At what juncture in your vida loco - or loca as the case may be - does it become unnecessary to nap in the afternoon? I am contemplatin' such theories as my son sleeps off a case of "bastards". In other words, Crazy Head had awoke early this morning, played liked the son of a rock star with a drunk aupair and skipped right on past Sleepyville into early afternoon without rechargin' his battrees (pronounce as spelled). This caused him to bastard out at his best mates house by refusing to share toys and obsessing over the non-functionality of side doors on a little tyke bus like he was freakin' Rain Man counting cards at the Mirage ("20 minutes to Bob the Builder. 20 Minutes to Bob the Builder."). Incidentally, they should make a special brand of toys for kids with control issues. They could be called Little Control Freaks.
I mean I quit partaking in the afternoon siesta after I matriculated. Once you've got a job, it seems as though you can't nap in the middle of the day because, even though you ain't shuckin' steel like a slave at that moment, you've got a whole bunch of other shit you gots to tend to because you can't normally tend to it because you're normally shuckin' steel like a Jamaican slave (Blogger's note: "Shuckin' steel like a slave" is a line I hornswaggled from the legendary, formally jerri-curled Blues Great Buddy Guy. So, tell the NAACP to back off. I'm fresh off attending the American Eagle School of Law & Tire Center's Black Law Student Association shindig as well. Much like Half Dollar, I don't dance I take two steps and twist.)
I'm tired enough to sleep write now, but I couldn't saw some sheep for nothin'. Maybe that should have been saw some z's? Or, is it catch some sheep? Eitherway, I'm tired as hell and I'm not going to splain it anymore. The reponsibilities of life do not allow me to nap in the middle of the day is what I'm sayin. That and my lunatic neighbor mowing his goddman yard in October.
WARNING! THE FOLLOWING COMMENT MAY BE OFFENSIVE. DEAL WITH IT.
So, if October is breast cancer awareness month, shouldn't there be a healthy breast awareness month? If we're going to call out all the sick boobs, we should also celebrate all the healthy ones. Instead of those sissyfied pink rubber bands or those ribbons that look like you had a midget fstylist who tuckered out before she finished the job, women that wanted to show their support for all the sick boobs could wear like shirts with the boob area cut out to show what healthy boobs look like. You know, sort of like those pictures at the dentist's office that show the really good peoples teeth versus your sugar-eatin-plaque-covered-have-to-use-a-pressure-washer-to-clean-them teeth.
KNOWN OFFENSIVE THEORY IS OVER. ANYTHING ELSE BEYOND THIS POINT THAT IS OFFENSIVE IS JUST YOU LOOKING FOR A REASON TO GET CHAPPED.
O.K., the local puddle jumper depot gets funding from our local County Physical Court. The aeropuerto finds out a while back that the Feds are theorizin' on payin the entire cost for the lookout tower. The Physical Court turns over a wad of De Niro. A lot of De Niro. Like Ragin' Bull De Niro. Not Sorry Ass Mob Boss with a Psychiatrist De Niro. Then, after getting the De Niro, the aeropuerto says, oh yeah, by the way, the federales paid for the look out tower and we're still going to keep them ducketts you flogged us. Is this the way you figgered it? I swear, it is almost like people in positions of authority - see the wheelbarrowed donkey - in Paducah go out of their way to scandalize shit or make it appear as though something shady is taking place.
Please allow me to fumigate my wisdom. A county attorney sues his county for following his advice and giving cash to a soon-to-be-former employee. A cat runs for a county job on the platfrom of cutting waste by getting rid of the "right hand man" position only to cut it and reinstate it with a different right hand man. A City Commission gives incentives to any new company that will parlay its way downtown but don't won't to share the love with any local business that's already floggin' its wares downtown. City Commission passes a temporary payroll tax to "increase" business, then make its temporary forever because taking more dough out of the checks of people who work in the city will "increase" buitness. A City Commission threatens to by a hotel that looks like an old burned out set for 70's porno movies because they don't like the cat that is ponying up millions to purchase it and they want to tell him what to do with property and how to run it. The Mayor wont let a big wig developer who's been in town forever codroast some trees at his newest development because some residents of Snoot Ave don't want codroastin in close proximity to their snootiness. The City has somehow determined that you can enclose an art festival and let people swill it out within said confines during those festivities, but you can only consume gurgle burgers in a beerpen/beer jail area the size of Clark Griswold's Metallic Pea Family Truckster when celebratin' swine fest on the river. You can swill it out in a bar on the Sabbath but you sure as hell can't by no liquid love in a store and take it home and consume it. A police chief goes public with his reprimand of his officers for accepting free meat at overturned semi accident site in Meatgate '06. A cat running for judge tell us all he's doing us a favor by taking the mere pittance of $100K that he'll make after he quits being a cash laden defense attorney and graces us with his appearance on the bench. The Artist Witness Protection Plan is implemented where all these would-be Picassos move to Paducah, get a free loan, fix up an old house, then put it back on the market, selling it for a huge profit before Vangoughing somewheres else less fartsy and more artsy. And this is just all the craziness that has transpired recently. I didn't get into "O.T." and the nose whiskey flow that was covered by the Paducah Sun in the 80's.
I freakin' love Paducah. It's like a mix of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, Mayberry and Smallville. It's got it old school history and charm, with a very nice group of people with a whole of lot of unbelievability.
Well, with that said, I'm getting ready to go on a whirlwind party tour. A yute birffday shinding, a law enforcement Halloween Party and drunken-postal Halloween party. I guess the question is, of these three soires, which will have the most guns, screaming and crying and non-sharing?
I'm just sayin.....
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Dew I knowed ewe?
It is a galatically weird experience to run into a good friend of your's at lunch, during the week, when you are at lunch with another work-related good friend and your good friend is out eating with their work-realted good friends. It ain't as if you've done the nasty and are trying to avoid that awkward post-pork eye contact at werk. It's more like a "I can't believe you're with him/her" type sentiment. Not that either of ewe contemplated caloric intake at the same eatery, or even owe one another the gratitude of clearing such plans. You don't even have a clue or any issues with who your friend be gettin' their eat on with. It's just that, when you're good friends with someone, you almost feel as though you're a spurned high school friend when you see them out with other people and can't talk to them because (a) you're in public and (b) both of you have other peeps you need to tend to.
It's all guilt related. You think the other person is kewl and dig hanging out with them. They seem to be of the same opinion. You're with a good friend who also ingresses and egresses in the same vernacular as yourself, i.e. has the same job. You're friend is parlayin' the same way and running things with their main werk honkeys. Then, like a booger you forgot was on yo finger, you're both there, out in the open, in front of everyone. Your friend knows that he/she is your friend. Their friend(s) know that you're their friend's friend. Suddenly, not only do you feel as though you should apologize and order flowers, their friends are feeling weird about not telling your friend(s) that yall were going out to eat lunch. It's a viscious cycle that makes less since than a banker with gout. Even I have no idear what that means.
