Saturday, October 26, 2002

All future posts will be on my new site, HERE.
Yeah, the SAME THING happened in Georgia when PAUL COVERDALE died unexpectedly. Maybe the Democrats can run Robert Torricelli in Minnesota as a last-minute replacement.

After all, it's all about power GOOD GOVERNMENT.

I didn't like Paul Wellstone's philosophy, but I liked the man. I believe that he was the genuine article, exactly what he claimed to be, unlike so many of the chamelion, finger-in-the-wind, weasel-assed snotwads in government today. I disagreed with almost everything Wellstone stood for, but I admired the man for having the balls to be himself, the doofus.

I can disagree with people and still respect them if they display character traits I admire, such as honesty, integrity, toughness and tenacity. I may think that they're full of shit, but I'll give 'em credit for being HONESTLY full of shit. Hell, I'M full of shit, when I ride my personal hobby-horse until the legs fall off.

But I will despise Bill Clinton and his ilk and minions all my life, because they manufacture whatever shit is necessary to fill themselves with, and they lie when the truth would have served them better. I really don't understand people like that. I also despise the people who eat that shit up like gravy on rice, too. They drink the purple Kool-Aid gladly, with eyes shut and every lesson Mom and Dad ever taught them shut down. Fuckwits. The same people wonder how Adolph Hitler came to power. Gawd! It only takes a dedicated cadre of True Believers, you gravy-suckers!

As for myself, I believe that I will go to Wisenbacker's bar and watch football today.
Gut Rumbles has moved to Movable Type and Bloggerzone. The temporary URL is

After the DNS resolves, the new URL will be
I found this HERE.

"We were waiting for this storm, we were sure it was necessary. The terrorists said to us, 'God is Allah, and we are eager to get into his kingdom. The Chechen women, who were among the terrorists, said they would be glad to gain freedom and were prepared to blow up themselves. When some noise was periodically heard outside the building, the female terrorists scattered around the hall among the sitting hostages. They laid hands on their belts and shouted that they would blow up the hall and themselves together with all those sitting," Chernyak said.
"This morning began with terrorists' shooting and killing two people. They shot in the eye of a young man, who was crying something like 'mummy, I do not know what to do!' and there was a lot of foaming blood. They also shot a woman in her belly. We understood that executions started."

Would we have the testicular fortitude in America to handle such a situation, or would authorities blither and blather worrying about covering their asses until all the hostages were dead? What would our sterling news media make of this (in my opinion) outstanding hostage rescue operation?

The DC sniper case is a good illustration of what's wrong with the news media today. If I didn't know any better, I would believe that Chandra Levy and the sniper victims are the ONLY PEOPLE EVER MURDERED in the DC area. That's bullshit, but you wouldn't know it from watching CNN and the rest of the breathless reporters out there. I believe that somehow, probably with the advent of CNN, we've gone from REPORTING the news to MANUFACTURING the news. After all, when you report 24-7, around the clock, you've gotta have SOMETHING to say; otherwise, you have nothing but dead air. I believe that the czars who run the BIG MEDIA believe that nothing is news unless they declare it to be. They are wrong.

Major news organizations ignored this situation in Russia, while recycling sniper stories, and that's a crying shame. This same situation could be coming soon to a theater near you.

I would call that news.
All across Blogdom people are writing about the hack attack on I was blissfully unaware of any problems. The sumbitch has worked better for me SINCE the hack than it was doing before.

Maybe Blogger needs to be hacked more often.
You can read the story of a BIG OLE WUSS being plied with alcohol, then hogtied and hauled to get a vasectomy, then you can contrast HIS behavior with my stalwart display of dignity and courage when facing the same operation. I went voluntarily to have a vasectomy.

After my son was born, the then-darling wife and I thought about having another child but decided against it. We figured that we had hit the jackpot with Quinton and we should quit while we were ahead. She had been taking some kind of shot for a couple of months (depoprevara, or something like that. I called them "Parvo Shots") to prevent ovulation and she liked the fact that she stopped having periods, too. But she became convinced that she shots were causing her to gain weight. She wanted off them but was reluctant to start taking the pill again. So, being the Southern Gentleman that I am, I said, "Why don't I just go get clipped?"

