Saturday, September 21, 2002

BWHAHAHAHA! HEATHER finally arose from the dead and started blogging again, and she FORCED ME at gunpoint to steal a joke from her site. So, here it is:

Hung Chow calls in to work and says. "Hey. boss I not come work today, I really sick. I got headache, stomach ache and my legs hurt. I not come work."

The boss says, "You know Hung Chow, I really need you today. When I feel like this I go to my wife and tell her to give me sex. That makes everything better and I can go to work. You should try that."

Two hours later Hung Chow calls again: "Boss, I do what you say and feel great. I be at work soon. You got nice house."

Drumroll, please....

My Hot or Not meter has dropped from 8.6 this morning to 8.0 right now. Oops! Somebody else doesn't like me. I will not sleep well tonight. I seldom sleep well anyway, but now I have something to blame it on.

I slept well last night, which was most unusual for me. I had vivid dreams, where I noticed three things:

1) I dream in color. I saw a beautiful purple sunset on a beach somewhere on the Pacific Ocean last night. I have no idea where I was, but I remember the colors of the sunset.

2) I smell scents in my dreams. I was around a cook-fire while asleep last night. I smelled the smoke and the roasting meat. It smelled good. I was hungry when I awoke this morning.

3) I never taste anything in a dream. I believe that taste is the one sense that does not express itself in dreams.

I have erotic dreams and they affect me physically. I have frightening dreams, and I wake up in a cold sweat. I see colors and smell wonderful scents in my dreams, and I've dreamed of eating all sorts of exotic foods, but I've never actually TASTED them in my sleep. I find that odd.

Does anyone TASTE things in their dreams? Or is it just me, missing that essential dream-gene that everyone else has?

I'm really very curious about that...

It's still too hot in Southeast Georgia to be cooking chili, but I couldn't help myself. Here's My Recipe:

One 2-pound chuck roast
Some olive oil
Two softball-sized Vidalia onions
One green bell pepper
One red bell pepper
One gallon bag of the blanched and frozen tomatoes from my garden (a 28-oz. can of diced tomatoes will do, if you don't grow your own)
One 28-oz. can of purreed tomatoes
One 12-oz can of Guiness Stout
Two heaping tablespoons of ready-made minced garlic in olive oil, available at any Super Wal-Mart
One 3-oz container of Mexene Chili Powder
Five home-grown, diced jalapena peppers
One 5-oz toxic bottle of "Dat'l Do It" Habanero Gold hot sauce
One tablespoon of cumin
1/4 stick of real butter

Daub the roast with olive oil and roll it in the cumin and about 1/2 the tube of chili powder. Throw in some salt, pepper and worchestershire sauce just for the hell of it. Pack the mixture all over the roast. Slow-cook the roast in a crock pot until tender, where you can shred the meat into tiny strips with your fingers. Discard the fat and any gristle you find. Pour all the juice from the crock pot into a large standard kitchen pot. Set the burner on medium high.

Dice the Vidalia onions and the bell peppers. Melt the 1/4 stick of butter in the pot with all the meat-juice, then toss in the onions and peppers, plus two heaping tablespoons of minced garlic. Throw your head back and enjoy the aroma.

When the onions begin to brown slightly, add all the tomato stuff, bring to a boil, then turn the heat down and allow the mixture to simmer for about 30 minutes. Pour the 12-oz can of Guiness Stout into the mix as you add the jalapenas and carefully count FIVE DASHES of Habanero Gold hot sauce into the pot. DO NOT get carried away with this stuff. Five dashes are plenty, even in a BIG pot. Trust me.

Add the shredded meat and the rest of the Mexene chili powder (yeah, the whole tube). Keep the pot on a slow simmer until all your friends show up to enjoy the outcome. The longer it takes them to get there, the better the chili will be. Have plenty of beer and corn chips on hand. Keep the number of the local EMS handy in case the faint of heart can't handle this dish.

Put any leftovers in the refrigerator overnight, then freeze them in those individual plastic bowls with locking lids that you can buy at any grocery store. The chili actually GETS BETTER when it sits in the fridge overnight. You can eat for a week off this stuff.

I may not be a Texan, but I cook GOOD chili.


Want to make a big pot of chili and get it right? Check out the Great Chili Debate at VODKAPUNDIT'S place.

With all the hot political issues simmering in the world today, a goddam Chili Recipe stirs people's passions to a boil and peppers the comments page more than an intellectual tract about war with Iraq does.

Is this a GREAT COUNTRY, or what?
Here's an INTERESTING NEW BLOG that inspired me to try some "if by chance" ruminations of my own.

If by chance, you take a wrong turn on the road of life, at least have the courtesy to use your turn signal first.

If by chance, you see the opportunity to do someone a favor, seize it. The person will OWE YOU after that.

If by chance, you wake up in bed with a stranger, and both of you are naked, all the sheets are on the floor, and the musky aroma of raw sex hangs heavy in the air, try to remember EXACTLY what you did the night before to achieve these results so that you may repeat it.

If by chance, life hands you a lemon, figure out who is responsible for it and try to get even.

If by chance, you see a young child behaving like a raving savage in the Super Wal-Mart, do not scold the child. Cuss his parents.

If by chance, you have things of unremembered origin turning strange colors and MOVING BY THEMSELVES in your refrigerator, it's probably time to dig a deep hole, bury THAT refrigerator, and go buy a new one.

