It's easy- you just don't lead 'em so much

I got my first confirmed raccoon kill last night. It was in the crotch of the elm tree, and when I turned the flashlight on him, he turned as he got inquisitive and sat there looking at me.
You know how their eyes glow when the light is shined on them? Well, they make great targets. He fell like a turkey dropped from a helicopter onto the ground, bleeding from the head. Anyone want a coon-skin cap?
I don't think I'm going to have anymore raccoon troubles.
"Where's Rocky?" "He ain't commin'."
So to recap, that's 18 oppossum, and 1 raccoon. I'm fine with nature as long as it doesn't come near the house.

I'm not dead, just boring

Things have slowed down enough in the war department for me to send this telegram:

John Raymond thinks I want to move back to Charlotte. He's even said that there's a job offer and that all I need to do is shoot him a number.
Alright, John, here's your number: 140. That's my current bowling average. If I move to Atlanta Junior, I won't be able to drink, I mean, bowl almost every Saturday with someone who is just as pathetic of an excuse to call a bowler as I.

The next thing I'm sure he'll try to do is hook me up with someone as a draw to get me down there. Just because there's 480 miles between the Ville and his la-la land doesn't mean that the women are any more logical, or less of emotional train wrecks.

Maybe it's just the idea of living back in the town with no identity, and maybe it's the idea that I have a ton of family in the Ville that is keeping me here, or maybe it's the fact that I'll be forty this year and my giveadamner is broken. Whatever it is, I'm having a hard time seeing myself move (again)to Charlotte (again).

It would be great to be near the Yankee again, re-hashing stories that were absurdly boring and mostly retarded the first time they were told, and getting to see his kids on a regular basis, but that would be six or seven people I would be around versus leaving my brothers, not to mention the Pot Belly Republic, behind. Not to mention eating over at the Wolf's house.

I heard that the Corpsman was moving to North Carolina, but if you put that in the positives, I would have to argue. Have you smelled that man?

Oh well, I'll run some numbers and see what's up.

Kein Feugo Last Night

It was too cold for me to efficiently work in the yard, so I spent most of yesterday deciding if I was going to stop watching HBO long enough to make some raisin-black walnut cookies. Around 5PM I decided I would. Then, I realized I had no eggs. Not because I'm male, but because I up and forgot to get the mother fuckers while I was at the store getting everything else.
Instead of plopping my ass back in the chair, I decided to cut most of the wood I had in the basement, which is an excellent way to have firewood and listen to Bryson.
After several hours, I thought I'd catch the last episode of "Boardwalk Empire," as I rarely catch shows when they're first on due to people being over and having a fire.
I look at my watch, and it's 10:30. Boardwalk came on at ten. Well, shit. Back downstairs it is. I cut enough to make it pretty damn warm tonight.

In a separate note: This would be the best fishing boat ever. I want it.

Fuck Indiana. I mean it. And while I'm at it, fuck east enders too.

One of the bridges going from the Ville to Indiana is closed for repairs, which means that an extra 40 thousand cars get directed over the two. I65 (the best thing to come out of Indiana that didn't have Hefner staples across her midsection)is always backed up now, and so local traffic generally goes over the 2nd street bridge.
My co-worker and I decided to eat lunch at Famous Dave's Barbecue in Indiana instead of driving all the way out to Hurstborne Lane (remember that fun drive, Ted?) because it would take too long.
Long story short, on the way back, the traffic to even the 2nd street bridge was way backed up. Figuring that is was only temporary, I stayed in the lane I was in instead of getting back on to the slow ass 65.
We stayed in the same lane.
10 minutes went by.
20 minutes went by.
30 minutes went by.
Co-worker check his traffic app. Fatality wreck on the 2nd street bridge. Shit (yes I am selfish. Sorry for the departed's luck, but at this point it has been over thirty minutes since I ate. Trouble is soon to brew in the Kaiser's south end).
The bridge was closed, but expected to be open by three PM. Not bad, that's only an hour.
3PM rolls around, and an update on the bridge. Now hoping to have it open by four. Shit.
We got to an area where I could turn off the street, and then drove to a drug store where I was able to say goodbye to breakfast and what seemed like a gallon of urine.
I spent the next half-hour sitting in the parking lot having some water, eating goldfish crackers and staring at the non-moving traffic.

We returned to the office around five. Longest lunch break I've taken.

Found out today that the driver of a truck had a seizure, crossed the double yellow and plowed head-on into a car. Everyone had to be cut from their vehicles, and the driver of the car was pronounced dead at the scene.

