Saturday, August 10, 2002

I now have two dead boys in MY bed. They crawled in there to watch The Terminator on my bedside TV and somehow got terminated themselves. Quinton is at the foot of the bed and Jack is at the head, and they've managed somehow to twist the sheets around so that both are semi-covered. The little shits OUGHT to be tired, because they sure enough wore ME out today.

They both ate TWO HELPINGS of supper tonight, too. Acidman can cook.

I guess I'll grab the ratty white blanket and sleep on the couch tonight. My bed is full.

So was my day.
I have two nekkid boys in my "clean" bathtub and I have threatened them both with horrible deaths if they don't AT LEAST get their hair wet. Supper is cooking, and I better go check on it before I blog my house down.

Okay, supper is fine. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans, with toasted butter-rolls. Damn, I like to cook! I don't get many chances anymore, but I haven't lost my touch.

Some sort of combat is occurring in the bathroom. The boys have GI Joe action-figures in the water with them, and the shit is hitting the fan. Oh yeah, it's a major battle with extreme casualties. Neither boy has a wet head yet. I'm going to go drown them BOTH!

Then feed them supper...
I stole this idea from LYNN, because it was too good to pass up. I think "Telephone Rules" are a good thing, and I have a few of my own.


1. Don't call me after 9:30 (EDT) at night unless you work for me and we have a problem at the plant. I get up at 4:00 every morning, and I am one cranky bastard if I don't get my beauty sleep. Wake me up for no good reason and I'll give you the cussing of your life.

2. If you call and get a busy signal, I'm on the computer and I may be there for a LONG time. Certain people have my beeper number, and they know to contact me that way if it's important. If you DON'T have my beeper number, I probably don't want to talk to you anyway, so leave me alone.

3. If you are a tele-marketer, I will tell you to go fuck yourself. Yes, I WILL, using those exact words. Don't take it personally. I tell ALL tele-marketers to go fuck themselves.

4. If you know my phone number, call when I'm not home just to listen to the message on my answering machine. It's a GOOD one.

5. If you're standing in my driveway and see me sitting on the sofa, and you call on a cell phone KNOWING I'm home, don't get pissed if I don't answer. Listen to that GOOD message on the answering machine, then announce who you are and say "pick UP!." If I don't "pick up," get in your car and go home. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want you in my house, either. Ringing the doorbell won't work. I'm funny that way.

6. If you leave a message on my machine, I may call you back, or I may not. It all depends on my mood that day. Just don't get your feelings hurt.

7. If I am home and I don't answer the phone, I'm probably doing you a favor. There are times when you really DON'T want to talk to me, whether you know it or not.

8. If you want my attention, use one of three key words when you ask me to "pick up!" These key words are "pussy," "guitar" and "get drunk," in that order.

9. If you're selling something, I DON'T WANT IT. If I wanted to buy it, I would be calling YOU.

10. If you call and ask me "what'cha doin'?" I will reply, "Hanging up on YOU!" and I will do exactly that. I really don't like talking on the phone and I have enough bullshit in my life without you adding some more. If you call me, have a reason for doing it. Otherwise, DON'T CALL.

I feel better now...
Acidman could use a nap about now.

I've hauled Quinton and young Jack out to Mom's house for a romp on a huge dirt pile on the Hesse Elementary School playground, then a long soaking in the swimming pool to get the dirt off the boys. Terrorist attacks with super-soaker water-guns occurred without warning. I was a victim at first, but I somehow ended up with BOTH GUNS, after a very brief struggle, and took my toll of revenge without mercy. That's what those poots get for messing with the Tall Dog.

We went to Mc-Killya after that and ate artery-clogging fast food. The boys scarfed hamburgers and fries, sucked down strawberry milkshakes, and headed for the playground, where they crawled up some PVC tunnels and found plastic balls with which to attack me from high ground. The little shits had missles flying all around me as I tried to drink my Super-Sized Dr. Pepper at an outside table. I calmly collected the balls until they ran out of ammo. When they emerged from the tunnel to reload, I let them both have it. Vengence was MINE!

They're having a wrestling match on the Playstation II now, and I am nodding over this keyboard. Maybe they'll go over to Jack's house for a while and I can lay on the sofa and close my eyes just for a minute. Just a minute is all I ask.

It ain't gonna happen, but I can dream, can't I?
The jury refused to convict KENNETH POWELL of manslaughter, but remained deadlocked on lesser charges of vehicular homicide and aggravated assault, even though Powell wasn't driving a car and assaulted no one during the "crime." I remain amazed at the idiocy of the jury for allowing this abortion of justice to occur in the first place, and the downright sadistic zeal demonstrated by the prosecutor, who isn't finished showing his shit-ass yet.

Salem County Prosecutor John Bergh said his office would retry Powell on the charges on which the jury deadlocked. A new trial was set for Jan. 6.

"We are prepared to move ahead and represent this case with the same amount of vigor and heart as we have for the past 31/2 weeks here," Bergh said.