Hear be the solution. Get over it. Conversate as much as yall decide. Don't worry about it. Sure, you may be better friends out of the professional scenarioid, but yall didn't ride there together and your friends don't want to hear your friend bitch about their job any more than your friend's friends want to hear you bitch about your job. If there is any bitchin' at lunch, it needs to be in a lingo that all those listening can comprehend, i.e. if you've got to have a decoder ring to figger out what your rants mean, you need to move to a different table.
Lunch is too freakin' short to add drama into the mix. You've got an hour, hour and a half at most. You shouldn't waste any of the potentially only free time you've got all day over any bullshit. Whether you're eating or not, you should try to get the most stress free time out of your lunch hour. Start by saying "werd" and "I'll call you later" to any homies from different werk sectors that you encounter and go on with it.
I think Rodney King said it best when he utterred, "Can't we all just eat alone?"
I'm just sayin......
It's all guilt related. You think the other person is kewl and dig hanging out with them. They seem to be of the same opinion. You're with a good friend who also ingresses and egresses in the same vernacular as yourself, i.e. has the same job. You're friend is parlayin' the same way and running things with their main werk honkeys. Then, like a booger you forgot was on yo finger, you're both there, out in the open, in front of everyone. Your friend knows that he/she is your friend. Their friend(s) know that you're their friend's friend. Suddenly, not only do you feel as though you should apologize and order flowers, their friends are feeling weird about not telling your friend(s) that yall were going out to eat lunch. It's a viscious cycle that makes less since than a banker with gout. Even I have no idear what that means.
Hear be the solution. Get over it. Conversate as much as yall decide. Don't worry about it. Sure, you may be better friends out of the professional scenarioid, but yall didn't ride there together and your friends don't want to hear your friend bitch about their job any more than your friend's friends want to hear you bitch about your job. If there is any bitchin' at lunch, it needs to be in a lingo that all those listening can comprehend, i.e. if you've got to have a decoder ring to figger out what your rants mean, you need to move to a different table.
Lunch is too freakin' short to add drama into the mix. You've got an hour, hour and a half at most. You shouldn't waste any of the potentially only free time you've got all day over any bullshit. Whether you're eating or not, you should try to get the most stress free time out of your lunch hour. Start by saying "werd" and "I'll call you later" to any homies from different werk sectors that you encounter and go on with it.
I think Rodney King said it best when he utterred, "Can't we all just eat alone?"
I'm just sayin......
Monday, October 22, 2007
Weight until your turn
You know how you know you have a problew with chow? And by "chow" I mean grub, not your Asian neighbor or that furry angry mutt from down the street. You've got a problem with eatin' when you celebrate unexpected diet success with eating all the chow the you've forgone to become dietarily successfull. Like a group of homies with waists of 40+ at No. 1 Super Terrific Happy Chinese Buffet, you follow me?
Oh yeah. I pulled off the unthinkable this weekend. I successfully avoided the "special event gorge out" that has plagued my weightloss for about the past year. I hardly ate anything on Friday and then, despite tasty whore's do vers made by the Artisan Kitchen Formerly Known as Mansion II Go, I laid off the funneling of tastiness into my gullett for the duration of my wife's 40th Date O' Birff Spectacular Extravaganza.
Then, much to my surprise, on Sunday morning, I checked in at a waifish 206, down some 3 lbs from Friday. Holy Tequila and Sugar Free Red Bull Elmer Fudd! I cwan't beweeve it!
So, from there it goes straight into the used lap band barrell. Cooked three varities of pork and - in all actuality - didn't do too bad by eating a egg, bacon and cheese biscuit and a couple random pieces of swinely goodness for breakfast on Sunday. Patron Silver got me through the lunch hour, early afternoon and the beginning of early evening.
The Mexican-ness of the day hit hard around dinner. Homemade tacos and that white cheezy stuff for dinner. Good gawd all mighty, you'd think it wasn't safe to drink the water arount this joint the food was so el delicioso. I checked my wife for a green card after eating, or, as the kids like to say, carta verde.
Needless to say, 209ish this morning. Had a mild set back at lunch. The Boy got me a little too much. And then there was pizza for dinner. I ate far less than the usual cholesterol gastric bypass necessitating amount I normally do, but I'm still worried I'm losing the tenuous grip I had on cutting back on the chow.
Stay tuned. Love, peace and chicken grease.
I'm just sayin.......
Oh yeah. I pulled off the unthinkable this weekend. I successfully avoided the "special event gorge out" that has plagued my weightloss for about the past year. I hardly ate anything on Friday and then, despite tasty whore's do vers made by the Artisan Kitchen Formerly Known as Mansion II Go, I laid off the funneling of tastiness into my gullett for the duration of my wife's 40th Date O' Birff Spectacular Extravaganza.
Then, much to my surprise, on Sunday morning, I checked in at a waifish 206, down some 3 lbs from Friday. Holy Tequila and Sugar Free Red Bull Elmer Fudd! I cwan't beweeve it!
So, from there it goes straight into the used lap band barrell. Cooked three varities of pork and - in all actuality - didn't do too bad by eating a egg, bacon and cheese biscuit and a couple random pieces of swinely goodness for breakfast on Sunday. Patron Silver got me through the lunch hour, early afternoon and the beginning of early evening.
The Mexican-ness of the day hit hard around dinner. Homemade tacos and that white cheezy stuff for dinner. Good gawd all mighty, you'd think it wasn't safe to drink the water arount this joint the food was so el delicioso. I checked my wife for a green card after eating, or, as the kids like to say, carta verde.
Needless to say, 209ish this morning. Had a mild set back at lunch. The Boy got me a little too much. And then there was pizza for dinner. I ate far less than the usual cholesterol gastric bypass necessitating amount I normally do, but I'm still worried I'm losing the tenuous grip I had on cutting back on the chow.
Stay tuned. Love, peace and chicken grease.
I'm just sayin.......
Friday, October 19, 2007
Don't let the Torre hit ye in the arse on yer way out
Joe Torre decided that the Yankees offer of $5 million clams a year - with post season success based incentives that could have made the deal worth an additional $3 million oysters - was not up to his "snuff" and walked away from managing the New York Yankees yesterday. Absolutely amazing. Even if he didn't make the post season, the $5 million scallops would have still made him the highest paid fewl in the buitness. Apparently he felt as though this offer was a slight because his base salary would have been reduced compared to the terms of his contract that just expired after getting shelacked by the freakin' Boneyard (Indians) this year. Well, all I can say is Joe, get yo shit and get out.
I want to be like diluted urine in a probationer's drug screen about this, in a purely heterosexual-Yankee fan way, I love Joe Torre. He was our version of Charleton Heston, meaning he lead us out of the desert after years of aimless wandering (See the Yankee teams from 1982 through 1995.) I mean the Yankees had went down hill so much that goddamn Dale Berra made the team. Dale was the most mangled "statement" Yogi ever thrust upon the baseball world. He had a thin black mustache that made him look like a stunt double in a low budget '70's porno. He played baseball like he was Nostradamus and was auditioning years early for a part in League of Their Own. My god he was terrible.
Anywho, when Joe was hired all of us lunatic-unrealistic-expecting-got-to-win-every-game-or-the-world-is-gonna-end Yankee fans scratched our collective heads and thought, didn't the Cardinals get rid of this guy? I don't want Whitey Herzog to manage the freakin' Yankees! Like a dude in China, boy were we Wong.
