Just hook the internet up to my veins

After the mandatory 5 o'clock Friday nap, I met up with Nate at the Flying Saucer downtown. I love the Saucer. They have about a thousand beers on tap. I had a St. Arnolds Amber and a few Paulaner Hefeweizens. Nate was drinking light beers like they were going out of style.
I saw this flyer in the bathroom.

It'd be worth dealing with the crowd just to get one of those glasses.

After the bar we met up with his wife, Kate, and some of her friends at a Lebanese restaurant/bar. They had hookhas sitting on the table and a large group of foregn-looking people dancing under a tent to strange music. Very odd place. The hookha smoke just didn't seem right to me. Kind of vanilla mocha flavored. I didn't feel anything off it. The blonde girl couldn't get enough. She was trashed and her boyfriend wasn't far behind.
By this time I was feeling pretty buzzed, but still functioning well. Nate was getting close to the edge. I decided to switch to light beers so I could be the sober one in our group.
So I got a call from the lover of belldoors? saying they were at the Goose downtown. Nate was up for it, so I rode down there with him.
We met up with Caroline and the cast of characters from her blog. It was the Redhead's birthday. We talked about blogs and bikes while Nate downed a few more beers.
By this time, Nate had gone way over the edge and past the point of no return. He had that goofy drunkass smile on his face. I drove him home and slept on their couch. Kate brought me an Ultimate Breakfast Sandwich from Jack in the Box this morning. She's great.
Today I'll probably do laundry and watch basketball.

Just so ya know, Thursday it was about 90 degrees. Last night (Friday) it got down into the lower 50s. Today it's cool and breezy, with a temperature around 70. I'm expecting it to snow tomorrow and flood Monday. Then there will probably be a few days of 100 degree weather followed by raining crickets and a plague of locusts.

Cold Beer

Okay, I've calmed down quite a bit since this morning. I'm not sure what it was, but I was really feeling like an asshole. Nothing a little lunchtime Pizza Inn buffet couldn't cure.

George tells me that the sandbass are really biting on Lake Lewisville. They've caught over 100 this week and are planning a fish fry tomorrow. Could be fun.
Poor George. His fiancee decided last week that she wasn't ready to get married. It's the third time she's done this to him, so he finally had enough. He kicked her out.
This just 2 weeks after he closed on his first house and lost his job the next day.
No girlfriend, no job. Leaves plenty of time for fishing. The lucky bastard.

This day has been absolutely uneventful. I'm about ready for some cold adult beverages.

In college, some buddies wrote a song titled "Cold Beer" that went something like this.

Cold beer
Cold beer
I like my cold, cold beer

Cold beer for breakfast
Cold beer for lunch
Cold beer for dinner
Cause I don't give a fuck

Cold beer.... repeat

Kung-Fu Bowling Gangbanger Bitches

Some female Asian gang members killed a girl in the parking lot of a bowling alley. According to this, they held her down while a guy shot her in the head. The guy then shot her friend in the shoulder and put a few rounds into a crowd of people as well. Man, those Asians are serious about their bowling.
"Over the line!!!" "Mark it zero! Fucking mark it zero!!!!"



I put up another TBS video, "You're so last summer". Awesome lyrics in this one. Plus it has FLAVA-FLAV!!!

Not much to talk about lately. Same shit different day. The boss is out, so I'm just chillin' at my desk all day. May get some work done. Maybe.

Played softball last night. Won the first game, lost the second because of some bullshit rule about ball size. Apparently my huge balls are not "safe" for the other players. Something about the park being liable if my ball hit the pitcher in the face and killed him. Umpires are stupid assholes.
Fuck the downstairs neighbor. He's a weird asshole prick who likes to take up 2 parking spaces for no apparent reason. Gotta be at least 40 and wears an X-Men button up shirt everyday. Sells vacuum cleaners for a living. What a ginormous loser he is.



I'm in a pissy mood this morning.

