Friday, November 20, 2009

A spill of Biblical proportions!

I'm not a religious man, maybe thankful that I haven't been run down or pistol whipped by a jealous boyfriend, but not religious.  Maybe I should be but I'm just not.

Don't get me wrong.  I feel as if I'm a spiritual person, in the sense that I find myself lost in thought,  wondering, considering if there is a higher power.  But life is busy and gets in the way sometimes, like, say a re-run of Scrubs is about to begin, which in turn takes me onto that line of deep thinking.

I do dig religion though.  Great entertainment, and if nothing else, it gives convicted felons the perfect excuse for early release while sitting in front of the parole board.

My basic outlook is this.  Do good by others, good will be done upon thee, and if that doesn't work, well...pour sugar in their gas tank.  Just joking, but you know what I'm saying.  It just plain makes sense, right?  You treat others with respect and you'll see returns.

Course, it goes both ways.  If you choose to rape, pillage, murder or hunt for moose with a bow and arrow in the off season, well, an eye for eye, or death, whichever comes first!

Religion is out there, whether you like it or not.  It's everywhere...television, the newspaper, sometimes knocking at your front door or screaming fire and brimstone from atop a pulpit.    And why not?  That is the fundamental make-up of our great country.  That's why our forefathers traveled across the ocean and why they had to fight for their independence and why they had to eventually evict those snarky Brits, sending the snaggle toothed bastards back to where they belong!  Freedom of religion, the right to worship whomever or whatever one chooses.

Most worshipers throw on their finest Sunday duds, clip on the paisley tie, shine up there loafers and find their way to the local Presbyterian, Lutheran, LDS, or Jewish house of worship.  In the case of Scientologists they congregate at L. Ron Hubbard Peak in Colorado or someplace mountainous, strap on Nike's and drink purple Kool-Aid while mocking how short Tom Cruise is.  Okay, again, just kidding.  I'm probably getting my cults - science fiction religions mixed up and probably pushing my luck, but hey, I never claimed to be a theologist.

My biggest problem with religion is that some choose to prey on the pocketbooks of misguided and people of lost faith.

"Send us the title to your Airstream, Mr. Jenkins, and the promise of eternal life is yours!"

"Edith, the good Lord above is waiting for you, with a place at his dinner table, if only you write that check for $5,000!"

Makes me sick!

Well, it did, that is until this morning when it dawned on me what was really going on.  It wasn't about preying on the weak but about giving hope and opening the eyes of those without faith and belief.

This became apparent to me when I got home from my daily, early morning Starbucks for my Venti quad shot mocha.  What happened next tested my faith in religion, college basketball and the all mighty Super Big Gulp.

Getting out of the car, I bumped my head, lost a handle on the java and it tumbled to the ground.  Cursing, cussing and taking the lords name in vain, followed by hurtling insults at the young missionaries walking past, a glorious vision captured my eye.  From the point of the java explosion.

This is what I saw!  And if you look close enough, I promise not only will you see it, you'll also feel the power!

So, as of tomorrow, I'm taking tickets, $5 a piece, selling t-shirts and soda pop and with an additional donation to the First Church of Wells, you can have your picture taken with the Virgin Mary Mocha stain.

But get here early.  A bus load of pilgrims are scheduled at 11:00 A.M.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009


My ongoing series on people who must die flies north for the winter.  Then south into Texas, to East Philly, taking I-80 into Chicago for Oprah, back to GMA and then...well, from there, I can only hope it crashes in a Nebraska cornfield!

Today is the day that Sarah Palins book, "Going Rogue", comes out.  Her calling of sorts.  She having told Barbara Walters in an interview about her future in television, "I'd probably rather write than talk."  Really?  Mrs. Palin, when are you going to start this new found career of yours, writing that is?  On your next book?  Are you going to fire your ghost writer, or keep her around to breast feed your baby and keep a look out for Russians?

Am I the only one that is sick and tired of this woman? It's become so bad that I'm considering putting myself down like Barbaro after the Preakness so I don't have to see her smug little face any longer!  I'm afraid that's going to be what has to happen though, because she isn't going anywhere.

Did this country not learn their lesson when she ran as John McCain's little bitch?  He brought her on to boost his impossible chance at continuing the route that Karl Rove and Dick Cheney Bush engineered, but instead she hurt what little chance he had. 

