Happy 2006!

Happy New Year!

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Home Invasion

I've mentioned previously that My Wife's Brother and His New Wife were coming to stay at our house while on their way to Washington state, right? They're moving and so they had their dog with them. The Brother-In-Law's Wife is from South Georgia and is rather young, immature, irresponsible, and self-centered. She has a full-sized Labrador retriever which she dotes on and even sleeps with. He is a very large Labrador and has the standard Lab personality. He likes to go outside and run, retrieving anything you throw, or if you don't throw something then he'll just go get something and bring it to you in hopes that you might throw it for him.

Brother-In-Law's Wife, whom I shall call Lulu for no particular reason other than that the Dukes of Hazzard is on and Lulu is a fat woman from Georgia on the show, has become fairly accustomed to the idea that she can always get her way when dealing with My Wife's family. She even railroads my Mother-In-Law as she pleases, which drives the Mother-In-Law nuts and which then inspires the Mother-In-Law to phone My Wife and complain about it at great length. I wrote about this previously.

In years past Mother-In-Law has fought with us in an attempt to railroad us into letting her bring her own Labrador to our house, bring him inside our house, and sleep with him in our guest bed. This dog, nice as he is, has ruined her own house. There is dog hair everywhere and in everything. When she washes anything there is so much dog hair in the washer that a clean shirt fresh from the store comes out of the washer covered in dog hair. My Wife and Brother-In-Law once tried to clean her house while she was in the hospital only to vacuum up 3 full bags of dog hair, and still it wasn't all up from the carpet, let alone the beds and couches and chairs inside the house. They cleaned the house for days trying to make it sanitary for her return, but the effects of having the dog living inside the house were too much. She lives in a dog house now and it will likely never be clean again.

Each year Mother-In-Law has fought to bring her dog inside our house. Each year we have told her that it is not possible for us to allow a dog inside our house for various reasons which she already knows, but still she fights us. She even admitted that if we let her bring the dog at all she will agree to leave him outside in our backyard, but as soon as our back is turned she intends to bring him inside the house and into our bed. To me this is incredibly disrespectful and shows a very revealing and enlightening glimpse into her true feelings towards us that she would be so rude and unreasonable about our rules for our own home.

Let me give you even more background on this, just in case you are riveted and begging for even more information. When I was still only dating My Wife I went to visit her family in Georgia. The Mother-In-Law's dog was at that time the Brother-In-Law's dog, which he had rescued as a puppy from being drowned at a local park near Atlanta. The Mother-In-Law initially did not want a dog inside her house for the very same reasons that most people don't. But Her Son, my future Brother-In-Law, was insistent and eventually wore her down. So the dog came to live inside the house more and more often.

She was divorced from their father and dating a man at the time. This man was very neat and clean and kept a perfect house for himself. He had made it clear that they were welcomed to come over to his house, but that the dog was not permitted inside because he has white carpet and no pets and does not want any animals of any kind inside his home.

At one point My future Wife, future Brother-In-Law, and I had to stop over at his house to pick up something he had very kindly made for their mother. When he went downstairs into his basement to get it for us my future Brother-In-Law brought the dog into the house. I have no idea why he did this. There was no reason for it. The dog immediately ran down the hall, sniffing everything and exploring. He also tracked red Georgia clay all through the living room and all the way down the hall. This was no surprise to anyone, as we were all in Georgia and red Georgia clay is what your dog is walking on while he's outside. Any fool could see this coming.

The future Brother-In-Law and future Wife ran to the bathroom and got his handtowels and face rags and we all tried furiously to scrub the stains out of the carpet before he came upstairs again. We were mostly successful, but not entirely. So, for no particular reason, we had just ruined this man's white carpet despite his very clearly stated rule that the dog was not allowed inside his home.

You might think this lesson would stick with an intelligent person, and My Wife's family are almost all highly intelligent.

Fast forward to today and that dog is now the Mother-In-Law's dog and the Brother-In-Law has since adopted a new dog, another Labrador, but much larger than this first one. He is in the military and has been living in the extreme Northeast, where he quickly learned that lesbianism, radical feminism, and Berkenstockism is highly common, but not nearly as sexy or attractive as they make it appear on television. So he not only did not date while stationed up North, he did not even associate with many of the girls up there. He was repulsed by most of them and not overly thrilled with the rest. At one point he met a friend of a friend, a Georgia girl living at the extreme Southern end of the state, and he had a whirlwind relationship before marrying her.

He bought her a house near her family in South Georgia before returning to base up North and going out to sea for several months. He returned to find that she had adopted his dog as her baby, projecting all of her worst insecurities into him, and spending all of her time hand feeding him inside the house, but never ever cleaning anything. The house is filthy and the dog is stir-crazy. New Wife, meanwhile, has memorized the In-Laws phone numbers and spent a great deal of her spare time calling up the women and talking their heads off.

Brother-In-Law then gets transferred to Washington State. Dog, Wife, and contents of house must all be moved. Meanwhile, Mother-In-Law, despite her protests to us that she can't get a word in edgewise during frequent phone conversations with this chubby bleach-blonde dog-spoiler, has been talking to her about the coming move and coming overnight stay at my dog-free home. She has not only agreed with Lulu that we are totally unreasonable in not allowing the dog inside our house, but even gone further and convinced her that we really should be giving the dog his own room!

Yes, the Mother-In-Law and the Brother-In-Law's new wife Lulu, have decided that I am a bastard because I am not going to set up a room in my house just for the fucking dog. And now, having found someone to reinforce her feelings of entitlement regarding the dog, Lulu is in a rage before she has even packed her ass into the truck to head our way.

Keep in mind that my house isn't large. As it is Lulu herself was going to be sleeping in the guest bedroom in our guest bed, which is a twin, and the Brother-In-Law was going to be on the couch in the living room, because that is all we have. The only other rooms are the master bedroom, where My Wife and I sleep, and the office, which is so packed with bookshelves and computer equipment that no large dog could even fit, let alone find room to get comfortable for a night's sleep. In addition, we have two cats who sleep inside our home and who would not sleep at all with the dog inside because they would be running for the door to get out. Cats, it is worth noting, are substantially cleaner than very large Labrador retrievers, especially after the Lab has played fetch in our muddy yard.

And most importantly of all is the simple fact that we had already made it clear over and over again that no dog is permitted inside our home, which in and of itself would be the end of this whole thing were we dealing with any decent person.

My Wife, during all of this, was overjoyed that Her Brother, with whom she has always been closer than she is to any other member of her family, was coming to spend time with her after having been gone and virtually unreachable for years and years. She worked frantically to prepare our house for both him and his young, immature, insecure, pushy wife. My Wife had to work massive overtime hours in order to get time off from her work so she could spend the day with Her Brother, whom she loves very much. Even though she was exhausted from all the sacrifice in preparing for him, she still paced excitedly all day long waiting for him to arrive.

When he finally did arrive on Wednesday night he was friendly and happy to see His Sister. The dog was happy to finally be getting out of the truck and went with me into our backyard where he immediately grabbed a huge piece of firewood and dropped it on my foot for me to throw for him. I played fetch with him for about half an hour before noticing that he had no food or water. I took the top to our birdbath and laid it flat next to the faucet and filled it for him. He laid down and buried his head in the water while he drank. He was dying of thirst and exhausted. I went inside. Lulu, I had already noticed before taking the dog out back, got out of the truck with a frown on her face, her fists clenched and her feet wide apart as if preparing for a Sumo wrestling competition. She carried nothing into the house, leaving it all to the rest of us to take care of while she stomped inside and huffed and puffed around, clenching and unclenching her fists in an obvious rage.

Welcome to our house. What is your fucking problem?

