Saturday, August 31, 2002

If you believe that we DON'T live in a fucked-up world, read this TRUE STORY about my day and tell me where I'm wrong.

In between thunderstorms this afternoon, after I arrived back at the Crackerbox from work, I saw a window of opportunity to cut my weed-infested yard. When I wheeled the lawn mower out of my garage, I heard a little Chihuaua puppy yelping from its pen next door. I saw the little rat-dog poking its head through the chain-link enclosure and noticed that nobody was home at the neighbor's house, so I figured the dog was just lonely. I fired up the lawn mower and cut my grass.

The dog never stopped yelping the entire time. It continued its struggles to escape from the fence by sticking its little rat-head through the triangular holes and trying to squeeze through behind its neck. It displayed a frenzied determination to get out of there. I became worried that it would hang itself and went over to calm it down. Then I saw the problem.

THE DOG WAS WORKING ALIVE WITH FIRE-ANTS! There were THOUSANDS of ants all over the pen, all over the ground and all over the dog. I saw one hanging by its pinchers from the dog's EYEBALL, for crying out loud, and I couldn't stand that. I rescued the dog and put it under the water hose to get those blood-sucking pests off. I ended up having to pluck some of the more stubborn vermin off the dog with my FINGERS as I sat on the tailgate of my pickup truck.

That's when Kristen, my 10 year-old neighbor from the house on the OTHER SIDE of me came by, walking her Yorkie down the street on a leash. She approached to see what was happening. "Mr. Rob, what'cha doing?"

"Kristen, I'm trying to get all the ants off this dog." I was plucking furiously. There were still plenty aboard.

"Can I help?" she asked.

"By all means," I replied. "I'll take the head and you take the tail." Together, we finally rid the dog of the pestiferous vectors that were attempting to eat it alive. The dog was grateful, and began running around the bed of my truck in a display of puppy-dumbass enthusiasim.

"Aw, it's so CUTE!" said Kristen. She held out her hands and the dog went springing into her arms. It wiggled and licked and squirmed in ecstacy.

"How about you take it home with you," I suggested. "It can play with your dog until the neighbors come home."

"I can't," she replied. "My Mama is taking a nap and I'm not supposed to wake her up." About that time, the sky cut loose and the rain started to fall again, heavy and sideways.

"C'mon," I said. "Bring BOTH dogs and let's get out of the rain before we ALL drown." We ran inside my house. The dogs loved it and began to play on the carpet the way dogs do. Kristen sat on my couch and asked, "Mr. Rob, would you play me a song on your guitar?" I frequently entertain the neighborhood kids, and Kristen enjoys hearing me play. I told her I would, and started down to hall to fetch my Martin.

Then it dawned on me.

I was not wearing a shirt (I seldom do in the summer, if I'm not at work or heading to the Super Wal-Mart) and I had a 10 year-old girl alone in my house with me. It didn't matter that we rescued a dog from a death worse than fate together, and it didn't matter that it was raining cats and dogs outside, and it didn't matter that child molestation is absolutely repugnant to me. I was semi-nekkid with an unsupervised 10 year-old girl in my house. I stopped dead in my tracks and went back to the living room.

"You need to go home, Kristen," I said. "Are you going to take the dog, or do you want to leave it here?"

"You're not going to play your guitar?"

"No, not today. But we've got to decide something about the dog right NOW."

She decided to keep the dog and explain the situation to her Mama when Mama woke from her nap. She had both dogs tucked like furry footballs under each arm as she ran out from my front door into the rain. "See you later, Mr. Rob," she shouted as she ran to her house.

Call me paranoid if you wish, but I could not allow her to stay here. She was absolutely welcome and absolutely SAFE, too, but no man should put himself in that situation in today's crazy climate. In an ideal world, we would have played with the dogs, I would have strummed my guitar, and I might even have given her some ice cream to eat while we watched the rain fall. I would have sent her home when she was ready to leave. But you can't do things like that anymore.

If Quinton were here, everything would be different. Then, I would simply be an adult, babysitting children during a rainstorm. But Quinton ISN'T here, and I was afraid to have a 10 year-old girl in my house alone with me, especially after I lured her over with a cute puppy-dog. Sounds like something a true pervert would do, doesn't it?

It certainly does to some people.

And that's why the world is a lot more fucked-up now than it was when I grew up.
Michael Newdow, not content with the display of complete assholery he performed in the "under God" suit over the Pledge of Allegiance, is rising to new heights of fucktardly behavior by SUING CONGRESS to get rid of the chaplain that prays over that bunch of freedom-stealing gasbags. If the demented sumbitch sued Congress for passing stupid legislation, I would send him a donation and praise him as a crusader. But this anal-retentive hissy-fit is nothing more than Newdow showing his shit-stained butt, just for the thrill of it. AGAIN!

