With things going from bad to worse along the Gulf Coast today and yesterday, I hear that our city may be host to as many as 50,000 refugees. Officials are setting up to receive them at the fair grounds.
The hotels here are already full. Our churches need to open their airconditioned doors and allow these people to come and stay in their carpeted facilities, sleep on the padded pews and eat in the kitchens. Most have full nurseries to accommodate families with small children and many have showers and other facilities to make them perfect shelters for the victims of this terrible disaster. I hope they will show the true love of Christ and open their arms and hearts to these poor people.
But, what is the world's response to our tsunami?
One was to raise the price of oil $3.00 a barrel to record levels.
I don't hear an outpouring of generosity or willingness to help us in our time of need. Or am I just not listening?
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
Lazy Post Today...
Boudreaux been fish'n down by de bayou all day and he done run plum outta night crawlers. He be bout reddy to leave when he seen a snake wif a big frog in his mouf. He knowed dat dem big bass fish like dem frogs, so he decided to steal dat froggie.
Dat snake, he be a cotton mouf water moccasin, so he had to be real careful or he'd git bit. He snuk up behine dat snake and grab him roun de haid.
Dat ole snake din't lak dat one bit. He squirmed and wrap hisself roun' Boudreaux's arm try'n to git hisself free. But Boudreaux, him had a real good grip on his haid, yeh. Well, Boudreaux pried his mouf open and got de frog and puts it in his bait can.
Now, Boudreaux knows dat he cain't let go dat snake or he gonna bite him good, but he had a plan. He reach into de back pocket of his bib overalls and pulls out a pint a moonshine likker. He pour some drops into de snake's mouf. Well, dat snake's eyeballs roll back in his haid and his body go limp.
Wit dat, Boudreaux toss dat snake into de bayou. Den he goes back to fishin'.
A while later, Boudreaux dun feel sumpin' tappin' on his barefoot toe.
He slowly look down and dare wuz dat cotton mouf snake - wif two more frogs.
Dat snake, he be a cotton mouf water moccasin, so he had to be real careful or he'd git bit. He snuk up behine dat snake and grab him roun de haid.
Dat ole snake din't lak dat one bit. He squirmed and wrap hisself roun' Boudreaux's arm try'n to git hisself free. But Boudreaux, him had a real good grip on his haid, yeh. Well, Boudreaux pried his mouf open and got de frog and puts it in his bait can.
Now, Boudreaux knows dat he cain't let go dat snake or he gonna bite him good, but he had a plan. He reach into de back pocket of his bib overalls and pulls out a pint a moonshine likker. He pour some drops into de snake's mouf. Well, dat snake's eyeballs roll back in his haid and his body go limp.
Wit dat, Boudreaux toss dat snake into de bayou. Den he goes back to fishin'.
A while later, Boudreaux dun feel sumpin' tappin' on his barefoot toe.
He slowly look down and dare wuz dat cotton mouf snake - wif two more frogs.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
The Truth About Global Warming
Researchers at the University of Texas released data today indicating that global warming may be tied directly to air conditioning. For some years now, scientists have looked at the release of Freon into the atmosphere as harming the ozone layer and ultimately contributing to global warming. And, it was long thought that greenhouse gasses contributed largely to the phenomenon.
But it is only just recently that a direct connection between air conditioning and global warming has become evident.
Geri Sanchez, head of the Terra-Two Project, which looks at global warming and its causes, effects and remedies, at the University of Texas, Austin, said, “We have been compiling statistics on air conditioning in this country and around the world for the last three years.”
“We show trends prior to 1958 when air conditioning first started to become popular,” she continued, “until 2004 and you can see a dramatic increase in the average temperature of the earth starting about 1964.”
“When you calculate the square footage enclosed in air conditioned spaces, and the average difference in temperature from inside and outside, it’s easy to see that the air outside is being replaced with heated air and the air inside is cool.”
“Multiply the effects of one 1800 square foot house times millions and you realize that it’s no coincidence that temperatures have risen a full three quarters of a degree Fahrenheit over the past two decades. You can’t expect to fill large volumes of space with cool air and not raise the surrounding temperature.”
Sanchez went on to state that this is why we have become so dependent on air conditioning.
“I hear all the time, ‘how did people live without air conditioning in the old days?’ And, the answer is, it wasn’t so hot then so people didn’t notice.”
Sanchez believes that if everyone stopped using air conditioning at one time, the earth’s temperature would drop to previous levels within a few months and people wouldn’t need air conditioning.
“It’s good for people, it’s good for the economy, it’s good for energy conservation, it’s good for the Earth.” Sanchez stated.
For further information, contact g.sanchez@utex.edu
But it is only just recently that a direct connection between air conditioning and global warming has become evident.
Geri Sanchez, head of the Terra-Two Project, which looks at global warming and its causes, effects and remedies, at the University of Texas, Austin, said, “We have been compiling statistics on air conditioning in this country and around the world for the last three years.”
“We show trends prior to 1958 when air conditioning first started to become popular,” she continued, “until 2004 and you can see a dramatic increase in the average temperature of the earth starting about 1964.”
“When you calculate the square footage enclosed in air conditioned spaces, and the average difference in temperature from inside and outside, it’s easy to see that the air outside is being replaced with heated air and the air inside is cool.”
“Multiply the effects of one 1800 square foot house times millions and you realize that it’s no coincidence that temperatures have risen a full three quarters of a degree Fahrenheit over the past two decades. You can’t expect to fill large volumes of space with cool air and not raise the surrounding temperature.”
Sanchez went on to state that this is why we have become so dependent on air conditioning.
“I hear all the time, ‘how did people live without air conditioning in the old days?’ And, the answer is, it wasn’t so hot then so people didn’t notice.”
Sanchez believes that if everyone stopped using air conditioning at one time, the earth’s temperature would drop to previous levels within a few months and people wouldn’t need air conditioning.
“It’s good for people, it’s good for the economy, it’s good for energy conservation, it’s good for the Earth.” Sanchez stated.
For further information, contact g.sanchez@utex.edu
Friday, July 29, 2005
Daily Ride
You know, it’s funny when I blog about my son and his car, the guys are all maximum performance and go boy and then Sandy is just, “well, how is the ride to work every morning."
And, in usual guy fashion, you can just snort about the guy’s comments and go, “if you only knew, bro, if you only knew,” scratch your ass and go about your business. But Sandy’s comment…well that just has to be addressed.
Typical ride to work conversation:
Boy: “I been over at Nick’s the last couple nights and he’s getting his car painted.”
(To fill you in, Nick came by last week and had bought about $3000.00 worth of spray primer at Wal Mart and had “primed” his car. Pretty much everything except a small area of the windshield for him to look out of. His mother, horrified, told him she would pay to have the car professionally painted if he would promise not to try that shit anymore.)
Me: “That’s cool.”
Boy: “Yeah the dude came over to his house and sanded all of the crap he sprayed on it off, then coated it with primer. It’s looking pretty good. Nick said he’s only having to pay for the materials and that the dude is painting it for free. I told him he could paint my car too and I’d buy the materials and he said he wanted $900.00 plus materials to paint my car, so I said ‘go find someone else to pay you $900.00, and paint their car, dude.”
Me: “Maybe you should make friends with somebody that knows how to paint cars…”
Boy: “Anyway they’re going to put this paint on there that has to cure for 9 days…”
Me: “Can’t wax it until it cures?”