After I played with the dog and gave him water I went inside. The Brother-In-Law and My Wife were happily talking to each other. Lulu was stomping around, only speaking when she thought up some complaint about how the dog was miserable and going to die outside. I mentioned that he needed water and food, but Lulu insisted that he was too upset to eat. I told her that I had given him water using the top of our birdbath and our faucet thinking this would reassure her that despite her unwillingness to get off her ass and go take care of her dog I had done it for her. In response to the news that I had given him fresh water she said, "well, he hates dirty water, but I guess he'll drink it if he's thirsty enough."

"It isn't dirty. It's fresh from the tap. Why don't you get his water dish if you're worried about it?" Lulu ignored me as this would require her to go outside and carry a burdensome plastic dish to her dog, her baby, the love of her life, and she wasn't really all that interested in doing that. It was just too much trouble. Besides, it was so much easier to make excuses by claiming that the dog was too upset to eat or drink, despite the fact that his head was still in my birdbath guzzling the water as fast as he could even as we spoke.

After I had played with The Dog and given him water the Brother-In-Law went out and played with him, too. He made sure the dog was fine and came back in to see His Sister. At no time did Lulu go out and take care of her precious baby, her bed buddy, her doggie whom she claims to love so much.

The dog, now alone, dropped the log he had been fetching at the back door and scratched at the glass, whining for someone to come play with him. I once owned a Labrador myself. From what I remember of my own dog and from playing with Mother-In-Law's dog I theorized that while the dog could see us inside he would feel left out and want us to come play. But if he couldn't see us he would entertain himself, smelling all the strange scents that fill our animal-infested backyard and sniffing the air for other dogs in the area. So I closed the blinds. After a few minutes he stopped whining and went off to explore the rest of the yard. He was fine.

This did not sit well with Lulu, the angry beast from Peroxide, Georgia. She violently threw back the blinds as soon as she noticed them closed and tapped on the glass to attract the attention of the dog. He ran over from what he was doing and whined for her to come out and play with him. But she had no interest in doing this at all. Instead she returned to pacing back and forth in front of the dog, clenching and unclenching her fists as she stomped her feet. She mumbled about how unhappy she had just made him, but of course she didn't word it quite that way. She indicated that he was unhappy because he was outside, not because she was teasing him like a bitch willing to torment her own 'baby' in order to get her way at all costs. Apparently she thought we were all retarded morons who couldn't see clearly how she was stirring him up. It angered her that her high school girl tricks weren't working and she still hadn't gotten her way.

So Lulu went into the kitchen to see if she could ruin My Wife and Brother-In-Law's reunion. She succeeded marvelously, driving him from the kitchen with grunts and scowls. He was clearly agitated, but not willing to stand up to her. "Why can't we just get along," he asked very quietly as he walked out. He went outside and entertained the dog some more, leaving his bitch inside with My Wife and I. Then the fun started.

"This is going to go on all night, you know," Lulu blurted, intending to refer to the whining of the dog at the back door.

"Well I'm not going to put up with it, just so you know," My Wife responded, referring to Lulu's insulting and disrespectful behavior in our home.

"Well we may just have to go stay in a motel then. They take dogs, you know," Lulu threatened incorrectly.

"Then maybe you should do that," My Wife replied, no longer willing to keep quiet and put up with the tantrum-throwing pig that had invaded our home.

Brother-In-Law then returned to the kitchen, where His Bitch happily informed him that this simply wasn't going to work because the dog was obviously so unhappy and they would have to go find a motel. It was 11 p.m. and we live a Little Redneck Town with 3 motels, 1 of which even the dog wouldn't feel safe in. Brother-In-Law, as nonconfrontational with His Bitch and His Mother as My Wife is with Her Mother and Her Father, agreed to her demands. We all, except Lulu, carried all of their things straight back to their truck and repacked it. Brother-In-Law silently began to cry as he got back into his truck after having done all of the packing and all of the driving by himself, and started up the engine. Lulu, seeing his tears, smiled for the first and only time since arriving at our home. I put the dog back into their truck. Then Lulu plopped her generously large and indolent ass back into the passenger's seat and slammed the door. My Wife then turned her back to the truck and burst into tears. I put my arms around her and held her. As I watched Brother-In-Law, The Dog, and The Bitch driving off to find out that our motels do not, in fact, permit dogs, I swore that while The Dog might be welcomed to return to our home, The Bitch was not.

My Wife cried huge, agonizing tears that night. Every message she had tried to send to Her Brother since he married The Bitch had been intercepted and heavily edited by her. The Mother-In-Law, the Grandmother, and other members of their family, had all complained to one another that they could not reach him since the day he married that lazy pig of a girl. "Now," My Wife cried, "My Brother is gone forever. I'll never get to see him again so long as he's married to that BITCH! She is SUCH A BITCH! I HATE HER!" My Wife was absolutely inconsolable. All her sacrifice and all her joy had been sabotaged by The Bitch.

Worst of all is the fact that The Mother-In-Law had helped create this nightmare, agreeing with The Bitch and even suggesting the idea that we were somehow obligated to give The Dog his very own room inside our house, as she has done for Her Dog, egging Lulu on and throwing gasoline on the fire. But pointing this noteworthy fact out to My Wife would be a waste of time, I already knew. So I just held her and let her cry.

I finally convinced My Wife to call Her Brother's cell phone and ask him if he and she could eat breakfast together tomorrow morning, just the two of them. He agreed that this was a good idea and so they made a date to spend time alone together.

2 hours later at about 1 a.m. the phone rang again. It was The Bitch. "I don't feel comfortable with this breakfast thing. I'm afraid you're both going to talk about me," she whined shrilly to My Wife.

I thought it darkly revealing that she was as paranoid of her own husband as she was of My Wife.

"This has nothing to do with you," My Wife hissed back. "I want to see My Brother."

"Well, I'm not comfortable with that. You'll both talk about me. You'll say things about me. I'm just not comfortable with that."

My Wife was fuming now. "Why do you think everything is about you? This isn't about you. I want to see My Brother, but you won't let him talk. You won't let anyone talk to him even on the phone. You're always in the background butting in and trying to distract him from talking to us. Everyone in our family has noticed this. No one can ever talk to him without you trying to get in the way. You didn't even give him the letters I sent him. I asked him about it and he didn't know what I was talking about. You kept them."

"Well, I told him sort of what was in them. I didn't think it mattered," Lulu snorted.

The conversation went on and on, with Lulu The Bitch continually turning it back around to herself. It was always all about her. The more she talked the more she revealed herself in ways she seemed completely unaware of. She's jealous. She petty. She insecure in spades. And she projects her worst qualities onto everyone around her, viewing the dog as an insecure and needy child while her own husband becomes a gossipy, jealous, backstabber who would betray her at the first opportunity.

My Wife held her ground. I was so glad to see it. She stood firm. And she and Her Brother did have breakfast together, just the two of them the following morning. And in that short breakfast they got to speak more openly and freely than they had in years. Certainly much more so than they would have the entire night at our house with Lulu The Bitch present to constantly interrupt them.

Lulu, with some odd encouragement from My Mother-In-Law, has dug herself a deep, deep hole. She's young and immature, but not very intelligent. Meanwhile, the family she has taken on is mentally sharp and very close. The Mother-In-Law may not even realize that she has helped put Lulu on the shit-list of her own former In-Laws, the family of her ex-husband, My Wife's father, who all live near each other in the areas surrounding Atlanta.

As for Lulu's impression of me, she clearly expected me to cave to her childish tantrums the way her new husband and new mother-in-law do, the way everyone has always done, apparently. I wasn't rude to her, but I didn't back off one bit and I won't. If she isn't going to respect me or My Wife in our own home then I'm going to be a continual pain in her ass. Apparently Lulu hasn't ever encountered a grown man before. Perhaps it will be good for her?

