Sometimes I'm a little slow when it comes to blogging. I usually have two or three ideas practically written in my head, but I can't do anything about it until I have a title. This should have been posted Friday night, but you had to wait because I can't finish until I know where to start. That out of the way, we can begin.
I had promised my mom awhile back that I would visit one week day sometime so I could go and help her pay for her funeral. Some of you may think that's a little morbid, but dear old mom and I pretty much have the same views on death. Ain't no use in crying over the dead. They're dead, your not, so keep on living. That and everybody dies sooner or later. Don't misunderstand me, I'll miss the old gal when she's gone but it's coming someday and I'm alright with her paying for it so I don't have to. Plus it leaves more room on her credit cards for me to play with after she's gone. Put you orders in now if you see something on Home Shopping Network that you've just got to have.
I got up early Friday and drove to The Patch with T3. We arrived around noon just to find out that the funeral home had a service at 1:00 so they couldn't take care of us until 4:00. We sat around mom's house for awhile waiting and chatting. T3 eventually got hungry so I paid him $5.00 to go inside and tell his grandmother "I'm hungry old woman." It was worth every penny. After lunch I went to the local video store and ordered a movie she's been wanting and we drove around until it was time to hit the parlor. I haven't had that much fun in a long time. The parlor, not the drive.
Funeral Lady: "Can I help you?"
Mom: "I have an appointment."
FL: "You're the pre-need?"
Mom: "I don't know. What's a pre-need?"
FL: "We have two kinds of customers. Pre-need and need now."
Mom: "Well since I'm not dead, I guess I'm a pre-need."
Mom cracking jokes a the funeral home. That's my cue.
Trash: "Explain pre-need."
FL: "Pre-need means purchasing the funeral in advance."
Trash: "Why need? Why not pre-pay? She doesn't really NEED a funeral. I could always just buy a shovel and dig a hole in the woods."
FL: "Well that would be illegal."
Trash: "Only if I got caught."
Funeral lady looked at my mom.
FL: "Burial or cremation?"
Mom: "Cremation."
FL: "Will you need an urn or box?"
Mom: "Neither."
FL: "By law the ashes must be kept in an urn or box unless you're going to scattered."
Mom: "I'll be scattered."
Trash: "where do you want me to dump you?"
Mom: "I was thinking a nice garden somewhere. What do you think?"
Trash: "I think along the road on the way back to Austin. The less time I spend doing this the more time I can devote to spending your money."
I looked at the Funeral Lady.
Trash: "So do you just hand her over in a take out box or a paper bag or something?"
FL: "No. The ashes are in a plastic bag inside a plastic box."
Trash: "Is there ever any pieces of bone left?"
FL: "It could happen. Why?"
Trash: "I was planning on making a necklace to remember her by."
FL: "Ma'am. Did you want a service?"
Mom: "No. There's no sense in wasting money?"
FL: "What if your family wants something to remember you by?"
Trash: "I'll video tape me dumping her ashes along the road, singing Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead."
Mom: "You better not sing that."
FL: "That was cruel."
Mom: "I don't care about the song. He just can't sing worth a damn."
Trash: "Could we get a cheaper rate if I drove her to the crematorium my self? I could just prop her up in the passenger seat."
FL: "That's not possible the body must be transported in a cremation casket."
Trash: "OK. I have a truck, I could just slide it in the back."
FL: "Sir there is no way for you to transport the body."
Trash: "What if somebody else is getting cremated on the same day. Can we dump them in together and split the bill?"
FL: "SIR. The cost is the cost. It is not possible to lower it and it's illegal to cremate two body's together."
Trash: "Only if you get caught."
FL: "Ma'am, are you sure you want him to handle your affairs?"
Mom: "He's the best one for this job."
Trash: "Y'all don't burn the cremation caskets, do you?"
FL: "No."
Trash: "Would you be willing to sell one?"
FL: "Why?"
Trash: "I want to turn it into a coffee table and keep her ashes in it."
FL: "Why would you do that?"
Trash: "So I could throw myself across it from time to time screaming WHY, MOMMA, WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DIE."
FL: "I can't sell you one."
Trash: "OK. How about a used hearse?"
Mom: "You are definitely crazy."
Trash: "Well I did come by it honest."
FL: "Ma'am, can you please get him out of here?"
Mom: "Yes I can. I feel like having some ice cream anyway."
Trash: "Every funeral should be followed by a chocolate sundae."
Mom: "I guess if I ever die I'm going to miss you."
Trash: "Yeah me too. By the way where do you keep your checkbook and credit cards?"
Monday, February 27, 2006
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
The Critic
Something happened this weekend that I thought would make a good post. The more I thought about it, the madder I got, so I figured I would just skip it. Then this morning I heard something on the radio very similar to my experience, that infuriated me. So I'm now going to share it with you.