I stopped by at work the next day and saw Deniese, the company's Nurse Practicioner, and told her that I wanted to get a vasectomy. She picked up the phone and made me an appointment with Dr. Shook, her choice of urologists and I man I was later to become far too well-acquainted with, but that's another blog altogether. I went by Shook's office after work that day and filled out all the necessary paperwork for my operation three weeks later.

I had to take one form home with me for the wife to sign. In the state of Georgia, spousal consent is required before a married man can have a vasectomy. I didn't think twice about it at the time, but I find the idea incredibly ironic now. I could not go out and get clipped without my wife's permission. But SHE could go out eighteen months later and de-nut me with a divorce lawyer and I didn't have a FUCKING VOICE AT ALL in that matter. Something is terribly wrong with that picture. Okay, that's another blog, too.

On the appointed day, the wife and I showed up at Dr. Shook's office. She was there to drive me home afterward. The doctor had offered anesthesia and I accepted eagerly. As a person who has HIS OWN GAS MASK at the dentist's office, I am a certified anesthesia-hound anytime ANY doctor wants to do something I find unpleasant, and since I find GOING TO THE DOCTOR unpleasant, I just say "yes!" if drugs are offered.

I was called and told to remove my clothes and don a hospital gown. I did. I was led to an examination room and told to lie on a table. I did. The nurse lifted my gown, examined my equipment and said, "You didn't shave."

I had to admit that, no, I didn't shave. Nowhere in all that literature I read about the operation did I see any instructions about doing that, so I didn't. "Well, we'll take care of that right now," she said in a businesslike tone while snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

"I want my shot!" I whined.

I didn't get my shot. I got wet and lathered and shaved by a professional who used a Bic disposable razor. In other circumstances, I might have found the experience to be erotic. Had the wife and I known ahead of time that this procedure was required, we could have played some fun games with it. But having that nurse do it shrunk me like a spider on a hot stove. I was embarrassed, not because of being shaved, but because of what happened to me. My manhood resembled a stack of dimes 30-cents tall. My proud portabella became a button mushroom. I expected to look like a man with two navels any minute now. I was humiliated, and worried that my wanger might NEVER recover.

When the nurse finished, the doctor arrived. I got my shot then, but it wasn't much of a shot. I would rather have had my gas mask from the dentist's office and a nice bottle of nitrous. I watched as the nurse laid out a series of torture devices on the Mayo table next to me, and couldn't help thinking of the movie Braveheart, where the torturers displayed all their knives, hooks and tongs right before they eviscerated Mel Gibson. The doctor picked up a hypodermic needle that resembled a bicycle pump and gave me two shots in a place where no man EVER wants to see a hypodermic needle pointed.

But it wasn't that bad. A slight sting.... then MY NUTSACK WENT NUMB!

That is one hell of an unusual sensation. I believe that most men LIKE feeling their balls, except for those occasions where the cods absorb a sharp blow and you crawl around on all fours (actually, you crawl on ALL THREES, if you're not curled in a fetal position, because one hand will be tenderly cupping your nuts) making pig noises for a while until the pain subsides. Having them just GO AWAY like that is very disconcerting.

The doctor picked up a scalpel and said, "Do you know any good jokes?" (I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP!)

I informed the good doctor that I knew a gazillion good jokes, but he wasn't going to hear one now, because the LAST THING I wanted him doing was laughing like a maniac while he sliced into my testicles. I really didn't think that was a good idea. I wanted him to concentrate carefully on the task at hand.

He did something with the scalpel, did something with with another tool (I felt a slight tug there), then he picked up what appeared to be a soldering iron. I saw a tendril of smoke rise from between my legs, and the aroma hit my nostrils: PIG ROAST! Bejus! I knew it for a fact then. All men ARE PIGS, because I smelled just like a Boston Butt on a spit when the doctor cauterized whatever he had cut down there.