HEART? A more accurate quote would be, "I've been a symmetrical asshole this far, and I'm not gonna quit now. Yes, I am an obnoxious fuckwit, and I'm wasting a LOT of taxpayer dollars here, but now it's a matter of principle. I HAVE NO PRINCIPLES, and that's what matters in this case."

I feel sorry for the family of John Elliot, who was killed in a senseless accident by a drunk driver. But Kenneth Powell didn't kill him, and a lot of my sympathy evaporates when I hear Elliot's father spew such drivel as THIS:

John Elliott's parents, Bill and Muriel Elliott, were at the courthouse yesterday. They will keep fighting "to make sure there is no more drunk driving in America," Bill Elliott said, his voice cracking with emotion.

Oh, COME ON! This petty and misguided act of revenge on your part is really a noble quest to make sure there is NO MORE DRUNK DRIVING IN AMERICA? If the jury had seen the light of wisdom and locked Kenneth Powell, who was neither drunk nor driving that night, in prison for 15 years, THAT would have ended drunk driving? It would have ended JUSTICE as I see it, and that's about all.

I know Bill and Muriel grieve over the death of their son. They have my deepest compassion for that terrible loss. But the guy who killed their son is dead already, and frying the ass of some innocent scapegoat WILL NOT bring their son back from the grave.

I'm sorry. I cannot sympathize with them. Bill, take Muriel home and deal with the grief. Forget about "no more drunk driving in America" and leave Kenneth Powell alone. Get over it.

Othewise, you're going to turn the memory of your son into one of the ugliest legacies I can imagine.

Friday, August 09, 2002

Did anybody hear the outcome of THIS TRIAL? I am VERY curious for a lot of reasons.
My son is asleep on the couch, where he prefers to crash when he stays at daddy's house. He's as tucked in as he's going to get, under that ratty white blanket I keep next to the sofa for when my drunken friends need a place to stay. He LIKES that blanket.

I love that boy.

Sometimes, (all too infrequently) I watch him sleep and I remember the day he was born. He came out with cauliflower ears and I worried about that for a while. But the ears straightened out just fine and he became everything I ever wanted in a son. Still, I remember being worried about the shape of his ears. I remember EVERYTHING about the day he was born.

I remember teaching him to walk and to talk. I remember the joy he gave me as he learned to say, "Da-da," and point a finger at me. I remember holding his hand as he toddled around the house. I remember being in love with his mama.

I also remember changing a few incredibly nasty diapers that I would just as soon forget about.

I see him four days every month now. I remember everything about him until one year ago.

I've missed a lot since then.
Okay, Goddess, I took the test, and I TOLD YOU SO!

Your Results:

Disorder Rating Information

Paranoid: Low ( but I KNOW they're out to get me!...ed)

Schizoid: Low ( the OTHER ACIDMAN must have answered a few questions RIGHT...ed)

Schizotypal: Moderate ( only a complete fuckwit world CARE about a "schizotypal" score....ed)

Antisocial: High (can you believe that?..ed)

Borderline: Moderate ( I read the explanation of this score and I'm not certain that I agree. I'm not sure whether I'm angry or sad... what was the question again?...ed)

Histrionic: Very High ( who, ME?)

Narcissistic: Very High (TO KNOW ME IS TO LOVE ME... I know I DO!...ed)

Avoidant: Low ( I avoid snakes. Otherwise, bring it on!...ed)

Dependent: Moderate (I need a back scratch! I need a blow-job!... I can PAY for them, too...ed)

Obsessive-Compulsive: Moderate ( they didn't ask the right hand-washing questions..ed)

Now you KNOW me...
I have killed the neighbor's cat, strung its intestines into a pentagram and poured goat-blood over my son's head while chanting an ancient Aztec mantra. Let's see if I have warded off the evil spirits the Supreme One send to bedevil me before. In case I haven't done enough, I have young Jack trussed and ready for sacrifice in the "clean" bathtub.

At the risk of receiving her undiluted spite and losing both testicles in the process, I must disagree with SHE WHOSE NAME WE DARE NOT SPEAK about mandatory drug tests. The NAMELESS ONE says:

Finally, the powers that be have bestowed a principal with common sense into a high school administration. Kimberly High School of Green Bay, Wisconsin, has declared a new policy of instating random drug testing of all students who recieve parking permits on campus grounds. The reasoning of principal Mike Reitveld is that "parking is a privelege", which he states to those fuckwit parents who claim this is going way over the line. The line of what? I think drug testing should be mandatory on school campus for all youths, especially the darlings of the student body, the shining heroes of the varsity sports teams. Its my ugly suspicion that the squabbling parental units who make the loudest fuss regarding this sensible decision are the spawners of the football jocks whom are all probably in question.

As a fuckwit liberterian who sees mandatory drug tests as an invasion of my privacy and a violation of my Constitutional right against unreasonable searches, I see nothing "sensible" about this decision. And I believe that ANYONE (including you, ms. unspeakable) who sees it as sensible is out of their fricking minds. A random piss-test is nothing more than an unreasonable search conducted by someone with the power to do it just because he CAN. Those are dangerous fuckers.

