Saturday, August 17, 2002


1) Dirty dishes DO NOT clean themselves, not matter how long you leave them in the sink.

2) There is more trash in your home than you think, even if you think BIG.

3) If you wait until ALL your underwear is dirty to wash it, you just turned a small job into a BIG one that you cannot neglect.

4) I cannot make up a bed worth a shit. I should have done military service. I would have AT LEAST learned how to make a bed.

5) I have seven guitars and they all sound good. Which one do I take to Daytona with me?
When Elvis Presley died twenty-five years ago, I was in Negril, Jamaica with a sweet young thing named Cheryl. We were drinking Red Stripe and smoking de gange and swimming in the beautiful Carribean waters at our mountain hideaway when a fellow-gypsy named Barry (from Canada) gave us the news that The King was dead. My first thought was, "Damn! That's gonna break my mama's heart."

I never was a big Elvis fan. I grew up on The Beatles and the various and sundry bands that followed them. Elvis was an old fart to me. But my mama loved him.

She paid a boy from her neighborhood to camp out in front of the Savannah Civic Center to buy front-row tickets for the Elvis show when he came here less than a year before his death. She was high as a crack-mama for weeks after seeing that show up close, even though Elvis was a fat, bloated drug-Hoover by then. It didn't matter to her that he looked like shit and forgot the words to his hits. SHE SAW ELVIS, and that was enough.

I've been watching some of the tributes on TV tonight, and I can understand now why people swooned over Elvis. He was attractive, dynamic, one hell of a performer and a GREAT vocalist. He caught a unique wave at exactly the right time and rode it for a long time without falling off. Yes. He is THE KING. And he always will be, even if he did die on the toilet.

As a wanna-be musician (I AM A GODDAM MUSICIAN-- I just don't make a living at it anymore) I appreciate the legacy Elvis left behind. "Heartbreat Hotel" is a down-in-the-dumps blues song that nobody ever did better. "Jailhouse Rock" rocks. Even "In The Ghetto" wouldn't have been the hit it was without Elvis singing it (apologies to Mack Davis). The man had what it took.

I believe he became a parody of himself before his death, much the way Michael Jackson has done today, but the early Elvis is still some of the best music and performing ANYBODY could ask to see. He was awesome.

God bless you, King.
There's an old joke about a sentry on duty in France after D-Day in WWII. He hears someone approaching. "Halt! Who goes there?"

"I am Jean LePew, of the French 101st infantry. The password is "Betty."

The sentry says, "You may pass, Frenchman." He hears someone else approaching and says, "Halt" Who Goes there?"

"I am Lionel Mandrake of the British RAF and the password is "Betty."

The sentry says, "You may pass, Englishman." He hears someone else approaching. "Halt! Who goes there?"


The sentry says, "Pass, American."

I thought about that joke as I was watching a CNN special report tonight about the World Trade Center attack. The reporter talked about Flight 93, and seemed totally amazed that the passengers fought back and crashed the plane rather than ride like sheep to their deaths somewhere in Washington, DC. I am not amazed by what those people did. I'm proud of them, and I believe I understand why they did it.

The United States is a unique country, not just because of wealth and military power, but mainly because of a state of mind. We are a FREE people with RIGHTS most governments don't grant their citizens. Some Americans still understand that our government didn't GRANT us OUR rights. We were born with them, as FREE PEOPLE. We have a natural inclination to question authority and to act on our own initiative because we grew up that way. We don't march in lockstep to any commander. Americans routinely ask three questions that very few others in the world even THINK of asking:

1) Says Who?

2) YOU'RE gonna make me?

3) Who the fuck are YOU to tell ME what to do?

As Americans, sometimes we realize that we don't have to take this shit, and WE DON'T. The passengers on Flight 93 didn't, and wish more people realized how the government is hijacking our lives and our freedom just as surely as the Muslim terrorists did that airplane. I like "In God We Trust" as a national motto, but the people on flight 93 created a better one.


I give up. This goddam crackerbox is as clean as it's going to get unless I hire Merry Maids to come over here and do it right.

I'm going to play guitar for a while. And throw SOMETHING on the floor, just to make it look like home.
I just want to put THIS LINK on my blog so that I can find it when I get back from "fake-asian" and confront the safety trainer who put the original picture up as the opening to his part of my training session on Friday. He showed the picture, stated that it was NOT a FAKE and said he was searching the web to find out whether the soldier survived the attack.

