You ain't on Baywatch anymore

Since I don't have a specific topic to ramble on about ad nauseum, I figured I'd discuss a whole slew of 'em. That way, if you get bored with one topic, you can avoid it and move on to the next.

Newest exciting news about my book: I have a radio interview next Friday, June 7th, at approximately 4pm. The station is WHAS-84 am, a massive radio station out of Louisville, KY. I will be on the Terry Meiners Show, a popular and funny broadcaster. We will discuss my book and upcoming book signing in Louisville on July 8th. He must have been drunk while agreeing to this, but like the selfish, attention whore I am, show will go on. I will post another link very shortly up on the UPCOMING APPEARANCES section of my site. NOTE: WHAS-84 has live streaming, so you all can listen to your favorite author (me) on the Internet at www.whas.com. Just click the area on the top right that says, "CLICK TO LISTEN LIVE".

New cool band: Tea Leaf Green. They are a bunch of San Francisco hippies who can can jam. They fall into the Phish type of category. If you like Phish, or other jam bands, you will like these guys. I am already putting peanut butter on my hair and bathing in patchouli water in nervous anticipation of their next tour date. Check them out, and if you don't like them, don't tell me, cause I like them, and if you don't you must have something wrong with you. I have given you all plenty of ideas to be more like me and if you have ignored or missed them don't complain to me.

Worst tv show on tv: I realize that title is a bit redundant, since tv shows can only be on tv, but I didn't feel like backspacing and then retyping. I am a hunt-and-peck typer anyway, so any regressive motions can cause serious delays. Plus, I am on lunch now and need all the time I can get. Anywho, worst tv show on tv: America's Got Talent. Hosted my Regin Philbin, the judges panel, which consists of David Hasselhoff, Brandy, and some snarly English wanker, have buttons with big X's on them to eliminate the contestant as soon as they feel the need to. It is muy horrible. Last night, there was some 6'8" Russian homosexual named Leinid the Magnificent all dressed up in a butterfly costume. His "talent", aside from being as gay as anyone I have ever seen in my life, was balancing swords while doing the splits. Now, in Russia, where they fight for bread crumbs and shoot people a lot, this might be considered a talent. But in Brooklyn, he is just a 6'8" weirdo balancing swords while doing the splits. Personally, he should get into magic, since he obviously has made his testicles as well as any form of self-esteem disappear. It's pretty sad when David Hasselhoff is the most talented person in a group of 2,500 people.

Mosty dramatic, unrealistic reality show: Real World Key West. Counting the nasty gay guy, they have 4 males on there and I think 3 females. All of them are idiots, especially the crazy girl who picks her scabs all day and talks like a four-year old. Once you have the ability to form complete sentences, you should refrain from BABY TALK - especially when you are on a tv show. When she is not crying on the phone with her abusive boyfriend, drinking excessively, screaming at her roommates, or being an overall anorexic, pain in the arse, she seems pretty normal. The gay guy is such a b-tch. He is nasty, vindictive, mean, and lots of other stuff. But at least he knows it, and he doesn't have any scabs to pick at - at least no visible ones.
There is no way in hell 7 strangers like this band o'losers would ever pick each other to live together.
I was sorely disappointed to see them all come out of Hurricane Wilma with no head trauma, because I feel something like that might really improve their personalities as well as overall demeanor.

Worst sporting team in the world: USA men's soccer. We got beat by the Czech Republic AND Ghana in the same tournament. Do I need to go any further?

OK, enough negativity. Talk amongst yourselves from here on out.

Hilton Head Island.....in pictures

Me and the crew. See the pain on my face? I'm smiling, but there's pain.
It's either because of 2006 Estrogen Fest,
or maybe I was just sitting on a stick.

Me doing a 12 ounce curl while riding my bicycle. Notice my pretty little basket. I was hoping for a white wicker one, but they were all out... 

One of the many beautiful golf courses on HHI. 

River Street in Savannah.  

Church in Savannah 

Mercer House in Savannah. The house made famous from "Midnight in the Garden of good and Evil". 

Me and my best gal in Savannah, Georgia. I look constipated. 

A view from our fishing boat, off Hilton Head Island. 

Van Halen said it best

What do you think these women have in common? Porn? Stripping? Herpes commercial rejects? Shoplifting crack whores who sing in front of Bojangles for free food? Yup, you guessed it, they are all, or at least were, teachers.