I consider myself to be an iconoclast. I distrust my government and I've rebelled against authority all my life. I don't follow the herd, and I never will. I obey MY rules, and to hell with the ones some fat-assed politician decided were a good idea. I've stood on personal principle when it cost me to do it, but I'll do it again, because I hold certain truths very dear, and no amount of pressure can make me violate what I really I believe in. I've been called stubborn, hard-headed and self-destructive because of the way I stick to MY rules, and maybe I AM all those things. But I will not change. I picked my truth from 50 years of reading, listening, arguing and thinking. What I believe is pretty well etched in stone by now.

But I don't expect, and certainly I don't DEMAND, that everyone else behave the way I do. My ultimate desire in life is to be LEFT ALONE by government, lawyers, bureaucrats, nosy neighbors and self-appointed do-gooders who want to HELP ME. I don't need their fucking help. I am a self-sufficient unit. I can take care of myself.

I don't like a lot of what I see happening in society today, but I can hold my own ground. I can teach my son the things he needs to know that public schools don't teach him. He won't swallow all the cant and dogma about the wonderousness of diversity, the environment and and other such shit being spoon-fed as education today if I keep an eggbeater going in his head. If he learns to think for himself, I have done a good job of raising him. He can make up his own mind about God. He damned sure doesn't need Michael Newdow making his decisions for him.

I can keep my beliefs intact without tipping over the applecart, even when I believe that it's loaded with rotten apples. I can function in what I see as a dysfunctional world. But I don't ask that the entire dysfunctional world change to PLEASE ME. Hell, I COULD be wrong. If the world will just leave me alone, I'll figure it all out, eventually.

Why can't Michael Newdow pull his head out of his sanctimonious ass and see things the way I do? Why does the idiot feel compelled to inflict HIS PETTY WAR on everyone else? Who died and made that asshole Pope, and arbiter of all human behavior? Doesn't he realize that he is PLAYING GOD his ownself?

Yeah, erase any reference to God from anything connected to government, and insert Michael Newdow's name instead. Why not? Government spends a lot of time and money today pacifying whiners, which only creates MORE whiners, which makes the government work harder to pacify THEM, until the only way you can get the government to acknowledge your existence today is to whine long and loudly. Now, out of 270,000,000 people, Newdow has carved a niche as the loudest whiner of all.

Let us all bow and pray to him. Right after the sick bastard kisses my Cracker ass.

Is my Blog HOT
or NOT?

Yes, I have degraded myself even worse than before as I shamelessly whore for links and traffic on my blog. I'm going for the HOT OR NOT thang.

And I had better get a LOT of 10's from you people. I know who you are. If I can break into MY house, I can break into yours, too. Give me shit, and I will come a-calling.

So, vote your conscience, but use your head, too.
The most lovely and mild-mannered SUPREME BITCH has a heartwarming post about major league baseball. I suggest you go to the link and have your platinum Visa Card ready.

Friday, August 30, 2002

Imagine a monkey fucking a football...

You have the perfect picture in your mind of me and my new digital camera. I'm just not sure who's the monkey and who's the football.
I believe I covered all the bases. I wrote the 100 pieces of drivel. I linked to the damned Yankee (relax, KATE, I wasn't talking about YOU. I would call you MUCH WORSE names if I were in a ranting mood) and sent the simple text in an e-mail. I gave the Yankee my URL and an archive link to the 100-drivel blog. I BELIEVE I even included a picture of me and my 1964 Martin D-28 guitar.

I have done my part, including putting my sweet self on his blog-map. The rest is up to the damned Yankee.

The Yankee probably won't deliver on the promises. Asshole.

The DAMNED YANKEE made me do this.