I told him that the picture was a bogus piece of hokum and that anybody who read blogs already knew that the Golden Gate Bridge was in the background, it was an American (not British) helicopter in the photo and the thing had been debunked within an hour of it's appearance when bloggers took it apart. He assured me that he had done all sorts of research and he KNEW that the photo was genuine. I asked, "What blogs do you read?"

He responded with a puzzled expression. "What's a BLOG?"

That's my safety trainer.
If you want to read something good, try the RIGHT WING TEXAN talking about his grandson. He's got a picture of the fine lad included, too.

Go check it out.
I have been cleaning my house all morning, and I have come to a brilliant conculsion: I'm NO GOOD at this shit.

Last night, Georgia suggested that I tear down the web and kill the rather large spider that has occupied a sacred place in my bathroom between my toilet and the bathtub for about three months now, and I was appaulled at the thought. That spider is protecting me from West Nile Virus by catching mosquitoes, and we've become good friends since it moved into my house. We have a sweet deal. It doesn't bother me, and I don't bother it. In fact, I kinda LIKE the fucker right where he is.

Georgia also suggested that I move the ironing board out of the living room, since she could look at the shirts I wear and tell that I never use the iron anyway. That hurt. I THINK about ironing a LOT and that should be good enough. I moved the ironing board, but I let the spider stay. I hate that fucking ironing board.

Georgia also bitched about the condition of my kitchen, using words such as "filthy," "disgusting" and "sickening." I told her to SHOW ME how to clean it up to her satisfaction and I would try my best to remember to keep it that way. She told me to go fuck myself, which I would do if I could. Then, I wouldn't care about having a woman in my life anymore.

A put on a Level "A" Haz-Mat suit and waded into the kitchen for about an hour. It looks good to me now, but I wasn't really unhappy with the way it was before. I empied all the deep-fry pans of smelly grease onto the weeds off my back porch, probably providing all sorts of essential nutrients to those triffid-like growths. I changed my air conditioner filter AGAIN, cleaned the ionic filter element in my air freshener and put fresh chlorine tablets in the back of both toilets. I washed my bedsheets and actually MADE MY BED. I don't know why, since I won't be sleeping in it after tonight for the next four days.

I'm on my fourth load of laundry now. I am weary. Plus, this house is looking WAY TOO NEAT for me to be living here.

Damn! I'm acting like I might have company coming over.
Recondo 32 has to go to the VA hospital in Charleston next week to drink radioactive vitamin B-12 and then save his glow-in-the-dark piss for 24 hours in a refrigerator. I have no idea why he has to do this, and neither does he. The doctor said something about his pancreas, which has nothing to do with vitamin B-12 as far as I know, but I'm not a doctor. I just play one on this blog.

Last night, after Recondo, myself and Ms. Recondo were heavily into tequila and seafood. I made a brag about all the vitamin B-complex I take every day. I even went to the kitchen cabinet and pulled out the bottle of pills to show my friends what a religious vitamin-taker I was. See? Looky HERE!

Ms. Recondo did. She said, "Rob, you had 200 pills in this bottle and they expired in August, 1997. The bottle is half full now. You take them EVERY DAY?

I quickly explained that I gave her the WRONG bottle and found the other one in the cabinet that WASN'T expired. I also demonstrated that the ones I take now (when I remember to do so) are BIG pills that turn your piss Saint Patrick's Day green. The expired bottle had little pills in it. Naw, I stopped taking those things YEARS ago, probably around 1997. They didn't do a damned thing for me anyway, so I shopped UP for health. If you want true goodness, always go for the BIG pill.

They told me that I was full of shit. They were correct.

Friday, August 16, 2002

Did you ever have one of those mornings that just started out with "Aw, shit!" written all over it? I did, today.

First, I slept until my alarm clock went off right in the middle of a weird dream about work. I usually wake up ahead of the alarm, and it's been so long since I heard the damned thing that the air-raid-siren noise it made scared the living shit out of me. I exited my dream and sat bolt upright in bed, not having a clue where I was or what in the hell was making all that horrible noise. I finally realized that I was in my bed and it was the alarm clock screaming like a banshee, so I lunged desperately to turn it off.