I am subjected to mandatory drug tests at work, and I find them to be humiliating and invasive. But that's company policy and they pay me big bucks for the job I do, so I'll accept the humiliation for the money. I am a whore. I don't do illegal drugs, so the tests are no threat to my employment. But they ARE a threat to my freedom as an American citizen.

If I were a student in that high school, I would CRAWL to school before I would piss in a cup for a parking place, just on general principle.

If piss-tests for unimpaired people who have done nothing wrong are okay, where do you draw the line? We already have "scratch and sniff" roadblocks, where the police stop law-abiding citizens, demand to see "ze papers" and perform damned near a proctological examination before you can go on your merry way. Why don't we really do some good for society? Don't stop with random piss-tests. Make scratch-and-sniff roadblocks REALLY count.

"May I see your dental records? Hmmm... no visit to the dentist in TWO YEARS? Do you know what poor dental health costs our society?" So, you're dragged out of the car for an intensive tooth-cleaning, and a couple of extractions just to make sure you don't make THAT mistake again.

"Out of the car and onto the scales. Hmmm.... YOU'RE OVERWEIGHT! Do you realize what obesity costs our society?" The sound of handcuffs clicking on your wrists is the last noise you hear before you wake up on a government fat-farm, where you have been sent for the good of EVERYONE.

"What's that in your shirt pocket? A PACK OF CIGARETTES? Okay boys, stand him up against that tree and draw your weapons. Fire on the count of three. We done got ourself a CANCER-GUY tonight. HEE-YAW!"

That dimwit, little-Hitler principal should be run out of town on a rail by parents who want their children to grow up in a free country. The totalitarian bastard is a greater menace to young minds than illegal drugs. Throw in some complimentary tar and feathers.

And if the bastard wants a urine sample on his way out of town, I would be delighted to give him one. Minus the cup.

Right on his pointy head.

I intended to take on THE SUPREME BITCH about my hatred of mandatory drug testing, and I wrote TWO screeds of disagreement, complete with Acidman insults and goading rhetoric, and BLOGGER ate them BOTH!

All I can say now is.... BEHOLD HER BITCHCRAFT!
What the hell happened to my LAST POST?

Thursday, August 08, 2002

I just took another TEST that I found on JENNY'S BLOG. I learned that I am: Extroverted Intuitive Thinking Judging in this order

EXTROVERTED: 11%. I know people at work who would disagree with this assessment, but I don't.

INTUITIVE: 56% Yeah, I tend to go with my gut a lot. My mind is too confused.

THINKING: 22% Okay! I can think when I MUST, but I really don't enjoy it, even if I AM brilliant sometimes.

JUDGING: 22% What? ME judge?

I'm not certain what this test says about me, but I AM certain that I don't care. The testmeister says:

You are:
slightly expressed extrovert

moderately expressed intuitive personality

slightly expressed thinking personality

slightly expressed judging personality

The test is bogus! There isn't a damned thing slight or moderate about me.

Wait a minute... there is ONE thing that's pretty well qualified as "slight" for ten months now... but THAT has nothing to do with the way I think or act.

And that's the biggest fucking lie I've told on this blog since I started it.
Since I live in Georgia, I haven't followed THIS INTERESTING CASE, but some blog-friends alerted me to it. The guys who pleaded guilty certainly knew how to cook Hot Nuts and I believe I would have either hung a jury or watched them walk if I were judging the case.

Three Pontiac men took the law -- and a blistering hot metal spatula -- into their hands when they learned a neighbor had been regularly sodomizing his 7- and 10-year-old nephews.

Two of the men held down the uncle while the third pressed the smoking spatula on his genitals, buttocks, stomach and legs. They paused only long enough to reheat the spatula on the kitchen stove for repeated branding before tossing the uncle out onto the sidewalk, breaking his arm.

They should have performed a "bobbit" on the perverted bastard, too. Hot nuts and a broken arm weren't punishment enough.

I also enjoyed this comment from JB at HOOKED ON BLOGGING:

If You Don't Like Hot Spatulas . . .

Be not afraid of any man, no matter what his size.

When danger threatens call on me, and I will equalize.

– 19th century ad for Colt revolvers

Say I have a friend whose drivers license was suspended for drunk driving, and I give him a ride to Wal-Mart and drop him off one day. I go home and blog all day. He buys a twelve-pack of beer, sits in the weeds behind the store and drinks it all. Then, he steals a car and has a head-on collision that kills himself and another person. Am I guilty of car theft? I didn't steal the car, but my friend never would have gotten to the Wal-Mart parking lot where HE stole the car if I hadn't given him a ride.

Am I guilty of DUI? I wasn't drunk or driving at the time, but my friend never would have consumed a twelve-pack and took to the road if I hadn't given him a ride to Wal-Mart.