The woman has no credible thought process.  This, the McCain camp knew, thus their resignation about letting her do unrehearsed interviews.  And when she did try this out, talking with real life people, she embarrassed the campaign, the cause, her husband, and the entire frozen state of Alaska.  Even the Alaskan short-tailed weasels cringed when she tried to 'take on' Katie Couric. What a mess that was!


"By gum, what's a newpaper, Katie?"

Now she's claiming she was being 'badgered' with a 'partisan agenda'.  First off, let me just say, GROW SOME BALLS, SARAH!!!!  We all know you got 'em hiding up there somewhere!


"We have them critters in Alaska, Katie.  Should see 'em.  Big as, well, big as badgers, they are!"


"Well, Miss Couric, we love ourselves a good ol' humdinger of a party up where I hang my hat, we do!"

Thank the good partisan lord above that the voters figured out and understood she was an idiot before it was too late.  My thinking was it was inevitable that McCain would have ended up braking his skull wide open falling down the West Wing steps due to a geriatric hip, leaving Palin as our Commander in Chief.


Okay, that was the past, but what about the future?

This is how I see this playing out and what I truly fear the most.  Sarah Palin is going to run in the next presidential election, and that she will win on November 6, 2012.  Good new is that it will be short lived, knowing the world is scheduled to end December 21, 2012.

Gotta love Armageddon huh!

Monday, November 16, 2009

Mysterious reads, but why cats?

The Avett Brothers said it best when they sang, 'Ten thousand words swarm round my head, ten million more in books I've read, ten 'neath my bed...'

I like to read.  Magazines, books, blogs, cereal boxes with puzzles on the back.  Doesn't matter where I'm at, what I'm doing, I find myself reading.

I tend to hearken back to the Beat Generation of writers; Kerouac, Burroughs and Ginsberg.  Bukowski, I will forever and always go back to because....well, I like to live out the drunken, womanizing world through his words.  I've taken on classic authors such as Vonnegut, Hemingway, Poe, Sir Arthur Conan 'OBrien' Doyle and of course, Dr. Suess.  Even Stephan King, John Grisham, Elmore Leonard  and Michael Crichton have found their way to my shelves.

And, yes, I read Playboy for the articles.  *wink* *wink* *nudge* *nudge*

My literary likings of late, though, lean toward mystery in the fictitious way, and mostly the Florida mystery.  Intrigues me.  Carl Hiassen, Dave Barry, Tim Dorsey and Jeb Bush.  The latter isn't a writer of sorts, but by God, he's a mystery to me.  Plus, I just like saying Jeb.

Jeb, Jeb, Jeb!!!

The question of why Florida makes for such a good background for a novel is hardly difficult to understand.  Simply put, the state is a clusterfuck of dissention, discord, criminal behavior, strife and contamination.  Walt's world was bulldozed by Goofy, chomping a cigar with a soundtrack of flatulent outbursts, all with a smile on his face, all in the name of more pollution and environmental atrocities!

This is funny stuff, man!  And this is why Florida is fun to read and incredibly hard to write about, because the old saying 'fact is stranger than fiction' is three times truer in Florida.

Character.  Geography is important, but character is what makes these books, these visionaries great, though. For me anyway.

Take for instance, Tim Dorseys, Serge A. Storms.  A perfectly lovable Florida historian/serial killer that roams the byways and islands of said state.  Mess with Florida in anyway, you'll find yourself on the wrong side of a history lesson and booby trap consisting of a sawed off shotgun and the rumble of the Space Shuttle Atlantis.

Another favorite character of mine is one of Carl Hiaasen's ongoing cameos, his name being Skink.  Skink, is a former governor of Florida that tires of the corruption of politics and decides to leave office early to live off of roadkill, targeting molesters of the land and  tying himself to large bridges in order to 'ride the storm out' of Category 4 hurricanes.

As you may well know, living through a hurricane is a goal of mine, though, just not duct taped to a metal beam of any kind. 

Mystery is an easy read, not too much thought, a distraction really.  And for whatever reason, late onset ADD or early onset Alzheimer's, I've found the less confusion I can steer away from, the better.

What I don't get, but admit never delved into, is the whole 'cat' mystery.  I certainly hope not to offend anyone, but, isn't it enough that this world is full of those crazy, blue hair'd cat ladies?   You just know their grandkids are bitching because they have to shovel up two and a half tons of cat shit out of the living room before they have a shot at collecting any part of granny's estate.  And this is just every other Sunday, while the old codger is still breathing.  Just imagine what they'll find when the crazy, mind.