My alarm clock rests atop a 13" TV-VCR on a nightstand next to my bed. I missed the "off" button for the alarm, but I did manage to knock the clock off the TV. It fell behind the nightstand and continued its horrible noise. I couldn't find it in the dark, so I rolled over to the other side of the bed, turned on a lamp and rolled back to go fishing for it. I managed to grab the power cord, drag it out of its hiding place and finally turn it off. By then enough adrenalin was rushing through my veins to make the hair on my head stand up in spikes.

I checked the digital display on the clock. It read 4:32. I carefully placed the clock back on the TV and crawled out of bed.

I went to the bathroom and turned on the shower, then threw a pair of jeans, a shirt and a pair of socks on the bed. I opened my underwear drawer and noticed to my chagrin that it was empty. I remembered then that all my manly undergarments were in the dryer, where I left them when I stumbled off to bed last night. I made the trek down the hallway, through the kitchen to the laundry room and retrieved a pair. I threw them on the bed with the rest of my clothes, then took a shower.

I shaved, got dressed and went to get my morning Mountain Dew out of the refrigerator, only to discover that I HAD NO MOUNTAIN DEW in the refrigerator. All my Mountain Dew was still in the brand-new 12-pack I bought yesterday and left on the kitchen table overnight while I blogged my ass off with no thought of underwear OR Mountain Dew. I did have a full box of Franzia White Zin, however, but I quickly decided that my employer might frown upon me drinking THAT before I went to work. I grabbed a can out of the 12-pack and shoved it into the ice-maker bin to cool.

I watched some ESPN news and some CNN news, smoked a couple of cigarettes and brushed my teeth. I didn't need to fix a lunch today, because I would be fed royally in my training class. When I loaned Recondo 32 my truck, I remembered to take my work keys and my company security pass out before he drove away. I picked up my work keys, Recondo's car keys and walked out the door, locking it behind me and forgetting all about the security pass until I was about a mile down the road. I did a quick U-turn and started back to retrieve it, when I realized that I had not taken MY REGULAR KEYS with me, which has my HOUSE KEY on the ring, and I had just locked my stupid ass out of my own house. I made another U-turn and went on to work. About halfway there, I remembered the Mountain Dew I had left in the ice-maker bin.

I wondered all day during the training class exactly how I was going to GET INTO my home when I got home. I thought that just maybe the garage door wasn't locked and I knew the door from the garage to the house wasn't locked, so perhaps I could enter that way. I drove home feeling optomistic.

WRONG! The garage door was locked, and the electronic opener was clipped to the sun visor of my truck somewhere in bumfuck South Carolina, where Recondo is doing whatever he is doing today. I pondered my dilemma for a moment. I could wait for Recondo to return my truck, open the garage door and go inside. But I had no idea when he might come back with my truck and the temperature was about 105 degrees outside. I rejected that plan.

I never lock the bedroom window next to my bed. I like to crack it open when it rains at night so I can listen to the pleasing sound. I figured I could make a couple of tiny slits in the screen, lift the hooks, slip the screen out of its runners, open the window and crawl in. I went to do that.

I've never seen screens installed the way mine are. They don't rest in runners and they aren't secured by hooks. I never had a reason to pay attention to it before, but I think you must remove the vinyl flashing from around the entire window to remove the screen and the damned things are SCREWED to the window frame. I was armed only with the 2" pocket knife my son gave me for Father's Day two years ago.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I cut the screen, and I mean I really CUT IT, making a hole big enough for me to crawl through. I opened the window. I came home.

I am blogging on the computer in my air-conditioned house while I wait for my truck to return. I now have a spare key stashed in a very good hiding place outside, too, along with a rock-hard, misshapen can of frozen Mountain Dew defrosting on the kitchen counter.

And a goddamned bedroom window screen to replace if I can ever figure out how to remove it.

Thursday, August 15, 2002

Bejus! I thought I was addicted to blogging, but I never went for a CARPUTER. I actually STOP BLOGGING sometimes. With a carputer, you can kill your stupid self surfing the web when you should be watching the road.

Think car phones are bad? Think again.
I mentioned a day or so ago that I love to read STEVEN DEN BESTE, but I sometimes believe that he is a sanctimonious turd-muffin. Well, I take that back after reading his post on THIS ESSAY. Den Beste may have his head up his rectum on occasion, but when he's good, he's REALLY GOOD.