The entire operation lasted about fifteen minutes. I was told to get dressed and apply an icepack to my balls as soon as I got home. They gave me one pain pill and one sleeping pill and told me not to lift anything heavy for the next few days. I went home, took the pain pill, applied an icepack to my wound, sprawled on the couch and watched Willie Nelson in Barbarossa on HBO. I lifted nothing heavier than a 12-ounce beer can the entire time. I took the sleeping pill that night, slept like a baby and awoke the next morning with no swelling, no pain and not even a bruise. Just two sets of two stitches on my scrotum to show for it all. There's nothing to this, I thought.

My wife went out to feed the goats and chickens that morning. She came back and said, "We've got a goat problem." I figured that one or two of the escape artists had gotten through the fence again and run down the road to seduce that slut-goat Elvira at Bob and Sue's house. "I can't go rope them this time," I said. "I'm wounded."

"I think Billy is dead," she said.

Billy was my Alpha goat. He was a big, nasty, ill-tempered, head-butting, beard-pissing, sodomizing stink-bomb, but I was fond of him. He would eat out of my hand and no one else's. I suppose he recognized a kindred spirit in me. I went outside to check and, sure enough, Billy was gone to that great grasspatch in the sky.

The weather sucked. A misting rain was falling, the glowering clouds were battleship gray and the temperature was about 45 degrees with a chill northeast wind. Billy was still limber, so I knew that he hadn't been dead long. "I need to bury him," I told the wife.

"Don't you do that, Rob. You know what the doctor said. Call Ed or Willy and see if they'll do it. They owe you a favor." I said I would, later.

I went back inside and sprawled on the couch. She took Quinton and went to the grocery store. I went back outside and buried Billy in the rain. That was MY job. The other three goats stood in a line and baaaa-ed like a Greek chorus while I dug the hole, dragged Billy into it and covered him up. I was so careful about not hurting my nuts while I did all that that I damned near threw my back out using poor shovel technique. But I suffered no lasting damage from it.

I was at Keller's Flea Market a few months after my operation, and I almost bought a neat belt buckle I saw. It said "VASECTOMY--- ALL JUICE AND NO SEED."

Friday, October 25, 2002

Well, he appeared to be at death's door for years (that Man in the Wilderness movie must have taken a lot out of him) and finally RICHARD HARRIS shed the mortal coil today. I will miss him.
Have you ever heard of THE LADDER THEORY? Having had the ladder pulled out from under me, I believe every word of it.
I also had my physical at work today. Yeah, they lassoed the Cracker and dragged him kicking and screaming to Medical for my yearly once-over.

1) My hearing is extraordinarily acute for a man my age. After almost two-score years of decibel-abuse from amplified music and industrial equipment, my ears score in the upper 1% of my age group. When the nurse told me that fact I responded, "Huh? What did you say?"

2) My eyesight at distance is (right) 20-15 and (left) 20-18, with a combined 20-15 score. Yes, I am eagle-eyed. My up-close eyesight was 20-umpteen-gazillion, even with my Wal-Mart reading glasses. The nurse suggested that I go see an eye doctor. I told her I might go to Wal-Mart and upgrade to more intense magnification lenses off the $6.00 eyeglass tree.

3) My lung-capacity test put me in the top 5% of men in my age group. The nurse was amazed. "You smoke, don't you?" she asked. "All I can, whenever I can," I replied. "You really ought to quit," she said. "You have excellent lungs." I didn't tell her that I was not surprised, because I am WIND.

4) My blood pressure was 120 over 70. Resting heart rate: 72. Must be all that wine I drink.

5) My bloodwork was excellent, and the PSA is still zero. Good. Cholesterol is 180.

6) My EKG was fucked up. The nurse was concerned. "You've had a big change in your EKG from last year to this year. There's a lot of noise in this one, but a couple of places on this chart suggest that parts of your heart may not be getting adequate blood flow. That's a big change for just a year. Do you want me to make a copy of this for your doctor?" I told her, "Calibrate your machine." Fuck! The way MY heart got stomped last year, the sumbitch OUGHTA be sucking wind. It oughta make a noise like a car going down the road on a flat tire. Not LUB-dub, but WHOMPTA-WHOMPTA. When I get out of bed in the morning, I keep expecting my ass to fall off and make a noise like a hubcap hitting pavement: CLINGALINGALINGALING! Piss on that EKG.