Boy: “No, he can’t even drive it. It has to stay locked up in the garage for nine days until it cures…”
Me: “Damn! What kind of paint is that?”
Boy: “ I DON’T KNOW! I don’t know, it’s some kind of paint. Why are you asking me all this?”
Me: “Dang, ‘Mr. I know everything about cars’ and he doesn’t know what this fancy ass paint is that takes nine days to cure?”
Boy: “LOOK!, I know about ENGINES, and TRANSMISSIONS, and BOOSTERS and TURBO CHARGERS, but I DON’T know about paint. ALL RIGHT?”
Me: “Just trying to make conversation. That’s all.”
And, in usual guy fashion, you can just snort about the guy’s comments and go, “if you only knew, bro, if you only knew,” scratch your ass and go about your business. But Sandy’s comment…well that just has to be addressed.
Typical ride to work conversation:
Boy: “I been over at Nick’s the last couple nights and he’s getting his car painted.”
(To fill you in, Nick came by last week and had bought about $3000.00 worth of spray primer at Wal Mart and had “primed” his car. Pretty much everything except a small area of the windshield for him to look out of. His mother, horrified, told him she would pay to have the car professionally painted if he would promise not to try that shit anymore.)
Me: “That’s cool.”
Boy: “Yeah the dude came over to his house and sanded all of the crap he sprayed on it off, then coated it with primer. It’s looking pretty good. Nick said he’s only having to pay for the materials and that the dude is painting it for free. I told him he could paint my car too and I’d buy the materials and he said he wanted $900.00 plus materials to paint my car, so I said ‘go find someone else to pay you $900.00, and paint their car, dude.”
Me: “Maybe you should make friends with somebody that knows how to paint cars…”
Boy: “Anyway they’re going to put this paint on there that has to cure for 9 days…”
Me: “Can’t wax it until it cures?”
Boy: “No, he can’t even drive it. It has to stay locked up in the garage for nine days until it cures…”
Me: “Damn! What kind of paint is that?”
Boy: “ I DON’T KNOW! I don’t know, it’s some kind of paint. Why are you asking me all this?”
Me: “Dang, ‘Mr. I know everything about cars’ and he doesn’t know what this fancy ass paint is that takes nine days to cure?”
Boy: “LOOK!, I know about ENGINES, and TRANSMISSIONS, and BOOSTERS and TURBO CHARGERS, but I DON’T know about paint. ALL RIGHT?”
Me: “Just trying to make conversation. That’s all.”
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Car Update
Son1, being unable to accomplish job findament on his own, is now working at my company, therefore able to ride to work with me and back every day. If he can drag his lazy butt out of bed.
He got his first paycheck last Friday (covering all of two days) and is projecting he will be able to buy an engine for his car in six weeks.
Well, if he doesn't binge and spend all his money on pot and loose women before then...
He got his first paycheck last Friday (covering all of two days) and is projecting he will be able to buy an engine for his car in six weeks.
Well, if he doesn't binge and spend all his money on pot and loose women before then...
Monday, July 25, 2005
Hamster Stan
Some of you have been anxious to know, since the report from our correspondent in Long Beach last week, how things have shaken out between Dan the Weiner Dog and Hamster Stan.
Sadly we must report, Hamster Stan is no more. Dan the Weiner Dog, tired of being ignored whilst staring death daggers into the cage, apparently ate Hamster Stan and ground his bones with his somewhat powerful teeth. As powerful as a Weiner Dog can muster, anyway.
After cleaning up the mess, we sent Dan the Weiner Dog to his bed to lick his butt and ruminate over his transgressions. He won't be allowed out until he is sufficiently sorry.
Sadly we must report, Hamster Stan is no more. Dan the Weiner Dog, tired of being ignored whilst staring death daggers into the cage, apparently ate Hamster Stan and ground his bones with his somewhat powerful teeth. As powerful as a Weiner Dog can muster, anyway.
After cleaning up the mess, we sent Dan the Weiner Dog to his bed to lick his butt and ruminate over his transgressions. He won't be allowed out until he is sufficiently sorry.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Dream Car
Son1, who is sixteen, bought the car of his dreams yesterday. 
His next project is to clean out the right-hand garage to park it in.
His next project is to clean out the right-hand garage to park it in.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Hamster Stan
from our correspondent in Long Beach:
Hamster Stan is in jeopardy, Dan the Weiner Dog has been shooting daggers at him from his beady black eyeballs from a shelf across from the cage. Dan the Weiner Dog feels like he is some kind of badass and is itching for a fight.
Updates as they arrive…
Hamster Stan is in jeopardy, Dan the Weiner Dog has been shooting daggers at him from his beady black eyeballs from a shelf across from the cage. Dan the Weiner Dog feels like he is some kind of badass and is itching for a fight.
Updates as they arrive…
Thursday, June 30, 2005
The Dark Side
Sandy asks, “…tell us about your DARK SIDE.”
I suppose that whatever dark side of myself that I choose to reveal to you, dear readers, is going to be mild in comparison to the dank, stinking secrets I intend to carry to my grave. With that in mind, here goes.
We used to drive around town in a pick up truck, late at night, drinking beer and picking up the real estate signs in people’s yards. We would do this until we had the bed filled with them and then we would go to the rich neighborhood and put an entire street up for sale.
I sometimes take things out of other people’s shopping baskets at the grocery store and sometimes I put things in them when they’re not looking.
I put toads in a guy’s car every day for an entire summer, once.
I once grew tired of hearing about a co-worker’s fantastic garden so I placed a want ad in the paper for produce pickers. He came in that Monday with an even more fantastic tale of having been overrun with migrant workers all weekend.
When my son was three, I told him the homeless man sitting under the bridge was a troll.
We used to put custom bumper stickers on people’s cars. All you need is a roll of 2 inch masking tape and a Sharpie pen. “Honk if you’re gay too” is a favorite.
I stole a watermelon out of someone’s garden before.
When we were kids we would call the pay phone at the mall and pretend we thought it was our mom that answered and say, “I’m sick, come get me.” in a most weak and convincing manner. Then we’d give whoever answered a phone number and name from the phone book to call because we’d just “used my last dime to make this call.”
I suppose that whatever dark side of myself that I choose to reveal to you, dear readers, is going to be mild in comparison to the dank, stinking secrets I intend to carry to my grave. With that in mind, here goes.
We used to drive around town in a pick up truck, late at night, drinking beer and picking up the real estate signs in people’s yards. We would do this until we had the bed filled with them and then we would go to the rich neighborhood and put an entire street up for sale.
I sometimes take things out of other people’s shopping baskets at the grocery store and sometimes I put things in them when they’re not looking.
I put toads in a guy’s car every day for an entire summer, once.
I once grew tired of hearing about a co-worker’s fantastic garden so I placed a want ad in the paper for produce pickers. He came in that Monday with an even more fantastic tale of having been overrun with migrant workers all weekend.
When my son was three, I told him the homeless man sitting under the bridge was a troll.
We used to put custom bumper stickers on people’s cars. All you need is a roll of 2 inch masking tape and a Sharpie pen. “Honk if you’re gay too” is a favorite.
I stole a watermelon out of someone’s garden before.