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5 Weird Habits

My favorite Peanut Queen in all the world has tagged me, which is sort of like sex only without the lubricants, the nudity, the physical contact, or the ... um ... finish. So anyway, I've been tagged to list 5 of my weird habits. To the best of my ability, here they are:

1) Whenever I have a drink in a bottle with a cap, after every drink I put the cap back on. I never thought this was weird until one day at work someone demanded to know why I did this and insisted that I MUST stop.

2) Whenever I get the mail I always have to check the mailbox at least twice to make sure I didn't leave anything inside. As I'm walking in with it I have to look back down the walk to make sure I didn't drop any letters. If it's a U.S. Mail box then I have to open and close the door one extra time just to make sure my letter dropped. Yeah, I'm like Adrian Monk in that way. You know the beginning of the show when they show him opening and closing the mailbox again and again while looking inside? Yeah, that's me.

3) At night whenever I have to get up to pee I sit down to do it. One time years ago I left the seat up and My Wife almost fell in because we never turn on the light to pee when we're sleeping. So from then on I found it was just easier to leave the seat down and sit. Sometimes I fall asleep sitting there peeing. One time back in college I got up to pee in the middle of the night and peed standing up, like normal. I passed out while peeing for some mysterious unknown reason and ended up lying on my back in the bathtub with my dick hanging out of my pants and the Chinese water torture pounding me in the forehead from the dripping faucet above. Sometimes peeing standing up in the dark late at night can be dangerous.

4) I brush my teeth in front of the mirror, watching what I'm doing. I don't know what exactly I'm looking for. I don't really need to see in order to brush my teeth. My Wife walks all over the house, but I stand there right in front of the mirror, I guess to make sure I'm doing a thorough job.

5) Whenever I have an orgasm I scream out "CARMEN ELECTRA!" No, I'm only kidding. But if I was with her I sure would.


Now it's my turn to tag some babes. I mean, to tag some bloggers. Here are my victims:

1) Binsk
2) ZebraMan
3) MamaDuck
4) LizzieDaisy
5) Steve T in Texas

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Why is Oprah At My Gym?!

I went to the gym today, after various missions to buy pet medicine and hunt down some Hallmark ornament The Wife wanted. I had hoped, coming in during the hours that the lonely housewives usually do, that I'd be surrounded by hot, sexy women in spandex. Unfortunately, this being between Christmas and New Years, it wasn't to be. Oh, there were 3 or 4 high school aged girls who weren't ugly. And one of the gym employees was pretty and kept rolling past me with a cart for picking up all the sweaty used towels around the place. But for the most part it was just the usual sort of people and me.

I honestly didn't have a mission when I got there. It helps to know exactly what you plan to do before you arrive, but today I wasn't sure. I've been doing the same 2 workouts for too long and it's time to mix it up again. So I did.

I started with abs and back. I just kept doing them over and over until they didn't work anymore. I don't know how many sets it was, but a lot of people wanted the equipment by the time I was done. I looked in the mirror to see if all my work had produced a fine six-pack. No six-pack. I still had the one-pack I came in with, dammit.


I stood around looking for my next inspiration. I found it right next to the lat pulldown machine I had just bogarted along with the ab machine. I put the curl bar on the machine and alternated upright rows with bicep curls. While I was doing this some huge steroid customers .. I mean, some really big guys came over and started wearing out the lat pulldown machine. They kept looking at me for some reason, but they never said anything. I have no idea what the hell could be so interesting about me sweating like Richard Simmons chasing a naked 12-year-old boy with a donut, but apparently something about me was distracting them.

No, I wasn't grunting.

After I had pumped up my huge, enormous, Arnold-like biceps and shoulders to their usual epic proportions I did more abs, only this time I went to the other side of the gym and used an exercise ball. The exercise balls are all located right outside the door to the women's locker room. So while I was laid out on my back pushing my chest and groin upwards in a repeated thrusting motion various girls kept walking by giving me sideways glances.


OK, mostly they were just ignoring me, but you know how high school girls have that bionic peripheral vision, right? So anyway, they COULD have been checking me out.

Each time I bobbed up I saw the line of TV sets on the wall showing everything from Maury Povich to Soccer to some really hot models who I couldn't figure out what they were doing, but they sure did attract my attention.

I did various other exercises until I discovered a weird cable machine I hadn't ever used before that was intended for overhead presses. It had two small handles, one for each hand and allowed me to work each arm independently. I think the guy next to me had wanted to use it just as I got on it because he seemed to be looking over at what I was doing, but not in a gay way and not in a "what the fuck are you doing" way either. I think I did a million sets of this, gradually dropping the weight rack all the way down until I was basically just lifting the handles and sweating all over the machine.

"There, now you can have it."

No, only kidding. I wiped it down when I was done. I needed some excuse to talk to the Towel Girl, right? I had a towel.


I did one last set of abs on the ball, only to notice a not unattractive girl all sprawled out on the floor in front of me. She was stretching. I was crunching. She was looking at me sideways, but mostly in a "are you checking me out, you perv" kind of way. I wasn't. My abs were shot and I wanted her to go away so I could do this ab thing I learned from FitTV where you turn your body sideways and prop yourself up on one arm while staying stiff and then switch over to the other side. It looks goofy, but it strengthens your sides and helps your overall core strength. Anyway, she didn't leave so I went to the treadmill and started running.


On the wall in front of the mile of treadmills are several TV sets, all tuned to different shows. Clemson football was on. So was Oprah. I was trying really hard to ignore Oprah, but the sound was up for her show and not for football. Sandra Bullock was on and so were several black male actors whose names I can't recall. Oprah and Sandra Bullock were complaining about men referring to women as 'bitches and hos' as if this were some new development that hasn't been going on in the black community since before most of us were born. Oprah said it is harmful and threatening to ALL women. Sandra Bullock added that it is harmful and threatening to ALL women everywhere anytime ANY woman is called a "ho" or a "bitch" for ANY reason. She said it endangers them. She said something to the effect that it was the biggest crisis facing American feminists today. And she was being completely serious.


I couldn't help but think to myself, "Hey, aren't you the ho bitch who made a movie in which you broke a guy's nose and then hit him in the balls on a stage in front of thousands of people for absolutely no fucking reason at all? And didn't you do it as a gag where you wanted everyone to laugh at what you had just done to the man, as if it were somehow cute and harmless to beat the shit out of a man and then sexually assault him for your personal entertainment? Yes, I do believe that was you, so shut the fuck up and go fuck yourself!"

Yes, Miss Congeniality thinks that both men and women calling girls 'ho' or 'bitch' is a huge massive crisis, but sexually assaulting men or boys for personal entertainment is no problem. In fact, she thought it was so great that I hear she did it again in the sequel, only this time instead of suckering her supposed love-interest into being abused and assaulted she did it to Regis Philbin. I guess if it's funny to do to a man who loves you and did nothing but try to help you then it must be a riot to do to an elderly man who also did absolutely nothing to you, too. Right?

Meanwhile, as Oprah and Sandra were lamenting this horrific holocaust of hos and bitches, the famous black men onstage with them were all nodding and agreeing that it is horrible and dangerous to the world and must be stopped. Then they started talking to some woman in the audience who wanted to know if she was a racist because she once used the phrase "Jew the price down" and felt really guilty about it. I believe they assured her that she was indeed a big fat racist pig, but by this point my treadmill took my attention away.

I had started off with the intention of running 3 miles, but ended up running 5 miles because the Oprah thing pissed me off so much. Well, actually it wasn't just because of Oprah. I just wanted to run and I didn't really feel like stopping.

Besides, the football game was still on. Anyway, just as I crossed the 5 mile mark the machine slowed way down and flashed "cool down mode" at me. "What?! Cool down? I'm not done, you motherfucker!"