So, I will live forever, unless something kills me first. OSHA has their hearing and breathing data that they require, and I am free to work the weekend duty.

And I stick to my original fatalistic philosophy: on the day you were born, you exited your mama's womb with an expiration date stamped on your ass, just like a gallon of milk. You can't see it, but it's there. You can't change it.

And I don't want to.
I have the duty this weekend, which means I have to haul my Cracker ass out to the plant for the next two days to do all the production reports and keep all the bigwigs informed about problems, injuries, environmental incidents and such. Along with the company-supplied cell phone they gave me a week ago, I also get to wear the BEEPER OF THE GODS for the weekend. Essentially, I am on call 24-7 until Monday morning.

I've always thought weekend duty was a crock. The bigwigs all have laptops that they take home with them on the weekends, and all production status is entered into the computer at work before 7:00 AM every day. If the bigwigs were THAT curious about what was going on in their absence (the place usually runs better when they aren't around), they could plug into the network and check it out over their morning coffee. But that would require them to access reports from the individual areas and that's a waste of valuable bigwig time. So, peons such as I go to the plant, collate the different reports onto one form and email the form to the bigwigs. That's essentially what weekend duty amounts to.

I work in the Finishing area. If an area other than Finishing has a problem, I'll get a call about it, but they might as well speak Farsi over the phone for all the good I can do them. I am not about to give advice and make decisions when I don't have a clue what they're talking about. "What do you usually do when this happens?" I ask. They tell me. "Okay, try THAT again," I suggest. If that doesn't work, I tell them to call THEIR coordinator at home and ask HIM what to do. When I DON'T have the weekend duty I get calls about Finishing problems, because people from the other areas don't know any more about my area than I know about theirs. It's silly.

But I'll be there in the morning...

The lovely and spankable Meesh has a story about... well, let's just call it THE UNSINKABLE MOLLY BROWN. I got a nice chuckle out of that one...
For anyone interested, here is the possible origin of the sniper's CAUGHT LIKE A DUCK IN A NOOSE statement. The story fits, but I just wonder what a dude named Mohammed was doing reading Cherokee Indian myths.

That DOESN'T fit.

Thursday, October 24, 2002

The more I read the ARMED LIBERAL the more I realize that we have differences in political philosophy that yawn like the Grand Canyon, but a focus on individual rights that are remarkably similar. He wrote this:

To deal with these [problems] wisely will require that we restate our commitment to some common goals, and to some processes – some governmental, some political, some private – that will tie us to these common goals. And we must do it while maintaining and improving both freedoms – the freedom to, and the freedom from. And it is exactly that shared commitment to some set of goals, and that shared sense of common citizenship that is eroded by the kind of politics and kind of commentary that I criticize.

What is happening now, as the election nears, is that political advertisments are attempting to shatter all of the USA into small pieces, so that the maggot politicians can pick them up, one by one. They are setting group against group, not for the good of the country, but simply to benefit themselves. What is happening now has nothing do do with what is good for the country, or what is good for individual citizens. It's all about politicians wielding power, and every voter is a pawn in that chess-game.

I call bullshit!

I believe that I could sit down to dinner and drinks with the Armed Liberal, and we could argue about our beliefs and walk away friends (especially after I picked up the check). But the modern political landscape is all slash-and-burn, and the winner walks away with the opponent humiliated, broken, and preferably dead. Elections are not the goddam Roman Circus. And I'm not sure that I want the "winners" governing if they will sink to the depths they do to win.

But that's how the game is played today, because it works, not for the good of the country, but for the good of the maggots who LOVE crawling in the shit.

Ladies and gentlemen, THIS PAP is what passes for "environmental science" today.

The study – carried out by doctors and scientists at the Erasmus University in Rotterdam – is the first in the world to show that normal levels of the chemicals affect humans. It follows a host of studies showing that gender-benders can turn wildlife species, from gulls and alligators to fish and turtles, into hermaphrodites. In the case of the children in the study, the chemicals caused girls to play with guns and pretend to be soldiers, and boys to play with dolls and tea sets and dress up in female clothes.