Am I guilty of vehicular homicide? I didn't kill anybody, but my friend did, and he never would have been able to do that if I hadn't given him a ride to Wal-Mart.

A totally BRAIN DEAD JURY in New Jersey is deadlocked, wrestling with such questions, in a ridiculous trial that never should have happened. Who in their right mind could possibly swallow this hogwash:

Police had released Pangle to Powell, who took Pangle back to his car. Powell went home and prosecutors say Pangle drank some more before driving again.

Three hours after he had been dropped off at his car, Pangle was involved in a head-on collision that killed him and U.S. Navy Ensign John Elliott, also of New Jersey.

New Jersey prosecutors contend that because Powell did not take Pangle home, he served as an accomplice and is liable for the deadly crash.

I'll bet the New Jersey prosecuters who brought this case to trial have grand political ambitions and a lot of potential funding from MADD if they are successful in railroading an innocent man to prison for up to fifteen years. What is one poor schmuck's life compared to the prosecutor's political dreams and MADD's prohibitionist agenda? Well, if you're going to make an omelet for two, you gotta break an egg. In this case, Powell is that egg.

What really surprises me is the fact that the jury is DEADLOCKED! I hope the problem is ONE really anal-retentive, fuckwitted, true-believing, temperance-union cretin, who has to be reminded to breathe every few seconds, holding out against ELEVEN sane people who realize what a "guilty" decision in this case will mean down the road. If we have a 7-5 kind of hung jury, this country is in very big trouble.

I feel sorry for Powell for what our deformed legal system has put him through so far. If he is convicted, I feel sorry for us all.
Okay, here goes...

Never mind. It didn't work. Back to the drawing board for me... (img src= MY ASS!)
SOMEBODY FINALLY DID IT! The URBAN ASSAULT VEHICLE I've been dreaming about for years now exists! I WANT ONE!

The sport utility vehicle that rolls out of the Ibis Tek shop looks just like those driven by millions of soccer moms.

But with a flip of the switch, out of the sunroof pops weaponry ranging from a .50-caliber M2 machine gun to an MK-19, 40 mm grenade launcher.

Think some asshole will ever cut you off in traffic more than once if you're driving one of those babies?

Wednesday, August 07, 2002

SUGARMAMA suffers from a combination of anger, angst and ecstacy that makes me totally envious of her. But I wouldn't want to trade places. She can stand that shit better at 27 than I can at MY age.

Ah.... I remember those days....
MAJIK MARC is a great guy, with his heart in the right place (BUY the car and BUY a house, too--ed.) and he sent me a PERSONAL TUTORIAL about HTML code. I was absolutely delighted until I read his HTML FOR IDIOTS. Marc said THIS:

Insert Images:
In the example below the file arty.gif exists in a folder named images. This folder is one level up from where this file resides. I'll go into further detail in another tutorial. If the image is in the same directory as the your HTML file you can simply enter the name of the image in the quotes. The width and height are optional. This allows you to resize images if you so choose. I recommend however that you resize them in your favorite image editor instead. Resizing a small image will create distortion and pixelation. Resizing a larger image is less of an image problem, however why force your viewer to download the larger image only to see it in a smaller form? Another danger is getting the aspect ratio correct. If you do not you could end up with a distorted image that is too wide or too tall.

Uhhh... Marc, WHATINTHEFUCK are you talking about?

I am ecstatic if I can get the goddam BLOGGER page to open, so don't "tutor" me on "folders one level above where this file resides." I don't have a clue where THIS file resides! How the hell do I get to the next level when I'm as lost as a penny in a wishing well WHERE I AM NOW?

Marc, I asked you to tutor me as if I were a one-celled animal at the very bottom of the food chain. You obviously believe that I lied to you. You assumed that I have a brain when it comes to computers. DON'T MAKE THAT MISTAKE! I am dumb as a can of dirt. I am as fucked up as a football bat. I had one foot on the dock when the boat left.

TAKE ME AT MY WORD next time. But thanks, anyway.
I kept hoping that DAVE TEPPER would add me to his blogroll, but the sorry bastard never did, so I just kicked him off mine. Take THAT, you elitist pig!

Hey, JONI! Dave's a lawyer. Reckon he'll sue my Cracker ass for calling him a "sorry bastard" and deleting him from my blogroll? And calling him an "elitist pig," too?

Let's see... from what I remember of journalism law... I remember I slept through most of that class... but I think I maybe, might recall that libel requires proof of "malicious intent" AND "reckless disregard for the truth" before you have a case. Is he going to claim "malicious intent?" Well, FUCK HIM if he does. I don't have a malicious bone in my body. If the asshole had put me on his blogroll, none of this ever would have happened. HE'S the malicious sumbitch, not ME. Did I exhibit a "reckless disregard for the truth?" Am I on his blogroll? NOOOOOO! So, everything I said about the holier-than-thou shitbird MUST be true. I rest my case.

Now, that "defamation of character" thing worried me for a minute, until I concluded that Dave HAS no character. A man of character would have put me on his blogroll, and HE didn't. I rest my case again.