Joe Torre was nothing short of miraculous during his tenure as Yankees manager. Won 4 of 6 World Series and made it very hard for Yankee haters to hate Yankees because he was genuine, caring and loved his players. He is a good cat that brought a lot to the Yankees clubhouse. He classed it up.
However, Joe must have got sick of all of Steinbrenner's bullshit. Namely telling the press that he was going to be 86'd if he lost to the Indians (god I hope they beat the Red Sox). As much as I love that crazy old bastard for what he's done for the Yankees, he should not have opened his prune hole on that one. Maybe Joe's gotten a little weirded out by Mattingly's apparent jockeying for the job. Who knows.
In either event, Joe decided to end his run as one of the greatest managers in baseball history for the greatest team in baseball history. Good thing is, he ended it on his own terms. He walked away. I'm glad it went down like that. That being the case, the Joe Torre era is over and its time for all of us to get over it and move on.
Joe, don't let the door hit ye in the arse on your way out. We love ye. You're a knucklehead. Now, thank you for managing and leave!
I'm just sayin.............
I want to be like diluted urine in a probationer's drug screen about this, in a purely heterosexual-Yankee fan way, I love Joe Torre. He was our version of Charleton Heston, meaning he lead us out of the desert after years of aimless wandering (See the Yankee teams from 1982 through 1995.) I mean the Yankees had went down hill so much that goddamn Dale Berra made the team. Dale was the most mangled "statement" Yogi ever thrust upon the baseball world. He had a thin black mustache that made him look like a stunt double in a low budget '70's porno. He played baseball like he was Nostradamus and was auditioning years early for a part in League of Their Own. My god he was terrible.
Anywho, when Joe was hired all of us lunatic-unrealistic-expecting-got-to-win-every-game-or-the-world-is-gonna-end Yankee fans scratched our collective heads and thought, didn't the Cardinals get rid of this guy? I don't want Whitey Herzog to manage the freakin' Yankees! Like a dude in China, boy were we Wong.
Joe Torre was nothing short of miraculous during his tenure as Yankees manager. Won 4 of 6 World Series and made it very hard for Yankee haters to hate Yankees because he was genuine, caring and loved his players. He is a good cat that brought a lot to the Yankees clubhouse. He classed it up.
However, Joe must have got sick of all of Steinbrenner's bullshit. Namely telling the press that he was going to be 86'd if he lost to the Indians (god I hope they beat the Red Sox). As much as I love that crazy old bastard for what he's done for the Yankees, he should not have opened his prune hole on that one. Maybe Joe's gotten a little weirded out by Mattingly's apparent jockeying for the job. Who knows.
In either event, Joe decided to end his run as one of the greatest managers in baseball history for the greatest team in baseball history. Good thing is, he ended it on his own terms. He walked away. I'm glad it went down like that. That being the case, the Joe Torre era is over and its time for all of us to get over it and move on.
Joe, don't let the door hit ye in the arse on your way out. We love ye. You're a knucklehead. Now, thank you for managing and leave!
I'm just sayin.............
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
A daughter and father-in-law bond Ford tough
Today was a David Banner moment in the history of me father's relationship with me wife. Oh yeah, nothing says "I finally see what me boy see's in ye" like a daughter-in-law loaning her father-in-law cash to purchase a tractor. Insert Green Acres theme hear.
Not that my dad and wife haven't gotten a long during our marriage. They do get along and I genuinely believe they love each other. I ain't gonna lie and say its more "I really love you" than "I have to love you because you married my son and bored me a grandbaby" love, but there's some actual feelings in there. Their arguments are just galactic in nature, involve harsh statements that neither of them mean and are usually followed by a swift gathering up of one's things, racing to the auto and peeling out to head home.
Butt, back to the ass at hand, it was a kewl moment when my wife - without request - offered to pull the duckets out of her "hoardin' dough for a potential second yute fund" to help my father realize a dream that he's had since his friends told him he needed a tractor ten years ago. I mean, ever since he became aware that he absolutely had to have a piece of machinery that he had no idea how to use, he's wanted it. He's even waxed postalsophically about the day he gets to give Uncle Sam the ole' Smith Syanrara (insert proper spelling and gong sound hear along with picture of a fist with the middle finger extended) because he will get a check for his sick days that would, in his estimate, pay for a tractor. Well, he didn't have quit his job or flip anyone off because me lovely bride ponied up the samoleons to make his dream come true.
And let's not forget the other two major players in the saga. Bruncle Bo and Bruncle Hunk. I call them Bruncles because - like all my dad's friends - I've known them seemingly my whole career and they're like brothers to me, yet - because of the age and life experience difference - they've got an uncle vibe to them. Bruncle Bo looked over the rig last weekend and gave it his initial swill of approval. Bruncle Bo consulted with Bruncle Hunk and determined the price was fair. They both appeared with my father tonight to purchase the rig and Bruncle Hunk drove it down the highway to its new home, the Talibarn. A guy couldn't ask for two better bruncles.
The only question left to answer is, what kind of beer do you put in a tractor?
And I like to wish my wife a very happy birthday. It's a number she don't dig but I ain't keepin' score. I love her no matter what (tear, sniffle, werd).
I'm just sayin.........
Not that my dad and wife haven't gotten a long during our marriage. They do get along and I genuinely believe they love each other. I ain't gonna lie and say its more "I really love you" than "I have to love you because you married my son and bored me a grandbaby" love, but there's some actual feelings in there. Their arguments are just galactic in nature, involve harsh statements that neither of them mean and are usually followed by a swift gathering up of one's things, racing to the auto and peeling out to head home.
Butt, back to the ass at hand, it was a kewl moment when my wife - without request - offered to pull the duckets out of her "hoardin' dough for a potential second yute fund" to help my father realize a dream that he's had since his friends told him he needed a tractor ten years ago. I mean, ever since he became aware that he absolutely had to have a piece of machinery that he had no idea how to use, he's wanted it. He's even waxed postalsophically about the day he gets to give Uncle Sam the ole' Smith Syanrara (insert proper spelling and gong sound hear along with picture of a fist with the middle finger extended) because he will get a check for his sick days that would, in his estimate, pay for a tractor. Well, he didn't have quit his job or flip anyone off because me lovely bride ponied up the samoleons to make his dream come true.
And let's not forget the other two major players in the saga. Bruncle Bo and Bruncle Hunk. I call them Bruncles because - like all my dad's friends - I've known them seemingly my whole career and they're like brothers to me, yet - because of the age and life experience difference - they've got an uncle vibe to them. Bruncle Bo looked over the rig last weekend and gave it his initial swill of approval. Bruncle Bo consulted with Bruncle Hunk and determined the price was fair. They both appeared with my father tonight to purchase the rig and Bruncle Hunk drove it down the highway to its new home, the Talibarn. A guy couldn't ask for two better bruncles.
The only question left to answer is, what kind of beer do you put in a tractor?
And I like to wish my wife a very happy birthday. It's a number she don't dig but I ain't keepin' score. I love her no matter what (tear, sniffle, werd).
