Saturday, October 19, 2002

My F SCORE is mere 3.4, which makes me "disciplined but tolerant-- a true American." I knew that all along, even if others might suspect differently. THIS TEST proves it and will expose your inner wimp, inner fascist or... inner ME!

The test was shamelessly stolen from MARC, who stole it from someone else. He is a true American, too.

Blogger tried to eat it again, but I managed to save THE LATEST POST from my son on his new blog.

When we set up the blog, he wanted to call it "Quinton Farted." I talked him out of that name, but he didn't stray far from his original intentions with his second choice. Due to some maintenance problems I wasn't quite finished with in my bedroom last night, (yeah... there's one hell of a blog just waiting to be told about THAT) we both slept on the couch. Quinton was under the ratty white blanket on the love seat and I was under a comforter on the sofa. I had to get him up and moving in time to drive 40 miles to a soccer game by 8:00 this morning, so I woke him at 6:45.

He sat up, looked at me with sleepy eyes.... and started making fart-noises with a hand in his armpit. I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP! So, his blog title fits; the flower of my joy is a FART BLOSSOM.

I will be leaving Blogger shortly, and I hope to bid it a fond farewell. But I may leave cussing like a sailor if it keeps screwing with my kid's posts. I am accustomed to the hassle, and I put up with it. My son will shoot the computer with fart-bullets he manufactures using his armpit and a pointed finger, and he will wander off to do other things if Blogger screws with him. I hope that doesn't happen, although even Blogger Pro has stopped publishing for most of today and he's operating on simple Blogspot.
I'm not sure he's ready for an upgrade just yet.

He would rather make fart-noises with his armpit anyway.



I found THIS LINK on The Group Captain's Page and it made me think, which is NOT my forte. But I agree with the Group Captain that a couple of names don't belong on that list of the 10 Greatest Britons of All Time. If a similar poll were taken in the USA now would we end up with something like this?

Top 10 Americans of All Time:

1) Bill Clinton
2) Ophra Winfrey
3) Hillary Clinton
4) Martin Luther King Junior Boulevard
5) Rosie O'Donnell
6) Brad Pitt
7) Barbra Streisand Shakespere
8) At least One Dead Kennedy (I forget which one... is Ted still alive?... okay, it's not HIM...it's one of the good-looking ones...)
9) Jesse Jackson
10) Jerry Garcia


Such a list would not surprise me at all, given the popular confusion between fame and greatness today. Here are my picks of the Top Ten Americans, for what they're worth. If you've never heard of a few, it's probably because they haven't been on TV or People magazine lately.

1) George Washington
2) Thomas Jefferson
3) Benjamin Franklin
4) Robert E. Lee
5) Theodore Roosevelt
6) Samuel Clemens
7) Ronald Reagan
8) Chuck Yeager
9) Sam Walton
10) My Mama


I have good reasons for chosing every one, and I would be happy to debate anyone who disagrees with me.
I see from my comments that SISOFLEXX has never heard of Blood Mountain, even though she lives just 10 miles from Dahlonega. That goes to show that you can NEVER really Southernize a Yankee.

Blood Mountain is in the middle of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by Cleveland to the south, Blairsville to the north and Helen and Dahlonega on the flanks. It's on highway 129, at the border of Union County and the Applachian Trail. I would say "you can't miss it," but you can. I didn't, and neither did DAX MONTANA.

But we're Southern boys. The lovely miss Georgia had no trouble locating the place, either. But she's a Southern woman.

Some things you just can't explain...
I really don't understand why I do a lot of the things I do. I picked up my son yesterday and was notified by the BC that Quinton had 1) a soccer game at 8:00 in the morning all the way over in southside Savannah, then 2) a car wash at the Sonic drive-in in Rincon from 11:00 until 1:00.

I had a few objections to this schedule.

First of all, I cut my vacation short and paid for a cabin that I left two days early to be with my son this weekend. Had I known he was so heavily booked on his social calender, I may have reconsidered that choice. It would have been nice to know before 6:00 on Friday, when I picked him up.

