Hey all, I've jumped on the MFing Blog Tour bus in support of a great new author, Rob 'Diesel' Kroese and his book Mercury Falls. I've read this book and you should too. If you like a funny, smart read with quirky characters and a twisting plot line involving linoleum, angels and the Apocalypse, you'll love Mercury Falls.
Mercury Falls has now been picked up by AmazonEncore for publishing, this after Rob had taken it into his own hands last year, self-publishing Mercury Falls himself. Perseverance, self promotion and a quality written novel has finally paid off.
So, how about you all join me on the MFing Blog Tour. Go to Amazon and order up your copy and help support Rob and his book Mercury Falls.
To find Rob Kroese and his book, MercuryFalls, here are a few links.
Have you all noticed that I'm wordy? I've been known to go on and on and on, and then no one tells me to shut the hell up! I count on you people to let me know these things because fact is, I can go on and on, and I don't have the time to be so wordy.
I work and that take away from my blog time, my Facebook, doodling, a political humor novel I'm working on and my t.v. watching time. Oh, it impedes my ability to sit at the bar and waste time while getting hammered. Of course, I'm getting older (already in my late twenties) and getting drunk isn't on top of my list of things of things that are going to create a successful professional that might prove to Oprah I'd be a great candidate to replace Gayle. (that slutmonkey has it made!)
Not only am I wordy, but in the words of the great Todd Snider, "I can go into a bar, tell one story, and the next time I go back, I'll tell a completely different story." Now I'm not saying that I lie, but truthfully, I like to push the envelope on the whole truth thing. Seems silly, all this honesty shit. Besides it's all for the sake of entertainment and doesn't hurt anyone. No one gets pushed in front of an oncoming Waste Management truck. (Well, one time, but because of being placed in Witness Protection, I don't speak of it.)
So, from now on, I'm going to only tell little, short white lies. Unless of course I get wasted while bellied up to the bar where the creative juices are flowing, then I might go on and on, telling lies and exaggerating the truth, until one one of you push me under the axle of a great big green truck that smells like it hasn't had a deep cleaning in several months, and may or may not have the rotting corpse of a seventeen pound marmot juice, the same marmot juice I was discussing on Facebook with...good lord, who was it, anyway, doesn't matter, point is the truck didn't smell all that great, and then there was this one time at band camp and...
Alright, enough! What I want to say is that I'm going to try and show up here as often as possible.
You've been warned!
That being said, hey Todd, time for a B double E double R U N, beer run?
Growing up I played 'slug bug' with my older brothers in the back seat of dads 1972 Chevy Impala. The way this worked out was, they would see a Volkswagen and, I sitting in the middle, and being about sixty-two pounds lighter and two and half feet shorter than my two brothers, would not see it. Rules being rules, it was at this time I would get slammed, from both sides, from each of my siblings, one Tyson kidney punching me, the other giving me a shot to the fleshy part of my upper leg. This was always done with as much malice and complete disregard for my feelings and extreme pain I'd experience while playing this family fun car game.
Fuckers!
Anyway, 'slug bug' is both timeless and universal, right? Everyone plays. Take for instance, the first time I played with my lovely girlfriend, on our first date. I thought 'cool'. She plays, and not only does she play, she started it. What I didn't know, is that there are levels in which people play. She, unlike me and my brothers and every other person I had played with in the past, didn't punch me in the arm hard. More like a flirtatious swat, followed by a cute little giggle and smile. I smiled back, and jokingly proclaimed "It's on, biatch!"
So, after a nice dinner and a couple drinks we jumped in my vehicle, wrapping up the date, me taking her home. My plan, being the gentleman that I am, figured I'd throw myself at her in complete desperation, offered to stay the night with her. After all, it was late and dark and you just never know who could be lurking in this nasty world we live in. Before I propositioned her with an offer she couldn't refuse, a rusted out, light blue Volkwagen pulled up side of us at a red light. Seeing this, and seeing that she was oblivious to this fact, I turned to her, smiled all sexy like and proceeded to scream 'slug bug!' and then punched her in the leg.
DISREGARD LEG HAIR...TO BE FAIR, SHE WAS LAID UP AWHILE!
