Ok, so if I make a grammatical or capitalization mistake, I thank the English police in advance for not coming out en masse. My carpal tunnel is acting up after a bout of unergonomic typing and wrenching on my water heater, so I have this immobilization brace on my hand.

Anyway, I have some really bad pictures I'm going to share with everyone.


FIRST off:

• I took my kids to the ol' elementary school the other day. I have found a new and innovative way for hands-free wireless voice communication. Note how the school crossing guard does it:

I almost ran over her from laughing so hard.

• I was in walmart just now. There was an old man buying bananas. He stood RIGHT behind me, almost close enought to breathe on me. Creepy? Not as creepy as the fact that he was buying TWO bananas, and HOW he was carrying them. I submit to you the following camera pics:

Is that a banana in your pants, or are you glad to see me?

Hello, I love you won't you tell me your name?


Our secret signal for meeting outside the chat room was supposed to be like this. I don't know WHY she hasn't found me yet.

Poor old man, never knew he was going to be on the internet. I SALUTE YOU!

Thank you, Mr. Whyze.

The Texaco pizza was fabulous, as were the chicken gizzards and beer. All consumed to Ludacris.


I swore off modern rap, but dang it, Need for Speed had me crunkin' this weekend. *sigh*
====================

This is a mighty miserable weekend. The weather is cool and wet, and there are small lakes in my yard.

I am without hot water for the 4th day in a row now. I have spent $100 on parts, and the @#$#@@ heater still doesn't work. My plumber is sick and won't be here tomorrow, but he's quite flighty and it's possible he won't show up tomorrow. In the meantime, I have two angry women and five whiny kids all clamoring for water that I can't produce.


Oh well. Cold water will have to make my lil boys shrivel up as I yelp in the freezing shower again today.

For the sake of new readers, I am going to go back to something I posted in my defunct diaryland blog years ago. We are going to revisit the story of a day that started off bad and could only go downhill.

Great. As I try to get dressed, CNN is running in the background. I am informed by Sanjay Gupta that I am sorely in need of a testicular exam and a digital rectum test. I didn't know it was possible to cringe on both sides of the continental divide. Horrified at the thought of ball cancer, I turn it to the local channel and its funny locally produced ads in between news about Jimbob's lost cow and the local 4-H scandal involving the sheeppleaser of the century. At one point I misheard an ad and thought I heard them say something about Hick Mustang driving CountryThug of the Year but I must have heard wrong. Doesn't make it any less true though.

I finally get out of the house and am heading towards an even smaller, more depressing town 30 miles west of mine. I must pass the entire gammut of wonderful "Dont run out of gas hear because yo' purty mouth'll get busted" areas along with their red lights where you can't be left alone from all the morons in Camaros with their hats on backwards, fitted cap right down low enough on the ol' unibrow just in the right way to point out how stupid the retard is in the driver's seat. You know the kind, wears overalls by day, FUBU by night and uses a dialect of English that isn't entirely the one he uses with momma and daddy come Sunday morning at little church in the country. Tupac was alright, but he was ruined by these people in my eyes. I can never listen to him because I think of a school called West Jones. (If you need to understand that, you'll get it.)

Anyway, I finally get to the sad, little depressing town 30 miles west of my own sad, little depressing town and stop at the local breakfast den. Now, I'm not sure if all of you are familiar with these joints, but it's usually the local clone of McDonalds or Dunkin Donuts. No sir, the Starbucks crowd has most definitely NOT infiltrated these corners of society. Electricity is still magical in these areas, and the wheel still posesses a fond sense of novelty among the locals. If you were to walk in these joints, you are expected to know everyone, know where they sit, who they are kin to, and the employees are supposed to summon a plate of biscuts, grits, gravy, bacon and sausage, along with coffee and water to whomever looks at them and declares "Ah'll huv the reg'lur, sweethaaart. How's yo mommer n 'em?" If you aren't a local, expect necks to creek and go Excorcist on you as they gawk with mouths hanging open, often with a cigarette hanging from the corner of their puckered, sun-wrinkled mouths. Expect worse if you are of the minority persuasion or are accompanied by someone who isn't as hideously pale as your lilly white ass. You can almost hear the proverbial needle go screeching off the record as you walk in and actually LOOK at the menu as you decide what to order.

