Thiz shit has got to stop

Just when the fuck did it become socially acceptable to misspell words? People are always putting a z on the end of a word instead of making it properly plural. It only becomes worse when they combine it with improper spelling. Dawgz, boyz, Katrinaz boifriend, ez gurl, Bobbyz Burger Howse. What the fuck is going on here? No wonder people hate America. When I see shit like that, I hate America. I don't applaud the freedom we have to express ourselves, I want to find these people and their parents and punch them in the fucking throat. It's not cute, people. It's stupid. Stop it.

If you work at a sign shop, or provide a service to create something that is displayed, you have a responsibility. Correct the mistakes. If you cannot spot the mistakes, try a spell check. Chances are, you are using a computer. The ability to check spelling has been on computers for quite a while. If you look, you may find that there is also software on your computer that checks for proper use of grammar. These tools are there because people are stupid. Use them. If you still have a problem, then we must employ what is called "thinning of the herd".

Remember to also check your use of the apostrophe. Just because a word has an s on the end of it, that doesn't mean you need to automatically put one in "just in case".

I hope this rant has helped at least one person. If anyone is offended, I say, "Eat shit, muthafukkaz."

The evolution of a word

Words change their meaning over time. Some change a little, others really transform. Sometimes, not just the meaning changes, but the impact as well.

Take the word "extreme" for example. It gets used so often that it has lost its place as a word that really means something. Chevy put it on a piece of shit truck, for crying out loud. When someone tells me that they want something taken to the extreme, I think of that abomination of automotive engineering and marketing. The ad agency for GM should have put it truthfully:

Chevy Extreme: the same piece of shit we sold yesterday, but with more plastic on it. That's it people, we've reached the pinnacle. This is as good as it gets.

We had a debate around work about what the term "gay" really means anymore. It used to mean "lighthearted and carefree; characterized by cheerfulness or pleasure; brightly colored; showy; brilliant". Some time in the 20th Century, it changed to mean "homosexual", and loosely referred to lesbianism. Now it means, well, "gay". If someone says, "that shirt looks gay", I don't think they are saying it is "brightly colored, showy or brilliant". They don't like it. The shirt obviously isn't going to have inter-gender sex with another shirt, and they most certainly aren't telling me they like the shirt's cheerfulness.

The word "gay" has taken on a whole new transformation into something generic. Its versatility should make other words jealous. You can use it in place of "stupid", "ugly", "sloppy" or any number or words. Not only that, you can use it to convey an emotion, or fill in when you just can't find the right words.

Jane: "This pencil is not working."
Dick: "That is gay."

It really means nothing, but yet it is powerful enough to convey a message. Some years ago, I was blessed to receive an audio file that was an English lesson on the use of the word "fuck". The argument was that it was the most versatile word, and gave examples like:

"John fucked Shirley."
"Shirley fucks."
"I got fucked at the used car lot."
"Why don't you go outside and play hide and go fuck yourself?"

Now, I wouldn't be so bold as to suggest that the word "gay" can trump the word "fuck". That would be ludicrous. There may come a day, however, that it will be argued amongst social etiquette artists and a new edict will emerge.

Gay is the new Fuck.

Is it just me?

Fall is here. The best season. The colors. The arrival of cool, crisp air. So, is it just me, or when a woman comes in from the outside, and exclaims that "it's chilly", do you instantly look at her nipples?

Treeginas

response to "them wimmin"

I feel your pain. Many times, it doesn't matter if you are right, it only matters if you were built with indoor plumbing. Women want an answer that gets to the emotion they are wanting you to invoke in them (and you). They don't want a voice of reason, intellect, insight, or truth. They want an affirmation of sorts, and they want you to be their girlfriend while you answer.

fuck that (unless there's a piece of ass in it)

them wimmin

Oh man, I need a cigar and a beer...now!

First off, I'm finishing this annual review form that must have been formulated by the consensus of a committee of folk who haven't a full set of cojones among them. These vague, nebulous questions that are kinda, sorta about my feelings about my job just don't quite butter my toast. Look, I like the coffee, the vacation, the pay and the bennies, now leave me alone without all of the psychobabble about how I am going to actualize my potential even while I take a dump on company time.