Yes, I thought these words in my head and somehow they managed to make their way down to my mouth and slip out.

"Goddamn it, I'm not fucking done! I'll decide when I'm done, not you!"

Yes, this too made it's way from the silent recesses of my mind down to my tongue and out into the Oprah Winfried air. Luckily Oprah and her muppet friends were so overwhelmingly annoying that no one seemed to notice what I'd said. But having said "goddammit" so close to Christmas did make me a bit fearful of a lightning bolt, even so.

Anyway, the machine I was running on apparently decided to save me from the deluge of Oprah and finish my workout for me. To be fair I wasn't really sure how much further I wanted to run anyway, but it would have been nice to decide that for myself.

I stretched and toweled off and then went looking for the cute Towel Girl to give her a present.

"Here you go, a lovely stinky towel that smells like ass. I hope you'll think kindly of me because I think you're a cutie, but I'm not going to tell you because I don't want you to shove me into that smelly bin of towels and kill me. Besides, it clearly does not matter what I think. Just ask Oprah."

Then I made my way into the locker room to change. Inside were two guys talking about how many grams of chicken they had eaten and whether or not the bread counted against them and fascinating crap like that. I was mesmerized by the depth of their boringness and quickly put on my clothes so that I could flee home and blog about it.

So, now I'm home and I forgot to blog it until just now, after 4 a.m. Aren't you just overjoyed that I didn't forget entirely? Otherwise you might never have known about my fabulous workout.

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O Holy Cow

O Holy Cow, the pies are gently steaming
It is the poo that I nearly stepped into
Long lay the cows neath the trees their udders gleaming
Till I appeared and flung them hay to chew
The thrill of food the lazy herd rejoyces
For daily chores a new and glorious morn
Load up the truck

O hear the cows a mooing
O field of mine
O field where cows I keep
O field of mine
O field, O field of mine!

And from the cows, all milk shall surely flow
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we
Let all the farm praise the herd of cows
Cows give us beef!
The nameless cows forever raise we

Bovine, Bovine
O cows, O cows of mine
Bovine, Bovine
O cows, O cows of mine
Bovine, Bovine
O cows, O cows of mine




* All words and rhymes made up by Memphis Steve, copyright 2005, all rights reserved.
Hands off.

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Sporadic Blogging During Christmas

OK, from here on out I can't predict how often I will have access to the blog. We have to do the family thing for Christmas. We're going to be all over the place for awhile. Hopefully I'll be able to get on and update from time to time, but even now I'm risking my life by being on the computer. So just in case I don't get to read what you write or write anything for you to read I'll have to say it now,

Merry Christmas
and
Happy New Year!

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BigGuns II

I don't know what they're doing over there in Iraq, but I think I want to go, too!

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Roxanne - The Short Version

Turn your speakers ALL THE WAY UP, please.

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Tag You're It!

BigGuns
I got tagged all the way from Austin, TX. Ain't that a neat trick?

The first one is: tell 5 random things about myself that you don't know;

1) I have a 14 inch long peni ... pensi ... pencil. Yes, it's one of those big fat pencils like we had in the first grade. It's red. I think it's the exact one I did have in the first grade, actually.

2) I grew up in a city with missile silos in the mountainside and a military arsenal taking up most of the southwest portion of town. There is also a NASA space center there, just like the one they have in Houston, except ours isn't named after that asshole Johnson.

3) I couldn't sleep last night, but I have today off so I slept until 10:30. Then I woke up and watched a dirty movie. It was lousy, but the women were naked so of course I watched it till the end.

4) I studied French and German, but it's been a long time and now I mix them together.

5) My Wife and I are both part Cherokee Indian. No, we don't say "native American" because that's just gay. Yes, we say 'gay' when we mean 'dumb.' No, we're not very PC and we don't care. PC is gay, too. And so is Tinkie Winkie, only in this case 'gay' is used to mean both dumb and homo. Homo is a non-PC contraction for homosexual. Did I mention I'm not PC? Give us back our land, White Man!

Now what you do is take the name off of the top of the list and insert your name there once you have completed the tag

running 2 ks
Shelli
Mel
the rain queen(poody)
Memphis Steve

The next tag
1) What were you doing 10 years ago?
Accepting a job which required me to move to Memphis. The pay was much, much better than anything I was getting offered in My Hometown, so at the time it seemed like a good decision.

2)What were you doing a yr ago?
Working my ass off at my stupid job in Memphis, while my boss stole all the credit and I got no raise and no promotion despite his worthless promises (lies.)

3)What are 5 of your favorite snacks?
Oreos
Peanut butter cookies
Doritoes
Whoppers
Girl Scouts

4)What 5 songs do you know all the words to?
Steve McQueen - Sheryl Crow
Blue Collar Man - Styx
Meet Virginia - Train
Jukebox Hero - Foreigner
Roxanne - The Police

5) 5 things you would do if you had money
Build a huge house in the mountains somewhere with lots of land.
Buy a Shelby Mustang when it comes out and run the wheels off of it.
Pay off God.
Hire someone to slap Hillary Clinton and run back to Cuba before they got caught.
Carmen Electra.

6) 5 bad habits
Cussing in standard, non-creative ways. I need to learn to put together some new curses.
Skipping church
Trusting my bosses
Farting in bookstores (can't really help that one, though)
Surfing the internet

7) 5 things I love to do
Go to the beach
Win a drag race (been a long time)
Watch the Cowboys play in the Superbowl (been a long time)
Go to the gym and have the whole place to myself
Pick the right stock and make a lot of money

8) 5 things I would never get new, buy new,or wear again
BMW
Truck or SUV (all the new trucks have bumpers that fall off with the slightest bump - WTF?)
That condom I just threw away
My Cheerios T-shirt that used to fit me in high school
The underwear with the streak that actually burned a hole

9) 5 favorite toys
Computer
Chevelle
... um .... that's all I got

Now I get to tag 5 people for the both of them
1) Stacy the Peanut Queen
2) Artful Laura
3) Steph the Attention Whore and Booty Shaker
4) Leesa in Montana
5) Dr Don Pineappleman

I hope you guys are around to see that I've tagged you. I know with Christmas it's harder and harder to find people online right now, but if you see it and you want to do it then go for it. And if I didn't tag you, but you'd like to do it anyway then please go for it.

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My Fucking Weekend

Haven't actually seen this one
I had a horrible weekend. It started off well enough, we went to see the latest Harry Potter movie after going out to eat. It was pretty good and we were glad we saw it in the theater on the big screen.

The next afternoon we watched football. Kansas City played the New York Giants and it was a terrible game. The NY line was like a freakin' wall and KC couldn't get through.


That night we went to see "Chronicles of Narnia." It was OK, but there were some big holes in the story as presented in the film. During the big battle scene I couldn't help analyzing their strategy, or rather the apparent lack of it. They had a whole herd of rhinoceros and they just wasted them. They had them all scattered. In fact, all the different types of animals were scattered so that their strengths were diluted and wasted. It was dumb. If Peter, or whatever the oldest kid's name was, had any brains at all he would have put the rhinos into one squadron and focused their attack, using faster animals to protect them while he sent them plowing up the left side and all the way through until they came out the back. Then they could turn around and attack from the rear, with the enemy being caught in the middle. The rhinos were a dream. They had mass and armor and speed. He should have used them better. He was a poser - he couldn't fight worth shit. He just kept pointing his sword because he had no clue how to use it. Anyway, I'm sure it was all done that way by the filmmaker and probably is much better written in the book, but as I don't remember ever reading it all the way through I only have the film to go on.