1. I believe that alcohol, cholesterol, caffeine and nicotine are the four basic food groups.
2. I drink too much.
3. I smoke too much.
4. I eat a lot of greasy fried foods.
5. My blood pressure is 130/80.
6. My cholesterol is 186.
7. I am 50 years old and have a 32" waist.
8. I don't exercise.
9. I believe that doctors and health nuts are full of shit.
10. I believe vegetarians are full of shit, too.
11. I don't want to live to be a hundred years old if I must give up everything I enjoy to do it.
12. I don't want to live to be a hundred years old PERIOD!
13. I own seven guitars.
14. I own two banjos.
15. I own a mandolin AND a violin.
16. I own an autoharp.
17. I cannot play the violin.
18. I've gotten laid a lot because I was a guitar player.
19. I still play guitar, but I don't get laid nearly as often anymore.
20. I don't play guitar in bar bands anymore, either.
21. One year ago, I didn't know what a "Blogger" was.
22. Now I ARE one!
23. I really love corned beef and cabbage.
24. I once kissed Ellie May Clampett.
25. I once owned four goats and 27 chickens.
26. I have two children that I know of.
27. I live by myself now and I LIKE IT that way most of the time.
28. The Three Stooges still crack me up.
29. I don't know how to operate my new digital camera.
30. I miss John Wayne.
31. I DON'T MISS Bill Clinton, that hockwad.
32. I like dogs.
33. I DON'T like cats.
34. Cats like ME, the creepy little shits.
35. The best dog I ever had was named "Wiggles."
36. The ugliest dog I ever saw was Wiggles.
37. I was born on February 16, 1952.
38. Under the sign of Aquarius.
39. I wrote a novel that did not sell.
40. The novel did not sell because it SUCKED.
41. I own a 1964 Martin D-28 guitar that is my pride and joy. It sounds better than any other guitar I've ever heard.
42. O.J. DID IT!
43. Ted Kennedy should be in jail instead of the U.S. Senate.
44. Jimmy Carter was governor of my state and President of the United States, and I never voted for the doofus. Not once.
45. I like pretty, red-polished, feminine toes.
46. I've been known to suck a pretty feminine toe or two when I have the opportunity.
47. I once drank six beers in five minutes to win a bar bet. I spent my winnings on more beer.
48. I also held the pool table at $5.00 a game for over an hour that night.
49. I've never been in the military or gone to war, but I HAVE been shot at.
50. They missed me.
51. I've been to jail once in my life. I didn't like it.
52. I've been to a nudist resort in Key West. I DID like THAT.
53. I consider myself to be a lucky man.
54. I've also had a lot of bad luck in my life.
55. I was diagnosed with serious cancer one year ago this month.
56. I'm okay now, except for missing a few essential body parts that I wish I had back.
57. The missing parts are all INTERNAL! I look FINE on the outside.
58. I have a LOT of scars, all over my body. But I am a TIMEX-- I take a licking and keep on ticking.
59. I just took a 10-day vacation with a woman I met on the internet. I never saw her before she met me in the airport in Jacksonville, Florida. Talk about a blind date? It was a good vacation.
60. I don't have roaches in my house, even though I'm a LOUSY housekeeper. I have CRICKETS! I really don't mind them until they start that SINGING at odd hours of the night. Then, THEY DIE!!!
61. I have a spider in my bathroom. It fashions a web from the back of the commode to the wall and catches mosquitoes in there. I leave it alone. It's been there long enough to be considered a pet.
62. I don't believe that I will ever drown. Water is my friend.
63. I like having a good, bronze suntan in the summer.
64. I am a supervisor at work. I am GOOD at my job.
65. I am in lust with about a dozen women who write to me on my blog.
66. At least ONE of them is truly in lust with ME.
67. I've had my heart truly broken. That still hurts.
68. I once broke someone else's heart, too. I regret that, and maybe I ended up getting what I deserved.
69. I don't believe in God.
70. Therefore, I really don't believe #68. But I still regret what I did.
71. Howie Mandel has NEVER been funny to me.
72. Steven Wright makes me roll on the floor until my sides hurt.
73. Paulie Shore should be dragged off and shot for the good of the human race.
74. Sam Kineson died before his time.
75. I cuss a lot. I'm good at it.
76. I don't trust people who don't cuss.
77. Environmentalists piss me off. Assholes.
78. Politicians piss me off. Assholes.
79. Lawyers piss me off. Assholes.
80. Jesse Jackson is a sleazeball.
81. Al Sharpton is worse than Jesse.
82. Thomas Sowell and Clarence Thomas should be black icons; instead, they are reviled by people who should admire them. Jesse and Al are called "black leaders." Assholes.
83. I have friends visiting who have no electricity. They want a shower and somewhere to store their beer.
84. Now they're bitching because I don't have enough clean towels. Assholes.
85. Major league baseball players didn't strike today. The whining turds don't know how good they've got it. I've gone to the stadium for my last game anyway. Assholes.
86. I like the smell of rain.
87. I eat a lot of boiled peanuts.
88. I grow okra in my garden. I like it fried, or boiled with tomatoes over rice. I can eat that slick, slimy stuff until my drawers won't stay up.
89. I have a wonderful fried chicken recipe that I will NEVER share with anyone. You may taste the chicken, but you'll never know how I make it.
90. I once ate a whole habanero pepper out of a jar and said that it wasn't hot, just to impress some drunken friends. I almost died.
91. Now, I only eat SLICES of habenero peppers. And I HATE MYSELF in the morning anyway.
92. I once was a very good golfer. I haven't played in over a year and I'm not sure that I ever will play again.
93. I stopped drinking tequila years ago, because it made me crazy. I've started drinking it again. It still makes me crazy, but I don't give a shit anymore.
94. I never realized when I started this how difficult it would be to make 100 pithy comments about myself in this post.
95. I have enjoyed group sex numerous times.
96. Guitars are wonderful instruments.
97. I know that I am heterosexual. I gave a guy a blow-job once, and I DIDN'T LIKE IT! If you guys haven't tried that, you're left to WONDER...
98. If I could resurrect a dead person and have dinner and wine with him, I would choose Sam Clemmens. Mark Twain. My idol as a young writer. He remains my idol today.
99. If I could make love to any woman in the world right now, I would choose Nicole Kidman. She's one sexy wench.
100. If I had anything in my life to do over again, I would throw a piece of paper with a phone number on it into the Savannah River while I had the chance. Instead, I called the number. That's the worst mistake I ever made in my life. Long story there, folks, and it didn't have a happy ending.

Thursday, August 29, 2002

List of things missing from my vacation:

1) No wildlife refuge

2) Didn't get to see a gator in the wild. (See #1)

3) Didn't see one damned armadillo

4) No t-shirt saying I Survived 10 Days of Acidman!!

