good finger on the pulse of the area from there just by listening to what people were saying outside my office door.

My boss suggested the move. It's a much better office, large enough to hold meetings with five or six people, and it has its VERY OWN CLIMATE CONTROL, so that part is great. The boss believes that as we "empower" people to take more initiative and responsibility for their jobs, I don't belong right across the hall to ask for advice. Plus, the operators should go to their supervisors with problems instead of coming to me first, which I'll admit DOES happen too much with me where I am now.

When I started my move, however, I discovered that INS was not notified ahead of time, so I had no network connection for my computer, nor a line for my phone. The phone line was hooked to a fax machine used by the area engineer, and the area chemist in the office next door had run his modem cable through the ceiling, down the wall and plugged it into the outlet in my new office. They both commisserated with my misfortune over having no phone and no network connection until I could get INS off it's coffee-drinking, web-surfing ass to come set me up. I agreed that INS needed to do something quickly.

I unplugged the area chemist's network wire from MY connection and plugged mine in. I unplugged the fax machine and plugged in my phone. I made one call to get my phone number transferred to the old fax connection, then I told those two: "You're right fellows. YOU BOTH need to bug the hell out of INS to get this shit straightened out. Good luck. Now get outta MY NEW OFFICE!"

Sometimes it's GOOD to be Tall Dog.

I'll miss being right in the middle of the action, but I'm not that far away, and my boss is absolutely correct about that empowerment stuff. I kicked back today, put my feet up on my VERY LARGE desk and ate boiled peanuts while enjoying the grand vista of my new estate. I believe I'll grow accustomed to that place quickly.
My weblog owns 50% of me, which actually is a little low in my opinion. Check how blog-obsessed you are at the expense of a real life WITH THIS TEST that I borrowed from THE GROUP CAPTAIN.

I agree with ALLISON when she left this comment on the Captain's page:

"What's a life? Where can I download one?"

By and large, Bloggers are a strange but witty bunch. Okay! The "wit" part may be only half-true, but we're definitely strange.
I found this on JONI'S BLOG and it's just too good to pass up, so I'm stealing it.


Martha's Way: Stuff a miniature marshmallow in the bottom of a sugar cone to prevent ice cream drips.
The Real Women's Way: Just suck the ice cream out of the bottom of the cone, for Pete's sake. You are probably lying on the couch with your feet up, eating it anyway.

Martha's Way: To keep potatoes from budding, place an apple in the bag with the potatoes.
The Real Women's Way: Buy Hungry Jack mashed potato mix and keep it in the pantry for up to a year.

Martha's Way: When a cake recipe calls for flouring the baking pan, use a bit of the dry cake mix instead and there won't be any white mess on the outside of the cake.
The Real Women's Way: Go to the bakery. They'll even decorate it for you.

Martha's Way: If you accidentally over-salt a dish while it's still cooking, drop in a peeled potato and it will absorb the excess salt for an instant "fix me up."
The Real Women's Way: If you over-salt a dish while you are cooking, that's too damn bad. Please recite with me The Real Women's Motto: I made it and you will eat it and I don't care how bad it tastes.

Martha's Way: Wrap celery in aluminum foil when putting in the refrigerator and it will keep for weeks.
The Real Women's Way: Celery? Never heard of the stuff.

Martha's Way: Brush some beaten egg white over pie crust before baking to yield a beautiful glossy finish.
The Real Women's Way: The Mrs. Smith frozen pie directions do not include brushing egg whites over the crust so I just don't do it.

Martha's Way: Cure for headaches: Take a lime, cut it in half and rub it on your forehead. The throbbing will go away.
The Real Women's Way: Take a lime, mix it with tequila, etc., chill and drink. You might still have the headache, but who cares?

Martha's Way: If you have a problem opening jars: Try using latex dish washing gloves. They give a non-slip grip that makes opening jars easy.
The Real Women's Way: Go ask the very cute neighbor to do it.

And finally the most important tip:

Martha's Way: Don't throw out all that leftover wine. Freeze into ice cubes for future use in casseroles and sauces.
The Real Women's Way: Leftover wine??

Joni sounds like a REAL WOMAN to me, and she's got a picture of pretty red toenails on her page, too. Go there!

Monday, July 29, 2002

My friend JB is WAY BEHIND THE CURVE on this post. I noticed this terrible problem about a month ago and offered my services to fix it, as long as I could round up a stalwart partner, preferably a younger woman with bodacious ta-tas, to accompany me.

