"You can do anything, but lay off of my blue suede shoes" --Carl Perkins

Monday, August 21, 2006

Darwin Wept! -or- What a Sad State W'ere In!?!

Well, it makes me want to cry. Unfortunately, most of you out there apparently don't find it as depressing as the rest of the educated world; and that, my fellow Americans, is what makes it even worse.

So sad...

I Am A Huge Bush Fan

...Sam Bush, that is.

And what'ya know? He turns out to be my 2nd official Nashville Celeb sighting since moving here over a year and a half ago.

I noticed him while waiting in line at the Belle Meade Liquor Store on friday, after picking up my weekend standard bottle of Il Bastardo table wine.

Goddamnit! I love this town!

Friday, August 18, 2006

A Rapid Social Devolution

I’m starting to sense the negative affects on my social skills that a life of self-induced introversion has lent me. I said the most asinine thing I think I could have said today, something I haven’t said since I was yukin’ it up in a fraternity in college. I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know how it came to cross my lips. I thought I had put such offenses to pasture long ago. It’s the work, I tell you. It’s the family obligations. It’s the long-distanced seclusion a life in Fairview has brought me. I hate that I said what I said. I hate that it came out of my mouth like it was something I would use in my everyday rants. Please believe me. I’m not a bastard. I swear. I don’t talk like that. Ok, maybe I did at one time, but not now.

Maybe it is still buried in me like a sleeping retrovirus waiting to burst from my gut and consume me with bigoted boils and judgmental bruises. Maybe I’m only kidding myself – the indoctrination of my upbringing and cultural biases can never be truly overcome or bettered. Maybe my subconscious still harbors such negatives.

Surely not, though. Right? Surely, that wouldn’t happen to an enlightened, somewhat educated schmuck like me, and yet, there is no denying that the words did come from my own mouth. I can’t deny it. There was a witness. She heard me say it. She heard me say, “God that’s so gay!”; and then it was silent.

I am sorry.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

One More Wako Liberal Conspiracy, Right?

"They [fireants], along with armadillos*, are spreading northward from warmer climes. "

I wonder why. Hmmm? Oh, I don't know...
Could it be...



*Thanks for the link, Aunt B!

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Brought To You By The Number Four

That's right four. Today brings my count of armadillo sightings to a big fat four since moving here a year and a half ago from Birmingham. Of course, sadly, every last one of them have been of either the flat or swollen variety, as each of them were waiting to be cleaned up by convicts on a road-crew detail. Even so, their tell-tale concentric plates and fat hairy tails, as always, are reliable calling cards when one is counting his armadillo road kills.

Yep. Four.

***Out of guilt and blinding fear I've decided to change my armadillo picture since the original was copywritten by some guy called Caddylak.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Alright, Who'd I Miss?

Just finished adding new links to my blogroll. Who'd I miss? Speak now or forever blah blah blah...

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Um, Bans Are Bad. M'kay?

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I am sorry, but it is obviously high time for a little tough love. A lot of my liberal friends out there are not going to like what I have to say right now, but this story** makes me want to force feed a bleeding heart to the first animal rights activist I smell.

OK. I understand. You are a good-for-nuthin’ hippy slacker like myself, and you are too lazy to read the article linked above. No problem. I can relate. I don’t hate you for that. No, I am fucking disgusted with your sorry sanctimonious ass for agreeing with what the City of Chicago has done. It is not cool, not in any fucking way shape or form to ban any fucking food on this here fucking planet. Especially, and I repeat, especially if it is good fucking food like foie gras.

I am sorry if the poor little geesy-poos are getting overfed. Truly, I am. I am sorry that their ripe swollen livers are ripped from their cute round yummy-nummy-tummykins and are substituted for potted-meat by embarrassingly pretentious housewives. But. I am not sorry when it is used by a skilled chef to prepare a divinely inspired plate of rich buttery goodness. Call me callous, if you will. I'll toast that sentiment with a glass of crocodile tear cabernet.

Seriously, what is wrong with you people? Foie gras tastes really really good, and not only that; but can’t you see that when you ban something, anything, you are no better than any other run-o’-the-mill slop-swilling fascist? I suppose veal is next, hmmm? Then we’ll return to the boiled lobster debate? Then what? Will we start banning all meats that were not duly “processed” by way of lethal injection?

A few tips, my fellow liberals. The reason why you are not finding a foothold in certain debates with the 3-headed aliens on the right, is that some of us, well really you in particular, pal, have our own 3-headed alien ideas.