I'm just sayin.........
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
I'll retract that last remark
Awlright, so, in my disgust, I got all "WPSD'd out" and got a central fact wrong. A-Rod did not fly out to end the Yankees season. I figgered all this out while I was tossing and turning in bed last night unable to sleep. Potata (poe-tay-tuh) a/k/a Jorge Posada, struck out. He A-Rod'ed it up in this series, i.e. he had a great regular season and then couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with a base fiddle. That either means he couldn't get a hit or play a tune while smashing an instrument into a cow's home. I don't know. I've just heard that my whole career.
Can anyone take Annie Potts seriously? She' on this episode of Law & Order: Sexual Titillation and Innuendo Unit that I happened to have left on by mistake. Every time I see her I can't but help to think of her making out with Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters. She's playing a lawyer who apparently has Jedi mind control powers because the prosecutor bought into her goofyass "sexual addiction" theory and pre-trial diverted rape charges for her client who raped Sabrina the Teenage Witch and looked like a stunt double for one of The Hives. The guy was pastier than a preschooler in art class who skipped breakfast. Weird thang is, I use to go to class in between swilling it out in college with Annie Potts' nephew. He broke out that he was her nephew one time when we were in between classes - so to speak - and I didn't believe him. I mean people will say a lot of nutty stuff when they're drinking Wild Turkey. However, he quickly pulled out some photos and an assortment of Designing Women paraphernalia that made him either her nephew or a dude that needed to burst out of the closet. I wonder what happened to that cat?
Some political slogans I thunk up:
You'd be looney to vote for Rudy!
My Mama loves Obama!
John McCain: This country needs pissed off and crotchety.
Rudy Guiliani: He'll comb over the deficit and terrorism.
If you don't vote for Hillary, you'll be sillary!
That Rich Mormon Dude: The country can't handle more than one first lady.
Fred Thompson: Been there. Voted for Reagan.
John Edwards: Smart but too purty to be taken seriously.
Vote Nixon in '08: Death is not an excuse.
Could you vote for a guy with buck teeth and a comb-over that has to involve a quart of 40 weight oil and a wind machine? I mean, he is a Yankee fan and all, but I don't think that gives him a pass for being a Nazi.
John Edwards is like the hot chic with big boobs and a Looney Tunes voice that was top of your class but got no respect because of her physciality. Oh yeah, I lusted after her in vain for three years. Anyway, he's a smart dude with some decent theories but all anybody wants to talk about is how tasty he looks and how much cashola he has. He should show up for debates and interviews with no makeup, bedhead and in his p.j.'s and I bet peoples would start takin' his exit.
McCain can't get over being a geezer and mad all the time. He can't go 10 minits without mentioning Nam. I respect the guy immensely for what he did for our country and the sacrifice he made but, much like an N'Sync song in the '90's, I don't want to hear it constantly. I don't think we need a president modeled after Burgess Meredith's character in Rocky.
Fred Thompson is trying to convince everyone of one of two things and he doesn't care which one you pick, as long as you pick one. A. He's Ronald Reagan as evidenced by his acting credentials and geezerish running age. Or, B. He really is the president because you've seen him on t.v. before as the president. If you believe A., you've got some Reagan like innability to "recall" pertinent facts mysteriously when asked. If you buy into B., you probably think he is also a four star general because you saw him issuin' orders to Alec Baldwin on that air craft carrier a decade or two ago. A or B is not the answer.
Mitt Romney sounds like an yoga move with a dash of S & M. I'm sure you'd probably have to cry a mitt romney off in the shower in the dark. He's got more money than The Tabernacle and he's apparently believed in the opposite position of whatever it is he believes in now at some point in the not to distant past.
Everybody likes Obama but they all claim he can't pull it off because he ain't got no experience. How in the hell do you get "experience" being the president when you have to be elected president to get any experience? I think the experience argument is a nice way of avoiding saying that he could win but we don't know if this country is ready for a black president. I have no issues with it but I'm sure there are alot of more experienced minded honkeys out there that do.
Hillary is either hated or loved. No in betwixt. The consensus is that the majority of Americans had it good while Wild Bill was porkin' the help while in The White House. I think Wild Bill as the First Lady would be good stuff. I bet you would find him at the White House on weekends layin' around in his drawers, drinking swill and eatin' fast food. I don't knowed really what to make of Hillary. I don't hate her like most people. She's obviously smart. But I think a lot of people are concerned about a woman president. I could care less. I'm married and, therefore, a woman already runs what little life I have left after working and chasing my boy. And then you got my mother still callin' some shots.
I'm just sayin....
Can anyone take Annie Potts seriously? She' on this episode of Law & Order: Sexual Titillation and Innuendo Unit that I happened to have left on by mistake. Every time I see her I can't but help to think of her making out with Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters. She's playing a lawyer who apparently has Jedi mind control powers because the prosecutor bought into her goofyass "sexual addiction" theory and pre-trial diverted rape charges for her client who raped Sabrina the Teenage Witch and looked like a stunt double for one of The Hives. The guy was pastier than a preschooler in art class who skipped breakfast. Weird thang is, I use to go to class in between swilling it out in college with Annie Potts' nephew. He broke out that he was her nephew one time when we were in between classes - so to speak - and I didn't believe him. I mean people will say a lot of nutty stuff when they're drinking Wild Turkey. However, he quickly pulled out some photos and an assortment of Designing Women paraphernalia that made him either her nephew or a dude that needed to burst out of the closet. I wonder what happened to that cat?
Some political slogans I thunk up:
You'd be looney to vote for Rudy!
My Mama loves Obama!
John McCain: This country needs pissed off and crotchety.
Rudy Guiliani: He'll comb over the deficit and terrorism.
If you don't vote for Hillary, you'll be sillary!
That Rich Mormon Dude: The country can't handle more than one first lady.
Fred Thompson: Been there. Voted for Reagan.
John Edwards: Smart but too purty to be taken seriously.
Vote Nixon in '08: Death is not an excuse.
Could you vote for a guy with buck teeth and a comb-over that has to involve a quart of 40 weight oil and a wind machine? I mean, he is a Yankee fan and all, but I don't think that gives him a pass for being a Nazi.
John Edwards is like the hot chic with big boobs and a Looney Tunes voice that was top of your class but got no respect because of her physciality. Oh yeah, I lusted after her in vain for three years. Anyway, he's a smart dude with some decent theories but all anybody wants to talk about is how tasty he looks and how much cashola he has. He should show up for debates and interviews with no makeup, bedhead and in his p.j.'s and I bet peoples would start takin' his exit.
McCain can't get over being a geezer and mad all the time. He can't go 10 minits without mentioning Nam. I respect the guy immensely for what he did for our country and the sacrifice he made but, much like an N'Sync song in the '90's, I don't want to hear it constantly. I don't think we need a president modeled after Burgess Meredith's character in Rocky.