Man, I'm GOOD at this law stuff.

See, Joni? The bastard doesn't have a leg to stand on.
Here is the best take I've seen yet on Bill Clinton's vow to take up a rifle and fight in the trenches with the Israelis if that country were invaded:

This sounds like something every family's crazy uncle would say after emptying a bottle of vodka at the family picnic.

LONG HAIRED COUNTRY BOY posted a response to my post about writing for an audience vs. writing for oneself. He says:

It is rare when I take Savannah to task truly, but this time, I must. His initial analogy, the proverbial tree in the woods, is ingenuous, but wrong nonetheless. As with the tree still having fallen, so the blog still having to have been written. According to his economy, which is clearly biased in favor of the "hits parade," his reasoning is within scope. But both he and Andy over at WWR share a common misconception, that being that every writer is searching for readers.

Okay, I'll concede this point. EVERY writer is not searching for readers. Emily Dickinson used to write her poems on little bits of paper, then stuff them into holes in the wall of her house. Dozens of these were discovered after her death. She obviously wasn't writing for an audience all the time. Many people keep private diaries for years. Even my hero, Mark Twain, wrote things that he didn't want readers to see until after he was dead.

But I don't know of a single blogger who isn't flattered and delighted when someone reads the blog and responds positively. Maybe they don't all shamelessly troll for hits the way my bombastic, blog-whore self does, and maybe they DON'T really care if anyone reads what they write. But they all like it when people DO read it. Otherwise, they would never post their writing where people can find it in the first place.

But Gut . . . I am one of those rare birds who does write for "me." I have floppies filled with stuff no one but maybe my son, after my funeral and counting the few bucks I leave behind, will ever read. I will never be famous as the word defines itself these days, nor will I likely make a dime off what I write, unless some poor soul reading it figures I am starving, and in a great show of compassion, does a Yahoo people search, locates the real me out of the half a gazillion others with my name, and then sends me cash (no checks, please!).

In the meantime, I will not hold my breath. But I will keep writing--

JB, I have boxes, floppies and files full of stuff I wrote that no one but I will ever read. I suppose most writers do. I have written since I was old enough to put sentences together on paper, and I never stopped, so it amounts to a LOT of output by the time you're 50. I once had fantasies of making a living by writing. Hell, I STILL have fantasies about that. But I wrote because I wanted (had?) to, and I wrote some things I didn't want other people to read.

I believe that what I write is good stuff. I try to be humorous sometimes, absolutely vicious occasionally, demonstrate my dazzling intelligence every now and then, and show some unique style while I do it. The only way I know whether or not I've done what I wanted to do is throw it out for some readers to devour. Let unfiltering eyeballs see it. If they like it, they let me know. If it sucks, they let me know that, too. I want to perfect my writing skills to the best of my ability and there is no better way to do that than HAVE OTHERS READ and then pay attention to what they say. You can't improve if nobody tells you where you're making your mistakes. I put myself on someone's shit list recently by not choosing my words carefully. I hope I learned a lesson from that and write better in the future, especially to THAT someone. (and you know who YOU are!)

A writer better jock up tight when he/she throws what amounts to a precious baby to the lions in the den. They may truly devour it, then tell you that it tasted BAD! You seem to study history, so tell me what made a sword fashioned from Damascus steel such a coveted weapon? Writers need to go through that same process if they want to be good at what they want to do.

Every writer writes for himself/herself. That's how everybody gets started. But if you ever want to be worth a shit at it, let an audience read. Then, you'll become Damascus steel, or you'll break.

My Goodness! I've been TASTED and SNIFFED by perverted bloggers who do such things.

Da Goddess says Acidman is an M&M. A GREEN M&M. With peanuts. Crunchy crusty on the outside. Smooth and sweet on the inside. And, it's been said he can make you horny, baby! Wash down with some white zin, of course.

I am flattered, but I always though of myself as more of a boiled peanut: Scratchy and rough on the outside, salty but good on the inside.

Rich squeezed his brain and detected this aroma: GUT RUMBLES - hold a Zin cork under your nose, then slice and sniff a Vidalia onion, then open a bottle of cider vinegar

I can't argue with ANY of that. The man has me pegged.

Tuesday, August 06, 2002


Washington, D.C.

A Senate Committee composed of Senators Daschle, Clinton, and Feinstein have announced that the rescue of the Pennsylvania coal miners has been cancelled, and the miners will, by recommendation of the Conmmittee, be placed back in the mine.

The Senators noted the following violations in the rescue process:

10. Heavy diesel equipment was moved to the rescue site without concern for possible air pollution.

9. Water was pumped out of the mine without first determining if it was polluted, or providing an environmentally safe catchment area for the water.

8. Numerous holes were drilled in the ground during the rescue, without first performing an Environmental Impact study.

7. No effort was made to ensure racial, ethnic, and sexual diversity of the rescue workers.

6. The Governor of Pennsylvania was heard to "Thank God" during a live television broadcast of the rescue, violating the separation of church and state.