Just read this:

The key concepts of transnational progressivism are:

Groups are what matter, not people. You are "Black" or "Christian" or "Mexican" or "Afghan" or "Sunni", you are not yourself. You also don't get to choose your group; it's inherent in what you were when you were born. Someone else will categorize you into your group, and you will become a number, a body to count to decide how important that group is. And your group won't change during your lifetime.

The goal of fairness is equality of result, not equality of opportunity. It isn't important to let individuals fulfill their potential and express their dreams, what's important is to make groups have power and representation in all things proportional to their numbers in the population. Fairness is for groups, not for individuals. The ideally fair system is based on quotas, not on merit, because that permits proper precise allocation of results.

Being a victim is politically significant. It's not merely a plea for help or something to be pitied; it's actually a status that grants extra political power. "Victimhood" isn't a cult, it's a valid political evaluation. Groups which are victims should be granted disproportionately more influence and representation, at the expense of the historic "dominant" culture.

Assimilation is evil. Immigrants must remain what they were before they arrived here, and should be treated that way. Our system must adapt to them, rather than expecting them to adapt to us (even if they want to). The migration of people across national borders is a way to ultimately erase the significance of those borders by diluting national identity in the destination country.

An ideal democracy is a coalition where political power is allocated among groups in proportion to their numbers. It has nothing to do with voting or with individual citizens expressing opinions, and in fact it doesn't require elections at all. A "winner take all" system, or one ruled by a majority, is profoundly repugnant because it disenfranchise minority groups of all kinds and deprives them of their proper share of power.

National identity is evil. We should try to think of ourselves as citizens of the world, not as citizens of the nations in which we live, and we should try to minimize the effects of national interests, especially our own if we live in powerful nations.

Does this shit sound FAMILIAR to you?

How about the Koyoto Treaty, slave reparations, multiculturism, diversity, racial profiling, affirmative action, the UN, the Central Bank, the European Union and Al Gore?

Heavy stuff, people. READ IT!
Quote of the Week

"I'd rather be a dead hero than a live coward." -- 81-year-old Roy Lee Hendricks, who used a .22 caliber derringer to fight off two men who broke into his home. Hendricks jumped on D-Day with the 82nd Airborne Division.

Roy may be an old fart, but the would-be burglars made a mistake when they MESSED WITH HIM. Roy blew off the tip of his pinky finger as he grazed one of the robbers with a bullet, but he kept his wallet and defended his house, by God. And caught one of the robbers, too!

I stole this one from REASON.

I am feeling sort of weary and burnt-out this evening, so I may not blog for long. One more work day, and then I'm on vacation for a week! And I don't even have to "work" tomorrow. I am scheduled to attend an all-day training session, where a fine catered lunch will be provided, to help me develop my "Leadership Skills." The food for these events usually is provided by "The Lady and Sons", who serve up a buffet-style repast of fried chicken, meat loaf, mashed potatoes, rice, gravy, turnip greens, green beans, whole-kernel corn, fresh-baked rolls, assorted fruit slices and absolutely delicious banana pudding for dessert. Southern cooking at its best!

I intend to assert my "leadership" by being the first in line for lunch. After that, I'll just try to stay awake for the rest of the dog-and-pony show. (Burp!)

My company spends a LOT of money on these "Continuous Improvement" exercises, and I really don't believe they get the bang for their bucks. Most of the "leadership" techniques they preach are the same things I've been doing by gut instinct for more than 20 years. I learned most of that crap from flying by the seat of my pants on the job in actual workplace situations and never crashing. I listen to the instructor and think: "been there, done that." I'm not certain that the instructor HAS.

Weak supervisors never come out of one of those classes with a freshly-grown set of balls or spontaniously-developed people-instincts. They go back to their job and remain the same weak supervisors they were before the class. I've never seen one of these classes change ANYBODY, and I've attended at least fifty or sixty of them over the years.

I really believe that some people are born to lead, or their experiences in life TEACH them to lead at an early age. I don't know how it happens, but a combination of strong ego, high self-esteem, honesty, charisma, trustworthiness, quick-thinking and a fearless willingness to take a risk isn't learned in a classroom. Either you have those qualities, or you don't. Maybe those training classes can hone the blades a bit on the sharp supervisors, but they never take an anvil and turn it into a knife.

I believe we waste a lot of money on this crap. But I always eat a GOOD LUNCH when I attend.