This was the first time I'd heard her use any sort of vulgarity, and hasn't been the last. Actually, for the next week she pretty much used every profane word ever conjured, conceived and made up by people on Urbandictionary every time that I called her. And you might be thinking that because I did indeed call her, all one hundred and twenty eight times, that would be considered stalking, but it's not. Why? Because I'm with her now, and, at the last minute she decided to drop the restraining order when I promised to never play 'slug bug' with her again. And the kicker that kept her coming back for more Ron lovin', I was to purchase her a day spa treatment of her choice. She claimed it would help the bruises go away.
Since then we don't play 'slug bug' much anymore, mostly because I've learned my lesson. Spa treatments are way too expensive.
We do have a new game we play when we're traveling though. It's competitive, challenging and best of all, it involves nasty sex!!!
We call it 'porno plates'.
This is how it works so you and your loved ones can get to gettin' it on.
Rule one...you need to be in a car of some sort, preferably one with air bags and roll bars in case the fun gets out of hand and attention begins to wain. Next rule...with complete attention turned to license plates of other cars (therefore the need for rule number one) you pick out the letters and number and then with each letter complete a sentence that spells out something nasty, demeaning, sexual, gross, masochistic or something Jenna Jameson might scream out while on set.
Here, you give it a try...
What'd you come up with? See, the way I read this plate and put my 'porno plate' spin on it was this.
Nasty Little Whore (069 is self-explanatory)
Ain't that fun, huh?
Here, try another!
Anything?
Don't know about you but the only thing I could come up with was mustache toting, viperous piehole who more than likely is compensating for something, or possibly hooker strangling douchebag.
Yeah, okay, it has nothing to do with the game but it's my game so I can change the rules whenever I'd like, thank you very much.
Hey gang! I was off work today, and with all the time I had on my hands, I spent a lot of it napping. Oh, and I created a new header for my blog http://scuzzymoney.blogspot.com
If a little diddy about Jack and Diane can be based on three chords and the truth, then think of my new header as having nothing to do with music and is most the time built completely on lies.
THE NEW SCUZZYMONEY LOGO
Anyway, point is I was in the mood to change things up, add a little paprika and cumin while doing Patron shots to my blog that better represents who I am. Hope you enjoy.
(And if you do enjoy my new header and especially my blog http://scuzzymoney.blogspot.com, feel free to tell your friends and family and even that creepy lady that sits on the corner spewing insults while throwing Crisco boogers at you.)
I enjoy my lunch. I love a good sammich and maybe some Cheezy Poofs or sometimes I like to roam out and get a half slab of ribs, slathered in barbque sauce, washed down with two or three pints of...uh....ice tea. Ya, that's right, ice tea.
But most of all, I like my quiet time.
What I don't like is being interrupted! It's my lunch and you can't have it.
I work with a group of fucknuggets that feel this is their right though. It seems that as soon as I duck out and head toward the break room, someone feels the need to follow me in.
Why? How the fuck should I know. But they do.
That isn't entirely true. Sorry. No, what usually happens is as soon I get my can of chili rotating in the microwave or have pulled my PB&J unwrapped and then pull my book or laptop from my bag and have settled in for a few minutes of 'my fucking' time, this is the point in which they come storming in.
"What ya reading?" Overtly Gay Chris asks.
"Well, you bag of rhino snot, I'm not sure yet, 'cause I just started reading it but I bet if I overtly shoved it up your ass you might have a better understanding, in order to let me know, because you know what? I can't fricken read because you feel the need to bug the shit out of me each time I sit in this particular chair!"
Or this. I sit down, pull out my laptop, my left over spaghetti with meatballs warming up and sure as Toyota has faulty brakes, here comes Jovial Lab Manager Guy. "Hey, is that one of those fandangled doohickys that you can get the Interwebs on?"
"No, you asshamper, it's a box of deathrays, and if you don't move along right now, I'm going to fry that slug shaped brain of yours!"
"Uh...really? It can do that?"
Not the most tech savvy guy out there. There isn't much I can do about that, other than fuck with the computer in his lab. Every once in a while I'll change the screensaver to read
'Superfreak'
or I might turn the power button to off on his printer. Fun stuff and keeps him reeling for hours, until, finally, I like to suggest to him that it "must be home office changing the configuration on your computer and you might want to give IT a call." This always brings outrageous laughter and mean spirited criticism over the line from IT guys somewhere in Texas, which in turns, makes my day just that much more satisfying.