From time to time Jen and I like to pack up the boys and make a little mini road trip for a day, just to see shit we ain't seen and do shit we ain't done. Last Saturday was one of those days. We decided to make a trip to a sort of neighboring town for the trade days (flea market) they have once a month. On the way we stopped in a little town called Johnson City for breakfast. We went to a restaurant called The Hill Country Cupboard. This restaurant has been here for 27 years that I know of. Normally I wouldn't name names, but in the instance the guilty should bear their sins. DON'T ever eat here.
We walked in and the place was empty, yet it took about five minutes to get seated. We sat in the smoking section (since I'm trying to kill myself) which was really the bar section. Not a problem. We'll call the lady that sat us Waitress 1. We gave Waitress 1 our drink order (2 coffees and 2 OJ's). Waitress 2 delivered our drinks minus the cream. We asked for cream and she returned with a 1oz to go container with skim milk. After another 20 minutes Waitress 3 took our food order and poured more coffee. Once again minus the pseudo cream. We asked for more cream. She never came back. Eventually Waitress 2 brought our food and more coffee plus pseudo cream. I had ordered eggs over medium and biscuits and gravy (don't give me any shit, in Texas biscuits and gravy are a way of life and I don't ever get any). I dumped my eggs on the biscuits and gravy as Waitress 2 was leaving. I was looking at my plate and something didn't seem right. I stuck my finger in the gravy and it was cold. This is where I did something that is so unlike me even I was a bit surprised. Normally I'm a quiet kind of guy, I'm not the kind of guy that likes to draw attention to myself.
I pushed my chair back and stood up. I'm pretty sure I looked disgusted.
Trash: "Goddammit."
Jen: "What's wrong?"
Trash: "I'm tired of getting lousy service and worse food."
I walked of to the mens room to wash my hands and hopefully cool off or let Jen handle this, because I didn't need to wind up in a small town Texas jail. After I came back to the table nothing had changed except the kids said their food was cold too. I stormed around the corner and ran into Waitress 4 (are you keeping count?).
Waitress 4: "Is there a problem?"
Trash: "You bet your ass there is. I've had ice water that was warmer than that gravy."
Waitress 4: "We'll take care of that sir."
Trash: "Yes you will."
Waitress 4 took our food and I never saw her again. Waitress 2 brought our food back, gave us more coffee and pseudo cream. The second time around the food was pretty good, but the service was still lousy.
Now my rant. Every time I go out to eat I get the worse food the cook ever made. Something always goes wrong. It never fails. If by some miracle everything is good, the next time I go back it will be the most horrible dining experience of my life. Is it me? I don't know. Maybe because I'm a rather large guy, they I assume I'll eat anything. I wont. I have temperature issues where food is involved and I'm a very picky eater. I might look like I'll eat anything you put in front of me. It's not true. I'm big boned and I have slow metabolism.
I see it like this. I'm giving you money for service and a product. That service and product should be to my liking. I don't expect the waitress to read my mind or be there the minute my coffee cup is emptied, but I do expect her to check on me from time to time. I also expect the cook to ensure the food is prepared correctly and at the right temperature. I don't think I'm being unreasonable. I know being in food service is a thankless job, well I show my thanks in the tip. I don't figure 15%. I lived in Jersey long enough to know how to tip. I've had meals where the tip was bigger than the bill because I got great service. Then I've had meals like last Saturday. I hope she doesn't spend that dollar all in one place.
Now before y'all go crazy in the comments telling me what happens to food when it gets sent back, let me tell you I'm well aware of the stories. In fact this morning on the radio they had waiters, waitresses and cooks calling in confessing to their crimes. That's what pissed me off. I know Bubba the cook may have had Paco the dishwasher spit in the gravy, but this was a small town restaurant so I think it's less likely, plus I inspected the food. Normally I only send food back through the manager, with a warning. I like to think managers are above that sort of thing since they are semi-professional people.
I've decide from now on I'm going to name names, give addresses or whatever I have to do to bring attention to these people. I'm not taking it anymore (not that I ever did). When I pay you for a service, I expect good service, When I pay you for food, I expect good food (McDonald's is excused from that last statement, they couldn't serve good food it their lives depended on it). If I'm handing you money for anything you can bet your sweet ass I'm going to get my moneys worth, or your job. It's your choice.
From time to time Jen and I like to pack up the boys and make a little mini road trip for a day, just to see shit we ain't seen and do shit we ain't done. Last Saturday was one of those days. We decided to make a trip to a sort of neighboring town for the trade days (flea market) they have once a month. On the way we stopped in a little town called Johnson City for breakfast. We went to a restaurant called The Hill Country Cupboard. This restaurant has been here for 27 years that I know of. Normally I wouldn't name names, but in the instance the guilty should bear their sins. DON'T ever eat here.