For your listening pleasure

I've added a video to the blog. It's all the way at the bottom. Got the idea from Candi (she's so blog-savvy). Anyway, I'm going to change it pretty often. This one is Taking Back Sunday - Cute Without the E (Cut from the team). I'd never seen the video before and -surprise- it's a Fight Club knockoff. Sweet.
I. love. Taking. Back. Sunday.
They rock.
Turn it up.

Scars make better stories than tattoos

*Title stolen from Rachel
Okay, it's time to get something very personal off of my chest. I don't talk about this very much, but here it goes. Wait. First let me lay out some background info.

I use to be a high school football player. A damn good one, too. Not the biggest or fastest. But a hard worker with good instincts. And I liked to hit people. Hard. I started every varsity game my sophomore and junior years. Recorded well over 100 tackles per season and made the All-District team 3 years in a row. Several colleges were interested in recruiting me and had sent letters to say as much. I made good grades in school and scored pretty high on the SAT, so it seemed that a full-ride scholarship would be in my future. Not so fast. Remember I said I started every game my sophomore and junior year.

The summer before my senior year I worked out nearly every day. Me and a group of friends also hired on with a construction company that summer. We would work 4 days a week, 10 hours a day in blistering 100 degree Southeast Texas heat. By the end of July I was in great shape and it seemed like 2-a-days would be a breeze. As the start of our Senior year approached, me and all my friends quit the construction job and decided to throw a major creek party with our earnings.

This was a creek party of epic proportion. There were probably about 40 or 50 people on the creek that day. We had thrown an old rope over a tree that leaned out over the deepest part of Village Creek. Several knots were tied at the end of this rope.

After many, many beers and several backflips off the ropeswing, I was called upon to do a new trick.
I was going to attempt a one-and-a-half backflip into a dive.
I took a good running start into the jumpoff point.
When I threw my legs over head and pulled with my arms, the end of the rope wrapped around my right leg.
Not noticing this little detail, I continued rotating.
And the rope held, as gravity did it's thing. I was hung in mid-flip by the crotch and suspended for what seemed like an eternity.
It was excruciatingly painful.

Half-drunk and stoned, the adrenaline was pumping like mad when I realized what had happened. I grabbed my beanbag and immediately knew something was wrong. Very, awfully, horribly wrong.

Let's stop a minute and think about where I am. I am in the deepest part of a cold, muddy creek. My nuts are in my right hand. There is a steep, slippery bank about 6 feet away. I sidearmed to the steep bank and latched on. Then I screamed for help.
My memory of the following events gets a little fuzzy here.
I remember climbing the creek bank with one hand and collapsing at the top.
I vaguely remember walking to a red pickup truck.
After that it's just one long stream of cursing, peaking at the wound and trying not to lose my freakin' sanity.

I ended up with 30 stitches that begin on the right side of my nutsack and extend back towards my ass, stopping where the crotch and sack meet. Ouch.
When I came to, I asked the doctor the following questions:
1. Do I still have both nuts?
2. Will I be able to have kids?
3. When can I play football again?
He answered them this way:
1. Yes, they are both okay. (Woohoo! What a relief!!)
2. There is no reason to believe you can't. (Good, I guess)
3. I wouldn't hold my breath. Football may be out of the question for this season. (What the fuck!?)

Football was my life. It was my way out of that shitty little town. What was I going to do if I couldn't play football?
I was devastated.
As if the doctor's pessimism wasn't enough, I was informed that it would take over a month for the stitches to heal. And I had to keep the boys elevated and motionless as much as possible.
It was the worst 30 days of my life.
My routine consisted of eating lots of vicodin, playing video games, watching TV, and taking care of my wounds. I stayed on the couch for a solid month. I could feel my muscles atrophy.

The follow-up visits to the doctor were very disheartening. They basically consisted of him trying to convince me that rushing back to play football was a bad idea and me telling him to just sign the damn release papers. Eventually my powers of persuasion won him over.

I was cleared to practice the day before our first game. Coach informed me that he would not start me, and that I would receive very little playing time. I told him I was ready to play and I needed to use these first non-district games to condition my body.
He still didn't start me, ending my streak. But the opposing team scored on the second play, and I went in on the next defensive series.
It was a brutal and shitty season. We only won homecoming. I still got my 100 tackles, but they weren't the dominating, vicious blows I wanted. I was weak. I was playing catch-up all season.