Recondo 32 just drove away in it and left me his car to drive to work tomorrow. Unlike MARC, who also owns a pickup truck and hauls stuff for his friends, I just give my friends the truck and let them haul stuff themselves. Recondo is doing repairs to his roof and will probably make Home Depot stock rise significantly tomorrow.

As Marc says, it's always good to have a friend with a pickup truck. He didn't say I had to go WITH mine when somebody needed it.

Wednesday, August 14, 2002

We have our own third-world country right here in the good old USA. It's called WASHINGTON DC, and it is one pathetic place. Bill Clinton enjoyed driving around with a "No Taxation Without Representation" bumper-sticker on the presidential limosine, as a booster of statehood for this festering boil on the unwiped buttocks of what is otherwise a fairly civilized nation. Washington DC deserves it own statehood about as much as the Palestinians deserve a nation.

Face it. The largely-black population of that dimwit village elected Marion Berry TWICE as mayor, even after he was videotaped whoring and smoking crack cocaine. Their police department couldn't catch a cold in a hospital flu ward, let alone a criminal. They botched the Chandra Levy case to the point of absolute buffoonery. The federal government had to step in and run things ( and you know how well the federal government runs ANYTHING) because the local officials turned the city into a cesspool of corruption and incompetence. Now you have THIS FINE EXAMPLE eminating like flatulence from a goat's ass to demonstrate what an excellent candidate for statehood this disgusting place really is.

City voting officials ordered Mayor Anthony A. Williams's reelection campaign on Wednesday to pay $277,700 in fines for submitting thousands of fraudulent signatures on election petitions.

The mayor has suffered public embarrassment," said Benjamin F. Wilson, chairman of the panel that could have hit the mayor with more than $1 million in fines.

"There were 5,465 obvious forgeries," Wilson said. Names appearing on the petitions included actor Kelsey Grammar, singer Billy Joel and U.N. Secretary General Kofi Annan. The names of petition circulators were also forged.

According to the district's registrar of voters, the petitions included thousands of signatures she characterized as "kitchen table forgeries." Those petitions have now been turned over to the U.S. attorney's office, which is pursuing a criminal investigation of about a half-dozen petition circulators.

I'm just surprised that anybody got caught. This shit is business as usual in that benighted town.

There's a fellow out in the tumbleweeded sand of WEST TEXAS who says that I'm full of shit.

The fucker is an excellent people-reader, isn't he?
I usually take a "short cut" on my way home from work. I can exit Highway 21 at Randall's liquor store (where everybody knows my name) and cut down a dirt road through the swamps that brings me out right in front of my neighborhood. I avoid that road after a heavy rain, because it's mostly Georgia red clay, which is slick as a string of snot when wet. I drive a pickup truck, and V-8 engine or not, it doesn't have a lot of weight in the ass, where the drive wheels are. It doesn't tractor very well driving on snot.

I didn't see a drop of rain at work today and on the way home I sort of fell into that robotic auto-pilot that kicks in when you make the same long drive on the same long road five days every week. I made my automatic right turn off 21 before I noticed the wet clay and HUGE puddles of water on the dirt road. A genuine, South-Georgia, frog-strangler rainstorm had blown by shortly before I arrived, and according to my rain gauge at home, had dropped 1.5 inches of rain in about 10 minutes as it passed.

I started to turn around and go back to the pavement, but I suffered a case of testosterone poisoning and decided to go for it. I was slip-sliding my way down the road and doing a pretty good job of staying between the ditches when I rounded the last curve before a REALLY LOW spot in the road. I passed a pickup truck going in the opposite direction and the guy made an ominous "TURN AROUND" hand signal at me, but I was into my game plan by then. I would go fast and my momentum would SLIDE me right through the clay-pit whether I had any traction or not.

I never got the chance to try. A school bus had tried it first, and it sat sideways blocking the road, stuck in the clay-snot like some big yellow bug in a roach motel, with really interesting triple-S tire tracks showing its twisty-turny-almost 360 journey when it hit the bog. I stopped at the edge of the mud-pit and got out of my truck. The bus still held a half-load of elementary school children on board.

"Hey! I yelled. "Want me to get some help?"

The bat-wing doors of the bus opened. I could see the woman driver craning her neck to look at me. "Thanks, but I've already called on my cell phone. A tow-truck is on the way."

"Well, good luck," I said, and went back the way I came and made it home on the paved road. I was lucky. That would have been ME stuck in the snot if the bus hadn't beaten me to it.