Found via DA GODDESS.


Friday, September 20, 2002

It's tough being a complete ignoramus in a world full of computer-literate people, especially when you try to operate a blog. The experience brings back bad memories for me. In school, I always was an outstanding student, picked for Advanced Placement classes and accustomed to seeing lots of "A's" on my report card. I believed that I was one smart cookie.

That delusion came crashing down around my ears when I ran my Cracker head into Trigonometry in my junior year of high school. The teacher laid some kind of mysterious "F of x" on me, and I was waylaid, ambushed, booby-trapped and fragged. I made my first and only "F" on a report card that year. The really disturbing part was the fact I CRUISED to "A's" and "B's" in other subjects and I WORKED MY ASS OFF at Trig and still failed. I listened in class, I attempted the homework and I studied the book, but I reminded myself of the monkey that picks up the legbone in 2001: A Space Oddesey. The monkey farked around with the legbone long enough to gain a flash of insight and understanding. THIS THING CAN BE USED AS A CLUB! I CAN USE IT TO SLAY MY PREY AND FIGHT MY ENEMIES! I GET IT!

That never happened to me with trig. I just sat there pounding the bone in the dirt without a clue, letting drool run down my chin and appearing very simian to those who tried to explain that incomprehensible shit to me. My parents paid for a tutor. The tutor gave me up for being utterly hopeless. I managed to pass with a "D" in that class, and I'm pretty sure that I became an English Major in college because I didn't have to take many math courses to earn a degree. I never wanted to experience such humiliation again.

Looking back, I can explain THAT vacuum-lock of the brain by saying that I was a raging sea of hormones at the time, awash in the throes of puberty. Once I outgrew that problem (I think it took me AT LEAST ten years), I did fine with math. When I went to work at the pigment plant, I soon found myself making all sorts of mathematical calculations to prorate treatment batches, determine inventories, predict chemical usage and factor costs of reagents, energy and labor per ton by grade of pigment. I was doing that "F of x" thing without realizing it.

Then, I started a blog. I've been doing it for nine months now, and I remain a lost sheep in the rolling meadows of computers. Listen: hear that forlorn "baaa....baaa" from WAY over THERE in the dark, when all the other sheep are warm and happy in the barn? That's ME!

It's TRIG all over again!

This is what I get for taking JONI'S ADVICE. She actually gave the advice to THE SUPREME BITCH after Her Bitchness was infected with a particularly nasty virus that shut down her sulfurous site for a couple of days. I read Joni's comments about how to set up safeguards and firewalls, so I decided to do it. I know good and well that if I ever get a virus on MY computer, I may as well just set it on fire and go to the Super Wal-Mart to buy another one.

So I loaded a program that is supposed to protect me from what happened to The Supreme Bitch. I have no doubt that the program works, because it also protects me from posting on BLOGGER unless I disable the damned hairy eyeball. That fucking thing is watching over my computer like a hawk. I paid $49.95 for it, too.

It keeps asking me questions about everything I do on the computer. It's worse about nagging than my mama was when I was a teenager. It appears to have decided on its own what is good for me and what is not. It's attempting to run my life!

GAWD! I've loaded a LIBERAL DEMOCRAT anti-virus program on my hard drive!
Testing. One...Two.
Man, am I in trouble...
What the hell?
I am a weekend father tonight and, as usual, I have inherited Young Jack from across the street to go with my son. I don't mind at all, because Jack is a good boy and TWO boys are easier than ONE to handle. They can pester each other instead of just one of them pestering ME.

I have been seriously down in the dumps all week, and I suppose that the emotional downturn showed on this blog. I get that way sometimes. But I have something other than my own dismal thoughts to occupy me tonight. Both boys are supposed to be "sick," according to their mamas. I have two bags full of medications to administer to them tonight.

By my unskilled medical evaluation, they appear to be suffering from Acute High-Energy Syndrome, which manifests itself in wild scooter rides up and down the street, a rollicking game of "hallway tackle football" in the house, and a primordal scream of "WE'RE HUNGRY!" when they notice that it's dark outside. I'm gonna feed them health food: hamburgers and french fries.

It's all cooking now, and I had better go watch what I'm doing before I burn my Crackerbox down.

Thursday, September 19, 2002

Y'know, I kinda like that "Hot or Not meter I have over on the left. I enjoy watching those numbers change a lot more than I like seeing what the stock market is doing to my 401-K plan. If some pucker-butted fucktard wants to vote me a "1" and go running off into the night as delighted as a graffitti-painting vandal, that's fine with me. I just hope the poor, misguided asshole gets laid at least ONCE before he/she dies. Alas, I believe that it's unlikely that such individuals ever will couple with anything other than the hand at the end of each wrist or a battery-powered device purchased in a sex shop. An inflatable doll may someday offer possibilities, but I doubt that anyone who voted "1" (or any score below "5", because at least I AM ARTICULATE!) can figure out how to blow the damned thing up.

That's pathetic. What kind of life is it to go to a blog as long-lived as this one, use a booger-stained finger to punch a "1" into the poll, and end up humping a flat piece of uninflated vinyl at night, crying out "Madonna!" "Cindy Crawford!" "The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders!" while trying to pretend that a vienna sausage is a 12" keilbasa.

Fuckwits, I have my email address on the left, too. Think I'm an asshole? Have the balls to SAY SO.