It was at one of these very establishments I stopped at. It had that quality a buzzard tree does after the years of fetid buzzard feces finally kill the tree, and it's a dead reminder to the world of what happens when one is chosen as 'roost of the year' by buzzards. I get out, and after ordering my food three times to get it through to the cashier what I wanted, sat down. Food was good, but on the greasy side and sat in the stomach like a medium size bag of quickcrete. As I was eating, a man came in on what can only be described as flesh-toned stilts. He didn't bother to get the good prosthetic legs. Nope, he violated some poor manequin, and in his haste didn't even get the feet. These were just oval-shaped cylinders he had, with his shorts, suspenders, and tshirt. It's something I'll never forget, watching him leap to reach the Equal sweetener and cursing anyone who tried to help him. Horrified, my stomach began to hurt as I waited on my coworker to show up.

I felt the need to go to the restroom after three minutes, and after sprinting to the back, sat down to do the inevitable. While in the safe confines of the large stall, I heard the sound a deckhand must hear at night as the pirate captain paces the length of the deck. Only this was in double time since both legs were gone OH MY GOD MIRANDA BEARD MAKE IT STOPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

Wait. Sorry. I had to turn off the TV because a monster appeared. (My grandma calls her 'queen bee'.)

Anyway, the Second-Offense Pirate comes clackety-clacking into the bathroom. My innate macabre sensibilities go the best of me, prompting me to peer nervously through the crack in the door frame with a sense of perverse anticipation of the following series of events. But wait, what's this? He doesn't need the urinal? What then? NO! Here he comes to the Handi-stall to my left (which I normally choose due to the sink. Glad i didn't that day...). He gets in, doesn't even attempt to close the door, and BAM! There went one leg skittering across the floor of the bathroom. I heard a sound similar to a suction cup coming unstuck, and POP! BAM! SSSSSSSHHHZZHAHAHA...there went the other leg. Then the shorts with the suspenders. While on the floor, he apparently grabbed the parallel bars and vaulted himself into a 180 twist, landing squarely on the toilet. I didn't know whether to cry, to triumphantly applaud him, or to run out with my pants still down. Then the most monstrous evacuation I've ever heard in a human being ensued. I whimpered "Dear God, what is happening here?!"

Then I opted to run.

I made a hasty wipe, ran out to the sink, CRAP! no soap. I find a can of powdered comet, and wash my hands raw with the scrubbing power of bleach (Tm). As I'm running out, I slip on a paper mat they put on the fast food trays and almost go face first into a garbage bin. Somehow, my cat-like fat kid reflexes went into overdrive and I pulled off a miraculous save as I ran out the door and sprinted towards my car. I didn't want him to recognize my shoes when he came out, you know, just in case he had a gun.

As I run toward my truck, I notice that a pig farmer has decided to pull in alongside my truck. He's standing there with straw literally poking out of his mullet. Overalls, no shirt, tattoo on his mantits, the works. Then, when he finally walks past, the smell hits me. His animal cargo REEK.

Then the pig's wang points toward my truck and arcs this perfectly round stream of steaming pig urine onto my truck, satisfying his urges for at least twenty seconds. Then I notice the pig feces all over the ground and the other puddles of pig piss. I decided to get out of there as soon as possible.

Boring meeting, no lunch money, and got back home to find out my wife had received a speeding ticket. 52 in a 30. Said she was late for work.

Sigh.

Last week I had an outing to eat at my one of my favourite digs down the road, Panino’s. It was, uh, interesting to say the least. Mrs. Chulo and myself went in and were eventually seated. I ordered diet coke, and being the gentleman I am, sized up my wife’s PMS demeanor and immediately decided that she needed a double Tom Collins, which the waiter promptly produced. While we were waiting, I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation to my right. There was a group of four people seated at the table. Two couples. The kind of slimy, disgusting couples that scream ‘wife swap’ for some strange reason. Anyway, they hadn’t even gotten their salads yet when I noticed that they were asking for a second bottle of wine. The tubby guy was bragging about having to work in New Orleans for a time, and about the hurricane and God knows what all else. His voice became sloppier and higher in volume with every sip of pre-food wine.