Here are a few of them:

  • Don’t tell people what they can or can’t eat. Enough said.
  • Don’t tell people that animals can’t be tested. Especially when everything you have consumed, everything you’ve worn, and yes, everything you’ve used to prevent sexually transmitted diseases was tested and will continue to be tested with and by the animals you wuv.
  • Don’t tell people where they can or cannot smoke. It only makes the Libertarians want to sit closer to your table, and honestly, who is ready for that nightmare.
  • And, yes I am sorry, but please; do not tell people that they shouldn’t use animals in sports. Don’t get me wrong. Some banned animal sports are pure jack-booted evil, such as dog fighting, and bear baiting, etc, but the focus of those sports is to invoke harm to one or more animals. They are inherently cruel by their nature. But come on – horseracing*? No decent person wants those horses to be hurt. That’s why we invoke regulations on these sports, not bans. Besides, what would we do with the horses we didn’t race? Cook ‘em and eat ‘em? Just as long as we didn’t force-feed them, right?

Anyway, I digress, but my point is that bans like these are what give us liberals a bad name. This is the fuel that keeps the Fox News witch-fires burning. This is how they come up with those cute little nicknames that roll so easily off a redneck’s tongue. Duh… This is why we are losing so many of our sisters and brothers to the Libertarian abyss.

So, please, I implore you. At least think about it before you get behind something as silly as a foie gras ban. It really is up to you. Eat more force-fed goose today, because only you can prevent Ann Coulter from making the best seller list again tomorrow.


*My apologies to Brittney in misinterpreting her position on the animal sports issue. Her clarification of her position is explained within the comments of this post.

**...and my apologies to Sarcastro for not including the link from where I was first clued in to the Chicago story. So there.

Friday, July 07, 2006

You People are Freaking Lunatics

Oh yeah, I went to your "blogger meet-up" last night, and all I can say is that the proper authorities have been notified, and they will be paying you all a visit quite shortly.

In the meantime, I have a few words for you sick animals:

Short and Fat, Dude! Do us all a favor and catch the South Beach wave. Please! The party was all about you - wall to wall you. Seriously. I don’t care how cool you turned out to be in person, but damn, lay off of the Krispy Kremes for a while. I mean, damn.

Listen up, Mary Mancini. I am sorry, but for the last time, no. No, I will not have your love-child. I don’t care how much you cry and beg. I am a married man, for Chrysakes! You have to face the truth. It is too late for us. ...*sniff*

Um… I don’t know who the brilliant lame-dick was who brought the drunken baboon with them, but not only did the thing smell like warmed ass, but I don’t think Rex L Camino appreciated having his leg humped all night either.

Jon Jackson, if that really is your name. I don’t know what you did with the calm and collected guy who once wrote Crap and Drivel, but you need to bring it down a few levels, dude. I mean, humping Camino’s leg like that, well, it just wasn’t cool.

Somebody seriously needs to hunt down and kill that Sarcastro fucker. He nearly amputated my entire arm playing his little elevator games. At least I still have parts of my fingers. Having any problem typing your post this morning, Sarc? Probably not. You didn’t type your post with BLOODY FUCKING NUBS! Did you!?!

You know, Gandolph Mantooth, come to think of it, I don’t think you did actually smell smoke when you screamed “FIRE!”. If I didn’t know any better, I think you were just trying to get away from listening to me yammer on about the weather. Nawwww.

Chris Wage, you sir are a madman. The way you fought off those gun nuts, when they began firing their AKs into the glass atrium, proves you are either the bravest son-uva-bitch I have ever seen, or a bloody psychopath. Judging by poor Blake’s gnawed-off ear, I’ll go with the latter.

Thank sweet sweet Jesus, Newscoma and Squirrels on Snark showed up when they did. Together with SoS’s gift for triage and Newscoma’s saintly bed manner, they were able to save a few of the boys. I don’t know how they did it. There was no way in hell the gun nuts could have survived that much blood loss, but some did.

Thanks also to Roger Abramson’s quick thinking in jerry-rigging the massive uber bong on the fly. Nice craftsmanship, dude. Before that, I thought we were going to have to keep smoking spliffs rolled from Aunt B’s napkin cooters and her brother’s “oregano” stash. Next time, though, Krumm needs to bring his own. Puff puff give, my friend, puff puff give.

Of course, then everything got really weird. Kat started screaming hysterically about tiny clowns crawling up and down her legs. Amanda started kicking Darth Vader’s ass. Rachel began making molatov cocktails out of Sarcastro’s half empty bourbon bottles for use in her “revolution”. Then Ceeelcee began complaining about how the barbecue that was served wasn’t up to Mothership standards, and then decided to light poor Brittney and Kleinheider on fire, chanting, “Where there’s smoke there’s Q, bitch! Where there’s smoke there’s Q!”

Thank God, Kleinheider remembered to bring his fire hose, again.

I mean it. You people are sick!!!

One more thing: I don't know who did it, but somebody must have paid off the bartender to keep his mouth shut, because when I asked him how you people were about tipping, he said that overall you were pretty good. The lying bastard. Just for that, he got no tip from me. I hope you people are happy.

…and that’s exactly how I remember it.

Well, at least I think so, and then I blacked out from all the scotch.


Can anyone tell me how I ended up in Fritz’s bed…