5) Key West and Marathon Key

6) I left my one necklace someplace around that crackerbox house

7) I lost an earring.

8) I didn't get a chance to do the WALKING tour of Savannah

9) I didn't get to see the Greek Orthodox Church.....I think Recondo32 got distracted by my bosom.

10) Fried Chicken

11) Long handled wooden spoon

12) Whipped Cream

13) No skinny dipping

14) I'm still waiting on my song.

Update: This is my last post on the Gutdude's site. I am very grateful for him allowing me the opportunity to play online with his blog for the last few days. It's been an honor! Thanks, Acidman! You rock!
It's amazing what denial can do to a feeble minded old man. He will drown himself in white zin and blogging before he admits that he misses a certain Goddess......
I didn't get back home today until almost 6:00 PM, which made an ordinary work day complete for me. I woke up at 4:14 AM, turned off the alarm and smoked a cigarette in bed. Yeah, I KNOW that's dangerous, but I do it every morning, even on those rare occasions when the alarm clock wakes me up at 4:30 AM. If I don't have the proper amount of carbon monoxide in my bloodstream, my brain doesn't function correctly.

I finished the cigarette, crawled out of bed and took a shower. I shaved by feel, because I left my reading glasses on the computer table the night before, and my ancient eyeballs won't focus on my face in the mirror anymore without help from the 1.75 lenses I buy for $7 at the Super Wal-Mart. I do the best I can with googling, unfocused eyeballs, but I always check with my glasses ON before I leave the house, just to make sure that I didn't miss any blatantly obvious thatch of hair where it doesn't belong.

I got dressed and watched Sportscenter on CNN to learn that the Braves lost last night 1-0 in ten innings, and chuckled with sadistic delight when I saw that the Boston Red Sox lost, too. Poor JB. Forget the World Series tickets, my opinionated friend. Your team ain't a-gonna make it that far.

I boiled two eggs, took the grilled salmon leftovers out of the refrigerator, threw in a bag of boiled peanuts and had my lunchbox packed by 5:00 AM. I watched CNN Headline News for thirty minutes, then left for work at 5:30 AM. I had a busy day, then I had to do a performance review with the 0700-1900 supervisor before he left on his Long Off today, and he wanted to discuss a lot of what I graded him on. I left work at 5:15 PM, arrived home just before 6:00 and found Recondo 32 reclined on my couch watching a movie on the satellite TV. He bitched that I was late bringing my truck to him. I threw him the keys and told him to GO, but bring the truck back in one piece.

That's a typical day for me, except for Recondo 32 being on my couch when I arrive home.

I picked a fight with a new writer on HOOKED ON BLOGGING and I hope I pissed her off very well. I have a talent for such things when I put my mind to it. I'm going to bed now, because I have TWO MORE performance reviews to do in the morning, and my boss is supposed to give me MINE tomorrow, too.

It's a real judgment day.

I have the Duty this weekend, too, so I'll be going to the plant on Saturday and Sunday of this three-day weekend. I have to do performance reviews with both weekend supervisors and have the finished product on my boss's desk on Tuesday morning. If I succeed in getting that chore done, I will have beat an unbeatable deadline, but that's what I do, consistently. When everybody else wails and gnashes teeth while screaming about MORE TIME, I go and DO THE JOB. That makes me look good, and I enjoy not having to worry about it any more. Deadlines have never frightened me. They provide incentive.

Yeah, I am a self-confident ass. I'm proud of that.
If you bought a Palm Pilot computer that promised 65,356 colors and discovered that the damned thing only produced 58,621 colors, wouldn't you be PISSED? I know that I would be, and I would lose sleep at night just thinking about the 6,735 colors that I DIDN'T HAVE, that those lying bastards PROMISED ME. When you buy a box of 64 Crayolas, you get 64 different colors, by God. And by the time they're worn down to nubs, even the ones you NEVER THOUGHT OF PULLING OUT OF THE BOX until you ran out of blues and greens and reds, you've USED EVERY ONE. When you buy a Palm, you should get 65,356 colors. When you wear out all the blues and greens and reds, there should be some ghastly colors left over to use, just because you're fresh out of everything else. Whatta ripoff!!

Luckily for us all, a vigilant firm of bottom-feeding, scum-sucking asshole lawyers felt the pain of Palm buyers and quickly sued the shit out the manufacturer.

""Palm is going to have to do something," said Tom Ross, professor of law at the University of Pittsburgh. "Palm can't afford to have a lot of adverse publicity around this story. The PDA market is already slipping."

Still, Ross doubted m130 owners would see a substantial financial award or even a refund for the color discrepancy. Ross said he has seen many class-action lawsuits where attorneys will walk away with generous attorney fees while their clients are left with little more than a handshake.

You don't suppose the attorneys will SPLIT any money they make off this blatant shakedown operation with the consumers they claim to be representing, do you? No, I don't think so either.

Color them "shitty."