When we were kids we would call the pay phone at the mall and pretend we thought it was our mom that answered and say, “I’m sick, come get me.” in a most weak and convincing manner. Then we’d give whoever answered a phone number and name from the phone book to call because we’d just “used my last dime to make this call.”
Monday, June 27, 2005
Lost As An Easter Egg
The first time I ever got fired from a job, I felt carefree enough to just enjoy it for about six months. I did a lot of different things to make money and keep myself afloat including building sets for the local opera theater, and digging quartz crystals in the Ouachita Mountains to sell.
Which led to an interesting proposition.
One of my old buddies had been going with a friend to hunt an old Confederate camp in south Arkansas with metal detectors. They had found a place down there that yielded up a very rare bullet that went for around $90 apiece at that time, nearly twenty years ago.
Of course this spot was completely secret and each sworn never to reveal to another. But somehow they came to the agreement to let me in if I would show them where I was getting the quartz crystals.
So I take them down into the Ouachitas and we dig crystals all day and I come home with my hands completely swelled and blistered from poison ivy roots. I felt that I had upheld my end of the bargain.
So, a few weeks later we all pile into Joe’s truck and take off about six a.m. for L.A. (lower Arkansas), getting there about 8:30 or so. It’s cloudy and sort of misty, but veteran treasure hunters know that this makes for better sensitivity in locating objects, and easier digging to retrieve them. So off we go into the forest.
More like a long series of swamps and bogs with intermittent thickets of briars and thorny locust trees. So, where are the bullets?
“Oh,” they tell me, “we decided to check out a new place.”
And about thirty minutes into the trek of finding nothing, it starts to rain. Earnestly.
Joe says, “We better head back to the truck,” and whips out his compass. I hadn’t noticed before then that he didn’t bother to check the compass when we left the truck. This turned out to be a crucial bit of information. “It’s this way,” he said.
We thrashed through unfamiliar underbrush and waded a few low spots before realizing that we weren’t really getting any closer to seeing the truck. And there being no sun to judge by, there was no way of knowing if we were going the right way or not. We slogged on.
Some of the swamps are starting to get chest high, and being that wet in a November downpour gets to be mighty uncomfortable, even if you’re wearing G.I. boots and field jackets. It was even more disheartening to find that all of my cigarettes were wet.
On and on and on we trudge. A check of my watch shows that it’s been four hours since we left the truck. Over rises, through sloughs, and scratched by briars of every description, we trekked on and on. Finally, about four o’clock, we come to a narrow, muddy jeep trail. So, which way do we go?
First instinct says go right, but after about a quarter of a mile I saw a sign nailed to a tree. Soggy Bottoms Hunting Club, No Trespassing. “Look fellas,” I said, “the sign is facing this way so that must be out.” Agreed. And, we start hiking down the jeep track.
An hour and an half later we arrive at a gravel road. This is an improvement, but which way? We walked about half a mile and came to a rise from which we could see to the horizon and no end in sight to this road. So, we went the other way.
We walked for about thirty minutes in a driving rain, the hoods on our field jackets pulled tight around our faces, our metal detectors draining rivulets from the speaker holes, when we came to the dead end of said gravel road. That was disheartening to say the least. And a cigarette would have been a great relief but they had all been left disgustedly in a soggy mass at the terminus of the jeep track.
So, off we go on the trail to infinity trying to while away the time talking about how stupid Joe was to not check his fucking compass until it was time to go back and how fucked up it would be to have to spend the night, wet and cold in the woods.
Sometime really close to sundown we started hearing the sounds of a highway in the distance. We quickened our pace and finally came to a beautiful two lane black top with brightly painted amber stripes. Not giving a shit, we flagged down the first vehicle to come along, which in Arkansas is 99% sure to be a pick up truck.
“Say, how do you get to Mount Elba from here?” we asked. “Mount Elba!” he replied, “Hell boys, you’re twenty miles from Mount Elba. Jump in and I’ll give you a ride.”
Welcome words to be sure and one of us had to ride in the back of the truck in the wind. I figured dumbass Joe would volunteer, but when he didn’t, I was just so grateful that I climbed in back and relished the fact that I wasn’t walking in the rain any more.
He whipped a giant u-turn in the middle of the highway and we barreled off to where the truck was parked. It was a silent ride, in the dark, wet and miserable with the heater blasting, back to Little Rock. As far as I know, I have never spoken to Joe again and don’t reckon I ever will. Curt and I have remained friends and I only partially blame him.
But hell, I didn’t even get a t-shirt. I spent ten hours in the rain and all I got was this crummy story…
Which led to an interesting proposition.
One of my old buddies had been going with a friend to hunt an old Confederate camp in south Arkansas with metal detectors. They had found a place down there that yielded up a very rare bullet that went for around $90 apiece at that time, nearly twenty years ago.
Of course this spot was completely secret and each sworn never to reveal to another. But somehow they came to the agreement to let me in if I would show them where I was getting the quartz crystals.
So I take them down into the Ouachitas and we dig crystals all day and I come home with my hands completely swelled and blistered from poison ivy roots. I felt that I had upheld my end of the bargain.
So, a few weeks later we all pile into Joe’s truck and take off about six a.m. for L.A. (lower Arkansas), getting there about 8:30 or so. It’s cloudy and sort of misty, but veteran treasure hunters know that this makes for better sensitivity in locating objects, and easier digging to retrieve them. So off we go into the forest.
More like a long series of swamps and bogs with intermittent thickets of briars and thorny locust trees. So, where are the bullets?
“Oh,” they tell me, “we decided to check out a new place.”
And about thirty minutes into the trek of finding nothing, it starts to rain. Earnestly.
Joe says, “We better head back to the truck,” and whips out his compass. I hadn’t noticed before then that he didn’t bother to check the compass when we left the truck. This turned out to be a crucial bit of information. “It’s this way,” he said.
We thrashed through unfamiliar underbrush and waded a few low spots before realizing that we weren’t really getting any closer to seeing the truck. And there being no sun to judge by, there was no way of knowing if we were going the right way or not. We slogged on.
Some of the swamps are starting to get chest high, and being that wet in a November downpour gets to be mighty uncomfortable, even if you’re wearing G.I. boots and field jackets. It was even more disheartening to find that all of my cigarettes were wet.
On and on and on we trudge. A check of my watch shows that it’s been four hours since we left the truck. Over rises, through sloughs, and scratched by briars of every description, we trekked on and on. Finally, about four o’clock, we come to a narrow, muddy jeep trail. So, which way do we go?
First instinct says go right, but after about a quarter of a mile I saw a sign nailed to a tree. Soggy Bottoms Hunting Club, No Trespassing. “Look fellas,” I said, “the sign is facing this way so that must be out.” Agreed. And, we start hiking down the jeep track.
An hour and an half later we arrive at a gravel road. This is an improvement, but which way? We walked about half a mile and came to a rise from which we could see to the horizon and no end in sight to this road. So, we went the other way.
We walked for about thirty minutes in a driving rain, the hoods on our field jackets pulled tight around our faces, our metal detectors draining rivulets from the speaker holes, when we came to the dead end of said gravel road. That was disheartening to say the least. And a cigarette would have been a great relief but they had all been left disgustedly in a soggy mass at the terminus of the jeep track.