And while this is a shit load of fun, messing with Jovial Lab Manager Guy, it still doesn't answer the question of how to get him and Overtly Gay Chris to step away from my lunch break before I have to burn out there retinas with flaming, over nuked meatballs.
You are probably saying, "Ron, why don't you just tell them that this bugs you, that you appreciate your break time and unless you have something important to say, can you please let me enjoy your lunch, alone."
Well, I have, and thank you so much for trying to imply that you're a whole lot smarter than myself and that I don't have the cajewels to tell them to stab themselves with a large rusty pitchfork to their kneecaps. Well, I have, and in truth, I was a whole lot more graphic.
But, this only seemed to make them understand my need for privacy LESS! Since I told them I want to be left alone, they've become a hornets nest of aggravation in my life. Using that analogy as reality, I even brought a can of homicidal pest killer in to work, but that only pissed them off.
I'm at wits end people!?
Any help would be much appreciated in figuring out how to make them stop disturbing my lunch, or flat out killing them (if and only if their horribly ugly deaths can't be traced back to me because I can't spend another night any time in jail!)
But in the meantime, and since I have no idea how to finish up this post effectively, I'm giving Jovial Lab Manager Guy and Overtly Gay Chris The Haggis Award!
Seems old Gene Cranicks' home in Obion County, Tennessee burst into flames on Sept 29th, and when he made the call to the fire department, he was put on hold while the dispatcher skimmed up and down the list of 'Paid Their $75 Fire Fee So This Person Is Eligible To Be Treated As If They Are Living, Breathing Somebodies.'
Problem is, Gene wasn't on the 'PT$75FFSTPIETBTAITAL,BS' list. After being told of his not being on said list for fire service, he was once again put on hold. After returning, the dispatcher promptly went on to explain more in depth.
The actual conversation went like this...
DISPATCHER - "Yup...sorry Gene. I gave the Chief a call, which, by the way, he was pissed because he was golfing, but anyway, when I said it was kinda important, he told me that you the only list you are on is the 'YASBYDPY$75FSF,BSYHIBLABKBF,WSOTFTCUSS' list.
GENE - "Uh...wha...?"
DISPATCHER - "Duh, Gene. If you'd read your renewal to the 'PT$75FFSTPIETBTAITAL,BS' policy, you'd know that what you're getting is the 'YASBYDPY$75FSF,BSYHIBLABKBF,WSOTFTCUSS' policy."
GENE - "What?
DISPATCHER - "Jesus, Gene, you going to make me spell it out for you? If I do, you know that it would fall under the 'YWMTBMMSIOFYSIHTCY$15TDS' policy.
GENE - "Ummm..."
DISPATCHER - "It's the 'You're Wasting My Time By Making Me Spell It Out For You So I Have To Charge You $15 To Do So' policy. Anyway, Gene, point is you're a mooch. Because you didn't by into the PT$75FFSTPIETB..."
GENE - "The fuck you talkin' about?"
DISPATCHER - "Sheesh Gene, you know. The 'PT$75FFSTPIETBTAITAL,BS' policy. You didn't pay it. So you're now on the 'YASBYDPY$75FSF,BSYHIBLABKBF,WSOTFTCUSS' list. You know, the 'You Are Scum Because You Didn't Pay Your $75 Fire Service Fee, But Since Your Home Is Burning Like A Beer Keg Bon Fire, We'll Send Out The Firefighters To Cook Up Some Smores' list."
GENE - "Ummm yeah....so what do I do?"
DISPATCHER - "Good God, Gene, you are some sort of dense. Everyone knows this falls under the 'BYAFATOTYCDIMMUS'CYSSCBFTMHATFLIBBIDPM$75BTCMUSFSP' life style policy change."
GENE - "What the hell...?"
DISPATCHER - "Gene, Gene, Gene...It's the 'Basically You Are Fucked And The Only Thing You Can Do Is Maybe Make Up Some 'Can You Spare Some Change Because Fire Took My Home And The Firemen Let It Burn Because I Didn't Pay My $75 But They Cooked Me Up Some Fantastic Smores' Placards.
GENE - "Uhhh..."
DISPATCHER - "You want I give the Chief a call and see what it cost for some cardboard boxes and Sharpies?"
Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that?
