Blogshit

People will write about anything.
I went on a tour of blogland these past few days to see what the vast army of maladjusted humans with a desire to express themselves are writing about.
Holy salted snails.
The absolute volume of total shit out there is impressive.
After six hours of reading I had to go outside and throw my pants, boots and socks away.
Wading through waist deep poop can do that.
I found blogs for and about everything.
Dealing with snails in your garden. 78 blogs over three years of NOTHING but dealing with snails.
Growing Worms in your kitchen.
Growing Pot in life size Plastic Nativity Scene Characters. (very informative)
Exploring the inner working of a self designed AI.
Anime fetish blogs.

Jesus. Lots and Lots of Blogs about Jesus and scriptures and heaven and oh my, they even type with southern accents. I get the feeling that most of them read on about a 3rd grade level if at all.
Distressing.
Depressing blogs.

Statistically speaking I would venture to say that 90% of blogs are depressing, or about depression, or anti-psychotics and/or both.
Lots of Photo blogs. Most of those I actually really enjoyed.
Much over-use of the word "adventure" in blog titles.
If everyone with a blog titled adventure of....... Is actually having any sort of adventure.
Well, they would write a lot more about cool things. Instead they make one or three entries about their plans, their goals and their dreams and then.
I guess real life catches up and smacks them in the head.
Either that or thousands of people die every day on the first step to their grand adventure.
Sex blogs.
The odd thing about sex blogs. Actually, pretty much everything about all blogs is odd so to single out sex blogs is unfair.
However.
Most of the Sex blogs seem to be written by people who are not having any.
The food blogs.
I hate the food blogs.
As if having cooking shows on all day at the gym was not bad enough.

There are billions of blathering bloggers besieged by baked, boiled, burnt and braised items. Incidentally, that is a picture of butter beans. Thematic.
I hate food blogs.

Cat blogs.
I struggled with this, because I too have a cat. I have written about him on my blog. This is NOT my cat. My cat is a kick-ass raging cool furface named jack that does not chew on cacti.

Nor do I  have 5 years of  1820 individual entries about a cat. One cat. Neither do I have 3000 followers whom are also obsessed with said feline.
One blog, one cat, 1820 entries over five years and over 3000 followers.
There are some blogs out there that are so wonderfully written, so magnificently expresses and so emotionally rewarding to read that it makes swilling through the miasma of blogocean worth it.
Wear old clothes.

Retold

This story was told to me tonight.

It made me smile.

“Where did you Get those Boots? I really like them”

“Weeeelllllll,

I was on my way from one little southern hothouse to another, the truck was running good and I was feeling great. The South was feeling mighty fine just then. I realized that I needed to stop, drop some water off, and pick up some water for me, and some Gas for the truck .It was a needful  situation and one in which I approved. The convenience store that I pulled in to seemed to be  just the spot, I walked in to pay for my gas and realized two things. One, it was a mite bigger on the inside than the out, 2, it was not just a convenience store, it was a CASINO/convenience store!

I walked right on over to the fun part of the store knowing that may truck was parked just in front. Safe as could be.

 I guess.

I stuck 5 dollars in a spinning wheel poker machine, placed the max bet and spun that little bandits arm.

Straight flush.

The lights started to flashing and the whistles and bells to a ringing. Little lady ran right out of the back room, unplugged the machine and opened a door to reveal its guts. She pulled a little printed ticket out from its innards and I walked up to the payout and then out the door.

750.00 dollars richer than when I had a walked in.

Hopped in my truck and started off down the road.

15 miles later I remembered that I had forgotten water, gas and pissing.

Damn.

So I took the very next exit and pulled into the first place I figured would have a usable toilet.

It was Carlos’s Boot Hacienda, which makes no damn sense in Louisiana but the bathroom seemed fit.

I decided while I was there to treat myself to a new pair of boots, figured a hundred dollars ought to do the trick.

Then I saw these.

I had to have them and they was only ½ of the money the CASINO had just givin me.

Sold.

Then I got emptied out, filled up the truck and me and sashayed right on out of there.

That was, at least my intent.

I remembered that I was heading to my sister’s house to cook some food and light some fireworks with her children for the fourth of July.