Pucker-butts.
I once chastized someone for writing song lyrics on a blog. I said that without the music and the circumstance, NOBODY will know why those words are important to you. I'm about to break one of my own rules...

Let's go sit down at the table
Talk for an hour, maybe two
Then we can light ourselves a candle
And make love like we used to do

You know the time has passed so quickly
We've got ourselves a home and a family
Girl, I'm still not tired of you
Let's make love like we used to do.


I've written a lot of songs, and that's just the first verse of of the one I wrote for her.

I'll never sing THAT fucker again.
From DA GODDESS:

You know, you spend all those years growing up and thinking that someday you'll meet The One. You struggle with a few relationships here and there and you finally find someone whom you believe to be The One. You feel that you have everything. And, you share your entire being with that person. They know your strengths and your weaknesses. They know what makes you happy and what can make you sad, mad, etc. It's as if they own the key to your heart and soul. Forget all that independence shit. This is The One and you can let your guard down! It's okay to need them and want them and blah blah blah.


That's the downside of opening up and giving all of yourself to The One. When you discover, too late, that it WASN'T THE ONE, the other person knows every button to push and every weapon to use against you.

I watched Braveheart again the other night (I should have put that one on my Favorite Movie list), and the scene where a wounded, defeated and betrayed William Wallace rides after the king, only to be attacked and struck down by Robert The Bruce, a man Wallace trusted and admired, hit me hard. Mel Gibson did an excellent job in that scene. The look on his face, the pain in his eyes and the way all his passion for life vanished in an instant when he realized WHO had betrayed him most of all, reminded me of someone else in a similar situation. Wallace lay back on the ground and was ready to die. I knew what he felt. His will to continue was gone. The spirit of the warrior was killed, not in combat, but by a broken heart. It reminded me of me.

I never believed The One was capable of becoming the most horrible person I ever encountered in my life. I never believed that she would do EVERYTHING that she knew would hurt me the worst and rub my nose in it all the way at the very worst time of my life. Hell, I thought she would never let me down, let alone try her damnedest to SINK me. But she did, with a vengence.

I asked once, "How could you do this to me?"

I'll never forget her reply. "Rob, you've always been such a Beaver Cleaver. The world isn't LIKE THAT."

Nope, it's not. Trust means nothing, honesty means nothing, integrity means nothing, honor means nothing, promises mean nothing and all that REALLY matters is the winner takes all, no matter what you have to do to win. SHE'S a WINNER!

She taught me one lesson I'll never forget. I still believe all that bullshit my parents taught me.

I'm way behind the times.
I have my truck back! I shed the faggot-mobile today! Life is GOOD!

My problem with the truck was a bad "accelerator position sensor" and a semi-clogged fuel filter. The bill was less than $200, so I was delighted that my truck is healthy again and I don't have to sell my body on the streets to pay for it (I might have to spend a LOT of time on the streets and do a LOT of disgusting things to earn even that $200). But I am puzzled by one thing. The clogged fuel filter, I can understand. But why do I need a goddam built-in, computer-monitored "ACCELERATOR POSITION SENSOR" in my truck?

I thought that was MY RIGHT FOOT'S JOB, for crying out loud.

Not anymore. The combustion system in a modern car or truck is more sophisticated than a combined-cycle, pulverized-coal-fired, high-pressure, powerhouse boiler today. When you head down the road, you only THINK you're driving. You have your hands on the steering wheel and your foot on the gas, but myriad computer chips, detection monitors, circuit-relays and electronic, high-tech gizmos are REALLY driving your vehicle. Let one of them go on strike, and you'll find out who's in charge. You'll be lucky to "drive" anywhere.

I miss the shade-tree mechanic days, when you could change your own spark plugs, install a new distributer cap, adjust the gap in your new points with a screwdriver until the engine "sounded" right, then hop in and check out your work by going to South Carolina. If the vehicle hauled proper ass on the steep upside of the Talmidge Bridge over the Savannah River, your "tuneup" was complete.

Yeah. I miss the '57 Chevy, too...

I don't want any of what THIS GUY was taking.

SYDNEY (Reuters) - An Australian man cut off the little finger on his right hand, then his scrotum, then his penis and finally his left hand in a drug-induced act of self-mutilation after arguing with his wife.

The man, believed to be high on amphetamines, attacked himself with a carving knife Tuesday in the town of Inverell 400 miles north of Sydney, police said Thursday.


I guess he taught his wife a lesson she'll never forget...

"Bullet" Bob Hayes, once known as the World's Fastest Human, died today. He was another player I remember vividly from my youth, and I have football cards with his picture on them, too. Johnny U and Bullet Bob, gone a week apart.

Bob Hayes was never one of my favorite players. He was a member of The Dallas Cowboys, and I have ALWAYS HATED the Dallas Cowboys (sorry, RWT). I really don't know why, because I liked Don Meredeth, Roger Staubach, Bob Lilly, Chuck Howley, Jerry Tubbs, Mel Renfro, Lee Roy Jordan, Don Perkins and a LOT of other Dallas players from the long-ago days, but the only time I ever rooted for the Cowboys was when they played the Green Bay Packers, which was the ONLY team I hated worse than the Cowboys. I've gotten over hating the Packers, but I still hate the Cowboys today.