We walked in and the place was empty, yet it took about five minutes to get seated. We sat in the smoking section (since I'm trying to kill myself) which was really the bar section. Not a problem. We'll call the lady that sat us Waitress 1. We gave Waitress 1 our drink order (2 coffees and 2 OJ's). Waitress 2 delivered our drinks minus the cream. We asked for cream and she returned with a 1oz to go container with skim milk. After another 20 minutes Waitress 3 took our food order and poured more coffee. Once again minus the pseudo cream. We asked for more cream. She never came back. Eventually Waitress 2 brought our food and more coffee plus pseudo cream. I had ordered eggs over medium and biscuits and gravy (don't give me any shit, in Texas biscuits and gravy are a way of life and I don't ever get any). I dumped my eggs on the biscuits and gravy as Waitress 2 was leaving. I was looking at my plate and something didn't seem right. I stuck my finger in the gravy and it was cold. This is where I did something that is so unlike me even I was a bit surprised. Normally I'm a quiet kind of guy, I'm not the kind of guy that likes to draw attention to myself.
I pushed my chair back and stood up. I'm pretty sure I looked disgusted.
Trash: "Goddammit."
Jen: "What's wrong?"
Trash: "I'm tired of getting lousy service and worse food."
I walked of to the mens room to wash my hands and hopefully cool off or let Jen handle this, because I didn't need to wind up in a small town Texas jail. After I came back to the table nothing had changed except the kids said their food was cold too. I stormed around the corner and ran into Waitress 4 (are you keeping count?).
Waitress 4: "Is there a problem?"
Trash: "You bet your ass there is. I've had ice water that was warmer than that gravy."
Waitress 4: "We'll take care of that sir."
Trash: "Yes you will."
Waitress 4 took our food and I never saw her again. Waitress 2 brought our food back, gave us more coffee and pseudo cream. The second time around the food was pretty good, but the service was still lousy.
Now my rant. Every time I go out to eat I get the worse food the cook ever made. Something always goes wrong. It never fails. If by some miracle everything is good, the next time I go back it will be the most horrible dining experience of my life. Is it me? I don't know. Maybe because I'm a rather large guy, they I assume I'll eat anything. I wont. I have temperature issues where food is involved and I'm a very picky eater. I might look like I'll eat anything you put in front of me. It's not true. I'm big boned and I have slow metabolism.
I see it like this. I'm giving you money for service and a product. That service and product should be to my liking. I don't expect the waitress to read my mind or be there the minute my coffee cup is emptied, but I do expect her to check on me from time to time. I also expect the cook to ensure the food is prepared correctly and at the right temperature. I don't think I'm being unreasonable. I know being in food service is a thankless job, well I show my thanks in the tip. I don't figure 15%. I lived in Jersey long enough to know how to tip. I've had meals where the tip was bigger than the bill because I got great service. Then I've had meals like last Saturday. I hope she doesn't spend that dollar all in one place.
Now before y'all go crazy in the comments telling me what happens to food when it gets sent back, let me tell you I'm well aware of the stories. In fact this morning on the radio they had waiters, waitresses and cooks calling in confessing to their crimes. That's what pissed me off. I know Bubba the cook may have had Paco the dishwasher spit in the gravy, but this was a small town restaurant so I think it's less likely, plus I inspected the food. Normally I only send food back through the manager, with a warning. I like to think managers are above that sort of thing since they are semi-professional people.
I've decide from now on I'm going to name names, give addresses or whatever I have to do to bring attention to these people. I'm not taking it anymore (not that I ever did). When I pay you for a service, I expect good service, When I pay you for food, I expect good food (McDonald's is excused from that last statement, they couldn't serve good food it their lives depended on it). If I'm handing you money for anything you can bet your sweet ass I'm going to get my moneys worth, or your job. It's your choice.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Discrimination: Keeping The Cracker Down.
My people, I have discovered a conspiracy. A conspiracy of the worst kind. This one is designed with our children in mind. It's not being perpetrated by the government, but by big business. A business aimed at our beloved little ones. A business that's trying to show our babies that white is not good but all other colors are, by packaging a delicious treat with a rainbow full of colors representing every race but the white one.
That's right, I'm talking about those fucking M&M's. I opened a package and all I saw, was Mars Corp trying to keep whitey down. It doesn't stop at M&M's either, there's also Skittles and Starburst, but I'm focusing on the chocolatey demon treats.
Let's examine a bag. Run down to your corner store a steal a bag (don't buy one, you'll be feeding the corporate machine) I'll wait.
Good you're back. Tear it open. Gaze upon the evil.
What have we here?
First the black/dark brown M&M representing the blacks, african Americans, afro-Americans, people of color and hispanics, latin Americans, latino Americas, and illegal aliens.
Second the yellow M&M representing the orientals, asians, asian Americans, Chinese, Japanese, Taiwanese, Koreans, Vietnamese and Jethro.
Third the red M&M representing the Indians, native Americans, redskins, hethens, and scalp takers.
Fourth the orange M&M representing all the people of mixed ancestry, because lets face it, their color is a little bit off anyway.
Fifth the green M&M. Even the fucking Martians got a M&M
Lets not forget the blue M&M for the people of the lost city of Atlantis.
See what I'm getting at? Everybody got a fucking M&M except the white man, honkey, cracker, and redneck. It doesn't matter what flavor of M&M you bought, they're all the same. They're all keeping the white man down. Where's Jesse Jackson now? Where's Reverend Al Sharpton? Where's Louis Farrakhan? Where are all the people screaming for equality? For it's true we are not equal and we never will be as long as there's not a white M&M.