Of course, when you try and bullshit the bullshitter, you're gonna get what you asked for, so my little one page form has blossomed into a six page dissertation (with references from everybody from Aristotle to Zig Ziglar) about what really gets me hot about my job and what it might take to make me fill out a resignation. Look these shiny lightbulbs on the Christmas tree want a load, I'll give them a load. You guys know what I'm good for.

#2 issue

Nancy Drew-yep, she's in the theater and my wife wants to take my wannabe 'tween daughter and her little buddy as well as the buddy's mom to the movies tonight while their younger sisters play together with my niece babysitting.

So far, so good. I'm supposed to have little to no involvement with this scheme, right?

Nope.

I get this call and I can feel the beavergeddon oozing out of the receiver and dripping on my shoulder while I try to acknowledge that I am listening to this wee mess. They are all at the buddy's house with the sitter and buddy's little sister doesn't want the buddy to go to the movies and by extension, the buddy's mom and guess what, the sitter is on the clock and the wannabe tweenie is unhappy because this date isn't gonna be much fun if it is just her and mom. My wife wants me to be Solomon and pull an equitable solution out of some bodily orfice so that all of them will have a really nice, nice time this evening.

My first mistake was this little phrase,

"ok, so who's the Mommy here?"

With that I flunked the Mr. Sensitive test yet again.

My second strike across the plate was this,

"Well it sounds like it's girls night out for the mommies."

That also went over like a turd in a punch bowl.

So I reverted to the "yep, uh-huh and I see," strategy while much discussion was occurring on the other end and by time the soliloquy about "if this happened, then we could do that." was done, I was given a relieved "good-bye." I'm not sure what part I played in that solution, nor why the call was necessary in the first place.

On the other hand, I don't need to make a phone call to find out if it's ok for me to feel better after this.

Pass me a glass and the matches.

With all due respect to MLK, but . . .

"...I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the Troutslayer dream.

I have a dream that one day this household will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self evident: that the one thing that would make this even better would be a good blow job and a well-cooked meal."

I have a dream that one day in the hills of Taney County the sons and daughters of Willow, Kiltboy, Bumperboy, Whitesox, Midgetlover and the sons of the Taney Virgin will sit together at the table of bruthahood, and scarf down mountains of great vittles with a kickass beer.

I have a dream that one day even in the midst of the Beavergeddon, a desert place sweltering with the heat of estrogen and progesterone, it will be transformed into an oasis of marital bliss and post-coital napping.

I have a dream that my own children will on day live in a nation where they will not be judged by their tackle, but by the content of their live wells.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day in the household of the high priestess of the Beavergeddon, whose lips are presently dripping with the juices of the red tide and the spoink of Summer's Eve, will be transformed into a situation where the Ozark Joe would give the high priestess a Donkey Punch.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every fishing rod will be bent, every trout chew consumed, every bottle of Beam be emptied, every Gloria Cubana be lit, every stringer filled and the glory of the Troutslayer will be revealed and all flesh shall see it together, standing naked in the sun.

This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to Taney County. With this faith we will be able to hew from the mountain of whininess and bitching, a cellar for pizza and pitchers of Grain Belt. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of the rugrats a beautitful symphony of a mongoloid with a cowbell. With this faith, we will be able to ride together, to laugh together, to tie lines together, to snore together, to get drunk together, knowing that we will be free one day.

This will be the day when all God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "What d'ya want? I want Food and Pussy. How come? It's just the way God made me."

And if Taney County is to become a great destination for the true Taneytime, this must become true, so suck that mofugga from the Bass Pro in Counciltucky! So suck that mofugga from the driveway at Wickerland Ranch!

So suck that mofugga from the boat corral at the Bassmaster's Swap Meet!

So suck that mofugga from a glass of chunky milk at the Fox and Turtlehead!

So suck that mofugga from the thong wearing co-eds at the Pizza Cellar!

So suck that mofugga from the dock at Ozark Beach!

Suck that mofugga from every hill and molehill of Taney County. From every mountainside, just suck that mofugga.