So, off we go on the trail to infinity trying to while away the time talking about how stupid Joe was to not check his fucking compass until it was time to go back and how fucked up it would be to have to spend the night, wet and cold in the woods.
Sometime really close to sundown we started hearing the sounds of a highway in the distance. We quickened our pace and finally came to a beautiful two lane black top with brightly painted amber stripes. Not giving a shit, we flagged down the first vehicle to come along, which in Arkansas is 99% sure to be a pick up truck.
“Say, how do you get to Mount Elba from here?” we asked. “Mount Elba!” he replied, “Hell boys, you’re twenty miles from Mount Elba. Jump in and I’ll give you a ride.”
Welcome words to be sure and one of us had to ride in the back of the truck in the wind. I figured dumbass Joe would volunteer, but when he didn’t, I was just so grateful that I climbed in back and relished the fact that I wasn’t walking in the rain any more.
He whipped a giant u-turn in the middle of the highway and we barreled off to where the truck was parked. It was a silent ride, in the dark, wet and miserable with the heater blasting, back to Little Rock. As far as I know, I have never spoken to Joe again and don’t reckon I ever will. Curt and I have remained friends and I only partially blame him.
But hell, I didn’t even get a t-shirt. I spent ten hours in the rain and all I got was this crummy story…
Friday, June 24, 2005
Is Jack Johnson a Chick Thing?
Last week I took a twenty something client to lunch and he was poking through the cd's in my car.
"Damn, dude!" he exclaimed, "whose car is this?"
I guess I'm trying to say that my taste in music is diverse and not so dated that one would think they were riding in an old man's automobile.
So, when my daughter gave me a copy of Jack Johnson's Brushfire Fairytales and told me that it was just the best cd ever, I couldn't wait to pop it into my car player and listen to it.
Well, I've listened to it three times now and I just don't get it. I mean, the music isn't offensive or anything, but I fail to comprehend the swoon. Is it a chick thing? Am I not supposed to get it? Just wondering.
On another note, Sandy: you may shame me into posting, but you are welcome to sing in my house any time you want...
"Damn, dude!" he exclaimed, "whose car is this?"
I guess I'm trying to say that my taste in music is diverse and not so dated that one would think they were riding in an old man's automobile.
So, when my daughter gave me a copy of Jack Johnson's Brushfire Fairytales and told me that it was just the best cd ever, I couldn't wait to pop it into my car player and listen to it.
Well, I've listened to it three times now and I just don't get it. I mean, the music isn't offensive or anything, but I fail to comprehend the swoon. Is it a chick thing? Am I not supposed to get it? Just wondering.
On another note, Sandy: you may shame me into posting, but you are welcome to sing in my house any time you want...
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Mississippi Bass Boat
Bitterman posted photos recently of a very nice Chris Craft. A boat that most of us could only fantasize about having. The real deal.
But, what he didn't tell you, is that boat is next door.
I snuck across the Mississippi River a couple of weeks ago and hid in the bushes down by the Tenn-Tom and snapped this pic of the Bitterman with his real boat - a genuine Mississippi Bass Boat.
I was glad to see he wore his best hat for the picture...
But, what he didn't tell you, is that boat is next door.
I snuck across the Mississippi River a couple of weeks ago and hid in the bushes down by the Tenn-Tom and snapped this pic of the Bitterman with his real boat - a genuine Mississippi Bass Boat.
I was glad to see he wore his best hat for the picture...
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Mail is Exciting
Last Monday, one of my customer service reps took a call from a lady who wanted us to mail a hundred thousand pieces. She said she was doing that many a week. She sent a sample over and it was a very nice four color process mailpiece illustrating a large line of very expensive purses. The likes of Prada, Coach, Gucci and Luis Vuitton.
The next morning, a truck came in with her material but the driver announced that it was collect. My dock guy asked him who it was for and he said he couldn’t tell us. He asked the driver to show him what it looked like so he could know who to call. The driver refused. Then the driver walked to the back of his van, opened the door slightly and started talking on his cell phone. He seemed really nervous and the dock guy wondered if he was actually talking to somebody.
Eventually he determined that it was for the aforementioned lady that had called in the day before. We told the driver we wouldn’t pay for it and called the lady who said, “no problem, I’ll be right over to pay him for it!”
Five minutes later she wheels into the parking lot, pops out of her Ford Expedition and trots up to the loading dock, check in hand.
But, as she hands the driver the check, the back doors of the van burst open and a barrage of men in dark suits explodes onto the pavement throwing her to the ground and handcuffing her. All this as five more non-descript government cars come roaring up and our parking lot and dock area fills with FBI agents and Postal Inspectors.
They spent the next hour clad in latex gloves and methodically taking everything in her car out of her car and photographing it all. They towed her car away and she left in the back seat of one of the sedans with a lady agent.
I guess that means she won’t be a customer after all…
The next morning, a truck came in with her material but the driver announced that it was collect. My dock guy asked him who it was for and he said he couldn’t tell us. He asked the driver to show him what it looked like so he could know who to call. The driver refused. Then the driver walked to the back of his van, opened the door slightly and started talking on his cell phone. He seemed really nervous and the dock guy wondered if he was actually talking to somebody.
Eventually he determined that it was for the aforementioned lady that had called in the day before. We told the driver we wouldn’t pay for it and called the lady who said, “no problem, I’ll be right over to pay him for it!”
Five minutes later she wheels into the parking lot, pops out of her Ford Expedition and trots up to the loading dock, check in hand.
But, as she hands the driver the check, the back doors of the van burst open and a barrage of men in dark suits explodes onto the pavement throwing her to the ground and handcuffing her. All this as five more non-descript government cars come roaring up and our parking lot and dock area fills with FBI agents and Postal Inspectors.
They spent the next hour clad in latex gloves and methodically taking everything in her car out of her car and photographing it all. They towed her car away and she left in the back seat of one of the sedans with a lady agent.
I guess that means she won’t be a customer after all…
Sunday, May 15, 2005
You Suck!
Do you sometimes find that you have an expectation of something that turns out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy? The lines get blurred and it’s hard to tell if things turned out the way they did because you were right or because you were itching for a fight.
Growing up in central Arkansas, most of us were weaned on “Tex-Mex” style Mexican food. Brownings, Casa Bonita, Pancho’s Villa and of course Mexico Chiquito all served the ubiquitous cheddar cheese and hamburger meat style Mexican food that I’m certain cannot be found in any part of Mexico.
And, these days, it’s getting hard to find around here. Sometime around twenty years ago, the so-called “authentic” Mexican restaurants started coming in. I’ll admit, I found it a refreshing change, being my nature to embrace change, especially in couisine.
But, with the possible exception of La Hacienda on Cantrell Road, all of the Mexican restaurants in this area serve white cheese, runny beans, margarita style food that tastes the same no matter which one you go to.
And I find myself longing for the old fashioned Tex-Mex of my youth. Comfort food of sorts. Trouble is, there are very few of those places left. Brownings is way over in Little Rock, and you know how us Dog Town denizens loathe to go there unless it’s to work.
And that leaves Mexico Chiquito. The old dame of Tex-Mex in this area. But the problem is, ever since a guy named Haney bought it off of the family, it has had the worst service of any restaurant (dare I say?) in the world. Well, actually the KFC and Taco Bell franchises he owns suffer from the same malaise.