There seems to be a bit of an epidemic these days, an epidemic of young, good-looking, Generation Y women (mostly blonde, too) who are teachers. These women are molding the minds of America's youth. These women look professional, dress well, and have had previous success in beauty pageants and one in particular is on the US National Bikini Team. Although not all, most of these teachers are having sex with their students, and it pisses me off. Why you ask? Well, because of the obvious - all my teachers from junior high through high school looked like jackals. Mustachoed hags with rows upon rows of big, gnarly teeth; large, eagle-sized beaks; loads of sweaty fatrolls, warts, scabs, carbuncles and sores - and those were the good-looking ones. Coming to school was a test of wills for us, and not in a good way. We had to struggle to keep our food down looking at our history teacher after lunch. Never once did I even slightly consider an affair with a teacher, or anyone else for that matter. My idea of sex in junior high was trying to "accidentally" brush my hand up against some random girl's ass in the hallway, let alone trying to nail my social studies teacher after kickball practice.

Now, it seems the male youth of today's junior high schools are subjected to a seemingly unending gaggle of good-looking, MySpaced, hypersexual, mentally unstable women, who want nothing else but scrog underage boys. If I were 14 again, I'd say sign me up! They supply their students with booze, porn, even dirty cell phone videos like this Tennessee wench did. To a 14 year-old boy. Its crazy.

Now, all kidding aside, I want to go on the record and say that these women are criminals. They are pedophiles. they are predators. As an adult, I find them reprehensible, loathsome skanks who should be punished to the fullest extent of the law.They even deserve their own Dateline NBC show. But still, from my inner 9th grade boy point of view, I am wondering something:
Where in the h-e-double hockey sticks were these crazy trollops at when I was in school? Oh, I know, they were gaining experience for there future professions by screwing the captains of their basketball teams - and their coaches.

For more info on slutty, pedophile pedagogues, click here.

Are you young or old? This might be the test to prove which one you are...

I just received wind of this ringtone that teenagers can use while in school to avoid getting in trouble from their adult teachers. It seems that only "young" people can hear these high-pitched tones, which in turn alert them that a text message has been received.

I cannot hear a damn thing. I thought my twentysomething, felame co-worker was effing with me, until more came over and said they could hear it.

I guess I am an old fart. Regardless if I can hear their stupid high-pitched ringtones, I'll still bet I can kick most of their scrawny teenage asses. So screw you and your stupid ringtones. Click here, and give it a shot.

Post-vacation washout

So here I am, back from a wonderful week off work, doing nothing but drinking a lot of fruity drinks, making a horrible attempt at deep-sea fishing, driving almost 2,000 miles in a rental car full of 5 females - 4 of them were teenagers, and not having to worry about an alarm clock or wearing socks/pants for over 11 days. Pretty sweet! As promised, especially to the Blonde Vigilante, I am returning with a fishing story, but it isn't a good one. I did manage to catch several fish, mostly black sea bass, but the were too small to keep and eventually eat. I think I was in next to last place as far as number of fish caught on the boat, and I would have been in 3rd to last place had that snot-nosed, little 7-year old brat not caught his 20-inch shark in the eleventh hour. I stayed after and watched the crew clean all the fish, and there he was, hovering over their shoulders, his pudgy face full of sunburnt mirth. Then, I swear it was just to aggravate me, he had his granny take a photo of his bounty. Damned little attention whore.

Jenny and I managed to do a lot of firsts this past weekend, also. We were in a tropical storm (albiet not directly, but pretty close); we rode bicycles while intoxicated; we rode our bicycles to the liquor store; we rode our bicycles while intoxicated yet again, this time in pitch-black night. All six of us were there, riding our bikes at 10:30pm, with my big, drunk, dumb ass leading the way. It truly was the blind leading the blind. Actually, I blame the kids and their friends they brought, because they should have more sense than that. They should have known better to follow me. I can say with a fair amount of certainty that if I didn't have a teeny, tiny light on the end of my keychain, we would have wrecked, and I would have some expaining to do to the bicycle company. During the first intoxicated bicycle ride it was just the two of us, and we stopped at McDonalds to get the kiddos cheap dinner. I was determined to go through the drive-thru on my bicycle, but traffic was very heavy. Maybe next trip I will.

All in all it was a good time. I will have photos in a day to two, and I will be stopping by everybody's sites to catch up.