On the legal beat again, hold your nose and read THIS:

The Taco Bell chain has agreed to pay $160,000 to settle the racial discrimination claims of a St. Louis family who, traveling 24-strong on a chartered bus through Cullman, Ala. in July 1998, waited about 15 minutes after requesting service. Each of the 24 will get about $1,000; the settlement "includes another $111,000 for attorney expenses and more than $17,000 in attorney fees."

OVERLAWYERED should be required reading for every American, every day.
Recondo 32 came by and stole my truck again today. After the last disasterous episode of letting him steal my truck, I put ALL OF MY WORK STUFF in my lunchbox so that I cannot possibly forget any of it tomorrow, no matter how much white zin I drink tonight.

Let me correct that last statement: I SHOULD NOT be able to forget anything I really need tomorrow. But love can find a way, and so can I.
Ignore the post below this one. I picked up a hitch-hiker who was having a bad trip on some kind of meadow muffin she ate on the side of the Interstate. Boy, was I glad to be rid of HER!

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

I didn't whine in the truck. I didn't whine at the airport. Get your facts straight! I NEVER harangued you either! Okay, maybe about making you tell me what you liked most about me.......that was a little haranguing....but STILL - it was in good fun!

Listen up, Cracker! I was a delightful companion and you fucking know it! That's why you were getting misty on me all morning. Face it - YOU MISS ME!

Now, I'm almost done with my copy of THE BOOK. I had ample time with the delayed flights and all. You have no idea how tempted I was to call you from Atlanta and tell you I needed a ride. I was not a happy camper. Anyhow, I'm back in SD and looking to deal with life. Ugh. Fake-asians are so much better!


There once was a gal named Lewinsky
Who played on a flute like Stravinsky
Twas "Hail to the Chief"
On this flute made of beef
That stole the front page from Kaczynski.


Said Clinton to young Ms. Lewinsky
We don't want to leave clues like Kaczynski,
Since you made such a mess,
Use the hem of your dress
And wipe that stuff off of your chinsky.


Lewinsky and Clinton have shown
What Kaczynski must surely have known:
That an intern is better
Than a bomb in a letter
When deciding how best to be blown.

Thanks to Cop 3
I experienced two puzzling adventures in the Jacksonville airport today. I am tired, so I'm not going to bother putting the links on this post, but you can go find this shit yourself. I'm NOT making it up.

National average SAT scores were announced the other day, and the good news is that Georgia students didn't decline in their scores. They remained steadily under par, while the rest of the nation got smarter. Now, students in my beloved state of Georgia rank #50 out of 50 states on academic achievement as measured by SAT scores. So, SHADDUP, MOMMIE JOIE, you transplanted Viking from Minnesota. That Creole, coon-ass swampland you LIVE IN beat Georgia on SAT scores, so STOP BITCHING about where you live in Louisana. It could be worse. You could be raising children HERE.

We in Georgia do have one claim to fame. Our "students" outscored our internal third-world nation of Washington, DC. We didn't beat them by much, but we're not DEAD LAST.

I am ashamed by these findings. We may NEVER have been very smart in Georgia, but we always could depend on Louisana, Mississippi and Arkansas raising a herd of children more ignorant than ours. Not anymore. We're dead last among semi-civilized parts of the country. The only part of the country we can outperform academically is Washington, DC, and we don't even have a good motto, the way it does. You know, they way they march and chant and brag that "we're so fucking dumb that YOU OWE US! SHOW ME DA MONEY!"

In Georgia, we don't have enough sense to admit how dumb we are. We just go..."DUH?" and we'll NEVER achieve victimhood, generate white-liberal guilt and reap a DIME of money by being THAT stupid. We need to organize a MILLION CRACKER MARCH on Washington, DC, to have our grievances heard. After all, that's the only place in the entire country where we can go to find people dumber than WE are. If we're smarter than THEY are, we should be able to figure out how to take their money. Politicians do the same thing all the time, and I've never seen one of them that was really smart. wouldn't work. Georgia marchers, thanks to their total lack of knowledge about geography, would get lost and end up in Arkansas, where people would line the streets to sneer at idiots dumber than THEY are. That would be piling insult upon injury.

But... I digress....

When we arrived at the Jacksonville International Airport today, Da Goddess had been haranguing me for about 100 miles about THE BOOK that I promised to buy her. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil is known simply as "The Book" around Savannah, and she heard everybody tell her, after her historic downtown tours and beer-swlling adventures among my friends, "You've just GOT to read The Book." Today, somewhere just south of Darien, Georgia, on Interstate 95, she started making that nyh-nyh-nyh noise whining women make when they haven't had their way. "Where's my Book? she asked, over and over again. I put up with it, minded my manners, and didn't throw her out of the truck at 75 miles per hour. She doesn't know how lucky she was.

At the airport, I saw a bookstore. I told Da Goddess, "Wait here. I'll be right back." I went into the store and asked the lady behind the register, "Do you have Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil?" She eyed me suspiciously. "Who is the author. I can do a search if you know the author."