What more can I say?

Someone very soon now will be the lucky person to give me my hit number:


If YOU are the lucky one to do that, I will send you a bottle of wine from the Habersham Winery, located right here in my beloved state of Georgia. I opened a bottle of "Scarlett" tonight, and it tastes pretty good to me. If my typos become more frequent on subsequent posts, it's because I REALLY LIKE the wine.

So, if you are number 25,000 tonight, let me know and I will send you a bottle of wine.

If I remember this promise. And if I don't drink it all first.
My blog-buddy, the RIGHT-WING TEXAN suggested that I perform the "Mother of All Fiskings" on this..... uh...(be diplomatic, Rob)... PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A COLLEGE STUDENT, but I believe that I will pass on the challenge, because the fuckwit college student is studying to be a psychologist. Based on my experience, I conclude that people become psychologists because they know that THEY are fucked-up, and want to pretend that they're not. This confused jelly-brain probably lies in bed at night and fisks HIMSELF, just for the fun of it.

Besides, just look at the picture accompanying the article. Do you really believe that this Carrot-Top wanna-be has any pride to wound? I doubt it. Women took that away from him a LONG time ago.

So, I'll pass on attacking the misguided boy. Maybe he'll outgrow his delusions and get a real brain someday. Maybe he'll get a haircut that makes him look like something other than a poisonous mushroom with a short stem. Maybe he'll catch a real clue just walking around with his slack jaw open. I doubt it, but I'll wish him luck for now.

The main reason that I will cut the boy some slack is that I have copies of some things that I wrote back in my college days that make me cringe to read today. I knew EVERYTHING back then, just like this kid does. (C'mon, RWT. I'll bet you have a few of those skeletons rattling in YOUR closet, too, don't you?) Therefore, I will not fisk.

But I'll wager that a lot of other people do. I just hope the young man is jocked up tight, because he's gonna need to be.

According to THIS TEST, I am WIND!

Of course, a lot of people might call me just Hot Air, but this is The United States of America, by Gawd, and people are entitled to an opinion, even if it's wrong.

Test borrowed from SAM'S BLOG. (That's my 19 year-old daughter, by the way. She is proof that some acorns don't fall far from the tree.)

I know that I am being politically-incorrect, totally insensitive and downright antisocial, but my FIRST THOUGHT when I saw THIS PICTURE was:

Where is the goddam gas station sniper when we NEED him?
Oh well. I managed to save this:

Hilarious Dear Abby Letter

Dear Abby:
I have been engaged for almost a year. I am to be married next month. My fiancee's mother is not only very attractive but really great and understanding. She is putting the entire wedding together and invited me to her place to go over the invitation list because it had grown a bit beyond what we had expected it to be.

When I got to her place we reviewed the list and trimmed it down to just under a hundred ... then she floored me.

She said that in a month I would be a married man and that before that happened, she wanted to have sex with me. Then she just stood up and walked to her bedroom and on her way said that I knew where the front door was if I wanted to leave.

I stood there for about five minutes and finally decided that I knew exactly how to deal with this situation. I headed straight out the
front door...

There, leaning against my car was her husband, my father-in-law to be. He was smiling. He explained that they just wanted to be sure I was a good kid and would be true to their little girl. I shook his hand and he congratulated me on passing their little test.

Abby, should I tell my fiancee' what her parents did, and that I thought their "little test" was asinine and insulting to my character?

Or should I keep the whole thing to myself including the fact that the reason I was walking out to my car was to get a condom?

Blogger ate everything I posted yesterday. EVERYTHING!

Tuesday, October 22, 2002

I bought a case of wine from the Habersham Winery Taste Shop when I was in Dahlonega. I found that place about six years ago and I go there every time I'm in North Georgia. I didn't know Georgia MADE wine, other than the home-made scuppernog kind. But the Habersham Winery takes its job seriously and makes some fine stuff. Plus, they offered a 15% discount if I bought 12 bottles.

