I was at Wal Mart today and some 60 year old woman dropped a package of ham. Instinctively I reached down to pick it up and handed it to her saying "Here ya go ma'am."
That's just what I was raised to do. Apparently she was raised by wild animals and if she'd had a rape whistle she would've furiously been blowing it like she wished she'd blown frat boys back in 1926 or whenever the hell she was younger then a dinosaur.
I was met by such a look of pure disgust it sent a shiver down my spine. Jesus lady, I'm not hitting on you or trying to inseminate you with what I'm sure you feel are my heathen beliefs, I was simply trying to hand you back something you'd dropped.
For fucks sake, I've seen people take super models home while wearing nothing but galoshes and a rain slicker and babbling about a baby duck that fell down the sewer. I on the other hand get to put up with a veiny old lady giving me the stink eye for picking up her dropped groceries? I may need to modify my approach of interacting with strangers.
In retrospect instead of handing her a package of ham I should've handed her a dead, bloody, baby duck and asked at the top of my lungs "What did you do to my duck?"
That would've fixed her little wagon.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Yo-Ho Yo-Ho...a Pirate's Life for Me
This has been bothering me for sometime. When we hear about pirates nowadays they're all skinny Somalians running around in power boats with AK47's. What ever happened to real pirates?
Swashbuckling, devil may care, Douglas Fairbanks Jr types. With an eye patch from some long forgotten encounter, a parrot, and a peg leg.
Sure they weren't good guys, but at least they commanded a crew and somehow came in control of a sailing ship. That isn't easy shit to do. It would be the equivalent of seizing an aircraft carrier today and then pillaging and plundering your way across the oceans without someone fucking your shit up. All the while dealing with two handicaps (Being blind in one eye and having one God damn leg)...that could be quite a hindrance when setting off into battle. Unless you had a bunch of fighter aircraft at your command, then you might be able to get away with that shit. But not very likely.
If that wasn't enough of a bother, then you have to figure in the whole world hates you thing and wants to see you dead. You're half blind, you have an annoying parrot blathering on your shoulder that he's hungry, his dick hurts, or whatever problems parrot's have, and you walk like a donkey with 2 legs and use your enormous donkey dick as a third leg. Clump, clump, squish, clump, clump...."OH FUCK! This deck is made of wood! I've got a splinter! Help me. Oh fuck me to tears it hurts!" Then the bird starts yelling and the enemy knows exactly where to shoot. And you being blind and one legged and a huge splinter in your schlong die because your dick hurts. That's not exactly a formula for success. Or a very manly way to die. I'm mean really...I really would hate for my last words to be "Ow! My dick!" Dying because of a hurt pecker is not exactly going out in a blaze of glory. Who wants "He was a brave man, fearless, led his comrades into battle many times, but he was cut down because his penis hurt" emblazoned on their tombstone? That spells failure no matter how you look at it. Not to mention just a wee bit embarrassing.
Come to think of it, that may be how all the real pirates were killed off. They really didn't think this shit through to the end.
No matter how my life punctuates itself I can pretty much guarantee a hurting penis will not be what kills me off. I'd rather be eaten by a rabid possum then have that as my legacy for others to laugh at.
And given my life, being eaten by possums is not entirely out of the realm of possibilities.
Swashbuckling, devil may care, Douglas Fairbanks Jr types. With an eye patch from some long forgotten encounter, a parrot, and a peg leg.
Sure they weren't good guys, but at least they commanded a crew and somehow came in control of a sailing ship. That isn't easy shit to do. It would be the equivalent of seizing an aircraft carrier today and then pillaging and plundering your way across the oceans without someone fucking your shit up. All the while dealing with two handicaps (Being blind in one eye and having one God damn leg)...that could be quite a hindrance when setting off into battle. Unless you had a bunch of fighter aircraft at your command, then you might be able to get away with that shit. But not very likely.