"We've lost many of the nudists who made the English Garden a special place," said park director Thomas Koester. "Especially good-looking young women and men who made it such an attraction aren't here as much anymore. It's becoming a real problem."

I totally agree. The older I become, the more difficult I find it to attract good-looking young women. Hell, I would settle for attracting a good-looking young MAN, just for an ego boost about now.

"With fewer nudes it could hurt tourism," he added. "You can sit in a beer garden anywhere. The special fascination here is that you might bump into some naked people in the beer garden or walking along on a path."

Oh, yes... that glorous experience of bumping into some nekkid people in the beer garden or along the path... That's what I go to Key West for. Well, that and the hot tub and the swimming pool and the nekkid Continental breakfasts on the balcony every morning. DEJA VU offers all of that with a big privacy fence around the resort so that you never encounter curiosity-seekers. Just nekkid people from all over the world.

I have reservations in August that I'm going to cancel tonight. My partner in crime can't make it and I really don't want to go by my myself. The place is a lot better if you bring somebody to get nekkid with.

I'll discuss rescheduling later...
Food for thought, from Catfish, who will eat anything:

*Honk if you love peace and quiet.

* The early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese in the trap.

* If everything seems to be going well, you have obviously overlooked something.

* When everything is coming your way, you're in the wrong lane.

* If Barbie is so popular, why do you have to buy her friends?

* Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines.

* Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what the hell happened.

* 99 percent of lawyers give the rest a bad name.

* I feel like I'm diagonally parked in a parallel universe.
The lovely, long-haired Donna obviously didn't get TOO upset about my on-line dating posts. She said she found some of it AMUSING and even wrote about it.

Now, she wants a can of pepper spray, a sawed-off baseball bat and a football helmet in return.

Excuse me... I'll be on E-Bay for a while, searching for good deals.
Bejus! Going back to work after vacation almost makes me wish I never went on vacation in the first place. E-mailbox overloaded. People expecting subject-matter expertise from me about problems from last week when I didn't have a clue what they were talking about. Hot and humid as hell, no pool, no beach and no Tiki-Bar serving frozen margaritas. No more "barking fish."

Just back to farting dust again.

Sunday, July 28, 2002

I just aborted an attempt to make a blooming Vidalia onion. The breading pretty much fell off the rascal when I attempted to turn it in the pot, so Outback is safe from my competition for now. My blooming onion looks kinda shitty.

I'll eat it anyway, because nobody can make a genuine, sweet Vidaila onion fodder for the trash can, no matter what you do with it. In fact, the damned thing TASTES GOOD.

My son has returned "home," and I go back to work tomorrow. It's another Sunday evening.

Eating a shitty onion to celebrate seems altogether fit and proper.
Oh. MY. God!

While I crawl around the nether-world of the blogosphere like the dung-beetle I am, THIS ONE-TIME NEOPHYTE goes out, gets published and hires a male model to pose for the picture featured prominently on the page. JB's always been a little over-the-top, so I'm not surprised that he hired a guy who resembles Charlton Heston after talking to the burning bush in The Ten Commandments to do his dirty work. I would hire Rick Moranis myself, but that's just me.

I know that the REAL JB is the guy at the top of the page, the one with the scraggly beard, the ill-fitting suit and that child-molester gleam in his eyes. Don't let him fool YOU!
I have a precious document on my desk that I believe I will keep for a long time.

Last night I declared war on my son. I destroyed his fort, tore down his carefully-constructed defenses and rooted him all over the floor. I gave him "Wet Willies" in both ears. I told him that I would show NO QUARTER, just the way Santa Anna did at the Alamo. He called a "time-out," which I granted because I was a merciful barbarian, and totally exhausted by then.

He ran down the hallway saying, "I need some PAPER! Where's some PAPER?" I told him where to find it.

He came back with a piece of notebook paper where he had written:

From: Quinton

A Peace Trety

To: Daddy

I signed it with a flourish and immediately violated the the thing by launching another attack. My son screamed, "But we've got a PEACE TREATY! You SIGNED IT! Bwhahahaha!" as I pressed every tickle-button I know on the boy.

The "Peace Trety" is a little worse for wear, being somewhat wrinkled, because I made a big production out of blowing my nose on it, wiping my butt with it and saying "See what I think of your TREATY? I don't need no stinking TREATY! Governments do this ALL THE TIME!!! ATTACK!!!"