I also hate Notre Dame more than any other college team. I LIKE Texas Christian University, because I think they have the ugliest uniforms and the best nickname ("The Horned Frogs") in ALL of football, so my biases obviously are not a regional thing. It's just me.

Bob Hayes did well in professional football. He is the only athlete EVER to own an Olympic Gold Medal AND a World's Championship ring. But he never made the Professional Football Hall of Fame because he didn't handle life after sports very well. It happens all too often.

Bob Hayes, dead at age 59.
THREE MOLES...

A mama mole, a papa mole, and a baby mole all live in a little mole hole. One day the papa mole sticks his head out of the hole, sniffs the air and says,"Yum! I smell maple syrup!" The mama mole sticks her head out of the hole, sniffs the air and says "Yum! I smell honey!" The baby mole tries to stick his head out of the hole to sniff the air, but can't because the bigger moles are in the way so he says, "Geez, all I can smell is....


MOLASSES!

Wednesday, September 18, 2002

WHY NOT?

COUNTDOWN:

Ten movies you'd watch over and over:

1. True Grit
2. The Wild Bunch
3. Little Big Man
4. 2001: A Space Oddessy
5. The Big Chill
6. The Outlaw Josey Wales
7. A Clockwork Orange
8. Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead
9. Woodstock
10. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Nine people you enjoy the company of:
1. My son
2. Recondo 32
3. His lovely wife, Georgia
4. Willy
5. Ed, the ex-linebacker
6. Young Jack from across the street
7. Da Goddess
8. Cop 3
9. My brother

Eight things you're wearing:
I'm not wearing ANYTHING right now. I usually don't when I'm home alone, or with a REALLY GOOD friend. Okay, I lied. I'm wearing READING GLASSES!

Seven Things on your Mind:
1. Finishing this stupid list
2. Getting the rental car back to the airport by 5:00 and getting home from work tomorrow
3. Wondering if a doctor could help these horrible bounts of depression I experience sometimes
4. Hoping I can sleep tonight
5. Boiled peanuts
6. My son
7. My ex-wife

Six objects you touch everyday:
1. "Roscoe"
2. My computer keyboard
3. A roll of toilet paper
4. Cigarettes and lighter
5. Some sort of alcoholic beverage
6. The hearts and minds of everyone I encounter on the Road of Life

Five things you do everyday:
1. Get out of bed
2. Smoke cigarettes
3. Drink some sort of alcoholic beverage
4. Blog
5. Get back into bed

Four bands that you couldn't live without:
1. There IS no band that I could not live without. But I LIKE:
2. John Prine
3. Joni Mitchell
4. Dire Straights

Three of your favorite songs at this moment:
1. "Souvenirs," by Steve Goodman, as performed by John Prine (a song about my life)
2. "Sultans of Swing," by Dire Straits (the best lead guitar riffs EVER)
3. "Never Leave Harlan Alive," by Patty Loveless. (speaks to my roots and I cry when I listen to it)

Two people that have influenced your life the most:
1. My father
2. My ex-wife

One person that you love more than anyone in the world:
1. Without question, my 8 year-old son, Quinton. He's the only reason I bother doing those five things I do every day.


It's been a long time since BLOGGER ate a post of mine, but it just did. I hate it when that happens.

I did manage to put JONIE'S NEW URL on my blogroll. I'm not finished fighting with that red-toenailed woman yet.
Why not just PAY THE WHORES? After all, it's only taxpayers' money and Bill, Hillary, Vernon and Monica are barely making ends meet anymore.

We could pay their legal bills and still never RAID THE SOCIAL SECURITY TRUST FUND to come up with the money. No, the "lockbox" can remain intact, even though the reputations of those corrupt individuals whoring for dollars should not.

My aching ass...
I sometimes believe that things are fucked-up where I work, but I cannot recall a single incident at my plant where THE TRAIN PULLED AWAY FROM THE STATION WITHOUT THE ENGINEER. We might have had the WRONG engineer on board a few times, and the train might have derailed when it shouldn't have, but at least we always had a driver in the driver's seat.

PASSENGERS watched a man running to catch their train as it left a station — then realised he was the DRIVER.
The railwayman was chatting to colleagues when he saw the runaway diesel unit rolling down the track with no one at the controls.
As horrified passengers looked on, he sprinted 100 yards down the platform and leapt into his cab to hit the brakes.

Shocked traveller Ann Sutton, 60, said: “We were all terrified. It was a terrible shock and I was shaking an hour later.


Yeah, I would be shocked at the incompetence of an engineer who allowed his train to chug off without him, but I don't believe the situation would "terrify" me. How difficult can it be to drive a train? I mean, it's not like you can take a wrong turn and GET LOST. The damned train goes where the tracks lead it, and the switches are all preset. Aboard an un-engineered train, I might just climb in the cab and blow the steam whistle for a while, with a big grin on my face. Whatta HOOT!

If you need to STOP the train, how difficult can THAT be? It's not like flying an airplane, where one ignorant move can send you augering into the dirt from 20,000 feet at 500 miles per hour. No, it's more like you examine all the buttons and switches and levers and say, "I wonder what THIS THING does?" You fiddle with that thing and discover that it makes the train go FASTER. Okay, it's not THAT one, so let's try THIS one next. Eventually, you'll find the brake. No big deal.

Hell, I would have that guy's job in twenty minutes.