If that wasn't enough of a bother, then you have to figure in the whole world hates you thing and wants to see you dead. You're half blind, you have an annoying parrot blathering on your shoulder that he's hungry, his dick hurts, or whatever problems parrot's have, and you walk like a donkey with 2 legs and use your enormous donkey dick as a third leg. Clump, clump, squish, clump, clump...."OH FUCK! This deck is made of wood! I've got a splinter! Help me. Oh fuck me to tears it hurts!" Then the bird starts yelling and the enemy knows exactly where to shoot. And you being blind and one legged and a huge splinter in your schlong die because your dick hurts. That's not exactly a formula for success. Or a very manly way to die. I'm mean really...I really would hate for my last words to be "Ow! My dick!" Dying because of a hurt pecker is not exactly going out in a blaze of glory. Who wants "He was a brave man, fearless, led his comrades into battle many times, but he was cut down because his penis hurt" emblazoned on their tombstone? That spells failure no matter how you look at it. Not to mention just a wee bit embarrassing.
Come to think of it, that may be how all the real pirates were killed off. They really didn't think this shit through to the end.
No matter how my life punctuates itself I can pretty much guarantee a hurting penis will not be what kills me off. I'd rather be eaten by a rabid possum then have that as my legacy for others to laugh at.
And given my life, being eaten by possums is not entirely out of the realm of possibilities.
Random Thought
I've been through more tornadoes then I can shake a stick at ( Note: If you shake a stick at a tornado you're a fucking idiot. The tornado doesn't care about you or your stick. Don't ask me how I know this, I just do.)
Shaking a stick at a shark however...you might hit him in the nose and he'll go away. Maybe.
With a tornado there is no maybe. You're just pretty much fucked. Your stick too.
Shaking a stick at a shark however...you might hit him in the nose and he'll go away. Maybe.
With a tornado there is no maybe. You're just pretty much fucked. Your stick too.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Of Mice and Men
I found a dead mouse in my kitchen today.
Granted that's a lot better then seeing a live mouse scurrying across the floor, but live or dead I hate mice. I knew something smelled funny in my house...and that's a hell of a way to find a dead mouse.
Every year when the weather turns cold my house gets invaded by mice. I'll be sitting and watching the TV and one of those rotten bastards will go running across the floor startling the shit out of me. I usually end up standing on the couch screaming like a little girl and upsetting Percy. Then the real noise begins.
Hell hath no noise like a screaming and confused parrot. He has no real need to be upset, but in his small brain neurons are firing telling him to shriek like a banshee with a megaphone and that will make everything better. It doesn't, it just gives me a headache.
I went as far as to get a cat last year to scare the mice away or eat them, either or I really didn't care....and something ate my cat. Probably a big fucking mouse. I didn't even have time to name him. Oh well, if he was eaten by a mouse he would've been pretty much as useless as a normal cat. He had one job to perform, namely keeping my house rid of mice (And a secondary job which involved the simple command of "Leave the fucking bird be.") but he went and got eaten by something.
I'd put it down as a cat thing and just get a dog, but the three dogs I've had down here have all been hit by cars because they were stupid and slept on the highway and chased cars.
Either these animals were all born retarded or they committed suicide so they didn't have to live in Mississippi. If the latter is the case, why don't the fucking mice do the same?
Granted that's a lot better then seeing a live mouse scurrying across the floor, but live or dead I hate mice. I knew something smelled funny in my house...and that's a hell of a way to find a dead mouse.
Every year when the weather turns cold my house gets invaded by mice. I'll be sitting and watching the TV and one of those rotten bastards will go running across the floor startling the shit out of me. I usually end up standing on the couch screaming like a little girl and upsetting Percy. Then the real noise begins.
Hell hath no noise like a screaming and confused parrot. He has no real need to be upset, but in his small brain neurons are firing telling him to shriek like a banshee with a megaphone and that will make everything better. It doesn't, it just gives me a headache.
I went as far as to get a cat last year to scare the mice away or eat them, either or I really didn't care....and something ate my cat. Probably a big fucking mouse. I didn't even have time to name him. Oh well, if he was eaten by a mouse he would've been pretty much as useless as a normal cat. He had one job to perform, namely keeping my house rid of mice (And a secondary job which involved the simple command of "Leave the fucking bird be.") but he went and got eaten by something.
I'd put it down as a cat thing and just get a dog, but the three dogs I've had down here have all been hit by cars because they were stupid and slept on the highway and chased cars.
Either these animals were all born retarded or they committed suicide so they didn't have to live in Mississippi. If the latter is the case, why don't the fucking mice do the same?
Monday, November 23, 2009
Beer makes for great ideas
I hadn't planned on writing anything else, but then I had a thought....