The next day was more football. Indianapolis got beat by the Chargers. That really sucked. The Colts seemed intimidated from the very start, probably because of all the fan focus on the unbeaten record. The Chargers picked them apart early and then ran head-to-head with them when the Colts started to get it together late in the game. I was not happy about the Colts losing and I was not happy about Kansas City losing.

But oh, how much worse it got after that.


Immediately following the Colts' game the Cowboys played the Redskins. Or rather, they were supposed to, but apparently the Cowboys didn't show up. Only Drew Bledsoe was there. So it was Drew Bledsoe against the Washington Redskins. I watched the first half. I could see Dallas wasn't interested in playing so I got disgusted and turned it off. Yeah, that's right. I'm a Cowboys fan and I turned the game off during the 2nd quarter because they were so lousy. It was 7-0 at that point, but it wasn't hard to predict the outcome. Last I checked for an update on the score it was something like 35-0 and I think Drew was dead, but still on the field somewhere. I didn't watch any of the second half. Unless some miracle occurred I'm pretty sure Dallas lost by about 100-0. I don't even want to bother looking it up.

With me no longer watching the Cowboys at the Alamo My Wife turned the channel to some movie that was supposed to be funny. Right in the middle of it some supermodel kneed a guy she didn't know in the crotch because he was a lousy date for her friend. Yes, simply because he was a lousy date, not a rapist or a child molester, but just a lousy date. This was supposed to be funny and somehow heroic since she was the female hero, but it just made me instantly despise her. At that point I got up and left. That was about as funny and heroic to me as watching a teenage girl getting gang raped by Tookie and the Crips. Yeah, sexual assault is a real riot. Let's do all we can to encourage more of that. Oh wait, we already are.

Fuck that shit.

So I went into the bedroom to watch a DVD. The door that flips open for the DVD tray to slide out fell off when I hit 'eject' so I could put my movie in. While trying to put the door back on I broke off part of it. Not that it was likely to go back on anyway, but now it's pretty much a done deal. And this just made me SO MUCH HAPPIER.

I watched the first five minutes of the movie, only to find I just really wasn't in the mood, and I turned it off.

I spent the rest of the evening sorting through crap in my office and throwing most of it away.

That night I had nightmares until about 3 a.m. Then I lay awake in bed thinking about work and Memphis and how much I want to leave here until My Wife's alarm went off at 6:30 that morning.

Yeah, that was my fucking weekend. And in 2 days I get to go to the Mother-In-Law's house for Christmas. Yee-fucking-ha.

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Gold Grille Gansta

What's the deal with fools and gold teeth? Who in their right mind wants a big yellow smile that just might be worth killing you over?

Saturday a yellow Nova loaded with gangsta's came to my house to try to buy a car from me. They had the attitude, the clear silicone sealed windshield, the goofy gangsta hats and clothes, the poses, and the funky odor. They also had knocked out all their front teeth to have them replaced with gold. Every time any of them smiled at me I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. They looked like cartoon characters, like Fat Albert characters with bad attitudes.

I don't care which rapper has gold teeth. I don't care how cool you think that fool is. If you knock out all of your front teeth so you can have them replaced with gold you are an idiot and your smile makes you look dirty and dumb.

"Derrrrr, which way did he go? Which way did he go?"

Dude made me a low offer. I wanted to get rid of the car so I was going to take it. I went inside to confer with My Wife and then get the car title. Dude was too busy playing the angry rapper and being impatient after having smoked in my car while he test drove it so he decided to be a bad ass and leave, assuming that I wasn't going to take his offer and not waiting for the rejection. I was going to take his offer. He left with nothing but his gold toothed homeys and no car. Grow up, Dude. You lost out.

Oh, and here is something weird I noticed while trying to sell a car in Memphis.

White man calls wanting to ask about the car. First question: "what's your lowest price?" Blah, blah, conversation goes on asking about the car. Finally white man wants to come look at it. So he asks for directions. I tell him all the directions to reach my house. Then he gets the street address and says he's going to print out a MapQuest map, too. End of call.

Black man calls wanting to ask about the car. First question: "what's wrong with it?" Blah, blah, conversation goes on asking about the car. Finally, black man wants to come look at the car. So he asks for SOME directions. I start giving him directions and at some point he says, "OK, stop there. I'll drive that far and when I get to that point I'll call you again for MORE directions."

No shit. And so that's what he does. He'll get about halfway to my house and then call for more, but again, not ALL the directions to my house. He'll keep calling for a couple of directions until he finally gets to my house.

Now Genius Dude above with the gold grille did this shit and we had a problem with our phone. So for about an hour he couldn't reach me for the REST of the directions. He was all mad at me about it, as if it was my fault that he didn't get all the directions before he left home and drove for an hour. He wanted me to pay him money because he drove a long way. No, I'm not shitting you.

I drove for 18 hours to look at this car before I bought it. I didn't get shit for that because I was the one wanting to buy the car. You don't get a bonus prize for driving to look at something you want to buy. Grow the fuck up and learn how to ask for directions and WRITE THE SHIT DOWN so you don't have to just get SOME directions and then call back to ask for MORE. Dumbass.

I have never before in my life heard of someone asking for only some directions and then heading out, not knowing where they are going, but hoping that they will be able to call again and get more information. That's a new one on me, and it was only the black guys who did this. But it was ALL the black guys, every single one who called. I have no idea why that is.

And I sure as hell never heard of anyone expecting to get a little "something something" just for coming to look at my car and not buy it. Fuck that shit.

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Cat Rules - cause there needs to be some

Dear Damn Cats,

When I say to move, it means get out of my way, not slap your tail against the carpet and glare at me or continue weaving in and out between my feet.

The dishes on the floor next to your water are yours and contain your food. All other dishes are mine and contain my food. Please note, placing your foot or your nose in the middle of my plate of food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish. And hell yeah, you'd better run after you do that! I've got a bucket of water with your name on it and you're about to become a Baptist.

The stairway is not your personal bedroom. If you sleep there I will be stepping on you. Get used to it. Walking in front of me and tripping me is not appreciated in the least and will be the death of you and me both. I fall faster than you can run. I also know where you like to hide and I can SO reach you back there. Remember why you hate the broom handle so much? Let me remind you.

My bed is not yours and you are not allowed to sleep there ever again. Don't act like you don't know why. How many cats are in this house to poop in the center of my pillow? Yeah, you knew when you did it that you were going to get busted. I don't care why you were mad at me, it doesn't make up for what you did. You trip me down the stairs and I don't poop in your bed, do I? Yeah, no kitty in my bed. It's your own damned fault, smartass.

When you jump into my lap while I'm reading you do not get to be angry about the intrusion into your space. Kicking the book away from you is not going to make me put it down. If the pages touching you is so bothersome you can just go back to sleeping on the floor and leave me alone. The book was here first. Get over it.

If you climb into my lap and release those deadly farts I am always going to throw you across the room. This is how it works. You know what you ate out in the yard earlier today and you know what it does to you. If you plan on farting then don't get in my lap. If you do then learn to love flying. I can throw you a long way.

There is no secret exit from the bathroom. It's no different than your litter box. One way in and one way out. It is not necessary for you to try to turn the knob, or get your paw under the edge and try to pull the door open. I must exit through the same door I entered. I also don't much care for you climbing into my pants and going to sleep while they are down around my ankles. All that cat hair in my underwear is itchy.

If you must rub yourself against me please do it while I am dry. I don't know what this fascination you have is with me being soaking wet and you needing to rub yourself all over me. And for God's sake, stop licking my shins when I'm sweaty. That's just gross.

When I touch your feet I am not trying to kill you. Stop hissing and calm down. I was just messing with you.

My lap is not your mother's tit. Stop with all the kneading. It hurts and you're way too old to be doing that.