Anyway, maybe I don't understand the cat premise.  Do these cats have soothsayer powers that help them solve crimes, at the same time completely ignoring their owners?  Do they purr up against the bad guy when they detect a mischievous plot?  Do they play 'good' kitty, 'bad' kitty when questioning their suspect?

Regardless, to each his own, right?  If you like it, read it, because one day the written word just might go the way of the dodo bird, or the typewriter (remember those?) and all we'll be left with is kids that know how to splice a sentence together using only a keypad of a cellphone.

God help us all!

Saturday, November 14, 2009


It's almost Christmas time! Snow on the ground, lights going up, Walmart fully decked out in purple spandex and Bing singing jolly good tunes in every elevator across the world!

Time for giving, so let's see 'em girls.  Bring out the silicone pleasure domes!

Even in these dire times, when people are losing their jobs, the cost of gas, bread, eggs and hair gel is at all time highs, some choose to flaunt their booby implants.

Feel the spirit people?  I sure do!

I like breasts. Big, small, C-cups, DD's, winnebagos, ta-ta's, melons,........... Heck, I like breast bar-b-que'd over an open flame or sliced up thin and wok'd into a spicy, stir fry.

To me breasts are great!

The basic function here is to supply nutrition to infants, sustaining a healthy early childhood, so breast fed men can grow up to slobber uncontrollably while watching Desperate Housewives. Right? They serve their purpose. Going about there business, pointing women in the right direction, leading them up the corporate ladder one cup size at a time.

HA HA HA!!! Just joking ladies!

Anyway and once again, don't get me wrong, they are nice to look at. The woman's body is a miracle of nature. Perfect, no matter the shape, size or Victoria Secrets naughty coverings she might be wearing. Even women like looking at other women, because women are, simply put, nice to look at, where guys are...well, they're guys.  'Nough said about that.

But, do woman need to show them off to just anyone?  Alright, that's generalizing, isn't it?  Not all women do this, but it does seem to be a habit of the ones that have had boob jobs.  Just need to show 'em off, like trophies behind glass.

Texting, another thing. Must they MMS text them the before and after pictures of their newly acquired 'girls'?  They do, and I have proof so don't try denying it (you know who you are!).

Still, going into the bathroom after having such a delicate surgery and exposing themselves to their friends, and complete strangers, at the local dance club after a few drinks seems somewhat strange to my way of thinking?

This is precisely what happened to a girlfriend of mine, by a co-worker woman friend of mine, several weeks after they had healed and she was pleasantly drunk.  After my girlfriend saw them, she described them to me.

"What do you mean, there kinda fuzzy?"

"Fuzzy and I will never talk of them again," she muttered.

I could never look at my co-worker again the same...meaning I always fixated on her eyes, rather than...well...

This whole 'sharing' thing is just odd to me.  Men don't do this. 

"Hey Joe, take a gander at this bad boy," Ted says, leaning out of the stall in the bathroom of the Bigfoot Tavern, swinging his junk like a Burmese python.

Course, maybe we would if there was a procedure that put us at a Dirk Diggler level of endowment!

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Criminal Intent: One Quarter at a Time

By no means am I an economist, nor a mathematical genius like Matt Damon in 'Good Will Hunting' but I want to tell you my theory on how to fix the economic upheaval, at least in my part of the world, but I'm betting it would work in your part of world also.

Crime baby! Good old fashioned criminal behavior.

Wait, wait, wait! Let me offer my reasoning.

I spent the better part of Monday in court, but before you start condemning me to the hanging gallows let me explain that I wasn't tried for rape, arson or the pillaging of any village. And while murder wasn't the charge either there were certain voices in my head telling me that wouldn't have be such a bad idea somewhere around the time the second hour ticked by on the clock that hung from the wall of the courtroom.

There were two intermissions. The first intermission was expected but the 'second' was due to a fire alarm. When the alarm went off, everyone safely and diligently filed out of the building, as adults have been trained since childhood to do, but what caught my attention was that not one judge, probation officer, prosecutor or copper seemed or looked surprised.

This didn't arouse suspicion til later on, about three hours after I had arrived for court, and about an hour after my parking meter must have expired. It really began looking like a crime when I opened my parking ticket and found a $15 'bonus' for spending the day in court.

Yee fucking haw!

With no one looking surprised by an unplanned 'fire', makes me believe that this, due to economic hardships by the city, is a way of making a buck off dumbass's such as myself. During either intermission, I could have ran down and plugged the meter, but not knowing how long each break would take, I chanced it and unfortunately for my unemployed ass, got nailed.