I wonder how long they waited on the tow truck?

There are many COMPLETE FUCKWITS in the world who have WAY too much idle time on their hands and WAY too much shit for brains. I am not surprised that this example of assholery occurred in the rarefied state of California, the certified nut-bowl of the country.

ANGELS CAMP, Calif. — An animal rights group has declared the famed Calaveras County Jumping Frog Jubilee and similar contests around the country cruel and inhumane, saying frogs should not be taken from their native habitat for human entertainment.

I agree. Frogs should be taken from their native habitat, have their legs whacked off with a sharp knife, and provide a deep-fried delicacy that tastes a lot like chicken. The legs are delicious when lightly breaded, fried right and served with (you guessed it) grits.

Animal rights advocate Larisa Bryski says she remembers jumping frogs herself when she made a bid for Miss Calaveras County in 1988. Now, she'd prefer that humans stop jostling the amphibians in the hot summer sun altogether, saying constant handling of the frog's permeable skin makes it easy for disease and infection to take hold.

I believe she has a diseased and infected brain, plus a LOT of inner resentment over the fact that she didn't win Miss Calaveras County in 1988.

Larisa, do the world (and the frogs) a favor. GO JUMP IN THE LAKE!

My corporate American Express bill arrived in the mail yesterday, so I turned in my expense report for my trip to Hamilton, Mississippi today. $1,268 for travel, lodging, rental car and food, and I spent my OWN money for drinks in the airport lounges while I waited for my flights. I also did not bill the company for the $2 moustache sissors that eagle-eyed airport security screeners confiscated at the Savannah Airport on my way out of town.

I mentioned in a previous post that I took a Gilbey's Traveller of vodka and a bottle of Old Spice after shave on board in my carry-on with no problem, and flew home with both, too (I used a lot more of the Traveller than I did the after shave on that trip.). I wonder why the screeners didn't demand that I DRINK FROM BOTH BOTTLES before allowing me to board the plane?

Do you suppose it could be because AIRPORT SECURITY IS A FRICKING JOKE?

Naw, that can't be right. Jokes are funny. Airport security just sucks.
THIS JUDGE sounds a lot like the one who presided over my divorce.

He is accused of being so drunk and disorderly that he was asked to leave a restaurant on Feb. 14. He was also accused of exposing his buttocks in mid-afternoon on a city street March 30 and charged with driving under the influence the same day.

The judge who railroaded me in court looked EXACTLY like Mayberry's Howard Sprague from the Andy Griffith show. I didn't have to expose my buttocks in his courtroom. He shafted my ass right through my pants.

On Feb. 5, McFalls reported his $60,000 Mercedes Benz stolen, but police found he had given it to a parking lot attendant who admired the car.

My Howard Sprague lookalike didn't give ANYTHING of his away when I was in court. But he was very generous giving away MY stuff. Bastard.

Tuesday, August 13, 2002

I took a good look at that fiddle. I believe my son could put all that stuff together.

I think I'll give him a call tonight. I'll fuck it up without help.
I've been on a musical instrument buying binge lately (two guitars, a mandolin, a lap-steel and a twelve-string), so I decided to go whole-hog and complete my collection. I bought a fiddle today!

I haven't tried to play it yet, because I actually have to ASSEMBLE some of this instrument. The bridge has to be set and the fine-tuners must be applied before it becomes an official fiddle, and I ain't gonna do that tonight. It can wait until tomorrow or the next day. That fiddle isn't going anywhere, and neither am I UNTIL SUNDAY, when I go to enjoy Daytona Beach for a few days.

I've gotten pretty good on the mandolin, and the fiddle is tuned exactly the same. So, if I can learn to draw the bow across the strings and make actual music instead of a noise that makes dogs cringe for miles around, and put my fingers where they need to be without any frets to guide me, even though I've never played a fretless instrument before, learning to play THIS thing ought to be EASY!

I figure I'll be doing square-dances in about two weeks.
Here's something for all the "Crocodile Hunter" fans who read this blog (and I KNOW at least ONE is out there). STEVE IRWIN had this to say about George Bush:

Mr. Irwin was the guest of Laura Ingraham on her syndicated radio show last night (his feature film "The Crocodile Hunter" is out, he has an action doll, even did a World War II special for the Discovery Channel on his family's wartime service), and somehow politics crept in with the gators:
Miss Ingraham: I bet you're conservative politically, right?
Mr. Irwin: I am, mate, yes.
Miss Ingraham: That's the real reason I wanted you on.
Mr. Irwin: Oh no, not politics, mate, I was warned.
Miss Ingraham: You should come here and hang out at the White House with President Bush. Washington politics can be just as dangerous as the Australian wild.
Mr. Irwin: I would love to hang out with George. When he came to power and all this stuff was happening in the world, I became a huge George fan. And I reckon we could sit down and chew the fat and have a great yarn.

