Let's hear it for the PBRHAYCBC!

Everyone that doesn't live in the Ville needs to come to the Ville for the first annual Pot Belly Republic Have A Y Chromosome Bowling Championships. All you need to bring is yourself, a bowling ball if you have one, and beer money. Food will be provided.

Time and date to be announced.

Well, you're going to see that

I saw the new movie Sherlock Holmes last night, and the one really good thing I can say is that we had a fire on the porch while watching it. It wasn't the fact that the characters were barely recognizable from the stories, or the over-reliance on action to carry a poor story line. The giant iceberg that sinks this movie is the poor dialogue. Whoever wrote this movie was in no way familiar with 19th century British English.
Now, I don't know about you, but one of the greatest features of the cannon is the manner in which everyone speaks. The movie really needed someone to go through the script and change most of the dialogue. Watson's humor is not pawky, and Holmes's remarks are not as pointed or snide as they needed to be.
Don't get me started on the love fest between Sherlock and Irene. And they gave the Bobbies guns.

If I didn't know anything about the characters or background, it would have been a good movie, but as it stands, thhhhhppp!

Some of the lines I heard this week

You gotta love community colleges- they're just so different from traditional research universities. The students are even more so.

Some things I overheard this week (so far):

What's a personal check?

Dat pack be for English class?

I was in da street and day tried to hit me with they car.

I had a fake ID, but it expired.

Them: How much will that cost?

Me: I don't know, and won't know until I finally hear back from the publisher.

Them: When will that be?

Me: I don't know. I've been waiting for three weeks on one article.

Them: But the professor said I could get this at [store name].

Me: And you will, after I hear from the publisher. Your professor has been notified about this.

Them: So you don't know how much it's going to be? Not even an estimate?

Me: I don't give estimates. I give exact prices after I hear back from publishers.

Them: What should I tell my professor?

Me: Tell him to check his voicemail.

Sharp as a:

I think you're missing the mark here, fellah

I was watching a show on the History Channel last night (don't worry John- I still put in a twelve hour day) called 2010. This show started with the condition of our planet now, and extrapolated from there the condition of the planet in five year increments based upon calculations of population growth, deforestation, political climate, etc.

It was neat and all, and I liked how they made it more personal (intended) by focusing on one imaginary individual and how she would be forced to live as the planet changed. About my third beer into the show it struck me that the History Channel is now apparently the future channel. Either that, or someone flipped the wrong switch and sent the National Geographic channel feed to the history channel, a flop I'm sure flummoxed the NGC viewers who, I'm very sure, were wondering why Hitler or Nostradamus had appeared on their screens when they were expecting an exciting tale of how Gnus are milked in the Andes.

Stick to your purpose, History Channel! 15 years from now you can tell us how we fucked the planet. Thus the word "history." It's right there in your title. Besides, I'm watching you on a TV that is powered by electricity coming from a coal-burning generator plant. So if it weren't for me adding to my carbon footprint, I wouldn't know that I had a carbon foot print. Quite the conundrum, isn't it?

Let's see, 10% of nothing is, well, let me carry the 10

Our fucking printers are down. The mighty Casey has struck out. I get to make a phone call tomorry. It should be a doosiey.

I'm getting ready to take a crowbar to one of them, and spray athother one out with a garden hose. "Oh, does water fuck up your electronics? You should've thought about that before you decided to start putting streaks on the fucking paper, mother fucker."

You fucking printers don't get it, do you? Take a lesson from my laptop. It may be able to beat me at chess, but it's no match for me in kick-boxing, you bitches!

Please God, don't let there be any pedestrians on the road when I leave.

It's less of a resolution as it is a wish list.

I hope I'm not arrested for vehicular manslaughter.
Please don't let me punch a professor.
I would like to not answer the woodstove when my phone rings.
Throw in some nookie, and it's a deal.

that's about it.

Quiet please for the movie

Getting pretty hectic at work with the onset of the new semester and all. I think I'm going to write down a lot of the shit that goes down at the end of the day at home and then transfer it to the blog as I have more time at eleven PM than I do right now.