At the outset, he was the only one talking, with everyone else nodding in that fake ‘OH I LOVE YOU’ type of feigned interest in his slurred absurdity. Then after the second bottle was being finished, the woman to his left started up like a gassed up Weedeater. Then the man in front of him. Then his alkie wife who had finished her fourth glass of wine. They got their salads and asked for a third bottle, and then I got my bread and asked for another diet coke. After bottle number three was gone, they were talking about sewer lines, and then Weedeater blurted out something that has accompanied me in all my travels these 7 days since the incident:

SIZE DOESHHH MATTER, AND DON’T LET ANYONE TELL YOU OTHERWISHE.

She thought she was being astoundingly witty, but I stared at her for a minute in disbelief, then proceeded to translate the conversation to Mrs. Chulo, who as a current English learner still has a hard time understanding what I term ‘fringe English’, e.g. drunks, thugz, and inner-county rednecks. She had a completely empty stomach when we got there, so she was getting rather giggly as well. At least she didn’t start up with the ‘size’ comments too.

--

A good friend of mine recently quit his job at a store I frequent quite often for want of choice in my little crap town. I used to see him quite frequently, as he was the electronics god. The people that replaced him are sub-par, to say the least. I asked one a question regarding the possible arrival of game consoles, and I got a “We get a truck every day.” I asked a second drone, and she gave me the same answer. How do you explain to someone their uselessness? I eventually looked at the second drone and muttered “mmumblemubmle tits on a boar hog.” She heard it but didn’t say anything. My God, I’d prefer to deal with the other woman that worked with my friend. The woman in question had tattoos on her arm so I dubbed her ‘jail momma’ in my mind. She wasn’t even there. Just these new, unfamiliar people. I went last night to get a hard drive for my 360 (note my subtlety here in proclaiming my purchase. HAHAHAHAHA), and I had a hand put in my face. No explanation, NOTHING. It turned out to be due to a moronic kid wandering off and triggering the OMG FIRE ALARM CODE ADAM DEAR GOD MAN FIND THE KID alarm. I saw the back of a Walmart badge once, and saw the color coded alarm scheme. Was ‘Code Brown’ for like a monster turd attacking the store? I don’t recall. ‘Code Pink’ a gay dude stealing something? Or maybe an assasin ballerina?

Oh well. I’ll miss him. By the way, he reads this blog.

Mind if I link to your own so people can read of your plight? Msg me.

This man could kick your butt:




Wanna chip in and get me an XBox 360 hard drive? I'd be appreciative. :p

Something of substance coming tomorrow hopefully.

My mother is beyond all words.

I had to stop by the municipal Water Department and argue that there is no way in you-kn0w-where that I've consumed 29,000 gallons of water this month. My water bill went from $50 to $350. Yep. I don't know how either.

But I'm here in my mam's office checking my email before i hit the road to the office. Mam, Dad and aunt are across the way walking in an abandoned scheme, sorry, subdivision. It is rather sad. They paved these nice streets, set up individual lots for homes, even built a home in the middle of all this emptiness...and...no one came. It's a ghost town. Gives me the creeps but for some reason they enjoy walking there immensely. Whatever...

It's been a while since I posted one...so...

Weird purchase list from trip to WalMart last night:
Beer
Donuts
Meat
a length of steel chain
a glass vase
a small statuette of a monkey
a wireless router
and two Mexicana cd's.

Gotta go now mam's walkin in

Yesterday, I got in my car with my family in tow and made a journey which I have not undertaken in a good eight months. We all got in the car at a ridiculously early hour (6:50AM) and got on the interstate, heading south for 2 hours. THERE I FIXED IT ARE YOU HAPPY? R.I.D.I.C.U.L.O.U.S.

We got to Lake Ponchatrain and picked our way across the delicate temporary spans that have been erected to replace the ones that fell into the water. We drove past Six Flags, admiring the brand-new automobiles at the dealerships. New before August 29, that is. The flood water came up to the top of the windshields on all of them. Brand new, beautiful Altimas, Mustangs, SUV’s, all ruined by this whore Katrina that has complicated life to the n’th degree for the last half year.