This is why I believe it was an 'officially unofficial planned intermission' and unless you're in the loop, well, it's just plain 'unplanned'.

Funny isn't it? How the city can't fill the damn'd potholes around town that become large enough to sail good size oil tankers across, but they can hire more and more parking meter officers.

So, having way, way, way too much time on my hands, and in the name of research, I traveled back downtown yesterday and what I saw was motorcycle meter men buzzing around, pissed off like a swarm of hornets. They were everywhere, slapping $15 tickets on cars parked minutes over the time limit. And if I saw them nab one car, then it may as well have been seven or thirty-three. Too many to count, couldn't keep up!

Thus, my economic relief theory, proven! Crime really does pay.

How 'bout them apples?

Friday, November 6, 2009

Hurricane Trudi

Day 46 and I still don't have a job.

I'm bored but right now it's better than being tormented by the Optic Nazi and spitting up my spleen.

So that's good right?

I have done things to keep myself busy though.

Take for instance, I've perfected the art of picking up the house and washing the dishes in just two minutes and thirty seven seconds, knowing my lovely girlfriend will be home in three minutes and eleven second. HA!!! Thirty-four seconds to spare.

Though, I think she's picking up on my devious ploy by the way she oddly looks me up and down with those suspicious eyes, as if wondering why the hell I'm profusely sweating when she walks through the front door.

I've been spending a lot of time writing, mostly what you're reading right now, and whatever you might want to call it...writing, blogging or meaningless pablum and grotesque diarrhea of the brain, it is a hobby that I enjoy.

I'm hoping one day to expand it past a hobby and into a career of sorts.

I'm writing a book.

Ya, you're asking?

Well, yup. And thanks for asking!

It's a science fiction piece, loosely based on fiction with no a shred of science involved what so ever.

No, just kidding. Truthfully, it is fiction, it does have a humorous tone, and someone is sure to die a horrible death by porcupine, but at this time, that is all I can give disclose at this time.

One thing I can tell you is that I have been doing a lot of research. Been reading a lot of humorous pieces recently, people like Carl Hiaasen, Patrick McManus, Douglas Adams, Tim Sandlin, Tim Dorsey and my favorite of late, Sean Hannity's 'Deliver Us from Evil: Defeating my Soul and Sending it Straight to Hell!'

Writing a book has always been a goal of mine but never felt attainable until recently. It isn't that I'm anywhere near to finishing a truly readable manuscript. Not even close, but I do know that I'm in a better place to do so. I ask myself why and the only thing I can figure is age. The older I've grown, the more secure I am in myself and that translates into my writing. It's a confidence that plainly put, is that I don't give a crap what people think of me.

If only I would have had this attitude when I was younger. Man o' man, think of the possibilities! Wouldn't have been served divorce papers because I wouldn't have been married. I wouldn't have gone into the world of optical manufacturing therefore wouldn't have put myself in a position where I'm diagnosed with those nasty ulcers and the desire to poke out a certain optician's sclera.

And, I would have settled in a Key West hammock some twenty years ago, maybe been a hobo, jumping a train or hitching a ride or two into Mexico, recreating Kerouc's journeys, and finishing my travels with a Hemingway like stay on the beach; breathing in the salty air, getting inspiration from the majestic sunsets, and growing grouchier by the minute.


But, being older, with more wisdom and a wealth of confidence, if I ever get to the furthest southern point of America, I'll do it the more conventional, less romanticized route. Out of Spokompton I'll buy a one way ticket to Boise, with the hopes that the pilots fall asleep and don't regain consciousness til it's too late to turn around and we'll have to refuel in Atlanta. From there I'll either hitch it or steal me a moped, the perfect means of transportation on the islands.

And just to gay down the 'ped, and being in the south, I'll paint her black and slap a big #3 on the side. Boogity, boogity, boogity...gentlemen, start your engines!

By the way, you might have already heard, but living through a Category 4 hurricane that I have already named Trudi is a dream of mine. Trudi was a gal that I once knew that could uproot a palm with one windy gust of her personality, and made people run for their lives.

But woulda, coulda, shoulda! Right? Can't live in the past so instead of looking backward, I'll take a look at the future and set my sights on a beach where written word and inspiration must flow like rum if you have sun, surf and bikini clad co-eds prancing around playing volleyball and pondering big questions like, "I hear Trudi is heading this way. Think we should head inland or go hang with the locals at the Hogs Breath Saloon?"

