And They'll know I am Cussing by my Blood

This week, only three days long so far, is turning out to be a doozy. I have, it seems, found everyway that I can appear a complete idiot without trying. Some might say that this is a pretty simple task and begin to cite instances that will ultimately prove that the odd times are when I'm not doing something stupid or rude. To these people I say, "Hah! but I wasn't drinking at the time!" Well, at least for two of these I wasn't.

WELL, HELLO OFFICER
My cousin Luke's son began working at the Gray's Warehouse last week, so I have been dropping him off in the morning on the way to the office.
This week is junk pickup in the neighborhood, and the city dumptrucks are all over the place. I don't mean there are many of them, I mean that the bastards couldn't put a hard dick in a bucket of warm lard, much less a large truck to the side of the road. I don't know who taught them to drive, but I bet she has bleach-blond hair and drives a camaro with t-tops.
This morning I was trying to get around one of these trucks, and I came upon a minivan on opposite. We were making all of the "get the hell out of my way, asshole" motions to get the other to move, with no luck. So I backed up enough so that if he knew how to drive he could get around. Well, he decided to pull along side and start to roll down his window, so I did the same, knowing that he just stepped into the road-rage-ring, and round one ALWAYS goes to Andy.
"WHAT, MOTHER FUCKER?," was my gentle request of his intentions.
He responded in the same calm manner with, "WHY THE HELL WERE YOU BLOCKING THE INTERSECTION?"
"BECAUSE YOUR FUCKING ASS CAME OUT OF NOWHERE FROM BEHIND THAT TRUCK AND WOULDN'T FUCKING MOVE!" I knew that logic generally wins people over, and that a light reminder and a kind smile go very far in defusing a situation.
Lowering the tone he said, "You better watch yourself."
"Or you'll what, Curly?" I said, curtly reminding him of his shiny bullet like dome.
This is where He shows me his badge, and I just say, "Well, hello officer" and drive away.
Round One: Officer Curly

I DISLIKE FLYING BATS
Ok, so after dark the Coon comes out on the roof of Bob's hizzy, so I think, "Get the bat and see what kind of dammage you can do." Well, did I show me what kind of damage I could do.
Standing on Bob's central air unit is no problem. Swinging a bat is no problem. Swinging a bat while standing on the central air unit is a problem. In sequence:
Andy runs between houses, hops on the air unit while swinging a bat at the coon running allong the edge of the roof.
Andy is 5' and the fully extended bat doesn't connect with the roof, coon, or any solid surface.
Momentum from running and the swinging bat makes Andy leave the surface of the air unit and hurling toward earth like a low-flying Icarus.
The bat, at the peak of its pendulum arc and still in my hand connects rather forcefully against the side of my knee.
Coon 1, Andy 0

THIS IS DEFINITELY WHERE I PARKED MY CAR
I was caught up in getting caught up, and it caught up with me. I almost missed an appointment today, so I quickly drove to UofL directly instead of parking at the store and walking over, since I would arrive sooner, and not all sweaty from the 8thof a mile walk.
I pulled up to the info booth and tell the young lady who has continents for boobs that I'm visiting one professor, that I'll only be about a half an hour, and get my parking pass. So far, so good.
After parking, I walk past the booth, wave at Hooty McHuge, and go to the education building. I talk to professor Plumb for about 10 minutes and leave. Out the door, and back over to Gray's.
I talk to the text manager, help dolly some boxes, and go to leave.
Out the east door and look- nothing.
Over to the west door, telling a young lady that i must be over there. Look- nothing.
I walk back in, think for a minute, and lowly exclaim, "Sweet bucket of shit. How retarded am I?"
That's when one of the employees said, "Pretty damn. I saw you park your car at the north lot about twenty minutes ago." I now refer to him as "Oh yeah, well fuck you."
I walked back to campus, waved to Her Boobness (who, by the way, has a nose stud. I was told that they are to keep the ejaculate from coming out while fellating), and got into my car with two minutes to spare.
Habit trumps, and I'm 0-3.
I love this week.

My theme song will be "OUCH!"

As I was finishing up a beer last night and then un-beering from the porch, I heard something climbing on Bob Reed's/the Bank's roof. The coon, it seems, wants go round two. So be it.

I was going to start the harassing last night, but my watch read 1:30, so I figured a good night's sleep is much better to proceed a work day than a hospital trip would be.