One thing that made me stare more than anything else was the total absence of life. Down here in the South, we have a bad problem with fireants. They make these wonderful Eeyore-grey hills on an otherwise-pristine landscape. If left uncontrolled, it becomes ant metropolis and they become sentient, eventually sacrificing your virgin daughter in a secretive midnight ceremony deep within the principal anthill temple/queen complex.

Okay, maybe I exaggerate a little, but the point is that you have to go outside and douse those suckers with anything guaranteed to kill them. In times past, gasoline was the cheapest poison of all, but now economy dictates that we have to actually buy ant poison. You bathe the hill in grains, and come out in three days to see what’s happening. You step on the antbed to see what occurs, and….nothing. Occasionally a sick ant will stagger out and then die, but for the most part the antbed is dead and devoid of life. (I am coming dangerously close to mimmicking the Dead Parrot sketch so I’m going to switch gears).

Well, that’s what East New Orleans seemed to be like. A dead, poisoned, and stepped-on antbed. Walmart is closed and barred up after it was looted. Sams was better yet torn down and is being rebuilt. Floodwater marks are everywhere. Garbage on the sides of the interstate. I saw a nice couch just sitting there. Things that have NO PLACE being there, but the water left them there, so no one is picking them up, least of all Mr. Ray Nagin. My wife bought me a “Willie Nagin and the Chocolate City” tshirt in the French Quarter, and despite my better judgement am wearing it today.

--

We wandered down past Dumonde to the flea market. There are still empty stalls, but my God, there is life! There is fruit being sold! Kettle Corn cooking! Spices and hot sauce being pushed out of crates! I smelled shrimp boiling and there were cold beers to be enjoyed, pulled right out of the ice! (Nevermind that it was 34F with a high wind chill factor downtown)

The silver vendors were back, and that was what concerned us most, for my wife and I are constantly haggling with the jewelry folks in the flea market there. We go several times a year and just disappear, not telling anyone. Well, we bought some lapis lazuli pieces, and the vendor noticed my license. He asked how we had fared, and I told him that we were the hardest-hit inland county, no lights for 3 weeks and all that good stuff. He nodded in a pained gesture, biting down on his lip, and reached over to shake my hand. After a few moments of silence, I turned to leave. He stopped me and gave me a warm “Welcome Back, sir.” That set the tone for yesterday. My guitar case now has a “I (heart) NO la” sticker festooned across the front, right by the Mississippi State University and below Bert and Ernie stickers.

--

I know people who like to imagine themselves as cultured, but felt no pain when they watched N.O. sink into utter chaos. One of them went so far as to declare that he had “never lost anything in New Orleans” and that it was better off being abandoned to the advancing Gulf of Mexico.

The same beauty of that city, the magic that makes people flock there like blowflies to excrement…it’s what made me feel saddened. I am ticked off just like the rest of my statesmen due to the media’s moronic decision to completely ignore Mississippi’s plight, opting instead to film the idiots in Louisiana who refused to leave. But how can you NOT be upset when you notice the Musical Mesopotamia of the US being sacked like some ancient capital falling to the Barbarian Hordes? I was assaulted at work and in the local paper by these morons for weeks afterward who implied that NOLA was destroyed as some part of God’s will. Remember, you DO have a colleague who shares your views. Wait, make that two: Al-Zawarhi and his comrade in stupidity, Bin Laden. The very people who cause you and all of your ilk to voluntarily be spied on and wiretapped on in the name of ‘protection’. YOU AGREE ON SOMETHING. Scary, huh?

MY family and I enjoyed a spectacular trip to New Orleans yesterday. We spent money and took pictures and did what could be done. GET DOWN THERE AND SPEND MONEY, PEOPLE. DRINK BEER AND ALCOHOL. EAT FOOD, BUY TRINKETS, SPEND THE NIGHT SOMEWHERE. It’ll be appreciated I’m sure.