Fred Thompson is trying to convince everyone of one of two things and he doesn't care which one you pick, as long as you pick one. A. He's Ronald Reagan as evidenced by his acting credentials and geezerish running age. Or, B. He really is the president because you've seen him on t.v. before as the president. If you believe A., you've got some Reagan like innability to "recall" pertinent facts mysteriously when asked. If you buy into B., you probably think he is also a four star general because you saw him issuin' orders to Alec Baldwin on that air craft carrier a decade or two ago. A or B is not the answer.
Mitt Romney sounds like an yoga move with a dash of S & M. I'm sure you'd probably have to cry a mitt romney off in the shower in the dark. He's got more money than The Tabernacle and he's apparently believed in the opposite position of whatever it is he believes in now at some point in the not to distant past.
Everybody likes Obama but they all claim he can't pull it off because he ain't got no experience. How in the hell do you get "experience" being the president when you have to be elected president to get any experience? I think the experience argument is a nice way of avoiding saying that he could win but we don't know if this country is ready for a black president. I have no issues with it but I'm sure there are alot of more experienced minded honkeys out there that do.
Hillary is either hated or loved. No in betwixt. The consensus is that the majority of Americans had it good while Wild Bill was porkin' the help while in The White House. I think Wild Bill as the First Lady would be good stuff. I bet you would find him at the White House on weekends layin' around in his drawers, drinking swill and eatin' fast food. I don't knowed really what to make of Hillary. I don't hate her like most people. She's obviously smart. But I think a lot of people are concerned about a woman president. I could care less. I'm married and, therefore, a woman already runs what little life I have left after working and chasing my boy. And then you got my mother still callin' some shots.
I'm just sayin....
Monday, October 8, 2007
Bring out your dead.
The Yankees just got their stripes pinned by the Cleveland Indians. The freakin' Cleveland Indians. Oh yeah, the team that hasn't one a World Series since my dad was still sucklin from my grandma's worn-out teets (She had eleven childrens and he was number 8 of the bunch) just beat the Bronx Bombers.
Who made the last out you might ax? I'll give you a hint: he's great during the regular season but he turns stiff as an A rod in the post season. Yes, sir, Alex Emanuel Rodriquez flied out to end the season.
I want to be like wet glaze on sweet grease about this, the Yankees did not lose because A-Rod had a sub-A-Rod series. Jeter wasn't worth three Bobby Meachams.
Well, I'll have to get back to this tomorow. My wife says its time for me to go to bed. Or at least that's what I'm taking from the questions about whether or not the game ended and "if I'm coming to bed." And for those of you with your gourd in the gutter, don't get all hot and bothered. "Come to bed" means "Come in hear and watch Jungle Book in the bed with me, your two year old and a 90lb dog."
I'm just sayin.....
Who made the last out you might ax? I'll give you a hint: he's great during the regular season but he turns stiff as an A rod in the post season. Yes, sir, Alex Emanuel Rodriquez flied out to end the season.
I want to be like wet glaze on sweet grease about this, the Yankees did not lose because A-Rod had a sub-A-Rod series. Jeter wasn't worth three Bobby Meachams.
Well, I'll have to get back to this tomorow. My wife says its time for me to go to bed. Or at least that's what I'm taking from the questions about whether or not the game ended and "if I'm coming to bed." And for those of you with your gourd in the gutter, don't get all hot and bothered. "Come to bed" means "Come in hear and watch Jungle Book in the bed with me, your two year old and a 90lb dog."
I'm just sayin.....
Fear and Loafing on Columbus Day '07
I've never quite understood the theory behind Christopher Columbus. Is he celebrated because he had big enough Mary Kate and Ashley's to ride his ship out onto the not-so-flat sunset? Or, is he celebrated because he brought the VD to indians (feather not dot) and showed the rest of us where to come steal our country?
I'm not against Columbus. I even lived in a quaint little hamlet named after him in Ohio. O.K., so it was spread out like I can't believe it's not better on low lard toast and is the 16th largest city in the country, but you smell what I'm steppin' in.
I'm certainly not against a holiday. However, because Columbus Day is the bastard cousin of President's Day, i.e. it is not publicized in advance and - unless you still use saftey scissors, are a federal employee or work at a bank - it sneaks up on you like a ninja with a butt pinching fetish. It's over almost before you want to make a deposit, need a stamp or want to cut out the turkey you traced off your hand. Trying to accomplish such simple tasks that - on any other day - would be easier than that person everyone but you had, is a maddening experience. Despite the fact that you never give a damn about not being able to dew any of the above mentioned chores on any other day during the year, it's like it grates on your last psychotic nerve when you can't pull them off one Monday per calendar change.
Well, on this Columbus Day I started off stronger than a pure grain flavored Pop-Tart. I dropped off the boy, my car for fixin', got to werk, typed up an invite to my wife's 40th birthday shindig, did some other assorted asundry werkin' before meatin' mi padre for lunch at Los Amigos near Farlem, on the Southside.
Suprisingly, El Channel Ocho - or whatever it were- was not televising any special Columbus Day related programming. I'm always enthralled by the constant smiling and laughing of the los peeples on the shows on Spanish t.v. And then you got the fact that all the wimins seem to have big burrtos. But that's a different boobie, er, uh, I mean story.
Eitherwho, to celebrate the discoverin' of the land that we stole from the indians, all of us seated in booth cinco decided to partake in some - yep, you guessed it - firewater. My dad had some Mexican beer - is there a Mexican swill out there that isn't tasty? - my friend had a margarita and I had some tequila. Unlike most holiday luncheons, there was actually some food consumed. As usual, it was bueno stuffo.
Even when you don't swill it out, werking after lunch on a holiday is a hard nut to shuck. It's after lunch that you really start to ponder Ole C.C. because you're wonderin' why you hadn't thought about not werkin' in his honor earlier? If the federal "gubermint" says he's worthy of not werkin, then who is little ole me to try to thwart the wishes of The Man?
Not unlike other days when I feel like a gubermint employee, I hung around the oraphus for a while, answered a few calls and surfed the intranet. Except, in honor of Ole C.C., I looked at www.historychannel.com.
Didn't Ole C.C. come over on the Nina, Santa Maria and the Patron? I'll have to look into that.
I'm just sayin...
I'm not against Columbus. I even lived in a quaint little hamlet named after him in Ohio. O.K., so it was spread out like I can't believe it's not better on low lard toast and is the 16th largest city in the country, but you smell what I'm steppin' in.
I'm certainly not against a holiday. However, because Columbus Day is the bastard cousin of President's Day, i.e. it is not publicized in advance and - unless you still use saftey scissors, are a federal employee or work at a bank - it sneaks up on you like a ninja with a butt pinching fetish. It's over almost before you want to make a deposit, need a stamp or want to cut out the turkey you traced off your hand. Trying to accomplish such simple tasks that - on any other day - would be easier than that person everyone but you had, is a maddening experience. Despite the fact that you never give a damn about not being able to dew any of the above mentioned chores on any other day during the year, it's like it grates on your last psychotic nerve when you can't pull them off one Monday per calendar change.
Well, on this Columbus Day I started off stronger than a pure grain flavored Pop-Tart. I dropped off the boy, my car for fixin', got to werk, typed up an invite to my wife's 40th birthday shindig, did some other assorted asundry werkin' before meatin' mi padre for lunch at Los Amigos near Farlem, on the Southside.