I like the little old ladies who run the shop. I can taste all the wine I want (the sign over the counter says "four samples maximum," but I work my charm and the sign doesn't matter anymore. If you buy the first two you try (I know what I'm looking for anyway), just say, "I have a friend who likes the darker wines. Could I try a couple of those?" and here come more samples, with a little bowl of crackers to cleanse the pallate in between. Buy those and they'll hit you with the 15% discount for a case. You say, "I don't know....I've had my four samples....but I really would like to taste THAT ONE." The rules go out the window.

When we left the place with my case of wine, Recondo 32 said, "Smith, you are a SLUT!" He had witnessed my performance. I just grinned.

I really believe that SISOFLEXX should go there and sample the wine, since she lives so close by. And I think that DAX MONTANNA should take his wife there and maybe charm his way out of the doghouse.

Tell 'em Rob sent you. They LOVE ME there.
The earliest memory I have is catching a butterfly with my bare fingers in the front-yard flowerbed by the fence in my Old Kentucky home. I may have been four year-old at the time. I remember a lot about living in the coal mining camp and I remember being very happy there, except for the trips to Dr. Begley's office for typhoid shots and polio shots and smallpox vaccinations, things my son will never know (unless terorists have their way).

I remember listing to my grandmother tell stories about her childhood (she was about 45 at the time, but she was OLD to me) and I recall vividly thinking about a path through the wildflowers on the other side of the railroad trestle where we lived, and how she had travelled a long way down that path where I was not allowed to go. I envied the memories she had.

I am five years older than she was then. I have travelled FAR down that path in my lifetime, not only through the wildflowers, but into the weeds, the briars, the poison ivy and the quicksand, too. I look back now and I really don't understand how I went from being Beaver Cleaver (although a lot of those traits still survive), to a high-school jockstrap, to a dope-smoking bohemian English Major in college, to an advertising copywriter, to a six-year professional musician, to a 23-year employee in a chemical plant. I had about one hundred "girlfriends" along the way and never contracted a single STD during my swashbuckling days. I never cheated on a wife. I am loyal, if nothing else.

I have two ex-wives and two ex-children to show for it. I really don't know whether I have been blessed or extremely unlucky. (BAH! As my late Daddy would say, "You make your OWN luck, son!") I have more stories to tell than the average man, whatever THAT is, but all the stories aren't pleasant ones. I don't like what the prostate surgery has done to me. I once swore that I could never become a heroin addict because I HATE NEEDLES! Now, I have a prescription for them, and I get all I want. And I use them, too.

Who would'a ever thunk THAT? Not ME!

I like living by myself now. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. The Crackerbox is a nice home (Joan? What would it cost to buy this place on 1/2 acre of wooded land where YOU live?). I own all the toys a man my age should own (except a trophy younger woman). I'm not rich, but I have more money than I know what to do with. I spend it freely; that's what it's for.

But I keep looking back and wondering how I fucked up everything in the rear-view mirror. It's too late to go back now.

I hate that.
This story will make little sense to anyone who doesn't work in a chemical plant around all sorts of really neat operating equipment, but I saw something today that I had never seen before. We had a massive, disasterous plug-up of wet slurry in a thing called a "dryer." Obviously, even for the uninitated, a "dryer" is not supposed to produce fricking MUD. A dryer is supposed to DRY pigment, not make mud. This one made MUD today.

I checked all the obvious things first, and I could find nothing wrong. So, I had to put on my thinking cap. After talking to the operator and checking the trends on the DCS, I knew what had happened and I knew how to fix it. We ended up putting about five tons of wet pigment on the ground to unplug everything. Meanwhile, an electrician replaced the burnt thermal-coupling that told my brilliant computer-controlled system to do exactly what it did.

Anybody who believes that computers are "smart" should work around computers that control process equipment. A computer will believe a reading of vacuum on a 600# steam header, it will believe reverse-flow in a pressurized system and it will damn surely suck on a bogus temperature reading. That's why we still pay human operators to watch this shit.