Ray Nagin says he wants a chocolate city. I say he doesn't need to look any farther than a bag of M&M's.
That's right, I'm talking about those fucking M&M's. I opened a package and all I saw, was Mars Corp trying to keep whitey down. It doesn't stop at M&M's either, there's also Skittles and Starburst, but I'm focusing on the chocolatey demon treats.
Let's examine a bag. Run down to your corner store a steal a bag (don't buy one, you'll be feeding the corporate machine) I'll wait.
Good you're back. Tear it open. Gaze upon the evil.
What have we here?
First the black/dark brown M&M representing the blacks, african Americans, afro-Americans, people of color and hispanics, latin Americans, latino Americas, and illegal aliens.
Second the yellow M&M representing the orientals, asians, asian Americans, Chinese, Japanese, Taiwanese, Koreans, Vietnamese and Jethro.
Third the red M&M representing the Indians, native Americans, redskins, hethens, and scalp takers.
Fourth the orange M&M representing all the people of mixed ancestry, because lets face it, their color is a little bit off anyway.
Fifth the green M&M. Even the fucking Martians got a M&M
Lets not forget the blue M&M for the people of the lost city of Atlantis.
See what I'm getting at? Everybody got a fucking M&M except the white man, honkey, cracker, and redneck. It doesn't matter what flavor of M&M you bought, they're all the same. They're all keeping the white man down. Where's Jesse Jackson now? Where's Reverend Al Sharpton? Where's Louis Farrakhan? Where are all the people screaming for equality? For it's true we are not equal and we never will be as long as there's not a white M&M.
Ray Nagin says he wants a chocolate city. I say he doesn't need to look any farther than a bag of M&M's.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Ode To Jen
Once again it's that time of year.
I write a poem, hope I don't sound queer.
This I write for you; my wife.
I am the love of your life.
You have curly hair and eyes of green.
You're real damned pretty and kind of mean.
Lips that were made to pucker.
First time I saw you I thought " I want to fuck her."
You cook my breakfast, lunch and dinner.
You're smart enough to know you caught a winner.
You make up beds and pick up toys.
You take good care of my boys.
You feed the snake and wash the mutt.
I really like to look at your butt.
You love me though I'm paranoid.
You know I'm here to fill the void.
Life without me woudn't be the same.
In fact it would be boring and lame.
I like it cold and you love the heat.
You don't mind when I make fun of your feet.
We've been together through thin and thick.
You make sure I don't get too sick.
You wash the clothes and clean the house.
You even give the snake a mouse.
All these things make you perfect to me.
I'll be back, I gotta pee.
Sorry about that, didn't mean to make you wait.
I think you picked a hell of a mate.
I hope you don't find my poem stupid.
If I ever catch him, I'm going to kill Cupid.
So there you have it. Happy Valentines Day.
I managed to write this and not sound gay.
We love you.
Trash, Trash Jr, T3, Rambo, Plisken and the strippers crabs.
I write a poem, hope I don't sound queer.
This I write for you; my wife.
I am the love of your life.
You have curly hair and eyes of green.
You're real damned pretty and kind of mean.
Lips that were made to pucker.
First time I saw you I thought " I want to fuck her."
You cook my breakfast, lunch and dinner.
You're smart enough to know you caught a winner.
You make up beds and pick up toys.
You take good care of my boys.
You feed the snake and wash the mutt.
I really like to look at your butt.
You love me though I'm paranoid.
You know I'm here to fill the void.
Life without me woudn't be the same.
In fact it would be boring and lame.
I like it cold and you love the heat.
You don't mind when I make fun of your feet.
We've been together through thin and thick.
You make sure I don't get too sick.
You wash the clothes and clean the house.
You even give the snake a mouse.
All these things make you perfect to me.
I'll be back, I gotta pee.
Sorry about that, didn't mean to make you wait.
I think you picked a hell of a mate.
I hope you don't find my poem stupid.
If I ever catch him, I'm going to kill Cupid.
So there you have it. Happy Valentines Day.
I managed to write this and not sound gay.
We love you.
Trash, Trash Jr, T3, Rambo, Plisken and the strippers crabs.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Two Tons Of Fun
I know you've missed me. Even I missed me. I've been sick, but now I'm back to fascinate you with the tales of my bravery, stupidity and dare-devil tactics.
Step in to the way back machine. Sit down, shut-up and hang on real tight. We're going on a ride. I call this ride the fat girl follies.
I'm a fairly large guy myself, so don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with being over weight. There's just something wrong with humping a fat chick. I don't mean fat when I say fat. I mean 5'3" and weighing in around 450. I mentioned this ride once before. Now for the gory details.
It was a Saturday night (it could have been any night because I was at the bar almost every night) at The Armadillo Run. I was drunk, really really drunk (that's my story and I'm sticking to it) and the ladies were lined up to ask me to dance with them (I AM one of the best). Suddenly my view of the rest of the bar was blocked my a pretty face (you thought I was gonna say fat chick) attached to a fat chick. The girl was pretty, in fact her sister was a model for Vogue magazine. I had known her for quite some time. I had even cut a rug with her a few times. Well, she was on the hunt this night, and I was they prey. She monopolized me on the dance floor and bought me a bunch of booze, so come closing time I was even drunker than really really drunk.