Second, who in the hell except an overbearing Soccer Mom, who does this shit a lot more for HER personal gratification than my son's, has him scheduled to play soccer at sunrise forty miles away from home, then wash cars in 50-degree weather TWO miles away from home when the game is over? That's batshit planning to me. And it's also batshit thinking. Eight year-olds don't need to be washing cars in this kind of weather. I started to ask, "How much money do they expect to raise at this all-important car wash? If I write 'em a fucking check for that amount, plus fifty dollars, can I keep Quinton today?" It's MY SATURDAY with him.

Third, I see my son every other weekend, from 6:00 on Friday evening until 6:00 on Sunday evening. The BC has him THE REST OF HIS LIFE and I don't appreciate her booking MY weekend with shit SHE wants him to do. I took him to the soccer game this morning, at 8:00 so that he could warm up before the face-off, kick-off or whatever the hell they call the start of a soccer game at 8:30. She arrived 30 seconds before the beginning of the game and was one hell of a show all by herself. I didn't know she was there until I heard her holding court from a lawn chair ten yards away. The men gathered around like flies on shit (and YES, that is a PERFECT analogy) as the other Soccer Moms stared in abject adoration at the Queen of Them All. The game was a sideshow that really deflected the spotlight from her.

I didn't receive so much as a how-de-do, and I wanted to puke. While I'm standing there tasting food I ate three days ago on Blood Mountain, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw the only person in the world I despise more than the Bloodless Cunt. "How are you doing, Rob," said Joe Thompson, the most worthless, scheming, ass-kissing, loogie-stain of a person I've EVER met in my life. He stuck out his hand to me. I kept my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

"I wasn't doing worth a shit, then I saw you. The day just got worse."

So, I left. I elbowed my way through her throngs of fans to reach the Soccer Goddess and told her, "I'm outta here. When Quinton is finished with the grand multiple-county tour you have planned for him today, you can bring him back to my house or not. But if his "schedule" on MY WEEKENDS has any more shit like today on it, notify the coach, the car-washers and EVERYBODY ELSE involved that he won't be there."

I am certain that she can explain to her adoring fans what a total asshole I am, without mentioning the unemployed dope-smoker and the other downright sleazy things she has done to me. That's fine. But she needs to get her greasy fingers out of my son's head and stop manipulating that boy for her own aggrandizement. My son didn't want to play soccer this morning. He warmed the bench for all but about two minutes while I was there, and he DAMNED SURELY didn't want to wash cars after the game. SHE wanted that.

Now, I don't know if he'll be back here today or not. That depends on her mood, I suppose. But I know one thing.

I'll never have to ask that question again.

Friday, October 18, 2002

A CERTAIN INDIVIDUAL may want to hear the rest of a story I told him on Blood Mountain. I realize that most people who read this blog can't understand how I could ever even POSSIBLY piss someone off with the rants I write, and when I tell them about hateful or threatening emails I receive, they laugh and call me paranoid. Maybe so, but I have gotten a few missives that fall into that "I Know What You Did Last Summer" category.

The anonymous ones don't bother me, because any asshole too cowardly to identify himself damned surely doesn't have the balls to look me in the face and strike me dead. Those jackoffs lead rich fantasy lives. They also smoke cigarette butts that they pluck out of uninals in public bathrooms and de-pissify under that modified hair-dryer in the corner of the Men's Room before they light them and grin like a mule eating briars the entire time. Fuckwits. Maybe the DC sniper wrote me. But that nutless wonder prefers to shoot schoolboys and gas-pumpers, hero that he is, so I don't worry.

I usually carry a gun. (Or keep one fairly handy, at least) If he shoots at ME, he had better not miss.

But a couple of the folks who want to see me dead, or "punished" for my writing don't mind saying who they are, or promising that they will "get me," given the chance. I don't intend to give them the chance, but John Hinkleys exist in this world, and I may be receiving love notes from one of them. I believe most of that shit is 99.9% bluff, but you never really know...