I started to say, "It was Yankee Faggot John. His last name starts with a "B" but I don't remember exactly what it was now." But I didn't say that. I asked, "You can't do a search by title?" No, she couldn't do that, but I was welcome to search the racks to find what I was looking for. I looked for a few moments, then told her, "I don't believe that it's here," utterly amazed that The Book wasn't available in Jacksonville. I headed for the door and saw the distinctive picture of Bonaventure Cemetary on the front cover of a hardback/paperback in the "NON FICTION" section of the store. I grabbed it and went back to the register.

"Oh, did you find something else you wanted to read?" the woman asked.

"No," I answered. "This is IT. This is The Book. I can't believe you've never heard of it. It was on the best-seller list for five years. Clint Eastwood made a (suckass) movie out of it. You've never heard of MIDNIGHT?"

"I've only worked here for a few weeks," she said, ringing up my purchase.

"You don't read much, do you?" I asked. I could tell.

"Who has time to read?" she replied. Clueless.

I took the book back to Da Goddess and wrote an inscription on the flyleaf for her. Then, I told her "Now, you've got your missing book. Stop bitching at me."

"I wanna cinamon roll," she demanded. Try to please a Goddess and that's what you get. There was a Cinabon place right across from where we were sitting, so I went and assumed a place in line. Some young black guy, who resembled Tiger Woods, was working the serving line, but I noticed that he was REALLY SLOW at what he was doing. I finally made my way to the front of the line, asked for one Cinabon, and handed him a $5 bill. I watched him ring up the order, count the change, then drop the change back into the register and close the drawer. Then, he stared off into space.

I said, "You owe me $1.80 and a Cinabon. I have neither one right now."

He gave me a look much like what I would expect from a cow in the slaughterhouse that remained on its feet after being struck between the eyes with a sledgehammer. "Uh... the register drawer is closed now." he explained.

"Well, that's fine and good. Give me a Cinabon and $1.80 and I don't care if the register EVER opens again." He wandered off to seek a manager. By then, Da Goddess had approached the scene of the crime and witnessed most of the fucktoolery I just described (please confirm my story in the "Comments" section, dear). The "assistant manager" showed up in a tizzy, explaining that SHE would go fetch the manager to retrieve my $1.80 from the implacable, inpenetrable register. By then, there were other people in line behind me, and I offered a simple propositioin to the two nitwits manning the counter.

"How about we try this," I suggested. "You serve this woman behind me, and when the register opens for HER order, give me the $1.80 you owe me and the GODDAM CINABON, which I STILL haven't gotten yet, before that register from hell closes again." As if approaching a sleeping lion, they tried what I asked them to do. IT WORKED!!!!

If Florida outranked Georgia in SAT scores, then somebody must have bused some Crackers down to JAX airport to man the Cinabon counter. That was pathetic.

I just checked my rain gauge in my weed-infested front yard, and the gauge is filled past the 6" mark. The damned thing was empty, with a spider living in the bottom, when I came back from Daytona Beach. The local weatherman says that Greater Savannah has enjoyed an "official" 2.06 inches of rain during the storms we've had every evening for almost a week now.

I stuck my finger in the water in my rain gauge and discovered that my finger became wet. I touched my finger to my tongue, and believe it or not, the liquid in my rain gauge tasted EXACTLY LIKE RAIN!

But that COULDN'T be rainwater in my gauge. The HMFIC (if you don't know that acronym, shame on you) of measuring ACTUAL rainfall says that only 2.06 inches fell, "officially," over the past week. I pondered this discrepancy for a moment.

I finally concluded that my Crackerbox house has been inundated with over 6 inches of "Unofficial" rain, which appears to be just as wet and just as real as official rain to the untrained observer, except for the fact that IT DOESN'T EXIST. Great Moogley-Googley! I couldn't leave that non-existent shit in MY front yard.

So, I carefully poured out the contents of my rain gauge until I hit the 2.06" mark. Then I stuck it back in the ground.

Okay. I am back in tune with reality now, and everything will be JUST FINE if I lock my doors and curl into a fetal position on the floor. I'll worry about what to do next if it rains again today.
Poor DONNA has been the victim of a hit-and-run driver (scroll down to Aug. 24-- I can't figure out how to do an archive link to her blog-- just read EVERYTHING until you get to the right place). At least the asshole hit her CAR and not her pretty-toed self. I'm glad she's okay. I don't want ANYTHING bad to happen to pretty-toed women who send me FOOT PORN from time to time.

I believe she took offense a couple of weeks ago when I said that Washington, DC is our very own Third World country in the United States. Well, maybe I was wrong.... but the description of her accident reads a lot like something one might experience in Zimbabwe, or a similarly benighted country. Buy a gun, darlin'.

Wait a minute. Owning a gun is against the law in the People's Republic of DC, isn't it? Scratch that idea and do the next best thing.

Move to the Deep South. We know how to treat a lady down here.
I'm still waiting for my copy of THE BOOK which was promised to me last week. And, I'm still waiting on my complimentary t-shirt with the nifty I survived 10 days of Acidman!! slogan. Goddamn sucker was promised to me when I signed on for this little trip. If I don't get it by the time I arrive at the airport I'm gonna start bitch slapping someone.