Suprisingly, El Channel Ocho - or whatever it were- was not televising any special Columbus Day related programming. I'm always enthralled by the constant smiling and laughing of the los peeples on the shows on Spanish t.v. And then you got the fact that all the wimins seem to have big burrtos. But that's a different boobie, er, uh, I mean story.
Eitherwho, to celebrate the discoverin' of the land that we stole from the indians, all of us seated in booth cinco decided to partake in some - yep, you guessed it - firewater. My dad had some Mexican beer - is there a Mexican swill out there that isn't tasty? - my friend had a margarita and I had some tequila. Unlike most holiday luncheons, there was actually some food consumed. As usual, it was bueno stuffo.
Even when you don't swill it out, werking after lunch on a holiday is a hard nut to shuck. It's after lunch that you really start to ponder Ole C.C. because you're wonderin' why you hadn't thought about not werkin' in his honor earlier? If the federal "gubermint" says he's worthy of not werkin, then who is little ole me to try to thwart the wishes of The Man?
Not unlike other days when I feel like a gubermint employee, I hung around the oraphus for a while, answered a few calls and surfed the intranet. Except, in honor of Ole C.C., I looked at www.historychannel.com.
Didn't Ole C.C. come over on the Nina, Santa Maria and the Patron? I'll have to look into that.
I'm just sayin...
Saturday, October 6, 2007
If I told you, I'd have to tequila you.
Cuervo Tradicional and Squirt - believe it or not - actually tastes good. Not "White Castles post a good drunk good", but good nonetheless. Cuervo Tradicional and Diet Sun Drop is one of those combinations that should go down in history as muy terrible. Like Stalin and Mussolini, nitro and glycerin, big asses and spandex, these two should never mix. It was like drinking dirt without the worm.
Patron Platinum or Silver, on the otro hando, is smoother than Carlos Santana wearing silk drawers. Good stuff. I recommend it be chilled in the freezer prior to it heading south of your guzzle.
I'm about to share with you a revolucion (Damn I wish I was Bill Gates enough to knowed where to find me the el button that would sling one of those wavey things above some of these letters!) in tequlia swillin that I came up with. When swilling tequila you should use Key Limes for the after shot chaser. Using Key Limes will save you from spending a whole bunch of time trying to cut normal limes into perfectly proportioned wedges and slices. They are the size of a superball and can be cut and de-seeded quickly. Cutting regular limes almost makes you OCD out, I swear. One minit ewe'r just trying to slice a fruit to chase a shot with and then, before you realize it, ewe'r obsessing over the size of each wedge, whether you removed all the seeds and how much juice ewe'r losing in the slicing process. Just go wash your hands six or seven times and rock yourself to sleep in the corner for God's sake.
Leotard = a person with a low IQ that is obessed with Leonardo DiCaprio.
As most of ewe are aware, one of Idaho's Senators has recently come under scrutiny for his alleged participation in a George Michael like trangression in an airport bathroom in Minnessota. The Senator plead guilty to conducting himself disorderly and has now attempted to withdraw the guilty plea after the national media found out about it. While he had to have faith, the judge apparently told him "WHAM! I'm not allowing you to withdraw your guilty plea." I guess the hole "I didn't understand the law or my constitutional rights when I pleaded guilty" didn't really fly considering it was coming from a freaking jerk who writes laws for this country that have to comply with the mandates of that pesky little document known as the Constitution. The other weirdness that the rest of us non-Idahoans have figgered out of all of this is that that spud-loving conservatives have been a speculatin' on this cat's fondness for the hairy sex for 20 some odd years. I don't knowed what in the hell the guy's preferences in the rack have to do with his ability to get his legislate on butt Idahoans seem to be all about it even though they keep electing the guy. The guy actually stated that one reason he admitted to conducting himself disorderly was because he was feeling pressure from a major newspaper printing a story claiming he and Barney Frank played on the same team. If a newspaper is writing stories about how you may or may not be gay, you either need to look that gay man who always appears in your mirror straight in his eyes and admit the true, or figger out why you only hang out with women, watch Lifetime, wear thumb rings and take so long to get ready. When this whole story broke, the Republican Party was hoping that this cat would quit stalling -so to speak - and resign. Well, the damndest thing happened. He held a press conference and gave it up but now, as late as this week, he's saying - once again - he didn't know what he was doing and he's going to hang around and finish his term. Gay or not, the guy's got gonards.
Utah is predominantly Mormon. Back in the day, Mormons use to buy into polygamy - one guy having multiple wives. For the record, they gave that up a long time ago. However, they are conservative and don't buy into same sex marriages. As one of my friends said the other day, their state motto should be '"Utah: You can have as many wives as you want as long as one of them doesn't have a penis.'" I would love to see that on a bumper sticker or a license plate.
Papa John's is flogging what they say are two new pizzas. Being a man with a gut and a taste for pie, I am always attentive to piemercials. The two new flavors are a Six Cheese Pizza and a Sicilian Meats Pizza. No matter how many freaking versions of bovine lactate your throw on a pizza, its still just a cheese pizza. I ain't sayin' it ain't tastier than a chocolate covered boobie on Valentine's Day. I'm just sayin' the general pizza eatin' public is smart enough to know that this is just some kind of fancier version of a regular ole dang ole dang cheese pizza. I think someone else already holds the patent for putting cheeeze on dough with sauce. The other new pie that consits of "Sicilian Meats" is a glorified pepporoni and sausage pizza. Once again, I'm all about some sausage and pepporoni pizza but you don't have to invoke thoughts of "The Old Country" and Vito Coreleno kealing over outside his house to get me to order a pepporoni and sausage pizza.
Eye'm just sayin.....
Patron Platinum or Silver, on the otro hando, is smoother than Carlos Santana wearing silk drawers. Good stuff. I recommend it be chilled in the freezer prior to it heading south of your guzzle.
I'm about to share with you a revolucion (Damn I wish I was Bill Gates enough to knowed where to find me the el button that would sling one of those wavey things above some of these letters!) in tequlia swillin that I came up with. When swilling tequila you should use Key Limes for the after shot chaser. Using Key Limes will save you from spending a whole bunch of time trying to cut normal limes into perfectly proportioned wedges and slices. They are the size of a superball and can be cut and de-seeded quickly. Cutting regular limes almost makes you OCD out, I swear. One minit ewe'r just trying to slice a fruit to chase a shot with and then, before you realize it, ewe'r obsessing over the size of each wedge, whether you removed all the seeds and how much juice ewe'r losing in the slicing process. Just go wash your hands six or seven times and rock yourself to sleep in the corner for God's sake.
Leotard = a person with a low IQ that is obessed with Leonardo DiCaprio.