So, Dax, that was why I reacted the way I did in the woods when I first met you. Yeah, I was worried for a moment there. But I almost wish you had been the assassin sent to kill me. You remember what I told you about the cleanup operation that was supposed to occur at my house while I was camping?

It didn't happen. And the end result was WORSE than Recondo 32 predicted. It was a horrific return home. At least the swarm of ants I discovered in the bedroom ate most of the evidence.

But they didn't eat the smell....

Beware, bloggers! There is a NEW KID ON THE BLOCK and he's destined for greatness.

The little sucker reminds me a lot of me. But I DID NOT pick the name of his page, nor did I describe it for him. I talked him out of doing WORSE! The pup may take to blogging like a black lab does to water.

It wouldn't surprise me if he did....
As I was packing Sunday evening for my trip to the mountains, I received a phone call.

"Want some company?" asked Recondo 32. He had experienced one of his frequent brain-farts and decided that he wanted to amass fantastic wealth by panning for gold around Dahlonega. I already had told him earlier in the week that he and his lovely wife, Georgia, were welcome to use the cabin for the weekend after I went back home, but he decided to get a head start, so I told him to come on. I picked him up where he lives in Nowhere, South Carolina, and took him with me. We argued the entire trip.

I believe that I am just twisted enough to really enjoy the company of someone who argues about EVERYTHING, including what kind of gas I choose to put in my truck and what kind of dressing I like on a McDonald's hamburger. Recondo 32 does that. If I hadn't had that asshole around to keep the waters churning and muddy, I might have become lonely up high in that cabin. Thanks to his lively wit and spouting pie-hole, I never had the chance. I mainly stayed pissed off, and thought about killing him more than once.

Isn't it GREAT to have friends?
This post is for all the women who believe that I am an insensitive beast of a pig of a swine.

Ever wondered what it would be like if Dear Abby was a man?

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband wants a threesome with my best friend and me.

A: Obviously your husband cannot get enough of you! Knowing that there is only one of you, he can only settle for the next best thing - your best friend. Far from being an issue, this can bring you closer together. Why not get some of your old college oommates involved too? If you are still apprehensive, maybe you should let him be with your friends without you. If you're still not sure then just perform oral sex on him and cook him a nice meal, while you think about it.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband continually asks me to perform oral sex on him.


A.: Do it. Sperm can help you loose weight and gives a great glow to your skin. Interestingly, men know this. His offer to allow you to perform oral sex on him is totally selfless. This shows he loves you. The best thing to do is to thank him by performing it twice a day. Then cook him a nice meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband has too many nights out with the boys.

A: This is perfectly natural behavior and it should be encouraged. The man is a hunter and he needs to prove his prowess with other men. A night out chasing young single girls is a great stress relief and can foster a more peaceful and relaxing home. Remember, nothing can rekindle your relationship better than the man being away for a day or two (it's a great time to clean the house too)! Just look at how emotional and happy he is when he returns to his stable home. The best thing to do when he gets home is for you and your best friend to perform oral sex on him. Then cook him a nice meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband doesn't know where my clitoris is.

A: Your clitoris is of no concern to your husband. If you must mess with it, do it in your own time or ask your best friend to help. You may wish to videotape yourself while doing this, and present it to your husband as a birthday gift. To ease your selfish guilt, perform oral sex on him and cook him a delicious meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband is uninterested in foreplay.

A: You are a bad person for bringing it up and should seek sensitivity training. Foreplay to a man is very stressful and time consuming. Sex should be available to your husband on demand with no pesky requests for foreplay. What this means is that you do not love your man as much as you should - he should never have to work to get you in the mood. Stop being so selfish! Perhaps you can make it up to him by performing oral sex on him and cook him a nice meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband always has an orgasm then rolls over and goes to sleep never giving me one.

A: I'm not sure I understand the problem. Perhaps you've forgotten to cook him a nice meal?