Rules for non pet owners who visit and like to complain about our pets:

1. The cat lives here. You don't.
2. If you don't want cat hair on your clothes, stay out of their chair. Yes, they claimed it and now it's theirs. Can't you SEE all the hair there?
3. I like my cat a lot better than I like most people. Don't push your luck.
4. To you, he's a cat. To me, he's an adopted son who is short, hairy, walks on all fours and doesn't speak clearly.
5. Cats are better than kids. They eat less, don't ask for money all the time, are easier to train, usually come when called, never drive your car, don't hang out with drug-using friends, don't smoke or drink, don't worry about buying the latest fashions, don't wear your clothes, don't need agazillion dollars for college, and if they get pregnant, you can sell the kittens.
6. If you don't want him to claw you don't stick your hand where he can claw it.
7. Never, ever touch the cat's belly. You'll get your blood all over my carpet.
8. If you don't think facial scars are attractive you might not want to be sticking your nose so close to his nose like that.
9. Don't ever touch his feet. Don't ever touch his tail.
10. Of course you can pet him. Why would you even ask that?

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Half Nekkid Thursday - Against the Wall

Happy HNT

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Stan Tookie Williams vs Stan Laurel

Stan Tookie Williams and Stan Laurel

Twins separated at birth ?

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Disney Still Hates Boys

It's been impossible to ignore that Disney has grown increasingly hateful and hostile towards males in its' stories over the past 20 years. If the boy can't be used as a target for sexual assault then he has no place in the story at all according to the girlie-boys at Disney. Now read what they're doing with Winnie the Pooh. There's no room for Christopher Robin anymore. No boys allowed.

Mothers have been complaining for years that there is virtually nothing being produced for their sons other than video games. Disney has long been among the worst offenders in the war on boys.

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25

Today is Avery's birthday.

Go tell her happy birthday right now.

Do it!

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Discover the hidden meaning in your name

Discover the hidden meaning in your name *

Steven

Wreath, crown : Greek

You are an inspiring leader whose originality, creativity and wisdom are applied to creating practical solutions to "unsolvable" problems. Humanitarian and idealistic your vision is to make the world a better place and you will work to this end. Hardworking and tenacious people admire you for your honesty and integrity. You are a loved and loyal friend and partner. Your have the potential to achieve enormous success in the world.

Drunk, Brawler : Irish

You are an ass, but a good fullback whose elbows to the neck and kicks to the ankle have tripped up many a striker. Hot tempered and impatient are you to get the fuck out of traffic and to wherever you are going, far away from these retarded monkeys who drive SUVs and brown Chevy vans. Hardworking and tenacious people, none of whom ever reach the higher positions of authority, enjoy your jokes about management and politicians. You are a tolerated and frequently laughed at nobody. You have the potential to be passed over again and again throughout your entire career by elitist fags who only promote their buddies who smoke the same cigarettes as them and take them out on their boats where they get drunk and try to pick up underaged girls in bikinis. You are going nowhere, but you are convinced that nowhere is better than having to hang out with those fuckers.




* I stole this from Artful Laura, who stole it from Texas Leesa, and both of whom produce some of the most beautiful photos that I have ever seen. And then, of course, I had to add a little of my own to it. By the time I put it up almost everyone had already posted their own.

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Drinking Buddies

Two married buddies are out drinking one night when one turns to the other and says, "You know, I don't know what to do. Whenever I go home after we've been out drinking, I turn the headlights off before I get to the driveway. I shut off the engine and coast into the garage.

I take my shoes off before I go into the house, sneak up the stairs, get undressed in the bathroom, stick my foot in the toilet and pee down my leg to prevent splashing sounds. I ease into bed and my wife STILL wakes up and yells at me for staying out so late!"

His buddy looks at him and says, "Well, you're obviously taking the wrong approach. I screech into the driveway, slam the door, storm up the steps, throw my shoes in the closet, jump into bed, slap her on the ass and shout, 'WHO'S HORNY!!!'... and she acts like she's asleep every time".


* Yet another joke I got in an email from Stephanie

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How To Get A Damn Person On The Phone

Here, don't say I never did you any favors. Here are steps on how to bypass companies' answering system and get to a human being.

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Cowboys vs Chiefs Heart Attack

Oh my God, did you see this game?! I mean, I know you did because one of the reasons I wanted to come to this particular game was to meet you in person. But as for the rest of you guys, did you see this game? I nearly had a heart attack! My heart was pounding in my chest and I could barely breathe throughout the entire second half.

And the ending, the last few minutes, who would have predicted this? I'm a Cowboy's fan, but even I had already said I expected that the Chiefs were going to be too much for Dallas. And they were THIS close to beating them right down to the last second.

Oh my God, I still can't breathe.

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Ho Ho Ho - I'm just bored

Merry Christmas

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Email From My Wife

"I FARTED! I FARTED! AND IT SMELLS REALLY BAD!"

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Half Nekkid Thursday - Erection

Happy HNT!

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Stupid Memphis Woman Hires Hitman For Cheese

MEMPHIS, Tenn. - In an unusual case of mistaken identity, a woman who thought a block of white cheese was cocaine is charged with trying to hire a hit man to rob and kill four men. The woman also was mistaken about the hit man. He turned out to be an undercover police officer.

Jessica Sandy Booth, 18, was arrested over the weekend and remains in jail with bond set at $1 million on four charges of attempted murder and four counts of soliciting a murder.

According to police, Booth was in the Memphis home of the four intended victims last week when she mistook a block of queso fresco cheese for cocaine — inspiring the idea to hire someone to break into the home, take the drugs, and kill the men.

An informant described the plot to police, who arranged a meeting between Booth and the undercover officer.

The undercover officer gave Booth some nonfunctioning handguns, bought ammunition for her because she was too young, and the two proceeded to the home under police surveillance.

Booth told the officer that any children inside the house old enough to testify would have to be killed, police said.

A search of the home with the permission of the occupants revealed no drugs — only the white, crumbly cheese common in Mexican cuisine.

"Four men were going to lose their lives over some cheese," said Lt. Jeff Clark, who heads Project Safe Neighborhoods.

___

Information from: The Commercial Appeal, http://www.commercialappeal.com

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Tragedy in Detroit - Boy beat by family

Custody Hearing

WAYNE COUNTY FRIEND OF THE COURT UPDATE

Custody Hearing in Detroit

Detroit, MI. -- A seven-year old boy was at the center of a Detroit
courtroom drama yesterday when he challenged a court ruling over who
should have custody of him.

The boy has a history of being beaten by his parents and the judge
initially awarded custody to his aunt, in keeping with child custody
law and regulations requiring that family unity be maintained to the
degree possible.

The boy surprised the court when he proclaimed that his aunt beat him
more than his parents and he adamantly refused to live with her. When
the judge suggested that he live with his grandparents, the boy cried
out that they also beat him.

After considering the remainder of the immediate family and learning
that domestic violence was apparently a way of life among them, the
judge took the unprecedented step of allowing the boy to propose who
should have custody of him.

After two recesses to check legal references and confer with child
welfare officials, the judge granted temporary custody to the Detroit
Lions, whom the boy firmly believes are not capable of beating anyone.

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I Remember #3

I remember my parents having old-fashioned rotary dial telephones when I was growing up and it would take forever to dial a long distance number. Man, that was a long time ago. Wait, they still have them. Oh my God!

I remember riding my tricycle inside the house because the downstairs was unfinished and the floor was just bare concrete. The ceilings were ducts and beams with nails sticking down. And there was a wall missing. We just used the bare opening as the entrance to the laundry room. Years later they had the wall and ceilings finished and added an actual door for the laundry room. It was weird. One day I come home from school and there are ceilings and a door in the hall that was never there before and an entire new wall in the den. Freaky.