Tuesday, August 27, 2002

I will be back in full-tilt blogging mode sometime tomorrow, if I don't die in a flaming collision on the Interstate in the meantime. I have to drive to the airport in Jacksonville, Florida, in the morning, to send a guest back home to California. Once she's gone, the computer will be mine... ALL MINE again. BWHAHAHAHA!!

The truth is, I'll kinda miss her. She gives an excellent back-scratch and she cleaned my house. We just may have to do this again sometime.
Acidman gets published by TTLB!


Monday, August 26, 2002

Damn! The super-athletic, newly-homebuying SUGARMAMA was in Savannah and didn't let me know about it. She could have met TWO fellow Bloggers for the price of one if we only had known she was here.

Boy... did SHE miss a treat!
I see the SoCal hacker has posted pictures of the mysterious Acidman on this page. Feel free to slobber, ladies... and EAT YOUR HEARTS OUT, guys. Yeah, there are many fifty year-old men out there who look their age.

Then, there's ME!
My idea of a good fishing trip is to sit in a boat and drink beer on a nice, sunny day. I don't really care whether I catch fish or not. That always makes it easy to know when to quit. It's time to go back to shore when all the beer is gone.

But I might have cut THIS TRIP short, beer or no beer.

A Fort Pierce man out fishing with his son and a friend made a gruesome discovery in the waters of the Atlantic: a human head.

Paul Trabulsy found the dismembered body part about 22 miles east of Fort Pierce Inlet.

The men used a gaff to fish the head out of the water and placed it in a garbage bag. Then they kept right on fishing.

"We didn't want to come in right away, so we just put it in a bag in a bucket. It'd been out there awhile. What's a couple of hours?" Trabulsy said.

They must have had PLENTY of beer with them.

Want to make tailgaters back off your bumper? Just put one of THESE in the rear window of your car. Problem solved.
Seems to me that the general consensus is that I should be staying here. Let me tell you all something. I am NOT staying! I don't care how much duct tape the man has. HE WILL NOT KEEP ME HERE AGAINST MY WILL! I am leaving whether he wants me to go or not. End of story.

As I said in comments on the last post: "I'm afraid I'd be put to work cleaning this place from top to bottom and it's a scary proposition. I don't feel up to that just yet. The basics - I can handle those. Anything else - the man is on his own!

Besides, what would I want with a handsome, sexy cracker, a nice little house, great sex, someone to scratch my back, fine musicianship, and all the boiled peanuts I could stand? Bah! Who needs it?

And, there's always that chance that I might find myself liking white zin. I can't have that. End of story.

Sunday, August 25, 2002

Hard to explain just how nice the last week has been. I can't think of another time when I've enjoyed myself or anyone else this much. Of course, I did have to adjust to the fucking humidity here. But, it's not all that bad once you get used to it.

Last night, I was falling asleep when I sensed a presence at the side of the bed. Young Pup was standing there. I asked what was wrong and he said he was kinda scared. I asked what he was afraid of and he said he wasn't sure. I then asked if he wanted to climb into bed with us and he said yes. So, there I was. In the middle of the Smith men. Let me tell you something. They put off more heat than a sauna!

Quinton is a snuggler. So is his daddy. The difference is that Q. doesn't keep to one side of the bed. In fact, he moves across it like he owns the whole damn thing! Eventually, I just gave up trying to sleep and went out to the couch and read. Hence, the "sleeping Goddess" comments from Acidman earlier. (Acidman said that by the time he rolled out of bed, Quinton was on the OTHER SIDE of him!)

I have been catered to completely today. I was served a grand breakfast, treated to hours of good conversation and then got to accompany four fine men to Walmart. I picked out food for dinner tomorrow night and I will be cooking that up while the Gutdude is off at work.

When we returned back to the house, a storm was seen to be rapidly approaching. Steven decided to head home before the storm hit. Good idea! I had put away the groceries, except for those that Rob was cooking up for dinner, and started to clean up the kitchen and get some dishes done. The rain hit hard and with a vengence. It flew in at the house from all directions. Some of the trees in the backyard looked as though they were about to be uprooted. The lightning and thunder were right on top of us.

Once the dishes were done, I sat in the garage for a bit to watch the storm. Five feet back in the garage, I was frequently pelted with rain. It felt good. Rob brought me some of the green peppers and Vidalia onions he sauteed up and I munched on those while I reveled in nature's fury. Finally, I decided to head back in - where I was told "dinner is served." We dined on a nice salad, salmon, the peppers and onions, and baby lima beans. I wasn't able to squeeze out much of the white zin for the Gutdude's dinner, but it was just enough to wash down the last of the food for him.

The two remaining boys, once they'd decided they'd had enough of killing villians, wanted to go out to play. Since the storm had died down, they were told to go ahead and play. I gave someone a much needed back scratch. Added a little backrub in for good measure and then Acidman and I played around with his new camera. I made him go digital! I spent some time reading the instruction book (not helpful) and finally went out to take pics of the kids. After much fiddling around with the camera, I figured out how to snap some pics and then came in to upload them. The one of Tall Dog and the Young Pup is one that I took.