5. Several people at this public, government supported, rescue mentioned praying.

4. The trapped miners did not represent a diversified cross section of American society.

3. Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, and Hillary Clinton were not given sufficient time to make speeches at the site.

2. The Senate was not given sufficient time to determine whether or not any Republican officeholder owned stock in the coal company, thus being responsible for the conspiracy that caused the mine to flood.

And Number 1: No one mentioned that Al Gore invented mine rescues.

"Once a diversified group of miners has been chosen and placed back into the mine shaft, the holes will be sealed, the water will be
returned to the mine, and the rescue will then be undertaken again, in an environmentally and politically correct manner", the Committee noted.

The silly joke isn't THAT crazy anymore....

A series of disasters are occurring all at once around my home. "Comments" are "updating," whatever the fuck THAT means, a thunderstorm just blew up outside, so I expect to lose power any minute now, and I just set my kitchen stove on fire while attempting to cook a batch of french fries. The fire is out and the stove is no worse for wear, so I'll probably eat the french fries, too.

The damned fire started because I was attempting to multi-task on the stove and still blog at the same time, while taking time-out to play my new 12-string guitar. I realized at work today that since my lumberjack breakfast at the Huddle House with Recondo32 and his lovely wife, Georgia on Sunday morning, I have consumed only one bag of potato chips, two Mountain Dews, FOUR packs of cigarettes, a small bag of grapes, NO BOILED PEANUTS and an entire 5-liter box of Franzia White Zin wine in two days. Nothing else. I really don't believe that I'm eating a healthy diet. In fact, I believe that I have a tendency not to eat at all sometimes.

I intended to remedy that situation by cooking eggrolls, hamburgers and french fries that not only would feed me tonight, but leave enough leftovers for lunch at work for the next two days. I got a little carried away, since my attention was focused elsewhere, and I almost burnt my house down.

But I've got a decent meal for tonight and some REALLY CRISPY eggrolls for lunch tomorrow. The fans should get rid of the smoke in the kitchen before long.

I love it when a plan comes together.
After I kicked the top off a fire-ant mound with my nasty-blog to LYNN about writing, I've heard lots of comments from bloggers about why they do what they do. Much of what they say sounds like sanctimonious bullshit to me. I've never described myself as anything other than a shameless, hit-trolling, blog-whore since the day I started this site. I wanted people to read it. I might still be writing it today, almost seven months later, if nobody cared and the only time my hit-counter moved was when I went to my page to check my hits, but I doubt it. Yes, I DO check my hits. And I DO like the fact that people read what I write.

That why I liked this screed from WORLD WIDE RANT. ANDY says:

However, ye olde hit counter isn't without purpose - it's not there to simply look pretty and add one more distraction to the page. I'm curious about who comes to this site, how they found us, and if they come back - and why - hopefully because they either enjoy what we write, or think we have something of at least modest merit in our posts. Or perhaps they find the World Wide Rant more like a tragic accident on the road and simply can't look away. No matter - I'm glad you're here.

A writer without an audience is like a tree falling in the woods when nobody is around to hear it. IT MAY AS WELL NEVER HAVE HAPPENED! I believe the ones who protest the loudest about how "I write only for myself," like some monk in a stone monastary illuminating ancient manuscripts by candle-light, with quill-pen and inkpot, troll just as shamelessly as I do. They just don't admit it. As Andy says: Why do you publish it in the first place if you "don't care" whether anyone reads it or not?

I once described this blog (when I was getting about 30 hits per week) as a note in a bottle that I threw into a vast sea, then went to bed hoping that it would wash ashore somewhere. I am delighted that today it washes ashore in many places, and people read the notes, write comments about them and even link to me on THEIR blog. I believe the entire experience has been as fantastic as anything I've ever done in my life (except MAYBE the time I rode the double-Ferris-wheel for three hours straight while under the influence of mind-altering substances-- but that was a LONG TIME AGO).

Anyhow, I am not a monk in his chambers. I am an entertainer by nature, and this venue gives me a grand opportunity to strut my stuff and advertise it, too.

Screw the monks. I crave ATTENTION!

Uh, oh! I have angered Da Goddess and she's threatening to kick my ass. I believe she MEANS IT, too.

I must do some serious worshiping to remove Acidman from the top of her shit list.
I decided to post this one for Rich over at BRAIN SQUEEZINGS. I believe that he and I have at least ONE THING in common.

A dietitian was once addressing a large audience in Chicago.

"The material we put into our stomachs is enough to have killed most of us sitting here, years ago. "Red meat is awful. Soft drinks erode your stomach lining. Chinese food is loaded with MSG. Vegetables can be truly disastrous, and none of us realizes the long-term harm caused by the germs in our drinking water. But there is one thing that is the most dangerous of all and we all have, or will, eat. Can anyone here tell me what food it is that causes the most grief and suffering for years after eating it?"