If the fucking east ender's hadn't fought for the last ten years a road plan that was in place in 19 fucking 65, we would've had another bridge and much of the traffic wouldn't even need to go through downtown. That's what big money does; it purchases other peoples' lives.

It's alive! (unlike most of Ted's patients)

So, these last two days have had the coldest two evenings so far for which I have had a fire.
As the stove warms up, you can tell how hot the stove is getting do its voice. While warming, the stove tink-tink-tinks rather quickly. As it cools, the tinks are a slightly lower pitch, and occur less quickly. This is how I determine when to load in more wood, even if the outdoor heater is full of flame, because I don't want to have to react to the fire, I want it to do my bidding.
Last night I was drinking some beer, watching the first season of Northern Exposure, and generally trying to heat the outside when the urge hit. No, not to masturbate, but to drop the kids off at the pool. From the pain that struck, it was going to be less of a gentle wave good-bye than it was going to be an evacuation of everything from my neck to my belly button.
Due to the fact that there are some things even I won't do from my back porch, inside I went to begin my calisthenic movement (didn't Brahms compose that?). Twenty minutes later, I returned to the porch to find the fire almost out. I threw a couple of smaller pieces of ash in to get the flame up and prepare the stove for serious flamage. One piece rolled off to the right side and caught fire almost immediately. I went to the fridge to re-beer, and from inside the kitchen I heard a loud TUNK, followed a couple seconds later by TUNK-TUNK. Holy shit, what the fuck?
It turns out that the stove, while heating on one side, was still cooling on the other, and the temperature change had caused the stove to expand on one side, but contract on the other, and the stove shifted, or "walked" to the right.
"Oh shit! I have to move it back or it will separate from the flue!"

I knelt down and grabbed the legs of the stove in order to drag it back to the original spot. Did you know that even the legs of the stove get pretty hot?
You do now, and so do my missing fingerprints.

Hmm...

nothing of any importance happened yesterday. Today doesn't look too different.

Had a guffaw

This Amish guy sees a man in a tie drinking from his farm pond. He walks up to the guy and says in German, "Don't drink from the pond; horses and cattle shit in it."

The man wearing the tie stands up and says,"Buddy, I'm a Tea-partier and an American. I speak english. Now what did you say?"

The Amish man clears his throat and says in broken english, "Use both hands; you'll drink faster."

The reports of my demise have been greatly intoxicated

My seasonal passtime of splitting wood for the republic is now a second job, so I haven't had much time to do anything other than work and beat up on the Seawolf at the bowling alley.
Speaking of which, Wolf's son turned 21 last week, so we have an extra drunk at the PBR. We will need to change his title, as he hasn't cut my grass in a while, and is no longer a DD. You know what else he hasn't done? Bowl well. Like father, like son I guess.

In other news: I have to report to the courthouse on Thursday for jury duty for the federal 9th circuit court. Hopefully they don't dig too deep into my past, or I'll find myself on the other side of the railing in the courtroom.
I knew I held onto my "Cop Killer" t-shirt for a reason.

fucking jackass

This has been eating at me more and more.
There were plenty of open spots.

and the hits just keep on coming

From Reddit. Fucking so funny it's not really

150th Anniversary

Today, one hundred and fifty years ago, the Union army got its Manassas kicked by the confederates.

let the bloodbath begin...

Dear world; I fucking hate him too

Mitch Mcconnell has always been a right wing idealogue. He got Goldwater to come and campaign in Louisville when Mitchy was in college for Christ's sake.
I have been voting against him since I got my voter card.
Please don't blame me for my state's least favourite son.

An oldie but a real goodie

Several years ago the owner of the company wanted me to draft a letter to UPS since I was, as he put it, "A lot better at showing anger than I am."
I found this on a jump drive I was cleaning out. I believe he actually signed it and mailed it.
Enjoy.