To top off the 1-10 season and lackluster play, my coach didn't even attend the district coaches meeting. The meeting where they decide who makes the All-District team. I had to be nominated by another school's coach. That was the day I lost all respect for my coach. The man basically taught me how to play the game, and he let me down big time. No apology, either. Haven't spoken to him the same way since. We had a nice shouting match in front of some freshmen and he was booted the following year. Fuck him.

To go ahead and wrap this shit up, I didn't get any scholarship offers for football. I ended up concentrating on my school work and graduated salutatorian of my class. I got enough academic scholarships and help from the government to attend a decent school. Blah blah blah. Never played organized football again. I miss it more than you can imagine.

A gunslinger's acrobatic debut

Holy shit. I just peed my pants. Go read about Latigo Flint's trampoline experience. It's fucking hilarious, as is everything else he writes. No offense to the quickest quickdraw in the world, but that trampoline sure kicked his ass.

A Good Thing

At 4 pm today, the tornado sirens were blaring their warnings. I left work at 4:30 and searched the skies for a funnel. At 5:00 the sun came out and it's been beautiful ever since.
I've said it once and I'll say it again, "If you don't like the weather in Texas, just wait a minute and it'll change."

I like to cook. It relaxes me. But cooking just doesn't feel right unless I have a beer in my hand. Tonight I made a batch of my homemade salsa and had a Guinness while listening to the Pogues. The salsa has been a work in progress for the better part of the past year. I was very pleased with tonight's batch. The recipe is below. If you can't find Ro-tel in your area, it's just diced tomatoes with green chiles. And you need a blender. I'm trying to think of a cool name for it. Then I'll bottle and sell it.


1 small white Onion, chopped
2 cans of Italian-style stewed tomatoes, drained
2 cans of Ro-tel diced tomatoes, drained (for spicier flavor, use Extra Hot or Mexican Festival)
1 bunch of Cilantro leaves
2-3 tablespoons ground Comino
2-3 tablespoons Salt
1 tablespoon Garlic powder
2 tablespoons Lime juice
Sliced jalapeno peppers (optional)

Combine ingredients in blender and.....













blend, dumbass. Then chill for an hour. Enjoy.

Back into the womb

I spent this weekend attempting to reverse the aging process. Being a 25 year old college graduate, the first step was to revisit the college years.
I departed DFW Thursday afternoon and returned to Nacogdoches for beers, Jagers, and flaming shots from hell. Apparently, a nasty little side effect of Age Regression Therapy (ART) is rapid short term memory loss, A.K.A blackouts. There is not a single memory in my brain for the span of time lasting from midnight Thursday (when I lit the Backdraft) to about 4 am Friday morning (when Spencer fed me some authentic pork tacos). They were some damn good tacos, by the way.
So I woke up on a couch Friday morning, still wearing all the previous night's clothing, shoes, watch, etc. Another side effect of ART is excessive dehydration and headache, AKA hangover. The only infallible cure for a hangover that I am aware of is a big glass of water and a bowl of nugs. I felt better immediately. Then I spent several hours in an awesome new honky-tonk bar that didn't even exist when I lived in Nac. There were many pitchers of Shiner consumed. I would later find myself at the newly remodeled fraternity house, complete with 60" widescreen TV and Mexican maid. These young guys have got it so easy. You can see why I would want to return to this time of my life, right?
After about 12 straight hours of drinking and debauchery, it was time to lay myself down for some much needed rest. After finding my way back to the couch, I passed out until about 2 pm the next day. I was due in Beaumont by 5 pm for a wedding. It's a 2 hour drive. It was close, but I made it with time to spare. So I did the obvious thing and went to a bar before the wedding.
If you haven't realized it yet, I'll let you in on a little trade secret. ART involves excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages.
The wedding was a success. No objections or accusations were made. All went well, so I spent another 7 hours drinking and hanging out with friends from high school. The age regression therapy session was complete when I called my mom to come pick me up. She is an excellent designated driver. Just like junior high.