I remember my mom making me and my brother take off our clothes in the garage and streak through the house if we got at all wet outside. She said we had good carpeting and God forbid you get anything wet on good carpet. I also remember she never ever did this to any of my sisters. Apparently water, mud, and even horse poop from a girl was OK for the carpet. Funny how it always worked that way.

I remember when my parents used to do mean things to me they'd say "you won't even remember this when you're older." But I do remember. Yeah motherfuckers, I remember it ALL! Oh, pardon me. I lost my head there for a second.

I remember how my youngest sister used to really abuse my brother and get away with murder. My middle sister used to smile as she told me the story of how a long time ago, when my older brother was about 4 or 5 and my youngest sister was 5 or 6, she was picking on him in the sandbox, like she always did. He told my parents who did nothing about it, as usual. So my brother, in desperation, took a piece of 2x4 and whopped her over the head with it. I think this is the only recorded fight between the 2 of them that he ever won. Both of my oldest sisters love to tell this story. My youngest sister was meaner than a Texas snake for many years and my parents made it worse. YeeHA!

I remember how my parents, ever the ones for avoiding doing anything about a problem, allowed my youngest sister, and only my youngest sister, to buy a locking doorknob that required a key for her bedroom. The rest of us got into trouble if we just locked our doors at all. There was no way in hell we would ever be allowed to buy an actual keyed lock for our doors that my parents couldn't even open. But my youngest sister got away with everything, so in high school she got one. The thing is, she was the biggest thief in the house and she'd always hide our stuff that she had stolen in her room. If you asked my parents to do anything about it they'd punish you for bringing it up. Or they'd turn it around and say you were the thief. Either way, you learned not to expect my parents to be of any use at all. Anyway, my youngest sister developed a habit of plugging in her headphones and turning her stereo all the way up. But she wouldn't turn off her speakers, so there was really no point to the headphones. She was just blasting the entire house. Dad had given her the largest speakers in the house, a set of 15 inch mind-blowing woofers and she used every inch of them. One day she got several phone calls in a row which she didn't answer and so we picked it up in the kitchen. We'd knock on her vibrating door and yell for her to answer the phone, but she'd ignore us. Even when my parents knocked on her door to tell her to answer the phone she wouldn't respond. This went on for hours, with the phone ringing off the hook and my parents getting increasingly angry. Finally, my dad got mad enough to actually do something about it. This was probably the only time in his life he ever stood up and yelled at her or did anything at all to punish her. Dad is 6'3" and has been a weightlifter since he was 15 years old. I guess he was in his late 40s or early 50s by this time. He was pretty big and rode an old 1951 Harley. My youngest sister is 5'3" or so. She's the smallest one of all of us, although she was by far the meanest fighter and strongest girl. Dad stomped down the hall to her room and beat on the door. She ignored him like she had all of us that day. So he backed up into the bathroom and came running. BAM! Her door busted open and slammed against the wall with a sound like dynamite going off. Even with the headphones on she jumped out of her skin. But she instantly recovered enough to begin arguing that he had violated her rights by breaking down her door. He told her to answer the damned phone and turn off the damned stereo. Then he said the lock was coming off, which was a moote point anyway since he had broken the door and it wouldn't even latch anymore.

I remember the only real knock down, drag out fight I ever had with my youngest sister. I don't remember what we were fighting about, but with my youngest sister, no matter how obviously wrong she was she'd always keep fighting. She just liked to fight. At one point I went into my room and shut the door and locked it. For me to ever lock my door was a sin to my father, but he wasn't the one trying to get in so I didn't care. My sister tried to bust into my room to get in my face and see if she could intimidate me. She was accustomed to always getting her way. I was barely a teenager at this point, so she would have been about 18 or 19. She was screaming at me to "unlock this door before I break it down." She used the exact words my father had used before breaking down her door, which told me that she had heard him all along and just chose to ignore him. Anyway, she went and got a screwdriver and picked the cheap lock on my doorknob. With those locks a screwdriver was the only key, but it was all you needed anyway. I'm sure you probably have these in your house so you know what I mean. Anyway, once she had picked the lock she tried to fling the door open, but I was standing on the other side holding it shut with my foot. As soon as she got it unlocked I would lock it again. This made her really mad. She'd unlock it and I'd lock it back. So she decided to knock it down just like my father had done to her. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! She didn't have the strength to break it down, but she had a definite rhythm to her pounding, so I timed her pounding as best as I could. Just as she was coming for another slam against my door I flung it open and stepped aside. She went down like the 3 Stooges. CRASH! Woo woo woo woo! Even while she was down on the floor she was already screaming at me that I had better never lock my door on her, as if she were my father and this were her house. I just stood there and laughed at the sight of her crumpled in my floor. She looked ridiculous. When she got up she tried to get right in my face. I think this was when she first realized I had grown bigger than her. And I didn't back down. So instead of attacking me she left, still yelling. The fight was over.

I remember when My Brother sold me a 1973 Mazda RX3 stationwagon. I didn't even know any such car had ever existed before I bought it from him. It was a rotary engined car, just like the Mazda RX8 they make now. But it had one small problem. This problem was the reason not many people ever bought these cars and caused Mazda to issue the very first 100,000 mile warranty ever in the history of the automotive world. It nearly bankrupted Mazda. The engine had been built with the ability to rev higher than the engine case and seals could withstand and so these brand new cars' engines would blow up. This came just 3 years after Chevrolet had suffered through a huge problem with a crankshaft design flaw in their LS5 Chevelles which also caused the engine to blow apart. So our Government was not happy and poised to take action. Mazda, not anxious for the U.S. Government to "help" them with this problem, issued a recall of all RX3 model cars. They then detuned the engine to prevent it from reving high enough to explode. But the detuning caused the engine to backfire through the exhaust when you turned the car off. The backfire would blow off the muffler, so Mazda, now stuck between a rock and a hard place, a lawyer and an accountant, the Government and the Public, ran a separate pipe parallel to the exhaust just for the backfire. I kid you not. So, getting back to my own Mazda RX3 wagon, it had a pipe that ran along the exhaust and skipped the muffler. Its' only purpose was for the backfire. Every time I stopped to pick up my then-girlfriend, or to get gas, or to go to the store, or to come home at 4 a.m., when I turned off the car there would be a pause of about 10 seconds, and then BLAM!!!! It would backfire with a sound remarkably similar to that of a .38 caliber pistol. My parents, meanwhile, were trying to help my oldest sister recover from a divorce and go back to college. She needed a car, so they made me give the backfiring Mazda to her. She absolutely hated it. She especially hated the loud gunshot-like backfire. So Dad, ever one to avoid any conflict with a female, traded her his beautiful 2-door Cadillac for her Mazda wagon. My dad, you must try to understand, is an engineer who spent the start of his career in the Army and the remainder working for the U.S. Government in Army Missile Command as a brainy civilian. His idea of what constitutes "funny" is slightly different than that of a normal person. He absolutely loved, loved, loved going to get gas in the Mazda and watching all the people jump out of their suits when the car backfired. He thought this was so funny that he actually got me to help him design something to attach to his 1969 Buick Wildcat that would make it backfire and throw a big puff of smoke any time we pushed a button. Anyway, we never finished this Hillbilly gadget, but he would have actually used it if we had. Seriously. After driving the Mazda for awhile, Dad, the motorcycle enthusiast, decided that Japanese cars are too small and dangerous, so he started wearing his old Harley half-helmet whenever he drove the Mazda. Meanwhile, I had purchased a 1973 Toyota Corolla from My Brother, who seemed able to aquire an awful lot of unusual cars totally for free somehow, and was driving that to school. Dad tried to force me to wear my motorcycle helmet whenever I drove the Toyota. I tried to explain to him the extreme difficulty I, an 18-year-old male, was already having getting a date at an engineering school where the average student was 27 and divorced with kids, while living at home with my parents, and driving an antique Toyota Corolla that some nimrod had repainted with housepaint and a brush. He somehow failed to grasp my arguments. Engineers are funny about not being able to grasp anyone else's arguments. Anyway, he continued driving the Mazda while wearing his helmet and I continued driving my Toyota while not wearing a helmet. And every once in a while I would encounter someone talking about a crazy old man driving around town in a little blue stationwagon while wearing a cop's helmet. I kid you not.