Computers a great when they work. But they are merciless bastards when they become confused.
Monika is back on THE GROUP CAPTAIN'S PAGE with another senseless, brainless, clueless screed, wherein she asks the baffling question: "Is there any REAL difference between George Bush and Saddam Hussein? Is there any REAL difference between the United States of America and Iraq?"

Weighty questions indeed, for a lightweight and delusional mind. I will not bother fisking this one, because I waste my time doing so. I'll just answer her question: No, dear. There's not a dime's worth of difference between the two, except the USA has a stronger army.

If ignorance is bliss, Monika is one happy woman.

Monday, October 21, 2002

I remember that great American martyr LENNY BRUCE explaining why the Catholic Church had resplendent, opulent cathedrals in some of the poorest areas of the world, where the worshipers lived like wretches. I am paraphrasing here, but Lenny basically said, "Hey, if you live in a shithole, would YOU want to go to a shithole to worship God? No! You want to see something better than the shithole you live in every day."

I believe that Lenny's philosophy applies in THIS CASE, too. According to Lecturer Trond Andresen of the Norwegian Institute of Technology in Trondheim:

"Ugly people should be spotlighted in the media in the same way that the media wishes to emphasize persons from ethnic minorities," Andresen, a lecture at the Department of Engineering Cybernetics, said to newspaper Bergens Tidende.
Andresen blasts journalists, photographers and TV producers for concentrating on beautiful faces and bodies and accuses the press of choosing attractive interviewees from schools or the workplace, and avoiding others.

Andresen compares the phenomenon with racial discrimination. "Ugly people are as ignored today as dark-skinned people. They are told daily that they are inferior. This isn't done openly, but indirectly, by overlooking them, by focusing on appearance in advertising, TV-series, magazines, schools and in groups," Andresen said.

I think that most people, the vast majority of whom will never make People Magazine's 50 Sexiest issue, don't want to look at people just as ugly as THEY THEMSELVES are all the time. Gawd! Didn't Andresen ever hear of living a rich fantasy life? Just because I'm eating fish-heads and rice every day doesn't mean I don't want to see a picture of a mouth-watering chunk of Prime Rib every chance I get. Even though all my logic tells me differently, I still can look at that picture and imagine that one fine day, I just MIGHT get to sink my teeth into something like that.

That's what keeps people who eat fish-heads and rice every day from hanging themselves from the most handy tree limb. That's what fuels their desire to live. That's also what sells a lot of fancy cars, cool clothes, alcoholic beverages and credit cards. Save your money, buy THIS, and you just might get to sink your teeth into some juicy Prime Rib for once in your miserable life. That's a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Looking at ugly people telling you that I AM JUST LIKE YOU AND THAT'S ALL YOU'LL EVER SINK YOUR TEETH INTO is bound to send people like me to rummaging through the tool box, locating the rope and searching for a handy tree limb. I may not be handsome, but I DO NOT want to be surrounded by ugly people all my life. I shave every day, so I get all the dose of ugly I need before I leave the Crackerbox in the morning. PLEASE assure me that I'll see something better before I go to bed at night.

I LIKE to look at beautiful people, especially beautiful women. And I don't care what that anal-retentive, envy-assed Andresen thinks about it, the ugly prick. I would not buy a sports car hawked by Rosie O'Donnel in the hope that I could take HER for a ride. I would not buy Budweiser in a bar and send one over to Janet Reno in the hope that she would come home with me that night. Hillary Clinton couldn't give me ice water in the desert.

Let Nichole Kidman, however, crawl half-nekkid and sultry on the hood of a Chrysler PT Cruiser and flash me some red toenails along with a come-hither look, and I'm ready to buy. I hate the fucking car, but I LOVE the sales pitch. It gives me hope that one day, just maybe...

Andresen must be one tortured sumbitch. And like most idiots, he wants YOU to be like HIM. You know... UGLY!

Sunday, October 20, 2002

San Fransisco 49s' wide receiver Terrell Owens is disgrace to himself, a disgrace to his team and a disgrace to football, a game I still love with a passion.

