Damn, the Steelers lost. There were some moments of brightness but their offense just couldn't get it done. I still think they have the ability to beat the Colts but I didn't like their game plan last night. What the Hell was that shit Cower did with an onsides kick to start the second half? I didn't like the call...

My Pick

I'm picking the Steelers by 14 points tonight on Monday Night Football. That's right. The Colts are beat up, the Steelers have Big Ben back and healthy as well as all three running backs: Parker, Bettis, and Staley. I think the football guru Clapper will back me up on this. What do you think Clapper can the Steelers do it?


The Bus

Damn, you're probably right...

You’re right, who am I to judge someone so harshly? So the Internet date had a huge out of proportion ass but maybe she really was a nice person. Okay, I see where you’re coming from and am not really that shallow, really, some of it was just for effect. The truth is that we had little in common. I’m sure I might have gone out with her—yes, even with the huge ass—if perhaps we had something…anything in common. The truth is that some people weren’t meant to be together. You know? Maybe I should have left out the portion about the ass as big as a VW Bug. Maybe then you would have more sympathy for me. Maybe if I had just said she was really boring or a really bad person but then that wouldn’t be true either. It just wasn’t there. There was no spark, there was no real attraction. Yeah, of course if I were really drunk I might…

So, I think I’m done with the Internet dating thing. I took my profile down, erased all traces of me ever having been on such a site. I think those sites attract a certain kind of person, many of which are not my type. Every woman on there seemed to like to spend entire weekends dancing and riding horses and quite honestly I have no desire to dance or ride a fucking horse but yeah, I’d do both for a million bucks. So, I guess I’ll just have to get the nerve up to ask that hot aerobics instructor out. How? I don’t know. I think she might be interested in me but I’m not always good at reading people. Perhaps I could take her aerobics class…nah, I couldn’t see me doing aerobics but somehow I’ve got to meet her. Any ideas? This is going to be harder than I thought…

The date

She only had one picture and it looked like it was taken during the greatest storm of fog to ever hit the East Coast but beneath the curtain of perspiration I thought I caught a glimpse of what could only described as beauty. I printed the picture out and viewed it with a magnifying glass, counting out each mega pixel on her chin, following the hazy outline of her curvaceous figure. For over five minutes I studied the picture using all the powers of female observation I’d accumulated over my 36 years and finally I made the decision. I would go on a date with her. Deep down I doubted this decision but the prospect of spending a Friday night at home didn’t seem like much of an option. So, I E-mailed her back and told her that it would be great to meet her. How about that Mexican bar off of Interstate 83 that serves margaritas in hollowed out gourds? Accepted. I wasn’t sure about this online dating thing but what the Hell? It couldn’t be as bad as the last one could it?

I arrived at the Mexican restaurant a few minutes before the scheduled rendezvous and quickly downed a Guinness so my jaw would be properly greased when she came through the door, which was twenty minutes late. I saw her first through the old west style double saloon doors and in fact her face was just as beautiful as I’d imagined. I waved and she waved back. I turned towards back around because it isn’t polite to stare. A moment later she slid into the chair next to me. We ordered drinks--me another Guinness and she a margarita—and we commenced with the obligatory series of getting acquainted questions and then something happened. I think she hit a button behind her ear and suddenly her mouth was running on turbo: she was a real estate agent, had a son that was a star athlete (aren’t they all), her sister was a slut, her mother was cold and uncaring, her ex-husband was a meth abuser, she wasn’t popular in high school, she was demanding, she could be cold too.

I just marginally heard these things looking into her eyes, wondering if it was wrong to try to sleep with her on the first date. She then announced she had to use the bathroom and got up. I slammed the rest of my Guinness and pushed my cup aside. My eyes started at the top and worked down her slim torso and then stopped abruptly. The sound of a needle scratching across a record filled my ears. Her ass was HUGE. The saloon doors had hidden this from me upon her entrance. I don’t mean big in a pleasant curvy way but I mean HUGE in a doctor Frankenstein transplanted Orson Well’s ass to Audrey Hepburn’s torso HUGE. I spit up my Guinness and coughed like I’d inhaled nuclear fallout. How did her ass get that big, I wondered and if it was that big now how big would it be in five years? I panicked. Suddenly the ramifications of all she said came back to me: I don’t like to travel, I don’t like ethnic food of any kind, I sleep with my dogs and my son, I eat McDonald’s every day. “No, stop it!” I cried inside my head. I grabbed the edges of the table and tried to calm myself. I needed a way out of this Mexican restaurant. I quickly phoned my Uncle Joe who was downtown having a beer with friends. “Call me in five minutes. I need an excuse to get out of this date.”