No mas, no mas! That's what I found crazy Mrs. Sphincter (can't remember her name, but damn the woman needed to relax a bit) screaming while going toe to toe with Sugar Ray Leonard signing off of my passing (barely) grade. I remember it like it was yesterday. Her sitting at her desk, sobbing uncontrollably, making me sign a contract guaranteeing I wouldn't retake her class, nor would I wander anywhere near her part of the school. In return, she'd give me a D.
Picture that sat on Ms. Sphincters desk
I tried. I really did. But I just didn't get it. From where I sat, in the back row, I didn't understand at the time why I needed to learn another language. Why? Well, let me break it down for you. Topping the list was that I would have rather been sitting in my '76 Vega in the parking lot of Dick's Hamburgers, washing a Whammy down with Jack Daniels during fourth period. Secondly, it was a lot of studying, and I really wasn't interested in learning how to order a meal in Spanish. After all, the Taco Bell menu is pretty self explanatory. And lastly, I live in Spokane. In some circles, were called Spokompton, but let me tell you, there is nothing gangsta about where I grew up. I didn't meet a Mexican until I'd traveled to Yakima one weekend and had to ask directions to the nearest Taco Bell (see?) from a family of apple pickers.
Alright, that's a lie but truth is, Spokane hardly has a problem with illegals flooding across the border, beings we're a mere 70 miles from the Canadian border, where they only talk in hockey jibberish washed down with Kokanee, so unless you follow hockey, you won't know what the fuck those whacky, toothless bastards are slurring on about.
So, I didn't feel the need to learn a 2nd language.
Now I do. I'm not going back to school, nor am I going to listen to a monotonous voice drone on through my headphones the proper way to conjugate a taco (again, Taco Bell people!) or whatever senor narrator might be saying. (How the fuck do you make those little squirrelly things over letters? Another reason I wouldn't make a good Mexican.)
No, this time I'm going about it in a way that will be fun in order to keep my attention. I'm going to learn a language that I want to learn, not one that is required to move on to the 11th grade. And, in all actuality, I'm not going to learn a language what-so-ever!
Ha! Gotcha, ya wee tatties!
What I plan on learning isn't a language at all but an accent. You see, this makes more sense. I've alreadies learned how to talks good, so whyn't i just add to what what I allready knows?
Now, I've considered an accent from the south. That wouldn't be too hard. I have family from southern Georgia, dad having been raised in little old Ludiwici. Problem with a southern accent, though, is that it seems everyone is doing it. I refuse to conform.
I thought Rastafarian would be cool, but dope makes me paranoid and voodoo dolls scare the shit out of me.
Pirate talk? Nah. Pirates just look like they smell bad, and I for one, like to shower at least once every third day or so. Hey, Johnny Depp, dude, really? Soap even comes in a bottle now, buddy!
*Editors note - This Johnny Depp comment was tossed in nonchalantly, knowing this will get the biggest reaction and bring the most comments and hate mail. Ron, may or may not be smarter than he thinks.
So...I pick Scottish slur. And this is how I plan on going about learning to talk like a Scott. First off I'm running out to the pub, having eight or nine pints, before getting into a knock down brawl with a gang of Manchester United hooligans. (fuckin snaggle toothed Brits!) After that, I'm going to tune into the Craig Ferguson show every night until I figure out why in the hell he thinks that it's funny to open his show using a sock for his opening monologues. Once I figure that out, I'm sure I'll change my mind about learning my new accent, but I promise, at this time, to keep trying. Next, I'll check out every Irvine Welsh book I can find at the library, and when I can't translate anything Irvine has written I'll dig out my copy of Trainspotting and have a week long marathon, studying the intricacies of diving into a shitty Scottish toilet, swimming after heroine nuggets in order to have baby head-spinnin' sweat trip.
Okay, I know what you're saying. Ron, you've forgotten the most important aspect of Scot talk. The way a real man from the homeland would communicate with their loved ones. The gentle, sweet and considerate way he might send flowers or slip a love note into their sweethearts Braveheart lunch box.
Hey all, I've jumped on the MFing Blog Tour bus in support of a great new author, Rob 'Diesel' Kroese and his book Mercury Falls. I've read this book and you should too. If you like a funny, smart read with quirky characters and a twisting plot line involving linoleum, angels and the Apocalypse, you'll love Mercury Falls.