Dear Mr. DooDoo head,

A couple of months ago I shipped over 200 boxes of college texts from Nashville to Louisville using your company. Upon receipt of the shipment, the count was 31 boxes short. We waited an extra day, thinking that maybe they would show, seeing that you guys are a bit busy. The boxes didn’t come in, and we started the claims process.
After jumping through all the hoops that entailed, I waited for the check that would make amends for the situation. What I received was startlingly appalling. I received $158.13 for 31 boxes of books.
Not only is that pathetic, but do you expect me to believe that you think college books are cheap? Try to stay with me here as I do some math for you, as I’m sure this can be used as educational materials for your claims department. 158.13 divided (that’s the minus sign with a dot above and below it) by 31 equals 5.10. $5.10 cents a box of college textbooks? Seriously now. A FIVER AND A DIME PER BOX? That’s not only an idiotic notion, it’s criminally negligent. You can barely buy two college texts for $158.13. The people that work for you went to college, didn’t they, or do you try to fill your diversity quota with numerically challenged dolts right out of kindergarten?
Now, I know that you’re going to cower behind the “you didn’t get the insurance” clause of the bill of lading, which, by the way, is in so small a print that I wouldn’t be able to read if I were carrying the Hubble telescope, but $158.13 for 31 boxes?
I’m not asking for the world here (which you seem to offer in the commercials), but I’m also not looking to take it in the pooper. It would cost me almost cost me $158.13 to ship 31 boxes. Is that what you’re refunding me?
If you look at the number of 31 boxes, it seems to me that they would constitute one pallet. Are you guys in the habit of losing pallets of books? Aren’t they kind of easy to spot, being on top of those wooden things? If the books were damaged, I’d like to see pictures of the monkeys you hired trying to read those big words inside. At least then I could laugh instead of practice my sailor’s vocabulary every time I think of your company.
As UPS is a large company, I would appreciate it if you would send me some dice. If the planets align and they make it to me, I could at least roll the official UPS dice every time I ship something, seeing as it’s a gamble anyway.
I realize that your company had an earnings dip this last quarter, but do you think that stealing from honest customers is the way to boost your numbers? I’d hate to think that a company that can ship a killer whale would have to resort to selling books on-line in order to stay in the black.
You might want to change your ads to read, “What can brown do TO you,” seeing that if you don’t get the “buy up” option on shipping, you’re screwed if something goes wrong. All I wanted was my books, but instead you gave me the shaft.


Sincerely,
Lick My Balls Motherfucker

Me thinks that someone isn't

The other day I went to the local Kroger on an empty stomach, which is the worst no-no to do next to asking a jewish settler if he can make the fire bigger. I came for five items, but while strolling through the deli, I saw packages of the different sliced meats, with packages of sliced cheese above them. Seeing these I decided that a reuben was in my future. Snag a loaf of pumpernickel and I'm on my way.
I get the package home, tear into the mother fucker, and make a sandwich. Not a true reuben as I did not cook it, but my belly didn't know the difference.
As I was putting the lid back on the container, I noticed that there were instructions on the underside of the lable that was stuck to the lid. There was an ingredient list, and below that there were instructions. Fucking instructioins on how to make a fucking sandwich. I shit you not.
So, this jolts two questions immediately:
1) Why the fuck aren't the ingredients on the outside of the package somewhere? I'm sure there are people out there who haven't had a reuben that, if offered, may try one if they knew what the fuck was on it.
2) Who the fuck needs instructions on how to make a fucking sandwich? Aren't all sandwiches pretty much the fucking same? Some form of meat- check. All the other shit that makes this sandwich unique- check. Cheese on top- check.

What is a person supposed to do? open every package to see what kind of sandwich to make? Are the instructions there in case someone buys a package of sliced corn beef gets it home, and while making their usual corned beef and banana sandwich they see them and decide to go back to the store for pumpernickel and kraut?

Fucking jackasses.

Riots in Vancouver?

That's just Canadians acting like, well, canadians.

Since we're on 70's TV shows...

Barney, divorce is like a horse with a broken leg. You can shoot the horse, but that don't fix the leg.

Where'd I put my rubber chicken?

...but know this. You can cut me off from the civlised world. You can incarcerate me with two moronic cellmates. You can torture me with your thrice daily swill, but you cannot break the spirit of a Winchester. My voice shall be heard from this wilderness and I shall be delivered from this fetid an festering sewer.

Just because I like the picture

Well, OK then

This morning right after I came into the office the phone rang.
"Shinkledick Publishing, Andy speaking."
"Do you all do music publishing?"
"No sir, we don't."
"Do you know anyone who does, other than the music union?(whatever the fuck that is)"
"No I don't. This is only the second request I've had for that"
"Hmpf. YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!"
"No sir. If I were kidding, I would say something like, 'what would you do with an elephant with three balls? You walk him and pitch to the rhino.' "
"HMPF *pause* FUCK YOU. GOD DAMNIT. FUCK YOU." He hung up the phone

This, um, gentleman has two obvious problems:
1)He's suffering from HIAS.
2)He has no sense of humor.

Whoever it was, I have to thank him for a good morning laugh.