Do you suppose he would say the same thing about Bill Clinton?
I love to read the guy, but CAPTAIN DEN BESTE really comes across as a santimonious turd-muffin sometimes. He dislikes bloggers who use pseudonyms. He believes we are "suspect."

I have explained the origin of the name "Acidman" before on this page, and anyone who wants to wander through my archives can find several references to my "real" name and an explanation of why I blog under a pseudonym. Hell, my real first name is in the "About Me" information at the top of the blogroll to the left. The last name is SMITH, by the way.

"ROBERT SMITH" is a name so common that you can't kick a goddam bush without a Robert Smith falling out of it. There are four Robert Smiths on my company's email directory, and I am constantly receiving interesting communications about gas and oil operations, corporate personnel issues and accounting problems that obviously were meant for one of those other guys. There are 27 Robert Smiths in the Greater Savannah phone book, so I also receive a lot of interesting calls from people looking for someone else. I was NOT going to call myself ROBERT SMITH on this blog. There are probably 11,846 Robert Smiths blogging out there already.

I wasn't seeking anonymnity. I wanted FUCKING ATTENTION! Den Beste never thought of that. With a name such as "Steven den Beste," he wouldn't. Pompous ass. People I meet on this blog who receive emails from me know my name. I'm not ashamed of it and I'm not attempting to hide. I just like "Acidman" a LOT better than "Rob Smith" as the person behind this flaming page.

Check THIS POST by the Grand Master and follow the links for some other opinions. I agree with MOXIE, among others you'll find there.

"Lots of folks have met me and know my real name. There are pictures of me posted all over the place. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Moxie is not a shroud of mystery, it's simply a way for me to write openly and honestly about people I worked with, my crazy family and even my neighbors. He who has not googled a friend's name may cast the first stone."

Throw it at den Beste.

Monday, August 12, 2002

Monday Mission

1. If I could guarantee that the Fashion Police would not lay the smackdown on you, which favorite out-of-style article of clothing do you wish you could wear right now?

I don't pay attention to fashion police, even if I look like a dweeb. I miss bell-bottom pants, though. They are great for boots.

2. In your opinion, who is famous but shouldn't be?

Lorena Bobbit. That crazed slasher-woman should be IN JAIL! John Wayne Bobbit shouldn't be famous either, the shitbird.

3. Are there any new movies or TV shows that you are forward to this fall?

Jawja Bulldog FOOTBALL! I don't watch much TV, but I'll watch my DAWGS!

4. If you had a time machine that you could use only one time (there and back), where would you go and what would you do?

I would go back to Gettysburg on July 2, 1863 and tell General Lee to take BOTH Round Tops TODAY, no matter what. He had the forces and the will to do it, but his other commanders didn't see the significance. Then I would advise him NOT to send Pickett up the hill after Longstreet dithered and allowed the Union forces to reorganize and haul up the extra cannon and reinforcements to defend the against the doomed attack, which might have been successful if carried out when Lee first gave the order. Yes, I am an unreconstructed rebel, but I truly believe that we would be a much more free people today if Dishonest Abe Lincoln's idea of a "Strong Union" had been defeated that day. The leviathan federal government we have today was born on that battlefield and it's been growing ever since.

5. What cologne or perfume do you like to wear?

I usually don't wear cologne. I have a bottle of "Stedsen" that I might apply very lightly on rare occasions, and I like some Old Spice after-shave if my face feels irritated. But usually, I smell of natural man-sweat and the musk of testosterone, not like some dandy French whore. Most women who comment on my aroma tell me I smell good. I suppose bathing regularly has something to do with that. (Irish Spring soap!)

6. Do you recall your first "French kiss?" Tell me about how that felt, and how it came about. Do you like them?

It was the most erotic experience I had ever experienced in my life at the time. I remember it well, and her name was Carla. We were at a teen dance, and I was playing drums with a band called "Snake and the Reptiles." The band took a break, and Carla lured me out of the Teen Center and under a live oak tree where we French kissed. I wasn't worth a damn on the drums the rest of the night. I just wanted to go back under that oak tree with Carla.