It's getting fun.

in other news:
I went bowling after work yesterday, then came back and boxed a coworker on the Wii. I now know how Brittany Murphy died of cardiac arrest.

Nobel, schnobel

I listened to O'Bama's speech to the Nobel committee, and holy cow. I liked it. Not only was it delivered well, but it pretty well laid everything out. If you get an opportunity and 36 minutes, it's a good listen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSaoLPXjmyM&feature=related

It's your life dude, you decide

I almost sent a bicyclist to one of Ted's local contemporaries today.

You see, we have bicycle lanes on our one-way streets here in the Ville, and it's great. Them bastards can have their lane, and I can have mine. Well, one rider apparently got "left foot on red" while playing traffic twister today and came out of the bike lane and started riding in the car lane. This I could not abide and started riding his ass. It was at this time that Mr. "I have a force field around my bike" flipped me off. WRONG MOVE!

I got around him and rode (mostly) in the lane next to him, easing him over ever so gently at 20mph. I kept getting the bird, and he kept getting pushed back into the bike lane.

I stopped at the next intersection for the red light. He flipped me off again and busted the light.

They wonder why there's no love for them.

Hoosiers, can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em

I almost had a cement truck jammed up my tailpipe due to a stupid hoosier in traffic. Now that they're actually trying to have me killed, I must quote Doc Holliday from Tombstone. "That's it darlin' I really hate him."

what an awsome weekend to go to the lake, drink, and fish

Wait a minute...HEY, THOMAS-

I wish I were three again so I could get away with this shit

My uncle died last week, and the viewing was this last Sunday.
Little Johnny was running around, so I picked him up and walked toward the open casket. I asked him if he knew who was in the casket, and Johnny smiled, pointed at the crucifix and loudly stated, "I see Jesus!" He then pointed down at my uncle, and in the same loud voice said, "and he's dead!"
I buried my face in his jacket so people couldn't see me laughing, and then walked outside and proceeded to laugh so hard I heeped.

Uncle funeral part deux:
I was one of the pall bearers on Monday along with my brothers Darrell and three of my cousins. After the service at the Funeral home at the part where everyone walks past the open casket to either say goodbye or fuck you, each one of my uncle's grand kids put a golf ball in the box so he could play a round when he gets to Valhalla. Well, they migrated to the space under the bunting when the funeral guys moved the casket onto the box gurney, so that when we picked it up to take ole unc on his last car ride they decided to move.
Now, when I say three of my cousins along with the Darrells, you have to understand that my cousins are 6'5", 6'1" and 6'6", and my brothers are 5'7" and 5'5", so there was really no parity that would allow for evenly lifting or moving the casket, so as we made the way down the steps everyone could hear the brbrbrbbrbbrbrbrbrb of the golf balls rolling around in the metal box.

At the cemetery I decided to have some fun. I made sure that I was on the lower back corner, and as we walked, I gently lifted and lowered the casket so that there was a constant brbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbr of the balls rolling front to back and side to side.

You should have seen everyone that knew about the balls trying to cover their smiles.

I love me.

Fuck you Arlene, and fuck Santa Claus too!

AS IF WE WEREN'T COOL ENOUGH ALREADY

Cousin Luke and I have decided that because we know we're going to lose our bees in the spring do to a lack of stores and no queen, we're going to make a still for personal use.

We have the skills.
We have the fuel.
We have a cooperage nearby.

Now, obviously we can't sell the stuff, but I'm sure there'll be enough to go around.

IT DOESN'T GET SPIT INTO THE STOVE, ASSHOLES.

hell yeah

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20Of_mna-Rs

God I love this shit

I have a confession to make: I read the advice column in the Curious Urinal. They make my life seem normal, and I thank them.

This morning's had a bit of a twist. The headline reads "Beau Abhors Fiancee's Career" which could be about anyone, anywhere. Perhaps her job keeps at work too late. Perhaps there are guys at her workplace hitting on her and making rude suggestions. Perhaps both.