When I set out to be a Bombastic Bubba on this site, I prepared well, because I knew that I would need to utilize a wide variety of words to be corrosive but avuncular, bellicose yet existential, and truculent but charismatic. I enjoyed perusing THIS LIST of 100 Words All High-School Graduates (and their Parents) Should Know.

I would be recondite if I didn't confess, as a palliative to those who believe my ego knows no bounds, that I didn't know them ALL. I missed ONE.

Tuesday, September 17, 2002

I read this post by the RIGHT WING TEXAN yesterday, but I didn't feel like writing about it at the time. I had my usual case of Monday Blues, I was driving a goddam faggot car, and I knew that I had a long day of meetings and matrix-making waiting on me today. All of that is over now, and I can retrieve my fully-repaired truck tomorrow.

So, I went back and read the post again.

I'll never get to be a grandfather. I don't believe that my daughter is inclined in that direction, and even if she were, she lives in Fort Worth, so I couldn't just bop over on weekends and kidnap the kid for my spoiling and adulation. I face facts. I'll never be "Paw-Paw" to a grandchild of mine.

I wish I could be. I believe that I'm an excellent weekend daddy to my son and his friends, but that role really bothers me sometimes. I miss a lot of him, and he misses a lot of what I could give him. His mama takes good care of him, but a boy needs a man in his life, and that dope-smoking, unemployed lover the ex-wife has chosen as her designated pissboy AIN'T what he needs.

But, I have no choice and no control over that part of his life. A divorce judge who resembled Howard Sprague made those decisions for me.

My son never knew his grandfathers, because they both upped and died on him. My father did, just over a year before Quinton was born. His other grandfather saw Quinton in diapers, then dropped dead before the boy was a year old. He asks me to talk about his "grandaddies" a lot. He would have adored both of them, and the competition for his affections would have been hilarious between those two very competitive men. The poor boy was robbed.

Shit happens. I believe that we're BOTH being robbed now, and that thought puts more gray hair on my head every day and causes me to lay awake in bed at night when I should be sleeping. The reason I attacked a 20-something "feminist" over her fucktarded ideas about how badly women have it in the world today is because I have been on the other end of the teeter-totter. Even after renting the most expensive lawyer in town, I was raped by a legal system that sees all women as saints and all men as sinners, no matter what the circumstances.

I had everything I ever cared about except my job excised from my life, and the court dictated that I pay a LOT of what I earn from my job for the privilege of witnessing its legal wisdom. My right-and-wrong-o'meter pegged out in the Red Zone during that episode, but MY concept of right and wrong didn't matter. When life hands you a lemon, you make lemonade, right?

What do you do when life hands you a shit sandwich?

I'll tell you what you do. You EAT IT, because there is no other choice. But I don't believe that my boy should have to eat it, too. Life already robbed him of two grandfathers.

And it robbed ME of HIM!

Every now and then, I become a little carried away with myself and cross certain lines. Sometimes, I don't give a rat's ass when I offend somebody who deserves it, but when I hit the WRONG TARGET I genuinely regret that.

All this bowing and scraping is gonna hurt my old, decrepit football knees, but I'm attempting to right a wrong here.
I have a few liberal acquaintences, but I never talk politics or philosophy with them for fear that I might feel an irresistible urge to choke the life out of them for the good of mankind. We just drink and play music, which keeps everything on an even keel.

I believe that liberals are DANGEROUS PEOPLE. Their world-view is entirely dyslexic, and their understanding of human nature is obscenely distorted. I learned more about handling difficult people on the playgrounds and football fields of public schools than any LIBERAL IDIOT did from reading lenghty philosophical tracts and imagining what a perfect world should be.

I moved to Savannah from Harlan County, Kentucky when I was six years old. I was a small, skinny kid who spoke with a funny accent. I was bully-fodder from Day One.

I outran the bad guys at first, until the day my father came to pick me up from school and saw me running from "Butch," the ultimate bully. When I ran to the car, I remember the clenched muscles in his jaw as we rode to Stubb's Hardware and Sporting Goods to purchase two pairs of boxing gloves before we went home that day. I was pummelled unmercifully that night, during extensive boxing lessons, then given a simple edict: "I'll be picking you up tomorrow. You can run from that guy and be CERTAIN of a whuppin' from ME, or you can fight him and take your chances. The worst that can happen is HE WHUPS YOU, and I'll guarantee that he can't hit as hard as I can. But if you fight, you might WHUP HIM. You decide."

I was running from Butch again after school the next day when I saw my father step out of that beautiful 1957 Chevy Bel-Aire, cross his (GIGANTIC) arms across his chest and lean against the car while watching to see what I would do. I took about one-half a nano-second to decide. I stopped dead in my tracks, turned around and punched Butch square in the nose just as hard as I could, the way my father had taught me to do the night before. Thanks to his momentum and my fist, the blow was very effective, sending a spray of bright red blood everywhere.

Butch hit the ground and started CRYING! I was on him like stink on a cow-pie after that, and I beat the living crap out of him. My father finally came to pull me off. I was crying by then, I had snot running from my nose, enemy blood all over my clothes, and I was in the throes of an absolute, primitive Red Rage. My father bought me a Three Musketeers candy bar on the way home and gave me this advice: "Don't ever start a fight. But don't EVER run from one, either. When people know that you'll fight, they'll leave you alone. I'm proud of what you did today."