1...2...3....Do it

Really good episode of House tonight. But they fired the hot chick. Why would they go and do something so stupid? The plot twists and fast-paced diaglogue are great, but I needs my eye candy.

Got me a brand new radio for the car. I couldn't stand it anymore. The mp3 player only holds about 2 hours of music and the batteries run out too fast. Plus one of the earbuds is busted.
I first tried Best Buy at around 5:00. The sales guy told me to try in the morning and gave me a number to call.
"Maybe they can squeeze you in tomorrow."
Maybe you can bite my shiny metal ass.
Circuit City had a better selection and the installation guy came out to talk with me. Took him all of 45 minutes to hook it up. I was out of there by 6:30.

The ticket situation has been resolved. For $95. Bastards. All that's left is to attend a defensive driving course.
I almost decided to challenge the ticket because the officer who wrote it made a stupid mistake. He got my SSN, license #, and other information correct. But under sex he wrote F. For female.
I'm 6'1" 215 pounds with a thick goatee and enough body hair to weave a nice indian blanket.
I am all that is man.
But I just paid the damn thing. Too much effort involved in fighting it.

My racing days are over

I received a speeding violation last week. I was going along the usual route to work, which includes a stretch of 20 mph school zone. Had the mp3 player plugged into my ears. Forgot to turn the radar detector on. I am usually very good about staying under the limit, especially since the sneaky cops often hide at the end of the school zone and wait for speeders. But this morning I had several things running through my mind. I was busted for going 31 in a 20. Probably a hefty fine. Maybe they'll let me take defensive driving.

I have calmed down quite a bit since yesterday. I don't think killing all of the pigeons will be necessary (or possible). Perhaps I'll just wound one and shit on him. Then release him back into the parking lot to warn the others. Eye for an eye, poop for a poop.

It's on

So I'm walking the dog this morning when I see the cute girl in the sports car. She's not very far away and she looks at me. She smiles, says hi, and WHAM. Something hits me on the ear, rolls off my forearm and lands on the ground in front of me.
It's white. It's bird shit.
Son of a motherfuckin' bitch.
I AM GOING TO KILL EVERY ONE OF YOU GODDAMN BIRDS!!!!!
She was still looking at me. She was laughing hysterically as I made a beeline for my apartment, dragging the dog behind.
So now my objective is clear. The pigeons in my apartment complex must die. All of them.
Any ideas how to do this without getting caught?

Kung-fu monkey knifefight

Darrel is a Man-Eating Super Monkey ...with a Battle Rating of 9.4 To see if your Food-Eating Battle Monkey can defeat Darrel, enter your name:

Things to do when you're young, dumb, and wasted

I use to come up with great/dumb ideas when drinking with friends.
For instance:

You know those oil pumps that look like see-saws? Try climbing up and riding on one sometime. It's not as easy as it looks. But it is as much fun as it looks once you're up there. Just don't fall off.

Grabbing random garbage cans and dragging them from a moving car is good, American, teenage fun. Tossing them from the moving car into mailboxes is like a 2-for-1 vandalism bargain. Especially if the mailbox falls off the post or disintegrates all together. You get bonus points for that shit.

Power Hour with beer is another good one. If you can complete the hour without puking, that is. Drink one shot (1 ounce) of beer every minute for one hour. It's not as easy as it sounds. It ends up being the equivalent of drinking 1.5 forties in an hour. I drank the full 40, hurled, and continued. Then I hurled some more and threw in the towel. Haven't tried it since, but I've got some free time this weekend.

We use to party down by the remains of an old sawmill when I was in high school. It was remote and far from the highway. Driving alongside the train tracks was the only way to access this hideaway. Trains would come by at midnight and we would stand as close as we dared, screaming at the top of our lungs. One night I had a brilliant idea. I would drink beer all night and hold my piss until the train came by. Then I would proceed to piss on every railcar that passed by. I neglected to mention this to those partiers standing downwind of me when the train passed and the pissing began. Needless to say, they were pretty angry with me for wetting all over them.