Thursday night I was in the nest of wires behind my entertainment centre. Now, I understand that a lot of people have wires, but let’s take a breakdown of what I’ve got behind there:

• Surroundsound receiver, with 6 speakers and enough speaker wire to run them to China. They are not organized or bound with anything.
• Television
• Xbox
• Two VCR’s
• Sattelite receiver
• DVD player
• Wireless Router
• Cable Modem
• VoIP (Voice Over Internet Protocol) terminal. Internet phone for the uninitiated.
• Three telephones
• Wireless Media Centre extender for Windows XP Media Edition
• Black Light (I refuse to get rid of this. It’s been with me for years. I don’t care if it doesn’t light up elves, aliens, Woolite patterns on the ceiling or Jim Morrison in day-glo orange anymore. It still makes my teeth look funny.)

Now you can imagine the speaker/telephone/network/electrical/audio/video wires and cables cris-crossing behind here. It’s HORRIBLE. My kids in their childish “La la I’m not thinking, OOH! SOMETHING SHINY!” way of thinking decided it was a wonderful place to hide during bouts of hide and seek, something I wish they wouldn’t do in the house. Well, while back there, one of the kids disconnected several appliances that since then haven’t run right. I was back there and was trying to get the router working again in a hurry, since I wanted to fire off just one email from my work account I had forgotten to send back at the office. Here’s the asterisk leading to a footnote in this story. My wife thinks it doubles as a fantastic storage area. *sigh*

She had stored a mirror she likes a lot back there. The frame had broken so she wanted to fix it later.

Well, to make a long story short, I was barefooted and in a hurry. I stepped on a patch of cables, and felt the satisfying crunch of a piece of mirror. I ignored it, kept going, and tried to get better footing by shifting my weight. Big mistake. Two shards of glass decided to splinter off vertically, and go into my foot. I hopped out from behind there and got into a lotus position on the mat in front of the television. I should not use the term lotus, since I am not in the least bit graceful and hit my head twice in the process. I looked at the sole of my foot, and began to remove the shards. My heart sped up, I got the classic tunnel vision, and began to feel extremely nauseous. The glass came out, I laid back, flying faster than any drug could make possible, and began to hyperventilate. As I did a fat-kid situp to examine my foot again, the spurting started. I yelled for my wife, who had to patch me up. I’m hobbling now. I’ve seen wrecks with fatalities, I’ve seen war casualty photos. I’ve seen the beheading videos from Iraq, and nothing gets to me like my own blood. I have no clue why…

--------------

I have taken a plunge into the depths of my memory today for things I should remember, but for some reason have trouble recalling. One thing was probably my first trip to Mexico. The day I went across the border, I can recall the odd feeling of it all. I parked at the first place I could find (literally 100 feet into the country) due to my ill feeling about driving there. I parked and waited for bro in law to show up. While I was parked there, I noticed a small, menacing-looking man with a broom and a foul mouth. People would drive up and park adjacent to me and he would scream at them, insulting not only their intelligence and their driving ability, but also their mothers. I didn’t know where I was parked, so I peeked around the side and decided I had made a boo-boo. I was parked at the aduana headquarters, or customs/Mexican immigration. The short evil man managed to cuss out and run off not one, not two, not four, but five people in the 45 minutes I stayed parked in my old hoopty, a 92 Grand Marquis with blacked out windows. After the last one, my curiosity was piqued, so I got out and confronted him. I asked him in Spanish how come he had felt the need to threaten five other people, but had ignored me completely. He appraised me for a few seconds, looking at me up, then down, and then looked me straight in the eye. He walked around the side of my car to look at the car tag, and then chuckled. His response was simple. It was, “Son, you have that leather coat on, Ray Ban aviators, you’re light skinned, and no offence, but you’re a little pudgy and drive a Grand Marquis. I thought you were a federal agent from AFI or something, but I see I’m wrong. You’re not supposed to be here at all, but I tell you what. I’ll give you thirty minutes if you can give me some money for a refresco.” By the way, refresco money (‘money for a soda’) is plain old baksheesh. Jeez. I hadn’t been in the country an hour yet and I was already being codgered for money. I coughed up $5 and was very careful not to show him the $100 bills I had saved for so long.