When she came out of the bathroom her ass seemed to have grown another two feet in diameter. I thought I could stick flag on her butt and claim it for America and the build condos on it.

Damn it, snap out of it, I told myself.

“Sorry it took so long. I was talking to my son and my sister on the phone,” she said sitting down.

“I uh…”

Just then my cell phone rang. It was my Uncle Joe.

“Your car broke down? I’m out with someone now. Stranded on the highway? Okay. Goodbye,” I said.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“My uncle Joe, evidently his Yukon broke down out in some Godforsaken redneck area. I’m going to have to cut our date short and go save him. I hate to do that though.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I understand.

“Great, maybe we can do this again sometime,” I said and threw down forty dollars.

I was out those saloon doors before she could heave her ass off that bar stool and was probably downtown drinking a beer with my uncle before she got out of the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant.

“How did the date go?” Uncle Joe asked as we sat at the bar at an Irish Pub.

“Another beer, bartender,” I said.

A Thanksgiving Proposal

I propose that we do away with turkey at Thanksgiving and eat something more patriotic. I for one am tired of eating a bird whose face looks as if it had been pinched between the rollers on a conveyor belt and that bobs its head when it walks as if listening to the latest Usher CD. Tradition can be nice but it can also be boring and I for one am tired of turkeys. We Americans need to diversify, to pull up our red, white and blue underpants and forge headlong into the future. We need to do what George W. Washington…oh, wait that’s not right, it’s George W. Bush would do. Forgive me it’s so easy to get the two confused. There lives have been so similar. One thought it was too much of a lie to not to confess to chopping down a cherry tree the other, GOD BLESS HIM AND ONLY HIM, realized honesty was only a commodity to be bought and sold to the highest bidder. But, I’m getting a little off track. What I really want to do is make my proposal, my patriotic contribution to this great United States. Here it goes. In light of the recent “energy crisis” as sold to us by oil executives and their chums in the Whitehouse, I feel it prudent, no I find it an absolute necessity that we find alternative sources of fuel. No, don’t be silly we don’t want to run our cars on clean burning hydrogen or soybean oil. Yes, it would be good for the environment but what about all those starving Exxon and Mobil executives? If we switch to other sources of fuel how will they pay off the mortgage on their gold handled toilet plungers? No, that would be too cruel a fate. What I propose is that we drill for oil in Alaska. You will say that we will destroy the environment and kill of endangered species. Yes, well, that might be inevitable but if these species can’t buy stock what good are they? Yes, but fefore you start flipping out let me state my patriotic plan which we will incorporate the wonderful tradition of Thanksgiving.

As we rampage through Alaska drilling for oil, for the profit of these oil companies, we might as well arm the workers with guns and have them kill off the wildlife and replace the Thanksgiving turkey with endangered or threatened species. The animal lovers won’t be able to complain if there aren’t any animals there to protect can they? Right. So, this is what I will be serving at my house for Thanksgiving when the oil companies finally get their way and are able to hunt for endangered species and drill for oil in Alaska:

Blackened Short-tailed Albatross (endangered) with Aleutian Shield Fern (endangered) salad. A most delightful salad served with Humpback Whale (endangered) oil dressing.

Leatherback Sea turtle (endangered) soup. Dick Cheney’s own family recipe…

Aleutian Canada Goose wings (threatened) in buffalo sauce. I think George W. choked on one of these while watching a Longhorns game. Or was that a pretzel?

For the main course Steller Sea-lion. Be careful carrying this sucker to the table. It will probably take five or six full grown men.

So there you have it, my proposal. I will be a hero to millions of turkeys. When humans are gone they will build memorials to me and I will be known as the turkey man. God bless America. I am the turkey man listen to me gobble…

I feel it coming on...yeah, it feels like the words are returning. I must make them comfortable, serve them beer and take them to titty bars so that they might do my bidding. I would do almost anything for them...no, a threesome is out of the question. They would just get in the way. Call her a dirty slut or something to feed their own combustion. I won't be party to that....then again...