Butch never fucked with me again. In fact, Butch never fucked with ANYBODY again, while I was around. NOBODY ELSE fucked with me either. My father was right. In a perfect, liberal-imagined world, I should have been able to explain to Butch that his actions were counter-productive to mutual understanding and potential friendship, and that I would not run from him anymore just to prove my good intentions and to show that I was "reaching out" to him. He then would have mopped up the playground with my face every day after school. When I whupped his ass, however, no more talk was necessary. Our relationship became very clear, very quickly.

By the way, that "Red Rage" served me very well on the football field later in my life. I was more afraid of my father than I was the first bully I fought. I was more afraid of my defensive coach than I was anyone I ever faced on a football field. That attitude tends to make you crazy-mean. That IS NOT a bad thing when it comes to fights or football.

The world is like that, too Liberals preached appeasement and unilateral disarmament during the Cold War and SWORE that crazy-mean Ronald Reagan would blow up the world if he didn't listen to their whining and hand-wringing. Reagan stood up to the bully on the playground and we have no more "Evil Empire" or Berlin Wall today. Did liberals learn a damned thing from that lesson? HELL NO!

They still believe in group-hugging, singing "Kumbaya," making-nice and MASTURBATING FOR PEACE, which is about the finest example of liberal thinking that I can imagine. This crap never worked in the past, it won't work to solve anything today and it's REALLY STUPID. But liberals can't stop being idiots, because they fit the perfect definition of a fool: "Keep doing what always fails and hope for better results NEXT time."

In truth, liberals are the ultimate bullies. They preach "compassion," but hold the average in American in such low esteem that they believe that he/she can't survive without all sorts of "help." That "help" means pushing you around, telling you what to do, and riding herd on every aspect of your life, but they don't have the balls to meet you on the playground face-to-face and MAKE you do what they say. They rely on government, bureaucracy and a tar-baby of regulations to do their fighting for them.

Liberals are bullies, and liberals are cowards, but I learned early in life that most bullies ARE cowards.

Does "BILL CLINTON" ring a bell?





Neither my son nor my daughter ever showed the slightest interest in doing THIS, and I remain very disappointed by that fact. Making music has been an important part of my life for a long time, and I sired two children who don't care about it at all.

I gave up on my daughter a long time ago, but when my son was born I hoped that MAYBE he would have the musical bug and want to learn to play. When he was very small, still in diapers, the only way to make him stop crying when his belly ached or if he had a fever was for me to play and sing for him. He loved Gordon Lightfoot's "Pony Man." I once had many beautiful pictures of the young man sitting mesmerized, listening while I played until my fingers hurt and sang until I was hoarse.

I got divorced from those pictures, but I remember believing that someday he might appreciate that vintage Martin, the old Guild, the gutsy Telecaster and the rest of the instruments in my collection. Unfortunately, he outgrew his early inclinations. He's not bad on "air guitar" when he feels like rocking out, but I'll be surprised if he ever wants to learn to actually play anything. I am saddened by that realization, because I could teach him a lot, and he'll never know what he's missing if he never tries to play. But he could care less...

If my brother is still alive when I die, I'll will the Martin to him. He's always lusted after that guitar, even though he has a very fine Gallagher of his own. He will play it, then pass it on to someone else who will play it when he croaks, and that's a GOOD thing. That guitar sounds like no other guitar I've ever heard. It's almost 40 years old and it deserves to be played for couple of hundred more years.

The rest of the stuff can go at a garage sale or on an E-Bay auction. My children don't want these pieces of wood, craftsmanship and sound, but there's bound to be somebody else in the world who does. I want that person to have them when I'm gone. PLAY those suckers! Fill your home and your life with MUSIC! It's GOOD for you!

I wish I had musical children. But I don't.



Monday, September 16, 2002

Where does my picture go when it goes away?

Sometimes it's there, and sometimes it's not. What causes that?
SOUTHERN TERRORIST ADVISORY

ATLANTA ( AP September 11) - The governors of Alabama, South Carolina, Arkansas, Georgia, and Mississippi announced today that they have made a disturbing discovery in their states. Apparently, a small number of Al Qaeda terrorists have become romantically involved with local redneck girls. The result is not pretty and the governors now have the sad task of reporting the emergence of a new race: Islamabubbas.

So far, only a smattering of actual births have been reported, but Pat Robertson's Christian Coalition is hard at work trying to isolate and seal them off. To date, the Coalition has identified the following offspring:

Mohammed Billy Bob Abba Bubba
Mohammed Jethro Bin Thinkin Bout It
Mohammed Rubba Dub Dubba Bubba
Bobbie Joe Bubba Amgood Atat
Betty Jean Hasbeena Badgurl
Linda Sue Bin There Dunthat


Not surprisingly, the Coalition believes they all seem to have sprung from one couple: Mohammed Whoozyadaddy and Yomamma Bin Lovin.

I didn't make this up. It was sent by my COONASS BUDDY in Louisana.
Damn! I believe that DONNA posted a really "dirty" foot picture for my enjoyment, but the link won't open right now.

Damn!

UPDATE! The LINK works now, but DON'T GO THERE! Donna's feet are dirty... and her TOES ARE NEKKID!

NO toenail polish! That's... that's... TEASING ME, that's what it is! Donna, I could fix that for you, if you lived across the street or just down the road. I have an hour before bedtime. ASK GEORGIA! I'm GOOD at painting toes (just don't ask for a second coat on a Saturday night when I've been drinking all day). I do fingernails, too!