This is going to get interesting.

Get your own damn beer

Death to beer moochers everywhere!

I do truely love my brother Darrel, and my cousin Luke, but I heard something out of both of their mouths this last week that was so beyond shocking that it left me to stand in front of them with no discernable expression, and no response, which was itself beyond shocking, and compounded my inability to respond. My mouth found itself tripping over over my brain's inability to come up with a retort, and my brain in a more unusual state of not hearing words come out of my mouth, due to the fact that I have on many occasions spoken without thinking, so this was a truely odd occurance.
Another distinct oddity was that the offending comment came from their gobs on different occasions.
Well, on with the show.
As you all know, everyone is welcome to come to the hizzy and have some beer. By everyone, I meant the ten, no eight people I like. You come in, open the beer drawer (beer stays colder in the crisper drawer), and holler, "ONE OR TWO?" I'll let you know if I want another, for we'll make the assumption that I'm home from work and am awake, meaning I've already had one or two.
When you come down to the basement to the shop and I ask if you're going to be over for a bit and you say yes, well...I'll just let you pick out what not to say to Andy who knows how much beer's in his frige and its time apportioning:
"Are you just stopping by?"
"Nah, I figured I'd have a couple of beers."
"Let's go make a b-double-e."
"We don't need to do that, I'm not going to have that many."

(sound of needle scratching record)-PING! W-W-W-W-W-WHAT?
After a short silence and stare my brain elbowed my mouth and told it to shit or get off the pot, and I finally said to Darrel (who was stunned at my oral confoundment as well), "After the one you're having, are the fucking beer elves going to magically restock my frige?(time out for you all to reference my stature and alcoholism) Do you want me buzzing and happy, or do you want me pissed off and more pissed off? Fuck it. You stay here and I'll be back in a minute."

When my cousin Luke said the same thing a few days later, my mouth again jumped the hurdle after several seconds. This time my witticism was a little more pointed- "Did fucking Darrel call you? You both said the same thing."
"Nope. I just gotta get back and make dinner."

Now, I don't mind people coming over and doggin' up my beer, but holy cow that was retarded.

Yankee John's got it right: Bring me beer.

"The beer that I am holding will go from full to empty," said Danny Donkey, "and I will be happy."

I think I broke my coon

As you know, my neighbor who for privacy's sake we'll call Bob Reed hasn't lived in his house since his son tried to kiln-dry the upstairs by tossing a blanket onto a space heater while sleeping.
"Didn't they have insurance?" you just asked.
Yes, they did. But when you buy a van and drink like you were born in a brewery, you ain't got much left over for the fixin o' the house.
The city cuts the grass, and we neighbors threw out a lot of his junk. I found out last week that the city has a warrant out for him. Needless to say, we've been Reed-free since '03.

Unfortunately we haven't been rodent free, so I put out the poison.
About 5 months ago I found out that some Raccoons had taken up residence in the sofets of the house. Raccoons = not fun to tangle with, as they tend to fight back, unlike the 9 opossums (ia?) that I've Louisville sluggered into the afterlife. Being a member of the bear family, coons can run fast, see at night (a distinct advantage to me after 6beers), and climb on the roof (very difficult after 6beers).
Well, after chasing and harassing them with a bat for a few months, I'd had it. Last week there were two coons in the tree climbing down. One of them was on the ground running by the time I grabbed a piece of wood from the pile to make chase, with the other descending more slowly. It stopped with its hind legs on the tree and fore limbs on the top of the wooden fence.
I was fired up and ready to beat the hell out of this coon,but when I was about five feet away, for some odd reason I looked at the piece of wood I had grabbed as a weapon. My dumb ass had snagged not the 18" long piece I had thought, but a 12" piece, which meant some of the blood shed would be mine. So instead of a club, it became a projectile hurled as hard as I could from five feet away, basically blasting the coon from its moorings and landing it in the middle of Bob's yard.
I heard a crack, and the animal make a sound that I'm sure was, "What the ever-loving fuck did I ever do to you, you fucking asshole" in coon-ese.
I haven't seen 'em since, which is a good thing, since my cousin loaned me a pellet gun that was made originally for the Bay of Pigs landing and has more steps to loading it than a flintlock. A coon would have to have a smoke and a beer and wait to get shot.