So I pulled into the fireworks store and unloaded my over-full wallet on them for half my winnings worth of fireworks.

Watching those kids, light them fireworks, running around with the lit punks trailing embers and smoke with my new boots on the table in front of me.

Best damn fourth of my whole life.

I guess.

Pet Day part 1

How do you begin to tell a story that you know without a moments doubt, that no one will believe?

Do you just jump right in and pretend it is some sort of warholish like fiction? Or, do you ease in, like you would into a really hot bath. One toe at a time?

Its a tough call.

Plug your nose kids, its jumping time.

Pet day. SHAZAM! Whomever the genius is that thought up the brilliant idea of a group of 7 year olds bringing their pets to school needs to seek help. Quickly.

I was there, with the Fat Jack. He had gotten heavy so I had placed his bulk on top of the cubby shelf and was busy restraining him.

See, Jack is a rather large cat. Or a stunted cougar. Tough to say. He thinks he can take any canine that breathes. 

For the most part, seeing the various rodents masquerading as dogs being bundled into the class I would agree. There is not the Chihuahua or Pekingese or Toy Poodle alive that could take Jack. However, when the hound of the Baskervilles started roaring inside the classroom I saw Jack look a wee nervous.

When the skinny little white boy with his pretty collection of prison tats dragged a slavering pit bull out of the room even Jack was a bit taken aback. It seemed a bit, shall we say, NOT FAMILY FRIENDLY to bring an obvious fighting dog to pet day. The owner of the Great Pyrenees that it was fighting looked almost angry.

 If the veins traveling down his forehead and neck were any indication, he was near to an aneurysm.

I couldn't say I blamed him, honestly, here he was with his 200 plus pound puppy getting its ass kicked by an 60 pound Pitt. I would have been embarrassed too.

They were fighting around my ankles and legs by now and Jack was asking if I would care to wager on the outcome. It was looking bad for the pyrnees. So, very calmly, I kicked the pit in its swinging sack as hard as i could. I followed that with a stiff push to the chest of meth-boy and another calm kick to the head of the pitt.

My calmness prevailed.

After a few sweet muttered words meth-boy and his loyal canine companion left. Jack flipped a nonchalant paw in their direction, and I sped them along with a calm smile.

Leaving us alone in the hall. Jack, myself, the great prnyese and the blushing owner of said puppy.

200 pounds of goofy dog chose this moment to make friends with The Fat Jack.

It was turning into, bring your too dumb to live animal to school day.

Puppy lurched up on its hind legs to stick a friendly nose in The Fat Jacks general direction. Jack hissed, popped and with a casual swipe, split the damn dogs nose.

As the owner was being dragged into an inglorious retreat he asked me if I had trapped a damn Bobcat.

I sighed.

He really is a rather large kitty.

I was watching the retreat when my eye was trapped by something weird. A back pack, down the hall, hanging by its hook under the cubby shelf was moving. It was swinging back and forth in a very curious way.

A small gap appeared in the zipper area of the pack. This gap was then filled by the snout of a very large rat. Or, at least, thats what it appeared to be.

Until it unzipped the backpack all the way and jumped down. Tail wagging and its giant buggy eyes burning with a self satisfied glint. It was Pepe! The Chiuaha.

 He looked confused.

I was confused.

The school nurse, walking down the hall was confused.

Jack was Bored.

The school nurse looked at me, quizzically. 

At this point her guess was as good as mine. Pepe chose this moment to pee.

I am positive that it actually peed more water then it weighed.

I was impressed.

School nurse was not impressed.

Jack was amused. 

She snatched up the dog mid-shake and marched into the nearest classroom.

And marched right out again when she was met by a chorus of howls, barks, caterwauls and one or two squeaks.

Than on to the next classroom. 

Moments later, she reappeared dragging the recalcitrant owner of the grande escape artiste Pepe to the Principals lounge.

Several very tense minutes passed.

Jack Farted.

The principal came out of the lounge, leading Little girl by the hand. Little girl in turn on her very grubby little hands firmly clenched on the bright pink string she had used for the fat jack.

Justice of a sort.

All this. Before Jack and I had even left the hall.

Alligators are FUN

Nothing ever turns out the way I expected. I suspect that this is either because I expect the impossible and/or I am Gods designated one man comedy show.

