That's what it took to right my boat. Oh, I didn't tell you my A/C was out for the last three days? Yes I did. Anyway, I fired the first cocksuckers, because they shined me, and hired a bojacker. Know what a bojacker is? He can fix anything. Vacuum cleaner, car, you name it. I worship the bojacker. They ain't too good on relationships, though. First impulse is to pull out a bottle of vodka, and share the blues.
"Mister Bojacker," you protest, "this is what got me in trouble in the first place!"
"Suck it up, boy," the bojacker will tell you. At this point your email is full, your cellphone texts are pregnant. You must respond. But you are under the spell of the bojacker. Sucks to be you. Or, in this case, me.
Rid myself of the bojacker after an hour. It was hard work. It was Friday. He wanted to hang.
Anywise, I have damage control on my short list. Gotta fix a few things, thanks to my bojacker.
You know, that little dribbling of hair 'neath a guy's lower lip. He doesn't want the pain in the ass of a beard, and he doesn't want a moustache, which would brand him as a Freddy Mercury queer. So he goes for the soul patch. I believe Ringo Starr originated the soul patch circa Sargeant Peppers:
Anyhoo, I don't much care for soup strainers of any type. I've become more like the Senator, who used to tell me, during my experimentations with facial hair, "Boy, I don't know why in hell you would cultivate around your mouth what I let grow wild around my ass."
Amen, dad. Amen.
Well, it's in my garage. Now. What, I didn't tell you my car was stolen? Of course I didn't. I wanted to see how it turned out first. The last thing I needed during a stressful saga of indeterminate outcome was a lot of "sagacious" advice and Monday morning quarterbacking from you bunch of nipples.
Now that I have possession of my ride back, here's what happened. I left work Thursday and realized my gas gauge read Bone Dry. So I stopped on Phillips Highway to pump a quick three gallons. Yes, it is the haunt of drug dealers and whores, but I picked the best BP I could find. Threw the keys on the seat so I didn't have to hear the beep beep beep when I opened the door. I had no intention of going in the store. After pumping I decided I wanted a bottle of water. Forgot the keys weren't in my pocket. Got that, nipples? I forgot. So don't bother commenting on that fact. I just took that arrow out of your fucking quiver.
Thirty seconds to get the water. Walked out the door, the bitch was gone. Gone. GONE. Sumbitch. Cellphone in there, charging. Laptop. Checkbook in the briefcase. Sumbitch. Had to get flynny to come fetch me, take me to get a rental car.
Long story short, the cops passed the assholes at 3:00 this morning. Did a U Turn to check the tag, but the boyz had already pulled over and skedaddled.
The car seems okay, other than a busted rear tail light, a ton of cigar ash strewn about, and the fact it reeks of the intoxicating aroma of Bump Stopper 2.
Yes, I learned a Very Important Lesson. If you're going to get gas on Phillips Highway, pick up a whore first. Then the car thieves will leave you alone. You're one of them.
I left the sliding door cracked last night to let some air circulate. Bad move. I awakened at six to step on the Giant Rotted Fish Head:
Carp, I think. The worst of it was, it was early and dark, and my eyes were still blurry, so I didn't know what I'd stepped on. I had to get down and peer closely, closely until I had that Aw, Jesus moment, when I realized I was eyeball to empty eye socket with that thing.
Damn thing must be 10 inches across. A whoppah.
If my life were a novel, yeah, yeah... Kafka wrote it, Dali illustrated it. Things just ain't right around here lately.
I came home to a miasma of fetid air, call it a non-stirring 88 degrees. The dog was wave surfing in her crate in three inches of self-generated saliva. Opened the back door, and, yes! The compressor was running like a ferret with turpentine on its ass. But no coldness. Fuck!
Nothing worse than an August night in Florida with no AC. Whew. And I'm a Free Sweater. Some people are hemophiliacs. Free Bleeders. I'm a Free Sweater.
IF it's 86 in the rest of the house it's 96 in my bedroom, because the setting sun burns through the sliding door, through the vertical blinds.
Christ! Did I mention how hot it is in here?
I feel like a buried miner. I don't have a canary. I don't even have a sentinel chicken. But I feel faint...
Whoopsie! I have cable! Oh. History Channel. Buried miners.
Have I told you how hot it is in here?
This is sweet. Contraband Cuban Monte Cristo Cigar, playing gator in the pool. Nothing visible but the eyes. Can't sleep here, though. Might drownd myself. Sheets already wet. Am I live blogging?
UPDATE 10:38: Still hot as Hell. Although the sweat has plastered my hair back in a rather sexy continental look. Hope there ain't no dancin' goin' on!