Tagged by Leigh yo

Okay, let me give this a try. It will give me writing practice.

Weapon(s) of Choice:

My two Chihuahuas and a pint of oxen blood to smear on the ankles of unsuspecting Trick-or-Treaters. We’ll see if those little bastards show up begging for candy at my doorstep again. Oh, damn, I’m turning into that old grumpy guy that yells at kids when they hit a baseball into his yard.

Relative Psychosis:
Yes, relatives do cause psychosis and tomorrow I will self medicate with near lethal doses of L- Tryptophan and Troegs Hopback. You will find me slumped over the couch watching the West Virginia and Pittsburgh game. Go Mountaineers!

How hard can it be:
After a case of Sierra Nevada and a bottle of red wine it can be damn hard to find your bearings let alone your hotel room which I recently found after my cousin’s wedding in CA.

So, what's next?

Possibly some sort of road trip in which one drunken moment spills into the other and you wake up on a couch in the hotel lobby with a pair of red Victoria’s Secret underwear in your pocket and no recollection of how in the hell they got there…

I'll name that tune in:
Right after I take the scale back I bought last night. The damn thing is a piece of junk. For all its bells and whistles I could have gotten a better reading from a piece of rope slung over a tree branch tied to a boulder. It’s supposed to measure body fat and when I stepped on the damn thing it gave me the fat percentage of a Krispy Kreme addict. In the fine print I read that it isn’t accurate for athletes, bodybuilders, people over 330 lbs or evidently anyone with more muscle than an anorexic junior high girl. I almost tossed the thing onto my compost heap figuring it would decompose in 40 or 50 thousand years but my Chihuahua Uma was sleeping on it. Oh well, she might as well use the piece of shit because it’s not good for anything else…

Some of you have come to know the Little Red Treasure from the photos of my trip to Montreal with a group of my friends. I’ll repeat that none of us liked the little princess or her obnoxiously pink clothing. You may wonder why then I mention her, well, let me explain. You see the Captain put the three rooms we stayed in on his credit card and after the trip we were all supposed to pay our share of the room so he could pay off his credit card. To date all my friends in the group except for two, The Weasel and Fu, have paid their share. Now, I know those two will get around to paying the Captain. In other words they’re good for the money but there is another in the group that I suspect may not pay up. You guessed it, The Little Red Treasure. Daddy’s girl probably thinks she doesn’t have to pay because her presence on the trip was enough payment. Oh, quite the opposite dear. We all loathed you and WE WANT OUR MONEY NOW! This has been a rant sponsored by Kerouaced. Thank-you and good-bye.

Okay, I’m going to try to post something every day. I really do need the writing practice. Sometimes I go through periods when the words just don’t come to me. Right now I find myself concentrating again on polishing up the query letter and synopsis for my first book. It’s the type of writing I really don’t like doing and it seems to zap all my other writing powers….must…get…back…to…writing…ugh…

Well, I think that's about it. It seems I'm all out of words. I have nothing left to say...Hmm, yes it is strange. I'll have to go home and search for these missing words. Maybe I just misplaced them. Maybe they're in the dog's water dish or behind that stack of books. We'll see...

Check out this blog

She's been coming to my blog on and off for a while...damn, I don't even know here name but she wants to meet some bloggers so check her out. What is your name by the way? Is it Ashley?
http://taketheglasstoyourwrist.blogspot.com/

The Group in Montreal....minus me...

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The Little Red Treasure and Fiddy talkin' bout politics...

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Fu in FouFounes Electrique...

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The Weasel and Al trying to figure out if the Little Red Treasure is a Nazi













The Al and the Weasel pretending to eat dinner in between drinks...

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Fu is trashed...

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Fiddy chillin' with the Captain.

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Uhm, someone got named the Gay Captain Pierre Costeau (the captain for short) on our trip to Montreal because he wore a suede peacoat and a knit sailor's cap. He also drank like a sailor and had his one droopy eye sagging like a mother when last call came around. Captain O my Captain...

We're Back...