Just a note for those who haven't tried this. If you're drunk and sitting at a railroad crossing, waiting for the train to go by, the flashing arm that lowers will not support your body weight when it rises. Sitting on the arm will probably cause a malfunction, and the damn thing will never go back up.

Driving down the beach at 4 in the morning is fun. But when you decide to pull the emergency brake and do a donut, don't turn the wheel into the direction of the ocean. Bad things can happen. Especially if the tide is coming in. Also, tow truck drivers will help drunk teenagers out of a tough spot for all the cash in their pockets and a few tokes. If you value your car, do not drive it into the sea. You'll never get all the sand and salt out. ever.

When I lived in the dorms, I blacked out after a night of $2 Cuervo shots. It's odd when complete strangers approach you the next day and ask questions you cannot possibly answer. Like, "Why did you piss on my door?" and "Why did you throw my roommate out of his bed and lock him out of our room?" or "Do you know anything about the missing fire extinguishers?".

If you couldn't tell, I grew up in a very small town. There was not much to do but drink, smoke weed, and raise hell. It was great fun.

Lowbrow dinner conversation

I came home to find a puddle of water near the fridge. The dog looked guilty, but he always does. I think he does obscene dog things when I'm gone. But that's off topic.
I investigated the puddle to determine if Mak deserved my disapproving glare and angry tone. He was safe. The water was coming from the fridge.
Apparently, the temperature difference from the freezer section to the refrigerator section was causing condensation to form. So I did the obvious thing and cranked up the cold for the bottom part. To 9.
Everything in my fridge froze.

So I had to go out for lunch today.
I go to Burger King and order the tendercrisp bacon cheddar ranch. I've been wanting one ever since I saw Hootie shamefully whoring himself out in that commercial. Poor Hootie. He must be sucking dick for beer money in his spare time.
It takes the elderly lady behind the cash register a solid 10 minutes to get my order. Then I paid with a credit card just to piss off the people in line behind me.
Only about 10 minutes left for lunch, so I decide to eat at my desk where I won't be bothered.
Finally get back to the desk and open the bag. It's a double meat jalapeno cheeseburger.
Damn. Oh well, I ate it anway. I like jalapenos, but you know how shitty that is to get your stomach all stoked up for some bacon cheddar goodness and disappoint.
My stomach would have the last laugh.

I attempted to make a soup for supper. It consisted of tomatoes, green beans, corn, onions, and hot deer sausage spiced up with Tony Chachere's cajun seasoning and Cavender's greek seasoning. Tasted great going in. Hurt like hell coming out.
I threw it out because it caused dehydration and ass chap. It really did taste good, though.

My favorite recipe to make is bacon wraps. It can be made with any type of game (deer, chicken, shrimp, etc.) but the best is dove breast.
Skewer a piece of onion on a toothpick.
Then add half of the dove breast.
Next comes a slice of jalapeno and some philadelphia cream cheese.
Sandwich these together with the other half of dove breast.
Wrap the entire thing in bacon and marinate in italian salad dressing.
Grill and enjoy. It's amazingly good. The preparation is a bitch, so it's best to get some friends to help by forming an assembly line.

Big E was a crazy old bastard who frequented my bar in college. He was a great cook. Worked on off-shore drilling rigs when the BBQ cookoff circuit was in it's slow season. He told me about a cookoff in Louisiana that he won with an interesting trio of dishes.
The first was a sausage stuffed zuchini dish.
The second was a boudain stuffed pork loin.
But the best was this roasted squaw dish.
"What the hell is squaw?", I asked.
"Pigeon", he says.
Pigeons.
Why not just eat neutria rat.

Thanks, but no thanks

Jose and Candace have been trying to talk me into going camping in the parking lot outside Texas Motor Speedway all weekend with them. I declined their offer.
Camping is fun. I love to camp. In the woods. Near a lake or river. Not in a steaming hot parking lot full of drunk redneck jerk-offs. (Me calling someone a redneck is like the pot calling the kettle black). And they both took off work Monday, so I'd have to drive my own car through the hordes of NASCAR fans when leaving. Not happening.