I got out of the car and sat on the trunk to take in the spectacular scenery of garbage in a park and feces-smelling curb drainage from the sprinkle of showers that had just fallen. I use the term ‘park’ loosely since the defining criteria for calling it so was the fact that there was a patch of sparse grass surrounded by a cheap garden fence and concrete. I walked over to admire it, ignoring a man with no legs scooting around begging passersby on a mechanic’s creeper on the way. He smelled of wee.

While in this 50’x50’ park, I found a plastic doll’s head, a roach (ZigZag/Top kind, not the insect), a condom wrapper, and a bare corn on the cob. I happened to notice the mop man cursing out yet another person over by my car, and while looking in that direction, I noticed another person. This was a real winner, a guy with his black pearl-buttoned shirt unbuttoned to maybe the continental divide between man tits and belly with just enough tufts of chest hair flaring out around his gold medallion to thoroughly disgust me. He had a baby pram in his care and was being followed by an obviously South Mexican woman. You see, in my experience, the further south in Mexico a person goes, a person’s height and posture begin to degrade. So this woman was maybe 4’12” at most and was bent over, nervously pulling on her pigtails and smoothing out her indigenous dress which made me think “Maya” or “Mixteca” when I saw her. She was dragging an adorable little girl in a Winnie the Pooh tshirt and a denim skirt behind her. He looked around, walked over to mopmaster, handed him something I’m now sure was refresco money, and then ducked into the narrow wooden gate leading behind the aduana headquarters. He came back alone, skulked past the gate, met up with another individual, then REPEATED THE ENTIRE SPECTACLE AGAIN. I decided something was definitely up and decided to be Super Investigator ©. I noticed that he was putting these people into the back of a truck parked in an enclosed parking lot sitting atop a bluff overlooking the miserable trickle of the Rio Bravo. “Yep, Coyote.” – I thought to myself. He was getting these people out of Mexico and into the United States.

Finally my brother in law (whom I had never met in person before) showed up. I asked him what was up with Mr. Coyote over there, and he squinted for a minute and informed me that my suspicions were indeed correct. He also informed me that this was Mr. Backdoor Man in the flesh. This guy would go over to my Brother in Law’s house and bang the wife while Bro in Law was killing himself to eke out a miserable living. The kids got to hear all the adult sound effects too. (And you wonder why my niece had a baby at 13). That was my first urge to use a crowbar on someone in Mexico, a feeling I have managed to repeat on every trip there.

This recollection I have enjoyed today (fuelled by White Russians and the pain medication I’m taking for my mangled foot) had made me decide to focus on a new theme for a few posts. Being formerly employed as a migrant workers’ rights advocate, I am absolutely full of stories from all the children I helped along the way in my four years working in that field. I made an extra $500 a month, but I enjoyed helping kids out, which is a level of satisfaction I am quite confident I’ll NEVER achieve in my current career.

As I am typing this, it is raining outside. A full gut, bottomed-out blood sugar, and rain on a Friday afternoon are NOT what I had in mind. It is near impossible stay awake in such an environment, much less remain coherent and productive.

I don’t mind the occasional hunting outing, mind you. I do it mainly to placate my father and his band of friends. Personally I’d rather sleep late because I find the idea of freezing my todger off in the woods in the middle of the wee hours…erm…how do I put this… unappealing. To say the least. You can’t wear deodorant. You can’t use a soap that has more than .0000000000001 part/billion of good-smell in it. You can step on a twig. You have to sit there, scared to death in the dark that the Chupacabras is going to come slurp your blood from a tap he puts in your juglar.

Then the noises start. Are they from animals? Are they the “Yo! Doe! I’m horny! Grunt grunt!” sounds that the elusive buck you seek makes when he’s deciding whether to run from you or mount you? See, I don’t get that. Why would you want to purposefully titillate a horny (in both senses of the word) 100lb+ animal into coming and vying for mating privileges with you?