I have dealt with these establishments for enough years to recognize that he obviously doesn’t waste any time or money on training. I’ll give them one thing – they are all rude. All of them. And since there are KFC’s and Taco Bells all over the world, I don’t go to the ones he owns. It’s not worth the aggravation.
But every once in a while, I just have that comfort food craving for Mexico Chiquito food. Yes, that has gone downhill quite a bit too, but it’s still a decent representation of the genre. I’d go a lot more if not for the sheer piss-you-off factor. Let’s face it, all of Haney’s restaurants suck. Hell, the nicest one he owned, the one in Lakewood Village, was closed down for health code violations that were so blatant and bad they ended up tearing the entire structure down (did they haul it to a toxic waste dump?) and building an entirely different restaurant on the site. One that Haney doesn’t own, I suspect.
I succumbed, once again tonight, and went to the drive through in Levy. They do a volume business, I’ll grant them that, and after a fifteen minute wait in line, I placed my order at the sign. The voice on the speaker staticked out an unintelligible dollar amount.
Having been through the aggravation of getting to the window and finding my order incomplete and being told I didn’t order certain things, I asked the clerk to read me back my order. Sigh, unintelligible remark in a sarcastic tone of voice, a lightening quick recitation (also unintelligible) of my order and I pulled forward.
The girl at the window scowled at me and demanded an unintelligible sum of money which I asked her to repeat. She shouted it out to me with a glare and I handed her the money. I could see her staring at the cash register through the closed glass window and she seemed puzzled. Window slides open and she demands, “how much did I tell you?”
“Seventeen dollars and seventy three cents,” I replied. “Well, it’s 17.83,” she snapped back. I handed her another dime.
She never said thank you when she handed me the sack of food and closed the window. I checked it over quickly and found everything in order for a change.
Bitch probably spit in it.
Growing up in central Arkansas, most of us were weaned on “Tex-Mex” style Mexican food. Brownings, Casa Bonita, Pancho’s Villa and of course Mexico Chiquito all served the ubiquitous cheddar cheese and hamburger meat style Mexican food that I’m certain cannot be found in any part of Mexico.
And, these days, it’s getting hard to find around here. Sometime around twenty years ago, the so-called “authentic” Mexican restaurants started coming in. I’ll admit, I found it a refreshing change, being my nature to embrace change, especially in couisine.
But, with the possible exception of La Hacienda on Cantrell Road, all of the Mexican restaurants in this area serve white cheese, runny beans, margarita style food that tastes the same no matter which one you go to.
And I find myself longing for the old fashioned Tex-Mex of my youth. Comfort food of sorts. Trouble is, there are very few of those places left. Brownings is way over in Little Rock, and you know how us Dog Town denizens loathe to go there unless it’s to work.
And that leaves Mexico Chiquito. The old dame of Tex-Mex in this area. But the problem is, ever since a guy named Haney bought it off of the family, it has had the worst service of any restaurant (dare I say?) in the world. Well, actually the KFC and Taco Bell franchises he owns suffer from the same malaise.
I have dealt with these establishments for enough years to recognize that he obviously doesn’t waste any time or money on training. I’ll give them one thing – they are all rude. All of them. And since there are KFC’s and Taco Bells all over the world, I don’t go to the ones he owns. It’s not worth the aggravation.
But every once in a while, I just have that comfort food craving for Mexico Chiquito food. Yes, that has gone downhill quite a bit too, but it’s still a decent representation of the genre. I’d go a lot more if not for the sheer piss-you-off factor. Let’s face it, all of Haney’s restaurants suck. Hell, the nicest one he owned, the one in Lakewood Village, was closed down for health code violations that were so blatant and bad they ended up tearing the entire structure down (did they haul it to a toxic waste dump?) and building an entirely different restaurant on the site. One that Haney doesn’t own, I suspect.
I succumbed, once again tonight, and went to the drive through in Levy. They do a volume business, I’ll grant them that, and after a fifteen minute wait in line, I placed my order at the sign. The voice on the speaker staticked out an unintelligible dollar amount.
Having been through the aggravation of getting to the window and finding my order incomplete and being told I didn’t order certain things, I asked the clerk to read me back my order. Sigh, unintelligible remark in a sarcastic tone of voice, a lightening quick recitation (also unintelligible) of my order and I pulled forward.
The girl at the window scowled at me and demanded an unintelligible sum of money which I asked her to repeat. She shouted it out to me with a glare and I handed her the money. I could see her staring at the cash register through the closed glass window and she seemed puzzled. Window slides open and she demands, “how much did I tell you?”
“Seventeen dollars and seventy three cents,” I replied. “Well, it’s 17.83,” she snapped back. I handed her another dime.
She never said thank you when she handed me the sack of food and closed the window. I checked it over quickly and found everything in order for a change.
Bitch probably spit in it.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Fo’ Shizzle…
Being a perennial late bloomer, I’m always the last to hear about the latest fad. I’m told break dancing is a big deal these days. Imagine my surprise when I discovered blogging some months back.
Now don’t get me wrong, I was familiar with email, and I have known for several years that the internet was a place to buy and sell at auction and to find porn. But a place where you can write whatever your heart desires and people read it? I’m grateful to both of you for reading this, really.
I discovered blogging quite by accident, actually, by doing a google search and getting referred to a blog. I thought, “hmmm, that’s crazy” and bookmarked it to check back later and see what this guy was up to.
I lurked surreptitiously for a few weeks before I decided to check out what it takes to get your own blog. I followed the Blogger links, took a few strokes and created this site which I have been infrequently updating, receiving encouragement from a couple of fainéantfans bystanders leaving comments.
Since this has become a part of my life now, I decided some time back to try and connect with my blogfather, Nixon, and arrange a meeting in real life. This, I accomplished on Friday.
So, we decided by email to meet on neutral territory and went to eat Vietnamese food over in Little Rock. Nixon was fairly easy to recognize even though he tried to throw me off by shaving his beard that morning, so he really didn’t look so much like the photo on his website.
We had an excellent and healthy lunch of spring rolls, lemongrass chicken and Tom Rim (hot and spicy shrimp). All washed down with copious amounts of iced tea and hot green tea. We were lucky enough to have the cute Mongolian girl wait on us instead of the dumpy Fuzhou waitress that brought my appetizer for dessert last week.
All in all a good lunch, getting to know someone personally who you only know through the written word. We joked that we didn’t have anything to say since we both read about each other on our blogs. But somehow we did and the conversation was good.
So, Nixon, glad to know ya! And you, yes that other reader lurking out there, if you’re ever in town, my hizzle is yo’ hizzle.
Now don’t get me wrong, I was familiar with email, and I have known for several years that the internet was a place to buy and sell at auction and to find porn. But a place where you can write whatever your heart desires and people read it? I’m grateful to both of you for reading this, really.
I discovered blogging quite by accident, actually, by doing a google search and getting referred to a blog. I thought, “hmmm, that’s crazy” and bookmarked it to check back later and see what this guy was up to.
I lurked surreptitiously for a few weeks before I decided to check out what it takes to get your own blog. I followed the Blogger links, took a few strokes and created this site which I have been infrequently updating, receiving encouragement from a couple of fainéant
Since this has become a part of my life now, I decided some time back to try and connect with my blogfather, Nixon, and arrange a meeting in real life. This, I accomplished on Friday.