You know how that weird Indian dude used to drive around in Oregon with his equally weird followers falling to their knees and spitting at each other hoping to swallow some of the dust his Rolls Royce kicked up? They were just a bit fucked in the head weren't they? Well that gave me an idea. History is littered with the bodies of the insane succumbing to those who had just a glimmer more of intelligence.
No, I'm not going to provide references. I'm not on trial here.
Anyways, that's beside the point...here's my plan:
* Start a completely fucked up church with a doctrine so screwed up no one can make head or tails of it. Then if people are fighting over eating the dust from my car and acting like primal monkeys for the right to do so I think I may have a ripe bunch of idiots to be my followers.
* If you're worth over $100K, you can join my church.
* You must sign everything over to me...errr... "The Church"
* If you're worth under $100K. Fuck you.
* Unless you are a hot girl with tits out to here...*Holding my hands out as far as they can reach*
* Fuck that. If your tits defy gravity you're in, 100K or not. Unless you're a guy. Dear God man, go drink some Slim Fast and get the hell out of your parent's basement. And for God's sake keep your shirt on, no one wants to see that shit.
What's expected of you:
* Pretty much horrible poverty.
* Running water will happen when it rains. I tell God when to bring the rains.
* Electricity? Hahahahaha....ummmm no
* You kiss the ground when I drive by on my tractor until we can buy a Rolls Royce. For me. Then you'll kiss the ground thanking our 6 legged God with 2 heads, one thats spews out fish entrails (I hate that head) for providing me with a big expensive car and yourself with that huge carrot that you pulled up this morning. Then you'll go home and eat carrot soup with your wretched and stupid family that actually thinks carrot peelings and boiled water=carrot soup.
Yep...only $100K a head and I ...errr...by "I" I mean it in a spiritual way to include all of us, however I won't be eating the mud and dust thrown up by my tractor. That is a special privilege for the pilgrims. That would be you.
Mud Licker.
That's just a euphemism for "Bless you." I swear.
Send your money to Church of Toytoy (Big fucking car fund)3242 Some field, Somewhere, MS.
You know how that weird Indian dude used to drive around in Oregon with his equally weird followers falling to their knees and spitting at each other hoping to swallow some of the dust his Rolls Royce kicked up? They were just a bit fucked in the head weren't they? Well that gave me an idea. History is littered with the bodies of the insane succumbing to those who had just a glimmer more of intelligence.
No, I'm not going to provide references. I'm not on trial here.
Anyways, that's beside the point...here's my plan:
* Start a completely fucked up church with a doctrine so screwed up no one can make head or tails of it. Then if people are fighting over eating the dust from my car and acting like primal monkeys for the right to do so I think I may have a ripe bunch of idiots to be my followers.
* If you're worth over $100K, you can join my church.
* You must sign everything over to me...errr... "The Church"
* If you're worth under $100K. Fuck you.
* Unless you are a hot girl with tits out to here...*Holding my hands out as far as they can reach*
* Fuck that. If your tits defy gravity you're in, 100K or not. Unless you're a guy. Dear God man, go drink some Slim Fast and get the hell out of your parent's basement. And for God's sake keep your shirt on, no one wants to see that shit.
What's expected of you:
* Pretty much horrible poverty.
* Running water will happen when it rains. I tell God when to bring the rains.
* Electricity? Hahahahaha....ummmm no
* You kiss the ground when I drive by on my tractor until we can buy a Rolls Royce. For me. Then you'll kiss the ground thanking our 6 legged God with 2 heads, one thats spews out fish entrails (I hate that head) for providing me with a big expensive car and yourself with that huge carrot that you pulled up this morning. Then you'll go home and eat carrot soup with your wretched and stupid family that actually thinks carrot peelings and boiled water=carrot soup.
Yep...only $100K a head and I ...errr...by "I" I mean it in a spiritual way to include all of us, however I won't be eating the mud and dust thrown up by my tractor. That is a special privilege for the pilgrims. That would be you.
Mud Licker.
That's just a euphemism for "Bless you." I swear.
Send your money to Church of Toytoy (Big fucking car fund)3242 Some field, Somewhere, MS.
This ain't a reality show
Since hundreds of people have told me my life deserves a reality show and tens have told me to shut the fuck up and die, I figured I'd make everyone happy and tell most of the mundane shit that happens in my life here. It seems to delight some and infuriate others to the point of irrational hatred and wishing a pox on my first born. Chances are those of y'all wishing for a reality show are never going to get one, so this is the next best thing.