Perhaps it could be a crazed hunter from the plot of land adjacent to you, purposefully straying onto your land in pursuit of a deer that has left his own domain? These beer-fueled nimrods are brandishing the latest in firearm technology and have a hard-on for animal death. They are often fueled by alcohol and the occasional hit of crystal methamphetamine, which makes them a tribe of gibbering, slobbering, lead-flinging lunatics.

=====

Ever noticed that sometimes, when your self esteem is at a historical low, all that is needed to bring you back to life is a small word of encouragement from someone you hold in exceptionally high esteem? A small word of validation from someone who has noticed your own works that you consider to be inferior, but they find quite good? You know who you are and you don’t know how much it’s goaded me into pursuing my passions of long ago…before bills, work, and all that crap that comes with growing up assaulted my artistic butt and squelched out my need for release in that field. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

First off, a big "Word, foo' " to Longmire, the man of my dreams. I hope now that you can calm down and stop sleeping with a towel around your groin from wetting yourself about being mentioned on my site. :-)

I'm in the process of copying some files from my cameraphone. I got some REALLY nice pics of some mulletards today at Ward's. Pics of a man who was escorted from his job at Hattiesburg Clinic or something. He is bug eyed and has a beautiful Alabama Waterfall (see: Mullet at Wikipedia)

Ahh. Here we are:
As you can see, this is an extremely fine specimen of local population, in the local eating joint. When the Camp Sister Spirit lesbian camp went live and subsequently scandalized the nation, old men met at...where else? A Ward's in Beaumont MS. They even got Oprah down there so she could film some choice 'token' mississippians in overalls. You know, since Oprah's ashamed of her state and all. Notice the stately air the locks give to the sides of his turkey neck. He was proudly proclaiming to the pentecostal love monkey behind the counter that his old job at a big local 'clinic' complex was behind him since they locked the doors and won't let him on the premises anymore.



This guy was to the left of the mulletard. Note his 'can-do' attitude regarding greasy, fat-filled food. He had a book in his back pocket, which he greedily read as he devoured the chili dogs he ordered. Truth be known, I am quite partial to the food at this establishment, but I have oft been known to go home and attend a nice dinner, munching on quiche and brie after work. I am from Mississippi, hear me slurp.






I have been considering where I will be going next year. I have been asked, noncommitally, if I would want to go to Ecuador, to which I replied 'HELL YES'. I hope it pans out. I also have been considering a trip with the wife to Europe to stay with friends. I've been invited by several people who have assured me they would make it as economical as possible. If I were to be handed a trip off this God-forsaken cotinent for the first time in 8 years, it would do wonders for all my stress. I would feel like someone again. Indeed, I would, as the tagline to the popular Mental_Floss publications says, "Feel smart again."

I fail to see why this state cannot do more to help its employees, many of whom fall into the 'impoverished' bracket in the scheme of things. I have been there before as well. I'm not as bad as I was when I first started working there, but as a friend of mine at the office says, "There are many interesting things to be made out of wonton soup and frozen cheddar cheese." Things are made, happily, with inferior things. At least I'm not eating dog food. As soon as the tax refund comes, I'm paying the three accidental check bouncings, the house notes, Dell, the $200 Bell South claims I owe them, and the $100 I still owe DISH since I cut it off. I enjoy life without cable. I get to watch the Jesus channels and CNN more often now. I never thought I'd own up to this, but I actually relish the moment America's Funniest Home Videos comes on because it's one of the few channels on basic cable that I can stomach. It's not like the informercial where this guy talks about his epiphany in the poop department. He discovered one of his daughter's turds (don't ask) and noticed that the circumference and girth on that sucker was apparently the double of his own flaccid, weak, marble-sized nuggets. He gives this glowing confessional of his product and how it scrapes your colon out. I had never heard the phrase 'fecal matter' that much in my life. Seriously, click that link and watch the guy's video up at the top. This is the crap you watch when basic cable is all that's available.

====

Another wonderful thing was that I restrung my guitar finally. I think I might be able to do something, seeing as how I'm dreaming chord progressions again. Now if I had some poppies...

or an oreo shake.

Going to watch Blazing Saddles now.

Reporting to you live from Gimp’s office, this is Gimp for GimpsWorld News.