So, we decided by email to meet on neutral territory and went to eat Vietnamese food over in Little Rock. Nixon was fairly easy to recognize even though he tried to throw me off by shaving his beard that morning, so he really didn’t look so much like the photo on his website.
We had an excellent and healthy lunch of spring rolls, lemongrass chicken and Tom Rim (hot and spicy shrimp). All washed down with copious amounts of iced tea and hot green tea. We were lucky enough to have the cute Mongolian girl wait on us instead of the dumpy Fuzhou waitress that brought my appetizer for dessert last week.
All in all a good lunch, getting to know someone personally who you only know through the written word. We joked that we didn’t have anything to say since we both read about each other on our blogs. But somehow we did and the conversation was good.
So, Nixon, glad to know ya! And you, yes that other reader lurking out there, if you’re ever in town, my hizzle is yo’ hizzle.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Southern Comfort
I guess just about every southern boy feels like it’s his patriotic duty to drink Southern Comfort at some point in his young life. That sickly sweet concoction with the friendly label that's hard to resist. I guess that’s why Rob knows so many folks with a Southern Comfort story to tell. And, as he points out, most of them don’t involve repeat performances.
Do you think it’s really possible for a company to stay in business by only supplying the once in a lifetime alcohol experience from hell to teenagers?
I’m no different. Hell, I probably wore a Confederate kepi when I drank that shit, not to mention yelling a few “yee-haws” and a couple of “git nekkids” for good measure. I chose for my comfort experience a new years eve somewhere in the mid seventies.
It was cold, of course, and my pard Bill and I drove over in my 1967 Chevy van. Him with his conservative case of beer (dumbass) and me with my fifth of Southern Comfort. I certainly felt like he was passing up a chance to have some real fun. Definitely not the sophisticated redneck I imagined myself.
The party was in the upstairs rec room of an apartment complex. I remember it had a huge deck outside and there was a live band playing in front of the large stone fireplace. Things started out normal with the usual hammering back slugs from the bottle, taunting Bill into trying a shot here and there and hitting on girls.
The band was loud and we didn’t really know anybody. I don’t think we were actually invited, but there we were and we were ready to partay.
In those days Bill was wont to get in fights, or at least get them started. I don’t believe he actually enjoyed the fighting part but rather the stirring folks up to the point they lost control of themselves. I think he still likes that, to this day. I don’t really remember if he got the fight started at this party, but I’ll be willing to give credit where it’s due.
Regardless, a fight broke out over near the kitchen area and spread pretty quickly to at least a quarter of the room. I backed into a corner to watch the excitement and make sure my half bottle of SC didn’t get broken. I was feeling pretty warm and my wishes to my fellow man were all of the happy sort. I dangled my feet off of a table and took a few more swigs.
There was a kid I went to school with that was the epitome of pacifism. Never said a cross word to anyone in his life and would never raise a hand in anger. He came staggering over to my table with blood all over his face and down the front of his shirt.
“What the hell happened to you?” I asked.
“Shit, man,” he replied, “I came out of the bathroom and was in the middle of the biggest fucking fight I ever saw in my life!” Wrong place, wrong time, I guess.
The band was feverishly packing their equipment up and trying to get it to safety.
And, I was beginning to feel somewhat un-well. I slid out the door onto the deck. I’m still trying to finish the Southern Comfort but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to swallow. My stomach is starting to quiver and an earthquake began somewhere in my lower intestine. Volcanic action and tidal waves combined to heave me over the railing, craning my neck out and spewing caustic, alcoholic vomit all over the cars parked below in the lot.
Four or five heaves and I felt like a nap was in order. I curled up in the corner of the deck, my breath steaming clouds into the cold air, clutching myself and shivering, I went to sleep. I don’t know what time it was, but Bill came out and woke me up and said it was time to leave. I pulled myself to my feet and staggered down the stairs to the van and climbed into the driver’s seat. Somehow at this point, I wasn’t so worried about making sure I got the rest of my Southern Comfort to take with me.
I reached in my jeans pocket and pulled out my key ring and it came apart and sprayed keys all over the floor board on the drivers’ side. I fished around on the floor, dizzy and green around the lips and after an eternity found the ignition key and stuck it into the slot in the dashboard.
That is the last thing I remember of that night. My next memory was being shaken awake in the dark to Bill’s voice saying, “come on, man, it’s time to go in.” I was laying in the back of my van looking out the open side door. I moaned and lay back down. After a minute I heard Bill say, “fuckit, I’m going to bed.” And the door slammed. I closed my eyes and slipped into a coma until morning.
I've never drank Southern Comfort again, but I can still tell you exactly what it tastes like...
Do you think it’s really possible for a company to stay in business by only supplying the once in a lifetime alcohol experience from hell to teenagers?
I’m no different. Hell, I probably wore a Confederate kepi when I drank that shit, not to mention yelling a few “yee-haws” and a couple of “git nekkids” for good measure. I chose for my comfort experience a new years eve somewhere in the mid seventies.
It was cold, of course, and my pard Bill and I drove over in my 1967 Chevy van. Him with his conservative case of beer (dumbass) and me with my fifth of Southern Comfort. I certainly felt like he was passing up a chance to have some real fun. Definitely not the sophisticated redneck I imagined myself.
The party was in the upstairs rec room of an apartment complex. I remember it had a huge deck outside and there was a live band playing in front of the large stone fireplace. Things started out normal with the usual hammering back slugs from the bottle, taunting Bill into trying a shot here and there and hitting on girls.
The band was loud and we didn’t really know anybody. I don’t think we were actually invited, but there we were and we were ready to partay.
In those days Bill was wont to get in fights, or at least get them started. I don’t believe he actually enjoyed the fighting part but rather the stirring folks up to the point they lost control of themselves. I think he still likes that, to this day. I don’t really remember if he got the fight started at this party, but I’ll be willing to give credit where it’s due.
Regardless, a fight broke out over near the kitchen area and spread pretty quickly to at least a quarter of the room. I backed into a corner to watch the excitement and make sure my half bottle of SC didn’t get broken. I was feeling pretty warm and my wishes to my fellow man were all of the happy sort. I dangled my feet off of a table and took a few more swigs.
There was a kid I went to school with that was the epitome of pacifism. Never said a cross word to anyone in his life and would never raise a hand in anger. He came staggering over to my table with blood all over his face and down the front of his shirt.
“What the hell happened to you?” I asked.
“Shit, man,” he replied, “I came out of the bathroom and was in the middle of the biggest fucking fight I ever saw in my life!” Wrong place, wrong time, I guess.
The band was feverishly packing their equipment up and trying to get it to safety.
And, I was beginning to feel somewhat un-well. I slid out the door onto the deck. I’m still trying to finish the Southern Comfort but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to swallow. My stomach is starting to quiver and an earthquake began somewhere in my lower intestine. Volcanic action and tidal waves combined to heave me over the railing, craning my neck out and spewing caustic, alcoholic vomit all over the cars parked below in the lot.
Four or five heaves and I felt like a nap was in order. I curled up in the corner of the deck, my breath steaming clouds into the cold air, clutching myself and shivering, I went to sleep. I don’t know what time it was, but Bill came out and woke me up and said it was time to leave. I pulled myself to my feet and staggered down the stairs to the van and climbed into the driver’s seat. Somehow at this point, I wasn’t so worried about making sure I got the rest of my Southern Comfort to take with me.