When we suck that mofugga, when we suck it from every village and hamlet from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up to that day when all Troutslayers, midget lovers, kilt wearers, pig fuckers, big gay guys, skinny guys with slippyfists and those virgins yet to be initiated will be able to join hands and sing in the words of that old Zappa spiritual, "Fuck me! you ugly son of a biiiiitch (you ugly son of a bitch.)"


There. I said it.

A Tale of 4 Titties

Now, y'all have heard of the daughters of mama Destiny (no not that singing group with Beyonce and them, although that Beyonce, she looks like she might be related to these girls if you look at her hard enough), but I'm talking about those two ladies, Fate and Karma.

Most people gets them confused with each other, but see, they usually work in cahoots. Karma is the tease. She will give you the come-on with that wonder of an ass of hers and you go along with her and it's all fun and that until you realize that she put your nuts in a vise. She knows that paybacks are a bitch. Fact is, I wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't the one who invented that saying about what goes around, comes around.

Fate, she's different. She will seduce you until your balls turn blue, but it don't matter what you do, she will be calling the shots. Most of us men don't realize how Fate works until it's way too late and we're knee deep in baby shit and credit bills. So the word with her is you just as well be along for the ride.

Yep, most of us meet these gals somewhere along life's highway. It don't matter if you ain't picking up hitchhikers. They're gonna get in the car with ya and you just as well enjoy the ride. Better yet, see if you can make it a 3-way. I hope you live to tell about it.

Ranting

Damn fucking Phil Collins. I thought the 80's were over. The radio
station we have on in the background apparently thinks that the man
was the greatest recording artist of all time. I listen to podcasts
on my computer with an earbud in one ear, so most of it is drowned
out. I do not have the luxury of a confined area where I can listen
with speakers. I try to still look accessible to the people in my
department without making myself an open target for interruptions.
Reminds me of the old Far Side cartoon titled "How Nature Says 'Do
Not Touch'".

I don't like my job right now. I feel like the guy in Office Space
before he goes to the hypnotist. They are trying to eliminate our
overtime here. Unfortunately, not everyone is adhering the new rule
of getting it approved prior to working it. Some people are above the
law, or so they think. I try to adhere to the rules, but you always
just get fucked by it. I am not happy about that. Overtime has helped
keep my wife at home (mostly), and occasionally allows us to have
extra money. Taking away from my family makes it hard to swallow all
of the little things about your job that you would just brush off. So
now when there are hot jobs that need done, my attitude is more of a
"fuck you" than "okay".

As the wife reminds me constantly, this all will pass. It always has.
Sometimes you need that voice of reason. Sometimes you wish the voice
of reason would just let you be pissed for a while. Maybe it makes
you sharper. I don't know, but that is probably just an excuse. I
remember the quote by Eleanor Roosevelt: "No one can make you feel
inferior without your consent". Good quote. Then again, she married
her cousin.

'bout time to call it a day

I really dislike the leftover, sloppy seconds kind of a day that comes after a holiday because I had to kiss a lot of ass and yell at people who should have known better. Plus, I have to write about every little thing in excruciating detail for the record.


For example, I wrote 16 pages of notes in the electronic charting systrem and I sat with patients and families for the better part of 2 hours today, explaining things like why granny can't have pizza every night or her automatic defibrillator is gonna shock her ass to kingdom come, or why my 600 pound dude can't be slugging down 4 liters of Mountain Dew every day because he gained 120# in the past 90 days from fluid overload (this one has been an ongoing "dialogue" for the past 6 years.) Yes, Virginia, some folks seem to have the IQ of a carrot.



On the other hand,



there is the scenery (the 2 legged kind.) and I get to talk to them, lots.

there is the "job well done" note for an article that I helped write for the Register.

there is the fact that for 5 hours today, I got to listen to Springsteen while I wrote my sordid little tales of woe.

there is the knowledge that some people do better because I was there.


So, I guess today was a mixed bag, and sort of a smelly wrinkled hairy one at that.


Hmm..Muse? Here Musey, Musey......


Coolest song of the day; "The Rising" by Springsteen. I want that played at my funeral (not that I'm gonna go anytime soon). Just way cool.