A 75-year-old man in the front row stood up and said, "Wedding cake."

Monday, August 05, 2002

The lovely, red-toenailed, JONI posted this TOTALLY PISSING OFF POST, so I decided to steal it, and add a few comments of my own.


Substance: Woman
Atomic Symbol: WO
Manufacturer: God
Typical Size: Average weight 115 lbs.; specimens can vary from 90 to over 200 lbs.
Occurrence: Large quantities found in urban areas and shopping malls

Tend to run in packs when not accompanied by pussy-whipped, beaten-down members of the opposite sex. When in packs, easily recognizable because they all go to the bathroom together.


1. Surface texture soft and warm
2. Exposed surfaces usually cosmetically enhanced
3. Boils at nothing
4. Freezes without reason
5. Melts with special treatment
6. Flavor is initially sweet, becomes bitter if used incorrectly
7. Found in various states of purity from virgin metal to common ore
8. Yields to pressure applied to specific points
9. Sometimes enlarges alarmingly with age
10. Even brief linking with Male substance can cause substance to reproduce with marked physical and mental changes

No known center of gravity has been found in this creature. Handle as if subject were radioactive, and you'll still get burned. Face it: You can't fucking win.

1. Has great affinity for gold, silver, and precious stones
2. Absorbs great quantities of expensive substances
3. Highly volatile for reasons not clearly understood
4. Verbal activity greatly increased by alcohol saturation
5. Most powerful money-reducing agent known (See Hazards #3)

Keeps all that precious shit when she leaves you for another man. Gives YOU the credit card debt. Says it's all YOUR fault.

1. Highly ornamental
2. Relatively brief exposure can be a great aid to relaxation
3. Pleasurable companion until legally united

Will grind the strongest man into a pile of sugar-sand, given time. Totally convinced that she has the only pussy in the world. Spends her life trying to convince her "mate" of the same thing, usually by not giving him any.

1. Pure specimen turns bright pink when observed in natural state
2. Turns green when compared to a better specimen

Turns green like a lizard on a kudzu leaf, for no reason whatsoever, the crazy bitch. Gets into that mindreading shit and goes nuts.


1. May explode spontaneously without cause
2. Illegal to possess more than one specimen
3. Avoid contact with specimen while in possession of plastic credit cards

Will hire scum-sucking lawyer and clean your clock, too. Able to take child, take house and move unemployed, dope-smoking lover INTO house while YOU make 1/2 the mortgage payment. Totally deviod of conscience and as vicious as a molting rattlesnake. AVIOD INTIMATE CONTACT! Can cause heart damage and serious after-effects that last for years.
My brand new acoustic-electric twelve-string Oscar Schmidt guitar was delivered to my house about an hour ago by my friend Willy, who sells such magnificent items HERE ON HIS WEB SITE. It's even better than I thought it would be. It plays easy for a twelve-string, rings like a bell unplugged and really has that harpsichord sound that makes a twelve-string guitar unique. I am delighted with my purchase.

I thought of MOMMIE JOIE when I played "Louisana," by Randy Newman. Yeah, you could feel the Mississippi flood waters around your ankles. I thought of DA GODDESS when I played "Low-Rent Rendezvous," by The Amazing Rhythm Aces. Yeah, I could smell sex-sweat in the air. I thought of LYNN when I played "Goin' To Carolina in My Mind," by James Taylor. Yeah, some mountain rocks and sea salt permeate that song.

And I thought of THE SUPREME BITCH as soon as the guitar went out of tune. I don't know why.

Update for guitar lovers who read this blog: Willy sold me the guitar and a hard-shell case for $320 dollars (list price: about 2.5X). He still made a small profit, too. He might not give YOU that kind of sweet deal, because YOU haven't been his friend for damned near 30 years the way I HAVE, but he'll beat the shit out of those 400% mark-up thieves in the music stores that rape you every time you walk through the door. Check out his prices for strings and things, too.

Here's an INCREDIBLE PICTURE posted by RAND SIMBERG. Go look at it. It's both impressive and horrible.
He dodged the draft when he had his chance to fight for America, but now EX-PRESIDENT SOUND BITE says that he would "grab a rifle and get in the trench and fight and die" if Israel were attacked by Iraq. Sure, he would.

I can see Bill Clinton in a ditch with a weapon in his hand, if a woman was in the ditch and the weapon extended from Bill's half-masted zipper. But a real, shooting war? Fuggetaboutit.

Since I stole the picture in the post above from Rand Simberg, I'll add THIS ONE, too. Yeah, check out THAT army of one!

Lying bastard!
JB, over on HOOKED ON BLOGGING, the group blog I somehow became sucked into, christened me THE BUBBA OF BOMBAST yesterday.

I LIKE that. It's the first thing I've ever seen that made me want to change the title of this page from "GUT RUMBLES."

Yeah.... "THE BUBBA OF BOMBAST." That's ME!