At this morning's meeting the new operations manager offers me a ticket to the race on Sunday. I initially accepted. Then I declined. They want to leave at 6:00 a.m. to beat the traffic. All day with people from work, getting drunk, watching cars go in circles, paying ridiculous amounts of money for light beer. No thanks. I'll sleep in.

I've made plans for bowling Saturday night with a few friends in Dallas. I'm sure the night will take us to some interesting places. Possibly ending at the Waffle House or IHOP by dawn's early light. Waking up and driving to the other side of Fort Worth for an event I have little enthusiasm for, with a hangover, and little or no sleep would be pointless. Then I'd have to get up in the morning and look at all the people from work again. Probably after making a fool of myself.

I'm not going. I think.

You suck (or You're still young. You'll have a lot of years left when you get out of jail.)

Those are the running jokes at work. My computer is infested with spyware of some sort, so I'll be brief.
Softball last night. Late game. Won first. Lost second. Hit a homerun.
Beers afterwards. Late night. Cute girl. Good times.
Hangover today. Work sucks. We're all going to hell if we don't change our ways.

Take your time

My cousin sent this e-mail to me a few months back. It is a safety bulletin from his work. The guy in the picture is FUCKED up. Bad.
Just now figured out how to post it.
Click this link to view the pic, but know that it is absolutely disgusting. You've been warned.

CONSTRUCTION MONTHLY SAFETY BULLETIN
So you're in a Hurry?
This story is true;
It was in Alaska the guy crimped the wire into the blasting cap with his teeth instead of using the proper tool (this is a common practice to do with working crews who are in a hurry).
Not only is he still alive he never lost consciousness.

So the next time you want to take a short cut just think of this person first as short cuts are not the way to go.
Use the correct tools for the job you are doing.

Weekend Update

After leaving work on Friday like a 10-year-old exiting the schoolhouse for summer vacation, I took the usual 2-hour nap. Was snapped out of this slumber by the phone. Damn the phone.
It was a good call, though. A very good friend invited me to make the trip to Big D and have a few cold adult beverages. I considered the pros and cons of this and decided to go. Took all of about 2 seconds. I had nothing better to do.
Duke's was the bar. It was packed like sardines, but for $5 pitchers of beer I suffered. And the suffering was well rewarded. Many lovely young ladies were at this bar. Many more friends were called and the place turned into an SFA renion site.
Eventually, the party moved to Logan's. It was also packed, but amazingly had an even better girl-to-guy ratio than Duke's. Big Shiner's were $6, but by this time I didn't care. I met a female friend of a friend who invited us over for more drinks and a movie. I headed for the apartment with said girl as my passenger. She lives about 3 blocks from Logan's, but still managed to get us lost on the way. A trip that should have taken about 2 minutes took 20. In her defense I must admit, she was pretty drunk. So was I.
The movie was Mean Girls and the drinks were Miller Lite and box wine. Surprisingly, I liked Mean Girls. It was funny. But again, I was pretty drunk.
I passed out around 4 a.m. and awoke at 11 a.m., with a terrible crick in my neck. The girl had to be at work at 1. So I proceed to GTFO (Get the fuck out). I get to my car and realize the remote door lock isn't working. Uh-oh. Not a good sign.
Left the damn lights on last night. Shit. Car no start.
After getting a jump, the damn thing still won't start. Bad. Very bad.
Made a trip to Wallyworld to replace the battery. Still no start.
It was noon-thirty and the situation was bleak at best. I'm a chronic broke-ass, so getting a tow and paying some cutthroat mechanic swindler was out of the question.
As a desperate last attempt to salvage my pride, I looked at the fuses.
The third one I pulled was busted. There is a God and he has given me hope.
I replaced the fuse and the Saturn started right up. Thank you, Jesus.
I'm sad to say the car radio did not live through the ordeal. I've been rollin' around with an MP3 player as my only means of entertainment. Sucks balls.
Spent the rest of Saturday cooking BBQ and drinking beers with Candace and Jose. Passed out on the couch about 11 while watching SNL.
Sunday has been absolutely uneventful. And I am very thankful for that.