I forgot to give her a name. Let's call her Tessie. Tessie somehow manages to get me into the parking lot and I somehow manage to get her into my car. This was no easy feat. It should have been, but it wasn't. I drove a 1973 Cadillac Coup de Ville, one of the biggest cars ever built. I couldn't get her into the back seat. The front seat wouldn't lean far enough forward. We were drunk, she was horny and I was enterprising. I leaned the front seas back as far as they would go, now they were shaped like a giant "V", I laid her down in the "V" and somehow managed to remove the biggest pair of underwear I ever seen in my life. I climbed into the car and pulled the door shut behind me. Back in those days I was fairly fit and could bend in a few different directions.
Now I have my left knee on the steering wheel, my right foot is pressed against the arm rest on the door and I have her right leg (which is about the size of a side of beef) thrown over my left shoulder. I have on hand on the head rest and the other in the air (I planned on staying on for the full 8 seconds) and I am attempting to do as much damage as I can with my pathetic little dick. I still wonder to this day if I ever really got it in. Whether I did or not, she fed my ego.
So all is said and done and we're attempting to get redressed, Tessie forgot to put her drawers back on (I'm not the only one that was drunk) so I stretched them over the back of the front seat with the head rest poking through the leg holes (instant seat cover). I had to drive her home so off we went. I know friends don't let friends drive drunk, but my friends abandoned me when they saw me banging Tessie. I wasn't real worried because it was a small town, late at night and not enough cops to patrol the back streets. Somehow I managed to get pulled over.
The cop walked up to my car and shined his light right in my face. He knew me and I knew him. In fact we partied together from time to time.
Cop: "You been drinking tonight Trash?"
Trashman: "I had two beers."
Cop (leaning in the car): "What about you miss?"
This is where he gets a good look at her and then sees her underwear stretched across the front seat.
Cop: "What the fuck is that, Trash?"
Trashman: "Oh those? Her underwear."
Cop (visibly shaken): "I'm going to follow you. Take her home, then go home yourself. If you don't do exactly as I say, I will arrest you for DWI."
Trashman: "OK."
I took Tessie to her house and by the time we got there I was starting to sober up. She was snuggled up to me. As we pulled into her drive way she looks into my eyes.
Tessie: "Let's go inside and do it again."
Trashman: "I wish I could, but I have the get home or I'm going to be arrested."
Tessie "Oh yeah. Maybe we can get together later this week."
Trashman: "Uh yeah maybe."
I let her out of the car and headed home. I couldn't wait to get there. I needed a shower. When I got home I got out of my car and walked back to the cop car.
Trashman: "Thanks man. I owe you one."
Cop: "You don't owe me anything. I just wished I could have got to you sooner."
Trashman: "Don't tell nobody."
Cop: "Fuck that. I'm telling everybody."
Trashman: "Yeah I guess. I know I would."
Cop: "Don't forget to take those nasty drawers off you car seat. That car doesn't deserve that."
Trashman: "Good night."
Cop: "Too late for it to be a good night. You already fucked a fat chick. HAHAHA"
Note: If I offended anyone, GET OVER IT. You're just going to be at the top of the list for offended folks this week. I'm just getting started.
Step in to the way back machine. Sit down, shut-up and hang on real tight. We're going on a ride. I call this ride the fat girl follies.
I'm a fairly large guy myself, so don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with being over weight. There's just something wrong with humping a fat chick. I don't mean fat when I say fat. I mean 5'3" and weighing in around 450. I mentioned this ride once before. Now for the gory details.
It was a Saturday night (it could have been any night because I was at the bar almost every night) at The Armadillo Run. I was drunk, really really drunk (that's my story and I'm sticking to it) and the ladies were lined up to ask me to dance with them (I AM one of the best). Suddenly my view of the rest of the bar was blocked my a pretty face (you thought I was gonna say fat chick) attached to a fat chick. The girl was pretty, in fact her sister was a model for Vogue magazine. I had known her for quite some time. I had even cut a rug with her a few times. Well, she was on the hunt this night, and I was they prey. She monopolized me on the dance floor and bought me a bunch of booze, so come closing time I was even drunker than really really drunk.
I forgot to give her a name. Let's call her Tessie. Tessie somehow manages to get me into the parking lot and I somehow manage to get her into my car. This was no easy feat. It should have been, but it wasn't. I drove a 1973 Cadillac Coup de Ville, one of the biggest cars ever built. I couldn't get her into the back seat. The front seat wouldn't lean far enough forward. We were drunk, she was horny and I was enterprising. I leaned the front seas back as far as they would go, now they were shaped like a giant "V", I laid her down in the "V" and somehow managed to remove the biggest pair of underwear I ever seen in my life. I climbed into the car and pulled the door shut behind me. Back in those days I was fairly fit and could bend in a few different directions.