Sunday, August 04, 2002

Sunday Stumpers

1) What's the best analogy of the cultural aspect of the U.S.? Melting pot? Tossed Salad? Gumbo? Mosaic?

Gumbo. If you've never eaten genuine Louisiana gumbo, you might not understand (right, Joie?). But lots of different flavors mixing together into a whole is a beautiful thing.

2) What animal(s) creeps you out? Why?

Snakes. I've been creeped-out by those belly-crawling fuckers all my life. I would rather look down the barrel of a .38 pistol in the trembling hands of a desperate crack addict than see a snake. And I don't care what kind of snake it is.

3) What one thing would your friends be surprised to know about you?

I don't believe anything about me would surprise my true friends. They know me, warts and all.

4) What one piece of advice did someone (parent, teacher, friend) give you that you take to heart even to this day?

My high school (defensive) football coach told me, "Don't ever quit. Work hard. If it was easy, any asshole could do it." I value THAT advice, and it's served me well all my life.

5) What do you most want for your next birthday?

I don't want to have it. I want to be young again. I want to be the man I once was.

I can't have that, so I'll settle for not being alone. I don't exactly look forward to birthdays anymore.

Of course, a room full of nekkid wimmin with red toenails licking all over my bronze body MIGHT make me feel better about the whole thing.

JAMES TRAFICANT is off to serve an eight-year prison sentence for being a crooked politician. Yeah, Traficant scooped his vigorish, baksheesh and spoils with a back-hoe, but at least he did it with style. If I'm going to be stuck with a thieving rascal as my representative in government, I want one such as Traficant, with style and panache. I grew up with HERMAN TALMADGE as Georgia's senior senator, so I know whereof I speak. The senate kept spittoons in their hallowed meeting places as long as Herman was in office, and the senator's overcoat, with the pockets designed to accept bales of $100 bills remains famous long after his death. The man was crooked as a mountain trail, but he had style.

That weasel, rat-bastard ROBERT TORRICELLI is a different story. He's a crook's crook in politics, but totally lacking in any other redeeming qualities. He's not a charming rogue like Bill Clinton. He's not a flamboyant poser like James Traficant. He's not a tobacco-chewing, countrified scamp like Herman Talmadge. He's just a fucking crook.

No, he took no "illegal" gifts. Well, maybe he did take a little something. No, he took no gifts at all. No, he did nothing special for Chang. Yes, he helped with Chang's attempts to collect an unpaid $71 million loan to the government of North Korea.

The rat can't even keep his lies straight.

If Torricelli loses in November, we lose a bright, energetic and resourceful senator and the Democrats may well lose control of the Senate. If he wins, we are perceived once again as an electorate that treats corruption as one of those things you have to put up with -- like green flies at the Shore.

Yeah, he's "resourceful," all right. Where Traficant used a back-hoe to line his pockets, Torricelli uses a front-end loader. If Torricelli wins in November, you New Jersey yankees deserve his rotten ass. Why don't you merge with Massachusettes so you can vote for that bloated gasbag Ted Kennedy, too?

Is it any wonder I distrust my government?

The fricking alltel e-mail has quit on me again, this time telling me that I have an "Invalid User Name or Password." I have checked all the settings, called it several very creative and obscene user names and threatened to shove a "Password" down its throat, all to no avail. I guess I'll be back on the "HELP!" line shortly.

I am better with primitive tools than I am with sophisticated stuff. It's hell to be a bronze god from the Bronze Age in a modern world.
This guy definitely falls into my PERFECTLY SYMMETRICAL ASSHOLE category. He wants to shut down the sound of an ICE CREAM TRUCK, the anti-American bastard!

Trautman, a former professor of literature and philosophy who seems personally insulted by the trucks' noise, said Norko's decision left him befuddled.

''You would be surprised at the number of people around the country who are angry at Mister Softee,'' he said. ``Mister Softee is to noise what cigarettes were to secondhand smoke 15 years ago.''

I would be surprised if many people other than Trautman behaved as if they had a frozen popsickle stuck up their butts every time they heard "Pop! Goes The Weasel." Get a life, you tormented, petty little shit.

And let the kids come running whenever they hear the music of THE ICE CREAM MAN!
If this ever happened TO ME, I WOULDN'T HAVE MY PICTURE TAKEN, grinning like a jackass.

DOPEY yachtsman Alan McKeene lay at anchor for four days waiting for thick fog to clear — unaware he was just 100 yards from land. .

Dumb bastard.

As I said before, some men have balls, some men have no balls, and now some men have ARTIFICIAL BALL-BOOSTING UNDERWEAR. I love this quote:

“But they are great for a guy who has a maggot rather than a snake.”

I'm sticking with the rolled-up sock I cram in my regular drawers.
I should have invented THIS.

Besides being phallic in shape, the sweet, called Fr-ooze Pop, has jelly oozing out of a hole at the top when the base is squeezed.

This is imported from the United States and comes in four flavours - Lickety Split, Summer Squeezer, Strawberry Smacker and Berries Delight.

Little girl... want some candy?