Quiz and Brainteaser

I found these two things very entertaining during my Friday "pretend-to-work" routine. The first is the N.W.A Quiz.

The second is a little more on the boring side, but fun anyway. It's one of those Find-the-3-differences puzzles. I found 2, but it took forever. Give it a try and tell me if you find more than that. Then tell me where they are.

It's the big one, Weezy

I am a packrat. The apartment has been lived in for a solid 3 months now and it's full. There aren't any large open areas left. Only pathways through the junk. It's a habit.
Same way with my desk at work.
Same way with the car.
Same way with my backpack.
Same way with every space I've ever occupied.
To others it would seem unorganized and messy. How could one locate anything in the rubble?
There is a method to the madness. I know where things are. I can find them.
I got this honest. My Paw-paw is the same way.
He has a massive metal worktable/desk that has been around since the early Eighties under his carport. There are piles of handtools, brushes, oily rags, and unlabeled bottles of various chemical substances. Ask him where any tool or fluid is and he'll tell you the exact location in the pile. Never fails.
His father, my great-grandfather Rip was the Zen Master Packrat. Imagine a tall, old, mean-spirited, cranky, white version of Red Foxx's character on Sanford and Son. Now imagine the set of Sanford and Son. Multiply the piles of crap by 3. That is a pretty good idea of how Rip lived.
He was the only white man in his neighborhood. And he was a racist. Always griping about something.
He originally lived in an ancient, puke green two-story house in downtown Beaumont. Being the packrat deluxe, he accumulated tons of appliances, furniture, and general junk that others had discarded. He would repair, repaint, and sell these items out of his home. Made pretty good money doing this on the side (he was a fire fighter).
Eventually the pathes through the house became so sparce that it was necessary to purchase the adjacent house for eating, sleeping and general living purposes. The old house became his side business/tax shelter. We called it the Old House.
I can remember spending countless hours rummaging through the Old House with my cousins. Being the youngest and smallest at the time, it was my job to crawl over, under and around the larger object to reach the smaller things for his customers. Many times I would stumble and fall, or lose my balance while attempting to locate an item by listening to his directions. He would always laugh when this happened.
Rip took great pleasure in physical comedy. Particularly that which he could observe or inflict on others. Even his great-grandchildren.
I remember one afternoon I had been playing marbles with my cousin at Aunt Donna Mae's. We were riding back home with Rip in his green '57 Chevy pickup. It had those door handles on the insided that you pushed downward to open the door. I was riding shotgun with my right hand in a deathgrip on the door handle and my left clutching my bag of marbles. I rode this way because I knew my great-grandaddy very well. He enjoyed testing the brakes on his vehicles at comically appropriate moments. Then he would laugh like hell when your face slammed into the dash. As we approached a turn, I braced for impact. The old man sensed this and countered by slamming on the gas and screeching into a sharp left-hand turn. The centrifugal force sent my fatass cousin flying into me and our combined weight pressed down on the door handle. The door flew open and out I went. I held my deathgrip on the door handle as my body was suspended above the asphalt pavement, never letting go of the precious marbles in my left hand. As the turn ended, I aimed for a soft grassy ditch. Tucking and rolling, I ended up in a puddle of water near the culvert. Wet and pissed off, I could hear Rip and my cousin howling in the truck.
The old man never missed an opportunity to pull a prank.
I spent a lot of time at his houses during the first 10 years of my life. The Big C took him from us one summer. I cried like a baby at his funeral. Although I was often the object of his practical jokes, he taught me some very important lessons.
Just because you laugh at the misfortune of others, it doesn't mean you don't love them.
Humor and laughter really are the best medicine.
And although things seem bad, in time you will be able to look back on the memory and have a good story to tell.

Blogger is hungry

Because it ate my post last night. After nearly a half-hour of typing about my great-grandfather and his antics, Blogger decided not to let me post. And it deleted the story.
Guess I should have saved first. I hate you, Blogger. Seriously. you suck.

A man's home is his castle. A seaman's home is the sea. A whore's ass and a whiskey glass is home enough for me.