You poor girl. I looked at the picture again, and I decided that it was a cry for help. I wish I was there to respond.

I'm certain I would do an EXCELLENT job if I rode to your house in that faggot-car I'm driving now. I might even redecorate your living room while I was there.

And maybe go buy a gerbil afterward....
My truck is in the shop and I am driving a sparkling, Bulldog Red Chevrolet Cavalier for the next few days.

I feel like a goddam faggot.

If that car had bicycle pedals on the floorboard, I would feel more dignified driving it down the road than I do operating gas and brake in that pathetic little rolling beer can. Actually, it's probably not that bad, but it FEELS bad to ME. I've been dreaming of owning an URBAN ASSAULT VEHICLE, and now I end up with the kind of car doting parents buy for their precious daughter on her 16th birthday. If I have a wreck in that thing, it'll crumple like aluminum foil and I will die a most ignominious death, crushed to death in a Girl Car!

I want my truck back!

Sunday, September 15, 2002

Thanks for the picture, Goddess.

Billy Bob Thornton, my ass!
Okay, I gave it to Rich, so I'm going to give it to MARC, too.

1) Marc is semi-aware of what a Brazilian Bikini wax is.
Marc is semi-aware, period.

2) He says freaky porn should be enjoyed in small doses.
People who have seen him nekkid call him "small dose."

He says he's in love. (I keep trying to tell him he's too young for me.....but he insists.)
He's in love with himself. Women frighten him.

4) Melly, his "techno-weenie", is the supposed object of his affection.
Melly has a weenie bigger than Marc's.

5) Marc was fondling computers long before he was fondling women.
He hasn't started fondling women yet. He's still practicing on himself.

6) While he maintains that he was potty trained early in life, and that it stuck, he refuses to answer my bedwetting questions.
He was the only member of the KKK to show up at meetings wearing a rubber sheet.

7) He's been to 21 of the 50 United States. Of course, the last time he was in California he failed to come visit me. Same thing happened when he was in Colorado.
He dares not return to 18 of those 21 states due to outstanding arrest warrants.

8) He denies that his mother's dropping him on his head as a baby has anything to do with his propensity to throw himself down stairs.
Oh? He finally quit trying to throw himself UP stairs?

9) Marc has a pussy. Her name is Sophie.
Marc also has an ass. It's name is "Moon Pie."

10) He's virtually clueless about great filmaking.
Marc is virtually clueless, period.

11) He doesn't explore my links.
Too busy playing with his own "link."

12) He can't find the gerbil.
They couldn't find it in the emergency room at the hospital that night, either. The doctors remain baffled. Marc twitches a lot when he sits down.

13) Nailcare isn't high on his list of priorities and he refuses to paint his toenails for Acidman.
He has offered me Moon Pie....

14) He prefers blood over spinach or squash. Not OVER it. As in a dressing. Meaning he'd rather have to deal with blood than those two food items.
He pickes his nose and eats the boogers. HE'S gonna lecture about food?

15) Bored easily, Marc thinks computers challenge him intellectually. Um...Marc? Isn't a computer as smart as you make it?
Marc is challenged intellectually by green plants and insect life.

16) He has no clue as to his "type"
He has no clue, period.

17) Somewhere between his beer mug and his beef, he has breasts on ice.
Right. Somewhere between his legs, there's a missing gerbil.

18) The man has odd taste in music. Believes that "Whoomp! There it is!" is worthy of having in one's collection.
Okay! HE FOUND THE GERBIL!

19) A cross-over cable is needed for transferring the data from one computer to the other via an ethernet connection but he's unwilling to make a damn housecall and do it for me.
Marc cross-dresses, too.

20) He sticks his tongue out far too frequently. I'm wondering what he's hoping will alight there.
You don't want to know. It's disgusting!

21) He isn't into satisfying assholes.
He prefers that bikers with lots of tattoos satisfy HIS!

22) He rides a mountain bike in Tennessee.
He falls off that bike a lot.

23) Marc says he lucked into his job. I had to read that response twice because I wanted to make sure it didn't say "fucked"
He had to be lucky. Who in their right mind would hire Marc?

24) Regarding his bosses, he says: "I do anything and everything that they need me to do. I find every aspect interesting. I know I can't know it all, but that doesn't stop me from trying anyway."
They call him "pissboy" around the office.

25) He wouldn't weave a basket underwater.
He can't find his Moon Pie with both hands, either. What's surprising about this?

The Cracker still can't manage to upload a freakin' photo and has once again come crawling to me to do it for him. "I don't need anyone" my ass!

So, because he whined and made desperate promises if I would do this for him (and, I will make him keep his word!), here he is, again:



Don't be telling him how good looking he is. He's using a stunt double for these pics.
Da Goddess
I just tried to post a picture on this page and I farked it all up again. I am hopeless.

I'm going to cook some supper. THAT, I can do.
BWHAHAHAHAHA!

Read THIS FROM MARN.

I actually had something like that happen to me back in my jogging days. After a 10-K race, I was sitting cross-legged on the ground and drinking a beer when a silver-haired grandmother-type walked by, leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Son, one of your balls is hanging outside your shorts."

I looked down, and SURE ENOUGH, she was correct! I tucked the wandering testicle back where it belonged and thanked her. She walked away with a smile on her face.