Let's get to the good stuff.

"I am currently engaged to an exotic dancer, and we recently found out she is pregnant. Times are tough right now, and this is the problem: I was laid off but receive unemployment while I search for a new job. My fiancee recently told me that she wants to dance more and in different venues to gain the much needed money."

You have to admit that this guy has shat and fallen back in it.

Since when was stripping a career?

FUEGO!!!

I reattached the flue last night, and test fired the heart of the Pot Belly Republic.
A note to the gentle readers to sweep off the top of any stove after a construction project before making the inside of it hot. I found out what 50 years of roof crud smell like when it burns.

Duraroc needs to go up over the stove, as I did start to smell the OSB off-gassing (or was it me?) as the fire heated up.

Seven beers and one Shawshank Redemption later, I let the fire die down.
I only burned myself once, and the hair that grew back on my hand while I was on vacation is now burned off.
Everything is normal. Well, as normal as I'll let it get.

For all those playing "how's andy hurt- the home game"

As I was putting the last layer of tar over some nail heads, it started to drizzle, but I don't care. The fucking job is done.

I used all three rolls of shingle, and one of roofing felt. 500 nails, 8 pieces of plywood, and 6 2x4s later, it's done.

Injury report:

two knuckles hit with the hammer, a gigantic bruise on me leg from when the plywood fell on my thigh, one inadvertent head-butt of a 2x4, and three cut fingers, the last of which occurred when I was finished with the job and was taking tools off the roof (machined metal is sharp). This is beside the fact that I put my leg up to the knee through the roof while stripping the rotted parts.

Note to those out there unaccustomed to work- don't use fingernail brush on finger with busted skin from a hammer blow. Ouch.

You all should have been here. The level of profanity alone would have been worth the trip.

Hey Dipshit- Where do you work again

I was reading about the test flight of the Ares X1 rocket today. The interviews were about some of the hassles of stacking a rocket that's 327 feet tall, and how they had to find ways to transport large sections from all over the country. Then I got to the last line of the interview, where a NASA OFFICIAL said, and this pains me, "It's really unprecedented for NASA, building a rocket this big."

Except for the ten year long Saturn project that launched 12 Saturn Vs, each of which stood 363 feet tall, and weighed over 6 million pounds.
DOH!

You work at NASA, right? Did they hire you last week right out of Lived Under a Rock University?
I'm pretty sure that if I worked for an agency or company that was responsible for mankind's crowning achievement, I'd kinda tuck that into my "don't forget me" folder.

But that's just me.

bickety-bam, the motherfucker's rubble

The slumlord came into the store today, and by happenstance we got onto the topic of t-shirts. He told me of a place here locally to get shirts for the PBR. This shall be done next week while I'm on vacation.
Speaking of that, I may not be electronically available for a while unless I head over to the Wolf's.

I'm sure there will be some interesting stories about next week, as I'm replacing the roof over the back porch and downstairs bathroom. No-0ne can hurt andy the way andy can hurt andy.

In other news:
If the bitch seems a little off her rocker on the first date, run away. I had a nice loud "conversation" over the phone today. I don't think I've used the phrase "clingy, controlling bitch" in a while. It was good to dust that one off.

You don't know her, and I haven't spoken of her before, as I wanted to see where this one was going before mentioning anything. Turns out it went right into the toilet.
Who doesn't like strip clubs?
She don't.

Gouge out my eyes!

I went to k and wal marts last night searching for t-shirts that I can get screen printed for the PBR. All I could find was pocketed tees.
Look around this corner- BAM! There was a pack of underwear with a model on the front with his fucking junk sticking so far out that it almost poked me in the face.
On the other side of the display- BAM! A pack of banana hammoks that had a picture of a white and a black guy on it. I didn't even know that fruit of the loom was into mixed race underwear fetishes.
Everywhere I looked were packages of guys packages. Why were they all at my eye level?
Calgon take me away!