I reached in my jeans pocket and pulled out my key ring and it came apart and sprayed keys all over the floor board on the drivers’ side. I fished around on the floor, dizzy and green around the lips and after an eternity found the ignition key and stuck it into the slot in the dashboard.
That is the last thing I remember of that night. My next memory was being shaken awake in the dark to Bill’s voice saying, “come on, man, it’s time to go in.” I was laying in the back of my van looking out the open side door. I moaned and lay back down. After a minute I heard Bill say, “fuckit, I’m going to bed.” And the door slammed. I closed my eyes and slipped into a coma until morning.
I've never drank Southern Comfort again, but I can still tell you exactly what it tastes like...
Monday, May 02, 2005
Mama’s Nasty Poodle
Bitterman gets all nostalgic recounting youthful indiscretions at the drive-in movies. And really, by the time I was old enough to go to them in my own car, I had lost interest in doing so. There were so many more private places to take dates and ingest substances.
But I do have fond memories of the drive-in theatres. They were destinations on weekend nights for families as well as amorous teens and all of them around here had playgrounds up by the concession stand in the early sixties.
Dad made the rounds of all of the drive-ins around Little Rock and I’m sure he was getting mom all bothered whilst we were playing dive bomber on the swing sets. Somehow we weren’t all that interested in seeing Liz Taylor as Cleopatra, though I admit I was pretty mesmerized by the bastinado scene in Lawrence of Arabia.
The Razorback was down on the river and had mosquitoes the size of small birds along with a railroad track that ran right down the edge of the drive-in. If memory serves me, I think they paused the movie when trains went through. I seem to remember that it was a twin screen drive-in with a screen at each end and you could switch movies if you were on foot and didn’t like the one you started with.
And, we always had to hoof it over to the exit gate to marvel at the one-way spikes that kept you from sneaking in the wrong way with your headlights off. There were always stories whispered at school about the friend of a friend’s older brother who tried it.
The Twin City was over in Dog Town (there’s a Kohl’s there now).
Why is it that businesses on the north side of the river always used the name Twin City, but you never see any mention of another city when you’re in Little Rock? We didn’t go there much because of the provincial thing. Folks in Little Rock don’t go north of the river for anything, and vice versa.
The Asher was closest to home and probably where we spent the most time.
About the time I was twelve or thirteen, they started having X rated movies at the Asher. I think they got away with it because the back of the screen faced the highway and the screen itself faced out over the parking lot into a cow pasture that belonged to Coleman Dairy. Which, of course, was this city boy’s introduction to hanging out in cow pastures. If you were brave enough, you would slip through the fence and turn the closest speaker up so you could hear.
This area was prone to being patrolled by the security guards from the movies, however, and sometimes you had to be nimble on your feet to thread your way out of the field without getting caught or cowshit on your shoes. Eventually, we met a guy that worked at West’s Department Store that pointed out to us that you could see the movie just fine from the back door of the store and he would even set a few chairs out there in the alley for us to sit in.
When the guards patrolled along the fence and shined their flashlights on us then, we could thumb our noses with impunity because we were guests of West’s Department Stores. Somehow that was more fun than actually seeing a fourteen foot penis penetrate a Volkswagen sized vagina.
But for pure educational purposes, nothing was better than sitting down with a cold beer and a joint and watching the slide shows over at the Whittaker’s.
Mike worked at a major film processing center here in town, ColorPrint. And he processed slides on the night shift.
Back in those days, film processors wouldn’t print photos of a racy nature. Once they developed the negatives and realized what they were, they would send the negatives back with no prints. The laws were pretty strict, I guess.
But folks in the know realized that slide film develops into positives, albeit ones that have great color definition and clarity of detail. And, what are they going to do once they’re processed?
Well, mount them in the cardboard holders, put them in your envelope and send them to you. Oh, after duping off a set for the operator to take home for his pleasure. Mike had a dresser drawer full of these things. When Frank Zappa sang about your mama’s nasty poodle, I saw the pictures he was referring to.
Now that would have looked cool fourteen feet high on the screen at the Asher Drive-In.
But I do have fond memories of the drive-in theatres. They were destinations on weekend nights for families as well as amorous teens and all of them around here had playgrounds up by the concession stand in the early sixties.
Dad made the rounds of all of the drive-ins around Little Rock and I’m sure he was getting mom all bothered whilst we were playing dive bomber on the swing sets. Somehow we weren’t all that interested in seeing Liz Taylor as Cleopatra, though I admit I was pretty mesmerized by the bastinado scene in Lawrence of Arabia.
The Razorback was down on the river and had mosquitoes the size of small birds along with a railroad track that ran right down the edge of the drive-in. If memory serves me, I think they paused the movie when trains went through. I seem to remember that it was a twin screen drive-in with a screen at each end and you could switch movies if you were on foot and didn’t like the one you started with.
And, we always had to hoof it over to the exit gate to marvel at the one-way spikes that kept you from sneaking in the wrong way with your headlights off. There were always stories whispered at school about the friend of a friend’s older brother who tried it.
The Twin City was over in Dog Town (there’s a Kohl’s there now).
Why is it that businesses on the north side of the river always used the name Twin City, but you never see any mention of another city when you’re in Little Rock? We didn’t go there much because of the provincial thing. Folks in Little Rock don’t go north of the river for anything, and vice versa.
The Asher was closest to home and probably where we spent the most time.
About the time I was twelve or thirteen, they started having X rated movies at the Asher. I think they got away with it because the back of the screen faced the highway and the screen itself faced out over the parking lot into a cow pasture that belonged to Coleman Dairy. Which, of course, was this city boy’s introduction to hanging out in cow pastures. If you were brave enough, you would slip through the fence and turn the closest speaker up so you could hear.
This area was prone to being patrolled by the security guards from the movies, however, and sometimes you had to be nimble on your feet to thread your way out of the field without getting caught or cowshit on your shoes. Eventually, we met a guy that worked at West’s Department Store that pointed out to us that you could see the movie just fine from the back door of the store and he would even set a few chairs out there in the alley for us to sit in.
When the guards patrolled along the fence and shined their flashlights on us then, we could thumb our noses with impunity because we were guests of West’s Department Stores. Somehow that was more fun than actually seeing a fourteen foot penis penetrate a Volkswagen sized vagina.
But for pure educational purposes, nothing was better than sitting down with a cold beer and a joint and watching the slide shows over at the Whittaker’s.
Mike worked at a major film processing center here in town, ColorPrint. And he processed slides on the night shift.
Back in those days, film processors wouldn’t print photos of a racy nature. Once they developed the negatives and realized what they were, they would send the negatives back with no prints. The laws were pretty strict, I guess.
But folks in the know realized that slide film develops into positives, albeit ones that have great color definition and clarity of detail. And, what are they going to do once they’re processed?
Well, mount them in the cardboard holders, put them in your envelope and send them to you. Oh, after duping off a set for the operator to take home for his pleasure. Mike had a dresser drawer full of these things. When Frank Zappa sang about your mama’s nasty poodle, I saw the pictures he was referring to.
Now that would have looked cool fourteen feet high on the screen at the Asher Drive-In.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Oh no you didn't...