But first I had to wait for something, anything, to happen that would even be worth writing about and thankfully it didn't take long.
I went down to the barn today to check and see just what I had down there that is going to need to be moved if and when my father's widow sells the land. I was greeted by a smell that can only be described as a combination of diesel, fertilizer, and apples.
What the fuck?
This is a barn full of old equipment. The diesel and fertilizer can be explained, but apples? It honestly smelled like I'd kept my tractor in there and in my absence it had shit fertilizer, and pissed diesel all over the floor after running over a Mexican selling a 20lb bag of apples at a Southern California intersection.
After a few minutes of scratching my head (And my balls, because...well, because I am a guy and I scratch my balls when I can't think of anything better to do) it finally hit me. I'd stored 5 bottles of corked homemade cider down there. I went over to where they'd been placed and found 5 nearly empty bottles of homemade cider.
Hmmmm.
Hobos are not a real problem in this place, so it had to be woodland creatures. I put on my detective hat (Not literally, I just turned my Ole' Miss baseball cap backwards so I didn't miss any clues.) I found two corks that had apparently popped and 1 with tiny tooth marks in it. Clearly this was not the work of a homeless drifter unless he had a mouthful of fucked up baby vampire teeth. Using deductive reasoning I quickly asserted that this was indeed a stupid, furry critter with the ability to hoist a bottle and drain the contents. If it had been a deer it would've got its rack stuck in something after drinking that poison and stomped the bottles with it's devil like hooves to open them, which is not a very good plan if you want to get away with stealing a hillbilly's booze.
I was to late to fire off indiscriminate shots hoping to blow the bloody fuck out of the robbers, but it warms the cockles of my heart to know that somewhere out there in the woods is a family of raccoons, skunks, or possums with pounding headaches and retching their guts out like a donkey giving birth to a tractor.
I picture momma critter saying to poppa critter "Dude! What the (Blragh...as a stream of vile homemade wine is violently ejected from her digestive system) fuck?
Welcome to my world you little fuzzy thieves.
Besides that, how awesome would it be if a possible main ingredient in hillbilly stew referred to each other as "Dude?"
But first I had to wait for something, anything, to happen that would even be worth writing about and thankfully it didn't take long.
I went down to the barn today to check and see just what I had down there that is going to need to be moved if and when my father's widow sells the land. I was greeted by a smell that can only be described as a combination of diesel, fertilizer, and apples.
What the fuck?
This is a barn full of old equipment. The diesel and fertilizer can be explained, but apples? It honestly smelled like I'd kept my tractor in there and in my absence it had shit fertilizer, and pissed diesel all over the floor after running over a Mexican selling a 20lb bag of apples at a Southern California intersection.
After a few minutes of scratching my head (And my balls, because...well, because I am a guy and I scratch my balls when I can't think of anything better to do) it finally hit me. I'd stored 5 bottles of corked homemade cider down there. I went over to where they'd been placed and found 5 nearly empty bottles of homemade cider.
Hmmmm.
Hobos are not a real problem in this place, so it had to be woodland creatures. I put on my detective hat (Not literally, I just turned my Ole' Miss baseball cap backwards so I didn't miss any clues.) I found two corks that had apparently popped and 1 with tiny tooth marks in it. Clearly this was not the work of a homeless drifter unless he had a mouthful of fucked up baby vampire teeth. Using deductive reasoning I quickly asserted that this was indeed a stupid, furry critter with the ability to hoist a bottle and drain the contents. If it had been a deer it would've got its rack stuck in something after drinking that poison and stomped the bottles with it's devil like hooves to open them, which is not a very good plan if you want to get away with stealing a hillbilly's booze.
I was to late to fire off indiscriminate shots hoping to blow the bloody fuck out of the robbers, but it warms the cockles of my heart to know that somewhere out there in the woods is a family of raccoons, skunks, or possums with pounding headaches and retching their guts out like a donkey giving birth to a tractor.
I picture momma critter saying to poppa critter "Dude! What the (Blragh...as a stream of vile homemade wine is violently ejected from her digestive system) fuck?
Welcome to my world you little fuzzy thieves.
Besides that, how awesome would it be if a possible main ingredient in hillbilly stew referred to each other as "Dude?"
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