I did not write that stuff, but I COULD have. Hell, sometimes I think I SHOULD have. If you believe that I'm wrong, feel free to change my mind by bringing your best friend over to the Crackerbox. After you BOTH perform oral sex on me, I'll tell you what I think of the nice meal you cook afterward.

If I don't roll over and go to sleep first.

I have returned. I am alive.

I also am tired, hung-over and filled with stories that I do not have time to tell right now. I need a shower and a glass of white zin first. I just wish to assure everyone that it was a GOOD TRIP.

A few more like that one will kill my Cracker ass, too.

Monday, October 14, 2002

It's still dark outside, and I have most of my travelling stuff piled in the living room floor. A cold front is moving in today, and the temperature is supposed to be in the low 30s in North Georgia tonight. Good fireplace and campfire weather, but maybe not so good for sitting on the deck of the cabin and playing my guitar to the trees. Or playing that mountain golf course in Blairsville, either, but I'm taking my beloved Martin AND my sometimes-beloved King Cobras with me. I can always play guitar INSIDE the cabin, and if I don't touch the golf clubs, it won't be anything different from the last year and a half.

I've also decided to come back home next Friday. That way, I don't have to work out a change in my son's visitation with the despised ex-wife, and I'll have some time before I go back to work to complete at least some of the 500 things I should have done already but didn't. Besides, I'll probably be suffering the DTs of serious blog-withdrawal by then.

I'm kinda looking forward to the drive up there. I know all the back-roads and shortcuts between here and Athens (thanks to my days as a student at The University of Georgia) and I want to see if I can get from here to Blood Mountain in five hours. Unencumbered by a wife and a child, I won't have to stop for food (twice) and bathrooms (every 50 miles), so I believe that I can make the trip in a blue streak, as long as I avoid detection and detention by any local constabulary I encounter along the way.

I believe that speed limits are fungible rules, to be obeyed only if you have a good chance of being caught violating them. So, I drive fast. I intend to do that again today.

And I'll be back Friday evening, if all goes well.

Sunday, October 13, 2002

I have about 500 things I really ought to do before I leave for the mountains tomorrow. I should have done 250 of them yesterday, but I drank beer and watched football games instead. Now, I'm faced with a task-list that is impossible to complete, so I probably won't even start.

Fuck it. I'm on vacation.
I went down to Weisenbaker's Bar yesterday to watch the Dawgs on a big-screen TV and eat dead, burnt beef while young waitresses with red toenails provided me with frozen mugs full of beer. I don't drink beer often anymore, but the Killian's Red was delicious, especially when the bar was not crowded and the Dawgs kicked Tennessee's ass while I cheered and barked as if I were on the 50 yard-line at Sanford Stadium. One of the waitresses, named "Nichole," was very attentive and mentioned that her mama has been divorced for a year and NEVER goes out, and I am "perfect" for her, being the handsome and charming "older" man that I am. She gave me her MAMA'S PHONE NUMBER, too. Mama is named "Lisa."

I called Lisa last night and got an answering machine, so I left a message saying that I would call back. I didn't have to. She called ME back. I may have dinner with her AND Nichole tonight, just to prove that I'm not a crazed rapist and a sexual deviant. (I am NOT a crazed rapist... just crazed.) Lisa lives about two miles away, and I hope to meet her this evening.

We'll see...

I've never had a daughter set me up with her mama before. Is that strange?

For those outside the inner circle of a small, but tightly-knit blog-world, I wish to announce that a certain QUEEN BEE successfully survived surgery yesterday, in spite of all the bribes I paid the doctors and nurses for different results. Damn.

That just goes to show that you can't buy trustworthy people anymore.
No one should be suprised to learn that GEORGE CARLIN is one of my favorite comedians. He is outrageous, insulting, acerbic and profane, always capable of behaving like a red-assed baboon, and reminds me very much of me.

I also find STEVEN WRIGHT incredibly funny. Those two comics, one over-the-top and one completely deadpan, are about as far apart in presentation as you can get. Both make me laugh out loud when I watch them perform. Does that say something puzzling about my sense of humor, or does it say something very frightening about ME?

That's my enigma for today.