Sandy tossed this one out to me, I wish she hadn’t, because she is definitely a hard act to follow. But I sure don’t want anybody accusing me of being a lazy toid, so (deep breath) here goes…
If I could be a scientist, I’d invent Magic. That way I could conjure up anything else I wanted.
If I could be a farmer, I’d grow crablegs and moon pies. I’d have that shit planted all over my 3 or 4 acre spread.
If I could be a musician, I’d master the jaw harp and the kazoo. Man, those are romantic instruments and will flat out get you the chicks.
If I could be a doctor, I’d be a gynecologist. Not such a far stretch since I’m already an amateur gynecologist.
If I could be a painter, I would paint my house.
If I could be a gardener, I’d plant some of those silk flowers my wife pays so much for. Damn those are expensive!
If I could be a missionary, I’d practice the missionary position until I got it right, and then I’d be sure to do it 4 or 5 times a week to keep in practice.
If I could be a chef, I’d introduce New Yorkers to Southern Haute Cuisine: Pork chops, mustard greens and field peas with snaps, along with a big hunk of cornbread. And if they cleaned their plate, I’d let them order some banana pudding for dessert.
If I could be an architect, I’d design an underground skyscraper. That would be cool.
If I could be a linguist, well, I had a girl accuse me of being one of those, once. I broke up with her over that. Besides, I prefer regular spaghetti.
If I could be a psychologist, I’d hypnotize women, have my way with them and then make them act like chickens out in public. I wouldn’t snap my fingers, neither.
If I could be a librarian, I’d fill the library with books like Meter Maids In Bondage, and Juggs and make the library card have punch outs where you get every tenth one free.
If I could be an athlete, I'd shake my head like a wet dog and get sweat all over everybody and they would be like, “that’s cool, I ain’t never washing that off!”
If I could be a lawyer, I’d be happy because then I could screw anybody, anywhere, anytime.
If I could be an innkeeper, I’d learn to speak English, but I’d still try to bring my whole family over from India and Pakistan. Oh, and I'd have somebody clean the rooms and change the linens sometimes.
If I could be a professor, I’d be a doctor of brainiatrics.
If I could be a writer, I’d write a blog that more than 2 people read.
If I could be a backup dancer, I’d be in the ballet. Man, those chicks have great bodies and are so limber and all the other guys are gay so the girls would be like all over me and my package would look pretty good in those tights.
If I could be a llama-rider, I’d ride all over my crableg ranch, roping crabs and tying them to the saddle to take home for dinner.
If I could be a bonnie pirate? I’d be a pirate if I didn’t have to be bonnie. I’d have to figure out what part is the swashbuckle, too. Oh, and I’m not so much into losing eyes and limbs and stuff, so I would have to be able to hire people to do that for me. My workman’s comp claims would probably eat me alive, but damn, I want to keep my hands and feet. Swords are cool too. I would have a collection of them.
If I could be a midget stripper, people would laugh and say, “damn, look at the size of that thing on such a small dude!” And, the chicks would put twenty dollar bills in my g-string because they all want to see what it’s like to perv with a well-hung midget.
If I could be a proctologist, I’d say, “Okay, now cough,” while I was back there and they would look at me all confused and I would bust out laughing. Then, I would stop suddenly, become very quiet, snap the rubber gloves loudly and exclaim, “this is going to hurt you a lot more than it will me.” Then I’d start laughing again and they would really look confused and then I would leave the room and have the nurse come in and do the exam because she would be totally into that, like a fetish and all, and I’d sit in my office and drink gin and look at the illegible scribbling on the charts that the nurse did after each exam because she was so excited. And, I'd chuckle thinking about the look on their face when I left the room.
If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I’d interview the Teletubbies. Nobody has ever done that before, as far as I know, and we’d find out once and for all if they are gay or just misunderstood.
If I could be a scientist, I’d invent Magic. That way I could conjure up anything else I wanted.
If I could be a farmer, I’d grow crablegs and moon pies. I’d have that shit planted all over my 3 or 4 acre spread.
If I could be a musician, I’d master the jaw harp and the kazoo. Man, those are romantic instruments and will flat out get you the chicks.
If I could be a doctor, I’d be a gynecologist. Not such a far stretch since I’m already an amateur gynecologist.
If I could be a painter, I would paint my house.
If I could be a gardener, I’d plant some of those silk flowers my wife pays so much for. Damn those are expensive!
If I could be a missionary, I’d practice the missionary position until I got it right, and then I’d be sure to do it 4 or 5 times a week to keep in practice.
If I could be a chef, I’d introduce New Yorkers to Southern Haute Cuisine: Pork chops, mustard greens and field peas with snaps, along with a big hunk of cornbread. And if they cleaned their plate, I’d let them order some banana pudding for dessert.
If I could be an architect, I’d design an underground skyscraper. That would be cool.
If I could be a linguist, well, I had a girl accuse me of being one of those, once. I broke up with her over that. Besides, I prefer regular spaghetti.
If I could be a psychologist, I’d hypnotize women, have my way with them and then make them act like chickens out in public. I wouldn’t snap my fingers, neither.
If I could be a librarian, I’d fill the library with books like Meter Maids In Bondage, and Juggs and make the library card have punch outs where you get every tenth one free.
If I could be an athlete, I'd shake my head like a wet dog and get sweat all over everybody and they would be like, “that’s cool, I ain’t never washing that off!”
If I could be a lawyer, I’d be happy because then I could screw anybody, anywhere, anytime.
If I could be an innkeeper, I’d learn to speak English, but I’d still try to bring my whole family over from India and Pakistan. Oh, and I'd have somebody clean the rooms and change the linens sometimes.
If I could be a professor, I’d be a doctor of brainiatrics.
If I could be a writer, I’d write a blog that more than 2 people read.
If I could be a backup dancer, I’d be in the ballet. Man, those chicks have great bodies and are so limber and all the other guys are gay so the girls would be like all over me and my package would look pretty good in those tights.
If I could be a llama-rider, I’d ride all over my crableg ranch, roping crabs and tying them to the saddle to take home for dinner.
If I could be a bonnie pirate? I’d be a pirate if I didn’t have to be bonnie. I’d have to figure out what part is the swashbuckle, too. Oh, and I’m not so much into losing eyes and limbs and stuff, so I would have to be able to hire people to do that for me. My workman’s comp claims would probably eat me alive, but damn, I want to keep my hands and feet. Swords are cool too. I would have a collection of them.
If I could be a midget stripper, people would laugh and say, “damn, look at the size of that thing on such a small dude!” And, the chicks would put twenty dollar bills in my g-string because they all want to see what it’s like to perv with a well-hung midget.
If I could be a proctologist, I’d say, “Okay, now cough,” while I was back there and they would look at me all confused and I would bust out laughing. Then, I would stop suddenly, become very quiet, snap the rubber gloves loudly and exclaim, “this is going to hurt you a lot more than it will me.” Then I’d start laughing again and they would really look confused and then I would leave the room and have the nurse come in and do the exam because she would be totally into that, like a fetish and all, and I’d sit in my office and drink gin and look at the illegible scribbling on the charts that the nurse did after each exam because she was so excited. And, I'd chuckle thinking about the look on their face when I left the room.
If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I’d interview the Teletubbies. Nobody has ever done that before, as far as I know, and we’d find out once and for all if they are gay or just misunderstood.
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