A beat up piece of Chevrolet...

Blue and white rustin' away

live from my mom's joint, orting, wa.

you know you are in a redneck town when you are standing outside the local watering hole, a parking lot full of either trucks or harleys, and you see a feller pull up in his truck, park, and dump what's left of his can of rainier out while walking across the lot. this totally feels like a jeff foxworthy joke a-brewin': you might be a redneck if you need a beer in the truck on the way to the tavern.

give me a moment to rant:

washington state, in its brilliance, made it illegal to pull in front of a semi too close. that is to say, if a cop sees you cutting off a semi, you will get a ticket. not a nebulous ticket for something like "reckless driving" but a nebulous ticket for "pulling in front of a semi too close."

so, ok. here's my issue: i've never, ever, evfuckinger seen a semi pulled off receiving a ticket for the fucked-up twisted shite i see them pulling on a near-hourly basis, as i drive. today alone, i saw the same fucking dozy coked-up sleep-deprived dim fat hell-bent-for-leather motherfucker a) cut some little car off because he had to get into the lane they were in right fucking now because he waited until the exit he wanted was right fucking there before deciding to make his lane change, and b) force someone attempting to merge with traffic to slam on their brakes and drive on the shoulder for a distance because he couldn't be arsed to either speed up or slow down, or even, for that matter, pay fucking attention to what the sweet cherry fuckstain he was doing in the first fucking place.

if i had a dollar for every time a semi truck was on my ass like a hemorrhoid, causing my anus to pucker and me to pray to the powers that be that no one in front of me cuts me off or slams on their brakes, or flipped his blinker on and came over whether or not i was going to let him, or nearly went off the motherfucking road in front of me (this happened in new mexico, driving along, doobie doo, and hey, presto, the semi in front of me goes so far onto the shoulder he kicked dust and rocks and grass up in a cloud that was almost impossible to see through) or even ran me off the road (again, new mexico, driving at midnight in the dark: the set of headlights in my rearview swerves, and moves rapidly to the side of the road and stops. these are replaced by a set of semi headlights barreling down on me like some kind of bad 70's road rage movie. i watch in horror as these headlights gain rapidly in my rearview without slowing until i, too, am forced to swerve off the road. and later, when we caught up to that addlepated doss cunt, fuck me gently with a chainsaw if there is no number to call to tell his dippy ass "how am i driving?") or saw any other number of stupidities actuated by semi trucks, i would have enough money to buy a tropical island and produce porn movies.

and i understand that these things bring me basically everything i want. i get that. i understand that we need semi trucks to move produce, lumber, metal, guitars, whatever. but we also need store clerks to sell me the shit the semis haul, and if we saw a store clerk running around the store acting the fool, and say, swinging a baseball bat around over his head, we would take that fucker down, would we not? and if it became a trend, then laws would be made against it, right?

that is all.

it is a testament of my serious lack of a life that after nearly a full week of no posting, this is really all i have for you.

hopefully more next time, heh heh.

darth sardonic

i snuck in your bedroom to steal some change for booze...

it occurs to me, as i reread yesterday's (yawn!) post that i seem to have survived quite a number of blogs. people just seem to quit writing. out of my pals, only mother hoodlum and lola were writing when i started. everyone seems to have lost interest or moved on to other things.

here's the deal though, i need need need to write. if i didn't have this, i would have a notebook or some other pen/paper form of capturing the goings-on in my cabeza. (actually, i still do have numerous "diaries" despite this easy-to-use grain of sand on the beaches of the world wide web.)

my time at the inner circle of pizza joint hell is drawing to a close. two more weeks, and i am all but marking each day off on the calendar.

i may have invented my own drink. i had some friends research whether they could find a recipe for anything like this: i like the tom collins, and liked the gibson idea, so i combined them. make a gibson (1&1/2 oz. of gin, 1 oz. dry vermouth, twist of lime, cocktail onion) and add tom collins mix. yummeeeeeeeee. i call it a tom gibson. can't for the life of me imagine that no one has already thought of (and patented) this idea, but not as far as my friends can see. by all means, if you know different, send me a comment. (looks in comment box, hears crickets chirping, wind blowing, and sees layer upon layer of dust and cobwebs.)

some time ago, when i was playing with the band in our basement, and we were playing the song we simply referred to as "the angry song" (it should come as no surprise that is was a simple, yet extremely noisy punk song) wherein i would ofttimes punch (yes, punch) my bass strings for an even greater cacophany of sound, usually, it should be noted, with the fleshy and resilient heel of my hand, i made a grave miscalculation and punched the strings instead with my actual fist, and split the joint of my middle finger, bleeding quite a bit and no doubt smashing tendons and ligaments and growth plates and things of that nature within. i believe i probably uttered filth and foulness in at least two languages, followed by continuing to play for many more minutes (there are still blood stains on parts of my bass--of course, i am a bit slack about cleaning and polishing the poor thing.)

recently, i was playing the same bass, in front of the computer (recording) and somehow or other wracked this same knuckle upon the corner of the desk.

it lit me up like a firecracker.

i did the same lip-biting-hopping-bent-over-(why is it we bend over at the waist when injured, regardless of what part of us is experiencing pain?)-holding-my-hand-as-if-it-is-attempting-to-seccede dance i did on that night some time ago, and i am sure i repeated the same incantation involving much use of "fuck" and "cunt" and "joda" and "puta".

this would, in and of itself, be a mildly amusing story, except that a day later, i knocked a front door and managed to use this exact same finger joint. stoicly, though coated in a thin layer of perspiration, i managed to do the dance and incantation on the inside, lest the owner of the home open the door to discover their pizza delivery guy in the midst of groveling, crying, and cursing, until i could abscond to the semiprivacy of my car, where i observed a rusty-brown stain spreading under the skin of my middle finger.

lots of motrin and babying, and it is ok as long as i don't bump it on anything, but god damn! am i hard on my body.

paw.

darth sardonic