Now I have my left knee on the steering wheel, my right foot is pressed against the arm rest on the door and I have her right leg (which is about the size of a side of beef) thrown over my left shoulder. I have on hand on the head rest and the other in the air (I planned on staying on for the full 8 seconds) and I am attempting to do as much damage as I can with my pathetic little dick. I still wonder to this day if I ever really got it in. Whether I did or not, she fed my ego.
So all is said and done and we're attempting to get redressed, Tessie forgot to put her drawers back on (I'm not the only one that was drunk) so I stretched them over the back of the front seat with the head rest poking through the leg holes (instant seat cover). I had to drive her home so off we went. I know friends don't let friends drive drunk, but my friends abandoned me when they saw me banging Tessie. I wasn't real worried because it was a small town, late at night and not enough cops to patrol the back streets. Somehow I managed to get pulled over.
The cop walked up to my car and shined his light right in my face. He knew me and I knew him. In fact we partied together from time to time.
Cop: "You been drinking tonight Trash?"
Trashman: "I had two beers."
Cop (leaning in the car): "What about you miss?"
This is where he gets a good look at her and then sees her underwear stretched across the front seat.
Cop: "What the fuck is that, Trash?"
Trashman: "Oh those? Her underwear."
Cop (visibly shaken): "I'm going to follow you. Take her home, then go home yourself. If you don't do exactly as I say, I will arrest you for DWI."
Trashman: "OK."
I took Tessie to her house and by the time we got there I was starting to sober up. She was snuggled up to me. As we pulled into her drive way she looks into my eyes.
Tessie: "Let's go inside and do it again."
Trashman: "I wish I could, but I have the get home or I'm going to be arrested."
Tessie "Oh yeah. Maybe we can get together later this week."
Trashman: "Uh yeah maybe."
I let her out of the car and headed home. I couldn't wait to get there. I needed a shower. When I got home I got out of my car and walked back to the cop car.
Trashman: "Thanks man. I owe you one."
Cop: "You don't owe me anything. I just wished I could have got to you sooner."
Trashman: "Don't tell nobody."
Cop: "Fuck that. I'm telling everybody."
Trashman: "Yeah I guess. I know I would."
Cop: "Don't forget to take those nasty drawers off you car seat. That car doesn't deserve that."
Trashman: "Good night."
Cop: "Too late for it to be a good night. You already fucked a fat chick. HAHAHA"
Note: If I offended anyone, GET OVER IT. You're just going to be at the top of the list for offended folks this week. I'm just getting started.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Swing Low Sweet Chariot
I am writing this from my death bed. I have moments of clarity. I'm not sure if this is one of them.
Remember when I sad the big gas companies were going to kill me with a disease genetically altered to attack my DNA? Well it's happening. My boys are being slightly affected because; well because they're damn near clones. I'm dying a slow painful death. Jen is healthy.
I need some stuffy head, scratchy throat, almost puking, gave birth to a 10lb baby turd, eyes are failing, can't hear to well, think I'm seeing shit, skin is hot, bones are cold, ache all over, no appetite, hungry as hell, get me something to drink, I'm coming home Jesus, I want my mommy cause I'm a big whiney baby medicine.
The following are my side of the conversations today. I'm not sure what Jen said cause I wasn't paying attention. I think I was whining.
"JEN, I ache all over. My bones are cold."
"No I don't wanna take a hot shower. I'm burning up."
"No food. The smell is making me nauseous."
"Where's my soup?"
"Do we have crackers?"
"Well go to the store. I'm gonna take a hot shower. I'm freezing."
"Are you still here? WHHHHHHHHY?"
"I was talking to my granny in the shower."
"I know she's been dead for 15 years."
"She WAS there."
"Would you give me some orange juice?"
"This is not what I asked for I wanted Pineapple Orange. I may have said Orange but you know I don't like straight Orange."
"Fuck it, can I have some Sprite instead?"
"I don't caaarrrrreee what the doctor said. I want Sprite."
"Why did you give me Sprite? The doctor says no soda, besides I'm freezing. Can I have hot tea?"
"Where's my soup?"
"I don't want it now, you took to long. I'm nauseous."
"Tuck the blanket around my feet. I'm cold."
"Are you trying to kill me?"
"Then why did you turn the blanket up to high?"
"It is turned on. Oh look, there's my dog from when I was a kid."
"Well he must be a zombie dog, cause he's sitting in the corner fucking waving at me."
"Call Dr. Kevorkian. Make me an appointment."
"But I aaaaammmmm dying."
"You don't love me."
"I thought you were making me soup."
"I want at least one last meal."
"I take care of you when you're sick."
"Get a hammer and kill me now."
"You're in cahoots with the gas companies."
"Jack will investigate."
"You're going to prison."
"What if Jack works for the gas companies?"
"You're all out to get me."
"Bring me my laptop. I'm leaving a record of your abuse."