Damn, what got into me? I know, it was a combination of excessive amounts of alcohol and not being able to sleep because of the time change.
Never challenge a bartender to a drinking contest on a weekday. No matter how hot she is. Save those bold exaggerations of your kick-assedness for weekends and holidays. It was a tie. Neither of us puked and the bar closed.
Not too bad of a hangover this morning, since I had nearly a gallon of water before passing out at 3. The pinky finger is throbbing like a sonofabitch, though.
My apologies for the random comments. This is why I don't (shouldn't) drink (much) during the week. Forgive me. You've all been there before.
At least no one answered my drunk dials.

No singing only drinking

Hard to type. Wow, did good there. I refuse to hit the backspace bittton,. Drunk as shit and I'm going to leave lots of comment on all yor blogs. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

for candi

Couldn't get the bitmap to post, so here's the link.

It's growing on me

I've decided to temporarily do away with the clean-shaven nice guy image. I am growing a goatee. Well, actually it's just some chin hair. I can't grow anything worth keeping around the corners of my mouth. It ends up being asymmetrical, with 4 hairs on the left and 20 on the right. Just wanted to let you guys know. So now you can imagine the picture up top as having some fuzz on the chin.
Also, my dad gave me an old guitar and his mountain bike. He has about 10 guitars and can't ride the bike anymore because of his back. Hopefully, by the end of this week I will have a couch as well.

Oh shit, almost forgot. I saw the ass-wiping frog on TV last night. The commercial had him in the background doing you-know-what. And the world did not come to an end.... yet.

You can't handle the truth

Okay, I must come clean. I didn't go to a bachelor party this weekend. I lied. Not sure if I should tell you this, but there may be a career change in my not-too-distant future.
I took an aptitude test for the EvilEmpire company back home.
It was fairly easy, but timed. If offered a job there, I may be moving back home. The pay would be about $8,000 more a year without overtime. Plus I would be closer to the family. And I could live with my folks for free until I get an apartment, which would allow me to pay off the piles of debt. Big heaping piles.
The downside is that I'd be leaving this job in the pharma industry. And I'd probably have to do shift work. But money talks and the bullshit pay I get here will make me walk.
Guess I have some soul-searching to do and stuff. Hell, I don't even know if the EvilEmpire will hire me. It does help that Paw-paw worked there for 35 years, though. He is hell-bent on getting me to move back. I just don't know.

It's a New Record

Officially 4 hours and 3 minutes from the Exxon in Kountze to my door in Bedford. Would've been 4 hours flat, but I came across a county mountie in Midlothian and had to slam the brakes. My poor dog. Refuses to wear his seatbelt, so he bumped his head on the glovebox. He'll live. Gotta give a shout-out to my radar detector again. That could've been a hefty fine (80 in a 55). Best 40 bucks I ever spent.

Caught my little brother's tee ball game Friday afternoon. If you're feeling depressed, unhappy, and need a laugh, go to your local little league park. Watching a gang of anklebiters playing a game they love but do not comprehend will definitely put things in perspective. It reminded me of the way a group of ducks will chase a piece of bread in the park.

Amazingly, a crawfish boil materialized this weekend. I was happy to attend and assist in the purging (salt makes crawfish puke) and cooking of said decapods. Only about 100 pounds and a dozen close friends were there. A very funny conversation was had and I'll give you my account of it.
Somehow the topic got onto interesting names. Particularly those that the African-American population of our small town like to give their children. My mother has been teaching these kids for 12 years and here were her favorites:
Tequila (a girl)
Lashaquanteira (a 5 year old girl had to learn to write this so she could graduate to the 1st grade)
Orangejello and Yellojello (twins - I shit you not. Pronounced or-on-jah-lo and ya-lah-jah-lo)
And the best one of all - Shithead (Again I'm not making this up - pronounced shi-th-ay-ed)
You know the first day of school has to suck for that kid.
I personally knew twin girls in kindergarten named Yolanda (yo-lon-da) and Yolanda (yo-lan-da). I couldn't make this up if I tried.