You can't read the inscription on the above piece of granite, but it says
"D BOONE KILLED
A BAR HERE 1765"
Key's stepdaddy showed it to me Saturday. It's way the fuck back in the woods ten feet off his 60 acre spread on his neighbor's farm. They uncovered it 25 years ago, when they noticed the carving of the letters of "KILLED". They dug about a foot of earth and leaves away and saw the rest. Authentic? Who knows? It's a fact Boone loved to carve his name everywhere, from Stone Mountain to Lookout Mountain. The original graffiti artist. And in 1765 he did travel from North Carolina to Florida to see if it was worth settling, which would have taken him near Statham, I suppose. Malaria and the yellow jack made Florida a decidedly uncool habitat for D Boone, however, so after two subsequent trips to Caintuck he founded Boonesboro instead (I respect his ego. I would have called it Velocitown myself).
Ralph says it was very legible when they first unearthed it, but 25 years exposed to the elements have weathered it severely. Oh, well. Some geek types from The University of Georgia took some rubbings at the time (Heh. He said rubbings) which is good, because I imagine in another 25 years you won't be able to read it any more.
I picked up the hellhound yesterday, fully expecting a nice row of sutures and a sedated predator. They told me they couldn't spay her because she was still in season. Hadn't I got the phone message?
Well, I guess I did, and inadvertently deleted it before listening. So now I have to take her back in four weeks.
This dog hadn't bled in 13 days. Was I supposed to examine her engorged privates? I think not. How DO you tell when a dog is out of heat? Beats hell out of me.
The overnight in the kennel traumatized her, though, so that's good. She and her swollen nethers are ignoring me.
That's a good thing.
Update: Joan says there are only two rooms left at the Kristy. How about a voluntary head count in the comments? I'm curious who's
buying my dinner booked. Of course, there's always the Comfort Inn down the street, but tradition stipulates that the Comfort Inn trash must buy breakfast at the Huddle House for the Kristy folk. So there's that to think about.
I released the rest of the cabins and rooms I'd held at the Chalet Kristy for Helen a Bucket 2007. You've had fair warning. All you Johnny-Come-Latelies (and Johnny-Come-Nevers, and Johnny-Come-Painfully Dribblings) will not be able to avail yourselves of my largesse.
I released one cabin today. I suggest someone scarf it up.
Because there won't be any partying in my cabin. That's where I sleep. That's where I brush my teeth. Someone get the other cabin, and I'll put the Chatham Artillery Punch there. And Eric told me to tell you
Mercy... rubberneckers... hear Vman out... Sylvia sez let's party at Chez Eric...
Call Mark. Book. It's the right thing to do.
So my dog can drink a bowl of water and walk around with two pints of water still sloshing out of her jowls. Or, in the case of Monday instant, it was two pints of fecal coliform matter that she was sloshing as she ran to give me face loving. There was shit matter spattered all over my bathroom, my bedroom, and my bedding.
Took Lil Bella to the vet today.
Kissed Slapped her on the head and bid adieu. Tomorrow morning she goes under the knife. They'll remove her reproductive sweetmeats, and return her to me groggy and in pain.
I'm then going to pipe Meat Loaf into her crate all night. Mixed with some Rod McKuen recitations. Because there ain't no such thing as too gay.
Then I'll waterboard her, and we can discuss the slurping of one's master's personal evacuations.
The only congress worth a shit is sexual congress. At least in my world.
I had a really bad stomach virus the other day. Really bad. Had to stay home. But I accepted a call from a lady friend, and was trying to conduct a casual conversation when the urge hit me. Not wanting to interrupt a rather important moment in the conversation I took a stealth shit. Of course, it sounded like I was filling the bathtub on full throttle, but I pulled it off.
Couldn't flush and give it away, though, so I figured I'd flush that disgusting bowl when I got off the phone. I returned to my deathbed to continue the conversation. Then I heard the slurping. My dog was drinking that shit. I barked (heh) a NO! at her. She knew she was busted. So she jumped on the bed and started licking my face in atonement.
I got even with her when I projectile vomited on her, though.
My life is full of moments like this.
I watched the Jags-Bucs preseason game at home. I wanted to see my daughter perform, and I knew I'd need the Hubble Telescope at the stadium. A wise decision.
They don't have all the cameras for a preseason game that they do at a regular game, though, so they didn't show the cheerleaders until halftime. But they zoomed in on the Velocidaughter! And she was in a TV commercial with 4 other cheerleaders twicet!
I was a proud old fool.
Although I'm not sure I like her picture that close to Lobster Boy's.
I don't know about you, but I'm looking at those pincers thinking One for the pink, and one for the stink.
No wonder he was such a ladies' man.
In fact, I have been.
I'm working on my own personal Manhattan Project. I drink Manhattans, and dream of getting my hands on a nuclear device. And if you miss me so badly, where's the money, cocainum, and blow jobs? I'm readily enticed.
The original Popeyes from 1933-1938 are finally available on DVD. This is the equivalent of having a sixteen-year-old Moroccan virgin tied to your bedposts. Or, a really cool Queen poster on your high school wall. I know which one I want.
P.S. The discriminating reader will reconflect with shame, however, that they have never done anything for me, as I alas have no Tipjar. I give of my soul. Someone give me my Popeyes.