7. Excluding your partner...If you had the opportunity, who would you most like to French kiss?

I don't have a partner right now, but I'm holding auditions for anyone interested in the position. I have been told that I kiss well. Wanna form your OWN opinion? My email address is on this page.

I'm sure it's available elsewhere, but I stole this one from SKITS.

If you'll check the blogroll to the left, you'll find two new members to my exclusive club. The lovely DANIELLE won a spot by linking to me (which ALWAYS works) and being a BLEED-RED-AND-BLACK fan of the Georgia Bulldogs, too. Her hit counter was at "4" this morning. C'mon, friends! BOMB her sweet Dawg-lovin' site. Drive her hit-counter to at least "8" by tomorrow!

And I guess ANGEL SOL took the none-too-subtle hint I gave her yesterday and linked to me, too. Plus, she's joined the raving maniacs at HOOKED ON BLOGGING and you've got to have a stainless-steel, bullet-proof ego to hang around there for very long. That place can get ugly, especially when I'm in one of MY really foul moods. We weed out the pouts and the weaklings very quickly on that Darwinesque site. I wonder if she knows what she's gotten herself into?

I thank both of you for a position on your blogrolls, and return the favor like the Southern Gentleman I am. Welcome, aboard, ladies!
Uh, oh... I belive my reputation for enjoying pretty, painted feminine toes is getting out of hand. If I didn't know better, I would swear that DONNA posted this example of TOE PORN just for ME.

If so, THANK YOU, darlin'!
The latest AP sportswriters poll has my beloved Georgia Bulldogs ranked #8 in the nation in their first pre-season poll. They must know something I don't. Maybe they just figured that Steve Spurrier wasn't at Florida coaching to humiliate our asses anymore, so we have to do better than the last few years. I hope the dawgs do.

But I don't believe the team will be that good, and it's better to be ranked #20 and go UP through the season than to be ranked #8 and go DOWN.

I'll be rooting for them anyway. GO DAWGS!!!!!

Sunday, August 11, 2002

I was thinking about putting THIS ANGEL on my blogroll, especially after she wrote about nekkid vollyball and Joni Mitchell songs, but she is just a tease and hasn't linked to ME yet, so she becomes a lady in waiting. I have my rules.

I also have a rib-eye steak on the grill out back and a Vidalia onion baking in the oven. A BIG steak and a BIG onion. Those goodies will help to fill up this empty house.
Here we go again. The BC just picked up my son and he's gone from my life for another two weeks. The house seems incredibly empty all of a sudden. Jack has gone home and I am free to walk around the house butt-nekkid again. I would gladly put on some pants if the boys were still here.

I suppose I should concentrate on what a good weekend this one was. I had fun, the boys had fun and we all enjoyed each other's company. Jack's mama owes me a back-scratch for adopting her son all weekend, but I'll never get it because I DIDN'T take Jack's three sisters, too. The poor boy lives in a home flooded with estrogen. Mama, Nanny, three sisters and him. He needs a man around sometimes.

I'm happy to fulfill that role, especially when my boy is here. Two heads are easier to mind than one. They play well together and it spares me from having to be a constant source of entertainment. They like my cooking, too. The little shits cleaned out my refrigerator and wanted more. They burn a lot of energy.

I burnt more than my share and I am tired now. It's another Sunday evening, and I HATE that awful, lonesome, get-ready-to-go-to-work-tomorrow feeling I get at this time on this day. It really does suck.

But I work five more days, then go on vacation at my exquisite Daytona Beach time-share condo. That's something to look forward to. Sun, surf, eat and drink.... yeah, I can handle that. Maybe a trip to the dog-track to gamble on the greyhounds. I might even find a willing female companion to keep me warm at night, too. Maybe someone with lust in her heart and a nice rack to go with it.

You never can tell...
Morning. Acidman is cooking again, this time a lumberjack breakfast of eggs, bacon, grits and toast. The boys are hungry and so am I. We will eat like wild Visigoths, then I may actually mow the weeds in my yard today.

Yesterday was a GOOD day.

I've also decided that YANKEE KATE is a fine figure of a woman, despite living in New Jersey. Want some GRITS, darlin'?