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Well Blow Me Down!

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Reportedly Found in Iraq

1.77 metric tons of enriched uranium

1,500 gallons of chemical weapons agents

Chemical warheads containing cyclosarin (a nerve agent five times more deadly than sarin gas)

Over 1,000 radioactive materials in powdered form meant for dispersal over populated areas

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Bitching about Work on a Saturday

Since it's Saturday and few people are going to read my blog on the weekend anyway I thought perhaps I'd take this opportunity to vent a little more. Plus, this just happened last night and it really ticked me off.

I mentioned being stressed, right? I mentioned work being a problem? Well, the powers-that-be at the company where I work have arranged to make everything twice as hard as it should be for no good reason.

I have to support applications 7 days a week, year round. To do this I have to remote in to my PC from home at night and on weekends. Obviously, in order for me to do that my PC at work has to be working. That means it must be up and running.

On top of needing it running 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for support reasons, I also have a ton of things to keep up with. This means I have a zillion applications I have to keep open on my PC. It takes forever to open them all back up again and again. I need them every day, so I keep them open. I have so many things I need to keep open that windows puts an arrow at the bottom of the screen so I can scroll down through all the applications. I have 3 rows at the bottom of my screen of applications that I need up. I kid you not.

Add to this the fact that some applications will corrupt or delete a file if they are unexpectedly shut down with that file open.

Now, last night at 2 a.m. I was working. Yeeha, I'm so excited about that. While I was working I noticed a little icon that didn't belong to anything I recognized. So I clicked it. It opened a little yellow window that said "Company X has pushed a file to your computer and will shut it down in 50 minutes." It had a little timer counting down, like a terrorist bomb about to go off.

Yes, so I look for the button to choose the option, "No, don't shut it down. I'm working, dumbass!"

There is no such option. They're just slamming my PC and making absolutely no allowances for the people who have to work at 2 a.m. on a Friday night. Am I thrilled to be working at 2 a.m. on a Friday night? Hell no! Does it make it even harder when the assholes are slamming my computer off in the middle of all that? Hell yes!

Sooooooo, seeing as they were going to slam me no matter what I did I tried to be smart about it and shut down all my applications one by one for myself so that none of my files would get corrupted or deleted.

I watched the computer shut down.

"Fuckers."

I was able to start it back up because they had 'restarted' rather than just 'shutdown' the PC. I worked some more and then went to bed.

This morning I remoted to my PC again to see how things ran last night. Guess what I found?

The motherfuckers had shutdown my computer AGAIN!!!! Why would you need to fuck my PC twice in one night? How is anyone supposed to support anything late at night or on weekends when the company demanding this unpaid level of support from you is constantly slamming your PC?

And here is what really pisses me off, I have put in problem tickets over and over about my PC being shut off when I come in on Monday mornings, causing corrupt files and deleted files and preventing me from supporting my applications as needed. The PC support team has looked and looked to try to find out what was causing these random shutdowns.

They found nothing.

This is because the ASSHOLES who push these patches and shut down our computers don't answer to anyone. They also don't issue any warnings to let anyone know ahead of time. They also don't do this to all PCs uniformly throughout the company. They just pick a few and slam them whenever they feel the urge, so when you find your PC is fucked up and ask the person across from you if the same thing happened to theirs, more often than not it did not. It's just you, making it all that much harder to figure out what happened. And the PC support team who is tagged with fixing your problem has no idea what happened because the Pushers haven't told them and won't tell them when they ask about it. If I hadn't been up and trying to get some work done I wouldn't have seen the little warning dialogue telling me that Team Asshole was going to slam my PC. And even then it didn't say anything about slamming it twice. So even when I tried to roll with it they still managed to fuck me.

And you know that dialogue wasn't intended to be seen, not when it doesn't come up until 2 a.m. and then goes away when the PC is shutdown, with nothing but chaos and destruction left behind to tell you that anything happened.

Yeah, I need a new job. I don't like working anywhere that has a group that answers to no one and yet affects everyone, a group that refuses to communicate anything that they are doing and even lies about it when asked.

I mean, besides Human Resources.

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Stress

Work is crushing me today. I have no room to breathe. No time to write. I feel sick and really need to go home. I pooped a mountain in the bathroom first thing when I came in. I sat in the stall with the heat blowing on my head while my feet felt like frozen blocks of ice. I closed my eyes and instantly started to fade into a dream. Have you ever been awakened from a dream while on the toilet by a fat woman hurling her big butt onto the toilet opposite you, sending you sailing up into the air? Yeah, it's lovely fun, especially on a Friday like this. I think I must have continuously pooed in there for at least 30 minutes. Bootyshaker Steph would have been so proud. I don't know how that's even possible. I think I dropped 20 pounds of pure Peruvian poop into the toilet. Add the necessary toilet paper to clean up the after-effects of such a mess and you have a true plumbing challenge. But all went down well enough.

While I was in the stall a guy came in talking to himself. He must have stood in front of the mirror for a good 5 minutes having a big discussion with himself in that whispered, hushed voice that people do, and of course it echoed all around the walls creating a creepy effect. I have no idea what was so important that he needed to discuss it with his reflection in the men's room.

I have more work than I can do. And it just keeps on coming. I'm about to call a guy who wants me to work tonight so we can move one of my many applications to another machine. I haven't had time to make the first code change for this. And I've never done it or tested it so there is no telling if it will work. He wants to go right now. But I can't.

The test environment is not running correctly. Isn't that a kick in the pants? How can I verify production changes are OK if the test environment is fucked? How did it get fucked and how do I get it fixed? No one seems to know anything, but everyone is busy thrashing. Maybe it's just me? Maybe it's just the team I'm in? I honestly don't know.

My coworker, the only one here with me today, is stressed to her limit. I asked her a question, which I had asked a month ago and she had already answered. I am swamped. I forgot we did this. She was pissed. "I already told you ... " And she did, and I did what she had said, and it still isn't resolved.

Some people, you tell them something once and they've got it locked down. Let me tell you, that isn't me. Especially right now when the amount of responsibility that I currently have is more than I can handle. I start to lose things. I drop things. Things get buried under the mountains of notes and documents and diagrams and flow charts. I'm sorry, but when you move me to a smaller cube, and honest to God a cube is just a large cardboard box that you keep me in, it leaves me less room for all the work I have to do. So, less room to keep my shit organized, but more shit to keep up with results in dropped balls, lost information, forgotten deadlines, stress, mess, chaos, and people trying to get other people to work late on a Friday night. But I can't. Not this Friday night. I can't be here. I'm sorry. And I won't be at home so I can't do it from there, either. Otherwise I would.

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Blogger is Fucked? Where is the DATE?

What happened to the date and time at the bottom of each post? Why is this gone? I have a shitload of draft posts that I need to move forward and now, every time I log in, the time and date show for a half a second and then disappear. I didn't change my settings. What the fuck?!

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HNT and Oh Crap, I Forgot!

Honest to God, I have been so busy that I completely forgot to take a photo for Half Nekkid Thursday this week. I had even talked the whole thing over with one of the Great HNTers and decided what I was going to do. And then I got swamped and failed to do it. I swear, I didn't even know today was Thursday until I visited JY's blog and realized that I was being blocked from seeing a bare boob.

Much apologies. I am drowning here.

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