A short example would be spray foam insulation.

Everyone else in the world presses the top and the foam comes out.

I had a can explode in my face and almost kill me.

This is irony.

http://colneyhatch.blogspot.com/2009/06/foam-of-death.html

It was also hilarious.

Irony.

I just remembered something.

It is a little Irony and a lot of stupidity.

You see, I lived in the south for a few years. They have alligators there. I have since learned that to alligators, we (You, humans) are nothing more or less then food.

I knew this then, but I don’t think you ever really KNOW this until some animal has tried to eat you.

Its humbling.

A friend of mine and his father owned an alligator farm.  The theory was, to raise alligators for their skins and meat. The practice was, they couldint get the right permits to sell the hides and steaks so they were just feeding them until they did.

They asked me  ”ifn I warnted to gos and feed them gators”

Of COURSE I did. Shazam! Feeding Gators! How cool is that?

It sucked.

I had no idea that in order to feed the Gators we would first have to get the gator-chow.

It comes prepackaged with feathers.

Dead Chickens.

I drove a 1 ton dump truck to 20 different farms, Egg farms, to gather up and load all of the chickens that had died that week.

A one week dead chicken that has been steaming in Alabama July for a week is an olfactory joy. If you are a rabid mentally unstable red tick coon hound.

To all other sentinent creatures it smells.

Bad.

Then off to the gator farm to feed the livestock.

Simple process, you dump the chickens and chuck them to the gators.

Did you know that when Gators get fed a lot they get big? I mean like really big? I guess an average gator is right around 8-9 feet long, these old boys were pushing twelve. They would hiss and snap and pop those chickens the way you or I would pop a grape. It was something I should probably tell my therapist about. If I had one.

Once the frenzy was over the owner, smiling wide enough that I could see his tooth, asked me If I would do just one more thing, since I was already there?

Sure. I mean, no problem Cleetus! Or whatever his name was.

He asked me ifn (is that really a word?) I would drive round the whole 12 acres and see ifn (crap) I could spot any dead gators. You gots to gets the skins offn em pretty gol-durned quick. I guess.

So, me and the kid (thats what they all called him, I am not sure ifn his name was “Kid” or he was just the youngest? he was about 45)

drove off to seek dead gators. I really wanted to find one. I had seen live gators, now I wanted to see a dead one.

Truth be told, I really wanted to touch one. I dont know why, I was very curious in my 20s.

And lo….. WE FOUND ONE! I was so excited! The kid was too, even though he didnt even blink, or smile, or move, or even glance at the dead Gator. I KNEW he was excited. Who wouldint be?!?!?

I knew it was dead because its fore legs and head were under water and its rear legs and tail were stretched up on the bank.

I watched it for 15 minutes. It didnt move, no bubbles, not a twitch. It was dead.

So I went to touch its tail.

Perfect chance, and every boys dream, touch a dead gator tail.

Just one second, what in the HELL was wrong with me?

ok.

Like I was saying, perfect chance.

I had it all planned out, I was going to saunter on down, bend, touch its tail, have the Kid snap a picture for proof and saunter back.

easy peasy.

this is the ironic part.

That stupid chicken eating reptilian ass-dodger was faking.

Faking. as in, not dead.

I bent down to touch its tail and a very small part of my brain screamed “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!!!!”

That part of my brain picked up a rock and threw it at the Gators head.

We, that part of my Brain and I, were watching the rock slowly drift through the swamp water to the gators head

and

Its jaws snapped one inch from my face.

That fast.

I jumped straight back and straight up and landed on the hood of the car.

The Gator threw itself into the water and began to thrash and roll in a circle.

I think it thought it had got me.

I sat, very quietly and contemplated the irony of the situation.

The Kid, laconic and stoic, and I thought;  Mute.

Laughed so Hard I think he did himself an injury.

Tis ironic.

MATH it does a body good

The very first word of anything is always the hardest for me. It will either catch an audience or turn them away. Whether it is writing, speaking or singing it’s all the same. It’s that very first word that matters.

That’s why I grunt so much.