I'm so very tired. Outrunning my shadow and the hangover that clung to my skull like wax teeth to a car's warm radiator. You see I was gone and now I'm back. I've got tons of good stories about beer drinking and chasing down dreams in a city by a river. Oh and stories about the Captain, a guy nameed Fu, the Weasel, Fiddy, and Al and a certain redhead who will not remain anonymous. A certain redhead we all got to know as The Little Red Treasure. We almost left that bitch in Montreal but being anti-Christian we all did the right thing and brought her back. I've got pictures to dowload and stories to write. I'll be back soon so promise me now you'll come back. It will be worth it. Believe in me because someone has to...

Bye Bye

I’m leaving for Montreal today with a group of friends. There will be pictures and stories I’m sure. Do you want to come along? Call me, we can squeeze you in. You will have to drive some though because I like to read and I will bring my little battery powered reading light and two novels. Oh, and could you please not sing along to songs on the radio? Thanks. That really gets on my fucking nerves.

Please don't knock. I'm working on my query letter for my book and I'm not in a good mood. It's the kind of writing I dread, the straight laced business stuff. The words that come out all rough and with sharp angles. They aren't natural to me and so I really really need to concentrate. You do understand don't you? Great. Please leave the pizza on my doorstep and don't you dare piss my chihuahuas off and get them barking. If you do I'll tape the pizza to your ankles and set them loose. You don't think I'll do it? Try me...

Call me butter

I need the junk to keep it going. To keep me revving, to keep the stars spinning like kid toys, to inflate my sagging mind. To get Kerouaced. To get the things you don’t get any other way. You’re right. I’m going, going, gone. It’s too late. You’re too late. Just let me spin into butter like Little Black Sambo--nix all that racist stuff though—with the tigers bearing down on me. That’s right, you leave them with nothing but butter and you slide right through their claws. So there, you can never have me. You will never ever get to me because I’m already gone…

So there. For all it matters. I only believe in God when I think I’m going to die, when the turbulence gets bad and the bolts shake loose. I only drink when I think I’m going to live, when beer is half priced and talk is even cheaper. I only laugh when I think the joke is on me, when I'm laughing at something I said about you. I only cry when I’m cutting onions, when I hurt vegetables that remind me of you.

Steve & Cindy Lou (this picture sucks of me but alas I only had two from which to chose)

So, I’m in California to attend my cousin Jim’s wedding. Congratulations by the way to Jim and Kim, uh, yeah, I didn’t get any pics but maybe soon I will post some as I see who else remembered to bring their camera to the wedding and so forth. Oh, and another thing, I’m going to send your gift in the mail. Damn if I didn’t remember to bring everything except the damn gift. Anyway, the day after the wedding, on which I was feeling like I’d been hit over the head with ever bottle of beer I drank, I met a young lass that some of you have come to know as Cindy Lou.

We met at my hotel in Pleasanton and I was immediately smitten with this sweet little blogger but there was no time to waste and so we took to the road in search of a Mexican eatery at which to dine. After several wrong turns and third degree traffic violations we did eventually locate the Mexican restaurant but found it had closed down; its exterior wrapped in yellow police tape and posted with florescent quarantined signs. I suspected we’d escaped a most unpleasant eating experience but with my excellent navigational talents (well, sort of) we soon found another Mexican eatery. Really, Mexican restaurants are the only place Cindy feels safe so any other ethnic cuisine was out of the question which was fine with me, I have come to know well the soothing qualities of the tortilla on a hangover.

We chatted and things were going well until Cindy was asked by our waiter to remover her sombrero. She vehemently refused and there was somewhat of a squabble with the help who thought she was being disrespectful but I quickly quelled the disturbance by juggling several tamales while drinking a Corona with a very long straw. She was thankful for my quick thinking and not so much upset at the chili sauce that I’d flung on her clothing while juggling the tamales.

After lunch we hung at the hotel bar tossing rolled up one dollar bills to the cabaret dancers that flopped around on rickety stage in the corner. We were both nursing our drinking wounds from the night before so booze was out of the question, although Cindy did down a half dozen Shirley Temples and seemed to gain some sort of strange energy from these sugary drinks and in no time was doing pushups in front of the bar.

It was really good to get to know Sweet Lou, who is even sweeter in person. She thinks we won’t meet again but she’s wrong. She left her sombrero in the hotel lobby and some day I will have to return it. What is it that they say? Until we meet again? Yeah, I think that’s it.