Quinton didn't really want peace, but I thought the written "Trety" was a pretty imaginative thing for an eight year-old. I'm gonna hang on to that document, even if I didn't abide by it.

Donna, of BEHIND THE MASK left multiple comments about my smartass post giving my opinion of "on-line dating etiquette rules as dictated by a woman." When I first read the rules, my immediate GUT RUMBLE was: "Bejus, you haughty bitch! What group of web-holies got together sent white smoke out the chimney announcing that YOU were just chosen Popestress Of All? BITE ME! And I responded with that attutude.

I may be willing to reconsider my original position. Donna posted this:

I just checked for any online responses to my recent personals ad and saw this one:
"long hair on girls is so cool. can't explain it. but I'm hopelessly hooked on it. I would so want to run my fingers thru it, maybe brush it for you (once in a while, not all the time!), and maybe just be in the right position walking behind you so the scent hits me just right (girls' hair always seems to smell so good, even when they use the same shampoo!). Of course, not to get too carried away, but kissing a girl with long hair is just the most sexy thing ever. especially when it falls all over your face, etc., while you're kissing her. not a sexual thing, it's just so much a "girl" thing, and girls always have really cool scrunchies, etc! ok, enough about that. You're tall, beautiful, and writing ads here, so is this not a great country, or what? OK, maybe from my point of view. But, seriously, I'd love to meet you, even if you pull your hair into a bun, although I'd probably not like that as much! I'd love to get a smile out of you!"

I don't know if that's a typical response to a personals ad, but I certainly hope not. It sounds fricking creepy to me. If I were a woman, I wouldn't date that guy. I wouldn't RIDE A BUS with him on board unless I had a can of pepper spray, a sawed-off baseball bat and a loaded pistol in my possession at all times. AND my long hair stuffed into a football helmet.

Maybe some rules are necessary. Here are mine:

1) If you're a perverted fetishist, be SURE to mention that fact. There may be someone out there for you, but it's probably not me, and I don't like unpleasant surprises. (This rule does not apply if you write to the actual ME. I AM a perverted fetishist, but I'm doing this as a public service to normal people, so work with me here.)

2) Grammar and punctuation DO count. If you're semi-literate, get off-line and troll the bars. You'll have a better chance picking up drunks than you do attracting someone who can read and write.

3) Avoid cliches. "Moonlight walks on the beach and romantic candlelight dinners" have been run over more times than last week's dead armadillo on Highway 21. Try, "Would you like dinner at 'Pearls,' then a walk down River Street to the Bayou Cafe to hear some good music?" That's what I would write and that's what I would want to read if I were a woman. (Donna-- don't hesitate to correct me if I'm wrong here!)

4) If you say you're gonna call, then call. If you're NOT going to call, then have the balls to say so as politely as you can, right away. Don't blow smoke. Be honest.

5) If you like John Prine and she likes head-banger grunge-rock, you probably won't have much in common. Don't waste each other's time.

6) You WILL NOT find the man/woman of your dreams on the first date with a stranger. If you enjoy each other's company, that's a start. But only a START. It takes time to get to know someone. Make sure you BOTH know that.

7) Be sure to sleep with me on the first date. I like that in a woman.

8) Forget #7!!! That one popped out before I remembered that I am performing a public service here.

9) If you DO find the right person on-line, you'll have a bodacious story about "how we met" to tell your friends for the rest of your life. I believe it CAN happen.

10) Who am I to make rules? No web-holies sent white smoke up the chimney and declared me Pope. But this is MY BLOG and I can write anything I want to.

That's my NEW opinion, subject to change at any moment.

Hmmm... I'm not certain that THIS SEMI-PORNOGRAPHIC MATERIAL is proper for posting on a Sunday morning, but I did it anyway.
The Truth Laid Bear finally updated the BLOGOSPHERE ECOSYSTEM and I am a "Crunchy Crustacean." I missed being a "Lowly Insect" by a mere TWO LINKS, so some of you folks need to get busy and help me grow six legs.

I wanna EVOLVE!

The bosumless pagan JENNY is an "Insignificant Microbe," so I'm doing my part to lift her up the food chain with MY link. THE GODDESS is a "Wiggly Worm." (I wouldn't mind checking out the "wiggly" part, but I'll bring my own worm, thank you.) There's a link for you, too, dear.

See how EASY it is?
Here's a cogent, well-written piece on CIGARETTE TAXES that reminds me of me. Kim du Toit may have an odd name by South Georgia standards, but he's got a great blog.