There you have it. That's what I remember. The Grim Reaper is knocking at the door and I'm thinking about letting him in. If somehow my Super Idiot powers manage to ward of the sickness, I'll be back. But then again I'm looking out the window and it looks like the Reaper brought hookers. Could be party time.
Remember when I sad the big gas companies were going to kill me with a disease genetically altered to attack my DNA? Well it's happening. My boys are being slightly affected because; well because they're damn near clones. I'm dying a slow painful death. Jen is healthy.
I need some stuffy head, scratchy throat, almost puking, gave birth to a 10lb baby turd, eyes are failing, can't hear to well, think I'm seeing shit, skin is hot, bones are cold, ache all over, no appetite, hungry as hell, get me something to drink, I'm coming home Jesus, I want my mommy cause I'm a big whiney baby medicine.
The following are my side of the conversations today. I'm not sure what Jen said cause I wasn't paying attention. I think I was whining.
"JEN, I ache all over. My bones are cold."
"No I don't wanna take a hot shower. I'm burning up."
"No food. The smell is making me nauseous."
"Where's my soup?"
"Do we have crackers?"
"Well go to the store. I'm gonna take a hot shower. I'm freezing."
"Are you still here? WHHHHHHHHY?"
"I was talking to my granny in the shower."
"I know she's been dead for 15 years."
"She WAS there."
"Would you give me some orange juice?"
"This is not what I asked for I wanted Pineapple Orange. I may have said Orange but you know I don't like straight Orange."
"Fuck it, can I have some Sprite instead?"
"I don't caaarrrrreee what the doctor said. I want Sprite."
"Why did you give me Sprite? The doctor says no soda, besides I'm freezing. Can I have hot tea?"
"Where's my soup?"
"I don't want it now, you took to long. I'm nauseous."
"Tuck the blanket around my feet. I'm cold."
"Are you trying to kill me?"
"Then why did you turn the blanket up to high?"
"It is turned on. Oh look, there's my dog from when I was a kid."
"Well he must be a zombie dog, cause he's sitting in the corner fucking waving at me."
"Call Dr. Kevorkian. Make me an appointment."
"But I aaaaammmmm dying."
"You don't love me."
"I thought you were making me soup."
"I want at least one last meal."
"I take care of you when you're sick."
"Get a hammer and kill me now."
"You're in cahoots with the gas companies."
"Jack will investigate."
"You're going to prison."
"What if Jack works for the gas companies?"
"You're all out to get me."
"Bring me my laptop. I'm leaving a record of your abuse."
There you have it. That's what I remember. The Grim Reaper is knocking at the door and I'm thinking about letting him in. If somehow my Super Idiot powers manage to ward of the sickness, I'll be back. But then again I'm looking out the window and it looks like the Reaper brought hookers. Could be party time.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Reinforced Soap Box
I didn't start this. Jack did. All with the word Columbine. It's something I've wanted to write about for a long time but it was old news. Now Jack made it new again.
First off let me say I couldn't agree with Jack more. The fuckers needed to be put down, much like you would do to an egg sucking dog on a chicken farm. Thin the herd, if you will. Some people just need killing. Line 'em up and shoot 'em down. If y'all haven't figured it out yet I'm a firm believer in the death penalty. In fact I believe, not only should we execute murders but anybody else I feel like killing on any particular day. But that's not what this post is about. Nope. It's about the children.
I'll start with why this hits close to home. Trash Jr has SAC (special assignment center) all next week. Due to the fact that he decided to handle things himself. Seems some cock faced little fuck has been tormenting him all year. Making fun of his weight. Trash Jr is a big kid, at the age of 11 he is already 5'5". He's bigger than all the other kids in his age group. He was genetically designed to play pro football. Well all year CFLF has been making comments about Trash Jrs weight. TJ had enough and shut him up. CFLF went to the coach and cried that TJ was "bullying" him. Next thing I know I'm getting a call from the assistant principal. She informed me of TJs punishment but she wont tell me what's going on with CFLF. Something about privacy and other bullshit. Well if this CFLF is fucking with my kid how is it not my business?
Back to Columbine. The group of kids that shot the place up were not normal kids. Normal kids don't go around killing classmates. I'm not making excuses for them, but lets put on our little thinking hats for a minute here and see the big picture. These kids did what they did because they were fucked with on a daily basis. They were picked on, pushed around, called names, ridiculed, made fun of and just generally tormented. Until they snapped. And then all they were called was killers. I know there are those out there that say it all begins at home. Bullshit. What if your kids don't tell you it's going on?
I teach my kids right from wrong, I'm not saying I'm the perfect parent (shut up Jack). But I do know right from wrong and so do my kids. And the Columbine kids probably did too. But there is only so much that some people can take. They don't all have my Super Powers. Remember the big"I" on my chest?
Kids torment each other, it's just what they do. When I was a kid the tormenting lead to fights. The tormented usually beat the shit out of the tormenter. No more tormenting. Oh and no one brought a gun to school, because they couldn't take it anymore. But in this day and age when the liberals are in control of our schools, we have what's known as "Let's talk about it and have a group hug. Now cock faced little fuck don't say mean things to Trash Jr. anymore. Now don't we all feel better?" This doesn't work. TJ went through this in the third grade. He went to the teacher just like they brain washed him to do. The faculty spoke with the other child. The torment continued until I pulled my kids out of the school and put them in a private school. All TJ learned was you do what they say and you still get shit on.