Sadly, Monday has proven to be the little bitch she always likes to be - especially after vacation. This morning, Jenny's car wouldn't start at all, so I had to come back home and make a vain attempt at fixing it. After raising the hood, scratching my head a couple times, nodding and mumbling to myself, I admitted that "I have no effing idea what the problem is." So, I am driving the spare car (since I am the man, I offered her my new car) , which has expired tags. To top it all off, I'll be here at work for 10-11 hours. Good times indeed. Holla!

See you later, landlocked suckers!

Me and the rest of the Southers contingent have loaded up the family truckster and are headed to Hilton Head Island, SC, for vacation. I called ahead to have the local officials warn the other tourists, but they just laughed as me. Oh, but we will have the last laugh. Yes we will.

I'll try to post a little this week if I get a chance, but I am simply a poor commoner with no laptop computer and I have no idea when I'll get to squeeze any puter time in. I'll most likely be too busy forcing alcohol down my wife's gullet and doing all I can to take advantage of the situation.

We are going to have 11 people down there, so alcohol might be the soup d'jour for ALL of us. In fact, A LOT of it sounds good. I will be in the car with FIVE FEMALES tomorrow for TWELVE HOURS. I use capital letters to show the pain this thought induces. Four of them are teenagers with boyfriends, and have already started going on about how much they will worry about them while they are vacationing, in which I replied, "Oh, they'll find other girls, probably the first day we are gone....so don't you worry your pretty little heads."

I will be sure to take loads of good, bad, and especially ugly photos while I am away. If you are in the HHI area and you see some drunk, 6'4" lummox of a man, stumbling down the street, mumbling incoherently, stop me and say hi. Then, just let me vomit in peace before the police cart me off to jail.

Operation Clambake 500

With me being a sports fan, a Southerner, a redneck, and a son of a race car driver, needless to say I almost spit out my Levi Garrett when I heard of the newest merger NASCAR has allowed. My world has been shattered (not really; written for dramatic effect). On TV this morning, I saw a piece on NASCAR and some of its sponsors. They have a wild, wide variety of sponsors, mainly big name products and companies like Tide, DuPont, Cheerios cereal, Home Depot, Kellogg's Corn Flakes, Skoal, etc. There are even some more obscure sponsors, like Cheese-Nips, SpongeBob Square Pants, some nutty old Congressman, and Boudreaux's Butt Paste.

Now, Scientology*, in all their body-thetan weirdness is in the NASCAR game, baby. What in the name of Teegeeack is going on here? Now, instead of seeing fat guys with "24" shaved in their back hair, we might be honored by the likes of John Revolting, all dolled up in full regimental Scientology regalia? Or, Kirstie Alley, hanging around the BBQ pit? Or Jason Lee and his son Pilot Inspektor? Hell, Tom Cruise is almost guaranteed a car to drive, what with his expertise in Days of Thunder and all. I'm sure, like all sane Hollywood types, he'll have his infant daughter Suri strapped in riding shotgun.

And what else should we expect? Race car drivers carrying massive bull horns as they drive, spitting out propaganda? Silent interviews, all according to Scientology standards? Clambakes in the pit area?

As heinous as it sounds, I think I'll stick with the back hair.

* I mean no disrespect to Scientology and their members. They are people, too. Or at least I think.

Excerpt from "Queens and Crescents" Part II

After reading The Blonde Vigilante's most recent piece of excellent fiction, I felt compelled to submit a little of my own. So, here is a small excerpt from my book, Queens and Crescents. A long time ago, I submitted another excerpt, click here if you missed it. Oh, and I changed the color scheme - this time for a l0ng time. Hope you enjoy:


He turned to watch her and said nothing as she passed. He breathed in the soft scent of her perfume as it lingered in the air around him, which, at least momentarily, erased the thick, putrid smell of a thousand cigarettes.

He felt both excited and frightened at the same time. He was surprised that she noticed him since a moment ago there had been no possible reason to think she knew he was alive. A million thoughts ran through his head in the span of a few seconds. Who is she? Why does she want me? What the hell am I getting myself into? Are these guys mobsters, or just her angry relatives?

He turned toward the two men and stared very casually as not to draw their attention, but it was too late. He was busted, and by the short, meaner one at that. The short one gave him an evil stare back. Sean nodded his head nervously back at the man and quickly looked away. He motioned for the waitress to come over and paid his check. He looked through his wallet and noticed the smallest bill he had was a twenty. His bill was probably no more than five or six dollars, but he had a beautiful lady waiting, so he laid the twenty on the table and walked out, not waiting for the waitress to return.