As most of ewe are aware, one of Idaho's Senators has recently come under scrutiny for his alleged participation in a George Michael like trangression in an airport bathroom in Minnessota. The Senator plead guilty to conducting himself disorderly and has now attempted to withdraw the guilty plea after the national media found out about it. While he had to have faith, the judge apparently told him "WHAM! I'm not allowing you to withdraw your guilty plea." I guess the hole "I didn't understand the law or my constitutional rights when I pleaded guilty" didn't really fly considering it was coming from a freaking jerk who writes laws for this country that have to comply with the mandates of that pesky little document known as the Constitution. The other weirdness that the rest of us non-Idahoans have figgered out of all of this is that that spud-loving conservatives have been a speculatin' on this cat's fondness for the hairy sex for 20 some odd years. I don't knowed what in the hell the guy's preferences in the rack have to do with his ability to get his legislate on butt Idahoans seem to be all about it even though they keep electing the guy. The guy actually stated that one reason he admitted to conducting himself disorderly was because he was feeling pressure from a major newspaper printing a story claiming he and Barney Frank played on the same team. If a newspaper is writing stories about how you may or may not be gay, you either need to look that gay man who always appears in your mirror straight in his eyes and admit the true, or figger out why you only hang out with women, watch Lifetime, wear thumb rings and take so long to get ready. When this whole story broke, the Republican Party was hoping that this cat would quit stalling -so to speak - and resign. Well, the damndest thing happened. He held a press conference and gave it up but now, as late as this week, he's saying - once again - he didn't know what he was doing and he's going to hang around and finish his term. Gay or not, the guy's got gonards.
Utah is predominantly Mormon. Back in the day, Mormons use to buy into polygamy - one guy having multiple wives. For the record, they gave that up a long time ago. However, they are conservative and don't buy into same sex marriages. As one of my friends said the other day, their state motto should be '"Utah: You can have as many wives as you want as long as one of them doesn't have a penis.'" I would love to see that on a bumper sticker or a license plate.
Papa John's is flogging what they say are two new pizzas. Being a man with a gut and a taste for pie, I am always attentive to piemercials. The two new flavors are a Six Cheese Pizza and a Sicilian Meats Pizza. No matter how many freaking versions of bovine lactate your throw on a pizza, its still just a cheese pizza. I ain't sayin' it ain't tastier than a chocolate covered boobie on Valentine's Day. I'm just sayin' the general pizza eatin' public is smart enough to know that this is just some kind of fancier version of a regular ole dang ole dang cheese pizza. I think someone else already holds the patent for putting cheeeze on dough with sauce. The other new pie that consits of "Sicilian Meats" is a glorified pepporoni and sausage pizza. Once again, I'm all about some sausage and pepporoni pizza but you don't have to invoke thoughts of "The Old Country" and Vito Coreleno kealing over outside his house to get me to order a pepporoni and sausage pizza.
Eye'm just sayin.....
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Wign' out
As purr ewesual, the belew is nothing more than some goofiness that I currently theorized. Any truth in the below is completely unintended and should be ignored much like the repeated calls you may or may not receive from the ilist cyber stalker of the week.
The mawl has been open for more years than one pizza joint can handle, but, throughout the years one business has persevered and still remains - not only in the same locale that it has always resided - and its chain link fence apparatus is still open for buisness during regular hours. What is the bastion of economic prosperity that flogs gear that has survived Reagan's Trickle Down Economics, the dot.com blow out and is, apparrently, one of the only joints that can rake in the dough consistenly without being a subsidiary of Halliburton?
Chic Wigs. Oh yeah. I have the stones to mention it.
Come on, admit it. Every time you went hair shoppin you've never seen a fellow wiggee (purchaser) in the store. All you ever see is a bunch of homeless hair and one wigger (seller/employee). There's never any advertising or specials. "Buy one weave and get the second at 1/2 price!" or "Special on Bee-Hives, color laced extensions and all colors of coif in a can - the world's premier aerosal hair product."
Ain't no body ever in that joint, but some how they manage to keep their chain link gate open on a daily basis. Ruby Tuesday coulnd't entice enuff butiness in with a fancy salad bar - i.e. it had separate spoons for each individual vat of dressing - but floggin' hair up near the front is a cash cow. Maybe all those people that use to frequent the ATM that was within wig distance would be counting their cash and think, "hey, I've got an extra twenty, I need some some dreadlocks to where to that business meeting the morning."
Chic Wigs has seen the arcarde bite the dust. It's seen several stores go out as quickly as they move into to the revolving grunge store area where the grunge store formerly known as Gadzooks use grunge it up. How many different people hoarkin' jewelry have come and gone during Chic Wigs reign of financial prosperity? Lewis Michelson could have had a toupee for every day had his store only been as successfull.
Paducah is all about enrichen' uranium, towboats, BBQ, quiltin' and store bought hair. Next time you see a fewl that appears to glow, get off a boat after his 30 on, wrapped in quilt, with a pompador that still has a upc code on it, don't wig out, just remember Chic Wigs will always be there.
I'm just sayin.....
The mawl has been open for more years than one pizza joint can handle, but, throughout the years one business has persevered and still remains - not only in the same locale that it has always resided - and its chain link fence apparatus is still open for buisness during regular hours. What is the bastion of economic prosperity that flogs gear that has survived Reagan's Trickle Down Economics, the dot.com blow out and is, apparrently, one of the only joints that can rake in the dough consistenly without being a subsidiary of Halliburton?
Chic Wigs. Oh yeah. I have the stones to mention it.
Come on, admit it. Every time you went hair shoppin you've never seen a fellow wiggee (purchaser) in the store. All you ever see is a bunch of homeless hair and one wigger (seller/employee). There's never any advertising or specials. "Buy one weave and get the second at 1/2 price!" or "Special on Bee-Hives, color laced extensions and all colors of coif in a can - the world's premier aerosal hair product."
Ain't no body ever in that joint, but some how they manage to keep their chain link gate open on a daily basis. Ruby Tuesday coulnd't entice enuff butiness in with a fancy salad bar - i.e. it had separate spoons for each individual vat of dressing - but floggin' hair up near the front is a cash cow. Maybe all those people that use to frequent the ATM that was within wig distance would be counting their cash and think, "hey, I've got an extra twenty, I need some some dreadlocks to where to that business meeting the morning."
Chic Wigs has seen the arcarde bite the dust. It's seen several stores go out as quickly as they move into to the revolving grunge store area where the grunge store formerly known as Gadzooks use grunge it up. How many different people hoarkin' jewelry have come and gone during Chic Wigs reign of financial prosperity? Lewis Michelson could have had a toupee for every day had his store only been as successfull.
Paducah is all about enrichen' uranium, towboats, BBQ, quiltin' and store bought hair. Next time you see a fewl that appears to glow, get off a boat after his 30 on, wrapped in quilt, with a pompador that still has a upc code on it, don't wig out, just remember Chic Wigs will always be there.
I'm just sayin.....
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Kiddy Gibberish and Unrelated Action
Rumor had it, that my son was a cute blonde version of Rain Man. Nah, he didn't have to watch Wapner at specifics time or dance with hot hispanic women in swanky hotel rooms. He just didn't talk much. According to Dr. Sulu's book, he was behind in his linguistical stylings and needed therapy. Not really a lisp nurse, cause it wasn't a spittle retention issue. He had Charley Chaplin Syndrome. The boy just didn't say his peace, so to speak.