Owens has spent much of the week defending his behavior following his second touchdown catch in a 28-21 victory over Seattle last Sunday. After the score, Owens reached into his sock and pulled out a pen to sign the ball. He then handed it to his financial adviser sitting nearby.
The All-Pro receiver was not disciplined by the NFL for the unprecedented stunt, only warned. The league did send a memo to all 32 teams saying similar celebrations would result in a penalty and possibly an ejection -- but only because carrying a pen could be a danger to players.

It was a "stunt," all right-- an egotistical display of selfish asininity that has no place on ANY athletic field. Terrell may believe that he is the greatest asshole receiver of all time, but he is suffering from sheer delusion if he thinks he scores touchdowns ALL BY HIS MARVELOUS SELF. He ran a route and caught a football. Ten other guys on that field occupied the defense, blocked the pass rush and delivered that ball. Let them lay down and see how great Terrell truly is.

Somebody wise should stick a sweatsock in Terrell's mouth and sew his lips shut, too. "Racism" had nothing to do with people taking offense at his purile antics. Most people don't like shitwits, and his self-aggrandizing display of absolute fucktoolery in a professional football game, coupled with his mealy-mouthed excuses afterward surely qualify for a nomination to the Shitwit Hall of Fame in my book.

Terrell Owens is a prime example of why I seldom watch professional sports any more. The term "professional" should mean more than just "I get paid for doing this." A professional should behave as one, and not set the kind of example I would strangle my son for following. Most "professionals" don't see it that way. A few class acts still exist, but the thugs, hoodlums, gangsters and shitwits are taking over. I just wonder how long the PGA Tour can last before golfers contract the Idiot Fever that has infected almost every other professional sport and THEY start doing wookie-dances on the green, fist-fighting over who is "away" on the green, choking coaches and charging for autographs.

They can have that kind of game; I want no part of it.
What do you know... HERE IS SOMEONE willing to defend my favorite Acidwoman, or at least drum up a little comparative analysis of Ann Coulter's writing versus the darling of leftist rant. I believe that it is a great idea.
The cabins at Blood Mountain have no phone service (and my cell didn't work there, either), but the owner has installed satellite television. Therefore, I was privileged to watch CNN's "All Sniper, All the Time" coverage while I was deep in the woods. I wish had packed my TV brick.

The breathless, round-the-clock reporting featured the same "news" gathered immediately after the shooting of the 47 year-old FBI analyst on Monday, along with three days worth of clueless speculation, shameless fear-mongering, and a lot of well-coiffed people with good teeth posing for the camera. I liked looking at the hottie news-babes, but the rest of that crap was pure sound and fury, signifying nothing.

CNN and the rest of the media are not performing a public service and they are not helping to solve the crimes; instead, they are making mountains from molehills, disrupting people's lives and possibly encouraging copy-cats to start their own murder campaigns. After what appears to be HIS LATEST ESCAPADE, the sniper has people afraid to pump gas, afraid to send their children to school and afraid of every white van they see. I don't believe that the twisted bastard deserves that sort of notoriety.

First of all, he's not THAT good a shot. "Sniper" is a title he does not deserve, but it sounds much more frightening than "maniac with a rifle." Plus, in a population of well over a million people, twelve random attempts at assassination DO NOT justify the fear people are showing in this situation. They still drive their cars, and that's a LOT more dangerous than pumping gas, and you're a LOT more likely to encounter a nutjob with a driver's license than a nutjob with a rifle.

And I do not believe that we should encourage the Wimping Of America when terrorists have declared war. The news media, having discovered the latest panic-button, are pressing it as hard as they can just to fill up air time and generate ratings.

That's pathetic.
Either Blogger was fine and I did something really stupid to screw up my computer (which is a distinct possibility), or Blogger healed itself at the exact time I went through every gyration I could think of to get my computer functioning again. I sure hope it was me and not Blogger; otherwise, I sacrificed a perfectly good goat for nothing. I noticed some other people having trouble, but I believe that mine may have been about 99% self-inflicted. That happens to me a lot.

Anyway, I'm back in the saddle again.
One more try...
Nothing has published since 3:00 yesterday afternoon. What gives?

Okay I tried a regular blogspot post and it published. Must be just PRO in brain-lock. One more reason to bail out of Blogger...

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'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.