Ok, now this is just rediculous. StinkyfartWoman has just microwaved her…..lunch…if you are so-inclined to call it this. It hit me like 200 cubic yards of monkey flatulence as I walked around the cube and out of my office. I waddled over to my coworker, and in our usual banter, asked the following: “Yo, beyotch, where be the lunch up in this piece?” He, as usual, mumbled something noncommittal. The only thing I heard was “mmmm 10 minutes zzzczxcvzxvkljadjadf.” I asked him did it require 10 minutes of his time due to some “personal time”, which I said very derisively and sarcastically, to which he further mumbled. I told him that I would be in my office, touching myself in anticipation of our departure for lunch. Hence, I am here, typing this update to you wonderful young’uns.

I still am being assaulted by Stinkyfart’s cooking. It’s a combination of the worst frozen microwaveable meal, coupled with cheap soda, garlic, rancid anchovy paste and something that’s supposed to be ‘asian cuisine’. It’s about as appetizing as the thought of downing an ice cold glass of clam juice with purple pixie stik powder mixed into it for good measure.

…wait…what’s this? She’s MUMBLING! She just went “Oooohhh, mmmm.” and turned the page to something else. Then she farted and clinked around her plastic fork, which she insists on you giving back to her if you should ever ask to use. She has a wonderful collection of plastic ‘silverware’, which she washes and reuses. Now, the only thing I use them for is when she’s in the bathroom grunting. I go into her office and jimmy the thermostat off 79F Heat and turn it onto 70F Cool, where normal people tend to reside. It’s like the heat makes her flatulence that much more appealing to me.

I am going to go harrass monkey nuts to see if he is ready to go to lunch yet.

Stay moist, people.

Quote of the day!

"The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side."

- Hunter S. Thompson

I received a phone call yesterday evening informing me of the death of an acquaintanice of mine. Death, or the news thereof, while never a happy occasion, sometimes fails to produce in one the choking, tearful sobs of profound loss. At times, news of a death merely brings numbness, or perhaps a dull since of negativity and a bit of sadness. This phone call produced exactly that: a “damn…that’s bad” feeling. I’ve not missed work or cried or dwelled on it extensively. As a matter of fact, I was more than a bit annoyed that the phone call interrupted my viewing of 24. But then, sure as day and night, I felt a pang of guilt at having an intial reaction of such…well…jerkiness.

This person was in his late forties or early fifties. He was a Mexican national who had lived in this country for quite an extensive time (think decades), working on his American citizenship that I am pretty sure he had eventually obtained. He once asked me if the US would check his past in Mexico, since he had done time down there.

He was a person that was entertaining in the best of times, clingy in others, and, quite bluntly, downright annoying the rest of the time. This person used to show up at my house uninvited and stay until 3 am despite my less-than-tactful attempts at showing him my keen desire to go to bed. At one point, I left the room and came back in pajamas. I told my wife “Let’s go to bed honey, (so-and-so) probably wants to go to bed and we’ve been so rude keeping him up like this.” He still didn’t get it until I asked him to leave.

Other times, I would resort to going into another room with the nifty gangsta (Gnif on blogspot, Cracka on NME. You know who you are.), listening to heavy metal and opera MP3’s on my old P-1 computer and leaving this guy alone in my living room until he would leave.

He often said God blessed him. He refused to work and was a monumental slacker (much like Cracka *dodges punch*), but yet he told me once the pecan tree in front of his boarding house sustained him with food. I told him he had to eat nuts off the ground because he was lazy and wouldn’t get a job. He floated around like a tumbleweed, wearing out his welcome in whatever town he happened to be in. At one point he married a woman he met in a halfway house. She ended up being crazier than a sackful of ferrets. I once chaperoned them around a couple of months until they got married. She told me her life goal was to get her kids back that the Human Services people in another state had taken from her. It was for good reason they took them. She was CRACKED.

And now, he’s dead. He was in a car accident coming back home to yet another ratty tenement slumhouse which they call La Casa Apestosa (‘the stinky house’) in town. I feel bad he’s dead…ah hell, we’re going to miss you D. I’m a jerk.

Perdóname camerada por haberte hablado asi tantas veces…