Well, we got him hooked up through some "suckling from the state teet" program with a speech pathologist. It was slow at first. He seemed to dig showing her all his toys more than he did actually talking to her. Then, more recently, something changed. The boy, now deuce and quater anos old, started talking.
Now, if you're at our hoose, don't be surprised if you see a spherical object of some nature come flying directly at your crotch after seeing the most beautiful swing a two-year old future New York Yankee could display and hearing what can only be described as a mix between a "Stars Wars-bar-scene" dialect with a touch of a drunk Scottsman's "r" rolling. It truly is a sound to hear.
You hear it and you don't know if the dog just caught some type of varmit or if a cd skipped. There's also the occasional high pitched squeal involved, just in case you missed your weekly test of the emergency services gig that always seems to show up just when whatever you're watching just got good.
Some randomness....
What does it say about your county if they agree to (a) eliminate a guy's position early so as to insure that he doesn't get fired by another incoming cat (b) give him a severance package and then (c) claim it was illegal and (d) sue not only the poor guy they agreed to give the money to but themselves? Has anyone ever seen a situation in which an attorney sues his own client on the grounds that an action they took - which he advised them to take under the law - was illegal? I don't think this type of b.s. would have flown on the Practice. If a writer has proposed this as the plot to an episode of L.A. Law, he would have been told his was L.A. Wrong and had his privileges revoked. This is the type of action that makes Paducah great. Whereas the local government and charity groups claim it only occurs for three day in September, clearly is Swine Fest transpires year round when it comes to local political schinanigans. Without the intent of offending anyone, this whole situation should spawn a new term, Chief Paduke Giving. Who really knows what the gentleman with the poorly worded name for government work actually ever did but, one thing is for certain, he sure as hell didn't force anyone to 86 his job early and then give him a chunk of dough to ride off into the sunset. In the words of Mike Tyson, its ludicrisp.
O.K., the City needs to make their alleged payroll take hike permanent because they need the cash. Why not use all the moolah they apparently had laying around to by the Big E? Attempting to justify a continued tax increase when you attempted to buy a rundown, 70's porn set decorated hotel for millions of dough - or roughly 3 Euro - several months earlier is like trying to convince Steven Segal to lay off the doughnuts, hair product and the use of the phrase "Hard to..." in his movie titles. Much like expecting a pudgy, WD 40'd haired kung fu master who's now merely hard to take - as oppossed to be hard to kill or handle - to lay off his forumla for success, no one wants to be told they need to keep siphoning benjamins from their own checks when the same fewls that voted to keep the funnel going were just recently trying to get into the hotel buitness.
Is Nancy Grace as chapped as she looks acts or does the camera just add 10 pounds of angry?
There's actually a program on Channel Six right now - no, not the Channel 6 that's actually on Channel 5 that breaks wind, weather and news - entitled "The Price of Porn." Bob Barker is no where to be found. This is not pay per view. Her life was apparently ruined because she caught her husband - her second, which was formerly her attorney that handled her first divorce - looking at porn. She was a former Playboy model and porn viewing freaked her out. Look, if porn has any influence on your life, you need to get less of a grip (snicker) and go on about your normal daily life. All nurses do not want to sleep with you. Mailmen aren't there to give you a "special delivery". You don't get involved in threesomes by making the proper eye contact in the produce isle at the grocery store. Porn teaches you several things: you're not that good in the rack, all members of the opposite sex don't always want to do the nasty and, simply because you hear bad instrumental music suddenly playing in the background, it doesn't mean you should start stripping. Because, if you do, next thing you know, you'll be nude at an oldies bar hoping the thermostat is turned up.
I'm just sayin.....
Well, we got him hooked up through some "suckling from the state teet" program with a speech pathologist. It was slow at first. He seemed to dig showing her all his toys more than he did actually talking to her. Then, more recently, something changed. The boy, now deuce and quater anos old, started talking.
Now, if you're at our hoose, don't be surprised if you see a spherical object of some nature come flying directly at your crotch after seeing the most beautiful swing a two-year old future New York Yankee could display and hearing what can only be described as a mix between a "Stars Wars-bar-scene" dialect with a touch of a drunk Scottsman's "r" rolling. It truly is a sound to hear.
You hear it and you don't know if the dog just caught some type of varmit or if a cd skipped. There's also the occasional high pitched squeal involved, just in case you missed your weekly test of the emergency services gig that always seems to show up just when whatever you're watching just got good.
Some randomness....
What does it say about your county if they agree to (a) eliminate a guy's position early so as to insure that he doesn't get fired by another incoming cat (b) give him a severance package and then (c) claim it was illegal and (d) sue not only the poor guy they agreed to give the money to but themselves? Has anyone ever seen a situation in which an attorney sues his own client on the grounds that an action they took - which he advised them to take under the law - was illegal? I don't think this type of b.s. would have flown on the Practice. If a writer has proposed this as the plot to an episode of L.A. Law, he would have been told his was L.A. Wrong and had his privileges revoked. This is the type of action that makes Paducah great. Whereas the local government and charity groups claim it only occurs for three day in September, clearly is Swine Fest transpires year round when it comes to local political schinanigans. Without the intent of offending anyone, this whole situation should spawn a new term, Chief Paduke Giving. Who really knows what the gentleman with the poorly worded name for government work actually ever did but, one thing is for certain, he sure as hell didn't force anyone to 86 his job early and then give him a chunk of dough to ride off into the sunset. In the words of Mike Tyson, its ludicrisp.
O.K., the City needs to make their alleged payroll take hike permanent because they need the cash. Why not use all the moolah they apparently had laying around to by the Big E? Attempting to justify a continued tax increase when you attempted to buy a rundown, 70's porn set decorated hotel for millions of dough - or roughly 3 Euro - several months earlier is like trying to convince Steven Segal to lay off the doughnuts, hair product and the use of the phrase "Hard to..." in his movie titles. Much like expecting a pudgy, WD 40'd haired kung fu master who's now merely hard to take - as oppossed to be hard to kill or handle - to lay off his forumla for success, no one wants to be told they need to keep siphoning benjamins from their own checks when the same fewls that voted to keep the funnel going were just recently trying to get into the hotel buitness.
Is Nancy Grace as chapped as she looks acts or does the camera just add 10 pounds of angry?
There's actually a program on Channel Six right now - no, not the Channel 6 that's actually on Channel 5 that breaks wind, weather and news - entitled "The Price of Porn." Bob Barker is no where to be found. This is not pay per view. Her life was apparently ruined because she caught her husband - her second, which was formerly her attorney that handled her first divorce - looking at porn. She was a former Playboy model and porn viewing freaked her out. Look, if porn has any influence on your life, you need to get less of a grip (snicker) and go on about your normal daily life. All nurses do not want to sleep with you. Mailmen aren't there to give you a "special delivery". You don't get involved in threesomes by making the proper eye contact in the produce isle at the grocery store. Porn teaches you several things: you're not that good in the rack, all members of the opposite sex don't always want to do the nasty and, simply because you hear bad instrumental music suddenly playing in the background, it doesn't mean you should start stripping. Because, if you do, next thing you know, you'll be nude at an oldies bar hoping the thermostat is turned up.
I'm just sayin.....
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