Now he's in the sixth grade. He has endured this for 6 months. Not anymore. He never told Jen and I that he was having any problems. He came home every day his same normal maladjusted self. I'll be at the school Tuesady raising hell. Supporting my boy. Because he did what was right. Luckily he didn't wait until he wanted to kill the little cock licker.
You see this shit in the news all the time. Columbine, that other school, kids planning mass murder, fat depressed kid blowing his own fat fucking head off because he couldn't take it anymore. I'm not defending their actions but I understand their actions. So does my son. Talking about it doesn't do much. You become labeled a snitch, a rat, a pussy. The tormenting gets worse. Next thing you know some kid shows up at school with an AK-47 and levels the playing field. Then he gets shot either by the cops or he turns the gun on his self. Either way it's another dead kid. I blame the liberals because all they wanted to do was "talk" about it. Some things require less talk more action. Today TJ acted and I don't fucking blame him. If it would've been me the cock faced little fuck would have left on a stretcher. He should consider himself lucky.
I say charge the school administrators (what's left of them) with murder the next time some kid flakes out and kills his classmates. Because they just talked about it, he had to take action.
First off let me say I couldn't agree with Jack more. The fuckers needed to be put down, much like you would do to an egg sucking dog on a chicken farm. Thin the herd, if you will. Some people just need killing. Line 'em up and shoot 'em down. If y'all haven't figured it out yet I'm a firm believer in the death penalty. In fact I believe, not only should we execute murders but anybody else I feel like killing on any particular day. But that's not what this post is about. Nope. It's about the children.
I'll start with why this hits close to home. Trash Jr has SAC (special assignment center) all next week. Due to the fact that he decided to handle things himself. Seems some cock faced little fuck has been tormenting him all year. Making fun of his weight. Trash Jr is a big kid, at the age of 11 he is already 5'5". He's bigger than all the other kids in his age group. He was genetically designed to play pro football. Well all year CFLF has been making comments about Trash Jrs weight. TJ had enough and shut him up. CFLF went to the coach and cried that TJ was "bullying" him. Next thing I know I'm getting a call from the assistant principal. She informed me of TJs punishment but she wont tell me what's going on with CFLF. Something about privacy and other bullshit. Well if this CFLF is fucking with my kid how is it not my business?
Back to Columbine. The group of kids that shot the place up were not normal kids. Normal kids don't go around killing classmates. I'm not making excuses for them, but lets put on our little thinking hats for a minute here and see the big picture. These kids did what they did because they were fucked with on a daily basis. They were picked on, pushed around, called names, ridiculed, made fun of and just generally tormented. Until they snapped. And then all they were called was killers. I know there are those out there that say it all begins at home. Bullshit. What if your kids don't tell you it's going on?
I teach my kids right from wrong, I'm not saying I'm the perfect parent (shut up Jack). But I do know right from wrong and so do my kids. And the Columbine kids probably did too. But there is only so much that some people can take. They don't all have my Super Powers. Remember the big"I" on my chest?
Kids torment each other, it's just what they do. When I was a kid the tormenting lead to fights. The tormented usually beat the shit out of the tormenter. No more tormenting. Oh and no one brought a gun to school, because they couldn't take it anymore. But in this day and age when the liberals are in control of our schools, we have what's known as "Let's talk about it and have a group hug. Now cock faced little fuck don't say mean things to Trash Jr. anymore. Now don't we all feel better?" This doesn't work. TJ went through this in the third grade. He went to the teacher just like they brain washed him to do. The faculty spoke with the other child. The torment continued until I pulled my kids out of the school and put them in a private school. All TJ learned was you do what they say and you still get shit on.
Now he's in the sixth grade. He has endured this for 6 months. Not anymore. He never told Jen and I that he was having any problems. He came home every day his same normal maladjusted self. I'll be at the school Tuesady raising hell. Supporting my boy. Because he did what was right. Luckily he didn't wait until he wanted to kill the little cock licker.
You see this shit in the news all the time. Columbine, that other school, kids planning mass murder, fat depressed kid blowing his own fat fucking head off because he couldn't take it anymore. I'm not defending their actions but I understand their actions. So does my son. Talking about it doesn't do much. You become labeled a snitch, a rat, a pussy. The tormenting gets worse. Next thing you know some kid shows up at school with an AK-47 and levels the playing field. Then he gets shot either by the cops or he turns the gun on his self. Either way it's another dead kid. I blame the liberals because all they wanted to do was "talk" about it. Some things require less talk more action. Today TJ acted and I don't fucking blame him. If it would've been me the cock faced little fuck would have left on a stretcher. He should consider himself lucky.
I say charge the school administrators (what's left of them) with murder the next time some kid flakes out and kills his classmates. Because they just talked about it, he had to take action.
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