Sean walked outside to wait for her but was surprised to see her already there, waiting for him. “I thought you said ten minutes?”

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” the woman said. She held out her hand.
“What just happened back there?” Sean asked. She grabbed his hand, and they began to walk swiftly down the street.

She looked at him and smiled a timid smile as they hurried along. “Not now. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to worry about it. Let’s just go.” She smiled at him again, this time a little wider, which exposed her beautiful white teeth.

“Where are we going?” Sean was excited, nervous, and confused all at the same time.

“I don’t care,” she said as she squeezed his hand. “Anywhere—just as long as we are alone.”
________________________________________________

The goons quickly ran outside the bar, oblivious to the number of people they bowled over as they left. Frustrated and angry, Bruce looked at his partner, made a 360-degree turn to scan the surrounding area, and then looked at his partner again. He looked over Max’s shoulder and down the dimly lit street behind him. Bruce reached inside his jacket with his right hand and pulled out his 9mm, then reloaded a fresh clip. He placed the gun back into its holster and folded his jacket over. He nodded his head down the street. “This way,” he said.

“Should we call Mr. Romano?”

“No,” Bruce said. “Not yet. We can handle it ourselves.” They moved down the street.

Worrying Michael Romano by informing him of this would not happen. In fact, it would only infuriate him, and when the boss got pissed, you had better watch out, because more times than not that meant your ass. Heads would roll, literally and figuratively.

“Where do you think she went?” Max asked.

“How the hell should I know?” Bruce was trying to keep a lid on his anger, but between the broad leaving and his partner’s stupid questions, his last nerve was quickly being whittled down to a toothpick. He looked out toward the center of the French Quarter for a moment, then over towards Lake Pontchartrain. The wind whirled around him, momentarily cooling him a little in the midst of the balmy summer night. How the hell should I know? he repeated in his mind. He looked at Max. “We need to split up. You know, cover more ground.” He stopped. He thought that if they could find people in Cincinnati, then surely to God they could find someone in New Orleans. Really, New Orleans is about the same size when compared to Cincinnati.

Bruce pointed to Max what area he wanted him to cover. “What time you got?” He looked at his watch.

Max nervously ran his hands through his thick grey hair and then looked at his watch as well. “Ten-thirty, Bruce.”

“Good. We meet here at midnight. That’ll give us plenty of time to find her. If you run into trouble, call me. Don’t call Romano. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it. We meet back here at midnight. If there’s any trouble, call you.” Max pulled out a handkerchief. “What should I do if I find her? I can’t exactly drag her down the street by the hair. Christ, the streets are crawling with people.”

Bruce carefully removed his 9mm, pulled out the silencer in his jacket pocket, and screwed it on. He looked up at Max and flashed an evil, toothy grin.

“Do what you have to do, my friend,” Bruce said to Max, “and I’ll do what I have to do.”

Exsqueeze me? A baking powder?

Yes, they look like what you think they do.

Click this link for more apocalyptic signs in all their sugary, edible goodness, but only if you are in the mood for baking this weekend. It is moderately not suitable for work, but believe me when I say the url name is worse than what is on the link. And the photos on the link are disturbing.

PLEASE NOTE THAT IF YOU MAKE ANYTHING FROM THIS SITE, YOU ARE OBLIGATED TO POST PHOTOS OF THEM ON YOUR SITE.

Personally, I think the Gingerbread cookies are the best.

Also, I have tentatively decided on a new color for The Fiction Scribe! It is called Tomato. I went with this because Lemon Chiffon was too gay sounding (not that there's anything wrong with that), Hematite was to pink-like and girly (sorry Steph) and Navajo White was more like brown. Damn color-blind Indians. I went with Wheat as the link color, well, because I like wheat bread. See, I am a simple guy. I also must be hungry.

Please let me know what you all think, because your opinions are important to me. Seriously, they are.* If it looks awful, let me know, but please don't call me a loser or scream racial epithets at me. Actually, you can scream all you wish, just don't write them to me.

Actually, if I were a little more computer saavy I would have collected 4 or 5 different colors and created a way to vote for your favorite, but alas I am not that saavy. I have managed to write saavy twice in one sentence and three times in a paragraph, which, at least as far as I am concerned, hasn't ever happened on Blogger before. So, even though I pick crappy looking colors for my blase-looking blog, I am still moderately funny and above-average intelligence. Now, if I could only get rid of my 3rd nipple...later kiddos!

* Kidding.