I'm opting for the saloon, taking in the spirit of Hemingway, Jimmy Buffet serenading us from the jukebox, and a cervaza in each hand waiting for the bitch to show her nasty face.

One day, baby!

Monday, November 2, 2009

Dr. Limbaugh

Mike Freeman of CBS was once quoted as saying, "Please, Rush Limbaugh, do not let any discussion of sports ever leave your lips again. Each time you do, you sound like a moron."

This quote came after Rush was quoted saying, "Look, let me put it to you this way: the NFL all too often looks like a game between the Bloods and the Crips without any weapons. There, I said it."

I have a problem with what Mr. Freeman believes. Rush doesn't sound like a moron, he is one!

There, I said it.

I've always believed this but recently my feelings toward him have got bad enough to write about. Don't get me wrong, I would like to believe that every man should be given a pass for his shear lack of humility, but good lord, this man borders on retardation.

Whoa, whoa, whoa there!

Sorry. Didn't mean that. By saying that I'd be implying that he has any sort of intelligence bouncing around in that fat head of his, and it wouldn't be giving enough credit to those with impaired cognitive function. Let's face it, he brought this on, and has no excuse for his behavior other than just being Rush!

My disdain grew this weekend when I witnessed him say to George Stephanopoulos "if I wanted my ego to be as big as Obamas....".


Let's dissect this.

Before Limbaugh turned himself in for shopping around docs to feed his prescription drug use, he had condemned and all but sent convicted drug users away to Sing Sing for the rest of their lives. Of course he was never convicted, so this doesn't apply to him. He paid $30,000 to pay for the cost of the prosecutors investigation and provided the party 'favors' at the first annual 'Rush is a Free Man Because He Wasn't Convicted' golf tournament in Palm Beach.

Oh, and he's taken random drug tests since 2003. Doesn't sound like a drug abuser to me. Sounds like a man with little or no ego, huh?.

Then, his attack of Michael J. Fox.

Said of Mr. Fox, he is "exaggerating the effects of the disease. He's moving all around and shaking and it's purely an act ... This is really shameless of Michael J. Fox. Either he didn't take his medication or he's acting."

As we all know Michael has Parkinson's Disease and with all the meds he has to take, there is sure to be side effect besides the actual disease, but problem is he wasn't picking up his drugs at the 'Limbaugh Pharmacy' so those drugs don't get the Rush stamp of approval.

Now, if Michael were in need of Oxycontin or Viagra, Rush could hook him up and he wouldn't actually have to go to a 'real' doctor.

Lovely guy, huh?

Then their is what he calls the 'phony soldier'.

Let's pretend your taking heavy fire from Al Qaeda in the mountains of Afghanistan or a six year old boy blows apart your buddies guts from the inside out on the streets of Baghdad. Then, from being on the ground, at the front line, you decide you really don't like it, that this may not be the proper approach to solving this conflict, that maybe, just maybe, George W. was an arrogant, greedy bastard that was only trying to get back at Saddam Hussein for bitch slapping daddy in 1991, well, this attitude about the war(s) would make you a 'phony soldier'.

Because anyone that didn't agree, must surely be falsely trying to claim veteran benefits.

What I think is that is that these unruly, wanna be soldiers are just trying to pilfer fatheads stash of pain killers!

Plus, this is all coming from a man that was never drafted for military duty in Vietnam because his card number was 152 when they only drafted up to 125. Later his status was changed to 1-Y, an exempt card because he was diagnosed with Pilonidal disease, a cyst that can grow navel, armpits, buttocks or even on a mans penis. It was diagnose but never pinpointed though, due to the fact that doctors couldn't find Rush's penis.

Sports again.

Recently, Rush was asked on a Sunday morning talk show why he thought his buying into the St. Louis Rams was squashed by the NFL.

His response pinned the tail on the donkey's ass.

"He really has no experience running anything. He's very young. I think he's got an out-of-this-world ego. He's very narcissistic. And he's able to focus all attention on him all the time. That description is simply a way to cut through the noise and say he's immature, inexperienced, in over his head." Realizing his mistake, Rush's head began shaking violently, his ears turned red and venomous snakes shot out of his eyes when it dawned on him that he was reading from the insult card that was to be used any time anyone asked his opinion of Barack Obama.

So, what I've conclude is that there are three levels of like for Rush.

You either love him, hate him or his level of ignorance and lack of ego, is completely lost on you.

Actually, that sounds like only two levels, doesn't it?