Now, Tall Dog is sleeping blissfully. I got him tuckered out.....don't ask for the details. None forthcoming. He's asleep and I'm blogging. I have a load of laundry in the washer and I may even go make a run at the dishes. I don't want to be looking high and low for clean stuff tomorrow.

May not sound exactly like the most exciting day for most people. It wasn't. But, it was a good day and I'm happy to have spent it here with them.
Another pic of my own bad self.
This is the Tall Dog and the Young Pup today after a rainstorm.
Instead of having the usual TWO kids (my boy, plus Jack) over for the weekend, I have THREE now. Young Steven has joined the troupe and he seems altogether at home here. I met his dad yesterday and he's in the same boat I row. Weekend Dads. So much of that happens today that it's a crying shame. Quinton. Jack. Steven. And HUNDREDS of others. Goddam... THAT'S WRONG!

I don't really know how to handle this myself, even though Da Goddess says that I do it well. I try. But I sometimes feel that I'm hauling a wagon uphill and I'll never get to the top. My Crackerbox is a home ONLY when the boys are around. Two weekends every month. That ain't life. That ain't what Ward Cleaver lived.

Meanwhile, my ex-wife waved her hand, threw me out of the house and moved an unemployed, dope-smoking asshole into the bed before the sheets got cold, filed for divorce, and the judge who "heard" the case cared only about the CHILD SUPPORT I was supposed to pay to a bloodless cunt who MADE MORE MONEY THAN I DID AND FUCKED AROUND ON ME!!!

That shit doesn't matter. If you are woman, you are strong in divorce court.

Fuck it. We're off to Wal-Mart. Me, the Goddess and three boys in tow.
My ranting friend JB is riding his high horse again over on THE BACK 40, picking fights with ANDY over semantic issues that really aren't worth all that bother. I find the idea of a free citizenry contentedly wrapped in a ratty white blanket of ignorance about WHY they are free as repugnant as THE GODDESS does the taste of boiled peanuts or live crickets. But that's the way that world goes 'round. Accept that fact, or drive yourself crazy trying to turn the tide.

I remember reading a newspaper article when I was in Journalism School (around 1976) about a fellow who thought up a GREAT Civics class project. He took a copy of the Bill of Rights onto the streets of Miami and tried to convince people to sign his "petition." 80% of the people he approached refused to sign that "radical" document. Less than 10% of the people he encountered recognized the document as the Bill of Rights.

And you wonder why Florida voters fucked up the last election? Yeah, people who don't recognize the Bill of Rights and who can't comprehend a butterfly ballot SHOULD be the ones electing a President. Dumbfucks rule! It's the American Way. We now have a public school system DESIGNED to teach our children politically-correct cant instead of knowledge. We WANT a generation of ignorant slobs choosing the path our nation will follow.

The Constitution? Get over it, JB. That fight was lost a long time ago, and it's been going down the toilet ever since.

I disagree with ANDY ,however, about corporal punishment. I wasn't spanked as a child. I GOT WHIPPINS. Mama used a switch, or a Bolo paddle, or her bare hand, and Daddy used a belt on me a few times. I deserved every goddam whippin' I got, too. Well, maybe I could argue about ONE of them, but considering all the things I got away with because of my stealthy ways, I figure it all equalled out in the long run. I loved my Dad until the day he died, and I love my Mama today. Yeah, they put welts on my ass a few times, but I was NOT an abused child. I was a rounder, a hellion and I needed a firm hand on my tiller in life. My parents gave me that. They tried to raise me right. I just didn't let all those good lessons take root. They worked on my brother, though. He is a fine figure of a man today. I, on the other hand, am ACIDMAN.

I don't consider myself to be a warblogger, or a real mover and shaker in the blogosphere. I have a web journal, and it's gotten crazy around here for the past few days. Hey! I was HACKED by a SoCal woman, and I'm still trying to erect (dont'cha LOVE that word? I DO!) barriers to kick her off my blog once and for all. When she wakes up, I'll lock her in the bathroom again while I scheme.

In the meantime, I believe we should attack Iraq with all our military might and topple the regime in Saudi Arabia, too. The Middle East is one festering sump right now, and it WILL NOT purify itself. If we wait to do what is necessary, the decision to act will be FORCED upon us later, and the failure to act NOW will cost more American lives in the long run.

I don't seek "Constitutional" justification for pouring insecticide on the fire-ant mounds in my back yard. If I don't kill them, they will bite me or my child, and I'm not going to give them that chance. I didn't seek divine guidance or Constitutional penumbras when I found the rabid raccoon in my woodpile on the mini-farm. I went in the house, loaded my rifle, walked back outside and killed the shit out of him. It was the right thing to do. Saddam Hussien is a rabid raccoon in the woodpile. Kill him NOW, or live to regret it later. Some things just get worse the longer you wait to handle them.

That's my morning rant. I have THREE boys and a slumbering Goddess to feed this morning. It's bacon-frying time.