If she had been twenty years younger, I might have asked her to do it for me... Hell, I should have asked anyway!

I found this interesting link at THE GROUP CAPTAIN'S place, which is becoming more and more depraved every day.
Recondo 32, Georgia and I decided to have something different for breakfast this morning, so we went to the Waffle House instead of the Huddle House. Other than the sign over the place, there isn't much difference between the two, and the food is good, so you really can't go wrong if you're hungry for grits and eggs. We just decided to turn left rather than turn right this morning.

The last time I took Georgia to a steakhouse, she ordered a salad. Today, I took her to a breakfast place, and she ordered a steak. DO NOT attempt to read her mind. The woman marches to a drumbeat no one else can hear. But she DID have very pretty Bulldog Red toenails, and I know that I DID paint them last night, because she bitched about me going to bed before I put on a second coat of polish. She also bitched because I didn't paint her fingernails to match.

Well, I had been drinking.... A LOT!

Recondo 32 is coming over tomorrow to pick me up at Dixie Motors 21, where I intend to deposit my truck after work. I believe that the oxygen sensor is gone off the reservation, because my mighty-horse V-8 engine has run like a 1972 four-cylinder Chevy Vega for the past week. I need that problem fixed. Way up here in the woods, I require reliable transportation. I'll have all the belts and hoses replaced, and I'm going to buy four new tires, too, (almost 70,000 miles in four years-- 60 miles per day just to work and back) so I will rent a car for a few days and pay for intensive therapy on my truck. I'm going to take it to Harold's Body Shop when I retrieve it from Dixie Motors to get the deer-dent removed from the left rear quarter-panel, too.

After that, I'll be riding around in an absolute babe-magnet.

Country girls LIKE pickup trucks!

We live in a SICK WORLD.
What time is it?

Just checking. Da Goddess reset my blogger clock to Left Coast time. I couldn't stand that, so it's fixed now.
UGH! The longer I'm awake, the more I feel like Fido's Ass this morning.

I need a Huddle House breakfast... yeah, grits and eggs, biscuits and gravy and a glass of cold orange juice.

Or maybe a tall Bloody Mary and four tylenol...
Sunday Stumpers

1) Have you ever been offered something or made an offer that seems too good to be true? What was it?

When my ex-wife set out to seduce and marry me. I couldn't believe my good fortune. And guess what? IT WAS too good to be true.

2) Do you have at least one good friend who really "gets" you? Do you "get" them?

Yes, I have several. All are REALLY strange. That's why they get me and I get them.

3) What's the strangest thing you've ever done for a friend?

What I do for my friends never seems strange to us. OTHER PEOPLE may call it strange, but we don't.

4) What is the toughest thing you've ever done or been asked to do for a friend?

I've done a lot of things other people would call "tough," but I don't. When I went to my first fraternity rush in college, my two best friends came with me. During the evening, I was pulled aside by one of the Head Brothers and told, "You're Pike material, but your friends aren't." I left with my friends shortly thereafter and never went to another rush. I also never told them what happened. I never joined a fraternity, either.

I have bailed friends out of jail, given them a place to crash when they were drunk or heartbroken, listened when they wanted to talk, put rooves on their houses, used my truck to help them move and generally been the same thing to them that they have been to me. That's not "tough." That's what friends do.

5) What's the best piece of advice a friend has ever given you? Or what did they say that brought things into focus for you?

I've had wonderful advice from my few good friends many times over the years. I just don't listen. Maybe that's why things NEVER have been in focus for me.

Recondo 32 and Georgia stayed in the Crackerbox last night. They had too much beer at Wisenbacker's to be driving back to South Carolina after the football game, so we inflated The Palestinian Bomber (that's my blow-up bed), put crisp, clean sheets on it, and drank some MORE beer in celebration of our accomplishment. The rest of the evening is kinda hazy in my memory. Do you sometimes wake up, amazed to find yourself in your own bed, and wonder just how the hell you got there? That happened to me this morning.

Georgia is asleep on the Bomber. Recondo 32 never made it off the couch. I threw the ratty white blanket over him (I think) sometime after midnight. I believe that I painted Georgia's toenails, but that could have been one of those fevered, alcoholic dreams I had last night. I would go lift the blanket she's under and check to see if she has bright, Bulldog Red toenails, but I don't want to wake her up. It's 5:30 in the morning.

NOBODY should be awake at that ungodly hour!
About that football game yesterday....

Is it just me, or does Lou Holtz appear to be a 270 year-old, walking fossil to other people, too?
My beloved Georgia Bulldogs prevailed over South Carolina 13-7 in what the RIGHT-WING TEXAN called "The Cracker Bowl" and I called the STINK BOWL after watching the game down at Wisenbacker's Bar with Recondo 32, his wife, Georgia, and several pitchers of beer. Georgia's (the football team, not Recondo 32's wife) only touchdown was scored by the defense, and they managed to keep their nuts out of the fire thanks only to a fumble by the SC offense near the goal line at the end of the game.

I am delighted that the Dawgs won (especially since Recondo 32 is a rabid SC fan), but I didn't like leaving the bar amid that stench of raw sewage their performance brought to my nostrils. If they play like that against Tennessee, they'll have their nuts not only handed to them, but shoved right down their throats.

I suggest wind sprints. LOTS of wind sprints, for the entire goddam team.