I finish triathlons, I would love to say that I “Race” or that I “Compete” but compared to the wee little elves that actually do these things, I am a scary oversized puffing and slobbering Troll.

They actually have a special class for guys like me.

Just like in school.

They call it Clydesdale.

For Hell's sake!

I would prefer Hercules or Goliath or even Ogre.

Nope, Clydesdale.

It used to be anything over 200 lbs., so I dieted until I thought I was going to blow away in the wind and the powers that be changed it to 195 lbs.

And

They had a weigh in.

198 pounds.

Then they write it on your leg.

So all the little gazelles that pass me know, Fat Ass.

I can hear them smirking at me as they bounce by with their effortless strides, gravity hardly pulling at them at all. I used to throw rocks at them. But I had a really difficult time hiding the body of the last one.

So now I just yell “OH YEAH!!!!!!” in a really mean voice.

It’s all I got.

My nephew (a gazelle) started finishing them with me. I could beat him by a few minutes but only because he couldn’t swim.

Bobbing along in the current dog-paddling does not make for an excellent swim time.

But man, the kid can run. Averaging a 5 ½ minute mile. That’s after the swim and the bike.

Then he beat me. By 8 minutes.

Desperate times etc etc.

I read an article that ascertained that for every pound you dropped you could shave one minute off your finishing times. He had beaten me by 8 minutes, so I did the math and discovered that I needed to lose 12 pounds. (Really bad at math)

Then I read another article, in another  magazine. It’s far too disgusting to ever repeat in any sort of English speaking company.

If you have a weak stomach stop HERE.

Colon Cleansing.

Apparently all of us carry all sorts of vile and unspeakable things about in our colons. Old food, Plaque, Bugs and yucky stuff of all description.

Then I got really excited because it says that the “average person” has about ten pounds of vile in their colon at any given time.

SHAZAM!

Problem solved. I am not average. So I figured 12 pounds was as good as gone.

 The Cleanse

It sounds really ominous. Say it out loud in a raspy breathy Darth Vader voice and it sounds exactly like I felt going into it.

THE CLEEAANNSSSE

It wasn’t that bad.

It was just a seven day deal. I didn’t eat anything at all for seven days. I had to drink this magic potion to help speed things along, but it really was not that bad.

Juice of two lemons

One tbsp. of grade B maple syrup

Cheyenne pepper to taste.

In a Nalgene bottle of Distilled water.

For seven days.

Day 8 was the Kicker. And day nine was the race.

God made the world in 6 days, I made a lot of ahem poo.

It’s amazing actually. I wasn’t eating anything and I was still producing poundage.

It’s the magic poo potion that does it.

Day Seven.

The cleanse instructions said to mix 2.5 TSPs of non-iodized salt with one gallon of warm water and drink the whole thing.

No problem.

Wait!

I failed Home Economics. Stitched my finger to my sachet and caught the oven thingy on fire somehow, Failed with an F. And Math? Who needs Math? That’s why God invented calculators. (Really, I am horrible at Math)

FYI: 1 tablespoon (tbsp) equals 3 teaspoons (tsp)

A TSP is apparently 

different from a TBSP!

Who knew?

So, two giant heaping TBSPs of salt, then a level One cause I couldn’t just fill it half way. Mixed in a gallon of warm water and guzzled. Gagging, coughing, groaning and retching. But I swallered it all. And I kept it down.

God created the world in 6 days then took a day off to sleep.

I created poo for seven days. Then I exploded.

The instructions read something like “After completing the seven day pre-cleanse you will be ready for a gentle salt laxative. This will clean the walls of your colon and finish your cleanse”

Slap me with a giant roasted buffalo.

Gentle?

I thought I was pretty much empty by this point. I had lost ten pounds of vile and was sitting at 196, fighting weight. I figured with the “gentle cleanse” I would expel those last two pounds and slaughter the nephew come day nine.

Shit. And more shit.

Then things that I don’t even like to think about. Then my appendix and I am pretty sure my other tonsil. Bugs critters and stuff that was supposed to stay in came out.

For 14 very long hours.

I lost the weight.

183 lbs. morning of race.

I finished the triathlon. Not dead last. Just dead.

The nephew dog paddled and sprinted his way to beating me by 16 minutes.

Boy,  was I clean.